May 17th, 2009
Sometimes I think my history of love and marriage is downright weird. Thankfully, I keep my ears open so I can hear other people’s tales and I don’t feel so odd. I heard one from a woman at Dick’s Pizza last week.
Let’s call her Tammy. She’s not exactly a regular but everyone knows her and the bartenders know what she likes to drink. She’s short with flashing blue eyes and is smartly dressed like, oh, a real estate agent. In fact, she’s in the house-trading racket, working for a mortgage company.
It was a perfect May evening. With the sun setting gold beyond Goose Creek Road, I sat out in the patio with Tammy, Mayor Janey and her husband Tim, and Old Gus. As Tim and Old Gus studied their respective cocktails intently, Tammy and Mayor Janey regaled me with tales of Tammy’s home life. Mayor Janey and Tammy are fast friends. Mayor Janey is the garbage commissioner of the town of Goose Creek. She runs for the post every year and wins in a landslide each time. One year, her vote total almost hit a hundred. I like to call her Mayor. She gets a kick out of it.
Tammy held a cell phone and peered at the screen. She told us she’d grounded one of her two teenaged daughters for some hijinks at a party over the weekend. She’d also seized the teen’s cell phone, a torture on a par with waterboarding. Now she was monitoring the messages that came in one after another.
“Oh,” Tammy said, “look at this! ‘Big party Friday night. Maybe. If you’re not there, you’re square – ha ha ha!‘”
“‘Maybe‘ huh?” I said. “Sounds like code for, ‘As long as my parents aren’t around.’”
“Right. ‘Maybe‘ is capitalized,” Tammy said. “Well, looks like she’s gonna be square.”
The conversation got around to marriage. I told the group that I make a stellar ex-husband. Tammy raised her hand for a high five. “Oh yeah! Same here!” she crowed.
Tammy has a boyfriend now. She has no plans to wed. “He has his job and his kids, I have my job and my kids. We see each other when we can. Listen,” Tammy confided, “it’s better this way. If we had gotten married, we’d have been separated and divorced already.”
With that, she launched into the tale of her first and only marriage. “He’s really lucky he has me as an ex-wife,” she said. “Any other woman would have killed him.”
Tammy and her husband separated about ten years ago. For the first few months of the separation, he remained in the home with her for the sake of the kids and because, apparently, that perfect job seemed to elude him.
“Then, about six months later,” Tammy recounted, “I found out he was having an affair with the woman who lived two doors down. It was funny because she’d been our babysitter. And my best friend!” All of us sitting around the table dutifully clucked our tongues.
“Oh, was I pissed! I told him to get out. Two days later, I see the woman’s husband pulling out of the driveway to go to work. I chased him down. He stopped, rolled down the window, I leaned in and said, ‘Did you know your wife and my ex-husband are fucking?’
“Of course, he didn’t believe me at first because his wife was already poisoning his mind against me, saying things like I was delusional. But he found more evidence over the next couple of days and he couldn’t deny it anymore. He moved out a week later. My ex-husband moved right in – shoom!”
Tammy followed this with a laundry list of her ex-husband’s failings, a bill of particulars that would make Bernie Madoff blush. He lost money, he wasted money, he gambled money away, and he rarely, if ever, made money. He was, said Tammy, the classic Peter Pan. She felt as though she’d been raising three kids rather than two. He lied, he philandered and he left his underwear and socks on the floor.
“Still, I treated him with respect even after we split up,” Tammy said. “It’s for the kids. But it’s really about me: I take the high road. I never say anything bad about him. If he had another ex-wife, she’d be talking about him all over town! Not me. I get along great with him.”
Tammy then iterated that she never speaks ill of the man in front of the kids. Never has, never will. “But, man, the things I could tell them. Him and that woman.”
Mayor Janey laughed. “Tell them about the time in the car,” she said.
“Oh, yeah! Janey and me are in the car going out to dinner. The kids are in the back seat. I’m telling Janey about this woman, what a witch she is and how she deserves my ex-husband. All of a sudden, we get into an accident. The woman put a hex on me – she knew I was talking about them!”
