Random Notes, October 2025

 Don't worry, I'm still here. I'm home sick today, so I'm catching up on my to-do list:

+ My new-ish roommate (she moved in last September) depends on SNAP and unemployment benefits. She's a substitute teacher like me, but she's been looking for more substantial work, especially during the summer. She's subbing for CPS at the moment, but with the government shutdown now in its fourth week, she's just barely getting by. It's the usual GOP gaslighting: they control every branch of government, but it's the Democrats' fault; everyone getting government handouts are bums; ACA subsidies don't need to be extended. Somehow Jeffrey Epstein is indirectly involved. The Republicans in Congress are still devoid of ideas; they're just pandering to the president as if their lives depend on it.

+ What's happening in Chicago hasn't directly affected me, but it's still scary. There's been ICE raids all over the area, inching closer to my neighborhood. One day after work my GPS directed me on a detour off 290 through Broadview, where I had the misfortune of driving past the regional ICE facility. I saw news vans, squad cars, and scattered randos; the apparent remnants of a protest. The incessant raids are barely within jurisdiction, terrorizing innocent people without much explanation beyond skin color. The presence of the National Guard to reinforce ICE has been left dangling in the courts, but I fear SCOTUS will eventually side with Trump.

+ My sister screwed up. She conflated our aunt's trust with her estate, and we didn't owe nearly as much money as we thought. We sold the house last September, but we only came out ahead $1,900; the feds thought we cut a much larger profit. The process to refile our taxes (including a corrected K-1 form) dragged on almost all summer, but I think I'm finally squared up with the IRS *and* Illinois Department of Revenue. Regardless, that was over $3,000 I didn't have sitting idly. The mess my aunt left had further ramifications than we thought. 

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Departing the Machine

From 2019 until the middle of last year, I contributed to a satirical newspaper called the Chicago Machine. It was a strictly online entity, a tabloid in the loosest sense, in the vein of The Onion and its countless imitators. Citing lack of interest, the Machine quietly shut down late last year; however, I had several articles and news "briefs" in the Trello queue that never saw the light of day. I'm especially fond of this one. (NOTE: I wrote this nearly a year ago.)

Seven months into hospice care, former U.S. President and humanitarian Jimmy Carter finished the 2023 Chicago Marathon in two hours, 58 minutes. Runners and marathon staff was shocked to see the 99-year-old not only standing on his own two feet, but finished in the middle of the pack in one of the world’s highest-profile foot races. Carter attributed his performance to Jesus and a high-carb diet.

After finishing a post-race Clif bar, Carter said he will fly back down to his hometown of Plains, GA and have “insane sex” with his wife of 77 years, Rosalynn.

I suppose if I have any personal nitpick about this piece, it's that The Onion posted several Carter stories in the wake of his hospice announcement last winter. However, I'll attribute that to parallel thought. 

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Random Notes, May 2023

 What's happening, friends?

+ The COVID-19 pandemic is over, except it's not. It's under enough control that it's not longer considered a major threat. The wave became an undercurrent, where it's been for several months now. I still see students wearing masks, but I don't judge them. I was one of the fortunate few that never tested positive, but I'm still wary of it, and I fear its aftereffects. 

+ Lori Lightfoot's sole term as Chicago's mayor will be remembered as a mixed bag. Her strict mom energy during COVID (and in general) was annoying but well-intentioned, but her accomplishments over the last four years will be undercut by her fractious relationship with the city council, her limp response to a spike in violence and being too empathetic to the CPD. At best, Mayor Lightfoot was a deeply flawed altruist. I can see why Chicago progressives rallied around Brandon Johnson, a relative political novice, as her successor. He didn't inherit a mess necessarily, but there is ample room for improvement. 

+ Speaking of mixed bags, I can see why Joe Biden decided to run for reelection. Trump just keeps adding baggage, and the DeSantis "campaign" is already losing steam. 

+ Hey, here's the short film I shot in Austin! 

Next time: my annual memory list.

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Dispatches from Arm's Length, Part 15

 One damn year. What was supposed to be a few weeks, maybe a couple months has now dragged on for over a year. I'm glad to see vaccinations are accelerating, but the assumption that just because the weather is warmer means relaxing certain protocols is lazy and dangerous. (Remember when people thought the summer heat would kill the virus?) I feel like we're 75% of the way there, yet we're going to be at 75% for a good while. 

I have both of my shots, but I'm still going to wear a mask everywhere. It's common courtesy, if nothing else. People are getting sloppy and inconsistent about mask-wearing here in Chicago and the suburbs, which is as troubling now as it was 12 months ago.

My annual Spring battle with allergies came and went last year with much of an impact, and I think wearing a mask contributed to that. I get hit again in mid-October too, and I had maybe two days of sneezing and nasal drip. I hope against hope that this March and April will be the same. Otherwise, I'll stock up on Claritin.

Next week: my annual baseball preview.

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Dispatches from Arm's Length, Part 1

I am an ambivert. For the unfamiliar, an ambivert is someone who shares traits with introverts and extroverts but doesn't really qualify as either. I find balance in alone time and human interaction, but do neither in excess. On Tuesday the 17th, I only interacted with my roommate and a six-month-old kitten. I did something similar on Thursday the 19th. With all due respect to them, this is gonna suck.

The government has to take most of the blame for failing to address COVID-19 until it was too late. As a society, we also have to take some accountability for not taking this seriously. Shutting down society as we know it is straight out of some young adult novel about a farmgirl who's also an above-average archer. Desperation moves are already happening.

I am mainly a substitute teacher, which have been mostly furloughed as regular educators are forced to teach online. I'm a Lyft driver over the summer, so my backup plan has faltered because no one is traveling or commuting. (Hooray for bailout money?) That's not to say I've been doing the best job at quarantining, either. During the first full week of staying at home, I made three trips back to the west suburbs to get mail, buy supplies, and see the dogs.

The experts say the United States needs to quarantine for at least another month. President Trump, someone who has repeatedly demonstrated a lack of empathy, wants businesses to reopen around Easter (April 12th, for the heathens). People are still getting sick, and efforts to "flatten the curve" are right now in a losing fight. In the meantime, I'm going to try and update everyone on my well-being on this blog three, maybe four times a month until things settle. Wash your hands, and take care.

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An Unintended Hiatus

A lot has happened since my previous dispatch, so much that I've gone nearly a month without writing (a possible record). Rather than go chronologically, I'll sum everything up in order of importance:

On November 5th, I finally moved back to Chicago. I now live in a third-floor walk-up on the northwest side. I hate that it took as long as it did, but it came down to both money and finding the right living situation. At the same time, I am now considerably closer to my social circle and improv shenanigans. My sister will be staying at the parents' house in Downers for the time being, but she intends to get a mortgage and start clearing out by mid-2021.

As some of you know, I'm part of a charitable organization that does short-form improv for sick children in hospitals. We have monthly rehearsals, and at our August session we had an impromptu discussion about gender identity and representation. After rehearsal, a longtime member of the group asked the person (they use they/their pronouns) a follow-up question, partially to clarify. The gender non-conforming person lost their cool, and our new director was forced to intervene.

