In a continuing effort to prepare my fragile brain and body for the impending trip to the Taste of Chicago, I decided to check out another popular tourist spot.
It was rainy and crappy again today, which makes people who are inclined towards self-pity have more road rage incidents and scream at people who try and budge in line at the Jewel. To be safe, I asked my roommate to drive me to the Oak Street beach to see what went on there.
Not surprisingly the beach was completely empty. I guess people don’t want to frolic in 42 degree water or pack cold damp sand into hilarious mermaids or castles. The roommate pulled over so I could jot down a few witty observations.
Here’s what I wrote in my notebook:
1. Balls cold
2. Poor son of a bitch life guard in a rowboat fifteen feet offshore looks like a character being punished by the Greek gods.
3. Forlorn looking frozen lemon-aid stand
4. MUTHAF***ING PALM TREES
This last item, as you may imagine, threw me into a rage more appropriate for a reality tv show contestant than a cultured, intelligent advice columnist. The Roommate tried to restrain me but I fought like a hooked muskie. I screamed “PALM TREES?! PALM TREES?!” over and over until tears streamed down my face.
I now realize that was a slight overreaction. But you have to understand- I live in a city that has been known to reach temperatures (not windchill, not feels like, but actual temperatures) of 18 degrees below zero. Past summers have produced 100 degree days, but seeing palm trees wave in the biting 59 degree July 1st wind broke something in my brain.
On closer inspection the palm tress are not holding up well. They sag, their fronds have browned, they seem to cough and sputter as you stand before them. I thought their ailing would delight me, but I felt sad as I stared at the displaced trees. They reminded me of immigrants who come to America from island nations seeking streets paved with gold and end up scrubbing blood for bio-hazardous waste cleaning companies because they can’t get work permits. The palm trees were a mockery of a summer that isn’t happening, designed to delight beach goers who are currently sitting in front of their fireplaces wrapped in Snuggies.
I’d love to meet the turdy suit who thought it’d be a gas to put palm trees on a beach in Chicago. You know it was a non-native. Why would anyone who was from this city think it would be fun or interesting or cute to put palm trees along the beach. I could understand fir trees or plain metal poles. Those would invoke the strength and grit it takes to survive the winters here. A soaring fir tree along the icy shores of Lake Michigan would remind tourists that they probably wouldn’t make it through a Windy City February alive. A palm tree just bothers me. It’s sort of a wuss tree, isn’t it?
When I do get to the Taste, my first plate of chili cheese fried hot dog nachos will be dedicated to those poor sad palm trees. May they be blessed with at least one 90 degree day before they drop dead, thwarting the marketing douche bag who imported them in the first place.
