Category: writing

St. Vivian the Obscure

Saint Veronica – Rob Clemenz SaintsforSinnersToday’s blog addresses the piece of writing I worked on today. A well-overdue review of a book about Chicago’s Vivian Maier. Vivian, if you don’t know about her, worked as a nanny for most of her life and semi-secretly made a vocation of photography. Through the middle of the 20th century, Vivian snapped pictures of people on the street, self-portraits, urbanity and urban decay, and, as a strange sidebar, newspapers and documents, page by page. Vivian seemed uninterested in earning a living as a photographer. Good as she was, photography seemed more of an obsession than a means of self-expression. Afflicted with hoarding syndrome that grew worse with age, Vivian took tens of thousands of pictures, printed some, but mostly  sacked away thousands of rolls of undeveloped film. When she died, few folks knew she’d been a serious photographer.

Then certain men found her photographs after buying the contents of several unpaid storage units. Vivian was declared an unrecognized genius (some of her photos were quite nice, possessing Weegee-esque and Arbusian aspects), the price of her photographs soared, and Chicago adopted her as one of our many weirdo saints (St. Veronica, shown, is the official shutterbug saint for the Catholic Church, by the way). The book I read did a good job of discovering where Vivian came from, what much of her life was like, and why she took photographs. Finding out who she really was, however, will always be an impossibility. Especially now that others who stand to profit from her work most benefit from defining her.

You’ll see.

Bloggity Blog Blog Blog

Mr. Dan Pundit

Coming up with a topic for a quick paragraph here every day is already a challenge. I know there are people who can sit down and regale you with tales of their dental appointment, baking escapades, and foot care regimen, but… Well, I could probably do that too. Babbling in print has been my day job for years, and also my night job when it comes to the freelance stuff. But I’ve long hated the idea of the literary trots. Some writers could stand to shut up their pen once in a while. Oh, some got very good at jotting down exactly 2000 readable words on assorted subjects, but doesn’t a non-stop flow of words devalue what you say? I can name several pundits off the top of my head who could stop and recycle columns they dashed off years ago…and no one would be the wiser, in all senses of the word.

Which is not to say that I’m bringing a sack of dazzling jewels whenever I deign to slam words together. At the same time, I try to never cheat the reader. You see this…this verbal construction I’m sharing with you here is what I called a “ramble” in my LiveJournal days (as opposed to a “rant,” which was more of an angry ramble). Back then, before Twitter, I’d turn out a few hundred words a day on this, that, and the other thing (often on my employer’s dime; relax, I got my work done). A few fellow writers said I was wasting my time, but I was simultaneously getting published in the papers, so I didn’t see the issue. I liked the immediacy of blogging and the ability to write about things I knew I’d never see published in “legit” newspapers and magazines. The blogging days were fun. As fun as the zine days. And both helped me keep my interest in this writing nonsense, even as the “real” writers clucked and mocked us hobbyists, knowing they’d NEVER be toppled from their inky perches.

So there. A blog about blogging. To quote my friend Kathy: META.

New Year’s Resolution—Blog a Day

It’s after midnight, but it’s been a busy day, and I spent it finishing up an article I’m submitting to the Chicago Reader. Last year was not a great one for writing outside my job. Hilariously, I’ve never been more productive, but most of my writing of the past two years went toward my current job. Blogs. Lots of blogs about all sorts of subjects. Occasionally, I wrote for a comics website (yes, despite the byline, that’s my work) or some other fun site, but mostly I wrote about industrial machinery, hydroponics, and window wells. Oh, I learned and wrote so much about window wells. I switched to a different department, and now I create the blogs for the company website as well as case studies about our clients. As such, I’ve averaged about 2500 words a day (workdays). I do my best whatever the gig though, so I’ve never sold myself or the reader short. Still… I want to go back to regular writing this year. Maybe even polish up those two semi-formed novels I wrote. This I resolve. But I also resolve to write more here.I may falter, but I’ll try my best.

