Neighborhood Watch

The voters got it wrong

2009-11-04T06:09:00.000-08:00

This morning, after disappointing news from Maine, I salute my favorite men who exercised their right to marry.

Robert and John: parks advocates, public-school graduates,
hand holders, friends to farmers.

By they way, that little orange character they're posing with? It's a special-edition Shawnimal. Robert enlisted creator Shawn Smith to produce just five of them as a fundraiser for our local playlot park. Robert's a Shawnimals collector, and this little orange fellow joins his ever-expanding collection of ninjas, mustaches, and random blobs. John doesn't seem to mind. He joined Robert in line that very night to buy an original Smith woodcut at a local gallery.

Take that, Maine.

Hablamos

2009-10-24T13:00:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, a group of us lobbied hard to save a historic building on a nearby corner. A bank agreed to take occupancy and the building survived, but the compromise was a bitter pill. Despite a sustained lobby to preserve the pedestrian way, the bank installed a curb cut smack in the middle of the sidewalk to make room for their drive-thru window. Harumph.

It was something of a fool's bargain. The idea was that once the bank moved in, other businesses would follow (this is a sizable building, with several additional storefronts available). That was at least five years ago. And for the duration of those five years, every storefront has sat empty, leaving us pedestrians feeling similarly empty as we imagine the building in its glory days and stop short at the drive-thru so we don't get hit.

This may explain my gratitude for our wonderful neighbor Jill, who saw the potential for a pedestrian-friendly business there and opened her doors earlier this week.

This isn't just any business. It's a language center/community hub, where you can take classes in Spanish or Russian (and other languages to be added over time), come see a movie in Spanish, take a conversation class over wine and cheese, or spend a weekend at bilingual bootcamp.

I know what you're imagining: one of those institutional spaces with a linoleum floor and metal folding chairs. Think again, little chickies. There's an exposed brick wall, paintings by local artists, a cafe, and a full kitchen (which, the day I visited, was generously stocked with cheese, crackers, and sweets).

What I'm imagining is this: Maybe 6 months from now, after some conversation classes or a weekend of bootcamp, it would be amazing -- when my Spanish-speaking coworkers tell hilarious stories over lunch -- if I could not just pretend to laugh, but actually sort of get the joke.

November, you're not welcome here.

2009-10-20T18:05:00.000-07:00

I've got a conundrum. Maybe you can help.

Sure, I'm eager for this crazy month to pass. Work's been slapping me around and shows no sign of relenting for the next couple weeks.

Then everyone I know is getting sick: Fevers, fainting spells, appendicitis attacks, blood clots, nerve damage, and unexplained heart palpitations.

And a wonderful public-art group in the neighborhood got burglarized last night. Every last laptop, all their accumulated archives, spirited away in the night.

Enough is enough, October. Be still your wrath.

On the other hand, we've had some early glimpses of winter, and

I'm. Not. Ready. I'm craving a nice, slow winding down, but also a quick sprint to the finish. As they say, you can't have it both ways.

I can't help but notice I'm not alone in my resistance.

This is our rockin' neighbor Annalise. She's fashioned herself a secret perch on top of their detached garage. Every day I come home, and every day I hear her tiny voice chirp 'hello!' from the trees. She's the new town crier, watching over her corner in case something interesting happens. Or maybe she's just hiding out, flying solo in the world except when she feels like announcing herself. And she'll keep returning to that spot until snow and ice dictate otherwise.

Or behold my valiant eggplant, trying to grow despite two hard freezes. There's not an ounce of nutrients left in those pock-marked leaves. But still she hangs on. And so do I, wondering what one does with a miniature eggplant, since I know I'll have to harvest while I can still close my fist around the fruit.

Last Halloween was warm enough to sit on the porch and give out candy. I'm holding out for a repeat performance, even as our 9-year-old neighbor Rose strategizes over this year's costume: a cup of hot cocoa, which I have to admit doesn't sound so bad either.

Rapture of the Deep

2009-10-04T07:33:00.000-07:00

Chicago didn't get much of a summer this year. (Not that I'm complaining). But September more than made up for the loss. Imagine the most perfect day of the year. Now multiply it by 30. Take away a day or two for some thick morning fog or an occasional rain shower. September 2009.

The minute we flipped the calendar page to October, fall came in like a lion, and people are still struggling to adjust. It's sweater weather, and then some. The result is a kind of collective resistance: everyone sucking the marrow out of these last few weeks of outdoor occupancy. Restaurants refusing to dismantle their al fresco seating areas, families shivering through late-season yard sales. Our eggplant is fruiting again.

