She Wrote, He Wrote

Last Thursday Greg and I attended opening night of Cirque du Soleil’s new show Kooza. After a recent night at Sushi Samba Rio watching a Brazilian silk act, I realized how much Greg would probably love something like this and I sought out these tickets as a surprise for him.

I’ve probably seen Cirque du Soleil 4-5 times now and have always loved it for the sense of wonder and magic and possibility it brings me. I’m not an artistic person, nor do I seek out art. I exercise my creativity through words and cooking; through the creation of very tangible means that usually don’t manifest themselves in the abstract. I imagine that, to a lot of artists, Cirque du Soleil might seem a very palatable and mainstream form of art. In my younger, more inhibited years, going to a show like this was very liberating and easily allowed myself a vicarious sense of wild inhibition.

Being older and much less insecure than I was ten years ago, I no longer need something like this to open parts of myself that otherwise lay dormant — I feel that those are places I can now access through my own means — but all the same I do very much appreciate the way a show like Cirque lifts me out of my usual sense of place and allows me to think of the world a bit differently than I might normally.

Cirque du Soleil, for anyone who has never been or who might need a refresher, is a reinvented circus full of mystery and music and mind-boggling physical acts, old world clowning and incredibly beautiful sets. Cirque was created by two former street performers and began in Quebec in 1984. After a series of ups and downs and failures and successes, Cirque du Soleil (Circus of the Sun) eventually took off to become the privately-owned and wildly successful circus empire it is today.

With over a dozen big-top touring shows and half a dozen resident shows under its belt, Cirque has honed its concept into a seamless experience of beauty and magic that is accessible across the world. Each show explores a themed storyline — one that often depicts the inner life of an individual. The second show I ever saw, Quidam, illustrated the surrealistic daydreams of a young woman named Zoe. Alegria, the first Cirque show I ever attended, had a heavier and darker theme about the abuse of power and the struggle for freedom. And “O,” was a show based on, and in, water, and it took up residence at the Bellagio in Las Vegas.

But no matter how different each show purports itself to be, I always get the same thing out of it all — the idea that the world we inhabit is much richer and filled with colors and sounds and textures than we allow ourselves to perceive. Last week, going to Kooza, I thought back over the last 15 years of my life and the various shows I’ve seen in succession…in Atlanta and New York, Las Vegas and Los Angeles, with my mother or a boyfriend, with friends and now with Greg. And I thought about the different incarnations of myself that have undergone their own inner-struggles and liberations throughout those years.

I thought a lot about one of my friends, Abby Freeman, whom I met while waitressing in New York ten years ago. In our early twenties she became a performer in a show called De La Guarda (), an off-Broadway show in Union Square that remains, hands-down, the most thrilling and confrontational and life-affirming theatre I’ve ever seen. I went to see it five times. And each time I walked out into the brisk New York streets, the buildings swaying overhead, the crowds and the taxicabs all a streamlined blur before me, and I never doubted how much I want this life.

Abby went on to become one of my best friends. She also went on to marry one of the performers in De La Guarda and together started their own aerial theatre company, AiRealistic. Right now Abby and her husband are in Beijing, performing in the Olympics. Over the years I have seen Abby and her friends and family create and perform in shows that require a lack of inhibition and wild talent that I will never possess. I’ve always held Abby and what she does in a place of reverence and quiet envy — her ability to release herself in such a beautiful and physical way is stunning in its capacity.

The same is true for the performers and shows I have seen through Cirque du Soleil. The truth is that we can’t all be as wild and open and liberated as what we see at a show like Kooza. But the point is that, if even just for a few hours, we can feel it.






Cirque du Soleil - Kooza
Chicago - United Center
June 26- August 10

On Tuesday night Greg and I went to Jack Rabbit in Lincoln Square. I really want to like this restaurant. I’ve wanted to like it ever since I first walked by its first incarnation, close to eight months ago, when it was called Brioso and billed itself as “Modern Mexican.”

