My Friend (Not My Cousin) Vinny

In 1981, while in self exile from my marriage and my family in Maryland, I live in Cicero, Illinois. At times, these were the best of times and at others they were the worst of times. I really missed being with my children, yet I cherished my freedom from my wife’s domineering family.

I first met my friend Vince while walking to a Cicero ballpark to play softball. I was playing in a Bar-League softball game and carrying a bat (an old Jackie Jensen model Louisville Slugger with a thick barrel – I had it since High School). Vinnie was also carrying a bat and was walking a few paces in front of me.

I caught up with him and asked him if he was playing in the 2 o’clock game. He looked at me as if I were crazy; then he answered and said “No, I gotta break someone’s kneecap.” I thought that he was being facetious and laughed. The look on his face told me that he was dead serious.

The next time that I saw him, about two months later, was in an up scale Italian Restaurant and Bar (and there weren’t many in Cicero at that time); I didn’t recognize him because this time he wasn’t carrying a bat. He yelled across the bar and asked me “Did you win?” I was amazed that he remembered me; we had had a very brief encounter a month or two before. I yelled back that I didn’t remember.

He got off of his bar stool and walked over to me and sat in the stool next to me. In a soft voice he told me that it was impolite to yell in a Restaurant. I was going to say that he yelled first; but I wisely bit my tongue. He introduced himself and I did the same. Little did I know that this was a start of a beautiful long lasting friendship.

In our bar conversation I learned that Vinnie worked for a Dutchman nicknamed “The Weasel”; although others called him BO Billy (but not to his face). The Weasel was the biggest bookmaker in the western suburbs of Chicago. His bank was Vince’s father-in-law.

Vince is a White Sox fan and loves the game of baseball with the same passion that I do. I’ve gone to several Sox games with him (usually the best seats in the house). I’ve taken him to several Cubs games over the course of the years; he always complained that we were in the cheap seats (Bleachers or Upper Deck).

Vinnie now works for the largest Construction Company in Chicago and it’s probably one of the top 20 in the US. I think, but I am not sure, that his father-in-law bankrolled their expansion some years back. Instead of a bat, Vinnie now carries a pen.

For the past 6 months Vinnie has been hounding me (via email) for the $19 that I owe him from last year. Now this is a guy that makes a two comma annual income. He lives in what my Dad would have called a mansion in the far western Chicago suburb of Naperville (5 bedrooms, swimming pool, 3 car garage and a circular driveway – all this on 1 ½ acres).

Vinnie and I have a standing annual wager. He bets $20 that the Cubs do not go to the World Series (he calls it a sure thing) and I bet a dollar that the White Sox won’t go (there is a reason for this that I may or may not explain later). I can’t recall how many $19 checks that I have written over the course of the years.

Last April, I did not send him his usual check. When he didn’t get the check in July he began to harass me; calling me a piker. Last night I called him to say that the check (sincerely) was in the mail but that it was written for $38 to include my 2009 losses (as I may not be around to pay up in April).

We spoke for more than an hour and he said “You know why I talked to you at the Restaurant that night, years ago.” I said “No.” “Because you seemed to be a good guy and I didn’t know too many good guys at that time.” He also said that I always made him laugh; that I was a funny guy who always faced adversity with a smile.

We talked about my health and physical problems. I told him that he didn’t need a bat because my knees were already shot. He laughed. I told him that a good day for me was when I only vomited once in the morning and didn’t crap in my pants. He laughed and then he cried!

The Beach Bum

Good Fortune - I Doubt It

On July 3, 1981 the crew of the Valiant sailed out of Burnham Park Harbor (Chicago) with a destination of Michigan City, Indiana.

We had slept on board the night before so that we could get an early morning start. The Captain had set the departure time at 7am (give or take 15 seconds – the Captain has always believed in punctuality). We didn’t want to be standing on the dock at 7:02 waving farewell to the crew as they headed toward the mouth of the harbor and onto Lake Michigan (as I’d seen this happen before).

At first I didn’t understand why we were going to Michigan City for the Fourth of July; Chicago had a far better fireworks display. I had found, in the past, that it was unwise to question the Captain about matters such as this. Later that day I found out from my cousin (The Admiral) that the Captain (who would turn 40 years old on the Fourth) feared a surprise party and wanted to get out of town.

The Captain plotted (manually with a chart) and then set the course for Michigan City. There was a moderate breeze from the Northwest and it was predicted that we would get there in about 7 hours.

About half way there (mid-lake) the wind died and we were just moving with the waves. It was like being in the doldrums of the Sargasso Sea, but without the seaweed. The Captain said that we would wait a while before turning on the engines and that it was a good time to have lunch. As we ate, a swarm of flies descended on us. This was the middle of the lake, where did they come from? It seems that they had been on a board that was floating in the water near the boat.

The flies were not going for our food, they were going for us. We only had two fly swatters and by the time you would zap one fly; two more would take its place. The Captain turned on the engine (this was a drastic measure, as the Captain did not like to waste fuel)! These flies were biting us like the abominable Wisconsin Deer Fly (People from Chicago call them Kamikaze Flies; they have a 5 inch wingspan and dive right at you).

In a short time we had left the Sargasso Sea, the wind picked up and we were able to kill or get most of the flies off of the boat. It was smooth sailing for the rest of the trip to Michigan City and a good time was had by all. End of story.

But, it’s not the end of this Blog.

During my life I have been attacked by about every flying insect that is known to mankind (I believe the tsetse fly is the exception). I think that these insects innately know that if they come near me, I will attempt to kill them. So like the Kamikaze Deer Flies of Wisconsin, they will tempt the fates by attacking me first.

Although it has been a rainy spring and summer, I have yet to see a mosquito. The avian population and the small reptiles that inhabit our yard must be performing their primary function; insect elimination. I can put up with the squawking birds, croaking frogs and chirping lizards as long as they do their jobs by ridding me of the flying insect population.

