Saturday, October 29, 2005
3:26 PM
Really, Contents Are Fragile
My brother's birthday was October 12. He turned 28. While Brian and I are not nearly as close as I'd like, we still talk enough to be mistaken for bossom buddies.
When I'm on the road and pass through cities with universities or professional sports teams, occasionally I'll pick Brian up a shirt or a hat. He's very simple like that, easy to please. No need to wrap it or include a card.
In Brookings, South Dakota last Thursday, I stopped into a local sporting good store. Right inside the front door was their collection of baseball caps from the local schools, South Dakota State and Brookings high school. SDSU has blue, yellow and white as their school colors. I picked up a fitted hat, one that stretches to fit right, for Brian. His head's bigger than mine, so I made sure I could stretch the hat on my own head. It had a slightly obnoxious look to it, patterned with even amounts of blue, yellow and white. Brian's not into obnoxious stuff, but I am, so that's why I got it. I do this a lot, get people things I would like for myself. He would probably have liked the solid black hat with the SDSU logo on the front. If it were from my mom, he'd have that one. But it was from me. Plus I can wear it if I'm at mom's house and Brian leaves it unattended.
Instead of just keeping it with me on this tour and giving it to Brian when I get home in 2 weeks, I decided to mail it. There's some thought put into mailing someone something. I know he doesn't care about that or wouldn't admit it if he did, but no one can deny the excitement of getting a package in the mail. Even if it appears to be junk mail, for a brief minute you're not 100% sure it's junk.
I'm always looking to save a buck. I didn't wanna buy a box to put the hat in and certainly wouldn't think about shoving it in an envelope, arguably in the all time top five list of things not to do. Right behind wearing socks with sandals and putting ketchup on hot dogs. Maybe putting a hat in the washing machine is worse than the envelope thing.
At the comedy club last night after the show, I saw a empty Sam Adams box sitting on the floor. "This might sound kinda strange," I said to the bartender, "but can I have that beer box?"" pointing and walking toward the box.
"Boxes are at a premium here," she said. Then John, the owner chimed in. "Well that one's a 12 pack box. Go ahead and take it." "Thanks. I have to mail something to my brother tomorrow," I said, though I don't think either of them were interested in why I needed it.
This morning I went across the street to Walgreen's to get some packaging tape. I also grabbed the in-store newspaper of coupons and other ads. The hat fit nicely into the box but I wanted to stuff paper in it to keep the hat from moving. I'm discovering that I'm way too anal about certain things and very passive about others. I also put the hat in a plastic grocery bag so the newspaper ink wouldn't get on the white portion of the hat. Such a thoughtful older brother I am.
I taped a piece of Best Western paper, the kind left near the phone, to the top of the box. It would serve as the address label. With Brian living again at mom's, it wouldn't make much sense to have the return address be mom's address. I used my actual Chicago address, even though I won't be home in a few weeks. He has no idea where I live and I rarely write anything on paper. Maybe he'll be surprised.
The beer box was taped on all sides, securing the top flaps and covering the handle holes, too. I entered the Sioux Falls post office right across the street from the hotel and waited in line. About 5 people were in front of me.
Then it was my turn. "Next," a short, heavy-set lady with glasses and long blond hair said, looking in my direction.
"Hello," I said, placing the box on the counter.
"You're not planning on mailing that are you?" she asked. Somewhat taken aback by this, I looked around.
"Not really. I was hoping to get a load of bread and some milk." She continued to stare at me. "Of course I'm gonna mail this. That's what happens here, right?"
"Well you can't mail beer."
"It's not beer, it's a hat, see," I said, in more of a 'no shit I can't send beer, lady' fashion, shaking the box. She was even less amused this time.
"Alcoholic products can't be sent in the mail if the labels show," she noted.
"Look, there's not beer in here. It's just a box with a hat in it. The box says 12, 12-ounce bottles but the box barely weighs 6 ounces. There's not a drop of beer in sight. It doesn't even smell like beer."
"Well you can't send that," she said, shaking her head and sighing. "I know I can't, but you guys can." She was getting frustrated with me. At this point I was enjoying the struggle.
