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A joke that starts off “a duck walks into a bar,” has good odds of being funny. Ducks are funny. A joke beginning “a water buffalo walks into a bar” just doesn’t have the same ring. But “a can of Spam walks into a bar”—now that’s hilarious. Spam’s one of the funniest things about Minnesota, next to ice fishing and the Third Avenue Bridge. So when a company that makes spam-blocking software tries to trademark the name “Spam Arrest,” and Hormel takes legal action, it’s funny. It’s funny on a gut level, in a way that it wouldn’t be if, say, unsolicited email had developed a nickname like “Chicken-in-a-Biscuit” or “Coke.” But is the case, now working its way through the legal system, actually something to laugh about? Or is Hormel just responsibly protecting its business interests?

Preserving the trademark of a popular product takes hard work and dedication. If you don’t actively go after those who misuse your trademark, a court could declare it a generic term, and thus no longer eligible for a trademark. “Yo-yo” used to be a type of “return top,” but since the company that invented it unwisely marketed their product as “a yo-yo,” and not “a Yo-Yo® brand Return Top,” the word fell into common use and the company lost the trademark—and the name recognition that came with it.

The brilliant Minnesota folks who invented in-line roller skates got it right. Rollerblade® has been successful in preserving its trademark. Style books for major newspapers and magazines now spell out that writers should use “in-line skating” in place of “rollerblading,” because a trademark cannot be a verb. Type “rollerblading” in a word-processing program with automatic spell-check, and you’ll get that jeering red underline that indicates the word isn’t supposed to exist. This is the result of hundreds of thousands of dollars Rollerblade spent on advertising to teach writers the correct way to use its trademark. Company spokesman Nick Skally expressed sympathy for Hormel’s predicament. “Can you imagine? I would not like to be in their shoes.”

But is Spam really in the same situation as Rollerblade? Competitors in the meat industry are not claiming “Spam” has become a generic term; Armour, for example, calls its comparable offering “Potted Meat Food Product.” The chances of Hormel’s canned meat becoming confused with another are not high.

A more salient and worrisome question might be this: Who in the wide networked world doesn’t call unwanted email “spam”? “Spam” translates to “spam” in German, French, and Norwegian. And in August of 1998, the word entered the Oxford English Dictionary for the first time, with the definition “irrelevant Internet messages sent to a large number of people.” Officially, Hormel says it does not object to use of “this slang term to describe unsolicited commercial email”—as long as it doesn’t appear in all caps like “Spam” does on its can.

Does the dictionary status of “spam” lessen Hormel’s chances of blocking a trademark using the word for an unrelated product? In a personal, noncommercial, and solicited email to The Rake, Hormel representative Julie Craven responded by cleverly avoiding this and all other questions posed to her, instead stating, “We object to someone else trying to commercially exploit a brand we created and made famous.”

New York patent lawyer Michael Brown remains skeptical of Hormel’s case. “I don’t see how Spam Arrest harms Hormel at all. I don’t think anyone receiving unsolicited email is going to immediately have a revulsion against luncheon meat. I mean, that they didn’t have before.”—Katherine Glover

We’ll go out on a limb here and say that this is the best Italian thriller about a sexually obsessive, mafia-connected gay dwarf taxidermist you’ll see all year. It’s a gender-reversed, Gothic melodrama that both affirms and reformulates the genre’s standard tropes of deformed, salacious villain and virginal, tempted innocent—succeeding thanks to star Ernesto Mahieux’s complex portrayal of a man desperately scheming to keep loneliness at bay. Mahieux plays the ugly but charismatic Peppino, who falls headlong for the vacant but beautiful Valerio (male model Valerio Foglia Manzillo, assuredly not cast for his acting chops). Taking the young hunk under his wing, Peppino lavishes money and gifts with a rather obvious ulterior motive. But the entrance of a pouty-lipped looker named Deborah leads to a dangerously unstable love triangle. The film is far from perfect, with an over-telegraphed resolution and a major subplot that seems to exist merely for an extra frisson of grotesquerie. But, creditably, it’s resonant of both the dark sensuality of Mulholland Drive and unhurried naturalism of Jarmusch’s Stranger Than Paradise. The Embalmer has plenty of the right stuff. U Film, 10 Church St. S.E., (612) 627-4430, http://www.ufilm.org

