Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Go!

Yesterday, it was beautiful outside. I parked myself on a low wall in Chicago's Near North district, peppered with hotels, chain restaurants, and deep-dish pizza joints. At a "don't walk" sign, a man started asking bystanders to help him get to State Street. "I dunno," said one guy. "Umm..." another started to point the opposite direction. I pointed him in the right direction, and realized that was in a tourist district. State is one of the main streets through downtown, and one of the easiest to find.

I was downtown with my banjo, not just busking, but playing a role in The Go Game.

The Go Game is a San Francisco-based company that designs large-scale games, clue hunts, and scavengers hunts (usually, but not always, for corporate clients sending their staffs on team-building or training retreats). 

Teams were told my location, told to look for a street performer, and to dance to his music. Once they had danced enough, I gave them a clue. Simple enough. Most teams did fine.

One team, however, tore off down the block as I noodled around on a blues figure. Two of them slowed down, looked at me, and kept going. They crossed the street as the red hand blinked, waited for the next "walk" sign, then crossed back towards me.

They watched me play for a minute, then some of them started dancing. One of the team members said "Wait. You're not just a random guy on the street? Or... wait? Are you?"

That moment is what these games are for: The dawning realization that looking entails looking at everything

Once someone starts wondering who is in on it, the whole urban scene becomes a rich field, planted with conspirators in the fun. That is how it should always be.

A Brief Coffee Post

Thanks, mom, for sending this NPR piece my way:





This is exactly what I love to do.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Crossword

Heather and I have had our mornings off this week. She doesn't leave for her job until 11 or 12, and I don't leave for mine until 12:30. 

I've been waking up first, crawling over her, and heading downstairs to eat. Inevitably, this wakes her up. Inevitably, she tries to overcome that, and rolls back over.

Meanwhile, I rustle up whatever coffee beans are currently the freshest or lightest roasted in the house. I haven't replenished my stock of green coffee, so I'm stuck with either A) Starbucks-roasted Costco coffee (too dark) or B) six-month-old specialty coffee that I dredged out of a box during the kitchen move-in (too stale). I usually choose B.

I brew a cup, and set another filter in the cone brewer while I heat the baked oatmeal. Then, I sit down with oatmeal, coffee, and the Times to read.

Even though we live in Chicago, we get the New York Times every morning. Even though she's tried to sleep in, Heather comes down just as I'm about to follow a story from page 1 into the section. Brew second cup of coffee. Turn to the arts page. Start the crossword.

The New York Times crossword increases in difficulty as the week goes on, with Monday as the easiest. We've cut our teeth on the even-easier-than-Monday puzzles in Chicago's second-best daily transit paper, the Redeye. Its weekly cousin, the Chicago Reader, has no puzzle, but we don't fault it for that, as its reportage is far superior.

We aced the Monday puzzle, stumbled a few times on Tuesday's puzzle (Old Indian Ruler: Chief or Rajah?), and on today's puzzle, a house of cards built on one  long, difficult clue, we were stumped. 

But next Monday is coming, and we're getting better. 

Monday, August 13, 2012

Wind Farm


Driving I-65 south from Chicago to Indianapolis, one encounters: 1) corn 2) billboards for "adult" stores 3) the dairy-farm equivalent of South of the Border ("We double dairy you to exit #220!") and 4) A wind farm.

In daylight, in a light breeze, the farm seems to creep up on the highway. One turbine quickly gives way to a horizon-full, their three-pronged heads spinning like oversized lawn decorations. Taken in the aggregate, the spinning becomes unpredictable: one turbine's blade will jump up out of the field, followed by twenty others almost (but not quite) in unison. 

Hundreds of these towers redefine the cornfields, reminding the passing driver of the flatness of the earth, of the lowness of the ground. The tall white structures act as the scrapers of a downtown, calling the gaze upwards, reminding the hinterland and the suburbs of their dependence. Here, however, there are no suburbs. Stretching almost to the horizon in one direction and past it in the other, the towers call the eye up as quickly as it has dropped. The spacing between them is just enough to create this oscillation in the eye. 

Driving I-65 north from Indianapolis to Chicago, one encounters the wind farm first. In darkness, in almost no wind, they disappear. The cornfields, the darkness, the lack of head- and tail-lights stretches away. Then, in perfect concert, a hundred red lights appear, like the eyes of a spider reflected in a flashlight, like an invading army, like a grid superimposed scores of feet above the ground.

Unlike the uncoordinated, wind-driven turbine blades, reaching up one or twenty or three at a time, all of the lights behave as one. They are timed at intervals longer than a high-tension tower or a skyscraper. For three or four seconds, the prairie is empty. For three or four seconds, it is occupied. Then the grid disappears for three or four seconds. Et cetera, et cetera.

It is just long enough for a passing glance, just long enough to look away and look back and say "I need to get some sleep." 

