Monday, September 24, 2007

Leaving on a jet plane (and donn't we all miss John Denver?)

So here I am trying to use my new Mac Book on a booked solid Southwest Airlines flight to Reno. Good thing I lost 30 pounds as I need the extra space so that my arms can at least approximate the dexterity of an alligator.

I am going there in part to attend a 50th birthday party of a friend of my brother in law who has a lot of money - enough cash to be building a log cabin on a small lake near Lake Tahoe that you have to take an Arctic Cat to in winter and an ATV of some sort in summer.

He wanted his privacy. Privacy has never really been as issue for me. People pretty much leave me alone unless I call them. Repeatedly is some cases.

The party will be catered, which seems funny to me - funny until it turns out that one of the servers is a SERIAL KILLER.

Hey, I've seen the movies. Good thing the guests are all are way past our teens. I just hope a black guy was not invited - for his own good. And nobody should fornicate with somebody they just met, which shouldn't be an issue for me.

Part of the party involves an evening at the Cal-Neva, where Sinatra and Roseanne Barr hung out , but not at the same time. So I practiced last night by heading to Dave and Buster's where a buddy had his wife's birthday party.

I came down with adult ADHD just visiting. In case you haven't gone, D & B's (as the faux AC/DC t-shirt available for umpteen redemption coupons calls it) is a sort of kiddie Vegas, a place some folks feel comfortable bringing their kids to play video games, games of chance and basketball pop a shot in return for winning the aforementioned coupons and trading them in for the valuable prizes like the aforementioned black shirt.

It is very noisy, people are smoking and drinking, but it is well worth keeping junior up past his bedtime if you can win disco balls and toy poodle purses.

They don't count your coupons when you turn them in - they weigh them. It's nice to see math at work, but I wonder if cheaters have ever tried to slightly wet the tickets in order to get a better prize, say an Elvis souvenir.

The two most out of place people: an old woman at the bar who looked like Bette Davis, smoking a cigarette, sipping a mixed drink; and a guy who looked like Harry Dean Stanton but skinnier, which is to say clinically dead.

Scarier still: A guy who kept playing pop a shot, each toss a perfect swish, his only enemy the clock. There was no joy on his face as the machine spit out tickest, just the look of a man on a mission, sort of like that operant conditioned chicken from the Psych 101 video, but in a sleeveless t-shirt.

I played that game until he showed up, because, quite frankly, it was uncomfortable being near him in the way you don't want to be working out next to the guy at the gym who grunts.

While I had fun, I had to drag my ass out of bed in the morning for my uncle's, where I left my car, and then Midway Airport.

Good thing I stuffed my suitcases the day before. I pack worse than a teenage girl from Napervillle. Let's just say it's a good thing I don't have a need for hair care products. And that unlike a pal of mine I didn't have to remember the Clinique skin and sun products, No clerk is that cute.

But it's fall, I am going to the mountains and that means I need a coat, sweatshirts, a flannel, a couple pairs of shoes, shorts, a swimsuit, workout clothes, enough underwear for a week, t-shirts, socks, a hat. It adds up.

And I had to shower, and exfoliate, and check the locks, and check e-mail, and surf the Internet, and double check what I packed, and load the car, and make sure I had all the cords I need to recharge batteries, and before you know it the time is 10 a.m.

Not so bad but that there was construction on Sunday morning. Rather, there was a stretch along I-355 down to one lane for a couple miles as a crew of two removed barricades. Sometimes I think they just do this to screw with people, making them late for church, much less a flight.

For therapy I pounded on the interior roof of my Camry and cursed out the State of Illinois and its corrupt bureaucracy. Oh, I also got pissed at some asshole who rode my ass, then passed me. So I followed him until my speedometer hit 110 mph. I am not making that up. This jerk was going 120, easy, and I quickly pulled back.

I was in a dark, Irish, Eugene O'Neill kind of mood by the time I got to my uncle's house.

I finally relaxed at the airport bar where the waitress swore matter of factly, like a Springer guest but without the anger. She has to card everybody, which has allowed her to develop the skill of guessing everyone's age. I told her to tell people she needed to see ID for Homeland Security purposes. If someone's on a watch list, say you are out of vodka then head to the back and call for help.

I struck up a conversation with an HR Block guy from Tampa via New Jersey who was heading to Kansas City for a training session. My bad morning paled next to his - sporting a scratched cheek and bruised ribs, he had been is a car accident on the way to the airport, missed his flight, and was stuck in Chicago for an hour or so waiting for a connection. Plus, he's a New York Jets fan, which is painful in its own right.

Then I had to wait in one of those Southwest holding lines like a 210 pound cow and got one of the last sets on the plane. Why can't they just give out beepers like at Bennigan's and page you to get on board?

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Office party rules so Monday is less stressful

With apologies to Bill Maher, here are some rules to follow if you get decide to attend a work-related party.

