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Three Items, Not Worth the Paper They’re Printed On

Today thee different stories are on my mind, one of personal importance, one of artistic, and one of global.

First, my back and glutes are absolutely killing me today after eight hours Sunday of bailing out our basement and hauling out wet carpet. The record rainfall of Saturday raised the water level all around Chicago, and in my house, it found the seam between the old and new foundations and dribbled in like the subtle wall fountain in a classy sushi joint. It wasn’t much compared with the flooding that other neighborhoods around here suffered, which was remarkable, but still a drag. (There are times when the news will show footage of volunteers helping to sandbag when the Mississippi runs to flood stage, and the little self-deluding part of my brain says, “Yeah, I should gather the brood up in the station wagon and go help those people.” And so, my capacity for empathy fills my heart. If the pain in my back is any indication, a trip like that is never going to happen. Sorry, riverbank dwellers.)

Second, I was shocked to read of the suicide of David Foster Wallace over the weekend. I was also shocked to read that he was younger than me. I’ve only read his shorter pieces, intimidated by Infinite Jest’s length and apparent position in the modern canon. And frankly, I was professionally jealous and fearful. What if it was as good as everyone always said? How insecure would it have made a glorified gag writer like me, who still aspires to write something with at least a little intellectual heft behind it? Can professional jealousy exist beyond the grave? We’ll find out, if I ever get around to reading DFW’s opus. At least now, I still have the chance to work to overtake him, an advantage he ceded when he hanged himself. (Just being honest here. The news was sad, but since I didn’t know the guy, it was only sad-puzzling, not sad-grievous.)

And finally, the implosion of the financial services sector this weekend makes me wonder why the hell the Obama campaign doesn’t just hammer McCain on economic policies. I know the average voter doesn’t care or much understand what Wall Street does, but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel the uncertainty in the air. Saying “the fundamentals of our economy are strong,” as McCain did this morning, would look disingenuous when coming from someone already in office. To say it as the candidate for president is positively delusional. It makes him look like a shill for the White House, which his current position basically forces him to be. There’s no way to escape that he’s the continuation (at least in the short term) of current policies. He’s already said he doesn’t know anything about the economy, and as a Republican, he certainly isn’t going to push for more regulation in the financial markets. I don’t know how much about economics Obama knows either, frankly, but it’s time to knock McCain down hard. My free advice, BO.

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Psalm for the Cubs

If you missed last night’s Loveable Losers Literary Revue, well, you missed it. Missed out on a lot of fun and Cub commiseration and wonderful singing and terrific artwork. I got to see some old writer friends and meet Tim Souers of the daily sketch-blog Cubby-Blue, whom I’d only met over the internet. I also got to listen to Rick Kogan in person reading from his tavern book, an experience that’s very close to an aural 30-year single malt.

Donald Evans, empressario of said salon, is planning an anthology of some of the pieces read through the summer, plus a few by ringers like Sara Paretsky. It will be published within 6 weeks, we hope, and a portion of it will go to Cubs Care Charities. My two pieces from last night, “Three Fates and Yer Out” and “The Wrigleyville Monkey Paw,” will be included in the collection, which as a result rises from “Curiosity” to “Must Have.” I also closed out the show last night with a prayer, something with which all Cubs fans of every religious pinstripe are very familiar.

Psalm for the Cubs

Sweet Lou is my shepherd, I shall not want to root for the Sox, or tune in to the Bears, just yet.

He maketh my team lie down in front of the Reds, he leadeth me along the still bats, but that’s OK.
He restoreth the franchise, yet in the meantime leadeth me down paths of anxiety, paranoia, dispepsia, agita and dread, all for the team’s sake. For this am I ever grateful, because by this point I’m certainly used to it.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 100 years of suckitude, I will fear no team, for Lou is with me, as long as he doesn’t try and drive me all the way to Cincinnati. The rods of his batters, they comfort me, his pitching staff—ehhh, not so much.

Lou prepares a postseason banquet in the presence of mine enemies, laden with Wisconsin bratwurst and fried brain sandwiches and Philly cheesesteaks and Arizona Iced Tea. He will anoint the heads of my team with champagne, may their cups runneth over (but please let them not over-runneth second base).

