Buy me a record

Remember when I dreamed this record store into existence? That was a pretty good dream. It's been nice to have them around the corner, especially because almost every weekend features a free live performance by one musical act or another. Some are bands you've surely heard of. Most are unknown, like shiny wrapped presents.

Yesterday we saw Matthew Mullane, an acoustic guitarist who looks as young as my nephew but plays like a virtuoso.

Previously we've seen a rowdy blues band, an electronica DJ (with a film projected behind him onto a white bedsheet), a moody Califone, and a Southern-gothic punk outfit that would challenge you to a staring contest as soon as look at you.

We've missed Jon Langford, a handful of noise bands, two film premieres (shown on the same white bedsheet), three art openings, and a 17-member punk-rock glee club singing a cappella. No matter. There's always something new on the calendar.

Watching music this way corrects for all the things I've come to hate about the late-night rock club:

- Afternoon performances. You leave and it's still daylight outside

- Just one or two bands on the docket, with none of that endless set-up and breakdown in between

- Crowds you can breathe in, even if you're short

- No danger of getting knocked over by some liquored-up jerk trying to recreate the mosh pits of his youth

- Sometimes there's a dog in there

- Free show!

See? It's not that I don't love music anymore. Not at all. It's more that after 20+ years of heading out at 10pm, sitting through two different bands before hearing the one I came to see, and dodging the collective machismo of the room, I'm ready for a kinder, gentler delivery system. Now one has opened just around the corner, and I don't even care that my husband is single-handedly keeping them in business. Whatever it takes, I hope they stick around.

Someday I'll write a shorter post, but apparently not today

Little in life makes me happier than a new thrift store. This one isn't so new, but it's a new discovery for me since I've started walking to work.

Cargo, as it's called, has been around for a year, and the cheerful Global Cafe next door is part of the same operation. Both businesses are connected to a detox center that's operated for years, modestly and even mysteriously, out of a pair of storefronts.

A year ago, they put in a community garden in the empty lot next door. They rehabbed what had been their meeting space -- a place where clients could get together behind closed curtains and have a cup of coffee and a chat -- to the public. Now the clients work in the thrift store or the cafe, earning a modest wage as they get back on their feet and build up their portfolios.

Does it surprise you to hear me say I adore this model? (I didn't think so).

I popped into the thrift shop yesterday and encountered who must be the founder of this eponymous facility. He was a lively character, definitely turning on the hard sell for a BCBG dress (I bought it) and some grandmotherly china (I passed). He talked about making a collage of Michael Jackson magazine photos for the wall, then trying to sell it for $25. He led a sweet, pregnant Spanish-speaking woman to a box of onesies, all on sale for $1. He pushed me to buy a $10 spider plant, which will help fund the insurance they need for their community garden, a bureaucratic formality that clearly disgusts him. The pregnant woman's 7-year-old son told him $10 was way too much money for a plant. I'll probably eventually buy the damn thing.

And then a curious thing happened. The guy held up something I've never seen before. It looked like an old pin, but was actually a clasp you attach to a scarf to keep it in place. Sweet, but superfluous, so I told him thanks, but not today.

And then he gave it to me.

"Please take it," he said. "This looks like you and you should have it."

"Thank you," I said. "That's incredibly kind, and I accept it."

Now I hesitate to tell the rest of the story, because it casts a bit of a pall on this moment, and I admit it made me wonder if this was truly a gift or a covenant he was enlisting.

But after talking of the good karma he thought this would bring him, he told me that everything he does is in service to the Creator, and isn't the Creator's will majestic?

You know me by now, so you know I had no answer for this question. I smiled, thanked him again, and headed out the door.

But the whole thing left me wondering. What does it mean to take my tea and gently-used dresses with a side of old-time religion? Will I continue to shop in the store, or will I avoid the place to avoid the conversation? Will I feel too disingenuous to wear my scarf clasp?

I navigate these questions frequently in my work, which revolves largely around faith-based institutions. But I've also started outing myself as a nonbeliever ('atheist' can come off as confrontational in my line of work), and the sky hasn't fallen yet.

