Sept. 01, 2003 - 11:54 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
A few years ago, over the Labor Day weekend, I took a trip up to Canada. There are many small odd stories I could relate, but I’ll focus on the weather. It was, you may be surprised to learn, much cooler than Chicago. In fact, during that year – 1995, I believe – Chicago had a fabulous little heat wave, the type of which inspires the local newspapers to report how many people died that day. In any event, I couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago’s blistering heat. But to no avail! Yes, as soon as I returned, the cool Canadian air seemed to have warmed (pardon the pun) to me and followed me back. I missed the whole summer/fall transition, as it was never warm/hot again for the remainder of the year.
I may have witnessed such a transition over this particular Labor Day weekend. The change was so abrupt, that I am now convinced some young turk got inspired to get lost in Quebec and return to Chicago, bringing the weather along with him. Sunday morning it hit. Cold. After days and days in the sweltering 90s, cold rain spat at all of us lucky enough to call Chicago home. I remember distinctly thinking, “this rain is awfully cold for this time of year.” By this morning, when I went to the law firm for a little catch-up work, I had to dig into my just-hidden stash of sweaters for the trip down.
Weather memories make just as many appearances in my mind as regular ones (involving those things called people and family). My most vivid memory consisted of when it dipped down to 26 below or something like that (I have this all scribed in a pubescent journal somewhere, in between my bad poetry and my list of girlfriends at the time, both real and imagined). In those days, my dad had given me a hearty Sears Roebuck radio without a hint of a preset, but which picked up AM/FM, police, fire and weather. My nights were spent with this bulky black box under my thinnest pillow, listening to the hourly updates – and especially the recap of the highs, lows and other trivia which appeared just after midnight. In those days, they actually had people stuck somewhere in suburban Romeoville, broadcasting 1- and 2- minute chunks of data. Nowadays, it is only voices with the electronic charm of a Speak and Spell, though it is worth pointing out that the electronic voices sound eerily like those that I grew up with – two men (one gruff, one timid) and a woman of about 40.
The Sears Roebuck black box now sits in my bathroom, and I often shower and shave to the Speak and Spell musings. It is the one piece of equipment that has not fried out quickly. In fact, it’s just as good as it ever was, 22 odd years later.
Over the weekend, I listened intently to my Speak and Spell friends (“tem-per-a-ture-at-O-Hare-Air-Port, 66”), making silent note of the fact that the cities west of Illinois were 20 degrees cooler than, say, the reading at Detroit. An hour later, I could nearly visualize the drift of the cold front by the dozen cities mentioned in the temperature chunk o’ data as it sauntered into town and degrees began to fall.
On Sunday, we had our last performance at Second City, and the sky was mercilessly grey and disinterested – which, combined with the holiday weekend, led to much discussion of whether (weather?) or not we would even perform that night. As it turns out, we did, and closed in wonderful style, to nearly a packed house. I must confess that I corpsed (broke character, usually with a laugh) more on Sunday than on any night that I’ve been with the Clowns. But it was fine… there was, I sensed, a collective sigh of relief that we wouldn’t be performing ‘1-900-GET-NUNN’, ‘Seth and Bramble and the All-Encompassing Mirror Sunglasses’ or ‘Every Time You Cry God Kills a Puppy’ for a while. Perhaps even ever.
I’m still split on whether (weather?) I want to continue the Clowns. I’m not sure the others would go on if I were to quit, either, which may be a bit too bold to think about. The group has survived with only one original member – me – from the first show, and I’ve yet to convince any member that the Clowns could be a ticket to bigger and better things. Of course, it probably only could be such a ticket if some of them put more effort into the group instead of the millions of other projects that entice them. This is not to say I resent them for it; indeed, opportunities are opportunities. However, if I were to carry the same this-will-do-for-now attitude into my projects, I’m quite sure nothing would ever happen. Perhaps if I do continue, I will put an age limit on those I work with. Must be 30-40. But then that’s not all true, as Sarah, one of the newbies, is positively brilliant and I do want to work with her repeatedly.
Now if only the mental landscape was subject to fronts, highs and lows that came like weather patterns. It’s sometimes difficult to have the four seasons existing at the same time in one’s heart.
Precipitation is expected,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
