Bill Geist attended this year’s Printers Row Book Fair. He came as a guest author and signed copies of his new book, Way Off the Road. Whirl and I attended the book fair for two reasons. First reason, we had no choice. The fair sets up in our front yard. And it stays there for two days. If we want to go anywhere outside the building, we have to go through the fair. Second reason, they sell books at the book fair. I like books. Books are the one possession in our house that escapes the two-year rule. “If you haven’t used this in two years, you probably never are going to use it. It’s safe to get rid of it.”

The two-year rule is essential in our house. We do not have a lot of storage space– no garage, only a small space in the basement, certainly no spare bedrooms. Clutter can accumulate at an alarming rate. No, the clutter I tolerate tends to be the sentimental type: small, symbolic tokens representing larger events. Either that or they are just thoughts and memories I keep locked up in my head.

Those take up space, but a different kind of space.

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For years my friends have been trying to coerce me into reading something from Tim Powers. So I am. This is the editorial review: The colonization of Egypt by western European powers is the launch point for power plays and machinations. Steeping together in this time-warp stew are such characters as an unassuming Coleridge scholar, ancient gods, wizards, the Knights Templar, werewolves, and other quasi-mortals, all wrapped in the organizing fabric of Egyptian mythology. In the best of fantasy traditions, the reluctant heroes fight for survival against an evil that lurks beneath the surface of their everyday lives.

Clark BarClark Street cuts through a diverse section of Chicago. From north to south, Clark touches all of these neighborhoods: Rogers Park, Edgewater, Andersonville, Uptown, Sheridan Park, Lakeview, Wrigleyville, Lincoln Park, the Near North Side, the Gold Coast, the Loop, Printer’s Row, the South Loop, the Near South Side and Chinatown. Some of those areas are quite wealthy. Some are not. Some are rapidly developing. Some maintain a more steady-state of growth and decay. Some areas are commercial; some are industrial. Many are residential. A number of Chicago’s architectural and civic icons have addresses on Clark Street: Graceland Cemetery, Wrigley Field, and City Hall for three easy ones. Besides that, Clark is an angle street. For most of its length, Clark runs northwest-southeast. There are not a lot of angle streets in the city of Chicago. Most of the city is on a grid of north-south and east-west. My friend Mick has threatened to name all of his children after Chicago angle streets. So if you ever run into a bunch of children with the names Lincoln, Clark, Ogden and Archer you will know whose great idea that was. Anyway, I digress. Simply, I wanted to explore this wide-ranging artery of the city. I wanted to walk the entire length of Clark Street.

So today I walked Clark Street– the whole thing. I started at the northern border of the city at Howard and walked with Whirl and Niqui the twelve-mile stretch of fascinating streetscape to its southern terminus at Cermak Road. Liz and Smokes joined us for significant stretches along the way. It took the three of us five hours and forty-two minutes to complete the trek. That time includes a sixty-five minute lunch break across the street from the Chicago Historical Society. Those of you doing the math at home should come up with an average rate of travel of 2.6 miles per hour. I think that is a fine result.

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It’s spring of 2004. Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman are trying to decide what to do with their summer. They come up with an incredible plan. Both are motorcycle enthusiasts and they want to do something unique. They decide to take the summer off and ride motorcycles around the world. They plan to start in London and end in New York City. And since they are planning something so singular, they decide to film it. Then they decide it would be better if someone filmed it for them. I imagine the initial conversation going something like this:

Charley, what do you want to do this summer?
Let’s ride our motorbikes around the world!
Brilliant!
Yes. Let’s ride through Ukraine, Kazakhstan, and Mongolia.
I’ve always wanted to see Mongolia!
And there’s this road here, look at the map. We can ride that.
The Road of Bones. Sounds bloody fantastic, it does!
One problem.
What’s that?
We haven’t got any motorbikes.
Right.

So McGregor and Boorman put together a crew, hire a Swiss cameraman, and get to work finding sponsors. What results is this incredible television documentary about their 115 day trip, Long Way Round. McGregor and Boorman use the journey as a vehicle to bring attention to UNICEF’s humanitarian work in Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Mongolia– including a powerful stop in an orphanage housing children affected by the Chernobyl disaster.

