Westward, Ho! (part the second)

Fun as it was to party at the Pranitis' homestead, the Halls knew it was time to get a move on.  Delivering a final birthday hug to Mr. Pranitis, Mrs. P. loaded all their paraphernalia into her little roundabout and headed for the Arlington Park station.  "Call when you get in safely!" she waved, but knowing how Mrs. Hall felt about being in the city, she knew that wouldn't be for quite a while.
 Arlington Heights has much to be proud of for a community as a whole, and not the least of which should be that when they admonish the local inhabitants of the illegality of alcohol on their trains, they immediately assume that the beverage of choice would be a martini.  "Now, that is a progressive neighborhood," remarked Mr. Hall.  They settled in for the trip and caught up with the latest news headlines in the paper.

 The towns flew by in a blur and before they knew it, they were in the lower Loop.  A very happy Mrs. Hall had noted that the Amtrak they had selected to convey them home was not scheduled to depart until much later that evening.  "Let's check our bags at the Metropolitan lounge and hit the streets!"

  They managed to get about a half a mile down Canal Street before Mrs. Hall softly asked if Mr. Hall was hungry too. He looked at her incredulously; they had spent the better part of the last two days doing nothing but eating. But just to the right of them, impossible to miss, was the neon glow of Boston Blackie's, buzzing with activity and beckoning to Mrs. Hall's digestive juices.  "Oh, all right." he said, " But only if we can sit at the bar so I can follow ESPN! "  They turned in, and although the hostess offered to seat them in 30 minutes or so, a spot miraculously opened at the bar and they slid in.  A couple of reubens later, Mrs. Hall was chomping at the bit to go. "But there's only four minutes of the game to go and W. Virginia's ahead of the Hoyas!"  "Well, then we don't have to watch.  Com'n, we're burning daylight!" The weather was unseasonably pleasant, so they toddled east to Michigan Ave. and decided to work their way north from there. The weekend had flown by and it was Wednesday already, but that did not stop the God of Hilarity from striking; the one place Mrs. Hall had hoped to visit was the Museum of Broadcast Communications, and they were completely devastated to find out it was only open Thursdays through Saturdays.  The Chicago Cultural Center had a marvelous collection called "Morbid Curiosity", but Mr. Hall shuddered and remarked the last thing he wanted to think about was work.  Over the river, they noticed the new addition to Pioneer Plaza.  Mrs. Hall giggled and waved Mr. Hall on; it was unlikely she could have quelled his interest anyway.  No matter how maligned the Marilyn statue may be in the city, it must certainly be one of the most photographed. Scores of onlookers ( or is it underlookers?) gathered at its base.  And indeed, so would have Mr. Hall, if he hadn't caught sight of the television screen in the Tribune Tower window.
"Georgetown won?  In overtime?  And you made me leave the bar??" Mrs. Hall discreetly moved on along the magnificent mile.

 The shopping was delightful and Mrs. Hall nearly forgot the time entirely until Mr. H. inquired how much further north was the Hancock. A slow smile crossed Mrs. Hall's face, and she quickened her pace.  They reached the lounge on the 96th floor just in time for happy hour.  "Here's to the best view in the city!" he said, and though she assumed he was referring to the lovely waterfront, Mr. Hall seemed to only have eyes for her.

 The picker upper was much appreciated; a little giddy effervescence is the best way to take on the high end boutiques of North Michigan. Mrs. Hall stood poised to purchase several items, (and would have readily put the pinch to her wallet,) but for the quick thinking by Mr. Hall, reminding her she really wouldn't want to be weighted down dragging them around town. They slipped onto the subway and made quick break back to the lower loop.  At the corner of State and Adams, stood the dark empty shadow where the Court coffee shop used to stand.  Mr. Hall could see Mrs. H. on the verge of falling prey to a nostalgic funk.  He whispered to her, "You know, we still have time to make a short stop at the venerable old Berghoff's," and she brightened immediately.  "Too many favorite places, too little time." Mrs. Hall managed to muffle out, through the kraut on her mini thuringer sandwich.
The wind was picking up and with the construction over the canal, many of the  detours took them through some rather fierce wind tunnels along the way.  But the views could not have been more beautiful, and when they finally settled back into their bunks, they could barely lift their heads to watch the train pull out of the station.  "Wake me when we roll back into Syracuse," mumbled Mrs. Hall, but Mr. Hall was already asleep.

Westward Ho!

Mr. Hall shivered.  The Lakeshore Limited was running late that night- the first class passengers with rooms had to wait for the front half of the train to load and then move forward because there were so many cars the station platform couldn't accommodate them all at once.  When they finally settled in, Mr. Hall heaved a deep sigh of relief.  "I'm going offline for a little while," he said peacefully. "Make me a martini."  Mrs. Hall happily obeyed, and just to be hospitable, made one for herself as well.

