Doctors now prescribing Jim Beam

Full disclosure. I love the Kennedys. Unless one of them drives me off a bridge or into a barricade, I don't see that changing. Ever. And while I loves me some Kennedys, I know enough to never, ever accept a ride home from one.

Clearly, Patrick Kennedy was still drunk when he offered up an explanation for his accident. He said prescription medication made him all loopy and out of sorts.

"Sometime around 2:45 a.m., I drove the few blocks to the Capitol complex believing I needed to vote," he said. "Apparently, I was disoriented from the medication."

Oh, Patrick, dear drunk Patrick. At least we know even inebriated, this Kennedy has his constituents first and foremost on his booze-soaked mind.

It's too bad he couldn't hire away some of Cheney's spin team. I sure hope he tried.

Vagina Monologue

To get the stink of the suburbs off of me (because I apparently work there now) I took an awfully long walk after work tonight.

While hoofing it up Halsted, my shuffle started playing "Fat Bottomed Girls," as if to goad me into walking faster. Stupid shuffle. I skipped ahead to the next song and just tried to suck up the citiness of it all. Traffic, pedestrians, homeless, cops, half-built kajillion dollar single family homes off the Dan Ryan Expressway. Ahhh. Life was good again.

Before I knew it, I was up in my old neighborhood--Little Italy-- and decided to pay my old bosses a visit on Taylor Street. Jeez, Ang, that's quite a walk you're on, they said and I helped myself to some bottled water, grabbed a seat to shoot the breeze, Taylor Street style.

There was lot of "@#$%" and some of "&%$#@!" and then someone said, well, "@#%^@%!!" And then I said, "you ain't kiddin." Before long it was time for me to head home to avoid the whole nightfall and danger lurking around every corner thing.

So off I went.

Heading back down Halsted, I ducked into a 7/11 because I needed some tampons. I walked over to the beyond-over-priced section where they keep the stuff you should get at Target, but you didn't last Friday because apparently you forgot you had a vagina. There I see just about everything--pads, this, that, and the other--but no tampons.

Bold as can be I walked up to the counter. And there they were, safely guarded by the 7/11 guy. These tampons would not be getting into the wrong hands, thanks to the convenience store powers-that-be.

"I'll take a box of regular tampax," I said, unaffected as if I was ordering a latte.

7/11 guy got all spastic and stumbled over to the boxes. Regular tampax?

"Uh, the yellow ones. Yep. . . Them. That's cool."

"That'll be $3.05," he said, not looking me in the eye.

Anyway, that exchange made my day. Or at the very least, my early evening.

Finally, a winning strategy for Iraq

In today's Chicago Sun-Times, crime reporter Frank Main writes about Chicago gangbangers who are serving in Iraq. Our hometown heroes, according to the article, are making us proud with their graffiti and all around wholesome gangsta nature. (Picture at right is the work of a Latin King, a Little Village gang.)

It turns out the military's new found we'll-take-anyone approach to recruiting has given us soldiers who have criminal backgrounds, and known gang ties before entering the military. And even better, gang bangers wearing the uniform are saying their leaders urged them to join so they could bring their urban warfare skills home to Chicago, L.A., and New York, among other places.

A familiar quandry, no? Haven't we been concerned for the last few years about Al Qaeda sending their guys into Iraq for training?

When I read this, I thought, "man, just when you think you couldn't be more pissed off about this war." But, inherently I'm a positive gal. Maybe this is a good thing. The insurgents will get up close and personal with the craziest American bastards we can serve up, and probably more importantly, gangbangers will become better shots and hit their targets--eachother--instead of kids playing in parks.

Show it to Angie, she'll buy anything

I’m convinced there’s a picture of me hanging in the conference room at the ad agency responsible for marketing useless shit to consumers.

“What’s Angie buying this week?”

“Uh, just got the numbers, sir. Let’s see, some headbands she’ll never wear. Sweaters that are too big, but we priced them right, so she bought two. And avocado oil.”

“I bet she has no idea what to do with that,eh?”

“Nope.”

“God, I love her.”

Last night at my neighborhood grocery store, La Casa Del Pueblo, I almost bought something called saliva soap, but then put it back when I realized it was “savila” soap. At this store I’ve finally realized my threshold for impulse buys. Items like pig hooves, 6-ft lengths of sugar cane, and calf stomach lining don’t find their way into my cart.

But there is lots of stuff at Mexican grocery stores that I never realized I had to have until I laid my eyes on it.

Like jalapeno shampoo. Makes me look just like Salma Hayek after use. And a medicinal tea called Smooth Move. Don’t think I have to explain that one, do I?

I think we missed our exit

Months back my bosses--these would be my adorable and surprisingly easy to impress bosses---told me that they were moving our office out to the suburbs. Immediately I was filled with disgust and dread and made it quite clear that it would be a bitter pill for me to swallow. Kicking and screaming, I'd go. . . maybe, I thought. Regardless, I was going to make them suffer dearly.

But then the days, turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into. . (you guessed it!) months and here I am less than a week away from COMMUTING TO THE SUBURBS and ya know what?

I'm O.K.

There's been no panic attacks. No fits of crying. No waking in up in the middle of the night screaming because I dreamt I was trapped in an Olive Garden and I couldn't get out. I'm really O.K. Not even an iota of self-loathing because I didn't run out and snag me some brilliant job that would make everyone who knows me pea green with envy.

I've completely suprised the shit out of myself.

I'm going to give this carpool thing an honest to goodness try. Which is prompting me to brew up a big ol' post on my momentary farewell to rush hour public transit--I'm thinking three parter--because I can pretty much predict what any expressway commute post would say:

Yeah, co-worker dude picked me up late again today. BUMPER TO BUMPER traffic, man. Then this ugly guy totally winked at me in the toll lane, and then we were at work or whatever. I thought that Channel 9 bitch said 35 minutes to the Tri-State? What is she on?

Luckily for the guys, not only do they treat me like a human being, they realize my genius. Can you really ask for more?

What brings you to see Road Angel?

Plot: Angie goes to her hometown for the weekend to attend her nephew’s 16th birthday party. She and friends Mr. and Mrs. P have dinner after the party and make plans to go out for a couple of cocktails–just a few as Angie has to get up early to return to Chicago and the Ps need to be responsible homeowners and plant flowers or whatever.

Cast (in order of appearance)
Angelatee----------Angie
Kimpee----------Kim
Jeffpee----------Jeff
Drunken Motorcycle Dude--------Butch
RitaEmm----------Aunt Rita
Lisatee----------Cousin Lisa
Ronniedee-----------Cousin Ronnie
Jimmydubya-----------Cousin Jimmy
Chardonnay, cigarettes, beer----------Hangover

Angie, Kim, and Jeff have well surpassed "just a few" and are belly up at the third-to-the-last bar of the night.

Enter stumbling, drunken motorcyle dude

Butch: AHHH. WHATTHEFUCK. WHATTHEFUCK? WHAT. .. . THE . . . FUCK. Ahhhhhgrrghhh

He sits down on the stool next to Angie

Angie: Hi!

Butch: Do you know how to drive a Harley? (hiccups)

Angie: No.

Butch: Wellwhythehellnot? What the fuck?

Angie: Ok. (she turns back to Kim) I bet you 10 bucks if we go the bar across the street (the scary one with motorcycles lined up out front) I’ll be related to at least one person.

Kim: Let’s go.

Jeff: Let’s go.

The trio leave and cross the street coming upon several, very pleasant bikers out front of the bar where Angie is convinced she’ll find her kin.

Angie: Good evening gentlemen!

Bikers (in unison): Good evening!

They enter the bar where they’re immediately struck by the number of patrons crammed inside and the not-so-lovely ladies suggestively dancing on the bar, unsightly bulges spilling to and fro. Angie spies a familiar face.

Angie: AUNT RITA!

Rita: ARASHDY DHGIH BLUP GOOHIN! (Struck by seeing her niece, she’s beyond words.)

Angie: Yes, Aunt Rita, yes. COUSIN LISA!!!!!!

Lisa: Hi. It’s been a long time. Ronnie’s here.

Angie: COUSIN RONNIE!

Ronnie: I love you!!!Ahhhhh! (Gives Angie a big hug. Aunt Rita grabs her and tries to dance)

Rita: GHOSDKH BLOOOTH GAAARBLE? HERTHU CLOP DLAOOG?

Angie: I’d love a cigarette, thank you. No I don’t think that cowboy is cute. I’m not really into cowboys all that much. Let’s do a shot!

Angie purchases four shots of tequila and brings them back for a "family shot." Her cousins and Aunt thank her profusely. Angie, Kim and Jeff leave for one last bar. At the new bar, a band is entertaining the crowd. Jeff and Kim go to shake their money makers on the dance floor. Angie is at the bar. A man approaches her as her back is turned.

Jimmy: So what brings you to see Road Angel?

Angie: COUSIN JIMMY! (They hug) What’s a Road Angel?

Jimmy: It’s the band. I thought the name was really cheesy so Jackie and I came out. Hey, we’re moving to Chicago. (Jimmy is a brilliant artist and his girlfriend is finishing graduate school)

Angie: (at this point she has caught whatever was ailing Aunt Rita) You have to shake the dust of this crummy little town off your feet and SEE THE WORLD!

Jimmy: (realizing she stole the line from It’s a Wonderful Life) Merry Christmas, Movie House! Merry Christmas, Emporium! Merry Christmas, Old Building and Loan!

Jimmy exits. Enter hangover.

THE END

I don't do busy

This morning was an air dry the hair and put on the glasses kind of morning. I rarely RARELY (did I mention rarely?) have something going on every night of week, and this morning I felt physical pain opening my eyes when the alarm went off.

