Lollapalooza: 3 Days of Music and Short People

Okay, at long last, I’m going to sit down with my hot chips and my liter of Diet Pepsi, and I’m going to bang out a blog. I’m very bent about the promotion for free ring tones being over on the cap of this Diet Pepsi. Alas, I had to pay for Everything She Wants by Wham! to chime in when someone buzzes me. Don’t ask me why I picked that song. So, on to the topic at hand . . .

Lollapalooza, holy crap, that didn’t come up on spell check, was in town over the weekend. Have you seen the line-up? Despite the fact that almost all of my favorite bands were at this thing, for a myriad of reasons, I still couldn’t bring myself to buy tickets.

While working at Navy Pier I could hear the show faintly. I distinctly heard The Violent Femmes as well as Gnarles Barkley. After work I pedaled over to the show and watched what I could see of The Flaming Lips through the back entrance. They were the perfect band for peeping in on because I could see the fuzzy, animal suit people jumping around and the enormous inflatable Santa bouncing to the music. As I was rocking to the set on my bike, a girl handed me an Adidas sweatband, which I promptly put on my head. Where I was positioned turned out to be ideal for people watching. These guys on all terrain golf carts were driving V.I.P.’s around the enclosed area from one end of the stage to the other. I saw the singer from Gnarles Barkley and Matt Pinfield from MTV get rides, and they are both tiny, little, gnomes. I would never want to live in L.A. because I think it would be disheartening to spot all these famous people and see that they are no taller than Emanuel Lewis from Webster. Two different professional photographers took photos of me; I guess to document that there was a weirdo with a headband, sitting on his bike, trying to get something for free.

On Sunday my friend Brendan called me up and offered me two, free V.I.P. passes, which, for a very high fee, allow you to eat and drink all you like, all day. I got off work at 6 and Queens of the Stone Age went on at 6:30, so I had to run my ass around the lake, and over the river to the entrance, which turned out to be the wrong entrance, since my buddy with the passes was at the OTHER entrance. So I RAN my ass all the way around the stadium in my Chuck Taylor’s, and I have to go on record now and say those shoes, while they are very stylish, offer ZERO support. When we got into the stadium, my buddy went off to see Wilco, and me and my swollen feat made our way to the other stage to see Queens. I got myself a fruity, frozen drink for free and settled in for some rock. A beer is a far more manly libation to enjoy when you’re ‘raising the goblet of rock,’ but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a refreshing cocktail on a balmy, Chicago night. The band was great, but I was hating on the moshing and crowd surfing. The latter ends with an idiot surfing to the stage, getting escorted around the side, then this asshole thinks he can barrel his way past me back to his friends. Mosh pits I don’t like because I can’t watch the band while keeping my eyes peeled for stray elbows. One idiot did fall down and hit me in the shin, which I was not happy about. I think my disdain for the pit was evident, and they eventually stayed clear of me.

My cohort and I opted to meet up, stay in the V.I.P. lounge, and drink our way through the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It was pretty far away from the stage, but the free booze was too tempting. The other option was watching staple surgery poster boy John Popper and Blues Traveler, but I’ll hold out for next summer when they split a Ribfest bill with Eddy Money.

On our way into the V.I.P. lounge entrance, we saw a guy dressed in all white with black eye makeup trying to reason with the staff to let him in. It was bazaar because he looked at me like he knew me, and I looked back at him since I was pretty sure I knew him. I thought maybe I went to high school with him, but then it occurred to me that it was Jared Leto, who I WATCHED go to high school on My So Called Life. As it happens, his shitty band played a no doubt shitty set at Lollapalooza. Ladies, I’m sorry to break this to you, but while he does have captivating eyes, he too is a gnome, hobbit, or some other form of hafling. I remember thinking, “Hey Jared, you keep trying to argue with these folks. I’m going to go inside and have myself a couple of girly drinks, because I’m a V.I.P. and you’re not. And, oh yeah, your acting career is floundering, your band is getting horrible reviews, and you’re short.”

Pedaling His Way Through a Second Puberty

Floyd Landis*, Tour de France winner, has been accused of taking performance-enhancing drugs. “In his first public appearance since a urine test showing a testosterone imbalance cast his title into doubt, the American said his body's natural metabolism -- not doping of any kind -- caused the result, and that he would soon have the test results to prove it.”

In other words, “I have an ‘abnormally high testosterone ratio’ because I have a steady stream of testosterone pumping through me at all times. I’m ALL MAN! I had chest hair when I was four, my balls dropped when I was 5, and I banged my kindergarten teacher in between snack time and nap time when I was 6!”

