Category Archives: Chicago

Scattershot musings

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Last Sunday, the trees were glorious, and Wednesday the air was balmy at 70 degrees Fahrenheit. By Saturday, the trees that had glowed against the blue of the lake were bare against the gray of the lake, and the temperatures had plummeted to the 40s.

Only two brave souls sat outdoors together at Bonjour, each reading a newspaper section.

I frittered the days away with sporadic reading, browsing, and napping — I hadn’t indulged in the latter for months, especially not since my UFE recovery period.

It must be the weather. Because I can’t blame fluctuating hormones, at least for the moment, I’m laying my increased carbohydrate cravings and consumption at the feet of the shorter days and colder nights.

So far this year, however, I haven’t been as chilled outdoors as I am indoors, every day by midday. My fingers are aching even as I write this. We can do so many interesting things, solve so many problems, and conjure up so many improbable theories, but maintaining a reasonably comfortable temperature in a state-of-the-art office beyond remains beyond our ability. It gives women something to chat about as we warm our hands under warm tap water in the bathroom where, at my old job, the main activities (aside from the obvious) were networking and problem solving. Now we use the bathroom as a combination waste disposal facility and warming shelter, except the air in there is chilly, too.

When I started working, managers and above sat in window offices (with their backs to the windows) and worker bees aspired to move into a window office. Then design became more egalitarian, and offices began to feature cubicles, er, workstations with windows. I have two and one-half windows, and do so my cohorts. The other day I noticed that nearly all of blinds down the hallway are closed, which struck me as amusing — an admittance that the view is not as important as the perceived prestige once associated with windows. But there are two reasonable explanations: In this gloomy weather, it’s easier for the people across the alley to see us. And there isn’t much for us to see, either, except the people across the alley. Which is easy to do because they don’t lower their blinds.

With the change in weather, J. and I have not been as active. On Saturday we ate at the Dixie Kitchen and Bait Shop, where we did not see Obama, just as we had not seen him at Medici on 57. Perhaps someday we’ll catch him at Valois Cafeteria or Mellow Yellow.

I started to watch the 1996 version of The Canterville Ghost with Patrick Stewart, but left the final half hour for the next morning — by which time it had disappeared from the on-demand list. Now I’ll never know how it ends . . . it was not bad for a modern version, although the father’s character was disturbingly inconsistent. It was strange enough that he greets his daughter only in passing as he rushes to gush over his boys. As the movie proceeds, he veers illogically between the rational and the emotional. As a scientist firmly grounded in the real, he refuses to believe in ghosts or any evidence they may leave behind. At the same time, based on only the flimsiest circumstantial evidence, he roundly condemns his daughter as a cruel, even dangerous prankster. Then he has the gall to whine to his wife that he and the daughter aren’t close like they used to be, to which the wife responds with grating predictability, “She’s growing up.” Too bad Dad doesn’t do the same.

As I was waiting for a bus that seemed determined not to arrive on Monday, I heard sirens, saw a number of unmarked black cars whizzing about officiously, and noticed that traffic was backing up down 57th toward Stony Island. Access to Lake Shore Drive had been cut off, with Everett being the only immediate escape east of Hyde Park Boulevard. Obliviously I assumed there had been an accident and wondered how late I would be.

Then I heard the helicopter and saw the spotlight hovering above.

“It’s the president-elect,” a woman told me.

“Really?” I said. I didn’t think he’d spend much time in Hyde Park anymore.

After a while a motorcade came along. I didn’t pay close attention, but did spot a black woman peering out of the open back window of one of the limousines.

The motorcade had passed before I realized that I should have been more interested.

“Did you see the hearse? It wasn’t the president-elect; it was a funeral,” the woman said.

I hadn’t seen a hearse, but I couldn’t swear positively that I hadn’t seen it, either, so I let that go.

“The only person I can think of who’s died is Studs Terkel, and I can’t imagine all that for him,” I said.

“He died a couple of weeks ago,” she noted erroneously.

“I won’t get that kind of sendoff,” I said, perhaps a bit wistfully.

“Do I look like I will?” she laughed.

Silence for a bit.

“History is being made,” she added, but not conceding the funeral point.

“A better kind of history,” I offered.

