Claire and I celebrated our one-year anniversary this evening with a trip to the new Guthrie, which had its grand opening last weekend. The first official production, The Great Gatsby doesn't open until 21 July, and previews don't even begin until the fifteenth, but a touring production by the Druid Theatre Company of Galway, Ireland, is breaking in the McGuire Proscenium Stage this week. The rather complicated run of DruidSynge involves the presentation of some combination of plays, varying nightly, by writer John Millington Synge. Claire and I saw one-act The Shadow of the Glen followed by the more famous The Playboy of the Western World. Claire and I both struggled to follow Shadow on account of the actors' thick brogue but enjoyed Playboy, which offered more meat to the plot, more time for adjustment to the accents, and more cushion for those lines that were lost upon us.
If the show itself lacked accessibility, the overall experience in the new Guthrie made up for it with a vengeance. The new building was both gorgeous and functional [I'd like to address the architecture in a separate post], and the enthusiasm among the other attendees was noticeable. Claire and I, being on a tight budget arrived without tickets and instead took our chances with the rush line, which sells all tickets at $15 a piece starting 30 minutes before the start of the show. I made certain we arrived early, and we claimed the first spot in line, making us the first Friday night rushers for the new theater. The manœuvre paid off: we snagged sixth-row center-section seats (valued at $55 a piece). After the show Claire and I enjoyed magnificent deserts at the Level 5 Café and enjoyed each others company at the end of the endless bridge, overlooking the Mississippi river.
I'm looking forward to returning to the new Guthrie. And, of course, I'm looking forward to spending another year with Claire.
2006-06-30
2006-06-16
A decade of May
I made my annual visit to Dr. James F. May this morning, knowing well that it may be the last with my soon-to-be-retired orthodontist. I was still a bit saddened to hear him tell me that future check-ups will no longer be necessary. Trips to the orthodontist, while never fun, have been a reassuring routine in my life for over a decade. The first appliance he installed was a trans-palatal arch, which he and his staff tweaked every month through 1996. On a cold January day of the following year he installed my braces, and from the start of 1997 to the summer of 1998 they cranked on the braces too. After the day of emancipation (in late July, I recall), my visits with Dr. May became ever-so-much more pleasant. Since then he's checked my retainers' fit annually, and has always found it to fit well, and our appointments have been brief, happy affairs. I may not see him again, but I suspect Claire (another patient of his) and I will reminisce on Dr. May (and the suffering through which he put us) for years to come.
2006-06-06
New Jacks
My mother and I ate at the newest Original House of Pancakes in the world today, a mere 400 minutes after the doors opened. We both enjoyed the fare; she had pecan pancakes and I had coconut pancakes with a side of ham, and everything on the table—right down to the orange juice and freshly made tropical spread—was vastly superior to anything I've had at a Perkins, Shoney's, Denny's, or IHOP. The dining room was light and beautiful, the lofted ceilings accented with dark wood trim. I had a few quibbles with the use of stone, but I suspect there would be no apparent problem to a less architecturally-minded person.
Fine dining (bread and water)
At a recent auction my dad bought a 100-dollar gift certificate to Tiburón Caribbean Bistro for 115 dollars, the profits going towards ALS research, and this evening we dined at the downtown-Minneapolis restaurant. It was dead when we arrived, but that was to be expected at 5:30 on a Monday evening, and was certainly no indication of the quality of the experience. The atmosphere was pleasant (a large, snaking aquarium divided the bar from the dining room), and the food was excellent. There were a great number of appealing options, so I ordered all four courses from the chef's June specials, which may be a first for me in spite general feeling that specials should be ordered as often as possible. This month's spotlighted country is Cuba; although I can't attest to the authenticity of the food's nationality I can attest to the deliciousness of all four courses, which were: Fried Plantains with corn salsa, queso fresco and topped with lime sour cream; Lobster Stuffed Avocado Salad a light and refreshing salad, served on a bed of field greens drizzled with a light balsamic dressing; Mojo Chicken with a warm avocado mango salsa—sautéed chicken breast with a sweet citrus glaze served on a bed of coconut rice; and Fried Ice Cream topped with chocolate and mango sauces and fresh berries, and served in a fried cinnamon tortilla bowl. I'm hoping a return trip in a later month can be arranged.