One thing lead to another, but the guy that asked the question ended up leaving the organization under pressure. Just before he quit, however the GNC person then sent a long-winded email where they called the guy transphobic, implied a boycott of performing of shows, and threatened legal action. It wasn't the organization's intent to let the GNC person go, but that email forced their hand. Emotions are frayed all over, but I hope everyone can get past this ugly incident.

About six weeks ago, I unintentionally mansplained on the status update of a friend's Facebook post. Soon after, a second woman (another Chicago-based comedian) commented to double down. I apologized to both via DM, but the damage was done. I spent that weekend in a shame spiral, augmented by anxiety. Suffice to say,  I fucked up pretty hard.

For now, I suppose I'm hiding in plain sight. My 2019 has been driven by how I connect with people, and how that can be an outward struggle for myself. Being in the Chicago comedy community (improv, stand-up, and otherwise) has become more like a navigation between egos and narcissism. I am perpetually walking on eggshells, especially on social media.

Next Week: my 15th annual Thanks/No Thanks list.

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"Like a Bar Mitzvah That Sucks"

Twenty years ago this week, I was confirmed. Its a Catholic rite of passage, but it was the beginning of the end of my relationship with the church.  I normally avoid delving into religion and spirituality on this blog. (Politics is one thing, a higher being is another.) Additionally, while I have discussed my mother in a mostly flattering light, our relationship was slightly more contentious than I've let on.

My mother, like almost everyone on her side of the family, was devoutly Catholic. It was par for the course for descendants of Polish immigrants, living in the Chicago suburbs. My grandparents' house had a cross on the wall in almost every room. I remember a clay bust of Pope John Paul II (again, Polish) sitting in their dining room, giving me a vaguely creepy glare was I walked past the doorway. My grandmother was the 13th of fourteen kids. My Uncle Jim was an usher at Saturday mass for 20-plus years, and he even went to church on vacation.

My father was nothing like that. His parents were Methodist, but he was an agnostic who only begrudgingly got married in a Catholic church. His contempt for organized religion was reasonable, but I never implicitly said that to either of my parents. Any discussion of spirituality in the household was highly discouraged. It was a mixed blessing that my father was undergoing training in Arizona during my first communion, but he was at work the day my sister had hers four years later.

The whole process was laborious. I had been in CCD since first grade, and eighth grade was all confirmation prep. I was goaded into asking Uncle Jim to be my sponsor, and sitting through the classes and lectures were a chore. There was one all-day session at church, one that was allegedly mandatory, that I got out of because my father objected. Then when the big day came, I was sitting in the middle of a packed church with 200 other uncomfortable eighth graders. It was early May and 80 degrees out, and the AC didn't kick in until 30 minutes into the two-hour mass.

After that, my feigned interest in Catholicism and spirituality further waned. I was confirmed in 1999, and I think my family stopped going to church on the regular around 2002 or '03. The fact that the Catholic child abuse scandal broke out at the same time was a mere coincidence. My mother was skeptical of the allegations, but she felt more and more inclined to sleep in on Sundays (as was I). In the last decade, I've only been to St. Mary's for funerals (including Ma's) and the occasional Easter mass. I tell people I'm a lapsed Catholic. At least I know I'm not the only one.

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RIP The Gorilla Tango Theater

This past Monday, the Gorilla Tango shuttered it doors. By default the best entertainment venue in Bucktown, GTT was known mostly for burlesque. It doubled as an art gallery and a playhouse, but I was acquainted and associated with GTT by improv.  I spent three seasons with the Improv Zoo coached ensemble program that Kristi McKay ran in 2012-13, and made my first leap into producing there with a variety show in October 2013.

Like a lot of people, I have mixed feelings about Gorilla Tango's demise. On one hand, I met Dan Anderson during my last season with the Improv Zoo, and Flower Shop Bangers owes its existence to a happenstance show at GTT. On the other hand, it was rather expensive to produce a show in the space (I was convinced by a flyer at the ticket desk) and "The Allard Programme" lost so much money, it took me almost two years to pay it off. Considering who assisted me with getting the show off the ground --mostly good friends, but some acquaintances too-- it was both a learning experience and a mild embarrassment.

The last time I set foot in GTT was about six months ago. I tagged along with my girlfriend Marissa and our pal Aaron to see a "Back to the Future" -themed burlesque show. These type of shows were what kept the lights on, and even though they were well-received the tickets were ridiculously expensive. They were known to sell out too, but this particular performance of "Boobs to the Future" sold maybe 12 tickets. At one point, the dancers did a bit where they begged audience members for donations. I didn't realize they were legitimately asking for tips. Rumors of apparent financial issues were going from a mumble to a holler.

The photo taken above was from the third of the four "Allard Programme" shows I hosted and produced. I only sold eight total tickets in the first two shows, so I promised that if we sold out the theater for week three, I would host part of the show in my junior high gym uniform. We fell way short of my goal, but I twirled around in my old gym suit anyway. C'est la vie.

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Boom Boom Ticker

When it comes to health issues, my mother has never taken the simple route. When Rush Medical Center in downtown Chicago called my sister and I to inform us that my mother was ready to check out, we were a little confused. Her condition was stable, but we concurred that she needed a few more days to convalesce and be observed. It was a Saturday afternoon, so traffic from the west suburbs wasn't horrible; my mother was relatively quiet for most of the ride. When we came home, however she immediately complained of abdominal pain and dizziness. When Carafate and a glass of 2% milk didn't do the trick, my sister called 911. She was rushed to the local hospital, and within hours landed right back in the Rush ICU.

As I write this my mother has been in the hospital for 22 days, including her 2 1/2 "layover" at home. She ended up having another heart surgery two days after she was readmitted, and a minor procedure to adjust the brain stent two days after that. After that last procedure, she made it adamantly clear that she wanted no more surgery, even though she wasn't out of the woods just yet. Her doctors believe that one of her aorta stents is leaking and needs an adjustment, and everyone (including myself) believes one more procedure would be necessary. My mother, stubborn to a fault, is reluctant to weigh the option.

So what happens now? On Saturday morning, my sister and I will meet with my mother's team to discuss how to move forward. If my mother continues to refuse, she has about a year to reconsider; otherwise, the aorta leak could potentially kill her. Please stay tuned, and keep my family in your thoughts.

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The Curious Case of the Tetchy Talent

A couple of weeks ago a small, independently owned Chicago performance space --a "storefront theater," if you will-- shuttered after allegations came to light regarding the treatment of a former contributor and player. This happened less than a year after another performance space shut down shop because of egregious abuse of its actors and crew. I have nothing but respect for the people that were brave enough to be vocal about what had happened, and I believe the management of these establishments deserved what was coming to them.

These two incidents, both valuable learning experiences in how not to run an artistic venue of any shape or size, reminded me of an awkward scenario that occurred this past September. Even though I don't think I did anything wrong, I felt the need to come clean about an altercation of sorts I had with another performer:

About once a month, I send out a feeler to potential acts for the show. There was a comedian/actress I was acquainted with that was doing solo material; I was going to ask if she was interested in testing material in our show, I hadn't seen her on social media recently. I had an email address, and that was it. I sent it out with a few other candidates, and within an hour I received this reply:

Stu--I am not interested in a professional or interpersonal relationship. Please respect this and don't contact me again.