 The next morning, bright sunshine poured into the roomette. "I slept like an angel" cooed Mr. Hall.  He finished his ablutions.  "Must be your clean conscience," muttered Mrs. H. through the lifting haze.  Mrs. Hall was generally not conversational until she had tossed back a cup or four of the black stuff.  "I'll meet you in the dining car."  The train zipped along at a fairly brisk pace as the Halls enjoyed their morning repast, and it was no time at all before they were gathering their bags and heading down the platform into Union Station.   The air was warm and bright, with a southwest wind blowing at what appeared to Mr. Hall to be about forty knots.  It blew the happy travelers into Ogilvie Station and onto the northwest commuter.

Their hostess for the weekend, Mrs. Pranitis, met them at the track.  "Welcome, welcome, welcome!" she said as they piled into the family runabout.  The old homestead never looked so good.  The occasion of their visit was to celebrate with Mr. Leo Pranitis, raconteur and host extraordinaire, his natal anniversary; and having determined he first graced this terrestrial plane Anno Domini MCMXXVIII, it was decided this was No Small  Event.


While Mr. Pranitis attended to his daily routine, Mrs. P. and the Halls hit the local shopping center, Woodfield Mall.  "I have no idea what to get for him, and you've given me no help at all!" cried Mrs. Hall. "I'm really at my wit's end."  ("A short run to be sure," whispered Mr. H.) As is usually the case when this happens, they ended up looking at all sorts of things that would be simply wonderful for the Hall, and entirely inappropriate for the occasion at hand.  "How about a little heavy reading?" said Mrs. P. as she hoisted a ceramic book.  They toddled on home empty-handed.

 Right on schedule later that day, Mrs. Hall's brother Rick and his charming wife Gail Perry, showed up.  Chock full of good cheer and a huge basket of individually wrapped delights (much to Mrs. Hall's very obvious chagrin!) they descended on the little troupe and the birthday really started to liven up in earnest.


  As the evening wore on, Mrs. Hall asked if Mr. Pranitis would like to try one of their signature martinis.  In a jiffy the travel bar was produced, strips of lemon peel appeared and in a moment, the glistening pale golden beverage was before him. He sipped, a look of contentment washed over the pater's visage, and he dissolved happily into the fabric of his recliner.  Mrs. Hall swung around to Mr. Hall and whispered, "Lightbulb!"

The next morning was the Big Day.  Mrs. Hall grabbed Gail's arm (and her attendant vehicle) and excusing themselves on a pretense, flew out the door to the nearest liquor emporium.  Rows of bottles usually overwhelm Mrs. H.- not a few times she had to be drawn back away from the flashy labels and exotic distillates, to the task at hand.  But with luck and a little bit of cunning, they were able to secretly squirrel away the bootle in the bar, just ahead of the dinner gong.

Seafood had been the request of the evening, with the only indecision facing them being whether to get one dozen oysters or two to begin.

(While photographic evidence could not reveal how sweet the oysters actually were, it did manage to capture the neighboring diner's opinion of patrons slurping bivalues by the cartload.)   An hour later, all that remained were empty carcasses and full tummies.

 Wiping the lemony residue off their faces and hands, the merry band broke out into "Happy Birthday" and a good measure of the restaurant and staff chimed in.



 Their chariots deposited them back and it was time for Rick and Gail to hit the road home.  Hugs went all around, and as soon as everyone got out the door, Mrs. Hall piped up now would be a good time for a soothing cup of tea.  Mr. Pranitis rose to get some, then thinking better of it, decided instead to go to the bar.  There followed a brief happy exhortation from that direction of the house, and the Halls, in the other room, chuckled and patted themselves on the back.

Next episode: revisiting old places and new faces.  Stay tuned!