Earlier this summer we were besieged by sand flies; these are sneaky little (about a sixteenth of an inch long) blood suckers that you do not see landing on you and biting you. They will leave a welt the size of a mosquito bite that itches like hell.

Next came the invasion of the Gnats. I don’t believe that they bite, but they do have a tendency to fly up your nose and into your eyes (and mouth, if open). This lasted for about a week; the birds and reptile probably finally heard me cursing them for not ridding me of the plague.

Last week, while my daughter was in Maryland, it was my assigned task to take care of the dogs (they need to be walked several times per day). On one of my care giving journeys I noticed a rather large group of flying insects attacking a flower bearing shrub in the back yard. They were butterflies. As far as I know butterflies do not bite humans.

As I neared the shrub, one of them flew directly at me and landed on the left sleeve of my shirt. I was walking one of the dogs at the time and therefore moving. This was of no concern to the butterfly. In fact he moved to my chest about an inch above my hearth. Don’t think for one minute that I didn’t consider smashing the thing before he moved on; I did. It shortly left to join the others in his group, which probably saved his life.

After walking the dogs I called a friend who has a large butterfly collection adorning the walls of his Rec-room. I told him the story and described the butterfly and he said that he had one of those things on his wall. I then asked him what its name is. He sez “How the hell should I know, I just buy them for decoration purposes.” Then he tells me that in some cultures, a butterfly landing on you is considered to be the harbinger of good fortune. These must be the same cultures that believe a bird defecating on you is good luck.

We’ll see!

The Beach Bum

Potato Chips?

In my last conversation with my friend Slow Eddie, about his tour of the old neighborhood, he mentioned that the old Pizzeria where we hung out on Fridays and Saturdays was still there and still doing business. He had thought about taking the grand kids into the restaurant, but after seeing the patrons he decided that it was not a good idea and decided to stop at the Home Run Inn on 31st Street instead.

The name of the restaurant was the Del Campo Pizzeria and it is located on the corner of Cermak (22nd Street) and Troy. It was about 6 blocks from our high school and less than three blocks away from Eddie’s childhood home and about 6 blocks away from mine.

We would go there after a Friday afternoon Football or Baseball games and for Saturday night get-togethers. The pizza was very good but did not compare with the Home Run Inn’s pizza. But the Home Run Inn was more than a mile and a half away from my house and an even farther distance for most of my other High School friends.

My Dad would get our pizzas (and pizza was never considered to be a dinner food – although I would argue that it contained all five essential food groups) from a Pizzeria two blocks away from our home. It was a thin New York style pizza but it didn’t have the cracker crust which I preferred.

It was owned by two brothers that had emigrated from Italy to New York City in the early 1940’s. They lived in Brooklyn and both went to work for a local Pizzeria; one as a busboy and the other as a kitchen clean-up man. The younger brother was the busboy.

This Pizzeria had no wait staff; you would get a number when you ordered your pizza and they would call the number when your pizza was ready.

Although his job was only to clean the tables and the floor (and restrooms), the younger brother took the initiative to get the pizzas for the customers. He'd say something like “don’t interrupt your conversation; I will bring your pizza to you”. His fetching the pizzas did not interfere with his job and the owners of the Pizzeria appreciated his extra effort. Plus he would usually find nickels or dimes on the tables when he went to clean them. Soon the nickels and dimes turned into quarters and although he was making less money per hour than his brother; he was bringing home a lot more.

I transferred into Cyrus McCormick Elementary School (Chicago) in the third grade. I knew absolutely no one in my class and they didn’t exactly welcome me with open arms. Most of my neighborhood friends, (which I had just met that summer) went to Catholic Schools.

The next fall when I entered the fourth grade there was a new transfer student. Now I was no longer the new kid on the block.

By this time I had become friends with several of my classmates. I was such an affable character that they couldn’t resist my pleasing personality, besides I was bigger and stronger than most of them and I knew how to throw a punch. A fifth grader was picking on one of my new found friends and I decked him (actually it was a sucker punch that was taught to me by my older cousin Bob). I gained the immediate respect from my fellow male classmates (however, my mom was summoned to the school to explain my inexplicable behavior). Fortunately this turned out to be a good move on my part because my friend’s parents owned the candy store across the street from the school and I didn’t get severely disciplined by my parents.

The new student’s name was Giuseppe. On the first day of class our teacher called on him and asked him to introduce himself to his fellow classmates. He said “Ma’am, I go by the name of Joey, I’m Italian but I was born in America.” A harsh silence fell over the classroom; both Joey and our teacher sat down. More silence.

I decided that I liked this kid, so after class I introduced myself to him and we shook hands. He lived about a half block away from the school and I lived two blocks away. When I walked to school in the morning he would be sitting on his stoop waiting for me and we’d walk the last 100 yards to school, every morning, together. After school I would often stop at his house and we would do our homework together. His Mom baked some of the best cookies that I have ever eaten.

One day Joey came to my house after school and one of the local kids, from my block, yelled “Hey George, who is that grease ball that you’re with.” That was the last day that Joey came to my home. Kids can be cruel. But one must consider the fact that I grew up in an extremely bigoted Bohemian/Polish Chicago neighborhood.

One day Joey and I were walking home from school and he continued to walk past his house. I asked him if he was coming to my house. He told me “No, I’m going to see my father at work.” I thought that it must be nice to have your Dad working so close to home.

The next day, at recess, I asked him where his Dad worked. He told me that his Dad and his Uncle ran a Pizza Parlor. He also said that his Dad worked 14 hours a day and he hardly got to see him. He asked me if I would like to meet his Dad and I said sure. He said that we could go there for lunch. I told him “not today” because my Mom would be worried if I didn’t come home for lunch.

After clearing it with my Mom, the next day Joey and I had pizza for lunch. I met his Dad and his Uncle Carlo. After that day Joey and I would go to the Pizzeria for lunch one day per week.

