Transmissions from Utopia

The Holiday Inn: flies & lounge lizards

2011-06-22T10:12:00.006-05:00

In spite of all the latitude we were allowed while working at the Inn I was pretty conscientious about doing my job well. Washing dishes was monkey work and all we had to focus on was cleaning stuff and putting it away, the only challenge was managing volume. Aside from the dining room traffic there were meetings, banquets and receptions. Sometimes sizable, and more than a few at once, so I made a game out of seeing how fast and efficiently I could get everything done. It made the time pass quickly.

But when it was dead slow, and there wasn't any extra work to do, we had other ways to kill time. Someone might suggest a game of 'Blind Creamer', we'd fill our apron pockets with Half n Halfs and push through into the large banquet room next door. With the lights off it was pitch dark in there, except for a sliver of light coming in from the kitchen area. We'd take sides of the room and try pelting each other with creamers which, if slightly peeled open before throwing, burst like squibs on impact. It was like paintball in the dark, the drawback of course being that we'd have to clean up all the misses. Usually it was worth it.
Then there was the baseball field right next to the Inn that we'd take advantage of when not in use by the local leagues. It even had lights for night games, and sometimes we'd bring lawn chairs up on the roof, drink beer, and watch the league teams play. It was a short climb up a drain pipe to the flat gravel roof, no one could see us, and the view was perfect.
Or if Billy and Pat were working they'd entertain each other (and consequently everyone in the kitchen) by cursing at each other in Donald Duck voices. Who knew? Even back then it was a dying skill, but these 2 had it down, and would go at it like a couple of drunken sailors.

But the kitchen sport that clearly dominated that Summer season was 'Fly Vigilante', a game that evolved naturally from having so many flies in the kitchen area. Pest strips didn't do enough, and we weren't allowed bug spray because there was food all around, so we found some cheap swatters and carried them in our belts like weapons. And when things were quiet we'd go on a 'crusade'. It was about speed and technique (the in-flight kill, the cluster), and for a goofy time-killer it didn't go unappreciated by the waitstaff who were as annoyed by the flies as we were.
But pretty quickly the challenge turned to catching them by hand. Like white-trash ninjas, it became a discipline of heightened stealth and efficiency. Snatch from the side, a tight squeeze, and drop. A 2-grab was not uncommon, and occasionally I'd score one in-flight, (..which probably would've been called a 'Brundle', if only..). That's when the industrial bug-zapper came into play. It had been there all along, located over the exit door to the loading dock, and apparently functioned fine. But it didn't seem to attract enough of the flies, so we started disposing of our catches by manually pitching them into its electrified maws.   For one thing, sometimes that squeeze wasn't tight enough, and there were those that got away. The zapper ensured a crispy death with its satisfying spark and snap.
I actually stopped squeezing, sadistically pitching them in while still alive.

If there was a live act in the lounge we might watch a set from the back, which promised entertainment. Disco and yacht rock were still riding their crest so the music was delightfully awful, plus in (what was then) the era of 'Murph & The Magic Tones' a Holiday Inn lounge was thee venue for genuine schmaltz. No question; that Blues Brothers' scene was frighteningly accurate.
The performer that still looms large in my memory was an acoustic troubadour who called himself; Chuck Mann. Chuck was a Gordon Lightfoot wannabe in the worst way, to the point of self-parody; quaffed helmet hair, sideburns, mustache, tight jeans and rayon shirt (too open, of course). He seemed sincere, and he actually could sing and play pretty competently, he was just hilariously derivative and unoriginal. No great sin, unless one took issue with how much of a player he was with the ladies. Clearly Chuck was one to sow his seeds of music and love before ramblin' on to the next town, and he was always trying to seduce some woman in the bar. Not the Inn waitresses though, they were hip to his ways and thought he was creepy.
Mostly we thought Chuck was funny, but unintentionally so. One late evening after work my pal Terry and I were talking by the pool when Chuck came out of the bar and sat with us. He had finished his last set and invited us both to share a joint with him.   There was no one around so he just sparked up and we started chatting. Most of his talking had to do with the women he was interested in (bedding), or his travel itinerary. Chuck would typically play a 6 week run, then drive to the next motel lounge on his schedule, always staying in a guest room. Terry and I nodded politely as we'd toke and pass. It actually seemed like a smart gig.   When Chuck divulged that he was considering changing his name Terry and I perked up.
"..Yeah, you know 'Chuck Mann' sounds a little too obvious. ..I'm thinking about the name 'Austin'."
"..Yeah, 'Chuck Austin' sounds kinda cool." we both agreed in mock approval. "No," he corrected; "Austin Mann."   I had to cover my outburst of laughter by coughing on a hit. Terry managed to stay composed, ..but we agreed later that the only way to top that would be if he also changed his middle name to; 'Six-Million-Dollar'.
..Or would that be too obvious?

For the most part it was a pretty great Summer, and I'm just skimming on some specific memories, but thinking back now; I never thought I was having that much fun fighting boredom. As far as I knew, all of us were making the best of where we were at the time. I knew that a lot of what we did to pass the time was stupid shit, irresponsible and sometimes dangerous. We weren't looking for trouble, we didn't even prank on each other, which would have been par in other similar situations. Guys that age love breaking each others balls for fun. At worst, we were happy to enjoy a cheap laugh at the folly of others, and I'll end this post by offering an incident involving the bug zapper as a classic example;
On one slow evening early that Autumn, Scott (the porter on duty), made the casual observation that the thing had been up there forever, and looked like it had never been cleaned or even emptied. He was probably right about that, it was a big old green beast and had an aged patina of airborne grease. Looking up at the bottom panel, he figured on unscrewing the wing nuts that were holding it in place and began lowering the tray from above. Yes, Scott was trying to be as careful as possible, dropping it evenly, but he didn't notice that one side of the tray was hooked and before he realized what was happening, thousands of dead bugs rained down directly onto his head, face and shoulders.
The involuntarily spastic, convulsive dance that it unleashed was worthy of the applause it garnered from us.
It truly was a gift to witness, ..and yes; Scott was able to laugh about it too.
Eventually.

The Holiday Inn: Cars in the Summer of '78

2011-06-17T13:23:00.000-05:00

I started working at the Holiday Inn as a busboy in the restaurant, which was the first position available. It was a much more subdued and formal setting than 'Bogdan's'', quiet and dimly lit, with rustic touches, like a steakhouse. But they served a full menu from 6 am to 11 pm, and would do a tremendous amount of business on evenings and weekends. The dining room was always kept cool and dry, which was a relief since busboys, waiters and porters had to work in black slacks, tie and shoes, and white dress shirt, ..like we just came from church. And it got warm back in the kitchen area.
But that gig didn't last long. Busing tables while dressed for a funeral became a drag, pretty quickly. Especially spending almost the entire shift on my feet. I didn't care about the nice tip cut from the servers, I didn't care about the air-conditioning. I wanted to join the motley crew in the kitchen and as soon as there was an opening I switched to dish washing.

When I got out of the dining room things changed for the better. I preferred working with the kitchen staff and there was no dress-code for dishwashers, just an optional stock white apron. We could come to work in shorts, tank top, and sneakers, and I often did. The massive stainless steel dishwasher kicked out lots of steam, and by the middle of summer it got pretty hot back there. The workload could be grueling too. On weekend mornings it was common for them to serve over 400 for breakfast, and aside from the dining room dishes I'd have to scrub a mountain of pots and pans. But I didn't care. I could listen to music while I worked, and I would finish my shift by cooling off in the pool right around the corner. No changing, just kick off my Keds, drop my shirt and dive off the board.
Another thing that changed for the better was that I was no longer chained to the dining room. And as long as all the work was caught up we could hang out back in the delivery lot, or even roam the grounds. That enabled us to get in on whatever was going on during that particular shift, and there was always something happening. I started making more friends at the Inn and saw more of my pal Terry, who was always working as porter (relegated to the more formal attire, but played smart with black sneakers). On day shifts he'd park his 1971 Charger back near the maintenance shed, in the shade, where he could wash and polish it after work. Its stereo would typically be pounding out the fresh releases of that Summer; Heaven Tonight, Power Age, Some Girls, The Cars.

A lot of the guys that worked at the Inn had nice vehicles for the time. It was the late 70s, and even though our jobs paid shit we could still afford used American luxury and muscle. Mostly early 70s Dodges, Chevys, and Pontiacs, ...all past their prime but presentable. Mike the bartender drove a sweet '61 Corvette, but that was the exception. Some guys had beaters they were proud of. Glen the dishwasher was a Ford Mustang freak, and didn't seem to mind that the '67 he owned was a bucket of bolts that barely ran. It appeared to have leprosy and was dubbed the 'Rustang'.
I went through a couple of troublesome cars (a '67 Cougar, then a '71 Monte Carlo) before settling on a 1975 Ford Elite. A luxurious version of the Gran Torino, it offered a well-appointed interior of wood and velour, 351 engine, and a very cushy ride. It was only a few years old and still a gorgeous car with a deep burgundy color, chrome trim, vinyl roof, and spoked wheel covers.

Working at the Inn enabled the car culture its perks. We had the option of washing and waxing our rides by the maintenance shed, all the free towels we could use at our disposal, and a gigantic animated neon sign in front that would cast its glow over our buffed-out beauties.
The 'Great Sign' really was deserving of its name. The iconic beacon of affordable and reliable hospitality, as intended by Kemmons Wilson himself. That shining beast could be seen from a mile away and it bathed the entire front lot in luminous colors.
Even if we weren't pulling a work shift we might meet up there at one point during an evening. Someone would have their car stereo blaring, there would be Frisbees flying, some smoking and drinking and general teenage (mis)behavior. A number of us were under age but kept coolers in our trunks that we'd stock with beer (next to the stacks of towels).
There was always someone of age willing to buy liquor for us, and there was always plenty of free ice from any number of complementary machines spread around the premises.

