Sam Adams: The Man Who Cried Woo

I was walking down Clark Street, a half block north of Addison, the bright sunny day instinctively prompting my horrible, winter-hangover habit of yearning for the coming baseball season even though I know it means I will spend another 162 days (165, if lucky) following a bunch of overpaid bums I mindlessly worship….

When who should I run into but Ronnie Woo Woo.

It’s mid-February. Thirty-eight degrees. The Cubs haven’t even played a single spring training game yet. But to Ronnie, you’d think we were in the heart of the pennant race.

He’s decked out in his trademark full regalia: Cubs home jersey (“Woo Woo” on the back), matching white pinstripe pants, blue-fitted Cub hat and white sneakers.  There’s something troublesome about this scene, but I don’t linger on it.

Instead, I return to the burning question I’ve been asking each winter since I was five:

“Yo, Ronnie — how are the Cubs gonna do this year?”

“World Series,” he says, as he cordially extends a firm handshake.

“What’s that?” I ask, not so much out of surprise (because, hey, it’s so damned pleasantly sunny that maybe Next Year has finally arrived) but because a guy whose primary vocabulary consists of the word “Woo” isn’t always the easiest to understand.

“World Series,” he says. “Back to back….”

Now that’s a hopeful prognosis if ever I’ve heard one. Perhaps the perpetual mascot has had a few too many Cubweisers – he is after all walking out of a bar at two-thirty in the afternoon. But, no, he’s sober – or at least as sober as a rabid Cub fan can be. Maybe Ronnie has a purer, more persistent strain of the virus that seeps into our Cubbie-blue blood streams causing us to have fantastical dreams around this time of year.

Immediately, I text Arturo, my longtime die-hard Cub comrade.

“Just bumped into Woo Woo,” I wrote. “He predicts back to back World Series – my nipples are hard!”

Immediately, Arturo – who clearly has nothing better to do because he’s as unemployed as I am — responds:

“He’ll die before that win and that might be one of the saddest things I have ever thought of. What kind of life is this for us?”

Good question. But today I have no answers. Even if Ronnie’s World Series prophecy is as hopeless as Benny Jay’s ability to handle a computer, I choose to believe it. After all, Opening Day is only thirty-five days away.

See you in the bleachers, Ronnie….

by Sam Adams

Two-Headed Boy: Tunes From Transit Vol. I

From my house to The Clothing Store, it’s about a twenty-five minute drive — a mundane commute on a road I’ve driven my entire life.

On clear days, I see Chicago’s skyline, a gleaming taunt from the skyscrapers to remind me that I’m stuck toiling in a suburban mall. The streets are lined with strip malls, hosting just about any chain you can think of: Panda Express, Verizon, Domino’s Pizza, and McDonald’s — on every corner.  I even drive by a Babies R’ Us, for goodness sakes.

My trip isn’t all bad thanks to my IPod, which I play through my minivan’s tape adapter. People lament about the death of the album, noting how the IPod and other mp3 players have created a “channel-surfing” effect — we don’t have the attention span to listen to an album in its entirety anymore.

At times I think this is true, as all the great songs stored in my IPod make me hyperactive in wanting to hear something else. 22 Two’s by Jay-Z can lead to Two States by Pavement, and then State Trooper by Springsteen, and then Getchoo by Weezer and so on….

The cure to album-abuse can be solved by a drive-time commute. I’m not the best driver in the world, but my car isn’t helping much either. The ol’ ’94 Nissan Quest handles about as well as a skateboard with babies for wheels.  I can’t afford to get into an accident while driving through thick traffic, trying to find a song.

I hear see the paramedics now, examining the wreckage and finding the IPod.

“Poor guy,” they’ll say. “All he wanted to do was listen to Jizz in my Pants.”

That’s why my drive is perfect for putting on an album and listening to it all the way through. Thus begins Two-Headed Boy’s Album-of-the-Month Club. February!

TITUS ANDRONICUS – THE MONITOR

It’s been a year since my band first opened for Titus Andronicus at a venue in the wonderful Midwestern college town where I went to school. The dudes from Glen Rock, NJ needed a place to stay after the show so my roommates/bandmates happily obliged. Two things struck me from the evening.

1.)   TA brings home the bacon live. (I’ve always liked the term “bring home the bacon” because I like bacon and I like clichés.) They are a stellar live band.

2.)   TA is a hungry band. Effort-wise and literally. When I boarded their van to navigate them to our house after the show, their always-engaging/always-bearded singer/guitarist Patrick Stickles was going to town on a bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed brand marshmallows.  It was like manna. As a marshmallow and rock and/or roll enthusiast, I excitedly thought to myself, “This is what life on tour must be like!”