The restaurant I’m referring to, now called Jack Rabbit and billed as a “Southwest Grill,” is located on a bustling little corner in Lincoln Square. Greg and I first happened upon this place last fall on a stroll through the Square, back when neither of us even lived in the neighborhood. I remember spotting its storefront from across the street and pulling Greg over by the arm to check it out with me. Brioso, Modern Mexican. I scanned the menu noting the goat cheese enchiladas and the green chile cheeseburger. YUM, right? Greg shrugged.

I love Mexican food. That and Indian food are my two favorite cuisines. And I’m always interested to see a modern version of them (Marigold is a great example of this). So last fall, after finally finding a job 3 torturous months after moving to Chicago, when Greg asked me where I wanted to celebrate, I said Brioso! We were both excited, dreaming of sparkly, tart margaritas and creamy goat cheese enchiladas, green chiles and homemade salsas. Even Greg, who bills himself as someone who doesn’t get excited about food, was excited.

So, last fall, for my celebratory dinner Greg and I found ourselves at a corner window table at Brioso. And I can’t help but just say it now: What a let down. I haven’t been this disappointed in a restaurant in a long time. The evening began well but quickly gained downhill momentum with the arrival of each dish. The margaritas, although flavorful, had no discernible alcohol in them. The chips were tasty but the heavier sort that require the balance of a bright salsa — unfortunately, the salsas before us were bland and boring. An ahi tuna appetizer could have been fresher and also failed to balance the heavy chips it was served with. And my beloved goat cheese enchiladas that I had dreamed about ever since hearing the words, “We’d like to offer you the position,” were dry and tasteless things swimming in an equally bland red sauce that pooled into a flavorless muck against the rice.

I remember putting down my fork with a sigh. Isn’t it just the worst to be that disappointed by a meal?

I’m one of the nicest critics you’ll come across. Having been raised by a chef mother who ran her own restaurant when I was a kid, I always give the restaurant the benefit of the doubt. I’ve got a decade’s worth of time spent working behind the scenes of the restaurant business and I know first hand how hard it can be to plate a good serving of food. But the flipside is that I also know an uninspired dish when I taste one. And the dinner we shared at Brioso last fall was exactly that: uninspired.

So, earlier this spring, when on a stroll through our new neighborhood of Lincoln Square, we both noticed a new sign over the spot where Brioso had been, we were intrigued. Jack Rabbit, huh? Southwest Grill? We crossed the street to check out the menu. I scanned its contents and noted the goat cheese enchiladas and the green chile cheeseburger. What?! Startlingly similar menu, vaguely different sign. We peered into the restaurant itself. It looked the same. I looked at the menu again. The “Brioso” margarita was even still there on the left-hand side of the menu. Weird. Troubling. Slightly intriguing. Kind of enraging.

I felt even more incensed when I read the review in Time Out Chicago that week, which deemed Jack Rabbit a welcome replacement to its so-so predecessor Brioso. Hmmm…could it be true? For months I didn’t really care that much and Greg and I stayed on our side of the street. But last night after a long discussion about where to get married (destination wedding in Mexico?!) and where to eat dinner, we decided to finally check out Jack Rabbit. I was in a bad mood and looking forward to having something to bitch about. Not the most objective attitude for trying out a new restaurant but what’s a girl to do?

I’ll cut right to it. It wasn’t bad. Greg and I sat in the same spot and we both ordered the Brioso margarita which had adopted a much pulpier mix but tasted less tart and more sweet than I generally like. We started with chips and three “hand-crafted” salsas — all of them still quite bland and still accompanied by their heavier tortilla counterpart. As we munch, I poured over the menu.

Man, it’s a good menu. I still really wanted to like this place. Standout items that made my mouth water included an appetizer of a roasted beet salad with goat cheese, fajitas with marinated free-range chicken breast, again with the green chile cheeseburger, a Monterey jack and parmesan encrusted ribeye served with buttermilk mashed potatoes and zucchini, and lastly, a pan roasted chicken breast with green beans and spicy mac and cheese. YUM, right?

I ordered the free-range chicken fajitas and Greg ordered off the specials menu — a chile relleno with wild mushrooms. While we waited I noticed the woman next to me had what appeared to be the chicken breast with mac & cheese. When I queried her about it she reported that it was delicious and that she and her dining partner had been to Jack Rabbit several times, much to their enjoyment. We then asked the waiter about the changes done to the restaurant, and in a bored and unfriendly way, he repeated more than once that he wasn’t there when it was Brioso and all he could tell us was that the owners had revamped the menu.

