Booze – Helluva Month

JANUARY 2013

It’s been a helluva month in Ravens Park, my neighborhood in the 51st ward of Chicago. If there’s one quote, that I’m best known for originating it’s “Times, they are a’changin’”. And it’s truer now than it’s ever been. Just a few weeks ago I got home from work, walked up the three flights of stairs to my little apartment that I share with my beautiful wife of ten years, Kim, and our two cats, our furkids we call them, and I sat and we talked for an hour or so like any other day while petting our cats which I refer to as “rubbing our pussies together.” My wife doesn’t like that joke either.

Then I got up to get a beer and asked if she wanted one. She paused. Huh. It’s not like her to hesitate before accepting a tasty beverage. Anyway, I got both of us a drink and before sitting back down, I visited the restroom as I do occasionally and on the back of the toilet was two positive pregnancy tests anchoring a note that said, “You’re going to be a daddy…of a human child.”

Yeah…You figured it out a lot faster than I did. It took me eight minutes to figure out what that meant, four times longer than it took the stick she peed on. I understood for the first time the meaning of the word “Dumbfounded”. I was drooling, I didn’t know my name, staring back and forth from the pregnancy tests to the note, and rereading the test instructions I’d fished out of the trash to make sure that two lines meant positive and positive meant pregnant, because after a few high fives over negative results early in our relationship I wondered if I was confused about the nomenclature.

Meanwhile, she was waiting outside the door being totally freaked out by the long silence. I opened the door and she said, “Is that OK?” and the two of us hugged and kissed and cried together like I can’t remember when. It was very, very OK, my friends.

We’ve been married for ten years. We’ve always known we wanted to have a child but  were never ready either because we didn’t have the money or we were too selfish or too scared. Of course, all of those things are still true, but here comes baby. Ready or not. Because for the first time I’m sure I’ve got enough love in my heart for one more person and for me that trumps the rest of it.

The thing that happens here is that I find out, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been about anything and you can’t tell people for 12 weeks. It’s torture. Especially during the holidays, since we were invited to about 5 booze soaked gatherings, culminating with New Year’s Eve. How to turn down alcohol on New Years I ask you?

Kim thought about telling everyone she was on Antibiotics, but then people either suspect that’s a lie or their imaginations run wild trying to guess what disgusting, dripping infection you’re fighting. “Is it vagina based?”, they’d think. Well, maybe that’s just me that thinks that way. I wanted her to tell people, she’s “been pooping weird lately.” But she wasn’t in for that for some reason.

We decided to go with her pretending to drink. We figured that we’d have to spend the next 18 years pretending to not do things for the kid’s sake so we should go ahead and start living a lie now.

So, she’d pick a dark bottle of beer and then surreptitiously, pour it out and fill it up with water. The first gathering doing this she was a nervous wreck, all fumbly and speaking too loudly. “I LIKE BEER!” But by New Year’s she was like a fake drinking ninja. She was cool, she was commenting on the hoppiness of the brew, “Mmmm, Daisy Cutter. I get hints of fresh cut grass”, I heard her say once.

She was enjoying the deception until late in the evening when I was standing watch while she poured a Revolution porter down the kitchen sink. I was drunk since I was matching her beer for waterbeer. Built in designated driver. Score. No rock, paper, scissors necessary. Then one of our friends started down the hall and I turned to my wife and taking my job of look-out way too seriously I yelled, “Abort! Abort!”

You figured it out a lot faster than I did. That is apparently not the right thing to scream at your newly pregnant wife. She immediately started violently sobbing. I know she knew that I wasn’t, like trying to make it happen, like scaring the hiccups out of someone, “Abort!” She knew that wasn’t the case but still, sloppy tears. She ran past a couple of people in the hall to the restroom. Slams the door with me right behind her. I sheepishly looked at my friends and whispered, “She’s been pooping weird lately…” They nodded, empathizing. They’d been there.

So, we’ve already begun sacrificing for the little life in there. She’s sacrificing 9 months of buzzes and carrying what I understand to be the brunt of the physical burden, meanwhile I’ve sacrificed being able to predict her emotional swings. There’s that. And I know our worries will multiply exponentially for the rest of our lives…

But that’s OK. I already know it’s worth it. There is no doubt in my mind. And not just for all the “My boys can swim!” jokes when we can finally tell people. Cuz you know, they can…swim. Phil.

It’s funny, the life I remember living before falling in love with my wife seems now like it was someone else’s life entirely. I feel another shift coming. Like we’re on a beach, we like where we are but the waves have receded in front of us and we know a tsunami is coming. But we just kind of widen our stance and brace to try and catch it…and eventually diaper it.