The Titus guys couldn’t be nicer, leaving the next morning to drive to a show in Indiana, gracious for our hospitality. Marshmallows and tunes in consideration, I purchased their first release, 2008’s The Airing of Grievances and was captivated. It’s the sound of The Boss teabagging Win Butler, sprawling punk jams that could fill arenas if they weren’t gleefully self-sabotaged in a swirl of drones and shoe-gaze aesthetics.

Naturally, my friends and I have been eagerly awaiting their follow-up, The Monitor, to the point where once it got leaked we jumped on it. Officially, it surfaces March 9^th.

First off, it’s good. The first day I got it, I snuck back to my car on my break from The Clothing Store to re-and-re-listen to the song Theme from Cheers. Second, it’s epic. Epic is a nice way of saying long. Not considering the short, searing paranoia-blues of the live staple Titus Andronicus Forever and its saxophone-saturated bookend …And Ever, the remaining eight songs average out at around seven minutes long, concluding with The Battle of Hampton Roads, which clocks in at 14:02.

It’s almost like Titus don’t want the songs to be over, scared of what’ll happen if they put down their dukes. I was thinking of other instances of weaving together long, aspiring punk with winding, huge guitar work and thought of Marquee Moon by Television. Not so much musically, but similar in terms of such building, marathon song craft. Definitely not thematically, as The Monitor’s lyrical content references such subjects as Jefferson Davis, The Dark Knight and Keystone Light. Tom Verlaine was never up on that Civil War shit…or maybe I’m not listening close enough.

The interesting part of Titus is their constant line-up fluctuation. Members come and go from tour to tour. We got to play with them again in September, and I personally thought they were hurt by the absence of a real cool Americana-lookin’ fellow named Ian, previously their rhythm guitarist.

The show must go on, and the songs remain the same, so needless to say, I’m very excited to hang/see them when they play a free show at Reckless Records in Chicago in March in support of The Monitor.

That is if The Clothing Store bites on my “family event” excuse for taking the day off. I told them I was going to “the theater” — I mean, I’m seeing Titus Andronicus.

by Two-Headed Boy

No Blaise: Joakim Noah!

When I bought my ticket to last summer’s Lollapalooza, I knew I’d be in for an experience. What I couldn’t predict was meeting Joakim Noah.

That’s right, I got up close and personal with a big-time Bulls player.

If you know nothing about Lollapalooza, you should know that crowd turnout for this three-day music festival is massive. I was afraid to blink at certain points in the day in case my friends might get enveloped into the madness in that millisecond.

No, I’m not kidding.

Anyway…

Seeing basketball players on TV you know they’re tall. But because they’re all so tall, it’s hard to realize their height in terms of the rest of us here in the real world.  Post-Joakim meeting I’ve been enlightened—the dude is huge.

Remember my reference on crowd size at Lolla… Not even the music-loving mass could keep Joakim out of my line of vision.

Making our way from one stage to another, my girl, Anika, looks up, points, and simply shouts: JOAKIM!

There he was, at the beer tent no less.

I knew there was a reason he was my favorite Bulls player.

As is the natural reaction when you spot a noteworthy person within your proximity, we ran over to snap a picture with him.

You’ll have to take my word for it, but I am tall. On the non-NBA scale, that is. I’m used to being the head above the other heads in a group photo. But I ain’t got nothin’ on Joakim.

Anika, Hannah (my other girl), and I catch up to him and beg him for a photo. Unsurprisingly, he’s completely nice about it. Hannah and I take a place on either side of him.  Anika snaps the pic.

Sorry, Ani.

As soon as I fell into pose, I realized how tall he actually was. No longer was I floating above — in fact, my head just slightly reached the height of his shoulder.

How do people play defense on this guy? Oh, right – in his world, he’s almost short.

The camera clicks and my association with this Chicago Bull is captured for eternity.

We step out from under his wingspan and for two seconds, the three of us just sort of look at him like little girls. Giddy and ridiculous. He breaks our child-like stupor by thanking us and gliding back into the crowd.

I think I might’ve awkwardly shouted “THANK…YOU!”  But maybe not. My memory can only comprehend so much about that moment.

When I finally floated back down to real life and regained normal consciousness, I begin to understand what just happened. Not only did I meet Joakim, but I had my picture taken with him.

A picture I could post online!

And show it to everyone I know!

Which I did.

It was digital gold.

Even my Celtics-loving father was impressed.

Why write about that picture today, after so many months have passed? Well, I happened to find it just the other day. It’s as golden as ever. Look for yourself.

