CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- The meteoric rise of "nouveau neighborhood" Wicker Park has some residents up in arms over the changing face of the enclave they've called home.
The neighborhood's recent revitalization and upturn in commercial investment, condominium construction, and soaring property values is quietly uprooting working-class families on Chicago's near West Side. African American, Polish and Mexican families who've inhabited the area for generations are being driven out as yuppies seek a reprieve from the white-hot Lincoln Park and other lakefront real estate markets.
In addition to the loss of affordable family housing though is an equal loss of charming residents who deftly lent their vibrancy to the eclectic neighborhood.
"I used to sit in the park all day just drinking my bottle of grape," said Charles "Stickles" Johnson, 39, from a further-west Humbolt Park bench where he had pissed himself.
"To get by, I maybe sold four or five copies of Streetwise to some sisters who felt some guilt and a little self-righteousness, too. Now the Man has gone and moved me on [to here]."
The situation is even direr for that quintessential neighborhood entrepreneur, the drug dealer.
"Two years ago it was all rock, now my best seller is powder [cocaine]," said Anthony "Two Toofs" Last-Name-Withheld. "It really hurts my bottom line because my income only comes on Friday and Saturday nights now, whereas, I was accustomed to an even daily rate from those ever-reliable crack whores.
"Who knows, I may have to expand into new product lines like knock-off Lacoste polos with the popped collars or maybe those hot Coach handbags just to get by. Fuck it, or I can go out of business all together, you know what I'm saying, fool?" he forlornly continued.
The loss of character hasn't gone completely unnoticed on Wicker Park denizen, Chris T, who overlooks the gentrification's epicenter on Milwaukee Avenue.
"I do miss 'Quarter Guy' who used to stand by the subway entrance and repeatedly yell at me, 'Can I have a quarter?' I'll never forget his lingering ever so eloquently on the last syllable," reminisced T.
Added his roommate, Luke Penca, "I used to leave half-finished beer bottles in my trash for the homeless drunks, you know, sort of as a present. Now the only ones going through the garbage are the rats. It's a damn, damn shame."
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Technorati: Chicago, Wicker Park, Satire, Lukateake
Monday, July 24
Thursday, July 20
Summer of Luke, Part IV
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- It's intermission of my seasonal blockbuster: the Summer of Luke, Part Four. So it's time to hand out a midterm report card and pick up a box of Junior Mints before heading back into the theatre for the inevitable denouement.
This is my fourth summer of being single in Chicago (something that everyone should do at least once in their lifetime) and, like Rocky IV, it's been a Battle Royale already. The summer began with my grandmother's passing and, for the sake of comparison and in tremendous bad taste to some, we'll liken her death to that of Apollo Creed. Both characters we're instrumental to the development of the two protagonists -- myself and Balboa, respectively. Both appeared in every previous installment to move the plot forward masterfully. And, strangely, both looked good with picked out 'fros.
(Grandma G., I love you and want to tell the world that you meant so much to me and the rest of the family. You were truly the definition of a classy woman and I miss you very, very much.)
Following that tumultuous time, I did sequester myself and began training to fight my demons. I didn't have to travel to Siberia like Rock but I took plenty of time away from the limelight and spent it in introspection and atonement. Also, I metaphorically bore more than one yoke through symbolic waist-deep snow all to the bombastic wailings of Survivor, who are a real band unlike the "reality" show.
The training was not physical since I'm a such a pussy; it was literally literary training but more on that later in another thread. In one sentence let's bring the reader right up to the moment: Figuratively speaking, I'm now in Moscow surrounded by unfriendly Reds and ready for the final bout, be it Drago or some metaphysical apparition manifesting from a demented psyche beset by guilt over the loss of a friend. Whoa, that was a helluva run-on sentence but at least we're all caught up. Whew!
Okay, enough already distraction already: what's the film's grade thus far? Well, since I fancy my story as something more than the derivative, cookie-cutter contrivance Hollywood routinely shits out (see Adam Sandler, et al.) then I'll give myself a A-minus. If I'm grading against those low-budget art house pretentious flicks, then I'm about a C-minus. But only because I lack an Academy Award-nominated cinematographer who is willing to work for scale. (I'm looking in your direction, Janusz Kamiński.) Sure, I'm biased about my story but I definitely feel that there is enough substance to warrant riding this show out now. And remember, conflict resolution will come quick as it's all downhill now that the fucking exposition is out of the way.
