Leper Pop

Haiku 2011 - Part IV

2011-12-24T12:56:00.003-06:00

Sure there are a few potential shows left this year, but party planners city-wide will be demanding my presence at their events so I'll need to publish what I can now. I'll edit later as needed. If I feel like it. Don't tell us what to do. You saw how that worked out last time. We quit writing until y'all went away and proved our point. So there.

Cold War Kids - Metro

Throw down unique sounds
Catchy high energy but
Not memorable

Death From Above 1979 - Metro

Two guys, lots of noise
But not a White Stripes ripoff
Bass and drums on 'roids

Joy Formidable - Double Door

She looks quite docile
But Ritzy will melt your face
Guitar and vocals

Arctic Monkeys - HOB

I knew I liked them
But with the very first song
Their stock skyrockets

Amy LaVere - Schubas

With an upright bass
High heel shoes, dress and a mask
Tunes with attitude

This Must Be The Band - Ravenswood Fest

Talking Heads tribute
Mixed feelings on cover bands
But this one was fun.

Soul Train Anniversary - Millennium Park

Don Cornelius
And historic soul
Wish I had a 'fro

Jim Jones Revue - Schubas

Little Richard with
A chainsaw and a nosebleed
I stole that review

Broken Social Scene - Wrigleyville

Free show near Wrigley
Even up on a rooftop
Got down with their sound

Fleet Foxes - Chicago Theater

Best beards on the road
With amazing harmonies
Quite a mellow night

X - Bottom Lounge

First couple of punk
John and Exene can still rock
But they're looking old

Imelda May - Park West

Groovy hair and shoes
And Irish rockabillly
Make for a good time

Wild Flag - Empty Bottle

Women who rock hard
Already reviewed them once
They just get better

Screaming Females - Schubas

Shredding the guitar
Is child's play for Marissa
With a unique sound

Rhett Miller - Schubas

Call it a man crush
He delivers energy
And quality tunes

The Damned - Metro

Legendary punks
Captain Sensible
Is anything but

Shelby Lynne - Lincoln Hall

An angelic voice
But a little depressing
Cheer up buckaroo!

Lonie Walker - Wonder Bar

Main goal: make sure that
Everyone has a good time
Mission accomplished

Ronnie Hicks - BLUES

Do not watch youtube
Get your butt to a live show
Crazy better live

White Mystery - SubT

I did not like them
They can't play or sing very well
Just like my writing

Le Butcherettes - SubT

A bloody apron
And Mexican attitude
Crazy good rock show

Marti Jones & Don Dixon - Abbey Pub

Big Don Dixon fan
Brought his wife for a bonus
Did not disappoint

Airborne Toxic Event - Riv

I was on the fence
But I left the show a fan
Genuine music

tune-yards - Lincoln Hall

Indescribable
Such a freak but makes it work
I love you Merrill

Meat Puppets - Double Door

Still alive today
On my playlist a long time
Glad you're together

Monte Montgomery - Fitzgerald's

Top notch guitar skills
Incredible back up band
But left wanting more

Suzanne Vega - SPACE

Last year she surprised
I went again this year and
Was bored this time 'round.

Split Lip Rayfield - Double Door

Impromptu trip to
Double Door had me dancing,
Wanting more banjo.

Legendary Shack Shakers - Double Door

Is that guitarist
The dude from Jesus Lizard?
His new band, mad fun

Lykke Li - Vic

She's got that goth thing
But she's not annoying like
All that Twilight shit

Ftiz and the Tantrums - Metro

A second visit
But we need a new record
Fitz says it's coming

Architecture in Helsinki

Crazy Aussie fun
B-52's with indie
Slant from down under

City & Colour - Vic

Surprisingly strong
Did not expect much live but
The songs came to life

John Doe - OTS

X, Knitters, solo
Doe does no wrong in my world
Play it, I'll be there

Robbie Fulks - Hideout

With guest Jon Langford
Dueling styles keep it fresh
Both know how to write

Poi Dog Pondering - Metro

This band's been around
I prefer the Austin years
Fun to see and hear

Fishbone - Bottom Lounge

Been twenty years since
I've seen them last; holy crap.
Insanity live

Wilco - Riv/Vic/Lincoln Hall

Part of it is hype
But they back it up no problem
Every show stellar

Joy Formidable - Metro

She looks demure but
Ritzy is a powerhouse
Melt my face, hot stuff.

Gold Motel - Lincoln Hall

Happy fun music
But felt like New Year's Eve in
A hotel ballroom

Haiku 2011 - Part III

2011-08-01T17:16:00.004-05:00

Okay, so we're at about mid-summer but instead of suffering through another midsummer night's dream about fairies and drowning in a swimming pool of bloody mary mix, I'll offer you another round of haikus that take us through July.

Southern Culture on the Skids - Old Town School

You may think they are
A white trash novelty act
They can really rock.

Booker T - Old Town School

The dude’s a legend
Just not Jerry Lee Lewis
Soulful B3 sounds

Rocco DeLuca - Villain's

His hit annoyed you
But the boy can sing and play
Give him a chance

Sounds of Detroit - CSO

Marshall Crenshaw brought
Lots of amazing talent
Forget the big three

Sounds of Austin - CSO

How could this one fail?
Small town with major talent
Could have been better

Junior Brown - Fitzgerald's American Music Fest

Tears up the fretboard
On his wild homemade guitar
In a hat and suit.

Ronnie Baker Brooks - Fitzgerald's American Music Fest

Lonnie is his dad
But at the end of the show
You’ll ask Lonnie who?

Dave Alvin and the Guilty Ones - Fitzgerald's American Music Fest

Words cannot describe
How strongly I feel about
The music I hear.

U2 - Soldier Field

Show me something new
Awestruck last time but now you’re
Growing tiresome

Black Keys - Milwaukee Summerfest

Two man band. Again?
These guys are the exception.
Unrelenting rock

Florence and the Machine - Milwaukee Summerfest

The powerful voice
Filled an outdoor arena
Without a problem

Cage the Elephant - Milwaukee Summerfest

Ignore the first band?
That crazy little dude makes
It impossible.

Tinariwen - Lincoln Hall

The unique vibe of
The Saharan Desert Blues
But not that lively

Eric Davis - BLUES on Halsted

Started out slowly
Not as impressed as last time
Then he tore it up

Pitchfork - Union Park

This gets its own post
My favorite time of year
Special edition

Old 97’s - Lincoln Hall

Is this alt country?
They rocked it like no other
Call it what you want

Sanctified Grumblers - Quencher's

Hard to classify
Quirky Americana
Tuba and washboard

Wild Flag - Subterranean

PTA meeting?
Say that out loud and
Get punched in the face

Ted Leo - Pritzker Pavilion

Not sure what it is
But his songs make me happy
Sound great loud and live

Chris Robinson Brotherhood - Lincoln Hall

Sure, they may be stoned
But they know what they’re doing
Three solid hours

Heartless Bastards - Schuba's

Love Ericka’s voice
Who does she remind me of?
Will listen much more

Richard Buckner - Schuba's

Singer songwriter
That usually makes me cringe
But tolerable

Haiku 2011 - Part II

2011-05-28T16:38:00.006-05:00

Yep, that time again... the concert season is picking up as I suckle up to the Ticketmaster teat, so time to post up the latest haiku reviews before I get behind.

Holmes Brothers

I love these guys so
Much that I don’t care about
Counting syllables

Dave Alvin

He is a bad ass
Electric or acoustic
I want to be him

Acoustic Africa

Layers of guitar
Transcend language barriers
African rhythms

BLUES on Halsted Street – Eric Davis

Like being at home
If home is a front porch filled
With powerful blues

British Sea Power

Solid rock and roll
Guitars, talent and songs, but
I expect more live

Devotchka

Orchestral soundtrack
Music best heard live
Tuba solos rock

Jeff Beck with Imelda May

Perhaps they were bored
Throw a rock and roll party
Underutilized

Lissie

My new music crush
Indie folk? I disagree.
The girl can rock too.

Wax Trax Records Retrospectacle featuring
Front 242, KMFDM and Rights of the Accused

I don’t dance at shows
Now is the time on Sprockets
Where we dance. I’m in.

Arcade Fire

Anthems, epicness
Unadulterated joy
With plenty to share

The National

Surface tension breaks
Surprising intensity
With red wine in hand

Apache Relay

High energy rock
Don’t stop moving around and
Don’t drop the baton

Tristen

Wow, please stop singing
I guess your songs are decent
But you’re annoying

Ezra Furman and the Harpoons

Fun for everyone
Ezra’s a likable guy
But lose the frat boys

Corin Tucker Band

Sleater Kinney gal
Shows up in a shiny dress
Tears it up solo

Mecca Normal

Jean is an artist
I want to be in her songs
Write about me please

Bettye Lavette

Blown away again
She sings your song way better
Than you ever could

Marcia Ball

Keyboard is ablaze
But a little too polished
Time to take a risk

Twilight Singers

I cannot relate
In seventeen syllables
How they define cool

Lykke Li

Freaky chick in cloak
Stalking the percussive grooves
With Siren vocals

Haiku

2011-02-27T11:29:00.003-06:00

You've probably noted a huge lack of posts in 2010. Sorry, but the pay sucks and I'm a very busy man. You won't believe how many boxes of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls there are in the world and how much free porn you can find on the Internet.

But there's always time for music. I recently wrote a quick review of a concert in an email to friend. I was proud it only took forty words and suggested I should start a forty word concert review site. She pointed out somebody already has one for seventy-five words or less. And they don't count one and two-letter words. Pussies. So she challenged me to haiku concert reviews. I accepted. Following are January and February in haiku form:

Ruthie Foster

Exponential joy
Soul, gospel and front porch blues
Please come home with me

Leon Redbone

Your grandparents’ tunes
Without the scratchy records
Shine on harvest moon

John Hammond

Crazy guitar skills
No effects, just acoustic
White boy delta blues

Fitz and the Tantrums

Fitz, where’s the guitars?
Retro soul tunes don’t need ‘em
Keys and horns work fine

Cedric Watson and Bijou Creole

New Orleans got wet
But the culture cannot die
Zydeco! Let’s dance!

Robyn

Retro dance music
Platform boots and aerobics
Only straight guy there

Ladysmith Black Mambazo

Thanks to Paul Simon
Their voices travel the world
Mesmerizing sounds

Kodo

Japanese drumming
That would make John Bonham proud
Watch out for that tree!

Cowboy Mouth
Let it go they say
A lesson in crowd control
Come have fun or else!

Soul Man

2011-02-22T20:25:00.002-06:00

This is what happens when Hertz is out of cars and I need to go elsewhere for my rental:

Sid: Hi, I have a reservation.
Alamo: Would you like a Soul or a Flex?
Sid: A Soloflex? Are you saying I'm out of shape?
Alamo: No, you're in fine shape. A Soul... or a Flex.
Sid: I don't know what either one of those is.
Alamo: The Flex is big SUV. I'd recommend the Soul.
Sid: Fine, give me the Soul.

I now have the ugliest car on the planet. A snot green Kia Soul.

Whatever happened to the days when your only choice was a boring Ford Taurus?

Grinderman

2011-02-13T18:42:00.003-06:00

Dateline: Vancouver. Grouse Mountain and the infamous Grouse Grind. Wrecked me? It damn near killed me a couple years ago. But turns out that I’m going to get a second chance to make that mountain my bitch.

I previously blogged about my last climb up the Grouse Grind, which is a trail in North Vancouver that goes up the side of Grouse Mountain. According to the Internets, it gains 1,100 metres over a distance of approximately 2.9 kilometres. Hmm. Metric system. I’d say that’s about 17,000 feet and 5.8 miles, or to put it another way it’s like putting a really tall ladder about halfway up Mt. Everest. That doesn’t sound right. Let me set aside my cocktail and do a few calculations on the back of this napkin…

Okay, turns out it’s only 2,799 feet over 2.0 miles. They say the average hiker completes it in 90 minutes if they don’t die. Last time I did it in 80 minutes and nearly died.

So here’s the deal. I’ll be in Vancouver this spring for a week mostly on business, but plan on taking some additional time to do some exploring.

Now, I can struggle with motivation in my everyday life. Getting out of bed usually isn’t a problem since I usually get a paycheck and I’ve become quite accustomed to the food and shelter it provides. Beyond that, my natural state is on the couch with a bottle of Hershey’s syrup and my pan flute.

For example, I don’t know how to cook. But as long as that Chef Boyardee keeps making that delicious ravioli, where is the motivation?

So if I want to exercise, work out and stay in shape, I need a goal. When I was younger, trying to get laid sufficed. Now that I’m married, my wife tends to discourage me from using that as a goal. I lost about 30 pounds four years ago on a very effective chemo-radiation diet, but I’ve gained at least 20 of those pounds back. Although people tell me that the emaciated rock star look wasn’t working for me, I’d rather not go straight to the Chris Farley look. And that’s where Grouse Mountain comes in.

I am hereby announcing my intent to complete the Grouse Grind this spring in 60 minutes. Now if I fail to reach that goal I will have publicly humiliated my family and myself and in accordance with Japanese tradition must commit hara-kiri.

The only roadblock could be the weather. The trail closes in winter and re-opens late spring. I just checked the mountain report and it appears there is currently 377 cm of snow. I think that's like eight inches, so I don't foresee any problems. I mean, they didn't even have snow for the Olympics, so I don't expect any issues for my little hike.

From you, dear readers, I merely need you to hold me to my goal. And if anyone cares to witness this and meet me on the top of Grouse Mountain with a tanto sword, let me know.

Sayonara, bitches.

The Hertzies - Jan 2011 Edition

2011-02-06T18:51:00.002-06:00

Cab driver would be a nightmare job for me. I don’t like people and like driving in traffic even less. However, I can be a highway junkie and appreciate a good road trip. I had to go to Dayton, Ohio so I filled my duffel bag with Andy Capp Hot Fries and Tab cola, grabbed my iPod and strolled to Hertz to get a car. The car had an iPod jack but unfortunately my iPod had as much energy as a three-toed sloth convention. Needless to say I got hear about three songs before being relegated to dial surfing the best of Indiana’s hot hits and syndicated nutjobs. I clearly made sure the iPod was fully charged for the return trip and after five hours in shuffle mode, I hereby present the latest edition The Hertzies.

