"Meh..."

I'm up late writing, drinking hot cocoa, listening to Christmas Carols and looking out my window at a snow covered street. Life is, as they say, good, and I thought it was time I checked in.

I'm also warm. God I love the heat (I'm not even paying for) in this place. Back at Candlewood, whenever the temp dipped below 40 degrees it was time to break out the eviscerated Tauntaun and muse darkly on the fact that starting a controlled fire in the living room fueled solely by dollar bills would be both more effective and cheaper than the electric floor units.

Anyway, I'm worrying a narrative suture at the top of page 28 of the play I'm revising and I thought I'd take a break. You are that break. Feels good, doesn't it, people-who-haven't-given-up-and-moved-to-Facebook? More on that suture in a bit, but first the recap.

As you can see, I'm back in Chicago after a rare non-sucky family holiday back in Ohio. I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, taking the strain off mom, and that's all it took for things to chill the fuck down. Nice. We'll see if we can parlay this into Christmas. Yes, somewhat absurdly, I'll be back in Ohio in about two weeks. Mark your calendar! (Who wants to go see AVATAR? Three hours in 3D glasses won't be migraine-inducing at all! Who's with me?!)

While I saw many fine folks on my last jaunt through The Heart of It All, I wasn't able to link up with everybody. Hope springs eternal that Santa Ted will be able to catch up with a few more before we all enter The Year We Make Contact (obscure?).

Over the weekend, a couple friends of mine hosted a informal, stock-talking reading of the second two installments of my "Alone" trilogy, plus dinner, plus a party afterward. As this was the Platonic Ideal of the sort of thing I came to Chicago for, needless to say I was pleased. My friend Bryan, who will direct this stuff at some point if I can get it down to a fighting weight, organized the actors and made Chicken Verde. I made guacamole from a recipe that I got off the Internet. The ingredients were certainly fresh (thanks, up-the-street-mini-Jungle-Jim's-like-place!), and several people really took to it, but I personally like Blade's better.

The reading itself was terrific and very useful, and only occasionally a complete downer. Even though we were only reading #2 and #3, Bryan had included #1, Alone Together, in the packet of scripts he sent the actors, so the folks who weren't familiar with it could get up to speed. Not a bad idea, but it meant that I had to deal with some paradoxically problematic praise.

Bryan had re-read #1 the night before and said he was struck again by how good it was, how economical it was. Daniella-The-Actress said it was beautiful and made her cry.

In short, all sorts of nice things #2 and #3 currently aren't.

All this raises the uncomfortable specter of sequelitis. The Wachowski Brothers spun a successful story into a trilogy and we all know how they ended up.

And I would make a hideous-looking woman. Just saying.

At any rate, the actors were all people I knew (with one exception) and were all very good. Which was very useful. It meant that the good parts sang and the bad parts, well, clearly weren't the actors' fault.

Before the reading, I thought #3 was further along than #2. Bryan thought the opposite. He gets a cookie. But both plays are, at points, as distressingly flabby and labored as the NFL holdout who shows up to training camp three weeks late with a spare tire and an oblivious "What? Me worry?" grin (Alone Together is 38 pages and runs 36 minutes, while #2 and #3 are both 49 pages and run in excess of an hour each--guh).

I'm bringing 2 and 3 both under 40 minutes if is kills me (if for no other reason than, at that length, they become feasible to produce), but number 3's problems go deeper and I'm now looking at a significant re-write. Not quite a page-one job, but significant. The last quarter is solid (and also the very first thing I wrote of the piece--sigh), but everything else is going before the tribal council.

The trick is that the two big script notes in my mind are (A) cut about 20 minutes out, and (B) give the second character in this two-character piece a *character* and *something to do.* So subtract--a lot. And add--a lot. Which seems contradictory. You know, without completely rewriting the damn thing. Except maybe that last quarter, which I really like and think works. Maybe.

[insert clip of Krusty The Clown emitting a soul-weary, "Oi..." here]

Needless to say, I'm working on #2, which largely just needs pruning shears, although I'm very pleased with some significant changes I've made to the play's third quarter build to the climax, reworking it drastically and improving things immeasurably. I'm pretty much done with this pass, except for that one narrative suture on page 28 that looks something like this...

==

That "==" is my "I'll figure it out later" placeholder for the transition between two, disparate beats that are essential, can't go anywhere else, but have nothing to do with one another. And to maintain pacing and length, I have about one line to work the segue.

