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!

Fuck Dionne Warwick. THAT'S What Friends Are For

I don’t remember why, but on the drive to work today a line from a rap song popped in my head. I believe the song was Natural Born Killers (or maybe Killaz) by Dr. Dre and Ice Cube, and the line is as follows: “I’m down with Dre like A.C.’s down with O.J.” This is, of course, a reference to O.J. Simpson (Heisman Trophy winner, 2000 yard NFL rusher, and double murderer) and his childhood friend A.C. Cowlings. If you think about it, A.C. is one hell of a friend. You figure their conversation had to have been something like this:

OJ: I need a favor.
AC: Name it.
OJ: I need you to drive me in your car
AC: Can’t we use your Benz?
OJ: Nope. It has to be a white Ford Bronco. Can you do it?
AC: You mean a getaway?!
OJ: Not exactly. More like driving 25 on highway with 42 police cars behind us.
AC: Sounds fun, but . . .
OJ: Oh yeah, I’m going to need to hold a gun to your head the whole time
AC: Ummmmm
OJ: Oh, come on, man! I’d do the same for you. Come on . . .(look at the solo OJ picture when you read this line. He’s damn convincing, isn’t he?)
AC: Alright, Juice. But I’ll be expecting a sixer for this. . .

So, are you down for your friends or are you AC-style down for your friends? If your friend stabbed his ex-wife and her lover 12 times each, would you drive him/her on a Live CNN cop parade at gunpoint? Think about it . . .

P.S.: Can anyone tell me what movie the sixer line is from?

PJ

I saw Pearl Jam at The United Center, where the Chicago Bulls play, the other night. I decided to go for a few reasons.

1. Heterosexual Life Partner, my roommate and one of my closest friends, is probably the biggest PJ fan on earth. He has a bunch of bootlegs and he has been to a ton of shows. You know how I know he is a big fan? At one point in the show he told me how one of the guitar players has Chrone’s Disease, like my other closest friend, and he is a big activist. Sure enough, I saw a guy on the way out with a Chrone’s foundation something-or-other shirt on. Who knows that about a band member? He is like one of those little girls that memorizes all of the N’Sync members’ favorite colors, and I love him for it. So, I had to see what they are all about live if Neil is this retarded over them and we tend to agree on music to the point where we are like a dorky couple of fruity asses.

2. They are a band that speaks to my generation. I went to school during the Grunge Era. For those of you who don’t know, that is when a shit load of bands from Seattle came onto the scene, and all of the hair metal bands had to take off their makeup, cut their hair, and get jobs at Wallmart. Look for Ricky Rocket from Poison at your local Dairy Queen. He makes a mean blizzard. The things that man can do with a heath bar . . . In any event, these grunge bands dominated the airwaves and MTV to the point where we all wanted to wear flannels and be depressed. This was fun for a while, but now I see how high school girls dress and all I can think is, damn, chicks in my day wore baggy flannels, didn’t fix their hair or makeup, and it was like making out with Bob Villa. Sorry, Bob. I’m sure you’re a stallion.

Okay, back to the speaking to the generation. I have to be honest here. I love Nirvana. They changed music forever, but I rarely knew what the hell he was talking about. While Kurt Cobain was singing about mulattos and albinos, Eddy Vedder sang, “While you were sitting home alone at age 13, your real daddy was dying. Sorry you didn’t see him, but I’m glad we talked.”* Nothing like that ever happened to me, but his words in that song and others gave me the chills and they still do. Let’s put it this way, how many parties do you remember a bunch of drunk people singing Nirvana to each other at the top of their lungs? There’s something about Pearl Jam that just transports me back to high school, and I’m sure there is one band that does that for everyone much more than other bands. What’s yours? High school wasn’t a good time for me, but PJ evokes the few good feelings I had about it.

3. My Morning Jacket opened. They are an unbelievable band. Neil and I were very dismayed to see that everyone was sitting down during their set. Because we didn’t want to be the lone tools standing up getting in people’s way, we decided to stand up and cheer like maniacs in between each song, and dance, air drum, and basically rock out as best we could in our seats during the songs.

