From Pixels To Print: A Revelation

My writing is ethereal. I don’t mean heavenly, I mean that instead of existing in reality, it exists on laptops and flat-screen monitors, Google phones and iPads. Pixels on screens bringing my words to you. So it has been, and so it continues to be.

Until now. Responding to some requests, I have emailed the text of my (as of yet unproduced) play to friends and relatives. I send the copies as PDFs, with the assumption that those kind enough to read the play will peruse it on whatever screen is at the nearest at whatever time is convenient.

But one friend pushed that little print icon on her screen (intentionally, I hope) and was soon swamped by 90 pages of my words, or rather the words of the half-dozen characters in my prison-life drama. She read and enjoyed and told me so.

I wasn’t home when she brought the pages to our house yesterday, so she left them with a request that I sign the cover page and return it to her. And I plan to do that. But not until I have spent time enjoying the pleasure of seeing my work in print.

I know I could have printed a copy at any time, just as I could have printed out any of my blogs. But I never have. I never saw the need to. But now seeing my work in print–even in this informal copy–changes my outlook on the play and on myself. It compares to when I was introduced to someone in the neighborhood and she said “I know your name, you’re the writer.”

If I can get this far I can go further. It may be with the current play, it may be with something else that I choose to write, or publish, or produce. I’ve got lots of time ahead of me, and a keyboard that calls to me.

And this time around, I may use the printer, too!

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“Welcome To Woodman’s. How Can I Deceive You Today?”

I am a savvy guy. Nigerian princes gave up asking me for money years ago. The Mexican drug cartels never got beyond a first phone call with their phony attempt to buy my timeshare in Cabo. Are you a Facebook “Friend” contacting me for a favor or a donation? I’ll make you confirm your identity before I lend a helping hand or send you my credit card number. In short, Mama didn’t raise no fool.

But Woodman’s Market…this time, you got me. I was making a quick stop at the Buffalo Grove outlet. I didn’t bother with a cart, I was just planning on picking up one 12-pack of Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi, my latest go-to soda pop. In the beverage section, the face of the Pepsi shelf was leafed with bright blue store coupons “Save $2.00,” the coupons blared. “Buy Two Pepsi Brand 12 Pks. Woodman’s Saves You Money!”

I like paper coupons. I find them easier to use than the digital variety. I stripped one of the blue rectangles off the shelf and maneuvered a 12-pack of CFDP to a spot under each arm. Now wishing I had taken a shopping cart, I staggered to the nearest self-serve check-out aisle.

I am a whizz at self-checkout (remember, I was a star cashier at the Rogers Park “Jewels” in 1976.) I scanned the bar codes on my purchases and sent them flying down to the bagging station. I then scanned the blue coupon, expecting a $2.00 discount to show up on the check-out screen along with the standard instruction to push the coupon through the slot below the register.

To my surprise, the notice that showed up was quite different. “Coupon Not Accepted. Required Items Not Purchased.” I tried to scan the coupon again. Same message. I stared back and forth from the coupon to my two 12-packs. Certainly, Caffeine-Free Diet Pepsi should qualify as a Pepsi product! What was the hangup?

The people behind me were impatient so I waved over the store employee monitoring the frequently persnickety self-checkout aisles. He looked at the coupon, then at my 12-packs. He entered his secret store code into the register and tried another scan. The screen returned the same message. The kid mumbled that he would contact a manager and shuffled off.

I examined the coupon one more time. I finally saw what had previously escaped the eyes of the Woodman’s employee and me. A tiny picture, accompanied by the words “On Gaorade” in size 2 font, was hidden on the coupon. I didn’t want a sugary sports drink, so despite buying the required 24 cans of Pepsi product, I wouldn’t be getting a $2 savings. Me, the ever-alert, always vigilant, won’t get fooled dude, had been conned.