And that’s the story here in Ravens Park where we may just have third floor rental, but somehow, I know, we’ll manage to make it a home.

Holidays – Helluva Month

DECEMBER 2012

It’s been a helluva month in Ravens Park, my neighborhood in the 51st ward of Chicago. Winter is here. Fu-uck. And you know the holiday season is truly upon us when the stores are full, there’s a tree in every window, and the radiators are on and rattling like the chains of Jacob Marley.

There is nothing like christmas in the this city. The energy is palpable, light poles are wrapped in lighted garland, the mag mile seems extra mag. You and your wife swore that you were too cool to ever leave the city, leave Ravens Park, for the suburbs. Then, of course, your daughter was born and you weren’t cool anymore and you were out. I’ve always said that all of us who don’t have kids and live in the city should be thankful for Chicago Public Schools, the Chicago winter, and crime, because without those terrible things, none of us could afford to live here.

There are upsides to the suburbs that your city friends envy, sure. Every time they visit they take their shoes off and walk around in the grass of your yard and secretly pretend like it’s theirs. But mostly they bust your chops about the cultural shortcomings of the suburbs. And it’s all true. But you have to say that the one great advantage the suburbs have over the city is…Red Lobster. Your foodie friends say, “What about Frog & Snail, what about Girl & Goat, what about Owen & Engine, what about Elephant & Nightstand” or any other of the ampersand restaurants. But you just let their ridicule melt away like butter on all twelve of the cheddar bay biscuits you consumed last night.

Friday night is family dinner night out and last night was Red & Lobster as you’ve taken to calling it. You and your wife picked your daughter up from school and drove straight to the restaurant. I know that makes for a 4pm dinner but you’re doing all kinds of old people stuff now since the move. You’re watching CBS. It’s terrible. Anyway, your daughter was quiet and pensive, full of ennui. An odd state for a 5 year old. She didn’t even perk up when “Call Me Maybe” came on the radio. So, you and your wife knew something was wrong by the time you were shown to your booth so you asked and she said that some kids were making fun of her at her class’s holiday party. This was something you knew you’d have to deal with at some point. You’re wife is Jewish and you’re a gentile, and neither of you practice a faith, as evidenced by your Jewish wife eatin’ the hell outta some shrimp scampi, but you’d grown up with two very different holiday’s this time of the year. So, you thought it would be cute to combine them into one hybrid holiday that only you two (and now three) celebrate. You call it Jewmas. Not in mixed company, of course.

So, your poor five year old daughter got made fun of for thinking that Santa…was Jesus’s Rabbi. And for being confused when they sang the Twelve Days of Christmas because she was under the impression there were only eight. So, over a pound and a half of crab legs you have to explain to your child that her family is weird and try to sell her on how lucky she is to find that out so early in life. Then she asked the question, “Why didn’t you just do both holidays…or pick one? Why you gotta do it so stoopy?” You didn’t want her to say stupid so you taught her to say…“stoopy”.

It was a good question. Of course, when you and your wife were young and in love and getting stoned every night you’d thought the hybrid holiday was hilarious and cheeky. But there were real reasons. Traumatic reasons. That you would now have to tell your five year old daughter. You wife started.

“Well, honey,” She said dabbing at a spot of clarified butter on her blouse, “I, like many Jewish children suffered from what we call Christmas envy. As a child, the way I saw it was that Hannukah was some low rent Christmas with candles and my parents couldn’t offer an argument…it just wasn’t that fun. And then when our cat Spike caught his tail on fire on the menorah and ran and hid under my bed which caught my bed on fire which burned our house down…well, we all just decided to, you know, quit.”

“Was Spike OK?” your daughter asked.

“He survived…but from that day on he was an anti-semite. He was constantly hissing and swatting at all of us. But if someone who wasn’t Jewish came over he would start purring and try to go home with them.”

“Awwe…” said your kind hearted daughter. She was moved. Now it was your turn to tell your story.

“My story is kind of like your mom’s in that it involves the family pet. See, my great aunt Beau-la…”

“What kind of name is that?”, she asked.

“Oh, well, a long time ago people used to give their kids stoopy names. Anyway, she was always giving us a fruit cake-”

“What’s a fruitcake, Daddy?”

“Well, sweety, it’s like the opposite of a Cheddar Bay Biscuit. So, we would thank her profusely and then throw it in the trash. For like twelve years, every year. Then one year I got the bright idea to feed it to my dog, Homer. He wouldn’t eat it…at first. But finally he took a couple of bites and it was all very funny until, of course, Homer dropped dead that night. I loved that dog. And there was also the fact that it could have been one of us. And the uncertainty…you know? Either Aunt Beau-la was a very patient  assassin, or just a terrible cook.”

“Honey, you’re spiraling”.

