DC Pierson - The Boy Who Couldn't Sleep and Never Had To

I take pride in the fact that I was the first of my friends to find out about Derrick Comedy. Bro Rape, Keyboard Kid, Opposite Day…these were all hits, and we’d play them every week as I made the trip from the South Loop where my dorm was to Lincoln Park to drink wine and play Wii with them nearly every weekend. We anticipated new shorts and would see who could post them to the others’ Facebook walls first. Since that semester, we’ve see the guys develop an enormous fanbase, culminating in a feature film that we all watched at the Music Box Theater (the first and only time I’ve been to that theater). Donald Glover has gone on to achieve eternal relevancy, first through his hip-hop outlet Childish Gambino, then writing for 30 Rock, starring in Community and the ultimate form of immortality: being “criticized” on Hipster Runoff.

The other two guys have managed to keep a lower key. I often see tweets of theirs plugging comedy shows at UCB theaters and various other places around New York and LA. Whereas Glover’s success may appear to be the endgame for anyone who starts an independent web series, Dominic Dierkes and DC Pierson have gone the more typical route, and having remained out of the spotlight, can latch on to more experimental paths. To start a rap career, Donald rapped over a bunch of Sufjan Stevens jams, which expanded to other indie bands and eventually original material. The impetus may have been a three AM falling asleep half-thought or originally just a joke. But it developed. Conversely, Pierson lets us know why he wrote this book: Eliza Skinner told him to on the N train one day.

Knowing Pierson’s background in absurdist and intelligent comedy, it was hard to exactly know what to expect from this novel (his first) that on the back cover announces its describing the ‘typical high school experience.’ The title was sort of dumb and the writing started off supporting that assessment. High school kid hates popular kids in high school and feeling underappreciated for the phenomenal human being that they are. Yes, I guess that is the ‘typical high school experience,’ something that anybody who would even know who DC Pierson is already went through. Why do we want to go through it again?

As it turns out, it gets much, much better from there. The main character, Darren, soon meets our title character, Eric, who as we start to gather, never sleeps. Ever. And he never feels tired. He reveals his secret to Darren who is in disbelief, wondering how why how? He asks the same questions you would be asking: how does he not get tired? Doesn’t he have a subconscious? Naturally, this is a fiction novel, not science fiction, and Pierson isn’t concerned about scientific accuracy as much as simply suspending your belief in objective reality enough to enjoy the story. It starts out simple enough, they hangout, realize they have a lot in common, create an entire cultural empire surrounding a science fiction movie plot (drawings included)…until a girl gets involved (oh shit!). Yes, soon Darren, the more ‘normal’ of the two is getting it on semi-regularly and starts to ignore Eric. And when Darren’s inevitable awkwardness fucks things up with her (Christine), she runs to Eric and the two of them (you guessed it) eventually get together. It was a bit predictable, but Pierson runs with it in a great way. Darren gets so frustratingly heartbroken and even Eric warps out of character, threatening violence and sending Darren pics of himself and Christine. What a dick, right? Really does make you glad you’re not in high school anymore.

And yet, I feel like that is the primary targeted readership: high schoolers. Not to slight the book. On the contrary. For the kids that need something more contemporary than Catcher in the Rye or feel The Perks of Being a Wallflower too ‘emo,’ Pierson offers a voice that deals with the issues that he himself is not too removed from (popularity, puberty, social media, overactive imagination) without being condescending. Naturally, the Internet plays a big role, from email to porn to Namespot (why reference Garageband and not Facebook?). The book was a breeze too; easily manageable to finish in one day if you have the time. It’s engaging albeit with simple language, but hey, it’s supposed to be from the point of view of a sixteen year old. Oh yeah, plus Eric goes on these wild hallucinations and eventually manifests his thoughts into existence. And did I mention he never sleeps? Yeah, some cool shit happens.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez - One Hundred Years of Solitude

I can’t finish this book. 90 pages has taken nearly a month. Every paragraph I read is a jumble of words that I derive no meaning out of. It is frustrating on two accounts. One for the fact that it is considered a classic and definitive example of magical realism and the Latin American boom in the 60s and 70s. I want to be able to better understand this culture, to just try to attempt to see how they interpret the world around them. Instead, I find a muddled composition that takes no time to develop any true meaning or connections between the characters. It’s necessarily a fragmented story (despite its non-linearity) but rather the jumpiness doesn’t lead me to care about or empathize with anyone. 

Second, I hate not being able to finish books. It shouldn’t matter. If an album or movie is boring, I’ll turn it off, but I still hold literature in such a high regard. I’m Jack in The Designated Mourner, you know, before he shit on all of his books. I’ve only done this with one other book: Catch-22. Granted, I was still in high school, just figuring out my place in the literary world and what interests me, but that one bored me to no end. It’s something I may be able to give another chance further down the road though. 100 Years of Solitude however…do I just have to admit I only like white, male authors? Not to infer I’m racist or sexist, and especially not on any conscious level, but for every Beloved I read there are fifty Tropic of Cancers that are as compelling to me. I’m not gonna bemoan the fact that I was granted the most privileged birthright possible in our society (white, straight, male), but I hate to admit the limitations that come with the territory. 

