London, Day 4

Royals to Retches
Tuesday was a day much like Monday…not much on the agenda, but it taking the whole day. We were up fairly early in order to catch the tube to Green Park station, and the short walk to Buckingham Palace. The tour was one of those headphone program guided tours, and it was pretty neat. Those people are RICH! There were no photos allowed inside, so you’ll have to use your imagination.

The Royal Palace Guard musicians heading back to get their sheet music.










De queen's crib, yo.











Nothing escapes Mrs. Farrago's eye!...










...except perhaps maybe the amount of food I cram down my gullet!










After the palace tour we milled about outside and took some photos of the palace main gate, and then we headed toward the Houses of Parliament for a tour there. That, too, was interesting, as I now know probably more about the British government than I do about the USA’s!

Westminster Abbey. I forgot to re-read The DaVinci Code!














We meandered past Westminster Abbey where just about the entire roster of Renaissance history's major players are buried. And Wilt Chamberlin. It's what I heard someone say!

It was another tube ride to South Kensington, near our hotel, and an early dinner at Kavanagh’s Irish Pub. It was more commercial than the pub where we dined a couple days ago, but it was nice. A had the gammon, which is a cut of ham with a sort of cheese sauce on it. If they took the cut from somewhere else on the pig…say, from the ribs area, they could call it babyback gammon!

Or was it Lord Chamberlain?

Anyhoo…

Tonight, late, was the Ceremony of the Keys at the Tower of London. We were on a group ticket with my supervisor and his family. As we were to view this event in the middle of our trip, my supervisor insisted on holding onto the ticket, presumably because he didn’t trust that we wouldn’t lose it…and besides, it was in his name. We hopped the train to the Tower Hill stop and walked down to the gate of the Tower of London and waited until the 9:30 p.m. entry time. …and no supervisor. The gates closed and we stood outside, hoping against hope that he and his family would come sprinting down to us in the next minute.

But no.

Then one of the Beefeaters, the caretakers of the Tower of London, came to the gate to see if we and another couple of guys standing there were ticket holders waiting to get in. The others were just hoping to be able to buy tickets, so they were turned away. The Beefeater asked us what we wanted, and I told him that we were on a group ticket, and the holder of the ticket didn’t show. He took pity on us (lucky we had the kid on hand!) and let us in. It’s free admission, but they only allow a certain low number of people in each night.

I wouldn't want to spend the night there....











The ceremony was fairly low key (pun intended!), and a fairly somber military ritual. It was cool to be in the Tower of London at night…and our Beefeater host guide told us a creepy ghost story about the two princes who disappeared in the 1600s, presumably murdered by their step-father so he could preserve his right to the throne.

The Tower Bridge glowed in the night and beckoned us to the river's edge, pleading with us to take some photos of her in her nighttime splendor. We obliged indulgently.

Then we went back to the Pelham and called it a night…after a snack on some mediocre sushi.

London, Day 3

Big Ben, Bungee Bouncing and Belgian Beer
Not much to say about Monday… It was a beautiful day all day long (we’ve come to learn that’s a rare thing in England). It was a bit of a lazy morning, so we took the tube to Westminster Station where we came up right beneath the massive clock tower at the Houses of Parliament. We spent a few minutes on Westminster Bridge taking photos and realized that the clock was about to strike 12 noon, and we would hear Big Ben’s chimes! A tried to capture it with our old digital camera that has a rudimentary video recording function. I think he got to record the bonging chime to note the hour.



We walked along the river Thames , under the London Eye, past Jubilee Gardens and The Queen’s Walk, amid a veritable carnival of human statues, musicians, singers, performance artists and some who were just plain weirdos!


































We had an appointed time to meet to board with our group on the Thames River cruise, which was a pleasant, though brief, look at the history and architecture of London.












Afterward we went for a “flight” on the London Eye, a huge Ferris Wheel with 32 enclosed, transparent capsules. It’s one trip around as a capsule is unloaded, swept for explosives(!), and reloaded, all without stopping the wheel. It makes for about a 30-minute ride with spectacular views of London!



















After the London Eye, we had a little time to kill before dinner, and all the kids in the group, including A, were itching to do the Star Wars attractioon, a bungee-trampoline thing that, well... it looked damn fun! A hopped on and had quite a blast!













Next on the agenda was dinner at Belgo Centraal, a Belgian Trappist Monastery themed restaurant, with the staff running around in monks' robes. The highlight of the evening was when A was castrated!










The food was excellent and the beer exotic, and by the end everyone was full, tired and ready to get to bed. It was another day of not much planned, but those plans taking the whole dang day!

The Pelham Hotel

London, Day 2

Of Flesh and Blood
Sunday started out very nicely. On Saturday we had all taken a brief nap that left us with enough energy to make it through the evening, but we hit the sack hard.

Our room at the Pelham has a wonderful bathroom, practically as large as the bedroom! The water stayed warm throughout my shower (second of three) and, I assume, through the third. At least we never heard A complain.














