THE UNSPEAKABLE ACT

it might have been, but i got lazy in the evening after going to the exotic latino grill. so i didn't end up seeing "the unspeakable act" at the wexner center, even though i'd been planning to for a week. i'd just read the taxi, and when i happened to check the wexner center's film calendar i doubted that i'd ever have such a fresh and portentous opportunity to write something comparing two such distant works about a sister and a brother fucking. it might have been entertaining. but i think i might very well have been disappointed with the film, and not necessarily as a film but as a point of comparison, because from the preview i can't say that i'd expect the sister and the brother to get down to that "unspeakable act" (hunched shoulders, deadpan...the i word!), whereas the two in that taxi are going at it all day. then again, such a striking contrast might also have made the writing more interesting. as it is, it just might have been. that kroger got bought out of keystone light two days ahead of the end of its sale, and this cat really wants into this box of cobras. (they're probably dead by now, but i still don't want to have to deal with them.) that is, i already had enough to worry about while i was falling asleep from my burrito al pastor, and thinking about having to possibly ride through the rain to a disappointingly under attended and possibly just disappointing film was more than i felt like having to sleep on. plus, it might have been that i ended up pawning one of those typewriters after all to get my ticket. (i've been forced to splurge on milwaukee's best ice.) so all's well, i suppose. or it might have been. fuck. if it weren't for these cobras. she found them out. and what i'll probably have to do will continue to be unspeakable.

DISPATCH: PROPOSITION BIENNALE

"So, the Biennale is fancy, right? Every country sends an artist or two to represent its best creative minds. It's hosted in several places around the city, but primarily the ornamental gardens with these permanent buildings for each country.

1. Spain was first, of course. The magnificent art in their building was in the form of three piles of stupidity. Wood chips, dirt, bricks. BRILLIANT!

2. Belgium was actually great. I have been affectionately referring to the singular, huge piece in their building as "Meat Tree," which is pretty much what it sounds like: a huge, huge fallen tree sculpture made to look like it was cut from a thousand animals and held down with sand bags.

3. United States. Organized office supplies. A lot of string.

4. Israel. YES. Most impressive was a film of several people sculpting their own heads out of clay. These heads were monstrous and insane. One middle aged woman shaved her head, put the hair on her sculpture-self, put clay all over her actual face...and screamed into the microphone that she violently jammed into the clay head. SURPRISE TWIST! Everyone violently jammed a microphone somewhere into their self portraits! And they all moaned, cried, screamed, gurgled, whatever, into the microphone as the audio portion of their portraits -- in this film. THE OTHER video was of a fucking DJ remixing their moaning...endlessly. The third part was the actual sculptures, which were in some corner and absolutely not the point of the exhibit. And the final part was a giant fucking hole someone dug into the floor, and who knows why that was there.

5. The Etsy Pavilion, which is almost certainly not actually called that, was pretty great. Inside, a wealth of weird doll houses, a print of a fishsnailicorn, a huge mural that includes a skeleton flipping the bird, someone's sketch of their dad in drag, and some other shit I took pictures of.

Today and the next couple days are sort of the pre-party for this thing. It's all press passes and critics. Uma-Thurman-in-Pulp-Fiction haircuts with white linen tunics and big beaded necklaces, all of the mercilessly expensive glasses intentionally made to look cheap, all of the haute couture blazers in awkward sizes, all of the avant garde uncomfortable shoes, huge expensive cameras and film crews, self-important conversations about art left and right, exclusive promotional materials... AND YOURS TRULY AS THE REPRESENTATIVE FOR MIDWESTERN SLOBS WHO GET WEIRD IN HUMIDITY! I spent most of my time pulling out my weird little tourist camera and blocking the shots of the professional photographers for The Times or whomever. They loved that. But! Then it became clear that there were press packs! GUESS WHO DOESN'T NEED TO BUY EXPENSIVE ITALIAN SOUVENIRS ANYMORE!!! I went around scooping up all the swag bags and fliers and offending everyone by wanting their fancy goods for no reason. I have four tote bags with weird phrases on them so far, and I hope to get more.

