Observations From the Hank Thompson Suite

It's concert night and I'm flying solo. My wife doesn't know who Beach House is, but not only offered her blessing, she also picked up my ticket.

In spite of my efforts, my timing was off. My normal route downtown has been lost to construction for the next two years and I still haven’t learned to gauge the new transit time. Once downtown, I realize another concert is taking place, grabbing up my preferred parking spots. I get lucky. Driving another two blocks, I find a spot facing a large group of women. They are doing Yoga in the park.

People headed to separate concerts pass in front of me as I watch the Yoga in what I try to convince myself is a non-creepy way. As I finish my bottle of water (a product of Fit Bit guilt), I try to determine who is joining me for Beach House and who is going to 21 Pilots, based on appearance. Unofficially, I nail two of every three--including the trio of shaggy-haired kids smoking cigarettes and wearing heavy coats on a 75 degree evening.

I make the four block walk to Cain's and fall in line with people much younger than me. Of these, more than half would at least partially overlap with the hipster circle on a Venn Diagram. As we funnel into the venue, everybody is pleasant and polite, maintaining quiet conversations. The doorman takes a cursory glance at my driver's license and fits me with a drinking wristband. It's Tuesday and liquor drinks are outside the budget, but I keep the option open; I've got a long night ahead.

The dim light falls softly on the wooden dance floor, giving it a reddish hue as Roy Orbison sings for the lonely over the PA. The stage has been rushed two rows deep, so I won't be up front tonight. Everyone else has scattered to the perimeter and bar line. With time to kill, I scan for beer choices, but there's nothing to tempt me.

It's still forty-five minutes until showtime, so I take a seat in what I dub the Hank Thompson Suite. Far from luxurious, it consists of a three-tier aluminum riser positioned beneath the singer’s portrait. The seating gives me a place to play with my phone while the elevation offers a good view of the stage. I'm not accustomed to being chilly inside Cain's, but in the Hank Thompson Suite, I am directly beneath an air conditioning vent, keeping things a tepid 66 degrees in the immediate area.

As I keep myself occupied with my phone, I glance up intermittently as the fans that continue to stream inside. I am clearly the oldest person here and I don't see a close second.

It’s impossible not to be self-conscious considering I’ve got almost twenty years on three quarters of the people here. My mind draws a comparison to Dave Marsh or some other relic at Rolling Stone. I'm the old guy trying to be cool and relevant. At least I’m not over the top trying to fit in; I’m not wearing Chuck Taylors, a v-neck t-shirt and a scarf. Still, I’m less than an hour removed from making a pizza for my five-year-old daughter and twenty-four hours from now, I’ll be reading If You Give a Pig a Pancake and complaining about being tired after staying out past 11 on a Tuesday.

Demographics say I shouldn’t be here. I would be better suited for a classic rock show or maybe an alternative act that has either survived or resurfaced. However, years ago I swore I’d never be that guy that steadfastly claims all the good music was made while he was in school. As such, it has become a hobby of mine to search out the new and obscure, applying a simple rubric—does it sound good to me? That frees me from complicated labels and herd mentality. Avoiding over-the-air radio helps, too.

I can remember when I was young, and it was my music. I would show up looking like a rock and roll Zack Morris— mixing concert t-shirts, Alexander Julian button-ups, flavor-of-the-week-wash Levi's and Converse All Star high-tops in a caustic fashion alchemy while compulsively pulling a red Goody brush through my sandy blonde hair. I'm sure people thought I was just an idiot with cool taste in music. I was an idiot; my taste questionable.

The problem is, once you cross the Rubicon and leave the homogeneity of your contemporaries, you end up looking less like a fan and more like a chaperone. This reality was a touch too harsh on a non-drinking night. Old, alone and uncomfortably aware of my circumstances, I placated myself with anthropological observations.

A young, bearded man with a Castro cap is talking across me to a woman with a camera around her neck. He's prattling about scanners and open source software making me want to physically assault him. Finally, he excuses himself to take a phone call.