As Mrs. Farrago was checking her e-mail she shouted “Hey! Naked people!” I looked out the window and across the street and, through a frosted window on the third floor, indeed saw a naked person showering. Yes I took pictures. And yes, we covered A’s eyes. With a pillowcase. And a pillow.

After breakfast we met up with everyone else who’s staying at our hotel from the group, and we boarded the number 74 double-decker bus to the Marble Arch, where we boarded the number 15 bus to the Tower of London.

It was a very interesting place, full of history and lore. We took lots of photos. But probably the most entertainment came from the ravens which have a home (a raven coup?) on the grounds of the Tower. And we took way too many pictures of them than they’re really worth! Afterward we walked out to the river’s edge and shot some pictures of ourselves and each other with the Tower Bridge in the background.


This is what happens when a Tower of London toilet backs up....



















Insert your favorite Edgar Allan Poe quote here. I'm too tired to do it.

























The White Tower

























Apparently this knight enjoyed jousting just a little too much!






















We had a recommendation from Terry, a man who sat next to me on the flight over, to visit Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub on Fleet Street. I happened to notice it when we passed it in the bus on our way to the Tower, and Mrs. Farrago suggested we head back there for dinner. After quite an ordeal getting a number 15 bus - which, after 2 attempts at being crushed by a crowd of people trying to get on them – we were delighted by the arrival of one of the old double-decker buses, complete with an attendant who counted heads, announced stops, and saved the hapless from falling out on right turns! He helped us to disembark at the right stop, which was only about 20 steps from our destination.

We found the sign for Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, went in, and found that it was … closed.

We regrouped outside and headed in the direction of the last bus we had been on, and a few minutes down the road we found another pub, the Old George…or something like that.

A ordered the BLT, Mrs. Farrago the fish ‘n chips, and I the bangers & mash. A was slightly taken aback by the appearance of his sandwich: it was on ciabatta bread, and the bacon here is quite different in taste and appearance than in the States. He’s been great, though. I know of too many kids who, just because a food doesn’t look like what they’re used to, they won’t eat it. And he really pounded away the ale!

Mrs. Farrago’s fish ‘n chips was pretty tasty, and it was a hearty portion. My bangers and mash was okay, but it looked an awful lot like sausages and mashed potatoes.

We walked down to the next bus stop only to encounter no fewer than five number15 buses that were so packed with people that the bus driver, if he stopped at all, didn’t open the front door to allow on any new riders. Damn tourists!

I perused the London bus schedule and saw that a number 23 bus would take us to the same place a number 15 would. The first number 23 that came by was also so packed that the driver wouldn’t take us, but the next one was fine. It turns out that Sunday afternoons in London are traffic hell. We crawled most of the way back to Marble Arch where we walked about a block to another stop, where we caught the number 74 for the return to the Pelham.

We were all a little shocked and dismayed that we had spent pretty much the entire day on the Tower of London, but it was an interesting day. We spent the first 45 minutes or so in our room clicking through the TV channels only to learn that English television has just about as much schlock on it than American TV. Afterward we went around the corner to an Internet Café where we let A send some messages out and communicate with his parents via Yahoo Instant Messenger.

London, Day 1

...And Here We Are!
After settling in to our hotel, The Pelham in south Kensington, we headed out for a little walk through the neighbourhood to Kensington gardens and Hyde Park. Jekyll Park was closed. ;-)


A took pictures mainly of cars.



Mrs. Farrago concentrated on trees and leaves....

I only took pictures of the cool stuff

We were only staving off sleep, for we wanted to save that for later when it would count…like after noon, so we just wandered a bit. Mrs. Farrago saved my and A’s lives when she shouted out to us as we crossed a street gawking at a double-decker bus. The cab driver never flinched as he nearly creamed two tourists. I think they get points for that.

We wandered around until A grew fangs and started foaming at the mouth and swearing in quite an impressive street Latin, and Mrs. Farrago said, “It’s time to feed the boy.”

We wandered further, looking for a convenient, quick, simple place, but we wound up at an Italian restaurant with sidewalk seating. A ordered the breaded calamari, Mrs. Farrago ordered the prawns with avocado, and I ordered the grilled salmon. It was all good, except for Mrs. Farrago’s prawns. They were a little chewy.

Then we retired to the room where we all took a brief nap until 5:00, when we prepared for our dinner date.

The whole group was at Ebury, on uh... Ebury Street, save for the three or four who had to work in Colorado Springs through Saturday, and are no doubt by the time of this writing on their way here.


There was a table set up for the children, and A made a beeline for the cute 17-year-old niece of the company owner(!). As drinks and food were served, we glanced at him from time to time and saw that he was engaged in conversation with the kids who sat near him, and that he was not sulking in a corner afraid to mingle.

Dinner ended as most people were ready to drop, and we returned to the Pelham, and turned in for the night.

Sunday -- The (Leaning?) Tower of London and the Royal Family Jewels... er, I mean The Crown Jewels.

London, Day 0

Off We Go!
Laundry was waiting for us when we woke up. With plans to head off to the airport at 3:00, the 9:00 wake-up seemed like enough time to take care of everything.