This got me thinking about tests for abnormally high levels of estrogen in men. Shouldn’t someone test Chris Carrabba from Dashboard Confessional? I think that Mr. Carrabba has been doping with estrogen for years to churn out puss rock of the worst order, and someone needs to ween him off of the stuff, fast.

I also started thinking about what my “doping” might be in terms of bike riding. Sure, the threat of being late for work gets the pedals moving, but I really think my ipod is the ace up my sleeve. I think if Lance Armstrong and I were racing along Lakeshore drive, myself with Feel Good Hit of the Summer by Queens of the Stone Age bumping and him with anything by Sheryl Crow polluting his ears, I do believe I’d blow by him quicker than he dumped his wife and started dating an aging rock star, despite the fact that his ex stuck with him through nut cancer, and left a good job to help him start his nut cancer foundation.**

*Jesus, look at his face! If a man embodies an overly productive, fully functional testosterone factory it is this guy.
**Perhaps I was a little hard on Lance, and my fact-finding may have been suspect, but I had to get a good analogy for the speed at which I’d kick his ass, given a good series of ipod songs.

All By Myself . . .

Sorry for the long absence. It’s a combination of blogger’s block, not having much time to spare, and not wanting to be in my apartment due to the broken air conditioning.

I became inspired to write a blog when I saw The Headphones Guy at the Cubs game the other day. My friends have had a nights and weekends season tickets package for a number of years, and I have been able to weasel my way to ball games fairly consistently, alternating weaseling with all of them. In these season ticket seats, two rows in front, and about seven seats to the left, without fail, sits a middle-aged man with one of those big, whopper, headphone radios. He has a very elaborate scorecard and sometimes he talks to himself while violently penciling in statistics. One thing we have noticed about him is that the outcome of the game is decided when he leaves. Whoever is leading when he leaves, and usually it’s whatever team is visiting at the time, even the shitty ones, that team will hold that lead. So, we’ll be like, “Oh, fuck. The Headphones Guy just left. It’s all over.

I took a picture of him on my cell phone with a dorky border around it that says, “Waz’ Up!?” but I don’t know how to get it into my computer. For now I had to settle for this Empire Strikes Back photo, but you’ll just have to trust me when I say that he looks like that guy at your work who doesn’t talk to anyone, and you suspect he may come to work tomorrow with an AK and mow down the entire office.

With one of my days off, I feel I should go during a day game to see if he’s there. Does he have a job or is he ALWAYS there? If I spot him I’m going to plant myself in a seat directly next to him and get the life story of The Headphones Guy. Either that or I’ll get a headset and a scorecard and not talk to a soul to see what it’s like to be in his headsetted dome . . .

Cornholing and Dilly Shops (Oh the Accidental Hits I Will Get For This Title)

I played in my bean bags league last night. ‘Bags is a game similar to horseshoes in which teams of two people throw beanbags at a board with a hole in it. A bag in the hole is 3 points and a bag resting on the board is 1 point. If you ask someone in Indiana what this game is called they will tell you, with a straight face, cornholing. In any event, I was riding high after winning 3 out of 4 games, propelling myself into sole possession of 2nd place, so I didn’t want to go home just yet. My mom told me she was reading about a new sex shop, The Pleasure Chest ™ on Lincoln Avenue in my neighborhood that was very controversial, in that the residents didn’t want it there. Many of these shops are in the “Boys Town” area, a heavily gay area of Chicago on Halsted Street, and those residents don’t seem to mind, but my area of Chicago has a lot of families, and evidently some conservative ones.

So, I popped in to have a look-see. What I found was a very classy, clean, little dilly shop. I call these types of places dilly shops. I made it up, so, of course, I think it’s very funny. Maybe classy isn’t the right term for a place that had like 12 of those leather shorts with a hole for the one-eyed monster to poke through, but again, they were nicely displayed on little mannequins that only went from above the knee to the navel. They also had a ball spreader. What the hell is that for? I know, to spread one’s balls, but for what purpose? Is it to isolate each ball? Anyway, the shop was the LEAST sleazy dilly shop I’ve ever been in.

You know me, or maybe you don’t, but I’m a curious man and a man of the people, so I chatted up the gal with numerous piercings at the counter. She told me that the shop moved out of the Halsted area because customers were complaining about the lack of parking. I guess when you have a need for certain items time is of the essence, and hunting for a spot might not be high on your list of things to do. What is on that list is not a list I care to see, but I’m glad they can now get their parking spot, get their items, and start checking things off theirs lists. She also told me about the complaints of the residents, but I assured her that I am one resident who has no problem with her dilly shop or anything her dilly shop stands for. While I did just stop in there for kicks, I am also a paying customer. Mom, if you’re reading this, my items were VERY basic and I am in no way a sexual deviant, I swear. Now, if I did buy one of those ball spreaders, and I’m not saying I did, you would have yourself to blame for telling me about the dilly shop.

