On Chicago's (perfect) grid system: "I was driving in Newark and got lost, so I pulled over at a Dunkin Donuts, hoping there would be a policeman around. Sure enough, there were four cops inside. They told me to go back out and take four rights...After I gave them a confused and quizzical look, they asked me, 'What's wrong?' I said, well, where I come from, taking four rights would put me exactly where I started! They said, 'No no, it doesn't work that way here. You must be from Chicago.'"
At the Culinary Historians meeting: "Our meeting today falls between the two high holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippor, so I thought it'd be appropriate to mention that Jonathan Goldsmith is not only a certified pizzaiolo miaker, he is also a circumcised pizzaiolo maker, so you know he's a cut above the rest!"
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Zombies Attack Chicago!
Last weekend, Wicker Park played host to a massive band of roving zombies. The horde of undead had collectively risen and come out for a Michael Jackson Thriller Zombie Walk, an event one part flash mob, one part killer dance moves, one part gore. When Melissa jokingly suggested going ("Check out this facebook event...not to say that we should go"), my only question was, "Why aren't we going?" So on Sat night, I found myself in a bathroom, dousing my hair with talcum powder and applying circles under my eyes with the appropriate rest-in-unpeace zeal. The end result looked something like this:
To further prepare, I also spent some time analyzing the Thriller dance. Actually, there seems to be a cottage industry of instructional videos that show you how to get the perfect blend of Jackson-finesse and jutting, angular movements. My personal favorite was this 80s (parody?) video of "Totally Rad Dances with Dancing Kim," in which the narrator talks about how the Thriller dance is "totally cool" and she is "totally obsessed" with it. If you are looking for a more accurate version of the choreography though, I recommend this 40-part video series with helpful mnemonics for each dance move. I can now do the March Booty Swim!
At this point we were running 15 minutes late, and racing to get to the meeting point of Wicker Park. I mentally surveyed our options for the rest of the night should we not find the zombie horde; what bars could we hang out inconspicuously at with outstretched claws?
Luckily, as we were walking down Damen, we were greeted with the sound of howls and screams in the night. All of the sudden, we were in the midst of a mass of people who looked something like this:
There were definitely a few confused pedestrians who got caught in the zombie invasion. One guy said to his friend, "And this is why we live in the suburbs." (Then he pretty much put on a shirt that said "I am a square.") Actually, the event invitation made sure to emphasize a few ground rules, the first one being "No touching of pedestrians!" Also, "Do not drip blood on the sidewalks!"
We continued down Ashland towards the Polish Triangle, hooting at cab drivers, banging fists on bus windows and reaching outstretched claws to people who had otherwise been having a peaceful al fresco dinner. At first, we tried to stay on the sidewalks, but as the crowds grew in size and unruliness, the zombie mob ended up blocking street traffic and intersections. It was like being at Critical Mass, only with fewer bikes and more blood. (Wait, scratch that, there's plenty of blood at Critical Mass too.) And for hipster-approved Irony, there was even an Anti-Zombie Task Force of people clothed in black leather waving batons, trying to arrest and control the zombie horde.
After looping back to the Damen/Milwaukee intersection, we milled around in front of the Wicker Park Fest stage, until a security guard tried to shoo us out of the street. Someone muttered, "Yeah? There's 700 of us and we don't have to go anywhere!" Then, a bike with a stereo system trailing it pulled up to the front of the crowd, and on cue, we all began to dance.
Dancing to Thriller in the middle of the moonlit street in sync with hundreds of people dressed up as zombies was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
At the end of the night, it was pointed out to me in the middle of 7-11 that there was a bloody hand print on the back of my shirt. Grr, and I really liked this shirt too! If it doesn't come out in the wash, I am going to personally hunt down the perpetrator and make them wish they were undead. I have no idea when it happened or who did it (was it the guy that I gave a fake name to?), but let's just say the Thriller Zombie Walk left an indelible imprint on my life.
To further prepare, I also spent some time analyzing the Thriller dance. Actually, there seems to be a cottage industry of instructional videos that show you how to get the perfect blend of Jackson-finesse and jutting, angular movements. My personal favorite was this 80s (parody?) video of "Totally Rad Dances with Dancing Kim," in which the narrator talks about how the Thriller dance is "totally cool" and she is "totally obsessed" with it. If you are looking for a more accurate version of the choreography though, I recommend this 40-part video series with helpful mnemonics for each dance move. I can now do the March Booty Swim!At this point we were running 15 minutes late, and racing to get to the meeting point of Wicker Park. I mentally surveyed our options for the rest of the night should we not find the zombie horde; what bars could we hang out inconspicuously at with outstretched claws?
Luckily, as we were walking down Damen, we were greeted with the sound of howls and screams in the night. All of the sudden, we were in the midst of a mass of people who looked something like this:
There were definitely a few confused pedestrians who got caught in the zombie invasion. One guy said to his friend, "And this is why we live in the suburbs." (Then he pretty much put on a shirt that said "I am a square.") Actually, the event invitation made sure to emphasize a few ground rules, the first one being "No touching of pedestrians!" Also, "Do not drip blood on the sidewalks!"
We continued down Ashland towards the Polish Triangle, hooting at cab drivers, banging fists on bus windows and reaching outstretched claws to people who had otherwise been having a peaceful al fresco dinner. At first, we tried to stay on the sidewalks, but as the crowds grew in size and unruliness, the zombie mob ended up blocking street traffic and intersections. It was like being at Critical Mass, only with fewer bikes and more blood. (Wait, scratch that, there's plenty of blood at Critical Mass too.) And for hipster-approved Irony, there was even an Anti-Zombie Task Force of people clothed in black leather waving batons, trying to arrest and control the zombie horde.After looping back to the Damen/Milwaukee intersection, we milled around in front of the Wicker Park Fest stage, until a security guard tried to shoo us out of the street. Someone muttered, "Yeah? There's 700 of us and we don't have to go anywhere!" Then, a bike with a stereo system trailing it pulled up to the front of the crowd, and on cue, we all began to dance.
Dancing to Thriller in the middle of the moonlit street in sync with hundreds of people dressed up as zombies was one of the most surreal experiences of my life.
At the end of the night, it was pointed out to me in the middle of 7-11 that there was a bloody hand print on the back of my shirt. Grr, and I really liked this shirt too! If it doesn't come out in the wash, I am going to personally hunt down the perpetrator and make them wish they were undead. I have no idea when it happened or who did it (was it the guy that I gave a fake name to?), but let's just say the Thriller Zombie Walk left an indelible imprint on my life.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
To the Southside and Back
There are those who look at me and see a smallish Asian girl, with glasses and an air-conditioned desk job, and might be inclined to think that I am far from being a locked out gangsta, set trippin' banger. Well, I am here to disabuse you of the notion that I have no street cred, because I have officially seen the Southside of Chicago. And I don't mean Kenwood (where the Obama home is) or Hyde Park (Univ. of Chicago hosts the nation's largest private police force). I crossed the Midway Plaisance and survived, with all vital organs intact and no wallets mugged.
I only have anecdotal evidence for this, but I assert that the city of Chicago is the most racially segregated in the country. It is absurd how neighborhoods on the Northside seemingly have no minority residents, while large swaths of the South and West sides are essentially black and Hispanic ghettos. There is essentially no mixed housing. In addition, public transportation routes are designed in such a way that traveling to and from the Southside is time-consuming and difficult. Chicago's local government being what it is, I have no doubt that this was purposely done by the political powers that be, to further separate and divide the city. Needless to say, nice girls generally do not travel to the Southside on a lark. Then, what on earth was I doing there?
The adventure started when I kept reading about Soul Vegetarian East, an old restaurant on the Southside run by Black Hebrew Israelites and specializing in vegan cooking. I mean, given the rarity of vegetarian restaurants in Chicago, and the allure of alt-history religious trappings, how could you resist this combination? Besides, the menu was predominantly soul food, and I was curious as to how well you could possibly do soul food sans meat or butter.
Somehow I was able to convince Katherine and Melissa that this was worth a trip to 75th St. Moreover, I suggested a post-dinner trip to Rainbow Cone, another traditional Southside institution. This is at 92nd and Western, which under normal circumstances is not particularly close. However, since we were already that far south and probably never returning again, this would really be the only opportunity we'd have to see it. Oh, and remember how public transportation sucks in this area? Since getting from Soul Vegetarian to Rainbow Cone would require a ridiculous number of buses and transfers, we opted to bike the 6-mile distance in between. After dark, on a weekend night: the prime time for gang-related violence. Ain't no thang.
Over the course of the journey, heads turned at the sight of three young, non-black women pedaling bikes down the street. We were asked where we had come from, as if people wanted to make sure we weren't lost. One woman stopped in the middle of crossing the street and yelled at us, "Ya'll be careful now!" We thanked her as we sped past. One man tried to reverse-racially profile us, and berated us as being University of Chicago students who were about to "go back to Hyde Park and sit on the internet." Suffice it to say, we stuck out like the Rocky Mountains. All this for some ice cream.
I will say that though I never felt threatened, I often felt uncomfortable, and I've done some searching as to why. Was it because I wasn't used to being in an all-black neighborhood? Would I have felt as uneasy in Humboldt Park (a predominantly Puerto Rican area)? We biked through some parts of Chatham, home to the infamous Roland Burris and according to Wikipedia, predominantly middle-class. The streets were quiet and lined with one-story bungalows, much like any other neighborhood, and yet I still fought to quell panic whenever a car slowed beside us, or someone passed next to us on the sidewalk. How does it feel to be a young black male walking around say, Winnetka (a wealthy northern suburb)? Has there ever been a case of reverse white-flight, where whites moved into minority neighborhoods en masse?
Then suddenly, as we crossed to the other side of the railroad tracks, 95th Street suddenly became "safe." Words cannot express the wave of relief I felt as a Borders, Panera Bread and Gamestop came into view. We were in Beverly, a heavily Irish-American neighborhood, home of the annual Southside St. Patrick's Day Parade and Chicago's 3rd highest median income. Rainbow Cone was frequented by a diverse crowd of middle-aged parents with small children, goth teens and blue-collar men. The suburban normality was jarring.
Here's the route we took last night from Soul Vegetarian to Rainbow Cone. Total distance: 5.6 miles. In retrospect, it would've been shorter to take 87th street west, but then we would have missed the scenic part of Halsted and 95th...The colored flags indicate locations of murders in Chicago in 2009 thus far. You can also see that our end point at Rainbow Cone is in a decently well-to-do neighborhood, across the street from a country club.
Getting home posed another problem as none of us were particularly keen on biking all the way back north. The closest train station was the red line 95th/Dan Ryan stop, the southern terminus of the line. For those unfamiliar with Chicago, I will mention that prior to this, the only first-hand story I'd heard about the 95th St stop was from JT, who said that she'd fallen asleep and mistakenly gotten off there once. After leaving the station, she tried to bolt into the McDonald's across the street in a panic. Unfortunately, it was the type of McDonald's where customers have to be buzzed into the restaurant. The clerks behind the counter were ROFLing at the sight of this clearly lost white girl.
Putting that aside, we gamely opted to bike to the 95th station, and had crossed back over into the seedier side of town when my bike rolled over a thin sheet of metal with a loud pop. Egads, a flat tire. I had a spare tube and pump on me, so I could have tried fixing it, but this wasn't exactly the type of location I wanted to linger in. We decided to simply walk the rest of the way to the station, and luckily this only turned out to be three or so blocks. Somehow, being on a moving bike makes me feel invincible while I feel completely vulnerable as a pedestrian. In retrospect, I really should have brought my pepper spray.
