The Parade

 

Over the last week I spent many hours with my 1929 Ford Model A. Polishing, lubricating, oiling, and making sure everything on it was in good shape. I was going to drive that car in the 2022 Chicago Pride Parade. Yesterday I did just that and it was an experience.

Forty nine years ago I drove the lead car, actually a small truck, in the 1973 parade. That parade was nothing like yesterday. It was more like a protest, with large groups of people marching in the parade rather than watching it. Anyway, I really wanted to celebrate what I did forty nine years ago by doing it again.

Yesterday was a parade, a real big time parade. All the television stations were there to cover it, and along the street massive numbers of people cheered and waved. It was kind of weird, like we in the parade were some kind of celebrities. All I had to do was lay on my Ahh Ooogah horn and people went crazy cheering. Maybe it was because we were fifth back from the beginning of the parade. I suppose by the time float number one hundred and ten passed by, the people would be more subdued. All I can say is that I had a good time, and as we were making our way down Broadway the Mayor of Chicago came walking past us. Lori Lightfoot. As I reached out the window of my car to shake her hand she clearly had a look on her face that said, 'I don't want to shake that man's hand.' I did not pull back, but left my hand outstretched. Finally a small smile came across her face, and I got a nice firm handshake from the Mayor.

My arthritic knees are hurting very badly right now, especially my 'clutch' leg. I did three miles of driving at about two miles per hour in a non-sychromesh, stick shift, ninety three year old car. Oh, and about an hour in I had to pee.

Me driving the lead car in 1973.

He's a Standup Doctor

 

Doctor H. Youngman

I went to the knee doctor yesterday. My left knee has been bothering me for nearly a year, and summertime in the yard has made me more aware that it hurts. Over along the fence I planted a bunch of marigolds. Noticing that the marigolds were in competition with the weeds, I decided it was time to rip the evil weeds out by the roots. I moved along the row of marigolds, stooping over and pulling out each intruder. As I stooped, I kept hearing a popping, snapping, and cracking noise punctuated by pain in my knee. Had I been attacked by the Rice Krispies mascots? I assume they're just about knee high. No, it was my left knee welcoming me to life after the age of seventy.

I used to wonder why old people spend so much time at the doctor's office. I don't wonder that anymore. It's because it gives us a reason to leave the house... oh, and because our bodies are falling apart. About nine months ago I went to a knee doctor who prescribed physical therapy. I still do the exercises, but that can only do so much. So I wanted to look at another option, but not with the same doctor. I found a doctor that got good reviews and to my good fortune, was only a block away from my house. I actually walked over there for my appointment.

Let me start out by saying that I like the doctor. What surprised me was how fast he talked. I mean, really fast. Before I could answer a question, he was already on to the next one. I assumed he wasn't even paying attention to me. Anyway, at some point I heard the word 'Cortisone'. He was going to stick a needle in my knee and pump Cortisone in there. Before I knew it, it was done.

"Oops, looks like we've got a gusher here. Must have hit a vein."

I looked down and sure enough there was blood. My blood. A large pad was taped to the point of the blood flowing out of my knee, and the doctor told me to have a seat for five minutes. He'd be right back. Five minutes later he was back and put a Band-Aid on my knee. while he was doing that he started telling jokes.

"What does it mean when you find a horseshoe in Ireland? Some poor horse is going barefoot."

"What do you call a fake Irish stone? A shamrock."

He kept telling me jokes, at least five or six in a row. All of them with an ethnic slant. I looked at the nurse and the aide. I could swear I caught them rolling their eyes. Maybe I was just projecting, but I know they weren't laughing. I was only politely laughing. You know, just a little 'ha, ha' after each joke. Finally the doctor got up and left the room. I looked at the nurse's aide who stayed behind, and joked "I hear he'll be performing here all week."

I swear I saw her roll her eyes.

