Clearance Rack

LEAVIN' LAS VEGAS

2006-06-28T14:25:00.000-07:00

I was 5 minutes late for the 45 minute check in that Frontier Airlines requires (though nowhere on my e-ticket did it say that). I wasn’t really concerned because there was no line at check in, save for the mom and 2 kids in front of me. The ticket agent whose God given name is Kristen (her Kerri Van Auken given name is so much worse and I want a PG-13 blog) asked if I was on this flight to Denver. It told her yes, expecting her to say, “hurry, let’s get you through” as has happened to me many times before, she flat out said that I wasn’t getting on the plan. I told her that I was a fast walker and she said, no way was I going to make it through security and to the D gates in time. While remaining calm and friendly asked her please let me try to make my flight. She said no, absolutely not. I have to mention that she did not smile, smirk, laugh or come close to breaking that death glare, pinched face, bitch voice at any time. She then said she was putting my bags on standby for the next flight and I could try to go on that flight, but she can’t guarantee. I thanked her in my daze of confusion and leftover martini and hauled ass to the gate. I freakin’ made it and elicited an admiring “Wow” from the security people who marveled at how I removed bangles, shoes and a hat in about 1.5 seconds. Don’t tell me I can’t make my flight.

So, I arrive at the gate and approach the ticket agent there. Richard Anderson did not look pleased to see me. I on the other hand was thrilled to see that the plane had not arrived. Yay! I can get on. I told him what happened and he started to slowly type some things on the computer and tell me what I already new, which was that stupid hag Kristen, had not checked me in. I said well I’m here now can we do it? He sighed and heaved and started pecking at the keys again. I was perplexed as to why, since I was there and since the plane was not, why they still wouldn’t let me on the flight. Had they closed the doors and boarding I would have understood, but this…again he told me he couldn’t do anything. I asked to speak to a manager and then he made a call and came back to me saying that the manager was Miss Kristen Piss Face and that she wasn’t going to help me. Meanwhile the plane arrives and passengers begin deplaning. I again try to plead to Richards’s rational side by saying that I was a paying customer and that I was here and ready and there was no real reason on God’s green earth why I shouldn’t be put on my flight.

Again, I’m subject to that vacant, vapid, sad sack look that I will become so accustomed to in dealing with the Frontier ground crew, along with a sigh asking if I had any bags. I told him that World’s Happiest Manger Kristen had put them on standby for the next flight. Richard seemed relieved by this and told me I have to travel with my bags. Then he walked away. I couldn’t leave as I was utterly stunned. I looked over Richard (who now deserves to be called Dick) and he was whispering behind a clipboard to the two young women who were taking boarding passes. They both shot me darting glances. This is utter crap; our bags went winging to Jamaica last year while Mars and I were stuck in Miami eating sauceless personal pan pizzas. IF I hear “ever since 9/11” one more time…

I was at a loss. I couldn’t throw a fit or I would be arrested. How could you trust these employees who barely look you in the eye, and when they do they look at you like you’re nothing but a problem for them. They wouldn’t hesitate to evoke their rent-a-cop status to a rent-a-cop w/ a gun. So, because I need to rail and to feel superior somehow, I call my assistant Sylvia from my dead charger less cell phone and tell her that I wouldn’t be able to make the conference and to get a hold of my editor at the TRIBUNE and get some AP interns from Northwestern University or Columbia, and the capper, “Obama is going to be pissed.” It was comforting to pretend like Obama would care.

I waited there until MY plane was boarding I tried to ask the ticket taker employees, one young African American girl with a head band and short braids, the other a woman of Latina descent, both appearing about 20-22. Neither of them would look at me to answer any of my questions. They would either fiddle with some papers, type on the keyboard or simply walk away from me. I have to point out that I had yet to raise my voice beyond an excited “Please, please, can you let me on this plane?” I’d not insulted, scowled, glared, condescended to, swore or anything that would peg me as a difficult or unmanageable passenger. Conversely, all of those things had been done to me by multiple Frontier ground employees.

Then I go use my remaining $2.90 in change to call my husband to cry. That change was about 3 minutes worth. I then call back collect using the name “Butt Ram” just to show him I wasn’t entirely down for the count. He did his best to make me feel better, but I still couldn’t believe how unwilling and bitter these customer services sloth’s had been to even attempt to help me. I truthfully felt sick to my stomach. I go back down to ticketing to just buy another ticket home from Southwest. The line was too long. I bought a prepaid calling card (HELLOOO 1995!) and called my mom who was coincidentally flying into Vegas with her friend Mike. She didn’t answer so she must be up in the air. I called my husband back and had him call her and tell her to page me in the terminal when she landed.

After that I notice a short black guy in glasses over at the Frontier counter. I stupidly think he may be able to help me at least get bumped up the standby list and show me my options once I got to Denver. Again I’m greeted with a sigh and a glare. Now I’ve been flying on a regular basis for 30 years and I know how to deal with customer service people. It’s annoying enough to have a customer service rep. that does their job and helps but is sort of rude about it and may be generally unhappy with their life, but it is a complete travesty to have someone who is both unhelpful and doesn’t even meet the minimum requirements of being able to communicate with human beings. Dudley was about to become the new Kristen.

I approach the desk as he looks at me as if I were a million pound weight that was to be strapped to his back. I explained my plight as quickly as I could. He was either very Zen or very retarded. I couldn’t tell at that point. He said he couldn’t tell if I would get on standby until that flight was closed. He went on to say that he couldn’t guarantee me a seat on the flight from Denver to Chicago and there were only two seats left. The only way to guarantee is to buy a one way ticket from Denver to Chicago. Fine. It can’t be more than spending the night in a Denver hotel, eating, cab, etc. He told me it would cost $225. Fine, fine. Here’s my card. So he’s typing away for literally 10 minutes, not really answering my questions. Then I hear, “Kerri”. It was my mom and her friend Mike. I just said, ‘I need you.” There was something so amazingly kick ass and strengthening to have your mom show up at a time like this. Unless, of course, your mom works for Frontier on the ground crew, in which case, she probably sucks ass.

A major line is forming behind me. Dudley is still typing and would not make eye contact to answer any of my mom or Mike’s questions. None of us can really believe that I hadn’t been allowed to board the plane in the first place even though I beat it to the gate. She said she new all along that she’d see me, even before Mars’ call. Boy, she’s just like that sometimes. FINALLY Dudley stops typing as said that while we’ve been standing here the ticket price had gone up to $409!!!. What the F#%@!? Fine, here you go you aviating pocket rapists, you flying buttresses, take my mom’s credit card because I didn’t have enough cash in my checking account to cover it. Yeah, I’m 33. That felt awesome. While Dudley is taking my mother’s hard earned money, Dick Anderson waddles back up to the counter and asks if I’m feeling better. My inner dialogue said, “Go F#$% yourself fat ass!” while I actually said, “No, not really, but my mom’s here. Thank you for asking.” My mother, who knows my temper soooooooo well, was extremely proud and shocked really, about how I held it together and remained polite during this whole ordeal.

I hated being polite mind you. Just hated it. I wanted to hit, punch, throw, yell, scream, insult, bash, call names, and be extremely witty yet hurtful. HOWEVER, I knew damn well that these miscreants would not hesitate to call security and throw my ass in jail, which would end up costing a lot more than $400.00.

We stood there waiting to see if I would be getting on this next flight ready to have them go get my bags off the flight if they weren’t going to let me on. Dudley did call my name; I thanked him as I grabbed my boarding pass. Note: I THANKED him. I didn’t snatch my boarding pass. I remained polite. I think the Lord had a reign around my neck. Either that or I was in shock over this whole ordeal. I kissed my mom and hugged Mike and boarded the plane.

My seat is in the emergency row which is nice because there’s a bit more leg room. The nice, pretty flight attendant stops and asks If I’m comfortable sitting in the exit row. I tell her I can’t wait. She laughed. The next thing you know I see her coming back down the aisle with Dudley behind her. What was going on? What did I do now? Why do they suck so much? I hear her asking people in the seats around me if they wouldn’t mind switching seats with me. I was extremely confused. I’d just told her I was happy to be in the emergency row. The gentleman directly in front of me said he’s switch (what do these Vegas passengers care, they were just going to pass out anyway.) so I got up to switch with him. I joked to the man next to me that “they didn’t trust me.” The flight attendant smiled and laughed and told me that that wasn’t it. Dudley then helpfully chimed in, “YOU’VE HAD A BIT TO DRINK.”

I thought I was going to die. I have never in my life been so stunned, humiliated and pissed off all at the same time. I sat down and literally put my head down because I knew everyone was staring at me. Still, as I type this, I really cannot believe that it actually happened.

The flight attendant came back and offered to buy my Direct TV for me. I pursed my lips with my head still down and shook it “no.” She came back again during beverage service and asked if I wanted anything. Again, “No.” She knelt down and said how sorry she was that that had happened. That Dudley thought he smelled alcohol on me. HELLOOOOOOOOO, this is VEGAS not SALT LAKE. I’d bet 1 million dollars that the majority of the people on the plane smelled like booze. Hell, I’d been out until 4:00am and I knew my mouth tasted like crap, I knew I probably smelled, but I also new that I was not drunk. She actually argued with Dudley and said that she’d talked to me and didn’t think I was the least bit drunk. I explained that I wasn’t and that I most certainly was last night, but most certainly was not now. She said, yeah, she didn’t know what went on out there with him, but she thought it was weird.

I didn’t think it was weird. I thought that it was perfectly consistent with how I’d been treated up to this point.

The rest of the leg was long, but uneventful. Well, besides the delay the 90 minute delay in Denver. When I finally landed in Chicago at 1:15a CST (was supposed to have landed at 4:40p) I felt like I’d been beaten from the inside out. My spirit had been crushed by a mother f@#%ing airline. I will not even bother to defend these people at Frontier, not when the security guards, store employees, baggage handlers and the multitude of other workers at McCarron were perfectly pleasant and actually responded accordingly to smiles, pleases and thank yous. What sorts of species are immune to general human pleasantries? Zombies perhaps? Hmmmm…..we may be getting somewhere. The slow movement, the lack of eye contact, the despondent tone, the absent compassion…OH MY GOD!

ALERT, ALERT, ZOMBIES POSING AS FRONTIER AIRLINE TICKET AGENTS FLOCK TO MCCARRON INTERNATIONAL, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!!!!!!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. THEY WILL SUCK OUT YOUR SOUL. DISMANTLE YOUR DIGNITY AND BASICALLY STICK IT TO YOU JUST BECAUSE THEY CAN. DON’T LET THEM GET YOU. STAY AWAY FROM FRONTIER. YOUR SPIRIT DEPENDS ON IT.

RIP Ballys

2006-06-15T14:32:00.000-07:00

June 15, 2006

So my gym closed today. Bally’s as a whole is still monopolizing the fitness industry, but my humble location, Bally’s Europa closed its doors.

