Grow a Pair

I can't take it anymore, fellas.

The overly polished. The perfect color coordination. The androgyny. What in the hell happened to the American gentleman?

Looking nice is important. So is owning well-made clothing. But as Americans, we need to put the man back in gentleman. That doesn't mean chest bumping is back in. Neither are rounds of Jaeger bombs.
We're not bros, we're gentleman.
But we have to do something to fight these emasculating trends in high fashion.

Forget to wash your hair. Wear that oxford wrinkled and half tucked in. I don't care. But if I see one more hairless Aryan walking around in pastels and thick-framed glasses I'm gonna lose my freaking cool.
I'm guilty. I've done it. I bought the ideas that the inexorable gods of fashion shoved down my throat. But we're Americans. We're supposed to be a little grundge. A little undone. It's who we are.

Go out and get your hands dirty. Sweat. Order a whiskey. Loosen your collar. But at the end of the day,  pick up the check and hold the door. You're still a gentleman.

Please observe the badass-ness of Paul Newman. American fashion icon and total ladies' man.  We gotta bring this back. That is, if you're man enough.

Drinking the Heat Away

Can you feel that?

Humidity you can chew on. A thousand straight hours of cloud cover. A complete lack of this city’s famous wind.

Feels like summertime in Chicago. And that means two things: Winter clothes belong on the shelf. And so do winter drinks.

I know alcohol makes you sweat. And hit on your boss’s daughter. But some drinks beat the heat better than others. 

Sure, you can still order the 10% alcohol meal-in-a-glass stouts, or sip the heavy dessert wines, or take your whiskey neat. I get that, I love them, too. But I got two words for you: pit stains.

Here’s my advice for beer drinkers: Go German. Lagers, Kolschs, Hefeweizens. The styles are classic, and, more importantly, refreshing. Those beer mongers nailed the light, crisp, but still flavorful session beers. And the good news is that many American craft breweries have taken on a summer beer in those traditions. Try Anchor Summer Beer. Or if you’re really into this muggy, sun-filled season, try beer infused with a light fruit. Dogfish Head Festina Peche is a beer that lets you embrace fruit this summer and still feel like a man. 

The cocktails have a simple formula: Keep it fruity, keep it carbonated, or do both. And when it comes to mixers, don’t venture too far away from the color white. (Color generally comes from aging, which adds a multitude of flavor, which often clashes with mixers and is generally more alcoholic.) It’s hard to go wrong with a margarita or a standard mojito.

And for the vinos: Prosecco. Just like that. It was once a relatively obscure grape that rarely got out of Italy. Now it’s booming popularity has put it on the shelf in every liquor store in the world. And if you don’t do bubbly, there’s always a Sauvignon Blanc. Ask your shop owner for a bottle that’s grassy in flavor. Sounds bad, tastes great.

Stay thirsty.

KM Montgomery

Malaise

Every now and again, bloggers suffer from Common Malaise. It happens to all of us...it does!
But now I'm back. At least I think I'm back. I have to (re)prove myself to, uh, myself, and any faithful readers I had.
That being said, give me a day or two to collect all of my notes, camera cords and empty bourbon glasses and by the WEEKEND a BRAND NEW blog post by yours truly will be UP for you to READ and SHARE with your friends. (FOR YOU SKIMMERS, I CAPITALIZED THE IMPORTANT STUFF. THANKS FOR SKIMMING.)

Coming soon... A rant on light beer, the artist profile of Nicki Valente (about freakin' time, huh?), and an open letter.

So there, I'm back... with a college degree. Booya!

Never trust a Dell

Sorry for the delay in posting, friends. I'm experiencing some computer issues, rendering my blogging power useless.

I will be back as soon as possible with an interview from local Chicago artist Nicki Valente, another open letter, and more.

Don't stop believing.

KM Montgomery

Indulgence Is A Virtue

I’ve been known to overeat. And down a few too many drinks. And take jokes way too far. But what can I say? I love indulging myself. It just feels good.

