tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082065354049554192024-02-06T22:15:38.291-06:00CMICHAELCOOKfrightening fictionC. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-74096149868249389852023-12-14T08:37:00.007-06:002023-12-14T08:44:51.549-06:00Dream Theater: Emotional Fallout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIQ0b7IIqyGktYrKtlLSc8bEpJd56vjWRuhHL9PkKCB3yHGN9M9tzB83iY4YW6Gg2VMMJkykVc2kUEzQiaIQWyik-1iRTTOlaKtCE0WsBooaAXyKZvujIUF6puXPeEquAXh29Nv3lRcp8HgmAt953y0Ux1L_M3Ldl92kQC2Xt56FUd4Ea6jb1XyXo-jwr/s2048/292489612_466358782160104_6236756274170607083_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIQ0b7IIqyGktYrKtlLSc8bEpJd56vjWRuhHL9PkKCB3yHGN9M9tzB83iY4YW6Gg2VMMJkykVc2kUEzQiaIQWyik-1iRTTOlaKtCE0WsBooaAXyKZvujIUF6puXPeEquAXh29Nv3lRcp8HgmAt953y0Ux1L_M3Ldl92kQC2Xt56FUd4Ea6jb1XyXo-jwr/s320/292489612_466358782160104_6236756274170607083_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My friend Jill O____ has been in a country-western band since... well, forever, really.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And from time to time through the years, they've gone on tour. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So it wasn't a complete surprise to find out they were in Madison, except that I didn't know anything about it. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Still, somehow, I was able to catch their show. But Jill was so busy setting up, and performing, and then tearing things down afterward that we couldn't spend any time together. We didn't even get a chance to say hello. And then they were gone, on to the next gig.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Life on the road ain't easy. There are plenty of country-western songs that will tell you so.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The next morning I found myself on the University of Wisconsin campus, at an office inside the student center.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a busy place, with lots of people milling around and standing in lines, talking among themselves. What were they all doing here? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's when I saw a sign on the wall, hastily written in thick black marker. It said there would be a meeting that afternoon to support "anyone who experienced emotional fallout from last night's musical act."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My first thought was, "Huh. That's very Madison." My second was, "I wonder if they'll let me attend?"</span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-87309080212870071872023-11-15T13:48:00.002-06:002023-11-15T13:49:21.009-06:00"The Night Crier" on The Strange Recital<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULmM8MT6vYU5e7sjgm9r7BYQ8RwLCMCpeWjWLSVyh4DLwEH3RZPwATRWCQh4RcyisQZPstTnkT0UI59SaGk8GqMLtoIwhWq0AXOxbZcCaWaitNOT1h1dMiYH9k6gf7u1S-BPItvj5CX7y7O3tAPpKJzS8V8HKzsBs5NssMrhTVeDNVxeiy2XPbGBzx1BA/s711/Screenshot%202023-11-14%20125804.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="711" data-original-width="611" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiULmM8MT6vYU5e7sjgm9r7BYQ8RwLCMCpeWjWLSVyh4DLwEH3RZPwATRWCQh4RcyisQZPstTnkT0UI59SaGk8GqMLtoIwhWq0AXOxbZcCaWaitNOT1h1dMiYH9k6gf7u1S-BPItvj5CX7y7O3tAPpKJzS8V8HKzsBs5NssMrhTVeDNVxeiy2XPbGBzx1BA/s320/Screenshot%202023-11-14%20125804.png" width="275" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For those who enjoy the weird and uncanny, <a href="http://www.thestrangerecital.com" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">The Strange Recital</a> podcast is a wonderful listen. Brent Robison and Tom Newton have been supporting short fiction--and creating thoughtful, immersive audio treatments of short stories--for over seven years. Their specialty? "Fiction that questions the nature of reality."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I've been an admirer of theirs for many years now, which makes me especially happy to announce that my short story, "<a href="https://thestrangerecital.libsyn.com/the-night-crier" target="_blank">The Night Crier</a>," has just been released on their platform. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>The Strange Recital </i>describes it this way: "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202020;">A man can't sleep. He's alone in the night. What is that sound, forever repeating from the dark woods? It has to be silenced at all costs."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Please give it--and their many other episodes--a listen. I promise, it will be listening minutes well spent.</span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-89233207391414032822023-09-18T12:53:00.001-05:002023-09-21T11:58:44.706-05:00Dream Theater: Let Them Eat Cake!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1532nfAYrkSTJYMAiSeKD4gLOsZaxOyjGThbbcRwilQnD6vtv_1W5I8duxXAGAPqCEjmE2vyAU2GfSZHnxSU5kGWljCG9jBYg59DiFNFnkGGt9WjPvVJP1ycrjSo_g48xMm0sImsM9cJ4nSqqb1Dadxqhzspf50eM2y64BHE9SNQXhlRfgRMja5M70ov2/s1500/Cake.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1500" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1532nfAYrkSTJYMAiSeKD4gLOsZaxOyjGThbbcRwilQnD6vtv_1W5I8duxXAGAPqCEjmE2vyAU2GfSZHnxSU5kGWljCG9jBYg59DiFNFnkGGt9WjPvVJP1ycrjSo_g48xMm0sImsM9cJ4nSqqb1Dadxqhzspf50eM2y64BHE9SNQXhlRfgRMja5M70ov2/s320/Cake.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from DelectablyMine.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Oprah Winfrey was hosting a televised song-and-dance spectacular dedicated to getting Americans to eat more cake.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The irony of this wasn't lost on me.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That being said, however, I have to admit I was impressed with Oprah's performance. She was singing and dancing and changing in and out of fabulous costumes like she'd been tutored by Beyonce herself. Which may indeed have been the case.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But as I watched this all from home, as more and more celebrities took to the stage to encourage greater cake consumption among ordinary people, I found myself growing more and more furious.</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Didn't <i>they</i> see the irony in all of this? Weren't they the least bit concerned about how this multimillion dollar television special might be received by the rest of us? Were they that out of touch?</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I decided I was going to write a blog post about it, and put it up right here. I was going to take them all down, <i>Onion</i>-style.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span>Several headline ideas had already occurred to me. </span></span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Among them: </span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Wealthy Assholes Demand You Spend More Money on Cake."</span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"Celebrities Solve World Crises With More Cake."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">"1% Says More Cake is Key to 99%'s Happiness."</span> </span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-73775504108405861862023-08-18T12:59:00.000-05:002023-08-18T12:59:02.733-05:00Dream Theater: The Knitting Group<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXBaSfpy3P3hpt2ej5Xam_4kEcVChgtpBmDsYaiWjA0u937UyPAwD8BptpGtdZDrUmTf7flPRanDefG_5Rs7y1K2p-gQZatTeRlUf65EF6ILDMpCn6q_nvNv7J9Zn6GJtIX55x8sL6y1__qPL4VBpnVzzAa2aYDx2zsFrJWww0jbKPTZGULkCX0yUoBhE/s800/signature-stiletto-tip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="800" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXBaSfpy3P3hpt2ej5Xam_4kEcVChgtpBmDsYaiWjA0u937UyPAwD8BptpGtdZDrUmTf7flPRanDefG_5Rs7y1K2p-gQZatTeRlUf65EF6ILDMpCn6q_nvNv7J9Zn6GJtIX55x8sL6y1__qPL4VBpnVzzAa2aYDx2zsFrJWww0jbKPTZGULkCX0yUoBhE/s320/signature-stiletto-tip.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from KnittingNeedleGuide.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">J____ and I moved to Madison late last year. We're still in search of new friends (sometimes I fear that we always will be) and so we decided to join a knitting group. It seemed like it might be worth a try. "Fibers, fun<span> </span><u>and more</u>!" the notice said.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The meeting was in someone's house. Everyone there was excited to have two newcomers show up. There were men and women, all ages, all smart and funny, and very welcoming. I had a great feeling about this new group of people. Maybe we'd finally found what we were looking for. There was a lot of animated conversation among us, because they were still waiting for one person to show up.