Arts & Culture

One of the main reasons for heading to California for a vacation was so my partner (and Beacon bookkeeper) Martin Kaplan could participate in a reunion of performing arts alums from Palos Verdes High School, from which he graduated in 1978. Marty described the rehearsals that occupied him last Friday and Saturday as "surreal." It felt, he said, as if he'd been catapulted backward in time, to the 1970s, when he was a student at PV High School, and during rehearsals it seemed very little had changed.

Ed and Mary Etta Moose and Sam Dietsch at Moose's restaurant, 1998, San Francisco.
Terry Lorant, Oakland, Calif.

Ed Moose, who for 32 years headed two of San Francisco's best-known restaurants, the Washington Square Bar & Grill and Moose's, died Aug. 12. Mr. Moose, a native of St. Louis, was 81.

According to the San Francisco Chronicle, "He had broken his ankle in a fall at home in June, had several operations and developed a staph infection.

"Mary Etta Moose, his only survivor, said there will be no memorial service: 'He said, 'I've seen memorial services, I've thrown memorial services, and I went to memorial services, and I don't want one.' "

After you tell us what you know, tell us what you want to know.

That's how I often start a conversation with folks to explain the Beacon's Public Insight Network.

The PIN, as we call if for short, is a program the Beacon uses to find new sources who can help us tell stories with a better sense of relevance. Using email as our primary tool, we ask questions about topics we are covering and reporters then use the responses we receive to help tell a story.

Newly engaged artist Arthur should be walking on air. But as a fetishist who's missing his favorite footwear, he's in a quandary.

So begins "Psychopathia Sexualis," a comedy revolving around an anxious soon-to-be groom, his wealthy socialite fiancee and his father's argyle socks.

Only within proximity to the socks is Arthur able to make love. However, in an unorthodox therapeutic move, his psychiatrist snares the potent pair.

Author Eric Jerome Dickey, who will be speaking at the St. Louis County Library Saturday, would probably take exception to this description promoting his appearance that appears on the library's website:

"Described as 'the king of African-American fiction' by Entertainment Weekly, Eric Jerome Dickey discusses his highly anticipated new novel 'Tempted by Trouble' -- a flaming-hot story set in the world of conmen and thieves."

Dickey says he prefers to be known simply as "author" -- no racial or ethnic description necessary.

For "Form in Translation: Sculptors Making Prints and Drawings," assistant curator Eric Lutz of the St. Louis Art Museum (along with research assistant Ann-Maree Walker) has again brought together works that show the strengths of the museum's permanent collection while giving insight into a vital mode of artmaking that deserves more exposure.

Last week, Slate published an article, "How Blacks Use Twitter: The latest research on race and microblogging."  Now, I'll admit that I can't tell you why, but my general sense of Slate is that it's intelligent, thoughtful, edgy. So when I clicked through to the article I expected something, well, intelligent, thoughtful and edgy.

There's no money in poetry, but there's no poetry in money, either.

—Robert Graves

This month's poem is by Catherine Rankovic. Brutal honesty and painful humor usually characterize this writer's poetry and essays. "Hide & Sex" is no exception -- although the savage truth here dresses in the clothes of a children's game, wears several layers of irony and flirts with the sonnet.

Recently, Bruce Burton left his post as graphic designer for the Contemporary Art Museum St. Louis to join a St. Louis design firm. As a parting gesture of sorts, he's curated an exhibition of outstanding contemporary graphic design for the museum's Front Room.

"RBMBKESHKM" showcases work by Roy Brooks, Mikey Burton, Kelly English, Sibylle Hagmann and Kindra Murphy, designers based more or less in the middle of the country, the "flyover zone" where people on the coasts often assume nothing is happening.

I'm a transplant.

It was 1991 and the city was experiencing one of its highest murder rates in years.

I showed up as new college graduate ready to perform a year of volunteer work for a local community service agency. The housing they provided was on the site of a community center in the College Hill neighborhood near O'Fallon Park on the city's north side.