Music in the Parks

A particularly late Friday night made for a lazier than usual Saturday, and, by extension, a fest-filled Sunday. I doubled up, visiting two parks--Wicker and Lincoln-- for the final day of each.

Having promised a friend I'd do Lincoln at night so as to see Sugar Ray (throwback!), I headed to Milwaukee Ave around 2 pm. Per fest fashion, the street was blocked off, forcing attendees to enter by way of a gate, inevitably being guilted in to the $10 donation (or is it an admission fee? It's all very hazy with these things). Once inside, I had the run of overstock bins set outside on the sidewalk outside the bigger stores, and perused the many craft stalls. We stumbled upon the techno stage where a mid afternoon dance party raged, complete with close-eyed dancing, head banging, and reverberating pavement.

Taste of Lincoln Ave certainly had its own dance party, though something tells me it was (unlike Wicker Park's) helped along by the fall of darkness. The bands at this fest were of the theatrical variety, from the 80s cover band (bedecked in full face paint, wigs, and black pleather), to the Too White Crew with its obviously ironic renditions of rap/hip hop classics like "Baby Got Back."

Sugar Ray was the cherry on top of this entertaining convection. His countless thank yous and reminders of his age complimented his 5 Red Bulls deep energy level nicely, moving even the most skeptical listeners to bop along to his summer-lovin lyrics.

Books

This weekend was the Newberry Library Book Fair, where the avid reader can can get great deals and the devoted collector can make great finds.
The library was impressive in itself, the kind of place books deserve to be housed. (Think historic- gilded banisters, marble floors, and vaulted ceilings.)
Because I went on Sunday, the inventory was thoroughly picked over. There wasn't much left in the way of current fiction, and the nonfiction titles remaining were mostly cheesy looking and obscure.
Luckily for me, the average used booksale peruser must not be especially interested in the authors of the "lost generation." I was able to scrounge up a biography a piece on Fitzgerald, Pound, and Mencken.
In the end, I didn't buy anything- even though all titles were half off in an attempt to clear out on the last day. For whatever reason I couldn't imagine myself reading the books I had picked up, and at the last minute I placed them on the reshelving table. As much as I like to think of myself as someone into used and old books, in truth, I guess I feel the same way about someone else's old books as I do about someone else's old clothes- not quite as appealing as new ones. Or maybe its that, at this point in my life it's neither practical nor afforable for me to collect books- for display, bragging rights, or other purposes. So, I stick to buying books that I REALLY want to read, not just the best that's left.

Some Pics from Michigan

Courtesy of Meg's Dad

Yet another first in Chicago

Last night a couple of friends and I went to Sluggers dueling piano bar in Wrigleyville for a drink or two. Word on the street was that Billy Joel, who played last night at Wrigley Field with Elton John, was going there late-night. I didn’t have much faith in our chances of a Joel sighting, but I wanted to check out the place anyway.

I didn’t realize that piano bars are a culture unto themselves. We entered the bar on the ground level and were directed upstairs for the piano room. The party was already well underway, as a crowd encircled an elevated stage in the center of the room, on which sat two musicians pounding away on two facing pianos.

The atmosphere was lively and energetic; in fact, it was one of the most content and happy crowds I have ever seen. There was a sense of camaraderie that I have never experienced at any other bar, as patrons pooled together dollar bills in an attempt to bribe the pianists to play their requests.

How the musicians know both the chords and words to so many songs is truly beyond me. They played everything from CCR to Kelly Clarkson, and never missed a beat.

As added entertainment, extending from the center of the pianos was a dancing pole, which more than once was put to (not necessarily good) use.

Billy never showed up—to be honest, we probably just didn’t stay late enough—but I got to see a unique strain of Chicago nightlife. I’m not saying I’ll make it a weekly outing, but for special occasions, guests in town, or on a night when I’m feeling a particular craving for a wild sing-along, I’ll be hitting up Sluggers or one of the other famous Chi-town piano bars. 