“Right, right. So, Christmas always made me a little sad after that but then I met your mommy and my life was so much happier and we started doing Jewmas…and that was fun and then we had you and our lives got even happier. And Jewmas-”

Your wife stopped you,“Honey, don’t say Jewmas so loud. We’re in Skokie-”.

“Sorry.” You continued, “It was just a part of our lives so we kept doing it and I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry you got made fun of.”

She thought for a moment then smiled for the first time that night and said, “That’s OK, Daddy. It was just Tommy Sanders and he’s the stoopiest kid in class.”

Then she dug into her fried shrimp like none of it had ever happened. Your wife squeezed your hand under the table and you knew what that squeeze meant. “One, hard conversation down. Twenty thousand to go.” You squeezed back, had another biscuit, and enjoyed a wonderful suburban meal with the two most beautiful women in the world.

And that’s the story here in Ravens Park where stoopy is as stoopy does.

Halloween/Politics – Helluva Month

OCTOBER 2012

It’s been a hell of a month in Ravens Park, my neighborhood in the 51st ward of Chicago, far enough from Wrigley to occasionally pretend like we don’t have a baseball team. It’s late October, which means that a very frightening day is just around the corner: Election Day. OK, two scary days. There are two scary days around the corner. Election Day, well it’ll come and go. You’ll watch coverage on Fox News so you can get all mad and yell about things you don’t understand. Or you’ll flip over to MSNBC, because all the political commentators are skinny and white and wear glasses. They remind you of yourself, and it makes you feel smarter. You’ll be happy with the outcome, or you won’t. Either way, you’ll go to work Wednesday. You’ll order the same cup of coffee. You have the same apolitical small talk with the owner/operator of the food truck where you buy your lunch.

What’s ironic is that Halloween is not as inconsequential. Stay with me. As unimportant as it should be, as silly of a childish holiday as it should be, you can’t help yourself. It matters. Next to Christmas, and maybe that one St. Patrick’s Day, when you’re being completely honest, it’s your favorite holiday. You can still remember when your mom made you that C-3PO costume out of some spray painted cardboard, a pot lid, a gas cap, and a clown mask with the orange hair cut off. She painted it with gold hobby paint. It rained that year, and by the end of the night you looked like the scariest damn post-apocalyptic clown in the world. And then you remember those teenage years. You still wanted candy, but you wanted more to be cool. You fought that urge to go trick-or-treating until it truly was too late, and you wished you hadn’t fought so hard. And those college costume parties took the place of nights of candy. They both involved dressing up, screaming, and hangovers. And then as an adult, you remember those years of being on the other end of the transaction. Holing up in your poorly furnished living room, watching one cheesy scary movie after another, and passing out the best candy you could afford that year. Halloween, in that grainy rolling reel of your memory is like a never-ending coming-of-age tale—chronicling your transition from childhood to adolescence to adulthood to parenthood. And one year, you can remember when it chronicled the coming-of-age for us all.

That year, attitudes in Ravens Park were pretty somber. Kids were still costume shopping, sure, and everybody still stocked up on fun sized candy bars, and AMC still showed an awesome run of creepy B-movie classics. One little pack of kids you had enjoyed watching grow each Halloween—a nice mixture of boys and girls, not the least bit shit ass, the kind of kids you identify with … or hope that you identify with—they hit that age that year. Twelve. You remembered it well. It was the moment of the last ride … or, worse yet, the moment you realized it was already over. You found those kids huddled up one day, barely a week from All Hallows Eve, heads hanging, bored, openly discussing their total lack of enthusiasm for your second favorite holiday. And that’s when it happened. That neighbor you hate—the asshole with the bumper sticker that reads “Be Democratic, Vote Republican”—he came by with a suggestion that brought the excitement back. All of you, the kids, the asshole neighbor, even you, with your normally cynical, hermit-like ways, you would gather at the ass-hole neighbor’s house and greet neighborhood kids with the scariest porch in Chicago. You spent the next week and a half (and too much of that month’s pay check) gathering fake blood, ripping up old coveralls, positioning sheets to black out peripheral light, and preparing to scare the living shit out of some small children.
When the night arrived, the usual suspects were all on deck: Jason, Freddy, Michael Myers (Halloween … not Austin Powers … though both are pretty frightening). Your group of pre-teen monsters pounced and lurked and spent the entire evening giggling their way through a gallery of horrors. You and your ass-hole neighbor set aside your political differences and general dislike of one another as you watched this group of little hellions you couldn’t help but like laugh and smile and enjoy themselves for the first time in quite a while.

