Play of the Day

ritual-magic

Friends, Wizards, Comrades,

The play of the day is my most recent publication, co-authored with David Lyttle, at Fall Semester. Now available online here. This work is in the second volume of their truly wide-ranging and fantastic collection of essays on aesthetics, politics, and so much more. I’m proud to have been included as a part of their fascinating and entirely necessary, perhaps more than ever, interventions. Our essay is part of a larger project (some of which is available in the last post.)

Enjoy! Critique! Or just lock yourself in a room and practice ritual magick!


Play of the Day

3971911854_09d3b551d7

Comrades, oh dear comrades!

The play of this autumnal day is the publication of my most recent article (co-authored with my lovely and brilliant colleague, Katie Kelp-Stebbins) in Media Fields.

You can read it here if you so desire.


Play of the Day

6251267834_bd6b0b0e6e_oComrades!

Lo! And alas! The end of the summer draws rapidly nigh. For those of us in the great city of Cleveland, this means sucking as much warm weather marrow out of the season’s bones as it can possibly offer. And they may not offer that much. This is Northeastern Ohio. We know what’s coming.

For me, in particular, the close of summer requires an effort to maximize the number of hours I can lie, buoyed by fresh or salt or chlorinated water, with my toes wiggling toward the horizon. And so, on this Labor Day weekend, let me celebrate with you one play of the day that was not, in any real way, laborious: I spent the morning floating in the shallow, warm waters of the Great Lake Erie.

Lake beaches are fantastic. And since Cleveland has put in great efforts to make its waters more inhabitable, they’re usually* a great place to store up some vitamin D and take a dip. My personal favorite for you, oh dear readers, is Huntington Beach in Bay Village. I swam there for hours.

I’m pretty sure my totem animal is a sea otter. And maybe there aren’t any in the Great Lakes. But I feel like I might serve as a reasonable (slightly less furry and cute) substitute.

That’s my play of the proverbial day, friends. Now get the hell outside and find your own way to get some summer sun while the getting is still good.

______________________________________________________________

*Still always a good idea to check the nowcast. And if it’s been raining recently, maybe pick a patio somewhere instead of tossing your heat-weary body into the water. I’m told “combined sewer runoff” is a problem. I haven’t looked up what exactly that phenomenon entails. Nor do I intend to.


Plays of the Days

Fine friends and comrades! Forgive yet another long lapse in posting. I have, however, for those patient readers among you, not one but two fabulous plays of the days. They are as follows:

1.) You know how I love cities, obviously, but did you know that I, along with two talented architect/academic/urbanist types, recently founded a little research and design collaborative? Well I did. It’s called SPEC. See our nascent projects and older works here!

2.) You know how I love gainful, secure employment?* Well I do. And am proud to announce that in January of 2016 I will be joining the faculty of the department of Modern Languages at the University of Miami as an Assistant Professor of Digital Humanities and Modern Languages. HUZZAH!!! Looks like this little itinerant lady will soon be learning to love a new city!

And that, oh dear readers, is all. At least for now.

______________________________________________________________

*Love is too strong a word. But I love gainful employment a lot more than I do the precarious labor that is de rigueur in the current instantiation of Integrated World Capital.

 


Play of the Day

radio

Fine friends and readers!

The play of this post-Thanksgiving day is a little schoolie treat. I offer to you the chance to hear itinerant me talking urban sprawl and network technologies in an interview I did with the editor of the Journal of Urban Cultural Studies. My article on Buenos Aires Libre will be published in the journal’s upcoming issue. Check out the podcast of our conversation about my work here.

And that, comrades, is all.

 


Play of the Day

taco sign

Oh kind, dear readers of mine. If you are much like me, and I can only assume some of you are, then there are two things of which you are inordinately fond: 1.) searing but well-balanced hot sauce, 2.) chicken wings.

When these great tastes taste great together, a minor heaven is made. When you can also imbibe decent beer to cool your palate, it’s a paradise into which even the most discerning Virgil would merrily wander.*

The play of this most auspiciously warm day is Hot Wing Wednesdays at Sachsenheim Hall.

Wildly cheap, served only on hump-day, and appearing in an outlandish variety of sauces and rubs, Sachsenheim’s wings are the best I’ve enjoyed in Cleveland. And the hottest. Not every patron of this strange biergarten/dance hall/dive bar has to (or could) handle the spicier stuff on offer but those that dare will not be disappointed. They also might not be able to taste anything for a week. Luckily the scale of heat is sliding at Sachsenheim’s: 1 to 10. Find yourself roaming around Cleveland on a Wednesday night and you can decide just how brave you’re willing to be.

On my own visit to Sachsenheim’s for wing night I opted for a 7 of both a dry rub and traditional buffalo, and a side of the full force hottest sauce they had. I was very pleased. Especially so to have an enormous mug of icy German lager to accompany my spicy and delicious wings.

______________________________________________________________________________

*What? Everybody can use a good Dante reference. That paradise involves, in this scenario, extremely hot wings is an added metaphorical inversion I particularly like.


Play of the Day


4783106104_78e4f654a2_z

The Play of the Day, oh readers of mine, is the play of most of my days here in Cleveland.

One of my favorite things about the city is the Hope Memorial Bridge (more commonly known by its former title, the Lorain-Carnegie Bridge). Finished in 1932, this epic engineering feat crosses the Cuyahoga river between Ohio City, on Cleveland’s near-west side, and downtown, on it’s near-east. Posted at either end of the bridge are four epic sculptures known as the ‘Guardians of Transportation,’ or ‘Guardians of Traffic.’

Each one of these gentlemen, designed by Frank Walker and sculpted by Henry Hering, is a janus-headed figure grasping, between enormous hands, some type of vehicle. One has a carriage, one a construction truck, one an automobile and one an early version of a semi. These huge, stoic, art-deco (and pretty phallic) dudes are my comrades.

I cross the bridge on my daily trek to work. I usually say hello to the guardians on the way in or out of my neighborhood. These wildly handsome concrete pylons always prove a salve to my savage, commuting soul.

They are certainly a mammoth indicator of the city’s industrial apex, and of its ties to a particular moment in art history. But more than that, they are gorgeous pieces of public art that mean something to Clevelanders.* And while their design, which was meant to celebrate the progress of transportation, might have missed its speculative mark in terms of Cleveland’s particular historical trajectory, they none-the-less do carve themselves into the city in an arresting and spectacular way. And I think their power as Cleveland landmarks is as much about what they indicate in retrospect, as it is about what they were meant to mark at the moment of their construction.**

They never respond to my ritual salutation. But I love them. And their indifference does not negate my feeling that they watch over me, and the city, and perhaps all urban travelers, everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that I am not the only resident who finds herself speaking to the guardians. I bet they’ve listened to many itinerant wanderers, as they head somewhere in this weird and engaging landscape.

______________________________________________________________________________

*I have one friend who has a guardian tattooed on his calf. He cannot possibly be the only Clevelander who chose to memorialize his homeland thusly.

**I’ve written in this blog about some of the ways the history of an urban landscape, Cleveland’s more specifically, is sometimes veiled by its public art. The guardians cannot, because of their age and their position in the city, disguise what was misguided in their production. While this may become true for other ventures, the guardians were not built (as what might be called their contemporary equivalents) in the full flush of commodity capitalism. But, as with all speculation of this sort, I could be wrong. Maybe commodity capitalism is only just now beginning to find its real flourish and things like the outdoor chandelier in Playhouse Square will become friendly indicators of a certain moment in aesthetic history. For the sake of us all, I’m going to go ahead and hope not.