Mondays with Mike: Here and there       

The view from our balcony overlooking Mission Bay.

Just a week ago today I was sitting in my own cabana under palm trees working on my laptop. It was 72 or 73 degrees all three days we were in San Diego, the sun radiant and the breeze perfectly balanced the sunshine. Beth attended sessions at the Village to Village Conference—a pretty cool conclave of Village founders, board members, and members from around the country. The Village movement started in Beacon Hill (Boston) and has proliferated. It’s sort of an age in place approach—you pay annual fees, you get rides, educational programs, and other supports. Beth’s been teaching two memoir classes at The Village Chicago (formerly Lincoln Park Village) for years now. She was at the conference to discuss how well her memoir classes have worked, and to promote her new Master Class program—it’s a kind of train the trainer thing.

And this was the breathtaking and, at first, disturbing view after dinner last Sunday night. I learned later that it was a SpaceX test flight.

I took The Coaster, a commuter train (Chicagoans, think Metra with an ocean view) to see an old friend and former boss whose latest startup company is based in Carlsbad, California. The office has a big industrial door—like ones you see in restaurants—that’s left open when the weather permits, which is most of the time. So it’s like working on a patio. We had lunch on the deck of an Italian restaurant, watching surfers as we ate.

Time went fast but I did manage to eat some of the best fish tacos I’ve ever had—at a shack kind of place a short walk from our conference hotel.

A person could get used to San Diego.

Alas, we headed home on Wednesday night and were back at it here in old, rugged Chicago. We were eased back into our day-to-day lives knowing that we’d be seeing Path Metheny Friday night at the Chicago Theatre. He did not disappoint. He was joined by bass, drums, and piano—all three were superb musicians—and he played a lot of old music. I would describe much of Metheny’s music as cinematic—I’m prone to imagining motorcycles carving mountain corners, swooping, climbing, descending. As such, the evening also invoked some nostalgia—I remembered the first time I saw him, 1979, at the University of Illinois Krannert Center. He hasn’t lost a beat.

Last night, we had the privilege of attending the first Chicago screening of a documentary called Art Paul of Playboy, The Man behind the Bunny. It was at the invitation of our friend—who produced and co-wrote the film—Jamie Ceaser. Her film was part of the Chicago International Film Festival.

For those of us who did read the articles in Playboy, we remember a very sophisticated, artistic presentation of fiction and non-fiction long form pieces. I was introduced to any number of writers through the magazine—Joyce Carol Oates, John Cheever, Margaret Atwood to name a few. The movie names a lot more who contributed to the magazine.

Art Paul was the art director at Playboy for 29 years and worked with people like Andy Warhol, Frank Gallow, Ed Paschke, Leroy Nieman tand others to create illustrations and other works to adorn the magazine’s pages. He was also a prolific artist himself, and one of those fascinating and talented people who somehow remain totally humble. Paul was 29 when he joined Playboy founder Hugh Hefner—who was 28.

The film is a treasure chest of little bits of history, and indirectly an ode to Chicago, where Playboy was born and thrived. It’s full of sweeping shots of the skyline, of 60s, 70s, and 80s Chicago.

It made me forget all about San Diego. Almost.