Yesterday the latest of our local community gardens held an art demo all afternoon. We got a fascinating paper-making demonstration and another on natural-dye techniques. The garden was partially designed to grow plants for the Columbia College Interdisciplinary Paper Department, and we got to see the process from day-lily harvesting to sheet drying. This season's milkweed was infested with aphids, so we even saw troops of ladybugs at work, destroying the attackers to save the plant.

The natural-dye process essentially involved placing a square of weighted muslin in a mason jar filled with warm water and marigolds picked straight from the garden. In two days, that small cotton square will bear whatever color is leached from the buds.

As one little girl shook the jar to distribute the color, she noticed a bee stuck inside, sloshing around in the water. 'Oh no,' the instructor said. 'It looks like he probably died.'

And then we all realized: A bath of flowers isn't such a bad way to go, especially if you're a bee.

Deep Tissue

2009-09-27T12:43:00.000-07:00

Ok, I believe in child-labor laws as much as the next guy. But I'm inclined to make an exception for 'Emil's Awesome Backrubs.'

Emil is just one of the vendors in the makeshift flea market that's taken root around our Sunday farmers market. He charges a quarter for five minutes, during which he covers neck, shoulders, lower back, arms, and palms. I ponied up the fee and treated myself, and if someone's not protecting this kid's hands like they would a piano prodigy's, there's simply no justice in this world.

Stuart's Not so Little

2009-09-23T04:54:00.000-07:00

One phenomenon I've never tackled here is the ubiquity of the rat.

It's not uncommon to see them scurrying across the street or through the alleys, or even straight through your backyard garden and under your porch, where it seems likely they'll reproduce by the hundred-fold, only to dash across your bare feet some unsuspecting evening.

Some friends in the area are so at the end of their tether, they're considering digging out all their fruit trees and vegetable plants.
Don't do it, I've urged them, or the rat will be king!

I sometimes wonder, though, if it's time to reconsider the rat. Put some fur on their tails, and are they really so different from squirrels? Who among us hasn't imagined taking in a baby squirrel as a pet, feeding it milk from an eye dropper as it bonds with us like a kitten. Ah, sweet domestication.

My friend Kim from college had a pet female rat named Chuck, and she was a perfect companion. Here's a photo from the last day of Chuck's life, when cancer had so steeped her body that there was really no choice but to put her to sleep. (I don't know who that uncomely vagabond is holding her, but please forgive the fashion indiscretions. It was the eighties).

I'm starting to think that rats may simply have a PR problem. Exhibit A: The signs posted throughout alleys of my neighborhood, warning of the pestilence sure to befall us if we dare to leave our trash can lids open, inviting this saber-toothed monster to destroy us all.

There are City-sanctioned poisoning schedules for the rat. And I have to wonder what the reaction would be if the same campaign were waged against the pigeon, an equally hated example of metropolitan vermin. But widespread extermination? Would we really have the same bloodlust for a humble bird?

I guess that's why I'm so taken with an alley 4 blocks east of us, where the rat-warning signs have been punctuated by original art.

Why should our lamp and electric posts be used only to besmirch the poor rat? There are surely better things to do with our public display space, as this alley so agreeably reminds us.

Dummy

2009-09-18T17:33:00.000-07:00

You ever have one of those days? You talk too much and wish you could take most of it back. You mistakenly throw somebody you like under the bus. Your inner bully comes out, pushing your inner
sweetie-pie so far deep inside that you forget what she even looks like. Your efforts to make amends are clumsy and bloated, like a walrus on the beach. On top of it, your hair looks terrible and you probably should have ironed your shirt before leaving the house. There's a bit of almond stuck in your teeth, possibly there since 11 this morning. Your perceived age is catching up with your real age, and suddenly you're putting the pepper mill in the freezer like you saw in that Alzheimer's movie, thinking "Ok, here we go."

On days like this, the neighborhood doesn't offer comfort or insult. I hear kids out the window playing in the yard next door. It's mid-September, but still warm enough to run around without a jacket. The kids' mother, someone I cherish, has lit a bonfire because they were too late buying tickets for an organized campfire at a north-side park. Most days, this would fill me with such a sense of wonder I'd call myself the luckiest girl in the world. Tonight I can't feel a thing.

Later on I'll ride my bike to a nearby bar, where John's band is playing the headliner slot. I'll wager that if I see a rash of new gang tags along the way, I won't be dialing 311. If there's a drug deal in the alley, you're on your own, good people. I'm off the clock. Sometimes a girl just needs a breather, from herself and everything else.

I'm breathing, and tomorrow is another day.

Kinder. Gentler.

2009-09-13T18:54:00.000-07:00

Last year's block party featured a teen street fight, accidental shooting, and towering sound system that -- when I asked the owner/DJ to please turn down the volume -- led to an accusation of racism. Not my version of a grand old time, and nothing I looked forward to repeating in this lifetime.

