Tigers 6-2 Twins, Vikings 27-13 Lions

I don't think I would have been able to take two losses to Detroit in one day, so I'm so grateful for the Lions tackles forgetting how to block in the second half, especially with Favre looking like the old man he is. Although still not so bad as Delmon Young nodding off in left field and needing to take a moment to rub the sleep out of his eyes before he could get the ball back into the infield. It's like he was having this beautiful dream where blondes in bikinis were tossing their beachballs at him (which he still couldn't hit) and then he was jarred awake by the crack of a bat and a ball hitting his glove. I still can't believe we gave up Garza, Bartlett and a bullpen prospect for this guy (given the Twins excess of outfielders and utility infielders with soft bats, the other players in that trade don't really matter).

I may have seen my last baseball game in the Metrodome today; with only one more series left at home and the Twins down three games to the Tigers in the division race as they embark on a 10-game road trip I don't know if I'll get tickets again before Target Field opens next spring. I thought I'd feel a bit more sadness at that, since I really do have so many fond memories of those blue seats. On the other hand it was a dump with like six bathrooms and I'll be back next week for the Vikings home opener. Kind of a pathetic farewell though: usually it's the Lions that put people to sleep on Thanksgiving (if they played after the turkey was served coma wards would have to be expanded) but today it wa the 87 lame pick-off attempts and generally sleepy pace of the game actually killed all my drive to pop back into work for a few hours.

This is the first football season in a few years where I've had a fantasy football team that I actually care about, and I forgot how much it distorts the way I watch football. This week I really need Favre to throw underneath to his tight end, because if he goes deep to Berrian my exultation at the Vikings touchdown is muted by the knowledge that the Rode Duivels have been scored on too. I also still can't believe anybody drafted Calvin Johnson, a player I still associate most with the phrase "Wake up motherfucker, it's our ball!" But the important part is the Vikings are up 2-0, and my undefeated fantasy team is coming off a week two blow-out. I'm feeling luckier than that time I fucked a leprechaun.

There's only one R in Kushner

For the last time... if you're talking The Empire Strikes Back, Robocop 2, Eyes of Laura Mars, Never Say Never Again... that's Kershner. If you're talking Exotica, The Black Dahlia, The L Word, Not Another Teen Movie, The Crow 2, that's Kirshner. If you're talking abuse of executive power and defaulting on IMF loans, that's Kirchner.

If you're talking A Bright Room Called Day, Angels in America, Slavs!, Caroline or Change, Munich, The Intelligent Homosexual's Guide to Capitalism and Socialism with a Key to the Scriptures, East Code Ode to Howard Jarvis, Only We Who Guard the Mystery Shall Be Unhappy, Geraldine of Albania Meets Lucia Pamela on the Moon... for the last time his name is Tony KUSHNER.

Why must people who add an extra R to his name always do it with such smug authority? "I know all about him, except how to say his name." I mean really.

Annoying Timberwolves Update: Uh, who plays for them again?

Since the Wolves hit the Big Reset Button two years ago and traded Kevin Garnett to Boston, fans have been not so patiently waiting for young talent to mature, and for the team to dig its way back out of salary cap hell, and assemble something resembling an actual NBA team rather than Big Al and the seven dwarfs. Two years and a lot of trades later the Wolves haven't really improved, and are still buried under a mound of McHale-era contracts, but with every trade they did accumulate more and more draft picks this year and next. In order to sort it all out I felt like I had to write it all down, and at that point why not share it with my loyal readership-*?

Part I: What's changed since the end of the season?

The draft brought about another flurry of activity that had a few players join the Wolves and be traded away before they had a chance to be issued a number, or start to brush up on the local dialect and try some hot dish. And the Wolves had so many draft picks and potentially so many rookies coming in that they had to trade some of them straight up for picks in next year's draft. So now I'm trying to sort out for myself what they ended up with, and what this means for next year.

Pride

see more Lol Celebs

On Smokers

I hate cigarettes. Really, I do. I hate the smell of them, I hate the burning ashy sensation in my throat and nose whenever they're waved around nearby, and I hate that smokers are magically always able to stay upwind. I hate that smoking culture is so into littering, stamping out butts every place people gather, all over doorways and bus stops. (The one time in my life I got pulled into smoking was up in the tundra, where we stamped our butts out on our boots and packed them out so we could throw them away in Baker Lake six weeks and several hundred miles later). I hate watching people destroy their lungs, and it's really hard for me to watch some of my relatives risk having strokes or losing their eyesight for a puff. But the funny thing I've been realizing is that I really like smokers. And so I find when I need to wolf down garlic stir fry in between jobs that I do it out with the smokers, acrid tobacco swirling around and settling on my fresh ham and provolone sandwich.