So will the hero prevail? Will he get the girl? Will someone beat unconscious those douche bags with the laser pointer who keep talking throughout the movie? All I can say is stay tuned. I read "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" by Joseph Campbell so anything can happen; go with the monomyth. Or against it just to mess with people.
Also, is it more than coincidental that the Bridgette Nielsen hairstyle worn in Rocky IV is in vogue during Summer of Luke IV? Fuck, my life really is a movie!
# # #
This is my fourth summer of being single in Chicago (something that everyone should do at least once in their lifetime) and, like Rocky IV, it's been a Battle Royale already. The summer began with my grandmother's passing and, for the sake of comparison and in tremendous bad taste to some, we'll liken her death to that of Apollo Creed. Both characters we're instrumental to the development of the two protagonists -- myself and Balboa, respectively. Both appeared in every previous installment to move the plot forward masterfully. And, strangely, both looked good with picked out 'fros.
(Grandma G., I love you and want to tell the world that you meant so much to me and the rest of the family. You were truly the definition of a classy woman and I miss you very, very much.)
Following that tumultuous time, I did sequester myself and began training to fight my demons. I didn't have to travel to Siberia like Rock but I took plenty of time away from the limelight and spent it in introspection and atonement. Also, I metaphorically bore more than one yoke through symbolic waist-deep snow all to the bombastic wailings of Survivor, who are a real band unlike the "reality" show.
The training was not physical since I'm a such a pussy; it was literally literary training but more on that later in another thread. In one sentence let's bring the reader right up to the moment: Figuratively speaking, I'm now in Moscow surrounded by unfriendly Reds and ready for the final bout, be it Drago or some metaphysical apparition manifesting from a demented psyche beset by guilt over the loss of a friend. Whoa, that was a helluva run-on sentence but at least we're all caught up. Whew!
Okay, enough already distraction already: what's the film's grade thus far? Well, since I fancy my story as something more than the derivative, cookie-cutter contrivance Hollywood routinely shits out (see Adam Sandler, et al.) then I'll give myself a A-minus. If I'm grading against those low-budget art house pretentious flicks, then I'm about a C-minus. But only because I lack an Academy Award-nominated cinematographer who is willing to work for scale. (I'm looking in your direction, Janusz Kamiński.) Sure, I'm biased about my story but I definitely feel that there is enough substance to warrant riding this show out now. And remember, conflict resolution will come quick as it's all downhill now that the fucking exposition is out of the way.
So will the hero prevail? Will he get the girl? Will someone beat unconscious those douche bags with the laser pointer who keep talking throughout the movie? All I can say is stay tuned. I read "The Hero with a Thousand Faces" by Joseph Campbell so anything can happen; go with the monomyth. Or against it just to mess with people.
Also, is it more than coincidental that the Bridgette Nielsen hairstyle worn in Rocky IV is in vogue during Summer of Luke IV? Fuck, my life really is a movie!
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Wednesday, July 19
Lukateake Spotted on Route 66, Film at 11
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- Sorry Lukateake fans (all two of you), I took a long weekend off from the blog to re-energize. What, huh? ... I was gone for more than a trimester?! Hmmm, it didn't seem that long. Really, it didn't.
Nevertheless, it's good to be back among thelivingposting, unlike that flash-in-the-pan CraftyAndSnarky blog. Truth be told, there was no way that a meglomaniac like me could get behind a project where I was getting second billing ... and buried behind an article of speech, too!
Well, since there's been a long layoff how about 10 updates about me since we last caught up with one another.
Yes, I know there are 11 entries above when I said that there would only be 10. Consider it a bonus, you inconsiderate bastard. And, frankly, I didn't think you'd read a list that contained 11 items so I had to dupe you.
And, no, this really shouldn't count as a new post; it's really more like a clipshowblog. (Yes, I just learned the HTML tag that does strikethrough text. The really funny thing is that it took me these three months.)
Anyway, I'm back and I hope that you're back with me. I'll try to be funny, I'll try to be creative, I'll try to be entertaining, but know this: I will be me and I will be here. (Or here.) ((Or here.)) New and improved Lukateake ... now with 50 percent more elipses!
