Like most sensitive men who came of age in the 90’s, I’ve long harbored impure thoughts about Maggie O’Connel, the knockout bush pilot with the boyish haircut and fantastic lips (perhaps I reveal too much). As it’s been more than a decade since the program went off the air I thought I’d see what Maggie (Janine Turner) has been up to in the interim. To Google! To IMdB!

This was a mistake.

In an effort to maintain the look that made her famous, the once beautiful Turner has become the Loretta Swit of her generation. It’s all quite sad, but I can understand the warped body image that results from a career in front of the camera.

It’s her political beliefs that are much harder for me to come to terms with. Maggie O’Connel, the witty feminist, was played by a fiercely religious Republican. A Republican who received an honorary appointment from George W. Bush himself.

Moral: Never, never, never research your juvenile fantasies. It leads only to heartbreak and disappointment.

As I automatically reach for an alternative newsweekly around the middle of the week, some of the vital issues of the day have started to seep in. Thanks to The Guardian, I am now fully versed on the great San Francisco bicycle roadblock.

Here’s the digest version: The San Francisco city council has developed a plan to greatly expand resources for cyclists. New bike racks, dedicated bicycle lanes, incentives for bike riders - the works. The initiative enjoys widespread support and was approved without much dissent. However, thanks to a lawsuit filed by local crank Rob Anderson (who thinks additional bike traffic will actually increase vehicle emissions) it’s all been put on hold.

Which warms my heart.

See, Chicago is a very bike friendly city. There are dedicated lanes on lots of major streets, bike racks are plentiful (a glance at an Alderman will get one installed outside your workplace) and Lake Shore Drive is opened up to bike traffic once a year.

The Mayor, who wields absolute power in Chicago, makes it so. He likes to ride bicycles, so everyone likes to ride bicycles. He likes the idea of gondolas on the Chicago River, so the entire city gets behind gondolas. The gradual erosion of public housing? Everyone’s for it! That’s the way things work in Chicago. Dissent simply doesn’t exist.

But here in San Francisco, a lone fanatic can affect the workings of an entire city. I expect this is profoundly irritating to most natives. But for me, it’s a refreshing breeze. There’s Democracy here! It’s something I’m not at all used to.

I pared down my belongings as much as possible before moving. Piles of books and old appliances were dumped at the Brown Elephant and piled up in my parents’ garage (bless them and their storage space). The whole process of moving was an exercise in shedding the extraneous.

It felt good at the time.

But here, without anything familiar about me, I feel quite removed from my life. A clean slate has its benefits, but I feel almost too clean. I’ve scrubbed too hard and am feeling raw and over exposed.

Which, like nearly everything else I write here, is an overstatement. Still, I miss the familiar more than I thought I would. Fortunately, it’s on the way. “Home” will catch up with me in a few days.

It’s possible that I’ll feel a bit weepy after a few days in San Francisco, but unlikely. The excitement of exploring a new city and making new friends will drown out any lingering nostalgia. I’m actually quite eager to go.

THE SLIGHTLY HUNGOVER MOVER
I’m using a you-pack/we-drive mover to get my things to San Franciso. It’s far cheaper than paying someone to pack up my things and put them on a truck. Unfortunately, packing a truck is an activity best left to sharp thinking and energetic individuals. After a party in my honor last night I’m far from either.

I’m hoping to mitigate the situation with much coffee.

And I’m leaving?

Not long ago, I got into a bit of an argument with Ira Glass about his move to New York. But it wasn’t the move itself I found upsetting, it was his lack of connection to the city. He left with neither a fond farewell nor a teary-eyed goodbye. He just left. Chicago, for Ira, was “only a place to live”.

It isn’t so for me. As I returned from the West Coast last week the plane made an odd turn as it began its descent. Out of the window I could see the entirety of the sparkling skyline as it stood before the vast inkblot that is Lake Michigan at night. I’m prone to melodrama when it comes to stuff like this - I got a bit choked up.

Which is part of the reason I need to leave. The city feels like home, like the house I grew up in. I’ll always come back, but I’ve a visceral need to move on to something and somewhere else.

I should have left some time ago …

Which presents some difficulties for a site named after the city of Chicago and it’s unique … character. I’ve yet to decide how to handle it. Something like “Machine Chicago (technically lives in San Francisco)” might work. I’ll figure out some clever way of making it all come together eventually.

