The Rise, The Fall and the Rise - Brix Smith-Start (2016)

I started listening to Turned Out a Punk, Damien Abraham's podcast, sometime this fall.  An entire post should be written about the podcast but suffice to say, Brix Smith was one of the first guests that I wanted to hear.  Her episode probably made me want to read this book.  I'm very glad that I did.  While it is not a perfect book and will not make the Best Books list, parts of it are so incredible that make it worthwhile.  I could not agree with Abraham that it was the best book I had read that year.  It was however, extremely entertaining and highly readable, at times.  As a huge fan of the Fall going back about 14 years, it was a totally amazing experience. On both the podcast, and in this book, Brix references being classmates with Donna Tartt and Bret Easton Ellis at Bennington College in the early 80's.  She does not aim for the heights of The Goldfinch, but sometimes lapses into Ellis-styled prose.  That is, her life could be one of his novels, particularly with the ending in the fashion industry.  What she ends up doing is completely her own.  It may not generally be as artful, but I personally found that I could identify with Brix very closely.  We are all Brix Smith, or Brix Smith is all of us.

I re-listened to the episode today, and forgot the two other Bennington classmates she mentioned--Jonathan Lethem and Jill Eisenstadt.  Apart from that there is not much else to mention--you can listen to the podcast yourself.  I will note that Brix has one of most unique accents I have heard--British valley girl.  She was born in L.A. and spent her childhood there, and splitting time between there and Chicago in her teen years.  She now lives in England.

The stuff about Chicago is fantastic.  On the podcast, Brix mentions that her first concert was at this outdoor venue outside of Chicago, where people have picnics, Rav-en-ia, where she saw the Carpenters and Neil Sedaka on a double bill.  Having recently seen Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons with my family at Ravinia, I found it touching.

Most notably, there is the story of where and when she met Mark E. Smith:

"On Saturday 23 April 1983, Lisa and I paid the $6 ticket price and entered through the front doors of Cabaret Metro, 3730 North Clark Street." (144)

This was within a week of my birth, not very far away, so I have one more reason to feel connected to the band and this book.

Brix writes compelling stories through the first 75% of the book.  In truth I lost some interest after she left the Fall, and it was briefly exciting when she rejoined for a couple years in the mid-90's.  The opening of the book confused me--it's an account of her grandmother seemingly losing it behind the wheel and driving from the Disneyland parking lot through the main gates and into the park before plunging into the lagoon at the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride.  I thought it was real, but Brix later reveals it to be a dream.  I wonder how many other people have that reaction.  It seems like it could have happened, because so much of the rest of her life has been crazy that anything seems possible.  Her stories about her father are both hilarious and horrifying.  There are so many things I would excerpt from this book it's not even funny.  On that note, I should perhaps vault it into Best Books territory, but I think it is instructive to compare it to the other recent female rock musician memoirs that I've read.

If pressed, I have to say that it is better than both Kim Gordon's Girl in a Band and Carrie Brownstein's Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl.  Both are excellent books.  All three of these books are fantastic and totally worth reading, but Brix's is the heaviest.  To be sure, Kim Gordon's account of the dissolution of her relationship with her husband and bandmate, Thurston Moore, is the most powerful piece of writing in the bunch.  This is not to say that Carrie Brownstein's account of the dissolution of her romantic relationship with bandmate Corin Tucker is weak.  In fact, Brix's account of the dissolution of her relationship with husband and bandmate, Mark E. Smith, is the least evocative, in part due to the inscrutability of the man it involves.  Now I love Mark E. Smith but this book definitely sheds some light on him in an unflattering fashion.  It feels fair, though, because there are also moments of extreme vulnerability, humanity, and cuteness.

There are some parts of this book that are tough to read.  Yet even during the most atrocious moment, Brix offers some levity and resists victimization.  As I said, there are many quotable excerpts in this book, so I have to include one about Mark E. Smith that almost made me want to start crying:

"One night, a few months later, there was a knock at the front door of my apartment.  I opened the door to find Mark E. Smith standing there.  He was drunk and held a half-empty bottle of whiskey.  He begged me to let him in, and was in a state.  He told me he had made a mistake leaving me.  I let him in and tried to calm him down.  He asked if he could sleep over.  He was emotional.  I was torn.  Part of me was happy he'd come to his senses and realised what he'd lost in leaving me.  The other part of me was cold and shut down.  After having experienced the attentions and kindness of other men, I was no longer attracted to him.
But still, I felt connected to him.  That would never go away.  He had been my soulmate.  The songs we wrote together would forever be a testament to that.  I allowed him to sleep over, in my bed.  I made it patently clear he was not to touch me.  As he lay next to me, I felt sad.  The next morning, it would be years before I ever saw him again." (267-268)

The stories of the songs were surprising.  It always seems like the Fall are singing about conspiracies or manifestos but in truth are just slices of life.  For example, Brix writes about her sleeping problems and reliance on pills in "US 80s-90s":

"My mother's pills came in the prescription bottle with her name on it.  When we landed in Boston, immigration singled us out to be searched --this happened often, being in a rock group; when we came through carrying guitars and music gear we set off internal klaxons inside officials' heads; we practically had stickers on our foreheads saying 'Search me' -- and the customs officials were aggressively questioning us about the prescription pills not in our name.  This experience led us to write our version of a hip-hop track, 'US 80s-90s': 'Had a run-in with Boston immigration/to my name they had an aversion/Nervous droplets due to sleeping tablets....'  In the airport the signs would read, 'Welcome to the United States of America', but we would always get tormented by security and feel like we were entering a police state.  In the song Mark proclaims, 'I am the original white (big shot) rapper', and it's not hyperbole." (222)

She writes often about "Hotel Bloedel" and "LA."  She seems to consider these her best songs.  She wrote a lot of great songs with the band and I think most people consider the "Brix era" to be the second-greatest period in the Fall's catalog (behind the Hex Enduction Hour era).  Certainly she brought the band in a more accessible direction.  Other noteworthy song inspirations include "Carry Bag Man" (about how Mark E. Smith likes to carry around his stuff in plastic bags).  Actually, her causal dismissal of The Frenz Experiment (the last album she would record before re-joining the band as his ex-wife) is worth capture:

"'Carry Bag Man' is fine, and chugs along, but is a phoned-in effort from Mark, a song about how he likes to carry plastic bags.  'Get a Hotel' is just annoying.  'The Steak Place' is boring and conjures images of gross food, the kind of restaurant that might have photos of the food on their menu.  The most annoying song I ever had to play on was 'Oswald Defence Lawyer.'  I think it was the worst song we'd done since I'd joined the band.  It was interminable, and when we played it live I watched the audience switch off.  It makes me cringe today, just thinking about it.  I was expected to really belt it out, but it just sounds irritating and grating: 'Oswald Defense Lawyer embraces the scruffed corpse of Mark Twain.'  It was cool to name-check Twain, though." (238-239)

Brix writes a fair amount about her post-Fall band, Adult Net, and I was dismayed not to be able to find anything on Spotify or Amazon Music.  I would definitely have listened to The Honey Tangle if I could.  Maybe Brix realizes that streaming services will net her approximately zero and that her fans will seek out old copies of the album.  Or likely it's the record label's fault.

I don't want to give away too many details about the book but can say briefly that Brix's parents divorced when she was young and her mother moved to Chicago and she moved around in fairly fancy places with her father in L.A.  There is more than a fair share of celebrity name-dropping in this book.  It's not always totally necessary, but if I was writing my memoir, I would totally do the same thing.  It's the tangents that usually end up being memorable, such as the story of her professional soccer player friend who soils himself on the field and fakes an injury, or the friend at her bachelorette party with a crazy party trick. 

She goes back from her father in L.A. to her mother in Chicago multiple times through her teen years.  She does not have kind things to say about Chicago, but her account of working at Marshall Field's in the Loop was especially charming (sometimes I like to reflect on the significance of being in the same place as another person in recorded history).  She meets Mark E. Smith at Smart Bar after seeing the Fall in concert at the Metro.  What happens is the definition of a whirlwind romance and is completely insane and showcases the true spontaneity of Brix.  She quickly decides to move to England, move in with Mark, and get married.  She becomes a member of the Fall and stays with them for another four years.  This will be the highlight for the majority of readers.  However, Brix's life outside the Fall is arguably more interesting.  For example, her section about being an aspiring-actress-waitress in L.A after being left by Mark and effectively kicked out of the band is especially compelling.  She meets Nigel, a classical violinist, who is apparently quite a sensation, and is led into a different world, seemingly a little more refined but no less debaucherous.  In fact, I'm sorry, but I have to give a snippet of her encounter with Courtney Love, who invites her to audition for Hole:

"....But as I went to sleep, I had a sixth sense that something was wrong.  A bad feeling.  Something was burning.  I got up, out of bed and rushed to Courtney's room and pushed open the door to the master bedroom.  In her room, she had a selection of candles and incense burning.  Two sticks of incense had fallen over and caught fire.  The carpet was aflame and I caught it just in time.  Had I been five minutes later I dread to think what would have happened.  I put out the fire by smothering it with a blanket and stamping on it.  Courtney was in bed, slumped over her computer.  I fleetingly clocked that she had been mid-conversation with Billy Corgan, of The Smashing Pumpkins.
She said, 'Get into bed, sleep on Kurt's side.'  So I did.  It was really weird, but I felt honoured to be asked to sleep there, in her bed, on his side.  Courtney was warm and kind.  I feel she's often misunderstood.  She is a complex person, as we all are.  At times she has been her own worst enemy, but when you get down to it there is kindness and warmth to her, that is not often talked about." (362)

She then proceeds to talk about how Courtney turned her onto Rohypnol, in one of the more outrageous habits detailed in the book.  Later on, she rejoins the Fall briefly, and then meets her current husband, who then opens a fashion store with her in London.  She also co-stars briefly in a reality series, Gok's Fashion Fix, which sounds like it would be amazing to see.  She has an amazing kitchen and is in love with her pugs.

