The Rake Magazine

Here's something that pisses me off. I mean, it's cool and all to be making monster trucks for the vulnerable soldier sect, but what irks me is how this fellow was originally thinking more along the lines of a pimped-out, rap star-style ride. And now of course, he's making a killing off the war.

Yes, I saw Why We Fight last week. And here we have some happy fluff about the military-industrial come to downtown Stillwater.

Why We Fight went out of its way to illustrate the prophesy in Eisenhower's famous "military-industrial complex"-themed farewell speech--which strikes me as not an entirely difficult thing to illustrate. We're surrounded by the corporatization of the military, even in a charmed, planned community on the outskirts of Stillwater. But there was another comment made in the film that struck a deeper chord, and I won't be able to quote it verbatim.

The filmmaker spent much time with a one Karen Kwiotkowski, a retired Pentagon intelligent officer who resigned (after twenty years of service) at the onset of the Iraq War, once it donned on her how officials were interested in manipulating intelligence. Late in the film she said something along the lines of not allowing her sons to serve in the military because the U.S. military, as she sees it, is no longer interested in fighting to preserve freedom. Rather, soldiers are fighting to further the Bush Administration's imperialistic agenda.

I have a photo album that my grandfather compiled after the three years he spent fighting in WWII. It's a precious heirloom, made even more so because he painstakingly labeled and documented dates, places, even his moods. His little handwritten notes preserve something of my grandfather's personality; so while I don't remember him well (he died when I was eight), I feel as thought I've gotten to know him somehow by way of this book. He was an armorist so there are lots of pictures of old bombers. He got a picture of General Paton inspecting the troupes. He took pictures of obliterated cities. It's a point of pride, and I like showing off the photo album.

My dad fought in Vietnam on the other hand, and all I have of that is a picture of him playing a guitar outside his bunker and looking twelve-years-old (in truth, he was nineteen at the time). Of course, I got to know my father much better as a person, but we spoke very little of his wartime experiences. The first thing I did once I got to college was take a "U.S. History from 1950" class, mostly because I wanted to study the Vietnam Era. But still, my dad wouldn't discuss it with me. And from the little we did talk, I was able to gleam that he didn't fully understand the politics that had sent him there. He died of lung cancer in 1999. He was a non-smoker. Because he was infected with some sort of aggressive, small-cell carcinoma, his oncologist believed the illness to be related to pesticide exposure in Vietnam. And for what? That, of course, really pisses me off.

Be my Venus, baby.

On the cultural docket for this weekend: happy hour with my running club (a less-organized variation of the Hash House Harriers, we, too, are a drinking club with a running problem), watching Singing In The Rain with my two best friends (yes), and, with any luck, dragging my mother and my, ahem, boyfriend to see Frank Theater's production of Venus. Neither mother nor boyfriend is a seasoned theatergoer. My mom's most exotic performing arts experience is probably Cosi Fan Tutte. And, well, as for the boyfriend, let's just say that his favorite house in town is The Brave New Workshop. (For the record: I enjoy The Brave New Workshop very much as well. Especially Caleb McEwen, who I regard as a genius!)

In any case, I'm not sure that Venus' big, round rump will be an amusement for the mother, but I'm pretty sure it will be for the boyfriend. (I predict how difficult it will be for him to "be in his body" and respond naturally to Venus' anatomy--especially if he's seated next to mom!) Oh, but did I mention that this play is quite sad?

I'm so glad Frank is having this love affair with Parks! All that cursing! All that pissed-off, third-wave feminist angst! I spoon it all up! Their productions of The America Play and Fucking A are both theater experiences that burned into my memory. Especially catchy was, in A, the hunters who haunted around singing their cute, lil' hunters' creed. As I remember it: "Hunters / We hunt / But we don't eat what we catch / Because that would be a little much / Dontcha think?" (It was, of course, camped-up somewhat Minnesota-style.)

By the way... If you happen to have a literary tattoo--you know, some sort of text excerpt from a favorite poem or book--you must get in touch without further ado! I'm looking for lettered tattoos that reference the greats... And I promise not to critique your taste in literature. Or your biceps for that matter. (No butt tattoos, please.)

Is it just me, or does all the great work by living, breathing playwrights get produced in March, April, and May? It's just me, of course... I've seen plenty'a great, new works at other times of the year; I very much enjoyed Alan Berks' new play at Gremlin Theatre just this past February, for example. But here's the thing: I saw the most amazing show a few weeks back. I can't stop talking about it because in is the antithesis of everything that goads me about American theater. Point of Revue at Mixed Blood Theatre packed ten little play-lets into a two-hour show for the ADHD sect. Many of you have already endured my raving about that production, so I'll leave it at that. But, you should go see it!

Here's something the show brought to mind: The fact that many contemporary theater companies are turning their backs on good, solid playwriting. Now, of course, the written word is not central to the vision of every theater company. Many think of themselves as having a more "visual aesthetic"--you know the ones. But even among these companies, there ought to a responsible person who knows the difference between adjective and adverb. Another pet peeve: over-funded playwrights who pen saccharine sweet and/or predictably PC scripts!

I also saw Mefistofele at Jeune Lune this past weekend. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should come clean about the fact that I worked at Jeune Lune for three years in and about the time of my mid-twenties. And I worked there because I loved their work. Still do, pretty much. I can't get enough of all that low-tech trickery and flash. It seems to me that an empty theater is to Dominique Serrand what a blank canvas is to your average painter... But I didn't much care for Mefistofele. I have generally loved Jeune Lune's operas. (Figaro was the exception. But I worked there when that show was going on so I couldn't tell anybody. Ah... La liberte! La liberte!) But the thing about Mefistofele is that there just isn't much to hook your ear on. I'm no expert on opera but the libretto seems, well, anti-lyrical. The pictures were pretty as hell, though. Worth seeing just for that.

Our April issue hit newsstands today. Check out the new Rake Appeal section for a piece about the curious folks who live in storefronts. If you're interested in joining their likes, check out this storefront--for sale in West St. Paul.