Crazy Crap Item #50: The part where I dwell in the land of macho

Yesterday, dear friends, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into ... the south side. Let me be more specific. A south side boxing gym. Seriously.

I'm on assignment with Time Out to do a piece about play about boxing and such, and needed to attended rehearsal -- at a boxing gym -- in order to research the piece. I'll say no more, as I do not wish to steal my publication's thunder. But I can recount my little foray, which involved many narratable events.

First off, I initially drove right past the place. It's on the second floor of a crumbling warehouse, and I suspected I was the right address, but there was no drive-by friendly signage. Only a cop car out front.

Still, an assignment is an assignment, so I pulled a U-ie and parked. No signage, still, but I'm intrepid, so I wander toward the door. On the way, I figure I'll check out the parked cars for clues as to whether I'm on the right track, or instead wandering into a den of crack addicts. I spot one sporty vehicle, emblazoned with the message "www.boxerchick.com". I assume I'm in the right place.

Lo and behold, there is a sign on the door -- a battered, faded one -- that tells me that the gym is on the second floor. I push through the battered doors, and into a dingy, ill-lit stairwell. "Gym" and an arrow pointing up are stenciled on the wall in white. Similar signs all along the walls assure me I'm going in the right direction. Finally, I arrive at the landing, and there's a burly cop (or possibly a security guard, it's hard to tell) standing off the side, who ignores my greeting, and a daunting message on the door that says visitors are not permitted and all boxers must sign in. But there's no sign-in sheet. I look vaguely questioningly at again at the cop/security guard, but he ignores me, so I push open the door...

And I'm greeted by a cheerful, slightly harried looking yuppie woman, fluffy hair, pleasant grin, who sticks out her hand and asks if I'm Kay Daly. She's the publicist. She points out the obvious -- that the only boxers in the gym are part of the rehearsal.

The actors are drilling moves, and a photographer is shooting them, so I have a fun time observing and trying to stay out of the shots, all the time scribbling furious notes so I look duly like the girl reporter that I am.

I mention to the publicist that I wasn't sure if I was in the right place when I first drove up, meaning because there was so little signage, but I apparently trigger some other thought in her mind.

"I know!" she answers, "There were two cop cars and an ambulence when I showed up! I was thinking, what am I doing in this neighborhood!"

Anyhoo, whatever excitement the boys in blue attended to earlier, it's all over now, and it's pretty tranquil, except for the three women pummelling phantom boxers in front of the mirror.

The cop comes in and chatters amiably with the publicist. "I've never been in here before," he says. "This is really cool. It's like a movie set from the 1950s." I tend to agree, and am amused by his starstruck-edness.

Later I learn he had more than one reason to be starstuck. After his final departure, the publicist comes over to me laughing. "The cop gave me this," and she hands me a xeroxed, spiral bound document, with a black and white image of 5 white guys on the cover. Our cop is in a band. He thought the publicist might want to "keep him in mind" for any events she's got planned, so he went to his squad car to get her their promotional materials. They include a song list. Which, for some reason, includes "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I guess there's a lot of call for it at cop-band-playing fetes.