Purple Rain

Out in Tinley Park, on Ravinia Drive, is where I spent the first part of my life. Mom and Dad bought the house on Ravinia Drive in 1949. On about a quarter of an acre or less, they planted five apple trees, four elm trees, a poplar tree, two Lombardy poplar trees, a dogwood tree, a long row of lilac bushes, and a weeping willow in the yard. It was almost like living in a forest and it's where I became a tree hugger. I seriously love trees. So far, on my tiny city lot, I've planted a maple tree, a Japanese maple tree, a ginko tree, and an ornamental pear tree. Not really much room left for any more trees, but that was okay because the neighboring house had a nice growth of trees. In that backyard was a row of mulberry trees, lilac bushes, and some other wild trees that blocked the view of the alley behind Peterson Avenue. Despite the fact that birds ate the mulberries and then pooped purple poop all over everything in my backyard, I liked those trees. That house was foreclosed on and flippers have now bought the house from the bank. They have been working feverishly on the place, and a couple of days ago they cut down every single tree and bush on that property. I am sincerely hoping that they put up a tall fence on the alley side along with some nice landscaping. In the meantime I get to look at the rear of the commercial buildings on Peterson Avenue. Not nearly as pretty as the green trees, but at least there's no purple bird poop on my lawn chairs.

Stalking The Good Humor Man

When we were kids on Ravinia Drive, no matter how loud things were or what we where doing, we could hear the faint ding, ding, ding of the Good Humor ice cream man long before he even got to our street. That's when we would run to Mom and pester her until she gave us a few cents. If she gave us at least a nickel we would run out and sit on the curb in anticipation, all the while clenching that cash in our sweaty little hands. Five cents bought you a lot in the 1950s. Of course, if somehow you came up with more than a nickel, you wouldn't have to settle for the plain ice cream bar. You could buy yourself a chocolate eclair, or strawberry shortcake on a stick. Most of the time the Good Humor truck was driven by a good looking college boy, as a summer job. This of course caused all the girls in the neighborhood to flock to the ice cream truck like pigeons to bread crumbs, and made it difficult for the rest of us to get close enough to put in our order. It would be neat if the Good Humor Man still came around, especially if the truck were driven by a good looking college boy. I would be out there every afternoon waiting for him. The only problem is that I'd have to explain to Mark why I was eating so much ice cream.

Hello Summer

So summer, you are finally here. Took you long enough. We had such a long winter and such a crappy spring. My rose bush nearly died and my garden, which at this time last year was producing tomatoes, hasn't given me squat. But all is forgiven, Ms. Mother Nature. The temperatures are rising and we have humidity.

I've always loved summer. I loved summer so much that I moved to the place where it's summer all damn year long. I remember when I was a kid, I dreamed of living in the Dairy Palace. That's a frozen custard stand in Tinley Park. I dreamed of being able to eat frozen custard all day long. I wanted to hold my mouth under the spigot where the frozen custard came out and eat it until I burst. That's kind of what Florida was like. I liked Florida until I didn't like it anymore. After fifteen years of heat and humidity, I learned to hate it. Now, after going through all the seasons in Chicago, I can appreciate summer again. Warm days and nights bring back memories. Cicadas rattling in the evening dusk, lightning bugs flashing as they float through the bushes. Even the faint smell of a distant skunk brings back memories of summers past. When you were a kid, summer meant going to the beach and cleaning sand out of your shoes and ass crack for a few days afterwards. Summer was a hiatus from the rigors of school. In the 1950s, the Good Humor Man would come down our street every day. Although 'Man' wasn't quite what he was. Usually the ice cream man was a cute college boy. I know that because all the girls on the street swooned when he came by. I wasn't into older men. As I did grow older I added to my summer memories. Cross country road trips. Picking marijuana from fields in Indiana. Outdoor rock concerts.

Yes, I still love summer despite Florida's attempt to kill it for me. And I still love frozen custard. That Dairy Palace is only open in summer, and hey, it's summer. Maybe I'll take Mom up there for a cone when I visit on Wednesday.

Spaghetti and Meatballs

I am not a chef, I am not a cook. There's a reason I was skinny before I met Mark. I didn't eat a lot. Supper usually consisted of a piece of meat quickly warmed up, along with frozen vegetables microwaved. My cooking philosophy is, if it takes longer for me to cook it than it takes me to eat it, it isn't worth it. Don't get me wrong, I love good food if other people make it. Restaurant food, okay. Dinner at somebody's house, okay and I'll bring a bottle of wine.

