Snippy At SummerDance

After a tension-filled day of unpleasantries at work, Mary Ann reminded me of my promise to attend tango night at SummerDance.  No way I was actually going to dance, but I had said I would go hear the music.  Mary Ann, for those of you who don’t know, was born in Argentina.  She speaks like where she was raised, though — Hillside, Illinois.  They don’t even have a hill, by the way.

We took a bus to Chinatown and the Red Line downtown from there.  Here are a few shots from the Chinatown station:

The only way I could think of to have fun at SummerDance was to mock people out and annoy Mary Ann.  Childish?  Yep.  Do I apologize?  Nope.

There was a guy with a blue blanket covered with images of skiers.  He bugged me by standing in front of us, so I created the legend of The Ski Master:

Then I moved around for a closer view of the “dancing”:

On the way back, our last CTA connection, the Cermak bus, took about 40 minutes to show up.  Thanks to you, too, CTA.  And you were doing such a nice job until then.

The bus did eventually drop us off at the Skylark, where the good company (aided by a few beverages) took the edge off the pain.  I would have bought the Ski Master a beer, but he never showed.

Happy Birthday, Mary Ann!

I won’t say exactly how old Mary Ann is, but she was showing me a picture of a trilobite that lived in a pond where she grew up.

In honor of Mary Ann’s birthday, I’ve honored her request and posted footage of an aardvark and the giraffes at the Brookfield Zoo during a recent visit.  The footage is special in that it’s the first time we ever saw an aardvark doing anything but lying in a motionless heap.  Also, we caught the giraffes while they were being given a special leafy treat.

Lots of love, Mary Ann, and many special leafy treats in the future!

P.S.  The binturongs send their best wishes too.

Back Again

I recently fell victim to a very nasty computer virus.  After a lengthy struggle, I was forced to delete my operating system and start all over again.  The scary thing was that the virus came from a program that had checked out clean with my antivirus program.  I had a lot of programs installed on this computer, and it’s taken time to come back online.  No important documents, music, or pictures were lost, though, since I keep them on separate drives that did not have to be reformatted.  It’s just a big pain in the butt.  Oh well.  Stuff happens.  Especially to me.

Happy Father’s Day!

I don’t carry many photos in my wallet.  One I do carry, and have carried for a long time, is the one above.  That’s my dad on the right, with his youngest brother Louis on the left.  It was taken at their mother’s house in Fairport, Ohio.  My dad was nine years old.

I remember when I bought my first car.  As I recall, the lot was actually located in a forest.  The cars were literally scattered among the trees.  I picked out a 1970 Ford Maverick.  It was the most expensive car on the lot.  It cost $400.00.  This was not exactly a Lexus dealership.  I remember the salesman saying, “You could drive this car to California.”

Well, maybe I could have driven it to California, but it would have to have been a non-stop trip.  The brakes failed about as soon as we got the car home.  Also, I couldn’t really drive the car anyway, because it had a three speed on-the-column shifter and I had never driven with a manual transmission before.

When I complained about the brakes, dad said something encouraging like, “You’d better fix ‘em, then.”  And fix them I did.  I got the book, grabbed some tools, and started hacking away.  I’m lucky I didn’t put out an eye trying to take the springs off those old drum brakes.  Dad wouldn’t do it for me, but when I was stuck, he would kind of wander by and make suggestions — suggestions that always seemed to help me make it to the next step.  Between the two of us, darned if we didn’t fix those brakes.  He taught me how to drive that bizarre shifter, too.  Somehow I survived, and kept that car running all the way through college.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m pretty determined when it comes to solving problems.  I owe that to dad.  I never saw something broken that he couldn’t fix.  I never saw something that needed to be built that he couldn’t build.  That attitude rubbed off, although I freely admit that he’s still way better at most of those things than I’ll ever be. I can’t imagine a greater gift from a father to a son.

So, thanks for everything, dad.  I love you very much.  By the way, I do have a question about GFCI outlets….

Goodbye, Ms. Jackie!

Mary Ann’s very nice co-worker Jackie has taken a new job, and today was her going-away party at the library. Highlights captured by Mary Ann follow:

Wisconsin Survived Again

Two weekends ago, as I indicated in my previous post, myself and two friends went camping in Wisconsin, at a campground called Buckhorn about an hour north of the Dells. We’ve been there many times before. And, like many times before, a certain amount of suffering was involved.