"If the guys see the box with beer on it," she shared, "they will look at it and say, Oh no, there's beer in here. We can't have that.'"
"They will lift the box and think there's beer in there? Are you serious? In this very light box?"
"Sorry. We're not allowed to think about things like that," she said.
"Oh I see, it's not possible for you to think. Such good government employees you are."
Now anyone wonder how 'going postal' orginated?
She handed me a black permanent marker and told me I could color out all the beer words. "Or cover them with paper," she added. "For fuck's sake, this isn't art class. I just wanna send my brother a birthday gift. The goddamn hat probably won't even fit. Jesus Christ!" The nuns in the back of the line were clearly offended. "Sorry, sisters. I hope you're not art teachers."
I took the marker and began on what felt like a temp job. "This is fuckin' ridiculous. It will take forever. And I'm gonna be high as a kite from the fumes."
Puzzled and annoyed, I took my box and the marker out to my car. I figured there had to be something in my car to cover the box. Had I had another box, I would've just put the hat in there. At this point there was no way I was gonna buy a box from the post office. The beer box was gonna work or I'd die tryin'.
The hotel was literally across a side street, maybe a 30 second jog to room 138. "I basically live outta my car. There's gotta be something in here," I said to the Prizm.
On the front passenger side floor sat a bag with a boxes of Frosted Flakes, Wheat Thins and granola bars. There was a quickly fleeting thought of cutting up the boxes and taping them to the beer box. "You're an asshole. That's fuckin' nuts."
I then grabbed the gray bag that orginally held the hat and the other things bought at the same store, two pairs of shorts and a long-sleeve SDSU shirt. I tore it apart and draped it around the beer box. It fit perfectly but looked so white trash that all I could do was laugh and dismiss the idea.
I then rifled through my trunk featuring: two blankets, a pillow, my softball spikes and glove, a bottle of Tide, a roadside emergency kit, an oil change pan and some rags, a new supply of PROFESSIONAL douchebag shirts, my box of CD's with about 90 left, and ... Then it hit me. I thought about using my CD covers to cover the box, but I needed those for the CD's.
"What about my headshots?" I thought to myself. I had half a box left, maybe 250 of 'em. Some of the pictures were warped in color or bent and not able to be used for my promo packs. I grabbed four 8x10 pictures of me. Like it was planned, they covered two sides of the box just right, but were a bit large for the handle-clad sides. I turned them upright for the handle sides and sideways for the others. The box had become a thing of beauty. I was bouncing around the post office parking lot like a Star Wars nerd ready to meet Chewbacca.
I placed the box on top of the Prizm and took some photos. People drove by and wondered what the hell was going on. What kind of idiot puts his own picture, 4 of the same ones no less, all over a box to be mailed? It was pure genius in the truest sense of the phrase.
With the box in hand, I returned inside the post office. I had written on 3 of the 4 pictures FRAGLILE! HANDLE WITH CARE in red permanent marker, making it come from my mouth like a comic strip. So what if the contents were not fragile, my ego was, always is. Thin skinned comics are the norm.
The line was shorter this time. I waited maybe a minute or so. I held the box away from my body so not to get any of the marker on me. As I stood in line, I colored in with the black marker any questionable 'alcohol accociated' words, mostly on the bottom of the box's front, in fine scripted print. While I admired my creation, I also realized that I could've turned my face inward and just had the back of the headshot, the solid white part, facing outward. That would be lame as dogshit. I didn't even give that any thought until approaching the counter. It would be unacceptable in the ego-maniacal, gratuitouly and shamelessly self-promoting world of standup comedy. Plus where's the funny in that?
Paula welcomed me to her counter. The lady who had earlier adivised me to color the box black was with two other customers, a couple in their late 40's. "Here ya go," I said to Paula, handing her the box covered in 'Me' paper. She laughed and looked puzzled. "It's a beer box and I'm mailing a hat to my brother. I guess you can't mail beer boxes."
"That's right," Paula, married woman in her early 40's, concurred. "No alcohol, tobacco or firearms boxes."
"Wow. I didn't even know guns came in boxes," I joked.
