No Clear Winner

So I hope those of you delighted to finally see a new post here don't regret such glee a few paragraphs from now. This is about a dark, weird dream I had last night and feel oddly compelled to share. Not in a "subconsciously constructing Devils Tower out of mashed potatoes" way (yet), but compelled to share nonetheless. Unlike most of my nightmares, there was no chase, shooting or endless fall involved. This was a nuke dream, but even those perilous stakes were sorta meaningless compared to what actually stuck with me afterwards so ... y'know ... fair warning.

The cast included Dawn and Steve, two friends from grade school who I've hardly thought about since (both appeared as adult versions of my teenage memories of them). Somehow Steve was in charge of launching missiles against Iran and I was afraid he'd incite retaliation. I tried to convince Dawn to distract him so I could disable the controls, but she was a tough sell and, anyway, Steve was soon hip to our scheme.

I don't know if Steve launched first or what ... but at some point I saw the quick flash of what, in the dream, I knew was a nuclear warhead detonating. We all just stared up waiting for a blinding mushroom cloud, which soon lit up the sky like we've all seen in movies.

My parents would, I think, be proud of my next move: I tried my damndest to recall the Act of Contrition, a Catholic prayer I haven't said aloud since having to memorize it in 2nd grade CCD. All I could remember was the beginning "O my God I am heartily sorry ..." and then started slipping into the recitation from Mass "... in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do ...". I wasn't panicking about the afterlife, but figured it wouldn't hurt to try.

The next few seconds (which lasted minutes) are what prevented me from getting back to sleep.

In the dream I was standing across from some ornate Gothic type building. Not a church, but an old opera hall or something with considerable exterior decoration. Looking at it, I thought, "So this is how I'll die. In a couple seconds that building is gonna blow up and take me out. All that wondering about how it would happen and now I know." It wasn't any major peaceful epiphany, really. Just sort of a "Huh ... interesting" vibe as if someone gave me the answer to a Jeopardy question I never would have guessed anyway. Still, I took some comfort knowing it would be quick and (I hoped) painless.

On that note of minor relief, the building blew apart as expected and a particular huge brick caught me right on the side of the head. I was still standing, but woozy with the blunt pain of a concussion. "Oh, so this is it," I thought. "Internal bleeding in the brain. Pretty soon I'll pass out and that'll be that. Hey, at least I'll have a nice little buzz until then, right?"

Just as that bit of comfort balanced my panic, I fell down and was blown across the ground by the force of the blast until I was pinned against a chain link fence looking through it. The pleasant high of head trauma was fading and I could feel the pressure of debris piling up behind me. Dust was getting all in my nostrils and mouth too. "For real," I thought, "this is it. Crushed under the pressure of this rubble behind me. Or - f*ck - what if it stops coming and I slowly suffocate? Or even just lay here starving to death? No use in fighting my way out since I'll just get radiation poisoning anyway, right?".

No joke, I remember laying there deliberating all this with a surprisingly clear mind.

Right then, this paralyzing depression took over. I suddenly couldn't care less about how I was going to expire, where I'd go afterwards or who (if anyone) might find my remains. I was just overwhelmed with the lonely sadness of it all. For a moment I convinced myself such a helpless feeling was humanity's emotional interpretation of the body shutting down for good. Like, at the end, we're all forced to accept that level of feeble vulnerability before we're truly ready to cross over ... it's a (capital T) Truth no one ever has the chance to share because they're dead upon realization. But then after stewing a few seconds with that theory, I finally thought "Aw, bullsh*t, man ... there's no deep meaning behind this sadness. It's just lonely, helpless sadness at the end."

That's when I woke up.

I was relieved to not actually be dying in a nuclear attack, of course, but still practically numb from that last sentiment. And instead of my heart pounding as it usually is after nightmares, I felt like it was hardly beating at all. It actually took me a few seconds to feel a pulse.

At present, I am not abusing any particular booze, prescription medications or illicit narcotics ... but after that dream I wonder if perhaps now is a good time to start.

Not really. Probably. I mean it depends on what I dream about tonight.

In any case, I promise (promise!) to return soon with a more uplifting post.

Prize Flight

It was just over a month ago that Brooke and I returned from a mini-vacation to, as the above photo's climate hints, Seattle. Besides being a relaxing long weekend in a new city, it was especially fun trip because most of the major expenses were covered by the good people at Evite.com.

Back in January we used Evite to alert friends of a small gathering for the Super Bowl. As Brooke was sending the invitations (which included this gem), she was prompted to click a box and be entered into Evite's Big Game Sweepstakes or some such. She clicked as instructed, figuring it probably wouldn't hurt to give away our friends' personal email information, and promptly forgot about it.

A couple weeks later, Brooke got a call saying she won second prize in their drawing: tickets to any regular season NFL game as well as the associated airfare and hotel. After making sure it wasn't a prank and weighing the tax consequences we eagerly accepted the prize and set about choosing a destination. Ideally we'd love to cheer on the Bears at a road game, but didn't find any destinations on their away schedule that tempting. After some discussion we settled on Seattle ("seattled"?) since neither of us had been there but were eager to see the place.

It did not disappoint.

We got one full day of the stereotypical Seattle rain we expected but then two unseasonably sunny days which made for great sightseeing. We indulged on great seafood from local restaurants, great coffee from the birthplace of the stuff and, consequently, the great kindness of establishments with public restrooms.

