GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1098: A WINDOW INTO THE PAST

 I woke up this morning to a Facebook message from one of my cousins on my mom's side. It contained two video clips labeled Thanksgiving 2003. She's the archivist for our family when it comes to videos, and much to my surprise I found myself looking at video of Grandma and Gramps for the first time in a very long time.

The only footage I have of them is on 8 mm film. Actual film, with sprockets and everything. I also have the projector we used to watch them on when I was a kid. As far as I know, the projector still works. The bulb is burned out, though, and they don't make 'em anymore, so I figured I'd never see video footage of them ever again.

It was a delight. Grandma hated having her picture taken under any circumstances, so in the video you can see her having a conversation with my cousin while facing Gramps. When she turns and sees the camera, a cross look comes over her face, and she holds up a hand to cover herself.

That gesture alone brought back memories that I never expected to think about again. It was also great to hear Gramps's voice again. The film that I have doesn't have audio. so I figured I'd never hear him again. Ever. And here was his voice.

I always say that the past is never far behind. I'm usually referring to big picture things, not anything like this, but this morning? The past was the present. It was like I was living it again for just a brief moment, and that was worth a great deal to me.

I don't remember the apartment we were in at the time, though. My aunt lived in a lot of places. My favorite was when she lived above the pizza place by the tracks in downtown Elmhurst, because whenever we got together there, we just had to walk downstairs to get dinner and bring it back up. It was called Two Brothers from Italy, and they were still there the last time I checked. (That apartment was also the first time I saw a bidet in real life.) But this place in the video? No recollection, and I hadn't begun drinking in earnest yet. The guy my aunt used to date was in the video, too. I recently came across a picture of a bunch of us with him and was trying to remember his name. Weird that he came up twice in my life recently.

And then there's the footage of me. I weighed 306 pounds at the time, so I didn't enjoy the reminder of what I looked like back then. Whenever I go to see my podiatrist, I sit in a chair that can accommodate perhaps two of me sitting side by side. I think, were I to sit in that exact same chair as the 2003 version of me, I might feel a little claustrophobic.

Despite that, it was good looking through a window into the past, where I got to see my grandparents again. Too bad my mom wasn't there. Back then she wouldn't have been too far down the road that eventually killed her. But since my brothers weren't in the video, I assume they were with my stepfather, their dad. It would have been nice to see her again, too. Ah well.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #909: PRESERVE ELMHURST

 A while back I started noticing these green signs all over my hometown. They say, in white lettering, PRESERVE ELMHURST. I wondered what they meant by that. For much of my adult life I have watched the Elmhurst I knew and loved be torn down only to be replaced by soulless McMansions and corporate designed fabrications. They couldn't possibly mean that, could they? I mean, why bring it up now when Elmhurst has been . . . what's the opposite of decimated? And I mean that by the classical definition, as in, to destroy one's forces by one-tenth. Because the one-tenth in this case is the Elmhurst that remains.

And then the ugliness reared its head. And in this day and age you have to wonder. Do they mean, keep Elmhurst white? Elmhurst is mostly a nice place to live, but there's been quite a bit of racism in the past. Or maybe they want to keep Elmhurst hetero? Maybe they have a dislike of pronouns? When white people start talking about protecting heritage . . . you see where this is going.

For some reason it kept slipping my mind, but I finally had the chance to look into it today. Much to my relief it is not any of that nonsense from the previous paragraph. It is, puzzlingly, the thing from the first paragraph. Preserve Elmhurst, I suspect, is too little too late. It was started by the teardown of a nearly 100-year-old house. I get that. I want historic things to be preserved, too. But the fact of the matter is, Elmhurst has never been interested in preserving anything (except maybe the Glos Mansion), and there is no reason to develop such an interest now. The people who run the city want Downtown Elmhurst to be Chicago, Jr., and the rest of the city to be Hyde Park. They're not going to let some century-old house stand in the way of commerce and making sure it's impossible to live in Elmhurst without at least earning a six-figure salary.

Maybe if we started this twenty-five years ago, we could have had a chance. It's too late now. Too much money has been spent to go back. One thing I do know, though: Elmhurst's excess will eventually catch up to it, and a lot of those McMansions are gonna wind up empty. The ones that don't burn down for the insurance, that is.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #549: THE TOWN DRUNK

 Sunday will be the 100th day since my last drink. I don't usually write these things on Sundays, and those nights are busy anyway, so I'll get a head start on this. Boy, will it be embarrassing if I fall off the wagon tomorrow . . .

I used to work as a parts driver for the City of Elmhurst. Back then one of my duties was to give employees rides when needed, in particular police officers. When the cop cars needed to be dropped off, I'd give the officers a ride back to the PD so they can continue doing their jobs.