At the risk of sounding like Ray Liotta in 'Goodfellas', it really was a situation where we took advantage wherever we could and exploited every avenue possible. The more creative, the better. We weren't out to rob the place blind, we just saw all of these opportunities to make our time there a little easier or a lot less boring. And it wasn't just us. It was pervasive throughout the Inn because it had been going on for years, and anyone that knew didn't seem to mind. Some of the waitresses had set themselves up with complete dinnerware settings, including napkins, tablecloths, silverware ..whatever they needed at home. It was all tasteful stuff and there was so much of it in back stock, no one ever noticed.
But with all the petty pilfering about we still didn't see the Inn as a racket, as much as it was an orchard of fruits for the picking. And plenty of it was ripe and low-hanging.

The Holiday Inn: Hired

2011-06-11T10:30:00.008-05:00

The second job I ever held was working at a Holiday Inn motel at Interstate 55 in Joliet, Il.    I started there at the beginning of June 1978, and worked there for about a year and a half. About the same length of time as my first job. But whenever I look back at my experience at Holiday Inn it always seems like I worked there much longer.
Partly because I ended up working so many different jobs, and also because so much happened while I was there. Almost all of it fun.

Let's face it, when you're a teenager growing up in the burbs ANY job you get is going to pay low wage. Between paychecks, about enough for gas money and a trip to the record store. Maybe an Aerosmith concert. So the attraction for any employment prospects to a 17 year old lie more in factors like; "Is the work easy?", "Are the people cool?", "Is there a sweet employee discount?" There HAVE to be some perks involved, however small.
Sometimes those perks are inherent and obvious (Tasty Freeze job = free ice cream), sometimes they're less obvious and sublime. But when mined by creative and resourceful people, a seemingly boring place of business can become the gift that keeps on giving.

This particular place of business was a prime example of the latter.
To begin with, it had everything a major franchise motel could have. The main building included an elegant full-menu restaurant with a fireplace, and an immense back kitchen that also catered to 3 banquet rooms for conventions and wedding receptions. A swanky bar lounge with a small stage and dance floor, and a tastefully furnished lobby where guests would check in. All of this, including the front desk and a handful of small offices, was laid out in a sprawling single-story building of stone, steel and glass.

All of the guest rooms were in 3 separate 2-story 'wings' that stood beyond the main building, framing a massive open courtyard with grassy lawns, manicured evergreens, and a patio area with heated pool and diving board.
All the rooms were outside access. And depending on which side of the wing you were staying on, your door opened to the parking lot (that ultimately surrounded the joint), or the center courtyard. The end of one of these wings housed the laundry facilities, another held storage and maintenance.

Essentially, this was a full-service compound. Everything needed to fully accommodate and entertain very large numbers of people.

Another factor that played a part was that this Holiday Inn was old and used.
It was opened in the late 50s, and the mid-century style and decor reflected that. It even had the classic neon 'Holiday Inn' sign, with the marquee that was changed by hand. Now the place would be considered very retro and hip, but back in 1978 it was simply dated and showing signs of wear. It had done tons of steady business over the past 20 years and was now a somewhat neglected workhorse in the chain. It looked a little weathered and faded, and could've used some remodeling. But because of its convenient location it continued to endure the crowds. Not only hosting road-weary vacationing families and truckers, but the restaurant, bar, and banquet rooms were frequently patronized by locals.

Holiday Inn at I55, Joliet Il. circa 1965

The management consisted of an 'Innkeeper', and day-managers for the restaurant/bar, banquet booking, grounds/maintenance, and housekeeping. With few exceptions, the entire place was run and operated by people in their teens and 20s. And as long as all the work was done, those who were in any position of authority just turned a blind eye to any screwing off. It wasn't that they didn't care about performance. They just understood these jobs paid shit, and sometimes it got slow and dull. So as long as it didn't come back to bite them, whatever else was fine. The bottom rule was; keep the wheels greased and turning. As long as the place looked clean, kept making a profit, and no guests complained, we stayed off corporate's radar. Everybody wins.

Over the years this enabled a culture of mischief and debauchery that always rumbled beneath the surface. And everyone that worked there became complicit to some degree. ..Everyone except the Innkeeper, who was hired by the corporate office. These poor company stiffs would get transferred from franchise to franchise, like chess pieces, and they were never around long enough to realize what was going on.
They couldn't be trusted, and had to be kept in the dark at all cost.
___________

Of course I didn't know all of this when I applied for a job there.
My pal Terry, who I worked with at Bogdan's, had a couple of friends who worked at the Inn. ..Not that he knew much more than I, it just prompted the serendipitous visit that would affect both our destinies.
We had been out riding around in Terry's car on an early evening in May, having had a few beers celebrating the end of the school term, and deciding to see my High School's graduation ceremony. A girl we worked with was getting her diploma, and we swung by to watch and say hi afterward. We didn't have any plans beyond that, just driving around getting stoned and cranking some tunes, when he suggested dropping by the Inn. Just to see who was working that evening.
By the time we got there we were pretty baked, and I was feeling paranoid. We both walked past the front desk and to the restaurant, where Terry knew the hostess; Kathy. They chatted for a bit and he motioned for us both to go back into the kitchen area to see his friends, who were there washing dishes.

The first thing I noticed as we pushing through the doors was a cool mist swirling near the floor, rolling in from the back area. Accompanying this was the sound of Black Sabbath's; Iron Man, that seemed to be echoing from a boombox. Terry and I round the corner to find his 2 friends standing around a floor drain, pouring a bucket of water over large chunks of dry ice. There was thick fog everywhere back there, as if they were trying to stage a rock show.
The head cook made them stop short of turning off the lights and using flashlights as light-sabers.
But that was really enough for Terry and I and we both asked for job applications.
I remember both of us laughing uncontrollably for a moment while we filled them out. After all, we already had fun jobs working at Bogdan's. ..And we were both pretty trashed. To top that, when Kathy handed us the applications, she could TELL we were both wasted.

But that's ultimately what sealed the deal, really. Because when she asked us if we could start working there in a couple of weeks, I realized she didn't care.
On some level, I knew Terry and I had just been invited to the party.

My First Job

2011-06-05T14:50:00.002-05:00

I got my first paying job at age 16, busing tables and washing dishes at an independent family restaurant in Joliet, Il. called; Bogdan's Magic Palace. The owners, in a father/son partnership, opened it to the public in 1977, and it was a combination diner/ice cream parlour & magic shop. It was a pretty genius idea at the time. People would come in for some tasty lunch or dinner, a malted shake or some other soda fountain creation, and stand the good chance of getting a little table magic entertainment by a professional magician.

Most of the interior was carpeted restaurant space, with vinyl-upholstered booths and diner tables. The wall decor featured old-fashioned sconce lights, and several large, framed promotional Magic posters from the early 20th century. Houdini, Thurson, Harry Blackstone Sr. Then there was a glass counter and display case near the front register where magic tricks were demonstrated and sold by Dave, the son and co-owner in this venture. There were some shelves with larger stage effects on display, and though the magic shop only occupied a small fraction of the restaurant, the stuff Dave chose to stock was professional quality magic. Always a couple of inexpensive Marshall Brodien type starter sets on hand for quick sale, but the bulk of his inventory was a selected cross-section of great card, coin, and close-up magic.

Also near the entrance was a colorfully painted upright player piano, that would occasionally be switched on to entertain the patrons. The front of it had a large glass pane that allowed you to see its inner workings as it cranked away some Scott Joplin ragtime. It did sound glorious.
..And I would be remiss if I did not mention the centerpiece mascot of this family establishment;
a 6 1/2 foot tall animatronic clown that stood just inside the entrance, where it would slowly twist back and forth, raising its right arm each time in a dead robotic salute. As if to say; "Come on in and join the fun!!"
It looked like a life-sized Zippy the pinhead, with a conical dunce hat, painted lifeless eyes and hideous fixed grin, like Gwynplaine. It exemplified 'creepy clown', and on some dead rainy nights it was an unsettling presence. After all, it was standing right by the door. And if it, by some bizarre freak occurrence, ever came to life and went 'Pennywise'? Well, the only other way out was through the back, which opened to a labyrinth of hallways with locked doors.
On those nights the clown's perpetual wave seemed to say; "..If I could grasp a butcher knife, this is how I would be stabbing you repeatedly."

But those slow nights could be fun too, and sometimes Dave would entertain us with some sleight of hand magic, or we'd play with some of the joke novelties that were sold (did you know that a whoopie cushion bursts with a really loud 'POW!' if you sit on it hard enough?). One night I volunteered to break out of Dave's straight-jacket. He had one on the premises that he used in his act, and he strapped me in pretty well. It took me a good 8 minutes, but I put on my best Tony Curtis and wriggled out of it like Houdini.

Obviously, Bogdan's Magic Palace was especially popular for kids' birthday parties. And this was not lost on the magician, who would routinely produce the birthday child's free hot fudge sundae via magic box. This decorative rectangular box was mounted on a single pole stand, and it had an open front and a door on the back. There was a light that illuminated the inside, and kids would gape in wonderment as they'd watch the birthday dessert slowly fade into view, "right before their very eyes!" Then Dave would open the back door and remove the sundae for the birthday child to eat.
Dave designed the illusion, which was an enhanced version of a classic mirror production box.
It was actually pretty cool the way it worked.

Not long into the 18 months I worked there I earned enough to buy my first car, a 1967 Chevy Malibu. It was a piece of shit for which I only paid $200, but it was all mine and it got me to and from work.
I also made a few friends while I worked there. One of the short-order cooks employed there was a guy named Dino. Dino was a wiry black dude in his 40s who lived on the East side of Joliet, and he was a character to work with. He'd sit and read Khalil Gibran during his break, and occasionally one of his many 'lady friends' would drop by for a brief visit. It didn't take long to realize either Dino was a serious hound or he did some pimping on the side (or both).
Dino also regularly came to work stocked with a couple of joints in his wallet, and would spark up in the walk-in freezer. I discovered this by walking in one night, and surprised him in mid-toke. He then gained my confidence by getting me so high I could barely finish my work shift.
But the drive home sure was fun that night.