By the way, that’s me on your right and Hannah on your left. Nice picture, right? But now that I look at it, there’s a bunch of questions I wish I’d asked him. Like — who’s the dude in the back and what’s with the yellow-framed shades?

Oh, well. Next time — I swear.

I posted it on my Facebook page and everybody was either way impressed or totally jealous — all over again.

Even Two-Headed Boy thought it was pretty cool.

My picture with Joakim is the gift that just keeps giving….

by No Blaise

Two-Headed Boy: Romance In The Retail World

I have to work on Valentine’s Day at The Clothing Store, but it’s just as well.

If anyone’s wondering, there’s no Two-Headed Girl out there.  I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school. Ever since it’s been a series of dead-ends, constantly slipping on the cruel banana peel of botched romance.

What’s a single guy to do?

I’ll tell you what — flirt, flirt, flirt with customers.

When I first started the job, I was trapped in the fitting room, buttoning and folding away my days.  But recently I’ve been let out of the cage. I was register trained, and I also scoot around the floor handing out invaluable customer service. Well, kind of.  More like: “The bathroom is in the back left!”

These new-found responsibilities leave me with the chance to interact with the fairer sex, which flock to our store in troves.

The Clothing Store has plenty of styles that appeal to everyone from high school girls to soccer-yet-still-stylish-moms. I’m not the best flirt in the world, but I’m certainly not the worst. Talking to beautiful customers is a good way to preoccupy time.  I mean, I’m supposed to be helping them anyway.

I think my boredom at work has spawned a strange fantasy that somehow, through my impeccable service and friendly demeanor, some girl will think: “Who was that sales associate? Maybe I should go back and ask him to the food court on his break?  He looked hungry.”

True, I am hungry (probably for pizza).  False, the love connection hasn’t happened — alas.

One time a freckle-faced fashionista walked in sipping a chai latte. Well, that happens a lot actually, but this one was extra cute. Usually I help customers at my own leisure, but I approached her so fast I got an invite to the NFL combine. I helped her find a couple of pairs of jeans and a skirt, and decided to try starting a conversation.

“I see you have, um — tea there,” I stumbled. “Did you get it from the new place downstairs?”

Not the smoothest line, but definitely keeping it mall-centric. Turns out she got the tea from the town where I live. She teaches cheer leading there. She’s also best friends with a girl I’m friends with from high school.  We were legitimately talking! What do you know? The ol’  where’d-you-get-the-tea- from?-trick works!

Later, I asked our mutual friend about this girl. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend. I felt stupid for asking. I don’t know what I expected my friend to say. Perhaps something along the lines of: “Oh, yeah, she mentioned you! You were the one who processed her monetary transaction!”

I started to realize that my fleeting retail romances might just be shams. The smiles aren’t for me — they’re for the plaid blouses I’m folding and sizing. The glances aren’t at me, but our fabulous sale prices. I might as well be a mannequin. Working in a clothing store is like being a rock in a river of bustling humanity. Every connection made — guy or girl — is fleeting.  Soon to move on to the next store.

Sorry, that’s getting a little morose. I’m far from miserable — it’s just an interesting thought.

My pebble-in-the-river status also allows me a unique perspective on romance in the retail world: Couple customers.

You can tell a lot about a couple by the way they shop together. Their body language. Their attitude.  Sometimes it is almost painful to watch, seeing a couple argue over something as simple as a cardigan. I work in the fitting room on the floor with men’s clothing, so I get a lot of dudes getting annoyed with the clothes their girlfriends pick out for them. The lack of patience that can be shown from one shopping trip is unbelievable. The most natural couple I’ve seen in the store coincidentally is my two best friends; their body language speaks volumes of why they’re still together.

Everyone on The Clothing Store staff seems to be in good shape, romantically speaking. Some are married, some are dating. One girl is dating a guitarist from a crummy local band. My favorite manager claims she loves her boyfriend, but she relentlessly flirts with the former employee who showed up drunk to the company party.

Sunday won’t be that bad though. I have a date with a 10 percent discount at the mall’s pizza joint. John Lennon once sang: “Happiness is a warm ‘za.”

Or something like that — the store’s soundtrack is really getting to me.

by Two-Headed Boy

Two-Headed Boy: The Who And The Why?

Business seems to be booming at The Clothing Store. All gripes aside about my purgatory of plaid, we steamrolled through the holiday season with record numbers and are on a hot streak ever since.

Just like in good sports clichés, team chemistry is the key to success. That’s the same in a department store, and my managers have called in a few “team meetings” to improve camaraderie. The first was a meeting titled “Let’s get Commercial!”