I was out of town last weekend, and will be shoving off again tonight. My apartment is such a disaster that a family of orangutans have taken up residence. I know this because I got about a foot away from my pantry curtain this morning when a hairy arm sprung out and handed me the Cheerios. And I’m plum out of bananas. Obvious conclusion, no?

Last night was well worth any added grogginess. If you live in Chicago RUN, don’t walk to the next performance of the improv group Schadenfruede. And pay particular attention to Justin Kaufman, someone who has talent oozing from his pores (among other stuff maybe but I don’t know him that well). He’s also someone I had the pleasure of greeting every morning when I was a receptionist at WBEZ. Justin, it was the way I answered the phone that made me so special, right? A friend and I went to Schadenfruede’s Rent Party—nothing whatsoever to do with that brutal musical—where we drank $1.50 beers and were blown away by such performances as a Karate Kid-inspired Rock Opera. Beyond funny.

Why the better to head bunt you with

On Easter Sunday I was at my brother’s house sitting on my ass while he was busy cooking a dinner that I told him he needed to host. Talking to his son Zach is always a trip so I was more than happy to pass the time with what has to be the world’s most unusual 7-year-old.

A couple of months back when Zach and Chad picked me up from the train station, Zach told me that in order to get a true measure of the weight of your head, he’d have to cut it off. That’s cool, I said, why did he care anyway? Well he weighs his head quite a bit, he said, but being the stickler to detail that he is, he knows he’ll never get the accuracy he craves. Again, cool, I said and decided not to talk to him the rest of the way home.

So on Sunday I notice him with both hands on either side of his dear little head, patting away with a concerned look on his face.

“Do I have a big head? Kaylla says I have a melon head,” Zach asked, not remotely sad or shy about it. Just very matter-of-fact.

Now as an adult, I should have assured him or tried the change the subject, but this kid is beyond his years and we get along best when I’m totally straight up.

“Uh, Kaylla has a big head. We all do. That’s why we’re so freaking smart.”

He laughed. He’s a gorgeous kid and he knows it.

For the most part, my immediate family has robust, shanty Irish-sized heads. We’re by no means freaks, and we all manage to attract the opposite sex so it’s certainly not an issue but it when it comes to hats and stuff, well it can be a problem.

I’ve actually kept this in mind when I think of the man I’ll possibly pro-create with. He must have a pea-head so our children will have the chance at a normal life. Thank God things didn’t work out with this one guy whose head was so big, his high school football coach had to order a special helmet for him.

T.G.I.G.F

Mel Gibson has nothing on the folks of Pilsen! I just saw these pics on the Chicago Tribune Web site, and now I'm glad I worked yesterday.

Reenactments of any ilk freak me out. I still haven't recovered from a Lincoln-Douglas debate I saw in Ottawa, Ill., in 1995.

Ode to my hot neighbor

Hot neighbor. You're so hot.
You walk two dogs That you got
You smoke cigarettes And I'm guessing pot.
Hot neighbor. You're so hot.

I'd like to invite Vanderbilt Ignoble, poet laureate of Bored for Now, to critique my first poem.

You think YOU have problems?

A coworker of mine has been dealing with an unruly daughter in her terrible eighteens. Unsavory boyfriends, friends with undue influence--all is driving the woman batty. In an attempt to make her feel a little better today, I shared--at least some of--the story of a cousin who is two months younger than me but has lived a life James Frey would kill for.

My brother and I have two cousins who are the same age as us, and we spent a lot of time with them growing up. While my brother and I were fairly sedate and well behaved, these two were animals. And while I can't speak for Chad, I have to wonder what my life would be like if they didn't move out of our hometown 23 years ago.

Hanging out with Dawn always ended in disaster and/or illicit activity. I had my first drink of booze with her when she moved back from California the summer of 1980. When we were outside playing she'd get bored and say things like, "let's hitchhike" and I'd say things like, "ok!" We got caught shoplifting at the IGA (her idea). I smoked pot (I definitely didn't inhale) for the first time at age 10 with her. We practiced the drinking game quarters with Grape Koolaid. She was very good at it, and I was throwing up the shit all night. Her mom teased me saying, "Geez, Angie sure can't hold her Koolaid." Dawn even tried huffing the cooking spray Pam, one of the few things I said no to in the those days.

Late in my 7th grade year, Dawn called me and said she was picking me up in her grandma's beige Topaz. I thought she was kidding. She wasn't. We spent the day driving around, and we had plenty of money since Dawn had written one of her grandma's checks to the local grocery store for cash. There was a fifth of Jack Daniels in the glove compartment and a gun under the driver's seat.

I wish I was making this up.

I'm not.

And to this day I can picture the two of us at the corner of 3rd and Joliet Streets in LaSalle, ready to make a left turn when I saw a very familiar blue station wagon with one of my normal friend's mother behind the wheel coming toward us. I slumped down and prayed. I think that's the day I decided there was a God.

That Thanksgiving my mom let me head down to their even smaller town to spend the holiday with her. I rode down with her grandma, the gun toting alcoholic who had a serious gambling problem. On the way, the old lady who was loaded, suggested we stop for a steak dinner.

"Uh, Nancy, aren't going to have dinner at their house?" I asked.

"Ahhhhhgguh. I'll buy."

I'm 12. Isn't that a given, I thought.

I talked her out of it and we continued on to one of the most fucked-up Thanksgivings I ever had the pleasure of being part. Dawn's drug addict mom, apparently clean at the moment and possessing a conscience, had a problem with her mother showing up drunk with a minor in tow. Major fighting ensued which resulted in Dawn pushing Nancy in the kitchen, who in turn fell backward into the garbage can.

Again, not making this up.

At its core, this story is really very sad. Dawn had a mother who not only abused just about every substance she could get her hands on, but she pushed it on her children (and her visiting niece on occasion). I luckily had the chip that taught me how to deal with some of the more fucked-up adults around me. Pity them, piss them off by exhaling instead of inhaling on their one-hitter and blowing all their pot all over their car, but don’t emulate them.

As I write this, I have no idea where Dawn is. Over the last 18 years or so, I’ve seen her half a dozen times. Once when she was pregnant at 16, she greeted me at the door with a Bud in one hand and a joint in the other. About 10 years later we got together after her family was busted by the Feds for operating a Meth lab. She told me about the day when she walked out of their trailer and was met by dozens of agents with guns drawn, from just about every agency you can imagine.

Me: DEA?
Dawn: yep.
Me: ATF?
Dawn: (pauses) yep.
Me: FBI?
Dawn: Of course.
Me: Were they hot?
Dawn: Actually, yeah. They were.

Jesus freaks and ice cream trucks

An onslaught of bible-thumpers hits the streets in my neighborhood once winter says its final goodbye. I think those people, and the relentless parade of ice cream trucks playing “Pop Goes the Weasel” are far more detrimental to my well-being than anything the mean streets of Chicago can throw my way.

On Saturday I left my apartment to suck up some free WiFi and caffeine when I saw packs of evangelists knocking on doors and stopping folks on the sidewalk, to spread the good word. I’ve always tried to be polite in the past if I’m approached, but Saturday I was feeling a bit combative.

Churchie: (in Spanish, handing me some leaflet): Hello, do you have a moment?

Me: I don’t speak Spanish. I’m in a hurry. I’m not interested.

Then I kicked her.

Churchie: You don’t have time for Jesus, you heathen! Ever hear of eternal damnation?

Alright, she really didn’t say that. But I know that’s what she meant when she thanked me nicely and let me pass. And yea, I didn’t really kick her.

I’ve always been of the mind that if you are truly confident and at peace about the choices you made in your life then you will not be remotely compelled to make others follow suit. Devoted your life to God? Rock on and leave me the hell alone. And besides that, I much prefer the Catholic flying-under-the-radar approach to expanding their membership by fighting the expansion of birth control in the 3rd World.

Can I get an Amen? And how about an ice cream sandwich while you’re at it.

HARRY TAYLOR FOR PRESIDENT!

Just who is this Harry Taylor guy, the man who stood up to Mr.-I-still-can't-believe-he's-President Bush at a North Carolina townhall meeting? I've googled him hi and low, and it seem like he's maybe just some regular American who told Bush exactly what he thought of him.

Here's what he said in case you missed it:

"I feel like, despite your rhetoric, that compassion and common sense have been left far behind during your administration," he told Bush. "And I would hope, from time to time, that you have the humility and the grace to be ashamed of yourself."

A president getting an earful isn't unusual. It's that this president did. See, Bush events are planted with like-minded, functionally illiterate yokels who pose questions to him like, "Mr. President, why are you so great?" And yes, staged events are not exclusive to the GOP, but the Democrats never quite got the logistics down as well as they did. Remember when Clinton was handed an aborted fetus? Yeah, them Dems aren't too good at insulating their candidates...

Anyway, if I ever see this Harry Taylor guy, the beers are on me. And here's to hoping that the lame ass Democrats will learn to understand the impact of a few, honest, straight-from-the-gut words.

"And now we will chant 'Ohm' three times. . ."

If I’m not able to put my feet behind my head by Memorial Day, I’m demanding a refund from my yoga instructor.

I took my first real yoga class last night, and after an hour and 45 minutes of downward dog, happy baby, and warrior two poses, I walked out of the River West studio feeling like I was 6 inches taller and made of Jello.

I had my doubts, however. Going into this super-calm, incense-tinged studio immediately made me tense.

I was greeted by this annoyingly mellow receptionist who spoke to me in near whispers. I filled out my paperwork, handed over my dough and sat next to an open window to wait for my class.

