Rubber Ducky, You're the One...

I was all set to deliver a post this week on the topic of routine. Really, I was, but then I heard through the family grapevine that my cousin, Trista, and her kids might be coming to town for an impromptu day trip. I've been itching for a break lately. We've been in the preliminary stages of planning a father-daughter vacation, and my already acute sense of wanderlust has taken on epic proportions. For today, however, I was more than willing to settle for a "staycation." As soon as I heard the Manars were headed to town, I asked my boss if I could use some personal time, and I was on board for a fun day in the city. You'll just have to wait on that other post...

Will, with some pancake bites. This photo doesn't quite do justice to how huge the fork was in proportion to his body.

We started off our day with lunch at Yolk, Trista's dining request, where we filled our bellies with delicious breakfast treats, with the exception of Abbie, who requested the ubiquitous meal craved by kids nationwide -- chicken fingers and fries. To my delight, they tasted just like the ones at Baker's Square, my own childhood favorite. Truly, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

To be completely honest, I had somewhat of an ulterior motive in taking the day off: I was hoping to persuade everyone to attend the Ducky Derby, a fundraiser for the Special Olympics. I had first become aware of the event the year before, when I spotted the huge rubber ducky near the Michigan Avenue Bridge last year, and discovered the derby upon further investigation. Unfortunately, I had already missed the race, despite the fact that I was unemployed at the time, and would have had no scheduling dilemma resulting from full-time employment. I was sorely disappointed that I was going to miss it this year as well, but the presence of my seldom-seen young relatives was just the excuse I needed. After all, what would be a better way to pass an afternoon with children, than to check out an epic race of rubber ducks?

Abbie, Will, and their souvenir ducks, waiting for the Ducky Derby to begin.

The race begins at the Columbus Drive Bridge over the Chicago River. The city closes the street, and raises one half of the bridge, allowing a dump truck stationed on the remaining side to unload its cargo over the side of the bridge and into the water. There, the ducks float downstream, aided by the spray of a hose from a Metropolitan Water Reclamation District boat, through a course demarcated by a system of bumpers. The first duck to reach the end of the course is the winner. 

The best part of the whole thing was watching them dump all the ducks off the back of a truck into the Chicago River. On the water taxi, you can see the Derby's mascot.

Each duck is numbered, and for a donation to the Special Olympics, you receive your own number (although we found the donation process to be rather dubious: we paid for a "quack pack" of six entries for the price of five, but only received one number; at least it was all for a good cause!), and if you have the first-place duck, you win one of a number of donated prizes, including a trip to the Dominican Republic, a spa visit, or sports tickets. As of yet, we haven't been able to locate the results, but I'm not holding out much hope. 

They keep the ducks confined to a course, so that they can all be recovered instead of polluting the river.

As it turns out, the ducks move at a very leisurely pace. Apparently, without the assistance from the water spray, the race can take up to four hours! Even with the assistance, things were progressing far more slowly than the fifteen minutes quoted to us by the race's announcers. Coincidentally, the announcers also misrepresented the length of the journey, billing the event as a race from the Columbus Drive Bridge to the Michigan Avenue Bridge. In reality, the race went only as far as a pontoon boat floating between the two bridges. Although we picked a poor viewing spot in light of the actual destination, it proved to be of little importance, as the full distance probably would have taken the entire day.

QUACK!

As it was, the kids quickly lost interest in the proceedings. They simply had to wait too long for things to get going, and once the race started, the action was too far away, and too slow-moving to be of much interest to them. We ended up throwing in the towel before the race was even half over. Nevertheless, I'm still glad to have gone at least once. How often do you get to see thousands of rubber ducks pouring into the river? Even if it wasn't as exciting as I had expected, it was still pretty neat. Not to mention, I got to walk along Chicago's Riverwalk for the first time. It's really quite pleasant down there!

The kids were completely tuckered out by the end of the day.

Overall, I thought it was a pretty great day. Trista and Mom may have been a little traumatized by my admittedly poor decision that it would be acceptable to take the double stroller on the bus (it was, after all, the middle of the day on a weekday, I just failed to account for the increased ridership levels of high tourist season), but there were some incredible moments as well, ones that I couldn't catch on film --the wonderment on Abbie's face as she craned her neck to watch all the skyscrapers go by on the bus; Will's tiny hand reaching out to hold Mom's as he fell asleep in the stroller on the walk back -- these are the tableaus that warmed the cockles of my heart as I witnessed them unfold, and the memories that will stick with me. No routine day at the office could even hope to hold a candle to that kind of day.

Parking FAIL...

After a quiet weekend spent catching up on unglamorous, but necessary household chores, I had a quiet and unassuming Monday at work, punctuated by a broken and incessantly blinking emergency exit sign over my desk. On my way home from work, I heard a strange crackling sound, similar to a recently extinguished engine. Looking around, I couldn't spot any cars that looked like they had been recently parked, but I did spot this little gem:

The crackling sound was emitting from the listing street lamp. Best of all, the driver hadn't even backed up after hitting the light, s/he just left it there, with no ambiguity as to who had caused the damage. That's life in the city for you -- equal parts audacity and haste while remaining unapologetic about the whole thing.

