In lieu of email responses:
I’ve now been awake for almost twenty-one hours straight, and I just got back from Chicago (public apology to OGIC: the flight got delayed, I wrote down your number wrong, and I plan to plunge my head in a vat of boiling water when either an abundance of spare time or inveterate idiocy comes my way). Managed to squeeze in a Ferris Bueller moment at the top of the Sears Tower (which involved suffering through a Chicago propaganda film before getting access to the elevator) and salivated like crazy over all the incredible art deco in the limited time I had. And, damn, those grand el platforms are something. There were also two fantastic modular towers that resembled lint rollers from above right by the Sun-Times building. Looking at the grid, I now understand more fully what Jane Jacobs was talking about.
Also, Lake Michigan is a bigass lake. That much is ostensible from all known topographical diagrams, but once you’re standing on the edge of the East Side as the sun comes up, this majestic body of water becomes suitably imposing — more so than Lake Tahoe’s pristine beauty. Must return to Chicago soon with more time to check out the town. It’s a gorgeous city. The people are nice. I only encountered one angry person at O’Hare when I purchased a postcard.
Thanks all for the kind emails, which I’ll try to reply to, but I’ve got a deadline for yet another review tomorrow. As the less-than-two-weeks-before-opening clock ticks down, work on Wrestling continues. But we’re in damn good shape.
I understand from our stage manager that the postcards have come in and they look fab. Haven’t seen them yet, but I have a limited supply to mail. If you’re interested, drop me an email.
Will try to check in before our first show, but looking doubtful. Thanks to all the amazing Superfriends for filling in.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
well, you’ll just have to come back then. I was sad to miss you.