mizChartreuse || redefiningSuccess

“You guys are students; you’re idealists. You don’t know what art + corporate interests mean yet. Just prepare to have your heart broken. Get your Africa tickets ready, baby. You have no idea…People are not crazy, they’re strong people. Maybe the environment is a little sick.” –Dave Chappelle on Inside the Actors Studio

Wednesday night, the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup championship—the most prized achievement in hockey. The greater Chicagoland area has been rife with celebration over the last several days, and the whole thing has certainly been quite entertaining.

But the thing is…I don’t care.

For the last four years, I have worked at the Chicago Stadium Club on the Lexus Club Level—a season ticket holder establishment at the United Center (the stadium which is home to both the Blackhawks and the Bulls). The CSC couples a white tablecloth fine dining buffet with a more casual bar section where people can get burgers, salads, wings and the like.

CSC dining room

CSC bar

There have been many cool moments working at United Center. I witnessed, live, the 2006-07 Bulls put up intense fights in the playoffs—the building would rumble from the volume. My coworkers and I would run from the restaurant to the arena area and watch Deng, Nocioni, Gordon, Thomas, Heinrich and the like sink basket after basket. It was also that year I met one of my lovely best friends, Kenya, as she and her husband Markus were season ticket holders and came to games quite regularly.

Soul sistas.

During those days, our restaurant/bar was sold out every night for Bulls games, while we considered ourselves lucky if 25 people showed up to watch Blackhawks games. In fact, there was a point where the franchise was giving away tickets to employees, as well as selling tickets for as low as 99 cents, I shit you not.

Then the tables turned.

The Bulls have been pretty sucky the last few seasons, while the Blackhawks began to up the ante. Stingy owner Bill Wirtz’ passing also helped the franchise—games were being televised again, and the team was on the rise. Hawks games were selling out, and our regular customers would do their best to assert their realness:

“Man, remember a couple years back? I was like, the ONLY person in here! Where did all these people come from?”

Or, “I pay several thousand dollars a year to be a member here; I was here through thick and thin. Why are you guys allowing all these randoms into the bar?” As if I’M the one making any sort of rule around that place. Blah, blah. They certainly fail to realize that the corporation’s bottom line is money. If people are spending, they can come right on in.

And spend money the fans did. In fact, for me, that was the only redeeming part about going to work for the random dates for hockey games.

But I have a problem with that—it felt as though I was selling my soul for a couple few hundred bucks a night. Every time I walked into that building, swiped my employee ID, and picked up my uniform, I died a little inside.

I’m a free spirit. I don’t like rules, or having to sign contracts, or having to be stripped of my individuality in the most unflattering way. Some of our favorite customers would like to take pictures with me and my cocktail partner Selena, and it was just sad. There is no way we girls could look halfway decent in this:

Dying.

That may sound melodramatic, but it’s the truth. Stuff like that is important to me. And of course, I was employed “at will,” meaning I could have left at any time. But thinking about Selena having to handle the masses by herself was too much to handle, and I’ve come to love a number of our devoted regular customers, who have certainly become friends. Friends whom, when we go out with them after hours, are so surprised at “how amazing we look” because we’re not wearing a hideous button-up, tie and apron.

We did have fun, though. Once, Ronnie Woo-Woo came into the club. I had to take a photo with him. He…smelled funky.

Blackhawks! Woo! Blackhawks! Woo!

***

And the bureaucracy…oh, the bureaucracy. I understand that the entities within the United Center are multi-million- (billion?) dollar corporations, but at the end of the day, most of the stuff to which we were subjected was just ridiculous. As I like to say: life is not that serious, so stop talking to me like I’m a child, kthx. I’ll leave it at that.

Granted, it was exciting to see a formerly sucky team come together as a cohesive unit; winning games with a fiery passion that you could feel. The relationships we developed with our customers were real. The energy in the building was insurmountable. And I do separate the actual sport of hockey with the corporate bureaucracy that went on behind the scenes, but can you blame me for being burnt out on hockey, and the Blackhawks specifically?

Dude! CHILL!

I mean, just imagine the insanity of five hundred people RUNNING into your bar at the end of a game (or even worse, the period break before overtime began), scrambling for tables, pulling at you, shouting their orders, standing in your way, being indecisive about what to drink, ordering stupid things like chocolate martinis or hot teas, and FARTING in crowded spaces?

“What took ya so long?” someone will complain to me as I balance a tray of 15 different cocktails, glasses of wine, and beer. WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK TOOK SO LONG? THERE ARE TWO BARTENDERS MAKING DRINKS FOR FIVE HUNDRED PEOPLE RIGHT NOW. IT’S GONNA TAKE A MINUTE.

At the end of the night, when my feet are aching, my ears are ringing, and I’m covered in booze and blue cheese, counting the money felt good—but you can only take so much of the madness before you go insane yourself.

***

Last night, one of my coworkers called me. “Get your ass up here right now,” she whispered feverishly into her phone.

“Why?”

“Dude! The Blackhawks are COMING HERE WITH THE CUP!”

“Uh. Okay. Where are you?”

“I’m at Sluggers. No one’s in here; I’m just hanging with the owners now . But hurry up! They’re coming! Oh, and don’t tell anyone!”

“Ehh, you know I really don’t care about it or them. And I hate Wrigleyville.”

“I know, I know, but just think about it! You can get your picture taken with the players and the fucking Stanley Cup! Honey, it’s seriously a once in a lifetime thing. Just text me if you’re gonna come up here.”

I balked. As I’ve said before, I’m not really enamored by celebrities/athletes, nor do I want to immerse myself in another beer-hungry Blackhawks crowd. I stalled around for 45 minutes, debating on whether to go or not, then decided, what the hell, I may as well see what’s happening.

On the drive up to Wrigleyville (I live about 25 minutes south by car), she texted me to say they already came with the Cup and left. I was actually a bit relieved, but decided to meet her out anyway for a little bit, which is a whole ‘nother issue in itself—but I’ll save those stories for later.

This is one of the photos she showed me of how it had been in the bar:

That’s the best photo? Meh. In the other photos you could see how insanely crowded it had been earlier, and I was thankful I narrowly escaped the pandemonium.

My mother called me earlier today to see if I was at the parade. “No, I’ve spent enough time with rabid Blackhawks fans over the last couple years,” I said. “I’m good. It looks exciting on T.V., but it’s probably not the most comfortable situation to be in, physically.”

I mean, no. Just NO. Thank you.

And indeed, my Facebook friends were talking about how they were nearly passing out in the crowds from the heat and chaos. I watched a few minutes of the parade on ABC, and I’m sure I saw 500% more than what the majority of the people downtown could see.

No sweat off my back.

Dave Chappelle said it best in his quote above. Artists + corporate environments just do NOT mesh. Now is the time to do what I want to do; not to have my social calendar marred by an inconvenient hockey game of which I was informed 48 hours before. Regardless, congratulations to the Chicago Blackhawks on their win. They deserve to celebrate their hard work and party it up—but I’m just over it.