J. and I had dinner at Marina Cafe, which overlooks Jackson Harbor. Sunny, comfortable temperature and humidity. We walked the mile+ to the Flamingo. Perfect.
Marina Cafe, Chicago
Tag Archives: Chicago
Riders on the storm
Caught this as a storm built up from the west during an hour’s time. It’s coming down now in horizontal sheets, with lots of great lighting and sound effects. Time to curl up and read.
Edit: It became much more violent later. At one point there were 5–6 nearly simultaneous flashes.
Vote early and often. Or not at all.
Vote early and often.
You’ve heard this time-honored [tired] saying about Chicago elections, which supposedly even reanimate the deceased.
In my case, it was, “Vote not at all.”
What happened to me on Election Day, November 7, is probably not that unusual, although the judges told me I was the only one all day, as of 6:30 p.m. That’s me — always different.
The way in which it happened was funnier than most of what you’ll see on a comedy show.
After work I duly reported to my polling place, where the Democratic judge could not find me in the book.
In other words, this was my first step on the road to finding out that I am a non-person.
Befuddled, the judge referred me to the Republican judges, apparently in the hopes they have better eyesight. They could not find me in the book or on their list.
“Have you moved?” they asked. “Yes, in 2003, but I voted in 2004.” After some back-and-forth during which they told me that perhaps I voted before but it may not have been counted, they referred me to a Person of Greater Authority (PGA) to give me a provisional ballot.
The PGA called “Election Central,” which pulled a Peter the Disciple and denied all knowledge of me. “Sorry,” she said. “When was the last time you voted?” “2004.” “Two years ago? That’s the problem.” “But I’ve been voting for more than 20 years and never had this problem before.” “Did you vote in the primary?” “No.” “Aha,” she said knowingly. “But I’ve never had this problem before!” By now I was getting emotional, as it was clear that as long as “Election Central” didn’t know me, I was going nowhere near a voting machine.
“Why would they arbitrarily delete me?” I wailed. Then, realizing it was best to leave before embarrassing myself even more, I said, “I”m not upset with you,” but halfway through my apology the PGA turned her back on me to ask someone who didn’t need help if they needed help. Next!
At home, a little calmer, I called the Illinois board of elections complaint number. The person who answered listened to my tale of woe sympathetically, but said only the Chicago board of elections could help me. He did point out that not having voted since 2004 had nothing to do with it and that I shouldn’t have been told that it did. Apparently the PGA was incorrect, at least about that.
Now, this is when it gets good. I called the Chicago board of elections and, upon request, gave my address: 5500 South Shore Drive. After several minutes of muttering, she told me that address didn’t come up. I repeated it, as I would approximately 50 times in the next 10 minutes. “5500 South South Shore Drive, right?” she asked. “No, 5500 South Shore Drive.” “Okay, 5500 South South Shore Drive.” “No, it’s 5500 South Shore Drive.” “That’s what I said, 5500 South South Shore Drive.” “5500 SOUTH SHORE DRIVE.” (When you’re not being heard, it helps to raise your voice to complement the increase in your blood pressure.)
“You mean, there’s no directional?” “Yes, it’s south. 5500 SOUTH Shore Drive.” “So it is 5500 South South Shore Drive.” “It’s just SHORE Drive; south is the directional.” By now, even I was recognizing the potential for comedy, similar to Abbott and Costello.
I heard her consulting someone about 5500 East Lake Shore Drive. Oh, no . . . At one point, she informed me there is no building at that address, whatever that address was in her muddled mind. She couldn’t mean 5500 South Shore Drive, where there’s been a building since the late 1920s.
Clearly the address was getting us nowhere, so she asked my last name. “S-C-H-I-R-F,” I said at 85+ decibels. “F as in Frank” — this because most people hear the last letter as an “s,” so I thought I’d cut her off at that pass.
It didn’t matter. “I see Fleming, Fraser, etc., but no F-C-H.” Help . . .
“S as in Sam, C as in cat, H as in horse . . .” It didn’t matter. My address didn’t exist, my building didn’t exist, and unaccountably S-C-H-I-R-F could not be found under the Fs. So she had the great idea of looking up my old address. Apparently, South Everett is not nearly as elusive an address because she found it — and me. I’m not sure how, but I may have voted with my new address (which I shall not repeat) in 2004. In 2005, the board of elections received returned mail from my old address and dismissed me with “inactive” status.
After all that, the solution was to fill out a card and mail it to the board of elections. Soon I hope to have my address, building, and registered voter status back.
But that hour of my life is gone forever.