I've no regrets about exploring the Southside, however with the amount of unsolicited attention we attracted, it would be foolhardy to go back again. It amazes me that one of the richest neighborhoods in Chicago is separated by the thinnest of margins from super sketchy, impoverished urban blight. Beverly is surrounded by predominantly black neighborhoods that were predominantly white until the '60s. Why was this neighborhood able to hold on to its white population?
And for reference, this is the full map of YTD 2009 homicides in Chicago. From the map, it is clear that incidents happen disproportionately on the south and west sides of the city.
I only have anecdotal evidence for this, but I assert that the city of Chicago is the most racially segregated in the country. It is absurd how neighborhoods on the Northside seemingly have no minority residents, while large swaths of the South and West sides are essentially black and Hispanic ghettos. There is essentially no mixed housing. In addition, public transportation routes are designed in such a way that traveling to and from the Southside is time-consuming and difficult. Chicago's local government being what it is, I have no doubt that this was purposely done by the political powers that be, to further separate and divide the city. Needless to say, nice girls generally do not travel to the Southside on a lark. Then, what on earth was I doing there?
The adventure started when I kept reading about Soul Vegetarian East, an old restaurant on the Southside run by Black Hebrew Israelites and specializing in vegan cooking. I mean, given the rarity of vegetarian restaurants in Chicago, and the allure of alt-history religious trappings, how could you resist this combination? Besides, the menu was predominantly soul food, and I was curious as to how well you could possibly do soul food sans meat or butter.
Somehow I was able to convince Katherine and Melissa that this was worth a trip to 75th St. Moreover, I suggested a post-dinner trip to Rainbow Cone, another traditional Southside institution. This is at 92nd and Western, which under normal circumstances is not particularly close. However, since we were already that far south and probably never returning again, this would really be the only opportunity we'd have to see it. Oh, and remember how public transportation sucks in this area? Since getting from Soul Vegetarian to Rainbow Cone would require a ridiculous number of buses and transfers, we opted to bike the 6-mile distance in between. After dark, on a weekend night: the prime time for gang-related violence. Ain't no thang.
Over the course of the journey, heads turned at the sight of three young, non-black women pedaling bikes down the street. We were asked where we had come from, as if people wanted to make sure we weren't lost. One woman stopped in the middle of crossing the street and yelled at us, "Ya'll be careful now!" We thanked her as we sped past. One man tried to reverse-racially profile us, and berated us as being University of Chicago students who were about to "go back to Hyde Park and sit on the internet." Suffice it to say, we stuck out like the Rocky Mountains. All this for some ice cream.
I will say that though I never felt threatened, I often felt uncomfortable, and I've done some searching as to why. Was it because I wasn't used to being in an all-black neighborhood? Would I have felt as uneasy in Humboldt Park (a predominantly Puerto Rican area)? We biked through some parts of Chatham, home to the infamous Roland Burris and according to Wikipedia, predominantly middle-class. The streets were quiet and lined with one-story bungalows, much like any other neighborhood, and yet I still fought to quell panic whenever a car slowed beside us, or someone passed next to us on the sidewalk. How does it feel to be a young black male walking around say, Winnetka (a wealthy northern suburb)? Has there ever been a case of reverse white-flight, where whites moved into minority neighborhoods en masse?
Then suddenly, as we crossed to the other side of the railroad tracks, 95th Street suddenly became "safe." Words cannot express the wave of relief I felt as a Borders, Panera Bread and Gamestop came into view. We were in Beverly, a heavily Irish-American neighborhood, home of the annual Southside St. Patrick's Day Parade and Chicago's 3rd highest median income. Rainbow Cone was frequented by a diverse crowd of middle-aged parents with small children, goth teens and blue-collar men. The suburban normality was jarring.
Here's the route we took last night from Soul Vegetarian to Rainbow Cone. Total distance: 5.6 miles. In retrospect, it would've been shorter to take 87th street west, but then we would have missed the scenic part of Halsted and 95th...The colored flags indicate locations of murders in Chicago in 2009 thus far. You can also see that our end point at Rainbow Cone is in a decently well-to-do neighborhood, across the street from a country club.Getting home posed another problem as none of us were particularly keen on biking all the way back north. The closest train station was the red line 95th/Dan Ryan stop, the southern terminus of the line. For those unfamiliar with Chicago, I will mention that prior to this, the only first-hand story I'd heard about the 95th St stop was from JT, who said that she'd fallen asleep and mistakenly gotten off there once. After leaving the station, she tried to bolt into the McDonald's across the street in a panic. Unfortunately, it was the type of McDonald's where customers have to be buzzed into the restaurant. The clerks behind the counter were ROFLing at the sight of this clearly lost white girl.
Putting that aside, we gamely opted to bike to the 95th station, and had crossed back over into the seedier side of town when my bike rolled over a thin sheet of metal with a loud pop. Egads, a flat tire. I had a spare tube and pump on me, so I could have tried fixing it, but this wasn't exactly the type of location I wanted to linger in. We decided to simply walk the rest of the way to the station, and luckily this only turned out to be three or so blocks. Somehow, being on a moving bike makes me feel invincible while I feel completely vulnerable as a pedestrian. In retrospect, I really should have brought my pepper spray.
I've no regrets about exploring the Southside, however with the amount of unsolicited attention we attracted, it would be foolhardy to go back again. It amazes me that one of the richest neighborhoods in Chicago is separated by the thinnest of margins from super sketchy, impoverished urban blight. Beverly is surrounded by predominantly black neighborhoods that were predominantly white until the '60s. Why was this neighborhood able to hold on to its white population?
And for reference, this is the full map of YTD 2009 homicides in Chicago. From the map, it is clear that incidents happen disproportionately on the south and west sides of the city.Sunday, June 28, 2009
Chicago's "Tour Da Lakefront" Challenge
Once again, Chicago Park District is sponsoring a "Tour Da Lakefront" biking challenge this summer, from Memorial to Labor Day. The idea is to encourage people to bike the length of the lakefront bike path (or most of it), from Rainbow Park on (3111 E. 77th) to Margate Fieldhouse (4921 N. Marine). You check-in at one end of the trail to get a time stamp, then you have to present your card at the other end of the trail within 3 hours. Though the 18-mile length may seem intimidating, 3 hours is actually more than enough time to get from one end to the other. (Depending on traffic/wind speed, I generally bike 16-18 mph.) For your efforts, you will receive a free t-shirt and the satisfaction of knowing you've seen more of Chicago's lakefront than 95% of the population.
Now, this is fine and dandy, though I am a little worried that we are encouraging newbs to bike more on Chicago's most congested bike path. This can only cause additional biker rage. Also, as a purist, I feel that people should be forced to bike to the northern terminus of the lakefront trail (at Hollywood, another mile north), or you're not biking the entire length. However, I suppose that Margate Fieldhouse is the most convenient check-in point in the area.
Moving on. Though I've biked the lakefront path many times, I never got around to formally doing the "Tour Da Lakefront" challenge last summer. So, I decided to do it today, while attempting to improve the state of my tan lines. (My back pretty much has all of Michael Jackson's skin tones. Too soon?) I called Margate Fieldhouse to make sure they were open on Sundays, and they told me that the Rainbow Beach office was actually closed for the day, so I could bike north and check-in (by 4:30 pm), but if I biked south, it'd be purely for kicks and giggles. Fair enough. I didn't really care where I checked-in because I planned to bike both legs to get home.
A little over an hour later, I presented myself at Margate Fieldhouse. (Exit at Lawrence and take your first right to get there.) There were plenty of t-shirts left, though they were mostly in large sizes. After a bit of rummaging, the lady was able to find a medium, which of course, still looks ludicrously large on me. Oh well, I no longer have a dearth of cyling t-shirts in my wardrobe!
Now, this is fine and dandy, though I am a little worried that we are encouraging newbs to bike more on Chicago's most congested bike path. This can only cause additional biker rage. Also, as a purist, I feel that people should be forced to bike to the northern terminus of the lakefront trail (at Hollywood, another mile north), or you're not biking the entire length. However, I suppose that Margate Fieldhouse is the most convenient check-in point in the area.
Moving on. Though I've biked the lakefront path many times, I never got around to formally doing the "Tour Da Lakefront" challenge last summer. So, I decided to do it today, while attempting to improve the state of my tan lines. (My back pretty much has all of Michael Jackson's skin tones. Too soon?) I called Margate Fieldhouse to make sure they were open on Sundays, and they told me that the Rainbow Beach office was actually closed for the day, so I could bike north and check-in (by 4:30 pm), but if I biked south, it'd be purely for kicks and giggles. Fair enough. I didn't really care where I checked-in because I planned to bike both legs to get home.
A little over an hour later, I presented myself at Margate Fieldhouse. (Exit at Lawrence and take your first right to get there.) There were plenty of t-shirts left, though they were mostly in large sizes. After a bit of rummaging, the lady was able to find a medium, which of course, still looks ludicrously large on me. Oh well, I no longer have a dearth of cyling t-shirts in my wardrobe!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Why I Love Irv's Bike Shop
Mural from the facade of the Casa Juan Diego building.Caption at the bottom: Aqui estamos y aqui nos quedamos.
Translation: Here we are and here we stay.
Lately, I've been noticing that the Jolly Green Giant (my mountain bike) has been feeling under the weather. At first, it was simply a matter of gears not shifting smoothly or at all. That's ok, Chicago is flat! Then, as winter progressed, all kinds of squeaking and crunching noises started to chime in. Oh well, nothing a little extra lube can't fix, right? Finally, two days ago I noticed that my rear brake cable was slack. As in, there was a significant delay between the time I pressed down on the brakes and when the bike actually began slowing. That's when I decided it might be dangerous to continue ignoring the compounding ailments. I hauled ass to Irv's.
Irv's Bike Shop is my all-time favorite FLBS and the only true neighborhood bike shop in Chicago. Period. When you walk in, there will a bird on the counter, children ogling BMX bikes, hipsters carrying neon blue wheels, and an occasional dog underfoot gnawing on a bone. There may not be shining floor displays and it is often closer to go to Kozy's, but I will go out of my way to get to Irv's. Come to think of it, I have yet to meet anyone named Irv here, but I am on good terms with Henry. By that, I mean he invariably chews me out every time I walk in.
Me: So, my front derailleur isn't shifting any more...
Henry: When's the last time you greased it?
Me: Uhh, one month ago? Two months ago?
Henry: Ok, repeat after me: I will grease my chain once a week. I want you to say that 100 times before you leave! [Henry proceeds to clean, grease and fix my bike for me free of charge, and then shoos me out the door.]
This time, Henry began scrutinizing my bike and asked, "Have you ever given this an overhaul? You're going to need new brake pads, a new chain, cranks, chainrings, rear casette...We'll take out the cables and replace them with stainless steel ones so this doesn't happen again. Man, you have done a number on this bike! " I gave him a sheepish look and asked, "Ok, how much is all this going to cost?" He replied, "Oh, let's see, the cogs will be about $60, another $12 for brake pads, plus $1000 for labor...does that sound cool?" I grinned and said, "Totally fine."
