Chicago in Winter, Part II: Snow Games

The 7th hole, ready for action.

This day marks the 29th anniversary of the unsuccessful SNOW GAME that didn't occur so long ago. Some memorable things happened on that wintry jazz band trip to Chicago in January, 1982 (you might wanna read THIS first), not that Da-da can remember much of them. Here's one he does remember.

If you recall from said previous post... Young Master Da-da, a high school senior at the time, played trumpet in his high school jazz ensemble, which was awarded a no-expenses paid trip to Chicago -- in late January -- along with the opportunity of providing a free performance for a bunch of (drunken) jazz educators and mafia types at the '82 NAJE convention. Play they said and play we did.

After the hoopla, we had a few days to ourselves. Being from Southern California, none of us jazz geeks had ever been exposed to REAL winter, so we were eager to experience it first hand. Needless to say, it was a whole order of magnitude colder than anything any of us had experienced, and it was a miracle none of us didn't die.

So, there we were, the day after the big performance, sitting around our luxurious hotel lobby...

Low ceilings inspire confidence and thoughts of mayhem.

...at our sumptious former-Soviet-bloc-inspired hotel in lovely Des Plaines.

Can you FEEL the fun?

We were more than just a touch bored. And as all substitute teachers know, nothing is more dangerous than BORED BAND GEEKS. You've heard of Kim Jong Il? Stalin? Blofeld? Amateurs. 

We resolved to try some scientific experiments involving extreme weather. First up: could we run across the street without jackets -- in t-shirts and shorts -- in minus-30-degree weather to the McDonalds, get hot chocolates for everyone, and run back unscathed. Easy, right?

Getting across the street wasn't so bad, though Young Da-da's teeth were chattering once we hit the McDonald's double doors. The people inside looked at us like we were escaped mental patients, but we took that in stride. (Jazz musicians as a whole are an odd lot, and are used to people looking at them in strange ways.) There were six of us, and we each ordered four hot chocolates, triple bagged them, placed them under our shirts to keep them warm, and ran like hell across the street to deliver... ice cold hot chocolates to our compadres. Ok, Mother Nature 1, Jazz Geeks 0.

That  night, after a late dinner and some poker till midnight, we decided we needed to test the weather gods again with a game of football on the frozen tundra/golf course that lay immediately behind the hotel. This would be fun, we thought, we'll just bundle up...

Da-da's first step out into the night-time cold was a shock, despite all the layers and the gloves and hats and long underwear -- and the custom heavy coat my grandmother had made me (she made jackets for a living). Chicago wind cuts through you like nothing else, and it was HOWLING. Da-da could barely see through the scarf wrapped around his eyes. Undaunted, we trudged up to one of the sandtraps and then noticed that no one brought a football, so we decided to jump into a snow-filled sand trap for fun, for about an hour.

Toward the end of this silliness, an Illinois State Trooper's car pulled up about forty feet away. We immediately stopped our frolic to watch. The door to the police cruiser cracked open and billows of glowing STEAM poured from the car, and from that hellish miasma emerged a rotund constable in a leather jacket, head bare. At the time, Young Da-da thought that only an Act of God would get this cop out of his car at 1:00 am in the freezing cold of January, but there he was.

He looked at us for a moment, then shouted above the wind:

"WHAT ARE YOU IDIOTS DOING?"

"PLAYING IN THE SNOW!" We yelled back.

The officer digested this. "ARE YOU FROM CALIFORNIA?" he shouted.

We smiled (not that he could see our faces) and yelled, "YES!" How did he know? we wondered.

He shook his head, got back in his car and drove away. Jeez, if we'd said we were from Joliet, would he have saved us? Let the California idiots freeze.

After he left, a few of the sillier members of our insane snow posse decided to run and slide on what was normally a docile golf course water hazard -- turned hazardous ice rink. One thing led to another and one of our members, a trombone player, got clumsy and went down, hard -- on his head. Just before this happened, Young Master Da-da had suggested we go back in as Da-da was starting to feel kinda woozy -- both symptoms of hypothermia (mental confusion, stumbling), but since we were confused and stumbling most of the time, anyway, this was a tough one to diagnose. Anyway, we got the guy up and went back inside.