Best Band Incorporating A Chain Saw Into Their Live Shows
The Plasmatics – Sex Junkie

Most Missed
Steve Ray Vaughan - Tighrope

Moist Rub All Time Recommendation Award
Concrete Blonde – Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man

Thanks For Reminding Me I Should Pick Up Tickets To Your Show Next Month Award
Rory Block – Crossroad Blues

Worst Cover By An Artist I Like
Keb mo – Imagine

Best Song To Give My Nissan Sentra Some Soul
Diana Ross – Love Hangover

Best Damn Song Of The Roadtrip
Joan Armatrading – Love and Affection

Best Use Of A Choir
Madonna – Like A Prayer

Best Legendary Band I Just Don’t Get
Velvet Underground – I’m Waiting On The Man

Should Have Left It Alone Award
Alicia Keys and Adam Levine – Wild Horses

I’m Ashamed Of Myself Award:
Black Eyed Peas – Let’s Get Retarded

Damn That’s A Good Voice
Concrete Blonde – Someday

The Why Is This on my Ipod Award
Kasey Chambers - I Still Pray

Song I Probably Embarrassed Myself Dancing To In the 80’s But Don’t Remember:
The Church – Reptile

Song To Appear On the Drive Out And The Drive Back
Counting Crows – Mr. Jones

Song I Probably Embarrasssed Myself Dancing To In The 90’s But Don’t Remember:
Jody Watley – Some Kind Of Lover

Song That Beavis And Butthead Would Appreciate If They Were In The Backseat:
Deep Purple – Smoke On The Water

This Song Sponsored By Moist Rub
999 – Chicane Destination

Best Guitar Intro:
Pearl Jam – Yellow Ledbetter

Good Stuff I Don’t Remember Downloading So That’s Why I Shuffle Award:
Noisettes – Don’t Give Up

Best Song For Cruising A Dark Rural Highway At Night
Bruce Springsteen – The Fever

Best Cover
Holmes Brothers – Bring Me Some Weather

Reminder That I Lived In Texas 14 Years And Never Learned to Two-Step
Confederate Railroad – Queen of Memphis

Other Nominees:
Elmore James – It Hurts Me Too
Police – Every Breath You Take
REM – Driver 8
George Michael – Freedom
Van Halen – Jump
Kevin Rudolph – Let It Rock
Marty Casey – Mr. Brightside
Violent Femmes – Kiss Off
Frank Sinatra – I Get A Kick Out Of You
John Michael Montgomery – Be My Baby Tonight
Beta Band – Dry The Rain
Vinyl Room – Still Smoking
Eric Clapton – Walkin’ Blues
Greyboy w/Sharon Jones – Got To Be A Love
CSNY – Teach Your Children
Replacements – When It Begain
Exies – Kickout
Dido – Thank You
John Mellencamp – I Need A Lover
Lovehammers – Summertime In The City
Billie Holiday – Come Rain Or Come Shine
Propellerheads – History Repeating
Depeche Mode – Everything Counts
Carpenters – Close To You
Eurythmics – Would I Lie To You
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers – The Damage You’ve Done
Big Audio Dynamite – The Globe
Duane Eddy – Rebel Rouser
Triumph – Lay It On The Line
Dwight Twilley Band – I’m On Fire
Drive By Truckers – This Fucking Job

At which point I found myself in a freezing rain storm in NW Indiana and switched to traffic and weather on the 8’s on newsradio WBBM 780.

Now time to update the iPod for next time.

Year In Music - 2010 Review

2011-01-01T16:32:00.010-06:00

"It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream."

I’ve rarely regretted going to a live show. Conversely, there are plenty of shows I’ve regretted missing. Despite knowing that, I often find myself at home on the couch, sitting comfortably in smoking jacket and cuddling with my ferrets within the nurturing bosom of my Snuggie. Try talking yourself out of that scenario on a work night or when it’s cold or rainy outside, and before you know it you’re turning down invites to an exclusive all-access ticket to a one-night only Nelson reunion show. My solution to this prospective lethargy was to buy tickets in advance to any show that caught my interest. Being out of pocket for the price of admission would help motivate me to ditch the smoking jacket for my finest Ed Hardy shirt and a handful of hair gel. Here are the results of my adventures in 2010, from worst to first.

#39 – Connie Smith w/Robbie Fulks – Old Town School of Folk Music (OTS)
I was on the picket fence for this show. She was country, when country wasn’t cool. Which makes her cool. Great venue, so I decided to check it out. She still has an amazing voice, but the songs got a little monotonous. Dead dog, broken down pick up trucks, expired yogurt in the fridge and one lost love after another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Get the picture? Oh, and another.

Watch

#38 – Patty Loveless – OTS
I was on the fence post for this show. Patty still has a swell voice, but the show was about as charismatic as a chess tournament. Not that speed chess they play in the streets, but the kind with the Russian dudes who stare at the board for hours before each move. I guess I thought I was a little more country. A little more Memphis and Nashville. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But I didn’t love this show so. It picked up at the end a bit and she has an enthusiastic supporting band, but they need to slip some sunshine and ecstasy into Patty’s pre-show tea.

Watch

#37 – Detroit Cobras – Bash on Wabash
Their set overlapped a bit with Cracker, but I was intrigued and decided to check them out with about 25 other folks on Labor Day weekend. Unfortunately, the band didn’t seem as intrigued to be playing. You ever take a look at someone’s work ID and see how fresh and eager and excited they are to be embarking upon a new opportunity? And then compare that to their face two years later while they’re sitting in their cube and you barely see the resemblance? Yeah, that was the Detroit Cobras that night. Sure, I know life on the road for a struggling band probably isn’t the glamorous life Shelia E. made it out to be, but at least you aren’t sitting in a cube at 8 a.m. wondering if you really need health insurance that bad.

Watch

#36 – Santana w/Steve Winwood – World Twitter Bank Amphitheater of Tinley Park
I’ve turned into a bit of a music snob and do my best to avoid venues with more than 2,000 people and shows featuring bands that anyone might have heard of. But my uncle is a good dude and obsessed with Santana so I picked us up a couple tickets and made the trip out there with him. I don’t regret going – the music was decent, but after about an hour I got the idea and was starting to lose interest, especially being 40 rows back. Few people know that Oye Como Va means “I can’t believe I just paid $11 for a domestic beer.”

Watch

#35 – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club w/Band of Skulls – Metro
The show was good. The music was good. The crowd was good. Solid, but nothing extraordinary. Kind of like a burger and fries at Chili’s when you’re a regular at In n’ Out.

Watch

#34 – Cowboy Junkies – OTS
Another one I was on the fence post about. I like the vibe of their music, but was never a hardcore fan. But I’m a sucker for the venue, so I put on my ten-gallon hat, grabbed my baggie of black tar heroin and hit the show. Turns out they are not literally cowboy junkies, but instead a rather pleasant Canadian family band. Margo is very likable and still sounds great, but I think their music is best suited for home use during weekend breakfasts while enjoying four pounds of back bacon, three french toast and a beer. In a tree.

Watch

#33 – Robyn – Metro
I enjoy most types of music, most inexplicably bad 80’s pop and bad 90’s dance music. I remember Robyn from her hit Show Me Love in 1997. I figured she was a one-hit wonder, so I was surprised to see her on the bill for the Pitchfork Music Festival in July since it’s known more for newer or pioneering alternative acts. Well, since I haven’t been to a gay dance club since 1993 (but that’s a story for another time), I was unaware that she never left the scene and was making a remarkable comeback in the world of rainbow flags. Her Pitchfork set was impressive – high energy and with a good beat that was easy to dance to. I gave it a 91 and also bought tickets for my wife to see her when she came back to play Metro. Apparently the show sold out in one day and caused servers to crash throughout Boystown. I could have resold the tickets for double face value and a fabulous windowpane suit and seasonal colored knit vest. Instead I took my wife since her friends had conflicts and couldn’t make it. The breakdown: 95% gay males, 5% women, and me and two other straight guys (total does not add up to 100% due to rounding). I was a little insulted that I didn’t get hit on all night, but my wife told me it was because I’m obviously not gay. I’m still not sure whether to be insulted or flattered by that. My only complaint – gay guys don’t drink beer. But they do drink a lot of mixed drinks, which take considerably longer to mix than popping open a bottle of beer, leading to long waits at the bar. But I digress. Robyn was coming off an illness and there may have even been some lip-synching involved, but it was still a good time. Her show is like a hybrid of an aerobics class and 90’s dance club. Really better than it sounds. Or perhaps not, if you don’t share my eclectic taste.

Watch

#32 – Robbie Fulks – Hideout
I’ve got some friends who worship this guy as if he could change the free water cooler at the Hideout into Stella Artois. Yeah, maybe not Stella but it turning into a cooler full of Lone Star by the end of his set. Great skills and song catalog, impressive supporting musicians and another likable guy. I wish the Hideout was easier to get to and I might have made it to more shows.

Watch

#31 – Deanna Devore – Hideout
I discovered Deanna at the infamous 2009 North Center Ribfest, where she and her band not only killed it but where I also learned that Canadians are born without ribs. Timing on subsequent shows never seemed to work out as I spend a lot of the time during the year on the road selling shower curtain rings to major hotels. But I did catch her show at the Hideout and it did not disappoint. The Canadian-Brazilian influences combine in a mash up of hipster bossa nova goodness. I have no idea what that means. Just go check her out.

Watch

#30 – WC Clark – Fitzgeralds
Stevie Ray Vaughan learned some things from this dude, so I figured he might know what he’s doing. I walked in just as his set was starting and was the twelfth person in the bar. Have you seen the movie Ghost World? No? Go watch it, I’ll wait. Okay, so remember that part when Steve Buscemi’s character goes to see the old bluesman and nobody seems to care? It was kind of sad in the same way for a while. Eventually more people streamed in and the crowd maxed out at about 30. It didn’t matter – he was doing his thing, enjoying doing it, and appreciative of the people who were there. Between sets he wandered through the crowd on the way to his record label’s table, but he stopped on the way to shake my hand, ask me how I was doing and to thank me for coming. It just wasn’t me, either. I wasn’t so sad anymore.

Watch

#29 – Cracker – Bash on Wabash
I worked a customer service phone job once and got called a “rooster” in the same manner one might get called a “cracker”. I’m not sure if there’s a band called Rooster, but I was a big fan of Cracker in the 90’s. They haven’t lost a step and the songs are still as good today as they were over a decade ago. Unlike those stale Saltines in your cupboard. Go throw them out, you rooster.

Watch

#28 – Sleigh Bells – Metro
I skipped part of the headliner show at Pitchfork to hang out with the cool kids at a side stage to catch Sleigh Bells, who were more hyped at the time than the fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches at the Elvis convention. It was new, high energy and loud, kind of like sex 20 years ago. The set was also rather short, also not unlike 20 years ago. But I figured that Derek and Alexis might have come up with another song or two for their Metro date. I was wrong, but it was still a swell 35-minute show. Another record’s worth of material and they have the potential to move up the rankings faster than a grunting Russian on the women’s professional tennis tour.

Watch

#27 – Black Crowes – Chicago Theater
I took a pass when they came through town a couple years ago and decided not to miss them this time around. I like them, but I’ll confess that I don’t know their whole catalog. So maybe I should wait until the Victoria’s Secret models tour. Because while I appreciate their chemistry and proficiency, I found myself working on my grocery list during a couple of the longer jams with which I wasn’t familiar. That doesn’t sound like a glowing recommendation, but these guys do rock they delivered when I needed them to. Just like that Chinese place on a rainy night. Okay, so comparing them to crab rangoon doesn’t sound much better, but just trust me when I say these guys are the real deal.

Watch

#26 – Juliette Lewis – Reggie’s
You may be aware of my on-again, off-again relationship with Ms. Lewis. When I discovered her musical side she was working with The Licks, and they were garage rockers to the highest degree. Her star power carries over to music and the band could blow the rusted tin roof off a joint any day of the week. Unfortunately, she tried to take it to another level and it didn’t work for me. She fired The Licks and was talking of communing with the gods and her crowds were full of derby girls who idolized her for making a lame roller derby movie. I gave her another chance this year, because I’m nice like that. The band has gelled a bit and it seemed like she’s getting her swagger back. Must be those Dr. Scholl’s insoles.

Watch

#25 – Junior Brown – OTS
I’ve known of Mr. Brown since his quirky videos of the 90’s, but never truly realized his guitar badness until years later when some fellow Texans explained it to me. So when Junior came to town with my other Southern favorite Cowboy Mouth, I was all over it. Unfortunately the Cowboy Mouth crowd wasn’t quite there to see Junior so I was a little annoyed. Fortunately, he returned solo for a show at Old Town School and I was all over it again. For those who don’t know ol’ Junior, he’s an old dude who shows up in a suit and a ten-gallon hat like he’s interviewing for a job at the Grand Ol’ Opry. Then he whips out his homemade double-neck guitar, part regular guitar and part lap steel guitar. Now that he has your attention, he’ll blow you away by working every fret on both of those necks faster than a couple funny cars at Great Lake Dragaway in Union Grove, Wisconsin, under 16 still free with general admission, advance tickets at all Ticketrons, so bring the family for a day of thrills and excitement in beautiful southeast Wisconsin. But I digress. The songs are mostly irreverent country, with some blues and instrumental surf music thrown in to keep it interesting. It works. Thanks, Junior.

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#24 – Dead Weather – Congress Theater
They made the top ten last year for their show at the Vic. They didn’t get worse, but they faced stiffer competition and they played at the Congress Theater. That’s like serving a filet mignon at a nice restaurant and then serving the same plate at Chuck Cheese and expecting a Michelin award. Jack and Alison still have the star power and stage presence to compete with anyone on this list. Yeah, even 69 year old Connie Smith.

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#23 – Florence and The Machine – HOB
I heard Florence on the radio – Internet radio, y’know, because I’m cool like that. So I didn’t get tickets in advance to this show since I was sure there were few people cool as I. Yeah, turns out I was wrong. It sold out, but I managed to sort through the detritus that is Craigslist and found a nice young lady who was selling a pair of tickets to help fund her trip to Coachella. But I digress. Flo and her Machine sounded just as good live and I shan’t make the mistake of getting those tickets again.

Watch

#22 – Cowboy Mouth – HOB and some Old Town Fest
I moved to Dallas in 1992 and about a month after I got there I found myself solo on 4th of July weekend. So I did some exploring and headed down to an area called Deep Ellum which had a decent music scene. After some bar hopping, I paid $5 to get into a place called Club Clearview, which featured a band from New Orleans called Cowboy Mouth. There were only about 20 of us there, but they played like we were 20,000. At one point, the singer/drummer came out to the crowd and had us all sit in a circle on the floor with him, and we did a couple songs that way. Every show is dedicated to making sure that the audience has not a good time, but a ridiculously good time. Now imagine a New Orleans band playing a show on the eve of the Super Bowl featuring the Saints Cinderella season. Go see them. Bring a red spoon.

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#21 – Semi-Precious Weapons – Subterranean
Yeah, frontman Justin is a little over the top, but he is fucking gorgeous. Sure, they’ve picked up some Lady Gaga fans after opening for her recently. But they write some damn catchy tunes and rock a lot harder than most of the crap littering the charts these days.

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#20 – Dandy Warhols – Vic
I’ve liked these guys for a while but never made it to a show. Watching the documentary Dig! renewed my interest in the band this year and I got to their Halloween eve show. They put on a good show – played most of the hits, were very professional, and still seemed to be having fun. Or maybe it was just all the girls in slutty costumes.

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#19 - Imelda May - Martyr's
A cute Irish lass with a killer voice and attitude doing rockabilly? Sign me up! I'll be her big, bad handsome man any day.

Watch

#18 – The Cult – Vic
One of my favorite bands from the 80’s. I can still listen to their CD’s start to finish without any Ritalin. But the ticket prices seemed a little steep for a band 20 years past their prime, so I was going to take a pass. I think a lot of people shared that sentiment, because two buddies both “won” free tickets. In retrospect, I would have paid. Ian has put on some “Bret Michaels” weight but still has the vocals, and Billy looks and sounds better than ever on guitar. Power chords are cool.

