Radio Gig

Yes, I said "gig."

And I'm having a crisis of conscience. I have acquired a new position in Chicago radio, but I'm almost certain that I'm not supposed to disclose it. I have a habit of landing jobs that require confidentiality agreements. Technically, I haven't signed one yet for this position, but it will be waiting for me when I fill out mounds of paperwork at said radio station today.

Don't get too excited; I am only a call-screener for now. Honestly, this is exactly the job I wanted. I've been listening to talk radio since 8th grade, and I've come to know many call-screeners in that time. Not that I ever, ever call radio shows, but the call-screener is an oft-mentioned member of the producing team. For some reason, the call-screener is always a girl named Kelly or Shelly.

So I get to be an integral part of a radio show without dealing with the damned board.

The best part? I've already been assigned to a brand-spanking new show. The hosts are super-duper Chicago radio veterans whom I grew up listening to. As Posh Spice would say, this is mayjah.

The worst part? I'm hella nervous. Nervous enough to use that abomination of a word, hella. I've operated a radio board, but I've never been a call-screener. I guess, technically, that's a step backward. Fine by me. I get to talk to all the crazies who can make us or break us. It's funny, I'd rather die than talk to people in person, but I'll come running if I get to talk to them on the phone.

I have a personality for radio.

Random: I Love This

I love this like white people love Door County.

I love this like black people love the Taste of Chicago.

It is the Monday Night Football of game show themes.

What Next, Chicago?

I'm illin' like a villain. This is my second summer cold in 3 weeks. What the hell, yo? Normally I'm impervious to colds, even in the winters of our discontent. Anyone else unusually sickly?

I'm taking a tour of Blogger via the "Next Blog" button. I feel like I've taken a lovely trip, meeting every infant or toddler whose parent owns a camera. There are TONS of family blogs, which gives me hope that I'll have a place to obsessively post pictures of my cat. (Cat-Lady-in-training here.) But, seriously, I was surprised how much I enjoyed seeing all the young families of this here America.

I was trying to get ideas for my next field trip/blog entry. Wargaming, if you will.

• Taste of Chicago. "It's hot as Hades...that man isn't wearing a shirt... who thinks it wise to bring a baby in a stroller?... all those tickets for 4 ribs?" Everyone who has been to the Taste knows the drill. I won't be breaking new ground there.
• The Demolition of Michael Reese. My sister and I were born there, so it's very close to my heart. The thing is? I have a developing phobia of abandoned buildings and large, empty spaces. Plus, they seem to be working reeeally slowly, so I don't have to start documenting it now... right?

• Alexi Giannoulias (right) revealed he was subpoenaed to testify at the Blagojevich trial. I'll tolerate hours of cross examination to see that hottie in person. I saw him walking in the Pride Parade--major bags under his eyes. Well, you can't win them all.
• Those God-awful Old Style at the IO Theatre radio ads. I don't know what I was going to write about exactly. "The canned noise of hysterical laughter enhances the suck."
• My struggling lil neighborhood of South Shore has a new walking club comprised of concerned citizens. I will attend their monthly walk this Wednesday. Perhaps it will be interesting to see the evolution of a Chicago neighborhood with many problems (I've seen more bodies than I care to) and HUGE potential.
• I was asked if I wanted to purchase fireworks this weekend. I've never had the pleasure of procuring my own explosives--and I suspect you haven't, either. You see, I've lived in two states, Illinois and New York, where fireworks (& gambling, fun stuff) are forbidden. That's what cool states like Indiana and New Jersey are for: VICES AT GREAT PRICES! (New state motto. True story.)

Operation: (Stanley) Cup Grab, Pride Edition

I had another brush with the Stanley Cup... along with 450,000 other people. But I was really close this time, I swear. Recently-traded Brent Sopel rode with the Cup on float #17, very early in a parade with 250 floats. I can't imagine how awkward it was for him to wear a Hawks jersey, among Hawks fans, while a member of the Atlanta Thrashers. (What a violent name.) He looked, well, sad. Wistful? Maybe he was just spent by that time.