That is pretty much the whole story, but Brix's mysticism is also worth noting.  She seems to have some sort of otherworldly presence.  One could easily write off her ramblings as hippie-ish, vaguely drugged out, but the realities she has known are so insane that I am inclined to believe her if she says she believes in ghosts.  The precognitive powers of Mark E. Smith are also referenced poignantly, in a story I had read before, about the origins of the song, "Disney's Dream Debased."  The story is that she had taken Mark E. Smith with her to Disneyland and they got in line for the Matterhorn and while waiting he said he didn't like the ride, that it was evil, and that he didn't want to go on it.  They rode it anyways and left.  A few minutes later, there was a commotion in the area, and Disneyland employees came out from hidden elevators and Disney characters tried to distract parkgoers' attention from the Matterhorn.  It came out that a woman was killed when she fell out of her car at the unloading zone onto the track, and the next car could not be stopped from dismembering her.  It's a horrifying story and it would be interesting to know what became of the incident legally, whether Disney has publicly acknowledged that it occurred.

There is another truly insane story about Disneyworld (Brix always goes to Disneyland, but goes to Disneyworld for the first time in her late 20's or early 30's) and how Mickey Mouse may or may not be trying to ask her on a date or hook up with her.  This story appears to be in there solely to detail the breakdown of Brix's mind at the time (it is a weirdly hallucinogenic chapter), but she later brings it full circle when she becomes one of the very few to get Mickey Mouse to appear at an event for her fashion store.  Her comment on the usual gender of the person wearing the Mickey Mouse costume is poignant. 

I could go on a lot longer and pick out more passages, but I think I've said pretty much everything I wanted to say about this.  It's a great book, but it occasionally feels like Brix is going through the motions, telling the story because she has to and not necessarily because she wants to.  The grammar is correct and proper, but the writing is not especially complex and definitely devolves into purple prose at times.  However, I would want any friend of mine to read it, regardless of whether they liked the Fall or not.  I think it would make a great movie--"Scenes from Brix" or something, like Moonlight and three different periods in her life.  Not everyone wants to sell the movie rights to their life, but really, you would do it if you could, wouldn't you?

Chicago Marathon - October 8, 2017

I ran the Chicago Marathon again because of my sister. This time, instead of teaming up with my younger brother to challenge me, she picked her wife, my sister-in-law.  My brother had no interest in doing it again.  The lottery drawing seemed like it was much earlier this year.  They both got in; I didn't. And I wrestled for about two months with whether or not to do it, coupled with a job change that dramatically impacted the decision.  I don't want to get into that here.  Suffice to say, I made training more of a priority than my boss thought it should be.

And yet I trained far less this year.  My total mileage was down overall.  Perhaps I thought I was "over-training" in 2015, but I have to believe that losing weight plays a factor.  I lost about 20 pounds during the course of training in 2015, got down to about 140.  This year, I lost about 10-15 pounds, and doubt I even got down to 150, more like 155.  So carrying 10-15 extra pounds of weight has to be a factor.

And the other factor was the night before the race.  I couldn't sleep.  I took the natural sleep aid included as part of the swag bag from the Expo, and even after I had trouble passing out, I didn't take an Ambien.  I don't think I took Ambien in 2015.  I've been trying to wean myself off it, but certain times I just know I will have trouble sleeping and I take it, and this should have been one of those times.  I slept about an hour, maybe 90 minutes, from 1:30 to 3:00.  Then I couldn't fall back asleep after going to the bathroom and laid awake, anxiously hoping up to the very end to get just 15 minutes of semi-consciousness.  But the alarm went off at 5 AM, and I cursed myself mercilessly and began to get ready.  

I also wanted to make a total side-note here and talk about how I make excuses.  And how it's bullshit when people say, "Excuses, excuses," or "stop making excuses."  No, fuck you.  I will make my fucking excuses on my blog and you can take them or leave them.  There are perfectly valid reasons for everything I have done, and yet the result of them all is complete shit.  My intentions have always been pure.  I can't truly say, "but I did everything right!"  But I've dramatically lowered my expectations about the sort of future I wish to have.  Side-note over. 

So I couldn't sleep, I didn't lose as much weight, and I didn't put in as much mileage.  Also, I was on a 13-days-straight doc review project from September 18-30 in which I put in 125 hours sitting at a desk, and about 6-7 running the 606 and Lake Shore Path.  I really only tapered a week before the race in 2015.  This time it was more like three. 

These four excuses are necessary for me to maintain the illusion that I did not just run a 4:06:18 marathon rather than a 3:57:46 because I was two years older, and experiencing signs of the inevitable decay of my body in a numerically ascertainable form.

That's the first story.

***

The second story is that I ran for charity.  Because I didn't get in through the lottery, and because I can't run a 3:15 marathon (or 3:45 for women), I would have to run for charity.  I looked at the available options, decided that homelessness would be my pet issue, and selected La Casa Norte.  LCN is, in the words of our team leader (who graciously assisted in the editing of the sole e-mail blast, titled "This is a Marathon, Not a Sprint"), "an organization whose mission is to serve youth and families confronting homelessness by providing access to stable housing and delivering comprehensive support services."

I don't want to to get too deeply into the details of the fundraising experience--I want to get to the race--but suffice to say I could write a lot about it and will be happy to talk to anyone that would like more information on what it is like to run for a charity, and what my team experience was like.

The one thing that came out of the fundraising were the results of the aforementioned e-mail.  I sent out that e-mail September 27, a little less than two weeks before the race.  I had raised $500, and I needed $1,500.  I started to get worried that I wouldn't make it, and that I'd be liable for the shortfall.  But I sent it out and within 12 hours, I had close to $1,000.  I sent a targeted message to about 140 people that I had known over the years and singled them out as special in some way to me.  Only one of them wrote to ask to kindly be removed.

And several complimented me on the e-mail itself.  For me, it felt like a trademark piece, a flash of the panache with which I used to write.  One friend told me that I had a future in fundraising, and it got me thinking a little bit about starting a 501(c)(3).  We'll see how that goes.

At the moment, my fundraising total sits at $1,434.  I have until Halloween to get that last $66.  I have no problem paying it myself as I have not made a donation in my own name to LCN.  I would have to pay $195 to register.  However, I do think I should be entitled to compensation for my efforts, in whatever form that may take. 

The experience of writing thank you letters to each donor was quite special as well.  Sometimes I think I went over the line and wrote ridiculous notes, such as the one to my friend Annie, which was the latest to come.  It actually gives me a bit of anxiety, like, okay, now I've got to convince them that their donation was worth it.  It was a challenging and educational endeavor, and though I would prefer to run without the additional stress of fundraising anxiety, it has inspired me to think more broadly about charitable work.  To everyone that is reading this, and donated, thank you again for being part of this beautiful collaboration.
***
The last story is the race.  To continue from the first story, I woke at 5:00 AM.  I hit snooze and probably didn't get up until 5:20 or 5:30, and this put me into a stressful situation all morning, worrying that I would be late to my corral (F).  If I wasn't there by 7:45, I'd have to start at the back.  I ate an everything bagel with cream cheese, maybe a tiny bit of cereal, a Clif bar, and some orange juice or apple juice.  I showered and changed and grabbed my really heavy gear check bag (I put way too much in it this year) and headed to the El around 6:15 or 6:30.  As usual, the train ride had a special energy to it, with most of the other riders also running.  I got off at Jackson, and got to Grant Park, and tried to make my way to the blue gear check.  This took forever.  There were a particular hold-up (that I didn't recall in 2015) at the top of the stairs near the Art Institute.  This was standard procedure, and not necessarily an enhanced measure in light of the recent tragic events in Las Vegas, but memories of the Boston tragedy, and reports that the Vegas shooter had booked a room overlooking Grant Park during Lollapalooza in August, loomed at a distance.