The best part was actually leaving. A guy who looks like *****'s dad in a construction vest and ball cap silently hands you a tiny flyer with random letters on it. About fifty feet later, an identical man TAKES IT FROM YOU QUIETLY AND SPEEDILY AND BY FORCE IF NECESSARY. When you look back at them to try and understand what the fuck just happened, you can seen that the backs of their vests list the letters on the flier, one matching it, the other in the opposite order. My secret hope is that one of these men was actually *****'s dad. If so, dude, I am sorry your dad is so into rewarding people with material goods and then stealing away their brand new possessions almost instantly that he came to Italy to be an art about it. Growing up with that kind of values probably fucked you up pretty bad. (But seriously, that was the best, most simple, impressive, effective piece I've maybe ever seen. I watched them do this for a while, and the concept of give and take outside the gates of ALL OF THE PRIVILEGE and ALL OF THE FREE SHIT was fucking brilliant. People were really confused and annoyed, or conversely super entertained.

There was also an Indian guy lighting spaghetti noodles on fire and putting them in a row on the ground very, very carefully.

I found tiny, crustless tuna sandwiches with olives for two euros each, in a sort of cafeteria place that looked like a set for some kind of Pee Wee Herman nightmare. I ate three while I listened to some rich old lady talk about board meetings and traveling and charity events and lighthearted upper class problems about pretend stresses. I was really happy to see that her bajillion dollar white leather Prada jacket had some kind of red shit from the table all over the sleeve that was definitely going to stain it forever.

I came back to the apartment and almost immediately ate like twenty dried apricots in the bathtub, so I'm probably going to shit myself pretty soon."

recap.

THE LOST WEEKEND

every room of the cat palace is filled with top notch stuff that i could pawn, including, in fact, a veritable visual chronology of the development of the typewriter. plus, the big old house with the big old everything and the precipitate servants' staircase that shoots you straight up from the cats' bowls in the kitchen to the hallway that gives onto their four second floor rooms, well, the block it's on has been run back up in the past several years, but it's only several blocks' walk to the pawn shops on main. not so far to have to carry, say, an old underwood. still working, friend! but i'm saved that ignominy and the more daunting excusing of it that there's no way i'd be able to excuse when the time came later, because the kroger in the brewery district has six packs of keystone light on sale for three ninety-nine through june two. that's four twenty-six with tax, which i know because that's the number on all the receipts in the pile. after night number three there's a man in the alley digging for cans, and he saves me another uncomfortable excuse by accepting my pile of those. the cat palace is haunted by an insomnia ghost, and the alley is haunted by her attendant early morning trysts. there's a line of variable thickness that winds its way around exultance, reverie and concentration, and its unpredictable course makes it difficult for me to make progress with foucault. luckily, i'm saved by the shelf of violette leduc in one of the cases in the room with the canopy bed. she comes with me when i'm chased by the ghost to the bath, then she attends the trysts. the cats get morphine or bathwater. i get more keystone light. on thursday evening it felt almost like fall was setting in early, but by tuesday morning the stick of summer had come back heavy over the rose bushes in the front garden. when was their scent more rarified? amber and lavender. the to the right, across the highway, there's the inviting ramshackle of what's still left run down in olde towne, which would be nice for a ramble, but not at night. take a book in the afternoon, maybe. to the left, the junior league grows peonies for all the vases on the block. past that, the topiary garden and the main library. frustratingly, they don't have a copy of charles jackson's book, and hindsight is making that look like the perfect read. hindsight, pathetically would-be. a typewriter through the window. no excuse, but i've got time until i'll have to make one, and i'll save it.

WAY TO GO OHIO, part 14

i joined my proud people in the discharge of their seasonal festival by driving shirtless across town in a vehicle full of yard maintenance equipment. as i reminisce about an evening drive over the broadway bridge in a pickup truck full of vintage gurney, the great skies of the midwest are preparing to reward us with thunderstorms. if there's going to be all this moisture in the air, it could at least come down and clean up the streets. i've been keeping this yellow hanky decorated with white pikachus handy to wipe my face, so all the boys in the neighborhood know that i want their pee.