Girls' Night Out and Man Boobies

I went to this horrible bar last night because my roomy wanted to get with this one girl. This is always the start to a bad night, and this is no exception. We get to the bar to discover that we are intruding on a “Girls’ Night Out.” Translation: “A bunch of us are going to get dolled up the best we can possibly look, with our hair done, our newest outfit with our tits on display, but what we DON’T want is any guys talking to us. Our goal is to draw massive amounts of attention to ourselves, but fight off the advances of the hordes of men who try to hit on us. The best way for us to catch up with old friends is to dance seductively with one another. Talking? No way. My old friends and I can pick up right where we left off in college when she grinds herself on my crotch or when I slowly sink down to the floor and put my face in her crotch.”

Would you believe that one of these girls actually asked me to tell a guy to leave who sat down at the table with them? Hey, I barely know you girls. I’m not about to get my ass kicked because you decided to get dressed up and draw attention to yourself at a bar that brings in every stripe-shirted hardass in Chicago.

The guy that was the biggest hit was my engaged friend. These girls were ALL over him. Hey, he’s engaged, so the threat of him coming on to you is lowered, especially when his bride-to-be is in the room, but has it occurred to these women that chicks all on his jammy might make him have thoughts about the whole one woman for the rest of his life thing? Hey, never mind that. This is Girls Night Out! So, he’s dancing with his bride-to-be’s sister, and she gets behind him, reaches around him, and fondles his man-boobies. Shortly there after, he gets behind her, reaches around, and feels her woman-boobies. This led to bride to be hollering at him and storming out. Now, I don’t happen to have man-boobies, but if I did, I’m pretty sure I’d be self-conscious of them. I certainly wouldn’t want a chick trying to tune-in-Tokyo (movie reference?) in front of everyone, including a bunch of good-looking girls.* BECAUSE, I believe I’d be sensitive about something like this, I can’t say I’d blame a guy for thinking, “Fuck you. You’re grabbing my boobies, I’m grabbing yours.” I guess when it’s your bride-to-be’s sister, one has to keep those automatic thoughts and gut reactions in check. I remember him saying, over and over, "I think I'm in trouble." Gee, you think? I will say it made for some fun people watching and good blog fodder. Okay, I have to do some push-ups so that, God willing, I never have to discover how I’d react in that situation . . .

*Just as I was typing this, man-booby guy called me! It’s really strange because we don’t know each other that well, so it’s not that likely that he’d call me right as I type about his rather embarrassing affliction. I feel really bad now, and I have to be sure he never gets my blog address.

"Wouldn't You Miss Me?"

Syd Barrett, founding member of Pink Floyd, who even gave the band their name, died the other day at the age of 60. He was their lead singer, guitar player, and primary songwriter, writing the early singles Arnold Layne and See Emily Play as well as the entire first album, the highly influential psychedelic masterpiece, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Right when the Floyd stood at the door of world wide success, Syd became so erratic from LSD abuse and general insanity, both of which were probably heightening the effects of the other, that the band was left with no choice but to kick him out of the band. He made two solo albums, The Madcap Laughs and Barrett, which remain cult classics despite the fact that they were reportedly like pulling teeth to make given his condition at the time and full of cracking vocals and other apparent mishaps. Part of the reason these solo records have maintained cult status has to do with the mystique of Syd, being an acid casualty, but the records are laced with flashes of brilliance. He had a natural ability to write songs that could be incredibly simple yet at the same time highly complex with bazaar vocal melody patterns that only he could think of, and only he could pull off effectively. Much of the subject matter during his all too brief Pink Floyd tenure dealt with scarecrows, gnomes, and other far out fairy tales, but on his solo efforts there are tender moments that sometimes seem to hint at his struggles with mental illness, whether he was conscious of these references or not.

An old friend of mine, who knew I was a long time fan of Syd’s, called this morning before I left for work to tell me the news of his death and my heart sunk. I decided to listen to all the stuff of his I have on my ipod on the bike ride to and from work. I discovered Interstellar Overdrive is the perfect song to accompany you if you ever find yourself late for work, pedaling your ass through a torrential downpour along Lake Michigan.

The sad tale of Syd Barrett’s rise to stardom and his eventual descent into madness fascinates me. It also fascinated Roger Waters, who wrote numerous songs about him. I have an expensive Syd Barrett original portrait hanging in my home, which was a gift some years ago. I have just about everything he has ever recorded, including the box set, Crazy Diamond. I have poured through just about everything ever written about him, because there is something about a promising rock star and gifted painter suddenly thrown into the lime light, pressured to write hits, and unsuccessfully trying to hold his sanity together that makes me sad. While other tragic rock heroes died at the end of their tale, Syd’s end left him insane, but until recently, alive! The simple fact you could listen to his music and think, ‘I wonder what the poor guy is doing right now’, is part of what fascinated me about him in comparison to other fallen rockers. I wasn’t alone here. Up until his death Syd would get numerous visits from fans who would usually be turned away by his family members because talk of the rock and roll period of his life upsets him. See, I just got sad typing that . . .

