The Rake Magazine

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  • Alarming Conversations

    I have a clock radio from 1978. It has two volumes, “Way Up” or “Silent.” The alarm is stuck between KQRS and buzzer, and after the Exxon Valdez coffee/hairspray spill of 1989, the on/off button is gunked up and doesn’t work. So I either plug it in, or I don’t. But it still does the job. It’s more like a time bomb I set for myself every night, so I can be assured of dragging my can out of bed when it’s absolutely necessary.

    But this is a story about a morning when I didn’t have to get up. A day off. I got up anyway. Because I forgot to unplug my alarm. One moment, I’m dead to the world. The next, the alarm goes off. I was shocked into Bachman-Turner Overdrive. With so much adrenaline coursing through my body, I had no choice but to stay awake. Because it was my day off, I was at loose ends. I decided to call my mother, who is the only person I know personally who is up early in the morning every day for no other reason than that “it’s the best part of the day.”

    My mother is old. And I’ll let you in on a little secret about old people. They don’t sleep. They put on their pajamas like you or me, but it’s all for show. If you called my mother at 2 a.m., she’d answer on the first ring and conduct a lucid discussion on the subject of the Marie Osmond doll collection versus the Precious Moments figurines. (Just an aside here: I don’t like how, at a certain age, dolls become socially acceptable collectibles again. My grandmother has an entire roomful of two-foot tall Victorian villagers. Not one of them has kung fu grip, or can wet their knickers. Inaction figures. If this weren’t bad enough, she also has a “shame baby.” This is a doll who is perpetually in a “time out” position, standing in a corner, hands shielding its eyes in eternal disgrace. I couldn’t understand why anybody would want to immortalize this particular childhood rite of passage, and then I figured out that maybe my grandmother is nostalgic for yelling at children. At any rate, the last time I was there, when Nana wasn’t looking, I carefully posed a steak knife in the dolls’ little foam hand, so it could at least look like she had done something worth being yelled at for.)

    Back to the story. I looked at the clock. It was around 5 a.m. I dialed the number, and to my horror, my father answered. My father is the original strong silent type. He distrusts the telephone. When the telephone rings, it’s either trouble, or somebody who wants to talk. And either way, that’s trouble. Small talk is out of the question, because it implies a weakness of intent in life that my dad finds unsettling. Quickly, I decided to talk to him about something that I had recently purchased, because the one thing that is sure to engage Dad is the threat of expenditure.

    Right down to lunchbox apples, no purchase is too mundane for my dad to wrestle over. He’s got a system, and it’s served him well. The Four W’s. If you want to buy something, ask yourself, why, why, why, and why. If you find that you can answer all four questions clearly, wait three weeks and see if you’ve forgotten what you wanted in the first place. And if you must spend, before you crack open your wallet, think “double duty.” Two years ago, my dad bought each of his kids a case of Jimmie Dean Lambrusco, an amber vintage the color of iodine, with a sausage-y afterthought. He proudly read from the back of the box: “Says right here this wine goes with beef, chicken, and fish!” My Mom interjected, “I’m pretty sure it would go with franks and beans, too, Hon.” Still high from his splurge, my father replied, “You know, it doesn’t say anything about pork, but let’s try that tonight!”

    Anyway, as soon as Dad answered, I launched into a filibuster about my broken clock radio, hoping to either trick him into conversation, or trick him into handing the telephone to my mother. In record time, he handed the phone to my mother, who, hearing my voice, breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, I thought it was your grandmother.”
    “Why? Is there anything wrong?”
    “I think she’s going batty. She called us up at 3 a.m. last week because one of her dolls pulled a knife on her.”

  • Free The Jackson Five!

    Just like a three-year-old defiantly staring down a plate of overcooked Brussels sprouts, I told the world I was not going to write about race stuff this month. I even promised my 16-year-old son that no matter what, I was not going to be The Rake’s resident “spook by the door,” spewing endlessly about skin color. However, that was all before president Bush ordered his Justice Department minions to prepare a brief opposing the University of Michigan Law School’s affirmative action plan before the United States Supreme Court. (I am a graduate of that law school—go Blue!)

