The Chicago suburb of Lincolnwood has a well-earned reputation as going whole hog -- and then some -- when Christmas rolls around. Leah, Dick and I tool around this sometimes-tony suburb for a look at ways to dress up a McMansion for the holidays.
As you'll hear, the displays range from the simple to the complex. Many feature those inflatable snow-globe displays that have been on sale at every drug and discount store. And some even continue to trot out deacdes-old illuminated Santa Clauses one given out as premiums to customers of Polk Bros., once a major appliance store.
The City of Chicago itself doesn't really go in for a municipal display, although they do run a traditional German Christmas market of sorts in Daley Center. I'm happy to report that my hometown of Denver continues to pull out all the stops in its annual makeover of the City and County Building into a time-exposure Kodak Moment.
Denver's been doing its Christmas display as long as I can remember -- and long before that. I hope to visit the display when I'm in the Mile High City in a couple of weeks, assuming the city's continuing the tradition of keeping the lights up until the end of the National Western Stock Show.
I grew up in Denver's western suburbs, and my secular humanist parents never really had much of a problem with the display. What did torque their jaws, however, was that giant illuminated crucifix on the mountain west of town. "What's next?" Mom liked to ask, "a giant neon Coors beer sign?"
Your humble diners steer the Mobile Recording Studio to Fox River Grove and enjoy the Five O'Clock Steakhouse. On the drive back, we talk about the food, the service, waiters' names (why are "Mike" and "Steve" seemingly the norm in the suburbs, while the city is saddled with "Kyle" and "Cody"?) and Leah's affection for Ruth's Chris Steak House.
Leah also suggests the reason why women enjoy gnawing on bones more than men do: a "viscerally satisfying racial memory" of when the better half was relegated to waiting around the cave for Ugh to bring back a sabertooth tiger for dinner and had to settle for the leavings after the menfolk gorged on the kill.
Leah, Dick and I start with a fine meal at Rio's D'Sudamerica in Chicago's Bucktown neighborhood -- and then progress into conversations about why fresh pineapple screws up Jell-O, the amazing fact (at least to me) that all canned food has actually been cooked, and a brief discussion of why I don't eat rabbit. (It has to do with when I was a kid and our standard-size French poodle, Suzette Francesca da Rimini, got ahold of Carrot, my pet rabbit, and you can guess the rest.)
Speaking of canned food, ever since I was little, I've known that "No. 303" is a common can size. I probably remembered this because growing up in Colorado, that number was our area code, too.
Besides, I like the idea of a recipe calling for a No. 303 can of peas instead of for 2 cups -- or, God forbid -- 480 milliliters. It just feels more comfortable, sort of like those trusty old Wratten filter numbers.
You can sample some of the music from the show at "Forever Plaid - The Movie." (It's unclear whether the site is attempting to interest investors in a "Forever Plaid" film adaptation or simply using a drive-in movie motif to publicize the stage version.)
As we motor along, Leah, Dick and I also tackle various other topics of crucial importance, including Ed Sullivan, low-carbohydrate diets, Cthulu, H.P. Lovecraft, Charles Fort and Christmas decorations.
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ChicagoScope goes camping in a vintage VW Campmobile.
ChicagoScope goes to Wheat Ridge, Colorado.
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Out in Aurora, some 35 miles from my home base in Chicago's Jefferson Park neighborhood, we visit Chef Amaury's Epicurean Affair for some high-class eating.
As we motor along in the Mobile Recording Studio, we also discuss Steak n Shake, which has the distinction of being open 24 hours a day. (At least most of them never close; some municipalities restrict the operating hours of any restaurant.)
During a discussion of how creme brulee is made, I tell how I turned in some art-school student who was using a butane torch to deface a Chicago Transit Authority Ravenswood Line "L" car.
Many thanks to Pat Butler for taking time out to explain how he came to found the Church of the Red Ram.
This is not my first experience with homegrown religions. Back in my college days, I secured ministerial credentials from the Universal Life Church, which grants ordination from its California headquarters. I used to have the credential around here somewhere, but it's been long lost for nearly two decades at this point.