The culminating point in the evening came when Randy, a towheaded kid with knobby knees and an affinity for hockey and Orson Scott Card novels came bounding out of a clump of bushes with a machete (fake, of course). He tugged straight his hockey mask with one hand and waved the knife with the other. His target was a ten-year-old girl dressed as a fortune-teller. Randy chased the fortune-teller for a good twenty yards—he was growling, she was screaming. Now, this had gone on all night in one fashion or another. Randy and crew would jump out and give chase. Trick-or-treaters would jump or squeal or run a little. Then they would always stop and have a good laugh. They all liked a little scare. What they had lacked, however, up until that point, was the vim and vigor, the Gypsy spirit of our little fortune-teller. She, like those before her, did eventually stop. It was not to laugh, though. The little bells on her sash belt clinked and jingled as she twisted at the hips. Her candy bag whistled in the wind. And she turned on Randy. Her candy bag connected with his chin in a way that can only be described as Mike Tyson’s Punchout-like. Although I’m sure it met with the dissatisfaction of the fortune-teller when she got it, I would imagine Randy was much more disappointed to discover that some jerk had given out apples that night. Randy was lifted completely off the ground. His hockey mask—protective gear meant to withstand the meaty shoulders of toothless Canadians—shattered. Candy went … everywhere. Randy wobbled, Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums raining down around him. The fortune-teller scampered off into the night.
You all gathered around Randy on your knees, scooping up bits of candy into plastic grocery bags. You all paused from time to time to eat a piece or two of your favorite. And you laughed. Laughed about the fortune-teller’s shellacking of Randy. Laughed about the kids who were too scared to make it to the door. Laughed about Halloween. You laughed about the joy of being scared … of ghosts and goblins … on the first Halloween that any of you ever remembered having anything real to be scared of. That was the last Wednesday in October … 2001. Just 50 days removed from that fateful Tuesday morning. Those real fears … they faded soon enough, you knew they would. But the memories of that Halloween—of that time you remembered what it felt like to enjoy being scared again—they stayed with you.
And that’s the story here in Ravens Park, where you never chase a Gypsy woman with a knife, and where you always know that no matter how many times you get knocked on your ass, there are neighbors who will help you eat the candy that put you there.

Nostalgia – Helluva Month

SEPTEMBER 2012

It’s been a helluva month in Raven’s Park, my neighborhood in the good ol’ 51st ward of Chicago. Summer is gone, gone, gone. We’re never getting it back. And if you’re like me you usually waste your entire Autumn dreading Winter. My family has a saying, “Winter is Coming”. We’ve been saying it for years.

Anyway, you’re not wasting anytime worrying this year. You planned a camping trip by yourself before, before it was too late. Before it’s too cold. A memory had been nudging you towards this trip, slipping into your dreams and reminding you how much you miss camping, how much you need the great out of doors. The stars. Living in Chicago has made you forget there are more than just planes in the sky. You just had to see that night sky, peer through that window into an unfathomable eternity. You’ve been thinking all kinds of cheesy shit like that. Window into an unfathomable eternity. You had to smell the fresh air and hear the silence, neither of which exists in the city. You haven’t been camping in thirty years and it’s past time.

So, that need pushed you around the lake into Michigan, the militia capital of the world, and to that KOA campground yesterday. Those can get crowded. You sat a tuba outside your tent to keep the campsites around yours open. It worked, people saw it, figured they didn’t want to hear Cumbaya on the tuba, and just kept moving to the other end of the campgrounds. So, you had the privacy you wanted. You were ready for the perfect, primal simplicity of a night spent in the elements. Of course, you had to buy a new tent, a sleeping bag, a camp stove top, a little hatchet, a lantern, some hotdogs and buns, some potato salad, some bacon and eggs, marshmallows, Hershey’s bars, graham crackers, matches, charcoal, lighter fluid, bug spray, toilet paper…So, about $600 later you were ready for that perfect, primal simplicity.

Yes, setting up your tent felt like an I.Q. test you were failing, and your firewood was wet, the blanket of stars was covered by a blanket of clouds, and you went to bed at 8pm, there wasn’t anything, anything to do…but, but…Even through all of that you…well, OK. It sucked. Camping sucks. What had you been thinking? Had you really loved this as a kid? You laid in your tent wrapped up, shivering against the autumn chill, bemoaning the money wasted, and your general lack of survival instincts.

