The More Things Change: Reflections on Ten Years in Bridgeport

Once, I was couch surfing at my Aunt Debbie's in Rogers Park when her two youngest kids, Phillip and Eric, decided to start playing baseball in the house with some friends. Predictably, this ended with some china being broken and Phillip trying to run away from the responsibility.

Somewhere in there things escalated, words were exchanged and I called Phillip a "fat boy" (well, he was). Aunt Debbie, sensing that Phillip would not accept an apology - and might try to choke me in my sleep - strongly suggested that my time couch surfing at her place was done.

I made a hasty phone call, packed up my seabag and two heavy duty plastic bags (containing what belongings I thought necessary) and slowly made my way in blistering heat by bike to Bridgeport, where Sue let me crash on her chaise lounge.

That was ten years ago yesterday.

What's happened since then has been, as the song goes, a long strange trip. The couch surfing turned into Sue and me becoming roommates and, later, flat mates. Meanwhile, I slowly began getting my shit together, a process that involved much denial and resistance, trial and error, false starts and stumbling into things I both cared about and was good at doing. And, as I've written here before, I slowly came around to accepting what this neighborhood is and embracing both its charms and shortcomings. We always joked that I would leave if Puffer's closed, as that was the place that I could always call a refuge and hold as Exhibit "A" that I wasn't crazy for living down here.

Then I found out about the chili at Ramova Grill; the tchotchkes at Bernice's; the kugelis at Healthy Food; the tradition of the procession of St. Rocco; Dave Samber's creepy pocelain dolls at Polo Cafe; Modji Fest; Bev's hot dogs; Ed Marzewski almost single-handedly establishing developing an arts district along Morgan while tending bar at his mother's bar/package store at 31st and Morgan; Mark Lennon's unwavering loyalty to the kids at Benton House; the bed and breakfast run by Benedictine monks; Gio's fusilli arabiata; the priceless mural inside Nancy's Best Little Hair House and Day Spa painted twenty years ago by an unknown graffiti artist named DZine; Pancho Pistolas add a second floor; Freddie's adding the adjective "Fabulous" to describe their below-average pizza; Paulie's pizza gravitate to Punky's; Graziano's on 31st make way to Trattoria 31 which made way to the amazing HAN 202.

I've watched some kids at McGuane Park grow up from mischievous teens to college graduates; others became gangbangers. Thanks to the common ground of pet ownership I've learned a bit about some of my neighbors, and they about me. Bridgeport Coffee House opened five years ago and, quickly, residents both lifelong and new found a place to patronize and maybe get to know each other a little. Mitchell's Tap is now in the old space, but I never left. At 30 I was trying to figure things out and just hoping to make it to the next day. Still haven't accomplished the former, but damn if life didn't drag me along the entire time. I can honestly say I wouldn't change a thing in the past ten years.

Bridgeport has changed almost as much as I in the past decade. When I first moved down here, the city was just starting to fill up Stearns Quarry with the intent of turning it into a nature preserve and park. Slowly, the giant hole was filled to grade and the landscaping began. The park opened Memorial Day weekend. Artists are fleeing the high rents of Wicker Park, Bucktown and even Pilsen in favor of the neighborhood's western half. Sue and I sat atop the hill we dubbed "Mount Bridgeport" Friday night for the fireworks, eating cheese and crackers, drinking beer and cava, marveling at the view, joking about becoming naturalized Bridgeporters. We sat there, a half-moon shining above us, content in the moment.

It's with a certain point of pride that I look at living in one neighborhood for ten years. As an adult, I never imagined I'd live in one neighborhood for such a stretch of time. Growing up one of my goals was to live east of Halsted near a major league ballpark. Never did I think it would be on the south side of town. I treasure the close priximity of the neighborhood to Pilsen, Bronzeville, UIC, downtown and Hyde Park. I can negotiate it and the rest of the city with ease and quickness via bicycle or train. Bridgeport, to me, is a microcosm of Chicago itself: if you let it, you fall in love with it unconditionally.

Here's to another ten.

The Rise of a Dirty Old Man

I've only been half-joking when I tell people that I seem to have reawakened my kavorka in the past year or so. Never was that more true than Saturday night. I found myself in one of those bars in the back of a liquor store on the northwest side, only this one was built out into a spacious sports bar and kept clean. This wasn't those old Armanetti's like the one on Division where my mom and stepdad were engaged thirty years ago over amaretto sours, 7-and-7's and Slim Jims.