Easily the most prolific and notorious member of the New German Cinema movement of the late 60s and 70s, Rainer Werner Fassbinder was the central figure of his generation of directors, although his death by cocaine overdose in 1982 has obscured his legacy in favor of contemporaries like Werner Herzog and Wim Wenders. He lived fast and filmed fast, making his movies at breakneck speed like an avant-garde Roger Corman, all notable for a frank social realism and shocking (especially at the time) emphasis on gay and racial themes. But he also found seemingly unlikely inspiration in the florid Hollywood melodramas of Douglas Sirk (himself a German expatriate), who gave him a narrative language to make his bitter outlook palatable to a wider audience. Oak Street’s retrospective gathers eight films covering the last decade of his career, including the controversial lesbian drama The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant and his ÒAdenauer TrilogyÓ of The Marriage of Maria Braun, Lola, and Veronika Voss, three progressively crueler metaphors for recent German political history. Oak Street, 309 Oak St. S.E., (612) 331-3134, http://www.oakstreetcinema.org

It’s well past the 10 p.m. curfew Minnetonka imposes for minors, and 40 teenage boys are in lockdown. They’re spending the next 10 hours at Game Tech, at an all-night LAN-o-thon, where they will battle each other in video-game tournaments until 8 a.m. LAN parties are erupting all over the country, and serious gamers are paying big bucks to spend the night networked with each other. Tonight’s entrance fee is $25. Most of the kids admit their parents are footing the bill.

Despite the signs that say “all-night party,” I’m convinced I’ve stumbled into the wrong place. The room is crowded with 17 computers and numerous TVs with video-game consoles. It looks more like a Best Buy warehouse than a party palace for Gen Y kids with attention deficits. But there are telling details: A collection of action-figure miniatures? Check. A raft of junk food? Check. Extreme beverages? Check. (“Have you ever had Bawls Guarana?” one boy asks me. “It keeps you up all night. We drink it all the time.”)

Game Tech owner Kevin Meitsma is the lone chaperone. A father of two of the teenage partygoers, Meitsma jumps on a table and lets out an earsplitting whistle, by way of laying down the ground rules. “You will not leave this room,” he commands. “But what if we have to go to the bathroom?” a boy asks. Yes, that’s allowable, young man. “You will listen to me when I’m talking,” he says. That’s not so easy.

When they find out I’m a reporter, massive cheers erupt, and they do their best Wayne and Garth “We are not worthy” cries, despite the fact that the Saturday Night Live characters hit their peak well before these kids had their first dial-up connection. (See, so media-savvy.)

Another boy, 15-year-old Eachan Lunn of Minnetonka, is skeptical. “You’re not going to write a typical story about how violent video games are and scare our parents, are you?” To be sure, the brace-faced boys will be spending all night gorging on an all-you-can-eat Happy Meal of violence, whether it’s playing Capture the Flag in Unreal Tournament 2003, engaging in World War II combat missions in Battlefield 1942, randomly killing each other in Counterstrike, or whacking prostitutes and suspendered stockbrokers in Vice City. But to be fair, the stockbrokers beg for it (“Don’t mess up my hair!”), and it is a virtual reality.

According to Game Tech rules, the kids must get their parents’ permission to stay and play. “I just, like, tell them how much fun it is,” says 14-year-old Mike Dunn. “They totally understand because they were geeks when they were younger, too.” Wearing an oversized Nirvana T-shirt and a computer-geek-chic haircut, Dunn says he wants to open a Japanese restaurant with all the cash he’ll earn as a video-game programmer. What’s so great about video games, dude? “I like that I can die. And still not be dead,” he says, with a smirk.

What unites Dunn and everyone else in the room is their pride in being self-proclaimed geeks who are more into computers than girls or booze or skateboards or any of the other temptations of modern boyhood. I learn that, after 10 minutes, I hold the record for a female visit. I learn that, despite their nerd status, a few of the guys have girlfriends other than Lara Croft. And I find out that, unlike the little punks I knew when I was a teenager, these guys would rather play a hand of Magic than take shots of Mad Dog. They call themselves teenagers? I was expecting to bear witness to some form of illicit behavior, at least a few punches thrown or a bottle of contraband smuggled. But I discovered that, in this parallel universe, these 14-year-olds are able to hold more interesting conversations than most 30-year-olds I know. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I do know it’s 1 a.m., I’m completely Bawls-free, and Real World reruns are whispering my name. Though I don’t need to, I ask permission to leave the premises.—Molly Priesmeyer