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I never caught her name, but from what I gathered she was the one that everybody looks forward to seeing. The center around which everyone else revolves. She possessed some really outstanding skills, they said. She'd done some incredible things. Her talents went far beyond just knitting.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then suddenly, she was there. An older woman, with short gray hair, and tattoos peeking out from her sleeves and collar. Her face was deeply lined from a lifetime spent in the sun. A closer look revealed a number of small, circular scars running up and down her hands and neck and face.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Because we were new, she was going to formally welcome us both, one at a time. I would go first.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone else circled around us, she and I facing each other in the middle. She rolled up her sleeves, exposing more tattoos and more of those strange circular scars. In one hand she held a bunch of knitting needles, all sizes and colors, which she began pushing through her skin. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">First the length of one arm and then the other. Then her neck and cheeks, in one side and out the other. There was no blood; she showed no sign of pain. If anything, the process seemed to be bringing her some kind of joy. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When she was spiked like an Indian fakir, I noticed that her face had changed. It had grown smoother and the deep wrinkles had disappeared, so that she resembled the woman she must have been many years ago. That was when she produced a large crochet needle. She pushed it into the hollow of her throat until the skin gave way, then hooked it into the wound where it could dangle back and forth. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm not the sort of person to put much faith in mysterious rituals or their results. But this group of new people obviously did. Despite my horror at what was happening right in front of me I felt it was important to play along, to pretend I believe in things like channeling spirits and reaching out into the beyond in order to bring back something strange.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">By then the group had drawn closer around us, so that only a few inches separated the woman and me. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She opened her mouth, showing the crisscross of needles inside, and then she began to speak. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She told me I'd come from Chicago without a purpose. She said I hadn't been happy there and wouldn't be here either. There was a darkness all around and inside of me. It was too late for a new start or even some kind of change. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She kept talking, pushing me past the point of playing along, past the edges of my comfort zone, past the point of no return.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I told her to stop, and when she didn't I shouted. The room grew quiet. The wrinkles returned to her previously smooth face. And I knew for certain that for a moment she truly had been someone--or something--else. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"We're getting out of here, J____," I said. But J____ was nowhere to be found. Somewhere along the way he'd slipped out, leaving me both alone and completely surrounded at the same time. </span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-40169500202051082062023-07-30T11:05:00.002-05:002023-07-30T11:21:38.050-05:00Dream Theater: The Comedy Convention<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03nmydQqbngNBC0R8QFjlugYHMDsMT_Pxh1umpjmi2Vie8ZDTjc81Gu5xdSL2QL31xdr5JiZMVXIywHdbdfLKuR8jbj0jufwS9aNsxnYLC_SnK0XBf7Pk67-CaC0JC8mEXw15yq_YC_z4BB6Z23stuBp0X4RWIldIo9rJdre4YkxfQZhzsyKfmSVx-Zje/s788/Improv.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="788" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh03nmydQqbngNBC0R8QFjlugYHMDsMT_Pxh1umpjmi2Vie8ZDTjc81Gu5xdSL2QL31xdr5JiZMVXIywHdbdfLKuR8jbj0jufwS9aNsxnYLC_SnK0XBf7Pk67-CaC0JC8mEXw15yq_YC_z4BB6Z23stuBp0X4RWIldIo9rJdre4YkxfQZhzsyKfmSVx-Zje/s320/Improv.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Thrillist.com/Doug Roberts/iO Chicago</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">There was this big comedy convention in Chicago, with classes and shows and lots of funny people. And I was in some of those shows, and really killing it as the comedians like to say.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I hadn't been doing improv long, but I was showing a lot of promise. It came easily, just being a slightly exaggerated version of myself. People were loving it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And as it turned out, Ted B____ was there, too.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We'd been roommates shortly after I finished college. Ted was one of the funniest people I ever knew. But he could also be trouble. He was an admitted pathologic liar and sometimes petty thief, whose biggest talent might just have been getting whatever it was he wanted.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So while I was surprised and happy to see him--it had been a long time--I was also wary. And as it soon turned out, with good reason.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"I need $20," he said. He'd come here to see me, he said, and now he was out of cash. Surely I had it on me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I told him no. I doubted he really needed the money, and if he did, chances are it wasn't for a good reason. When he persisted, I sent him away.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Besides, my next show was coming up shortly.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I got to the theater a lot of famous funny women were there. Tina Fey. Amy Poehler. Kristin Wiig. And Karen Y____, a mutual friend of Ted and I, who'd made somewhat of a name for herself in Chicago entertainment as well.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I said hello to Karen, who I hadn't seen in many years. I told her I'd seen Ted not too long ago.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">She just looked at me with this strange blank expression, so I continued, telling her about Ted wanting money, and wasn't that just like him?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"Ted's not here," she finally said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"He is," I told her. "You didn't know? You haven't seen him yet?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">"He can't be here," Karen said. "Ted's been dead for over twenty years."</span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-40555736740482178952023-06-05T15:41:00.002-05:002023-06-05T17:00:28.406-05:00Dream Theater: A Visit with D____ and W____<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaTPTAy1-Gmq9lbrVRYh5fl-Cb3J9YaP6UERntjPSuYZ6m67LnhlPRMfhLwx46CPdH85P8O76DVnAquPZiclGVdTAmZXjuMfZzdqakE8iOrMJ-zfy3fHzFrXJlZZcdoTC3kQMe8Tk75Oas-vELs3zGwKp3TC2q2-eY_hDpVg0g2sxtoMsM3_9LS8gvQ/s597/Futon.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="597" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivaTPTAy1-Gmq9lbrVRYh5fl-Cb3J9YaP6UERntjPSuYZ6m67LnhlPRMfhLwx46CPdH85P8O76DVnAquPZiclGVdTAmZXjuMfZzdqakE8iOrMJ-zfy3fHzFrXJlZZcdoTC3kQMe8Tk75Oas-vELs3zGwKp3TC2q2-eY_hDpVg0g2sxtoMsM3_9LS8gvQ/s320/Futon.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Wayfair.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My first job in Chicago, after moving there from college, was at a small furniture store that specialized in futons.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The store was owned by D____ and managed by W____, two good-looking gay men in their thirties. D____ was tall, dark and swarthy; W____ was shorter with long blond hair and almost pretty. Were they a couple? Perhaps. Probably. No one else who worked there could or would confirm it one way or the other. But looking back all these years later they almost certainly were. I was much younger then, just a few months away from Iowa, and still naïve.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">D____ could be a bit of bully and had a habit of picking fights. When he did, he would say the most vicious and humiliating things. I wish I could remember some examples, but it's been so long ago and I have a tendency to block out unpleasant memories. I do recall the word "failure" being used a lot. Sometimes in a teasing way, more often as a condemnation. