So, apparently Gmail has been having issues for the last four hours or so. And most of my various e-mail accounts rely on Gmail. So if you’ve been trying to reach me with anything urgent, please be patient — I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks.
A Ziff-trospective, Part III: Oakbrook Terrors
West of Chicago, there’s a spot where interstates 294, 290, and 88 all come together. Just west of that interchange, on I-88, is a toll plaza. If you look to the south as you’re driving by, you’ll see an extended-stay corporate hotel. And behind that hotel you’ll see a low, sprawling orange building with a glass canopy over the entrance.
If I were to estimate the amount of time I spent in that building…well, let’s do it now. I went to work there every day for almost four years. Call it 7500 normal working hours. Now add an extra 40 to 60 hours a month to account for deadlines, for around 44 months. Yeah, that’s about what I expected: ten thousand hours is a pretty fair estimate. To do that all at once you’d have to work for about 14 months straight. Without stopping to sleep.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining. Some of my fondest memories happened in and around that building. I made some dear friends. I learned some important lessons. I met my wife during this time. I laughed a lot. I ate some really spectacular take-out.
But you stay in any place long enough, you’re gonna get a little crazy. Continue reading “A Ziff-trospective, Part III: Oakbrook Terrors”
“Used to be so deep…”
This amuses me.
I was doing a search for statistics on the Guitar Hero and Rock Band franchises for my weekly music-game column over at Green Pixels, and for some reason stumbled on this article about late-’80s/early-’90s punk band Pennywise
The band’s punk credibility was boosted by some Sex Pistols-like antics. During an appearance on the syndicated call-in radio show “Loveline,” [guitarist Fletcher] Dragge intentionally vomited on strait-laced co-host Dr. Drew. The interview took place at alternative rock station KROQ-FM in Los Angeles in 1995.
What the article does not tell you is that a day or two later the band played a show at Peabody’s Down Under in Cleveland, Ohio. I happened to be in Peabody’s legendary green room while they were telling the story to a friend of mine — it’s possible my band was actually opening that night, but I honestly don’t remember — and was as aghast as you probably were the first time you heard this story. But then Fletcher did something that in some ways is even worse. Continue reading ““Used to be so deep…””
Pączki Day
So, it’s Pączki Day. In a tradition believed to have been started as a way of using up all the sugar, fruits, and dough before Lent starts tomorrow, Polish people everywhere are eating absurdly rich donuts filled with fruits, creams, and/or chocolates, called pączki (and pronounced, roughly, “PONCH-key”). This observation of excess is celebrated by Americans of Polish descent throughout the country, but especially in the Midwest, where we’re particularly numerous. I’m Polish. I like doughnuts. This is a holiday made for me.
There’s just one problem: Before a couple days ago, I’d only ever heard it mentioned once in my life. The person who talked about it came from the Detroit area, and I assumed this was something that was local to Michigan. But the other day, my wife, who grew up in Chicago, pointed out a sign on a donut shop advertising Pączki Day. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Oh, huh,” I replied with my customarily sage-like pith. “It’s a Michigan thing that must be making its way here.” And I didn’t think anything of it.
Until yesterday, when she brought a box home from the grocery store. We each had one for dessert. They were delicious. So I hopped onto Wikipedia* to try to track the origin and progress of Pączki Day. Continue reading “Pączki Day”
A Ziff-trospective, Part II: Mere Anarchy
When last we spoke, I promised to tell you some dirty little secrets about the Bad Old Days of EGM, OPM, and assorted magazines, in their original home in Lombard, Illinois. And I have no intention of shirking my duties.
But trying to hang these all together in some sort of coherent narrative would a.) take way too long, and b.) probably not make any sense anyway. There was a lot going on, as you’ll see, and if I were to try to hem everything up all pretty it would probably come off as some sort of fevered drug-dream. So instead, let’s peek in on some memorable moments, some iconic people, things, and events that represented that whole heady, smelly time.
Let’s start with the Cone of Violence. It’s as good a place to start as any. Now, enough has been said about this device that I’m not going to waste much time describing it except in the simplest terms: It was a full-size traffic cone, heavy as these things are, positioned appropriately next to the Blitz machine… Oh, I haven’t told you about the Blitz machine? Yeah, we had an NFL Blitz arcade machine in the office, positioned directly in front of the main door so that you couldn’t possibly miss it. “Oh, I was just heading down to the break room for a soda, but I guess I could squeeze in one game.” It’s a wonder we ever got any work done. Anyway, games of Blitz could get pretty heated, thanks largely to what has been variously called “CPU assist,” “rubberband AI,” and “bullshit.” See, what happened was, as soon as one player opened up a big lead, the game would start causing him to fumble the ball, throw interceptions, miss easy passes — pretty much do everything but trip over his own shoelaces. This made some people angry.
But it made Crispin Boyer positively livid. Continue reading “A Ziff-trospective, Part II: Mere Anarchy”