Chicago

If you’ve met Dan Shapiro, you remember.  It’s like 9/11 or the JFK assassination.  His figure is impeccable (think Carl Weathers in Predator) and at 7’4” he’s hard not to notice.  If you turn to leave the conversation too fast, your elbow might accidentally brush against Shapiro’s bulky washboard abs, creating among the ten most heavenly sounds to be heard outside of the pearly gates.  He’s all manners and pleasantries and a cretin in Chicago comedy writing.

If you live in Chicago, Dan Shapiro or that awful awful man Mason Johnson have probably tried to get you to go to their entirely ageist reading series, P. Fanatics (which, not even remotely sadly, ended this month).  P. Fanatics took place at the Logan Square butthole Cole’s bar and was mostly composed of Chicago writers getting just a little bit too drunk and reading things that make you uncomfortable.  (Not that I would know, because Cole’s would never let me in because they love crushing the dreams of innocent 19 year olds who just want to see their friends make asses of themselves.)

If you still live in Chicago, Dan Shapiro wants you to come see his new reading series.  Which seems to me will end up gathering the same type of crowd and promising the same type of show.

Dan Shapiro’s first Rigged Open Mic will take place at Cole’s on September 9th (all information on the facebook page).  To really get people talking, Dan and I sat down in Oprah Winfrey’s abandoned Harpo Studios last week to talk about the life of a true artist and scholar.

CG:  Dan it is a delight to have you in the studio today. So, the Dan Shapiro open mic night was originally a P. Fanatics reading theme. For those familiar with P. Fanatics, how would you say it will be different/the same?  Less Mason Johnson? (We can only hope.)

DS: Thanks for having me, Cassandra.  Might I add that you look just darling in your pink leotard and tutu with matching S and M mask and cape.  This is all just the product of Mason Johnson bossing me around.  He's like, "Do this.  Do that." And I'm like, "Okay."  P. Fanatics was a good opportunity for Mason and me to showcase our talented friends as well as our own work every month.  Whereas Dan Shapiro's Rigged Open-Mic will be more of an opportunity to showcase my "Home Improvement" fan fiction.  There'll be an open mic too probably.  But it'll mostly be a showcase of my fiction in which Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor continues to bumble in the world amatuer carpentry in a post 9-11 environment.

CG: What exactly is a rigged open mic?

DS:  It's like any other open mic only more so.  I'm honest about it.  I'll say it.  If you're good you get to go before everyone else and perform as long as you want.  Hours if you want.  As long as it doesn't cut in to my three hours of "Home Improvement" fan fiction.

CG:  Do you have any plans to use a big hook to drag bad acts from the stage?

DS:  That's definitely something I've thought about.  I know that if someone sucks I'll walk out in front of them and start dancing.  No music.  Just me dancing.

CG:  Will there be body contact or will you give them space? I definitely know what I'd like to see.

DS:  Every performer is encouraged to rub one of my breasts for luck before they perform.  In fact I kind of insist.  No squeezing.

CG:  Tell me more about your Home Improvement fan fiction. What kind of fic are we talking? Romance, erotica, slash... Is there a Home Improvement OTP?

DS:  I don't know.  I think I've said too much already. My "Home Improvement" fan fiction is hardcore.  It will probably get me shot.  I put my "Home Improvement" fan fiction online, and the government "strongly suggested" that I take it down.  I sat back and meditated to the words they said.  Skipped town for a month and grew some dreads.  Had a friend tell my family I was dead.  I'm sorry.  Those last few sentences were by Killah Priest from the GZA song Beneath the Surface.  I have a disease where I suddenly burst into Wu-Tang lyrics.

CG:  Will this disease affect your ability to be a good open mic host?

DS:  I have a plethora of diseases that would affect my ability to be a good open mic host.  Sometimes when I'm onstage in mid sentence I'll just stop and yell, "Shut up! Shut up!" at no one in particular.  That's because the voices in my head are heckling me.  Stuff like that.  It's fun.  I've deliberately stopped taking my pills in the lead up to the show.  It should be fun.

CG:  Who are your hosting influences?

DS:  I saw a collection of Ed Sullivan clips, and he was like, "Congratulations for being on the show."  He was congratulating someone for getting to appear on his show.  That was pretty pimp.  Other than that Kermit the Frog and Chuck Barris from the Gong Show.

