The Nurse Novels met at Thea's to go over new songs.
Tom moves to Rhode Island in 106 days.
Our plan is to record as many songs as we can before he moves.
Then go dormant.
We freed the songs from their demo purgatories.
Nicole's bass lines gave them a good goose.
Can't wait to hear them on a proper drum kit.
Right now I bang on notebooks.
Today was my friend Mick's birthday.
He founded The Annoyance.
Tonight he premiered a film called Bandicoot!
It was written and performed by him and my old comedy cohort Josh.
It is the stupidest film.
And this is why I love Mick.
I hung around afterward.
That's what you do at Annoyance.
A couple of former students of mine said hello.
They seemed genuinely glad to see me.
I hadn't felt that in a while.
Unfortunately, I couldn't remember their names.
This year on the plane to Amsterdam, I saw my high school English teacher.
Mr. Erford.
Dennis.
I hadn't seen him since graduation day.
I wanted to say hi.
But I didn't.
We were in the same room for nine hours.
But I didn't say hi.
I saw him at baggage claim at Schiphol.
Still, I didn't say hi.
I didn't want him to not remember me.
Then I went home.
Verdict: Loss
December 11 - Stay Funny
Hard Times Dining
Saturday morning began at Captain Hard Times Dining.
Or is it Captain's Hard Time Dining?
The sign out front says Capt's Hard Time Dining.
But the one on the door says Captain's Hardtimes.
Let's see what our internet says.
The url for the website is http://captainshardtimedining.com.
Though the home page refers to it as Captain's Hard Times Dining.
I guess it depends on where you would like the hard times to go.
And how many hard times are occurring.
I like the idea of a captain embodying the hard times.
A surly, swarthy old barnacle of the sea.
So I like Captain Hard Times.
But nobody seems to call it that.
Most references to the restaurant make the captain possessive of the dining.
That way the hard time or hard times also falls on the dining.
Either way, I admire any business that celebrates hard times in their name.
Rarely do you see Bob Evan's Shit Happens Breakfast Specials.
Hold on.
Apparently there's a chili chain in the DC area called Hard Times Cafe.
Their mascot is a ragamuffin kid in a wash basin.
Hmm.
It feels like it's trying to resonate with NASCAR existentialists.
Or something.
I don't know.
Zagat gave them a Top 20.
Penthouse seems to like them.
So there's that.
I don't know how to feel about it anymore.
The Captain
Josephine Wade sat behind a plate of chicken and waffles.
An active force in the community (NAACP, Rainbow/Push, The Urban League, and much more) and a confirmed gumbo champion, she owned the room with humor and power.
Josephine Wade runs a tidy ship.
The director wanted quiet.
So Josephine yelled "QUIET!"
No dinging coffee cups.
No incessant chatter.
No timers going off.
The staff was dressed for Sunday.
They muttered obscenities under their breath.
Hard Time Dining
Chaz and I enjoyed breakfast in a booth.
A table of grey-haired Gradies slid their jibs about old stick up boys and other crazy motherfuckers from back in the day.
They laughed heartily and rapped the table.
Veruca texted me to ask them to keep it down.
A waitress showed me an ad for two types of cellphones.
"Which one would you get?"
I made a selection.
A coffee cup rattled on its saucer.
Veruca texted me again.
Petty Cash Pencil Clash
Saturday afternoon was spent at the Black Ensemble Theater.
I started to snap a photo of Veruca.
"You're going to put that on Facebook and say what a bitch I am."
So I didn't take the picture.
Instead, I did my petty cash.
Taping receipts to scrap paper.
Adding it all up.
A pencil is required.
Jerzy lent me his.
"You call yourself a PA?"
No, Jerzy.
I don't.
I call myself an unfocused humorist.
I don't know which is worse.
I should have said "I am Chicago."
Stay Funny
It was a rainy farewell.
I hugged Veruca au voir.
Jerzy and I returned the vans to Movie Movies, and unloaded them in the rain.
He split without shaking hands.
"Stay funny," he sarcasmed.
Stay fun, Jerzy.
I should have said "Stay funny looking!"
Gripes To Mike Royko At Ray's Tap
Tonight I read at the Ray's Tap Reading Seriers for Gripes To Mike Royko.
Saturday morning began at Captain Hard Times Dining.Or is it Captain's Hard Time Dining?
The sign out front says Capt's Hard Time Dining.
But the one on the door says Captain's Hardtimes.
Let's see what our internet says.
The url for the website is http://captainshardtimedining.com.
Though the home page refers to it as Captain's Hard Times Dining.
I guess it depends on where you would like the hard times to go.
And how many hard times are occurring.
I like the idea of a captain embodying the hard times.A surly, swarthy old barnacle of the sea.
So I like Captain Hard Times.
But nobody seems to call it that.
Most references to the restaurant make the captain possessive of the dining.
That way the hard time or hard times also falls on the dining.
Either way, I admire any business that celebrates hard times in their name.
Rarely do you see Bob Evan's Shit Happens Breakfast Specials.
Hold on.
Apparently there's a chili chain in the DC area called Hard Times Cafe.
Their mascot is a ragamuffin kid in a wash basin.
Hmm.
It feels like it's trying to resonate with NASCAR existentialists.
Or something.
I don't know.
Zagat gave them a Top 20.
Penthouse seems to like them.
So there's that.
I don't know how to feel about it anymore.
The Captain
Josephine Wade sat behind a plate of chicken and waffles.
An active force in the community (NAACP, Rainbow/Push, The Urban League, and much more) and a confirmed gumbo champion, she owned the room with humor and power.
Josephine Wade runs a tidy ship.The director wanted quiet.
So Josephine yelled "QUIET!"
No dinging coffee cups.
No incessant chatter.
No timers going off.
The staff was dressed for Sunday.
They muttered obscenities under their breath.
Hard Time Dining
Chaz and I enjoyed breakfast in a booth.
A table of grey-haired Gradies slid their jibs about old stick up boys and other crazy motherfuckers from back in the day.
They laughed heartily and rapped the table.
Veruca texted me to ask them to keep it down.
A waitress showed me an ad for two types of cellphones.
"Which one would you get?"
I made a selection.
A coffee cup rattled on its saucer.
Veruca texted me again.
Petty Cash Pencil Clash
Saturday afternoon was spent at the Black Ensemble Theater.
I started to snap a photo of Veruca.
"You're going to put that on Facebook and say what a bitch I am."
So I didn't take the picture.
Instead, I did my petty cash.
Taping receipts to scrap paper.
Adding it all up.
A pencil is required.
Jerzy lent me his.
"You call yourself a PA?"
No, Jerzy.
I don't.
I call myself an unfocused humorist.
I don't know which is worse.
I should have said "I am Chicago."
Stay Funny
It was a rainy farewell.
I hugged Veruca au voir.
Jerzy and I returned the vans to Movie Movies, and unloaded them in the rain.
He split without shaking hands.
"Stay funny," he sarcasmed.
Stay fun, Jerzy.
I should have said "Stay funny looking!"
Gripes To Mike Royko At Ray's Tap
Tonight I read at the Ray's Tap Reading Seriers for Gripes To Mike Royko.