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>W____ was D____'s favorite target, but anyone at the store would do if he wasn't around. </span><span>I worked at the store for about eight months, but everyone knew I had my heart set on becoming an ad copywriter. During that time D____ became increasingly abusive toward me. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>One afternoon </span><span>I decided I'd finally had enough. (Most likely, I'd been thinking about it for quite a while, wondering what I was doing there when I really wanted something else.) So rather than meekly taking what D____ was dishing out--as I'd seen W____ do so many times before--I fought back. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>The particulars are forgotten except for how it ended. D____ said he was paying me more than I was worth. I shot back, "You can't afford to pay me what I'm worth." And with that, I walked out, </span><span>fueled by a blind belief that something better was waiting for me. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The seed for this was likely planted by an astrologer I'd consulted with several times during my college years, who said to me, "As a Capricorn, I will only tell you this once: there will come a time when you'll have to leave everything behind in order to get what you want. Don't be afraid." Over the course of my life this has become a combination escape hatch and self-destruct mechanism.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As fortune would have it, a month or so later I found a freelance copywriting position with a catalog company, writing film summaries for a company that sold VHS tapes by mail. It paid $9.00 an hour, a significant raise from what I'd been making. I remember feeling as though I'd finally made it, and being very proud of my work. As I said earlier, I was young and still very naïve. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Many years later I stopped in at the futon store. I needed to replace the futon that was serving as a sofa in my apartment, but if the opportunity arose I also wanted to let D____ know that I'd done okay. That I wasn't a failure.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>D____ was working at the counter that day. </span><span>He greeted me warmly and even reminisced some about my days at the store without animosity. </span><span>A photo of W____ looked down from a spot on the wall, and I learned that he had recently died of AIDS. D____ was also visibly ill.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I bought my futon and scheduled the delivery and wished him well. But rather than feeling any kind of vindication or triumph, I left shaken and saddened. There were no anti-retroviral therapies back then, and none of the hope they would later provide.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Since then I've often wondered if D____'s cruelty hadn't been, at least in part, his way of encouraging me to move on toward what I really wanted and was supposed to be doing. I don't mean to excuse or justify bad behavior, but there are times I feel as though he gave me the motivation to make a change that otherwise might have taken me much longer or not have happened at all.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So after all this preamble you might be wondering, where's the dream? </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Here.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I found myself visiting D____ and W____ at their home. They were living in a beautiful high-rise condo, all deep colors and dramatic lighting, with one of the most stunning views of the Chicago skyline I'd never seen. It seemed as though the whole city was at our feet, sparkling in the night like stars on the ground. On one wall a giant photo of Oprah Winfrey smiled out at us, and I had the impression that D____ had been associated with Oprah in her early days. (As it turned out, I would spend several years of my career working for her.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>They were both older than I remembered, and bemoaning some of the health problems typical of aging, but were otherwise fine and happy and doing well. Even though I'd played a very small part in their collective story, t</span><span>hey treated me like an old friend who'd returned after a long time away. I was comforted by this improbable reunion, and their welcoming presence, and the fact that they were still together after so many years.</span></span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-9152027753346465312023-05-23T12:28:00.003-05:002023-05-23T12:32:50.800-05:00Dream Theater: Heavy Hitters<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkupteB8Flloogi3Kl5A7N5_u75jlf41sNTIzcPfh1fKyYXdJ76Hg6DNaCJfeT8e3i5SKqlB1Gdr48HnlftuE9THm0qW5lOwhGoQoE-q_uhGVyzplI0Nqk_pesJtylHs57O50v4XpVs3lc7hjo0r-mUaRgNM2PReEo66kUyuBYv-dwhlFAhzmlW821Q/s560/0728.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="560" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkupteB8Flloogi3Kl5A7N5_u75jlf41sNTIzcPfh1fKyYXdJ76Hg6DNaCJfeT8e3i5SKqlB1Gdr48HnlftuE9THm0qW5lOwhGoQoE-q_uhGVyzplI0Nqk_pesJtylHs57O50v4XpVs3lc7hjo0r-mUaRgNM2PReEo66kUyuBYv-dwhlFAhzmlW821Q/s320/0728.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from nkcpa.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had a new job, working for the biggest asshole in the company.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Each week, on Friday at 4:30, he'd scheduled a regular meeting for his entire team. Of course, attendance was mandatory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was Friday, 4:25, and I had no idea where the meeting was actually taking place.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A lot of people were already leaving for the weekend, but his admins were still at their desks, beaten-down looks on their faces. None of them knew where he was or where the meeting was happening.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But somehow, with just seconds to spare, I found the room and walked in.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone around the table is a heavy hitter. Charlize Theron. Ben Affleck. Viola Davis. Javier Bardem. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And as I take a seat I think to myself, "Is this a new job, or a movie about a new job?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My boss--our boss--is someone I've never seen before. I look at the serious faces surrounding me and decide to take the bull by the horns. I launch into a speech.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I believe in treating people with kindness and respect," I say, hoping to nip in the bud any problems with this guy or my coworkers. "And if they don't do the same to me, it's always because of one reason: fear."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Some of them shift in their chairs. Maybe they're surprised, or interested, or uncomfortable. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"I know what I can do, and I know what it's worth," I tell them. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"And I always know where I can find another place to do it."</span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-85774556318682847582023-04-23T12:10:00.004-05:002023-04-23T12:10:57.522-05:00Dream Theater: John Oates LIVE! in Concert<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9wnkKIERLg5dJsr81s-teOdjZuw-yoSf_-v8e-ea7R-fsQThEwMsTaewEUWppND96uxnXhzkWysSkd86b3U5oU4cZ6F9DWEJ8ZpnM9KdJRHKfEkbR_5yU6O8rPNvlci3xtoxLc-TUTlmxxT_rSnuCJ-bLx4v5fZ9do-XBe94HRgaL-E9OD9UatRFGA/s575/John%20Oates%20Aspen%20TImes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="575" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx9wnkKIERLg5dJsr81s-teOdjZuw-yoSf_-v8e-ea7R-fsQThEwMsTaewEUWppND96uxnXhzkWysSkd86b3U5oU4cZ6F9DWEJ8ZpnM9KdJRHKfEkbR_5yU6O8rPNvlci3xtoxLc-TUTlmxxT_rSnuCJ-bLx4v5fZ9do-XBe94HRgaL-E9OD9UatRFGA/s320/John%20Oates%20Aspen%20TImes.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from AspenTimes.com</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A group of us were going to see John Oates perform in Chicago. I didn't know any of them. We'd won the tickets through a sweepstakes or something. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">John wasn't appearing with Darryl Hall. But he was still going to play all the hits. It was expected that the audience would sing all the vocal parts. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We'd gathered outside the stage door, in an alley where the El tracks rumbled overhead. Everyone was dressed up for the occasion. Some in their '80s outfits, others just in nice clothes. Except for me. All I had on was a t-shirt and jeans. But that wasn't the only reason I felt self-conscious.