I think this is a better draft. Certainly leaner and tighter. About 41 pages, which is a big improvement from 50+. All that stands in my way of closing it out is "==".

As many of the folks left 'round here are writers, I'm sure all of you have your own personal equivalents of good ol' "==" to haunt your dreams.

I think I'll take another look at it, so maybe it won't haunt mine tonight.

Thanksgiving is upon us and I, thankfully, will be heading back to Ohio for a week or so. Requiring even more thanks will be my means of conveyance, as stalwart pals Tom and Joe and brother Tim will be making a foray deep into the heart of the windy city (and then out again--I live on the north side) to pick me up. But not before they spend around a day sampling the manifolds joys of Ted's Chicago.

Let me italicize that for effect:

Ted's Chicago.

Exciting, isn't it?

So much to see. So little time. And a microcosm of this is simply trying to pin down our myriad food options. As culinary host, I take my responsibilities seriously, and I am still not quite used to living in a place where picking a restaurant isn't a Pyrrhic exercise in lesser evils and dashed dreams. Man, I miss Oxford! (Although, to be brutally honest, I'm sure I will be picking up a SDS sub while I'm around next week.)

Anyhoo, food! Glorious food! The mind reels. Let's go through the list.

Well, to start there is Royal Thai right down the street, which is, morsel for morsel, also probably the single best place to eat in my immediate area. Actually, there are quite a few great Thai places around where I live, any one of which would be The Best Thai Food I've Ever Eaten(TM), were it not for the blazing intensity of Royal Thai. The lunch special is to die for and the Tom Kha--a spicy, rich, coconut milk soup filled with goodies--is a standout and unlike anything I've ever had before. The only problem with the lunch special is that the shrimp tempura isn't on that menu, which makes me sad, as it's second only to the shrimp tempura I had in New York for intense tastiness.

Pizza is a must, of course. Apart Pizza (located right next door to Royal Thai and indicating that there is a culinary feng shui or something at work on that street) is my usual jam (watch them hand-toss those mothers!), but it's a high-quality, New York-style thin-crust pizza, and it's hard to resist the siren song of Chicago-style.

So, if you want crazy, eccentric Chicago styles, there are several options, but I vote for The Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder Co. I went there with a bunch of folks a few weeks ago and I immediately became a convert. We waited about 90 minutes (granted we were a huge party) and yet we all agreed that it was worth it at the end. A classy local place with history (the St. Valentines Day massacre took place right across the street) and soup-Nazi-esque charm. The method they use to seat patrons can best be described as impressionistic, they only take cash, and you'd better like one of the two varieties (meat or vegetarian) of pizza they offer--which is a fantastic, if wacky, personal deep dish they call "a pizza pot pie"--because they make them to their specifications, not yours. But, the thing is, you will like it.

If it's more of a hamburger kind of night, there is always The Grafton, the local Irish pub. Great burgers (may I recommend the James Joyce, with bacon and a fried egg? Yes, I went there, as I do not fear death) and tasty fries. I look forward to trying the fish & chips myself when I next visit. The Grafton also has some cool atmosphere. The last time I was there, a traditional Irish band was playing and after they finished, several clearly authentic Irish friends of the band took turns serenading the bar with rousing, bawdy drinking songs.

Best part: When a drunk chick came up to them later and asked, "So, where are you guys from?", one of the thickly-broughed lads replied, without missing a beat, "Australia."

Awesome.

That's hamburgers. What about hot dogs? Chicago has a huge hot dog presence, after all. A friend of mine, for example, rhapsodizes every time I see her about a place called Hot Dougs, a wildly popular gourmet hot dog emporium that offers everything from classic franks loaded with spicy mustard, onions and relish, to duck sausage trimmed with foie gras and truffles. Have to try that some time.

On Tuesday, before we set out on the six hour trip back to Ohio, obviously we're going to need a big breakfast to keep our strength up. And when it comes to A-list breakfast, Ann Sather, home of giant waffles and exquisitely puffy omelets, is always a good choice. Ann Sather's menu has a strong Swedish influence, so be prepared for Swedish waffles and Swedish pancakes. Do not be afraid! Man, I only wish Blade was coming so he could give us his expert opinion during tasting and judgment.

Even better, Ann Sather is located on Belmont, which is where the cool kids live (note: I obviously don't live there; I live where the cool kids move to in ten years after they get jobs and start families), and the street is often a trip from a people-watching standpoint. Belmont acts as the demilitarized zone between the working class Irish neighborhood to the south, the artist enclaves and college kids running east-west, and Boy's Town, Chicago's gay neighborhood, to the north.