As a side note, Sluggers is truly an impressive establishment (though again, not a place I'll become a regular). In addition to the piano set-up it also has indoor batting cages and Chucky-Cheese-esque games. Disneyland for adults?  

Yummmm

Though this posting may put me over the line into food blogger territory, I couldn't help myself. The NYT has provided an incredible list of 101 DELICIOUS looking salads. I'm fighting the urge to go to the grocery store and stock up on ingredients this very minute. I figured I'd go through and pick out the best ones, but when I found myself jotting down every other number, I gave up. 

Mediterranean in the Midwest

My favorite food would have to be fish, and there is nothing like a super-fresh catch. Unfortunately, now I am living in a completely landlocked location. Luckily (and I'm not sure if this is a well-known fact or not) Trader Joe's has an excellent frozen fish selection, and it always manages to taste great. 

Last night, Marie and I played amateur chefs and prepared our favorite fish dish. We used to make it all the time at school, and it works with any white fish. We usually use tilapia or red snapper, but last night we made it with orange roughy and it still tasted great. It goes well with sauteed spinach, prepared with a little bit of garlic. Here's the recipe for two people, roughly (my cooking is not an exact science): 

2 filets white fish

2-3 Roma tomatoes, sliced thick

1/2 small white onion, sliced 

1/3 c. Kalamata olives, pitted and halved

juice of 1 lemon

3-4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil 

salt and pepper to taste

Preheat oven to 375

In a medium bowl, combine tomatoes, onions, olives, lemon juice, oil, and salt and pepper

With filets in a baking dish (preferably a small one so that there is not much extra space), spoon mixture over them

Optional- place a few lemon slices over top of filets and mixture--it looks nice! 

Bake for about 20 minutes, depending on the thickness of the filets and the type of fish you use; I typically just keep checking it. 

Up in Michigan

I spent this past weekend in Michigan at my friend Meg’s family’s Lake house. Not that I have any complaints about Chicago, or anything I feel the need to “get away” from, but it was a pleasant escape to a scenic and fun spot.

Of course, it wouldn’t be an adventure without its fair share of mishaps. Marie and I set out around noon, expecting a quick hour and a half drive. The directions seemed straight forward enough.

By the time we were passing Sox stadium we had already been in the car for 45 minutes due to traffic. But that was nothing compared to the gridlock we got into once we were in Indiana. I just kept wondering to myself where all the people could possibly be going.

And though my first impression of Gary, Indiana, from the drive out to Chicago, was enough to make me never want to go back, we made the command decision to get off at the city’s exit to get gas, regroup, stock up on provisions, etc. I ended up getting some alternate directions from one of the guys who worked in the rest stop, and after weighing the options (sitting for God knows how long in bumper-to-bumper traffic or following the advice of a strange man and risking getting lost in the neighborhoods of smelly Gary) I decided on the latter. The scenery that followed will not soon be forgotten. We passed all variety of yard sales (including Bernie’s, which exclusively sold lawn ornaments), billboards screaming advertisements for the “Cheapest Cigarettes Around,” and buildings that claimed to be real estate agencies that were themselves foreclosed upon, to name a few.

Four hours after our Chicago departure, we arrived at Meg’s. But, the thirty-six hours that followed—from meeting her charismatic and hilarious relatives, to attending a party in a sand dune, to the 4 am dance party complete with conga line, to the marathon team effort at solving the NY Times Crossword puzzle, to communally devouring seven 14-inch long subs with her cousins—were well worth the long and frustrating drive. 

The whole scene reminded me of the movie Dirty Dancing. It was the kind of simple, outdoorsy, wholesome family-fun, type place that is, I think, very hard to come by. When it came time to leave last night—after watching an unforgettable sunset—I was surprised to find myself resisting return to bustling Chicago and my not-so-busy life there. It was almost like a time warp that I wasn’t quite ready to leave. 