“You know it,” she said as I was saved by the appearance of an X28 bus.

On the Chicago Tribune site, I saw that Barack Obama had dropped his girls off at the University of Chicago Laboratory Schools, then he and Michelle had taken off for Washington, D.C., to meet with George and Laura Bush. Hearse sighting aside, I’m fairly certain that all the excitement, complete with choppers, was over that daily ritual of every family with children — the trip to school.

The online photo spread showed Obama, sporting a Sox cap, hugging his daughters, who in their neat school clothes and backpacks look like any other Hyde Park student on a school day. They were the only ones who arrived with a Secret Service, police, and news escort, I imagine. How fascinating it will be to watch them grow up over the next four to eight years, now that they are in an inescapable fish bowl.

I spent many mornings waiting in the dark, cold, and snow, alone, for a school bus that never had a seat for me and my bass clarinet.

Yet I don’t envy them.

Not really.

Well. Perhaps a little as they get to see the world.

Still, there’s the fishbowl.

At least they’re used to it.

I think it would kill this lonely guppy.

On the other hand, a life of ease and comfort would suit me well just about now.

Stress free.

Election day and Indian summer

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Two unrelated topics that happen to coincide this year: election day and Indian summer.

After looking at the forecast, I took today off. With the temperature projected to start dropping tomorrow, this really does look like my last day outdoors at Bonjour. It’s tempting to return this afternoon for a final hurrah.

I voted at Montgomery Place, where there were two lines — a longer one for Precinct 38 and a shorter one for 37. The handwritten signs were so light that I didn’t notice them until someone mentioned that there were separate lines based on precinct.

I stayed in the longer, right-hand (38) line out of habit, which turned out to be the right choice. It was perhaps 10-12 people long, and the elderly man ahead of me carefully felt for one of the chairs lined up against the wall. I’m not sure how much effort this saved him because, although I gave him plenty of room, he got up and changed chairs a couple of times as the line moved.

As he provided his information — like my father would have done, he gave his address as “Montgomery Place, whatever that is,” although he knew the address because he spouted it effortlessly later — he added, “I’m blind.” That explained why he sat so gingerly on the chairs. After he signed a form attesting to his disability, he was directed to a chair to wait for assistance. He looked ahead blankly, so I offered him my arm to lead him to it. He said, “Well, I can see your arm!” I did not quite know how to take that, but fortunately a judge came along to lead him. So much for my attempt at chivalry!

The judge started to read the choices and to mark the ballot — whether as indicated, who can say? I was sitting next to them and could hear all that was said, so it was not so secret. It’s no wonder we treasure our individual independence once it is lost.

My turn. This was the strangest ballot I’d ever seen; instead of punching out holes to make my selections, I used a marker to connect two arrowheads by the choice or the candidate. The “booth” served only as a partial privacy shield/desk. The topmost question on the page was in the middle column and was about local district commissioners, I think. It took me a few moments to find the presidential candidates buried at the bottom of the left-hand column.

When I was done, I tried to put the ballot in the privacy sleeve, but one or two judicial retention votes peeked out obstinately. It would have taken only one more inch — but no matter. I plugged the ballot into the collection machine, which dutifully sucked it up — and dutifully spit it out. “Missing initials,” it complained. I had to get a judge to initial it (which strikes me as odd and not very secure). The first two I went to to demurred and sent me to a man who scribbled, “KP” in the box. The machine accepted it; my vote was official. Time spent in line and voting? Perhaps 20 minutes.

Part of me would like to say that I was at the Grant Park rally, but my dominant reclusive introvert self, which hasn’t been sleeping well lately, had no choice but to go home and avoid anxiety by reading. I did well for a while, but then I found out that Google News had posted an automatically updating map. It was fascinating and disturbing to watch the nation divide itself yet again along the usual lines.

The election appears to have been called between 10 and 10:05 p.m. CT. My first clue that it was time to check the map again was when I heard whooping and hollering from in front of the restaurant/bar downstairs.

I’m relieved that it’s over. Months of hyperbole, ridiculous representations, and rampant paranoia. Racism was evident, but so was ageism — there were plenty of people who disqualified John McCain based on his age (not his health) and who pulled out every derisive age-ist term in the cliché book. In the past year I’ve learned that there are two characteristics left that are fair game for mockery and derision: age and weight. Someday I may be both old and fat. So may you. We should all find hatred about either unacceptable.

