Adventures in Chi-town, Part II

From 7/12/05-

Okay okay, due to practically no demand whatsoever, I'm going to attempt to complete the daring tale of my tradeshow-related adventures in that toddlin' town, one Chicago, Illinois. Really, I kinda feel like I'm obligated to get this over with, out of the way, feh, before I can move on to making the kind of blogs I really want to make, the experimental, less commercial kind. Oh sure, there will be those who will say I've been out of the writer's chair too long, that I've lost my touch, that Part II isn't as good as the first trilogy, and that it's all about special effects and merchandising rather than character relationships and love of the craft. Well, I say that Part II is 100 percent digital, so all you haters can kiss my ass, dammit!

ADVENTURES IN CHI-TOWN, PART II

A New Flight

It is a period of civil transportation unrest. John and Eric, special envoys of the Well-Pict alliance, have been repeatedly thwarted in their attempts to reach the great city of Chi Cago. Held against their will in the evil aerodrome at D'En Ver, time running out, the two await word of their fate.......

(Scroll out to blank grey sky, snow swirling about. Pan down to aerial shot of Denver Airport, revealing somewhat swastika-shaped runway configuration. Seriously, it kinda does look like one. It's one of the "clues" that cause die-hard conspiracy nutjob types to claim it's the sinister base of the New World Order. For those of you with Keyhole- okay, Google Earth now, and they've taken all the fun out of it- check out the swastika. Anyway- a United Airlines jet enters from above and behind camera, screen R. Somehow we know it's the plane to which our heroes have been reassigned.) Cut to:

INT. AIRPORT, DAY

JOHN and ERIC sit glumly in a soulless terminal waiting area.

Okay, enough of the screenplay bullshit. On with the blog, and I warn you, it is long, but hey, I tell it like it was, baby. To recap, Eric and I are in Evil Masonic International Airport in Denver, our flight from Fresno had to turn around, we've been bumped twice to later flights, been given $9 meal vouchers, and are now waiting for our reassigned flight to Chicago. I've had my turkey sandwich from Wolfgang Puck's, Eric's had a quick beer and smoke in the lounge with a MickeyD chaser,

and I'm still finding the whole ridiculous experience amusing. I'm also wondering if I have time to go look for some of the supposed Masonic/demonic/psychotronic symbology I've seen on the "DIA is Evil" websites, which aren't nearly as funny as the "Bert is Evil" site, but that's neither here nor there.

I wander idly to the window and look at the majestic vessel I assume will be our sky chariot to Chicago, seeing as how it's like 45 minutes before the flight and it's parked at our gate. I watch with scorn the alien drones posing as "baggage handlers", doing the bidding of their evil masters.

Eventually, as such things do, boarding time arrives. We settle comfily in our seats. This flight is packed, and everyone has now boarded. I fish my headphones from the seat pocket and scan the audio channels for some appropriate amusement. Hmm, a salute to Disney music narrated by somebody trying desperately to not sound gay. This should be good. But wait, what's this? A barely audible announcement.... from a crew member....holy shit... an ANNOUNCEMENT FROM A CREW MEMBER......

They're very sorry, but there's some sort of "problem" with the plane..hee hee...this is getting too...ha!...fucking ABSURD NOW!... heh... and everyone...yes, EVERYONE.... is going to have to disembark....good word, disembark....and they have to get ANOTHER PLANE. What, from Plane Mart? They have to get another goddamn plane, and we'll have to wait for however long it takes to GET that other plane! Oh, this is beyond absurd now. I hope- we never did find out for sure- but I hope it was a problem with the air pressurization system, just like the first flight from Fresno. That would have been too sweet, and what are the odds? I should have bought a Lotto ticket that day.

So, off the plane, back to the terminal. Hello, terminal. It's been so long, and I've missed you. "Please stay in this area until we announce the next flight time." You got it. Nice, womb-like terminal. Terrrmminnnalllll........

15 minutes or so of limbo, then we find out it will be another hour. Fine. The hour passes, we board the new Plane Mart plane, an exact duplicate of the first. All the same people in the same seats. Maybe it was the same plane. Eerie. Got to watch a de-icing procedure for the first time. Interesting. Find not-gay Disney guy. Fly to Chicago without incident.

We land in Chicago, about 4 1/2 hours late, which is not that bad, considering that we've been rescheduled three times for a two-flight trip. It's only about 8:30 PM, but we still have to get downtown to the hotel. Everything is still funny to me.... as long as we get our luggage..... Naaah! That's not going to be a problem!!!!!!