There were two environmental themes this time: the wind and the mosquitos. They had a seesaw-type relationship. When the 35-mph wind would finally die down, the thousands of mosquitos would come out and play. As the only one who stubbornly refused to wear long pants, I took a lot of hits. I was slathering myself with lots of Off! Botanic insect repellent, but not with completely effective results. On the other hand, what I felt later was normal insect-bite irritation, not the dizzy neurotoxosis (is that a word?) I’ve felt in the past after days spent under a thick layer of deet. Plus, the bites went away normally, not developing into purple bubonic-plague-like pustules as they have sometimes in the past.

That being said, the trip was fun and goofy as always. It’s always good to be out with human and canine friends. Next time, though, Mike, Brian, Mack, and I will be staying away from the marshy area during hatching season.

Aliens Train Tiny Infiltrator

His real name is Spencer S. Mulder. He has been abducted and his mind is being shaped by unearthly colors and sounds. Don’t be taken in by his charms! Beware!

Mack: A Tribute

I’m still editing some footage from the Wisconsin trip this weekend. I went up there with long-time camperfriends Mike and Brian. Brian brought Mack, one of the great dogs I’ve met. I’ve known Mack ever since he was a little puppy. He’s about ten or eleven now. Like all three of us, he has a little mileage on him, but he still enjoys life. He’s been a wonderful friend and companion for Brian, and he sure as heck keeps those raccoons away! Mack continues to enjoy people, the outdoors, and above all…meat.

So, here’s a tribute to Mack that will endure for eternity…or at least as long as I keep this blog up.

Bad Luck For A Good Cat

Not only are Mr. Bonkers’ lymph nodes acting up again, but I noticed the other day that he was limping. It seemed to improve, but then worsened again. When we checked, the underside of his paw seemed discolored. So, it was back to the vet’s, where everyone will be able to buy a new boat this year.

The diagnosis? A nasty infection, probably caused by a splinter or something. They gave him antibiotics and put a big lumpy bandage on his paw. This was with Mary Ann this morning. When I arrived home, I noticed that Bonkers appeared to have three front paws. Somehow the bandage had worked itself off (or been pulled off by Bonkers), and was dangling uselessly by a piece of tape. It was back to the vet’s for further review. This time, they put a collar on him. He really, really doesn’t like it. I wouldn’t either. Of course, I’m not the one that bit his bandage off, am I?

Several Hundred Sober At Cellular Field

The other night I went to U.S. Cellular Field to see the White Sox play the Indians. It’s a very convenient bus ride from home. I did kind of take the wrong bus back, but that’s a different story.

I was to rendezvous with my friends at “old home plate.” Old home plate is exactly that — a marker right where home plate was located at Comiskey Park. After asking a few people, I eventually found it.

People were fascinated with the old home plate. Lots of them, including me, stepped into the batter’s box and took a few pretend swings in the same spot that Babe Ruth and so many other greats did. I also noticed a lot of people stepping on home plate for luck. What superstitious fools! I made sure to step on it with my left foot, because I’m left-handed.

The park: great. The night: beautiful. The food smells: tantalizing. Even the restrooms were functional. I had a good time, but it would have been better if not for the considerable number of wasted idiots in attendance, at least in our section. It wasn’t hard to see the problem. The Sox let people tailgate in the parking lot before games, and tailgate they do. Since I was there early, I had a good chance to observe their activities. I’ve had fun tailgating at games where there was grilling going on and a few beverages consumed. In this parking lot, though, there was precious little grilling and a prodigious amount of consumption. The idea seemed to be to put down a 12-pack of Miller before even entering the stadium. I’m sure these were the same guys who, by the seventh inning, were being given the heave-ho. To be fair, it wasn’t only guys. At one point, five young women engaged in a melee and were also booted, much to the fascination of their drunken male counterparts. I saw at least fifteen people removed from the stadium in my immediate vicinity. I don’t know if this was an anomaly or the norm.

Of course, who am I to criticize? The me of today would have wanted the me of thirty years ago kicked out of just about any event we both attended. Even today, I’m not exactly an angel.