In 1993, the Chicago Tribune's Mike Royko responded to Bob Greene's letters of American Optimism, asking his readers to send in their petty complaints. His readers inundated him with pedestrian bile and vitriol about the volume level of commercials, gays in the military, and other delights.
A savvy Wilmette garbage picker scooped up a healthy pile of these letters discarded on Royko's estate, and gave them to Chris Bower, curator of the Ray's Tap Reading Series.
I was asked to select a letter and write a piece about it.
I picked an angry rant about gum.
Last time I read at Ray's, I did a few character pieces.
My comedy comfort zone.
The same shit I'd been doing for thirteen years.
So this time I chose to write prose.
Just a straight story.
I timed it at ten minutes.
I cut a bunch of it to get it down to six.
If I spoke briskly.
I felt good about it.
The first act killed.
Everyone did comedy.
Everyone shone comedically.
The bar hooted in its own stitches.
I felt less good about my piece.
During the intermission, Ray told me how he was looking forward to my piece.
He thought the last one I did was the best.
Because it was so funny.
I told him I was going to try something different tonight.
The second act continued in the spirit of comedy.
To vary from the theme of the evening was going to prove difficult.
And it did.
I read my piece.
It was long.
It got one laugh early on because laughing during a reading had been firmly established.
But it wasn't funny.
And it wasn't meant to be funny.
But it wasn't funny.
I had unwittingly betrayed the night.
My words were less noticed than the smoke in the room.
Even the smoke was bored.
 |
| DO NOT ENJOY |
Eight minutes later, nineteen people had checked their cellphones, and politely applauded when it was over.
Afterward my friend Greg complimented me on how I held my papers.
He pointed out that they didn't shake.
Yeah, I suppose I've gotten used to failure.
It doesn't frighten me anymore.
Maybe Jerzy was right.
I should have stayed funny.
Verdict: Loss
Here's the gripe:
Dear Mike,
The most aggravating vermin on earth are the gum-chewing cretins who noisily gnaw on their cuds with a single-minded intensity that makes Mike Ditka seem placid by comparison. These people should have their jaws permanently wired shut.
Edwin C. Kehm, Elgin IL
Here's the piece:
To Lose
by Tony Mendoza
“So what’s your biggest fear?”
It was a question Edwin liked to ask people while they had food in their mouth. This time it was doner kabob, which is European for gyro.
“Kwabbeen aw dad aw bee,” she gagged.
He wasn’t used to an immediate answer. Usually they mulled it over mid-chew then formulated their answer.
“What?”
Josie held up her finger then pointed it at the bulbous guy by the jukebox. Challenging the durability of the buttons on his shiny club shirt, he had let himself go but was trying to prove otherwise. As if a pint of hair product could distract the world from the futbol occupying his man-womb. It jiggled as he clapped to the fade out on Bowie’s “Modern Love”.
“Clapping on the downbeat,” she repeated.
He frowned.
“C’mon, no more bits. What’s your biggest fear?”
“I don’t know.” Edwin’s line of questioning was diluting Josie’s enjoyment of the doner kabob. You can’t get doner kebob in Ohio. She took a sip of beer. A Depeche Mode song made itself important on the jukebox. The bulbous guy ran his fingers though his hair and made a sort of praying face.
“Really though. That is my biggest fear,” she reinforced.
“What? Getting fat?”
“Well, no-“
“I’ll love you no matter what,” he awkwardly interrupted. They had just started to toss the word “love” around in their relationship, and Edwin just tossed it through a vase with the finesse of a farting chimpanzee.
She rolled her eyes and took a large bite.
“Goo(d).”
They were in France. She didn’t want to have dumb college quad conversations in France. She wanted to get loaded on beer and eat stupid food. She wanted to do dumb off campus things in France.
He sniffed.
“There’s so much dog shit in this town.”
He had already stepped in it twice while his nose was deep in a Lonely Planet. She snapped a few shots of his shitty shoes and pouty grimace.
“Not enough if you ask me,” she joked.
There really was a lot of dog shit in this town. Her eyes brightened.
“What if we put little flags in all the dog shit?”
“What?” He was trying to make sense of the newspaper.
“What if we went around and put little flags in all the dog shit?” she repeated, to which Edwin repeated his pouty grimace.
“And the flags would all say different things…” She was on a roll.
He rested his hands over his ears and tried to concentrate on the movie listings. She hopped out of her seat and grabbed a handful of toothpicks from the counter. The man at the counter frowned, looked at the bulbous guy lip syncing to “Personal Jesus” and went out for a smoke.
Josie grabbed at the sports pages from under Edwin’s elbows.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Oh, so you’re into fuutboll now?” she mocked.
“I like sports.”
“Okay, who’s your favorite fuutboll star?”
He looked at her like she was a child and pulled his elbows up like a slightly older child. “Mike Ditka.”
She tore off little scraps from the borders of the paper and folded them into acute triangles. Edwin tried to read but couldn’t.
“Are you actually going to do that?”
“What should the flags say?” she offered. He paused and wondered how the girl he had recently decided that he loved had become his annoying little sister.
“I don’t know.”
Josie wrote I DON’T KNOW on the little flag and wrapped it around a toothpick. Twirling it between her thumb and forefinger, she admired it and proclaimed, “I don’t know!”
She rewarded herself with a stick of gum.
Edwin hated gum. To him, gum was a device used by incessant blatherers to continually make noise for them while their brains rebooted. In high school he had written a piece for school paper about gum. He referred to the chewers of gum as cretins and vermin and called for their jaws to be permanently wired shut.
He loathed the way she chewed gum. Like a prostitute. Gnawing on her cud. Her mouth gaping open like a loud sucking wound.
But. He was determined to not let it ruin their vacation. Or their relationship.
“I was thinking we could go see a movie,” he suggested. “There’s this old slaughterhouse they converted into a museum. Les Abattoirs. They’re showing a film called L’oeuf de Noisette.”
Her gum popped and smacked like wet bubble wrap flatulence. She rolled another flag.
“A movie?”
She scrawled HOLLYWOOD SUCKS on the flag.
“It’s supposed to be good,” he defended.
Their heads remained locked downward, calmly holding their ground.
“Ed, we’re in France. I don’t want to spend my time watching a movie we could see at home.”
He focused on the newspaper.
“That’s the thing. We can’t see this in Ohio.”
She assembled more flags. She chewed more gum.
“I just don’t want to see a fucking movie when we’re in France.”
He raised his eyes to aim them at her.
“Well, I obviously don’t want to spend my day poking fucking toothpicks into fucking dog shit when we’re in fucking France!”
“Wow,” she said with distance. The jukebox went silent. The bulbous guy gave them a look, ran his fingers though his hair for Josie and left. The man at the counter returned.
“Un más cervesa, see voo pley,” she butchered. The man at the counter looked at her with actual contempt. Edwin grinded his teeth while Josie blew a big pink bubble and chewed it back into her mouth.
“So what’s Loofa de Nawlins about? A crawdad that scrubs itself?”
“You mean L’eouf de Noisette? It means egg noisy.” The man at the counter sighed.
“Your beer,” he said in shitty English. Josie stuck her gum under the counter and enjoyed a large warm gulp.