(Incidentally, I had my own set of keys that would start any Elmhurst cop car. Every time you think I'm irresponsible just remember that I never--not once--ever took advantage of that fact and the fact that I used to know the code to get into the PD garage. I could have gone joyriding at any time in a cop car, and the chances of me being caught were fairly low. But I never did that.)

This time I was giving an officer a ride to the garage to pick up his car. On the way I saw this middle-aged guy weaving on a bike, headed toward Rt. 83 on St. Charles. This was in front of Kohl's, and if you know the area it is a terrible place to ride a bike under the best of circumstances.

"See that guy?" the officer said. "That's our town drunk."

I felt offended at first. You mean, *I* am not the town drunk? How could that possibly be? It was a pretty arrogant thing to think considering that I wasn't that hard of a drinker back then. I only drank on weekends and very rarely to excess. There were times, sure, but they were few and far between. I was nowhere near being an alcoholic yet, but I was on my way. Under no circumstances could I have ever qualified for being a town drunk.

But I felt jealous. I should be the town drunk. Should I drink more? Was that what it took?

The officer continued to tell me about this guy, and it was a pretty sad story. He lived at home with his elderly mom who watched nothing but game shows all day, and this guy had to get out to have any kind of a life. So he'd get plastered in bars and get in trouble with the law. He was riding the bike because his license had been permanently revoked.

What a weird person to be jealous of. I thought about that guy often. That was waaaaaaay back in the early post-9/11 days. I'd put it at around 2002 or so. I was still in my early twenties and had no idea how low I'd sink into booze. There were a few times, in my drunkest of moods, that I wondered if I would ever qualify for the position of town drunk. It never occurred to me that I'd have to be out in public to even have a chance at the title. By the time the booze really took hold I was mostly an at-home drinker. I'd gotten a DUI, but I was found not guilty. I was nowhere near losing my license.

It never occurred to me during that time if that poor bastard was still alive. In fact the thought just occurred to me now as I write this. I'd wager he's gone. His mother surely is. Considering my own situation, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to deal with it if I was still drinking like a fiend. If he didn't get help, then he's probably dead and gone.

If he is, though, I wonder if the Elmhurst cops still tell stories about him. The guy I talked to seemed to think he was pathetic but mostly harmless. He didn't hate the guy or make fun of him. He just thought the guy was sad and slightly amusing.

Does his name still ring in the halls of the PD to this day? If so, maybe he's not quite so dead and gone as I think. They say you die twice. Once when you physically die. Second when the last person who remembers you dies.

A somber thought for a Friday night. Sleep tight.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #520: FLOODING ELMHURST AND GETTING RAINED OUT AT PRINTERS ROW

 The way it works in Elmhurst, where I live, is that if there is a torrential rainfall, all the sewer drains lead to the massive quarry in town. It's to prevent flooding, but there is a catch. If memory serves correctly there is a switch that has to be flipped to make sure this happens.

If that is, indeed, the case someone forgot to flip it yesterday. I knew the rain would be bad for Printers Row, but I didn't know quite how bad it would be. I got soaked to the skin just going from my house to the car. And then I started driving. I saw a puddle that looked fine, but about midway through I discovered that I was up to the halfway mark on my car door in the middle of this puddle. The only way I got through it was because I had momentum.

Along the way I saw other extraordinarily deep puddles. Even by the 7-Eleven I usually go to, a giant pond had formed on York making it damn near impossible to get through.

What I should have done was say fuck it and stay home. That's not what I did, though. Instead I found a way to the Eisenhower that didn't involve getting stuck in a flood. I still nearly hydroplaned at the bottom of the onramp. Getting through the horrible rains was not fun at all. It stopped raining long enough for me to pay for my parking and get to our table, but then it rained so hard that I saw the street in front of me fill up with a small creek of running water.

I knew there was no way we were going to sell anything. But I was there, so I figured I'd stick it out. Besides, getting home would probably be a complete and utter bitch. I felt certain that my one way out of town would have flooded after I'd gotten through.

We called it quits, and I managed to get home just fine. However, on the way back I saw the inbound side of the Eisenhower had been blocked off, and there was a detour. Cars were backed up for miles. This was around the Des Plaines River, so I figured the water must have overflowed onto the expressway. I'm just glad it didn't spill over to the outbound side.

Still, yesterday was not much fun at all. I remember a time when both days of Printers Row were *not* rainy. Now it looks like we're going to have to suffer through rain at least one day of the weekend. That's been the case for the last few years. It sucks because that's my favorite show of the year.

The rain also killed my wining streak. I haven't gone home with any of my own books in years. Ah well. To quote a great man, "So it goes."

A NEW CHEESEBURGER COMES TO TOWN: A restaurant review of H.B. Jones

The southeast corner of York and Vallette in Elmhurst is the perfect place for a restaurant.  Not a fast food place, either; no, it has to be a casual dining place.  So many businesses have tried their luck at this location, most recently a greenhouse, but they’ve all met untimely demises.

