The Weekend in Foolish Attention

Bit and bytes of the week

PERSPECTIVE. While working the crowd for the Lyric Opera’s Sunday in the Park with Lyric, a random guy, probably in his sixties, looked up, read my name tag, and exclaimed, “Hey! I went to high school with a Don Hall!”

“Where did you go to high school?”

“Lombard.”

“Wasn’t me!”

In Wichita, I was frequently confused with a local celebrity, Dancin’ Don Hall, a popular radio personality who had died in a car accident the year before I arrived. Turns out “Don Hall” is an incredibly common American name.

Recently, I searched online for “Donald Ray Hall” which I assumed would be a bit narrower. The results were a list of obituaries of “Donald Ray Hall’s” from all over these United States. I started counting. From Alabama to Kentucky to Portland, there were scores of deceased “Donald Ray Hall’s”. By the time I lost count, it was near 600 death notices

Holy shit. In a life when we all tend to see ourselves as wholly unique, the protagonist of our own little movies, it turns out that there have been a metric ton of guys with my exact name. If in the south, lotsa “Donnie Ray’s,” in the west, “Don Hall’s,” hundreds upon hundreds of men who grew up being known as and called the name I carry.

I wonder how many of me are still alive today? Could we have a Donald Ray Hall Festival, where all the guys with this name converge and compare notes, looking at the balance of lives and families? Would there be a built-in love for cheese for the plurality of us?

Imagine a thousand Donald Ray Halls all in a huge convention hall. Some are quiet and reserved. Others are just like me. Most love the music of profanity except for Don from Iowa City who is very religious. Every Don has strong opinions and we all love to argue. And drink. And each and every one of us wants to be in charge. The mental exercise makes me wonder what a Joseph Janes Fest would be like or a David Himmel Fest.

How unique each of us has become yet how completely the same. So much weight in the simple name we call ourselves.

THE LATEST GRIFT. Those of you who aren’t followers of all of Trump’s grifts may not be aware that he’s selling a new series of digital trading cards. To sweeten the offer, if you buy enough of them, Trump offers an additional reward: Snippets from the suit he wore during his debate with Joe Biden. Suddenly, Trump has gone from the president to being a televangelist.

“You and everyone you know are going to be dead soon. And in the short amount of time between here and there, you have a limited amount of fucks to give. Very few, in fact. And if you go around giving a fuck about everything and everyone without conscious thought or choice—well, then you’re going to get fucked.”― Mark Manson

IT’S OFFICIAL. I’ll be working as the Music Box Theatre Theater Manager for the Chicago International Film Festival. Not a full-time gig but a foot in the door and it should be a gas! For those of you outside of Chi, the Music Box is a storied and landmark movie theater. I most recently caught The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly in 70 mm there. I’ve done events there while working for WBEZ and this festival is a lynchpin in the Chicago scene. Cool beans.

While not the long-term gig I was hoping for, it’s a smart move on their part—test me out, give me a significant position, see how I run with it. Been here before so I’m looking forward.

I’m also, while the gig at Millennium Park has been an excellent re-introduction to Chicago, looking forward to having a slightly more normal timeframe to my days. The park is a lot of work and the hours range from a normal 9a - 5p to an 8a - 10p and the rarity of having any semblance of a weekend to go and explore the city. Sure, it’ll be substitute teaching a few times a week, the CIFF in October, and whatever random gigs I find to make my monthly nut, I’ll still have a bit more control of my schedule.

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN. The summer began with Gospel Fest, House Fest, and the three day marathon of Blues Fest. There are a few more events in the park in September but this weekend is the book end with three days of my favorite music festivals in Chicago—Jazz Fest. It’s a big one and a heavy lift for me—three fourteen hour days in a row filled with the most American of music.

The North Promenade tent is called the Von Freeman Stage and it brings me back to a tale of my earliest days in Chicago. The short version involves me coming to town, still living in my truck, and wandering into the Green Mill for a jazz open mic. I blew it that night in front of Freeman and he commented that I sucked. A year later, in the same room, I killed it, and I reminded him of the disaster a year prior. “You got better,” he deadpanned.

Full circle, baby.

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It’s a short one this week! Been too busy to sit down and think my thoughts. Have a spectacular weekend and a better Monday!