Europa has been the only constant in my life since I moved to Chicago 8 years ago. It’s small, comfortable and unpretentious; filled with average Joe’s working out on their lunch break or after work. The past 4 years I’ve worked right across the street from Europa. The convenience meant having the time to get my workout done at lunch and not having to wait until after work where there was plenty of time to talk myself out of working out.

This past year, my friend Jen and I began working out together at lunch. It was a great break from the day, nice to have a partner to chat with and to visibly cringe with when the carefree nekkid old ladies skittered across the locker room floor.

Jen was out of town this week and missed our last workout at Europa. I totally took a picture of myself working out and sent it to her cell phone. I’m not going to lie, I got teary. Like I said, it was the only constant in my life since moving to Chicago.

Bally’s Europa got me through a called off engagement, multiple break ups with the same person (Thanks Cardio Kick Boxing), the “I fucking HATE grad school and I’m leaving debate, a new boyfriend, it filled the time between work and rehearsals, saved me from shopping during lunch, made it easy to avoid forced office socialization, worked out wedding planning stress, helped me learn my lines for every show/scene/monologue that I’ve ever done, made me realize that the people who type closed captions are not perfect typists, fed me multiple protein bars for my dinners on the run, ahhhhhh Bally’s Europa, you were so good to me.

The members have the option of going to the Bally’s across the Loop. I call it Circus Ballys because it’s so noisy, crowded and smelly and don’t know how anyone can focus. Besides, I could never do lunchtime workouts if I had to get over there. That leaves Gay Ballys or Dixie/Wixie Ballys. Dixies and Wixies are essentially our neighborhood yuppies. Nothing will match Europa, the most unsexy, unhip, comfortable as your favorite old t-shit gym I’ve ever known.

Love and props to the following Europa regulars who made me feel sane, grounded and terribly amused.

The middle aged lady that put on perfume pre-workout.

The skittish midget who work out faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.

The same midget who made noises like a dog sneeze when on the elipitcal.

Yes, the same midget who wore a swimsuit to workout in and didn’t care when the straps fell down.

The lady who ran on the treadmill with toilet paper hanging out of her pants.

My buddy Marvin who works in my building and works out at Europa.

Maggie the trainer for her jolly disposition.

The man who wore such short shorts and long tank tops that I forever thought he was pantless.

The man who went so fast on the stair stepper he could have toppled over at any time.

The really skinny gay dude with the most amazing triceps.

The soccer mom lady who was the most dedicated treadmill runner I saw at Europa.

The hyper, fake mammed fitness queen who carried around a 35lb back pack while working out to train for a hike in the Grand Canyon.

The nekkid except for a workout turban lady who won the “let it all hang out” award.

The postal worker who worked out in his uniform.

All the super heavy people I’ve seen (all middle aged or older) push themselves to remarkable weight loss through their dedication.

The grunting mustached dude.

The novice turned body building competitor lady.

All the people who weren’t jerks when I told them they were on the machine I signed up for.

All the people who left behind their InStyle, Spin, Rolling Stone, Glamour, Self magazines because God knows Ballys only had ripped copies of Skiing and Divorce.

RIP Europa. You were good to me and I’ll miss you.

Yes, I KNOW it’s a gym. I’m sensitive.

Leggings: Who's to Blame? Just One Theory...

2006-04-03T18:35:00.000-07:00

Grandpa Would Be Proud

2006-04-03T10:11:00.000-07:00

This is long, so be warned. This also isn't very entertaining, but I do want to archive it for if I ever want to look back and see that I am indeed the type of person to write complaint letters.

April 4th

Chicago Transit Authority
Office of Inspector General

To Whom It May Concern:

On Thursday March 30, 2006 at approximately 8:10 a.m. I went to add value to my Chicago card at the Western Blue Line station. The machine reflected my present value after holding the card up to the sensor. I put in $3.50. The machine reflected the added funds. I put the card back up to the sensor. After multiple tries holding the card to the sensor the machine canceled my transaction and it showed an error message and to see the attendant. The machine did not spit out my $3.50. At that time the attendant on duty told me to call the 800 number and give them the machine number to get a refund sent to me. She started to walk away, I said that the machine had taken all the cash on…then she raised her voice to me and said, ‘Hey, are you listening to me?” Well, I wasn’t because she hadn’t been saying anything, she was just walking away. It was only when I presented her with my dilemma did she get angry and defensive. She then let me on the train. I thanked her for her help. This employee appears to be around 55-65 years old, about 5’4”, 190lbs and is an African American female.

When the exact same thing happened to me today Monday April 4, 2006, this same attendant was immediately defensive, unhelpful, accusatory, rude and dishonest. After receiving the error message and the see attendant message, I took my card to the attendant’s booth and told them what happened. She came out of the booth and told me she couldn’t do anything about that and that I should have held my card up longer. I told her that I held it up until the machine said “canceled” and “see attendant”. She demanded my card, I gave it to her. She then looked at it and said it was cracked and that I needed to call the 800 number. I said, that’s fine and thank you, but I still have no money because the machine took it. She then walked away from me. I told her it took all of my money. She told me to take $2 and buy another ticket. I told her again that I didn’t have any money because the machine took it. She ignored me and proceeded to have a conversation with a customer. It was then when a kind woman offered me her fare card to get to on the train so I could get to work.

I thanked her profusely and then I approached the attendant, who was still chitchatting with a customer, and asked to borrow a pen so that I could write down the number of the machines so I could reference them when I called to report the card errors. She looked at me and said, “You were here the other day, this happened to you then!” I started to reply, “Yes, I kno…” And she yelled, “Yes, it was you, this happened before! You needed to call that number!!” I said, “Yes, I know, which is why I really need that pen.” She told me, “No, we’re not supposed to...”.And then she continued her conversation with the customer she’d been speaking with. I asked again, “You don’t have a pen?” She said, “No.” I pleaded with her that per her instructions I had to give the machine numbers to the customer service so I could get my money back and I wanted to make sure not to forget them. She told me no, she wasn’t going to give me a pen and that the numbers were right there on the bottoms of the machines. I said, “Yes, I know WHERE the numbers are, I just need to make sure that I record WHAT the numbers are.” I then noticed a pen in the booth and I knocked on the window to the attendant inside to see if perhaps that attendant would be willing help me. The first attended then started yelling at me that the attendant in the booth is on the phone. I said, “I’m sorry, but there is a pen right there and I really need to write this information down so I can report this properly.” She continued to walk away from me, turning her back on me and having a conversation with this customer. I was forced to ask that very same customer if he had a pen. He did and he gave it to me to use. I wrote the numbers down, thanked the man for the pen and got on the train.

I do not take this encounter lightly. I am a loyal CTA customer and I have been for nearly a decade. I purchased this Chicago card for convenience and to take advantage of the locked in $1.75 fares. Since my card updates have started failing, I’ve had to pay the full $2.00 per ride, have lost $8.50 and have been treated like a criminal by your employee. Her defensiveness was completely unnecessary. She made a choice to get mad at me for something that is beyond my control and then she chose to deliberately ignore my situation. If this is how your employees are trained to treat customers then I am appalled at your methods. If this is just how this employee chose to treat me, as I’ve seen her chatting up many customers over the years I’ve been going to this particular station, then she is an embarrassing representative of your organization. In the past I have see her get impatient, rude and gruff with customers were in the midst of experiencing some sort of problem with their cards or passes. It is apparent to me that this person cannot handle assisting customers with issues that are inherent in this field of transportation. I do think that if your job is customer service, then you should be able to handle most any and all situations that typically arise on any given day. This employee has shown to be rude, ignorant, dishonest and completely unhelpful. Not to mention her behavioral inconsistencies where one day she let me board the train while another day, when the same thing happened, she turned her back on me, walked away and told me she couldn’t do anything.

Your customers should not be treated like this. I should not have been accused, berated, ignored and lied to because your machines ate my money two times in one week. I read an article in the Red Eye about the problems that riders were having with your cards and how it is advised to keep the card protected from getting scratches and cracks. I heeded that advice and I do keep my card protected. The inconvenience of having my updates fail repeatedly, making me late to work, making it so I have to pay more for a service than I should, spending 15 minutes on hold with your customer service so I could report my stolen money and then having to way 10 business days to receive a replacement card is enough to make me a dissatisfied customer. Throw in an ill-behaved, incapable and defensive employee and you run the risk of having a multitude dissatisfied customers. I use your services daily and I gladly pay your fares. I understand that systems have their glitches from time to time, but what I cannot understand or condone are people being treated as if they had done something wrong as opposed to merely being victims of a technical glitch.

This is a formal complaint and I implore you to look into this situation. I wish to have this employee reprimanded and disciplined accordingly. As I use this station on a daily basis, I will monitor her actions and I will be quick to report any mistreatment of my fellow CTA customers as well as myself. Last fall on the loop bound blue line I witnessed the physical mistreatment by of a passenger by a security guard and I sent in a letter of complaint to the CTA. Initially, I received responses via email and telephone assuring me that this matter would be investigated. I never heard from anyone again though I did follow up. I do not make it a habit to complain for the sake of complaining, please be assured that all I want is for unjust, unfair treatment of CTA passengers by CTA employees does not continue.

If you have further questions for me, please email kerri.sanford@nmfn.com.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Kerri Sanford

As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap

2006-03-03T13:09:00.000-08:00

Dear Jessica,

Look at you up there dancing on your slippery slope of fantasy versus reality. Honey, (LOL, I totally didn’t mean that as a movie reference just a means to be condescending) when will you get that if you prance about grinding on poles, undulating your midriff and allowing a movie camera to film directly up your butt crack, you will be viewed as a sex object. You have spent way too many years visually stimulating America not to be anything else. Votes are counted, you won most sexy. YAY!

Given your past roles I would think that you would be honored for the title that Playboy has bestowed on you. And since you beat everyone else, it seems only right to give you the cover. I mean, you won. Your name was in the magazine, your photos were in the magazine, you are all over that magazine and many other gentlemen publications. Not to mention the millions of men who’s mental rolodexes are filled with you er uhm…dancing in their heads.

But no, you continue to ponder why on earth you are not taken more seriously as an actor. First, start calling yourself what you are which is well-paid eye candy. Though you studied acting with Bill and Felicity at David Mamet school, nothing really seemed to stick. Second, please know that people start to feel sorry for you when they hear you speak on screen because when you talk you hear sounds and words but they’re not connected to anything internal, like emotion. Guys totally don’t want to feel sorry for anyone that brings them gratuitous pleasure. Third, it’s sad to watch you delude yourself into thinking that since you wanted to be an actress since you were 5, you have the ability to do so. You behave like you really belong competition pool that you have no business swimming in. Producers, directors, writers and studio heads all agree and in fact, you said yourself…

'It's not always so great to be objectified but I don't feel I have much of a choice right now. I'm young in my career. I know I have to strike when the iron is hot. I look forward to the day when I can do a small movie and act and it's not about me wearing a bathing suit or chaps.'