The next year I was invited to their home for the Feast of Saint Joseph (March 19th). It was on a School day so I went home to clean up and change clothes first. I arrived at about 4:30 in the afternoon. When Joey opened the door to let me in I received a blast of some of the most fragrant aromas that I had ever encountered. Joey said that his Mom had been preparing food for 3 days.

Joey’s Dad and Uncle were sitting at the dining room table (which looked like the worlds largest antipasto platter) drinking wine and speaking in Italian. The greeted me in English and welcomed me to their home (Uncle Carlo lived on the second floor of the two-flat house). The sideboard next too the table was covered with an assortment of cookies, cakes and tortes. Uncle Carlo saw the look on my face and said go on and take one. I reached for a round cookie that was full of holes and had powder sugar on top. Carlo said no no those are only for after dinner; try the Pignoli or the Biscotti. I chose the Pignoli.

Joey and I, his two cousins and his brother and sister went into the living room to watch television. I notice Joey’s Mom clearing the food from the table. I said “Mrs. *******, I haven’t eaten yet.”, she laughed and told me that I would eat soon.

I couldn’t believe the amount and varieties of food Joey’s Mother and Aunt brought out of the kitchen, it truly was a feast. There were so many types of pasta including Ravioli and Lasagna, three different sauces (they called them gravies), several meat dishes and one vegetable (actually a mixture of several vegetables).

Uncle Carlo sat at the head of the table (he was the oldest member of the family – the Patrono) and gave the benediction, said a prayer and the talked about family members for 2 or 3 minutes. I didn’t understand a word he said because he was speaking in Italian. Then he sat down and said Mangiare, I knew what that meant.

Joey’s Mother fixed me a basket of food and cookies to take home with me when I left that night. She said “Bringa back the basket.”

After Elementary school Joey and I rarely saw each other. His parents sent him to a Catholic school and I went to a Public High School. But on every March 19th I was there at his house to celebrate St. Joseph’s Day.

Now after this extremely long missive, I suppose you are wondering what this story has to do with the title of this Blog – Potato Chips.

On August 3rd I wrote a blog about snack foods and Potato Chips in particular. Somewhere in that Blog I wrote about Joey’s Dad’s Pizzeria having the best Spumoni that I have ever eaten. Writing that Blog reminded me of my old friend Joey.

The Beach Bum

You Can't Go Back To The Past

I received telephone calls from concerned friends on both Saturday and Sunday.

The Saturday call was from my old Chicago friend Slow Eddie. After the traditional Howya doin’ conversation:
He sez “Howya doin’?”
I sez “Ok, howya doin’?”
He sez “Ok”.
We both lied!
He said that he called because I haven’t written a Blog in over three weeks and that he was concerned. Basically he was just checking to see if I was still among the living.

We then talked about Baseball. He a White Sox fan and I am a Cubs fan. He was boasting that he has watched more than 100 Sox games this year and even some Cubs games. He retired last spring so, like me, he has a lot of time to watch Baseball.

I boasted back saying that I have seen more than 250 games this year (predominately the Tampa Bay Rays). Plus I have seen every MLB Team play this year.

He also asked me why I was a Cub and not a White Sox fan, after all I did grow up on the south side. I told him that I had told him the story nearly 50 years ago and maybe I would blog about it in the near future.

After about 15 minutes of talking Baseball, he switched the topic to our High School days and the old neighborhood. A week ago Slow decided to show his grandchildren our old neighborhood and what once was Harrison High School. A big mistake says Slow, since he hadn’t been there for about 25 years. Slow has lived in Berwyn of more than 30 years.

His grandchildren live in a northwestern suburb named Schaumburg and except for going to the Lake or the Downtown/Grant Park area they have never seen the real city up close. Both of his sons will come to visit him in Berwyn and bring their children to see Grandpa. He told me the route that he took and I cringed. It was very similar to the route that my cousin, the Admiral, took to show my daughters our old neighborhood in 1996 (I remember him saying to “make sure the doors are locked and the windows are closed”).

Slow Eddie was surprised to see all the changes on 26th Street (South). He said there was a sign in one store window that said English Spoken Here. He said that it must had been a joke because he didn’t a single white person on the streets that he traveled (Eddie considers Spanish speaking people to be non-white – it has something to do with the Moors invading the Iberian Peninsula).

The kids couldn’t wait until the tour was over and neither could Eddie. He took 31st Street back home and stopped at the “Home Run Inn” to get a pizza for lunch. He decided to take it home because “except for some of the staff there wasn’t a white person in the place”.

After the story about the trip to the old neighborhood, he decided that he is considering moving from Berwyn to Schaumburg, He would sell his house and buy a condo outright. I asked him if it was to be closer to his children and grandchildren. He said that and the fact that some Salvadorians had moved in across the street from him and that they do not speak English. Besides he was tired of mowing the lawn and shoveling the snow.

So I sez “how do you know that they are Salvadorians?” He sez “the Mexicans that live three doors down told me.”

Slow Eddie closes the conversation with “I’ll really miss the neighborhood Bars, all that they have in Schaumburg is high class yuppie places.”

The Beach Bum

A Pip of a Chip

I don’t eat a lot of snack foods. Not that I don’t like them and the hollow calories that they provide (if my body craves hollow calories, I usually drink a beer), but it is a habit (one of the very few good habits that I have) that I developed as a child.

My parents didn’t keep snack foods (except for potato chips, which were only to be eaten with lunch) in the house. My Mom would always tell us that these foods would ruin our appetites for supper. Snacks were only eaten after supper. And most of the time we were too full to eat them before nine at night.

The snack foods that my Dad ate were pickled herring, sardines in mustard sauce and occasionally popcorn. Needless to say, as a child and a teen the popcorn was the only one of these snacks that appealed to me.

We also always had Ice Cream on hand, but Ice Cream was considered to be a dessert and not a snack; the only time we ate it was after supper, as a part of our dinner. My favorite was Spumoni which we would get from a nearby Italian Pizzeria (more about this in my next Blog).