CG: Dan, you are very mysterious. Could you tell me a little bit more about your childhood? Open up?

DS:  I was a wild animal.  When I was five and six I had my hand down my pants all the time.  In kindergarden I was bigger than the other kids, so I was a bully.  Then I was the class clown.  I was always getting in trouble.  When I was seven I molested my uncle.  Other than that it was the typical American childhood.

CG:  Beautiful, Dan.  One last thing:  If you had to say one final thing to get people to come to your new series, what would it be?

DS:  That's a good question.  I have no idea what the answer is.  You've stumped me.  Damn it.  You're good.  [laughs maniacally]  You!  I knew you'd get me.

CG:  Thanks again for joining me in the studio.  I'm sorry we had to break in here.  I didn't mean to get my blood all over you when I smashed that security camera.

Cassandra Gillig can do more push-ups than your mother and has a blog.

Dan Shapiro can be seen every second Sunday of the month hosting his rigged open mic at Cole's. Here's the facebook invite for the upcoming show. Find out more about Dan's writing here.

ACM's love-affair with CCLaP continues today with tour stop #3 of Mark R. Brand's Life After Sleep virtual book tour. 

Today we get an all-access inside peek at Mark R. Brand's personal work space, a true delight. Brand has just recently been named [along with ACM publisher Curbside Splendor] one of the top 5 Chicago indie authors & publishers to look out for, so this is your last chance to see Mark's space before he ends up on MTV Cribs.

Ever wonder what inspires this amazing Chicago writer to write (I'll give you a hint, it rhymes with "cheese")? Ever wonder how long it takes Mark to solve a rubik's cube (I'll give you a hint, 2:26 flat, HAPPY NEW YEAR!)? Check it out:

I acquired the monolithic slab of mahogany that is my writing desk in 2004 when my wife's parents moved from their large house on Lawndale in Evanston to a smaller home in Wilmette. This desk belonged to my father-in-law (the artist, Dennis B. O'Malley) when he was a vice-president of a now-defunct Evanston bank several years ago. Their new home had no space for such an admittedly massive desk so, being the opportunist I am, I snatched it up, and with me it has remained ever since. I took some photos when we moved it into our former home and I went through about two bottles of Liquid Gold making every surface of it glow.

(FUN FACT: ACM Editor-in-Chief Jacob S. Knabb also owns an old, massive, wooden desk inherited from his father, who used it as a work desk when he employed by a now-defunct coal company. Old, inherited wooden desks are the way to go it would seem.) 

The desk is 3 feet deep and 5.5 feet wide, made of solid mahogany with brass drawer pulls. It has nine full-width drawers that pull 3 feet out to reveal several large interior storage spaces. The top, as you can see from the photos below, is removable, which is good because by itself that piece probably weighs around 100 lbs. I use a regular protective office blotter pad over the top of it because it's of the variety that will instantly show marks if anything cold or hot or wet is left on it, let alone scratches from my metal-bottomed keyboard.

 

 

 

 

When we recently moved into our new home, I picked up a set of bookshelves at IKEA that hold roughly half of my book collection if double-stacked. The rest are, regrettably, in storage, but God-willing someday I'll have an entire wall-sized bookcase to get them all out. Our space is limited at the moment since we live in a relatively small two-bedroom apartment, but I like to keep a few things out that inspire or amuse me. If you happen to have been around in the 80's, and you look closely, I'm sure you'll recognize a few friends from that era, plus pictures, a couple of sculptures, a first-edition printing of Jack London's The Iron Heel (My personal all-time favorite book), and my grand-uncle's binoculars brought back from the European campaign of WWII. Those babies are incredibly rare and interesting because while the binoculars themselves were made in Japan, they were carried by a sailor or officer of the German Navy, and an identical sea-case can be viewed in the U-505 exhibit at the Museum of Science and Industry.

 

One of my most treasured workspace ornaments is a hand-written letter from Mrs. Joan 

Thomas, widow of the early 20th century Catholic anarchist Ammon Hennacy who was quoted in the epigraph of my first novel, Red Ivy Afternoon. Mrs. Thomas, who was in her early 90's at the time, is a delightfully friendly and kind woman who corresponded with me a number of times about the book and who followed it with some interest after giving me permission to use his work in my own. 