I spot a girl following around a borderline hipster. I would classify her as preppy hipster--she's got a toe in the pool, but good sense and a generous clothing budget keep her from jumping in. She’s carrying a chevron stripe bag large enough to carry a stack of records that have little more than a wallet and phone inside. Her expression and body language suggests she is there at the bequest of her date. In return for her company, he spends most of his time in the booze line and messing with his phone. 

Though I can't hear their conversations, she seems to beg him for scraps of attention. I conclude he's an idiot.

We're now less than half an hour to showtime and more people file into the venue, many going directly to the beer line, which has now expanded to two roughly parallel lines, thirty feet in length.

Another couple appears in my line of sight. Again, the woman is well out of the league of her companion but is not nearly as pretty as the neglected prepster. This guy, tall and lanky, is wearing old jeans and a tight t-shirt advertising a nearby state. His beard explodes from his face like an unraveling ball of yarn; his hair pulled back, the oily strands stretching across what in less than six months will be a full-on friar's cap. 

They move over and take a seat next to me. The man, who I name Bonaroo, has a peculiar odor. By my estimation, the active ingredients include cigarette smoke, beer and a good three days since his last productive shower.

As I'm sitting near the smoking exit, I am witness to a lot of foot traffic. One hippie, in anticipation of the held door, pulls out an American Spirit, because nature.

At 8:00, the lights go down, the crowd roars and people come flooding in from the smoking area like shoppers entering Walmart on Black Friday. During the opener's acoustic set, somebody yells out "Freebird." The collective groan has become as cliche as the request itself, though far more appropriate.

As the opener is finishing up, I spot a man who is definitely older than I am. He looks a little like Larry David and is wearing Birkenstocks. He kills a 12 ounce can of beer in four sips and rejoins the beer line. He repeats the process at least four times over the next two hours.

By 9:00, the room is near capacity. Through the growing crowd, I notice the prepster girl still can't get her date's attention. Irrationally, this agitates me. If I wasn't married. And twice her age.

I notice a guy who appears to be approximately my age hanging out nearby. He seems reasonable until he disappears and returns with beer. It’s almost impossible to respect somebody that has just paid $20 for a six-pack of Coors—on multiple levels. After guzzling two of them, he goes into bro mode, yelling and fist bumping his companions. I think those might be Oakleys on the back of his head.

For all the curious wardrobe choices of the kids, they have at least retired the idea of wearing concert shirts to concerts, a concept the classic rock crowd refuses to let go. To them it establishes credibility and serves as an open invite to conversation. The classic rock crowd certainly loves to recount past shows. A Blue Oyster Cult Fire of Unknown Origin shirt is still perfectly acceptable at any concert. Granted, it’s a medium, something its owner hasn’t been since Reagan’s first term, but it doesn’t matter. This is a visa in the wearer’s rock and roll passport that triggers a litany of memories of varying accuracy.

More people work their way toward the stage. A man likely older than me is holding court for a group of younger people. He looks like the drummer from a bad jazz combo, wearing a black derby, silk-back vest and stonewash jeans--the back middle belt loop of which touches his T12 vertebrae.

A trio of girls march in my direction. The presumed ring leader is built like an offensive guard, wearing a modified new wave t-shirt, exposing a large portion of a leopard print bra, each cup large enough to comfortably house a youth soccer ball.

A few songs into the Beach House set, an unattractive couple sits next to me. Cocktails and the music quickly bring the woman to her feet and she performs Kata on shaky legs while her companion sits with a shocked expression that has nothing to do with what’s going on around him. The routine ends abruptly and the two disappear out the smoking doors.

Beach House meets expectations with a solid, at times hypnotic performance. Simple but complex; sparse, but rich; dark but bright. Victoria Legrand's voice is one in a million; she and Alex Scally create a swirling, unique atmosphere with their melancholy dream pop. The addition of bass and drums gave the sound added punch, bringing me out of my pleasant trance during "Myth." It sounds good to me. My age and my company are irrelevant.

After the second encore, the house lights come up and we all shuffle toward the exit. Outside on the sidewalk, many of the younger fans spill into the nearby bars, keeping the night going. I head straight home; I know the rest of the week will be hell.

In Search of Joe Jackson

It’s 7:30 on a relatively mild Saturday evening. I’m in the Brady Theater in downtown Tulsa where I’ve got a nice aisle seat view of the stage that will be occupied by Joe Jackson in just over half an hour.

