south of the loop

I kill plants. Not on purpose, mind you. I really do try to keep them alive: sunlight, water, I even talk to the damn things. Only my plant Maurice survived my brown thumb, and he later succumbed at the hands of my mother.

I tell myself it’s not really me. After all, the last two places I’ve lived have had lousy natural light, and my cats find plants hopelessly irresistible. I seem to remember a time a few years ago (in a particularly sunny apartment) when I kept alive a number of plants. Either I’ve lost my touch or I need to get a different apartment.

Despite my murderous ways, I apparently send off a plant-friendly vibe. Strangely, the only people who pick up on this are 40-something women. At my last job, two different women gave me unsolicited green thumb advice and unsolicited plant clippings. One gave me a beautiful plant whose flowers bloom in an upside-down bell shape. (Twice, actually, since I killed the first one.) The other woman gave me an entire tray of herb clippings from her own garden—at least 15 varieties (and those I did manage to keep alive on my front porch). Other coworkers commented on the oddness of these relationships seemingly held together only by my ability to kill plants, and my desire to keep trying to grow them. Neither of these women were known for being friendly to just anybody, and I had certainly done nothing to deserve their friendship or their plants. Neither of them had anything to do with me professionally. They just brought me plants.

Just the other day, I discovered that my plant-friendly vibe is still strong, even if my plants are not. Piney, the bromeliad I’d purchased because the label promised it would be “hearty,” went to that great big nursery in the sky a few weeks ago. (Actually, the cleaning lady pointed to it and asked, “Dead?” I nodded. She did the honors.) Last week, the only 40-something woman in my department—with whom I’ve shared nothing more than cursory small talk—approached me in the kitchen and said, “You’re a plant person, aren’t you?” She had noticed that Piney had died… and had brought me in an aloe vera clipping. She swears I can’t kill it. We’ll see.

* * *

current book: I am pages from completing Elaine Soloway’s wonderful The Division Street Princess. Her girlhood was spent in a largely Jewish neighborhood in Chicago in the 1940s, and I can’t imagine any history book describing that neighborhood with such tender detail. The best thing about it is that her childhood seems fairly ordinary: sure, bad things happen, parents fight, money is uncertain, but it’s the simple fact of her childhood itself that is so wonderful to read about. And she’s actually convinced me to pick up an essay I wrote about my great-grandmother last year and retool it. I was never happy with how it turned out, but now I think I have the inspiration I need.

current music: My job has gone from something somewhat active to something extremely passive, so I’m back to 8 hours a day of the iPod. Recent listens include Deerhoof, The Beauty Shop, Joanna Newsom, The Black Heart Procession, some live Calexico songs (especially their cover of the Minutemen’s “Jesus & Tequila”), and Eiffel Tower.

current socks: My thigh-high wool socks in army-navy stripes. It’s fucking cold out there. I think Company’s employees should be allowed to work at home when the temperature drops below 20 degrees.

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I ventured to the Newberry Library one Saturday in early December, a numbingly cold morning that begged more for my down comforter than a jaunt downtown. While looking at the library’s website a few weeks earlier, I had seen a program called “Writing Chicago Childhoods” that featured authors Elaine Soloway, Billy Lombardo, and Frank Joseph. All three authors would read from their books and then participate in a panel discussion “of how the authors brought to life the vanished worlds of their childhoods.” And so I shed my down comforter and left my warm apartment: it was an interesting topic, I’d read Billy Lombardo’s book The Logic of a Rose this past summer, and maybe I’d pick up something about writing memoirs.

Elaine Soloway read first, from her self-published book The Division Street Princess. Soloway is a tiny but imposing 68-year-old Jewish woman with short, silver hair and dark cat-eye glasses. At least I thought she was imposing—how else do you describe a four-foot-ten-inch-woman who looks down at you?—but that impression melted as soon as she started reading a dark chapter from her life and her book. Soloway grew up in Chicago—on Division Street, natch—during the 1940s. This chapter, which tells of an unwilling loss of innocence, is framed with the real story of the kidnapping and murder of Suzanne Degnan, which Soloway said consumed everybody’s thoughts at the time. Soloway, who was about Degnan’s age at then, saw pictures of this other innocent little girl on the newspapers her parents tried to shield her from. Her innocence takes a double blow, one at the hands of Degnan’s murder, one at the hands of a sleazy neighbor. Even her father, her protector, the one who calls her “Princess,” can’t restore it. Soloway promised this was the darkest chapter; even if it’s not, I hope to read the rest of her book someday soon.