Beer

 

When I was young, beer would get me drunk. I used to get very drunk on beer. I once ruined the paint on a friends Plymouth Valiant by beer puking out the window as he drove down US 30, west of Clinton, Iowa. He didn't wash the vomit off his car right away and the next day the beer vomit had eaten right through the paint. Beer doesn't get me drunk anymore. Now, at my advanced age, the only thing I get from drinking beer is a familiarity with the nearest bathroom.

My friend, Doug and I met up at a local establishment yesterday for a beer. But of course if you go out for "a beer", you never have just "a beer". I can have just one beer at home, but if I go through all the trouble of pulling the car out of the garage and driving to a bar, I am having more than one beer. Usually I try to have only two, but yesterday I was enjoying the company and I had three. One beer, one pee. Second beer, second pee. When just ten minutes after the second pee, as I was slugging down the third beer, I had to go pee again, I decided it was time to go home. Once again, beer does not get me drunk. Doesn't even give me a buzz. So, I have no idea why I drink it other than I am in a bar and that's what you drink in a bar. Okay, so I drive on home and about three blocks away I have to pee, really have to pee. I pull into the garage, run upstairs, through the kitchen, past an angry Scout who also needs to go out and pee, and straight into the bathroom. Ahhh.... relief. I then take Miss Scout for her walk and envy the fact that she can pee whenever the hell she wants to, on any lawn in the neighborhood. We round the corner at Thorndale and Scout is again, peeing. Behind me I hear somebody calling to me. It's my good neighbor Yahn. "Hey, neighbor, come on over here and have a beer." But I don't want another beer. "Come and have some food too." So Scout and I stop and have a beer and some Vietnamese pork.

I peed just about once per hour last night. I did get out of bed to do it.... and did actually do it in the bathroom.... in the toilet. I'm not that senile.

This Was a Thing, Not That Long Ago

I love history. Not the glossy stories with all the bad stuff removed that we were taught in school, but the real history of the world. My mom lived ninety nine years, her father almost one hundred and two years. Grandpa was born in 1886 so there's a lot of history I can relate to there. When I was a kid our family got two newspapers delivered to our house every day. The Sun-Times in the morning, the Daily News in the evening, and on Sundays Dad bought the Chicago American. It had the best comics. One thing that fascinated me was when a story would be published about a former Confederate or Union soldier dying. When we learned about the Civil War in school, it seemed so long ago. Way, way before our time and our parent's time. How could these people still be around? As much as that drew my interest, it was the thing that wasn't mentioned all that much that I found astounding. There were still people alive, real human beings that lived all around us, that had been born into slavery. People who had no say about their lives from birth to death, enslaved by our fellow countrymen. Those people weren't usually mentioned in those newspapers. On September 23, 1972, a man died of his injuries after being hit by a car. It is commonly believed that he was the last living person in the United States who had been born into slavery, in those same United States. I would have been twenty two years old in that year, but I do not remember seeing anything in the newspaper or on the evening news about that. There was a small obituary in the local Pittsburgh newspaper, but it seems not much else.

The Politics of Dogs

 

I walk my dog Scout at least once a day, sometimes twice. One thing I am very careful of is to not piss off any neighbors who don't take as kindly to dogs pissing on their lawns as I might. There are my neighbor's Mildred and Caesar who have the most manicured yard on our street. Perfectly cut, perfectly planted flowers, and not a weed in sight. So I hold Scout in check as we waddle past that house and the one next door. That one belongs to Sam who seems to be in competition with Caesar and Mildred. He's losing, but I don't let Scout piss there anyway. Then there is the three flat on the corner of Thorndale and Fairfield. The guy who owns that place hates dogs. He used to put little signs in his yard that said things like, "Pick up your dog shit!!", and "How about if I shit in your yard?" He isn't wrong. So I make sure Scout doesn't shit in his yard. He's put up a wrought iron fence anyway, so she's not likely to poop there. Over on Washtenaw there is an old coot, and I say that because I'm pretty sure he's older than me, who also hates dogs. Last year the city cut down the giant tree in the parkway in front of his house. Old Coot was out there after they chopped down that tree, and as I walked by with Scout I asked him if he was going to have another tree planted  there. "The city will plant a tree for free. All you have to do is ask." Anyway, Old Coot looked at me and said, "Why the fuck should I? Your goddamned dog will only piss on it and kill it." I was surprised, and all I could mutter as Scout and I waddled away was, "I'm not sure that's how it works." So to this day, I do not let Scout even think about pissing on his fucking tree that the city planted for free.

