Getting Strange

Congratulations, you sons of bitches. You blocked an ambulance.

Let me explain something: I am not talking metaphorically. I am not saying what could happen if you continue your little bullshit pity party. I am saying that at approximately 8 p.m. on Friday, June 26, 2009 at the six-corners of Milwaukee, Damen and North, I personally witnessed a siren-blaring ambulance that could not move because of your take-back-the-streets, look-at-my-coolness, hipster pseudo-protest.

Background: Critical Mass. Big bike protest. Once a month. They gather on bikes and block up the streets. Here's the link for their side of the story, but the gist is they break all the rules of the road to get drivers to obey all the rules of the road ... somehow.

And they blocked an ambulance on Friday.

Granted, the ambulance did have the audacity to try to head east on Milwaukee at the same time you cracker-ass Northsiders decided to feel victimized.

There was a person in that ambulance. Most likely a person in pain. And you extended that pain for a self-congratulatory bike ride.

The Critical Massers make a big deal out of the false divide between bikers and drivers (although many of us own and use both responsibly). Bikers are eco-friendly, drivers are not, etc. etc. etc.

Here's another fact for you: Drivers move for ambulances. These drivers you demonize, they step aside for others' pain. You didn't even think about the possibility. You just assumed your desire for the streets was more important than others' need for it.

The Critical Mass Web site proudly declares that "the Mass" has no leadership or organization. They call that community. Sociologists call that "diffusion of responsibility."

Oh, the right to gather is guaranteed in the Constitution? So is free speech, in this case the speech of me encouraging your group to disband and never form again.

If you participate in Critical Mass to get more attention to the rights of bikers, you are a small child who tries to hold his breath until someone treats him like an adult. You are the teenage girl screaming "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! WHY DON'T YOU RESPECT ME!!?!" when Mommy won't buy her the bangle earrings.

If you join Critical Mass, you are a bullshit person whose words of protest will fall on deaf ears. You earn respect for cyclists by being respectful cyclists. Cyclists can't whine their way to respect.

Why do I say this? Because I'm a cyclist.

Motorists get skittish about bikes because they don't know what to expect. When I'm in my car and I hit a red light at the same time as a bike, I don't know if that person is going to wait, run the red, hop up on the sidewalk, weave through the cars, move to the turn lane or just rock the wheels on their fixie back and forth until they perceive an opening. All I can reasonably expect is the person won't be wearing a helmet.

When I'm on my bike - wearing my helmet and lights and following the damn rules - I'm dealing with heavy vehicles operated by people completely unsure of what I will do next. Big metal plus nervousness is never a good combo.  

As I yelled at one Critical Masser on Friday, "People like you are the reason I'm in danger every time I get on my bike. Get a helmet and learn the God damn rules of the road!"

Unfortunately, my girlfriend then informed me I had just cussed out a former dean at my graduate school, a person who could be very helpful in my job search.

Eh.

Yes, I have participated in the World Naked Bike Ride, which also blocks streets on bikes and, yes, I know a lot of the WNBR participants do Critical Mass events. But the Naked Bike Ride sets out routes. They work with officials to ensure a safe and meaningful protest. And, most importantly, I get to show my pee-pee.

(Brief aside: I didn't write about the Naked Bike Ride this year because this year I got all the way down to the staging area, but then started to feel lonely because everyone was there with their friends and I couldn't get any of my friends to go, so I just went home. I stayed clothed)

But let's put it this way: Here's what the World Naked Bike Ride had to say about the cops after their last ride:

"Boundless sincere gratitude goes to mayor Richard M Daley and to the Chicago Police for their tolerance and tacit facilitation of this ride happening safely. This and other massive local rides tangibly show Chicago's ongoing commitment to being a notably bike-friendly U.S. city."

Here's what Critical Mass had to say:

"Big ups to all those who participated & yes even that portly cop who threatened me several times with imprisonment."

