Well, the photo section is finally up, sort of – it’s there, but there’s still not much content. What with the upcoming holidays and the general sort of ongoing whirlwind that my life’s become of late, though, I have no doubt I’ll be able to remedy that in fairly short order. So check it, folks. Use the link in the header, or click here for today’s entry…

Phineas and I discovered a new (well, new to us, anyway) late night hangout last night. It’s completely tragic in the best possible way. the jukebox is full of, as phin put it, roller skating music (hall & oates *and* american pie – what could possibly be better?); the clientele wear entire outfits – nay, getups – devoted to the noble sport of auto racing; the smoke hangs thicker in the air than the fog that hid Jack the Ripper from his victims; and the linoleum and faux wood panelling remind one of the rec room at Uncle Jerry’s, circa 1975. There’s even a pool table, and Old Style on tap – 3 taps, to be exact. Heaven? Let’s just say it’s Almost Paradise. Welcome to the Blue Light.

The suspected kidnapping victims went missing sometime between the hours of one and three on Wednesday afternoon, according to Bob Fowler, Accounting Associate at Jesser and Farber in downtown Chicago. “I saw them both at lunch, but when I looked for them at snack-time they were gone,” Fowler told authorities early in the evening. The victims are both about five inches in height and three in diameter. Distinguishing marks include matching day-glo orange price tags marked $1.59. Any and all information regarding this case should be forwarded to the Chicago Police non-emergency hotline.

Little did they know that the ‘suspected kidnapping victims’ had simply tired of their meaningless corporate existence and eloped. I spotted them around 7 p.m., at the corner of Monroe and Wacker. Half-eaten but far from beaten, they waited patiently for the bus.

Yes, I know the Red Wings were in town (4-3 in O/T – thanks, boys, but did we really have to make it that close?), but tonight I opted for the Fire game instead. First off, the pregame in the concourse was eventful – Coz regaled us with a fabulous set of tunes from the 80s and 90s…

…while Sparky, the Fire mascot (also known as ‘dalmation suit guy’) alternately tried to dance with us (we weren’t dancing) and mocked Coz mercilessly. As Coz aptly put it, “Hey, I’m still playing the stage at Soldier Field!” I don’t think I was supposed to mention which stage.

The game itself was a good deal more tense than we would have liked – what with the myriad scoring opps in the first half and the many many (I lost count at 7) corner kicks in the second half, it was hard for us to imagine that the game wasn’t won until halfway through the first period of overtime.

Even more distressing was the part where yours truly got clocked in the jaw by a flagpole. Yeah, you heard right: some drunk-ass dude got a hold of one of the flags and was waving it over the crowd like he just didn’t care. He dipped about 10 feet too low, and the pole actually dipped below my neck, only to snap back and hit me squarely across the right side of my jaw on the way back up. I’m hoping that a combination of the cold and the bourbon will keep the bruising at bay; if not, I’m going to look like I got in a bar fight. And shut up, you. It’s not my style. (you should’ve seen the other guy…)

A good time was had by all, in the end, and there’s still nothing quite as cool as 200+ people singing and chanting in unison, even if they’re being led in said songs and cheers by a series of extremely drunk and often abusive eastern europeans…

Next week, the finals in LA. Go Fire!

It’s cold out tonight, and night came early. I never seem to be ready for the sudden shift when we set the clocks back… it’s time to settle in for long evenings of stews and wine and writing and long chats. If only I had a fireplace…

Anyway, it’s been an interesting couple of weeks. Some amazing shows – notably the Frames and Gotan Project, both at Metro. I started to write a review after the Frames show, but waxed so lyrical about it that I couldn’t bring myself to subject the general public to such tripe. I think I’ll leave it at this quote, from a friend who does the booking at the venue: “They are amazing, hands down one of my favorite bands of all time. Bands like the Frames are why I do this job…”

Trust me, you want to check them out.

And Gotan Project. What can I say? Tango (which in and of itself is one of the most fabulous things in the history of time), brilliant musicianship, homage and invention, gorgeous projections… I’ve got to say it was the sexiest show I’ve seen in at least 3 years – or whenever it was that Coz and I saw Prince at the Riv. And not being able to hold a candle to his reviewing skills, I think I’ll just leave it at that.

And there’s this other thing. It’s starting to become hard for me to remember that I’m leaving soon. I can feel the tug of the approaching holidays – I’m already planning my tree-trimming party, I’ll be sending out the Thanksgiving invites soon – it’s just like a normal year at home. I’ve grown attached to Chicago again, or rediscovered my attachment. And to people as well. Some days it’s hard to remember why I’m going. Then again, didn’t I say it would be hard to hang on to what I’d learned on my travels? Like a complex piece of music, it’s sometimes difficult to know which voice to listen to. Also like music, it’s only when you are able to take it in as a whole that it begins to make sense. But does that require stepping back or diving in?

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

– e.e. cummings

No, wait:

“The unity of the worldwide Anglican movement hangs in the balance as the national church leaders, or primates, meet in London to discuss the crisis over gay and lesbian clergymen.” [emphasis mine]

The pithy remarks came flooding in so fast that they caused a massive traffic jam right at the exit point of my brain and now I’ve drawn a complete blank. I’m sure you guys will bail me out, though.

