Blackest Ice

This morning I just couldnt stop. I've been driving all winter, on roads far worse than these. I've spent my entire adult life driving on snow and ice. There have a been a few close-calls, sure, when you've driven as many miles in inclement weather as I have there are going to be some close-calls, but it wasn't until this morning that I just couldn't stop. A little before 8:00am I ran the Jeep into the back of a tiny little Honda on the corner of Dorchester and 57th Street in Hyde Park. I've never felt so helpless or powerless to stop what was coming.

Hyde Park has notoriously poorly maintained streets. They are rarely plowed, never salted, and generally a mess. Which was why I was surprised this morning when they looked quite good after some snow fell last evening after it rained all afternoon. Which is not to say I was being careless or driving too fast. No, it's still winter and it's still Hyde Park. I was trudging along from block to block, pausing at each intersection's stop signs, nothing seemed to be a problem. Then about 4 car lengths behind this little Honda that had already stopped at the next sign, I just couldn't stop.

I was on a field of black ice. I let go of the brake as soon as I saw it was doing nothing, which is to say immediately. A fraction of a second. I then tapped it twice more, but it seemed to have locked. With the Jeep getting closer and closer and time slowing way down I reached that tipping point moment when I knew... I knew that there was going to be a collision. And I stupidly tried one final thing, to turn out of the way. It was instinctual, an act that my hands performed of their own accord, and by far the scariest part of the event. Because I actually turned toward the oncoming traffic, which fortunately there was none, not that I had a chance of veering far enough over to miss the Honda.

So the Jeep collided with the Honda at an angle, which pretty much made the left side of the Honda's bump explode. I was going perhaps 6 or 7 MPH at this point, sliding along, and that was all it took. "These things are designed to explode like that" I'm told. "Their failure is exactly what protects the inner parts. The more things in the way to fail between you and the other cars around you the safer you are." Whatever. It simultaneously looked terrible and surprisingly minor. His bumper blew up and there was a slight deformation in the trunk, which could still open properly. The Jeep was practically untouched. I lost a fog-light.

After this I abruptly pulled backwards to the curb. I got out, as did the 3 passengers of the Honda, all Chinese graduate students. Everyone was fine, although I think I asked them this a dozen times. It's like I was in shock, and all I could think about was making sure nobody was hurt. 2 of them couldn't speak English, but one could and I convinced him to move his car back from the stop sign to the curb. Being absolutely clueless as to how to proceed I called 911. I made it clear this wasn't an emergency and that everyone was fine. The police weren't needed and wouldn't be dispatched, evidently there were HUNDREDS of accidents all over Chicago, and trust me when I say I was one of the lucky ones. I was told to exchange information, which I did.

The entire time we stood there during this exchange, every single car that approached the stop sign either ended up skidding right over into the intersection, we're talking 20 or 30 feet farther than they intended, or if they were lucky enough stop, had their wheels spin furiously around in a futile attempt to move forward once more.

The most surreal thing happened next. The part where I got behind the wheel and drove again. Drove a whole block and a half and parked in front of the Medici Bakery as I would have any morning and ran in and got some OJ and a croissant. My fingers were still petrified from writing down numbers in the 14 degree weather. I had my phone in my hand, and I wanted desperately to call my wife for the second time in as many minutes, but then I saw that stupid 'no cell-phones' sign and put it back into my pocket and ordered.

I still can't believe it happened. This sort of thing doesn't happen to me. I'm THE safest most cautious driver in the world. And all that wasn't going to make a lick of difference on this morning.

End of an Era

It's no secret that I am possibly the biggest Fables fan on Earth. And unless Gorlock has a pull-list at his local comicbook store it's safe to say I might be the biggest Fables fan in the universe, period. Simply put, in my humble opinion, there is no other serialized fiction out there that is better than Fables, not anything else Vertigo has to offer, or DC as whole, or the big two, or all of comics, hell, not even anything in completely different mediums, not even in, dare I say it, Lost. Unlike nearly everything else I get to ingest one small chapter at a time Fables is the most precious of illicit substances, it is never cut. You are always going to get a pure, unadulterated high.