So the WNBR organizers work with, thank and praise the cops and the Critical Mass people call them fat. 

Isn't it a messed-up world when the flashers have more class than the clothed people?

In closing, the next Critical Mass event starts at 5:30 p.m. on Friday, July 31. What I want (and I will pursue this through other venues) is for every pedestrian who sees it to stand up and walk in the middle of the bike ride. They're only going five to 10 miles per hour. They'll swerve.

Just stand up and, in large groups, physically block Critical Mass. If anyone gets steamed, tell them it's a pedestrian protest taking back the streets from the tyranny of wheels.

Then just look them in the eyes, smile and say, "Happy Friday."

I didn't even stay for the main band - I just had to get home to write about the opening act.

OK, that good? Good? You got it? OK.

So, hi. That was my obligatory gushing quote for The Sometimes Family to put up on their Web site and MySpace page and wherever the hell else people use laudatory quotes. The Sometimes Family is the opening act bar band I saw for part three of The Concert Project.

For those who don't remember, The Concert Project is my endeavor to see 10 more shows by the time I turn 30 - Sept. 3, 2009. I've fallen a bit behind for various, insane reasons. Here's a quick breakdown of why I missed so many concerts.

Sold out: Art Brut

Just plain didn't hear about it until a week afterwards: St. Vincent

Walked into the venue where the concert was playing by mistake but realized I couldn't stay because I still had to drive to Indiana that night: Environmental Encroachment

And a few others.

Now that that's done, a tribute to the opening act. And, Friday night at Phyllis' Musical Inn, that opening act happened to be the funk/soul act, The Sometimes Family.

The Sometimes Family was a normal opening act bar band. It had the normal competent bassist, keyboardist and drummer, plus the normal hipster-hot backup singer. The backup was also the flautist, which was a lot cooler than it sounds.

They opened for The Gyps, who I decided not to see. Not to diminish what I'm sure is a fine band - I just had my musical fix. And this is all about the openers.

The only thing really to distinguish The Sometimes Family was the amazing voice of the lead singer/guitarist. But even a voice that amazing has to sing something memorable. And as groovy and hot jazz as the set was, I don't remember a damn specific of it.

It's the flaw of workman perfection - no one remembers what you do very well. They only remember what you fail at.

And since the band didn't seem to have any failings, I wouldn't remember The Sometimes Family at all if not for one thing - lead singer Rebecca Sometimes' grandfather.

The old man looked like a combination of Drew Carey, Harry Caray and my own late grandfather, John H. "Joe" Dailing. He and his date (Grandpa brought a date!) arrived early and sat in the front, each sipping from Diet Coke cans through a straw.

I only knew the old man who kept snapping shots of the band with a disposable camera was the lead singer's grandpa because of my repeated interviews with the lead singer's sister.

And by "repeated interviews," I mean casual chit chat that only took place because I was sitting next to the only open spot at the bar. The girl on the other side of the open spot was too drunk for conversation. While waiting for her drinks, the sister was taking the opportunity to hype the band to the pleasant young Schlitz-sipper. She never knew I could technically be counted as a music critic. I never told her.

"He comes out for the shows," the sister said, gesturing to the old man as he shuffled in front of the band to take another snapshot of his guitar-slinging granddaughter. "Depending on the venue. This place is pretty chill, you know?"

A brief pause, then the sister returned to her promotion.

"The Sometimes Family. Check it out."

And I did.

So here's to the opening act, the bar band, the folks too young to be the Sultans of Swing and too poor to be anything else right now. Here's to the bands where they're still so pumped about music that they invite their grandparents.

I hope The Sometimes Family does well. I hope Rebecca Sometimes' sister keeps spreading the word. I hope funk/soul combo becomes the headline bar band, then moves onward and upward. I hope they don't have to keep competing with the Stanley Cup post-game for bar patrons' attention.

But I hope Granddad Sometimes keeps showing up.

The girl was cute, perky in that way that's enchanting on stage but could just drive you insane with five minutes of real-life contact.

