Behind the Wheel

A view of the back seat in a taxi cab

On Friday I completed my first full week working full-time as a cab driver. While I haven't met any truly interesting characters — yet — there have been some interesting people passing through nonetheless, brief visits, short conversations about a wide range of topics — or absolutely no conversation at all — and then the silence of an empty rear seat within the hum of the wheels rolling me toward the next fare.

It's unfare, I tell ya!
As I am still new to the job, I am at a distinct disadvantage to the other, more veteran drivers receiving dispatches from the same company. To keep the technical part brief, the company has divided our service area into zones that are marked off electronically by a radio-GPS system. The computer/radio in each car is constantly transmitting and receiving, and the central dispatch computer can inform the human dispatcher where any car is at any given time. If I'm in a zone where a customer lives who has called for a taxi, and if I have priority in that zone (no other cab arrived there before me), then the computer will automatically assign me the fare. If no cabs are in the zone where a customer needs a ride, the zone number goes up on the in-car computer screen, and any driver who wants that fare must press a request code and the number of the zone where the fare is waiting. When it's busy, the veteran drivers who know which zones are close enough to them to make it worth their while, and that of the customer, can enter the request into their computers very quickly, whereas I must still consult the book to see if the open fare is in a zone close enough for me to get to in a timely fashion. Quite often, before I have even grabbed the training book to find the town corresponding to the zone, the fare is snapped up by another driver.

It's the nature of the game in a pool full of sharks. What is more frustrating is that quite often these other drivers abandon the zones to the far west and northwest, and those fares will sit open for quite a long time. I have made some of my best money chasing those fares while the other drivers hold out for the longer rides to the airport.

The most frustrating, however, is chasing one of those fares a l o o o n g way, only to arrive at the customer's house and learn from his wife that he left "20 minutes ago... in another cab." GRRRR!


The cab driver diet
I have shared in these pages my efforts to lose some weight and get into shape. I had started in February, and through July I had managed to go from 210 lbs down to 190. That was five months and change, and I remained at the 190 lb. plateau through the rest of the summer.

In one week of working twelve-hour shifts I have dropped another five pounds. I have been acutely aware of how easy it is to eat poorly when there are so many poor options on practically every street corner. I have restricted myself to one or two sausage McMuffin with egg sandwiches from McDonalds each morning, and some variation of a balanced protein/carb, light meal in the evenings. I have not eaten lunch all week, and I have spent an average of $11 per day to eat.


"The best cab driver ever!"
One of the things I have noticed as a taxi cab customer is how often the cab driver does little more for the passenger than open the trunk to allow the passenger to put his or her own luggage in, drive the passenger to the destination, and collect the payment. In the training class the instructor emphasized the customer service aspect this company tries to push. I don't know if it's that emphasis, or if it's my experiences as the paying customer, but I have fully embraced the service aspect of this job. Granted, that may change when there's six inches of snow on the ground and 18 degrees on the thermometer, but we'll burn that bridge when we come to it.

I worked days my first week, with a brief taste of the action on Friday and Saturday nights. As the next weekend approached I decided to try working nights to see if it would be lucrative.

Within five minutes of firing up the computer and booking into the system Friday night at 10:00, I was running to pick up a fare to the airport. I didn't even get a chance to buy a cup of coffee! From the airport, on my way back to my designated work area, I received a fare in the zone through which I was passing: a pickup of two women at a motel. I arrived, went inside and asked the desk clerk to call their room and let them know their cab was there, and, when they came down, the cab was sitting at the lobby entrance with the rear doors open. I stood by the open door and closed it after they got in. They were two young women from Michigan in town to see Pink in concert the next night. But Friday night they wanted to go to a nightclub called Hunters, which I learned only a few days prior — from my cab driver trainer — is a gay bar. I asked the ladies why they wanted to go there, and one of them said, "Because there's nothing else to do in this crappy little town!"

At first I thought she meant Chicago, but before I opened my mouth I realized she meant that little suburb where they were staying. They were tired from driving all day, and they didn't want to go too far for some fun. The taller one seemed perhaps a little drunk, and she was flirting with me, saying that she thought bald heads were sexy. Then she said she thought guys with long, flowing hair were sexy, too. It then occurred to me that she was probably okay with most any guy as long as he had a head.

We arrived at Hunters, and suddenly the girls were nervous. Flirty girl (I think her name was Kimmy) asked me if I would come in with them...I could leave the meter running! I said, very politely, "Aw, HELL NO!" I gave them a business card with my name and mobile number handwritten on it, and told them they could call me if they wanted me, specifically, to drive them back, but I warned them that if I was busy, they might have to wait, or I might not be available at all. They went inside, and as I pulled away, I saw a transgendered man with butt implants out to HERE, huge boobs, puffy lips and wearing a short, red 'fuck me' dress heading toward the club entrance, and I thought out loud, "I'm SO glad I'm leaving!"

Twenty minutes later they called. By the sound of the woman's voice on the other phone, they were in WAY over their heads! Unfortunately, as I was leaving the parking lot at Hunters, I grabbed a fare that turned out to be a long ride from a comedy club at the local mega-mall to a hotel all the way down in the city!!

It was actually eight women in two cabs, and when the organizer of the group, and the caller of the cab company, saw me, she was thrilled that I was under the age of 60. Apparently their ride from their hotel to the suburbs had been helmed by an elderly limo (van) driver who had to stop along the way because he realized he was wearing the wrong glasses. These poor women had seriously feared for their lives. My four ladies were quite tickled by — and quite vocal about — the fact that I looked over my shoulder before changing lanes! $76 cab ride, $20 tip!

I was amazed at how busy I was Friday night. From 10:00 and the first ride, it was all pretty much non-stop until about 1:30 am. With about an hour afterward to try to catch a nap, I watched a fare sit open on the computer — another one in the far west zones — for at least 20 minutes, and no one grabbed it. Finally, and thinking it was some poor old lady trying to get home from work, I grabbed it only to discover it was a full-fare ride of about 15 miles! When I got the two young men and one young woman in the car, they pretty much ignored me for about 10 minutes until the young man snuggling with the young woman in the back seat suddenly spoke to me: "What's your name, brother?"

From there we engaged in light conversation about music, at which point I learned that the two men were in a rock band called Train Company. By the end of the ride I had learned that they had a CD out, they are enjoying some local celebrity with airplay on one of the Chicago progressive rock stations, and that if I would stick around for a couple minutes after I dropped them off, they would give me a free CD!

I haven't listened to it, yet.

Later in the morning I caught another airport ride. I grabbed it, and was a little too far away to make the scheduled pickup time. It was another fare that had sat on the computer too long. The woman was a little upset that I was five minutes late, and couldn't understand that, as she had made the call the night before. When I explained that the system calls the cab only about a half-hour before the pickup time, she calmed down a little. She was also impressed that I had gotten out of the cab and opened the door for her, and that I didn't drive like a maniac, and that I didn't smell like a week-old bath. She even said that, by the end of the ride, which she had started in a bad mood, she was in a good mood again!

