The Rake Magazine

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  • Reefer Madness

    I was patiently standing in the ticket line at the Fringe Festival. Then the middle aged man right in front of me abruptly took off his pants. When he began to twist and turn and fidget with his belt, I nervously stepped back. Personally, I didn’t think that when I signed up to cover the Fringe Fest it meant I would be within tickling distance of another man’s ball sack. The throng of theatre goers at the Bryant Lake Bowl hardly even noticed the disrobing right in front of them. I guess this was just normal Fringey behavior. I took a long hearty gulp off my beer. Then I realized that the man was only taking the lower half of his pants off. He was wearing those camping pants that can convert into shorts with a quick flick of a zipper.

    "Oh, that’s much better," the man said, refreshed. He folded the calf parts of his pants and tucked them into a large backpack that was slung over his shoulder. The man was a theater nomad. He purchased an Ultimate Pass Ticket and was travelling across the Twin Cities attending as many shows as possible.

    "I’ve been to forty shows this week," he boasted to me. "I’ve attended three today!" I took another pull of my beer because I had nothing to say to the guy about the Fringe Festival. The brain trust at The Rake chose me to review some shows during the city-wide acting festival. I think they like me because I’m a bit rough around the edges. I’m the kind of guy who enjoys hockey fights. It’s not exactly Shakespeare.

    As we waited in line, the man lectured me extensively on the nuances of the different venues in the Festival. He gushed about this Fringe superstar named Alexis and how she has once again taken the Festival by storm. Then the man killed our pleasant conversation by asking me what my interests were in the highly regarded performing arts festival.

    "Ugh, I chose the Bryant Lake Bowl Theater because it sold beer," I said rather bluntly. "The BBQ pork sandwiches are awesome, too."

    His face turned bitter. He ruffled his limbs like a pissed off peacock. When theater patrons talk about their appreciation for stage acting, pork sandwiches usually aren’t a factor. By the time we got to the box office, the show had sold out. Without a single hesitation, the Fringe Fest Freak whipped out a map and a showtime schedule. He moved quickly through the bustling restaurant/bar/bowling alley/theatre and was out the door towards the next gig. I had no idea what to do. So in the sake of good journalism, I put down my pen and notebook and went bowling.

    The next night, I attended Reefer Madness: The Musical. The pretentious theatre crowd from the night before was gone. The bar was now filled with an alternative class of theater folks: stoners, rockers, and dipshits. Needless to say, I fit right in.

    As I waited at the bar for my sister Becky, this Genghis Khan looking mofo thumbed through a well worn novel next to me. Then a dude with a spiky pink mohawk and a "Punisher" T-shirt saddled up next to him. They fist bumped, got their tickets, and went into the theatre. In a nutshell, that was the true beauty of the Fringe Festival. It was an awesome collection of local and national talent that had been brought down to the street level for everyone to enjoy.

    When a rolly polly man with a giant white beard waltzed in to the Bryant Lake Bowl, I knew it would be a good night. With his rosy red cheeks and Hawaiian shirt, he looked like Santa on vacation. He heartily back slapped several patrons and they all moved into the theater. My sister and I took our seats in the back.

    The musical remake of the infamous anti-marijuana movie was being put on by a local Twin Cities youth acting company. There was a funky house band kicking out jams on the wing of the stage. Although the play was about the evils of smoking weed, the majority of the patrons were thoroughly stoned. Everywhere I looked people was munching on heaping plates of nachos. Midway through the play, people started letting out cat calls. They playfully hooted and hollered at all the righteous anti-drug rhetoric in the script. When an actor sang the line, "We will bring down jazz musicians and immigrants!" the place bristled with good humored outrage.

    The play ended with classic Fringe flair: President Roosevelt performed a death row pardon on a young dope fiend and girls danced in bikinis.We left the quaint theater and headed back to the bar. A long line had formed for the next dramatic performance. Obscure hip hop music bumped out of the Bryant Lake Bowl sound system and washed over the patrons anxiously waiting for the box office to open. My sister and I had no idea what was showing next, but that didn’t matter at all. We ordered two more beers and got right back in line. Who knew theater could be so much fun?

  • Doomtree by Doomtree

    It seems sometimes like every debut rap album is long-awaited, highly anticipated. We heard the usual phrases a couple weeks ago on Muja Messiah‘s premier release ("They said this would never get done…I made it happen. I was part-time hustlin’, now I’m full-time rappin’ "). Likewise, in the liner notes to their new CD, the Doomtree crew informs us this project has ‘been a long time coming.’ That phrase is repeated verbatim on the hook of "Let Me Tell You, Baby," and echoes throughout various songs on the album. "So coming soon to a college town near you/here we are DTR/holla atcha rap group," Mictlan, one of the collective’s five emcees, intones on the lead-off track.

    And indeed, there has been hype. After P.O.S.’s second solo album made waves in 2006 as The Next Big Thing in Minneapolis hip-hop, a palpable bit of excitement presaged this crew’s collective release. As a group they’ve been gaining steam around town, playing to packed crowds, and even scoring a slot this last spring to open for the Wu-Tang Clan.

    So here it is! The first collaborative album featuring all the members of Doomtree.

    Maybe we should have waited a little longer.