I am enjoying this series on a number of levels. It is a travel piece about a part of the world I know very little about. It shows a more unscripted side of celebrities. It underlines the distinction between tourism as a commercial enterprise and traveling as a journey. And McGregor and Boorman are witty and shrewd, authentic and charming.

I was pleased to learn that on 12. May, 2007 this crew began a second trip of a lifetime. They are traveling from from John o’ Groats at the northernmost tip of Scotland to Cape Town at the southernmost tip of Africa. They will ride through Central Europe and Eastern Africa. Again the pair are riding with a film crew and in support of UNICEF. This second trip of a lifetime is called Long Way Down. I invite to follow along through the BBC website associated with this trek.

In March of 1996, Outside magazine sent Jon Krakauer on an expedition to climb Mount Everest. Krakauer’s editors wanted him to write about the increasing commercialism of the summit. Krakauer stated he had given up mountain climbing long ago. He agreed to the climb for purely professional reasons. He later revised this statement, confessing a reawakened desire to climb mountains– like the heroes of his childhood once had done.

The climb turned to catastrophe. By the end of summit day, May 10th, 1996, eight people lay dead at the top of the world. Krakauer’s account has been described as a book-length confession– a compelling accounting of an expedition plagued by hubris, greed, poor judgment and bad luck.

I have climbed a fair number of mountains, most of them in Colorado. And I have, at times in my foolish youth, entertained thoughts of traveling to Kathmandu. I have thought about making this ascent into Heaven. Those desires stemmed from my own personal experiences in the Rocky Mountains. They do not come from competition or pride and I will not allow them to become poisoned with unconsidered commercialization– as irreplaceable Everest has been.

I do not mean to say these climbers got what they deserved– they didn’t. No one deserves to die on the face of mountain. What I find most intriguing about this story is not the conflict of man versus nature, but rather man’s flawed nature against a merciless void.

I will never understand the rivalry that exists between the fans of Chicago’s two baseball teams. I think it is something that develops at birth. I was not born here. I did not grow up here. I missed out. I came to Chicago as an adult. Granted, a tabula rasa when it came to professional baseball– but I still missed out. I think it is too late for me.

I understand that a division exists: as much as Chicago likes to describe itself as a diverse collection of peoples, places, things and ideas I’m convinced that what is really important to Chicagoans is not Chicago, but the local block. So we have a city of almost three million people. In that city I see more people describe themselves by their sports teams, political alliances, and neighborhoods than the city at large. “I’m from Bridgeport.” “I’m a Bulls fan.” “Me? Wicker Park hippy-artist.” That trend plays on stereotypes both good and bad. I mean both kind and unkind. Whirl expressed that she has never lived anywhere where so many people were so concerned about how she ate something. Pizza has to be like this. Nobody puts ketchup on a hot dog! We’re fat and happy and God damn it all we want you to be fat and happy, too.

As a curious counterpoint, I notice most suburbanites identifying themselves as Chicagoans rather than Palos Hillfolk, Oakbrookians or Schaumburgers.

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Sinclair Lewis was an American novelist and playwright. His novel, Main Street, was to be awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1921. The Columbia University Board of Trustees overturned the jury’s decision. Five years later, Lewis again was awarded with the Pulitzer, this time for his novel Arrowsmith. Lewis refused. In 1930, Lewis became the first American author to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Insightful and critical, satirical, and sympathetic– It Can’t Happen Here is Lewis’ last great work. This speculative novel warns that political movements akin to fascism can come to power in countries such as the United States when people blindly support their leaders.

It has been misattributed to Lewis that he writes in this book, “When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.” And while the particular quote was never written, the sentiment behind it permeates much of the language. New American Library recently reprinted this novel in 2005 and I picked it up as my next book in part due to the the power I perceive in the quote coupled with the impact of the recent documentaries, Jesus Camp and The Corporation, and the non-fiction books, State of Fear and Fast Food Nation.

