Juxtaposition

For the first time, our farmers' market has moved indoors for the winter, specifically into the old Congress Theater, which in its heydey was a movie house where locals would dress up fancy for an evening on the town.

More recently, the Congress has survived the way many old theaters survive: by becoming a concert venue for folks our grandparents would have found appallingly underdressed and badly behaved. We saw Fugazi at the Congress once, and many a Mexican wrestling fan has enjoyed a La Lucha Libre match there. Insane Clown Posse played a show there last week, and rabid fans in clown make-up snaked their way around the block.

The farmers' market is a kinder, gentler use of this aging but elegant lobby. I wish I could capture sound here as well as image, though, because while we were browsing the arugula and beets today, a teenage battle-of-the-bands was underway in the auditorium. Our cider sampling got punctuated by driving guitars and shrieks of pubescent masculine angst.

Even the Wisconsin artisanal cheese vendor had to concede: It was fantastic.

The voters got it wrong

This morning, after disappointing news from Maine, I salute my favorite men who exercised their right to marry.

Robert and John: parks advocates, public-school graduates,
hand holders, friends to farmers.

By they way, that little orange character they're posing with? It's a special-edition Shawnimal. Robert enlisted creator Shawn Smith to produce just five of them as a fundraiser for our local playlot park. Robert's a Shawnimals collector, and this little orange fellow joins his ever-expanding collection of ninjas, mustaches, and random blobs. John doesn't seem to mind. He joined Robert in line that very night to buy an original Smith woodcut at a local gallery.

Take that, Maine.

Hablamos

Several years ago, a group of us lobbied hard to save a historic building on a nearby corner. A bank agreed to take occupancy and the building survived, but the compromise was a bitter pill. Despite a sustained lobby to preserve the pedestrian way, the bank installed a curb cut smack in the middle of the sidewalk to make room for their drive-thru window. Harumph.

It was something of a fool's bargain. The idea was that once the bank moved in, other businesses would follow (this is a sizable building, with several additional storefronts available). That was at least five years ago. And for the duration of those five years, every storefront has sat empty, leaving us pedestrians feeling similarly empty as we imagine the building in its glory days and stop short at the drive-thru so we don't get hit.

This may explain my gratitude for our wonderful neighbor Jill, who saw the potential for a pedestrian-friendly business there and opened her doors earlier this week.

This isn't just any business. It's a language center/community hub, where you can take classes in Spanish or Russian (and other languages to be added over time), come see a movie in Spanish, take a conversation class over wine and cheese, or spend a weekend at bilingual bootcamp.

I know what you're imagining: one of those institutional spaces with a linoleum floor and metal folding chairs. Think again, little chickies. There's an exposed brick wall, paintings by local artists, a cafe, and a full kitchen (which, the day I visited, was generously stocked with cheese, crackers, and sweets).

What I'm imagining is this: Maybe 6 months from now, after some conversation classes or a weekend of bootcamp, it would be amazing -- when my Spanish-speaking coworkers tell hilarious stories over lunch -- if I could not just pretend to laugh, but actually sort of get the joke.

November, you're not welcome here.

I've got a conundrum. Maybe you can help.

Sure, I'm eager for this crazy month to pass. Work's been slapping me around and shows no sign of relenting for the next couple weeks.

Then everyone I know is getting sick: Fevers, fainting spells, appendicitis attacks, blood clots, nerve damage, and unexplained heart palpitations.

And a wonderful public-art group in the neighborhood got burglarized last night. Every last laptop, all their accumulated archives, spirited away in the night.

Enough is enough, October. Be still your wrath.

On the other hand, we've had some early glimpses of winter, and

I'm. Not. Ready. I'm craving a nice, slow winding down, but also a quick sprint to the finish. As they say, you can't have it both ways.

I can't help but notice I'm not alone in my resistance.

This is our rockin' neighbor Annalise. She's fashioned herself a secret perch on top of their detached garage. Every day I come home, and every day I hear her tiny voice chirp 'hello!' from the trees. She's the new town crier, watching over her corner in case something interesting happens. Or maybe she's just hiding out, flying solo in the world except when she feels like announcing herself. And she'll keep returning to that spot until snow and ice dictate otherwise.

