The Death of Imagination

Looks like this quasi-seasonal depression might be settling in for a little longer than first anticipated. Unless you count running to the store Sunday morning because I ran out of catfood, I didn't leave the house from Friday evening until Monday morning. And I mean that literally: Saturday I never even stepped out onto the porch even though my neighbours were having a cooperative garage sale and congregating afterwards.

I hadn't expected things to turn out this way. Friday I did a load of laundry mainly to get it out of the way so I could enjoy my weekend. I also needed to stay close to home because gop had messaged me that morning asking for a place to crash while he mould-bombed his apartment. It's been probably a year since we had a significant conversation, so we stayed up too late catching up and I was groggy in the morning.

He headed out around 9 a.m. to air out the place and retrieve his poor cat and I went back to bed shortly afterward. Originally, I'd planned to meet a friend for brunch but he got sick and I wanted to be perky for my afternoon and evening plans. I was supposed to hit a friend's cookout, meet up with someone from the south suburbs, and then head out to the bars.

None of that happened. With rain on the way, I just couldn't motivate myself to head to the beach to hang out. The south suburban got sidetracked by sex and didn't get back to me until late. I'd actually managed to get myself cleaned up in the hopes of getting dinner with him, but when he made his excuses, I said "fuck it" and just made some pasta.

Sunday things took a turn for the better. Getting to the store lifted my mood a bit and I took advantage of the breezy weather to sit outside and start a new novel. I put some effort into lunch, making fish tacos with some watery defrosted cod (mistake!), but before I could get back to reading, I was distracted by the ball game.

It was the fourth in a four-game series between the Cards and Cubs. For us Cards fans, all a victory really offered us was bragging rights, but defeat would mean elimination for the Cubs. With storms rolling in from the northwest, there was a chance the game would be suspended or ended early. It felt like the starting pitchers were trying to avoid that by running through the innings with ruthless efficiency. The teams were never more than one run apart and the lead changed at least three times.

What all that means is that it was an engrossing game and the ultimate victory for the Redbirds felt particularly satisfying; shortly after, the long-awaited downpour came and I was literally dancing as I prepared dinner, Later, I took advantage of my good mood to connect with Liver Laddoo and Crazy Brother over the phone.

As I told a new acquaintance that day via DM. I've learned not to beat myself up for weekends like this one; everyone needs recharge time. Only if they repeat themselves too many times in a row (as they did back in 2017) do I get a bit concerned. We'll see where we are next week.

The liturgical and meteorological calendars were in synch this weekend. Sometime between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, the last of the snow abortions vanished from our street and the first daffodils appeared. Elsewhere I saw a forsythia in bloom, but otherwise the trees and shrubs have been holding back. Sunday was a glorious day to be out, which is fortunate because I ended up walking all the way to Andersonville and halfway back.

monshu felt up to the challenge of catering his first dinner of the year, so we asked Nuphy and Diego to share our largesse. Sadly, Diego and Uncle Betty have split, so he brought along a mutual friend for murky reasons of "concern". The latter said little, but he was in a room of big talkers, most of which weren't particularly sober, so that was no surprise.

We had lamb, of course, and lots of it since the Old Man prepared two racks of chops just in case. Also cheesy polenta and some homebaked bread which came from the widower of monshu's former neighbour across the hall. Scooter had suggested we pull out the ice cream from his freezer for dessert, but the GWO had already prepared panna cotta and asked Diego to bring fruit to top it with.

After two late nights, I was dreadfully tired but fought it all the way. Nuphy wanted to hit the road early in any case, since it was the season opener for the Cubs and he wanted to be safely out of the North Side before the game ended. By happy coincidence, they were playing the Cardinals, so once everyone had gone, I slipped downstairs and caught the last seven innings. For a good 15 hours, my hometown heroes had more wins than all other teams combined. Now they simply share the top spot with two other teams.

If tonight's game was any indication, we are in for one hell of a postseason. When I got home, we were already into the fourth inning, the Cardinals were up by one, and everyone was talking about the dugout-emptying argument between Molina and Gonzalez. Within short order, the Dodgers were up by five, I had the television muted, and I was ready to slink off and do something else. I love my Cardinals, but how likely were they to make up a deficit like that with Kershaw pitching like a Greek demigod?

