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Linguistic Tics

If today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day, (and it BE, bucko), then I think Monday should be National Talk Like A Veep Candidate Day.

There is something very soothing about adopting a sort of Scandinavian, Minnesotan, Yooper, Alaskan accent. It’s really hard to think badly about your lot in life when sounding out those long OOOOs and sharp EYEs, and speaking in the little lilt that you might use in front of a Sunday School class (when you weren’t asking them to pray the gay away). It’s like a lullaby. There may be something hard-wired about it in our brain’s box, like a prosaic version of a meditative Om. Remember Steve Martin’s old bit about banjo playing, and how everyone should be issued a banjo because it just makes bad news sound good to hear it mixed with that twangy sound? This is the same thing.

Hey, maybe that’s what the Treasury Department ought to do. Instead of guaranteeing a bunch of crappy mortgages and banning short-selling on financial stocks–wow, how pointy headed is that?–they should just issue banjos to everyone, domestically AND internationally. That would stop the whining, eh? Make Wall Street into the biggest hoedown outside Branson, and the markets would just overdose on optimism.

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Hockey Moms Against Sarah Palin

And this follow up, from a Minnesota mom who knows the breed:

Real Hockey moms are out of control maniacs. The kind who would poison your kid so hers could play. Would lie to you about the location of the 5:30 a.m. practice just so your kid wouldn’t get the ice time. They’d mortgage the house with a subprime lender to send the kid to hockey camp up in Bemidji. She’d instruct her kid how to best inflict lasting damage with the stick that wouldn’t be seen by the officials. Beat them senseless if they didn’t win. Bribe the officials. Trash talk the better players on the team.

Anyone who prides themselves on being a hockey mom is counting on the rest of the nation thinking like it’s a soccer mom on ice. Nothing could be further from the truth. Think Texas raving lunatic cheerleader moms – you’ll then be getting the right idea.

I shudder at the thought.

Sounds more like Dick Cheney everyday.

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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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Roger Ebert Hits it on the Head

I’m not going to spend much time ruminating on the Alaskan Pork Queen in the next few weeks. Every revelation about her bullying governing style and ability to lie to thousands of people several times a day are entertaining, but ultimately they’re water off a loon’s back. New items about her policies and actions (like today’s jaw-dropper that the town of Wasilla actually forced rape victims to pony up cash to have forensic tests done) will do nothing to dissuade her ardent fans. When confronted with tough questions, she’ll probably just call off all press conferences, wrap herself up in her mackinaw and go a-huntin’.

That’s fair warning to all the wildlife in the Northwest: when new scandals come to light about Palin’s record, HIDE!

Hey, she’s a liar and a self-promoting grandstander, just like the “reformer” governor here in Illinois (thankfully, no one except Blagojevich himself is desperate enough to suggest that he should run for higher office). There’s the exotic element of fjords, elk and oil money in the background, a picture postcard that is wrenched from the mind when she unleashes her most destructive weapon: Her metal-piercing voice.

What I find more interesting is WHY people would be interested in her at all. Anyone in America can be president, which we’ve proven time and again to our dismay. But why (other than venal self-interest that Republicans should rule forever and always) would any voter fall for this schtick of the frost-bitten, gun-totin’ maverick? In the face of the objective facts that she’s held state office for less than two years, will lie out of both sides of her mouth and managed to sink her little town into a $23 million debt, why would anyone with more than a room-temperature IQ think that she’s fit to be second in line for the most powerful office on earth?

Roger Ebert considered that in today’s Sun-Times, and as you’d expect, cuts to the heart of the matter with style:

She’s the “American Idol” candidate. Consider. What defines an “American Idol” finalist? They’re good-looking, work well on television, have a sunny personality, are fierce competitors, and so talented, why, they’re darned near the real thing. There’s a reason “American Idol” gets such high ratings. People identify with the contestants. They think, Hey, that could be me up there on that show!

Read the rest of his column here.

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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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The Faintest Blip on the Radar

To any readers who may still peek in the windows here to see if anyone is alive under all those towers of old newspapers, I have to apologize. While up in Michigan this summer, my computer has apparently come down with a nervous disorder that I won’t be able to fix until I get back to town and have my DSL and reboot disks handy. So I’ll just have to use my vacation time away from the internet, like our forefathers did.

It has been an eventful summer so far, so this hiatus is frustrating, but not as frustrating as trying to download simple emails. Like I just tried to do for the past 45 minutes in the public library. From which I can’t SEND emails. But whatever.

Most recently, my family and I all piled up to Grand Rapids this past Saturday to check out my nephew’s Irish rebel band, The Waxies, and had a stupendous time. I urge you to check out their MySpace page and support Irish music in the heart of the West Michigan Dutch duchy.

The news of George Carlin’s death was a blow this past month. While his latest HBO’s specials were too screedy for my taste, his body of work was phenomenal. Whenever I correct Number 1 Son about his language lately, I need to remind myself that at his age, I was playing the album “Class Clown” over and over and learning all about the Seven Words, plus a few more that got me in trouble in Catholic junior high. A thought struck me a week ago that seemed like something Carlin would come up with, and for all I know, probably did. If I stole this from him, consider it flattery:

How can you have a circular driveway? If it were truly circular, you’d never be able to get off your property. Don’t you mean Semi-circular Drive? That would allow you to escape an endless loop of asphalt.

