Watertowers at night remind me of Cheddar Goldfish

Part the Third: The Brian Bouldrey Luncheon
In which our hero learns that rumors of her death were greatly exaggerated.
Mmmm....delicious cheesecorn

By Sunday morning, I was already feeling very much the glutton: I had consumed, over the past three days: 5 slices of giordano’s pizza, 4 slices giordano’s garlic bread, 2 cheese and veggie omelets, 2 eggs (over medium), 3 bagels with cream cheese, 2 order of hash browns, 1 tomato and cheese tart, 1 slice of cake, 1 bag of caramel corn, .5 bag of cheese corn, 1.5 full orders of buffalo wings, 1/3 a bag of chips, expected ratio of salsa, 10 crackers, hunk of cheese, 1 bottle of Gatorade, 1 bag flavor blast goldfish Various: nacho cheese Doritos, powdered doughnuts, Pepperidge Farm cookies, chocolate glazed doughnut holes, hundreds of Pepsis

I love you so much

I will admit this is excessive. Am I nauseated as I look over this list? Absolutely. But when I go up to Chicago for a balls-out weekend of high school friends and college gluttony, I go for it. But man, was my stomach churning the next day. But I pulled myself together—after all, I had slept 14 hours, and I had people to see. Namely, Brian Bouldrey’s party. Brian, my old fiction teacher, is starting up a salon for all the writers still in Chicago—I happened to be in town on the inaugural meeting, so I was going to drop by with Mary South and Kat. I was more than a little nervous, because I had a general impression that due to various impolitic blog entries, as well as my tendency to be an odd mixture of aloof and warm, I had alienated the majority of the writing department. But the rumor mill spoke whispers of the presence of John Dony and Chris Shannon, and I couldn’t NOT see them, double negative or no.
I met up with Mary and Kat at the Golden Olympic—a Greek diner in Evanston we used to frequent when we were complaining about the writing program. I got a chance to see the two of them in proper daylight for the first time on the trip, and I have to say, I felt a little underdressed. Both Mary and Kat looked gorgeous—they were always beautiful, but they’ve developed an enviable polish. I wish I had some photos for you of Kat, but the few that I took were at odd moments—eyes half closed, about to say something—so you’ll have to make do with Mary South. I don’t know if it’s the California sun or the new man in her life, but her hair was so much fuller, the circles under her eyes were gone—she looked rested, healthy, vibrant.
Mary South, El. Turn on the bright lights

Talking with the two of them was wonderful, I always feel a bit more normal after a good Kat/Mary intervention. Whether we want to admit it or not, humans are always looking for members of their tribe, groups and societies they belong to. The modern man’s tribes are no longer bound by country, or race, or religion as much as they are defined by values, music, clothing, politics. When I talk with Mary and Kat, I feel like I’m catching up with members of my tribe—feminists, writers, artists, pragmatic dreamers.

Look how CUTE everybody is! Gosh, I could just punch them in the face

In fact, most of the Brian Bouldrey Experience was just that: like being part of a like, being loved. The feeling of the day was more than the drippy nostalgia I get whenever I return to Chicago—it was a sense that maybe, people do like me after all.
At some point I will stop sacrificing image quality for flash. That day is not yet here

I had foolishly left my quilt/coat at home, as it was still warm when I left. However, upon leaving the Golden Olympic (after gratuitously flirting with the adorable Greek cashier), the temperature dropped in true Chicago fashion and I was left shivering my way to the Davis el stop. The walk to Brian’s was only 4 blocks from the brown line, but it was enough to remind me of why I was happy to leave Chicago in the first place.

Mary South, Chris Shannon, looking up to something

Brian Bouldrey’s apartment is small—one imagines it was a converted garden shed. But he has two stories, wood flooring, an adorable dog, and many dark bookcases (though not as many as Mary Kinzie). The party was in full swing when we arrived, and everyone seemed genuinely happy to see us. It seems that rumors of John Dony's attendance had been wrong, and though devestated, I was still happy to see everyone else

Abby, fiction writer, fellow VH1 devotee

Abby and I had a long, involved talk over the merits of Celebrity Fit Club 2; Neil had been to the gym, gotten a hot new haircut, and was working for a neuro-science magazine. Chris Shannon looked rested, glowing with the success of his Ravinia job.

Tony Rella, losing focus

Tony Rella was working for a small publishing company, and he looked happy and healthy. Tai Little had cut her hair in the asymmetrical bob of my dreams—the exact haircut, in fact, that I’ve been coveting since the age of 14, but have been unable to execute on account of my unruly hair.

Look at her hair! Look at it!

The most wonderful surprise though, was Jen Frank. I get the feeling that Jen Frank has a deep, profound sadness, but at the same time, this immense capacity for joy. She’s such a darling, huggable creature, and so humble about her accomplishments—her art, her projects, her job at an art gallery. I’m excited for her, and I hope she has the success she deserves.
Mary South, Chris, and Jen

The old poetry and fiction crowd seemed successful and, more importantly, very happy. They were genuinely interested in me and what I was doing, genuinely happy to see me. Without getting drippy, I will say I was touched by the warmth and the familiarity, a sense of respect and—dare I say—love between all of us. Maybe I’m reading too much into the event, but I felt part of something sweet, and I felt loved. It was a really beautiful party.