The opening exercise was passing around a roll of toilet paper and plucking off a few leaves, telling a personal fun fact for each square. Then we were broken into teams, challenged to be the fastest group to re-organize their section of the store. I could hardly get a word in as my veteran teammates flew on autopilot. A rookie’s word gets no respect.

Additional bonding came as a pizza party this past Sunday night at an arcade. I felt it might be nice to socialize with my coworkers, but it was like a group of high school cliques. Before I knew it, I was alone playing skee-ball by myself. It wasn’t mandatory, but the only football going on was the Pro Bowl so I decided to attend.

It won’t happen this weekend – can’t miss Super Sunday. There’s something for everyone in the marathon Super Bowl telecast – football, commercials involving dancing bears, talking babies and beer, beer, beer. Sometimes all three at once!

Thanks to YouTube, I now have pretty good impressions of Colts and Saint fans.

If I had to pick a side, I’d probably geaux with New Orleans – the prospect of that Dread locked “Shoe” guy crying himself to sleep in his mom’s basement is way too enticing.

I have no illusion about the halftime show. MTV produced a slew of pyro-and-boy-band-heavy extravaganzas at the turn of the millennium. But Justin and Janet had their “wardrobe malfunction” and the NFL relieved MTV of its duties and they’ve been playing it safe ever since.

Prince was an unlikely choice, considering the standard parade of classic-rock fare, but he paid off.  They went though the Stones and the Boss but this year’s choice – The Who – is a total step backwards. The most captivating parts of The Who — Keith Moon and John Entwistle — are long gone, replaced by Zak Starkey, Ringo’s son, on drums, and an ever rotating cast of characters on bass.

I’ve seen recent “Who” performances where the camera only shows the part of the stage occupied by Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, almost ignoring the fact that rock’s most dynamic rhythm section is now gone. The Big Show shouldn’t be given to a cover band. I go by the “half rule.” If you only have half your original members, might as well call it a day.

Time to pump in some new blood and show that the show isn’t just a boy’s club. My vote is for Beyonce, who proved at her recent Grammy performance that she can rock with the best of them.

You’re probably left asking, what fun fact did I say with toilet paper in hand at The Clothing Store?

“I am Two-Headed Boy and you are all the subject of a subversive social experiment on TheThirdCity.com!”

Well, I was thinking that. I actually told an anecdote about how I have an inherent fear of stickers because an overzealous grocery store clerk put one on my forehead while I was just a tot. My low profile is vital — and thankfully still intact.

by Two-Headed Boy

No Blaise: 80 West?

If you ask anyone who knows me or — more important – has driven with me, they’ll tell you my internal compass may be a little, oh, damaged.

Needless to say, getting lost isn’t a situation I’m ever surprised to be in.

Here’s where I’m going with this….

A few nights ago, my friend, Kiwanda, and I decide that dinner’s going to be at Wendy’s – gotta love that dollar menu.

We get the goods: Two five-piece nuggets, fries, Frosty, and a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger. As I pull away from the drive-thru, I remember promising myself I wouldn’t go overboard.

Story of my life….

Anyway, so I make it back onto the main road and hang a right on what I’ve convinced myself is the way back to Iowa City.

Wrong.

A minute goes by and my “Oh, shit” meter goes off. This is definitely not the way back to my apartment. In fact, I have no idea where this is gonna bring us.

Then the fog sets in.

I mean that literally. All of a sudden we’re driving through a thick fog.

You know, like when you look out the window of an airplane and you can’t see a thing cause you’re coasting through a cloud? Well, that’s what consumed my car….

Did I mention it was dark outside? And that on either side of the highway was rural Iowa?

Being from Chicago, I’m not down with these country bumpkin surroundings when it’s light outside – let alone at night when you’re wrapped in a blanket of fog.

Did I mention I had no idea where I was going?

Just as my life was about to turn into a bad, scary movie, I see a Green Sign emerge from the fog: “North Liberty five miles.”

A light at the end of one foggy tunnel.

I pull off at the next exit. As in all good slasher films, there’s a gas station where I can stop for directions.

I pull in, put the car in park, and before I even turn off the engine, Kiwanda informs me: “I’m staying here.”

The wimp.

There are only three other people in the gas station. The cashier, a man with a credit card, and Mr. Credit Card Man’s wife.

Mr. Credit Card walks away from the counter as his wife walks up with a bottle of water. As he walks out of the gas station – credit card in hand – he tells the cashier to put “the water on the card.”