Or behold my valiant eggplant, trying to grow despite two hard freezes. There's not an ounce of nutrients left in those pock-marked leaves. But still she hangs on. And so do I, wondering what one does with a miniature eggplant, since I know I'll have to harvest while I can still close my fist around the fruit.

Last Halloween was warm enough to sit on the porch and give out candy. I'm holding out for a repeat performance, even as our 9-year-old neighbor Rose strategizes over this year's costume: a cup of hot cocoa, which I have to admit doesn't sound so bad either.

Rapture of the Deep

Chicago didn't get much of a summer this year. (Not that I'm complaining). But September more than made up for the loss. Imagine the most perfect day of the year. Now multiply it by 30. Take away a day or two for some thick morning fog or an occasional rain shower. September 2009.

The minute we flipped the calendar page to October, fall came in like a lion, and people are still struggling to adjust. It's sweater weather, and then some. The result is a kind of collective resistance: everyone sucking the marrow out of these last few weeks of outdoor occupancy. Restaurants refusing to dismantle their al fresco seating areas, families shivering through late-season yard sales. Our eggplant is fruiting again.

Yesterday the latest of our local community gardens held an art demo all afternoon. We got a fascinating paper-making demonstration and another on natural-dye techniques. The garden was partially designed to grow plants for the Columbia College Interdisciplinary Paper Department, and we got to see the process from day-lily harvesting to sheet drying. This season's milkweed was infested with aphids, so we even saw troops of ladybugs at work, destroying the attackers to save the plant.

The natural-dye process essentially involved placing a square of weighted muslin in a mason jar filled with warm water and marigolds picked straight from the garden. In two days, that small cotton square will bear whatever color is leached from the buds.

As one little girl shook the jar to distribute the color, she noticed a bee stuck inside, sloshing around in the water. 'Oh no,' the instructor said. 'It looks like he probably died.'

And then we all realized: A bath of flowers isn't such a bad way to go, especially if you're a bee.

Deep Tissue

Ok, I believe in child-labor laws as much as the next guy. But I'm inclined to make an exception for 'Emil's Awesome Backrubs.'

Emil is just one of the vendors in the makeshift flea market that's taken root around our Sunday farmers market. He charges a quarter for five minutes, during which he covers neck, shoulders, lower back, arms, and palms. I ponied up the fee and treated myself, and if someone's not protecting this kid's hands like they would a piano prodigy's, there's simply no justice in this world.

Stuart's Not so Little

One phenomenon I've never tackled here is the ubiquity of the rat.

It's not uncommon to see them scurrying across the street or through the alleys, or even straight through your backyard garden and under your porch, where it seems likely they'll reproduce by the hundred-fold, only to dash across your bare feet some unsuspecting evening.

Some friends in the area are so at the end of their tether, they're considering digging out all their fruit trees and vegetable plants.
Don't do it, I've urged them, or the rat will be king!

I sometimes wonder, though, if it's time to reconsider the rat. Put some fur on their tails, and are they really so different from squirrels? Who among us hasn't imagined taking in a baby squirrel as a pet, feeding it milk from an eye dropper as it bonds with us like a kitten. Ah, sweet domestication.

My friend Kim from college had a pet female rat named Chuck, and she was a perfect companion. Here's a photo from the last day of Chuck's life, when cancer had so steeped her body that there was really no choice but to put her to sleep. (I don't know who that uncomely vagabond is holding her, but please forgive the fashion indiscretions. It was the eighties).

I'm starting to think that rats may simply have a PR problem. Exhibit A: The signs posted throughout alleys of my neighborhood, warning of the pestilence sure to befall us if we dare to leave our trash can lids open, inviting this saber-toothed monster to destroy us all.

There are City-sanctioned poisoning schedules for the rat. And I have to wonder what the reaction would be if the same campaign were waged against the pigeon, an equally hated example of metropolitan vermin. But widespread extermination? Would we really have the same bloodlust for a humble bird?

I guess that's why I'm so taken with an alley 4 blocks east of us, where the rat-warning signs have been punctuated by original art.

Why should our lamp and electric posts be used only to besmirch the poor rat? There are surely better things to do with our public display space, as this alley so agreeably reminds us.