A *trip*.

Belmont is also a couple blocks away from Mark's Chop Suey, a seemingly dingy hole in the wall that never-the-less serves egg rolls which are solidly in the running for the best I've ever tasted.

But we have to get full at some point, right?

I am not bothered by Ron Moore and company's continued insistence to vomit out flopsweat-drenched, made-for-DVD Battlestar Galactica crap that continues to try and tap-dance out of the flaming wreckage of its own unspeakable failure (Protip: If you are writing a multi-year television series and start every episode of the first few seasons with a reminder that one faction has "a plan", and then, after the end of that series, you find that you need another, supplemental movie to explain what that "plan" actually was, you have failed. Spectacularly). To complain about this sort of thing is not unlike complaining about cockroaches being unhygienic, or insulting fungus for growing out of shit.

No, this is all eminently predictable, and even amusingly pathetic in its way.

What bothers me is that, according to Amazon, it is a best seller.

Now, I know that 50% of the American public have below average IQs, but come on! Even some of the people who voted for George W. Bush in 2004 woke up eventually.

Just ask yourself What Would Cylon Jesus Do? Would Cylon Jesus buy this thing? I don't think so.

You've made me sad, America. Again.

Battlestar Galactica: For two generations, reliably the worst show on television. The name you can trust!

And the one people refuse to let... go... away!

From the ever-vigilante Chris:



I miss Movie Night. Good times, good times.

Since I have been in Chicago, I've largely kicked the comic book habit.

There are many reasons for this, all pragmatic, having to do with space and finances. Somewhat sadder is the fact that I really haven't really missed them all that much.

That said, I broke my fast for one issue this week.

Back in the spring of 1998, I started buying a monthly series called Planetary. I quite enjoyed it. Good book. Smart scripts by Warren Ellis. Beautiful art by John Cassaday. The story was planned to run 24 issues, but they soon expanded it a little to 27. One of the major subtexts of the story was the transition from the 20th century to the 21st, so that would work out fine, as--shipping an issue every month or two--the whole series would be done by 2001. 2002 at the latest.

Issue 27 came out two weeks ago.

As mainstream comics is an *exceptionally* dopey medium, nonsense like this actually happens with alarming regularity.

Anyway, as I had stuck around for 26 issues--the last one crawling out in 2006, if I remember correctly--I shrugged wearily and sallied forth to seek #27 out. Luckily, as my neighborhood is awesome, I am within walking distance of all major essentials, including two comic book stores.

I tried the nice one, Dark Tower, first. This is my friend Bill Green's store and one of the first things he showed me when I first visited. Smallish, but solid. Fairly nice selection. Reminds me of Clifton Comics. Alas, they were sold out.

Time to try Variety Comics down the street. AKA the oldest comic book store in Chicago. AKA the one Bill warmed me away from. Established in 1975 and clearly not cleaned since 1974. A bracing throwback to the comic book stores of distant yore. Before they were cool. Seriously.

I pushed open the front door, almost completely barricaded by a shoulder-high mound of empty cardboard boxes from Diamond. An archetypal basement store, I then descended the stairs into the dark cave, breaching a thin, low-lying layer of oily mist, like the laser-edged fog that covered the eggs in the Space Jockey's hold in Alien. My eyes adjusted to the gloom as my sinuses clogged instantly from the Castle-levels of mold.

As to general store layout, the closest analogue would be Fearless Readers in Dayton. Tiny and cramped, with every molecule assigned a separate comic book to hold. But where Fearless Readers is run by a family and the clutter is homey, Variety's clutter is more akin to Buffalo Bill's farmhouse.

Comics overflowed the racks, stuffed like socks into an undersized dresser drawer. Slumping, sliding stacks of comics covered every horizontal surface, including the floor, turning the already minuscule walking lanes into an checkerboard obstacle course. I've never quite seen a store like it.

Needless to say, they had my book and (no cash register in sight), the teen behind the counter didn't even charge me sale tax.

Cleanliness? No way. Order? Make finding your books a game. Back issues? Pick a pile and dig; you might find an Amazing Fantasy #15! Toys? Games? You have to be kidding. Indie comics? Try Tiffany's, your highness. Manga? Fuck you.

Now *this* is a comic book store! Enter and return to the late '70s, a magical time when there was nothing but the Big Two and the direct market was authentically creepy.

I might organize a safari.

Oi.

Slow day here today. Dark, dreary and overcast and I'm still nursing the effects of the subject line.

