Detour Productions

September 4, 2009. Last night I received the devastating news that my cousin Rick was killed in an accident. I hadn’t seen him in years, since we were kids running around with other cousins, outside and through the basement recreation room, while the adults played cards upstairs.

Last year he called me out of the blue, to congratulate me on my published books, and to catch up, as much as we could over a long conversation. He asked me to attend the upcoming annual family reunion in Minnesota. I almost did, yet at the last minute bowed out due to my workload. In the back of my mind, I figured there was always the family reunion next year. Also I’d invited Rick to visit me any time in Chicago, so I might see him in the meantime.

A couple days ago I was searching through my e-mails for a specific one, and I came upon my follow-up e-mail to Rick, the one after our phone conversation, thanking him for getting back in touch with me. It was within 24 hours after stumbling upon that e-mail, that I heard the news my cousin Rick was dead.

Gone. I won’t be able to see him face to face for that initial “hello!” hug after not having seen each other in years. And that lesson wielded itself again to my stunned self – some things you put in your pocket for later don’t stay there, some precious, precious things.

It would be useless for me to beat myself up over it, and cousin Rick, the upbeat, energetic and big-hearted man, would not want that. What I can do is learn from this, and reach out to family members. That’s what I’m doing today and upcoming days in his honor. And in his honor, I’ll remember and act upon that valuable lesson.

September 3, 2009.   I didn’t ask his name, yet I’ll see him again. Because of a memorable exchange with the bartender at Quartino, earlier today when I stopped in to purchase a couple bottles of wine. He looked at me and said out loud the name of my perfume.

“Right!” I said, as I handed him the cash for the wine. I paused from chatting with two women nearby, and reminded myself that I’d only put on the perfume lotion, and only a little, so I knew I wasn’t filling the bar with the scent.

One of the women told me that he’d guessed her perfume as well. “He must have worked at a department store.”

“I never worked at a department store, never worked at a perfume counter,” he said as he brought back my change. “I just recognized the scents.” And he walked away to tend to other customers.

Amazing, we three ladies agreed. He must be a bit of a romantic, having an attentive appreciation of women’s perfume scents. We appreciated that.

I put the bottles of wine in my shoulder bag and left. Next time I’ll ask his name. It seems like the polite thing to do. After all, he knew the name of my perfume without even asking.

August 29, 2009. I hear in the news that  the New York City Waldorf-Astoria hotel Starbucks has a “smart casual” dress code for its customers — and I see that online some folks are grousing about it. To them, I say, get over it!

I’m not sure exactly when this whole “It’s cool to be casual–everywhere!” movement began. My guess is it started somewhere in the ’60s, around the time tie-dye became a rage, and it spread like a virus. It was probably worse then, as eventually establishment owners found the need to put up “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” signs. All they were asking for, even the Ma n’ Pa shops, was a little respectful dressing on the other side of the counter. This for their own tired eyes, as well as for their customers’.

The signs must have worked, as it seems in modern day, even the most extreme casual dressers bother to put on shoes and a shirt before walking into a public place.

Now the Waldorf-Astoria management ask that customers respect a “smart casual” dress — sans t-shirts, tank tops, cut-offs or casual hats — at the hotel Starbucks. Apparently this offends some “extreme casual” folks more than they’d offend the most uppity hotel guests by walking in barefoot. They gasp and whine.

Simply, the Waldorf-Astoria management want to assure their guests — all of them — an elegant atmosphere. A temporary haven away from the stampedes of faded jeans, tank tops and cut-offs, and away from the “casual-everywhere!” attitudes that carry them.  Since a Starbucks is under their roof, they ask a certain dress of even the coffee-lovers who stumble in. And in the hotel binder, where the “smart casual” dress code is established, they request it very politely.

As for those who are offended by this gentle request, thank goodness this is the U-S of A; chances are they’ll find another place closeby that serves coffee — and will sell them a cup no matter what their attire, as long as it includes shoes and a shirt.

Cyberspaceship log, August 18, 2009. Anyone with Internet access is given a virtual spaceship, that with a click can blast them to the Cyber-universe.