Joe Jackson, the musician, typically comes up third in a list of famous people by the name of Joe Jackson. There is “Shoeless” Joe Jackson of Black Sox infamy and the abusive patriarch of the Jackson family. When people found out I was going to see Joe Jackson, very few thought of the musician.

I was then charged with describing his music; a task that proved difficult. In a career spanning forty years, Jackson has planted flags all across the musical landscape, emerging out of England as one of those thin, peculiar-looking new wave guys—along with Graham Parker and Elvis Costello. Jackson started with better executed, more cerebral sardonic punk than his underground contemporaries, incorporating elements of reggae and ska long before it was common.

Jackson’s commercial peak came in 1982 with Night and Day an adventurous mix of piano and percussion driven compositions book-ended by two hit singles, “Steppin’ Out” and “Breaking Us In Two.” Without unforgettable videos or a telegenic look, Jackson was nonetheless aided by MTV and was famous. Then he made a jazz record. And did soundtrack work. And symphonic compositions.

My best answer was the meaningless term, “eclectic.” Essentially, this meant I didn’t know. At least not in a sentence or two definition. Surely a live performance would help explain.

I’d learned of the show via social media. I would have like to have gone, but it wasn’t a cant miss, particularly with my daughter’s birthday and a vacation looming. I only vaguely remembered trying to win tickets the week before the show. The venue’s Facebook page asked followers why they should be given a pair of tickets. My response was that I look sharp. I don’t know if it was random draw or my seemingly clever name check that got me selected.

Around 8:00, an attractive, overdressed woman arrives in the row behind me wearing an all- access lanyard. She joins a group of three people already seated. When she declares that it is six minutes until showtime, it is merely the first bit of information I’d poach in the next six minutes. The man sitting directly behind me was quick to strike up a conversation. He was Australian and had been the road manager for a post-grunge band I didn’t care for. She on the other hand, was a child psychologist from New York—her tortoise shell reading glasses complimenting her look to striking effect. Admittedly, I’m distracted by her presence and search for a reason to get more than a glance. Instead I continue to eaves drop on her conversation.

The crowd is disappointing. I’ve never seen the Brady balcony curtained off. A black drape is pushed by the air conditioning vent, revealing the large No Smoking sign on the wall. This is ironic as Joe Jackson has actively protested smoking bans in the past. I don’t think this is the reason for the curtain.

The child psychologist notes that tonight’s show—and tomorrow’s in San Antonio—were by far the softest box office numbers of the tour. Most everything to that point had been a sell-out or near sell-out. I recall that Tulsa was the only market that Tame Impala didn’t sell out in advance on their Lonerism tour. I feel like we’re being judged as people and as an audience. She also mentions seeing Graham doing yoga backstage. I correctly assume this to be Graham Maby who has played bass with Jackson since 1978.

A blue and red spotlight falls softly atop the keyboard rig stage right. Jackson takes his spot and begins “It’s Different for Girls,” finding his range by the first chorus. Between songs, he is witty and engaging. His appearance reminds me Scott Thompson’s Kids in the Hall character, Tyrone Bibbens, Esq., though not bed-ridden and without the ascot.

His band joins him one at a time, beginning with the aforementioned Maby who has aged well and has gained weight, albeit not much. He is joined by dapper powerhouse Doug Yowell on drums and Teddy Kumpel on guitar, whose stature, purple suit and matching reporter’s cap give him a Vaudevillian look though he sprinkled crisp, clean licks in like Hiram Bullock or practically any other guitarist used by Steely Dan in the 1970s.

The first cover of the night demonstrates Jackson’s talent as an arranger—or in this case, a re-arranger. When I previewed the setlist, I was certain I didn’t need another version of “Big Yellow Taxi,” however Jackson’s Dr. John/Professor Longhair influenced reworking of the Joni Mitchell staple was fresh and imaginative.

The small crowd was engaged and well behaved until “Another World” when Pam Poovey showed up in the aisle behind me to the left. Though there was no specific mention of reheating chili in one’s cooch, the voice and other comments were unmistakable.