And we did…almost. In addition to the two loads from Thursday night that needed to be finished, I tried to get in a load of sheets and a load of towels. All boring to write about, I know, but it sure seemed to get in the way of packing!

As I slowly provided more clothing options to consider, Mrs. Farrago picked out items from her wardrobe to take along, and soon the bed was covered with clothing.

The lawn needed mowing…been so since the middle of the week, so I did that.

We dragged out one large size and one medium size suitcase, and we began the test to see if we had enough luggage for the trip. It came as no surprise to me that Mrs. Farrago’s load outsized mine, so she got the large suitcase. I managed to fit all the items of clothing I had set aside into the medium-sized suitcase, except for a pair of shoes…which went into Mrs. Farrago’s bag.

Strangely, we were running out of time, and it became a somewhat mad scramble to finish packing the suitcases, and then sort out our carry-on bags.

The sheets and the blanket didn’t quite dry in the full cycle, so I cleaned out the lint trap and rearranged the items in the dryer, and set them tumbling again.

Mrs. Farrago loaded the dishwasher. I took out the garbage and the recycling.

I called Yellow Taxi and asked for a cab to take us to O’Hare airport. The dispatcher said she would contact a driver and call me back with an ETA.

I turned off the air conditioners for both floors. Mrs. Farrago turned on lights in strategic locations to fool burglars into thinking we’re not out of town.

And we waited… Yellow Taxi used to inform a caller that their cab would arrive in 5 to 20 minutes. At some point in the recent past, however, that has changed. Now they say they’ll contact a driver and phone back when they know when the driver will arrive. It had been 15 minutes with no return phone call, so I called them back. The dispatcher said that no one had accepted the trip yet, but that she would see if she could get someone now.

Mrs. Farrago moved the luggage onto the front porch while I waited on hold. I suggested that it might be quicker if she went to the corner and hailed a cab while I waited on the phone. No sooner than she had reached the bottom step than a cab turned onto our street! Mrs. Farrago waved at the driver but he either didn’t see her, or he ignored her, and drove on. I kept my eye on her as she walked down to the corner, and I saw her wave at a couple taxis. The dispatcher returned and said that she had not been able to get a response form any drivers, but that she would still try. Just then I saw Mrs. Farrago leaning in the passenger window of a cab and pointing down our street toward our house. I informed the Yellow Taxi dispatcher that we wouldn’t be needing her company’s services today.

Bags loaded and on our way, we were just about to the point of no return when I realized I had forgotten to write down the phone number to my friend in Birmingham, whom we’re hoping to meet up with during the trip. I sent him the phone number to our hotel, so I hope he calls me there.

Then Mrs. Farrago reminded me to call her brother, A’s father, to let him know we were on our way. It was at this point that I remembered that we never copied her brother’s mobile phone number from her contacts list, so we then had no way of calling him to let him know we were on our way.

THEN Mrs. Farrago asked me if I had remembered to pack the planned agenda of events the Big Boss has lined up for us. I groaned my disgust at myself for forgetting, and then she asked about the hotel address and the city map that had also been provided, which had been safely tucked away with the agenda. At home.

Fortunately she had written the hotel address down on a piece of paper and tucked it into the London guide book, which she had handed to me to stick in my backpack, which I had remembered to do…and bring.

We got onto the Kennedy Expressway which, at 3:30 p.m., was a veritable parking lot, which is a given on a Friday.

Bro-in-law called me (he had my mobile number! Hmmph!) to let us know he and A were at the airport. We joined him and his family about ten minutes later.

There was a short wait in line, and then we had our boarding passes for seats scattered about the plane; no two of us were seated together. A hugged his good-byes to his mom and dad, and his little sister could barely contain her joy that her brother was going to be not only out of her hair for the next 10 days, but not even in the same country!

The security screening provided no drama, and shortly we were at our gate, C-10. The others from the company who were on our flight were all sort of congregated together near the departure door, and we greeted them and introduced them to A.

From that point forward it was typical air travel…except that we backed away from the gate early. And my personal LCD screen didn’t work. That’s okay. I intended to write or read for the whole flight, anyway.

London, Day -1

Countdown To London
We started the day as a normal Thursday; I got up early, showered, got dressed. Mrs. Farrago did her thing, making herself even purtier than she already is. But then our plan went into effect.

I didn’t feed the birds, as I usually do when I’m not on the road. And Mrs. Farrago didn’t feed them, either, as she does when I am on the road, or when I screw up and leave myself no time to feed them. We woke them up late, and they went almost immediately into their travel cages, and when I was ready to leave for work, we loaded the cages in the little car and I drove them to the birdsitter, where they will stay until our return.

And it was not the typical workday, either. I wore shorts and a t-shirt and sneakers as we’re in the middle of the move. I got to work a little late, thanks to the briefing of the birdsitter, and when I got there I went immediately to moving boxes to the rear of the building, to the loading dock. We are practically half moved into the newer place, but, thanks to my travel schedule of late, I was the only employee of the company, until today, who had not seen the inside of the new place.

