Jeff Phillips's Blog, page 2
September 25, 2013
Chef Worship
The early religions may have been an unguided confused experiment with personality. Did the earliest upright humans have personalities? How did these evolve?
The natural world; geological, botanical, and animal perform unpredictable behaviors. The observing man casts these things, based on his emotional reaction, onto people in his life. A dangerous man is like a wolf. The ill-tempered man is a volcano. The animal may trot with a certain tempo, may have a mouth curvature like a smile. Our minds fill in patterns, things are compared to things.
We of course ate these animals.
Flavor can be used interchangeably with personality.
Plants may have distinct smells, infusing a set atmosphere on the senses.
Things geological, botanical, and animal could either support life, or take it away.
Flavors tasted and fears provoked churn a spectrum of feeling. Feeling works its way into expression. Into story. Into tapestries and mythology, fueling the feeling and regurgitating power into worship.
Taste gives a distinct character to something life sustaining. This has a most powerful effect on endorphins compared to any character one may read in a story.
Things that sustain life, they are divine, right?
Flash forward to our "rational"-esque culture. We like to think we're objective, we're not savages worshiping sun and thunder gods. We have refined tastes. We eat at nice restaurants. And we celebrate personality.
The chef tends to have a large personality. As we see on TV shows. The chef, like a fine renaissance artist, cultivates flavor through concoctions of foodstuff, life sustaining foods, and when flickered as an image in fire, or the TV set, invoked is a tendency towards reverence. The burning bush. Moses may have snacked on the mountain. We poke our plates in front of these intense cooking competitions.
We don't fear the character of lightning anymore. Unless we're out swimming. We're too busy practicing chef worship to concern ourselves with the elements. We're inside, eating, mmm, fucking good.
The ancient Gods were full of personality. Yahweh, what a loose cannon. Chef Gordan Ramsey, boy can he rip into you.
God is more-so a little tepid and faceless now, to balance monotheism with a touch of scientific reasoning. But we're back to our roots. Like a religious ceremony, food brings people together. And that bad-ass chef is on a higher plane, a colorful human being that is more holy than average office man munching.
Celebrities that make damn good food; our new pantheon.
The old testament God may have been a little too pissy for many to swallow (If only he made food though, we could all still swallow his presence). But a raging restaurateur on Iron Chef or the like is one that we fear. The parade of Instagramed pics of complex cuisine is a sign of devoutness: A commemorative kaleidoscope of foodie photos is a digital crucifix dangling necklace or Jesus fish young adults can get behind. An icon they'd proudly hang in their living room and adopt into their newly reinvented heritage.
The styles, airs, ambiances and renderings of ethnic cultures may be a bleed over, an aftertaste influenced by native spices and seasonings. The early cooks that collectively contributed to the Chinese cuisine, Indian cuisine, Mexican, and other food styles we love, were they revered in their communities as so?
We are what we eat; goes deep into our blood.
A mad respect, yes, is deserved though by the chefs. They bust their asses and appease our taste buds.
Recently I learned how to make a sushi roll. It was a sloppy attempt, tasty however, and I felt like a creator. I was high on my own power and feeling full (of it).
The natural world; geological, botanical, and animal perform unpredictable behaviors. The observing man casts these things, based on his emotional reaction, onto people in his life. A dangerous man is like a wolf. The ill-tempered man is a volcano. The animal may trot with a certain tempo, may have a mouth curvature like a smile. Our minds fill in patterns, things are compared to things.
We of course ate these animals.
Flavor can be used interchangeably with personality.
Plants may have distinct smells, infusing a set atmosphere on the senses.
Things geological, botanical, and animal could either support life, or take it away.
Flavors tasted and fears provoked churn a spectrum of feeling. Feeling works its way into expression. Into story. Into tapestries and mythology, fueling the feeling and regurgitating power into worship.
Taste gives a distinct character to something life sustaining. This has a most powerful effect on endorphins compared to any character one may read in a story.
Things that sustain life, they are divine, right?
Flash forward to our "rational"-esque culture. We like to think we're objective, we're not savages worshiping sun and thunder gods. We have refined tastes. We eat at nice restaurants. And we celebrate personality.
The chef tends to have a large personality. As we see on TV shows. The chef, like a fine renaissance artist, cultivates flavor through concoctions of foodstuff, life sustaining foods, and when flickered as an image in fire, or the TV set, invoked is a tendency towards reverence. The burning bush. Moses may have snacked on the mountain. We poke our plates in front of these intense cooking competitions.
We don't fear the character of lightning anymore. Unless we're out swimming. We're too busy practicing chef worship to concern ourselves with the elements. We're inside, eating, mmm, fucking good.
The ancient Gods were full of personality. Yahweh, what a loose cannon. Chef Gordan Ramsey, boy can he rip into you.
God is more-so a little tepid and faceless now, to balance monotheism with a touch of scientific reasoning. But we're back to our roots. Like a religious ceremony, food brings people together. And that bad-ass chef is on a higher plane, a colorful human being that is more holy than average office man munching.
Celebrities that make damn good food; our new pantheon.
The old testament God may have been a little too pissy for many to swallow (If only he made food though, we could all still swallow his presence). But a raging restaurateur on Iron Chef or the like is one that we fear. The parade of Instagramed pics of complex cuisine is a sign of devoutness: A commemorative kaleidoscope of foodie photos is a digital crucifix dangling necklace or Jesus fish young adults can get behind. An icon they'd proudly hang in their living room and adopt into their newly reinvented heritage.
The styles, airs, ambiances and renderings of ethnic cultures may be a bleed over, an aftertaste influenced by native spices and seasonings. The early cooks that collectively contributed to the Chinese cuisine, Indian cuisine, Mexican, and other food styles we love, were they revered in their communities as so?
We are what we eat; goes deep into our blood.
A mad respect, yes, is deserved though by the chefs. They bust their asses and appease our taste buds.
Recently I learned how to make a sushi roll. It was a sloppy attempt, tasty however, and I felt like a creator. I was high on my own power and feeling full (of it).
September 15, 2013
Biker, the Blood Spiker
I like to think of my legs as part machine. When they're pushing again the spin cycle that gets me around.