Greg and I both ate our entrees as we sucked down a second round of margaritas. My chicken fajitas were tender and flavorful but were accompanied by a tiny little plate featuring some wilting lettuce, my favorite bland salsa and a little cup of dryly shredded cheese. I requested some guacamole which ended up being the best part of it all, and I tried a bite of Greg’s rellenos which tasted okay but not amazing. We both cleaned our plates despite not loving our dishes.

The bottom line is that I don’t think I’d go back. For a two-person dinner that averages around $75, I’d much rather go somewhere else. I’m a person who believes that anyone can change…but in the case of Brioso/Jack Rabbit, not so much.

Jack Rabbit
4603 N Lincoln Ave, Chicago
773.989.9000

We went to a reading on Thursday night at our neighborhood bookstore, The Book Cellar. Greg picked this one out from a listing in Time Out Chicago and I’m always up for a reading, especially one at The Book Cellar so I was game. I’d heard of the book, “Sin in the Second City,” could even conjure up an image of its cover, yet I knew nothing of what it was about.

When we got there we grabbed a center table and a copy of the book and I set to work ordering a glass of wine. This is one of the things I love about The Book Cellar — they sell wine. And good wine. I returned to the table with a glass of Pink Zeppelin, a fantastic and elusive dry rosé from Red Zeppelin Winery out of Paso Robles.

Come summer I almost only want to drink rosé, which contrary to its color and name, is not a sweet wine, and seemed the perfect accompaniment to a reading from a book about Chicago’s most famous brothel, The Everleigh Club.

While I sipped my wine and skimmed the back of the book — something about historical fiction that wasn’t really fiction about two sisters who ran a famous whorehouse in Chicago at the turn of the century — I studied the author from the corner of my eye. She was easy to pick out with her glass of champagne and dog-eared copy of the book in her hand. She was chatting with who seemed to be her publicist and a couple of eager fans as they waited for the reading to begin.

I’m always more interested in the author than the book. In fact the more I love a book, the more interested I become in the author. I got into an argument about this with a friend some years ago. My friend felt that the author should be completely irrelevant to the enjoyment of the book but I protested. Being a writer myself, I’m constantly fascinated by the writing process and the drive and motivation a person has to sit down and pound away at these little keys until, as Karen Abbott put it when I queried her about her book writing experience, “your eyes bleed.”

Abbott didn’t disappoint. She was very pretty and young and stylishly-dressed with a fantastic wide leather belt and cute brown shoes and she spoke loudly and clearly and quite unapologetically about a subject that she was clearly fascinated by: the Everleigh sisters, Minna and Ada, who opened what would become one of the most famous whore houses in the world. The author stood for the entire 45 minutes of her reading, which wasn’t a reading at all but rather a kind of talk on this subject that she adoringly researched for three years before writing the book, and all the while I continued to study her.

I noted the way she stood, with one foot sometimes stepping back behind her as if to propel her closer to us, and the way she shifted the length of her brown hair from side to side. I liked the way she seemed to light up when talking about these women whose lives she so fastidiously researched and grew to know intimately. She said she missed them terribly when she finished, her eyes crinkling a bit.

Sipping away the last dregs of my lovely rosé at the end of her talk, I was completely sold on reading this book, whose cover was familiar to me long before its contents. Much like how strangers and all the little details of their outward appearances can become just as recognizable as someone you know the depths of.

On Sunday afternoon Greg and I went for a five mile run and we each listened to the other’s running playlists. And we wore each other’s iPods.

I did NOT want to do this. I tried pretty hard to get out of it too. I made my cute/sad face at Greg and stood very still looking down when he insisted. It didn’t work. He insisted again and with a pouty little sigh I quickly caved. (I think it was because he looks so cute in his little running socks.)

