2008: By The Numbers

Small Wonder - 14 Down, 38 to Go

A few lessons learned from Barbara Kingsolver's collection of sharp, often riveting essays:

1. Effective environmentalism involves co-existing with the land. Knee-jerk advocacy, admonishing us to keep our grubby paws off the rarest, most endangered terra firma, treats ecosystems like museum exhibits and adds distance between us and the land. In the village of Calakmal, homes are built into the forest. Far from encroaching or slashing and burning, villagers are fiercely protective of their backyard.

2. Darwinism can be distilled to four basic principles which any of us could observe unfolding if we look hard enough.

3. The Japanese language does not accommodate insults, only infinite degrees of apology.

4. The shadow of 9/11 has made the U.S., on balance a noble and accomplished nation, sink into a troubling morass of provincialism. History, she believes, will not look kindly on our government's actions in the first four years after the terror attacks.

5. Ms. Kingsolver makes prose writing look easy, but poetry intimidates her.

Schadenfreude Rent Party - 28 Shows Down, 72 to Go

Homegrown comedy troupe Schadenfreude (a German word meaning "taking pleasure in others' misfortunes") started the Rent Party a couple years ago to try out new material, showcase their funny friends, have a good time and, as the title suggests, raise funds so they could keep their rehearsal space. I covered the phenom for Chicagoist, then got roped into participating: as a game show contestant, a Harry Potter lookalike and a competitor in their first annual Media Slam competition. And can you blame me? It was a hell of a lot of fun.

On the bill for the mid-May Rent Party that was Show #28 (yes, yes, I'm behind in blogging shows, not so behind in attending them...) was the Second Annual Alternative Media Slam, a guest appearance by local business celeb Tim Smithe, part-owner and pitchman for the Walter E. Smithe furniture stores (he's the guy on the left up there), a guest reading by funny lady Claire Zulkey, and the short film work of Claire's fiance Steve Delahoyde (including some priceless Clinton campaign metaphors). As at every Rent Party, Schad-ers Justin, Kate, and Sandy cycled through an arsenal of new and familiar eccentrics, from fictitious 53rd Ward Alderman Ed Bus to rocker Lita Ford to "Guy Who Spends Way Too Much on the Costume He'll Wear Waiting In Line for the Hit Summer Action Movie." Adam was back from the West Coast to contribute some bits, including a hilarious send-up of pompous but beloved film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum-- spending his retirement rambling about obscure indie film personalities and bumming food scraps from the audience.

Most of the evening was given over to the troupe's new material and the Media Slam. The material was solid and they were having fun with it, even poking fun at the ocassional half-assed bit. The Slam matched the Red Eye, a free Trib publication, vs. Chicagoist, and Time Out Chicago vs. Gapers Block, with Chicagoist defeating Time Out in the finals (holla!). I'm biased of course (seems more fun from the stage), but the first Slam was more fun. That one was more raucous and raw, hell, they didn't know what to call it really. This year's spectacle was more orderly. They had a DJ playing that Slam (de duh duh, de duh duh...) song after most of the insults. The one-joke limit wasn't enforced, for better and worse. And with the Reader bowing out, we had no real villain. The Red Eye is big media, but we like their team captain Mark. Still, it was fun to watch friends insult friends and friends make friends laugh so hard they shoot beer through their nose... or something less disgusting.

Week 25: 473.5 Miles Down

Each training week gets slightly more challenging, as I up the distance and pace. But it's not like I can push a button and automatically go slightly faster than my 10K pace or 30 seconds slower than my marathon pace. So I've gone by instinct, which is to say, I've gone faster.

The sensational second week:

Tuesday – Getting the hang of running fast and respirating right: 4.5 miles; warm-up, 4 x 2 min. speed bursts, cool-down

Thursday - 6 miles around Logan and Palmer Squares, and the 8:30/mile tempo is completely manageable; 2 miles easy, 2 miles tempo, 2 miles easy. Maybe I should aim higher?

Saturday - Long run at marathon pace + 15 sec = 9:24/mile. I catually went out faster, got even faster in miles 4-6, then held back in the final of my 9 miles, ended up at a 9:18 pace, on a humid morning where the drizzle in the last 1/2 mile was a welcome site.