And we were all singing about having malaria.

"I have malaaaariiiiiiiiaaaaaaa!" she sang.

"You have malaaaariiiiiiiiaaaaaaa!" we in the audience crooned back.

Goddamn, I love this artsy shit.

I was at the opening night party for Around the Coyote's yearly spring festival. People milled about, ate cheese and drank free Peroni while musicians and actors put on shows in a gallery space in the middle of a working lumberyard.

With all apologies to my friend Anne, who arranged for my press pass, I didn't get a chance to write about the event over the weekend, when it could have actually gotten a few people to the shows that make up the festival. The festival wrapped on Sunday, May 31, so this article is too late. I'm sorry. I was moving.

Although Around the Coyote has been around for 20 years (founded by Jim Happy-Delpech, whose name I think is awesome), it was always centered on the Flatiron Building at the six-corners of Damen, North and Milwaukee.  This year, it moved a few blocks south, taking its home in the L. Miller and Son Lumber Co. on Division.

But onto why we were all singing about malaria.

One of the performers in the cement and brick gallery space, which Anne said had been filled with lumber just a few days earlier, was a young woman putting on a one-woman version of her play, a musical based on Oregon Trail.

That's Oregon Trail, the 1980s educational video game, not the actual Oregon trail. A musical based on the game where the goal is to cross the nation without dying of dysentery.

The show suffered for the shattershot performance by the girl and loudness of the mingled art fans (sometimes you couldn't hear a damn thing), but the performer's enthusiasm was contagious. She danced and whirled, sometimes forgetting her lines and sometimes talking so fast it was all a blur, but you had a sense whatever you were missing was hilarious.

The small selection of pieces adorning the walls was very good, selected for diverse style and subject as well as for quality. I would like to have seen more of them, but that means the pieces worked well as a teaser, giving a taste of what I would see if I came back again and again.

The opening night crowd ranged from gray-hairs to a little four-year-old girl who kept dancing, but most attendees hit the early to mid 20s range. Some wore scraggle-clothes, others fine dresses.

It would be easy and inaccurate to make fun of the crowd here. Artsy fartsy snobs, right? All looking at spraypainted Hello Kitty dolls or toilets or something and talking about how it's a statement on the nature of the womb, right?

It wasn't like that at all. These were sincere people who sincerely enjoy art.  Artsy? Yes. Fartsy? No, although I was having some problems after the cheese and Italian beer.

I specifically put it at the end so people would read the full article and not just click away, never returning, but yes, I did find a place to play Oregon Trail online. Tell Matt the General Store owner I say hello.

My friend Steve is an interesting boy.

Steve and I were comically mismatched roommates in college, he being the Felix and I the Oscar. Steve went off to Denmark for a study abroad and came back talking about this amazing girl he met there. We all rolled our eyes, of course. Oh yeah, a boy from Missouri and a Danish girl half a planet away. That's gonna work.

I recounted that story during my toast at their wedding two years ago.

For obvious, Denmark-based reasons, I don't get to see Steve very often. So I was really happy that he decided to turn a business trip to the States into a longer visit, including a few days in Chicago.

So during a nice dinner on Wednesday, Steve, Cille (the wife), her parents, my lady friend and I decided to meet up at Howl at the Moon on Thursday. And this makes part two of The Concert Project.

For those who haven't been, Howl at the Moon is a chain piano bar with a twist - two pianos. I've been at Chicago's Hubbard Street location once before and found the "dueling pianos" made a raucous, fun time too toe-tapping to be anything less than awesome. The last time I was there.

This time, not so much.

I mean, the piano players were very talented, not missing a beat or a step no matter what people requested. Musically, they were great. In terms of dealing with the crowd, eh. People skills like Nixon.

Maybe the way the one piano player kept expecting big laughs by replacing random words in the songs with "horny" or "horniness." And kept trying it even after it didn't get laughs the first few times.