Like a touring professional, Jackson offered a large dose of his latest record, Fast Forward which came across as a modern version of classic Joe Jackson. Particularly interesting is “Ode to Joy,” a clever update of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. All the new material struck me as solid, though the special lobby souvenir price of 30 large for the vinyl allowed me to skip the line.

In another revealing moment, Jackson speaks of his admiration and distant relationship with David Bowie before cranking out a terrific version of “Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps).” This explains Jackson’s ambitious streak and habit of accomplishing success in one genre only to leave it behind.

A facelift of “Steppin’ Out” closes the set, surely to the dismay of many in attendance. I myself was looking for the raise of an eyebrow to signal the shift to regular tempo, but by it’s completion, I am convinced it is an effective update of the 1982 hit—now played slower and more brooding as if to demonstrate more pessimistic for the future.

The encore set begins with a surprisingly raucous version of “I See No Evil” which is perfectly juxtaposed with “One More Time” from Look Sharp! This brought into focus Jackson’s early punk influence which borrowed more from Television and Talking Heads than the Sex Pistols or Buzzcocks.

The night concludes as it started, with each member of Jackson’s band exiting in turn until it was just he singer and the piano for the end of “A Slow Song,” which tested the remains of Jackson’ voice. It held and the audience responds with a warm standing ovation.

As fans began to file out, I reached down to retrieve the bottle of water at my feet and return it to the attractive psychologist. She smiled and offered a gracious thank you; the house lights making the final revelation of the night.

Storm Survival Tips (courtesy Jan de Bont)

The days are getting warmer. Rain is more frequent. In Oklahoma, that means just one thing. It’s tornado season. I haven’t watched the severe weather outlook for the season, but I’m sure expectations are high. I mean, weather is only exciting when it’s dangerous.

Local meteorologists have perfected the Storm Season stage show in which dowdy townsfolk assemble in a corrugated tin barns aka gymnasiums to see what rotating air looks like up close.

If you have an aversion to crowds or one of these presentations doesn’t fit your schedule, don’t worry. Thanks to the magic of television, the ultimate tornado survival guide is available in our homes at least twice a week.

Of course, I’m talking about the classic film, Twister. Twister premiered May 10, 1996 on Helen Hunt’s forehead and promptly became a hit. Now, it can usually be found somewhere--usually on CMT, because tornadoes are so country. Besides, nothing eases tension like an ad for FarmersOnly.com. This is Hollywood’s cockpunch to Oklahoma, where residents are all hayseeds awaiting their imminent fate, which is to be killed by a tornado.

This is demonstrated by Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character, “Dusty.” This is sort of a hyperactive redneck preview of “Scotty J” from Boogie Nights. Outfitted in an OU baseball cap and a pair of Realistic headphones, Dusty is way too excited about deadly weather phenomena.

Now, Twister should be applauded. The special effects were quite stunning for the time and it’s gotta to be a bitch trying to work terms like wall cloud, Fujita Scale, and squall line into a major motion picture script. Not to mention the unironic use of the term, “suck zone.”

The heroine is played by aforementioned Helen Hunt. He character is Jo, who as a child, lost her father to a tornado. As an adult, she’s obsessed with storms and dresses like one of the Bushwhackers from pro wrestling. Like most obsessed people, she’s highly irritating. She also leads a team of ragtag, but instinctive storm chasers--of which, Dusty is a member.

Jo has developed some sort of top secret device she calls “Dorothy.” It is a trash can full of transponders, that when hand-delivered into the vortex of a tornado, will transmit all sorts of tornado data to her crew’s refurbished ASUS laptop.

Bill Paxton, playing “Bill ‘the Extreme’” is a tv weatherman and Jo’s estranged husband. He has wandered into BFE to get Jo to sign divorce papers so he can marry reproductive therapist, Jami Gertz and her pitiful Okie accent. Gertz ends up delivering the most poignant line of the film, when she deems the entire group crazy, with Jo being the craziest.

In addition to battling the elements, Jo’s crew is engaged in an ongoing turf war with a team of evil storm chasers, led by a dude named Jonas, who has the most unlikely of stormchaser names. These guys are usually named Lightning Joe, Buck Danger or maybe just Dale.