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

I think I have a better-than-average memory, but I found myself feeling unfamiliar with much of the latest Harry Potter movie. I didn't have the constant deja vu feeling that I did with the other installments. Could this be because Half-Blood Prince was the ugly duckling of the series? I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that, during the summer when I voraciously devoured books 4-7, there was no such lull in my obsession. As a matter of fact, I think I particularly liked Book 6 (it has an especially important climactic moment by which I identify it (I won't spoil it)). That leaves the film adaptation to blame. And, honestly, it's to be expected this far along in the series. The books get longer and longer, and though I admire the loyalty to the text, a three hour movie can get a little tedious. But I think the real issue was that some of the objects, spells, potions, creatures, physical feats, etc., of Book 6, just disappointed on the big screen. My imagination must have done a better job than Director David Yates and his crew. 

One advantage over the previous HP movies: the teenage wizards are finally getting old enough for a little romance :) 

Check out the trailer. 

Clyde's in Georgetown Inspired a Song?

I haven't familiarized myself with the Chicago radio stations yet. I usually just scan around a little,  end up leaving it on any station that's playing a half decent song, and then fifteen minutes later have a moment of, "What the hell am I listening to?" and quickly smack the scan button again. So today, while driving home from seeing Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (review to come shortly), I wasn't really paying attention when all the sudden I hear the words "Washington, DC" and "a restaurant called Clyde's." Of course, I quickly turned it up and tuned in to hear what this was all about. Apparently (and I have a feeling many of you will find this just as questionable and surprising as I did), the well-known song, "Afternoon Delight," was written about an especially delicious and memorable shrimp dish (???) at the Georgetown bar/restaurant. I like Clyde's as much as the next person--their food is generally enjoyable and the atmosphere is very "Georgetown"--but inspirational? Really? I guess I always thought that song was more about...well, you know. Obviously, as soon as I got home (correction, as soon as I got to my internet hot spot, Caribou Coffee) I quickly googled the song title to find out if this was legitimate. The jury's out it seems. Note the "reference" contesting the Clyde's menu item's role in the song title.  Listen to the song, here, and see if you pick up on any food references. Or, anyone willing to serve as a field researcher to try the dish and help settle this issue, let me know. 

Chicago Taxi Drivers: Buy a Map!

For most of my college experience, the taxi situation in DC was terrible. Zone system, anyone? I remember many a two minute cab ride that, because we "crossed zones," cost upwards of $10. Thankfully, cabbies were recently forced to get on the meter system, along with the rest of the United States. But I do not recall EVER getting in a DC cab, telling the driver where I needed to go, and him either a) not knowing the street or b) driving around aimlessly PRETENDING that he knew it, only to admit $6 into the cab ride that he didn't. 

Both of these things happened to me last night in Chicago. 

It's funny too, because my destination--a friend's house who was have a small get-together--is absolutely within walking distance. Had I been going there during the day, I wouldn't have bothered with a cab. But given the hour and my footwear--3 inch heels--a quick cab ride seemed the way to go. 

Unfortunately, the first cab we got in to did not recognize the street name. I guess he really wanted our business, because instead of letting us out of the cab easily, he shoved his cell phone in my hand, instructing me to talk to his dispatcher (whom I wouldn't have been able to understand, even if the reception hadn't been spotty). Needless to say, we decided pretty quickly that we didn't want to deal with a clueless cabbie and hopped out. 

Our cab ride home a couple hours later was also a snafu. How unlucky. This time though--and I am partially to blame since I wasn't paying attention--the driver headed about 5 minutes in the entirely wrong direction, before tentatively asking, "This is it, no?" Ummm, nooo. I said WEST MELROSE. Not sure what the issue was here--he didn't hear me, or had a momentary navigational lapse, or was on some sort of substance--but when we finally pulled up in front of our building, he courteously knocked $5 off the charge. They might not be Magellans, but at least the Chicago cabbies are gentleman.  