Barb and I shop at Woodman’s weekly and have done so for years. I am a rare soul who enjoys buying groceries there. They have a ginormous variety of products and offer reasonable prices without forcing you to purchase in bulk. But this $2 gimmick, minuscule as the dollar amount may be, ticked me off. A cheap trick. I won’t avoid the store in the future, but now when I shop there I will keep my eyes wide open.

What about you? Let me know what little annoying gimmicks you have come across.

And Woodman’s, fool me once shame on you, fool me twice—well, there better not be a second time!

Follow-up: There is a large number of readers from a site I cannot identify. Please email me at chidoc@post.com to tell me where you are reading the blog or how you got referred to it. thanks!

From Critic to Critiqued: A Long Plays Journey Out Of Sight

As a connoisseur of critical reviews, I savor media critics who dare to slice and dice a popular restaurant, give a “thumbs down” to a blockbuster movie, or advise us to tune out the latest Walking Dead sequel. More than 10 years after it was published I still relish Pete Wells’s New York Times bloody evisceration of Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar, Guy Fieri’s Times Square outpost.

But now the glistening kitchen knife is pointed my way. My schadenfreude has been repaid with a critique of my first, unpublished, play, White Collar. The post-mortem.

Writing a full-length theater piece has been simultaneously challenging and exhilarating. Under the tutelage of my dramaturge, the work underwent seventeen revisions. It expanded and contracted like Weird Al’s accordion, going from one act to an act-and-a-half, back down to one, and finally a full two acts with a prologue and epilogue tossed in for good measure. Characters were added, subtracted, and redefined, while scenes were melded together using (almost) seamless segues. Only the final twist remained unmanipulated.

When the manuscript reached the ideal number of 90 pages, my dramaturge scrubbed out the obvious gaffes and cliches and submitted the work to his friend, a local theater producer. The producer didn’t like the play. At all.

In a very detailed email, he explained why. He saw dramatic inconsistencies, stilted dialogue, and characters who added nothing and had no arc. If the prologue was bad, the epilogue was worse. And too many witty retorts.

I could quibble with a few of his thoughts and comments–I could quibble with more than a few. But I will take this as a positive learning experience. I normally express myself in 500-word blogs, so completing a work of this length was immensely satisfying, even if it is nowhere near professional quality.

My next step? My cognoscenti included some suggestions. He even tossed in a compliment or two. I may use that insight to tear the play down and rebuild it in a few new ways—versions 18 through 30. But on my honor, no more witty retorts.

And from now on, Guy Fieri, I stand with you!

photo by phot.ai

Choo Choo Chronicles: A Whistle-Stop Adventure at Des Plaines’ Iconic Restaurant”

A train horn blows. Whistles toot. A bronco named Champion bucks kids for a quarter while the aroma of french fries wafts from the kitchen. In this suburban equation, Grandkids + Spring Break = The Choo Choo restaurant in Des Plaines.

Barb and I brought our three oldest grandchildren to the landmark diner last week to welcome spring and shake off residual winter gloom. The tiny restaurant is not much bigger than a breadbox. Train trinkets fill every nook of wall and shelf space. The line of eagerly anticipating diners stretches out the front door.

There are half a dozen booths, into which owner Dale Eisenberg can squeeze half a dozen half-size diners, but we snagged prime seats at the U-shaped counter. Soon after we ordered our lunches, a train horn tooted, and an HO gauge model train pulled our burgers, hot dogs, and BLTs to a spot in front of us, where we were served by the always on-the-go staff.

The servers never rested, but none were more on the move than Eisenberg. As we waited in line, he peppered us with questions. “How many are in your party, where you are from, have been to the restaurant before? What’s the weather? And WHAT is in the brown paper lunch sack you have in your hand?”

When asked why he had removed booths that once lined the front of the restaurant Eisenberg told us “The kids couldn’t see the train from those booths I didn’t want families to take the trouble to come here, wait in line, and then be unable to see the main attraction–so I ripped them out. It may make the wait to sit down a little longer, but that’s ok.” As he spoke with us, he passed out quarters to the kids in line, giving them free rides on the Champion the Wonder Horse. We could see he didn’t want any child to be left out.

