Essential Chicago

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This is the time of year when some of us start to wonder why in God’s name we live in Chicago and not California. So in case you need reminding, we’ve got your guide to the people, places and experiences that make Chicago magical. From bundling up on Opening Day to grimacing when “train juice” falls on your head when you walk under the El, we take a look at the great (and the not-so-great) things that make this the best city in the world. We also bid adieu to local institutions that are gone (or on the way out), and cast a skeptical eyetoward the wanna-be essentials that aren’t quite there yet (Trump Tower, we’re looking at you). By TOC staff

No-name bars
Need further proof that Chicago is multilingual and cosmopolitan? We can translate one all-important phrase into several languages: cold beer. It makes no difference whether the lettering on those generic signs is in Polish (Zimne Piwo), Spanish (Cerveza Fria) or Wisconsinese (Old Style)—if we’re thirsty, it gives us enough courage to swagger inside that anonymous bar we’ve eyed with curiosity, and find out whether it’s dive-chic or just plain dive.

A chair marks the spot
Okay, okay—you shoveled it, you earned it. But what’s with all the lawn chairs, sawhorses and other ugly detritus we use to stake our claim to winter parking spots? The mayor and your neighbors are kind enough to look the other way for a few days, but come on—three weeks after the final flake falls, it’s time to put that shit away.

“Hot tamales!!!”
He’s small. He’s fast. And he’s got your drunky-drunk jones for salty goodness covered, sealed and delivered straight to your table at the local bar. What’s Tamale Guy’s secret? “He” is actually about seven or eight unaffiliated traveling tamale vendors who visit bars all over the city, from Ukrainian Village to Andersonville.

Garrett Popcorn
It’s not a FEMA line—it’s Garrett’s. Though a friend once fainted during an hour-long wait at the Michigan Avenue location (store employees didn’t notice, and those behind us happily advanced in line), it’s hard to resist CaramelCrisp. Just remember: Eat and pee first, and bring friends who’ll prevent you from getting stepped on, should you faint.

The Pride Parade
We go to the parade to see cross-dressers in feather boas. But then a 17-year-old from Kansas walks by with his mom and dad, all three are wearing my first pride parade shirts, and we just hope nobody notices us getting all misty-eyed. (June 25)

A different drummer
Johnny Drummer has CDs out on the Earwig label, but nothing compares to seeing him live at South Side club Lee’s Unleaded Blues (7401 S Chicago, 773-493-3477). That other famously chatty club owner, Tim Tuten at the Hideout, has nothing on Lee’s owner, Stan Davis, who not only talks on-mike between sets, but greets customers as they walk through the door. Come early so you don’t miss the cameo appearance by Gaylord the Arkansas Belly Roller.

Bitching about the CTA
So you have to pat the furry seat before you sit down to make sure no one’s pissed it soggy. And here’s a tip: If there’s only one person sitting in a train car during rush hour, it means that person stinks like a Porta-John on the last day of Lollapalooza. And, granted, there’s some kind of law that if you’re running late, you’ll wait for the bus in the cold for at least 30 minutes, only to have four pull up at the same time. Even so, we love the CTA because it gets us where we need to go (eventually, most of the time). But we love kvetching about it more.

Welcome to the boomtown
Maybe it’s because they’re illegal in Illinois, but fireworks are the city’s most wildly overused celebration announcement. Sox win a home game? Boom in the bleachers. Fourth of July? Boom, boom at Navy Pier. Mexican Independence Day? Boom, boom, boom for a month straight in the streets all over town. Sneak some in from Indiana, and you might get addicted to the pyromania yourself.

Preachers and peddlers on the south side red line
They disappear once the train heads north of Harrison, but for the entire ride up from 95th Street you can get some of the best almost-free entertainment the CTA can provide. The towels and homemade perfume will cost extra.