As I planned to work only half the day, I finished moving the boxes that were ready to be moved, and I separated and took down the media shelves in the graphic artist’s studio. Then I loaded the box and the computer from my “office” – a patch of counter space in an edit suite – into the car and took them to the new place.

WOW! All I will say, in the interests of not boring you (further), is “room to grow!”

I stayed later than I had intended, and by the time I left – around 1:30 p.m. – traffic getting home was absolutely stupid.

By 2:00 p.m. A, Mrs. Farrago’s nephew, still was without a passport, and time was running out.

I came home to an empty house – a truly empty house, completely devoid of living beings (that I care to know about) – for the first time since I moved in with Mrs. Farrago. After her dog, Cosmo, passed in 2004, there was still Angel, plus the two birds, and Papa Swiss, Mrs. Farrago’s dad. We added a bird in April 2006, and in the following October Papa Swiss moved out. And then, of course, in April of this year we had Angel put down. Today, with the birds away at the sitter, and despite the fact that they don’t care too much for me, it was a lonely feeling walking into the quiet living room and seeing their vacant cages.

I put in a load of laundry, ran out on an errand and returned. Around 6:00 p.m. I got word that A had finally gotten his passport, and all is “go” for his accompanying us to London!

Tomorrow is the day of our departure, and the first time ever on a plane for A. And, since he’s on a different flight reservation than the rest of us, he’s currently booked in a seat several rows in front of Mrs. Farrago and me. It could prove to be an interesting flight.

London

Well, I blogged about it in January, and the time has arrived. We're off to London Friday evening.

This trip, another gift from my employer, hasn't come without its own drama, however. There are a few employees who are not invited to London, who have not been in the fold for the required, and as yet undisclosed, amount of time necessary to be included in such company joy. It has made for some awkward, uncomfortable moments around the office over the past seven months: who's going and who isn't? (we weren't informed). Watch what you're saying in case one who isn't going can hear us. And then there's the departing flight shuffle, but that's just looking a gift horse in the mouth.

More drama has come in the form of a move. That's right, our company has outgrown its current digs in one northwest suburb of Chicago, and the decision was made this year to move into a bigger, more customized building with room for continued growth...

...at the same time...

...as the London trip.

For the past three weeks various fellow employees have been shredding unneeded documents, filing needed ones, boxing up tapes and CDs and DVDs, dismantling video production suites...and I've been on the road for most of that time. The company is being moved from under me! The task is not yet complete as we will be heading out the day after this blog is posted, but it will continue in our absence...

...while we're enjoying London...

...by those who are not invited on the trip.

And I'm embarrassed and ashamed at how it all has been conducted. I mean, they were never told they weren't going and why; they were just excluded from the invitations. It seemed very underhanded by a guy who doesn't seem to operate that way in his other relationships and business dealings. It was just handled poorly.

But I'm still going.

I just hope The Big Boss does something nice for the uninvited later down the road, to show his appreciation for their fortitude -- and for their not walking through the building(s) with a sub-machine gun blazing -- in the aftermath of the trip announcement.

And even more drama... Mrs. Farrago and I decided to take her nephew, A, on the trip with us. I'm paying his airfare with my frequent flyer miles...a LOT of them. As soon as The Big Boss OKed us bringing the kid, his parents initiated the passport application procedure. That was in April. There was a glitch, as these things always seem to go, and, due to his age at the time of application, they were instructed not to have him sign it. When the processing center got the application, they kicked it back, with notes indicating the boy's signature is indeed required. Let's not forget that it took the passport office 5 weeks to get that information to A's parents, which set the whole process back into a hopeless time frame, what with the current overburden the passport system is under this year. After weeks of dead-ends and "Call back tomorrows," and rude clerks telling my bro-in-law that his boy will "just have to reschedule" his trip, we are now in that 48-hour period in which they can go directly to the Passport Office in downtown Chicago and have his passport expidited...and that's where they are as I write...a mere 25 hours before departure time.

That aside, I intend to journal/blog throughout the trip as I did in Paris. Of course, I intend to write every day, but knowing how tired I get at the end of an 18-hour day of walking, snapping photos and eating, don't hold your breath!

I'm hoping to visit a good friend who lives in Birmingham, as well as a possible meet-up with none other than the inimitable Blogger star, Ultra Toast Mosha God, who lives in Bristol.

I'll be perusing Blogger daily, at least, so if you feel I'm slacking, be sure to let me know in my commenst section, and maybe I'll get off my arse and write.

Saturday Night Fright

(Obviously I have some layout issues that need to be addressed. I'll get to them when I have more time to futz with it. Please try to enjoy, anyway...)

Saturday night, as I was getting myself ready for bed, I heard somebody shouting outside on the street in front of our house. There are quite a few younger, fresh-out-of-college people living in the three- and four-flats in the neighborhood, plus the young professionals in the condo units that have sprung up in the last few years, and, it being a Saturday night, I assumed someone’s party was hitting its stride, and I tuned out the shouting as much as I could. I was reaching for the toothbrush when I heard the sirens. Several sirens.

