Wednesday, June 27, 2007; Stop Smiling Storefront
Written by: Mairead Case

The Stop Smiling Storefront is frozen white tile and wood floors, a black curtain and folding chairs, and sinks that look like see-though flying saucers. All gathered there last Wednesday had either forearm tattoos or polished stone necklaces: red mostly, otherwise blue. There was a soundtrack from old cartoons; you kept waiting for an anvil to drop or Gargamel to appear.

Austin Grossman, who daylights as a videogame programmer, read first from his new book, Soon I Will Be Invincible. It’s a dorktastic superhero romp written, in part, to “interfere with the dignity of your standard writing workshop.” Grossman looks like an excited rabbit, and used his hands to punctuate lines like “thermonuclear nanotechnological gadgets,” or “somebody with an insect’s head was passed out on the couch.” He’d marked his passages with blue Post-It and made satisfying thwoks with his microphone. He said he liked his work and was proud of it, which was awesome because (1) most people don’t admit that but (2) he did without being pompous.

Paul Hornschemeier was next, and his reading voice is perfect: half necktie and slicked back hair, half comfortable warmth. He’d yoinked his piece, which was about going home for Easter, from an article Life commissioned before it folded. There were photographs to match the narrative: laundry-basket crosshatch, Dad in a Navy sweatshirt, those origami boxes lawyers use, and bread shaped like a swan. Hornschemeier mentioned “Chicago’s sullen pewter” while images of crepe paper and yellow pipe cleaners appeared. This was like swallowing something delicious and buttery. I was bummed we didn’t see any of his drawings, especially from the recently-released The Three Paradoxes. He seemed a little nervous, too.

Last came Nick Bertozzi, who hopped on stage in a fishing hat and dove in without an introduction. Bertozzi’s latest book, The Salon, is 178 pages in lime and mustard and rouge, populated by Modernists like Stein and Toklas, Satie, Gaguin, and a charmingly pugnacious Picasso, who sometimes paints with a “meat brush” and says “if drowing is sheet, I fight jou.” (All these guys made their work over 75 years ago, so Bertozzi didn’t have to work for copyright.)

The panels were projected on the wall behind Bertozzi, who used different voices and accents (Stein says “piquant” like it rhymes with “pecan,” but Braque was peaked), in a continuous sound stream. Once, the switch took longer than expected, so Bertozzi turned into a Foley artist, making the sounds of wind through curtains, fingernails on flesh, and Star Wars- noises. Sixteen polka-dotted baby ducks could have can-canned on the sidewalk outside with tickertape orking seals and Klaus Nomi’s ghost; I would not have noticed.

After the readings, everybody mingled over PBRs and Book Cellar wares. Bertozzi drew portraits instead of just a signature. “That,” said the guy behind me, “is so you don’t try to sell it on E-bay.” Gotcha.

Mairead Case blogs at http://www.fabulouscolor.blogspot.com. She’s all shook up, like a bottle of pop.