Tammy took a sip out of her can of Coors Light and dragged on her Salem. “I took the high road. I had to work three jobs as a single mother just to put food on the table for my girls. I was only 30 years old. I don’t know how or why I did it but I chose to be the better person. I took the high road.
“The only thing I regret is that he’s such a no-good asshole. His daughters can’t even respect him. They don’t respect him. He doesn’t give them any reason to respect him. He ought to grow up. But I’ve never said anything bad about him. I took the high road.”
Tammy then told us that a couple of years after the divorce, her ex-husband and ex-best friend now were both unemployed and unable to keep up with the mortgage payments on the house two doors down. “As soon as I saw the bank’s for sale sign on the front lawn, I called my mortgage company and bought the house. I waved bye-bye to them the day they moved out.
“She got my ex-husband and I got the house. I got the best of that deal.”
It was getting late. Tammy stubbed out her last cigarette and drained her final can of Coors Light. She stood up. “That’s my story,” she said, exhaling menthol smoke. “I have to go now. But really, don’t get me wrong – I love my ex-husband. I’m just not in love with him. But I’ll love him till the day I die.”
May 15th, 2009
At the bowling alley, they got the Blackhawks game on TV — all five of them, to be exact. It’s game six of the playoff series against Vancouver. If the Hawks win, they move on to the next round.
I couldn’t care less. I wouldn’t even be paying attention except there’s a dozen or so Hawks fans hanging around the bar, making so much noise.
I stand between Bob and Pat — two stone-cold, crazy Hawks fans. They’re standing still as statues. Eyes stuck on the tube. I’m not even sure they’re breathing.
I turn to Norm. “They never put the Bulls on all the TVs,” I say.
“Don’t hate,” he says.
“I’m just saying….”
“No, you’re hating….”
I watch the Hawks skate round and round and round. Truth is, Norm’s right. I am hating. I know I should be happy that they’re doing so well after so many dismal seasons. But, hell, I don’t care about the Blackhawks. Don’t know any of their players. Can’t remember the name of their coach. And my not caring has turned to hate cause I’m jealous. Every one’s paying attention to the Hawks and every one’s forgotten about the Bulls. I mean, this is even weirder than my normal weirdness, which is pretty weird.
“I used to like the Hawks,” I tell Norm.
“Yeah….”
To prove it, I sing a snatch of their ancient fight song: “Here come the Hawks, the fighting Black Hawks/take the attack and we’ll back you Black Hawks….”
Norm’s laughing.
“But then they dumped Bobby Hull,” I say.
“That was forty years ago, dawg….”
“Yeah, but he was the Golden Jet, man — they dumped the Golden Jet….”
“You gotta get over that shit, dawg….”
“I hope they lose….”
“Aw, that’s terrible, Benny. How can you say that, dawg? That don’t make no fuckin’ sense. They Chicago, Benny. As long as they from the Chi, you got to be goin’ for them….”
“I can’t….”
“Try….”
“Okay, man — for you….”
So I try. I really do. I ask Bob for the name of the guy who scored a goal and he says that it’s Pat Kane. I ask him who’s the goaltender and he tells me — something. I don’t know. The name’s a jumble of vowels. When the Hawks tie the game at five, I cheer. But it’s an empty cheer. I just don’t care.
I’m starting to worry about Pat. He looks pale. I’m watching him watching the Hawks and I’m thinking — so this is what I must look like when I’m watching the Bulls on TV. All hunched over, a nervous wreck. Pat’s a grown man, too — past fifty. He’s wearing a team jersey with Pat Kane’s name an number on the back. Man, he’s got it bad — maybe even worse than me. At least I never wear a Derrick Rose team jersey.
Bored with the game, I go to the bar and order a coke. I page through the Sun-Times that’s lying on the counter. I’m looking for a story about the Bulls — any story will do. Turn page after page. Nothing. Nothing but Hawks this and Hawks that. I don’t want to hate, but….
