South Side Irish, parades, secrets and keys

I don’t really get parades - though, as an avid TV viewer, they do seem likea live version of channel surfing on a Sunday night, assuming every channelis a UHF frequency or public access.

But if you are going to marchin one, being in front of something popular is good for the ego - you canpretend the cheering is for you as you escort the Chicago White Sox WorldSeries trophy.

That’s where I was Sunday, walking along with a floatfor one of the “together we’re better” (which I think was a ghastly RickAstley song back in the 80s) papers for which I work in the South Side IrishParade, which celebrates Celtic pride and a lifestyle that includes wearingfunny green clothing and young girls in angular dresses prancing like poniesas their $500 red wigs bounce up and down. (But I should talk: I went fullMick in a made-in-China Irish sweater over a Notre Dame sweatshirt, accessorizedby an ND shamrock hat and plaid shorts, the closest thing I could find toa kilt in my wardrobe, not to mention by nifty, slightly bent sunglasses).

The float milked the White Sox thing, too, with a blowup of the paper the day the team won the title.

Sure,that was in October, but you count your blessings in Chicago and milk momentslike the Dean Dairy, as deep down you know it could very well be a once ina lifetime experience.

So the crowd cheers as the trophy approaches,sitting on a towel on the hood of a slow-moving SUV, with ancient Sox starMinnie Minoso inside, giving the parade wave.

The float I am walkingin front of is playing U2 and Van Morrison music, because that’s probablyall Irish the cosponsoring radio station has in its “we play everything,but especially stuff like Loverboy and Night Ranger” library. The stationalso has supplied a guy sort of dressed like Captain America, but wearingtrendy black framed glasses. He appears to have swallowed a case of Red Bull,his enthusiasm is just that ginseng and caffein enriched.

He is just a bit more frightening than the leprechaun on the float, who eventually catches the overenthusiastic buzz too.

Me,I walk a as far away from the captain as I can, with a couple friends andtheir baby. I feel like the advance unit in a Secret Service Detail. Hey,with my attempted goatee, girth and lack of hair, I was mistaken for a copearlier in the day, so why not pretend?

It’s a writer thing, too,to scan the crowd for stories, for the strange guy in the orange coat droppingballoons off a roof, for the Japanese restaurant on the freaking South Sideof Chicago.

And I’ve been feeling a little like an agent lately anyway,as writers do when they hear compelling stories but don’t feel right sharingthem, which can happen if you want to have friends who actually talk to youwithout fear of becoming material.

I’ll make something up: If youknew someone was Batman and who is little Robin buddy was what do you do?Do you tell the tale? If so, when and how?

Well, if the Caped Crusaders were as wired as faux Captain America, the choice would be easy.

Soyou march with your mouth shut, scoping out the 20 or 30 deep crowd, a bitdisappointed there is so little debauchery, at the same time it’s nice tosee how well-behaved it is, given the chip on its shoulder South Side parade’sreputation.

Hell, after that epic long parade, the bars aren’t eventhat rowdy - then again, I think they have to keep their doors locked andcan only let people out and a few back in.

A buddy of mine and I decideto check one out, and all that they have to drink is Bud and Bud Light andcans of Guinness. It will do, but be wary of having to use the porto potties,their primordial ooze coming precariously close to flowing out of the bowl,overused since 10 a.m. or so.

Be wary, too, of a young woman in agreen sequined Cat in the Hat hat. You look familiar, she tells me. Do Iknow you? Whahh? It’s your eyes, she says.

Oh yes, the blurry bybeer writer eyes. Damn sexy. It is so nice to be hit on by someone who mightbe young enough to be your daughter. I play a song on a jukebox she asksfor, then she goes to dance with a fireman from Boston who I found out isheading to another Paddy party in Fort Lauderdale before the big parade backEast.
Yes, he is tailgating, so to speak. I mean, how hard can it be fora guy built like a football player in his parade dress do get laid?

Allthis is grand fun, until I find out I don’t have my keys with me. I leftthem on top of the fridge at the party I was at (so I wouldn’t loose themin the parade), and forgot. As it is only 9:30, I don’t think this shouldbe a problem.

Only thing is, the hosts were in bed already. And Iam not going to knock on the door of a darkened home from keys. That’s justa really drunk thing to do.

So I take this as a sign, and wind upsleeping in a spare bedroom at a buddy’s house, after having Denny’s at 10,which feels like 2. And I fall in and out of sleep thinking about contingencyplans in case my car is towed or I did indeed drop my keys (or had them liftedby the flirter) or I need to get a spare set from my parents house then calla locksmith for my house key.

I worry too much. Nature of the job. The keys were there, I got home OK, and at least this much is not a secret.

But I’m still not telling you who Batman is.