First I wanted to post this and worry about the future of our world.
As the clouds roll in right now I hark back to Saturday. A friend had extra tickets to ther Cubs game and needed a fourth, so I eagerly accepted his invitation. Now the forecast said that it would be partly cloudy and 75 that day, and as I boarded ther Orange line at Halsted it looked like that would be a fair assessment.
I transfer to the Red line at Roosevelt and settle in for the twenty minute trek to Wrigley Field. Since three-quarters of the trip is underground, I was wholly unexpected for the downturn in weather when I disembarked at Addison.
51 degrees.
And dropping.
I only wore two shirts and shorts. I made it to Murphy's Bleachers jsut as the wind picked up and set nipples rising all around. It got so cold outside that it hurt to hold my beer; I was very concerned about risking frostbite.
The game itself was uneventful, except for the prevailing sense that the fans attending the games are now holding up this team to the level expected of a $93 million payroll. This team is underachieving, but it wasn't built to win a division to start. It's capable of 85 wins, which, given the strength of the NL east, will not earn a wild card.
I was struck by the collective lack of heart the Cubbies were playing with- as though they expected something to happen for them to lose the game. It brought to mind the "lollygagging" rant from "Bull Durham." It is a simple game- you hit the ball. You throw the ball. You catch the ball.
$93 million should buy you at least that.
---------------------------------
I had an impromptu evening of drinks at Puffers' with my neighbor and good friend Anne last night. She and two other friends went to the Skylark Friday night and passed this quote to me:
"It was like being in Wicker Park ten years ago."
And it got me to thinking about hipster culture. It always seems to be in stasis. It never changes; never gets too mainstream; never falls too far out of favor. Hipsters ten years ago dressed and acted the same as today's hipsters. It's like they're trapped in a vacuum.
Or, more appropriately, a mass Dorian Gray portrait.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Thursday, May 05, 2005
The Smell of Victory: Pungent and Loaded With Carcinogens
There's a firebug loose in my neighborhood. In the past month this wiseass has torched garbage cans on four different occasions, all within two blocks of my apartment.
Before leaving for work yesterday I ran into an familiar face from Puffer's who works as an arson investigator for the Fire Department. He was searching the alleys with a dog for evidence of incediary devices. He didn't need to look for kindling as every garbage can in the alley could qualify.
It's the first time in my nearly six years living here that I felt any semblance of concern about living in Bridgeport. I'm not jumping to conclusions- after six years in the same neighborhood one tends to have vested emotional and economic interests.
Still, even if it's some "idiot teenager" like Vic suggested it isn't fun to know that you can go to sleep one night and wake up before dawn hustling out of your home in not much more than your skivvies because some stoned dumbass likes the cool sounds galvanized rubber makes when it burns and melts.
Overall I guess I'm lucky. I visit Wicker Park and there's always a bulletin posted in shop windows the with an artist sketch of the latest sexual predator du jour. And Bridgeport doesn't have the endless screaming debates about gentrification that never seem to end in Bucktown and Liquor Park and are just now starting to rise in Pilsen.
The obvious symbol of near South Side gentrification is University Village, erected over the still fresh ruins of the old Maxwell Street Blues and Market District under the joint spearheading of the University of Illinois at Chicago and our democratically elected Janitor With A Vision, Richard M. Daley. It's townhomes and condominiums stand as a physical symbol of the conformist hive collective mentality with which yuppies are generally- and accurately- branded.
Travel down to 22nd Street and Halsted and you'll find a less obvious example of the genrification problem: the Skylark Tavern. Gentrification, like many aspects of life, is a lather-rinse-repeat vicious circle:
A qualifier: I personally love the Skylark. It affords me an option besides Puffer's to get a decent beer in the neighborhood without having to take three trains and a bus to the far North Side. But sometimes I walk in there and a feeling comes over me, like the people in the bar are waiting for the flood to come. I heard constant updates in my initial months living here about the Skylark opening. It took four years before they could open their doors. Once the rumor mill stopped I knew I could trust the information I was hearing.
Now the owners of the Skylark aren't naive businessmen. They also own the Rainbo and used to own the late lamented Blue Bird on Clybourn, if memory serves. It just seems that the atmosphere in the place is forced, like they're waiting for the Rainbo crowd to come down.
And it's usually places like the Skylark that fall in the second wave of investment in the gentrification cycle. I'm hoping they realize their innate cooness and stop catering to the Wicker park crowd. This is a great neighborhood on its own.
Before leaving for work yesterday I ran into an familiar face from Puffer's who works as an arson investigator for the Fire Department. He was searching the alleys with a dog for evidence of incediary devices. He didn't need to look for kindling as every garbage can in the alley could qualify.