I was baffled by this reply, as was Dan my business partner, who shares the account. Dan's most educated guess was that she was weirded out because I had her email. In the time that I had been acquainted with this actress (less than four years) I had never said or done anything to suggest going out on a date, nor considered doing so. I vaguely recall sending her a LinkedIn request earlier in the year, one in a binge of potential professional connections. I never considered that I have been blocked on Facebook and Twitter, without a semblance of an idea as to her rationale for doing so.

I've only been in a handful of situations before where I had some sort of falling out with other members of the Chicago comedy community. I can think of one or two scenarios where personalities clashed, but in the other cases it stemmed from miscommunication. I make a valiant effort to treat my peers as equals, and I have never been in a situation in my eight years of performing improv where I intentionally burned bridges. I attest to my social awkwardness, but no acts of malice or deceit. When it comes to booking acts, however I go in with relatively modest expectations.

As for the actress, if she doesn't want to build connections with certain members of the Chicago comedy community, then that's her decision.  If she goes on to alienate other producers and performers, than my part was a small and passive one. I might be one of many or a very singular case, I'm not sure. If I've lost one performer, than I still have a litany of comedians, improvisers, writers, and dancers whom I can still reach out to.  This community is a rich and wonderful group, and I'm proud to be part of it regardless.

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The St. Patrick's Day Massacre

This March 17th marks a dubious anniversary, one that doesn’t necessarily affect me in a direct way, but summarizes the foibles of working extensively as a temp. Since my first assignment over five years ago, I’ve had positive and negative experiences, jobs that fit my skills perfectly balanced out by jobs that were total mismatches. I’ve had at least one experience that started out well and very gradually went sour.  I have seen both disarray and machine-like precision. However, nothing quite compared to a five-month assignment that I had during the spring and summer of last year:

In early March, 2015 my agency offered me an assignment with a company called RevMD Partners. As their web site succinctly explains, RevMD is a subsidiary company that handles accounts receivable for ambulance service claims. (At the time, they handled Rural Metro, but more on that later.) I would be doing billing for the company’s regional office in Westmont, IL, in a corporate suite down the street from my parents’ house. I was looking for a temp position that was both geographically closer to Chicago (one town east, close enough) and offered a temp-to-hire opportunity. I said yes, and my contact told me to show up Tuesday morning.

I arrived at the office at 8:30 sharp to meet the management in a conference room. The interior of the building looked like a fairly ordinary office: beige walls, thin carpet, a large maze of drab cubicles. After a short tour, I discovered that this wouldn’t be the building I would work in. We walked across the corporate park to an adjacent building, where the entire billing department was housed. It was recently acquired following a company expansion and it showed: computers on picnic tables, yellow “do not cross” tape over exposed wires between desks, paper placards with employees’ names taped to their monitors. There were somewhere between 80 and 90 people in one giant room, with all the desks facing a curved side of tinted panel windows.

The first thing that struck me was how diverse the department was. Of approximately 85 people, only six or seven were male. The women in the office were overwhelmingly African-American, ranging in age from 20 to 60, and mostly from the west and south sides of Chicago. With a handful of exceptions, the billing staff were temps like me; a handful of preexisting RevMD employees transferred from the one office to the other, mere weeks before I arrived. Open-ended assignment or not, there had already been some turnover in the temp ranks. Also, the company was family-owned; Joe, our manager, was nephew of the company’s founder and CFO.

Jazz (not her real name), the woman who trained me, had only been there a month. She was in her early 20s, had a bachelor's in communications (like me), but she was still looking for her first permanent gig after college. She was also a short-timer; tentatively, she was moving to LA in early April to pursue a career as an actress/model. I sat between her and Fifi (again, not her real name) a woman about 10 years my senior. Where Jazz was somewhat gregarious, Fifi was taciturn and laser-focused on her work. I struggled with certain aspects of the data entry, so I ended up sitting in with a second woman two sections over for a day or two.

I soon discovered that this office was heavy on “street smarts” and agonizingly low on “book smarts.” Joe the manager graduated (I think) from Northern Illinois University, a decent school but not exactly Northwestern or UChicago. The majority of the staff either had an associate’s or just a high school diploma. I’m this instance, I’m not necessarily saying “street smarts” in a derogatory way; imagine you had a basketball team, and your starting five were purely offensive players. They can shoot and pass the ball, but someone still has to block shots and rebound. There was a vast chasm between thinking with your gut and applying rigorous, well-reasoned solutions, one that sometimes felt insurmountable.

On my third day in the office, Joe concluded the morning announcements by mentioning that several members of the staff had been arguing with each other, and some feuds had developed in the office. Joe warned everyone to leave their drama at the door and put more focus on your work. Additionally, he mentioned that at least one person in the office refused to wash their hands after using the bathroom, and because so many people complained, he implored the staff to use proper hygiene. I was aware of an undercurrent of drama, but chose not to participate or listen to any gossip; the second complaint, however made me chortle. Unfortunately, these same two bullet points kept coming up during the morning announcements, and it got to a point where Joe threatened to bring a “hygiene instructor” that would perform a mandatory presentation. Joe only suggested dismissing temps as a last resort.

I had a pre-scheduled day off on March 17th, my two-week anniversary. I let my agency know that I had to drive my father to a doctor’s appointment, and confirmed the personal day with Joe. When I returned on March 18th, there was a new sort of tension in the air. During his morning address, Joe said that yesterday was “just a really bad day” and that it shouldn’t deter us from doing our work, and mentioned that nine people had been pulled from their assignment. I know until an hour or so later that Jazz and my second trainer were among the dismissed. Of course, Fifi didn’t feel inclined to comment.

During my afternoon break, I asked some of the other women in the office what had happened. With great trepidation, and in no particular order, they explained what happened on March 17th. A fistfight broke out between at least four women in the lunchroom, including my second trainer. The woman who was accused (or at least, thought she was accused) of poor hygiene trashed one of the ladies’ washrooms and may or may have smeared feces on the mirrors. Jazz called out Joe for not being more proactive about the various conflicts in the office, had a meltdown on the floor, called half the women in the office a cunt, and was escorted out of the building by security.  After all that, a woman in the office who was seven months pregnant went into false labor, forcing Joe to call 911.

Upon getting the whole story, my representative and her associate came into the office and held a closed-door meeting with other temps from my agency. They wanted to assure everyone that yesterday was an anomaly, and that if we felt our work space as at risk again for any reason that we should reach out. The next few days went by without much incident. The pregnant woman came back to the office on Thursday the 19th, went on maternity leave a month later, then decided to stay at home with child. By the end of the next week, about a half-dozen people quit, partially because of the hostile work environment, and also likely due to the feckless management. A week after that, Fifi left work early and never came back.