I Have Always Practiced Social Isolation—Pt. 2

My wife Michael pointed out to me how strange it is to read tweets and posts by people who claim to be bored already. I can’t speak for the rest of the world, or even all of America, but I feel fairly comfortable in thinking I represent the, well, fairly comfortable. Even if I wasn’t a homebody—not unadventurous, since I do enjoy road trips and travel; I’m just most comfortable at home—suggesting that my house lacks for mental stimulation is absurd. Even leaving the laptop and Internet behind, I have about 200 or more curated DVDs and subscriptions to Netflix, Amazon Prime, Hulu, and the Criterion Channel (best Christmas gift I ever got). Between me and Michael, our shelves hold a possible thousand or more books. We have plenty of puzzles, kits, and video and board games; a lovely backyard and an even lovelier hometown that affords a short walk to a Lake Michigan beach; a plenitude of arts and crafts supplies and woodworking tools; and a home that, frankly, has never looked cleaner. Bored? I am inebriated on both pastimes and the actual time in which to perform them.

Of course, work life comes first, as well as the coaching and ride-herding of the children. The former has certainly been sufficient. If any of my bosses are reading this, believe me, I may be home but I’m earning the hell out of that paycheck, writing and editing and proofing and podcasteringing (that’s the verb, right?). I confess, I squeeze in a quick 20 minute nap sometimes because I’m getting old. My body seems to like it, and it repays me (and you) by making me more alert and creative. Just keep that in mind when I get back. Say…do I really have to come back?

As for the kids, they’re certainly happy to be home, but providing direction and suggestions is an ongoing task. As I mentioned we’ve been having “school” from about 9 a.m. to 2 p.m., which usually involves them checking their Chrome books to see what their teacher has posted, worksheets (Flynn likes doing math—let’s hope that keeps up), about an hour and a half of reading, and usually what are called “specials” in their schools (art, gym, etc.). We had art today. I took them outside to draw pictures and write pleasant messages in sidewalk chalk to the many folks who walk by the house every day with their kids or dogs or pathological need to run, even in shitty weather. On our walks Mike and I saw that other folks had done so. My favorite was the one from the neighbor who started with their address: “647 LOVES Our Neighbors” with the parenthetical note: “(From Six Feet Away).” We went with “Stay Happy.”, “Stay Healthy”, and Nate’s “Stay Positive”.

Now, let us be clear… I am not a ball of sunshine. I am frequently goofy or humorous in a deadpan way, and certainly not unfriendly, but I’m not touchy-feely. I despise glurge. I guffaw at trite blandishments. I don’t believe a decapitation can be fixed with a band aid—even one of those great big knee ones. But this is a very different time.

I bring this up because today I saw someone tweeting about how ashamed they were of the twee movement that took place in their youth during the early 2000s. The tweet appears to be gone now, but as I recall they rankled at public pillow fights, flash mobs, precious rock bands and naif lyrics, and so on. Mostly, they seemed to dislike whimsy and, perhaps, false bonhomie, such as that supposedly practiced by people conversing through posters in their windows.

I’m sure the tweeter had the best of intentions, but it was a useless sentiment—not to mention a touch cruel—in the current climate. (Not as blithely cruel as the writer who felt obligated to point out that many of us hugged and kissed our relatives for the last time without knowing it…but that’s another issue.) As I’ve grown older, I’ve discovered, to my annoyance, that unlike me, not everyone has learned when to be tough. I don’t mean they’re weak. I mean they never figured out how to suck it up and drain themselves of emotion in order to make the hurt go away (I got very good at that in my twenties). These people need the kindness, not the snideness, of the tough folks to carry on. So, that’s why my kids and I wrote silly, inspirational messages in chalk on the sidewalk and driveway. Oh, and a platypus.

Maybe nobody will notice, just pounding over our pictures with their trainers or standing on them while their dog diddles on the tree. But when you can’t do anything, it’s nice to feel like you’re doing something.

I Have Always Practiced Social Isolation—Pt. 1

IMG_9662A friend of mine, Eric Kirsammer, suggested I regularly post something during this period of social isolation. Some kind of online diary, “in your style” as he put it. Presumably he meant with an ironic, sarcastic, and semi-bitter tone, owing to the complete absence of that sort of writing from the Interweb.

Ohhhh, that’s what he meant. As the philosopher Britannia Jean Spears expounded, “Oops. I did it again.”

Very well then. I’ll try to share what my family and I have been up to during the days of social-distancing. One hopes all this social isolation and people avoidance will keep the body count way down, and my blog will remain a silly whimsical thing.