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There were pimples all over my body. Crawling out of my shirt collar, from inside the sleeves of my shirt. The urge to pick and pop them was nearly irresistible, but there was nowhere private I could go. We were waiting to meet John Oates, to go backstage and spend a few minutes with him before the show.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The door opened and everyone rushed to get inside. But I hung back. I didn't want John Oates to see me this way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We filed into a dark space, not quite backstage, nowhere near the dressing rooms. Then John Oates appeared and a wave of excitement rippled through our little crowd. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">John shook hands and talked with everyone and smiled while they took selfies. He seemed to be enjoying himself as much as the people in our group.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Then he made an announcement. John said that unfortunately, the promoters had made a mistake. There wouldn't be enough room for all of us at the front of the stage. Someone would have to watch the show from the wings, away from the rest of our group, separate from the audience and crowds.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I raised my hand, and that seemed to settle it. Everyone else followed John to the stage. I stood watching, waiting for the show to start, deciding how long I would stay, how soon I could slip out and head back home.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-42909762043905809512023-04-07T11:33:00.002-05:002023-04-07T11:37:31.206-05:00Dream Theater: The Home of Sister Rose<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0senLodR1g5wa41_tb5w3iAkc_Rc5DB0fnQajq6uj8DzE0p6ecYjKuZIDNSqbqXdwbNexnC2-v2dla_a-smGw0xEROS5ub6bmJpkUBy0-CJU9XtCLNyp_XVgNM5i6eINibhrnMSYq02Jv_WzrVcHpcbgWeyUOFz-Uc5f3LrN9cdW5VKU0qpq9xn7l0Q" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1540" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj0senLodR1g5wa41_tb5w3iAkc_Rc5DB0fnQajq6uj8DzE0p6ecYjKuZIDNSqbqXdwbNexnC2-v2dla_a-smGw0xEROS5ub6bmJpkUBy0-CJU9XtCLNyp_XVgNM5i6eINibhrnMSYq02Jv_WzrVcHpcbgWeyUOFz-Uc5f3LrN9cdW5VKU0qpq9xn7l0Q" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by carrollcountycomet.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a simple proposition: one day off work at the ad agency in exchange for one day volunteering at the place of my choice.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So I ended up at a convent, offering to clean the home of an elderly nun named Sister Rose, who'd been in the hospital with an unnamed illness but would be returning soon.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">For years Sister Rose had lived in a run-down brick building of three or four stories--the kind of place with bodegas and no-name electronics stores on the ground floor and dark, airless apartments above.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Her home was just two rooms, one in front of the other, with an impossibly small bathroom off to the side. And as it turned out, Sister Rose was a hoarder.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the living room, two mis-matched sofas faced each other, surrounded by stacks of books, magazines and newspapers. In the bedroom, one dresser after another lined the walls, their drawers filled with clothes and documents, their tops covered with whatever could no longer fit inside. In the bathroom, green mold covered the tub, the toilet and the front of the sink. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I looked around, trying to figure out where to start and how to finish the job in a single day. That's when I realized the sofas were classic mid-century designs. The dressers were by Heywood-Wakefield, Kent Coffey, Lane and Paul McCobb, each worth thousands of dollars.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Somehow, Sister Rose had amassed a small fortune in modern furniture, all of it donated to the convent over the years. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's when Mother Superior Justine arrived to check on my progress. She was younger than I expected, with a stern, thin face that peered at me from within the folds of her black habit. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I tried to explain what I'd found--how valuable the furniture was, how much Sister Rose had collected, and finally, how it would be impossible for me to complete the work.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">She said nothing, but her withering look told me she'd seen this all before. I wasn't the first ad agency person who'd come here hoping for an easy day outside the office. </span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-69244385212426245152023-03-14T13:48:00.003-05:002023-03-14T13:48:35.276-05:00Dream Theater: My Pet Elephant<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLR8T1A355KWtAw-ZrWgMFpp4W0EOaQG5Yj8ZCF16USUJlSZcISUAwZ6U1zkn0oo_m-n-RsucfmDBf3GglTAPZXhRDn1PuxcPAZUIE2w6zd2bau8ySKje_iCo1mS42DkuZEuBWQnImDPrkINcYoNGtCiqnONZzHC9kSvA0cyLcjXnt9l60nEU8lrq2IQ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="947" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjLR8T1A355KWtAw-ZrWgMFpp4W0EOaQG5Yj8ZCF16USUJlSZcISUAwZ6U1zkn0oo_m-n-RsucfmDBf3GglTAPZXhRDn1PuxcPAZUIE2w6zd2bau8ySKje_iCo1mS42DkuZEuBWQnImDPrkINcYoNGtCiqnONZzHC9kSvA0cyLcjXnt9l60nEU8lrq2IQ" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from AnimalAreas.com</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;">In the beginning he was cute, the way all baby things are. Stumbling uncertainly on his little feet. Exploring everything with the tip of his trunk. Naturally I fell in love.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I brought him home to a one-bedroom apartment and did my best to make him comfortable. I put a bed in one corner of the living room, with hay on the floor, and peanuts in the shell, and a water bowl big as a bathroom sink.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing he did was small. There was no such thing as a minor puddle or pile in the house. Things were often knocked over and broken. The neighbors complained about the noise and smell. But he was mine and I was his, and I wanted to make this work. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Of course he grew. As he did, so did the problems. For a while I tried to hide them, and hide from them. I said things like "It's not that bad" and "Eventually he'll learn." I promised that we'd both be better. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But then I realized that he'd become too big. Too big to move from room to room, or down the hall and out of the front door. He was stuck. We both were.</span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-76037637809717816432021-01-18T17:58:00.001-06:002021-01-18T17:58:42.513-06:00Dream Theater: An Understandable Choice<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjd0U19yXWaDt3KOS21ANA9cED8XIgLbbxmggp4GSZNnn7BXe_ixUDhFeJGo3D1e_ZxBNG99V5-39a6c_83N-2VcKD69Mzi5x5DS0KuYWn59CHPeS2pNzZWBx7Dr-Oiir69meKN0hGFP0Z/s840/Greta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="840" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjd0U19yXWaDt3KOS21ANA9cED8XIgLbbxmggp4GSZNnn7BXe_ixUDhFeJGo3D1e_ZxBNG99V5-39a6c_83N-2VcKD69Mzi5x5DS0KuYWn59CHPeS2pNzZWBx7Dr-Oiir69meKN0hGFP0Z/w400-h266/Greta.jpg" title="Photo from LATimes.com" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from LATimes.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Greta Thunberg had started smoking. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Everywhere she went. Each time she appeared. It didn't matter if it was allowed or not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">This was her new protest against continued inaction on climate change.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And a way of saying she no longer had a future.</span></p><p><br /></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-66805124425579349072020-12-07T11:16:00.003-06:002020-12-07T11:33:14.922-06:00Dream Theater: Let's Play Soap Opera<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ18k5JpYRq9JDSKsLkikChvgfHpt6Pc0QkOcfcn8GfAFtefXryvHUVwjww79zbRiiMiAEE-KxUlFgc5GLQDBJSxOfEwzQz8wBlf4AtbeqeMcejhPs2NhG70sc1jzJeXykLqXCyetDX04M/s1200/StLouis.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="790" data-original-width="1200" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ18k5JpYRq9JDSKsLkikChvgfHpt6Pc0QkOcfcn8GfAFtefXryvHUVwjww79zbRiiMiAEE-KxUlFgc5GLQDBJSxOfEwzQz8wBlf4AtbeqeMcejhPs2NhG70sc1jzJeXykLqXCyetDX04M/w400-h264/StLouis.