Do you think luggage has fun riding on the carousel? It sure looks fun. Round and round it goes, as everyone happily claims their bags with a sigh of relief. Round and round.... getting kind of picked-over, isn't it? Oh well, I guess they're not done unloading yet.... round and round... there's not much left, is there?..... Round...um, it's empty now. Um...... fuck. Fuck! What the.... who the.... BOTH of our bags are nowhere to be seen. Okay, THIS is not funny anymore.

So, what now? Who do we talk to? There seems to be a podium of some sort nearby, with harried-looking employees and annoyed-looking passengers. That's the place! We wait our turn and speak to a 50-ish gentleman with a mustache that was fashionable circa 1892. He punches our info into a keyboard, looks quizzical for a moment, then says offhandedly, "Oh, your bags are in the cage." Wha-? Have they been bad? Did they go on a cross-country crime spree? Fast zippers, leather moisturizer, picking up some cheap pink handbags for a quick good time- my luggage leads a more exciting life than me. Well, it seems our bags got put on some other flight, an earlier one. When people get rescheduled, their luggage will sometimes be put on the earliest flight to their destination to make sure, blah blah blah. I'm quite sure the airline has a good reason for all this, but my feeling is, you place that much trust in the system that's already screwed me over? I'd just as soon that my bags be on the same plane as me, just as God intended, so that when we have to stay overnight in Minneapolis because of the airplane equivalent of a hangnail, I'll be able to change my chonies! Ah well, all is now as it should be....

Off to the shuttle. These things crack me up. You will ALWAYS be lulled into the sense that you'll get a private ride downtown, but they will eventually pack as many passengers as physically possible. The ride is uneventful. We chat a bit with a somewhat mousey woman who's staying in our hotel and going to some other conference. One of the last passengers to get on berates some unfortunate underling on the cell phone the entire time, in some amusing Southern accent. We laugh unobtrusively.

Get to the hotel. It's about 10:00 on a Thursday night. Check in at the less-used desk, the one in the "other" tower, which is where our room turns out to be anyway. Say goodbye to mousey woman. She doesn't even acknowledge me. Fine. The night desk girl chats amiably with us, we find the room, it's okay except the beds are doubles instead of queen size and my feet stick off the end. Damn my freakish height! Call night girl, no other rooms, okay fine. Hungry. So hungry. Go down to see night girl, and ask what there is around there that's good, close, and open.

A couple of suggestions. The Billy Goat Tavern sounds interesting. For those of you that remember such things, it's the place that inspired the old "cheezborger, cheezborger" sketches on Saturday Night Live when it was still good. Well, that sounds like fun, and we're starving anyway, so we'll take anything.

Try to follow the directions Night Girl gave us, and BAM! We're in the scary subterranean lair of the Morlocks. If you don't know, downtown Chicago has a few double-decker streets, where the "ground floors" of the buildings are actually significantly above ground. You've seen the lower levels of these streets in many movies, from "The Fugitive" to "The Blues Brothers": "This is definitely Lower Wacker Drive." Well, it IS definitely Lower Wacker Drive, and even after recent improvements and lots of lighting, it's still a surreal place to be, and a scary one after dark when you're lost. We scamper like roaches back to the surface, find a friendly security guard with better directions, and off we go to the Billy Goat.

This photo was taken in the middle of the afternoon. Yes, the Billy Goat is on the lower level, Morlock land, perpetual night. One floor up is a Walgreen's on Michigan Ave., one of the busiest streets in Chicago. Weird. This is what it looks like right above:

Inside, we don't get a lot of the SNL vibe, but we do get a history-soaked piece of Chicago. The guy behind the bar looks like he was born there and has never left for fifty years. The walls are covered with yellowed pictures of long-dead local celebrities and barely readable sports clippings. The 70s-era TV is showing the NBA playoffs. There's not many people in there, but they range from the old guys to the young couple to the two tired travelers from Fresno to the guy...in the suit? As we munch our cheezborgers (they weren't that great, but oh man did they hit the spot right then) and down our beers, Suit starts chatting with us. It turns out that in Chicago, people actually want to talk to you. Now I admit I'm not much for the chatting myself, but luckily I've got Eric to handle that, which will come in handy numerous times on the trip. Suit is an ad executive for Fox. Suit buys us drinks. Suit recommends restaurants in Chicago. Suit sets us up right, and doesn't even ask us to put out.

