Play ball: Confession of a Sox Fan, Part 1

Yeah, I am a White Sox fan. Though I am pretty sure it's not a genetic condition- like being bald or having a full head of hair, or being straight like George Clooney or gay like Elton John - it's close. No not close to being Elton John, Cubs' fans. Besides you guys are the ones who idolize a guy with funny glasses.

While not in your blood, maybe the team you root for is imprinting, like a baby duck that sees some goofy ass grad student instead of Mama Duck and winds up getting a degree in biology instead of being killed by a hunter in Wisconsin, which would be its true fate.

But fate had me go to my first game at old Comiskey Park - and seeing that grass for the first time through the tunnel - it had me hooked. And it might be why I live in the suburbs and have a lawn that one day I swear I will cut to have cool geometric patterns in it.

Actually fate had it that my Lithuanian immigrant grandfather took to baseball, and as a very young boy I would sit in the back room of his grocery store in Roseland listening to radio broadcasts with him while eating smoked fish, sweet rolls and sour cream. Yes, I should weigh 300 pounds by now.

Which reminds: one of my favorite players was Wilbur Wood, the rotund knuckleball pitcher who, of course, went by the nickname of Woody, and who would amble to the mound to the sounds of the theme from the Woody Woodpecker cartoon. Actually, Wood probably wasn't any fatter than I am right now when he was pitching - he just seemed that way - and, like many Americans, wound up chubby.

He also was a workhorse, one season going 24-20, which is a lot of throwing toward mediocrity, especially by today's standards. And I'll be honest - I just looked that stuff up. I am not a stats geek. I have no cards stashed away in a safety deposit box.

I was as much a Sox fan for bat day and other freebies as I was of Tommy John and Tommy Agee. And I loved bobble-head dolls, the old fashioned ones with the round faces, NOT the new kind that are supposed to look like a player but seem like some type of quasi-Satanic ritual item.

I was the little nerd who brought a painting to the park I made on cardboard with Tempura paint of Woody Woodpecker wearing Wilbur Wood's uniform in the hopes of getting on TV or that Wood would notice me. Neither happened - and to this day I am surprised I didn't get teased more as a kid doing stuff like that. And I even made a groovy painting of slugger Dick Allen that I have somewhere in my basement to this day, which I must have had on earth shoes when I created it.

It is the only vestige of my support for the Pale Hose, being raised to think that toys were to be played with then discarded, not stored away as investments. Silly parents. They even let me play outside, by myself - a lot.

Thus, without an ancient scorecard to my name I just have my vague memories of when the good guys wore red or royal blue, then, egads, clam-diggers.

And though South Side by birth, I harbored no ill will toward the Cubs. One of the meaner nuns was a Cubs fan, which did make me wary of liking them. Plus, they just seemed farther away as we migrated to the south suburbs.

Now the Cubs still seem that way, distant to me and my Sox-uality.

My day trip to Gary: I really know how to vacate, don't i?

I just finished a three month shift working in downtown Chicago, and now I am heading back to my old job in the suburbs.
I started just before Christmas and finished up on Good Friday, which gives the gig more Biblical significance than it had - even if it did snow the last day.

While the below ain't necessarily so, since I have an advanced degree in self-pity, at my worst, here is how I feel about it:

A) I am being sent back to the minors.
B) The potential parents didn't take to me, so they are returning me to the orphanage.
C) I flunked out and have to move in with my folks. Again.

So I took a week off to readjust, but didn't really go anywhere - unless you count Gary, Indiana as a where.

That was mean, and you shouldn't pick on those who are lacking luck. And about the only luck you can find in Gary is at the casinos there amongst the steel mills, refineries and the crumbling buildings. Yes, Gary looks like what a hangover feels like.

I have lived in the Chicago area most of my life and had never visited this downtrodden town. But a buddy of mine took a photojournalism job there and offered to give me a drive-through. Even the paper where he works disassociated itself from Gary, taking the town's name out of its name for what the marketing department probably would say is branding it a "regional" paper.

But hey, we all need oil, gas, and steel, and it ain't pretty how it gets made, even if the view back to Chicago is grand and the dunes are just a stone's skip away. Which it to say, we should all kiss Gary's smelly ass for doing the the dirty work that keeps the Chicago area humming along.

We should help restore areas such as Marktown, where European immigrants built houses like back home. And we should try to find a way to talk about race, because Gary is one of the blackest cities in America and one of the poorest and consistently has one of the highest crime rates and way too much of it looks like the worst of New Orleans, but at least New Orleans can blame hurricanes. (Sorry - just got done writing editorials.)

Which reminds - I was in New Orleans for the first time in my life just about a year ago. It's been an odd year, a rough one by the standards of my bland life - so I guess a trip to Gary was a good metaphorical visit, bringing things to a sort of circle.