There were also some weird customer moments, the most memorable surrounding a family that came in about once a month, regularly. The family was comprised of a mom and dad, 5 unruly kids, and their grandparents. They appeared to be a farm family by the way they were dressed, the dad in bib overalls and flannel shirt, the mom in baggy jeans and flannel shirt. All of them had bad haircuts. Even the girls. The grandparents were the give-away though, and they all looked like members of the Joad family. And for whatever reason, they ALWAYS came in on a Wednesday night and ALWAYS ordered the broasted chicken for dinner. Without variation. It's like it was their ritual chicken dinner family night on the town.
Dino referred to them as; 'the chicken family', and the name stuck.
I mentioned their kids were unruly, and that was the source of some weirder moments. As soon as they were done eating their dessert they would all jump out of their chairs and start running around the restaurant, making a lot of racket in the process. And the parents and grandparents would just sit there talking, belching, and smoking cigarettes, while all this went on. They'd be in there for a good 2 hours for dinner and dessert, then leave a colossal mess behind. And they were lousy tippers to boot.
On more than one occasion Dave had to ask them to reign in their little mongrels or they'd be asked to leave. ..And on one evening? One of their kids pulled the giant mechanical clown over on top of himself.
The damned thing toppled like a tree, falling right onto this little 9 year old white-trash brat and pinning him to the floor. ..Like it just had enough and was intent on squashing, or molesting, ..whatever it took to give this child horrific nightmares.
The kid wasn't physically injured. But the look on his face was fucking priceless.

The Early Years group

2010-04-19T23:21:00.014-05:00

Just over a year ago I found myself looking for old grade school classmates on Facebook.
..A pretty common activity for FB users. Especially when they're bored.

I spend my childhood growing up in Bolingbrook, Illinois. It's a pretty big suburb of Chicago these days, but when my family moved there in 1962 it was mostly cornfields. There were 2 small subdivisions of new inexpensive tract homes that comprised the village of Bolingbrook; Westbury and Colonial Village. Brand new houses there cost between $10,000 and $15,000. Modest but charming mid-century designs built by Dover Construction, about 8 models to choose from in their brochure.
There was one family-owned grocery store, one doctor (who made house calls), a barber shop and a penny candy store (which was only known as 'the little store'). For banking, post office, police and fire, we relied on nearby Lemont which was 15 minutes away.
In 1965 Bolingbrook was incorporated as a community and started providing their own police and fire protection. My dad was among the very first cops and firemen. My mom organized and helped run the Bolingbrook parades. There were 4th of July parades and open cookouts at the village firehouse, and a local ice cream truck that trolled the neighborhood. Every summer they would bring in a carnival with great rides, and every winter they'd have a Christmas decoration contest for the most Christmasy home (the house down our block always won). Spring would bring the smell of freshly-mowed lawns and charcoal barbecue. Fall would bring swarms of trick-or-treating kids out of the woodwork on Halloween, enduring long into the evening, door to door, block after block, reaping huge sacks of candy treasures at the end (and not those measly little mini-bars. I'm talking full-sized candy bars).
There were a lot of small-town activities organized with very little money. Mainly by families getting together and volunteering their time and energy. Picnics to pee-wee league ball.
Both of my parents were among the other few dozen young families who were always working to make their little hamlet a wonderful and safe place to raise a family.

It's a textbook case of charming small town America. And I got to be a part of it along with my 2 older sisters. It was serene and simple. And it was a wonderful place to grow up. My dad worked a lot sometimes, and we didn't have a lot of money, but we had everything we needed, a nice new split-level ranch home, a color TV, and room to roam on our bikes. Roam anywhere, completely unsupervised. ..Pretty free and blissful for a kid.

It was when the Old Chicago indoor amusement park came along, that my parents decided it was over for them.
Suburban sprawl was already encroaching the Southwest areas. Especially since the still recent I55 extension had replaced old Rt. 66. The commute into the city was now lightning fast, and more people looking to live outside the city saw Bolingbrook for what it was; a wonderful and safe place to raise a family. By the time we moved away in 1974 Bolingbrook had its own big box shopping mall, fast food restaurants, chain stores, ..and a number of new subdivisions had popped up like mushrooms in the once rich cornfields that cradled us. It was too much too soon. Schools couldn't be built fast enough and kids were bused to nearby Romeoville every day. The inexpensive condos that were built in the early 70s had quickly degenerated into Bolingbrook's first ghetto. Crime became more of an issue, and the building of Old Chicago was the writing on the wall for my folks.
They shopped for a home further South on I55, finding a lovely custom ranch in Channahon. And during the summer of '74 we moved, ..rather suddenly, it seemed. Just as I had finished the 7th grade.
I was 13.

I stayed in touch with my best friend Ted (whom I don't remember not being friends with), but being in a new house, new town, and new school provided plenty of distractions and opportunities for me as I moved into my teens. I made a number of new friends, and within a couple of years had started the next chapter of my life. My childhood in Bolingbrook, and the friends I made in school, became mostly memories.
_____

"What hast thou wrought?"

So, I got a bug up my butt and, after finding a handful of old Bolingbrook friends I had lost touch with, started a Facebook group for us. I started scanning and posting old pictures from back then, and pages from a 1969 yearbook I had. Pretty soon others were doing the same. Friends started inviting their siblings and other old Bolingbrook classmates to the group, more old friends started popping up, and things began to blossom.
The group now has over 850 members, virtually all of whom lived (or still live) in the old sections of Bolingbrook. Many of them live throughout the country now, having families of their own. Most of them remember the early simpler years and have a great story to share, a detail to add, or a name forgotten. And it seems clear that it's been a lot of fun for them to come on and see who's there, look at the old photos, post a fond memory or announce some related news.
There are even senior citizens on there chiming in. Former village workers, trustees, and even Bolingbrook's current mayor is a member.

..All of this in one year.
It's pretty cool, I have to say.

Just this past weekend our group held a walking tour of old Colonial Village. My old neighborhood. It was a beautiful day, and a good turnout. The villages historic director met with us at the beginning and showed us the recently unveiled plans for a proposed history museum for the town, and gave us all a personal guided tour through the original police station; a 2 room farmhouse. It has been closed up for years and awaiting renovation, and will become part of the museum itself. Its interior will be entirely restored and completely re-staged as it was when first used back in the mid 60s.
It was the same police station my dad reported to when he was one of the first Bolingbrook cops.

The rest of the walk was like a trip back in time for us all. Virtually nothing had changed there, since Bolingbrook quickly sprawled as newer and nicer subdivisions were built. The trees were much bigger, and some of the houses needed repair, but many more of them were well-kept and maintained over the decades since. It was like walking through a living time capsule.
We finished our walking tour and gathered for a group photo near the 'little store' (now long gone) where we used to buy our penny candy. All in all it was a delightful day of reminiscing with old neighbors and even a couple of old classmates. Everyone had a great time, and it looks like we're going to schedule more of these walking tours in the future.

I did something good here. I think I should stick with it.

my colicky baby

2010-01-19T18:10:00.001-06:00

Seeing my facebook friends with their cute lil' babies has been reminding me of my own children in their infancy. It really is a very special time, filled with wonder and delight. Everything changes. Partially because of the emotional uplift and the deep bonding, but partially because babies are high maintenance and demand a lot of care and attention.
Of course you know all of this stuff by now.
Sleep deprivation is one of the most common side-effects of newly acquired parenthood. Especially for mom. I did what I could for my own 2, but dad's not always enough and that's the way it is sometimes. Sleep deprivation can especially be a strain if a baby is colicky. For everyone. It's pretty common, but it can be even more hellish.
The colicky phase usually ends by 3 or 4 months, but can start anytime after birth.

My first was a colicky baby. Cerridwyn (or 'Dwynna' for short) didn't sleep through the night until she was 4 months old. We dealt with it pretty well, mainly because she was our first and we had no idea what to expect. Being new parents we kind of expected anything and everything. As far as we were concerned it was all wonderful.
Of course one of the inherent obstacles in putting a colicky daughter down to nap was lulling her to sleep, laying her in her crib and leaving the room quietly. Simply putting her in her crib awake was not an option. She would scream to the point of exploding. So if we could manage this much, it ensured everyone's chances of undisturbed sleep.

Unfortunately we lived in an old house with creaky floorboards, and doing this was next to impossible.
I would cradle her in my arms while feeding her, swaying steadily while seated in the rocking chair in her nursery. When she was out I would slowly stand and lie her down in her crib, carefully replacing the milk bottle with a pacifier, in mid-suckle, as to not disturb the rhythm.
If that went alright I would quietly tip-toe out of the room, carefully avoiding the known creaky spots on the floors. Once I made it out of the room and closed the door I was home free.
The scenario was almost identical to the opening scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
If I could not replace the idol with a fake nipple, and tip-toe around the nasty spots, then 7 gates of hell would break loose.
And I would spend an eternity in that chamber.

Sometimes it did seem like an eternity.
And both of us would end up falling asleep in the rocking chair.

..She's going to be sweet 16 this October.

It does go fast, friends, so enjoy it as much as you can.
respectfully yours in parenthood,
-Edison

a glance back at the noughts;

2010-01-10T20:55:00.011-06:00

A lot can happen in a decade.
A lot, and it passes so quickly. Barely a chance to say hello and goodbye.

a few highlights and dark patches;

- 2000: Spent Christmas of 1999 in the new house on Chase Ave. in Rogers Park.
Celebrated New Years Eve at the Metro with Jane and another couple. The Flaming Lips w/ a reunited Hum. Unbelievable show.

- 2001: I turn 40. Big party at Leona's. Very nice time. Find out my father has prostate cancer. Surgery follows.

- 2002: I begin training at Improv Olympic. Spend the next 9 months studying ensemble improvisation. The family adopts a stray Shih-Tsu and call her Lucy. My fathers' cancer returns. He begins chemo and radiation therapy sessions.

- 2003: My marriage to Jane ends after 13 years. I break ties with the community of people she associated with. I audition for an improv troupe and co-found International Stinger. I start smoking cigarettes again (oof!)

- 2004: My father passes away at age 69. My dog Ozzi has to be euthanized at age 15.
Focus on work, single parenthood, and improv. GREAT year of improv and Stinger. First DSIF, Monday Show rehearsals and first 8 week run.