So why are smokers such desirable companionship, despite their filthy habits? I think it's because in the sheltered doorways of the non-smoking buildings in this frosty state (the weather and the people) there's a thawing effect to the glowing red butts amongst those huddled outside sucking smoke into their chapped red cheeks. I think it's because you're there with something habitual to do, leaving so much social and intellectual capacity idle, that smokers can't help but talk to each other to alleviate boredom. And since you never know who'll be there depending on how your nic-fits coincide, maybe smoking just helps develop social skills. Or maybe they all just pretend to like me because they think someday I might be the only one with a lighter or a spare fag.

The funny thing is while I hate cigarettes, I do like cigars... perhaps I should take up smoking those, where you can get away with not inhaling. Because damnit, I really need a ridiculous affectation of one kind or another.

Singlish

What's really funny is how many ang mo (you know, round eyed devils) I know who've picked this dialect up from even limited exposure, and keep using it in North America. And yes, I know this means I'm in for cock jokes every time I order a soda.

I knew there was a reason I never trusted this guy...

see more pwn and owned pictures

On Jeffrey Wright

Why is it about Jeffrey Wright that makes him so captivating? I honestly haven't even seen him in that many films, but through these characters and the many changes he makes in his voice and his appearance, each of them carries somewhere deep in their voice the same lyrical murmur of Jeffrey Wright... and I can't look away. The dreamlike quality of that voice sounding like it comes from somewhere beyond the world made him perfect in Angels in America as the phantasmal travel agent Mr. Lies, navigating Harper on her drug-induced escape to Antarctica (through the refridgerator), sitting on a snowbank in a fabulous parka and playing awistful oboe. I hear it too in some of the smaller and less mystical roles, using a handful of lines to turn Felix Leiter into this larger than life American able to arrest a charging James Bond with nothing but a firm hand on his arm and that voice, a character that implies that his mind is somewhere else, located above the petty evils and trivialities of those around him, in Casino Royale with an engaged bemusement and in Quantum of Solace with a disgusted detachment, unmoved by either $5m or a hail of bullets. And really the most memorable supporting characters in QoS are him and Gemma Arterton, who have like eight lines between them. (I have a thing for redheads with funny names covered in oil.)

What has me realizing this about Jeffrey Wright is one particular performance in Mike Nichols' film adaptation of Angels in America. I saw the second part of that play (Perestroika) on stage at the Kennedy Center over a decade ago, and while that play is a lot to take in, it's also the kind of work that will burn into your brain with absolute vivid detail. The biggest change by far was not Justin Kirk's bringing a strength and prophetic fire I didn't remember to his portrayal of Prior, or Al Pacino's less sarcastic and more deranged Roy Cohn, it was Jeffrey Wright whenever he appeared as Belize, glittery gay nurse and completely, totally unrecognizable as Jeffrey Wright except in rare moments where in silence he adopts the familiar pose, face turned down and eyes looking up with a mix of sadness and patience, looking like he dropped about ten years, fifty pounds, and a huge helping of masculinity to create Belize. And it's so unbelievably good.

So in short, I defy anyone to watch Angels and even take their eyes off of Wright whenever Belize is speaking. 

Vikings Draft

Another glorious Vikings draft is come and gone, and once again not without controversy. The Vikings had some obvious needs in this off-season, like the basic tools of a consistent passing game. Really if they didn't come away with a wide receiver, a quarterback, and an offensive tackle to protect him the passing game was going to continue to suck.

So the Vikings addressed part of that by trading for Sage Rosenfels, a back-up quarterback from Houston who may or may not be a more reliable passer than the Tardis. And their second round pick, Phil Loadholt from Oklahoma where he established a name for himself as a monstrously huge man who likes getting up and pushing people around despite having a name like a 70's pornstar. So he'll hopefully add some menace to the right side of the line and make our running game even scarier than it already is. And of course, they did not fail to add some much-needed talent to the wide receiver position by drafting Percy Harvin out of Florida in the first round.