We live on a one-way street. The nearest fire station is about a block away, around the corner at the far end of our block, and about halfway to the end of that street. Occasionally, when responding to a call somewhere, the fire trucks will barrel down our street opposite the direction of legal travel in the interest of getting there as quickly and easily as possible. I was certain they were barreling down our street again. As the sirens grew closer and louder, I began to wonder if maybe the shouting I had heard meant something else. The sirens grew to their loudest and stopped…right in front of our house!

I ran to our bedroom, at the front of the house, just as Mrs. Farrago was parting the blinds to see what was going on. A ladder truck was parked in front of our house, and firefighters were already running around and shouting to each other, amid the chorus of the sirens of other approaching fire trucks.

The view that greeted me when I stepped out on the porch!

I ran downstairs to observe the activity from ground level, and to figure out just what the heck was going on. I stepped out on our front porch and my ears were greeted with the sickening sound of the firefighters using either a battering ram or a fire axe to break open the door to the first floor apartment in the house almost directly across the street from ours.

The firefighters enter the first floor apartment after breaking down the door.

And yet more fire trucks arrived.

And I smelled smoke.

And I ran inside to get my camera.

Apparently the tenant in the first floor apartment had left some sort of electrical device on, which he was either using improperly, or which malfunctioned, and it touched off a small fire.

In less than two minutes from the time I heard the shouting and the first sirens, there were six fire trucks parked up and down our street and out on Belmont Avenue, which the police had barricaded for a two block stretch.








Mrs. Farrago heard someone say they saw flames. I never saw any, but I did see, in the front window of the top-floor apartment, smoke billowing up inside from beneath the air conditioner.

Very soon after the door was busted open came the equally sickening sound of glass breaking, as the firefighters busted out all the first floor windows in the front of the house and vented the smoke outside. Then there was the sound of water spraying against solid surfaces.



A haunting memory came to me when another familiar sound then struck my ears: from each firefighter came a repetitive electronic sing-song chirping sound – their rescue sounders, for lack of the proper name, which they wear on their utility harnesses over their coats, emitting a high chirp which allows others to know where they are in dark places or if they become incapacitated or unresponsive in an emergency. It’s the sound I recall quite clearly from the hours of footage I watched on television in the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks on September 11, 2001. From that point, while I watched, and until we went inside, I felt a peculiar tightness in my throat. While nothing dramatically heroic was done here, these men and women of the Chicago Fire Department are heroes nonetheless. Sure, they broke down a door and prevented a smoldering fire from becoming an inferno. But had they arrived at an inferno, they would have still broken down that door and gone inside. They didn’t have to do it here, but they’ve done it before, and they’ll do it again.

I looked around at the relative chaos on the street and realized the sheer number of personnel who had shown up to deal with this incident in six trucks, two command center type vehicles and two supervisors’ vehicles. At one point, when it was apparent that the fire had been snuffed out, all of the firefighters who had entered the building came out together in a seeming gush of black-and-reflective-yellow. There must have been 20 to 30 firefighters in the building!


While it seemed a bit of overkill at first, I realized why so many were called. Ours is an old neighborhood. Our house was built around 1895, and I’m sure every other building on our block – save for the new condos, of course – was built around the same time. Every house on the block is about 22 feet wide on a 25-foot lot, leaving narrow gangways to get from front to back between each building. These houses are very close to each other. If one becomes fully engulfed, the flames blasting out from the windows will most certainly ignite the buildings on ether side. All those bodies, all that equipment, all that experience and expertise was there to prevent the fire from spreading.



And then it was over. The firefighters coiled their hoses. The investigators went inside the apartment to gather evidence. And the crowd of spectators thinned out. Mrs. Farrago and I went upstairs to bed, watched some TV, and then turned out the lights. We looked outside and saw two police cars – one parked, the other patrolling – keeping an eye out for looters who might visit the vulnerable building, is my guess. Later, as sleep was approaching me, we heard the whine of a power tool from inside the house. We looked out and saw, parked haphazardly on the street, a van with some type of customized emergency flashers operating, and we assumed someone was inside the apartment and in the process of boarding up the broken windows and door.

As we lay back down, I couldn’t help but think about the people affected by this one small fire. Obviously the tenant of the apartment where the fire occurred has suffered a loss. Whatever he owns inside that space is probably heavily smoke-damaged as well as water damaged. But the space below was probably flooded in a veritable rainfall from the floor above. And what of the top-floor tenants? They have been a nuisance in the past, sitting on the front stairs of the building on warm evenings, talking and laughing – and sometimes arguing – until late into the night, the sound of their voices cutting through the quiet and disturbing our sleep, even with our windows closed. But they did not deserve their upheaval Saturday night. I would not have wished it on them. The firefighters dragged a hose up to their apartment. I don’t know if any water was sprayed up there, but they certainly have quite a bit of smoke damage, and they probably can’t return there any time soon, certainly not before the place is remodeled. Or torn down.



