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Not really. It’s not in meatspace. You can’t walk in and riffle through merchandise. You can’t shoplift. It’s just another page in the cloud. But you can pre-order my new book or buy some of my old ones or purchase some art or send me some money to make you a picture. So, I guess in the important aspect of relieving you of your funds, my new store is just like any other store.‌
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‌ The main reason I opened this new virtual door right now is because I’m publishing Soviet Stamps on my own and need some sort of online place to send people who want it. The other reason is that it allows me to take credit card payments without using Paypal. I don’t know about the ethics of the people behind Square, but they have to better than those of Peter Thiel.‌
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About the same time I was hanging out my virtual shingle, there was an announcement that Atomix Coffee would be closing at the end of the month. That coffeeshop has had a remarkable run of nineteen years. That kind of longevity is unheard of. Keeping the doors open on $3 cups of joe is a tough racket. I stopped in and bought a mug to have as a keepsake.‌
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Atomix was never my favorite. For one, I didn’t live close enough to walk there, for another, the space was awkward and kind of cold. Like a retro lunch/break room in a nameless factory. Nevertheless, I liked the people who ran it and worked there, so I’d pop in when I was in the area.‌
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Of course I also had a couple art shows there. Seems like I’ve had an art show in about every coffeeshop in Chicago. Not many galleries though.‌
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‌Apparently another coffeeshop will take Atomix’ place, but once the Gagarin mural is painted over and the decor is changed, a bit of my local history will be whitewashed. There will be one less reason for me to linger at the corner of Chicago and Damen. That’s how it goes. I wonder whether I’ll miss it? Ask me in a year or two.‌
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‌ —Here are some doodles from Marc Maron’s show at the Vic.‌

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—This is a sketch of Mute Duo playing at the California Clipper. I’m currently working on album art for their new record, which is killer. Makes me think of Paris, Texas. It’ll be out early next year.‌
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My fourth book was supposed to be my third. I thought I’d finished it in 2015, after going away to a Minnesota artists’ retreat near the boundary waters, the birthplace of every mosquito that ever was. I sent it to agents and publishers and none of them wanted it. I kept trying for a time, but then shelved it.

In the following couple years, I had four or five other book ideas meet similar fates; though I didn’t get nearly as deep into them as this one. It kept eating at me. Last year, Jerry at Tortoise accepted Music to My Eyes so I put most of my energy into getting that book together. Then, sometime this year, Soviet Stamps started tugging at my sleeve again.

I reread it and decided to dive back in. I asked one of the editors of my first book to take a crack at it, then, when she didn’t discourage me from going on, incorporated her suggestions. The experience of making the music book basically soup to nuts made it a lot easier conceive of completing this thing myself. I decided not to sit around waiting for another round of rejections and made up my own book imprint. I’m calling it Pictures & Blather, just like this newsletter. 

I’ve realized while trying to get the music book out there that I’m peddling a print with some words in it, more or less. Thinking of books as art objects brings them closer to what I’ve been doing my whole life. Before that, I was dealing with an impenetrable monolith called the book world. My few inroads were mainly as a reviewer, but I rarely felt part of any sort of community. Now that no one is paying me to review books, I can disengage more completely.

In many ways it feels like I’m back where I was after graduating art school. I take jobs to get by and I do my artwork. The two are often not connected. I can live with that. The silver lining of no one giving a fuck is that you can do whatever you want.

The format of Soviet Stamps will be similar to that of Music to My Eyes. Limited-edition hardcover, foil-stamped. I’m sending it to the printers in Michigan this week. Shooting for a release in late-December/early-January. I’ll tell you more when I know more.

—The Chicago Neighborhood Guidebook is now available. I wrote about the Heart of Chicago, where I lived for seven years.

I came home home a couple weeks ago to a children’s birthday party underway in the paved-over back yard of my building. I’d seen a sign on the door a few weeks before about some sort of block party and made sure to be away most of the day, but the street was open and there was no more than the usual noise from the idiot neighbors from across the way.

Daniel and Cindy, who live on the first floor, offered me a piece of chocolate cake before I could make my way upstairs. While I waited for Cindy to cut me piece, Daniel started asking me about my artwork. I’ve never said more than a few words to the guy. He always seemed like a meathead. Also, he hangs out with the cretins from the inbred rabbit warren across the way. They have lawn chairs on the sidewalk and are out there day and night, drinking and screaming at each other. One time I was awakened by a screaming match between Daniel and a couple cops at 5am, right under my window. I steer clear of him and his crowd as a matter of course.

But that night I couldn’t just nod and keep moving as usual; I’d accepted that piece of cake, so I had to make nice and talk to the guy. Before I knew it, he beckoned me into his living room to show me a budget-motel-grade painting of a Parisian café. He wanted to know if I could make him a sketch of the Eiffel Tower. Then, to my amazement I replied that I would. For $100. The amount gave him pause, but then he agreed. Just make sure and sign it, he insisted. “That way I know it’s real. So when you get famous, it’ll be worth money,” he said, with a goofy grin on his face. Just then, Cindy came back with my cake and I said goodbye and went upstairs.

The next day I knocked out the Eiffel Tower picture, popped it in a frame, and left it by Daniel’s door. A few days later, an envelope with a hundred dollar bill was left under my door, with a note from Daniel and Cindy, saying they loved the painting.

All those years of never turning down chocolate cake (or dessert of any kind, for that matter) finally paid off.