But this year's shindig made up for last year in spades. Families on bikes, grills smoking, the smell of skirt steak and Milwaukee brats in the air, a dessert table, a book-exchange table, a margarita station (thanks, Johno; nobody squeezes a lime like you, my love), and a visit from the local fire department, who let kids tour their truck and grown men don their hats for photo opps.

One fire official mentioned to my neighbor that he'd been on the scene during the triple murder down the block January 1, 2008 (the incident that actually inspired our block group and this very blog). He described a grisly scene, then told Amy that he didn't know what we'd done to put this block back together, but whatever it was, we'd done it right. We kind of agree, but it sure was nice to have it noticed.

Working

2009-09-07T06:25:00.000-07:00

Today, in honor of Labor Day, I want to recognize the hard-working men and women at the auto-body repair shop on the corner. There's a cottage industry of illegal mechanics throughout our local alleys, so it's a wonder this place perseveres. But there they are.

I used to curse them, because their parking lot was configured so it bled right out into the sidewalk. The result? At least four cars every day parked blocking the pedestrian through-way. Now if you know anything about me, you know how much that curdles my blood, so I mentally boycotted them for the imaginary car I'd someday probably never own.

But lo and behold. As of a few weeks ago, my boycott is over. Look at the sweet little greenway they've installed between the lot and the sidewalk. Four petite saplings and a good bedding of mulch, all behind a decorative fence.

Of course the parkway is still plenty wide for at least one car (which is invariably there, but now with enough room for a person or two to get by), but I have to hand it to the owners for taking a step they really didn't have to. I doubt it will help their business much, and they might have even irked a few of those serial parkers, who may be waging their own less-imaginary boycotts. But hats off to the staff for reminding us that life is really about the small gesture.

Newsworthy

2009-09-02T06:21:00.000-07:00

I woke up to a sound no one likes to hear: helicopters overhead. As I've mentioned in previous entries, this can mean one of only a handful of things in our neighborhood: fatal shooting nearby, blazing fire nearby, gruesome discovery nearby.

This morning's helicopters had snuffed out a fatal car crash that allegedly happened around 3am. Why the place was still a roped-off crime scene at 7:30 remains a mystery, though by no means a rarity. The police were clearly investigating something. What they found we may never know, but there were apparently 7 separate garage fires in the neighborhood last night. Connection? Who's to say? And the whole thing may end up a red herring anyway: just the sad confluence of two drivers moving at excessive speed (which that particular street, with its 6-7 lanes across, tends to invite), then smashing like stars into planets.

Some folks have started to turn to an unlikely source for this kind of information. If you're a local, you may already know about the Avondale Logan Square Crime Blotter (as he calls himself), a 15-year-old autistic boy who blogs every detail he picks up on the District police scanner. He's been known to spend a dozen hours straight listing to the scanner, breaking only for meals or to use the bathroom.

The pleasure in this particular text isn't the pithiness of the information (though that's something too), but the unique character he gives to each story: His breezy digressions and marginal notes, his musings on the day or the weather or how well he may have slept the night before. One amazing exchange happened after Time Out Chicago published a piece on him in a recent issue. Check out the comment string, where the blogger repeatedly expresses his longing for a regular teenage life. The whole thing is full of pathos and poignancy, because along the way, the Blotter has told us more about himself than he realizes.

Steal This Art

2009-08-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

A couple posts ago I alluded to an exhibitor at the Milwaukee Avenue Arts Fest who gave me pause. The guy collects street art and hosted a pretty breathtaking installation in an old shoe store along the festival route.

He basically goes on reconnaissance missions to uproot each piece from its original context (building walls, signposts, fences, etc). He fashions himself a Robin Hood of the built environment, claiming that the pieces are, by design, ephemeral: If he doesn't take and protect them, the police will, and they'll disappear from public view altogether. Not a single piece he owns is for sale. Once it's in his possession, it's his to keep.

His collection includes work by noted Chicago koo-koo Wesley Willis (RIP) as well as some fly three-dimensional buildings by Wesley's far less well-known brother Ricky. There are tributes to the murdered artist Solve, though somewhat gratefully not a single original Solve work. (He seems to consider Solve his holy grail.) I still see Solve's handiwork on signs now and again and feel nervous for it, imagining this guy heffalumping his way through the public domain and then all the way to the bank.

So I struggle. On the one hand, the work was amazing to see, easily some of my favorite pieces in the show. Your heart beats a little faster to be in their presence. And it's true: I probably would never have had the pleasure of experiencing them without this guy's intervention.