Week 25: 19.5 miles

YTD: 473.5 miles
On pace for: 990 miles

Each training week gets slightly more challenging, as I up the distance and pace. But it's not like I can push a button and automatically go slightly faster than my 10K pace or 30 seconds slower than my marathon pace. So I've gone by instinct, which is to say, I've gone faster.

The sensational second week:

Tuesday – Getting the hang of running fast and respirating right: 4.5 miles; warm-up, 4 x 2 min. speed bursts, cool-down

YTD: 473.5 miles
On pace for: 990 miles

Late Nite Catechism - 27 Shows Down, 73 to Go

 Its script is solid if not particularly memorable and the set up isn’t all that dramatic, but Late Nite Catechismis a fascinating sociological exercise. This long, long running one-woman show, birthed in Chicago (by my friend Katie’s landlord, hence our attendance last month) and still running strong years later, helps Catholic school survivors and the rest of us make light of a troubling, if occasionally charming, educational system.

 

When the lights go down, we’re all Sister’s pupils. We’re a self-selecting lot. At our performance, the Catholics outnumbered the “publics” around 2 to 1, and they were the most eager to please the ruler-toting nun… or at least the very convincing actress commanding the room. My friend Katie, more than a decade removed from her Confirmation, immediately reverted to the ace student, correcting our misconceptions about the Immaculate Conception (hint: it’s not about sex).  I, two decades removed from my Bar Mitzvah, was singled out for looking down my neighbor’s rather revealing blouse.

 

Once the novelty wears out, we learn about the canonization of Saints, the stages of the afterlife, and tidbits about church hierarchy. It’s a real education, which is to say, it ultimately feels loooong. But there’s plenty of humor, corny yet reassuring to the devout, lapsed and secular.

 

Catechism has spawned two other hits on the same stage, along this same premise: Put the Nuns in Charge and Sunday School Cinema. As long as the Catholic Church has a sense of humor, shows like these will do just fine.

Jimmy Corrigan... - 13 Down, 39 to Go

Every generation of Corrigan men at virtually every stage of their lives has the same face. Whether eight or 80, they look like weathered old men, timidly engaging with the life that's beating them down. Little James was deserted at the Columbian Exposition (expansively jotted by Mr. Ware). Modern-day Jimmy and Jim Sr. barely connect. The younger one toils in a cubicle in downtown Chicago, kept afloat by his daydreams of superheroes and pretty ladies. The elder lives out his days in bad diners and a retirement facility, trying in his own awkward way to bring his scattered family together.

Chris Ware's graphic world in Jimmy Corrigan, The Smartest Kid On Earth, is lonely, socially awkward, tiring and frequently bleak. Long winters, long nights and long shadows lead to anxious mornings and tedious afternoons. His panels are achingly beautiful, from jam-packed narrative sections to slow, pregnant pauses, gliding between wish fulfillment and reality's hard thunk. Consider the many times Jr. and Sr. talk around a subject, Jr. looking down at his meal or his fingernails, Sr. going off on a tangent. Or even how the muted browns of the Corrigans' boarding quarters (c. 1890) gives way to the pea green walls of a 1990s hospital. How the splendor of The Midway, site of a sudden trauma, contrasts with the exurban landscape of phone lines, DQs, and courtyard apartments, site of a slow motion tragedy.

Best of all, Ware rarely has to reach to make a point. Changing landscapes reflect changing lifestyles, technological impact, and evolving development patterns. The early century immigrant story gives way to the late century integration story. Childhood seems a little bit brighter, the pre-War years seem extra sepia-toned. But as palpable as the family conflicts seem, Ware lets us indulge in the Corrigans' sense of awe at what may be and could've been possible. Maybe that caped crusader really can fly...

 

Dreamlandia - 26 Shows Down, 74 to Go

My two immediate reactions to Octavio Solis’s modern magical realist take on life at the US-Mexico border are: 1) the script is bogged down in plot; 2) thank goodness the nonprofit theater system allows an engaging, if flawed, show like this to find an audience, even though that Thursday night audience was less than 20.

