Singing sand, sighing Mike (Not a Japanese movie)

The story goes that the sands along the shores of Lake Michigan are silmilar to those found in only two other places - Morocco and South Africa.

If conditions are right, if that sand is packed just so, like it is first thing in the morning, when you walk along it, there is a sound from feer shuffling through it like a dog whining.

At first I thought the noise was just me, as I have a new bad habit when alone and pondering woeful, secret things of making a similar noise. Pay no attention to me at a stop light.

The sound is the same whimper my dog would sit, cock his head and give me when he wanted to go out. I miss my dog. I miss alot of things lately with the book of my regrets seeming as long as a Harry Potter volume.

Oh, the drama! Oh, the beach!

Sad but true, living in Chicago area most of my life, this was my first visit to the shores of Michigan City, Indiana. Like I’ve said before, I need to get out more, and I have been trying to do just that.

Anyway, Michigan CIty is a town, like a lot of us, that’s seen better days, but still has things to recommend it, with a nice park and zoo along the lake and a train that only takes an hour to get to Chicago, along with the coast that’s part of what some call the Michigan Riviera.

So what if there is a nuclear power plant that’s part of the view.

I think places like this used to be mostly working class getaway spots, but the cottage prices here went crazy, too, before flipping went flop.

I was there at the invitation of a relatively new buddy, novelist Don Evans who came to give a reading at the Margo Channing Theater in a beautiful park that was a little hard to find. The park project is coordinated by Don’s buddy Dana Kaufman, who owns the big place where we stayed.

Don’s book Good Money After Bad is a modern Damon Runyon like tale set in the worlld of small time North SIde Chicago gamblers. His writer pals, though, offered darker material on a sunny day: a noirish story about a guy drinking in his favorite dive after breaking up with a dame, when a mysterious stranger starts a fight; a tale of a young lady gangbanger who kils the rapist who impregnated her, then, with the help of a santeria practicing pal, cooks and eats the guys heart.

The audience for this was just Don’s pals, people around my age, a well-educated, friendlly sorts, many who have known each other at least 10 years, quite a few with kids. The cliche would be to liken it to The Big Chill, but no one was really as annoying as that stuck in the 60s crowd, thinking that they would change the world. That crowd sort of ruined it for those us who became adults in the 80s or later, but that’s another story.

Being the newbie is an interesting situation, trying to figure out where, if anyplace, you fit it. And with nobody knowing your past, your old stories are new again, no one has grown tired of them. Hell, you can make up stories. No one here is your human Google to fact check your ass. On the downside, there's no one you can ask, at least at first, to put sunscreen on your beyond pale Irish skin.

But, for the most part, I was on my best behavior and did more listening that talking. On Saturday night, the conversation faded about 1 a.m. and I went for a walk with one of Don’s pals back to the beach.

Get your mind out of the gutter. We both just thought it would be cool to see the lake lit up by the light of the full moon and to see if you could spot Chicago’s bright skyline 60 miles away.

The moonglow reminded me of when they do day for night shooting in a B-grade movie, or a head shop black light, and the beach was crawlng with teens and 20s and I am guessing a good many of them were from well off suburban Chicago homes.

One of them was kneeling by a plastic garbage can, puking. Now that’s a Michigan CIty moment for him and his buddies to remember. Or will they?