So how should I react? Have I just not tried enough? Marquez doesn’t speak for all Latin American culture. And The Savage Detectives is one of my favorite novels. Although I certainly could live my whole life and never leave the realm of those white, male authors that I will surely feel most comfortable reading, or at the very least, ‘get.’ But I do like curveballs. I like being confused sometimes. I want to read something and think ‘what the fuck?’ Just as I want to listen to something that I’ve never listened to before and watch something through a new perspective. Murakami is on my to-read list but I might have to rock some more Sedaris first. Maybe it’s just a summer thing and I feel more open to reading in the fall, the last leaves in the trees rustling outside my window, the streetlights turning on earlier and better concentration through evening coffee.

Bookcases

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I got my first bookcase today. But I have grown to abhor the idea. Books are a living thing, not a piece of static furniture, of no thought or worthwhile opinion of their own. I would rather my books be strewn across my bed so I can sleep with them, hidden in my dresser so I can wear them, resting / playing on my hardwood floor, living as they desire, with no order to them. Travel guides meet philosophy, drama meets biography, classic meet contemporary. Sartre and Eggers can be neighbors, Kushner and Keats friends (and not because of alphabetical ontology). I want to rifle through unsorted stacks of fiction, to find what it is I need right now, to find the right Kundera or Camus. I am open to disappointment, that I may not find what I am looking for. I expect it; I almost need it. And sometimes: the right book finds me and calls my name. We open each other up.

Lollapalooza 2011

Whoa-m-g. My first Lolla. That was a long fucking weekend. Here's my recap along with the Gene Wagendorf III.

Thursday: Lord Huron, Dale Earnhardt Jr. Jr. at Double Door (no review, got drunk instead).

Friday on UPchicago, featuring: Ruby Jane, Tennis, Smith Westerns, Le Butcherettes, Cults, the Mountain Goats, Bright Eyes, Coldplay, Ratatat, Muse, Two Door Cinema Club (after party at the W Hotel)

Saturday on UPchicago featuring: Grouplove, Maps and Atlases, Friendly Fires, Black Lips, Big Audio Dynamite, Lykke Li, Beirut, Eminem

Sunday on UPChicago featuring: Gold Motel, Titus Andronicus, the Joy Formidable, the Cars, Explosions in the Sky, Foo Fighters, Bag Raiders (afterparty at the Mid) and food.


And why not, Gene's video of me playing in mud.







Other videos I shot from the weekend after the jump (Le Butcherettes, Grouplove, Lykke Li, the Cars):

She Lights Another Cigarette

She couldn’t fool me. 

Sitting on my porch with all of Bucktown in front of her, she tries to tell me that there are no more deep thoughts in her head. They’re all gone. She’s worried. She lights another cigarette. 

Sitting on my porch with the whole street in front of her, she says she doesn’t feel anything. She feels nothing; she knows how nothing feels. She’s worried. She lights another cigarette. 

 Sitting on my porch with the whole world in front of her, she tries to tell me that there are no more deep thoughts in her head. Here I am facing a brick wall. She has the whole world in front of her and I’m left with a wall. Should I believe her? She lights another cigarette. She’s not smoking these cigarettes. She’s lighting them to watch them burn: she keeps the fire going (the art of destroying things that destroy). She wanted to give up. She was worried. But she couldn’t fool me. She kept the fire going. 

Our words are cigarettes. We keep them going, we speak and talk // express and declare // state and proclaim to try to get every little microscopic thought that enters the orb that holds our brains and eyes, the orb which our ears straddle and whichever way our hair styles, to get what’s inside there, into the world, into the other orbs. That is why we write. Language is a living, breathing, smoldering thing. It is our duty to keep the fire burning. 

She stops looking worried. She lights another cigarette. 

Pitchfork Music Festival 2011

So here's the final review of the weekend on Windy City Rock.

Thursday: Cibo Matto at Lincoln Hall

Friday: EMA, tUnE-yArDs, Battles, Curren$y, Das Racist, Neko Case, Animal Collective.

Saturday: Sun Airway, G-Side, No Age, Gang Gang Dance, Wild Nothing, OFF!, the Radio Dept., DJ Shadow, Fleet Foxes

Sunday: Twin Sister, OFWGKTA, Shabazz Palaces, Ariel Pink, Baths, Kylesa, Toro y Moi, Cut Copy, TV on the Radio

Did He Hit His Head?

Did he hit his head?

God is in the details. But I was enveloped by bigger things. There were a few stars obscured by clouds. The City was beaming and it was Everything; the Lake was crashing and it was Nothing. My ears surrounded by seductive horns and triumphant percussion. His arms went straight up. He swayed to the right (he’ll regain his balance). He leaned to the left (oh shit). He went down. “Fuck, dude, are you alright?” “I’m fine, let’s keep going.” “Let’s just take a minute.” “Nah, let’s keep going.” 

Karl X Johan - Flames (uncompromised cut) from Emotion on Vimeo.

Did he hit his head?

We continued along, we caught up with the others. We took a new way, we found the river. The River. The intersection of Everything and Nothing. One becomes the other without schism: they flow into each other. The lights of our City are the stars of our generation; reflected on the water, shimmering, waving to us, it is the manifestation of starry night in 2011. 

“Did I hit my head?”

I am an atheist; God is in the details. So why did I feel the need to focus on one individual leaf of the trees that were zooming past, zero in, and try to grab it? I didn’t want a handful of leaves, I wanted precision: I wanted one.single.leaf. on every tree. And I was already plotting on the next tree before I had picked the leaf off the first. 

“Did he hit his head?”

I’ll never know that answer. My focus is backwards. Is my focus backwards? I should have paid more attention to the details. I hope it’s not too late. 

Perhaps the City is Nothing and Lake is Everything.