Again, the Windy City Sweeps Me off My Feet: Part 1

Oh, Chicago, why do I love you so? There is nothing in my country mouse upbringing that should feed on your hustle and bustle, grow giddy at the sight of your skyline, or salivate over your deep-dish and bun-wrapped culinary creations.

And yet you woo me, Chicago. You ply my heartstrings with your proud and beautiful buildings. You captivate me with your art. And you stun me with your hardscrabble history—built by men with roughhewn hands and undaunted determination.

Home of the White City, debut site of the Ferris Wheel, birthplace of incomparable Studs Terkel, death-place of Enrico Fermi (nerd out), and home of sports franchises so hallowed and fraught with history they themselves have become venerated characters in the play that is Chicago.

So is it really any surprise that I leapt at the chance to see you again? Admit it. You wanted to see me, too.

In mid-July, the gals—five of us, college girlfriends, and let me just say, totally classy—flew from Dallas, Houston and Washington, DC to converge at the Long Beach, Indiana home of some of the loveliest hosts ever. Well, almost all of us.

Flights out of DC were cancelled due to weather, so Egypt flew out the next day and then took a bus to Michigan City, Indiana where we picked her up in a hotel parking lot. Lord, you should have seen it. It was like opening the door to the chicken coop in a room full of junebugs.  The mad rush, the flapping, the triumphant cackling. We may have had a lot of catching up to do…

We stayed up late, we dished about boys, we canoed, and we swam in Lake Michigan. And that was just in one day. Memorable moments included the making of Egypt’s rock sculpture on the beach, our first tastes of summer shandy, and Des and me (slightly) ramming the paddle boat with the other girls in it. Really, the fact that we successfully boarded and de-boarded debarked (whatever) the canoe without capsizing was a feat not lost on any of us. 

That night, after watching fireflies in the backyard, I remember climbing the stairs, dusting the beach sand from my toes, feeling the pleasant weariness that only comes with good, long, sun-dappled and laughter-filled days.

The next day we took the South Shore Line from Michigan City into Chicago. Blinking, we emerged from the station to street level, and it was like greeting another old friend. The city had weathered a few more winters since I last saw her, but then again, so had I. This time, I brought better walking shoes (Mr. Man, I can feel you rolling your eyes at me in exasperation. It was three years ago, so just don’t even go there.).

We then proceeded to check into our hotel in less than two minutes. Truthfully, we didn’t even take our bags upstairs. (Which reminds me of how surprised I am that so many folks don’t know about the whole “there is no 13th floor” thing. Seriously, you haven’t noticed that, people? C’mon, we all know what the 14th floor really is.)

We hightailed it to Navy Pier for lunch where, Gospel truth, I saw a young seaman in dress whites, complete with traditional white “Dixie cup” cap and those pants with the slight bell, who couldn’t have been more than 19. Goodness, he was handsome! <The author fans herself.> (I get this penchant for men in uniform from my mother who, had she been there, would have come positively unglued.)

We hit up some usual tourist stops: Garrett’s popcorn (caramel with pecans = sinful), photo ops with the Ferris Wheel, and a water taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue where we braved the throngs at the iconic Cloud Gate sculpture to leave our fingerprints and take selfies.

By dinnertime we were more than ready for some of Gino’s pizza, calorically speaking…and because we thought we’d start the evening off with cocktails but instead ended up crashing a private party at the hotel’s rooftop bar. <affects a nearly Steel Magnolia’s-esque drawl> “It’s okay, y’all! We’re from Texas. Y’all have a great night. Mazel tov!” Indeed, there is something so totally satisfying about good friends, especially those who’ll crash a party with you, hot pizza and cold beer. 

For the love of pink noses and wagging tails

OK, so I am WAY behind in getting the Chicago and Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference installments to you. BUT I do have this snippet to tide you over for, like, a few more hours until I wrap up the other stories.

Mama B. and I went to the Denton Animal Shelter this afternoon to drop off some newspapers and towels for the four-legged residents, and while we were there we chatted up the animal control officers as to what items they need most. Here’s what they said, straight from the horse’s (or puppy’s or guinea pig’s) mouth:

Purina Kitten Chow (They also use this for the big kitties, too.)

Pâté-style cat food (not the shredded meat kind)

Dry puppy and dog food (without red dye)

Towels

Small fleece blankets (Fleece holds up better than 100% cotton blankets that dogs and cats can chew or shred.)

Cat litter

Dawn blue dish soap (Surprise! Blue Dawn kills fleas in addition to gently cutting the grime.)

Bleach

I won’t presume to get all preachy, we-are-the-world on you (or cue the Sarah McLachlan), but kindness to animals ranks right up there with returning a wallet you found on the street or not laughing when a toddler falls over.  It’s tantamount to karmic brownie points.

And even if the Denton Animal Shelter (300 Woodrow) isn’t close to you, I bet there’s another shelter that is. So share the love with the furry, the scaly, the feathered and even the amphibious among us. You can view the pets for adoption at www.denton.petfinder.com (or petfinder.com for other areas).

Obligatory kitten pictures.  Next time: puppies!

Sweet Sounds of Summer

While everyone else was at the Beyoncé* concert in Dallas last Saturday evening, I decided to class it up a bit with some jazz al fresco. Oooh, I feel classy just typing that. (Before you go getting any prurient notions, al fresco means “outdoors.”  Sick-o.)