As usual I have digressed from the main topic of this Blog; which is Potato Chips.

When I was a kid my parents would buy a Potato Chip Brand named Jays (not to be confused with Lays); these were Chicago’s most popular potato chip, at that time. Their slogan was “A Pip of a Chip”. They came in one and a quarter ounce bags (I believe that there were also family size bags available). My Mom said that this was the prefect portion to accompany a lunchtime sandwich. If we bought the larger bag we would tend to eat more than we should and therefore ruin our appetites. She also monitored the bag count daily to make sure that no one was cheating on their potato chip intake.

I have always enjoyed eating potato chips with a sandwich.

The other day I ate a sliced chicken breast sandwich, and of course, I wanted potato chips to accompany this sandwich. My daughter had purchased a box of (fifty count) one ounce bags (vending size) of Lays Potato Chips at Sam’s Club. When I buy chips, I usually buy the 12 and ½ ounce to 14 ounce bags (ounce for ounce it is less expensive – especially when they are on sale – but is it really less expensive?).

Here is what I found in the one ounce bag. There were 85% whole chips, 15% broken chips and no crumbs. In the big family size bags you are lucky if you get 60% whole chips, 25% broken chips, 12% bits and pieces (not worth eating) and another 3% crumbs (also not worth eating). You end up feeding 15% of your purchase to the birds and insects, or worse yet putting it into the trash.

I used to attribute this to the grocery store’s mishandling of the bags when stocking the shelves, but now I’m beginning to wonder. Does Frito-Lay put their scraps in the larger bags so that they can put them on sale more often? Also, why aren’t potato chips packaged in clear bags as Doritos are?

I want to know!

The Beach Bum

Baseball, Hamburgers and Politics

Last weekend I spoke to a friend and fellow Cubs fan. I hadn’t spoken to him since last October. As always, the first 20 minutes of our conversation centered on the Cubs and Baseball in general. Once the 2009 season begins we will be on the phone nearly once a week.

Then we moved on to health concerns, particularly mine. This lasted for about 3 minutes; he has no major health concerns (except for high cholesterol – he takes Lipitor) and mine are Status Quo.

Finally we moved on to meatier topics. Our new President, the Bailouts, the Economy and Hamburgers.

This part of the conversation began with Hamburgers. I asked him if he remembered the name of a certain restaurant in Melrose Park that served the best burgers that I have ever eaten. When I lived Berwyn in the early 1980’s I would take my girlfriend there at least once every ten days.

I began to describe the Restaurant and within seconds he said “Come Back Inn.” How could I have forgotten? I then asked him if he been there lately and he told me that it was closed several years ago. I said “What? – Why?”

He then asked me if I remember why he moved from Cicero (Cook County) to Downers Grove (DuPage County) in 1990. He had lived on the southwest side of Cicero for 38 years (from birth until 2 months before his 39th Birthday). The house that he bought in Cicero was just two blocks away from his parents’ house. So I said “To be closer to work (the Company that he work for had moved to Schaumburg the year before)?” He laughed and said “Guess again.”

My second guess was lower taxes. Wrong again! “OK I give up.”

He answered “The demographics (in Cicero) were rapidly changing, the crime rate was swiftly rising and the Democrats were outnumbering the Republicans (Cicero and neighboring Berwyn had always been a stronghold for the Cook County Republican Party). The same thing happened in Melrose Park, but at least the criminals there spoke a version of the English language; when they asked you for your wallet, you understood what they were saying and didn’t get knifed or shot.” Now it was my turn to laugh.

Next, I said “I guess that you’re not happy with the outcome of the last election.” He then said “What do you mean, I voted for Obama.” For a few seconds I was thunderstruck. All that I could say was wow. After the shock wore off, I asked him why?

He gave me the same reasons that other Chicago suburban area lifelong Republicans had given me.

For that one moment, they put aside the bigotry that they were taught (as I was) as children. They voted with their minds rather than their hearts. I hope that President Obama proves their decisions to be right.

The Beach Bum

Election 2008 - Bring Out Your Dead

With the Presidential Election just 10 days away, a composite of 10 major Polls shows that Senator Obama is leading Senator McCain by 7.5%

In 1984 Chicago Newspaper columnist Mike Royko suggested that people should lie to the media about who they voted for in television sponsored exit polls. There was sound reasoning behind Royko’s promoting this activity. The television media was calling a candidate a winner before the polls closed. This prevented people who would normally vote, to not vote. Either their preferred candidate was declared a winner or was out of contention; so why bother to vote?

Long before Mike Royko, lying to pollsters was advocated by King Richard I (Richard J Daley – Mayor of Chicago for Life) in the 1960’s. Of course, he didn’t put it in writing or say it to the media. Daley instead passed the word down to the Democratic Aldermen and Precinct Captains. But King Richard I took it one step further; you were advised to also lie in any pre-election polls. This was part of the Daley Machine’s Political strategy.

The Chicago voter turnout has always been far above the National average. It has been purported, but not proven, that even terminally ill registered voters and recently deceased voters (as long as they were registered Democrats) have voted in past elections.

King Richard I also strongly suggested who you should vote for in the elections. As a general rule it was a straight Democratic Party ticket. You would get a hand delivered sample ballot from your precinct Captain or one of his minions. They would then place an X next to the preferred candidate’s name.

In 1968, the first presidential election in which I was allow to vote (the law was 21 years old or older at that time), there was no X next to any of the presidential candidate’s name. However there was an X next to Republican Senator Everett Dirksen’s (from down State Illinois) name as well as Republican Gubernatorial candidate Richard Ogilvie’s (the Cook County Sheriff) name.

Although he publicly endorsed Hubert H. Humphrey as well as all the Democratic Party candidates, King Richard I let his people know who he preferred in the 1968 election. Nixon won Illinois because Daley did not particularly like Humphrey. Dirksen would have probably won without Daley’s support, just by a smaller margin. And Ogilvie became the Governor of Illinois due to Daley’s surreptitious support.

