The non-alcoholic hangover
Oi.
Slow day here today. Dark, dreary and overcast and I'm still nursing the effects of the subject line.
Yesterday, you see, was pretty spiff. The small, independent theater ensemble formed by a gaggle of Miamians a couple years ago had a fundraiser at a local nightspot (called, obviously, The Spot) last evening and I went. After paying to get in, (some) booze was free, but as Malibu Rum (one of the pivotal building blocks of The Ted) was not included in the package for some arbitrary reason, I just went with several Cokes. Right up until after 11 or so.
Don't drink that much caffeine these days.
So I was up once I got home, but in that jittery useless way that precluded booth sleep or anything productive. Still tired and surly.
Anyway, aside from that blowback, the fundraiser was nice. The Spot is a theatre bar hang-out that often helps small troupes with fundraisers and, most importantly, I supported by friends and the cause of independent theatre by buying some raffle tickets.
SCORE! At the end of the night, I walked away with the free tickets to Steppenwolf Theatre’s production of David Mamet’s American Buffalo. As Steppenwolf is one of the most well-regarded ensembles in the country (and famous, too, as it was founded by Malkovich and Sinise), I’m pretty darn excited and only a few people told me they hated me for winning them.
Luckily most of them were friends. I think with last night I finally competed my circuit of seeing all the Miamians I know out here. Most of them are doing pretty well, so that gives me hope. And I look forward to seeing more of them. They are energetic and passionate about the theatre thing, which is very nice to see. Plus, they are all cool and the more people I know out here the better the chances that somebody will call my folks when I trip and fall off an L platform to my death.
Actually, I would consider my re-socialization in this strange, new land to be proceeding in a slow, but steady way. I've already cleared full "drop by anytime" status with a couple of nice folks, although taking them up on it is a bit more difficult in Chicago than Oxford. I got those invitations at a birthday shindig I attended a couple weeks ago. It, too, was at a bar, The Grand Central.
I had noticed that this bar had received very poor reviews on-line (and even an pre-emptive apology in the party invitation), but it is important to note that a “sub-standard” bar in Chicago stacks up remarkably well when compared to places in say, Oxford-and, good Lord, I’m still having recurring night sweats over that UFC/Rum Runners hell hole from last year and that was certainly in Chicago. I thought the Grand Central was fine. Now, to be fair, maybe my good feelings toward the place may be on account of the fact that I, on a rare occasion, perfectly calibrated my stay there that evening: I left before everyone hit the Alcohol Event Horizon, which causes me to vanish utterly from all inebriated ken, but after a pretty girl I barely knew from Miami threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.
On the way home from The Grand Central I also realized that, no matter if I have plans or not, I need to get out and ride the L on weekend nights, regardless. For example, that night I got to witness a priceless bit of wordless psychodrama. As I waited on the platform, a young couple in their mid-20s joined me. Clearly, they were clearly going back to their shared home after a night out together, and, equally clearly, the guy had just epically screwed up in some particularly ear-splitting, possibly relationship-threatening way. And he was grimly aware of it. He was slumped over against the wall, sober , but very well wishing he wasn’t, embarrassed, dejected and obviously watching his life flashing before his eyes, while she stood there, ramrod straight, mouth thin, eyes staring straight ahead, arms crossed tightly enough to compress coal into diamonds within the fearsome interior angles of her elbows.
When the train arrived, we all got on it. They sat down across from me. He was bent forward, elbows on knees, looking back at her, studying her intently, his brow furrowed, eyes crinkled in worry, his vigil only occasionally broken by a head shake or a sigh. She never looked at him. Once.
The train arrived at their stop. They rose to leave. As he did, his hand hovered at the small of her back, but then he clearly thought better of touching her. It was like watching two like-charged magnets on strings bouncing away from each other without even touching.
There are a million stories in the naked city, and this was one of them.
Slow day here today. Dark, dreary and overcast and I'm still nursing the effects of the subject line.
Yesterday, you see, was pretty spiff. The small, independent theater ensemble formed by a gaggle of Miamians a couple years ago had a fundraiser at a local nightspot (called, obviously, The Spot) last evening and I went. After paying to get in, (some) booze was free, but as Malibu Rum (one of the pivotal building blocks of The Ted) was not included in the package for some arbitrary reason, I just went with several Cokes. Right up until after 11 or so.
Don't drink that much caffeine these days.
So I was up once I got home, but in that jittery useless way that precluded booth sleep or anything productive. Still tired and surly.
Anyway, aside from that blowback, the fundraiser was nice. The Spot is a theatre bar hang-out that often helps small troupes with fundraisers and, most importantly, I supported by friends and the cause of independent theatre by buying some raffle tickets.
SCORE! At the end of the night, I walked away with the free tickets to Steppenwolf Theatre’s production of David Mamet’s American Buffalo. As Steppenwolf is one of the most well-regarded ensembles in the country (and famous, too, as it was founded by Malkovich and Sinise), I’m pretty darn excited and only a few people told me they hated me for winning them.
Luckily most of them were friends. I think with last night I finally competed my circuit of seeing all the Miamians I know out here. Most of them are doing pretty well, so that gives me hope. And I look forward to seeing more of them. They are energetic and passionate about the theatre thing, which is very nice to see. Plus, they are all cool and the more people I know out here the better the chances that somebody will call my folks when I trip and fall off an L platform to my death.
Actually, I would consider my re-socialization in this strange, new land to be proceeding in a slow, but steady way. I've already cleared full "drop by anytime" status with a couple of nice folks, although taking them up on it is a bit more difficult in Chicago than Oxford. I got those invitations at a birthday shindig I attended a couple weeks ago. It, too, was at a bar, The Grand Central.
I had noticed that this bar had received very poor reviews on-line (and even an pre-emptive apology in the party invitation), but it is important to note that a “sub-standard” bar in Chicago stacks up remarkably well when compared to places in say, Oxford-and, good Lord, I’m still having recurring night sweats over that UFC/Rum Runners hell hole from last year and that was certainly in Chicago. I thought the Grand Central was fine. Now, to be fair, maybe my good feelings toward the place may be on account of the fact that I, on a rare occasion, perfectly calibrated my stay there that evening: I left before everyone hit the Alcohol Event Horizon, which causes me to vanish utterly from all inebriated ken, but after a pretty girl I barely knew from Miami threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek.
On the way home from The Grand Central I also realized that, no matter if I have plans or not, I need to get out and ride the L on weekend nights, regardless. For example, that night I got to witness a priceless bit of wordless psychodrama. As I waited on the platform, a young couple in their mid-20s joined me. Clearly, they were clearly going back to their shared home after a night out together, and, equally clearly, the guy had just epically screwed up in some particularly ear-splitting, possibly relationship-threatening way. And he was grimly aware of it. He was slumped over against the wall, sober , but very well wishing he wasn’t, embarrassed, dejected and obviously watching his life flashing before his eyes, while she stood there, ramrod straight, mouth thin, eyes staring straight ahead, arms crossed tightly enough to compress coal into diamonds within the fearsome interior angles of her elbows.
When the train arrived, we all got on it. They sat down across from me. He was bent forward, elbows on knees, looking back at her, studying her intently, his brow furrowed, eyes crinkled in worry, his vigil only occasionally broken by a head shake or a sigh. She never looked at him. Once.
The train arrived at their stop. They rose to leave. As he did, his hand hovered at the small of her back, but then he clearly thought better of touching her. It was like watching two like-charged magnets on strings bouncing away from each other without even touching.
There are a million stories in the naked city, and this was one of them.