Eisenberg’s generosity extends beyond the Choo Choo. He is also President and Co-founder of the Veteran Business Project. This non-profit organization assists veterans and their families in pursuing small-business ownership opportunities. If you are interested, you can read more about the organization at www.veteranbusinessproject.org.

Our family didn’t linger at our counter spot. We ate quickly, paid the bill, and moved on. Another family quickly piled into our seats. As we left the diner we could hear the train horn blowing all the way to our car in the parking garage across the street. It was a wonderful sound.

Chicago Venue Triple Play. Where Have YOU Been Lately?

Like so many of us, I have been out of the habit of going to Chicago’s great live venues. First Covid made it impossible, and now the city’s perpetual construction season has made it a chore to visit any of our town’s popular arenas. But an unlikely series of events had me in three different stadiums during three consecutive weekends.

Barb and I have seen live performances by both the Eagles and Steely Dan pre-Covid, so when I heard they were coming to the United Center I thought we should pass on this bit of nostalgia, especially since the bands were lacking (apologies to Bob Stroud) the late-greats Walter Becker and Glenn Frey. But when a neighbor logged into Ticketmaster and grabbed 4 tickets for the Saturday night show, we agreed it would be fun to spend the evening with our friends, along with Donald Fagen, Don Henley, and Joe Walsh et al.

Having dinner at the UC’s in-house restaurant allowed us to beat the traffic crunch and the burden of parking first at a restaurant for dinner and a second time for the show. We were barely in our upper balcony seats when the show began. Steely Dan sounded a little muddy, but the Eagles rocked, or rather countried, with country superstar Vince Gill handling much of the lead vocals. A good night at the United Center.

Ever been to a minor league hockey game? I never had, but last autumn my silent auction bid for Blackhawks tickets at a charity event was a winner and the Blackhawks prize was accompanied by two tickets to the American Hockey League Chicago Wolves. I couldn’t attend the Blackhawks game, but I took my 9-year-old granddaughter to see the Wolves at the Allstate Arena in Rosemont.

On a sound meter, the roar after a Wolves goal was loud, the cheer after the singing of the National Anthem was louder, but nothing broke the sound barrier like the on-ice fireworks. The sound was intense and a bit scary. Only a pretzel and Blue Gatorade gave my granddaughter enough staying power to last until the second intermission.

Did you know Cirque de Soleil was back in town? The French-Canadian troupe played several weekend performances at the Now Arena in Hoffman Estates. Friends invited us to join them at the show, and we decided “Why not?”

The show was called Crystal and was unique for Cirque de Soleil in that the performers were all on ice–except when flying through the air on their trapezes! It was a two-hour spectacular that surpassed my childhood memories of the Ice Follies and the Ice Capades. Great creativity and skillful performers left the crowd cheering for more.

My arena triple play was fun, but now spring is here. Time for outdoor venues, concerts, and festivals. See you at the ballgame!

Packed to the Raff-ters

One of the habits that Barb and I picked up during the COVID-19 pandemic was streaming TV series from Australia. The Aussies seem to enjoy family dramas with a touch of humor, and as long as our Closed Captioning is working, we enjoy them too. It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that our recent pilgrimage to Australia was sparked by all the wonderful Australians who visited our home via Amazon Prime and Netflix.

Our current favorite is Packed to the Rafters, all about a very telegenic Sydney family, the Rafters. Mom Julia and Dad Dave share their home with two of their three adult children, a daughter-in-law, and Jules’s recently widowed dad Ted. Child number three lives in the house next door with his best bud and housemate->girlfriend->fiance->wife. An equal measure of drama and hilarity ensues. We have just finished Season 2, and can’t wait to see where the Rafters go next.

And in a real-life case of life duplicating art, our Raff house is packed now too. And we love it even more than we love the Rafters!