OLD WORLD UNDERGROUND WHERE ARE YOU NOW? part 4; or, HOW TO PREDICT A RIOT

after the pre-party, dinner and digestifs, there wasn't any question that it was time to go out for a beer. and although a pint (or two) of anti-hero would probably have been better suited to the tenor of the weekend as it had begun (and had been planned to continue), the revolution taproom was well out of walking distance from downtown, and it probably would have been closed by the time we were able to make it there otherwise (if it weren't closed already). haymarket, however, wasn't too far, and our hope for its association with a bit of radical history had its own special appeal. too bad, unfortunately, that the pub and brewery seemed only to have been named for the neighborhood, the name of which didn't seem to connote much anymore. i flicked off a taxi. there was a wait if we wanted a table, but we could seat or stand ourselves anywhere we wanted in either of the bars. at the end of the hallway with the windows that give onto the brewing tanks there's a quote from brecht. "theater without beer is just a museum." go left to the bathrooms; the bar is to the right. and although there's a bookcase full of books on political economy and performance next to a battlement of mixing boards and other sound equipment, the people in the bar (and in the adjacent second dining room) are all acting in a different play. in which the high school cafeteria gets off work and goes for drinks, as the poet observed. so a single beer each was all of the show we could take.

in the morning, the race was run without event. or: there was the event itself, with more than a few of the participants running to wrigley field for boston, but there weren't any bombs. we screamed, drank our complimentary kefir smoothies, and left. myopic books appeared to have disappeared or relocated by the afternoon, so there were three dollar breakfast cocktails under the damien stop of the blue line. there was ladieswear and there were art books. the illustration for which the artist hadn't been paid was just out in the magazine that i wouldn't buy for twenty-five dollars. i might have stolen it if i hadn't respected the mission and the mainstay of quimby's. i did want it, because it probably won't see an issue two. but... or, then again, i'd probably just gone soft, like wicker park. and the bloody marys couldn't have been very strong, because after three i was still well on my way to lake view. powell's didn't have either of the books i had wanted, but, luckily, they'll always have something i want. when it was time to meet for dinner, i'd been lost for long enough that i felt completely renewed. some respite. some sweet potato fries, a feast of seitan, and a vegan milkshake. afterwards, the one of the book stores we'd planned to visit on broadway was closed, but all of the design firms turned coffee shops and coffee shops turned designer were still doing their things, the thing that everyone's doing. and if i hadn't been encouraged to make good on my talk about crashing the wedding, i probably would have just put myself to bed.

so i went back to the room to change instead. and in the time it took my hair to dry i picked up the party where we'd left it to chase our disappointment in haymarket. then i went to dance, but my heart wasn't it. the high school cafeteria off for the weekend and come to pat backs around the open bar. and i was too full for cake. but worse, when i left the ivy room to pick up the glitter trail (to the fun to which i should have acceded on my way to dinner) i couldn't find a trace of it anywhere. so i helped a kid from pilsen find his way to where his cousin's boyfriend was spinning instead. and then i smiled as i was leaving the restroom and said that i'd had enough to want any cocaine. with the glitter trail lost, the city was the freehold of the closeted judges and the horny nows. until someone threw a bomb. and the sirens screamed. and a taxi swerved. and i flicked it off. then the driver rolled down his window and complimented my suit, to which unexpected approbation i responded by stepping back up onto the curb and dropping my pants. curtains! then, out of his cab now, he handed me a beer. here's to hoping! because otherwise it's all just a museum.

