The Room Where it Happened

One thing I promised Mark before we moved to Chicago, was that I would make sure he got to see Hamilton when it came here. So last June, when the frenzy of Hamilton hit, I sat at the computer for over an hour trying desperately to get tickets. No luck. We were frozen out by the scalpers. At least we still had the hope of the lottery. You see the theater announced that every day they would put up a limited number of tickets that they would give away in a lottery. Only ten dollars, and the seats were right up front. The only catch was that you had to go downtown and pick them up by two in the afternoon, and they were for that day only. Anyway, I was not one to give up so easily. We were not going to rely on the vagaries of a lottery. So I tried again later that afternoon, and there they were. Two tickets in the orchestra, and at a very inexpensive price. I snapped them up despite the warning that one was an "obstructed view" and the other was "limited view". I have bought such tickets before and was only mildly inconvenienced. A portion of the stage hidden, or maybe a bit of the balcony hanging low. I was not prepared for what I got Tuesday night. A seat directly behind one of the fattest columns I have ever seen in a theater.

Here is my critique of the show, Hamilton. Act one. While sounding lively and possibly entertaining, (I have to rely on the reaction of those around me for that) I found it a bit hard to follow. It's the hip-hop, fast talking, staccato pace of the songs that threw me off. I had to keep asking Mark, "What the hell did they say?" Mark had the limited view seat, which meant that he only had to lean over a bit to see the whole stage. Smart Mark had watched the PBS special on Hamilton the night before, so he knew exactly what was going on.

Act two. I made Mark sit in the obstructed view seat for the second act. It turns out that just that little bit of extra view that I got, improved the show immensely. Not all of the songs were hip-hop. Some were real songs, real music. As for whether I liked it or not, I have been to better shows. Hamilton is a good show. I did like it, but it is way over hyped. There was one minor role that every time the actor stepped out on stage he stole the show. King George. When that character would appear, I knew I was going to be entertained.

Just one thing kind of bugged me, and it happened before I even knew that I would not be able to see the first act. We were out in the lobby and a woman was bragging about winning that lottery for tickets.

"I can't believe it. Second row seats, and for only twenty dollars. I'm giddy with delight."

I paid nearly three hundred dollars so I could sit behind a column and listen to the show.

Going to See Hamilton

"The back of my neck is getting dirty and gritty! What kind of song is that? That's a stupid song. Who sings about their neck getting dirty?"

I still remember my mom saying that when I was sixteen years old. I remember I was down in our recreation room, Mom was ironing, and I had the radio on in my bedroom. Before that moment, I did not realize that Mom could actually understand the songs I was listening to. I imagined that it was a foreign language to her. After all, years before she had told me it was just noise.

"Turn that damn noise off. I can't believe people listen to that." It was Elvis on the radio. Mom let me know that day that she did not like Elvis Presley. Funny thing is, neither did I. Elvis was too old fashioned for me. I liked The Rolling Stones. I guess every few years the new up and coming generation has their own music. It's not intended for the folks who came before them.

Mark and I are going to see Hamilton tonight. So I called Mark into my office and had him listen to something that was on the radio.

"Is that hip-hop music? I'm not exactly sure what hip-hop is. Is that it?"

"I don't know. I guess it could be. Why would you think I would know what hip-hop is?"

"You're Black."

Wrong answer.

"I don't like hip-hop. I don't like rap music. Do you ever hear me listening to that stuff?" Mark huffed.

So no, I have never heard Mark listening to that stuff. The fact is, I listen to a lot of Black music. But not rap. I hate rap. It's not music to me. It's just somebody talking real fast, in rhyme, with a crappy beat behind it. I'm told that the music in Hamilton is hip-hop. So I don't know if I'll like Hamilton. I hope I do, because it is two hours and forty five minutes long.

Five Ways to Tell If You Are Fat

Quick, what is this? a) An Easter Ham. b) A wad of used bubble gum. c) A prop from the remake of the movie, The Blob.

"What's that sound? Why do you make that sound all the time?"

"What sound? What the hell are you talking about?"

"When you reached for the door knob, you made a grunting sound."

"No I did not. I just let some air out a bit loudly."

Sometime later:

"There, you did it again. You made a grunting sound when you opened that drawer."

"Geez. Can't a guy breath? What the hell....  "

But Mark is correct. I am grunting and huffing and a puffing all day long, and I know why. I am a fat fucker. I have gained a lot of weight over the last couple of months and it is affecting a lot of things in my life. I know that I was kind of fat before the holidays, but this is entering obesity territory, way beyond just plump. Warning to all my siblings; We have a propensity to chub out and I think I have hit that hard. Here are a few points of fact that tell me I have to lose weight.