Of course, Carlin would have made it funny. RIP, George.

Be well, and I’ll return in three weeks.

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And Speaking of Field Testing….

That’s what I’ll be doing to my marriage for the next three weeks. My ever-lovin’ wife and kids and I will be taking a camping road trip to the East Coast until July 4. Cooperstown, Plymouth, Boston, Maine, Lake Champlain, and points in between. Pray for good weather, small crowds, a sudden dip in gas prices, and a surfeit of exotic license plates for Highway Bingo. See you in a few.

PS: Please go and check out the Field Tested Books collection of essays, and buy a copy if you feel like it. Disrupt the dominant publishing paradigm!!

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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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Radio Silence Broken!

Didn’t you always want to say that line? I know I have. It sounds so official, and it must certainly be good news, right? Because when it isn’t broken, they find the bodies frozen in the ice a few months later.

I haven’t exactly had a radio SILENCE, but whatever you might call the interim between commentaries has effectively been terminated. An idea has been kicking around in my barren head for about three years to write an essay about uncles for Fathers Day. Sadly, no amount of coaxing could pry it from the sticky beneath-the-seat-cushion realm so that it could be worked into something worth hearing. Then this spring, for no reason, bamf, there you are sir, here’s your essay.

(Many people think that’s the wonderful part about being a writer, that ideas seemingly show up at your doorstep unexpectedly and you have to invite them in. Actually, while it’s certainly better than not getting any idea-visitors at all, this unpredictability is something that greatly taxes my nerves. I’d much rather choose my own idea, put a certain amount of hours into it, and have a finished product to show off and maybe sell. All that cal about the wonder of characters springing up and taking your stories in unexpected directions? Do accountants appreciate it when their spreadsheets take on lives of their own and write their own endings? Do carpenters like it when their crossbeams twist themselves in surprising ways? Feh. Mystically creative muses are fickle and taunting. And they leave rings on the furniture.)

The essay “Uncle-Hood” was broadcast this morning on WBEZ’s “848” Program. You can listen to it here, and follow the instructions I embedded in the text.

I’m very glad they slated my piece to go before the interview with David Sedaris, who’s in Chicago for a book tour. Now I’m his warm-up act, my White Snake to his Def Leppard. It’s certainly better than following him. I think he’s a fantastic writer, and keeps getting better. I remember 10 years ago, talking with my then-editor at my then-publisher about the humorous literature world in general. He thought Sedaris was a flash in the pan after “Santaland Diaries” and “Barrel Fever”, but I knew better. I knew he had the chops and the skills to make a good career out of a moribund genre, and his success would reflect well on all of us who try to make a living at the funny.

On the other hand, my editor thought that everything I put down on paper was golden. Maybe that’s one reason he’s not in publishing anymore.

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An Idea to Benefit All Mankind

My friend Steve Fiffer started a blogsite last year called Ampolo. It’s meant to be a place to share those ideas that come to you in a flash, ideas that could be worth millions or change the world or liven up your next family barbecue but you haven’t the expertise or time to make them a reality. I like to read it because it makes me feel less isolated in the world when I see someone else actually thinks that weather reporters should have to post their “batting averages” at the bottom of their screens during the TV news.

For a year, I’ve tried to come up with an innovative notion that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to send Steve for possible inclusion on Ampolo. And I’ve finally done it. I think. The embarrassment might come later. But it’s just possible that my idea could become the “gull wing doors” of the new century. Call me Clyde Crashcup. You can check out the idea here. And return to Ampolo often. It’s slick, informative and fun.

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Sunset on Mars

Science fiction has never been a big genre with me. I read it here and there, but I don’t gobble them down like so many devotees do. However, last year I did enjoy very much reading Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles for the first time. The early stories in that book (about the first colonization of the planet and the corruption of the native culture) came to mind this morning when I spotted this picture of a Martian sunset on Andrew Sullivan’s blog, who got it from NASA’s Image of the Day,

Can’t you just picture enjoying a nice cool Epeftian Manganese Fizz on your veranda, before you have to go indoors and batten down the house against the carnivorous sand weasels and spleen bugs that are just beginning to stir in their holes?

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Thank God THAT’S Over With!

Last night was certainly a momentous event in history, and it came none too soon. After a long, drawn-out battle, Barack Obama was finally elected President of the United States! I wasn’t sure I’d see it in my lifetime, our country pulling together behind a charismatic candidate of color, ready to lead us to new realities in the 21st century. After seeing last night’s speech, I’m thinking the future looks awfully bright again.

Wait. What? I came in the middle of the thing. Who’s the old white-haired troll in the blue suit they keep showing footage of? He reminds me of Hans Moleman from The Simpsons. Like he was a little winded from climbing up to the podium. I’ll have to check out his speech today online, see if there’s any news about the Mystery at the Old Well.

And that woman with the bobbed hair? I never saw such a big audience at a taping for the Psychic Network. I know all about the premise of that book, The Secret–that you just have to believe in something enough and visualize it, and you’ll be rewarded with all the happiness you deserve in life. But is it necessary to have a couple thousand of your friends on hand to help you visualize it? None of them looked very happy to be there. They must have owed her a favor or something.

But enough of my channel-surfing habits. Congrats to President Obama, the first president to come from the South Side of Chicago!! Whoda tought a dat?