The Rake Magazine

Month: June 2006

  • Chowhound ALIVE!

    spork.bmp
    the spork carries no shame

    No disrespect to the fabulous AZ, but he isn’t the original Chowhound.

    For those of us with a driving desire to scour the cities of the world in search of the best grimy taco stand, Jim Leff is our Top Dog. He’s the food writer who created Chowhound, a community website for the food-obsessed.

    Posting from all over the world on message boards, chowhounds exchange opinions on topics ranging from the best gelato in Phoenix to the debate on butter chicken vs. chicken tikka.

    This international cirle of eaters has NEVER steered me wrong. They sent me to Cal Pep in Barcelona (a nearly holy lunch), Les Delaat in Bangkok and Juanita’s Taco Shop north of San Diego. If I want to know where to get the best cuban sandwich in Miami I skip the concierge and the glossy food mags. For the most reliable info I go to Chowhound first and a bodega clerk second.

    After partnering up with CNET, the formerly shabby Chowhound site has just relaunched with new software and a clean look. But don’t let the scrubbing fool you, it still has the soul of a renegade.

    From their manifesto: Chowhounds blaze trails. They comb through neighborhoods for culinary treasure. They despise hype. And while they appreciate ambience and service, they can’t be fooled by flash….If you, too, fret endlessly about making every bite count; if you’d grow weak from hunger rather than willingly eat something less than delicious, this place is for you!

    If you crave gustatory gestalt, you’re a chowhound, and you’ve found a home.

  • The Fringe

    By the way, there’s a free Fringe Festival preview tonight at Theatre de la Jeune Lune–thirty playlets done in tasty, three-minute bites.

    Ah, how I love the Fringe for all its quirky, lo-fi virtues. But do you know what I love the most about it? Those campy, most often amateur photographs the Fringe performers put on postcards or otherwise use to promote their shows. An early sample:

    From Janet And Tina (Hard Up And Landlocked), “a comedic dance theater piece about two disgruntled co-workers”:

    crying ladies.jpg

    From Wrapped in Plastic, a teen show about body image:

    Wrapped In Plastic.jpg

    The ultimate in Fringe Fest geekiness–the image below, while not all that entertaining in and of itself, is from Carpe the DM, a show put on by a bunch of “Fridley and Columbia Heights residents” who introduce a lovely lady to “their favorite fantasy role-playing game.” (In unision, here’s where we go sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)

    Carpe the DM.jpg

  • The Crafty Frank Crosetti

    The Hidden Ball trick (from the fabulous Retrosheet), via The Hardball Times.

    Check out Frank Crosetti’s impressive run from 1936 to 1940.

    The Twins, by the way, have been victimized three times.

  • Why I Name My Cars

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    Gina L: A chassis shape we can appreciate

    It occured to me yesterday while reading a vapid article on the merits of “Post Modern Girlfriend” (I don’t believe it was in The Rake, but alas I myself suffer from vapidity often.) why I hate many recent BMWs.

    I have always understood “post modern thought” to eschew the past–including antiquated things like human emotion, sensuality and the like. For example, if these are the qualities of Post Modern girl, then I am a eunuch. And if these are the qualities of modern BMWs (which I believe they are), then I am turning Japanese for good (they only cars worth buying in the long run.)

    Let me explain. (I say that frequently.)

    “Hit with a Bangle stick” is the frequent nomeclature for the recent BMWs designed by Chris Bangle (and his Dutch sidekick.). I once had a Dutch Art Director work for me. He found my Midwestern attachment to voluptuous Swedish lovelies (wife, mom, etc.) and the beauty of the sunsets on Lake Superior outdated. Most of all he simply could not understand my emtional attachment to cars.

    To Coert (and I don’t think I am embarassing him) the automobile was a transportation appliance. He appreciated the odd design flourish in all his appliances (insisted on a Krups coffemaker that never worked,) but would never anthropomorphize his car. (My car–an Alfa Romeo–was called Gina after Gina Lollobrigida–an Alpha.)

    This may explain his fondness for East German swimmers.

    To me it also explains what PoMo designers like Bangle and his coetrie of Dutch acolytes are trying to do with automotive design. I believe they are attempting to sever any emotional attachment to one’s car and replace it with a cool appreciation for the logic of form.

    This is why they are fond of talking about “flame surfacing” and other odd things that are designed to capture bend and bounce light off, say, the hood of the Z4 convertible without giving any thought to how it makes someone actually feel.

    I for one have been and will always be more attracted to the shape of a chassis than shine of its door handles. That is why Ferraris will always sell, Sophia Loren will always be sexy and automotive designers that woship the PoMo will lack the mojo to make it past the first design cycle–and art directors past their first dates.