The thing is HONEY, there are plenty of young actresses who are very beautiful AND have talent. If you could really act, you would really be acting. You “don’t have much of a choice” my eye. Come on, our lives are made up of choices and the consequences thereof. “…not ALWAYS so great to be objectified…” must mean you KINDA like it. You are utterly and totally responsible for how you are perceived by America and the world at large.

Fourth, F*CK you and your really nice deluded butt!!! You are sending your “people” to Playboy all up in arms because you claim they are misleading people into think you are nude in the magazine. News flash you moron, you’ve been nearly nude in movies and completely nasty nude in the minds of millions everywhere and it’s not going to stop. This cover in no ways changes the way anyone views you. It does perpetuate the image that you have already set up for yourself, but it does not change anything. How you think you are quelling your father’s fear by taking such an adamant “never nude” stance is a joke.

You, dark angel, are nothing but an American Made Ass Factory. So take your deluded little brain, quit whining and just accept the fact that you make MILLIONS of dollars doing virtually NOTHING while real actors wait tables, work in offices, teach, tour, sweat, and slave just to scrape by. Trade ya, you little B*TCH.

Most sincerely,
Mrs. Never be Most Sexy but will Always be an Actor

Vision Quest

2006-02-13T14:22:00.000-08:00

It has hit me recently that I am an artist. I mean REALLY hit me.I’ve spent so many years in plays and being part of an ensemble of actors, directors, writers, designers, technicians, etc. that I failed to recognize myself as an artist on the whole. Actors are trained and groomed to be the ultimate yes men. Please do not interchange actor with celebrity. Actors bodies, minds, voices must be ready to take on any challenge that comes their way. For arguments sake, the challenge is a play/film/sketch show. It shouldn’t matter what the challenge is from Shakespeare to Second City, the actor is relied upon to help the director/writer/producer bring their visions to life.

As far as actors go, I’m as reliable and open minded as they come. I look to the director for some guidance, but I challenge myself to bring things to the table and make discoveries from first read-thru to closing night. The process of creating a character and working to attain physical and vocal transformation is what thrills me, confuses me, frustrates me and constantly reminds me how blazingly complex and beautiful the human psyche is. My art lies in that creation.

When I am not allowed freedom to create my art is taken from me. This very thing happened to me recently. It hurt my soul. Rehearsals got so bad. We actors were so fed up with literally being pulled by our arms, being told HOW to say things, how to FEEL about things, how many inches to the left your thumb should be, what inflection that sigh of defeat should have, etc. that we reverted into 4 year olds. Aside from one giant dense mother fucker who didn’t know any better, we were the most uninspired collection of artists I’d ever seen. When one is uninspired, one gets bored and sort of sad, when one is bored and sort of sad, one can get into trouble. Naughty little kids in church we were. It got so bad that I peed my pants on the stage.

I don’t want to be in that position again. I spent hours upon hours rehearsing and commuting with the end result being me asking myself and other cast mates what type of funny moustaches we should draw on our faces. As funny as that was, and it was hilarious, it advanced me none as an artist. I’m talking about growth and not notoriety. This brings about the conundrum. If I want more notoriety anyone here in Chicago would tell me to audition, do shows, audition, do shows…It’s a very easy recipe for an actor to follow as well as a very easy trap to fall into. Believe me with a new theatre company popping up every 5 GD seconds here in Chicago, it ain’t hard to get cast in SOMETHING. (Follow up blog on you little dreamers who INSIST on starting your own theatre companies coming very soon.)

After five years of doing what “they” tell you to do I’m realizing that because I really am the ultimate YES man, that I should take into account the fact that I have things to say. I have developed a creative process, I have experienced dozens of styles and approaches and while I don’t particularly care about sharing them with aspiring actors (ie: teaching), I want to explore more what they mean to me and to see what I have to say and figure out how I want to say it. I could have just said that after this current production I’m in closes, I’m going to be creating for myself for awhile, the end goal being a one-woman show along with a couple of other projects that have been kicked around as of late.

I’m not stupid or arrogant enough to think that I’ll see these projects through without the assistance of trusted advisors including, but not limited to, writers, directors, actors, improvisers and just overall smart, funny people. The goal here is for the first time since my slew of childhood products I’m going to be working toward my vision and not the visions of others. God, I feel like such a sack for only realizing this now.

I have no idea what this vision is by the way. Any ideas????

"Goin' to the chapel, but first squeeze out a baby."

2006-01-17T10:58:00.000-08:00

Don’t know where this is coming from. I’m no prude. I’m not a traditionalist. So I thought. Lately, our culture has been inundated with celebrities. The celebrity couple is at the forefront of all of this type of “news”. As if two people getting together on a set (or through a pre-arranged meeting), fucking and falling in love is any sort of “news”. Even so, the press is all over the prospect of wedding bells for the latest celeb hook up. Does anyone have wedding bells? Can you imagine, just beginning to date someone and your friends and family start asking about marriage? Any person with any semblance of good sense and that possesses knowledge about what it takes to be in a successful coupledom knows goddamned well that you DO NOT say forever and make forever commitments within the first six months of a relationship.

Don’t even say, “My great grandma and grandpa met as teens and it was love at first sight…” Yeah, it was also 1915 and they just wanted to get it on, but back then you had to get married first. Odds, people, it’s about odds. Odds are, in the first three months you will be blinded by passion, in awe of this magical love you have found. Yay for you. After three months the descent from ecstasy filled dances on the clouds begins. Oh, SNAP, that pedestal is gone. Reality sets in and you begin to see each other for who you really are and it dawns on you that relationships require work. It can be disappointing to come to terms with the fact that things just aren’t the same as they were. If you’re not a weak ass load, you will see that perhaps the person that got you all hot and bothered was simply a good lay. There is nothing wrong with that. You may even have loved that person. Falling in love or as I say, falling in lust, for a brief time is fine. It’s not a failure to not have worked out. It’s a blessing.

I’ve observed that women have a lot of trouble in the letting go area. They feel like failures and think that they’re worthless and “Oh, why, oh why, when it was so good?” Whatever. Shut up. (I’m married and all of that, but I’ve been here, so I can totally talk shit.) Society has conditioned women to get a man and hang on to that motherfucker for dear life. I think women in 2006 should know better than to buy in to that old school jargon, but then again, when I see television, newspapers, the internet beatify celebrity couples I can see how it would be very hard to escape the notion that there is no need to race to the alter or at least to start a famdamily. I think Paul Anka says it best:

You’re havin’ my baby.
What a beautiful way to say
How much you love me.

Brangelina. You thought it before I even wrote it. TomKat. I just vurped. There are the lucky few, and I know some personally, who end up in the family way with the right person, the one they wanted to work a relationship/family with anyway. BUT…odds, people, it’s still about odds. Oh, and kids. Oh, the miracle of the baby. It can fill one with such a sense of purpose and accomplishment. It’s like your own tiny human trophy. Except you have to share this trophy. I do not advise sharing trophies if you do not fully know, trust, and understand the person you’re sharing it with. If you’ve seen Family Guy, you may have glimpsed the horrific consequences of trophy sharing. Jealousy, envy, and lack of trust drove the gang to turn against each other until Brian the dog made them take a look at themselves and see just how retarded they were being. I’m totally simplifying and generalizing, but ODDS people ODDS. Try NOT to get knocked up in the first few months of blissful coupledom.

No one knows what will happen to the celebrity families in the making. Honestly, we don’t care, but if their influence penetrates society and plants the seed (punny) that love at first sight and baby at first (fill it in), is the hot new thing to do, then I will personally go and replace all of their celebabies with actual trophies. The kind you’d get at the little league awards banquet. You know a fake marble base with a gold painted plastic dude holding a bat. Most Valuable Baby.

Do NOT even THINK about burning them. EVER!

2006-01-17T09:21:00.000-08:00

Request. Ladies of the comedy world, I implore you, no matter your size or your shape, please, please, please take care to wear proper undergarments when you are performing. By proper I mean one that fits well and provides a lot of support. You never know what is going to happen on the stage; running, jumping, dancing, etc. In your mind, you’re prepared for anything. Your breasts should be prepared for anything too. Many a show have I seen where there have been a woman (or women) with improper under attire on. By improper I mean unsupportive, ill-fitting and perhaps the wrong color. There is a Chicago improviser whom my husband and I call “Floppsie”. She’s hilarious, but what’s the FIRST thing that pops into our heads when we see her?

I saw a show last night where one woman in particular not only had a white shirt with a black bra, but the black bra was not up to task to handle the job, unless the job was to get her boobs as close to her belly button as possible. As an audience member it’s terribly distracting . Everyone notices and everyone looks. This takes away from the scene. It’s gross and unnecessary to be subject to the embarrassing results of what is simply an oversight on the part of the performer. Oh, and lady teammates, if one of your fellow female performers is lacking proper undergarment awareness, help her, unless she’s a bitch.

Along with wearing a proper bra or other such item, it is crucial that the female performer avoid wearing those spaghetti strapped, stretchy tanks with built in bras. Cute, sexy and practical off stage, but (aside from a mini skirt) one of the worst possible items of clothing you could wear on the stage. They offer very little support, offer up tremendous views of cleavage, and even if you’re not terribly well endowed, these little numbers offer NO protection from a sudden nipple outburst. I’ve seen a lot of shows and for the majority of female performers, this doesn’t seem to be an issue. That being the case, all the droopy, floppy, nipply, ladies stand out all the more. So please, fix yourself. Don’t make me give you a nickname.

The stages of Chicago cold. (My L.A. Homies Can Keep Their Pretty Little Mouths Shut)

2005-11-16T14:42:00.000-08:00

Today is the first bitter cold day for 2005. Mars and I have yet to turn on the heat this year. Heating costs are to soar and the thought of dipping into clothing funds or travel funds to pay a freakin’ utility bill is abhorrent. I bought a bunch of hand knit ponchos and long wrap sweaters at the thrift store for a reason. So, as we watch ‘Lost’ tonight, we will cuddle under our blankets, cover our cold noses and feel thankful we weren’t on Oceanic Flight 815. Moving on…

This is my 8th winter in Chicago. Each year, we brace for, resent, endure and ultimately accept that Chicago weather is the shittiest winter weather in this country. Flat as a pancake, no protection from mountains or hills, and the great (smelly, polluted, far too big) Lake Michigan to the East makes us the meteorological bitch of the Midwest. Oh, I must mention the nasty ass Chicago River that flanks my office building to the West adding a delicious chill to the sweeping wind, presenting a nice challenge to the capabilities of any scarf, hat, gloves or coat.

After eight winters, I have developed somewhat of a system to deal with the erratic weather of the Windy City. I know this nickname originated from political connotation, but c’mon, aside from Ellensburg, Washington (Whoo Hoooo!), this is the only other place where the wind has swept me off my feet. Couple the wind with freezing temperatures and precipitation and you have what I call ‘The Little House on the Prairie Effect.’ This is on the more severe end of the spectrum. Some days it’s just wind, sometimes just precipitation, sometimes it’s that lovely, sunny, crisp day that makes you want to go outside. Mostly, though, it’s cold and sloppy.

