Every Picture Tells a Story 1/26/21

This li'l Creature wishes the fabulous JB a Happy Birthday!

Halloween 2020

This is the shirt I'm wearing to this year's Halloween Movie Bash at JB's place tonight. 

I bought it from an online outfit called Wicked Clothes, which I found, oddly enough, through a popup ad in my email. 

They even sent me a Halloween-themed face mask as a free gift. I'm wearing that to HMB tonight, too.

Whatever you do to celebrate this holiday, do it safely...but do it, even if it's watching horror movies by yourself in the dark. We have to get some fun out of life, even amid the pandemic. As I've long said: "Play Safe, but play."

Shocktober 10/30/20

The small but festive (and, most importantly, high-and-away-from-kitty-reach) Halloween display at La Casa de Mama. On the Left: A Halloween plaque I found at Village Discount Outlet. On the right: A Halloween card sent by JB.

Every Picture Tells a story 3/10/20

Somewhere back in the '90s, JB introduced me to Sarah Vaughan with Michel Legrand, an album of songs written by the latter and sung by the former.

I wasn't into jazz at the time--though my musical tastes were (and are) varied (i.e., all over the map)--you'll find Hank Williams Sr. next to Liz Phair next to the Who next to Howlin' Wolf next to Johnny Cash next to Meat Loaf next to the Rolling Stones next to Fred Astaire...you get the drift.

But jazz? For whatever reason, it didn't register with me.

Then JB loaned me his copy of Sarah Vaughan with Michel Legrand--an album the two musical legends had recorded together in 1972--and my earballs were changed forever.

From Legrand's lush orchestrations to Vaughan's soulful vocals, the album was a lovely blend of two masterful artists at the top of their respective games. And? Vaughan's rendition of "I was Born in Love with You" (from the '70s remake of Wuthering Heights) is enough to reduce the strongest individual to a blubbering mess.

It quickly became one of my favorite albums ever.

Then? The heart attacks happened, and I lost everything--including every CD I owned.

Over the last couple of years, though, I've been slowly rebuilding my collection.

Hank Williams Sr.? Yep.

Liz Phair? You bet.

Meat Loaf and Johnny Cash? Of course and of course.

And now? Sarah Vaughan and Michel Legrand.

My earballs are happy again.

Every Picture Tells a Story 8/15/19

Ever since the heart attacks I had four years ago (has it really been that long?), my memory has been a work-in-progress. Sometimes, I can clearly recall something--an image, a factoid, a movie title, whatever--from many years ago. Sometimes, I can't remember what I had for lunch.

For whatever reason, I was able to remember that today would have been Mrs. Fluffy's birthday, so I'm posting the picture of her and J.B. standing at Cloud Gate (a.k.a. "The Bean") in Millennium Park.

Still love you and miss you, Gretchen.

Every Picture Tells a Story 2/27/19

JB in the kitchen, preparing something yummy...



...like, say, a pretty drinkie or three?

Every Picture Tells a Story 1/27/19

Icicles seen on the way to JB's Saturday afternoon.

Shocktober 11/2/13

What, you thought Shocktober was over? As Blutto said in Animal House,, "Nothing is over until WE decide it is!" Words to live by, people. (Then again, Blutto thought the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor, so maybe we shouldn't put too much faith in his stated wisdom.)

Seriously, though, Shocktober has been extended for a couple of days this year because the annual Halloween Movie Bash (known 'round these parts as HMB) did not take place as planned last Saturday--the co-founder/original host of the Bash (and my bestest friend in the world), JB, was under the weather last week and unable to attend. And would it by HMB without JB? No, it would not. So we pushed it back a week--the latest we've ever had it--and will do it all tonight: The fun, the frolic, the pizza and, oh yeah, the movies.

It may not be Halloween anymore, but it is All Souls' Day, and it's the day we "fall back" an hour--giving us an extra hour to party!

On the Way Home Last Night 8/31/13

I had been watching their approach with growing alarm--the thunderstorms steadily sweeping down from Wisconsin. The line was long, running east to west across much of the metro Chicago area, and had much orange, red and even spots of deep purple on the color weather radar. And, of course, the line was due to scythe through downtown right about the time I was slated to leave work. Lovely.