    In 1978, a pre-med student named Allan Bakke convinced the Supreme Court that the University of California gave his spot to a “less qualified” minority student. According to the Court, affirmative action, if it meant setting aside spots for certain kinds of people, was bad. However, taking race into account was still okay. Now “W” says it’s not okay.

    The Bushies don’t understand two crucial points. First, the term “affirmative action” is a misnomer that does not convey the duplicity of our legal system in perpetuating racial discrimination. Second, Bush does not seem to understand that making sure Americans of all hues get into our nation’s universities adds value because it enhances the education of all students. That’s a goal to be achieved in itself.

    Lyndon Johnson was one of the first to use the word “affirmative” when, as he signed the 1965 Civil Right Act, he challenged America to actively reverse the legacy of government-sanctioned discrimination. I think LBJ would have done us all a favor if, at the time he signed the bill, he had said something like the following: “My fellow Americans. We are taking certain corrective measures because our society screwed over black people in a very big way. This ‘corrective action’ we are taking should be considered a ‘settlement in lieu of a lawsuit.’ We all know America stole hundreds of billions of dollars in free labor from our fellow African Americans. We raped their women and lynched their men. If they were to get together and sue us over slavery and its aftermath, it would beggar us.

    “In fact, if there was ever a case for reparations, this brutal treatment would be exhibit A. However, there is not enough money in the world to compensate them, so we are going to make sure that our Negro citizens have places in our nation’s colleges, universities, and professional schools. We are going to do it to make up for the hell we put them through and because it enhances the education and training of all Americans to make sure that black people sit at the educational table, too. We are not giving them anything other than the opportunities that slavery and Jim Crow robbed them of. And, unlike Reconstruction—which was done half-heartedly and was undermined by unrepentant Southern whites—we as a nation are going to do this thing right. It will take some time—generations.”

    Words like this from the beginning of what we now call affirmative action would have made it clear that America was finally taking responsibility for what American society had created. With the University of Michigan litigation, “W” has a golden opportunity to do the right thing by reminding Americans that we still have much to do. Bush could use the Michigan case as a teachable moment by emphasizing that higher education will best fulfill its mission by having racially diverse classrooms where students teach each other how to thrive in a multiracial society. Instead, the Bushies exploit “affirmative action” and “race-neutrality” (the current phrase of choice) to conjure up images of black people getting something they do not deserve, while at the same time eviscerating constitutional safeguards against discrimination.

    Finally, as the University of Michigan fully understands, there is no better way to correct the ravages of past discrimination than to ensure that our nation’s universities contain black and brown Americans. Our presence at the country’s top schools adds value to the education of all students. As long as Michigan can demonstrate that race alone does not give one a spot in its law school and that, once there, all students must meet the same standards, then “W’s” cries of reverse discrimination are exposed as the shrill, race-baiting taunts they are.

  • from Canada: Rael Against the Machine

    The sign said, “All life on Earth, including human beings, was originally created scientifically in laboratories by the Elohim—an advanced people from space!”

    “Tell me more!” I said to the sexy French Canadian woman boasting ample cleavage. She was running the Raelian booth at “A Gathering of Light,” a new age convention. “The only person the Elohim communicate with is Rael,” she explained, with sincere conviction and a cute French accent.

    Glancing at the back of his best-selling book, Message Given By Extraterrestrials, I noted that Rael himself is an older French man with a ponytail. And he used to be a racecar driver! Now Rael is the head of the Raelian religion. According to the person I took to be one of Rael’s terrestrial girlfriends, the main mission of the Raelian religion is to build a $20 million dollar space embassy so the aliens will return. It’s not clear why a $10 million dollar space embassy wouldn’t work. There was a way to find out, though: Travel through time and space to their headquarters in Montreal. I booked a flight.

    Through the Raelian website, I located their headquarters on Earth, and planned to attend one of their weekly organization meetings. I pictured myself sitting in a large room filled with dozens of new Raelian recruits. I was excited to learn more about a religion that performs the minor miracle of making Scientology look reasonable.