Fat and happy, Eric and John say goodbye to Suit and the Billy Goat, off to the Hyatt to dream little dreams of the Windy City. Awwwwwww........

Next: pathetic old guys in bars, the Shrine of Improv, Red Bull, and the swinger couple.

Adventures in Chi-town, Part I

From 5/9/05

Chicago. The Windy City. The Second City. Bustling, brawling City of the Big Shoulders. Great architecture, lousy weather. Da Cubs, Da Bulls, Da Bears. Food that will kill you but you'll have a smile on your face as you go. I love Chicago. My name's John. I'm from Fresno. I work in produce.

Oh yeah, laugh it up, fuzzball. Fresno's a flat, dusty town with a serious self-esteem problem, stuck right in between its overachieving siblings, LA and SF. But chances are that whoever and wherever you are, you ate a sandwich or a salad or a spicy mediterranean chicken wrap today that had ingredients grown around here. We're feeding your ass. And I make money because of it. I work for a marketing firm that represents produce companies, and I get to go to tradeshows. One of them is in Chicago every year. I just got back a few days ago. Had a great time. Ate some great food. Didn't get laid.

Herewith, some of my Chicago adventures, for whatever it's worth. Enjoy.

The best part was just getting there.

Thursday morning. My friend Eric- who for this trip has the official title of "Executive Chef"- and I are sitting in the newly expanded, ambitiously-named, yet somehow still boring, Fresno-Yosemite International Airport. For those of you who may not know, you can pretty much fly anywhere from Fresno, but your journey will start with some crappy commuter or "regional" flight to LA, SF, or a handful of other "real" airports. In our case, we are waiting for our flight to Denver, thence Chicago. I'm a little excited, not only because I love to travel and still like to fly despite having gotten rather jaded about it over the last few years, but also because I've never been to the new Denver airport. It's a new place to go, and I'm a nerd, so I'm looking forward to visiting the facility that the hardcore conspiracy dorks consider to be one of the most evil places on Earth, packed with sinister Masonic symbolism, the detention center of the New World Order, with multiple sublevels in which abducted children are enslaved and put to work for aliens. I am not making this up. There are whole websites devoted to this shit. So of course, I want to go there.

We're waiting patiently to board our plane. Suddenly, an alarm pierces the sleepy air of the terminal, and a recorded voice tells us that the fire alarm has been activated and we need to evacuate the terminal. Well, shit. This doesn't bode well. As we- the various passengers- slowly look around at each other for clues on how to react, I notice the gift shop/snack bar employees don't seem to be paying much attention. Hmm. Perhaps this happens all the time? Meanwhile, if everyone else is thinking the way I do- and I believe they are- they're wondering if this is going to mean we have to go through security again. So, we all reluctantly start moving, not toward any emergency exit, but back to where we came in, in hopes of escaping certain death from the conflagration while not being too inconvenienced. After all, we have places to be.

We get to the bottom of the escalator to the only non-emergency route available, only to find a big fire door blocking our path. Well, shit. At least there are some bored-looking security types with walkie-talkies, so we'll probably be okay if we stay close to them, right? After a couple minutes, they absently motion us to go back with an "It's okay." Terror in Fresno, averted at the last moment! We schlep back to our waiting area, joking that now the trip has been pre-disastered. If there had been some wood in our new stainless steel terminal, I should have knocked on it.

Eventually, we board our plane. At least it's a small jet, not just one of the rickety little prop planes- gotta get all the way to Denver, after all. We take off, meet our motherly flight attendant Marty, and despite the poor woman in the row behind us who is practically hyperventilating from fear, all seems fine. Until.... well, Marty's on the phone with the cockpit. And she doesn't look happy. The captain's voice, godlike, speaks to us for the first time- it turns out that the air pressurization system is not working, so we can't go to altitude. Some silly thing about being able to breathe, I think. And now that he mentions it, the little air nozzles haven't been blowing, and my ears have been popping. We're about a half hour out of Fresno, and we have to turn around. Well, shit. This will guarantee that we'll miss our connecting flight, since we only had about 40 minutes in Denver. And now it's just turning into an adventure. Honestly, I'm kind of giddy about it, and not just for lack of oxygen- now the future is unclear! Who the hell knows if we're going to make it today at all? Maybe we'll be stuck in, say Des Moines for the night! Anyway, we've got all day to get to Chicago, and even if we don't make it that day, it's not the end of the world. So now I'm just laughing as we make a perfect landing- in Fresno. It's already gotten ridiculous.

