south of the loop

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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Read Roger linked yesterday to a list of 1001 Books To Read Before You Die. I agree with him that these lists are “specious as all get out;” it’s hard to place much stock in them. They quickly become competitions, sources of pride or embarrassment, even when we pretend otherwise. And as soon as a”Must Read” or “Best Books” kind of list is published, indignant and politically correct readers everywhere point out its Euro-male-centric flaws. Quietly we mutter about how this book could have been left off but that book is on and and what were they thinking anyway? (See next paragraph for example of such a rant). And yet who among us doesn’t feel satisfied to have read x number on the list? I keep my own list, a spreadsheet, on my computer, which is–I swear–entitled “Books To Read Before I Die.xls.” It used to number several hundred, but then that computer died, and the resurrected list (on a new computer) sits at a measly 70.

So, pretending not to care how many books I’d read, or how many books anybody else had read, of course I went through and counted. Just the process of counting (which I’ve done twice and have been as honest as possible–there are some books I feel certain I’ve read, like Frankenstein and The Color Purple, although I’m not actually 100% positive) was irritating. I mean, no Blood Meridian? C’mon. I just spent three fucking weeks on it. Give me my Cormac McCarthy! And it seems pretty heavy on certain authors: J.M. Coetzee, Ian McEwan, Haruki Murakami, Philip Roth, Don DeLillo. And yet–Shakespeare is no longer important? And please: Life of Pi? It’s by no means a terrible book, but it has no place on a list like this. Also irritating were the near misses–I read one or two Iris Murdoch books, and one by Vikram Seth, wasn’t impressed with either author, and didn’t look back–and the aborted attempts (The Brothers Karamazov, Mrs. Fucking Dalloway). Nevermind the books that are actually sitting on my bookshelf right now, taunting me.

Disclaimers divulged, annoyances aired: my number is 89. If you really really want to know which ones, click on “Keep Reading” below current socks.

*     *     *

current book: Still reading the title essay in David Foster Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, which I’m finding quite amusing, and may even persuade me to try some more essays in the book. It’s about a luxury cruise. Stay tuned.

current music: It was a high-volume day in the cube farm. A trip to Reckless Records last night left me three CDs richer and $26 poorer: The Stills’ Without Feathers (thought Logic Will Break Your Heart was pretty good and I thought their set at ACL was pretty great; the new album is solid but not spectacular), Los Super Seven (self-titled) (mostly fun with a few standouts), and Trembling Blue Stars’ Broken By Whispers (lovely in the way the Field Mice et. al. are lovely; that is to say, nothing I haven’t heard before, but still enjoyable). I also listened to a few Stars albums, Sondre Lerche, and Calexico.

current socks: Dark blue with light blue polka dots. My favorites to wear with my Keens.

(more…)

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I was running late one sleepy morning last week. Intelligentsia (supplier of my daily latte addiction, running late or not) was playing Calexico’s Garden Ruin, and I had maybe four minutes of sweet, sweet relief from my otherwise grimy morning. Unsurprising; music frequently determines or reflects moods. See: any number of music reviews making references to “rainy day music” or “perfect summer pop songs.” Or try listening to The Smiths’ “Last Night I Dreamt Somebody Loved Me” when you’re feeling on top of the world. You’ll either shut it off one bar in or fall a very, very long way down.

I went to McBookstore during lunch today to get some new reading material (Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy and A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments by David Foster Wallace). Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 (second movement) was playing: a song both triumphant and devastating, exultant and crushing. Its eight minutes are an epic crescendo, plateauing mid-song in a joyful little dance, then falling prey to a deepening sorrow punctuated by the brass section. But for most of the movement, the cellos carry the emotion–appropriate, since a cello’s range is similar to a person’s–and, although I’m not well-educated in classical music, I believe it is somewhat unusual for a symphony to rely so heavily on cellos (Joel, do you still read my blog? You want to jump in here?). Beethoven’s Seventh moved me to take cello lessons, and hearing it today made me wish my cello wasn’t temporarily hibernating at my parents’ house. Probably my regret was exacerbated by the haunting A-minor key and the gray skies. And yet…

It got me thinking about more things than I can write about now, on the verge of bedtime and another early morning. In John C.’s entry about Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” he described it as something he turned to for a “sugar rush.” It’s definitely a song I’d listen to before, say, a night on the town (along with Madonna and Prince, natch). Funny how we turn to music: for solace, or to wallow ever deeper in self-pity, or to lift our spirits. And funny how music becomes a vortex of nostalgia. Beethoven’s Seventh caught me by surprise and took me back to the moment, and even to the emotion, of first wanting to play the cello.