The morning after
Last night, just as I was thinking of walking to the store, a storm began that turned into a frightful experience. At first, there were nearly incessant flashes of sheet and streak lightning, beginning at about 8:15 p.m. This lasted for about an hour unabated. It began to rain, then to rain hard, then to rain so hard that sheets of water hurled themselves at the windows while the lightning continued and thunder sounded. Suddenly there was a terrifying roaring as the wind picked up, tossing the trees back and forth and seeming to cause the building to shudder.
I surprised myself by feeling scared.
At the moment when I was beginning to realize this was the worst storm I’d ever weathered, worse than any of those in western New York that made the trailer seem instantly frail and vulnerable, there was a blinding flash and a simultaneous, deafening thunderclap.
My heart stopped and then raced.
I have been that terrified at an autonomic level only a few times in my life, and even while sensing danger at the door, I felt acutely alive yet disconnected and detached.
This morning presented a scene of minor, yet disturbing devastation. I noticed last night that a half-dead tree in Burnham Park across the street had fallen on the sidewalk. It was not the only tree to succumb. A couple of my favorites, large shade trees, were among the victims, either fallen or snapped off partway up the trunk. Partial trunks and huge branches littered both nearby parks. The landscape was altered, as trees that had been growing 30–40–50 years cracked or crashed in an instant.
The Chicago Park District was at Burnham Park today at 7 a.m. to clear the tree blocking the sidewalk that the police use to enter Burnham Park and Promontory Point. It was a curious operation in which 4–5 men stood around and watched a truck awkwardly scoop up the not-very-large branches and place them in a dump truck. The scooping method was inefficient, and I’m not clear why so many people needed to supervise the operation. From what I could see, it would have made more sense for the 4–5 men standing around simply to pick up the branches and toss them in the truck. It would have taken half the time and would not have wasted the fuel. But we are no longer a society that does anything “by hand” or respects manual labor. We are slaves to the machine.
Tonight, I walked around part of Burnham Park and Promontory Point. So many trees wrenched out of the ground, or split in half, or with limbs torn off and strewn about. I found the two gingko trees I have spent many hours reading under torn in half. They were usually the last to lose their leaves in autumn. It looks like last year was their final fall. They will shelter me no more.
I looked up at the Shoreland from near the underpass. Trees no longer filter most of the lower part of the building. The tree line is broken, open, scarred.
It took decades to create the beauty of mature trees.
And minutes to destroy it.
Spring at the Flamingo in Hyde Park
On Wednesday, April 19, three more signs of spring appeared at the Flamingo:
- The pair of concrete flamingos (although the accompanying birdbath seems to have gone for good)
- The patio tables, chairs, and umbrellas
- The annual draining and cleaning of the swimming pool
And the patch of yellow-green I see in the direction of 53rd Street, which I thought might be the crown of a tree, is really a dense patch of dandelions. Like the leaves, flowers, and grass, they seem to have sprung up overnight. I also saw my first butterfly yesterday, a black one.
I can almost imagine being at home again, with the sun coming up over the trees, the cool air blowing the curtains, my mother in the kitchen, my dad in the garden, the yard and the field covered with the dandelions . . .
Stalked and harassed
I took today off work. I need it for reasons I won’t go into. My plan, such as it was, was to enjoy the day because it was to be such a perfect one — warm but not hot, not humid, sunny. A beautiful late summer’s day.
I went to Promontory Point about 10:45 a.m. and was reading on my blanket under the big, twin-trunked tree that could have been Robin Hood’s. I heard a voice and saw a man behind a tree. I thought his stance was odd, but assumed he was talking on a cell phone. Then, over the next hour and a half, I noticed he was circling me repeatedly. And would start talking now and again. Beyond, say, 10-15 feet, I can’t distinguish words well, but I caught enough snippets to realise that he was harassing me (and probably the odd stance was hiding behind trees and doing, ummm, things).
I kept hearing “book” (because I was reading) and then I heard (these bits were all distinct): “big ass,” “I know you ain’t got no boyfriend,” “**** you right there on that blanket,” and “lay back down,” and “lay on your stomach so I can see that big fat ass.” There were other bits as well. I ignored it as best I could and then finally left because I felt like I couldn’t move without provoking more verbal abuse, and the position I was in was aggravating my back (sciatica). At one point I think I heard him saying something about I’d (meaning me) be back and tomorrow. He probably saw me limping back to my building.
I haven’t had anyone bother me in years, and not for so long. And no one’s hinted that they’d continue to.
It was a gorgeous day, and I ended up feeling a bit scared and trapped. A lot, actually.
Tomorrow’s supposed to be lovely, too. I don’t know if I can go back . . .
How to find the Art Institute of Chicago
Michigan at Adams across from Millennium Park.
