The jazz was swinging at Milano's. Plates of pasta swung their way to customers as the chatter of a very full restaurant ebbed and flowed to the beat. No one noticed the guy with the gun until it was too late.
No one really called Don Givenni a victim; if anything, people said, he had it coming, and he had been asking for it. Well, he's got it now, thought Tony Milano, as he spied yet another camera crew doing a piece for the evening news outside the front door. Wish they'd just go away.
But, of course, they didn't. If anything, the shooting had advertised the place to all of Chicago, and he was having to hire more staff just to keep up. The place had mystique now. Milano's was cool. He could have done without the college kids dressing in too-big overcoats and trying to talk gangster through their rolled-up paper cigars, but he couldn't complain.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Be a good girl
Melinda was writing a book. It was, I'm sorry to say, the sort of book that tries to get children to see things from an adult's point of view, rather than the other way around. But she went about it in an earnest sort of way, trying to make things dreadfully obvious and unassailable, and thus losing her audience completely.
"What are you doing, mama?"
"I'm writing a book," said Melinda proudly, "about a little boy who does the wrong thing, and gets in trouble for it." Sensing that she was not redeeming herself in the eyes of her daughter, she continued, "And a little girl who does the right thing, and is rewarded."
"What's 'rewarded'?"
"That means the she got something nice for being so good."
"Wha'd she get?"
"A pony."
"Oh." Susan looked at her mother questioningly.
"Now, be a good girl, and go play in the living room."
Susan went, but she doubted that there was a pony to be had for her obedience.
"What are you doing, mama?"
"I'm writing a book," said Melinda proudly, "about a little boy who does the wrong thing, and gets in trouble for it." Sensing that she was not redeeming herself in the eyes of her daughter, she continued, "And a little girl who does the right thing, and is rewarded."
"What's 'rewarded'?"
"That means the she got something nice for being so good."
"Wha'd she get?"
"A pony."
"Oh." Susan looked at her mother questioningly.
"Now, be a good girl, and go play in the living room."
Susan went, but she doubted that there was a pony to be had for her obedience.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The eye of the beholder
Graphic design was a pretty expensive major. You had to buy all sorts of stuff — paints, canvas, paperboard, construction paper, zip disks, special rulers and pens... quite the list. And you only used it once, of course. But once a year, you had a chance to recover some of that money by entering stuff in the juried exhibit. That meant framing your work, though, and that could get expensive very quickly.
So I had gotten into the habit of collecting old picture frames. Goodwill always had some good ones; you just had to toss the terrible painting that was in it, or turn around the picture of a moonlit wolf (there was always one of these in the art bin at Goodwill) and use it as a backing for something worthwhile. Five bucks would get you several usable frames if you had the eye for it, and maybe another one where you could hide the ugliness with a can of spray paint. By my senior year, I had built up quite a collection. I was going through it, looking at them and trying to decide what would look good with a particular piece.
After maybe the tenth frame, I noticed that the wall behind the frame was more interesting than the frame itself, so I decided to frame that. I shone a little clip lamp into the corner and suspended the frame in space using a few pieces of thread strung from the mirror and the windowsill. It sat at a jaunty angle, and I liked it. It showed off the texture of the wall nicely. One of the guys was walking by, so I invited him in to view "my new piece of art."
After the annoyance of having to ask where it was (as if he couldn't tell, hmph!) it was easy to see the thought running through his head: It's an empty picture frame.
Yes, it is, I thought to myself.
"So what do you think?"
"It's um, nice. I guess." And obviously casting about for something else to say about this empty picture frame, asked, "What is it?"
"What do you think it is?"
"Well, an empty frame..."
I gave him the "You poor, ignorant Philistine" look. He was there on a baseball scholarship, and the meanings of paintings was not his forte.
"What does it mean to you?"
"Mean?"
I nodded. He screwed up his face like it was an examination question and studied the hanging frame in a worried way.
"Well," he finally ventured, "It's your life. It's open and empty, and you have to fill it. You go through it, and there's a light on the other side."
I nodded, acting impressed. "Pretty good," I said.
"Really? I got it right?" He gazed back at the frame with a sense of awe now. "Wow! I never understood art before. This is cool!"
But I really was impressed. He had come up with something so completely different than what I had imagined, and had obviousy gotten something out of it. I went down the hall to find Jon.
Jon was used to me showing him my pieces. He ambled back to my room.
"So, whaddya think?" I prompted.
"Think of what?"
I rolled my eyes. Philistines.
"My new aaaaart installation," I drew out, gesturing at the brightly lit
corner. "Do you like it?"
"Well, maybe if I knew what it was..."
"That never stopped you in class, did it? Come on, what do you think it is?"
Jon slumped into Art Mode.
"It's life."
Now my mind was spinning. It was the same answer Ryan had given me. Trying hard not to sound too excited, I prodded for more.
"How so?"
"Well, you go through it, you know, and then, bam, you hit a brick wall, and you're done." He slapped his fist into his hand. "There's nothing between you and that wall. You step through it and there you are." He shrugged and looked over at me for confirmation. I nodded sagely.
"Really? That's what it means?" I raised my eyebrows, not daring to say anything lest it spoil the electricity that was arcing around my brain.
"Pretty good, then," he nodded.
I was floored. I had stumbled across a bit of some Universal Truth, and it was starting me in the face, daring me to explain it. I dragged in person after person from the hallway, and each one told me about not the picture frame, but about themselves. People say that 'Beauty was in the eye of the beholder" — by which they mean that everyone has their own tastes — but really it's because the beauty is in them. So was hope, or despair, or whatever, but it was in them, the beholders — not the things I had hung on the wall.
