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Women in Jeopardy – First Folio Theater – February 10, 2018

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“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Or not, as there was no mail delivery at my building on Saturday, probably because of the seven inches of snow that fell Thursday night into Friday afternoon. Undaunted by the USPS’s shortcomings, I  didn’t let the snow stop me from driving to Oak Brook to see Women in Jeopardy at the First Folio Theater.

We left early and detoured slightly to head to Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen before the matinee for a drink and perhaps some gumbo or fried alligator (tastes like chicken – if chicken were made of leather). But, at 3:00 in the afternoon, it was jammed and we couldn’t even get a seat at the bar. Beads everywhere, Mardi Gras crowd getting started early.

So, with no food or drink to be had (fortunately we brought our own chocolate), we got to the theater early. I immediately ran into and caught up with an old friend, who was ushering for our performance as a member of the Saints (the volunteer arts organization unrelated to New Orleans and the aforementioned Mardi Gras).

They played the familiar theme from Jeopardy as a lead in to the play, but the show was about women in jeopardy (though a comedy), not women on Jeopardy (darn). Just as in the last play I saw at First Folio (Silent Sky), this production used their ceiling of stars (celestial, not theatrical) as part of the scenery, this time in a camping scene. It reminds me of the ceiling at the Aragon Ballroom (though not nearly as spectacular), which reminds me of the last concert I saw there, Chuck Berry in 1972, when he duck walked and played a very extended version of the lyrically sophisticated My Ding-A-Ling, his cover version of which incredibly was his one number one hit.

Akropolis Reed Quintet – Chicago Cultural Center – Feb. 7, 2018

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I’m of the generation of men whose parents told them to tuck their shirts into their pants. A bass clarinet makes me think of someone who doesn’t. It seems to hang too long and not neatly tucked in like a soprano clarinet. In any event, both types of clarinets, an oboe, a bassoon, and a saxophone comprise the five instruments played by the members of the Akropolis Reed Quintet at this week’s Dame Myra Hess Memorial Concert at the Chicago Cultural Center.

After the first selection, I watched as the musicians dried the insides of their instruments by pulling swabs through the bores. It reminded me of a magician apparently pulling streams of cloth out of his mouth, only these swabs were black and one-piece, not multicolored and knotted together. Also, the musicians didn’t say “tada” when they were done, though they may have been thinking it as they finished with a flourish. Fortunately for the audience, the musicians were deft not only at drying their instruments, but also at playing them. I played the trumpet briefly and badly as a preteen. I now wonder if the problem was that I just wasn’t good enough at emptying out the spit valve. Yes, that must have been it.

The musical highlight of the concert was the group’s rendition of An American in Paris. Although I loved the music, it reminded me of how much I didn’t like the play when I saw it last year. Also, I wondered whether a French composer had ever written about being in America? Well, it turns out that the French composer Darius Milhaud was commissioned by Arthur Fiedler and the Boston Pops Orchestra in the 1960s to write a companion piece for An American in Paris, and thus composed A Frenchman in New York. See, it wasn’t such a stupid question.

 

Trivia Nights – Ongoing

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I competed in intramural trivia contests when I was in college and law school, and was on the team representing the University of Illinois in what was billed as the first National Collegiate Invitational Trivia Tournament (or something like that). In those days I studied the almanac. There was no internet or social media. Countries weren’t changing their names every ten minutes. There weren’t 1780 television channels. No Star Wars characters to learn. No Harry Potter to study.

For the last four months or so my friend Bill and I have been going to a weekly trivia night (Brain Sportz) at a local establishment. Based on the results of our first excursion into this highly-competitive underworld, we named our team Dead Last, which, I’m proud to say, has turned into a misnomer, mostly.

Bill and I know almost nothing anything about music (who the hell is Richard Cheese?) or pop culture (I’ve never watched the Simpsons) from the last 30 years. But, and this is important, I’m a really good guesser.  It’s a skill that helped me get good scores on standardized tests in my youth, which in turn got me into school so that I could enter collegiate trivia contests (unfortunately there was no major offered in trivia – law was as close as I could get).