Starting March 16, my employer sent us to work at home, originally for two weeks. Supposedly, we’d be back in the office by the following Friday. Within a few days Illinois Governor Pritzker issued the first order to shelter in place, self-isolate, social distance, and all the other fun new terms and verbs, and it was decided we wouldn’t go back until the near-end of April, at least. It probably didn’t help that a few people in our building were diagnosed with COVID-19. I hesitate to use the phrase, “it’s all for the best”, but I suppose it is. My wife Michael, a teacher, and two kids, Nate (12) and Flynn (8), being Illinoisans, had their schools closed the Thursday before. Mike and I both hoped that I’d get to work at home, because the idea of her doing her job and minding and homeschooling the kids alone didn’t sit well with either of us. Working for a healthcare association, however, I knew they’d do the right thing, and lo and behold they did.

I work at home twice a month. That’s one of the cushy benefits of my job, something for which I am deeply grateful. I choose two Fridays to stay home so I can walk my daughter Flannery to school and be there to meet them both afterward. It’s a pleasant perk. Wish I could do it more often. As it turns out, the past few days showed that I could. As a copywriter and copy editor my job is all about creating and reviewing documents. With a laptop I can carry my office in my backpack. For the past year I’ve also produced podcasts for my association. Again, luckily, my recording studio is portable. Just saying, in case anyone is listening, working at home has been easy. I’ve participated in several meetings, and frankly they’ve been shorter and more to the point than all the in-person ones. Does a lack of an audience—beyond a grid of taking heads—encourage people to not perform or pad out a meeting? Maybe so.

I started this blog a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve really been too busy to maintain it.* And I mean busy-busy. My workload, praise Cthulhu, has been consistent enough to justify my paycheck. I know how damned lucky I am (so far) to have a job I can rely on. Again, it’s a healthcare gig, and I suppose today we’re enjoying(?) a bull market. I’ve also been taking every advantage of being home, with no need to commute and no social or child obligations (no soccer, basketball, Boy Scouts, swimming, etc. to take the kids to and from). I can read without interruption. I’ve had greater motivation to work up stuff for Third Coast Review and interact with a group of fine, generous writers. I’ve even been able to give that whole writing thing I basically abandoned over the years another look. In a plague year, knowing it can all blow to hell and having extra time is a powerful motivator to attack projects. Also, I seriously, desperately, frightfully need the distraction. Yet, as wonderful as it is to feel productive, I hope it doesn’t last long.

More later.

 

Third Coast Review Horror Stories Project Thingmabob

So, here’s what I’m looking for, all in one place.

1. Share a paragraph or three about a story that truly scared you or creeped you out. It can be based on a childhood reading memory, something you perused last night, or anything in between.

This is for the literature section, so try to think storytelling without visuals (book illustrations and comics, of course, are acceptable).

Later Note: Upon consideration, movies, plays, TV commercials, music and recordings, news stories, advertisements, amusement park haunted houses, childhood dares, irritating sibling pranks, or the like are all fine horror fodder, but try to tie in literature by telling us a good story about it. Not just “I saw this weird music video once and it freaked me out. Here’s a YouTube link. The end.”

2. Suggestions:

  • Horror fiction (novels and short stories)
    FYI: I love Stephen King too, but I may have to limit the number of King entries to two, I think. Likewise, someone is already doing the cover of Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, but I’m amenable to hearing about a particular story from that collection that frightened you as a child. Call dibs though.
  • Horror comics
  • Folktales
  • Urban legends
  • Campfire stories
  • Nonfiction about terrible events/people
  • Local folklore
  • Illustrations are fine, but they should be tied to a story.

Did I miss anything?

3. Tell us a story about your scary story. Try to get at WHY it scared you. How did it affect you? Did something frightening happen before or after you read it? How did you deal with the fear?

Not:

“The urban legend about the guy with the hook hand always freaked me out! Eeeeeek! And…scene!”

But rather:

“After I read Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, I began to see the great gangling man everywhere. For three years, I refused to enter a room with a fireplace, worried his body parts might come tumbling down at any moment. I couldn’t sleep without hugging Booboo, my teddy bear, which is embarrassing for a 52-year-old man, let me tell you… Etc.”