Roar! I look up to see the Hawks have scored. They’re up six to five. Folks at the bar are cheering. Except for Pat. He looks even worse than before. Lips clenched. Hands tight. Whiter than white. I recognize the symptoms. I know what he’s thinking — he’s dreading the worst. He’s thinking if he cheers too soon — if he counts those proverbial chickens before they proverbially hatch — he’ll blow it for his boys. As though anything he does can ever impact the game. I can related. If it were the Bulls, I’d be thinking the same stupid thing….
“Maybe you should take a walk,” I suggest to him.
“Fuck,” he says.
Clearly, he’s in no mood for conversation. “They’re gonna win,” I tell him.
“Shut the fuck up — don’t jinx `em….”
“What do you mean jinx them? I got nothing to do with them. They’re up one and they’re playing at home. They have the home-court advantage….”
“Ice,” says Bob.
“Huh?” I ask.
“Home ice advantage — it’s hockey, not basketball, dickwad….”
“Ice, court — whatever….”
I walk to the jukebox. The younger guys have taken it over, playing shitty `80s rock. Is it just me or did the `80s suck when it came to rock `n roll?
Another roar. Hawks score — up two. Vancouver looks devastated.
“It’s over,” I tell Pat.
“Not yet,” he insists.
The game ends. The bar erupts. Bob and Pat are pounding each other on the back and talking about the next big series.
Aw, hell, it looks like it’s gonna be at least another two weeks of this crap. If I were a drinking man, I’d have to have another….
May 15th, 2009
“I did these pix in 2007. The idea was to shoot along the North Branch of the
Chicago River from Belmont Avenue, just west of Western Avenue, north to the
Sauganash neighborhood.” –
Jon Randolph, photojournalist.Just north of Belmont Avenue.
4100 North at the river.
A river house, 4500 North.
Between Wilson and Lawrence avenues.
A river house porch, looking across the river toward Horner Park.
The Ravenswood el (Brown Line) from the Wilson Avenue bridge.
West River Park between Argyle and Foster avenues.
West River Park at the confluence of the North Branch and the North Shore Channel of the Chicago River.
Join us every Friday for more peeks at Chicago through the lens of photojournalist Jon Randolph. The Third City is here with a new post every day. – The Eds.
May 14th, 2009
The woman appeared to be boiling over. Let’s call her Fatima. She seemed to be dying to say something but knew it might ignite a verbal melee. She found a roundabout way to say it, though. What followed was not an explosion but a simmering huff. The explosion would have been better.
Let me set the scene. The Loved One and I participated in a gallery exhibit at the Lakeside Legacy Arts Park the week before last. Entitled “Snap Out Of It…, Don’t You Hate It When They Say That?” the show focused on clinical depression.
The show’s barn boss was a visual artist named Sophia, a dear old pal of mine. She’s fought a lifelong battle to get people to take clinical depression seriously. She suffers from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, a symptom of which is depression. Too many people have implied that she’s merely being lazy. Some have come right out and said so. With the show, she created a constructive public outlet for her frustration.
I did a reading of a piece entitled, “I’m Slipping.” It recounted a bit of my own lifelong battle against depression. Here’s how it started:
I’m slipping.
Again. Same old thing. My life becomes very simple when I’m in the big slip. Sleep. Eat as many carbohydrates as the world’s farms can produce. Tell myself what a lousy, lazy bum I am. Go back to sleep. Wake up. Eat more carbs. Insult myself. Do it all over again.
A lot of people love the simple life.
What’s to love?
Later, I write:
I’m alone.
There must be some outward sign that warns people I’m toxic. Stay away! Don’t touch, don’t inhale, don’t catch it!
When I’m slipping, people find ways to sidle away from me. And I think, “Those jerks. Couldn’t get enough of me six months ago, now they wouldn’t pour their drinks on me it I was on fire. What’s wrong with them?”
But something’s wrong with me. I radiate something. I’ve heard that if you walk near a big radio station’s transmitter, you can hear the broadcast in your head, as if the metal in your fillings has received the signal and now is treating you to the Jonas Brothers in the caverns of your cranium. Maybe that’s how powerful this depression is – 50,000 watts-worth of misery pouring out of me like the WGN signal.