Once I passed security, I walked, quickly, to my the blue gear check, which was very far from the start corral.  I put it in (and I didn't do my tag properly, but I trusted the attendant to fix it right for me), but not before I took a swig from my Nalgene to swallow an Adderrall.  I had mentioned this to my roommate the night before, and in an apparent moment of clarity, he cautioned strongly against it.  I knew it was wrong then, and I know it is now, but when the option is there for me, and I think it might make things easier for me, it is hard for me to resist.  Perhaps that can be excuse #5 and abstinence from that medication which I take most days anyways will improve future performance.  I also had a 5 hour energy drink, which I had gotten from the Expo as a free sample--I swigged that after I got to the corral.  I vaguely wanted to go to the bathroom, but the lines were too long, and it was getting late.  I got a pack of Gatorade energy gummies at a kiosk for free (which I kept in my pocket, along with a few pieces of gum).  I also got, and took, an energy gel there.  (I had also eaten an energy bar on the El ride).   

I was worried about getting to the start corral in time, but I arrived there somewhere in the 7:20's.  It felt like a long wait.  Our wave would go off at 8.  I moved around, trying to find an interesting group to be around for the actual start, sitting down at moments, stretching a little bit (I never stretch because I am too lazy, but it definitely feels good and seems to help--at least stretching the night after the marathon dramatically helped me get into work the next day).  I ended up near a team representing Brazil, because sometimes I feel more comfortable around foreigners than Americans.

The start of the race was announced, and we began moving, and I put on the start of my playlist as I crossed the starting line at roughly 8:02.  I used the same playlist I used in 2015--with a few modifications.  I could write out all the songs again and discuss the slight changes, but I'll leave that to your imagination this time.  Suffice to say, 2015's had 72 songs, and this one had 64, and it ended when I had about a mile left to go.  I had to skip ahead to hit the ending songs as I finished in 2015.  Still I think this is an improved playlist and will be happy to share with anyone that is interested.

As for the actual race, the opening minutes held the same sort of excitement and exuberance that I felt in 2015.  Truly, the opening of the Chicago Marathon is one of its greatest moments.  The mile or so spent traversing the downtown area is easily the most exhilarating part of the race.  From there, the race continues north, and even passes right by the Goethe statue!

Now I love Goethe, and I love his statue at Diversey and Canon Dr.  I would often run past it as I made my way down Diversey en route to the Lake Shore Path.  I noticed that very few people were standing there and I reflected that in the future, I would ask any friends to wait there for me to say hi, and then proceed to the finishing area, stopping perhaps somewhere else along the way.  Instead, I saw my family a little bit later.

Now because I was running for charity, my shirt said JACK.  Maybe you can see it in the horrible cell phone camera shot of a computer screen photo below of me at the finish line.

So a lot of people were shouting, "Go Jack!"  Which was nice, it was, but then when my sister shouted it, it didn't register, and somehow she got my attention.  She got two pictures of me--one where I was oblivious, and one where I realized it was her and turned back and waved:

I like the second one better.

Later, I saw my friend Chuck and his wife Anne, and their two twin boys.  I didn't know he would be there and he didn't know I would be there.  I noticed them and noticed he didn't see me and I shouted "Chuck!" and got his attention and it was kind of a hilarious and surreal moment.

Later I saw my friend Juan across from the UIC Blue Line stop.  I knew he would be somewhere, but not there, and it was immediately apparent where he was and I stopped to hug him and told him to have a good day and continued on my way.

I felt good the whole way, no real problems, up through mile 18.  And things didn't necessarily get bad there, but it was a turning point of sorts.  I would say around mile 20 and 21 is where things got bad.  You always know it's going to get bad, and I'd tell people if I could get to mile 22 before that hit, I could probably do it.

But man, was it ever bad.  Pilsen is the last great moment of the course.  The neighborhood gets into it.  It's still fun there.  But then you get to Chinatown and die.  And the rest of the course after Chinatown is just brutal.  It's right out in the sun, there is no kind of shade at all.  And this day got hot.  It got up to about 82 degrees by the time I finished around 12:08.

As for the race, I will just say that the last mile was significantly harder for me than the last mile in 2015.  When I saw the last 1000 M sign, it felt like it was going to be a piece of cake.  Then I went forever, and I was like, okay, that sign up there must be like, the last 500 M sign.  Nope. 800 M sign.  It was a very difficult ending.  I became angry at the race, like they were making me feel like I was closer to the end than I really was, that they were purposefully torturing me.

I crossed the finish line and immediately said to myself that I would never do it again.  I staggered around, drinking the first free beer, and several volunteers offered me assistance, which I declined.  I staggered over to a photo area and got this picture taken:

The next guy to get his picture taken was telling the camerawoman about how he had just gotten the exact same time as he had gotten 16 years earlier.

This is the final picture I will post.  It was taken in Chinatown.  It is my favorite picture because it looks like I am blowing kisses to the crowd.  If I ever do the Chicago Marathon again, I will promise many more kisses for the crowd:

I don't think I have much more to say about it except to say that it was a wild ride, and even though I told myself it was just stupid to run marathons and I would never willingly put myself through that specific, sharp pain upon completion again, found myself looking at the registration dates for 2018 (October 24).

One final note: I availed myself of the free medal engraving services at the Fleet Feet in Lincoln Square, and I would like to call attention to the quality of the engraving from this year, alongside the engraving in 2015:

To this I have to say, Fleet Feet, step up your medal engraving game, and Bank of America, leave three lines on the back again.

Also: Go Cubs!




       

Pissed Jeans - 4/28/17 @ Empty Bottle, Chicago, IL

I haven't been on Facebook as often over the past couple weeks, but I still managed to notice a new concert meme.  I felt like participating in that and adding Pissed Jeans to the list.  This show already famously recreated the same lineup (The Catburglars, STNNG)  from the first time they played in Chicago in 2008.  In 2008, I knew a little about the band, but I wouldn't have gone out of my way to see them.  This was not going very far out of my way, and only cost $10.  Advance tickets were sold out however, so I needed to show up at 9 PM.  I checked the set times after being admitted, probably the 25th person in line or so.  PJ did not go on until Midnight, so I had some time to kill.

I don't write reviews of every concert I see.  I felt the need to do it for Shellac because, even though it was not my first time seeing them, my appreciation for them had deepened recently.  This is also the case for PJ, but additionally in this case, I spent much more.  I spent more than necessary at Shellac because I actually had an extra ticket go to waste, because the girl I bought them from would only sell them as a pair.  It was worth it for me for $45, but perhaps I felt the need to memorialize it because of spending that extra amount.  Here, something similar has happened, as I spent about $60 on the whole experience, and felt terrible the next day (though I think the weather exacerbated my feelings)--but it's not really been about the money.  Here, it is to share all of my awkward experiences with you.  I asked a couple friends if they wanted to go with me, but they all declined or failed to respond.  I didn't know about this show until about 2 PM that day, and I got super excited.

So as mentioned above, I had some time to kill after entering at 9, and I started by having a PBR draft as it was only $3.  I drank it relatively fast and walked around the venue, sat down on the raised stage part and looked at my phone for a while, reading the latest e-mail from a pen pal.  I played the Neo Geo game for $0.25, which was fun even though it was basically like playing an arcade version of Snood.  I left, and went to a fast casual restaurant, Leghorn.  I went back in, and had another drink.  I walked over to my spot on the raised stage from before and watched the Catburglars.  They were primarily entertaining for their frontman, who was hilarious.  For some reason I feel like this was a reunion show?  They played fast, very repetitive riffs, and their singer was somewhat laconic, but then also extremely fierce at times.  For some reason he kind of reminded me of Milo Aukerman?  Anyways I think he is married and a dad now, and the most memorable moment of their set came when he apologized for making sexist and misogynistic statements in the past, and he thanked the people that called him out on it.  Everybody clapped but somebody shouted "booo" and he was like, "Who's boo-ing? Do you really want to be known as less woke than the Catburglars?" In short, they cracked me up and they were fun.

After their set, I went out and bummed a smoke off someone.  He was with his friend, the only real PJ fan in their group of 4, that had advance tickets (on his birthday), and I chatted with them briefly.  They were very nice, a few years older than me probably, but not more than 10, and I mentioned to them about seeing who I thought was Matt Korvette at their merch table and how he left shortly after I saw him, as if seeking to avoid an impending awkward conversation.

Talking about it gave me more resolve, and I saw him there again and decided to talk to him.  I told him an extremely awkward story about a previous experience I had at Empty Bottle, involving Mac Mccaughan, in his place, basically, as the object of all my awkward affection.  I really do love them both, but Mac has truly been an idol of mine for many years now.  Anyways that is what I said when I approached him.  I was like, "Oh man, I idolize you!"  He was super nice, and he was like, "Thank you."  He asked my name and we shook hands.  And I told him this awkward story and maybe I will post it below in the comments if anyone cares, because I have written about it, and his reaction was like, "Oh no, hang in there."  And then I basically apologized for telling the story, because there was really nothing relevant about it, except that it was the second artist encounter, and the first one nearly resulted in a situation oddly related to the name of the second.  As I struggled with whether to say anything else, the second band thundered onto the stage, and I told him I was excited to see them and said goodbye.

I really did not pay much attention.  I think my mind was fixated on how badly I had messed up my opportunity to talk to Matt Korvette.  So I finished a third drink, another PBR draft, and went to the ATM and paid a $2.75 surcharge basically in order to get a t-shirt.  But I only had three dollars left and wanted one more drink.  I also went out to bum another smoke.