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#17 – Los Lobos – Taste of Chicago
I saw them for the first time in 2009 at the CSO after hearing for years how awesome their live shows were. They were pretty awesome. So I went back to see their show at The Taste and they were good. I’d see them again, but I think they’re overhyped. Okay, barely overhyped. They probably knew I was feeling that way, so they brought out Robert Plant to sing the last song of the night. It ain’t Zeppelin, but it did push them into the top 20.

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#16 – Suzanne Vega – OTS
This is the reason I get tickets in advance. I wasn’t sure about this show to begin with, and then I had trouble finding a date. That would normally discourage me faster than a chastity belt, but since I had tickets I hopped on the bike and made my way to OTS. And Suzanne was personable and had a much stronger catalog than which I was aware. It was one of those impressive shows in which I left a bigger fan than when I went in. Then I finished up my coffee, it was time to catch my train.

Watch

#15 – Taj Mahal – MAC
Did you know that the Taj Mahal is a mausoleum? Which is ironic because Taj Mahal the musician is larger than life and thoroughly enjoying his time on stage. I got interviewed on the way into the show by some dude claiming to be with some third-rate media,, and he asked me if I was a blues fan. I told him I used to be, but a lot of contemporary blues seem formulaic and I got a little bored with it. However, Taj was influenced by Caribbean and African music growing up and it comes through in his music and makes it more interesting than a 12-bar blues played by a white boy cover band influenced by Eric Clapton. Another indication that I enjoyed the show was that it seemed 30 minutes long, but when I checked my official Mousekateer Mickey watch it had been nearly two hours. Thumbs up from me and Mickey.

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#14 – Monte Montgomery – Fitzgeralds
I never miss Monte when he comes to town and had the pleasure of catching him twice in 2010. Mind-blowing guitar work, but instead of just shredding he’s actually put together a good song catalog and has one of the tightest bands on the road today. Call it a man-crush – I won’t argue.

Watch

#13 – She & Him – Pritzker Pavilion
Zooey is adorable as hell, and M Ward lends some credibility to the duo. The retro sound is perfect for the pair, and I’d think I’d show up just watch them sing the alphabet. Yeah, I’m smitten. Now, make it a free show on a pleasant, summer evening in the beautiful Pritzker Pavilion at Millennium Park in downtown Chicago, buildings lit up to celebrate the Blackhawks’ Stanley Cup victory, and it just doesn’t get much better.

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#12 – Bodeans & The Duhks – Chicago Symphony Center
Way back in 1991, I got invited to a Bodeans show at the Riv by a female cop. Uptown was still a little rough back then, so I asked her if she brought her gun. She said no, and said I could protect us. Thankfully, her theory remained untested. She dumped me shortly thereafter, but I started a long-term relationship with the Bodeans. Simple, catchy tunes and always a good time. The acoustic show at the CSO was a workshop in song-writing and it was cool to see them in such a great venue. I haven’t mentioned a lot of opening bands, but The Duhks are a worth a mention. Easily the best Franco-Manitoban Canadian soul, zydeco, Irish, country string band I’ve ever seen.

Watch

#11 – Aimee Mann – OTS
I’ve been a fan of Aimee ever since she stormed my MTV with her rat tail and band til tuesday back in the 80’s. I even wrote a letter to then SunTimes critic Don McLeese defending her honor after he ripped her as the opening act for Tom Petty, saying her music didn’t have any staying power. Yeah, who won that battle, Mr. McLeese? I still maintain a little crush on Ms. Mann, and her show made me want to invite over and keep her as a houseguest for a couple weeks. Love her songwriting and self-deprecating humor. Drop by whenever. Just don’t bring Don McLeese.

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#10 – Snoop Dogg – Metro
Believe it or not, I’m not much of a gangsta. The closest I got was renting a pinstripe suit for an old-time gangster themed party at a speakeasy. I can’t say I’m much into the rap or hip-hop scene, either, but when I had the opportunity to see someone of Snoop’s caliber at a joint (pun intended) like Metro, I had to go. The wait was interminable, but when he took the stage all was forgiven and he owned that place. I reviewed the show early in the year and let’s review Snoop’s Three Things You Need To Do Every Morning. 1) Brush yo teeth. 2) Thank God you’re alive to see another day. 3) Smoke some weed, motherfucker!

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#9 – Ruthie Foster – SPACE
Ruthie sometimes stopped in to play a few songs at a little corner bar with my guitar teacher years ago in Dallas. She blew me away, and the last time I saw her before leaving Texas was when she did a chilling acapella version of Amazing Grace at my teacher’s memorial service. Fast forward years later, and I see that the world finally discovered the phenomenal Ruthie Foster. Solid guitar playing. History lessons in the blues and gospel. Fun, sincere banter. And a voice that still gives me chills.

Watch

#8 – Booker T & Eric Bibb – OTS
My favorite movie – the Blues Brothers. Not just for the humor and showcase of my favorite city, but for the soundtrack. I’m a sucker for the old soul and R&B stuff. Booker T not only has his own song catalog, but does an amazing job covering some of those old classics in a way that makes you feel like you were right there when it was still new. You’ve got to love the way the Hammond B-3 fills the space. Throw in some smooth blues from Eric Bibb to start the show and you got yourself a night to remember.

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#7 – The Knitters – Fitzgeralds
Take roots guitarist Dave Alvin of Blasters fame and Exene Cervenka and John Doe of punk band X and you might not think there is any intersection if you were to place them in the same Venn diagram. However, what started as a small intersecting sliver called The Knitters, developed into a killer outfit that put forth a unique mix of folk country punk that probably influenced all those alt-country bands making the rounds these days. I was a fan of X back in their 80’s prime, and only recently discovered the greatness of Dave Alvin, so this show was one of the year’s highlights. People digging what they do and doing it well. I think they sleep well at night.

Watch

#6 – Carolina Chocolate Drops – Park West
Their cover of Hit ‘Em Up Style caught my attention, but I wasn’t sure I was enough of a fan to make an evening of it. So I skipped their show at Schuba’s the year before. After spending an evening with them at Park West, my foot is sore from kicking myself for not seeing them earlier. One of the more enjoyable nights of the year. An old-time string band with three members trading guitars, banjos, fiddles, harmonica, moonshine jug and even cow bones, making you feel like you’re hanging out on their front porch for a weekend jamboree.

Watch

#5 – Bettye LaVette – OTS
I’ll confess I never heard of her until I caught her on Letterman earlier this year. I’ve been a Letterman fan forever, but also confess I’m finding his show a little stale of late. But I’ll forgive him after finding Bettye for me. She’s an old soul singer who has found a new audience with an album of old British classic rock songs. Her interpretation takes some already good tunes, but let’s you hear them with vocals that have some feeling instead of sung by some 20-something Brit kid on dope. Be sure to check out her cover of Love Reign O’er Me. Then check out her old stuff. Then go see her live.

Watch

#4 – Dave Alvin & The Guilty Women – Fitzgeralds
I’m quickly becoming Dave’s biggest fan. I largely ignored him for 20 years, but doing my best to make it up to him. His work with the Guilty Women started when the disbanded the Guilty Men after the death of his long-time buddy and collaborator. I never got to see them, but I can’t imagine he’s missed a musical beat with his new line-up. Every member is solid (no pun intended) and plenty of opportunities for Dave to showcase his licks (no pun intended, really). It’s a high energy, fun and impressive set. Unfortunately, earlier in the year they lost fiddle player Amy Farris to suicide, and their tribute to her during this show was probably the most emotional moment of the year.

Watch

#3 – The Holmes Brothers – OTS
Two old brothers – Sherman and Wendell – and their buddy Popsy on drums laid down a mix of blues, soul, country, gospel and even some funk that took me deep into their world and gave me a deep appreciation for all they’ve experienced in their musical lifetimes. They moved effortlessly between styles and proved themselves the real deal. They’re getting a little older now, but haven’t lost a step. I just hope to catch them again. You should too.

Watch

#2 – Gogol Bordello – Subterranean
I had made it to my first Gogol Bordello show at the anus that is the Congress Theater and was still blown away by the live show. And that was even after going in with high expectations. Fast forward a few months and I find out that they are doing a Lollapalooza aftershow at Subterranean, a small Wicker Park bar that holds 300-400 people max and is the size of my living room. I cleared my schedule the day tickets went on sale, even putting my staff at work on the case, and managed to score a pair of the coveted tix. I felt like Charlie when he scored the golden ticket. It was like giving a band of gypsies your collection of punk records and a bag of coke and then telling them to meet you in your garage for a jam session. It was loud, hot, crowded and barely controlled insanity. I expected it to be the show of the year and I thought it sealed the deal when I left that night, but it was unexpectedly upended by…..

Watch

#1 – Meshell Ndegeocello – OTS
I had only heard of Meshell from her collaboration with another artist, but it was enough to register a spot in my pile of music still to be filed in my mental file cabinet. However, when I saw her on the roster of shows this year at OTS, she moved to the top of the pile and I eagerly picked up tickets. I guess the best description of her music that I’ve read is neo-soul. It was way outside my wheelhouse, but maybe that’s what made it so special. I felt way cooler just for being there. I need to find more music like this. Or maybe she’s unique in that respect. Just wow. Also what I consider to be an upset in the best show of the year.

Watch

Special Mention:
Pitchfork Music Festival 2010 – Union Park
I wasn’t sure how to classify the acts I saw this weekend. It was definitely the highlight of the year for me – a three-day pass to one of the premier fests just a few miles down the road from me on a hot July weekend. Great, diverse selection of bands, well-managed event, and reasonably priced. I think my three-day pass was only $90. And with the extreme heat, the festival reduced the price of bottled water to only $1. Think that would happen at Lolla or any of your other favorite local venues? The vibe was positive all weekend, and I spent the last hour on Sunday night just wandering around and taking it all in as Pavement tore through a set of indie faves from the 90’s. Here are the bands I saw, both good and bad.

Friday:
The Tallest Man on Earth – Solo acoustic set from a tiny Swedish dude. I liked it, but he was suited to the 45-minute set or else he might have grown tiresome.
El-P – I’m not into rap, but I’ll give it a chance now and then. I’m glad I did at Pitchfork that day.
Liars – Although I appreciated their singer’s ironic Men At Work t-shirt, most of the music was unlistenable and, well, just shitty.
Robyn – She was awesome. I might be gay.
Modest Mouse – Very cool. Had I included Pitchfork acts in my rankings they would have been top 20.

Saturday:
Free Energy – Catchy, pop tunes… proving there’s nothing wrong with that.
Sonny and the Sunsets – A nice retro vibe to ease into the day.
Kurt Vile – A mix between Dylan and Petty, but it works for him.
Titus Andronicus – Powerful stuff… I need to see them headline a club.
Raekwon – Cool with Wu-Tang Clan, but solo, not so much. At least not live.
The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion – He wins just for wearing leather pants on a 90+ degree day, but the music was wildly solid as well.
Wolf Parade – Not great, not bad. Just good.
Panda Bear – The craptastic award for Saturday. People listen to this shit?
LCD Soundsystem – One of the highlights. Warm summer night, packed park on the west side of Chicago at a party hosted by the premier dance rock band of the year.

Sunday:
Cass McCombs – Not bad to help start out the day.
Best Coast – One of the most hyped bands of the year – overrated.
Girls – I like real girls better. These Girls, not good.
Beach House – Boring
Lightning Bolt – Just as I was getting discouraged with the Sunday lineup, this band unleashed the most batshit crazy set I saw all year. Greatness.
St. Vincent – Annie is adorable, plays some nasty guitar, has some interesting songs and is fun to watch.
Major Lazer – I’m not into DJ acts, but these guys were off the chain and turned Union Park into a daytime rave, including Chinese dragons, ballerinas and acrobatics.
Sleigh Bells – Another of the most hyped bands of the year, but they delivered to the packed crowd who skipped Big Boi to see Alexis and Derek on a side stage.
Pavement – A great band to play us out after three great days.

Hey, if you made it this far and want to participate in 2011, send a message to me at sid_f_er@yahoo.com and I'll include you on my concert calendar listings.

Have a great year and support live music!

Jon Bon Who?

2010-07-31T00:36:00.003-05:00

On the way to the Dead Weather show on the north side of the city, we were like salmon swimming upstream against the current of Bon Jovi fans storming our new neighborhood adjacent to Soldier Field.

Sid: See all those faces?

Mrs F'er: Yes.

Sid: He'll rock them all.

Mrs. F'er:

On the other hand I have no doubt that Dead Weather rocked the faces off everyone who made the tough choice to forgo Soldier Field and the Bon Jovi boys and instead invade the decrepit Congress Theatre to see what a rock show should be. Thanks to everyone who showed up, including the tallest man on Earth who stood in front of me. Oh, and to the two women who couldn't shut the fuck up and could have saved $35 a piece by just going down to their local coffee shop to yap it up. But it was still a swell time. Really. Do not miss Dead Weather if they visit your town.

How hot is this...?

Comcast, An Xfinity of Crud

2010-07-11T21:43:00.006-05:00

Hey, y’all. I just moved and had the pleasure of dealing with Comcast again. Because I can’t get enough of their high rates and crappy customer service, I decided to add phone service. The triple penetration package, I think they call it. Two reasons I got a home phone – first, we have an alarm system in the new place that requires it, so that in the event a scary looking dude busts down our front door, a nice white man in a button down shirt will call to make sure everything is okay. Second, the neighborhood to which we moved is so exclusive that it apparently doesn’t even allow wireless signals. Or AT&T Wireless blows. But that’s another post. And I digress.

They managed to get the TV and internet working, but if you remember I was paying for triple penetration. Unfortunately when they were here to install it, I didn’t have a phone to test the line. Eventually I went back in time to find this thing they call a landline phone and hooked it up. No dial tone. However, it would ring when called, but I couldn’t hear a thing when I picked it up. Just static. So I would guess what the other party was saying and try to continue the conversation like that. I thought I might be able to pull it off, but strange people began showing up at my door, I was receiving odd packages in the mail, and inexplicable debits were being made to my checking account. After verifying with Mrs. F’er that she signed us up for the Digital Voice and not the specially priced Static and Interference package, I finally threw in the towel and decided I needed to talk to the fine folks of Comcast customer service. However, if you remember, I didn’t have wireless service and I wouldn’t be able to hear them on my new Comcast phone service. So I decided to try the live chat function. Turns out I might have been better off just guessing what a phone rep might have been saying.

The follow transcript is not embellished. It is 100% authentic (except for changing some identifying details). With my added commentary in brackets.

user Sid_ has entered room

Sid>
We can receive calls but cannot hear the other party. We can place calls, but do not hear a dial tone. Just static in both cases.

analyst Ana Maria has entered room

[The irony of Ana Maria being identified as an analyst will be apparent by the end of the chat.]

Ana Maria>
Hello Sid_, Thank you for contacting Comcast Live Chat Support. My name is Ana Maria. Please give me one moment to review your information.

Ana Maria>
You are a valued customer, and your satisfaction is my priority. I will gladly assist you with whatever Comcast related concerns you have today.

[The irony of her saying I am a valued customer will be apparent by the end of the email. Same for that satisfaction part. Oh, and that part about assisting me with my concerns.]

Ana Maria>
I am glad to have you on chat, Sid. How are you today?

[I’m kind of annoyed and pissed off but I’ve worked in a call center before and know it sucks, so I’ll spare you right now and just move this along.]

