Run aground in the water of Morgan Shoal, a shallow expanse of botanically lush water which extends over half a mile between 45th and 51st Streets, the 109-foot vessel resisted all rescue attempts. After three days of struggle and a safe evacuation, she tipped. She may have caught fire. Since that summer, the Silver Spray has rested underwater off the shore of 49th Street, tranquilly preserved by the lake’s fresh water.

This was the story told last Saturday at the Hyde Park Historical Society by long-time Hyde Park resident Greg Lane, who swims in Lake Michigan every day and harbors (pun intended) a kind of boyish enthusiasm that would more likely be expected of his grade school son. Lane was intrigued by the Silver Spray’s boiler, which is visible from shore, so one day he swam out to investigate.

“There’s nothing quite so enchanting as swimming along in the lake and then suddenly looking down and discovering a propellor that’s as tall as you are,” he says. Scuba diving is illegal off the shores of the lake (“It puts people in danger of enjoying Lake Michigan,” Lane quips), but this doesn’t stop him from spreading the gospel of the sunken ship. At 10am on most Sundays, Lane can be found guiding civilians on “shipwreck tours”—free-dives out and down to the corpse of the Silver Spray.

Shipwrecks in American waters are protected by the Abandoned Shipwrecks Act of 1987, created, essentially, to bring looters and abandoned booty within the realm of law. With no individuals to claim ownership, sunken vessels are given, by default, to the state. Lane expresses concern about protecting the wreck from municipal interference.  He wants people to be aware of, and to appreciate, the abandoned Silver Spray and its resting place on the shoal.

“Just like a historical building, it has a story to tell,” says Lane, a consciously modest and somewhat accidental spokesman for the wreck. Speaking to a full crowd in the Historical Society’s small space along Lake Park Avenue, his rhetoric  resembles a rallying cry to the amateur Hyde Park enthusiast. “I am now an underwater archaeologist,” he says with a smile. “That’s the great thing about this shipwreck. It’s the most accessible on Chicago shores, and it’s ours.”

Clark and Samarov are headlining this second installment of the Seminary Co-op’s “Doppelgangers” reading series, which aims to bring together local writers with similar interests, styles, and even last names (the first installment featured Adam Levin and Sarah Levine, both local authors and SAIC faculty). With the lighting situation resolved, the two writers, monoliths in the world of ‘Chicago cab driver fiction,’ assume positions on adjacent barstools and begin to read.

Clark chooses excerpts from “Nobody’s Angel,” a work that reads as a traditional murder mystery but also functions as a historical and topographical exposition of the mean streets of Chicago. Clark himself grew up devouring the works of Raymond Chandler and Nelson Algren, citing the first three pages of Algren’s “The Man with the Golden Arm” as the work that made him want to write. This influence is noticeable in his prose, which is simple and uncluttered, and, when read in his wonderfully abrasive Chicago accent, reflects the man’s desire to capture a seedy past and in the process, tell a damn good story.

Samarov, by contrast, is more of a critical commentator, interested in recounting his experiences with stupid, drug-addled, oversexed passengers, and using these to describe the reality of being a cab driver in a bustling, metropolitan city. “Cab drivers aren’t really seen as people,” he relates. “To most, you’re just the back of a head.” This sense of alienation, Samarov adds, makes for “a behind-closed-doors” dynamic that he believes heightens the humor and intimacy of his stories. Reading from “Hack,” a collection of short stories that take place primarily in downtown Chicago, Samarov, in Bukowski-like fashion, rants about inebriated teenagers, backseat sex-fests, and his general loathing of the ‘Drive-thru’ all in an honest, humorous, and genuinely unaffected fashion.

The event concludes with a brief but illuminating Q&A session, revealing, among other things, Jack Clark’s once unmistakable resemblance to Travis Bickle (I’d buy it) and Dmitry Samarov’s grim but characteristically comical message for prospective English majors: “Be careful, you might end up working at Starbucks or, you know, driving a cab.”