Out in front of my house there was no tree when I moved in. So I called the city and they planted a nice maple. This year I put one of my old Model A tires around that tree and planted flowers within the tire. Kind of cute, but the flowers are looking very sickly. They don't seem to be very robust and I think I know why. Yesterday evening I watched in horror as a big male Rottweiler lifted his leg and pissed all over my flowers. Worst of all, Scout simply sat there in the window and didn't bark at him. I think she was impressed. My poor little marigolds. No wonder they aren't growing very well out there. However, I did not throw open the window and yell at the guy for letting his dog piss on my flowers. The hell if I'm going to be known as one of the old coots of the neighborhood.

Scout and I Visit One Of My Seven Sisters

 

For four days I have been trying to figure out how to tell this story without giving instructions to burglars on how to break into my sister's house. So here it is. While it is a true story, none of the facts are necessarily in order or even factual. Without explicit instructions from my sister, you will probably end up dead at the bottom of the stairs.

On Saturday Scout and I went out to my sister's house for a visit. I stopped at the bakery and picked up some goodies on the way, which is always the right thing to do. Better than bringing a bottle of wine. Unless you're visiting me, then bring the wine...  and the bakery goods. My sister told me she would be home by two in the afternoon, but I got there about thirty minutes early because I always drive much faster than I think I will drive. So I call my sister from her driveway and she tells me, in a long and convoluted explanation, how to get into her house without a key. Her first instruction was, "Find a twig, a thin twig. Now go down the stairs and around the corner of the house and look for a tiny hole. Stick the twig in the hole and the garage door will open." Much to my surprise, the garage door opened. However, I had forgot the rest of the instructions. Most homes have a door in the garage that leads right into the kitchen. I thought I found that door, but I ended up in the back yard, not the kitchen. I called my sister back.

"Okay, I'm in the garage. The only door I see goes to the back yard."

"Good. As you face that door, to your right, are some stairs. Go down those stairs."

I had hit the button that closed the garage door and now it was pitch black in garage.

"I don't see anything."

"Find the stairs and when you do, a light will come on."

Meanwhile, Scout is tugging and pulling on her leash, which is a good thing because she now pulled me over to the stairs, which I almost fell down, which triggered the motion detector light. The LED on the radio next to my bed is brighter than the light at the bottom of the stairs in my sister's garage. Scout and I gingerly made our way down. Well, I did. Scout just kept tugging on the leash, trying to pull me to my death.

"Okay, I'm down. There is a door that seems to be locked."

"It's not locked. You have to slam into it with your shoulder."

Which I did, which scared Scout who then tried to drag me back up the stairs. The door opened and ahead of me stretched a long... I'll say corridor, but really, it looked more like the tunnel entrance to Dracula's lair. Between me and the end of the corridor was a sump pump hole and about a hundred spider webs. I didn't fall into the sump pump hole, but I did get my share of spider web in my face. Four days later and I still think I feel spiders down the back of my shirt. 

"Go down the corridor until you come out into the laundry room."

Sure enough. At the end of the corridor there was a room with a washer and dryer.

"Good, you see the laundry. That means you're in. We'll be home in a short while."

I was in, but I still had to find my way up stairs while Scout clamored to escape. Not sure where she was going to escape to, but she wanted out.

So, for any burglar who thinks they can read this and figure out how to get into my sister's house without a key. It isn't worth it. Just break the damn window and walk in.