I even delve into my wrangling with the ultimate solution:
Gotta find a way out of this mess.
Suicide. I’ve thought about it every day for most of my life. Sometimes, every hour….
… People become angry when they hear about a suicide. They say the person who did the dying was – take your pick – selfish, sinful, weak, or even all three. As if the cutting, the hanging, the ingestion of poison, the inhalation of toxic gas, or the submersion in frigid waters was the moral equivalent of having an office fling or eating the last of the ice cream.
In true Hollywood fashion, I end on the upbeat:
In a never-ending attempt to right my listing ship of sanity, I’ve tried talk therapy, group therapy, cognitive therapy, behavioral therapy, Freudian analysis, four different antidepressants, Valium, Xanax, Buddhist chanting, prayer, St. John’s Wort, exercise, gin, vodka and beer, promiscuity, abstinence, pot, and at least a half dozen other panaceas I’ve forgotten or am too embarrassed to mention.
Trial and error. If at first you don’t succeed, yadda yadda yadda. I hit on Zoloft when I was 46. Seven years ago. Hmm. I think this might work. I don’t feel too much like killing myself anymore. Zoloft. And hope. They’re all I’ve got.
I promise you – I swear to you – I’m gonna snap out of this. Because that’s how easy it is. I made the decision and set out to complete this task and I’m almost finished. And it’s only taken…, let’s see now…, 36 years. It’s a snap!
The fun thing about doing a staged reading is that, for a few minutes at least, I’m a rock star. A sculptor ran up to me after I was finished and lavished more praise on me than I could possibly merit. As she gushed, Fatima approached.
Fatima was born in a country that’s notorious for its history of violence and unrest. She’s made it clear many times that this whole business of depression is the bunk. According to Fatima, depression is easily conquered through prayer and a stiff upper lip.
Antidepressants? Hah! Shrinks and support groups? A couple of rackets.
Her’s is precisely the attitude “Snap Out Of It…” was intended to address.
Exuding tension, Fatima waited for an opening. When the sculptor said that today’s economic woes may set off an epidemic of depression, Fatima couldn’t hold herself back. “You know, people have no idea what problems really are,” she began.
Her eyes flashed wide. Her jaw jutted. “I’ve seen people shot on street corners. I’ve had to take cover for my life. Americans don’t have any problems yet they’re always talking about how horrible things are. It’s sickening! Maybe people should experience real horror.”
I sensed immediately that she was really referring to my tale of woe. Yet, wishing to avoid a scene, I found myself nodding. “Oh yeah, I know what you mean,” I replied in my oiliest salesman voice. “We’re richer and healthier than 98 percent of all the people in the world….” And so on.
What I should have done is tell Fatima to go fuck herself. It would have made me feel a lot better. When you’re clinically depressed, you should always try to make yourself feel a lot better.
May 13th, 2009
For the past 25 years years I’ve made my living in the advertising business. I’ve worked for mainly small- to medium-size agencies and for the last 10 years I’ve run my own small company, called Big Sky Studios.
When I tell people I’m in the ad business, they sometimes ask me what I do. Am I a designer, account exec, media buyer? “No, ” I answer, “I am a professional bullshitter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I’m an advertising writer, the person who comes up with catchy headlines and informative copy that are supposed to convince you that the products or services I’m writing about are things you can’t live without. In essence, I’m a salesman with a keyboard.”
I’ve met a lot of interesting people in the ad business. On the creative side – meaning art directors, designers and writers – the business is filled with very talented people. Many of them could be very succesful in other creative endeavors. I’ve also met some very nice people from the business side of advertising – account managers, media buyers and upper echelon executives. Many of these people could also succeed in other business environments and often do.
On the other hand, I’ve also met a lot of raging assholes, unscrupulous and unethical people, some who are borderline psychotics and others who are shameless thieves. Sadly, the ad business seems to attract nutcases. It is an industry driven by creativity, the almighty dollar and merciless deadlines, a combination guaranteed to bring out the worst in people.
