the smussyolay

A friend on Facebook just made reference to the Red Line service being halted at Bryn Mawr. I went searching Twitter to see what the what, to find a breaking news article on the Trib referencing a person “falling on the tracks.” That would be innocent enough if they didn’t also immediately reference the person falling on the tracks “in front of a train.” Hmmm. Is that what we’re calling it now?

People. That’s code for “suicide,” right? I don’t get it. They won’t say suicide because they don’t want anyone else to do it? Or get the idea to do it? Let me tell you, if you’re suicidal, you don’t need anyone to come up with ideas for you. You’ve run the gamut and tested the waters on hundreds of ideas yourself. If you’re like me, you’re too chicken to follow through on any of them, lest they be too painful or too awful in their execution or you be unsuccessful and have to live with the outcome. Or, really because like some coffee club literature says, “nature abhors suicide,” and you really just want to live and see what’s going to happen tomorrow or have some small glimmer of hope that there might be something great you’re going to miss.

That’s how I know I’ve never been seriously suicidal. I’ve never really been able to finish the thought, complete the sentence. I’ve been in the room, but the door’s been way too far away for me to close it, and I’ve been too lonely, tired and exasperated to figure out how to really get there. But I get it. I get the concept. When people rant and rave on those news articles (especially CTA suicides), and go on about how “selfish” the person was, I can only shake my head in bewilderment at the ignorance of the person making the statement. In one way, they’re right, they’re selfish in the sense that they can’t see outside of themselves, they can’t see that there might possibly be another way than the thoughts that are swirling around inside their head, making life seem completely hopeless. They’re completely self-absorbed, self-centered; they are literally thinking of no one but themselves.

But, it’s not because they don’t care about anyone else. It’s because they are mentally ill and their thinking is SO distorted that they no longer can tell truth from reality; they can no longer see this world for what it is. They can no longer comprehend love or joy or the idea that this too, absolutely will pass. That the desperation and depression and hopelessness they’re feeling are just that — feelings. That whatever external circumstances are — no matter how bad they seem — they will also pass, and that there are always opportunities to fix things, to get better, to change. They can absolutely cannot see or hear any of that, and they are lost in their own delusions and twisted thinking and they’ve convinced themselves that the only way out is not through, but over. Or, that they are just too tired to continue and they want to be done. They just want some blessed relief from the constant torture and pain of living as they see it. I suppose that’s the other side of the coin.

I think it’s just because I have such a huge sense of empathy that I get that stuff. I really do. I’ve had bits and pieces of it through my manic-depressive journey as well. I worry that my mom always thinks I’m somewhere near that precipice if I even get sad, when in reality I’ve rarely been there ever. I’ve seen that edge, but it’s always been pretty far away even when I’ve had the chance to glimpse it. But even glimpsing it is heartache enough, and I’m assuming it’s like the Grand Canyon; once you see it, it tends to take you by surprise, it’s pretty overwhelming, you come to respect it right quick, and you absolutely never forget it.

It’s with that knowledge and my one quick trip to the city of psychosis that I watched something else with empathy last night. Apparently, a new guy to coffee club brought a gentleman he had met on the bus with him that night. It was the very last comment of the meeting and the minute the guy got up (got up was one of the first signs) and said that T had “brought him here to speak to this meeting” I said out loud to a couple of friends next to me, “uh-oh.” I knew instantly that the man was unwell. Honestly, at the time, I thought, “This guy’s crazy.”

As he turned out to be. There’s the newcomer insanity, where they prattle on about their last drink and how bad their lives are, or some sort of thing that’s really irrelevant to what is being talked about or what we’ve read. Where you can tell they are still living very much in the problem rather than in the solution. But we’ve all been there, and mostly there’s empathy and the knowledge that while they’re sort of oblivious to how they sound, it’ll all work out; they just need to get a sponsor and work the steps. But I could tell from the get that this guy wasn’t a newcomer. Or if he was, that wasn’t his problem. I could tell that whatever spirit had touched him over the last hour, had whipped his mind into a frenzy that was definitely beyond human aid.