Sunday morning I took a look outside and snapped a couple more photos. Mrs. Farrago and I wonder what will become of it. Many of the properties on our block are highly sought-after by realtors and developers; dozens of brick four-story condos and single-family homes have gone up in the surrounding blocks and start between $750,00 to $1.5 million to sell, and drive up our property taxes obscenely. Will the owner refurbish? Rebuild? Sell?

Over all, Saturday night’s big excitement makes me think about our heroes. Certainly, most firefighters or police or rescue workers will pooh-pooh the term “hero” when someone bestows in on them, saying it’s just their job. And certainly there are some otherwise innocent bystanders whose thoughts and actions in a situation are truly heroic, and they save lives before anyone else can act. But those who say it’s just their job seem to forget that they chose the job. They keep the job. They run in the opposite direction of everyone else when the shit is hitting the fan. Whether paid to do it or not, it takes a special person, a special pattern of nerve impulses in the brain, to make one want to do it more than once.

Saturday night, before I had gone inside, I stepped over to one of the supervisors who stood by his vehicle, dumping something out of his boots. “I’m proud of you guys,” I said to him.

He looked up at me and cocked his ear.

“I’m proud of you guys,” I repeated. “You got a lot of people here, fast.” I felt myself choking up.

He looked at me, somewhat dumbfounded. Then he seemed to realize that I indeed said what he thought I said. “Okay. I’ll tell them.”

I got the impression that, in all the years he has been with the Chicago Fire Department, no one outside his chain of command has ever expressed pride in him or the department.

Honor your heroes, whoever they are. They may not know it.

Vacator Spectator Instigator

Mrs. Farrago and I took a vacation over the holiday week. We didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes those are the best vacations. We did a little bit of something we’ve wanted to do for a while: partake of the offerings of our own city. We’ve been ashamed, when friends from out of town have asked us, “What is there to do in Chicago?” that we’ve been unable to give helpful, detailed answers.

We did take care of some business… we got a new wide-screen LCD HD television, finally, as our 16 year old television set finally crapped out on us. We ordered it online, expecting it to come in the seven-to-nine days the online merchant told us the free shipping would take, only to receive it in two… Glad we didn’t pay for 2-day shipping!

The CD player in the little car could no longer be called a CD “player,” as it only played with a disc… taking it in part way, and then trying to spit it back out, but not far enough for one to get his fingers on the disc, and then it would pull it back in. It took pounding on the dashboard several times to get the disc to come out far enough to grab it, and then it was a fight with the CD player to get it out. We got a nice new stereo for the car, one that is fully compatible with the steering wheel buttons to control just about every aspect of the listening experience.

It was a week for concerts. It seems like eons ago that we bought tickets for the reunion tour of The Police, but Thursday finally came. I had never been to a Police concert before… I was an odd teenager… I wasn’t much into music groups until I noticed the Beatles in sophomore year, and Journey during senior year in high school. And since The Police stopped recording as a group in 1983, and graduation was in 1982, there was little time for me to catch up.

The concert was at Wrigley Field, of all places. Mrs. Farrago and I live a mere two miles from Wrigley, so it was a short bus ride and a four-block walk to get there. And quite an interesting walk it was! Mrs. Farrago and I have gone to several Cubs games, but only during the day. Never has the walk up Sheffield Avenue been the loud, colorful, crowded eyeful for us that it was Thursday! It seemed that every Wrigleyville bar existed in those four blocks alone, and every single one of them was packed with young, beautiful 20- and 30-somethings looking for love and/or a buzz!


Wrigley Field was transformed. Having only ever been there to see baseball, and never at night, I found it quite interesting to see the park in late-late afternoon sunlight and dusk. We were seated in the lower-level grandstand, quite far back and under the upper deck, to the left of home plate. A huge stage had been set up in center field, facing the grandstand. On either side of the stage, and onstage, as well, were huge video screens (projection or jumbotron, I know not which) which, when combined with the pair of pocket binoculars we brought, helped immensely for our enjoyment of the show. Some type of white plastic grating had been laid over all the grass on the field; and the infield dirt, though exposed, was cordoned off. Premium seating, in the form of steel folding chairs, had been set up directly in front of the stage and reached back almost to the edge of the infield dirt. Starting precisely at 7:00, the opening act performed, a band called Fiction Plane, fronted by none other than Joe Sumner, who is the son of none other than Gordon Sumner, better known by his stage name, Sting, the lead singer/bass player of The Police! Young Joe looked quite a bit like his father, as I imagine one would expect. He also plays bass, which doesn’t surprise me. What was freaky was how much his singing voice sounds like his father’s. He could probably fill in for him if the need ever arose, and few would hear the difference.


The Police quite well rocked Wrigley! As they’re not touring to support a new album, they merely played all their hits (and for anyone who never listened to pop radio, they had quite a LOT of hits!), so the whole show was basically a sing-along…or perhaps a Sting-along, as it were. Tee-hee. There were the obligatory appeals to the audience to cheer louder, the obligatory call-and-answer segments of songs, and the obligatory lack of understanding by the band of why the crowd booed when Sting mentioned that the last show they played in Chicago was at Comiskey Park (it’s a Cubs fan vs. Whie Sox fan thing, Sting).