    It’s a bad sign that the five solo tracks (each MC is given one showcase piece) are five of the best six songs on the album. ("Kid Gloves," with Mictlan and Dessa, is the only tandem track to crack the shortlist.) When it comes to collaboration, the group fails to find any real cohesion. Three or four or five rappers might all appear over a single beat, but they are unable to transcend their personal styles to become a unit. There isn’t much interplay between the rappers; rather it typically goes verse-hook-verse-hook-verse-hook. Listening to them is kind of like watching the 2004 USA men’s basketball team at the Olympics – a bunch of obviously talented individuals that are unable to work together. (Hey, guess what’s on TV…)

    Certainly there are moments of virtuosity on Doomtree.

    Cecil Otter is able to devise rhyme schemes more twisted and intricate than anything he’s previously created, and he sounds natural spitting them out – one doesn’t get a sense that he’s impressed with how clever he is. And the production is consistent; never exactly innovative, but never sinking a track down, either. Which is exactly what you want, because the beats should never outshine the rhymes on a rap album. MK Larada, Turbo Nemesis, Paper Tiger, and Maker display a variety of styles, ranging from jazzy-cool to hard-rock-hard.

    The most consistently outstanding member is Dessa, the collective’s lone female member. Her solo piece, "Sadie Hawkins," is by far the most successful part of the album. She’s the only one who’s able to morph her style to a given beat, to curve her talent to a track. In most cases, too, her lyrics are the most on point, the cleverest, and spoken with the most original delivery. Her solo album is highly anticipated.

    But these strengths are overwhelmed by the fact that, by and large, no one is really saying anything. The words rhyme, but only sometimes match; many songs are more akin to polished freestyle sessions than to finished written songs. The first verse to open up the album features an impressively complex rhyme scheme:

    "We work the mics and rehearse the lines that life furthers/
    and curse the vines that you might have heard your rumors from/
    like it’s me verse a vice or vice versa/
    then I returned to the life that Christ nurtured"

    Say it aloud and it sounds cool, but if you try to actually understand what it means, you may run into some issues. It may be a debut album, but it’s not a rookie album – these guys have all been around for years, playing shows and releasing EPs. So it’s a little disconcerting to hear Doomtree repeatedly rhyme their way into oblivion. Ultimately, the album is defined by lyrics so disconnected that they become abstract, so abstract that they deteriorate and become indecipherable.

  • Sawatdee and Hare Krishna

    Sharon Mollerus/Creative Commons

    Sawtdee

    To commemorate the lives lost in
    last year’s bridge collapse, Supenn Harrison, owner of the Sawatdee
    restaurants, has invited all of Minnesota’s Buddhist monks to participate in a
    commemorative service and alms
    offering in the parking lot of
    Sawatdee Bar & Café, 118 N. 4th St., Minneapolis next Saturday,
    August 16. The ceremony will be followed by a food offering and lunch, and the public is invited to attend.

    No donation is required, but Supenn says people are encouraged to bring gifts of dry foods, fresh
    fruit, or cash for the monks – you can give individual gifts to each
    monk, or make a donation to one or more of the temples that will be
    represented. Supenn expects 30-50 monks to participate, representing as many as
    four Laotian Buddhist temples, three Thai temples, and one each serving
    communities from Cambodia, Sri Lanka and possibly Vietnam.

    Lunch is at 11 a.m. – people are welcome to bring food to
    share, but Supenn says she will also provide plenty of food from the Café. The
    press release notes that the one can gain the "fruits
    of merit by offering meals to monks: one will have the five ennobling virtues; longevity, good
    complexion, happiness, strength and sagacity."

    Here’s the schedule of events:

    10:00 am: Requesting the Five Precepts and Sangkadana Offering
    Ceremony

    10:15 am: Buddhajayamangala chanting (The Buddha’s
    Auspicious Victories) by the monks

    10:30 am: Alms offering to the Monks

    11:00 am: Food offering & Lunch for all

    12:15 pm: Blessing by the Monks

    Dharma

    The young woman fronting the little band of Hare Krishna
    chanters outside the Wedge Co-op handed me a flyer for "Dharma," a show on
    Wednesday, August 20, 7 pm at the
    University of Minnesota’s Coffman Memorial Theater. The show, presented by
    Krishna Culture Tour, is billed as "blissful entertainment from the Krishna
    culture of India, performed by an international cast." But it was the food
    angle that caught my eye – the website for the event says that "at the end of the show, guests are served delicious vegetarian
    refreshments of savories, sweets and nectar drink in the lobby, created by
    gourmet Hare Krishna chefs. The food is prepared with love and is served as a
    complimentary gift to all who attend." Tickets are $15 for adults, $10 for
    seniors, students and children. For more details, go to http://dharma.eventbrite.com

  • The Bakken Goes Electro & John Toren Rakes Through Books

    READINGS
    Raking Through Books with John
    Toren

    Join your literary homies from The Rake for another installment of the popular
    Happy Hour reading series "Raking Through Books " at Kieran’s Irish Pub co-presented by The Loft,
    KFAI radio and the U of M Bookstore. Tonight’s special guest is author John
    Toren, who will show off his new book Seven States of Minnesota: Driving
    Tours Through the History, Geology, Culture and Natural Glory of the North Star
    State.     Toren will read a few brief sections from the book, give a slide show
    highlighting the variety of landscapes our beautiful state possesses and answer
    questions while you leisurely sip a pint of Guinness. The perfect precursor to that eminent
    summer road trip! All are welcome, even if you have not read the book. Park at
    Downtown Auto Park at 4th and Marquette and, with a parking voucher from
    Kieran’s, pay only $2 for parking.

