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There is no shortage of theories regarding the fever dreams of David Lynch. We have our own: He’s a walking clinical study of high-functioning autism, a man who lives—quite literally, by all appearances—in a private world that turns the everyday back on us in grotesquely refracted ways. All of Lynch’s most emblematic works (this movie, Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks) say the same thing: There is a world inside the world, more corrupt and more Byzantine than you can imagine. An ironic streak of puritanism colors Lynch’s notion of evil; you see it in the way he represents good (Laura Dern and Kyle McLachlan in Blue Velvet) and the glee he takes in brutality toward the unrighteous. But none of this even begins to explain the peculiar emotional force of these little dream-quests. As for Mulholland Drive, consider this Rakish Viewers’ Tip®: The plot isn’t tough to fathom if you take for granted that the first two hours are a dream dreamt by a character who doesn’t have a line until the last 20 minutes.

In the gritty alley behind Sex World, in downtown Minneapolis’ notorious Warehouse District, you can stumble upon a whole microcosm of vibrant activity. We’re not talking about the inebriated college kids pissing in corners after a night of drinking, though there is plenty of that, nor any of the unseemliness you might hope to encounter in such a nefarious block. No, the action here is the steady hum of One on One Bicycle Studio, getting ready for business. Gene Oberpriller is preparing to open the enterprise this spring. But unlike most shops who try to be all things to everybody, Oberpriller says he wants to serve the thriving subculture of urban cyclists who eschew the image of a typical bicycle “enthusiast.”

Anyone who passes through downtown Minneapolis these days can’t help but notice that the city is increasingly a bike town. Sideburned messengers, service-sector workers riding department-store clunkers, workaday folks with their pants tucked carefully into their dress socks; they all descend upon the city on their bikes. People seem to be catching on to the simple reality that bicycles are the best way to get around the city, especially the downtown area.

Oberpriller has lived in the warehouse district for more than 10 years, where he’s known to some for his raucous late-night parties and bike rallies. Among local cyclists he’s a colossus; he’s been a pro-level racer in BMX, mountain, road, and cyclocross disciplines. And now he’s become something of an economist. “Downtown is the fastest growing neighborhood in the city,” he says. “The Riverfront housing developments have the potential to bring in 10,000 new residents. And the recreational trail corridors, such as the Cedar Lake Bike Highway and the River Road/Stone Arch Bridge see as many as 3,000 people a day.”

That kind of increase in the downtown biking population will naturally mean more people needing a place to fix flats and replace chains. Until now, there really hasn’t been a bike shop downtown. (Several years ago, a small shop called Downtown Bikes tried, but didn’t make it.) Oberpriller’s shop will offer new and “recycled” bikes. In the spirit of Sanford & Son, One on One will also be a salvage operation, much like an auto parts junkyard, for people who need cheap parts. The basement of Oberpriller’s studio is brimming with wheels, handlebars, and general bike detritus gathered over a decade of trash-picking and dumpster diving. “One on One will provide the cheapest and most efficient means of transportation downtown,” says Oberpriller. “We want people to realize, especially in the urban environment, that there is an alternative to automobiles. It’s simple, really. Ride, don’t drive.”

It holds up pretty well, all things considered, but then we’re suckers for baseball movies. Tim Robbins’ turn as screwy southpaw Nuke LaLoosh (a baseball picture without clichés just isn’t a baseball picture) represents the funniest performance in le cinema du baseball since the hapless, ever befuddled William Bendix assayed the title role in The Babe Ruth Story. Susan Sarandon is likewise masterful as Annie, the temptress/muse/ home-team slut who undertakes to make Nuke a man. And Kevin Costner is—well, Kevin Costner. The man has made a second career of baseball films. (Field of Dreams, For Love of the Game—and wouldn’t a few pickup games have done a lot to spruce up Dances With Wolves?) Special bonus for Rakish readers: If you act now, the new special edition DVD is available from Amazon.com in a specially priced two-pack with The Natural, Robert Redford’s baseball horror flick about a preternaturally gifted young outfielder whose face is inexplicably melting.

“That comes to $7.10,” says the laconic clerk at Byerly’s. The woman in front of me methodically unsnaps her purse, unfolds her pocketbook, fumbles with a ballpoint, and begins to write a check. She drafts the month, F-E-B-R-U-A-R-Y, while I begin to simmer. Why can’t it be May? She applies her careful, mid-century penmanship now to her check register. Slowly, slowly she folds her check at the perforation, and extracts it from the book. Inwardly, I scream, “DEBIT CARD! DEBIT CARD!”

In other states, people left their checkbooks in the 80s. Try handing the Soup Nazi a check in Manhattan, and he likely won’t be as polite as the uptown Minneapolis branch of Old Chicago. When they stopped accepting checks recently, they handed out notes of apology with every bill. We apologize for any inconvenience and hope that our great food, cold beer, and friendly service will maintain your relationship with us as customers, friends, and neighbors.