- 2005: Lots of work, Spring trip to Disneyworld with my mom and the kids. More great improv with Stinger. We gain membership status at the Playground Theater and rank as a top troupe. Another glorious Monday Show run. Standing ovation at DSIF!

- 2006: Meet Leslie in September. Wonderful lady, good changes happening. Road trip to KC. Lots of good Stinger shows. . My dog Alma is put down. She was 16.

- 2007: Romantic year. Week-long trip to Philadelphia with Leslie in May, then to Tulum for a wedding in the Fall. Dwynna turns 13; officially a teenager. Work picks up on remodeling my home. Massive bathroom demo and remodel at my house. Last DSIF trip with Stinger. Coach Bob and member Stacey move to Portland.

- 2008: I adopt a stray cat, and call her Scully. Leslie moves in with me. Stinger goes to Toronto Improv Festival. I take a break from Improv after 6 years. Lots of work on the house. The country elects Obama as its first black President.

- 2009: Buy new Mac Pro, printer, 30" monitor. Invested in 3D software. Economy tanks, unexpected sewage issue, debts build to boiling point. Celebrate 10 years at 1340 West Chase Ave.
______

..Kind of a cursory examination I suppose. Some pretty sad times in there. A few intentionally not mentioned. And glorious moments too. Lots of them. All formative years, and much of it blurred by how quickly it has passed. Seemingly faster than any other decade in my life.
In fact, I know there will be things I'll remember later that didn't make the above summarization. Even special moments.

But glancing back and looking ahead, this is about making better years ahead. Being with Leslie, and being with my children more. A better year, and a better future. Winds of change are blowing. Good ones.

So long, noughts. It has been quite a ride.

Broken plane

2009-11-18T06:46:00.004-06:00

I was supposed to fly to Cleveland yesterday for a business meeting, and ended up not going because the plane broke down.

In spite of the fact that it was an early morning flight, with a return to Chicago later in the afternoon, I was looking forward to the short trip. A prominent high-end gift company was flying me out to meet with their lead design director and one of their top executives in the likelihood of establishing an ongoing consulting relationship. I would become one of their outside go-to guys for product design, ..which is good news, obviously. Some steady freelance work for me, and something outside the toy industry (which I do love, but after 17 years, gets a little monotonous). It will be nice to work some different muscles.

I had been emailing and speaking on the phone with the lead design director there, who as it turns out, is an old friend of mine from high school. We hadn't seen or heard from each other in the 30 years since, but I had noticed recently that he popped up on the Classmates website. His name is John Smith. Out of a sea of John Smiths in the world, I knew it was my friend since he was the only John Smith at Minooka Community High School, class of '79.
So I dropped him a note to say 'hi'.
I received a warm reply from him bringing me up to date on things at his end, and it turns out he pursued a career in illustration after graduating high school. Cut to now, and he's heading product development at the Things Remembered company. As I said, John and I were friends in high school. Even back then I had a good drawing hand and John had seen that I ran with it over the years. Along the way I had also acquired a lot of experience in product design, which is what he's now involved with every day.
Needless to say, our phone chats over the last couple of weeks have been fun. Certainly business talk and the potential of working together to create some beautiful stuff, but reconnecting after 30 years has been the icing on the cake. I was psyched for the meeting.
It was only going to be for a few hours, but meeting face to face with them would accomplish a lot.

So, I drove to O'Hare for my 7:42 flight, checked in, and boarded the jet, portfolio in hand.

And we sat there for 30 minutes, before they asked us to get off the plane.
There was a maintenance problem with the jet.
What's more, United didn't have a back-up jet available, and there were no other flights on which to put us.
We would have to sit and wait. Indefinitely. Until they fixed the plane, or got a stand-by flight.
My meeting time was quickly shot, because my return flight was at 3 PM.

I waited 2 hours before deciding to leave the airport and drive home. I phoned John and explained the situation, and he sympathized with my frustrations. There was nothing either of us could do except agree to reschedule our meeting, which is pending.

I may have dodged a bullet in avoiding a potential plane crash yesterday, but it doesn't inspire my confidence in United Airlines.

At least I didn't have any guitars to check in.

Confessions of a house geek: The Shitstorm

2009-11-13T08:15:00.005-06:00

Seriously, waste and fecal matter need to be flushed out of any home, and mine is certainly no exception. Especially when there is a break in your sewer line and things start to get nasty inside from backup.
It happens to homeowners, and it happened to me back last month.

I had noticed my basement toilet was backing up, and the laundry sink wasn't draining. I called a friend of mine who handles my inside plumbing and heating and he suggested I call Power Plumbing to have my lines checked out. (I should note, I vetted this company well. They're highly rated and award-winning members of Angie's List)
Well, upon them coming out and doing a diagnostic with cameras and routers they found that my sewer pipe was half-filled with wet sand and silt. So much, that they couldn't get through it with their heaviest router. It had become impacted sludge.
There was a break in the middle of my back yard and they'd have to dig down, blow the pipe out with a jetter and replace the broken section.
Total cost; about $8000.

Oof!

There was no doubt; it had to be done. It had to happen fast, and this was nothing to cut corners on. It was a nasty job and these guys were the pros to do it right. So I bit the bullet and had them do it, starting to figure out a way to pay for it over the next few months.
Well, they did the repair, and the sewer line was clean, but upon inspecting the rest of the lines coming out of the house they found another problem.
My old kitchen pipe that went out my basement wall and out to an old grease-trap (which I had tied to the main drain 7 years ago) had completely rusted away and dropped from its connection. Waste water was leaking into the soil next to my foundation, and the wet soil was leaching into the sewer line by the break.
This, they determined, was a source of the larger and ongoing issue. This was a separate problem from the broken clay pipe in my yard, and would require another dig next to my foundation. It was a major repair outside and a rerouting of the way my kitchen drains inside.
With part and labor, it would come to another $7500.

Oof! Again.

I honestly couldn't stand to watch the 2nd phase of the work, but it went fine and it's fixed now. The good news is that my 115 year old house actually drains and flushes better than it ever did. A mean feat for a house that was built before the advent of indoor plumbing.
(Yes, that's right.)
The house has been modernized into the 21st century. My sewer line from the house to the alley is also as clean as a whistle, and there are now 3 clean-outs in different places to allow easy access for any future maintenance.

And as much as $15,000 would've been better spent on a new roof (which my house sorely needs), I can save the receipts from this project and get some equity there when I eventually sell.

..and I am reconsidering my battles at this point.
I can console myself in that this incident is a once-in-a-lifetime expense for any homeowner. Like getting a new boiler. It's expensive, but you never have to do it again. But there are other expensive things that go wrong with houses this old, and I have to consider an exit strategy if things become too much.
There is still too much to do on this place before I can seriously consider putting it on the market for sale. It's in much better shape than when I bought it 10 years ago, but still; with the housing market being the way it is now, I wouldn't walk away with very much.

So, I'm looking at a refinance right now. I'm hoping there is enough additional equity to pay off the balance on this repair work, and take care of some other debt that has been accumulating.
I still have some grand plans for the place, but every project has to offer some serious potential in return investment or I just can't justify it.
I'm hoping to hang in for another 5 years. By then, the place should be at a finished stage, both of my kids will be done with school, and the real estate market should be in a better place.

..and I haven't slept in over a year!

2009-11-07T17:00:00.006-06:00

I've been so busy.

Seriously, I'm not very good about updating this blog. Probably because nobody reads it.
I have certainly had the time to log in and post something, but life is barreling along so quickly, everything becomes yesterday's news too fast, or it's just way too transitory to mention.

But a couple of things bear mentioning. Since I'm here, and all;

My last blog entry coincides with my taking a hiatus from my beloved improv troupe; International Stinger. After 5 1/2 years I felt my life tugging me in directions that demanded some hard decisions. I had been in a new romantic relationship for two years, and the only time we were able to spend together alone, aside from a few weeknights, was every other Saturday night. All other times my kids were here. As Stinger moved up and gained membership status at the Playground Theater we started getting a lot more Friday and Saturday night show slots. In addition to all of that, we rehearsed every Sunday afternoon from 4 to 6 pm.
It was very rare that Leslie and I got an entire free day to ourselves.

When I co-founded International Stinger back in early '03 things were significantly different. The schedule and the late hours were fine and fun, but as Stinger got even busier I felt spread a little thin between being a single dad of 2 and performing improv. I was already saddled with tending my business in the toy industry and working on the house, and both of those weren't really progressing as quickly as I wanted. Still, I was very happy performing with my friends and dedicated to the troupe's growth. We were an established and respected ensemble.
But as my relationship with Leslie moved into 2 years it just became clear that I wasn't going to be capable of continuing. I wasn't growing as an improvisor anymore and I decided I either had to re-commit to the craft or step away.

This wasn't an easy decision to make, but it was necessary. I was already getting all the signals. I knew my priorities had shifted and I had to make a choice.
I have no regrets, but it was still painful. I will always cherish my time with Stinger. Such amazing and magical and hilarious moments we created together!

On stage and off.

insomnia

2008-10-04T03:10:00.006-05:00

I've been fighting depression.
It comes and goes, and I have a history with it, but I'm usually pretty good at keeping it in check. It's often hard to tell with me because I'm pretty laid back and quiet most of the time anyway, but I start to feel numb and overwhelmed by things going on in my life.
It's been that way more lately.
Thankfully it's not nearly as bad as it was some years ago. I was dealing with an emotionally and financially messy divorce, and my father was dying from cancer.

I imagine I was not easy to be around back then. Thankfully I had a couple of close friends help me through those times.

Sadly, it's usually money matters that get me down these days. When work is steady and the money is coming in I'm more optimistic about what I can accomplish, in paying down my debt, keeping up with bills and maintenance, expanding my business, and working on my house. That seems to be the running theme.
I do try to remind myself how well I have it compared to most people. But it doesn't change the fact that I feel stressed about some of what's going on in my life. Leslie starts to sense it, my children start being affected by it. I slip into a funk, and I'm not at my best. I'm not completely present.