    5:30pm-7pm, Kieran’s
    Irish Pub    , 330 2nd Avenue S., Downtown Minneapolis, Free

    Honorable Bookish Mention: Books & Bars: Anansi Boys @ The
    Nomad


    SPECIAL EVENT
    Rockin’ the
    Bakken

    Get electrified at The
    Bakken     tonight! Each month, the museum shows us a shockingly good
    time by showcasing new music of the experimental electronic variety, and
    tonight’s performance by freq3 will definitely spark your fancy with a
    sizzlin’ combination of electronic programming and live improvisation. Visit
    with the Brain
    Sciences Center     and compose your own music with the help of their
    experts who will show you the way around synthesizers, special effects, and
    modern and classic recording studio techniques. Enjoy a sampling of tasty treats
    and electrically charged wine while meandering around the
    Bakken’s beautiful gardens    , then pose for your free snapshot in the
    hair-raising photo booth to commemorate the occasion. See what all the "buzz" is
    about at the Bakken tonight!

    5pm-8pm, The Bakken
    Museum    , 3537 Zenith Avenue S, Minneapolis,
    $7

    MUSIC
    Convergence

    Little known secret…One of the best
    electronic music nights in the city is tucked away on a Tuesday in South
    Minneapolis. While you most likely are not unfamiliar with the dazzling dining
    experience that is Azia and/or Anemoni Sushi Bar, you probably haven’t done the
    after hours scene in the Caterpillar Lounge – at least not on a Tuesday. Convergence founder and techno whiz Jon Hester leads a rotating cast of electro
    denizens each week, transforming Azia’s back room into a bass-heavy robot den.
    Tonight enjoy futuristic beats courtesy of Jon Hester, Retroblast, and Daniel
    Paul along with a long list of wicked drink and appetizer specials. (I highly
    recommend the Lychee-tini with a side of cranberry puffs.) For an impressive
    late night date, or even a pre-humpday cocktail hour, the Caterpillar Lounge at
    Azia is a pretty sweet Tuesday night destination.

    10pm,
    Azia’s
    Caterpillar Lounge    , 2550 Nicollet Avenue S, Minneapolis, Free

  • The Happy DMV

    When Sarah Jones opened her eyes, the very first thing she noticed about the local Department of Motor Vehicles was the pervasive, defiant perfection. The immaculate office immediately struck her, the climate controlled setting blotting out the stifling memories of the trek from the asphalt parking lot. Her headache receded as she admired the emptiness which was the antithesis of her prior visits to the DMV. Long velvet ropes cordoned off empty space, like markers wound around a pristine excavation site. Sarah wound through the cordoned line with deliberate glee, directing herself towards the closest counter. The dearth of customers and abundance of central air soothed Sarah’s mind and allotted her a newfound patience. She appreciated the accommodating precinct; soft, natural light glittered upon the freshly waxed floor. Contributing to the exotic environment were the employees, who lined the oblong counter with the perfect posture of sentries.

    As Sarah reached the bureaucratic delta, a male teller waved her over.

    “May I help you, Miss?” he asked, moving his gold spectacles down from the crown of his bald head.

    “I was hoping you could change the title on my car over to my name.” After declaring her single need, Sarah commenced a cold sweat. She clasped the technicolor title in sick anticipation for the drudgery to come.

    “Phil, do you think you’ll need any help with this one?” his neighboring coworker asked. Her cheery expression and thick makeup clashed with the apparent rudeness of her interruption.

    “Excuse me?” Sarah asked, believing with a cynic’s joy that her benign first impression had been the result of a mere façade.

    “Oh, I’m sorry miss, I just thought I could give Phil a hand and get you out of here a lot quicker. We feel it’s best to get the customer the fast service necessary to get he or she back on his or her way.”

    “Oh,” Sarah responded.

    “And where exactly are you headed today, Miss…”

    “Jones.”

    “Miss Jones. Ready for a date?”

    Sarah looked herself over, redirecting the question to herself. She studied her street clothes.

    “No, Ma’am,” Sarah responded, “I’m not going anywhere special.”

    “Well, you look like you’re ready for anything.”

    “Sharon,” Phil interjected, “I think I can handle this one myself. Why don’t you and the others go ahead to lunch?”

    Sharon nodded. She turned and exited the lobby through a back door marked ‘Employees Only,’ with each subsequent teller following in suite. Only Phil and Sarah remained.

    “Crap,” Sarah said, glancing at her watch. “I forgot it was twelve-thirty. Don’t you all take the same lunch hour?” Her determination to experience frustration overrode her desire for speedy service.

    “We do,” Phil responded. “I thought I could stay and help you out, if that’s all right with you.”

    “Yes, it’s fine. That’s so sweet,” Sarah replied, each word growing upon the next with a slow, uncertain pace. “Are you sure this is the DMV? I mean, I just moved here this year, and I’ve never actually been inside-”

    “Miss, you’ve found the right place.”