Harvin is undeniably talented, small but tough and capable of running about any kind of play in college, fearlessly coming out of the backfield or crossing over the middle, and on the basis of his football ability, he's a steal at #22 overall. One cannot help but be reminded of another talented wide receiver who fell to the Vikings at #18 in the '98 draft, who was so freakishly talented that he could change the course of a game with only a couple touches on the ball. Of course, Moss also had a bit of a problem referees, and with driving over traffic cops, and with marijuana. And Moss wasn't alone in making headlines for the wrong reasons, since the the Vikings have had some recent issues with players having floating orgies, parking in the middle of Fourth Street to toke up, getting it on in public places, and the like. So they draft a guy who has such poor impulse control that he partakes of the good herb right before going to the NFL combine where he will be weighed and measured, drilled vigorously, and of course, drug-tested. So now he comes into the league already subject to random drug tests by the NFL. If he gets he's in an ideal situation to stand out on a play-off team that desperately needs a receiver, and how easy it would be to blow it... he could be an outstanding weapon with Bernard Berrian stretching the field and Adrian Peterson keeping defenses honest.

The other glaring needs were mostly on the other side of the ball, since despite the strength of the Vikings defense, they really lack for depth in certain spots. Darren Sharper's departure leaves us with some weakness in the secondary and a wide-open battle for nickelback. There's not a lot of depth at linebacker, and it's possible the interior of the defensive line will start the season working off a suspension from last year. In any case, the special teams units were so horrible on coverage last year, I think anybody who knows how to tackle in the open field would be welcome. Addressing that the Vikings kicked off the second day by picking up Asher Allen, a physical cornerback from Georgia whose relative lack of speed will hopefully not be exposed playing in the Vikings system where he'll have a safety backing him up. Looking at the depth chart, I imagine he'll get playing time early at nickelback and we'll see if he's any good.

Still needing depth on defense and a kick returner, the Vikings just had a couple late round picks left, so they hopefully got some help by taking Jasper Brinkley, a linebacker from South Carolina, and Jamarca Sanford a safety from Mississippi. While Sanford may be an unspectacular benchwarmer as a free safety, Brinkley can provide some depth at middle linebacker and I hope both are the nasty kind of tacklers the Vikings need on special teams.

So what remains to be seen?

1. Can either Sage or the Tardis actually step up and play consistently at QB, or do we have to hope #3 QB John David Booty brings something to the team other than a few reps in practice and a funny name?

2. Do we have a kick returner, or is Childress nuts enough to let Harvin get his ass pounded running back kick-offs?

3. Will the secondary hold up without Darren Sharper, and can the defense survive four games without the Williams Wall up front?

4. Will adding Harvin's hands, Loadholt's blocks, and Rosenfels' arm to the Vikings offense open things up enough to make holes for Peterson and open field for Berrian?

5. Does the miracle of a Bears team with a QB (something we haven't seen in 20 years) make it all moot and put the division out of reach?

Fortunately the Vikings have an easy schedule, so this should be a lot more fun and less torturous to watch than a lot of last season. And if the answer to these questions turns out to be no, no, no, no and yes, Joe Dowling will be directing The Importance of Being Earnest, a spectacular comedy, a couple blocks away. Maybe that will take the edge off if the Bears record another album.

Pleasant Surprises, or allons-y a la creperie

In recent weeks I've been bumbling around with my filthy, scratched up glasses barely able to stay on my face and a devastating case of hat-head from bundling up to wade through snow banks (but at least I think I have a fairly cool hat). So I decided to do something about a couple of those problems and get a haircut and maybe replace my rather $@*%'ed up glasses, which involved a bit of stomping around downtown on a bitterly cold morning trying to figure out where the hell Moss Optical got off to since my last visit. Eventually I had to conclude it was too cold to search for anything without the use of a St. Bernard and I started the long, icy trek to the theater. But as I pushed forward, blinking away the blowing snow and burrowing my face further into my woolen scarf, like Lucy Pevensie plowing her way through mothballed furs in a wintery wardrobe I made a rather fantastic discovery.

Just as I was trying to think of an excuse to duck into a warm shop for a moment and desperately hoping there might be a warm shop where I could make some pretense of browsing and not the barrette and Christian bookstores that seem to crop up in every forlorn retail space during an economic downturn, like a clown wig at a funeral. But as luck would have it I noticed a doorway nestled next to the entrance of a large building, a doorway marked simply "La Belle Crepe". For a moment I doubted my senses to have stumbled on something so unlikely and so timely that it could only have been conjured by the Hogwarts Castle Room of Requirement, but I rushed through the door to find a jovial and engaging Frenchman whose persona I can perhaps best describe by asking you to picture him tugging fine, blonde hair off his chef's coat from last night's (or this morning's) lastest tryst, offering delicious crepes stuffed with ham and gruyere and countless other delights in little more than an entryway. It was a perfect little nook, just big enough to tease and please but not large enough to lose its focus, become infatuated with deep chairs and fireplaces and succumb to becoming a Starbucks.