O yes, Cyberspace is made up of galaxies. I discovered that this afternoon. I’d anticipated a pleasure cruise through social media sites where I have “profiles” — Facebook, Twitter and Linkedin. Suddenly I was diverted. I ventured to seek the “social media” meaning, the “how” and “why” to tap in effectively – and I got lost.

Whether this happened by being drawn into a black hole, I cannot determine. Yet there I was, drifting. Twitter, Facebook, and Linkedin were mere edges of their own galaxies. I veered into Twitter, because the “Tweets” were short, and therefore navigable, or so I thought.

I was bothered that I had more Twitter “Followings” than “Followers.” I went to the Twitter “Help” function, to ask how to cull non-Followers. There was no direct answer. I had to try “key words” that led to links to unrelated subjects, and to readjust the key words to find the link to the answer.

Twitter, like most big-galaxy sites, didn’t offer straightforward question-answer exchanges. I feared that we Cyberspace-travelers were being transformed into mutants, programmed to follow elusive “FAQs.”

How homogenizing, I thought. Yet I couldn’t get around it; the gravity controled me. The only way out was to log-off.

I didn’t want to. I wanted to increase my “Followers.” Now I was bombarded with giant meteors that offered “Tweet Spinner,”  Tweet banners, this Twitter software, that Twitter software, this Twitter service, that Twitter service. Each for a modest price, and great promise.

I recalled my dad using the term “nickel-and-diming” when talking about car repair. Yet here I was in a Cyber spaceship, bumping into entities that promised to get the cyber-engine the best mileage of Followers, fastest. They all treated me like the homogenized spaceship; none addressed my personal navigation.

Well then, I thought, I’ll get Twitter Followers myself. Slow as the process was, ’twas organic. Those I opted to ”Follow” got an announcement, and could choose whether or not to ”Follow” back.

That’s what took most the afternoon, me without a map, navigating through potential “Followers” in the Twitter galaxy. If they interested me, I clicked a “Follow.” I culled through hundreds, distinctive in whom I chose per their brief bios and tiny “Tweets.” (One ‘Tweet,’ or update, is 140 characters max.)

Perhaps that’s where I was lost – ascribing personalization over numbers in Cyberspace. Yet what good were the numbers sans the personalization?

August 15, 2009. Last night my pal Stella and I checked out the “Texas on Tour” exhibit at Navy Pier. And I realized what a romantic place Texas could be.

Well, almost any place can be romantic, if you arrive with the right attitude. Yet from this exhibit I learned that Texas had hundreds of miles of coastline. It has gorgeous beaches.  Adventurers could enjoy surfing, scuba diving and kayaking.

What most resonated was the memory of what my friend, “Rockin’ Billy,” told me. He’s the lead singer and guitarist for “Rockin’ Billy & His Wild Coyotes.” I used to represent the band. Part of my promoting  included dressing in rockabilly garb and going to most the gigs in Chicagoland, and getting the fellows to dance. Just starting the dancing inspired other couples to dance, and the dance floor filled.

Rockin’ Billy’s from Texas. “Jacquee, you’d like Texas,” he had told me. “You’ll find gentlemen there, and they all dance.”  Words I remembered. And last night I found more reasons to consider a Texas visit. A little oasis in my future, a bit mysterious as I anticipate, yet quenching.

I was invited to “Texas on Tour” as a member of the media. So, Stella and I enjoyed All-Access-Passes, that included a “virtual kayak tour,” and getting our photo taken with a Texas backdrop. We both donned cowboy hats and waved to the camera.

We saw the SeaWorld San Antonio animals, and we enjoyed San Antonio margaritas at the press tent. We were each given a black cowboy hat. I walked away from Navy Pier wearing mine. It didn’t match my summer pink dress. However, passers-by who noticed my resonating smile would agree the accessory was perfectly appropriate.

“Texas on Tour” is at Navy Pier until tomorrow (Sunday), then moves on to the Illinois State Fair next, fyi.  Hope you’re enjoying the summer!

I don’t get out much these days, socially. I have so many projects that contain me at the home office – book writings and web site designs that keep my nose to the computer.

I need the isolation to process and express my creativity, and I relish the isolation.

There’s another side of me that I haven’t attended to lately, the social me.

Thank goodness part of my business includes “wine & poetry” pairings, featuring  my poetry book and select wine venues — like the one last Thursday at The House of Glunz, the oldest wine shop in Chicago.