Upon leaving the job, I ran into JB on the street and stood talking with him for a minute before heading on my way. The storms had not arrived yet, but the clouds above had a strangely scalloped look, like they were climbing over each other to get out of the way of the storm front to come.

By the time my Brown Line train had passed the Sedgwick stop, the sky had turned a dark grayish green. Lightning was bouncing back and forth between clouds, and all of the street lights had come on--about two hours early.

When the train reached Belmont, the skies opened up and trees started whipping back and forth madly. The dude sitting closest to the door had to move further into the train--the wind was blowing so hard that the rain was actually blowing around the partition and hitting him in the face anyway. (This same dud, when it came time to alight at his stop, stood before the doors, took a deep breath and, when they opened, he sprinted down the platform through the driving rain and was soaked to the skin by the time he reached shelter again.

Amazingly, the rain had let up to a drizzle by the time I made my stop. Lightning still danced in the clouds above, but little more came down. Branches littered most sidewalks, and many trash cans had blown over. The only serious damage I saw was from a huge tree limb that had snapped off (there were no singe marks on the trunk, so I assume it was felled by wind rather than lightning) and fallen across Richmond Street.

It didn't crush any cars, but it completely blocked the street; drivers headed north had to stop, back up and turn back onto Cullom to find another way out.

Where I Was Friday Night

In previous years, a fair chunk of my summer was spent attending the Silent Summer Film Festival, which ran for six weeks at the historic, rundown-but-lovely Portage Theater. At the end of last year's festivities, I fretted over the future of that movie house, as it was up for sale and the most likely buyer appeared to be a North Side church.

The church withdrew, much to the delight of Portage fans everywhere. Delight turned to horror, however, when the theater was subsequently purchased by the owner of the Congress Theater, which has long been in poor repair and has suffered many issues with its security (most infamously a rape immediately outside the theater on New Year's Eve a couple of years ago).

So this past spring, when the local alderman opposed the transfer of the existing liquor license to the new owner, said new owner displayed a mature, reasoned response: He padlocked the Portage's doors that same day. The theater has been closed ever since. (Because a movie theater can't operate without a liquor license, right? Oh, wait...it totally can.) The official website just says "Movie and Music Theater operator coming soon."

This sudden closure not only caused events on the immediate horizon to be cancelled (there was a horror film fest scheduled for the next day, which would have required no liquor whatsoever), but endangered future events--like the Silent Summer Film Festival.

The good news? The Silent Film Society of Chicago found a new venue for their fest.

The bad news? The new venue was in Des Plaines, one of Chicago's northwest suburbs. The Portage was one short bus ride away. The Des Plaines was much farther off, but fortunately has a Metra train station across the street. Unfortunately, the southbound train leaves the station at 9: 44 p.m.--before any of the movies would be over. The next train headed south? 12:59 a.m.

So I would not be spending this summer indulging my love of silent cinema. However, I still wanted to go to at least one show this year, so I needed someone with a car. Mr. E was kind enough to volunteer his automobile and mad driving skillz, and so he, JB and I headed northwest from the city to the comparative wilds of Des Plaines.

According to te ever-awesome Cinema Treasures website, the Des Plaines Theater opened on August 9, 1925 as a movie/Vaudeville venue and in recent years had shown Indian films off and on. I once interviewed for a job just up th street from the Des Plaines and remembered thinking it looked pretty (if somewhat time-worn). Friday night, I got to see the inside.

It's a lovely theater--smaller than the Portage, but with the same pipe organ and sound system. Faust looked and sounded wonderful, the crowd was large and enthusiastic, and the popcorn was terrific.

Even so, I hope that the Society finds a venue within the city limits for next year's fest--maybe the Patio Theater, if ever they can get their air conditioning situation sorted out.

At least I got to attend one night of this years festival, with good friends and a classic of German Expressionism. Here's to hoping we don't have to trek so far next year.

This Week's Travel Reading

Everyone who knows me knows how much I enjoy horror films, especially the classics from the '30s and '40s (and the not-so-classics from those decades as well). JB knows this all to well; he is the only other person besides myself to attend every single HMB (and even hosted the event a few times). So when he picked birthday presents for me from my Amazon Wishlist, he chose carefully--and, as it happens, well.