Michael Meyer wrote a new introduction to the 2005 printing. He concludes his introduction with:

[Lewis] believed that dissent– even a cranky, erratic, eccentric, old-fashioned version of it– was not disloyalty but at the heart of an American democratic identity. Engulfed in the complexities and vulnerabilities of our post-September 11 world, Americans of nearly all political persuasions are likely to find that It Can’t Happen Here, though firmly anchored in the politics of the 1930s, surfaces as a revealing and disturbing read.

The book’s back cover reads:

It Can’t Happen Here is the only one of Sinclair Lewis’ later novels to match the power of Main Street, Babbitt, and Arrowsmith. A cautionary tale about the fragility of democracy, it is an alarming, eerily timeless look at how fascism could take hold in America. Written during the Great Depression, when the country was largely oblivious to Hitler’s aggression, it juxtaposes sharp political satire with the chillingly realistic rise of a President who becomes a dictator to save the nation from welfare cheats, rampant promiscuity, crime and a liberal press.

Sound familiar?

Eric Schlosser levels the following charges: fast food has hastened the malling of our landscape, widened the chasm between rich and poor, fueled an epidemic of obesity, and propelled American cultural imperialism abroad. That’s a bold statement. Schlosser first wrote about the unsanitary and discriminatory practices of the fast food industry in a two-part series for Rolling Stone magazine in 1999. He expanded that treatment into this almost 300 page book and published it in 2001.

While reading about the book I found a number of comparisons to Upton Sinclair‘s 1906 novel The Jungle. I had to ask myself: have a hundred years gone by without any serious changes in the way America treats food? Have the ghosts of the Union Stockyards simply changed clothes and donned franchise uniforms at strip malls, pizza joints and hamburger stands across America?

I want to feel better about myself. To that end I have adopted a simple motto: eat less; move more. I am hoping this book will help me achieve that goal.

I am tempted to start this entry with a quote from Agent J from Men In Black II. “Old and busted; new hotness.” I know that phrase fails to capture either the tone or the facts of the latest change in my life. Still, I like the humor in it. It makes me smile. In the simplest terms I have resigned from my position at Midway Games and accepted a new position at the Chicago Tribune.

Those of you who know me may have realized there had been changes in direction for me just based on the recent books I have been reading. I know those hints do little to address the inevitable question as to why I left Midway. I am afraid that is going to remain private. I will not upbraid Midway or the people that worked there with me. This will have to do: the most concise answer is that I was not happy. When I combined that fact with several failed attempts to decrease my dissatisfaction the outlook grew dim. So I left.

I have come to accept my own sentimentality. And I admit that the idea of working for a newspaper is something I have thought about doing for a long time. My very first job was for a newspaper: I was a paper boy for five years. Perhaps I have come full circle. I cannot say in good conscience that I anticipated working in this particular aspect of the newspaper—running the networks that glue it together. Still, I am working for the paper. And that feels good. At the end of the new employee orientation program, they invited us into the front page meeting. Where the editors for the various sections of the paper sat down and went over their various possibilities to run on the front page of the paper.

That experience galvanized me: I had made the right decision. This is a place I could enjoy working. I have only been here a couple days and I am quite optimistic that it will be many more.

Sherman Alexie wrote The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and The Toughest Indian in the World. He adapted parts of the first book into the screenplay for the 1998 feature film Smoke Signals. Flight is Alexie’s first novel in a decade. Using wit and eulogy, satire and sentimentality Alexie tells the story of an orphaned Indian boy who travels back and forth through time searching for his true identity. The book’s jacket states:

The journey for Flight‘s young hero begins as he’s about to commit a massive act of violence. At the moment of decision, he finds himself shot back through time to resurface in the body of an FBI agent during the civil rights era, where he sees why “Hell is Red River, Idaho, in the 1970s.” Red River is only the first stop in an eye-opening trip through moments in American history. He will continue to travel back to inhabit the body of an Indian child during the battle at Little Bighorn and then ride with an Indian tracker in the nineteenth century before materializing as an airline pilot jetting through the skies today. During these furious travels through time, his refrain grows: “Who’s to judge?” and “I don’t understand humans.” When finally, blessedly, our young warrior comes to rest again in his own life, he is mightily transformed by all he has seen.

I am a fan of all of Alexie’s previous work I have come across. I hope that this modern-day vision quest proves out as compellingly as it seems to promise. I suspect it will.