There I met Danny, who was not actually the one to give me the smoke, but had also questioned this on-the-spot friend regarding vegetation in Chicago, specifically trees, and to name some different types of greenery, at which point "deciduous" was uttered, and an understanding was reached.  This person left though, and another (Bill) replaced him, as audience to Danny's musings, which were quite entertaining.  He recommended the City Museum in St. Louis, as I mentioned I might take a weekend trip there this summer.  Then he and Bill got going on Black Sabbath, as Bill mentioned seeing Dio at Pop's in St. Louis.  I asked them which were the best Sabbath albums and they both agreed the first one was the place to start and that I should listen to it.  They also said Master of Reality was very good, and then there were 2 later albums--maybe Dehumanizer was one of them?  In any case I listened to these the next day I could not really get into them.  They made me paranoid and kind of scared and sad.  But I had a good time talking to Danny and then I went in and got my last drink and tried to get the best spot I could as the band would be going on in a few minutes.

Setlist as I remember it:
I'm a Man
Boring Girls
The Bar is Low
Have You Ever Been Furniture?
Ignorecam
(Won't Tell You) My Sign
Romanticize Me
Love without Emotion
Worldwide Marine Asset Financial Analyst
False Jesii, Part 2
Half Idiot
Pleasure Race
She is Science Fiction
Encore
Bathroom Laughter
Some other song where MK played guitar

There are more than a few songs I am missing, and this order is totally off.  But I know for sure they played all those songs, and it was awesome!  I had told the birthday guy outside that I would be satisfied if they played "Boring Girls" and he said they would probably play it.  It was fantastic, and here is a video of it, where you can see MK give a girl a dollar from the stage hilariously.

However, I also took video of the first song, which I was impressed to see recreated on stage.  It is worth seeing.  It was a cool way of doing what stands out as one of the more unusual tracks PJ has done.

And here is the aforementioned scorcher of an opener:

The other highlights for me were "Worldwide Marine Asset Financial Analyst," "False Jesii, Part 2," and "Bathroom Laughter."  So I haven't captured the most rousing moments of the set, but I also felt like an idiot holding my phone up.  I really hate being one of those guys.  It appears that the last two songs are over 100 megabytes and so cannot be uploaded.  The closing song, I swear during that MK said, "This song is for the Chicago Bulls," who had been eliminated by the Celtics earlier that evening.  

After the show, I bought a t-shirt and maybe I will update this one day soon and show the picture of the shirt as I did with Shellac.  Later I regretted getting this t-shirt because I do not think my mom would appreciate it if I wore it to be photographed with her.

In short, I had a wonderful time at the show--but too wonderful of a time.  I paid for it the next day with severe depression, which was probably exacerbated by watching Manchester by the Sea later that evening.  But I have zero complaints about PJ--though on the ride home, ironically, "Slow Drip" by Superchunk came on my playlist, followed by "Human Upskirt" by PJ and I reflected that it was one of the few songs, along with "Cat House," that I would have liked to hear.  But I loved the set, I wish they just got to play for 90 minutes instead of 60--but then maybe you wouldn't have the $10 cover.  Everybody was super nice and polite to me for it being such a hardcore show, except for the one guy that kind of shoved me meanly in the mosh pit.  I highly recommend you see PJ if you ever get the opportunity.  I told their drummer, after getting the t-shirt from him, that I hoped they would be back before 2020 (but if not I understood).  If they ever come back and Matt is available to talk, I will have much more interesting topics of conversation prepared.  

The Third Coast - Thomas Dyja (2013)

The One Book, One Chicago program by the Chicago Public Library has been going since 2001, but this is the first time I've ever read the book at the same time as everyone else.  These are the books that have been part of the program (asterisks if I have read it) (exclamation point if I've been meaning to read it):

To Kill a Mockingbird *
Night *
My Antonia
A Raisin in the Sun *
The Things They Carried *
The Coast of Chicago
In the Time of Butterflies
The Ox-Bow Incident
Pride and Prejudice
Ivan Denisovich
Interpreter of Maladies *
Go Tell it on the Mountain !
The Crucible 
The Long Goodbye
The Right Stuff !
The House on Mango Street
The Plan of Chicago
Brooklyn *
A Mercy
Neverwhere
The Adventures of Augie March !
Gold Boy, Emerald Girl
The Book Thief
The Warmth of Other Suns
Kavalier & Clay !
The Third Coast *

Technically I think there are 2 books per year, and next year's will be Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.  Maybe I'll check that out because I have serious concerns about my diet, but let's move on to discuss the book at hand.

First, you should know that The Third Coast is a history book.  One of the blurbs on the back compares it to E.L. Doctorow's Ragtime, and I think it's an apt comparison, though it's not fiction: what that book was to New York in the 20's, this book is to Chicago in the 40's-50's.

It's a big book at over 400 pages, but an even bigger research project, with 80 pages of notes, sources and indexing.  I probably wouldn't have read this book if it hadn't been added to the One Book, One Chicago list, or if my co-worker didn't own it, or if I hadn't seen my boss reading it.  He lent it to me when he was finished and it took me a while.  The first few pages were a bit of a slog for me, as I got used to the style of the writing, and the subject matter of the book.  But after about 100 pages the rest went relatively quickly.

To give a brief overview, this book is primarily about architecture, music, theater, literature, painting, photography, politics, television, industry, and education.  It features a truly dizzying cast of characters, and I will attempt to name the major ones: Louis Sullivan, Mies van der Rohe, Laszlo Moholy-Nagy, Frank Lloyd Wright, Walter Gropius, the Chess Brothers, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Mahalia Jackson, Chuck Berry, Reverend C.L. Franklin (and his daughter Aretha), Sun Ra, David Shepherd, Mike Nichols, Elaine May, Ed Asner, Nelson Algren, Simone de Beauvoir, Gwendolyn Brooks, Richard Wright, Lorraine Hansberry, Katherine Kuh, Henry Darger, Harry Callahan, Elizabeth Wood, Adlai Stevenson, Richard J. Daley, Studs Terkel, Burr Tillstrom, Dave Garroway, Ray Kroc, Hugh Hefner and Robert Maynard Hutchins.  I'm probably forgetting a few, and also elevating the presence of a few.  The major characters are Mies, Algren and Daley.                    

Before we go any further, it is worth comparing this novel to Boss: Richard J. Daley of Chicago, because there is a certain degree of overlap.  Certainly, this is a much better book, but that is not to Royko's discredit.  Royko worked full-time as a journalist.  The Third Coast is a long term passion project that fortunately appears to have paid off.  What's striking is that the tone is not altogether different between the two.  Royko comes off more volatile, but that is probably just a component of his subject matter.  Whenever Dyja writes about Daley, the tone is practically identical.  For this reason, most of the material about Daley did not affect me as deeply, most likely because Boss was a more thorough treatment.  Of course, anybody who has not read about Daley before will likely be at least a little bit shocked and awed.  It's worth noting that both books contain a paragraph about the air raid sirens used to signal the Chicago White Sox pennant victory.  However, Boss does not mention the disastrous Pan American Games that Chicago hosted in the late 50's, which is easily one of the most hilarious paragraphs in the The Third Coast and the one I most regret not excerpting.  Perhaps that was one of the minor reasons Chicago did not get the Olympics in 2016.  I shouldn't say it's hilarious because there is death in it, but there is also a Lake Forest reference (and I enjoyed all the references to the towns of my childhood, as much as they were always associated with the term "white flight").

For all the subjects that The Third Coast covers, architecture is its focal point.  Near the end Dyja states that, "the city now has the greatest collection of modern architecture in the world." (343) But he also mourns the many buildings that have been lost, including, most poignantly at the very end, the Garrick Theater.  I have never been on the architectural boat tour of Chicago, but have always meant to go on it.  One of the more pleasurable experiences of reading this book was looking up the buildings mentioned on Google or Wikipedia and seeing whether I recognized them.  Most of the time, I did.  I had to look up the Robie House (one of Frank Lloyd Wright's most famous buildings, along with Fallingwater and, of course, the Guggenheim) before I could remember how it looked.  Mies van der Rohe basically made the Illinois Institute of Technology what it is today, and if I had to define the style of his buildings it would be "rectangular glass."

