That's SO Osama!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Bin Laden needs a publicist. If I had the job, I'd make him hit the 18-25 set and hit them hard. They're the ones being shipped off to fight his army, so he should talk to directly to them.

I would recommend him learning English, maybe sending him to the Discovery Center for one of those quick and dirty classes. Then we'd woo away some hot shot Leo Burnett copywriter to spruce up his scripts. God willing this. . . martyr that. . . tired stuff, Osama.

To stay hot and connected, I'd produce regular Podcasts for the guy.

And God willing, an appearance or two on TRL.

It could always be worse. .

In my nearly 34 years, I've heard that over and over and over. Mainly from family who love to marinate themselves in a puddle of misery. Teenaged cousin gives birth to litter of bastard children? It could always be worse. You have to wait 120 days for your latest frivolous lawsuit settlement?It could always be worse. I roll my pant legs up and wade in shit stew from time to time as holidays and hometown visits dictate, while I cling to the belief things could always be better.

But I do have my poor-me moments. Wanna hear?

The aftershocks of a rough weekend spilled into Monday morning when I prayed for the courage to call in sick to work but instead took a later train. (I am grown up enough to know it's easiest to just show up for stuff. Just haven't gotten the puncuality thing down.) Tuesday I got to the train station early--an entire hour!--to make up for my Monday morning lateness but as luck would have it--the 6:57 was cancelled. Oh, the humanity!

And then this morning my power goes out which meant no alarmo for your amiga. Woke up 40 minutes late and I was kind of wondering if it had something to do with me ignoring a 1 a.m. phone call from a man in the electrical arts. Regardless, I attempted to go for it. Quick shower--no electricity meant no music and no blow dryer--the stuff that can slow a girl down in the a.m. Since my job is now light years away--my coworkers have gotten quite used to Wash-n-go Angie. I would have made it, if it wasn't for this cheerful considerate bus driver who had to wait not once, but twice for straggling passengers bolting across the street to hop on.

"STEP ON THE GAS. STEP ON THE GAS. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STEP ON THE GAS!" I screamed in my head at the driver. He didn't hear me.

Late again.

Yep, I was left feeling a bit sorry for myself as the train rolled out west this morning. And then it hit me. . . it could always be worse. I could be the woman for whom Rush Limbaugh uses Viagra.

A city of neighborhoods

I try to avoid the Gold Coast like an unwanted pregnancy, but this morning I had to meet a friend there to get an important package. (Email me if you really want to know what it is. And I promise not give everyone a different story.) So I take the 60 from my modest neighborhood and get off in the Loop to take a nice, long walk up to Division and Dearborn where the dropoff was scheduled. It's one of those rare, pristine days in Chicago (face it, we ain't known for glorious weather) and once you get past brutal hotspots like Excalibur, the area is quite beautiful. Almost like being in a different city. At Division and Dearborn there was this lovely farmer's market. For some reason it pissed me off. I called my friend to let her know I arrived. "I'm here. There's a farmer's market? Why do you rich people get all the good stuff?" I said, only 1/3 kidding. The closest thing I have to a farmer's market is a bunch of Mexicans selling produce out of the back of a truck (lovely stuff by the way), or Maxwell Street where I can buy tube socks or stolen electronics. "Oh yeah, I forgot that was going on today," She said. "Come on, we're not rich." They're not. But I needed to lash out. Three pretty young girls were playing chamber music near me. Couples with their imported Chinese daughters milled about. "They're playing violins! This is fucking disgusting." Oh, o.k. It was nice. And yeah, I'll probably go back.

I've finally lost it, and I've got UPN to thank

So last night I was watching My Date with Drew on UPN (all you suckers paying for cable probably don't know what quality TV you can get for free) when I realized what was missing in my life--another blog.

Here it is.

Let's just get this over with, shall we?

So against my better judgment, I watched Frontline's The Dark Side last night. At this point, I pretty much try to avoid aggravating myself further over the Iraq war and the lies that brought us in to it.

Color me a glutton for punishment. Since I knew it would be tough to watch, I lit some incense and got the yoga mat out (no need to have a stroke now) for some downward dog and an earful of how a drunk Iraqi code named "Curve Ball" was the lone source for the adminstration's WMD claims.

I was left with a couple of questions for the smarty pants Frontline producers and the former CIA folks. A-Does it really matter anymore that top level CIA brass are tripping over themselves to get on camera and tell us that thousands of U.S. soldiers died for bullshit and make believe? And two-Gentlemen, for godsakes, where were you when we needed ya?

Am I a complete asshole . .

If I laughed (I tried not too, really) when I clicked on this?

On second thought, don't answer that.

I got the music in me

On Friday night I was hanging out in this sweat lodge smoking peyote and drinking beer with the Kaufmann Brothers--a tres sexy but little known vaudeville act--and the rest of the beautiful people surrounding Schadenfreude--when I got a hankering to sing karaoke. They weren't having it, so I filed the idea away for Saturday. I did get an interesting offer involving a futon and chocolate sauce though.