Later this evening I went to Kinkos to print photos and to Cub Foods to pick up water for Laura's forthcoming graduation party, and I decided to grab some bread while I was out. Since my local Great Harvest bread store closed during the past semester, I've been having a great deal of difficulty finding a loaf a whole wheat bread that doesn't have that Wonder Bread consistency that afflicts all of the rectangular, presliced loafs in the bread isle. Byerly's the local upscale grocery store has "artesian" breads of excellent texture, but each one uses soccer-mom-safe white flour. Whole Foods has good bread, but its even more expensive than Great Harvest's Honey Whole Wheat. So this summer I've been turning to Cub Foods for my staple food. That's right. Plain ol', brown-bagging, florescent-lit Cub Foods. For some reason they've started carrying high-quality take-and-bake loafs from the New French Bakery in Minneapolis, and the price ain't bad either.
I was, however, slightly chagrined to find myself going through the check-out line with only bread and water, which seems only a step above the chips and soda the solitary young white male shopper behind me had in his basket.
Later this evening I went to Kinkos to print photos and to Cub Foods to pick up water for Laura's forthcoming graduation party, and I decided to grab some bread while I was out. Since my local Great Harvest bread store closed during the past semester, I've been having a great deal of difficulty finding a loaf a whole wheat bread that doesn't have that Wonder Bread consistency that afflicts all of the rectangular, presliced loafs in the bread isle. Byerly's the local upscale grocery store has "artesian" breads of excellent texture, but each one uses soccer-mom-safe white flour. Whole Foods has good bread, but its even more expensive than Great Harvest's Honey Whole Wheat. So this summer I've been turning to Cub Foods for my staple food. That's right. Plain ol', brown-bagging, florescent-lit Cub Foods. For some reason they've started carrying high-quality take-and-bake loafs from the New French Bakery in Minneapolis, and the price ain't bad either.
I was, however, slightly chagrined to find myself going through the check-out line with only bread and water, which seems only a step above the chips and soda the solitary young white male shopper behind me had in his basket.
2006-06-03
Guns and love disastrous (five illuminations)
(I)
I'm sitting on Chair 1, guarding a moderately busy beach during an uneventful three o'clock safety brake when the boy approaches me. He's four years old.
Are you a lifeguard? he asks.
I am, I answer.
Do you have to be able to swim?
I have to be able to swim a whole mile!
Do you like being a lifeguard?
I do. Does he want to be a lifeguard when he's older?
He answers without the faintest hint of a smile. No. FBI agent. He reveals a squirt gun which has been tucked into the back of his swim trunks. Holding it in the air he turns and runs.
(II)
The water is cool and clear early in the day, but with the strong June sunshine and a frenzy of activity it becomes warm and cloudy by midafternoon. As the sun sinks, it becomes a calm place, even a private place if only up to a foot below the surface. But those deeper areas are enough, and occasionally we lifeguards must remind lusty young couples that the beach is a family-friendly facility—that is to say it is a place meant for the raising of existing children, not the making of new ones. What percentage of copulating couples do we catch? Who knows. We occasionally learn of some incidents only from patrons more observant or simply closer to the action than we are. Sometimes such reports come from children, but, thankfully, their own innocence protects them when we fail. We were displeased, if not exactly alarmed, this evening when a child told us of a couple in the water "kissing and fighting."
(III)
The boys were in the shallow end, pointing their fingers at each other in the manner that has allowed children to engage in bloodless gunbattles for generations. Perhaps these fellows of ten and twelve weren't armed with the plastic facsimiles that have supplanted the fingers and the imagination for this most recent generations, but the older of the two had certainly acquired a modern, gory idea of gunbattles. While "Bang! You're dead!" sufficed for Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang, who were no doubt raised on nearly bloodless war movies like "Kelly's Heroes," which dispatches dozens (hundreds?) of Nazis without a single bullet wound. This boy spoke in a manner more fitting of young Marvin's demise in Pulp Fiction. His younger duelist was quieter, so I heard only one side of the imaginary showdown:
"I shot you!"
"I killed you!"
At this point the boy's mother cried, "John!"
"I shot your head off!"
"John!"
"I blew your face off!"
"John! Don't talk like that!"
(IV)
I'm riding along Weaver Lake Road, on my way to Claire's house (she's back from the jungle), and I'm gaining fast on young couple walking side-by-side down the center of the path. I shout my customary bicycle on your left, and the girl (who I see is no more than sixteen) casts look over her shoulder. She starts to move to the right, and realizing that her male companion has not heard she begins to pull him towards her. Feeling her tug, he turns to her for a kiss, but she pulls him past her, and he takes a stumbling step onto the grass, evidently perplexed until I fly past.
