I'd been spending a lotta time in the Cave, hiding from the other humans, so I decided to try and actually go to some people's shows last weekend.
First I walked a million blocks down 18th street to the Anode Gallery, which sadly is no longer in existence. (possibly due to some sort of a insane landlord problem, but I may have made that up for kicks). Anode is some kinda tech term, something about receiving electrickall impulses or some shit. Anyway, artsy-fart friends and acquaintances were auctioning off their monstrous works, which included a photograph by Sam capturing a poltergeist's trail through an abandoned tagged warehouse & her sculpture transforming a very unfortunate baby head, Kevn's "monster parts in jars", Evan's latest works which are of the abstract-over-my-head digital variety, including a drawing of wiggly lines purposely placed on the floor that at least one would-be do-gooder tried to "pick-up". E.T. brought a portrait of Spears as Mona Lisa and what I think were alien bones in a suitcase but I could be off. My memory of last week might have been partly destroyed by a weekend of sloth & cough syrups. Case in point I'm not sure if it was Alex who made the fuckin awesome clay monster critters. I do remember that Kyle refused to sell his stylish metallic feathery wings and ended up wearing them. Ike displayed some lovely monster soft crocheted face masks. the cute bartender wore heavy glasses and danced along with the radio, serving up free wine, cheese, raspberries and broccoli.
I drifted outta there and bused northward, onto the Chi-Exchange at the secret headquarters of Multi Kulti. I remember it was cold as two-week-old frozen dogshit and not quite snowing, more like slushing, which fucking sucks. At least there are still places in Wicker that take link, tho Wicker always reminds me of how much I fucking hate hipsters and how powerless we actually-broke-people are to stop them.
The Multi Kulti crowd was the most fucking diverse crowd I've ever been in, especially in "stay on your side" Chicago. It was amazing. All ages- ranging from two to like 90, but mostly young, various melanin-leveled folks, all art, with a continuous stream of ethnic tunes. I hadn't planned on spending any of my ridiculously low funds, but a place like that just makes you wanna give the love and the paper dollars, & I decided that the gas and lektrik company and student loans and hospital bills will fucking haunt me forever anyway, might as well buy some fucking art, and I came off with a fucking amazing comic book by Bernie Mcgovern and a couple other great finds, like a great grafitti photo from a woman who has apparently taken photos everywhere.
If Multi Kulti ever goes legit, it could be the powerful vehicle for change it wants to be. Hell, it already is, but I mean, like, moreso... Everything was very cool and confused there, the odd nutter harassment, the tunic guy was very aggressive in particular, but mostly vaguely-but-not-disgustingly-hippie-ish folks earnestly trying to build community. Which is always weird to me. I mean, you don't need to build shit, we fucking ARE a community. Every show I go to I see the same kids, that's a community for crissakes. Anyway, the atmosphere was somewhat anything goes but not to the extreme where you're worried about drug fiends or thieves, everyone was very chill and respectful, even the crazies. I almost accidentally stole what I took to be free pins, I was so guilt wracked I ended up giving the guy some extra dollars, he looked very confused.
Stumbling home, I passed Mortville & heard music driftin outta there. for a second I thought, "no want sleep go home!", but then I pushed that away bc fuck it, sometimes you need to go hear some fucking amazing music. and I'm glad I did. The band that nite, just closing, was Cave, and, after buying a sticker-with-free-beer through a hole in a wall, it didn't take me long to take off about five shirts till down to the T, stash my shit in a cranny, and work my way into the not-quite-mosh-pit part of the crowd, indulging in a little satisfactory love shoves while I geeked out over the awesomeness of discovering a new music crush.
Saturday I got a late start, missing the Happy Collab show for about the billionth time, damm me, but finally focused and forced my agoraphob side to shut the fuck up and headed over to West Side School for the Desperate. I instantly realized why they try to get people to show up within a time frame- the door is right behind the stage, so if you're late, you kinda interrupt a performance. As a former poet, I always sorta had issue with the "BE QUIET!" poetry folks, this isn't a fucking library, and I personally don't give a shit if people talk and move around during my set; still, comin' in behind a reader isn't exactly ideal.
To be perfectly frank and honest, a few years ago, I didn't think much of some of these kids or their poetry. Typical arrogant assholery. Now I see what a fucking idiot I was, I'm glad I didn't write them off, that their enthusiasm and genuinely likable personalities kept me hanging in with them for the ride. the WSSD kids and their cohort represent the best that poetry has to offer, a combination of the "page" and "stage" powers that trumps that stupid rivalry, an earnest, honest (yeah, both those things), tongue in cheek yet enthusiastic and ballsy/ovariesy fuckin mania for the art that reawakened my own love for it. For the first time in nearly three years, I remember what I loved about writing and reading and hearing and performing poetry, and wanted to be a part of it again. And yeah, they're my friends and all, but I swear before the Great Satan that is the motherfucking truth.
Anyway it's a great little space down a ways from the Logan Square Blue Line. They get by sellin libations and on donations. The night ended up with an honest to god fiddle contest, and some of us got up and fucking danced our asses off until the upstairs neighbor started pounding on the floor. I meant to leave early but ended up stayin late as I could stand, it was so much fucking fun. I highly recommend it to anyone who loves good times.
I got up early for work Sunday and dragged through a long day during which I caught a cold my shitty ex-smoker's lungs are still struggling with. As the day wound down I felt like fucking shit, but I made it out to the Windy City Story Slam because I fucking said I would. And also because the Slam is the fucking shit. It was held at the Double Door, and this year it was much smoother than last, with great featured readers Tony Fitzpatrick (with an amazing filmic piece from "this train") and Joe Meno (who brought me back to my childhood on the South Side with a piece on love lost on a bus) and an amazing gauntlet of contestants, including tales of corrupt make-a-wish scammers & a nerve-wracking Belarussian train ride. The Slam was easily, handily won, by one Fred Burkhart, a skinny aged Chicago beatstir with a long smoky beard who recounted his days as a boy prostitute, an encounter with "The Muted Asshole". I felt for Nicolette, the runner up, with her amazing story of life as a pimp- how do you compete with that? I was sick as hell the whole time, sittin on the edge of the stage wearin glasses in an already dark bar and not drinking shit, but glad as hell I stuck it out the whole show, it was fucking amazing.
A few days later, we gathered in the tiny apartment of one "Edward Crayon" to send him off to Hawaii. This is no kinda official Happenin but I mention this because of a moment, a singular moment that's difficult to cheapen with words... here gathered all these people who love this man, a gentle spirit, full of wonder... anyway, as we gathered, somebody put out the lights and lit a spinning wicker creation ...and everyone just sorta started to howl, and chant, bellow and laugh and cry, and it was like we were chasing him, joyfully, across the waters, sending him off with our love on his shoulders. If fucking magic exists, as Crayon has argued me many times it must, that was fucking it. he'll be missed, but we're happy for him goin off on a new adventure.
That's fucking community. In all these spaces, in love for friends, in sharing music, making art, buying and selling, keeping secrets, telling stories.
This weekend, I spent most of my time in fucking bed after a long week working sick, hacking up a lung & slowly going mad from cabin fever. Was it worth it? fuck yea.
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