Some highlights to the show included

Eddy Vedder’s voice sounded great, he is still a cool, rock star at age 40, and he avoided political rants. I will say it is weird that he has graduated to wine during his shows, but since he’s 40 years young, and since he put down 2 or 3 bottles, I have to let him slide on that one. a) Granted, he wasn’t the man possessed, frothing about the mouth, entirely too good looking to be homeless man, but I’ll be damned if he doen’t seem like one, crazed rocker, icon that he was close to 15 years ago, but he is still one helluva rockstar. I’ve always contented that his work on the album 10 is one of the best rock vocal performances of all time. Just listen to him going bonkers at the end of Jeremy. It’s like some demon-rocker spirit is channeling through him to do his rock bidding. He really was a man possessed on that record.
b) They played every PJ song I needed to hear. You name it, they played it.
c) The United Center had 312, a great new Chicago beer, on tap. Sure they were $7.50 a pop, but they were so damned tasty. When you only have four bullet points about a show, and one of them is about beer, you may have a problem, but that’s a whole other self-reflective blog that I don’t have time for.
d) There were 2 goofy drunk guys arm-in-arm jumping in unison throughout entire songs. I was calling them the Wonder Twins. There was a grey haired dude, there were a number of those, right next to them consistently getting bumped into by with their Wonder Twin Powers.

Okay, this turned into a much more in-depth analysis than I intended, but would you expect anything less? Enjoy your weekend everyone, and keep on rocking in the relatively free world.

* Sorry if I blew that quote, but I’m far too lazy to look up the verbatim version.

Tall, Dark, and Useful?

I’m dating this girl who makes me feel useful. She is a beautiful, intelligent woman who was born in Hong Kong and moved here in 1997. For starters, she missed the 1980’s! I have so much to teach her about tight-rolled jeans, jelly shoes, The Superbowl Shuffle, Bananarama, and Kajagoogoo. The following are some slightly more important things I’ve helped her with, taught her, or plan on teaching her:

1. Because she doesn’t have a car, nor does she know how to drive, I convinced her to buy a bike. I know a lot about them, so I was able to accompany her to the bike shop, which helped her, but annoyed the salesperson, who I foiled in her attempt to push everything in the store on her. “How about a light? A bell? A bolt to keep your seat on? A $60 lock? How about surface to air missles?”

2. I plan on teaching her to drive. I think I’d be good at this job, since I’m so patient. For the time being, I feel useful in that I can drive her places, since I have a car and know how to drive it.

3. Today I helped her pick out a handbag. She was all set to buy a $700 one, when I suggested we go to Bucktown and look in a shop that just sells bags, a shop I got the name of from a friend, since I knew they would be of good quality, potentially less expensive, and more unique. She liked a couple, but I could tell she wasn’t nuts about either of them, so I suggested we go down the street to a store called Stitch, which specializes in leather products. Sure enough, she fell in love with a bag, and I like it too. It’s somehow sexy, because it almost looks like a leather skirt. It’s interesting, but not gaudy. Maybe she can return the favor by decreasing my talk of handbags, and increasing my talk about sports, thus making me far less flaming. Until the Cubs give me something to talk about that doesn’t make my blood boil, I will continue to talk of fierce (with a lisp) handbags.

4. I plan on teaching her how to play volleyball. She will be worthy of being my double’s partner by the end of the summer. I’ll whip balls in her face, see previous post, if that’s what it takes.

5. Perhaps most importantly, I am making her watch all the original Star Wars films. We just finished Empire, and she had NO idea Darth Vader was Luke’s father. I must give her props, since after watching Darth use the dark side of the force to choke the 2nd or 3rd general, she wondered why anyone would want to be promoted, thus having to work more closely with the boss who gets frustrated and kills muthafuckas. A valid point, and an interesting notion I had not previously entertained. I know the picture is of him choking a GOOD guy by HAND, but I couldn't find any of him using the force to do it, and let's face it, pictures of him simply pointing his fingers aren't as menacing. Very nerdy of me to clarify that, but If you want to see some REAL Star Wars nerds, check these guys out: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=672422470842718521

I would be remiss if I did not add that she is a rad chick in ways other than I can teach her things. In fact, there are a lot of things she has taught me in the short time I’ve known her. Okay, I’m going to get some sleep so I can be “usefull” at work tomorrow.