WWI veterans are virtually no more, and WWII and Korean War veterans are on their heels. As the oldest first-term presidential candidate, John McCain woke me up to the obvious: the young men I remember returning from Vietnam are not only no longer young; they are old. Somehow, I have lived half of a lifetime since then, although it seems like yesterday.

I don’t envy Barack Obama. He’s about to take over leadership of a nation that may be as troubled as at any point in its history. The difficulties are deep and wide, and the solutions will not be instant or immediate. With so much to do and such high expectations, he is bound to disappoint. As one woman I heard today said, “He’s not only going to save black people; he’s going to save the world.”

That’s quite a burden for any one person.

Yes, we can, we hope — but Obama needs to remind us, and we need to remind ourselves, that healing and reconstruction will take time and sacrifices.

Let’s give them to him.

Little Mr. Trouble

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The date: September 20, 2008

The scene: Courtyard at the Hyde Park Shopping Center

The event: Annual mum and bulb sale

Cast of characters: Couple with two boys in the 2 to 4 age range, two large dogs, and a pile of gifts: a couple in the 30something age range holding hands over a café table and nursing Nantucket Nectars; an elderly woman manning one of the flower tables; an observer (me)

I noticed the couple and their boys when one of the latter took off toward 55th Street. The mother, fussing over something next to me, yelled at him to come back. The father, who remained mysteriously useless during this entire episode, wandered in and out of the scene but didn’t contribute much. The mother did most of the talking, reprimanding, and worrying.

The boys, especially the would-be runaway, seemed to be out of control, taking advantage of the mother’s distractions. She kept up a loud, running series of orders like, “No, come back here!” “No, don’t do that!” etc., none of which had any teeth. Finally, the little Mr. Trouble ran up to the elderly woman’s table and ripped a display poster of flowers from top to bottom. Mom, still fussing with various things, told him she had asked him not to do that, then had him apologize to the woman, who by then, with the mother’s help, had re-taped the two pieces of the torn poster to the table. The boy didn’t seem to be particularly sorry or to find the admission all that punishing. A minute or two later he tried to rip it again, laughing with glee as his frustrated mother remonstrated with him.

In the meantime, someone with with a fluffy little white dog had appeared, which set off one or both of Mom’s big dogs. She tried to explain to little Mr. Trouble how difficult it was for her to manage so much — him, the other little boy, the two dogs, and the pile of presents. He remained nonplussed.

Because all this was happening next to me, I couldn’t resist noticing it. I would look over, look back, and find the 30something woman in front of me either looking at the mom or at me sadly as she clutched her lover’s hand. “That could be us . . . that could be me . . .” seemed to be passing through both their minds. From holding hands sweetly to yelling in a public display of harried parenting in just a few short years. Both she and her lover looked ahead and at each other soberly. Finally, after Dad had made himself useful by strapping little Mr. Trouble into the stroller the 30something couple got up and walked away wordlessly. Oh, to have true psychic powers . . .

Promontory Point drama

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During the summer, it’s not unusual for me to see and hear helicopters. Some belong to individuals, others to hospitals. A few times I’ve seen three black helicopters pass by eerily. Mostly I see them during the day, and they pass by, or they hover over Promontory Point, the pilots determined to impress someone.

When I realize that the sound isn’t retreating, or I hear one at night, I know there’s trouble. Once, around 6:30 a.m., the noise proved to come from a series of news helicopters hovering ghoulishly around the scene of a fatal crash on Lake Shore Drive (it took firefighters more than an hour to cut one of the bodies out of the flattened car).

When I looked this time, Saturday night at 10:30 p.m., I saw a somewhat surreal sight. The police cars with lights flashing at Promontory Point weren’t out of the ordinary, but what appeared to be three or four police boats, with various lights, were. More than that, a helicopter hovered as close to the water’s surface as possible, shining a powerful searchlight onto it at about the buoy line. With no illuminating moon, the background was unusually dark. All I could see of the helicopter were its lights, searchlight, and the part of the belly lit by it. I could even discern the characteristic cigar shape against the darkness.