The cold reminded you of your last camping trip with your family. Well, it wasn’t a camping trip, really but a road trip to visit your dad’s sister. You almost always camped on road trips because it was cheaper than staying at a motel. Your dad is insanely frugal. He would separate your two ply toilet paper into one ply. That’s crazy. This trip, it was 1982, you were five, your sister seven. It was fall. The day had been a chilly one, and your mom and your dad had fought all day, her trying to get him to agree to staying the night in a Motel 6. She thought it was too cold outside. He thought it was too expensive inside. Your dad wasn’t budging. A camp site in 1982 cost $3. A Motel 6 cost $17.99. That’s a savings of $14.99. The way he figured it, you can camp and save $14.99 -Maybe, maybe your family freezes to death…but maybe not. Or you can spend $14.99 and you’re definitely out $14.99. So, he’d decided that $14.99 was a lot of money. I mean, you could almost afford a night at a Motel 6 for $14.99. Your Mom didn’t like that argument. She called him words you didn’t understand until junior high. They fought a lot when little five year old you didn’t know it. But occasionally, like that day, everyone felt it. But your dad won and soon it seemed like any other night camping as you set up the tent and built the fire.

Your dad had won the argument but your mom was right as was so often the case. As night rolled round, and it was cold. It was soo cold. So, you zipped two sleeping bags together into one big sleeping bag and all climbed in together. You and your sister huddled between your parents but it was still just so cold. You were all shivering and hugging one another. And you, the baby, the little monkey you were, you slid down, down to the bottom of bag, seeking the warmth like something natural that’s known for seeking warmth, I can’t think of anything right now…and you found the warmth at the bottom of the sleeping bag, at your family’s feet. Like a puppy. You served as a pretty good foot warmer. The only down side is when you heard something that sounded like a bullfrog being stepped on…It was one of your Dad’s infamous dutch ovens…and you were trapped like never before…you still attribute your less than stellar short term memory to this moment…And when he mercifully pulled open the top of the bag, the dry, cold air that came rushing in met the warm dirty air, like two fronts meeting, and it created weather right there in the sleeping bag. It rained a little. True story. You all laughed. And after that passed, no pun, after the stink had subsided you had the warmest, closest, most comforting night, wrapped up tight with the people you loved, helping each other overcome the elements.

So, last night as you laid by yourself, shivering, remembering, it became obvious that you hadn’t been nostalgic for camping at all. You laid and thought about your dad in Texas, retired into a life of daytime yard work and nighttime baseball games on TV, still separating the toilet paper. Still gross. And your sister in Louisiana, the crazy, funny, big sister who you don’t talk to enough and you don’t know why. And your Mom, out in California, who just got back into the dating scene after being single for 22…23 years…you can’t imagine her…with a man, never mind. Anyway. Eventually, you forgot about the cold and you stayed awake for a couple of hours just remembering. The good, the bad, and back to the good. Always back to the good.

And that’s the story here in Ravens Park where sometimes your family can keep you warm even if they’re scattered to the wind.

America – Helluva Month

JUNE 2012

It’s been a helluva month in Raven’s Park, my neighborhood here in the 51st ward of Chicago. We’re all bursting with national pride this week as we prepare for our country to turn 236 years old. Then next week we all go back to pretending like we’re from Canada when we travel overseas…Eh.

This week we’re hanging bunting and shooting fireworks and next week we go back to watching one episode of House Hunters International after the other and dreaming that was us, taking the 2nd house, the beach bungalo with an upgraded kitchen and an open floor plan. It’ll be perfect for entertaining. But this week, we remember how good we have it here. I know that you’re conflicted about some aspects of being an American. I know that if you watch reality TV you’ll see a girl with a really giant butt getting a $45,000 dollar necklace for her birthday while you got nose hair clippers. I know. And I’m sorry about that. I don’t want to think of the negative things happening in America. This week I’m thinking of the founding fathers and for once not bringing up how many of them owned slaves. A lot. A lot of them owned slaves. Most. But that doesn’t matter this week. This week we’re doing a silly comedy show inspired by America. I am drunk on the American Dream and I want to show you my America, my neighborhood, Ravens Park, Chicago, through my eyes. Let’s leave the studio and walk around the hood. Screw it. Let’s march.

(Sousa starts.)

We’re out the door and up beautiful Lincoln Ave. A little quieter, respect our neighbors. There’s Trader Joe’s, full of people who can’t afford to shop at Whole Foods but wouldn’t be caught dead in an Aldi’s even though they’re owned by the same parent company. That’s my America!

Now, crossing Montrose -

(A Car Drives by.)

Whoa!

DOUCHE
Get outta the road you fucking idiot!

MATT
Even though this is a crosswalk I respect your freedom of speech, sir! Did you see that folks! He was driving a Hummer! What a great country we’re living in where a total douche bag can drive a car that huge and fuel consuming while almost every problem in the world can be traced back to oil! That’s my America!

And look at that beautiful park there. The one full of sleeping homeless people. That’s my America.

Hum now. And this gentleman approaching us. Sure he looks like a rough character but  in America you can’t judge a book by its-

MIKE
Hello, my name is Mike, I’ll be you your mugger today.