My Uncle John found an old bicycle in his garage, asked if I wanted it, I said yes, he fixed it up. I've had two fairly nice bicycles in the city that have been thieved from me. The more recent one, two years ago, I believe I spouted off about it here. So I've been avoiding. Yet wanting. Then avoiding, wondering if I should invest in such a vehicle, and if were to, I'd imagine the ways I can make it into a beater with duct tape and spray paint so it looks less desirable to the pro bike burglar to pawn off on the market for cheap bikes. I had often thought about going about buying a cheap bike, then wondering if I'd be inadvertently buying someone else's stolen bike, so it put the whole thing on hold.
But this opportunity, this garage bike, this ancient machine from my Uncle's college days, having spun him around Houghton, Michigan up there in the upper peninsula, yes back in the day, this is the beater.
I've also been itching to ditch CTA for awhile. Sometimes you need a break from public transit.
I've been biking to work for a few weeks and though I look like a bike messenger these days with my pants rolled up and bike gloves wrapping my hands, there's a ton of positives about this.
I feel more energized in the morning, more focused, ready to get down to work.
I feel less anxious in the morning. There's always this anxiety I seem to absorb when riding the subway, like everybody's stress and worries about the day are wafting up and I'm inhaling this and it makes for an odd and inexplicable nerve wracking first hour of the day. I don't have that with my bicycling.
It's 4.2 miles to work. So each day, I'm getting 8.4 miles of spin cycle cardio.
My commute has gone from 45 minutes to 22 minutes.
It's a lot of damn fun.
Doing errands after work is kind of easier, as you can propel yourself in and out of different neighborhoods more fluidly than with transferring buses and waiting and transferring.
It's a healthy thing, because in running some recent blood pressure checks, my blood pressure is on the high side. Biking is an integrated way to make sure I'm getting some exercise in the day. And as mentioned, feeling more energized in the morning, is putting me in a position where I can feasibly ween myself off coffee. Cutting back the 5 or more cup a day habit is, I think, a big step in getting this beast of a blood pressure score down. I'm 30 now, so this is the kind of thing I'm supposed to worry about. It is time.
Let's spin things morbid for a second. I've been thinking a bit about my own mortality, especially while riding my bike. For all of it's pluses, taking a spill could very well end it all. Yet, I don't feel frightened by it. I'm putting myself out there, getting where I need to go in an efficient, enjoyable way, that's life, yes? In fact, part of my lessened anxiety may be due to the notion that in comparison to the dangers of the road, whatever professional challenges I come across in the day are puny.
So while riding to work on Friday, I was thinking about spooky stuff since it was the 13th. I thought about what if I wiped out and became a ghost. I thought about a prank I'd love to pull if I had the chance. I'd hang out in the kitchen when someone was baking something in the oven. Then I'd turn it off while they walked away to do whatever they do in between. When they come back and wonder why it's still cold, they'll notice the oven isn't even on. Then they'll think they're losing their minds! When they turn it back on, I'll turn it off again. Until they catch on. This may sound mean, and I do have a bit of a latent mean streak, but it's also harmless, and I think, hilarious.
Point is, we're all just messing around. Bikes. Blood. Ghosts. People. Getting around and getting ahead.
My Uncle John found an old bicycle in his garage, asked if I wanted it, I said yes, he fixed it up. I've had two fairly nice bicycles in the city that have been thieved from me. The more recent one, two years ago, I believe I spouted off about it here. So I've been avoiding. Yet wanting. Then avoiding, wondering if I should invest in such a vehicle, and if were to, I'd imagine the ways I can make it into a beater with duct tape and spray paint so it looks less desirable to the pro bike burglar to pawn off on the market for cheap bikes. I had often thought about going about buying a cheap bike, then wondering if I'd be inadvertently buying someone else's stolen bike, so it put the whole thing on hold.
But this opportunity, this garage bike, this ancient machine from my Uncle's college days, having spun him around Houghton, Michigan up there in the upper peninsula, yes back in the day, this is the beater.
I've also been itching to ditch CTA for awhile. Sometimes you need a break from public transit.
I've been biking to work for a few weeks and though I look like a bike messenger these days with my pants rolled up and bike gloves wrapping my hands, there's a ton of positives about this.
I feel more energized in the morning, more focused, ready to get down to work.
I feel less anxious in the morning. There's always this anxiety I seem to absorb when riding the subway, like everybody's stress and worries about the day are wafting up and I'm inhaling this and it makes for an odd and inexplicable nerve wracking first hour of the day. I don't have that with my bicycling.
It's 4.2 miles to work. So each day, I'm getting 8.4 miles of spin cycle cardio.
My commute has gone from 45 minutes to 22 minutes.
It's a lot of damn fun.
Doing errands after work is kind of easier, as you can propel yourself in and out of different neighborhoods more fluidly than with transferring buses and waiting and transferring.
It's a healthy thing, because in running some recent blood pressure checks, my blood pressure is on the high side. Biking is an integrated way to make sure I'm getting some exercise in the day. And as mentioned, feeling more energized in the morning, is putting me in a position where I can feasibly ween myself off coffee. Cutting back the 5 or more cup a day habit is, I think, a big step in getting this beast of a blood pressure score down. I'm 30 now, so this is the kind of thing I'm supposed to worry about. It is time.
Let's spin things morbid for a second. I've been thinking a bit about my own mortality, especially while riding my bike. For all of it's pluses, taking a spill could very well end it all. Yet, I don't feel frightened by it. I'm putting myself out there, getting where I need to go in an efficient, enjoyable way, that's life, yes? In fact, part of my lessened anxiety may be due to the notion that in comparison to the dangers of the road, whatever professional challenges I come across in the day are puny.
So while riding to work on Friday, I was thinking about spooky stuff since it was the 13th. I thought about what if I wiped out and became a ghost. I thought about a prank I'd love to pull if I had the chance. I'd hang out in the kitchen when someone was baking something in the oven. Then I'd turn it off while they walked away to do whatever they do in between. When they come back and wonder why it's still cold, they'll notice the oven isn't even on. Then they'll think they're losing their minds! When they turn it back on, I'll turn it off again. Until they catch on. This may sound mean, and I do have a bit of a latent mean streak, but it's also harmless, and I think, hilarious.