  • Wanly yours,

    The big news this weekend is the Guthrie opening, of course. And I’ll be there. I won’t elaborate too much on how I feel about that (uh, excited), considering that there are many other things going on this weekend, and in some instances they won’t involve such logjam traffic.

    There’s Twin Cities Pride, for example. Might I recommend that daylight dance party on Bar Lurcat’s patio (I look forward to this, being that the afternoon is the only time I really have energy to kick it) or the uptown pride block party outside of Bryant Lake Bowl? The later event has music performances by Venus and Tina Schlieske for a trip down memory lane.

    And speaking of music, I like the little shows. For example, Beatifics will sprinkle their sugar-sweet brand of pop around the Hexagon Bar tonight. High On Stress will be among the lineup at Spring Street Tarvern.

    Theater: My top pick is London After Midnight: Victorian Tales of Crime and the Supernatural, Hardcover Theater‘s late-night production of vampire and grave robber stories, which is scheduled for a 3 p.m. matinee this Sunday. My other top pick is I Am My Own Wife at the Jungle, starring Bradley Greenwald. I haven’t seen it yet; it’s just that I loved Greenwald’s work in Torch Song Trilogy a few years back. From what I am hearing we can expect a repeat of that bold performance.

    Finally, while walking although the Mill Ruins Park last weekend, mostly to scope various views of the new Guthrie, I vowed to participate in the community dig in that area, an archaeological project to excavate the old Cataract Mill Complex. Some of it has already been exposed, and it’s a breathtaking display.

  • A Chocolate Fig

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    I sometimes miss my chance to support the local-food-movement, mainly because many Saturday mornings come at the expense of Friday night revelry and not even the promise of a breakfast brat could lure me to the market.

    With the opening of Golden Fig & River Chocolate Company Fine Foods on Grand Ave. in St. Paul, I can feel good about hitting the snooze on the weekends and supporting the community on Tuesdays. The shop is the brainchild of two giants in the local food producers movement: Laurie Crowell of Golden Fig and Dierdre Davis of River Chocolate.

    The idea is to feature fine foods and gifts made by small producers from the Midwest. Beyond their own lines, you’ll find goodies like Daddy Sam’s BBQ Sauce, Laura’s Candy hand-crafted marshmallows (hello double dark chocolate!)and Native Harvest maple butter.

    But even better than the goods are the stories behind them, and Laurie and Dierdre know them all. They’ve worked hard to find the items they’re selling and have really learned about the people behind them: there’s the spice lady in a small Minnesota town who has traveled the world in search of spices or the people behind Native Harvest who are sharing Native American traditions to fund the White Earth Recovery Project.

    Inspired by the sell-out of their Rustica Bakery orders, they’re waiting on a delivery for a deli cooler. The pair promises to stock it with the best local cheeses and meats, as well as a special sandwich of the day.

    Of course you can still visit Laurie and Dierdre at their market booths on the weekends, but take the time to stop in the store during the week and make them tell you a story.

    Golden Fig & River Chocolate Company Fine Foods
    790 Grand Ave.
    St. Paul, MN 55105
    651.602.0144

  • Timmy on Taxes

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    Ready. Aim…

    A big whoop engendered yesterday by the Growth and Justice gang’s ad in the Strib yesterday indicating the willingness of 200 upper income Minnesotans to pay more tax to fund education, transportation and health care got the expected response from Tim “I answer only to David Strom” Pawlenty: “If those people want to send their checks to the state, I’ll pose with them for a photo.”

    I can’t figure why I’d want a picture of me with Pawlenty, other than for target practice. (I once used a picture of the actress Lily Taylor that I picked up at a Walker screening for a target at the range, so why not? It’s just paper.)

    I should disclose that I was one of the signers of the ad, although I’ve long since stopped being a higher income Minnesotan. I did it not because I want my taxes raised, but because, since taxes have been lowered here, things have begun to go to hell. We need only look at the idiotic attempt to get contractors to bid on the remake of the Crosstown Highway-35W interchange–and finance it themselves–to see where Pawlenty’s tax cuts have left us.

    If you want further evidence, you could of course look at property tax increases of 10-12 percent per year in Minneapolis–a regressive tax if there ever was one–that comes about as a feeble attempt to make up for the state aid the city used to get.

    Since we got Timmy Taxcut, we’ve got fewer police, (and surprise! more crime.) We’ve got Minneapolis libraries that are only open 3 days per week, and we’ve got a transportation system that is costing us millions in lost productivity and fuel waste. But at least we can take the time we’re sitting dead on the freeways to count our tax savings.

    If everyone on that list of people who signed that ad would do as Timmy says and send in their check, the math tells us that would amount to $1.2 million. (200 earners of $300,000 each sending in 2 percent.) Indeed that entire amount is about 12 percent of what Minneapolis needs just to restore library service to what it was before the state cut off the funds.