There were really two reasons behind my initial dissent. First, I’m a superstitious runner. I think this comes from years spent running high school track and cross-country during which I developed a belief that I could easily fuck up my run by not wearing the right shirt or not walking three times around the water cooler before a run …or not listening to the same, trusty old running mix. And running the day after hosting a barbecue party in which there were too many homemade strawberry daiquiris consumed, I knew I’d need all the luck I could get.

Reason number two was that Greg’s mix just doesn’t appeal to me. I’m familiar enough with most of the bands on it to know that I don’t want to listen to them when I’m running. But all the same, I decided to be as open-minded as possible. There are, ahem, several times I wish I had taken Greg’s suggestions on something.

As we set out, Greg’s jaunty little iPod shuffle clipped to my shorts, I let Hot Chip set the pace and it was one I felt pretty good about — peppy and a little tough. Certainly no Boston, but a girl can’t have everything she wants, can she?

Next up was Hot Chip again which was fine. But fine being the operative word. Definitely not inspiring. Definitely not distracting from the slowly developing cramp in my left side. Definitely not Neil Diamond’s “America.” After that came something from the new R.E.M album which I totally dug and which totally left me sad when it ended.

I skipped the next two songs — Death from Above 1979 and “Hold Up” by the Raconteurs — because both of them started off with grating guitar sounds that made me wince and think of my knees, which I felt like might make the same sound if I actually got through these 5 miles.

It was around this time when I realized what I like about my music. I like the continuous beat most of the songs on my list have. I like a beat that keeps time with my pounding feet. I also like music that swells and builds and makes me feel good. So far, most of Greg’s music sounded grating and harsh and made me feel angry and uncomfortably determined. I didn’t want to wrap things in plastic. I wanted to BE wrapped in plastic.

After skipping those two I settled on an okay 311 song, and then I skipped the following Arctic Monkeys and 311 songs that came on after that. I kind of dug a Jem song, and even if I didn’t totally dig it, it calmed me down and allowed me to space out and find my pace for about four minutes. Then there was a Shout Out Louds song that I loved — definitely my favorite of the mix — it had just a bit of the vocal building that I mentioned and I think I might want to hear it again sometime soon.

I skipped the next two (another 311 and a Cake song) and enjoyed some Cold War Kids and Radiohead before merely tolerating the last two which were Rage Against the Machine and the Foo Fighters.

While I never want to run to Greg’s mix again, it was a valuable lesson to learn that I don’t need The Bangles to get me home.

I’m obsessed with India. It’s the place I want to go more than anywhere else in the world. And it’s been that place for me for a long time.

A lot of it has to do with having had a very close friend who was Indian and who died. Julie used to tell me stories about the heat and the bustling streets, about the way in which she was unable to walk down those streets without giving away everything she had to the less fortunate. She used to bring home pretty little trinkets covered with tiny glass mirrors and little beads. Julie had the biggest brown eyes and the prettiest skin and she made me want to go to India.

Naturally this fierce interest in India drew me to its food — the most tangible way to experience a country I so desperately want to visit. Over dinner Wednesday night at Marigold in Uptown, I reminisced about my history with Indian food. I still remember the first Indian restaurant I ever went to. It was in Atlanta and I was on a date with my high school boyfriend. The deep, sensual spices and multi-layered textures were all so different than the Western foods I was used to.

Marigold bills itself as “Modern Indian” which means that many of the dishes are lighter than the average American Indian’s restaurant offerings. Marigold makes their chutneys in small batches to ensure freshness — the bright green mint sauce drizzled around our appetizer of Duck Leg Dum delicately highlighted the richness of the duck and the tiny mustard seeds scattered throughout which popped between my teeth in the most pleasurable way — all serving to provide evidence of their dedication to quality.

In my early twenties I lived on 5th Street in New York’s East Village which, if you’ve ever lived in NYC, you know is oft referred to as Curry Row. Named for the dozens of tiny Indian restaurants lining the small block, Curry Row was where I truly began to sow my Indian culinary seeds. In the time I lived there I think I made it a point to try each of the maybe 30 restaurants housed on 5th Street. I had my favorites, of course, and some of the little spots were truly horrid. But for the most part I just couldn’t get enough of the curries and vindaloos, the homemade paneer and fluffy naan bread.