‘Twas near the Pump Room, a classic nightclub at State Street & Goethe. I was dressed up, in a what I called my “champagne dress,” sleeveless and golden with little polka dots and and a crinoline to accentuate the skirt. I relished being away from the home office. After the tasting, I knew that once home, I’d confine myself again.

So I elected to go to the Pump Room, and invited my pal Stella along. I hadn’t been to the Pump Room in several months. Yet I was comforted to know that my favorite Chicago bartender, Angel, was there. Also the cabaret singer, Nan Mason, remembered me and announced me, as a poetess, to the crowd.

The crowd applauded. Many asked about my book, and I fell into conversation with them while my pal Stella danced with a fellow who asked her.

We closed the Pump Room. Stella went home, and I ended up at The Red Head Piano Bar. I hadn’t been there in probably a year, yet the bouncer, whence I stepped outside the taxi greeted me with verve and a “how’s the writing?!”

He escorted me inside, seated me at the piano where the waitress took my order. I heard a loud  ”Jacquee!” and looked to the bartender Jimmy behind the bar.  You remembered me I pealed as I stepped up to greet him. “Of course!” he responded.

And I looked for the bartender Eric, who had known me before Jimmy. Eric arrived shortly at his post. To inform me, while referring to a fella on the other side of the island bar, “Jacquee, this gentleman wants to buy your next glass of wine.”

“If he buys me a glasss of wine he must dance with me,” I replied.

“I told him that,” Eric averred, having predicted my response. “He said he doesn’t dance.”

“If he doesn’t dance, he doesn’t buy me a glass of wine,” I said. And I returned to fellows who did dance with me to the live vocal and piano music. One of them bought me a glass of wine. He was the one who also lifted me to kick up my feet to the jazzy music. “You’re light as a feather!” he said as we both smiled.

Only after arriving home, as the sky lightened, did I consider I might have been rude to the stranger who had kindly offered to buy me a drink.

Yes I was, I thought, and I felt badly. He was making a kind and flattering gesture. No I wasn’t I thought, and felt resolved. I was tired of fellows who didn’t have it in them to ask a lady to dance.

A dance, a simple dance, something we all should do in life and leave it at that unless it becomes more. Either way it is to be celebrated.

I don’t have time for people who don’t dance – especially during my limited time out.

July 26, 2009. Last night I attended a “Venetian Night” party at a pal’s home.  He drew an animated crowd; mostly women — o those lucky fellows. ’Twas a mixture of artists and biz pros, and I-just-like-life folks.

And I, a mixture of all the above – also a lady who at times must assert that part of her — needed a wine glass refill. There was no gent to catch that, so I proceeded to the kitchen, where the wine was. I noticed an unopened bottle of red.

I sited a fellow, chatting with a lady I knew. In refined wine etiquette, the man takes the initiative to remove the cork. I kept my eyes on him as I located the wine key.

I used the wine capsule-cutter. However, as a lady I couldn’t stand opening the bottle myself, with him right there to yank the cork, making my life a bit softer. I lay my hand on his arm.

“Would you do the honors?” I asked. He had a broad frame, thick eyebrows and a look that reminded me of the middle-aged Ernest Borgnine. He had a tough, south-side Chicago speak to boot as he resisted my gentle request.

 ”I need a big, strong man,” I responded.

“Big, I am,” he joked, “But not strong.”

I kept the wine key in front of him, “O come on!” I urged — not so ladylike, yet semi-universal.

He took the key. As he opened the wine, I pointed out that it was a joint effort – as I’d cut the capsule; I lifted the wine capsule cap to prove it.

He nodded and agreed. After he opened the bottle, I said, “My hero!” He smiled and jokingly flexed his arm muscles. He slid the bottle toward me. He should have poured it, I thought, yet one step at a time.  I poured my own glass and raised it to toast with him and the lady with whom he’d been chatting.

He was busy removing the cork from the wine key. “You know wine etiquette, to remove the cork from the corkscrew,” I acknowledged, and waited till he could toast.

Although I had to nudge this fellow to be a gent, I rewarded him with sincere thanks. ‘Twas a bit o’ muscling on my part as a lady, yet worth it.