Until now.  H.B. Jones has taken up residence, and it looks like they’re making money hand over fist.  Drive by the place at any given time of the day, and chances are good that the place is packed.  Parking is impossible.  It’s always lively there.

What’s the big deal?

First of all, it should be noted that the H.B. stands for Hamburger, and Jones comes from the phrase “jonesing for food.”  They advertise their place as a food adventure, offering all kinds of different culinary excursions for your enjoyment.  They don’t necessarily have a theme, but there seems to be a kinda-sorta ocean feel, what with the boat imagery and the hammerhead shark that hangs from the ceiling (complete with a burger in its mouth).  However, there are plenty of planes in evidence, as well.  It helps that they decided to use the greenhouse that the previous owners left behind.  It gives the illusion of being outside while the fans keep things from getting too hot.  It’s very spacious, offering the chance to stretch out and maybe move a bit.  As far as ambiance goes, H.B. Jones gets an A+.

But how is their burger?  This thing is huge.  Served on what seems like an old fashioned hubcap, it takes up a lot of space.  They use a nice thick hunk of cheese, and everything is complete with a side of seasoned fries.  It looks gorgeous.

It’s too bad that the taste doesn’t live up to the picture perfect display.  Not that it’s a bad burger.  It’s good, just short of great.  Perhaps if they used better meat or seasoning, they could be a force to be reckoned with.  They don’t have much of a feel for medium-rare, either.  They tend to overcook it a bit too much.  It’s definitely not worth the outrageous $11 they charge for it.

The fries are absolutely wonderful, though.  They are perfect.  Not only that, but they have a fine selection of beers and booze.  All in all, it’s the perfect place to hang out and have a few drinks.  Give it a try sometime.

H.B. Jones

551 E. Vallette St.

Elmhurst, IL 60126

FUCKED!, an opinions column by Dr. Jonah Chaos

[NOTE: IN MY YOUNGER YEARS (IN THE LATE 'NINETIES), ONE OF MY FRIENDS AT THE LIBRARY STARTED UP A WEBSITE DEDICATED TO MAKING FUN OF MY HOMETOWN, ELMHURST. HE KNEW I WAS A WRITER, SO HE ASKED IF I'D BE INTERESTED IN JOINING THE STAFF. OF COURSE I WAS, AND I WAS GIVEN WHAT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A REGULAR OPINIONS COLUMN, WHICH I WOULD WRITE UNDER THE PEN NAME, DR. JONAH CHAOS. (I HAD OTHER PEN NAMES AND DUTIES, BUT NONE WERE AS FUN AS CHAOS.) NEEDLESS TO SAY, NONE OF THE WORK I DID FOR THE WEBSITE WAS POSTED. I THINK IT WAS A BIT TOO MUCH FOR THEIR AUDIENCE. I ALSO WROTE AN INTERVIEW WITH THE MAYOR, WHICH IS REFERRED TO IN THIS STORY. I MADE ALL SORTS OF RIDICULOUS CLAIMS, LIKE THE REASON ELMHURST IS SO WHITE IS BECAUSE THE MAYOR HAS ANYONE IN TOWN WITH SKIN DARKER THAN AN ITALIAN'S MURDERED AND BURIED BENEATH CITY HALL. I ALSO CLAIMED HE WAS A PEDOPHILE, THAT HE KEPT A CATAMITE ON HAND AT ALL TIMES. NO WONDER THIS SHIT NEVER SAW THE LIGHT OF DAY . . . .]


The President of the United States visited your parents' home and fucked your mother. Now what do you think of the sex scandals surrounding Bill Clinton? Apathetic now, are you? Just the Prez doing a little fucking, huh? He just wants to lay some pipe. Yeah, well, he's laying some pipe in your mother.

I know what you're thinking: there goes Dr. Chaos again, spouting crazy shit. But you don't understand. I'm not lying. Clinton visited Elmhurst yesterday, and he went from household to household, fucking all the women in town, including your mother. What's that? Your mother is dead? He dug her up and violated her corpse. I saw him, and so did the rest of this shit-crusted city.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

What am I doing? I apologize. I'm new to this publication, and this is my first opinions column? Sorry, I've been having trouble with the fucking mayor, and I haven't the time to come up with a proper column. I promise the following pieces will be better, but with the booze and my drug-addled brain, I can't take the mayor interview and this thing on top of it.

Don't get me wrong, though; Bill Clinton would fuck your mother . . . if he got the chance.

THE SPRING INN: A HOLE-IN-THE-WALL OASIS

There isn’t a lot of fanfare to the Spring Inn on the outside, and that’s how it should be. Neighborhood bars should never advertise themselves too loudly, because they don’t need to. They have a specialized clientele, and these people all know where to find the Inn. In the summer, there are usually a few smokers out front, and chances are, you know them. But in the winter, there is usually no one there; the smokers are out back where there is a tent for them.