When I moved to LA I was bereft at having lost my beloved little India and it took me a while to find my favorite Southeast Asian restaurant. When I did finally discover the Indian restaurant I would return to on a monthly basis over the course of the five years I lived in LA, it was a little place in Marina Del Rey called Akbar. Much like Marigold, it was “modern Indian cuisine.” My frequent visits to my favorite corner table by the window forever turned me onto the subtleties of India’s many flavors, and I was pleased to find that Marigold’s tender Tandoori Chicken and homemade Saag Paneer melded seamlessly into that realm of refinement.

All this rambling really to say that Marigold met my expectations and perhaps even exceeded them. My Indian restaurant experiences in Chicago so far have included Hema’s Kitchen in Lincoln Park (fantastic), Essence of India in Lincoln Square (mediocre) and some mild exploration of the Devon Street offerings (more on that to come down the road for sure). And after dining at Marigold just once I know that it will surely take it’s place at the high end of my Indian cuisine spectrum. I could write much more about the dishes than I’ve done here…but they’re for you to discover for yourself.

Marigold
4832 N. Broadway, Chicago
773.293.4653

This was Greg’s idea. To do a post about our running mixes. We run together a lot. Mostly around our neighborhood but sometimes by the lake and sometimes at the Y. I think Greg wanted to do this post because he thinks my running mix is silly and his running mix is cool. Just like how he thinks he’s a scenester, not a hipster, which I think is silly and he thinks is cool.

But whatever, here we go. So I’ve had the same running mix on my iPod for about 4 years now. The playlist is entitled “Bikepath” from when I used to run on the bike path along the Pacific Ocean from Venice into Santa Monica.

And I just have to say that just as much as I love bands like The National, Heartless Bastards and Death Cab, I also really like my classic rock. The songs on this playlist are admittedly better suited for the wide expanse of a Southern California beach as opposed to the sturdy sidewalks of Chicago’s northside neighborhoods, but all the same these are the songs that get my heart singing and my feet pounding.

(Each song below is linked to its music video on Youtube.)

1. Song: More Than a Feeling
Artist: Boston
This song has the most delicious slow build, and because I’ve listened to it so many times in California, even once on the treadmill at the Lakeview Y here in Chicago, the moment it comes on I can’t help but smell the ocean and hear the faint rustle of palm trees in the breeze.

2. Song: We Built This City on Rock and Roll
Artist: Jefferson Starship
By the time this one comes on I’m usually just beginning to warm up, the kinks in my knees are dissipating, the song’s bridge and beat behind it pushing me on. Back in CA I’d be almost half a mile into my run down the boardwalk pounding past the skateboarders and the roller derby performers, the sun shining and the Venice boardwalk freaks out in full form. Don’t you remember? We built this city on Rock and Roll…

3. Song: America
Artist: Neil Diamond
All I’m going to say about this one is that a lot of the time I skip over it, but sometimes it’s exactly what I need.

4. Song: The Promise
Artist: When in Rome

5. Song: Just What I Needed
Artist: The Cars
This song always comes on just when I need it…just when I start to lag, the whining 80s guitar riff gets me picking up my feet. It’s not the perfume that you wear. It’s not the ribbons in your hair.

6. Song: Walk Like An Egyptian
Artist: Bangles

7. Song: Rebel, Rebel
Artist: David Bowie
Come on, Greg, give me this one. If this song doesn’t have you picking up the pace, I don’t know what will.

8. Song: Edge of Seventeen
Artist: Fleetwood Mac

9. Song: How Soon is Now?
Artist: The Smiths

10. Song: Jump
Artist: Van Halen
Following the last couple of songs, which got a little serious, this one totally gets me all jazzed up again.

11. Song: Eye of the Tiger
Artist: Survivor
And then if there was ever any doubt that I might not make my five mile goal, this song sets me straight.

12. Song: Sister Christian
Artist: Night Ranger
And this last one just makes my heart sing. And I’m usually so high on endorphins that when no one’s looking I might just pump my fist in the air as I round the corner home.

