There’s a particular feeling of dread deep in my stomach when I’m nearing the end of a good book and realize that my shelves are devoid of unread novels. As a commuter, these books are essential to my way of life and I refuse to go back to a time when I waste my 1.5 daily hours of El time staring at the Redeye, hoping that it will provide my brain with juicy bits to devour while knowing that it will not provide.

The worst part about finding a new book is the uncertainty of it. I’m a little picky about books and can’t force myself to finish a novel that doesn’t engage me. This usually means I read first-person fiction written by crusty old syphilitics in the mid 20th century, chained to their typewriters, stained yellow with stale nicotine and bad whiskey. I stray occasionally from the mean, but this is a formula that generally keeps me happy. This website has been a godsend. I type a book that is analogous to my mood, and it gives me a list of similarly perverse tomes. The title of the website is “What Should I Read Next?” If you register, it keeps your preferences more or less.

My husband Ryan is usually a comic and graphic novel kind of guy, but he recently started gnawing at my novel stack. We’re both nuts about stories and ideas, but he generally likes his to be surrounded by artful pictures instead of descriptive literature. I see where he’s coming from. He has great taste and I tend to read his graphic novels as soon as he’s done with them. The one downfall about graphic novels? They’re a quick read, and when  stuck on the El everyday, we have nothing but time.

Now that we were both eating from the same literary trough, a bookstore date seemed like the next natural step in our relationship. I had been using Amazon as my major book source, since it’s something that I can do at work while processing orders and calculating freight rates. But I’m told that supporting your local bookstore is a noble pursuit.

I arrived at Myopic Books (which also has a vast online store) about a half hour earlier than Ryan armed with a list of hand picked titles from “What to Read Next.” I was a woman with a mission. This bookstore is amazing! It’s a maze of books. I’ve always loved used books regardless of their quality. I love when the pages are yellow, the binding is creased, and the whole thing reeks of musty basement. This place is stocked with books that are higher quality than I’m used to, most look barely read. Within minutes, my arms were full, my list fulfilled, and I was already memorizing the position of books that I had to leave behind for next time.

By the time Ryan got there, I was done. It was really more of a date with Myopic Books than a date with Ryan, but it was quite romantic.

My selections:

• One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Ken Kesey (1962)
• The Unbearable Lightness of Being – Milan Kundera (1984)
• The Djinn in the Nightengale’s Eye – A.S. Byatt (1994)
• If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things - Jon McGregor (2002)
  
• Something Happened - Joseph Heller (1974)
  

Ryan’s Selections

• The Hound of the Baskervilles - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (*1901)
• The Road – Cormac McCarthy (2006)
• The Old Man and the Sea - Ernest Hemmingway (1951)

This should keep us busy for a while. Updates on how they are later.

Here’s a selection of sushi restaurants I pulled up because I like research and not being bored at work. I’m focusing my search on byob so we can bring our own crappy sake or soju. 

Restaurant: Greentea Japanese Restaurant
Neighborhood: Lincoln Park
Pros: I have eaten here before. It is sufficiently crappy looking inside. The chefs were really legit looking japanese dudes with long hair. I remember that it, like all sushi I have ever had, was nummy.
Cons: It’s in Lincoln Park. But whatever, it’s not like there’s a forcefield around the place.

2206 N Clark St
(between Grant Pl & Sedgwick St)
Chicago, IL 60614 Yelp it.

Restaurant: Toro Sushi
Neighborhood: Lincoln Park
Pros: Seems like a cool small neighborhood place. Everyone on Yelp seems to know the chef by his first name.
Cons: the chef’s name is Mitch
2546 N Clark St
(between Deming Pl & Wrightwood Ave)
Chicago, IL 60614 Yelp it.

Restaurant: Coast Sushi Bar
Neighborhood: Bucktown
Pros: It has “decor” and “servers” (plural). Also it is in Bucktown.
Cons: Sneaky feelings. I distrust sushi restaurants, or any ethnic restaurant, with “decor” and more than one server. I also demand to see said server rolling silverware or drinking diet cola out of a big red plastic cup.
2045 N Damen Avenue
(between Dickens Ave & Mclean Ave)
Chicago, IL 60647 Yelp it.

Restaurant: Excellent Sushi
Neighborhood: Vancouver, between a whorehouse and a head shop
Pros: 22 pieces of sushi plus miso soup for $5
Cons: It’s 2000 miles away
www.I’msadnowbecauseI’mnotatexcellentsushi.corn Yelp it.

Restaurant: Shiso
Neighborhood: Near North Side
Pros: It has sushi and is byob. It’s closer to where Ryan and I work.
Cons: Sneaky feelings. Everyone who goes there is just glad that it doesn’t cost a billion dollars. The kind of people who use the term “Dive Bar” way too liberally.
449 W. North Ave.
(between Cleveland Ave & Hudson Ave)
Chicago, IL 60610 Yelp it.