A bit later, the three in this scene were in different spots in the kitchen. The fellow talking with someone else, myself entering the other side of the kitchen, and the other lady approaching the fellow with an un-opened bottle of wine.

All she had to do was hand it to him. He took it, set down his glass and picked up the wine key. While doing so he noticed me behind him. “You started something with the ‘strong man’ thing,” he told me, and proceeded to open the bottle for her. We all smiled, without toasting, and continued enjoying the party.

July 7, 2009. I took a walk along the lakefront path this evening, to clear my head before the night’s writing. For the sake of research, I crossed the pedestrian bridge to the Lincoln Park athletic fields. This to get to the North Star Eatery and get info to share.

All the fields were occupied with competing teams. I worried about being hit by an errant baseball or soccer ball, from exceptionally good players or exceptionally bad players depending.

One deep in the field could kick a soccer ball so hard it brushed past the goal to blast under my feet. One at bat could lob a foul ball that ascended to mid air, then descend fast in the path of my noggin.

I’d be doomed, I tell ya. Unless the fellows who were playing catch at the side fields – whose potential overthrows I feared – would call to me watch out!  Yet that wouldn’t be enough, as my reaction time would be as rotten as it was during my participation in all serious sports.

The only way I’d be saved would be by a fellow whose reaction time was superior enough to realize that my reaction time was inept, and he’d sweep me out of the errant sports-ball’s path and off my feet, literally. And perhaps figuratively as well. Now that would be the beginning of a story.

May 30, 2009. On the way home from getting groceries before the store closed, I was invited to join a few young men on their night out. I gracefully evaded the invitation, and when walking away I asked myself why.

They were nice men, polite. I’d fallen into conversation by falling into step with them as I left the grocery store. There were three; they were visiting from San Francisco. They had come to the Windy City for a bachelor party — that consisted of bar hopping downtown. They were quite tame for fellows on such a celebration, and they expressed their love for the Windy City. They invited me to join them in the next hop to the next bar. It was all respectful as we walked among the downtown crowds.

“I can’t crash a bachelor party,” I joked. “It’s for the guys.”

They exchanged glances among each other, and told me they could make an exception. Yet we shortly reached a corner, where they turned  and I decided to continue straight.  I wished them a fun evening, and waved goodbye. They thanked me and merged with the crowd going the other way.

Now Jacquee, why did you do that? I asked myself as I crossed the street. I was already smiling at the warm regard they gave me. I knew I’d have been in my element as a gal amongst the guys, a lady amongst the gents.

They took me by surprise, I replied to myself – on my way home with a drawstring pack of groceries on my back, already determined to go home and write. Not that I can’t be spontaneous.

As a matter of fact, being spontaneous is a strong part of my character. So is hiding myself to write. However, there was no deadline tonight.

Had I turned with them, instead of departed — which I could have, that direction was also on my way home — they might have tried a little more polite persuasion, and I might have acquiesced, and we’d meet at a place I’d recommend, and we would have had fun as we talked about Chicago and San Francisco and life.

It was out of character that I stepped away so fast, I realized. Yet, no despair. It was also a sign that — if I keep my eyes open, and more on my toes again — I’m in for a great summer.

May 28, 2009. It almost seems windy out, but it’s not. I like the wind.

The designer for Growing Up (the pain, the joy, the discoveries) bookcover just sent me a potential image to represent the new web site I’m designing. (that, I’ll share later.)

Such a beautiful design. It’s a secret now, between her and me, where to place it. Yet if you look at the bookcover she designed, you will understand her talent.

Her talent to make a vision into art. Into a valid representation of emotions. The adjective “valid” is harsh here, for this writer. Yet necessary.

In my opinion, so many artists throw out so many images.  Many artists want to shock, or to figuratively hit you with a blunt object to present a vision. And much of it finds a place, while leaving you stunned to the point of feeling comatose.

Yet Dragana Nestorovic finds ways to be invited into your passions via the images she presents.

She’d amazed me by the design she came up with to represent Growing Up (the pain, the joy, the discoveries). Tonight she presented an image to be part of my new web site.

In looking at the image, I could hear wind, even though the night outside the windows remained still.

There’s something about words and visions. If you’re lucky you capture them, like fireflies, in a jar. When that happens, it’s magic, and your biggest desire is to set them free.