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from STLToday.com</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div data-en-clipboard="true" data-pm-slice="0 0 []"><span style="font-size: medium;">I moved to St. Louis with nothing but my bicycle. Because I'd been in Chicago far too long. Because I wanted an adventure. Because I thought I could handle it. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I found a room in a house with a bunch of other people. A single mother in her twenties. A bored gay couple close to my age. An older woman. And two mean cats. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They liked to drink and play a game called Soap Opera, which consisted of them saying the most cruel and hateful things to each other. Some were true, others weren't. Sometimes their angry fights were genuine, sometimes they were just pretending. I was never quite sure when they were playing the game.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">St. Louis was lonely, even for a staunch introvert like me. These were the only people I knew in the entire city, so I did my best to fit in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One evening, just a few weeks after I moved in, the outrage and shouting drove me out of the house. Everyone thought this was hilarious. I got on my bike and left. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But of course I didn't know my way around. I passed a grocery store, a series of small office buildings, and a shopping center with fast-food restaurants I didn't recognize. Eventually I found myself at the riverfront, wondering what I was going to do.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I could go back to the house and stay in my room as much as possible. I could find some sort of a job and save my money. I could find a new place to live and start over yet again. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Or I could go back to Chicago. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">So I started to pedal, knowing only that I needed to head north. I'd been in St. Louis long enough. It would be an adventure. I thought I could handle it.</span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-59222877077619920002020-11-16T11:30:00.003-06:002020-11-16T11:31:37.676-06:00Dream Theater: Visiting the S____ Family<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPC2et51EBuXPc44dvHWyAecaDmUEezznKJPN5BUA9f_yKrSa04ha4SeZ7KqDwTG3k-2WDqsQ74e1H340OtxsGG3ZkpyWWFldsIhyphenhyphen5Ub8vZ3xD_IZZwblQr2jVLi6UgnsvTpwLSHBwZKpb/s500/Bungalow.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPC2et51EBuXPc44dvHWyAecaDmUEezznKJPN5BUA9f_yKrSa04ha4SeZ7KqDwTG3k-2WDqsQ74e1H340OtxsGG3ZkpyWWFldsIhyphenhyphen5Ub8vZ3xD_IZZwblQr2jVLi6UgnsvTpwLSHBwZKpb/w400-h266/Bungalow.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from MrTreeServices.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I rode my bike to to the S____'s. They'd moved since the last time I'd seen them, and were living in a big bungalow-style home on a corner lot with a big tree in the front yard.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Their daughter J____ was there, looking down onto the street from a treehouse high above. She was so much older than the last time I'd seen her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">G____ was sitting on the porch, reading a book and drinking coffee. She saw me as I rolled into view, and greeted me with a look that said there was no point in walking up the stairs and saying hello.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">M____ was nearby, sitting with a group of their new neighbors, so engaged in conversation with them that he didn't even notice me. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I wondered why I'd made the trip, and what I'd hoped to accomplish with such a sudden appearance. </span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-5770937089077693462020-11-11T09:10:00.000-06:002020-11-11T09:10:02.591-06:00Dream Theater: Temporary Exterminator<p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKb4nWcpjzyRJ5HxiL4GhikO9gTR8ykurCyR9Nfl64yBfuNTFwnhRsgquMOZF0B9ir5eq0sIBeJrULxjksSZNVUB84kNTHQo23UJ8kVYuveHM9xV7Rzut0kDfo194Jnagj1SxmOOSTtrHa/s364/Vinyl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="364" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKb4nWcpjzyRJ5HxiL4GhikO9gTR8ykurCyR9Nfl64yBfuNTFwnhRsgquMOZF0B9ir5eq0sIBeJrULxjksSZNVUB84kNTHQo23UJ8kVYuveHM9xV7Rzut0kDfo194Jnagj1SxmOOSTtrHa/w400-h395/Vinyl.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from TheWeekendCountryGirl.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div data-en-clipboard="true" data-pm-slice="0 0 []"><span style="font-size: medium;">I went back to my hometown of Knoxville, Iowa for a short while, to work as an exterminator. I had a list of homes to inspect and, if necessary, place poison and traps.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The first was on the far east side of town, an apartment in one of several run-down buildings. The tenants were home and turned out to be a surprisingly young and attractive man and woman. They didn't seem like the type to be living in that kind of an apartment in a town like Knoxville. I was tempted to ask if they were happy there and if they had plans to eventually leave.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They lead me around a warren of small rooms, each with a different color and kind of linoleum on the floor that gave the place a jumbled, disorganized feel. What little furniture I saw was worn and obviously second-hand. The walls were bare and in need of fresh paint. There was no TV or other electronics. It occurred to me they were probably just starting out, and this was their first place together.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">We ended up in the living room. A mattress occupied the middle of the floor, and on it a second couple was having vigorous sex, oblivious to our presence. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The first couple acted as though this sort of thing happened all the time, and stood there waiting to explain who I was and why I was there. I waited, too, watching the action before me and feeling a bit perverted, but also admiring the energy with which young people--particularly young men--can fuck.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">And then I was examining the perimeter of the room, looking for the telltale signs of insect and rodent infestations. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But there was nothing. No holes or gaps in the walls or floorboards, no mouse droppings scattered like black grains of rice. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There was nothing I could do for them. I thanked them for their time, apologized for the interruption, and went on to my second stop.</span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-55352610291793428522020-11-10T09:23:00.002-06:002020-11-10T09:25:47.371-06:00Dream Theater: Library Makeup<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzm3elAadu5a0caoGH1qkSXZ9gXaUDc4ssbJo7aksZ7U2nxuodT_zU8Ya1SxME5HYvJap1FSg62ud6OaRM8sATviF4rL-oZGOI9XZ8PzcKbVwsuWTvFnckK3_xEO-iS6oZhaCtwkLifYK/s2048/Makeup.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="2048" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzm3elAadu5a0caoGH1qkSXZ9gXaUDc4ssbJo7aksZ7U2nxuodT_zU8Ya1SxME5HYvJap1FSg62ud6OaRM8sATviF4rL-oZGOI9XZ8PzcKbVwsuWTvFnckK3_xEO-iS6oZhaCtwkLifYK/w400-h265/Makeup.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from More.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <div><span style="font-size: medium;">You could check out makeup from the public library.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This is something I discovered purely by accident, when I wandered into the back. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">There were shelves and shelves of it in baskets and bins, organized by type. Concealers in one group, eye shadows in another, lipsticks of every possible shade, endless tubes of mascara. Foundations and powders, brow pencils and contour sticks.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The majority of it was in pretty bad shape.</span><br /></div></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-22587761906249283922020-11-09T10:21:00.001-06:002020-11-09T10:21:27.534-06:00Dream Theater: A Body in the Tub<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICp3Cz31YlXSa9N7WFfkabXAPsbSjIAToax0tb8aSjUNxHbacXP8Zp9eINEX3DFZwGT2NxXsUIphWdzbzeE-BRTlmbEy5uKw_2uvVgeH0-aSBw9FS5pcCziFGZmbAbC9WCFGVNClaE6vS/s2048/Tub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Photo from SeattlePI.com" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICp3Cz31YlXSa9N7WFfkabXAPsbSjIAToax0tb8aSjUNxHbacXP8Zp9eINEX3DFZwGT2NxXsUIphWdzbzeE-BRTlmbEy5uKw_2uvVgeH0-aSBw9FS5pcCziFGZmbAbC9WCFGVNClaE6vS/w400-h400/Tub.jpg" title="Photo from SeattlePI.com" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from SeattlePI.