    “Are you sure this DMV stands for ‘Department of Motor Vehicles’? Is this a different DMV?”

    “Yes it does, and no, it isn’t. This is exactly where you need to be, Miss.”

    “Alright,” Sarah said, a trace of uncertainty still floating in her voice. Phil removed a pen from his pocket and clicked it on.

    “Then let’s get cracking on that title, shall we?”

    After a short while, Phil had sorted out the nuts and bolts of the paperwork and only the incidentals remained. He rubbed his blond beard as he examined and re-examined the necessary forms.

    “How many miles does your car have on it?”

    “I don’t know,” Sarah said. “I’ll have to go check.” Her eyes wandered back to the entrance and out over the baking-hot asphalt lot. Waves of heat danced up towards the molten sun.

    “You can just give me a rough estimate,” Phil said, his eyes still glued to the necessary documents.

    “Are you sure?” Sarah asked, surreptitiously reaching her arms beneath the counter and pinching herself. Phil looked up and met Sarah’s incredulous gaze.

    “Positive.”

    Relief and relish pulsed through Sarah as she estimated her overall mileage.

    “About one hundred and thirty thousand,” she said.

    “Don’t worry about it,” Phil continued as he made a swift notation, “it doesn’t have to be exact.” His lips had formed a smile to follow his comforting words. He wrapped up the remainder of the document and proffered his pen to Sarah. “All the odds and ends are covered. Now all I need is your signature, and we’ll be done.”

    “But it only took five minutes,” Sarah said, expecting an arcane annex of red tape to rear up at the moment of closure.

    “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you through any quicker, but my hands and mind aren’t what they used to be.”

    “That’s not what I meant. I thought maybe there’d be something more.”

    “Nope, only your John Hancock.”

    Sarah signed where Phil indicated. He collected his pen and the paperwork, stowing each in its respective receptacle. Then he reached behind the counter and produced a plain brown bag.

    “If there’s nothing else I can help you with today, Ms. Jones, then I hope you don’t mind if I have lunch.”

    “I don’t mind, as long as, well,” Sarah paused, searching not only for words, but also for motives.

    “As long as?” Phil asked.

    “As long as I can stay and talk with you for a minute.”

    “Sure,” Phil said with a friendly smile.

    “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay?” Sarah asked. “Now that I think about it, maybe you want to go have lunch in back with your coworkers.” Sarah already feared the answers she might gain, as if any errant truth could rip apart the framework of reality and reveal The Twilight Zone.

    “No, I usually stay out here anyway, in case someone shows up.” Phil removed a sandwich and a can of soda, and set each neatly in front of him. “We’re allotted an hour for lunch, but it only takes me about ten minutes. Might as well be out here and ready for the next customer.”

    Sarah’s confusion only grew.

    “Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

    “Go right ahead, Miss. Shoot.”

    Sarah closed her eyes and concentrated on the strain of her interrogation. She wanted to ensure she received the answers she needed. A few moments passed, and she aligned her thoughts. Her questions formed, she opened her eyes and sized Phil up, taking in everything from his ironed dress shirt to his gleaming, gold glasses.

    “Why did you get this job? No, scratch that,” Sarah closed her eyes again, a brief flash of pain eclipsing her thoughts.

    “Are you feeling well, Ms. Jones?”

    “Yes, I was merely correcting my thoughts,” Sarah said, her wincing subsiding. She opened her eyes and cleared her mind. “How did you get this job?”

    “I applied for it.”

    “I figured that. But how did you get to be so desperate?” Sarah caught herself, but Phil had already started laughing. Her apologies perforated his dwindling chuckles, and after a few moments, Phil’s laughter retreated to a mere smile.

    “I guess I took this job,” Phil said, pausing to look around the empty, flawless DMV, “because I wanted to help people. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, and with my eyesight and looks, I thought this might be the only place I could make a serious dent. Here, perhaps I can do the best I can to serve with honor and commitment, and he
    lp out a few harried citizens in need. Plus,” he added, “I really love forms.” It was Sarah’s turn to laugh, and soon the two were sharing a protracted giggle.

    “I don’t know why I find this all so difficult to believe,” Sarah said, as much to herself as to Phil.

    “Maybe it’s because it isn’t real, Ms. Jones.”

    “Maybe,” Sarah said, renewing her giggling.

    “Wake up,” Phil said through a grin of his own.

    “Wake up,” he repeated, and Sarah laughed even harder.

    “Wake up,” he said for the third time, only now the smile had disappeared.

    “Phil?”

    “Wake up,” Phil chanted for the fourth time. Sarah’s smile flickered.

    “What-”

    “Wake up!” Phil commanded, punctuating his order with a firm slap. Phil’s blow knocked the smile off Sarah’s face, and Sarah off her chair. She looked up from the floor in amazement.

    “Phil, what the hell are you doing?”

    Phil stood up and leaned down over her.

    “Wake up,” Phil screamed, and after his second slap, Sarah closed her eyes and did just that.

    A series of painful moans escaped Sarah’s lips and coalesced into an inarticulate cry. Her senses united; the copper filled her mouth, whining bombarded her ears, darkness assaulted her eyes, dirt touched her hands, and the smell of urine wafted into her nostrils. She sensed a presence standing over her.