As the minutes ticked by, I have to tell you, I can’t remember the last time I felt more uptight.

Chanting could be heard from the classroom finishing up. I started to get creeped out. Barefoot Gwyneth Paltrow wannabes began filing in wearing cute yoga outfits and clutching Prada yoga mats. I looked down at my 12-year-old Georgetown T-shirt and started to panic. Shit. This was supposed to be a beginners class!

I ran over to the desk.

Captain Spastic: Thisisthebeginnersclassright? IdonthaveamatcanIborrowamat?WheredoIgoagain?

Moon Unit: Yes, this is the beginner's class. It will start soon and you’ll find everything you need along the back of the wall. Just through that door.

I felt a little better and did I ever need a yoga class after all that.

I'm grounded

So there I was at home, on Friday night clipping my toenails and listening to Guns and Roses' Paradise City when I had an epiphany.

What, in God's name I thought, was a relatively young-oh by the way this is my 100th post, yay me--single woman doing giving herself a pedicure when she should be out tearing up one of the world's greatest cities?

And then I remembered. . See this ol' gal to the right? This is how I feel after I tear anything up, much less after throwing back a few cocktails and staying out past my bedtime of 10 p.m. To those rock stars who can go out four and five nights a week, make it to work, and who aren't still being claimed on someone else's taxes, I say: you go, this Christian Rock Star is staying home.

But I'm kind of a forgetful person and Sunday night I attended a work dinner out in a suburb. I think the town was called Timbuktubrook? Anyway, since I had missed Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy, I thought it best to go out with a co-worker and her fiance once we got back in the city.

Let's just say a hangover exacerbated by that daylight savings bullshit, made for a less-than-sunny Monday morning for me.

I've truly earned the number one Google result when you search "degenerate alcoholic."

Holy Balls this is funny!

Today YouTube, tomorrow Sundance!

If you have five minutes and one second to spare, I implore you to check out this kid's one man reanactment of a scene from The Princess Bride. Here's what the budding director/actor had to say:

Holy balls, this one took a while to finish, mainly because of the size. It clocked in as a whole gig when I had it as an .AVI. This is the "Battle of Wits" scene from The Princess Bride. A mysterious man in black has been chasing three criminals who have kidnapped a princess. He has beaten a swordsman and a giant. Now all that's left is outsmarting the genius of the group, Vizzini, in a battle of wits.

You can also find this at Bored For Now, where Madison Sinclair posted it, and where I found it because I'm a devotee of their blog and frequent it, well frequently.

98 random things about yours truly

I was going to save this for my 100th post like this blogging wonder, but I could walk outside and get hit by a bus before then and, well the world will be much richer for knowing. . .

-Crossing the street is scary to me. Played too much Frogger back in the day.
-At one time I was absolutely convinced that I was going to marry JFK Jr.
-My grandma used to eat head cheese sandwiches, wash them down with buttermilk and be pissed at me when I refused to join her for lunch
-I'm really a Republican. . pysch!
-I still say Psych!
-I chew icecream and mashed potatoes
-My great grandfather used to run a zoo
-I say things like "for all intensive purposes" a lot
-My brother used to be a swiss-army carrying, num-chuk swinging, breakdancer
-I used to get my older sister in trouble and make her take me with her and friends
-I tried pot when I was 10
-My all-time favorite pet was a hamster
-I locked myself in my room for an entire Christmas break once so I could read all the Little House in the Prairie books
-I really, really like beer
-I really, really get brutal hangovers
-I have size 11 feet
-I hate shopping
-A home remedy in our house for congestion was called "Onion Syrup."
-I want my own Secret Service detail
-I have first cousins who were busted for running a meth lab out of a trailer in downstate Illinois
-I watch Reba sometimes
-I have a problem with drinking and dialing
-I didn't go to class during the duration of the William Kennedy Smith rape trial
-I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up
-I'm still mad at Al Gore for losing his own state in the 2000 election
-I wanted to be Mary Lou Retton
-I've been a bridesmaid 5,999 times
-I hate doing laundry
-I wish men would stop holstering their cell phones
-I think unless you are someone who saves lives for a living, you really should try not to take your job too seriously
-I want to time travel
-I used to fantasize about being on "Fantasy Island."
-I love movies about psychotic, obsessive women
-I wanted to be a Ob/Gyn until I realized you had to touch women's cooters
-A drunk Irishman once told me "your hair is feckin block!"
-I mercilessly flirted with my high school algebra teacher
-I have a thing for men who carry guns
-I don't believe in religion
-I like guys who have a few dents and scratches
-My friends and I used to drink outside at a place called the G-Spot
-My first dog's name was foo-foo
-I thought LBJ was handsome
-I used to be stuck on all the worst summer softball teams growing up
-I had sex in a Com-Ed substation
-I stuck my finger up the nose of the face sculpture in front of the British Museum in London and made my friends take a picture
-I use to have a crush on Hugh Downs from 20/20
-I wrote that my first grade teacher was "a fucker" on a school paper that my mom ended up finding
-I remember where I was when JFK was shot, even though I wasn't born until 1972
-I couldn't wait to download Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" on my iPod.
-The sound of cardboard scraping against cardboard freaks me out
-I made out with a married, uber-creepy Massachuesetts State Senator when I was a Washington D.C. intern
-I'm afraid of escalators, sorta
-I interviewed Harold Ramis for my college newspaper and said, "Man you had some big hair in Stripes."
-I pee in the shower
-I love peanut butter and jelly
-I smoke when I drink
-I wish I could speak Spanish
-I envied my sister because she made better mud-pies than I did
-I want to live abroad
-When I say something funny, I make a point of telling people just how funny I am
-I hate people who listen to NPR just so they can say "I heard . . . on NPR."
-I hate people who say they don't watch TV.
-I drink way too much coffee
-I think there's nothing worse than being described as being a "sweet girl."
-I'm crazy enough to think America will survive George Bush
-I called in sick the day after seeing "Titanic"
-I taped Janet Jackson videos and tried to learn her moves
-I think Gene Hackman is sexy
-I almost never floss
-I'm afraid to dive into water
-I'm perpetually running 15 minutes late
-I talk to my plants
-I love love LOVE celebrity gossip
-I'm afraid to walk over grates in the sidewalk
-I lost my virginity on September 8, 1989
-I constantly wear white socks with dark shoes
-I believe in God
-I have really, really bizarre dreams 5 nights a week
-I'd like to get a cat, but if I did I'd have a cat
-I don't believe in soul mates
-I think every girl should be kissed by a man who knows what he's doing at least once in her life. And by kiss, I mean. . .
-I believe in ghosts
-I'm getting a boob-lift when I turn 40
-I was one of two students who won a dollar for reciting all the states and capitals on the last day of 3rd grade
-While dissecting a fetal pig senior year in highschool, the teacher looked at my butchered specimen and said, "Someone's not going to be a surgeon."
-I'm incredibly near-sighted
-I knew I was a grown up when I realized that awful things can happen to people I love
-I love living in Chicago
-I hate living in Chicago
-I think it's ok to be impatient, disorganized, and dreamy
-I hate it when Latina newscasters over pronounce their last names. It's obnoxious. You can roll your R's. We got it.
-My dentist thinks I'm funny
-I think I'll be ok if I never get married
-I pick my nose sometimes
-I eat standing up, right out of the pan quite often
-I watch Simpsons reruns twice a day, almost every day
-I'm afraid to do what I really want to do
-I can't believe how hard it is to come up with 98 things about yourself!

Thank you, and good night

Death Cab for Angie

After a night of carousing with some friends in Wicker Park Saturday night, a fellow Southside friend and I shared a cab home.

About two blocks into the ride, we ran into a melee spilling out of Paje onto Milwaukee Avenue. Our cab was stuck in a sea of patrons who apparently had too much Kool-Aid at this Southern-themed restaurant/club, and decided to start beating the shit out of one another.

"What is this bitch doing in the middle of the street? This meter is running. Fuck! GET OUT OF THE FUCKING STREET!"

My belligerent friend who I guess has seen Boyz in the the Hood one too many times, was not digging the hold-up. I had no where to go, and was kind of enjoying the riot so I listened to her tirade of expletives, giggling here and there.

Until I realized our window was down.

"Uh, Janel you might want to shut up." I said. Our cabbie was laughing his ass off.

"Fuck that. If this is the way I have to go down, then this is how I gotta go da-hownnn!" she said flailing about next to me.

Thankfully the cab got through and we were on our way. As the cab headed down Milwaukee, Janel and the cabbie were debating the merits of various killing methods. Somehow my friend morphed into Ice T during the course of the night.

"Shit, shooting is nothing. You don't even have to get close! Now stabbing, stabbing is something," she said.

The cab driver, probably reaching for his machete in the glove compartment heartily agreed.

I totally tried to hit on the Lt. Governor

I now have a 2-8 record for politicking over the last 16 years.

The guy I worked for lost. Not entirely a surprise considering he was running against the official Chicago machine favorite. I might add that this particular favorite had a debilitating stroke about a week ago, weighs about a ton and is like a thousand years old. Or was all these things, since I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been on ice for the last few days.

In Chicago being the candidate who is most likely to have a pulse for the General Election isn’t all that important, I guess.

Tuesday night’s election bash was at the Knickerbocker Hotel where volunteers and supporters bellied up to a cash bar (I’m still upset about that) watched returns, and made fun of Chicago media personalities there to cover the event. We knew it was going to be a long night since ballots from hundreds of precincts were mysteriously MIA, new voting machines weren’t “working”, etc. Fixing an election takes time. We all know this.

