But you should pre-order it anyway!
Did you like Devil in the White City? Of course you did. Who doesn't? Chicago By Day and Night: The Pleasure Seeker's Guide to the Paris of America was a guidebook published for visitors to the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago. Daniel Burnham might've picked it up, though he's never once mentioned (the book was written before we began to worship architects as artists). H. H. Holmes's hotel might've rated a mention, had it been built when the book was composed. If you're a DitWC fan, this book will complement your enjoyment of Larsen's.
CBDN guides potential visitors to "free and easy" shows, saloons, carousels, masquerades, and other fun things to do away from the Fair itself. It's a fascinating artifact of the late 19th Century, when any woman who flirted with a man on the street might be an "adventuress" who planned to take him for all he was worth, via blackmail, the badger game, or the panel room. A taste from that chapter, with our notes after the jump:
The term adventuress is applied to women of careless reputation who, being much too smart to endure the ignominious career of professional demi-mondaines, resort to various shrewd schemes to fleece the unwary. Some of their class work in concert with male partners, and in such cases the selected victim generally becomes an easy prey. The confidence man may be dangerous; the confidence woman, if she be well educated and bright, as well as pretty, is irresistible except with the most hardened and unsusceptible customers. The shrewdest old granger of them all, who steers safely through the shoals and traps set for him by male sharpers, will go down like the clover before the scythe under a roguish glance, as it were, from a “white wench’s black eye,” as Mercutio said.
There is no mortal man in this universe of ours, be he never so homely or ill-favored, who does not cherish in his heart of hearts the impression that there is a woman or two somewhere whom he could charm if he wished to. It is the spirit of masculine vanity that forms the material upon which the adventuress may work. With the art of an expert she sizes up the dimensions of her victim’s vanity the instant she has made his acquaintance and plays upon it to just the extent she deems expedient and profitable. If it were not for masculine vanity, the American adventuress could not exist.
Along with my colleague Paul Durica, I've introduced, edited and annotated this fascinating bit of history. Some key features you might like: lots of dirty jokes, along with serious economic history (the chapter on gambling, for instance, includes the Chicago Board of Trade as just another way to lose your shirt, along with back-alley craps games or faro banks in saloons). Reminders of how cities change, and how they stay the same. Very cool illustrations, and lots of double-entendres (watch for the "delicious lays").
But all in the service of scholarship. Pre-order! Use the code DURICA13 for a discount.
Let me back up, and complicate, Dan when he writes...
remember that TVC and NOM and FRC and AFA are all shooting themselves in the foot. So are all the freelance haters lurking in comments threads on blogs and on news websites spouting off about buttsecks and feces and pedophilia.
You see, today most people know someone who's LGBT. The homophobic nonsense that straight people used to find so persuasive—gay people are all icky perverts! they're coming for your children! they hate the family!—doesn't work on straight people who actually know someone who's LGBT.
Because it's not just that hate fades when haters know someone who's LBGT: hate fades, or gets complicated, when people know someone whom they know is related to someone who's LGBT. One degree of separation can suffice.
To wit: I am a regular patron at a bar where I've literally known the bar owners, and one of the bartenders, and many of the patrons, my entire life (I've lived in the same zip code for all of my 50 years). It's the kind of low-key neighborhood joint where everyone talks sports, local news, whatever. Some of the regulars are old-fashioned prejudiced Never Really Thought About It regarding various things; some are actual bigots. Either way, years ago, if someone would spout some homophobic bullshit, I'd clear my throat (I'm usually at a table in the window, reading the paper, not right at the bar engaged in the chitchat). Then one or the other of the regulars or the bartender would remind the rest of who my brother was, or the bigot would just remember that when you make a disparaging remark about fags, you're talking about Bill's brother Dan. You know, Dan, went to school with your little sister? You know, Bill, who can talk Cubs and Bears and why Loyola is fucking up the 'hood, Bill, he's one of us. So shut the fuck up about his brother.
This didn't necessarily change their minds about Queers Being Icky, but they kept their bullshit quieter in deference to me. Because they knew me, and my whole family, including the queer one. And I have to think that over the many years this has gone on, where Dan's appearances on Maher or CNN, or in the Reader or the Tribune, have been the subject of conversation, they've come to realize that maybe they're full of it a bit, on the wrong side of history.