Frank Lloyd Wright mostly appears as a kindly father figure, except in a few angry moments.  By the end of the book he is into his 90's, and I did not know he lived so long.  At that advanced age, he apparently presented this, which I had never heard about before:

"The building mania continued.  Nineteen fifty-six was on its way to being the busiest year of building ever in Chicago history, bigger than the years after the Fire.  New construction would top a billion dollars.  'It would be an error to say everybody was putting up a building in the Chicago area,' said one builder.  'A few were not.  They were still working on the plans.' That included Frank Lloyd Wright.  With Sullivan's hundredth birthday noted--barely--that September with a small exhibition at the Art Institute, Wright weighed in with plans for a mile-high skyscraper, The Illinois.  Mayor Daley, a lover of big plans, proclaimed October 17 'Frank Lloyd Wright Day' and at a benefit dinner in his honor at the Hotel Sherman, Wright unveiled a twenty-foot-high rendering of the 5,680 foot, 528-story topping out amid passing clouds, angular, inspiring, and gradually more ominous the higher up you went.  The Illinois Wright said, would be 'a finger in the right direction of humanity,' though which finger he was showing humanity no one could tell, since he'd done nothing but slam Mies and every modern skyscraper.  'I detest seeing the boys fooling around and making their buildings look like boxes,' he told reporter.  Calling Daley 'the only Chicago mayor since 1893 who had boldly enlisted himself on the side of culture,' Wright went on to lambast the sorry state of education, architecture, and car making until it sank in that The Illinois was little more than a publicity stunt." (338)

I think that would be a pretty cool thing to have in a museum, the twenty foot rendering.  And generally, this is what makes The Third Coast great--all of these little events that most people probably do not know about, little significant moments in history that happened here.  You could pick out any number of subjects from the book and make a movie out of it.  Or you could make a musical out of it, like Ragtime, again.  Probably the most compelling story is the history of segregation in Chicago.  The book ironically boasts that it is not as badly segregated as Milwaukee or New York City, but I'm frankly surprised it's not #1.  But the history of public housing in Chicago, which could maybe have the background of these more famous architects, would likely make for a compelling film.  Dyja has given a very detailed portrait of the times in the city that is the functional equivalent of having a grandparent or other elder to pass down oral history.

While the book is great, it is not perfect.  A bunch of little gripes about it keep me from recommending it unquestionably to everyone.  Dyja kind of annoys me with his writing.  Most of the time, it's fine.  But he seems to have the habit of making personal remarks about the beauty, or lack thereof, of certain women in the book.  I'm not gonna go through it and count how many times he does this, but referring to a woman as "almost attractive" or some variant, seems to occur with ironic frequency.  And he has this habit of becoming extremely casual with his language out of nowhere, as if to personify the person that he is writing about--usually when writing about black musicians, dropping "motherfucker" kind of out of nowhere.  And then he's just kind of clueless about how needlessly-linguistically-convoluted some of his stories become.  This description, of the 1956 Democratic Vice Presidential candidate, confused me so badly that I had to re-read it several times, and still don't totally get what he means:

"Stevenson gave over the selection of his running mate to the floor, leading Mayor Daley to nominate the junior senator from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy, much to the horror of his father, Joseph Kennedy, who through business, politics, and crime was drawing his clan closer to Daley's Machine.  In the end, JFK and Peter Lawford would console themselves at Chez Paree while Kefauver, the man in the coonskin hat, won the chance to stand beside Adlai for a second, if possible even more eggheaded, campaign than the first.  More interested in being right than winning, it seemed, Stevenson delivered deeply considered speeches that paralyzed listeners.  Centrist to a fault last time around, he now split himself in two: on one hand advocating the establishment of the draft, limiting nuclear testing, and attaching Nixon's character (history would vindicate him there), but then going limp on civil rights.  Not only would he refuse to use federal troops to enforce Brown v. Board of Education, at one point he even suggested to a black audience that January 1, 1963, the one-hundredth anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation, should be the goal for school desegregation in America.  The Soviet Invasion of Hungary and the Suez Crisis, just weeks before the election, destroyed what little chance he might have had.  Daley led the traditional torchlight parade to the Stadium, but this time there'd be no Truman-esque magic; Ike finished with forty-three states.  Adlai once again lost Illinois." (337)

Now eventually, that paragraph begins to redeem itself, but the first few sentences are extremely confusing.  Maybe I'm just dumb, but why would Joseph Kennedy be horrified by Daley nominating his son for VP?  And it seems to be left to the floor, but what say does Daley get?  I'm probably just naive about the nomination process, but it stills seems like a ridiculously confusing to way to explain what happened in the name of literary style, if you can call it that.  Sometimes Dyja assumes the reader is with him, referring to names that he assumes a reader will remember have from a page or two before, but I often lost track of who he was talking about.  So yes, I would say the writing is clunky at times, but Dyja redeems himself with the sheer force of his research.

That is pretty much everything I wanted to say about the book, but a word should be said about Nelson Algren.  Now, I have never read him, but after reading this, I will seek him out.  It seems like The Man with the Golden Arm is his masterpiece, so perhaps I will start there.  Dyja seems to write about Algren with increased gusto, as if he himself is trying to occupy the space that Algren once held as the "literary heavyweight champion" of Chicago.  This is generally a good thing, and Algren's love affair with Simone de Beauvoir is one of the highlights of the book.  The close research of their relationship is apparent:

"In May of 1949 he flew to New York to check in with Doubleday, continued on by boat to Le Havre, and then took a train to Paris, where he arrived weighed down with gifts of food, clothes, and liquor.  Simone installed him in her fifth-floor apartment on the Left Bank at 11 rue de la Bucherie, down the street and through Viviani Square from Shakespeare and Company, a view of Notre-Dame out the window.  No other man would ever sleep here, she promised.  Algren loved Paris.  Much to his surprise, he actually got along with Sartre, thought he thought the philosopher looked like a shoe salesman, and even Simone poked fun now--Sartre, she said, would fall in love with any woman who'd stick her tongue up his ass.  Evenings in Cafe de Flore, Algren drank with Albert Camus, Raymond Queneau, and Boris Vian, author of the potboiler I Spit on Your Graves, inspiration for the 1959 crime film (though Vian allegedly had a fatal heart attack at its screening; his last words--'My ass!').  Juliette Greco in a black leotard wriggled in his lap while he regaled the Family with hyped-up tales of back-alley Chicago.  A reunion with Richard Wright did not go well, though.  Algren saw his old friend now as less of an expatriate than a deserter, while Wright expected Algren to stay." (191)

The Third Coast should prove interesting to most readers, and useful for students and scholars as a gateway to deeper research on topics that have played a significant role in the city's history.  While it ends on a rather poetic note (incidentally, on Simone and Algren's enduring bond), it is also somewhat somber and ominous.  The city had its moment, Dyja seems to say, and then began its steady decline.  Today it certainly has its fair share of problems, particularly as the murder capital of the country (or the world), likely an effect of the continued segregation of the north and south sides, but many of us love it and embrace it as our home, even as we complain constantly of how miserable it can be much of the time.  It always seems to be corrupt, one way or another, but it remains one of the most intriguing areas in the country, and will continue to produce great artists and thinkers, even as many of them abandon it to settle down in one of the other two coasts...

Bossypants - Tina Fey (2011)

This book was sitting out on my back deck for about a year.  I think my roommate got it from a Goodwill for $3.00.  I was waiting for a new book to arrive from the library.  I read it during the week I was off from work.  The opening pages were hilarious.  Most of the book is very funny.  It is very self-deprecating, which makes it reassuring.

There isn't really a plot, because this is a memoir.  The best I can provide is an overview.  For the most part, the book is chronological.  It starts off with a trio of chapters called "Introduction," "Origin Story," and "Growing Up and Liking It."  The title of the third chapter is a window into the type of memoir Fey has written: this is not a memoir about deep pain and psychological torment.  However, the chapter does delve into the experience of getting her first period and defining the moment when she "knew she was a woman" and no longer a girl.

The next chapter, "All Girls Must Be Everything", is particularly affecting, as Fey points out all of the different ways that women's bodies may be deemed imperfect, and how ideal conceptions of female beauty changed in the 90's, particularly when "JLo turned it butt-style." (22)

The following chapter, "Delaware County Summer Showtime!", is much longer and details her time over two summers at the end of high school working for a youth theater program  in her hometown.  This seems to be where she got her real start on her career path, but it is more about how she came to befriend and accept many different types of people (i.e. gays and lesbians) beyond their role as "props" in her life where she preferred them to stay in the "half closet."

The next chapter is about her father, and basically about how he made her fear for her life, and how she didn't really get into trouble as a result.  There is a very funny anecdote about his attempt to shampoo their carpet.

This doesn't seem like a very good review, does it?  I mean I am just kind of going chapter by chapter here (or more accurately, "essay by essay").  Overall, this is how the book feels to me: it's not something that was sitting in Fey's mind just screaming to get out.  It's something that was done because she's a celebrity, and a very intelligent one that writes very well.  It was to capitalize on her success, which arguably hit its peak in 2008 when she returned to SNL as a guest to portray Sarah Palin, all while she was working on 30 Rock, which should go down as one of the greatest sitcoms of all time.  (She is remarkably self-deprecating about its popularity, as with everything else.)  Bossypants hits its climax when she describes her life during that period.  It feels like the apex of a career.  Not to say that Fey has not done excellent things since then (Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt - which I have only seen a few episodes of - has been a modest success; though I heard Sisters was not), but she is not the type of celebrity that wants to have the spotlight all the time.  Of course people would want her and Amy Poehler (who crosses paths with Fey at both Second City and SNL) to host the Oscars, but she only wants to do it if it's fun.  She probably makes a very comfortable living and does not need to keep lining her pockets, and from what she writes in the book, it seems like she prefers a simpler life than the one in showbiz that she's been dealing with for the last 20 years or so.  She's still quite young (same age as my oldest sister) and has accomplished a lot, so it is interesting to think of what she might do next.  It doesn't seem like she will do anything unless she really wants to do it.