Now that the unseasonably cool summer has finally settled over this Midwestern city I now call home, my palate has been busy making some serious readjustments. After five years in Southern California spent consuming not much more than sushi and smoothies, this past winter’s cold weather sparked a fury of desire in me for all foods heavy and rich. Coming down off of that (and losing those lovely winter pounds) has been a little challenging, but the other night dining at BOKA reminded me of just how light and delicious well-prepared food can be.

BOKA chef Guiseppe Tentori was recently named one of Food & Wine’s Best New Chefs. It seems his personal mission is to make food that’s as light and buoyant on the tongue (and the stomach) as pleasingly possible. His dishes, not only innovative with their ingredients like stuffed squid with baby spinach and black tapioca, are designed to take full advantage of our taste buds, each flavor making a singular appearance before melding into the next.

We moved from the squid to entrees of short ribs with broccoli hash and cauliflower-yukon potato mash and mahi mahi with braised leeks and truffle emulsion that were each so beautifully presented that I couldn’t help but wish that the farmers who grew such produce could see what their efforts were transformed into. I’ve been spending a lot of time at Green City Farmer’s Market the last couple of weeks, talking to the various vendors and farmers about their produce, and sitting before these dishes I couldn’t help but wonder if they ever really get to see or, for that matter, taste the fruits of their labor.

Leaving BOKA that night it seemed impossible that I’d consumed a four-course meal — I felt perfectly sated but also unusually light and energized — something that makes me think it isn’t impossible to acclimate to these Midwestern seasons.

BOKA
1729 N Halsted St
312.337.6070

Greg and I went to see “Sex and the City” on Sunday night.

First off, it was great. Totally enjoyable. Even waiting in line with dozens of women, high-pitched giggles and squeals of excitement reverberating off the hallway walls as we crushed together into the theater was kind of fun.

And the movie was definitely cute without being sappy.

It was good to see those girls again.

But it all just got me thinking. As I was waiting (again in line) for the bathroom before the movie started I looked at all the different women around me — old and young, pretty and overweight, outgoing and clearly shy, wealthy and not — somehow each of them had found a way to deftly attach themselves to these characters — and I couldn’t help but think about what those four well-heeled women mean to me.

I continued thinking about it in my seat while Greg was getting popcorn. I looked down at my left hand resting on my leg and at the diamond engagement ring on my finger. I turned it so that it was perfectly centered and I flexed my fingers, watching the stone catch the light, and I thought about love and dating and weddings and this endless quest to find “the one,” explored so extensively in “SATC.”

I think it’s something most women want, something the majority of us are looking for. And it’s rare and elusive and so hard to find. I think it’s so comforting for us to see these four women in similar searches and struggles. I know that’s not a new thing to say about this show or about the way we relate to these characters but as I sat there waiting for my “one” to come back, I felt grateful for “Sex and the City,” grateful for the fearless and uninhibited reflection it gave me as I went through my own tribulations of the heart. And when Greg finally reclaimed the seat next to me, intertwining his fingers in mine, I felt grateful for him too.

Sex and the City
Now Playing

Saturday Greg and I went to Mayfest in Lincoln Square.

I’ve been living in Chicago for 9 months now. My first month here, aside from unpacking and job hunting, was spent letting the slowly creeping realization that I’d officially moved to the Midwest sink in. Truthfully it just didn’t really occur to me before moving here — that I was moving not just to Chicago, but to the Midwest.

I grew up in Atlanta which, if you’re not from the South, is officially the South. Just as if you’re not from the Midwest, Chicago definitely feels as though it is of the essence. After Atlanta I moved to New York City and then after that to Los Angeles — both of those cities quite regional as well. Los Angeles is as West Coast as New York City is East Coast.

And Saturday, at Mayfest, I realized quite how Midwest Chicago is. Nothing written here by me about the Midwest or Chicago is intended as criticism, merely as observation from someone who has lived in numerous big cities. People like to ask me which city I’ve liked the best and I always answer as I will right now: they’re all different and not really worth comparing. They are each their own city unto themselves.

Why the long introduction, you may be wondering to yourself? Is it because Greg always uses so many pictures in his posts causing me to expound in text? Perhaps. But really I suppose it’s just to get you ready for my assessment of what Midwesterners seem to like to do more than most things: eat bratwurst and drink beer during the day.