It was the sort of satisfying vacation that you leave feeling like you saw and did more than people who lived there for decades. Packed with planned activities, but not too hectic. The perfect way to shift from an eventful summer into a busy fall.

Feel free to experience the memories in this photo video (with soundtrack by an up-and-coming Seattle talent).

Drill Baby Drill

We had a fire drill at work today. That's not meant as a dopey corporate euphemism for some urgent project – I mean an actual practice for exiting the building in case of an emergency. It was a surprise drill for most people, but not me since I am our floor's fire warden.

This duty was bestowed upon me recently when Jennifer, the former warden, moved to new position on another floor. A few months ago Jen did a great favor by recommending me for my current job. So when she asked if I'd be interested taking over the role, I felt more than a little obligated to help her avoid the task of convincing someone else.

While I prefer to think my proven leadership skills and ability to remain cool in a crisis helped me earn the floor warden position, I think the primary qualification was being tall enough to see over the rows of cubicles. Also my voice has been known to carry amazing distances when others' safety is concerned or when I've had a few belts of whiskey and need to share something "hilarious".

Please don't misunderstand – I accept and perform the fire warden duties with all the appropriate seriousness. Perhaps more than most places, we in Chicago are exceedingly cautious when it comes to the dangers of fire. But I also I consider the role to a bit like the hall monitor in grade school. There's no extra material reward for going above and beyond in this case, but we're here 40 hours a week anyway so I might as well wring a few drops of recognition and authority wherever possible, right? Plus, yeah, it's a flattering charge to think that people would actually depend on me in a real emergency.

At the very least, I expect this job will be an interesting test of the belief that ladies love a man in uniform. A tall, boisterous lout in a DayGlo cap and vest is a far cry from the traditional knight in shining armor image, but it'll do for now.



[Note: Alternative hacky title for this post: "Orange You Glad I Didn't Take Another Month Off?"]

Post-poned

A month since my last post, I apologize to those who checked (and are still checking) to see if I'm ever going to update this blog again.

It's not that there haven't been interesting topics on which to muse ... on the contrary, there's been too much going on with work and various extracurricular activities that I haven't been able to formulate a complete post of brilliant observations to satisfy the highbrow readership.

Please consider this a place-holding teaser of exciting things to come including (but not limited to): the return of Pub Quiz, the welcome onset of Autumn and our recent free vacation to Seattle.

I promise to reward your patient understanding with my improved discipline. Thanks for hanging in there.

Clearance Sail

This weekend featured another opportunity to enjoy the calming powers of Lake Michigan. In all the summers since I moved back to Chicago in 1999, I don't recall spending as much time in or near the Lake as I have in the last several months.

This time it was a day sail up the coast a bit from Michigan City, Indiana. My dad learned to sail years ago and has been chartering boats out of this harbor for the last several summers. Except for the minimal wind (not from the preferred direction, anyway), the weather was perfect. Warm enough, in fact, to jump off the boat and do some swimming a few hundred yards off the coast of New Buffalo, Michigan. Most summers the lake water maintains the same temperature as a typical airplane toilet seat. But despite the relative mildness of the last few months, a lake swim has been the perfect refreshment on a warm, sunny day.

The best part about the boats he uses (the best part for my friends and I, anyway) is that they're nearly impossible to sail alone. My dad accepts the help of a crew almost as eagerly as we jump at the chance to float around on a boat eating cheese and crackers and sipping beers all damn day. So besides Brooke, my dad and me, the ship's manifest included our friends Randy and Sheila.

I've known Randy since high school and his wife Sheila since shortly after they met in college. Moving to Chicago around the same time I did, they got married and were the first to venture out from our tight-knit circle of friends in Chicago's Lakeview neighborhood, opting to purchase a condo in Rogers Park, a community on the far north edge of the city. For several years they seemed like lone settlers in an outer rim territory since few of our complacent peers -- myself included -- would bother to travel all the way up there (approximately 5 miles, easily accessible via public transportation).

Since Brooke and I moved to the nearby neighborhood of Edgewater almost a year ago, the hope was that we'd feel more connected with our close pals ... but as it turns out, now they're moving even farther north. Milwaukee, to be precise. The narcissistically obvious conclusion is that they can't stand living near me. But the truth is that their independent graphic design business has been getting a steady stream of work from nort'-a-da-border. and, not surprisingly, a housing dollar stretches considerably farther in America's Dairyland than in the Land of Lincoln. Also, the congested commute to Chicago's west and south suburbs is often worse than the journey north into Milwaukee anyway.

After finding a great house, they're scheduled to close in mid-October and hope to relocate soon after that, so this was a great chance to take advantage of one last summer in Illinois (even though it was done in Michigan and Indiana). We'll miss having them just a few blocks away but will be grateful for the excuse to visit someplace new soon. And if we don't feel like shelling out for gas or taking the quick Amtrak trip up, we can always hoist the main sail and let the lake breeze facilitate a reunion. Last I checked, there was no shortage of cheese, crackers, or beer in Wisconsin to replenish the galley.

John Solo

Most of last week I had the place all to myself. Brooke's big birthday present from her Mom was a trip to a fancypants all-inclusive resort in Costa Rica which, needless to say, is a swell cushion to any blow that comes with turning 30.

The group left out of Midway Airport early early last Wednesday morning. Brooke said she'd call during a brief layover in Atlanta, but didn't have the chance to. Then I wasn't surprised when she didn't call to say they landed in Costa Rica since the international rates would be mucho expensivo. Taking for granted the ease of global communication, I never asked Brooke to give me her flight or hotel info. It was strangely unnerving to think that I had no way of getting a hold of her in an emergency like, say, I was at the grocery store and couldn't remember if we needed peanut butter or just bought some. What is this, 1998?