So anyway, I was standing with my $7 glass of wine talking to a fun, drunk couple when our Lt. Governor sauntered up and started talking to us like we were all friends for years. This is a guy whose past campaign tactics included holding a “Boston Tea Party” to protest high Chicago property taxes, by going on TV and telling us all to give tea bags to Mayor Daley to register our displeasure.( I’ll never forget turning on the news and seeing this guy with a handful of teabags shouting and carrying on. I was like, ain’t no way I’m giving Daley a tea bag.)

“Blah, blah, politics, I’m so great, politics, politics, blah,” said Mr. Lt. Governor.

He’s not bad looking, and I think he’s single so I decided to pull out best Monica Lewinksy because at that time I had like $21 worth of wine in me. I started talking to him about my hometown. He started telling me how he saved some island in the middle of the Illinois River when one of his handlers came and took him away.

Maybe I would have been successful if I had worn a beret.

My affinity for losing candidates goes way back. I was in third grade when I realized I was a Democrat. Our teacher announced that we were going to have a mock election, and immediately I started strong-arming classmates into voting for Jimmy Carter. He lost our class. I was livid.

Later that year, Miss Watson, the 2nd grade teacher came into our classroom one afternoon looking like she saw a ghost.

“President Reagan has been shot.”

I said aloud, but not loud enough for the teacher to hear (and this is the honest-to-God truth) . . . . good.

Good? I was an evil, liberal child, wasn't I?

Political Junkie gets her fix

Right now my body temp is about 60 degrees as I've been standing outside since 7 am on this blustery primary election day handing out some stuff to urge people to vote for this one guy.

And the last two nights I was one of those annoying people who call other people at their homes and tell them they should vote for who I tell them to. It turns out I'm quite good at this. While others around me slammed the phone down in frustration, I whizzed through my lists giggling with voters and telling them things like, "Abigail is a beautiful name." The cheeseball campaign guy said aloud when I turned in my lists, "We've got ourselves a rock star here! Mike, she's a rock star!"

Whatever dude.

I've put myself through this just about every election since I was 18. Why? Because I have to. It's like a sport to me. It's fun.

More on this Thursday. My post-election hangover should wear off by then. Thawing out however, is a different story.

Operation Blow Smoke up America's Ass

It's rather unfortunate that mainstream American media devours Bush propaganda like a starving dog would a steak. This on "Operation Swarmer" from BBC World:

The operation near the town of Samarra is not as huge as has been suggested, correspondents say. Local people say there has been little if any combat.

The troops carrying out the operation are said to have detained about 40 suspects but 17 of these were later released. The joint US and Iraqi force said it had captured a number of weapons caches, containing shells, explosives and military uniforms.

The Iraqi foreign minister said the aim was to stop insurgents from turning the town into a stronghold. But a senior Sunni Arab politician criticised the operation, which came a day after the new Iraqi parliament met for its inaugural session.

"[The US forces] are surprising us with meaningless acts at the time Iraqis are looking forward to the first session of the parliament, preferring the political solution, not the military one," Saleh al-Mutleq told Reuters news agency.

Would you believe me if I told you a baby gave me a dirty look?

Well it did.

About 45 minutes ago.

I was hoofing it from the ol' salt mines to Madison and Canal where I catch the ever luxurious and reliable No. 60. On the way, I saw a living, breathing Gap ad. A stray Mom and baby, perfectly coiffed and outfitted, apparently were lost on their way back to their River North loft. Or maybe they were just well-heeled homeless. Who knows. But they both looked miserable.

I don't know what the baby's problem was. But the mom looked like she was carrying around an accessory that seemed like a must-have at first, but was now kind of bored with it. Perhaps the baby picked up on this vibe, so the Christian thing to do would be to cut it some slack. The mom however. . .

You see this phenomenon quite a bit with Loop condo dwellers and their dogs. With their attention squarely on their iPod/Blackberry/cell, they let the dog shit all over the sidewalk during what is probably the poor dog's once-daily 60-second outing. I think I'd stump them if I stopped and asked them what their dog's name was. "Fi. . Spo. . Shit, just look at his tag, will ya?"

I can identify with people like these. I lose interest in stuff right quick too, but the difference is I'm currently not responsible for anything possessing vital organs or a soul.

Our bagpipers are better than your bagpipers

New Jack City bloggers Sarah,Vanderbilt, Madison, Shitface et al, brace yourselves.

Yes, it is true. Chicago may be the Second City, but our drunken, overweight, and belligerent Irish Cop bagpipers are stunningly talented in comparison to NYC's drunken, overweight, and belligerent Irish Cop bagpipers.

I learned this while at Dugan's on Saturday, celebrating St. Patty's Day with my McPosse.Dugan's is a lone Irish Pub smack in the middle of Greektown, which in past, had been the place to go for cute NYPD officers in town to march in Chicago's weekend of parades. Even though my friends and I are probably too old (we're like Big Chill old for chrissakes) for this sort of revelry, we have a rep to protect. So we went. And anyway, who can resist a guy who asks for your "numba?"

This year was a bit anticlimatic. One friend almost found herself on the receiving end of a bitch slap from a bloated asshole Chicago cop wearing a kilt. There was just a smattering of NYPD, many of whom didn't look a day over 21.

For me, it was how-many-slimey-married-men-can-I-get-to-proposition-me day. I was wearing flashing shamrock earrings on loan from Harry Winston, that acted like creep beacons. One man, I was convinced, wanted to sell me into white slavery. The other, an Italian Streets and San superintendent, was trying to recruit me to be his goomad. When I told him he was cocksure, a word I don't think I've ever uttered out loud but when I get drunk I like to show off, he smiled and said he didn't care what it meant, just that I said "cock."

Awesome.

Next year I'm going Dublin. McPosse, start saving your shillings or whatever it is the Micks use for currency because we're going.    

Tummy hurt

A weekend bout with the stomach flu, and all the unpleasantries associated with said illness prompted me to give Dr. Matilde, my physician from Uruguay, a jingle early Monday morning. I always fell a little wimpy when I call a doctor for other than routine stuff, so you can be sure I was feeling none too well when I had her answering service page her.

After describing my weekend to her, she said (imagine thick accent here,) “Oooooh. You’re dehydrated. Go to Mt. Sinai.”

Looks like this little girl got herself a sick day.

I have an HMO, which is just a big healthcare clique really, where your doctor only lets you go see people she likes and to places where she hangs out. So Mt. Sinai Hospital—just a prison wall’s jump away from Cook County Jail—probably wouldn’t be my first choice.

But it’s a perfectly fine hospital, and if you have nothing to do for four hours except lay back and suck up a couple of IVs, I promise you won’t be bored.

Example. About five minutes into my “spa treatment” a guy named Frank was wheeled into the curtained area next to me. Frank was involved in a car accident on the West side somewhere. Frank was not happy.

Frank: “I’m going to kill that Mexican mother fucker!”

Cop: “Frank, 14,000 Chicago cops now know you’ve been in an accident with (the Mexican mother fucker.) If anything happens to him, we’re coming for you Frank.”

Frank: “But I just got my car outta the shop.” I thought he was going to start crying.

Cop: “Frank, you’re acting like a baby.”

Doctor: “Frank, do you have any medical problems?”

Frank: “No. . . Yeah, I get migraines. . I was shot in the head in 02.”

Poor Frank.

As for me, I was pretty much on my own. I got up a few times to hit the ladies room with my IV bag in tow, sporting a lovely Oscars-inspired hospital gown and yoga pants I hastily picked up off my bedroom floor after talking to Matilde. I was smoking hot. I owned that ER.

Once I was all juiced up, a doctor popped his head in between the curtains and nearly gave me a heart attack. “How are we feeling?” He asked, grabbing my wrist to check my pulse. It was night and day. I guess there was something to that whole hydration thing.

“Um much better.”

“Ready to go?”

“Sure.”

With that I was sprung. I got dressed, got a high-five from a University of Chicago resident on my way out, and was home watching soaps by 1 p.m.

If nations were a bunch of chicks

>-----Original Message-----
>From: Israel
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:00 AM
>To: America, France, Italy, Japan, UK, Germany, Canada
>Subject: Who does Russia think she is?

I am so pissed! What is up with Russia inviting that crazy fucker Hamas over? After what he’s done to me? I mean I knew she has this post-Cold War inferiority complex, not to mention she’s a fat ass and uglier than sin. . . LOL . . .but what is her deal?

How am I supposed to take this? Doesn’t she care?

-Israel

>-----Original Message-----
>From: France
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:05AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, UK, Germany, Canada, Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?

Yes, Russia is fat. And drunk like 90 percent of the time. She’s been a mess ever since she lost that hottie World Domination to America.

Too much vodka, maybe?


-France


>-----Original Message-----
>From: Canada
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:10AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, UK, Germany, France Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?

I think you guys are mean! Give Russia a break.


>-----Original Message-----
>From: UK
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:10AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, Germany, France,Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?


Russia, shmrussia. I want to know how America’s date with India went?

America. . . where are you? Give us all the juicy details you whore!!!!!!

And Israel, stop your whining. You are killing me!

Canada, go play hockey or something, will ya?


(just kidding Canada, I love you.)



>-----Original Message-----
>From: Germany
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:17AM
>To: America, Italy, Japan, Canada, UK, France,Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?

God, UK! Someone’s not getting any.

Can we get any cattier? Meow.


>-----Original Message-----

>From: Japan
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:30AM
>To: America, Italy, Germany, Canada, UK, France,Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?

I no understand.



>-----Original Message-----

>From: America
>Sent: Friday, March 3, 2006 9:40AM
>To: Japan, Italy, Germany, Canada, UK, France,Israel
>Subject: RE: Who does Russia think she is?