Surely titles and pennants and World Series rings will follow me all the days of my life, and my team will no longer dwell in the basement of the National League forever. Right.

Feel free to pass this along to any Die-hard in the coming weeks of ups and downs, after all their nails are chewed off and before they start on the bottle.

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Come Out For a Reading Tonight

Well, THAT was a fun couple of weeks! Scraping the hard drive, reinstalling backups, getting the same errors, stumping the guy at the repair shop, scraping the hard drive again, backup, backup, backup…..

I just get the sinking feeling that payback will eventually come for all the productivity computers have given us. The amount of time saved now will be wasted either in reboots and tech support stasis, or in life spans shortened by aggravation and high blood pressure. On the plus side, I filed all my utility bills and finished the Sunday crossword. Seven times over.

So here in the Mezzanine Level (my fancy word for basement office), after weeks of hanging out on the lake in Michigan, we’re trying to get back on track with the whole big city thing. This year has been tougher than others, for some reason, prompting images of retreating to the wilds, starting a winery (and selling honey by the roadside!!) and giving the Windy City a flip of the finger. One contributing factor to this mood might have been the fact that some crackhead kicked in our back door a few weeks ago and rummaged around the place a little bit. That’s always a nice homecoming, even though my brother-in-law actually discovered the break-in. (Here’s a hint for homeowners: hide your valuables in your teenage son’s room. Most crooks won’t have the stomach to venture in.)

This mood will probably pass. These transitions happen every year, getting used to the noise and the crowds and the inches that often pass between your body and a moving SUV on the sidewalk. We’ll tough it out, I suppose, and soon I’ll get all excited about nice dinners at little out-of-the-way places and all that stuff. Or have I squeezed all the enjoyment out of this city that I can? Time will tell.

So, one thing that Chicago provides that smaller towns don’t is good reading series, in bars that serve good food. Monday night’s event might be the thing to get me in the Chicago groove again. That and beer. Lovely, lovely beer.

The Loveable Losers Literary Revue has been meeting monthly since April in this, the 100th anniversary of the Cubs’ last World Series triumph. Held in the side room of El Jardin (at Clark and Buckingham) and hosted by Donald Evans, this series has hosted many great writers expounding on the Cubs’ wretched existence in these ten decades.

On Monday, May 8, the evening’s theme will be “Curses.” I’ll be reading a new story and poem, and will be joined onstage by the Tribune’s Rick Kogan, WXRT’s Lyn Brehmer, whiz kid Stu Shea, poet Sid Yiddish, and many others. There will be songs, trivia contests, giveaways, and Ouija board readings. So saddle up the goat and head on down. It’ll be a lot of fun. For more information about the series, check out their website: http://www.lovablelosersliteraryrevue.com/home-base/

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Field Tested Books

Now that summer’s here, it’s time to think of summer reading. You can get a reading list from just about anywhere–NPR, your local paper, public library, Field & Stream, whatever. There is no shortage of suggestions. But I’m going to give you one–a source to consult, anyway.

Coudal Partners is a Chicago-based design firm that explores many different media in fun and intelligent ways. (Their site is terrific but it can be a huge time-sink, so beware–but also definitely check out the film “Regrets” by Steve Delahoyde, starring David Pasquesi. NSFW) This year, for the third time, they’ve asked a wide range of authors to submit short essays examining the personal link between a book and a place in their lives. In other words, many times the enjoyment or importance of a book relies heavily on the place or places where it was read. The writers explore why this is, and in doing so get to look back on their lives, memories, and personal development.

The result is Field-Tested Books. The essays are irresistible reading, and go down like gin fizzes on a hot day. They give you an intriguing little peep into the inner workings of writers (and readers, too, because all writers start out that way). I’ve had the pleasure of having two essays included in Field-Tested Books, one two years ago about my love for Damon Runyan. The newest essay you’ll have to read for yourself by going to the site. Take some time and browse around all the essays, and send your friends to the site. Maybe buy a copy of the book, since this is a little experiment in internet publishing, and everyone has put a lot of work into it. There’s even a complete index containing the previous two editions of FTB. And keep a pad of paper handy, because you’ll come across many books, both familiar and unknown, that you’ll absolutely have to have in your canvas bag this summer. Cheers!!