In all seriousness, I have a passion for flavor (the joke thing is just one of my downsides.) Not to be confused with connoisseur, or snob, I am simply fascinated by the food palate. I still eat Chinese take-out and have never been able to pick out the black cherry notes from a bottle of syrah, but I do know when something tastes good, and I have a preference for things that taste better than others.

Food is a great thing in that it can be reinvented in an infinite number of ways. Look at the heights that pizza has risen to. From a bread and butter Italian meal to the healthy alternatives of veggie to the gourmet prosciutto and caramelized pineapple in simple syrup. And the sandwich! I would sell my first born child for a gooey tangy cubano on flatbread.

And don’t get me started on booze. I’m starting to border on snobbery when it comes to my precious alcohol. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve drank enough cheap beer to float a battleship, but those days are gone. I am addicted to flavor, and the cheap stuff (when it comes to alcohol) is severely lacking. An India Pale Ale out of Colorado or a small batch bourbon just tickles your tongue in ways that are probably illegal in some parts of the world.

I wish I could say it was because of my upbringing on fine dining, but I didn’t have that kind of childhood. I was a steak and potatoes guy for a very long time. I liked my cheese American, my bread white, and my vegetables to be on someone else’s plate. Hell, I was more of a snob growing up than I am now. It was fried chicken and corn on the cob all day, and I wanted nothing different.

But coming to the city changed that for me. I soon realized my closed-minded outlook on food boiled down to fear of change, and I was attending a liberal arts college now, goddamnit! I had to change. And it was all for the better.

I didn’t start going to Chicago’s premier steakhouses or attending exclusive wine tasting (those can be really snobby,) I just set out experimenting. It was obvious right away Chicago’s ethnic diversity in foods. Lebanese, Algerian, Italian, French, Japanese, Spanish, Greek. There were some occasional modern fusion restaurants, and my eyes started to open up. Flavor. It was everywhere. It was the best thing in the world. It was…incredible.

Alcohol followed the same way. Once I discovered the celebration of microbreweries and distilleries, I was hooked. In a lot of ways, people have been doing what I do forever. With clothes, with music, with art. With variety comes preference, and with preference comes connoisseurship, or, in my case, enthusiasm. 

Take a Culture Pill

The only thing I remember about high school chemistry is not the isotopes of hydrogen or balancing chemical equations, but the words of my Vietnam vet teacher Dennis Shutzenhofer: "All these things your learning about science, about chemistry, about physics; what do they mean in the real world? Nothing! Nothing at all, but at least you know it, and for that, you're more worldly than you were before this morning!" He used to tell us that daily, and we used to roll our eyes and moan and fail to really understand what it meant to be worldly.
     How many times have you had a conversation with someone that was so one-dimensional that changing the topic seemed not only awkward, but impossible? Probably more than you'd realize. And it's sad.

It's redundant to say, but we have more information at our fingertips today than in other time in the past, but with the luxury of instantaneous anything, comes those who expect it to be put in their lap. Unfortunately, we're not at that point; if we want to know something, there is still a small amount of digging to do. But isn't that the fun part?

There's a definite reward in reading an interesting article in National Geographic magazine, or watching a riveting documentary about Hurricane Katrina. Find something that interests you, and learn about it. Read a book. Write a poem. Watch a sporting event. Try a new cuisine. Do something you can talk about, and make sure you do, in fact, talk about it with somebody. When I worry about my peers, I don't worry that we're all becoming idiots. I worry that modern society is killing our passion. Ask a young person these days what they're passionate about, and just as often as you will get a good answer, you'll also hear something like: "I don't know, not much really. Hanging out. Uh..."
The reward has become so minimal for applying effort and following passion that younger people (though not exclusively us) are settling for mediocrity because it's, well, easy. And that is the sad truth that's rampant in our generation.

So for all those out there who can sustain conversation without references to celebrities and reality television, I commend you. You're alright with me.

