Chicago 6 Corners

Daft Punk Meets Mystery Science Theater 3000 (MST3K)

Introduction/mini-review by David Shuey and interview by by Dani Deahl, December 11, 2007

Robots, robots everywhere. From Daft Punk taking my #1-show-of-the-year honors at Lollapalooza to a bizarre screening of their Electroma in Chicago's Piper's Alley last week, it feels like 1981 again. Perhaps it's an obsession in all things French, existential and electronic that made me feel like the only attendee – besides Dani, perhaps – whose heart beeped for this minimalist, monotonous, yet thoughtful visual journey of a pair of robots attempting to become human (and not quite succeeding). Yes, there were 20 minute stretches where "nothing" happened. Sure, the inebriated audience guffawed loudly and often ("One down, one to go!"). Several walked out. Chicagoans obviously rejected what is appreciated midnight-screening fare in Paris. But in 20 years, the MCA and MoMA will parade Daft Punk's Magical Mystery Tour as high art, and I'll still be contemplating whether mechanical objects have feelings – possibly while ogling my robot maid. ~ DS

Chicago Media Action Holiday Singalong at Tribune Tower

By Mitchell Szczepanczyk, December 11, 2007

On Friday December 7th from 5:00 to 6:30PM, about a dozen media activists braved freezing temperatures, a blockade of violence-prone Chicago police, and thousands of mostly indifferent holiday shoppers, to take part in the 2007 Chicago Media Action Holiday Singalong.

It was held outside of Tribune Tower, the national corporate headquarters of the Tribune Company. The media giant's TV station and newspaper cross-ownerships have come under an increasing level of scrutiny by the public and Congress due to FCC actions concerning the pending sale of the Tribune Company to billionaire Sam Zell.

Nicholas Ivan Ladendorf, July 11th 2007

Norman

By Jon Nania, photograph by Adeline Sides, December 4, 2007

Norman woke to find that he had lost his body - the strong, young one.  In its place stood a frail effigy of what once had been the unassailable form of his youth.  In his bathroom mirror, he examined the reflected spectacle of time’s abashing hand - small old man, emaciated with moon-white hair growing just above raccoon eyes; deep-set canyon eyes dappled with browns and greens.  He faltered back slightly, let every slack muscle run taut over bone, and slid down the grimy, firefly-yellow wall to the floor.  Redemption was found in the cool tiles that shored up his body as it curled infantile.  Norman whispered, his lips touching the floor in a pool of spittle, slowly:  "I am young.  I am good."