I had four personal goals in Chicago: 1. See improv. Chicago's a legendary city for improv, and half of the SNL casts have worked there. The good half. 2. Eat a large portion of Chicago pork. 3. Eat a large portion of Chicago deep dish pizza. I figure those were location specific but at the same time not too touristy. 4. Do my job. Deep moral responsibility to do that; if I didn't do that, Private Label Magazine wouldn't let me on any more trips.
The most exciting part for me would simply be going on the airplane. I hadn't been on a plane in fifteen years. I wasn't scared or anything, but it did seem a little pathetic. I did more traveling than the average migrating bird, but it was all via the car. Spring breaks and improv road trips and caving treks to West Virginia, with all the leg room of a snail shell.
I knew there had been major changes to airplanes since I flew. I was in a dinky 727 last time I went, which seemed small even for an eight year old. Planes had twelve stories and multiple Old Navys now. The one thing I remember about the food was that I flew on Thanksgiving, and so each meal came with a little chocolate shaped like a turkey. Everyone but mine. Dad gave me his. For a third grader, this was like donating a kidney.
My plane, as it turned out, was a shiny freshly painted 727. Newark to Chicago is a routine flight, so all those planes that were built after the Wright brothers stopped hand assembling them are used on longer flights. I had to duck a bit to walk in the aisle, but since no one was sitting next to me, I had plenty of room.
An airplane seat is like a Swiss Army chair. You've got a table, magazine rack, radio, phone, floatation device, light, blanket, pillow and, to my surprise, more leg room than most of my car trips. If I wasn't trapped in a 19th century plane, I might even have a TV or video game. This is all old news to anyone who's been on a plane since 1984, but I'm not in that little sewing circle so just shut your mouth.
Airline food has long been a staple of unimaginative stand up comics. I was expecting Alpo on a stale Triscuit. And whoever cooked my burger decided to put the cheese right next to the foil. But other than that, it was edible. Granted, not much you can do to ruin a bag of chips, but I can honestly say that I enjoyed the airline food. It could just be that I have a non-gourmet palate. Most everything I eat still tastes decent; if I was a food critic, every headline would be Pretty Good Food Here.
I hit the airport, and I was in Chicago. I was technically here before, on a stopover the last time I flew. But an airport counts as being in a city like a morning seminar counts as a business trip. Showing my airport greenness, I spent an hour trying to figure out where the Holiday Inn shuttle picked me up. I also called three or four of the wrong Holiday Inns from the phone bank; Chicago has eight of them, all with different phones.
I checked in, quickly hid the soaps, shampoo, pen, coffee packets and other stuff that they give you every day in hotel rooms, then planned a night. There were other people from work there, so I dragged a guy named JJ to see some legendary Chicago improv. We had two choices: Improv Olympics or Second City. Improv Olympics was cheaper, so we went there. A subway station was right by the hotel, so we quickly figured out the difference between the Blue Line and the Red Line, and were there without incident.
Well, one incident. I found Jesus. He was wearing purple robes, sandals, and carrying a big wooden cross. He was going the other way on the Blue Line, so my time with Jesus was brief.
Improv Olympics was right by Wrigley Field, the last of the neighborhood ballparks. There's this disturbing statue of Harry Carry leading Take Me Out to the Ball Game which looks like he's leading a dozen demons from Hell. So this was why Jesus was going the other way.
After walking up and down the kinda arty restaurant district to find a pizza/pork place, JJ and I gave up and went into a fifties restaurant. Turns out they had ribs on the menu, so I ordered a full rack with a cherry soda, and figured out why this city ate so much of it. Chicago cooks a good pig. The improv was seventeen guys on stage all trying to be the center of attention, but I watched the improv with belt-popping fullness so I enjoyed it more than I probably should.