This turned into a much longer entry than I intended, but I did feel a need to do justice to him. I encourage you all to further do him justice by checking out some of his music or reading one of the most compelling rock and roll books ever: Saucerful of Secrets: The Pink Floyd Odyssey, which is full of tales of Syd despite the fact that he was in the band so briefly. Again, the author of the book, and anyone else for that matter, whether they are interested in rock or not, can’t help but be fascinated by the tragic life of Syd Barrett. I hope that if there is an after life Syd, or Roger, which he would more likely be called in an after life, is painting ideas he has conjured up in a completely clear, calm, sane mind, because he deserves that.

Asshole Bird on the Loose!

There is a bird dive-bombing people at Navy Pier on a daily basis. I have been attacked three times myself. He is a small, black bird with red lines on his wings. My dad is more than likely going to look it up, so I will soon be able to discern whether this is common practice for this species or if we have a rogue, psychotic bird on our hands. His assaults don’t hurt, but it scares the shit out of you. He comes swooping in from behind, hits you in the head, with what some have said his feet, but I don’t know how the hell they can tell, he lets out a squawk, and by the time you turn around he’s gone.

Some have said he may be protecting a nest, which I don’t buy. I mean, I’m just walking by with photographs to sell to people, and I’m not even looking at your nest. Now that you’re hitting me in the head I want to scramble up your unborn children and make a hobo skillet out of them, but If you had just left me alone I would have never entertained this notion. My theory is he’s just an asshole. I can tell by his little squawk that he’s an asshole. Keith, a coworker of mine, has been hit a few times too. He said one day he sensed he was coming, so he turned around just in time to see him come to a stop and backpedal flap away like a little bitch. So, we’ve learned that he only attacks those who don’t look. We thought about putting our sunglasses, which I lost the other day (shit!), on the back of our heads in the hopes that he will think we are looking. If that doesn’t work I’m going to get John Rambo on his ass.

I was all for settling this matter peacefully, but the other day I was hung-over and crabby and he delivered his hardest blow to date, knocking my sunglasses (which I need to buy now, damn!) off my head, and causing me to yell, “God damn it!” at the top of my lungs despite the fact that there were kids everywhere. I have come to the conclusion that the ultimate tool to send this little prick to birdie hell is a tennis racket, so I’ll be bringing a Head racket with shock absorbers tomorrow. Sorry if this offended any animal lovers out there, but he started it and I’m going to finish it.

Get Outta My Dreams and Get Into My Blog

1. Billy Ocean is alive and well and singing daily at Navy Pier. At any given moment his soulful voice with that accent of equal parts Trinidad and British can be heard all across the mile long stretch, from the stain glass museum to Connie’s Pizza, and unfortunately, it can be heard loud and clear at the docks of the Sea Dog ™ speedboats where I am stationed 40 hours a week. There are a number of bad songs that I hear there like Sussudio by Phil Collins or Summer Breeze by Seals and Crofts, the latter which I hear on a daily basis, guaranteed, but there was something about hearing both Billy Ocean’s When the Going Gets Tough the Tough Get Going AND Get Outta My Dreams Get Into My Car that really made me squirm in my tight, black slacks. That’s right, tight, black slacks, so that the heat locks in, due the color, and scorches your skin, due the tightness, and then your sense of hearing is equally tortured with that retched intro:
Billy: Hey you, get in to my car
Billy’s Girl Not Yet In His Car, But for the Time Being Merely In His Dreams: Who me?
Billy: Yes you, get in to my car
Wooooooooooooooh. Wah! Yeah!

