It is summer time in the region known as Chicagoland, which means blocking off strips of traveled road one weekend at a time in order to regurgitate one street fest after another. While the street names change, the gyro stands remain the same. “Ribfest”, “Southport Fest”, “Old Town Art Fest”, “Taste of Lincoln”, “Paulina & Wilcott fest”, “Three More Weeks till freezing fucking Winter fest”, can be found througholut the entire 6 week season. The devotion that Chicagoans have each summer to come out in droads in order to come outside with 2000 other people and eat a pulled pork sandwich standing up as always boggled me. Understandable, is the fact that the winters in this city can be extremely isolating and brutal, but rejoicing with a $6 plastic cup of beer in a “More Cowbell” t-shirt is not the primary way I would spend a 101 degree Sunday. Of course, I prefer spending that day the same as I would in a 12 degree Sunday, in air conditioning. The only thing worse than a Chicago winter is a Chicago summer.

Of course, the weekly street fests are not all about indulging in the exquisite local cuisines like Robinson’s rib tips, theres also cerebral and consumer stimulants. When one strolls through the alley that is roped off behind the “C” stage that contains the finest Bachman Tuner Overdrive cover band this side of Lake Ontario, they will find themselves a parade of classy art. Too many times I have asked the question, “What would it look like if Tony Soprano, the Godfather, and Tony Montanna were sitting at the same dinner table?” only to be left perplexed. The Street fair artists finally answer that question. (coke, uzis, and scotch is the answer by the way). The scene is painted beautifully in pencil shade black and white for a tidy $30. A quick trifecta purchase of the Tupac , Jack Sparrow, and Horace Grant headshots, and my living room interior is set.

Finally, theres the people that love to muck and grind thorugh the sweat and free coupons for 20% off your next half witted hack Bush pamplet handouts. From the high fiving dudes who acknowledge each others alma mater via conference championship t-shirts, to the dyed blondes sporting their new Nicole Ricthie “bug eyed” sunglasses that US Weekly told them to wear screaming the lyrics to “laid” by James. (Still!) They hate me and I hate them, but what I hate most about these traffic nightmares is the sweat. God do I sweat!

01/08/2006
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