Northern Regional Wombat Strategic Meeting Conference Report: The Head of Ditka Lives
The weather in America's Meat-Packery has proved most auspicious, and the WF staff in Hyde Park came out in force to make the Gotham team feel right at home for our recent two-day visit. On Monday night, after a brief tour of the outdoor-dining party scene in Streeterville, which is apparently a favorite haunt of our laid-back Midwestern bureau, the entire crew retired to the "Bistrot Zinque" for a sumptuous repast. The welcome of new Executive Producer Sara Austin was announced and toasted by all; Michael Green led the entire tour on a traditional Mockery Walk through the characteristically windy streets.
The highlight of the evening came as we briefly entertained the idea of a nightcap at Ditka's, the bar/steakhouse owned by the legendary coach. Upon entering this Chicago institution, we were stunned with wonder, for lo, in the gift shop in the lobby, atop the shelves of commemorative t-shirts, there stood an object whose totemic potency still haunts my dreams – a massive wooden Head of Ditka, carved at approximately twice life-size. The artist's method was presumably to indicate Ditka's more-than-individual personal stature by generalizing his features, and adding touches of that Howie guy (you know, the one who announces football on Fox and does those stupid radio shack commercials with Teri Hatcher) plus a bit of Sgt. Rock from the comics.
This immediately prompted visions of Easter Island-like formations, a phalanx of brooding Ditka-heads glaring out to sea. Like characters in an H.P. Lovecraft story who have stumbled on some lost artifact of a hidden and terrifying lost cult, we staggered and fled whence we came. Yet, in our confusion, we babbled of the Head, and our nervous laughter nearly got us into troubles only hinted at by that bust's horrible, knowing gaze; for as we were standing outside, feverishly debating the import of what we had seen – it was then that, catlike, He crept up behind us. All unknowing, I raved of the Head while its fleshly inspiration, the Ditka himself, stood behind us. Dr. Green, with his preternatural sensitivity to the presence of danger, steered us away and murmured to me of our close encounter with the D-Man.
Sobered, I returned to my hotel. Only the matchbook in my pocket – adorned with a smiling face rendered blasphemously familiar to me now – mocks my attempt to dismiss what happened as merely the nightmare caused by one too many frites taken on an empty stomach.
Posted by B T at May 02, 2001 09:05 AM