ILLUMINATIONS ("ILLUMINATIONS")

"[the] situation changed abruptly after the war: the inflation had impoverished, even dispossessed, large numbers of the bourgeoisie, and in the weimar republic a university career was open even to unbaptized jews. the unhappy story of the habilitation shows clearly how little benjamin took these altered circumstances into account and how greatly he continued to be dominated by prewar ideas in all financial matters. for from the outset the habilitation had only been intended to call his father 'to order' by supplying 'evidence of public recognition' and to make him grant his son, who was in his thirties at that time, an income that was adequate and, one should add, commensurate with his social standing. at no time, not even when he had already come close to the communists, did he doubt that...he was entitled to such a subvention and that [his parents'] demand that he 'work for a living' was 'unspeakable.' ... until his parents' death in 1930, benjamin was able to solve the problem of his livelihood by moving back into the parental home... it is evident that this arrangement caused him a great deal of suffering, but it is just as evident that in all probability he never seriously considered another solution. it is also striking that despite his permanent financial trouble he managed throughout these years constantly to enlarge his library." (from hannah arendt's introduction to illuminations, essays and reflections)

and from the man himself: "quotations in my works are like robbers by the roadside who make an armed attack and relieve an idler of his convictions." (walter benjamin)

and then something from mallarmé.

a century of progress.

q.e.d.

WAY TO GO OHIO, part 13; or, PORTUGAL FOR THE PORTUGUESE

my uncle sent me a link to an article at cnn.com on the eight best beer cities in america, and i thought that maybe columbus had made the list because he'd sent it the monday morning following the saturday night on which we'd visited the new beer and burgers place on indianola together. but (and of course, as i considered in hindsight) it hadn't. and that wasn't much of a surprise -- although an also-ran honorable mention on a list like that one definitely seems to be where the city has set its sights of late. the crest, on indianola and crestview, is one of five or six derivatively identical self-styled gastropubs to have opened in columbus in the past few months, five or six years after the gastropub trend had already started inspiring cringes outside of ohio's capital, which is now the self-styled capital of "no coast" brewing. the crest isn't affiliated with a brewery, but it's got the copper bar and all of the modern rustic charm of its forebears, the beer and fancy bar food places in all of those other cities that everyone with a small business loan in columbus must think they've been the only ones to visit. and because it's here and not in those other places, the crest also has a half dozen flat screen tvs. its beer list is good, but let's be honest: it doesn't take much thought or effort (or even expertise) to put one of those together anymore. and, anymore, with all of the not at all bad craft beer out there, it doesn't take much to make your list unique either. because the barley's chupacabra had just blown, i had another pint of the bear ass from elevator. i'll go back to the crest for happy hour some time to have some more (if they've still got it) for fifty percent off. i won't, however, go back to eat. the crest is new, and this past saturday night was warm, but the kitchen and the staff at a place styling itself as a gastropub (if a place with a menu like the crest's can style itself as such) should be able to manage a menu such an unambitious menu. the one burger and the three gastrosliders that we ordered took an hour and a half to get to our table, and our server was either too stoned or too scared of us to make even an overture to an apology. if it weren't for the coworker of his who was serving the table next to ours (whose training i assume must have come from a previous job), we'd never have gotten napkins. and napkins i needed, because the unexceptional patties between the gastrobuns of the sliders needed some condiment help. luckily, the crest's house hot sauce is good. there's a bottle on every table, each labeled simply "hot," and the contents of those bottles would seem to be the crest's only signature distinction amid a bustling assemblage of unremarkably pleasant and debilitating inoffensiveness. point, click, gastropub! the irony of the crest's self-styled importance is wholly unintentional and all but lost on the crowd. but i'm not knocking it. the stylings of the staff could stand to be better, and the menu could stand either stricter or more imaginative direction, but i'll be back to drink for half price at the copper bar. until columbus figures out what it does besides be happy not to be the worst of the also rans, it's something. probably nothing even worth writing about, but something. as the generative text (now concluded) on that wall at 88 east broad street contends (with its last): "better late than never." so, for my part, i'd like to go back and change. everything. the boys on the sex apps in the midwest have diversified out from masculine young professionalism into kowtowing to any semblance of creativity. and meanwhile, curation has been replaced by internalization in the vernacular. this is how the class wars of the twenty-first century were won, the funny battle cries for community, designed. but i'll win them all. win them over. i'll go back and be an architect. rewrite the show! before those other ones were written. but then i'll leave. wanted, i'll want to be elsewhere. armed with the national profession, maybe i can convince lisbon to take me back.