#stopsmiling

He is a precious human. I would never stop smiling...

Send a frown

I've changed the format just a little bit. The Moving Lip got collagen. Room to stretch out! I was tired of writing in tiny little columns, down and down and down and down and since you can't change the old profile, it's in with the new. I ditched the black background, too. Having a black background on your blog is like having black sheets on your bed, people think you're a creep. And they're right but at least now they won't know right away. Anyways after that fateful reunion with my wallet I slouched over to the blue line and went north. StopSmiling had a poet, Travis Nichols, reading at their storefront -- being that I'd never been and given all the thanks I owe to J.C., I thought I'd put in an appearance. Plus there was allegedly free booze, which always makes these amateur art events more palatable. The place, in Wicker Park, has a gallery-like layout. As soon as you enter you're facing a divider. On the other side there's an open hardwood space with white walls and a stage. There's a few couches and chairs up against the divider but nothing too fancy. I'd come alone but immediately ran into J.C. in mid-conversation at the door. The bar was a table covered in cloth, staffed by two volunteers who busied themselves pouring homemade liquors out of jars. Nothing had a label on it. I plied myself with a warm, cider gin they were serving from a crock pot. They were asking for donations, "So it's not technically free?" "No..." "See, I'm torn," I explain, as Natalie Imbruglia might, "I love this magazine and what they do. I support print journalism until its dying day but our teacher, J.C., told us there would be free booze at this place, so--" "It's ok... Just give what you want." "Are you sure about that-- cos you say that but you don't look like you mean it." "No. It's fine..." a customer comes and drops a one in the tip jar, "I won't look if you don't want me to." I cowboyed up three and found a seat. The crowd was thirtyish, just about all of them, and numbered a few dozen. When he had finished his conversation, J.C. came over, "Come on, you gotta get the full tour." The backroom, which looked like a mix of an office and receiving, was freezing. "Sorry about that. It's the insulation of that skylight, there is none," he explained indication the towering ceiling. The walls were plastered with larger-than-life magazine covers and various oddities from the place; matchbooks, t-shirts, mugs--anything StopSmiling. There was a desk inundated with publications and invoices, a staircase leading to who knows were and then a door into another side-room where every past issue was kept, along with promotional materials from their publisher, the necessary evil, Melville House. Back out in the hall we chatted about the future of SS and of journalism and I thought, looking out at all the mingling lowlives, this is where I'll be interning next semester...I hope they fix that skylight. The performance, "See Me Improving" was a mix of poetry and performance, improvisation and improvement. The first half of the show, as I understand it, was people performing things they had no prior experience in. It was a little odd. There was stand-up, makeup and handstand tutorials, singing and harmonica playing, a self-proclaimed "bad typist" typing blindfolded. The couple behind me must have been decently toasty because they kept shouting and cat-calling, a running commentary on whatever was happening. When the typist began his challenge with his name it came out as something like, Afdrew Weuacyjk "Is that my name," he asked the audience. Sniggers and grins. "Are you Polish?" I asked, sending the cat-callers into stitches that eventually consumed the whole room either because my joke was funny or because the two behind me were laughing so obnoxiously. Come on that's a pretty good one you have to admit. Chicagoans get that joke. That gin, maybe because of its searing-hotness or just how many I drank, had me wavering pretty quickly. That didn't stop me from ordering more. By the intermission I was only four deep but feeling good enough to go stand in Harold's Chicken Shack for a quarter of an hour waiting for a large order of fries. I sort of wandered back in, ordered another gin and waited for Travis Nichols to take the stage. The emcee this night, who I haven't met yet, was killer. He had a perfect mix of deadpan and empathy; his introductions for each performer were epic, if not dripping in irony. It wasn't that great. It was just alright. And I feel bad cos the guy had come from Seattle to be here and he was anything but pretentious... or self-deprecatory. He just got up there, did a little preface and then began reading. he had a little sense of humor. People were at least sitting silently (even the cat-callers stopped) if not receptively. There was nothing bad, per se, about his work-- it just wasn't good. It had little glimmers. He got a healthy round of applause. I downed a PBR and the night ended. I found J.C. and reminded him to load me up on swag. So he sent me home with about eight issues and some matches. He led me through a curtain into that same side room we had been earlier. "Sorry about the show tonight man. It wasn't quite what I'd expected. Normally we have a lot more traditional readings." He neednt've apologized though. It was still a great night. It had me dreaming about the future all the long walk through the snow to the 72 bus.