Restaurant: Tampopo
Neighborhood: Lincoln Square
Pros: It’s called Tampopo
Cons: It’s far away and probably lame, plus I don’t want to go there because I want to go to Green Tea.
5665 N. Lincoln Ave
Chicago, IL 60686 Yelp it.

Dan’s location alone piqued my interest. I didn’t know where he lived, but it was a car ride away. Car rides are a rare luxury. My life exists in the radius of “walking distance,” and I rarely venture outside of their limits.

Dan also had pot.

Dan was also a massage therapist, or at least studying to become one.

Turns out Dan lived in his own house, filled with his own furniture. I once tried to get a job as a nanny for a family in his neighborhood. Dan sounded so, so strange. I could already tell that he would wear white sneakers.

Upon meeting Dan, I was not disappointed. He was a lanky blonde in non-descript unrimmed glasses. His tv was the size of my fridge. I could tell that he had probably played some type of horn or saxophone in high school band. I hung  out with this kid in high school. His posture, his body type, his face were very familiar. I was close friends with people I knew that were like Dan but I never got them. I could never get a reading on them and they could never sense me out but we were friends because we were all we had. We were the smart kids. We were the nerds.

I knew people like Dan because we met at academic competitions. Forensics, Future Problem Solvers, English team-the creative, social nerds. Conservation Club, National Oceanic Science Bowl, Envirothon, Trees for Tomorrow-the socially concious, scientific minded, chemically altered or all of the above; a  nice blend of nerd. Band-a whole different level.

I sat with Dans at lunch, I chatted with Dans in study hall. The Dans of my high school kept me sane when surrounded by confederate flag belt buckles, fox racing and women’s basketball. The Dan and Danlike folk I have known in my life helped me through some tough times. Yet, I haven’t spoken to any of my Dans in almost 5 years.

I’ve refered to many Dans previously. Let it be noted that I will now be speaking of the one, original Dan. Real house Dan. Massage Therapy Dan.

After speaking to/at Real house Dan, the similarities between Dan and Dans past became less apparent.  Real house Dan did yoga, burned incence. He listened to David Byrne and Brian Eno, Neil Young. He passed around  a bottle of essential oil that he claimed would enhance our buzz. After reluctantly applying the fragrant oil to my wrist, I accused Dan of being a “Potion-monger” and insisted that in olden times he would have been burned as a witch. He was taken aback. Dans have never understood my sense of humor, and Dan was no exception.

When I internet, at least one tab of my browser is always dedicated to the pursuit of google/wikipedia-based knowledge. It just so happened that the day before I met Dan, hours before I ever knew of Dan’s existence, I was dedicating this knowledge tab to finding “Happy Ending” massage parlors in every major US city. I know of two in Madison by word of mouth. One is within the confines of my “walking distance” perimeter. The glass door to the massage parlor is situated between one of the city’s top dive bars, The Paradise, and the Shamrock, a loosely Irish themed gay bar. Sometimes a few girls would venture out to the sidewalk for a cigarette. I remember standing a few feet away from them itching to pick their brains, get a quick reading. I looked for an excuse to pick up a dropped tissue of theirs or light a cigarette in a pinch, anything to warrant a conversation. I can usually butt into any conversation with the utmost confidence, but not with these ladies. They were tougher than I would ever be. They were getting by with whatever they had. Or so I imagined. They were hand-job girls. I don’t know what story ends or at least takes a wayside into the territory of hand-job girl but I imagine that it would be interesting.

So I was searching the internet for listings of guarenteed happy endings. Just knowing the places exist illicits warm fuzzy feelings. It’s like finding out a celebrity lives nearby.  And later that day, who do I run into? A massage therapy student.  It’s a stretch. It would have been better if he had been a whore, but it’s still a coincidence.

Soon after accusing Dan of witchcraft, I asked him if there were any gals (or fellas) in his class that were obviously destined to deliver handjobs to traveling businessmen. Were these girls aspiring to the role, sponsored by seedy parlors or did it just happen if a student didn’t have enough cocurriculars or positive references from previous employers?

Apparently Certified Massage Therapists don’t like hearing the “happy ending” word. Even those in training.

Though he never set healing hands on weary waitress shoulders, I know that Dan will be a great massage therapist. He may not know where handjob girls come from, but he has a definite passion for his craft. He’s learning the art of intuitive massage as if it were a martial art, with dedication and precision. But I still think he’s a witch.

Dark Island

• Production Designer
• Key Makeup/Hair
• Co-Producer
• Casting Director
• Insane overachiever.

Greenside

• Art Director
• Key Makeup/Hair
• Costume Designer

Zero Trooper F

• Costume Designer

This is where I am.