And when our mother died five years ago, everyone in that bar was right there for us. Not just for me, for us all.
Okay, I'll warn you now that there's a big nepotism tag on this post. My brother Michael has been taking super high-resolution panoramas of the city, such as this one that I posted recently, but he's getting better at them. His latest panaorama has about three times the detail, it's shot at sunrise over Sodo, and you can go full screen and ZOOM WAY IN. It's right over HERE.
Yes, yes, I'm biased and all that—but... it's so neat. I love you, Slog, and I had to share.
UPDATE: Holy crap. This one taken from Gasworks Park, of the skyline and everything else in town, might be even better.
My brother Michael took a super high-resolution panorama of the Seattle skyline at sunset. You can go full screen, zoom way in, and peer inside windows...
If you want more celebrity bullshit posts, post 'em. And please note that the two Seahawks posts were by regular actual employees of The Stranger, and one of them was so disdainful as to actually constitute a Golden Globes post.
And the Seahawks game was more important: There's a Golden Globes every year. The Seahawks do not make the post-season every year.
So, one of the side arguments (apart from, you know, basic rights and justice) for Same Sex Marriage is the economic impact it can have. And since the political is the personal, here's my personal economic impact statement from Dan and Terry's recent Big Gay Wedding:
My sweetheart and I came to Seattle via Portland. Below, I list just the money she and I spent in Seattle, on a weekend we otherwise would not have been in Seattle at all.
Transportation: $30.00 for 2 cab rides, $29.40 for parking, $8.00 on Sound Transit, for a total of $67.40.
Lodging at a very nice B and B on Capitol Hill: $348.21.
Food: $197.34 at Bastille in Fremont, $133.88 at Smith, for a total of $331.22.
Food at the airport: $64, including nice stuff from Dish Delish to bring on the plane.
Booze: $37.95 at Hopvine, $9.00 at the Comet (happy hour rocks), $30.00 at the party at Q for a total of $76.95.
Christmas shopping: $209.45 at the Ebbets Field Flannels outlet store in Pioneer Square.
Miscellaneous: $29.20 at Walgreen's on 15th, $7.00 for newspapers, $12.00 for coffee.
Grand total direct economic impact on Seattle: $1,147.43.
Imagine if the brother had had more time to plan a really big gay wedding! And, hey, everyone be sure to get cupcakes from Cupcake Royale, who donated all of those cupcakes for the City Hall ceremonies and the party at Q!
When the TV money flowing into college football changed from a steady stream to a tsunami, Notre Dame surfed the front wave. Their 1991 deal with NBC for exclusive broadcast rights of home games helped ensure the slow death of traditional college football. You know: crisp fall Saturday afternoons on campus, tweedy professors, wholesome cheerleaders, projectile-vomiting frat boys. Back in the day, for far-away alums or fans, maybe the game would’ve been on TV, but probably not. Now, any time slot that doesn’t go up against the NFL has a college game scheduled, to feed the bottomless maw of ESPN and other sports cable outfits.
Yet the fact that Notre Dame is just another a football factory isn’t the issue: it’s the fact that Notre Dame acts as though it isn’t just another football factory.
Even beyond the money, Notre Dame’s claims of moral superiority are belied by events on the ground. When student videographers are killed in windstorms or a young woman commits suicide after allegedly being sexually assaulted by a football player, and Notre Dame’s administration circles the wagons around “the program,” well, they remind us there is no moral high ground in big-time college sports.
That all flowed right over my head! But good righting, Bill!
That nepotism tag doesn't come in handy much. But when it does, man, it's just the thing.
Seattle Community Colleges, a conglomerate of post-secondary schools and vocational institutes funded by the state, announced today two new members of its board of trustees. Appointed by Governor Chris Gregoire, the new members are Carmen Gayton, a Windermere Real Estate broker who also worked for the Weyerhaeuser Company, and—uh—Courtney Gregoire.