But money is very tight right now. My car needs work, I'm still trying to finish a bathroom remodeling project that started back in May of this year, and my house desperately needs a new roof. A complete tear-off that's going to cost at least $12,000. I've had leaks in my bedroom and studio ceilings for a couple of years now, and it's only getting worse.
I also need to have the 2nd story of my house re-shingled. That won't be cheap either, but it has to happen within the next year or two.
I've also put off the purchase of new computer hardware and software to help my business. I don't have a working printer, and I'm still on my old Mac G4. I really should be on a Mac Pro if I want to stay productive and expand creatively and professionally.

These are the main things. There are at least a dozen other things that warrant repair, upgrade, replacement, or monetary expense of some sort.
I try to find encouragement in the things that I have been able to accomplish this year so far. I had to replace my hot water heater early this year, and that's been done. There is the bathroom expansion and remodeling, which is looking great, and will be a sound investment in comfort and resale, ..and Leslie and I have been tackling some of the prepping and priming of the interior rooms. That doesn't require much money, just some focused spare time and sweat equity. The difference is startling, though, and that's been a bright spot. I'm feeling less like I'm living in squalor. Now I just need new drapes and furniture. I've had the same shit for 25 years and it's getting old (well, it was old when I bought it, as I used to be into antiquing).

Sometimes I do feel like bailing on my house. It's been a real ride so far, I've done quite a bit of upgrading already, and it's an amazing house in a great location, ..but it has been an almost constant struggle to live here and find the extra money to fix the place up. Again, I try to remind myself that I've been doing this all on my own, while I've been paying child-support and half the tuition at a private school for my children for the past 5 years. That's something I could feel good about.
But again, it doesn't change the fact that I feel tired and overwhelmed by everything that still needs to be done. I find myself looking on-line at the real-estate listings in places like Portland, Oregon or the West bay area of Northern California, for the next chapter of my life. It's tempting and inspiring, but it's not a practical consideration right now. My kids are still in school here, and I couldn't get much for my house with the shape it's in and the way the real estate market is right now.
My best bet is to hang in and wait things out.
In another 4 or 5 years the house will be in much better shape for sale, the kids will be about done with school entirely, and the market will have (hopefully) made an upturn.

I still consider staying here much longer, as I initially intended, just not as frequently as I used to. I'm aware that I'd have to keep doing things to the house to make it adequate for the long stay, but the longer I stay, the more equity I'll build up. Again, I'm in a great location. I live on a nice tree-lined street a block from the beach, and the area is only going to keep getting nicer in the coming years. I've seen a lot of good change in the 9 years I've been here.
I just don't know if I have the patience to wait it out in hopes of a big return. There is more to life than this particular real-estate investment, and I really don't know if I can stay here another 10 or 15 years.

Ugh, I need some sleep.

The election

2008-09-07T06:34:00.007-05:00

I've been following this coming Presidential election closer than any other that I can remember. Partly because it's more crucial than any other in recent history, but also because, since Bush has been in office, I've educated myself more on how this country's political system has been subverted by corruption and greed. The 'economic hit men', the lobbyists who control politicians, the cronyism and patronage, the neocons, the fundamentalist evangelicals' rabid political agenda, the partisan-based vote purging and fraud, the mass-media complacency (and even complicity), ..essentially, the post WWII corporate and political trend in this country. That of a corporate empire that is selling out American citizens' interests and trust, and is not being held accountable.

If Nixon and Watergate sullied my sense of innocence at age 13, Reagan and the Bushes became my wake-up call as a mature political animal.
It has made me upset and it has frustrated me.

But what truly rattles me is how blatantly obvious politicians have become in continuing to use these proven tactics, and not enough people notice enough to do anything about it. Millions of people are screaming for change, and they are being continually duped or ignored entirely.
And like those millions of other working class people, I feel completely betrayed by my government and that our democracy is quickly slipping away to an autocratic corporatocracy.

I realize that Barak Obama is not going to change all of that if he is elected, but I do believe that he has a better chance than anyone right now. We simply need him, and people like him, in more positions to implement the change in direction that we sorely need.

I still want to believe that we live in the greatest country in the world, and it's hard to do that in these times.
But I find some solace in the words of humorist Mort Sahl, who once said;

"We know that Jeffersonian Democracy works. Otherwise politicians wouldn't have to lie so much."

I just wish more people in this country knew when they were being lied to.

My 'moving in' story: Part 3

2008-08-28T05:45:00.003-05:00

I came over to Mrs. Munson's house early the next morning. We agreed that I'd be coming by to check in, and start helping her in any way that I could.
My mood instantly improved when I saw she had a rented moving van and it was parked out front.
I hadn't slept well.

For the next week my family would be holed up in a small coach house studio nearby while we got everything on track. I couldn't work at all because everything I needed was packed, but the kids could go to school. And though Jane could work, we'd have to pick up the slack quickly. I'd still need another week to set up my studio and begin taking in work.

I spent most of the morning keeping Mrs. Munson company while making phone calls.
-I had to phone my moving company and convince them to hold off and NOT unload everything we owned, having to switch trailers due to the delay and their shipping schedule. Another 2 days to keep everything on the same truck would cost about $850.
-I called and arranged a small army of packers to come later that day, to finish packing Mrs. Munson's belongings into storage. Half a dozen guys minimum, and a truckload of empty boxes.
-I located a nearby storage facility and arranged a locker in Mrs. Munson's name.

Once that was done I felt more relief. Lia had brewed some strong coffee and we spent some time packing and talking before I had to go to the closing we had rescheduled.
As per our plan, Michael Pardys had come over the previous night and Lia had signed the papers granting him the power of attorney.
She did not make him stand outside.

I know, because I asked.

We actually had a bit of a giggle about it.
I asked her more about what she didn't like about her lawyer and it led into some more in-depth conversation. Now, I understood why Mrs. Munson initially liked us, and I'll expound on that momentarily, ..but it was as if we were a grand-niece and nephew to her. She wasn't baking us casseroles or anything, ..simply that there was some sense of deep trust, or recognition of some kind.
In fact, by the time I had to leave for the closing I found myself eager to come back afterward.
_______

In her younger days, mainly through the 1940s, 50s and 60s, Lia Munson was a professional fashion illustrator and photographer. She regularly created beautifully expressive ink and wash drawings of tall women, wearing stylish clothing, minks, hats, gloves, ..for newspaper ads. Carson Pirie Scott, Marshall Fields, ..downtown department stores that would run half and full-page ads in the city papers. She also had other personal art work, but she was an exceptional illustrator and photographer. She was also an avid gardener and much of her photography revolved around landscapes, flower and fauna.
Lia was a long-prominent member, and frequent lecturer and exhibitor, of the FPSA (Film Photographers Society of America).

Lia Evans met her future husband, Knute, when they were both illustrating for clothing catalogs in Chicago. They fell in love, got married and moved to St. Paul, Minnesota in 1936. They lived there while Knute, or as he was professionally known; "K.O. Munson", began earning a reputation as a renown pin-up artist during the 1940s and 50s.
He worked for Brown and Bigelow, an advertising and promotion company that printed media for distribution, ..but they were most famous for their pin-up calendars, especially during WWII.
Munson worked shoulder to shoulder with famous illustrators like Gil Elvgren, Alberto Vargas, George Petty, Earl Moran, Earl McPherson, ..illustrators who crafted a unique style and genre of iconic American art.
K.O. Munson was a classically trained artist, working with pastels and using figure models for reference, but when pin-up illustration succumbed to the era of photography Munson left St. Paul for Chicago in 1949 and focused more on a career in professional photography. At the time they bought the house on Chase Ave. in 1959 he was semi-retired, as was Lia. And, having no children, they spent much of their time living near the north shore beach in Rogers Park, entertaining friends regularly and traveling the world.

in the mid-60s K.O. Munson developed melanoma cancer, and passed away in 1967.
He was 67 years old. Lia was 54.
_______

..I was to learn all of this about Lia, and much more, over the course of the next day and a half.
I'd come over in the morning and we'd share a pot of coffee, occasionally directing the packers around, ..but mostly chatting about photography, art and illustration. Lia talked a lot about her long and full life, and her travels with her husband. She showed me much more of her and her husband's work, talking about some of it as she sorted through it. ..and there was a lifetimes' work there.
Many of the hundreds of gorgeous photos we sorted through were pictures of Lia or Knute. It was fascinating to see them both through the years, and in different exotic places. They were a very handsome couple. I recall coming across one black and white photo of Lia, from the mid 40s. In it she was wearing a crisp white blouse, tucked neatly into jodhpurs. Donning 'cat' styled sunglasses and dark lipstick, her wavy shoulder length brunette hair framed her young face from beneath a tied scarf. She was wearing leather riding boots and posing with her foot resting on the running board of a car, casually leaning with her elbow resting on it, and flashing the most beautific smile. ..Lia looked like a figure model. Statuesque, stylish, and proudly celebrating her femininity. She must have been in her early 30s.

Lia had left Knute's studio essentially untouched since his death.
She kept it clean, but all of his working tools were still there. Drawing board, pastel cabinet, paper stock, backdrops, ..there were even some sketches and thumbnails of his, still stuck to the wall. ..It was as if he was away on a weekend fishing trip.
I had seen his studio already, several months earlier when first walking through, and I was immediately pretty blown away by his work. It was all over the house.

But I recall standing there for the longest time, ..and surveying everything of his. Slowly drinking in every detail, in a room that hosted such creativity. ..And there lingered an uncanny and odd sensation. Not that the place was haunted, ..but I knew this same room would now be MY studio. I would be spending several hours every day, drawing, painting, creating, in this same room. ..possibly for the rest of my life.
____________

EPILOGUE
It was long past dinner time and I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I had been on the go since that morning, but I wasn't going to stop until we were finished.
For the past 2 days solid I had helped Lia sort through her belongings, pack, and kept her company the entire time.
And, 2 days after my family was supposed to have been moved into our new house, every last thing Lia Munson owned was boxed and taken out.

The movers I had brought in made quick work of packing everything to company code, and hauled it to the storage facility a few blocks away, ..or into the van Lia had rented the previous day. Everyone had been gone for a few minutes, and it was suddenly quiet. I was alone with Lia. She was getting a few last necessities together to bring to her new condo nearby, and I took one last stroll through the entire house.