City dwellers, for the most part, are pedestrians. I walk an average of 40 minutes a day just to get from home to work and back. The thought of leaving my bed in the winter is enough to make me cry. In order to make this bearable, I spend a lot of time watching the weather forecasts and pre-planning my winter weather outfits. Layers are the key. When the temperatures start dropping in October you’re wise not to go right to the winter coat. Rather you should layer sweaters or invest in suede or leather. I am partial to the wool wrap. Don’t wear gloves or heavy tights. Wear hats and scarves that offer no protection from the weather, but are purely for fashion. The point is to start toughening up your skin. Even if you’re chilly, tough it out as the current 45 degrees will feel like springtime come November.

Next, when daytime temps are within freezing (below when you factor the wind chill); you need to bump up the outer gear. It’s time to put on your winter coat. (Just your wool one mind you, DO NOT wear he goose down or the multi layered North Face just yet.) Hats, scarves and gloves are also acceptable at this point. You may also break out any lined wool slacks. Feel free to layer sweaters and long sleeves too. On precipitation days be prepared with a weather proof coat, shoes and unless it’s snowing, an umbrella. People in Chicago carry umbrellas in the snow. They look really stupid.
When the temperature falls below freezing degrees, but above 15 degrees you must add layers. I’m a fan of two pairs of tights, but beware of athlete’s foot. Long underwear is a great option too. I learned the hard way that thongs are an issue. I’ve dealt with butt freeze for the sake of the not having a disgusting panty line, but beware that you’ll have to suffer for it. You may want to have some lined footwear at this point, frozen toes are no fun. Definitely invest in a fancy pants parka with zip out liners or a long, puffy goose down coat. I scoffed for years before I realized that the goose down is so effective that you don’t need as many bulky layers. Mine is white with a hood and I look like a Storm Trooper. Mars makes me run and do the turn around and shoot while still running move, while making “bew, bew, bew” gun noises.

Below 15 degrees, is when pride must go out the window if you want to stay warm. I hearken back to the sub zero weather in the winter of ’95 where I marched 25 minutes across campus looking much like an Ewok with my fleece pants on my head and the legs wrapped around my face. It was very effective. Yes, I referenced Star Wars twice. Something about hard core outer wear I guess. Do whatever you have to do to keep covered from head to toe. Don’t be afraid to look fat. Go so far as to wear sunglasses or goggles to keep your eyes warm. Cold eye feels weird and makes you tear up, which freezes to your face, which sucks.

Well below zero hits this region a few times a year, thankfully, it doesn’t stay too long. My advice is to call in sick. Sometimes it’s just inhumane to put yourself through such frigid temperatures.

The point of these stages is so the severe won’t feel as severe. I stand by my stages, even though I may just be fucking with my mind. This is all a coping mechanism for dealing with the wrath of Chicago winter. Work, rehearsal, life, it won’t stop for weather, so unless I want to drop out of life for 1/3 of the year, I have to deal.

Here are some other tips given to me by friends, some of whom have dealt with Midwest winters the whole life.

• Drink copious amounts of red wine.
• Laugh heartily at the skinny blond clone bitches standing in lines at stupid bars in identical black tank tops and open toed shoes.
• Wear socks on your hands.
• Wear leg warmers for actually keeping warm and not for some stab at retro fashion.
• When in need of a cab, call one ahead of time and have them pick you up at your front door.
• Eat twice as much food as usual.
• Go tanning? Yeah, someone swore by that. Just don’t get orange. You’ll look like an ass.
• Only venture out to places with adequate heat.
• Caulk your cracks.
• Do that plastic covering stuff on your windows.
• Cook a lot and enjoy the ovenous heat.
• Warm pants on the head double as a hat and a scarf. Think Lawrence of Arabia or Combat Ewok.
• Hair dry your body when getting out of the shower.
• Keep a warm robe in your bed with you and put it on before you step out of it.
• Use heating pads and electric blankets.
• Wear snow boots when there’s snow. I don’t mean Uggs either, jerks who wear Uggs with mini skirts.
• Embrace the Russian peasant look with multiple wool wraps.
• Eat hot foods.
• Exercise in your house.
• Run from the television to the bathroom so you won’t notice the cold.
• Have your husband start the car well before you have to get in it.
• Marvel at how tough you’ve become in the face of another Chicago winter.

I’m sure there are more. I welcome any suggestions. Locals, God speed. West Coasters, the Seattle gloom is a welcome gloom.

Much love,
Kerri, Durla, KSan.

Win or Die Trying

2005-11-02T12:00:00.000-08:00

Ain't that the truth? Anyone who saw the Chicago White Sox in any of their post season glory could see that their mantra, "Win or Die Trying" is so much more than words. I've been a baseball watcher all of my life. From my Spring and Summer afternoons and evenings watching my brother and my friends to visiting the imploded King Dome to see the Seattle Mariners. We cheered our hearts out long before Griffey, A-Rod, The Big Unit, Pinella and Ichiro. In fact, I had already moved away by the time the Mariners got really hot and a beautiful new facility, Safeco Field. I lived in Delaware where I could either be a Phillies fan or an Orioles fan, I chose neither and still clung to Seattle. I lived in Boulder, CO. As IF I would cheer for the stupid ole Rockies. In fact, being from Seattle I don't believe I'm allowed to root for any Denver teams. Then in 1998 I moved to the city of Chicago and I learned very quickly that I had to make choice. While I'd never lose my allegiance to the Mariners, I knew without cable I'd never see a game and I'm not going to read the confusing sports stats. So unless the Mariners made national headlines, I had to align myself with the Northside Cubs or the South Side Sox.
I never lived in a city with two teams but I could see how "friendly rivalries" would be in existence. I had no idea how extreme these fans were. My first apartment was just north of Wrigleyville. So close that I could hear the din of the crowds from my back deck. I thought it was cool to be near such a legendary field and was fortunate enough to be invited by a classmate to a game. Apparently all the guys in the class were busy, but I was the first girl on the list. This game was oversold because it was the end of the legendary season of the homerun battle between Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa. In fact, they were presenting Sammy with a car that day. That was an exciting moment, I think. I mean I couldn't see anything but a sea of Sosa jerseys so I was just going by sound. We eventually snagged some seats as the crowd emptied and I got to bear witness to my first Cubs loss.

It turns out the Cubs lost A LOT. I was no stranger to baseball loses, helllllooooo the Mariners, but to lose and lose year after year and get sold out crowds? Never in Seattle, never, never, never. I was thinking, though, this has to be more than fan loyalty to these "lovable losers" than the players themselves. I was beginning to think that it may have to do with the legendary field. Further it had to do with demographics. Wrigleyville and the surrounding neighborhoods are full of post-college frat boys and Trixie girls who start flocking to the field come Spring time to get wasted and score. This wasn't about baseball to a lot of attendees, it was an excuse to get fall down drunk and try to have sex. For me I thought the whole experience was crowded, smelly, annoying, expensive and tan.

It was abundantly clear that my Northside world was dominated by Cubs fans. Since I have a natural aversion to groups and a piteous heart I started getting a soft spot for the White Sox. Plus they were an American League team and would be playing the Mariners. My first game at the former Comisky was a totally different experience. There were no oppressive crowds, the food was phenomenally better in taste, portion and variety, the bathrooms were nicer, the people were normal and appeared to be there to watch some ball. Deeeeeelightful. I made my choice based on my American League bias, my comfort and enjoyment at former Comisky, and more importantly I felt the Sox deserved a fan base like the loser Cubs had.

I figured since I was a transplant I didn't have to be so militant about my fanhood. I still rooted for the Mariners and watched both the Cubs and the Sox. Actually, I couldn't get away from it as I had no cable and WGN exists. When the Cubs went to the playoffs in 2003 it was exciting. It was like catching a fever. I am one of the most easily influenced people I know,(You should have seen what happened to me at an Amway meeting.)so it was inevitable that I would be right there watching the games and rooting for the Cubs. Then they lost. Then the fans blamed this poor Bartman guy. Then I thought, oh SCREW YOU Cubs fans. Bunch of sore losers. This guy was harassed so bad he had to leave the state. In the next couple of years I smirked at their decline. Though I like Dusty Baker, he seems like a nice man.

In 2004 things started getting hot for the Sox. Ozzie Guillen's style, the stellar pitching, defense and hitting were making the Sox a force to be reckoned with. In 2005, they only got hotter and cuter. Their chemistry was unparalleled. When one player would fall, someone else would pick them up. Ozzie's philosophy of no finger pointing succeeded in creating team players without punk ass attituded. I'm looking at you Jeter. Oh, and Clemens you used to be a punk ass but now you're too old so you're just an ass.

Metaphysically speaking I think the universe was ready for a Sox win. It was clear that this team was there to play to win and not to play not to lose. That attitude was palpable. During the Cubs v. Marlins playoff series I had this feeling that the Cubs just won't win and I couldn't put my finger on it. It's the same thing I felt when I'd watch the Mariners and Skankees in post season play. I just knew that the Mariners weren't going to win. Houston fans knew damn well they weren't going to win. You could hear it at the last out of game 4. That collective, "Ohhhhhhhhhh", as if a toddler dropped his ice cream cone. Bless their bee loving hearts, Houston played some tough ball, but the Sox were tougher. For the first time in my life I had the feeling that these guys can't lose. They have talent and they respect it in one another. They are smart as hell and take advantage of every break that come their way. They have foul mouthed, pragmatic Ossie whose confidence and belief in his management style transcend to every member of the team. And once they came up with their theme song, Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'", they made sure to fly Steve Perry to all of the remaining games. To have a group experience like this, a collective of the right players, the right leaders, the right attitude and the right time is legendary.

I saw these Chicago legends downtown last Friday at a ticker tape parade. The crowds, the paper, the noise, the excitement, it was palpable and I'll admit, I teared up. I couldn't see well, but I managed to glimpse them all. When it was over I joined the sea of black and white up Madison Avenue back to work. It was bittersweet in that they won the World Series, but it was over so fast. Here's to a repeat in 2006. Historically speaking, you know, they're no Yankees, but ewwwwwww that's a good thing.

Birthday Week

2005-10-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

I highly recommend celebrating one's birthday all week long. Ever since I've been away from home, I've enjoyed cards and packages trickling in all week long. It though that it must be sort of what Hanukkah is like. Or not. I wouldn't know. Well, Mars and I took the ball and ran with this idea. We celebrate one another's birthday's for a whole week. The only requirement is that the birthday kid gets a little something everyday. It can be anything, purchased, made, a gesture, anything. It's simply a fun little acknowledgement to give and to get. Sometimes we've themed gifts. I did a Medieval theme one year and he did and Underpants theme (Underpants is my favorite word.)

So, I just had birthday week. It culminated in a World Series Game 2 White Sox victory. If that weren't enough, there's the annual three way birthday bash for my good friends Vanessa, Eric and myself. Our bdays are right in a row and we thought it'd be easier for everyone if we made them go out only one night. So, for the last three years Librapalooza has been a fun, crazy, hazy and suprising party that spawns several juicy and entertaining stories.