On the other hand, do the pieces mean the same hanging on an exhibit wall as they do in the public context? (Of course they don't, but how damaging is that slippery geography to the overall meaning of the work? Negligible? Monumental?) And to what extent is the guy participating in the very tradition of the artists themselves, vs. claiming production he has no right to call his own?

SOS: Is he a noble preservationist or a rotten thief? And is looking at this material at an art show a fair exercise, or something akin to ambulence chasing? A penny for your thoughts.

Tabula Rasa

2009-08-21T11:13:00.001-07:00

When I got home Tuesday it’s like everything had died. My zucchini plants, so lush and overgrown when I left that morning, had simply deflated while I was gone—the stems chewed up by disease in a matter of hours.

Inside the house, my peace lily drooped like a willow. After months of blooming, its knees had buckled.

Maybe most catastrophically, my laptop refused to start. I pressed the On button, the engine revved, then the whole thing shut down. Over and over as I tried in vain the rest of the night.

And here’s the problem: I’ve never backed up a file. Ever. Yeah, yeah, of course I know better. But you want the truth? I don’t floss much either. I don’t strengthen my core muscles. I don’t take potassium or do my monthly breast exams. I don’t clean the cheese that drips to the bottom of the oven, and I don’t take the rain barrel in for the winter. I don’t use fancy moisturizer. To my father’s incessant protests, I haven’t tested my house for radon. I don’t organize my closets. I don’t limit my wine to one glass a night, and I don’t always tell my doctor the truth. These aren’t philosophical positions on my part. This isn’t some kind of libertarian stubbornness. It’s just that -- and I have to come to terms with this -- there are certain things I never get around to doing, even though I wish I were the kind of person who made them a priority. (Please don’t send comments about how important each of these activities may be, because I can promise you one thing: Unless you’re coming over to do them on my behalf, they’re probably not getting done).

So I guess I was supposed to be kicking myself over all that lost material. Every short story I ever wrote, every wedding I ever officiated, every resume sent and digital photo taken, and my entire dissertation. Letters to my husband, letters to the editor, my entire archive of block-group organizing . . . all of it up in smoke.

But the only thing I really missed was my list of restaurant meals from 2009 (something I’ve been religiously cataloguing since January 2007; I have printouts for all but this year).

In the ensuing days, a tech-savvy friend was able to recover all those lost files. I guess I felt some degree of relief. But no real gladness, no legible joy.

Am I really that indifferent a person? Do I have such a detachment to my ‘life’s work’ that I feel absolutely nothing when it’s gone? I remember getting so frustrated with John when he lost his bookstore all those years ago and he didn’t shed a tear or betray a moment of sadness. Maybe I’m that more like that than I realize.

Or maybe, when it comes right down to it, there’s a sense of liberation in losing all that content. Maybe I’m sort of curious what happens when you have to start from nothing, when you don’t have old texts and templates imposing themselves on the first word, the first paragraph. Maybe there’s relief in that capaciousness.

I won’t be able to test the theory since my files have been recovered. But I’m hopeful for one thing: When I see a clean slate on the laptop I buy as a replacement, I hope I’ll fill it judiciously. I hope I won’t transfer all those files just because they were there before. I hope I use a benchmark stronger than simple existence.

Art walk (and walk . . . and walk . . .)

2009-08-16T03:44:00.000-07:00

Things have been so crazy I've had no time to post about the recent Milwaukee Avenue Arts Festival. This is like one of those belated birthday presents that arrives so late you might as well call it a Christmas present. So Merry Christmas one and all, because the fest still seems worth a reflection or two.

By all reports, and despite a few crotchety critiques (my sympathies for drivers' frustrations in getting around a blocked street evaporated a long time ago: it's summer, and a perfect time for hoofing), this was a splendid event. It had a pretty interesting evolution to boot. Its seeds were the Taste of Logan Square, a strange, glorified carnival run for several years under the watch of our previous ('machine') alderman, and a place that featured very little food from Logan Square and more than occasional outbursts of violence. Our current alderman's brother was actually killed there one year, so it's no surprise that when he unseated his predecessor, his fair would change both its venue and orientation.

Cue up the Palmer Square Arts Festival, a kinder, gentler summer fair. But it was almost too kind and too gentle. The music never strayed from various folk traditions. The art had no internal conflict whatsoever. And the attendance was pretty lukewarm from year to year. Still, with actual local restaurants featured and a productive use of one of our neighborhood's few patches of green space, it was a tilt in the right direction. A shame, then, when the alderman lost favor with the folks living on the perimeter of Palmer Square by supporting the construction of a playlot in one corner of the park's greenway. Scroll ahead a year: the Milwaukee Arts Festival was born.

Stillborn, you might say.