OF DISASTERS
The disaster that shaped Chicago, that crafted the “city that works” ethos was, as everyone knows, the fire of 1873. Architects flocked to the vast, blank canvas that was downtown and, with hordes of construction workers and their rolled up sleeves, invented the skyscraper and developed some of the most incredible architecture in the world. In a mere 20 years, at the 1893 Columbian exposition, Chicago revealed itself as a shining, modern city. We’ve been resting on our laurels ever since.

The fire was a man-made disaster. A fluke. It’s the sort of thing that’s unlikely to happen again.

A city built alongside the San Andreas fault doesn’t enjoy such comfort. The earthquakes of 1906 and 1989 aren’t simply memories, they’re reminders of a threat that San Francisco faces every day. And yet, the city carries on.

It lends a sense of excitement and urgency to everything here. It is, without trying to be, a profoundly exciting place.

I realize I’m getting all sorts of melodramatic and schmaltzy (a word I must use more often) about it, but I was thinking along these lines as I explored the neighborhoods of San Francisco today. As a lifetime resident of the geologically uninteresting Midwest, it’s hard to climb the hills and valleys of the city without thinking of earthquakes.

I’d really like to experience one. A little one, mind, but a proper earthquake nonetheless.

And so, once I get things a bit more firmly established with work and school, another retooling seems to be in order. For now, I’ll just carry on. A new entry follows and the “sundries” column on the left has been refreshed.

THE EROTIC ARCHITECTURE OF HIROSHI SUGIMOTO
The photography retrospective currently on display at the MCA features a massive print of Hiroshi Sugimoto’s Fujisawa Municipal Gymnasium. A small, web based version of the print simply doesn’t do it justice. The 4 x 5 foot image in the gallery is extraordinary. Surrounded by scores of prints from dozens of artists at the MCA exhibit, it stands out as something truly unique. I glanced at everything displayed, but I savored Sugimoto’s print.

Along with the rest of his architecture series, it’s strangely erotic. The gymnasium is obviously phallic and so obviously not. I stood there, dumbstruck, for a long while. All the while repeating the artist’s name so that I wouldn’t forget. Hiroshi Sugimoto. Hiroshi Sugimoto. Hiroshi Sugimoto.

Passers-by undoubtedly thought I suffered from some odd obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Sugimoto uses a large format, 8 x 10 inch camera. I don’t know the precise nature of his technique, but uses incredibly long exposures to achieve the ghostly, almost pinhole like images. I don’t have anything approaching his equipment or experience, but I’d love to try to replicate his process somehow. I think I can approximate it with my trusty Graflex 4 x 5.

The results, undoubtedly, will be laughable. But emulating the masters of a craft never hurt anyone.

Faced with a shortage of shelf space, however, it seemed a good time to unload. So, I piled everything onto a pushcart and wheeled it down to the Brown Elephant, a resale shop that supports the Howard Brown Health Center. As I walked through the door, a few customers looked over the goods and immediately snatched a few titles. Staff, eager to grab some of the books for themselves, stashed them under the counter. It all made me feel like a bit of a badass.

Insofar as badasses donate books to thrift stores.

Nature abhors an empty shelf. With space to fill, my weekly visits to thrift stores and antique markets took on a certain urgency. But I didn’t want to fill my shelves with junk. I am, after all, a man of discriminating tastes.

As such, I got a bit emotional when I came across a beautiful old adding machine. It was in perfect shape, with a pearlescent bakelite case and sea-green keys. And it worked! With a satisfying clacking and grinding of gears, pulling on its lever resulted in figures and sums on a paper tape. Awesome!

After bringing it home, I discovered that the Victor Adding Machine Co. was based in Chicago. Founded in 1918 the company remained in Chicago until it was sold in the late 70’s. An interesting device with a local connection? It’s almost too much to ask for. Especially at thrift store prices.

What strikes me about the Victor adding machine, in addition to its solid build quality (an issue I got quite uptight about in the previous entry) is its extraordinary art-deco design. Smooth and sleek, it screams speed, elegance and romance. Not qualities one would associate with a simple adding machine. This was, after all, office equipment.

With the exception of the original iMac, I can’t think of any modern device with such an aesthetic. Apple has gone on to an ultra-modern, clean room design scheme (which, I have to admit, I really like) and one would be hard pressed to find a calculator as sexy as this adding machine. It seems the only consumer products actually designed are high end lamps and hipster furniture.