The next evening my phone rang at 6:15, waking me from my fitful, daytime slumber. It was Kimmy and Krissy, the two Michigan girls, asking if I could come pick them up to take them to the concert. Of course I could!

After I picked them up, I told them the bad news that I wouldn't be able to pick them up after the concert because the village of Rosemont, where the concert venue is, has an exclusive contract with two taxicab companies, and mine isn't either of them. If I got caught picking them up, I could get a pretty hefty fine. I told them to just take one of the local, authorized taxis, and they should be just fine.

Around midnight I received another call from them. The taxi line was miles long, and could I please, PLEASE come pick them up? I asked them to walk away from the arena and the crowds and let me know where they were, and I would try to sneak around to get them. After a couple of more phone calls back and forth, I parked behind a hotel, out of sight of any of the Rosemont police officers on crowd- and traffic duty, and guided them to me.

They were very happy that I had worked so hard to get them into the cab and save them from waiting forever, and as we neared their hotel, one of them said that the next time they come to Chicago, they're calling me to be their cab driver! The other one said, "You're the best cab driver EVER!"

And I am.

Sunday night I didn't know what to expect. How much bar traffic could there be? Who was out that late on a Sunday night? Surprisingly, there was quite a bit early on, all short rides.

I received a fare that turned out to be at some bar in one of my home zones. As I arrived, the bar appeared to be closed, and I thought I had another no-show on my hands. I walked toward the doors, and they were locked. But seconds later a young man and a very attractive young woman came out and said that the other guy would be out in a few moments. That was fine with me, and as I headed toward the cab to wait, the young woman shouted, "You're the best-dressed cab driver I've ever seen!"

I turned back around, looked down at my khaki pants and my short-sleeve, button-front shirt — business casual at best — and said, "Thanks!"

She then proceeded to tell me of a worst-case scenario she had experienced in a cab, the driver of which had his small, pet dog with him that bit her and she was "bleeding all over the place." Then she said she would definitely want to ride in my cab! I was thinking that this could be a nice ride (wink, wink).

To my dismay, the other friend came out, and the two guys got in my cab, leaving the woman behind. Then I learned that the guy who had been with her and had been making out with her in the parking lot had only met her that evening. He was kicking himself and calling himself stupid because he felt he had neglected to say or do something for her. He asked me to turn around so he could go back to her, and I did. Back at the entrance, his friend talked him down, asking him, "Is it really going to make a difference?"

Tall boy got back in and said, "You're right."

And then I said, "You got her phone number, right?"

You would think I was Sherlock F. Holmes by their reaction!

And then I felt knees pressing against my kidneys through the seat foam at my back, so I slid my seat forward about an inch or two. Tall boy shouted, "Dude! This fuckin' guy is awesome!"

His friend shouted, "You're the best cab driver EVER!" I am not exaggerating. He said exactly the same thing Krissy had said a mere 24 hours earlier!

And then they both started quoting — I think — Wiseguys, and chanted, "This fucking guy! This fucking guy!"

Oh, yeah. They were both pretty drunk.

After that it quieted down for a couple of hours, during which I cat-napped. I caught a really short ride at 4:30, an old lady who needed to get to her dialysis appointment. When I left her at her destination, I got the first of three consecutive, $30-plus airport rides. cha-CHING!

I'm liking the night shift! And never have I worked ten 12-hour days in a row, and ENJOYED it! This is truly weird!



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Strange Indeed

A tired mind goes to strange places.

I worked Sunday from around 11:30 in the morning with plans to knock off at 8:00. A couple of late calls to the far west suburbs kept me out, and then they were very difficult to find, or far to get to, and I wound up getting home around 11:00. I had planned to start Monday at 4:00 am.

Not one to be deterred, I delayed my wake-up by half an hour, started a half-hour later than I had intended, and worked 14 hours Monday on only 4 ½ hours of sleep.

After I called it a day I stopped at Rosebud of Schaumburg for their Monday all you can eat spaghetti and meatballs special. While I was waiting and watching my waiter who was also one of the bartenders, and waiting because he was really busy, the phrase "like a chicken with its head cut off" came to mind. I've never seen a chicken get its head cut off — and I don't EVER WANT to — so I've never seen if the body actually runs around, or if it just flops and flails. But then I got to wondering about the head. Does anything on the other side of the cut stay "alive" afterward?

And then my mind drifted to the poor humans who have met such a fate. I would venture to say that our bodies are a little more sophisticated than that of a chicken, but I don't recall ever hearing that the headless portion continues moving in any fashion after gravity (and that's quite a fitting word!) has had its way. And again, but what about the head? Is it like being hit with a blunt instrument, where the temporary interruption of nerve impulses cause a momentary lack of consciousness...? Only, in the case of a beheading it's permanent, of course.... Or would the sudden cessation of oxygen to the brain cause immediate lights out?

How awful that would be, no? If the last moments of cognizance were of the point of view of a window on a ball rolling around on the floor and seeing the rest of your body from a distance and perspective — and in a condition — you had never seen before!

My apologies. As I wrote above, a tired mind goes to some strange places, indeed. Time for bed!



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Life Is a (Taxi) Caberet

Times are tough. And when things get tough, the tough get going.

The rest of us take jobs as waiter or taxi driver...

I picked up my cab on Friday from a guy who owns a lot of cabs. Three million, I think. He's a big Russian guy — from Russia. People listen when he speaks, mainly because he has a great big foghorn of a voice that you can't help but listen to, as you cower in the corner protecting the glassware around you. I can't help but think "Russian mafia" when I see this guy, but I guess that's racist. We have a stereotype here for Italian mafia, what they look like, how they talk. I haven't a clue what cues Russian mob guys give out. All I know is that when I asked him, in the event of a missed weekly lease payment (mine) on the cab, if he broke fingers and toes as payment, he just smiled at me and chuckled.

So I drove around a bit on Friday, off-duty, getting a feel for the car, how it drives, how comfortable it is to me. I couldn't find the cigarette lighter outlet to save my life. I thought the car didn't have one. I even called Mario at the shop (where the big Russian guy told me to take the car for any problems). I pulled in and Mario's guy found it in two seconds, flat. See, the two-way radio is mounted to the underside of the ashtray door. I couldn't pull it down with any amount of reasonable pressure, and I didn't want to break my cab before even my first day on the job. But the really complicated trick, see, is that the ashtray pulls out, not down. I'm sure those Russian mechanics had a good smeyaatsa at my expense!

I decided to start slow. On Saturday I took care of some things for the car that I wanted to have at my disposal, like a center-console with cup holders. And then I hit the road.

The dispatch system is all computer controlled, so there's a terminal in my cab with buttons and a readout that I had to learn about in a class. I log in to the computer in the car, the central dispatch computer detects which zone I'm in by radio-GPS, and then sends information to me about how many other cabs are in my zone, how many cabs are in other zones, and any open fares where there are no other cabs.