A handful of people were either brought aboard permanently or promoted to team leader positions. Some worked hard to earn the extra responsibility, while others were thrust into the position because because certain tasks had to be delineated (myself included). The inexperience was often transparent, and the people that knew what to do were overwhelmed. Another round of new people came in, and by mid-May there had been at least 50% turnover from when I started. In mid-June that was another round of firings triggered by a new wave of drama, mostly petty squabbles. There were trainees in the office almost every Monday. By early August there had been 90% turnover since March.

At about that time, we found out that RevMD and Rural Metro had been bought out by a larger, more prominent ambulance service. They promised that the entire staff would be made into permanent employees, and that they would move the office to larger, much nicer location. I perceived it as the latest in a long line of empty promises, but for the sake of my own job, I kept my mouth shut. A few days later, after my shift had ended I got a phone call from my agency; they were pulling me from the assignment. It confirmed what I had suspected: the management liked me, but didn’t necessarily “love” me. After staying in touch with a handful of other RevMD temps and employees, I found that the near-constant hiring and firings continued, and that there was a massive layoff in January 2016. To the best of my knowledge, Joe is still there.

In the interim, I’ve had other temp positions, all short-term. I feel more content substitute teaching, a field that I stumbled into after college. It wasn’t the field I pursued, but I find it far more fulfilling than in a lowly temp position. When summer break starts, I’ll likely find another short-term temp opportunity, something to keep me afloat until mid-August. Temping offers consistency, but the room for achievement and advancement is minuscule. And yet, I still can’t quite live down those five crazy months at RevMD (and I’m only telling you part of the story). Some things just aren’t worth a good paycheck.

What's the Frequency, Stuart?

First of all, my belated thanks to everyone who extended their condolences a few weeks ago. My family is moving on, and we appreciate the positive thoughts.

Secondly, I really haven't had a chance to explain what I've been doing or working on recently. At the moment, I'm focusing on substitute teaching; I'm considering going back to school for a secondary education degree. Right now I'm eligible to sub in about 40% of the districts in my area; a full teaching license on top of a sub license would give me full eligibility. A full-time teaching position wouldn't be bad, either.

Thirdly, I'm in a bunch of shows this month. My improv duo Flower Shop Bangers is playing the Second City in Chicago for the first time tonight at 10pm, and again next Saturday. Additionally, I'm still writing and producing; I'm hosting another "Power Couples of Improv" show on March 21, and I'm working on a solo sketch revue. If you're in or near Chicago, I hope you check out at least one of these shows.

Next Week: the story of the St. Patrick's Day Massacre.

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MadFunnyWomen

My career in the radio industry ended in April 2010. During my time in radio, I noticed an unspoken yet obvious pattern of gender bias; with the exception of my college radio station at Illinois State, the overwhelming majority of my former co-workers were white males, and the on-air talent was 80 to 90% male. Less then a year after I was replaced I wrote “Pushing Air,” a comedy pilot based loosely on my experiences in the industry. One of the protagonists in my pilot was Rachel, the marketing director of a cluster of stations owned by a media conglomerate in a major Midwestern city. Rachel was the voice of reason, but stifled by an overbearing programming director; she was overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated, and because of a weak economy, stuck in a job that was beneath her tremendous skillset. That is not to say that Rachel was alone or isolated. The men in the office were frat boys with type-A personalities. The handful of women that were in the office were all just as miserable as she was. A culture of sexual harassment was implied but not directly addressed.

I didn’t write these characters to be one-dimensional ciphers, but a circumstantiated representation of how radio treats women. Programming that is marketed toward women are two parts awkward and condescending, and the majority of female on-air talent work in formats that cater to men with expendable incomes. For example, a female personality on a typical classic rock station has to look, sound and dress like an extra from “Coyote Ugly,” whether she really lives the lifestyle or not. (There’s also a culture of ageism toward women, but that’s another rant for another time.) At least one Chicago radio station has used breast augmentation as a contest prize, and another has an annual “rock girl” contest in which the winner and finalists model for a cheesecake wall calendar. The majority of radio executives would read this and argue that finding a role for women in their medium is “tricky,” and somehow defer the blame to the realities of industry consolidation.  In reality, however they’re not making an effort. I would have relished the opportunity to do anything that would have changed the “good ol’ boy” aesthetic that permeates to this day.

I thought about “Pushing Air” and my decade-plus in radio when a controversy erupted last week regarding comments made by iO co-founder Charna Halpern. In case you missed it: a few months ago, she had mentioned on Facebook that several female performers had been harassed by a manager at iO West in Los Angeles. They were afraid to say anything to Halpern for fear of being denied opportunities, or worse yet kicked out of the improv venue. She had hired a counselor at iO West, stated her lack of tolerance for sexual harassment, and name-checked iO alum Amy Poehler. Evidently, whatever she put into place was insufficient, as she posted on social media again to address the situation. In this case, the perpetrator was mentioned by name, and she gave him the shadow of a doubt. To Halpern, this accuser was a woman who “(likes) to either cause trouble or get revenge or just want attention so they make up stories… she claims I just put her off and offered her free classes.” Halpern said she would never handle such a situation in such a shallow way, adding “it’s people like this who make it difficult when a woman really has a problem-- we need to take this issue seriously and not spread lies because you didn’t make a team or for whatever reason you are angry.”

Halpern’s comments were perceived as aloof and self-serving, as if her primary objective was to protect her theaters, her employees, and her company, Yes And Productions. The response to these comments was fast-building and outraged, and rightfully so. Julia Weiss, a Chicago-based comedian/playwright and a performer at iO, delivered one of the first rebuttals: “It is unbelievably rare for women to make up stories like this to get ‘attention’ or ‘revenge.’ Perpetuating that narrative is what makes people dismiss women when they voice their experiences with harassment and abuse… while I respect that you’re taking this seriously and putting policies in place to protect women, posting something like this doesn’t foster a sense of comfort in people dealing with these issues.”

The majority of the nearly 200 comments that followed shared Weiss’ sentiments, and eventually Halpern deleted her post. The businesswoman was more concerned with the integrity of her employees, and the overwhelming rebuke was justified. There has always been an undercurrent of sexual harassment and misogyny in the improv community, especially in Chicago. Even if you weren’t directly affected, to say that the abuse has been overplayed or even non-existent is foolish and reprehensible. Halpern’s post begat a dialogue that mushroomed in size and volume on social media throughout the week. Some called for the men of the community to support and defend their female colleagues. Others shared stories of being harassed at Second City, iO, and even out of town improv festivals. One common thread in the conversation was that instructors let male students touch female students inappropriately without ramifications. Until recent years, the steps that Second City and other venues have taken to stop this have been mostly saber-rattling.

At the very least, I hope this worthy and insightful dialogue continues growing. A change in culture is badly needed, and the sooner the better. If I see any inappropriate behavior, I will gladly call it out. If you’re in a bad spot and you want to talk, I will listen. I have no justification for my own inaction, whether it was at a radio station six years ago or at an improv venue now. The number of women that make up stories of harassment and assault are a tiny minority. This is a real problem.

