Did You Not See James Taylor at Ravinia? Me too! (a critique of Ravinia)

Last Friday night, I and about 15,000 of my white, upper middle-class brethren (though most of them decidedly better looking) congregated on the well-manicured lawns of Ravinia in Highland Park to not see James Taylor.  Mind you, I could have not seen James Taylor for free at home while simultaneously watching the opening ceremonies of the 2012 London Olympics.  Instead, I paid good money to not see JT, and managed also to not see the opening ceremonies (though at least that part was free).

I already knew Ravinia was a lame excuse to not see a show, so I have no one to blame but myself.  About a decade ago, after purchasing tickets to "see" Lyle Lovett, my wife informed me that at Ravinia, lawn seats aren't within site of the stage.  Instead, large speakers hover overhead so you can hear the show. 

No fricking way, I said. 

Way, my wife said.

We didn't go.  My inactive social life was going to have to plummet even further before I agreed to hire a babysitter and drive through rush hour traffic on a staggeringly hot and humid weekday evening to not see a show.  There were dozens of other ways I could enjoy not seeing a show, like...oh, watching reruns on MeTV.  Schlepping to Ravinia didn't even make the list.

This year I caved, because James Taylor is one of the few acts residing on both my wife's and my circle on the Venn Diagram of our musical interests.  Also, the reserved seats sold out before they went on sale to the general public (not joking).  I thought: what the hell.  I'll get lawn seats.  It'll be a nice evening.

On the day of the event, after an hour and a half trip through the north suburbs of Chicago, a free shuttle dropped off my wife and me at the venue, where we found a shady patch of grass and laid out a blanket and chairs to enjoy a picnic meal prior to the show. 

Then the people came.  And the new arrivals constructed picnics so elaborate they required blueprints.  Men in Ray-Bans and polo shirts and women in full-length dresses attached legs onto wooden tables from Restoration Hardware, set out champagne glasses, cutting boards, cheese spreads and fruit trays, and revealed candelabras whose bases fit snuggly into the neck of a wine bottle.  It was all very impressive.  All around us, beautiful people raised their glasses, bantered and laughed heartily.

And then a funny thing happened.  A concert began, right on time, and while JT began singing, "Hey Mister, That's Me Up On The Jukebox," the people around us continued their banter, only louder.  Each syllable that spewed from their lips was annunciated with great import...all of it was apparently so VITAL to the evening, that it needed to be conveyed NOW and with as much gusto as humanly possible.

So not only could I not see JT, I couldn't hear him either. 

The ticket printouts I have from the show read as follows: "These are your concert tickets to see James Taylor."

False advertising?  You bet.  But even if they had corrected their mistake and had written, "These are your concert tickets to hear James Taylor," they'd still be open for a lawsuit.

Next time, I'm going to picnic in my backyard and put the iPod on shuffle.

Mourn the lost art of Letter-writing? Well, Don't.

Recently, I’ve been reading essays that lament the lost art of letter writing, and in some ways they’ve echoed my own feelings on the matter.  But I’ve also concluded that grieving the loss of letter writing is moronic, because writing letters is still an achievable quest.  It’s like mourning the loss of...say, hamburgers.  Who the hell is stopping you from eating a Big Mac?  No one - not even my high-maintenance vegetarian daughter.  And no one is stopping us from writing letters, either - not even the barely viable U.S. Postal Service.  If you miss getting letters in the mail, try sending one first.

Up until about two years ago, my friend in Milwaukee and I corresponded via letters several times a year.  We decided it was simply a more satisfying way to converse than email.  When I noticed one of her letters amongst the daily piles of junk mail, I handled it with eager anticipation and mentally set aside a time when I’d be able to relax on the sofa with a cold drink in hand and really digest the letter’s content, rather than the cursory scan I give messages received on a computer.  A letter is more urgent.  More tangible.  More vivid.

And more meaningful.

Receiving a Dear-John Letter?  Heart-breaking.  Receiving a Dear-John Text?  Merely off-putting.  A love-letter?  Inspiring.  A love-text?  At best, kind of cute.  Maybe.  Possibly.

And how much less meaningful would it have been if Joe Cocker had sung,

                She sent me a text

                Said she couldn’t live without me no more

Not sure that would have been a hit.

So over the years, my friend and I kept up our letter writing, technology be damned.  Year after year, we shared our thoughts and fears and dreams on paper.

And then we didn’t.  We just stopped, the same way so many others have.  But no one forced us to.

Last week while visiting the FDR museum in New York, I read a copy of the Pearl Harbor speech that solidified the United States’ commitment to join the war in 1941.  It was typed with several hand-written cross outs and substitutions, including FDR’s decision to add the word “infamy” in place of “world history.”  And it made me wonder: what archives will remain of President Obama’s and future presidents’ tenures as commander-in-chief?  Will we gather around a hard drive?  A printout of texts?  Will we get to read Obama’s message, “FYI, we got Bid Laden.  LOL.” 

What will remain?

All three of my kids are currently at camp, and the best part about it isn’t having a quiet house or a chance for my wife and me to dine together; it’s the letters they’re sending to us that so beautifully capture their personalities.   Just today, I received a letter from one of my daughters, and she wrote:

Grandma wrote me again and wasted no time in telling me that (my sister) has one-upped me in letter writing, so I may have to write to her again soon.  I finished reading In Cold Blood and I have to say HOLY CRAP!!  It scared me out of my mind!  But so well written!  Go Truman Capote!

Yeah, it’s nothing highbrow or earth-shatteringly important, but it captures her spirit in a way that’s seldom conveyed in an email.  And who knew that camp could reinvigorate a dying art form?

I’ve enjoyed receiving these letters so much that I’ve made a decision to write a letter a month ongoing.  It could be to a relative or a friend.  It could even be to someone living in my house.  And it doesn’t matter if I get one in return.  I’m just going to write.  Maybe you should too.

And who knows?  Hundreds of years from now, maybe our rather mundane lives will be studied and analyzed the way historians today research the life and times of great men and women from years ago, not because of the content of our years on Earth, but because ours will be the only lives captured through a tangible trail of the written word. 

Memorialized by default.

A Period of Unactivity

Oh goodness.  So many ideas to formulate into workable pieces.  I'm devoted to getting new essays on my website, but a few mild monkey wrenches in life's plan have resulted in delays.  The most recent?  I'm currently on day 3 of likely 6 days without power (currently 95 degrees upstairs, and rising).  But in a week's time, I expect to be back in action, not only with the website, but with my fiction writing that has temporarily been nudged by much less inventive pursuits. 

I'll be doing it all in air conditioning.