I watched wide-eyed in wonder as like turkish delight emerging from a snowbank my fresh crepes took shape on the grill in the icy window looking out on the windblown snow, and as we discussed the surreal quality of such a place in the windswept plazas of Nicollet Ave and how it came to be, the proprieter cheekily confessed to me the secret ingredient to making fine French treats was cheap Canadian beer. A slight chill from the outdoors crept into me at this moment in a manner no doubt reminiscent of something from one of the children's series I just re-read, but as fear's raspy fingers danced up my spine like the Little Prince's rake across the starlit baobab roots of his lonely cold asteroid I found my mouth and my instinct to annoy people with running jokes had both gone dry.

I have always refused cheap beer, not out of snobbery towards the delights of the lower classes, but because it just so happens there are certain plants of the earth that cause so much alarm and confusion to my immune system that brother turns against brother, blue cell against grey cell, and the worst of these is the sinister climbing cones of the humulus lupulus plant. The last time I tried a deodorant that cheerfully advised me it was "Now fortified with extra hops!" it descended on my skin with the same terrible wrath of Mr. Fitzgibbon's plow on the rats of NIMH's rosebush and I vowed to never let that terrible plant near me again. At the very memory my skin began to crawl as if threatening to make an escape down the road with the dish and the spoon calling back over it's broad yet floppy shoulders "Count me out pal... and a little vitamin B once in a while would've *%&#'ing killed you?" (My skin is surprisingly less eloquent than my literary left brain but generally on a par with the furiously twirling stumbles of my right brain... which is unfortunately the part I seem to talk with.)

But just as you can't put fucking onions in my fucking omelette (like they do every time I eat at Key's) without breaking a few eggs, you can't make really delicious crepes without the particular yeast that brewers use to make their foamy golden poison, and once I've caught the smell of certain pleasures I'm lost... I had to have it. I took my crepe back to the theater where I reminded the stage door attendant of my extension and to please, please send help immediately should I call 911 from that phone because it would mean my throat was closing. And while my gamble paid off and I did survive the experience with only an almost certainly psychosomatic tension in my neck, I still think I still would have been licking the berries and cream off my lips as the paramedics burst in to jab me with epinephrine.

So La Belle Crepe is highly recommended, for both the fresh-made crepes and the rush of cheating death, and unlike Narnia you can return more than three times. Le Patron assures me that in the summer he will be offering outdoor seating and adding a fresh delight for pedestrians on an avenue that really needs a lift, and expanding to Uptown as well. But for me I'll always treasure the memory of that day when in the middle of winter I discovered there lay within Nicollet Mall an invincible summer.

La Belle Crepe

825 Nicollet Mall #100
www.labellecrepe.com

P.S. Of all the authors from whom I have stolen shamelessly to elicit groans from my loyal readershop, I apologize only to M. Albert Camus for nicking "Au milieu d'hiver j'ai enfin decouvert qu'il y a en moi un etait invincible" from Retour a Tipasa.

10 ways to spend my stimulus check

With my tax rebate burning a hole in my pocket, I'm really stumped as to where to spend it. Please look into your hearts and help me figure out what to do by voting for one of the following options on the poll in the right hand margin.

10. Maybe I can make a down payment on a round-trip ticket from MSP to Midway. (It's nice when your competitors go belly-up and you can raise prices 900%.)

9. I could buy this couch.

8. I could quit my job(s) and pursue my dream of being a full-time Acting Company groupie, following them on tour as they cruise around the country doing Shakespeare in those cool-ass multi-zippered leather coats straight that are half Project Runway and half Blade Runner. (And I still say Nym looks like Bryan.)

7. Convertible bond arbitrage, baby. With how badly that market's been devalued, I figure I can corner the market and have enough left over for pizza.

6. I could buy Dick Durbin's senate seat ("Oh no, it's not for sale", yeah yeah... that's what you said about the other one.)

5. I could do the responsible thing and put together a care package for the Blackjack Bandit on his tour of West Africa: clean syringes, fresh beans for his espresso maker, a book on Shiatsu massage translated into Tswana, some wood polish for his grandfather clock, and clean syringes.

4. Put it all on black 20 and let it ride until I have the 100,000 deutschemarks I need. (Euros are for suckers, baby.)

3. There's always the old standby of buying Merrill-Lynch shares at a 70% premium. (After all that is where all the rest of the government's stimulus money went.)

2. Spend it all on a 3-day binge of hookers and blow, only to emerge bleary-eyed from my hotel room and find I've accidentally become governor of New York. (Oh no, not again.)

1. I could buy anything really, as long as it's made in China and boiled in lead. (Again... that's where Walmart shoppers are spending the rest of the stimulus checks anyways.)