“You realize your movie isn’t going to have English subtitles.”
Edwin got up.
“Maybe we should just meet up later,” he exhaled.
“Fine. See you at the hostel.”
He hesitated before leaving.
“I can’t believe you’re spending your time in France with dog shit over me.”
Her small glass was already empty.
“Ed, I don’t want to sit in some pretentious cabaret and watch somebody else’s idea of art. I want to explore and I want to create my own.”
Edwin’s neck elongated in astonishment.
“Okay. So what statement are you making with your dog shit art?”
She cocked her head.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Yeah. I know.” He headed for the door. “See you later I guess.”
“Ciao!” she sang.
They called it the pink city. It was pink. Pink like a hog. Caked in dirt and hoof-deep in its own shit. It was a filthy sow of a town.
Toulouse was her idea. They couldn’t afford Paris. Besides, Paris was too obvious. They probably didn’t have dog shit on the streets.
She found a fresh petite sphere on a crack in the cobbles. A bouquet of weeds framed it like an icky still life. She inserted a flag in its north pole. NO FAT CHICKS it boasted. She snapped a few shots.
A guy in a stained, tattered green T-shirt and black jeans stood in the background. He wouldn’t move. He was staring at her. Josie put down her camera. He was a young guy, thin with long dark locks and a lazy beard. She decided that he might be considered attractive, and zoomed the camera on him to make sure. He was smiling.
“Okay,” she allowed herself to admit.
He shouted French at her.
“FRENCH!” she shouted back.
“ENGLISH!” he responded.
He followed her around until she started following him. His name was Guillome. He showed her the river. He showed her the capitol plaza. She showed him all the dog shit on the street. When she pointed, he pointed too, and performed a funny disco dance. He bought her a hazelnut crepe from a street vendor. It was better than the fois gras whatever thing that Edwin had insisted was heaven.
They stopped for a glass of beer. She took photographs of the graffiti. They ordered another round of beer. She took portraits of him. The man at this counter smiled. She drank her beer fast. The jukebox played The Stones. She tickled his scruff. He was in mid-sentence. She kissed him.
They were near a university. The mucky streets teemed with youth. In her jacket she had one flag and in her mouth one stick of gum. A long log of dog shit sat fatly on a curb. It looked like a submarine in need of a periscope.
“Perfect!” she slurred and audibly sucked the juice from her gum. She pulled the final frayed flag from her pocket.
FREE TIBET.
She squatted for the shot, but lost her balance. The alluring cushion of her American ass became an anvil that crashed into Guillome’s skinny shins. He toppled like a tree, bracing his fall manually. His right palm slammed directly on the protruding toothpick and hit the warm dog shit hard.
Josie let out a big drunken “HA!”
Guillome screamed in agony.
Josie put her hand over her mouth in shock.
He examined the damage. His hand was smeared in Josie’s art – the toothpick planted firmly in his skin, a dog shit stigmata. She removed her hand from her face, revealing a wad of gum resting in a mouth agape.
Guillome winced as he plucked the flag out of his palm and let out a strange whimper. Josie felt this a bit dramatic and pointed at the shit on his hand. This was his cue to do the funny disco dance. But he didn’t dance.
“Hey!” she giggled. “You-“
But her sentence was hijacked by a huge burst of her own laughter. The gum shot out of her mouth, hitting Guillome in the face. She covered her mouth again but it was too late. Enraged, Guillome grabbed her wrist with his good hand and wiped the shit across her smirking face.
L’eouf de Noisette was a stroke of cinematic masturbation. Or so said Ralph, the American foreign exchange student who sat next to Edwin at Les Abbatoirs. The film had just let out and they discussed its merits and downfalls. Edwin appreciated the Dadaist humor in its meta take on the daily struggles of a chestnut. Ralph thought Dada and meta were dated and that the film offered little more than trite fluff from an immature trust fund art school dropout.
They hit gridlock in the square. A crowd had formed. A Frenchman screaming at an American girl. The American girl taking photographs of the screaming Frenchman. Both speckled in excrement.
“Oh my god,” Edwin gulped.
Ralph chuckled.
The Frenchman swatted at Josie’s camera. She kicked at his balls. The crowd had made a song of ooh’s, but was now growing more hostile. Josie threw a dried nugget at a kid dressed in stereotypical punk rock gear. His mohawked friend retaliated with spit. Others hawked their own gum at her. It was a hail of hate. All the while she continued to snap pictures of the filthy, frothing mob, with an actual shit-eating grin on her face. This was Josie’s art.
Edwin felt too many things. Shame. Pain. Cowardice. Defeat. Envy. But mostly defeat.
It was like he had played a game of telephone with a genie.
He had wished for all gum chewer’s mouths to be wired shut, not mired in shit.
So how come he was the one that felt like dog shit?
December 10 - The Adventures Of Harold's Chicken Shack #82 And Other Windy City Folktales
WWOE
We began the morning at a prep school in Obama's neck of the woods.
The students huddled in academic one-upsmanship, clad in pristine blazers and red ties.
They used words like "sir" and "good morning".
Earnest goes to school.
Chaz put me in charge of scouting lunch.
My first locations assignment!
I drove around Hyde Park and wrote down some options.
• Valois "See Your Food" Cafeteria
• Ribs 'n' Bibs
• Harold's Chicken Shack #14
In the scout, I inadvertently drove past Obama's house.
Barriers, secret service, signs.
Where Would Obama Eat?
WVON
Our second location was at the legendary WVON.
On the way down we passed Harold's Chicken Shack #2.
The crew really wanted to eat there.
But we had to get to WVON.
There was some buzz that Jesse Jackson was coming.
To get Jesse Jackson would be a coup.
Tensions were high.
Veruca was stressed out trying to get Jesse Jackson.
Jerzy was being difficult.
He wagged a "why are you so stupid" face at me while trying to communicate on the other side of a closed window.
I screamed at him.
"WHAT!!?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!"
The gaffer was baffled.
"Why are people screaming?"
I got away from Jerzy and walked the halls taking pictures of framed pictures of Al Sharpton.
Veruca's accent pouted from a meeting room.
"Dew yew have okra? Alright, we'll have tew pints of okra..."
She was ordering lunch from Harold's.
I guess we were eating at Harold's.
And I was picking it up.
Harold's Chicken Shack #82
Harold's is very Chicago.
The customer is at the mercy of the business and is rarely right.
Every order is made to order.
You can place an order over the phone, but they will not start making it until a representative physically arrives at the location.
I was to enter Harold's Chicken Shack #82 on 79th and Cottage Grove at 1:15pm to begin the cooking of our large order.
Some buckets of chicken and a bunch of other stuff.
I approached the cashier behind the bullet proof glass.
She seemed guarded.
"Did a big British woman call an order in?"
I don't know why I used the word "big".
Veruca isn't even big.
The cashier knew who I was talking about.
Who else would be calling Harold's Chicken Shack #82 with a Queen's English dialect, besides maybe a suburban Jerky Boys wannabe?
The cashier was cute in her Cookie Monster hoodie and frownie face nails.
"I like your nails," I flirted.
She cracked a smile.
(Still got it!)
The lunch rush was in its twilight.
About five people waited for their chicken.
