The Moth: StorySLAM!

As a long-time fan of The Moth podcast, I was beyond geeked to find out that The Moth hosts live Story Slams in Chicago on the last Tuesday of each month, at Martyr's, which is just down the street from me! Live story telling doesn't strike me as being hugely popular in this day and age, so I assumed my friends and I would be in the company of a few socially awkward guys with bad skin playing chess or D & D at a corner table. Boy was I wrong! As verified by the people waiting in the line that stretched out the door, the hipster crowd has latched onto anything and everything NPR, which makes these Story Slams a very cool and incredibly trendy way to spend a Tuesday night.

Each month, The Moth people choose a theme, which has to somehow figure into every story told. Anyone can sign up to tell a story, and of those volunteers, ten people are chosen at random. Every story is recorded and audience members can volunteer to judge, rating the stories on a scale from 1-10. The winner goes on to participate in regional (and possibly even national!) competitions. So as not to extend the event into the wee hours of the morning, a time limit is set for each story teller, replete with 60- and 30-second warning tones, giving the performer ample time to wrap up their yarn.

The topic that evening was SCARS, and the stories ran the gamut: physical, emotional, metaphorical. Aside from one last-minute sign-up, every story teller was well rehearsed, well prepared, and remarkably polished. Some tales were sad, some were hysterical, and one was even kind of raunchy, but they all tied in to the given topic. As I listened, laughed, gasped, and applauded wildly, I realized how much story telling was like writing. The strongest stories had a powerful introduction and a hook that drew listeners in right away. They were well structured, concise, dynamic, and had a concrete ending. The best story tellers were able to bring the tale full circle, and used facial expressions and vocal inflections (two perks not found in printed stories) to their undeniable benefit.

At my friends' urging, I toyed with the idea of signing up to tell a story. Having not known the theme beforehand, though, I decided against it. As the night went along, I became more and more convinced that I can tell my stories better in writing than I could in front of a microphone. Most of humanity can be divided into one of two camps: the Thinkers or the Doers. I identify more with the former. As a musician, this division is referred to as the Classically Trained and the Improvisers. I'm a Classical gal through and through. Put a piece of music on my stand, and with a little practice, I can play just about anything. Ask me to make something up on the spot, and I crumble. Other people I know are brilliant improvisers, but struggle to breathe life into a page full of notes. For me, story telling is a lot like music making; I need the ink on the page, to see the structure before me, and to practice the more difficult passages.

In short, you probably won't hear me on The Moth or at a jazz band concert, or any other improvised event. Although I have plenty of stories to tell, they won't be in that format. But if you're interested in my take on the scars theme, read on-- I'll be posting my (written) version very soon!

Photo Credit: Danielle Deschaine

Say WHAT?

I've never been one to have an instant comeback for a snarky or incendiary comment... I usually think of the perfect retort just as the other person is walking away. Since I began waiting tables, though, I've found it's even harder to further a conversation with a patron who says something so outlandish, off-the-wall, or just plain nasty that I don't know what to say... I just know that they're expecting a response. If I say nothing, it's usually interpreted as rudeness on my part, even though I'm often left feeling more bewildered than anything else.

After years of experience, I've gotten much better at coming up with generic, unoffensive answers on the spot. But every once in a while, a customer will say something so far out, that I'm left nearly speechless. I can usually worm my way out of the most impossible of conversations either by parroting back a portion of what they just said, or by laughing nervously and cheerfully telling them I'll be right back with their drinks/silverware/whatever as I'm backing away.

Aside from the occasional cantankerous old man who winds up in my section, one table in particular fills me with dread every time they walk in the door. An innocuous-looking couple in their mid-forties, they seem perfectly benign... until the husband places his drink order:

"Is your water filtered, or do you just get it from that spigot over there?" he once asked, nodding to the hose attachment a few feet away from their table on the patio.

"It is filtered, but I'd be happy to get you some tap water if you would prefer!" I told him cheerfully.

And on another occasion, he said, "I'd like a chilled glass with my beer. Do you think you can manage to bring me a clean one?"

"That's... that's always the goal!" I chirped, hoping my smile didn't look too forced.

His wife, as mousy as he is arrogant, has perfected the nervous laugh/apologetic smile combination, and giggles shrilly every time I have to bring them something. They don't frequent the establishment often enough to be considered regulars, but I've waited on them enough to know that they like their (filtered) water without ice, and their salad dressings on the side. When he's not in the mood for a salad, however, the conversation quickly devolves:

"What brand of Veggie Burgers do you serve?" he once queried. When I told him, he gave a disgusted sigh and said, "never mind. I'll just eat meat."