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Brain Hurt

Man, I don’t know if I was ever a facile writer, the kind that can quickly jump between different projects, genres, assignments, etc., or whether I’m just feeling old today. But after an actual day’s worth of writing and rewriting, I’m spent. I’ve got a lunch meeting tomorrow with an artist to gauge his interest in launching a six-issue comic book series. For that meeting, though, I was hoping to get him a good copy of a second draft of the script. But for the life of me, there’s something missing in the whole story. I know I can give him a taste of the world I’m creating with a script for just one issue, plus some extra writing, so I’m going to have to hide my misgivings tomorrow and sell the idea.

Actually, they aren’t misgivings. I love the story and know it will work, and have lived with the characters in the project for years. I just won’t have a perfect mystery laid out in my head to dazzle him with. And that makes me feel like a piker. Grand schemes have been agreed to, bought and sold on a lot less than I’m going to bring along, but like the little gnomic perfectionist that I am, I’m going to feel nervous because I don’t know the backstory of a secondary character or two. I gotta get over myself one of these days.

Anyway, comics. Not as easy to write the scripts as I’d thought, shifting from a completely text-based story to lively pitchers and all. That’s probably what’s hurting my head. I don’t know how much this artist would like to have spelled out for the pages–some like lots of direction, some like more freedom. I hope he’s one of the latter, b/c I welcome his ideas and a good give-and-take.

The worst part of working on this, if the whole thing sees the light of day, will be to hear my mother say 35 times, “I thought you’d all get over those comics books when you were kids.” Oh yeah, nothing like unconditional support. Nothing at all like it.

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Greetings from Chicago, Home of the Spit-Take

Today is the first day in 13 that I’ve been able to sit down in the morning in my office and write. If allergies don’t seal my eyes shut in the next 2 hours, I might manage to get a little writing done today. Then at noon, it’s time for more errands and getting ready to camp with the Boy Scouts in the rain. This is one of the big downsides to being self-employed, trying to manage your own time, all day every day. I’ve been doing it for 21 years. Sometimes I’m good at it, other times all the activities and obligations get thrown into a big bucket of slop that must be taken care of immediately. Of course, it takes energy to compartmentalize and prioritize, and sometimes it’s hard to find. (I think the first time I ever heard the word “compartmentalize”, it was being used by Bill Clinton to describe how he kept working when he was being impeached for a pugwash by a fat slag from Beverly Hills. While a regular person might feel mortified by what was going on, for Bubba apparently, it was just background noise.) For all you out there with 9-to-5 jobs, be aware that while a regular structure may at times feel constricting, it makes a lot of other things easier.

But it’s been a good fortnight, all in all. My brother and his family visited us from New Jersey, their first visit here in at least 12 years, and we got to show off the Windy City that we love so much. Hancock Building, Michigan Avenue, Frank Lloyd Wright in Oak Park, Cubs game, the museums, Millennium Park. We ran them ragged, and are paying for it now. For some reason, this was a very gastro-centric trip for my brother. He had to have a Chicago dog at just about every turn, he wanted to order in a deep-dish pizza (which is a rarity for us), and he absolutely had to hunt down an Italian Beef sandwich. He satisfied that last cholesterol-y craving at 11 in the morning on the way to the Field Museum by stopping off at Al’s #1 over in River North. I can thoroughly sympathize, because a good Italian beef is worth shaving years off your life for. (He already paid the price for it with the constant comments from us like “You’re eating again?”)

Besides showing off the city to a couple of kids from the NY suburbs, it was a good week for cousins to get together, sleep in the same room, get in fights and then forget about them–all the basics of extended family dynamics. My son and my nephew are an exceptionally well-matched pair. It’s a shame they can’t see each other more than once or twice a year. Sometimes this country is too damn big. Maybe Pennsylvania and Ohio can secede, so Chicago and NY can be a little closer.