I drove around through some of the zones in my area. In some of the zones are posts where cabs can sit and wait where there's a likelihood of people walking up and requesting a ride. I went to the huge shopping mall near me and waited for a little bit, but another cab from my company was already waiting there, so I left for another shopping center to the north.

Once there I sat for only a few minutes when my computer sent out its "you have a fare" tone, and I was on my way. My first job!! The address popped up on the computer, and I entered it into my personal GPS. They recommend that we use the GPS, but they also require us to have a 6-county atlas in the cab just in case the GPS can't find the address. Or Earth. I drove to the location, a corporate office park for Motorola.

And?

No one. I drove around that campus for 15 minutes looking for this person, and I couldn't even pique the interest of security...if there even was any. Finally, after contacting the dispatcher over the radio, and them telling me — repeatedly — that the person was at door 'D,' despite the fact that the only building at this Motorola campus that had lettered doors — from 'A' to 'S' — skipped 'B' and 'C', an Indian woman came bounding up a small hill — from another part of the office park that isn't Motorola — carrying what looked like lunch in a small plastic grocery bag. I apologized for being late (my first job!), and she politely told me where to go.

I mean, where she wanted me to take her. People tell cab drivers where to go all the time. HEY! My first cab-driver joke!

Since the train station where I took her isn't too far from where I picked her up, I returned to the office park to try to figure out where I went wrong. And I couldn't. At least, I don't think it was my mistake. The message from dispatch read "Motorola Main Entrance." I think the passenger must have referred to the main entrance as a landmark, as where she was is a smaller office complex closer to the road. And none of those buildings had a door 'D', whether apparent or obvious.

When I was doing my training/orientation with a seasoned driver (the guy was covered in salt, pepper and oregano. It was really annoying...and made me hungry), every time we approached a post at a particular Marriott hotel not too far from the big shopping mall, he would get a fare call. Nothing was happening in the zone I went to at another, smaller hotel, so I headed toward the Marriott of mention.

While I was still about ten minutes away, I got another call for a fare! This time it was a strange, funny woman I picked up at a grocery store who then wanted me to wait while she ran back inside to try to find her boyfriend's sunglasses she had accidentally left in a shopping cart.

After I dropped her off I again headed for the Marriott when I noticed an open fare in a zone that was really too far for me to chase. However, the fare had been open for at least fifteen minutes. So I "conditionally booked" it, which basically tells the dispatcher human that I'll accept the fare if he/she feels we can afford the customer waiting that much longer. He/she gave it to me, and I shot out about 20 miles west and a good bit south to pick up two fares at some sort of community college. I had done something wrong with the computer, and the dispatcher human called me to help me understand what to do next time and, oh! Hey! you have another fare in that same zone!

So I ran and picked up an apparently developmentally challenged man from his job at a grocery store.

On my way back to my "home" zones, I saw two open fares way south of where I had taken those three in the west. I figured that it wasn't worth my while, and someone would take them. Then the message came over the computer: "Zone 337, please help, anyone" which is a call to the drivers to think of the people, not the money. By that time I was already back in my home zone, but I "C-Booked" anyway, figuring the dispatcher would think me too far away. Nope. Booked.

Back all the way as far west as I had gone, and another twenty miles south, if not farther. Two different pickups, two women who, for whatever reasons, can't drive. They both seemed of sound body, so I assumed DUI. The dispatcher had told me earlier how to properly book two separate, simultaneous fares, but I think I did it wrong, anyway. And then I was definitely headed back to my home zone. I had been out on the road eight hours already, I was hungry, and I wanted to sit out at the airport for a while and maybe pick up a $30-40 fare.

Nope. Another fare in one of the far west zones, but this time only ten minutes away from where I was, to the north. I forgot to start the meter when they got in, so after the very short ride I estimated five dollars. The guy gave me eight, said thanks, and he and his wife left my cab. Since it was a short ride, I started the meter at the hotel where I dropped them and returned to the restaurant where I had picked them up. The fare came out to $6.40, so I undercharged him $1.40, but he gave me eight dollars. I was still ahead, and I hadn't overcharged him.

Okay, NOW back to the home zones, and I was STARVING!

I saw a Steak N Shake along the way and so I decided to stop there for a bite. I love their chili, so that was what I would have. However, as I tried to log out of the computer (if I don't log out when I'll be away from the car, and they send me a fare to which I don't respond, I will be suspended for 24 hours), it started having communications errors. The driver manager I tried to call wasn't answering his phone, so I decided to move to another location to try again. Nowhere around that damn Steak N Shake could I get a signal! So, about a mile and a half down the road my computer finally re-established communication, and I was still starving.

I got to the airport cab lot behind seven other cabs. The line hadn't moved, as I had observed on the computer, so I knew it was slow. By 10:00 at night on a Saturday (I had wanted to be there two hours earlier) I knew it would be. I sat there for about 20 minutes and my position in the queue hadn't changed, so I left and headed for my home zones again.

As a cab moves through all the zones, the central computer is constantly tracking it, and if that cab happens to be the only one in a particular zone when a fare in or near that zone comes up, the computer matches them and sends the cab the fare offer. A driver must accept the offer or be suspended!! So, not quite to my zones, and hoping to take some grateful drunk people home from some bars, my computer chirped to life... just as I entered a strip of road through a forest preserve with few places to turn off or turn around. About a mile down the road I was finally able to turn off and park.

I loaded the address info into my GPS and turned around. In the driveway of the pickup address I saw one very large, very drunk man in a Hawaiian shirt come weaving down toward me. He apologized(?) and asked if I could wait about five minutes. Hey, it's what I do.

A few minutes later a very drunk woman came staggering down the driveway and got in the car, followed by a plump girl of about 15. The big guy squeezed himself into the back seat with his wife and his daughter and gave me the address, saying the entire time that he would "take care of me" when I got them home.

I reached up to the meter, pressed the "extras" button — as there were two extras — and suddenly the readout on the meter showed a four-digit number!! I thought I had perhaps forgotten to shut it off, and now it was showing some outrageous amount, but then it flashed, and the numbers changed. I couldn't get the meter to show me its normal display, and in the meantime, while I fidgeted with it, a very large, very drunk man and his somewhat trim, very drunk wife were slowly asphyxiating their daughter wedged between them in the back seat of my cab.

Unsure of what to do, I called dispatch on the radio. They measured the distance to the destination address, estimated $13.00, and sent me on my way.

At their home, the big guy took care of me with a $20 bill. A 54% tip is nothing to sneeze at. I just wish I had taken them to the north suburbs instead of one town over.

It wasn't yet midnight. I had started around noon, and I wanted to put in 12 hours, so I though it was a good time to eat. I could park the cab, shut everything down, and maybe the meter would reset, or something. I knew there was a Steak N Shake on the way back to my zones, and I had been dreaming of their chili for the last three hours, so I headed there.