The mechanics are working on the plane, with no estimate of when it will be ready. Since just about everyone on the flight is going somewhere that's not Denver, they call us up by name to reschedule. The nice woman at the counter puts us on a flight that's only an hour later than our original connecting flight, but our plane is going to be at least an hour and a half late. Little question marks dot about my head, but I don't argue- whatever, maybe they're taking some shortcut through the center of the Earth. In retrospect, I think she wasn't considering that it is an hour later in Denver.

The plane is reportedly fixed. We leave. Again. Two hours late. Scared woman is hyperventilating again. Marty gets on the phone. She doesn't look happy. Again. I hear her say to the people in front, "It's the same problem." I look out the window and see that we're flying pretty damn low for being this far into the flight. Well, shit. A couple minutes later, the air starts blowing, Marty looks surprised and relieved, and the ground moves farther away. We made it to Denver, but the pilot never spoke again. My question is, at what point do you decide to just not go for it, and you get another plane? Eh, I didn't die.

We land at the most evil airport in the world. I look eagerly around for aliens or Nazis or members of the Masonic Elite, but all I see is baggage handlers- or what APPEAR to be baggage handlers..... And it's snowing. Not very hard, but it's snowing. Not being an important enough plane to go to the Big Boys' Terminal, we have to walk outside to get to the gate, so now we're getting snowed on. The weather is grey and oppressive, and nothing is visible of the world beyond the aiport. Very surreal, and perfect for the center of power of the Dark Millennium, but really, I don't see anything very unusual or sinister about the place. The Food Court's a little lame, but that's hardly call for such badmouthing. Poor Denver Airport. Anyway, we have of coure already missed our connecting flight, so off we go to United Customer Service. They promptly reschedule us, assure us that our baggage will go to the right place, and for our trouble they hand us- oh my God, I can't believe it- meal vouchers for $9 each!!!! Holy Mother of God! Thank you, United Airlines! For all you know, I'm trying to get to Chicago to see my sick wife one more time before she dies, but now it's all okay because I can pay for an overpriced turkey sandwich at Wolfgang Puck's! Well, I took the voucher, and the sandwich was actually pretty good. And there was a statue of Apollo 13 astronaut Jack Swigert, which I took a picture of for you, Alan. (I'll send it later)

To be continued- we're not out of Denver yet.....

I just want pants! Is that so much to ask?

From 4/26/05-

Okay, what is the deal with pants these days? Huh? I bought pants tonight. Need some new ones for my rapidly approaching Chicago trip. Nothing exciting, just a pair of black Dockers. As simple as you can get. Same length as I've been buying since my last growth spurt some twenty years ago. The waist- well, we won't discuss that. Well, they were too short, almost by an inch. Should have tried them on at the store, but they're just the same size as always, and I thought no, they'll be fine- good thing I thought better of that when I got home! Out of the last four pairs of pants I've bought, all the same length, jeans and slacks, three of them have been too short. Three of them!! This is not just a fluke. Are highwaters "in" all of a sudden? Are the measurements in a Honduran sweatshop slightly different because of the proximity to the Equator? Or am I actually adding more to my already freakish height, and one pair was just too long? All I know is, the Masons are behind this, acting at the behest of their alien overlords. Now I have to make another trip to Mervyn's. Goddammit. Fucking alien overlords.

Who did the what now?

From 4/15/05-

It's nearly 1:30 AM and I'm groggily posting the first blog I've ever written in my life, in a vain attempt to participate in the trendy activities of cyberyouth. I don't have to work in the morning- my eccentric work schedule is both blessing and curse, and now it's led to this. John wrote a blog. The universe is, indeed, very close to total collapse. Thanks a lot, Alan. Do me a favor- before billions of worlds die in one massive cosmic scream, could I finally get my blue shirt back? Thanks.

And thus it begins

Ah! My first post to Blogspot- or Blogger, or The Realm of Google, or whatever the hell it is. Welcome. Right off the top, I need to explain that I don't blog. This is the blog of a non-blogger. I also don't do MySpace, but I do it so much I'm sick of it. So, I'm starting my non-blog out here in the wider world. My first couple posts will be imported from my MySpace non-blog. A very short greatest hits collection, as it were. For whatever it's worth. So here goes. *ahem*.......