I first got my glasses at age 17, and around that same time, Fey began her tenure as co-host of "Weekend Update."  At the time, my dad told me that I should be successful, because I looked like Tina Fey.  Or something to similar effect.  Whatever, weird anecdote.  Only time my father told me I looked like a girl and it was a compliment.

But that is just what Fey can do--turn my father, who is not exactly always the most progressive person in the world, into a fan of her wit and perspective.  She is one of the most important entertainers over the past three decades and a great deal has to do with her intellect.  Or rather, when she deprecates herself and makes herself appear less intelligent than she really is.

One thing she does not address in Bossypants is the question that I would ask her: how much of Liz Lemon is Tina Fey?  It would appear that there is little to no difference between the two, except that Tina Fey is married and has a child.

"Climbing Old Rag Mountain" reads like a short story, and is one of the best parts of the book.  It details an adventure she had with a pseudo boyfriend of hers in college, who invited her on a date to go hiking up a mountain at night, and then also invited his roommate.  Her pithy asides are hilarious in this chapter:

"There was a kid, older than me, an architecture student who did plays in the drama department on the side.  I won't use his name real name because I think he'd find out about it and it would give him too much satisfaction.  I'll refer to him instead by how he looked at the time, which was like a handsome Robert Wuhl.  Go spend an hour trying to picture exactly what that could be and pick up the book again when you've got it.
Welcome back." (59)

"Young Men's Christian Association" is another highlight of the book (perhaps just this back-to-back section may be its strongest single part) and details Fey's time working at a YMCA in Evanston, IL when she first moves to Chicago in the early 90's.  I particularly liked how she would reward herself with Giggio's Pizza once a week in Evanston because I also would have that same pizza, but perhaps a couple years later.  More like the mid-90's.  This is the only mistake I can find in the book, though, because it is actually Gigio's, with one g.  Regardless, the anecdotes in this chapter are amongst the most affecting.  It actually reminded me a bit of the book which is the subject of our previous post.

From there she chronicles her time at Second City in "The Windy City, Full of Meat" and follows it up with the story of her honeymoon cruise with her husband which is a take off on David Foster Wallace and is another serious highlight of the book.The next few chapters are focused on beauty and body image.  To me this was kind of a retread of "All Girls Must Be Everything" and there are a few chapters in this book that definitely feel like padding.  I mean, it's consistently entertaining--Fey is a talented writer and storyteller.  But it just feels like there's a few things she knows she needs to write about, because they're such good stories, but then there's a few other chapters that feel like less "significant" humor essays.

"A Childhood Dream, Realized" is about her time starting at SNL.  This is the beginning of the run of chapters that will probably be most interesting to readers, because there are so many celebrities involved.  Fey does not drop any major bombs, though, except that Sylvester Stallone would smoke a cigar during meetings for the week he hosted, and it made him look like kind of a bad-ass.  "Peeing in Jars with Boys" continues in this vein and there are some nice behind the scenes stories from SNL.  There is a short essay tribute to Amy Poehler, and then another essay on "beauty" or what have you, about how to prepare for a photo shoot.  On a totally serious note, I think this is probably a really insightful and useful essay for those of us that manage to make it to the point of being featured in a major photo spread, or on the cover of a magazine.  Of course it's goofy and silly, but it also seems really practical.  "Dear Internet" is another short "humor essay," but it is actually probably my favorite of such in the book, because its such a perfect idea for Fey to respond to internet trolls for a few pages.

"30 Rock: An experiment to Confuse Your Grandparents" comes in at page 169, and  Fey goes on for another approximately 100 pages covering that era from 2005 to the present (2011).  It seems clear that she has more to say about 30 Rock because it really is her show in a lot of ways.  She had many collaborators on both, but 30 Rock seems like more of a major creative statement, overall, than the many brilliant moments she had on SNL.  It seems more autobiographical and compelling, though perhaps it is only because there is no "Best Of" DVD like there is for Amy Poehler.  I guess the problem is that being a host of "Weekend Update" does not make for the best "Best Of" DVD.  Of course all of her Sarah Palin appearances would be documented, and Fey describes this as probably the highlight of her career at SNL, which is really kind of like a mini post-career.

This chapter, "Sarah, Oprah, and Captain Hook, or How to Succeed by Sort of Looking Like Someone," is probably the highlight of the book as a whole, as she tells of how she was getting Oprah to appear on 30 Rock and preparing to play Sarah Palin on SNL.  It's a very long and detailed chapter, but it effectively develops a kind of "frenzied" state of storytelling.

From there the book goes onto motherhood.  The first chapter about this period is basically all about breastfeeding versus formula.  The next chapter is actually one of the more charming ones, detailing how Fey and her family travel over the Christmas holiday to see both sides of their family.  The next chapter is about raising her daughter with the use of a babysitter and how she disapproves of how short she cuts her daughter's fingernails.  There is then "The Mother's Prayer for Its Daughter," which is humorous, and "What Turning Forty Means to Me," which is three sentences long and kind of perfect.  It then ends with "What Should I Do with My Last Five Minutes," which reads a lot like its title implies.  It does however end on a touching and funny anecdote.

So overall, there is far more good than bad, and whatever criticisms I make are probably not all that valid.  Yes, it feels a tiny bit "padded" to me, but approximately 75% of this book is excellent.  Fey is a cultural icon that will be remembered for generations to come, and she has done well to leave behind a document like Bossypants.

Oh and that is a really crazy cover.  Perhaps it is worth noting that the edition I read was the hardcover without a cover jacket.

Then We Came to the End - Joshua Ferris (2007)

I first heard about Then We Came to the End when it came out back in 2007.  I was taking a writing class at the time at StoryStudio Chicago and one of my classmates mentioned it.  I remember nothing substantive about the comment, but my guess is that it had something to do with its narrative voice.  The first thing that most people hear about this book is that it is written in the first-person plural (i.e. "We" rather than "I").  The second thing most people hear about this book is that it is about life at an ad agency during a period of layoffs.  It is about office life. Because of its "experimental" narrative voice, it reminded me of Bright Lights, Big City, which was written in the second-person. Both are very good books, but I actually liked this one slightly better.  I'm flirting with whether to add it to the "best books reviewed on Flying Houses" list.

I will say this about one of the characters.  You know how sometimes, when you forget your password for something on the internet, they ask you a secret question to confirm your identity?  Sometimes that question is, "who is your favorite fictional character" and I never have a good answer.  Well, this book gave me a good answer, for once.  I mean, anybody can say Holden Caulfield, anybody can.  That's easy to guess.  But now I have a good answer: Tom Mota.  And I'm probably really screwing that up by writing about it, but so be it.  Tom Mota is a great character; he's sort of everything I wish I could be in a professional setting--but that would never be acceptable.  He's a kind of fantasy character.  Take, for example, the epic e-mails he writes addressed to everyone in their office:

"The subject line read, 'I Consign You and Your Golf Shoes to Lower Wacker Driver.' 'The tomatoes in my garden are not coming out,' he continued.  'Maybe because I only have the weekend to work the garden, or maybe because the garden keeps getting mowed over by the goddamn Hispanics who tend to the grounds of the apartment complex I've been living in since the state forced me to tell my house in Naperville and Barbara took the kids to Phoenix to live with Pilot Bob.  Do I have an actual garden?  The answer is a big fat no, because the goddamn woman in the property office won't listen to reason.  She keeps insisting that this is a rental property, not your backyard.  Flower borders, that's all we want, she says.  So the goddamn Hispanics go out and tend the marigolds along the borders.  But do you understand, I'm talking about fat, ripe, juicy, delicious red tomatoes that I want to grow with my own two hands through the bountiful mystery and generosity of nature!  That dream ended when Barb started sleeping with Pilot Bob and we gave up Naperville.  Anyway, would I like a garden?  YES.  Matter of fact I would like a farm.  But at the present moment I'm afraid all I have is apartment 4H at Bell Harbor Manor, which is neither a harbor nor a manor and contains NOT ONE SINGLE BELL.  Which one of you wizards came up with the name 'Bell Harbor Manor'?  May your clever tongues be ripped from their cushy red linings and left to dry on pikes under the native sun of the cannibal land.  Ha!  I will be called into the office for that one but I'm leaving it, because what I'm trying to get at here is that I'M NOT SURE ANY OF US KNOWS just how far we have removed ourselves not only from nature but from the natural conditions of life that have prevailed for centuries and have forced men to the extreme limits of their physical capacity in order simply to feed, clothe and otherwise provide for their families, sending them every night to a sweet, exhausted, restorative, unstirred, deserved sleep such as we will never know again..." (37-38)

That's only about half of the e-mail but I don't want to break the record for the longest excerpt on the blog.

There is no main character in this book, but a few hold center stage more often than others: Lynn Mason, Benny Shassburger, Joe Pope, Carl Garbedian, Marcia Dwyer, Karen Woo, Janine Gorjanc, Old Brizz, Jim Jackers and Chris Yop, Amber Ludwig, Larry Novotnoy, Hank Neary, and Don Blattner, apart from Tom Mota.  The plot is basically the drama of their lives.  Lynn Mason is basically the boss of all the other employees and may or may not have breast cancer.  There is an interlude in between the two "parts" of the novel ("Enter a New Century" and "Returns and Departures") called "The Thing to Do and the Place to Be" which breaks out of the first person plural voice and focuses directly on her, so she feels more significant.  Joshua Ferris, in an interview excerpted in my edition of the novel, also refers to this section as the emotional core of the novel, and the part that takes it beyond a basic farce.