Jonas’s group is evil because they are sponsored by corporations. Evidently they should have latched on to the government teat to fund their endeavors. However, as a result, they chase storms in a fleet of black vehicles equipped with the latest technology (except Dorothy!). Meanwhile, Joe’s team sputters around the state in a collection of shitty jalopes purchased from a Junior Samples liquidation sale.

Residents of Tornado Alley shrug this off. We don’t stop mowing our lawns unless it’s and F3. Sure, the movie is over the top, completely unrealistic, and at times the film looks like an ad for Dodge Trucks or Pepsi, but what action! Flying cows, driving through a displaced house, a tanker truck doing a Triple Lindy. Or as they call it in Latimer county, Memorial Day weekend.

Anyway, as for the storm tips and facts...

-Taking shelter beneath a wooden bridge is acceptable and will provide ample protection.

-Tornadoes can touch down anywhere, but they prefer rural areas.

- Storm chasers have their own jargon. Kind of like adrenaline junkie truck drivers. Instead of getting in the rocking chair, they get in the bear cage.

-F5 tornadoes (aka the Finger of God) should not be mentioned aloud. It will be met with dropped silverware and cold silence.

-Severe storms can make a person amorous. Narrowly escaping death, being pelted with debris and becoming mud-caked can be an aphrodisiac.

-When shelter isn’t available, a good belt and solid fence post will suffice. This will also insulate a person from the debris field.

-Crossing Billy the Extreme will result in “imminent rueage.”

Pick up your severe weather map at Arby’s and stay safe.

Eleven Days

The cold front has pushed through, the leaves are beginning to work their way to the ground and the trucks and trailers are headed for Tulsa. Yes, it’s fair time, or as the Tulsa State Fair people claim, Eleven Days of Awesome. Or maybe hyperbole.

The band of exhibitioners, Murphy gypsies, tramps and thieves, and masters of the deep-fried culinary arts are about to occupy midtown—a word of caution before opting to leave your windows open for that welcomed cool autumn air—to fill the fairgrounds with thrills, entertainment, meth amphetamine and irritable bowels.

I love the fair. Eight bucks is a bargain to see a rigged midway, people you don't see anywhere else and sedated pigs face down in a pile of sawdust. In just a few hours, people will be shoving all things deep fried into their halitosis-stricken mouths, putting their physical safety in the hands of meth-heads operating sputtering thrill rides and testing their skill, luck and nerves trying to win useless prizes playing carnival games.

This year’s theme is “Picture This,” (a nice nod to Huey Lewis’s underrated second album) and while I certainly can, I don’t think that’s what the county has in mind. With the popularity of social media and hash tags, the fair is a perfect collaboration. It’s always been a series of photo opportunities, now we can tag them and share with friends. So, in that spirit, I’ve started a list—a photographic scavenger hunt, of sorts.

The big day is almost upon us, charge your phone, sharpen your eye, and get ready to click and tag.

#Juggalos Remember when at-risk youth wore Canadian tuxedos and sneaked Lucky Strikes? Oh, for simpler times. Dressing as clowns, slurping Faygo and yelling “Whoop Whoop!” is a real thing. Presumably for kids that find the Goth scene too cheery.

#ShedBeCuteIfSheDidntRaisePigs We’ve all seen this girl when touring the livestock exhibit. Beneath the ill-fitting Wranglers and clunky boots is an attractive young woman. If she could do something with the hair and wardrobe instead of getting out of bed at 4am to tend to the livestock. But there are still the ill-fitting Wranglers and clunky boots. As well as the ability to catch a nap or eat a chili dog within two feet of a shit-littered pig pen. The guys on FarmersOnly.com won’t mind. I’m city folk and I just don’t get it.

#OverpricedSouvenirBeerCup How do you make stale, 3.2 beer more attractive? How do you justify an even larger mark-up? Yes, the souvenir cup. Last year, this was in the form of a plastic Golden Driller that unsophisticated drinkers could repurpose as change jars or beef stick holders.

#OklahomaHatTrick This is accomplished by the skilled fairgoer with the dexterity and internal fortitude to handle a turkey leg, beer and cigarette at the same time.

#LocalCelebrity Send out the weekend meteorologist or third string sports anchor and watch the moths swarm the lightbulb. Everybody wins.