I last dared to call myself "the Rev. Leigh Hanlon" back around the time I shot "River Expedition," my ill-fated collegiate attempt at documentary filmmaking. (The link to the movie doesn't work, by the way.)
As I recall, you could request just about any designation on your credential: father, mother, sister, brother, the reverend, reverend mother, cardinal -- for all I know, I could have called myself pontifex maximus.
The church does insist on real names, though. "Frivolous names will be rejected whenever we notice them," the church warns on its website. "If your parents had a sense of humor when naming you, we may reject your application initially, but upon explanation, we will reconsider." (Surely this is joyous news for Moon Unit Zappa.)
I'm not the only one fascinated by the prospect of no-study ministerial certification. According to Wikipedia's entry about the church, my fellow ministers include The Beatles, Art Bell, Johnny Carson, Tony Danza, Sharon Stone and Wolfman Jack.
I took Metra to Arlington Heights on Saturday, but when I arrived, needed to stand outside with minimal protection from a rainstorm. Train stations should be open when trains are operating.
We wind up at Superdawg, that famed drive-in icon on Milwaukee near Devon, just shy of Niles. For Leah, Dick and me, however, the evening starts at Sol de Mexico, 3018 N. Cicero Ave., out in Chicago's Belmont-Cragin community for some creative, upscale Mexican food.
Then, we pile into the mobile recording studio and eventually find ourselves in search of dessert ... at Superdawg.
By the way, I was afraid I'd give ourselves away if I popped off a photo outside Sol de Mexico, so all I have here is a picture of Superdawg.
"Manchamanteles," by the way, translates as "tablecloth stainer."
The Russian place we talk about just before winding up at Superdawg is a delicatessen called Renee Gourmet, 6247 N. Milwaukee Ave., which apparently sells a lot of smoked fish.
A couple of days back, I mentioned to my friend Dave ________ that the automated female voice activated when someone pushes the emergency button at Chicago Transit Authority stations is easily the most annoying string of cacophonous words it's been my extreme displeasure to encounter in at least the past decade.
I had assumed this harpylike blast of aural pain to be part of some public-transit accent diversity program. Not so, as Dave explains. Turns out that what I dismissed as the grating, high-pitched intonations of a South Side Anglo-Irish dialect actually reflects an accent change that's cutting a swath through American mouths.
It's called the "northern cities vowel shift" and Dave has been following it for some time.
After work one day last week, Leah and Dick picked me up next to the Jack Brickhouse/Captain Christopher Pike memorial and we pointed the Mobile Recording Studio toward Bucktown. We had a little time to kill, however, so we stopped in at the relatively new Sunflower Market, which is endeavoring to fill the same ecological niche as Whole Foods.
Sunflower's store, located at 1910 N. Clybourn Ave. in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, is a tentacle of the Supervalu group that owns, among other outlets, Jewel and Albertsons.
Listen to the podcast to find out what we thought of the place. For another opinion (and much better photos), check out Chicagoist. Too bad that F--- Corporate Groceries is no longer being updated; I'd like to hear what her opinion is of Sunflower.
Speaking of Supervalu, Leah is disappointed that Chicago-area Cub Foods stores are being sold. Cub was the only supermarket near her open 24 hours.
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About Me
I'm Leigh Hanlon, a writer and photographer in Chicago. Before moving to the Windy City, I worked at daily and weekly newspapers in Arizona, Colorado and Wyoming. (Photo by Marty Larkin)
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Leah, Dick and I start with a fine meal at Rio's D'Sudamerica in Chicago's Bucktown neighborhood -- and then progress into conversations about why fresh pineapple screws up Jell-O, the amazing fact (at least to me) that all canned food has actually been cooked, and a brief discussion of why I don't eat rabbit. (It has to do with when I was a kid and our standard-size French poodle, Suzette Francesca da Rimini, got ahold of Carrot, my pet rabbit, and you can guess the rest.)
Out in 
Many thanks to Pat Butler for taking time out to explain how he came to found the Church of the Red Ram.
I took 
A couple of days back, I mentioned to my friend Dave ________ that the automated female voice activated when someone pushes the emergency button at Chicago Transit Authority stations is easily the most annoying string of cacophonous words it's been my extreme displeasure to encounter in at least the past decade.
