The typical baby making dichotomy goes something like this: either having kiddies is a biological imperative and the most fulfilling, important thing one can do, or your offspring  (though much loved) will suck you dry until your resentment replaces your sense of self. In “In Defense of Having Children,” Melissa Lafsky has a different take on why we want kids. She writes:

“You’ll always risk the chance that your baby will grow up to be an asshole, or that your spouse will leave you after seeing your stretch marks, or that you’ll go broke on SAT tutors and squash lessons. Maybe those things weren’t going to provide you with happiness/meaning/purpose anyway. Simply play a bigger game—enjoy your participation in the continuation of the species. What these baby-struck parents are really gazing at in wonderment is the capacity of the human race to grow and evolve—all playing out right there in their living rooms.

It’s just about the only thing that gives us hope that adults can grow and evolve the same way. After all, we’re really just big children.”

Like Lafsky, I too find myself thinking about children – and the hope they might bring – quite a lot, and I find it strange. Yes, I want them, but I have no idea why. As a teen, I figured I’d never willingly create a second generation of my dysfunctional family. At twenty, I thought a baby by thirty was a given. I’m now twenty-nine and there’s no bun in the oven (there’s not even a baker yet). Still, children are no longer just a romantic, baby powder-coated idea anymore. They’re a real possibility because “someday” is almost here.  And that worries me.

I agree with everything that Lafsky wrote, but it is not just the sense of wonderment a child brings that makes me want one. I think the real reasons I’d like children are even more selfish. I know a child isn’t a vessel of meaning filled with life’s answers.  Its existence, however,  just might be reason enough to make me keep searching for my own. A child is a reason beyond myself to work on myself: if I had a child, I believe would hold myself more accountable to the ideals and dreams that have eroded with age. I would keep trying to be a better person and stop allowing myself to be defeated because that is not the kind of person I’d want my child to grow up to be. If I am ever to have a family that evolves with me, I will have to create my own. I don’t care enough about the traditions and rituals of my childhood to integrate them into my busy, media-enhanced life. I would, though, if it was my responsibility to teach them to someone else.

I suppose I should preface this entire thing with perhaps. Maybe it’s simply the indestructable biological clock ticking. But I also grew up knowing I was a pain in the tushie, and though I knew my mother wasn’t going to sell me to gypsies or anything, I’m sure she was tempted. To learn how to love regardless is something I’d like to learn.

I need to get ready for work, Gary Shetyngart, but instead I am still in my pajamas, curled in my bed (which is actually a couch, but that’s another story) with your book resting on my thigh.  I should not feel guilty reading for pleasure, but sometimes, like with your highly entertaining and astute yet slightly smutty new novel, I do.

Do you remember when I came into your office and asked if I could write a profile on you?  You looked bookish and professorial, and your beard was even more brillo-like in person. You gently said no, citing an already packed schedule and no clue as to the details of your calendar (your publicist handles that). I lingered momentarily, and gave you a fawn-searching-for-it-mother-in-the woods look. Maybe it expressed longing, maybe desperation, maybe it was one of deep sorrow on account of my permanent existential crisis.  But it worked, sort of. Why don’t you contact my publicist, you offered, she knows better than I do if we can carve out some time.

I emailed your publicist, but it was a no-go. I guess you were too busy hanging with James Franco or something. I ended up writing about a very talented and petite Japanese performance artist, whom I suspect you’d develop a crush on if you ever were to make her acquaintance.

Anyway. Back to SSTLS. Everyone is all over your hefty hardcover resembling a Twister board. I’m thinking about writing my own review, for all two people who read this blog. But truth is I’ll fall asleep reading for the next month and won’t finish in time to be relevant. Instead, I’m just going to link to everyone else’s bigshot “we love Gary he’s the most brilliant satirist of our generation” reviews. (Did you see how I did that? I liked Kakutani’s the best).

Perhaps, with time, I would’ve been the Eunice to your Lenny . Perhaps, with time, we would’ve swapped tragic love stories and fused our mutually broken hearts. You would bring some borscht and vodka from your country, I’d bring ouzo and maybe some brisket on a kaiser roll and we’d bond over our love of literature and our self-deprecating natures.

I feel I’ve said enough. I’ll get back to your book now.

the amazing Dita Von Teese

For a long time I’ve wanted to do something thrilling and just a little bit saucy with my life. Today, I finally did: I danced burlesque. Well, sort of. I’m just getting the basic bumps, grinds and shimmies down. I’ve wanted to pursue burlesque since I tried a one-hour class nearly three years ago. Of all the dance forms I’ve tried, burlesque feels the most natural. Chicago burlesque, according to my teacher Frenchie Kiss, is the most classic  compared with the rock’n'roll style of LA and the arty vibe in New York. Little did I know there are three walk that involve different ways of swaying the hips: elegant, cutesy, and the bump and grind. Don’t get too excited; there’s no feathers, boas or pasties involved – yet. The emphasis of this slow striptease is on the tease. What remains a mystery is always more exciting.

Since Friday, one of the busiest Chicago city strips has been, er, transformed into car-crashing, parachute jumping, bomb-exploding mayhem fit only for an action hero. Last night the cast and crew of Transformers 3 were scheduled to wrap up filming on location in Chicago, but this morning on my way to work, the production was still going full force.  As I waited endlessly on the southeast corner of Michigan Avenue and Wacker Drive to cross the street on my way to work, I watched one man thrust his briefcase in the face of a crossing guard. “I have to get to work,” he bellowed. So did I, but I was afraid of getting run over by a tank.