Ad for the Art Institute of Chicago
The Art Institute of Chicago was founded in 1879 and has been located at Michigan and Adams since 1893. It’s a little hard to miss; even if you didn’t notice the massive lions standing guard (and sporting wreaths during the holidays or athletic gear if a local team is in the playoffs), or the crowds of people on the steps, or the huge building that extends over the railroad tracks, still, it’s right there, the only building at Michigan and Adams on the east, the only building that looks like a museum, like an Art Institute. And it’s been there since 1893.
You’d think the Art Institute might take pride in that, but apparently not. In CTA advertising, for an exhibit, they promote their location as “Michigan at Adams, across from Millennium Park.”
The Art Institute seems to have succumbed to Millennium Park hype. For those of you who don’t know what Millennium Park is, it’s an enormously expensive “park” in downtown Chicago developed with public and private monies that features dining, music, ice skating, the Cloud Gate sculpture (aka the “Bean”), and an unappealing fountain weirdly designed to minimize the view of the water (isn’t that the point of a fountain? To spew water visibly?). Since it is a public “park” (you see that I use the term loosely), there are a few rare patches of grass that are carefully protected from the public by officious security guards who seem to have their life on the line to keep people off it.
There was a time when the overblown, over-hyped Millennium Park was up the street from the Art Institute. Now it’s the other way around.
Which institution will be the more enduring? Time will tell.
(I prefer Navy Pier. No grass to have to avoid.)
Update, 10 January 2019: People love the Bean.
Don’t let the sun go down on you
I’m not through with silly advertising, but I’m going to take a very brief detour into slightly different territory — a t-shirt I observed downtown the other day on the back of a young man. The text was:
Where the only thing to go down on you is your GPA.
T-shirt
“Hmmm,” I thought. “That sounds like something that someone at the University of Chicago [A.B., 1983] might say.” I discreetly stepped up my pace and took a look at the front — where the shirt sported the University of Chicago name and logo.
This wasn’t a lucky guess on my part. The University of Chicago ranks high academically, but near or at the bottom socially. If you want to learn how to think and analyze, go to the University of Chicago. If you want to have fun (however you define fun), go somewhere — anywhere — else. And if you want to not have fun with people who look like they’ve stayed up all night in an earnest attempt to find something original to say about Thucydides and who enjoyed the exercise, you’ll definitely want to attend the University of Chicago.
If you want to have fun with someone who looks like they don’t know and don’t care who Thucydides was and who is gearing up to get through their public speaking class on the road toward that coveted mass communications degree, then the University of Chicago is a good place to avoid.
Of course, if students at the University of Chicago wanted to surround themselves with fun peers, they might think twice about wearing discouraging t-shirts that advertise the university’s renowned lack of appeal to the party animal extrovert. But then it’s just possible that surrounding themselves with people who read Thucydides is what passes for excitement.
At this point, I’ll admit that I too wore such a t-shirt. It had been designed for the all-male house next door. It showed the Brooks Brothers sheep on the front; on the back, under my long hair (which people would boldly move aside), were the words:
Upper Rickert: Where the men are men and the sheep are nervous.
A former t-shirt
I wore the shirt for years — even after someone helpfully explained to me what it meant.
Twenty-five years ago, someone would have had to explain to me, “Where the only thing to go down on you is your GPA,” too.
No wonder we didn’t have fun. We didn’t know how to.
Perhaps the University of Chicago needs to add sex education to the Common Core.
So you can stay inside where it’s nice and warm
More on advertising . . .
An advertising series on CTA buses is intended to reinforce ComEd’s commitment to customer service. The ad in the series that stands out to me shows the reddened face of a fat, bearded, frost-covered man in hard hat and coveralls. The accompanying quote is:
I work outside in the cold so you can stay inside where it’s nice and warm.
CTA transit ad
There’s an obvious problem here — where or how he works has nothing to do with whether I can stay inside. This is a copywriter trying to come up with a cadence that sounds good and uses “outside” and “inside” but failing to make sense. This is one of those shortcomings that brilliant people in advertising are prone to: sacrificing sense to cleverness.
Next, there’s the photo — the very stereotype of a Caucasian working-class man. He’s fat. He’s bearded. He has beady eyes. He looks like the last grade he passed was in single digits. All he’s missing is a loud mouth (it’s a print ad, after all) and chewed-up cigarette dangling from it (no one but Hollywood shows smoking any more).
Finally, the overt message — there is nothing subtle about it — is not one of customer service, but of class. This stereotypical working guy represents a class of workers whose comforts, even safety, are secondary to yours. Aren’t you lucky there are people like him around to keep the electricity humming and that people like you never have to experience what it’s like to be people like him?
Illinois. Mile after magnificent mile.