Birthday week also featured gorgeous items from our registry. Simple, but necessary items like silverware caddies and untensil holders. My favorite, our awesome shower curtain. Mars also got me an awesome card with my own personal Mars drawing. The Arrested Development Season One DVD's, a bouquet of roses, and my favorite, a very clean house.

Knowing that someone is or has thought of you and what you may want so carefully, and knowing that they go through all the trouble they do to make the birthday week special, is something that I relish in life. It also makes me feel guilty that I screwed both my parents out of gifts last year as the wedding put a crimp in my fundage. I love that we have this tradition and I love that the giver always gets as excited as the getter.

Thanks Mars for an awesome birthday week.

2005-10-25T13:42:00.000-07:00

Introducing K San

Records

2005-10-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

I was at a party on Saturday. They had a turntable and some vinyls. Some friends and I sat in the front room playing records for hours. I miss records. They're at home in Seattle. I miss my turn table. I miss the sound of a needle on the record and that I miss that grainy, echoey, sound before the song. It's an anticipatory sound. I remember that sound prefacing many dance routines, lip synchs, and my childhood foray into rhythmic gymnastics with a jump rope. If I had 2 weeks off, I'd drive to Seattle, get my records and drive back. That is all.

Snarkity, snark, snark, snark

2005-10-04T13:19:00.000-07:00

I started two blogs so I can get myself writing more as part of the one woman show master plan. A by-product of my new writing and regular release of frustration habit has been an incessant need to write what’s on my mind; hence the letter to the CTA regarding the mistreatment of the indigent passenger.

Well, I’ve surprised myself once again by typing an email to the Chicago Tribune’s junior publication, The Red Eye. I get the Red Eye everyday for free at my el stop. I like to read it at the gym on the elliptical machine. It’s mini news blurbs, or sound bites, rather. It covers the nation and world and all events, but in a very abbreviated form. Enough exposition, the back page is a bunch of celebrity crap, which I hate that I read, but I do. There was a blurb on the insipid Jessica Alba. She is my token representative of the disdainful Hollywood machine that whores out pretty people for TV and movies and calls them actors. That game is a gross one, but one that I know won’t go away. As an educated actor, it is offensive and belittling as the general population cannot discern between someone like Jessica Alba and someone, well, who can act.. Granted, a majority of the fan base are probably made up of kids who vote in the People’s Teen Choice Awards. Which I’ve sometimes thought that dimwitted, immature adults vote in too. Age is not necessarily representative of good taste.

So, here’s my snarky email to the Red Eye, which made my boss laugh so hard he turned red.

Hello there,

This is a petty, petty complaint, but it's something that has haunted me for awhile now. On behalf of myself and the bazillion other talented and hard working actors in the world, please stop lumping Jessica Alba in with us.

I believe that a fair, alternate title would be, "Well Paid Eye Candy".

I found it utterly hilarious and absurd that in your October 3, 2005 edition, while discussing her talks to be the in the upcoming "I Dream of Jeannie" movie she said, "...the script is just not in the shape I would want it to be in if I was going to do it." Yet, she elected to do "Into the Blue" and "Honey".

She is not the only pretty thing in Hollywood that continues to work based solely on looks, far from it. I just have this standard that when I watch a movie, I like to feel that the actors in it actually have souls.

PROPS OUT TO THE CHICAGO TRANSIT AUTHORITY

2005-09-27T13:12:00.000-07:00

Before you read this, read my last post if you haven't already. Okay, read on.

I'd like to thank the employees of the Chicago Transit Authority for their prompt, thorough, and professional manner in which they addressed my complaint/report. First, not 15 minutes after I sent the email, the customer service department repsonded and told me there will be an investigation (they also chastised me for sleeping on the el--I told them I wouldn't anymore). I had also send the email to Carole Brown, the chairman of the board of the CTA (and fellow blogger). She forwarded it on to the appropriate channels for address. I was then sent an email today from Mr. Greg Longhini of the CTA assuring me that at thorough investigation will be conducted as this behavior is not tolerated.

I just got off the phone with the head of the canine unit of the CTA. He was absolutely embarrassed, apologetic and reassured me that there will be an investigation with the on duty security officers and the Chicago police office that was supervising. He said that since I gave such a detailed account and description, they were able to identify the person in question as an off duty Sheriff from the Chicago PD. (BTW, how glad am I that I paid my parking ticket off and that my husband has one of those, I Support Police stickers.) Though he was suprised that that was the gentleman in question, he still intends to terminate him if found guilty.

If this turns into a he said/she said I won't be suprised. But I have to say how impressed I am at the quick action and sincere remorse that these employees of the CTA have shown. They will be calling me or writing me with the outcome of this case and I will let you know what happens.

Homeless or not, one should feel protected by officers of the law. I'm not naive, and I know from experiences of my own and others that officers can get hot tempered, entitled and downright brutal with an inflated sense of authority. The bottom line was this man was not doing anything against the law, perhaps against the no sleeping policy of the CTA, but nothing to warrant the abuse that I witnessed. I've never done anything like this before and the only reason I did was because it was so blatant, I knew that I didn't imagine what I saw, it's imprinted in my mind. My first instinct was to call the officer a "fucker", but I took a second and realize that is the stupidest thing I could have done. (This is my husband's influence.) As they say, the pen is mightier than the sword.

When this is all said and done, I plan on sending a letter of thanks to the CTA from me as a representative of the human race. Most of us have at least one person that has our backs. There are people out there that have nobody. For whatever reason, through fault of their own, the system or a combination of things, they have no one to say, "Back off."

Gross Abuse of Power

2005-09-23T11:34:00.000-07:00

It's not a new thing to see or hear or read about an officer of the law abusing his or her power. Abuse comes in all forms, verbal threats or insults, physical threats, physical acts, etc. I witnessed on such incident on the CTA (that's the Chicago Trasit Authority, which, incidentally was the original name of the band Chicago) blue line this morning on my way to work. Call me a bleeding heart, I don't really care. I consider myself compassionate. I'm a sensitive (overly sometimes) person and it bothers me to know end to see any abuse of power. Especially toward people who've done nothing wrong. I sent the following to Carole Brown, the Chairman of the CTA board, who also has a blog as well as the customer service department. I still need to send it to CTA President Frank Kruesi, which I'll do after I go to the restroom.

Dear Carole,

I am writing to report an incident of passenger abuse by one of the security checkers that occurred on the loop bound blue line at the Grand stop while the train was stopped for it's routine security check. There was a man sleeping hunched over in a seat. The security officer saw the man through the window. The security officer then boarded the train, walked up to the sleeping man and violently YANKED the back of the collar of his coat and JERKED his head up. The startled man was then told to "IF YOU'RE SLEEPING, GO HOME." The security officer then THREW the man's head back down. The passenger appeared to be indigent. I've lived in this city for a number of years and I know the CTA is not be used as a moving hotel but one cannot say that that is why this passenger was sleeping. Regardless, this was not just cause for aggressive manhandling, or verbal threats. I sleep on the train all the time as do a number of other passengers. Because I'm a young woman in professional dress I highly doubt that I'd be subject to such blatent abuse of power by an individual who's job is to protect the safety of any and all passengers.

This security officer was male, about 5'8", approximately 45-55 yrs old, and had a salt and pepper beard. The time was approximately 8:22am today September 23, 2005.

I would appreciate a response to my concerns regarding the violation of the civil rights of this passengers. If this incident is not addressed, I will pursue this matter further. If you have further questions of me, you can email me here or call

Many thanks,

Mrs. Kerri Sanford

Gone But Not Forgotten

2005-09-19T09:03:00.000-07:00

Scrunchies. You may still own one for the purpose of holding back your hair when you wash your face. Or perhaps you play women’s softball or do gymnastics. (Though I’ve noticed in the world of women’s sports, the hair ribbon has been making a grand resurgence.) I will be the first to admit, that because I have such thick, curly, crazy hair, scrunchies did a great job holding my hair back and NOT pulling it out, like rubber bands do. To me scrunchies were more useful than stylish, and I believe I’m not alone on this one.

The scrunchie trend is sort of a mystifying one to me. As far as hair accoutrement, the scrunchie is far less offensive then say, the giant flower trend, which is very hard to pull off unless you are a bride or a competitive ballroom dancer. Or, remember those bow clips. I don’t believe you could have been a girl in the 80’s without one. I used to get creative and fashion my own bow clips out of fabric remnants or lace torn off an old nightgown or dress. We have to mention the banana clip. Why on earth anyone wanted their hair to look like a cross between the tail of a horse and a Mohawk is beyond me. Perhaps that’s my jealousy speaking as I had extremely short, horrible, frizzy, curly hair during the banana clip days and when I’d try it to use one (and not break it from the sheer strength of my hair) I’d end up looking as if I’d attached a scrub brush to the back of my head.

By the time the scrunchie appeared on the scene 1989 or so, my hair had grown out to a respectable length and for a good three or four years, I wore scrunchies. Again, not so much for the look (although, initially, I was one of those that did the “Pebbles” with scrunchie that was color coordinated with my socks—granted these were mostly my sporty casual days) but for function. I was hardly alone. You couldn’t pop into any girl’s Honda accord without seeing at least two scrunchies wrapped around the stick shift. Girls asked for scrunchies like they’d ask for tampons. One just assumed you had one.

I’d sort of thought that scrunchies would be around forever. Sure they started as a trend, but they became such a staple and they lasted a lot longer than most trends. See: satin camouflage cargo pants, tiered mini skirts that barely cover your ass, women wearing ties, sweaters sold with matching leg warmers and sneaker pumps (come ON!!!!!). I figured that they may go the route of the Capri pants; trend to staple. Of course, I’d fully expect the scrunchie design to change along with the rest of the fashion industry. Scrunchies started off big and loud, I could see them today being smaller and more unique by utilizing different fabrics.

It is the nature of humans to build up one another and then gleefully tear them down. I suppose it’s the same theory in fashion. Case in point; I’m sitting here reminiscing on how handy, and hair friendly scrunchies were, yet what spurred this whole topic was that I followed a girl this morning who had her hair pulled back with a black scrunchie, which had apparently lost it’s elastic (awww, that was always a bitch). What this cleaver girl had done was wrap the scrunchie around the ponytail and then tied the scrunchie slack into a teeny, tiny bow. I tell you, the ingenuity to embrace the athletic hair ribbon trend and go retro with the scrunchie action. Albeit it was ugly and I laughed inside, I can’t help but think that this girl may be onto something. The Bowchie? The Scrow?

PS: I just remembered this crafty little hair item from the early 80’s; the barrette woven with thin ribbons, which hung down to reach your shoulders and were finished off with little wooden beads. The beads made a clicking sound when you ran or danced around. It was like pretend corn rows.

PPS: Is it appropriate for adult women to don hair ribbons?