For an additional bonus, Irv's is in Pilsen, a heavily Mexican neighborhood filled with tacquerias, cantinas and Mexican bakeries. All the chicharrónes (pork rinds) and chocoflan (combination flan and chocolate cake) that you could want! This meant that while I waited for my bike to be repaired, I hopped over to La Casa del Pueblo and picked up a dozen tamales for $10. (There are multiple varieties but I can't read the menu, so I've resorted to pointing at the sticker-adorned foil wrapped package that I want; yellow and green have been pretty good so far.) In recent months, there has been much debate over the continuing gentrification of Pilsen, and whether the influx of art galleries, coffee shops and hipsters will drive working-class residents out of the barrio (along with the gang warfare problems). On the side of a building, I was amused to see that someone had painted a yellow zoning sign labeled "Danger: Gentrification Zone."
Back at Irv's, the total damage came to $177.97. This is actually $70 more than I spent buying the bike to begin with, but I figure that I like this bike a lot and don't want to expend the effort of finding a new one. Besides, considering I've put next to no maintenance into this bike and a monthly CTA pass runs a little over $80, I'm still coming out ahead overall. The Jolly Green Giant is now running smooth like butter and faster than ever. Bring on the spring weather!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Rhapsody for Blue
A notice went out over the Chicago Opera mailing list that they were giving out free tickets to a benefit concert, and after looking over the star-studded list of performers, I jumped at the opportunity.
Rhapsody in Blue is a benefit concert for Blue Gargoyle Community Services, a nonprofit based in Hyde Park that focuses on literacy, tutoring and family counseling services. All of these services are provided free of charge. So naturally, the evening began with an introduction from Blue Gargoyle's director, Pamela Bozeman-Evans, who elegantly pleaded her case as she shook us down for donations. She told us that Blue Gargoyle serves over 1,300 families on the Southside and operates with a $3 million annual budget. And with the ongoing economic strain, 1 in 6 nonprofits in Illinois were slated to close by June, just when their aid was needed most desperately by the community. Please, could we spare some change? I caved and dropped a $5 bill in the basket.
On with the show. Merle Reskin Theater is mid-sized, but since the concert was not sold out, we were all seated fairly close to the stage. With rude black floorboards and corkboard risers, I was reminded of a high school auditorium. However, the extraordinarily intimate environment more than compensated for the austere surroundings. I could see every raised eyebrow and intake of breath, Aleksandra Kurzak's vibrating tongue and Rachel Barton Pine's flexing bicep muscles. Though the venue was much less grand than what they were accustomed to and no one was getting paid, you could see that every artist was still giving 110%.
The program was impressively long (about 3 hours) and focused primarily on operatic pieces, with some other fun, miscellaneous items in the mix. It included old favorites like "La donna è mobile" from Rigoletto and "Brindisi" (translation: drinking song) from La Traviata. (In fact, these are so popular that they are even arranged for the Cornell Chimes.) I thought "Ombra mai fù" from Xerxes sounded oddly familiar...then I realized that the music is more commonly known as Handel's "Largo." Apparently Handel wrote originally wrote the piece for an opera, which was a commercial failure. There were also some more obscure numbers (who's ever heard of Stolz's operetta Venus in Seide?), an African-American piece ("Deep River," by Samuel Coleridge Taylor, not to be confused with Samuel Taylor Coleridge), and a piece from Bernstein's Candide (in case you weren't aware, this includes my favorite overture of all time).
Ironically, the highlight of the concert was not a singer at all, but Chicago violinist Rachel Barton Pine. I might be in love. She opened with Sarasate's "Fantasy on Themes from Carmen." This (along with all the rest of Sarasate's compositions) is a tour-de-force in technical virtuousity. My jaw was dropping. Later, Pine returned with Massanet's "Méditation" from Thais. This is a beautifully lyrical piece that is unfortunately the only memorable part of the opera. The closing number was a "Chicago Medley" arranged by Pine, incorporating several kick-ass blues and jazz numbers named after our hometown. Finally, let's discuss the awesome gold sparkly low-cut dress that Pine was wearing. It was quite a break from the normally staid, all-black attire that one sees at classical performances.
Also, she has recorded several heavy metal albums and she uses Twitter: "What a great day, performing with Wagnerian opera star Petra Lang this afternoon, doing Spanish music with guitarist Rene Izquierdo tonight."
The master of ceremonies for the evening was Andrew Patner, a critic for WFMT, Chicago's classical station. At one point, he commented that he felt voice and dance were the most democratic of arts disciplines, since you need neither fancy equipment nor expensive lessons to hone and develop those talents (though money obviously helps). This has a good deal of populist appeal to it, but I wonder if it's actually true. Is your average opera company or dance troupe more international, more socioeconomically varied or more ethnically diverse than your average orchestra or theater company?
At the end of the concert, they announced that we'd raised nearly $7,000 by passing the basket during the show. Here's to fighting illiteracy!
Rhapsody in Blue is a benefit concert for Blue Gargoyle Community Services, a nonprofit based in Hyde Park that focuses on literacy, tutoring and family counseling services. All of these services are provided free of charge. So naturally, the evening began with an introduction from Blue Gargoyle's director, Pamela Bozeman-Evans, who elegantly pleaded her case as she shook us down for donations. She told us that Blue Gargoyle serves over 1,300 families on the Southside and operates with a $3 million annual budget. And with the ongoing economic strain, 1 in 6 nonprofits in Illinois were slated to close by June, just when their aid was needed most desperately by the community. Please, could we spare some change? I caved and dropped a $5 bill in the basket.
On with the show. Merle Reskin Theater is mid-sized, but since the concert was not sold out, we were all seated fairly close to the stage. With rude black floorboards and corkboard risers, I was reminded of a high school auditorium. However, the extraordinarily intimate environment more than compensated for the austere surroundings. I could see every raised eyebrow and intake of breath, Aleksandra Kurzak's vibrating tongue and Rachel Barton Pine's flexing bicep muscles. Though the venue was much less grand than what they were accustomed to and no one was getting paid, you could see that every artist was still giving 110%.
The program was impressively long (about 3 hours) and focused primarily on operatic pieces, with some other fun, miscellaneous items in the mix. It included old favorites like "La donna è mobile" from Rigoletto and "Brindisi" (translation: drinking song) from La Traviata. (In fact, these are so popular that they are even arranged for the Cornell Chimes.) I thought "Ombra mai fù" from Xerxes sounded oddly familiar...then I realized that the music is more commonly known as Handel's "Largo." Apparently Handel wrote originally wrote the piece for an opera, which was a commercial failure. There were also some more obscure numbers (who's ever heard of Stolz's operetta Venus in Seide?), an African-American piece ("Deep River," by Samuel Coleridge Taylor, not to be confused with Samuel Taylor Coleridge), and a piece from Bernstein's Candide (in case you weren't aware, this includes my favorite overture of all time).
Ironically, the highlight of the concert was not a singer at all, but Chicago violinist Rachel Barton Pine. I might be in love. She opened with Sarasate's "Fantasy on Themes from Carmen." This (along with all the rest of Sarasate's compositions) is a tour-de-force in technical virtuousity. My jaw was dropping. Later, Pine returned with Massanet's "Méditation" from Thais. This is a beautifully lyrical piece that is unfortunately the only memorable part of the opera. The closing number was a "Chicago Medley" arranged by Pine, incorporating several kick-ass blues and jazz numbers named after our hometown. Finally, let's discuss the awesome gold sparkly low-cut dress that Pine was wearing. It was quite a break from the normally staid, all-black attire that one sees at classical performances.
Also, she has recorded several heavy metal albums and she uses Twitter: "What a great day, performing with Wagnerian opera star Petra Lang this afternoon, doing Spanish music with guitarist Rene Izquierdo tonight."
The master of ceremonies for the evening was Andrew Patner, a critic for WFMT, Chicago's classical station. At one point, he commented that he felt voice and dance were the most democratic of arts disciplines, since you need neither fancy equipment nor expensive lessons to hone and develop those talents (though money obviously helps). This has a good deal of populist appeal to it, but I wonder if it's actually true. Is your average opera company or dance troupe more international, more socioeconomically varied or more ethnically diverse than your average orchestra or theater company?
At the end of the concert, they announced that we'd raised nearly $7,000 by passing the basket during the show. Here's to fighting illiteracy!
Friday, February 20, 2009
More Chicago Badassery
In case you hadn't noticed, Chicago and Illinois have a long history of colorful politics, underhanded machinations and brash solutions. There was that time we reversed the flow of the Chicago River. (Rather than build a sewage treatment plant, the city opted to reverse the river and send sewage downstream to the Mississippi.) There was that time our mayor illegally closed down an airport under the cover of darkness. There was that time our governor was arrested for corruption. No, that other time. Ok fine, 5 out of our last 9 governors has been indicted. But, come on now, how could someone with such great hair possibly be guilty of racketeering?
Anyway, I stumbled across this gem in my internet wanderings:
Anyway, I stumbled across this gem in my internet wanderings:
1861
--- John Wentworth fired the entire Chicago Police Department when his term as mayor came to a close. This included 60 patrolmen, 3 sergeants, 3 lieutenants, and one captain. The city was entirely without police protection for twelve hours until the Board of Commissioners swore in some new officers to take their place.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Chicago's 1893 World Fair
The year was 1890 and Chicago had just won the right to host the next world's fair, beating out rival bids from New York, St. Louis and Washington. How could the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893 top the previous exposition in Paris, with its imposing yet graceful Eiffel Tower? The city was abuzz with civic pride and felt the enormous weight of upholding the nation's honor. The impossible had to be undertaken; failure was out of the question. Meanwhile, as construction remade Jackson Park into a "White City" (so named because each building was whitewashed), the seedy reality of the Black City was still very much present. Sewage ran openly in the streets. Rats and cholera outbreaks abounded. The poor and the wretched came to seek their fortunes in the city and quietly disappeared without notice.
In a tightly written nonfiction masterpiece, Erik Larson's Devil in the White City weaves the tale of the World's Columbian Exposition (celebrating the 400th anniversary of Columbus' discovery of America) with one of the century's most insidious serial killers, H. H. Holmes. As a resident of Chicago, the interplay between people and events in the Guilded Age and present-day locations is particularly thrilling. Names and places are brought to life as though a century of time has been magically dissolved. If I taught a high school history class in Chicago, this novel would be mandatory reading.
The fair was saddled with bureaucratic infighting, a deteriorating economy and an impossibly tight schedule. Chicago's severe winters hampered the pace of construction and organized labor used the fair as an opportunity to demand concessions for workers. Despite the specters of violence, fire and bankruptcy, the fair did go on to open on time, though not in a fully finished state.
As the fair neared opening day, Daniel Burnham, the chief architect, was desperate for a plan to challenge the Eiffel. In a speech tinged with recrimination, Burnham addressed a group of engineers at the Saturday Afternoon Club, calling on them to perform their civic duty and envision something more spectacular than the Eiffel Tower. "Something novel, original, daring and unique must be designed and built if American engineers are to retain their prestige and standing," he exhorted. As the audience bristled, one engineer from Pittsburgh had an idea come to him. He began hurriedly sketching this faint whisper into hard lines. It would take three attempts before his proposal for out-Eiffeling Eiffel was accepted, but George Ferris was eventually triumphant.
