Peg's Wedding

Cousin Peg's Windy City nuptials. Other than not having pictures of the ceremony, groom, and bride's mom, I pretty well covered this thing.

Running and Walking the Foothills

Trails above Jet Propulsion Labs in the San Gabriel foothills. Mostly an excuse to explore the slideshow thing on iPhoto.


UPDATE: I actually ran and walked 5.3 miles, stopping to photograph now and then. Knee felt Okay, but still needs a'fixin.'

UPDATE: Visited my new doctor today. He's going to recommend an orthopedist - huzzah! But no running 'till then. MRI. Everyone think MRI.

View from a Window

What lay outside my Windy City hotel room.

Paul Recalls "Good Days"

Froynlaven remembers the Pea . . . . . . . . bodies!

Something Old, Something New

Old for regulars, new for all my old Chicago friends.

Comic-Con 2008: Freakazoid & Tiny Toons

Snow Place Like Chicago

Snow flurries last night with a few inches accumulation this morning. Temps were in the 20s as I arrived at O'Hara Airport. My flight home was delayed because hydraulic fluid spilled under the plane and they had to mop it up. Back in LA with temperatures in the 70s the way they're supposed to be in February.

A few pictures to post from my cousin's wedding, but not just now.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

Vienna Againa

Scraping ice off the windshield of my rental car, driving in torrential rains, cold, snow flurries all in less than 24 hours. Ah, Chicago weather! Drove out to Lake County to see Oakner and few old friends from St. George days. Oakner was there and Head, and Steve.  Now we're pasty old men, but from age 14 to 16 we ran around Chicago's Roger's Park engaging in various fun projects. Head could imitate his father's gruff Hungarian accent and was able to order booze from the liquor store at will. The delivery man was in on the score, and accepted very large tips for keeping teenagers awash in quart bottles of Old Style and half-pints. (As a freshman, Head told me about the set-up. I didn't believe him. It seemed too impossibly good. But sometimes there is a Santa Claus. In fact, on Thursdays, Head would roam the halls of St. George taking drink orders for the weekend.)

Head reminded me of the time Oakner and I arrived at his house to find bullet holes in the front porch. The police had been there and shot Head's dog after she'd gotten out of the yard and snarled at a passing woman. (These particular Chicago cops were neither subtle nor especially keen marksmen.) Head was broken up. Oakner and I were too, since he couldn't go drinking.

Our late friend Rocco was mentioned often. Rocco's basement was the first we ever saw with surround-sound stereo speakers, rigged up from scratch. (Rocco went on to work as an electrician.) Rocco had a facility for improvisational mayhem and probably would've excelled as a political dirty trickster or internet hacker. One dawn after we had spent the night washing down Dexedrine with Bud tall boys, we were walking along Clark Street when Rocco opened the base of a stop light, hit something inside and left the light stuck on red. I didn't even know you could open stop lights.

We did many dumb, violent, laughable things together. And it doesn't seem that long ago, yet it was. Two generations. In 1969, St. George closed at the end of our sophomore year. We were no longer classmates, scattering to different high schools. I lived in suburban Skokie and ended up at Notre Dame in Niles, even further away from Roger's Park. Into the service and back to town, then out to California; there would always be time to hook up again. Luckily, Oakner realized years were zipping past faster than telephone poles seen from a speeding car. Thanks to the web, we're back in touch, Facebook classmates with no more tests or curfews. We can stay out as late as we want . . . we just don't anymore. 1969: Rocco in the chair. Oakner in center frame and myself to the right.
2009: Head, Steve, Oakner and myself.
(Photos: Oakner)

Fun Phrases in Portuguese

Onde posso eu comprar os dentes de madeira?
Where may I buy wooden teeth?

Meu tio comeu um carneiro.
My uncle has eaten a sheep.

Let' visita de s uma prostituta
Let's visit a prostitute.

Para o divertimento, nós amarramos um anão a um avião pequeno.
For fun, we tie a dwarf to a small aircraft.

Meu gado está explodindo
My cattle are exploding.

Spain cheira engraçado.
Spain smells funny.

via: takineko

Thoughts on American Facism

With a suitcase full of wool sweaters and socks, I got off the plane in Chicago to 50 degree temperatures. Earlier today, it had rained and been cold, but I arrived to a balmy clime.

Went to Mass in the evening where I got my Ash Wednesday ashes in Chicago for the first time in decades. How many decades, I can't say as I had jettisoned religion - at least any active participation in religion - long before I left. 

An odd thought occurred to me while traveling: if fascism reigns in America, the entire country will be like the airport. You can do pretty much whatever you want as long as you stand in the right lines, have the correct documents, and don't make jokes about the system. There will be signs to the tenth power telling you what is prohibited and the police will be everywhere in pairs. I hope I'm wrong. But you really have no rights in an airport. Or cheap bottled water. Or leg room. Or food onboard. Or decent movies. Going to the airport and taking a plane used to be cool. Now it's a metaphor for laid back American fascism. 

Enough. Many people to see tomorrow. 

In Wind-Swept Chicago

Last time in Chicago, the weather was unseasonably warm. According to Tim, my high school chum, this time it'll be hellishly cold. Fortunately, my Christmas trip to the chilly northwest has prepared me for the weather, though I recall Windy City winters being the worst. In any case, I'll be traveling for the third time in three months. (Phoenix Marathon was the other.) Mirth awaits, along with soggy bites by Maz and fun with family and friends, Chicago-style pizza and Italian beef sandwiches.

(Note to Narwhal: If you're still stopping by the blog, I'll be wearing the down-lined jacket from Sears you got me, ohhhhh, say, 30 years ago. Still the best.)

Paul Rugg Thanks Hollywood for Memories

Froynlaven ponders the divide between a typical Hollywood film and entertainment.