Before the family arrived, I took a quick trip up to Calvin College in Grand Rapids, to attend a few sessions of their “Festival of Faith and Writing.” I don’t go to many writing festivals, mostly out of a stubborn conviction that I should stay chained to my desk, whether the time is productive or not, rather than spend time talking and thinking about writing. (The way I love the self-denying discipline of writing as opposed to the creative spark, I shoulda been a nun in a grade school.) I was very glad to get out there, though, if only for the chance to meet and hear from people who care passionately about writing, who love the printed word, who have something to say and want to figure out how to say it. This Bi-annual event is very worthwhile, if you ever get the chance to attend.

The main attraction for me was a speech by Michael Chabon, whose estimation in my mind skyrocketed when I read “Kavalier and Clay” and will stay high for quite some time, regardless of what he puts out. (Does that sound like faint praise? It’s not meant to. I enjoyed “Yiddish Policemen’s Union” quite a lot, too. “Summerland” and “Final Solution”? Middling.) His speech was basically the reading of a long essay, “Imaginary Homelands”, included in his new collection of essays, “Maps & Legends”. He was every bit as off-handedly charming as I thought he’d be. I even stood a long time in line for an inscription in my books, something I very rarely do. (I pressed on him a postcard for BARDBALL.COM, and he told me, “I LOVE baseball poetry.” He probably meant “good baseball poetry,” but in any case, maybe he’ll check it out sometime.)

The next morning, he had a Q&A session that was attended by a couple hundred people. His admissions about writing his sophomore novel were very enlightening, and should give hope to all writers, established or not. After the good reception of “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh,” he struggled to come up with something he was happy with. After 5.5 years and perhaps 20 drafts of the book, he still wasn’t happy, and was deathly afraid that the “sophomore jinx” was going to sink his career as it had so many others. He admitted that one of the worst things a writer goes through is the annual meeting with distant relatives at times like Thanksgiving and Passover, and being asked, “So, what are you working on?” and having to say the same thing you’d said the previous year, and the year before, and the year before that. Man, can I relate to that.

At the same time, his first marriage was collapsing. He finally abandoned the book and wrote “Wonder Boys” about a professor having a terrible time writing his second book. When describing his next book to relatives and friends, Chabon said he got sick, sympathetic smiles when he described two young cousins in NY writing comic books as WWII loomed in Europe. Chabon wondered if he was committing career suicide by writing about genre literature, the kind of writing he loved as a kid but that was pooh-poohed in every writing class and seminar in which he dared to bring it up. His idiosyncratic choices were validated when “Kavalier & Clay” won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. He says he now has the conviction to follow every “bad idea for a book” he has. These types of confessions, from a writer with immensely more talent than me, are like a tonic with a shot of Jameson’s. All writers (at least the good ones) face the roadblocks of doubt and effort and preconceived notions of what is expected of him/her. The only weapons we have against it are conviction and honesty with ourselves. It helps to have talent, too, and a stubborn streak that keeps telling you that your ridiculous idea just might be the best book you’ve ever done.

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Hungerdungers Hideaway

Back home again after a little weekend away with my writing homies, the Hungerdungers. Middle of January, everything kind of slow at home and school—the perfect chance to retreat to my place in Michigan and indulge in the printed word. Five of us went up there on Friday, compared notes on fine scotches Friday night, ate some good Mexican food, woke up Saturday and…..

Worked. Yes, worked. Typed, transcribed, napped, typed some more. Everyone found their own little corner of the house and tinkered and toiled like happy elves. I was so impressed by the industry and efforts by my four other ‘Dungers that I even got in on the act. Being between books right now, and lacking any deadline pressure, I’ve been letting my concentration slip terribly lately. Just because I don’t have a firm idea of what my next book is going to be doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be putting words in sequence and fumbling through the fog. Yet I’ve been guilty of that, guilty, guilty. But through the example of my composing compadres, I began mapping the outlines of a couple of fictions I’ve had in my head. Shocking but true!

The rest of the time was spent sampling booze and duck liver, arguing about pop music, trying to watch anything of the Green Bay-Seattle game (snow in Lambeau + snow on the little Sylvania tv = lots of room for the imagination) , enjoying the famous Butler Hotel’s famous Butler Burger (a huge cheeseburger with a slice of ham on top), Rummikub, and lotsa laughs.

