Green Goo

Joey and Kellen III

My niece posted this photo of her boys all gussied up for the first day of school. Look at that hair. That is a super nice mom job. Only a mom could turn two boys out for school looking like that. It brings back memories of my mom and my hair.

Besides brushing, braiding, and curling of my sister's hair, Mom would comb my hair just before sending me off to school. She had this big jar of green goo with a large opening. Mom would take the rat tail comb and dip it into that jar. She would load the comb up and then pull it back out dripping with that glop. Dip and comb, dip and comb, until my hair looked just right. The part would be arrow straight, the hair on top combed neatly across, and the hair up front was looped back into a pompadour that looked like a giant wave about to break on shore. On the long walk to school my hair would slowly dry into a hard crust, and by the time I arrived at school it was like a helmet. I looked spiffy. Seriously, that green goo would dry so hard that I would spend the first few hours of school obsessively tapping at it, trying to break my hair loose. I believe that the NFL actually discovered this green goo and built the first hard helmets from it. Anyway, it's good to see my grand nephews looking so good. Maybe I'll send my niece a jar of that green goo. I'm sure the boys would be very thankful of Uncle Alan for that.

Uncle Alan

Réédition de Nuit Nue

Here is a reprint of a story I wrote six years ago about our trip to Paris. It isn't a romantic view of the city, just a factual one. In fact, it is because we were treated like I would expect to be treated in any big city that I fell in love with the place. I like city life.

While paging through the photo album of our trip to Paris a few years ago, I wondered what the hell is wrong with some Americans? Why do so many of us speak ill of the French? Why the name calling? Why the freedom fries? The truth is that we are a lot like the French. We should appreciate that both they and we are nationalistic, patriotic, and think our shit doesn't stink. In some other ways the French are different from us. For instance most Parisians speak two or more languages, with the second one usually being English. That, I think, is so that they can make fun of Americans like Mark and me in a language that we would understand. It did happen that they mocked us on more than one occasion. There were some Parisians, however, who were very nice and treated us well, but that might have been because we were paying to stay at their hotel. 
While we were in Paris we visited an area known as Les Halles. We should have known something was up when the cab driver refused to drop us off in front of the club we were going to. He stopped at a corner and pointed, telling us in French to walk "deux rues". After strolling past prostitutes, drug dealers, and all sorts of sketchy types, we finally found the little club we were looking for. We entered the front door and were stopped by the door man, who then pointed us toward what looked like a coat check room. The man at the coat check room told us that there would be a cover charge as he handed us two black, plastic garbage bags. I stood there with the bags in my hand and asked him, "What are these for?"  "Oh, gentlemen. Tonight is naked night! Thee bags are for your clothes." Mark and I looked at each other, knowing what the answer would be, "No Thanks, not for us.", and I handed the bags back to him. Just to be sure though, I reached over and pulled the little black curtain aside, to see if maybe it might be interesting. What I saw has been permanently burned into my memory. There sat two, old, wrinkle-assed men, stark naked on bar stools, casually having a conversation, smoking cigarettes, and sipping their drinks. Bar stools, old man butts, and cigarettes. I grabbed Mark and ran.

Industrial Disease

There was a time when certain products that were readily available over the counter, contained substances that are frowned upon now. Coca Cola contained cocaine in its early years, and Seven Up's list of ingredients included lithium. Ah, the good old days. In 1966 I worked as a stock boy at the Jewel Food Store in Tinley Park. One of the things Jewel carried on a shelf next to the Pepto Bismol and Geritol (Which contained 12% alcohol), was something called Romilar Cough Syrup. I think Romilar contained codeine at that time, which is why we could not keep it in stock. I would open a new case of Romilar and put it up on the shelf. By the time I had the empty case broken down flat, I would turn around and the shelf would be bare, mostly shop lifted. In fact, some of my high school chums who knew I worked at Jewel, would ask when the next shipment was coming in. By the 1970s all that stuff was controlled and no longer available to high school kids. Except for Geritol. You can still stroll on into Walgreens and get a bottle of Geritol with that 12% alcohol. Which brings me to Mark and his little cough. His doctor prescribed some of that good cough medicine. It worries me a little bit that it could be addictive, but Mark is not really the addictive type. So I'm on board with it. Besides, I'm thinking it might keep him from talking during movies, and yelling at Fox News.

