As yet another thing that I have done that sounds impressive and yet is not, I was invited to judge Review Writing and Computer-aided Adveristing Design at the annual Journalism Education Association Write-Off. While I wanted to tell people about this, to assuage some of the anxiety of my underqualificaton, every time I would try to casually bring it up, I felt like I was bragging.

I wasn’t. I was just terrified to do it. Sure, it is only high school kids competing. Yeah, I have decent copy editing skills and a sense of what it takes to make good advertising and theater review. But, at every moment I felt like I was just one slip away from being exposed as a fraud.

My high school journalism teachers and mentors, the Sandys, did an admirable job building me up to myself, but their friendly inflated opinions of me only carried me so far.

The night began with a frantic drive from Milwaukee to Chicago through both cities’ Friday night rush hours. I called ahead to the hotel to be certain that my late arrival would not completely preclude the assistance I could provide. After all, to get there too late would mean getting back in the car and just driving home; I was assured that there would still be work to do.

The way home was less than a two hour drive, but leaving at 4:45p.m. put me in downtown Chicago at 8:15p.m. With tolls and gas money on my mind, the traffic jams just gave me more time to think about the favor I was doing. If I was unqualified and somewhat uninterested, why was I spending money to do this? I certainly would not be the only judge at the conference. I was to be additional help, at best.

My mind continued to find Fate’s hand in my drive. As I merged onto the freeway, I suddenly remembered that I had forgetten the directions on my desk at work. I had initially walked out with them, but then left them by the phone when I called ahead. MHG was kind enough to talk me off the cliff and give me directions over the phone, but my frustration does not abate easily.

I drove on, clinging to honor. I said I would be there; even with some obstacles, to simply not show would have made me feel a heel. Finances are tight, but I said I would be there. The drive is long, but I said I would be there. I’m underqualified, unnecessary, possibly even unwelcome (by those who did not invite me), but I said I would be there.

And I got there. Around 8p.m., after a minimum of tourist driving on my part and honking horns from the legitimately angry cab drivers of Chicago, I pulled into the parking lot of the Hyatt Regency, an intimidating structure under whose canopied bowels swarms of valets surrounded my vehicle. I drove toward the under lot, noting the $23 price tag and heard squeaking voices echo around me in the cavern-like underbelly of the hotel.

“Valet parking only, sir,” said a dark man with a thick Dominican accent. “Oh, okay,” I replied. Since I had not found better nearby parking, I thought, I may as well get the royal treatment for my $23. The valet looked a little disgusted with my car, even after I slid a couple of bucks into our handshake, but I shrugged it off.

Hassan, the head valet, greeted me as I walked up, and I interrogated him for directions. It seemed the conference proper was in one area, while the reception for judges was in another. He gave me headings for both, and I headed to the registration area.

Before I go on, it should be noted, I’m not good at giving people directions in a city. I tend to get lost easily in Chicago or other major areas with somewhat obscured street signs. HOWEVER, I usually find my way back with a minimum of fuss. I am rarely irrevocably lost; I just don’t trust myself to give directions to people who might not have my talent for backtracking and internal cartography.

That said, the registration area was completely deserted, save for a few members of the cleaning staff. I wandered for ten minutes, and still did not reach the ends of the conference area. As a claustrophobic, the low ceilings combined with a seeminlgy infinite expanse of neutral-patterned carpeting began to give me an eerie feeling of desertion, a Shining-esque sort of emptiness and terror.

I would eventually begin to panic, so I stopped a security officer and asked ffor further directions. I listened and memorized a long string of turns and escalations, marveling at the propensity of each employee at this hotel to remember the airport-like architecture of the building. As I moved to the West Tower and up to the Crystal Ballroom, I took careful note of my path through the labyrinth. I was tempted to find a piece of chalk and start writing on the walls.

When I found the reception, I essentially walked in and was put to work immediately, reading high school journalists’ reviews of a one-act play they had seen before I arrived. There were only judges in the room, no one over whom I could immediately feel lordship, so I put on my charm face and sat with the other review-reviewers and got to work. I had to read several to understand where the bar of excellence was, but soon was flopping pieces down into the piles of Definitely, Maybe, and Not a Chance.

Each review saw two judges to keep it fair, but on the whole the Not a Chances did not get promoted, and the two remining piles branched further into Honrable Mention, Excellent, and Superior. I didn’t read any reviews that were stellar in my opinion, but there were a few that stood out as professional and well-written, which is the sign of Superior work in the competition. Some of the reviews were better than what I’ve read in professional publications.

Our table of judges was very efficient, easily asessing hundreds of papers and finishing before many of the other writing categories, and even some of the smaller graphical categories. Feeling somewhat invigorated by the process, I joined one of the Sandys at her table and seconded her judging of Computer-aided Advertising Design, a category which showed even less promise than the whittled-down reporting often noted in the reviews.

I ate cheesecake and joked with Sandy as we pounded through the category. The anxiety of the night melted with the ice cream.

From my left, an older woman’s meek and creaky voice asked me suddenly, “Are you a professional?” Normally, my brain would have considered this question very carefully, but succh was the mood of the evening, that I immediately answered in the affirmative and was rewarded with parking validation.

The Sandys and I then went into the reception hall, ate ice cream and talked shop, eventually heading down the club area to find the students in her entourage. While we talked, we turned a corner and … were lost. It was clear that despite not leaving the themed halls littered with advertising, we were no longer in the hotel.

Time was not on our side at this point, and, although we weren’t panicking, a restroom certainly would have been a boon. We moved as quickly as we could, peeking around corners and following the signs to such vaguely labeled places as the Crystal Ballroom. In time, we found that our path wound behind the escalators in a hallway obscured by all manner of architectural mishmash.

When we found the club, the students had all met at their appointed time and place. We discussed the possibility of my taxiing them in groups of four to the train station, but it was determined that there was simply no time. They would have to walk the mile and a half.

I returned to the valet area, was given a free bottle of water by Hassan, tipped my driver (this time a short, friendly, Italian man) and drove through some of Chicago’s downtown nightlife, including a monstrous, four-story, futuristic-looking McDonald’s that would have made Ali G weep at its magnificence.

Still, I drove home with a satisfied pallate, a sense of accomplishment and one more dubious honor to perk up my resume. And while this is not the most entertaining blog entry, I think it still deserves to be in the Excellent pile.