Sid_>
good, thanks

Ana Maria>
I am glad to know that you feel good today, Sid.

[Serious? Clearly we’re working off a Madlibs script.]

Ana Maria>
I understand that your phone is not properly working. The other party can't hear you. Is that correct?

[Wow. I could understand if this were a phone call, but the problem is pretty much written out for you and you still got it wrong.]

Sid_>
No, we can't hear the other party

Sid_>
they can hear us

Ana Maria>
I understand that.

[You didn’t understand that a minute ago.]

Ana Maria>
I am very sorry to hear that this issue happened to you. I can understand the frustration when something is not working the way it is supposed to. I am glad you came to chat so that we can do our best to assist you in resolving this issue.

[Okay, back to Madlibs and irony.]

Ana Maria>
No worries. As your Comcast service representative, I want you to know that issue resolution and your satisfaction are my top priorities for today. Together, we can work this out, Sid.

[I’m not trying to save our marriage here I just want my damn phone fixed. But please continue with your scripted empathy. What function key do you have that programmed to?]

Ana Maria>
To start with, may I please have the name on the account, the telephone number starting with the area code, the complete service address with the zip code, your account number, and the last four digits of your SSN.

[Considering I had to log in to my online account to access the chat, that seems like overkill but I’ll play along.]

Sid_>
Mrs. F’er, 312-555-1234, 123 S. Main Chicago, IL 606xx ssn 1234

Ana Maria>
Thank you. Please give me a couple of minutes to pull up your account and verify the information you gave me.

Ana Maria>
May I know how are you related to Mrs F’er?

[I’m her pet squirrel monkey. Does it matter – are you afraid an unauthorized person is trying to get her service fixed?]

Sid_>
husband

Ana Maria>
Thank you.

Ana Maria>
May I know when this issue started?

Sid_>
new service - just started using the phone today

Ana Maria>
Thank you.

Ana Maria>
I run a health check here on my tool, and it gave me a good result, meaning the phone line is in good condition and there is nothing wrong with it.

[I ran a health check here on my tool and I might need some penicillin, but I don’t see what that has to do with my phone.]

Ana Maria>
Let me do a test call from here.

Ana Maria>
To set the proper expectations, the call is only to test the phone, and we are unable to answer any other inquiry that you might have for your Comcast services or any other concern you might want to raise. If there is anything you want me to address for you further, please wait until you get back in chat so we can work on your concern.

[Damn you… this was all a ploy to get some phone sex. I love how terrified they are that a chat operator might have to talk to a customer.]

Sid_>
ok

Sid_>
yes, phone rang, but only heard static after i answered

Ana Maria>
Is that a new receiver?

[Yes, brand new from Target, thanks for asking. It still has that new phone smell.]

Sid_>
yes

Ana Maria>
From here, I can here you very clearly. It indicates that the phone line doesn't have a problem.

[Clearly you missed the day in which they covered homonyms. I told you it was a knew phone.]

Sid_>
any other suggestions on what may be causing the static beside a bad phone?

[Okay Ana Maria, you also must have missed the day in “analyst” class in which they taught you to analyze. So you see what I’m doing up there – I’m helping you out. It’s like a flow chart in chat form. Please, play along with me.]

Ana Maria>
I ran a second health check agaibn, and it says here that the problem is with the phone itself and not with the phone line.

[Actually, you just wasted your time since we established that it wasn’t a problem with the phone line. And I don’t believe your health check tells you that it is specifically a problem with the phone itself. But it can’t hurt to have your cholesterol checked.]

Sid_>
ok

[Now are you seeing the irony?]

Sid_>
since you're telling me it's my phone i'll try another one

[I’m still pissed off, but hey, maybe there’s a 1% chance I got a bum phone or hooked it up wrong.]

Sid_>
thanks

Ana Maria>
You are welcome, Sid.

[I was being sarcastic, you dumbass.]

Ana Maria>
Since your issue was already resolved, do you have any other issues that I could address?

Sid_>
i wouldn't call it resolved, but that's all for right now.

Ana Maria>
The problem is vith your phone itself, and I have done everything from here.

[You haven’t done shit but the absolute minimum to shift the blame, get yourself out of this chat in a timely manner so your supervisor doesn’t yell at you, and make sure that Comcast doesn’t incur any additional expense.]

Ana Maria>
It has been a pleasure to be of service to you. Thank you for choosing Comcast as your service provider and making it a part of your life! Comcast appreciates your business and values you as a customer. Our goal is to provide you with excellent quality service.

[You have been absolutely no service to me whatsoever. I can’t believe you had the balls to say that even though it’s probably required at the end of every chat session.]

Ana Maria>
If you need further assistance, you can chat with one of our Customer Support Specialists 24 hour a day, 7 days a week at http://www.comcastsupport.com/videochat. Here, we value our business with you. Have a great day and take care! To properly close this chat, please click the End Session button.

[Yeah, since I had such a stellar experience this time I’ll be sure to try it again!]

Ana Maria>
If you do not have any Coamcast related issue, you may click the END session button to get the survey.

[Okay, sorry for the inconvenience. I’ll stop annoying you. And it appears that I ended up in a chat with the wrong company – I was trying to reach Comcast, not Coamcast. That must be a new clever strategy to get out of assisting customers.]

Sid_>
got it - have a swell day

So I went even further back in time and got a corded phone – how much simpler could it be? I ran a health check which consisted of plugging the thing in and listening for the non-existent dial tone. That tells me the problem is not with my phone but with my service provider who clearly does not appreciate me as a customer, does not value my business, and has not made my satisfaction their top priority.

So here’s the deal. I can sometimes sympathize with the poor customer service rep, who is working a shit job for little money and is under pressure and at the mercy of their greedy management and asinine policies. So I have a problem taking it out on them. Which by this time I wanted do more than anything, so I made the Mrs. call and told her not to hang up until they agreed to send a tech out. Her phone rep made sure that we knew the difference between a cordless and corded phone and that we knew how to plug one in, and that we knew how to turn a modem on. It’s a phone, not a proton accelerator. She finally agreed to get a tech out.

Guess what? It was the modem. The tech was great. But he did mention that they obviously recycle equipment and sometimes the defective stuff ends up back out in the field because they don’t have a good system to tag it as defective. Sweet.

I love you Coamcast. It’s those a-holes at Comcast with whom I have a problem.

Gone Fishin'

2010-06-08T00:21:00.003-05:00

June is turning out to be a very busy month, so I wanted to do a quick post to make sure you don’t worry if you don’t hear from us over the next few weeks. Given that we post every time we change our underwear, I’m sure a brief hiatus would no doubt spark a panic amongst our loyal and dedicated fan base and end up with our images plastered on milk cartons throughout the lower 48 and perhaps even Canada. Do they drink milk in Canada? Is it even possible to milk a moose? Milk-a-Moose sounds like an indie band playing at Pitchfork… I’ll have to find someone in skinny jeans and ask. It also reminds me of Pomplamoose. But I digress.

Next week I leave on vacation. Worst planning ever. If the Stanley Cup goes to a Game 7, I will be on the road while it is being played, instead of my usual place in the Ab-Rocker wearing my overly flammable Scrappy-Doo pajamas purchased at the Dollar Store. Pass the saganaki, please. Opa!

Then on my second day of vacation, Concrete Blonde brings their reunion tour to town on the day when I’ll be 1,016 miles away. Thanks a lot, Johnette. I’ve supported you for 24 years, which is longer than any other band except for Pure Prairie League, and this is the goddam thanks I get. And then, as if to twist that rusty tracheotomy knife in my throat even more, you decide to schedule a concert stop at my vacation destination the very day after I leave.

And as if it couldn’t get any worse, we will also miss Chicago Tap Theatre’s one night only summer show. How will that look to the Chicago tap community for me to miss one of the premier shows of the season? Clearly, it will tarnish my up and coming status as a top patron of the pedary percussive arts.

Finally, I also failed to check the summer festival calendar and will be absent for Ribfest. And I was really hoping to make the fest this year to have my lower ribs removed to enhance my girlish figure.

It’s okay Johnette, my tap heroes and fellow rib eaters… we’ll always have Paris.

Sid Dogg

2010-02-17T20:41:00.006-06:00

So the 2010 concert season is in full swing, with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, The Bodeans, Cowboy Mouth and Junior Brown, and Snoop Dogg under my belt already. Yes, Snoop D.O. Double G. I confess that I enjoy rap as much as I enjoy NASCAR. Not very much. But I'm an open-minded kind of guy and enjoy new experiences as long as it doesn't require any extended conversations with other people. I even went to a NASCAR race after I was informed that the cars were too loud to speak over and I would only be required to let out a Woooo-Eeeeee every time a car spun out. The Snoop Dogg show was at Metro, a club with a capacity of only 1100 so it seemed like a rare opportunity, and I figured I wouldn't have to talk to anyone and only throw my hands in the motherfucking air if I went.

I went in with high expectations (no pun intended). I figured that somehow I would cross paths with Snoop and for some reason he would take a liking to me, invite me to be part of his posse, and eventually there would be a screenplay written for a buddy movie about our relationship, starring Snoop as himself and Topher Grace playing the part of Sid. But I digress.

Doors at 7 pm, show at 8 pm, with one opening band. In my experience that would mean he should go on around 9:30 or 10 pm, right? Wrong. Clearly I don't understand the effects of weed. I got there around 8:30 and the opener was just starting. After they finished we had to stand around for half an hour and I caught a peek at the run sheet for the night. There was something called Wonderland scheduled in between with Snoop scheduled for 10:30. No problem. I just ordered another gin and juice and chilled with my homies. My homies being the other 1,050 white folks at the show. Wonderland turned out to be a film about the making of Snoop's film Malice in Wonderland. By now, the energy was being sucked out of me faster than an iPhone hooked up to one of those raw potato batteries. The clock crawled past 11 pm and I was annoyed and nothing would salvage the show at this point.

Finally at 11:15, his DJ came out, played some tracks and talked about weed for 15 minutes. Yeah, I get it - you guys like weed. If I just wanted to hear somebody talk about weed I could have stayed home, rented a Cheech and Chong flick and saved myself $35. Finally Snoop came out, and the crowd went wild and he owned that motherfucking joint (pun intended this time). And all was forgiven. By the end of the show I decided I wanted to be Snoop Dogg when I grow up. Here's why:

1. Snoop can be an hour late and people won't care.
2. Snoop is so cool that he did most of the show in a winter coat and didn't break a sweat.
3. The indoor smoking ban does not apply to weed when Snoop is in town.
4. Snoop has guys whose sole jobs are to wear a suit and stand on the side of stage while he performs.
5. Snoop appears to have a sideline pass for every team in the NFL.

After we suffered through his pre-show movie/video, he delivered and played all the classic Snoop the crowd wanted to hear. And when it was all over, he left us with Snoop's Three Things You Need To Do Every Morning:

1. Brush yo teeth.
2. Thank God you're alive to see another day. (Apparently God doesn't like bad breath)
3. Smoke some weed, motherfucker!

Thank you, good night, and drive safely. And by safely I mean with weed and a firearm.

Top Ten Concerts of 2009

2010-01-03T20:10:00.005-06:00

Just like Festivus, I’ll start the Top Ten first with an airing of grievances. These are three shows I attended but with which I was disappointed. Much in the same way you’re disappointed with this blog….

3. Bob Mould – Old Town School (3/29) – I debated whether I wanted to go to this show. I liked Husker Du and was somewhat familiar with Sugar and his solo stuff, but not sure if I was big enough fan to see a solo acoustic show. Turns out I’m not. He’s evolved in the last 20 years and I have not. Makes no sense at all.

2. Buddy Guy – Legend’s (1/18) – A legend. And every January he plays a series of shows at his bar in the South Loop. I got a pair of coveted weekend tickets, but unless you arrive hours early you won’t get a seat. No biggie except that standing room is delegated to corrals designated by stripes painted on the floor and enforced by bar security. Again, I might have been cool with that had he put on a real blues show instead of the fluff he presented that night. If you want to be able to say you saw him live, go for it. Otherwise save your money for a hooker or something equally delightful.

1. Juliette Lewis, American Bang, The Wanton Looks – Bottom Lounge (10/2) – This one is well-documented. She gave us 2-1/2 good records of rockin’ material before she went back to being an actress pretending to be a rock star. Still a high energy show and we got to see American Bang up close so maybe it’s unfair to drop this one so low, but I wanted this one to be a Dairy Queen Brownie Earthquake and all I got was some figgy pudding.

Next up – honorable mentions. I won’t blow my reward money hiring them to play my birthday party, but they were definitely good shows.

The Von Ehrics – Quenchers (12/10) – These boys pack up the van and come around about twice a year and always deliver a good time. Kind of like a box of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls – cheap, delicious, consistent and predictable. So I was a little concerned when they parted ways with their bass player. But on their last stop in town, the sound didn’t lose much and it actually sounded fresh with some new songs in the set list and some others reworked. I’ll miss Jeffrey’s stage presence but the rest of the band seems to have a renewed energy and have stepped up their game.

Keb Mo – Pottawatomie Bingo Casino (11/14) – I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Keb many times and he never disappoints – probably the most likable artist on the list. But it’s still basically a show for suburban housewives who want to feel edgy by seeing someone a little more hip than Harry Connick, Jr.

Jorma Kaukonen, Ruthie Foster, Robben Ford – College of DuPage (2/21) – Also reviewed earlier this year. Kind of a laid back show, but the talent and vibe was top notch. I primarily went for Ruthie, but also got to brush up on my music history and learn why Jorma was the headliner.

The Smithereens - some lame street fest last summer - I rediscovered that these guys were still touring a few years ago and have caught them a couple times since. They're clearly still loving what they're doing and still doing it well. Pat looks a little different, but the music is better than ever. Be on the lookout if they ever come to your town.

Pretenders, American Bang – The Riviera (2/15) – Definitely a top ten show, but dropped a bit because of the venue and the fact that I got to see them both again later in the year at better venues.

With that, I present you with Sid F’er’s Best Concerts of 2009:

10. Ruthie Foster – Old Town School (8/22) – A powerful voice, some decent chops on the guitar, a great mix of gospel and blues, and a personality that makes me wish she would just come over to my house, hang out and play some records. That’s not too creepy, is it?

9. Monte Montgomery – Fitzgerald’s (10/11) – Monte comes ‘round a couple times a year and you should make a point to see and support him. The dude is good enough that he could just go up there and shred for an hour and would still have a following. But in addition to some surprising and not-so-surprising covers, he can write some good old-fashioned rock and roll songs and has put together a band that can pull off some crafty arrangements that will help you get your groove back faster than Stella did. And he’s got a sense of humor that makes me wish I were a woman so that I could have a crush on him for it. That’s not too creepy, is it?

8. Los Lobos, The Duhks – Symphony Hall (11/1) – I’ve heard these guys put on a great show and finally got to see them this year. It wasn’t as high energy as I had expected, but just damn fine musicians with some great chemistry. And as much as I wanted to hate the La Bamba encore, I La Bamba-ed with the rest of the crowd and had pretty damn good time. Add in an opening band made up of a bunch of Franco-Manitobans and how can you go wrong? You can’t.