I was with my old friend Chris Hyatt, who invited a bunch of people out to the Bank of America cinema at Six Corners to see a Roger Corman movie starring Ray Milland and Don Rickles that was totally worth the five bucks admission. We were reminiscning on the Vicodin-and-gin days of the Unofficial Soup Kitchen when we noticed the bartender hanging on our every word. Or, shall I say, mine.

"I think she's into you, Chuck," Hyatt said.

It could have been the beer talking, but I gave her the once-over. She let her hair down after the third round Hyatt and I had and it was classic Northwest Side woman: a near-mullet. She was pulling back Jager Bombs with the best of them and singing along with every song on the Internet jukebox (ugh!). And that was when Hyatt and I decided to hit an IHOP to soak up all the krausened goodness of Old Style.

I managed to catch the train home and sent Hyatt the e-mail address of a photographer friend of mine who was looking for an assistant. He e-mailed back that he went back to the bar to see if the bartender was interested in him.

"Seemed possible," he replied.

Must've Been A Bitch While I Was Gone

If I'm not checking in here, it only means I've been busy.

In this case, turning 40.

Meanwhile, the concert below is 36 years old, and shows the hottest band in the land hungry and ready to conquer. I miss those days...

He Has Risen!!

The story of Jesus, as told by Sam Kinison. Enjoy your ham or, in my case, White Castles.

Time Adds Sepia To All Memories

L-R: Uncle Red, Mom, Uncle Stu, Aunt Arlene, Aunt Debbie

Been a while since I've been around. I decided that some things I wanted to write about required discretion, lest some haters decide to hate. Maybe next time.

Anyway, last week I had to pass off some prized tickets to the Numero Group's Eccentric Soul Revue to Marcus, as I received the proverbial invitation I couldn't refuse. My Uncle Stu turned 70 and his son Tom just retired from military service after 30 years of cumulative active and National Guard service. Somehow, in the planning for celebrating the dual milestones, this turned into an ad hoc family reunion that made me very nervous.

Not only would I be seeing aunts, uncles and cousins that I haven't seen in ages, but my brother and sister-in-law were driving Mom into the area from Wisconsin. I had originally planned to ask Mom if she wanted me to drive her in, then stay the night at my place so she wouldn't have to rely on Chris to drive her back. When Mom informed me that Chris beat me to the punch, I tried to mask my disappointment.

This was the second time in a month that Mom surprised me. A couple weeks earlier she was in town to celebrate Aunt Debbie's birthday and didn't call me to let me know she was in town. When we talked the next day, she said she didn't call because she thought I was busy. After we ended the conversation I thought to myself, "This must be what it feels like when I go weeks between phone calls to her." My stepfather's passing has made it clear that now we need each other more than ever, but trying to find common ground besides shared DNA can be frustrating.

The dichotomy between my brother and I can be best described as "city mouse, country mouse." I love living in the city and sometimes the 110-mile distance between Chicago and Mom's home in rural Wisconsin can be as wide as an ocean. The reasons my brother chooses to live near Mom are his and his alone, but I suspect they aren't entirely as altruistic. There's also the perceptions each of us has about the other. I'm fairly certain he wonders if I look down on him, and there is some truth to that. I question some of his decisions. Alright, all of them. But it's because I feel he can make better ones.

I blame Mom. As kids, she liked to play up the stereotypes of me as the "smart one" and Chris as the "cute one." As we each near 40, she still does that to some extent, even though - on a superficial level - calling my brother "cute" these days is a stretch. I was describing a lecture I was at before the party that day and Uncle Red was understandably tuning me out. Mom just patted me on the shoulder and said, "This is my intellectual one." Suddenly I was a 10-year-old with horn rimmed glasses for astigmatism again.

Mom seems to have put aside the grieving and really opened up. I can't remember the last time I saw her so vibrant and enjoying life. Maybe it took realizing the end is closer than it seems to do that, but she was a ball of fire at that party. If anyone would have brought up the story about how Uncle Jack was born on the kitchen table at the family's home on the West Side, I would have placed smart money on Uncle Stu or Uncle Red. That it came from her, and that she then started to work blue after in describing her love for buttery nipple shooters, came as a total shock.

Part of my one resolution for this year is to try and re-forge those ties to my family that I let slip away over the years. Last Saturday was a very good start.