Hello there! I’m currently in a fabulous apartment smack in the middle of Hollywood, CA. There are two days left in filming “Feed the Fish,” and I’m officially here in a professional capacity. Professional for two days, much earned vacation for the rest. If only it were sunny.

I didn’t think I’d like Los Angeles. I had too many preconceived notions. I had spoken to too many actors who praddled on for hours about their diets, spf and bowel movements. About bottled water. Golden highlights. Yoga vs. Pilates. I assumed a total obsessions with one’s body and the things that go into it, nourish it and adorn it. I assumed it would be like my stay in the suburbs of Chicago times a zillion. Depending on who I speak to, I am and am not correct. If you ask people enough questions, you’ll get many different answers. None of which completely convey a real idea.
First impressions: Los Angeles is a place. With people. Surprise! For the most part, the people are slightly cooler, slightly more beautiful than the average person. The streets are wider, and the restaurants are slightly hipper. I see more of the things that I’ve sought out in other cities. Ethnic restaurants in strip malls. Stripper supply stores. Hole in the wall drug stores. Middle aged men in expensive jeans. It’s all stuff I’ve seen elsewhere, just more of it. Like other places I’ve been to and lived, there’s plenty of stuff that isn’t “me.” But like other places that I’ve been to and lived, I just don’t see it. Cheers to a selective consciousness. And a nod to L.A.

I’m currently working in snowy Door County, Wisconsin doing makeup and hair for “Feed the Fish,” the feel good film of the winter. I’m working with a mixed bag of great actors, including Katheryn Aselton of indie hit “The Puffy Chair,” Ross Partridge of “Baghead,” Michael Chernus from “Winter’s Passing,” Barry Corbin of “Northern Exposure” and “No Country for Old Men,”and Wisconsin native Tony Shaloub of “Monk.”

I have high hopes for the film, which is full of charm, warmth, and a handful of good ball jokes courtesy of writer/director Michael Matzdorff.

If I survive the cold, and avoid falling through the ice, I’ll report back with more juicy behind the scenes gossip.

Fact of the day: Michael Chernus is a boring no-funster, and Barry Corbin can beat me at arm wrestling.

http://www.feedthefishmovie.com/

I remember the bad promotion for this movie.  It had one of those terrible promotion schemes that basically just featured reveal shots: Tom Hanks.  Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Julia Roberts.  Should have been enough.  Except one crowbar in the cog of movie promotions:  Julia Roberts, our Julia Roberts, our beautiful brunette ray of American sunshine Julia Roberts looked all blonde and weird like a toothy nightmarish Erasorhead.  So I didn’t see it right away, and I think that’s how most people went.

I picked it up at Four Star Video Heaven on impulse, and it has sent me  on a spiralling love affair with Philip Seymour Hoffman.  Have you ever noticed how brilliant that guy is with props?  Even as a fat, mush-mouthed son of a Greek soda-pop maker, he inspires gleeful giggles from me every time he opens a sugar packet or calls someone a cocksucker behind his Wilford Brimley moustache.

And Philip Seymour Hoffman isn’t the only good thing about this movie.  It follows a brash and irreverent womanizing Texas congressman Tom Hanks as he lead the fundng of Afgani troops against the Soviet Union, putting heliocopter-destroying rocket launchers into the well-meaning hands of Afganis to shoot down communism in the 80′s.  Then America screwed it up in the end game, and the rest is pretty much history.   Good movie.

Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie. Oh my god I hate this movie.

I felt like I was in hell for the entire second half.  Who saw this movie and thought it was ok?  Was that even an ending?

This movie is so underrated.   So much better than A.I., but then again so is an accidental enima with a garden hose.  An early Ron Howard film, it has all of the aspects of a totally solid sci-fi movie.  Except it’s better because Wilford Brimley and that kid from The Neverending Story are in it.

Thing that have made this movie a total punchline:

• Horny, breakdancing old people.
• Steve Guttenberg in short shorts.
• Alien on human, bright glowing laser sex.
• Steve Guttenberg

In a world jaded by the explosive retinal displays of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge and the well orchestrated jolly romp Amadeus, Topsy-Turvy is a sensory disappointment.  This biopic follows the latter part of the career of  Opera cohorts Gilbert and Sullivan.  As a theater veteran, I find rehearsal time as interesting as a nap and that is what comprises the basis of this film.  The costumes were perfect and the makeup was beautiful and skillfull.  But it wasn’t enough to make me care the least bit about this movie in which nothing much happens.  I love the DVD cover.  It’s a splendid DVD cover, full of lies that tricked me into watching this movie.

Note: I think that being familiar with the work of Gilbert and Sullivan would make this movie slightly more interesting.  Also, those interested in the wave of orientalism affecting western culture in the late 19th century and early 20th century would find some good bits to this film.  Also costume designers that hate actors.  Overall there are a few good bits in a very uneventful movie.

Gonna go get drunk at Grandma’s.