7. honeyhoney – Folk & Roots Festival, Welles Park (7/12) – This is a pretty cool fest if you can manage to dodge the monster truck strollers that obnoxious parents roll in there to pretend they’re exposing their disinterested kids to culture and getting in the way of obnoxious folks like me who just go to look at cute girls who can sing and play fiddle and banjo. honeyhoney happened to have such a person, who was also cuter and more talented than I had expected. As Lou Reed said so eloquently, “I love you, Suzanne.”

6. The Pixies – Aragon (10/20) – I had forgotten how good these guys were. At first I balked over the $45 ticket price, but the tour reignited my interest in their music. The more I listened the more $45 seemed like a bargain. Especially since by the time I decided I wanted to go I had to go through the detritus that is Craigslist to get a ticket for $55. They sounded great, but don’t stray much from the records in concert. And they had possibly one of the worst opening bands I’ve ever seen – No Age. Otherwise they might have come in higher.

5. U2 – Soldier Field (9/12) – I can’t even recall who played the last stadium show I attended but I think it was on a sweaty, summer night at Texas Stadium, and I vowed never to go to another stadium show again. But I felt it was my husbandly duty to get some tickets to my wife’s favorite band. However… it was a great day and I got to ride my bike down the lakefront path to the show. There weren’t any douchebags in my immediate seating area. I actually kind of like their latest record. And it was almost worth the price of the ticket alone to see the 360 stage, video display and the coordination and logistics necessary to pull off a production of that scale seemingly flawlessly. They’re coming back around – check it out.

4. Dave Alvin and The Guilty Women – Old Town School (3/21) – So I was familiar with the Blasters and knew of Dave Alvin but quite wasn’t sure what to expect going in. This one turned out the opposite of the Bob Mould show. Dave was personable, laid down some groovin’ tunes, and sounded great despite still getting used to his new bandmates, who just happened to be some badass women that are good enough to hang with Dave.

3. Pretenders, Cat Power, Juliette Lewis – The Vic (8/18) – I have a weakness for female musicians so this lineup blew me away as soon as it was announced. I was still a Juliette fan, and her 30-minute opening set was just enough to give me a fix without being so over the top to drive me away like she did six weeks later. Cat Power won me over with her set. I had always been on the fence, but the way she stalked the stage drew me in like an office staff to free donuts in the break room. And Chrissie. THE coolest woman in rock and roll, even at 58 years old. She’s so good I even considered joining those freaks at PETA just to impress her. Besides having just one other original Pretender, she’s collected some guys that know their place and capture the energy of any lineup past.

2. The Dead Weather, Screaming Females – The Vic (7/29) – I like The White Stripes. I like The Kills. And Jack and Allison did not let me down. The most powerful show of the year. Quality musicians, commanding stage presence, and great lights and sound at a good venue. They rocked so many faces off that night that they had to stop the show half way so that security could sweep them up like hats after a hat trick. It also didn’t hurt that they found Screaming Females to open the show with some loud, dirty rock and roll featuring tiny but powerful Marissa tearing it up on guitar.

1. The Jesus Lizard – Metro (11/27) - Despite spending my entire life in Chicago and Texas, I never managed to see these guys. So I was pretty excited when they announced the reunion tour, but wasn’t sure if they could still perform at the same level as 20 or even 10 years ago. I’ll just leave you with the following exhibits: a) it was a packed house and I somehow ended up a good 20 feet from where I started the show. b) lead singer David Yow passed overhead several times and eventually left in an ambulance. c) it was the highest energy and most fun I’ve had at a show in recent memory.

What were your best shows of the year?

Rock on, and here’s to some good shows in 2010.

Wherefore Art Thou, Juliette

2009-11-12T21:41:00.002-06:00

Ending a relationship can be rough. Even if things haven’t been great lately, there are the memories of better times and wondering where things went astray. And if you think things have been going really well, an unexpected break-up can hit you upside the head like a foul ball in the 8th inning after you’ve been drinking for three hours and busy texting your significant other to let them know that you’re going to be a little late because there’s a special on Rolling Rocks at the bar by the ballpark and then before you know it you’ve got a tattoo of a Rawlings on your temple, your buddies are laughing at you and you’re thinking maybe you should have read the fine print warning on the back of your ticket stub a little more closely. Unfortunately, women don’t come with any fine print so even if you’re an overly diligent attorney you’re going to get hit sooner or later.

So in case you haven’t figured it out by now, I’ll spell it out for you: I’m breaking up with Juliette Lewis. We had a good run. If you remember we first connected back in 2006, but it wasn’t until a year later when the relationship got really hot. That’s when we bonded at her show with the Licks at Reggie’s back in December. I was acting like a lovestruck schoolgirl. More so than usual. I got a Juliette poster as the centerpiece of my shrine. I was going to incorporate one of those salami sticks hanging in the meat market since they’re very tasty, but I was trying to stay focused. I put the picture we took together on my nightstand. I asked Mrs. F’er if she would change her name to Juliette. I later suggested Joe Pesci after the beating she gave me. I also suspect she’s the one who vandalized the poster with a Sharpie mustache. But I digress.

The two and a half records she made with the Licks just plain rocked. Hard. Muscular. Nothing fancy – just loud guitars, driving drums and high energy vocals. We’re talking a two year-old on Red Bull and pixie sticks kind of energy. Her band were some no nonsense, jeans and t-shirt guys who got sweaty and didn’t comb their hair. Not the kind who spent a lot of time trying to look like they don’t comb their hair, either. And the show I saw back in 2007 was off the hook. Or off the chain. Whatever the kids say today when something is totally copasetic.

So Juliette and the Licks stayed on my playlist fairly regularly. Then she announced the Licks were no more. I wasn’t happy, but gave her the benefit of the doubt. She posted a new website for a new band called The New Romantiques. Now I was having some doubts, but sticking them in the far recesses of my brain. Back where I also keep the knowledge of where to find any cooking utensils in the house. I was in denial that we were growing apart. She finally released the new record and it was good. In fact, there were a few rockers that held their own with the best Licks tracks. Even a raw blues number that she is seemingly able to pull off. But there were a few that strayed from rocker territory. It’s like when one of your mountain bike buddies buys a road bike “just to ride when the trails are muddy”. Then before you know it he’s shaving his legs twice a week and talking to your wife about razor burn. But I digress.

There were darker tunes, more emotive tunes, and “sonically different” songs. There was even the pure pop goodness of “Uh-Huh” which I can appreciate but just seemed out of place. Still, I gave the CD multiple spins and looked forward to her show with the same anticipation normally reserved for the Little Debbie delivery man.

I talked people into going with me, and on the night of the big show the five of us were pretty much the first ones in the house. You know, ‘da house, dawg. The first opening band Juliette has been touring with must have called in sick or something because they were replaced by a local band called The Wanton Looks. Not the Wonton Looks. That’s that happens when you order some tasty soup at PF Changs. The Wanton Looks are a four rocker chick power pop quartet with a punkish edge. The singer/bassist had good stage presence, and although the guitarists seemed adequate they never quite inspired me to rip off my shirt like The Incredible Hulk and stab myself with a pencil. The drummer appeared to be immensely talented, much too talented to be hanging out with these broads. They need to step it up a notch. However, I stuck around for the whole set and feel I got my money’s worth for an opener. Plus I have to say that or else they’ll break my face the next I show it in public.

American Bang was the middle act and I had seen them open for The Pretenders earlier in the year. However, it was at The Riviera which is the Ford Focus of venues. It will get you there, but you won’t look cool and definitely won’t be rocking any rich Corinthian leather seats. I was also distracted by worries that I was going to find a parking ticket on my car. So I deferred judgment.

Turns out that at a small club like the Bottom Lounge, American Bang can tear that shit up. The band looks like it consists of three Nashville stoners who ditched class to listen to Black Crowes records, and a fourth guy who looks like he might have been recently released by Night Ranger. I’m not even sure he’s really in the band. I think he just showed up and the other three are still trying to decide who needs to tell him. In the meantime, they came out and rocked way harder than Juliette fans deserved. And did it all while “drunk as piss”.

Next up was Juliette. Funny, but I had just also seen her open for The Pretenders a couple months earlier – it was a short 30-minute set and never seemed to find a groove so I also deferred judgment on the new band and material that night. Tonight I would offer no excuses for them.

Let’s start with the band. All seemed proficient. But the drummer seemed bored. Seemed to sit there with a nonplussed look on his face. The bass player looked as if she were plucked from a Quentin Tarantino movie just for her exotic look. One guitarist was rocking a modified Flock of Seagulls ‘do. I didn’t find the other guitarist as bothersome but he was no Lick.

When I first introduced Juliette to Moist Rub a few years ago he was skeptical. How did he know whether she was a true rocker or just using her mad acting skillz to play a rocker? I thought he was the one off his rocker. Eventually, it seems he was satisfied that she was for real, but now I’m having my own doubts. The oft repeated line during her promotional appearances that her shows were about “communing with the gods” and some other mumbo jumbo I can’t recall. The new flair for the dramatic in the new songs. The posing and dramatic long stares during her performances. Ah, phooey. I know there is still a little rocker in there.

I even waited around to see if she was going to come out so I could get my liner notes signed and get to the bottom of it all. Nope. I get the hint.

I got my $15 worth. Definitely. But the shrine is being replaced with that stick of salami.

Me and Dave

2009-10-06T19:02:00.004-05:00

I have an announcement to make. I intended to go to the grave with this information known only to me and to one other. Not my own grave, mind you, but the grave of Fatty Arbuckle, until I remembered that he was cremated, and his ashes were spread over the Pacific Ocean. I suppose I could have gone to the Pacific Ocean with the information, but it just wouldn't be the same without a headstone upon which to unleash my mourning and reflection. I wonder if they make floating headstones for burials at sea. If they don't I have dibs on inventing them. Don't even think about stealing my idea. Blogs are legally binding in patent court. You can look it up. I don't expect to have a grave of my own, choosing instead to fall from a cliff to be left in anonymity and natural disgrace as the wild boars of Dover feast on my corpse.

I can no longer keep my secret to take to anybody's grave, even convenient ones like that of Wally Dandrel, who put his grave on the Internet (www.wallylieshere.com). The circumstances surrounding my secret have become too volatile to hold dear, thanks to that blabbermouth, David Letterman. Since, as you may have heard in the news lately, the ex-weatherman late night funny man seems determined to scrub his dirty laundry on national television using the ancient art of monologue, not unlike the Sophoclean King Creon as he set forth a course for the demise of his own insouciant little world, I thought I had better fess up before I ended up in another Top Ten list (the other time was March 6th, 1989: Top Ten Microbial Disinfectants Used by the Supreme Court).

I had an affair with David Letterman.

There. I said it. I'm not proud of it, but I'm also not ashamed of it. He was good to me. Although our affair never made it to the orifice compromising stages many people associate with affairs, the emotions were the same, because there was magic in that hand shake on that bus that day. And like Oprah, he was gentle and tender with me and held me afterward as I wept.

I admit this now in the hopes of saving my family from further embarrassment and to keep the tabloids and paparazzi at bay. That, and I want to ensure they get my part of the story correct when the very special made for TV movie about the David Letterman Affairs is released in time for the February sweeps this television season (starring the caustic Danny Bonaduce as the ambrosial Moist Rub). I'm sure they will offer a generous royalty package for those of us who have become victims of Letterman's lechery as we are splattered across television sets worldwide. Also, look for a cameo by Richard Simmons as an anonymous shopper at Rupert Jee's Hello Deli. He's fabulous!

Demographic Awareness Month

2009-10-04T19:49:00.003-05:00

In case you didn't notice all the pink around football stadiums this weekend (and I'm not talking about the cheerleaders), the NFL added some fab pink accents to their uniforms to promote Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

As the newest member of the mommy blogger community I'm all for breast cancer awareness, but given the typical NFL fan isn't the message a little displaced? With all the men in the audience, wouldn't prostate cancer awareness make more sense? Or given the amount of red meat being grilled up at tailgate parties outside the stadium make colon cancer awareness slightly more appropriate? I think it might take a little more prodding to get those prostate exams and colonoscopies done. Pun intended.

I'm sure all the football widows around the nation are thrilled that their husbands are offering to give them breast exams after a long day of drinking and eating bratwurst.

But seriously, take care of yourselves. See a doctor once in a while. Eat an apple. Go for a walk. Feel your boobies. And if you're a guy, you shouldn't have boobies so you might want to lay off the cheesy poofs.

Knee Jerk Reaction of the Day

2009-09-26T08:41:00.002-05:00

Okay, I got the message. Nobody reads the blog, everyone misses Moist Rub and the last post was outed as a thinly veiled attempt to show how cool I am by telling you about bands you never heard of.

I'm quitting, going to pretend I'm a woman, and join the mommy blog community.

Thanks and regards,

Sid

Show Me The Way

2009-09-20T20:25:00.008-05:00

In planning my upcoming concert calendar, it appears there are some conflicts... I think I already know which shows I'm choosing, but which would you pick? (This is also a covert way to see if anyone still reads this damn blog.)

I Salute You, Brother

2009-09-15T21:33:00.004-05:00

I just discovered that Jim Carroll died, died last Friday. I confess I've never read any of his stuff and I've never seen The Basketball Diaries, but damn if he didn't put out one of my favorite songs.

No Logic On The Horizon

2009-09-13T01:57:00.003-05:00

I’m clearly schizophrenic when it comes to music. I scoff at popular music with nearly the gusto of the indie hipster with the fixie, but will readily ‘fess up to downloading a top 40 tune to feed my appreciation for the perfect pop song. I’ll make fun of those same indie hipsters, but then throw down a Neutral Milk Hotel lyric just to mess with people. I despise the big stadium show and make fun of people who go to see Elton John and Billy Joel in this decade. And then I get tickets to see U2 at Soldier Field.

And then come here to report that the show was absolutely spectacular. They’re really fucking good. Despite all that shit The Edge does with effects, the songs play well to a stadium show. The ridiculously large claw structure and video screen that they’re carting around the world is awe inducing. And that they can coordinate the sound, effects, lighting, video and technology for this event seemingly without a hitch is a logistical and production achievement that blows my mind and really needs to be seen. It was like being in the middle of an MTV video. In a good way. Not one of those Men Without Hats videos where they dance around a renaissance faire, either.

I’m Sid F’er, and I approve this tour. Save up some cash, sell a kid if you need to, but get yourself a ticket.

If I have some time I’ll add some additional details of our day, aka Mrs. F’er Bueller’s Day Off.

F'er Living

2009-09-08T22:12:00.005-05:00

My doctor gave me another six months to live with an option to renew, so I was feeling pretty good today. As such, instead of my mid-afternoon snack consisting of a can of Pringles crushed and sprinkled over a quart of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, I decided to celebrate my continued existence by treating my body like the Temple of Doom which it is and sliced up some sticks of celery.

I also learned that you're not supposed to put celery in a garbage disposal. Who the hell knew? Oh, I guess everyone.

I swear if they made levees out of shredded celery, New Orleans would still be standing today. After a half hour under the sink unplugging pipes (not a euphemism), I learned my lesson. Stick to ice cream and Pringles.

On The Waterfront

2009-09-03T20:39:00.006-05:00

I was a very strange kid. I wanted to be a meteorologist when I grew up. Well, not exactly... more like I wanted to be the TV weatherman. I even had one of those Junior Weatherman kits that you could use to measure rainfall, wind speed and temperature and a log to record it all. Of course, this was well before Excel was invented so I lost interest and took up something more interesting, like bowling. Now I'm embarrassed to admit I still don't really understand what the dew point is and why I need to know that.