This novel is very, very funny.  The words fly off the page and I was pretty much "into it" from page one.  While it was very engaging, it tended to lose me for just a little while, towards the end of the second book, where something sort of faux-dramatic happens.  That's probably the only reason I won't add it to the "best books" list--and it probably deserves it anyways.  Because I would have rolled my eyes at the faux-dramatic scene if it had just been dramatic instead.  Instead, it's sort of funny and lighthearted.

In terms of the other characters, Benny Shassburger receives a strange bequest from Old Brizz and has a crush on Marcia.  Joe Pope is effectively second-in-command and everybody resents him, except for Genevieve who is basically the most attractive person in the office.  Carl Garbedian starts acting strangely and has issues with his wife Marilynn, who is a very understanding doctor.  He starts taking medication prescribed for Janine Gorjanc, whose young daughter was abducted and strangled, who then got divorced and has a somewhat bizarre grieving ritual uncovered by Karen Woo, who is basically the biggest "gossip" in the office--though really this whole book is basically gossiping.  Jim Jackers is sort of pegged as an idiot and has a great uncle that comes up with brilliant marketing campaigns for him.  Chris Yop has a sort of ridiculous situation develop with the office chair that he has taken from another employee that was laid off.  Larry Novotnoy has an affair with Amber Ludwig and gets her pregnant and keeps hoping she'll get an abortion.  Hank Neary and Don Blattner are both writers, the former of failed novels and the latter of failed screenplays.

In short, the plot of this novel is very episodic, and exists primarily in the stories that the co-workers tell about one another.  It's almost like a collection of short stories.  It reminded me a lot of a children's book I read, Sideways Stories from Wayside School.  That was one of my favorite books ever growing up (as was its sequel, Wayside School is Falling Down), so maybe you can see why I liked this.  Those stories were a little ridiculous, but I could identify with them because I was in school too.  Now the stories in this novel are also a little ridiculous, but I could identify with them because I work in an office too.  In the interview after the book, Ferris does admit that the office of an ad agency is able to "get away" with more ridiculous behavior than would fly at say, a law firm, so maybe that accounts for some of the more unbelievable aspects.

Mainly I liked this book for the idiosyncratic reasons that I usually like books: while sexual confusion and substance abuse are not major (or even minor) themes in this novel, suicidal depression certainly comes up a few times, so I can dig it:

"We fought with depression.  One thing or another in our lives hadn't worked out, and for a long period of time we struggled to overcome it.  We took showers sitting down and couldn't get out of bed on weekends.  Finally we consulted HR about the details of seeing a specialist, and the specialist prescribed medication.  Marcia Dwyer was on Prozac.  Jim Jackers was on Zoloft and something else.  Dozens of others took pills all day long, which we struggled to identify, there were so many of them, in so many different colors and sizes....
Yet for all the depression no one ever quit.  When someone quit, we couldn't believe it.  'I'm becoming a rafting instructor on the Colorado River,' they said.  'I'm touring college towns with my garage band.' We were dumbfounded.  It was like they lived on a different planet.  Where had they found the derring-do?  What would they do about car payments?  We got together for going-away drinks on their final day and tried to hide our envy while reminding ourselves that we still had the freedom and luxury to shop indiscriminately."  (56-57)

A couple other things worth mentioning: this is a great Chicago novel.  There are not many novels about modern day Chicago.  Most are about New York.  There is a sequence in the "interlude" where Lynn Mason's sometime-boyfriend Martin blindfolds her and takes her on a Ferris Bueller-esque series of adventures around the city, quintessential Chicago things.  I found it a little bit cliche, but what can you do?  It was still a sort of sweet scene.  The book takes place in 2000 and 2001 and Potbelly gets referenced once or twice, back before it expanded around the country.  There are spot-on references to outlying suburbs like Palatine and Schaumburg and neighborhoods like Bridgeport and traffic routes like the I-88.  So basically this book might make you feel like your existence is worthy of being the stuff of literature if you live in Chicago rather than New York.

Another thing: this book was timely.  It came out in 2007, in eerie anticipation of the recession to come, what with all of the material about layoffs.  It's not about the same kind of market forces that fueled that decline, but it's a portrait of a more innocent time in our history, when "the game" didn't feel as "rigged."

This is turning out to be kind of a short review.  I thought I'd have all the time in the world to write it because I'm on my first "vacation" in nearly 10 years, but I digress.  If it's not already clear, I really, really liked this book, and I highly recommend it.  I am definitely interested in reading Ferris's follow-up novels and will hopefully get around to reviewing them in the not too distant future.

Boss: Richard J. Daley of Chicago - Mike Royko (1971)

I work at the corner of Washington and Clark, across from City Hall.  I've been working there about a year, and the year before that, I worked at the corner of Washington and LaSalle.  Both are (essentially) across the street from City Hall.  And that previous job was for the City of Chicago.  So it should come as little surprise that the history of our fair city holds more than a cursory interest to me.

I also spend my fair share of time at the Richard J. Daley Center, which I have to believe is one of the most horrible places on the face of the earth, an approximation of hell.  But it is what it is and I hope one day that I won't feel like I don't belong there every time I step up in a situation where I have to ask for something besides another continuance.  That or I hope I move onto greener pastures...

For most of my childhood, Richard M. Daley was the mayor of Chicago, and I like to think he did a decent job, except for the parking meter deal.  At this point it may be instructional to list all the mayors of Chicago since Richard J. Daley:

Richard J. Daley: 1955 - 1976
Michael A. Bilandic: 1976 - 1979
Jane Byrne: 1979-1983
Harold Washington: 1983 - 1987
Eugene Sawyer: 1987 - 1989 (I had never heard of him until I looked up this list)
Richard M. Daley: 1989 - 2011
Rahm Emanuel: 2011 - Present

So as you can see, the two Daleys ran this city for a combined 42 years out of the past 61.  Richard M's legacy is still being written, though he is no longer in the spotlight.  It seems fair to say that Rahm will not be re-elected for another term, but I'm sure he's read this book, so maybe he will.  Because Richard J. got through plenty of scandals on sometimes very similar issues and managed to keep winning.  Of course the patronage system has been disavowed, prohibited and excised, but one wonders whether that's really the case or if it's all a surface thing.  Rahm may have to work a miracle or two, but he seems just as ruthless as Richard J.  He also can be quite charming, such as the time he seemed to run up to me personally, standing on the sidelines at the 2015 Pride Parade, and shook my hand excitedly.

Ironically, I just received a second red light camera ticket today.  The first took place on June 25, 2016.  The second took place on June 29, 2016.  In the first, I was following a car that was turning right on a yellow arrow.  The yellow arrow went away, right as I was rounding the corner, and I guess I was technically turning right on a red light where there was a sign that said "no turn on red."  Isn't there usually like, a gap of a second before the opposite light turns red?  Yes, maybe in the suburbs, but not in Chicago!  There was an investigation into the length of yellow lights in the city about a year or two ago and it was found that they lasted about half as long as those in the suburbs.  In the second ticket, I actually stopped at the red light, but it was just past the white line before the crosswalk.  I'm going to contest both of these and will post in the comments the result, when I know.  I am on the hook for $200.  Clearly, the city needs this money more than me!

And that is the problem with Rahm--though I do believe that Richard M. instituted the red light cameras.  Enough about the current state of politics.  The whole point of this book is that Chicago is corrupt.  People have always known it is corrupt, but this book spells it out in extremely sarcastic detail.  It's a great read, hilarious at times and depressing at others.  I'd prefer not to focus on the most egregious violations of good faith and fair dealing, though perhaps the police scandal is worth a mention.  Instead, the story about fire chief Quinn must be relayed, for those that have not already heard it.  Basically, this book makes it seem like Chicago was run by a bunch of lunkheads, like a bush league city, and this story in particular is hilarious:

"Even a pennant won by the Chicago White Sox was grabbed by City Hall as a great civic event--but with disastrous results.  The night the Sox clinched it, Daley's fire chief, Robert Quinn, turned on the city's entire civil defense siren system to celebrate the championship.  However, he had not warned anybody that he was going to do it, so most of the city's 3,700,000 citizens thought the wailing of sirens at 11 P.M. meant they were about to go up in a nuclear cloud.  Thousands of them poured into the streets, called the police and newspapers, prayed, wept, and became hysterical.  Quinn's resignation was justifiably demanded by outraged citizens, but he is Daley's old Hamburg Club pal and was forgiven that and many future acts of inspired stupidity.  He would someday attempt to prove his firemen's fitness by sending them on a ten-mile jog down the center of the Kennedy Expressway at the peak of rush hour, causing one monumental traffic jam." (116)