    “You need to wake up, lady,” the unseen man said. His voice was drained of all humanity.

    Sarah opened her eyes and took in the figure leaning over her. After a few moments, a middle-aged bald man came into focus. Familiar eyes danced behind a pair of gold rims, only jovial cooperation had been replaced by sheer malice.

    “Phil?” Sarah asked, her voice as bruised as her head.

    “I ain’t fillin’ shit for you, lady. You took a real cute spill and screwed up my line nice and fine. Now I’ve got to use up my one sanctioned break mopping up your filthy blood.”

    Sarah touched her face and head. Her fingers found a pool of dried blood and traced it back to her dripping ears, and then up and over into her gore-drenched scalp. She fought her aching head and turned over to inspect the floor. A dingy wasteland of chewed gum and scuffmarks isolated a half-dozen singular slick spots. In her pain, Sarah noted that her blood had mixed with a thick mud stain. She looked past a section of sweaty, seated patrons and saw a book rack replete with roadmaps, driving guides, and licensing textbooks. Bumper stickers held up drooping tatters of wallpaper. “Don’t Drink and Drive,” and “I Lost My Patience at the Centraldale DMV” stitched the walls like lurid tattoos. A “Have a Nice Day!” poster peered over the DMV, presiding over the municipal circus like a demented dictator. Razorblade slashes desecrated the familiar yellow smiley face.

    Sarah moved her lips, but sound was reluctant to follow.

    “Hospital,” she finally managed.

    “If you think I’m wasting my time and gas to haul your ass, you got another thing comin’. Like I’m gonna drive you to the meat factory, then come all the way back to this hellhole just so I can punch in for another three hours? You must be dreamin’, lady.”

    “Help,” Sarah moaned.

    “Ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry your little head. Although, it’s not like we’re liable.”

    “Can you help me up?”

    “Sorry, Princess, I’m on lunch break.”

    “I just-”

    “Do you think I care?”

    Before Sarah could answer his rhetorical question, he stood up and strode out the door.

    Sarah abandoned her goal of sitting up. Instead, she fanned her face with a bloodstained hand. Even on the floor, where cold air was physically bound to sink, heat stifled every surface. In lieu of the ambulance, Sarah tried to calm herself. Minutes dragged like the shadows of the other bureaucratic prisoners shuffling past, momentarily blocking the sharp, fluorescent light. Coughs and complaints peppered the atmosphere, and Sarah groaned inwardly. In the distance, a baby began shrieking.

    Sarah closed her eyes and pined for the happy, fictional place spawned by her imagination. The fleeting memories of her ideal errand-run filled the dark space behind her lids, and in the black void she attempted to conjure what was already gone. The buzzing and aching of her brain fueled the hope that maybe it had been real, and would materialize again the next time she opened her eyes.

    Sarah kept her eyes closed and kept hoping.

     

  • Why Stop The Funny?

    I’ve reached a new low, which is amazing, because I’ve had my fair share of low moments in my life. There was the time in college when I had an explosive stomach issue while wearing a Halloween costume. On my wedding day, I had a dress shirt "malfunction." I had to wear a tie and a short sleeve button down shirt, which made me look like a Hardee’s manager on the most important day of my life.

    But when I recently wore a rubber hat that had a giant dolphin head on it while watching an actual dolphin show at the Minnesota Zoo, I officially reached a new low. As if my gray socks in gray running shoes and grotesque sweaty lather weren’t enough to make me look like a total dipshit. My son thought it was hilarious when my wife jokingly put his new novelty dolphin hat on my head. Every time I tried to take off the hat, my son looked utterly dejected. So I kept it on because I’m a team player. While the dolphin hat on my four-year old looked rather cute and whimsical, it just looked completely stupid on a grown man.

    "Why stop the funny?" my wife asked when I tried unsuccessfully to remove the silly hat for the umpteenth time. "You’re a dad. Who do you have to look good for?" I left the aquatic center in shame, the dolphin hat perched on my head like a loser’s crown.

    The next stop on my trail of humiliation was the newly remodeled Central Plaza that now featured a $24 million dollar expansion called the "Grizzly Coast." The new exhibit is a replica of the rugged and beautiful terrain of Russia’s East coast, a land where forest meets tundra and spills into the Pacific Ocean. Among the awesome display of architecture and landscaping, there were massive boulder walls, evergreen and birch trees, and wild vegetation around state-of-the-art animal sanctuaries. We watched four hundred pound bears tear through fresh salmon, otters playfully spin in frigid water, and lava bubble up from simulated volcanic hot spots. As my son watched the mud squirt and sizzle, I slyly removed the dolphin hat.

    We watched the Amur Snow Leopard prowl stealthily in and out of the rocks and trees. A hoard of frenzied visitors pressed up to the glass to see the elusive cat in action. One snotty kid broke through the railing barrier, climbed on top of a rock ledge, and did an obnoxious taunting dance.

     

    "Malachi! Malachi!" the child’s frantic mom yelled at him. "Get down now!" I sat in the back of the pile and took complete satisfaction that it wasn’t my kid. I judged this poor woman without mercy.