2. After having my bike stolen, my plan all week was to drive my car somewhere and then take public transportation, which would enable me to sleep a little longer. This worked out great the first day, when I parked my car right by a bus stop and hopped on, but the following day I pressed my luck and kept driving. I noticed that as I got closer to downtown all the spots were meter spots, so I had to pull down a side street. The side street I chose off of Chicago Avenue was Hudson, and I went a few blocks down to Hudson and Locust. Make a mental note of this everyone, if you find yourself at this crossroads RUN. I saw a lot of empty lots, makeshift churches fashioned out of burnt out buildings, and that famous pattern of liquor stores directly next to currency exchanges. I parked my car and ran my ass to work. The boss’s kid promised to give me a ride back to my car, so I could have nice door-to-door service, but then he changed his mind and said he couldn't due to a commitment with his girlfriend. So, for the remainder of the day at work I was dreading my second encounter with Dough Boy and the rest of the Boyz in the Hood. As it turns out, that street is a little more “active” at 6pm then it is at 8:30 am. Just turning and looking down that block I knew that I was going to stick out like a turd in a punch bowl. I ventured down half a block and noticed some people playing softball. Here is my internal monologue as best as I can remember:
“Okay, softball. That means they have bats. Don’t look at that game, just keep looking straight ahead. Do I look tough? Probably not. I don’t look like I have money though, right? I wouldn’t be wearing this uniform if I had money. Okay, I can see my car another block down on the other side of the street. It’s still there and it looks like it has at least two rims left. There are dudes approaching on my side of the street, so what I’ll do is start a slow crossing the street process angling directly towards my car so that I don’t have to cross paths with any of these guys. Deer God, there are like 7 of these guys on the corner and they all have white shirts. Maybe they’re school uniforms. No, school is out for the summer. Maybe they got next in the softball game. Yeah . . . Shit, they’re ascending towards me. Okay, pick up the pace, but don’t look like you’re picking up the pace.”
What I did next was jump into my car, start it up, and peeled out of there without even taking my backpack off, despite the fact that I was crammed tightly against the steering wheel. If any of the Hudson and Locust white shirted gentlemen are reading right now, I’d like to thank you for not pulling out your strap and laying a buster down.

3. I broke up with the girl I was seeing for over two months. Two months is the longest I have been with a girl in about 2 years since splitting up with the girl who I was with for over 5 years, and I’d say this recent one was the closest thing I have had to a girlfriend; all the rest I’d classify as ‘very short term.’ She was really sweet and great in a lot of ways, but I’m really happy to be single for the summer.

4. I have been really good about not talking to my ex who I was with for over 5 years, because I know it’s good for me. It’s hard for both of us to stop talking to one another, but she has been kind enough to stop trying to contact me, until very recently. In a last ditch effort she texted me the following: “I need you to make me a workout play list of indie rock and actual good music.” At first I got all excited and thought about all the awesome up-tempo indie cuts I could put on that list, but then I thought, “That bitch.” I texted her back: “You are baiting me with a fun project. Dirty Pool.” To which she texted back: “I know. By the way your u r on the Swedish soccer team. #5 I think.” She ADMITS it and then just moves on. Now you see why it’s so hard to let someone out of my life who knows me so well and is so damn funny.

Stop! Thief!

I just had a bike stolen for the 2nd summer in a row. It's a new summer tradition I'm starting. It's getting to be an expensive tradition, but it's one that I think will continue whether I want it to or not.

Whenever shit like this happens it just makes me so mad that there are people out there who do this kind of thing. One wonders if they even feel bad about it. I'll tell you one thing, this asshole won't make any money off the my $150 Target bike, but he has horribly inconvenienced me, because now I have to take the fricking bus to work. You know what I hate about buses? Waiting. You know what else? Stopping. On m bike it may take me a while to get somewhere but I never stop.

Would anyone object if in the future I catch a bike stealer and beat the ever-loving* shit out of him? Objections . . . ?

*Where did this phrase come from?

Unorthodox Workout Planners and the Roommates Who Love Them

One of my roommates is out of shape, and he has a hard time motivating himself to exercise after working hard all day. Today he called me up on his way home from work and asked me if I’d like to accompany him on an exercising excursion. I really didn’t want to, but because he so rarely gets the gumption to propose such a thing, I got the feeling that if I said no he wouldn’t go at all. However, while his plan on the phone involved taking a long walk to a basketball court and shooting some hoops, his plan upon arriving home was almost identical except we were to end up at a bar somehow. Oh well, I wasn’t going to argue with him, because whatever it takes to get him exercising is okay by me.

So the brisk walk there goes well. Then we do a rapid paced shooting around with one guy rebounding and giving the shooter his lay-up when he misses, and then switching roles. If this is done fast, it can be a decent workout. If you’re horribly out of shape like my dear roomy, sorry if you’re reading big fella, this is enough to make you sweat like a whore on Nickel Night.

I was hoping he had forgotten the bar portion of the exercise plan or maybe after such a good workout it would dawn on him how counterintuitive that part of the plan was, but no such luck. He was intent on going to the bar. Well, if I was going to go to a bar on a Monday, I figure we should at least try out some new ones, so my dumb ass suggests we should hit all 3 new bars on Ashland that we hadn’t been to, since they were all on the way home. Here’s our results.