Recommendations:

-Put down Us Weekly and pick up The New Yorker. Read, it's good for your brain.
-Visit a gallery opening. They're more often than not free, entertaining, and sometimes provide enough free booze for a good buzz.
-Check out more blogs. There is an enthusiast for every. single. thing on Earth.
-Go to a soccer pub and watch a live game on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Bring your drinking shoes.


Coming soon...Interview with local artist Nicki Valente

Open Letter

Dear Mel Gibson,

Whoa, hey! What's up sugar tits?! It's so good to have you back. God, I haven't seen you since you teamed up with M. Night Shyamalan and completely destroyed the mystique of crop circles for everybody (Aliens that dissolve in water, really?). So that makes it, what, like eight years? Might as well have been forever! And I haven't seen people this excited for a comeback since my man JC floated up to the heavens with a return ticket back to Earth. But dude, don't worry, you never left my radar. I totally followed your directing career. Passion of the Christ? Apocalypto? Saw 'em. And yea, loved 'em. (Nothing says epic like ancient guttural languages and lots and lots of blood!) You see, while many Americans don't like being bashed over the head with your uber-Catholic religious message, I freakin' love it. Hit me again! Again! All those critics who tried to tarnish your reputation by labeling you a holier-than-thou fanatic with an offensive agenda were probably just a bunch of fucking Jews, anyway. Right? Not only were your directorial escapades merited, they were inspiring. I mean, without someone like you to pave the way for filmmakers to saturate their work with gratuitous violence and gore, do you think Saw or, say, Hostel, would be the cult classics they are today? Uh, no. You're a pioneer, dude. And now you're back! And I don't even need to mention that little speed bump of a DUI you had because, well, we've all been there, Mel. For real, can't a guy just drink until he's in a cloud of whiskey vapor that has seeped from his pores, drive recklessly, and then insult his arresting officer with anti-Semitic and sexist expletives? COME ON! It's 2010! Everybody else is doing it!
So, I got to say, I am so super-pumped about your new thriller, Edge of Darkness. This is a totally new role for you; average joe family man has to protect those he cares about. This could be a breakout for you!
But let me be honest; can I be honest, Mel? I'm looking to the future. We all know that great comebacks don't really begin until the second act. So, man, what's next? A tragi-com about being a Jew? Braveheart 2? Back to back crime thrillers? Gawd, please say Braveheart 2! (crosses fingers)
Well, buddy, no matter what you do, just know I'm on board. No questions asked. I will beat down every Jew in Hollywood if it gets you on screen again. Because if I have to endure another hiatus like this last one, I'll probably grow up, and find myself way too old to have any kind of respect for you. So, let's strike while the iron's hot. Let's get out there and kick some ass! (In the name of the Lord, of course)

Oh, duh! Lethal Weapon 5! Man, I should've thought of that earlier!

KM Montgomery

Never Too Young for Wrinkles

Durable versatility doesn't just refer to Ford trucks anymore. Designers all across the board are making the oxford shirt even cooler than before. Many, from labels like J. Crew, Ralph Lauren, and Oliver Spencer have introduced a wash-and-wear oxford that looks just as good wrinkled under your favorite sweater as it does with a silk knit tie. The fabric is extremely durable and incredibly comfortable, and is a worthy investment any time of year. Hell, if they're on sale, buy two.


Recommendations:
Do: Try Algerian cuisine. Icosium Kafe in Lincoln Park is a delicious and all too affordable option.
Read: All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren. An overlooked classic by the Poet Laureate.
Go to: Chicagosgotstyle.com and peruse.

Lights Out, Chicago

Jet engines rattle the air over the Kennedy like trains 

in the sky, descending upon the humming fortress of 

O’Hare. The moan of a crawling locomotive, chug-chugging

 through the heart of Pilsen where the twang of a mariachi band 
floats out of bottom-shelf watering holes. Streets throb

 with the quiet of the Gold Coast, swing music whispers 

from a candlelight wine bar to walkers clacking in patent

 leather oxfords. Walls of glass high-rise make the Loop

howl like a wind tunnel. Taxis lay on their horns and squeal

 through red lights where cable cars used to chime. A green

 line train rolls above Lake Street like thunder, reverberating

 through cast iron for miles, rumbling towards the West Side.