Hollywood has a mixed record on adapting alternative comics. Terry Zwigoff’s two offerings—the documentary Crumb and the Daniel Clowes-written Ghost World—were critical achievements. Alan Moore’s From Hell and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen received mixed reviews and box-office returns. American Splendor chronicles the story of nebbishy Harvey Pekar, a Cleveland file clerk who captured his tortured existence in comic books drawn by various artists including R. Crumb, Drew Friedman, and Doug Allen. Paul Giamatti, character actor du jour (take that, Luis Guzman!), plays the beleaguered Pekar. An animated Pekar, as well as the real Pekar, are also featured. It’s fun to write ÒPekar.Ó American Splendor won the 2003 Sundance Film Festival Grand Jury Prize, and might be the best comic-book adaptation on the screen this summer. Uptown Theatre, 2906 Hennepin Ave. S., (612) 925-6006, http://www.landmarktheatres.com

It was like a scene from a mobster film set in the Prohibition era. An overcast day on tired Minnehaha Avenue in South Minneapolis. I pulled up to the nondescript, red brick building that bears a sign reading “Tapestry Folkdance Center.” From the outside, it was quiet, barely a soul in sight. I figured the rendezvous was canceled for lack of interest. But on the other side of the glass door, swinging big-band tunes offered a friendly welcome, and a brief trip down a carpeted office corridor revealed a new old world whose residents are lindy hoppers. The whole thing was so seemingly undercover and speakeasyish, you’d think the president had outlawed dancing. (He hasn’t, has he?)

Disappointingly, there were no flapper gowns or cloche hats, this being a modern and altogether relaxed midday gathering, but there was lots of energy. These are the people who continued with swing dancing even after the initial (and subsequent retro) crazes had passed, and on this Saturday afternoon, the trend-bucking swingers were fantastic. And they should’ve been, given that it was the “Cats Corner Competition,” the annual contest to determine regional qualifiers who would go on to compete at the American Lindy Hop Championships in Connecticut in October. Despite that opportunity, and the cash prizes that come with it, the air lacked that certain tense hostility one expects at competitions. Instead, during the half-hour of open dancing prior to the beginning of the contest, the smooth wood floor was alive with smiling, laughing dancers, some there to perform, some there to watch, support, and take to the floor during breaks. Old and young, they were twisting, swinging, and spinning, most of them with a different partner every song.

The first competition was the fast dance, a two-minute improvised dance to music of the band’s choice. Seven couples each took a turn, adding their own individual flair to the performance. With the lindy, it’s all about feeling the music; although the moves themselves aren’t that hard to master (one female competitor had been swing dancing for only six months), you’re simply 23 skidoo if you don’t have rhythm. This wasn’t a routine the dancers performed; instead, they were actually dancing to the music, to each other, for themselves. And, the scene being rather small, most of the competitors knew each other and cheered the others on. Bizarre, wholesome, surreptitious fun.

Cindy Gardner sat down beside me after a dance during the second open-dance hour. She and her husband, Terry, teach lessons through their company, TC Swing, and were the organizers of the day’s events. Cindy has been teaching swing since 1979 and is revered in the community. She gazed around at the whirling, cheerful dancers, beads of sweat glistening along the bridge of her nose. “All this without drugs, alcohol, or cigarettes,” she noted. “Although Terry will have a cigar when we get home tonight.” True enough, but it was only 2:30 in the afternoon. There were still two competitive events to go, then prizes and a break before the evening’s dance, an event that happens on the first Saturday of each month and draws around 400 people of all lindy abilities. I didn’t mention to Cindy that I had heard several of the competitors outside discussing the most opportune time to hit the liquor store.—Katie Quirk

St. Paul’s largest park plays host to this annual celebration of obon, the Buddhist festival honoring the dead, which winds up at dusk with the traditional, solemnly beautiful floating-candle ceremony. But nobody will take it amiss if you just want to hang out in the park, watch Japanese kites, and sample the cuisine. Kites promote cross-cultural understanding, too. You’ll want to make time for Theater Mu’s visually intense taiko drum corps, and to take a walk through the park’s Japanese garden—which will probably be too busy that day to be truly meditative, but beautiful nonetheless. Como Park, Lexington Parkway and Horton Avenue, St. Paul.

Weldon Johnson underwent a triple bypass on April 1. Twenty days later, his rooster was gone. “It sure didn’t help his recovery any,” said his daughter, Colleen Johnson, when The Rake discussed the incident with her.