For this adventure I hopped in the little green Jeep and headed east to Addison, just a few miles down the road.  Every Saturday from June through August, Addison hosts concerts at Beckert Park, right smack dab in the middle of no less than a gajillion apartment buildings with storefronts and artsy space on the first floors. 

It’s not the newest mixed-use development in north Texas, but this part of Addison has done well in retaining a certain young, family-friendly atmosphere. It’s even managed to eschew the cloying hipster vibe and instead feels only slightly townie. That said, I really like the area—especially when there’s free music involved.

Addison’s 2013 Summer Series bills songwriters’ sounds in June, jazz in July and salsa (with dance lessons!) in August. All concerts are from 8-10 p.m. so you’re not suffering in the midday heat. You can bring a picnic if you don’t want to dine at the nearby restaurants, and there are complementary parking garages peppered along Addison Circle.

Really, the ability to bring your own food and readily available free parking are like hitting the jackpot when it comes to events in north Texas. (Twenty-dollar Dixie cup margaritas and $30 valets, I’m looking at you…)

Shameless plug: last Saturday’s band was Corner Pocket, a lovely group of musicians who are either alumni or faculty members of the University of North Texas, so you know the music—and musicianship—were spot on.

Pointers:

Get there early. Like “grand opening of a Trader Joe’s” or “Harry Potter movie opening weekend” early. Beckert Park is really just green space inside a roundabout formed by Addison Circle, Lewis Place, Spectrum Drive and Mildred Place, so space is at a premium.

The sound system is quite professional, so if you can’t find a seat on the lawn, don’t fret. The music can just as easily be enjoyed from benches on the park’s periphery.

Support the musicians! Most will have CDs and merch for sale, so share the love and say thanks to the musicians who make it happen. (Honestly, kids, this is such a fun and inexpensive way to spend a Saturday, the least you could do is drop a little coin for the independent artists out there.)

And because I’m a goober, I forgot my phone AND my camera, so I have no pictures for you. Worst blogger ever. 

And I can’t go to next Saturday's concert because I’ll be Chicago. And I can’t go the next Saturday because I’ll be at the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference in Grapevine. And I probably can’t go the next Saturday because I may be in College Station to see my friend and her family (including her five-month-old who I haven’t met yet), celebrate a birthday, eat at Layne’s, grab a strawberry tart from Café Eccell, and stock up on Aggie gear for Christmas presents.

So I will have to hit you back with a report on the salsa music in August. Until then!

*My spell-check noted that “Beyonce” is incorrect…proving that the true mark of fame is that spell-check knows the correct spelling of your name right down to the accent.

It’s all fun and games until someone hallucinates Marty McFly…

Remember that scene from the movie “Cars” when Lightning McQueen and all the Radiator Springs cars get together and cruise down the main drag with digitally rendered neon glinting off their metallic paint jobs? Last weekend’s 2013 Texas Dream Cruise was sort of like that…except in the middle of the afternoon…in late June…in Texas.

Held at the FC Dallas stadium in Frisco, the Texas Dream Cruise was the largest car show I’ve ever been to. And the hottest. Trekking across miles of concrete parking lots that did nothing but radiate more heat didn’t help either.

To give you an idea of just how big the Texas Dream Cruise is, just think of it like the Disneyland for good looking cars. Thousands of cars, from classics to a few customs, filled acres on both sides of the stadium. There were whole parking lots just for Mustangs and Corvettes and VW Bugs and more. And, like Disneyland, there were plenty of colorful characters. (The pair of young men trying to out-rev their respective Mustang engines comes to mind. Or the guy who sported a replica of Speed Racer’s Mach 5.)

Nerdy highlight: finding this Hudson Hornet—a gem for anyone who’s in to automotive history, stock car racing history, or just likes the movie “Cars.” (Paul Newman, you are the absolute best.)

After mooning over the Hornet, we found some more cuties and oddities like Isettas (the Steve Urkel car), MGs and DeLoreans. I was majorly disappointed to find no flux capacitor in either of the two we saw.

At this point, I happened to mention to Mr. Man that I was a bit piqued, and perhaps we needed to head home. Four parking lots and half a mile later, I realized that I no longer picked up my feet, opting instead to shuffle haphazardly. Between shallow breaths, I mumbled to Mr. Man that maybe we should stop at that street corner where the Marty McFly’s girlfriend Jennifer was handing out “wuh-der.”

The logical part of my brain knew this was serious. I was exhibiting all the telltale signs of heat stroke. My vision became tunnel-like and hyper-colorful. My heart rate was way above normal. I was no longer aware of my arms, and my legs felt as if they’d been filled with sand. If I fainted now, I would feel no sensation of falling. Instead, the ground would rush up to meet my face with a whomp. I hoped the grass was cool.

After one more mumbled pant about Marty and maybe getting some “wommer” to drink, Mr. Man practically scooped me up and poured me into the nearest restaurant. Let me say it now, friends: Don’t ever do anything in Texas in June without having some water on hand. Never in my life have I been more thankful for air conditioning and a $1.29 bottle of Dasani...and Mr. Man.

The next time he wants to go to a car show, I may just stay home with Lightning McQueen and Doc.