My $2k T-Shirt

In an effort to gain more exposure as I writer, I joined a couple of blogger/writer-driven sites: technorati and blogcritics. Yesterday, I submitted a blog to blogcritics and I just received notification it was published today. It's not my strongest effort. In fact, I fully expected to get some feedback on edits that needed to be made. I'm really excited to see an article and my byline on a site that I'm not paying the fees for! Check it out!

Article first published as My Two Thousand Dollar T-Shirt on Blogcritics.



Every so often I stumble across a neatly folded red t-shirt tucked way back in my closet when I'm organizing or looking for something. I'm always compelled to unfurl it, unfailingly get lost in memories. It's my two-thousand-dollar t-shirt. I've never worn it. I'm not even sure I've ever washed it, but I have considered having it framed because of the price.

In spite of the sage words of my grandma, I never liked to stand out, preferring a safe place huddled in the masses. It wasn't that I didn't know how to sparkle--intentionally or not--but that there was no expectation of it. I had developed a quick wit over time and by my mid-twenties knew when and--when not--to use it.

I began hearing "you should do stand up comedy" around that time. Though I didn't have anything against the idea, I had no concept of how to begin. Besides that, it looked terrifying. Alone. On stage. Dying. Being heckled. Scary stuff that I wasn't ready for.

But I had the benefit of living in the home of The Second City. And as I heard the "stand up" comment more and more, I began to understand that it was a misunderstood by many people to mean improv comedy. A couple of years later my bestie and I began to consider seriously signing up to take classes at the venerable improv comedy institution.

Once we decided it was time to pony up the two-hundred dollar fee, we reported to 1616 N. Wells on March 15, 1997 (and still it feels like only a couple of years ago). My nerves were atwitter and my IBS was went beyond teasing me to blatant torture. It was a sensation that never let up as class approached each week. It was terrifying--only in the way something that exciting can be.

It was during the two years of weekly three-hour classes that I learned--or perhaps--remembered to be fearless. Unlearning how to think on stage and rather than act, react; figuring out "the game" of the scene each time. I learned how to trust my stage partners and to heighten the scene in accordance with the rules set forth by the progenitors of the very stage on which I was standing. I had three different weekly sessions which took place on the hallowed Main Stage, where the likes of Belushi, Nichols and May, Carrell and Fey performed.

Attending classes at Second City was without a doubt one of the most special and defining experiences of my life. It was the scariest and smartest decision I'd ever made. It ever-so-slightly changed the direction of my life, and my perspective as well. What I experienced each week in class found its way into every aspect of my life. The teamwork I learned caused my performance at work to increase exponentially. I began to look at "problems" as "challenges", where the key lay with finding the game. Improv became a metaphor for life.

The satisfaction and intensity of being fearless on a weekly basis propelled my life forward at an accelerated rate. But I have to say, it wasn't the most valuable gift by any means. Aside from "graduating" Second City with a sense of accomplishment, I left with four of the closest friends I've ever had. As I look back on my tenure there, the rules I learned on stage give way to the long-lasting and harassing friendships that were formed while learning them. At the time in your life where most people aren't in the position to make new friends, I made some incredible ones. Another reward of fearlessness.

We Walk the Same Line

I rarely buy complete albums in this day of iTunes and digital music. But, I've been waiting YEARS for an album to be available via iTunes (and incredibly lazy for not just buying the CD that sat on my Amazon wish list since 2002). I got the cassette of "Amplified Heart" when I worked at the now-defunct music chain Coconuts in the mid/late 90's and fell in love with it from the second i pressed the little indented arrow on the play button. It quickly became the soundtrack of my life. I listened to it constantly. When I was happy, when I was sad, when I was bored, or when I was busy. I still have the cassette. I could never get rid of it. I hadn't checked iTunes intermittently and when I did so in late 2010 it was there! And based on the comments posted by fellow impatient fans, it had only recently landed on iTunes. I bought it immediately, listened to the album while I synced it to my iPhone.

Though I love all the songs--which is quite rare for me--one song in particular always resonated deeply with me. "We Walk the Same Line" is a song about love or friendship when one can't go on, the other one picks up the slack because their fates are one. I remember listening to the cassette on my Sony Walkman-knock off while on plane to Miami to see a close friend who had recently endured a lot of hardships. The song acted like a roadmap for me once I saw him. "If you lose your faith, babe, you have mine. And if you're lost I'm right behind cuz we walk the same line." Beautiful lyrics--and so meaningful to me. Of course--single at the time--I applied the psychology of the song to all my close friendships. It made happy, knowing if I were lost, I'd be found by Mark or Kathy or Tina or Retta. And likewise, I'd find them were they ever lost.