Not Just for Spacemen Anymore

2005-09-15T08:07:00.000-07:00

So I’m walking to work from the train this morning when I was blinded by what appeared to be half woman, half foil wrapped baked potato. I’m aware that there is a certain metallic phase going on in the world of fashion. Typical metallic accessories include (but are not limited to) purses, sandals, and belts. You’d be hard pressed to find pants, shirts or jackets outside the Future exhibit at Epcott Center. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to find ties and vests unless at a show choir concert. What you can find in the west loop of Chicago, though, is a kicky little item that is half thingy which holds your glasses around your neck a la librarian, and half child’s size clip on tie. Oh, and yes, the tie part was as silver as they come. Pair that with a silver vest, silver dangly earrings, the ones that are just chains that hang straight down to your shoulders, (See Lita Ford.), a shiny black button up shirt, silver framed sunglasses, a HUGE silver purse and a silver belt. Those poor pleated black pants with tapered legs and cuffs were overwhelmed by the Jiffy Pop top half. I couldn’t even get to the shoes. I’ll just imagine that they were silver hi-tops with big, fat, sparkly silver laces.

Ground control to Major Tom, please be aware that some Latina woman in Chicago has made off with your space suit.

They Freakin' Blow

2005-09-13T13:52:00.000-07:00

Jessica and Ashlee (with that super cute double e) blow. So does their blowriffic dad. I must say, I was partial to Newlyweds. It amused me. Mildly. Tennis prowess aside, the Williams sisters bite, too. Hmm, who else? Jessica Alba blows because she makes a mockery of acting. She's not alone. I'm aware that there are a million super hot talent-free girls and guys out there and they all blow too. In fact, anyone who just wants to be famous for the sake of being famous blows. They deserve the tabloid crap and all the pictures.
Who blows worse, people who act super entitled and obnoxious, but don't realize it because they were raised that way? Or, people who act super entitled and obnoxious, and are totally aware they are doing so, but they don't care?

I blow too because I'm bothering to write about this shit. (And I'm late with my super step mom's bday.)
It's just that I have this knot in my back and I'm thinking if I vent about things that blow, it might lessen the tension. Oh, my back blows too.

I just heard that Mr. and Mrs. Smith blows. Incidentally, Jolie and Pitt are blowing hard (don't go THERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) these days too.

This lawyer I dealt with today blows. So does her last name. I won't say it.

This CTA hag at the Blue Line Western Stop blows.

This skank that made my husband lose his lid to his travel mug on the train last night blows.

That other skank on the train this morning that nailed me in the stomach/hip bone (fucking ouch) with what I'm assuming is a bowling trophy in her bag blows.

Our elevators really blow.

Gwen Stefani's new "fashion" line blows.

The fact that Gwen Stefani's new "fashion" line blows, blows.

Monica said it was windy at lunch today. That blows.

Puns blow.

I'm done. Blowhard.

Style Minus Substance (And the Style Sucks Too)

2005-09-12T13:48:00.000-07:00

The fox network is what I like to call an enigma. It is home of some of the best and some of the worst television on the planet. I like to think of Fox as the Heidi Fleiss of networks; flashy, savvy, money hungry, cunning, edgy and turbo speed, but is so focused on instant gratification that she becomes unable to experience much deep thought or make anytime for soul searching contemplation. How is Fox so savvy? Well, they have deliberately chosen to not fully commit to anyone market or demographic. They are absolute geniuses in tapping into the many subcultures of Americans. It seems as if they have this whole other level to market research outside age group and sex. And I think it involves brain cells.

What I like about Fox is, they can be very innovative, cleaver and quite dark. (See; 24, Arrested Development, Prison Break and surprisingly the O.C.) What I don’t like is that they can be a little too into instant gratification. What I mean is that they tend to spit some shows out so fast with all the necessary bells and whistles to cause a raucous and gain some attention, and perhaps they have a really unique gimmick or “gig” as I like to say, but yet they are so careless that they, at times overlook what is the most important, IMPORTANT, element of any good TV. show, movie, play, etc., the writing.

I know this is not anything new; I was just given a reminder of this last Thursday while watching the pilot of Reunion. I was drawn to the show because I thought concept was really cool. It goes back and forth from present day to the past, beginning with 1986 for the pilot. I’m assuming that each episode will be a new year examined in the life of this group of friends, the overall objective being to solve this crazy mystery.

I pretty much assumed that Fox would make the most of the 80’s time period by throwing out all the cheesy ass pop culture references they could. They did just that. However, they did it very, very sloppily and with no more thought than an elementary school music teacher directing a 3rd grade production of Grease. The music people did better than the wardrobe people in that they did an okay job compiling a soundtrack of songs actually from 1986. Then they’d have an occasional slip like playing Total Eclipse of the Heart, which came out in 1983. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if they consistently played songs from the 80’s, but up until that point and after that it was all songs from 1985 and 1986. Yeah, that was 7th grade and I’d like to forget it, but…These sins, I can forgive.

What I cannot possibly forgive is the contribution made (or not made) by the wardrobe, hair and make up teams. As I’m not a part of the Fox network, I cannot say who to blame these decisions on, probably some sleazy fat ass producer, but whoever they are, they suck for their lack of thought, consistency and follow through. A big part of 80’s pop culture was fashion, but it was also hair. Hair was a big deal in the 80’s. Aqua Net flowed through halls between classes. My head was so stiff with gel and mousse that it didn’t move. Teasing, ratting, banana clips, Bananarama, guys using gel and blow dryers. Pants were tight and shirts were big for girls. That brooch on the collar thing was huge. Chuck Taylor’s made resurgence. Paisley made an appearance. Big, big earrings and bright, bright color, big sweaters, long pearls, and Pretty in Pink. I’m sorry Reunion, but the Madonna Material Girl/Borderline BS was loooooong gone, unless you lived in a small town. Shoulder pads were starting to be velcro’d into everything.

And lets talk make up. Oh, my God. Brights all over the place. Colored mascara, bright pink lipstick (Wet N Wild #116, the stickiest crap ever). I’m going to quote a description of Christina Aguilera that I heard last night, “…you look like if I touched you, you’d be sticky.” That is 1986 hair and make up. I didn’t see any of this on this show last Thursday. I saw a bunch of pretty people playing dress up in some 80’s-ish fashions.

My dad has always said, “What is the point of doing anything if you don’t do it right?”Precisely, Dad. Had Fox bothered to commit to the actually period that they were filming in, they’d have an easier time transitioning the twenty year time jump. (As my dear husband said, “No, I’m sorry, but it’s NOT POSSIBLE for an actor to play 18 and 38.” Good old Fox had one idea to help us buy the time jump: Take the mousy, nice girl from 1986 and make her a heavy make up wearing smoker to indicate her age.

I was so long winded about the style I haven’t touched the writing. It’s so bad. Husband pointed out that perhaps since the pilot, they’ve got new writers. Perhaps he’s right, most elementary school kids are back in session now and don’t really have the time for writing a series anymore. Ha ha ha. I hope for the actors’ sake (especially the marvelous Matthew St. Patrick from Six Feet Under) that they do. I believe it highly unjust for Fox to employ the some of the most talented writers in the business for some shows and some of the worst for others. It’s not fair to the loyal viewers, and the actors (as they look really bad sometimes) to simply rely on a cool gig and let the substance fly by the wayside. You may let Heidi Fleiss throw your engagement party, but you wouldn’t let your write your wedding vows. (This is my second silly analogy of the day. See, http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog&pop=1 for the other one.

GROUP MIND

2005-09-07T08:45:00.000-07:00

Many of us are busy, busy people with jobs, friends, family, chores, etc. I, personally, have a great immediate circle of friends with whom I socialize on a regular basis. Most of these friends I’ve met through my theatre world, and then there are the friends who I’ve met through those friends in the theatre world, but are not necessarily “theatre” people. People hang out with those that they share common interests with. My social world is very full and as it is, I don’t see many of my friends as much as I’d like to.

I don’t do much socializing at work because, frankly, most of the people here I don’t have much in common with, except working here. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I abhor forced group activity. I shunned any dorm activity my freshman year of college in favor of seeking out friends in a more organic matter. I failed to see how a jaunt to Dairy Queen for a study break (they made posters for this) would really bring people together. It can show who really likes ice cream or who has goals to be an R.A. or who cannot come up with their own things to do on a Thursday night.

I spent a lot of college “trolling” different groups. Pre-declared theatre major I would go out with a different group every night. Saturday it was the Rugby people and this awesome chick (later roommate) from my dorm, Sunday it was the stoners in Stevens Whitney, Monday it was the jocks in Stevens Whitney, Tuesday I geeked it up with library pals, Wednesday was the extreme sports, stoner dudes in Student Village (or Stud Ville), Thursday was the tennis player from my poetry class (whom I’m pretty sure was gay), Friday was the highlarious, dorky dudes with jock tendencies in Hitchcock. Then the next week I would hang with the radio dj’s or this weird little indie rock kid, or the folks from the dining hall, or the rock bands. It went on and on. I suppose I was finding myself and having one hell of a time. Once I did finally declare theatre and got super busy with plays and things, I was able to recruit so many people to come to the theatre, many of whom had never been. I felt like a little diplomat and I was proud to have been called the Mayor of Central Washington University.

I have deep, deep seeded issues, as many of us do, stemming from being shunned from groups. I would be repeatedly shunned as I kept failing to grasp the group rules. I talked to anyone and everyone. I learned that that was frowned upon in school. I dressed how I wanted and had a good time with clothes. Again, not the thing to do. I said eff the group long ago because any group (popular, choir geeks, drama nerds, regular nerds, etc) has their unwritten rules, which I could never abide by fully. Plus, if you accept to define yourself by a groups standards, people will judge you by those standards as well as the people within your group. It’s not just, but it does happen. Not everyone has an open mind. I cannot think of anything worse than someone thinking they know who you are based on who you happen to be with. Life’s just more colorful if you have friends scattered about many groups, you always had someone different to talk to and to learn from and very importantly, to come see your plays. (I’m really hoping that nobody is thinking of a United Colors of Benneton-sp? ad right now.)

I’d intended on addressing this lunch I had yesterday and this came out. The lunch incident will get mentioned in a future post. I gots to go study for my driving test!

Cyber Strangers...Sometimes they Creep Me Out

2005-09-02T07:35:00.000-07:00

I like the idea of blogging. It keeps me "busy" at work and it lets me get stuff off my overinflated chest. (Yeah, now all you strangers know I'm stacked. Friends, you knew that anyway.) However, you cannot discern who reads and doesn't read your personal thoughts. You can apparently find out who is reading your thoughts, but beware. I don't think I'd want to know. Why is that? Well, frankly because there are a lot of creepos out there. I trust that there are more decent folks than creepos, but as someone who was recently contacted by some sleezoid who calls himself Masterbutter and prefers "friends" who have their pictures taken in some crappy appartment wearing underpants and Uggs laying on some dingy, used ass couch cushions, I'm a little put off by the unknown aspect of cyber communication. It also weirds me out that people put photos on their blogs, yet blur them so you cannot really see the image. Is it so horrifying? Is it about mystery? Or does your camera suck ass?