#BadTattoo Within five minutes on the grounds, you’re sure to find someone who literally said, “fuck it, just put something on my body permanently.”

#AggressiveSalesman Booth space is expensive and I’m not sure who buys a swimming pool at the fair. Still, management is tense and puts pressure on his sales associates, telling them with higher foot traffic, you damn well better move some product. Now’s he’s passing this pressure along to anybody entering a ten-foot radius of his booth—sort of like Bobo in Dockers.

#FauxRida The midway has long been known the battle of music, pitting hip-hop against strip club metal. Suddenly, artists want to be compensated for their wares. To counter this margin-slashing cost, replica songs have been produced and given the quality of the sound system and patrons’ own level of inebriation, so only a few will notice. It’s like Kidz Bop, though I seriously doubt ASCAP fees have been paid. It is coming down, but not for real.

#UnlicensedCharacters As the fair master minds have discovered, licensing is for squares. The solution—Hellow Kittie. Completely different from that thing Asian girls love, and these can be produced in bulk for pennies in Chinese factories. Beany Bu, you ask? Got tons of ‘em. Why, we’d sue TY for infringement if we weren’t such sweethearts.

#Cougar Who doesn’t enjoy older women on the prowl? Overdressed and overly made up—complete with a thick coat of “I Swallow Red” lipstick—lots of jewelry sipping Kendall Jackson from a plastic cup with a cartoon goat on it, because these ladies aren’t just older; they’re more sophisticated.

#PanFluteBand What’s more soothing than giving your feet a rest and enjoying the serene sounds of a pan flute band? Okay bad question, but the juxtaposition of soft music just off the midway where a few dozen people hotbox Basics prior to entering the exhibit hall is one of those things that make the fair such a unique experience.

#Mullet #Skullet #ManBun The fair is a great place to see the latest fashion trends and pick up ideas. Fashionable hairstyles are in no short supply along the midway—these are just a few of my favorites.

#TurboChristiansOnMotorbikes These are like regular biker gangs but instead of meth, they’re hooked on Jesus. Instead of Easy Rider, they read from the New International Version. Instead of the Doobie Brothers, they listen to Toby Mac.

#Shenanigans The local news outlets will have reports later this week about final inspections of midway rides and games because, for some reason, this is always a concern. The rides are rattletraps, the carnies are tweakers and the games are rigged. People still don’t care.

#Boomer For those of you that can’t be troubled to drive over to 46th and Memorial and park at the door, Big Red Sales will have prime real estate. That way you can park, walk two miles, pay gate admission and walk through the crowd—and pan flute band—to pick up your favorite land thieves gear. Perhaps you’ll run into a former Sooner star—likely a semi-intoxicated Jamelle Holieway—trying to generate traffic in exchange for ride coupons and beer.

#MurphyInnovations The Murphy Brothers are nothing if not innovative. They have been making the midway experience more enjoyable for decades. From ridiculously stringent safety standards to meticulously screened employees to great new forms of entertainment. I was reading on their website that their midways are fully landscaped. The accompanying photo showed a morbidly obese carnie operating bumper cars near a potted palm.

That should get you started. Be critical, be creative, but most of all, have a great time!

To Cast an Arm

Thursday was one of those days that felt like three. This isn’t exactly uncommon and eventually I’m going to learn not to be surprised by anything. However, when your daughter fractures her arm, a long chaotic day is a given. So many friends and family have expressed concern and curiosity as to what happened. What follows is a rough timeline of events.

Wednesday 8:15pm The telephone rings. My wife jokingly says “that can’t be good.” It’s not. Sloane is having a sleepover with two friends. Not long after arriving, the three girls are jumping on the backyard trampoline. The safety screen is not completely zipped and Sloane inadvertently dismounts, hitting a step stool on the way down with her elbow. She’s now in a great deal of pain. Ice is applied. She thinks she’ll be okay.

8:40pm The pain will not go away and we are called again. This time, I am sent after her. Kristen came home with bad allergies and has taken Benadryl in anticipation of an early night. I’m most qualified to drive.