Step it up
The South Side tradition of stepping has appeared in movies (Love Jones), starred in its own local TV show in the ’90s (Steppin’ At Club Seven on WLS) and been immortalized in song by R. Kelly (“Step in the Name of Love”). And though there have been limited attempts to take it to the North Side, it never really caught on—as stepper DJ Herb Kent once frankly stated, “It’s just too black.” The subtle steppin’ rhythms (think slowed-down swing dancing) can be found in venues like the 50 Yard Line (69 E 75th St, 773-846-0005). Bust out with your finest clothing, because T-shirts and jeans are rare at these events.

Something to crow about
You know the kind—that Manhattanite food snob who comes to town ready to dis before even picking up a fork. But here’s one place where you can get ’em on all counts: Blackbird’s stark white setting is gallery-hip; servers are knowingly debonair; and chef Paul Kahan’s food is worth sitting ass-to-elbow to eat.

The 57th street art fair
Every summer, the plan is to just look at the pretty pictures and head home. An hour later, we’re card-swiping our way into the Hyde Park Bank’s ATM vestibule to get enough cash to buy the most incredible set of bowls. (June 3–4)

Wallace’s Catfish Corner
It’s not just the cuisine, or the atmosphere, or the fact that it’s host to the only live band that plays in a parking lot every summer. It’s the whole experience. There’s nothing like standing on a sidewalk on the West Side a few blocks from the United Center, getting wasted on seafood and Cokes, and watching couples do the bump-and-grind while Cyrus Hayes plays the blues on a flatbed truck (2800 W Madison St, 773-638-3474).

Baseball battles Sox fans, repeat after me:
“Cubs fans are drunken frat boys who don’t know baseball, just beer.” Cubs fans, let me hear you: “Sox fans are first-base-coach–attacking trailer trash who don’t support their team by filling the seats.” We all know the insults—now let’s admit that, deep down, you really love and respect each other. On second thought, nahhh.

St. Patrick’s partying
Only in Chicago is this minor religious holiday elevated to such a vigorous communal bacchanal (we’re told it’s a nonevent in Ireland). Certain people we know request personal days off from work in anticipation of the debilitating effects of the celebrations after the parades and on the big night itself. (Downtown, March 11; South Side, March 12)

Shoe wars
If John Waters ever decides to remake Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, he could do worse for a setting than Lori’s Shoes (824 W Armitage Ave, 773-281-5655, plus four suburban locations) on a Saturday sale day. With its minefield of war-torn shoeboxes, the shop would make the perfect, high-camp backdrop for a showdown between slingback-coveting Trixies. Manners fly out the window as aggressive Barneys Co-Op bag–toting, stiletto-stomping sales mongers catfight for the perfect pump.

Daley’s planet
Whether it’s ripping up Meigs Field in the middle of the night or putting wrought-iron fences around every tree, bush and flower in the city, our mayor has carte blanche to do as he pleases. We’ll probably punish him by giving him a mere 71 percent of our votes next election.

Big-city honky-tonks
Even though it books other kinds of music besides country, the Hideout (1354 W Wabansia Ave, 773-227-4433) still has the aura of that mysterious backwoods honky-tonk. And when was the last time you went to a rock-oriented club where the owner also doubled as an MC? From there, migrate north to Carol’s Pub (4659 N Clark St, 773-334-2402). Although younger, trendier folks drift in from time to time, the crowd is still mostly older, no-nonsense locals for whom Carol’s is not an exotic throwback, but more like the ’hood hangout. Be sure to leave a tip for the band on the bug strip on the stage.

Feigning interest in the art at art walks
Talk all you want about supporting starving artists by visiting their studios during Around the Coyote or Pilsen’s art walks, but we know why you’re really there: to gorge on free cheese cubes and wine, sneak peeks at the dirty dishes in the sink, and steal funky apartment décor ideas.

Hipsters bitching about gentrification in their neighborhood, even though they just moved in, like, five minutes ago
For those who decide to move out of a neighborhood as soon as they spot a coming soon: starbucks sign, we’ve got news for you: You’re never going to escape. American Apparel and Urban Outfitters are hip to the tip, too (and we know you shop there, anyway). Logan Square is the new Lincoln Square is the new Bucktown is the new Wicker Park, so stop bitching and start drinking grande lattes already.