The event in question was the launch of the SMALL Showroom, a pop-up exhibition designed to promote awareness of a range of local Bridgeport-area artisans and products. Over a hundred companies and individuals were represented through SMALL (Small Manufacturing Alliance), which, according to their website, promotes Chicagoland “companies and individuals who make locally manufactured products.” Items on display ranged in size from a massive, $500 didgeridoo nicknamed “the Elephant Tusk” and hand-carved from an agave stalk, to one-inch cubes of Asiago cheese selected from Giles Schnierle’s Great American Cheese Collection. Among these offerings were free tastings from 18th Street Brewery, Koval Distillery, Bridgeport Coffee, and Katherine Anne, the “founder and confectionista” of Katherine Anne Confections. Non-culinary products included custom-designed bikes, graphic tees, beaded animals, and tables carved into the shape of various American states (the company offered to do any state in the union other than Hawaii, Florida, and Maryland). The space also served as a bulletin board for myriad advertisements for demonstrations and exhibitions, all of which seemed to be occurring concurrently with the showroom proper.

The sprawl of the showroom led to certain limitations on space as well as time for those organizing the show. My conversation with Ed Marszewski, co-director of the Co-Prosperity Sphere, was held in a cramped space between the falafel table and the main display window, leading some passersby to wonder whether or not we were part of some sort of SMALL-sponsored performance piece. Despite, or perhaps due to, the hustle and large number of guests, Marszewski was still very excited. “It’s great that I can bring together all these people—many of them friends who live within a block of this space—and be able to promote them like this.” He also noted, however, that the preparation has been hectic. “I’ve been meeting with hundreds of people every day. I’ve barely been able to learn everyone’s name.”

Herein lies the essential dilemma for the SMALL Showroom: if it is to represent an intimate community of businesses and artists in Bridgeport, how will it adapt as Bridgeport grows into its own as “the community of the future”—as one local publication optimistically christened the neighborhood—where more and more artists and manufacturers are moving everyday? How long, one wonders, will SMALL be able to remain small?

Maggie Sivit

The Reverend Addie Wyatt’s career in social activism began simply enough. Her first job was on the assembly line of Armour & Company in 1941, which, from a background of small means, was a job that paid well—but it was not the position she had applied for. On a Friday, she filled out an application to be a typist at the Chicago meatpacking company, a job for which Wyatt was more than qualified, tapping at a rate of over 60 words per minute. But when Monday morning came around, she found herself packing stew and sealing the tops of cans on the line. When she asked for an explanation, looking to file a union grievance, she discovered that the company had never intended to hire her: they did not hire black typists for the front office. And so began a passion for the labor and civil rights movements that would reshape the history of the South Side.

After Wyatt passed away last month at 88 years old, a crowd of hundreds, including former Illinois Senator Carol Moseley Braun and the Reverend Jesse Jackson, packed into Wyatt’s church—Vernon Park Church of God on 90th and Stony Island—to pay respects to this legacy.

Having served as the first female, African American senior officer in any American labor union in 1953, Wyatt quickly became known as a forceful campaigner in the Chicago Freedom Movement. At the center of Chicago’s maelstrom of civil change, Wyatt worked as a community organizer, a pastor, and the co-founder of Operation Breadbasket—a Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) program fostering faith and helping feed hundreds of underprivileged families across the country.

Wyatt’s legacy of activism “extended far beyond the South Side of Chicago,” as Dr. Carol Adams, CEO and president of the DuSable Museum of African American history, made clear. “She was,” Dr. Adams remarked, “an international labor leader at a time when it was rare for a woman, of any race, to ascend to such a position.” Indeed, Wyatt’s work as a labor advisor for the SCLC led her all the way to Selma, Alabama, where she marched alongside Martin Luther King, Jr. By 1974, Wyatt was appointed to a labor commission by Eleanor Roosevelt and founded the National Organization of Women (NOW), which still exists as the largest feminist organization in the country.

The part of  Wyatt’s character that will never fade in the memory of those who knew her  was her unparalleled  ability to bring people together. “In whatever battleground for social and human rights compelled her participation,” Adams recalled, “she was a warrior.” Reverend Willie Barrow, another illustrious figure on the front lines of civil rights and a long-time friend of Wyatt’s, said of her, “People. That was Rev. Wyatt’s lifelong work. Church people, labor people. Fighting for black people in business, and fighting for <i>women</i> in businesses. All of them.”

Reverend Barrow’s life in social activism frequently intersected with Wyatt’s, as they co-headed Operation Breadbasket (now the Jackson-led Rainbow/PUSH Coalition) in the early ’60s. “We started doing community service together. We were from the same church, and we became very good friends then and we were friends ever since—for 55 years. She did everything in the community. She even taught music.”