Maybe it was the way the other one seemed to get really pissed off that we didn't, as she put it, "go apeshit," when she started playing "American Pie."

She got so mad she cut the song short, making an announcement to that effect, as if we weren't worthy of her piano rendition of a 1970s one-hit wonder song about the violent, flaming deaths of more talented musicians.

It was "Cougar Night," meaning women 35 and older got in free, as did men with valid college IDs. Luckily my grad school ID hasn't expired yet, even though I finished up in December. That five dollar cover would have broken me, I tell ya what.

Once inside, we decided that the crowd was not so much made of cougars (defined as older women who like younger men) as "future cougars" (defined as younger women who like dressing up for each other, saying things like "OHMYGOD! You look SOOOOO cute!", sipping high-alcohol-content drinks made to taste like candy, acting vaguely slutty and laughing hysterically at the one friend who acts the vaguely sluttiest).

To clarify: I had fun and so did the Danes. Just not for the reasons the overindulgent piano players wanted us to.

I was too busy talking with friends and laughing and having a fun time to be awed by their hot licks on the pianoforte. I selfishly was trying to talk to a guy I hadn't seen in two years rather than be flabbergasted by, "Did he? Did that piano player really say the word ... HORNY?"

Sometimes people don't want to sing along with "American Pie," God damn it. Sometimes entire crowds of people would rather enjoy themselves than obey your commands to join in on "Margaritaville." Sometimes we want to listen, not sing.

And apparently someone wanted to listen to "Piano Man" so much he, she or they tipped $100 for the pleasure. Apparently the PIANO BAR players don't play the song about a PIANO BAR without some serious cash behind them.

I can understand that. It gets repetitive. I mean, I used to give boat tours four times a day and we would often refuse to talk about the Sears Tower because that got old for us.

Oh wait. We never did that. Because that's fucking asinine. You work in a piano bar. You're going to get requests for "Piano Man." Suck it up.

And I don't know if it was just my mood at the time or if they actually were doing this, but the piano player seemed to sing it fast, short and nasally. The tipper wanted to hear the song very badly, so that's how they played it.

You cut our songs short if we don't "go apeshit" for Don McLean, but the person who sat at the bar and put bread in your jar gets sarcastic Billy Joel?

Man, what are you doing here?

Based on the absolutely asinine notion that at the age of 30, every man is issued a polo shirt, a small child and a home in the 847 or 630 area code, I am freaking the hell out.

Why? I'm turning 30 this year. And although I know that means nothing other than the ancient Arabs adopted a base 10 numerical system, it's still a landmark year for lameness.

Not that I'll be lamer. I'll continue doing the same things I always did and having the same amount of fun. I'll just be creepier.

"God, did you see that creepy old guy?" says the 19 year old to her friend and fellow underground film festival patron. "He must have been like ... 30."

And I know this is BS, but I'm a very neurotic person. I fretted when I turned 20 too.

But the point is, I've decided to spend this spring and summer going to as many concerts as I can. My goal is ... wait for it ... 10 before 30.

I decided not to count the two shows I've already gone to this year (Gene Ween and World/Inferno Friendship Society), so this means I have four months to hit 10 shows. Bar bands count, but when I go to Pitchfork, that will only count as one.

It might be expensive and there's a chance I won't make my goal, but by the end of summer, I will be one of those "concert guys" who scoffs at non-concert goers and who makes a big production about putting in ear plugs "To protect my hearing. I mean, I go to soooo many shows."

My first concert of the Concert Project came last night. And it was one of the greatest bands this fair city has to offer. Legends since 1997, The Polkaholics.

How can I describe The Polkaholics? Oh wait. I did. For another publication that killed the damn story. Too jokey, they said. But if they won't print it, that means I can.

Demanding only beer, respect and possibly the Sudetenland, the Polkaholics (fronted by UIC biostatistics professor Don Hedeker) have thrashed up a high-speed brew of excellent musicianship and awful clothing since 1997. It's punk polka at its finest.