These days we usually finish third, typically out of five or more teams. We’ve risen to second a couple times and miraculously finished first once! The categories that night were in our sweet spot – old stuff.

A couple of the other teams have six members, Millennials all. With two players (we’ve lately expanded to three), each of you must be a jack-of-all-trivia, whereas with six players you can specialize. I asked one of the other teams about this, and was told that one of their members specialized in Andy Samberg movies. Who? What? We are in desperate need of Millennials on our team.

Super Bowl Sunday – February 4, 2018

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Nine friends from the hood came over to watch the game. Though I knew they were coming, I provided no chicken wings, no chips, and no beer (I know that sounds unAmerican – I’ve never seen Gone With the Wind either), but someone brought a ten pound slab of chocolate, so we were all set. I finished it off for breakfast (just kidding – or am I?).

Two of the nine friends left the opera early to arrive in time for the game, not because they are such big football fans but because they thought the opera was so awful that they couldn’t leave fast enough (they did wait for intermission so that they wouldn’t be banned for life – a poor motivation in my opinion).

One attendee, who was rooting for the Eagles, as was most everyone in the room who knew we were watching football (remember we had opera lovers there), kept reminding us that the Patriots always came from behind to win. Even after the game was over, she seemed concerned that she would arrive home to discover that something had happened en route, well after the final whistle, to change the result in the Patriot’s favor (no one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition and no one trusts the Patriots).

As the game ended my guests established a new world indoor record for quickest departure from a Super Bowl party because they wanted to get home in time to watch the special episode of This Is Us airing after the game (the intricacies of recording a show after a live sporting event apparently had eluded most of them and they were worried that the artificial intelligence of their DVRs wouldn’t pick up the slack). I‘ve never seen the show, but I gather that night’s episode was revealing the cause of a lead character’s death. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t J.R. Ewing’s and that Bobby wasn’t coming out of the shower, but who knows. After all, the Patriots were four-and-a-half point favorites.

The Rest of Theater 2017

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In other posts I’ve singled out some of the plays I went to in 2017. Here’s a quick survey of the rest of them to wrap up 2017 (you’ve probably received all your bank tax statements by now also).

I saw two plays at the Porchlight Theater, Scottsboro Boys and Woman of the Year (at the theater’s new location), where I discovered Meghan Murphy (see blog on Big Red and the Boys). Both are Kander and Ebb shows, but otherwise couldn’t be more different, one serious and based on a true story, the other lighthearted and not, like me.

When the Marriott Lincolnshire Theatre wasn’t underwater from flooding, I saw She Loves Me and Honeymoon in Vegas. Same usher, coincidentally. She remembered me because we discussed at length the need for me to keep my legs out of the aisle the first time (as my friends know, I always try to get an aisle seat). If the usher is reading this, I was just kidding about tripping the actors, really.

I saw Parade on my first trip to the Writers Theater. The play introduced me to the music of Jason Robert Brown, which is what led me to see Honeymoon in Vegas, for more music from him. That and the flying Elvises.

Five Guys named Moe (also my first time at the Court Theater) is not actually a show about five guys named Moe. What little story there is, is just an excuse for Big Moe, Four-Eyed Moe, Eat Moe, No Moe, and Little Moe to sing and dance. Worked for me. Give me Moe.

But not more King Charles III (Shakespeare Theater). I’m not an Anglophile. I just didn’t care about the characters. But I ran into an old friend at the show, who bought me a drink, so all was not lost.

The two characters in Mr. and Mrs. Pennyworth (Lookingglass Theater) are storytellers, which was appropriate given my foray into storytelling in 2017. But the best thing in the show was a giant, mythological boar (as opposed to the real bore in King Charles III).

The lead actress in Born Yesterday at the Greenhouse Theater was like a medium channelling Judy Holliday, but not in a cataleptic state. She was able to move about the stage.  Indeed, this medium was well done.