He was here to talk TO us … about I’m not sure what. But he was here to give a speech. And I knew we were in for something. When he started going on about the “alabaster hour,” I knew it wasn’t anything anyone was equipped to deal with. This man was full-blown psychosis. Psych ward time. I looked to a couple of my friends around me — men with a decent amount of time — and they weren’t even moving. I was fighting with what to do. Should I speak up and say “Are you an alcoholic, sir?” Should I walk over there and ask him to leave? I wasn’t sure. At one point, the group tried to stop him by thanking him and clapping for him. This sometimes has the effect of editing an otherwise ego-filled alkie who is on a rant. They tried it twice, but unfortunately, after the first time, I could tell he probably thought people were excited about what he was saying.

Finally, two of the guys in the group got up, but I could see they were in “stance.” Like … “if we’ve got to force this guy out, we will.” That’s when I quickly got up. I knew that could be a dangerous move. People who are in a psychotic mania can be wicked strong. Not to mention they’re highly volatile. Calm one moment, extremely violent the next. Thankfully, there were also two RNs there that night (actually, at least five by my count) who were familiar with dealing with psychiatric issues and they got him out the door. I went immediately outside after the prayer, started with a traditional offering for “a moment of silence for those suffering in *and outside* the rooms,” which was followed by some nervous laughter. I wondered how many people in that room understood that we were all so close to being that guy if we didn’t stay sober.

I knew. I knew that drunk I was getting there. I knew that not properly treating my manic-depression, I was getting there. I also knew that there were a lot more people in that room that were in the exact same boat. A LOT of them. Many diagnosed, and probably a handful undiagnosed. I hope that people had some sort of compassion for the guy instead of seeing him as a nuisance or a bother. I hope they were seeing “there but for the grace of God, go I.”

My friend, A, called an ambulance, and an ambulance, two cop cars and a fire truck showed up. The man was remarkably willing to go along to the hospital. I probably didn’t start things off well with the paramedics when I said, “you could have done without the fire truck.” She said, “I don’t dispatch.” But when 5 firemen, two paramedics and 2 cops started walking toward the guy, who was already calmly talking to a cop and my two RN friends, I yelled out, “Hey, hey … you don’t need all those people over there. Not necessary.” And the paramedic just looked at me with a hateful face and said, “YOU need to go over THERE.” I wanted to say, and “YOU can stop being a BITCH.”

Sometimes all it takes for someone who is that out of their mind to go completely balls to the wall is to see 10 people walking at them. And then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. SEE? We needed all these people — he went completely apeshit. Well, he went completely apeshit because you brought 10 people, dumbass. It alarms me the number of people employed by the city who probably have little to no training in mental illness or drug and alcohol abuse. Yet, what are they dealing with the majority of the day? The direct and indirect effects of mental illness and drug and alcohol abuse. Something’s not right here.

All I know is that I hope that man got some help last night. I hope they took him to a psych ward where he was given some meds and that he got some sleep and that he’s being given a plan to see life a little clearer. I hope maybe he can come back to the meeting and hear what we all heard last night: a message of hope. And I hope all my friends could see that we’re not so different than he is; that we’re all in there somewhere.

When I was growing up, I was very nostalgic for the 60s. I longed to participate for a time where I could be a hippie, an activist. Where I could march in the streets and protest and make a real change. Where I could really be a part of something. The film of young people being active, the music of the time, the strides made in civil rights, women’s liberation and the sexual revolution — I wanted to have been there.

I had a teacher, Mr. Toman, in 5th grade and who I also went on to have in middle school history as well, who was a Beatles fan and who I just adored. For some reason, he made me think that these times were super exciting and that  it would have been great to be there. Mostly, it was the Beatles love and his penchant for using strange words like rapscallion that made me love him ever the more.