And, of course, there was the obligatory wafting cloud of pot smoke. In all of the few rock concerts I’ve been to, that pesky cloud of smoke manages to get in the venue, and blows past me somewhere in the middle of the performance. Although I’m against it in general, as it’s an illegal activity (though I favor its legalization), I view it as a given at a rock concert, an accepted reality of the concert-going experience. Funny was how everyone around the toker, who was several rows in front of me, looked around, seeming either to search for the person with the joint, or to keep an eye out for “the man” to make sure that the toker didn’t get busted. And as the cloud wafted past our nostrils, there were two reactions: rolled eyes, by people like me who never did; and smiles by those did.

After one encore the band called it a night and we left, happy after a show well played, and departing the venerable Wrigley Field content that the Cubs hadn’t lost!

We hopped on the bus again Saturday bound for Grant Park in downtown Chicago, where the annual Taste of Chicago has been since June 29th. Our main goal for the day was to see the free concert by the bands Cracker, Soul Asylum and Cheap Trick. But before long, it became clear that our main goal was just to get there. We transferred to the Lake Shore Drive express, an articulated bus, and had a pleasant, smooth, non-stop ride to Michigan Avenue downtown. As we approached the Chicago River, traffic seemed to get slower and slower (stopped and stopped-er?) the nearer we got to the bridge. Just as it became evident that the extra congestion was caused by another bus which had broken down on the bridge at the end farthest from us, and just as we broached the middle of the bridge, OUR bus conked out! The driver was able to restart it, but frustrated motorists who hate sharing the road with buses to begin with, exacerbated the problem by denying him entry to the moving lane, which caused the bus to stall again. TWO buses out of commission on a bridge! Through repeated cycles of starting, inching and dying, the driver was able to get the bus into the flow lane, and then off of the bridge and over to the curb about a half block ahead, at which time he had to shut it down and tell everyone another would be along to pick them up. Mrs. Farrago and I chose to walk the rest of the way…it was a beautiful day.

After a messy pile of BBQ ribs, we found a spot on the Petrillo Music Shell lawn area. It proved to be a somewhat unwelcoming place to be: the venue seating area – again, steel folding chairs – restricted use of cameras.


The lawn area was separated from the seating area by a 4-foot snow fence lashed to 3-foot steel barricades, a 30-foot expanse of asphalt, and an 8-foot chain-link fence! So much for “seeing” a concert! Nevertheless, we plopped down right behind the snow fence-barricade combo and spread out our towel. Mrs. Farrago brought her long lens and was looking forward to getting some halfway decent shots of Cracker and Cheap Trick, but directly in front of us was a Programs dispenser, permanently anchored in the asphalt, immediately inside the chain-link fence, at a perfect height for anyone to rest their beer cup on top of it…and just stand there, blocking our shot. Before the show started I scouted another fence-side spot and squatted on it while Mrs. Farrago gathered up the stuff and moved it to where I was. Just then a 30-something man sitting in a lawn chair a few feet away spoke up, pointing to a red towel on the ground between his land and ours. “Your next-door neighbor here [towel] is a meth-head. He’s a nice enough guy, but he’ll drive you nuts inside of two minutes.”

We thanked him for the warning and we enjoyed Cracker, the lead singer of which used to be the lead singer of Camper Van Beethoven. Bet you didn’t know that.

There were quite a few characters milling about. I was only able to capture a few shots of some of them, and these are far shy of the strangest ones who seem to have camera-radar and can sense when you’re pointing a lens at them…or at least that’s my fear…and you never know what someone is capable of doing.











These events always seem to attract the head-cases…free concert, access to beer, and exposure to large crowds. It almost makes the exorbitant ticket prices extorted by the top concert groups worth the money.

After the first band finished our aforementioned neighbor showed up, and the warning we had received was accurate – the guy was a nut cake. He seemed to think that everyone found his act entertaining: walking up to and squatting to talk so someone’s little kid, sitting in a vacant lawn chair next to some guy’s wife (as happened with the couple who had warned us about the guy, while the husband was on a beer run), singing really loudly part of a song the earlier band had played…while we were still between bands, and dancing goofily throughout the next band’s set. And this guy did not appear or smell drunk.

Soul Asylum was good; they’re not a band that Mrs. Farrago or I are terribly familiar with, though there was one song I recognized. They were a bit too loud…which makes me sound like an old man to say it.

After the set we were seated on our towel. Mr. Nutcake was up to his usual annoyingness when he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and dropped his lighter, which bounced forward and through the slats of the snow fence. This brought me joy. People on the other side of the chain-link fence, who also seemed to be freaks and who seemed to know him, laughed at his misfortune. He tried to reach through to get it, but the slats were too narrow for him to get his hand in much past the wrist, and the lighter was just beyond his reach. But then he crossed the line.

Mrs. Farrago and I are mild photography buffs and had brought a photo monopod with us to help take better photos. Mr. Nutcake leaned toward the monopod, reaching for it on our towel, and asked if he could use our pole to get his lighter. Mrs. Farrago and I both said, very loudly, “NO, YOU CAN’T!”