"Are you playing at Pepperoni's?" she asked. "I am. How'd you know?" I was actually serious, not thinking she would've actually thought I was comedian. Actors singers, and models all have headshots, too.
"Well the pictures on here," she said. "You just look funny."
"I look funny? Like funny-looking or funny ha ha? There's a difference, Ms. Paula." She knew I was kidding. At least I hoped she did.
"Yeah, I'm there tonight. Hopefully for two shows," I said. "I've never been there," Pauled said. "Well I'll leave you my card good for 4 tickets tonight. Call for reservations and to find out what time the show is. Hope to see you there."
I know my brother really won't give a shit about the box. He'll probably like the hat and maybe the gesture will put a spring in his otherwise lazy step. If my mom's home when the box comes, she'll laugh. So will my sister and yiayia if she's there, but not sure about Brian. Maybe he'll tell the bar regulars at Bobby's Tap about how his douchebag brother sent him a hat in a box covered in his own pictures. Maybe they'll all laugh. Or at least some of 'em. And then that will have made it worth it. A hat and some laughs. Happy Birthday, Brian.
The evolution of my brother's birthday gift box.
Thursday, October 27, 2005
6:28 PM
How would you spend an afternoon in Brookings, South Dakota?
I did so by enjoying a blue draft beer at Cubby's in downtown Brookings, right on main street. I found it to be the perfect place for a Cubs fan to sulk and watch replays of the White Sox winning the World Series just a day earlier.
It's 6:30 p.m. in Brookings, South Dakota. The drive here was considerably shorter than yesterday's 12-hour trek. 3 hours in the car. Road contruction caused lanes to close and sometimes stopped traffic altogether. We round around orange cones on both Route 12 and then on Interstate 29 heading south. This hotel is literally right off the highway. I can hear the cars roar down it with my window facing that way.
My original room was just beyond the front desk and down from the bar where tonight's show will be. Such a nice thing to have the show in your hotel. However, usually such venues lack a unique feel. I mean come on, it's a hotel lounge in South Dakota. The Riviera it's not. Doubt that was even in the plans even.
I checked in a immediately headed to my room and got on-line. The WiFi connection was said to be 'excellent' but in fact it was very weak. After trying to call the front desk and finding the phone connection to be equally poor, I went to the desk and got a new room.
"This one will be an executive suite, sir," the lady behind the counter told me. "It has a king size bed in it." Before she could continue, I chimed in. "Excellent. Thank you very much. Sorry to be a pain." Even though I wasn't being a pain. Sure I was getting my room for free but I wasn't asking for much. It's not like I asked her to come tuck me in or to unwrap the brand new roll of toilet paper.
The executive suite is nicer than room 101, as one would guess. Apparently, in addition to the king size bed, 'executive' means a room with 2 cushy chairs in the corner, one of which is torn on the arm; a leather chair near the desk with a lamp - 101 had a table with wooden chairs and no lamp; a shower liner AND curtain - 101 just had the liner, the kind that clings to your body like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth. You have no idea whose body used the shower before you. If we did know, chances are we'd shower in the sink.
South Dakota State U is here, home of the Jackrabbits. Taking them outta the Brookings population, about 15,000 people live here. According to a cute blonde waitress from Cubby's downtown. No need to consult the census bureau.
The downtown area is quaint, spanning only a few blocks. It reminds me of my neighborhood back in Chicago. The stores, bars and restaurants are all side by side. You can go from buying a hockey jersey to getting a corn muffin to having a blue draft beer without crossing the street.
Cubby's, aptly named because the owner, Gus, is a diehard Cubs fan. I found it fitting to visit his establishment the day after the White Sox won the World Series. My Wrigley Field sweatshirt was on like it was the Cubs who ended 88 years of title-less baseball in Chicago.
Sometimes the road is a boring, lonely place. But you can make it fun if you just go around these small towns and talk with people. Most of them are from here or a nearby city. Others go to school here or went to school here and came back after dabbling in other jobs. Whatever the case, small town people are great people. They've always welcomed me and engaged in good conversation.
Showtime's in 2 hours and I'm gonna try to get a nappy nap in before then. Pushups and jumping jacks, too. The leaner, buffer Scott is only a month or so away. Look out!
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