And with all of these loose ends and half-thoughts, I’m off to Austin in one more day for yet another music festival. It will still be warm enough there to discover the perfect summer pop song. I might have to indulge my inner groupie and try to snag another front-row spot for Calexico.

* * *

current book: finished Michael K on the Metra home; cracked open Blood Meridian.

current music: re-living Sunday night with plenty of Calexico, with a break to listen to Symphony No. 7 three times in a row.

current socks: black with bumblebees. It was pouring rain when I came into work this morning, so I’ve been walking around unshod while my shoes dry out.

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I wore my new “Reading is Sexy” t-shirt today in order to exude just the right amount of youth and hipness requested by Company. (I won’t go into the details here, but Company was visited today by a small crew from a Sunday morning news show, and Company wanted a certain image to be conveyed.) It’s only the third time I’ve worn the t-shirt; I’ve noticed a few more eyes lingering over my chest, but most of the comments I’ve gotten have been along the lines of, “Ohmigod! I love your shirt! Where’d you get it?”

Today after work, I ran an errand and then hopped on the El to head back to the Metra. I got off at an unfamiliar stop because I was promised by the generic male voice over the PA system that I could transfer to the Metra. Note to Chicago Transit Authority: the word “transfer” DOES NOT imply three blocks of walking, and for the love of God, HANG SOME FUCKING SIGNS.

Thirty minutes of wandering the streets–saved only by utilizing my recent, life-changing revelation that the street numbers get smaller as you head east, toward the lake–and I had to stop in a Walgreen’s to get a bottle of water. I’m not the friendliest person even on my best day, and by this point, I was too cranky to muster anything beyond gruff politeness. The male clerk looks at me and says, “you think I’m sexy if I’m reading?”. I laughed uncomfortably–more like grunted, really–and paid for my water. As I left, he told me “You keep on readin’, you hear?”

* * *

current book: nearly done with The Antelope Wife, although I didn’t get any further into it this evening. I took the 6 bus home, which was standing room only and stank of b.o. and cheap beer.

current music: I meant to write a follow-up post to the beginnings of my justification for downloading Britney Spears’ “Toxic,” but the energy I might have used was instead expended here and here. My next musical project will be to make John C. a mix CD of country music. I’ve been song-bombing myself all day as I think of all the possibilities: George Strait, of course, probably my old favorite, “Ocean Front Property,” but also some really cheesy mid-80s stuff like the Mandrell Forester Sisters’ “I Fell in Love Again Last Night,” the Dan Seals/Marie Osmond duet “Meet Me in Montana,” and Kathy Mattea’s “Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses.” And there’ll be plenty of mid-90s classics from Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Reba McEntire, and Patty Loveless. Just blame it on your lyin’, cheatin’, cold, dead-beatin’, two-timin’, double-dealin’, mean, mistreatin’, lovin’ heart.

current socks: a flattened map with storm clouds and weather patterns, with the words “wet and windy” across the ankle. I got these years ago from the Sock Shop in London and guard them carefully, only wearing them on days that are indeed wet and windy. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever wear a hole in them.

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Finished off the “dinner special” and the BBQ Protein Tidbits for lunch today and sunk into a food coma that lasted a good two hours (perhaps much longer considering I only had room for a bowl of cereal for dinner). I thought vegan food was supposed to be healthy? Light, even? The tidbits (yes, that’s really what they’re called, and no, I’m not sure what they’re made of, although I’d guess seitan) get a little soggy overnight, but it hardly matters since they are but a vehicle for the barbeque sauce.

Protein-free tidbits:

- the exploding noises made by my toilet seem to have been related to the new sidewalk out front (which presumably involved shutting off the water at some point), and have since disappeared.

- in the past few days, Monte has not only vomited green feathers, but also retrieved, chewed, and puked up the rubber straps of my swim goggles. When I say “retrieved,” I mean that I stowed the goggles deep inside my gym bag and then on the top shelf of my closet, and he fucking found them and brought them to me. In bed. Twice. Also, Clarabelle chewed up a cat toy and consequently shat out pink ribbon. Cats, or small, furry goats? You decide.

