As a chronicler of the American West, Larry McMurtry has few rivals. He combines a gift for characterization with a sense of history’s sweep that makes his best work, like the Pulitzer winner Lonesome Dove, succeed as both regional saga and small-scale story of imperfect people in search of emotional connection. Wandering Hill picks up from last year’s Sin Killer to the story of the monumentally dysfunctional Berrybender family, British aristocrats who set out to carve out a niche in the 1830s frontier only to find that the frontier carves back. It’s a violent and bawdy black comedy that imagines the early days of white settlement in the West as disquietingly full of lunatics, hypocrites, and brutality—a dark evolution from earthy but uplifting novels like Dove and Terms of Endearment, and closer perhaps to T.C. Boyle or Little Big Man than what fans might be used to.
Blog
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Demolishing Modernism
The first 30 feet of Fairway Drive run between six-foot hedges before halting at an iron gate. Visitors who activate the callbox are asked to identify themselves and the residence to which they are traveling. If the visitor has been invited by someone behind the gate, the iron bars swing open with a soft, slow hum revealing an empty landscape of lush, green, uninterrupted curves intersected twice by winding asphalt golf-cart paths. Welcome to the Tamarisk Country Club, Rancho Mirage, California.
After the gate, Fairway Drive crosses the fairway separating Tamarisk’s 12th and 13th holes, splits the hedges separating two large homes, and forks. To the left, at the end of a cul-de-sac, is a striking palazzo of sharp geometries. But to the right, the clean aesthetic deteriorates. Behind a chain-link fence covered in combat-green plastic is a single-acre lot where utility connections, desert scrub, and shattered tree stumps poke through sand. At the property’s edge, almost lost in the drooping flowers of an overgrown hedge, is a modest metal mailbox. Behind it, written in an elegant modernist typeface attached to a darkened wood plank, is a name and address: S.H. Maslon 70-900 Fairway Drive.
It looks like a headstone, and in many ways, it is one.Samuel H. Maslon was born in 1901 to the owner of a Jewish grocery on the north side of Minneapolis. Although a quiet young man, his brilliance drew attention: When it came time for him to attend law school, the Jewish community raised the funds to pay his tuition at Harvard. After graduating first in his class, Maslon moved to Washington, D.C. and clerked for U.S. Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis. Soon after, he returned to Minneapolis and founded the Minneapolis law firm today known as Maslon Edelman Borman & Brand.
Of those who noticed Maslon’s ascent, none was more important to him than Luella Rykoff, the ninth child of a well-off Los Angeles grocery wholesaler. Their first date took place while Sam was on business in Los Angeles, and was arranged by a Maslon law partner’s wife who happened to be related to Luella. Sam made an excellent impression: Luella broke off an engagement to another man and became engaged to Sam—after that first date. Later, as Luella Maslon, she astonished her relatives and moved to the “wilds of Minnesota.”
Luella Maslon grew to love Minneapolis. She raised her children in the city, and she became an important figure in its cultural life. Luella was particularly interested in the visual arts, and so she became a docent at The Minneapolis Institute of Arts. Not long afterward she and Sam began acquiring an important collection of their own. Years later, Sam Maslon would recall, “Soon we found ourselves in the world art market—looking for works of art in Los Angeles, New York, Paris, Zurich, Israel—and suddenly we realized that something great had come into our lives.” Edith Nadler, a lifelong friend in both Minneapolis and California, recalls that, “She wasn’t just a collector, she was a teacher. She suggested that I become a docent at the Institute. She imbued people with a love of art.”
Luella’s family remained in California, and so she and Sam would travel there for extended vacations with their children in Palm Springs, a few hours from Los Angeles. Janice Lyle, the director of the Palm Springs Desert Museum, credits Luella with being one of a small group of people who transformed Palm Springs into a destination that was “not just for golf and tennis. This became a place for cultural experiences.”
Sam Maslon served as a trustee at The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and Luella served as a trustee at the Palm Springs Desert Museum (she also chaired that museum’s Art Committee, guiding its acquisition of contemporary artworks). Their impact on both institutions was profound and long-standing, embodied only in part by the 19th and 20th century masterpieces given to each.
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Funny Business
It’s the start of another four-week run of stand-up comedy classes at Stevie Ray’s School of Improv, the eponymous training center Steve Rentfrow named for his comedic alter ego. He does a pretty good Cosby impression, a bit that is intended to make a point about imitation, the fifth of what’s just been defined as the seven levels of comedy. Eleven nervous students sit on uncomfortable kitchenette chairs, balancing notebooks awkwardly on knocking knees.
This scuzzy office in the Calhoun Arts Center at Lyndale and Lake makes for an unlikely classroom, but these hopefuls appear serious about their stand-up comedy studies. But is it possible to learn much of anything over the course of just four two-hour classes? Especially about something as ineffable as comedy? Could the joke really be on us—with only Stevie Ray laughing, all the way to the bank? Our dutiful instructor didn’t address these questions during his introductory remarks at the beginning of class, probably because he was busy collecting everyone’s tuition checks.