I knew a Black Baptist Minister whose Church was in the Woodlawn neighborhood of Chicago. He was also a Democratic Precinct Captain in his ward. He fervently disliked King Richard I, and told me that he was the most bigoted man that he had ever met. I queried as to why he worked for him. His answer was that “he was good for the City and that regardless of his prejudice he took care of the people in Woodlawn.”

Now there is King Richard II (Richard M. Daley – the current Mare of Chicago). He’s a couple years older than I am. He was raised by a bigoted father and grew up in the Irish Catholic neighborhood of Bridgeport. As I had been, he was taught that Black people were to be tolerated, but not respected or trusted.

Has King Richard II learned to put aside his childhood training, values and beliefs? I doubt it! The apple does not fall far from the tree.

If the new Daley Machine works like the old Daley Machine; you will see many white Democrat voters in Chicago voting for John McCain. But they’ll be telling the Pollsters that they are supporting Obama.

In the polls, Illinois is listed as an Obama state, but it also was listed as a Humphrey state in 1968.

The Beach Bum

Next Year - I'll Pray to Saint Jude

A long time ago a friend’s father, who was an avid Cubs Fan, told me that the corner of Clark and Addison was where the “Street of Broken Dreams” meets the “Avenue of Despair”. I laughed! That was in 1980 when I could still laugh about my favorite Baseball team losing. There was always next year.

Last night, or should I say, in the wee small hours of the morning, I recalled what a 70 year old Cubs Fan had told me 28 years before. Now I understood the meaning of his words.

The Cubs were swept by the Dodgers in the Divisional Playoff Series. The team with the best regular season record in the National League lost three games in a row to the team with the worst divisional record in the Playoffs.

I didn’t read any of the Chicago Sports Writers take on this series and probably won’t for several days; when the angst wears off.

I really believed that this would be the year that the Chicago Cubs would go to the World Series. And perhaps even win the World Series. Other years I just hoped, but this year I believed.

This morning I received 2 consoling emails. One was from a Cubs Fan who said “didn’t I tell you not to get your hopes up” and the other from a White Sox Fan who wrote “I know how you feel, maybe next year.”

I don’t think that I have that many next years left.

The Beach Bum

No Joy in Wrigleyville

There is no joy in Wrigleyville tonight. The Chicago Cubs have just lost their second home game, in the divisional playoffs, to the LA Dodgers. It was a slaughter! Cub’s fans, like me, are crying in their beer tonight. Two Cub errors in the second inning (4 total in the game) put the Cubs in a hole that they couldn’t crawl out of. For the second night in a row the Cubs bats remained silent. They showed a little life in the ninth inning. It was too little, too late. As Maynard G Krebbs, from Dobie Gillis would say “for shame, for shame.”

It’s on to LA, where doubtfully, they will win two and return to Chicago for the series finally. I can dream, can’t I?


The Beach Bum

The Playoffs

After I posted yesterday’s Blog I turned on the television to watch the Marlins play the Mets. But at 2PM I switched over to the Cubs/Brewers game. I think that the Cubs gave this game to the Brewers. For the Cubs it was a meaningless game and it meant the playoffs for the Brewers. I toggled back to the Mets game during the commercials. I was happy to see them lose. Now a Milwaukee win would put them into the Playoffs.

Most Cubs fans have an extreme dislike for the New York Mets. Every time I see them play I’m reminded of 1969 and the Miracle Mets. This dislike is instilled in new Cubs fans by the older generation Cubs Fans. My Dad disliked the New York Yankees for beating the Cubs in two World Series in the 1930’s. I grew up hating the Yankees. And that was long before George Steinbrenner (a man you love to hate) bought the team.

Chicago baseball fans have a natural dislike for teams from New York. The Cubs fans that I know will cheer for their cross-town rivals, the White Sox, when they play the Yankees. I don’t know too many White Sox fans, but I sure that they root for the Cubs when they play the Mets.

I would imagine that the players, coaches and managers of both Chicago baseball teams feel the same way.

I’m not saying that the Cubs intentionally lost the game yesterday, but they had nothing to gain by beating the Brewers and a warm feeling inside if the Mets did not make the Playoffs.

The Beach Bum

Walking the Beat - No Discounts

The last time that I had a cup of Starbuck’s coffee (Decaf) was at Tampa International Airport. The cup of coffee and a small pastry me cost more than $7. But this was at the Airport where a beer cost $5. This was the last time that I will ever spend a cent in a Starbucks.

It’s not because Starbucks’ prices are outrageous for the value that you receive. It’s not because many of their employees act like the “Soup Nazi” on Seinfeld. Nor is it because Starbucks recently closed down a portion of their stores; and therefore put many of their “Coffee Nazis” on the unemployment payroll.

The reason that I have a beef with Starbucks stems from an article that I read in the online version of the Chicago Tribune last week.

A veteran Chicago cop was suspended for 18 months for demanding coffee and pastries at a Starbucks on her beat.

Starbucks Corporate management has no official policy regarding free coffee for police, leaving that decision up to each franchise. Most stores give a uniformed Officer a free 12oz coffee or tea. The suspended officer demanded a larger size coffee and would come more than once per day. Then she started to ask for a pastry with her coffee, when the “Coffee Nazis” said no way, she became belligerent. The nerve some people have!

This prompted the Starbucks District Manager to send a memo to other stores in the area stating that this officer was no longer welcome in Starbucks. Imagine being barred from Starbucks.

Although most Police Departments have an official policy of no freebies, this policy is often overlooked. There is a symbiotic relationship between Cops and places that serve Coffee and Pastries.

Years ago my Dad told me that I didn’t have to like Cops, but that I should always respect them for the thankless job that they perform. My older cousin was a Chicago Cop who was killed in the line of duty. My younger cousin has been a Chicago Cop for more than 30 years. I wonder if they ever asked for or expected to get a freebie.