Museums – 2017

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In 2017 I visited exhibits at the Museum of Broadcast Communications, Art Institute, American Writers Museum, Museum of Contemporary Art (MCA), and Musical Instrument Museum.

The Musical Instrument Museum is supposedly in Phoenix, but I didn’t see anything but desert for miles around it, which reminds me, I also visited the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum in Tucson, where I learned that javelinas look similar to, but are not pigs. Okay, good to know. The special exhibit at the instrument museum was Dragons and Vines: Inlaid Guitar Masterpieces. The guitars were much more attractive than the javelinas.

The Breakup exhibit at the MCA was mostly related to a serious topic, but what caught my attention was that it also had some cool memorabilia related to theories on the timeline of the breakup of The Beatles. Spoiler alert – they’re not getting back together.

The Saturday Night Live: The Experience exhibit at the Museum of Broadcast Communications offers you the possibility of paying more money on top of your admission fee to have your picture taken behind the Weekend Update news desk. I passed on that part of the experience, went home, and sat behind my own desk for free.

I went to the Rodin exhibit at the Art Institute expecting to see paintings of a giant flying monster from a 1956 Japanese horror film (oops, that was Rodan), but instead saw a bunch of sculptures, including one of some naked guy thinking. I wonder whether he was thinking about giant flying monsters.

I’ve been to Jack Kerouac’s grave in Lowell Massachusetts (wasn’t my idea), and seen Jack Kerouac Alley across the street from City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, but I’ve never read On the Road Again, even though it was the anthem of my generation, or so I’m told. I loved Canned Heat’s hit On the Road Again, way before Willie Nelson recorded it. I’m not sure what to make of all that, but it was still interesting to see the 120-foot-long roll of paper upon which Kerouac typed the On the Road manuscript, which was on display at the American Writers Museum last October. By the way, in case you’re wondering, it’s not toilet paper, though that would have made an even better story.

Baseball 2017 – Phoenix, Chicago, St. Louis

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On August 12, 1994 major league baseball players went on strike. When the players went on strike, so did I. Over the years I softened my stance somewhat, but still hadn’t crossed my own picket line more than a few times prior to 2017 (amazingly the Bartman game was one of those times, though I swear I was in no way responsible for the result).

So 2017 was a breakout year for me. For the first time in over 25 years I went to a spring training game, actually three games. A week in Arizona in March seemed like a good idea (though it had been warm enough in Chicago in February to play golf four days in a row).

All the games we went to were day games. They don’t seem to play night games in spring training in Arizona, which I don’t understand, given that one could play golf during the day, while there is absolutely nothing to do in Arizona in the evening. The one day that our seats were in the sun, we spent most of the game in the shade by the first baseline bar watching the game on TV. Not sure that was worth a three and a half hour flight.

Closer to home, 2017 marked my first time at Wrigley Rooftops. Unfortunately, I’m not too fond of heights. Fortunately, it was early in the season, and very cold, so I spent about five seconds outside watching the game and the rest of the time safely inside, warm, watching on tv, and scrounging for food and drink, until I left in the sixth inning.

The final lap of my 2017 baseball rebirth was a Cardinal game in St. Louis when I was there for a conference. I don’t expect to go to many games in the future, though the nerd in me would consider an opportunity to add another park to my resume (having attended games in 13 major league parks to date despite my prolonged absence from the fray), and an invitation to watch a game from a luxury suite with a dessert bar is always tempting.

Ragtime – Cahn Auditorium – January 27, 2018

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Northwestern University’s annual Dolphin Show, billed as “America’s Largest Student Produced Musical”, is in its 76th year.  Yet somehow I just found out about it.  Working sure did cramp my style.

We went to see the students put on Ragtime at Cahn Auditorium, twice. The first time we were there a week early, so we went back a week later when the play was actually being performed.  I’ll take credit for that first troubling sign of senility, but at least we knew where to park when we went back.

Both times it was a lovely ride up Lake Shore Drive and Sheridan Road, though my companion was annoyed by all the Evanston homes that still had their Christmas lights and trees up a month after the fact.  I was okay with the lights.  Evanston streets are otherwise dark at night.  Lights are lights.