One of the most unscrupulous and unethical people I ever met in the business was a guy I’ll call Lou, who owned a mid-size agency that specialized in direct mail, or what some people refer to as “junk mail.” Lou had the trifecta of despicable character traits: he was an ego-ridden maniac with a penchant for screaming at his employees; a thief who cheated clients and vendors alike; and – worst of all, in my opinion – he despised the business that made him a wealthy man. He hated his clients, loathed his vendors and mistreated his employees. One of his favorite sayings was, “All clients are pigs.”
He was also insanely jealous of anyone in the business who was more successful than he was. Just mentioning the name of of someone like
Leo Burnett or
David Ogilvy, founder of
Ogilvy & Mather, would set Lou off.
“Leo Burnett was a rotten old bastard, stole his best ideas and ended up with a billion-dollar agency. I make it a point to piss on his grave a couple of times a year. And don’t get me started on Ogilvy. He’s nothing but a Limey faggot who came over here and bullshitted everyone with that greasy English charm. What the fuck did either of those cocksuckers ever accomplish other than stick their noses about a foot and a half up their clients’ asses? You tell me.”
If you were foolish enough to point out that Burnett and Ogilvie were part of a small group that virtually invented modern advertising, Lou would turn on you. He would call you vile names and probably cut your Christmas bonus in half – that is, if the cheap bastard planned on giving out bonuses at all.
I saw Lou do a lot of underhanded things, but the most outrageous was when he cheated our biggest client. It was a case of blatant theft and the funny thing was he could have gotten away with it if he had not been so stupid.
The client put in an order for thousands of ball caps with its company logo on them. Lou immediately called the most expensive vendor in town and got a quote of $16,000. He then marked up that price $4000 and presented the client with a quote for $20,000. The client agreed to the price.
That’s when Lou went to work. He immediately began searching for a vendor who would provide the ball caps at a lower price. After talking to dozens of suppliers, he finally found a small mom and pop shop that would do the job for $3000.
Despite the new rock bottom price, Lou stayed true to his nature and refused to pass on the savings to his client. When the mom and pop shop invoice arrived, Lou let it sit on his desk for months. That was his style. He hated to pay vendors. He would string them along for months, waiting until they threatened to sue, then send them a pittance, just enough to satisfy “legal good faith” requirements. Then the whole dragged-out payment process would begin again.
In this case, the mom and pop shop got tired of waiting and pulled an end run. They sent a copy of the invoice directly to our client. Shortly afterwards, I got a call from Jeff, my contact at the client.
“Hey, Milo, I’ve got an invoice sitting on my desk from the ball cap company.”
“That’s strange.”
“They sent it here because you guys haven’t paid them and the invoice is six months old.”
“Heh, heh. Must be some sort of mistake.”
“Perhaps. Oh, and by the way, can you explain why were were charged $20,000 for a job that you paid three thousand for?”
I may be a professional bullshitter, but I didn’t even try to bullshit my way out of that one. The client fired us a week later. And a few weeks after that I gave my two week notice. After all, there’s only so much bullshit a pro can take.
May 11th, 2009
We go to our favorite Italian restaurant for Mother’s Day. Nobody gets plastered, but we have a few drinks. Manhattans for my parents, beer for me. My sister and wife are drinking something — can’t remember what.
By the end of the dinner no one’s feeling any pain. My younger daughter orders tea — Earl Grey. “I don’t like Earl Grey,” my sister says.
“You’re not drinking it,” I tell her.
My mother tells a story about a girl she knew in college who stole a towel from a hotel: “They found the towel in her suitcase. I said, `You don’t need that towel.’ She said, `I always wanted that towel.’”
The conversation moves to a discussion of Key West in Florida. My father talks about the writers who have lived there. “Hemingway and Wallace Stevens once had a fist fight,” he says.
I shouldn’t say anything, but he has to be wrong. Wallace Stevens is too old to be a contemporary of Hemingway. The old man’s slipping — he’s getting his poets mixed up.
“Stevens broke his fist when he hit Hemingway in the jaw,” he continues.
I shake my head. “That didn’t happen,” I say.