 Silence settles around Wrigley Field like a fever. Exhausted

 taps in every pub drip dry and the black waves of 

Lake Michigan thump against concrete shores. Even while a city sleeps, it snores.

 Original poem © K.M. Montgomery

This Side of (Manufactured) Paradise

When I die, I hope I come back as a dog. Specifically, the white Pomeranian with a bow-tie collar cruising down the sidewalk with its owner, on a golf-cart (which has the body kit of a custom 76 Cadillac Eldorado), and taking in the cool California morning air. My Aunt Jan, who flew me out from Chicago to attend the International Film Festival, smiles into the sun and then leans back into her lawn chair by the clubhouse pool and says "This is like being on vacation on everyday."

Welcome to Palm Springs, California. Sitting in the Coachella Valley next to the San Andreas Fault, Palm Springs is bustling with retirees not just from America, but from all over the world who have come to bask in the California sun, play eighteen holes of golf on one of the infinite number of plush green courses, and just, well, retire. Palm Springs is so centered around retirement, in fact, that many of its subdivisions, like the one my aunt lives in, are exclusive to people 55 years and over. (My aunt is only 54, and had to fly my grandmother, 78, out here to sign the lease) And many of them are built around private golf courses, and have clubhouses and pools available to their residents. And I have to say, living here would be like being on vacation everyday. But there is something I noticed about Palm Springs while I was flying in: Despite the greenery everywhere, this town is sitting in the desert. Leave the city limits, and the scenery becomes sparse vegetation, lots and lots of sand and dry rugged mountain ranges. If you ask me, the name is pretty deceiving; Palm Springs. It conjures up images of green leafy foliage and crystal clear babbling brooks. But the palm trees, yep, they've been transplanted from somewhere else. And the closest thing to any kind of spring is the season just before summertime, which is supposedly quite nice. So why manufacture such an expanse of faux paradise? Because the weather is so damn beautiful, year round. 

It's 10:00 a.m. and we're standing in line for the Norwegian film "North." The morning clouds are burning off, the breeze is light, it's about 70 degrees. Perfect weather for me, I came out of the Chicago winter. But many have brought out the winter coats and fur-lined boots.
      It's my first full day in Palm Springs, and as the droves of people show up to wait in line, I look around and can't shake the feeling I'm waiting in line for goulash at the nursing home cafeteria. Everybody (and I mean everybody) is at least sixty. Many are pushing seventy, and there several couples sure to be in their eighties. For the first time in my movie-going experience, I feel completely out of my element. Tracksuits and sweatsuits seem to be a popular choice of wardrobe among the men, maybe to suggest they still have trace amounts of athleticism. Men talk about improving their handicap on the golf course, women talk about their new interior decorators, a great new cocktail lounge. The film doesn't start for an hour and a half, but seats at the Film Festival, if you're not a pass-holder, are first come, first serve and most of these people don't have anything to do. They're retired, remember? Nearly an hour before the film even starts seating, and the line stretches around the side of the theatre, down the block, and wraps around the back side of the theatre again. 

We manage to get pretty good seats (for what turned out to be a great dead-pan comedy) and as the crowd funnels out of the theatre, the older persons smell my young blood. "Oh my, a young man!" a small elderly lady says in the same way people in Chicago awe over a Navy Pier fireworks display or a meteor shower. Heads turn, whispers start and ripple out across the crowd. I feel like a spotted celebrity on Sunset Boulevard being ogled as I walk. As we weave through the mass of elderly, my aunt sees a familiar face. "Marney!" she says. "Hey! Marney!" Marney is a short woman of ample stature, cosmetically red hair, small eyes, and what I imagine has to be botox injected at the corners of her mouth and around her eyes (though I've never seen it on a real live person.) She looks strangely Native American; though in a city of millionaires, I never can tell. There seems to be a uniform desire to be anything but what you are. My aunt introduces me as a Chicago writer, to which Marney quickly responds by informing me she is a writer as well, a prolific writer, and an artist, and a blogger, and a lot of other things, which she explains to me in full detail. She is living with her mother, she says, until one of those careers pans out. At last, I think as we part ways, another squatter in Palm Springs. 