Yesterday, you see, was pretty spiff. The small, independent theater ensemble formed by a gaggle of Miamians a couple years ago had a fundraiser at a local nightspot (called, obviously, The Spot) last evening and I went. After paying to get in, (some) booze was free, but as Malibu Rum (one of the pivotal building blocks of The Ted) was not included in the package for some arbitrary reason, I just went with several Cokes. Right up until after 11 or so.

Don't drink that much caffeine these days.

So I was up once I got home, but in that jittery useless way that precluded booth sleep or anything productive. Still tired and surly.

Anyway, aside from that blowback, the fundraiser was nice. The Spot is a theatre bar hang-out that often helps small troupes with fundraisers and, most importantly, I supported by friends and the cause of independent theatre by buying some raffle tickets.

SCORE! At the end of the night, I walked away with the free tickets to Steppenwolf Theatre’s production of David Mamet’s American Buffalo. As Steppenwolf is one of the most well-regarded ensembles in the country (and famous, too, as it was founded by Malkovich and Sinise), I’m pretty darn excited and only a few people told me they hated me for winning them.

Luckily most of them were friends. I think with last night I finally competed my circuit of seeing all the Miamians I know out here. Most of them are doing pretty well, so that gives me hope. And I look forward to seeing more of them. They are energetic and passionate about the theatre thing, which is very nice to see. Plus, they are all cool and the more people I know out here the better the chances that somebody will call my folks when I trip and fall off an L platform to my death.

Actually, I would consider my re-socialization in this strange, new land to be proceeding in a slow, but steady way. I've already cleared full "drop by anytime" status with a couple of nice folks, although taking them up on it is a bit more difficult in Chicago than Oxford. I got those invitations at a birthday shindig I attended a couple weeks ago. It, too, was at a bar, The Grand Central.

I had noticed that this bar had received very poor reviews on-line (and even an pre-emptive apology in the party invitation), but it is important to note that a “sub-standard” bar in Chicago stacks up remarkably well when compared to places in say, Oxford—and, good Lord, I’m still having recurring night sweats over that UFC/Rum Runners hell hole from last year and that was certainly in Chicago. I thought the Grand Central was fine. Now, to be fair, maybe my good feelings toward the place may be on account of the fact that I, on a rare occasion, perfectly calibrated my stay there that evening: I left before everyone hit the Alcohol Event Horizon, which causes me to vanish utterly from all inebriated ken, but after a pretty girl I barely knew from Miami threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.

On the way home from The Grand Central I also realized that, no matter if I have plans or not, I need to get out and ride the L on weekend nights, regardless. For example, that night I got to witness a priceless bit of wordless psychodrama. As I waited on the platform, a young couple in their mid-20s joined me. Clearly, they were clearly going back to their shared home after a night out together, and, equally clearly, the guy had just epically screwed up in some particularly ear-splitting, possibly relationship-threatening way. And he was grimly aware of it. He was slumped over against the wall, sober , but very well wishing he wasn’t, embarrassed, dejected and obviously watching his life flashing before his eyes, while she stood there, ramrod straight, mouth thin, eyes staring straight ahead, arms crossed tightly enough to compress coal into diamonds within the fearsome interior angles of her elbows.

When the train arrived, we all got on it. They sat down across from me. He was bent forward, elbows on knees, looking back at her, studying her intently, his brow furrowed, eyes crinkled in worry, his vigil only occasionally broken by a head shake or a sigh. She never looked at him. Once.

The train arrived at their stop. They rose to leave. As he did, his hand hovered at the small of her back, but then he clearly thought better of touching her. It was like watching two like-charged magnets on strings bouncing away from each other without even touching.

There are a million stories in the naked city, and this was one of them.

So, after a rocky opening (see last entry), some of the things I was hoping for are starting to happen and Chicago may be on the path to begrudgingly accepting me, instead of constantly trying to kill me (or just prevent me from ever returning a truck).

To begin with, I'm reconnecting with theater-Miamians here in the city. Alas, several more of them are clearly already on their way out, or have their sweaty, rapidly clenching and unclenching hands posed over the ejection seat lever.

I was talking about this situation just this evening with my friend Bryan, and he told me that in undergraduate theatre classes, the profs would always say, "Look around you. Only ten percent of the people yo see will actually end up working in theater." He said he always poo-pooed it at the time...