“Yes, it did….”
“It couldn’t. Stevens is twenty years older than Hemingway. That’s like you having a fight with….” I try to think of a colleague or a friend who is twenty years younger than my father.
“They had a fight,” he says. “You can look it up….”
The conversation moves to Pete Seeger. My sister says they just had a concert in New York City, celebrating his 90th birthday. “Bruce Springsteen was there,” she says.
“But your friend didn’t show,” my father says to me.
“Which friend?” I say.
“Dylan….”
I think — don’t fall for it.
“He is your friend?” says my father, as if I’ve ever even met Bob Dylan.
“Dylan snubbed Pete Seeger?” asks my mother.
I fall for it. “We don’t know if he was invited….”
“Why wouldn’t he be invited?” says my sister. “You know he was invited. He’s still mad at the folk singers for things that happened forty years ago….”
“We don’t know he was invited,” I say.
“He should get over it,” says my sister.
I stop. Why am I falling for this? I’m a thousand years old and I’m still falling for this.
“The point is that one of them is a leftist and the other is a religious rightist,” says my father.
I fall for it again. “Okay, Dylan’s not a religious rightist,” I say.
“But didn’t he become a Christian?” asks my mother.
“That doesn’t make him a religious rightist,” I say.
“But why didn’t he go to Pete Seeger’s party?” asks my mother.
“Maybe he wasn’t invited,” I say.
“Of course, he was invited,” says my sister.
“How do you know?” I say. “Did you make the invitations?”
Ah, weak response. I’m not up to my usual game. I should drink more. Maybe I’d be wittier if I drank more.
Later that night I go to my computer and look up Wallace Stevens and Ernest Hemingway. I’ll be goddamn — there it is. They quote a letter that Hemingway wrote, and it’s just like my dad said: “Mr. Stevens hit me flush on the jaw with his Sunday punch bam like that. And this is very funny. Broke his hand in two places. Didn’t hurt my jaw at all.”
What an arrogant ass Hemingway was. Makes me want to hear Stevens’ side of the story.
Oh, well — I should know better. There are four arguments you will never, ever win: A baseball argument with Big Mike Glab; a basketball argument with Norm; an argument about The Beatles with my sister (she knows freaking everything about The Beatles); and an argument about poets and/or poetry with my father.
No matter how old he is….
May 11th, 2009
This long distance romance deal is losing some of its, well, romance. Spending her weeknights holed up in the bedroom of a sublet apartment has begun to turn The Loved One into a irascible thing. She certainly was no Perle Mesta this weekend back home at the Murray Hill Pike ranch and it’s hard to blame her. On the other hand, I nominate myself for sainthood for bearing without complaint (oh, alright, I complained a little…, scratch that – a lot) her tight-lipped mien, snippy replies and overall spleen.
So I suppose the prospects of my
beatification hinge upon the fact that we didn’t actually engage in hand-to-hand combat from Friday evening through late Sunday afternoon, the length of this week’s reunion.
Imagine that – St. Big Mike!
We did get some good news Friday when the owners of a terrific country home took us up on our offer to make a
contingency offer (is that an offer once removed?) They’ve found a new place but, like everyone else in the United States, are stuck waiting for someone to take their current home off their hands. It’s a nation of time-biders right now. I get the feeling that some family, somewhere – say,
Enid, Oklahoma – will get a solid offer on their home Wednesday afternoon, setting in motion the domino fall of several million sales that will cause real estate agents everywhere to swoon in delirium.
Not to mention The Loved One and me. We haven’t got a single offer yet, even though our home has been on the market for more than two months and, if I do say so myself, is quite a joint.
That’s all for now. Gotta shave (head and face) and dress like an adult. I’m headed up to Bloomington, Indiana later this morning for an afternoon chock-full of interviews with people from a gigantic corporation who seem interested in my services as a copywriter. Hmm.
The last of the great free agents trading in his normal workaday attire (boxer shorts, coffee-stained T-shirt and flip-flops) for a collared shirt and pleated trousers? Can it be? Stay tuned.