Lately Mark has decided that cooking is a family thing and he has been including me in the process of making dinner. The other day I was enlisted as his assistant to prepare a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs. Dinner preparations started at three in the afternoon. First off, the sauce. I had to open cans of tomatoes, fetch the onions, get all the cookware ready, and much more. Mark sat at the table with a cutting board bringing all the ingredients together. While the sauce bubbled on the stove, we now had to make the meatballs. Quite the greasy and sloppy job. I always thought they came from the freezer at the grocery store. Anyway, the meatballs went into the oven and it was time for the spaghetti. I had to put a pot of water on the stove. When that came to a rolling boil, I added the spaghetti. Cook the spaghetti. Drain the spaghetti. Work, work, work. Finally, dinner is served at five thirty in the evening. Five minutes later, I'm full and I'm done.

Two and a half hours of preparing dinner for five minutes of gluttony. Ah, but it's not over. I have to clean up the mess made by all this and wash the dishes. For some reason Mark does not consider this part to be a 'family' thing. So I spend almost an entire hour cleaning the kitchen and washing the dishes. And yes, I have a dishwasher. It's still work. So the total amount of time put into that five minute meal, Three and a half hours. I really do hate cooking.

Cursed to Repeat

And this is one I'm repeating from nine years ago.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

You Learned Well Grasshopper

One of my favorite television shows is something called Mythbusters. It's a show that takes so called urban legends, or myths, and either proves them to be true or proves that they are unsupported bunk. Their method of doing that is sort of pseudo science, but I like to take it as fact. That's why I was so happy when they proved the myth that cursing actually helps lessen pain. I come from a family of cursers. My dad could let out a string of profanity that would make the paint peel off the walls of our church. Old ladies would blush a mile away if my dad slammed his thumb with a hammer, or peeled open his scalp walking into low hanging hardware. You could be going about your business, and off in the distance you might hear my dads voice bellowing out in pain, followed by a litany of shit, crap, sonofabitch, and other combination of words that might not have true meaning but still sounded nasty.

When it comes to my swearing, I am a student of my father. I learned at the feet of the master, and when we were kids my mom never asked the question required of mothers, "Where did you learn such vulgar language?". My mom knew exactly where we learned it. My vulgarity is actually a bit advanced when compared to my dad's. You see I have never had to worry about children being within earshot when I let loose, so I have expanded and enhanced upon the knowledge I gleaned from dad. I have come up with some new combination's that he never would have thrown out there, including new things to do with fecal matter, and sexual profanity that involves just about every living thing.

How good am I at cursing? Well seventeen years ago, I moved into this house, and the neighbor lady came over to welcome me. "Oh, those people who used to live here were horrible. They cursed all the time, I could hear them clear as day across the fence.", she whined. Yes, I assured her, that was awful. It was just a few months later that she sold the place and moved out.

On LSD

Chandler in Lincoln Park

Friday, Mark and I decided it would be nice to visit the other side of Chicago. So we got in the car and took off for Canaryville, a neighborhood on the Southside. We went down there to visit with Chuck and Doug and go out for some lunch at a nice little Mexican restaurant. After lunch and a visit with Sam the dog, and Kaye, Doug's mom, it was time to travel the seventeen miles back to the northern end of the city. Just seventeen miles. I usually can do it in about thirty minutes, door to door. Being a conscientious traveler, I take the time to go to the bathroom before leaving.

2:26PM, We wave goodbye and drive on out to 47th Street. Traveling east to the Dan Ryan Expressway was relatively easy except for the giant semi trucks that clogged the entry to the highway.

2:33PM, Finally on the expressway, moving along nicely at seventy miles per hour.

2:34PM, Brake lights ahead. Lots of brake lights as we come to a complete stop in a long line of cars trying to exit for Lake Shore Drive.

2:40PM, We enter Lake Shore Drive as we creep past the giant McCormick Place Convention Center. More brake lights ahead, and I inform Mark that "I have to pee." We then come to a full stop half a mile from the first downtown traffic light. Most of LSD (Lake Shore Drive) is limited access, but downtown there are a series of traffic lights.

2:45PM, We have moved about twenty feet. I still have to pee. Yes, I know I just peed at Chuck and Doug's house twenty minutes ago. Welcome to old age and old man bladder syndrome.

2:46PM, The car ahead of me starts to move and before I can react, some asshole cuts across in front of me and into the left turn lane. Mark screams and suddenly finds religion. I simply close the gap so nobody else can try that.

2:47PM, The asshole who cut across in front of me to make a left turn decides that he is not going to make a left turn and cuts me off again. Mark screams, I remind Mark that I have to pee, and traffic crawls forward.