The cashier, of course, can’t do this because said card remains in wifey’s hand. Mrs. Credit Card pulls a few bills from her purse, shakes her head and mutters something along the lines of – “idiot.”

And these are the people who will direct me….

I step to the counter to address the cashier. He’s wearing hoop earrings with spikes on the end and a backwards baseball cap. His attitude reminds me of the dude on Orange County Choppers. If you’ve never seen that show, just imagine anyone who’s ever threatened to beat you up and you’ll get the idea.

Oh, what’s that on his arm? A tattoo that says: “No Regrets.” Well, this just got better.

Okay, class, tonight’s question is: How do you ask someone for directions home if you do not want him to know where you live?

I realize I’ve been silently looking at him for a socially unacceptable amount of time.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh,” I say.

He looks at me. Obviously, muttering to myself isn’t amusing him.

Finally, I spit it out. “How do I get back to Iowa City?”

The bell above the door rings and Mr. Credit Card returns.

The cashier starts in with his directions: “Blah, blah, blah – take a right. Blah, blah, blah….”

I have no idea what he’s talking about cause I’m distracted. Must be that tattoo.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” I say. “But – what?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but Mr. Credit Card cuts him off. “Well, you first go here and then you go there — blah, blah, blah….”

Well, give him credit – at least he’s coherent. Though I’m not sure if I should follow the directions of a man who doesn’t know how to use a credit card.

It turns out I only had to get on the highway and go the other way from the way I was going.

After we pulled up to Kiwanda’s apartment, I considered kissing the ground. But the snow had already turned black.

I told you I was directionally challenged….

by No Blaise

Two Headed Boy: I Officially Have 12 Fingers

Two of my fingers are split down the middle, leaving gaping gouges that simulate the appearance of two digits in one.

I wish I could say my strange wounds came from a knife fight or something with a slight whiff of bad ass. Instead, I’m the victim of Merino-wool sweaters, brightly colored Cardigans and jackets relentlessly tattooed with sequins.

This is the life of a retail rookie in the winter.

I used to be a college student, and then I graduated last May. I used to play bass in a rock band, and then our drummer took off to Prague – the bastard.

So now I work in a clothing store in a mall somewhere west of Chicago. I’m the guy who takes the unwanted clothes from doomed fitting room sessions back to their rightful homes on racks and shelves.

In order to protect my anonymity – and not offend my boss — the clothing store will remain nameless. Better yet, I’ll call it The Clothing Store. Well, it worked for The Container Store.

The name doesn’t really matter – we could be talking about any store, Anywhere, USA. Okay, not anywhere. Somewhere cold. I mean, really cold, so the store is skin-cracking dry and no matter how much moisturizer I apply to my hands – handling garments is agony.

If palm readers were to look at my hands, they would tell me I perished from dysentery in 1855.

The good news is that the holidays have finally ended and with it went the store’s seasonal soundtrack. I can deal with your typical faceless, mid-90s, pseudo-club-funk-disco-elevator music perpetually playing in the background. But I can’t take the toothless R&B or rap – with holiday-themed lyrics slathered on top – playing over and over again.

I hate to blame Run-D.M.C, but their certifiably awesome 1987 track, Christmas in Hollis, started the snowball rolling. For two months, I heard it every day.

This song survives because they turned the holiday cliches upside down. Santa comes to Queens to deliver fat gold chains and new Adidas, while mom’s in the kitchen cooking chicken and collard greens.

Other tracks aren’t as creative. The songs piping into the fitting room are too predictable – it’s pain/paint by numbers, folks.

“Me” rhymes with “tree” – just so easily. I’ve heard that rhyme in at least three different songs.

Destiny Child’s 8 Days of Christmas was playing at least once every half hour on the store’s perpetual loop. Whenever I heard Beyonce mention that CD she got for Christmas, I feel like testing the Frisbee capabilities of the CD in the store stereo.

At least we’re done with all that. We’re back to the standard issue, disco-funk shipped straight out of the C&C Music Factory.

Music can keep you sane and drive you insane at the same time. Sometimes during  slow times at work I picture Joe Strummer fighting Kenny G inside my head for my immortal soul — sparks emanating every time the Telecaster and Soprano Sax strike each other.

Jimi Hendrix once said:  “That’s what it’s all about – filling up the chest cavities and empty kneecaps and elbows.” Good music can be the salve for the soul, but awful music isn’t always its poison.

I’ll be touching on it all here at The Third City — the anomalies and cacophonies, low lights and highlights, that are swimming in the bizarre pool of music — past and present.

If you need me, I’ll be in the fitting room.

by Two-Headed Boy