It looked like a cyclone had hit it.
..Literally.

What Lia didn't want, she just left. Boxes of old magazines, boxes of empty jars, ..trash everywhere. Old lamps, cheap furniture, old rusty gardening supplies, stuff in the garage, stuff under the back porch, ..the freezer in the basement, and all it's contents..
The next morning a salvage company would be coming in, to haul everything left behind out the back, and into a huge skid in the alley.
..They would end up filling it, and have to bring another empty one in to finish.
While all this was going on my movers would be bringing all of our posessions in the front door. I would be on traffic duty, bouncing between crews, giving directions to both so they wouldn't bump into each other.
Everything would have to go as smoothly as possible because the floor company was re-scheduled for the next day.
..In fact, after that, things went pretty smoothly in general. The oak floors beneath all the carpeting and vinyl turned out beautifully, and we were fairly well unpacked and cozy by the time Christmas came a month later.

But that would all come after tonight.

After surveying the work still ahead I suddenly felt tired and fatigued. Lia came back inside from loading the last box into her car, and we both stood there in the entry foyer for, what seemed, a full minute.
Feeling a little uncomfortable, I finally broke the silence;

"Wow, I guess this is it. ..Do you want a minute alone, Lia? I mean, ..you spent 40 years of your life in this house."

"No," she said, rather non-chalantly, "I've got everything I need. I'm ready."

I smiled, and walked her outside to her car, parked out front.
I opened the door for her and she sat behind the wheel. Lia held up her keys in the dim light and removed the one to the front door of the house. She had marked it with a piece of white graphics tape.
Laying it in my hand and closing my fingers around it with hers, she smiled back;

"I guess I won't be needing this anymore."

I placed my other hand on hers and gave a warm squeeze.
Saying my last goodbye, I closed the door of her car and she drove off.
______

I never saw Lia Munson again, after that night.
She had given us her contact information, ..but she still traveled quite a bit, so we never caught her at home. After a few years, the phone number she gave us didn't work any longer.
That was almost 9 years ago.

Lia would be in her mid 90s now. I don't know whether or not she's still alive, ..but I'll always remember her as much more than the nice old woman who used to live in my house.

My 'moving in' story: Part 2

2008-08-27T05:05:00.000-05:00

It seemed inconceivable that things could have gone this horribly wrong.

We had been in frequent communication with our realtor, ..who, in turn, was in frequent communication with Lia Munson's realtor, ..who was in frequent communication with Mrs. Munson, ..and she said Lia had signed all the selling contracts and even reminded her of the closing date. ..Mrs. Munson had even determined the date personally, giving herself almost 4 months to pack and move.
Surely, there was someone who had been keeping tabs on things at her end.

I asked Lia the last time her realtor checked in. She said it was "weeks ago", then began talking about how much she disliked her realtor. How she "didn't give her enough time to move", how "impersonal" she was, and other minor character criticisms that had more to do with demeanor than real estate.
I asked Lia if her real estate attorney was aware of the situation.
..That really set her off.
Apparently, she hated the lawyer she had hired for the transaction. It was more of the same kind of criticism, but modified with words like "shifty" and "jerk". She didn't like speaking on the phone with him unless she absolutely had to, and at that point she had stopped letting him into the house.

As I said earlier, Lia seemed numb and shell shocked by everything that was happening that day. ..In fact, when she answered the door she was wearing an ace bandage on her wrist and hand. Apparently, she had lost her balance when stepping on something and sprained it. It was pretty puffy and bruised looking, and I recommended she have it looked at by a doctor. She kind of shrugged it off, saying she didn't want to bother because she had so much to do. My wife, Jane, offered to drive her to the nearby healing clinic, where she worked, but she refused.
On the surface, she seemed calm, if tired and unfocused, but I could tell that she was somewhat in denial of the whole event. She quietly guided us into the kitchen to finish our conversation, where she continued delicately wrapping old crystal goblets in newspaper, and tucking them into a small open box.
So, with baited breath, I asked the inevitable;

"Lia? Are you expecting to be completely packed and moved out today?"
"Mostly, yes."

"Mostly?"
"I'm going out to rent a truck later today. I'm taking one load to Minnesota tonight, and the rest I'll need to put into storage somewhere here."
(..an 86 year old woman, driving a loaded rental truck through the night to Minnesota. ..With a sprained [if not broken] wrist.)

I asked her if she had a storage facility set up. She didn't.
I asked if she had movers or packers scheduled. She didn't. "A couple of neighbors" were going to help her.
(Apparently, the elves weren't coming).
It was clear that she didn't realize, until the past day or so, that she was way over her skis. ..and even then she didn't know just how far.
After our conversation with Lia, Jane and I regrouped in the living room and left her to pack. We had to do something, pretty fast.

This was what we had originally orchestrated:
-Closing on our house in Oak Park 10:30 am
-Closing with Lia Munson for our new house in Rogers Park at 1:30
-Pick up the kids from school at 3:00, unpack a few things from our van, set up camp in the new house that night.
-Next day; The 18 wheeler, with movers bringing in all our belongings (diverting everything to specific zones). Pick up a few groceries, and dine out.
-Next day; Floor finishers! ..To rip out every inch of carpet, linoleum, and vinyl in the place. Followed by sanding 2 stories of oak floors, to be sealed and finished.

Now, we didn't know when she'd be moved out, ..but there was no way Lia's belongings were going to be packed and gone today.
..We couldn't unload our van and sleep there tonight. ..Our stuff couldn't be delivered tomorrow, because there was no place to put anything. ..and the flooring contractor couldn't start on the floors until everything had been moved into the house, someplace.

It was time to devise plan B.

Jane volunteered to get on the phone and find some accommodations for at least the next few days, and I went back to speak with Lia in the kitchen.
I asked if she was okay, and she seemed to be having some discomfort with her wrist.
I offered her a ride to the closing downtown a little later, and she politely declined. I asked what time her neighbors were going to come over to help pack, and she said around 6 pm.

At that point, it was getting toward lunch and Jane and I wanted to eat before meeting with Lia and her attorney at 1:30. We found parking downtown, had a quick lunch and were actually a few minutes early getting there. We were ushered into a small conference room where Lia Munson's lawyer, Michael Pardys, came in and introduced himself. We sat down, and I began explaining what just happened at the house. As we spoke, it became obvious that he didn't like her either. He winced, shaking his head occasionally as I talked, and when we finished he confessed that she berated him. Mr. Pardys felt that Mrs. Munson was extremely tempermental.
He told us that she was, by far, the worst person he'd ever had to deal with, personally or professionally, and that we had his complete sympathy and cooperation.

Jane and I looked at each other, bewildered. Lia Munson had been nothing but kind and pleasant to us. We began discussing our concerns, and Lia's lawyer assured us that under our contract she would be held liable for any extra expenses incurred. Accommodations, meals, storage facilities, ..everything.
I felt some relief, though it didn't solve all of our problems. We'd still be out-of-pocket for the time being, ..plus I actually felt bad for Lia at this point. As much of a shitstorm everything had become, there was no way that I could be angry at her. I was certainly frustrated by the situation, ..but to take that out on her wouldn't serve anything. Jane hung up her cel phone, after a returned call, to let me know that our friends (who would be putting us up for a couple of nights while our floors were being finished) had made space for us early. ..We'd be able to stay there for the next few days. ..More relief.

Mr. Pardys started to become concerned about the time, and phoned Mrs. Munson.
It was well after 2 pm. Lia ...was at home, packing.
He reminded her of the time and asked if she was coming at all.
She told him that she did come downtown, but couldn't find the address, so she went back home.
He began to explain to her how that would complicate things further, ..but it was obvious that she became irate with him almost immediately. It just wasn't going well for her lawyer, at this point.

..I suppose it was the sense that Jane and I were the only people in this entire affair that she liked and trusted, but I asked Mr. Pardys if I could speak with her on the phone for a minute. He couldn't hand me the receiver fast enough. Within a few minutes I had Mrs. Munson agree to grant Mr. Pardys the power of attorney.
He would bring the papers over later and the closing would be rescheduled for tomorrow, only now she wouldn't have to come downtown. Simply put; It saved her trouble, and saved us time.
The phone call ended, and so did the meeting. We were just in time to pick our kids up from school at 3. ..And, after unpacking a few necessities, we all went out to an early dinner with our friends, filling them in on the day's events.

I remember at one point, during supper, wondering about Mr. Pardys.
..Wondering if Lia Munson would actually make him stand outside on the porch, in the middle of November, while she sat inside and signed those papers.

My 'moving in' story: Part 1

2008-08-26T09:02:00.002-05:00

1999:

The closing on our house in Oak Park went pretty smoothly. At about 10:30 am we signed and initialed the stack of papers, handed the keys to the real estate agent and we were officially homeless.
From there we drove up to Rogers Park to do our walk-through on the place we would be moving into later that day.

When the seller of our new house, Lia Munson, opened the door to let us in, we found that she was nowhere near being packed or loaded ..let alone finished cleaning. There was no one there helping her, and no moving van parked out front.
All of us were due downtown at 1:30 for our closing, and it suddenly looked like it wasn't going to happen.
It was 11 am on a weekday. My children were in school at that moment, and they had no home to come home to in 4 hours.

Fuck.

(Pardon my French just then, ..but under certain circumstances profanity should be allowed. In such moments, when suddenly blindsided by news that invokes a sense of deep desperation, ..evoking an involuntary gasp of shock and horror, ..the utterance of such an epitaph is not only a given, ..but a privilege earned.
I had, unquestionably, earned that moment.)

Lia Munson had lived in the house since 1959. Her husband passed away in 1967 and she never remarried. She was in her mid 80s now, and it was too much house for her to take care of. That much was clear. It was obvious that she hadn't remodeled in at least 30 years, nor had she painted in at least 15. The entire place had a deep musty smell, the stained and faded wall to wall carpet being at least 40 years old.
And she was a packrat. She had knick-knacks and stuff everywhere, and everything she owned was old. It needed a good cleaning, but the place was basically kept tidy.

I remember walking into the house the very first time, several months earlier.
I was slackjawed as my eyes drank everything in.
..and all I kept murmuring was;
"Oh. My. God."

