The U of I grad students walkout is starting to give me ideas. You'd think, though, that, instead of waiting until finals week to strike, they might have thought about it in September, when the weather was warm and the bars were running specials. But that's just me.

I have maybe five or six solid sources to look at in the library today. Trouble is, it closes in about three hours. Damned people with their damned families and damned holiday cheer. Makes me want to spew.

Saw The Conversation last night--thought it was excellent. Why can't they make movies like that any more? It's not like Francis Ford Coppola has sold out that much--after all, he did re-release Apocalypse Now, thus capitalizing on earlier days of genius, and he did make that piece of dog doo Jack. And he did produce that other piece of dog doo, Jeepers Creepers. And he is highly vicious, emotional and unstable. Other than that, though, his career has been strong as a rusted nail.

I never saw The Rainmaker, but I did read a bunch of Grisham's novels after 1992 or so and thought they all sucked, so I doubt this one would be any different. Coppola has something coming out called Megapolis, and I'm trying to be optimistic about it, given some of the kickass artwork floating around:


This artwork is supposedly conceptual work for the film, due out in 2003. Greg has some good stats on it.

I did hear, though, that the Japanimation film Metropolis does not have anything to do with Fritz Lang's 1929 film. Damnation.

I haven't even touched Kenneth Burke yet. That's probably good. Kim would be mad. (Bad joke #23 of the day) Haven't touched student papers yet, but for whatever reason, I'm fairly easy of mind about that. The Mad Monk is making headway, but he doesn't seem as thrilled about it as I would be. Maybe that's why he's mad (though he describes himself as an "arrogant bastard").

True Story

It was last night, about ten p.m. I was coming home after another round of rhetoric and some e-mail exchanges that were leaving me feeling a bit less than human. (The reasons for this will soon be under What Happened?, coming soon). Consequently, the passing cop car didn't really elicit much attention on my part.

It was one of those nights where your thoughts are crystal-clear (for whatever reason), as if you were a comic book character with those thought baloons and everything. I crossed over to the intersection of Augusta and College and suddenly found myself awash in a beam of light. (No, I wasn't abducted by aliens and given an anal probe.) I heard a voice, sounding like it belonged to a sixteen-year-old, yell at me to freeze and put my hands up in the air.

I felt like a character in a movie as I tossed my bag to the side and raised my arms. My face felt like it does when I'm reading a particularly difficult book, and the wind from the west was blowing right in my face, making me blink a lot. "Hands out! Palms up!" the cop yelled, and I complied. In the back of my mind, I was mentally thanking whatever forces were transpiring to keep me from being grumpy, tired and out of sorts (not to mention providing me with an excuse to not grade papers).

"On the ground! Slow! Arms out! Palms up!" I complied readily, and found myself suddenly cuffed and gripped by the arms by two or three of NIU's finest. They were looking at me warily--I don't know what honest citizens tend to do when wrongfully accosted by the police, but I'm almost certain they don't just sit there, mildly curious as to what's going on.

"Go through his bag," the nearest cop said gruffly, giving me the old hairy eyeball. A female cop complied, digging through my stuff and managing to find several old student papers I thought I'd lost. I started to thank her, but stopped myself. The rest of the cops were standing around warily, not really sure what to make of me.

See, this wasn't the first time I've been "investigated." I don't know if it's the cheap clothes, the hair or what, but I've been a prime target of suspicion for the police in Chicago ever since I started going out there regularly on weekends to visit Kim. One time at Midway, for example, I was shaken down for drugs. Another time, they wanted to know what I was doing in the middle of Kim's old neighborhood at ten o'clock at night.

Some people might see this as harassment. I see it as reassuring.

Anyway, there I was, standing there absently with my hands cuffed behind my back while police were coming and going. The cop who'd sort of taken charge of me seemed to be glaring at me with a decided antipathy. "Where you coming from?" he asked gruffly.

"Reavis."

"What?"

"Reavis. Reavis Hall."

"You a student?"

I nodded, not feeling like going into it. I could tell he didn't like this, or the fact that I wasn't protesting my innocence. "The reason we just stopped you is someone just committed an armed robbery. The suspect matches your description."

I nodded. "I figured it was something like that."

"It turns out it wasn't you, this is just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It turns out it was you, you're going to be with us for quite a bit of time."

"That's fair," I said amiably.

We stood around some more while NIU Police coordinated efforts with the DeKalb police, and, from my days as a police reporter, I recognized enough of the codes being parlayed back and forth on the radio to be able to tell that the suspect was seen by someone else (probably the Huskie Patrol) making his way down Lucinda Avenue.

"What are you studying?" the cop asked me suddenly, as if unwilling to let me listen in.

"English."

"Graduate?"

I nodded. "Starting to look my age, am I?"

He didn't know what to make of this comment. "My daughter is in the English department."

I suddenly felt like laughing hysterically. Do you ask these questions of all your armed robbery suspects? I wanted to inquire, but stopped myself. The guy was only doing his job, and after a cursory search of my bag and pockets (I don't even have a pocketknife any more), he probably figured the armed robbery type usually doesn't have two tons of schoolwork with them at the moment of apprehension. Still, I found myself perversely hoping they would have to detain me, put me in a holding cell at NIU where I could take the Fifth, call a lawyer, and find myself Wrongfully Accused.

Instead, they trundled the victim over in a police car where I was looked over. "Ten-twenty, you can let him go," the radio squawked. "Our man has shorter, blonde, curly hair and a black leather jacket."

The cops took off, leaving me with Mr. Smiley Police Officer, who promptly uncuffed me. "Sorry about this--I know it's a hassle."