So after an early film the next day, my aunt (whom I should probably mention is a dental hygienist with a rather affluent cliental) takes me to her good friend Ray's home. Ray is an Italian-American from Boston who lives alone since his wife passed last year. He opens the door dressed in a dark blue sweatsuit, a slouched posture, he's only about 5 foot 7. Stereotypical Italian features; round face, big nose, freshly shaved beard grown a little since this morning. The first thing I notice when we walk into his foyer is that his walls are covered in paintings, all very good but still obviously amateur, and there is a serious surplus of space. Just empty space. White tile, beige carpet, no furniture other than a couch and coffee table. No nicknacks, no decor. It evokes an indescribable sense of loneliness and abandonment. But Ray is as happy as ever to see company at his door. He pulls us some espresso from a machine that surely goes for at least ten thousand and takes a seat with me in his living room while my aunt goes looking for his cats. Ray tells me about the paintings; many he's painted since he's picked up the hobby when his wife passed last year of cancer, and even more he bought from others who have done the same, for the same reason; loss. He says it's the best form of therapy for people out here. "Avatar!" he exclaims, randomly. "Have you seen Avatar? What a movie that was! I tell you, Kody," he says shaking his head disbelievingly. He sips his espresso and looks around at his paintings. "Your generation is completely transforming movies. I mean, just, taking them to whole new levels." 
     I ask Ray what inspires him to paint. The paintings done by him are almost always focused around a woman. He looks at me and gives me an answer I guess I always saw coming. "My wife," he says. "She was a great woman."

My time in Palm Springs was about halfway through when I started to ask myself a serious question. I was trekking with my aunt through a zoo built into the natural landscape, about the only thing I’d seen that was natural (apart from the organic food stores) in Palm Springs, and I thought, “What is this place? Who the hell are these people living here?” My ideas about retirement began to run through my head, what I’d always imagined it to be. You know how women, from the time they’re just little girls, start to imagine their wedding? Well, that’s how I am, only with retirement. I imagine, in my intensely naïve and inexperienced mind, that retirement will be a time to do some of the things I never got a chance to do. To indulge in some of life’s smaller pleasures. Maybe to go deep-sea fishing, ride in a hot air balloon, take some culinary classes, learn another language and apply with a trip to a country that speaks said language. I don’t know what my list will be in forty years, but I’m sure it will contain something interesting, something small but gratifying. But when I see retirees moving in droves to exclusive subdivisions that tune out all the varieties of distractions and pleasures that gave life its spice, I feel like I’m overlooking an important element of retirement. Does living life for too long just make you want to disappear? And if it does, would you go to, say, a faux paradise?

            What part of moving to a place like this is not giving up and throwing in the towel? I understand (No, I don’t, really. But I can imagine) that life is exhausting, and after you’ve put in your sixty plus years you just want to relax and retire. Play golf, join a wine club, pick up knitting, or painting, or baking. But doing something as bold as moving into a dubbed “retirement community” is simply starting that countdown timer. You’ve tipped your hat to death, stepped forth, and asked for a few more good years. And you’re going to hope and pray he obliges. Am I the only one that doesn’t want to slowly be lowered into his coffin, arms crossed on his chest, but would rather come sliding in at the last minute right after my last check just bounced? Republicans everywhere would probably think I’m crazy. But you know how us twenty-somethings can be. I am made of blue sky and hard rock, and I will live this way forever!*

The week is over, the films were great. Really great. So was the weather.

