Writer’s block

Winter: The true March Madness

It’s time we had an answer for Chicago’s long and dreary winter season

By Brian Lipman

It’s March Madness time! In fact, by late March, there is so little news here in Chicagoland that the beginning of the NCAA tournament even gets top billing from the local stations. (“Fans turned on their TVs tonight and watched sports... live team coverage at 10!”) March Madness is an action-packed event, and by the time you are reading this, some lesser-known school (Davidson) or local darling (Bradley) has made headlines by advancing to the “Sweet Sixteen” or even the “Elite Eight” before getting the living crap pounded out of them by semi-pro teams such as Kansas or UCLA.

But the real madness that needs to be addressed is just how much March has begun to suck these past few years. The weather is utter crap, most of us are getting too old for spring break and it’s not like there is anywhere to go — and this deadly combo results in my being even more ornery than usual (who, me?). February used to be the low point of the year, and that is why it deserved special attention, such as a warm weather vacation, black history month celebrations, Valentine’s Day (while making me feel exploited, it still requires a whole lot of energy and attention in the name of glorious romance) and of course the fewest days of the year to get it over with quickly. But now, 31-day-long March (following our extra long February) is the new villain, and something must be done about it before it is too late.

March weather has become a rusty, squeaky back door of winter slamming us in the face. Frankly, I just don’t need this. My car looks like complete shit after months of salt and potholes keep popping up everywhere to wreak additional havoc to its soft, exposed and sadly non-delicious underbelly and tires. My cuticles are horrible, and unfortunately straight men are simply not allowed to get manicures anymore. Businessmen back in the day used to have regular appointments with their barbers for haircuts, a clean shave, manicures, a shoe shine, some good sports or women-focused chit chat. And by the way, it is called a MANicure after all. By March, I am getting pretty sick of wearing crappy blizzard clothes and the same winter jacket. And you know what I am even more pissed off about? That women are forced to wear the same winter outfits we have been looking at for the past four months. Oversized sweaters? Leggings? Boots? I hate it. I like to see skin and plenty of it. Tank tops, t-shirts, flip flops, mini skirts, cute little sundresses. And I like real tans, unless you are going for that pale-skinned, freckly look, which is cool too.

And the pride everyone has in winter around here, what’s with that? “We’re from Chicago, we can handle it.” Or: “This is nothing, do you remember the winter of 1994?” Get over yourselves. If we were supposed to endure temperatures like this, we would be covered in dense fur, not have waxing parlors on every corner. Seasons are supposed to be three months long, and winter is overstepping its bounds in a big way.

But what can be done about this? All of the high school and college kids, not to mention families with younger children, have commandeered the top vacation spots for spring break. I know that as I keep getting older, “they stay the same age,” but I really can’t handle high school kids puking on my toes while “Mambo No. 5” plays at Cancun foam parties anymore. I think once you get out of college, one’s tolerance of others’ vomit declines precipitously, and I, for one, am no exception. We can search for overlooked vacation destinations, but for some reason, the only warm and mildly exotic destination you can fly to non-stop from O’Hare is Mexico. Why is the busiest airport in the free world so limited in its Caribbean departures? Easy, the transportation authority knows that once we experience paradise in exotic St. Relaxique, there would be no way we will ever come back here. And the mayor won’t let that happen (due to decreased tax revenue, not because he misses you). It would be a huge international incident since the last thing the pretentious Euros who winter in the eastern Caribbean would want is a huge influx of Midwestern tourists. If they wanted that, they would simply go to Disney World.

Las Vegas is always an option, and a bunch of my buddies were there last week representing in a big way. As great as Vegas is, it is not the type of vacation that recharges your batteries, unless you go on such a bender that you wind up for 90 days in a lovely treatment center with a name like “Crystal Patience” (hopefully after blowing $2,000 on a girl named Crystal Patience too!). Vegas just has too high of a propensity to teach you a lesson or two to make it a prime candidate to alleviate, not contribute to, March Madness. Past lessons have included: 1.) Maybe you shouldn’t play at $25 minimum craps tables. 2.) Blackjack isn’t fun. 3.) You get what you pay for at buffets (stomach malaise). 4.) Dance clubs are never worth a $100 cover. 5.) Limos are not smart financial decisions. 6.) Big tipping does not equal big winning, etc.

Since there seems to be no place to go for a week’s getaway (If I had three weeks, then all bets would be off. Hello Seychelles!), we need to beat the March blues here at home. Are you ready? What we need is Chicago Springfest! Milwaukee has Summerfest. Germany has Oktoberfest. I’m sure some Scandinavian nation has Winterfest. Now there will be a Springfest, and that’s right, it will be right here in Chicago. A festival that cherishes all the great things from springs past! Send the Bulls and Blackhawks out of town for a week, round up the circus and deport those freaks to Rosemont, call Oprah to be the hostess with the mostess and let’s take over the United Center!

For Springfest, for which I nominate myself as the Mayor McSpring (does that mean I get to hold hands with Oprah?), I will charge just enough to cut out the riffraff (I say $45 a ticket) and keep the crowds to the right size. I do not want anyone to even whisper comparisons to that God-awful Taste of Chicago mess that I avoid like the plague every year. This will be a rightous celebration of spring. I will install some tanning lights to help with the seasonal affective disorder, hire some feel-good bands like Loggins and Messina as well as local spring-loving stars on the cheap, such as Lupe Fiasco.

Another aspect of Springfest will be a swap meet of all the crap you liberated from your closet during spring cleaning — as well as Easter and St. Patty’s leftovers, such as whiskey and ham, of course. There will be lots of subsidized spring food, including colorful fruits and vegetables (spring peas!) that are finally getting their flavors back, pasta dishes with seafood, succulent veal chops with ramps and white wine sauce, and of course, your grandma’s berry cobbler.

There will be whole sections of the concourse dedicated to watching NCAA games, along with a Vegas sanctioned sportsbook to reward the fine folks who stuck around. We can have a special section to allow fans to watch the home openers of the Cubs and Sox in relative comfort. Yes, I know, hard-core Chicagoans feel that it is a rite of passage to watch baseball in the snow, but this is baseball, not football. Please get a grip.

We can set up a Passover Seder with kosher faves (mmm… gefilte fish on matzoh) and an Easter exhibit — the same guy dressed as Moses can double as Resurrected Jesus.

There will be tons of tulips to tiptoe through and free Claritin for all! That’s right, it wouldn’t be spring without wonderful allergies and stupid allergy reports on the news. Missed those didn’t you? C’mon, do I really care if it is ragweed or mold? Just give me some nose spray that actually works and get me on my way. Between the allergens I release in the air, the tanning lights and the occasional mist (complete with fake thunder and lightening like at the grocery store) the climate at Springfest will be deadly accurate.

So while spring may be a season of the past, we will at least be reminded of it every year by Chicago’s own Springfest. See you there!

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