The weekend

No biking this weekend - coach's orders (rest and recovery) - so I got to sleep in and take some long walks with Jack, as well indulge myself a bit, as well.

How beautiful was the weather? See for yourself, if you were snowed-in in Colorado or something:




That night was a fundraiser for the Greater Independence Park Neighborhood Association (GIPNA), a wine and cheese tasting to benefit the renovation of the historic bungalow at the southeast corner of the park. Note that my name is much prettier than my friend Tina's:



Why would anyone go to a wine-tasting and not taste each of the nine Cotes Du Rhone labels offered? By time we had worked our way down the list to the last wine, a Chateauneuf Du Pape, it was gone. People had been skipping all the rest, including three labels of white, plus a rose, instead tasting - no, drinking - all of the big, spicy wine for themselves.

Oh well. It was a fun time, still. Here's a rare view from the balcony of the Independence Park fieldhouse:




And inside the upstairs level, filled with neighbors drinking all that CDP while listening to some smooth, loungy piano jazz:



The rest of the evening saw us moving from another fun raiser at St. Edward's Catholic school - "Red Rock" - where parents' bands entertained friends and family in the school's gym. The place was right around the corner from the Irish-American Heritage center - basically a bar within an old elementary school - so, naturally:



We ended up at Queen Albert's, a Filipino restaurant and kareoke bar just around the corner from home. Serving great food until well after midnight, it was packed with natives from all over Chicago singing to robotic, MIDI accompaniment to generic white girls in bikinis in various states of pastoral beauty behind the words on the screen. Tina sang "The Gambler," Rob gave us an Elvis ballad, and I struggled horribly with a Sinatra tune. I learned the hard way that "Luck Be A Lady" must only be sung in front of a live band.

Sunday I took Jack on a long stroll through the Old Irving neighborhood, west of Pulaski, on our way to the Starbucks at Kostner and Irving to chill with a book for a bit. I was amazed at the houses over there, it was as though I were in Oak Park. Beautiful two- and three story single family homes along sunny tree-lined streets, fall color spilled everywhere. I was suddenly wistful - for what, I'm not sure - but I wanted to see Packards and Studebakers along the curbsides. These are from a stretch of Byron between Avondale and Kostner:









The rest of the day was spent in Greg's backyard, drinking cold beers over the fire and listening to the Bears game. Even a shitty performance like theirs couldn't ruin such a perfect day as this.

Happy Birthday, Jack!

I actually don't know just how old you are, only that they told me on my first day with you that you could be one and a half. But that first day with you was a year ago, this coming Monday.



We got off to a rough start didn't we? I didn't understand you, you just kept pushing my buttons...we might not even have stayed to together had things worked out slightly different...

But, I am very glad they didn't. I will never, as long as I live, forget our long walk up Kimball from Logan Square that sunny Friday evening in late March. You were there for me, and have been ever since.

You make me laugh each day:




You make the absolute most of each day:




You're at my side everywhere I go:




And you never let me out of your sight:




You give me everything you have to give.




I love you Jack. You're my boy.

Sunday at the Harp

Last night, Kevin Flynn dedicated a song to me, with his band, The Avondale Ramblers.



Considering I only heard him dedicate one song in the five years I was in Kiss n Ride with him, I was honored.

So, I'd like to dedicate this to Kevin.

Sunday morning at the Harp and Shamrock.

We walked in the door at 11, clapping our shoulders free of the blustery cold outside and brushing the dead leaves out of our hair. Inside awaits warm wood, alluring neon, and a welcoming smirk above a big hand unscrewing a bottle.

"Two bloodies, Buddy."

"Pints?" Buddy would ask, hopefully. He hated making bloody marys, as he did with any drink with more than two ingredients, and of course, we responded, "naw...highballs!" and drank them fast so he'd have to make 'em again. The smirk would turn to a sneer below the salt and pepper mustache and kid's haircut, and he slouched even more as he spiced and Tobascoed away.

In the corner was either Sean's hot dog machine, complete with bun warmer or a huge crock of chili. Either way there were several bags of potato chips as well. All that was needed was for us to dig in.

But first we'd sit along the wall under the Paddy mirrors, the framed Hubert H. Humphrey campaign poster, and the map of Europe with no England on it, and sip our drinks while the neighborhood hags and Joe Plumbers smoked by the window, their gray haze snaking around their wrinkled faces. The Bears pregame wrapped up on the televisions over the bar.

After kick off and we'd gotten our first beer, then it was time eat. There was always more than enough, and always free...for regulars, anyways. Just plop it all on a paper plate and take it back to the table and your bottle. It always seemed to me that somebody new would see all of us eating and be afraid to ask.

Those Bears games were somehow comically magical that year. Jim Miller nearly always found a way to make us laugh in disbelief at the end, to cheer and scream triumphantly in a way we never quite felt we deserved, but the joy at 3pm was genuine nonetheless.

With endorphins from the win coursing through our system, Monday felt a week away. By halftime of the second game, I'd probably moved on to Jameson, or at least began mixing it in with the rotation. The crowd would get younger and more familiar as the sun began to set. The wood glowed in the ambient light from the street lamps and the bar signs; nowhere else could've seemed more like home.