The self-styled "Pimps of Polka" are a Chicago mainstay, their New Year's Eve show at the German Cultural Center is a burgeoning tradition and they dress like the band at a wedding where the bride's new last name is nothing but Zs, Ws and the suffix "ski."

Next show in town: May 2, Quenchers Saloon.

 And I even got a picture from the band:

 Dear lord, I love these men.

That's right. Punk polka. Thrashing, rocking, singing, screaming, whirling fun polka. No accordions. As one of their songs puts it, "we play Polkas on guitars."

And they're good. Beyond all the gimmickry -- the shiny vests and nerdy attitudes -- these are really good musicians. Their version of "The Chicken Dance" ramped up, faster and faster until the swinging, flapping crowd degraded into a slamming mess my friend Jill called "a polka pit," but these three men never missed a beat, misstrung a note or turned a sour phrase.

They have so much fun doing what they do that it's easy to forget that what they do is reeeeeeally hard. When Dandy Don Hedeker is running around the bar with his wireless guitar, you think "Oh, he's having so much fun," not "That must be difficult."

And you haven't lived until you've seen a polka guitarist do the Pete Townshend windmill.

The show was free in honor of Polish Constitution Day, but I spent $12 on beer.  My friends and I went our ways after the first set, but we left commenting on the underrated wonder that is this band. It was a fun, low-key night with some screaming, some dancing, some sing-along and fond memories of a night that was very Chicago and very, very fun.

Their next show is May 16 at The Atlantic Bar and Grill.

As for me, I'm 29. I have four months and nine concerts to go.

Booze and a large crowd of zombies - what could go wrong?

I'll make this one short and sweet and mostly about the
pictures.

What did I do? Zombie pub crawl. Info here. Basically, a few
hundred of us got together, dressed up like zombies and stumbled from bar to
bar in Andersonville.

When did I do it? Saturday.

How many ways did I make an ass of myself? Many, including:

1.      
Showing up way too early and then just sort of
dicking around pacing instead of like grabbing a sandwich to kill time.

2.      
At the end of the night, following a group of zombies
into an art gallery. I had heard a separate group say they were going to
another bar, so I went outside and there were two groups of zombies and, well,
I picked the wrong group. Once in the gallery, they turned to me and one said "Who
the hell are you?"

3.      
Challenging two of the three zombie Jesuses to
fight each other, only to be told by one of them that someone else had just
made that joke like a minute earlier and the fight just ended.

4.      
Getting way too into my zombie walk. In all
fairness, though, I did get some laughs.

5.      
Going home without saying good-bye to Andy and
his friend. Sorry about that.

6.      
Pissing off the entire Zombie Anti Defamation
League, although this strangely came separately from the pub crawl.

7.      
Flasking.

And now here are the pictures. Remember kids, zombies can
rip your arms off and curse you to a ghoulish half-death, but being a tool can
only come from within. Take it from me.

Note on the pictures: In a further example of toolness, I
didn't realize my memory card wasn't in my camera. In short, I was taking
pictures directly in the camera's memory, which only had room for a handful of pictures. So these are all from right at the beginning, before I ran out of
memory.

Although my head is disproportionately large, it isn't that big. I'm leaning forward a bit in this picture. Also, I later ripped up that shirt and covered it in fake blood. It looked great.

I look pretty. Special thanks to that Karen person for taking the picture; special thanks to me for my awesome make-up.

I love making new and blasphemous friends. 

Preparations.

A random aside here. My favorite moment of the whole night came when this guy with a bullhorn started on some protest-style chatter.

It went exactly like this:

Guy: What do we want?

Crowd: BRAINS!

Guy: When do we want it?

Crowd: BRAINS!

Completely unprompted. It was awesome.

We left in tiers. This was nowhere near the size of the entire crowd.

This guy was cool.

Some people, however, just don't get it.

(That was a joke. The mummy was hysterical. Frankenstein's monster was there too.) 