Even today, aspiring protesters on the South Side would do well to remember the Reverend’s battle-tested life. Rev. Barrow evoked protests of old, when “Rev. Wyatt, always the great organizer, brought the whole community together on Woodlawn.” Elsewhere, of course, Rainbow/PUSH, with Rev. Barrow and Rev. Jackson still at the helm, continue to promote civil rights and combat the social injustices facing people from Chicago to Oakland to New York. In this way, Rev. Wyatt’s inspirational work and passion endures in a host of civic issues within the country.

It would only be fair, however, to remember how far these same cities, these local communities have come—to remember too all of the successes the Reverend had a part in. “In all the triumphs of the civil rights movement,” Adams maintains, “Rev. Wyatt’s legacy lives on today.”

On a weekday, Jones might be in First Aid buying Spiderman comics for her six-year-old son—the ones that feature Miles Morales, an African-American and Latino boy trying to get into charter school. But not tonight. Though many members of the group have children, none of their progeny are present at these Sunday evening gatherings.

Last week, the group gathered to discuss “Nat Turner,” the biographical graphic novel by Kyle Baker. Wesley Sun, another member of the group, recalls, “In high school we read a paragraph on Nat Turner, and I was interested. Reading this was the first time I learned more.”

Described by one member as a “silent film graphic novel,” the book probes the morally ambiguous elements of Nat Turner’s story. As Jones says, “Some people see him as a psycho, others as a hero.” While the cover of the novel is splashed with blood, the discussion group is careful to insist that these killings did not occur in a vacuum, but within the crucible of racism. They eagerly address the creation of historical narrative. A discussion breaks out about how Kyle Baker deviated from the typical telling of the Nat Turner story by playing with the relationship between text and visuals.

First Aid Comics’s discussion group is organized as a partnership between the owner, James Nurss, and the group’s regular members. Nurss provides a space and allows them to stay after business hours and order pizza; the group picks the novels. They meet at a table squeezed into a back alcove of the shop’s Hyde Park storefront. The interior is wallpapered with comic books: the shelves of Asterix, Archie, and Wolverine reach nearly to the ceiling. There’s a stuffed Batman flying near the heating pipes and a Spiderman peeking out the front window.

Two of the members, brothers Wesley and Bradley Sun, are working on a graphic novel themselves. Entitled “Chinatown,” it’s about the neighborhood’s haunted houses, and contains elements of magical realism and horror. As artists themselves, the brothers appreciate the visual dimension that comics bring to a story, as well as their possibilities for fantasy. For Jones and a few other members of the group, graphic novels provide a new way to plumb issues they’re already interested in, like race, ethnicity or history. These weekly conversations go far beyond favorite villains or plot twists. Though they don’t enjoy being labeled as intellectual, that doesn’t mean their discussions don’t pack a cerebral punch.

The resplendent fundraiser was hosted by The Orphanage, a newly reopened Bridgeport music venue. Upon entry, patrons were asked to fill out a form indicating their gender, sexual orientation, and name. A table boasting a smorgasbord of condoms sat adjacent to a display of HIV testing documents, evidence of the greater cause that underlay the party’s general sense of harmony: the gathering was held for the benefit of El Rescate (“the rescue”), a charity that provides housing for homeless LGBTQ youth. El Rescate is a benevolent outgrowth of the Vida/SIDA health clinic, which offers HIV prevention and testing services geared toward the Latino community.

Entertainment at the party ranged from a raucous drag show, featuring flamboyant and militant gay rights crusader Malcolm Sex, to a more subdued raffle for a drum kit, and attendees documented the evening’s debauchery in a leopard-print photo booth decorated with fuchsia streamers.

The bigotry-free atmosphere was evident in the guests’ garb, or lack thereof. Drag queens mingled with the shirtless as topless women hula-hooped with a man whose earlobes were stretched to the size of quarters. The sonic backdrop to all the vivacity was half hardcore punk and half late ’90s club music.

Accoutrements of the indie variety littered the corners of the venue. An old vinyl collection mingled with a sea of vintage board games. The walls of The Orphanage were decked with paintings, a number of which were caricatures in the absinthe-themed style of Lautrec. Cathedral windows, a reminder of the venue’s location inside a Lutheran church, interrupted the overwhelming wall decorations. The most impressive featured a stained glass woman with ghostly hair overlooking center stage, gazing upon the event—where Chicago’s LGBTQ community were given an opportunity to fête their freedom for a righteous cause—like an identity-affirming vixen.