Others may laugh at us for writing checks for 87 cents and our “check writing stations” for the handicapped. And they do, according to Buzz Anderson, president of the Minnesota Retailers Association. “When we talk to retailers in other parts of the country they say, ‘What?! You still accept checks in your state?’”

But Anderson says our acceptance of checks stems from our history of being neighborly. “I think it says something about our culture and tradition and history,” he says. He even remembers when retailers wrote counter checks for customers. “We’re still a pretty honest bunch of folks.”

Jason Korstange, a TCF director, wishes people would stop using so many checks, because they cost a lot more to process than any other form of payment. He says checks aren’t as safe as most people think either. A dozen different people may handle your check before it gets back to you. “There’s still a hardcore group of people who don’t plan on changing,” says Kathy Paese, a Federal Reserve System researcher. “Checks are going to be around for a while. They’re not going away anytime soon.” Paese describes the hardcore group as older Americans. We’ve noticed they’re probably a little more polite, a little more reserved, and a little more Minnesotan than average.

It’s hard to believe that Jeune Lune has never before staged a Greek tragedy. The highly stylized drama of that period would seem to provide fertile ground for the highly stylized productions of this French-derived theater company. Medea, however, is a bit of a surprising choice. Of all the ancient Greek tragedians (all three of them) whose works have not been entirely lost, Euripides is by far the most modern, by far the most concerned with the intricacies of character. Except for the ending, the gods are absent from Medea; this is a play about the messy business of being human. And that’s the weakness of this production, because Jeune Lune’s strengths lie more in the physical than in the psychological. Moreover, Medea is a tough show to pull off unless you have an actress with commanding stage presence to play the title character. Although Barbara Berlovitz is a fine actress in the right role, she’s not the scenery-chomping dynamo this job requires. Still, it’s interesting to see how Jeune Lune’s style matches up with the challenges presented by the script. And watch for Charles Schuminski as Aegeus, King of Athens, who makes his entrance looking remarkably like Jesus Christ Superstar.

Art
by Yasmina Reza
Park Square Theatre, through April 13
What is Art? Three answers come to mind. First, it’s a play that asks the question, What is art? In other words, Art has genuine intellectual content—something we don’t encounter very often in the contemporary American theater. (More’s the pity.) Second, Art is a play with a somewhat misleading title. Yes, on one level it’s about aesthetics; but on another more dramatic level it’s about human relationships. A better title might be The Shock of Discovering Your Best Friend Is a Complete Idiot. That’s what happens in the play: A man buys an all-white painting which he takes quite seriously, thus endangering his friendship with another man who thinks the painting is the height of pretentiousness. Third, Art is one of the most critically lauded new plays to come along in years, and critics aren’t always wrong. This production marks not only the area premiere of Art, but also the return to directing of Richard Cook, Park Square’s artistic director, after a two-year hiatus. Well-known local actors Peter Moore, Jim Stowell, and Peter Gregory Thompson make up the cast. And if you need another reason to see the show, you can tell your friends that you saw Art for art’s sake.

“Don’t worry if you fuck it up. Just go out there and have a good time,” said Jay Leno. That was the backhanded advice he gave Nick Swardson in his dressing room, moments before Nick’s Tonight Show debut a few weeks ago. And Nick didn’t. In the vernacular of stand-up comedians, he crushed.

There’s something creepy and disingenuous about Jay Leno. No, I wouldn’t have been watching, but I owe Nick $100 (he scalped some Radiohead tickets for me last year), and I figured writing about him for The Rake would even our accounts. Regardless of these unusual circumstances, I certainly won’t be the last guy from Minnesota to brag about knowing Nick Swardson. I mean, the guy’s funny enough to skip Letterman. Not many comics love The Tonight Show anymore either. Partly because without Carson behind the desk, booking that show is no longer the crowning moment of a comic’s career, and partly because Jay is perceived as something of an ass. In fact, it was staff turnover that finally opened the Tonight Show door for Nick. “A lot of people really didn’t think my style was Tonight Show,” Nick told me afterward. “The former bookers were old school. And they just thought I was a little too different.”

Nick is different the way Minneapolis rock bands are different. He has that Westerberg impishness that plays as well on First Avenue’s mainstage as it does on a comedy club stage. Sure, he jokes about the “Wheel of Fortune” (“Why don’t the contestants cheat? I would. I’ll take a B, Pat. Sorry, no Bs. I said P, Pat. I’m not stupid, I think I know what I said.”) and his grandmother (“Nicholas! You should fight crime!”), but there’s something a little subversive, a little punk about him. In fact, he talks about his set as if he was fronting a band—Radiohead, to be specific—and says he feels pressure to play the big hits while what he really wants to do is trot out the more experimental stuff. “I just want to do my Amnesiac set because that’s in my head.” Because he’s my friend, and because I’m a Radiohead fan, I forgive him for such a hipster play on words. Besides, his stuff cracks up real rock stars too. Nick recently opened up for band-of-the-moment the Strokes in L.A. after they caught his act in New York.