I also don't understand why the weather report on the news takes five minutes. All we really care about is the damn forecast. Do I need to wear my slicker and rubbers, or can I just wear my "Somebody Went To Branson And All I Got Was This Stupid Shirt" shirt? Instead we get computer models, high pressure systems, doppler radars and a recap of the current weather in case we're shut-ins and just curious what it was like outside today.

But I'll let it slide as long as the forecast continues to bring the weather we've had this week - sunny and 70's without a cloud in the sky. It's even brought out a kinder, gentler Sid, and I've left the mean streets to take the slightly longer and more crowded lakefront path home on my bike. Click on images for full size versions if your eyes suck or if you just want to further admire my iPhone skillz.

Leaving downtown, just north of Ohio Street Beach, ferris wheel at Navy Pier in the background.

Accidental photo of me and my shadow and the evil black Trek since I don't have a new Globe bicycle yet.

A little further north at Oak Street Beach near the Gold Coast. Not sure what all those people are running from - probably some sort of sasquatch.

Just over halfway home looking back toward downtown from near Diversey Harbor. The woman is clearly not amused with my riding thong and is calling the authorities.

You Don't Sing Me Love Songs...

2009-09-02T21:22:00.002-05:00

I came home and found this today... I think my wife has a new boyfriend.

Globe Trekking

2009-09-01T16:22:00.007-05:00

Anyone who has read this blog over the last 4 years and 500+ posts knows that bikes are a big part of my life. But this isn’t a bike blog. Just like the guy in the Dos Equis ads, I am striving to be the world’s most interesting biker rather than post reviews of the latest titanium water bottle cage to hit the market. You’ll also be more likely read about the great city of Chicago and the awesome events to which I can ride my bike, rather than just post videos of myself trying to perfect my track stand at the traffic light on my way to a superhero tap dance opera.

As such, I’m not sure I’ll be chosen to test out a bike as part of the Globe Experience Project that Globe Bikes is running to promote the rollout of their new line.

So my plan is to trick them by offering them a challenge they cannot refuse. The Godfather strategy.

You see, we have six bikes in our household of two people. It seems like a lot, but that’s only three a piece – two full-suspension Specialized Stumpjumper mountain bikes that guided us through Crested Butte, two nimble Specialized Allez Elite road bikes that survived the Hotter n’ Hell Hundred in Wichita Falls, and an old Specialized Rockhopper that the Mrs. uses as a commuter bike. Wait, you say that’s only five? By golly, you’re right. I guess I left out my daily commuter/errand bike, a 1991 Trek 820 Antelope, of which I am the original owner.

Does Globe Bikes believe that they finally have a bike that can finally replace my 18 year-old Trek and make this an exclusive Specialized/Globe household? I’m willing to give it shot and show off their bike around town if they are.

This year alone the bike would have seen daily commutes to work on my 15-mile round trip, but also visits to events at Pritzker Pavilion, Grant Park, the Athenaeum Theatre, Lakeview Music Fest, i/o, Wrigley Field, the Vic Theater, and too numerous to mention shops and restaurants along the miles of bike routes outside my front door.

And if Globe isn’t up for the challenge, well, they just might wake up with a stripped headset in their bed.

The evil black Trek trying to steal the spotlight from the Specialized.

The Summer of Sid

2009-08-31T20:33:00.002-05:00

According to the all the Facebook updates I’m seeing from people about their little brats going back to school and how they’ll miss the annoying little buggers, I figured it’s time for my annual How I Spent My Summer Vacation essay. Never you mind that I haven’t done one before. I’m just hopelessly behind on posting and need to start taking some of these post-tit notes off my desk before Big Bird attempts to mate with it.

March 29 – Bob Mould at Old Town School of Folk Music
Husker Du rocked my Walkman in the 80’s so I was intrigued by the opportunity to check out their frontman at a small joint like OTS. However, this was risky as it was an acoustic show, and I wasn’t as familiar with his more recent solo work. I sampled some new stuff and it sounded promising, so I picked up a couple tix. Unfortunately, the show was like watching SNL. Sure there are some nuggets and it’s entertaining, but will never capture the same burn your tongue on a hot slice of pizza feeling of the original. I know it’s unfair to compare his solo career to what I remember from 20 years ago, but I’m pretty much a dick and he should have expected me to do that. Sorry. And another thing – I like a little banter between songs, especially at a more intimate venue. You know, besides hawking your new CD.

April 5 – Alvin Ailey at Auditorium Theater
Yep, while I was at the ballet pretending that I didn’t like pretentious dance events, I came right home and purchased tickets to another pretentious dance event I saw being promoted at the theater. Alvin Ailey isn’t really that pretentious, but it is still a dance show. And a pretty damn good one. I’ve seen this company twice now and I’ll go again. You can’t stop me. So you may as well just come with next time. And being the minority in the audience made me feel hip in a culturally diverse kind of way.

Mid-April included a trip to Orlando. It was hot, I had to wear a suit, there were large people with fat kids in tow on a quest to see a moose or a mouse or whatever the hell is down there, I don’t drink and I was at a conference where the primary activity is drinking. Those were dark days, my friend.

April 29 – Chorus Line at Oriental Theater
Okay, now I even think I need to schedule a night out at an Extreme Cagefighting event to prove that I do more than watch people in tights and attend musicals. Actually, those cagefighter guys wear spandex tights, too. Maybe I have some subconscious fetish. Or, as I tell myself, I bought the tickets as birthday presents for my mom and my wife, both of whom love this production. They talked it up so much that I was sure I would end up quitting my job to become a professional dancer just to garner their approval and live the dream. Didn’t happen. I don’t get it. I wanted it to be over more than my dental appointments.

May 17 – 11th Anniversary
On this day both me and the Mrs. realized that we were both just waiting for the other one to leave. But we’re both too stubborn to be the first to walk out of this loveless marriage, so we appear to be stuck with each other for at least another year.

[Actual quote from this last weekend: “Go eat your lunch before I stab you with this knife.”]

To further torture ourselves, we took a 2,500 mile round-trip road trip at the end of the month to celebrate our tolerance of each other. We rode the famous mountain bike trails of Crested Butte and she didn’t push me off the mountain. And I didn’t sneak any bear urine into her hydration pack. Maybe it’s love, after all.

June 19 – Lovehammers at House of Blues
I finally relented and picked up a ticket. And then woke up the day of the show with a bug that I would happily wish upon my worst enemy. However, I wasn’t totally heartbroken as the opening bands had the potential to be so incredibly annoying that I might have felt worse by going and listening to them. I’ll take my chances with a fever and body aches.

June 26 – Taste of Chicago
I went on opening night so I could be sure to get my sauteed goat. It doesn’t taste anything like chicken. It’s better. And it really gets my goat when people don’t believe me.

June was busy as I also had a trip to Vegas and two trips to Cedar Rapids. I kind of prefer Cedar Rapids. The hookers are less expensive, too.

I already told you about the Folk & Roots Festival. It’s a good thing I have a blog and not a podcast because somebody at work thought I spent the day at the Vulcan Roots Festival. Maybe because I wear my Spock ears to work every casual Friday.

July 26 – Chicago Criterium
Yes, I spent an entire day watching cyclists ride their bikes in circles around downtown Chicago. It’s the NASCAR equivalent for folks who spend more money on their bicycles than they do on Budweiser and who don’t outweigh their refrigerators.

I also already told you about the Dead Weather show, but it was so good I’m going to tell you again. I’m also on the verge of developing a mancrush on Jack White. Especially after seeing the movie It Might Get Loud. Since I mentioned it, how about a quick movie review…

Here’s the deal – the filmmaker gets Jimmy Page, Edge and Jack White together in the same room with a bunch of gear to talk about guitars and play a bit. Sounds awesome, right? Okay, so I guess it was, but it could have been so much better. It would be like having Pee-Wee Herman over to your house and him just wanting to sit on your couch and masturbate. Sort of. That analogy sucks. Gene Siskel could do a better review and he’s dead. Just go see it.

August 2 – The Rhythm Project – Pritzker Pavilion at Millennium Park
One of many free shows at the beautiful Pritzker Pavilion right downtown. The only problem… free. I am totally and completely against anything and everything free. Devalue anything like that and people treat it that way. While simultaneously going apeshit to get it. Charge a friggin’ dollar if you need to, just to weed out people showing up because it’s free. Regardless, I mostly enjoyed the show despite people hoarding and saving seats, the preponderance of children being forcefully exposed to culture they clearly didn’t give a crap about, and Type II diabetics stuffing their faces with fried chicken dinners because they can’t go without food for 90 friggin’ minutes.

August 15 – Air & Water Show – Lakefront
Show central is at North Avenue Beach. Screw that. For the second year in a row we set up shop about 1-1/2 north at Diversey Harbor. Rode our bikes down at 10:30 a.m. and stayed to the end at 4 pm. All the air show stuff was pretty impressive, but the F-15 stole the show. When it roared by, little kids cried, women fainted and men cheered. I also wondered when we’re bombing the crap out of these poor third world villages, if just for a moment, before the missiles are launched, they think that those jets are pretty damn cool, too. I doubt it.

August 18 – The Pretenders/Cat Power/Juliette Lewis – The Vic
This deserves its own post. How much more awesome could a single show be? The answer is none. None more awesome.

I also saw Moist Rub at the Pretenders show so I can confirm that he’s not dead or anything.

August 22 – Ruthie Foster – Old Town School of Folk Music
Gospel-tinged blues is how I would describe it. Better than a roadhouse. Better than a church. Get yourself some Ruthie – she’s good for your soul. And her stories and stage presence make you wish she was your neighbor so you could order a pizza and invite her over to hang out for a couple hours on the weekend. Whatever toppings she wants.

So that takes us through the end of August. Thanks for your patience. Hope your summer was swell. I mean that.

Afternoon Delight, Pt. II - Beyond Blue

2009-08-25T20:39:00.002-05:00

Like a whole month ago I took you on a bike tour of my neighborhood and promised to share the rest of that day. Well, I had a date with my wife that night to see Chicago Tap Theatre’s next production – a one night showing of new stuff called Beyond Blue – and I proposed we make it a bike date. She donned her bike skirt, I rolled up the cuffs of my fancy goin’ out jeans like a true bike geek, we pumped up the tires and hit the bike lane. I was happy she agreed since I nearly killed her on our last bike outing, but her bruises were nearly gone and apparently her memory short.

Our first stop was for dinner at The Art of Pizza, as we obviously had to carbo load for the 3-1/2 mile commute home. Besides having awesome pizza, Art scores by serving it up by the slice, including stuffed. Which means no waiting 45 minutes, and I can carnivore my ass off while the Mrs. veges out.

This time CTT was on the main stage at the Athenaeum Theatre, which is still pretty intimate without a bad seat in the house. Except the one behind me, as I refused to take off my helmet (helmet hair, y’know) which is typically adorned with peacock feathers. Unlike their previous tap dance operas, this was a pure dance show.

Here are my impressions of each piece (please remember I am not a dancer, tap or otherwise, but just a dunderheaded fan):

Wade
The piece was included after it won a contest funded by a grant from the Saints Foundation. I don’t think they’re related to the New Orleans Saints because this piece seemed to have nothing to do with football. There was a lot of white color, several ramps set up like a mini skateboard park, and a sheet hanging on a cross. There was dancing, but everyone seemed to get pissed off whenever someone went to play with the sheet. This was too much symbolism or interpretation for my obtuse head, and I feared I would be lost for the evening. It’s much easier to follow superheroes and fairy tale characters.

Same but Different
Okay, this one consisted of four dancers knocking out some decent steps. After the show, the Mrs. asked if I knew why it was titled as such. Of course, I did. This was a statement of how all of us in the world are different, but really the same because dance is common to all cultures except cultures with those religious sects that forbid dancing. You know, teaching the world to sing, buying the world a Coke kind of thing. Everybody getting’ footloose. Wrong. Damn CTT set me up looking for symbolism and stuff, when the Mrs. informed me the dancers were doing the same rhythms but using different steps. Or something like that. I clearly suck at this game.

Next up, the CTT artistic director Mark did some solo stuff accompanied by a banjo player. The banjo player wasn’t as funny Steve Martin, but the tap dancing was way better than Steve Martin’s happy feet.

About Her
I thought this one might be inspired by Beth Hart’s song By Her. I don’t think it was, but I still remember liking it. Maybe because it reminded me of Beth Hart. I should give her a call. She seems to be spending way too much time in Europe and I’m kind of getting annoyed with her. This piece obviously brought out a lot of emotion from within.

The banjo guy came out again and had a little hoe-down with three guys from the company. It was like The Devil Went Down to Georgia, except with tap shoes instead of fiddles. I’m happy to report the devil didn’t steal no souls that night.

Quiet Down
The girls took over again and to be honest I’m getting some of these confused. It was over a month ago, so give me a break. I do have some notes that say I liked the choreography. Hey, this ain’t the New York Times.

The banjo player must have taken offense to my Steve Martin remark, because the next interlude was Mark doing some solo stuff accompanied by a local slam poet. I finally removed my peacock feather helmet and replaced it with the beret I keep in my back pocket for such occasions. I snapped my approval but the usher did not take kindly to my clove cigarette.

Bad Businessman
I think most of the company came out for this one, all dressed up like the bad businessman from Mannix. The piece included props such as business cards and newspapers to show that business sucks and we should all be tap dancers. The less people working on CDOs and other crap like that, the better. All I know is that the taxpayers never had to bail out a tap company.

Speaking of which, go make a donation to the company. I enjoy them and if you’re reading this blog it’s your turn to subsidize my entertainment. Thank you.

The second half kicked off with Siren’s Song, featuring Mark and Kendra. They rock. As long as they’re dancing with CTT, I’ll show up. The same way I’ll keep buying Lucky Charms as long as it continues to be filled with pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers.

Mark came back out to dance to some slam poetry about a street musician, and again the usher made me snuff out my clove cigarette. The beret stayed.

Games
A large wooden box was the centerpiece of this one. The girls all hung out around, in and on the box. Then they hit the box. Then they came out of the box and then went back in the box and then got back on the box and hit it some more while this was all going on. This was obviously all a metaphor for the paradigm shift in gender identity and the effects on self-actualization and resulting catharsis within a controlled environment with subthemes addressing the increasing prevalence of agoraphobia in affluent communities of certain Canadian provinces. I think. I’m open to alternative hypotheses. Regardless, I enjoyed this one.

The banjo guy got over whatever was bugging him and came back to accompany Mark. It was swell having him back. I missed him.

Intrinsic
This was aptly named, as the dance included tapping each other’s shoes. I get the feeling that would be like trying to give a quarterback a manicure during a two-minute drill. Sorry about the football reference, but I’m bitter about that Saints contest not having anything to do with football. Despite the lack of blocking and tackling I liked this one a lot, but would have like to have seen it on a smaller stage.