The police are a major subject in this book, and sometimes, they don't behave like they're supposed to, but it doesn't seem like most people would mind.  I am thinking primarily of the casual bribes they would take for relatively minor traffic violations, to save people a trip to court.  I am sorry that I have never gotten the opportunity to cooperate in such a scheme:

"On the Southwest Side, another policeman stopped a motorist and used a different approach when the motorist didn't gift wrap his license.  He carried wooden pencils in his pocket, and he would announce: 'I have three kinds of pencils which I sell--a five-dollar pencil, a ten-dollar pencil, and a twenty-five-dollar pencil.  I think you need a ten-dollar pencil, don't you?' The pencils were seldom sold for more than twenty-five dollars, because that would have meant somebody had been run over, and fixing that required the cooperation of prosecutors and even judges and was not something that could be arranged on the scene." (109-110)

Other times, they're god-awful, and Richard J. had a scandal on his hands not unlike the one Rahm has had on his hands for more than a year now, both of which resulted in the firing of the superintendent of police.  However, Daley's involved the police engaging in burglary, rather than covering up unnecessary shootings.  He hired Orlando Wilson as the replacement, and perhaps one longs for the kind of change that he was able to make back in the day:

"Wilson took over and the transformation of the Police Department began.  But an even more amazing transformation was already underway.  Daley, who had been content to allow the Police Department to run wild for five years, had become Daley, the zealous reformer of same.  The scandal was off page one, and it was replaced by Daley vowing to whip the council into passing needed reform ordinances; Daley promising Wilson as much money as he needed for higher salaries and modern equipment; Daley going to Springfield to fight for new police legislation; Daley protecting Wilson from the reactionary political forces." (122)

The mention right there of "money" is perhaps the primary reason why that kind of change is unlikely to happen today.  For all the talk of corruption in Boss, there is scant mention of any budgetary issues.  The city's bond ratings were not barely above junk status, like they are now (or are they junk?  who knows, who cares...).

Eventually there are race riots and a contentious showdown with Martin Luther King Jr., which would probably make for a pretty good movie.  But the real climax of the book is its description of the 1968 Democratic Convention, where the police force, after Wilson retires, transforms into a kind of totalitarian mob.  Now I've only heard random things about this moment in history, but to hear Royko describe it, you'd think the world had gone mad.  There are several passages that portray the madness in brutal detail, so I will attempt to find a representative sample:

"One long-haired young man was suddenly yanked from the crowd, dragged into the plaza by several policeman, and flung into the pool.  Then they pulled him from the pool, dragged him across the plaza, and flung him against a wall.  Another man refused to lower his peace sign and was pulled from the crowd and beaten.  Another was knocked down and, while half conscious and thoroughly subdued, was sprayed in the face with Mace.
Some people got across the street and ran into restaurants, hoping to hide over a sandwich and a cup of coffee.  Policemen went in, dragged them out, and beat them.  A long-haired man who had left the rally early to browse in a nearby bookstore came out of the store without knowing what was happening.  He was struck on the head with a club." (176)

The book ends on another scandal that takes place on Daley's 68th birthday, where police raid the Black Panther headquarters and make up a story about a gun battle that was actually pretty one-sided.  Daley wins the election, again, and it ends on kind of an awkward note.  There are also amusing epigraphs to each chapter, with Daley being examined as a hostile witness in some kind of case, but we never learn what the actual case was about.  Maybe this is explained somewhere in the text, but I missed it.

In short, this book is a "classic" for this city, but few others may be interested apart from history students.  I suppose it would be quite interesting for aspiring politicians.  Many things have changed, but in a way they also stay the same.  It is not quite The Prince, but it is similar to it in spirit.  It is a hilarious and depressing book, and a fine, if troubling, portrait of a city that seems like it will always be a little bit troubling.

Shellac - 3/30/16 @ Bottom Lounge, Chicago, IL

I had been meaning to see Shellac for more than a year and a half.  They had last played Chicago in July of 2014, and had fallen off my radar, so I missed them.  They play randomly, it's not like they're announcing their tours on Pitchfork.  When I first heard about this show, it was already sold out.  Luckily I was able to get a ticket from a girl on craigslist.

Actually, it was two tickets, and I paid $45 for them.  I ended up wasting one of the tickets, and I could get into the whole situation about how I tried to give them to certain other people (it's really interesting stuff, trust me) and write myself into oblivion, but I'll just admit that I wasted one ticket.  Still, I had been toying with the idea of going to Barcelona in May to go to the Primavera Festival just to get to see them.  This was a bargain.

However, I showed up at 8:00 and had to wait 15 minutes to get inside, the line out the door.  It was raining outside.  As we got inside, I could hear the distinct sound of Shellac playing "Dude Incredible" and "You Came in Me."  At first I presumed they were just playing the latest album to psyche people up or something in the restaurant/bar area of Bottom Lounge, but when I got into the view of the doors people were entering through, into the venue space, I noticed the sound got louder, and that was actually Shellac playing.  Fuck.  They were the opening band for MONO.  When I had checked the website earlier, MONO had a huge write-up, and at the bottom of the page was a line or two about Shellac.  I thought this was their idea of a joke.  Like, yeah you don't need to know much about them.  It's fucking Shellac.  But I don't know, maybe they just wanted to get to bed early?  I certainly was worrying about being up too late, so I appreciate the sentiment if that was actually the reason they opened.  Regardless, immediately I rushed inside excitedly, and got a beer quickly at the bar ($6, not too bad, not gouging you--this is one important reason why I think Bottom Lounge is a good venue).  I moved up as far as I could--maybe I could have moved up closer but I would have needed to pretend I was getting to a friend near the front.  The picture above is a fair representation of my vantage point.I heard them play the following songs.  (I may be off on the order):

Compliant
A Minute
Squirrel Song
Surveyor (which was meant to be "All the Surveyors")
Steady as She Goes
Riding Bikes
Killers/Wingwalker
End of Radio

Just getting to see that?  Worth $45.  Especially since I feel bad about not buying Dude Incredible.  Afterwards, I hung around.  I texted a friend.  I waited for MONO to go on, because I had to watch at least one of their songs before I left.  Then out of nowhere, I saw Steve Albini walk right in front of me.  I was like holy shit, if I want to talk to him, I totally have a chance.  I saw a couple people take selfies with him.  I didn't want to annoy him.

I don't know what I would have said.  In any case, it made me think about it, and a minute later I realized there was a merchandise table, and Bob Weston was sitting there.  So I bought a t-shirt off him and remarked that I was surprised it was only $15, I'd seen a lot of bands selling t-shirts for $30.  And he was like, "Well, you're getting ripped off."  I just thanked him profusely and mentioned that I missed the last show, and he was like, "Was it that long ago?"  I asked him to please play again soon because I missed the first 15 minutes because I didn't realize they were opening.  I explained about the website and how it made me suspicious, and he seemed to laugh at that.  If I am ever able to make the musician/idol I encounter laugh, then it is a gratifying experience.

It was worth the $45, but I still wish they played more songs.  I would have liked to have heard "Watch Song," "All the Surveyors," "This is a Picture," "My Black Ass," "Dude Incredible," "Prayer to God," "Billiard Player Song," and who knows what else.   I would watch them play for 2 hours.

Most evident in their performance is Albini's increasing ability to improvise.  Clearly, the best moment of the concert was the opening of "Killers."  It seems like they will always play this combo at most shows and everyone seems to know that it is the highlight.  In short I got super excited and it was an incredible performance of "Wingwalker," though not as loud or as brutal as I was hoping.  Albini's monologue was one of the better ones I've heard, with him proclaiming that we were all brothers and sisters descended from the same great grandmother and that he loved each and everyone one us but if he was up in the sky in the plane, and he had been trained to experience pleasure when he pushed the button, and he could so easily turn us all into dust, which is the problem with the fucking plane.

For the last song, everyone seemed to get excited, but I don't really like "The End of Radio" that much.  It's super boring, in the same way as "Didn't We Deserve a Look at You...," but I would rather hear that Terraform cut early on in a concert than "End of Radio" closing it out.  Clearly, "Watch Song," is the superior closing song.  Albini was quite clever in his improvisation for this one as well, but it didn't detract from the vague boredom I felt.  You can't dance to this song.  It's basically performance art.  And there was a cheer when Albini said something about apologizing to alien civilizations in 10,000 years for the shit that got played on the radio, which was nice, but yeah, I prefer their sinewy locked-in instrumentation, mixed in with Albini improv.

During the Q&A, they were asked, "What is Shellac's least favorite Shellac song?"  They could not give any by name, but Albini remarked that a whole bunch of them were batting .180 and were about to get cut.  I hope he didn't consider "This is a Picture" in that category.  If there's one critique I can make of Shellac it's that their setlist is fairly predictable.  Don't get me wrong, I am glad that "Killers/Wingwalker" always gets played, but I would like to hear some stuff off Terraform too.

Here is the T-shirt I bought.  Can anyone tell me what it means?

I'm not sure what that logo represents.

In any case, I went home and spent $17 on a cab.  What a waste.  A very memorable evening though and I am glad to memorialize it here, since my review of Dude Incredible is turning out to be surprisingly popular.  Maybe I should just write more about music to get more activity on this site.

I think that's pretty much everything I have to say about that.