I'm an intuitive person and a sensitive person. I believe that you can learn a ton about a person just by shaking their hand, looking into their eyes and hearing the sound of their voice. People give off a million little hints to how they feel inside. It's a vibe thing. My instincts are really good and because of that it makes me feel somewhat in control of a situation, as you can tell immediately how a person may feel about you or you about them. For instance, I met a girl at a work party for my then boyfriend, now husband. Obviously, they all knew about me through him, but I'd yet to meet anyone. Most I met that night we're as friendly and cordial as I was being and I sensed nothing amiss. Then I met this wacko, and from the get go she had something to prove. Subconcious or concious a definite vibe was there. When we were introduced, her voice got louder, firmer and more direct. She looked me right in the eye, or rather, through the eye, piercing me with them. The most remarkable was the handshake. Goddamned if that bitch didn't try to break my hand. I believe in a firm handshake, but c'mon. What did I do? I squeezed right back. In retrospect, I wished I'd said "Ouch!", but instead I picked up her combative vibe and squeezed right back with a giant smile on my face. Classic passive aggressive response. Perfect for a party when you don't want to make a scene.

These are the beautiful moments in life that are missed in cyberspace communication. You can pick up tone and attitude in reading things. You can express your feelings through words, but you cannot ever experience the complex psychological and physiological actions and reactions experienced when meeting face to face. They sometimes speak so much louder than words.

I'll be the first to say that initial impressions do not always last. If you end up getting to know someone, you may find that your first impression was not an accurate picture of who the people all. However, the first impression is a launch point and a offers many clues on how you may want to interact with that person.

Maybe secrety I want to be an animal. Instict is all they have to go on. But we're animals of sorts and if "dogsth and beesth" sthmell feeeaaaar" and horses sense nervousness, then certainly we have like instincts. Maybe I just fear that with all this cyber communication we are getting out of touch of our basic instincts. Of course, if your basic instinct is to seduce and murder people with an ice pick, then perhaps it's best to continue on the cyber path.

What's the Opposite of Funny?

2005-08-29T10:01:00.000-07:00

Finally, a rant I can use in both my blogs.

What does $40 buy you these days? Three super cute v-neck sweater tops from H&M. A night at the Motel 6 near Bradley Internationally airport in CT. A month of my cell phone service and one cheap seat ticket to the absolute, hands down worst “theatrical” experience of my life. I’ve sat through Oedipus Rex three times and this was worse. I saw this play out in the Chicago suburbs called, uhm, “…rooster something or other” that made me uncomfortably embarrassed because it was so bad. I’ve been in shows that sucked; where I’ve actually used my hair as a mask so people couldn’t see my face. But, never in my life, have I ever been made so irate by the complete and utter lack of competence, foresight, and utter disregard for the audiences during a show as I was last Saturday at the I.O. (formerly Improvolympic) 25th (actually 24th) Anniversary show. Months ago I happily doled out $40 to see what should be a historic night for I.O. Alums such as Mike Myers, Andy Richter, Andy Dick, Rachel Dratch, Amy Poehler, Tim Meadows, Mo Collins to name a few. Plus, several I.O. celebrities, both individuals and teams were slated to perform. As we took our seats, the program listed the line-up of events which consisted of forms of improvisation originated at I.O. Great, fitting, wonderful. I get excited to see the crane over the audience the sold our crowd buzzing with excitement and the realization that this was such a boon for the Chicago improvisation scene as most of the patrons were not improvisers or actors (as is the case in the Loop of Chicago or the land of touring shows) but they were regular theatre goers from all over the Chicagoland area here to witness a night of funny, funny comedy with some of the funniest folks in the business. and though we were in the back of this ginormous theatre, I was sure that it wouldn’t hamper my experience. I wasn’t even concerned that the zipper on my dress was broke.

It was after 8:00p and the show had yet to start. Fine, typical. However, it was actually 8:30p when the show began. Irritating, as we did have an important going away event to get to. When the hosts did come out (finally) their lapel mics weren’t working. As a veteran of several musicals using body mics, I understand that sort of tech difficulty, but I expect it to be fixed IMMEDIATELY. Bad quickly went to worse as none of the lapel mics and the one handheld mic failed to work. This resulted in the intros by Charna Halpern (co-founder of I.O.), Amy Poehler and Rachel Dratch to be repeated 3 times so they could be captured by the camera filming for the DVD. These attempts were futile as anyone passed row 10 on the main floor could only hear every other word. Sort of debacle funny went to unfunny very quickly. Irate patrons yelled from the balcony and actually heckled Andy Richter. Eventually the show was stopped to address the problem. Mars and I left to go to Walgreens to get cash for theatre lobby booze and to get safety pins to fix my zipper. When we returned the show was about to begin again, only this time there were handheld mics on mic stands lining the apron (front) of the stage. I was in disbelief. How the effing hell are these people going to improvise? Improvising with a handheld mic is like doing a play with your script in your hand. Stifling, annoying and utterly distracting. This evening was becoming a bigger rip off by the second. An I.O. house team, The Reckoning did somewhat admirable job is working with the mics, but it was a far cry from ideal circumstances from anyone from a novice to a professional performer.

No one paid to see these people handicapped as they were. They were forced to deny themselves and the audience more than ½ of their comic abilities. Knowing that this show was in such a huge venue, I knew that some of the beautiful nuances that come from facial expression and gestures would be lost, but I figured that I’d hear everything and that the performers were astute with physical comedy that that would make up for the tiny things. In retrospect, the Chicago theatre was probably a lousy choice for improvisation as it is an intimate art form done in typically intimate or small theatre spaces. You have to WORK to be read in a space like that and I don’t think many of these folks gave that much consideration. Furthermore, at I.O. both students and performers are taught to focus on what’s happening onstage, with the group, your partner, group mind, etc. While that does a great service to what goes on onstage and I do not disagree with it by any means, I agree that that is important, kowtowing to that philosophy at the expense of audience alienation is dangerous, rude, selfish, arrogant, and stymies the world of improvisation from being legitimized as an art form, which I think it deserves to be. There was not ONE time in my year of classes that I heard word one about the audience or what the audience brings to the show. And the audiences do bring something to the show; an energy and a life force, without which, performers wouldn’t be performers, they’d be a bunch of people playing pretend in their friends’ basement. Case in point, this was a quote from the Chicago Trib article written by Chris Jones;

Drawn by the caliber of talent on the bill, people had flown in for this show specially, even from as far away as Boston. One patron complained he hadn't heard anything whatsoever from his $75 box seat. A woman who said she had spent $300 on tickets looked near tears. "They had to decide,” she said, with the kind of emotional resonance that people study improv for years to try and achieve, "if they were doing a show for us or for themselves."

Yeah, I was near tears too lady. As we left at intermission (no reason to stay when you can’t hear anything) I was saddened, shocked and disappointed (along with 3500 patrons and all the performers). I know that it couldn’t have been easy to get those comic celebs there at the same time and I would pity any performer celeb or not who finds themselves in this situation. I’m sorry for I.O. because this is a permanent stain on their reputation. Though the blame for the sound debacle has been placed on the hired sound company, I simply cannot put all of this on them. Thousands of concerts and plays alike have been put up at this landmark theatre without the headache that was this anniversary show. There were no special demands or complicated sound configurations. As I said before, my college musical theatre experiences playing his 800 seat theatres, dancing, jumping, grinding, and singing all successful, minus the occasional hot mic or broken mic. This in the event of those unforeseen problems had a contingent back up plan and were always communicated to the sound operator and stage manager. Mind boggling, I tell you.

The best that one can hope is that something was learned from this. You cannot plan thoroughly enough for a huge event like this and I.O. may want to take a little time out and consider that if they want their work to be seen and legitimized as theatre is (which is a common complaint on message boards) they better have a little consideration for the folks who can make that happen; Namely, you and me. I for one will be taking a hiatus from I.O. At least until I can be assured that I can see a show there without throwing a beer at the stage.

Was your Grandma as "cool" as this?

2005-08-23T14:10:00.000-07:00

In speaking with my mom last night she was relaying to me some troubles a friend is having (or has had) with her teen children. Teens are not easy and I gave my mom my own little share of hell, so I'm in no way shocked or suprised at things teens may do. So, this girl is 15 and she smokes and skips school. I knew plenty of kids who smoked at that age and more that skipped class. A lot of times they skipped class to smoke. (It makes sense, there's little to no time between classes to suck down a Marlboro Light 100.) I smoked after I started drinking at the age of 18. Great habits. Super. I knew it distressed my mom, and that's certainly not why I did it, but at 18 do you really give a rats ass what distresses your parents? They don't know anything, right? I was reading recently about a trashy ass mom who hosted young highschool kids at her house for sex and booze filled parties because she liked being the "cool mom". Well step aside "cool mom" because I just caught wind of "cool grandma". "Cool grandma" is the mother of my mom's friend and (obviously the smoking skipper daughter's grandma.) "Cool Grandma" has a tendency to undermine "mean mom" when smoking skipper daughter comes calling to complain. I get the grandma instinct to spoil the grandkids, but "cool grandma" recently took things a bit too far when she purchased a pack of cigarettes for skipping smoker granddaughter. "Cool grandma, it's really hard for me to get smokes because the guy who didn't card me got fired and now their's this mean bitch who checks their id's and I really, really, really want a cigarette!!!! Pleeeeeeeaaaaaase?" "Cool grandma" laughs at the plight of her skipping smoker kin and pulls right over into a 7-11 to buy her a fresh pack of tasty cigarettes. When "mean mom" finds the cigarettes and confronts skipping smoker on how she got them, skipping smoker replied, "From grandma." "She bought them for me because you won't!" "Mean mom" confronts "cool grandma" who says, "Oh, it was only one time..." I'm looking forward to hearing about the bottles of Boones Farm "cool grandma" buys for skipping smoker boozer granddaughter. Shit, the worst thing my grandma bought me was bubble gum shaped like a huge hamburger. Mom didn't like it because it wasn't sugarless.

Shouldn't I Feel Better?

