Monday, May 24, 2004
Visiting Hours
There are some events that are so magical, so delicately and intricately woven into the very fabric of our lives, that their import is well beyond our poor power as humans to express. I fear that my parents’ recent visit to Chicago may be just such an event. In terms of historical importance, frankly, I have no doubt that Dr. John & Dr. Barb’s trip to Chicago will rank right up there with Nixon’s trip to China and Neil Armstrong’s trip to the moon. I can never hope to truly share in the greatness of these moments; all I can do is share my observations as a spectator to destiny.
We began things with a trip to Second City, where we enjoyed the delicious awkwardness that only the classic combination of broad sexual humor and essentially Amish parents can bring. Not since the Lewinsky scandal forced my mother to explain oral sex to my 93-year-old grandmother have we had this much fun. (Her answer, by the way? “It’s when they have sex out loud.”) We followed this up with an engagement at the Cubs game, where a hyperactive, personal-space-invading redneck taught us all how to love again. Whether he was utterly failing to connect with the beat as he enthusiastically clapped along with the crowd’s chants or loudly making witty comments about the various physical attributes of beleaguered beer vendors, he gave until his poor little Big-Johnson-T-shirt-sporting heart could give no more. Of course, no parental summit could conclude without a stop at Navy Pier, where purchasing a hot dog requires a financing plan. Given my mother’s sudden and pathological fear of ferris wheels, this was an especially grand plan. I don’t know if a location can legally procure a restraining order against people, but I would definitely support that in this case.
There’s more, of course, but I ought to leave something for the historians. My mother’s attempt to bust a credit card fraud at H & M is the stuff of pure poetry.
There are some events that are so magical, so delicately and intricately woven into the very fabric of our lives, that their import is well beyond our poor power as humans to express. I fear that my parents’ recent visit to Chicago may be just such an event. In terms of historical importance, frankly, I have no doubt that Dr. John & Dr. Barb’s trip to Chicago will rank right up there with Nixon’s trip to China and Neil Armstrong’s trip to the moon. I can never hope to truly share in the greatness of these moments; all I can do is share my observations as a spectator to destiny.
We began things with a trip to Second City, where we enjoyed the delicious awkwardness that only the classic combination of broad sexual humor and essentially Amish parents can bring. Not since the Lewinsky scandal forced my mother to explain oral sex to my 93-year-old grandmother have we had this much fun. (Her answer, by the way? “It’s when they have sex out loud.”) We followed this up with an engagement at the Cubs game, where a hyperactive, personal-space-invading redneck taught us all how to love again. Whether he was utterly failing to connect with the beat as he enthusiastically clapped along with the crowd’s chants or loudly making witty comments about the various physical attributes of beleaguered beer vendors, he gave until his poor little Big-Johnson-T-shirt-sporting heart could give no more. Of course, no parental summit could conclude without a stop at Navy Pier, where purchasing a hot dog requires a financing plan. Given my mother’s sudden and pathological fear of ferris wheels, this was an especially grand plan. I don’t know if a location can legally procure a restraining order against people, but I would definitely support that in this case.
There’s more, of course, but I ought to leave something for the historians. My mother’s attempt to bust a credit card fraud at H & M is the stuff of pure poetry.