Though it seemed to be taking longer than usual.
A restless man in stained beige coveralls playfully pounded on the bullet proof glass.
"Hey! Where's my chicken!?"
The cashier pointed in my direction.
"Y'all are waitin' on heeis chicken."
The coveralls guy pointed at the guy on the stool next to mine.
"Who? Him?"
I smiled like I had won a small lottery.
The coveralls guy rolled his eyes and shook his head.
A kid on another stool asked what I was doing at this Harold's.
I told him about the spots and Jesse Jackson and the crew from New York.
"They don't have Harold's in New York?"
At 1:30, while our chicken was cooking, Veruca called.
"Tell them to stop the order!"
I used the word "okay" like a chain lock on a motel door.
Veruca went on to explain that things were running late and that she wanted the chicken ready at 2pm, as opposed to 1:40. Because the 1:40 chicken would be cold by the time they were ready for lunch. So have them make another order ready at 2pm.
I wanted to explain that I was at the Harold's Chicken on 79th & Cottage Grove on the same side of bullet proof glass as the hungry folks who were vary wary of the white boy already making them wait for their lunch. That I was on stage in a theater. And for me to knock on the glass and announce "stop that order and make me another" would confirm that I am indeed the villain in this play. The villain and the fool. And! Harold's would not toss out a large made-to-order take out order and immediately start the same order for us. This wasn't a lavish hotel. There was no concierge. This was fucking Harold's Chicken Shack #82.
But a short circuit in my logic gland prevented the transmission of any sense from my lips.
All I could do was sigh.
This upset Veruca.
"Alright, fine. You don't want to do it. I'll just do it myself!"
And she hung up.
I watched the guys behind the glass.
They were on the phone with Veruca.
Their body language shifted, but stayed firm.
Harold's was not going to re-start the order.
So Veruca ordered another large order.
This way we would have fried chicken that was 20 minutes fresher.
I ended up spending over $200 at Harold's.
6 buckets of chicken, 2 buckets of fries, okra, fried mushrooms, coleslaw.
It took four trips to fill the van with the steamy fragrance of fresh and fresher bird.
I snapped a photo of the cashier.
"You've got a nice smile."
Lauren and I have agreement.
I can flirt with other girls as long as they are behind bullet proof glass.
Chicken Dick
Back at WVON, the stress was suffocating.
Jesse Jackson was looking like a bail.
The pressure was on Veruca to make it happen.
I laid out the buckets of chicken in the meeting room.
"Where are the salads!?" Veruca demanded.
I had picked up some salads at vegetarian soul food spot on the way back.
I put them all in a large Einstein Bagels bag.
"Where's the Einstein bag?" I asked aloud to myself.
"The Einstein bag!!?" Veruca freaked.
The Einstein bag was in the corner, and I began handing the salads to Veruca.
"Calm down," I assured. "I said they were in the Einstein bag."
"No you didn't!" Veruca spat. "You didn't say they were in the Einstein bag! You said 'where's the Einstein bag?'. You don't have to be a dick about it!"
I froze, anemically holding a salad and my tongue, letting the silence speak for me.
She frantically arranged the table and left in a tense huff.
Chaz and the Stijn the VTR asked me why I was such a dick.
Chicken Bits
Harold's was enjoyed by all.
Except Veruca.
The Jesse Jackson thing was a bust.
He went to the TV station downtown instead of the southside radio station.
The client was trying to blame Veruca.
I kept my distance and ate chicken with Jerzy in an isolated production room.
He laughed about my trials at Harold's.
I was wearing a Second City hoodie.
Jerzy asked me if I had PA'ed for them.
I told him I had performed with them.
He seemed incredulous.
"Believe it or not, I'm funny, Jerzy."
I had to explain that I'm not a stand up or one of those guys that's always on.
I did so by being unfunnily on for a few seconds.
Pretending a chicken wing was a phone and yelling about it.
That sort of shit.
Jerzy just thought I was weird.
Curtis Mayfield played softly in the background.
I switched the topic to music.
Church's Smitten
Then we went to a Baptist chapel.
Kano the soundman wore a Danzig shirt.
God don't like it.
The walls of the chapel were decorated with portraits of Harold Washington and Martin Luther King.
And Jesse Jackson.
Veruca didn't like it either.
Actually she was over it at this point.
She made off color jokes about the reverend over a dwindling pack of Marlboros.
It seemed she needed a little love.
Later while I assembled the jib, she gave me a wink.
I didn't know what to do with it.
There was no bullet proof glass.
GP Ass
All day long, Jerzy had been telling me and Chaz that he was no longer going to follow us.
He called us "Chicago people" and criticized the way we drove.
From now on, he was just going to use his GPS.
Our final location for the day was in the Fulton Market area, about nine miles north of the West Englewood baptist church.
Jerzy bolted away first in the cargo van while the crew loaded into mine.
"See you there, Jerzy."
We grinded our way through the rush hour clot of the impending Chicago spaghetti bowl.
I noticed Jerzy, who got stuck in the line for the Stevenson.
It's a common mistake, but a hard one to recover from.
Merging back onto a 55-mph highway is hard when you're stalled to a crawl.
But it can be done.
I passed him without pointing it out to Veruca.
We got to the location and waited.
"Where's Jerzy?" Veruca wanted to know.
"He's on the way," I vouched.
Jerzy had all the equipment.
We couldn't do anything until he arrived.
The talent showed up.
A former Chicago Bear who was giving back to the community through education.
An honorable man.
More people were beginning to inquire about Jerzy.
"Where is he already?"
I didn't know.
He gave me a ring.
"Yo! I just passed Damen on the 55. I think I'm lost."
Oh no.
He was.
6 miles in the opposite direction.
I started to give him directions.
"Hold on. This bitch is calling me."
Oh Jerzy.
You're done.
Jerzy called back.
I gave him directions.
He knew he had fucked up.
But he blamed it on everyone else.
And then himself.
I played bartender.
He considered walking off the job.
"Let's just get through this last location."
Jerzy eventually arrived, over an hour late.
Veruca chose to reserve her venom for afterward.
But Jerzy's defense was offense.
He carelessly dropped gear and gave Veruca some snippy lip.
Veruca carefully explained that his tardiness had just cost her over $1000 in overtime.
Jerzy wasn't trying to hear that.
He stewed in solitude in the cargo van.
Bullet Proof Girls
The talent was nice and hit his cues.
He was a handsome man.
Football hadn't beaten his looks or brains.
During wrap, he found himself surrounded by a wall of women.
Veruca included.
They smiled and talked about Barcelona.
Verdict: Win
We began the morning at a prep school in Obama's neck of the woods.
The students huddled in academic one-upsmanship, clad in pristine blazers and red ties.
They used words like "sir" and "good morning".
Earnest goes to school.
Chaz put me in charge of scouting lunch.
My first locations assignment!
I drove around Hyde Park and wrote down some options.
• Valois "See Your Food" Cafeteria
• Ribs 'n' Bibs
• Harold's Chicken Shack #14
In the scout, I inadvertently drove past Obama's house.
Barriers, secret service, signs.
Where Would Obama Eat?