    Of course, I’m willing to bet that group puts its money where its mouth is in other ways. I’m fairly familiar with the Minneapolis Library’s situation and there are a lot of those names on the big donor wall in the new library–among and right along side of the taxpayers of Minneapolis who voted to raise their own taxes to build the thing.

    My next contribution, though, is going to be to whoever can beat Pawlenty in November. We need a leader here, and he just doesn’t have anything deeper than the sound bite mentality of his childish response.

  • From Arbus to Zero for Conduct

    For those of you who cherish your brain cells, the moguls in Hollywood have chosen to cut us a break this weekend, leaving the big-budget extravaganzas alone, and giving us… well, virtually nothing. There’s a lot of movies around town, but I think your best bet’s at the Walker Art Center. If it were me, I’d take my honey out to my favorite restaurant, go for a stroll through the sculpture gardens (just to check out the approaching sunset and have some good conversation time), and then go for a major wig-out with the Diane Arbus exhibit. Arbus is perhaps my favorite photographer. Our own DeSmith had an intriguing observation about Arbus–I can’t wait to come up with my own.

    It’ll also be a trip down memory lane. When I was an impressionable youth, I used to pore over a book of Arbus’ photos that my Pop had. They freaked me out to no end, and gave a sad kid with freashly split folks a sense that maybe being f’d up kept you in good–if not interesting–company. In fact, I used to try to look like a so-called freak in the mirror, hoping that I would somehow appear just weird enough for an Arbus to photograph. A lack of sleep helped with the bags under the eyes and a woeful countenance. Nowadays I can achieve the effect with too much gin and an early morning.

    Anyway, after that, I’d probably haul my girl to see Zero For Conduct, playing every hour on the hour in the Walker’s Auditorium. Zero is the harrowing story of a rebellion in a boy’s school in France, directed by Jean Vigo. Vigo only lived long enough to make this and L’Atalante, one of my all time favorites. Like Arbus, Vigo had an eye for the beautiful and the grotesque–just look at Michel Simon and his barbarous sailor, and Dita Parlo is at turns ravishing and disturbing. I expect no less of Zero and all its angry children.

    Life has kept me from making my way in to see Zero, but I will this weekend, the last time before I head to the deserts of Saudi Arabia. If you’re desperate for my reviews (which would make me worried about your mental health), I’ll have a few coming while I’m gone, from Superduperman Reruns to A Scanner Darkly, the former god-awful, the latter pretty good. But go see Diane and go see Zero; you deserve to treat yourself to something truly amazing for a change.

  • A Power Hitter Needs A Proper Name

    Justin doesn’t cut it.

    Every high school football and soccer team in America has a half dozen Justins on its roster, and the name reeks of suburban privilege. It’s a boy-band name, and I’d love to see Justin Morneau go in a different direction.

    Granted, the big Canuck seems to be doing just fine right now, but he does have other options in the name department. He was, after all, born Justin Ernest George Morneau, and either of the lad’s two middle names would be preferable to his current handle.

    George Morneau is decent, certainly, if a bit flat-faced and bland. And Ernest Morneau would be a solid name for a Canadian novelist or outdoor columnist, but is perhaps a little too stolid for a modern day slugger.

    Ernie, though, Ernie Morneau; there’s a good baseball name. It has a nice throwback ring to it, and would be perfectly suitable for a heavyweight boxer, a barroom brawler, or a Major League masher.

    I’m guessing Ernie Morneau would hit ten to fifteen more homeruns a year than Justin Morneau.

    Easily.

  • Pink in the face

    Since I don’t often plug charity events, and am starting to feel as though I’ve got a hardened, black heart, I thought I’d pass along this info about an event happening tonight at the grandest she-palace in all the Twin Cities, Alfred’s Grand Petit Magasin.

    Before I get into the event: This magnificent store, in Edina, is sort of fashioned after Barney’s or Fred Segal, although it’s infused with a little more Parisian flare. I guess you could say it’s the last ridiculously high-end outpost on the prairie, catering to the sorts of local ladies who might travel to the coast, or even abroad, to form fall wardrobes or decorate their homes for the season. The place is decked out with a cafe, a stationery section, housewares, furniture, jewelry, a clothing section (my fave-or-ite!, except that it looks to be a little heavy on the over-embellished as of late, and I’m trying to stay away from that stuff), and even a basement filled with vintage goodies.

    If you haven’t already guessed, Alfred’s is not the sort of place to bring your thoroughly masculine friends.

    In any case, the event, called Pink Party, is a fundraiser for Hope Chest for Breast Cancer and, let’s see, it’s in the shape of a champagne and dessert party. Do not be fooled if your boyfriend or husband has a sweet tooth or likes swilling bubbly. This ain’t for him.