(V)
A hundred yards farther down the road I come to a stop at a red light. I cast a glance around the intersection and see a large black SUV with windows proclaiming in fingerpaint JUST MARRIED. Inside the groom is at the wheel talking animatedly. The bride is gazing out the passenger side window with a look of resignedness. The light turns green, the bride blows me a kiss, and we ride on.
I'm sitting on Chair 1, guarding a moderately busy beach during an uneventful three o'clock safety brake when the boy approaches me. He's four years old.
Are you a lifeguard? he asks.
I am, I answer.
Do you have to be able to swim?
I have to be able to swim a whole mile!
Do you like being a lifeguard?
I do. Does he want to be a lifeguard when he's older?
He answers without the faintest hint of a smile. No. FBI agent. He reveals a squirt gun which has been tucked into the back of his swim trunks. Holding it in the air he turns and runs.
(II)
The water is cool and clear early in the day, but with the strong June sunshine and a frenzy of activity it becomes warm and cloudy by midafternoon. As the sun sinks, it becomes a calm place, even a private place if only up to a foot below the surface. But those deeper areas are enough, and occasionally we lifeguards must remind lusty young couples that the beach is a family-friendly facility—that is to say it is a place meant for the raising of existing children, not the making of new ones. What percentage of copulating couples do we catch? Who knows. We occasionally learn of some incidents only from patrons more observant or simply closer to the action than we are. Sometimes such reports come from children, but, thankfully, their own innocence protects them when we fail. We were displeased, if not exactly alarmed, this evening when a child told us of a couple in the water "kissing and fighting."
(III)
The boys were in the shallow end, pointing their fingers at each other in the manner that has allowed children to engage in bloodless gunbattles for generations. Perhaps these fellows of ten and twelve weren't armed with the plastic facsimiles that have supplanted the fingers and the imagination for this most recent generations, but the older of the two had certainly acquired a modern, gory idea of gunbattles. While "Bang! You're dead!" sufficed for Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang, who were no doubt raised on nearly bloodless war movies like "Kelly's Heroes," which dispatches dozens (hundreds?) of Nazis without a single bullet wound. This boy spoke in a manner more fitting of young Marvin's demise in Pulp Fiction. His younger duelist was quieter, so I heard only one side of the imaginary showdown:
"I shot you!"
"I killed you!"
At this point the boy's mother cried, "John!"
"I shot your head off!"
"John!"
"I blew your face off!"
"John! Don't talk like that!"
(IV)
I'm riding along Weaver Lake Road, on my way to Claire's house (she's back from the jungle), and I'm gaining fast on young couple walking side-by-side down the center of the path. I shout my customary bicycle on your left, and the girl (who I see is no more than sixteen) casts look over her shoulder. She starts to move to the right, and realizing that her male companion has not heard she begins to pull him towards her. Feeling her tug, he turns to her for a kiss, but she pulls him past her, and he takes a stumbling step onto the grass, evidently perplexed until I fly past.
(V)
A hundred yards farther down the road I come to a stop at a red light. I cast a glance around the intersection and see a large black SUV with windows proclaiming in fingerpaint JUST MARRIED. Inside the groom is at the wheel talking animatedly. The bride is gazing out the passenger side window with a look of resignedness. The light turns green, the bride blows me a kiss, and we ride on.
2006-06-02
The reel deal
After two or three years of gentle pestering, I finally convinced my dad to buy a reel mower for our lawn. He took the first crack at it over the weekend when I was busy working at the pond, but tonight I got a chance to try it out, and I was as pleased as I anticipated. It didn't cut quite as perfectly as the gas-powered Lawn Boy, but it didn't do too shabbily either. It was quiet, consumed no gas, and generated no exhaust (which I missed slightly, as the fumes tend to keep the skeeters away). Perhaps the best part was the increased work-out; after a school year of minimal activity every little bit of exercise is welcome this summer.
Oddly enough, I can't find even the slightest mention of their "Classic" mower on the Scotts website. Goodness knows I can find as many chemicals as I could possibly want to spread around my lawn. I'm glad to see Scotts has their priorities in order.
Oddly enough, I can't find even the slightest mention of their "Classic" mower on the Scotts website. Goodness knows I can find as many chemicals as I could possibly want to spread around my lawn. I'm glad to see Scotts has their priorities in order.
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