He stepped away, saying to the others around us, “Okay. You don’t have to be an asshole about it!” He tried again to reach through the fence, and then he asked us, “Okay, can YOU use your pole to get my lighter?”

I thought briefly about it…very briefly. I don’t particularly like it when people smoke around me. I don’t care if it’s indoors or out, the smoke bothers me. I didn’t care to help this guy out who was then going to light up and blow smoke in my face. And dance around. And get up in people’s face and try to be cute…at 50-whatever.

So I said, “No.”

“You’re a fuckin’ asshole,” he said to me. He faced the people behind us and, I assume, pointed at me (I didn’t look at him). “This guy’s a fuckin’ asshole.” He called to another guy in the crowd, a plump, shirtless black man whom we had noticed earlier, dancing spacily, enjoining the crowd around him to dance along with him …yes, a freak… whose jeans were unbuttoned beneath his jelly-belly and held up – barely – by the mostly-closed zipper. Mr. Plumber’s Butt came over, and Mr. Nutcake said, “See if you can get my lighter. This jerk over here…” Me, again. “…won’t let me use his pole to get it.”

Mr. Nutcake pulled at the bottom of the fence slat, bending it far enough so that Mr. Plumber’s Butt could reach the lighter. The freaks on the other side of the chain-link cheered him on in a crescendo as his hand got closer and closer to it, and breaking into joyous noise as he grabbed it.

Mr. Nutcake lit his cigarette and then bent down and put his face in our line of sight, about 18 inches away. “You’re an asshole,” he said softly. “You know that? You’re a fuckin’ asshole.”

Mrs. Farrago and I did our best not to respond to him, as it surely would have meant escalating the situation. I really wanted to hit this moron. I’m no tough guy, and doing so would have probably gotten me into a lot of trouble, either physically or legally. I just wanted to see Cheap Trick play, and I wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize the opportunity. So we ignored him as he walked away behind us, spewing more derision our way.



Shortly, Cheap Trick started their set, and Mrs. Farrago and I got to our feet, cameras clicking. I kept darting glances over my shoulders, expecting any minute to get a fist or a cooler or a railroad spike to the back of my head. I heard once, through the scream of electric guitars, “asshole,” clearly enough to know he said it, but then motion caught my eye to my right, and I saw him fold up his towel and leave.

I don’t know if someone else said something to him or if he was so upset that we didn’t want to be his friends that he couldn’t bear to show his face. Whatever it was, he left and we were happy. Nonetheless, I kept an eye over my shoulder, just in case.

In all, it was a great show. I’d never seen Cheap Trick live in person before, so it was a great pleasure to hear them play the songs I’ve listened to and sung along with for 20-something years right before my eyes and ears.

And then it was over…but the evening was not.



Mrs. Farrago and I walked north, through Millennium Park where we encountered another free concert in progress, the Grant Park Symphony and Choir at the Pritzker Pavilion. We spent only as much time there as it took to walk through and take a few photos – it is beautiful at night, a quiet comment inside the parentheses of the skyline – but we made a promise to each other that we would look up a schedule and catch another free performance here soon…provided Mr. Nutcake isn’t also a classical music aficionado!

Then we made our way back to Michigan Avenue and a bus stop there. We boarded another articulated bus up to Belmont Avenue and transferred to the #77 bus to get us home. About halfway between home and where we boarded the #77, at the Clark Street stop, our bus conked out! This one, however, despite the driver’s efforts, could not be started up again! Mrs. Farrago pointed out the coincidence of the date – 07/07/07 – and the route number – 77 – and we were awed.

A few minutes later another bus came to our rescue, and we made it home.

It was a busy week acting like a tourist in Chicago, and I’m sure I’ll head back to work tomorrow feeling like I went somewhere special.

Not the Will Smith Movie...

I’m sure it’s not new this year, but it seems everyone is wishing everyone else a “happy 4th of July.” Has everyone forgotten that July 4th is the day this nation observes the signing of the Declaration of Independence? Has the holiday truly been reduced to nothing more than an excuse to light continually obnoxiously larger and louder fireworks, and to drink to excess…though usually never in that order?

Have we forgotten that the fireworks are meant as a symbol of the deadly battles against an oppressive monarchy, undertaken by a volunteer militia that was woefully scraggly and unorganized, but held together by one fine thread of the common purpose of freedom? Have we forgotten that, despite your political leanings or your position on the current state of the nation, today is the day we celebrate us, our country, our way of life? Have a little respect for the land you call home, for your fellow citizens. Rejoice in the freedoms - the inalienable rights - bestowed upon you by the mere fact that you were born here, or through the struggle you endured to get here and earn your right to stay here for the rest of your life.

Any Christian worth his salt would take issue at being wished a merry December 25th. Allow me the peace of mind that comes with believing that you know what the noise of this holiday – one of the few holidays that feels real to me – is all about.

If you’re going to celebrate the holiday, at least get its name right.

Happy Independence Day, Americans!