Point is, we're all just messing around. Bikes. Blood. Ghosts. People. Getting around and getting ahead.
August 27, 2013
Freak Show
In a couple of days we perform what will be one of our last Wood Sugars live sketch shows. For awhile. We have plans for the future. One of our members is doing some travelling. Over the past few years we've been doing bits at various Chicago bar-prov-esque venues such as Fizz Bar, The Underground Lounge, The Upstairs Gallery, Mullens. Many others. Usually we get a 10-15 time slot to do a handful of our sketches in the guise of a travelling freak show. Donny would host as Bosco Dunwitty Radriguez and introduce the acts such as "Attack of the Groomzilla" and the "TMI IT guy." Various puns on weird behaviors. We've developed and tried out an alternating line-up of these. The culmination of our comedic experiments came in the form of our first real writers room to create new bits. And then an hour long sketch show with an actual arc, these freaks take flight. You come to love them. Poignant moments help build the tension, then we aim cut it with sharp wordplay. Hey, here's a plug. Step right up to see Wood Sugars Freak Show Featuring Regular Adults.
Recently I dined at Riverview Tavern with some family that was in town. A sort of mural adorned one of the walls outlining the old Riverview Park, an amusement park that used to be situated along the river in Roscoe Village, long since shuttered and built over. With the freak show on my mind, I remembered hearing of this while working an event several years back with the photography company I used to work for. It was someone's anniversary party. The green screen back drop they requested was of a carnival-esque rendering of the old Riverview Park. I'm not sure how it related to this older couple, perhaps they had a date there. At one point, an older woman recounted how horrible the park was, that there was an actual freak show there, how horrid she cried. Her passionate scoff resonated in my memory and is prompting me to do some research, some historical scholarship into nasty freak shows of olde in the Chicago area. Shit, I even want to do some hardcore research, this curiosity pique on curiosities, perhaps even going to the library, tooling around on a microfiche, late nights til closing (what, 7pm in Chicago Public Libraries?) like a self serious scene right out of All The President's Men.
The findings will be in a different post. The show is so close, and the research bug could cause me to stumble upon more weird intrigue. The loop that comes with research. And so I give myself an extension on that part. For now, I'd like to share this article from WBEZ. Apparently Riverview Park caused some racial tensions with their "Dunk the N***er" act. Sheesh. That's just fucking rude. The real freak is the segment of Chicago's population that ate that shit like it was an innocuous family pastime.
http://www.wbez.org/series/curious-city/laugh-your-troubles-away-105619
Recently I dined at Riverview Tavern with some family that was in town. A sort of mural adorned one of the walls outlining the old Riverview Park, an amusement park that used to be situated along the river in Roscoe Village, long since shuttered and built over. With the freak show on my mind, I remembered hearing of this while working an event several years back with the photography company I used to work for. It was someone's anniversary party. The green screen back drop they requested was of a carnival-esque rendering of the old Riverview Park. I'm not sure how it related to this older couple, perhaps they had a date there. At one point, an older woman recounted how horrible the park was, that there was an actual freak show there, how horrid she cried. Her passionate scoff resonated in my memory and is prompting me to do some research, some historical scholarship into nasty freak shows of olde in the Chicago area. Shit, I even want to do some hardcore research, this curiosity pique on curiosities, perhaps even going to the library, tooling around on a microfiche, late nights til closing (what, 7pm in Chicago Public Libraries?) like a self serious scene right out of All The President's Men.
The findings will be in a different post. The show is so close, and the research bug could cause me to stumble upon more weird intrigue. The loop that comes with research. And so I give myself an extension on that part. For now, I'd like to share this article from WBEZ. Apparently Riverview Park caused some racial tensions with their "Dunk the N***er" act. Sheesh. That's just fucking rude. The real freak is the segment of Chicago's population that ate that shit like it was an innocuous family pastime.
http://www.wbez.org/series/curious-city/laugh-your-troubles-away-105619
August 25, 2013
Closer. For Tech Startups.
Earlier this year I saw the culture site Brain Pickings feature the book
Close to the Machine: Technophilia and Its Discontents
by Ellen Ullman. There was a line of her's they quoted that struck me like a captivating trance:
"Soon the beautiful crystal must be recut. This lovely edge and that one are gone. The whole graceful structure loses coherence. What began in a state of grace soon reveals itself to be a jumble. The human mind, as it turns out, is messy...The messiness cannot go into the program; it piles up around the programmer...Soon the programmer has no choice but to retreat into some private interior space, closer to the machine."
Something about this resonated as I've been dabbling in learning code here and there throughout the year. Indeed my thinking has gotten messier since taking on developing this new skill, but reading bits and passages from Close to the Machine seemed to instill courage to heap on the messiness. In fact life probably never gets less messy, so let's bring it on.
This book has been on my to-read list for sometime and I finally cracked into it later this week. The text channeled in through my eyes like the fluid compulsion a programmer must feel when connecting to solutions long strained for. Close to the Machine reads like a well crafted novel. The sentence is precise. Beyond being a book classified in Technology or Memoir, is something that rings of literature, with swell philosophies that don't feel prattled but earned.
"I imagined I would show him into this music, the slow movement's aching play of major against minor, the intense miracle of logic which somehow, with all its precision and balance still burst with passion. 'Here is how I know God is a passionate engineer.'"
An odyssey of sorts as Ellen Ullman progresses her career as a software engineer, but also examines her own ability to relate to the human experience. Here it takes on the feel of a love story stripped of cliches and mushiness. Yes, there are bits about her relationships with men, and women. And parents. But the thread of love gravitates toward a love of career, and takes it deeper than anything else that focuses on the story of one's occupation.
"In the middle of the demo, I realized how fortunate we were to be engineers. How lucky for us to be people who built things and took our satisfactions from humming machines and running programs. We certainly wouldn't mind if the company went public and we all got fabulously rich. But the important thing was right in front of us. We had started with some scratchings on a white board and built this: this operational program, this functioning thing."