It's the first time in my nearly six years living here that I felt any semblance of concern about living in Bridgeport. I'm not jumping to conclusions- after six years in the same neighborhood one tends to have vested emotional and economic interests.
Still, even if it's some "idiot teenager" like Vic suggested it isn't fun to know that you can go to sleep one night and wake up before dawn hustling out of your home in not much more than your skivvies because some stoned dumbass likes the cool sounds galvanized rubber makes when it burns and melts.
Overall I guess I'm lucky. I visit Wicker Park and there's always a bulletin posted in shop windows the with an artist sketch of the latest sexual predator du jour. And Bridgeport doesn't have the endless screaming debates about gentrification that never seem to end in Bucktown and Liquor Park and are just now starting to rise in Pilsen.
The obvious symbol of near South Side gentrification is University Village, erected over the still fresh ruins of the old Maxwell Street Blues and Market District under the joint spearheading of the University of Illinois at Chicago and our democratically elected Janitor With A Vision, Richard M. Daley. It's townhomes and condominiums stand as a physical symbol of the conformist hive collective mentality with which yuppies are generally- and accurately- branded.
Travel down to 22nd Street and Halsted and you'll find a less obvious example of the genrification problem: the Skylark Tavern. Gentrification, like many aspects of life, is a lather-rinse-repeat vicious circle:
- Ambitious-but-poor artistic class move to depressed neighborhood for affordable rents and freedom to follow their artistic muse.
- Ambitious-and-well-heeled businessmen buy property and businesses, essentially hedging their bets that coolness factor of ambitious-but-poor artistic class attracts well-heeled-but-not-artistic-worker drones to depressed neighborhood.
- Well-heeled-but-not-artistic worker drones purchase starter homes or hastily constructed lofts in depressed neighborhoods, displacing both Ambitious-but-poor artistic class and working-class ethnic types who were also living in neighborhood.
A qualifier: I personally love the Skylark. It affords me an option besides Puffer's to get a decent beer in the neighborhood without having to take three trains and a bus to the far North Side. But sometimes I walk in there and a feeling comes over me, like the people in the bar are waiting for the flood to come. I heard constant updates in my initial months living here about the Skylark opening. It took four years before they could open their doors. Once the rumor mill stopped I knew I could trust the information I was hearing.
Now the owners of the Skylark aren't naive businessmen. They also own the Rainbo and used to own the late lamented Blue Bird on Clybourn, if memory serves. It just seems that the atmosphere in the place is forced, like they're waiting for the Rainbo crowd to come down.
And it's usually places like the Skylark that fall in the second wave of investment in the gentrification cycle. I'm hoping they realize their innate cooness and stop catering to the Wicker park crowd. This is a great neighborhood on its own.
I Have Readers, Apparently
Or, at least, someone who doesn't like Jay Mariotti, either. Thanks to Chicago Media Monitor for the tip of the hat regarding last week's Mariotti post. If you're a fan of reading on the workings of local media, CMM and Phil Rosenthal's new Tribune column are must-reads.
I can guess that CMM was hipped to this place either through a reader or a search. I've long stated my aversion to hit counters and comments. The former is a sign of vanity and the latter allows chickenshits to snark with anonymity. Anyway, whoever alerted CMM to the site, thank you.
Tuesday night I had a dull throb in my lower back, around my kidneys. I didn't think much about it; figuring I hadn't taken in enough water I hade sure I got my suggested amount and went to bed. When I woke up yesterday I literally could not get out of bed, to the dog's chagrin.
I've got a high tolerance for pain, but this was unbearable. It felt like the pain shifted every time I shifted position in bed. If I was on my side, the pain was there. If I was flat on my backm the pain was there. I went through the options in my head- everything from back pain to kidney infection to appendicitis. The pain's better today, but I'm still walking around very carefully.
I can guess that CMM was hipped to this place either through a reader or a search. I've long stated my aversion to hit counters and comments. The former is a sign of vanity and the latter allows chickenshits to snark with anonymity. Anyway, whoever alerted CMM to the site, thank you.
Tuesday night I had a dull throb in my lower back, around my kidneys. I didn't think much about it; figuring I hadn't taken in enough water I hade sure I got my suggested amount and went to bed. When I woke up yesterday I literally could not get out of bed, to the dog's chagrin.
I've got a high tolerance for pain, but this was unbearable. It felt like the pain shifted every time I shifted position in bed. If I was on my side, the pain was there. If I was flat on my backm the pain was there. I went through the options in my head- everything from back pain to kidney infection to appendicitis. The pain's better today, but I'm still walking around very carefully.