Eagles 26 - 14 Vikings

What happened to the O-line? They couldn't get a push in the running game, and eventually on every passing play the Eagles pinned their ears back and blitzed the whole house. With Peterson unable to get anything consistent going in the ground game and the Tardis unable to ever connect find a dump-off receiver over the middle, there was nothing to slow that blitz down, and it got ugly.

Not as ugly as the Eagles fans, many of whom had to be removed by the Minneapolis Police Department. No you can't throw your beer at a woman and stay to watch the second half. And I had to love the guy who got arrested but wanted to finish his beer before being cuffed. When the cop arresting him snatched the bottle out of his hand before marching him out with beer all over his face, she got the most applause of anyone in uniform that day. Classy bunch, especially the guy in the bathroom wearing a Harold Carmichael jersey yelling at the kid in front of him for taking too long at the urinal. Not just classy but also a real smart move in a bathroom packed shoulder to shoulder full of Vikings fans, to start hassling at a teenager who hasn't done anything to you.

The better team won, and really it couldn't have happened to a worse group of fans... even more mean drunks than the Brewers. I hope you all get pounded in the ass by the Giants next week (and not the good way).

Lions achieve historic perfect season

Many years ago some of the wiser heads of the National Football League including commissioner Paul Tagliabue and New York Football Giants owner Wellington Mara (whose granddaughter was that hot redhead at the end of Brokeback Mountain) started moving towards a more balanced league in which all 32 teams, from any size media market, had the possibility of putting together a Superbowl contender. Keeping football interesting across the country would get everybody a slice of a bigger pie and insure the NFL dominated the American sports scene every fall. Since then, many dominant franchises have crumbled, and nobody has stayed at the top for long, as even the Patriots can be beaten.

However, this year the Detroit Lions have finally done what was previously considered unpossible, and put together a season so inept that they couldn't find a single team to rise to the challenge of playing worse football than the Lions. Sixteen straight losses, something no NFL team has ever achieved in a single season. If the Lions can build on their ineptness through the draft and use the #1 pick on a disruptive headcase who will hold out on signing a contract until November and prevent them from signing any of their other rookies or free agents, they could get the 9 straight losses they'd need next season to tie the '76-'77 Buccaneers record 26 game losing streak and be assured of their place in history.

All kidding aside, why leagues continues to tolerate franchises that contribute so little to the quality of their product is baffling. And to be fair and not pick on Detroit, I said the same about the Twins teams of the mid to late 90's that wanted public money for a new stadium to showcase a glorified AAA team. But yikes, 0-16 and you haven't burned the stadium down yet?

Top 10 reasons I haven't updated my blog in 2 months

10. I've been sitting in the back seat of my car filling out ballots for Al Franken since October.

9. Blowing Rod Blagojevich's entire staff to lay groundwork for Senator Rufus (D-IL) took longer than I thought it would. Turns out all I got for it was gratitude... GRATITUDE?! Fuck gratitude!

8. I saw Shadowlands at the Guthrie, and then sobbed uncontrollably in my closet for several weeks over the death of Joy Gresham... bring her the magic apple, Douglas!

7. I've been working hard and contributing to the Gross National Product of this great country, which is more than I can say for certain CDO-squared selling motherf*****s I know who think it's funny to kick yuppies out of their starter castles at Christmas.

6. I spent a few weeks learn how to pronounce Amstelbooij's new Collateralized Diaper Obligation's name, eventually I just gave up and decided to call him Chocomelbooij.

5. I had a craving for a Misty Freeze, and I had to go all the way down Highway 61 to Baton Rouge to find a DQ that was open. Although speaking of DQ, who else suspects we may know the owner of this one?

4. Last October I accidentally said Macbeth in a theater and was beaten into coma by superstitious actors.

3. I just couldn't remember which of my half-dozen different jobs I was going to so I went to the scene shop and pretended to be a lamp-post for a couple weeks before they tried to bolt me to a stage.

2. I've been trying to fight the war on Hanukkah by saying "Happy Hanukkah" to as many people as I can. This "Happy Holidays" nonsense WILL NOT STAND.

1. And the real reason I haven't written anything on my blog in ages is Lego Star Wars, the most addictive game I've played since Tie Fighter. When I had a dream about Lego Star Wars, I decided maybe I'd had enough. So then I went and bought Lego Batman and Lego Indiana Jones.

Macbeth at the Garage

I went to the Theatre Garage with a surprisingly heavy heart, owing partly to how tired I was and partly to revisting the neighborhood of a star-crossed romance I had with a certain long-haired theatrical type (you know, one of those) who lived across the street. So a blood drenched show about intrigue, betrayal and evil women sounded like just the thing to pick up my spirits.