So attrition is starting to set in, but there are still a goodly number of dedicated folks who are definitely making a go of it, and I'm trying to wedge myself into their orbit. Indeed, I'll be lending a hand to a small ensemble comprised of quality Miamians who graduated in '07 and are now working on their sophomore production this fall. My contribution will be low-impact, front of house stuff, but these guys have the eye of the tiger and are walking to walk, so it will be nice to just hang with people who are actively doing the kind of stuff I want to do.

Speaking of which, when I meet with Bryan (class of '08) today for coffee, we made a handshake agreement that we need to work together. And soon. He's looking to direct and I'm looking not to. A match made in heaven! Plus, he's another guy who is clearly really and sincerely trying to do this theater thing, and has been rapidly piling up the contacts in the theater community since he moved here 18 months ago.

Plus, he's kept in close touch with all the ex-Miamians. He was one of the people who wanted to try and pull a bunch of the other Chicago-based '08s together to generate a show last year, but, when nobody wanted to be the writer, the project quickly evaporated.

I want to be the writer.

We'll see how it goes. We both agree that having an actual script in hand can do wonders for peoples' confidence.

Although it does depend of the script...

Meanwhile, after we shook this momentous handshake, Bryan got me into (free!) the preview for a show he helped to dramaturg. It was put on in a storefront-turned-theatre space by a tiny ensemble (non-Miamians) called the Bruised Orange company. They presented an original play that a member of their company wrote based on Dostoevsky's novel, The Devils.

And it was fabulous.

I was reminded of the opening of Henry V, where Shakespeare (somewhat disingenuously) apologizes for the fact that the small, anemic "cockpit" of a stage can never fully convey the majesty and sweep of of the Battle of Agincourt. And then he does it anyway.

Same here.

Somehow, ten performers filled a theatre the size of my apartment with plots, sub-plots, massive exposition, aristocrats, peasants, thieves, politicians, soldiers, drunks, lovers, schemers, revolutionaries, self-doubting intellectuals, and intellectuals who don't self-doubt, but should. The ten actors doubled-up, tripled-up, quadrupled-up on characters, and yet, added by nothing but fun quick-changes and great acting, always kept all the balls in the air and effortlessly employed a massive cast of characters. And since the theatrical space was so intimate, those characters were in front of you, beside you, behind you, and all around you.

It was an entire 900 page Russian novel going off right in your face. And, yet, it always stayed coherent, funny, poignant, and deeply compelling.

This play was a masterclass in what a bunch of great, energetic actors, armed with a good script and very smart direction can do with no budget, in a tiny space. It was an arresting and, dare say, inspiring show and it beat the living crap out of both things I most recently saw in New York.

Go Chicago.

So. Chicago.

It is hard to convey how miserably awful the move was. I’ve actually been avoiding going into it because it is just so existentially unpleasant on every practical (and impractical) level imaginable [see last weekend’s feint of an entry]. But I can’t really move on until I move in, as it were, so even though the story is long and dismal without ever actually being all that compelling, let’s get it over with.

The move started a couple Tuesdays ago when I rented a big, yellow Penske truck from Suds City in Oxford. As soon as I secured the truck, my brother, father and I unloaded my storage unit into the back of it. This took a long time (most of the day), but we had budgeted this in advance and since we had the truck until Thursday, we weren’t even planning to leave for Chicago until Wednesday morning. As of Tuesday night, progress was slow but, more or less, on schedule.

The next morning, we set out for Chicago. It was lovely in Ohio, but Weather.com indicated it might be… less so in Chicago. Storms or not, the truck was rented and loaded and the die was cast--we had to go and take our chances. I drove the truck (first time ever) while my dad trailed in his car. Brother Tim acted as my navigator and communications officer (i.e. I gave him my phone).

Most of the drive was uneventful, but the terrain was flat and it was very clear that we were exchanging blue skies for gray ones. And then black ones. Around the Illinois boarder, it started coming down hard.

So, I eventually got to experience driving a truck. In a downpour. In Chicago. During rush hour. Great fun.

Somehow, we arrived without incident (but not without stress) at my apartment building. I called the landlord. He came with my keys and showed us where to park and unload. On the face of it, neither of these things were that bad—the back access way that lead to my apartment’s back door was enclosed and opened onto the street close to where I successful parked the truck—but, in actuality, this is the point where things started to go off the rails, as I realized that between incompetence, sloppiness and inattention I had made a catastrophic blunder.

I had conflated the location of this apartment with another I had looked at in the hectic three days I had spent searching for a place weeks earlier. This misconception was aided and abetted by the fact that according to all of my documents and lease, I lived in apartment #7 on the first floor.