But right now, the way things are going, I’m not sure those times were so great. They may have been exciting, but excitement and anxiety are the same emotions, you know. They manifest the same way in your body — it’s all in how your mind perceives them. Rollercoaster you love: excitement. Fearing you will be fired: anxiety. And I think that maybe those days of old may have left me more anxious than excited, it turns out.

Because it seems those days are back. At least from what I can tell. We’re watching people fight against women’s right to contraception. Trying to take away their right to legally get abortions. Slyly trying to get Jim Crow laws back on the books disguised as “voter ID/fraud” laws.  And racism is flourishing, especially that against African-Americans, with people selling anti-Obama bumperstickers that say “Don’t Re-Nig” and actions that seem tantamount to public lynchings — people blatantly shooting unarmed black boys, claming “self-defense,” and being left to walk free, not even being charged in the first place.

How is this possible? How do we have a half-black President in the White House, and yet, we have a self-appointed neighborhood watch leader going around firing shots into young men after 911 dispatchers tell him to do nothing? After the boy has nothing but some candy and some iced tea in his hands? How is someone legitmately shot over a hoodie? This wasn’t a tragic case of good boy caught in gang gunfire. It wasn’t a tragic case of good boy turned bad getting caught up in the gangsta life. It wasn’t a million other stories you hear about African-American teenagers who get slain in cities every day.

This was a story of a man who thought he was above the law, deciding to “protect” something, call it “self-defense,” and kill someone in cold blood. Thing was, so far, he’s gotten away with it. Not “gotten away with it,” done it, gone to trial and been pronounced innocent. No, this man was never charged, never indicted. I don’t know which is worse. Well, for now, there’s still hope. Never charged means he still has a chance to go to trial and be held accountable for his actions. His actions — the ones that constitute murder. Not self-defense, not manslaughter. Murder. He murdered Trayvon Martin just as sure as I walk and breathe. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, Google “Trayvon Martin case.”

And to make matters worse, the ludicrous statements by Geraldo Rivera on Fox News serve to drive home the point that some people will never allow the truth to stand for what it is; they will always strive to find some way to blame the victim. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, Google “Geraldo Rivera hoodie.” I will expound a little here, though. Geraldo basically said it was pretty much Trayvon’s fault he got himself into that situation — what with him wearing that hoodie and all. Let me tell you, if a hoodie is a prerequisite to being murdered, all the hipsters of Wicker Park, the bros of Lincoln Park, and everyone else who has ever just not felt that up to getting that dressed better watch out. Hoodies abound; at least here in Chicago.

I used to long for the days when I could march in the streets. Those days are here. To march for women’s rights. To march for civil rights. To march against the oppression of a police state and an ever growing class warfare. Here they are, but I’m not so young and I’m not so confident I’ll have a fantastic time in jail. I haven’t lost my optimism, but I’ve gained a real dose of realism, too.

chiv·al·ry   [shiv-uhl-ree]
1. the sum of the ideal qualifications of a knight, including courtesy, generosity, valor, and dexterity in arms.
2. the rules and customs of medieval knighthood.
3. the medieval system or institution of knighthood.
4. a group of knights.
5. gallant warriors or gentlemen: fair ladies and noble chivalry.

I was just talking with a co-worker about the various shows that I haven’t ended up watching (“Game of Thrones,” “The Walking Dead,” “True Blood,” and “Mad Men”), all for different reasons. I guess Mad Men has its season premiere tonight, and she (along with millions?) of other people, are stoked. I told her that I remember when Mad Men came out, I was reluctant to watch it because I feared that as a feminist, I would be discouraged/depressed/enraged by the depiction of women/treatment of women on the show. She agreed that although she was no feminist — “she liked doors being held open for her and stuff” — it was awful how the women were treated, and that her mom said it was a really accurate portrayal of the atmosphere at the time.