The Foundation: This bar was a little bit too classy for us. They were playing Postal Service, which is encouraging, but we felt out of place wearing gym shorts and carrying a basketball. We asked for a menu and left. I think I’d go there, but there’s a similar place a little closer to me, so it’s not very likely.

Four Shadows: As I walked in, an a-hole knocked the basketball out of my hand with a big shit-eating grin on his face. He meant well, but I still wanted to punch him in the ear. I have this thing about people doing stuff like that. Whenever someone knocked my hat off my head I really wanted to go ape shit on them. It’s weird because I’m not at all an angry guy, nor do ordinarily have a fiery temper. I think in a former life I may have been an Old West guy who shot people for doing that. I hope that past life guy was careful about who he told his pet peeve to, because in my experience it only makes people do it more, which for him would have meant budgeting for more bullets.

Sorry, about the tangent. When we asked for specials she named a few so-so ones and then she said they $6 pitchers of Stella. Now I don’t think it’s good for two people to drink pitchers on a Monday, but you have to understand how good a deal that is. You can’t get pitchers of CRAP beer for fewer than 7 bucks in Chicago, and Stella is a damn tasty libation. As we sipped our frothy brews we chatted up our rock-hard body, yoga-obsessed, female bartender who was planning a trip to China to study yoga under the Shao Lin monks. We both really wanted stay there and hear more off-the-wall shit from this gal, and there was plenty of it to be heard, but we HAD to make it to our third and final bar.

The Ashland: This bar looked exactly like it did when it was the Skylight, which is the bar we had our New Years party at in which we had over 150 of our closest friends. It was a smashing success. Anyway, the only new element in this incarnation is that you can play beanbags, or corn-holing if you’re from Indiana, there on Sundays, and you can play video games at the bar. I wowed the bartender and my roomy at my ability to rapidly flap my ostrich’s wings to jump on my opponents’ eggs before being killed by other ostrich riders and the dreaded Lava Troll in the game of Joust, and then we were on our way. We thought about going back to the previous fun bar, but opted to go home. Well, roomy opted to stop off for a bottle of jack, which I think he’s still working on, and then we went home.

I think if I accompany him on another exercise trip, I’m going to have to insist that his regiment is not capped off with copious amounts of alcohol, but I’m glad I got out there to explore these new establishments. You HAVE to know all your local watering holes. Anyone want to share his or her favorite spot and why he or she prefers to spend his or her money at said bar? I think some of you know that my loyalty lies with The Liar’s Club, but I also like this dive around the corner called Cody’s which has a bocce ball court out back. I haven’t played yet, but when I start throwing some bocce balls around regularly my blog entries may be even more inconsistent. Good night.

Long Deserved Idle Time

My summer off from my real job started today. I start my full-time summer job tomorrow, but here’s what I did with my first day off in a long time:

1. I cleaned my bedroom. Since I live with 4 dudes, my bedroom is my safe-haven. I spend a great deal of time here, and as a result, I accumulate a lot of SHIT. Here are some things I found:
a) A wig, 2 joker hats, and numerous wristbands
b) A stamped envelope filled with a credit card bill and a check, signed by me, from February. This must have gotten buried and never sent. When I found things like this I kept thinking of Naked Gun when he’s cleaning out his desk, and he’s like, “The missing evidence from the Kelsey case; I’ll be damned, he WAS innocent.” Then the other guy tells him he got the electric chair years ago. Sorry if the quote wasn’t exact, but the sentiment of me losing important shit rings true.
c) Enough change to buy a summer home sompeplace, and in a related matter, I foresee a trip to a Coinstar real soon. Don’t you love those things? We pay money for a machine to count our money and give us another form of money . . . But the change IS money. ‘Well, yes, but it’s so cumbersome . . . ‘

2. I watched 3 of the 4 episodes in the History of Metal series on VH1. Just when I’m ready to write that channel off as shit, and think that they might as well go back to just showing adult contemporary videos like Gloria Estefan and Phil Collins all day, they come out with something really kick ass like this. The part of the show that really made my day was seeing my second favorite clip from Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years in which guitarist Chris Holmes from W.A.S.P. (rumored to be an acronym for We Are Sexual Perverts) attempts to drink himself to death in his pool while his mother sits pool-side. He’s everything I want to be. In case you're wondering, odds are you're not, but just in case, my favorite clip from that film is when the girl wins the Miss Sunset Strip contest, or whatever they call it, and when asked what is next for Miss Sunset Strip, she says she is going to work on her ACTRESSING.