I am flabbergasted. As some of you know, I coach 6th and 7th grade volleyball. My principal just came up to me in the middle of practice, mad as hell, asking me if I whipped a volleyball at a kid’s face. What DID happen was two kids got mad at each other when they were chasing down their volleyballs, and one threw the ball at the other one’s face. I asked them what the heck was going on, they verified that they were throwing balls at one another, so I made them do laps. The one kid stopped, so, naturally, I asked him why he stopped, to which he replied he had to go. So, I said, finish your laps and THEN go. About 20 minutes later is when my principal came to me saying that this kid told his mother that I whipped a ball in his face and threw him out of practice. I love working with kids, it’s why I got into the business of school social work, but I’m so fed up with dealing with parents, politics, misunderstandings, and outright lies. I think I’m going to be a house painter. I want to just paint houses with some music on and have ZERO coworkers. Wouldn’t that be great?

"My Life, My Love, and My Lady Is the Sea"

Some of you may know that I work on the weekends as a photographer at Navy Pier, a famous tourist attraction in Chicago. It’s not like it’s a fun little hobby, more accurately, it’s an 18-hour-long, straight up, weekend killa’. I really wish I could have my weekends to relax, but my disgustingly high car payment and my Gigantor student loans have joined forces in a successful attempt to leave me with zero free time, hence the dismal effort at blog updating (sorry seven readers).

I used to take pictures at the Ferris Wheel. I’m the guy that says, “How are you today? Before we get on board, why don’t you step right behind this sign, show some love, and give Christy a big, Ferris Wheel smile,” or something to that effect. Then when they get off the wheel, one of us shows them their picture on the monitor and tries to sell it to them. I’ve been doing this for over a year now, and I’m damn good at it. Here are some bullet points I could put on a resume:

1. I’m willing to flirt with old ladies from St. Louis if it means selling a photo or two.

2. I can maintain order on a busy ramp, with people growing increasingly frustrated, and STILL get them to stop for a photo opportunity on a consistent basis. The college kids that I work with, yes, I know it’s pathetic that I’m 29 and I work with these youngsters, don’t have the gift of gab that I have. You just can’t coach it I’ve found.

3. I can vary my little pitch and tailor-make it to the people on the ramp so that I don’t bore them, my coworkers, or myself.

While I’ve proven to be an effective Ferris Wheel photographer, the last few weekends they have stationed me at the Sea Dog ™. This is your basic speedboat ride and architecture tour. Today I learned that on a cold, rainy, Chicago afternoon, don’t NOBODY want to go on a boat. So, we spent the day playing photographers VS tour guides in a game of two-on-two football. Of course, we’d stop and ask people if they wanted to ride in between plays, and sometimes getting behind the center and saying, “2:15 architecture tour on two, best 75 minutes of your life on 3!” I also watched the two tour guides do an improvisational bit about two ninjas who are mortal enemies, want nothing more than to kill one another, but keep crossing paths without their swords. They are theatre dorks, but perfect for the job, since they have to talk all day and think quickly on their feet.

The sad part is the powers that be noticed that they didn’t need 3 people to take photos of NOBODY, so they sent us all home. This has given me time to finally update my blog. Tonight I will be partying at my apartment during our going away extravaganza for one of my roommates. Tomorrow I will be a hung over, but still very effective photographer or wide receiver, depending on the weather.

The Suburbs Will Suck Your Soul

I hate losing contact with my friends from the suburbs. It's not that I like them any less than my city dwelling friends, it just happens. It reaches a point where it's a standoff: They hate coming out here and I hate going out there. It's like, I have this terrific city all around me, and they have . . . Naperville. Sure the suburbs can be fun, if by fun you mean going to the same two bars every weekend to watch the cool kids from high school become bigger and bigger losers over the years, and then hop in your car, only to be followed by a DUI-ticket-writing-hungry, suburban cop who has no real crimes to fight. I came up with percentages for the reasons I think the suburban friends have for not coming out, and my good friend Roxana helped me with a pie chart. Thanks, Roxy. However, I can't figure out how to get the pie chart on my blog, so you'll just have to form a little pie chart in your head, which is a pretty fun way to pass the time. Enjoy.

70%: There is nowhere to park in that fucking city. Why don't they have any God damned parking lots? After driving around looking for an hour, I just want to go home, drink a sixer, and go to sleep.

20%: $6.50 for one Heineken? I can get a twelve pack of Busch light for that in the burbs.

7% $5 cover charge? That's bullshit. I've been to Joanie's Dry Dock dozens of time, and not ONCE has Joanie asked me for a cover charge.

