Change is a constant thing. We all accept it, even if we don't always like it. Next month, I'll mark a decade of having lived not only in this state, and in this city, but in a neighborhood that isn't defined so much by lines on a map but rather by where the locals deem it to reside. Here, I graduated from a small but cozy apartment to a duplex when I got married, and on to a real house (something I hadn't lived in since before college!) a few years ago. All the moves were within a few blocks of each other, because I have come to love this area so much, and my husband has called it home for over 20 years. Having moved from just north of downtown Chicago, I wanted a place that offered similar advantages - tons of shops, restaurants, and bars nearby, local businesses aplenty, easy access to public transportation, and just a place overall where people want to live. While I lost my short walk to Lake Michigan, I did gain a whole chain of small lakes equally close by, and arguably more pedestrian-friendly.
Uptown is still in demand, and seemingly even more so with the recent spike in "luxury apartment" construction. There's no shortage of places to grab a drink, dine, and walk out with a new dress, vintage shoes, or even a fancy gas grill. But, similar to the laments heard in any city, the place has changed. Long before I arrived, Uptown was grittier, edgier. More punk rock types hung out here than those flocking to H&M and CB2. During my short tenure, I've watched the transition continue. The Tibetan restaurant, the vintage book store, and various indie clothing shops fell to make way for chains. The North Face appeared in their place. Incredibly, Columbia Sports popped up next door to it - yes, two fleece-filled stores in a row! When we watched them raze the next building, it was hard not to snark a "What's that gonna be? Patagonia?"
The bitterness was especially strong for some people with that new vacancy. Because the rubble belonged to a neighborhood institution. Home to many old-guard regulars and anyone needing a hangover cure in the form of grease and more booze, the Uptown Bar was our local. Bathed in a cigarette haze for years (til the smoking ban hit), you waited for a table with a large Bloody Mary or screwdriver in hand. Once seated, you finished off your drink, ordered another, and enjoyed it with a massive, heart-attack-inducing skillet. My favorite one was a delicious mish-mash of Polish sausage and hash browns, smothered in cheese and soaked in grease. Pretty much everyone was welcome. The bar also had a stage, which hosted many bands over the years, including a hometown fave, the Replacements. Over the years, one could argue the Bloodys were getting weaker, or the crowd looked like they'd rather see Maroon 5 than the Velvet Underground. Still, something about walking into that dive bar felt comforting and right.
Apple opened its glassy doors on the old bar site. While I'm thankful a third technical-apparel outpost did not rise from the Uptown's ashes, it still makes me (and a lot of others) sad when we pass by the sleek, new building. We get it. Things don't last forever. But watching the death of this legendary spot - where those who'd moved from Madison, either of the Dakotas, or even Chicago would take their visiting pals and call it "their bar" - felt like someone had taken "change" and underlined, italicized, and bolded the word. Upsized it to a 100 point font. And then thrown a pair of smartwool socks at it.
Which all brings me to this little shirt pictured above. My husband's birthday present to me. Limited run shirt that brings back memories of hanging out with friends, whether it be in those sticky booths or at a table near the stage, bonding over our love of all things artery-clogging and liver-damaging. Whether we'd closed down some other spot a few hours before, had just hit the gym or run around the lake, or simply slept in, the Uptown Bar was a great autopilot destination.
Old friend, you may be gone, but you'll always live on in our hearts - grunge, grease, and all.
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