"Excellent choice, sir!" I beamed.

Then, during a rare morning shift, I was met with: "If I get toast, will it be toasted evenly on each side?"

Almost relieved, I quickly tailored a generic answer from the standard collection of server catch phrases: "Our chefs are quite adept, but if your 9-grain isn't toasted to your liking, I'd be happy to get you something else!"

Judging from his demeanor during these confrontations-- I mean, conversations-- it's pretty clear that he thinks he's being funny; it's a pity I don't subscribe to his brand of humor. His wife is quick to laugh at all the right times, though-- her tittering has become a near-involuntary response.

Once, the salad she ordered came out wrong-- it had onions even though she had asked for none. When I went to check on them, I saw the error and-- following standard server protocol-- I apologized and offered to get it fixed. She politely refused, opting to pick them off herself. Which was fine, until her husband chimed in with some disparaging remark about how she was the one who was always such a difficult customer.

"Women," he scoffed, shaking his head then looking to me for validation as his wife's laugh track started up again.

I balked momentarily, then smiled apologetically at the wife as I repeated, "Women!" I mirrored his head shake, and with a helpless shrug I joined in with his wife's shrill laughter. Content with my response, he turned his attention back to his non-veggie burger. And before he could say anything else, I gave his wife one more sympathetic look and scurried away.

The Cubby Blues

It was with a mixture of sadness and morbid curiosity that I tuned in to Ron Santo's televised funeral service this morning. The icky, voyeuristic feeling I had quickly dissipated, though, when I saw that the ceremony inside Holy Name Cathedral was not a solemn act of mourning, but rather a joyous celebration of life.

Santo was the Cubs' third baseman during the 60s and early 70s, then returned to Wrigley as a color commentator for WGN radio back in the early 90s, a position he held until his passing last week. Ronny wasn't just revered for being a great player or a good teammate or a member of one of the most beloved teams in Cubs' history, and he wasn't just adored for his passionate and entertaining broadcasts with Pat Hughes. Ron Santo was an incredible person. Although his athletic abilities, broadcasting outbursts, and remarkable fundraising efforts for juvenile diabetes research were what made him nationally renowned, it was his eternal optimism and ebullient spirit that endeared him to millions.

Ron faced more adversity in his life than most, and he had the added burden of tackling these challenges in the public eye. His admission that he had type-1 diabetes (a then-debilitating disease that eventually cost him both his legs) back in the early 70s stunned the baseball world, and the disappointment that stemmed from his many failed attempts at getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame were made all too public in the 2003 documentary, This Old Cub. But despite these setbacks, Ronny always had a minute to sign an autograph for a fan, give advice or words of encouragement to kids with diabetes, and to keep in touch with the people who were important to him.

If I've gathered anything from the stories, memories, and tributes that have been pouring in to WGN and the other local news stations since word broke about his passing, it's that he made a lasting impact on everyone with whom he came into contact. It's amazing to me how much of an effect a kind word or gesture can have on someone yet how, more often than not, that impact isn't fully realized or acknowledged until after that person has passed. From the stories shared by friends, family and colleagues, to memories from people who only met him once, to fans (like me) who never met him but feel like they knew him anyway, it sounds like Ronny was more of an exception than most, but I'll bet he never knew just how many lives he touched during his 70 years on Earth.

Which got me to wondering: why do so many of us wait until someone has died to express just how much they meant to us in life? Wouldn't it be better and more meaningful to share these sentiments with a loved one or mentor while they are still living? For whatever reason, this is easier said than done, but I think that if everyone made the effort to thank just one person who helped to shape the direction of their life or aided them in a time of need, the world would be a better place.

It was this thought that prompted me to email a professor I had for a month during my freshman year of college (who probably has no memory of me whatsoever) to congratulate her on the release of her new documentary and to compliment the superb essay she had published in our latest alumni magazine. I thanked her for sharing her story and told her that it was her class that prompted me to continue learning about her research (and related areas of study). I'm not expecting a reply, but at least she knows that she got through to at least one of us back in 1997.

And as for Ronny, we Cubs fans continue to hold out hope that the MLB will honor his legacy with a posthumous induction into Cooperstown, but today, I rest assured knowing that he has entered the Great Hall of Fame in the sky, and that he's in very good company. Rest in peace, Ron Santo, for your work here is done.