Hmmm... that unusual last name sure sounds like the last name of the woman who appointed her. But the bio in the press release makes no mention that she's the governor's daughter:
Courtney Gregoire is an attorney with Microsoft Corp., whose wide-ranging career in public service includes work as a legislative director in the U. S. Senate and as Deputy Chief of Staff for the U.S. Department of Commerce. While working in Washington, D.C, she also served with the National Democratic Institute and maintained her ties to Seattle, serving with the University of Washington Center for Women & Democracy. Trustee Gregoire is a graduate of Willamette University and Harvard Law School, and began her law career at K&L Gates.
Courtney Gregoire surely has the qualifications to serve on the board. But, you know, lacking full disclosure—Seattle Community Colleges didn't immediately respond to questions about the accidental omission—we'll do it for them.
So, for y'all who don't get enough Dan Savage idolatry (which, by the way, is bullshit according to the Bible) around here:
Now, the part that makes this funny: I'm teaching my Chicago lit class, and we've been doing Chicago journalism and new media (Dan Sinker's Twitter-novella "The F***ing Epic Twitter Quest of @mayoremanuel"). I routinely mock. . . er, engage with. . . my students about the habit of Young People Nowadays not reading newspapers. Tuesday, Sinker spoke to my class and Dan tweeted something about it (that I showed to the class to engage with the New Media Paradigm). Today, I was discussing the various implications of this particular brand of post-modern discursive practices, blahblahblah, and a few students made comments about Dan's media presence that I now realize were about this freakin' story. That they'd read (online) but I hadn't, because I read the damn Trib on dead trees in the afternoon. Like after class.
Here endeth the lesson.
Also, these stories do NOT show up on the Tribune's front page online. The Arts and Entertainment section they're in don't list these stories, even though that's where they appear in the print edition. This might be driven by search algorithms: so click these links to get this cool stuff up on their site!
And nepotism, that's why!
Anyway, Today in Baseball History is very Chicago-centric:
1916 In Chicago, the Cubs play their first game at Weeghman Park beating the Reds in 11 innings, 7-6. The ballpark will be renamed Wrigley Field in 1926.
Wheeghman Park had been home of the Chicago Whales of the Federal League, and I kind of wish the National League club had taken the Whales nickname when their owner bought the Cubs. It would be an accurate description of the size of so many sausage-chomping and beer-swilling Midwestern fans, not to mention players like Hack Wilson and Rick Reuschel, and would provide a connection to the fauna of the Pacific Northwest, somewhat justifying this post.
1946 The Cubs are shut out by Cardinal southpaw Harry Brecheen in their home opener at Wrigley Field, 2-0. The game is the first in the club's history be televised with 'Whispering' Joe Wilson doing the play-by-play on Chicago's WBKB.
1967 Rookie hurler Tom Seaver gets his first major-league win when the Mets beat the Cubs, 6-1. 'Tom Terrific' goes 7 2/3 innings giving up eight hits and one run.
1997 In the second game of a doubleheader, the Cubs stop their season-opening losing skid at 14 games beating the Mets, 4-3. By losing the opener, Chicago set a National League record (0-14) for the most consecutive losses to start a season and has the second-worst record behind the Baltimore Orioles who lost 21 decisions before winning a game in 1988.
Am listening to the Cubs blow a game to the Reds right now, already down 4 runs in the middle of the first. Reds have batted around. If they win today, it's the Cincinnati franchise's 10,000th win. Ah, History! Makes my upcoming colonoscopy seem all the more appropriate.
1945 In a 7-1 victory over the Tigers, the Browns' Pete Gray, playing with one arm, makes his major league debut with one hit in four at-bats. The 30-year old St. Louis outfielder lost his right arm, as a child, when he slipped while riding on a farmer's wagon and his limb become entangled in the spokes of one of the wheels.
Plus, it's Cap Anson's birthday. A member of the 1939 class in the Hall of Fame, first ballplayer to get 3,000 hits, and one of the men responsible for the color line in baseball due to his refusal to play teams that had black players on the field.
And a reminder that just because something happens in the year 2000 doesn't mean antebellum attitudes are gone:
2000 After serving a 12-game suspension for making disrespectful comments about minorities, John Rocker pitches a scoreless ninth inning against the Phillies in a 4-3, 12-inning home victory. The outspoken Braves' reliever is given a standing ovation as he enters the game.