Somebody Shut Off His Pituitary! Visit the Tallest Man in the World, Robert Wadlow. Alton, Illinois.
CTA transit ad
Given the nature of the copy and the accompanying vintage sideshow cartoon, this advertisement might have dated from the turn of the twentieth century. But this ad, found on CTA bus shelters, includes the distinctly modern www.enjoyillinois.com and the tagline, “Illinois. Mile after magnificent mile.”
Intrigued by the apparent tastelessness of this Illinois Bureau of Tourism ad, I looked up Robert Wadlow online. According to Roadside America and other sites, Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in Alton, Illinois in 1918 and, due to a tumor in his pituitary gland, grew to a height of 8’11.1″ (a record that still stands). Although he toured with the Ringling Brothers Circus in 1936 and as a spokesman for the International Shoe Company, he never became the sideshow “freak” that so many victims of nature and disease did. He even attended college with the intention of studying law. The Alton Museum site says:
Robert Wadlow holds a special place in Alton’s history. He is remembered as a quiet young man who overcame a unique handicap, and who was an inspiration to all of those that knew him.
Alton Museum
Not surprisingly, Wadlow died young, in 1940 at age 22. The braces need to support his legs and weight gave him a blister that became infected.
Back to the Illinois Bureau of Tourism ad: It’s trying to entice you to visit Alton, where Wadlow was born and lived and died, and where a life-size bronze statue was erected to commemorate the man and his stature. He may be long gone, but kids can still compare their size (and shoe size) to that of the unfortunate giant.
Now, it’s true that Illinois doesn’t offer much in the way of great attractions, natural or otherwise. Of course, there are gems like Volo Bog (north), Starved Rock and numerous state parks, and the Shawnee National Forest and Shawnee Hills Wine Trail (south), along with the usual lures of a major urban center like Chicago (museums, theatre, shopping, dining, architecture, etc.). Springfield boasts the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum because, after all, Illinois is the “Land of Lincoln” — at least that’s what’s on all the license plates.
Unless you’re interested in studying suburban sprawl (north), checking out cornfields (central), or fishing among the cypress (south), there’s not much unusual or grand to bring tourists to Illinois. There’s no Grand Canyon, no Yosemite, no redwoods, no petrified forest, no Niagara Falls, no Old Faithful, no herds of elk or caribou, no — well, you name it. Ask Chicagoans where they go for a weekend of recreation, and they’re likely to tell you Door County in Wisconsin, Indiana Dunes, or Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Anywhere but Illinois.
Apparently, the Illinois Bureau of Tourism decided to focus on what Illinois does have — small attractions and roadside oddities. According to Roadside America, Illinois has about 66 roadside attractions, ranging from cars on a spike (Berwyn) to the hometown of Superman (Metropolis). (For some reason, they even include Medieval Times in Schaumburg, which is part of a national chain, and a few other mainstream goodies.)
These include, of course, Robert Wadlow, dead since 1940. I don’t have any problems with the promotion of his bronze statue or the chair that was made for him. The Illinois Bureau of Tourism has to work with what it has. But where did the sideshow-style poster originate? Is it truly vintage, or is it a modern rendition of a vintage look? If it is the former, the real McCoy, the Bureau should have considered a few changes that would have made it less of a repulsive reminder of a time that is, thankfully, past — for example, changing the wording, “Somebody Shut Off His Pituitary!” And giving Robert Wadlow a head and a face. As it is, he’s represented as a cartoon torso with long legs and huge hands and feet. In the best (worst?) sideshow tradition, the Bureau has turned a man with an incurable medical condition into an object to be gawked at.
There’s also a bit of false advertising here. I’d never heard of Robert Wadlow, so when I saw this poster I thought that it was still possible to “visit” Wadlow — not to look at a statue of him or sit in his chair.
The other Bureau ads are equally simple — large graphics, minimal copy. It’s not just the Bureau, either; most bus shelter advertisers go straight for the visual, probably to catch the weary eye of hurrying pedestrians who have no intention of riding the CTA. To me this seems a rather odd approach, given the medium; where else but a CTA bus stop do people have 5–20 minutes to read? The problem is that once you read about Robert Wadlow on, say, www.enjoyillinois.com, it’s unlikely you’re going to spend hours driving to Alton to stand next to a statue and sit in a chair for five minutes for a photo op. Door County or Alton? The Indiana Dunes or Alton? The Upper Peninsula or Alton? You decide.
In the meantime, thanks to the Illinois Bureau of Tourism, the headless, faceless Robert Pershing Wadlow can be exploited in death, in the 21st century, as he may have been in life, in the 20th, 70 years ago.
Enjoy Illinois, the Land of Sideshows, er, Lincoln.