I’m curious as to why this is. At what point did utility trump style? Is a function of economics and the demand for cheaper goods or something more?

I suspect it wouldn’t be difficult to repair a DVD player, but once they’re out of warranty it’s far more economical to simply buy a new one. I’ve tried tinkering with them on my own, but the effort involved in diagnosing the problem (when I don’t know what I’m doing) and ordering replacement parts isn’t economically viable. That’s why there aren’t any repair shops anymore. Everything is disposable.

And they’re ugly things these DVD players. Flimsy slabs that just lie there under the television. A far cry from the consumer technology of old.

I picked up a 1924 Remington portable typewriter this afternoon for a mere $5 (it’s finds like these that keep me combing the thrift stores). It’s one of the most elegant writing machines I’ve ever seen. A lever on the side simultaneously raises the type bars and lowers the keys slightly. It comes together almost organically. I’ve captured it, to some degree anyway, with the photos on the right.

The upshot of all this is that after more than 80 years it still works beautifully. Why don’t “they” make things like this anymore?

It’s my fault, I’m afraid. Yours too. The idea of paying more for something up front - the idea of paying for quality and durability - isn’t popular. No one thinks of a DVD player as a durable, long lasting item. Paying for quality feels like getting ripped off. Paying for a cheap cheap model several times over, however, has become acceptable.

Don’t misinterpret this rant as being anti-technology. I’m no Unabomber sympathizer. I have a blog and own three computers, after all. It’s just that our priorities have gotten a bit out of whack. There’s very little I own that I might be able to pass on to my children (if I’m so fortunate, etc). My father’s high school slide-rule, however, remains in perfect condition on my bookshelf (and no, I don’t have the slightest idea how to use it).

There are, of course, exceptions. Apple’s computers are fairly durable and well designed. While it will be charmingly obsolete in a few years, it’s possible this machine I’m using will still be around. And there are Leica cameras and swiss watches meant to last several lifetimes. But these are luxury items. While it’d be nice to have an $800 watch and/or a $5000 camera I can’t imagine being able to afford such things.

So I compensate by playing around with old typewriters and getting pissed off about the state of the world.

It isn’t work that’s keeping me from other activities, it’s a bad crowd I’ve taken to running with. Known (by me) as the “Emperors Posse” I’ve been spending a fair amount of time with Galba, Trajan, Vitellius and Caracalla - characters created for the World of Warcraft online game.

There’s a term for people who involve themselves in virtual worlds at the expense of the real: catasser. It was coined by a fellow who let his cat suffer an unchanged litter box rather than pause his online gaming. His apartment took on the unpleasant odor of “cat ass” and the term took off.

I’m not at catasser. Really, I’m not.

But I do find that I’ve been playing the game more than I realized. It wasn’t until I looked at the date of my last entry that it struck home - I’d gone weeks without writing. It follows that I’ve also gone weeks without unassigned reading or photography. I’m not shirking my responsibilities, but I’m not pursuing the activities I enjoy either. The rub? The game isn’t all that much fun.

I play, for the most part, because it affords me very real and interesting interactions with the writers and thinkers at Terra Nova. But I keep playing because the game taps into some Pavlovian response center in my brain. The incremental improvements in Galba’s engineering skill (he can make cool steampunk style goggles now!) and Caracalla’s pursuit of the hallowed level 60 create what Ted Castronova refers to as a sort of “chemical response treadmill”.

All of which, instead of getting me down, gives me an idea: What I need is some kind of heads up display for the incremental improvements of everyday life; a readout of pages read, calories burned, friends made and dollars earned. Coupled with a little reward system (a jolt to the serotonin receptors perhaps?), it’d undoubtedly make me a far more productive and enterprising person.

I suppose I could rely on traditional notions of delayed goal satisfaction, but where’s the fun in that?

The most rewarding experience of my short career as a sub came from a week spent with Derek, a blind student who needed help in each of his classes. I’d carry along his braille machine and would read math problems aloud from his textbook. I’d rattle of a series of letters and symbols that I didn’t understand and, without fail, he’d return the correct answer. I’d sit there in stunned silence until he’d ask: “Well, that’s right isn’t it?”

But Derek came from a difficult home; he was regularly called on by the school’s social worker. He wore the same clothes nearly every day and - you could tell by the smell - bathed infrequently. The cane he used to navigate the hallways was warped and broken and one got the impression that his school lunch was his only meal of the day.