Worshipping the ’85 Bears
Jim McMahon could throw a thousand puppies off the Hancock Center. Mike Singletary could release a rap album with Paris Hilton. We’d still adore them with every fiber of our souls for being key members of the biggest, baddest, most ass-kickingest football team in NFL history. And it doesn’t matter that it happened 21 years ago—admit it: You remember exactly where you were when the Fridge scored that touchdown against Green Bay.

The lakefront path
Bundle up and ride your bike or run along the lake in February, and you’ll drift into a meditative state inspired by near solitude. Take that same route in July, and you’ll be dodging kids, dogs, stray volleyballs, wandering cell chatters, bare-bellied Rollerbladers and (shudder) tourists.

Getting lost on Wacker Drive
The mere mention of the words Wacker and Drive in the same breath sends us into a sweaty-browed rage. Upper, Lower, whatever: We once spent more than an hour trying to find the valet entrance to the Hyatt Regency (mysteriously situated on East Wacker Drive), nearly resolving to drive our vehicle into the river just to be free of the labyrinthine nightmare.

Wilco worship
For years, the lackluster likes of Styx and Chicago were the only local bands who managed to attract national recognition. Then we gave refuge to flameouts like Liz Phair and Urge Overkill. Finally, Wilco gives us a group we can be proud of. You can see the band rock out on Letterman, then run into bassist John Stirratt buying tomatoes at Whole Foods a few days later.

Lending a (jazz) hand
Until you understand what “ankle percussion” is, you have not experienced live jazz in Chicago. A sprawling, 40-year-old Afrocentric collective (“Great Black Music” is its motto), the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians runs a music school, and legendary members like Fred Anderson and Jeff Parker hold court nightly at the Velvet Lounge. Performances range from numerology-inspired meditations (with bells attached to performers’ ankles) to straight-ahead hard bop. No other collective demonstrates the inherent freedom of jazz music as well.

Chicken wings (“smothered, hot or mild”)
The next time you need your grease fix, consider the South Side–based franchise Harold’s Chicken Shack. There’s plenty of hot sauce and ketchup to go around—the demure go for gentle application, but regulars know smothered is the only way to eat everything that comes out of a Harold’s kitchen. The citywide locations all feature signs with a cartoon of a black guy in a chef’s hat chasing a chicken around with a big cleaver, but look closely—it’s never the same artist, just renderings of the same scene. Oddly enough, the impending Wicker Park Harold’s location doesn’t have the cartoon at all.

Margie’s Candies
The place—and most of its waitstaff—is older than dirt, but sweet tooths of all ages get high on the cavity-happy fare at Margie’s (1960 N Western Ave, 773-384-1035). Half the experience is waiting outside for an hour on traffic-exhaust–choked Western Avenue, only to eventually be crammed into a squeaky vinyl booth amid creepy baby dolls and dusty, nonsensical Beatles paraphernalia. But man, what a sundae.

Empire carpet
All together now: “[800]-588-2300—Empire! (Call now!)”fancy feastsSome fat cats may have the cash for formidable fine dining once a week, but making a yearly sojourn to heavyweights like Trotter’s, TRU, Alinea, Everest, Ambria and Spiaggia means our anticipation is rewarded all the more.

Defending your decision to live here instead of miami
It’s right around this time of year that it starts to get to us—the bitter cold, the endless gray, losing another glove when the stores are stocking nothing but swimsuits. But all it takes is one of those unseasonably warm greenhouse-effect days mixed into the forecast to remind us why we stick it out here every year: There’s no place on earth that compares to Chicago in the summertime.

The emerald necklace
O, how we love thee, historic Boulevard System. We love thee for getting us from Target to Lula Café in a jiffy. For making even Humboldt Park look like a Frederick Law Olmsted–designed fairyland. For green-splendor springtime strolls, autumn jogs dodging doggie poo, wintry frost and barren trees. But O, how we love thee.

Who gives a flying buttress
On our way to work we occasionally lift our weary eyes, look past the suits marching through the Loop at 8am and remember we’re standing among some of the world’s greatest architecture: Mies’s Federal Center, Sullivan’s Carson Pirie Scott building, Holabird and Root’s Board of Trade, the Monadnock Building, Tribune Tower—and the list goes on.

