Last night Aunt Colleen brought home this seasonal Chicago treat and suggested Grandma Rosie and I might like to make little dinner cocktails with it. They were the perfect drink to toast St. Patrick’s Day eve.
I had my first bottle of Green River at the old Bear Trap Hot Springs in Montana, outside of Bozeman. As I remember it, Bear Trap’s dingy back-bar was lined with the most exotic pops and beers in existence. My dad spotted a bottle of Green River, ordered a round for my sister and I and told us of the age-old and firmly Ozian tradition of dying the Chicago River in honor of St. Patrick, who is well known for hating all other colors of river.
I didn’t see the river go green this year. They dump the dye on parade day, which was this past Saturday. My excuses are boring though. I was apartment hunting, it was cold and I was reluctant to follow the tottering pub crawlers. But getting to taste just holding the bottle more than made up for missing the other real green river.
Sláinte to you, wherever you end up tonight!
Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to people about Chicago neighborhoods. I’ve tried to absorb opinions and impressions of these social territories because their names give nothing away: Pilsen, Logan Square, Bucktown, UK Village, Roscoe Village.
It’s not far enough along in the project to be a look book for the whole city, but there’s enough there to show a wide range of the neighborly characters you may meet walking these streets.
Andrew’s roommate John was on his way to walk dogs and offered to give me a ride up Damen St to my bus stop. A handful of change bought me a bus ride right to the front door of the Steppenwolf Administrative Offices.
Early, thanks to John’s ride, I paced down one side of the street then the other reading my scene and working myself up trying not to work myself up. The auditions are held in a building that looks like any other office with a small parking lot, glass doors, and three flights of low-pile carpeted stairs. Up I went into a little greenroom where I met a flustered young man heading out the door.
“They’re very nice,” he says.
A young woman with a bob and a long sweater sat beside the door with a clipboard and asked if I was Jeff.
I listened to the two auditions before mine. The first, a bigger older fellow, made a southern accent for his monologue but had a quiet scene. The other was a finely featured young man who gave a great audition from what I could hear. Then it was my turn.
Through the door, six people sat behind and around a small table. I introduced myself to the table and was asked what I’d like to start with, monologue or scene. I chose scene then monologue. After I was through, I was thanked “for coming all this way.” I thanked back for the invitation to audition and I took off out the door. It was over just like that!