They were out of chili.

Thirty minutes and two BLTs later I was back in the car, learning that my night was over, because the meter was still phukked. When I got home I had $54 in my pocket that hadn't been there when I left, $10 shy of what I had pocketed since I paid for my dinner from the pile. There's another $80-100 coming to me for all the far west rides that I chased, as they were mass transit subsidized, and though each person paid me only three dollars, PACE transit will pay the difference to the cab company, who will pay me the full amount for the fares.

Maybe I don't know any better, but I say it's not bad for a Saturday.

Now to see what Sundays are like.



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40 Septembers

A strange thought occurred to me today as I headed home from an errand trip.

I know I have lamented on numerous occasions about my current jobless state, but this thought is a peculiar one, if not monumentally ...uh... trivial.

In the past 40 years, since I was 5 years old, I have never been "off" in September.

Kindergarten through senior year in high school things always started in the last days of August. In the fall after high school graduation, and after determining that I couldn't afford to go to school, I dug into my savings and started at a junior college in my home town. A year later I enrolled in my last fall semester before entering the Air Force.

Four years later I was home from military service, arriving in early November. After a few weeks I was working as a driver at a school bus company, as well as delivering for an Italian restaurant. The following September I was already in residence at Southern Illinois University, where I remained for another two and a half years, graduating mid-stream in December of 1990.

Despite the fact that it took me two years to find video production work, I did find a job not too long after graduation, again as a driver, but that time for a livery/limo service, carrying customers to and from O'Hare airport from the south suburbs. Then, in May of that year, I started as a security officer at a nuclear power plant.

Laid off a year and a half later, in January, I immediately found work at a TV station back in southern Illinois (I had applied down there amid rumors of the layoff, and interviewed immediately after I was cut loose).

In southern Illinois for two years from February that year until January of 1995, I moved down to south Georgia where I worked for four years at two different places. I did take a one week vacation in September of 1998, just a couple of months before I moved back home, but that doesn't count.

A week before Christmas, 1998, I made the move back to Chicago, where I was jobless for eight months until I got another video job at the same company — more or less — for whom I had worked in Georgia, but at a considerable cut in pay commensurate with the lower position I had accepted. That job started in August.

Little more than a year later I switched jobs again, in January of 2001, where I remained for the next eight years.

And now I'm experiencing my first September for as long as I can remember without something to do!

That may change soon, as another odd occurrence hits me as I write. My fall-back over my working years has seemed to be driving jobs. And once again, as the career prospects appear dim, I resort to the wheel. Barring any difficulties with licensing or my chosen company, I will most likely, within a week or so of this posting, begin driving a taxi cab for a living.

I sure hope there's no Louis DePalma to deal with....



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What I Didn't Do Last Summer

Five months have passed since I was laid off from the job I had longer than any other. I planned from about the second week of unemployment to chase a couple of dreams, see if I could make any headway in the new careers, and try to generate some income from them.

And?

Not so much. Admittedly, I haven't been chasing the video production work too hard, but that's the "old" career, anyway. I've been to probably a couple dozen auditions, now, mostly for short, no-budget films. My first audition, back in May, was a personal disaster, as my combined lack of physical coordination and rhythm doomed my chances for a role even as a piece of scenery!

There was a somewhat unnerving audition for a role in a film about about men with secret gay lives, in which, I was told, would be sex scenes with nudity and "simulated sex." It sounded like a fantastic challenge, but as I was interviewed by the production team, I realized in my own head and body that I was not ready for anything like that!

All of the other auditions seem to have passed into the blur of shallow memories.

I have responded to a couple of calls for extras in no-budget short films, and have gotten some camera time. The wait is still on to see if I ever get screen time.

I auditioned last week for a stage musical at Northeastern Illinois University. I performed a comedic monologue I had downloaded, and I sang "The Impossible Dream," the signature solo from "Man of La Mancha." I joked a bit with the director, received a nice compliment from the music director on my vocal range, and learned a little bit about the play, which is about a young man who, in order to receive the inheritance from his dead uncle, must perform a list of tasks lined out by his uncle...and he must do them with the dead uncle.

I landed a part in this musical, entitled, "Lucky Stiff." And, yes, you guessed it, I landed the role of the dead uncle! I joked again with the director, asking what she must have thought of my acting and singing if I got the part of the corpse! She laughed, but then she said that the role of the corpse is quite demanding, and is onstage almost the entire time! Now it sounds as though the role of the corpse might kill me!

Exciting as this all may sound, none of it is generating any income. So I have decided to seriously investigate employment possibilities as a cab driver. It appeals to me for the reason that, as an independent contractor, I can set my own schedule and still pursue freelance video production, writing, and acting opportunities.

Check in for further updates...



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OMFGravy!!

So Wednesday night I tried something new in the kitchen. I had a hankerin' for some pasta, so I thought I would heat up some canned chicken breast (from Costco) and boil up a box of elbows. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do about sauce for the pasta, but since I had a bit of bacon grease still in the pan from breakfast earlier in the day, I thought, "Gravy!"

One problem. I've never made gravy before. In just under 40 Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners that my mom and/or sisters made while I grew up in the family home, I had never quite gotten around to watching and learning exactly how one makes gravy. I knew it had something to do with pan drippings and flour...but that's about it.

So, thinking I can figure out just about anything, I boiled the water and got the pasta going, decanned the chicken chunks and got them warming gingerly in a pan, heated up the bacon grease, pulled out the bag of flour, and experimented.

I sprinkled some flour into the grease and was just a little uneasy as it bubbled up. It settled down fairly quickly, and so things were going smoothly. It didn't seem like quite enough, so I added some more flour. And then some more. It was coming along nicely, but still seemed a little loose. A little more flour and it seemed just about right.

I drained the water off the chicken chunks and slid them out of the pan and into the "gravy." Suddenly the "gravy" thickened into a paste, and glommed on to the pieces of chicken in a very ungravy-like manner.

I plated some elbows, dumped the chicken-chunk-paste on top and sat down to a nice freshly made dinner.

And it was awful. I'm no great cook, but aside from occasionally burning a few things beyond taste, I've never been unable to eat something I've made. I thought I was going to hurl!

I rolled the pasty chicken chunks off and ate just the pasta, and I threw the chicken away.

Only then did I go to the internet and look up "gravy for idiots," and I actually learned something!

Take two...
Thursday night I was contemplating my dinner choices again. I still had four-fifths of Wednesday night's pasta in the refrigerator. I felt cheated on the gravy idea that I botched. So...

Was I ready to try it again? Absolutely. The bacon grease was already there, waiting in the pan since this morning's breakfast. I threw a steak on the grill outside and actually finished cooking that before I started anything else. I put about a cup and a half of cooked pasta and a little bit of water in a small skillet and covered that over a very low flame. I got the grease warmed up and started adding flour and stirring. This time I knew to stop at two tablespoons of flour, and to let the mixture get a little pasty, and then I added just one cup of milk, stirring it in slowly, just a little bit at a time. It started to get a little too thick, so I added just another splash or two of milk.

