Letter

Last Tuesday I went to Stanley’s Tavern for a book-release party. Stanley’s is situated at the corner of 43rd & Ashland, right by one of the entrances to the Union Stock Yard. It’s one of the oldest bars in the city. The book we were there to celebrate was Slaughterhouse by Dominic Pacyga. It is a history of Chicago’s stockyards, so Stanley’s was the perfect setting. I got there a little early but the place was already filling up and Pacyga was signing books as fast as the folks from U of C Press could sell them. By the 6:30 start time there was nowhere to stand, let alone sit. It was clear there wouldn’t be much reading or discussion. A few people bought books and just turned around and left—a problem any writer with a new book would love to have. Then again this wasn’t the typical lit event crowd. Most were older and seemed to have more ties to the stockyards than the world of letters. Many were either related to Pacyga or had known him since childhood.

Bill Savage, who was to lead the talk, did his best to quiet the crowd long enough to introduce the writer and assure everyone that they could go back to their drinks and conversation in a few short minutes. Then Pacyga read from his book, perched on a rung of a barstool so he could be seen just above his audience. Then it was over.

Saturday I was part of a Chicago Literary Hall of Fame reading at the Chicago Book Expo. The city was in the middle of the season’s first snowstorm as I made my way to Columbia College in the South Loop. A bunch of small presses were peddling their wares on the first floor. I made a quick circuit around the room and waved hellos to familiar faces, then went up to the eighth floor for the reading. A windowless classroom held the eight or nine event readers along with their significant others. The poster I’d designed leaned in the corner. I listened to excerpts from Bellow, Brooks, Ferber, and others, then read my bit from Winesburg, Ohio. Then it was over and I was back out in the snow after a few goodbyes. 

Last fall I spent a bunch of time in the common room on the first floor of the Chicago Cultural Center. I sketched the people who came there all the time and eavesdropped on their conversations. I hope to make this one of the chapters of a book about Chicago; a kind of portrait of the city in pictures, my own version of A City on The Make. Got a ways to go before that happens, but this is a start.

I’ve been spending a lot of the time at the Skylark lately. I have two weekly shifts working door there, as well as the occasional fill-in shift if one of the other doormen need a night off. So, as with any place I spend significant time at, there will inevitably be drawings and paintings. I can only do small sketches during work shifts, but I’ve started coming in early or on off days to work on paintings as well. Not sure yet how many there’ll be, but this is the first finished one. I’ve made prints of it available here. 

Luc Sante has been one of my favorite writers for many years. I shared my review of his new book with you a couple weeks back. Thursday he came to town for a reading and talk, moderated by my friend JC Gabel. Afterwards, we all went for a drink at a bar where another friend (Bill Savage) bartends. It’s a great thing when someone who’s work you admire also turns out to be a good guy. Luc and I had a good talk about the immigrant experience, music, and other things, in between drinks and takeout from Hema’s Kitchen, which JC was kind enough to deliver to the bar. 

Speaking of that bar, Bill commissioned me to do this painting of it for the owner. It may well be gracing its walls within a week or two. Meanwhile, if you’re fond of Cunneen’s, or just like this painting, you may procure a print of it right here…

On Monday I went to see Joe Jackson play Thalia Hall. I’d never seen him play live but have known his songs since I was a kid. “Steppin’ Out” and “Breaking Us in Two” in particular are lodged so deep I don’t really remember life without them. It’s dangerous to see a show like this. Dangerous because the relationship with the music is so intense that having it externalized can’t help but disappoint, right?

He didn’t disappoint. As soon as he sat down at the keyboard and started into “It’s Different For Girls” I had tears streaming down my face. He didn’t do all the songs I wanted, but maybe that would’ve been too much to ask. There was a tophat sitting next to his seat and I wondered whether he was saving it for a dance number, but late in the show he picked it up, reached in, and picked out a slip of paper, explaining he chooses a different cover to do each night this way. That night it was a vocal version of “The Peter Gunn Theme” he’d recently learned from Sarah Vaughn. I’m glad I went. 

Friday my friend Wendy asked me to come draw the premiere performance of a new flamenco piece.

Drawing dancers isn’t easy but I enjoyed it. The music—played on guitar, violin,and bass—was beautiful.

Having it punctuated and underlined by the dancers’ tapping, pounding shoes gave it a whole other level of intensity.

Saturday I went to an early, “intimate’ set by Fred & Toody Cole of the long-running band Dead Moon at the Empty Bottle.

What “intimate” usually means is quieter or softer, in this context, but they bashed out their tunes just like they would’ve with a drummer and bigger amplifiers. These two have been at it for so long yet they show no sign of quit. Not surprisingly, many of their songs are about persistence, of going on despite long odds. Watching them keep going was inspiring. It wasn’t a nostalgia trip, but a way forward.