A typical weird Tribune story...

About a distant relative perhaps?

A Vain Affair?

Vanity Fair is up there on my list of favorite magazines. It's certainly not the one I pick up in the nail salon, or take to the beach, or read while in front of the TV. I usually grab it in an airport, though it inevitably takes longer than the plane ride to finish. The attention level required to read and process one of its 5+ page articles is higher than it is for the average tabloid or women's mag. But, on the rare occasion I do pluck it off the newsstand, I always end up wishing I had a subscription. 

Attracted by gorgeous, smiling Heath Ledger on the cover, I bought the August issue in Dulles Airport on my trip back to Chicago. One of the first articles I read encapsulates, I think, the appeal of the magazine, while at the same time highlights the limits of its clientele. In it, James Wolcott laments the blandness of electronic libraries like the Kindle (for books) and the Ipod (for music). A self-proclaimed "culture snob," the writer unashamedly admits to the pretentious element of collecting and displaying what we read and listen to, and wonders how that vanity will be satisfied as we move towards pure white gadgets of plastic and metal as the homes of our "cultural" collections. I don't think it's a stretch to assume that the inclusion of such an article suggests a certain level of agreement by the magazine's readership. That makes me wonder then, how many Vanity Fair subscription holders do with it precisely what Wolcott claims is a dying practice: display it proudly on their coffee tables or nightstands to show just how "cultured" they are. 

Casa Central

Since I got back to Chicago on Monday, I have been relatively busy--sending in applications, meeting with some great contacts, making phone calls--and have not had as much internet time as usual. But I'm determined not to let my blog suffer from our lack of home internet access, so I stopped by the library on my walk home from an interview, even though I really wanted to go home and get a snack! 

Yesterday I had a meeting with a woman in  Resource Development at Casa Central, a Hispanic social services agency that I am going to begin volunteering with. Since I got to Chicago I have been looking for volunteer opportunities, especially ones that would combine my interest in working with children and my Spanish language ability. I haven't really had the opportunity to practice speaking since I got back from abroad--I didn't take a Spanish class last semester :( -- and I really don't want to lose it. I stumbled upon Casa Central in my internet research, and after my meeting yesterday, I'm shocked that it took me so long to find. It's an amazing organization, with dozens of programs, serving all levels of the Hispanic community. 

I am going to be helping out with their Adult Wellness Center, which is a program for seniors that goes on every day from 9 am to 3 pm. At the Center, the seniors are provided with breakfast, lunch, and snack, and take part in arts and crafts, as well as aerobics. It seems like a great opportunity for elderly members of the Hispanic community to get together and to stay active and healthy, in both body and mind. I'm going to be helping out there, talking with the seniors and helping organize the activities. 

 

On the flip side, it's great because I will get to practice my Spanish. Initially, I thought that I'd like to work with kids, but the woman I met with made a good point--the kids mostly speak English. She assured me that if Spanish practice was something I wanted, that I would get much more working with the adults. She also mentioned that a small number of the participants had expressed interest in learning English, and had started a kind of ESL group within the program, working with English-speaking volunteers. When she asked if that was something I might be interested in, I jumped at the chance. 

So if all goes well with my drug test and background check, and as long as I don't have TB, I'll be starting up with Casa when I get back from Montana with my family. Who knows, maybe the volunteer role could turn into a staff position with them; they have a newsletter, and a website, and have to write grants, and I'm sure they could always use more PR and outreach.  

Only the Good Die Young (and only the great draw 41,000, and play for 3 hours at 60+)

I’m at Dulles Airport, waiting for my flight back to Chicago after a weekend at home in Maryland for my mom’s birthday. Back in the spring, my Dad and I decided to get her tickets to the inaugural concert at Nationals Park-- Billy Joel and Elton John. So, Saturday night, all six of us crammed onto the Metro (and I mean squeezed—due to track maintenance, trains were only running every fifteen minutes which made for a super packed house of aggressive travelers) and headed down to Anacostia.