In just a few minutes it looked perfect! But what about the taste? I sampled a bit, and determined it needed salt and pepper. As I was still sampling it, I thought I had added too much salt, so I decided it was gravy. I uncovered the meat, dumped the pasta onto the plate, poured all of the gravy (what, was I going to save some for later?) over the pasta, and sat down to eat.

And?

HOLY CRAP! Was it GOOD! It was another one of those moments in my nascent culinary journey that I couldn't believe I had made it, it tasted so damn good! And the fact that I sit here at the computer several hours later instead of doubled over a toilet proves that not only was it good, but it was edible!

So... Gravy? Check.



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Chunky Cheese Burgers

It's not often that I am inspired to cook something I've never cooked before, and even less often that I am inspired to create culinarily.

It's a word.

Sunday at my sister's house for a family gathering and pool party, we were poking light fun at my niece, #9, for the hamburgers she had made for the occasion. With a little bit of A-1 Sauce in the mix, along with some egg and diced onions, they were fairly typical of back yard cookout fare. Except for their size. She had factored too much for shrinkage on the grill and had made them huge. They wound up only slightly less huge. But give her a break; she has one year left toward her nursing degree...it's her younger sister who's the budding chef.

The diced onions were cut fairly large, too, and that gave me an idea, which I tried today. I saw the chunks of onion and thought, "What if that were cheese?" Imagine thick squares of cheddar embedded in your piping hot burger, oozing out when you bite into it!

So Tuesday I gave it a shot.

I had done some grocery shopping on Monday and picked up a block of medium cheddar cheese and about a pound of ground chuck. I had another pound of regular ground beef in the freezer, which I put into the refrigerator Tuesday afternoon to thaw.

Into a mixing bowl I threw both packages of ground beef, two eggs, one half of an onion, diced, and 8 ounces of cheddar cheese cut into roughly half-inch cubes. I mixed everything together, as one is wont to do when making hamburgers, and threw them on the grill.


Click on a photo to make it grow.

And they came out? Meh. The cheese that went onto the grill exposed melted out of the burger and onto the grill. It smelled bad while the burgers were cooking. I made three large burgers and three average sized to see if there was any difference in the taste or the melt of the cheese. There was not much difference at all.



I do think it's kind of a good idea...maybe something fun to do with kids, but next time I'll use smaller chunks of cheese...and learn how to cook.



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It's Not a Book About Underwater Naval Vessels

One thing about watching old TV shows — especially those for which I was around when they were new — is the glimpse back at how things were then. Granted, it was TV. It never quite captured or recreated life the way it really was, and some of the shows that were "edgy" then have seen their edge grown dull in reflection.

I'm still plugging away at Starsky & Hutch, and am now about one-fifth of the way through season three. Monday night I resumed my viewing and, in episode five, titled "Death in a Different Place," was witness to what I thought was a rather odd exchange between the two main characters:




As I am the master of double entendre, I absorbed the end of this exchange with the exuberance of an eighth grade boy who just learned a new use of the word "rubber."

But then the episode deals with a married police lieutenant who is murdered in a dive hotel where he has been seen frequently taking a different young man up to his room each night.

At first both Starsky and Hutch react with shock and disbelief that their friend and colleague was apparently living a secret life as a gay man.

I was mildly shocked that a weekly network TV action show did, in 1977, take on the topic so frankly. Starsky was portrayed as having a tough time dealing with this revelation about his friend, and having some prejudiced views about homosexuality — reflecting the general attitude of the nation at the time. Hutch was portrayed as being of the more progressive view, that it's not so strange or taboo, that homosexuals are human and deserve the respect of humans, regardless of their sexual preference.

An added wrinkle was the plot complication that their boss, Captain Dobey, was under pressure to make the murder investigation go away because the department was under pressure by certain entities of the public to allow gays on the police force, and now it had been revealed that one of "the city's finest was a homosexual." To me, the implication was clear that their fictional police department — not unlike real ones across the nation — was resisting that pressure.

By today's standards, the show's handling of the topic was certainly ham-fisted. But then, everything the show did was ham-fisted, so why complain? However, there seemed a raw honesty about it, and an enthusiasm about their message. I think they were breaking new ground — or at least making tracks on recently broken ground — in American television, and making a bold statement: homosexuals exist in society and are not awaiting your permission to function beside you; their private lives are none of your business, and shouldn't be a factor in their hiring or firing, or whether or not you'll share the sidewalk with them; denying their existence or their lifestyle won't make them straight, nor will it make them go away.

I recall reading recently that many people saw a homosexual undercurrent between the two characters in the program, perhaps when the show was on the air, but certainly when observed today. The program's epilogue, despite the message, still tweaked on a general sense of homophobia when Hutch asked Starsky if he thought two men spending 75% of their time together implied a certain preference. Starsky indicated his assent to the notion. But when Hutch laid down the correlation of his and Starsky's relationship, that the two spent about twelve hours a day together, sharing most of their meals together, and asked what that meant about them, Starsky was fairly disturbed by his partner's implication.

At the end of this episode I realized the unfortunate dialogue highlighted at the beginning of this post was probably not unintentional after all, and subtly, subliminally, introduced the episode's subject matter as subtext before coming out of the closet to hit the viewer over the head with it.

Perhaps the undercurrent wasn't so sublime after all.



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Like Minds

There's an old saying we've probably all heard that claims, "Laughter is the best medicine." While I can't vouch for its medicinal purposes, I can say that it at times can be a tremendous workout, and working out regularly can keep illness at bay. Of course, it has to be real, sustained laughter, not the "therapeutic" kind you force in search of some sense of well-being.

The crux — or crutch, if you will — of most of my humor is the double-entendre. Whether I'm in conversation or just witness to it, my brain is always tuned to the other meanings of words or their sound-alikes and, when the situation is informal and amenable enough to it, I'll make comments to those other meanings. That's making a double-entendre out of innocent or unfortunate phrasing, and I go for the laugh. Unfortunately, since so much of it is of the moment, I rarely remember the things I come up with, and some of them are, to my mind, real gems.

I recently got a laughter workout on a shoot gig. I usually do when I work for this particular producer. His name is Andy, and his employer is a long-time client of my former employer, who booked me a while ago for last week's shoot.

Andy and I worked together for the first time probably back in 2002, and it was way back then that we realized we had synchronous — if not identical — senses of humor. We both fully grasp the concept of the double-entendre and its comic potential, and we bounce our fleeting thoughts off of each other for maximum entertainment value.

