It’s the morning after the big night out, Monday, October 8.Still have to get up early to return the rental car to Midway Airport on the Southside of Chicago, and we have to leave at 8:30am in order to beat the 10:30am drop-off time and that’s hard, especially on a Monday morning, but alright, such is the life of touring.
We get to the airport by 9-ish and we drop off the car. From there, we take a CTA bus and head to the Museum of Science & Industry (MSI); we get lucky, ‘coz it’s a free day. I haven’t been the MSI in goodness knows how long & Mykel hasn’t been there for perhaps 30 years as he says, but still it’s one of his favorite museums in America he says.
We spend all day there; that’s a rarity for me, as I used to go there almost all the time with my father, Rex Pater Homo from my formative years up through my 20s & maybe at the most spend 3-4 hours there. It’s also Rex’s favorite museum in Chicago as well.
During the time that we arrive at MSI until the finish of the day, we begin and end our "Senility World Series." The person who forgets the most, best out of seven, has to buy the other person a box of aspartame; the sugarless sugar with an ingredient that helps one forget. For me this is the easiest game in the world; Mykel tends to forget a lot of things; like his hat in the men's room at the MSI or something he said earlier in the morning. he trips me up a couple of times, but it's me that's winning, hands down.
Eventually, Mykel wants to stop playing the game. He says i'm taking it too seriously and that bugs him. So, we stop. Perhaps we'll pick up the series another another time.
It’s unusually hot this time of year; near 90 degrees in fact! Not the temperature norm for Chicago. Usually it’s in the 70s. Mykel wants a beer and so we go out in pursuit of one, but soon I grow tired; tired and weak from walking, almost to a state of dehydration. I can feel my palms getting all tingly.
Finally, after walking for nearly two miles or so, we duck into Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap for a drink. He buys me a corned beef sandwich on rye and tells me to slow down and to take it easy. I suspect he doesn’t want to see me collapse. It’s a local neighborhood bar; kind of has that kooky college local yokel feel to it. I also remember sometime back, perhaps in the 1990s that they used to hold poetry readings here.
It’s unusually hot this time of year; near 90 degrees in fact! Not the temperature norm for Chicago. Usually it’s in the 70s. Mykel wants a beer and so we go out in pursuit of one, but soon I grow tired; tired and weak from walking, almost to a state of dehydration. I can feel my palms getting all tingly.
Finally, after walking for nearly two miles or so, we duck into Jimmy’s Woodlawn Tap for a drink. He buys me a corned beef sandwich on rye and tells me to slow down and to take it easy. I suspect he doesn’t want to see me collapse. It’s a local neighborhood bar; kind of has that kooky college local yokel feel to it. I also remember sometime back, perhaps in the 1990s that they used to hold poetry readings here.
Ironically on the television set in the bar, there's a couple of news broadcasters talking about the past weekend's Chicago Marathon, in which a man from Michigan collapsed and died from heat exhaustion. The story made international news.
When I feel nourished enough, we grab a bus and head to the CTA Red Line. On the way home, a couple of high school-aged boys notice the slouch hats we’re wearing and playfully call us “The Blues Brothers.”
I grin.
We get our train and head north for the long trip home. I don’t do much, perhaps talk to Mykel or just look outside the window and point some local landmarks out to him. I can’t remember what if anything was said of that trip home.
Later that night, we go to a local open mic at a coffee bar near my apartment. There’s a man there, probably a little closer to my age, but I’m not sure. Mykel befriends him quicker than I do, due to the commonality of the love of literature he seems to enjoy.
He’s one of those shy guys that goes to open mics but never reads; just listens but never reads. Has a whole pocketful of work and then some, but never reads. Never wants to share his work with the world, yet, we trade CDs. I listen to it later and realize how good the music and the lyrics are, but again, he’s just one of those guys that works in a cubicle like some people I know, with other people that never appreciate what he does or what he writes, never shows him support and makes him feel frustrated enough to never go out and read, anywhere.
Period.
Inside I understand completely. I once stood in his place; well as a matter of fact, I’m still there to a degree; where I sit however, is different, in that I’ve been in and out of that box so many times, it’s not funny.
Sadly, the guy leaves before the open mic starts.
About 10:30pm, things start happening. The host sets up and people take turns singing, reading their work or doing stand-up comedy. When Mykel’s turn arrives, he does a piece from his column; I follow him with a couple of poems and a little throat-singing.
There’s a real variety at this open mic; including my personal favorite: an older gentleman, also a professor at Northwestern University, who composes songs on the spot, besides playing his own country & western music.
About 11:30pm, after the last poet reads and the last comedian takes the stage, the place clears out. I promise to come back to this open mic one night.
The problem I have with going to open mics every week, is after a while you lose the flavor of what you’re trying to accomplish; if you’re new at it, great, it’s a great learning experience, but if you’ve been going at it for months or perhaps years like me, then it’s a good idea to pull back and show up every once in a while; that way, you don’t wear yourself out or lose the novelty of whatever you’re trying to accomplish.
We walk home.
Another good night etched into history.
When I feel nourished enough, we grab a bus and head to the CTA Red Line. On the way home, a couple of high school-aged boys notice the slouch hats we’re wearing and playfully call us “The Blues Brothers.”
I grin.
We get our train and head north for the long trip home. I don’t do much, perhaps talk to Mykel or just look outside the window and point some local landmarks out to him. I can’t remember what if anything was said of that trip home.
Later that night, we go to a local open mic at a coffee bar near my apartment. There’s a man there, probably a little closer to my age, but I’m not sure. Mykel befriends him quicker than I do, due to the commonality of the love of literature he seems to enjoy.
He’s one of those shy guys that goes to open mics but never reads; just listens but never reads. Has a whole pocketful of work and then some, but never reads. Never wants to share his work with the world, yet, we trade CDs. I listen to it later and realize how good the music and the lyrics are, but again, he’s just one of those guys that works in a cubicle like some people I know, with other people that never appreciate what he does or what he writes, never shows him support and makes him feel frustrated enough to never go out and read, anywhere.
Period.
Inside I understand completely. I once stood in his place; well as a matter of fact, I’m still there to a degree; where I sit however, is different, in that I’ve been in and out of that box so many times, it’s not funny.
Sadly, the guy leaves before the open mic starts.
About 10:30pm, things start happening. The host sets up and people take turns singing, reading their work or doing stand-up comedy. When Mykel’s turn arrives, he does a piece from his column; I follow him with a couple of poems and a little throat-singing.
There’s a real variety at this open mic; including my personal favorite: an older gentleman, also a professor at Northwestern University, who composes songs on the spot, besides playing his own country & western music.
About 11:30pm, after the last poet reads and the last comedian takes the stage, the place clears out. I promise to come back to this open mic one night.
The problem I have with going to open mics every week, is after a while you lose the flavor of what you’re trying to accomplish; if you’re new at it, great, it’s a great learning experience, but if you’ve been going at it for months or perhaps years like me, then it’s a good idea to pull back and show up every once in a while; that way, you don’t wear yourself out or lose the novelty of whatever you’re trying to accomplish.
We walk home.
Another good night etched into history.
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