The sight was both unreal and unsettling — someone was missing or drowned. As it turned out, it was a man who had either gone missing while swimming off a boat or who had fallen off a boat during a turn (his friends changed their story from the former to the latter).

The helicopter disappeared after midnight, easing itself out of my consciousness, and the search was later abandoned until morning, when it was dispersed over a wider area. In the meantime, I found it even more difficult than usual to fall asleep, suspecting that, while I was comfortably sipping tea and reading, death had paid a dramatic visit just shouting distance away.

Art on Track, Chicago

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Rusty elevated staircase with painted "Art on Track" sign on ground at bottom

Saturday evening, after stuffing ourselves at Bonjour Bakery Café, J. and I hopped on the bus and went downtown for Art on Track, which I had learned about from Puppet Bike. Art on Track consisted of eight elevated cars circling the Chicago Loop, with each car representing a local gallery. This is the type of idea that draws people, especially young ones, to the city; you’d never find an energized bow to creativity like this in Arlington Heights. Kudos to the CTA for being open to the idea and to those who worked with them to make it happen.

Art on Track was surprisingly well organized, especially for a first-time event. A small chalked sign at the bottom of the Adams/Wabash elevated stairs let us know that we were in the right place, and extra CTA staff directed us to a table where we paid $5 apiece for admission bracelets. Another employee whisked us through the gates, and one on the platform made sure people knew which trains on the various routes had come in so hapless travelers wouldn’t find themselves on Art on Track. One of them gave us an idea of when Art on Track was due at this starting point.

The Art on Track crowd was not difficult to spot, bracelets and buttons aside. With a few middle-aged and older exceptions, they were young, pierced, and tattooed, and most were Caucasian. Probably many if not most are involved in the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Far from being driven geniuses toiling in lonely garrets, Chicago’s young artists seem to be highly social. I wonder if the young Manet, Monet, Gauguin, and others were as much of an obvious type to their neighbors.

A “You are here” graphic in each car showed where we were in relation to the rest of the train, and which car was occupied by which studio. I think we began two or three cars from the back. The train stopped at each platform in the circuit so participants could change cars.

Our primary objective was the Peter Jones Studio and Gallery car, but we made it onto every car, some twice or more. The most memorable car featured pallets of grass strewn with flowers and guitarist/singers performing 1960s-style music on topical subjects (along the lines of a Dylan). Another car was decorated with garish posed photos of transvestite performers and particularly evil-looking clowns who made any Batman movie version of the Joker look tame. In a third car, musicians sporting face and body paintings of death images sang what I guessed to be Mexican songs. Painted paper plates were affixed to the ceiling of one car, and others had hanging (punching?) bags and other material pieces. Of course, there were some paintings, and Alan Emerson Hicks had brought at least two of his melted plastic sculptures.

In such narrow, crowded space, it was difficult to get a good look at anything, including artists’ names, but perhaps that was not the point. Maybe the idea was simply to acknowledge the growing young artist community spawned by the Art Institute’s expanding school and to energize them with their own event — not as big as Looptopia, but still important enough to be sanctioned by the city.

Early on, I observed a student/freelance photographer/makeup artist approach and older man, apparently a gallery owner or representative. Pleasantries were exchanged, followed by business cards. That was the point as well.

If I were to plan an Art on Track II, I would do at least one thing differently; I would dedicate one or two cars to the musicians and performers and have them take turns. Aside from the space constraints, I found that they distracted me from the non-lively arts. I would also add something for children, at least for the first hour or two, something that would appeal to families and add some diversity.

On another note, at one point I kneeled on my left knee on a seat without thinking and was reminded suddenly and painfully that I fell on it hard last Tuesday; it’s still black, blue, and green. I’ve been so worried about my teeth that I haven’t paid attention to my knee, which for some reason didn’t bother me as much as usual on the elevated stairs. I felt it today; I don’t know how to describe it, but the kneecap feels “squishy” compared to my solid right kneecap. It occurred to me today that I should make an appointment with my physician to see if an X-ray is in order. Aside from soreness to the touch (explained in part by the impressive bruise), the oft-insulted left knee seems to be functioning, but clearly it’s not like the other, and I suppose now is the time to see if anything can be done to minimize the long-term effects. Somehow I see a knee replacement in my future . . .