It struck me how she disassociated herself from feminism because she liked to have a door held open for herself. I can’t say I entirely misunderstood, because I think in my younger years, I thought that feminism meant taking nothing from a man — I’d get my own door, I’d pay my own way, I’d make sure I jumped in front to maybe make sure that I held *his* door — to show how strong and capable I was. I still don’t mind holding a door for anyone, and I’m always inclined to split a check, especially if the situation is sexually unclear. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to understand some things.

Chivalry is a good thing. Courtesy and generosity and valor and being a gentleman is a good thing. It’s when it tips over into condescension that it becomes faulty and dangerous. It’s when it starts to become cocooning women; wrapping them up in cotton balls so they will never be damaged or chip a nail that it becomes a method by which men and society start to constrain and control. It’s when showing the same traits back to a man is seen as uncouth or unwelcome or unacceptable that we’ve got a problem on our hands. But the general principle of a man holding a door or letting a woman go first on the bus or making sure she gets a ride home — that’s not a bad thing at all.

And feminism? What is this thing, and why do so many young women distance themselves from it? Why do they see it as some sort of evil? I’m not exactly sure. Part of me thinks it’s because the media and society has done such a good job of demonizing the concept. Instead of it being about equal rights for all, about being for everyone having a fair playing ground, for everyone being able to be afforded the same rights and privileges, it looks something like this:

Feminists should never wear makeup. They don’t want kids. They hate men. They’re all lesbians. They are all want to only be with and hang out with women. They are here to make our lives miserable.

Which, in my mind, couldn’t be farther from the truth. Wear makeup. Love your men. Have kids. Love life. I want there to be chivalry and feminism for all. The two can co-mingle quite nicely, ladies. The “f-word” isn’t feminism. I think it might be fracking.

I started this post 2.16.12. I decided to finish it today. The fact that it was in mid-February tells you what a beautiful winter we’ve had …. construction the whole way through …

I’ve always heard that smell is one of the quickest ways back to old memories.  The olfactory nerve and sense of smell are located in the most primal part of our brains, and as such, are linked to some of our ancient understanding of things. Broadly, it means somewhere in our minds, we are able to ascertain that rotting meat means certain illness or death and that the people we love are good. More recently, it means that things we imprinted in our memories and made part of our essence in childhood can come rushing back to us in an instant with a whiff of a certain odor or the hint of a particular scent.

And so it has been for me. There is a certain note of kitchen smells that I cannot describe that always puts me *right* back into my grandfather’s nursing home. Not one he was IN, but one he owned. Honestly, I don’t remember exactly why we would visit him at the nursing home. We visited plenty over at his house, which was right down the street.  And when we would go and visit him there, we would pass through the kitchen on the way to the general sitting room down the hall of rooms where we ended up at his office.   I remember the nursing home smelled strange and frightened me. My dad would talk to some of the people and want me to talk to them, too.

This insistence that I interact with them confused me some — they weren’t MY grandma or grandpa. Why did I have to be super friendly with them? They were super old. They made me nervous. I knew they just wanted us to be friendly, but I just couldn’t get over my fear. There were so many old people there, and they seemed so sad and lonely and I couldn’t imagine who would leave their mom or dad or grandma or grandpa in one of these places … but I believed they were being well-taken care of, because my grandpa owned/ran it. And my future AP English teacher’s wife was the head nurse there. So, I don’t think those people were treated poorly at all, but still. It’s a nursing home. It can’t be a thrilling existence. And I think my young-old soul felt the sadness and probably the nearness to death that hung around the place. I just knew it made me nervous to go there.

Today, I walked past a building that was undergoing some work and was struck with the smell of construction.  Lumber, to be precise. At least that’s what I nailed it down to as I walked away. I was immediately connected to my father in some unknowable way, but I knew it instantly said “Dad.” I asked myself why that was. It’s not like I was around my dad as he created vast works of wood or that he was some well-known house builder. He is known to me as a heavy equipment operator and I don’t think of him as a carpenter, per se.  But I went back in my mind and I guess my sister and I (she was there, right?) must have tagged along on enough Saturday missions to various merchants of millwork and manufacturing — Menards and Farm and Fleet and independent lumber stores — to make the smell of lumber a relative constant in my childhood memories.