Within the elegantly wrapped package pictured above were two presents: The box set of third season of Rod Serling's Night Gallery and the book pictured below. I am lucky enough to live in a city with a popular horror host--Svengoolie, who started out in 1979 and is now in his 17th(!) consecutive year on WCIU and now ME-TV (meaning he's now seen all over the country). This book covers him and dozens of others from all over America, from the famous (Vampira, Ghoulardi, Zacherly) to the obscure. So far, it's a very fun read--and very much the kind of book for me.

Throw in my two best fiends...er, friends, JB and Dee, a fine meat loaf dinner (pictured below), several Bloody Marys and a lovely ginger waitress with the appropriate name of Colleen, and my day-later birthday celebration was quite a blast indeed!

Every Picture Tells a Story: 1/26/12

Happy birthday to my best friend, JB!

HMB 2011

More photos from the mindscape that is HMB, including one with actual people (VB, JB and Dee, to be exact) and one of Olivia observing all.

A Decade of Adoresixtyfour

Today marks the 10th anniversary of this blog.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.

I mean, I guess it's pretty awesome that I've been writing and/or posting photos here (and at this blog's predecessor site, which had a dedicated URL that, for some insane reason, I paid for instead of using Blogger's free, easier service) for so long. As mind-numbing and eye-blearing as my day job can be, it's good--healthy, even--to have an outlet for my more creative impulses.

This blog has also been a great venue for expressing emotional traumas of varying degrees--from the deaths of close friends like Kaytee and Gretchen, to the passing of beloved pets like Lottie and Ms. Christopher (who left this world three years ago today--anniversary convergence), to the continuing lack of love/dating/sex in my life (trust me--anyone reading this, no matter who you are, has gotten some more recently than I have) and the related woes of Valentine's Day, to the slow-but-certain vanishing of the city I grew up in to the personal reaction to the national tragedy of 9/11--much has been vented here. Also good. Also healthy.

But what has that decade amounted to, really?

Am I in a better mental/physical/spiritual place than I was in October 2001? Not really.

Has this blog attracted thousands or hundreds or, hell, a dozen regular readers? Despite attempts to pimp it out on MySpace, then Twitter and finally Facebook, no, it has not.

There were several individuals who, that decade ago, urged/pushed me to do something with whatever writing/photographic talent I may/may not have, and most of them--most notably JB and Jessie--are still here. Others, though, are no longer friends while still others, as noted above, are no longer even alive.

So where, 10 years down the bumpy, toruous road, does that leave me? I don't know.

Does this blog matter in the great scheme of things? does it even matter that much to me anymore, given that, most days, I only post photos here, usually without comment? Where do I go from here, if anywhere?

On. I go on.

Treading water can be fine exercise, but it doesn't really get you anywhere. Far better to lean forward or lie back, start kicking my legs, and head for shore, even if shore is nowhere in sight and my legs are already tired--likely from the weight of this cumbersome metaphor.

(Oh...and for those wondering why I have the photos of a sunflower at the top of this entry and a sunset at the bottm? No particular reason. I just liked them. Hope you do, too.)

Where I'll Be Tonight

With JB and Dee at the Portage Theater tonight for the last show in this year's Silent Summer Film Festival: The Mysterious Lady, starring Greta Garbo.

Iron Man's Dance Party

Saturday, I saw Iron Man 2 at the New 400 Theatre with JB, VB and Dee as part of my birthday celebration, and we had a Marvel-ous time. The movie was good--nothing but a popcorn movie with shit blowing up real good, but I expected nothing more, so I was more than satisfied--and had a lovely, tasty dinner at Leona's afterward. A good day all the way around.

Fast forward to Monday, where the Iron Man figure standing atop my workspace is now adorned with a disco ball in honor of the new film. (Yes, Iron Man wields a disco ball during the course of the movie. And yes, my coworkers have disco balls at their desks. They're cool like that.)

Every Picture Tells a Story: 5/5/10

Cool drinks and tasty plates at JB's place.

Holidaze Review: Mr. Krueger's Christmas (1980)

For years, WGN-TV aired Mr. Krueger's Christmas, a half-hour holiday special starring James Stewart as an elderly, lonely man and produced by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, better known as the Mormon Church, but they aired it at odd times, often burying it in unpredictable timeslots (as if they really didn't know what to do with it) and making it difficult to find from year to year.