            My ride to the airport is a woman named Dori, a seventy-something former world-traveler (who never really grasped the essence of traveling; she detested the countries that were culturally different than America AKA all of them). She has since stopped traveling since she came to Palm Springs. She drops me off, and I grab the latest copy of the New Yorker and board my plane in good time. The inbound flight to Palm Springs was overbooked, and this flight is relatively empty. I guess most people don’t leave Palm Springs. As the plane takes off, I stare into the vast expanse of desert that surrounds the city. And then, as the plane banks to the North, I stare down the wing at one last glimpse of paradise. 

*lyrics by Pavement

Drinking Liquor for Schoolboys

First posted by Men's Journal, Dec. 2009 issue. Written by Wayne Curtis


"Right Now: Go to your liquor cabinet and select one bottle- a darker spirit, like a bourbon or an aged rum.  Pour a couple of fingers into a rocks glass. Add one ice cube. Sip.
     What do you taste? Think back to when you first watched football as a kid. You saw a mass of large men running crazily into one another. Then you gradually came to understand how each of those men had a very specific role, and how well they worked together determined the teams success.  So it is with spirits. In bourbon you're tasting corn, a bit of the barrel, charred wood. You're also tasting the passage of time. Listen to what it tells you. 
     Now you can think about mixing in something else. Good cocktails are built upon the essence of the spirit, respectfully adding other elements (bitters, fruit, mixers) that accent rather than hide. There's name for those who think the purpose of a cocktail is to mask the taste of liquor: schoolboys.
     A real cocktail- the sort that men drink- embraces the whole spirit. Now go make one."




Read more in the December issue of Men's Journal.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD

For years, I’ve held out against the siege of the digital world. And I have to say, it was a good fight. Even though I’m only 21, a tech baby that grew up with the rise of the digital computer in the age of instant information, I was the last of my group of friends to start a Facebook account. I haven’t changed my AIM or my password for ANYTHING since the eighth grade. And the only reason I had a Xanga (REMEMBER THOSE?!) was to look at other people’s Xangas. And after about a month, I found it all terribly boring. In a way, I’m old school in my belief in the tangible. The digital world, with it’s right-click publishing (of whatever you want to publish) and it’s neon lighted screen splashing across my face, just felt so trite and disconnected from the real world, the tangible world of magazines, books and newspapers.

            It’d be wrong if I continued without admitting some hypocrisy, though. I do love the internet. I catch all my favorite television on Hulu, I’m a sucker for a good YouTube video, and I’ve spent weekends with my roommate Matt on funnyordie.com. Weekends. But I start to freak out when I imagine that my private library, something that has taken me years to obtain its volume and diversity, can be replaced, or contained, rather, within the plastic confines of the Kindle. Or that old friends want to carry-on “catch up” conversations via text message instead of dropping by an Intelligentsia for forty-five minutes over some hand-pulled espresso. It might sound old school in thought, but lest we forget the novelty of human interaction. Face to face, heart to heart. But we as a generation have created a digital step in the get-to-know-you process that comes just before the exchanging of phone numbers (for texting, not calling, of course), and it sounds like this: “Yea, I’ll find you on Facebook.”

            Which brings me to the reason I decided to start this blog after much encouragement from friends and girlfriend (mostly girlfriend). In doing my own perusing of close friend’s blogs and realizing they are no longer Xangas filled with inarticulate, self-absorbed, and often pretentiously overloaded musings of peers, I gave up the good fight, and decided to create on something far less tangible than my beloved books and magazines. I decided on a blog that would showcase my opinions, views, opinions and talents as a writer and actively learning student of life in the city. Whether it be a blurb on style, an excerpt of fiction, or a rant on politics, I’ll try my best to post it on here.

             Consider this a standing invitation for any reader to follow, debate, comment on how boring you find me. Interaction is the only thing likely to keep me blogging.

And when you finish reading this, take your hand and touch your computer screen and see how it feels, because that’s as close as you will get to the tangibility of the blog.

K. M. Montgomery

Recommendations:

See: Up In The Air

Do: Become a fan of Arsenal F.C.