Flying Turtles
If you’re still with me on this post, I’m guessing that you must be a member of CTT. Hope my review of the previous pieces didn’t piss you off too much. Because I really did enjoy the show, but you totally knocked my socks off with this one. Seriously. I don’t know Brenda Bufalino and I don’t know who to thank more – her for choreographing something like that or you guys for nailing it. Aurally it was rocking, even to an untrained tap ear like myself. Visually, I had convinced myself that there was no way that chaos was choreographed. When it kicked in toward the end it looked like moths in the light of a streetlamp. Except the moths were flying turtles. Not slow turtles like in the Comcast commercial, but maybe unusually fast turtles named Snappy. Eventually I fell entranced into the rhythm and was sure that I could slip into the mix without anyone noticing. Clearly I’m a moron. There are some outstanding dancers in the company and I like watching them rock out on their own, but when the ensemble is firing on all cylinders like this one it doesn’t compare to anything else I’ve seen. Well, maybe those OK Go! videos. Keep practicing - you'll get there. But I digress.

Keep up the good work boys and girls. If need any help with promo materials, please don’t hesitate to ask.

I was fortunate to catch Flying Turtles a couple weeks later as part of a free show downtown - there's a shaky video here that gives you a feel for the piece.

Assault & Cupcake

2009-08-24T19:46:00.004-05:00

That was the title of the play. One of the thirty plays as part of a special Thursday night edition of Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind by the Neo-Futurists called 30 on Thursday! The Neos are reprising 30 plays from the archives to raise money to take their play Beer on the road to Denver for the Great American Beer Festival. I've written about TMLMTBGB and Beer before, so check out those posts if you need a refresher.

So when #6 (Assault & Cupcake) was called, a Neo grabbed the sheet of paper, tore the paper in half, and balled up each half, one in each hand. He went to an audience member stage left and asked him to pick a hand. After choosing, he gave him the balled up paper and asked him to read it. The audience member said "cupcake" and another Neo came out and presented the lucky player with a plate containing a delicious looking cupcake.

It was a small crowd, maybe 15 of us in the theater. So when the Neo started walking stage right where I was sitting, I pretended to look away. It didn't work. He asked me to pick a hand. There was only one hand left. He gave me the remaining balled up piece of paper, asked me to undo it and read it.

I asked him if I had to.

"It says 'assault', doesn't it?"

"Yes, assault."

As soon as I said the word, two other cast members charged toward and gave me a good 15-second soaking with their super-soakers.

I love these guys.

Other plays included full nudity, flying tortillas, sharing some avocado and chips, a monologue from a corkscrew, a sing-a-long, and a near drowning. And much more. In 60 minutes. All for only $15. Come join me some week. I'll buy you a cupcake. Or maybe not.

Back In The High Life

2009-08-08T17:05:00.002-05:00

CareerBuilder never seems to have any postings for Drug Dealer. Same for Monster and all the other usual suspects. The job never seems to turn up on those thinly veiled Yahoo features about the best way to earn $50,000 a year while working at home. Or without going to school. Or without having any interpersonal skills. But I did get an offer for such a position many years ago.

After my first year of college I took a summer gig as a roofer. I got dirty, didn’t learn any useful skills, and had to wear jeans and a long sleeve work shirt in hottest part of summer. I also wasn’t very fond of heights. However, it paid a whopping $8 an hour when minimum wage was probably about half that, and I had a killer tan and stayed in pretty good shape.

We did good work, but it wasn’t the most professional company out there. The owner, Al, who spent most of his time on the ground finding the next job, was rarely around but could be reached on his suitcase sized mobile phone if needed. Mike manned the tar kettle at ground level and seemed to spend most of his time avoiding getting dirty or breaking a sweat. I forget their names, but the two supervisor type dudes looked like Joe Elliott and Phil Collen from Def Leppard and were as good at roofing as Joe and Phil were at getting sugar poured on them. Pretty damn good. The crew they were charged with included some characters I mentioned here before. Four guys, probably in their mid-twenties, who all carpooled together in a Dodge Aspen station wagon from parts unknown. Fatboy was bleach blond and fat. How he stayed that size working on a roof in the middle of summer I have no idea, but I’m guessing he lived on blubber and motor oil in the off-season. I found out the Dodge belonged to his mother, and he was the driver because I think the was the only one of the four with a valid license. Every morning Fatboy, Hillbilly, Pat and Earl would stumble out of the wagon like a bunch of hungover circus clowns and we’d haul ourselves up the ladder to whatever roof needed tarring. Sometimes, one of them would be missing, usually due to a meeting with their probation officer.

The only rule at this company was shared on the first day – “Don’t step off the roof.” Fortunately for Al, most of the jobs were complete before OSHA ever came around. About mid-morning, and then again at lunch, since I was the rookie and had a car I was sent to the nearest McDonald’s to get food and drinks. I didn’t mind so much – it got me off the roof, into a air-conditioned McDonald’s for a few minutes and I got to take a leak in an actual bathroom instead of peeing on a rooftop. However, the downside was that I had to climb back up the ladder with an armful of Egg McMuffins and a half dozen drinks. It was a little terrifying at first, but by the end of summer I was rocking that ladder like a Denny’s waitress trained at the Ringling Brothers Circus. As I pulled up they would retreat to a shady corner of the roof and roll their first joint of the day. I was merely providing the munchies.

I don’t remember a lot of stories from them – they mostly seemed busy just trying to keep themselves out of jail and in whatever current living arrangements they secured. I’m not really sure what skeletons they had in the back of that Dodge Aspen, but they seemed like decent enough guys and were certainly friendly to the dorky college kid trying to pick up a few dollars for tuition. In fact, I had expected they might have resented me infiltrating their world for 12 weeks to make a quick buck before scuttling back to the ivy covered halls, but instead they had this romantic vision of college through which they seemed to want to live vicariously though me. University life was clearly a world where beer flowed freely (mostly true) and every guy was up to his eyeballs in pussy and banging the cast of Head of the Class (not completely true for freshman dorks like me). It seemed as if they admired me for having the opportunities before me. You’d think that would have motivated me to be grateful and inspired me to greatness. Instead I got kicked out the following semester.

But I digress. As the end of summer was approaching, “Joe Elliott” ruminated about the profits he could probably make by having a distribution channel in a college town. I’m not talking about tar paper. I never took him up on his offer. I was too much of a chicken, and in retrospect, I’m thinking that was a good thing. But I often wonder how it would have turned out if I had worked out a deal and gave a little competition to Hookah-Man in that little college town.

Probably not good. All these memories were triggered when I read the story of Featherhead.

The Dead Weather & Screaming Females - The Vic

2009-08-01T00:54:00.002-05:00

Back when I was younger, my nights out would often stretch into the wee hours of morning, and I enjoyed driving past hundreds of homes where the owners slumbered their lives away while was living life. Even if it wasn’t the most productive life, it had to be better than sleeping. One of the girls I dated back then lived near a donut shop and on a good night as we stumbled back to her place the owner would be in there before the shop opened, making up the first batches. On a whim one night/morning, we stopped there and called him over to the door and asked if he could make an early sale. He obliged, and I have to confess we made a habit of these visits. He seemed to enjoy the visits or was at least amused and often refused to accept the cash we offered. I relate this story because somehow the show triggered that memory, but now I can’t remember what analogy I was going for. Oh, well. I guess the lesson here is to eat donuts. They’re good for you and it supports the economy and your donut shop guy is probably a cool dude. He makes donuts for a living. They all aren’t as beaten down as that “time to make the donuts” guy from those commercials a long time ago.

Regardless, Screaming Females opened the show and we got there just as they were coming on stage. Not unlike getting to the donut shop just as the first batch is coming out of the fryer. There’s your analogy. Note that it is not The Screaming Females, just Screaming Females. Makes sense if you think about it since it isn’t a band of screaming females. That would just be annoying.

This was a three piece from New Jersey – a wee female guitarist/vocalist in a Little House on the Prairie dress and her two dirty hipster sidemen. I wasn’t expecting much, but they done brought it. Marissa is a cross between Laura Ingalls, Ally Sheedy from her Breakfast Club days, Johnny Ramone, and perhaps Exene Cervenka. No, make that Kim Gordon. There's a better comparison there, but I'm just not finding it. Her vocals might get her kicked out of a karaoke bar, but they work in the context of this band and keep the music fresh. More importantly she tears the shit up on guitar. Crazy to see it in action. She seems like the kind of person who would be annoying to have as a neighbor, but I would love having her in my band. I’m not sure yet if I’m going to get their latest record; I need to listen to see how they sound in the studio, but I would without a doubt go see them live again if they come through town.

The Dead Weather, in case you don’t recognize the name, is Jack White’s latest project. Not to be confused with Jack Black. In this case it does matter if you’re Black or White. Instead of paying $30 to see The Dead Weather, you’d have to pay me at least $30 to see Tenacious D. And buy me a chocolate malt after the show. And rub my feet. Mr. White took a break from the White Stripes while Meg recovers from her anxiety attack. He also took a break from the Raconteurs because he wanted to play drums and they already had a drummer who was a fine bloke and he didn’t want to fire him. So for lead vocals he recruited Alison Mosshart from The Kills, who I’ve been promoting for the last two years. I guess Jack was the only guy listening to me, but he owes me big-time because he could not have made a better pick for this band without going on prime-time television and hiring a homeless Canadian. We all know Jack already has some cred, but this show made me want to go out and hang a giant Alison poster on my wall. And when he let a roadie come out and take over drums midway through a song so that he could share a microphone with Alison it was hotter than any porn I've seen in the last 12 months. This band is awesome, especially live. I’d try to describe their music but I’d not do it justice and probably just end up talking about Shania Twain or Pokemon. If I tried I might make a comparison to the same energy and power that Concrete Blonde brought to their shows early on. I watched an interview with the band where Jack was asked to describe their music. “Perfect. Ferocious.” I think he was half-joking, but that pretty much sums it up. It’s the best show I’ve seen in the last 12 months. Looks like they’re headed to the west coast so please check them out if you have a chance. Or go to the west coast to see them. If you’re reading this it’s not like you have anything better to do.

Bend Over, Bob's Drivin'

2009-07-31T22:53:00.001-05:00

The Brian Johnson Massacre

2009-07-20T22:59:00.004-05:00

Last night I had a dream that Brian Johnson got a hold of my iPhone during an AC/DC show and put some sort of virus on it that changed my home screen to a series of demonic images and made the phone otherwise inoperable. I was pretty pissed off and told him he was a fraud. He didn't seem to care.

Afternoon Delight

2009-07-19T01:04:00.004-05:00

About 70 degrees, mostly sunny, and breezy. Shorts, t-shirt, and my bike.

Do newspapers still publish that Family Circus comic? The family was so white bread it was incredibly annoying. Add in some equally annoying children and I’m pretty sure that damn comic was one of the reasons I don’t want or have any kids. However, I could not help but follow that stupid dotted line around the neighborhood every time Thelma gave Billy a sawbuck to pick up some rolling papers at 7-11 and to come directly home.

We didn’t need any rolling papers today, but in case you feel like following my dotted line around the neighborhood…..

First stop – Dinkel’s Bakery. Two Sophisticakes – a nifty hybrid of cupcake and cake – one chocolate with white chocolate mousse and one chocolate with raspberry.

Second stop – Paulina Meat Market. One Polish, one Italian, two chicken sausage, three steak burgers, and a pound of dill cole slaw.

Third stop – Nhu Lan Bakery. Three fresh baked rolls for the aforementioned sausages.

Fourth stop – Harvestime Foods. Assorted produce, mostly fixins.

Fifth stop – Walgreen’s pharmacy. Better living through chemistry.

Sixth stop – Cardinal Wine & Spirits. Six-pack of Clausthaler.

Then after supporting my local economy, back home to my deck for a beer and a turkey and avocado sandwich. While listening to The The.

After a shower, it was back on the bikes… but I’ll save that for the next post.

Infatuations - Week Ending July 18, 2009

2009-07-17T23:06:00.002-05:00

1. Suzanne Santo

2. Juliette Lewis

3. Zooey Deschanel

Folk & Roots Festival - Part II

2009-07-15T22:29:00.002-05:00

When we last left our hero, he was chillin’ with some watermelon at the Folk and Roots Festival. Well, it was 7 o’clock, time for a party, and I know what I wanna see…. Anybody remember the London Quireboys? Just me, huh? It was indeed an eclectic lineup, but no, the Quireboys were not at the Folk and Roots Festival. However, a duo called Honey Honey was due to take the stage. I checked them out beforehand and I really wanted to like them but didn’t think I would like them as much as I wanted to. Turns out I liked them more than I thought I would like them, and I wanted to take the female Honey half home with me. But I’m getting way ahead of myself…

Honey Honey is comprised of Ben, on guitar and bass drum, and Suzanne, on vocals, banjo and fiddle. They opened with ‘Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)’, a song that Sonny wrote for Cher, but was ultimately salvaged by Nancy Sinatra. This song served as an intro into their single ‘Little Toy Gun’. By this time I was already on the bandwagon and running for president of their fan club. And not only were they rocking the stage, but she was pretty darn cute while doing it. So much that I stole a cardboard sign and a Sharpie from a homeless guy so that I could scribble out a marriage proposal. Unfortunately, I think I displayed the wrong side of the sign and instead got a couple bucks for a sandwich and some thanks for serving my country. I suppose it’s for the best since my first wife was at the show with me.

We were sitting next to the sound board about 30 yards yonder from the stage, so I told the Mrs. I needed to get something to eat so that I would have an excuse to get a little closer to the stage. Though most of the crowd is sprawled across the park on blankets and camping chairs, the first 25 feet or so in front of the stage is usually commandeered by more hardcore fans standing, dancing, or stalking their favorites. I joined the crowd for a tune up front and shortly thereafter the power went out. I’m blaming Rod Blagojevich since he lives just a couple blocks from the park and was probably looking for something to do.

But Honey Honey was undeterred, moving to the front edge of the stage to finish their song for the lucky few, myself included, at the foot of the stage. As the festival staff were still in panic mode, Ben grabbed his acoustic guitar and Suzanne grabbed her fiddle and they did another impromptu jam for the crowd that had been sucked in front and center like a rugby scrum.

They were ushered off stage for a bit while some techy looking folk took up a collection of hemp clothing from the crowd to burn and fuel the festival generators. Several minutes later the power to the people was restored, and despite their time being up, Honey Honey was brought back to do a couple more songs.

After the set ended I wandered back to the Mrs. who wanted to know where my food was. I confessed that I got distracted and ended up watching the rest of the set from up front. Her reply: “You suck.”

We stuck around for the last act of the night – Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears from Austin. Some pretty solid, high-energy, old-school soul and R&B to round out the evening.

Since Honey Honey made me miss out on dinner, we made a pit stop on the way home at The Daily Bar & Grill, snagged a table out on the patio, and shared a ½ pound turkey burger, fries and a beer while watching the crowd wander home.

Put it on your calendar and meet us there next year.

Folk & Roots Festival - Part I

2009-07-14T23:32:00.003-05:00

As soon as the quitting time horn sounded on Friday afternoon to signal the end of a long work week, I slid down the neck of my brontosaurus and made my way home, stopping along the way at the Greek bakery for an éclair and at the liquor store for a six-pack of Clausthaler. The Mrs. had abandoned me for dinner and I couldn’t remember if we had any Mac n Cheese so I decided to add a spinach pie to my tab at the bakery. Man cannot subsist on éclairs and beer alone. I took my booty to my deck, where I enjoyed the cool summer evening and read an interesting article about Zappos, inspiring me to promptly order a couple pair of shoes. You really can’t go wrong with a black pump or strappy sandal. But I digress.