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Technorati: Highlights, Best Of, Satire, Lukateake
Nevertheless, it's good to be back among the
Well, since there's been a long layoff how about 10 updates about me since we last caught up with one another.
- I was acquitted.
- Tom Brokaw hopped on the now-fashionable global warming bandwagon driven by yours truly.
- My Axe Body Wash has yet to run out. Though I take a shower everyday, I'm really more of a shampoo-as-soap guy, especially since I wear a hairshirt ... in the literal sense.
- I still have no surrond system but the plasma TV exists, if only in my mind.
- I killed Ken Lay.
- I, The Ruckus, killed Paul Gleason.
- I've started taking fashion tips from my soothing meditation instructor Matthew Lesko.
- Tom Skilling is balder than ever but he's still weaseling his way into my life like a ... a ... wait for it ... a weasel.
- Oil prices are up nearly 20 percent since I was last bored with the subject, four months ago.
- Cheeseburger, it turns out, is quite happy with his decision.
- The married guys are winning. And, after an extensive and expensive campaign, I'm the Best Man.
Yes, I know there are 11 entries above when I said that there would only be 10. Consider it a bonus, you inconsiderate bastard. And, frankly, I didn't think you'd read a list that contained 11 items so I had to dupe you.
And, no, this really shouldn't count as a new post; it's really more like a clip
Anyway, I'm back and I hope that you're back with me. I'll try to be funny, I'll try to be creative, I'll try to be entertaining, but know this: I will be me and I will be here. (Or here.) ((Or here.)) New and improved Lukateake ... now with 50 percent more elipses!
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Technorati: Highlights, Best Of, Satire, Lukateake
Tuesday, July 4
America Doesn't Look a Day Over 30
CHICAGO (SNARKY) -- As I like to say: 230 is the new 20. The Grande Dame hasn't looked better, in my opinion. Though she may not be the comely lass she once was -- idly vexing the League of Nations gents mincing about the perimeter of the ball. (No matter, America, most of them are gay anyway -- not that there's anything wrong with that.)
My love affair with America becomes plainly evident on the Fourth of July. It's the perfect summer holiday to stop and celebrate our country and reflect upon our wonderful way of life here.
From the boisterous social gatherings around the grill with friends and family to the awe-inspiring and magnificent fireworks alighting the warm night sky, the best of America is everywhere today. But the epitome of it all is the slow parades marching down Main Street. Men on tractors and in those silly Shriner cars. Lady Godivas riding horses and wearing cowgirl hats. This holiday is the very soul of Americana 101 and what the boys (and girls) abroad are fighting to preserve.
I'm no rabid, flag-waving nationalist/protectionist but I can't help having a serious crush on America and what she represents.
Sure, America is full of idiosyncrasies but that only makes my love for her more real; the imperfections make her more endearing to me. To wit, there's something akilter to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation parade float throwing out Jolly Ranchers candies. All that extruded sugar can't be good for their stated mission. It's ironic probably only to me, nevertheless, I love the nuance surrounding the action.
So America, keep doing what you're doing whatever that may be. It looks like it must be Pilates or something because your Sun Belt is looking taut, girl. Call me sometime: 773.425.2XXX.
# # #
My love affair with America becomes plainly evident on the Fourth of July. It's the perfect summer holiday to stop and celebrate our country and reflect upon our wonderful way of life here.
From the boisterous social gatherings around the grill with friends and family to the awe-inspiring and magnificent fireworks alighting the warm night sky, the best of America is everywhere today. But the epitome of it all is the slow parades marching down Main Street. Men on tractors and in those silly Shriner cars. Lady Godivas riding horses and wearing cowgirl hats. This holiday is the very soul of Americana 101 and what the boys (and girls) abroad are fighting to preserve.
I'm no rabid, flag-waving nationalist/protectionist but I can't help having a serious crush on America and what she represents.
Sure, America is full of idiosyncrasies but that only makes my love for her more real; the imperfections make her more endearing to me. To wit, there's something akilter to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation parade float throwing out Jolly Ranchers candies. All that extruded sugar can't be good for their stated mission. It's ironic probably only to me, nevertheless, I love the nuance surrounding the action.
So America, keep doing what you're doing whatever that may be. It looks like it must be Pilates or something because your Sun Belt is looking taut, girl. Call me sometime: 773.425.2XXX.
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