    My wife remained silent. Sarah simply pointed towards our son and said, "Check out our little Einstein." My son stood off to the side and casually jabbed his right index finger up his nostril. Murphy was ten feet from the rarest wild cat on the planet, but apparently nothing beats digging for booger nuggets. I pulled a complete "dad move" and started calculating the amount of money I had spend that day just so my son could enjoy the taste of boogers. I told him to stop and he did. He switched nostrils.

    What started off as a nice leisurely day at the Zoo quickly became a game of "Parental Survivor." My hyper son dragged both my wife and me across every inch of the massive park. He badgered us with questions and military-like instructions, waiting to see which one of us would drop first. We walked through the Farm, the Minnesota Trail, the Jungle, the Butterfly Garden, and back to the Grizzly Coast. When we finally ended up outside by the Mongolian Camels, it was 90 degrees and we had been at the Zoo for five hours. I had a cramp in my leg and a slight hint of vomit in my mouth.

    My still-chipper son looked out at the huge meadow and saw a pack of smaller horned animals grazing in the distance. "Hey Dad, what are those things?" Murphy asked eagerly.

    "I don’t know," I replied with dire exhaustion. "Deer or some shit." My wife erupted with delirious laughter. Not only is Sarah gorgeous, but she also is the coolest woman I’ve ever met. She fully understands that I spend my work week toiling with a bastardly array of scallywags and sometimes bring home my choppy profane blue collar dialect.

    Before Murphy could even soak in his daddy’s verbal slip-up, Sarah distracted him by yelling and pointing, "Buffalo! Buffalo!" As Murphy scampered off to see the Bison, I gave Sarah an apologetic look. "Sorry bout that," I told her. "No problem," she lovingly replied. Then she paused. "But I am going to have to ask you to put this back on." She handed me the dolphin hat. I begrudgingly put the aquatic dunce cap back on. And so, I finished my day exactly how I started it: looking stupid.

  • The Pan African Fest "Raps" Up with K'naan

    MUSIC

    K’naan



    D.E.M.O.’s Twin Cities Pan African Fest goes out with a bang tonight at First Avenue. Toronto-based Somalian rapper K’naan
    will engage the audience with his smooth flows and thoughtful prose for
    an evening of amazing music you won’t soon forget. Raised in Mogadishu, Somalia in the midst of civil war, and descended from a long line of poets, intellectuals and most notably an aunt, Magool,
    who was one of Somalia’s most beloved singers, K’naan was influenced by
    American rappers such as Nas and Rakim well before he immigrated to
    Canada where he created a buzz with his profound spoken word
    performances. Today this artist shines for not only his slick beats,
    but also for poetically blending both English and Somali language into
    his rhymes – bringing intense and thought-provoking tales of life,
    loss, and roots to the ears of many.



    7pm, First Avenue, 701 1st Avenue N, Minneapolis, $16 Advance, $20 Door



    SPECIAL EVENT

    Movies & Music in the Park



    I was once treated to an impromptu acapella performance by Black Audience front woman Jayanthi Kyle while sitting on the crowded patio of a neighborhood bar. Egged on by our mutal friend Susannah,
    Jayanthi went full force into a heartbreakingly soulful number that
    immediately hushed and enraptured the entire patio for the endurance of
    her performance, which was at least five minutes long. Since then,
    Jayanthi has banded together with an impressive lineup of bluesy locals
    to form "Black Audience," an old-timey charm-and-banjo-infused acoustic
    troupe. What I’m getting at here, is if you’re going to go to Movies and Music in the Park this summer, this is the one. 1948 comedy/drama film State of the Union, directed by Frank Capra screens after the performance, so bring a blanky.



    7pm, Loring Park, Hennepin & Oak Grove Street, Minneapolis, Free





    SHOPPING

    ROBOTlove



    Nothing cheers up a dismal Monday more than buying cute things you don’t need! And, although this isn’t an actual
    event, I’ve decided to occasionally drop some Twin Cities shopping
    science on you, just to spice things up a bit. I mean, you don’t always
    want to do something that takes a lot of energy, right? Sometimes you
    just want to indulge your frivolity. Today’s hot tip is designer toy
    mecca ROBOTlove,
    located in the easy-to-find-parking area of Uptown, just off Lyndale
    and 27th. This wistful little shop will delight children and adults
    alike with its array of super-collectible, limited edition art-toys and
    futuristic knick-knacks from all over the world; its small but amazing
    offering of hipper-than-thou threads and accessories by local and
    national designers; and its stellar collection of high-end art mags and
    design books. ROBOTlove is the perfect place to find a totally hip and
    unusual gift for just about anyone, or to maybe kick-off your new
    obsession with Dunny trading. And if you’re hungry after all that shoppin’, head over the the Uptown Bulldog
    a mere block away for some serious deliciousness and maybe even a beer
    – but when you get home don’t forget to order your tix to The Rake’s World Flavors Dinner Party at the Bulldog’s Northeast location by clicking HERE.

    Mon-Sat 11am-7pm, Sunday Noon-6pm, ROBOTlove, 2648 Lyndale Ave. S, Uptown

  • US Olympians Bury China in Hoops Opener

    The opening game for the USA Olympic basketball team was close early–tied even, at 29-29, nearly halfway through the second quarter–almost exclusively because the US were missing their three-pointes while their Chinese opponents were knocking them down. But nobody seriously thought this would be a ballgame, and the 101-70 tally seemed an appropriate gauge of the gap between the two squads.