Always leave yourself an out. If you’re married, here’s where having kids comes in handy. Otherwise say you have church in the morning. Actually go and thank God for being an excuse.

Always lock the bathroom door behind you.

Dress appropriately for you age, height and weight, even if it is a costume party.

Be wary of parties with themes. Themes sometimes mean you will be asked to by product you will never use, might have to wear a costume, or be forced to sing karaoke.

Karaoke is only funny when everyone is really drunk. And if you decide to sing it means it’s time to look for a ride home, especially if you sing Wind Beneath My Wings.

If you are serving tacos, make sure the person bringing the taco shells lives closer than 45 minutes away. Assign the foods by distance to your door.

It is not a good idea to ask a coworker his or her sexual preference or with whom he or she is having sex.

If the above happens, you are allowed to say you are now into alpacas. They are trendier than sheep.

If no one else gets in the pool, stay out of the pool.

Hang out with people you don’t know and may never see again. It’s safer. Besides, they haven’t heard your stories and jokes.

If asked who the hottest woman in the office is, do not, REPEAT, do not answer. Of course, that means you might be asked if you are gay. See above.

Do not show off you tattoos or piercings.

Tequila doesn’t count as a dish to bring.

Do no show off your photos and music collection. Leave the iPod or iPhone at home.

Remember that cell phones have video cameras. You can wind up on You Tube. Or X-Tube Which reminds: cell phones with cameras should be checked at the door.

Board games should only be played if your parents are at the party.

Don’t serve red wine if you have a beige carpet - or any food that may come back up in pretty colors.

Never bring a book to a party. Or a pornographic magazine.

As the Romans put it, Semper Ubi Sub Ubi.

When all else fails, just shut up, eat, then go home.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

9-11: What it really means to never forget

Joan King reluctantly made her way to the footbridge, not far from her home’s back door, to have her picture taken.

“I don’t want this to be about me,” she said, as she slowly walked toward the golf course.

But she let the amiable if tattooed young woman from the newspaper talk her into posing. As if all of this all wasn't uncomfortable enough, Joan took a fall along the path., drawing the attention and aid of by some concerned golfers.

Still, Joan brushed herself off and kept her word.

This, after all, was about her son, Andrew. And the bridge on the Geneva Golf Club course, built to look like the fabled one the 18th hole at St. Andrew's in Scotland, was designed by Joan's ex-husband. It's there in memory of Andrew.

The last time Joan saw her handsome son was when he dropped her off at the airport in Philadelphia. Inside the terminal, he joked about buying her a crown, one of those cardboard ones from a fast-food restaurant.

"I should have taken him up on the offer," said King.

That was six unsettling years ago.

Andrew King turned 42 the summer of 2001. He had just made partner at with Cantor Fitzgerald, which had its headquaters in the World Trade Center. Then came September 11. That's all you have to say anymore. And the sad fact of the matter is that as someone working on Wall Street, King was one of the intended targets, a symbol reduced to rubble for the sake of somebody's cause.

Life had been pretty damn good for King, a fair-haired guy with Kennedy-like looks. He grew up in upscale St. Charles, Illinois, prepped at Elgin Academy, a school for rich kids, albeit one in a blue collar neighborhood. He graduated from North Carolina and was there close to the time Michael Jordan played basketball.

Back then Andrew had a reputation as a free spirit, and "he's up in a tree in his yearbook picture. The kids called him Sky King," said Fred Fletcher, who coached Andrew on the tennis team and who was his math teacher back in high school.

King, was indeed the prom king for the Class of 1977: "He liked to have a good time. But he would follow through with things he promised to do, which is rare for a teenager," said Carolyn Selke. Selke is a mother and certified public accountant now in the Chicago suburbs and was the prom queen.

Andrew came back to the Chicago area after college and landed a job at the Board of Trade. Like many young men, Andrew wanted to be a pro athlete at one point, recalled Joan, whose son loved golf and was "a gorgeous skier He learned at a resort his father, Wesley, an architect, designed up in Michigan."

A ski trip was how Andrew met his wife. Back in 1985, Andrew and his buddy spotted a group of women, also from Chicago, getting into a limousine at the Denver airport. The guys managed to talk their way into the vehicle, and Andrew hit it off with Judy, who would become his bride and the mother of his three children.

The couple wound up in Philadelphia, then in Princeton, N.J., and Andrew landed a job in New York City. He was in the World Trade Center the first time terrorists attacked the building and tried to make his way downstairs with the golf clubs he had in his office, Joan recalled.

As if that weren't proof he was crazy about the game, in the summer of 2000 Andrew took his family and friends on a trip to the legendary Old St. Andrew's in Scotland.

Sure, he was leading a charmed life. But like many people these days, he kept really long hours,, waking up around 5:30 a.m. every working day to head into the city, where he would often stay well into the night, entertaining clients.

"He would get a car to take him home, and he would call during his ride. Sometimes we would talk for a half-hour or so," said Joan.