I waved it aside once my arms were free. "Nah, I didn't have anything better to do tonight."

"If you feel you've been mistreated in any way--" he began, digging out a business card.

"Not at all. This is the most gentle handcuffing I've ever been through in my life."

"Oh yeah?" He fixed me with a curious glance. "You handcuffed often?"

I considered my possible responses: 1) "Well, officer, semantically speaking, I'm not lying if I say that when I've never been handcuffed in my life." 2) "Only by women." 3) "Once, in 1991, when I was coming out of a store that had just been held up." 4) "Nah."

I settled on a choice. "Nah."

He gave me his card and told me to call with any complaints or concerns. I wished him luck in apprehending the fugitive and went on my merry way, regretful only of the fact that I'd held them up from catching the real bad guy, and that I now had to go back to my papers, my homework, and overall grumpiness.

Today Dewey looked at me over a mug of cold beer and said, "We may never achieve greatness. But we can always be greater. And that's the power we hold."

I looked back at him. "Are you coming on to me?"

He smiled, and downed the rest of his drink. The rest of the evening is vague.

Again, that brunette temptress is appearing in my vision! She's "working with" the president, and I've got the funny feeling that he's on the phone! With someone in Congress! Oh for shame, Mr. President!

Okay, this is really weird. I've got this strange feeling that President Clinton is up to something he shouldn't be. I'm getting images of a brunette intern wearing...a dress. She's walking up to him. She's smiling. He's smiling. He's handing her a cheeseburger. This can't be good. Run, Mr. President! Run!

I have this strange certainty that, in a matter of months, Republicans are going to sweep the midterm elections and take over the Legislative Branch. Don't ask me what makes me so certain, but my Spider-Sense also warns me that once they do, President Clinton will be forced to reach across the aisle on welfare reform in order to get a second term.

Okay, now I've got this weird feeling that right now, O.J. Simpson is up to something he really shouldn't be. I know, strange, right? I mean, who the hell keeps track of O.J. any more? But I feel a sudden disturbance in the Force, as if someone were threatening someone else...

From the archives: Vintage suburban rock show review

In 1992, I attended a concert with a lifelong friend and met another guy who wound up being a lifelong friend. At the time, I'd had vague plans of reviewing the concert for the school paper; the piece below is as far as it got. Never published until now. I make no claim as to its accuracy.  

LAKE ZURICH--The first thing you notice about Cemetery Ridge when they take the stage is their long, flowing locks and their magnetic stage presence. 

The second thing you notice is their name. Because they tell you. 

“We’re Cemetery Ridge,” the lead singer snarls, and man, when you hear him say that, you really believe it. 

“I’m better looking than most of them,” I mutter to my friend Xen, who’s dating the lead guitarist. 

“What,” she asks absently, fixated upon the stage. “What? That’s nice. What?”

Reminded once again how stupid girls are, I start studying the performance. Cemetery Ridge has been touring mostly the Palatine and Barrington areas, and as far as I know, this is their first show in Lake Zurich. The basement of the Main Street Thrift Store has never seemed more cutting edge, more avant garde, and the band has filled it to capacity. In the back, a trio of retirees are rummaging for clothes for their grandchildren and calling for a cover of “Motorbreath.” 

The lead singer pauses to strike a more flattering angle for the photographers. “We’re Cemetery Ridge,” he reminds the crowd. “And we’re here to rock.”

And rock they do. They’re done tuning up, and they’ve now launched into an original called “Cutting Edge.” The singer chants weird, Lovecraftian lyrics about the end of the world. The bassist is filling a vial with the blood of a virgin. The lead guitarist is strumming and smiling confidently into the audience, which is absolutely losing its mind. Xen is rummaging for the roses she brought to throw on the stage. I realize it’s now or never: I have to make my move. 

“I can play guitar better than him,” I whisper into my friend’s ear. “I mean, if I learned, I’d play way better than that wuss.” 

“What?”

“I also make out better than him. I mean, once I get to do it for the first time and get the kinks out of my system.” I pocket my notebook and gesture towards the parking lot, leering seductively. “What do you say to you, me, the underside of the bleachers and a whole lot of gravel?”

“We’re Cemetery Ridge,” the singer shrieks into the microphone, and the crowd revs up all over again. 

“I love this part!” Xen gushes and draws me into the center of the children’s clothing aisle, where the mothers have gathered and are slamming into each other with distracted abandon. “Come on, let’s grind.” 

I immediately start unbuckling my pants. 

“Hey.” A hand falls on my shoulder. I turn, and behold the rival for the girl of my dreams. Medium height and build. Blonde hair down to the shoulders. A Fender Stratacast slung across one shoulder. A glint in his eye. 

I steel myself for a fight. I can take this asshole. I can take him like I take my bearings in the playground at school.

 

“You must be Gregg, right?” He extends a hand. “Xen has told me all about you. I’m Chris.”

Wow. This guy is smooth. In the face of a rival and he doesn’t even flinch. 

I shake his hand slowly, cautiously. By the set of my shoulders and the furrowing of my brow, I do my damndest to project prison yard tough, street smarts and overall knowingness. The kind of guy who can shop at Aldi and not get harassed by the cashier. “How do.”

He turns to Xen, who’s all but throwing up in adoration over his very presence. “He seems like a nice guy. Innocent.”

I zip up my fly. 

The singer appears at Chris’s elbow. “Hi,” he tells me. “We were Cemetery Ridge. And we’re here to rock.”

“You mean you were here,” I remind him. "You already rocked." 

Chris turns back to me. “Who are you again?”

This is me.