I have yet to learn my way around Berwyn, Illinois. I’ve picked up a few tidbits here and there, but nothing that provides a cohesive cultural narrative. I know that there is no longer a car-kabob sculpture on the southern flank of Cermak Road. I know that there are two Czech restaurants within walking distance of the apartment I share with Corey and a growing number of Star Wars action figures, two laptops, and some furniture. I know, as well, that Berwyn actually contains more Chicago Bungalows than Chicago. Many of Chicago’s artists live in Berwyn (those not living next-door in Oak park, or in the swanky, nearly-gentrified warrens of Logan Square, Wicker Park, and Rogers Park.) Most importantly, though, I’ve learned that “Small Town” Berwyn is probably one of the better kept secrets in the Chicago Metropolitan Area. People don’t know much about Berwyn, and what they do know is usually centered on the now-vanished car-kabob known as “The Spindle”, and the schlock-horror/sci-fi tv host: The Son of Svengoolie and his one long-running joke in which the punch-line is “Berwyn” uttered by a rather disappointed-sounding quartet of hecklers. (For those who haven’t had the pleasure, Son of Svengoolie is one of those schlock-culture gems that can only extrude itself from the pores of the Midwestern United States. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced high-velocity rubber chickens pelting your television screen from the inside, or a talking skull (with a handlebar mustache) providing a bit of…um…I think it’s called commentary in the loosest sense of the term; he does deliver a few excruciating puns as well). In a nutshell, Son of Svengoolie is a large part of what the outside world sees of Berwyn. There’s another side to Berwyn, however; actually, there are lots of other sides. There’s history; there’s a halfway-decent educational system, there’s a progressive vibe, and rent is cheap, compared to Chicago. This doesn’t strike the casual observer until the said observer looks into a “cheap” apartment through its stained glass window. (In Chicago, “stained glass” means glass with spray-paint or advertising on it. In Berwyn, stained glass is…well…stained glass.) Corey and I have 4 panes of that stuff mounted in our front door. This is another difference: apartments (Garden or otherwise) don’t commonly have glass in their front doors. In Chicago, one counts oneself lucky if an apartment door contains a dust-besmirched peephole with a cigarette butt wedged into it, and at least half of a working lock. In short, Berwyn is both smaller than Chicago and superior to it in many ways. Now if only Berwyn had a lake, or at least a river: admittedly, there are some rather nice puddles here. I took this photograph on my first night in the new digs; it is—simply—the front door to Corey’s and my apartment. I’ve never lived in a garden apartment with bay windows, stained glass in the front door, and a mysterious mushroom decal on the base of the toilet, according to Corey, neither has he. I took this photo while Corey was putting The Rockford Files on the swanky new DVD-shelf. In short, we’re settling nicely, and though I pretend otherwise, I rather like living in the very town in which The Son of Svengoolie occasionally beams “Attack of the Monolith Monsters” and other schlock-horror gems at unsuspecting televisions. Ah…Berwyn! As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting; and I hope to catch up on viewing and commenting, at some point soon. We’re almost done unpacking, and I no longer get lost on my way to work. Progress! It’s such a wonderful thing.