Which reminds me of a classic story told by my friend Slow Eddie.

The event happened on an Election Day (Chicago bars were to stay closed until the Polls closed) in a neighborhood Bar that we called Blackie’s (not the real name of the Bar but the owner’s nickname was Blackie).

It was 4 in the afternoon and Slow Eddie (17 years old at the time) was dying for a beer and he knew that Blackie’s would be open. When he arrived there were 2 customers at the bar playing penny a point gin rummy with Blackie (who always sat on a stool behind the Bar, next to the window, in the corner).

Slow sits down and orders a 5 cent 10 ounce draft beer. Blackie serves him two saying that he doesn’t want to be getting up that often. Halfway through his first beer, the door opens and in walks a uniformed Police Officer. He sits down next to Slow, giving him the eye.

Now Slow was crapping in his pants, thinking that he was busted for sure. It didn’t seem to faze Blackie who was illegally open, gambling and serving a minor.

After a minute or two (a lifetime for Slow Eddie), Blackie looks up from his cards and says to the Cop “I’m not getting up for you, go get it yourself.” The Officer then walked behind the bar and got himself a beer and bag of chips. He sat back down and said to Slow “How ya doin’.” When he left the bar he left a tip for Blackie.

The Beach Bum

This Bud's For You

When I was a teen I knew a lot of guys named Edward. Most of them went by the diminutive name Eddie. In my coterie of friends in High School there were three Eddies. Sometimes this was confusing because when we were talking about one of them some one would invariably ask “which Eddie”.

Therefore we gave them all nicknames. First there was “Fast” Eddie. Fast Eddie got his nickname not because he hustled pool but because he was a sprinter on the High School track team. He was fast.

Then there was “Easy Eddie” who got his nickname because of his gullibility, you could tell him just about anything and he would believe you. He always believed that we gave him that nickname because he was laid back.

Finally there was “Slow Eddie”. At first we called him “Fat Eddie” because he was 5’10” and weight 225 pounds. I think that we later changed it from Fat to Slow out of respect for Eddie. Or maybe it was because he threatened to sit on us if we didn’t change it.

Slow Eddie was indeed a character that I will never forget. He was a star offensive lineman on our football team. He could have been a great running back (because he was hard to tackle and take down), but he was too slow. I never saw him eating a lot, so one day I asked him how he put on so much weight. He said that he drank three malted milk shakes per night and chased them down with three quarts of Budweiser. This was at age 16.

In 1994 I was sitting in my favorite bar in Berwyn, Illinois, when in walks this big guy that resembled Bluto from the Popeye cartoons. He sits next to me, orders a Budweiser draft and asks me if I remember him. My mind goes blank, but I say, yeah you look familiar. He sez, “I’m Slow, Slow Eddie from High School”. Wow, he had gained a few more inches, grew a beard and added another 100 pounds.

He asked me if I lived in Berwyn and I told him no; that I was just visiting my sister as I do every year. We rehashed our life stories from the past 30 years. Slow then told me that he was a construction electrician and a union shop steward. He made more than $40 per hour stringing wire through conduit in new buildings and there was plenty of overtime available.

Every year since that chance meeting, we meet in a bar when I come to Chicago to visit my family and friends. I usually call him the week before I arrive and set up a date for our annual reunion. Since I was not going this year, I didn’t make the call.

Last week, Slow Eddie called me. “When the Hell are you comin’ out”? We talked about my health problems for a while and then he dropped the big one on me. After more than 45 years, he quit drinking Budweiser. I queried, why? He told me that it was no longer an American Beer. Busch sold out to some European conglomerate. Being in a Union for all of his adult life, Eddie only buys goods that are made in the United States from Companies owned by Americans. Sometimes this is a hard thing to do.

I promised to call more often and told him “good luck and stick to your guns”. John Wayne would be proud of “Slow Eddie”.

The Beach Bum

An Epicureans Delight

A few days ago, I was talking to a friend who lives in the western Chicago suburbs. As we do every year at this time, we conversed about our favorite baseball team; The Chicago Cubs. Basically, we have the same conversation every late February; just the names of the players are changed. We both tend to over analyze the team and we are both hopeless optimists.

The highlight of our conversation was not concerning the Cubs, but instead the Chicago Hot Dog. He had gone to one of our favorite Hog Dog emporiums for lunch on Sunday. He was appalled by the behavior of the customer in front of him. The man asked for Catsup on his hot dog. The young employee, behind the counter, told the man that they didn’t have Catsup. The man then became indignant and told the employee where he could put the hot dog. Nasty words were exchanged.

My friend, who is well known for his lack of tolerance, jumped in and said “get the “xxxx” out of here and go back to Detroit". I guess that they serve hot dogs with Catsup in Detroit.

If you have never had a Chicago Hot Dog, you have no idea what I am writing about.

The classic Chicago Hot Dog uses a Vienna Beef Frank (2oz) which is steamed and served on a poppy seed bun which is also steamed. The condiments are mustard, a bright green pickle relish (picklelilly), chopped onions, tomato wedges, a slice of dill pickle or cucumber, a dash of celery salt and optional hot (Sport) peppers. The dog is usually served with French Fries. It’s wrapped in white paper (fries included) and served in a brown bag.

Please note that there is no mention of Catsup, Chili or sauerkraut!

The better Hot Dog Emporiums do not keep Catsup on the premises.

Last night I was drooling while thinking about a Chicago Hot Dog. We have a Chicago style food carry-out less than a mile away. I sent my daughter to fetch one. It was good, but just not the same as eating one in Chicago.

The Beach Bum

Going, Going, Gone - It's a Homer

Last night we had Pizza for dinner. One of the Pizzas was plain cheese and the other was a cheese, sausage and pepperoni combo.