It’s not to say my dad *didn’t* do his share of building, though. He built the deck that goes around most of my parents’ house and endeavored to raise the house from its foundation to put a basement underneath. A garage was built and my parents took out a loan to remodel the inside of the house, as well. So, I guess I’m well acquainted with the smell of cut wood and the projects of a blue-collar man and his friends.

I try so hard not to mourn my father while he’s alive. It’s a phenomenon that I’d like to explore more in therapy, whenever I get the chance. But I have a sneaking suspicion that these are the things that will pull my heart with leaden strings the first time I smell them after he’s gone. The smallest things that will be so hard to explain to anyone, and so I’ll swallow them and just add them to the list of things that have become my father.

It’s stupid to be sad about something that hasn’t happened. I know that. It’s weird to be nostalgic about a smell like that. Lumber. I guess it just means things are being built. Men and women (I’d like to hope) are creating things and working hard. There’s hope in that. It’s spring or summer and things are turning around, being made or becoming new. I just want to know that things are good. I just want to be a part of that in some way, even if it’s as a tagalong to the lumber store in my mind.

It’s funny.  I’m always caught between being a voyeur and an exhibitionist. You wouldn’t know it from the Tweeting and the Facebooking and nearly 8 years of blogging I’ve done here at the old Smussyolay, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to be looked at. I don’t want to be critiqued or analyzed or noticed, or god forbid, praised.  So, it’s always striking to me when people actually remember stuff about me — stuff I’ve told them or stuff I’m interested in or stuff that defines me.

At some level, it pleases me. I want people to know me. I want people to love me and find me attractive — in more ways than one. I want people to understand me and I want people to want to be near me — in more ways than one. And so that’s probably the part that continues to share things regardless of the fact that it could actually turn people off. It’s a double edged sword, actually.  On one hand, I share in the hopes it will actually make people interested in me. On the other, I think I share everything, in the hopes it will actually make people run away. Wow, getting deep here.

Not to mention getting deep on this post, which wasn’t supposed to be about this. Point BEING, that 3.5 years ago, I started working with CHIRP Radio. And I started talking about it, I guess. I didn’t really remember talking about it, but I guess I did.  Because after a little bit, people started to ask me “How’s the radio thing going?” Sometimes, they now remember to ask “How’s CHIRP?”

I was talking about it because I was excited, because I couldn’t believe that I was going to get to be part of a radio station again. Working at WONC in college was one of the greatest experiences of my life, and led me to some of the greatest friendships and memories I’ve ever had. So, to be able to have even one-fourth of that experience was going to be great. It had to be.

I was not let down. Being back on the air again was fantastic. 1/17/12 marked our second anniversary, and we’re still working diligently in the background to get our low-power FM license as well.  You can listen to us at www.chirpradio.org, 21/7, and we were named Best Radio Station by the Chicago Reader’s poll last year and Chicago Magazine named us Best Internet Station. Awesome. What honors.

In 2010, I created a reading series to benefit CHIRP. It’s called “The First Time.” People write 5-7 minute original pieces around a First Time theme (first sex, first job, first car, first record) and then they pick a song to accompany their piece. Immediately following their reading, we have a live band, “The First Time,” play their song live, in a stripped-down, acoustic setting.

We’ve had Jim DeRogatis, Susan Messing, Josh Caterer, Robbie Fulks, Scott Smith, Whet Moser, Megan Stielstra, Matt Spiegel and Dag Juhlin … just to name a FEW of the readers. And I’m so blessed to have the band be made up of Steve Frisbie, Liam Davis and Gerald Dowd.  They’ve taken on The Misfits, Huey Lewis, Cypress Hill, Extreme, Van Morrison, Concrete Blonde, Sinead O’Connor, Uncle Tupelo and The Rolling Stones.