His parents were finally pressed into a conference. I heard, through other teachers, that it didn’t go well. His mother, clearly suffering from some psychological problems, insisted that the teachers were posessed by demons. His father, far more lucid, said he struggled to keep his wife in check and attend to the needs of his son.

But given his abilities I thought Derek would make it. His lot in life was worse than most, but he’d be OK.

He wasn’t. Five years after first meeting Derek, I ran into one of his teachers. We chatted for a few minutes before I started inquiring after students. “What did Derek go on to?” I asked.

“Oh … um, he died.”

“…”

“Apparently he had some kind of disease that required careful attention, but we don’t know what happened. He just stopped coming to school one day. It was months before we knew he’d actually passed on.”

“…”

Regardless, when I think of their work, I’m keenly aware that none of them worked in Chicago. Bresson had Paris, Winogrand had New York, but who had my city?

Working under the radar for decades, Lee Balterman captured a Chicago that no longer exists. A beautiful, vibrant and gritty city that has since been eroded by cookie-cutter condominiums and chain stores.

What happened?

In the midst of it all, I longed for soup. Beautiful girl soup. Not Mom soup or married friend soup but proper, don’t-worry-I’ll-do-your-laundry-while-you-sleep, girlfriend soup. Sadly, there was only stale cereal eaten directly from the box and hours of daytime television.

My Massively Multiplayer Shiny Balls of Mud entry of a couple of weeks ago generated more attention than this site is used to. It fostered two articles at Terra Nova. Researchers and academics far more learned than I discussed the role of social status in play while others strongly disagreed with my hastily written opinions.

And I received a message from a master of the Dorodango, Bruce Gardner. He took issue with my assertion that the balls of mud have any relationship with the repetitive grinding and social status issues in World of Warcraft. “I don’t agree with you when you say the process itself becomes repetitive and meaningless. The process is never the same, especially if you’re constantly looking for and working with different types of soil as I do. As you might have guessed, I’m not a Japanese preschooler - I’m 41.”

He’s entirely right, of course. The process of creating art is inherently meaningful - perhaps the direct opposite of the Warcraft grind. I replied to his message by shifting my position a bit. I didn’t mean to imply that any activity is meaningless (I don’t think humans are capable of such actions) only that the motivation for playing a game like World of Warcraft for hours on end is more about reputation than anything approaching fun. In my response to Bruce I wrote:

“There is a sort of meditative quality to playing WoW. I compare it to knitting, but I suspect it’s much the same as what you experience throwing pottery on a wheel or working on a durodango. But this tranquil activity combined with the status that comes with creating something that’s better than what others have, makes for a killer combination. It’s the fuel for the Massively Multiplayer fire.

See, you can enjoy the fruits of your labor in solitude if you want to. As can any artist. But games like WoW require that you be involved in a broader community. You are forced to be visible. So outward signs of that success is huge part of the game. You can’t be modest and succeed at the game.”

This discussion aside, Bruce sent me one of his beautiful dorodango. It’s an astonishing object. Heavy and cool to the touch it’s impossible not to hold; to roll about in the hands. Just thinking about it makes me want to pause in my writing for a few moments so I can heft it for a while. It possesses a tactile quality that I’ve never encountered before. Indeed, I suspect the visually impaired would find it just as attractive a work of art as I do.

And yet it remains a ball of mud. There’s something profound about that. That it can serve as a metaphor for a computer game is merely incidental. What it really is - and I hope I’ll be forgiven this bit of cliche - is a metaphor for the human condition.

In the safety and comfort of the hypothetical I sometimes think about Kim Phuk and WeeGee’s New York. Could I have taken those photographs?

Without a camera, I’d run. I’d break down in tears. I’d double over with sickness. But the camera does something. Seen through a lens, the most gruesome and heartrending of subjects are removed from the world. Nicely framed and encapsulated, the camera is a shield that saps the humanity of the photographer. There’s no time to scream when your attention is - quite literally - focused.

I could have taken those photos.

City of God is a difficult film. Based on a true story (as documented by news clips over the end credits) the film depicts violence in the slums of Rio de Janeiro as it is captured by a young photographer. He escapes the brutality of his surroundings, but he walks away casually. At the close of the film, the photographer walks with the assured step of the gangster. He hasn’t inflicted death, but he’s become equally inured to it. It is profoundly unsettling.

I’ll stick to supermarkets.