Arriving an hour or so after the parade's start, I decided it was wise to place myself at the very end of the parade route. I was on the corner of Diversey and Sheridan, just northwest of Lincoln Park, where the float-riders disembark. I was tempted to run after the Cup into the park and get a picture with it. I mean, who thinks to follow a parade float to the end? I probably wouldn't have had much competition to molest it.

But I didn't want to miss the rest of the parade. Plus, my sandal broke. Okay, I'm completely lame.

Rather than placing the Cup on a separate Blackhawks float, it rode with the Gay Hockey Association (CGHA). It's sooooo cool that we were the first to put the Stanley Cup on a Pride Parade float... but I'm sure the San Jose Sharks would have done the same.

Gary's Graceland: The Jackson House One Year Later

True story: the Jacksons lived on Jackson Street.

(That’s Andrew Jackson.)

Even when Michael Jackson was alive, I always figured I would make a pilgrimage to Gary’s Graceland. Living on the south side of Chicago, Gary is only 40 minutes away. The day Michael died, I had a passing interest in going, but I didn’t give it another thought until last Friday, the one-year anniversary of his death.

I didn’t make it to Jackson’s childhood home until 9pm that night. There wasn’t any signage that I could see, directing us to his house. Gary neighborhoods are also very poorly lit. We parked on the next block in utter darkness. Some voices from the nearest stoop wished us a good evening.

Walking toward the house along 23rd Avenue, there was a crush of cars pacing slowly toward the house, which is on the corner of 23rd and Jackson. The road wasn’t closed, although there was a police presence with some marked and unmarked cars. No one was directing traffic around the 2 food stands (holla at Big Daddy’s Barbeque); a wide, empty, temporary stage; and, of course, crowds of people.

 

While I was struck by how relatively small Graceland is, I was also struck by how decent-looking the Jackson home is. It wasn’t as cramped and oppressive-looking as I had imagined it would be with 9 children and an abuser who loved his belt. It was an almost-perfect square with a spacious yard around it. Clearly there were cosmetic improvements, such as a well-manicured lawn, a security gate, and white window shields. Unlike last year, the public could not place flowers, etc. directly on the front steps.

The piece-de-resistance was a 7-foot memorial stone (think 2001: A Space Odyssey), with etchings on both sides. Katherine Jackson had unveiled it earlier that day. It stands on the corner of the yard, surrounded by lovely plants and a stone border. Strangely enough, there was a confluence of butterflies poised on the plants. (Freeeeaky.)

For some reason, I was fixated on the iron gate’s buzzer. Is anyone home? Would Katherine answer the door? We joked with a lady about seeing if anyone would answer. This lady proceeded to press the button! (I wonder how many times it was pushed that day.) At first it didn’t make any noise. Of course, there was no answer. Then, a minute later when I had forgotten about it, the buzzer’s speaker made robotic-like tones. Danger, Will Robinson!

(Behind the gate door, there was a table with 3 folding chairs. Go figure.)

The crowd was pretty diverse. Well, diverse for a Gary street off the beaten path. A couple of guys started talking to my cohorts about witnessing the Jackson 5’s career in Gary. I got the impression they had been there all day, sharing stories. This guy remembers them winning all the local talent shows, that guy remembers them performing at his sister’s prom. They both wore, um, decorative MJ t-shirts. The last words they spoke to us were, “I’ve been here all my life. Gary isn’t that bad!”

Finally, there were signs of life coming from the house! A man and a pre-teen girl came out the side-door. They didn't look very Jackson-ish. I mean, they didn't have that Jackson look shared by all the siblings. I couldn’t tell what they were doing. Eventually, the man made his way across the backyard to a couple of fans at the back gate. My friend claims he saw the dude accepting cash from the well-wishers. I can’t confirm or deny! They certainly didn’t gain access past the gate while I was there.

As we were leaving the premises, and Big Daddy was packing up his bbq grills, I noticed the surrounding houses. Across 23rd Avenue, I could see a line of equally-uncomplicated houses, most of which had residents hanging out on the porches watching the spectacle. Hopefully, they wouldn’t have to clean up the ASTOUNDING amount of trash that had accumulated on their street. Surprisingly, there was no MJ music blaring, not even from the passing cars. We rectified that situation as we drove away.