MATT
Oh…What happened to Cliff?

MIKE
He’s out sick.

MATT
That’s too bad.

MIKE
It’s just a sinus infection.

MATT
Well, that’s good. Here’s my wallet. And Cliff always does me a favor-

MIKE
Not in the face?

MATT
Exactly.

MIKE
No problem.

(Sound of punch.)

MATT
Thank you…That’s…that’s my America. That joke was from LA Story. What a country where there are so many jokes to steal! OK everybody, keep moving. A Little quicker. Let’s put some space between us and Mike. Take a right here and you’ll see, oh, shhh. (Music Stops) See the Vegan Cupcake shop there? That was the shop your great grandfather owned. He came from Poland through Ellis island passed that mighty woman with the torch, to the country his family called the Mother of Exiles. He was a young man looking for prosperity and yearning to breathe free. He found slums and ethnic enclaves in New York. Not exactly the streets of gold he expected. So, he went west, Chicago which was booming at the time. He had apprenticed as a cobbler as a boy and seeing a void in this neighborhood, he signed a note on that storefront, and he was a working American. He met your great grandmother in that park. An Irish American girl with a freckled nose and kind eyes, her grandparents had fled from a famine, you’ll run far and fast with one of the four horsemen on your trail, but they stopped here ate well ever since.

She had flown a kite into a tree one afternoon. It might have been that tree actually. He had seen what happened from his shop window. He dropped the shoe he was working on and walked out that front door. He barely spoke English, so he didn’t even try. He just walked right past her, rolled up his sleeves, and climbed. It wasn’t an easy tree to climb. It was the hardest thing he’d done since coming to America actually, but one hand after the other he made his way up, up, up. He dislodged the kite and carefully made his way down. By the time he’d set foot on the ground, she was in love. It started the sweetest, most chaste courtship you can imagine. He doted on her and she taught him English. Her parents weren’t exactly thrilled that she was taking up with a Pollock that barely spoke the language of the land. But he worked and she loved him so much and they figured the times, they were changing. So, blessings were given, the wedding was simple but touching.

They settled in a two flat on Keeler. They both worked in the shop. He cobbled, and she kept the books and just about invented customer service. The entire neighborhood loved her. She was pretty and friendly and vivacious. Everyone wondered what she saw in the little awkward cobbler. If you knew him you’d have known that he was kind, and caring, and funny but he was always shy with strangers because of his accent. They expanded operations by taking the shop next door and connecting the two and sold shoes and laces and boot oil and things like that on that side. They had a couple of employees. Immigrants themselves. They didn’t get rich, but business was good. They had six children. Three boys, three girls, including your grandmother. They wanted more but it wasn’t to be. They grew old and retired. One of their boys kept cobbling. Two moved west, to California, and the rest of the family stayed put, making lives for themselves here in the only home they’d ever known.

There had been so much love in that shop and in that house on Keeler. They supported their children in every way, so proud to have an American family and they were careful to share that pride and sense of civic responsibility with them. Their kids grew up and had kids and those kids had kids and now here you are. So, much an American now that you don’t identify with Ireland or Poland. Here, walking around my neighborhood with me, watching our silly little show here. Just think, all of the good things in your life, all the love, all the things you wouldn’t take back in a million years, all because once upon a time a door was opened to a hungry Irish family, and a sweet little Polish man who didn’t even speak the language. You’ve all had to work for everything you’ve had. It hasn’t been easy. It wasn’t the golden door from the poem. But it was open.

And that’s the story here in Ravens Park, and that’s my America.

Sex – Helluva Month

MAY 26th

It’s been a helluva month in Ravens Park, my neighborhood in the 51st ward of Chicago, the sexiest ward of Chicago. Spring is fully upon us. The birds and the bees are boning each others little brains out.

I’ve been thinking about you and how big of a night this will be for you. You’re making love to your girlfriend for the first time. And I know that happens to people all the time. People are always dating and, you know, screwing…but this is different. More rare. More precious. This is the first time in your life that you are already, actually, fully in love before doing it. You’ve been infatuated and done it for the first time, you’ve been drunk and done it, you’ve been bored and done it. You’ve done it against your better judgement. You’re brain has screamed, “She’s crazy! Run!” and you’re hand has honked her boob in response.

But this is different, completely. She is the one. That’s for sure. You’ve known each other for years. Considered each other best friends for years. You’ve been secretly in love with her and she’s been with someone else and she’s been secretly in love with you and you’ve been with someone, too. The timing was never right…for romance. But, your relationship, your friendship was always there, enduring. Over the years you’ve hurt each other and forgiven. You’ve farted around each other and forgiven. You’ve each seen the worst of the other and the best. You’ve laughed so much. You’ve cried. So many storms that sink weaker ships, you’ve already weathered.