So. I’d love it if you’d help CHIRP out.  Today is the second day of a membership drive. We’re listener supported and volunteer run, and you can help out by going to www.chirpradio.org/donatenow. If you do it, tell them I sent you. If you know my real name, put it down. Otherwise, put smussyolay, and I’ll tell them to count it for me.  We’ve got a friendly competition going, so every little bit helps.

The other way you can help is by coming out to see The First Time: First Digs if you live anywhere near Chicago. It’s April 18th, 8:30 pm at Beat Kitchen. It’s going to be amazing. They’re always so much fun. Help me help you have a great time and have a great radio station — and that you don’t even have to be in Chicago to listen to. I’ve gotten requests from Paris before.

Smooches and rock and roll,

Smussyolay

It should be a metaphor for something, and it probably is, but honestly, this is just a tale of building a bookcase. I bought a new bookcase for the very first time the other night. It’s a Target standard issue, essentially Ikea furniture (1). But it’s new and it’s for the new place. It might seem counterintuitive to buy more furniture for a smaller place, but I have a lot of books and it seems wise to get them somewhere proper to go.

I was with my friend, M, in Target and was also looking for bed risers. He joked that I should just get cinder blocks, which made me laugh, because for many a year, I used to have a bookcase made of cinder blocks and lumber, and I knew I also wanted to get a bookcase that night. The old bookcase was easy to move in that I was able to break it down to its most simple parts, but it was a pain in the ass in that its most basic elements consisted of boards and really fucking heavy cinder blocks.

I saw the bookcase the other day and was shocked that a five shelf bookcase was only $30. Mark asked me if I had tools, and I said that I did. I was hoping that I had the *right* tools, and that I wouldn’t need some crazy-sized Allen wrench I didn’t have. When I started to read the directions tonight, I found out that yes, I *did* have the right tools and was relieved. Screwdriver and hammer, it seemed, and I wasn’t even *supposed* to use an electric one. I could handle this.

By and large, I can, too. It just looked a little like my life. Took a little longer than expected and came out with a few scars and blemishes. I wasn’t able to completely finish the bookcase or this post before I had to step out … I don’t remember where I went; this weekend was so beautiful that I had to take breaks from cleaning and rearranging to get the hell out into the summer that was being bestowed on us by the benevolent weather gods who were concurrently making it snow on Arizona (that’s what you get for getting cuckoo with your laws against humanity, AZ).

I found out that I could handle screwing together the bookcase with relative ease, but at one point i had not paid attention to the finished/unfinished sides, and had to take them back apart and re-do things. Oh, sigh.  Sigh le vie. And there were “hidden cams.” What on earth? They were simple enough, and things came together without much of a hitch. However, as I read the directions, I was somewhat shockingly perplexed to find that the flimsy cardboard back (that was NOT accidental material) needed to be put on the bookcase — otherwise the whole thing “would collapse.” Really? That’s the glue that’s going to hold this bad boy together? That’s disconcerting, to say the least.

It also proved to be the hardest part to get right. While the first section of backing got nailed on fine, the second section proved a little more difficult. I managed to get it all straightened out (literally and figuratively), and voila! Bookcase. A new bookcase for a new apartment for a bunch of old books and some old ideas about what I can and cannot accomplish.  It’s coming together. It’s coming together.

(1) When did Ikea go from the standard of “Oh, my God, we’re so happy to have your cool, new, modern, affordable (a) Swedish furniture in our country” to “disposable pieces of crap you have to put together yourself with only pictures for directions (b)?”  Wasn’t there a time when it was all new and lovely and everyone was madly in love with Ikea? Why is Ikea now said with a smirk or a grimace or some sort of huffy scoff as if to say, “Oh, that trashy bougie shit.”