Once inside the Inn, you know you’re in the right place. The lights are dim, but not so dim that you can’t make your way through the crowd. Even though smoking has been banned in bars for quite some time, you can still smell the smoke in the nicotine-stained walls. You can hear darts thunking into a digital board near the back, but only if no one has plugged money into the ‘Eighties rock jukebox.

The bar itself is made of thick wood, and all of it is scarred. Generations of people in this neighborhood have leaned against this bar. It is practically a tradition. The face above the hands wiping at a pint glass is familiar. You always know the bartender in this place. Hell, he probably even knows your drink of choice. You probably don’t need to say a word to him about your preference.

Take a look around. Most of the customers here are middle-aged. They used to come here when they were young, and they’ve never decided to break themselves of the habit. There are a few twenty-somethings here, ready to perpetuate the tradition of their parents. There is even some eye candy here.

But this is not a place to go in order to get laid. It happens, but it’s a rarity. No, this is a place where you go to unwind, have a few drinks, shoot the shit with your friends, and maybe even play a game of darts. If you want to get laid, go down the street to Doc’s. There’s a college crowd down there, and your chances are better.

Ah, you have your drink. If you’re alone, or are with maybe two or three friends, hang out around the bar. Your glass will always be full. Or if you’re with a bigger crowd, push a couple of tables together. If it’s a weekday, no one will bother you. If it’s Friday or Saturday, you might have a bit of trouble, as those tend to be the busy nights. They don’t serve food at night, but sometimes, the bartender will send out for pizza and leave it out for anyone who wants a slice.

The bell over the bar clangs, and the lights suddenly become brighter. The bartender is calling out that it’s closing time. Go up to the bar for one last drink, but the bartender is flexible. If you want another last second shot, he won’t object.

It’s time to go. You head out into the streets, and even if it’s winter, there is a warm feeling in your belly. There are very few places like the Spring Inn in the suburbs, and you will be eager to visit again and again in the future.

Spring Inn
552 Spring Rd.
Elmhurst, IL 60126

Gunshots in Elmhurst?

Last night, I went out for a walk. I didn't do it with a destination in mind, I just did it for the exercise and the alone time, time to think. I wound up near the fountain just north of York and Vallette, and I sat down on the bench for a rest. I thought about the bar I'd just passed, Kacey's Pub. On the one hand, it's a bar within walking distance of me, but on the other, the clientele would burn someone like me at the stake if I dared wander across their threshold. They're not ready for degenerates in there; they're too religious and parental.

But at that point, I sure could have used a beer, yet I had no money.

It was then that I heard what sounded like shotgun blasts going off. At first, there were only a few explosions, but then they were joined by a cacophony of whistles and screams and pops and booms. Fireworks. Enough to make me think for a moment that I'd been teleported to Afghanistan. Soon, people were driving by at top speed, yelling and honking their horns. Ah, this was a celebration of some sort. But what could it be? Had we finally captured bin Laden? Or did Jesus come back? I tried to figure out what it is that normal people celebrate, but nothing made sense . . . until I remembered that the Blackhawks were playing for the Stanley Cup.

This was reinforced by a carload of drunken teenagers who drove by, screaming, "Blackhawks win! Blackhawks win!" A fifteen-year-old girl leaned out of her SUV and flashed her tits in celebration.

Practically everyone who drove by shouted the news at me. I wondered if they ever considered that someone who had gone out for a walk during such a pivotal play off game probably didn't give a shit about the Blackhawks.

A van drove by, and a ten-year-old girl leaned out, gave me the thumbs up, and said, "Blackhawks won!"

Just out of meanness, I thought I'd shout, "Go Philly!" But I didn't feel like ruining anyone's innocence at that moment.

Instead, the noise was getting to me, and it showed no sign of letting up. I got up and started walking home as the city of Elmhurst went crazy all around me. At a stop light, I heard more than one person in their cars saying, "This is the greatest day of my life!" Jesus, I thought, what a grim thing to say!

Then, I was passing Kacey's Pub, and I heard the celebration inside. Someone said, "Drinks are on me!"

I zipped in, a grin on my face, a cheer building up inside of me. "BLACKHAWKS WIN!" I shouted and took a seat at the bar.

"You're just in time, buddy," the bartender said as he flipped a coaster in front of me. "This guy over here just bought a round of drinks. What'll you have?"

"Really?" I asked. "Awesome. Make mine a Jim Beam on the rocks, easy on the rocks."

As I sipped at my free drink, I figured I could be a Blackhawks fan for a little bit. Then, I'd have to sneak out the back before someone expected me to reciprocate, but for that brief period of time, we'd all be happy.