WVON
Our second location was at the legendary WVON.On the way down we passed Harold's Chicken Shack #2.
The crew really wanted to eat there.
But we had to get to WVON.
There was some buzz that Jesse Jackson was coming.
To get Jesse Jackson would be a coup.
Tensions were high.
Veruca was stressed out trying to get Jesse Jackson.
Jerzy was being difficult.
He wagged a "why are you so stupid" face at me while trying to communicate on the other side of a closed window.
I screamed at him.
"WHAT!!?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!"
The gaffer was baffled.
"Why are people screaming?"
I got away from Jerzy and walked the halls taking pictures of framed pictures of Al Sharpton.
Veruca's accent pouted from a meeting room.
"Dew yew have okra? Alright, we'll have tew pints of okra..."
She was ordering lunch from Harold's.
I guess we were eating at Harold's.
And I was picking it up.
Harold's Chicken Shack #82
Harold's is very Chicago.The customer is at the mercy of the business and is rarely right.
Every order is made to order.
You can place an order over the phone, but they will not start making it until a representative physically arrives at the location.
I was to enter Harold's Chicken Shack #82 on 79th and Cottage Grove at 1:15pm to begin the cooking of our large order.
Some buckets of chicken and a bunch of other stuff.
I approached the cashier behind the bullet proof glass.
She seemed guarded.
"Did a big British woman call an order in?"
I don't know why I used the word "big".
Veruca isn't even big.
The cashier knew who I was talking about.
Who else would be calling Harold's Chicken Shack #82 with a Queen's English dialect, besides maybe a suburban Jerky Boys wannabe?
The cashier was cute in her Cookie Monster hoodie and frownie face nails.
"I like your nails," I flirted.
She cracked a smile.
(Still got it!)
The lunch rush was in its twilight.
About five people waited for their chicken.
Though it seemed to be taking longer than usual.
A restless man in stained beige coveralls playfully pounded on the bullet proof glass.
"Hey! Where's my chicken!?"
The cashier pointed in my direction.
"Y'all are waitin' on heeis chicken."
The coveralls guy pointed at the guy on the stool next to mine.
"Who? Him?"
She pointed directly at me.
"No. Him!"I smiled like I had won a small lottery.
The coveralls guy rolled his eyes and shook his head.
A kid on another stool asked what I was doing at this Harold's.
I told him about the spots and Jesse Jackson and the crew from New York.
"They don't have Harold's in New York?"
At 1:30, while our chicken was cooking, Veruca called.
"Tell them to stop the order!"
I used the word "okay" like a chain lock on a motel door.
Veruca went on to explain that things were running late and that she wanted the chicken ready at 2pm, as opposed to 1:40. Because the 1:40 chicken would be cold by the time they were ready for lunch. So have them make another order ready at 2pm.
I wanted to explain that I was at the Harold's Chicken on 79th & Cottage Grove on the same side of bullet proof glass as the hungry folks who were vary wary of the white boy already making them wait for their lunch. That I was on stage in a theater. And for me to knock on the glass and announce "stop that order and make me another" would confirm that I am indeed the villain in this play. The villain and the fool. And! Harold's would not toss out a large made-to-order take out order and immediately start the same order for us. This wasn't a lavish hotel. There was no concierge. This was fucking Harold's Chicken Shack #82.
But a short circuit in my logic gland prevented the transmission of any sense from my lips.
All I could do was sigh.
This upset Veruca.
"Alright, fine. You don't want to do it. I'll just do it myself!"
And she hung up.
I watched the guys behind the glass.
They were on the phone with Veruca.
Their body language shifted, but stayed firm.
Harold's was not going to re-start the order.
So Veruca ordered another large order.
This way we would have fried chicken that was 20 minutes fresher.
I ended up spending over $200 at Harold's.
6 buckets of chicken, 2 buckets of fries, okra, fried mushrooms, coleslaw.
It took four trips to fill the van with the steamy fragrance of fresh and fresher bird.
I snapped a photo of the cashier.
"You've got a nice smile."
Lauren and I have agreement.
I can flirt with other girls as long as they are behind bullet proof glass.
Chicken Dick
Back at WVON, the stress was suffocating.
Jesse Jackson was looking like a bail.
The pressure was on Veruca to make it happen.
I laid out the buckets of chicken in the meeting room.
"Where are the salads!?" Veruca demanded.
I had picked up some salads at vegetarian soul food spot on the way back.
I put them all in a large Einstein Bagels bag.
"Where's the Einstein bag?" I asked aloud to myself.
"The Einstein bag!!?" Veruca freaked.
The Einstein bag was in the corner, and I began handing the salads to Veruca.
"Calm down," I assured. "I said they were in the Einstein bag."
"No you didn't!" Veruca spat. "You didn't say they were in the Einstein bag! You said 'where's the Einstein bag?'. You don't have to be a dick about it!"
I froze, anemically holding a salad and my tongue, letting the silence speak for me.
She frantically arranged the table and left in a tense huff.
Chaz and the Stijn the VTR asked me why I was such a dick.
Chicken Bits
Harold's was enjoyed by all.
Except Veruca.
The Jesse Jackson thing was a bust.
He went to the TV station downtown instead of the southside radio station.
The client was trying to blame Veruca.
I kept my distance and ate chicken with Jerzy in an isolated production room.
He laughed about my trials at Harold's.
I was wearing a Second City hoodie.
Jerzy asked me if I had PA'ed for them.
I told him I had performed with them.
He seemed incredulous.
"Believe it or not, I'm funny, Jerzy."
I had to explain that I'm not a stand up or one of those guys that's always on.
I did so by being unfunnily on for a few seconds.
Pretending a chicken wing was a phone and yelling about it.
That sort of shit.
Jerzy just thought I was weird.
Curtis Mayfield played softly in the background.
I switched the topic to music.
Church's Smitten
Then we went to a Baptist chapel.
Kano the soundman wore a Danzig shirt.
God don't like it.
And Jesse Jackson.
Veruca didn't like it either.
Actually she was over it at this point.
She made off color jokes about the reverend over a dwindling pack of Marlboros.
It seemed she needed a little love.
Later while I assembled the jib, she gave me a wink.
I didn't know what to do with it.
There was no bullet proof glass.
GP Ass
All day long, Jerzy had been telling me and Chaz that he was no longer going to follow us.
He called us "Chicago people" and criticized the way we drove.
From now on, he was just going to use his GPS.
Our final location for the day was in the Fulton Market area, about nine miles north of the West Englewood baptist church.
Jerzy bolted away first in the cargo van while the crew loaded into mine.
"See you there, Jerzy."
We grinded our way through the rush hour clot of the impending Chicago spaghetti bowl.
I noticed Jerzy, who got stuck in the line for the Stevenson.
It's a common mistake, but a hard one to recover from.
Merging back onto a 55-mph highway is hard when you're stalled to a crawl.
But it can be done.
I passed him without pointing it out to Veruca.
We got to the location and waited.
"Where's Jerzy?" Veruca wanted to know.
"He's on the way," I vouched.
Jerzy had all the equipment.
We couldn't do anything until he arrived.
The talent showed up.
A former Chicago Bear who was giving back to the community through education.
An honorable man.
More people were beginning to inquire about Jerzy.