Larson does a tremendous amount of painstaking research and meticulously cites his sources at the conclusion of the book. His mining of the Chicago Historical Society archives and other primary source documents results in many savory tidbits which unapologetically trumpet the voices from the period. An examination of the menu at a grand 10-course banquet held at (old) Madison Square Garden in honor of the fair's architects reveals a country aspiring to ape French cuisine, and show itself sophisticated and worthy of respect:
Consommé printanier. Bass rayée, sauce hollandaise. Pommes parisiennes. Amontillado. Petits Moules fantaisies. Roquefort et Camembert. Cordials. Cigars.Victorian era mores prevail, as fair organizers succumb to pressure to close the fair on Sundays. The seeds for women's suffrage have been planted, but are far from blooming.
Visitor hunting for an exhibit of wax figures: "Can you tell me where the building is that has the artificial human beings?"Of course, there are certain things that never change, as evidenced by the following records of patients treated at the fair hospital:
Another visitor: "I have heard of them. They are over in the Woman's Building. Just ask for the Lady Managers."
820 cases of diarrheaThe fair was remarkable for its international breadth. Over 27 million people (about half of the US population at the time) attended the fair, and many of the sights they encountered were completely novel. Eskimo women wearing blouses of walrus skin. Japanese in red silk. Amazons with bushy hair and teeth necklaces. Algerian belly dancers in robes and turbans. A number of products were debuted and marketed at the fair, including Shredded Wheat, Cracker Jack, and a curious concoction called Aunt Jemima's for which you only needed to add water to get pancake batter. Pabst Brewing Company won an award for their beer, which resulted in the moniker Pabst Blue Ribbon. In a landmark decision, the fair opted to use alternating current circuitry to light the grounds, resulting in a tremendous cost savings and setting the prevailing standard for American cities.
154, constipation
21, hemorrhoids
594 episodes of fainting, syncope, and exhaustion
1 case of extreme flatulence
169 involving teeth that hurt like hell
A broad variety of historical figures make cameos in the book, with all the prominent figures of Chicago society (Armour, Pullman, Field, McCormick, Palmer) present. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, described by an escort as "half-boor, half-tightwad," tours the fairgrounds, but especially enjoys Chicago's vice districts. The inventor of the Braille printing press exhibits his new device and is hugged by a gracious blind girl. Her name is Helen Keller. Mark Twain comes to Chicago for 11 days, but ends up sick in his hotel room for the duration of the trip. He never makes it to the fair. Louis Sullivan discovers that one of his firm's junior architects is designing houses on the side for his own clients, and decides to fire him. His name is Frank Lloyd Wright.
In one of the more inadvertent contributions of the fair, Sol Bloom, the director of publicity, was invited to present his Algerian belly dancers at a performance for the Press Club of Chicago. Upon arriving, he realized that the club had provided a hapless pianist for musical accompaniment, who had no clue what sort of music might be suitable for an exotic Middle Eastern dance. Without hesitation, Bloom hastily improvised the following tune:
If only Bloom had bothered to copyright his diddle, the royalties would have run into the millions.The fair ended with a bang. More specifically, Patrick Prendergast, a deranged Irish immigrant, assassinated Mayor Harrison at his home. The grand closing ceremonies were scrapped and a memorial service was held instead. The 600-vehicle funeral procession slowly made its way to Graceland Cemetary on the Northside.
Burnham and Olmstead's work in planning the fair helped spur the development of the City Beautiful movement. In later years, Burnham would continue to revolutionize modern urban planning, creating citywide plans for San Francisco, Cleveland, Washington, and of course, Chicago. The 18 miles of the present-day Lakefront Park system and Magnificient Mile on Michigan Avenue are the result of his vision. It is also likely that Walt Disney's Magic Kingdom and L. Frank Baum's world of Oz drew inspiration from their visits to the Columbian Exposition. (Elias Disney, father of Walt, was a construction worker for the White City.)
Ultimately, most of the fair's buildings and works were destroyed, and the land converted back into park space. Only a couple buildings remain in Chicago, and these include the Palace of Fine Arts (now housing the Museum of Industry and Science) and the World's Congress Auxiliary Building (now the Art Institute).
If you have even a passing familiarity with Chicago's geography, you know that the city's Southside is not the safest area to be in. In an ironic twist, the areas surrounding Jackson Park and the Midway Plaisance have fallen far from their heyday as the homes of the rich and wealthy. Chicago is currently vying to host the 2016 Olympics, and much has been made of the opportunity for the games to revitalize the Southside. Perhaps this will be the stimulus we need, but I am inclined to think that like the shining fairgrounds a century before, any changes are likely to be fleeting.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Something Old, Something New
It's 2009 and I don't know where I'm going or who I am. Funny how an arbitrary social construction has such power to trigger quarter-life crises. And for a number of reasons, coming back to Chicago was kind of a letdown. I realize that vacations are obviously more fun than normality, but being at home and hanging out with old friends really brought out thoughts and emotions that had gone latent in the last year. This is probably a little true for everyone, but I feel like a chameleon, as though the people I am surrounded by bring out different things in me, for better or worse.
Identity crisis aside, Dan was in town to visit, so I was able to continue wading in nostalgia for a few days. Who else is going to discuss the Sokal affair and empirical moral psychology with me? Just like old times, he arrived with at least half a dozen books, khakis, and a Windows-free computer. Plus, he was game for doing some biking around town, the first of my out-of-town visitors to take the challenge, and in winter no less.
Among other places, we ended up at San Soo Gap San (a kick-ass Korean restaurant, albeit with charmingly terrible service), Ethiopian Diamond (silverware is for wimps), and Meigs Field. The latter is not generally high on the list of Chicago sights to see, but if you are familiar with the game Microsoft Flight Simulator, Meigs Field is the default take-off location. Unfortunately, the airport is no longer in existence because in 2003, under the cover of darkness, Mayor Daley illegally ordered construction crews to gouge gashes in the runway to forcibly close the airport. Ostensibly, "homeland security" was the reason given for its closure. As a result, 16 planes were left stranded without a runway, and one flight had to be diverted. Ah, Chicago politics... Today, there is one control tower left, but the rest of the island is desolate parkland. One building remains as a "Visitor's Center," which was closed even though we arrived during the posted opening hours.
Saturday night, we made a quick stop at the Publican for drinks and fries before a show at Second City. After hearing lots of buzz for the last couple months, I was curious to check out this much-heralded restaurant and its pork & beer-heavy menu. This is definitely not a place to bring your vegetarian friends. We couldn't get a reservation for a table, but there are a few circular cocktail tables that you can comfortably huddle around. The beer list is extensive, almost to the point of being overwhelming, however our server gave several recommendations, and most of us opted to take one of her suggestions. And oh, the fries! Piping hot, crisp frites in a paper cone, served with an aioli on the side. I also tried the pork rinds, which came perfectly puffed and salted, with a slight tartness. This is "bar food" at its best.
Excellent food aside, I do have mixed feelings about the restaurant's decor, which is evocative of a beer hall. Dan and Nate took offense when I described the atmosphere as "masculine," but seriously, there are lots of heavy lines and hard angles, loud music, and a whole lot of wood. Seating options consist of enclosed booths with doors (these reminded me of 19th century church pews), or there is a long table for communal dining, with bulky, square chairs. This would be the perfect place to hold a beefsteak. Having painted a testoterone-laden picture though, I will say that I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy. I'm not enough of a meat aficianado to come here on my own (I can't remember the last time I was at a steakhouse), but it was a fun place to hang out for drinks, and was certainly a step up from say, drinking at Funk.
Identity crisis aside, Dan was in town to visit, so I was able to continue wading in nostalgia for a few days. Who else is going to discuss the Sokal affair and empirical moral psychology with me? Just like old times, he arrived with at least half a dozen books, khakis, and a Windows-free computer. Plus, he was game for doing some biking around town, the first of my out-of-town visitors to take the challenge, and in winter no less.
Among other places, we ended up at San Soo Gap San (a kick-ass Korean restaurant, albeit with charmingly terrible service), Ethiopian Diamond (silverware is for wimps), and Meigs Field. The latter is not generally high on the list of Chicago sights to see, but if you are familiar with the game Microsoft Flight Simulator, Meigs Field is the default take-off location. Unfortunately, the airport is no longer in existence because in 2003, under the cover of darkness, Mayor Daley illegally ordered construction crews to gouge gashes in the runway to forcibly close the airport. Ostensibly, "homeland security" was the reason given for its closure. As a result, 16 planes were left stranded without a runway, and one flight had to be diverted. Ah, Chicago politics... Today, there is one control tower left, but the rest of the island is desolate parkland. One building remains as a "Visitor's Center," which was closed even though we arrived during the posted opening hours.
Saturday night, we made a quick stop at the Publican for drinks and fries before a show at Second City. After hearing lots of buzz for the last couple months, I was curious to check out this much-heralded restaurant and its pork & beer-heavy menu. This is definitely not a place to bring your vegetarian friends. We couldn't get a reservation for a table, but there are a few circular cocktail tables that you can comfortably huddle around. The beer list is extensive, almost to the point of being overwhelming, however our server gave several recommendations, and most of us opted to take one of her suggestions. And oh, the fries! Piping hot, crisp frites in a paper cone, served with an aioli on the side. I also tried the pork rinds, which came perfectly puffed and salted, with a slight tartness. This is "bar food" at its best.
Excellent food aside, I do have mixed feelings about the restaurant's decor, which is evocative of a beer hall. Dan and Nate took offense when I described the atmosphere as "masculine," but seriously, there are lots of heavy lines and hard angles, loud music, and a whole lot of wood. Seating options consist of enclosed booths with doors (these reminded me of 19th century church pews), or there is a long table for communal dining, with bulky, square chairs. This would be the perfect place to hold a beefsteak. Having painted a testoterone-laden picture though, I will say that I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy. I'm not enough of a meat aficianado to come here on my own (I can't remember the last time I was at a steakhouse), but it was a fun place to hang out for drinks, and was certainly a step up from say, drinking at Funk.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Karaoke in Koreatown
After a few incidents of glass-shattering caterwauling at parties and lunches, Phil decided to organize Fed karaoke night. Upon looking at the location, I was mildly appalled at how out of the way Lincoln Karaoke was, rather far north in the midst of Koreatown. However, the Yelp reviews provided some gems like:
"Where else will they provide LA-Gear style light-up tambourines?"
"It's announced to the owner that it's Lee's Birthday. Free shots!! What does our gracious Korean host serve us up? "It translates roughly into 'Rocky Mountain Bear Fucker." Four different shots and I think one was amaretto and another was tequila so. . .you know. . ."
"I discover the owners' really polite children doing homework and watching Lilo and Stitch in another karaoke room. I begin to wonder who has been mixing all the drinks."
If that does not spell "Awesome" to you, then you should probably go watch a movie instead.
So, last night I made my way down a desolate, lonely stretch of Lincoln Ave, past a bunch of Korean laundromats and bulgogi joints, and stopped in front of a plain white strip-mall type building with a poorly lit "Lincoln Karaoke" sign. The six-panel wood door looked completely out of place and betrayed no noise behind it. I nervously stepped inside to see a long hallway with small rooms off the sides, suspiciously what I imagine a brothel to look like.
Luckily, Phil and a few others were already there, and they waved me into our private room. I stepped inside to find two flat-screen displays, half a dozen microphones with reverb, a disco ball and an assortment of tambourines, plus plenty of couch seating. The background images behind the lyrics seemed completely random; at various points in the night, we saw dogs chasing frisbees, naked babies, the Eiffel Tower and parasailers. The lyrics themselves were sometimes a bit kreatyve, if you will. Sentences like "cum on make some noize" would flash on screen, and intermittently, during instrumental breaks, the screen would tell us "Have a good time!!"