I hope progressions in technology bring along parallels in her train of thought, and perhaps we roll into an age where career obsession revolves more around function, and operating in some way that works, versus the ladder of wealth that gets the attention as one considers success in spite of sometimes stomping on desirable actions. Enter refinement of logic. Ullman, an admitted ex-communist, may not have shed those leanings, but seems to have refracted bits of communism through the blend of logic, and morals. As she questions a wealthy friend: "These men you advise - what do you think drives them? It has to be more than money; they already have a lot of money. What is it - what is inside of them?" Sometimes behavior can be debugged too. Yes I zeroed in and dragged in some mentions of communism. Before you go calling me a communist, I'm not one yet. But perhaps as I gain more courage to sift through and write code, I may learn to have the courage to extract bits from theories for the sake of contributing a unique line to something that works for the big damn machine that is this world we live in.
"Soon the beautiful crystal must be recut. This lovely edge and that one are gone. The whole graceful structure loses coherence. What began in a state of grace soon reveals itself to be a jumble. The human mind, as it turns out, is messy...The messiness cannot go into the program; it piles up around the programmer...Soon the programmer has no choice but to retreat into some private interior space, closer to the machine."
Something about this resonated as I've been dabbling in learning code here and there throughout the year. Indeed my thinking has gotten messier since taking on developing this new skill, but reading bits and passages from Close to the Machine seemed to instill courage to heap on the messiness. In fact life probably never gets less messy, so let's bring it on.
This book has been on my to-read list for sometime and I finally cracked into it later this week. The text channeled in through my eyes like the fluid compulsion a programmer must feel when connecting to solutions long strained for. Close to the Machine reads like a well crafted novel. The sentence is precise. Beyond being a book classified in Technology or Memoir, is something that rings of literature, with swell philosophies that don't feel prattled but earned.
"I imagined I would show him into this music, the slow movement's aching play of major against minor, the intense miracle of logic which somehow, with all its precision and balance still burst with passion. 'Here is how I know God is a passionate engineer.'"
An odyssey of sorts as Ellen Ullman progresses her career as a software engineer, but also examines her own ability to relate to the human experience. Here it takes on the feel of a love story stripped of cliches and mushiness. Yes, there are bits about her relationships with men, and women. And parents. But the thread of love gravitates toward a love of career, and takes it deeper than anything else that focuses on the story of one's occupation.
"In the middle of the demo, I realized how fortunate we were to be engineers. How lucky for us to be people who built things and took our satisfactions from humming machines and running programs. We certainly wouldn't mind if the company went public and we all got fabulously rich. But the important thing was right in front of us. We had started with some scratchings on a white board and built this: this operational program, this functioning thing."
I hope progressions in technology bring along parallels in her train of thought, and perhaps we roll into an age where career obsession revolves more around function, and operating in some way that works, versus the ladder of wealth that gets the attention as one considers success in spite of sometimes stomping on desirable actions. Enter refinement of logic. Ullman, an admitted ex-communist, may not have shed those leanings, but seems to have refracted bits of communism through the blend of logic, and morals. As she questions a wealthy friend: "These men you advise - what do you think drives them? It has to be more than money; they already have a lot of money. What is it - what is inside of them?" Sometimes behavior can be debugged too. Yes I zeroed in and dragged in some mentions of communism. Before you go calling me a communist, I'm not one yet. But perhaps as I gain more courage to sift through and write code, I may learn to have the courage to extract bits from theories for the sake of contributing a unique line to something that works for the big damn machine that is this world we live in.
August 20, 2013
A Reflection on Terence McKenna's True Hallucations
Terence McKenna fascinates me. After hearing him speak in some various YouTube clips, I found him an infectious lecturer and was curious to check out his writing. Now, I consider myself a "pseudo-pschonaut" in that it's been many years since I dabbled in any hallucinogens. My tendency toward anxiety makes that a tricky pursuit. But I've long been interested in lucid dreaming and various topics in consciousness. True Hallucinations reads like a mad scientist's journal, and for that I enjoyed it. It excites you. Running with ideas is fun. Though in some parts, hearing someone rant about a mushroom trip while you're not on mushrooms yourself can feel a little like being sober in a packed bar, for that it can also get a little exhausting. In the end curiosity in his point of view propelled me further.
I'm intrigued to check into The Invisible Landscape where the McKenna brothers seem to go deeper into the actual Time Wave Theory, whereas True Hallucinations is more so an account of their drug adventures. But an idea that resonates for further exploration is the notion that perhaps alien life has already colonized our planet in the form of certain plants and mushrooms. These mushrooms serve as a sort of star ship for voyages deep into the universe itself. Yeah it sounds a little crack-pottish, and McKenna is a crackpot, though he admits to it and has fun with it. If the book lacked his humor and self deprecation it would have been more difficult to humor back and go for the ride. The universe is crazy, so fuck it, let's explore the nooks and crannies. Ah, the fringe sciences.
Here's a quote to give you a sense of the sort of thinking, that whether you're into hearing about other people's drug stories and mind blowing stoner thoughts, well, the beautiful intricacy of the physical world deserves a little trance-like observation from time to time.
"[Sand dunes] bear a resemblance to the force that created them, wind. It is as if each grain of sand were a bit inside the memory of a natural computer. The wind is the input that arranges the grains of sand so that they beam a lower-dimensional template of a higher-dimensional phenomenon, in this case the wind. There is nothing magical about this, and it does not seem mysterious to us: wind, a pressure that is variable in space. In my thinking, the genes of organisms are grains of sand arranged by the ebb and flow of the winds of time. Naturally, then, organisms bear the imprint of the inherent variables in the temporal medium in which they arose. DNA is the blank slate upon which the changing temporal variables have had their sequin and relative differences recorded. Any technique that saw into the energetic relationships within a living organism, such as yoga or the use of psychedelic plants, would also give a deep insight concerning the variable nature of time." - Terence McKenna, True Hallucinations: Being An Account of The Author's Extraordinary Adventures in the Devil's Paradise.
I just finished this last night, so these are just some initial thoughts. As I digest, there may or may not be some more nuggets of brilliance or bullshit to sift through and write more about it. Even if there are more swells of bullshit, I have a lot of respect for Terence McKenna. He goes places and shares his experience, and I find nothing wrong with that. Mushrooms grow in shit and when life's circumstances or societal structures get to feeling like bullshit, hats off to someone who devours a delectable fungus and appreciates the show. Because what's behind the curtain may reveal some incredibly important cosmic knowledge we need someday to save humanity.