I had seen Mr. Krueger's Christmas a few times over the years and always found it an odd, even weird, program. (Not nearly as weird as The Star Wars Holiday Special, but nothing else could ever be quite that weird.) I last happened across Mr. Krueger's Christmas on a Saturday afternoon sometime in the mid-1990s and, luckily having a videotape handy, recorded it for posterity, or perhaps to prove to later generations that it existed at all.

As it turned out, that videotape came in handy a few years later, when I described Mr. Krueger's Christmas to a coworker who refused to believe any such thing had ever aired. Even after I proved the program's existence via its listing on The Internet Movie Database, she doubted that I had a copy of Mr. Krueger's Christmas. Now it had become a matter of pride--I don't just make shit up. Of course, it might have helped my cause somewhat if I'd actually labeled the tape. However, after about a week of determined searching through what must have been at least a couple dozen videotapes, I found my copy and presented it to her. She watched it and found it to be just as strange and unintentionally unsettling as I had.

Fast-forward to this Christmas weekend. I was to spend the Saturday before Christmas (technichally Christmas Eve Eve Eve) at JB's apartment for dinner, presents exchanged with him and Dee, and holiday movies. JB doesn't have as many DVDs as I do--I don't think anyone does, outside your local Blockbuster--so he asked me to bring along a selection of movies and TV specials to watch. One of the 10 or so DVDs jammed into my big burgundy shopping bag was Mr. Krueger's Christmas, now upgraded to a 25th anniversary DVD issued a couple of years ago by the Mormon Church. To my surprise, neither J.B. nor Dee had seen it before. So beneath the soft light of J.B.'s large white Christmas tree, warm and glowing in the gathered twilight, we watched this seemingly forgotten holiday oddity.

Stewart, a natural choice for a holiday special (having already starred in a couple of Christmas classics, The Shop Around the Corner and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life) plays the title character, an elderly building custodian. When we first meet Willie Krueger, he's just finished sweeping the lobby, only to have a resident trundle through the lobby with a Christmas tree, leaving pine needles in his wake. Mr. Krueger doesn't mind sweeping the lobby again, though--he loves the season, even if people walk straight past him without a word when he wishes them a Merry Christmas on the street. He stops beside a family looking in a toy store window and asks a young boy if what he sees in the window is what he wants Santa to bring. The mom, seemingly horrified by the vaguely creepy old man, drags her son away.

Willie continues down the street and looks into the window of a men's clothing store, where he sees himself, clean-shaven and sharply dressed, being attended to by store clerks and doffing his hat to a pretty young woman. Meanwhile, back out on the street and in reality, Mr. Krueger has taken his hat off, only to have a passer-by assume that Krueger is begging for money and drop a dollar in it. Even this can't dampen Krueger's Christmas spirit--he gives the dollar to a decidedly lackluster Salvation Army singer and continues on his way, buying a tiny pine tree for his apartment and looking longingly at the families shopping for their own Christmas trees.

Mr. Krueger returns to his apartment, greeted only by his calico kitty, George (named after Stewart's Character, George Bailey, in It's a Wonderful Life, maybe?). Willie puts down food for George, wishes a Merry Christmas to the photo of his long-dead wife, and puts on an album of carols sung by--who else?--the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Willie falls asleep in his chair as the album plays, leading to a dream sequence where he conducts the Choir, then goes out frolicking with them in the snowy country (a dream within a dream?), only to return to conducting and, at the end of the song, receive a standing ovation from them.

Mr. Krueger awakens to find that the album has finished, but there's still singing--live carolers are coming down the street. He hurries to his window and calls to them, inviting them in for some hot chocolate. The lead caroler, a middle-aged woman, isn't too sure this is a good idea, but agrees to come down anyway. Willie dashes about his apartment, winding garland around his little pine tree and slipping into yet another dream/vision/hallucination in which he's living in a mansion, welcoming the carolers (now dressed in Victorian finery) and kissing the lead caroler's hand. When he comes back to his senses, he's really kissing the lead caroler's hand, which she with draws with a look of horror before launching into a very awkward rendition of "The First Noel" in Willie's living room.

