A quiet scene, sort of

This weekend my family and I went to the Chicago Beer Society picnic. Patricia and I are not actually members, but for five bucks each and a dish of food, they let us hang out and have a few beers anyway.

The picnic was at a forest preserve close to where we live, so the convenience was nice. The area was a little flooded over because we had a lot of rain this week (Thank God there's no global warming, imagine what the rain would be like if there was!), but the standing water just makes the croquet game interesting.

Even more interesting is that the deer in this area can often be seen because they are pretty safe if they stick to the preserve area and don't go running out into the highway. Because of this, they don't bolt at the first sight of humans and I was lucky to get close to a couple yearlings and take a picture.

One of the things that I really admired about my father was his ability to get really close to wild animals. He grew up on a farm in Iowa and there was just something about his demeanor and the way he was with nature. He used to hunt as well, which is something that I don't do. I don't have anything against hunters and I know that the deer population often has to be culled, but I really just preferred my meat pre-killed. I hope that doesn't make me sound hypocritical, or at least not any more hypocritical than a vegetarian who wears leather Birkenstocks.

So I'm not kidding myself when I take pictures of deer when I get close to them. They know I'm near, but if I walk really slowly, I can get close enough for a few pictures. Though for some odd reason, as I'd get close, they would take a few steps away and I'd be looking at their rears.
Later, several more deer were close and I got a picture of a nice looking buck.

The best picture that I took that day goes without saying. A person could probably try for years and not get a shot like this.

How to speak Chicago

Everywhere I go, whether it’s Austin Texas, Atlanta Georgia, or Fire Island XIV on Planet Hacknor, I get people who talk to me about where I live.

Any time I tell someone that I live in the Windy City, their first reaction is to say “Chicago! Bang Bang!” or to ask me about Al Capone. Yes, evidently Chicago is still overrun by early 20th Century bootleggers.

Eventually, we get past that and maybe we talk about other things in Chicago. Yes, the Cubs are still bad, but the White Sox are now good. No, I’ve never met Michael Jordan personally. Yes, the pizza and the hot dogs are that good.

Sometimes, my new friends want to learn how to speak like a real Chicagoan, and sometimes, if they’re lucky, I’ll show them how.

Today is your lucky day.

There are two basic guidelines to follow when attempting to speak Chicago:

1. Get a hook.

2. Lazy Th’s.

I'll start with the lazy Th’s first. We use D’s in place of Th’s almost all the time. Da Bears, da Bulls, dat guy over dere, dis guy’s da guy. I know in New York, they do that with the Th’s as well, but when we do it, it sounds charming and colloquial. Incidentally, yelling “Da Bears!” and “Da Bulls!” is played out. Very played out.

Now for your hook, it has to be something that you can easily use to get you into the accent. This is mine: hot dogs and sausage. Say it like this: hat dahgs and sahsatch. Don’t go too heavy on the pronunciation, just have it hang somewhere between the proper Midwest sound and the way it’s spelled above.

Those are the basics; of course, there’s a big difference between certain areas of Chicagoland. Citizens of the South Side generally have the thickest accent, with the S at the end of words sounding like S, not Z, and it gets less noticeable as you go North. So you start down by 95th and Western with “Da beerss, da bratss and da Bearss,” and as you get into Winetka, it sounds more like “The sherry, the brie, at the Ravinia.”

Dere you go, dat was your lesson in how to speak Chicago. I think dat with a little practice, you’ll be good at and enjoy speaking like dis. Go ahead, give it a try.

Stuck in an Elevator

A few months ago, my wife and kid and I went to a hash in downtown Chicago. Basically, hashing is a social running group who likes to call themselves a "drinking club with a running problem." Patricia and I met at a hash and if I may be blunt for a moment, Kiera was conceived at a hash event. We still go a couple times a month, but definitely not as often as we used to, because, you know, I'm awfully busy being an Intergalactic Gladiator and all.

Anyway, a few months ago it was the hash on the day of the Chicago Marathon. That hash is a pretty big deal and we get visitors from all over who come because they participated in or had a friend participate in the marathon. We went to the start of the hash, which was at a bar three levels below downtown Chicago, met with everyone and had a beer. When it was time to run the trail, we packed Kiera into a jog stroller and headed for the elevator to walk part of the trail to the end.

We got into an outdoor elevator with a couple other "walkers" and another couple with a stroller and pushed the up button. It started whirring, it raised a level, then with a thud, it dropped back to the first level. Though it didn't hurt or anything, we were obviously all shaking from the drop. But then the elevator did it again!

Whirrrrr THUD!

Whirrrr THUD!

Whirrrrrr THUD!

It wouldn't stop and we couldn't force our way out. I was pushed to the back and I couldn't get forward to try to pry the doors open and the people who were closest to the doors couldn't open the doors themselves. My wife called for help on the emergency phone and, very calmly, explained what was going on.

The woman on the other end asked us to hold on and she would try to get the building engineers -- it was a Sunday and it might be difficult. Meanwhile, the elevator continued to go up a little ways, thud, then drop back to the first level.

Also, I might mention that on the top level, there was a fire station. Anyone in it, however, was oblivious to our predicament.

So we lost contact with the operator and my wife called again. This time, she tried explaining as calmly as she could what exactly was happening and that there were two little kids in the elevator. I don't think the operator thought that our plight involved the giant metal coffin raising and dropping us; she may have thought that we were just stuck.

It got to the point where my wife forcefully, but very slowly and carefully explained our situation to the operator, who then got it (I think) and replied that they were still trying to get a hold of someone.

Miraculously, the elevator stopped clanging back to the ground and actually took us up to the second level. Everyone gratefully clamored out of it and we all yelled at some people who wanted to get in "Don't do it!"

We continued on. After calming down, Kiera fell asleep in the stroller, we got to the end and we had a beer (you know, to calm our nerves) and some French fries.

If there were a moral to this story, I think it would be "Always stay on trail."