When we got there, we realized that the system for getting down to the field was going about as smoothly for this novice concert venue as getting metro cards had gone for my Dad. Apparently, we had to jump through several hoops to get into our seats down on the field (including having our tickets marked, getting purple wristbands, making our way to section 110, where we would get said markings and wristbands checked by guards). The system was completely inefficient, not to mention frustrating. In the process, I realized that concert-goers might be some of the scariest people on earth—from the stampedes and angry shouting of fellow field ticket holders, to the angry glares and rude words of those non-fielders that we had to gingerly cross in front of.

The crowd was surprisingly heterogeneous as age goes, but it was undoubtedly the whitest, WASPiest concert I have ever been to (video coming soon), and certainly that Nationals Park has ever seen. It was also the largest that the new stadium has ever, and probably will ever hope to attract.

Both Billy and Elton were showing their age—Joel in his profuse sweating and round frame, and John in his octave-lower-than-normal singing. But both had undeniable stage presence, and as one who missed out on their glory days, I can say that even if they are only mere ghosts of the artists that they once were, that’s pretty impressive.

 

Why "Windy"?

I went to another Cubs game yesterday, and once again, the weather wasn't exactly cooperative. Remarking on the brutal wind that continuously kept what would otherwise have been home runs in the park, I said to the Chicagoan next to me that other teams must really hate to come play in the "Windy City." There I was, thinking I was making some astute comment, when he smirks and tells me that the nickname has nothing to do with the weather. In an effort to prevent anyone else from being in the same embarrassing situation, I decided to do a little research on the misleading moniker. 

Apparently, "windy" refers not to the blustery-ness of the weather, but of the city inhabitants themselves. (For those who, like me, weren't aware that a person could be "full of bluster," here's the definition). Particularly though, it's the city's politicians who are responsible for this nickname, as they tend to be "long-winded and boastful." 

I still think Chicago is windier than the average city. 

I also got a kick out of the plethora of "minor nicknames"--a city has to have a lot of character to have so many.  

Dining Deals

A couple of weeks ago, Marie and I bought a deck of cards. Not for playing Solitaire, or Kings, or Poker (though in the absence of cable TV or internet, we could probably use those as well). Instead, we paid $20 for a full deck of restaurant cards, each offering $10 off. Without a doubt, it’s a good deal—all we have to do is visit three and we will have made up for it. But more than that, it’s a fun way make sure we keep experimenting with dining choices. Finally, it’s for a good cause—all the restaurants are chef-owned, and a portion of the proceeds from the card sales goes to a really interesting charity.

So, Saturday night, we decided to try out restaurant-card-roulette for the first time. We shuffled and picked a random card. Unfortunately, this one had three dollar signs, and we had to throw it back (even with the $10 discount there was no way that was going to work). The next one that surfaced was a sushi place that looked good, but I wasn’t in the mood for raw fish. (OK, so maybe our adventurousness is a little tempered). Finally we landed one that seemed like the perfect match, Trattoria Roma: one dollar sign, Italian, and in nearby Old Town.

Tiny (no more than 15 tables) and inconspicuous (we almost walked by it), Trattoria Roma is the perfect place to go to satisfy a craving for salty-garlicky-olive-oily-starchy Italian food. The menu is handwritten--and in some places illegible--because it changes daily. It took me about three seconds to decide what I wanted—tilapia with capers, olives, tomatoes and grilled vegetables—and luckily, Marie was on the same page. The card may have said $, but the prices aren’t cheap, so it’s a good thing their portions are generous enough to share. The wine list was short, but it had everything covered, and the service was friendly and helpful. 