    Once I got to Montreal, an evil acquaintance of mine planted some very bad information in my head, which would not come out: He said the Raelians hold wild sex parties filled with beautiful single women. Though I might not fully believe humans were created in a laboratory by aliens, I can always appreciate French-speaking hotties who like having unattached sex. A little paranoid, I made sure others knew where I’d be for the next hour and a half.

    I went to the second floor of a warehouse off St. Laurent Street that also housed a discount futon outlet. A door with a picture of a large alien head swung invitingly open. The turnout for the informational meeting was less than I expected. Inside, two sad men on couches looked surprised at the appearance of a willing human being for the 7:30 weekly meeting. So, where were the hot French chicks?

    One of them appeared to be the leader. He had a mullet a lot like Michael Bolton’s, and he was wearing a vest with no shirt (maybe the Raelian uniform?). He signaled for me to sit down. I made my way to the farthest couch. Michael Bolton signaled for me to sit snuggly next to him. I got the uneasy feeling he might try to touch me. I tightly held onto my Dr. Pepper can, in case I needed it as a makeshift weapon.

    The other Raelian looked like an elf-alien hybrid. He remained silent, staring straight ahead. Then began the heavy talk, the unblinking eye contact. “Did you come all the way to Montreal to meet with the Raelians?” Michael Bolton asked. He too had a thick French accent. I mentioned that I’d seen a few UFOs, had a few encounters. “This is not a group for spotting UFOs,” Michael Bolton explained. In Montreal, he said, the organization is 5,000 strong.
    Both he and the elf wore a symbol around their necks that resembled a Star of David, with outer space stuff in the middle.“It’s the Symbol of Infinity,” Bolton said. It once had a swastika in the middle, but for some reason, people didn’t respond favorably to that. “In 1975, Rael was taken back to the Elohim planet,” Michael Bolton said in a way that invaded my personal space.
    “Wow, how long did it take to do that?” I said.
    “Two hours!”
    “That’s amazing!” I said. I decided to improvise: “When aliens took me back to their home planet, it took over three days.” Michael Bolton was unimpressed by this. The elf stared straight ahead.
    “In all religions, there’s one prophet who returns to earth. We believe it is Rael.”
    “So what you’re saying is, all the prophets of each religion have been agents of the Elohim?”
    “Yes!”
    “And the reason Rael was visited by UFOs is because he is a prophet?”
    “YES!”

    Now, I turned the tables. “Maybe I had an encounter with a UFO because they came special to see me!” I puffed out my chest, insinuating that I, too, might be a prophet—perhaps their new Messiah. Michael Bolton looked aghast. Even the elf looked over. “NO! Rael is the only prophet on Earth. Rael is the last prophet!”

    “You never know,” I said, giving my best I-might-be-your-new-Messiah smile. With distaste, Michael Bolton quickly wrapped things up. But not before inviting me, in a perfunctory way, to their weekly Raelian bowling night. “You’ll have fun,” Bolton said. “We’re a little crazy.” He made little circles with his finger at his temple. That was the understatement of the millennium.

    I was excited about the prospect of bowling with Raelians. I went to a place called Jillian’s, which turned out to be the coolest bowling alley I’ve ever seen, with large music video screens at the end of each alley, and multi-colored balls under disco lights. French-speaking people can even make bowling seem chic. There were a few groups of happy bowlers. None of them wore the Symbol of Infinity. “Raelians?!” I yelled, to see if this would get anyone’s attention.

    Gathering courage, I approached an attractive woman just lining up her sights for an easy spare.“Excuse me, but are you a Raelian?” She looked at me like I had poohed in my pants. I went to the payphones and dialed. “You have reached the Raelian religion. Stay on the line. Someone will answer to you.” Moments later, someone picked up. It was a French Canadian woman who couldn’t speak English very well. I told her Michael Bolton and the elf told me to be here for Raelian bowling night; I was wondering where everyone was. She said the Raelians should be there. “I don’t see the Symbol of Infinity.” She told me to call back in ten minutes. In the background, I thought I heard giggling. I called back in ten minutes. No one answered. Suddenly, I realized they must be having a wild sex orgy for the recruits who had made the cut.