Inside the hotel's back double doors, we inspected the bone player's head wound... needed stitches. And he's loopy as hell. This meant only one thing: we had to wake up a band parent fast, the one who was a nurse. (This is the same band parent who knocked on our door in a previous post, to inquire as to why we ordered a new key for our room and several trashcans full of ice.) Needless to say, we were deeply busted. She butterflyed the guy's wound and chastised us mildly, explained the symptoms and dangers of hypothermia, and Duh.

This hard-boiled RN fixed Young Da-da and Co. with her cold blue eyes and informed us that the National Weather Service had issued an alert for our area, as it was the coldest night on record for Illinois in January. No wonder my head had started hurting. Turned out it was 98 degrees below zero with the wind chill factor. Da-da was then informed AGAIN about the symptoms of hypothermia and being stupid and how we all should all be dead, we had so little sense.

She was right, o'course. (Never argue with a nurse.) What we did was quite dangerous. But at least the brain damage from that night readied Da-da for parenthood, which is basically non-stop brain damage. 

[Da-da's only regret is that he didn't get a picture of that cop surrounded by all that steam. He probably still tells the story of the idiots from CA.]

Chicago in Winter, Part I: THE STING

This week marks the anniversary of a controversial event that transpired almost 30 years ago, so Da-da feels that it's safe to tell the truth about what happened. You all know who you are.

It was 1982. Young master Da-da was a high school senior, and second/jazz trumpet in his high school jazz ensemble (yes, Da-da was a band geek), the "jazz" designation meaning Young Da-da got most of the trumpet solos, though he probably didn't deserve them. Da-da's high school jazz band had been named #1 high school jazz band in the nation by NAJE (The National Association of Jazz Educators) and Downbeat Magazine, based on a recording we submitted, and were invited to attend the 1982 NAJE Convention in Chicago in late January to perform with Buddy Childers before about 5000 jazz educators, press and the general public. It was a pretty big deal for us. (We almost got to play before then-unknown Wynton Marsalis, but he had a problem with the stage manager and refused to perform. We later got to open for Tower of Power, but Da-da digresses.)

[Quick side note: Young Da-da's parents were kind enough to scrape together enough moolah to supplement what young master Da-da had already earned during the excruciating band promotion of selling CHEESE door to door. Yes, CHEESE. ("Hi. Would you like to buy some CHEESE?").]

Being originally from Southern California, Young Master Da-da had never been exposed to REAL winter; the coldest it ever got where he lived was about 30 degrees. So when the band hit Chicago O'Hare on a late January afternoon -- it was 19 below, or minus 37 with the windchill -- it never occurred to Young Da-da that he might need a jacket or a scarf. While waiting for his luggage to appear, Young Da-da walked outside through the double doors and took a deep breath of wintry Chicago... and had to be dragged back inside, hacking and coughing as all his mucous had frozen solid. What a moron. Welcome to real winter, dummy.

The Set-up

After checking in to our hotel in Des Plaines, Da-da experienced a minor shock. He and his best friend, Ivan (lead alto), had paid extra so they wouldn't have to room with four guys (anyone who's roomed with four guys will understand why), but the hotel was full, so our band director gave our room to his parents (on us, as we were never re-imbursed; this kinda thing happened a lot in our band). Young Da-da and company were pissed, but our pissed-offedness expanded exponentially when we discovered that we were paired for the night with the Streudel brothers, Mike and John. The Streudels were actually really nice guys, but they were brothers, and consequently bickered like brothers. Ivan and Young Da-da secretly vowed vengeance for this hotel room travesty, but alas, the only people they could take it out on were the Streudel brothers.