The playlist binder is chock-full of titles...in foreign languages. Though the majority of the songs are K and J-pop titles, the english selection is still pretty wide. And by that, I mean they had Electric Six's "Gay Bar." When I discovered that, this place automatically got my seal of approval. There are also sections of other languages, including Spanish, Vietnamese, and Russian.
Without hesitation, I immediately started belting out some Maroon 5. In the event that liquid courage is necessary though, there is a full bar available, and we even got a free bottle of champagne to boot. Our host suggested the Long Island iced teas "if you want to get drunk fast," and indeed, they put about 5 shots of alcohol into that drink. (The legality of this is questionable, but we're not going to harp on that.) They also had a decent beer selection (I got to try the Goose Island Winter Ale), and served appetizers like dumplings and wings.
The rest of the party filtered in (I koala'ed Warren when he arrived from Iowa), and pretty soon, we were all dancing and screaming at the top of our lungs to Michael Jackson. I also rediscovered some trashy middle school classics like Aqua's "Dr. Jones" and Spice Girls' "Wannabe." I wonder where those albums are...erm.
When we left four hours later, our voices were hoarse and I had Mariah Carey stuck in my head. I can see how this place would not jive with certain types, but if you have the right crowd, this is a great (and relatively cheap) venue for entertainment.
"Where else will they provide LA-Gear style light-up tambourines?"
"It's announced to the owner that it's Lee's Birthday. Free shots!! What does our gracious Korean host serve us up? "It translates roughly into 'Rocky Mountain Bear Fucker." Four different shots and I think one was amaretto and another was tequila so. . .you know. . ."
"I discover the owners' really polite children doing homework and watching Lilo and Stitch in another karaoke room. I begin to wonder who has been mixing all the drinks."
If that does not spell "Awesome" to you, then you should probably go watch a movie instead.
So, last night I made my way down a desolate, lonely stretch of Lincoln Ave, past a bunch of Korean laundromats and bulgogi joints, and stopped in front of a plain white strip-mall type building with a poorly lit "Lincoln Karaoke" sign. The six-panel wood door looked completely out of place and betrayed no noise behind it. I nervously stepped inside to see a long hallway with small rooms off the sides, suspiciously what I imagine a brothel to look like.
Luckily, Phil and a few others were already there, and they waved me into our private room. I stepped inside to find two flat-screen displays, half a dozen microphones with reverb, a disco ball and an assortment of tambourines, plus plenty of couch seating. The background images behind the lyrics seemed completely random; at various points in the night, we saw dogs chasing frisbees, naked babies, the Eiffel Tower and parasailers. The lyrics themselves were sometimes a bit kreatyve, if you will. Sentences like "cum on make some noize" would flash on screen, and intermittently, during instrumental breaks, the screen would tell us "Have a good time!!"
The playlist binder is chock-full of titles...in foreign languages. Though the majority of the songs are K and J-pop titles, the english selection is still pretty wide. And by that, I mean they had Electric Six's "Gay Bar." When I discovered that, this place automatically got my seal of approval. There are also sections of other languages, including Spanish, Vietnamese, and Russian.
Without hesitation, I immediately started belting out some Maroon 5. In the event that liquid courage is necessary though, there is a full bar available, and we even got a free bottle of champagne to boot. Our host suggested the Long Island iced teas "if you want to get drunk fast," and indeed, they put about 5 shots of alcohol into that drink. (The legality of this is questionable, but we're not going to harp on that.) They also had a decent beer selection (I got to try the Goose Island Winter Ale), and served appetizers like dumplings and wings.
The rest of the party filtered in (I koala'ed Warren when he arrived from Iowa), and pretty soon, we were all dancing and screaming at the top of our lungs to Michael Jackson. I also rediscovered some trashy middle school classics like Aqua's "Dr. Jones" and Spice Girls' "Wannabe." I wonder where those albums are...erm.
When we left four hours later, our voices were hoarse and I had Mariah Carey stuck in my head. I can see how this place would not jive with certain types, but if you have the right crowd, this is a great (and relatively cheap) venue for entertainment.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Hot Doug's
Pop Quiz: You are taking a long road trip across states. When deciding on a route, you...
a) Use Google Maps to find the most efficient drive possible. Look into potential construction zones and alternate routes in case of road blocks.
b) Follow the highway signs as you go; you'll eventually there. Or end up in Canada.
c) Research major metropolitan areas along the way, and make reservations at the local Four Seasons.
d) Drive 50 miles out of the way to detour past a hole-in-the-wall joint, which is legendary for serving the best western North Carolina-style barbeque. Get lost and wander around in the dark on rural backroads for 20 minutes, as you struggle to figure out how to interpret the address "Hwy 29-70 South." However, as you sink your teeth into a tangy chopped pork sandwich and hush puppies, you decide the side trip was totally worthwhile.
If you chose (d), you might be a foodie. Welcome to the club!
This morning, I needed to pick up my car from the shop, and unfortunately, the mechanic is located in a really inconvenient location (it took me over an hour to get there via public transportation). On the other hand, it was relatively close to that foodie pilgrimage site known as Hot Doug's. When I put two and two together, it was clearly time to stop there for lunch.
There are no finer words in the English language than "encased meats," my friend. -slogan painted on the wall of Hot Doug's
For those unfamiliar with the restaurant, it is a temple devoted to the worship of sausage excellence. Among other press, Hot Doug's has been profiled by Zagat and Anthony Bourdain's show No Reservations. Owner Doug Sohn is also infamous for being the only restauranteur in Chicago who was fined for flouting the ban on serving foie gras. I've been to Hot Doug's one other time, when Megan visited Chicago at the beginning of the summer. When we got there, the line was so long it stretched out the door and around the side of the building. But surely, with the onset of chilly weather, the line will be shorter this time, I said to myself.
No such luck. Once again, by the time I showed up around noon, the line was spilling out the door and around the corner. Part of the reason the line was so lengthy is that Fridays and Saturdays are the only days that Hot Doug's serves duck-fat fries, and these are unctuously delicious. I dug my heels and settled in for the 40 minute wait. (After waiting similar lengths of time for sandwiches at Katz's Deli and bagels at Russ & Daughters, this sort of thing no longer fazes me.) People began lining up behind me, and one gentleman wondered aloud, "Is it just today, or is it always like this?" I smiled and said, "Nope, it's pretty much always like this."
The line was composed of an eclectic array of people, young and old, black, white and peanut, all united in their determination to taste the Ultimate Hot Dog. We hailed from all over Chicagoland, from Lincoln Park to Lincolnwood. The group behind me was full of newbies, while another girl said that she came regularly, and had tried almost every special. When pressed for a reason why Hot Doug's was so great, one guy said, "I'm actually a vegetarian, but I come here all the time for their veggie dog, which is fantastic." Another lady recommended the polish sausage, a favorite of her mother's.
Eventually, I made it inside the building. After scrutinizing the menu carefully, I settled on a chipotle-cilantro smoked chicken sausage with mole sauce and cojita cheese. For good measure, I ordered the Pete Shelley vegetarian hot dog as well. I'd worked up quite an appetite while waiting in line, so why bother with only one hot dog? Doug himself was there to take my order, and he joked and waved at customers waiting patiently in line. I plopped down on a stool at the counter, and a few minutes later, my order was brought out to me.
The chipotle chicken sausage had a nice amount of kick in it, though the cojita cheese wasn't quite the type of cheese that I was expecting. But hey, I'm open to trying new things. Slathered over the sausage was a dark, hearty mole sauce, with some spice and chocolatey undertones. My vegetarian dog was impressively indistinguishable from a regular meat hot dog. In the classic Chicago hot dog fashion, it was topped with sliced tomatoes, spicy brown mustard, unnaturally green relish, sauteed onions, celery salt, and a pickle spear. (It is unholy to put ketchup on a Chicago dog.) I scarfed both hot dogs down in quick succession, as I watched more people get into line.
On my way out, someone asked, "How was it?" I beamed and replied, "Worth every minute of the wait!"
a) Use Google Maps to find the most efficient drive possible. Look into potential construction zones and alternate routes in case of road blocks.
b) Follow the highway signs as you go; you'll eventually there. Or end up in Canada.
c) Research major metropolitan areas along the way, and make reservations at the local Four Seasons.
d) Drive 50 miles out of the way to detour past a hole-in-the-wall joint, which is legendary for serving the best western North Carolina-style barbeque. Get lost and wander around in the dark on rural backroads for 20 minutes, as you struggle to figure out how to interpret the address "Hwy 29-70 South." However, as you sink your teeth into a tangy chopped pork sandwich and hush puppies, you decide the side trip was totally worthwhile.
If you chose (d), you might be a foodie. Welcome to the club!
This morning, I needed to pick up my car from the shop, and unfortunately, the mechanic is located in a really inconvenient location (it took me over an hour to get there via public transportation). On the other hand, it was relatively close to that foodie pilgrimage site known as Hot Doug's. When I put two and two together, it was clearly time to stop there for lunch.
There are no finer words in the English language than "encased meats," my friend. -slogan painted on the wall of Hot Doug's
For those unfamiliar with the restaurant, it is a temple devoted to the worship of sausage excellence. Among other press, Hot Doug's has been profiled by Zagat and Anthony Bourdain's show No Reservations. Owner Doug Sohn is also infamous for being the only restauranteur in Chicago who was fined for flouting the ban on serving foie gras. I've been to Hot Doug's one other time, when Megan visited Chicago at the beginning of the summer. When we got there, the line was so long it stretched out the door and around the side of the building. But surely, with the onset of chilly weather, the line will be shorter this time, I said to myself.
No such luck. Once again, by the time I showed up around noon, the line was spilling out the door and around the corner. Part of the reason the line was so lengthy is that Fridays and Saturdays are the only days that Hot Doug's serves duck-fat fries, and these are unctuously delicious. I dug my heels and settled in for the 40 minute wait. (After waiting similar lengths of time for sandwiches at Katz's Deli and bagels at Russ & Daughters, this sort of thing no longer fazes me.) People began lining up behind me, and one gentleman wondered aloud, "Is it just today, or is it always like this?" I smiled and said, "Nope, it's pretty much always like this."
The line was composed of an eclectic array of people, young and old, black, white and peanut, all united in their determination to taste the Ultimate Hot Dog. We hailed from all over Chicagoland, from Lincoln Park to Lincolnwood. The group behind me was full of newbies, while another girl said that she came regularly, and had tried almost every special. When pressed for a reason why Hot Doug's was so great, one guy said, "I'm actually a vegetarian, but I come here all the time for their veggie dog, which is fantastic." Another lady recommended the polish sausage, a favorite of her mother's.
Eventually, I made it inside the building. After scrutinizing the menu carefully, I settled on a chipotle-cilantro smoked chicken sausage with mole sauce and cojita cheese. For good measure, I ordered the Pete Shelley vegetarian hot dog as well. I'd worked up quite an appetite while waiting in line, so why bother with only one hot dog? Doug himself was there to take my order, and he joked and waved at customers waiting patiently in line. I plopped down on a stool at the counter, and a few minutes later, my order was brought out to me.
