You Can't Go Home Again. No, Seriously. Somebody Else Lives There.

Yesterday was drive fifty miles out to Mom's house and fifty miles back into the city day, or Wednesday as most people call it. As usual, I stopped at Micky's Ribs to get Mom some of that boiled and barbecued, fall off the bone meat candy that she loves. As usual, I filled up the car with a tank of that cheap Will County gasoline. As usual, I sat with Mom and ate lunch while she told me the same stories that I've heard many times. So it was getting just a little too much like Groundhog Day, the movie, for me. Just to change things up I decided to take the scenic ride through Tinley Park on my way home. That means I drive past all my old haunts, our old homes, and past the homes of my old friends. It's kind of depressing because everything has changed so much. Seriously, I'll turn a corner and what was in my mind's eye doesn't exist anymore. I won't recognize a thing. Finally, I drove past our house, the last one that I lived in as a kid. I stopped out front and looked it over. It looks just like I remember it. Or at least I thought so. I took a photo and compared it later to one from 1967. It's not the same. Same basic shape, but not the same. For one thing, where's the snow?

How The Gays and Harry Caray Saved Wrigley Field and the Cubs

Re-post from nine years ago. Since I wrote this the Cubs have done much better and the neighborhood has changed even more. In some ways for the worse. The new owners of the Cubs are now Disney-fying the area immediately around Wrigley Field. I'm not sure I like it. I kind of miss the old rough edges.

Notice the rail road crossing. Dad and I walked along those tracks from my apartment on Lakewood to Wrigley Field in June, 1984 to see a game. It was so hot and the Cubs were losing, so we walked back along the tracks to my apartment and watched the rest of the game in air conditioned comfort. Also, the beers were much cheaper at my place.

  

Thursday, October 2, 2008

How The Gays and Harry Caray Saved Wrigley Field and the Cubs 

If you were born after 1984, you would probably think that Wrigley Field has always been filled with deliriously happy fans, slugging down beer and having a great time. It was not always so. There was a time when people didn't sit on roof tops across the street, and there weren't virtual street parties spilling out of taverns all around Wrigley Field. Back then you could park within a stones throw of the stadium, walk up to the box office, and buy a ticket for that days game. Back then the Cubs were lucky to draw five thousand people on a week day, and not many more on a weekend. In the 1970's The neighborhood around Wrigley Field was in decline, and there was much talk of moving the Cubs to a new stadium.

One great thing about being gay and childless, is you can be an urban pioneer. We don't give a shit about good schools and playgrounds. A little crime doesn't bother us, as long as we can move into a neglected architectural gem that we bought for a song. So it was with the north Lakeview neighborhood, (the real name of Wrigleyville). Amid Puerto Rican gang wars, and drug pushers, the gays started moving in. Clubs and boutiques sprang up, and soon the poor people and gang bangers were squeezed out. Lakeview became safe enough for straight folk and their families to stroll down Clark Street without fear of being mugged.

In 1981 the Cubs hired Harry Caray as their game announcer. Up until that point, Jack Brickhouse was the play by play guy. Brickhouse was, to be kind, just a little less dry than a slice of melba toast. Harry Caray on the other hand, was an entertainer. All juiced up on Budweiser, he would extol the beauty of Wrigley Field and go on and on about the fun of a game at the old ball park. With each inning, Harry would get just a little more buzzed on beer, and with each error or strike out, he would berate the Cubs players for being so crappy. That's why the fans loved him, he didn't try to paint lipstick on a pig.

So the Cubs lost last night. The fans still had a good time, drinking and partying in the safe neighborhood of Wrigleyville. For that you can thank the gays, they made it safe. The fans saw the game in a great old ball park that many had written off as an anachronism. Harry Caray saw it as a party place and was its booster, even if he was usually too drunk to realize it. So enjoy the playoffs Chicago, and remember, all those bars on Halsted are gay.

Oatmeal Cookies

When I was a kid and autumn would arrive, it meant that Mom would start baking. Lots of apple pies, apple sauce, apple everything. We had seven apple trees in the back yard. She also made cookies. My favorite being oatmeal cookies. Big, chewy oatmeal cookies with raisins. So on Friday afternoon, when Mark informed me that he was going to make a batch of oatmeal cookies, I was pretty happy. Although.....

"Really, you're going to bake today?"

"Sure, why not?"

"It's ninety five degrees out. The air conditioners are barely keeping up."

We were experiencing record setting high temperatures in Chicago, possibly because of that climate change hoax Trump keeps talking about. Never the less, Mark got out all the necessary things needed to bake cookies. It's amazing, who knew you needed that much crap to bake oatmeal cookies? A few hours later Mark called me in to clean up the mess. It was a major undertaking, but the reward was worth it. There, sitting on the cooling racks, were about three dozen oatmeal cookies.

"I added dried cherries to the recipe in addition to the raisins."

"Daffs goob" I replied as I jammed one in my mouth, "I neesum milk."

After washing the first one down with half a glass of milk, I continued on eating at least four more. I really do like oatmeal cookies. Unfortunately I had forgotten something. Gas. Oatmeal cookies chock full of raisins and the additional dried cherries, give me gas. Not the occasional burp or little poot out the rear, but non-stop, uncontrollable farting. The dogs cowered under the dining room table in fear of being blamed for the noxious fumes. Mark cried out in disgust, but there was nothing I could do. Finally, by Sunday morning, the fruit fueled gas attack subsided. But, by Sunday afternoon I was once again stuffing my face with cookies. I think I now understand what people mean by addiction.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Mark thinks that I'm too nosy. Just because I know a lot of things that go on up and down our block, he calls me Mrs. Kravitz. It is true that I know that the Vietnamese family that bought the house from the fireman at the end of the block, is buying the house next door from Pedro, who is from Peru and wants to move to Florida, but can't because his family is now scared since all the hurricanes hit, so he'll probably end up moving to Skokie instead. But I'm not nosy. All that was freely told to me by all involved. I only prodded a little bit. Okay, so I just might be a bit of a busy body. I like my neighborhood and I like my neighbors. I don't know if they like me. They might think I'm a bit odd. For instance, I planted flowers on my neighbor's front porch so that it wouldn't look so forlorn next to mine. It turned out that they liked the flowers. I sure do, it keeps the place from looking like a slumlord owns it. I also have been known to walk up and down the block with a big, orange Home Depot bucket, picking up trash. I cannot stand trash on the street. Then there's the neighbor on the other side of me. For the first month of summer last year, I watched as his grass grew longer and longer. I would mow my lawn and from the street it looked stupid, so I mowed his lawn. I've been mowing it ever since. Most people think I mow it because the guy is old and works like twelve hours a day, but that's not it. I'm older than him and I don't give a shit how many hours he works. I just could not stand seeing all the weeds and long grass anymore. Maybe next year I'll stick some flowers in front of his house too.