At 7:30, the afternoon games and highlights over, the evening game starting, we were in 5th gear and stopping for no one. Now it was Jameson exclusively and I was bumming cigarettes from Sean, who would occasionally come from behind the bar to take his eagle shot on the Golden Tee machine.

Game over, we turned up the juke box. Thin Lizzie, The Pogues, Willy Nelson, and Elvis; as we got drunker, our own Kiss n' Ride EP that was in there. Someone would trip, get up, order another one. Old friends came by, beckoned or by surprise, backs were patted, drinks spilled. We found a neighborhood Joe asleep on the toilet, snoring loudly. That waitress from next door I wanted to get on would come in. Somebody would try to climb over the bar. Somebody would get thrown out.

Then Sean would start turning out the lights, and suddenly Monday didn't seem so far off any more. We'd put our scarves and coats back on, slur our goodbyes, and head back out into the blustery cold.

Thursday Hate

First: Yankees fans. That's like rooting for Walmart.

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James E. Cox. That is the name of the uninsured, unlicensed driver and otherwise waste of viable organs that killed a mother and her posthumously-delivered son on October 21 while running a red light on the west side. He was arrested yesterday after it was revealed that he was high on cocaine at the time. The Chicago Tribune also reported Cox has been cited 15 prior times for driving without a license. Why is it we had to wait for someone to die before this piece of shit was finally arrested? Don't you think after the 3rd, or even the 5th, time that somebody would see a pattern here?

Mayor Daley, if it's about money, I understand, man. I am available. Standard union wage is all I am asking - much cheaper than it will cost to house this asshole downstate for 15 years. The only thing else it will cost the city is some handcuffs, a standard issue taser, and a sock filled with ball bearings. And a few rolls of paper towels to clean up the blood.

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The carnage continued Halloween night with another hit and run, this time in North Center. Rachel Gilliam was struck and killed at the Lincoln and Cullom intersection sometime after 3am, Sunday morning. The driver fled the scene.

Note that the URL of the link above says, "hit-and-run-accident." No. That is not an accident. A hit and run is a crime.

She worked at Bowman's, a sister restaurant of O'Donovan's, where I waited tables in 2007, while between jobs for three months. I am sure several people I worked with there are grieving pretty severely now. I actually knew Rachel. A friend reminded me that she was the ex-girlfriend of my ex-girlfriend's current husband. We all had hung out together several times back in 2004-2005. Hearing that dragged to the surface a whole bunch of bad memories which I really didn't want to relive.

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Riding home today, just past Montrose on Elston, a CPD squad car was parked in the bike lane. No hazard or flashers. Diddy and Alan are on my wheel, so I wave left behind my ass with my right hand and take the lane. A grey Saab guns it behind us, and risks probably six lives, including his and ours passing us to get to the red light maybe 100 yards beyond. I look back at the cop in the car as if to ask, "you gonna do anything about that?"

Too busy talking on a cell phone.

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Did Santa buy Halloween or something? Was there some sort of holiday-merger?



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;)

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Heineken. And anyone who thinks that is good beer. And the tribal armband tattoos they are probably wearing.

Hump Day

Spiced Pumpkin Pie or Iced Gingerbread?



First time I've ever done this, but man I love Clif! They are a major sponsor of my cycling team, and I just couldn't be more grateful. A super-friendly rep showed up to the team meeting meeting last night and bestowed us with a bunch of free product, including the seasonal-flavors us Clif-geeks wait all year for. We all wish they'd make these year-round, but there's a reason Christmas only comes once a year: it's all the more special.

I actually had the Cranberry Orange Nut Bread after my ride to Northbrook this morning and, I'm not kidding, it almost tasted as good my mom's.

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Mundial or Nuevo Leon? The Chicago Cycling Examiner covers Pilsen.

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Red Vines or Twizzlers?

When I was kid, at the movies I'd use a Red Vines to drink my Coke with. The only thing that tasted better than that were the burps after.

Paging Dr. Thompson...

Guilty.

Heartbroken

A second spring, every leaf a crackling, golden bloom
Their softly rustling, whispered hidden words were songs
That lured me shirtless and bare into a warm, thoughtful breeze.
I hoped that it might last forever, as I walked among the trees
Through peaceful evenings and golden sunsets, that all along
Were just the lying double talk of a manic, relentless doom.

Like dead skin it collects in nooks and corners, insectile
Leaving behind skeletal fingers to wave and mock and cackle
As I try to cover my flushed, raw skin, caught bare in its malice.
I thank God for light, for heat, for wise words that offer solace
For the ease that which this modern life arms me to attack
The primal dread, fear growing as the sun retreats, all the while.

Imagine those nights, breathless within, while the howls outside
Those musty, mudden walls announced that summer was slain.
Flickering candles in hollow lanterns do little to allay the fears
Of those who now must seal away and mete out nightly tears.
Chilling winds and driven snow will soon arrive to cover the plain
When the bonfires of Samhain are gone and warming embers died.

Long months are ahead, and I must ignore the hopeless wails
Of old men and wolves for whom this winter will be their last.
Under harsh beams or withering candles, beneath nylon or hay
In front of a television or storyteller, sanity's tested either way.
I hope the husk I hear in my ear is a new voice, not the past
Whispers who've told me sweet lies of dewey grass and lover's tales.