I suppose I could handle myself with the same diplomacy with a guy like this. I might just have to buy the Michael Jackson collage to let him know I'm not the devil.

Swollen

I'll always remember 2011 as the year my body and I stopped getting along. I've already written about the herniated disc in my neck, which has bulldozed me with pain and prevented any real exercise, including the physical therapy that might actually help resolve my symptoms. I'm getting soft around the middle and thick in the thighs.

Then there was last week's spill on my bike -- trying to ride in the ice after running late on election day. The plummy bruises on my knees are nothing. It's the extra twinges in my neck and left arm that worry me. Was this the over-reaching that will lead me to the surgeon's table?

Strangely enough, my mind and I seem to be friendlier than ever, as if we've reunited after a long hiatus only to realize we're still in love. Mind, you had me at 'hello.' You make me want to be a better person. And damnit, you complete me.

It's a funny thing that happens when you have to work around pain. It's a little like the series of steps that get people past grief or an alcohol habit.

At first, there's denial: I'm sure this is just a pulled muscle. It'll be gone in another day or two.

Then the bargaining: Let me get through the day. Just today. Tomorrow I'll stay home from work if I have to. I'll call the doctor. I'll even consider the surgery, if I can just make this deadline and find a comfortable chair for that two-hour meeting.

(And somehow I do make that deadline, and I do find that comfortable chair, and I'm stronger for having done so).

Finally there's the acceptance: This is my life now. The show must go on.

But above all, and this is where a pain condition starts to do its own thing, I have a very focused sense of empathy, not to mention the fact that tiny human scenes seem to play themselves around me on endless reels.

Take last Tuesday's bike crash.

There I was, in the middle of the street, unable to move my bike or even pick myself up to get to the sidewalk. A pick-up pulled up behind me. No one got out of the truck, and I could see traffic lining up behind him.

Then, a van, driving past the intersection and pulling over to the side of the road. A woman, more specifically a Muslim woman in full robes, got out of the van, rushed to my side, physically moved my bicycle out of the street, then held my arm as she escorted me to the sidewalk, dragging her long skirt through the slush.

The woman asked if I needed a ride. She said she'd put my bicycle in her van and drive me wherever I needed to go. I wasn't even a block from home, so I thanked her and headed back to the house.

I've been haunted by her kindness ever since. She didn't have to stop. She was a petite woman, but she lifted my bike like it was nothing at all. She didn't have to trust me enough to invite me into her car. Her hemline got dirty because of me. She didn't know where I worked -- it could have been miles away -- but still she offered to take me there. And it's not lost on me, and somehow not irrelevant, that this woman is a Muslim and I am not. She overcame our differences to offer help to a person in need. It's something that doesn't come easily these days in America, and I'm going to be honest: It's something that doesn't always come easily to me.

I've replayed that episode over and over, and the immensity of her gesture never gets old.

So in some ways, this experience of pain has amplified my experience of the world, both good and bad. I'm not a religious person, but I take that as a blessing. And I'm not a pedantic person, but I see it as a lesson.

When Dennis Throws a Party . . .

There will be funny hats.















Tea will be served from elegant china found in a dumpster.


Canapes and sweets will be scattered about the house on servers fashioned from scrap metal and ax handles.














Random strangers will take over the small kitchen, stirring pots of homemade soup.














And Mabel will play John Cage's "Suite for a Toy Piano" to heartfelt applause.

Down with "Dibs"

You can't make it through a winter in Chicago without encountering one of the ugliest customs of the season: Dibs. This is the process by which a car owner digs his or her car out of the snow, then claims that parking space on the street with broken chairs, paint buckets, or some other form of detritus from the basement. Moving someone else's objects to park in that spot is tantamount to theft -- snow turns public space into private, I guess -- and I've often been surprised that someone hasn't been killed over violating another person's dibs.

I realize that opening may lose me a few friends. Dibs are fighting words in Chicago, and they've divided more than a few neighbors, more than a few communities. I also know that our recent 2-foot snowfall has turned a few dibs detractors into reluctant embracers. It's a matter of necessity, they say. These are extraordinary circumstances. If you don't claim the spot, you have nowhere to put your car.