16-inch softball
Mitts? They’re for sissies. We prefer to catch our ridiculously huge softballs barehanded, thank you very much. It’s a source of pride among recreational ballers in Chicago (and probably a source of regret for splint manufacturers) that this softball variation never caught on anywhere but here.

People-watching in the viagra triangle
Undergrads who just moved to the city, conventioneers in suits, med-school students “cutting loose,” suburban moms poured into Forever 21 tops, call girls and the high rollers who love ’em—is there anything not to love about nightlife on Rush and Division Streets? Well, maybe just that frat guy puking on your shoes.

Throwing one back at wrigley (balls, not beer)
How did it start? Beats us. But the rule is simple: When an opposing player hits a homer at Wrigley, the ball goes back onto the field.

Nice buns!
They have us at hello, those dreamy, gooey, ginormous cinnamon rolls at Ann Sather’s. One whiff and we’re powerless. (929 W Belmont Ave, 773-348-2378; 3416 N Southport Ave, 773-404-4475; 3411 N Broadway, 773-305-0024; 1448 N Milwaukee Ave, 773-394-1812; 5207 N Clark St, 773-271-6677).

Getting lost on the way to Ikea
It sounds easy enough: TakeI-90 to Golf Road, head west and look for the big blue and yellow building. But somewhere between dodging absentminded Woodfield Mall–goers and circling the Schaumburg Olive Garden for the fourth time, it’s clear that getting to the Swedish furniture factory is about as simple as assembling a HENSVIK media system.

The parent trap
Really, we love our kids. But we never dreamed we’d subject ourselves to hours upon hours waiting in winding lines—day and night, in just about any kind of weather—to sign junior up for recreational tumbling. But the Chicago Park District’s unparalleled kids classes and summer camps offer bang for very few bucks, not to mention all the fun our little ones have. (For info, go to www.chicago parkdistrict.com)

The Harold Washington…Library?
Its imposing stone entranceway makes us think bank (except there aren’t any tellers) or mausoleum (except there aren’t any stiffs). After going up not one, not two, but three escalators, we finally make it to the circulation desk. So, uh, where are the books?

Disco inferno
Nothing says summer like hot weather, the lakefront and Lisa “La Boriqua” barking “one-two-three, cha-cha-cha” to a crowd of hundreds of sweaty people at SummerDance. At these free dance lessons, sponsored by the Department of Cultural Affairs, you can salsa, swing, step, polka, waltz and—for those of us still developing our motor skills—freestyle with glow sticks at Wednesday’s DJ nights. (Starts in June)

The Blues Brothers
Pick your quote (our favorite: “Orange whip?”) or song (Ray Charles’s “Shake a Tail Feather”), and 26 years on, that shit will still make you giggle or boogie. Simply put: Greatest. Chicago. Movie. Ever.

Futbolistas by the lake
You don’t need to play—hell, you don’t even need to watch—to enjoy the soccer games on the well-kept fields near Montrose Harbor. Groove to the norteño music, cool off with a paleta from a jingling cart, or just kick it on the grass, soaking up the sun and pleasant din.

Priming the Pump
Long before the Sox won the Series and fair-weather Cubs yuppies made an appearance south of the Gold Coast, Schaller’s Pump (3714 S Halsted St, 773-376-6332) was the quintessential spot to watch the ol’ pale hose go at it. Still is, and if the daily special is smothered pork tenderloin, don’t you dare leave without taking on at least two.

BYOB restaurants
The city makes it so hard to get a liquor license that many restaurants snub the system altogether and let diners BYOB. From affordable Thai treasures like TAC Quick Thai (3930 N Sheridan Rd, 773-327-5253) to cutting-edge chic spots like Schwa (1466 N Ashland Ave, 773-252-1466), you can bring your favorite potion and pocket the savings.

O, say can you see?
Yeah, Oprah is great. But, no, friends and relatives, we can’t hook you up with tickets. Especially not for her “Favorite Things” show. So please stop asking. (The reservation line is temporarily closed, but if you’re feeling lucky—and can ditch work on short notice—go to www.oprah.com, click on Today’s Show, then Audience Reservations to fill out a form for last-minute seats.)

Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind
Like proud parents, we drag out-of-towners to see the Neo-Futurists’ rotating roster of 30 “plays” in 60 minutes. Maybe it’s our ongoing love affair with local storefront theater, or maybe it’s the prospect of free pizza if the show sells out that keeps us coming back to the longest-running play in Chicago history. Either way, we’re happy to pay $7 plus the roll of a six-sided die to get in (5153 N Ashland Ave, 773-275-5255).

Renegade bike culture
Where were you when you experienced your first Critical Mass ride? Chicago is crawling with renegade bikers. Will you see them protesting outside the Auto Show? Installing a memorial to a fallen comrade? Throwing back brews at the Handlebar, tricked-out custom bikes parked nearby? Who knows. And that’s the beautiful thing.

Hitting the Bottle
With typical shows setting you back only eight bones and the price of a coupla cheap PBRs, the rawk is practically icing on the cake at The Empty Bottle. Bookers here have a knack for predicting the next big thing. After witnessing OK Go, Franz Ferdinand and Interpol go arena after the fact, it feels great to shrug and say, “Yeah, I saw ’em back at the Bottle, like, forever ago.”

Dude, where’s my car?
The good news: It wasn’t stolen. The bad news: Whether it’s Lincoln Towing or city of Chicago trucks doing the dirty work, you can expect to wait hours in line and pay your unborn child’s college tuition when retrieving your ill-parked car. Better have cash and your VIN number ready when you’re at the mercy of the North Side’s thuggish “Lincoln Park Pirates,” the tow company whose drivers Steve Goodman immortalized with the song lyrics “Their good manners you always will get; ’cause they all are recent graduates of the charm school in Joliet.” And every city resident is fair game for the city pound on Sacramento, where surly workers’ first priority is to puff smokes behind bulletproof glass, and their last priority is to reunite you and your car.

Weaseling an invite to a stranger’s roof party for the air and water show
Your roommate’s co-worker’s parents live in a high-rise in Lincoln Park? You cadge an invite any way you can. The social maneuvering will get you closer to the roaring planes and farther from the mayhem on North Avenue Beach. (August 19–20)

Tipsy tacos
Is there any taste more satisfying than tacos at 3am? Not to the booze-breathed revelers who consider La Pasadita (1132, 1140 and 1141 N Ashland Ave/773-278-0384) the essential last stop on a night of barhopping. The jury’s still out on whether beans and rice soak up the hooch or merely make for a more flatulent morning after, but we’ve all been there—and we’ll be there again.

Market days
There’s nothing like junk and Mexican food at Maxwell Street Market on a Sunday morning. Even if you don’t recover your stolen bike, you’ll find electronics, socks, mangoes by the crate and a hundred kinds of chilies. Bite into a mayo- and cheese-slathered elote, and you’ll remember why you keep going back.

Summer street fairs
From Taste of Lincoln Avenue to Andersonville Midsommarfest, summer can become one long blur of street fairs. How many times did we witness a rib or chili cook-off, grab free candy from the WONKAmobile, pose for a photo “surfing” on the giant fake wave or listen to Mr. Blotto and Fountains of Wayne belt out alt-rock tunes? As many times as we’ve chowed down while sitting on a dirty sidewalk curb next to a garbage can and the electrical cords powering some loud-ass generator. (Early May through September)

Quiet on the set!
A bullhorn-toting production assistant may not let you get onto the sidewalk or go to the gym, but the good news is a gossipworthy celeb is shooting a film nearby. Like, oh my God, when A-listers Jen and Vince began dating each other last summer at sushi place Japonais, we were so excited that those who ate next to them (Bill Zwecker, the cast of Wicked, your friend’s mom’s cousin) became B-listers by association.

Racing to beat the crowds to the bathroom at the Lyric Opera
The soprano has held that high note longer than you thought your bladder could possibly last, and now you’re hightailing it down the stairs to the nearest bathroom. But so is everyone else, making for impossibly long lines. Next time, bring an extra pair of running shoes.