And I did get to see the crew in Crown Point working on a movie about John Dillinger starring Johnny Depp, the crowds deep hoping to catch a glimpse of the actor. Scenes like that amuse me, because making movies is a lot duller than making steel. But somehow taking a full day for a 2-minute segment that may not even make the final print is considered glamourous.

But what do I know about glamour? I mean, I only wear makeup when I have to. Or do laundry, for that matter.

I'm all Irished out and it ain't even March 17

So I am standing at an Internet jukebox in a semi-Irish bar, surfing for Pogues music and a Van Morrison song or two. Suddenly I am standing next to Elton John - if Elton John were a drunk middle aged woman in shamrock shaped sunglasses, which, come to think of it... Anyway, she wants me to spend my money on playing "Fat Bottom Girls," by Queen.

I tell her there is no way in hell I will pay for her request. First, it is a horrible song, stupid in that 70s way. And I bet you don't even get the irony of it, I, through my Smithwick's glaze, tell her. I mean, come on! Freddy Mercury was gay and here he is professing his love for chubby women. And, besides, it's not an Irish song.

(And besides, I had my transcendent Celtic musical moment earlier that Saturday evening: while crawling through local watering holes, at one usually frequented by AARP drinkers, there was a classic rock cover band with a bearish, red-bearded, kilt-wearing guitarist shredding out Black Sabbath's "Paranoid.")

Huh? She is confused and walks away. Why won't I play her song? Why should I want to hear Celtic music?

Next to her is a guy, by himself, with long hair and out of style glasses. He could be a drug dealer or a cult member there for finding a drunk for a thrill kill. You know the type.

Yes, it is St. Patrick's Day weekend in Chicago, that special time where people passed out on sidewalks are helped to cabs by concerned bartenders. I wore no green - but a shirt Saturday, that said Hurling, which really is a sport.

Actually it started on March 9 on the South Side, because March 17 falls during Easter Week this year. Saints cannot compete with the Passion of Christ, so the South Side parade, typically the Sunday before the Irish day, got pushed way up to a cold day.

Still, the mooks lined the streets, drinking "Pepsi." They may be junior alcoholics, but they are smart enough to know cops only make you pour out drinks that look like booze. If you tell them it's a soft drink, and you aren't stumbling or punching anyone, they let you imbibe.

Can't blame the cops. They had fights to break up, like the one I saw where a bull of a young guy got his pickup truck stuck in an alley. Idiots started kicking the truck, so the guy got out and went after a couple of the kickers. Then there was a moose walking about, proud of the blood trickling off his forehead.

That part of the parade is like some stupid movie from the 80s, like Bachelor Party, or some other cocaine-inspired work of comedic genius. You can avoid it if you have friends who live nearby and once you get passed thinking that public drunkenness is awesome, dude! that is why you go. That's to say, it's an Irish American Thanksgiving, where you meet up with old friends, swap stories, and meet new people.

I got to talk with a Scotch master from Bushmills, sample some fine labels, and even learned that Plainfield, Illinois, of all places, is where they make Gordon's Gin and Schmirnoff Vodka. I always knew there was something about that town - the most honestly named place in this state, by the way, at least until they started putting up $500,000 vinyl sided not-quite mansions.

Those are still cheaper than the median house price in Dublin, Ireland, which is about $367,000 Euros, and with the shrinking dollar, propably more that $700,000 as I write this.

I learned that last week as I asked around about how Ireland is like America. They also can't smoke in the pubs anymore - and they recently changed their DUI laws so all it takes is about one pint in you to be get arrested!

I have a friend heading there to teach the bartenders to make mixed drinks. And you're just as likely to find Bud and Miller product as Guinness there now, too. Just like you find those schmatzy Irish balladeer specials playing endlessly on PBS this time of year for pledge drive - Ireland gets our mass produced suds, and we get their sudsy music.

I didn't ask about green beer being available in IRL, which would be wrong - unless it has asparagus in it, which would make you pee green or smell, which would be sort of cool.

The St. Pat's parade in Dublin is different - more artsy fartsy than the revelry here - but changing a bit with the influx of American tourists who want to drink.

Ireland also has immigration issues similar to here, albeit Poles and Africans instead of Mexicans. And the aforementioned overpriced housing market is undergoing a correction of its own, too.

My own Irish friends were busy this weekend selling their wares at holiday related events. I joined them for a bit Friday night, in part to sober up from drinking too much Heineken at an Irish gathering on Navy Pier. It was a beautiful night out on the lake, the water dead calm, the sunset misty and pastel, the dome of the Grand Ballroom resplendent and worth staring at because you can't hear anything when the band's sound bounces about the hall.

So I left for the Hilton by Kitty O'Shea's. Some lady tourists from Washington, D.C., took my picture with them - and me in a goofy hat with pony tales which made me look like a biker in drag working in a Wendy's commercial. The other highlight was two local politicians' wives buying $20 leprechaun costumes, which they implied they were going to make their husbands wear later that night, which made me laugh and shudder at the same time.