9:00pm I arrive at our friends house. Sloane is on the sofa, looking miserable. She cannot move her arm, grip or wiggle her fingers. There is some redness and swelling near the elbow. The adults conclude a break seems unlikely. Sloane is determined to finish the sleepover and tries to send me home. A pain spike makes this impossible.

9:10pm We are in the car and are advised of a pediatric minor emergency facility in the neighborhood with late hours. I drive there and take the closest parking spot, roughly 100 yards from the front door. The clinic is neighbors with a Dollar Tree.

9:12pm I kick the door open, carrying Sloane, my wallet and my phone (no pockets). To borrow a line from The Tragically Hip, the receptionist asks, “can I help you,” in a way that says she can’t." Three unidentified employees agree that the injury is beyond the capabilities of the office and suggest I take her to the nearest hospital ER.

9:15pm With a late night at the ER now likely, Kristen shakes off the Benadryl to join me for the trip to Saint Francis--where we have recently spent more late nights than any bar or nightclub. Sloane is no longer screaming and seems tired.

9:30pm As we arrive at Saint Francis, Sloane is asleep. We ask her if she’d like to go home and see her doctor the next morning or continue to the ER. She pleases everybody by asking to go home.

Thursday 8:00am Kristen calls me at work. She can’t find her car keys. They are in the backseat of my car, some twenty miles away. I bring them home. The sun is shining so the OHP is conducting a fundraiser on I-44.

8:15am I return home with the keys. The doctor’s office doesn’t open until 8:30. The three of us watch Chicken Little until 8:30.

8:30am An appointment for 9:45 is secured. I go back to work with the understanding that I will be called in for relief should the appointment run long.

10:15am I am called to meet the two of them at radiology building near Sloane’s doctor’s office on the Saint Francis campus.

10:50am I take over and Kristen goes to work.

10:55am We are called back for a set of x-rays that prove to be torturous. Getting the proper images involve Sloane moving her arm in ways that is very painful. She cries and screams but we get enough.

11:15am Sloane, showing her mother’s tendencies, demands to see the x-rays, though none of us can interpret them.

11:20am On the way out, Sloane notes the preponderance of old people in the waiting room. “That’s what they do, Sweet Pea,” I tell her. “Just like I go to work and you go to school, they go to the doctor.”

11:35am Sloane is at my office eating crackers and watching Miraculous on an unused computer.

11:45am The fracture is confirmed. The cast will be put on at 2:30 at EOOC, which is near the radiology center which is near the doctor’s office on the Saint Francis campus. (This is later amended to 2:45, though we are required to arrive by 2:30).

2:27pm We are seated across from the aquarium and I am filling out forms asking about my six-year old’s use of alcohol and tobacco. Food Network is playing on the television on the wall.

2:30pm Another cooking show featuring Bobby Flay starts. Contestants compete to compete against him in a cook-off. When did chefs begin rival pilots on the arrogance scale?

2:45pm We are called into a confessional-sized office where cost is discussed. The upshot is that my insurance isn’t nearly as good as HR said it was. We will be dropping money, but the figures vary greatly I am Mark Ratner out with Stacey and call for help.

2:55pm We are back in the waiting area in time to see Flay emerge victorious thanks in part to a beet reduction sauce.

3:00pm Valerie Bertinelli is on a Food Network show. Ironic and ballsy.

3:10pm We are called into an even smaller office to confirm what we had been told earlier. I authorize the staff to put a cast on my daughter’s broken arm and we return to the waiting room.

3:35pm We are led into a room marked Cast Room. It is long and narrow. Sloane takes a seat on the bed and waits for the doctor who looks too much like Richard Kiel. I ask if there is a wrist to elbow option that would allow Sloane to keep playing baseball. I am only partially joking.

3:40pm The assistant takes over, doing all the work. Sloane picks out pink and purple camouflage and a waterproof pad.

3:45pm I cannot believe how much this is going to cost. The process is simple and the materials can’t be that expensive. If only we had Sam Losco around.

3:50pm I am checking out. Sloane has wandered off, so the clerk assumes that I am getting the cast though I’m clearly not wearing one. She initially charges me for the adult size.

5:30pm We are at the Westside YMCA touring the campgrounds where Sloane will be going this summer. She shows no ill effects.