August 19, 2013
Pungent Parlour - An August Must.
I've got this swell reading series in Chicago called Pungent Parlour that I co-created with my friend Jeremy Solomon. For a couple of years I did one called The Liquid Burning of Apocalyptic Bard Letters with my friend Aaron Cynic. That was, you guessed it, apocalypse themed. After a year away from it I was hungry to have a similar series to look forward to, something salon style, maybe a little looser in terms of theme, in that space in the back room at Black Rock Pub & Kitchen. Fireplaces and couches. Rustic wood. We did The Liquid Burning there, before we got booted from Matilda Baby Atlas when they converted it into a "dance club." We wanted to create a series that was a cozy "safe" space in the sense of writers trying out pieces from any stage of the writing process. New work. Old work. Published work. Desk drawer dust covered work. Each one we've done we've seen a wide variety: funny, violent, poignant, avant garde, interactive, grotesque. List expands. Chicago has a ton of good live lit going on, and I love it all. But I especially love our literary home. We're going into our 7th one tomorrow. We do it every 3rd Tuesday of the Month. I'll be there. I hope you'll be there. 8:30pm
See Facebook event for details.
See Facebook event for details.
July 20, 2013
Pearl Jammer
An occasional pastime for me and my brother is to go to a Pearl Jam concert. Well, we've only been to two now, but I'd like for it become a pastime. A couple of years ago he took me to see the PJ20 tour kickoff at Alpine Valley. That was a birthday present to me. The concert at Wrigley Field he took me to last night was also a birthday present. I need to make some big money to return the favor and take him to something huge, someday. Perhaps the next Pearl Jam concert. Eddie Vedder wants to come back to Wrigley Field, perhaps do a double header, and I hope he does.
Pearl Jam is a special thing for me and my brother. I inadvertently turned him onto it when he was in 7th grade. Shopping at a music store in the Auburn Mall (Auburn, ME) a store since closed and turned into something else, maybe a Bath and Body Works or a smoothie place, I picked out a birthday gift for him. At random, I chose a cassette tape of Pearl Jam's Vs. because I liked the image of the snarling sheep warped by a wide angle lens. He fell in love with it, and soon bought the tape of Ten. And then we got CD players so he got the subsequent albums after that on CD. He got really into them. One time I was talking to a friend on AIM, my brother came in the room, looked over my shoulder, saw he had mentioned Pearl Jam. My brother got me to ask him if he was a Pearl Jam freak. My friend's reply was: I like Pearl Jam but I wouldn't say that I'm a freak of theirs.
My brother went to see them play as much as he could in college, was in a Pearl Jam cover band too, and bought all of their bootleg CDs. His collection was wide and deep. I remember during one semester break when I too had moved on to college, riding with him when he went to participate in a nordic ski race at Lake Placid, where the old Olympic trails were, and we listened to a shit load of Pearl Jam. The bootlegs. In the dark of night as we drove, I imagined myself there. It seemed like a good show.
Finally we got to go together. And it's a fucking treasure. It's uplifting without the cheese. Grunge can vibrate goodness. Sometimes seeing the pseudo sense of worship that is a rock concert can be off putting. But when I see it at a Pearl Jam show, I feel like these guys deserve to be rock gods every night they go out there and do their thing. Seeing the people around me getting into it, I feel as though even though they're letting themselves float away, they are grounded good people to be in the vicinity of.
A couple of similarities between the two I've been two. A shit load of rain. And late late late nights.
When I was at their Alpine Valley show, it was night 1 of 2. That was the rainy day, a wet soaked, cold one. It was also two days after a fiasco of a moving experience where the movers didn't show up and my girlfriend and I had to make car trip after car trip until 6am. No sleep. Yet the discomfort of tiredness and damp chills was soothed by the crooning and riffing. Like I said, it's uplifting. A sort of dirty, lax, unpretentious church. Then my brother's friend got too drunk and needed someone to drive him to our campsite. He couldn't remember where he parked exactly. We embarked on a romp through fields through to other fields searching until the lot was mostly cleared out. I continued to magically find burrs on my shoes for weeks after removing any and all that appeared suddenly on my shoe laces. Ghost burrs.
Last night, Pearl Jam played for half an hour before impending storms were looking via radar to smack Wrigley Field. They were pressured to take a break, and the Pearl Jam guys seem to take heart the safety of their fans after some were trampled at a Denmark show in 2000. So the field was cleared, the storms hit. Our seats were on the 3rd row of the upper deck, along the 3rd base dugout. Just barely shielded by the overhang, the east blowing wind kept us from being drenched. The spray was refreshing, and lighting seared the skyline. It was beautiful. It passed. We waited. We worried about the show being able to continue. There was that Wrigley Field curfew, which we were pleased to learn when they finally took back to the stage at 11:30pm, had been lifted. "Ernie Banks used to say, 'let's play two,'" Eddie Vedder quoted and continued with his add-on. "Let's play til two." Everyone went nuts. 38 songs were played. Quite a few were from Yield, one of my favorites. They also played Bugs from Vitalogy and people were geeked. Showed that some true fans were there, to get psyched over a rarely played track. I'm glad they got to finish. Out of all the people who've done Wrigley Field concerts, it seems to mean the most to Eddie Vedder. A Cub's die hard. An Ernie Banks fan, who joined him onstage after the rain delay.
Rain blown by the wind at Wrigley Field, delaying the Pearl Jam concert.It ended a little after 2am. Knowing public transit would be packed, and infrequent, via the bus to get back to Logan Square, my brother and I walked home. 2.81 miles. I enjoy a good walk, so does he, so it was tolerable. We were energized, though exhausted and in a pleasant daze. I thought about how it now being July 20th, it would have been my dad's 63rd birthday if he were still alive. I thought about how he would have been pleased to see my brother and I spending time together seeing a great show. I also thought about how one time when my brother and I were in high school, he overheard us talking about punk music. He asked what we were talking about. We replied that he wouldn't know what we were talking about, that it was about punk music. He said that he liked some punk music. We laughed and said "sure, sure, name a punk band!" He said that he liked Pearl Jam. "Haha, Dad! Pearl Jam isn't punk music! Oh boy oh boy, geez Dad." I felt bad about that. Like we were barring him entry into a little club.