    There’s nothing lonelier in the world than being stood up at a bowling alley by Raelians. Couldn’t they have cloned some attractive, low-ranking members and gotten their asses down here and into bowling shoes? Would Jesus or Muhammad abandon one of their disciples, crushed, with pins still in formation and shoes unrented, on their prospective bowling nights? I looked toward the heavens, unto the next solar system, and I spit with disgust.—Harmon Leon

    Harmon Leon is a comedian, actor, and writer living in San Francisco. He recently published “The Harmon Chronicles” (ECW Press).

    Harmon Leon

  • Last of the Mohawks

    John “Macker” McMahon has a bright green mohawk, skull-shaped rings, lots of leather, and boots definitely suited to toppling statuary. On top of all that, as if for verification, he sports an Irish accent as green as his hair. Not the kind of guy you’d expect to see making housecalls in Kenwood or Linden Hills. But Macker also happens to be a carpenter, and a good one at that. In the marketing game, you sometimes have to play to your strengths: He is the owner and operator of Mohawk Remodeling.

    Macker learned his skills during his Dublin youth when his grandfather and uncle put him to work in their construction business. When his father signed the whole family up for the emigration lottery, Macker made his way across the Atlantic, following his dad to San Francisco. There he continued to ply the McMahon trade. His talent got him work, but the green hair got him noticed. “I realized I had an image going,” he recalls.

    He found his way to Minneapolis. “My friend here kept telling me how great it was. You could afford to live and buy a house. People had gardens. Punkers had businesses.” So he made the move and opened up shop with a van painted to match his hair. Meanwhile the punk craftsman also became a regular local with his wife, Smoggy (“We met at the anti-poll tax riots in Trafalgar Square,” he smiles wistfully of a bygone day), three daughters, and a house in southeast Minneapolis. “I like it here. People are nice. It’s true, the Minnesota nice thing, it reminds me of Ireland, especially of people in the country.”

    But hasn’t he heard about Minnesota ice? After all, he’s striking out into some very unpunk territory. “I get along with most everyone. I’ll never know about the rest because they don’t call. It’s at the stage where I can choose the job.” Besides, he doesn’t do suburbs. “I like staying in Minneapolis. A lot of my crew bikes. We draw attention, then it’s up to us whether it’s good or bad attention.”

    Still, it takes a little mental scaffolding to bridge the notion of a guy with a mohawk and shredded jeans as licensed, bonded, and insured. Punks are supposed to tear things down, not build them up. He can’t help it if he has a thing for fine oak.

    The lads on Macker’s crew all have mohawks too, even when they’re lassies. But McMahon says it’s not a job requirement. “I’ll hire anyone and give ’em a try. They just have to be open-minded. They have to be able to laugh on the job site. It’s good to have people that enjoy workin’ together.” Agreeing to Flogging Molly on the boombox all day certainly can’t hurt.—Jon Zurn

  • Discriminating Against the Dead

    A few weeks ago, more than 150 friends gathered to honor Kalid Al-Bakri’s life. They remembered him as a kind and good man, gunned down by robbers as he filled in for his brother at a South St. Paul convenience store. Then they lowered him—in accordance with the rules of his faith—into the ground at the Islamic cemetery in Roseville. Islamic rule number 627 states, “It is not permitted to bury a Muslim in the graveyard of the non-Muslims, nor to bury a non-Muslim in the graveyard of the Muslims.” On American soil, you can’t discriminate against the living, but the dead may be a different story. Cemeteries can and do exercise prejudice—most often by creed.

    Most Jewish cemeteries, for example, won’t bury gentiles. “We’ve talked about it,” said Michael Morris, general manager of the Minneapolis Jewish Cemetery at 70th and Penn, one of several Jewish cemeteries in the Twin Cities. “We have an area in our cemetery that is designated for mixed couples,” he explained. This flexibility is a relatively new phenomenon among Jewish burial grounds in the last 10 to 15 years. “And our mixed couple area is a separate section—it could even be considered a separate cemetery, since it isn’t technically part of the same grounds.”