..which was my response for 2 continuous thoughts;
"What an amazing old house. What character!" ..and,.. "Christ, I don't know where to start!"
But, regardless of the long work ahead, I was thrilled when she accepted our offer.

..That was all earlier in the Summer, though.
Now, it was move-in day, and the place looked, if anything, messier than when we walked through the very first time.
So, I asked Lia, who was there alone (and frankly, looking pretty numb and overwhelmed by everything), if she had planned to be at the closing at 1:30.
She said "yes", but she .."had some more packing to do, first."

I muttered something like; "..mm'kaaayy.." ..but what was going through my mind was;
"Are you insane, Woman?! Have you taken leave of your senses?!! Are Elves going to suddenly pop out of your butt, pack your shit into a pumpkin and magically whisk you off to your brother's house in Minnesota!!?? ..GAHH!!!"

..or something similar..

I politely asked if it was okay to walk through the place, and she said it was fine.
Every room in the house was full of stuff. Some drawers had been emptied, and there were a few open boxes, ..but no closets had been emptied. The walk-up attic was stuffed to the gills with 40 years of stuff. The full basement; same deal, but in addition to boxes and boxes of old magazines, she had an old meat freezer that was about the size of a Mini Cooper. It was gargantuan, and it was stuffed with food that was as old as 25 years.

4 floors, and every nook and cranny of this 110 year old Victorian had 40 years of someone elses life in it. But, it was all supposed to be gone by now, and my family had no place to sleep that night. I didn't panic though, because I am, if anything, a rock in situations like this. I really am, ..though I must admit I did come close to a meltdown at one point;
..There was one moment, ..when I opened the bathroom closet, and looked at how much stuff was crammed onto the shelf. I noticed some boxes of tampons from the 70s.

This woman had probably been post-menopausal for 30 years.

Fuck.

My former boss the fugitive

2008-08-20T13:04:00.006-05:00

Years ago when I was young and reckless I took a job working at a record store in Joliet called Third Ring Records. It paid little more than minimum wage, but I was pretty keen on the idea of working in a record store because I'd get to listen to good music all day long. It was from 1980-82 and a lot of great new music was coming out then.
I also got an employee discount, but it was pretty common for us to open LPs we wanted, record them onto cassette and re-seal them with our shrink wrapper. This was before CDs. We sold albums, cassettes and even 8-tracks.
It was also a head shop that sold paraphernalia.

Yeah, it was a while ago.

I worked for a guy named Ray Scoville who owned a small chain of record stores spread from Aurora to Matteson, il. Third Ring Records (a deliberate reference to Tolkein) was his flagship store on Jefferson Ave. on Joliet's west side. I liked most of the people I ended up working with, but I always thought Ray was kind of a strange cat. He was married to a woman who was probably 15 years his senior, which in itself wasn't too weird, but he was rumored to be having an affair with at least one of his employees. I didn't pay much mind, because it didn't directly affect me. I was just happy to be working there and stayed clear of any potential drama.
Probably the strangest thing that ever happened while working there was when I was robbed at gunpoint one morning, shortly after opening. It was a Sunday morning and I was working the front counter register while Ray was doing paperwork in the back.
There were no customers in the store when an older guy, probably in his 50s, walked in and approached the counter. I asked him if I could help him, and he pulled a pistol out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me. I took a short step back and raised my hands. He told me he didn't want to hurt me. He just wanted me to empty the register of all the paper money and hand it to him. I did as instructed (we had just opened so there was only $50 in the till) and he bolted out the door and around the corner. I immediately pressed the silent alarm and called Ray up front. The police showed up half an hour later and took my statement of the incident. Because I was an artist I was actually able to do a pencil drawing of the guy's face, and I brought it into the detective's office in Joliet when I came in to look through their mug shots.
But as far as I know, nothing ever came of the incident.

All in all it was a pretty cool gig, but after about a year and a half of working there I decided to leave and go back to school. I had been out of High School for a couple of years, taking time off to buy a car and enjoy a non-academic lifestyle. I was planning on taking a week off, using a paid vacation the employees received after being there for a year, then resigning.
Well, I was refused the paid vacation. I argued with Ray about it and he simply refused, so I quit. I reported him to the bureau of licensed employers and ended up taking him to court over just a few hundred dollars.
I remember feeling a little intimidated at the time. I was barely 20 and I had to go into a downtown office on Michigan ave. and present my case to some state official. Ray was there and he brought a lawyer with him.
Ray didn't say much, but his lawyer tried to make me out to be a liar. I stood my ground though, and Ray had to cut a check on the spot. I was pissed about having to fight for what was mine, but I was glad to be done with him.

Cut to a couple of years later. I was home from college for the weekend, and my mom showed me a news article in the local Joliet Herald News.
One of my former co-workers, a girl named Colleen, was found brutally murdered. She was shot several times, wrapped in newspaper and left in her car in a parking lot.
The person suspected of the murder was Ray Scoville.

"Didn't you work for this guy?" my mom asked.

I was friendly with Colleen, and also her dad, who would frequently visit the store. He was a nice guy and he reminded me a little of the actor Robert Loggia.
I cannot imagine how devastated he must have been.
Since I was living away at school I didn't follow the trial closely, but Ray and an accomplice friend (whom I also knew) were both charged for the crime.
Ray of 1st degree murder, his friend of complicity.

Well, Ray skipped bail and he's been on the run ever since. He was convicted in absentia and has been on the FBIs most wanted list for the past 25 years or so.
The entire case was even featured on a segment of America's Most Wanted.
I never saw the episode.

I'm still reminded of it sometimes. Oddly enough, when I recall my experience of working there I don't think much about the incident, because it all happened after I had left.
I don't think for a minute that I was ever in any danger, but it still gives me a bit of a chill when I think of what he did and the fact that he's still out there.

Somewhere.

Stinger in Toronto

2008-08-18T08:42:00.005-05:00

International Stinger played the Toronto Improv Festival over this past weekend.
It was the first time up there for many of us, and the first time Stinger has played there. After 4 consecutive years of playing DSIF we had decided to take a pass on attending again. We've had a good time in Chapel Hill, but we were due for setting our sights on fresher territory.
We drove up in 2 vehicles on Thursday and the drive was not bad at all. Not all of Stinger could make the trip, but alumnus Sayjal rode up with us to make it a 6 person set on both nights.
We brought our signature 'Afterparty' form to the festival, and we had a solid and delicious show on Friday night. It's safe to say it was one of our best sets and the audience loved us. Saturday night brought us to Bad Dog Theater, where we hosted our 'Open Court' show. We only had an hour time slot, so things were a little rushed, but everyone who played seemed to have a ball and appreciated the chance to jump on stage and mix it up with other improvisors who were in town.
It's only unfortunate that the entire festival suffered from a lack of organization, communication, and promotion this year. We played to an audience of maybe 30 people, but we felt so good about our show and got such a warm response that it more than compensated. We were all elated with our experience there.

And Toronto is a beautiful town. Much of it has the old-world charm of New York or Philadelphia, but it's a cleaner and more progressive city in so many ways. I did a good amount of exploring on my own on Saturday morning/afternoon and saw more of the social underbelly of Toronto. but it was all very rich and genuine and at no time did I feel that 'bad part of town' vibe. We all ended up staying at a ritzy downtown hotel called The Sutton, with whom Stinger J. Ben found a sweet weekend deal. Great move, that. From there we had easy access to all the culture on Bloor St. and Yonge. We couldn't have asked for a better location and we all would've liked to stay another day or two, just to explore more and enjoy more of what Toronto has to offer.

So, Stinger is moving onward and upward. We're looking forward to playing Toronto again next year, plus we're applying to play more U.S. festivals in the coming year.

The jury has decided; We're simply having too much fun to stop now.

EDIT: Stinger Biddle and Stinger Matt have also blogged about the Toronto experience.

looking ahead

2008-08-07T05:41:00.004-05:00

The work has been flowing back in over the past week, and I'm Coming out of this year's slow time, business-wise.
Work flow dropped off around the end of June, and though I took in projects throughout July I had quite a bit of down time. It's pretty typical and has been the pattern (more or less) over the last 15 years. Lots of people in the toy industry take holidays around then, but it's also around the time that most of the conceptual work starts going into engineering and production. Usually I just tighten the belt another notch, enjoy the break, and work on other art projects to stretch some creative muscles.

I'm hoping to buy a new Mac Pro and a Cintiq monitor/easel this year, along with 3D software like Rhino and Mudbox. The strategy is to start becoming more full service in developing concepts, but it'll open so many other doors for me creatively. Essentially, I'll have the tools to model, sculpt, and render anything I can conceive. The objects can be turned at any angle, and look photographic when rendered. The files can also be saved in an stl (Stereolithography) format, and I can commission a model shop to produce a precise 3 Dimensional version.
My mind reels at the possibilities.
I'm already overdue for a new Mac (I'm still on a G4 for crissake!), and the Cintiq easels are coming down to reasonable prices. It's time to trade up.
The afore-posted 'bathroom remodel' has dragged on, but is wrapping up and it's looking fantastic. Unfortunately these projects take more time and money than predicted and it has putting a damper on my 'computer upgrade' agenda. It's somewhat frustrating, but I'm so used to working with what I have that I'm slogging through okay, trying to be patient.

The summer has absolutely flown by. I can't believe it's August already. Maybe it's all the rain we've had, but it seems Spring has decided to engage Summer in a 'turf war'. I don't mind actually. I don't care much for the brown lawns of late summer heat and drought.
Also, school starts up for the kids in a few weeks and it will be a good thing for us all.

And have I ever mentioned how much I love Autumn?

Well, I do.

going back

2008-08-05T14:38:00.008-05:00

I drove out to visit my mom this past weekend with the kids.
It hasn't happened much this year because she lives way out in the middle of nowhere, Illinois. Specifically near Henry, La Salle and Peru. It's about 135 miles from door to door, and with gas prices hovering at $4.25 per gallon, frequent visits haven't been in the cards this summer.
She's retired and living in a nice house on a lakeshore. It's quiet and tranquil there and we all had a good time over the weekend.