Last night Pearl Jam played a track from their upcoming album. It was a hardcore one, perhaps quite a bit punk influenced. My dad got the last laugh.
We also saw my friend Dr. Kenneth Noisewater at the show. Read his blog - The Gancer!
Pearl Jam is a special thing for me and my brother. I inadvertently turned him onto it when he was in 7th grade. Shopping at a music store in the Auburn Mall (Auburn, ME) a store since closed and turned into something else, maybe a Bath and Body Works or a smoothie place, I picked out a birthday gift for him. At random, I chose a cassette tape of Pearl Jam's Vs. because I liked the image of the snarling sheep warped by a wide angle lens. He fell in love with it, and soon bought the tape of Ten. And then we got CD players so he got the subsequent albums after that on CD. He got really into them. One time I was talking to a friend on AIM, my brother came in the room, looked over my shoulder, saw he had mentioned Pearl Jam. My brother got me to ask him if he was a Pearl Jam freak. My friend's reply was: I like Pearl Jam but I wouldn't say that I'm a freak of theirs.
My brother went to see them play as much as he could in college, was in a Pearl Jam cover band too, and bought all of their bootleg CDs. His collection was wide and deep. I remember during one semester break when I too had moved on to college, riding with him when he went to participate in a nordic ski race at Lake Placid, where the old Olympic trails were, and we listened to a shit load of Pearl Jam. The bootlegs. In the dark of night as we drove, I imagined myself there. It seemed like a good show.
Finally we got to go together. And it's a fucking treasure. It's uplifting without the cheese. Grunge can vibrate goodness. Sometimes seeing the pseudo sense of worship that is a rock concert can be off putting. But when I see it at a Pearl Jam show, I feel like these guys deserve to be rock gods every night they go out there and do their thing. Seeing the people around me getting into it, I feel as though even though they're letting themselves float away, they are grounded good people to be in the vicinity of.
A couple of similarities between the two I've been two. A shit load of rain. And late late late nights.
When I was at their Alpine Valley show, it was night 1 of 2. That was the rainy day, a wet soaked, cold one. It was also two days after a fiasco of a moving experience where the movers didn't show up and my girlfriend and I had to make car trip after car trip until 6am. No sleep. Yet the discomfort of tiredness and damp chills was soothed by the crooning and riffing. Like I said, it's uplifting. A sort of dirty, lax, unpretentious church. Then my brother's friend got too drunk and needed someone to drive him to our campsite. He couldn't remember where he parked exactly. We embarked on a romp through fields through to other fields searching until the lot was mostly cleared out. I continued to magically find burrs on my shoes for weeks after removing any and all that appeared suddenly on my shoe laces. Ghost burrs.
Last night, Pearl Jam played for half an hour before impending storms were looking via radar to smack Wrigley Field. They were pressured to take a break, and the Pearl Jam guys seem to take heart the safety of their fans after some were trampled at a Denmark show in 2000. So the field was cleared, the storms hit. Our seats were on the 3rd row of the upper deck, along the 3rd base dugout. Just barely shielded by the overhang, the east blowing wind kept us from being drenched. The spray was refreshing, and lighting seared the skyline. It was beautiful. It passed. We waited. We worried about the show being able to continue. There was that Wrigley Field curfew, which we were pleased to learn when they finally took back to the stage at 11:30pm, had been lifted. "Ernie Banks used to say, 'let's play two,'" Eddie Vedder quoted and continued with his add-on. "Let's play til two." Everyone went nuts. 38 songs were played. Quite a few were from Yield, one of my favorites. They also played Bugs from Vitalogy and people were geeked. Showed that some true fans were there, to get psyched over a rarely played track. I'm glad they got to finish. Out of all the people who've done Wrigley Field concerts, it seems to mean the most to Eddie Vedder. A Cub's die hard. An Ernie Banks fan, who joined him onstage after the rain delay.
Rain blown by the wind at Wrigley Field, delaying the Pearl Jam concert.It ended a little after 2am. Knowing public transit would be packed, and infrequent, via the bus to get back to Logan Square, my brother and I walked home. 2.81 miles. I enjoy a good walk, so does he, so it was tolerable. We were energized, though exhausted and in a pleasant daze. I thought about how it now being July 20th, it would have been my dad's 63rd birthday if he were still alive. I thought about how he would have been pleased to see my brother and I spending time together seeing a great show. I also thought about how one time when my brother and I were in high school, he overheard us talking about punk music. He asked what we were talking about. We replied that he wouldn't know what we were talking about, that it was about punk music. He said that he liked some punk music. We laughed and said "sure, sure, name a punk band!" He said that he liked Pearl Jam. "Haha, Dad! Pearl Jam isn't punk music! Oh boy oh boy, geez Dad." I felt bad about that. Like we were barring him entry into a little club. Last night Pearl Jam played a track from their upcoming album. It was a hardcore one, perhaps quite a bit punk influenced. My dad got the last laugh.
We also saw my friend Dr. Kenneth Noisewater at the show. Read his blog - The Gancer!
July 1, 2013
Rain Slickers, man.
Sometimes I fantasize about walking in the pouring rain. Like it'd be refreshing. Last week I got caught in the rain twice. The first time I was coming up from the underground part of the Chicago Blueline. It was suddenly very dark out and I wondered, shit, how late did I work? Then I saw black clouds and I thought, shit, I better book it when I get off at the stop. Pulling up at California, and stepping out off the train, boom! Thunder, lightning, and torrential down pour. I hunkered down in the entrance for 10 minutes until it lessened. I thought it was exciting though. Shared some glances with others that had a similar plan, and I was like, this is a nice sense of community.
The next day I was crabby. I was trying to work out something in my mind and while walking home from the Blueline, it rained. A heavy rain. It scattered my thoughts. I pulled out my umbrella from my man bag. Soon after, a gust of wind popped it out so it was concave, facing up. I flipped my wrist to right it. The wind was persistent. A few of these back and forth spars caused the fabric to rip off from the spokes. This irritated me and I cussed and hit it against a sign post. It wasn't my most patient moment. I had felt myself getting soaked. My man bag getting soaked. And instead of feeling recharged by the rain, my anger was fed.