I’ve been a member of the Chicago improv community for going on seven years now. When the radio chapter of my life ended and I struggled to move on to something else, improv became my reason to wake up in the morning. I have always treated my classmates and teammates as equals. There are a number of bad apples within the community, not to mention a long history of misogyny, and my gut instinct was to not exacerbate the problem, but to treat my peers with dignity and respect. It’s one thing to be daring and politically incorrect, but another to disrespect your colleagues and collaborators. Improv used to be a boys’ club, and now the boys need to take accountability for their own actions. We have the power to stop this.

Banking on Nothing

For the past five months, I've held down a temp position with a company that handles insurance claims for an ambulance company. What I'm doing is essentially data entry; I started out doing the first stage of billing for ambulance claims, and I've parlayed that into doing the insurance aspect as well. I'm not selling insurance, just crunching numbers and accumulating personal information, but this position offers some parallels to a near-miss situation I had half a decade ago.

I tried to downplay it on this blog, but the Summer of 2010 was pretty rough for me. Between being unemployed, the first round of family health issues (culminating in my mom having a stroke) and feeling increasingly isolated from my old social circles, it was a struggle to maintain a positive mindset. Some of that was fate, but my own naivete was also in play.

I lucked out insofar that I found work right after college. I worked 20 hours a week at my uncle's insurance office, then applied to a substitute teacher for extra money. I had my mind set on a career in the radio industry (which I've discussed before), so after my uncle's death and my abrupt dismissal from Salem Communications, I had nothing to fall back on. It was too late in the school year to apply anywhere to sub, so I applied for unemployment benefits and began my first real extensive job search online.

Within a week of losing my job, I set up accounts on CareerBuilder and Monster.com, two sites that I still occasionally glance at five years later. I posted my resume and hoped for the best, while also maintaining a goal of finishing at least one job application a day. Within a day or two of posting my resume, I began to get offers from local insurance agencies. I had never worked in sales before, but the form letter was convincing enough to at least consider the possibility.

Once such company was Bankers Life. They were holding an open house at their regional office in Palos Heights, a town 35 minutes of east of my parents' house. I put on the only suit I owned at the time and made the long drive, where a group of about 20 were seated in the center of the office. We listened to a 40-minute presentation by the branch's managers, which was followed by a Q&A session. It was a sales position with a 100% commission, some door-to-door soliciting, no upfront base salary, and obviously there would be a long commute, but I was simply happy to have my foot in the door.

The day after the group interview, Bankers Life called back to ask how everything went, and if I would be interested in going to a second presentation. I said yes, and a few days later I made the trek back to Palos Heights to watch a Powerpoint presentation. We were now in a shared conference room in another part of the building, with about a dozen people from the original group attending. The day after that, I was asked if I was still interested; I said yes, and a one-on-one interview with one of the managers was arranged.

The interview turned out to be quite an experience. I found out shortly after my arrival that I was the only person in the whole group to agree to get interviewed. The man who interviewed me was a piece of work. Norm was a self-made man with a beautiful wife and a time-share in the Bahamas, with awards adorning one full wall of his office and a few more on a nearby end-table. He exuded self-confidence, but his idea of persuasion bordered into bullying. When he asked me if I agreed about something, I said "yes" as if my life depended upon his mercy. Next thing I know, I agreed to pay for training courses and for the exam for a state license, all in advance.

The next two weeks were an epic cram session. I was given two textbooks to study the ins and outs of selling life insurance, but I wasn't absorbing anything. My ability to take the exam I had already paid for depended upon whether I could pass an online practice test; where 70% was a passing grade, the best I could muster on a dozen tries was 58%. The pre-exam was timed, so flipping through notes would've run out the clock. I drove to Schaumberg for a two-day training program held at a La Quinta, which clarified some things but couldn't quite get me over the hump. When Norm called to ask how things were going, I grinned insincerely and said I was making progress.

The exam was scheduled for 8 AM on a Saturday morning. I brought all my materials with me, even though you couldn't use notes on the test. As I walked into the state testing office, I explained to the receptionist that I did not get the needed 70% on the practice test. They told me that under no circumstances I could take the test now, but I could reschedule and pay another fee to do so. I left the testing office in defeat, walked back to my car in the misty rain, and left a voice mail for the pre-test company to demand a refund (they eventually said no). I also e-mailed Norm to explain my situation, but he never replied. For all intents and purposes, my "career" at Bankers Life was over.

In spite of getting cajoled out of $300, Bankers Life sent me another form e-mail six months later, and I responded tersely that I wanted to be excluded from any other correspondence. As recently as earlier this year, whenever I would update my resume on CareerBuilder or Monster I would get similar e-mails hyping the benefits of a career as a "senior marketing executive" with AFLAC, Farmers Insurance Group, and the such. I would respond by asking the representative if the position was 100% commission and if I would have to pay for training and a license. About 80% of the time they would get dodgy and ask me to attend their informational session, and the conversation would die right there. The other 20% or so would say admit that you need to pay for a state sales license (which is true) but they offered a base salary for the first six months. In that case, correspondence would halt because I simply wasn't interested.

I write this as a cautionary tale of what happens when an opportunity turns out to be too good to be true. As tempting as it may be at times, I have sworn off insurance sales and its ilk; I had a temp position in the records room at a now-shuttered Farmers Insurance corporate office, and that was about as close to repeating fate that I was comfortable with. If you're struggling to find work or are underemployed, as I've been for parts of the last five years, don't jump on the first possible opportunity unless you know you're absolutely qualified. My condolences to the other people in the world who were suckered into such an allegedly lucrative career.

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Jason Chin 1968-2015

I am in complete disbelief.



Several hours after I heard the news, I still can't comprehend the fact that Jason Chin is dead. As I write this, details are still sketchy, but what happened was relatively sudden. At the same time, I figured it would be best to process my raw emotions into something meaningful:



I first met Jason Chin at iO Chicago somewhere around mid- to late 2010. I never had him as an instructor; he was just always around, either playing in Armando, sitting in with Deep Schwa --a legendary house team that dates back to the mid-90s-- or talking comic books with the bartenders. It wasn't until I became an intern a few months later that I got better acquainted with Jason. He also created and produced "Whirled News Tonight," a long-running improv show based on current events. I interned on Saturday nights during WNT, assisting in putting newspapers and scissors on a folding table so that audience members could pick the stories the "news crew" would use for scenes.



There was little questioning that Whirled News was Jason's baby. He co-created the show, served as producer, and also coached the oft-rotating ensemble of Chicago improv veterans. It was, he slyly gloated, the longest running topical comedy show in the city. (By my last count, of the current dozen or so actors currently in WNT, three or four are still around from the show's 2003 inception.) Jason also organized the stage like a mom before her kid's birthday party; he made a habit of sweeping the floor himself with a broom, and if an intern didn't do it first, he would also set up the folding table and the cork board used for the newspaper clippings. I usually moved the table off-stage before the show began.



As an intern, I was supposed to alternate weekly between the upstairs (Del Close) and downstairs (Cabaret) theaters at iO's then-location in Wrigleyville. However, one of the other interns was apparently obsessed with the musical improv show in the Cab, so 75% of the time I was upstairs watching and playing gofer for Whirled News. On the occasion that I could sit down and catch my breath, I witnessed a show was at worst above-average improv and at best transcendent and hilarious, and it usually leaned toward the latter. Jason had a singular vision for Whirled News, and it operated like a cunning machine.