    Furthermore, the gentile plots have to be purchased by a Jewish individual for the non-Jewish partner. “If a non-Jew wanted to be buried here without any connection to a Jewish spouse, well, then the answer would have to be no,” said Morris. “But then, I don’t know how many gentiles are interested in calling up and buying a lot in a Jewish cemetery.”

    Which gets at the gist of the matter. Under what circumstances would someone want to be buried in a cemetery representing somebody else’s faith? “I did actually have a gentleman call up,” Morris recalled. “He was not a Jew but he said he had great admiration for the Jewish people. He was now at the end of his life and wanted to be buried among Jews. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to accommodate the guy. I felt it was a little unfortunate, but that was the decision of the board of trustees.”

    Morris said he doesn’t feel great about having to turn someone away, but he wants to be clear that at a certain point, you have to draw the line. “A Jewish cemetery is a Jewish cemetery because it is designated for Jews and Jewish law requires Jews to be buried among Jews.”

    Ron Gjerde, executive director of the Minnesota Cemetery Association, said he for one doesn’t think exclusivity in burial plots is much of an issue. “Most cemeteries today are nonsectarian and nondenominational, and even for most religious cemeteries, faith is not necessarily an issue in buying a plot,” he said. “I believe you can be buried in a Catholic cemetery whether or not you are a Catholic.”

    If you own land in the country, and you have your heart set on resting in peace in your own little apple orchard, could you? “Probably not,” said Gjerde. “Let’s put it this way. Any individual or organization could follow the laws and work with their local communities to establish a cemetery—more or less. But we would be kind of digressing if we were to do that. Way back when, there were a lot of these ‘family cemeteries’ that were established on the family farm. Well, the family farm has gone by the wayside, and those cemeteries have too, ending up essentially abandoned.”

    To be buried in your own backyard is, of course, a most extreme way to isolate your remains from both the living and the dead. Most humans seem to want something in between: to be buried among their kind. Perhaps allowing this discrimination in death does something to encourage its opposite among the living.—Jeannine Ouellette

  • Charter Flight

    Though the letters “MBA” normally conjure visions of accountants and middle managers, you may start seeing them on letter jackets and sweatshirts around town. MBA also stands for Minnesota Business Academy, a two-year-old charter high school that occupies the old Science Museum building in downtown St. Paul. Though charter schools have existed in Minnesota for more than a decade, many are just now getting around to forming sports teams. There is nothing keeping charter schools from competing against conventional public schools with established sports programs, but few have had the moxie—or the money—needed to pull together a winning squad.

    Then last fall, MBA partnered with the Agriculture & Food Academy in Rosemount to form a combined athletic department. The athletes call themselves the “Charter Stars,” and so far they’ve signed on enough players for boys and girls basketball teams, cross-country and downhill ski teams, a danceline, and a cheerleading squad. The Stars’ first-ever game, a boys’ basketball match against the Burnsville Blaze, took place the other day at Burnsville Senior High School.

    Charter Stars cheerleaders don’t have a home gym. They don’t have perky ponytails, and until recently, they didn’t even have uniforms. But they do have spirit—in a cool, offhand way. A few weeks ago, the squad gathered in a makeshift practice space, one of the former Science Museum’s exhibit halls. It was a random sample of girls of all sizes and skill levels. They ran through the shortlist of cheers they’d memorized, while Rosalind Bakion, MBA’s activities coordinator and de facto coach, looked on.

    “Dynamite!” began one cheer, and a sly girl with purple-edged hair, the anticheerleader’s cheerleader, ran through the moves. The cheer declared, “Our stars are dynamite! Our stars are,”—here a quick swish of the hips—“tick, tick, tick, tick—BOOM! Dynamite!”

    “There were no tryouts,” said Bakion, a sporty, earnest-looking woman dressed in a shiny zip-front track suit. “From the start, we said that if you show up for practice you can be on the squad. You don’t have to look like a Barbie doll to be on this team.”