- I’ve never been a multi-book kinda girl; I can only ever read one at a time. I never really understand the people who claim to have two (or more!) books going on at once. If I’m engrossed in a book, those pages are my alternate reality for as long as the author keeps my interest. They’re real places, these book-worlds, and I can’t easily move from one to another. But I picked up a copy of Blue Baillett’s The Wright 3 the other day and started thumbing through the first pages. (I read her excellent Chasing Vermeer a few years ago; she writes something like mysteries for the 9-12 set. They’re more puzzle or riddle than mystery, light-hearted and fun stories with a twist, and they take place in Hyde Park.) I’ve been reading Louise Erdrich’s The Antelope Wife during my 40 minutes of Metra each day; the book opens with legendary Ojibwa twins beading furiously, one trying to outdo the other, one light, one dark. The magical realism sparkles as brightly and sinks as deep and dark as the twins’ beadwork. That is to say, I’m hooked; I’m beaded into the story just like all the other characters.

So it’s unusual that instead of setting The Wright 3 aside for later, I’ve begun reading it at night. But there’s no experience quite like reading a book that takes place in a neighborhood you know well. The book-landscape is richer and deeper when you can close the book but stay–literally–right there. The Wright 3 is a kids’ book–a fun read, nothing like the all-embracing pull of The Antelope Wife. But, like the fictional schoolchildren Calder, Petra, and Tommy, I walk down 57th Street and look in the giveaway box outside Powell’s, breathe in the yeasty smell outside Medici Bakery, try to make sense of the layers of the Robie House. In a way, I’m more engrossed in the book than I might normally have been, because I’m looking over the characters’ shoulders. I even caught myself on my walk home from the Metra this afternoon peering in the gates of the Robie House and wondering where Tommy had been poking around. But that also makes it easier to have two books open simultaneously; I guess I can read them both at once because the landscape of The Wright 3 is my everyday landscape.

- enough babble. more sleep.

* * *

current book: see above

current music: Os Mutantes

current socks: …

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The first lovely paragraph that sets The Body Artist in motion:

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

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Today was one of those days, a Lousy Wednesday indeed. It was the kind of day in which there’s bad news waiting in your e-mail inbox, the train is too crowded, the woman next to you is drowning in drugstore perfume, your expensive walking shoes start to rub against your heel. I tried working out this evening thinking that the endorphins might kick in and improve my mood, but I succeeded only in tripping on the treadmill no less than four times (shaddup, Miles: it was the treadmill, not me). It was the kind of day that only one thing could make better: when I got home, I had to look up and read the entire text of Judith Viorst’s brilliant Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Viorst doesn’t gloss over Alexander’s day. It plain sucks: his brothers get all the cereal box prizes, his teacher favors his friend’s drawing over his, he goes to the dentist, who discovers a cavity, and he has to eat lima beans, for fuck’s sake. The best part is that the moral of the story is that yeah, sometimes days do suck. Viorst doesn’t try to explain away Alexander’s bad day with his youth, and she doesn’t try to banish the rain cloud that follows him around. The day is just allowed to suck. And when Alexander proposes to run away from his bad day by moving to Australia, where things might be so upside down that his bad day could turn to a good one, he’s informed, in somewhat more kid-friendly language, that people have shitty days everywhere. Even in Australia.

* * *

current book: will probably finish I Sailed with Magellan tomorrow, which means a lunchtime run to McBookstore. Magellan, while not pornographic, does have some explicit sex scenes–no big deal except that I do all my reading these days on a crowded Metra train, and I always imagine that the people sitting next to me are aghast and ready to start up a Tipper Gore-style campaign to prevent the reading of sex scenes in public places.

current music: I did a mini music festival recap today in my hole at work: The Shins, Calexico, Sleater-Kinney, Silver Jews, plus a little Neko Case for good measure. Also, I’m working on a blog post that justifies my recent download of Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” Seriously.

current socks: I wore my Grumpy Bear socks today. I’m not wallowing, I’m simply surrending to the suckiness of my day rather than trying to run away from it.

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He writes about children’s books and uses the word “fucking” in his blog. Oh, and he scoffs at celebrity-written kids’ books.

My hero.

* * *

current book: nearly done with I Sailed with Magellan and ready for something new. I’ve gotten a handful of recommendations recently; it looks like either Don DeLillo’s The Body Artist or Michele Houellebecq’s The Elementary Particles is up next. Or perhaps I’ll pick up some JM Coetzee, whose writing is nearly always described as “spare,” for an antidote to Dybek’s rich descriptions. Disgrace was the last leisure reading I did before grad school (and considering one of the themes is rape, it wasn’t that leisurely), but Coetzee’s The Life and Times of Michael K has also been recommended.

current music: Sleater-Kinney’s “Modern Girl.” “My baby loves me / I’m so hungry / hunger makes me a modern girl.”

current socks: boring thorlo gym socks. There are novelty gym socks out there, but not in the brand I like. Sucks to be picky.

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