Willie notices a shy little blonde girl peeking from behind her mother and smiling at the old man. She sets her fuzzy mittens down and checks out Mr. Krueger's Nativity scene, lifting the Baby Jesus out of his place. Mom comes over and makes the little girl put Jesus back on the table, even as Willie protests that "I was gonna rearrange it like that anyway."

The carolers file out Willie's apartment, even as he practically begs them to stay. "Please don't go," Willie pleads. "I was gonna make some hot chocolate. I have a new Christmas album--wouldn't you like to hear it?" Guess not--the carolers move on down the snowy street, leaving Willie and his cat George alone again.

George walks around the underdecorated tree and meows at Willie. "I guess you're right, george," he says. "We'd better trim that tree. If we don't hurry, we'll be too late." So he starts to string lights on the tiny pine and, sure enough, another dream/hallucination kicks in. This time, Willie is decorating a huge outdoor tree (with the help of the help of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) while dancers twirl around the tree and the little blonde girl is lifted high enough to place the topper on the tree and light the whole thing up brilliantly.

A loud clanging brings Willie back to reality, such as it is. "Mrs. McClain" is banging on her pipes, demanding more heat. "She'd freeze to death in the Sahara Desert," Willie grumbles initially, then concludes that nobody should be cold on Christmas Eve and heads off to stoke the furnace. When Willie returns, he discovers that the little girl left her mittens behind. He drapes them on the branches of his tiny Christmas tree, smiles and starts rearranging the Nativity scene.

Willie picks up baby Jesus and regards him for a moment. You know that that means--another dream sequence! This one isn't just a flight of fancy, though. This time, he's in a cave with a bunch of people dressed in Biblical clothing crowded around a manger...yep, Willie is now IN the Nativity scene, talking to Baby Jesus himself! "I'm Willie Krueger, custodian at the Beck Apartments...but you know that, don't you?" Willie quickly realizes that Baby Jesus is the only one who can see or hear him, and thanks Jesus for always being there for him, especially in those first few hours after his wife died. "I love you," he tells Jesus tearfully. "You're my closest, my finest friend, and that means I can hold my head high."

Willie awakens from his revelry, wiping tears from his eyes and blowing his nose. Someone's at the door: the little girl, Clarissa, and her mom are back in search of the missing mittens. Clarissa thinks it's pretty weird that Willie hung the mittens on the tree, but then goes ahead and invites him to come sing with them after Willie gives Clarissa the Baby Jesus from his tabletop Nativity scene.

Mom looks fairly dubious at first, then grants that the group could use a bass and that Willie would be obligated to join them for a turkey dinner afterward. When Willie tries to protest that he needs to stick around and keep George company, Clarissa calls him out, point out that the cat is asleep on the couch. Willie concedes that George sleeps a lot, so he rushes to grab his coat and hat and heads out into the cold winter's night with his two new friends.

Outside in the snow, Clarissa looks down at the Baby Jesus, then back up at Willie and says, for no apparent reason, "I love you, Mr. Krueger!" Then a previously unheard narrator tells us, ""I love you.' That's what Christmas is all about. Clarissa said it to Mr. Krueger. Mr. Krueger said it to Jesus. And Jesus, in so many ways, has said it to all of us." The end.

It's easy to be snarky and cynical about Mr. Krueger's Christmas--see any (or all) of the comments above--especially with the dream sequences eating up so much of its slight running time (without the commercial breaks, it's just over 20 minutes long). It's not as easy, however, to dismiss Jimmy Stewart's performance. He approaches the role with absolute sincerity, and even when Willie retreats into fuzzy-edged fantasy, he remains entirely sympathetic because Stewart plays the part completely straight and wrings emotion out of the potentially silliness, especially in the hallucinatory "Willie talks to Jesus" scene.

Maybe I'm just being hard on Mr. Krueger's Christmas because it depicts what my life could very well be 20 years from now. Or 10. Or now.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Shocktober, 10/30/09, Part 1

Last week, JB and I went to the Portage to see The Bat, a cool old silent horror flick. They had a very nice display in the lobby, too.

Shocktober, 10/1/09

My favorite month of the year begins with an appropriate decoration from La Casa del Terror--the pumpkin night light in my kitchen, given to me by JB a few years ago.

All of the photos this month (some old, most new) will relate in one way or another to Halloween. Enjoy!