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.