Billy Lombardo, whose book I read last summer, wore his microphone so he could stand in front of the podium. Lombardo is a high school teacher, so maybe podiums are just too restricting for his tastes or habits, but I thought this was a nice touch. Especially since I’d already met his protagonist, one Petey Bellapani—Petey Goodbread, the neighborhood baker calls him—this brought Petey a little closer, made him a little more familiar. One thing I hadn’t expected (only because I hadn’t given it any thought) was Lombardo’s thick Chicago accent. Chicago accents are a bit of a giggle-inducer for me. They sound so Bronxy: “hey, how you doon?” But I recovered from my initial startle, settled into Lombardo’s accent, and reacquainted myself with Petey in the story “The Pilgrim Virgin.” Lombardo has a particular talent for capturing youthfulness inside adult reflection, which resonates even more in his own voice. You can, and should, listen to a radio interview of him on his website; it’s a little long, but it’s great fun to hear Petey’s distinct voice, his distinct Chicago accent.

Frank Joseph read last, and was for me the least exciting. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; because he read from a novel, he had to read the excerpts a bit piecemeal, stopping to fill in the plot holes before moving to the next. Perhaps his is the kind of novel that just works better quietly, as a whole. Joseph also writes about Chicago in the 1940s, a city apparently defined along even more stringent racial lines than today. His book is about two boys, one Jewish, one black, who meet during a fistfight behind Comiskey Park. The black boy gets taken to the hospital, and the Jewish boy tracks him down later, feeling badly about what happened. They form something like a friendship, teaching each other about street smarts and kosher hot dogs.

The author panel wasn’t much of one—mostly some half-hearted questions about how to find an agent/publisher/self-publisher etc. (Maybe I would have been more appreciative if I was actually in the market for one of the above, but isn’t that what the Internet/library/bookstore is for?) More interesting would have been the promised discussion of bringing vanished childhoods to the page. That’s why I’d gone to the panel in the first place, although listening to Soloway and Lombardo read aloud more than made up for it.

One theme did repeat itself during the Q&A: early rising. Both Lombardo and Soloway said that they wrote most every morning, and at such early godawful hours—3:30am, 4:30am. Hours earlier than I get up unless there is a flight involved, and even then it’s an uphill battle involving repeated pressings of the snooze button. Is this the kind of discipline required to become a published author? Because I’m almost positive that if I set my alarm for 3:30, it would still be going off when I awoke four hours later. I’m also almost positive that I cannot spit at 4am, let alone string words together or put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. Perhaps I should stick with blogging for now.

* * *

current book: Moved on to the next story in The Crystal Frontier, which is far better than the one prior, which seemed like a poor middle-school experiment.

current music: Listened to a little over half of John’s Best of 2006 Mix. I had to take a break from all the hip-hop, so I’m giving the e.g.s. mix of 17 august 2005 a spin right now.

current socks: Dark blue with light purplish-blue polka dots. Very fuzzy. Mmmmm.

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I know I’m way behind the times on this, but I finally set up a del.icio.us profile. I’ve known about del.icio.us for awhile now, but I’ve resisted. I thought it was going to be one of those “social networking” sites like MySpace, which I’ve been sucked into but hate. Instead, it’s more like LibraryThing, another one of those “social networking” (social cataloguing?) sites, which I’ve been sucked into and love.

I was reading an article in The Atlantic Monthly this morning by James Fallows, their technology correspondent. All it took was the dumbed-down explanation of what del.icio.us actually is to persuade me to immediately set up a profile. This alarms me. I used to be sort of a tech-head—not so much in the sense of wanting to build my own computer, but definitely in the sense of wanting to stay on top of the newest gadgets and toys. And now I need the Preschooler’s Primer—in the fucking Atlantic, no less—to even go to the website? Maybe growing older isn’t going to be so much fun after all. Not if I’m going to be a Luddite by the time I’m 30.

Basically, del.icio.us is like your Bookmarks folder, only better. It’s accessible anywhere you have internet access, and you can tag, or categorize, every website you add. This is ultimately far more functional than your bookmarks folder, since it’s searchable on your own terms. For example, I started using it at work today. I frequently come across websites, only to find 10 minutes later that, oh shit, I really need to cite it—and where was it again? So I just set up a “work” tag and started tagging sites that I thought I’d need later. Voila!

My del.icio.us, which I’m sure will grow exponentially over the next few weeks. There’s also a link in my right sidebar.

You really want to know what James Fallows has to say? See below currents.

current book: Taking a break from The Crystal Frontier to catch up on The New Yorker and Atlantic Monthly, both of which I just got Saturday at the post office, since our mail simply stopped coming to our door.

current music: The Specials’ “Ghost Town”

current socks: Smartwools in dark red with alternating stripes of snowflakes and polka dots. Very warm. Very comfy.

(more…)

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I went to the post office—post offices, actually—this morning to pick up a package and figure out why the hell we haven’t gotten any mail in over a week. The first post office sent me to another post office, where I had to wait in line for one of two grumpy women to assist me. While in line, an elderly Chinese woman a little ahead of me pulled back and said, “Excuse me. Is that sign correct grammar?” I looked to where she was pointing. “PLEASE WAIT FOR NEXT AVAILABLE PERSON.” She went on, in precise but slightly clipped English, “Shouldn’t there be an article? Please wait for the next available person?”