The event’s proceeds went towards first responder charities, which primarily benefit the families of wounded and fallen police and firefighters. Just prior to the match’s start, Scottish bagpipes, an honor guard, and the national anthem solemnly honored those for whom the event was dedicated.

Immediately following the anthem’s close, the gravity of ceremony gave way to a more raucous pull. Mayor Rahm Emanuel, flanked by Police Superintendent Garry McCarthy and Fire Commissioner Jose Santiago, came to the fore. Mayor Emanuel, who has in the past threatened drastic cuts on CPD and CFD budgets, was met with snarls from the audience members. Unfazed by the sea of jeers and occasional obscenities that engulfed him, Mayor Emanuel forged on with a drab verbal libation to the constabulary and anti-conflagatory volunteer boxers in his city’s employ.

From there the fights began. Each contest consisted of three three-minute rounds punctuated by one-minute breaks. As each pairing entered the ring, the audience would cleave into competing affiliations. With beers in hand and brouhaha in throat, the devotees rambunctiously cheered the combatants on, sporadically breaking into indistinguishable chants of “CFD!” and “CPD!”

The evening waned into night, the alcohol and testosterone-fueled audience boisterously bellowed on, and the public servants got correspondingly punch-drunk. As the boxers beat it out to the edge of doom, a trend appeared. The cops, who tended towards the bulky, gained an edge over the spry firefighters. Despite squalls of protest from the Fire Department supporters in the crowd, the bluecoats repeatedly triumphed in a feat of fortitude.

Camaraderie prevailed throughout the event, even under exceptional circumstances. In once case, a policeman with a ruthless roundhouse fought a plucky fireman. Despite the firefighter’s sprightliness, the cop’s ursine blows seemed destined for victory. To the audience’s indignant surprise, however, the now-delirious fireman was declared champion. The crowd launched a tempest at the referee, quelled only by the the vanquished officer of the peace lumbering over to the delirious victor, and, in a display of moving fraternity, bear-hugging the fireman. The Battle of the Badges concluded with gratitude towards the boxers and respect for the underlying cause—that throughout any circumstance, goodwill prevails among the public’s protectors.

Turning first to history, Kristol gave a quick, almost medical evaluation of the two presidential candidates, running over their vital signs before moving on to more complex issues. Obama’s chances, he admitted, look pretty good. Incumbents generally have an advantage, especially if they aren’t challenged in the primary. And since 1986 every president that took the White House from the opposing party has held it for at least eight years.

On the other hand, he pointed out, Obama’s approval rating currently hovers at around 46 percent—hardly what you want heading into election season, especially since that rating often translates directly into a president’s share of the vote in the general election.

Moving on to Romney, Kristol couldn’t resist bemoaning this year’s motley selection of candidates. Kristol’s fervent, and failed, attempts to urge Indiana Governor Mitch Daniels, Congressman Paul Ryan, and New Jersey Governor Chris Christie to enter the race were a source of a fair amount of good-natured, self-deprecating humor. But a small amount of genuine vexation shines through. After rattling off the qualifications of each of 2012′s past presidential hopefuls, he took a pause—“I mean what kind of field is that, really?”

Kristol admitted that Romney was a weak candidate in the primaries, but pointed out that he’s been doing better lately since “he realized he had to tell people what he was going to do as president.” As he stacks up against Obama, both of the candidates are intelligent, successful men, but Kristol believes that “Obama is a more attractive American story.”

From a decidedly right wing, fast-talking pundit, a certain amount of bluster is assumed. However, Kristol retained a highly self-conscious, at times even self-mocking tone. When asked about what an Obama victory would mean, Kristol responded with even-handed irony: “You know, I can usually talk myself into thinking that the country will survive, and that conservatism will survive.”

(Josh Kovensky)

Cosplayers, comic book promoters, and entertainment industry bigwigs stood united at the Chicago Comic & Entertainment Expo (C2E2) this past weekend. The convention styled itself as “Chicago’s pop culture event,” and not without good reason. C2E2’s maze of shops and plenitude of events offered a portal into a place where fantasy trumped reality.