    It’s been fascinating to watch the way this team has been put together, and in particular, interesting to note that Mike Kryzewski of Duke, along with Jimmy Boeheim of Syracuse, are alloting the minutes. I’ve never partaken of the Coach K Kool-Aid, but there is a certain symmetry in him starting Jason Kidd over Chris Paul and Deron Williams at the point–the overrated coach showing deference to the player I consider the most overrated player in the NBA. Anyone with two eyes can see that Kidd is a distant third in terms of both talent and fit on this squad, and yet he gets the opening minutes instead of two much better, much classier players.

    Even Doug Collins couldn’t help but comment that the Chinese weren’t even bothering to guard Kidd, who not only didn’t shoot in his 13 minutes on the floor, but didn’t drop a single dime and tied for the team lead in turnovers (with Kobe, who played more than twice as many minutes). Throw in aged footwork on defense and the mystery deepens as to why Paul and D-Will hug the pine at the onset.

    In fact, the inability of Dwight Howard to develop a shooting touch around the rim, coupled with the emergence of Chris Bosh (both today and in the preliminary games), and the return to health of Dwyane Wade, makes the USA second unit a better ballclub than its starting five–and that’s with Lebron and Kobe, who both have been marvelous, among that first quintet. Take away Lebron and Kobe and you’ve got an over-the-hill Kidd, a still surprisingly raw Howard, and the always questionable Melo Anthony.

    By contrast, the bench can run out Bosh, who is easily the most active of the USA bigs; the suddenly resurgent Wade, who didn’t miss a shot today, bagging a team-high 19 points on 7 FGs and 5 FTS; either Deron Williams, who played with a fabulous spark today, and/or Chris Paul, who owns the fastest hands of any backcourt defender; and the option of Michael Redd (if you need to stretch opposing defenses) or Tayshaun Prince (if you need a shutdown defender). Keep Lebron or Kobe out there with that group and start engraving the names on the gold medal trophy right now.

    I will say this for K and the NBA elite–they are playing with an appropriately monster emphasis on defense, including the point guards not named Kidd guarding the dribble, the bigs and swingmen deterring penetration (Lebron had three blocks today) and the boxing out to prevent putbacks. China had the 7-6 Yao and the 7 foot Yi (who looked out of shape and often indifferent, and was called out by the announcers as the bad actor in contrast to the wet kisses Yao was slathered with) and still got outrebounded, while compiling an assist-to-turnover ratio of 12/18. Much has been made of the USA adapting to the international style of play, which relies less on low post scoring and more on perimeter treys (the line is nearly three feet closer in than the NBA). But I don’t care so much if the USA can hit the outside jumper, so long as they can defend it properly. Some of that comes from wearing down opponents with their superior depth and transitional quickness–the Chinese were much less accurate from outside in the second half.

    For its part, I thought the USA shot too many treys. They were 7-24 from behind the arc, and 31-36 from two-point land. Got that? To match their scoring efficiency on two-pointers, they would have had to have nailed 20 (and two-thirds of a 21st) out of 36 treys. That 86% from inside the arc came against one of the taller teams in these Olympics to boot. I don’t mind Michael Redd jacking up seven treys (he made 3), but Kobe doesn’t need to shoot 7, not when he can (and did) break down almost any single defender and have a superstar waiting for the dish and an open look.

    Another quibble: the interior passes are too tightly bunched. Don’t try to thread the needle in transition when you are four feet away from each other; take it to the hole or dish it to the perimeter or to midrange jump shooters–especially when Howard and his mediocre footwork and lousy shooting touch are the beneficiaries of pounding it inside. Both Bosh and Carlos Boozer looked better equipped to finish.

    Bottom line, however, is that this is just a fabulous team. People can yelp about the original Dream Team all they want; these guys would give that crew a run for their money. I know, I know–the proof remains to be put in the pudding. But remember, the caliber of international basketball has improved by leaps and bounds since the original Dream Teamers. Watch how this USA squad wears each and every one of its better-quality opponents out in the days ahead, and, hype aside, make your own judgment.

  • Edina Mom. Dead or Alive.

    Last year, I posted a movie on YouTube. It was a candid short film of a Mom sending her kid off to "camp" at a church in Edina. The Mom was wearing a leather Ferrari jacket while burdening her two cherubic children with care packages the size of a Marshall Plan drop. I found the whole vignette ironic, particularly since her kiddies were only going to be gone for three days.

    Today I found myself in the same church lobby, reluctantly sending my own kids off to the same "camp." (I was outvoted, again.)

    There was no Mom to be seen this time. In fact, I counted only two Yukon Denalis (with smallish blondish moms at the wheel, with the air conditioning on and phones at their ears) in the parking lot.

    So you could say that this year a car blogger has little right to comment cynically on a well-heeled woman wearing a jacket that advertises a car she has probably never driven nor could possibly understand.

    If she is still alive. Metaphorically speaking.

    Judging by the sheer lack of uselss Detroit iron in the parking lot this year and far smaller care packages (unless you go to YMCA camps–the only true camps in existence), it may finally be time to bury my unbewitting feminine icon of excess. I am willing to believe that the Edina she symbolizes may well be dead.