I actually took a break from all the Irishness Saturday afternoon, hanging out with a buddy, going music shopping (yeah, people still do that - amazing as it sounds); hitting a Polish grocery store; and getting some gelatto at a place called Bellezza, which was heaven in a cone on Harlem Avenue.

Heading back to my car from my pal's place, an elderly couple was unloading groceries from their SUV. The woman was using a walker, slowly moving into the building so I offered to bring in the bags. The husband at first said he didn't need help, but I did it anyway, bringing the plastic bags into the hallway, where I saw that the woman had to sort of crawl up the stairs to their second floor dwelling.

That really has nothing to do with partying for St. Patrick's Day or being idiot Irish for more than a week - and you're not supposed to brag about doing good deeds, either, being lapsed Catholic and all. Still, something about that moment at least offered a karmic, "My Name Is Earl" chance for me to counter some of the silliness done in the name of Ireland.

Heritage is thicker than Guinness.

I am wonked out: the short version of a long week in local poltics

Mix Kafka with the Three Stooges and you begin to get the idea what the Cook County Board is like.

Last week I was there to witness the witless, the board's battle to balance its budget. If you are not familiar with this feudal war, go ahead an Google "Cook County Board" and "budget"" to get the background.

Rumor has it Barack Obama considered running for Cook County Board at the start of his political life - he came to a meeting and quickly changed his mind.

If you don't know Chicago politics, basically the city is ruled by chieftains who have inherited their power. In the case of the city proper, the current mayor and son of the legendary Boss of all Bosses, knows enough to make sure the streets get plowed, the garbage gets collected and and the downtown looks pretty for the tourists - and it does. In the case of the county, our young Prince Hal, Todd Stroger, reluctantly took the throne after his dad had a stroke.

They kept how bad his dad John was under wraps, and the doctor who did this wound up being named the interim head of the county's hospital system. Todd has a lot of family in his administration. They don't serve him well.

Case in point: this budget balancing act: Stroger proposed one in October and it took him and the board until the very last minute before the court would have stepped in to mandate the budget be balanced, to actually do this.

Todd wanted some taxes including a raise in sales tax that would have eventually given the county government a $900 million surplus. When that didn't work, early last week he cut his request to a rate that would give him a slightly smaller war chest. Yes, he took that long to even hint at dealing.

Meantime, the media kept uncovering a relative on the payroll with a six-figure salary here, a well-paid friend there, job titles like "management analyst" that actually was a chauffeur, a hospital billing department that was not billing people to the tune of about $250 million.

Everything came to a head last week, with the board at a 9-8 vote against any sales tax increase. So the commissioners played a game of chicken where they spent endless hours going over amendments to the budget trying to whittle down a $283 million gap (that had been quoted at $238 million, but accounting seems to be either Hollywood shrewd or just plain incompetent) between revenues and what Stroger proposed.

Stroger supporters showed up acting as if the opposition wanted the hospital closed - including a guy who put a Santeria curse on Stroger's foes.

The low point came when commissioners voted down an amendment that would have cut $60,000 from each of their to-be-increased office budgets to increase funding the depleted mammogram program at the county hospital. A couple of the commissioners reasoned that no one should dictate how they spend money earmarked for them.

One even admitted the even though "I have more offices than staff," she still voted against it.

The final act of this portion of the saga played out for four days. There were shouting matches and lots of wasted paper and politicians who kept covering the same ground, and who asked the dumbest of dumb questions, in many cases apparently just to hear the sound of their own voices.

Speaking of, the poor woman who works finance has a voice like Minnie Mouse on helium. If Stroger wanted to play really nasty politics he could have had her filibuster, which would have driven the room into submission. Instead he gave the illusion it would be fine with him if this would have headed to the courts - and a court appointed guardian might not have been a bad thing for this dysfunctional bunch.

And the county board really does have back room offices behind its cramped board room where reporters corralled to a side pen would wander to talk with sources as the babbling babbled on and on and on and on and on. If you think it is glamorous to be a reporter, this would quickly dispel that myth.

All of this reminds that way too much of adult life is like high school. And that whatever level you might be at in your career, the next level is just an amplified version of all the crap you put up with on your way up the ladder. It doesn't really get better, just louder. If you're lucky the pay is better.

Anyway, before this gets too wonkish, it all came down to Stroger finally getting Commissioner Larry Suffredin to agree to a sales tax increase that will make Chicago's and Schaumburg's the highest on goods in the country. In exchange, Stroger agreed to support that the county's hospital will have independent oversight. Of course, those overseers will be appointed by the board so independence is a relative term.

And if you don't have a headache yet, you are a better person than I am.

Yet, I was also oddly captivated by this comedy of errors. My guess is Stroger will probably still be elected again in two years, because that's how Chicago is. And that's not really funny, but sometimes all you can do is laugh.