"Where is he already?"
I didn't know.
He gave me a ring.
"Yo! I just passed Damen on the 55. I think I'm lost."
Oh no.
He was.
6 miles in the opposite direction.
I started to give him directions.
"Hold on. This bitch is calling me."
Oh Jerzy.
You're done.
Jerzy called back.
I gave him directions.
He knew he had fucked up.
But he blamed it on everyone else.
And then himself.
I played bartender.
He considered walking off the job.
"Let's just get through this last location."
Jerzy eventually arrived, over an hour late.
Veruca chose to reserve her venom for afterward.
But Jerzy's defense was offense.
He carelessly dropped gear and gave Veruca some snippy lip.
Veruca carefully explained that his tardiness had just cost her over $1000 in overtime.
Jerzy wasn't trying to hear that.
He stewed in solitude in the cargo van.
Bullet Proof Girls
The talent was nice and hit his cues.
He was a handsome man.
Football hadn't beaten his looks or brains.
During wrap, he found himself surrounded by a wall of women.
Veruca included.
They smiled and talked about Barcelona.
Verdict: Win
December 9 - Direction
Ursus Maritipests
Another early morning on the arctic beach.
Today we filmed polar bears.
Polar bears are those weirdos that decide to swim through frigid waters in the dead of winter.
I'm not sure what the purpose of it is.
Maybe people that dip themselves into active volcanos or run over small parts of their bodies with lawnmowers could better elaborate on the attributes of polar bearing.
But they were nice weirdos.
The director had them strip down a few times until he got the timing right.
It took a while.
The eldest polar bear was an Eastern European guy who laughed a lot and didn't take direction.
He kept ruining takes with loud Slavic interjections.
I liked him.
It was time for the polar bears to jump into the freezing lake.
I was looking forward to seeing the purposeless of it, but Veruca-
"Guys, we're really behind schedule. We need you to load the gear and go."
So while they filmed the polar bears doing their thing, Jerzy and I had to drag the C-stands, flags, and diffs across the beach and away from the "fun".
It was like she changed the channel on a junk TV show we were watching so we would take out the garbage.
Kites Are Fun
Next was a kite flyer we met on Montrose Harbor.
He was quiet and didn't offer much in the interview.
Lots of no's and yeah's.
As an editor it's hard to cut to a guy with a kite and all he says is "no".
But wouldn't that be fun?
So I liked him, too.
He flew his kites in the windy biting anger of December while the crew danced to keep warm.
Kites are fun.
Pho-ender Bender
For lunch we went to a Tank Noodle, a Vietnamese spot.
Jerzy protested.
He didn't want to eat Vietnamese food, even though he didn't know what it was.
So he got a hot dog somewhere else.
I dropped the crew off and looked for parking.
On the second circle around, a spot had opened up in front of Tank.
I put my signal on and proceeded to back into the spot.
I heard a distant horn honk.
And honk again.
The horn kept up while I continued to back up into the spot.
Then I heard and felt a smack from the back of the long 15 passenger van.
Oh.
It seems that horn wasn't all that distant.
I hopped out of the van to find a very angry man yelling at me.
He called me stupid.
He called me an idiot.
I asked if he was all right.
He yell-asked if I had heard him honking.
There was no real damage done to either vehicle.
He asked me what was wrong with me.
I dead panned a sorry.
He called me stupid one more time and drove off in a huff.
Luckily, none of the crew saw the nonsense of no consequence.
Veruca delivered pho to me in the van, where I would enjoy it in solitude while Run DMC's "Sucker MC's" was dissected on Fresh Air.
I inhaled pho, and exhaled.
Locations, Locations, Locations
The rest of the day was spent in the van while the crew filmed indoors.
Every now and then people would poke in and grab some crafty.
Chaz, the locations manager, hung out with me for a while.
He said I would be a natural for locations.
I listened.
Locations.
That is probably my direction in this world.
Hey, I found a direction.
Verdict: Win
Another early morning on the arctic beach.
Today we filmed polar bears.
Polar bears are those weirdos that decide to swim through frigid waters in the dead of winter.
I'm not sure what the purpose of it is.
Maybe people that dip themselves into active volcanos or run over small parts of their bodies with lawnmowers could better elaborate on the attributes of polar bearing.
But they were nice weirdos.
The director had them strip down a few times until he got the timing right.
It took a while.
The eldest polar bear was an Eastern European guy who laughed a lot and didn't take direction.
He kept ruining takes with loud Slavic interjections.
I liked him.
It was time for the polar bears to jump into the freezing lake.
I was looking forward to seeing the purposeless of it, but Veruca-
"Guys, we're really behind schedule. We need you to load the gear and go."
So while they filmed the polar bears doing their thing, Jerzy and I had to drag the C-stands, flags, and diffs across the beach and away from the "fun".
It was like she changed the channel on a junk TV show we were watching so we would take out the garbage.
Kites Are Fun
Next was a kite flyer we met on Montrose Harbor.
He was quiet and didn't offer much in the interview.
Lots of no's and yeah's.
As an editor it's hard to cut to a guy with a kite and all he says is "no".
But wouldn't that be fun?
So I liked him, too.
He flew his kites in the windy biting anger of December while the crew danced to keep warm.
Kites are fun.
Pho-ender Bender
For lunch we went to a Tank Noodle, a Vietnamese spot.
Jerzy protested.
He didn't want to eat Vietnamese food, even though he didn't know what it was.
So he got a hot dog somewhere else.
I dropped the crew off and looked for parking.
On the second circle around, a spot had opened up in front of Tank.
I put my signal on and proceeded to back into the spot.
I heard a distant horn honk.
And honk again.
The horn kept up while I continued to back up into the spot.
Then I heard and felt a smack from the back of the long 15 passenger van.
Oh.
It seems that horn wasn't all that distant.
I hopped out of the van to find a very angry man yelling at me.
He called me stupid.
He called me an idiot.
I asked if he was all right.
He yell-asked if I had heard him honking.
There was no real damage done to either vehicle.
He asked me what was wrong with me.
I dead panned a sorry.
He called me stupid one more time and drove off in a huff.
Luckily, none of the crew saw the nonsense of no consequence.
Veruca delivered pho to me in the van, where I would enjoy it in solitude while Run DMC's "Sucker MC's" was dissected on Fresh Air.
I inhaled pho, and exhaled.
Locations, Locations, Locations
The rest of the day was spent in the van while the crew filmed indoors.
Every now and then people would poke in and grab some crafty.
Chaz, the locations manager, hung out with me for a while.
He said I would be a natural for locations.
I listened.
Locations.
That is probably my direction in this world.
Hey, I found a direction.
Verdict: Win
The Judy Green at The Hideout
My friend and pal Reid (All My Friends Are Funeral Singers, Beatlemagica) assembled a nifty guild of nomads (Roommate, Bitter Tears, Mucca Pazza, Fruit Bats), myself included, to augment his fine songs with The Judy Green.
Join us this tonight as we touch on many sorts of rock:
From big to bummer.
From butt to bumpkin.
They gave us the sweet slot, between Relaxation Record and AZITA.
It should be fun, and therefore will be it.