Tonight! Ear Eater has a reading at Paratext books. Hear stories by Diego Arispe-Bazan, Megan Milks and Rebecca Elliott!

Facebook Event.

Tonight! One night only (until next month, at least)! Ian Belknap's devil child, Write Club, is at The Hideout (1354 West Wabansia Avenue, Chicago)!

Facebook event. Write Club's website. A photo of Ian and I hugging sensually.

Write Club is Fight Club for the literary cowards among us. Watch six writers go head to head to see who truly is the best wordsmith (and, occasionally, the worst human being).

Tonight's contenders:

Ian Belknap VS Jeff Miller

Lindsay Muscato VS Noelle Krimm

Jim DeWan VS Chris Schoen

- Mason

The cops came to my front door at about eight in the morning. I didn’t recognize either of them. The older one had a full belly that he practically used to wedge the door open, and the younger one, who stood behind him, had a jarhead haircut that made his whole face look pudgy and prepubescent. I’d been sitting at the kitchen table with one of my library books, and I jumped when the front porch stairs creaked. The older cop knocked on the screen door and said, “We’re here about your friend, Amanda Mayward. May we come in?”

Like everyone else, the cops refused to use Vyv’s real name. Vyv and I were used to this. I glanced toward the living room, where my mom was still asleep on the couch, and toward the hallway to my parents’ bedroom, where my dad would be pacing and muttering to himself. I put on my hoodie and stepped outside to talk to the cops.

I leaned up against the wall while the older one flipped through his notes, loudly and slowly. I crossed my arms and ran my fingers across the leaves of my mom’s potted ferns. I knew their game was intimidation and I knew that you could win by coming prepared.

I had spent the last few days perfecting my lines. “I haven’t seen her since the end of the school year,” I had whispered to myself, as I ran hot water in the kitchen and worked on the stack of crusted pots and pans. I practiced a concerned expression in the bathroom mirror while brushing my teeth. “If I had to guess, I’d say she ran away,” I’d think, as I wrote a draft of a letter to the food stamp office for my mom.

He asked me, “When was the last time you saw Miss Mayward?”

“Around the end of the school year,” I said. “Why?” It flew out of my mouth like a tape-recorded message. I stuffed my hands into my pants pockets. I knew I couldn’t do this.

But the cops didn’t flinch. They went on to tell me what I already knew: not home since Sunday, missing persons report filed, foul play not currently suspected, and so on. I confirmed their physical description of Vyv: five-foot-five, about 150 pounds, just enough weight for inconvenient curves that she hid under long jackets and baggy sweaters. Hair: red. Not natural red, but the kind of purple-red that comes from two boxes of L’Oreal Feria that she’d bring home from Grand Island every month. A thick sheet of semi-curls that reached to dye-scorched ends at her waist. Wrist-Cutter Red. Blowjob Red. Girl With Problems Red.

“Did she ever talk about running away?” the younger cop asked.

“She talked about it all the time,” I said. “But I always figured it was just talk.”

“Anyplace in particular?”

Everywhere, I thought. Vyv and I were walking barefoot down our town’s main street, and she was telling me about the beaches in Tangier, where writers arranged their future classics and the best weed on the planet got passed around. We were picking clover out of the grass on the school playground, and I was listening to her go on and on about Siberia, where the trees exploded in the sub-zero winter and the trains hurtled on through the darkness for weeks. We were at the mall, and she was trying on black clothes, like suits of armor, to prepare herself for New York City.

“She’d been talking about Seattle a lot,” I said.

One of the cops whipped out a pen and wrote SEATTLE? in block letters. “Does she know anybody out there?”

I shook my head.

The younger one cleared his throat and said, “What do you know about her friends in Lincoln?”

“I never really met them.” I crossed my arms. “Besides, she hasn’t talked to them since this winter.” I considered adding more, but held my breath. It wouldn’t do any good to bring up that whole mess with Sonia and Grant. I thought of that morning in homeroom, when Vyv had lifted her head from her desk and moaned, “This weekend was so fucked.” She never went into specifics. Something about heroin and screaming at the driver of a car as he blew through red light after red light.

The cops nodded and took it down. One of them asked, “Was she having problems at home?”

I swallowed. “She doesn’t get along with her stepdad. They’re always fighting about something.”

