What The Cubs' Win Meant to Me

Calling someone a "Bandwagon Fan" carries a certain negative connotation.  It's the same reason people brag about liking a band before they got big.  And no, it's not only because of insufferable superiority.  (Although there's a lot of that to regard.)  But I believe it carries a more personal, possessive quality.  This is mine.  I claim some sort of ownership in this wonderful thing that I love.  And when someone hops on without your same stalwart allegiance, it feels like an assault.

I'm a Bandwagon Fan.  Of whom? you may ask.  Of any team.  Any sport.  Any player.  And I have no qualms about saying it.  Because I downright don't care much for sports.  Except for football, of course.  I would never say I don't care much for football.  Because I loathe football with a fiery passion reserved for pedophiles, rapists, and people who brag about liking a band before they got big.

"Shouldn't you be hiding in shame as you declare such dastardly statements?" one might ask.  Well, no.  Because although I have no loyalty to a sports team, I do have one particular loyalty: Chicago.

For those keeping score, I moved to Los Angeles from Chicago one month to the date of the Cubs' victory.  It was something I'd been preparing for all year.  I knew that this was likely the year they would win, and I kept stating throughout the year, "Yeah watch.  I'm going to move to LA right around the time the Cubs win the World Series."  And thus, a clairvoyance was awoken inside me.

I've been wanting the Cubs to win the World Series for the 11 years I lived in Chicago.  Yes, it's blatantly slim pickings compared to all of the men and women who were born Cubs fans, died Cubs fans, and lived every month of October in shame.

But again, I will not be shamed.

I first moved to Chicago in 2005.  And about two months after I arrived, The White Sox won the World Series.  There was a vibrancy to the city that I didn't quite understand.  Because I felt like an outsider.  The way punk has performed a 180 to become just as alienating as the culture it was countering.  I was a White Sox fan as a child, but had moved to Maryland where I felt so removed from the team I grew up watching while inhaling hot dogs and soda fountain suicides that I no longer felt welcomed at the house of Sox worship that was this new city.

But something happened in 2010.  I had graduated from college the previous year.  I was living in apartments that had nothing to do with proximity to a campus.  I had switched my driver's license and vehicle plates to Illinois.  I was registered to vote in Cook County.  I lost my virginity in Ukrainian Village.  I puked in alleys in Wrigelyville.  I stopped looking up directions to get around CTA.  I went jogging on Lake Shore Drive.  I was more used to O'Hare International Airport than any other shit show on the planet. I cried on the Red Line late at night listening to Elliott Smith and staring out the window as the lights of Uptown flashed across my tears.

I was a Chicagoan.

And in 2010, something big happened in Chicago sports.  The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup.  And no way I was going to miss that.

I went to a bar with my roommate and a couple other friends.  There was that same vibrancy I felt five years earlier, except I was now a part of it.

The electricity in the bar after they won was contagious.  This city that I had felt so lonely in so many times suddenly birthed me hundreds of new friends.  We sang that fucking Chelsea Dagger song until it lost all semblance of meaning.  We locked arms together.  We danced on a pool table (and then were promptly told to get off.  Some decorum must remain.)  It was as if the city smiled down on each and every one of us.  Our reward for enduring those winters.  A reason to be a Chicagoan.

Both of the following Blackhawks' victories felt more and more energized than the last.  We weren't just a fluke.  We were perhaps in the midst of a legacy.  So now, whenever a Chicago team makes it to the playoffs, I watch.  I watch not because I care about the sport.  But because I care about Chicago.  And I care about reclaiming that sense of unity we gain when our fellow comrades succeed.

So in the midst of the Blackhawks' fervor, I started getting a real big hard on for a Cubs victory.  Because there's no bigger underdog than the Chicago Cubs.  They are the endless butt of endless jokes.  And both Back to the Future and Parks and Recreation deemed it necessary to throw the old Cubs a bone by letting them be victorious in fictitious futures (the latter being rather prophetic.)  100+ years of a drought.  It would be more explosive than a teenaged boy discovering the glory of masturbation for the first time, then promptly losing his arms in a fiery crash, and finally losing his virginity to the girl of his dreams... 108 years later.

So as the Cubs started to perform really well this year, it added one more thing for me to hesitate over during this move.  As a Bandwagoner, it would be ridiculous for me to postpone my move in the hopes that maybe the cursed team would actually pull through.  And so, I soldiered out west.

As with any transition, this one has not been easy.  I know very few people out here.  And as much as I enjoy being by myself (I swear, that's not sarcastic), it's very odd to not be able to break up that thin line between being alone and being lonely with a quick hangout with a dear friend.

Pile on the fact that the former love of my life, Chicago, was having the greatest fucking party of the 21st Century, and I wasn't invited.

If I was able to watch a game, I did it alone at a bar.  Not well-versed enough to engage with other fans, I kept to myself.  Outside of the outside.  It felt like an alternate timeline of 2005 all over again.