AZITA
The Judy Green
Relaxation Record
Friday, April 22 • 10pm
The Hideout
1354 W Wabansia
Chicago
Join us this tonight as we touch on many sorts of rock:
From big to bummer.
From butt to bumpkin.
They gave us the sweet slot, between Relaxation Record and AZITA.
It should be fun, and therefore will be it.
AZITA
The Judy Green
Relaxation Record
Friday, April 22 • 10pm
The Hideout
1354 W Wabansia
Chicago
December 8 - Snow Day Work Day
Icicle, Youcicle
Today we shot at the Millennium Park Ice Rink.
While they assembled equipment, I ran errands.
Veruca had me buy 500 of those hand warmer things.
The New Yorkers seemed to think they work.
While walking under the El, I got a call from her.
"Tony, can you-" (THE EL)
I explained that I was under the El and could she please repeat herself.
"Can you-" (ANOTHER EL)
Sorry. One more time.
"CAN YOU ICE SKATE!?!?"
Oh.
I told her that I had been ice skating once when I was 9 and that I hadn't been very good at it that day.
"SO CAN YOU ICE SKATE THEN!?"
I told her I would probably fall a lot.
"VERY WELL! JERZY WILL HAVE TO DO IT THEN! GET OVER TO HIM AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND RELIEVE HIM! WE NEED HIM IN THIS SHOT!"
Jerzy was not happy about having to ice skate.
He cited his race as the reason he shouldn't have to do it.
"How many black men have seen on ice skates?"
He told me that I owed him.
I sat in the cargo van and worked on my upcoming reading at Ray's Tap.
Ice Follies
Jerzy relieved me of my sitting in the van duties.
He scowled and complained about the spill he took on the ice.
I tried to point out that he was getting paid to ice skate.
He chose not to see it that way.
I made a joke about suing them for his injuries.
He seemed to like that.
"You still me owe me one," he concluded.
Veruca had also taken a spill.
When Chaz tried to help her up, he ate shit back-first onto the ice.
It's on the B-roll.
Along with the laughter of the assistant cameraman.
"You're arting the shit out of that," the DP complimented.
We filmed while the skate rental shop did business.
The DP and I noticed that many of the skaters were black, debunking Jerzy's earlier claim.
Then we noticed a woman in a professional figure skating dress.
She had perhaps the most perfectly sculpted ass.
Its curvature was mathematically flawless.
Science would have to agree.
She spun around and around in the center of the rink.
Like a toy made of candy.
Me and the DP stared.
She swizzled and twizzled.
She shot the duck.
She jumped a sheep.
She Sasha-spiraled, she choctaw-turned, she Besti-squatted.
She did a haircutter. a pancake spin, a Rittberger.
She even flutzed.
Me and the DP stared some more.
Then it was time to go back to work.
While wrapping at the skate rental, I noticed the woman with the perfect ass sprawled out on the ice.
Next to her on the ice was a gawky, Indiana-looking preteen girl.
It seems they had collided while the perfect-assed woman was continuing to show off.
I guess she wasn't looking where she was mohawk-turning.
I made several trips in and out of the skate rental, grabbing C-stands, sandbags, kinos and stingers.
The gawky Indiana girl was back on the ice having fun.
The perfect-assed woman was not.
She sulked inside by the lockers.
She hid in a ball, her head in her knees.
She seemed unnecessarily emotional and European.
A perfect ass in an imperfect world.
The Pitts
Jerzy had decided to still be mad about having to ice skate.
He stewed in the cargo van watching the gear while the rest of us ate lunch at Pittsfield Cafe, tucked inside the Pittsfield Building.
We ordered in its huge art deco lobby, reminiscent of where Clark Kent once worked.
I delivered a styrofoam cup of soup to Jerzy, then walked back to my French dip.
Halfway through, Jerzy called for another cup of soup.
Veruca seemed annoyed.
"Where are you going?"
Augie
Next was the bike messenger.
Augie.
I knew him.
In fact, I remembered him from my very first year on the streets.
Augie was one of the first messengers to give me the nod.
When established messengers encountered each other on the street, they nodded.
The nod meant you were worthy.
Rookies, crusties, and losers didn't get the nod.
It seems stupid now, but receiving the nod from Augie meant a lot to me in the year 2000.
We caught up in the van while they set up the shot.
He's riding for 4Star these days.
We talked about all the times we've tried to quit messengering.
And how we always came back.
It was really great to see him.
It felt good to laugh like that again.
And for people in the production world to see that side of me.
A less quiet, more confident version of me.
The me that still has some dignity.
I drove the picture car that Augie followed down Wabash, east on Monroe, north on Michigan to Lake, down Garland Court to Lower Wacker Place, up Lower Michigan to Lower Wacker Drive, west to Garvey Court, south and back up onto Lake Street, east to Wabash, and south to Washington and The Cultural Center.
We were behind schedule.
Augie had grown tired of being filmed and not making money.
We kept him out longer than promised.
He signed a release form and vanished.
We hastily packed up the gear and rushed to the next location.
The City So Nice, It Has No Vice
We drove to Humboldt Park.
The New Yorkers likened it to Brooklyn.
They also called Lake Michigan "the ocean".
Everything is an imitation of New York I guess.
That cornfield over there is like New Jersey as seen from Battery Park.
Those pigeons are definitely from Flushing.
New York invented Greece, therefore democracy.
Fine.
You win, New York.
You are important and original and the greatest thing that ever happened.
And you pretend to not give a shit.
Way to go.
Jenny From The Alley
We pulled into a snowplow company and set up.
It was soon discovered that in the mad dash to wrap the previous location, we had left behind a generator.
I was dispatched to retrieve it.
Rush hour traffic clogged the Ike.
I pulled into the alley where we last used the generator.
But it was nowhere to be found.
A $1500 ghost.
"We lost the jenny."
Surprisingly, Veruca took it well.
She sighed mostly.
I came back to find a chorus of coverall-clad ruffnecks spreading salt and lugging sand bags.
"WE ARE CHICAGO!!"
The lights from the snowplows lit the shot.
They were Chicago.
Movie Movies was the company that rented us the generator.
They are known for their horrible crappy gear.
In the van with the crew, I suggested that we could just put a cat in a cardboard box, shake it up, and Movie Movies would think it was a generator.
It got a pretty big laugh.
Except from Veruca.
"That's not funny!" she insisted.
But she was outnumbered.
The crew had taken the joke and were riffing it around the van.
"That's not funny!" she demanded.
Sorry, Veruca.
If people are laughing, it's technically funny.
No Sleep Til Andersonville (Park Slope)
I worked at the bar tonight.
I don't know how.
But I did.
I ate Harold's Chicken.
I drank Heineken.
I revised the Ray's Tap piece.
I kept going.
Verdict: Win
Today we shot at the Millennium Park Ice Rink.
While they assembled equipment, I ran errands.
Veruca had me buy 500 of those hand warmer things.
The New Yorkers seemed to think they work.
While walking under the El, I got a call from her.
"Tony, can you-" (THE EL)
I explained that I was under the El and could she please repeat herself.
"Can you-" (ANOTHER EL)
Sorry. One more time.
"CAN YOU ICE SKATE!?!?"