(a) Kind of affordable. I think you can order whole kitchens from them now, and I think they have furniture that can get pretty spendy at this point.

(b) My first encounter with said directions wasn’t even really my own. It was watching my then roommate, AM, put together a coffee table (one that would subsequently have a seemingly permanent counter-culture Ikea display of marijuana and its various accoutrements (i): Yahtzee, Parliaments, and a rotating snack food (there was the summer AM and her friend, K, taught me the joy of pistachios). She got to work on that coffee table one afternoon, and as the hour/s passed and she grew increasingly frustrated, I marveled at her refusal to give up. She started to get pretty pissed at one point, and I recognized that point in a process that required tools and some sort of schematics, and I wasn’t sure if it had been me that I wouldn’t have taken the hammer and smashed the whole thing to bits.  But she took a break, gritted her teeth, and eventually got the whole thing finished, despite the lack of written instructions — ones in English, anyway.  I don’t know how much the words in Swedish were helping.

(i) AM also was the best bowl scraper I ever knew. Now, these were in my lean days, where the homegrown hydroponic wasn’t flowing freely just yet (no, Mom, if you read this, I never grew weed. I just knew people who did). And sometimes, we just didn’t have enough ganja to get us through to the next bag, wherever and whenever it was coming. Not to mention, we weren’t just living high on the hog — as is still today’s practice I’m struggling hard to beat, I was living paycheck to paycheck. I can’t speak for AM.

So, there were times, in all manner of desperation, that a good old-fashioned resin ball needed to be procured.  And AM was the engineer to do it. She’d get out all manner of tools, real and fancied, and get to getting. It was being between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, smoking resin, or pot covered in it, is one of the most disgusting things you can do. On the other hand, you can still manage to get a meager high from it, if you are so inclined.  And if you had the skills to get as much of it out of your well-used devices as AM did, sometimes, *sometimes,* it was 10% worth the effort. That’s why I left it up to her. I’d try, and end up with more tar on my hands than gold for the bowl. Thank goodness I met my best friend’s friend, who became my boyfriend, eventually to be AM’s husband, who ended the need for resin.

I never write about work or roommates. Largely because any time I’ve wanted to write about either, I’ve wanted to complain or bitch or make fun of or ridicule. This marks a new era in the time of The Smussyolay, because I will probably take to writing about both these days. The latter, because I am my own roommate for the first time in 38 years. I have a large-ish studio in Edgewater, not too far from the old “Section X” where I lived with my Craigslist stranger, now friend, Preston, and a host of characters. The former I will write about, because I truly love my job. I also work with a host of characters, but for the most part, I find them endearing and wonderful, and even when I sometimes find them a little contrary to my own personality, I quickly see how they are actually all parts of myself, former or present.

So. Second City. I work part-time in the box office.  I had initially applied for a full-time job working in their business communications department — helping people get set up with improv/sketch for their conventions, business meetings, etc. I’m still a little sad I didn’t get the job; I think I would have been great there. However, they hired from inside, so I can hardly be upset about that.  It also gives me hope that they will continue to hire from inside and I might still have a chance to move up some other time.

I was tipped off to the job through a friend — I met S through my friend, Hixx. She read for the last “First Time,” and when I didn’t get the other job, she offered me a job in the box office. I was happy to get the opportunity. To work. To work for her. To work in the box office of Second City. When we talked about the job, the only thing that concerned me was the pay, but it was more than unemployment, and somehow, some way, I was making enough to barely scrape by on that, so more than that was going to be okay.

I figured I’d be working with a lot of comedians — people taking classes there, people younger than me. I was not incorrect. But I also assumed being younger than me comedians, they’d be in the throes of their best party years — always ready to go and get the next one, always talking about their latest escapades, always on about the next opportunity to par-tay.