4. Keep it PG-13 (or, at least, a mild R). I’m fine with disturbing and slightly gruesome, but this isn’t a splatterpunk or creepypasta fiction site.

5. Send submissions to dan@mrdankelly.com by Sunday, October 27.

If you let me know something is coming for sure, I can leave space.

If I get a lot of submissions, I’ll do a two-parter. If you need more than three paragraphs, drop me a line.

Did I miss anything? Let me know!

Chicagoing Straight to Hell! The Unofficial Secret Insider Guide to Nonexistent Chicago Tours

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By Dan Kelly

Once a tool-making, wheat-stacking, hog-butchering powerhouse, Chicago ditched its filthy work gloves and bloody apron long ago to become a buttoned-down, tie-wearing purveyor of finance, publishing, and tourist delights. Regarding the latter—and despite being regularly stripped for parts by the political and business elite—Chicago maintains sights and sites that continue to dazzle tourists from across the globe through gimmicky tours led by chipper guides infused with a perfervid passion for the Windy City most often found in End Times cult members—but with more Ferris Bueller references.

Unrelentingly proud of the architecture developers have yet to obliterate; splendid diversity of cultures, long kept separate but not always equal; and dark, violent criminal history made adorable by time’s distance—Chicago’s main tourist draws can be easily enjoyed on foot, by bicycle, via boat, or by becoming as one with a majestic flock of Segways. But truthfully, it’s all getting a bit predictable, isn’t it? After all, you can only point out the deep-dish pizza joint where Frank Lloyd Wright shot down Elwood Blues so many times before it becomes meaningless, can’t you?

With the segment of tourists drawn to secret menus and off-the-beaten-track* experiences in mind, here are some little-known tours for those seeking the actual authentically really genuine secret Chicago.

*  Outside the borders of the area occupying the space between the Lake, State Street, Navy Pier and the Bean—also known as Rahmsylvania.

 

The Sadly Complete Architecture of Louie Sullenman

Architecture buffs flock to Chicago like moths to the flames of neglect, greed, and actual fire that consumed most of the city’s former grandeur in the last century. Be aware that this tour is not devoted to the 19th century prima-donna genius Louis Sullivan, whose vision transformed modern architecture. We’re talking about 20th Century building planner/mercenary idiot Louie Sullenman, fountainhead of an embarrassment of grotesque apartment complexes, industrial parks, skyscrapers, public housing, and double-decker outhouses that have scarred eyeballs with unimaginative design, lack of ornamentation, and a vicious disregard for the humans that live and work in them. Come see why even the most brutal of Brutalists uttered a tearful, howling “What hath God wrought!?!” after seeing Sullenman’s concrete and steel horrorshows. Unlike city darlings Sullivan, Burnham, Wright, and others, Sullenman’s entire catalog remains intact, arrogantly standing beside and astride the work of greater artists than himself, contemptuously flicking bits of air conditioning sweat and pigeon excrement onto them all year round. This is an interactive tour in which participants are given sledgehammers and torches and ordered to try and destroy the architectural beasts, quickly learning that Sullenman’s scabrous eyesores cannot be destroyed, and will exist long after the last of us perishes from the earth.

 

Chicago River Slog

Get ready to pull on your waders, slip into your wet suit, strap on your goggles, and seal every orifice with industrial strength filtration devices. You’ve seen the city from the Chicago River boat and kayak tours; now get your hands, legs, abdomen, neck, and that little grooved space just below your nose dirty as you explore the river’s wet, bubbling, viscid history. Wade through the mighty backwards-excreting waterway’s two centuries of garbage, filth, cattle bones, and human waste. Become one with history as the muddy (you hope, you pray) river bottom sucks you down deeper with each step, down to dwell amidst the trash, algae, and undead swamp-mobsters.

 

Walk the 666

After the successful conversion of the old Bloomingdale Line railroad track into the 606 greenway, doodad-loving Chicagoans and equally thrilled alderman begged for another elevated human cattle chute. Easily entered on the Lincoln Park lakefront and various notches along the boulevard system’s hipster belt, the 666 is a self-contained walkway that rises 100 feet above the rubble and rabble of Chicago’s most neglected neighborhoods. Power walkers, militant bike riders, hover board goofballs, and attention-hungry powered unicycle dumbasses can glide safely through a leafy green comfort zone, blithely unbothered by less politically connected Chicagoans gazing up at them, wondering why funding can’t be found for their schools and local infrastructure.