A few years ago Andy and I worked together on a shoot in southern California and, on the last day, as we were running late to the airport (I missed my scheduled flight), we passed a restaurant called The Buggy Whip. We both seized on that and turned it into a restaurant with a BDSM (bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism) theme, positing a dominatrix-cum-hostess (perhaps an unfortunate syntax there!!) who seats you when and where she wants to while shaping your behavior with the threat and/or use of a whip, and wait staff who make you beg before you can request — rather than order — your food. We laughed well, but briefly, over that one, and I retained very few of the ideas we broached in the car.

This most recent shoot with Andy was once again in southern California, which makes me think the place imparts to us some kind of cosmic synergy. Monday evening, after being treated to dinner and drinks by the subject of our shoot, Andy and I were driving back to our hotel when, just to keep silence from invading our ride, I did what I often find myself doing and blurted out the name of the cross street at which we paused for a red light.

"Orangewood," I blurted.

Andy looked down at his lap. "No, mine's usually sort of pink." Typical guy humor, I know.

Feigning mild disgust, I said, "Dude. You just described part of your anatomy to me." And then my own odd phrasing and pronunciation occurred to me, and I repeated, "Anatomy to me."

Displaying perfect timing, Andy sang, "Doot-doooo-dee-doo-doot!" from the Manah Manah song. It took me a second to catch it, but when I did, HOLY CRAP! I hadn't laughed like that in years, and suddenly I was seized in hysteric convulsions. Mind you, I was driving; I can only imagine the look on the police officer's face if we had been pulled over at that moment. He would have had probable cause to search the vehicle for drugs! We laughed for another ten minutes, all the way to the hotel!

Maybe you get it. Maybe you had to be there.

Tuesday was a regular day. We shot several interviews, I shot a half-ton of b-roll. We finished around 5:00, and I debated whether to see my uncle who — so it turns out — lives only a few miles from where we were working, or to hang with Andy for the evening. The next day looked to be fairly light, with a late evening flight home, so I opted to visit Uncle Guido on my way out of town on Wednesday, and to hang with Andy Tuesday night.

We made plans to go see the film The Hangover at a shopping mall theater complex a few miles away, and thought we would take our chances at finding somewhere to eat close to it.

On our way there we saw a sign on a building, obviously a pet- or pet supply store. However, our minds took Pet City the other way, and it became a place where you go to be fondled. We didn't just state our interpretations, we created scenarios in the air, with a man going in to look for some stuff for his dog, but he walks in and is groped by an attractive female employee. He expresses his shock and confusion, and the woman explains what the place is, and then reveals to him a line of men waiting their turn.

We got some good laughs from "Pet City," but further along down the road we drove past a restaurant of the name, "Wok Experience." Nothing came to either of us as far as double entendre is concerned, but I blurted out the image of an unwitting customer entering the place, and a small Asian man running up and clocking the guy with a wok! I spoke as the attackee: "Why did you hit me with a pan?"

Andy countered in a stereotypical Asian accent, "Better than chopstick in eye!"

And we were rolling. Without going into all the details, we created a whole scene that involved more woks to the head (as the standard greeting upon arrival), to hands shoved into hot oil, to warnings about the Asian man's brother's place, "Chopstick Experience," where you get "chopstick in eye," and the Asian's admonition, "You no wanna go there!" We also included free foot binding as Tuesday's special; and Wednesday's special, the hibachi experience. Hmmm. It seems we get a lot of mileage out of the S&M theme....

We didn't have time to eat dinner and catch The Hangover, so we decided to just eat, and then we would catch the late showing of Angels and Demons at a different theater.

We sat at an Italian restaurant, where I actually wrote down some of the ideas spilling out of our heads, and we riffed for two hours on "Wok Experience," certainly convincing our waitress that we were high or certifiably loony. Neither Andy nor I could stop laughing, nor did the ideas and dialogue stop coming to us, which certainly didn't help to stop the laughter. Andy coughed briefly, then lamented, "Aw, now I'm gonna start coughing up crap."

Well, guess what that started?

On our way to the theater we passed some sort of oil-change/auto service place that had a huge neon sign glowing in the night: "Pit Service." I raised my arm and looked at my pit and said, "Can you tell me how long this is going to take? I have to be to work in an hour..."

Andy was gone. I was losing it...and, yes, driving again.

We managed to keep quiet during the film, but were rolling again — mostly with a revisit to "Wok Experience" — on the way back to the hotel.

The next morning I felt hung-over, only without the headache and nausea. I was achy from laughter, the muscles for which had not been engaged so much in years. My sinuses were clogged. I felt exhausted, yet exhilarated. And inspired. I told Andy I wanted to write "Wok Experience" as a scene, a short screenplay. He agreed that I should. After the day's shoots, a few more giddy laughs at lunch, and a visit to my uncle and aunt, I sat at the airport and tapped out a script on my laptop. As with anything I write, I'm not too crazy about how it turned out, but I sent it to Andy, and he thought it hilarious.

I hope someday to make it, or see it made into a film.

Hope with me, won't you?



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Where's a Cop When You Need One?

I was headed home Wednesday afternoon on a busy road not too far from my apartment. Stopped at a light in the center lane, with cars on all sides of me, I happened to notice the Asian driver of the car on my right take a drag on a cigarette, and then slip the still-lit butt out through the gap made by his partially open window, and drop it to the road. I hadn't noticed the car prior to pulling up beside it, but I think it was a Toyota Prius.

The butt went out the window just as traffic started moving under the green light. I was so incensed I thought of stopping (or pacing him) and yelling at the guy. Of course, that would have been irrational and dangerous, albeit liberating.

I pulled forward with my lane of traffic, still fuming at that careless boob, but I didn't notice he hadn't moved. A hundred feet or so forward, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw him still parked where he had dropped the butt, but now his door was open, and all the cars in his lane behind him were blocked.

A second look yielded to my eyes the flashing headlights and the grill-embedded blue strobes of the unmarked police car that had been in line immediately behind him, and the bent-over body of the cop whose face was now in the driver's, undoubtedly asking why he had tossed the lit cigarette butt out his window!!!

FINALLY, after 45 years of seeing assholes get away with all kinds of shit, I saw proof that sometimes they do get caught!

And it was good!

Skeletons From My Closet, pt IV

Another one for Calhoun Street Motors. I don't recall having much input into this one, but I do love the names of the newsmen posted on the screen.

Skeletons From My Closet, pt III

Another client sold on me as his "spokesface," this guy couldn't seem to get enough of me: I was in four of his TV spots. I believe this one was the first, and was written, directed, and shot by my boss. The "It's right there on the screen" idea was mine, though. I crack me up!

"Detective" - Calhoun Street Motors • Bainbridge, Georgia, circa 1998

Skeletons From My Closet, pt II

My debut went over so well among the account executives at my office that they began to offer my likeness as part of the production package. I protested, and put my foot down. I would not do it unless I got paid a talent fee on top of my regular hourly wage, thinking that would put the idea right out of their heads. The next client negotiated for $25. Note to self: when putting foot down, name a price!

I had very little input on this one. My boss produced, wrote, shot, directed, and edited.