Andrew kept lots of friends, and her son's memorial service out East drew more than 1,000 people, she recalled.

“He was a leader,” Joan said, "but he did have a bad habit of always being late. People would start asking, 'Where is
Andrew?' But when he would walk in the door, everything would be alright."

Six years on, alright is a relative term.

"You have to live through it. The blow softens as time goes by, but I miss him every day. It's been difficult, but you go
with what's been given you. I'm hanging in there," said Joan.

And sometimes, when the mood hits, when the memories flood, "I sit on thethe bridge to have a visit with my son," said Joan.

Monday, September 03, 2007

Solo at the Jazz Fest, and other riffs on the last summer weekend

Metaphorical image of the summer: So two weekends ago at Six Flags, the power went out for a bit and people got stuck on the roller coasters.

We saw evidence of this firsthand, a train full of people on the Superman ride suspended about 40 feet above the ground. That’s the ride where you are supposed to look like you are flying like Superman, but actually look more like Underdog, on all fours, sniffing the ass of the Underdog in front of you.

There these people hung for more than a half hour, dangling like some sort of modern version of the stockades. Probably not so funny where you are trapped there, paying $55 a ticket for the pleasure. But afterward, even though it was at the very least annoying if not scary, later you just have to laugh about it.

But hey, I am weird - but in a good way. And I am peculiar, but that makes me funny.

That’s what I was told by a woman who looks the like actress Andie McDowell (Bill Murray’s love interest in Groundhog Day) at a party I attended Saturday.

Could it have been the joke I made about the name I made up for the mythical land my office now is - Estrogenia, a place with feuding factions of women?

Or was it the jokes about what would make a good band name or super heroes I made up with lame superpowers (the Arranger, the CPA, the griller).

It more than likely was the double take I invented that night, where you wipe the sweat off your beer bottle, then rub it on the top of your head down through your nose.

I can’t help what I am, whatever that is. In fact, that was a point of conversation earlier in the evening, that book The Secret and implications therein that you can just will things into being.

All well and good to be positive, but, as but one example, no way I am going to have enough hair for a nice brush cut crew cut anytime soon. And it’s sort of funny that a book called The Secret doesn’t mention that we all have secrets on top of our dreams of Lexus cars and big homes.

For instance, did you know the paintings of Thomas Kinkade, the master of light, make me weep? OK. That’s a big freaking lie.

Speaking of secrets, I was in Naperville Monday for their Final Fling - a town fest where you send the kids so you can cheat on your spouse. Again, I partially lie.

But at this Fling, some students from Northwestern had a booth where you would get free candy for filling out a survey - about your sexual preferences.

At the end of the survey the asked about what hands you do certain things with (no, not the ONE thing you think they would ask), and sketched a family tree, then looked to see which way your hair swirled.

And none of the above did I fabricate, but for a few of my answers on the aforementioned survey.

Apparently the young social scientists were looking at correlations between sexuality and genetic traits - though I wonder if they took into account that using candy as a lure might make for a good correlation, too.

That I was in Naperville is a secret I am willing to share. I know in certain circles you’re not supposed to admit liking such a yuppified downtown. And even though I am not in the demographic, I like a suburb with a cajun restaurant and a comic book/antique shop along with the usual suspects like Williams Sonoma and Sur La Table.

Sure, it can seem like Stepford. But sometimes we don’t want ripe fruit to fall (poetry allusion. Google it.) And that’s not a reference to the NU survey.

I know this time of year, I don’t want the sun to set so early. I want that one, long glorious perfect weekend, with a boat, and friends, and sitting on a pier, all of us dangling our feet in the water, and the beer is flowing and we are all weird and happy. a giddy mood tempered by the melancholy of the end of a season, with the Flaming Lips “Do You Realize” playing, the perfect song for that moment.

So if you have a boat and a pier....

Since I don’t I went downtown Sunday night by myself. It was either there or to see Cheap Trick, and I had no takers for either.

So because the happy place in my head now consists of this lakefront image, I went to Chicago and the Jazz Fest.

I had a processed rib sandwich and some nachos, a Diet Pepsi and some Charles Mingus.

I walked about looking at all the faces on a night that if it were always like it was, Chicago would be San Diego and housing would be even more unaffordable.

Women in summer dresses. A dad chasing his kids around a blanket. A teen in a hat made out of a newspaper. A guy with a beard that made him look like Burl Ives as Big Daddy. African Americans in Sunday church clothes. Round faced, beer bellied white cops - and in Chicago a good many guys not in uniform look like they could be on this force. Out of place punks with mohawks. People on bikes. A tall guy apologizing for sneezing. Several foreign languages.

I don’t know much about Mingus but his music made a good soundtrack for my solo mood.

I think I will get one of his albums. At the very least it will remind me of a nice but lonely night. And I just might learn something in the process, which ain’t such a bad thing.