With no play to see the first time we drove up, only a few students who were obviously surprised when we entered the otherwise empty and unprepared auditorium (we all stood there staring at each other, dumbfounded, for what was probably only three seconds but seemed like an eternity while I tried to comprehend the situation), we walked to Dave’s New Kitchen for dinner.

Dave’s is tiny – the predecessor, Dave’s Italian Kitchen, was huge (maybe that’s why it went bankrupt). We were lucky to get a table after only a 15-minute wait on a Saturday night. Then again, it’s Evanston, not Chicago.  Great homemade pasta at good prices, optional BYOB.. Students and us.

The show featured a large, talented, student cast and orchestra, some nice set design, and a great Model T prop car.  The show was long (almost three hours including intermission).  But that’s a function of Ragtime, not this specific production.  And not as bad as the one time I went to the Northwestern Waa-Mu show, which, as I recall, lasted well into the next day.

Pilates Class – 2017

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Apparently there are between eight and fourteen different kinds of yoga. In 2016 I tried one (well two, really, if you count the one chair yoga session I took at a conference – I don’t). Yoga is not for me. For one thing, I have bad knees, and many of the standing positions (not in the chair class) were unrealistic for me. And I’m just not into the whole spiritual side of it. I don’t say amen, so why would I say namaste.  Near the end of one class the instructor told us to clear our minds and forget about work. I had until she said that. Then I couldn’t stop thinking about it

So, when I retired, I decided to try Pilates. I’d had instruction in the use of a reformer, but I find a mat class better for me. So three mornings a week I, one other guy, and between three and eight women, head for the party room in our building, where we’re led through an hour-long class (one of those 50-minute hours actually), at the end of which I just know that I’ve elongated previously undiscovered fibers throughout of my body, though perhaps not to the extent of Elastigirl in The Incredibles.

And, indeed, I’ve noticed an improvement in my flexibility as it relates to my golf swing. Also, I’ve finally met some people in my building after 10 years (and learned their names). Some of us even go out together for drinks, which apparently is an integral part of Pilates training, at least in our building.

The most interesting aspect of the class is that the two guys head for the front and most of the women fight to be as far back as possible. Exactly the opposite of every other exercise class I’ve ever been in. There’s a lot of chatter, and who knows what else, that goes on behind me, out of my visual range.  I’ve heard rumors about people falling off rollers.  But I’ve been told that what happens in the back row, stays in the back row.

Storytelling Class – Second City

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My search for new activities after retiring led me to try the hottest thing around town, storytelling (the Moth has been around for 20 years but it seems like there has been a noticeable growth spurt in the last few years, at least to me, with numerous locations hosting monthly events).

It was a natural choice for me, as I am an excellent, though infrequent liar, using my skill not to deceive, but to amuse (honest). Hyperbole, sarcasm, and parody, if you will.  As I learned quickly in my storytelling class at Second City in early 2017, however, the stories are supposed to be true. This limitation means that not only do you have to pay attention to what is going on around you, but also that you have to remember it (a young person’s game). As much as that sounded like work, I forged ahead, laboriously dredging up memories thought to be lost in the undefined depths of my mind (unlike legal writing, storytelling thrives on adjectives and adverbs, long underused, but welcome accessories in my vocabulary).

The class was excellent and it returned to me the joy of creating a story and standing in front of an audience, small as it might be, for whatever appreciation I might get, small as it might be. For years I’ve had two relaxation stones, given to me by a friend, one engraved with the word create, and the other with the word laugh. That sums it up for me.

During the run of the class I went to a storytelling event, my first, at Steppenwolf Theater. I found a number of the stories depressing (mine will attempt to be humorous), but seeing experienced storytellers do their thing was useful.

Since then I’ve gone twice to Mrs. Murphy and Sons Irish Bistro to see more stories, including one by a friend with whom I took my class. Inspired by his performance, I’ve signed up to tell one of my own, which probably won’t be until the fall. In the meantime, I’m telling short stories on this blog. Stay tuned.