We all agreed that the secret of being productive was not the setting, or the comfort of the chairs (which was nonexistent), or the quality of the coffee (although it was superb), or the lack of interruptions from family and work. The secret of being productive was that we had no Internet connection. Without the chance to read 14 different newspapers, or check our current Amazon listing, or videos of cats defecating into the toilet, we actually got a lot done. Oh, curse this Internet contraption! That’s what’s keeping me from my Pulitzer and Nobel! If only the damn thing had an “Off” switch, how much better off I’d be!

Imagine that. A world without an Internet. Seems like the stuff of science fiction.

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A Very Charitable “Recut” Review

Just in time for Christmas gift-buying comes a review of Recut Madness, from the Christian Century. Full disclosure: the reviewer, Lou Carlozo, is a good friend of mine, but that won’t stop me from relaying his review here. I mean, if you can’t trust your friends, whom can you trust? Money quote:

Throughout the book, Garner maintains a lively bounce spiced by sharp one-liners and a focus that stays fixed on the overarching theme. At a time when political peace talks look about as likely as getting a duck elected president, Recut Madness at least allows donkeys and elephants to laugh loud and hard together—or, if they so choose, separately.

And I mean money quote in the most literal of ways, of course. Get out there and buy the book, people!

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Joe Torre Haiku Contest

Since BARDBALL.COM isn’t structured to give announcements like this, I’ll do it here: A reader has alerted me to a contest by the New York Times to write a haiku about Joe Torre’s exit as manager of the Yankees. Here’s my favorite so far:

Patience rewarded:
Boss takes back ultimatum
Joe says “Go to hell.”

First the Cubs and their limerick contest, now a Joe Torre haiku-a-rama. It looks to me as if baseball poetry is a-sweepin’ the nation. Did it all start slowly, when Bart Giamatti was commissioner? Or are the station breaks between innings getting so long that people are taking their pads to the ballpark and tickling their muses?

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Poetry Grand Slam: Wait til Next Year

The Bardball.com season came to an end last night in an entirely predictable fashion, as Poetry Slam poobah Marc Smith used his commissioner’s powers to steal victory (and pork chops) from the jaws of defeat.

Our team was definitely the underdogs, as we took the stage in the smoky confines of the Green Mill Lounge. The Bardball Irregulars acquitted themselves mightily and almost pulled off the upset. Stu Shea delivered a fresh and powerful ode to the blue-balled Cub season and how it reflects the local civic character, and a moving rendition of “For Rod Beck”. Charles “Sid Yiddish” “Double Duty” Bernstein came through as MVP on the team with strong readings of “Seventh Inning Stench”, “Caught Him Looking” and “Mr. Cub’s Autograph”. Sid earned the nickname “Double Duty” for his amazing throat-singing of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” during our seventh inning stretch. Hey, you don’t see Carlos Zambrano running up to the broadcast booth to do that, do ya?

My game started out slowly. Slam poetry, with its jazzy rhythms and sleeve-worn emotions, is obviously not my regular style, but I’m not looking for excuses. The reason for my poor scoring was obvious: unbeknownst to anyone, Smith had appointed a YANKEE FAN as one of the three slam judges. I went up blindly confident and performed “The Silver Lining, or At Least the Yankees Lost.” The entire Chicago crowd was behind me on this one, chanting the chorus of the final line, and yet this self-hating Gothamite judged that I had “popped up” on my first try. (Apropros of nothing, she also complained she couldn’t find a decent 24-hour deli in this town, and that Midwesterners talk so slowly it’d drive ya nuts.) On my next at bat, I performed ““On Being AJ Pierzynski,” but because the poem didn’t mention Jorge Posada, the judge again ruled me a pop out. I redeemed myself slightly with “On the Inaugural Season of the Israel Baseball League” and knocked it for a homer. Now, had mercurial Marc Smith changed his scoring rules BEFORE my last at bat instead of after, the Bardball Irregulars would be enjoying a victory parade right down Dearborn Street this lovely morning, swigging champagne from silver cups. But it wasn’t meant to be.