Despite the lack of verbal confirmation, I wasn't especially concerned that they didn't make it safely. Put bluntly: if the plane crashed, I would have heard about it. So, content in the knowledge that Brooke was just too busy having a great time, I gave up worrying and settled in to catch up on some shows that were collecting cobwebs on the DVR. Specifically, I had several episodes of The First 48 to watch.

If you've never seen it, The First 48 is a terribly addictive crime series on A&E which, I reluctantly concede, falls in the otherwise deplorable "reality TV" genre since it's not scripted. The show follows actual homicide detectives during the first 48 hours of a recent murder investigation. You see police analyzing the crime scene, questioning suspects and, more often than not, charging someone with the offense.

With few exceptions, the resolution is pretty clear from the beginning – there are almost none of the complicated twists you'd find in the average network cop drama. The down side of such an entertaining but unfiltered look at criminal justice is the real acknowledgment of the potential violence in any urban environment. And that realization is exactly what I didn't need clouding my short-lived satisfaction that Brooke and her fellow travelers made it on time. Now I had a whole new crop of disastrous theories on why they hadn't called.

Yes, I would have heard if the plane crashed ... but what if they never made the flight? Three single women parking in the remote lot of Midway Airport for a pre-sunrise departure? Seems like a great place for some thug to stage an abduction, especially since no one planned on hearing from them for several days anyway. Or what if they did make the flight and got nabbed in Costa Rica? All I know about the country is that it's in Central America, and all I know about Central America is what I learned in Predator. So since I already assume that everywhere outside of America survives on a robust white slave trade, my mind ran ragged about what unspeakable peril was befalling my girlfriend.

Needless to say, all my semi-comical worrying was for nothing. After a little detective work of my own (thanks, The First 48!), I eventually found the name of their hotel and had Verizon add International Dialing to my service plan just to make a quick call to their room, where Brooke picked up the phone. She felt bad for not calling and wanted to tell me all about the trip there, but – despite the fact I just spent 45 minutes tracking her down 2200 miles away – I quickly interrupted her as I envisioned the phone bill digits climbing like years in the Buck Rogers TV show intro.

We agreed to save our all our exciting anecdotes our reunion on Sunday night, which we did. Hers were about frequenting a swim-up pool bar and zip-lining over the rainforest. Mine were about loafing around in boxers and not putting used plates in the dishwasher (which is my M.O. even when Brooke's not jetsetting all over the hemisphere). They had a great time on the trip and I learned that my wild imagination is a horrible roommate.

Triple X

I started this blog talking about birthdays – relatives' as well as my own – and how they're good times for reflection and all that. After a brief break from cake and ice cream, it was back into full birthday mode recently when Brooke turned thirty.

Over the last few weeks I'd been conspiring with her Mom and a couple of her friends to plan a soirée worthy of the momentous occasion. We ruled out a surprise party early on because, as a typical spotlight-stealing only child, I didn't think Brooke would buy any cover story that played down our event planning. After settling on a date, time and venue, we set about recruiting attendees using one of mankind's finest creations, Evite.com.

Evite is a fantastic resource for publicizing an event, but I feel like the ephemeral nature of online communication encourages a casual attitude towards attendance. Not by much, but I'm old enough to remember when party invitations were sent via mail and a formal response was requested. The paper notecard was evidence of the party planners' efforts as well as a nice reminder for the attendees of the date and time to which they committed. With Evite, responding to an invitation is a simple click ... but it's also just as easy to forget about.

On a related note, Evite might as well do away with the "Maybe" response option. This is for people who know damn well they won't attend but feel guilty declining the invitation outright. It has been proven using science that nobody who uses the "Maybe" response ever shows up. What's more mystifying, however, was the girl who confirmed her attendance saying "Wouldn't miss it for the world!" and then proceed to do exactly that. Orbis non sufficit, apparently.

I didn't care about a large headcount for its own sake – my concern was making sure the birthday girl had a good time. To that end, I stressed about the party enough for it to guest star in my dreams twice during the preceding week. The nice thing about getting wound so tightly over this stuff is the amplified relief once the event is a success, which this most certainly was. Great turnout and great cupcakes at a great venue.

The fun continued through dinner on Monday, which was Brooke's actual 30th birthday. We used the occasion to finally try a new Vietnamese restaurant in the area. It did not disappoint despite our concerns about the only people in the place (I claimed I rented out the whole joint but Brooke didn't buy it).

The extra attention we received from the staff included complimentary espresso martinis served with our cheesecake dessert. The drinks came equipped with neat cookie straws ... which, needless to say, was a special treat for a spry gal of just one score and ten years old.

Good Mourning

So it's been almost a week since we tearfully but dutifully escorted Dana to dog Valhalla. As you might imagine, the loss still weighs heavy in small, strange ways

Since last weekend, friends and family provided many comforting phone and email greetings as well as a very thoughtful card (pictured above) that came in the mail yesterday. Everyone – especially those who have been through this – did a fine job providing counsel on dealing with the grief, but no amount of advice can completely assuage the sadness of little reminders.

Perhaps the most unexpected pang came when I arrived from work last Friday. Since I got Dana while still in college, I never knew coming home from a day at work to an empty place. It wasn't as fun as trying to keep an excited dog from shedding on dress pants, but I'm adjusting. I'll also catch myself instinctively keeping food out of reach (Dana was a notoriously resourceful scavenger) and closing our bedroom doors on the way out of the house.