These were frozen Pizzas that were purchased at a local grocery store. My daughter cooked one pizza on her Presto Pizzazz Pizza turntable and the second in the oven on her Pizza stone.

I like Pizza, but the things that they attempt to past off as a Pizza at most of the chains is not what I call Pizza. Worst yet, are some of the frozen Pizzas that are available in the grocery store.

I’m spoiled. I grew up on the southwest side of Chicago. There were 3 small Pizzerias within a 2 block radius of my house. None of them served what is now called Chicago Style Pizza (a deep dish abomination). All had a thin cracker crust.

But the best Pizza came from a small Pizzeria across from Lawndale Park (Keeler Park) on west 31st Street. The place had a few tables and a small bar, most of their business was carry-out. There was no delivery back in the 50’s and 60’s. To this day this Pizzeria does on deliver, although they have 6 units in Chicago and its Suburbs.

It was named the Home Run Inn because an errant baseball from Lawndale Park broke their front window.

Last night, as my daughter was cooking the store bought frozen Pizzas, she brought out the box that the Pizza came in and showed it to me. My eyes lit up like Roman Candles on the Fourth of July: A Frozen Home Run Inn Pizza. She then read the back of the box which has the Home Run Inn historical story. She got choked up and tears were pouring from my eyes. Great Memories of simple pleasures!

I have seen these Pizzas in the Jewel Grocery Store when I visit Chicago, but never tried one because I could get the real thing and not a frozen facsimile.

My daughter said, last night, that it was the best frozen Pizza that she had ever eaten. The flavor of the cheese and sausage was unrivaled. The crust was excellent and the sauce was perfect.

She had this style of Pizza before (from Al’s and Falco’s in Cicero) when visiting Chicago, but never one from the Home Run Inn.

The Beach Bum

The Heckler

Several years ago a good friend, who unfortunately lives in Wisconsin, sent a link to his son’s web site. His son lives in Chicago and is a Cubs fan. I have never met him but I like him and his writing style.

Like me, Pal Val is an old fart. We shared some good times together, years ago, in a place far, far away. No we weren’t on Tatooine. And no, we were not Jedi Knights!

Val was a “Do Good” person and I was a "Gross Guy". We were two worlds apart but still on the same planet.


The best correlation that I can make is that Val was the equivalent to Luke Skywalker and I was nearly the equal of Darth Vader (I was once a good person-turned evil by my lust for life). He stood for all the good things that an American Serviceman could do while overseas in the 1960’s. I have very much respect for him for this reason. He could have been easily seduced by the “Dark Side”, as I was, but he didn’t succumb to the foibles of mankind. Not that he was a saint; he was just a bit better than most the rest of us.

Excuse me, I digress!

Val’s son, Brad, is the Editor-in-Chief of a tabloid about Chicago Sports. He also has a Web Site by the same name –The Heckler.

The Heckler consists of humorous stories about Chicago Sports. More than humorous they are wry and sarcastic, plus they tend to distort the facts and figures. All in all it’s a good read. If you like sports humor you should take the time to visit this site. Although I do not visit it as often as I should, a visit is well worth 30 minutes of your time per week.

The Beach Bum

Barry Barry Bad for Baseball

Being a fan of the sport of Baseball and particularly a Chicago Cubs fan, I have been distressed this past week.

It started out as good Baseball week for me, with the Cubs winning the sweepstakes for Japanese Baseball star Kosuke Fukudome. More than likely he will be the Cubs’ Right Fielder on opening day. He will give the Cubs a desperately needed left handed bat. He is a two-time League batting champion, he led his league in on-base percentage three times and four times won a Gold Glove for defensive excellence in the outfield.

A left handed hitter that can catch a ball hit to right field on a regular basis. Wow! What are the Cubs trying to do? Win a World Series. I’ve always said “not in my lifetime.” But maybe the powers that be have decided to end my suffering and make my team a contender. The 2008 Chicago Cubs look very good on paper.

Just to burst my bubble the Mitchell Report is then released. I downloaded the PDF file from the Chicago Tribune. It is tedious reading; I have spent 6 hours reading it and have not yet finished the entire report.

There are some surprises in the report and there are some notable omissions in the report. I just can’t believe some of the names that were mentioned for steroid abuse. Others that did not appear on “The List” will probably make it into the Baseball Hall of Fame. If you are a player on “the list” you probably have a very slim chance of receiving this honor. Some of my favorite players from the past 15 years are on “The List”.

Personally, I am not against the use of performance enhancing drugs in Baseball. But I am against the players demanding more money because of the use of these drugs. That is what is bad for Baseball. Avarice by both, the Players and the Owners, threaten the game that I love.


Finally, I read yesterday that my beloved Cubs might be going commercial. That is dependent on the new ball club ownership; the ballpark may be renamed. To me it will always be Wrigley Field. I attended my first game there in 1954 and fell in love with Baseball. Since that day, the game has become my personal lifetime passion. Every year, year after year, I can’t wait for the first pitch of the season and last strikeout of the season.

The Beach Bum

Rescue at Sea

The waters of Lake Michigan can be especially cold in the month of May. If they get warm at all, it’s usually in July and August. It depends upon the prevalent wind direction. Surface water temperatures of over 68 degrees are rare before late June.

The month of May in 1981 was colder then normal. We were wearing jackets while sitting in the cockpit of the Valiant. There was a zesty breeze and the sail was, as the Captain would say, invigorating. It was a Sunday afternoon and we had sailed to the “Crib Line” and then plotted a course to Navy Pier.

The Captain decided that we should head back to the harbor and to eat snacks and drink liquid libations. The crew was in total agreement with this proposition. We were all shivering and hungry.

As we headed back into Burnham Park Harbor, we noticed a school of small sailboats coming out of the harbor. These were of the 14 to 16 foot variety. The Captain mentioned that it was a great way to learn how to sail. The Park District gave classes and allowed people to take these small sailboats out for a very low fee.