Its first year or two was an earnest but pretty anemic, taking up an awkward corner at the confluence of three busy car arterials. There were a handful of artists featured--most of them pretty darn talented, if you could actually make your way to their exhibits--and some live music in the parking lot of the liquor store across the street. But it'd be tough to call this progress.

Which is why it was such a surprise to see this year's festival come to life. Is there such a thing as two steps back, 1000 steps forward? Because that might be a fair description. More than three miles of exhibit space up and down Milwaukee Avenue, 2+ full days of activity, live music of every stripe on the Square, an open-air gallery where you could look at art but also get a heaping bbq pork sandwich and a decent local beer. And my favorite part: installations creatively intersecting with the built environment: not only in existing exhibit space, but throughout an entire collection of empty storefronts decimated by the current economy.

The former PUSH 'nutrition supplement' store (a front, no doubt) housed the artists' marketplace, filled with felted scarves, dioramas in jars, and handmade jewelry I've regretted not buying ever since. A one-time medical office featured the results of art in the park, where amateur artists of all ages got together on a few consecutive weekends to paint whatever inspired them at the moment. And a recently closed hip-hop clothing store showcased what was for me the most controversial exhibit (and one that probably deserves its own entry): a personal collection of street art 'appropriated' (stolen?) from its public context that I have to admit was amazing to see. More on that to come.

But overall, it was great to see all our neighborhood assets, from green space to a stalled retail corridor to an abundance of locally created art, put to such productive use. Some of the owners of those empty storefronts have actually asked to keep the exhibits hanging for a while--a nice way to 'stage' the space for would-be business owners. If it works, the alderman (and all the rest of us) owe those hard-working artist/organizers an even greater debt than we realize.

1000 Words

2009-08-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

Today I share with you my favorite example of 'branding' in the history of mom & pop retailing. Around the corner from our house, on a bustling but uninspired commercial corridor, and among photos of babies in Christening gowns, kids in 1st communion outfits, and stiffly posed couples on their wedding day, sits this beauty.

This little girl probably isn't so little anymore. She could be in college now for all we know. Or tending to kids of her own. This display seems to have graced the owner's window for as long as the business has been around, which--judging by the discoloration of some of the photo paper--seems like an awfully long time. There are worse things than being a business with such longevity that its display window starts to fade.

But I get such a kick out of the thought of this photographer, thumbing through his portfolio for just the right pieces to promote his business, coming across this scowling little girl, and thinking "Eureka, that's the one!"

It's even more curious to think of passersby looking in the window and deciding this is the guy who should take the photos at said Christenings, 1st communions, and wedding celebrations. Truth be told, I've almost been tempted to go over there myself: book a session with me, John, and the dog for posterity. And I don't mean that with any kind of kitsch arrogance. I'm genuinely curious about this guy. What did he do to provoke this particular look from this particular little girl, and can it be replicated? Better yet, who's the guy who takes this portrait and considers it photographic gold? Because I have to say, the more I look, the more I can't help agreeing with him.

This isn't so many worlds apart from the portrait studios I remember from my youth: There was Van Ramsey, portraitist par excellence in my hometown (or so we thought), creating his own cottage industry out of school pictures for all the graduating seniors in town. When the occasional kid got a photo taken elsewhere, you could always tell in the yearbook: it just wasn't a telltale Van Ramsey.

Or the sessions at the local Sears or Olan Mills, where they'd pose us with our elbows on mini split-rail fences with phony flowers in the background. Or they'd shoot one image face forward and the other to the side, so a ghostly profile could be superimposed in the upper right-hand corner of each 8 X 10. This little girl gave exactly the look we should have been giving them. Nothing they were doing was cause for a smile. It was ridiculously artificial and frankly a pain in the ass. Yet thank goodness, in some ways, for those legacies. We know not only what we looked like, but what we looked like in the context of those decades.

I sort of wonder what the age of digital photography, Facebook, and the like, is doing to the genre of the portrait. Like so many things, it seems to be going the way of the dodo. No one goes to sit for a portrait anymore unless there's some professional purpose (bank presidents, annual awards, driver's licenses). And the ways we present our images in social networking tend to be partial shots, looking away from the camera, doing something goofy or propping up intentional distortions for a laugh. It's as if we have some collective cultural embarrassment over taking this kind of thing seriously. We're more likely to have professional portraits taken for our pets (who have no capacity for cynicism) than for ourselves. And yet what is Facebook or MySpace but self-representation writ large?

Regardless, sometimes when I need a good laugh or a good reminder of humanity, I walk past the window of the portrait studio just to stare back at that little girl. I hope the rest of her day brought her a moment or two of happiness. Clearly, she'd earned it.