• That last video that I made. The one where I dress up as Alicia. Alicia is a big pig, but she was never that fat. I looked like a giant pink beach ball. I was aghast, absolutely aghast at what I saw. (Been wanting to use that word for a long time.)
• Those sounds I make. Every move outside of just waving my fat arms, makes me grunt, huff and puff. Just reaching for another donut takes my breath away.
• My shoes. I dread putting on my shoes. It is an ordeal to bend forward, pull my shoes on, and then tie them. What is even worse is that Scout is always there biting my toes as I try to put them on. She knows that she has the upper hand in that game, that the fat fuck can't stop her when he is doubled over squeezing out his last breath.
• My wardrobe. I have a Cubs shirt that used to be very loose on me. When I put it on for that last video, I could not even button the damn thing. My pants fit like a sausage casing and every time I sit down, if I don't pop the top button and unbuckle my belt, sitting is impossible. Even my giant winter coat fits very tight around the waist.
• And finally there is the bathroom. Close your virtual eyes if you are squeamish. I have to get nearly naked to sit on the pot or the clothing will strangle me. As for the standing up and peeing thing, I haven't seen that happen in months. All I see is a stream of water coming from some mystery place. It really makes for a lot of bad aims when I can't tell exactly which way things are pointing.

Alicia and Alexis 2016 Year in Review

 

Foam Party

Well I was a busy guy the other day. I loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. I loaded the washing machine with dirty clothes and turned that on. I then washed the dishes that Mark deemed to be too dainty to put in the dishwasher, in the sink. Apparently when the dishwasher drains, the clothes washer drains, and the sink drains with the garbage disposal turned on, all at the same time, the sewer can't handle it. I didn't plan it that way, it just happened. When I was all done in the kitchen I carried some of Mark's Christmas decorations down into the basement. I opened the door to the basement. It looked like one of those foam parties from back in the 1990's, but without all the hot guys. There were suds all over the floor. I panicked. Luckily for me there are people who deal with these things. Frank, my neighbor and plumber came to the rescue.

"It's not the drain stack. It's the line between that and the catch basin in the back yard. Either your catch basin is full or the line has to be snaked out."

So we went out to the back yard where the catch basin is located. The last time I cleaned out a catch basin was like forty years ago at my first house. My brother Dave and I did it ourselves. We lifted the lid and found it full of Spaghetti-O's. The folks I bought that house from apparently had a horrible diet. Anyway, Frank lifted the lid on my catch basin and I was pleasantly surprised. It was clean, as much as a pit where every effluent from the house flows through can be clean.

"I'll have to snake the line from here into the house."

"Hmmm... okay. So how much is that going to cost me?"

"Usually $350. But for you, a neighbor, $250."

"Do it."

Two hundred and fifty bucks is a bargain considering that the last time I messed with a catch basin, I ended up with used Spaghetti-O's all over myself. Oh, and some vomit. My own vomit. It's a disgusting job.

My Sexy Leg Lamp

Just like in the movie, a large box arrived marked "fra-geelie".

"Ha, must be Italian." I quipped.

Mark was not amused. In fact he kind of rushed me away from the package, mumbling that it was just "Something I ordered on eBay."

That box sat around for a couple of weeks before Mark finally opened it. Or should I say, I opened it. "Careful, it's very fragile", Mark cried. So I carefully pulled aside the packing material revealing a large, neon Eiffel Tower.

"I want it hung on the wall over there." Mark said, pointing to an empty spot next to the fireplace. So I dutifully hammered a nail into the wall and Mark hung his new possession from it. "Okay, plug it in. I want to see it lit up."

"I have to walk the dogs. You plug it in." I told Mark as I harnessed Chandler for his big evening walkies. We took our time walking around the block as Chandler sniffed each and every tree we passed, strained to chase the fat squirrel on the corner, and scared the living shit out of a little Arab boy (When I talked to his father later, he explained that the boy had been terrorized by a big dog once). So it was just a normal dog walk. And then I turned the corner by our house. A bright green glow emanated from the large living room windows. It looked like our house had been contaminated by nuclear waste. There in the middle window, all grinning and green, was Mark smiling and proud of his new possession.

"It looks like the sun is coming up in our living room."

"I like it."

"I fucking hate it. It's way too bright. I'll need sunglasses just to sit in the living room." I protested.

"I don't care. I like it."

So there it hangs, on our wall. There's a war going on around it. Mark turns it on, I turn it off. I leave the house, Mark turns it on, planes mistake it for a runway at O'Hare. There is no mistaking our house if that Eiffel Tower is lit up. A green glow reflects off the clouds and birds start chirping as if it's dawn. One thing Mark should remember, and that is how the sexy leg lamp ended up in A Christmas Story. I'm just saying, accidents happen.