 

Just the Touristy Crap

Ready to take a selfie in front of the Bean while stuffing your deep dish pie hole? Itching to hear genuine Chicago Bloozeâ„¢ music without leaving the safe confines of the Navy Pier Ferris wheel? Get it over with quick in this special enclosed area so we don’t have to look at you. Please.

 

Cthonic Cthicago

The next step for participants in the city’s celebrated underground pedway tour. Go deeper, beyond the network of tunnels that enable Chicago downtown workers and vampires to purchase coffee and donuts beneath the sidewalks, avoiding precipitation and the accursed purity of the sun’s rays. Discover a blighted honeycomb of caverns, crevasses, and crypts three miles below City Hall, where the city fathers once wove unspeakable pacts with the  terrifying Lake Michigan lizardfish race (several of whom continue to hold aldermanic positions, ruling their wards with an iron flipper, decade after hellish decade).

 

The Running of the Schools

Hola, mi amigos. ‘Tis the Feast of St. Swerski. Garb yourself in the traditional white shirt and trousers, tie red scarves about your waist and neck, and test your mettle in the annual Running of the Schools. Several thousand teachers, parents, and students will be released into the city streets and driven toward Soldier Field, in hopes of finding placement in a charter school, continued employment…or a glorious death. When the second rocket goes off, you and your fellow runners will race before a thundering herd of confused children, incensed parents, and striking educators driven to a mad frenzy by mounted politicos and CPS officials, jabbing them with brightly festooned lances, banderilla, and assessment tests. Beware of goring from their #2 pencils, and take heart that this is the best possible way to educate children. Isn’t it pretty to think so?

 

Virtual Lucas Museum

Our mayor has had a vexing time selling the city on the Lucas Museum of Narrative Whatever the Hell. His biggest obstacle? Disgruntled sane people who see little benefit in selling off a chunk of the lakefront so upper-class elites can build a structure that resembles the haloed remains of a melted snowman. Now everyone can see what George and Rahm see when they close their eyes with this virtual tour helmet! Walk the Soldier Field parking lot and enjoy a 360° view of the lumpy looking museum. Enter it and be dazzled by Lucas’ collection of Norman Rockwell paintings, abundant kitsch, and maybe…some droids or film props? It’s not real clear at this point, but it’ll inspire local school kids to dream great big future dreams, or something. Look, George has his heart set on the lakefront. Give it to him. Now.

 

Sansmelanin Park

A truly untouched Chicago curiosity, the neighborhood of Sansmelanin Park was founded in 1888 by paint magnate Mr. Chalkworth H. Sansmelanin to keep, you know, “them” out. Right? (Wink) “THEM”.

Wanting as colorless a neighborhood as inhumanly possible, Mr. Sansmelanin and his fellow Sansmelaninidiots first built the Northeast Side village, then whitewashed it from top to bottom. Houses, churches, stores, schools, chicken coops, gardens, lawns, pets, citizens…the whole kit and kaboodle—white as a white supremacist polar bear in a bigoted blizzard. Sansmelanin whitewash, of course, was later discovered to contain large chunks of lead, arsenic, mercury, cobalt, barium, and a bit of radium, because it looked so damned cool in the dark. Eventually the village population turned so white as to become transparent before expiring en masse. Sansmelanin got his wish though, in that no human life, dark-skinned or otherwise, can live there. Tours last 20 seconds. Visitors are asked to bring their own Level A hazmat suits and, for God’s sake, not to touch anything.

 

Tomorrow’s Crimes of Yesterday Today Tours

Inspired by popular tours highlighting the city’s colorful gangster past and corrupt near-past, tour-goers will behold the city’s neglected and pockmarked backside up close. Participants can look forward to viewing actual drug deals, armed robberies, and general bloodshed. Watch the flower of Chicago’s youth cut down in their prime from the safety of our armored bus. Participants will enjoy all the blight and neglect they can stomach while nervously hoping to reach Lincoln Park intact. Cap off the tour by enjoying ironically named cocktails and appetizers while viewing locally produced, hand-tooled interrogation techniques at Homan Square before you are never seen again.