2% I'd like to come out to Chicago, but I have to get a fresh start on my lawn early tomorrow morning, or the neighbors will start talking about me.

1% Just come out by me! Hootie and the Blowfish are playing Ribfest in Naperville!

Go Cubs Go!

Baseball season is, yet again, upon us, and this no doubt means another disappointing year for the Chicago Cubs. I’m tired of them fucking sucking. I don’t think people get how serious I am about Cub baseball. Let me give you some of the alarming signs that I am a die-hard Cub fan.

1. When someone insulted the post-stroke Harry Caray, I honestly think I could have killed a few of these jerks. This man’s voice was around my house so much growing up that he might as well have been my grandfather. Hell, he was my grandfather, so don’t make fun of my fucking grandpa! Will Farrell, I’ll let you slide, since your impression is God damned funny.

2. I’m not sure if there is a God or not, but I AM sure that if I leave a game early, I can drastically affect the outcome of a game.
I can also alter the results of a game by turning the radio or television off for a brief while. Believe it or not, my bleacher bum friends and I can turn the tides of a game simply by switching our seats. I don’t believe in a higher power, but I swear by this bullshit? There’s something wrong with that rationale.

3. Wrigley Field is not just a ballpark to me. It is my favorite place in the world. I love all the sights, sounds, and especially the smells – beer, hotdogs, ice cream . . .
I don’t like the smell of cigars, but I love to smell it at Wrigley. I have even grown to love the smell of hot urine in the men’s room. It is one of the only parks in the country that still has the trough-style urinals. They maximize available pissing spots by cutting out the spaces in between urinals. Efficient? Yes. Smelly? Definitely. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

4. Speaking of urinals, and why not speak of urinals, I love getting off that self/team deprecating one liner that makes the whole men’s room erupt in laughter, and not your usual laughter, but the bazaar looking laughter of men looking straight ahead, so as not to be accused of looking at a penis.

5. I will drink a piss-warm Old Style beer out of a paper cup and ask for seconds, and thirds, and tenths, and stack my dead soldiers up to show my drinking prowess. I dreamed of being the guy with the seeminlgy endless, stacked up cups when I was a young man, and look at me now America! My first frothy brew at the Friendly Confines will be for you, my 9 readers.

The Gospel According To Frank Zappa

Someone I know did a post in which you use your favorite band's song titles to answer the questions below. Although Frank Zappa isn't my favorite, he is certainly among them, and his songs have the funniest titles, by far. It should be noted that I only used songs that are in my personal catalogue. I hope you enjoy the list, and I'd love to see your version, either in comment form or posted on your blog.

1. Are you male or female? Muffin Man

2. Describe yourself: I Can’t Afford No Shoes

3. How do some people feel about you: Dancin’ Fool

4. How do you feel about yourself: I’m So Cute

5. Describe your ex girlfriend: Crew Slut

6. Describe your current significant other: Road Ladies


7. Describe where you want to be: Wild Love

8. Describe how you live: Broken Hearts Are For Assholes

9. Describe how you love: Advanced Romance and Dirty Love (tie)

10. What would you ask for if you had just one wish: Titties and Beer

11. Share a few words of wisdom: Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow

12. Now say goodbye: Wait a Minute . .

Wow, these titles make me sound like a pervert or something. Well, that's just Frank for you. If I chose another band the list would have a whole different feel. Frank, thanks for giving me a good laugh while sorting through some of the titles of songs I love.

Sit Down?

I’m coaching boys, 7th grade volleyball this year. I just got done with my first game, and I need to kill a half hour to charge my ipod and to let traffic die down. So, I figured this would be a great time to knock out a blog.

We lost both games today, but we did way better than the last time we faced the same team. I was out of town, but I heard we didn’t crack 10 points in either game the first time we faced them. In today's games we were up in the 20's both games. I’d like to think that the spike, pun intended, in point production had something to do with Dr. Kenneth Noisewater’s coaching prowess. What I lack in knowledge, I make up for with enthusiasm. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty good volleyball player, and I know the rules. It turns out all my years of playing volleyball at the bar and on the beach did not equip me with the knowledge of all the anal, little nuances in organized volleyball. When you sub in players you have to have them run to the sidelines with the backs of the guys subbing out to the judge, and the front of the guys subbing in has to face her. There is also a hand shaking format in which they have to go to opposite corners, run straight up to the front, so that they can run across and slap hands under the net. Okay, I’m willing to learn these particulars and abide by them, but what I REFUSE to do is sit down while I coach.