Mr. Johnson first installed the nine-foot fiberglass rooster in front of his Two Harbors gift shop in 1965. Prior to this incident, pranksters had kidnapped the bird twice, and each time he was retrieved in good condition. This time was different. In the early hours of April 21, suspects ripped the defenseless roadside attraction from his pedestal without so much as loosening a nut. Crime scene photos show the cracked and shattered remains where his feet were left behind. When he was fished out of Amity Creek off Seven Bridges Road, the Johnsons discovered even more extensive damage, including a critical wound to the back of the head, and a section missing from his once-proud comb.

When we visited the Johnsons at their store in July, they were upbeat about the prospect of an arrest. After all, there was an eyewitness to the getaway. The ICP (Initial Crime Report) from April 21 states, “A motorist called and reported a brown pickup headed toward Duluth with a giant chicken in the back.” The Johnsons said the witness also got a partial license plate number, and that the suspects were identified as “Easties,” a word which here means, “spoiled rich kids from Duluth’s affluent East Side.” But more than three months later, no arrests have been made, and Two Harbors police report no progress since the recovery of the victim. In fact, they react a bit wearily to inquiries.

It’s possible that the THPD has grown cynical about the matter. Media saturation of the case reached as far as the New York Post and even Minnesota Monthly, while crime against humans has maintained its pace without regard to the story. Even so, the fiberglass population of the state remains among the most vulnerable to such attacks. From his office in Sparta, Wisconsin, Jim Schauf told us about numerous oversized fiberglass attractions that have been targeted by pranksters and vandals. “A fiberglass skier we made for a resort out here, someone shot an arrow through it. We also had a monkey stolen. That was a felony. That thing was worth $7,000 dollars.” Shauf’s business is called F.A.S.T. (Fiberglass Animals Shapes and Trademarks). They not only manufacture most of the oversized icons of roadside culture we know and love, but they are often the first responders when tragedy strikes. Five years ago, in Frazee, Minnesota, the world’s largest turkey went up in a fireball. F.A.S.T. saved the day with a replacement even larger than the first. While the flameout of “Big Tom” was caused by a stray welding torch, Schauf chalked up most incidents to “high school mascot stuff” and football rivalries.

Some victims, however, are never made whole. Few in Blue Earth have forgotten the day when Little Green Sprout was decapitated. Even the Jolly Green Giant was powerless to stop the carnage when Sprout’s lifeless head was dangled from a highway overpass by Fairmont vandals. He has not been replaced.

The Weldon rooster has come out of his scrape considerably better than Sprout. Workers from the Northwest Airlines A320 maintenance base in Duluth came to the rescue, meticulously restoring the rooster in their fiberglass studio, at no cost to the Johnsons. What brought about this uncharacteristic act of corporate citizenship is hard to say. Flightless poultry, however grand, doesn’t generate the marketing image a struggling airline typically wants. But there is that matter of the $838 million bailout from the state that required NWA to build the Duluth base in the first place, followed shortly by $850 million in union concessions negotiated by U.S. Rep. James Oberstar. NWA may have decided it was time to give something back. The proud fiberglass sentinel is back at his post and looking more alpha than Al Cecci at the height of his powers.

But with the case unsolved, is Two Harbors law enforcement concerned about its image? I wanted to help, so I called up north to offer a detective tip I picked up. Has the victim had a chance to pick the suspects out of a lineup, I asked? “We didn’t have a visual,” said Chief of Police Rick Hogenson. “The rooster didn’t talk to anyone when we found him. He was pretty much comatose.”—Joe Pastoor

Why should March 17 be the only time the local Irish cut loose, especially in Paddy-friendly St. Paul? Hence this annual weekend of green partying. A significant percentage of the local Irish music scene will be out in force to help keep it reel, joined by headliners Leahy—nine fiddle-crazy Ontario siblings—and the Pogues-y combo of Flogging Molly, out of L.A. by way of Dublin. If you’ve got wee leprechauns in tow, there’s plenty of kids’ activities—like parades at 5:30 both days, and border-collie sheepherding demonstrations that might give parents with a flock of children new thoughts on dog ownership. And, of course, don’t forget the all-day sessions of miniature golf—how’s that Irish? Well, now, me lad, ’tis the most Irish form of golf—after all, you play the entire game on the green. Harriet Island, downtown St. Paul, (952) 474-741, http://www.irishfair.com