Playing in the street

2009-08-01T04:43:00.000-07:00

At last, I find myself on the other side of an event I'd been dreading: last Friday evening's B'Ball on the Block. At work we sponsor a heroic program where on six consecutive Friday evenings, we cordon off a troubled street so kids can play basketball, have their faces painted, eat free hot dogs and apples, and generally find an alternative to trouble.

Last Friday's game was held on the block where we've slated our next affordable-housing development. The opposition to that project has been both strategic and virulent, so we wanted to create something that shows what we're about. We pulled out all the stops. Not just basketball, but a tumbling group, a youth spoken-word initiative, arroz con gandules made by one of the local residents, dancing, a jumping jack, and a goofy clown (played by none other than the head of our construction office) who only made a single baby cry.

It was a beautiful night. The event went seamlessly, and even members of the opposition joined the effort, one of them offering to referee, another providing electricity for our sound system, several setting up a candy raffle and using our sound system to announce the winners, and still others applauding as a teen spoken-word group 'spit' (their word) about HIV, relationship abuse, the dangers of drugs and premature sex, and the value of a good education, despite the crumbling quality of their public schools.

I'm a little sick this week and maybe it's making me soft, but I left the event feeling like much was possible here, including good neighborly relations with even the folks involved with the campaign against the project. I sensed both common ground and good will that weren't there before. Debates are good and important -- but I'm thinking the best conversation may be demonstration. What we demonstrated there is our something that goes beyond philosophy or divisive polarity. We showed our human faces, and we saw human faces in return.

As we left the game two open-air drug deals were happening just beside our van. This speaks more loudly than anything else about the need for an event like this. And especially for the need for additional eyes on this street, which well-managed residential development will inevitably bring, as it's brought to so many communities throughout Chicago. It does a heart good to be a part of that effort, even with hefty roadblocks along the way.

Lost and Found

2009-07-26T06:50:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I got in a terrible fight with my neighborhood. We stopped speaking to each other. It was all because of this:

That cavity on the left used to house a small tile stepping stone, handmade by youth at archiTreasures, one of my favorite organizations in the city (and one I have the privilege of working with on my job).

I felt livid, and sad, and betrayed.

It's a small thing, sure. It's not like someone stole my dog or my bike or -- like our wonderful neighbors up the street Tina and Chris -- their beautiful vintage tandem. But honestly, what is someone going to do with a single handmade path stone anyway, other than throw it through a car window or simply smash it to bits?

After all I've done for you, Neighborhood, I thought. I've defended you against your detractors. I've tilled your soil. I've cleaned up your messes. I've called in your broken streetlights and your vandalized garages. I've supported your businesses, even the weird ones. And this is how you reciprocate? Thanks, but with friends like that . . .

But lo and behold, on my way home from a jog this morning, what should I find half under an iron fence about 4 houses north of us, but this?

I've decided not to ask any questions or force a protracted heart-to-heart. Your overture is accepted, humbly and gratefully. Perhaps most important, the romance is back, and at least this small thing is right with the world.

Frankenfestival

2009-07-19T13:16:00.000-07:00

I wasn't even going to bother with Pitchfork until I happened into a free ticket yesterday and thought, 'Why not?'

I spent four hours wandering around Union Park, a typically calm patch of green space adjacent to a building where I worked 10 years ago and spent many a lunch hour in relative solitude. Not so this weekend. The place was teeming with kids looking for their marathon indie rock fix. And beer. Lots of beer. Me, not so much. I was hoping for just a little something that might make my ears perk up with attention. But there was such a continuity from band to band -- a kind of been-there/done-that quality that left me feeling hollow. The real action had apparently come the night before, when a quadruple bill that included Tortoise, Yo La Tengo, Jesus Lizard, and Built to Spill was billed anecdotally as the "old-timers' show." But the old timer in me had worked that night and was happily at home under the covers by 10.

The whole thing got me thinking about a festival we attended last Saturday -- one close enough to home that we could decide to break down our yard sale at 2, squirrel all the unsold merchandise and display tables away in the basement, and still make it to the festival site by 3.

The Tour de Fat (sponsored by Fat Tire beer) rolls into various towns throughout the summer and celebrates bicycle culture. While I'm not generally a fan of branded events, this one has a good mission and ended up raising over $20,000 for a local nonprofit that teaches disadvantaged kids to ride and fix bikes.

The festival also has a certain bacchanalian quality. When we arrived, a guy was being paraded through the crowd in a makeshift carriage hoisted on the shoulders of four men. Why? Because he'd agreed to trade in his car for a brand new bike, which was lowered down to him on pulleys from the top of the glittering stage.

From there, the amazing punk rock marching band Mucca Pazza stole the show. The entire thing was over by 4pm, and in my single hour, I had more lived experience than I did in four full hours at Pitchfork. I think it's because this particular festival was actually about something, and that's what this particular old-timer is looking for in a cultural occasion these days.