The other striking thing about the last several days are the flashes of crippling guilt over minutia. Looking back, it kills me to think about how mad I'd be when Dana decorated the kitchen floor with the garbage. Or those times I complained about having to take him on a walk because I was exhausted or it was raining. For as much as I hate to reduce the human experience down to a mechanical "process", it's some comfort knowing such misplaced guilt is part of a grieving process and will subside with time.

Meanwhile, of course, the good news is that those regrettable moments are far outnumbered by fond memories, several of which I was reminded of through friends' recent correspondence ...

... like the time before Dana was "fixed", when my friend Patrick and I walked in the living room to find Dana defiling a pillow to the thumping beat of Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way?" which blared from the stereo speakers. As we laughed hysterically, puppy Dana looked up at us like "You guys gotta try this!" That day Dana became a man ... and a proud owner of his very own pillow (thereafter known as Daphne).

... or the night my old roommate Matt made sure to put a newly-purchased Entemann's cake far back on a high kitchen counter before he and I went out for the evening. As we left, Matt actually dared Dana to reach the thing. When we returned home that night, sure enough, the floor was littered with ripped-up box and Dana's bed was covered with incriminating cake schrapnel. To this day, forensics experts have no idea how he did it.

... finally, there was the time a few years ago during a killer thunderstorm when I couldn't find Dana anywhere in our small two-bedroom apartment. After a frantic search of our place as well as the stairwells and back yard, I pulled back the shower curtain to discover a trembling dog hiding from the thunder in our tub. It was far too adorable not to preserve the moment in pictures (click).

If you made it through this post, thanks again for letting me get all cathartical.

I promise this won’t turn into a year-long online memorial to my dog. And if it does, I’ll at least change the name to DeceasedDogDailyBlog.com.

Friendly Farewell

Fetch thy hanky from yonder dresser drawer … this is a sad one. It took a couple days before I could write about this and, even now, I’m sure to be wiping tears and snot from my laptop (as you might too – consider your keyboard warned).

In late June I posted about taking my dog Dana to the vet for a cough. Fortunately it wasn’t long before we found the right antibiotic to cure it. Unfortunately, as we recently learned, the cough was a symptom of a bigger problem. When he became really lethargic after refusing to eat or drink for a couple days early this week, I took him back to the vet and had my fears confirmed. Blood tests showed that his kidneys were failing.

The docs assured me Dana wasn’t in pain, but made it clear that he was very sick. They gave me the treatment options, none of which sounded favorable for my dog or my checking account. Being the responsible caregivers that they are, however, I was also told that even the most aggre$$ive treatment offered no guarantee of recovery considering Dana’s age and condition.

Everything between the lines was clearly legible.

The trite thing to say is something about this being the hardest decision. Really, the medical diagnosis and my knowledge of Dana’s behavior made the decision itself considerably easy. What’s difficult is the reality of losing a friend and the twelve years of memories that have a nasty habit of rushing back at the most inconvenient time. Especially Thursday morning around 8:15 a.m.

There are a million little details about the past few days that could lend an even sweeter sadness to this post, but I’m not going share everything just to sap it up. Like my conversation with the nurse Wednesday about cremation remains and urn options that seemed straight out of The Big Lebowski. There’s no need to mention that. Or the fact that Dana’s walk to the vet Thursday morning was so comically slow it was almost as if he knew it was The Green Mile. What’s the point of including such a tidbit?

I’m grateful to have this cathartic outlet. If you read the blog, I assume you know me and want to offer your condolences in the comments. Really, though, I’d feel better if you all just go hug your dogs. And if you don’t have a dog, hug a strange dog (assuming the owner isn’t also strange) (or Michael Vick).

Dana was a good dog and a great friend. The last few days have been rough but there is a huge comfort knowing he isn’t suffering. I’ll miss him, of course, but I’ll also have plenty of opportunities to think about him since most of my computer passwords have some version of his name in there. Don’t bother trying to crack my bank login – all the money went to the vet.

For any friends of Dana who may not have seen him in a while, here are links to a few recent photos.

Nursing an injured foot last fall
Reluctantly wearing antlers last Christmas
Showing his spirit on Super Bowl Sunday
Sampling a nearby beach this spring
Hanging out on my parents' deck a few weeks ago

Shore Leave

Last weekend Brooke and I headed out of town for the placid settings of South Haven, Michigan after my aunt generously offered the use of her condo there. We both took half-day Fridays to get a jump on traffic and and could hardly wait to get away from the city for a few days. Unfortunately, a resilient strain of metropolitan stress remained in my system for a bit.

We arrived after a fairly easy two-hour drive but there was some confusion about the condo unit number and which parking space it was assigned. Tightly wound and eager to begin the weekend, I tried to call relatives for info but the cell coverage was spotty and nobody was answering. Then we tried asking other condo tenants (I hesitate to say "locals") but even they couldn't provide reliable intel since several tenants' spaces had been reassigned due to recent construction. What's more, these people who seemed to live in their swimming trunks could only provide answers to a simple question couched in the context of their life story.

The whole episode took maybe fifteen minutes, but to be so close and feel so far away was agonizing. Just as my head was morphing into a cartoon thermometer, I got the required information and we kicked off the weekend proper. As fast as we could change into fashionable swimming attire, Brooke and I were poolside enjoying lovely beverages.