She kissed you about three weeks ago. It was the most surprising and frightening kiss you’ve had since that time walking down Halsted in Boys Town when that giant Dorothy Gail had suddenly taken a shine to you. Though there was less stubble involved, this kiss with this woman you love, much scarier. She was ending a long relationship and you were comforting and suddenly, the timing was right, and friends became more. You can’t help but take things quickly emotionally and so you’re purposefully taking it slowly physically…so, you know, there’s been dry humping and oral sex, yes. Plenty of both. But you’ve been saving that final symbolic gesture of your union. Insertion. It sounds crude put that way. Sorry. But, still you’re both placing a lot of focus on that moment. It feels important like it never has before. This feels momentous. Like it’s the first time with your true mate, the person you’ll share the rest of your life with. When love and sex meet for the first time. And you’re scared.

It reminds you of the beginning of your first and longest lasting sexual relationship, which of course, is with yourself. That union began with a similar amount of angst and drama. I’m going to tell that story now. I’m sorry. You don’t remember how old you were. 13? 14? You don’t know when other boys started. What’s a normal age? Were you late? It felt late. It felt really late. You’d been fighting the urge to touch yourself for your entire horny life. Feeling like it was wrong and shameful and for weird people. Creepy, mustachioed uncles masturbated. Sweaty guys named Cheech masturbated. Not you. But still, the urge, that thing down there was like magnet…and one night…I need to remind you that this is about you, not me…This is the early 90’s so one night you are deep into this out of control fantasy about En Vogue. You know “Never gonna get it, never gonna get it, never gonna get it, never gonna get it, never gonna get it, never gonna get, never get it, never get it” and you were all “We’ll see about that, En Vogue. I…think I will…get it…” and your hand moved, down…again this is your hand, not mine…your hand moved on its own. And just one finger, one touch, and you swear it made an audible POP as you exploded and oh god the pleasure, the blinding, life changing pleasure. It was like the last scene of Indiana Jones and The Raiders of the Lost Ark, where the Nazis open the ark and all hell breaks loose. There’s lightning and ancient spirits flying everywhere. People’s faces are melting. “Don’t look at it! Don’t look at it!” It was like that. And then the mess. Oh, god, the mess. And then the fear, did you break it? Is that what’s supposed to happen? Is that blood? It was dark. You didn’t know! And then you had to go about the massive, quiet clean up phase. FEMA would have been like “Ah, we can’t clean this up”…this is not my story…You were sure you’d have felt shame but instead you thought to yourself, “I gotta do that again! And again! And again!” Your life was changed.

And it was about to change again. As you look at this woman laying there, her hair spread out under her head, music playing, “If you don’t know me by now…then you will never ever know me…”, every surface covered with candles, and by that candlelight you see in her eyes the rest of your life. This is intimate and slow and intense beyond anything you’ve known. You move together, two perfectly matched dancers. For the first time you understand the phrase “Making Love”. You’ve never articulated this but all you’ve ever truly wanted is to know that you are fully loved and that you have a soul, and somehow this moment is a confirmation of both.

Then you smell something…

Ummm…What is that smell? You try not to be distracted but seriously, what the hell is that really weird, unpleasant smell? Then her eyes widen and she starts pummeling your head. Slapping your head over and over. This is not what you were expecting. Then she starts laughing, and she laughs and laughs…Apparently, you had gotten too close to one of the candles and your hair caught on fire…You’re instinct is to be devastated, mortified, but before you can she pulls you back in, whispers, “That was hilarious” and you continue to have the most intimate, passionate, funny, and yes, the hottest sex of your life.

And that’s the story here in Ravenspark where it’s OK to laugh during sex.

Sometimes.

Education – Helluva Month

MAY 5th 2012

It’s been a helluva month in Ravens Park, my neighborhood here in the 51st ward of Chicago. Baseball season has started. People are getting their first look at the controversial renovations to Wrigley. Over the off-season they wanted to do something dramatic to improve the game watching experience for Cubs fans so they took out all the seats and re-installed them facing away from the field. That’s a little Cubs joke.

Now, I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately there at Ravenspark Middle School. You’re not thinking about baseball. You’re thinking about how 6th grade is gonna be the year that everyone finally realizes how freaking awesome you are. You got some new jeans. Name brand. Levi’s. You’re wearing your shirts tucked in so people can see the tag. You had to cry to get your dad to let you get something other than Wranglers…he respects you less, and always will but he doesn’t matter right now. He only got you one pair so you have to wear them every day. They haven’t been washed in three weeks. You got a new hairstyle this year. The Beiber. Looks pretty sweet. You have a few wispy hairs growing under your left underarm. Soon you’ll have pubes. A true sign of impending manhood. And the biggest change. Contact lenses. No more stupid glasses. You were so excited to get the contacts and then you realized that you would have to actually touch your eyeballs…and then you got considerably less excited about them. But now you’re used to it, and again, you think you’re looking pretty sweet.

