skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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".
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.
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.
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!!
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.
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.
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.
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.