It’s not that I mind paying my $100. I understand Stevie Ray’s running a business. And he’s certainly not alone. All kinds of folks around town would willingly accept my money in return for sharing a few not-so-funny, not-so-secret insights. The Brave New Workshop has offered comedy improvisation classes for years. And a thriving local improv scene has resulted in myriad options to study improv. If growing enrollments are any indication, dire times are leading more and more desperate people to these classes, too. Because comedy beats working for a living, right?
Stevie Ray also offers improv training, but my peers and I want to make our mark with just a microphone and some jokes—in other words, embarrass ourselves solo. This vague notion is one of the few things we have in common. We’re a hair stylist who once booked Cedric the Entertainer and now wants her own turn at fame, a tiny quick-walking and talking Vietnamese jewelry designer, a high schooler eager to get revenge on her teachers, a shy professional clown into New Age philosophy, and a few others probably worth crossing the street to avoid.
The first two weeks of class we examine what makes people laugh. Stevie Ray’s lectures begin with Aristotle and end with the construction of a one-liner. These same topics comprise the majority of Stevie Ray’s Medium-Sized Book of Comedy, which is something of a self-published jumble and the class’s only required text. I’m inclined to forgive the book’s rough edges, because it was written by the busiest man with two first names in Twin Cities comedy.
Stevie Ray’s credentials don’t begin or end with the textbook. He graduated from Moorhead State University with a degree in a course of study he created: Theory and Performance of Comedy. As a stand-up, he’s worked with Paula Poundstone, Marcia Warfield, and “Sniglets” creator Rich Hall. In 1983, he served as Pee Wee Herman’s bodyguard. And according to the author bio in the back of his book, he’s a holder of three black belts who keeps bees and harvests organic honey in his free time. That he’s also a qualified beekeeper and humorist, we’re just expected to believe. Stevie Ray uses the stand-up of professionals and former students to illustrate his ideas. He performs little of his own routine in class.
Week three, we trade our pens and paper for an unplugged microphone to create the three-minute routines we’ll get to perform at Stevie Ray’s Comedy Cabaret out at the Radisson Hotel in Bloomington after classes are done.
The hair stylist does a happy little rant about purchasing tampons. The jewelry designer speeds through an unintelligible bit about his thick accent. I spend my time describing southern Indiana, where I grew up. The area could quite easily be called North Kentucky, I joke, except in Indiana, we don’t marry our sisters—just date them. It’s not exactly Woody Allen or Steve Martin material, but my classmates chuckle.
During our final class and dress rehearsal (the mic is now connected to a small guitar amp), Stevie is the only one who laughs at me. I appreciate that solitary hoot. The Saturday before my first stand-up performance, when I should be polishing my set, every lesson I’ve learned escapes me and I die a slow, serious death in front of everyone except Stevie Ray.
Stevie Ray offers suggestions for improving our routines. He recommends ways to tighten set-ups and punch up our punchlines. He laughs even when all hope seems lost, probably because he’s had his share of students for whom there was no hope. Odds are that in every class, between one and five students just aren’t very funny. But their checks cleared, too, and humor—after all—is subjective, right?
How I’ll survive my fate in front of total strangers, I can’t imagine. But something funny happens the night of my stage debut. My three minutes quickly come and go. Too quickly. And I do, in fact, survive. The audience, drunk and disinterested during the other student sets, responds well to my simple hillbilly humor. They laugh. They applaud when I’m finished. Total strangers go out of their way to congratulate me afterward.
Afterward is when I remember what I decide is the best advice Stevie Ray ever offered—advice I figure is worth about a hundred bucks: “At the start of classes, people always want to know if they’ve ‘got it.’ At the end of classes, they always want to know if they should go on,” he said. “I always tell them the same thing: The audience will let you know if you’re funny and if you should continue.”
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Confidential to China: Spittoons!
Regarding “SARS Wars” [May]: One possible factor which I have never heard mentioned concerning SARS is the complaint that I’ve read of people in China spitting on the street. Riding the Edge, by Dave Barr, talks about the sidewalks of Beijing being covered with people’s spit. The author spent the winter there. He said that it was hard to not step in it. And shortly before the SARS epidemic, there was an article in the paper about the Beijing government cracking down on people who spit in the street because they feared that it would not look good for the upcoming Olympics. Might this habit have contributed to the spread of SARS? And maybe explain why it has not been so prevalent elsewhere in the world?
Ross G. Kiihn, St. Paul -
Cadillac in the Sky
Craig Cox was absolutely right when he wrote that “[Charlie] Lau is probably not driving an eight-year-old mini-van and trying not to worry about retirement.” Lau, the legendary hitting coach, died in March 1984.
