A Few Lines About Segments
9/25/06

I believe it was my high school geometry teacher, Mr. Petros, who explained to me the difference between “segments” and “lines”. Segments have a defined beginning and a defined end, where as lines go on forever and ever and ever. (Thus, it is by no coincidence that the DMV, the post office and the ladies room at a Justin Timberlake concert consist of “lines” and not “segments”.)

My engagement to Kristen is perhaps the newest segment of my life. Unfortunately, with this new beginning, the end of September marks the defined end to many a segment that, despite their geometrical definition, will always be “lines” in my heart.

Of course I should have seen this coming. Friday night an ugly storm system blew into the Chicagoland area that made national headlines. Actual tornados were spotted throughout various suburbs prompting the National Weather Service to interrupt regularly scheduled programming to inform Auntie Em about the twister.

Growing up in the Midwest, these National Weather Service announcements run off me like water off a duck’s back. They are the metaphorical “boy who cried wolf” of the tri-state area. If I had a nickel for every episode of “Charles in Charge” I missed thanks to the NWS informing me that there was a tornado 9,000 nautical miles SSW of my suburban bubble, where even the worst thunder sounded like the Vienna Boys Choir, compared to the frequent roars of 747s flying out of O’Hare, I’d be rich

In hindsight it is probably dangerous that no one in this area takes these warnings seriously. But then again, we are a society of gapers. We slow down and stare at car accidents. We watch slow motion instant replays from 43 different angles of the wide receiver that landed on his head. We literally run out of letters of the alphabet to name hurricanes after, yet we still don’t learn.

This backwards thinking might be rooted in our vernacular.

(sidebar #481516: I realize that as a journalism major I tend to focus highly on the role words play in our society, however, as a former scholar of Spanish (3 half-ass years in high school) and an experienced world travel (8 days in Italy over one spring break) I have what I would consider to be, a more than firm grasp on the Romantic Languages and can honestly tell you that compared to our neighbors across the pond, our language has more idiosyncrasies than “idiosyncrasies” has syllables.)

Point and case: Every warm-blooded American knows that when an object is flying through the air in danger of hitting someone in the immediate vicinity, the common phrase of warning is “Heads up!” As a society we are away of this rule. Yet, while we are aware of what “heads up!” means, our immediate reaction is to look directly up into the air for the element of our impending doom. After all, the instructor yelled “heads up”. As an obedient society by nature, we turned our heads up. As a moronic society by nature, we get hit in the head.

I have affectionately started calling this the “Godzilla Effect”. When you mention the movie “Godzilla” to any American, it is with only the most respect for our neighbors across the bigger pond, that we immediately recall the scenes of 10 million Japanese people pouring into the streets of downtown Tokyo, stopping at what turns out to be just within the monster’s next stride, staring up at certain-death, pointing and screaming until he’s fulfills his role as “Screaming man #72” and ends up flat as a pancake.

Lesson to be learned: In the event of a Godzilla attack, run away from large foot.

I plead guilty to succumbing to the “Godzilla Effect” myself on Friday night. I had just finished ignoring the latest NWS’ warning on T.V. when, the City of Chicago employed its Air Raid Siren Emergency Alert System. Every 4th grader knows what to do when they hear a warning such as this. Go to a basement or doorway and most importantly far away from any windows. How did I react? Me (along with all of the other village idiots) immediately ran outside, stared at the pitch black sky and debated what all of these warnings could possibly mean, which, despite our obviously high I.Q. levels, we were unable to ascertain and thus went back inside to catch the end of “Charles in Charge.”

Lesson to be learned: In the event of a weather-related emergency, consult nearest 4th grader.

Proving once again that ours’ is a relationship built to last beyond hell or high water, Kristen miraculously made it into Midway that same night. She had flown in to join in the celebration of an end of an era. After 2 years of over priced and overcrowded city dwelling, I was packing up my Andersonville apartment as the next step in what Kristen and I are calling “Operation: We Shall Overcome” (more fondly, “Owso.”) As fun as the long distance has been—the airports, the driving, the road rage, the speeding tickets, the flight delays—despite the common belief, we learned that you CAN in fact have too much of a good thing, and thus, decided to rid ourselves of this guilty pleasure once and for all. Oswo started when we officially set a wedding date. As of today, we have 384 days to reside in the same city. A feat we haven’t accomplished since the Chicago Cubs won their last Division Title.

An important step in accomplishing Oswo, is me closing the doors to the place I have called home for the past 2 years. It wasn’t glamorous (and no, Mom, it wasn’t economical) but it was my small piece of this great city. It’s hard to call a two bedroom apartment without central air or a view of any kind the “American Dream,” but for a twenty-something city-slicker whose heart was always too big for his wallet, this brief taste of urban chic was just what the doctor ordered.

And closing this door ended a segment in time for more than just me. Murphy had been my roommate for the better part of 4 of the last 5 years. He was now moving in with his girlfriend, (of similar if not longer tenure) Tonks, who as irony would have it, hails from the Twin Cities. <>

The gang was all moving on, and Saturday night was our “series finale”. Like most finales do these days, we prefaced the main event with a trip down memory lane. We revisited classic moments, outtakes and previously deleted scenes. And after what was in a way both too much, and yet not enough alcohol to numb the reality of it all, another segment had ended in what will always be considered, an appropriately defined moment.

Fighting what we could only explain as an untimely head/stomach ache on Sunday morning, there was no rest for the party weary. Sunday afternoon it was on to Milwaukee for dinner with El Padre, the lucky celebrant for our big day. If you can follow (and trust me, following may require a notebook, a compass and Onstar) El Padre currently calls sunny southern California his home, though his license plates say Wisconsin, his family lives in Philadelphia, and he visits Italy more times than an experienced world traveler like myself.

And so we broke bread, with he who breaks bread, and learned a thousand and one ways to make our mothers cringe during the ceremony. What can I say? El Padre fits in quite well and we look forward to having him officiate the goings on.

Realizing that we were in a city neither one of us currently called home, we decided it would be in our best interest to hit the road for Chicago. I guess according to Mr. Petros, I-94 would have to be defined as a segment; being that there is in fact a beginning and an end. While it sometimes seems like there is no end in sight to the roads Kristen and I have traveled down, I rest assured that somewhere out there, lays the endpoint to this geometrical madness. One day soon the bells will ring, and my guess is they will interrupt “Charles in Charge.”


P.S. Confidential to "Cheezehead in AR": Thanks for the kind words and sharing a hilarious article. Hope to see you (and your teeth) next fall.