One thing still nags me, though. They all said it was about life.
So artists have been failing all along. Why has no one else realized that it was the frame that symbolized life, all along, and not the drawings we cluttered them up with?
So I had gotten into the habit of collecting old picture frames. Goodwill always had some good ones; you just had to toss the terrible painting that was in it, or turn around the picture of a moonlit wolf (there was always one of these in the art bin at Goodwill) and use it as a backing for something worthwhile. Five bucks would get you several usable frames if you had the eye for it, and maybe another one where you could hide the ugliness with a can of spray paint. By my senior year, I had built up quite a collection. I was going through it, looking at them and trying to decide what would look good with a particular piece.
After maybe the tenth frame, I noticed that the wall behind the frame was more interesting than the frame itself, so I decided to frame that. I shone a little clip lamp into the corner and suspended the frame in space using a few pieces of thread strung from the mirror and the windowsill. It sat at a jaunty angle, and I liked it. It showed off the texture of the wall nicely. One of the guys was walking by, so I invited him in to view "my new piece of art."
After the annoyance of having to ask where it was (as if he couldn't tell, hmph!) it was easy to see the thought running through his head: It's an empty picture frame.
Yes, it is, I thought to myself.
"So what do you think?"
"It's um, nice. I guess." And obviously casting about for something else to say about this empty picture frame, asked, "What is it?"
"What do you think it is?"
"Well, an empty frame..."
I gave him the "You poor, ignorant Philistine" look. He was there on a baseball scholarship, and the meanings of paintings was not his forte.
"What does it mean to you?"
"Mean?"
I nodded. He screwed up his face like it was an examination question and studied the hanging frame in a worried way.
"Well," he finally ventured, "It's your life. It's open and empty, and you have to fill it. You go through it, and there's a light on the other side."
I nodded, acting impressed. "Pretty good," I said.
"Really? I got it right?" He gazed back at the frame with a sense of awe now. "Wow! I never understood art before. This is cool!"
But I really was impressed. He had come up with something so completely different than what I had imagined, and had obviousy gotten something out of it. I went down the hall to find Jon.
Jon was used to me showing him my pieces. He ambled back to my room.
"So, whaddya think?" I prompted.
"Think of what?"
I rolled my eyes. Philistines.
"My new aaaaart installation," I drew out, gesturing at the brightly lit
corner. "Do you like it?"
"Well, maybe if I knew what it was..."
"That never stopped you in class, did it? Come on, what do you think it is?"
Jon slumped into Art Mode.
"It's life."
Now my mind was spinning. It was the same answer Ryan had given me. Trying hard not to sound too excited, I prodded for more.
"How so?"
"Well, you go through it, you know, and then, bam, you hit a brick wall, and you're done." He slapped his fist into his hand. "There's nothing between you and that wall. You step through it and there you are." He shrugged and looked over at me for confirmation. I nodded sagely.
"Really? That's what it means?" I raised my eyebrows, not daring to say anything lest it spoil the electricity that was arcing around my brain.
"Pretty good, then," he nodded.
I was floored. I had stumbled across a bit of some Universal Truth, and it was starting me in the face, daring me to explain it. I dragged in person after person from the hallway, and each one told me about not the picture frame, but about themselves. People say that 'Beauty was in the eye of the beholder" — by which they mean that everyone has their own tastes — but really it's because the beauty is in them. So was hope, or despair, or whatever, but it was in them, the beholders — not the things I had hung on the wall.
One thing still nags me, though. They all said it was about life.
So artists have been failing all along. Why has no one else realized that it was the frame that symbolized life, all along, and not the drawings we cluttered them up with?
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Blonde, James Blonde
I write stuff every now and then, too. James Blonde is an idea that keeps re-ocurring to both my wife and I; I just have to keep writing it...
"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure..."—he paused—"...is all mine."
"So... less than 15,000 miles per year on the Aston Martin, then."
"Ah... yes."
"Any special equipment on that?"
It was Thursday afternoon, and James Blonde was slouched—in a casual and sophisticated way, he hoped—in one of the comfortable chairs at a small-town insurance agency. MI6 had traditionally taken care of the mundane things such as insuring his cars, but they had taken James' idea of insuring the car himself quite readily. Perhaps too readily. But this was, he reminded himself, necessary to establish his alternate identity.
"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure, Miss..."—he glanced again at the name card on her desk—"...is all mine."
"Sczypanczyk."
"Oh, is that how you pronounce it."
"That's a 2006... Aston... Martin... hmm. What model?"
"Oh, it was made for me. And I was made for yo—"
"What model, sir?"
"Were you ever a model?"
"Once."
"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure..."—he paused—"...is all mine."
"So... less than 15,000 miles per year on the Aston Martin, then."
"Ah... yes."
"Any special equipment on that?"
It was Thursday afternoon, and James Blonde was slouched—in a casual and sophisticated way, he hoped—in one of the comfortable chairs at a small-town insurance agency. MI6 had traditionally taken care of the mundane things such as insuring his cars, but they had taken James' idea of insuring the car himself quite readily. Perhaps too readily. But this was, he reminded himself, necessary to establish his alternate identity.
"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure, Miss..."—he glanced again at the name card on her desk—"...is all mine."
"Sczypanczyk."
"Oh, is that how you pronounce it."
"That's a 2006... Aston... Martin... hmm. What model?"
"Oh, it was made for me. And I was made for yo—"
"What model, sir?"
"Were you ever a model?"
"Once."
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