    Yet, as a car blogger, I am still troubled.

    Ths "camp," still does its best to "theme" its camp seasons. If your children have played youth sportts in a white suburb you know this means wearables themed in all manners of bad taste. (Buy or die.)

    The camp’s theme this year consisted of logo and color palette appropriated directly from Land Rover. "Roving Far and Wide" it read.

    Edina and commericalism go hand in hand. In spite of my own cynicism, I like the place and live here myself. If it were not for Edina, my two young children would not be fluent in French.

    But Land Rover?

    A church camp in Edina should worship a stronger brand.

     

     

     

     

  • You're No Fun

    After a flamboyantly successful run at the Bedlam Theatre earlier this spring, You’re No Fun has been whittled down for a Fringe staging. The play centers around a present-day hobo who comes back to town, and finds that his ex-girlfriend has written a musical about his life. It is a tale of star-crossed lovers that, like any worthwhile addition to the tragic genre, features dancing dinosaurs. The Rake caught up with Samantha Johns – director of both versions- and Savannah Reich -the original writer – to talk a bit about the incarnation and reincarnation of the show.

    The Rake: Are there any differences between the Fringe version of the show and its original Bedlam staging?

    Samantha: Yes, we had to cut about 20 minutes off it to make it fit the Fringe standard. We cut a beautiful (and complex) barbershop quartet, a few hunks of dialogue are missing, and then I just lit a fire under the actors’ asses and got them moving and talking faster.

    Savannah: I haven’t been involved in the Fringe staging process – although I was pretty involved the first time around (until Sam kicked me out of rehearsal for continually trying to do rewrites).

    The Rake: You’ve stated that this is a show that asks, ‘Why do we do theater?’ Would you riff on that a bit?

    Sam: I honestly couldn’t tell you, and I don’t think there is one single reason; I couldn’t imagine a life without it.

    Sav: I tend to struggle with justifying to myself the idea of doing theatre- especially the kind of theatre I like to do, which is the totally ridiculous kind. That is the hope, anyways. Last fall I was going back to school to finish my degree in theatre arts at the U of M, and I was having this whole internal crisis about what I was doing with my life. I had all these friends who were going on houseboats down the Missisippi, or hopping trains, or moving to India, and it all sounded so much more exciting than staying at home and writing a three to five page paper about Brechtian technique or whatever I was doing. I just wasn’t convinced that art school was the best way to be an artist. I always wondered if I was the only one who still thought it was funny the way everyone is able to take themselves so seriously while wearing yoga pants and practicing different ways of falling down the stairs. On the other hand, I had all my other friends who were going to punk shows and traveling and working in collectives, just as much in their own little bubble as the theatre folks were in theirs. I ended up thinking a lot about how much these two worlds were alike, or at least presented the same problem to me, which is, "Am I wrong to want to spend my adult life in a very serious pursuit of fun?"

    I remember coming home from school one day, where I had practiced trapeze and juggling and then painted plywood to look like pink marble, and talking to this traveling guy that was hanging out on my porch playing harmonica. I lived in a big punk house at the time and we always had some random guy sitting on the porch and playing harmonica. So I was chatting with this guy about how I was worried that I was wasting my life in art school, and he gave me this big lecture about how I should drop out of school and go hop trains. And I said, "Well, I never said I didn’t think you were wasting your life, too."

    The Rake: How did the idea for the show germinate?

    Sav: So the play is about a relationship between this intense experimental theatre type and this anti-civilization hobo guy, and they both take themselves really seriously and each one sort of looks down on the other. They are both trying really hard to find meaning in their lives and their relationship, and meanwhile they are in this really goofy, ridiculous play, with all these corny musical numbers and dumb jokes and dinosaur costumes. So that’s my take on life on earth, apparently.

    The Rake: Given that there are dancing dinosaurs involved, it seems your notion of theater, no matter how serious it may be, is at least to have a little bit of fun, too, no?

    Sam: If we’re not having fun, there is no point. If it becomes painful, and is not helping the show, we stop, take a break, and come back at it a different way.

    Sav: We all have an invisible kickline of dinosaurs behind us and we might as well just stop trying to look cool.

    The Rake: Does it change from performance to performance?

    Sam: Yes, it’s live. Things wobble here and there, but in general, the feel of it always the same. The actors know what they have to hit and where, but in between, there is always room for movement. Beautiful things can happen in those moments, you have to allow the actors to play.

    The Rake: Have Fringe festivals in the past helped you with your larger theater life in Minnesota at all?

    Sam: This is my first Fringe, and before this year I would maybe see one or two Fringe shows a year, so I’m not sure. Seeing any piece of theatre is always helpful in the big scheme of things.

     

    See the Minnesota Fringe Festival website for remaining showtimes.

    To read John Ervin’s Inside the Fringe: Instamment One, click here.

    To read Jill Yablonski’s Inside the Fringe: Instamment Two, click here.

    To read Andrew Newman’s Inside the Fringe: Instamment Three, click here.

    To read Brandon Root’s Inside the Fringe: Instamment Four, click here.

    To read Max Ross’ Inside the Fringe: Instamment Five, click here.