Be careful what you wish for

2009-07-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

See this record? It's by a band called Bitter Tears, and it was pressed by a label that also put out The Coctails, Archer Prewitt, Tall Dwarfs, and others. Their entire operation just moved around the corner from our house.

You have to believe me when I tell you: This is unprecedented.

That same block features a currency exchange, a parking lot, a taqueria, a shuttered banquet hall, and several vacant storefronts in a row.

But these new neighbors have decided to plunk a record label in the heart of what even the most objective would call a wasteland. Not only will they expand their successful warehouse and distribution business, but they also plan to open a full-service record store that specializes in music that you (if you were me) would actually like to listen to. My sweetie had a tour of their warehouse this week, and when I asked him what kind of stuff they carried, he said, "Basically my entire record collection." He may have swooned.

So this is all good news, right?

A viable, longstanding business willing to take a chance on this corridor can only be a welcome development. And heck, who doesn't want a great record store right around the corner? Right? Right?

So why do I have such misgivings?

I'll tell you why, but don't spread it around. My cred in certain circles may be on the line.

What I love about my neighborhood, and what I've always loved about this place, is the way different populations so gracefully and intentionally intersect. As long as John and I have been here, and certainly long before that, young and old, Latino and white, working people and artistic dabblers, have formed an easy cohabitation.

You see it in the restaurants, the grocery stores, or just in conversations among neighbors. John can get a veggie tamale at the same place I get my carnitas torta. Our supermarket carries lard and chicharrones in one aisle, organic milk in another. Native Spanish speakers try out their English while native English speakers muddle through their Spanish. For most of us, including the Latino families who have every right to feel encroached upon, there's a premium placed on that interchange.

But this record distributor, I have to say, is a very different animal. The other night we attended a zoning meeting at their building, and the owners seem like nice folks. Amazingly nice. And they're doing such a good and important thing for the area. Truth be told, we'll probably lose our retirement savings to this place and have a damn fine time doing it. We'll probably know the proprieters by name in no time. We may even have them over for an occasional margarita on our porch.

But this is the first sign I've seen, at least in our neck of the woods, of a new business destined to be monochromatic. And while I can of course name at least a dozen people I'll bump into browsing those bins at the shop, I can also name a dozen that I won't.

Without a doubt, there's still much to put this in the win column, and I'm sure I'll be singing the place's praises and doing my part to keep them afloat. But deep down, something will always nag at me, and I'll probably feel better and cleaner about the money I'm spending across the street at Tony's Certisaver Supermarket, even if it's on fancy, elitist, organic half and half.

If you unbuild it, they will come.

2009-07-08T16:56:00.000-07:00

Imagine my glee a few weeks ago to see actual masonry work happening under the vinyl facade of this nondescript building.

A restored brick
two-flat, I let myself dream. Historical integrity. Aesthetic charm. Care and feeding of a long-neglected block.

The disappointment set in a couple days later, when the
expected ta-da led to this:

The whole repair job had been structural. Surgical. With no real regard for the building's potential.

I guess I'm judging the book by its cover. But when you see the contrast between shell and body, clothing and skin, it's tough not to carry some longing.

So here's my noisy plea to the world: tear up those carpets, people. Strip off the siding. Wipe away the make-up and show what's underneath.

How to become my friend for life

2009-07-03T06:09:00.000-07:00

1) After I've boarded the Belmont bus heading west, damp and wilted from a nighttime rainstorm, say, "Has anyone ever told you you look like Julie Christie?"

2) When I turn to rebuff you with, "Nope. Never heard that one before," smile and say, "I'm not trying to pick you up" with such straightforward conviction that I instantly believe you.

3) Say, "Not Julie Christie across the board, just in McCabe & Mrs. Miller," which I admit I haven't seen. Tell me it's great. That I should see it.

4) When I mention my favorite Julie Christie movie (Don't Look Now), scratch your head at first until I start filling in details and we both in unison say, 'That little girl in the red raincoat!'

5) Tell me you're a playwright. You've been working at it a long time, first in Los Angeles and now in Chicago. Ask what I do for a living.

6) When I tell you I work in affordable housing, smile and say that's good work, and that you've lived in supportive housing for years.

7) Start filling in details of your own life, including the fact that you have a history of drug abuse, mostly heroin and cocaine. Tell me you used dirty needles and now have HIV and are dealing with all that baggage. Tell me all of this with such composure and gentle intelligence that I have to question all my old assumptions -- ones I didn't even realize I had -- about addiction.

8) Tell me about your play, that it's a monologue about these very experiences that ran in a little storefront theater for a few weeks in April, and you're hoping to put it up somewhere else soon.