Sitting there, we met and talked with several other tenants and were completely powerless against their friendliness. Once they knew it was our first time there, everyone was eager to share suggestions of sights, shops and restaurants. Despite my acute case of mindyourowndamnbusinessism – known to many people who live, commute and work in a huge city – it wasn't long before I found myself beginning answers to simple questions like "Where you from?" with "Well, the great grandparents on my father's side hail from a small town called Swinford in County Mayo, Ireland ..."

The rest of the weekend was perfect. Mornings spent tooling around town, afternoons by the pool or in the lake and late dinners at the recommended local spots. One of the unexpected treats was seeing the sun go down over Lake Michigan – I'd only ever seen it from the western shore looking east.

By the time we reluctantly left on Sunday afternoon, we agreed the weekend was a much-needed break from condo construction, sick dogs and people who refuse to walk up escalators. After our weekend there, South Haven seems like it's missing an "e" after the "H".

Funny Money

In an age of electronic funds transfers and online bill paying, endorsing and depositing checks is a satisfying endeavor. Even though I'm just feeding envelopes into an ATM as opposed to handing it to a bank teller, the tactile aspects of capital being transferred into my account can be a neat little perk of an otherwise dull day. The only thing more thing rewarding than actually depositing funds is knowing that they were earned in an enjoyable way.

Yesterday as I was signing the back of a couple checks, it occurred to me that they were both remuneration for being funny. Or at least trying to be. One was payment for my first commentary piece on WBEZ and the other was from a road show performance with Whirled News Tonight. Together they totaled a few hundred bucks ... not quite enough to purchase the jetpack I've been eyeing. Still, some nice coin for doing something that I actually enjoy.

No matter what your chosen field or professional level, the overall concept of "a job" is simple: do task, get reward. I get the basic premise that since everyone's searching for the easiest route to well-being, nobody really wants to work and everyone definitely wants to get paid. But over time this leads to jobs being viewed not as a means of earning a reward, but more of an obstacle to getting what's rightly yours. By that approach, there's no way not to eventually view a job as a daily source of agitation.

According to the prevailing attitude, the best most people can hope for is to find a vocation that doesn't drive you insane and provides some semblance of personal satisfaction. But even people in (what most consider) fun jobs like actors and athletes find ways to complain about them. The only logical conclusion is that disdain for one's job was somehow superglued into our DNA when God created Man on the sixth day ... which was actually due the third day but He was totally procrastinating.

So anyway, back to these checks.

This wasn't the first time I've been paid for something that didn't feel like work. But when I the realization struck me yesterday, I finally remembered to turn on my brain's Tivo so I could store the feeling and replay it whenever I got stuck in the muck of a regular day job, no matter what that day job was ... unless the day job is as a bank teller, I mean.

That job is lame. Use an ATM.

Social Climbing

As devices that facilitate laziness go, escalators rival The Clapper. There are few things sillier than people who stand as they ride up an escalator. I'll give a pass to anyone hauling a giant suitcase, people on crutches, or someone hauling a giant suitcase that contains a person on crutches. Everyone else gets my silent contempt. It's not a carnival ride, people, they're just stairs. You look like an idiot standing there in lethargic awe while a century-old invention magically transports you twenty feet closer to Heaven.

Yesterday morning as we hurried our way up to the train platform, we had a stander. An able-bodied middle-aged woman who stared ahead blankly while being delivered to her life's next struggle. And unlike most L station escalators, this one isn't wide enough to accommodate the unspoken "walkers on the left, standers on the right" shared by the majority of mass transit commuters. So when one person stands, we all must stand.

Sometimes I'll dramatically stomp up the steps to give standers a little motivation, but they're usually oblivious to the hint. This time I had help from Greek God of of mechanical failure, Breakdownicus. Halfway through our ride on the Amazing Moving Staircase Machine, it stopped. There was no gradual slowdown or noise to warn us ... just an abrupt stop. At first I thought I did it with the power of my disdain. But then I remembered we're dealing with the workaday shortcomings of the Chicago Transit Authority, whose motto is "It's Almost Better Than Walking to Work!".

After recovering from the jolt of momentum that nearly caused everyone to fall forward, there was a great moment of surprised confusion. Once we realized the escalator crapped out, I thought about shouting "Help! We're stuck!!" but was fairly certain nobody would get it. It wasn't long before the bain of my existence who was causing the holdup realized she wasn't paralyzed.

As if a faith healer laid hands and cast out the demons of laziness, she put one foot in front of (and a little above) the other. Soon, we all followed her inspiring lead. I considered applauding sarcastically but realized that electrical power to the trains above would likely be interrupted by the sound of my clapping.

Air Apparent

It's strange that I would find myself on Navy Pier twice in just over a week, but today during lunch I went there to record a humorous (I hope) commentary for WBEZ, the Public Radio station here in Chicago. The idea to submit a piece to the station came from an improv pal, an exceedingly talented writer who's had several original pieces air on local and national public radio. This is actually the second submission I've had accepted by WBEZ ... the first one aired last month and is still in their archive here.

Recording at the station is a neat experience. On one side of the desk is me with a mic, headphones ("cans" to the professionals) and my script. On the other side, behind a console that would look right at home in Cape Canaveral, sits the producer. Besides setting the audio levels, the producer provides dramatic direction like "Make it more conversational," "Try to sound really authoritative here" and, my biggest note, "Slow down!". Sometimes the instruction ran counter to my instincts, but I trust he'll select the best parts of several readings into a two-minute masterpiece that will, no doubt, make radio history.