It’s strange. I don’t know if they know that I don’t drink and just don’t talk about it in front of me because they think I’m a prude or a narc or wouldn’t appreciate it or whatever (1). What I actually suspect is that they just aren’t in the throes of potential or actual alcoholism. That most of them just don’t have a problem with drinking/drugging. It’s not to say they don’t drink or get high. I think some of them do. But, by and large, I think they are there to work to get money and also to actively and seriously study their craft. The craft of comedy. Writing, acting, directing, living, breathing comedy.

It’s an interesting place to be. For a variety of reasons. Sometimes, I feel like I fit right in. I feel it’s a lot like coffee club. I see so many people with the same traits of the alcoholic. Insecure, competing, searching, trying to be liked, trying to be accepted. If not on a small level, then on a macro level — we’re all trying to get people’s approval by making them laugh. It’s terribly stereotypical, but it’s the truth. There’s something completely addicting and soul-soothing about the sound of laughter. It’s best done when it’s coming *out* of you, rather than being the one begging for it, but it still works that way.  Getting it coming to you still works to heal the soul; it’s just not as satisfying and the high doesn’t last as long.  You need it again and again.

And sometimes, I see it in the people I work with. I think it’s unconscious, but sometimes in the conversations we have, people will just drop outrageous statements and have silly things to say — obviously to get a laugh, to throw out a bit. It’s something that I’ve always struggled with; one reason I’ve always enjoyed the “art of slow comedy” that Jimmy Carrane works in. The fact that I like the quiet moments and the cathartic laughter that comes from feeling awkard or uncomfortable, not necessarily from dropping the intentional statement meant to get a rise or a laugh. The pseudo-joke (2).

But, I really love the people I work with. They are all really funny and they are all really kind. They all have their own distinct personalities and they are all really decent people. They’re down-to-earth. They’re relatable. 

The other thing I find interesting about SC and very much like coffee club is how much people just take you in and accept you on face value. I got hired, and it’s just accepted that I’m walking around the halls unaccompanied and taking my own soda from the gun and just having the run of the place. There’s a lot of trust and acceptance and a lot of “welcome, make yourself at home here.” I find that’s not how it is most other places. It’s “we’re keeping an eye on you, because you’re new and stupid.”  There’s just a lot of autonomy and independence at SC, which I absolutely love and have always craved.  For instance, when I asked one of the night managers what the dress code was, he said “Just make sure you don’t look homeless, and you should be fine.” Amazing.

I think that sort of attitude must come from the general philosophy of improv and sketch. You trust your team/fellow improvisers. You take care of each other. You know that the whole is bigger than the sum of its parts. You say “yes,” and ask what you can contribute to the scene, the team. I love that. I love Second City.

(1) For instance, a few of my c0-workers were talking about the word “retard.” I didn’t say that word for years. And then, it came back into vogue. And I didn’t really have any interest in saying it — I do find it offensive. Then, I went through a phase where I’d find it come up in my head. I’d want to say, “that’s retarded.” Yipes! I don’t know why. It’s just an old 7th grade habit, I guess. That’s what we used to say. We were young and stupid. We also used to say shit was “gay.” But, I don’t say it, and unless I’m your close friend, I’m not going to tell you not to say it. But, they were talking about it and talking about saying it, and I must have had a look on my face — I don’t know how my face looks EVAH — and the one guy was like, ‘She doesn’t like it. We won’t say it.” And I felt stupid. Like I was cramping their style or they thought I was an asshole.  I don’t know. I fight not to feel like an old lady sometimes. I just never want to feel un-cool, you know?

(2) I have a thing about guys in comedy. I think they’re sexist. I have a few friends who are always doing stuff, and maybe they’re asking *other* girls to participate (webseries, etc.), but they certainly aren’t asking me. And it pisses me off. I think there’s a huge boys’ club in comedy and it just makes me SO mad. I wonder how all the successful female comedians have dealt it with it over the years. In improv, in stand-up.  Cause it’s like … just because you guys are always doing dick jokes and bits doesn’t mean you’re funnier than I am. Just means you’re doing dick jokes and bits.