I told her that although the sign was considered acceptable—”because it conveys the meaning?” she asked—if you were, say, writing a letter, then yes, you would write, “please wait for the next available person.” She thanked me and said that even after 40 years Stateside, she still gets things messed up. I think she’s doing pretty damn well, frankly.

Did I answer her correctly? Is the article required, and we’ve just gotten accustomed to grammatically sloppy signs? Or would it be grammatically correct even without the article?

* * *

current book: Still plugging away on all the same things. In other media, I actually watched a movie last night! My roommate and some friends and I watched The Devil Wears Prada, which I’ve been looking forward to for ages. I have to say, I was a little disappointed. It felt very montage-y. But Anne Hathaway didn’t annoy me nearly as much as I’d anticipated, and I enjoyed many of Meryl Streep’s lines, especially her monologue on cerulean blue.

current music: Just getting ready to pop in John’s Best of 2006 mix…

current socks: Very fun turquoise socks with lime green, light turquoise, and white 50s-style abstract shapes on them.

Filed under: chicago, copy editing by admin2
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Many mornings when I’m running late, I exit the Metra downtown and find myself behind a man wearing a black jacket. In white embroidery on the back, forming a kind of circle, it says:

NYMPHATIC

&

EXTASY       PIMPS

Any ideas?

*    *    *

current book: Still The Crystal Frontier.

current music: Very, very, sadly, Margot et. al. were sold out tonight. Boo. I’d really been looking forward to them. Hopefully they’ll be back in the Windy City soon.

current socks: I even wore my concert-going socks today! Green with little multi-colored records on them. You spin me right round baby, right round. Like a record, baby, right round round round.

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Things I have done this week:

- Worked.

- Worked overtime.

- Spent far too many hours cross-eyed over football (soccer) stats. Latin American football leagues have jumped the shark.

- Learned what a crazy bumblefuck used to rule Turkmenistan (he banned lip-syncing and recorded music at weddings, and he used the country’s gas moolah to commission a monumental golden statue of himself that revolves so that it always faces the sun).

- Watched Legally Blonde. Twice.

- Had a small plastic container thrown at me by a homeless person.

- Made and ate buttermilk pancakes for dinner (which I think are not part of my new year’s resolutions, but were delicious anyways).

- Have gotten no mail thus far. I think sometimes we might actually live in Italy. We get our mail when our carrier feels like delivering it.

- Procrastinated anything which requires effort or thought (such as real blog posts, several which are already half-written; at least one essay, which I started several months ago; a handful of phone calls I need to make; and two items of clothing I need to return).

* * *

current book: The Crystal Frontier by Carlos Fuentes. Honestly? I have no idea yet what I think of it. It’s a series of nine unrelated stories, and I go from love to hate within a single story. I’m trying to stay open-minded, as I’m only three or four stories in. The most interesting one so far involved a man who is served a multi-course dinner by a genie, each course being accompanied by a different woman.

current music: I’m going to try to catch Margot and the Nuclear So-and-So’s tomorrow night at Schuba’s. And I’m dying to listen to John’s Best of 2006 Mix, which looks amazing. (It will have to wait until my eyes uncross from soccer stats). I did listen to the Carrie Underwood song last night, though, just out of curiosity. It sounds like an old Reba McEntire song.

current socks: Light turquoise with 50s-style pinup girls.

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I left work this evening in the midst of an apocalyptic rain storm. I got shat on by a big dirty pigeon on my way to the Metra. On my way off the Metra, I slipped and fell down the stairs, stopping only when my left temple rammed into the railing. I arrived home thoroughly soaked, crappy, and with my upper left molars substantially looser. Happy 2007, indeed.

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I like the idea of a new year, a new start, except that it’s really just another work week in the same beige cube with the same overtime demands. Good thing I didn’t resolve to have a better attitude. 

I spent my New Year’s Eve at a blues lounge on the South Side, where I was coerced into donning a hot pink party hat (I had thought it was purple). I watched a one-legged woman named Melvina collect $50, which was apparently the price the audience had to pay to watch her shake her groove thang. Well, her groove stump, really. After she had $50 in her hand, she tucked the huge wad into her cleavage, hoisted herself up on her walker, and began to gyrate. No, I’m serious.

I also got my picture taken with Miles against a holiday-themed, high school prom-style backdrop, drank girly cocktails, and rang in the new year with a glass of cheap champagne and the blues. All in all, I’d say it was an excellent evening.

Happy 2007!

*     *     *

current book: Crystal Frontier by Carlos Fuentes

current music: In honor of Miles’ visit for New Year’s Eve, I got out Madonna’s Immaculate Collection, Prince’s Purple Rain, and Michael Jackson’s Ones.

current socks: Some of my favorite stripeys (magenta orange yellow blue gray).

Filed under: chicago, holidays by admin2
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