Sorry Ladies-

Just got in from India. It totally rocked! I’m wearing the same clothes as last night, so that should tell you something;-)

UK, I know you said I should hold out with India and not give in but I couldn’t help myself! India is so sultry, and that economy makes me hot! I fell right into bed! I probably gave too much, and will regret it later, but I’m a spur of the moment kind of gal.

Israel, cheer up. I’m sure it Russia didn’t mean anything by it. She loves swarthy guys as we all know. I’ll call Russia later and straighten things out.

I’ve got THE WORST hangover of my life. . off to bed now. . .

Kisses,
America

Wait, I didn't get a sign yet!

Some on Chicago's City Council have their collective aldmerman undies in bunches over Black Panther leader Fred Hampton getting a street renamed in his honor. It's a little controversial, and like a frustrated parent, Ald. Tom Allen says the renaming practice should end all together since we can't seem to play nice.

I couldn't be more upset. I've been in Chicago for nearly 10 years now, and had two dreams. One was to get a cushy ghost payrolling job, the other was to get a street named after me as a result of all the city work I didn't do but was paid for.

That's it. Chicago you had your chance. I'm outta here.

I really miss Bubba

Right now I’d love to personally slap each and every person who voted for Bush in 2004. There’s a lot of them, and I’d have to go to places like Alabama to get them all, but it sure seems worth the effort now.

Today the Supreme Court made it that much easier for anti-abortion dingleberries to stand in front of clinics to interfere with my right to have a PERFECTLY FUCKING LEGAL MEDICAL PROCEDURE performed within the confines of my very own uterus.

Ay, my friends, there’s the rub. The dingleberries will not rest until the perfectly fucking legal part is no longer associated with abortion.  

Now this blog isn’t big enough to detail the ridiculous hypocrisies of those who say things like they want to “restore the sanctity of life in our laws and policy.” They’re completely full of shit, especially this group, in Chicago’s Greektown, who was instrumental in closing all but one abortion clinic in Mississippi.

I have to get a couple of cavities filled on Saturday and I’m worried. Who is to say some enamel preservation activists won’t blow up my dentist’s office? It’s not my poor teeth’s fault that the world hasn’t invented sugarless beer yet! I was a dental slut, drinking and eating with reckless abandon without using cavity control and now my teeth are paying for it.







    

iLuvs my iPod Shuffle!

I’ve now joined the legions of jerks walking around with white wires sprouting from the ears. Friday night I strolled into the Apple store on Michigan Avenue and came out a new woman.

This little plastic thing is amazing! If I didn’t know better, I’d say inside my shuffle it’s perpetually 2 a.m. and there is a teeny tiny drunk girl sitting on a floor covered with CDs playing songs for me. Sometimes she’s so drunk she tries to play the same song twice. But that’s alright. We’ve all been there. I just skip to the next song.




    

I don't write. . . I don't call. . .

Miss Manners says it is rude to take an unexplained absence from one’s blog. So in the interest of being an overachiever, I’ve decided to offer you several excuses as to why I’ve taken nearly a week to post.

1. I was embroiled in a five-day fiddlin’ duel with the devil.

2. I was peppered with buckshot by a drunken urban pigeon hunter.

3. I was called up to active duty in Iraq. (The Green Zone has awesome margaritas by the way.)

4. I was surgically separating yet another set of Third World Siamese twins sent to America so some media whore hospital can get press coverage.

5. I was a guest host on the View.

6. My toilet overflowed and I was sitting on the counter top waiting for FEMA to rescue me.

7. I was explaining to Oprah why and how she needs to get over herself.

8. I was helping Madonna recover from her hernia operation.

9. I was on a Meth binge.

10. I was taken up to Heaven by the Rapture but returned quickly as Saint Peter realized they had the wrong person.

Finally, a use for my journalism education

David Gregory isn’t the only member of the White House press corps to get under the skin of Press Secretary Scott McLellan. As a citizen journalist, I used my credentials as dynamo lunchtime blogger to get a seat this week in the briefing room.

Here’s the actual transcript of my questions and McLellan’s answers. Really, it’s the actual transcript.

Me: Angie Tee from Blogdiggidy

McLellan: Blog-what? Never mind. What’s your question.

Me: I just wanted to shoot a couple of questions your way.

McLellan: I gather as much.

Me: I’ll just fire away then.

McLellan: Funny. WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION!

Me: Calm down. Let’s not make this about you, Scott. You’re trying to make this about you, aren’t you? Well it’s not about you.

McLellan: (to no one in particular) Who let her in here?

Me: Alright. (ahem) Question numero uno. Vice President Cheney’s gun wasn’t the only thing that was loaded on Saturday, am I right or am I right?

McLellan: The Vice President has said he only had one beer at lunch. He was not intoxicated.

Me: Yeah, but how big was the beer? (laughter in the room) Is the Vice President drunk now?

McLellan: Are you finished?

Me: Hardly. Last month the Pew Center for Research reported in a poll that the Vice President’s approval rating had significantly dropped among alcoholic bird hunters who had shot a friend at one time or another. Was the Whittington shooting, or excuse me peppering really a way to shore up support among this key Republican constituency?

McLellan: I don’t have time for this.

Me: Scott, focus. Last question. Should America be worried about copycat pepperings?

McLellan: (shouting) Security!

So anyway, at that point I was bounced from briefing. And I have to say it’s amazing how one can fly from Chicago to DC and back during the work day with no one noticing.

30 minute lunch break + Photoshop = fun

I peaked at 13

I’m with these folks. Spelling Bees are not to be taken litely or excuse me, lightly.

In 1986, I won the Lincoln Junior High Spelling Bee at the age of 13. A tremendous moment it was, and my name is engraved on a plaque outside the gym to this day. I know this because I ask my niece, an 8th grader there, to check on it periodically.

Kayllatee is also a fantastic speller and has made it to the finals each year going as far as second place. Last month was her final chance at Spelling Bee glory, but she lost to a 6th grader. I couldn’t bee-lieve it. A 6th grader? I called her to find out what happened.

Me: So what happened?

Kayllatee: Uh, I lost.

Me: Any regrets?

Kayllatee: No.

Me: Is my name still on the plaque?

Kayllatee: Yes! They don’t put your name on there anymore anyway.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Who do I talk to about this!

OK, so I didn’t say “fucking,” but I do want to talk to these people because Kayllatee lost on the word “aphrodisiac.” What are these people thinking? She’s 14 for chrissakes! What if she asked the judge to use it in a sentence? What then?

Our family does have some hope left. Kayllatee’s brother Zachtee is freakishly bright. At six he was able to take everyone’s birthdates and the wedding dates of their parents and figure out who was born illegitimately or not. It was a proud day for us. A spelling bee crown is clearly within his reach.

I talked to their mom about Zachtee’s chances. I told her she should have him up every morning at like 5 a.m. with flash cards and the like.

“Should he be reading the thesaurus?” Staceytee asked.

“Yes, definitely the thesaurus!’ She was on board, I could tell. We talked a bit more, and then she shrieked suddenly. I heard the kids laughing hysterically in the background.

“Ah man, Zach just farted,” Staceytee said.

“Tell him champion spellers don’t do that!” I said.

She did. He didn’t seem to care.

They're not the only ones watching you

Patriot Act got you down? Did you ever consider that bloggers, like the NSA, don't need any frivolous warrant to eavesdrop on your cell phone conversations or watch your every, seemingly mundane move? Be warned: what you do, wear, who you talk to, how you walk, what you smell like, what you order in a restaurant--all this and more could end up on some blog.

When I'm out among the masses alone, for the most part my attention is squarely on my internal dialogue. It's pretty fast paced, and frequently unintelligible so I have to focus to not miss a word. But with this whole blog thing, I have to admit I can became hyper aware of people around me. A girl needs her blog material, what can I say.

And hey, it goes both ways. I too could have become blog fodder. If I looked hard enough, I might just stumble upon the following blog passages.

Guest's blog from a wedding I was in last summer:

". . and then out of no where, this bridesmaid tackled the bride to the ground! I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes."

UIC student blog from Chinatown riding the #8 northbound:

"Again this morning, she's fumbling for money and balancing a zillion things trying to get on the bus--coffee, bags, and a CD WALKMAN that looks like someone walking her dog found in an alley somewhere. She might as well have a ghetto blaster on her shoulder. It's called an Ipod, old lady. Look into it."

2nd floor apartment dweller/video game lover in Pilsen:

"I love my video games, and I love 'em loud. My upstairs neighbor (who's stunning by the way) apparently has a problem with it. She knocked on my door around midnight one Saturday night last month when I was in a total gaming frenzy. I didn't come to the door though. What if she's planning to take me somewhere and kill me?"

Dell customer service dude:

"What part of 30 days from shipment doesn't this customer understand? Her many sad, yet eloquent emails haunted me. I put her rebate through."

My new found homicidal tendencies

I’m going away for the weekend and when I get back I plan to kill my downstairs neighbor. I have a high threshold for noisy urban apartment living, but this guy is more than any mortal can bear.

Loud music isn’t the issue. Nor is loud sex. These things I can handle.

This guy plays video games. Really freaking loud video games.*

Like I’ll be on my tip toes trying to put away a dish when all of sudden my entire apartment will start to shake. Machine gun fire is everywhere, and as luck would have it, I don’t have a fox hole to jump in. I’ll even look outside to see if those rascal gangbangers are giving someone a 21-gun salute or something. Nope. Not them. It’s the downstairs Asshole Man. And wowza, I sure do love it when I’m drifting off to sleep and I hear squealing tires, a crash, and then a high-pitched woman’s voice coming from under my bed.