 

Why the Hell Is Nothing Happening Tour

Glide through Chicago’s most untouched neighborhoods, notable for their utter lack of theme bars, restaurants, shopping centers, and identifiable features. From Mayfair to Jefferson Park to Bowmanville to Edison Park to Hegewisch (which is totally not made-up) explore the City That Works through the Neighborhoods Where Fuck-All Happens. Visit completely cachet-free diners and tap rooms and sample local delicacies like Bud Light, uninspired BLTs, overcooked burgers, and the soggiest italian beef sandwiches you’ve ever slid your teeth through. See juxtaposed bungalow after bungalow until your brain screams at you to stop. Watch authentic Chicagoans gape at you from their porches and windows, wondering why you’re driving the wrong way down their street before they call the cops, pound out terrified posts on Everyblock, or approach your car with a softball bat.

AWESOME TRAGIC! 86% OF AMERICAN MOMS CRIED LIKE VETERAN PUPPY-BABIES AT THESE VIRAL VIDEOS!

HEARTWRENCHING—Racist grandpa gets new glasses, sees people of color as human for first time.

DAWWWWWWW! See adorable baby’s first taste of chocolate, bacon grease, and gamma rays.

POW! HILARIOUS! Daredevil show-off graduate gets PUNKED as his ass becomes stuck in dead-end job for 10 years!

BOOM! WHOOPSY-DOODLE! Bikini-clad car-washing cheerleader had no idea why the crowd was CHEERING until the judges awarded her the John Newbery Medal for Children’s Literature.

PANDA-MONIUM! Adorable panda sneezes, sparking hilariously decimating worldwide panda-emic.

I KNOW, I KNOW, JESUS CHRIST GET OFF MY BACK ALREADY, MA Adorable goat’s baas and brays sound EXACTLY like your parents criticizing your life choices.

HAVE A TISSUE READY because for some reason this video of a hippo eating a watermelon causes your laptop to spew unidentifiable fluids.

CUH-YOOOOOOOOT! See unsettling toothless baby’s first gummy ingestion of an entire 28 ounce porterhouse steak.

WHOMP! KABLOOEY! BUH-BONNNNNGGGG!!! Patriot hero cop shuts down protesting quarterback by telling him he raises valid points about institutionalized racism and, based on his own experience, agrees that many police officers operate with flagrant disregard for the law and should be dismissed and arrested.

GOOD LUCK TRYING NOT TO SMILE!!! Series of flashing lights, high-pitched bat screeches, and mind-warping scenes from the Afterlife induce a state of rigor mortis in the viewer. Death is only a beginning. Death is waiting. Share this (and DEATH) with your friends!

OH NO HE DIN’T! OH YES HE DIN! AT LEAST I THINK HE DIN. DIN’T HE? Republican OWNS liberal female senator with shattering put-down while throwing rocks at her because that’s how he shows he likes her.

OOBA-DOOBA! FLOOBITY-WOOBITY! Hummina hummina hummina p-KOW! p-KOW! p-KOW! GLUNGGGGGGGG!!!! Oh thank God, the attack is over. Hey, do you MIND? I have a medical condition. I can’t help it. Show some consideration, you insensitive shits.

THE VIDEO TRUMP DOESN’T WANT YOU TO SEE because he didn’t get it. What? Is that loser jellyfish doing something besides just floating there? And what’s with the huge pile of shoelaces? Is this supposed to be funny? He doesn’t get it and wants his fellow Americans to forget clicking on this garbage.

SMART-ALECK TEENS THOUGHT HE WAS A HELPLESS OLD MAN!!! Gelatinous inseminoid oozes from geriatric cocoon to absorb screaming teenagers on subway car.

REAL GHOST CAUGHT ON CAMERA but refused to sign the waiver so we had to blur his face, which kind of defeats the purpose since he’s pretty amorphous already.

WAIT TILL YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT I mean, you won’t be SURPRISED, per se. The idiot juggles blasting caps while wearing a team mascot costume and gargling ghost peppers and grain alcohol at the same time. You know what? We all get a little stupider every time someone clicks this monstrosity. Just…just move on, and pray for humanity.

ZOMG BABY WON’T STOP EATING! OH GOD, THE DOOR IS LOCKED! HE’S CRAWLING THIS WAY! HELP US! (BANG BANG BANG!) HELP US! See repellently insatiable crocodilian infant’s first taste of human flesh.