Not the ground floor, mind you. Just the first floor.

The three of us now had to unload all of my crap, in the rain, on slick pavement, up a very narrow two-stage staircase, featuring absurdly shaped, steep steps. The rain soon slacked off, but this was a mixed blessing, because my brother loudly proclaimed that if it had merely kept raining, he simply would have refused to help and I would then have been forced to hire professional movers. Maybe that would have been better. It is difficult to see how it could have been much worse.

It took hours and hours. And hours. The loveseat, a beloved Movie Night fixture as “the one thing that didn’t wholly suck to sit on,” was unceremoniously dumped into the trash, and I’m still not convinced that even professional movers could have gotten it up those fucking stairs or fit it through my kitchen door.

Hours pass.

It is now creeping up on 9 o’clock. The truck is finally empty. We set off onto dark, slick streets, me and my brother in the truck and my father tailing in his car, to take the truck to the local Pence office where I’m contracted to return it. I have good directions, though, and it isn’t far—-about five minutes. I still have a little trouble finding it, though.

You see, it is at this point we learn that the Penske branch is also a dedicated Cubs parking lot, located directly across the street from Wrigley Field. And it’s a night game. The place is packed with cars and completely closed to truck returns.

So, now I’m driving a goddamned truck through Wrigleyvile, which is fucking bonkers because there’s a Cubs game going on. Meanwhile, I’m trying to find a gas station where I can full this fucker up so I don’t have to pay $5 a gallon if the tank isn’t full when I return it.

So, I drive the damn thing all the way to fucking downtown (hey, look—the Sears Tower…) before I find a gas station. Luckily, I then meet the world’s nicest gas station attendant, who tells me that I can legally park the damn thing on the street overnight and even helps me maneuver it into a spot nearby. The only catch is that I have to pick it up before the meters start up at 8 a.m.

My brother and I then get in my father’s car. His original plan was to leave Chicago when we were done and find a place to stay overnight on the highway south of the city. This plan is now shot to hell. My father tries to take me back to my apartment where we can plot our next move, but we get lost. Badly lost.

Hours pass. Literally.

Around midnight, we finally find our way back to my apartment. For my father, utterly exhausted, getting a room is now out of the question. With all of the boxes, there is barely enough room for one person in this place, let alone three. We stack up some boxes so we can at least lay the the bare mattress down horizontally. My father sleeps on that. My brother sleeps on a blanket on the floor. I get the chair. No one sleeps much.

Seven a.m.! Time to go. My brother decides to stay in my apartment and try out the mattress while my father and I try to return the truck. Again.

We drive to the gas station where we left it and I am slightly amazed to find that it wasn’t firebombed during the night. I get in, turn it around (laboriously) and set off back up N. Clark street.

It’s raining again, but the traffic isn’t that bad, I'm on the right track and dare to actually think that things are starting to look up.

On the narrow street in front of me, a semi is sort of double-parked while the driver unloads food out the back. Traffic is flowing around him into the oncoming lane to get past. I slowly edge my cabin around the back of the other truck and think I’m clear, completely forgetting that my cab is by no means the widest part of this vehicle.

Bang.

Both trucks are now wedged together and traffic is shut down during morning rush. Within moments, it is backed up to Mars.

I call 911. When I tell them its two trucks involved, they tell me not to move them until they get there. Oh, boy.

In the rain, I juggle the truck’s paperwork, while talking to the other truck driver (who is nice about it, clearly relieved that this screw up isn’t on him) and phoning Penske (the only good thing is that I damn well took the full insurance package on the truck when I ordered it, just in case I did something exactly like this). The cops eventually arrive and start interviewing all and sundry. I’m instructed to move the truck, so they can get traffic moving. My cabin now has a nice airway where it was once bolted to the back of the truck, but it is eminently drivable. I pull it in front of the other truck and park it sloppily next to the sidewalk. Traffic flow resumes.

When all is said and done, the cop, clearly taking pity on me, tells me she isn’t going to give me a ticket, because what’s the point? She takes off. The other truck leaves. Time to continue trying to get rid of this (now quite damaged) canary-yellow albatross.

Sitting in the cab, I now realize that somehow (I still don’t know how) between juggling (in the rain) my driver’s license, truck registration, insurance papers, accident report, pen, notepad, wallet, cell phone and the truck’s keys, the last item in that litany has utterly vanished. Short of something supernatural, I still have no fucking clue where they went but, believe me, they were gone. Not in the truck. Not in my Dad’s car. Not in my pockets. Not on the street. Not under truck. Not anywhere. Gone.

