Now comes word that Oak Park is being eyed, ogled really, as one of America's "Sexiest Suburbs." Let Naperville be declared, as it was again Monday by Money magazine, the third best place to live in America. Oak Park, you see, is sexy.
Who is surprised? The sexiness is all about us. The supple lay of the hill as Scoville Park rises to meet the War Monument. The silky sound of the ice cream scoop plowing into peppermint ice cream at Petersen's.
There is Trustee Robert Milstein's growling voice as he rights wrongs, real and imagined, and the furrowed brows beneath the thinning forest atop Manager Swenson's head as he absorbs and parries the blows from the Honorable Bob.
What on earth goes on under the frosted glass of the Oak Park Conservatory's tropical room? Propagation aplenty if you ask me. And the wildflowers in Austin Garden? Well, you could slice the sexual tension there with a knife. The twinkle-eyed usher at the Lake intoning, "Theater 7, on your left, enjoy the show." The not-exactly-butter, but still creamy popcorn topping once kept safely behind the counter at The Lake but now being freely drizzled in a rapscallious and self-gratifying manner by men, women and innocent children.
This town is filled with gay people, and if I've read the religious literature correctly, they have sex all the time. All the time. But gays didn't move here to pay mortgages and drive SUVs, as OPALGA would want you to believe. No, gays came to Oak Park because of the powerful sexual vibe put out by co-habitating liberals who bought houses way cheap in the 1980s. Since they no longer have to work, living simply off perpetual re-financings of their homes, the liberals now just blog and explore tantric sex.
What is with that torpedo so blatantly displayed down at Mohr Concrete? It shouts sex to me. And with Comcast offering digital and 500 channels pulsing through those sinewy cable cords, yikes. Not to mention the never-ending buzz and roar of traffic on the Eisenhower, uncapped and proudly so. There is the powerful tug, ka-chung and back pull as the freight trains jerk to life along Lake Street. Power to your engines, indeed.
Ease into a leather booth at Philander's in the late afternoon and watch the smoke wisps in the fading light through those amber windows. Smoking is cool and fatal. And how sexy is that combination!
Cheese pulling like taffy off a pizza, leaving stretchy strands hanging and demanding to be consumed in a way inelegant yet mesmerizing. Salt attached to a Rehm pool pretzel, hanging on like a sweaty woman to a slick-skinned man. (I could go on awhile with the food analogies, but the slick-skinned man reference made me feel kind of squiggy. And not in a good way.)
his is the town of Wright with his dark, long entryways bursting into light and Hemingway alone on the third floor, next to the maid's quarters, writing staccato sentences for all he was worth. Tarzan in his loincloth was first imagined here. And what can you say about that Jane! Nowadays we have Alex Kotlowitz. The beat goes on.
Is Oak Park sexy? Sexier than Des Plaines? Sure. Sexier than Lisle? Positively. Sexier than Hanover Park? Hands down. Yes, I think Oak Park is plenty sexy. We battle and scratch. We coo and we dissemble. We have liaisons and ruptures. This is a town of passions and provocations. Sounds like sex to me.