Monday, May 02, 2005
No One Asked For This
And yet I always thought that there was nothing wrong with Ann Coulter that couldn't be remedied by some hard assplay:
I Fucked Ann Coulter In The Ass, Hard.
Really, no one asked for Ann Coulter fan fiction.
No one asked for this, either:
Strap-on Veterans For Truth
When it rains...
I Fucked Ann Coulter In The Ass, Hard.
Really, no one asked for Ann Coulter fan fiction.
No one asked for this, either:
Strap-on Veterans For Truth
When it rains...
Let's Go Get Stoned
Saturday night I went out with friends to catch "The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy." The movie was great, but you're reading the opinion of a Douglas Adams fan and frood who knows where his towel is, so it's also a biased opinion.
Anyhoo, we were leaving the theater when we came upon this guy who fell asleep halfway through the movie and, upon seeing us, proceeded to ask an endless series of questions about what he missed.
And this guy had "comic book geek" written all over him. He was short, round, grease stains on his shirt, and a perpetually confused smile on his face. I almost mistook him as retarded, but as a reformed comic book geek myself, I eventually figured it out.
My favorite question was , "So what happened at the end of the movie?" So I told him that Arthur Dent gets Trillian and they all decide to eat at the restaurant at the end of the universe.
This is where the fun starts. Comic Book Geek asked me, "What was the name of the restaurant?"
"There is no name," I said. "It's the restaurant at the end of the universe."
"It doesn't have a name?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's just the restaurant at the end of the universe. It's book three of the series??" I had incorrectly assumed that since he looked like a comic book geek that he'd read the Hitchhiker's trilogy (in four books, but Adams admitted before his death that he was never very good at math.) I began to wonder if he might have been retarded after all.
This still didn't register to Comic Book Geek. "The restaurant has to have a name."
"No it doesn't. It's just the restaurant at the end of the universe."
"But what's the name?
"There is no name. It's the restaurant at the end of the universe."
Comic Book geek eyed me warily. I turned to catch up with my party, hoping the questioning was over when he asked, "Okay. Do you think there will be a sequel?"
The interrogation was devolving into an Abbot and Costello routine. "Yes", I said.
"Did the words 'to be continued' appear on screen?"
"No, but it's implied by the way they left everything sort of open."
"And the restaurant has no name."
"No."
"Why doesn't the restaurant have a name?
"It just doesn't."
"But if it's at the end of the universe, shouldn't it have a name so that people can recognize it?"
I scratched my head and headed with my friends to the car, bidding my farewells to Comic Book Geek, who had an even more confused smile on his face, and left him to the care of the theater ushers to answer his questions.
Anyhoo, we were leaving the theater when we came upon this guy who fell asleep halfway through the movie and, upon seeing us, proceeded to ask an endless series of questions about what he missed.
And this guy had "comic book geek" written all over him. He was short, round, grease stains on his shirt, and a perpetually confused smile on his face. I almost mistook him as retarded, but as a reformed comic book geek myself, I eventually figured it out.
My favorite question was , "So what happened at the end of the movie?" So I told him that Arthur Dent gets Trillian and they all decide to eat at the restaurant at the end of the universe.
This is where the fun starts. Comic Book Geek asked me, "What was the name of the restaurant?"
"There is no name," I said. "It's the restaurant at the end of the universe."
"It doesn't have a name?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It's just the restaurant at the end of the universe. It's book three of the series??" I had incorrectly assumed that since he looked like a comic book geek that he'd read the Hitchhiker's trilogy (in four books, but Adams admitted before his death that he was never very good at math.) I began to wonder if he might have been retarded after all.
This still didn't register to Comic Book Geek. "The restaurant has to have a name."
"No it doesn't. It's just the restaurant at the end of the universe."
"But what's the name?
"There is no name. It's the restaurant at the end of the universe."
Comic Book geek eyed me warily. I turned to catch up with my party, hoping the questioning was over when he asked, "Okay. Do you think there will be a sequel?"
The interrogation was devolving into an Abbot and Costello routine. "Yes", I said.
"Did the words 'to be continued' appear on screen?"
"No, but it's implied by the way they left everything sort of open."
"And the restaurant has no name."
"No."
"Why doesn't the restaurant have a name?
"It just doesn't."
"But if it's at the end of the universe, shouldn't it have a name so that people can recognize it?"
I scratched my head and headed with my friends to the car, bidding my farewells to Comic Book Geek, who had an even more confused smile on his face, and left him to the care of the theater ushers to answer his questions.
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