 

About that plot—Dreamlandia tracks the uneasy reunion of a fractured family across national borders. Mexican youth cross into the U.S. seeking opportunities, U.S. businessmen establish low-wage factories in Mexico to satisfy the voracious appetites of multinational corporations.  One of the bosses has to keep quiet about his own immigration while a border patrol guard has to keep quiet about his romantic past and estranged, secret family.  A fool and a mystical tour guide, neither of whom are what they seem (but are they ever?), provide diversions, and an animalistic man obsessed with American glamour magazines is a metaphor for imprisonment, cross-cultural and otherwise.

 

The show plays like a telenovela, super dramatic with side dishes of levity.  But at two hours and 45 minutes, it feels drawn out and indulgent. Solis tries to accomplish so much, some ideas work better than others but you get the sense that focusing on two or three stories would have produced a stronger show.  The performances are quite strong, many actors meeting the demands of massive transformations within character or playing both flesh and blood and metaphorical figures.  And I could tell that the small late week crowd drained a bit of their energy.

Week 24: 454 Miles Down

Are you sitting down? Big news: Last week I started training for the Chicago Marathon!  It was a distant possibility when I started this blog, pending good health and strong running in June. Check and check.

I'm using the Furman Institute of Running's "FIRST" Training Program. Only 3 runs per week, each a true workout intended to improve pace. No mileage padding here. Three other days are reserved for cross-training (like the cycling I'd do anyway). Friday's a day of rest.

The program (PDF) throws out terms like PMP and "slightly slower than your 10K race pace", which this pace calculator helped me decipher. Basically, my goal's to run a 4 hour marathon, which requires 9:09/mile or better. (unless I say otherwise, all these pace figures will be time per mile) So my 10K pace is 8:14/mile, the Tuesday "speed bursts" are at a 7:30 pace, my Thursday "tempo" runs are at an 8:30 pace and Saturday is 15-60 seconds slower than planned marathon pace. The challenge is not only increasing your weekend mileage but going progressively faster.

The fantastic first week:

Tuesday – Training begins on a warm summerish evening: 4.5 miles; warm-up, 6 x 1 min. speed bursts, cool-down

Thursday - 6 miles through a busy, indifferent Lakeview; 2 miles easy, 2 miles "tempo", 2 miles easy

Saturday - First long run's an easy one. Good thing too, since they'll only get harder from here. 8 miles, at 9:40 pace, on the type of late spring morning that inspires bad poetry.

Week 24: 18.5 miles

YTD: 454 miles
On pace for: 990 miles

Are you sitting down? Big news: Last week I started training for the Chicago Marathon!  It was a distant possibility when I started this blog, pending good health and strong running in June. Check and check.

I'm using the Furman Institute of Running's "FIRST" Training Program. Only 3 runs per week, each a true workout intended to improve pace. No mileage padding here. Three other days are reserved for cross-training (like the cycling I'd do anyway). Friday's a day of rest.

The program (PDF) throws out terms like PMP and "slightly slower than your 10K race pace", which this pace calculator helped me decipher. Basically, my goal's to run a 4 hour marathon, which requires 9:09/mile or better. (unless I say otherwise, all these pace figures will be time per mile) So my 10K pace is 8:14/mile, the Tuesday "speed bursts" are at a 7:30 pace, my Thursday "tempo" runs are at an 8:30 pace and Saturday is 15-60 seconds slower than planned marathon pace. The challenge is not only increasing your weekend mileage but going progressively faster.

The fantastic first week:

Tuesday – Training begins on a warm summerish evening: 4.5 miles; warm-up, 6 x 1 min. speed bursts, cool-down

YTD: 454 miles
On pace for: 990 miles

Boneyard Prayer - 25 Shows Down, 75 to Go

Describing Boneyard’s plot belies the sheer joy of watching Redmoon's puppetry, artistry and well-oiled ensemble work come alive: Martin, a gravedigger turned alcoholic, is trapped in a real-life purgatory after the death of his infant son spurs his marital estrangement. Shifting between the heaps of graveyard dirt to the protagonists’ sparing, broken home to the sentimental A/V presentation of happier times, the show packs a hell of a lot of invention into an hour.

Maybe it’s these tricks which make the harshest undertones easier to swallow. Puppetry’s always been Redmoon’s bread-and-butter. Here, puppet likenesses shadow Martin and wife, forcing the actors to play their own role while manipulating their glassy eyed, hollow faced, wooden jointed counterparts.  For a few moments, man and machine become one. Martin has a drinking buddy, subtly soused despite the frozen facial expression; his wife has a confidante who can’t hear her. They remember simpler, if not completely happy, times and, in the face of it all, attain a sort of spiritual redemption. A “cheery” ending is rather impossible and, to the writer’s credit, they don’t go there.