Jason was on my short list of people I wished I could collaborate with. When my time as an iO student ended --and ergo, my internship-- I expressed my interest to Jason in auditioning for WNT if I made a Harold team. He appreciated the thought, though obviously nothing came of it. A little over a year later, Jason was putting together a variety show called Saturday/Saturday, which would run Saturday nights after Whirled News. This time around, he was both producing and hosting the show, which would feature a small army of acts in a rapid-fire setting. I auditioned with Bess Miller on a short-lived project we worked on called Half Jew Half Stu ("an improvised divorce"). We did an improvised scene for him; it was pleasant enough, he concurred, but with the election coming up he thought our concept was better suited for Valentine's Day. We promised to re-audition in a few months, but Bess was busy with other projects and HJHS evaporated soon after.



As it turned out, I missed out on something pretty special. Saturday/Saturday ran for a year or so, but the one show I attended left an indelible mark in my mind. Chin's vision of a chaotic, high-energy variety show was fully realized, with him as both the ringmaster and the eye of the storm. It was Variety with a capital "V": you had the obligatory improv and sketch acts, but also a quiz segment, at least one stand-up comedian, a musical guest, a guy that did slight-of-hand tricks, and a hypnotist. Each act was given six or seven minutes to share their wares, to ensure that the show would go as frenetically as possible. Jason's quiz segment concluded with an audience member wearing a "Sombrero of Shame," which I borrowed to him after he messaged some people on Facebook. I meant to ask when I could pick up my hat, but the opportunity never arose.



I didn't know Jason Chin on a personal level; we hardly hung out or had any lengthy one-on-one conversations. At the same time, I grew familiar with his essence. He was jovial, but his art was truth; he could be grounded and spontaneous at the same time. He was a late bloomer to improv, having not taken his first class until he was almost 30, but he more than made up for lost time. There was a reason why he spent so many years as iO's creative director and training center chief; he knew talent and understood how to both nurture and support it. Like a certain big, silly hat that now sits in a closet somewhere, Jason Chin is now lost to the ages. A peerless man with a tremendous mind, gone far too soon at age 46. To my friends on the Chicago improv scene, I mourn with you tonight, as we collectively struggle to figure out this incalculable loss.

Royal Pains

Anyone who’s known me for a reasonable amount of time will attest that I am a lifelong and long-suffering Kansas City Royals fan. For the vast majority of the time I’ve been a fan, there really hasn’t been much to brag about. Growing up in the southwest Chicago suburbs, reactions from other baseball fans --about 50% White Sox, 45% Cubs, 5% “other”-- ranged from ridicule to confusion to pity. With the Royals becoming the Cinderella of the 2014 playoffs, earning them the temporary title of America’s team and sentimental favorites against the thriving San Francisco Giants, my noted fandom has experienced unheard-of levels of euphoria. And yet, I’ve never really explained at length why I root for the Royals.

My paternal grandmother’s family moved from Jefferson Parish, Louisiana to Kansas City in the mid-1910s. Even though my father’s family bounced between KC, St. Louis, and LaGrange, IL for much of the 1940s and 50s, my grandmother’s brother and two sisters hewed close to KC. When Grandma Sara died in July 1993 my family flew out to the Emerald City for her funeral, the first of several trips I would take between then and 2001. It was during this first trip that I would grow acquainted with the surviving members of Grandma Sara’s side of the family, especially her older sister Beatrice. “Aunt Bea” was ten years Sara’s senior; she was 12 years old when the family left the Deep South; my grandma, the baby of the family, was 25 months old. Because of that, Bea spoke with a lilting, Eudora Welty-type southern drawl while Sara spoke with a very slight Great Plains twang.

Growing up mostly with my mom’s side of the family --unabashedly blue collar, salt of the earth Chicago Polacks-- to meet these college-educated, somewhat WASPy, middlebrow social climbers was a little alien to me. My father’s sister had a bigger house than most of my mother’s relatives, but I never dwelled on it too much. I found it hard to relate to my mother’s side of the family; I’m more urban than agrarian and I’m not very outdoorsy; in a family of mechanics and custodians, I was more concerned with getting an education than picking up a trade. I wanted to strive more than live modestly within my means. I saw that in Aunt Bea, who was a socialite in her prime and was still graciously hosting whomever would visit her townhouse as she approached her 90th birthday. Incidentally, she was also a Kansas City Royals fan, with a swooning affection for their aging star George Brett.

Kansas City in 1993 was a lot different than KC now. When the Royals won their first championship in 1985, the city was at rock bottom; the farms were dying, and the economic strife in the heartland trickled up to the cities, where businesses were shuttered and unemployment was at record levels. With their NBA team moving to California and the Chiefs middling at best, the Royals’ come-from-behind defeat of the Cardinals in the World Series was just the morale booster the city needed. Eight years later, KC was faring slightly better but not out of the woods just yet; the urban renewal of the mid-to-late 1990s was in its early stages. The Royals hadn’t made the playoffs since then (obviously), but they were consistently first-division and at worst a .500 ballclub. The Royals were consistently good but seldom great, and with my interest in sports just beginning to bloom, this piqued my interest. My mom’s family were mostly Cubs fans, and their almost delusional devotion just didn’t make sense to me.

With our first World Series appearance in 29 years on the horizon, my pride is usurped by a desire to gloat. After decades of mismanagement, small-market budgeting, lousy scouting, squandered draft picks, and all-around irrelevance my beloved Royals are back in the promised land. Regardless of what happens in the 2014 World Series, I will remain just as proud of my favorite baseball team as I was when they consistently lost 100 games a year. Their improbable playoff run has been a thrill to watch, and I assure you that this displaced Royals fan will spend this year’s Fall Classic glued to a TV set.

Farewell, 3541 N. Clark

In the wee hours of Sunday, July 20th the famed iO (formerly Improv Olympic) theater in Chicago shuttered its doors on 3541 N. Clark, its home since the mid-1980s. It was the concluding chapter in a 4 1/2 year struggle to keep the theater in its Wrigleyville space. Ultimately, the growth of the Chicago improv scene in the past decade, as well as plans to turn the area directly south of Wrigley Field into a massive retail space, spearheaded the move to a new, larger space on 1501 N. Kingsbury, a mile and a half west of Second City. Though this onetime garment factory will not be with us for much longer, its place in Chicago theater history is irreplaceable: scores of comedians, improvisors, and actors learned their craft and performed here, making their way to SNL, MADtv, and even movie stardom. For a lot of regulars on the Chicago improv scene (including myself), it was like a second home.

If the Second City Training Center was the first chapter of my improv story, than iO physically and peripherally dominates the rest of the book. The first show I saw at iO was The DelTones in March 2010; I tagged along with four or five other Level E classmates for some group bonding. Little did I know that three of the performers that night (Tara DeFrancisco, Lyndsay Hailey, and Craig Uhlir) would later become my instructors, or that less than a year later I would be interning at iO on Saturday nights.