    A couple days later, MBA hosted the Charter Stars’ first-ever pepfest, a disorganized, low-key, and cautiously enthusiastic affair. About 50 kids and a handful of teachers and parents milled around in what used to be the Science Museum’s main lobby. Oddly, “TC,” the Minnesota Twins mascot, made an appearance. Team members were introduced, the danceline performed a short number, and the cheerleaders, decked out in their newly acquired uniforms—bright blue skirts with matching Charter Stars T-shirts—ran smoothly through “Dynamite!” It has apparently become their signature cheer.

    The executive director of MBA is Paul Durand, an animated man who is determined to raise the visibility of Twin Cities charter schools. He stepped up to the mike and spoke excitedly. “Our first game is happening tonight!”—here a pause and building sense of foreboding—“It’s not the size of your school that counts. It’s the size of the heart of the athlete.”

    The game itself was a humbling experience, with a final score of 25-103. Off court, the tone was tense, with noisy, countercheers from the Burnsville bleachers, and a pre-game face-off of sorts. “We saw the other cheerleaders in the locker room,” said one Charter Star cheerleader. “They looked us up and down and said,”—here she adopts a sarcastic tone—“‘Are those your real uniforms?’”—Andy Steiner

  • Slap Shod

    The blond-haired guy with “Washburn” on his letter jacket slipped a pass to me and broke for the net. I sidestepped a 10-year-old, came face-to-face with “Red Jacket” and slid the puck toward a swath of blue going my way down center ice. It was a mistake. The pass went to “Blue Sweatshirt,” one of them, not “Blue Jacket,” one of us. Behind me, “Thin Guy, Black Sweater” had abandoned the goal. He was halfway to the warming house as “Blue Sweatshirt” bore down on the empty net. We lost the point.

    It didn’t matter. No one had kept score since the game began nearly five hours earlier. By the time the game ends, five hours from now, none of the current players will be on the Lake of the Isles ice. This is park hockey, the pick-up game that goes on endlessly through winter weekends and evenings. It’s the red-headed stepchild of league hockey; there is no parent-led organization to plead its cause, and no coaches or referees to minister to its traditions. There are no rewards for participation, no tournaments, no winners or losers, no score, no team jerseys, no spectators.

    Park hockey is an organized sport only at the most basic level. Checking and lifting the puck are forbidden, because protective gear is limited. Beyond that, the rules of play are hand-me-down traditions that vary from rink to rink. Players range in age from 10 to past 50, and include every ability level from wobbly beginner to the middle-aged ex-pro. During the last 10 years, an increasing number of women have joined the game.

    Play begins when a critical mass of skaters assembles in the hockey rink. Critical mass has a sound to it, the “click-thud” sound of hockey sticks slapping pucks against the boards. By the time 10 skaters get on the ice, the thuds overlap each other, creating a steady drumbeat audible a block from the rink. That’s when one skater circles the rink asking, “Wanna get a game going?” He drops his stick at center-ice. A clatter of sticks follows, creating a loose pile. Another player scatters the sticks toward the blue lines, one to the left, one to the right, one left, one right—park hockey’s version of choosing sides.

    We pick up our sticks, look over our teammates and make mental notes: “Red Nylon Jacket,” “Big Guy with Beard,” “Blue Sweatshirt.” There are no shirts and skins in hockey. Keeping track of teammates is an ongoing task. Soon after the game begins, a new player will skate onto the rink and ask to join. He enters the melee without introductions. If he gets the puck within the first couple of minutes of play, there’s a general hesitation because no one is sure which side he represents. Play resumes when he commits himself. A few minutes later “Washburn” starts to sweat. He peels off the letter jacket, becoming “Red poly pro top.” We make the mental adjustment and continue play.— Doug Shidell

  • Little Russia in Robbinsdale

    Back in Moscow, they have haphazardly declared the 500th anniversary of vodka. The native Russians at the St. Petersburg, a new restaurant in Robbinsdale, greet this news with skepticism. After all, they put 8,000 miles between themselves and the motherland for a reason. Besides, it’s not like Russians have lacked for excuses to knock a few back, through each of the previous 499 anniversaries.

    “We have two basic place settings for receptions,” explained Andrey Shmykov, showing off the banquet facilities at the St. Petersburg. “One is a 750 of Absolut. The other is a liter.” At each setting, as in per person? “That’s the Russian way,” shrugged Shmykov.