If the Guthrie is distinguished by its grandeur, and Pro Rata by being so provocative and raw, then the production company behind this show, Torch Theater, differentiate themselves by their dedication to accessibility in all forms. The obvious reflection of this is making every show accessible to blind and deaf patrons, but there's also such an apparent effort to shoo away the snooty veneer of... the thee-a-tah... and bring audiences into closer contact with the performance. When I called to make ticket reservations I was surprised to find that Lady Macbeth herself (Stacia Rice, Miss Jane Eyre herself for all you Charlotte Brontë junkies out there) recorded their daily automated message, but she is in fact a founder of that theater,
and her decidedly un-diva-like involvement in the daily operation of the theater really demonstrates their mission to fight snootiness and exclusion in all its forms. Plus I imagine her sexy voice is part of the reason people come to see her strut and fret her hour upon the stage.

And Stacia is great as Lady Macbeth, in a very Detroit minimalist techno sort of presentation with a stylish yet versatile black set and fabulous costumes. After Jane Eyre I had wanted to see Stacia in something different that maybe gave her a little more room to come out and play, so it was a treat to see her in a very focused, very modern show like After a Hundred Years last spring. Macbeth splits the difference between elegant period piece and stylish modern psychological drama represented by those two shows, but the immediacy of that tiny theater and the minimalist made this an actors show, it was really fun to see Stacia and Sean Haberle's presentation of the ruthless couple.

In the past, I've never really followed that transtition from level-headed schemer to raving lunatic in Lady Macbeth and the descent from noble soldier to paranoid preacher in Macbeth, either reading it or in Roman Polanski's film. (Out of Joint's west african production at the old Guthrie Lab had its own cohesive take on the story, but I've been told to stop annoying people by raving about that production.) In this production, Sean Haberle's Macbeth slips into almost rodent-like mannerisms whenever challenged make him a furious warrior pressed on by his gnawing insecurities, which makes it easier to believe his descent into tyranny. And Lady Macbeth's ineffectual attempt at an angelic intervention in Fife, helplessly watching the slaughter behind a white silk hood, bridges the gap between the childless woman who can talk casually about dashing her own baby's brains out to the gaunt, sleepwalking figure who aimlessly shuffles off the stage in Act V.

It's a good show, and I couldn't help but think as I was watching it I wish I could get more kids there. Back in our days at the Academy the Scottish Play was our first introduction to Shakespeare, and I wish I could slip a few kids into a show like this that's trying so hard to engage rather than to elevate. A theater that invites you to take your drinks back in with you and offers non-crinkly bags for you to put your noisier snacks in just seems made for people who are thirsty for a first taste of culture but maybe not aware of it. And it really has been great the last couple of nights I went to the theater to be in a crowd that was clearly having a fun night out, with much to discuss afterwards. So yeah, I'm sold on Torch and Pro Rata, at the Garage or the Gremlin or anywhere else, and I hope my vast readership gives Macbeth a chance. And really if your choice of Halloween entertainment is seeing Macbeth for $20-$30 or Saw V for $8.50, it's well-worth the extra money (and the snacks are more reasonably priced).

The Lost Boys: a case against GPS

Don't get me wrong, it was nice to see Corey Feldman was able to tap back into his scowling, growling persona of Edgar Frog 20 years after last performing the role. Actually I suppose all he had to do was put on that stupid headband. It's also funny to see Corey Haim's cameo, where the meth-face makes him look about twice Feldman's age. But wow, what a shitty movie. I accept that trashy cinema is going to be derivative, but the foundations of this movie were laid pretty bare, trying to update Point Break... only with vampires this time.

Bad things come in threes, so I thought I'd wash down that piece of crap with two more bad movies: the listless Prom Night, and the vapid remake of Prom Night. I did recently see a movie about a sleazy maniac who kills people for no apparent reason and the closeted lesbian who fights back that took a very old formula and did it right, so it's possible High Tension just spoiled my appetite for crappy slasher movies. But there's still no excuse for either version of this film ever being released.

I thought a comparison of the remakes to the originals, separated by decades, would be at least amusing and worth a decent rant. But it wasn't... just boring, sadly. There's not even a decent joke about dubbing Nicholas Cage into Cantonese to be had here.

"Wake up motherf***er, it's our ball!", or Vikings 12-10 Lions

Well that was certainly bizarre. Really, really bizarre. The Vikings beat the Lions in a game that at one point had most people around me thinking the Vikings might hold onto their 2-0 lead to win the game, unless a second half field goal by Detroit allowed them to squeak out with a 3-2 road win. When the Vikings entire scoring output consisted of Dan Orlovsky running a bootleg out the back of his own end zone (and still looking for an open receiver when he realized the Vikings pass rushers were already celebrating) I must admit I began to lose hope.