Michael O’Donnell, St. Paul -
Denning Is Dandy, but Manuel Is a Mensch
Dennis Denning is undoubtedly a fine coach, but he might not even be the best one in St. Paul. After guiding St. Paul Academy to its then-record fourth state boys’ soccer championship in 1994, Manuel “Buzz” Lagos said “yes” to the pros by creating, from the proverbial ether, his own professional team. The Minnesota Thunder, which began as an amateur club and, early on, had to pay high-level opponents to visit Minnesota, turned pro in 1995 and rapidly grew into a national powerhouse by developing local talent to its full potential. While the Thunder can only claim second-division status beneath top-tier Major League Soccer, Minnesota consistently ranks among the A-league’s best teams, sandwiching two finals appearances around its 1999 national championship. Former players (and Minnesota natives) Leo Cullen, Manny Lagos, and Tom Presthus currently play in MLS, and the Thunder’s most famous alum, SPA grad Tony Sanneh, led the U.S. national team to its historic quarterfinal appearance at the 2002 World Cup. But Lagos, a consummate teacher and tireless soccer promoter who reaches countless young players through clinics, camps, and other public appearances, didn’t sell out by going pro. In recent years, he has donated his modest coaching salary to the team, to help it avoid bankruptcy.
Dean Campbell, Minneapolis
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Droves of Dennis Disciples
Fabulous piece on Dennis Denning of St. Paul [“Building the Boys of Summer,” May]. I write with a long and positive historical perspective on Coach Denning. I am one of literally thousands of young men who was fortunate to have had Dennis as a coach, way back in 1966, as a 7th grade athlete at St. Luke’s Grade School in St. Paul. For more than 35 years, Dennis has been a mentor, a role model, and an individual whom I have looked up to as a hero. He takes a genuine interest in his players’ lives, he watches out for his players and he is simply one of the highest quality individuals that I have been lucky enough to be associated with. Mr. Cox and Mr. Dvorak, you guys do great work!
Bob Salisbury, Mendota Heights
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Toying with Iraq
You seem to think Iraq was “carpet-bombed” in the recent war [Good Intentions, May]. It was not. Those were precision munitions. Granted, “precision” does not mean “100 percent.” Still, “carpet-bombing” has a specific military meaning, which does not apply to this action. You find it suspicious that we have not uncovered any WMDs yet. Prior to the war, the UN was proposing up to 1,000 inspectors working for up to 12 months to do the job. At the time of your writing, the U.S. had been in Iraq three to four weeks, with no inspectors (only troops, who were rather preoccupied), and yet had discovered quite a pile of circumstantial evidence. You argue that American aggression will inspire more terrorism. That is certainly possible. Yet the opposite could also hold. Terrorist networks use tales of Super Power military blunders (Vietnam, Mogadishu, Soviets in Afghanistan) as potent recruiting tools. When we show we mean business, as against the Taliban, recruitment goes down. (This according to intelligence sources.) Granted, it never goes down to zero, and it’s unlikely this issue can ever be decided conclusively. Finally, you ask what would have happened if we hit Iraq with $80 billion in Barbies instead of bombs? We can only guess, but I suppose Saddam could have used them to decorate his rape rooms and his children’s prisons. The people of Iraq would, no doubt, have been grateful for our largesse.
Gene Dillenburg, St. Paul
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Giant Among Men
Your recent article about Minnesota’s loss of influence in national politics [“The Minnesota Model—Unglued,” May] didn’t really get at the heart of the matter. My grandpa, Fred Dennstedt of Fillmore County, was a lifelong Democrat and DFLer (born in 1883). He loved Hubert Humphrey and all who stood in his shadow, which means the rest of the people featured in your article. He took his turn as the sacrificial Democratic candidate for Senate in the 1930s. Remember, this part of the state had Republican congressmen for 103 years until Tim Penny. My grandpa’s campaign slogan was “a dirt farmer, liberal but sane.” That is the problem: Liberal but insane does not work, and does not gather influence. Your article also gave short shrift to arguably the most influential member of the Minnesota delegation over the last 25 years. That would be Bill Frenzel. Having worked for him, I am a little biased. However, Dan Rostenkowski (remember him?) would not hold a Ways and Means committee vote without Bill in the room. At the same time, Bill would always take the time to know and advise each staff member on their lives and careers. The Boss is still influential through his work with the Brookings Institution, and he still works for Minnesota.
Peter O. Torvik, Hopkins
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Minnesota in the Tank
Thank you for Albert Eisele’s awesome perspective on the change in Minnesota politics [“The Minnesota Model—Unglued,” May]. His clear and informed article firmed up the sinking hunch I’ve had about our recent regime change: We’ve been mugged. The national political wizards chose our governor and senator for us, infused them with money and presidential backing, and gave them scripts that sound no different than those being read by minions in other states. We are no longer positioned to be a leader state. Two of the most independent politicians in American history, Governor Jesse Ventura and Senator Paul Wellstone, have been replaced with two transparently ambitious Republican yes-men. We are told that our nationally recognized anti-poverty programs should be more like Wisconsin’s. Our tax policy should be more like Colorado’s. Our abortion laws should be more like Mississippi’s. Our guns laws? Hello Texas! With the appropriate puppets in place, Washington bosses can easily pull our strings, subdue us, and implant an ill-fitting political philosophy. It’s sad, but we’ve become little more than a satellite colony under the tutelage of national power brokers who can hardly appreciate the history and contributions that Minnesota has produced. It was great to see Mr. Eisele lend his long view to the great loss we have not awakened to—yet.
Rev. Rahelio Soleil, West St. Paul