Volunteers

I didn't volunteer to go to Vietnam in 1969. And when Uncle Sam sent me an invitation with an 'or else' in it, I declined. But I did volunteer later in life to help out at an animal rescue. I love volunteers, especially in my yard. It's like a little gift from nature. By volunteer I mean those plants that spring up, that I didn't put there. This year a nice marigold popped up out of my nasturtiums. Over on the other side of the yard some kind of flower has grown up, big and beautiful. It kind of looks like a daisy, but I don't think that's what it is. Maybe somebody can identify it for me. Whatever it is, I'm glad I didn't 'weed' it out. Then there is the biggest volunteer out there. The one that volunteered way too much. Not that I think it's unattractive, it isn't. I think it is quite pretty, the morning glory. The garden is being overtaken by morning glories, and at this point I don't much care. I poured gallons and gallons of water on the tomatoes and cucumbers, water that the city charges me for, and all I've got are four cucumbers and four tomatoes. So if the morning glories want to choke them out, fine. 

I have no idea what this is

Cooking for Mark

Since Mark has been under the weather, I have become the shopper in chief and cook in this house. I hate shopping, truly hate it. Mark loves shopping, loves it so much that he has been shopping online to fulfill his urges while he is 'under the weather'. Every day, boxes and packages arrive and our letter carrier is beat, but that's another story.

I went grocery shopping yesterday. I dealt with the shoppers who leave their carts blocking the aisle. I dealt with the frustration of finding out that I needed one more thing that was clear across the other side of the block long store. And I ignored the messy, wet, checkout conveyor belt, that passed my purchases to the cashier who was chewing gum while casually passing my stuff over the scanner. You have to keep an eye on that screen above the cashier just to make sure all those things on sale were really on sale. So I did the grocery shopping all by myself and I spent half of what Mark would have spent. Anyway, I took it all home, schlepped it up the stairs, and put it all away. Then I started to cook dinner.

I hate to cook. I simply cannot enjoy a meal that takes me longer to cook than it takes me to eat. But it's for Mark, so I sucked it up and started cooking. Pork chops smothered with apples, and a nice little Caesar salad. I love those salad kits they sell at the supermarket. Makes it so easy, never mind the salmonella. Dinner, to my surprise, turned out to be pretty good. The apples were a little overwhelmed by the nutmeg I lost while cooking them. It asked for just a small amount, but I accidentally dropped the whole thing in there. Still, it was edible and I liked it. Mark sat across from me and tried to make me believe he thought dinner was just fine. He didn't make the snarly face he sometimes makes when I ruin his breakfast, and he tried real hard to make it look like he ate most of his dinner. It's a little trick he does where he rearranges all the food on his plate, spreads it all around, and then announces, "I'm full. Delicious dinner sweety." It's why my dogs get diarrhea, too much under the table feeding. Anyway, dinner was good enough. Now somebody needs to clean the kitchen.

On the Grid

I got the call I had been waiting for all day.

"Come and get me. They're releasing me in an hour."

Mark had spent the day at the hospital getting probed, stuck, and having photos taken of his insides. Now they were done with him. At four forty five in the afternoon they let him go home. A seven mile drive that usually takes me anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes. But this was rush hour and everybody was out on the streets, so it would take much longer. In addition to rush hour, the Chicago Cubs were playing at Wrigley field and the suburban hordes were storming "Wrigleyville". (Not really called Wrigleyville except by the suburban hordes. Real name, Lakeview.) Now, with traffic at near gridlock, add in a protest march down Lake Shore Drive and over to Wrigley Field. I don't disagree with the protestors. The city has done very little for many areas where the complexion is not quite as fair as it is on the North Side. So I couldn't take my normal route to pick up Mark. Instead I had to zig zag down side streets, which works out great if you know what you are doing. The biggest problem with the side streets though, are the speed bumps. Oh, and the bicyclists who think they don't have to stop at stop signs. Oh, oh.. and pedestrians who are staring down at their smart phones as they wander aimlessly across streets. Other than that, and double parked trucks, the side streets worked for me. But I have a sneaking suspicion that much of the gridlock in Chicago is caused by Uber/Lyft drivers. There has to be a hundred thousand of them here because every time I'm stuck in traffic I see the stickers on all the cars around me. Uber cars, uninspected personal cars driven by the owners. Just shove the baby seat over to the side and hop in. No chauffer's license for the drivers, no safety inspection needed. I don't know why the city would let them get away with it, unless...  maybe, it's because the mayor's brother is a major investor in Uber. Nah, corruption in Chicago? Unheard of.