If you're interested, the piece recorded today is scheduled to air next Monday (7/14) between 9-10am CDT ... tune in to 91.5 FM if you're in Chicago or get the streaming feed linked at: http://wbez.org/default.aspx. Thanks for checking it out!



FOLLOW UP (7/14): If you missed the piece live, catch it on WBEZ's site here. Thanks!!

iFrustration

Back in 2006 several relatives went in on a Christmas gift they knew I wanted, a video iPod. It's difficult to say if this was my favorite Christmas gift ever since "favorite" is subjective as one's tastes change over time. If I could take into consideration childhood excitement and adjust for the inflation of a gift's awesomeness, my favorite favorite was probably the Star Wars Hoth playset that Santa delivered in 1981.

Without a doubt, however, this iPod is the one Christmas gift -- really the one material possession in my life -- from which I get the most use. Whether it's around our place doing chores, walking Dana, or riding the train, I'm almost constantly plugged in. I'm really lucky that Brooke doesn't get on my case about it even when I shut the thing off but absent-mindedly leave the earphones in while we hold a conversation. It's the force of habit for someone who is always listening to recordings of The Howard Stern show or else finally catching up on a cancelled TV series (I recently finished The Wire and currently digging The Larry Sanders Show).

Out of respect for this device that delivers so much aural pleasure, I handle the iPod gently and almost always keep it in a protective case. That said, you'll understand why I was so upset Monday when the headphone jack suddenly went silent in the right channel. I tried several pairs of headphones but none of them worked unless I applied pressure to the plug. It was heartbreaking.

As I suspected, this iPod has been out of it's warranty for some time. I made an appointment at the Michigan Avenue Apple Store's "Genius Bar" of iPod consultants, but the best they could offer me was a $50 discount off a new unit (as a chum recently warned me, don't buy products "from a company that calls their $12 an hour employees 'geniuses.'"). I looked on the Internet and found several do-it-yourself websites and instructional videos on how to repair this common problem, but I'm fairly certain that the moment I crack open the case is the moment I become the proud owner of a sleek-looking paperweight.

The situation looked bleak. It seemed like this iPod was on it's way to the glue factory until, in a moment of epiphany that rivals the first monolith appearance in 2001, it occurred to me that I could rig a rubber band around part of the aforementioned protective case and give the headphone jack the constant pressure it needed! Five minutes and two broken rubber bands later I was in business and, more importantly, in stereo. It was beautiful. Besides saving $150 not purchasing a new iPod, I defeated corporate planned obsolescence with a common office supply. I'm confident that Steve Jobs will feel the sting of my ingenuity even as he reaps additional billions from the third generation iPhone released tomorrow.

Everyone should rest easy that I'm not missing a "Yeah!" in the refrain from Zeppelin's "Ramble On". But if by any chance Santa Claus is a reader of this blog ... I bet the 32GB iPod Touch will sell for less than $200 by December. And a good-condition Hoth Playset is less than $50 on eBay.

iMjustsayin.

Testing the Taste

I can handle the annual Taste of Chicago about every other year. Sampling from the city's bill of fare is great, but I can do without the unruly mob ... which hardly explains why I waited until July 3, when the city holds its major fireworks, to attend.

My girlfriend Brooke loves it and attends several times during the week-long festival. She and a friend research their options beforehand, strategically plan a route and exchange reviews afterwards. Prior to last Thursday evening's adventure, Brooke did us the courtesy of re-reviewing the alternatives and -- no joke -- indicating the preferred stops with color-coded Post-It flags. She's that into it.

We didn't stay for the fireworks but a million other people did. Following the show, four people were shot (one fatally) right near an L stop in the Loop. It's the station I used to get off the train for work and, if you saw Planes Trains & Automobiles, it's also where Steve Martin returns to find John Candy in the end (although there's really no indoor sitting area as the film depicts).

As expected, the three wounded and one dead were young gangbangers with a score to settle and not some nutjob shooting random citizens. It's hard to be sympathetic when the media frames that aspect as solace for the general public, but that's the current state of Chicago. Police were quick to reassure the city that they would beef up presence and make sure the rest of the event was safe to attend, but it didn't stop one more shooting the next night a few blocks north near the diamond-roof building made famous in Adventures in Babysitting (I can relate nearly any Chicago intersection to a popular 80s movie).

It's sad to see these incidents put a stain on the city during a major event attended by thousands of out-of-town visitors. To those from the suburbs and other less metropolitan areas, it probably confirms their suspicions about the city as a dangerous place to be avoided. But considering the annual increase in violence during summer months, exposure to such unpleasant reality is as much a taste of Chicago as any restaurant booth could offer.


P.S. - As not to end on a downer, I'd like to add that the next night we went to Evanston (where much of Sixteen Candles was shot!) to see Wall-E and enjoy their city's fireworks display.

It was a lovely date night. No one was shot.

Pier Review

The improv group I perform with, "Whirled News Tonight", had a corporate gig at the famous Grand Ballroom of Chicago's Famous Navy Pier. The show was set up through the spouse of a castmate and paid rather well for a couple hours of sitting around eating catered pulled-pork followed 45 minutes of actual performance. Artistically, though? Not the most satisfying.

The Grand Ballroom is immense. Over 18,000 square feet with an 80' domed ceiling and panoramic view of Lake Michigan. It's a beautiful space for a corporate function complete with fancypants cocktail hour and high-falootin' dinner, but not the best venue for live improvised comedy. For one thing, the lapel mics were giving feedback for the first 5 minutes or so. After that, they backed off the volume so much that a few people could hardly be heard. The fact that a video projector was showing slides of company employees behind us during most of the show didn't help either.