Which makes issue #81 such a heart-breaker. Here we say goodbye to not one but two Fables legends. After 81 stunning covers (a tenure close to 7 years if my monthly math is right), James Jean is stepping down. Jean is a hero of mine, one of my favorite contemporary artists. Several of his Fables covers grace the walls of my apartment and my wife is awesome enough to purchase one of his original prints as a birthday present for me a few years back. As far as his comic-book work is concerned, I always liked his more understated covers the best. Issue #33 is perhaps my favorite (and mighty also be James's favorite if what i've read is true). It is hanging just outside our kitchen. (spoilers for issue #81 after the jump)


And although this will come as no surprise to anyone reading the comic, #81 marks the death of the beloved character Boy Blue. It is also a singularly amazing peice of writing--death-bed scenes rarely give us this kind of unexpected bitterness and resentment. You see Blue has always been in love with Rose Red, only she has spent her time jumping from Prince Charming to Jack (as in 'and the beanstalk) to Sinbad. She has been a mess ever since Blue fell ill, and the closer he came to Death, the more she regretted never giving his love a chance. Blue is finally her man, and after she has confessed her ill-founded love for him just seconds from death, he serves up a real doozy of a response. To paraphrase Blue, who can barely whisper at this point, "You only ever wanted to be with the most interesting guy in the room. Right now, I'm that guy." Like Red, Boy Blue has also come to a long awaited conclusion: he's always deserved better.

Jean's cover is a medievalish version of this scene, with Red playing Mary Magdalene pose cradling a fallen Christ/Blue in her arms (image at the top of the article). The posture and style represent the wonderful artistic choices we've come to expect from Jean. Look closely and you will see Red tearing something papery from out of his chest and although his horn is at his side, his arm has been torn asunder at the shoulder, sword still grasped tightly. In the comic, Blue did not want to be remembered as a warrior, but as a musician and James has succinctly captured his dying request.

Yet take a step back and a new reading emerges. The sword is really a pencil, and Blue is Jean himself. Exhausted and weary after many adventures, Jean has found himself a reluctant hero of sorts, but that's all come to a bittersweet end. Is Red now Fables? Has Fables been tearing these covers straight out of his chest? Has Jean all along wanted to be a painter (as Blue humbly wanted to be a musician) but inadvertently became a comic-book cover artist (as Blue reluctantly wielded his sword)? After all, one just does not step away from an enterprise like this for no reason. Jean has won a bevy of awards, and is known throughout the industry as perhaps the greatest cover-artist of his generation. Something must have been causing him pain or discomfort, or perhaps Jean merely wished to exit the stage at the top of his game. As touching as his parting essay is, a florid farewell piece included in the back of the issue, Jean appears to think, like Blue also surely must, that after leaving this particular coil, a more peaceful and idyllic place will draw near.

Unintenional Segue

I just finished a terrific novel about a bunch of Muslim punk kids in Buffalo, NY. Suffice to say I am a pauper when it comes to knowledge of Islam, and for that matter, punk rock. Sure, I've listened to some punk music, and even seen a few shows here and there, but never really encountered the lifestyle or spent any amount of time immersed in the culture. But Buffalo, I remember you. And I used her as an anchor for this story. Because even though I didn't know what this or that Arabic greeting meant (but looked up a great many on Wikipedia when I had the opportunity) and even though the thought of sleeping on a floor littered with greasy pizza boxes and empty beer bottles with dozens of other drunk punks is an awful experience I can't even properly imagine, Buffalo comes very easily to mind.

Aside from being a very Buffalo novel, the Taqwacores is also very much a young man's novel. Much like Islam and Punk are 'scenes' dominated by men. Yes, there are exceptions, and the burqa clad feminists of the novel are integral to the story to be sure, just as bands like Bikini Kill and X-ray Spex are keystones in the history of punk music. But the novel is written by a man, narrated by a man, and its depiction of women is sometimes deeply disturbing. Particularly the young narrator's sexual fantasies.

Never as 'good a Muslim' as he thinks he should be, Yusef is surrounded by fuck-ups ten times as boldly 'un-Muslim' as he is (kids drinking, smoking up, getting tattoos, most importantly of all, fucking out of wedlock), but when Yusef 'discovers' masturbation towards the end of the novel, it's very telling what he fantasizes about. About stealing in late at night to some anonymous young woman's room, about ogling her, then feeling her up, and then unloading on top of her, never inside, and it never seems like the woman in his fantasies is doing anything at all other than being a groping board to be painted. I realize male sexual fantasy, in particular masturbation, is kind of a one person sport, but geez is Yusef's choice of 'inspiration' a wee bit demeaning.