Our daughter and her family (husband, 5-year-old son, 2 1/2-year-old daughter, 15-year-old pooch) are nomads while their home is being remodeled. The first three months were spent with our son-in-law’s parents, and now they are joining us for as long as it takes until their house is livable. How long will that be? If this were an HGTV show, I would say the renovation is in the segment just after the second commercial break–the segment in which the unexpected calamity occurs. They have been there, fixed that, and aced all the subsequent inspections. It (should be) smooth sailing from here on in.

How has it been working out so far? I think we have all made the adjustment quite well. When Barb and I built this house we went easy on the downsizing. There are enough bedrooms and bathrooms for everyone, and room to squeeze in our two other granddaughters, who are campaigning for an all-cousins sleepover.

Everyone is doing a fine job of adjusting to each other’s routines. Cooking dinners is rotated, and we have learned that our dishwasher is capable of cleaning daily loads without going on strike with a complaint of overuse. The refrigerator and pantries are overstocked, but I can usually dig out my lunch fixin’s, even if it takes an extra moment or three.

Nothing could be more satisfying than the extra time we spend with our grandkids. We are amazed at our grandson’s reading skills–and the other night I had a fascinating discussion on number theory with him. With his dad a numbers guy and his mom a math teacher, it is clear that the apple hasn’t…

Our tiny granddaughter has taken the role of family humorist. She never stops singing, playing word games, and laughing, laughing, laughing. I always preached that children didn’t demonstrate their personality until they were 3-year-olds. With the twinkle in her eyes, this one has proven me wrong.

Just like the Rafters of Sydney, we are one big happy family. There is just one feature of Packed to the Rafters we don’t want to emulate. At the end of Season 2, Julia gives birth to a midlife oops–a baby daughter. Barb has promised me, in fact, she has guaranteed me, that a similar surprise pregnancy can’t happen here. In this case, life will not follow art!

From Bedford Falls to Beyond: The Journeys of Our Beloved Travel Companion

You remember George Bailey in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” right? He needed a suitcase big enough to be his flying carpet, big enough for labels from Italy and Samarkand, big enough for 1001 nights. His old boss, the pharmacist Mr. Gower, surprised him with the perfect bag. Sadly, as far as we know, George never got to take that trip.

But Barb and I have had a flying carpet of our own. I can’t recall when we purchased it–it might even have been a wedding gift. But that big old black bag has been our companion as we have traveled the world together over the past 45 years. With the red “Raff” sash, a gift from some long-forgotten travel agent, it has greeted us on baggage carousels around the world.

That bag has taken us all over Europe, first as twenty-somethings on an “if this is Tuesday we must be in Belgium bus tour,” and in later days via more upscale means of travel. It journeyed with us to Israel, to Southeast Asia, and to the wonders of South America and Machu Picchu. We left it at home for our African Safari, only because the travel company required that we use the duffel bags that they provided.

Friday we returned from a three-week journey through New Zealand and Australia. Our bag supported us on seven plane flights and one long train ride as we visited wine countries, and salmon hatcheries, and geothermal springs. It waited for us in our hotel as we witnessed the Southern Cross. the Milky Way, and Orion’s Belt, star-gazing at midnight at Mt Cook, one of the darkest spots on the planet.

Our bag got us to Melbourne where we toured the street art scene, to a luxury resort in Tasmania where I took an unexpected tumble into an ornamental pool, and to the heights of Sydney’s magnificent Harbor Bridge which we ascended like alpine mountain climbers. Only the Cessna Constellation that Barb “co-piloted” from Milford Sound to Queenstown had no room for our rectangular companion.

Regretfully, while Barb and I have recovered from our voyage, our beloved suitcase has not. The zipper pulls are gone, the interior plastic shoulders are crumbling, and the cloth fabric is starting to tear. It is no longer willing and able to be our raft to a million far-off places.