I thought about my destroyed umbrella as a symbol of the day. I thought about ducking into a Walgreen's, but did I want to spend 7 bucks on something the Chicago winds would mess with again? And again. And again. It becomes its own line item to budget: umbrella supply. Plus I've been getting this minor form of OCD lately: during a recent Walgreen's checkout, the terminal asked me if I wanted to donate $1 to fight diabetes, my brain said "if you don't donate right now, you'll get diabetes" and so being soaking wet, I didn't want that kind of pressure.
Rain slickers, man, rain slickers. My consciousness is catching up to their existence, and I'm liking the idea of quitting umbrellas altogether. As I walked some more and looked periodically at the mess of my umbrella's remaining structure, I started to feel good about myself. I had taken out my aggression for the first time in a long time. The day's shortcomings were not taken out on a wife, or a small animal. Instead I demolished an item that's not actually that useful in the windy city.
Rain slickers, man. After a crummy day, the image of a bright yellow rain slicker was a hopeful beam peaking through the overcast.
The next day I was crabby. I was trying to work out something in my mind and while walking home from the Blueline, it rained. A heavy rain. It scattered my thoughts. I pulled out my umbrella from my man bag. Soon after, a gust of wind popped it out so it was concave, facing up. I flipped my wrist to right it. The wind was persistent. A few of these back and forth spars caused the fabric to rip off from the spokes. This irritated me and I cussed and hit it against a sign post. It wasn't my most patient moment. I had felt myself getting soaked. My man bag getting soaked. And instead of feeling recharged by the rain, my anger was fed.
I thought about my destroyed umbrella as a symbol of the day. I thought about ducking into a Walgreen's, but did I want to spend 7 bucks on something the Chicago winds would mess with again? And again. And again. It becomes its own line item to budget: umbrella supply. Plus I've been getting this minor form of OCD lately: during a recent Walgreen's checkout, the terminal asked me if I wanted to donate $1 to fight diabetes, my brain said "if you don't donate right now, you'll get diabetes" and so being soaking wet, I didn't want that kind of pressure.
Rain slickers, man, rain slickers. My consciousness is catching up to their existence, and I'm liking the idea of quitting umbrellas altogether. As I walked some more and looked periodically at the mess of my umbrella's remaining structure, I started to feel good about myself. I had taken out my aggression for the first time in a long time. The day's shortcomings were not taken out on a wife, or a small animal. Instead I demolished an item that's not actually that useful in the windy city.
Rain slickers, man. After a crummy day, the image of a bright yellow rain slicker was a hopeful beam peaking through the overcast.
June 2, 2013
Running Thoughts Rolling
Again, I ran. Two weekend days in a row to make me feeling accomplished on a cellular level.
Passing by Hot Doug's, quite a popular hot dog joint in Chicago, usually only open two hours a day, long lines withstanding, there was indeed a long line. I've yet to go. Of course being out for a run I didn't have my wallet on me. I thought about proposing a "creative begging" to the last person in line. If I run up to Irving Park (Hot Doug's being just a couple of blocks north of Belmont) and back (just shy of 2 miles) before you get to the door, you buy me a hot dog, deal? But I chickened out, which is probably the more appropriate behavior here in how to follow through on such an idea.
I saw many others running, most listening to iPods through ear buds. I wondered if I'd feel more motivated while running if I were listening to adrenaline boosting music, I probably would, would probably last longer with pick ups. Though, if I were to look at running as a more therapeutic activity, which is a big part of why I'm running, I do appreciate letting my ears out in the open, to immerse in the airwaves of city sounds and the wisps of nature between voids of concrete. I get enough motivation from the echoing in my mind of my old cross country coach, Dan Campbell, saying "Come on Phillips!" I hear this and it helps me run faster. For you Campbell, balls to the walls! He was the inspiration for my "Coach" character in my novel Votary Nerves.
While running across the Belmont bridge over the river, I heard a sudden sound wave, like amplifiers being cranked by quick twist of the knob at a street festival. Coming from Western up by Mariano's and Lane Tech, where there was a carnival last weekend. I wondered if the carnival stuck around and what if a sound wave could be so amped that it'd knock a man down, a man running on a bridge, a man who couldn't react quick enough when the force bent his hip over the railing.
City sounds can move a man.
Passing by Hot Doug's, quite a popular hot dog joint in Chicago, usually only open two hours a day, long lines withstanding, there was indeed a long line. I've yet to go. Of course being out for a run I didn't have my wallet on me. I thought about proposing a "creative begging" to the last person in line. If I run up to Irving Park (Hot Doug's being just a couple of blocks north of Belmont) and back (just shy of 2 miles) before you get to the door, you buy me a hot dog, deal? But I chickened out, which is probably the more appropriate behavior here in how to follow through on such an idea.
I saw many others running, most listening to iPods through ear buds. I wondered if I'd feel more motivated while running if I were listening to adrenaline boosting music, I probably would, would probably last longer with pick ups. Though, if I were to look at running as a more therapeutic activity, which is a big part of why I'm running, I do appreciate letting my ears out in the open, to immerse in the airwaves of city sounds and the wisps of nature between voids of concrete. I get enough motivation from the echoing in my mind of my old cross country coach, Dan Campbell, saying "Come on Phillips!" I hear this and it helps me run faster. For you Campbell, balls to the walls! He was the inspiration for my "Coach" character in my novel Votary Nerves.
While running across the Belmont bridge over the river, I heard a sudden sound wave, like amplifiers being cranked by quick twist of the knob at a street festival. Coming from Western up by Mariano's and Lane Tech, where there was a carnival last weekend. I wondered if the carnival stuck around and what if a sound wave could be so amped that it'd knock a man down, a man running on a bridge, a man who couldn't react quick enough when the force bent his hip over the railing.
City sounds can move a man.
June 1, 2013
Running Dickhead
Roughly a week ago, I recognized, I've been feeling older. A bit of high blood pressure going on (I worked that into a new short story, so it worked out as fodder). Been eating better, certainly doing a bit of walking. But my body could use a push, an upping on the cardiac flow, so I took advantage of the long Memorial Day Weekend and went for a jog.
