We just got a new digital SLR, a Canon 450/Rebel XSi. I kind of hate calling it a “Rebel,” as it brings to mind a mulletted Andre Agassi showing everybody how great the Canon Rebel was—so much so, that it was my first 35mm SLR.
Anyway, the way I see it, getting back into shooting is a nice way to transition back into writing on a regular basis. That’s how I got into journalism in the first place, by shooting for my high school newspaper, then the Miami Student, which led to more writing assignments. But the truth is that it forces me to see the world through new eyes, and I’m hoping that’ll be the hair of the dog that’ll jumpstart me out of this post-MFA writing hangover.
Besides, Annie has a BFA in photography (She’s a darkroom wizard; her silver gelatin prints are gorgeous), and we’ve been looking to get better photos of the jewelry she makes to try to market that out. So, you know, two birds.
Anyway, there’s a ton of new photos on my Flickr page if you’re interested.
Billy Lombardo’s new site
August 23, 2009
Billy Lombardo is a hell of a Chicago writer. And his new Web site, which is much slicker than mine, just went live at www.billylombardo.com. You ought to pay him a visit there. I’m just cracking his latest, How to Hold a Woman, and he graced us with his presence at the 2009 Story Week’s tribute to Nelson Algren.
Buzz Aldrin’s “Magnificent Desolation”
August 18, 2009
The first two-thirds of this book are riveting, and there are some GREAT scenes on the moon. But walking on the moon and returning safely to home was the easy part. Buzz’s real struggle started when he got back—where do you go once you’ve walked on another celestial body?
For Buzz, it was the bottle— combined with crushing depression and his mother and grandfather committing suicide—that easily could have led him to taking his own life. It did for my father.
But Buzz took the hard road. Especially in the ’70s, seeking treatment for mental illness killed careers, more so in the military/NASA than any other industry, where astronauts were supposed to be supermen. It’s a page-turner, sad and light-hearted at once. But once Buzz the character dried out, so did the narrative.
The last third of Magnificent Desolation turned into a 100-page pitch for Buzz’s entrepreneurial endeavors. I slammed through it, but wish it had ended earlier. Still, a damn worthy read for anybody who’s had close contact with depression or alcoholism—and anymore, that’s everybody.
Some footprints last for thousands of years. Some only a few minutes.
New story added
August 18, 2009
Hey folks, in case you’re interested, I’ve added a chapter of my novel to the Stories page. Well, not so much a chapter, but one that got axed when I rewrote the book in third person, but I published anyway. So, you know, if you feel like killing some time…
Wow. Been a while.
August 17, 2009
Sorry for my recent vanishing act. Besides finally getting that MFA diploma, I’ve been doing a lot of freelancing and sending out resumes lately.
Good news and bad. We’ll start with the good.
I was able to meet up with the amazing writer John McNally while he was in town researching his next book. He, Geoff Hyatt, and I met up at the Saluki Bar in Old Town. John’s a Southern Illinois University grad, and the entrance to the bar is lined with old SIU student IDs. Over beers, Geoff asked him why SIU’s mascot is the Saluki, and he said something resembling the following: “Well, that whole triangle in southern Illinois is known as Little Egypt.”
“Like Cairo?” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s pronounced kay-ro,” John continued. He looked around the bar for a minute, then said. “And salukis are an Egyptian breed of dog.” He paused for a drink. “Other than that, I have no idea.”
So we got to shoot the shit, catch up a bit, talk about our ongoing projects—his book, Geoff’s books (one of which just got picked up for publication), and some of the irons I’ve got on the fire, including a book proposal about the way poverty on the edge of Appalachia affects—and destroys—everything. From lack of nutritional awareness, lack of fresh vegetables, and sedentary lifestyles leading to endemic levels of diabetes; to murders that happen because somebody’s electricity got shut off and the victim had to stay with a neighbor on a cold, cold (election) night; to a six-month-old baby losing two toes to rodent bites. There’s plenty more chapters. I just need to write the synopses and send them off to an interested agent in New York.
Good to see John, though.
Bad news. Part of the reason I’ve been so withdrawn from the writing community this summer has to do with my dad, who completed a suicide attempt on June 2. He was 56. He’d been depressed as hell and an alcoholic for more than anybody realized, out of work for years after his last DUI; it’s all woven together so tightly, I doubt he could see through it.
We’d been vaguely estranged for some time. I’d seen him twice in three years—once at my wedding, and once in December, when I tried to give him a kick in the ass to get moving with his life. You know how when you have an old pet, you hope to just find that it had gone to sleep one night and never woke up? It’s comforting to know there was no pain involved that way. I think that’s what my dad hoped for himself—he was probably misinterpreting panic attacks as heart attacks. When he got news his life insurance premiums were doubling, he saw no option but to euthanize himself. I thank God that he didn’t pull the trigger on himself in my grandma’s house, where he’d been living for three years, but went down the block to a fire station, where he knew he’d be found quickly and seen by none of his family. We scattered his ashes later that week.
This is all a very reporter-like recap, and that’s no accident on my part. I’m working through this, trying to assimilate the information I knew about Dad with the information that’s come to light since his death. While trained professionals cleaned up the scene of his suicide, I’ve taken it on myself to confront his myriad creditors who keep calling my 85-year-old grandmother looking for money that’s not there. I know the creditors are just doing their jobs, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them traumatize her by making her relive it. She’s a tough old Polish broad who could probably still whip my ass if she wanted to, and I guess the silver lining to all of this is that she and I—as well as my mom, brother, and myself—have all become much closer as a result of this. Everybody, and I mean everybody, in my father’s life did everything they could to help him. He just didn’t want it, and now he isn’t in pain any longer.
So I’ll close with that, and a promise to update this more regularly with those literary irons I’ve got on the fire.
Cheers, everyone.
Dad and me in 1981