Ultimately, Nick’s Tonight Show experience softened his opinion of Jay, who asked Nick over to the couch after his performance (there’s still prestige in that gesture). “He was so nice, and that really makes a difference. I really won’t be slamming the show as much,” said Nick prudently.

It was Ole Bull’s eighth birthday party, and the concert master took full advantage of the open bar, rendering himself unable to fulfill his duties with the house band. Bribed with candy, the boy filled in, ripping through a Louis Spohr composition. The performance was so spectacular that an uncle rewarded young Ole with his first adult-sized violin. The self-taught musician’s unusual playing style, memorialized in bronze on the north end of Loring Park, may be a result of countless wrestling matches with that grown-up violin. Ole Bull’s position was unorthodox: He held the violin with the brute strength of one thumb, not clasping it under the chin in the usual way. And that’s exactly how fellow Norwegian Jacob Fjelde sculpted him in 1897. A fierce realism permeates the piece, from the recently restored violin (with strings tightened to the same tension as a real violin and tuned to Bull’s preferred key) to a suit so detailed, according to U. of M. art history professor Karal Ann Marling, “you could practically cut a pattern just by looking at it.”

The thing about the sculpture is . . . well, it’s dull. Instead of seducing the attention, this bronze “Paganini of the North” stands there, stalwart, precise and sturdy. It belies Bull’s made-for-TV life: He struggled with gambling as a young man, masterminded an ill-fated colony for Norwegians in Pennsylvania (named Oleana, after himself), and all but abandoned two wives as he tootled across Europe, the Americas, and Africa. His adventures and virtuosity inspired cameos in works by Ibsen and Hans Christian Andersen. The musician in Longfellow’s “Tales of a Wayside Inn”—roughly an American Canterbury Tales—was a direct knock-off.

But this sculpture is so earnest you just don’t pick up on any of that. There’s no hint of metaphor, no rock star or satyr. Then again, that’s the paradox of great performers, isn’t it. Startlingly human, they’re capable of expressing the transcendent. It’s heartening that Minnesota’s first public sculpture doesn’t honor a deity or a virtue, but a real guy—and an artist at that. For sculpture more like TV, there’s always the legion of bubble-headed Charlie Browns in St. Paul. Or, for that matter, Minnesota’s newest public sculpture, Mary Richards on Nicollet Mall with her hat suspended right here between heaven and hell.

To really appreciate how much the seemingly normal people of St. Paul love hockey, take a look at how they continue to support the Wild as the team finishes its second season in an unnerving display of expansion-team ineptitude. Take one recent loss to the New York Rangers, a 3-2 overtime gaffe that should have broken the hearts of 18,568 paying customers. Despite winning only twice in the preceding 14 games, and sinking in the Western Conference faster than a snowmobile on Lake Superior, they keep showing up for more.

What the hell is this? Why don’t these people behave like all the other sports fans around here and slink away to the ice shack once it’s obvious there’ll be no victory parades at the end of the rainbow? Here’s the answer, friends: There’s something about St. Paulites that breeds in them a near-insane loyalty to anyone or anything that works hard. Win or lose. Inept or exceptional. It doesn’t matter as long as they see you sweat.

Keep in mind that St. Paul has done this before: with the Minnesota Fighting Saints of the World Hockey Association in the freewheelin’ 1970s. Especially in 1974, the Saints united the city behind a sports team like never before. Crowds of 16,000 and more were common then, despite the fact that the Saints’ brand of hockey was an only sporadically successful combination of outrageous goon tactics and exciting offense. In fact, the Hanson Brothers of Slap Shot fame were Saints (though two of them were Carlsons in real life). It helped that league rules eliminated the red line and thus opened the game up to many long passes and spectacular breakaways.

But most of all, the Saints were a tough bunch of characters who worked extremely hard for very little money. And the St. Paul locals loved them like crazy.

“We had a real following of people that truly enjoyed us and everything we did,” says Glen Sonmor, the general manager and architect of the Saints. “I think it was the fact that we had a very entertaining team. We had some real super talents like Mike Walton, Dave Keon, and Jack McCarten. You start with great players. But then you add in a lot of fun and hard work and soon you had something you could build on.” And those loyal St. Paul fans?

“When we got near the end and it was obvious we were going to fold, they actually took up collections to try to keep us going. They organized drives to collect money for future season tickets. They did everything they could, but it wasn’t enough. Escalating salaries and shaky ownership did us in.”

Sonmor now figures it was all for the best. He looks at the Wild and marvels at how its marketing machine can do in one day what it took the Saints weeks to accomplish. But he agrees that the Wild are benefitting not so much from what the North Stars did (because not that many St. Paul folks actually supported the Bloomington-based Stars anyway), but from what the Saints did. They showed the hockey nuts of St. Paul that they could be big time.