Hail To The Chief...

Yesterday, I had one of those moments in life which cause you to take a step back and wonder, "Am I too jaded?"

Dad, for reasons comprehensible only to himself, had purchased two tickets to a Democratic National Committee fundraiser, featuring an appearance by President Obama, to which he had no intention of going, despite the fact that it was to be held at the Hyatt Regency Hotel, which is next to his office building. Instead, he gave the tickets to me, and left me with the task of finding a guest. I decided to invite my coworker, Irene, a self-described "Obama junkie."

The event was supposed to start at 5:00, but Dad had warned me that we needed to get there early if we wanted to secure a decent vantage point, as it was sure to be crowded. We left the museum at 4:30, and when we arrived at 4:45, the security line had stacked up throughout the underground Pedway system for an immense distance. We ended up standing in line for nearly an hour, before making it up to the Secret Service checkpoint, where they confiscated our umbrellas, tossing them in a pile behind the check-in table for "safe"-keeping. (Thankfully, my umbrella is brown with turquoise and orange raindrops printed on it, so it was easier to find in the pile in the end of the night. I was incredulous that I got it back at all.)

The event did feature free cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, but Irene and I were so preoccupied with scoring a good spot that we did not partake of much. I thought I had found a decent spot, off to one side, and behind some petite women, landing me in the second row of people. Then the wait began in earnest. No amount of uplifting pop standards of the 80's and 90's could have distracted me from standing on my feet in one spot, afraid to move for fear of relinquishing my treasured viewing spot, for nearly two hours as we waited for the President to appear. Annoyingly, the woman standing next to me had brought her 10 year old daughter to the event, whose incessant whining gave voice to what I was already silently thinking to myself, "My feet hurt! I'm tired! I want to sit down! I want to go home! Why is he so late? I'm bored!!!"

Just when I thought I couldn't stand any more, they trotted out a slate of speakers to encourage us to continue our grass-roots organizing for the President, and to continue to support him. As one of the five speakers put it, "We can't leave him to do it alone!" Finally, as Lovie Smith, coach of the Chicago Bears orated to the adoring crowd, a wave of VIPs filed into the open area in front of us, obscuring my hard-won line of sight. Even though I was standing three feet away from Illinois Governor Pat Quinn, I couldn't help but be crushed.

I had been on my feet for almost three hours. My toes were tingling, my bad knee was bordering on collapse, and I could scarcely see. Yet when the first strains of, "Hail to the Chief" came over the speakers, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Hundreds of arms popped up wielding cameras, and even I found myself straining on the tiptoes of my tired legs and craning my neck to catch a glimpse. I may have been miserable, but I was not immune to the Obamania.

Check out the VIPs who came and obstructed my view. I guess this is what $250 buys you in the world of political appearances.

Most importantly, I did manage to get this one decent picture, right before my camera battery died. It almost looks fake, doesn't it?

The President spoke mostly on the topic of health care reform, about which he was quite stern, but he also commented joyously on the White Sox's perfect game, pitched earlier in the day by Mark Buehrle. Although his oratorical skills are widely recognized, in person, it is difficult not to be struck by his articulate, thoughtful rhetoric. After eight years of George W. Bush, it is endlessly refreshing to observe the return of intelligent leadership in America.

Impressed as I was, my excitement paled in comparison to that of the audience. People love this man. People are proud to have him as their leader. The crowd reacted to his speech with the sort of call and response that is usually reserved for church. Cries of "Amen!" and "You tell it, Barack!" rang out from across the room. Although not quite as full of naked ebullience as the election night celebration in Grant Park last November, the energy of the crowd was a rare thing indeed.

Still, I found myself wondering, "Was it worth it?" After a long day at the office, was the chance to see the president speak for ten minutes, at a distance of a hundred feet, through a forest of heads and cameras, worth it? Surely I was being ungrateful?

Then, later that evening, when I was comfortably ensconced in my favorite chair at home, my mom told me a little story that Grandma had told her for the very first time, earlier that day. When she was a little girl, roughly five years old, her father had dragged her to Alton to see FDR at a whistle-stop tour. She sat atop her father's shoulders, and saw him in the distance, and she couldn't have cared less at the time. All these years later though, it's something she still remembers, and it's a story she could pass down to her daughter, and granddaughter. It's too early to say, but it's entirely possible that Obama will become the FDR of the 21st century. Maybe someday, I'll be able to tell my grandchildren that I saw him with my own eyes. On that day, it will have been worth it.

Much Ado About Nothing...

Anyone who has been following the news in Illinois must be familiar with the Illinois Admissions Review Commission, which was convened to investigate allegations of public officials and other influential people using clout to secure admission for otherwise unqualified prospective students to the University of Illinois. Today, the intrepid reporters over at the Chicago Tribune broke another story, this time uncovering the use of clout to obtain admission to the elite magnet schools of the Chicago Public School System. Is it unfair that some students get an advantage based on who their parents are? Yes. But it's also nothing new, and I can't help but wonder if all of this newly fomenting rage over the use of privilege is grounded not in a fundamental discontent with the disparities between the classes, but in the recent economic crisis.