At first, my body felt surprisingly good. It was refreshing. I even pushed some sprints. I went up and down a trail along the Chicago river, some of the fresh feeling was snuffed by the smell of sewage coming from the waterway, but that soon passed. Must have only been a pocket of sludge floating there.
The next day I ran a bit west, twirled around some diagonal, neighbor-hoody side streets. I thought; I do like this running thing. I've never been much into gyms. Running on treadmills, going from weight station to weight station, feels sort of stiff, non-inspirational for me as far as fitness goes. But having been a cross-country runner and cross-country skier throughout high school, activities I did enjoy, that sense of fast exploration was awakened. Running is freeing in regards to that. Checking out weird pockets of the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods without eating up a large chunk of the day as my occasional walkabouts would.
Wednesday, I was stressed about a work thing, and went for quite the run in the evening, pushing some sprints, even some pickups lasting several minutes. The endorphin buzz! Just what I needed. So the runner's high addiction may be something I'll be dealing with this summer and not willing to sway on, unless the MSG in knock-off potato chips gets me feeling even better!
This afternoon, a guy tried handing me a brochure for what looked like a pizza place to me while I was running. He may have read my mind because I was thinking about what carbs I'd have later, excited for them, but man, what do you think I'm going to do with a pizza brochure while doing my run? Clutch it and look like an irony of body work? I did pig out on beer battered onion rings earlier in the day, but that is a contradiction behind closed doors. Plus my hands aren't going to want any responsibility. What a weird move guy.
One of the things I've noticed while running is I see a lot of elderly people walking, or hobbling, with a cane, real slow. And I feel guilty, like, should I go help them out? I feel like I should. That my running around all young and peppy is flaunting something they lack right in their faces. But I also wonder, if I did stop and help them walk around to wherever they may be going, maybe that would be annoying to them, perhaps they just want to go for a stroll in peace and clear their mind. And it would take up a lot of time, for me, if I'm to note something selfish.
Once a few years back an old lady with massive swollen ankles asked me to help her to the grocery store, so I was nice, and did. But she creeped me out when she started offering me a quarter each for all these jobs around her apartment she wanted me to do, which sounded like a lot, and she wasn't asking sweetly, she was stating what she wanted me to do and then dangling a quarter like it would get done faster. Then I pictured myself becoming a permanent low wage employee in her apartment, feeling guilty about leaving her, and thus, never leaving her dark apartment, doing foot rubs and filling a jar with quarters. Because I felt so guilty in this imagined scenario, I panicked after she had me walk her around Jewel at the pace of a dying turtle, so I transitioned a Jewel employee in my place. In all fairness, I was already late for a film shoot, even later because I had tried to be a nice guy, so I felt compelled to get another young man to take my shift with her.
But I feel as though I need to look out more for old people. Maybe not stopping my jog to serve as a second cane, though it may be a dose of companionship. But I'd like to place this guilt and desire to help more efficiently, instead of just thinking it and going off as a running dickhead, waving off pizza brochures from some poor guy just trying to keep his franchise afloat. After all, feeling old is what made me want to get up and run around. Someday, I won't be able to run.
At first, my body felt surprisingly good. It was refreshing. I even pushed some sprints. I went up and down a trail along the Chicago river, some of the fresh feeling was snuffed by the smell of sewage coming from the waterway, but that soon passed. Must have only been a pocket of sludge floating there.
The next day I ran a bit west, twirled around some diagonal, neighbor-hoody side streets. I thought; I do like this running thing. I've never been much into gyms. Running on treadmills, going from weight station to weight station, feels sort of stiff, non-inspirational for me as far as fitness goes. But having been a cross-country runner and cross-country skier throughout high school, activities I did enjoy, that sense of fast exploration was awakened. Running is freeing in regards to that. Checking out weird pockets of the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods without eating up a large chunk of the day as my occasional walkabouts would.
Wednesday, I was stressed about a work thing, and went for quite the run in the evening, pushing some sprints, even some pickups lasting several minutes. The endorphin buzz! Just what I needed. So the runner's high addiction may be something I'll be dealing with this summer and not willing to sway on, unless the MSG in knock-off potato chips gets me feeling even better!
This afternoon, a guy tried handing me a brochure for what looked like a pizza place to me while I was running. He may have read my mind because I was thinking about what carbs I'd have later, excited for them, but man, what do you think I'm going to do with a pizza brochure while doing my run? Clutch it and look like an irony of body work? I did pig out on beer battered onion rings earlier in the day, but that is a contradiction behind closed doors. Plus my hands aren't going to want any responsibility. What a weird move guy.
One of the things I've noticed while running is I see a lot of elderly people walking, or hobbling, with a cane, real slow. And I feel guilty, like, should I go help them out? I feel like I should. That my running around all young and peppy is flaunting something they lack right in their faces. But I also wonder, if I did stop and help them walk around to wherever they may be going, maybe that would be annoying to them, perhaps they just want to go for a stroll in peace and clear their mind. And it would take up a lot of time, for me, if I'm to note something selfish.
Once a few years back an old lady with massive swollen ankles asked me to help her to the grocery store, so I was nice, and did. But she creeped me out when she started offering me a quarter each for all these jobs around her apartment she wanted me to do, which sounded like a lot, and she wasn't asking sweetly, she was stating what she wanted me to do and then dangling a quarter like it would get done faster. Then I pictured myself becoming a permanent low wage employee in her apartment, feeling guilty about leaving her, and thus, never leaving her dark apartment, doing foot rubs and filling a jar with quarters. Because I felt so guilty in this imagined scenario, I panicked after she had me walk her around Jewel at the pace of a dying turtle, so I transitioned a Jewel employee in my place. In all fairness, I was already late for a film shoot, even later because I had tried to be a nice guy, so I felt compelled to get another young man to take my shift with her.
But I feel as though I need to look out more for old people. Maybe not stopping my jog to serve as a second cane, though it may be a dose of companionship. But I'd like to place this guilt and desire to help more efficiently, instead of just thinking it and going off as a running dickhead, waving off pizza brochures from some poor guy just trying to keep his franchise afloat. After all, feeling old is what made me want to get up and run around. Someday, I won't be able to run.