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was back in the house where I grew up, in the middle of the night.</span></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I woke up in my bedroom and had to go to the bathroom, so I walked down the hall in the dark, knowing exactly where the door was.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I turned on the light, there was a body floating in several inches of water. Not a complete body, but one that appeared to be in the midst of being formed.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Where the head should have been there was only a fleshy stem, much longer and thinner than a neck. Similar half-formed growths took the place of the arms and legs. The torso itself was smooth, and a raw-looking pink as though several layers of skin still needed to be added.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">As in so many other dreams, I tried to shout, to wake up everyone else in the house so they could see what I'd found. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But my mouth wouldn't open, and no sound came out. And as I continued trying to make some kind of noise, the body began to stir, sloshing around, trying to pull itself out of the tub.</span></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-64006049112281904262020-10-07T18:56:00.003-05:002020-10-07T18:56:40.576-05:00Dream Theater: A Night at the Trumps'<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijEbGvJumCu08qF3TSz6Oh6LCIfVrISJazzHFgI7SPTKsTsCiH78XpXmid0Mv8H3Rvaq3p9zIiP5g9VBG0gT5ppjmMpQ7CKQHRqs0V42v14Kd-EBRHNQtLSU_miUVz6vaFQj11GZLw245/s601/donald-trump--z.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="545" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijEbGvJumCu08qF3TSz6Oh6LCIfVrISJazzHFgI7SPTKsTsCiH78XpXmid0Mv8H3Rvaq3p9zIiP5g9VBG0gT5ppjmMpQ7CKQHRqs0V42v14Kd-EBRHNQtLSU_miUVz6vaFQj11GZLw245/w363-h400/donald-trump--z.jpg" width="363" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from HelloMagazine.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">How I was invited to dinner and a sleepover at one of the Trump estates is a mystery. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But there I was, greeting them at the front door of a '70s-era split-level, decorated in blue and green and gold filigree, badly in need of an update and some TLC.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It would just be Donald and Melania and me that night. Ivanka and Jared couldn't join us. Donald, Jr. and Kimberly Guilfoyle were busy with work of their own. As were Eric and Lara. Barron was in his room. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That modest split-level turned out to be a deception. It actually stood guard in front of a surprisingly large estate, with a number of cabins tucked into thick woods, connected by a winding path. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The accommodations were fine. Far from luxurious (the decor here smacked of the eighties' worst) but comfortable enough for one night. I did notice that the Trumps had used all available storage for their own purposes. The bedroom closet was crammed with Donald's and the kids' old winter coats and vests; their cast-off shirts and sweaters filled the chest of drawers nearby. Naturally, they were only the best brands.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It occurred to me that if I found something I liked and it fit, I could take it with no one being the wiser.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A knock at the door interrupted me. It was Donald, stopping by to ask if everything was okay. Without being asked, he came right in and sat down, and I sat across from him. This was the first time I'd actually seen him up close. I couldn't help but notice a line around his face, one that might have indicated the presence of a mask, and behind that a thick clear fluid, like some kind of adhesive, quickly and sloppily applied.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I told Donald Trump everything was fine and that I looked forward to dinner with him and Melania. I complimented him on the estate, its size and style. I had the distinct impression he somehow knew I was not a Trump supporter and did not wish him well.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">He started talking, about what I can't even remember. Because his mouth was leaking more of that clear liquid. It was spilling out, dropping of it hanging from strings and ropes of the stuff, pooling on the table in front of him. If he noticed, he didn't give any indication.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">That's when I knew I wouldn't be staying the night, or for dinner, or any longer at all. I grabbed my phone, excused myself, and left the cabin. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The cell phone reception was terrible. Sometimes I could get a bar, sometimes not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And somehow I had to get out of there without anyone noticing.</span></p>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-23040341097418315502020-09-17T10:45:00.002-05:002020-09-17T10:46:13.259-05:00Dream Theater: Out of My League<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40FiSecwewQSzG7v_BxXcWUx_XBeSi8uGZ8JIdMir6bi7kFAJ-m69tYP05bwt636lFkZxGF__ygoFGDkALS9x0uDTpA7JmwP-EMNKtj3FhrgfM7gZKxnaDqnwHu3foRTRtGBy1Gzyf1re/s600/R-2199886-1269429498.jpeg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg40FiSecwewQSzG7v_BxXcWUx_XBeSi8uGZ8JIdMir6bi7kFAJ-m69tYP05bwt636lFkZxGF__ygoFGDkALS9x0uDTpA7JmwP-EMNKtj3FhrgfM7gZKxnaDqnwHu3foRTRtGBy1Gzyf1re/w400-h400/R-2199886-1269429498.jpeg.jpg" title="Image from Discogs.com" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from Discogs.com<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div>I was dating someone younger, better-looking and richer than me. He was even friends with Taylor Swift.</div><div><br /></div><div>We'd been an item for many months. Long enough for me to meet all of his friends and feel like I'd become part of the group. And long enough for something in the relationship to change.</div><div><br /></div><div>The change was simple: the ardor between us had cooled. Put more simply: the sex wasn't as good or as frequent as it had been at the beginning.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanksgiving and the holidays were fast approaching, a time when we would be meeting each others' families and exchanging gifts with deeper meanings than mere material possessions. </div><div><br /></div><div>We planned a party, and all his friends were there. Even Taylor Swift. I mingled and spoke with everyone, drinking and laughing, fully aware that I had an ulterior motive. I wanted to secure my place with these people, in the hope that it would also secure my relationship with this young, good-looking and wealthy man.</div><div><br /></div><div>At one point he found me in the crowd, and led me to a quiet room somewhere inside an enormous house. He said that from here on out we were going to be "just friends." Our love affair was over. It had been over for some time. It would not return.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wandered back out into the party, dazed and a little drunk. All his friends looked at me with somber and pitying looks. One of them said that everyone had entered their contact information on a Google spreadsheet, so that I could keep in touch with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You mean, everyone knew this was going to happen?" I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, they said. And this was my going-away party.</div></span></span>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-33820425718636823472020-06-25T18:44:00.004-05:002020-06-25T18:49:43.612-05:00Dream Theater: The Costume Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4H9WJ6Ckp3Ud7dWxXmlOgXCNTQKgM6YEDiBJhqETrZWD2vp-xHur80so9xCZ8Zb3bAUDC1pSspOYpm2n9K5Q85Y4cLwRAbDkOOpfE1JZ7AbH_cpDvqnZ2XIs9jzUvgpuV5mrVEfj0W2yz/s500/Costume+Party.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photo from Rebloggy.com." border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="500" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4H9WJ6Ckp3Ud7dWxXmlOgXCNTQKgM6YEDiBJhqETrZWD2vp-xHur80so9xCZ8Zb3bAUDC1pSspOYpm2n9K5Q85Y4cLwRAbDkOOpfE1JZ7AbH_cpDvqnZ2XIs9jzUvgpuV5mrVEfj0W2yz/w400-h390/Costume+Party.jpg" title="Photo from Rebloggy.com." width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><font face="arial" size="5">Covid-19 was finally over. The world was in the mood to celebrate. So my college friend, Mark M_____, threw a summer costume party. </font><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">I hadn't seen Mark in over 20 years, and felt lucky to be invited. He lived in a large apartment, in a house on top of a hill. I arrived early, to help him get things ready.