Beer gardens
Beer is good, but beer outside is better. Visitors from warmer climes think we’re crazy, but we can’t help busting out the shorts, sundresses, and flip-flops and heading to Sheffield’s or another favorite outdoor drinking spot the first time the sun peeks out from behind snow clouds. The patio chairs start coming out on April 1; we’ll be counting the days.

Hurricanes at the Hancock
We admit it: Out-of-town guests provide a convenient excuse to finally go up the Hancock Building. So after waiting in line for the elevator, we wait in another line for a table at the Signature Lounge, and at last get seated in the middle of the tower, far from a window—only to stare out at a blank night sky, happily swilling ridiculously priced, Bennigan’s-caliber cocktails.

Hovering for a table at the Green Mill
Having finally gotten to the bar at the packed club, you see people in a booth who look like they’re leaving. You whisper to your date that a table’s opening up. The jazz police descend and silence your interrupting their communion with Kurt Elling.

Zoning out Ferris
Bueller–style in front of La Grande JatteIt’s a mind trip that this big beauty at the Art Institute of Chicago is just a bunch of dots. Just like Ferris and friends, almost every Chicagoan has spent part of an afternoon edging ever closer to the canvas until the little girl, the monkey on a leash and all the rest of it dissolves into splotches of color, no drugs necessary.

Get to the point
Picnicking takes on a whole new meaning on the Fourth of July at Promontory Point, where families from the South Side and beyond lug radios, grills and blankets for an unbeatable viewing experience of the city’s fireworks that’s almost as much a tradition as the party atmosphere at this annual blowout.

Splendor on the grass
Heading to the Grant Park Outdoor Film Festival? Step one: Arrive two hours before showtime to avoid being trampled by the crowds, and spread giant blanket on grass. Secure blanket corners with your shoes. Step two: Give stink-eye to anyone who dares sit near your encampment. Step three: Pull opaque cups from backpack. Crouch over to obscure the pouring of wine into cups. Step four: Enjoy film. (Starts July 18)

Last call at Marie’s
The legendary silver fox for whom this 4am bar is named (Marie Wuczynski) has made less frequent appearances in her tired years, but Marie’s Riptide Lounge (1750 W Armitage Ave, 773-278-7317) is never quite the same without her. If you luck out and find her behind the bar, she’ll be the one alternating Jäger shots and jokes that use kitty synonyms for punch lines.

Coat check cheaters
Yeah, we Chicagoans are cheapskates, but we’re also tough as snowplows. Fifteen degrees with a wind-chill factor of minus ten? Leave the cold-weather bitching to New Yorkers—we’ll brave it in skimpy tank tops and chooch shirts.

“Meeting” a friend at Buckingham Fountain during Taste of Chicago
You’ve been there, and we have, too—amid the masses of redneck rubberneckers and ghetto fabulosi trying to find the silly friend who said, “If we get separated, we’ll just meet at the fountain.” Better get an extra turkey leg—it’s gonna be a long wait. (June 30–July 9)

What’s your curry?
On Devon Avenue, home to the best Indo-Pak restaurants in Chicago, a lot of people drive a lot of the time. But we forget about the hour-long stop-and-go once we’re elbow-deep in unforgettable eats.

Getting drunk at Ravinia
Some people go all-out at this concert venue/lawn party: comfy chairs, catered food, fancy wine, candelabras (no shit). We’d rather throw down a tattered blanket, sip our Three-Buck Chuck from paper cups, chow on taquitos and boozily whisper, “Now, who is this we’re listening to again?” (Festival season starts in early June)

Chocolate city
Few factories produce mouth-watering smells, even those that make delicious products (ever walked past a brewery or a slaughterhouse? Pee-yew!). So it’s a joy to catch a whiff of the cocoa-scented “pollution” that wafts from Blommer Chocolate Co. Hmm, could that siren smell have anything to do with Men’s Fitness magazine declaring our city the nation’s fattest?