Why were all of my words so inadequate? “Doesn’t get along with” to illustrate the cloud of rage that followed Vyv around on some days? The weight that seemed to settle on her whenever she bit back tears from another long row? “Always fighting about something” to imply that she often spent afternoons staring at the shotgun mounted above her parents’ couch, loaded with potential vengeance?

“What exactly happened at the end of the school year?” they asked.

“We had a falling out,” I said.

The older one flipped through his notes. “Uh-huh. Did you and Amanda fight often?”

Oh shit, I realized. They think I’m Vyv’s boyfriend. Or at least one of those guys who hung around her for sex. It explained why I, the former Eagle Scout, would associate with Vyv, with her antique boots and top hat and alleged Satanism.

I tried hard not to squirm. If Vyv were here she’d be collapsing in laughter, right on my front porch. “No, we were pretty good friends,” I insisted. “I was gonna call her and apologize soon.” I thought I could see it in their faces. I wondered if they knew.

But they didn’t say anything. The older one handed me a business card and said, “Most of the time they come back on their own, once they see what it’s really like out there. Give us a call if you hear from her.”

I put the card in my pocket and promised I would.

“Hey, I grew up on this block,” said the younger one. “In that yellow house.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Was a great place to grow up. Different then, of course.”

I said nothing. I’d always rather liked the shuttered houses, the distressed yards, the sinking pines, and I hated it when people shook their heads over the state of my street.

The cops turned and loped across my front yard, back to the cruiser. I went back inside. My mom was curled up on the couch under the heavy wool throw blanket, where she’d fallen asleep in front of the TV last night. I pressed her shoulder. “Hey Ma. I’m making breakfast. You want anything?”

“Just coffee,” she yawned.

I put on the coffeemaker and set up two mugs with milk and sugar waiting in the bottom. I cracked two eggs into a clean skillet and sliced chunks of potato into sizzling fat. Hey Vyv, I thought as I stirred the potatoes. Did you see that? I sent the trail out to Seattle for you. I pictured her on the Greyhound, riding east into the hills. She’d be looking out the window and listening to The Gits in her headphones, or reading the copy of Jane Eyre she’d swiped from Goodwill. I was happy for her.

Katherine Scott Nelson is the author of the novella Have You Seen Me, a current nominee for the Lambda Literary Awards. Hir work has either appeared or is forthcoming in Confrontation, make/shift, and Fiction at Work. Ze lives in Chicago, blogs over here, and is currently on a 'Virtual Book Tour' online as a lead-up to an actual physical tour, along with other CCLaP authors, in New York City!

I saw Birthday Boy last night. You should too. Here's the facebook event, here's the website.

A play about a boy who's forgotten and ignored and generally treated like shit on his birthday, it's pretty hilarious. Even if you're not a miserable person like me. Even if you're, say, a happy person. Basically, you'll enjoy this miserable play regardless of what kind of person you are.

The play's written by Chris Bower and Matt test, who are also in the goddamn thing, along with Cat Jarboe, Kevlyn Hayes, and Troy Martin. It is playing for the next two Fridays (June 1st & 8th).

Here's a picture of me and Bower inside of a heart. It is not a real heart, I put it there with photoshop.

<3 Mason

Come to our April Fools' Day Party at Beauty Bar this evening! We will be officially releasing volume two of our Chicago Issue, and many of our talented authors will be reading. Doors open at 7, and the reading will begin at 8.

The fulsome visages of the collected fools are as follows:

Chris Bower is a playwright and the host of the Ray's Tap Reading Series. You can find him at:holdmyhorses.com

Paul Durica is the founder of Pocket Guide to Hell tours and Reenactments. The Chicagoan and Poetry have published his work recently.

Andrew Farkas' Self-Titled Debut is available through Subito Press. He is currently a gentleman of leisure.

Jac Jemc's first book, My Only Wife, is out later this month from Dzanc Books. She is also the poetry editor of decomP.

Tim Jones-Yelvington has fashioned himself indie lit's first pop star.

Francesco Levato is a poet, translator, and filmmaker. Author of four books of poetry he holds an MFA in Poetry, and is working towards a PhD in English Studies.

Joe Meno is one bad mother, who also happens to be a father.