That Rocker was an asshat is not news, but I'd forgotten the love he got from the Atlanta Braves fans: mind you, they didn't cheer him after he got his save, they did so as he came into the game. Makes me nostalgic for when their Southern Assocation team was aptly called the Crackers.
And in your Pacific Northwester news:
1942 Due to the fear of a Japanese attack, west coast military leaders ask the Pacific Coast League to limit crowds to 3,000 fans.
I wonder what the Rainiers were drawing that year. . .
Today, travel industry consultant Maureen Judge, most famous at Stranger headquarters for divorcing Goldy, announced her bid for Mercer Island's 41st District Senate seat against Republican incumbent Steve Litzow.
This is unsurprising news. Yesterday, my suspicions were aroused when I overheard Goldy (of all people) bragging about having "sexual relations" with a state senator. The pool's just not that large, folks.
Like all King County progressives running for office, Judge is running on a pro-reproductive rights, pro-environment, pro-education platform. “The budget Senator Litzow supported this session would have gutted another $43 million from K-12 education and his votes killed the Reproductive Parity Act," Judge said in a press release. “This is why I am running for this seat. Women and kids deserve better than elected officials who put party above people.”
As the former Executive Director of the Washington Toxics Coalition, she helped pass state legislation in 2009 that banned harmful toxins out of baby bottles, children’s products, and sports bottles.
Her resume also boasts ties to NARAL Pro-Choice Washington, the King County Conservation Voters, the Starlight Children’s Foundation—a nonprofit serving seriously ill children and their families—and (of course) divorcing Goldy, a level-headed move sure to play well with the district's more conservative voters.
UPDATE: Goldy disputes my lede, saying he "never had sex with that woman." Their daughter could not be reached for comment.
But this takes the cake.
The headline kind of says it all:
"Man eats cocaine from brother's butt, dies."
As one commenter put it, "Crack kills."
Well, that was quick. I'm done, Slog. I feel like I barely had a transition from nervous-yet-overconfident fresh news intern to jaded-yet-wise-and-still-overconfident former news intern. It's been good and satisfying, by way of not being exactly what I expected. Rather than try to force out more platitudes, I'd like to share non-sequitur things I'm taking with me from The Stranger.
1. A profound love for grammar and formatting. It's just a free, uncomplicated extra step to make any piece more effective. And I appreciate getting called out on errors by commenters.
2. Tolerance and generally warm feelings toward trolls. Even the most inane, bitchy, trolling comments and commenters flatter us by proving that what we write is worth responding to. And it's the sort of incredibly cruel, honest feedback you can't get anywhere else, which is useful, provided that you actually give a shit about what you're writing and have opinions and stuff. It's also fun to predict who will comment and what you all will say.
3. A tattoo. Mom and dad, it's a bass clef on my left shoulder blade. I got it on the night of October 28 after a few drinks. Hat tip for the idea to care bear.
Bye, Slog! I had an absolutely great time here. If you're at all curious, here's what I've been up to for the past couple weeks, and will continue working on for the next few months. (Go Sex Week!)
P.S. My dad is running for mayor in 2013.
By purchasing a portrait of the magnificent lady beast for your own.
By Seattle Mag. He's still a foul-mouthed fucker and never sends us donuts. Also he's impulsive, irrational, and totally brilliant.
My brother just called to tell me he's been awarded a Navy SEAL contract. I was less than thrilled when he first brought up the idea of becoming a SEAL a year ago, and reading up on their training and deployment did nothing to soothe my liberal, big-sister hand wringing (why the fuck couldn't he grow up to be a teen dad like his friends???). But after watching him work for the last year—running marathons in hiking boots, swimming miles with a brick in his mouth, morphing into one giant ab, etc.—I'm really proud of him for getting his goddamn contract. He's earned it. (Goddammit.)
And what better way to celebrate that fact than by paying a hairy man $5 to write Congrats! on his stomach and dance his fucking ass off? (Hat tip to TVDinner for the idea!)