Jolted

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When I noticed darkness descending at about 7:30 p.m. on Monday, I didn’t know that I “ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Darkness had fallen 12 hours earlier, at 7:30 a.m. As I was getting ready for work, the clouds moved in, the wind picked up, and the downpour began. Fortunately for me, the worst of the wind and water was over by the time I left at 8 a.m.

When I returned in the evening, I thought about relaxing outside for a bit or even going to the stores for the walk. There was some sun, but it wasn’t the gentle, soft summer evening of my dreams. I didn’t feel very good, either, so I stayed in and felt guilty.

Then it was “déjà vu all over again.” I marvel every time at the speed with which a storm can appear to darken the world.

By 8 p.m., the thunder and lightning had begun, the clouds had opened up, and the skies were as dark as though it were hours after sundown, not minutes before. I love storms, so I watched the nearly constant lightning and waited for it to pass in due course.

It didn’t.

As the clouds lit almost like strobes with an occasional streak down to the horizon, I distracted myself by looking up the different types of lightning. I remembered being afraid and my parents talking about “sheet lightning” that wasn’t anything to worry about. I realized how comforting it can be to remain ignorant and to be reassured.

By 9:45 p.m., I had had enough. I tried to read, but was too tired and even too worn out to stay awake. As I dozed, I sensed the storm abating.

The reprieve was brief because at some point near midnight, I perceived flashes. More than that, I heard rain. Rain like I have rarely heard or seen before. It hit the windows in solid sheets. I thought about the young rabbit, which I’d seen in the garden earlier in the evening after a week’s disappearance, and worried that he was not only frightened and soaked, but that he might drown. In a half stupor, I imagined the wall of water coming through the bricks and running down the interior walls.

In east Hyde Park, a lot of tree limbs, some large, some small, were torn off. One tree’s secondary trunk was split off; I’m not sure if that kind of injury leaves it salvageable. My initial reaction to seeing the limbs all over the street was an odd, involuntary one — irrationally I thought with a sickening feeling that vandals were somehow responsible.

The Chicago Tribune reported that conditions sparked more than 9,000 lightning strikes in a four-hour period — not a typical midsummer’s eve storm. Knowing that now, I’m not surprised that this constant onslaught wore on me. But I was less frightened than by the October storm a few years ago in which the wind uprooted thousands of trees while I cowered.

As with many of my fears, nothing came to pass — rain didn’t stream down the walls, and I’ve spotted the young rabbit enough times since Monday to be convinced he didn’t die of fright or drown.

And neither did I.

The secret life of Peter Cottontail

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Last year I began to wonder how much space an urban cottontail needs when I spotted a mother rabbit and two friendly offspring in The Flamingo’s garden. I grew up seeing rabbits emerge from several acres of woods at dusk to browse the field next to us and probably unthinkingly assumed they need lots of space because they had it. The Flamingo rabbits — at least one of which remains, presumably the mother — made me think that rabbits may be able to get by on very little indeed, if that very little offers them what they need.

The courtyard at the Hyde Park Shopping Center is dominated by a tree of respectable girth and crown, centered in a raised planter and surrounded by wood chips and flowering and nonflowering plants.

And a tiny, quarter-grown rabbit.

I first noticed the little bunny a couple of weeks ago when I made my habitual visit to Bonjour. Generally, small children spot it before their more distracted parents do. When you get too close, which is easy given its space, it either freezes or hops away. But it can retreat only so far, because the tree planter is only so big — perhaps 25′ by 25′ with the corners cut out to form a cross. It’s not as shy as my old woodland rabbits; this morning it hopped to within a couple of feet of me, but a noise or movement spooked it, and it flew off — to the center of the planter, where it is furthest from the people sitting around the edges.

I wonder if it has gotten out, or even if it can. The planter is about two feet off the ground with a ledge that invites you to sit on it, as I am now. If it could escape, where would it go? The courtyard is bounded by 55th Street on one side and stores on three, with a walkway out to a large parking lot. If it crossed 55th, it would find town homes with shady yards. If it crossed the parking lot and Lake Park (or took the sidewalk along 55th east), it would get to the railroad embankment. If it traveled west on the sidewalk, it would find a lawn and then more town homes.