3. I finalized my Summer: Fuck Yeah disc (The title of the disc is an homage to a song from Team America). It was my roommate Neil’s idea for the two of us to each make 80 minutes of music which embodies summertime in Chicago, and we’ll debut them this weekend with some cocktails and friends. Here is the track listing for my disc:

1. Baby, Now That I've Found You 2:34 The Foundations
(Great oldie here, and you’ll see lots of oldies on the list cause any other time of year they can annoy me, but they rock in the summer. When I searched for a photo just now I noticed that they were an interracial band, about half and half no less. I always like to see that for some reason. I suppose there is something about me being two parts social worker and one part rock and roller which equates to the idea of a good interracial band being likely to give me a warm, fuzzy feeling, which it did.)

2. Lively Up Yourself 5:11 Bob Marley & The Wailers
(I needed a Bob song, and I always liked this one. How it’s not on the Legend disc I have no idea.

3. I Gotta Feeling (Just Nineteen) 3:30 Eagles Of Death Metal
(I just saw these guys live and they’re a lot of fun. No real reason for this song to be on here, except that I wanted a couple of friends to hear this track.

4. Just Like Heaven 3:32 The Cure
(This song makes me want to frolic around an open field like a nymph. No, not the type that sleeps with everything that everything that moves, the type from mythology full of whimsy and carefree fun.)

5. Brandy (You're A Fine Girl) 2:55 Looking Glass
(This is a tale of a lonely bar maid on a pier in love with sailors who will never be able to marry her, due to their devotion to “the sea.” The nautical theme is kind of summery I suppose, but again, I think all oldies qualify for summertime songs in my book.)

6. Shake Your Rump 3:19 Beastie Boys
(This is booty shaking good time)

7. Bananas And Blow 3:34 Ween
(I had to get Ween on the list, and this song qualifies for summer with that cabana flavor)

8. I Saw Her Again Last Night 3:14 Mamas And The Papas
(Another good oldie)

9. Me and Julio down by the schoolyard - Simon & Garfunkel (live)
(I like this live version a lot better than the recorded one. Fun song.

10. Werewolves of London 3:20 Warren Zevon
(Does anyone else picture Tom Cruise wielding a pool cue in Color of Money when they hear this song?)

11. Stay A Little Longer 3:25 Willie Nelson (live)
(This song sums up the summer lifestyle and friends being bad influences upon someone).

12. Fantastic Voyage 5:34 Coolio
(Who can forget that video when Coolio puts a gazillion people in his trunk and takes all their asses to Da Beach for one big ass party?)

13. Lake Shore Drive 3:49 Aliotta, Haynes, Jeremiah
(This is the perfect song to play when you’re riding down the highway for which the song was named. I could not believe a band that made such a cool song could possibly suck, but I played their greatest hits once, and sure enough, they sucked.)

14. Train in Vain (Stand by Me) 3:11 The Clash
(Fun song for a band that’s supposed to be all about Punk and fuck everybody sentiments.)

15. Panama 3:32 Van Halen
(I wanted to put Jump on here for the Chicago Cubbies, but when I played the start of this one, it just seems more about the summertime cruising and rocking, etc.)

16. Thank God I'm A Country Boy 3:24 John Denver
(This is a VERY guilty pleasure, but try to tell me it’s not infectious.)

17. Its A Beautiful Morning 2:31 Young Rascals
(It is not an exaggeration to say that this song is beautiful. Who actually says, “It’s a beautiful morning. I think I’ll go outside for a while and just smile?” When that’s the extent of your plans, it truly is a beautiful morning.

18. I Get Around 4:19 2 Pac Shakur
(There’s a lot of, to quote Wedding Crashers, “strange ass” floating around in the summer, and I had to have a song to cover that element; this one delivers in spades.

19. My Sweet One 2:07 Phish
(Phish is a summer band for me. I always revisit them this time of year.)

20. Glad Girls 3:49 Guided By Voices
(Great pick-me-up song on a disc and at one of their live shows. Every show I saw GBV live this song would kick in after 12 b-sides nobody knew, and everyone would jump up and down in unison.

21. Sweet Freedom 4:07 Michael McDonald
(What a dorky song, but it makes me think of Running Scared (a not so great Chicago movie) and the Cubbies (who were not so great in 1986). I guess it just reminds me of a summer in my childhood and gives me a chance to entertain people with my dead-on Michael McDonald impression.

22. Summer Babe [Winter Version] 3:16 Pavement
(Beyond the simple fact that this song title has summer in it and it’s by one of the best bands ever, it also is a song that makes me happy.

Well, what started as a quick blog turned into an entirely too huge blog. If you’ve made it this far, or were nice enough to skim this far, I hope you enjoyed a little taste of what it’s like to be the type of guy who sets out to write about what he did on his day off, but ends up with an entry with track list descriptions being longer than the actual subject matter. Good day.