The chipotle chicken sausage had a nice amount of kick in it, though the cojita cheese wasn't quite the type of cheese that I was expecting. But hey, I'm open to trying new things. Slathered over the sausage was a dark, hearty mole sauce, with some spice and chocolatey undertones. My vegetarian dog was impressively indistinguishable from a regular meat hot dog. In the classic Chicago hot dog fashion, it was topped with sliced tomatoes, spicy brown mustard, unnaturally green relish, sauteed onions, celery salt, and a pickle spear. (It is unholy to put ketchup on a Chicago dog.) I scarfed both hot dogs down in quick succession, as I watched more people get into line.
On my way out, someone asked, "How was it?" I beamed and replied, "Worth every minute of the wait!"
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Obamatown
As I was heading out of the Loop tonight at rush hour, I was dismayed at the backlog of traffic near Clark & Jackson. Squeezing my bike toward the front of the intersection, I could see several policemen stopping all vehicular, bicycular and pedestrian traffic. I asked one of the cops how long the delay would last, and he told me, "Just wait two minutes." Much to my annoyance, the surrounding intersections also appeared to be blocked off, so I couldn't maneuver around the blockage. I silently fumed and exchanged irritated looks with the biker next to me.
Then a slew of flashing police cars sped down the street, followed by a series of black SUVs. It was Obama's motorcade! As we all cheered and craned our necks, you could see Obama (or a look-alike?) chatting on his cell phone, waving to the crowds outside. He passed not even 10 feet away from me!
As it so happens, today's NYT featured a nice article on Chicago's resurgence in national importance since the election. I was particularly amused at the way the article draws broad generalizations on the attitudes of Chicagoans: we are "humble," have a "strong sense of self," and "comfortable to losing." In other words, we have endured years of playing second fiddle to New York, but good old-fashioned Midwestern sensibilities allow us to brush the water off our backs. And though I resent being stereotyped, a lot of it has basis in truth.
Chicago, as Carl Sandburg writes, is a no-nonsense city. It does not have the urbane sophistication of New York, the liberal elitism of San Francisco, or the political clout of Washington. What it can offer though, is a slice of down-to-earth pragmatism topped with the amenities of an urban center. We tout our deep-dish pizza and hot dogs, but we are also home to the jibarito. You can take in the drunken revelry in Wrigleyville after a Cubs game, or you can check out a Lyric Opera performance in the Millenium Park.
So here's to Chicago's increased national prominence! I still don't support the city's 2016 Olympics bid (I think we have too many infrastructure problems and not enough money to host that), but I am proud to call the city home, and even prouder that Obama is a fellow Chicago resident. At least until Jan 20th.
Then a slew of flashing police cars sped down the street, followed by a series of black SUVs. It was Obama's motorcade! As we all cheered and craned our necks, you could see Obama (or a look-alike?) chatting on his cell phone, waving to the crowds outside. He passed not even 10 feet away from me!
As it so happens, today's NYT featured a nice article on Chicago's resurgence in national importance since the election. I was particularly amused at the way the article draws broad generalizations on the attitudes of Chicagoans: we are "humble," have a "strong sense of self," and "comfortable to losing." In other words, we have endured years of playing second fiddle to New York, but good old-fashioned Midwestern sensibilities allow us to brush the water off our backs. And though I resent being stereotyped, a lot of it has basis in truth.
Chicago, as Carl Sandburg writes, is a no-nonsense city. It does not have the urbane sophistication of New York, the liberal elitism of San Francisco, or the political clout of Washington. What it can offer though, is a slice of down-to-earth pragmatism topped with the amenities of an urban center. We tout our deep-dish pizza and hot dogs, but we are also home to the jibarito. You can take in the drunken revelry in Wrigleyville after a Cubs game, or you can check out a Lyric Opera performance in the Millenium Park.
So here's to Chicago's increased national prominence! I still don't support the city's 2016 Olympics bid (I think we have too many infrastructure problems and not enough money to host that), but I am proud to call the city home, and even prouder that Obama is a fellow Chicago resident. At least until Jan 20th.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Critical Mass, June
Now that warm weather is here, what could be better than a long bike ride with hundreds of other people? It's been about 6 months since my last one, so I decided it was time to hit up Critical Mass, particularly since this would be Ana's last chance to attend a Mass before she moves to Berkeley. So, after work, we grabbed our backpacks and helmets, and Katherine grabbed a Rhode Island flag and hat.
Katherine: Look, I even brought a costume this time! I'm Rhode Island!
Everyone else: Wait, what? Why did you bring a costume?
Katherine: Aren't we supposed to have costumes? Oh wait, last time we went in October, and it was Halloween...
At least she didn't look out of place with the flag-cape. The Mass always attracts plenty of sideshow-like acts, and this ride was no exception. There were small children, Bush protesters, acoustic guitarists singing about Carl Sandburg, people in underwear, and "Less gas, more beer" signs. We roughly followed this route, which took us through lots of parts of the South Side I'd never seen before, past a building that smelled like a muffin factory (yum!) and another building that smelled like manure (gag). At one point, the Mass wound its way to Ashland and 31st, and I wasn't sure why we were all stopping, until I realized someone had lit a colored smoke bomb. After much cheering, angry honking and many Chicago hold-ups, we continued on our way, and ended the ride 3 hours later at the 31st Street beach.
That was the good part of the ride. The not-so-good part of the ride came when the cops started breaking up the Mass and arresting people with beers. Granted, this is obviously an open container violation, but this was the first time I'd felt a hostile police presence at a ride. (Usually the cops help us cork intersections.) As I watched in horror, a cop yanked a beer out of one guy's hand and threw it on the ground, then shoved him in the back of a squad car. He threw the guy's bike into the trunk and then roughly slammed the trunk. It didn't shut, and the crowd collectively groaned. A voice shouted, "Let my people go!"
We forged on. At a subsequent intersection, a crowd had gathered menacingly around a car with the crumpled remains of a bike frame underneath. I'd seen the cyclist earlier, toting a small dog in a basket. "You killed my dog!" he yelled at the driver. She leaned out the window and pointed angrily, "Well, that guy put his bike on my car!" "She won't get away with this!" the others shouted, "Take pictures of her license plate!" The crowd jeered, and cell phone cameras dutifully began clicking. We decided to stop rubbernecking and move on before some sort of vigilante bike mafia action took place.
At this point, we realized that the crowd had thinned substantially, and we couldn't see anyone ahead of us. Oy! Luckily, there were spotters posted at intersections directing people where to go next. We paused at a light to regroup. "Mass up, mass up!" went the exhortations. "Cars are starting to cut us off, mass up and stick together!" How do you keep a band of bikers together if they don't know where they're going and there's no official leadership? Somehow, people emerge from the woodwork to direct traffic and block intersections. Like self-correcting RNA transcripts, the Mass is surprisingly resilient to failure.
This being my third Critical Mass, and one fraught with tension from non-bikers, I gave some thought as to why we mass, and what statement is being projected. I've spoken to other cyclists who say they don't support the rides and see it as a gratuitous display and disruption of traffic. We could debate till sunrise about whether the publicity and education generated by the rides outweighs the ire raised in drivers and the occasional arrest; I don't think you can say definitively whose side is in the right. However, in a post over the CCM listserv, Adam Kessel raises a very good point to the critics:
The main difference that CM makes, I believe, is in the time between rides, when otherwise depoliticized cyclists start to take action; to write letters to their representatives and city councillors; to argue with their neighbors, families, and friends; to become increasingly aware of the primary role that the private automobile plays in determining foreign and domestic policy, in separating out rich from poor and black from white, in causing more deaths, injuries, and illnesses than all of the leading 'public health' villains.
Critical Mass promotes a vision where cycling is mainstream, an alternative option to our car-centric culture, a place where fear is eliminated and bikers feel safe to ride in traffic, as traffic. For a brief, ephemeral afternoon, we ride in an imaginary cocoon, united with strangers. And then I leave, alone but mobilized with a message. Looking back at the number of people I've convinced to start biking, I think I'm doing pretty good.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Define-a-thon
Summer officially kicks off in Chicago when the city is flooded with street fairs. From the Blues Festival to the Pride Parade to Pizza Fest, there's certainly something for everyone. Plus, Chicagoans always come out in droves, since the sunny weather is so ephemeral. This weekend marks the Printer's Row Book Fair in the South Loop. It's an adult version of the Scholastic truck at your elementary school, but with smaller font and fewer free bookmarks.
Having been spoiled by the Ithaca Book Sale, I love looking through bookstores, especially used bookstores with very loose organization. There was a decent selection of tents with used items, but a fair number of shelves were devoted to rare books. If only I could afford to own a library with leather-bound copies and gilt-edged first editions. Aside from booksellers hawking their wares, authors were also present to give lectures, plug for their books and sign copies. I came across S.E. Hinton, author of the middle school classic, The Outsiders, who had her hands full scrawling signatures for the serpentine line behind her. Other literati present included Augusten Burroughs (of Running with Scissors fame), and writer and historian Studs Terkel.
The highlight of the afternoon had rather little to do with books though: a Define-a-thon was taking place. What does that entail? In a twist from your standard spelling bee, the definition of a word was read, and from a set of 4 options, you had to choose the correct synonym or antonym. In a spirited moment of chutzpah, I decided to sign up (the list was capped at 17 or so entrants). Then, I started feeling nervous. Oy veh, what if I am the first person knocked out? I moved a step closer to finding religion.
As we gathered for the start of the competition, I began sizing the others up. Mostly women, and mostly over 40, though there were a few young guys who caught my eye. Maybe they'll be knocked out first, I thought. The woman sitting next to me asked why I'd decided to participate. Oh, I tend to teach my friends new words, I replied. Also, I've played a fair amount of Free Rice. Have you played that before? She said yes, and I gulped inwardly. For a distraction, I started staring at David Kipen. He's the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Director, and was present to announce and play emcee for the event. That's right, we were in the presence of the nation's most eminent literature maven, complete with full shock of Malcolm Gladwell-like white hair. I shifted nervously in my chair on stage, and the Define-a-thon began.
The first round of questions came from set 1 (there were 3 total), and were fairly simple. I answered my question correctly and breathed a sigh of relief as I passed the microphone to the lady behind me. An element comprising 80% of the earth's atmosphere, Kipen asked, is it dirt, helium, nitrogen or ozone? She stalled and asked for the question to be repeated. I held my breath; this seemed a little unfair for a set 1 question, since it depended on having scientific knowledge. She hazarded a guess. Ozone? I'm sorry, that's incorrect, the answer is nitrogen. Oh, how embarrassing! She exited the stage. I felt some schadenfreude.
The questions continued coming rapid-fire, and we moved into set 2. I was asked for an organism, such as a fungus or mold, that derives nourishment from organic remains. (The answer was saprophyte.) A few more people got knocked out of the competition, but overall, the group was still doing quite well, spitting out words like "penumbra" and "diphthong" without breaking a sweat. 35 minutes into the game, we moved into set 3 and I started to really worry.
What is the antonym of riant, Kipen quizzed a guy in the front row. (Thank you, Free Rice, a word I learned from that site actually came in handy!) The gentleman stumbled and did not pick the right answer (dour), and set 3 began knocking out a slew of contestants. Including myself. When asked for a coal miner, I decided to guess "dowser" (the answer was "collier"), and gracefully accepted the applause as I left the stage. It was probably for the best, as the questions were only getting more ridiculous. In Sanskrit poetry...with 8 syllables in a pada...gee, you know it's hard when there are words you've never seen before in the definition itself.