On April 30th, 2010 --five days after my first Level 1 class with Tara D-- I was unceremoniously replaced at my job. An almost Sisyphean job search, paired with financial woes and family health issues, made for a very trying summer. For a while, my weekly commute from Downers Grove to Wrigleyville was my only reason to wake up in the morning. As my radio dreams faded, improv class became a badly needed creative outlet as well as my catharsis. This was when I first truly experienced the close-knit improv community and its positive, cream-rises-to-the-top mindset. Eventually, I started taking writing classes at iO and participating in Lyndsay's Hangover Clinic on Saturday mornings. The myriad free shows I attended between 2010 and 2012 were both entertainment and an education. In spite of my personal struggles, for the first time in years, I felt like I was flourishing at something.

Fast forward to August 2011. It was the last night of 5B shows, and after our last set we all headed up to the Annex for pizza and beer. Overall, I thought our seven week run went well, though I thought my overall performance was merely okay. (It also helped that was in a level that was deep with improv talent, as 19 of us would eventually play on Harold teams at one point or another.) One of my teammates, a very diminutive young woman, stood on the chair next to mine to remind everyone that she was hosting a wrap party at her coach house in Roscoe Village. When someone asked for an address, I yelled out the directions I had memorized earlier that day: "Take the Red Line to Belmont, than get on the 77 bus west to Wellington..."

At that very moment, the entire room started chanting "Stu-S-A." I was gobsmacked, blushing, and at a complete loss for words. After a solid minute of cheering and chanting, and I stood up and took a bow, not realizing I hadn't even removed the satchel off my shoulder. I have never received an ovation that like that before or since. I couldn't work up the nerve to say thank you until I posted on Facebook the next day. It's not clear who started the chant; I assume it was the aforementioned girl, though I guess I'll never know now. I still get people from those classes saying "Stu-S-A" from time to time.

With that said, I will be leaving a treasure trove of memories at 3541 N. Clark, and I wish iO Chicago nothing but the best as they move from Wrigleyville to Kingsbury and Blackhawk. My sincere thanks to my instructors Tara D, Kate Duffy, Barry Hite, the incomparable Lyndsay Hailey, Lisa Linke, Craig Uhlir, Noah Gregoupoulos, Charna Halpern, and Nate Herman for their sage wisdom and encouragement, and to all the people I met and encountered in the House That Del Built.

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Back to the Sandbox

Iraq has become a greater Pandora's Box than anyone could have possibly imagined. Even though there was a worldwide consensus 12 years ago that Saddam Hussein must be ousted, the execution (in the broader sense) was botched, and nearly every attempt to remedy the situation has either stagnated or failed. There were reports of turmoil and potential terrorist activity after we pulled out four years ago, and now the region is on the cusp of chaos again. When even Glenn Beck is admitting that "the liberals" were right about not invading, you know the prospect of another invasion is universally unpopular. Another full-scale operation is as financially unfeasible as it is morally ambiguous. There lies the dilemma: ISIS must be quashed, but for once we might have to defer to someone else.

Other notes:

+ Speaking of war, while I don't agree with the methods that were used to rescue Bowe Bergdahl, there is no justifable reason to leave any American troops behind. The negotiation was not only five years in the making, but it was also a last resort. If Bergdahl is the deserter and space cadet that the media makes him out to be, than as a soldier he has the right to some type of trial or military tribunal.

+ Talk about perfect timing-- just as the school year ends, I find another temp job. To sweeten the pot, the job is not only within Chicago city limits but it's essentially temp-to-hire.

+ The Royals were in first place this late in the season for the first time in 11 years. As of this writing, they were on their first 10-game winning streak in 20 years... followed by a four-game schneid. Either way, you better believe I'm grinning from ear to ear.

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My Three Worst Shows

This week marks five years since my first improv class at Second City. With all the personal drama I've battled in past few years, improvisation and comedy have been a constant in my life, cathartic as well as a creative outlet.  At the same time, it's one of the few things I don't feel comfortable explaining. Even though I've been improvising a fairly long time, it's become such a personal part of me that it's difficult to write about it introspectively. I'm still learning and honing my craft, and even if a particular show didn't go that well, I have the confidence and hindsight to learn from my mistakes and keep chugging along. Above all, there's plenty to learn when a show goes very badly. Here are three examples:

1. My Level D Performance Show, Donny's Skybox, 2/28/2010. My second show ever. My first improv show before an audience went well for our class, and we were chomping at the bit to do it again. However, there was an unexpected and discernible difference between our Level C instructor and Level D teacher: one taught and the other didn't. One offered pragmatic and concise feedback, the other just said "that's nice" and often seemed as distant and she was vague.

In the end, everything that could go wrong did. The energy was very low, no one seemed to be listening, we were barely starting scenes and rushing through in desperate, almost selfish gasp for stage time. Even in the structured, rapid-fire dynamic of short-form "game" improv nothing seemed to be happening. The show closed with a round of Blind Freeze where everyone just kept editing after two lines, far too short to develop any scene. We had our show the evening after our last class, so it's not like our Level D instructor was going to share her notes, either.

Lesson Learned: Just breathe.

2. Underground Lounge, circa July 2012. I finally started to dabble in "barprov" in late 2011, and often I would book 18- to 20-minute slots first without having a specific person or team to play with. I suppose that's okay in some circles, but it's preferable to book a slot for someone or something in particular. Booking said slot on less than 72 hours' notice makes things much trickier. On this particular night, nearly my entire social circle had other plans. I messaged about 40 people on Facebook before settling on "Lamar," a mutual friend with limited barprov experience, followed by a former classmate that I hadn't been in touch with. On paper, this was an odd couple.

The slot was booked at 8pm on a Wednesday night. I gave the host the name "The Partial Enchilada," my catch-all for anytime I was doing improv on a casual, non-committal basis. The mutual friend showed up on time, but the former classmate completely flaked out. (In fact, I never heard from the old fellow ever again.) On top of that, the air conditioning was malfunctioning; the machine was above the stage, and it was not operating or blasting on an intermittent basis. Once we were set to play, we proceeded to do a series of scenes with Lamar that involved a lot of talking but not much physical action. The AC was very loud at that point, so we had people sitting in the front row yelling "speak up!" as we're doing scenes.

I ended up giving Lamar a ride back to the CTA, but we haven't played together since.

Lesson Learned: A bad idea with strong support goes a lot further than good idea with no support. Also, I hate flake-outs.

3. Upstairs Gallery, Valentine's Day Jam, 2/14/2014. What happens when you encounter someone who intensely dislikes you, and you have to perform in front of them? I had largely avoided that situation until this past V-Day, when I ran into another former classmate and onetime friend at this Andersonville venue. "Erika" had severed ties shortly after her 23rd birthday in September 2012 (odd timing, I know). I later found out by accident that Erika had unfriended and blocked me on Facebook, for reasons that are still very much unclear. Any attempt to communicate with her by e-mail and text have been largely ignored. I don't recall having any specific misunderstanding with her, which makes our communication breakdown even more peculiar.