So Saturday I met up with some friends made a few weeks back when a pal and I crashed a speed dating event shitfaced and nookin for nub. The PBR had lost its luster at CANS, and since I put the night together I decided I could boss everyone.

"Let's go to Louie's!"

I got a collective, "uh, ok." So off we went. As we made our way there (the whining four blocks can cause!) my mind started to race. Hmmm. What to sing. What to sing. Madonna? No, too obvious. Frank Sinatra? Only if they have Summer Wind. Earlier that day I was belting out Elton John's Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me alone in my apartment, but changed it to Just Let Your Son Go Down on Me. I got quite a laugh off of that. Several times a day I can't believe how funny I am. Seriously. What a bit would that be!

So we get in the bar, I go to the list and there's no Elton John. But I find a Stevie Wonder song I like.

"For Once in My Life, please!" I tell the bartender.

"You want to sing now?" My eagerness apparently was evident.

"No, I need some time to prepare."

A few songs later, I was up. And I rocked, of course. Actually I kind of rapped. Strange. This guy got up and helped me out a bit, urging me to "TAKE IT HOME!" toward the end of the song.

And boy did I ever.

Texas can suck George Bush's dick*

Hey, I didn’t say it, Madonna did--last night during her show, that mouthy little thing. But it would have been funnier if she said that while she was hanging on the cross with her crown of thorns instead of while she was singing some lame song about how much she loves New York.

Now that would have had some punch.

So yesterday I’m toiling away at work when a coworker called and offered me a couple of last minute tickets to the concert at the United Center. The one and only Madonna show I’ve ever seen was awesome and the astronomical tickets were half-price, so yep I was in and so was ol’ girl Janel.

With a vertigo and $7.50 beer fueled buzz, I was ready to shake what my momma gave me when Madonna hopped out on stage. She was wearing a wacked out riding outfit and huge screens were flashing what I guess is one of her latest videos behind her. I’m not 100% sure though, as I haven’t had MTV or VH1 in years and kind of checked out after Ray of Light.

“She is a FREAK!” I said, loving every minute of it. Janel agreed.

As the show continued, what Madonna wanted, Madonna got.

“HEY MOTHERFUCKERS! PUT SOME EFFORT IN THIS!” She shouted at a couple of rows on the floor that wasn’t standing up and doing the obligatory rocking out. “IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE MY FRONT ROW BITCHES, YOU’D BETTER ACT LIKE IT!” I was wondering if she kisses her rabbi with that mouth.


And anyway, no shit Madonna. We had some retards sitting behind us who actually asked me to sit down if I wasn’t going to dance. The girls on the left of me (also sitting down) seemed a little exasperated when we went for a beer run or a pee break. (Whatever ladies, this wasn’t the gynecologist’s waiting room. It’s a Madonna concert.)

After the concert I told Janel we had to go out for a bit. I love to boss her. I told her Madonna would want us to go out, causing her hesitation to lift. I was fully aware that it was a school night but for a split second, I actually entertained going to Crobar with these chicks from Bulgaria Janel bummed a cigarette off of. They seemed like they'd be a blast to hangout with, and most importantly they thought I was a genius because I know what the capital of their homeland is.

“Sofia is the capital!” I shouted like Rain Man after they told us where they were from.

“OH MY GOD! HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT?” They were geniunely shocked.

I didn’t realize it was a secret.

*Now a co-worker maintains that she said, "George Bush can suck my dick." But I think my version is more plausible.

Thicker than water

I found out over the weekend that my nomadic aunt and uncle—a corpulent and litigious pair—have just sold their California trailer, and are moving back to Illinois. A couple of years ago, Calfornie was the place they out to be, but no more I guess.

“Yeah, they sold their trailer, bought a new one on the Internet—in Eureka—and they’re coming back,” said my brother.

“How they getting here? Covered wagon? Circus Train?” I asked.

“Nope, they’re taking the Crown Vic.”

My mom is always bursting with news of her siblings, their spouses, and their children. Since the stories play out like a Jerry Springer marathon, I almost never want to hear about them.

On Friday night as she wore on, and on about the her sister, I clamped my hands tightly over my ears closed my eyes and gave her the, “La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La La.” treatment. She laughed, got the hint, and we got back to talking about what matters.

Like how Jennifer Aniston must be handling the arrival of baby Shiloh.

No Green Zone Kinkos?

Al-Zarqawi's dead mug in a frame presented to world is a little much. Ya know if they could, Rumsfeld and the gang would have loved to put the dude's head on a stake (think Lord of the Flies.) But these are kindler, gentler times, and the Pentagon does have a well-funded matting and frame shop.

I know a wee bit about marketing and public relations, and I think the picture laminated on a nice piece of foamcore would have been a better choice. Understated and serious. Kinkos does a bang up job, and it works great for tradeshows. Oh, and this was Plan B--using a page from Jenna Bush's scrap book to prove to us that the dude was indeed dead.