Gone.

And this truck, sloppily and illegally parked and still kind of obstructing traffic, isn’t going anywhere.

It was at this point, that I utterly and completely blew my SAN roll. Those of you who know what this means, know what this means.

I gained no Mythos, however.

After I calmed down, I called Penske roadside assistance, ranted, and was told that, as this was a spiffy new truck, it would take some time to find a locksmith who could handle the super-nifty, anti-theft microchips in the keys…

My father, map in hand, soon takes off to try and find his way back to my apartment, since my brother has no cell phone, we have absolutely no way to contact him, and he is sure to realize that this is taking way too long.

Needless to say, my father gets horribly lost again, and it takes him about two-plus hours to go five minutes down the road. In fact, he gets so snarled by the one-way streets, he eventually says, "the hell with it," parks the car and just walks the rest of the way to my place. My father and brother leave not too long after that, getting the hell out of Dodge. Not that I can blame them.

Me? I wait.

Hours pass. Literally.

More cops come to tell me I’m illegally parked. I explain the situation and they don’t paper me with tickets.

Puzzled valets appear and ask why there is a giant, partially crunched truck in their building’s drop-off zone. I explain the situation and they don’t laugh too hard.

(I should point out that the only saving grace of this entire situation was that everyone I encountered was pretty darned nice and understanding—the cops, the valets, the other truck driver, the gas station attendant. Yay, Chicago.)

Eventually, the locksmith arrives with a new key and starts up the truck. Thank Christ. Now I just need to drive it down the street to the Penske office. Sure, the passenger-side mirror assembly has been completely seared off, so I'm totally blind on that side, but I'm clearly really good at driving this truck, so what could possibly go wrong?

Also, in the time I’d spent crashing the truck, losing the keys, and then waiting for new keys to be delivered, it was no longer morning and was now solidly afternoon. And that, of course, can mean only one thing:

Day game!

IIIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!

Luckily (?), it was still early enough that the Penske lot wasn’t completely closed. And, after considerably wrangling, I got the fucking truck into the lot without further incident and was free of it. I caught the L, came home and started unpacking.

My first two days in Chicago, everybody!

Now, I should probably admit that things improved markedly after that--but then, how could they not? I'm reminded of the old joke about the man who banged himself in the head with a hammer because it always felt so good whenever he stopped.

But seriously, since then, I’ve gotten my place together and it’s a wonder what an assembled bed and a living room free of boxes will do for one’s mental health. The neighborhood is great, the food terrific, and the people nice. My friend Annie took me to the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art and I’m willing to go on record that it’s better than Cincinnati’s (no, really). There was a potential crisis when I discovered that my antique gas stove was leaking. I had visions of months of microwave meals as the landlord tried to save a buck and attempted to resurrect the stove from the dead with endless shoddy repairs. Instead, the landlord showed up within the hour, apologized for its condition, and replaced it with a brand new stove the very next day. Whoa!

Also, all the way from New York, Karen is doing her bit to keep me from starving. But more on that next time.

So. Chicago.

It is hard to convey...

Wait!

I never talked about my stay in New York, the stop that closed out the Mad Lurch. Oh, hell. Let's try and do this with some alacrity. By now I've done this rap more than a few times in person already, so let's cast our mind back two months, throw up some pictures, and call it a day.

(Speaking of unfinished business from The Mad Lurch, Lindsey pointed out that I should go into The San Francisco Homeless Guy Incident at some point. I will as soon as I can find the right hook. I doubt this entry will provide it, but we'll see.)

I got into New York (Newark, actually) in the evening and was greeted by the inimitable Chris & Karen. With the negligible aid of the worst GPS in the universe, we found our way back to Brooklyn, ate some Mediterranean at the restaurant across the street and I was introduced to Chris & Karen's lovely two-bedroom hallway.

This may sound like I'm slamming it, but I'm not. It was actually very nice (I not only had my own room , but my own bathroom, for God's sake), it was just, well, aggressively longer than it was wide, and I've never quite stayed in anywhere quite like it.

Needless to say, Chris & Karen were lovely hosts. Why, here they are now...



(I should also note that Karen, a professional foodie at this point, makes absolutely delicious vichyssoise. You should always visit them when the food magazine she works for dumps a megaton of free potatoes on them.)



On my first full day in New York, Chris and I walked into Manhattan over the Brooklyn Bridge, which was pleasantly surreal. The last time I entered Manhattan, I was stargated into midtown through the Holland tunnel. Here I crept up on it on my own power. Walking slowly into such a gargantuan edifice, letting the impressive, looming scale build and build until it suddenly melts into mere surroundings personalized the city for me and made it all feel more real.