Even though I wasn't booked to perform, any improviser that was invited was also encouraged to participate in a jam between acts. When my name was pulled from a hat, I stood up from my folding chair, found my place in the line on stage, and... inadvertent made eye contact with Erika. As she sat in the back row, the look on her face could be described as mildly annoyed. This particular ten-minute set went okay, but I was in my head the entire time; I made one strong character choice and that didn't go anywhere, and largely couldn't get a word in edgewise. I spent the rest of the evening either fishing for positive feedback from my peers, or making small talk to avoid any further awkward encounters with my unintended adversary.

Lesson Learned: Don't let drama distract you.

Next Week: my Class of 2014 memory list.

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Breakdown of a Friendship

A little over four years ago, I had a nightmare. Maybe "nightmare" isn't the word I'm looking for, but rather a very intense dream. I'm standing on a wooden dock near a lake; there's a small seaside town in the distant background. I'm not doing anything besides watching the water. I see something glow behind me, and I turn around. A good friend of mine from high school --for the purpose of this blog, I'll call her Sandra-- is hovering six inches off the ground. Sandra is gleaming in a long, flowing white robe, and very pregnant. We make small talk, the details of which I don't remember. Suddenly, she says "goodbye forever," then flies away. I ask Sandra why she said that and where she's going, but she either doesn't hear me or refuses to answer. I wake up in a cold sweat, over an hour before my alarm goes off.

I'm not going to avoid the fact that for the longest time, I had a crush on Sandra. We had a lot in common; we were both nerdy, nearsighted, well-read, with aspirations of a career in writing. On the flip side of that, Sandra was (and still is) fiercely independent and a free spirit. She was openly bisexual and the co-founder of my high school's GLAAD club. She refused to own a TV and for the longest time, quoted Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and spoke conversational Russian. Sandra was an activist; I am an armchair liberal. Sandra was positive, I was pragmatic. Sandra loved to travel; I never had the time to do so, and I still don't. Sandra was simultaneously perfect and out of my reach; she was what I aspired for in a woman but could never have. Above all else, she confided in me like a good friend. I knew my place, but part of me always wondered if there was an opportunity for more.

When I dreamed about Sandra, I hadn't seen her in about six months. At that point, she had been dating a guy named Scott (another pseudonym) for maybe a year and a half. Scott was a great guy --we're still in touch-- and they were a relatively happy couple. However, that dream was so vivid and so haunting I felt absolutely compelled to admit my feelings. I e-mailed her the afternoon after my dream to ask what she had been up to, and if she wanted to meet for coffee. In her reply, Sandra said she was moving to Seattle in a few weeks, but sure, coffee would work. Suffice to say, I panicked.

Sandra and I met about a week later. We caught up and made small talk, but over the course of the hour-long chat I never worked the nerve to admit my feelings. I walked her back to her car and still couldn't find the courage. Two days later, I sent her a long e-mail; I poured my feelings out, cleverly phrasing my words so it didn't sound like our friendship was some sort of ruse. For fear of being perceived as insane, I neglected to mention the dream. Sandra responded two days later; as I had assumed, her feelings were not mutual. Her response had a tone that was both flattered and embarrassed. I sulked a little, knowing that my honesty had put a strain on our friendship.

A week or so after that, I noticed that Sandra had posted a Facebook event for a small, private party at her new apartment in Chicago; to my relief, the move to Seattle had been pushed back a few months. I messaged her for directions, but Sandra never answered. The party came and went. Annoyed, I shot her another e-mail. When she didn't respond to that, I left a terse post on her wall. About 10 days after the party, Sandra finally replied; she was still getting over my original e-mail, and that we needed a break. Between that and my college girlfriend, I spent much of the Summer of '09 in a defeated funk. It took four months for me to work the nerve to contact Sandra again.

If Sandra was elusive, her social circle was hostile. When Sandra and I were students at College of DuPage, and even after she transferred to University of Illinois-Chicago, she hung out mostly with artists, pseduo-intellectuals, and other assorted right-brainers. They were ambivalent to me when I first them, and steadily grew annoyed by my presence anytime I saw them. It wasn't totally me, though; they reeked of pretention, not always self-absorbed but usually humorless and restless. We read the same books and magazines, but didn't necessarily interpret what we read the same way. As far as they were concerned I was a bourgeois outsider, an oblivious old friend of their favorite hostess. Where Sandra was cordial and graceful, her friends merely tolerated me.

So four months after the "break," Sandra and I talked things out. Our friendship seemed to be on the mend, an aura of testiness in the air that we both assumed would gradually subside. After returning from Seattle, we ran into each other at mutual friends' parties and there didn't seem to be any discernible tension. We were supposed to meet at the Chicago gay pride parade that next summer, but I got lost on the El. I was mortified, but given the crowds a disconnect was bound to happen. Ironically, it would've been the last time I would see Sandra in person. Soon after, she moved to San Diego to start grad school.

The building blocks of reconciliation tumbled in December 2010. I caught wind that Sandra was back in Chicago for the holidays. Shortly after Thanksgiving, I asked if she wanted to meet or hang out, but she said she was busy that week. Seven days later, I asked again; Sandra still had other commitments. I assumed she was spending long-overdue time with family. I asked a third time after Christmas, but by that point she was already back in California.

I thought nothing of the schedule conflict until the Tuesday after New Year's. Almost out of the blue, Sandra posted over 100 photos of herself with her Chicago social circle. It was most, if not nearly all of the same haughty prudes that dismissed me on first sight. I was as upset as ever. Against my better judgment, I sent another terse private message on Facebook. She replied a day later, stating that after all this time she had incredibly unfair toward me and that we can never hang out again. In defeat, I accepted the new terms of our "friendship" and wished her well.

Social media, as it turned out, both connected and divided us. I've stayed Facebook friends with Sandra, but I'm still too mortified to say hi. Even a comment on a status update required a certain amount of courage. I left her a happy birthday wall post this past June in the wee hours of the night, assuming she wouldn't see it. I watched silently as she dumped Scott, hooked up with her former roommate from Chicago --I always assumed there was something going on between them-- than began her courtship with the guy that is now her fiancee.

Then late Tuesday night, I found out on Facebook that Sandra was pregnant. For real.

Seeing the pregnancy announcement, quirky and well-intended as it was, brought me back to that dream. I offered my congratulations (no reaction or reply, of course) but in reality I felt uneasy. I take solace in the fact that after years of flightiness and shirking stability, her days of hookah parties and epic, spur-of-the-moment road trips are basically over. Sandra seems content about the news, declaring adulthood "ebullient," but I don't think reality has set in yet. Judging from comments on Facebook, she's struggling to find the nobility of 24-hour "morning" sickness. Now I knew for sure that nothing was ever going to be same again. The angel had flown away.

Until now, I had never told anyone about this. Even the central figure in this only knew (knows?) half of the story. I have rarely acted so selfishly in my life, and in the process I strained a relatively healthy, albeit increasingly distant friendship. My social awkwardness and insecurities consumed me in a way I never thought possible. Whether this was all my fault or other circumstances contributed, I'll never know. I've dated other women but never made the same connection.  I have frequent doubts that I'm emotionally capable of being in a meaningful relationship, let alone married with children, and this experience augmented my concerns. A vivid dream became a real-life nightmare.

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