The reality of the convention was, indeed, fantastic. Walking along the convention’s aisles afforded a view of sauntering stormtroopers, gliding druid couples, and steampunks whose appearance reached a level of capitalistic aloofness found only in Soviet propaganda reels. Merchants of many stripes had laid siege to the convention’s rococo alleyways with their varied stock, rendering the whole place into a kind of bizarro-world bazaar. Most vendors sold comic books, old and new, while a few had more exotic fare. One shop sold swords modeled off of “Lord of The Rings” and “Kill Bill,” while another advertised medieval role-playing fares and wares.

Gallivanting across such a Babylon of fandom gave one the impression that a distinctly different culture pervaded. The simple question of, “What is your costume?” was typically met with the rolled eyes of a high school drama queen. Those in particularly convincing or elaborate costumes were afforded high status on the convention’s totem, as evidenced by the hordes of photographers gathered around such luminaries.

These standouts took their characters seriously. At one point, a benign T-shirt pavilion vomited out a terrifyingly real B.A. Baracus from “The A-Team,” replete with the gold chains, ripped-up denim, and requisite sass that does a Mr. T make. As he stomped around the area shouting belligerent aphorisms and pitying the fools, this reporter underwent a long aphasic moment, punctuated only by a ubiquitous photographer pacifying the errant T with a photo request. The food court played host to a cringe-worthingly real Napoleon Dynamite, whose weirdness was only matched by a squadron of Ghostbusters (there were many) bivouacking with a pair of Gothic transvestites in the background.

The convention’s array of activities extended beyond its participants’ ocular oddities, however. Sci-fi speed dating (no press allowed) occupied a large space on one of the center’s upper floors, providing the socially inept but comically adept with the opportunity to escape the gravitational pull of their own awkwardness. Other events included autograph signings and forums featuring the likes of Jhonen Vasquez (creator of “Invader Zim”), John Barrowman (of “Doctor Who” fame), and the incomparable John Cusack.

C2E2 offered Chicagoans a great place for geeking out about one’s chosen fandom. With popular culture done to excess, the convention delivered on its promise of entertainment—oftentimes quixotic, but always comic.

Indeed, only a topic as broad as “metal” could attract scholars and experts in history, computer science, and physics together in one place at one time. Participants sat in a circle in the middle of the room, surrounding a smattering of metal objects decorating various ledges and tables. On one side of the room sat a shiny sterling and ebony tea service, designed by Bauhaus master Marianne Brandt. The other side of the room featured a variety of textured sand-casted aluminum kitchen items from West Africa, including a crushed soda can and a long copper pole.

Mark Herald, an Experimental Systems Engineer in Mathematics and Computer Science, began the discussion. Holding up a few indiscernible metal knick-knacks of varying colors from “the days of [his] life as an astrophysicist,” Herald casually explained the astrophysical origins of metal in “layman’s terms.” Some of the participants nodded along, evidently following the discussion; others assumed a glazed look but still made sure to nod occasionally so as not to reveal their lack of astrophysical savvy.

After Amy Lippert’s subsequent talk on the Bauhaus tea service, African history professor Emily Osborn began a lively presentation of aluminum kitchenware. She explained that, in West Africa, restaurant workers often kept empty soda cans to grind into shavings and sell to artisans for casting. As she spoke, she picked up a large, luminescent spoon and a plain, club-like mortar and passed them around the room. After the Bauhaus-tea-set-induced tactile deprivation, participants gladly reached out to feel the spoons and ladles. Smiles crept across faces as desires to touch were indulged, and participants ran their fingers over the objects’ raised chevron and honeycomb patterns. Some participants bobbed their hands up and down, remarking how light some of these objects seemed compared to American kitchen utensils.

Each participant attended the workshop with specific agendas: art historians asked about “materiality,” and anthropologists questioned whether metal artisans possessed “empirical” knowledge of metal’s scientific properties.

Nagel ended the presentations with an anecdote about the creation of the MRI machine. Because of the strength of the machine’s central magnet, he explained, the remainder of its components could not contain metal. Scientists had to experiment with other materials: “And that’s when I thought to myself, ‘Oh my goodness; everything around us is made of metal!’” he said. After such a vaguely-defined colloquy on the uses of metal that possessed the mysterious power to draw in and occasionally rivet a diverse audience, magnetism seemed an appropriate note for Nagel to end on.