Cramped cocktails
Being sardined between a smoke-blowing loudmouth and a slick-haired career drinker are acceptable only on two conditions: You’re at a craps table in Vegas and you’re winning like nobody’s business, or you’re seconds from downing the best vodka gimlet in town at The Matchbox, Chicago’s puniest pub.

Cruising guys at Northalsted Market Days
Sure, you can tell us that you’re going to Northalsted Market Days to peruse fine wares and see Flock of Seagulls relive the glory years. But we all know the real reason you spend the entire first weekend in August parading up and down North Halsted Street is because the largest (and gayest) street festival in the Midwest has great eye candy. (August 5–6)

Movie magic
How many times have we slump-ed down in a creaky seat at the Music Box Theatre, gazed up at the twinkling lights in the ceiling and wondered what the organist does when he’s not on duty? We’ll never get tired of wondering, nor of catching independent and foreign films (or belting through the annual holiday sing-along) at this gently worn gem.

The laugh factory
You’re practically onstage with the improvisers when you see a show at I.O. Even Second City is relatively intimate. Part of the thrill of watching comedy in Chicago is knowing you could be spitting distance from the next Arkin, Belushi, Murray, Wendt, Myers, Farley or Carell.

South side pride
It’s already August and you still haven’t seen the downright awesome Jesse White Tumblers this year? Get yourself to the Bud Billiken Parade. Show up early if you want a front-row spot to what is touted as the country’s largest African-American parade, now in its 76th year. You’ll catch glad-handing politicians from Daley to Obama, drill teams and a whole lot of community pride. (August 12)

Hot dog hucksterism
We’re more than willing to travel several miles and wait in long lines for the perfect dog. “Why not just hit the stand at the corner?” an out-of-towner might ask. Please. We’ve gotta go where we know we’ll get our dog served with just the right balance of neon-green relish and a dash of attitude—being berated after-hours at Weiner’s Circle (2622 N Clark St, 773-477-7444) is a rite of passage for barhoppers— but void of frills and (for heaven’s sake) ketchup. Other faves: Gene & Jude’s (2720 N River Road, River Grove, 708-452-7634) and Superdawg (6363 N Milwaukee Ave, 773-763-0660).

Envelope-pushing indie record labels
Sure, New York and L.A. have the marquee-name market cornered. But thanks to grassroots labels like Bloodshot, Drag City, Touch and Go, Alligator, Thrill Jockey and dozens of others, Chicago has fostered a whole family of indie greats. Where would we be without our Tortoises, Edith Frosts and Sam Prekops? We’ll take Schubas over the Knitting Factory any day.

Wind-chill factor/heat index
This is a city of extremes, especially when it comes to weather. Just when you think you couldn’t be any colder, the wind kicks in and suddenly it’s ski-mask time. But in a few short months, you’ll be paying $10 to see Cheaper by the Dozen III just for the air-conditioning.

Don’t rain on our desfile
You’ll know it’s Mexican Independence Day or the day of the Puerto Rican Parade by the slowed-down traffic—a gleeful crawl on all the streets around the city, especially in Pilsen, Little Village, Logan Square and Humboldt Park. But you’ll get to where you were going eventually. In the meantime, just don’t get impaled by the gigantic flagpoles jutting out car windows or burst an eardrum from all the honking.

Battling hangovers with dim sum
It’s a weekend morning, everyone’s in pain, and your group’s split on the oldest dim-sum debate around: Phoenix or Furama? For kitsch value, it’s the former, where you can wander around after the meal, belly full of buns, buying crap you don’t need. But Furama has tastier fare with slightly better variety (Phoenix: 2131 S Archer Ave, 312-328-0848; Furama: 4936 N Broadway, 773-271-1161).

Essential dirty joke
The punch line? “Paulina, Melvina and Lunt.” Don’t act like you don’t know the setup.

Aldermania
God bless our colorful aldermen, including the irrepressible Dorothy “The Hat” Tillman, the pinky-ringed, back-room dealing “Fast Eddie” Vrdolyak and the excitable Burton Natarus, who got so worked up during a rant against the Iraq War that he fainted. Miraculously, it all works—and provides some damn good theater, too.

Tell us about your essentials at letters@timeoutchicago.com.