This client loved me, and wanted me to be the advertising face of their company(?!), even talking, for a time, of a billboard campaign along I-75 throughout south Georgia. Can you imagine the wrecks that would have caused? I appeared in several more of their spots, and one infomercial. This is the best of them...by a long shot, believe me!

"Anything On Trade" - Premier Home Center of Valdosta, Georgia

Skeletons From My Closet, pt I

When I lived in Albany, Georgia, working at TCI Cable, I was also heavily involved in community theatre. I wrote a TV commercial, as it was part of my job, with a mind to give some of the actors in the theatre group some exposure in a local ad. However, as I read the idea — in a voice I considered appropriate to the main character I had created — to my boss and the account executive for whose client I wrote the spot, they looked at each other and determined that I should portray the character. I protested. I wanted to direct it; I wanted to shoot it; I wanted to edit it. I scored a partial victory... I got to edit it.

So here I am in my television acting debut, circa 1997, for Rick Davis Motors of Americus, Georgia.

I Got It, But I Don't Get It

Maggie over at Do These Shoes... passed the above award on to me, as is her privilege, I guess, as a recipient of the award herself.

I am tremendously honored that someone felt I deserve to be so bestowed with such an award... but... I don't know what the award stands for. Maggie wrote that she honored me for "always being an honest blogger" that makes her laugh. She didn't clarify if that laughter came as a result of my attempts at humor, or just as a reaction to the poor quality usually on display here.

I would love to pass it on to someone else, but I don't know for which qualities I should honor any of my favorite bloggers. They all possess distinguishing qualities... except for Schprock; I just like his Boston accent ...and I should like to give this to each of them, but that just smacks of cowardice. For now I shall just selfishly cling to the award, and bask in the vainglorious glow of my übercoolness.

Get your own damn award.

Examiner Examiner

Both of the regular readers of Farrago may be wondering why I haven't been writing, lately. The answer, frankly, is that I've been writing.

In addition to my EventChaser gig, which seems to happen about once every other month, I just signed on for a "paid" writing gig with Examiner.com.

I enclosed the word in quotations because the pay is minimal, and is based on several factors, to include readership, advertising clicks, and how often I send hot, loose women to my manager's office. It certainly won't pay any bills, but think of the exposure! I've been writing naked all week!

I viewed an ad in Craig's List for Examiner.com, and I read their story. It seemed legit and potentially doable, so I responded with which of their topics listed in their ad I might wish to write about. Among the three I chose was the topic of hypermiling. As with EventChaser.com, I was asked to jump through a few hoops, provide a writing sample, and then offer some ideas I might entertain for my column.

Despite telling me that it could take up to two weeks for my approval, I was writing that very evening, as once they approve you, they want to see your first article within 3 business days! Also, despite telling me that my first article would not post immediately, pending scrutiny from my manager/editor, it went up immediately after I posted it.

So now I am the Chicago Hypermiling Examiner at Examiner.com. I might even be National; as far as I know, I'm the only person writing specifically about hypermiling.

And I don't know how long I can keep that up!

So, please do check out my column, click on a couple of ads, and return often. By the end of next month, thanks to your patronage, I could be buying a cup of coffee. At Starbucks!

The Dream Machine

Monday night I watched the next Netflix selection in my queue, Two Weeks Notice, starring Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock.

Yeah, I watched a chick-flick. Alone. You got a problem widdat?

It was sweet, funny, sexy, formulaic and predictable. I doubt the Roger Eberts, Leonard Maltins, and the A.O. Scotts of the nation gave this 2002 film very high marks, but the movie knows where your buttons are and when to push them.

As it finished I realized that this was the same romantic comedy I had ever seen starring either of the two stars. Grant played the same charming, womanizing, wealthy cad he seems to always play, who — somewhere in the middle of the film — realizes that he's in love with the same clumsy, intelligent, understatedly-pretty-until-the-"a-ha!"-moment, opinionated-but-lonely, pain-in-the-ass woman, that Sandra Bullock seems to always play.

I've always been one to scoff at people who won't go see a movie because they don't like a particular actor. What difference does it make, I've argued, he/she is portraying a character, not him/herself! And, at some levels I know I'm right. Most film actors must be able to get out of that wet paper bag if they're going to carry that 70-million-dollar picture.

But Sunday evening — very briefly — I saw the world more as it is than as I think it should be. Maybe it was too much V8 and chocolate, I don't know. But as I felt my buttons being pushed in the right order at the right time, it occurred to me that these two stars didn't have to break out of anything in this movie. Most of the English-speaking, movie-going world like Hugh Grant — certainly the women, anyway — and they want him to be the sexy, naughty boy who gets hooked by the klutzy, plain girl. They like Sandra Bullock as that klutz who wins the guy over without even trying, and who is filmed with softer and softer focus throughout the film to accentuate the beauty that her leading man is supposedly seeing — not to mention the stalwart men's men who bravely accompany their girlfriends and wives to these films. You have to give them something to look at between all the girl-talk and winsome expressions.

This is what we want as a collective audience. We men want to identify with the charismatic playboy who finds the diamond in the rough. Women want to identify with the smart, sassy, everyday girl with one killer outfit that knocks the playboy off his horse. Hugh Grant and Sandra Bullock are repeatedly given these roles because we're comfortable with their faces and with their schtik, and we like how they make us feel at the end when they finally kiss.

But, oh, does that swelling-music, circling camera, fuzzy-focus love ever truly happen in the real world? I think not. I believe it's a myth perpetuated by the Hollywood dream machine as "the hope."

And now I sorta have a thing for Sandra Bullock.



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Thematic Photographic #53 - Hittin' the Road

The theme over at Carmi's blog this week is "Road." My contribution below has appeared on my site before, during my drive to Montana and back in July last year. As soon as I saw "Road" as the theme, the image of this photo swam to the fore in my mind. I guess it's a powerful photo to me, and shows that there is still lots of wide-open land in our country.

Thanks, Carmi, for giving me the opportunity to share this one again.

Supercali...docious!

The review for my most recent EventChaser professional writing gig assignment has been posted. As a reminder, that's what that big orange badge is over on the left side of my blog page. Pop on over and see what I have to say about "Mary Poppins" on Broadway in Chicago, and maybe you'll want to head to Chicago to catch a performance before she leaves!

If, after you've read my review, you find yourself saying, "I can do better than that!" read up on how to become an EventChaser correspondent and, who knows? Next weekend you could be seeing a show for free and writing about it!



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Like Winning the Lottery!

Usually things go "okay." It's not perfect; some things don't work as you'd like them, but it works out in the end. Of course, there are those hell days where if it can break, fail, show up late, be the wrong color, weight, style or flavor, it will.

As shoots go, I can say this most recent — my first gig as a freelancer since I was released from permanent employment — would go in that "okay" category, but perilously close to the "hell" category.