2:55PM, We're sitting about two blocks south of Randolph Street watching the light change from red to green, to red, to green, to red, to green without anybody moving. Now I scream, "I HAVE TO PEE GODDAMNIT!! LET'S MOVE ALREADY YOU ASSHOLES!!." Mark has a solution to my problem, "Pull over and pee in the park."  I ask, "Where is this magical place you want me to pull over to? You want me to jump the curb and drive up on the grass? I should just pee in front of all the tourists on those stupid Segway things?" I now start wiggling my legs like a child standing outside an occupied bathroom door.

3:03PM, We have moved thirty feet and the asshole who cut me off is still in front of me.

3:05PM, Mr. Cutoff Asshole has decided to get in the left lane again.

3:06PM, Mr. Cutoff Asshole tries to cut me off again. Not this time Mister. I close the gap, but he keeps on coming. I don't give in.

3:08PM, Mr. Cutoff Asshole has somehow managed to cross over behind me and whipped around to the right of me. He has his window rolled down and starts to yell something. Mark gives him the evil eye. Asshole is a white guy. White guys are afraid of Black guys and Asshole rolls his window back up and lurches away. We're going about four miles per hour. I really, really have to pee now. There is no place to get off the highway so I plod forward.

3:11PM, We've made it past two broken down cars and I see nothing in front of me but the last of the LSD traffic lights. It has turned yellow and I punch down on the accelerator. Mark screams in terror, "Slow down, oh Jesus, slow down." But I can't. I have to pee so bad that I'm sure I will piss my pants. The exits fly by but I don't get off because I know there are no restrooms at those exits. North Avenue, Fullerton Avenue, Belmont Avenue, Irving Park Road. And then I see Montrose Avenue. I know Montrose Avenue and I know there is a bathroom somewhere by Montrose Harbor in Lincoln Park, so I pull off the highway, wiggling my legs, gritting my teeth, and clutching the steering wheel while praying I don't pee in my pants. It feels like the monster from Alien is trying to burst out of my stomache. The plumbing in my lower gut can't hold on anymore and I stop the car at the first clump of bushes I see.

3:20PM, I pee. Or at least I try to. Funny thing about holding it. When you finally try to release, nothing happens other than intense pain. After a few moments of trying, a trickle finally starts to come. I'm peeing, and I'm peeing and peeing and peeing. I look up and two park employees are staring at me from their little golf cart. So I put the pee on hold and go back to the car.

"What were those guys saying?" I ask Mark.

"They were trying to tell you that there's a bathroom a hundred feet away."

Good to know. I got in the car and drove around the corner. There it was, not even one hundred feet away, with a parking spot right in front. I went in and finished peeing.

3:39PM, We're home. I open the back door of our house to two very anxious dogs. They had to go out and pee.

Big Al

A few memories of my dad cobbled together from a couple of my old posts. 

"Come here. What the hell is that on your face?" my dad boomed. "Aaaaach, spoot!!" was the sound of my dad pulling together his spit, and then ejecting it into his handkerchief. Little Alan was about to get one of my dad's pre-church face cleanings. There was nothing more disgusting that my dad did, than the spit in the hanky, face cleanings before walking into church. Growing up in the nineteen fifties meant that we did not have pre-moistened face wipes, and even if they were available, my dad wouldn't have had any. So if one of us had missed a spot washing up that morning, we were subjected to a scrubbing with my dad's nasty, smelly, saliva soaked hanky.

I am not a father and I never wanted to be a father. Oh, on occasion Mark has suggested we adopt a child, but I think one big baby around here is more than enough. My dad was the opposite. I'll never understand why, but Dad and Mom had eleven children. I realize that Mom had the biggest share of raising us and she spent the most time with us (How she stayed sane all those years I'll never understand), but Dad did his fatherly duties. When he was home, he was really there. You knew that there was a force in the house greater than all the child temper tantrums in the world.

I have a lot of memories of my dad. Baseball games on the little black and white television, with a bottle of Blatz Beer sitting on the table next to his favorite chair. The Saturday grocery shopping when he would return home with an entire station wagon full of food. All of it purchased with coupons or on sale. My dad did his job as prescribed by the culture of the time. He worked, he housed us, he fed us, he sent us to school, and he disciplined us. Oh, that damn belt hurt. One dad job that I don't envy were the phone calls. At work he would get the call from my mom on a stormy, rainy day, "Al, the basement is flooding. There are actual turds backing up into our basement."

Or the call from my school, "This is Sister Mary Vindicativam. We have a problem, it's Alan."

And then there was the one he got from the police late one night, "Sir, I'm afraid there's been an accident." I'm sure it wasn't easy for him at times, but he never gave up on any of us. I miss that guy. I sure wish I could call him right now.