I like roller derby. I like it a lot.

I like the skates and the violence and the yelling and the
punky looking girls with punny noms de skate like Celia Coffin, Hermione Danger
and, for some reason, Julia Rosenwinkel.

I've been trying to gather people together to see the Windy
City Rollers, one of Chicago's two flat-track roller derby leagues (the other
is the Chicago Outfit).

But we went to the Rollers on Saturday. And there's no reason
I should pay $6.50 for a goddamn beer.

A bit of backstory.

While a fan of derby, I'm more a fan in concept than
execution. In short, I had only been there once before. This was all the way
back in 2008, when people danced and frolicked in a sea of easily attained
subprime mortgages and colorful dragons swarmed the skies.

This was also when derby bouts (that's what they're called, "bouts")
were held at the Cicero Stadium in Cicero.

Aside from the fact I only went there once, I'm not going to
wax poetic about the old space in Cicero. I mean, I liked it. I thought it was
cool, but those seats hurt your ass after a while and the Pink Line is a
boring, boring ride.

It sure wasn't the UIC Pavilion, which is where they hold
events now. And charge $6.50 for a goddamn MGD.

The place was glitzy, the service staff professional. The
announcers tossed out T-shirts to whichever section of the crowd cheered
loudest and there were beer guys walking up and down the steps. There were
raffles and electronic scoreboards and overpriced concessions and DID I MENTION
THAT A GODDAMN BEER COST $6.50!

Corporate sponsors included Time Out Chicago and Chipotle.

The Windy City Rollers have reached the point where their
bouts have stopped being quasi-malicious counter-culture undergroove and have
just become ... sporting events.

And good for the Rollers.

Aside from this blog's admittedly snotty description ("before
you can buy them at the mall"), I sort of like when something I think is cool
gets the recognition it deserves. Don't get me wrong - the Trixie/Chad crowd
best stay away from my damn bars - but the Windy City Rollers deserve this.

They deserve to be seen by kids and middle-aged people. They
deserve to see their names (or at least their pseudonyms) in lights. They
deserve to hear a professional-sounding announcer scream over a loudspeaker "Lead
jammer, JULIA ROSENWINKEL!"

So roller derby has settled in. It's not a novelty anymore.
Now it's an established sporting event with coaches, announcers and even a farm
team - the Haymarket Rioters.

Side note: That's not cool. People died in the Haymarket
Tragedy. Between that and the professional soccer Chicago Fire, people have to
stop naming sports teams after bloody bits of history. You don't see the
Eastland Disasters or the Green Hornet Trolley Crashes. Why not call them the
Chicago Iroquois Theater Infernos? It's tactless, people. It's tactless.

And as long as I've already digressed from the topic, I
might as well mention that I think Julia Rosenwinkel tends bar at this place I
sometimes go.

But back to the point: My friends and I had fun. It wasn't a
wild night full of gritty punk menace; the bar where they held the after-party had
a full dinner menu and a patio area. And the Belgian Frites were excellent.

So counterculture wildness or just a night at the game, it's
a fun time. And I've decided that my derby name would be either Paul Maul or
Hellvis Costello.

My legs hurt. My head hurts. My pants are spattered with fake blood (damn zombies). But I did the 2009 Chiditarod.

Here's the video:

And here's a little bonus feature for you all:

Don't forget to check out parts one, two and three of the preparation videos.

Now leave me alone. I'm going back to sleep.

Tomorrow is race day for the Chiditarod.

The team is set.

The costumes are being finalized.

Cart decoration has a plan.

And here's the last video of preparation for my shopping cart race team.

Part One of the video series.

Part Two of the video series.

Final video should be up Sunday night.

Here's part two of preparation for team For The 80s Have Never Died. It's a Chiditarod team.

Here's a link to Part One of the video series.

And here's a link to the Windy Citizen's coverage of the 2008 Chiditarod. I did the video about the Mr. Rogers team.