In the end, the pool was narrowed to two finalists: Elizabeth, the librarian, and Sean, the um, temp worker (and one of the guys I thought would be knocked out early on). I was rooting for Sean, of course, as they competed for the grand prize of American Heritage Dictionaries. The runner-up would receive a somewhat smaller college edition, while the winner would get the standard version. As the final minutes ticked, Elizabeth got a question right, which meant Sean had to answer this next question correctly, or face public ignominy: a grey-breasted wading bird? After asking for spellings, he guessed hallux. Alas, the answer was whimbrel.
Aside from reading a lot, and actively learning vocabulary, it seems like specialization in lots of subjects would be the best way to go about winning this contest. Unfortunately for me, there was only one question which smacked vaguely of economics (on cartels). No matter, I plan to play a lot of Free Rice between now and next June.
Having been spoiled by the Ithaca Book Sale, I love looking through bookstores, especially used bookstores with very loose organization. There was a decent selection of tents with used items, but a fair number of shelves were devoted to rare books. If only I could afford to own a library with leather-bound copies and gilt-edged first editions. Aside from booksellers hawking their wares, authors were also present to give lectures, plug for their books and sign copies. I came across S.E. Hinton, author of the middle school classic, The Outsiders, who had her hands full scrawling signatures for the serpentine line behind her. Other literati present included Augusten Burroughs (of Running with Scissors fame), and writer and historian Studs Terkel.
The highlight of the afternoon had rather little to do with books though: a Define-a-thon was taking place. What does that entail? In a twist from your standard spelling bee, the definition of a word was read, and from a set of 4 options, you had to choose the correct synonym or antonym. In a spirited moment of chutzpah, I decided to sign up (the list was capped at 17 or so entrants). Then, I started feeling nervous. Oy veh, what if I am the first person knocked out? I moved a step closer to finding religion.
As we gathered for the start of the competition, I began sizing the others up. Mostly women, and mostly over 40, though there were a few young guys who caught my eye. Maybe they'll be knocked out first, I thought. The woman sitting next to me asked why I'd decided to participate. Oh, I tend to teach my friends new words, I replied. Also, I've played a fair amount of Free Rice. Have you played that before? She said yes, and I gulped inwardly. For a distraction, I started staring at David Kipen. He's the National Endowment for the Arts Literature Director, and was present to announce and play emcee for the event. That's right, we were in the presence of the nation's most eminent literature maven, complete with full shock of Malcolm Gladwell-like white hair. I shifted nervously in my chair on stage, and the Define-a-thon began.
The first round of questions came from set 1 (there were 3 total), and were fairly simple. I answered my question correctly and breathed a sigh of relief as I passed the microphone to the lady behind me. An element comprising 80% of the earth's atmosphere, Kipen asked, is it dirt, helium, nitrogen or ozone? She stalled and asked for the question to be repeated. I held my breath; this seemed a little unfair for a set 1 question, since it depended on having scientific knowledge. She hazarded a guess. Ozone? I'm sorry, that's incorrect, the answer is nitrogen. Oh, how embarrassing! She exited the stage. I felt some schadenfreude.
The questions continued coming rapid-fire, and we moved into set 2. I was asked for an organism, such as a fungus or mold, that derives nourishment from organic remains. (The answer was saprophyte.) A few more people got knocked out of the competition, but overall, the group was still doing quite well, spitting out words like "penumbra" and "diphthong" without breaking a sweat. 35 minutes into the game, we moved into set 3 and I started to really worry.
What is the antonym of riant, Kipen quizzed a guy in the front row. (Thank you, Free Rice, a word I learned from that site actually came in handy!) The gentleman stumbled and did not pick the right answer (dour), and set 3 began knocking out a slew of contestants. Including myself. When asked for a coal miner, I decided to guess "dowser" (the answer was "collier"), and gracefully accepted the applause as I left the stage. It was probably for the best, as the questions were only getting more ridiculous. In Sanskrit poetry...with 8 syllables in a pada...gee, you know it's hard when there are words you've never seen before in the definition itself.
In the end, the pool was narrowed to two finalists: Elizabeth, the librarian, and Sean, the um, temp worker (and one of the guys I thought would be knocked out early on). I was rooting for Sean, of course, as they competed for the grand prize of American Heritage Dictionaries. The runner-up would receive a somewhat smaller college edition, while the winner would get the standard version. As the final minutes ticked, Elizabeth got a question right, which meant Sean had to answer this next question correctly, or face public ignominy: a grey-breasted wading bird? After asking for spellings, he guessed hallux. Alas, the answer was whimbrel.
Aside from reading a lot, and actively learning vocabulary, it seems like specialization in lots of subjects would be the best way to go about winning this contest. Unfortunately for me, there was only one question which smacked vaguely of economics (on cartels). No matter, I plan to play a lot of Free Rice between now and next June.
Friday, May 16, 2008
How to Buy a Used Bike (Chicago version)
So far this spring, I've been asked at least 4-5 times for advice on how to buy a first bike. And little wonder, with gas prices skyrocketing the way they are! When I first decided to delve into cycling, I remember feeling overwhelmed by the array of choices I had to make. Scanning Craig's list, you are presented with titles like "Bianchi Campione, 53 cm w/ Shimano WH-R353 wheels." What on earth does that mean? Anyway, you can reap the benefits of the hours of research I had to put in. Without further ado, I present my tips for how to buy a used bike (in Chicago).
1) Go to Craig's list. Alternatively, I have heard success stories from people who went to the Working Bikes co-op. If you do this, you should show up about half an hour before they open, and be ready to rush in and grab a bike.
2) Bike type: something with straight (not dropped) handlebars will be a lot more comfortable and easier to control. You can go with an older bike with fewer gears (Chicago is flat, you don't need 21 speeds, but it's nice to have options), or an older mountain bike (the better for absorbing road vibrations/riding over potholes). In the last few years, they've also come out with hybrid bikes, which try to combine features of mountain/road bikes.
3) Brand: Avoid department store bikes (Huffy, Magna). They will be extremely heavy and have shoddier parts. I am a fan of (relatively) cheap Schwinns and Giants. Expensive brands which scream "steal me" include: Specialized, Trek, Cannondale, Diamondback
4) Other features: if you plan to commute regularly, you should look for fenders (essential in rain) and may want to consider a rear rack. You can also get clip-on fenders cheaply.
5) When you test ride the bike: Do the gears shift (mostly) smoothly? With older bikes, there will probably be some lag time/crunching noises. Hopefully you can lube the chain to ease that. Are the brakes responsive/pads not worn out? Press down on the tires, are they rock hard? Lift up the bike and spin one wheel at a time, does it spin freely/not rub up against brake pads? Is the wheel true/not wobbling side to side?
6) Buy a helmet and a decent U-lock (cable locks are fairly useless). There are tons of bike shops, but the cheapest place for parts that I've seen is Irv's in Pilsen. Plus, Henry is super nice. Check the Chicago bike shop directory and click "city only" at the top to narrow by location boundaries. If you ever bike at night, bike with front & rear lights.
My first time biking in traffic was one of the scariest experiences of my life. Don't let that deter you! Chicago is marked with lots of bike lanes, and the drivers are courteous for the most part. Also, biking along the lake shore path is one of the best feelings EVER.
See you at Critical Mass.
1) Go to Craig's list. Alternatively, I have heard success stories from people who went to the Working Bikes co-op. If you do this, you should show up about half an hour before they open, and be ready to rush in and grab a bike.
2) Bike type: something with straight (not dropped) handlebars will be a lot more comfortable and easier to control. You can go with an older bike with fewer gears (Chicago is flat, you don't need 21 speeds, but it's nice to have options), or an older mountain bike (the better for absorbing road vibrations/riding over potholes). In the last few years, they've also come out with hybrid bikes, which try to combine features of mountain/road bikes.
3) Brand: Avoid department store bikes (Huffy, Magna). They will be extremely heavy and have shoddier parts. I am a fan of (relatively) cheap Schwinns and Giants. Expensive brands which scream "steal me" include: Specialized, Trek, Cannondale, Diamondback
4) Other features: if you plan to commute regularly, you should look for fenders (essential in rain) and may want to consider a rear rack. You can also get clip-on fenders cheaply.
5) When you test ride the bike: Do the gears shift (mostly) smoothly? With older bikes, there will probably be some lag time/crunching noises. Hopefully you can lube the chain to ease that. Are the brakes responsive/pads not worn out? Press down on the tires, are they rock hard? Lift up the bike and spin one wheel at a time, does it spin freely/not rub up against brake pads? Is the wheel true/not wobbling side to side?
6) Buy a helmet and a decent U-lock (cable locks are fairly useless). There are tons of bike shops, but the cheapest place for parts that I've seen is Irv's in Pilsen. Plus, Henry is super nice. Check the Chicago bike shop directory and click "city only" at the top to narrow by location boundaries. If you ever bike at night, bike with front & rear lights.
My first time biking in traffic was one of the scariest experiences of my life. Don't let that deter you! Chicago is marked with lots of bike lanes, and the drivers are courteous for the most part. Also, biking along the lake shore path is one of the best feelings EVER.
See you at Critical Mass.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Cubs Game
In a continuing effort to expand my horizons, I went to my first baseball game yesterday afternoon. We grilled burgers, (literally) pre-gamed with beers, and sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" on the way to Wrigley Field. I was practically ready to swear off sushi for liberty fries. Almost.
Baseball is one of the few games whose rules I mostly understand, and I freely admit that it can be boring. The game consists of long stretches of time when the ball isn't moving, and the score rarely makes it above single digits. No matter, this is why beer is readily available. We sat in the bleachers behind the outfield, and had an excellent view of the batter, all the better for catching those home-run balls. To further entertain ourselves, heckling the opposing team is a prominent past-time. Much like at Cornell hockey games, it is advisable to insult players on the other team by directly using their name. Ergo, Arizona Diamondbacks right-fielder Jeff Salazar bore the brunt of our section's aggression. Some highlights:
"Salazar wears a child's jock strap!"
"Salazar is a trannie!"
"Salazar makes league minimum!"
and finally, the classic:
"Salazar, Salazar, Salazarrr! YOU SUCK!"
Gentleman sitting behind us: Salazar, you cock sucker! [ etc. ]
Britton: Geez, but there are two small children right next to him!
Me: Haha, what if those are his children?
Aforementioned gentleman: Hey Billy, what did Daddy just say?
Not to be outdone, we decided to offer a few taunts of our own:
Erik: Salazar, I find your behavior morally reprehensible, but I will fight to the end for your right to act as you choose!
The audience that the bleachers attracts is colorful indeed. The woman in front of us told us she'd been smoking pot before the game, and had been drinking heavily since then. Suffice it to say, she was spilling beer all over the place, and by the end, Ricky was clandestinely holding her cup up for her. Meanwhile, the woman's boyfriend spilled much of his beer into the hair of another woman, which was quite all right because she had spilled a good amount of beer on his shorts earlier in the game.
Luckily, the Cubs recovered from a 2-1 deficit, with a monster 6 runs in the 7th inning, to win the game 7-2. The stadium roared with approval and launched into a rendition of "Go Cubs Go," the team's somewhat hokey but undeniably catchy theme song.