The Wire

We checked out the room. It was basic, with two beds. Being a polar bear by nature, Young Master Da-da immediately opened the window... and closed it just as fast: the temperature had plunged to 20 below. For fun, Da-da suspended a can of Pepsi out the window by a wire, and left it out there for about 20 minutes, pulled it back into the room... it was frozen solid. Like the Grinch, this was to give the future Man Called Da-da an idea... an awful, terrible idea.

The Hook

The next day, the hotel opened up a little and Young Da-da and Ivan received the room they'd paid extra for. However, the two were still pissed about the room, not to mention the painful memory of the Streudel brothers in matching tighty whities. Standing in their new room, they realized that THEY STILL HAD KEYS TO THE STREUDEL BROTHERS' ROOM. [Insert diabolical laughter.]

So, while the Streudel brothers were out with the rest of the brass section at dinner, Young Master Da-da and his evil friend Ivan snuck into the Streudel brothers' room, turned off the heat and opened the windows. Why you were able to open windows in Chicago in the dead of winter is a thing Da-da will never understand. Anyway, they took all the pillows from their cases and defenestrated them (that is, threw them out the window), saving the pillow cases. While the room chilled, they ran downstairs, out the double doors, stuffed fresh powdery snow into all the pillow cases, poured water over them (which instantly froze) to ensure a nice pillow shape, then ran back upstairs to their newly created ice box. Inside, the temperature was about 1. The evil geniuses then placed the snow pillows on the two beds and left -- leaving the windows open and the heat off. Tired, the two had a quick bite and went to bed in their own room.

The Sting

Here's what transpired, confirmed by first-person accounts. When The Streudel brothers returned to their room and found it freezing, heat off, the windows open, they did what any normal person would do: they closed the windows and cranked the heat, then went for hot chocolate; they stayed out a little longer than they expected. Upon returning, they quickly readied themselves for bed in their now toasty room, as they were exhausted. Da-da's mental image has them both diving simultaneously into their respective hotel beds, clad in their matching tighty whities... and splashing into icy baths of slush and ice water.

The Shut Out

Blissfully unaware of all this, Young Master Da-da and Ivan were rudely awakened at 2:00 am by a band parent, a hair-curlered mom in pink housecoat looking none-too-happy. Ivan answered the door, which was bolted and chained from the inside so no one would've been able to open it even with the key.

"Did you boys order another room key for your room?" she asked. We denied this, having been asleep. "Well, these boys were caught trying to get a key to your room."

We peered sleepily into the hallway and saw an angry queue of the Streudel brothers and a few lacky trombone players bundled up and looking sheepish, toting large garbage cans full of ice. Young Master Da-da and Ivan looked at each other and donned our INNOCENT faces and asked what was going on? Was anyone hurt? We've done nothing but sleep, mom. The band parent then busted the bundled and left the innocents alone to sleep. To this day, no one's been able to figure out who committed such a heinous act.

The Aftermath

The later NAJE stage performance itself was a little horrifying. Young Master Da-da had a long feature solo (in a song entitled, "Nobody Cares But Da-da"; so true) and had to stand out front of the band before 5000+ people, which was even more terrifying since he was exhausted and bleary-eyed from screwing around. Needless to say, he used a bit too much vibrato (hands shaking like crazy), but the drunk band director's wife later said he sounded FINE. (Thanks, Margo.) Young Master Da-da also spaced out during one tune with Buddy Childers and DIDN'T TAKE THE CODA [gasp], dropping a loud note-bomb in a quiet section. [Image: Smoking rubble. Voice #1: "What happened?" Voice #2: "He didn't take the coda."]

In retrospect, Da-da regrets a lot of things. He regrets not getting enough sleep and preparing better for his performance. He regrets not dealing with the near-paralyzing fear of standing naked before 5000 people. And he regrets not being upfront about The Prank... but Da-da still giggles like a little girl about getting away with it. Mike and John Streudel, Da-da eagerly awaits that big trash can full of ice. Jeez, any feeling at all these days is entirely welcome. All told, this event at least gave Da-da his inevitable tombstone:

We had more chilling adventures, but Da-da will save them for... Chicago in Winter II. Read on.