Plastic Caribbean. A tropical depression of a different sort has settled over those of us—well, me anyway—who live within shouting distance of Wrigley Field: an area known locally as Wrigleyville, now temporarily an outpost of the Margaritaville Nation. Of whose existence until the last couple of days I had absolutely no inkling. Were you aware that Jimmy Buffet had fans? Not just fans, but fans enough to fill Wrigley Field to capacity on two consecutive days? How many generations ago was it that this guy last had a hit record, anyway? (I won't ask how long ago he had a deserved hit record, because that was approximately never.)

So we now have more than the usual in-season number of suburban dipshits running around drunk and pissing in the alleys, only this time it's suburban dipshits in Hawaiian shirts, plastic leis and ludicrous big straw hats. (Not all of them aging boomers, either; some are young enough that they really ought to know better.) I've never noticed that people much need the excuse of lazy, anodyne party music to get shit-faced in a crowd: perhaps it's just that they need an excuse to get shit-faced in a crowd on umbrella drinks. I take this as yet another indicator, if one were needed, of my profound cultural alienation from mainstream Amurrica. Whatever. When the plastic-Caribbean tunes start echoing down my block, I'm slapping on the headphones and turning up the Flaming Lips loud. (The sublime "Evil Will Prevail," from Clouds Taste Metallic, in some bizarre way has become my song of consolation this last week.) Now that's a nation worth belonging to.

On the other hand, there are those who know better than I do how not just to get along but to take advantage in such circumstances. On the corner of Waveland and Southport, in front of the Jewel, a group of altogether too cute little girls are handing out cups of some kind of vile instant pink lemonade in exchange for donations to Katrina relief. (I chatted briefly with the supervising mom: She, "It's good to teach them responsibility for others." Me, "I just wish somebody had ever taught that to the people running our government." She, "Yeah, I wanted to wear my buttons, but I decided not to. No point alienating somebody who might give." Reminding me once again how nice it is, after years in the south, to live in a place where hating Republicans is pretty much the default position—you just have to watch out for those suburbanites.) The girls knew who they were pitching to, and that didn't simply mean the wearing of leis. As I walked off after handing over my spare singles, one of them was shouting, "Lemonade for Katrina! Full of Vitamin C! Good for HANGOVERS!!"

posted by michael  1:44:45 PM  
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