2005-08-23T10:22:00.000-07:00

Since I quit smoking (six days shy of four weeks), I’ve gotten terrible colds. I feel like complete garbage; Super sore throat, stuffy head so I can’t breathe that well, tight chest, body aches, slight fever etc. Where’s the justice I ask you? I’m learning, though, that people who quit smoking may suffer from crap ass colds initially, but, obviously, one of the benefits of quitting is fewer respiratory illnesses down the line. I guess I have to earn that little bonus. Or maybe it’s your body’s way of saying, “Remember this feeling? You’ll feel a million times worse if you get emphysema, lung cancer or pneumonia. You’re doing a good thing.” Who knows? Who cares at this point? I’m so happy not to be smoking and I’m so happy to find that it does get easier everyday. It really does. Now that I’ve said all of this, I must come clean that I had a cigarette on Saturday night. I was lucky in the fact that that one didn’t open up Pandora’s Box it came close as I asked to bum another one. Fortunately, fate stepped in and separated me from my supplier before I had it. Slips are not relapses, they’re slips. But, they shouldn’t be taken lightly. I’m totally thinking that that one cigarette may have exacerbated this cold; or maybe not. It really doesn’t matter as I entered this 4th week I realized how glad I was to not be smoking. I hadn’t had that feeling yet. I have to cherish the moments I have these positive realizations because I tend to hold on to the negative aspect of quitting, as I’m sure a ton of smokers do. I miss it at times; bars, Sunday traffic, anytime I’m super irritated, etc. I was talking to a friend on Saturday about this quitting and he said though his dad quit almost twenty years ago and is happy about all of that, he still misses cigarettes on occasion. I’ve no doubt that that is a pretty typical thing for an ex-smoker to go through. Hell, if smoking wasn’t bad for you, I may not have quit. What’s this “may” shit? I wouldn’t have. Withdrawals alone are too much to handle sometimes. And nobody told me about the crippling depression. I heard about crankiness, insomnia, poor concentration, anxiety, but not so much about depression and terrible colds. So, I and my blog are now shouting into cyberspace that terrible colds and terrible depression can be a side effect of quitting smoking. My dear Mars and I have had quite a time of it the past few weeks. We passionate and hypersensitive beings (which also happens to be a side effect of not smoking) have a very hard time during drug withdrawal periods. Logic and passion are at opposite ends of the spectrum. Passion is fiery, flailing and all consuming and rapturous, while logic is calm, cool, thoughtful and rational. Oh, and Passion is so much stronger initially that it takes a while (if ever) for logic to prevail. Plus passion is such a great sounding word. It sounds so good they named a fruit after it. Can you even imagine calling something logic fruit? So, I will press on with this quit and try, try, try to keep in mind that this drug that’s leaving my body is taking both a physical and mental toll on me and that it will get better.

Tanorexia

2005-08-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

I just read this article on MSN called “Dying to be Tan”. Yes, it’s sort of a dramatic title, but the main point of the article is that there is a high percentage of teens who tan on a regular basis and that most people who develop melanomas experienced the sun damage by the time they were 18. I’ve had my share of sunburns. The worse being a direct result of feeling like a giant, white, insecure cow of a girl amongst the tan, tan, thin girls (though I later find out most of those I envied starved or barfed). Nonetheless, boys liked those girls and boys didn’t like me. That mentality led me to put baby oil on my FACE during a beach vacation in Florida. Dad had said, “You should go in, you look really red.” “Whatever, daaaad.” Cut to the next morning. My face feels a little puffy and tight, and my brother looks at me and bursts out laughing. I run to the mirror and see that my face was swollen to three times it size. My eyes were swelled shut. My lips looked like (well quite a few collagen victims of late) and underneath my eyes was totally purple. My insecure 13 year old mind was devastated and humiliated. I wore 30 sun block and a sun visor (horrific all on it’s own) and the swelling was down by the evening. As I got older the SPF in my lotion got higher. By the time I’d reached high school, I didn’t care that I was white. Aside from the 4 trips a year to the tanning bed for formal dances, I didn’t sun myself anymore. Part of the change was an increase level of security in myself. Granted, I had plenty of other issues, tanning just wasn’t one of them. Part of it was, honestly, getting sick at looking at the dumb ass chicks (and several guys) colored burnt sienna all year long. I knew people who tanned everyday from the age of 12 until graduation and probably beyond. An interesting poll popped up next to this article asking if you thought tanning parlors should ask for parental permission for anyone under 18. 76% of respondents (myself included) said yes. Back in 1986 I’d hear the tan girls on the pay phone during lunch making appointments at the tanning joint near our area. It was a social thing amongst these popular girls. These girls were 12. I don’t know how they paid or if their parents knew or the dangers of tanning beds wasn’t known or what. Of course these were the same girls who got drunk at 12, sucked cock at 13 and got fucked at 14. Hmm, it’s now making sense after all these years why they were so popular with the boys. That, and their parent’s money.
We lived in Seattle, where, face it, no one gets tan. I’m sure that that was a factor in me accepting my fair Irish skin. I do believe that a healthy glow, or a little color is nice to have in the summer. I just got back from Jamaica and prior to that Vegas and thoroughly enjoyed the sun. Covered head to toe in 30 SPF, a hat and some really awesome self tanner that doesn’t make you look orange. I’m not claiming to be better than someone who is a “tanorexic”, we’ve all got our issues. I just find it sort of funny that after hundreds of years of tanning being seen as a sign of low status (just read a Shakespeare comedy), it has become a sign of high status. Particularly being in Seattle, where, like I said, you don’t get a tan. If you were tan, you purchased it or you went skiing in Sun Valley or to Hawaii, etc. Poor people can’t afford to tan. I blame beach movies. Hollywood and beach movies. God, Hollywood’s about the perfect scapegoat for many societal ailments, including drugs, violence, eating disorders, alcoholism, rampant consumer-ism, and of course, tanning, just to name a few. Thanks Hilton. Thanks Lohan. Thanks to you, and thousands like you, government forms now can ask if you are African American, Asian, Eskimo, Native American, Hispanic, Caucasian non-Hispanic, or Caucasian Burnt Sienna. I’m reaching. I know. Tan isn’t a race, but it is a cultural epidemic. Uh-oh, my soap box is getting crushed beneath the weight of my rant. I’ll just get off.

Crazy with the Cheesewiz

2005-08-10T10:53:00.000-07:00

Clearance Rack

Beckity, Beck, Beck, Beck.

1996 was a killer year for a Beck show. I know, I saw four of them. You can never get enough Odelay. Actually, the first and second one's I didn't exactly, see, I just heard. It was one of those festivals with a million music acts, food and people. Great bargain, great shows, but deadly crowded at times. The third one I saw was at the beautiful Paramount theatre in Seattle, WA. You may know it from the Pearl Jam 'Even Flow' video where a long haired, Eddie Vedder jumped into the crowd from the balcony. I digress. This show was a suprise for me since tickets had been sold out, scalpers were asking $75 (I was a poor just college grad. saving up for a European trip), and I felt there was no hope. Then came a call from my off and on college boyfriend, with whom I was good friends with but bloody thankful that he was not and had not been by boyfriend for awhile. (Why is hindsight always 20/20?) He'd spent $300 on four Beck tickets and was telling me that he and his friend Steven were going with a couple dates, yet to be scored. I think he felt a little overwhelmed with having spent that money, considering he was a struggling entrepeneur at the time. I wished them well, called them lucky bastards and went about my business. Cut to the next day (day of the concert). Dude calls me and says they couldn't find dates and asked if I wanted to go. For free. Hells yeah. I asked who else was going. He told me that Steven's sister Linda was going as well. Classic. Two eligible, outgoing, Seattle 20 somethings can't scare up dates to a hot, hot show and have to take their ex girlfriend and their sister. Too funny. We all meet up for drinks, slam a few "stiffies" and hit the Paramount. The show was somewhat of a blur. More dancing than ever before. Most energy I'd ever felt at a show and we smoked a doob with a security guard. The fourth and final Beck 'Odelay' show of 1996 was in Philadelphia, PA. I was residing in Newark, DE at the time (don't ask) and Philly was the nearest venue. Again, same high energy, different scene as it was in an arena and we actually got there in time to see the Cardigans open for them. Yeah, I thought that was a weird choice too. Again, we smoked a doob, this time not with a security guard, but next to an 8 year old and his grandpa. No lie. Didn't realize they were there until mid-pass. Ooops. But, very pleased to see the young and old alike appreciating the high energy stage antics of the little, indie, genius freak, Beck. He came to Chicago in 2002. We missed that. Bummer. He'd come to my tiny college town of Ellensburg to play, but I missed that too. My friend Danny saw him in the local health food store and invited him to his house to smoke of the pipe. Beck politely declined, sighting a sore throat. He was in fact shopping for Throat Coat tea. (Bitchin' stuff by the way.). Now Beck is due back here in Chicago. There are no two ways about it, I'm going. It's been nine years since I've rocked a Beck show. The feeling still lives in me like it was yesterday and I'm shocked that is so easily recalled in my mind after all these years. Oh, Beck, I will forever be under your weird and wicked little spell. Ex boyfriends, security guards and eight year old children aside, it's all about you.

2005-08-09T11:42:00.000-07:00

August 9, 2005

I ate lunch alone today and continued to read Still Life With Woodpecker. I had my same salad with grilled chicken, mixed greens, peppers, broccoli (or Trees, as my brother used to call them), a tsp. of rosemary olive oil, and red wine vinegar. It's tasty and healthful. I'm one of those people who watches what they eat and truly doesn't mind eating healthy. I even evolved to the person who exercises and eats healthy because it makes me feel good, not so much because it keeps me fit. Though, I'd be a liar if I said that don't care what I look like as long as I feel good. It's a good philosophy and a freeing one, I'd imagine. It's clear that most people don't really feel that way or if they do, they are most likely trying to convince themselves that they feel that way, but they don't really. I'm going to broach the topic of large people. I don't mean "I need to lose 10 lbs" large, I mean, dangerously heavy large. I was raised by two very nice parents who taught my brother and I to be sensitive to other people's feelings at all times. Meaning, don't tease others for things they cannot control. This factor along with my deeply emotional nature and sometimes burndensome ability to put myself in other people's shoes has made me extraordinarily sensitive to the plight of an overweight person in our body concious, and fast food laden society. Back to lunch. As I took my salad to the "dork side" of the cafeteria, (the quiet side where no one really sits) I noticed an extremely large man sitting with his back to the room eating lunch. I couldn't see what he was eating because his wide back blocked his try. Not that it matters anyway, I wasn't looking to judge his selection. Instantly tears sprang to my eyes. This is a problem I have relating to my empathetic nature. I cannot, under any circumstances stand to see a large man, woman or child eating alone in a cafeteria. It's a Pavlovian reaction to this episod of Little House on the Praire where the new, fat kid named Wilbur (way to twist the knife tv writers) being tormented by Nellie and Willie Olson. I'd imagine how lonely and sad they must feel. How hard their days must be. Each morsel being shoved in their mouth solicited pangs of sadness in my heart. Whatever heartbreaking image was branded in my head is still with me today. I realize that I am the weirdo. I realize that not all large people are lonely, sad or face daily ridicule. It's not so much that I feel sorry for large people. I just understand how some non-large sized people view large sized people and it can be cruel, vicious and above all pointless. The initial tears and sadness I feel give way to a rage against those cruel, ignorant, bullies (for lack of a better word). I'm sure anyone who's ever been teased can relate to this. Right? My day goes on as most other work days. I'm comforted by the fact that I'm still the same sensitive girl that I always was. Conversely, I'm saddened by the fact that the insensitive pricks of childhood are now insensitive pricks of adulthood.