But there was no way I was missing Game 7.  And apparently, neither was anyone else.  The restaurant I work at was dead, so I got to leave around the top of the 9th.  Earlier, I found out there was a Chicago bar about an 8 minute bike ride from my restaurant.  So I hauled ass, legs, arms, and tits all the way to the bar on my bike.  Only to arrive and find a film crew blasting lights into the bar.

I panicked.  I asked a crew member what was going on, and my worst fears were confirmed.  Yes, they were filming.  No, there are no other bars around you could get to before the game ends.  No, they were not letting people come in to watch the game in the background of filming.  

I nearly cried.

But then the man looked at my face, and looked down at my Cubs shirt.  "But there's a bunch of people watching the game on an iPhone behind that tent," he offered.

I ran over behind craft services and saw about 7 people huddled in front of a phone blasting the game in Telemundo.  "Is there any way I can watch the game with you?" I blurted out.

And to my surprise, this crew didn't just let me stand in the background peering over heads, they offered me a seat in one of two chairs there.  They offered me food from craft services.  They offered me water.  And most of all, they offered me companionship that was absent from any other Cubs viewing experience I had in Los Angeles.

Of course, as we all know, I had plenty of time to see the end of the game.  Enough time to find another bar.  To watch on a television that didn't pause for buffering.  To enjoy a beer.  To not have to remain silent during a play while cameras were rolling.  But that is exactly where I wanted to be for the game.  The only better option would have been Wrigley itself.

And so I celebrated the Cubs' win in the most LA way possible.  On set while filming.  And the people who were watching with me weren't just happy for the Cubs' win.  They were happy for me for getting to experience it.  And that was better than anything I could have found alone at a bar.

So yes, I didn't know most of the players until these past few weeks.  And yes, I go to baseball games to eat terrible concession food and drink beer.  And no, I don't pay much attention to the actual game.

But yes, I did cry when they won.  I cried because I knew my favorite city in the world was about to experience a euphoria unimaginable to any other city (except maybe Cleveland in 40 years.)  Because I could feel the electricity from 2,019 miles away.  And because I wasn't a part of it.  And maybe I won't be a part of it again.  Unless of course a Los Angeles sports team --

Oh God, who am I kidding?  I'll Werner Herzog my shoe before I hitch my wagon to that band.

We Can Be Heroes

Because I'm a human person, the past couple of days have had a strange effect on me.  Sunday night, I performed at Chicago's Sketchfest.  Third time in three years.  I had a fantastic support group watching me from the audience as well as a fantastic support group playing with me on stage (and off).  I was doing what I loved.

I went out after with some friends.  Coming off my post show high; I laughed, smiled, and had an all around lovely (and boozy) evening.

During our last stop, I started talking about David Bowie.  How his counter-culture weirdness meant so much to me.  And about 15 minutes later as we were ushered out of the 2:00 a.m. bar at 2:05 a.m., a woman passed by us lamenting, "I'm going home to cry.  David Bowie just died."

It felt like a gut punch.  My brain kicked immediately into the first phase of mourning: denial.  "Shut up.  No.  You're kidding.  Stop.  I can't believe this.  How?  When?  Why?"  No matter what, I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I don't believe discussing him moments earlier - free of the sanctuary of ignorance - was a coincidence.  Because the thing about David Bowie was; he was always there.

Not physically of course.  I always believed I would see him in concert one day and now have to admit that will never be the case.  But his influence is so reaching.  So real.  And so visceral that he was always part of the conversation.  Even if you weren't talking about him.  He was there.  And that's why we mourn.

I won't pretend that I'm the die hard fan that many people are.  I was never alive during his Golden Years (song or cliched phrase).  So I never felt his transformations in real time.  I own only a handful of his vast canon.  And I most likely could recite a mere portion of his catalog.  But it doesn't matter if you knew every song verbatim.  Every moment.  Every choice.  Because the reaching power of his artistry meant that even if you only knew that The Wallflowers had a song in Godzilla called "Heroes", and you really liked it, you were still a David Bowie fan.  Somehow.

Since I was about 18, I claimed that "Heroes" (no, not the aforementioned version) would be my wedding song.  If I ever choose for that day to come, I want to dance with my love under the stars to the wailing sounds of Bowie saying, "I will be king, and you will be queen.  Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes.  Just for one day.  We can be us.  Just for one day."  I have no idea who that man will be dancing with me.  But I know what voice will be there to usher in our new life.  And I've known that - unwaveringly so - for many years.

Last year, I was lucky enough to experience "David Bowie Is..." at Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art.  Now, when I go to museums, I usually pace around and enjoy the visuals.  Sometimes I'll read the plaques.  But mostly I wander.  At this particular exhibit, I read (and reread) plaques, took notes, and allowed every visual to wash over me.  I took my time as I let my eyes wander over every stitch of every costume.  It was as close as anyone born in 1987 could feel to watching a genius unfold in real time.