But every demigod has his weak spot and for Kershaw, apparently, it's pitching from the stretch. With a runner on first, his accuracy went to hell. So St Louis went and kept a runner on first. For the whole top of the seventh. Well, until the three-run double, that is. And a two-run homer to that and suddenly it was 10-6. And I do mean suddenly. It was nothing short of staggering how quickly the Dodgers' ace went completely to pieces. Of course, maintaining that lead and romping to the finish would've been too easy on me, so the Cardinals had to give up three more runs and end the ninth with a strikeout the stranded the tying run on third.

For my sins, the series is on Fox again, but with a nailbiter like that to watch, I hardly heard the commentary. It was hard enough to hear above the roar of the crowd anyway. It was surreal how much they talked about "the heat", though. In LA, it was 30°C, while here in Chicago, we're down to the single digits. Is the good part of fall--those golden weeks I wait all year for--already over? Well, if so, it'll quash any regrets I have about staying inside glued to the tube will Redbirds demonstrate once again what makes them the most hated team in the National League.

I feel bad for the Pirates. I honestly do. Just like I felt bad for the Brewers two years ago. I imagine how their fans must think about the Cardinals, and it makes me sad. It isn't easy crushing the dreams of scrappy underdogs year after year. Of course, to me, the Cards are sort of underdogs themselves, taking on much better-funded teams and taking them down with their rookie-packed lineups and, at times, a dose of sheer dumb luck. It gives me a little bit of insight into how people can be Yankee fans and still live with themselves.

That aside, I must say, how 'bout our boy Wainwright? When's the last time you saw someone pitch to the end of a game in a clincher? Oh right: Chris Carpenter against the Phillies in 2011.

We didn't know where we wanted to eat lunch today except that we knew we didn't want it to be Fox & Obel. There used to be several other choices in the same building, but now there's one and it didn't look too promising. So we strolled down to Grand where I spotted Yolk, a newish breakfast chainlet that I associated with vaguely positive buzz. It was busy, but not too busy, when we walked in. The hostess took one look at my St Louis Cardinals t-shirt and said:

"That's the wrong shirt."

"For what?"

"For this city, for...life. Just wrong in general."

This prompted my usual response, "So, tell me, how many World Series have the Cubs won?"

"But you're...it depends, do you like in this city?"

"It doesn't matter how long I'm in Chicago, I'm not going to stop being from St Louis. It was just luck of the draw, really. If I were from Chicago, I'd be rooting for the Cubs, too. It's a shittier city, but we have better baseball, so it all balances out."

The noteworthy thing to me was that she could not have taken a pleasanter tone with me during the exchange. If you didn't understand English, you'd probably have assumed she was complimenting me. We ended up waiting fifteen minutes or so for a table outside, and it was completely worth it. Not because the restaurant was noisy (which it was) but because it could hardly have been a more perfect day to be outside on their lush little terrace. Food and service were lovely, too; my only complaint, in fact, was the size of my coffee: They charge as much for an 8 oz. Metropolis mocha as I'd pay for a 16 oz. in the store. (Though, as I pointed out to monshu, that price doesn't include seating in a garden space. And for sure not in a garden space in Streeterville.)

What were we even doing down there? you might ask. We were lured by mollpeartree, who was taking advantage of her temporary bachelorettedom by taking in a matinee of a new Bollywood release staring her pretend boyfriend Ajay Devgan. The Old Man was interested because he'd never seen a Bollywood film in a cinema before, and he was so impressed by the experience that he's talking seriously about returning to catch Krrsh 3 when it opens. She had another engagement afterwards, so it was only him who benefitted from the most fully-elaborated version of my postmodern analysis of Satyagraha.

The other attraction was, perhaps unexpectedly, Fox & Obel. monshu wanted a nice piece of fish to pair with our squid-ink pasta from Gene's and remembered their meat being as good as the produce was iffy. While there, we tut-tutted about the sorry state of the shelves once more but ended up leaving with Irish steel-cut oats (the local stores carry only inferior brands), a raw cow milk cheese from Schwyz, and--most surprising of all--a package of croxetti (the last they had, in fact). I read about this peculiarly Ligurian form of pasta only recently and never expected to stumble across it so soon. Now I guess I've got no choice but to learn to prepare a proper Genovese salsa di noci to cover them with.

I had a rare evening to myself last night, what with the Old Man at a work-related dinner at Rosebud. (Boy, did he ever unload on the food: "Tough dry chicken, cold pasta, mushy reheated eggplant parmesan"--and insult to injury there wasn't even enough wine to wash it down with.) Normally an opportunity for dinner out with an old buddy, but it was Game 4 of the NLCS and I didn't want to be far from home.