To be fair, Rabeya, the novel's strongest female character is pretty kickass. A burqa with punk band patches sewn all over it? And the novel has been lauded by feminists and even credited by Asra Nomani as first presenting her the idea for women-led prayer, leading to a historic woman-led congregation on March 18, 2005. The confluence of Punk and Muslim culture seems especially fertile via the trangressive attitudes of the former and the stereotypically dogmatic attitudes of the latter, and when a girl lifts her veil and sucks off a guy on stage the shock value alone is a huge punk -rock fuck you, and a huge fuck you to Islam as well, but is that really empowering to women? I suppose the fact that she then turns and spits onto the taqwacore equivalent of Nazi skinheads and incites a riot might adequately have turned the tables but still, the scene is a complicated one and not easily picked apart.

Anyhow, back to the title of this post, the "Unintentional Segue." It appears that for the month of February i'm destined to read novels obsessed with masturbation. I've been meaning to read a Roth book for some time, and Portnoy seemed the logical jumping off point. Little did I know...

The Sweat Descends

On Saturday night I had a beer in a church. The Epiphany Episcopal Church to be precise, on the outskirts of Chicago's west loop. A fantastic venue for a concert and my favorite band in the world, Les Savy Fav, did not disappoint. Oddly enough, the beer tasted just like regular beer despite being sanctified, at least, locationally.

Walking inside I was greeted by the ticket folk, then allowed to enter the nave where tables were set up in the back corners hawking beer and water and hard liquor. The pews were removed and jammed against the walls where people were tossing their coats, hats and winter gear. About 400 people turned up, which is of course an estimate, and I was surprised by the number of women in the audience. probably close to 40/60, which is simply unheard of at these kind of shows. So either Chicago women are turned on by a front-man with a great big beard and belly (I can't say I blame them, Tim is quite charming), or just love great music.

The bands (LSF was accompanied by Jai Alai Savant) performed upon the raised chancel which was backed by a large floral mural, vaguely edenic, with a bunch of saints and our Lord and savior. There was barely any dressing of the stage although I'm not sure if it was prohibited or even necessary in the first place with such are great background. A bunch of lights were all that was needed to illuminate the murals, band, and audience in turn with your typical supersaturated concert reds and greens. Jai Alai Savant proved to be skilled and cheerful openers, and did the trick of warming everyone up. By the time they finished up I was in a knot of folks located just right of center, four or five people deep from the band.

Tim Harrington came out dressed as a priest, an outfit that didn't last long, which he used to deliver a somewhat boring if not blasphemous prayer akin to 'rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.' And when they began to play the crowd went apeshit, at least where I was standing. You know everything is well and good when you leap up and gravity doesn't restore you back to earth because everyone else is jumping and pressed up tight together. Tim did his audience participation thing, jumping down into the crowd and wandering about, sometimes mucking around quite deep, which can be disorienting for folks, since it seems like many people focus soley on the singer, and you have much of the audience in the front with their backs to the band while other concert-goers, by far the minority, continue to cheer on the rest of the musicians.

I've always thought of Tim as kind of an overgrown toddler, who is fascinated by everything and gets easily distracted from the music by alternately being a showman and audience member himself. At times it seems to exasperate the rest of the band, I noticed the bassist, Syd giving knowing glances to the tech guys, as if to say "It's just not worth reigning him back, just let him go." At one point Syd had to remind Tim what song was next, but at least he received a delighted, "I love that song!' in response. But in general Syd and the rest of the guys seem content to be, well, not forgotten, they're too skilled for that.

As always there was a lot of physicality in Tim's showing off. the tight clothes, the wigs, the near nudity, at one point he wore a green spandex number with leopard fringe that Harrington claimed was taken from a rapper named 'middle weezy' or 'medium-sized jeezy' or something like that. And his crowning moment came in the audience where he knelt down in front of the guy next to me, unzipped his fly, and tucked the mic in the hole and began to sing his lyrics as if giving head. As many as a dozen or so cell-phone cameras were snapping pictures and recording the moment for posterity.

My only lament was that I am old and very quickly became pretty beaten up and broken down, just halfway threw the set or so. Before that I was nearly hysterical, as were those around me. Tim even gave us a shout saying, "You guys ought to spread out through the rest of the crowd." Sadly I couldn't keep up. I was dehydrated before things even began, and when I started seeing stars I thought it best to get some air. I watched the remainder of the show from the sidelines, with people gently bobbing their heads and singing along.

Yet i must have been doing something right. It's days later and I'm still sore.