The next four days we can fast forward. Convention stuff. Walking all day, asking booth runners for promotional materials, shaking hands with endless white men in suits. First time around and it's already routine. Ripping a contact Sunday morning, so going through it all squinty, wishing for a private label monocle. Coming home each night to miss all but the last half hour of Saving Private Ryan. Going to sleep wondering what the ideal Saving Private Ryan/Private Label pun is.
Skip to Wednesday night. My official duties are done, and I've got the night and next morning to Chicago it up. I immediately headed out for Second City, the other improv place. There's no subway station anywhere near the theater that I can find, but the Red Line was a few blocks above, and the Brown Line a few blocks below, so I'll see both scenic subway cars.
Second City was amazing. Dynamite sketches, some long, some short, some barely ten seconds long. Everything ends on a huge upnote, even the improv-ed stuff, which is a skill. Highest possible recommendation for anyone in the Chicago area. Hell, in the time zone.
Walking two inches on a map seems so small. Walking the representational two inches in real life is longer. And it was through the business district, so it was completely deserted. I'm used to walking New York streets, where there's enough people so you feel like veal. But here I was with absolutely no one for blocks, except someone walking about a block behind me. And just a tiny bit quicker than me. Oh crap.
I could hear my personal soundtrack (theme from 1941, with an occasional violin) shift into suspense mode. I knew that muggings took place in populated areas; if you were a scumbag with a knife between captures by Batman, you'd want a steady stream of victims instead of one bewildered guy from New Jersey with a now expired press pass. I was following the elevated tracks down to the first stop, but the tracks just kept going and going with no platform. I was tempted to climb the base of a support structure and walk the remaining distance right on the rails; at least that guy a block behind me would realize I was too stupid to be carrying much money on me. Shared the subway back to the hotel with quiet teenagers from a bible retreat. Jesus sightings spread pretty quick.
Thursday morning I had nothing to do, so I checked out, stored the bags at the hotel, and beelined to the Sears Tower. Touristy, but it was that or hang out at O'Hare. The architecture of Chicago is all visible form the top of the Sears Tower, the highest non-plane place I've ever been in. I really could see Cameron's dad from there. If it was clearer I would have been able to see my old home state of Wisconsin.
I had one last thing on my checklist: deep dish pizza. I assumed Chicago would be like New York, with at least two pizzeria's on each corner, owned by either a Famous or Original Ray. But that appears to be a New York-specific fluke. Every other place in the world, Chicago included, only has a couple per square mile, and not much in the shadow of the Sears Tower.
I eventually found a place a block or two from a high triangular building that, if not for the Tower tour, I would never have guessed was a prison. There's a net over the roof so no one can escape by helicopter. The pizza place was new, and built for just deliveries by its complete lack of tables. Of course they didn't have any deep dish pizza, or even pizza by the slice, so I ordered a dinky personal flat pizza. I could have gotten this out of a microwave. But as Meat Loaf says, two out of three ain't bad.
Coming back, I had a bad flight. It got canceled because of mechanical problems (eek) so I got rescheduled an hour later. I was smushed in the seat right below first class, which has a corkboard divider separating first class and where my legroom would be from the rest of us rabble. The last seats of first class sure weren't using the empty space under their high faluting asses, but it wasn't available for squinty eyed me. And there was someone in the middle seat next to me, so I had the true coach treatment.
As far as exciting times, my Chicago trip was probably pretty dull. No explosions, no love story, not even a private label food fight. But in my mind it was a good use of time at the least, and even adventurous if viewed in the right light and a missing contact. Later this year I've got Las Vegas, Buffalo and New Orleans slated. I can hear the 1941 music rising already.
*Note: My trip to new Orleans got canceled, as did trips to Oregon, Atlantic City, Idaho and San Francisco within a few months of each other. Grumble grumble grumble ...
**Another note: I went again to Chicago November 2000, and since I didn't psych myself up for it, it was a complete bust. I did find deep dish pizza, however. After all my looking, it turned up in the restaurant at the hotel. And it wasn't even all that good. Grumble grumble grumble ...