This makeover will eventually land you a spot at the cool lunch table. That goes without saying. That’s lunch table manifest destiny. No more watching Travis chew with his mouth open. Or Evan scratch his zits. You won’t have to listen to Sheila’s lisp and watch as spittle flies from her mouth and floats down like snowflakes onto your salsbury steak, and your mashed potatoes, and your vegetable medley.

But the main goal here is: Vanessa Macmahon. She will be yours. Oh, yes. She will. This time next week you will be kissing her. On the lips. That’s right. You’ve talked to her on the phone. You called her with a “what was our homework again?” pretense, her mom answered then put Vanessa on. You talked for ten minutes. She laughed. Twice. She’s yours. You’re not driven by desire here. It’ll be years before you will even be able to fully grasp the concept of a vagina…”that’s not at all what I was expecting,” you’ll say. But that’s not what this is about, at all. What’s important here is that a pretty, popular girl likes you. And that makes you feel good about yourself for the first time. Ever.

Sheila was talking to you, “Do you want to practice our penmanship at recess? I’ll bring my glitter pens if you bring your Trapper Keeper.”

“No. I have a meeting, Sheila,” you said, pushing away from the table.

“Oh. Who’re you meeting?”

“My destiny.” You strode away feeling as though every eye was on your new jeans.

It had taken all of your courage to call her. You’d used the pretext of a class assignment but segued quickly into casual talk. Now, you somehow had to go beyond that. You had to stir up your gumption, gird your 12 year old loins and be direct and honest. You had to look Vanessa’s friend Becky in the eye, tell her that you like Vanessa, and to not tell anyone. Especially, Vanessa.

“Your secret is like, totally safe with me,” she said and bopped away.

You waited a second and followed. You nearly stumbled upon them when you turned a corner. There they were. Becky had, of course, gone right to Vanessa. You settled on the other side of the wall listening to their conversation.

“What’re you doing?” It was Sheila! She was always around!

“Nothing.”

“You look like you’re sneaking around. Like Dr. Who. I love Dr. Who. Do you love Dr. Who?”

“What-”

“You don’t know Dr. Who?!?! How to explain? Well, first thing’s first, there’s Tartus. You know Tartus-”

“Shhh!” Why wouldn’t she leave you alone?! Sheila was basically a frizzy haired, five foot seven, ninety pound, bespectacled, freckled, pig tailed…well, dork. There was no other word for what she was. She was a dork. Yes, you guys were friends but she was a serious social liability. You’d had lots of fun joking around in class together and talking on the phone. She was just about the only person that came to your stupid pool party last summer. She’d worn Scooby Doo arm floaties. But you’d had fun. That’s true. But still…

“Are you spying on somebody? I used to spy on my Mom and Dad until that…one time…I suggest not spying on your Mom and Dad.” she sprayed.

“Please-stop-just shhhh,” you begged as you peaked around the corner. The time was, you know, nigh.

Becky looked to be laying the news on Vanessa. Sweet, tanned Vanessa. She listened intently, brow furrowed. Those plush pillowy lips, just slightly pursed. You thought, not for the first time that her hair looked like it was dipped in sunshine. You heard your name. Becky was saying it. Vanessa’s face changed. You’d never seen her make that face then, “HA!” It just burst from her mouth, an explosion. Then she said, “That skinny dork?!?”

You pulled back around the corner. What just happened? It was a million degrees, suddenly. You had to go outside, away from here.

Sheila was blocking your way, “Are you OK? You look like you WERE spying on your parents and they were dressed like gladiators and -wrestling-”

“Would you get out of my way and just leave me alone,” you squeaked. “Just leave, alone you stupid dork!”

You pushed past her and outside. You ran past the tennis courts and hid behind the field house and cried. You cried with all of your soul and rubbed your eyes until you lost a contact. You’re dad is gonna kill you. You’d learned for the first time and probably not the last that love hurts.

Meanwhile, in the girls restroom, third stall, Sheila was crying just as hard, having learned the same lesson.

Jump ahead twenty years and Dr. Sheila is, well, hot, a pediatric neurosurgeon and married to a very attractive Asian man. Meanwhile you…you host a pretty funny radio show/podcast.

And that’s the story here in Ravens Park where we’ve all learned at some point to guard our hearts a little closer than we used to. But here we are, all grown up, and everything turned out pretty OK.