Ouch. That sounded a little harsh. I didn’t quite mean it that way.

Let’s move on.

Three things I’ve been exposed to more than anything else in this, The Windy City.

1. The Cubs. Don’t drive on Clark Street during Cubs season, I’ve learned. I tend to try to go somewhere using Clark only when there is a Cubs game, and each time I get stuck for half hours watching Cubs fans criss-cross said street in their sporty jerseys with rosy cheeks and hot dog-ready fists.

2. Book Clubs. I’d never been invited to a book club until I moved to Chicago. I’ve since been invited to 5 and have attended 3. Each time I tended to drink too much and talk too much and feel like that “Greg Boose’s weird girlfriend who just moved here from LA” too much.

3. Street Festivals. I’m not kidding: there is a street festival EVERY weekend during the summer months in Chicago.

Which brings us to Saturday. The Mayfest street festival that Greg and I attended right in our very own neighborhood, Lincoln Square. Lincoln Square is an old German neighborhood replete with a long standing German bakery and the occasional cantankerous German old-timer who claims that it’s nothing compared to what it all used to be.

Oh, and replete with the annual two-day drunken sausage/beer festival called Mayfest.

This probably sounds like I didn’t enjoy myself, but actually I did. Greg and I wandered right into the heart of it all, ordering up some brat sandwiches and grabbing plastic steins of Hofbrauhaus beer which we took into the tent so that we might better hear the German band in their lederhosen up on the stage. I kept getting flashes of that scene in “National Lampoon’s European Vacation” when they’re in Germany and Rusty makes out with that hot, boobilicious German girl, and then I remembered that the Griswold family totally lived in the Midwest and suddenly it all made sense.

There were guys everywhere wearing funny little German hats and double-fisting steins and there were moms with strollers and old cantankerous Germans who’ve probably lived in the neighborhood for half a century. There were terrible street festival games which we totally played and won and lost.

There was incredible people watching no matter where you turned your head, and by the time we decided to leave I was perfectly tipsy from my two beers. And in my Hofbrauhaus daze the Midwest seemed like a good place to have landed. A solid place where people like to watch sports and read books and drink beer in the middle of the day just to celebrate a long lost heritage.

(Greg included too many pictures. Again.)






























Mayfest Chicago
Lincoln Square
Last weekend in May
Free!

I think the first thing I said, tears in my eyes, when I put down Cormac McCarthy’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel “The Road” was, “That was a book.”

And really, that’s all I feel I would ever need to say about it. I could go on and on and tell you that it was one of the best books I’ve read in the last ten years. I could elaborate by talking about the prose itself — so stunning and strangely poetic and delightfully rule-breaking that I reread whole paragraphs over and over and dog-eared pages that I’ve since returned to multiple times. Or I could talk about the story, one so simply told that if there were ever whispering questions about it, they were myths by the end.

For the sake of context I’ll say that “The Road” is the story of a man and his son wandering through a post-apocalyptic land in their search for sustenance and fellow survivors. Their path is perilous and dark, the future uncertain, the past barely a memory.

But I’d rather just give you some of it to read yourself.

The soft black talc blew through the streets like squid ink uncoiling along a sea floor and the cold crept down and the dark came early and the scavengers passing down the steep canyons with their torches trod silky holes in the drifted ash that closed behind them silently as eyes. Out on the roads the pilgrims sank down and fell over and died and the bleak and shrouded earth went trundling past the sun and returned again as trackless and as unremarked as the path of any nameless sisterworld in the ancient dark beyond.

And there is this:

He remembered waking once on such a night to the clatter of crabs in the pan where he’d left steakbones from the night before. Faint deep coals of the driftwood fire pulsing in the onshore wind. Lying under such a myriad of stars. The sea’s black horizon. He rose and walked out and stood barefoot in the sand and watched the pale surf appear all down the shore and roll and crash and darken again. When he went back to the fire he knelt and smoothed her hair as she slept and he said if he were God he would have made the world just so and no different.

The Road
Cormac McCarthy
Random House, Inc.
287 pages