Nevertheless, I stand by my position. Dibs is bad policy, and yet another example of how vehicle ownership can breed the kind of thnking and action that separates folks from one another.

What's especially sticking in my craw about this debate is the assumption -- and many have said it out loud to me -- that since I don't own a car and don't have the challenge of parking it, I don't have a right to a position. Essentially I don't have a horse in this race.

Quite the contrary. First, I feel I have a right to be bothered by other people's garbage accumulating on my street and in my neighborhood. It's litter, plain and simple, and it's illegal . . . but worse yet, it's unneighborly.

Second, it's been interesting to see the link between chairs in the street and unshoveled sidewalks running parallel to those spaces. People will dig out their personal automobiles and lay claim to the space, but they often won't extend the same courtesy to their neighbors at large. They want their mode of transportation to be respected, but they're unwilling to respect other people's need to walk to the train, the grocery store, or the local elementary school.

And you know what? Lots of people can't ride their bikes through two feet of snow. They can't walk across an icy stretch of sidewalk, so they find a new means of getting to work. They take the el, or they find a new route. The need for adaptability is an occupational hazard of living in Chicago in winter. We all need a little ingenuity from time to time.

One of my new heroes is a guy who posted the following to our neighborhood list-serve, generally a hornet's nest for political infighting and ideological puffery, but now a home for this little gem:

I should give you fair warning. I shoveled off part of the monument [the famed statue in the center of the neighborhood] and it is now MINE. None of you are welcome on it or near it. If any of you question the veracity of this statement, as proof I left a Skittles wrapper there to hold my claim (shoveling is hard work and you burn a lot of calories). Also, if I find anyone's else's Skittles wrappers or other junk on my spot don't be surprised if they are set on fire.

And this spirit of levity leads me to share a fantasy of mine. There are some awfully nice chairs left in excavated, slushy parking spots. Witness Exhibits A, B, C, and D.

If I had more skill and more time, I'd be gathering up those chairs, then starting a business -- perhaps I'd call it Dibs -- of refinishing and reupholstering the discards, then selling them for cost into the living rooms where they belong. I figure I'd be cleaning up my neighborhood and turning this rotten practice into something good.

Guarding the Crosswalk

I used to hear people talk about their back trouble and feel terrible, of course, but not have any of my own reference points. That was until a few months ago. After a prolonged spell of what I thought was a pulled muscle, I learned I actually have a pronounced herniation between two vertebrae in my neck. Since January 3 I've had constant shooting pains down my shoulder and arm and some nagging tingling in my left hand and index finger.

This creates some major quality-of-life adjustments, not to mention low-grade depression, but since a blog isn't a journal I'll spare you the weepy details.

What I can say is this: I haven't been able to ride my bike since January 3. I haven't been able to exercise, enjoy a dinner out, or sleep on my stomach or side. I go to sleep in pain. I wake up in pain. But I'm adjusting. One thing I've started doing is walking the 45 minutes to work -- a little exercise, a little scenery. Plus a daily visit with my favorite crossing guard, there at the corner of Albany and Fullerton in her yellow slicker, stopping 6 lanes of traffic so pedestrians can get across.

If she doesn't love her job, you could've fooled me. Every day she offers up a heavily accented "Good morning!" or "Be careful, sweetie." Then she'll point to the same slushy pile at the mouth of the sidewalk, as if to say, "Don't slip. Take it slow."

There are hazards aplenty at that corner. Six full lanes of traffic on a route designated for semi trucks. Snow piled up so it makes the crosswalk impassable. That same snow turning to sheets of ice as it's packed down.

But the crossing guard is always there, making sure we don't fall off those cliffs of rye. Every last one of us -- schoolchildren, seniors, dogwalkers, people in wheelchairs, and plain old grown-ups like me -- is safe on her watch. She wouldn't stand for less.

People in Chicago talk about legendary bus drivers or el operators, with their affirmational messages and charming quirks. But my kudos go to the protectors of those of us who rely on the sidewalk. Hardy though we may be, we are sometimes fragile creatures.

Snowpocalypse 2011

People pitching in.

Kids reinventing space.



Sidewalks cleared for passersby.

Not a bad test of humanity. We passed.