Both times the Vikings got a first down in field goal range after a big play, my dad sardonically suggested kicking a field goal then rather than trying to score a TD, and it was really sad that he was proved right when Adrian Peterson's fumble ended their first real scoring drive, and they later penalized themselves back out of field goal range (leading to a blocked kick). The Vikings only TD came when Bernard Berrian broke one open and didn't give the OC a chance to overthink things and choke. Facing 3rd and 20 in your opponent's half of the field, it's kind of clever to call in a running play to try and set up a field goal rather than go for a difficult first down. It's less clever when you telegraph it by putting in 2 tight ends and a fullback to block for him, and don't even send the receiver deep to pull off the safeties or anything.

I have no idea how the Vikings won this game committing so many offensive penalties and turnign the ball over three times, but somehow they did, partly because our defense was driving their skill position players into the ground like they were using them to build a fence. I would occasionally wonder why our d-backs could give a receiver so much room to catch a pass and get up to full speed in open space, until I'd see a linebacker and safety converge to high-low the guy and basically rip him in half. Somebody behind me set the tone for the game when a Calvin Johnson made a big catch, took two steps before disappearing into a purple Charybdis (thank you Oddysseus now go to Ithica) while Ben Leber picked up the live ball that came squirting out. As the trainers attended to limp, motionless heap that Ray Edwards and Ben Leber left on the field where Johnson had been standing, one of the drunks behind me shouted, "Wake up motherfucker, it's our ball!!"

Up next: Da Bearss, in that giant toilet bowl somebody left on Museum Campus Drive

Killer Joe at the Gremlin

Not knowing recently if my Guthrie adventure was coming to an end or just turning a page (or more likely entering a long murky denouement) I had decided to start sampling more of the local theater scene to see what I was missing with my usual obsessive tendency to over focus, drawing the universal from the particular, rather than distilling it from the mass of experience like everyone else (that may make no sense to anyone but me, but hey it's not like anybody's reading this). On my first sample of one of our smaller theater companies, I got everything I asked for and rather more than I bargained for.

Really it's not my first taste of what the rest of the local scene was doing, since Theatre Latte Da had just done such a wonderful production at the Guthrie of Old Wicked Songs and I saw Penumbra's operatic production of Gem of the Ocean here on August Wilson's birthday. So on Thursday when I mentally flipped a coin to decide between Torch Theatre's production of MacBeth at the Garage and Theatre Pro Rata's production of Killer Joe at the Gremlin, I figured it should be interesting either way (and boy was it ever). Ultimately my decision came down to needing to eat first, and when I couldn't find a parking spot on 4th to run into Pizza Luce for a slice or to dash into Koy to ask Kirby how quick he could get me a bank roll and a cuppa green tea, I decided to go to the theater I knew was across the street from a Mickey D's and wouldn't be full enough for anyone to notice my post-Big Mac gas attack. The winner was Killer Joe at the Gremlin.

The Gremlin Theatre is in St. Paul on University near Raymond Ave, home of Key's where they always put onions in my motherf***ing omelette no matter what I order. Seriously, if they would just knock that off and quit telling me "Oh, those are just white tomatoes" I might pop in there again... I've seen it happen to other people too, so I don't know why their kitchen is so fixated on making sure everyone is getting their daily dose of sulfites. At least the guy throwing up in a garbage can six feet from my table was a one-time thing, even if it did last 20 minutes. But don't let his review fool you, if they'd bring back the regular waffles ($3.95 with a second one for $1.00) I would totally hop on the #16 bus and go back.

And now that I've cleared that up, the Gremlin shares its building (and its bathrooms) with the aikido school next door, which meant that when I arrived at this University Ave storefront with empty display windows and a door that just directed me down a creepy hallway to a back room draped with black curtains, I was expecting to find a naked FBI agent sliding around silk sheets and Laura Palmer talking backwards to a dancing dwarf... and where the hell was Annie anyways? Oh dear, I may have wandered off on another tangent. The rough look of the theater was in perfect keeping with the set, which was a garbage strewn trailer in some Texas hell-hole. It looked like a tornado had just hit the theater and deposited all this crap on stage. As I settled into my creaky, threadbare seat (nicked from the ruins of the Loading Dock Theater) I thought these were dire beginings to an evening at... "the Thee-a-tah!"