More than anything, though, improv comedy feeds off the energy of the crowd. This is great for our normal, more intimate theater space that seats around 100. But when the crowd is nearly 700 people who are separated from the stage by a dance floor and just finished a full dinner? Not the best recipe for a symbiotic performance experience. I don't want to make it sound like a diaster. Far from it. Several scenes played well, especially the one that joked about the evening's crappy charter bus service which, we heard, was dropping attendees off at a remote spot on the opposite end of the Pier.

When this improv group is disappointed in a performance, it's usually the result of our being spoiled by the good shows and generous audiences we've been used to at our regular weekly slot. There's also just a bit of a learning curve on these corporate and road gigs as we feel our way out at new venues. But since it's paid training and there's barbecue pig in the deal? I suppose we could do a lot worse.

Pushing Buttons

I love trivial drama. The pettier the better. If someone is freaking out on the train or in a drunken row with their significant other outside a bar, I am the gape-jawed idiot standing transfixed. There's something powerful about that little switch that flips where a person eschews decorum in favor of exorcising their frustrations. Today I had the pleasure of not only seeing someone get worked up, but having advanced notice of it.

The building I work in has two elevator banks to access the 23 floors but it's a busy building. Rarely can you get to where you're going without a few stops and it's easy to forget which way you're headed. So today a few of us were going up from a meeting on 15 back to our desks on 20. When the elevator doors opened on 16, a guy entered who I could tell was headed down to the ground floor and in a hurry.

A nicer person than me might have warned him that we were going the opposite direction but I was dying to see how pissed he'd be. Sadly, it was only about a 3.5. When the elevator started skyward, he halfheartedly threw his hands up in frustration and shook his head but hardly the meltdown I had tickets for.

My aggrevation fascination is likely rooted in my own short fuse of an Irish temper. As I've warned people who had the pleasure of living with me, the comparative level of anger to annoyance is usually set on 12x magnification. The flipside is that I get it out of my system and can joke about it with those who are, by that point, already laughing at me. It's at those moments when I should look around for a guy standing there staring in amazement and give him a knowing nod. That guy knows what I'm talking about.

Fully Vetted

Today started with a trip to the vet's office. My dog Dana (a.k.a Dana Monster, Danie Wanie, Wanie Balls, Woofie, Wufthansa and Goddammit Stay Out of the Garbage) recently turned 12 and has definitely started acting like a proper canine octogenarian. Despite expensive eyedrops, glaucoma has pretty much claimed his vision in one eye and the doctor is recommending its removal. He also sometimes gnaws at the fleshy pads on his elbows which can leave a gross open wound that I try covering with bandages until he gnaws through that too. This is all in addition to the patches of dry skin that often shed and flake on the carpets as well as the small fatty patches under his the fur on his belly (they're benign -- we checked). Such a laundry list of symptoms makes it sounds like Dana could fall apart any second but, really, it's a bunch of small things that the vets say is normal for an old pet. Overall he's a great dog that I've had since college and wouldn't trade for anything.

This morning's appointment was to address a cough he's had for a couple weeks and it's actually the second time he's been in to see a vet about it. Last weekend's visit was at a new office that's much closer to home than the place I'd been going for years. I liked the location, but didn't appreciate the guilt trip they laid on me for questioning the need for a $200 X-ray before addressing the possibility that it was the canine flu that was going around Chicago.

Of course they're medical professionals with an interest in the animals' well-being, but the pressure that some vets place on owners to approve every expensive diagnostic analysis is a huge turnoff when it comes repeat business. The new doctor, who's even closer to home, didn't see an urgent need for an X-ray or ultrasound and said the cough might just be due to the lingering dust from our kitchen construction. To be safe, we made an appointment with a specialist and were sent home with a cough suppressant that seems to be doing a good job. Needless to say, I'm glad I went for a second opinion.

I've had Dana as long as parents of seventh graders have had their kids and, God willing, hope to see him graduate from high school. As most dog owners will attest, there's nothing better than coming home from a bad day at work to the happy realization that somebody is glad to see you ... even if it is just with the one good eye.

Cake Coma

More birthdays. Again with the birthdays! Saturday we celebrated my Grandma's 90th and today was a surprise party for my Great Aunt's 70th. So including my 33rd and Jack's 1st, that's 164 years of life celebrated since Tuesday. If they were lived successively rather than concurrently, our combined birthday would be in the same year Samuel Morse sent the first telegraph message "What hath God wrought" from Washington, D.C. to Baltimore.

Friday night while out with friends, I mentioned how the rest of my weekend was booked with trips to the suburbs for these events and, I confess, I complained about all the driving that meant. One friend quickly replied "Still, it must be nice to have all that family here in town." Besides feeling appropriately guilty for whining, I realized she was correct.

Living most of your life in the same area where your immediate and (quite large) extended family resides can make you pretty complacent. It's easy to forget that in a city like Chicago, a good percentage of people hail from elsewhere and don't have the benefit of relatives just a short drive away.

The birthday girls recognized that blessing just fine. Well past the point of jokingly dreading birthdays, both my Grandma and Aunt mentioned several times how much they appreciated family members who took time from the weekend to celebrate their years.

Morse's first telegraph message back in 1844 was a Biblical quote from the Book of Numbers. To those with the most candles on their cake this weekend, numbers weren't much of a concern.