Perhaps it hangs around the planter by day and hops off at night. I don’t know.

I wonder about this because, come winter, its cozy little planter won’t support it. Yesterday, a man, his little boy, and I watched it as it neatly nipped off and devoured a half dozen flowers (decorations to you, food to rabbits). It seems to have eaten many but not nearly all of this particular flower. Is that really all it gets to eat? There will be no flowers soon enough.

Of course it had to have come from somewhere. I doubt it was born in that planter and hope that a human didn’t put it there. For all I know, it could wander afield in the evening and at night. It would be interesting to know just what it does and where it goes.

Rabbits are adaptable creatures that are able to live in unusual places. While they may be pests to gardeners, they also serve as ambassadors of nature for the urban child, who finds them just as fascinating as I do wherever they are found — in a garden, among the rocks at Promontory Point, or even in a shopping center planter.

Hyde Park’s weak hippie

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The sign on an empty storefront announces that “In a few weeks there will be a fruit and vegetable store here.” Below are sheets of paper with an invitation to make your desires and preferences known.

Someone requested varieties of that comfort fruit/vegetable, cheesecake. To clarify, “vegan” is penciled in nearby.

Another soul would like “bears, coyotes” to be sold. Someone helpfully noted that these items are “not vegan!”

One person would like to buy “ORGANIC — LOCAL!” Someone pointed to this request with an arrow and editorialized, one imagines somewhat sadly, “You’re a weak hippie.” Is this because the first writer is not fortified with pesticides and growth hormones?

Review: Monty Python’s Spamalot

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On Friday, January 21, I was fortunate enough to see Monty Python’s Spamalot at the Shubert Theatre in Chicago (soon to be named the LaSalle Bank Theatre).

Spamalot is the stage musical “lovingly ripped off from the motion picture Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Some, not all, elements of the movie are here, along with pieces from other Monty Python flicks and sketches; they even manage to work in a group variation of the fish-slapping dance. There’s very little dialogue, just enough to sew the various components and songs together into a semblance of a plot. But who needs plot with such comedy and such performances?

The distinguished-looking Tim Curry, complete with infectious, devilish, yet somehow vacuous grin, is wonderful and strangely sexy as Arthur, trying to convince peasant collectives and rude French retainers that he is King of the Britons. His knights of the Round Table, led by Hank Azaria as Sir Lancelot and David Hyde Pierce as the not-so-brave Sir Robin, as well as the supporting cast of singers and dancers, bring high energy to this silly tale of masochistic monks, killer rabbits, a testy God, and a “watery tart,” the Lady of the Lake who gives Arthur his authority (such as it is) through Excalibur.

Oddly for a show that was developed by and about an all-male troupe, it’s the luscious, voluptuous Sara Ramirez who’s in the limelight as the scantily clad Lady of the Lake and the peevish diva who, in a long and hilarious number during the second act, informs us that she’s been kept backstage too long. Most of us agreed. She has a beautiful voice, able to warble softly, to belt out, or to try out a number of styles, including scat.

Of course, the plot is ostensibly about the quest for the Holy Grail. Within this framework, there’s room for silly and ironic humour about everything from the flight speed of African swallows, George W. Bush, farting and expectorating, gays, Broadway in Chicago, and even the prominence of Jews on Broadway (even though it’s acknowledged that’s 1,000 years in the future in a country that hasn’t been discovered).

The sets and the staging are brilliant, and even the signature foot (along with a partner) makes an appearance. The most ingenious moment is the re-creation from the film of the duel with the knight who just doesn’t know when to admit defeat.

Monty Python’s Spamalot is filled with catchy tunes, solid dancing and singing, colourful costumes and sets, barely covered female flesh, and laughs. If you’re a Monty Python fan or if you need to laugh long and loud, this is the show to see.

Footnote: While I was waiting in line in the doorway of the women’s room during intermission, I heard a door open across the hallway from me and turned around to find myself face to face with Eric Idle. I didn’t say anything, but the poor man was soon surrounded by a crowd. He’s taller than I realised, and a bit stooped. Added a special moment to a great evening.