9) After I congratulate you on the play and ask how long you've been clean, completely disarm me and say, "I'm not clean."

10) Talk about the frailties of American recovery programs. Agree that there's too much Jesus and not enough self-determination.

11) When my stop comes up (long before yours does; you're still heading west), look me warmly in the eye and wish me well. Have a firm handshake. Use my name when you say good-bye, even though I've shamefully forgotten yours.

12) Get stuck in my head for the next few weeks. Remind me there's more than one way to be a good person.

Those Catholics know how to throw a party

2009-06-27T20:59:00.000-07:00

In honor of the neighborhood festival season, a sentence you couldn't have convinced me would someday come out of my mouth: Tonight we saw a glee club doing a capella versions of Gang of Four and
Dead Kennedys songs on the steps of a Catholic church, adjacent to a Catholic grade school where my friend Peggy is the principal.

For the equally befuddling but charming p.s.: They opened for a Led Zeppelin cover band.

Happy summer!

(Almost) 13 Ways of Looking at a Cauliflower

2009-06-23T17:34:00.000-07:00

We planted, we grew, we harvested, we diced, we grilled, we consumed.

(Who'd have thought that something so pure could grow from the lead and ashes of the city?)

The Devil You Know

2009-06-18T18:28:00.001-07:00

They say it's best to know thine enemy, and apparently mine is a good-natured man in an aging yellow station wagon.

Some of you remember the saga of seven months ago, with a chronic and belligerent 5am horn honker, who finally mended her ways, but not without the intervention of my good friend Thuan and a helpful officer of the law.

We've had seven months now of relative quiet. Seven months of decent sleep. But lo, about two weeks ago, which some of you may recall as 'the single worst week of my adult professional life,' the honking horn was back.

Can you add injury to insult to injury? If so, that's the conceit of this story.

But, if I dare say it out loud, maybe it's not the moral.

This morning I heard the horn again, checked the clock, verified the inhuman hour, put a jacket over my tank top, and headed out in bare feet to confront the driver. What I expected was the horrible woman of the last series of episodes, speeding away, middle finger flailing from the window of her SUV, horn blazing in victory.

What I got instead was the contrition of a humble man. In a humble car. Who has to pick up a coworker at 5am to get them both to work on time. Who probably doesn't have a cell phone. Who speaks very little English. Whose apology -- despite the fact that I couldn't tell if he was saying 'Sorry I'll have to continue to wake you up every morning' or 'Sorry; it won't happen again' -- was categorically sincere.

Tomorrow, I suppose, is the litmus test. Or maybe next week, or the week after that. In my heart of hearts, I believe I'm going to hear that horn again. Quite possibly again and again. It's entirely plausible, in fact, that my neighbor could work the early shift for the rest of her days, so this will become a standard intrusion sure as taxes.

But is it possible, now that I know the driver means me no harm, that I can get past the sense of personal assault? That I can see this not as a targeted offense but as a neutral pattern in the lives of my neighbors?

Might it not even become a source of comfort, like the revving engines of the Greyhounds when I lived above that Missouri bus station in 1989, and felt secure in knowing people were out there, living their lives, at all hours of the day, so not even the darkest moment needed to seem isolating, hollow, or stark? It was just people of the world doing their worldly machinations, and maybe that's something worth making peace with.

Let it Rain

2009-06-14T10:29:00.000-07:00

Lots of people have been complaining about summer's refusal to land in Chicago this year. Me? I've relished it. Sure, there've been plenty of gray days to turn a bad mood lousier . . . But on the up side, I haven't had to break out the sprinkler even once for our garden, which shows signs of almost ridiculous abundance. And true, the scarves and jackets remain in high rotation, but I've been able to sleep under blankets at night, which tends to be kinder to my insomnia.

Above all, though, it makes you appreciate a day like today, when you can bike in shirtsleeves to the farmers' market and buy lamb shoulder at one booth, pickled mushrooms at another, and tall, weedy asparagus at yet another.

When art happens spontaneously in a prairie garden you yourself had a hand in creating.

And when tomatoes are already in bloom at the new Corner Farm, which two months back was an empty parking lot.

Last summer never got hot enough that we longed for sweater weather. We cursed the start of winter; we spit on its name. Not so this season, when we've had to basically beg for summer. We've had to love it furiously with the aching sum of our hearts. Now it's here, all the sweeter for the wait.

Here's to keeping it simple

2009-06-10T03:51:00.000-07:00

Maybe this is a sad basis for date night, but between a bath for Inez, a bottle of white hauled back from our trip to Mendocino, and a dinner of Wisconsin cheddar, local oyster mushrooms from the farmers' market, and salad greens plucked from our very backyard, this is honestly the most fun I've had in weeks.