Story here..

We’re not going to talk about last night. We’re just not going to talk about it. Except:

After the last out was caught, Phineas put his arm around me and pulled me into a hug. “This,” he said, “Is the true and distilled essence of what it means to be a Cubs fan.”

Instead, a beautiful fall poem, courtesy of my fabulous mother, who sent it to me in a thank you note. I love it that she sends me thank you notes in the mail when she lives right around the corner. Now that’s style.

Der Nebel steigt, as fällt das Laub;
schenk ein den Wein, den holden!
Wir wollen uns den grauen Tag
vergolden, ja vergolden!

Und wimmert auch einmal das Herz –
stoß an und laß es klingen!
Wir wissen’s doch, ein rechtes Herz
ist gar nicht umzubringen.

Wohl ist es Herbst; doch warte nur,
doch warter nur ein Weilchen!
Der Frühling kommt, der Himmel lacht,
es steht die Welt in Veilchen.

Die blauen Tage brechen an,
und ehe sie verfließen,
wir wollen sie, mein wackrer Freund,
genießen, ja genießen!

[Theodor Storm]

Translation (and the full text of the poem) can be found here.

It was a rough night last night. Phineas kept wailing, “What’s happening? I was having such a good time just 5 minutes ago!”

Daria, at 5-3, shouted, “Somebody turn this shit off and put on the game!”

And poor Annie. It was her birthday. Instead of the biggest Chicago birthday party ever in the history of all time, she got a surrealist masterpiece of a nightmare.

Yea verily, it blew goats.

But I still believe. Tonight, we shall prevail. Kerry Wood, one of the best pitchers in the whole wide world (ok, the best), will see us safely home. Repeatedly. And shut out those bastard Marlins.

To the guy whose insurmountable craving for a souvenir set this whole nightmare off (the asshole in the grey sweatshirt, not just the one who’s getting all the press): good luck, bud. Some of us did see your face.

[updated 1:30 pm] To those of you who are wondering about Mr. Grabby, the Sun Times has the dirt.

So today, whilst off on some strange surfing tangent, I came across this, which made me think of our beloved Cubs, and my beloved Red Wings, and the strength of my fabulous friends and family, and every other underdog that’s fought to come out on top:

At the next vacancy for God, if I am elected,
I shall forgive last the delicately wounded who,
having been slugged no harder than anyone else,
never got up again, neither to fight back,
nor to finger their jaws in painful admiration.

They who are wholly broken, and they in whom mercy is understanding,
I shall embrace at once and lead to pillows in heaven.
But they who are the meek by trade, baiting the best of their betters with extortions of a mock-helplessness,
I shall take last to love, and never wholly.

Let them all in Heaven – I abolish Hell –
but let it be read over them as they enter:
"Beware the calculations of the meek, who gambled nothing
gave nothing, and could never receive enough."

[John Ciardi]

Many thanks to the fine folk at Constantly Risking Absurdity for posting this piece where I could stumble across it. If you like poetry, it’s a hell of a site.

Now let’s get out there and finish it up, boys. Go Cubs!

Go Cubs!

For those of you who were (blissfully) unaware, yesterday was Talk Like a Pirate Day. After Brady reminded me of this, I reminded dear Phineas, who took to it like a ship to sea. I’m telling you people, nobody can talk like a pirate like Phineas can talk like a pirate. He’s, like, Bluebeard’s long lost great great great great grandson. Or something. To wit:

L: Arrr, matey! Tis talkin’ like a pirate day, ye scurvy dog!

P: Aye, that it be. I be wanting of a bottle o’ rum and some wenches! Arrr!

L: Arrr! Aye, I could do with a strappin’ young sailor to board meself! Will ye be wantin’ te join me for feedin’ later on?

P: I surely be, says I. But I must get back to port and fetch me skiff first. Arrr!

L: Ye’ll want to be quick about it, er I’ll hang ye from the yardarm!

P: I’ll see ya in Davy Jones’ Locker first, ya wharf rat!

L: Arrr! I’ll clean me cutlass with yr lubber’s blood!

P: I’ll give yr ribcage to me parrot for a home, drink me grog from yr brain case and throw what’s left to the squids and barnacles!

L: Arr, yer not fit to walk me plank! Me cat’ll make short work o ye!

L: [later, obviously forgetting myself again] Running late- go on in , will be there asap

P: Avast, matey! Already here with a bucket o’ grog! Center front, me hearty! Arrr!

See that ye be buyin’ more grog when ye gets ashore! I’m a thirsty pirate, says I! And where be all the wenches at? I’ve been at sea a long time…

L: Aye, me hearty! I be hankerin fer the taste o young and tender flesh meself!

P: Arrr! Ye scurvy old sea dog! Can’t get enough, can ye? I’ll have ya keelhauled!

One of the things we noticed is that pirate speak is chock full of excellent euphemisms for sex: walk me plank; shiver me timbers; prepare to be boarded… Got any more that I’m missing?

If only every day were Talk Like a Pirate Day!