I tried knocking on his door once when things really got out of control, but he didn’t answer and I’m guessing it was because he COULDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME! And let me reiterate, I do understand the tenets of living in what is essentially little boxes stacked on top of each other. But there’s a line, Downstairs Asshole Man has crossed it, and now he’s going to die.

I think I can get away with it. Some homicide detectives the ladies and I used to drink with told us if we ever killed anyone we’d so get off. The catch is, I’d have to lure him to their corner of the city. If anyone has any creative and relatively bloodless ideas on how to do this, I’m all ears.

*I have nothing against video game players, just those who think the world wants to play along with them.  

          

The lady doth moons too much, methinks

I’ve fully retreated into Angie’s world where State of Union addresses don’t exist. The inflatable pilot from Airplane! is president here and he’s not one for speeches.

While the rest of you were either crying or vomiting through Dubya’s performance last night, I met up with a pal of mine for a stroll through the Art Institute and some vittles. We found out a little late that the museum now closes early on their free night, so Tina and I happened upon this quaint and oh-so-authentic little Irish Pub for dinner and drink.

We had a great time catching up and headed to a nearby bookstore to browse and ridicule anything that crossed our path. I bought this very funny Chicago blogger’s new paperback (see, blogging can pay off!), and Tina helped me with the big words in a David Egger’s book. Good times.

On the way to our respective modes of public transportation, we saw a crowd of placard-holding, drum beating rabble making their way down Wabash. Usually as protests go in Chicago, cops outnumber dissidents 2:1 leaving Johnny Law a little bored. Last night was no exception. About six of them on bikes quickly swarmed a carload jammed packed with protesters. Something, as they say, was about to go down.

This girl in the passenger seat suddenly hopped out and shouted/stuttered preemptively to an officer: “MY UNDERWEAR WAS ON THE ENTIRE TIME!”

Excuse me? What in the fuck did I miss?

Tina again helped me out (I’ve been real slow as of late) and said she probably stuck her bare bottom out the window. Something called mooning, I guess. Sure, that’s one way to make a political statement. But talk about wilting in the face of authority! Abbie Hoffman probably turned over in his weed-lined grave with Miss Pants-About-Her-Ankles squirming her way out of trouble.

And anyway political mooning, I don’t get. But drunken ass-baring, totally makes sense. A few years back, the ladies and I were back in the ol’ hometown and got some beer to go after the bars along the Illinois River closed. One of us, probably me, got the bright idea to moon barges as the passed us.

To this day, I can still feel the barge’s radioactive search light on my bum. They were really looking for something, lemme tell ya.

          

What keeps me honest

Different religions have different ideas of what heaven is like. Boring. I’d like to know what you think hell might be like. Lake of fire? All-night poker games with demons? A tough job interview that lasts into perpetuity, maybe.

Well here’s mine. And remember this is eternal damnation we’re talking about.

I’m at a bar where the jukebox has Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights on repeat. No matter how much I drink, I can’t get drunk and I’m fused to the bar stool next to the biggest stroke in all of Hades. He’s telling a story so boring I’d wish I’d die. But, fuck, I already have so there’s no escape. The Bush twins are dancing on the bar, and I can’t get to my friends who are in the corner, laughing and looking like they’re having the time of their after-lives.

O.K. now you go!

We're walking. . . we're walking. . .

I'm one of those nerds who loves reading historical markers. They're usually commemorating some obscure event or person, but you never know when useless knowledge can get you out of a scrape so I'm always careful to stop and read them.

Like what if I'm held hostage somewhere and my captors demand, "I'M ONLY GOING TO ASK THIS ONCE. WHOSE COMPANY (they're yelling most likely) DID ABRAHAM LINCOLN ENLIST WITH DURING THE BLACKHAWK WAR?" And I'll reply, maybe with a smirk, "Why with Elijah Iles at Fort Johnston in LaSalle County. " Impressed, they'll of course let me go and as I'm leaving I'll shout, "AND IT WAS HIS SECOND TOUR MOTHERFUCKERS!"

So point. . . I had one. Oh yeah last weekend I was walking by the Tribune Tower where I saw a marker on the Chicago River noting that Louis Jolliet and Father Jacques Marquette were the first white men to pass through Lake Michigan into the river in 1675ish. I've walked by the spot a trillion times and never noticed it. Some group--surprisingly still in existence--calling themselves the Colonial Dames of America erected the plaque in 1925. The whole thing was troubling, and it had nothing to do with the 'white men' thing. Some of my best friends are white men you know?

Carved into the side of a pillar, this sculpture allegedly depicts the aforementioned French explorers meeting the first native Chicagoans. Homoerotic to say the least, the well built and presumably oiled Natives were on their knees clinging, CLINGING to the legs of Jolliet or Marquette and gazing up at them adoringly. Even more spectacular, an angel is floating above the group and smiling down at them. Somehow I doubt that's what the meeting looked like.

And the whole thing left me wondering if a more contemporary Chicago River incident deserves an historical marker. Lest we forget the shit bath that boatload of tourists took a while back when Dave Matthew's bus driver decided to unload their crapper on the Kinzie Street Bridge?

Don't those people deserve recognition for their struggle? Should I call the Colonial Dames?

email me at angieblog@yahoo.com

Babies can't smoke and drink? Says who?

One of my pals who happens to be a cigarette aficionado and beer enthusiast from way back, has recently announced she’s with child. No drinkie and no smokie treats for Mommy-to-be for the next several months. A pre-natal hop on the wagon kind of sucks, and you know how I know? Because she said as much when we were all gathered for a wedding reception on Saturday.

“THIS. FUCKING. SUCKS!” she declared, white knuckled and gripping the edges of the table while I talked to her with a Marlboro Light in one hand and about 62 beers in front of me. It was open bar. Talk about pouring salt in an open wound.

“Um, you’ll be fine,” I said, and then busted out laughing as she took a drink of her O’Doul’s and shot me a look only a crazed woman could muster. A couple of times while I was enjoying my moderate habit I indulge in only while drinking, I spied a blond head next to me inhaling smoke deeply as I exhaled. I shoved her and told her to get away from me. I care about this baby, ya know?

It’s just too bad she wasn't married to a sea horse.

Most of us who were in utero in the 60’s and early 70’s can be quite certain that our moms didn’t exactly stay away from the sauce during pregnancy entirely. My mother and my friends’ moms actually told us so. These ladies were registering for bongs and fifths of Jack Daniels for baby showers, I’ll bet.  

Anyway, we’re all ok. We’ve got degrees from mediocre state universities and lackluster jobs just like everyone else. We turned out just fine, is what the old ladies say when they rationalize their pregnancies. To think if my mom didn’t have that six pack the summer of 1972, I’d be chief of staff of an Al Gore White House right now.

I’m certain that my friend Blondie will be a model pregnant lady. And I vow to be there at her house with a pack of cigarettes and a case of beer to celebrate baby Blondie coming into the world.          

What Jesus would blog

Using James Frey’s exciting prose style (no indented paragraphs, no quotations, and seemingly indiscriminate capitalization is so edgy) I’ve fabricated the following post using as many elements you guys sent.

My name is Jesus Dreyfus and I’m the toughest Mexican cop in Chicago. At one time my full name was Jesus Dreyfus DeJesus (I was born the year Jaws came out, my mom was big fan.) but I got it legally changed to just plain Jesus Dreyfus because Jesus DeJesus sounds kind of stupid. This is my story.

I walk into Dugan’s after a long shift on the Martial Arts-related crime task force. It’s been a Shit day and all I want is a stiff drink. I look at the Bartender. She knows the drill.
Jesus, you want the usual?
Make it a double.
She smiles and fills the glass.
I gulp it down and look at around. I see the last Broad I was screwing from across the bar. Too bad I didn’t have one of those invisible Capes. I’ve been trying to lose this chick for weeks.
Jesus, you look like shit, she says.
Thanks. It’s been one of those Days.
Why haven’t You answered my emails? What about my calls?
Look, I’m really not interested anymore. I thought you’d take the hint.
She gasps.
Goddammit Jesus, why are such a fucking Asshole?
Someone’s bitter.
She doesn’t think it’s funny.
There’s no chance for us?
A slim Chance maybe.
Really?
Like I said, a fat chance.
You know Jesus, that guy over there just asked me out. She glances over at this flannel-clad oaf next to the Pool table.
If you want to go with that crackuh, knock yourself out. He looks about as exciting as an Egg sandwich.
It’s cracker, Jesus. And he’s nice.
Crackuh, whatevuh.
She throws her drink in my face.
Bitch! This is going to stain my new shirt.
It’s just club Soda Jesus.
Since when did you just drink club soda? You’re a fucking lush.



So that’s all the Ronco Blogomatic came up with! Thanks for playing.

Shut up and give me something to blog about!

Help me, please help me!

Return of the killer hangover and my brush with pedophilia

I got my drink back.

It started last Sunday night at the Radisson Hotel bar in Peoria where I found out I can't be trusted to stay in a hotel alone. Mamatee was doing much better, so I had to celebrate and spent the better part of the evening unwinding in the Medieval-themed lounge with just the bartender and a Red Stater to keep me company. While Trish the bartender told me all about her goodfornothing kids, Louisiana Larry sucked down Makers Mark whiskey and let me smoke as many of his Carlton cigarettes my lungs would allow.

Dirty old man or not, Larry made a find drinking companion. Before he left the bar I told him he looked like James Carville, which surprisingly he took as a compliment. "Really?" he asked, smiling. If you can imagine James Carville being left in a bathtub too long, that would be Louisiana Larry. Good people, that Larry, but rather unfortunate looking.