One of my favorite elements was reading original sheets of lyrics.  I loved reading these words that poured out of him.  But mostly, I loved seeing what he crossed out.  The subtle changes he made in his head.  I saw someone whom I admired so fully go through the same motions of the creative process that I did myself.  A man who created Ziggy Stardust.  A man who took us to the moon and back.  A man who sold the world.  Some element of him was just like me.  It was the most connected I've felt ever to someone so far away.  But like I said, he truly was always there.

I'm privileged to have not seen or read a single negative reaction to his death.  And I would love to keep it that way.  Because what's bad to say about a man who lived his life the way we all should.  With abandon.  With humility.  With grace.  With power.  With vision.  We all mourn because David Bowie Is... Us.  If only we could all be David Bowie.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

The New Year is a time for many things: resolutions, the end of the holidays, the first grand day of a long journey into Seasonal Affective Disorder.  But since I've become quite a Christmas Grinch as an adult.  And I only make resolutions I know I can keep (this year, my resolution is to not smoke crack.  That's right, folks.  Not a single crack rock in 2016.)  And I spend all of January celebrating the beginning of SAD.  There is only one thing January 1st means to me: Reflection Time, ya'll.

And no year warrants that more than 2015*.

Before last night, I looked back on 2015 as the year I took an amazing trip, decided what career I wanted to pursue ("entertainment" doesn't have the same driving focus as "a television comedy writer who moonlights as a lounge singing hologram, simultaneously being teleported into airport hotels and hipster dives across the globe**".), and put all of my energy into making that dream possible (i.e. moving to LA).

Before last night, I thought this was the year of romantic entanglements that I grabbed by the balls and made my sweaty, gimpy bitch.  I told someone that I loved him even if I knew he wouldn't say it back.  I broke up with a great guy because I couldn't say it back.  And I found out my first love got married and rejoiced in lieu of falling to pieces.  This was the year I could make Beyonce proud.

Before last night, this is how I was to wrap up my thoughts on 2015.

But last night, I got stuck at work and ran my ass around a restaurant packed with bodies in adorable dresses and penguin suits.***  I watched people celebrate with friends, family, and lovers.  Sharing smiles, sharing bites, sharing jokes.

Sharing.

I'm not easily able to check my phone at work.  But in my lonely, vulnerable state, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I rushed to check and see what texts I had received after the countdown had come and gone.

About 10 minutes past midnight (and an hour and 10 minutes past Eastern Standard Time), I had nothing.

People are celebrating in the moment.  Good for them!  I reassured myself.

I went back a little later and had received one text from a dear friend of mine.  It felt nice.

But as the moments chipped away, as did my hope.  Here I was, a year where I felt like I had hundreds of friends from various jobs, travel, and the like.  And one person reached out.

I awoke this morning as my phone vibrated.  A text!  I hopped out of bed like a kid on birthday morning**** to see who remembered me.

It was Lucky, my maintenance guy who routinely leaves me five minute voicemails to say five words about fixing the roof hole because he's sucking on Smarties in lieu of talking... or thinking.

This put my life into rather harsh perspective.  This year, I met so many people.  I carved out so many friendships.  I feel surrounded by people I care about, but every single one of them feels just out of reach.  Like the final, essential quarter that rolls under your bed on laundry day.  Or a kid who hops out of bed on Easter morning... but her parents' door is still locked from a night of passionate love-making due to Dad's chocolate bunny fetishization.

And I thought about my amazing trip to the West Coast this year.  All the beauty I absorbed - natural and man made.  The delicious food and brews I wrapped my lips around.  And how all I wanted in this world was to be able to share it with someone.

Perhaps after all these years, I've mistaken total independence for complete happiness.  If I can be happy alone, I can be happy all the time.

The problem with this sentiment is that it is preposterous to be happy all the time.  And even further so, it's missing an important element.  One that we were taught at the youngest of ages.  After we learned to walk and talk and poop outside of our pants, the next thing we learned was to share.

Being independent is a wonderful thing.  If I wasn't independent, I could have never taken that trip.  But to mistake independence for solitude means there is a lonely road ahead devoid of sharing.  One where you will see a humpback whale breach in the Pacific Ocean, turn to the stranger next to you to point and gasp, and realize they have already done the same with their partner.  One where you go to Portland breweries and only get to try the beer you ordered.  One where you will sit on a park bench staring out at the Cascades, start leaning over, and fall when you realize there's no shoulder to curl into.

One where your maintenance man wishes you a Happy New Year.

So 2015 was not the year of Independent Hannah.  It was the year that Independent Hannah learned to share.



*If this isn't a statement you make every year, you are living your life wrong.

**One of those latter statements may be a pipe dream.  But who's to tell?

***This obviously means tuxedos, but how adorable would it really be if people showed up in this???

****There's really no better simile to express unadulterated joy than a kid expecting presents.