Yes, it was surreal to see styrofoam debris lining the poshest street in the city, but perhaps the strangest thing about it all was how quickly normalcy set in. In an era when reality t.v. film crews are welcomed into our most private spaces, why should it seem strange for a massive production to invade public streets? The line between reality and fantasy is becoming increasingly blurred on micro levels that a large scale movie set that alters an entire city doesn’t seem out of the ordinary. Video games that simulate war, avatars in virtual worlds taken more seriously than real life, virtual identities vs. real self and of course – when will everyday life feel like a movie set?

So why shouldn’t we suspend our lives for the sake of high drama?  Edited reality – the snippets we see on reality t.v. based on a preconceived narrative – give the false impression that life

“Boy, I sure hope Chicago is getting a lot of money for this,” said a man behind me.

20 million, to be exact. But is it worth it? At this point, I’m not quite sure. I’m taking to the streets tomorrow to see what Chicagoans think.

I’m particularly sensitive to the nuances of fashion in Chicago (of all places).  I see hordes of young women wearing outfits straight off the pages of Marie Claire and Seventeen. Attention to fashion, yes, personal style, no. Absolutely nothing that distinguishes one individual from her clones/friends, all with their streaky blond highlights fresh for summer, their Mac makeup caked on thick, their assembly-line spiky heels squeezing their pedicured feet. Who are all these young women? Why do they think it’s way cooler to fit in than stand out?

I don’t mean to suggest that I’m a fashionista with a closet full of couture ( a girl can only dream). I’ve purchased my fair share of peasant blouses, jeggings, and thick gaudy belts that I’ll probably never wear all in the name staying fashion forward (hey, a girl’s got to keep up with the Kardashians). Nor am I suggesting that everyone need to have Anna Wintour’s eye.  What I do find disheartening is the lack of thought that apparently goes into how so many women define themselves through what they put on their body. It’s the underlying notion that we should all look good in whatever skimpy designs (daisy dukes, midriff-baring tops, hooker heels) the fashion gods deem universally cool because our bodies are all the same – and if not, they should be. It’s the subtle subtex that our fashion choices should be more about validating our sameness – and therefore, safety -  than defining individuality. If we strive for sameness in our bodies, what’s to keep our minds from mental monotony? But why should I be surprised?  Conformity is king and majority rules. It just shocks me how few people want to change that.

But back to my original issues with Chicago fashion: it seems there are very few options between dim-a-dozen department stores and high-end boutiques. As much as I love unique designs and want to support independent businesses, I simply can’t justify buying a single skimpy summer dress for the same price as plane ticket cross-country from a store that never has sales.

That’s why I much appreciate any boutique where I can find an original design on sale for $75 that’s created by a designer who leaves room for hips, butts, and boobs – all those women parts that designers often seem to ignore – and incorporates lace and frills to boot!

Read more at The Millions:

“I am a reader first. If I were an addict, I would get high and while high, presumably, worry about where I was to get my next fix. Reading is not all that different, I think. As a reader, I am always looking over the binding thinking about the next read, in some instances, longing for it. Some books, like some highs, are better than others. But even with not-so-good books–and there where two this past year I did not see to completion–I will come back to the drug, seeking the next high. I will always be a reader. Of this I am certain.”

From what I read, I was struck by the brutal honesty and often contradictory messages we receive when dealing with the dying. From Suzy:

“I was forced to lay fallow. I took off the trappings of contemporary life — vanity, ambition, pretense — and entered into a sort of parallel time where I was compelled to do things the Bible envisions. Be needy. Be a stranger. Be uplifted by those around me. Be reunited with the ones I love.”

Going into the realm of terminal illness – and the otherworldly sense it brings  – feels antithetical to our noisy digital age. Having lost my own father to cancer, I couldn’t help but wonder about Rosman’s motivations for writing this book: perhaps there is a growing need to explain, to confess, to make clear, precisely how death alters life in a way that feels honest for our time. I’ll let you know what I think of the book.

Sprinkles is headed our way, sub-par imitations simply won’t do. I can attest

to  the scrumptuousness of this Beverly Hills-based bake shop – and I’m not

even a cupcake person (though my personal favorite is mocha).

Slated to open @ 50 East Walton Street July 26th. Don’t delay!

Update: Sprinkles is open, and the cupcakes are indeed as savory as I remember from my years in L.A. In short, here’s why:

1) They don’t try to be what they’re not. They aren’t couture cupcakes, nor do they pretend to be fashioned for kiddie b-day parties. They are mature, adult delights, without being snobby (yes, a dessert can be a snob)

2) They get the minimalist and modern aesthetic while being warm and welcoming. It’s all about the color palate.

3) They are sensual. Creamy, moist – okay, I’ll stop, but really, sharing a cupcake is way more romantic than grabbing a beer (suitor, take note).

“Lots of magazines. Books. Posters. Galore.
Broadsides & busy beavers. Newspapers & weeklies.
Zines. Poetry, fiction & all that. Buttons, stickers
& more. Reading & performing, or something like it.
Red carpet. Screenings, Web things & digital
writing — electrified in general; because PRINT <3 DIGITAL .
Making, inking, stamping. Getting hands dirty.
Dancing, music, DJs. Playing. All free.”

Read a great interview with members of Chicago’s Pinter’s Ball at Knee Jerk magazine

]]> http://www.alizahsalario.com/2010/07/2010-printers-ball/feed/ 0 http://www.alizahsalario.com/2010/07/chicago-between-the-covers/ http://www.alizahsalario.com/2010/07/chicago-between-the-covers/#comments Sat, 10 Jul 2010 04:40:33 +0000 admin http://www.alizahsalario.com/?p=490 The books range from thrillers to literary novels, but the setting is the same. Check out the top 40 novels based in the Windy City over at Chicago Magazine.

I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t read the vast majority of them, but this Sinclair classic is of course a keeper.