We’ll buy a new piece before our next adventure–a case with a tough, light-weight, shell, one with better wheels, and a smaller turning radius. I’m sure many more travels await us. Japan and the Arctic are still on the bucket list. And if we are lucky, we might even find the way to Bedford Falls and a chance to invite George Bailey to come along.

Reflections in A Three-Way Mirror: An Encounter with Self-Discovery

Reflections of the Way Life Used To Be. The Supremes, 1967.

“Who is that man in the mirror?” I thought to myself. “It couldn’t be me, could it?”

I was standing in the dressing room of the Lululemon store in Northbrook Court. The shopping mall was its usual semi-deserted self, though I suspect a crowd was forming at the Apple Store to play with Vision-Pro, Apple’s new virtual reality gizmo.

Barb had suggested I go to Lululemon to pick out some comfortable slacks for our upcoming long airplane voyage. I asked her to meet me there, knowing she was much more stylish than me and would be a valuable asset. We selected several styles of lightweight gray and black pants. I headed back to the dressing rooms to try them on while Barb continued to search the shelves.

On my way to the back of the store. I was intercepted by one of the store sales associates who directed me to one of the small try-on cubicles. I gave her my name and she wrote it on a whiteboard on the changing room door. I thought this was a nice touch; they don’t do that at the men’s store I shop at. I was particularly impressed that she spelled my name correctly.

Once in the booth, I dropped my jeans to the floor and began trying on the various pairs of slacks. The first was too large, the second too small, but yes, the third did feel just right.

And that is when I discovered that I am no Goldilocks. A full-length three-way mirror took up one corner of the cubicle. I’m sure the main purpose of the mirror is to allow women of all sizes and shapes to see their butts as they try on skin-tight leggings, but I wasn’t looking at my tush in the mirror, no matter how shapely it might be. No, I was staring a little higher…at the back of my head to be precise. And instead of the thinning whitish-gray hair I expected to see, all that greeted my gaze was an unfettered glistening scalp.

I am not naïve or overly vain. I suspected that at age 68 I have a bit of a bald spot. My dad had one at this age too. But what I didn’t expect to see was a clearing the size of a pair of mating tarantulas. I was stunned.

This explains so much. Why the grandkids rub my head for luck. Why the top of my scalp is always cold. Why Tina, my hairstylist for the last 30 years, schedules shorter and shorter appointments for me.

I left Lululemon with a new understanding of myself. I now know it is time to start putting sunblock on my dome as part of my daily routine. My African safari hat is going to get a lot more use. And maybe I’ll start checking out those hair growth ads that keep popping up in my Facebook feed.

But I think I’ll keep away from three-way mirrors for a while. Wouldn’t you?

“Curb Your Enthusiasm.” The REAL Story

The final season of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” begins tonight. Is this how this season’s first cast meeting went?

SETTING: A glitzy Hollywood restaurant. The cast sits at a round table, staring at menus.

Susie (staring at Jeff): You couldn’t get us a better contract? Some decent money? Something I could live on?

Jeff: I tried; you know? But HE only wanted to do it for one more year. HBO wasn’t gonna throw dollars into something that was only gonna run for 10 weeks.

J.B: Like those mutha-fuckas have anything else to show? You see that dragon show? Boring as shit.

Cheryl: I sort of liked that one. It’s that creepy detective show that turns me off.

Jeff: YOU are not the target audience for that one.

Susie: At least our show doesn’t have any ads on it. Netflix with commercials on it. Can you believe that?

J.B: Come on, Susie. You can afford to come up with the fuckin’ 4 bucks a month to pay for the ad-free version.

Susie: Not with what Mr. Wonderful negotiated for us with this contract.

Cheryl: It’s really not that bad for the time it takes. You’re in what, 2 scenes an episode?

Susie: Mrs. Hoity-Toity here. Going to milk all those scenes with Ted Danson? I guess that’s better than when they had you married to Larry.

J.B: Or that guy you are really married to. That is one freaking weird dude, man.

Cheryl: I didn’t think we were here to discuss my home life.

