Fireworks at Lake Michigan...

I enjoy a summer special event just as much as the next gal. Well, sort of. Call me civilized, but craning to catch a glimpse of rich pseudo sailor's boats among a throng of people holding glowsticks and folding chairs standing in line for greasy ribs while being eaten alive by mosquitoes and then standing in another line for the port-a-potty amidst an olfactory cocktail of beer, bugspray and body odor is not my idea of a good time.

Clarification: in Chicago, it is practically a requirement to spend time outdoors and attend overcrowded events open to the public during the mere six weeks out of the year when the weather is not too humid, rainy, snowy, or frigid.

For the first time in my life I attended Venetian Night, a half-century old Chicago tradition that began when the first Mayor Daley decided the stunning Lake Michigan waterfront should be highlighted by wealthy, nautically-inclined Chicagoans who wanted to parade their opulently decorated boats in front of the ogling common folk.

In the good old days, there was a parade and a beauty pageant in addition to the lakefront procession. Even my mother claims to have ridden on a Venetian Night boat in her 16th year. Today there are Hawaiian themed boats and conga drum boats and ghetto fabulous boats.

The city galvanizes around such events: cops on horseback, white and orange security barriers, and the obligatory Good Humor trucks line all the major roads. Exclusive buildings block off their lawns and set up security to make room for residents and keep the riff raff out, while those living in such buildings watch the display from their umpteenth floor balconies with a view of the lake. Such events seem to bring out the best and worst of the city.

There is always that guy who clogs up pedestrian traffic because he lost his bluetooth in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and the annoying suburban couples who think its oh-so-cool to be in the city but have no idea how to navigate urban terrain or hold their liquor. And then there are the lanky Midwestern transplants wearing cokebottle glasses and tapered jeans from Iowa or an equivalent state that I will never so much as drive through attempting to walk their bikes through a wall of (mostly overweight) individuals (because biker guys believe shrinking their green footprint takes precedence over inconveniencing tons of people)while some pregnant lady dragging her six kids in a red wagon to an illegally parked Escalade that probably by now has the boot is vying for the same narrow piece of sidewalk.

That being said, there is no place like Chicago in summer, and while this entire blog might be a strange riff off of a Kayne West lyric, its still something that in a post-9/11 world a diverse American city can host an event that kinda sort makes people of all walks of life feel like they belong to something.