    The St. Petersburg has more than 100 varieties of vodka. The menu is vast as well, but it’s all a part of a pattern. In creating his little Russian satellite, Shmykov tried to get everything in the house. The cinderblock building, which harbors an American Legion downstairs, is decorated in the maudlin style of a mid-70s Eastern bloc club: rococo chandeliers, blue-on-white velour wallpaper, black velvet drapes tied back with golden braids, a stage-lit dance floor, and a house band that puts out Russian pop, James Brown standards, and Earth Wind and Fire covers—all with spectacular aplomb.

    Non-Russians seem to be catching on, too. The other night, a metro dating club monopolized the bar, and made advances on the dance floor. The regulars welcomed them with open arms and decanters. Though braced as bitter rivals for a half-century, America and Russia are essentially about the same things: too much space, too much power, too much appetite. No matter what their politics, all humans instinctively know that such psychological tyrannies can easily be medicated with an excess of food and drink.

    To that end, we ordered liberally from both the beverage and the dinner menus. Nalivka, a deep red cranberry version of the house vodka, arrived like a ruby in a glass. It was smooth and sweet, and good for sipping with an appetizer. A strong, clear Polish vodka cut the salty tang of red salmon caviar nicely. We also tried the mythic pelmeni, with sour cream and vinegar. The borscht was above reproach (with vodka), and the chicken Kiev was a competent nod to American tastes (with vodka). For its symbolic value and its gem-like appearance, there are also several types of caviar, including Caspian beluga (with vodka).

    A spicy lamb soup of south Russian provenance was especially good. It might have been the vodka, but shortly thereafter, I loudly challenged to a duel any wretched serf who dared to call any other soup better than this one. Pavel, who wields a lemon-yellow Telecaster, was nominated as second. The house band’s guitar player says Americans are more comfortable calling him Paul, but from my vantage point, I’d say they’re already about as comfortable as they ever will be. —Joe Pastoor

  • Sinking the SUV

    Even as the first production Hummers and Gelandewagens begin to roll on local streets, there’s a growing national chorus of self-righteous folks complaining about the sport utility vehicle. When Arianna Huffington and Jesus agree on anything, there’s clearly something afoot.

    Sure, there is much to hate about these biggie-sized vehicles. And yet all this kvetching is ultimately an exercise in self-loathing. Literally every other new car driven off the lot is an SUV or light truck—and not because there’s been a sudden upswing in farm work and logging. When you attack the SUV, you attack American values and American business. You attack American soccer moms. The truth is, most people think SUVs are safer, roomier, and cooler than other more reasonable automobiles. Even though 9 out of 10 SUVs never leave pavement, we seem to be comforted by knowing what we could do, in a pinch. This all has to do with the American myth of (solipsistic) self-reliance in the (mostly extinct) wilderness.

    Here in Minnesota, we’re caught in the middle. We tell ourselves we need SUVs because of the snow, but we’re skeptical of the leather seats and the DVD entertainment center. Perhaps this pragmatic investment in the national delusion is why our economy tends to be more stable, and why we drive more modest, utilitarian cars than our friends in New York, Miami, and L.A. Indeed, most of Minnesota’s moneyed class would rather be seen in a Volvo than in a garish Italian sportscar or a ridiculous Teutonic limousine. There are very few things Minnesotans hate more than a show-off.

    Utility, durability, affordability—these are the magic words that are nullified by too many ostentatious options. Just so, Volvos have long been a popular ride in these parts, owing not so much to our Scandinavian roots, but to our prudence. Kjell Bergh, the jovial Norwegian who runs Borton Volvo, recently confirmed that his dealership sells as many Volvos as anybody in the country. Now that Volvo is officially offering an SUV—the highly anticipated XC90—Borton is already the automaker’s top-selling SUV dealership on the continent.

    That’s a pretty neat trick, considering that very few XC90s have arrived in North America yet. The car was so much anticipated that more than 130 Minnesotans signed up last fall for the waiting list. Alas, tragedy struck. In December, the first XC90s from Gothenburg met with an untimely demise. The cargo ship containing 3,000 automobiles—including more than 300 new Volvos—capsized in the English Channel. It’s not clear if Jesus or Arianna Huffington intervened.