Neither wind nor snow nor rain nor gloom

Mrs. Hall looked out over the bleak expanse around Penguin Hall.  Puddles were growing so rapidly around the perimeter she momentarily considered the advantages of advertising their little plot as waterfront property.  This time last year they were sitting in a glorious bar on Fifth Avenue trying to decide whether to go to Rockefeller Plaza or the Plaza Hotel.  Mrs. Hall nursed that vague feeling one gets when it seems like the house is closing in around you and she sighed heavily.
 “Perhaps we shouldn’t have been so hasty about selling your old boat,” she said.  Mr. Hall wandered in.  He looked out the window. “The tide does seem to be coming in a bit early today. Maybe looking at some new boats would cheer you up,” and he pulled a pair of tickets to the boat show out of his Learjet jacket.  She brightened up immediately.
  Going to the Boat Show has always been a sort of seesaw affair for the Halls.  While Mrs. Hall was used to rigging and sailing (and generally terrifying the local populace by cleating up the sails so hard in the pursuit of speed that she frequently turtled the craft), Mr. Hall was more accustomed to allowing Mr. Evinrude’s horses to propel him effortlessly, if not a little recklessly, around the lake.  They had long since made peace with this division and if there could be any common ground between them at all, it was their mutual disdain of that Winnebago of the waterfront-  the pontoon boat, or as it is more commonly known; the Party Barge. 
  There seemed to be a number of sailing vessels in the first building and the show looked as if it was getting off on the right foot.  However, soon on, it became increasingly apparent the toll the economy had taken on the sport.  "Wow," stared Mrs. Hall in surprize.  "I guess what they say is true; it's never too soon to show yer kids how to play 'Beer Pong'".  They wandered past the all too paltry assortment of yachts and suddenly, it appeared the entire west end of the building was turned over  to nothing but pontoon boats.  One story, two story, boats with kennels and disco lights and boats with massive sound systems blasting over the din.
"Here's what I'm talkin' about!" piped up Mr. Hall.  Drawing a goodish size crowd around it was a particularly well turned out 26' boat with it's own dedicated lounge and barbeque grill.  "Now that's putting the BAR back in Party Barge!" he said.   He slid onto one of the barstools and sat back.  The idea of a floating cocktail lounge had certainly rung true with the showgoers; there seemed to be no end to their fascination with the extraordinary craft.

Dotting the seats around it were all manner of faux beverages, no doubt to drive home the idea to anyone addlepated enough not to notice-  the industry had finally figured out that second only to the monumental guzzling of petrol that these beasts required, was the massive amounts of alcohol guzzled by the boats' occupants.  

Why not stop being so squeamish about admitting this and get down to brass tacks- stick the bar right out in the open and let's get this party started. 

"You looked quite at home on that thing," remarked Mr. Hall as they slid on over to the next building.  "It's true, that is one amazing boat," she said. "But I'm still a traditionalist at heart.  Com'n, let's check out the powerboats."

 Apparently the coliseum used a shoe horn to fit the larger powerboats inside; several of the exhibits looked like a road show version of that wonderful scene from Caddyshack with Ted Knight and Rodney Dangerfield at the yacht club.  

"Very nice; very nice indeed," mulled Mr. Hall.  He surveyed the interior of a 37' Searay with a critical eye until he heard a strange noise overhead.   He came up out of the cabin to find Mrs. Hall making engine  sounds in the cockpit.  "Look at me!" she said.  "This thing is so automated, I can drive it with my eyes closed!"  Mr. Hall shook his head.   "Oh, for heaven's sake! Get out of there! You've got all the nautical sense of a navel orange.  Besides, it's time we should be going."

 They waved goodbye to the glittering tangle of chrome and ABS plastic, strolled out the parking lot and out to the gray winter skies above. It may have been dreary outside, but all the way home, visions of breakers splashing off the gleaming blue hull of a shiny new Chriscraft carried them away from the gloom.

Side note:  Earlier this month Mrs. Hall escaped Mr. Hall's usually stern surveillance, and had ordered herself another toy online.  It came Wednesday via the post, and for the better part of an afternoon distracted Mrs. Hall just long enough to allow that window of opportunity for cleaning the bathroom to slip out of her fingers for another day.  

Some of the chosen few

While the Purging of the Hall continues unabated (albeit slowly) there are some things that Mrs. Hall will never allow to darken the dustbin.  These are some of her Favorite Things:

Her robot collection gathering dust on the bookcase of her desk.  Won’t be moved, tampered with, or probably even dusted.  Not even an issue- don’t ask.  (Most of them talk and while Mrs. Hall is not sure if this was an deliberate act on the part of the designers, most of them also seem to follow you with their eyes around the room.  Try not to make any sudden moves.)

Mr. Sticky Man knife block.  A gift to herself after the divorce.  The children have postulated that possibly Mrs. Hall has some unresolved issues regarding this, but really, she assures them, all is fine. No, really.

Her Philippe Starck Juicy Salif guarding the Martha Stewart retro style timer.  If the Gentle Reader attempts to discern the nature of this tool, and ends up on the Amazon product page*, he will discover an indecipherable technobabble about its origins and meaning and a perfect example of what Mrs. Hall says is language actually being used as an impediment to communication.  She prefers to refer to it as a objet d'cult and leave it at that.