</font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">It was obvious he'd lived there for a long time. Every room was filled with antiques and vintage objects--Pyrex bowls and serving ware, old cans and boxes of soup and cereal, framed posters and prints, DVDs and CDs, LPs and 45s. </font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">But instead of helping I was making a terrible mess. Every time I reached for something in a cabinet or on a shelf I'd knock something else over. </font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">Guests began arriving. Bridget K_____ wore something truly remarkable. She was dressed as Cindy Sherman, the photographer who takes self-portraits as a variety of characters. It was such a clever, fascinating idea. Her makeup and clothes were so well done. What amazed me most is that her costume changed, morphing from one iconic look to another every time I looked away. </font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">More guests showed up. I saw people I hadn't even thought of in a long time. The music grew louder. We danced until Mark's apartment began swaying like a boat riding waves. Walls cracked. Windows broke. And understandably, Mark was upset about the damage. </font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">I ran out the back and into the alley, where police were waiting. Someone had been shot, they said, somewhere nearby. They asked if I knew of any clubs or gangs in the area, and didn't believe me when I told them no. I barely got away from them.</font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial" size="5">By that point the sun was rising. It was going to be one of those brilliant Chicago summer days. And I had to be at work.</font></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-87129514619870303042020-06-06T16:21:00.001-05:002020-06-06T16:21:29.735-05:00Dream Theater: The Titanic Mall<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBOIfKVKSYUgEfOqF6IK6s8dW92BOKiLr0PBHz-8EnKGZFVczRSY1Y88N0bQT0aqMUKyTGZ4nZAwxCD-hxCelLOX6ozoorZhOlXCeN8FGO5ml4UpswLiJwv6zH_P0OcIDcVu-jHNjuv6R/s555/Titanic+Mall.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Photo from Agoda.com" border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="555" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnBOIfKVKSYUgEfOqF6IK6s8dW92BOKiLr0PBHz-8EnKGZFVczRSY1Y88N0bQT0aqMUKyTGZ4nZAwxCD-hxCelLOX6ozoorZhOlXCeN8FGO5ml4UpswLiJwv6zH_P0OcIDcVu-jHNjuv6R/w400-h272/Titanic+Mall.png" title="Photo from Agoda.com" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><font face="arial" size="2">Photo from Agoda.com</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">My family was on vacation, driving home from wherever we'd been. Just my mother, my sister and me. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">We stopped along the Jersey coast. A sign for the Titanic Mall had caught our eye and we decided to visit. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">After parking the car we climbed a long and worn exterior stairway that ended in a single steel door. Inside we found a cramped hallway extending before us, partially flooded but still crowded with customers. We walked to the edge of the water, thinking it strange that there were more tiny restaurants and cafes than stores. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">My mother and sister were already tired so we sat down at a table. They weren't interested in seeing more so I decided to explore on my own. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">The stores were small and strange, poorly stocked and peopled with workers in early 20th-century costumes who didn't seem interested in selling anything or even answering questions. The elevators were odd as well. Only one person was allowed at a time, and they stopped barely long enough to let their passengers on and off. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">I pushed the button for the floor below and walked out into an underwater wonderland. The area was vast, covered by an enormous expanse of glass. Above it, ocean waves swelled and crashed while "My Heart Will Go On" played over and over from unseen speakers. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">This was the attraction, and I texted my mother and sister to tell them so. But there was no signal underwater, despite how close we were to the shore. I went back to the elevators, and as I waited to board one I saw something terrifying through the glass doors. The car was filled with water, and inside a man struggled to free himself before he drowned. </font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4"><br /></font></div><div style="text-align: left;"><font face="arial" size="4">Somehow I understood this wasn't real, but only a special effect, a projection. Just part of the fun and excitement of visiting the Titanic Mall.</font></div></div></div>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-57191213843220455512020-06-01T12:11:00.003-05:002020-06-02T17:54:41.151-05:00Dream Theater: Mary Tyler Moore Works in HR<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCslUbeD-_O3pC_KJolXLDZZoCzBybsInriIECUyyTNwTJl6p4V1nHlW3VukS7wXwRv9VwMixGXa-oGqq5oKYRyXUBUOTbEjFKgKbC16CZQ74sU4Lc8hSnD2N-3BGZFIVLy6o8ij7sjHC/s1600/MTM.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="712" data-original-width="534" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqCslUbeD-_O3pC_KJolXLDZZoCzBybsInriIECUyyTNwTJl6p4V1nHlW3VukS7wXwRv9VwMixGXa-oGqq5oKYRyXUBUOTbEjFKgKbC16CZQ74sU4Lc8hSnD2N-3BGZFIVLy6o8ij7sjHC/s400/MTM.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;">Photo from 1310news.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On the 29th floor of a skyscraper, in a city that wasn't Chicago, I'd started a new job. And Mary Tyler Moore worked there in the Human Resources department.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'd been a fan since her eponymous show and was in awe of her. After her success on television, it was hard to believe that she'd ended up in this no-name company. But fortunes change so quickly in entertainment and there she was, sitting behind a desk piled high with papers and forms, smiling her famous Mary Tyler Moore smile.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course she was popular with all my coworkers, and it was clear she had her favorites. I wanted desperately to be among them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I began making excuses to drop by HR. To clear up a minor matter in person that could have been resolved by email. To ask a question about something I should have known. To find excuses just to say hello.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I knew I was trying to ingratiate myself with her. And I could tell Mary knew it, too. Yet she never let her irritation show. Not much, at least.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One Friday afternoon, after just such a visit, I went to the restroom before returning to my desk. Before I could finish, Mary walked in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She walked past me as I stood at the sink without saying a word, went into the last stall, and closed the door behind her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This wasn't an interaction I intended or even wanted. It was too personal, too intrusive, too embarrassing for both her and me. My attempts to get to know her had taken me to a place beyond politeness and propriety. I'd gone one step too far.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Now, Mary Tyler Moore was going to the bathroom just a few feet away. And I could tell, based on the sounds coming from the stall, that she was impatiently waiting for me to leave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I left the restroom, my face burning. I got into the elevator, praying that no one else had seen. I went down to lobby and walked out of the building into the cold dark afternoon of a Friday in winter, without my coat or bag.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How could I return to work on Monday, I wondered, and face her the next time we met? Maybe, I thought, it would be best if I didn't go back at all.</span></div>