Writer/novelist and editor and blogger and academic and prankster and father of two and department chair:davisschneiderman.com

Yvonne Strumecki’s finally getting PAID to do what she loves, travel the country & sing. Published bc of bacon. How is her life even real?

Ben Tanzer is the author of the books 99 Problems, You Can Make Him Like You, My Father's House and So Different Now among others.

Steven & Maja Teref translated Assembly, the selected poems of Novica Tadić (Host Publications, 2009).

Michael Zapata is a writer and educator living in Chicago. He is a founding editor of MAKE. He works as an editor at ANTIBOOKCLUB.

A circle jerk of a column in which Mason Johnson talks about writing by people he likes. Required reading for this edition: Untitled Number Five; Matryoshka Doll; The Firesign Theatre; and a bunch of old, dead comedians you’ve never heard of.

Daniel Shapiro is a good place to start for my first All My Friends column for two reasons:

1. He is Funny as hell.

2. He is one of my best friends.

Maybe you’ve heard of him, maybe you haven’t, he hasn’t exactly been in a hurry to meet you. His progress in the world of writing and comedy is similar to the literal way he walks: a sort of sluggish, lumbering gait. He’s slowly rising in the world of Chicago readings, having most recently murdered—and I mean really eviscerated—a crowd at March 8th’s “Supreme Court” themed Encyclopedia Show.

That is to say, he made a lot of people laugh.

Dan’s background in television writing doesn’t account for his stories that don’t seem to make sense. Held together by a loose structure of jokes, he doesn’t need a sensical ending… or beginning… or middle. Despite this, they just sound right.

Part of it is his performance; you can’t tell what’s genuine, and what Dan is faking. His shaky voice contrasted with his perfectly timed punch-line-filled paragraphs, combine to create an act that you just believe. It also helps that he either seems perfectly convinced of his own bullshit, or is perfectly willing to call himself out on it. This creates a trust audiences aren’t willing to give to most performers. In a world where most comedians strive to hide their jokes amongst complicated, amateurish, confessional, Louis CK-esque* stories (have you been to a Chicago open mic lately?), it’s nice to see Dan do the opposite, and try to hide bits of honest story amongst his insane, respectfully old school jokes.

What’s most impressive is that Dan can do this on the page, too, proving it in a small handful of published stories. Through a written voice that is quick and simultaneously self-assured and doubtful, Dan grabs you, the reader, in a sort of loving chokehold (in which he tenderly rubs the top of your head). You can’t get away. One of Dan’s more linear pieces that supports this is a letter story about a man and a monkey, entitled Untitled Number Five:

“And it cries. All night long. A deep, hollow cry. I think it has monkey PTSD. The monkey also shows signs of aggressive behavior. It listens to Rollins Band. It’s constantly cracking its knuckles. Last week I caught it fingering a stuffed animal. I don’t know why it would do something like that, but god damned if it didn’t.”

Dan takes the voice from Untitled Number Five and makes things even weirder (and more meta) in Matryoshka Doll, a story published by HyperText Mag. It’s about a man, a romantic, if you will, remembering fondly the time he spent in his mother’s womb with his twin sister. I don’t want to ruin it for you, but things get heated. In a sexy way.

Yowzers!

Still, reading his work is no substitute for hearing him live. So, for those of you in Chicago, catch him if you can. He reads at my series (shameless plug), P. Fanatics, every month.

*Note, I love Louis CK. I just hate imposters.

Interested in participating in World Book Night? The deadline to register as a volunteer book giver has just been extended to Feb. 6. World Book Night will be on April 23 — the goal is to hand out one million books to underserved communities. Logan Square's newest book store, Uncharted Books, has signed up as a community pick-up location, so, if you're interested, sign up to volunteer now!

Check out these readings this week:

Tonight: Two Cookie Minimum, 9pm, The Hungry Brain (more info here)

Tuesday: WRITE CLUB, 7pm, The Hideout (more info here & here)

Wednesday: So You Think You Have Nerves of Steel, 8pm, The Empty Bottle (more info here)

Also Wednesday: The Encyclopedia Show, 7:30pm, Vittum Theater (more info here)

Friday: Waiting 4 the Bus, 7:30pm, Studio A (more info here)

Also Friday: Punk Rock Karaoke Benefit for the Chicago Zine Fest (ok, not a reading, but karaoke for a good cause), 9pm, Beauty Bar (more info here)

See you all there!