An Aladdin thermos rescued from the catacombs in one of many purging sweeps.  Its clean black and white aesthetic coupled with its unparalleled ability to maintain freshly brewed coffee at piping hot temps for almost 24 hours makes it indispensable at the Hall. 

Her Phillips Wide Mouth Toaster.

(No comments regarding the occupants of the Hall, please.)

Not only is its adorable twinkie-like shape appealing on a sort of visceral level, the fact that its legend mysteriously disappeared the first time it was cleaned, imbues breakfast with an exciting game-show quality, since the diner has no idea ahead of time how his toast will actually come out.

Her miniature media cabinet featuring tiny televisions, radios and sundry other forms of communication.  It contains not only household items of all description manufactured in the form of miniature books, but naturally enough, matchbook books as well.

Mrs. Hall anticipates there will be a certain apprehension on Mr. Hall’s part when the time comes to actually box up all this stuff and move.  But Mr. Hall has a generous spirit.  He graciously allows Mrs. H. not a little leeway when the discussion turns to “art” and “freedom of expression” and “feeding the soul as well as the stomach” type of things.   So long as when they finish the discussion, the end result is the well-feeding of the breadwinner in a timely fashion, chances are most of these things will stay.   

*Amazon Product Description:  Juicy Salif

One of the first projects by French designer Philippe Starck for Alessi.  The Juicy Salif was devised in the second half of the 1980s (along with the Walter Wayle II wall clock, the Hot Bertaa kettle and the large Max le Chinois colander.)  An excellent example of Alessis role as artistic mediator in the most turbulent areas of creative potential (the piece was his response to our precise briefing for a stainless steel tray), it remains unparalleled in its ability to generate discussions about its meaning and design, partly because of its unconventional use of what semiologists refer to as the decorative veil which, even though generally in a less overt manner, is inexorably destined to cover all objects created by man.  To fully understand the true meaning of its existence, it is possibly necessary to refer to the theories of Leroy-Gourham, who considers the notion of functional approximation to be fundamental.  This notion suggests that there is always a certain degree of freedom in interpreting relationships between Form and Function: it is precisely this continual play between Form and Function that leads to the decorative veil mentioned above, that Floch considers to be the manifestation of the legendary and aesthetic dimension of the object, as originally defined by Greimas.  As well as being the most controversial citrus fruit squeezer of the 20^th century, it has also become one of the icons of design of the 1990s, and it continues to be one of the most provocatively intelligent articles in the Alessi catalog.

(Ed. note: What the what?!?)

Our Favorite Bar None

The Bemelmans Bar at the Carlyle is supposed
to be lovely. After all, who wouldn't want to dine with illustrations of picknicking rabbits? And while pricey, the warmth exuded by the toyscape ceiling at the 21 Club trumps the clientele's notorious coolness any day. But as far as the Halls were concerned, on Superbowl Sunday, the only barstools they wanted to be holding down were the ones over at Digger's place, in Syracuse.

Welcomed by the glow of the huge inflatable mug o'cheer, they waddled in bearing cookies and goodies and jumped right into the fray.

"What, no Manhattan clam chowder this year??" cried Mrs. Hall. Digger himself usually prepares this delicacy, but opted instead this year for a chicken melange with elbow noodles swimming about. Mrs. Hall brought a bowl to the bar and, slopping some down, managed to pitch it around a goodish bit. "Didn't yer mother ever tell you to keep yer elbows off the table?" scolded Mr. Hall.

They were late in arriving; though while she had checked her purse for ready cash, Mrs. Hall was informed the squares were already filled and no further betting would be placed. Mr. Hall assured her he had spoken to Digger earlier that week and not to fret, they were well-represented on the boards. The ads this year were less than stellar, and when a so-so halftime show can be upstaged by an out-of-towner making an obscene gesture, well, you know the game has seen better days. Still, the second half was a nailbiter and a good deal of cheering and cajoling was going on on the sidelines at Digger's.

Mr. Hall looked up at the boards and fretted. "We are really in a pickle now," he explained. "If the score stands as it does til the end of the game, we stand to make a couple hundred sweet ones. But that means that the Pats would have to have won, and I couldn't take any scratch willingly with that sort of win on my conscience."

Mrs. Hall doubted her conscience would even notice, but while she pondered the philosophical implications, fate stepped in and handed down a verdict; the beloved Giants won handily and the prospect of any moral dilemmas (or net gains) evaporated along with the post game confetti.

"Another game on the books. Time to head home," yawned Mr. Hall. But Digger was playing with his most recent acquisition, a beautiful pinball bar version of bowling, and was demonstrating his technique. They waved to the stalwarts left in the bar and headed into the night.