6-6-6

Last night I recruited my friend Bob to join me to go see The Omen. I was actually entertaining the idea of going it alone, thinking no one was as nuts as me to be desperate to see the flick on opening night and on 6-6-6. But Bob is pretty odd, so I thought it was worth a shot. He was an easy sell and he’s super sacrilegious—saying things like the Baby Jesus wanted us to have the primo free parking space we found miraculously.

It was a packed house at Webster Place as expected. We were a bit early, and I got our tickets on the web, which is kind of useless when you have the inevitable late comers crawling all over you. And I can’t tell you how much I love it when couples think others should move—others who got to the theatre on time—so they can hold hands or whatever. Here’s a little sampler.

Girlfriend No. 1 to pair of dudes sitting behind us: Um, can you move down so me and my boyfriend can sit together?

Dude: No.

Me (in head): Rock on. Why should they pushed over to the wall and make an already mediocre seat, crappy?

Girlfriend walks away in a huff.

As the previews wore on, the dudes were approached several times. And each time the encroachers were denied, I was secretly happy. But shit, as they say, was about to go down.

A big gun was called in—an assistant to the assistant theatre manager I’ll bet—to get the guys to move down for a married couple this time.

Power Trip: YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE, THIS IS A FULL THEATRE!

Dude: No. I. Am. NOT! We got here on time. And it’s not fair to make us move. There are seats left, just not together.

Usher: WELL THEN I'M CALLING THE POLICE!!!!!!!!!

He seriously threatened this. I couldn’t believe it. And I’m sure the Baby Jesus was dumbfounded as well.

Dude: WELL CALL THEM!

As you can guess no cops came, the guys behind us sat comfortably with two empty seats on either side and we all settled in to watch the son of Satan do his thing. It was a fairly scary movie, but with people laughing when folks are getting their heads lopped off, it’s hard to get too shaken.

What you can accomplish during a virtually alcohol free weekend

1. All laundry can be washed and put away--even that old flannel sheet you just found stuffed in a beach bag and thrown in the back of a closet at the end of last summer.

2. Copious amounts of restful sleep can be had. (Sleeping it off isn't really sleep kiddies)

3. You can download this song off of iTunes, a song that used to send you and your friends into a beer-fueled frenzy whenever it was played. With my big black boots and an old suitcase, indeed.

4. You will actually attempt and mostly succeed in eating healthy, regular meals.

5. You can dust your bookshelves and remind yourself of the all the books you still have to read like, What If? Eminent Historians Imagine What Might Have Been. What if I actually read that book?

6. You can pretend you're a serious career woman and monitor your company's new search engine marketing campaign and web visits (Da man better not get used to THAT, believe you me.)

7. You can trek up to the Lincoln Park Home Depot's roof top garden and buy your flowers for your window boxes. You can also get your tomato plants and herbs that you'll put on your fire escape so when you lean out to water them, hot neighbor will call up to you and say, "Hey, this is just like West Side Story!"

8. You can get up early on a Sunday and have time to mop wood floors that had become to look like packed earth, get coffee and the paper, and still have time and energy to meet friends for lunch and the Printers Row Book Fair.

9. You can make pesto that has way too much garlic and even freeze some like the magazines tell you to. You can make a solemn vow to make pesto all summer with the aforementioned basil plant that is growing on your fire escape.

10. You can plan what you're going to do during your next not-in-the-least-bit alcohol free weekend!

Not sure where babies come from? Don't ask my brother

If you live in my 7-year-old nephew Zach’s world, babies come out of women’s butts. And he thinks that because his retarded father told him so. I guess I should say “thought” because I put an end to that last Friday when he and Chad picked me up from the train last Friday.

There we were, riding along in silence when Zach bursts out.

“Babies come out of your butt, did you know that?” Zach said.

Hmm. I certainly didn’t know that, and I was curious how the little guy came to believe this. I looked at Chad, a now nervous father staring straight down the road. The air thickened in the cab of his white pickup.

Mystery solved.

Zach went on to describe—in graphic detail mind you—how these alleged rectal births play out. “Yeah, the baby is pushed out some and then the doctor helps pull it out all the way and it’s covered in poop.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Close though.”

“Shut up Angie. Shut up Angie.” Chad said, laying down the gauntlet. But I didn’t care. How is my nephew going to be the go-to guy next fall in third grade if he’s walking around thinking babies drop out of your ass?

“Zach, there’s an opening close by there in women where the baby comes out,” I say. Zach seemed a little squeamish. Why this seemed grosser to him than the ass version, I’ll never know.

“What’s it called?” Zach asked.

“I AM GOING TO KILL YOUR AUNT!” Chad said, but the only way he was going to stop me from saying the “V” word, was if he drove the three of us into oncoming traffic.

Now this part was surprisingly hard. I really hesitated, knowing that it wasn't my place to go where I was going. . .but babies being crapped out? Come on.

“It’s a vagina Zach. A vagina!” There, my work was finished.

“A VAJENDA?”

Chad and I busted out laughing causing Zach to think I made up the word.

More than likely, we're back to square one.