Dis Year Seems Like as Good a Year as Any Ta Forget About Saint Valentine’s Day

By Al Capone
Columnist

‘Eyyy, Chicago! I hate to come to you at such a difficult time, but I gotta favor to ask. I’m gonna lay it all out, but I promise ya it’s one-a dose mutual benefit kinda deals — and lemme tell ya, I don’t often offer dose. Here’s da angle: I tink it’s high time Chicago kinda forgot about St. Valentine’s Day, for ALL our sakes.

Look, we all know dis last year was lousy, all-wet. Of course we should have some kinda celebration to take the edge off. A day ta celebrate dose close to us...maybe, in a more perfect world, toddle on down with yer sweetheart ta Gene and Georgetti’s ta splurge on a filet and a Montepulciano. But is it too much to ask that this year we forget about it bein’ a whole “Valentine’s” ting? We know we all deserve it, but why put da screws on ourselves to make it “Valentine” perfect when we know it’s likely gonna be more of a quiet, at-home affair?

I’ll be honest, even in the best of years, I don’t have a great history with dis holiday. Suffice it to say dat for the last, let’s say, 92 years, I don’t have da greatest of associations with Valentine’s Day in Chicago. To say nothing of the fact that everyone gets a sour puss in dis town when my name is paired with da holiday, you would not believe da bullshit dat goes on for me around dis time of year. It’s a total non-starter for my social calendar; every jingle-brained date who tinks they’re Jack Benny suggests some restaurant in Lincoln Park, just lookin’ for my reaction. An’ even if I ain’t got a moll on my arm, all my buddies become mighty scarce when I offer to take ‘em out for, for example, a few cut-rate whiskeys supplied generously by the Purple Gang from Detroit. To say nothing of dose trip-fer-biscuits prohibition tours. Dem’s bunk, top to bottom, ya hear?

I also know that I’m not the only one wit a sordid history with this holiday. Youse all can remember a Valentine’s day that didn’t go so well and would rather forget, can’t ya? Some beau who left ya high and dry at the Berghoff, or a cat who cheated on ya at the Coq d’Or? Yer under glass ‘cause ya forgot ta buy flowers (which are much more expensive dese days, wow), or because four associates went AWOL and murdered several prominent rivals of yours, an event which youse had absolutely no prior knowledge of or involvement in? When, of course, you’d rather be riding a custom-built car elevator in the Jeweler’s Building, or sampling some delightful jazz music at the popular and reasonably-priced Green Mill (check out my famous booth! Still closed, but will of course reopen wit a suite of incredible deals for tourists! check out dere Instagram for announcements).

I’m just sayin’ — well, i’m not sayin’ nuttin, and youse can’t drag anyting outta me, I know from nuttin’ — but I’m just expressin’ dat some of youse may be drawn in by da sweet music of a Chicago typewriter dis Friday, be it held by my historical chopper squad or da misguided hands of yer boyfriend Jesse writin’ you a sonnet in his Roscoe Village garden unit. Maybe both are equally dangerous, and just maybe...we treat da 14th like any other cold Chicago day, stay da fuck inside, and, you know, fuhgeddaboutit.

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