I love you, buddy! Reach for the stars!*
*And then quietly smother them in their sleep.
Ain't love grand? Congrats you two. All of your friends & frenemies at Slog wish you many, many more happy years together.
Actually, it was gay porn stars who killed Christ. I mean, come on, you've seen their Roman soldier get-ups, those lace-up boots and the short armor skirt? They might as well be on a casting call for A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Santorum.
I'm just saying, I would totally rent A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Santorum.
Happy 75th birthday, Paul West.
And the Youtube video was posted yesterday and already has more than 2.6 million hits. Discuss.
Apparently Daniel Burnham never said, "Make no small plans, for they have no magic to stir men's blood." My brother, AKA "Chicago Fan," busts Chicago-area Burnham fetishists in this piece in the Chicago Reader. As much as I hate disagreeing with my brother about, well, anything, I have to say that I'm kinda into "The Last Four Miles."
I apologize in advance for using the up the Internet on this post about Chicago, which isn't even in Seattle, and Slog's a Seattle blog, and why don't I know that, and I know, right? I'm a moron.
My brother took this photo of Cal Anderson Park, which is practically inside our office—so posting it is a double conflict of interest—but it's so damn cool. Click the pic for a larger version.
A week ago this evening, from 10 pm to midnight, Lindy West and I got very drunk at an AM talk radio station in Bellevue. We were there to talk about the results of The Stranger's sex survey, though we weren't technically even allowed to read the sex survey as it was worded because of all the rules about what you can and can't say on the air, and yet hilariously, during the show, one of the hosts said "fuck" inadvertently. (She was reading aloud that a Stranger reader had written "Fuck a unicorn" as the one thing he wanted to accomplish sexually before he died. The techs were unable to bleep "fuck" in the live airing but presumably it's bleeped now. Haven't listened to it again.) The first hour's here. The second hour's here.
(Yes. TWO HOURS. Of talking. One of us, nervously, could not shut up. But Ms. West? She was all poise. It'll be a few hours before Slog gets hopping, and you've probably got nothing else to do. Those links are totally SFW—so long as you're wearing headphones.)
My brother emails:
November 23 | Feast day of St Clement (Pope Clement I, or Clement of Rome), martyr
(Convex wood sorrel, Oxalis convexula is today's plant, dedicated to this saint)
St Clement, the fourth pope of the Roman Catholic Church, the first of the successors of the Apostle St Peter about whom anything definite is known, and the first of the ‘Apostolic Fathers’, is the patron saint of tanners, as, by tradition, he was one himself. His symbol is an anchor, as he was thrown into the sea tied to an anchor. He is also patron of boatmen, marble workers, mariners, sailors, sick children, stonecutters and watermen.
A Clement is mentioned by St Paul in Philippians, iv, 3, but there is no evidence to assume that he was this Clement, who is said to have been the third or fourth pope (the Vatican's Annuario Pontificio (2003) cites a reign from 92 to 99). A 9th century tradition says he was martyred in the Crimea in 102, but earlier sources say he died a natural death.
After Clement, or Old Clem as he was known to English blacksmiths, was martyred (if he was), two of his disciples prayed to find his remains: the sea retreated for 3 miles, and they could walk to where an angel-built chapel was, with St Clement's remains in a chest of stone, by the anchor. Every year the sea did so, on St Clement's day and remained dry for seven days.
Children in pre-Reformation England went in procession on this day, and at night, adults went out to beg a drink. Hence this day was marked with a pot on old ‘clog almanacs’. (A clog almanac was a primitive almanac or calendar, originally made of a 'clog', or log of wood. The sharp edge of each of its four faces was divided by notches into three months, every week being marked by a large notch. The face to the left of the notched edge contained the saints’ days, festivals, phases of the moon, and so on in Runic characters, for which reason the 'clog' was also called a Runic staff.)
In the Midlands of England, children used to go 'clementing' for fruit and pennies, singing a rhyme about St Clement....
Sources include Pennick, Nigel, The Pagan Book of Days, Destiny Books, Rochester, Vermont, USA, 1992, p. 129; Encyclopaedia Britannica, 1911; Wikipedia et al
More after the jump.