Oh.
I told her that I had been ice skating once when I was 9 and that I hadn't been very good at it that day.
"SO CAN YOU ICE SKATE THEN!?"
I told her I would probably fall a lot.
"VERY WELL! JERZY WILL HAVE TO DO IT THEN! GET OVER TO HIM AS FAST AS YOU CAN AND RELIEVE HIM! WE NEED HIM IN THIS SHOT!"
Jerzy was not happy about having to ice skate.
He cited his race as the reason he shouldn't have to do it.
"How many black men have seen on ice skates?"
He told me that I owed him.
I sat in the cargo van and worked on my upcoming reading at Ray's Tap.
Ice Follies
Jerzy relieved me of my sitting in the van duties.
He scowled and complained about the spill he took on the ice.
I tried to point out that he was getting paid to ice skate.
He chose not to see it that way.
I made a joke about suing them for his injuries.
He seemed to like that.
"You still me owe me one," he concluded.
Veruca had also taken a spill.
When Chaz tried to help her up, he ate shit back-first onto the ice.
It's on the B-roll.
Along with the laughter of the assistant cameraman.
The Skater With "A Following"
I helped set up the next shot in the skate rental, making sure all the skates poked artfully out of their cubbies."You're arting the shit out of that," the DP complimented.
The DP and I noticed that many of the skaters were black, debunking Jerzy's earlier claim.
Then we noticed a woman in a professional figure skating dress.
She had perhaps the most perfectly sculpted ass.
Its curvature was mathematically flawless.
Science would have to agree.
She spun around and around in the center of the rink.
Like a toy made of candy.
Me and the DP stared.
She swizzled and twizzled.
She shot the duck.
She jumped a sheep.
She Sasha-spiraled, she choctaw-turned, she Besti-squatted.
She did a haircutter. a pancake spin, a Rittberger.
She even flutzed.
Me and the DP stared some more.
Then it was time to go back to work.
While wrapping at the skate rental, I noticed the woman with the perfect ass sprawled out on the ice.
Next to her on the ice was a gawky, Indiana-looking preteen girl.
It seems they had collided while the perfect-assed woman was continuing to show off.
I guess she wasn't looking where she was mohawk-turning.
I made several trips in and out of the skate rental, grabbing C-stands, sandbags, kinos and stingers.
The gawky Indiana girl was back on the ice having fun.
The perfect-assed woman was not.
She sulked inside by the lockers.
She hid in a ball, her head in her knees.
She seemed unnecessarily emotional and European.
A perfect ass in an imperfect world.
The Pitts
Jerzy had decided to still be mad about having to ice skate.
He stewed in the cargo van watching the gear while the rest of us ate lunch at Pittsfield Cafe, tucked inside the Pittsfield Building.
We ordered in its huge art deco lobby, reminiscent of where Clark Kent once worked.
I delivered a styrofoam cup of soup to Jerzy, then walked back to my French dip.
Halfway through, Jerzy called for another cup of soup.
Veruca seemed annoyed.
"Where are you going?"
Augie
Next was the bike messenger.
Augie.
I knew him.
In fact, I remembered him from my very first year on the streets.
Augie was one of the first messengers to give me the nod.
When established messengers encountered each other on the street, they nodded.
The nod meant you were worthy.
Rookies, crusties, and losers didn't get the nod.
It seems stupid now, but receiving the nod from Augie meant a lot to me in the year 2000.
We caught up in the van while they set up the shot.
He's riding for 4Star these days.
We talked about all the times we've tried to quit messengering.
And how we always came back.
It was really great to see him.
It felt good to laugh like that again.
And for people in the production world to see that side of me.
A less quiet, more confident version of me.
The me that still has some dignity.
We were behind schedule.
Augie had grown tired of being filmed and not making money.
We kept him out longer than promised.
He signed a release form and vanished.
We hastily packed up the gear and rushed to the next location.
The City So Nice, It Has No Vice
We drove to Humboldt Park.
The New Yorkers likened it to Brooklyn.
They also called Lake Michigan "the ocean".
Everything is an imitation of New York I guess.
That cornfield over there is like New Jersey as seen from Battery Park.
Those pigeons are definitely from Flushing.
New York invented Greece, therefore democracy.
Fine.
You win, New York.
You are important and original and the greatest thing that ever happened.
And you pretend to not give a shit.
Way to go.
Jenny From The Alley
We pulled into a snowplow company and set up.
It was soon discovered that in the mad dash to wrap the previous location, we had left behind a generator.
I was dispatched to retrieve it.
Rush hour traffic clogged the Ike.
I pulled into the alley where we last used the generator.
But it was nowhere to be found.
A $1500 ghost.
"We lost the jenny."
Surprisingly, Veruca took it well.
She sighed mostly.
I came back to find a chorus of coverall-clad ruffnecks spreading salt and lugging sand bags.
"WE ARE CHICAGO!!"
The lights from the snowplows lit the shot.
They were Chicago.
Movie Movies was the company that rented us the generator.
They are known for their horrible crappy gear.
In the van with the crew, I suggested that we could just put a cat in a cardboard box, shake it up, and Movie Movies would think it was a generator.
It got a pretty big laugh.
Except from Veruca.
"That's not funny!" she insisted.
But she was outnumbered.
The crew had taken the joke and were riffing it around the van.
"That's not funny!" she demanded.
Sorry, Veruca.
If people are laughing, it's technically funny.
No Sleep Til Andersonville (Park Slope)
I worked at the bar tonight.
I don't know how.
But I did.
I ate Harold's Chicken.
I drank Heineken.
I revised the Ray's Tap piece.
I kept going.
Verdict: Win
December 7 - Beach Bitching
Beach's A Bitch
We filmed on the beach this morning.
It was 4º.
Only I wasn't riding a bike.
In fact, I wasn't moving at all.
I just stood there holding onto a cold C-stand.
And when I messengered, no one had me deliver anything to the lake.
So it was nothing like bike messengering.
It was just 4º on a beach.
That is what it was like.
Bitch's A Beach
The weatherman was a lady.
She stood in the cold like a pro.
Even cracked jokes.
She was Chicago.
She was also single.
Chicago is a lonely hot chick.
And Then You Die
Next stop was the zoo.
This time Jerzy went with the crew while I stayed with the equipment.
I guess I missed a tiger eating raw meat or something.
Oh well.
Sometimes life is a piece of raw meat shat out by a doomed, castrated tiger.
Verdict: Loss
We filmed on the beach this morning.
It was 4º.
I wore my polyurethane tights.
It felt like when I used to bike messenger.Only I wasn't riding a bike.
In fact, I wasn't moving at all.
I just stood there holding onto a cold C-stand.
And when I messengered, no one had me deliver anything to the lake.
So it was nothing like bike messengering.
It was just 4º on a beach.
That is what it was like.
The weatherman was a lady.
She stood in the cold like a pro.
Even cracked jokes.
She was Chicago.
She was also single.
Chicago is a lonely hot chick.
And Then You Die
Next stop was the zoo.
This time Jerzy went with the crew while I stayed with the equipment.
Oh well.
Sometimes life is a piece of raw meat shat out by a doomed, castrated tiger.
Verdict: Loss
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