But I was wrong. Killer Joe is the story of Texas trailer trash who concoct a half-baked scheme to bump off their mother for the insurance and live like minimum-wage kings, and that horrible looking collection of trash was exactly how those people lived, with biting ants on the floor and the constant flicker of NASCAR in the living room. It was a really great show, full of characters I couldn't look away from, sometimes because I was desperate to know what would happen next, and sometimes because they were like a sore I couldn't stop scratching. If Quentin Tarantino nd Robert Rodriguez owned a theater, this is the show they would open with (well, either Killer Joe or Titus Andronicus) because never have I seen anything crammed with so much nudity and raw sexual violence that wasn't direct-to-video. Apparently the playwright Tracy Letts also penned August: Osage County which won him a Tony Award earlier this year, and I hear those aren't easy to come by.

I was looking for something I wouldn't see at the Guthrie, so I was certainly intrigued when the first actor to cross the stage came out completely bottomless. As she and her son-in-law bickered about the appropriateness of her exposed bush in graphic detail, I had to admit Pro Rata had certainly delivered. The honest, uncomfortable nature of that presentation, the imperfect, quivering exposed bodies that sent a tingle up my spine and and the brutal violence that twisted me in my seat was so raw that by intermission I was chatting up the lobby staff about my vast expertise as a theater volunteer and offering my services. And it was only partly because she was cute and had a genuine, guileless quality that said, "I'm groovy-relaxed enough to be delighted by my haiku shirt and to possibly give you a chance" that I was talking to her, and mostly because of the art on display. (And given all the pain, confusion, and growing sense of horror that everyone who dates me seems to experience, I'm going to leave it to the cute of the world to amuse themselves.)

Killer Joe runs at the Gremlin (2400 University Ave in St. Paul) until Oct 19 with tickets on a sliding scale ($14-28), and I encourage anyone looking for a visceral theater experience to give it a try, especially since October movies are so dire (and there's only so many times you can see An American Carol, Captain.

http://www.theatreprorata.org/
Box Office: 612.874.9321

More On Vice Presidents (pun intentional?)

I havne't watched any of the Presidential debates this election season, mainly because I'm so bored with all of it. I feel like I made up my mind on Super Tuesday when I had to decide whether I was going to caucus for McCain or Obama, and I have yet to regret my decision. I did watch the Vice Presidential debate last week, because Sarah Palin's candidacy may have been questionable politically, but it did make for damned good television.

As I watched her face Joe Biden in the debate with all the questions swirling and most of America with one mind salivating for it to turn into a train wreck of one kind or another, there was just one recurring thought I couldn't keep out of my mind: Sarah Palin really didn't look so good in HD. I previously described her as the one part of Alaska's natural beauty that I'd like to drill, mostly for a chance to pull out that corny line (and because Jewel is too annoying) but the Maverick Mom did what most women do when they sense they're thought of as attractive: she pulled her hair back and slathered on make-up, covering over and buttoning down anything that made her look good.

Since her whole candidacy is based on being a Maverick Mom, the fact that she's ultimately an old-style corrupt politician who circumvents the rules to get her way, values her own lifestyle above anybody else's (like Nancy Pelosi, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Harry Reid, and the entire establishment she's bucking) doesn't make her much of a maverick. The rest of her claim is that she's raised a kid and that makes her a "real person", but most people don't shoot wolves from helicopters, and all the real people I know who had an opportunity to get an education also have a passport and used it before turning 40.

So now I'm back to being bored with all of it.

Black Sox 1-0 Twins

At the end of a tight division race, the Twins needed to take two out of three at home against the Royals to clinch the division title over the floundering Sox. This would have put them in the play-offs when the team that usually knocks them out, the Yankees, are finally missing a series for the first time in over a decade. (Apparently Joe Torre wasn't the problem.) So of course... they lose the series to the Royals 2-1, and go into a play-off against Chicago. In a nasty tight pitcher's duel, Jim Thome caught one pitch left up by Nick Blackburn and scored the game's only run on a solo homer. The closest the Twins came to scoring was Michael Cuddyer testing Griffey's arm coming home from third on a shallow fly ball and then tackling A.J. Pierzynski at the plate. It took a perfect throw to beat Cuddyer to the plate, but it was fun to watch him try it, and even more fun to see him take out Pierzynski.

The '08 Twins took a long time to sort out fielding positions and give the kids a chance over the tired veterans Smith brought in last winter, and Gomez's inability to get on base combined with the disappearance of Cuddyer and Morneau's power really killed them, but they were still in it until game 163, and a pleasure to watch in the second half of this season. Unlike the Black Sox, who play ugly, look ugly, won ugly, and have an ugly-ass stadium.