With the score tied, we went into extra innings and sent Sid up again. But we gave him an unfamiliar poem to bat with, and the power just wasn’t there the last time. For the bottom of the 10th, the Green Mill team sent up — who else? and So What?? — Marc Smith, who hammed it up through his poem “Ball Park 65”. The partisan crowd went wild, as the cult of personality Smith has built up over the past two decades came through again, a poetry patronage army if ever there was one. Organizer, commissioner, scorekeeper, judge AND pinch-hitter? Apparently there’s nothing Smith can’t do except admit defeat. As a friendly little side bet, the Bardball team now owes the Green Mill squad a bucket of pork chops, kraut and apples from the Chicago Brauhaus, which I’m sure Marc will share with everyone since he’s the clubhouse manager and team chandler as well.

So our magical year ends on a dissatisfying note. The Bardball.com team, which didn’t even exist when the season began, came within one hit of the championship. Apparently Marc Smith’s rabid appetite for overcooked pig flesh (not to mention his overcooked poetry) was incentive enough to flambe the rule book and steal victory for his team. But before we move on to “Wait Until Next Year,” we should savor this season, the ups and downs, the stresses and meters, the rhymes both internal and external, the moxie of writers in love with the spirit of the game pushing themselves past what even they themselves thought they could do.

My hat is off to Stu and Sid, as well as the poets on the Green Mill squad who were great competitors and fine poets. We will welcome them in the pages of Bardball.com in the future. The Poetry Grand Slam will rise above the petty machinations of the organizers, and remain etched in the hearts of our countrymen and women for years to come. Vita brevis, ars longa.

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New “Recut Madness” Video !!!

Some of you may have been nodding your heads in a sympathetic way when I blathered this summer about a “really cool video we shot to promote Recut Madness.” An exhausted writer on the verge of delirium, you may have thought. A liar. A crackpot.

Well, maybe you feel like a chumbalone now, b/c we finally got the film up on that very exclusive web server, YouTube. Check it out! And tell your friends! The future for book promotion is here!

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Stuart Dybek a Real Genius

Congratulations to Chicago writer Stuart Dybek for being awarded a Macarthur Foundation Genius Grant! He’s one of my favorite writers, and I urge anyone who would like to have a taste of what it’s like to live and grow up in Chicago to check out any of his books, I Sailed With Magellan, The Coast of Chicago and Childhood and Other Neighborhoods. They are the types of reads that I get halfway through and then place on my bedstand for months, because I never want the books to end.

The grant awards Dybek $500K, which he told the Sun-Times will allow him to concentrate on three books he has on the burner.

Of course, the process of choosing a Macarthur Genius is a murky affair worthy of the Skull & Bones. Anyone can apply, but few are chosen. For a peek at the official application, click here. Try as I might, I never could get that spoon to hang from my nose.

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NatLamp Writers Panel Discussion

Last night I had a very interesting time down at the Hideout. Three writers from the golden age of the National Lampoon were there at that charming little dive by the Streets & San Garage to talk about that groundbreaking era of comedy. (The fliers called it a historic gathering, and for comedy geeks it probably was.) Anne Beatts, Chris Miller and Brian McConnachie were gathered to talk about the embryonic stages of the 1970s comedy revolution, hosted by Josh Karp, who wrote a book a few years ago about the magazine.

I went alone, b/c I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to tag along. Of course, I wouldn’t be the only guy there alone—out of the 100+ in attendance, I think the biggest group I saw was about four. There were a lot of solitary middle-aged guys there who remember the first time they were truly shocked by something funny on the page. Like the guy with the loud shirt and bad breath next to me, who somehow bonded with me and had to tell me repeatedly which of the NatLamp magazines, books and records he had in his basement somewhere. There were also a fair number of folks in their 20s and 30s who were listening and learning.

Not wishing to appear too much of a fanboy, I didn’t bring anything along for the writers to sign. Maybe I should have. Then again, it would be very difficult to get my hands on the old magazines that featured their writing, buried in the basement somewhere as they are. PJ O’Rourke signed my copy of the 1964 High School Yearbook Parody some years back, but these three didn’t really contribute to it, so that didn’t seem right.