C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-60006601142019013832020-05-07T14:29:00.001-05:002020-05-07T14:29:45.756-05:00Dream Theater: Breathing and Not Breathing<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2X53qIHF2d64YJ6TCHDtgdM2EEMXRgdTiRrUm5sG7ASicK5ZYyQOPe3ICGW_YgKNej0_G_mmfkrYeEsxzYASSfncMDAknZFkncsrom4hvARU9YPIS7HQgyVoQ0azVBO53nah4zDtvCcPG/s1600/breathing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="823" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2X53qIHF2d64YJ6TCHDtgdM2EEMXRgdTiRrUm5sG7ASicK5ZYyQOPe3ICGW_YgKNej0_G_mmfkrYeEsxzYASSfncMDAknZFkncsrom4hvARU9YPIS7HQgyVoQ0azVBO53nah4zDtvCcPG/s320/breathing.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from MyEdgeCharlotte.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">I couldn't breathe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Or rather, I could breathe, but it wasn't doing me any good. The air had grown too thin, my lungs too small. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I gulped at the air, like a thirsty man eager to drink, and still couldn't catch my breath. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Is this what drowning is like? That moment when you finally give up the struggle and take in that first defeated inhalation of water?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Calm down, I thought.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">Slow and steady, I told myself. Maybe, if you can just stop thinking about it, the feeling will pass. It has to. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I woke, gasping as though I had surfaced from the bottom of deep, dark lake. </span>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-67295002438747843002020-03-31T13:19:00.000-05:002020-05-07T14:30:59.717-05:00Dream Theater: The Office Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Office Party DJ Disasters | Digital DJ Tips" height="213" src="https://cdn.digitaldjtips.com/app/uploads/2012/12/15234135/Over-To-You-Share-Your-Office-Christmas-Party-DJ-Disasters-copy-1204x642.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from digitaldjtips.com.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There'd been a terrible falling out with M_____ and G_____, and I hadn't spoken to them in months. But they lured me back with an email, saying they wanted to see me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I went to their office, only to discover they were throwing a party. Their company had grown so much. Even R_____ J_____, a high school classmate, was working for them now as a private investigator. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Leaving right away wasn't an option, so I played it cool. It was impossible to avoid R_____ J_____ so I said to him, “I know we had a pretty heated argument on Facebook back in 2016, but now I can’t remember exactly what it was about.” We both laughed because he couldn’t remember either. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">After making the rounds I decided to go home. This <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;">was harder than it should have been, though, because I'd collected all this stuff. Extra clothes and receipts, packs of cigarettes and lighters, and keys to two or more cars that belonged to someone else. I couldn't take it with me or leave it behind.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to stay the night, and slept on a sofa in the hall. The next morning I woke up as M_____ was arriving for work. I smiled sheepishly, because he knew I hadn't planned to stay that long.</span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><span style="font-size: large;">But now I had to leave. I’d started college again, in Iowa City, with a full schedule of classes, including one on calculus. Math had always been my weakness. Why had I signed up for something so difficult? </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Over the next few weeks I skipped every calculus class. The deadline to drop it was today. The problem was, I still didn’t know my way around campus. Nothing was how I remembered it. The guidebook in my backpack turned out to be more of a brochure, filled with games and puzzles rather than anything useful. </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%;"><span style="font-size: large;">I stared at it, and eventually figured out the Math department was across the river. When I arrived all the buildings there were just old houses, without signs to tell one from the other. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'd have to search for the main office, wandering in and out of houses and rooms, interrupting classes, embarrassing myself as I asked for directions. Everyone would know, and they'd think to themselves, "There's someone who couldn't cut it."</span></div>
C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-63874520560634170492020-03-03T09:21:00.000-06:002020-03-03T09:22:24.612-06:00Dream Theater: My Hollywood Career<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Image result for hollywood" height="210" src="https://www.heritage.org/sites/default/files/styles/facebook_optimized/public/images/2018-12/hollywood.jpg?itok=j6OUDyHX" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from The Heritage Foundation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My acting career was finally taking off. I'd landed an important supporting role on a TV series. Everything was changing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I was meeting the rest of the cast and crew, in an office filled with neon lights and oversized video screens. Afterward, one of my co-stars took me aside and whispered some upsetting news.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"If you don't lose weight and get in shape quick, they'll write you off the show," he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Later that night, still unhappy about what I'd been told, I found myself at a Hollywood party. A large gold tray appeared, carrying bottles of pills. The guests passed it around, laying down twenties and hundreds in order to take whatever they pleased. <i>This must be how they do it</i>, I thought to myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I needed some advice. I went to M_____ and G_____'s house. It was different than the house they have now. Older, and more full of stuff. J_____, their daughter was there. She was several years older than she is now, and didn't seem very interested in seeing me any more.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Everything was changing. Everything had changed. Everything but me, it seemed.</span><br />
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<br />C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-608206535404955419.post-67891790369084778762019-05-29T10:50:00.001-05:002019-05-29T10:51:48.319-05:00Dream Theater: Total Self Destruction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqQXUTSgH59KsYtQgkbZWBeOYvCIGLuYrA1ZZAAPkLPNpg0yd8hlUMo8OAVhsX6qHmr82pFRCDf9JNyjyQP_JoiSsPoJBrN37nEDrZVzeWHXEpI5C8SanG35gVByWsYiXPx6VtBnL3H_b/s1600/Cast+Out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="807" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHqQXUTSgH59KsYtQgkbZWBeOYvCIGLuYrA1ZZAAPkLPNpg0yd8hlUMo8OAVhsX6qHmr82pFRCDf9JNyjyQP_JoiSsPoJBrN37nEDrZVzeWHXEpI5C8SanG35gVByWsYiXPx6VtBnL3H_b/s400/Cast+Out.jpg" width="322" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It started with something so small. A minor complaint about a procedure at work, something that could be made more efficient or eliminated altogether. It was so meaningless I don't even remember what it was now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I tried explaining that there was a better way, I was ignored. As I worked my way up the corporate ladder, one person after another threatened me with written warnings, disciplinary action, termination.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I should have stopped, but I didn't. And I couldn't stop myself from making it worse. I wouldn't let it go, because I was right. So I kept making trouble, for myself and everyone else.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the higher-ups, upon learning who I was for the first time, commented that perhaps I could improve things by ensuring there were pastries and coffee at her afternoon meetings. Her comment was somehow emblematic of everything I was unhappy about. I told her, "I'm not a secretary."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">No one would listen. Even L_____ A_____ wanted nothing to do with me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I was fired and driven out. Only a few who felt sorry for me would even acknowledge that I was leaving.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There was nothing left to do. I'd taken things too far. There was no going back.</span>C. Michael Cookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11934108952349551277noreply@blogger.com0