But like so many unbelievable things, this flashing red grid, this false downtown of monstrous do-gooders is real. Even coming around the sharp corner of a mountain pass in West Virginia, driving just-too-close to the blades of one of these turbines that rose out of the valley did not have this effect. Their sheer numbers, the way that they spread across the corn and hijack the eye, their eerie coordination, are unsettling. Even as I understand and wholeheartedly encourage the planting of these odd trees, the meta-perception of them--their combined affect--makes me long for the hidden coal and nuclear plants, spewing invisible pollution, setting no blinking red grids over the cornfields. Their grids are more dangerous, but (and because) they are imperceptible.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

IS THIS REAL LIFE?

Yes it is.

NPR has the story here.

Let me use this brief post to say that stuff like this always makes me happy.

1) Because it is art that interacts so straightforwardly with everyday life and

2) Because the addition of the wildlife (perhaps more accurately, tame-life; livestock?) speaks directly to the child in me; the same child who spent time growing up at the local dairy farm having conversations with the cows.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Untitled


Just north of the Chicago River, the river that was reversed -- the river that's more of an urban canal than a true river like the ebullient, island-studded Susquehanna -- there's a door. 

Down along the river, below street level, but above the waterline, like the holes where the groundhogs dig in along real rivers, are the waterfront cafes and restaurants.

The steel bridges cross the river at a thousand points. These bridges are the truth of Chicago, their top arches of sinuous steel, not the pure triangles of the Rust Belt. They are straining towards respectability, and that straining imparts the arches with a rough beauty. Elegant but naked, they stretch across the reversed river.

Clark Street walks on the back of one of these bridges, north, out of the Loop. On the western side, between a bakery and a CVS drugstore, the big brown door could almost be overlooked.

Like the bridges, it strains. It wants to evoke hiddenness, so it must hide, at least halfheartedly. The hiding, however, is a ruse; it wants to be noticed. It is the door to a speakeasy.

Inside, the long black staircase is exposed to the rooms beneath, at the level of the cafes: below the street, above the waterline, though the waterline is two blocks south. 

The room is cavernous: large and dark, yes, but also like a cavern in that its size contains small nooks with tables and booths. They have curtains drawn across them and those curtains leak light onto the main floor. Dapper servers appear and disappear. Around every corner, it seems that there is a different bar, with different bartenders all dressed in black vests and starched white shirts. At the deep end of the cavern, a jazz quintet tuned up.

Not quite well-dressed, well-spoken, or well-funded enough to secure a table, we found some deep armchairs, forgotten in a corner. We watched the light from the outside as the doorman opened that large, straining door. At the top of the steps, everyone assessed the plunge, and the staff assessed everyone. We ourselves had been so assessed, and that was why we were sitting in the corner in red armchairs, the waitstaff passing back and forth in front of us. 

It was what we wanted. We didn't want the expensive food, and we didn't want to drink more once the drinks were gone. We, too, were straining.

The staff's caps and suspenders, their somber airs, enhanced the illusion of hiddenness, but the patrons undid it. They, too, were straining. They gave off the forced air of "this is a good time." Their sidelong glances at each other, at the staff, at the man or woman down the bar, undid them. 

At the end of our glasses, having taken too many sips of melting ice, having visited the bathroom, having waited for the right tempo, we stood up. We walked the length of the room, dodging those noticing and being noticed and remaining ourselves unnoticed until we stepped up by the band. They overshadowed the dance floor, the trumpet player occasionally leaning over a railing to blast a figure out of the cavern, towards the stairs.

We hadn't danced in a few months, not to a live band, not with so many people noticing. We two-stepped, swung out, and remembered. We only watched each other, and we took up half the floor until a few others got up to dance. Then we danced close, following the traditional Lindyhop "slot" back and forth on the floor. From the hidden alcoves, a woman watched us, smiling. When we stopped between dances for water, the bartender shook hands. 

We danced once more and then left. We had stopped straining, and had let the river flow in us. We stopped on the bridge on our way back south.


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Thursday, August 9, 2012

David Wax is Back!

For those of you who weren't reading back in February 2011, or who had forgotten, there's this great band called David Wax Museum. Soon, they'll be releasing an album, and now, as part of their promotion for that album, you can download a pay-what-you-wish sampler of their work: two preview tracks, two old tracks, and a live recording. It's  below, or at this address: http://noisetrade.com/davidwaxmuseum

I cannot vouch for the spamminess or lack thereof at Noisetrade.com, having just downloaded this sampler myself. I can, however, vouch for this awesome band.

I vouched for them in the post linked at the top (and seriously, it's linked right here, just read it).

This is one of the bands that I would go to see at any time. They've taken popular/independent music's now-waning interest in American folk music and done something really unique with it. As anyone who listens to a lot of the current folk-revival movement can confirm, that's not easy to do. Also, they put on a killer live show.