I'll Take Great Walks of Shame (WOS) In History for 500, Alex

Getting up at 8:30 to go to my weekend job every Saturday and Sunday has been awful for my social life, and working 7 days a week is grueling, but there are a couple of perks. For one, working in the sun is keeping me tan, which is nice, but my scalp is burning, which is not as good. Another perk is the exercise I get on my bike ride to and from work, which is about a 40 minute ride that I have to make a 30 minute ride, since I’m always running late. How am I going to stay in shape when I no longer have to pedal fast out of necessity? On my ride home I pedal like Jesus (Hey Zeus), see previous post. If I no longer bike to a job, I’ll have to steal stuff and make a get-away on my cheap, Target bike; Anything to get the chains turning. Another added bonus about my ride to work is that being that it’s 9:00 am on Saturdays and Sundays, and it’s right through the Lincoln Park area, we are talking PEAK walk of shame time.

I’m sure you all know what a walk of shame is, but I’ll provide a brief definition for those of you who don’t: A walk home after an unexpected stay at the home of someone of the opposite sex. As I ride past a girl with high heels, f-me-pants, make up smeared, clothes disheveled, and her hair all messed up, I’m thinking to myself, ‘sure, you just woke up after a night of drinking, rolled out of bed in the same clothes, clipped a couple of coupons and now you’re merely headed to the grocery store . . . Either that or you had one too many cosmopolitans, which are like breasts because one’s not enough and three’s too many, went home with a 22-year-old DePaul student with a striped shirt, and now you have to figure out where the hell you are at and if there is a Blue Line train nearby.

As some of you know, I live with four guys. Because of this, sometimes I’ll catch a quality walk of shame before I even leave the apartment. Sometimes I’ll be getting ready to leave for work and see a roomy get not one but TWO cups full of water, at which time I’ll say to him, “Johnny, I didn’t know you were ‘entertaining’ a guest.” One time I was watching TV and one of my roommate’s hook-ups barfed all over the stairs, and then he cleaned it up, which I thought was nice because there’s nothing worse than cleaning up your own vomit in front of a random hook-up’s roommate.

Anyone have any good walk of shame (WOS) stories they would like to share? Barf-on-the-stairs-girl, if you’re out there, I probably already shared your best WOS story, but if you got a better one, we’re all ears.

Jesus (Pronounced with a HEY-ZEUS)

Jesus (pronounced HEY-ZEUS) was the homeless man that lived under the porch of the guy who lives a few doors down from me. Very rarely do I see the guy who lives INSIDE the building, but I know he’s really old, even older than Jesus, who appeared to be the better part of 60 or 70. Apparently the resident had some kind of agreement with Jesus, whereby Jesus got to sleep under the front porch, and the resident got . . . a lot of Jesus’ junk all over his front yard? I’m not sure how the guy benefited from the agreement, but the residents on the 1500 block of west Nelson street benefitted from seeing Jesus’ smiling face as he rode SLOWLY by on his bicycle. I liked saying hello to him as I walked by, even when the conversation would go like this:

Me: ‘Morning Jesus. How you doing?
Jesus: I’m broke, man.

Damn, Jesus! I know this! I guess I can’t blame him. “How you doing?” is kind of a dumb question when it’s asked of a guy living under a porch, but come on!! His other annoying thing was turning down food. My roommate gave him a patty melt once and he’s all, “I don’t like patty melts.” Yeah, okay, but I’ve seen you rooting through the garbage in the alleys for a snack, so where do you come off being so God damned picky?

I’m speaking of him in the past tense because I don’t know what happened to him. A couple months ago he disappeared. If winter were approaching I would say he went south like a bird, but summer is coming. Summer in Chicago is beautiful, even if you’re a bum, hell, especially if you’re a bum. Well, whether Jesus is dead, relocated, or whatever, he’s more than a bum. I’m not sure what else he’s about, but I know he was a human being and a fixture of our neighborhood for who knows how long. Jesus, wherever you are, may you never sleep in the cold, may you forever have a dollar in your pocket, and may your sandwiches NEVER be patty melts.

Cucking Fubs!!

I know I’ve already written about the Cubs, but they’re fricking killing me. They are SO bad. When the highlight of the season is our catcher punching a White Sox player, that’s pretty bad. Actually, even if we were winning games that would STILL be the highlight of the season. Man, that was sweet.

Well, I’ve put on my dorky Cubs bracelet that says “believe” on it, and I plan on sleeping and showering in it, etc, until something changes since, quite obviously, their success depends on ME. If this doesn’t work I may have to sacrifice a live, virgin goat to eradicate the curse of the goat once and for all. Even if it doesn’t work, a goat killing party is always a good time. I wonder how my landlord will feel about a pentagram on the kitchen tiles? Fuck it. Take it out my security deposit, because the Cubs are counting on ME!