Tai Little, genius. Hard G.

Tai Little read this magnificent excerpt from her novel written in three points of view. The subject matter was a girl in an asylum for cutting herself—a topic which is very delicate because a) it’s been done so often and b) it is so difficult to do without melodrama. And eff me if Tai didn’t pull it off. BRILLIANTLY. It was funny, self-aware (in a good way), poignant, and intelligent, with turns of phrases and descriptions that cut out any sense of the predictable.I honestly think this woman is a genius.

Chris Shannon's having a baby!

Chris Shannon was next, reading some of his poetry on “Mozart, the glass harmonica, and couches.”Chris’s poetry is hit or miss. It’s always clever, but can occasionally venture out into strange-for-strangeness sake. And while there was some of that in his poetry, the pieces he read were delicious. I was crazy about the idea of building an entire series of poems around the glass harmonica, an instrument I hadn’t even heard of before.

Taken from some random website. I want to make earrings out of these

For those of you like me, not in the know about obscure 18th century musical instruments, the glass harmonica was invented by Ben Franklin (I think) and operates on the same principles as the wine glass rim trick. It makes an odd, very haunting sound similar to the drones of a synthesizer. I’ve included a link to some sound samples if you’re interested. Truly delightful stuff.

Well done, Chris Shannon.

The poetry was very intelligent, very well crafted. It made me realize how simplistic my own poetry has become.

Jen Frank with game prototype.

The final presentation before I had to leave (meeting Margaret downtown) was Jen Frank, who got up and talked about her art projects. The one she brought as an example was a metaphysical board games she had been working on. It was a bit hard to follow her train of thought, probably because the game is still in it’s beginning phases of development, but I was really excited about the direction she was going, turning everyday objects into high art. I wanted to talk to her about some of my ideas on multimedia books, but I was running late. After giving everyone a hug, I slipped out with another fiction grad and headed towards the city.

I did break down and use the flash. I hate myself.

As a side note, the fiction grad was a fascinating companion. She had done the fiction sequence a year before I had, and she was now in law school. Every once in a while you meet people for brief moments whom you click instantly with, and then just as quickly, you leave them. Law School and I talked about our careers, about the stark realities of the fiction market (many teachers live in denial about the true nature of modern publishing), about the necessity to suppress the artistic impulse (temporarily) to make a living. I told her I was meeting my sister at H&M, and she gave me some tips to shave 15 minutes off my commute. She shook my hand, and got off the el at Southport.

Light canopy by the Watertowers. Also doubles as a net for catching lost hats, souls

It was dark by the time I had gotten to Chicago, but I was on time, quite a shock considering the day's schedule.

Hancock building, angel of Mies Van der Roh architectural heaven

Sunday had been a very scheduled day: 1230-200 breakfast/lunch with Kat and Mary, 200-300 buy drinks for the Brian Bouldrey Experience, make way over to Andersonville, 300-500 Brian Bouldrey part and reading, where I had to stay long enough to see Tai, Chris, and Jen; 500-600 take el to Chicago, 600-630, shop at H&M; 645-7, walk to Gino’s east, meet Adele; 700-900, dinner at Gino’s East, 900+ party at the Drake. Despite the tight schedule, Sunday managed to be one of those miraculous days where every single thing happened chronologically that was supposed to happen, without any tardiness or missed connections. The three people at the reading I had come to see all spoke during the first 2 hours of the party, then I made it down to H&M on time, then managed to walk the 12 blocks to make it to Gino’s East on time. I was amazed by my own luck.

Margaret, looking taxed, at Gino's East

Margaret and Flynn had spent all afternoon in the taxidermy section of the Field Museum, so their minds were on stuffed squirrels and fanged deer, not the clothes. Not that it mattered: H&M sucks this season. Unless you’re very thin and curveless, nothing will look good on you: all horizontal stripes, high necklines, tons of trim, cropped lengths, cap sleeves. Also, it’s ugly. When will ugly stop being in fashion? Michigan Avenue is stuffed to the gills with boring, ugly pantsuits and sherpa-chic coats and boots. I want to look sexy, dangerous, chic, sweet, pretty, boyish, elegant, whatever, but I do NOT want to dress like a grandmother or a 70’s fashion victim. So let it be written, so let it be done.

Yes, but is it clean?

Joel and Adele were going to meet us at the Gino’s East on Ontario. Joel used to work there and described it as a coke-addled den of sin, so I was anxious to have him come back and point out landmarks of debauchery. Sadly, Adele had a massive rewrite on a project due the next day, so she could only stop by for a while. Like Mary South, Adele has somehow managed to get better looking since I’ve last seen her. The hair isn’t different, neither are the clothes—she just looks good. Rock n’ roll agrees with her.

Belies Adele's beauty. However, only picture I have of her on the trip.

Adele was kind enough to drive us to the Drake, where Fran had rented out a suite for a night of senseless acts of liver violence. Gosh I love Adele. The Flynn admitted she was one of the hottest girls he’d ever seen. It’s true. what a strange, lovely woman she is.