Good 'Sporty'
52nd City has got game
By Chris King
The most entertaining piece, for me, in "Sporty," the latest publication by 52nd City, is a two-liner included in the end-note thumbnail contributor bios:
"Thom Fletcher is a pneumatic fitting salesman from Ferguson, Missouri. He once won $120 in Detroit betting on a horse named 'Party Bus.'"
I adore the quirky, dry modesty and the suggestion of a life and mind – what was he doing in Detroit? why did "Party Bus" engage him? – that won't be revealed to us completely; that will be left, mostly, to our imaginations. This is the difficult art of the fragment, the miniature, the epigram, the short story, even; and, printed on expensive, glossy paper by a startup St. Louis arts group (that is not likely to be included in the regional arts tax district within our lifetime), 52nd City has to content itself with things that don't take up too much space.
As with its previous publications (which include one CD, the sublime "Sounds"), 52nd City defines a theme with the title of "Sporty." The pneumatic fitting salesman from Ferguson remembers his winning wager on Party Bus with its fetching name when writing his bio because his submission, "A Rose is a Rose, Of Course Of Course," concerns the sport of horseracing – more specifically, the names of horses that have won The Belmont Stakes. Presumably art director Caroline Huth (who, we are told, has moved up 50 cities to Chicago) is responsible for the illustration of these horse names fanned out around the image of a rose, interlineated with the names of the American Rose Society's 2006 National Rose Show winners, with silhouettes of horses circling the perimeter of the rose. You can't tell the roses from the racehorses by name alone, and that's the point, though it seems exceedingly crude and unFletcherian to look for a point in his peculiar, pleasant sport.
Andrea Day also is up to horses, or cows, or bulls – some animal involved in the leathery and dusty sporting life of cowboys, for her submission is a beautifully lit and shaded photograph of five cowboys (four white hats and one black) caught from behind, peering into a corral. Other than a small glut of baseball meditations, each of which also isn't really about baseball at all – "Second Case," Aaron Belz in his funnyman mode, writing about clichés and the strutting cliché that is Barry Bonds; "Fastball," Greg Ott on refinements and their discontents; "St. Louie Louie," K. Curtis Lyle on our town and its juiciest African-American dynasty, the Troupes; and "Sporting Pain," Brett Underwood on the art of the hangover and the illusion of resolutions – the editors seem to have made an effort to include as many sports as possible and repeat none.
K.E. Luther, in the nimblest writing in the slim volume, tracks her fascination with NASCAR. Emily Shea Fisher, in another personal favorite, remembers games we play in the street (and performs the impossible feat of getting a completely fresh laugh out of the poorest sport of our day, K-Fed). Franklin Jennings, rumored to be a 52nd City regular wearing the fake moustache and rubber nose of a nom de plume, snags a wincer from the archives: "Anthropology Displays," native peoples on display as primitive athletic curiosities in St. Louis in 1904, throwing rocks, fighting in the mud and, yes, chucking spears. Dana Smith paints skateboarders (and really makes me wish a Pulitzer would give these guys enough money, occasionally, to print in color). Stefene Russell takes a swing at lady's golf outfits, I think; I seldom understand her poems, though I always "get" them (I think). I can't help you, however, with Jessica Baran's "The Narrative of Nagel Messenger of Acme, IN.," of which I am certain of nothing except that it starts with a skating rink. Richard Newman, from the hoops-centric state of Indiana himself, plays a game of "Horse" while talking shit with a playmate. Yours truly writes about getting chased by a bully out of sex and drugs and into soccer and safety. (It's fiction; I dislike soccer and play it very poorly.)
As with the other 52nd City productions, I find myself sitting with "Sporty" and flipping through it at odd times, rereading and savoring passages and images, proud of its editors Andrea Avery, Thomas Crone and Stefene Russell and happy with this puzzling city where we all have washed up, together. I've no choice but to close with the inevitable groaner: "Sporty" is a winner.
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See www.52ndcity.com on how to order and where to buy "Sporty" and the other 52nd City releases. Collect them all!
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IN THE SLIDESHOW
Sporty portrait of the critic as a young, not fat, not balding rocker playing Whiffleball on the road between Enormous Richard gigs, ca. 1993