Anyway, humor was in the air. Which means that everyone aside from Beatts, Miller and McConnachie was trying to be as funny as the writers were. So it goes. The moderator, such as he was, gave each writer 30-40 minutes to talk or read stories on their own, which made for a slow start. Anne Beatts was the first to speak, and while she certainly has the professional credits, I’ve never found her to be excessively funny. Or let me say, her byline in the NatLamp was not one that I raced to read. Kenney, O’Donoghue, O’Rourke, Miller, Hendra, Beard, McConnachie, Kelly—roughly in that order—were the names I looked for. Last night, she read a long story about getting noticed enough to contribute to the magazine, wanting to cheat with O’Donoghue while her boyfriend was in Europe, and dropping acid on the day that Jim Morrison died. It was a memoir, obviously, so she didn’t bother to make it funny, but the constant “I said-he said” and the lionizing tone of it made it a chore to listen to. What would O’Donoghue say to all the attempts to lionize him last night? Something obscene and hilarious, no doubt, ablaze like a Viking ship.

McConnachie looked like a bemused professor, and was very funny and concise in his comments. He came from an advertising background but had been gently fired, as was done in those days, and gravitated to the NatLamp offices because that seemed like the place to be. He was never as manic as everyone else there, but he said the others kept him around as a potential ally for any of the internecine duels that would flare up. He said he often hung out in the offices where John Belushi and many ex-pat Chicagoans were working on the “NatLamp Radio Hour” and the various stage projects being worked on. When these people moved on to “Saturday Night Live”, he said “the air seemed to go out of the offices” and the business of humor became a lot more tedious. McConnachie brought along a rare treat last night: an audiotape of a song from an off-Broadway musical idea called “Moby!” It featured John Belushi as Capt. Ahab, lamenting his fate as he sang, “I’m the loneliest man at sea.” Completely hilarious, and well sung besides. The panel agreed that Belushi was an intensely smart man and a great judge of talent, and his death shook up a lot of comedians. “When Doug Kenney fell off his mountain in Hawaii,” McConnachie said, “it was like a bolt of lightning from heaven. When Belushi died, it was just stupid.”

He then read a short story he said was written specifically with Chicago in mind, with a title something like “Father Ding-Dong of the Nincompoops,” about a prizefighter who becomes a priest but can’t learn to stop swinging when he hears a bell. It was one of the funniest things I’ve heard in a long time. I should go back to read his old material, which the 15-year-old me dismissed, because I’m sure I missed a lot.

Finally Chris Miller got to speak. He still has a full head of hair and a rakish laugh and smile, but there’s a gut attached to his skinny frame that looks like he’s a suicide bomber strapped up for work. He told the longest stories of the three, but also the funniest, and read an old NatLamp story called “Conversation Piece,” about having sex with an eager telephone receiver. Seeing a man at retirement age, reading with gusto a filthy, filthy, hilarious story—it gladdened the heart of many a juvenile person there that night. His graphic and absurd stories about his fraternity days seemed to irk Beatts and embarrass McConnachie, but I was glad to hear about a man who wore a pumpkin and nothing else to go trick-or-treating at Dartmouth.

The Q&A session was too short and could’ve used more fireworks, but that was the fault of the moderator. A few things I remember:

• Humorists who inspired them: All the writers mentioned Thurber. Miller mentioned Harvey Kurtzman at the first MAD Magazine, and Al Feldstein. McC mentioned someone named EF Benson, whom I should look up. And they all acknowledged a debt to Terry Southern, Bruce Jay Friedman, and Philip Roth. Miller said Portnoy’s Complaint made him realize that if a respected novelist could write what he did, Miller could write about ANYTHING.
• PJ O’Rourke: They said his politics were not right-wing at the beginning, but when he became managing editor at the publisher’s insistence, he became a tyrant. McC said O’Rourke made some of the writers nervous with the way he seemed to watch them and want to be like them, sort of a stylistic vampire. It got to the point where they would tell him the happy hour meeting place was Bar X while it really was Bar Y. McC got a huge laugh by describing O’Rourke as a guy in a gorilla mask, in which the human eyes don’t match up with the eyeholes and tip off the fact that someone may not be who them seem. I was glad, though, that Miller defended O’Rourke, that for all his non-anarchic tendencies, he always brought his game, and was very, very funny.
• Comedy today: In the 1970s, these people fell into comedy because their regular careers had collapsed (or else they had sabotaged them, as Miller had by sprinkling marijuana on his soup at an ad lunch). Now, Beatts says she sees people in her classes at USC “who can’t decide whether to go into Dad’s plumbing business or write for a sitcom.” They all agreed that the expansion of the comedy business has diluted the talent pool. She also complained that most of today’s comedy doesn’t have a point of view and a passion and anger behind it.
• Right-wing comedy: Miller summed up the problem with right-wing “comedy” very well: “They pick on the weak and powerless, on people who can’t fight back. That’s not what comedy is.”