Last night I went to a coming out party of sorts for a friend who moved to Chicago from Sucklanta this month. Ariamay (she asked that I use pig latin to conceal her identity) looked stunning and surprised me with her ability to stay atop her 19 inch heels after drinking half the liquor in the city. Even during a specially-choreographed yet underwhelming dance to Christina Aguilara's Dirty at the Liar's Club, she didn't stumble.

Ariamay and her friends are all about 5-6 years younger than me and a couple went to my highschool.

One girl told me she graduated in 1996.

"I graduated in 90."

"Shit. You guys were like done with college by the time we graduated. " Her mock horror was refreshing. I wanted to hug her for not saying things like, "Age doesn't matter."

"Yeah, and not only that," I told little Miss 26, "I was on like my third husband in 1996."

I really appreciate honesty. A couple of years ago when I went out with this guy who was several years younger than me, his sister had simply this to say when she found out how old I was.

"Gross."

I thought it was hilarious. And after telling said youngster that he wasn't Ashton and I wasn't Demi, our tryst was over.

At the last stop of the night, one of the even younger girls caught the eye of a gentleman. Though I've been a little out of practice I knew it was important to encourage her debauchery. He and his friend invited the two of us back for a nightcap. Of course I asked them if they were going to kill us, they said no, and off we went.

The two hit it off which left me with the friend, the TWENTY-ONE (maybe 22?) year old friend. Though nothing happened, I have to admit that I entertained the idea. Coo, coo, ca-choo right?

Toddler and I were talking and he asked me if I ever lived in other big cities besides Chicago.

"Yeah, I lived in DC for about five minutes in 1994."

"I was 10 in 1994."

When I thought about the things I was up to while this kid was watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his jammies somewhere . . . dry spell or not, it definitely was time to call it a night.

Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?

Sometimes you just have to ask.

Tuesday night I was coming back from Peoria to my hometown with my brother and aunt. In daylight it's a rather scenic drive, at least for the mostly flat and boring Illinois, but at night it's a little scary. Very dark, very woody, very Blair Witch Project with winding roads and the occasional farmhouse and one horse town to speed through.

Even though I grew up in a small town, I think I'd handle a shitty Chicago neighborhood better than the dead quiet, pitch black night way out in the country. At least in the city you'd be roughed up and left for dead where someone's bound to find you in an alley like a civilized human being. But in the country, hell you'd end up in some woodchipper and no one would notice till the spring barn raising season started.

My jerkface brother took advantage of my uneasiness about midway through the drive. I was sitting in the back seat and was leaning forward talking to my companions when everything went black. Mr. Smarty Pants had cut out the lights.

"HEY!" I shouted/whined. My heart started to leap out of my chest.

"Uh, I just wanted to see how dark it is. It's pretty dark," he said chuckling.

Asshole.

Usually I deal better with the unknown. Back in our roaring 20s, friends and I embarked on what seemed at the time to be adventures (late night ministering to the sick with cute cops, getting rides back to a London hotel with strange men) but we were always careful to ask the all-important question.

"Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?, or Are you taking her somewhere to kill her?"

And if the answer was no, then you got the greenlight. Because everyone knows that if you kill someone after telling them you weren't going to, then you're going to be in a lot more trouble.

Can you imagine the trial?

Big shot prosecutor: Did YOU or did YOU not tell the victim you were not taking her somewhere to kill her?

Cute killer: (whispers) yes.

The courtroom gasps. Cute killer gets the gas chamber.

Pour some Splenda on Me. . .

Men's Fitness magazine rated Chicago the fattest city in America. While I'm sure most of us living here could give one of our rat's fat asses about it, for a moment I thought I had something to do with it. You see, I've been AWOL from my step class since September, and consequently I'm beginning to actually roll out of bed in the morning. It's not good. I was worried enough to go their site to see if this was the case. And I was curious how they arrived at this. "Don't get your hopes up for a convenient tee time: Chicago's ratio of public golf courses to citizens is the third-lowest in our entire survey." The mother of a friend of mine once said, "Golf is for nerds and assholes." Besides that, this is a dense, metropolitan area you fat heads! Our land goes for over-priced condos the owners of which go to the suburbs for golf. Duh. "Commuting here burns up a lot of people's free time and contributes to stress, which raises hormones that increase the likelihood of gaining weight. How bad is it? The same trip takes 50% longer during rush hour than during off-peak driving times-the third-worst in our survey." Geniuses, rush hour means traffic in the third most populated city in America, with . . . what did you say. . the third worst congestion? Incredible! "Good luck finding a place to get sports equipment: Sporting-goods stores number in the bottom 10% in our survey." OK, now this is just plain stupid. The ability to purchase exercise equipment does not a fit person make. How many of us have treadmills/laundry hangers? The rest of America can go "moo-moo" behind our backs when we walk by, we don't care.

"You can tell I'm stoned."

Yes you with the morphine drip, I can. So my mom's one less kidney and tumor free as of Wednesday afternoon. She sailed through the procedure, at least for a gal with her rusty ticker, and resting comfortably as I write this at St. Francis Hospital in Peoria. I forgot my laptop but these kind folks are nice enough to have computers in waiting areas so families can update their blogs. I almost had a coronary when I saw her surgeon come to grab us about two hours before he said he was going to finish. He looked at me when he came into the room, and gestured for us to follow him into a conference room. Holy fuck ,I thought (sorry Catholic hospitial computer) this is not good. "She did excellent," he said, smiling a bit and I dare say a little surprised. He then went on to explain the surgery and what was going to happen for the next day. When you have a super-sick relative you learn that one day at a time, is a literal thing. It's kind of the only way to get through stuff. We thanked him and at first I reached out my hand. But then I hugged him, which caught him off guard. Hey, the dude didn't kill my mom, so he was going to get a freaking hug. It was the least I could do (well there's always more I could do.) Now I know a little what winning the lottery might feel like. It was a good day.

Dry spell

I've yet to use this blog as a dumping ground for crap about boy-related stuff. I made a conscious decision to leave that to the other gals in blogland.

Never say never, right?

So there's this episode of Seinfeld where George achieves intellectual higher ground after going without sex for awhile. No sex freed up parts of his brain previously used for obsessing and strategizing about sex. Soon he was like solving mathematical equations and curing cancer.

No sex had the exact opposite effect on Elaine.

She turned into a blithering idiot.

I think that's happening to me! I'm not going to disclose how long it's been for me, but I will tell that I watched Jeopardy on Saturday and blurted out like fifteen answers that were WAY off, almost embarrasingly so. My mother and my sister looked at me like I was having a stroke. And yesterday I tried reading the paper, but sounding out every other word was exhausting so I turned on the WB.

It's this goddamn dry spell, I'm telling ya!

I've tried to take the high road and not reconnect with former paramours, and this isn't the 90s so some one-nighter is out of the question. Even though there's this sensitive fellow who's trying to romance me and who happens to be about 12 feet away as I type this, he'd probably want to cuddle. And talk. And I'm not interested in that unless get fired because I forget I have a job, or get lost coming home one day.

Jock Straps for Christmas and the Last Man on Earth who didn't know John Wayne was Dead

'Twas four days before Christmas when I finally attempted to do some gift shopping. Three stores and about $200 later the present score stood at Angie:6, Family:0. I had a bad case of shopper's block, at least when it came to other people, and decided the best route would be a stack of gift cards purchased when I got to my hometown for the holiday.

I had visited the local Target the night I got into town, but still felt like I might let some folks down. My inner-Santa was starting to come out. On Christmas Eve morning I went to the Salvation Army with my Aunt Sheila where I spotted a yellowed package containing a jock strap that was likely older than me.

Antique Roadshow? Maybe. Gift for my brother? Definitely. I threw it in my cart along with a Jane Fonda workout video circa 1983, a bar of soap, a pair of black angels, an onion blossom maker, a mini totem pole, a butterfly thermometer, and a Sesame street doll dressed like a mailman (which by the way still had the tag on.) I took my very special gifts back to my Aunt and Uncle's house and wrapped them happily while a couple of cousins eyed me with suspicion.

Except for my poor 7-year old nephew, who looked a little stunned and confused when he unwrapped a worn story book for someone half his age, my family got a much needed giggle while I passed out the real presents. I then declared I would spend the course of each year seeking out the oddest, and perhaps junkiest pieces of crap for their Christmas presents.

The rest of the holiday weekend was interesting. I'm used to living alone and staying at my mom's apartment where it's just the two of us. We were both at her favorite sisters' house where there's constant chatter, TV's blaring with Spanish programs in the background, and the Christmas tradition of my uncle Ruperto strumming a guitar with his countrymen and singing some incoherent Mexican songs about life on the ranchero.

It was all at once brutal and charming.

On Christmas morning while my aunt slaved away in the kitchen making tamales, my uncle came out of the bedroom wearing a bandanna around his neck. He walked in the kitchen and after spotting me making food (it was breakfast for my mom) he said, actually giddy, "Angela what are you making?"

Even though I've known this man since the age of five, I've never ceased to be frustrated at his old-world notions of what a woman should and shouldn't do. My reply?

"Look Pancho Villa, I know you get awfully excited seeing a woman in the kitchen. I'm out of here in five minutes and I'm not coming back."

"Pancho Villa? No, John Wayne."

"They're both dead, whatever."

"John Wayne's dead?" He was geniunely stunned.

"He died like 30 years ago. You really didn't know?"

He didn't. I had to be the one to break the news. On Christmas Day.