I don't wish to dwell there. For as bad as some parts were, the client asked me to see the project through its minimal edit the next day, which was an unexpected second day of work, and at a producer's rate, for which I bill $250 more per day!

No, the part upon which I wish to dwell came after I was finished with the shoot.

Because the client couldn't get either a reasonably timed flight or a reasonably priced flight to get me back home from Boston Thursday, I was stuck there for the night. I had contacted Mr. Schprock a day before my trip to see if he might want to get together, but he had unalterable plans (I'm guessing Thursday is sex night in the Schprock abode). Dee J Wave, my friend from Flashback Alternatives had commented that she lived only three hours away, but I would never ask her to travel six hours just to hang with me for two.

As I rode in the cab in a downtown section of the city, I contemplated my options for the evening. I was booked in the near vicinity of the airport at a Comfort Inn & Suites, which, often enough, are roadside motels with the slimmest of amenities, so it was a 50-50 chance that there would be a restaurant in the hotel. I considered just dumping off at the hotel the gear I was carrying and returning to the city for a meal and a stroll. I even considered another option as we drove past a strip club, but that would have just proved frustrating in the long run.

At one point, where the traffic seemed the thickest my cab crawled through, I saw a man standing in the street waving a triangular orange flag and pointing at a space between buildings. It reminded me of the scenes around Wrigley Field in Chicago on a Cubs home game day where guys hawk parking spaces near the venue where they will park your car for a steep fee, and where they'll park your car so tightly into their lot that you can't hope to leave until the last guy parked chooses to leave. The thought ran through my head, "We must be near Fenway Park. There's probably a Red Sox game tonight."

And then the thought hit me: "THERE'S PROBABLY A RED SOX GAME TONIGHT!" Suddenly a night baseball game seemed like an excellent idea! I checked my watch and it was only around 4:30. I guessed the game would start around 7:00. When I got to the hotel (where there does happen to be a restaurant on the premises!) I did dump the gear in storage, and I asked a young guy behind the counter about a game that night.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously.

"No," was my reply. "I'll see what they have at the gate."

He went online and checked, and indeed the Red Sox were playing at home that night. But, he told me, the Sox were playing the Toronto Blue Jays, and "those games are usually sold out." He also had told me of the plethora of places around Fenway Park where I could get a bite to eat. I figured I could head down to Fenway, see if I could get a ticket and, if I couldn't, then I would eat at one of the dozens of places I was told are there.

The guy was incredibly helpful. He pulled out a map of the Boston transit system, the "T," and showed me which train line to take, and which train terminuses I had to look for, where to switch lines, and the best place to get off the train for Fenway.

I left the hotel at 5:30, on the Comfort Inn & Suites complementary airport shuttle. I asked the bus driver about how to get back to the hotel after the Red Sox game.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously. Damn! Are Red Sox tickets that difficult to come by?

The shuttle took me to the "T" Blue Line Airport Station. A train came within a minute or two, and I rode it past four stops to Government Center, where I switched to the Green Line, where another train arrived within seconds of when I did. The trains on this line are more like big trolley cars, and they were packed with people, most of who were headed for the game, too. The throng on the train could have been a warning for me that my chances were slim for getting a ticket.

From the Green Line stop at Kenmore I walked with the throng headed for the game. People were boisterous, but they were very nice. No one talked to me, nor did anyone bother me. The crowd dispersed into the larger throng surrounding Fenway Park, and I located the "Game Day Tickets" booths. They were cordoned off with metal barricades manned by Fenway security staff. This could have been another omen.

I walked up to one of the security guys and asked, gesturing to the barricades, "So does this mean the game is completely sold out?"

The guy replied, "I dunno. You can go ask at the window." He told me it was okay to go around the barricade.

At the window the playful woman looked up single seat availabilities and told me there was a seat available in Section 25. A seating diagram taped to the ticket window showed the section to be about 50 to 100 rows back from the third base line, starting about ten feet down the line from home plate.

"Cool! How much?"

Fifty dollas was the price. That's not a typo, by the way.... I asked if there were any less expensive seats, and she said there were not.

Then she said there was also some singles available in Section 93, which the diagram showed to be an upper deck seat down the first base line and in right field beyond first base.

She said, "Let me check the seats." After a mere second or two she practically shouted, "OOH! You gotta take the seat in Section 25. It's row one! The guy in front of you, in the last row of the section in front of you, paid 90 dollas for his seat. It's a great seat!"

I complimented her salesmanship and dropped my debit card into the tray. I wandered into the bowels of the stadium and got my bearings somewhat. I was quite hungry, so before I even checked out my seat, I went on the hunt for food. A few minutes later, with a beer in one hand and an Italian sausage in the other, I went to my seat.


The pre-game goings on going on...

And what a grand seat it was! I was close enough to read the names on the players' jerseys, but not close enough to smell them. At 6:30 it was still an absolutely gorgeous day. The sun was still high enough in the sky to alight on the grass on the field, but the shadows grew longer by the minute. There were some festivities on the field, with some honored kids bestowed with the opportunity to pose for photos with The Big Green Monster character, a really great sounding high school(?) female quartet singing the Canadian national anthem, an equally talented Latina singing the US National Anthem, and a couple different people out to toss the ceremonial first pitch.


PLAY BALL!


The Big Green Monster!

The game commenced, and the first inning ended with a Red Sox run on the scoreboard. There was one home run in the game, many great plays, and the Toronto Blue Jays out hit the Red Sox, but the Red Sox emerged victorious in the end. It wasn't until the fifth inning or so, when I looked at the American League standings board at the far left field end at the bottom of the famous Big Green Monster, that I realized why everyone was so eager to know if I had tickets. I never knew that the Toronto Blue Jays were in first place in the American League Eastern Division, and the Red Sox were in second place, just a game and a half behind them! What I also didn't know was that this game was the final in the series in which the Red Sox had already taken two games. If you were a Red Sox fan, this was the. game. to attend!

What a perfect night! There was at least one ticket to be had; the people in the seats all around me were civil at worst, friendly at best; the weather could not have been any better — the temperature was perfect; the food and drink were tasty (I also had a big slice of pizza and another beer in the 6th inning!); the view was spectacular; I was in the second greatest ballpark in the nation (sorry, Beantown...nothing will surpass Wrigley Field in my heart!); and the home team won.

To borrow from Marc Cohn's great song "Walking In Memphis," had anyone asked me that evening if I was a Red Sox fan, my reply would have been, "I am tonight!"

It was a perfect brew of circumstances: time on my hands, a legendary baseball park in the vicinity, an unbelievably gorgeous day and evening, and the well-timed thought to give it a go and take the chance that I could get a ticket. I think Murphy was asleep that night and was unable to enforce his law.

Well, Murphy is Irish. Maybe he's a Boston Red Sox fan.




End note: The next morning I did get the chance to meet up with Mr. Schprock for breakfast, and I told him about the baseball game.

"You got tickets?!" he asked me incredulously.

I guess I'm a lucky, lucky man!




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