Larry: Is there a waiter here? We’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes, and I haven’t seen a waiter yet. Jeff, can’t you do something?

Susie: Yeah. He’ll negotiate for a waiter to serve us half a meal.

Larry: Bread, at least I need some bread.

Cheryl: I’ve got a package of crackers in my bag; will that keep you happy?

Larry: You have Rye Crisp. I can’t eat Rye Crisp. Too much gluten.

Cheryl: You don’t have a problem with gluten.

Larry: But I could.

A waiter approaches the table.

Waiter: Good evening, Mr. David. Ms. Hines. All. Can I take everyone’s drink order?

Susie: I like this guy. He doesn’t think I need to know his name. And I don’t wanna know his name. How are you at negotiating contracts?

Waiter: Not so good, Miss Essman. But I’m a good waiter.

J.B: Like every other black and brown man in Hollywood.

Cheryl: But not you.

J.B: Well, I’m me, man. I got the goods.

Larry: The nameless brown man is here to get our drinks. I want water with lemon. Only one ice cube. And the lemon on the side. In a plate. I want to choose my own degree of lemonosity.

Susie: Don’t ask Jeff for help. He’ll make it too sour, just like everything else.

Jeff: I tried. They wanted three years from us.

Susie: And you had something better to do?

Jeff: You gotta look at Larry. He decided “one and done.”

J.B: Susie, you and me, we gotta do a spin-off.

Susie: You going to move in with me now?

J. B: You’d have a problem with that?

Long moments of uncomfortable silence.

Larry: No one has anything to say.

Jeff: We have a round table. We have no middle to keep things moving.

Cheryl: We don’t need a middle. That was a bit, remember?

Everyone nods their heads.

Cheryl: We are nothing like those people we play in the show.

Everyone nods their heads.

Larry: So you think I’ll ever see my water? I don’t want the ice cube to start to melt. And I know he won’t remember my lemon…

If you liked this post, remember this one?

Zoom, Ghosts, and the Case of the Elusive Joe: A Comedy of Professional Errors

“Hi Les – We are currently looking into an investment in the pathology space and are looking for an expert that can engage with us as an advisor and potential board member. Are you open to an opportunity like this? Would be great to schedule some time to chat this week or early next week. Best, Joe“
LinkedIn

The LinkedIn invitation came early this week. As you have read in a previous post, I’ve been puttering around in various professional capacities since retirement, and this sounded like a possible puttering opportunity. I messaged back expressing potential interest, but warning “Joe” that I wasn’t a big fan of venture capital and private equity funding, particularly in health care. Joe assured me that his company took good care not just of the investors, but of physicians and patients as well.

I retained my doubts, but after Joe and I exchanged a few more messages, I accepted his invitation to a Zoom meeting on Thursday morning. In preparation, I researched Joe and his Capital partners (all seemed legitimate) and cleared my schedule (sorry Cooper, no morning walk for you.)

Just before 9 a.m. I booted up my balky desktop computer, focused the camera, and logged in on the prescribed Zoom link. I was alone. Fearing I had logged into the wrong site, I logged out and logged back in. Still no Joe.

Staring at the blank screen, I typed a LinkedIn message to Joe, very politely asking him where the hell he was. After 20 minutes of patient waiting, I exited Zoom and said goodbye to my opportunity to become “an advisor and potential board member.”

After 24 hours there was no apology or explanation from Joe. Now after 48 hours, he has remained a ghost. I have concluded that either:

Joe was hit by a car
Joe was fired
Joe found a better candidate
The whole thing was a scam

Am I cruel to hope a speeding SUV was involved?

It’s not the first time I have been ghosted. A bookkeeper disappeared on me a few years ago. A bookkeeper/pilot, I think she flew the coop. That episode was more significant; I had to scramble to get my corporate income tax completed on time that year. Am I foolish to think people involved in commerce would be more reliable?

How about you? Professional ghost stories? Reply or email me at chidoc@post.com and I’ll collect and publish the most unusual tales.

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