Come for the infection, stay for the kidney tumor

Everyone’s favorite T.V. addict, otherwise known as my mom, unwittingly became the star of her very own medical drama two weeks ago. A diabetic who hates doctors, she had an infection that ran uncontrolled and decided to creep into her blood. Apparently the organs of the human body hate when that happens and will begin to toy with the idea of whether or not they want to continue working.

The community hospital in my hometown kept her for 24 hours, then put her on a helicopter bound for a hospital in Peoria where they could handle more than brain freeze and owies. For four nights she was in the ICU where I, my siblings, and siblings-in-law sat and watched a parade of doctors and nurses poke and prod the woman until she was well enough to be transferred to a regular room.

Wanting to have this most dramatic episode of ER ever turn into Scrubs, I was relieved to finally get some comic relief when she was settled into her new bed. This very old, very crazy woman in the bed next to her took one look at my mom and exclaimed, "Wow, what does she have?" The nurse looked embarassed and told her to be quiet, but I laughed like it was the funniest thing I ever heard.

The next morning when I got to the hospital, 'ol crazy pants had literally been tented in on her bed. The alarm that was set to go off when the lady got out of bed apparently didn't keep her down. I asked my mom if she was able to get any sleep with the freak show next to her yelling, "Give me a knife, I'm cutting these IVs off and getting out of here," all night. She just rolled her eyes and went back to sleep.

Over the next few days my mom continued to get better. Her strength improved, and most importantly, the nurse and I conquered her terrible case of bedhead. I headed back to Chicago thinking she was going to be released last weekend.

Not so fast.

Her doctors (she says one looks like Dr. Green on ER and another looks like Benjamin Bratt, I disagreed) needed to find out why after the infection was conquered her white blood cell count didn't return to normal. Turns out there's something on her kidney that doesn't belong there, and it and the kidney will have to come out. And given her health stituation, the surgery is very risky but is unavoidable.

How's that for a Christmas present?

I'm one person who really didn't need another reason to hate this holiday. With a mother who's just 56, who has about 30 seasons of television ahead of her, I'm feeling a bit angry that this something we're facing.

I'm trying to be a big girl and keep that brave face on that I know she needs. And she doesn't need to know about a couple of friends I've been relying upon heavily lately. One's called Marlboro Light, the other is Sleeping Pill.

Postscript: People aren't kidding when they say everyone should have a healthcare power of attorney in order. Do not assume that if you're someone's child or spouse that you're o.k. Get it done. Also, there's nothing like frantically trying to piece together someone's medical history and medications while they're out of it and an ICU nurse is looking like you're the worst child in the world because you don't know what kind of insulin your mother takes. Don’t be crazy enough to assume that doctors and a hospital someone who had gone to for years, would like write it down somewhere.

Baby, it's mothereffin cold outside

Coldest December in Chicago? You don't say.

I was waiting for the bus this morning hoping my eyeballs wouldn't freeze solid when a dog sled pulled up instead of the 60. I had to get to work and Eskimos smell way better than the homeless and junkies so I hopped on.

I'm telling you, I don't care how cold it gets next month, I'm not going to eat whale blubber and I'm not sleeping with short, slanty-eyed, caribou fur-clad butterballs.

Coming soon: Why it took me nearly two weeks to post. Thanks to those of you who noticed. I appreciate it.

Mom, me, and too much T.V.

Friday night I took a little time off from my super-glamorous and always exciting life as a single urbanite to sit home, fight off the Avian Flu, and watch the long-awaited Knots Landing Reunion. The moment I got home, I called my mom to make sure she knew it was on.

A needless call. Of course she knew. This is my mom, afterall. If she had her way Aaron Spelling will be canonized the moment he goes to the big casting call in the sky.

Like many men who use sports as a way to relate to their fathers, my mom and I have decades of television watching to connect us. Knots Landing was a big favorite. And of course there was Dynasty, Falcon Crest, Fantasy Island, Love Boat, a slew of sitcoms, and every police drama to hit the small screen. In a time before VCRs and TiVo it's a wonder how we fit it all in.

My mom's addiction, long thought as a way to unwind or pass time, came to a head during the O.J. Simpson trial. It was during my requisite post-college year to live at home that I figured out that my mom watches way too much T.V. She kept up on every little detail of the trial and gave me a daily update, whether I wanted one or not.

One day some forensic screw ups came to light. Nobody besides the prosecution was more frustrated than my mom.

"Quincy wouldn't have messed up like that," she said, clearly pissed off.

Was she for real? I was hoping against hope she would start laughing. But there was this scarily long pause. I was going to have to go in and pull her out.

"Ha, ha. Good one. Yeah, well Trapper John M.D. and Gonzo would have saved Nicole in the first place! They wouldn't have needed a stinkin trial then," I replied in earnest, then waited.

Mom? Mommy?

She snapped back to her old self and smiled. I breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

"Gonzo was cute," she said.

"Oh, yeah. Sure was."

Like a child of an alcoholic who knows to tread lightly with booze, I’m aware that I have the genetic predisposition to watch an unhealthy amount of television. I can be a half an hour into Trading Spouses: Meet your New Mommy before I know what hit me. I haven't had cable in 8 years, only because I know I'll become a shut-in 10 minutes after the Comcast guy leaves my apartment.    

Your cat is never coming back

At 18th and Blue Island there's a sad little sign with the headline:

Donde Esta Jeffrey?

Jeffrey is a black and white cat who went missing a couple of days ago. Judging from the sign (and the English translation) Jeffrey's owners are beside themselves with worry after the little guy decided to bolt out the door the moment they took off his collar to give him a flea treatment.

As an outsider, it seems to me that this cat wasn't too happy in the first place. Why else would he make a break for it just as winter hits? Was he plotting this moment for weeks, or even months? Maybe playing the nice little house cat role was too much for him. He wanted to see what the gritty streets of Pilsen had to offer.

If you're a cat or a dog, I think you'd have quite a time.

One of the first things I noticed when moving here from Little Italy is the number of stray cats and dogs hanging out. And I was struck by how tough and aloof these animals acted.

The dogs scared me a little at first. But when I got closer to a group that was crossing the street up ahead of me one day, it kind of reminded me of something out of Lady and the Tramp. Regardless, steering clear of them seemed like a good idea. I'm also careful never to walk around with a pot roast in my purse, just in case. I'm not taking any chances.

The cats are a different story. They're enormous, rude, and they act like they own the alley when you go to throw away the garbage. I've yet to see a rat; I'm convinced the cats swallow them whole. And they steal.

Really, they do.

The day after the telethon for Hurricane Katrina I realized I couldn't find my debit card. I had taken it out the night before to make a pledge (only because I wanted to see if I could get Brad Pitt on the phone to tell him how skanky Angelina is) and threw it on the coffee table where a bunch of newspapers sat waiting to take their rightful place in a landfill. That morning I was doing my usual Saturday cleaning and must have thrown the card out with the papers.

Hours later when I realized what I did, I went to the alley and got my bag, which had been CLAWED open. I didn't find the card, but I was greeted by a cat giving me a look that said, "Bitch, I got your card and you ain't never gettin' it back." I might be mistaken, but I think he flashed me a gang sign with his paws.

I glared back for a moment and then bolted upstairs to call my bank. If I hadn't acted quickly, I'm convinced that this gang of street-tough cats would have been halfway to Mexico on my hard-earned dime.

So yeah. I think Jeffrey was lured to the streets and is probably caught up in some illicit activity with his fellow strays. Hopefully his owners will come to accept that he wasn't theirs to have in the first place.

Watch your back, Jeffrey. And don't take any wooden nickels.    

It's official: My hometown is a shit hole

When I was a sophomore at Illinois State, a roommate was dating an Environmental Health major. One afternoon, he was over our place talking about how he went on a field trip to LaSalle that day, a small town about an hour’s drive north of ISU.

“You went to LaSalle? That’s my hometown. Why did you go there?” I asked.

“You’re from there?” he asked in amazement. “That’s a Superfund Cleanup Site! Did you know that?”

Yeah dude, I knew that. How couldn’t I? Growing up there you knew that Superfund Cleanup Site meant guys in weird space suits walked around the area of an old factory trying to get rid of these nasty buggers called PCBs. And they dug up the earth within a one mile radius of the defunct plant and burned it right there; a process that took about 10 years. No one seemed too troubled that our junior high school, public park and pool wasn’t all that far outside the mile boundary.

A few years back, yet another dead industrial site in LaSalle caught the eye of the EPA again. An old zinc plant in operation from the mid-1800s into the 1970s left the ground polluted with toxic metals, ground that is uncomfortably close to LaSalle’s wells from where the town’s disgusting water supply is drawn.

Friends from high school who had worked for one branch of the wealthy, eccentric descendants of the original polluters told me one night late at a bar that their boss warned them the EPA was coming, and ordered them to dump barrels of chemicals over the fence onto the land of their cousin. “I want this place to look like Disneyland,” boss man said.

So why this little tale? Am I an Erin Brockovich wannabe? Not so much.  But I’ll tell you that each time I spend a weekend there (damn those holidays!) I leave a little sadder.

The newspaper over the weekend reported that the area leads the state in job growth in bars and restaurants (jobs which yield an annual salary of about $13,000) with some local yokels (I mean officials) saying that’s indicative of the area’s growing tourism industry.

Tourism? What in the hell is worth seeing there? The kids are strung out on heroin (at least a few that I’m related to) so maybe there’s some sort of IV drug user walking tour that I’m not aware of.

“And on the left we have one of our latest crack houses to open in LaSalle,” the guide will boast as the tourists stare in amazement.

Anyway, I’m sure what’s happening there is indicative of thousands of small blue collar towns where people could once get decent jobs and have a decent life.