All of a sudden the wind picked up and it was gusting. We had already dropped sail as we were nearing Miggs Field towards the harbor’s mouth at McCormick Place.

One of the small boats, which a young man and woman were sailing, got knocked down and had overturned in the water; keel up. They were attempting to get out of the cold water and climb onto the overturned boat.

The Captain immediately called the Coast Guard on the VHF to report the incident. At this point we were about 50 feet from the capsized boat. After seeing that the occupants of this small craft were in despair, my cousin, “The Admiral”, stripped off his cloths and jumped into the frigid water. He swam to them and helped them to get onto the upturned hull.

We arrived on the scene before the Coast Guard cutter. We brought the “Admiral” and the young couple aboard the Valiant. We gave them all blankets and a shot of cheap Brandy. Surprisingly none of them suffered hypothermia.

I often wonder if they (the young couple) ever attempted to sail again!

The Beach Bum

The Fog

In the summer of 1981 I spent a lot of time fishing for Salmon (Coho and King) on Lake Michigan. The “Captain” had an annual fishing contest with a friend nicknamed “The Moose”. The Moose had the advantage because he owned a “Stink Pot” and could get out to “The Happy Fishing Grounds” faster than we could.

Salmon like cold water, so as the water warmed the Salmon would go farther out and deeper into Lake Michigan.

Fishing for Salmon requires down riggers. We were one of the few sailboats that were set up for Salmon fishing in Lake Michigan. In fact, the Charter Boats would mention our location on their VHF’s (The Green Sailboat). We listened to our VHF to see where
the Charter Boats were fishing. These captains would guarantee their clientèle a fish. And they had a very good idea where those fish would be.

It was late June 1981 and we were in a dead heat with the Moose. The Captain decided that we should go out to mid-lake. We motored out of Burnham Park Harbor before 0700 hours, and were in the “Happy Fishing Grounds” 90 minutes later.

At this time a fog had come over the Lake. The visibility was about 20 feet. We were dead center of the Lake, about 30 miles off shore. This area of the Lake is well known for its Barge traffic. Most of them coming down from Minnesota and Lake Superior and going to the mills in Indiana.

All of a sudden we heard the loud blast of a foghorn. We could not determine the direction from which it came. The “Captain” assured us that the ship would have radar and knew exactly where we were. This was of little solace as we did not know where she was and could not determine which direction the sound was coming from. We lie hove to and prayed that this ship wasn’t heading directly at us.

We attempted to reach them on the VHF with no success. At this point we were metaphorically shitting in our pants. We were also consuming beer in mass quantities. After 30 minutes the horn seemed more distant. We were safe and headed back towards the harbor.

The following year the Captain bought a Radar Unit for the Valiant to prevent a re-occurrence of this event.

The Beach Bum

The Big Blow

It was our custom to have group sailing on Wednesday nights and Sunday afternoons. The Captain didn’t like to overcrowd the sailboat, so he set a limit on the amount of mates that could go on a Wednesday or Sunday sail.

On Wednesday nights we would start out at 1800 hours, return at dusk and then sit and drink and eat for about an hour. One Wednesday night in August 1981 the breeze on the Lake was beautiful and someone mentioned that it was a perfect wind for a sail up to Waukegan. We could eat breakfast there and then head back to Chicago.

The Captain and my cousin the Admiral thought that it would be a good idea. I said sure. Two young ladies who worked for Quaker Oats decided to play hooky and joined us. We pulled out of the harbor at 2030 hours and began to sail north.

We took turns sleeping. The Captain and I took the first watch as it was impossible for anyone else to sleep while we were sleeping. Both of us snore! The Admiral once described sleeping down below with the two of us as a “night in hell”. When one of us would stop snoring the other would begin and then we would snore simultaneously (Stereo).

We reached Waukegan early that morning and spent about an hour at the Yacht Club.

The winds had died down and were now coming from the northwest. As we headed back to Chicago we decided to do a Spinnaker run. The Spinnaker is a beautiful multicolor sail that aids forward movement in light winds. It does require some work to set it as you must first put up a spinnaker pole. This is why we rarely hoisted the spinnaker.

It was early afternoon and the two young ladies and I went down below to the cabin to play gin rummy. I originally suggested strip poker, but they weren’t too hot about that idea. I guess neither one of them wanted to see me naked.

Out of nowhere a very strong wind came up from the North. Suddenly we were heeled over and water was coming over the gunwale and into the cockpit. The Captain was screaming for me to come up from the cabin, and was yelling commands.

The first thing that we had to do was drop the spinnaker. The Admiral was already on the foredeck attempting to knock down the spinnaker pole. Unfortunately it requires a tall person to accomplish this act; the Admiral wasn’t tall enough to do so. He was jumping at the pole trying to knock it down while the Captain was at the helm still screaming orders to the crew.

I worked my way to the spinnaker pole slowly, because of the heel of the boat. I was holding on for dear life and the Captain was barking at me to move faster. At this point in time the Admiral had given up on trying to get at the pole and was preparing to drop the main sail on the Captain’s command.

Although it seemed like it was an eternity for me to reach and drop the spinnaker pole, it was probably less than two minutes. We doused the spinnaker and then dropped the main sail. A collective sigh of relief came from the Captain and the crew. We immediately grabbed a beer and sat looking at the Captain, waiting for him to speak.

He told us that it was a job well done. We saved the Valiant! The worst case scenario would have been a knock down with us clinging to the hull. There was also the risk of snapping the mast.

Under the tutelage of the Captain we had all learned how to react to a dire circumstance. He had taught us well and we all lived to tell the tale.

The Beach Bum

Vacation

Some people will say that I am on a Vacation all year. However this time I am going someplace other than the local Bar and Grill.

It's off to Chicago for the next two weeks. If the Hot Dogs, Pizza, Maxwell Street Polish and the Italian Beef and Sausage sandwiches don't put me in the Hospital; I'll be back in the Blogosphere in two weeks.

The Beach Bum