The Intro:
Sir Opti and I moved into our apartment in October of 2008 and since then, my parents have visited us 2 or 3 times. I speculate that their infrequent visits are determined by a number of things:
1.) The birth canal between the city and the suburbs: 290 (between Mannheim and Harlem) does make it challenging to travel and have any respect left for the human race.
2.) We have no children thus making it significantly less imperative to visit.
- Although since 75% of their waking hours is spent watching their grandchildren, you’d think they would seek a peaceful oasis any chance they got. We always have handy booze, a grill and milk for when we have guests.
3.) We don’t actively invite them.
- But let’s be honest, the wonderful thing about parents is that they don’t need invitations. Just come over. What are we gonna do? Turn you away? What’s with the formalities?
And finally the main reason I think they don’t visit:
4.) People in the city are “different”.
- Typically, my Time with Frank & Ada posts exasperate the type of unreasonable reasoning to which Ada adheres. This time, it’s Frank that falls prey. The man grew up in the Pilsen neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. One would assume he is accepting of diversity. But when you grow up listening to just Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond and Perry Commo, you’re eye for diversity develops cataracts.
The Scene:
Sir Opti and I decide to take my parents out to a nice little Chicago restaurant called Dunlays. It has your typical American-bistro cuisine that won’t scare away Ada with words like “sashimi” or “raisins”. Well, we all order our dishes – Frank and Sir Opti order the grilled meatloaf while Ada and I order ribs to split. The wine goes down smoothly along with our meals. Toward the end of the night Frank stands up to use the bathroom. Ada, Sir Opti and I continue our conversation. Frank returns.
“They have a picture of some pedophile on the door of the guy’s bathroom.”
“What??” I say
“Well that’s different,” Ada says.
“Because they couldn’t put the name ‘men’ on the restroom door, they put a picture on there. It looks like some damn pedophile,” Frank says.
Well that’s weird, I think to myself. I’ve never paid attention to the pictures on the bathroom door, much less the men’s bathroom door.
Sir Opti excuses himself for the bathroom. Sir Opti returns.
“Who was it on the door?” I whispered.
“It’s a picture of Jimmy Hendrix.”
“Oh good God.” I shake my head in disappointment mixed with a unambiguous lack of surprise.
Curtain