Post show, Redmoon invites the audience on the set to examine the apparatuses and puppet handiwork up close. Martin's puppet, so lifelike a few moments prior, fixed his lazy gaze at me as if preparing to hibernate.  With some subtle but precise coaxing, he had wailed, moaned, and passed out rather convincingly. You almost swear the little fella did it himself. Appropriate for a show focused on what becomes possible when we believe.

Carousel - 24 Shows Down, 76 to Go

Carousel is the great comeback story of American musical theater. Rodgers and Hammerstein insist this was their favorite musical collaboration, but Oklahoma is more renowned.  Save "You'll Never Walk Alone," none of the music really stuck. Its most remarkable facet is its tragedy, which was downright risky in 1945 Broadway. 

Fifty years later, the show enjoyed a US tour and became a staple of community theater. The Broadway revival in 2002 hit the perfect note for New York City's "up by the bootstraps" moment.  Court Theatre's production is more intimate than most, in an Equity house of around 200 seats, retaining the Chautauqua feel of its late 19th Century New England setting. Set in a nameless, hardscrabble 'clamming' town where the arrival of the traveling Carousel and its charismatic barker Billy Bigelow spells trouble for the otherwise pure hearted (read: repressed) ladies of the town. His romance with Julie gets her fired and, as he's not exactly family man material, they struggle. When he's not arranging a big score, he's taking his frustrations out on his wife. Following a series of well choreographed numbers at the clambake which opens Act II, Billy's botched criminal scheme gets him killed.

The show loses some steam getting to its transcendent finale, where Billy arrives at Heaven's Gate and receives a Capra-esque chance at tragic and hopeful redemption. He meets the daughter he will never know (from beyond the grave...), then inspires her to move on and rejoin the society which is shunning her. This sounds corny, but it works: at her graduation, she holds her head high and joins the chorus for the rousing finale "You'll Never Walk Alone." So the book is problematic, the music is fun, but the intimate staging and earthy, dynamite performances redeem the production.

23 Shows Down, 77 to Go - Soldiers: The Desert Stand

Soldiers is the kind of show you root for: a locally produced world premiere, staged in a far-off-Loop studio, purporting to be a serious protest of our current engagement in Iraq and a satire of American militarism gone amuck. Alas, that package looks so much better on paper than on stage. Joshua Aaron Weinstein’s script is neither bold nor original enough to cut through the media noise machines to offer trenchant analysis or, for that matter, biting humor. This stuff was timely during the original Desert Storm in 1991, when quick victory and slick Smart Bomb videos pushed stories of military excess far from the front page.

 

Seventeen years later, satires like Weinstein’s are falling from the sky, oozing out the internets, cable programs, and a theater near you. Six years after the new Bush’s new invasion, with thousands of American troops and many more thousands of Iraqi civilians dead, we’re fatigued. Weinstein’s broad strokes don’t begin to address this morass. When gawky pre-teen Toma masters a combat video game, she’s urged to head to her local recruiter and give them a secret code. The hyperactive, socially maladjusted tyke with a mouth like a sailor is, of course, one of the sharpest recruits they’ve seen in a while.  She’s shipped to the desert with the overly juiced Sergeant Dan, stoned slacker Harold, and Martha, an obsolete office worker with by-the-book daddy issues.  Toma leads by default, taking her commands from Sally, leader of the “foolish soldiers” trio who interject mildly amusing but not terribly necessary commentary. After their climactic showdown, we learn they've all been fighting for The United Corporation of the World and that the inspiring text messages of loyal subjects kept our soldiers strong.  For good measure, and no other reason I could discern, the victor straps herself with dynamite and self detonates at the final curtain.

 

This “in joke” of a show might thrive as a viral video, forwarded by Board office workers craving a quick diversion.  But the occasional break from Soldiers’ predictable staging and timid dialogue—an Abu Graib reference, Sgt. Dan’s Top Gun-inspired ramblings and struts— reminds us the company had loftier expectations that simply couldn't be met.