It seems every time I visit her, the late night conversations roll around to her life with my dad, or times we were all younger. She'll usually bring me up to date on old friends she's heard from since we last spoke. Friends of my parents that I knew when I was a child. Sometimes there's bad news. An age-related illness, or even a death.
At one point during this visit my mom pulled out some DVDs she had been burning, old slides and home movies transferred onto a format that will keep them preserved. Miles and Dwynna wanted to see some of them, so we took a visual tour of my parents life from roughly 1956 to 1964. There were pictures of my older sisters as toddlers, and me when I was an infant, to age 3.
I found myself sucked into a vortex of old memories and nostalgia.
It's fine, because most of those memories are fond, but I'm also reminded of the passing of time and how quickly it does fly, ..and it's bittersweet at best. I want to be present as much as possible and enjoy it with my children, while they're young. While I'm still young.
I enjoy looking back less as I get older.

Bolingbrook.
It's where it all goes back to, for me. It's where I lived until I was 13. It's not really the same little village I drive past now, when I head south on I55. The Bolingbrook that I lived in was comprised entirely of 2 small tract-home subdivisions, directly off of I55 & rt 53. Our house in 'Colonial Village' was built new in 1962, a sprawling split-level ranch that cost a whopping $12,000. ($99 down).
My dad was only 27 years old, my mom 25. They were dirt poor, naive, scared shitless. But they were young, hopeful, and much in love.
And they were absolutely thrilled to be able to buy a brand new house for themselves and their 3 kids.

Our neighborhood was surrounded by meadows, farm land and corn fields. Briarcliff Road connected Colonial Village and Westbury (the other subdivision just West of Rt 53) and would eventually be the address of Bolingbrook's first Catholic church, first grade school, first 7-11, Fire station, and police station.

It was, for all intents and purposes, 'Main Street'.

We had one grocery store, a little candy shop, and a barber shop.
Movies? There was the Tivoli in nearby Downer's Grove, or during the nice weather the Bel-Air Drive In on Rt. 53 in Romeoville (another aspiring township). But we had no real shopping, restaurants, or entertainment.

Over the years my dad was both a fireman and policeman for the village. For his initiation into the fire department the other guys in the troop dyed him blue. It was small-town stuff, and they'd even be clowns in the annual parades, but everybody took it seriously enough. There were plenty of times when the short-wave transmitter would kick on, announcing the location of a fire, and calling my dad away from dinner. It never even occurred to me to worry about him. He was my dad. He could handle anything.
Apparently the village of Bolingbrook thought so too. He went on to serve as Police and Fire commissioner until we moved in 1974. Both of my parents were involved in community activities. They were very close friends with the town's Mayor and his wife. Bob and Pat had kids too, and we'd get together often.

Back then it was the kind of place where kids could roam far, free, and feel safe. There were no 'bad' or even 'affluent' areas. Neighbors were friendly and barbecued together and their kids played together. At age 9 we could jump on our bikes and be gone all day, or go out after dinner on a summer night and stay out 'til 10 pm.
Of course Halloween was insane. No parental supervision whatsoever. Swarms of kids festooned in their cheap Ben Cooper or Collegeville costumes, raping and pillaging the entirety of the subdivision.
Halloween was rivaled only by Christmas, and all the local 'House Decorating' competition.
It was glorious and delightfully tacky.

As I got a little older I came to know the significance of Bolingbrook's location. Specifically, that it was built where old Rt. 66 ended and became the new Interstate 55. Part of it would pick up again further North near LaGrange, but the corner where I55 and 66 merged was its historic ending, and home to a well-known truck stop. A Welco that had been there since the old days. It was here that my truck-driving grandfather would sometimes meet my mom and I for breakfast or lunch.
The Welco was literally across frontage road from our house, and my mom and I would run across the Southbound lanes of I55 to get there on foot.

By 1970 Bolingbrook had been an incorporated township for 5 years and had a population of 7000. And by the time the village approved the construction of the "Old Chicago" mall/indoor amusement park in '73, Bolingbrook had become too much for my parents. Old Chicago was part of it, but my parents were already itching for a better home and a greener location. That would end up being Channahon, near Joliet, and we did move there in June of 1974.

On my way back into the city earlier today I stopped off in Bolingbrook and took a drive through my old neighborhood. Funny how little it's changed compared to the suburban sprawl that is now Bolingbrook (with its Ikea, McMansions, and country club).
Most of the houses look about the same. The trees were bigger, and that's about it. I could almost smell the clorine from my parents above ground pool as I drove past our old house.
Of course, it's now the 'oldest' part of town, and somewhat weathered with almost 50 years passed.

It was nice to troll through the streets of my childhood and drink it in, ..but I could sense that if I had parked and taken some time to walk through it all, time would've collapsed in that uncanny way that it does.
It happens on occasion and it's different than deja vu. My memory deals them strong and vivid. Decades vanish in a blink, and I find myself standing there, much older. Everything else has changed and everyone has moved on. I feel ancient and somehow detached from everything for a moment. But certainly not emotionally. A myriad nuance lingers that's deeply sublime.
It's a sense of presence that hits me like a tidal wave. And though it's almost painful, there is something so delicious that I can't help but revel in it.

on George Carlin

2008-06-24T05:56:00.023-05:00

It's not easy to adequately express how this man's presence in the world influenced who I am today. As much as The Beatles affected my music sensibilities, Carlin affected my sense of humor and attitude on politics, authority, American culture, and religious beliefs.
He was a boyhood hero of mine and a voice of reason growing up in 1970s suburbia.
I know it's cliche' to say this, but it's a huge factor; "things were much simpler back then."
Mass media consisted entirely of daily and monthly periodicals, ABC, CBS & NBC. No cable networks, no internet. FM radio was still somewhat underground, and you saw stand-up comics perform on Ed Sullivan, The Tonite Show, and Mike Douglas.
Nowhere else.

I remember Class Clown was a very talked-about album when it came out. It was considered daring and even subversive, but people couldn't deny its power and swelling popularity. The FM jocks embraced Carlin wholeheartedly and played what bits they could on the air.
I was in the 5th grade then, and a classmate's older brother had bought the album. One afternoon we snuck it from his room when he wasn't around.
Track through track, we listened to Carlin wax on everything from being the class clown as a kid, to growing up Catholic (which I was at the time). From sharing a swallow of water, to America, to heavy mysteries, ..and of course; the 7 dirty words.
..and we giggled hysterically throughout. We listened to the entire album twice.

That was it for me. I was a huge fan from that day on.

I was 11 years old.

Of course I already loved Bill Cosby, but comedically? Everything beyond Cosby was virtually suit and tie, borscht-belt comics. The edgiest comedian on television was Alan King. Though Carlin wasn't technically a 'hippy', or even a babyboomer, he was clearly a part of the counterculture and the comedic voice for virtually everyone in that generation. As much as Richard Pryor would be for African-Americans. Carlin was the only comedian who really chewed into subjects like consumerism, the police, religion, patriotism and war, Nixon and Watergate.
He was fearless and unrelenting, but his humor was also incredibly disarming. There was his playfulness with language, expression and dialects, the exaggerated physicality and gurning, and his skill in nailing down the simple and delightful little absurdities that riddle everyday life. Among the astute and serious observations, there was an underlying goofiness that was irresistible.
The suggestion that ultimately none of this mattered. That life is not to be taken seriously.

When I discovered George Carlin I knew that he would become a voice I would identify with, through my teens and 20s and probably longer. Like Bob Dylan, or John Lennon were for others. And though there would be other humorists and comics that I liked (Pryor, Robert Klein, Steve Martin,..), Carlin would always be my favorite. He was the first to really show me that nothing is sacred. That authority is fiction, that everything was game and there was humor to be found everywhere.
And to me, nobody said it more succinctly, or funnier.

So another one of my heroes is gone. Carlin is in company with the likes of Jim Henson, George Harrison, Frank Zappa, Hunter S, Thompson, Tim Leary, ..Of course I've never known these people. But like many of us making our way through life, there are some voices other than our parents that we hear often, and that we identify with. Voices that awaken parts of us, inspire us, or simply reassure us in a crazy world. And though the opportunity never comes, there is a passing desire for a chance to meet them face to face, look them in the eye, and truly thank them for being out there doing what they do.

If only because they're here now, sharing the same time in this world as you.

Summer of construction

2008-06-10T08:44:00.000-05:00

It's been a pretty busy year so far, business-wise. I spent most of the Spring with my shoulder to the grindstone and taking on as much work as I can handle. As a consequence, I've gotten behind on some things. I've all but given up on getting a website up this year, and I have yet to finish and file my taxes for last year.

But the extra money is handy and work on the house is proceeding.
Largely on the inside, but I'm continuing the momentum I started last Spring with landscaping the backyard. It's already looking nice back there, but I've got to finish a couple of concrete retaining walls for planting, and I have to paint my garage. I've cleared out the wild overgrown spot in the far back for the first time in probably 30 years. It's cool, green and shady back there beneath the immense silver maple trees, and soon there will be a pergola and stone firepit back there.

On the inside, my new contractor started remodeling my upstairs bathroom last week. I've ordered a new deeper tub, toilet & tank, granite vanity top and sink, fixtures, tile, and a new doorway with a frosted glass panel with above fixed transom.
On Friday of last week I had a 24" X 64" glass block panel installed in my tub enclosure, letting light in from the outside. It already looks fantastic.
The new layout eliminates an original hallway linen closet and extends the bath doorway into the hall, making for a much larger bathroom and eliminating wasted hall space.

Like the rest of my house, I'm going for a 'Metro Art Deco' feel. Lots of white ceramic subway tile with black for contrast. Chrome fixtures and accents. I'll post pics soon.

Ultimately, it'll make for a nice sized full bath in a house that originally had no indoor toilets, just an outhouse in the back.

New digs

2008-06-10T06:42:00.000-05:00

I'm moving my blogging over here, since my other friends use Blogspot so much. It'll make things easier.

Here is a link to my blogging history over on MySpace.

By the way; Welcome, reader.
Please feel free to visit often. It'll be worth it. I'm always baking banana muffins or cinnamon rolls.