By and large, America is an aspirational society. We have bought into the Horatio Alger myth that if you work hard, and pull yourself up by your bootstraps, great wealth and fame are well within your reach. While I could go on at length about the inherent dichotomies of the so-called "American Dream" and its hold on our collective imagination, I will merely point out that our belief that riches are just around the corner often leads us to protect the rights of the wealthy. Take, for example, the phenomenon of the "death tax." Legions of Americans who are far from feeling the burden of a 55% tax on inheritances of more than $1.5 million have worked themselves into a lather over the maximum limitations on the uppermost echelon of the tax brackets. Americans pulling in a modest salary, struggling to pay off their credit card debts, their mortgages, and afford decent health care are still concerned about their ability to protect their non-existent wealth, because they are under the belief that they will someday become rich.

So, in my estimation, this sudden outrage over the inequities of the educational system must be rooted in the precarious state of the economic system. With the American Dream under assault, Illinoisans are less willing to accept that the privileged classes are exercising their clout when it seems less likely that they will someday enjoy the same advantages themselves. Wealth has always brought privilege; if it did not, there would be very little incentive to accumulating it. The rich have used their influence and connections to obtain special treatment since time in memoriam. The only reason this story is now attracting so much indignation in the press is because people have less hope that it will be them in the future, calling in a favor to get their children a better opportunity. When the economy recovers, people will be more than willing to accept the status quo.

Oh, Japan...

Sure, America is full of strange, quirky things that make very little sense, even to natives (I'm looking at you Carhenge and the Collinsville Ketchup Bottle). But, with a cadre of ex-pat pals living in Japan, I've had enough contact with Japanese culture to safely say that I think Japan is a little bit weirder. True or not, it's a stereotype that was reinforced today, when I pulled a box of Japanese cookies out of my lunch bag today, as I continue to work my way through the stash of exotic treats Abel brought me back in June. 

According to Abel, they are supposed to be shaped like bamboo shoots, only chocolate-covered. Like all of the (admittedly limited) range of Japanese snack foods I've encountered, there was an excessively abundant amount of packaging. At least they weren't individually wrapped. What really caught my eye, however, was the upper right hand corner of the inside of the tab.

I have no idea what that says, but really, what would be the appropriate dialogue for a tiny, levitating, guitar-playing bamboo shoot? It's just fantastically bizarre. Oh, Japan, you're such a card...

Move Yer Bloomin' Arse...

For Dad's birthday, we decided to spend the day out at the Arlington Race Track, for a little light gambling and quality time with Dad's friends Joe and Ann. Although it wasn't nearly as glamorous as the Ascot scene in My Fair Lady (and truly, what in life would not benefit from towering displays of millinery excess?), we did secure some excellent box seats from one of Dad's associates, and with the cooperation of the weather, a pleasant day was had by all.

We had great seats, under the cantilevered overhang and in front of the finish line.

Dad is big on traditions, and as such, we picked up four discrete sources for tips on the day's horses: the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, the daily racetrack program, and the Green Sheet also available at the track. Dad, as always, carefully culled his betting selections from all four sources, much as he consults his files of newspaper and magazine clippings for his annual newsletter of stock market picks. There must have been something to his strategy, because he hit big in the fifth race, accurately predicting the trifecta (a so-called "exotic bet" which guesses which horses will come in first, second, and third), to the tune of $326! Clearly, five was his lucky number for the day, considering he made his best bet of the day in the fifth race, on his 55th birthday. It was the highlight of the afternoon.

Dad and Joe, intently focused on picking their bets.

Although neither of us had any particular strategy -- Mom chose her horses based on which names she liked, and I chose mine based largely on moderate odds -- we also performed respectably. Mom won a little bit of money in almost every race, but ultimately less than she spent on bets, and ended up sustaining a small loss for the day. I managed to hit an exacta (another "exotic bet" that predicts which horses will come in first and second) to win $29, but my other bets for the day were less successful, and I left the track with an extra $8 in my pocket overall. Of course, in a display of his customary generosity, Dad was kind enough to share part of his haul with me, so it turned into quite the profitable day for me -- moreso than an average day at the office!

Dad, Mom, and I in our box at the track.

It was also nice to spend some time with Joe and Ann, who I hadn't seen in quite some time. I think most of you know Joe as the original "Joe the Plumber" -- Dad likes to give many of his friends nicknames incorporating their profession, and I can't think of a time in our more than a decade of acquaintance that we haven't known him by that epithet. He is so gregarious and mischievious that you can't help but enjoy yourself in his presence, and Ann provides just the right amount of balance in her calm and sweet demeanor. Dad is lucky to have them as friends.

All in all, Dad proclaimed it to be a "great day," which, on his birthday, is really the best we could have asked for. Here's hoping that his great day leads to a great 55th year!

Happy Birthday to Dad...

We have a full schedule of events in store for Dad's birthday today, which I will post about later, but for the moment, I just wanted to wish him a happy birthday. So, Happy Birthday Dad!