The session ended after 2.5 hours, when that night’s band began wheeling in their equipment. I ducked into the men’s room, and when I came out, all three writers were gone. Which is just as well. As I said, I wasn’t in too much of a fanboy mood, but still I might’ve ventured to gush a bit and embarrassed myself. Still trying to figure out how the trio got together, and what they were ultimately on the road trying to flog.

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Funny Ha-Ha on August 21

Once again I will be taking a big technology break, as I’m taking my wife and kids on a road trip, up through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula onward to the Minnesota Boundary Waters for the next ten days. Ooh, I can feel the mosquitos buzzing already. Maybe this time I’ll be able to see the Northern Lights clearly. Every other time I’ve come close, I thought they were the parking lot illumination for a car dealership.

But I wanted everyone to know about an upcoming reading and hootenanny. On August 21, I’ll be taking part in the latest edition of Funny Ha-Ha, this one called “Funny Ha-Ha With A Vengeance!” Hosted by the estimable (or is it the inestimable?) Claire Zulkey, Funny Ha-Ha is Chicago’s top reading series for comedic writers. This edition will feature Mark Bazer of RedEye and the Huffington Post; Wendy McClure, author of I’m Not the New Me; wine expert Alpana Singh; standup Kumail Nanjiani; and the hilarious filmmaker Steve Delahoyde (check out all his films at http://www.irritablecolon.com.).

The reading will be at The Hideout on Tuesday, August 21, from 7 til 9. The Hideout is somewhere near Wabansia and Elston, but you’re cool enough to know where it is already, aren’t you, pet? Yes, yes. For more information, check out Claire’s site.

ROAD TRIP!!!!! PASS THE JERKY !!!

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A Little Bit Here, A Little Bit There

If you were reading the Huffington Post last night, you might have seen one of my posts up there on their “Politics” page. Of course, if you missed it, I wouldn’t blame you. (I’ve created a page for it at the right.) Since I’m not starring in a cable series, and my Q rating is not what it should be, my posts are last-in-first-out as others are submitted. Hard to amass a huge following there, which is the reason for doing it. Well, not a “huge” following, but I’m trying to get some bump that will help Recut Madness along. Six hours up on HuffPo, effectively buried in the Home and Garden section, won’t really do much.

But I press on, because what else is there to do? It has proven a challenge to get PR and press for the book. We’re still trying, and have a few new ideas that will be implemented soon. But we need to give this thing a boost so we can make it to the fall and take advantage of the Christmas buying season. If you’ve read Recut Madness and liked it, ask Barnes and Noble the next time you’re there to order a couple copies for the store. They don’t take your phone number, and it costs nothing, and it will get copies on the shelf for me. Also, it ain’t like I’m begging, but — BRANDEN! Are you listening? ——— it sure would be nice to get a review on Amazon, one that seems very independent and shows no hints that you are a friend or relative of mine. Every little bit helps, and I’m grateful for your support.

On the other hand, BARDBALL is enjoying some nice attention from real baseball fans out there. Just my luck that the project I’m doing for fun is performing better than the project that’s for money, but hey, I live for irony. We’ve got a backlog of poems already, and have stopped doing any guerrilla marketing for a while. It’s going to be very interesting to see where BARDBALL is by the end of the season, but I’m certain we’ll have enough material for a book.