As did the overpriced, but yummy, hamburgers.



This is the Shake Shack, a local fixture, located in a small park somewhere in midtown. (Disclaimer: No shakes were consumed.)

But it was still yummy.





See?

You know, in retrospect my entire trip seemed to consist mostly of thumbs-up and eating.

Anyway, as sunny as it looks it those pics, as the afternoon wore on, the weather started to turn. I was meeting Miranda-From-China in Times Square for dinner and a Broadway show (she had free tickets). By the time Chris and I got there, one end of the street had blue skies, while the other was darkening fast.



Indeed, one of my favorite moments of this leg of the trip was standing in the middle of Times Square, surrounded by thousands of people, when a sharp boom of thunder suddenly echoed through the concrete and steel canyons, and all those thousands of people let out a spontaneous, worried, "Oooooooooo" in unison.

This was followed, obviously, by a quick summer downpour. As Chris and I hid under a nearby awning, we watched with wonder at how quickly Times Square, one of the most crowded places in the U.S., could empty out utterly. As the storm raged, it was like the city was on pause, as everyone huddled under cover, the guys scalping tickets to Broadways shows leading sing-alongs, and everyone waiting for both the rain and the sing-along to pass.

Eventually, I found Miranda-From-China. We had dinner, met up with a couple more of her friends, including the American correspondent for China's national television network. Nice guy. He was deeply embarrassed when Miranda told me that I as sitting next to the most famous face in Chinatown and one also known by *billions* on the other side of the planet. Chatting with him in the theater before the deeply terribly Broadway play that Miranda got us into for free (we were overcharged) was far more interesting than the performance, itself.

I won't go into the play, itself, because I've done that bit *a lot* live, and it feels like most of the people reading this have heard it in person. I could be wrong. If there is a overwhelming groundswell of desire for me to go through the (only almost) hilariously awful experience that was Irena's Vow on here, that's what the comments section is for.

[Which leads us to the question of who reads Livejournal, period, these days. There is no use debating the fact that Facebook has won this fight hands down, which is a shame. Facebook is "useful" for the same reason that Microsoft Windows is; because of brute force market penetration only. Aside from the fact that everyone uses it, it remains, like Microsoft, largely dumpy, dumbed-down, glitchy, and lame.]

The next day Karen joined in on the fun and we did touristy things like visiting the lines to see the Statue of Liberty. You see, the Statue of Liberty is one of those attractions where there are lines just to stand in line. We figured that out a little late, as we thought the line to stand in line was actually *The* Line. Boy, were we in for a surprise once we got our tickets to Liberty Island and then had to find the end of the line for the actual ferries.

We walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked and walked to get to the end of *The* Line. Here is the magical moment when we found it and Karen was (briefly) the very end of *The* Line.



Doesn't she look happy?



There was much standing and shuffling forward and street musicians of wildly variable talent and hucksters selling cheap crap and airport-level security at the ferry dock. But, eventually, we got there and saw the big green lady. I took many, many touristy pictures which I will not bore you with.

Okay, one.



That night we had plates and plates of delicious dim sum in Chinatown. I would have gotten durien ice cream (it is King of All Fruit, you know) at the local ice cream shoppe next store, too, if they hadn't been sold out of that flavor. Foiled!

That night I went to a (far better) show off-Broadway and met up afterward for drinks with my friend who worked on it, Sarah-The-Stage-Manager (who shouldn't be confused with Emily-The-Stage-Manger, who shouldn't be confused with Emily-The-Actress, who shouldn't be confused with Emily-The-Darren-Wife-And-Belle-Mom, which is something I actually did recently when I texted the wrong Emily by mistake--oops.)

The next day, we took it easy. I ate a delicious melt from a famous cheese shop and we saw The Brother's Bloom (which was good but not as good as Brick).

Then I left for home.



This is at LaGuardia. Actually, neither the packet of air reservations nor the traveler look as dogeared or disheveled as I thought they might at the end. I had a wonderful trip and had been *very* lucky. Indeed, a more superstitious sort might suspect I used up all of my life's remaining good luck during that trip and I would have to tackle my next big undertaking armed only with bad.

(Ominous pause)

But that's next time!

Until then, bookend.

Best,

...so this will have to suffice.

You've all meant more to me than you can ever know.

Goodbye. Farewell. Amen.