I have ADHD. It’s never been diagnosed, but I have a brutal case of it. If you saw my desk right now you’d know what I’m talking about. When I coached basketball I NEVER sat down during a game. I pace back and forth like a caged panther and I howl like a, well, caged panther. Today, midway through the second game, the judge told me to sit down. There were some snickers as the crowd heard the howling come to an abrupt halt, and I sheepishly sat down and put my clipboard under my chair. I really would have liked to have found another place for my clipboard, namely in that bitch judge's corn hole, sideways.

I have a tournament this weekend, and I’m going to continue to pace until I am warned a few times, at which point I’ll sit, but I don’t have to like it.

-Coach “Panther” Noisewater

Tip Your Waitress. Try the Veal.

Last night, The Roomy and I actually met some cool, attractive girls that we are both excited about calling. It wasn’t one of those times where I was talking to a girl all night, hoping that I could take her home, and then settling for a phone number that I have no intention of ever dialing. Jeez, that sounded mad sleazy. It wasn’t one of those, “yeah, I guess I’ll call her. Maybe she’s cooler and/or smarter when she’s sober. . .” The point is, I’m tired of meeting, and what’s worse, following up with, girls who I’m indifferent about. Love is supposed to start with a spark, maybe an explosion, but never apathy, right? So, The Roomy and I are stoked to have met girls who actually got our blood pumping a little.

Oddly enough, the events leading up to us meeting the women in question started when my roommate, our friend Jason, and myself were watching NCAA games at Finley Dunne’s, a great dive bar to watch sports. Our waitress was cute and likeable, and she was laughing with us because our television was about 5-10 seconds ahead of the other 6.* We would see a big play, have a given reaction, and then look around to see if the patrons had a similar reaction moments later. We tipped this waitress tall and went home, thinking that was the last we would see of this lovely bar maid.

So, last night (Saturday) we were out at The Liar’s Club, having fun, but the lady front was not looking good. We had a pretty big group with us, at least one of which was female, and it looked like we were going to fall victim to, what I like to call, the “bringing sand to the beach” effect. We were dancing in a circle formation, which makes it tough to infiltrate into other groups, or for other girls to penetrate our defenses. I hate when that happens. Just to shake things up, I spotted The Naked Guy, fully clothed, see two posts ago, so I requested Hot in Here by Nelly to get him good and naked. As I looked anywhere but in the direction of his flaccid penis, I noticed that the talent in the bar was looking slim. Sure it was good for my ego to have a mediocre-looking girl make me dance with another mediocre looking girl who was getting married in a week while her mediocre-looking friends cheered, or to have a so-so looking girl try to coerce me into taking my shirt off. I remember Tom Petty’s American girl was playing while I pushed my shirt down as she fought back pushing upwards. That’s all well and good, but now that the ego had been thoroughly massaged, I was hoping to meet a more pleasing to the eye woman.

Not long after the Tom Petty shirt pulling fiasco, just when I thought all was lost, the waitress from Thursday spotted us and said, “hey, I waited on you guys on Thursday.” She really likes us for some reason, and she insisted that we meet two of her friends, who were both really good looking and, as it turns out, a lot of fun. My roomy and I chatted up these girls all night, and when the ugly lights came on, which thankfully didn’t make either of these girls ugly, I remember typing my girl’s number into my phone as I saw The Roomy at the end of the bar typing in his girl’s number. The Roomy and I had a little spring our step as we went off into the night. I actually have to break a cardinal rule and call mine today. She is leaving for Switzerland tomorrow, and I’m going out of town tomorrow too. If this works out for him, myself, or even better, both of us, we will have to stop into Finley Dunne’s on another Thursday to watch sports on the super-fast television, and thank the match-making waitress for setting us up. Moral of the story: Tip your waitress? Don’t give up until last call? How about simply remembering that while life as a single guy can be lonely, frustrating, unfulfilling, and it has any number of other negative aspects, sometimes you have one of those nights where you meet someone great, and you remember why sometimes it’s great to be single, and you also remember why some of your not-single friends sometimes envy you.

* I want to add that I found this waitress photo on Google Images, so that's not her, and those guys aren't me or my friends, but how funny is that picture? Those guys look so drunk, and it looks like the Asian Indian fella is giving her the stalker look from hell glare.