Dennis Eichhorn’s Story Ended

Hoagie-thumbComic book creator Dennis Eichhorn died. I wasn’t close friends with him, but I would have liked to have been. We were friendly colleagues though when I interacted with him in the late 90s—mostly by mail and once in person. I’m not sure when I first encountered his work. Like Harvey Pekar, Eichhorn was a writer not an artist; unlike other autobiographical comic creators, however, his life was actually interesting. In the pages of his comic Real Stuff, he shared a bevy of stories about his life in the Northwest US (and occasionally beyond) from the 50s through the present day.

Eichhorn was a picaresque figure. Fighting, drinking, getting high, screwing, working, engaging in low-end criminality, getting busted and imprisoned for a time, bumping into historical and cultural figures as well as lesser-known but no less compelling personalities. He shared it all through comics made in collaboration with cartoonists like Peter Bagge, Ed Brubaker, Julie Doucet, Michael Dougan, Chester Brown, Pat Moriarty, J.R. Williams, and others. I’ll let this link speak for his work (FYI sometimes NSFW).

Good grief. I forgot how often he wrote about marijuana.

When I knew him, Eichhorn served as editorial director for Loompanics Unlimited. Being a young weirdo, I was a faithful customer and eventual contributor. At some point I submitted a couple of articles for their catalog and supplements. One piece was about alleged culture-bound disorders like amok and koro, another about literal mythological sex gods. Considering my writing style and subject matter, there were few places where I could get my work published in the form I preferred. Loompanics was one of them.

In my experience, he was a decent editor. He crafted, he didn’t hack, sending his edits for my approval/alterations along with notes for tightening things up and the like. I would send him copies of my zines and he’d always drop me a nice note. The man was a great communicator.

Some time after that, I think, the American Bookseller’s Association held its convention at McCormick Center. My friend Steven of Quimby’s asked me if I wanted to tag along. I did. We made the rounds of  the underground and weirdo publishers: Fantagraphics, Feral House, Last Gasp, and the rest. I remember bits and pieces—I hope I’m not conflating it with other conventions. Quite a time, in which I ran into my own brand of real stuff: Running into the ex-husband of a former zine/mail friend—we had a bad falling out—who recognized me from my visit to his San Francisco home five years before. A high-end publisher of coffee-table erotica who looked visibly irritated when Steven introduced me as a writer (Jesus, I wasn’t planning to pitch you, so fuck you buddy). Mr. T, covered in gold chains, posing with people while shouting at a maniacal clip: “YEAH! YEAH! WE’RE HAVING A GOOD TIME! LOTTA FUN! LOTTA FUN!” Quite a time. We ended up at the Loompanics booth where we met owner Mike Hoy and Dennis. Eichhorn was a big guy, in body and personality, and gregarious as hell. I can confirm he had a firm and memorable handshake, as I read somewhere today,

Hoy and Eichhorn were preparing to leave. They let Steven take all their display books back to Quimby’s to sell on consignment while I got a couple of cheap bookshelves out of the deal (the benefit of owning a car when most of your friends don’t). After that we gave Dennis a lift. As we passed through the Loop I pointed out particular buildings until we turned onto State Street.

“And here we have State Street…THAT GREAT STREET!” I said.

“Hey! Hey!” Dennis said pointing out the window, “I saw a man dance with his wife!”

We all went out for drinks afterward. I can’t remember what we discussed. I just remember it was a fun and fascinating talk. What struck me though was that even though he was the Real Stuff guy with the wild stories, freaky background, and incredible past, he was still grounded, friendly, and approachable. Just what one looks for in a folk figure.

For the next year or so I sent Dennis a few more zines and we exchanged the odd postcard, but we didn’t stay in touch. I edited an issue of Lumpen and asked him to contribute a piece. Within a week he had a write-up about his prison experiences, in particular with the captain of the prison guards who he described, quite accurately, as the living embodiment of The Manâ„¢. It was a consummate Dennis Eichhorn piece: funny, scary, observant, and interesting.

The world is the poorer for not having time to hear all his stories.

RIP, Dennis Eichhorn.

P.S. Apparently he just released a collection called Extra Good Stuff. Please check it out.