    Bergh said people on the bottom of the waiting list may now have to wait until May or June before they can park their butts in the seat-heaters of this “near luxury” car. (It’s not the first or worst time Volvo fanatics in the Twin Cities have been sunk. Back in the 1970s, two major floods on South Lyndale ruined 55 cars on the Borton lot.)

    We are reasonable folks, and our modest northern European roots show through in canny ways. Occasionally, we even have something to teach the rest of the nation. Perhaps our interest in these more reasonable, less ostentatious cars—known in the industry as crossover utilities (CUVs) and including vehicles like the Honda CRV, the Toyota RAV, and the Subaru Forester—can help ease the self-hatred that lately rises from the depths of a nation addicted to big cars, big oil, and big me.–Hans Eisenbeis

  • Are You on a Terrorist Watch List?

    Santa’s big season is behind us now, but it’s Christmas all year round at the FBI, where the jolly elf’s omniscient surveillance powers probably inspired a young J. Edgar Hoover. The FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list debuted on March 14, 1950, complete with cash rewards stuffed into the stockings of informants. The Ten Most Wanted list has played a role in nabbing more than 400 nasty criminals in its 52 years.

    “Of course list-making is nothing new to police work,” said Inspector Nick O’Hara in a recent interview with The Rake. O’Hara, who served as special agent in charge of the FBI’s Minnesota field office from 1991 to 1994, remembers the Ten Most Wanted fondly. The list had fallen on hard times in the late 70s, with little attention paid to the cases other than dusting off the ubiquitous post-office mug shots. For a number of years, the list generated just one or two hits per annum. “The Most Wanted became a list of static individuals,” said O’Hara. “They’d been on there so long that the rationale for banging away at the public had been lost.”

    As chief of the violent crimes section in the mid-80s, O’Hara said he wanted to take better advantage of the list, and assigned more agents to try some routine police work on the cases. By way of example, he told the story of Charles Lee Herron, who had been on the list for more than 20 years after killing two police officers in Tennessee. A mere six months of legwork netted not only Herron, but his three accomplices. Suddenly, there was an opening for a fresh face on the list.

    Like retail inventory, O’Hara said turnover is the key to maintaining public interest. Over the next three years, they found 23 suspects on the Ten Most Wanted, making it popular again as a cultural institution.

    Long before 9/11, the Ten Most Wanted had spun off a number of similar lists. A sister list is produced at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. The Ten Most Wanted also mated with the FOX television network, hatching John Walsh’s America’s Most Wanted television show, a strange joint effort of the entertainment industry and a federal law enforcement agency. Keeping in step with the times, the FBI has now created its own most-wanted list focusing on terrorists. Not to be outdone, the CIA reportedly has a list of Al Qaeda members who may be shot on sight, if they show up in public. “Lists are very important,” said O’Hara, clearly proud of these many iterations of a good idea.

    “We have found and clearly recognized that lists are useful tools when conducting investigations and gathering intelligence,” agreed Special Agent Paul McCabe in a recent conversation with The Rake. McCabe, a talkative straight-shooter from the Minneapolis field office of the FBI, confirmed the existence of a new Terrorism Watch List. Not to be confused with the Most Wanted Terrorists list which has been made public, the Watch List was originally launched as Project Lookout shortly after 9/11.

    Prior to 9/11, compiling the names of suspected terrorists was mostly the domain of TIPOFF. Started in 1987, TIPOFF is now a database of about 85,000 names compiled by the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research. The State Department won’t divulge names on the list. It won’t say what specific use it makes of the list, or tell what the criteria are for getting on the list.

    Typical. In fact, secret lists are all the rage now with federal agencies. Where the Ten Most Wanted thrived by being in the public eye, the new generation of lists seems to succeed on the strength of secrecy—though of course there’s no way to be sure they’re being used for anything at all, or if they’re working. To learn more about these secret lists, The Rake contacted half a dozen federal agencies. What the federal government most wants you to know is this: You don’t need to know.