So instead I stopped off at Whole Paycheck and picked up a pack of no-nitrate uncured beef hot dogs (at $1.50 a wiener!), some broccoli salad, a bag of cheddar beer chips, and a slice of pumpkin pie. (Two slices for $6, a whole pie for $7.99? Wait, what? Oh, I see: the whole pie is vegan. Yeah, no thanks.) Then I hunkered down in front of the television and watched the Cards tar the hapless Giants 8-3. The iconic image for me is the one of Pablo "Kung Fu Panda" Sandoval sitting spread-legged in the dirt after failing yet again to get a runner out. (Least he got a consolation home run once it no longer mattered.)

Disappointingly, no phone message from Mike the Plumber. Not the way to preserve goodwill after you've just flooded someone's kitchen, Mike. If he doesn't call today, I guess we'll ring him and see what he has to say for himself. No new water so far, and there's enough of a gap now between the cabinet bottom and the frame that I don't think we need to rip it right out or punch some holes for moisture to escape, but I plan on calling Dad tonight for his expert opinion.

Oh, Chicago, you so crazy! Two days ago I could see my breath on the way to work. Coming back from the opera tonight, I was too warm in my unlined raincoat. I hope I get around to writing up this one, since Strauss' Elektra is not performed as often as it oughta be and this was an excellent production, but I don't want to be up until all hours again. I'm already going to be paying for staying up past midnight last night because I was so wound up from the Cardinals victory.

That was one amazing game, by the way. At least three times (starting when they fell behind 6 runs to zero) I said to myself, "Well, that's it, call the undertaker." And damn if they didn't end up winning 9-7. If I were a Nationals fan, I know I would feel just gutted. There are few things more terrible when you're cheering on your team to see them piss away a commanding lead like that. I'm beginning to realise why some people dislike the Cards so much.

I'm in monshu's good graces, however. I made surprisingly good time to Greektown and had about fifteen minutes to kill before I was supposed to meet Nuphy at Greek Islands, so I killed them in the Pan-Hellenic Pastry Shop. At first, I was just there for a galaktoboureko. But then I thought of the Old Man and picked up a karyoka and some macaroons, plus some cookies for me.

For dinner, I had tacos al pastor. They didn't call it that, of course; the name on the menu was kontosouvli. But it was a seasoned pork stacked on a vertical spit and roasted and then served with pita for sandwich-making. Tacos al pastor.

Once again, I'm not going to be up to writing anything coherent. For once, the Redbirds were well ahead for most of the game, which allowed me some breathing room, but not as much as you might think. The one good thing you can say about last night's error-fest is that it reminded me to take nothing for granted. I wouldn't say I held my breath at every pop fly, but I certainly didn't shrug my shoulders either. Nuphy called at the top of the eighth and while I crowed about the lead, I also pointed out that this was almost exactly the position the Rangers were in the night before and look how that turned out for them.

We were both happy Theriot got the start. Nuphy was pissed the Cubs let him go and saw this as a sort of comeuppance. I said I felt sorry for Jim Edmonds, watching from the stands tonight, and Colby Rasmus, wherever he was. And for Ron Washington, who looked so defeated in 7th, and Mike Napoli, who just looked crushed when Yadi got a hit off Mike Adams. Napoli was my favourite player on Rangers--and not just because of his limitless sex appeal. I haven't seen anything about him I don't like except that he's not in a Cardinals jersey and won't be as long as St Louis holds onto Molina. (When Gerald Laird came in during La Russa's sweep of his bench in Game 6, my reaction was "Who is that and why haven't I seen him before?" All was explained when I found out he was a catcher.)

We both expressed admiration of Allen Craig's beautiful catch (which called to mind for me Endy Chávez's even more incredible stolen home run in Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS). The fielding in general did a lot to erase the shambolic impression left by the initial innings of Game 6. Instead, it was the Rangers pitching which left my jaw slack in disbelief. Two runs on no hits? Two hit batters in the same inning? I mean, it wasn't the Tiger pitchers' error-rife performance of 2006, but it simply wasn't what you expect to see at this level of play. Then again, it's a long exhausting season; maybe they just were plump worn out?

A lot of the onscreen chatter seemed aimed at viewers who were just tuning in after hearing what an amazing game was played last night; I hope they weren't too disappointed. I wore my Cardinals jersey to work both today and yesterday and it was interesting to see the upswing in reactions. Also to find out who follows baseball that you wouldn't expect, like the middle-aged Englishman in the next department over. Even deep up in Cubs country here, the reactions were overwhelmingly positive; seems my next-door neighbour is rather alone in his bitterness.