Great Cover Band

These guys played at a bar in Lincoln Park on Friday night. I love cover bands and this one was especially talented. Their repertoire was impressively broad, they did it all--from the standard 70s and 80s numbers that are always covered, to some (somewhat irritating) country songs for the 4th of July, to an awesome Michael Jackson medley, and even some Britney Spears and Outkast. It didn't hurt that they had three capable singers, though they could use some reorganizing--the lead vocalist definitely doesn't have the best voice. No complaints though; "Sorry For Partying" provided a solid two and a half hours of great party songs and the crowd was dancing and loving it. 

Beautiful Sunday on the River and the Lake

My Wrigley Debut

Under an ominous sky and a pestering light drizzle, I ventured in to the “Friendly Confines” for the first time on Independence Day. The park was packed—a sea of appropriate red, white, and blue—despite the weather. But for Cubs fans, there was nothing to celebrate on our nation’s birthday. The loads of Milwaukeeans made the Cub’s 11-2 loss all the more sour (and I’ll be honest, we ducked out in the 7^th inning).

Poor playing aside, I’m a big fan of Wrigley Field. The new Nationals Park may be nice, but compared to the Cubbies’ home field, it seems plasticy, even gaudy. Small, even cozy, no seats are bad seats in Wrigley (we were in the 200 section, safely under cover, but I would have been just as happy in the 500s or the bleachers). And I’m a big fan of two Wrigley traditions: 1) limiting music to the organ (they don’t mess around with “We Will Rock You” or any other “pump-up” tune); and 2) throwing back the opposing team’s home run balls (successfully walking the line between badass and unsportsmanlike). 

My Second at Second City: Just Enjoyable

Friday night I saw a show at The Second City, a famous Chicago comedy theater, whose alumni include Bill Murray, Jim Belushi, and Tina Fey. This was my second time seeing a show there; when I visited in March I saw America, All Better, which poked fun at the Obamamania and we’ve-reached-the-pot-of-gold-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow mentality of the year surrounding the election. Unfortunately, the show Friday night had neither the thematic coherence nor broad appeal of America, All Better.

As it happens, I wasn’t even sure exactly what show we were seeing until it began and one of the actors told the audience. When I ordered tickets over the phone, I had asked for Brother Can You Spare Some Change?, which, from my understanding, was in the same political satire vein as America, All Better.  The operator informed me that Brother had recently been re-vamped and was now known as Studs Terkel’s Not Working. The fact that I had to ask her who Studs Terkel was should have been my signal that I wouldn’t understand half the jokes in the show.

That’s not to say it didn’t have its fair share of timely and sharp political and social commentary. One sketch, featuring an Iowan husband and wife lamenting the influx of “California Gays” into their state, was particularly funny (and not a little taboo). Even more politically incorrect (read: hilarious) was one which encouraged the adoption of “regular black babies,” and criticized the faddish obsession with acquiring more “exotic” offspring. Another involved the actors playing various presidents throughout the centuries—from George Washington to Obama—and it had its moments. Perhaps the best parts of the show were the audience participation sections, and mostly because, for whatever reason, the selected audience members were either outrageous or patently uncooperative. This made for an unexpectedness that had the crowd rolling. 

The Priest and the Medium

This book is about one of my favorite professors at Georgetown and his wife, who is a certified psychic and medium. From what I understand, it's the story of their meeting, which is a story I have heard several times from Dr. Knoll. I'm a little hazy on the chronology and exactly how it happened, but it was something along the lines of: he was taking some sort of hiatus from his training for the priesthood (I'm not really sure how that works, but I'm sure the book will explain) when a friend set him up with this woman, who turned out to be, as he told us a thousand times, his soulmate. And though I do know a few doubters, from what I've seen her "powers" are completely legitimate. She does "dowsing" and finds oil, has worked for the government, and I have personally seen her action--aura-reading, communicating with spirits, etc. I haven't read it yet myself, but Dr. Knoll and his wife are definitely intriguing, and wonderfully unique, so I imagine, if the author is any good at all, that it will be a good read.