Birthday Redux

Last night at my sister and brother-in-law's place, the family celebrated with pizza and cake in honor of birthdays. My sister's friend and I were both recognized for getting older this week, but the real guest of honor was my nephew and Godson, Jackson, who celebrated his very first ever birthday. Sitting comfortably in his customized birthday present, Jack looked like a miniaturized Alistair Cooke introducing an episode of Mashed Peas Theater.

While any kid's first birthday is a noteworthy occasion, Jack's carried a special importance as we all remembered his dramatic entrance one year ago. As most folks reading this know, Jack arrived eight weeks sooner than expected while my sister and brother-in-law were visiting family in Albany, New York. He was a fragile little guy of just 1 pound 12 ounces, but received excellent care both in Albany and at home in Chicago. Since then he's been doing great and outgrowing his clothes faster than loving relatives can raid Old Navy.

Jack carefully observed the candle-blowing-out ritual and I think even made notes for future birthdays. He also enjoyed watching his audience sing "Happy Birthday" no fewer than five times. The only disappointing moment came when refused to participate in the time-honored custom of smashing one's first birthday cake into oblivion. Tradition dictates that no baby's first birthday party is complete until the cake is appropriately smeared in hair, ground in clothing and jammed in facial openings so well that Mom is picking out crusty bits of ear frosting days later.

Despite the crowd of paparazzi waiting to catch a great photo of Jack wearing his dessert, he just didn't appreciate this rare instance when grownups would allow, nay, demand such irresponsible behavior with food. Luckily there are two more family gatherings this weekend that will present such an opportunity ... if Jack doesn't get with the program and start respecting cake for it's curative properties when applied topically, I'm sitting him down in the comfy chair for a serious talk.

Fire In The Hole

For the second time this week, I feel God-like for having created a basic force of nature. Sunday evening I said "Let there be light!," and there was light. Tonight (following three trips to three different hardware stores before finding the right hose to connect the gas), I said "Let there be fire!" and, lo, fire did appear. As a benevolent God, I'll share my bounty of propers with the Swedish dieties at Ikea for their role in these feats.

Tasks like these represent the conclusion to a kitchen remodeling effort that Brooke and I launched more than a month ago. The condo we've been in since last fall came with a kitchen that was, to be kind, dated and horribly designed. It featured a hodgepodge of cabinetry, filthy linoleum tile and deteriorating walls. We knew all this when we got the place but have been eager to change it ever since.

To pay for this endeavor we sold Brooke's car, which took less than 24 hours on Craigslist and quickly promoted my car to our car. After playing with blocks at Ikea's kitchen department, we placed our order and were soon blessed with invaluable help from my dad and uncle with some demolition and electrical assistance. Once the walls were bare, an extremely reliable contractor (an oxymoron, I know) who came recommended from a neighbor did most of the hard work putting us back together again. Five stressful weeks of eating fast food and doing dishes in the bathroom sink later, we almost have a kitchen again. Actually with the stove hooked up tonight, we're fully functional ... all that's left is painting the walls, ceiling and trim. And, of course, putting the rest of the place back together.

For now, though, I'm relaxing in the A/C with a frosty beverage. The newly-resurrected Schlitz in a bottle, in fact ... so it's only a matter of time before I'm using the aforementioned powers to conjure some wind.

Dessert Shrapnel

Birthday number 33 is in the can. The otherwise normal Tuesday was brightened by kind greetings that came in via text message, phone, email and Facebook comments. Even as an adult person with a job and responsibilities, I still carry a hint of that little kid excitement all day when it's my birthday and people are making a fuss.

Noticeably unfussy were the people at work. The department's admin assistant is usually good about getting a card and passing it around for signatures, but I've only been at this job six weeks ... so perhaps I just didn't make it on the calendar. Or perhaps like insurance and vacation time, birthday recognition is a fringe benefit accrued over time.

The day was capped over drinks with Brooke (the girlfriend) and some friends, Andrew and Melissa. Brooke made me a hat that said "Birthday Crab," a name I self-applied following a difficult morning. Afterwards, the four of us dined outside on this evening which can only be described as a perfect climate vacuum: no heat, no cool, no breeze. Like Goldilocks sampling ursine oatmeal, it was just right.

There was one distraction from the perfect evening when a well-to-do (and probably well-liquored) older man on the sidewalk got into a heated shouting match with a woman who was panhandling. He accused her of blocking his path and berated her for bothering people near the building where he owned a condo unit. I think most of our fellow diners were rooting for the old guy until he loudly announced "You don't belong here!" which, considering the fact he was white and she wasn't, put an uncomfortably fine point on the encounter. Especially for our friend at the table Andrew, a black guy from London.

Just as the drama was subsiding, the waitress asked "Is there anything else I can get you?" and Andrew replied "A word with that guy if you don't mind."

One Score and Thirteen Eve

John Belushi, Chris Farley and Jesus Christ. Three people of whom definitely I consider myself a fan, although not necessarily in that order. So why specify them? Because they all shuffled off to join the choir invisible at age 33 ... the same age I'll be turning tomorrow.

Unfortunately I can't claim to have matched their level of achievement in those years, but I also have no reason to believe my time is as finite. At least I hope not.

Birthdays rank right up there with New Years Eves as a time to ponder the path one has forged and assess damage left in its wake, but also to plot the remainder of the journey and allow for potential course corrections.

So I suppose that's what I hope to do with this blog. Thanks in advance for keeping me company.