Baseball is one of the few games whose rules I mostly understand, and I freely admit that it can be boring. The game consists of long stretches of time when the ball isn't moving, and the score rarely makes it above single digits. No matter, this is why beer is readily available. We sat in the bleachers behind the outfield, and had an excellent view of the batter, all the better for catching those home-run balls. To further entertain ourselves, heckling the opposing team is a prominent past-time. Much like at Cornell hockey games, it is advisable to insult players on the other team by directly using their name. Ergo, Arizona Diamondbacks right-fielder Jeff Salazar bore the brunt of our section's aggression. Some highlights:
"Salazar wears a child's jock strap!"
"Salazar is a trannie!"
"Salazar makes league minimum!"
and finally, the classic:
"Salazar, Salazar, Salazarrr! YOU SUCK!"
Gentleman sitting behind us: Salazar, you cock sucker! [ etc. ]
Britton: Geez, but there are two small children right next to him!
Me: Haha, what if those are his children?
Aforementioned gentleman: Hey Billy, what did Daddy just say?
Not to be outdone, we decided to offer a few taunts of our own:
Erik: Salazar, I find your behavior morally reprehensible, but I will fight to the end for your right to act as you choose!
The audience that the bleachers attracts is colorful indeed. The woman in front of us told us she'd been smoking pot before the game, and had been drinking heavily since then. Suffice it to say, she was spilling beer all over the place, and by the end, Ricky was clandestinely holding her cup up for her. Meanwhile, the woman's boyfriend spilled much of his beer into the hair of another woman, which was quite all right because she had spilled a good amount of beer on his shorts earlier in the game.
Luckily, the Cubs recovered from a 2-1 deficit, with a monster 6 runs in the 7th inning, to win the game 7-2. The stadium roared with approval and launched into a rendition of "Go Cubs Go," the team's somewhat hokey but undeniably catchy theme song.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Chicago for Foodies
Forget the Sears Tower and Millenium Park, here's what I did with Megan on her first visit to Chicago:
Plates:
The ones that got away (the restaurant industry, it's volatile!):
People (characters we met around town):
Places:
Sometimes I forget how spread out Chicago really is, but this weekend, we definitely explored large swaths of the city from top to bottom. Some of the traveling was due to necessity; we drove out to the suburbs and hiked ~6 miles of the Des Plaines River trail. On other occasions, we traveled stupidly far distances...all for the sake of getting food. I have no regrets.
Eating aside, we did manage to see Jersey Boys ($25 front-row rush tickets), wander through the Art Institute during Looptopia, go on a cruise on Lake Michigan for Ana's birthday, and find a few letterboxes. Plus, I discovered the Seminary Co-op bookstore in Hyde Park, which might be my new favorite bookstore. It's located in the basement of the Chicago Theological Seminary, and every square inch of its labyrinthine shelves, from the floor to the ceiling, is jam-packed with esoteric titles. Though my inner bibliophile was spasming, I restrained myself and simply picked up a copy of "A Very Short Introduction to Quantum Theory." Admittedly, this is completely useless for me, but maybe I'll be able to pick up enough key phrases that I can front knowing something about quantum mechanics.
Plates:
- Deep-dish pizza from Art of Pizza
- Mujver (zucchini pancake) and lahmacun (thin Turkish pizza) from Nazarlik
- Pineapple-rhubarb french toast, berry and banana cheesecake pancakes, and lemon ricotta pancakes from Bongo Room
- Granola from Milk & Honey Cafe
- Carne asada tacos and horchata (cinnamon rice drink) from La Pasadita
- Frozen kefir (uber trendy yogurt-like product) from Starfruit
- Family style Mediterranean at Cedar's
- Swedish pancakes with lingonberries from Ann Sather's (hotelie-run!)
- Chicago hot dog and duck-fat fries from Hot Doug's (I can('t) believe we waited 45 minutes for this...the line was out the door and wrapped around the building.)
- Banh mi (Vietnamese sub) and coconut sticky rice & black-eyed peas from Ba Le
- Ginger-raisin & banana-chocolate pannenkoeken (dutch pancakes) from Pannenkoeken Cafe
- Ghormeh sabzi (beef stew with green herbs) and fesenjan with eggplant (walnut-pomegranate sauce) from Masouleh
- Borek (pastry filled with meat) from Big Buns and Pita
- Pork bun, sesame ball, and red bean paste mooncake from Chiu Quon Bakery
The ones that got away (the restaurant industry, it's volatile!):
- Curry puff from Thai Grocery (closed in mid-April)
- Jibarito (plantain sandwich) from Cafe Salamera (closed in February)
- Sweet potato doughnuts with cinnamon sabayon, poached pear, and pumpkin pepitas from Powerhouse (fell victim to limited stomach capacity)
People (characters we met around town):
- Quintessential Wrigleyville: outside Wrigley Field, we ran into a drunk guy who was trying to walk with a sweatshirt around his ankles and then planted his nose on the ground. Twice.
- Classic Wicker Park: hipster guy with an iPod jogging while wearing a skin-tight Strand tee
- At Mojo Spa, the guy behind the counter thought Megan and I were international relations majors (an asian kid and a white kid hanging out!). Next, he guessed that we were engineers. I'm not sure what that says about my appearance.
- While waiting in line for Jersey Boys tickets at 8:45 am, we made friends with the couple behind us, Cornel and Trudy (?). The latter was giving us lots of advice: "I recommend staying away from San Francisco...there are too many gay men there."
- Random guy in head-to-toe black leather who shared a cab with us: "Yeah, I just got my own place, but it won't be just me for long...my brother's turning 18 and getting out of foster care."
Places:
Sometimes I forget how spread out Chicago really is, but this weekend, we definitely explored large swaths of the city from top to bottom. Some of the traveling was due to necessity; we drove out to the suburbs and hiked ~6 miles of the Des Plaines River trail. On other occasions, we traveled stupidly far distances...all for the sake of getting food. I have no regrets.
Eating aside, we did manage to see Jersey Boys ($25 front-row rush tickets), wander through the Art Institute during Looptopia, go on a cruise on Lake Michigan for Ana's birthday, and find a few letterboxes. Plus, I discovered the Seminary Co-op bookstore in Hyde Park, which might be my new favorite bookstore. It's located in the basement of the Chicago Theological Seminary, and every square inch of its labyrinthine shelves, from the floor to the ceiling, is jam-packed with esoteric titles. Though my inner bibliophile was spasming, I restrained myself and simply picked up a copy of "A Very Short Introduction to Quantum Theory." Admittedly, this is completely useless for me, but maybe I'll be able to pick up enough key phrases that I can front knowing something about quantum mechanics.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Random Acts of God
In a freak accident (very much in the vein of Wilder's Bridge of San Luis Rey), a semi-trailer truck barreled off the Dan Ryan Expressway at 5:20 pm this afternoon and into the Cermak/Chinatown red line train stop. The truck barreled through an intersection and straight into the escalator at the station. Two people died and at least 21 were injured. The driver himself was fine and left the hospital after being treated.
This is the stop that I use most frequently, and though I generally prefer to avoid trains and bike instead, today I opted to leave the bike at home because I needed to bring an apple cake into work. (It was Haley's last day of work at the Fed.)
After work, we headed to Phil's for a session of Dungeons & Dragons. Earlier, I'd decided I didn't feel like driving to Phil's because last weekend, I was the designated driver, and I wanted to have the option to drink this time. If I hadn't insisted on being an alcoholic, we would have been taking the red line to my place to pick up my car, and could easily have been on the train at that time. As I walked past the wreckage tonight, it was a sobering thought.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Quake!
Last night at 4 am or so, I rolled over in my sleep, and awoke with the startling realization that my legs were shaking. Small vibrations, as if the neighbors were having a party with subwoofers in frequencies that I somehow couldn't hear. The thought that I might have some sort of crazy neurological disorder (multiple sclerosis? Parkinson's?) crossed my mind. The vibrations went on for 15 or 20 seconds, and then, brushing it off as a dream, I went back to sleep.
Still disconcerted the next morning, I went to my computer and googled "sleeping motion sensation." After some quick browsing, I came to this conclusion: I was coming down with restless leg syndrome. Oy!
Then, I went to work and someone mentioned the 5.2 magnitude earthquake that rattled Illinois last night. It was a reminder that on a geological scale, we are all but specks on a wall.
Still disconcerted the next morning, I went to my computer and googled "sleeping motion sensation." After some quick browsing, I came to this conclusion: I was coming down with restless leg syndrome. Oy!
Then, I went to work and someone mentioned the 5.2 magnitude earthquake that rattled Illinois last night. It was a reminder that on a geological scale, we are all but specks on a wall.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Pi/Dragon/St. Patrick's Day
(with apologies to Don McLean)
Pi, pi, what's the value of pi?
Starts 3 . 1 4 1 5 9
Them good ol' boys gave it a try
But the decimal never dies, the decimal never dies...
Pi, pi, what's the value of pi?
Starts 3 . 1 4 1 5 9
Them good ol' boys gave it a try
But the decimal never dies, the decimal never dies...
It's March 14th, and we all know what that means - time to celebrate Pi Day! Much like Talk Like A Pirate Day or Towel Day, Pi Day is part of that pantheon of holidays that, well, take a special someone to appreciate.
At 1:59 pm sharp, Phil brought in a splendiferous assortment of pi(e)s: peach, apple, cherry and pumpkin. Considering there were only about a dozen AEs, it was quite a lot of pie to go around. (Note: actual pies consumed differed a bit from the ones displayed above.) Next year, I think we should have a pie with the pi symbol on it, and a second pi with the digits of e on it (2.71828...) so that all together, we have a complete pie.
Meanwhile, spring break has kicked off at Cornell, which means it's time for the annual architecture bacchanal, otherwise known as Dragon Day. Since I never managed to go anywhere exciting for spring break, I was almost always in town to watch the Dragon Day parade and pyre. So, those of us who hadn't jetted to Cancun were treated to the sight of sleep-deprived, festively costumed archies burning an elaborate dragon in the middle of the Arts Quad. As I recall, the weather varied wildly from cold rain to warmth & clear skies to thick snow last year. And it appears that the engineers finally got their act together and constructed a competing phoenix this year.
This morning, as I was waiting in the dentist's office, Coldplay's "Clocks" began playing on the radio. All of the sudden, I was flooded with memories of playing Clocks on chimes, hearing Clocks on marimba, jogging around campus as Clocks emanated from the clocktower as the sun set. It has been almost a year now since I last chimed regularly; would I still be able to play the (notoriously difficult) piece today? Would I be able to sprint up the 9 flights of stairs like I used to? And forget chiming, it's been years since I stopped playing piano regularly, and even longer since I dropped violin. What was the point of all those lessons again? It was a sobering reminder of the passage of time.
Anyway, back to the present. Dragon Day has always coincided with the weekend of St. Patrick's Day, and curious about a possible linkage, I sat down to investigate the origins of the former. As it turns out, Dragon Day began as a celebration of Architecture School pride by Willard Straight, and he chose St. Patrick's Day, who legendarily drove the serpents out of Ireland. Ergo, the burning of our dragon every year actually has some throwbacks to Catholicism. Who would've thought?
Chicago historically has had a large Irish Catholic population, though I suppose many other cities also claim to be Irish-friendly, since it's much more in vogue than being say, Iranian-friendly. However, unlike many other cities, we have perfected the art of dyeing our river shamrock green for St. Patrick's Day. The dye solution has been tested to be eco-friendly, but it looks like the exact composition is a city secret. The fountains at Daley Plaza, which were spouting orange back in Oct, are now bubbling green as well.
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