But as I recently listened to this beloved song when I purchased it digitally, it hit me like a ton of bricks how appropriate it is for my life now as my husband deals with a serious illness and do my best to care for him--physically and emotionally. "When it's dark, baby, there's a light I'll shine. If you're lost I'm right behind, cause we walk the same line." The lyrics now have morphed into the soundtrack of my life now...15 years later. And whenever I listen to it, it relaxes me and makes me happy, like it's telling the story of kenan and me, and a metaphorically detailed events and feelings we've both experienced over the last year and half. It sort of slipped on me like a favorite old glove you'd misplaced and finally found. And when you put it on it instantly reminded you of all the adventures you'd had while wearing it--good and bad. It wasn't just a glove. It was part of you, your history.

My favorite line has coincidently always been "And we can't run and we can't cheat, cause babe when we meet what we're afraid of, we find out what we're made of." I knew kenan had the "stuff" to handle his diagnosis because he'd dealt with it before as a child and more than that, it's just the kind of person he is. And though I really didn't think I was going to crumble, I had my doubts that I'd be able "shine that light" as brightly as I wanted or it needed. But in living an unreal life as we are, finding out what you're made of is par for the course and something to be celebrated. I'm happy to say overall I'm good with what I've made of. Sometimes I wonder if I have enough faith to give, but I guess that's only normal. It's not about quantity. Giving is giving. And usually, even when I think I've given it all, more magically appears for me to parse out.

So in honor the impending Valentine's Day, I'm going to play the song here and post the lyrics below. It's a beautiful song. My words can't speak volumes enough about these words. Or how I feel about my beloved, crazy handsome, and just crazy husband. I love you very much. Keep these lyrics in mind. I hope they give a little of the same comfort and reassurance they offer me.

It can't be left unsaid that many of you reading this walk the same line with us, shining plenty of light and giving faith. We know what you're made of, and we love you and appreciate it so!

Lyrics to "We Walk the Same Line" by Everything but the Girl

If you lose your faith, babe, you can have mine,

and if you're lost I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

Now I don't have to tell you

how slow the night can go,

I know you're watched for the light.

And I bet you could tell me

how slowly four follows three,

and you're most forlorn just before dawn.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

And I don't need reminding

how loud the phone can ring

when you're waiting for news.

And that big old moon

lights every corner of the room.

Your back aches from lying

and your head aches from crying.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

And if these troubles

should vanish like rain at midday,

well I've no doubt there'll be more.

And we can't run and we can't cheat,

cause babe when we meet

what we're afraid of,

we find out what we're made of.

So if you lose your faith babe,

you can have mine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

When it's dark baby,

there's a light I'll shine,

and if you're lost, I'm right behind,

cause we walk the same line.

There's Something about Tina

Tina is a buddy of mine who I met back in 1997 while attending training at Second City. I think our friendship fate was sealed on the first day of improv class as he were tangled into a continuous, hand-holding "human knot" and were tasked with unknotting ourselves while not letting go. Shortly thereafter, I found myself behind Tina, hands cupping her......breasts. I was horrified, and she couldn't stop cracking jokes about it--and hasn't to this day.

At that time Tina lives near me in Lakeview so after departing from our classmates after having a drink or two after class, Tina and I would head up north via "L" and stop for a "slushie" at Sidetrack, probably the most patronized bar in "Boystown." Our class ended in the afternoon, we'd arrive at Sidetrack in the afternoon, yet somehow it would always be dark when we left Sidetrack. It was a strange phenomenon we'd try to tackle each time we sat down with a frosty grape-flavored, vodka-enhanced drink.

This week we decided it was time for a trip to our old watering hole in order to catch up--it had been far too long since she and I got some face time. After we met up at our tribal meeting spot, I couldn't help but consider that it had been 15 years since our first trip there together and all the fun times that have ensued. We were a little stunned at the number considering we're both 22 years old, but after a slushie or two that math problem always seemed to fade away.

We share the same a common language and a humor this is wrong, inappropriate and if not illegal, then at least "frowned upon" in most red states. As a result, we were dubbed "the dark hearts" by our "friends." And though the years may have softened our every day delivery, when we get together, I'm reminded how appropriate the nickname remains to be.

As always, the tide of people ebbed and flowed around us, but we didn't really notice. I've found it's hard to see anything through eyes, gushing with tears from laughter. (They are sore this morning, from all briny tear production!) I have wondered what the people around must think--aside from the requisite jealousy--as we tell stories, gesticulate, and laugh to a point of silence because breathing isn't possible.

If your ears were burning yesterday, now you know why.


(Is it me, or does it look like she's talking about me?)