Saturday brought The Folk and Roots Festival to a park just down the street. You might expect to see a plethora of Joan Baez clones and a handful of rutabaga purveyors. However the organizers put together a pretty eclectic lineup, and several of the acts scheduled for the main stage on Saturday caught my eye. The weather couldn’t have been any better unless Mother Nature herself stopped by to give me a backrub, so I grabbed a couple beach towels, stuffed the Mrs. in my backpack and walked down to the park to catch the 4 pm set by Cedric Watson and the Bijou Creole.

I spent a lot of time in New Orleans after Katrina and have mixed feelings about the town. There’s more culture down there than a yogurt factory, but at the same time it seems a majority of visitors are more impressed by being able to stumble down the middle of Bourbon Street with a drink in their hand, oblivious to the transformation from French Quarter to ballpark restroom. When I visit, I try to get out early in the evening to get some dyn-o-mite food and catch some local music. It’s where I discovered Beth Patterson and also enjoyed numerous zydeco bands. So I jumped at the chance when Cedric brought some of that sound to Chicago.

There is no happier music in the world than zydeco. Period. I’m a grumpy mother-effer, but when I’m listening to zydeco I start farting butterflies and reciting 17th century sonnets. I dance with the homeless and buy ice cream cones for random children. It’s powerful stuff and Cedric Watson brings it like a juiced batter with the wind blowing out of the park. After he finished I bought some watermelon in lemonade while the Mrs. watched our spot.

Next up was the Caleb Klauder Country Band. Caleb brought a mostly classic country sound, I guess. I don’t know the difference between country and western so I really don’t know what I’m talking about. There were some drums, a standup bass, some guitar picking and some fiddling and probably some whittling but I wasn’t close enough to tell for sure. I found it pleasant enough, but the Mrs. seemed a little bored so went for a walk and happened to catch a show from the infamous PuppetBike. PuppetBike is a puppet theater built on the back of a bicycle, which rides around the city and puts on shows at seemingly random locations. It gets rave reviews and the Mrs. claims that it lived up to it’s hype.

I took a career assessment test several years ago when I was changing careers and it reported that my ideal job is puppeteer. Seriously. So maybe it’s best I missed the show or else I might have been tempted to hijack the bike and set off on a new career.

Now that I’ve wildly digressed again, I’ll wrap this up for today and be back to report on my newest crush in Part II. As Lou Reed says, “I love you, Suzanne.”

I Ain’t Missing You At All

2009-07-12T16:56:00.004-05:00

Like Moist Rub says to me, “You are a dick.”

I know. That was in response to me letting him know I was unretiring. Like all those other dicks such as Brett Favre and Michael Jordan. You see, believe it or not, this is our 500th post here on Leper Pop. If you knew us, you’d realize that was seemingly as improbable as one of us breaking Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak. It also caused me to have a mid-life blog crisis, so I told Moist Rub I was leaving him and starting a new blog. A younger blog with perkier breasts who still thought my jokes were funny.

Moist Rub even helped me name the new, young thang and find a new alias so that I could dump you readers who were holding me back from blogdom notoriety and riches.

Maybe it was poor timing – my day job was slowly creeping into evenings and my new, young blog was not getting the attention it deserved. I also missed the familiar rumble of my car wheels on the gravel driveway of Leper Pop and continued to post here. Of course, Moist Rub knew I was dick going into this venture, so he didn’t bother to revoke my posting privileges and just reminded me that I was a dick when I announced I was coming back before you even knew I was gone.

The other blog has been deleted, but I’m bringing a couple of posts over. If you think I’m a dirty traitor like Benedict Arnold as portrayed by Peter Brady or believe that I’m the Warren Mullaney to Moist Rub’s Greg Brady, then you can skip my posts on North Center RibFest and Chicago Tap Theatre’s Little Dead Riding Hood. Otherwise read on, and I promise I won’t go hiking on the Appalachian Trail again.

Northcenter Ribfest

2009-07-12T16:32:00.005-05:00

Ribfest Is Rib-Rockin’-Best

With a name like Sid F’er, you don’t get many job offers for the executive suite so it’s probably no surprise that one of my first jobs, after college no less, was at a mulit-national firm called Red Lobster. I was positioned behind the bar and issued one piece of flair – a button exclaiming that LobsterFest is Lobster Best! It was kind of embarrassing to wear, especially when I forgot to take it off when I went out after work, but it has provided a cheesy, yet effective way to communicate my unbridled enthusiasm for every subsequent fest I have attended that was worthy of the honor.

But before I get carried away here, it was the music that saved this event from itself. I suppose since it’s called Ribfest, I’ll start with the food. Disappointing. I bypassed the offerings from the local neighborhood joints and went to the BBQ joints with a rib sampler (three baby back ribs) from Smoke Daddy and the same from Robinson’s. I’d think that representing at a fest you’d want to be at the top of your game, but the restaurants seem to lose something when they leave their home kitchen and take it to the streets. Like a team playing on the road. Although that might not be a good analogy tonight since I just watched the Penguins win The Cup in “Hockeytown”. Suck on that Wings fans. But I digress. I have a feeling their respective ribs might be better in more controlled conditions. The pool table sized grills seemed to suck the moisture right out of them faster than a vagina drying up during menopause. Nothing seemed to be falling off the bone, which is okay during contortionist orgies but not how I prefer my rib dinners. There’s a good hipster band name – Contortionist Orgy. But more about hipster bands later.

Fortunately, I did arrive early to check out an early band so I was able to avoid the painfully long lines that queued up starting around 7 pm, bringing the main drag to a complete gridlock normally only seen at the Circle Interchange during rush hour. I heard from a buddy in the area that the fest has grown exponentially in recent years, but I don’t think planners have changed the logistics of the layout. Even the TSA has tried some stuff to speed things up at the airport. At least I didn't have to remove my shoes to get in. Lincoln Avenue may not be as wide as downtown streets that host the bigger fests, but give it some thought and you might be able to avoid some of the logjams around ticket booths and the more popular offerings.

Also planted in the middle of the fest was an 18-wheeler tractor trailer combo housing a Playstation 3 arcade and marketing center. Serious, Northcenter? I hope they gave you some serious cash for that monstrosity because there was no other reason for it to be there. The irony of people going to a great outdoor festival in the summer in a neighborhood that I find attractive, only to line up to play effing video games almost knocked me into a vat of brown sugar BBQ sauce.

None of the non-food vendors drew me in – seemed like a lot of the same thing you see at every fest – dumb t-shirts, bad posters/prints (as if this world needs another Scarface poster), Cubs souvenirs, and some other accessory vendors that would seem more at home on Ebay Marketplace. Along with the usual suspects selling newspaper subscriptions and knockoff sunglasses. One other suggestion – lose the soap bubble gun vendors. Besides their obnoxious hawking in the middle of the street, it seems parents can’t say no to their kids and I was assaulted by bubble gun toting ankle biters throughout the festival. And parents, how about keeping the strollers out of my way. Especially the Hummer H3 versions you’re commanding these days. Seriously – your strollers are larger than my sub-compact car. So let’s keep it to carryout at Carson’s for ribs until Jacob and Emily can walk on their own.

Best Wardrobe Choice for Ribfest: The girl wearing the “Meat is Murder” t-shirt. Rock on. And no, she didn't look like a Smiths fan.

But before you completely disregard this event, stick around for Part II where I promise to shake the burrs out of my jockey shorts and tell you about some of the good stuff.

Northcenter Ribfest - Part II

When I was looking over the entertainment schedule at Northcenter Ribfest I didn’t see any familiar names, so I decided to research a few MySpace pages. Mostly for slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes, but I eventually got around to exploring some bands. The one that jumped out at me was Deanna Devore. I have a soft spot in my heart for chick rockers, but she didn’t fit my normal profile. She wasn’t wearing fishnets and too much makeup and playing bass. She didn’t have the swagger of Chrissy Hynde. She didn’t have the manic intensity of Juliette Lewis. She wasn’t even a slutty teenage girl or Romanian prostitute as far as I could tell. The songs I previewed were on the mellow side but the melodies and rhythms had something extra, creating a mood I couldn’t quite define. But I’ll try – you know that feeling you get when you’re leaning back on a chair and you lose your balance and think you’re going to tip over but catch yourself at the last minute? Well it’s the opposite of that. And her voice drew me in. It sucked me into each song, placed me squarely into the groove and held me there like a needle tracking an LP. Even her promo photo was intriguing. Mona Lisa-ish. Not screaming rocker, not smiling, but definitely not angst-ridden or angry or brooding emo child. She’s Canadian, so maybe that was throwing me off. In any case, I decided to check out the show and bailed out of work a few minutes early to try to catch her set that kicked off Ribfest at 5 pm.

My first impression was how tiny she is – or maybe she’s just playing oversize instruments and only collaborates with large musicians. She was laid back, comfortable with her own command of the material and trusting her bandmates with their parts. She was solid on each of the three guitars she played throughout the set and even added a little percussion in a number early on in the set. Her stage persona and performance completely met the expectations I had going in, but the songs sound even better live. When music transcends garage rock sometimes you wonder if it will translate well from the studio to the stage, and this show had a vibe that washed over me like the smell of chocolate chip cookies. That’s a good thing. I like cookies.

The drummer seemed competent in several styles as he moved through the set like a marshmallow fiend in a box of Lucky Charms, whatever that means, and the bass player rounded out a solid rhythm section. The keyboard player made me nervous… for some reason I kept waiting for him take over and make it about him and his keyboards. Maybe because he was barefoot. Never trust a barefoot male musician. But I’m happy to report he kept it in check and added a layer to the music that bridged the rhythms with Deanna’s lyrics. I’m no Simon Cowell, but her voice doesn’t seem polished and I’m not sure she would make it through an American Idol audition, but in this case I mean that as a compliment. It’s real, it’s not off-key and it works perfectly for her. And for us. Oh, there was also a cello player, but I thought she kind of got lost in the mix at this show. It would likely sound swell on the next record.

I even did some journalistic digging. Not quite Watergate stuff, but I did run into one of the band while buying her EP and asked a couple questions. I hoped to get a word with Deanna but she stayed backstage. It was a small crowd so maybe she didn’t think anyone wanted to talk to her. Or maybe my stalker-like behavior scared her off. But rumor has it that the live shows may be limited for a stretch while they go into the studio to put together a new record. I’m bummed I may not see her again this summer, but I suppose we’ll all be rewarded with some new material. She did a tune I believe she said was called “Next To You”. It wasn’t a cover of one my favorite Police songs, but if it’s any indication of what’s to come the new record is worth waiting for.

Speaking of the EP, not only did she write all the material but if you believe everything you read in the liner notes she also played all the instruments on the CD. It’s too good to be true. It’s like a chef claiming he can make a killer risotto and a mean-ass bowl of venison chili. It's the kind of music I'd put on if I liked people and ever had them over to my house for dinner.

Finally, if I haven’t sold you on Deanna yet, I’ll share her Ribfest banter with you:

“I’ve never had ribs before. I’ll have to try one. We don’t have ribs in Canada. We’re born without them.”

I guess you had to be there. It’s all in the timing and delivery.

Thanks Canada, you’re finally starting to make up for Celine Dion.

I caught a couple other acts, which involved following Deanna’s drummer and keyboard player to where they were pulling double duty with Tom Schraeder and His Ego. Besides being named after my second favorite type of tire valve he seemed to have an alt-country type thing going on which can be hit or miss for me, but I decided to give him a chance while I tore into the first of my rib samplers. My first impression here was that the band appeared to be an updated version of the cast of Dazed and Confused. He opened with a couple acoustic tunes which were listenable but needed the band. When they came out, they put together a decent set that included some good hooks and catchy tunes. They claimed they were the gods of Oshkosh, Wisconsin the night before, and I can see them being a lot of fun to see for an evening in a dive bar type setting with some cheap beer and a bowl of peanuts. And they have a girl that plays the saw. How cool is that? She gets that sound that you hear in the old cowboy movies while they’re riding off into the sunset. I dated a girl once who lived in a rural community and when I went to her house for dinner once night, they had a crosscut saw with a landscape painted on the blade hanging on their wall for decoration. But I never saw any of them play it.

I wanted to see The Blakes, but I ran into a buddy and his family and decided to plop down on the dirty Chicago sidewalk and join them for my second sampler platter. Sorry, Blakes, I’ll catch you next time because I get the impression you can tear it up.

I bid my buddy adieu and decided to stick around to see what The Harlem Shakes had going on. It seems that the only requirement for this band was to own a hoodie, some skinny jeans and an interminably happy attitude. Needless to say this annoyed me and I had to find a television to catch Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals. So sorry, boys, but maybe you’ll catch me on a better night next time.

All in all, not bad for a $5 donation.

Little Dead Riding Hood - Chicago Tap Theatre

2009-07-12T16:23:00.002-05:00

Executive Summary: The Athenaeum Theatre houses many performance companies and multiple stages. Leaving after the show, we were walking past some other patrons coming out of another show and I commented, “I don’t know what show they just saw, but ours was way better.”

The Athenaeum Theatre, which I’ll assume is named after the Greek goddess of heroic endeavor, Athena, is very appropriate for a Chicago Tap Theatre show. Last year I discovered them during their production of The Hourglass and the Poisoned Pen, their comic book superhero tap opera. After being completely engrossed in the adventures of The Hourglass fighting for justice in her knee-high yellow tap boots, accompanied by her sidekick Daphne in her Chuck Taylor tappers, I wondered if this year’s heroes, Red and her Mother Goose cohorts, would be able to keep my attention through a fairy tale tap dance opera.

The show was tucked away in the same third floor, 75 or so seat theater. No elevators so give yourself a few extra minutes if you’re out of shape or bringing old Aunt Ethyl. Stadium seating and only about 7 rows deep, so not a bad seat in the house. I sat in the front row again, in the same seat with the same duct tape, but I think they repaired the missing armrest since my last visit. Which is great since my arms get very tired from all the clapping. The setting was similar – a simple plywood stage with minimalist set.

The premise here is simple enough: Little Red Riding Hood, or “Red” as she’s called in world of tap opera, steals Mother Goose’s book of fairy tales, and as she taps her way through the forest encountering her fellow characters, she frees them from their story lines and respective fates by tearing pages from the book, creating a her own fractured fairy tale and obviously pissing off Mother Goose.

And in case you aren’t familiar with the tap opera format, there’s no dialogue – the entire story and character development is told through their non-stop tap routines, along with some fantastical costumes and some pretty darn good acting. Oh, and all to an original score written for and in collaboration with the company. No need to be polite – cheering for your favorites or booing the bad guys is explicitly encouraged.

Act I was definitely entertaining, but now that I know what they can do I kept waiting for them to bust out the big numbers. It wasn’t unlike seeing your favorite artist in concert. Say, Neil Diamond. Sure he may throw you a bone early in the show – maybe a “Forever in Blue Jeans” or “I’m A Believer”. He’ll keep you on your feet, pseudo rockin’ out, but the real action starts when the energy starts to build, finally bursting out with a little “Cherry, Cherry” and climaxing in the splendor of “Sweet Caroline”.

That was embarrassing. I can’t believe I just compared Chicago Tap Theater to Neil Diamond. What a digression. I apologize. I also just realized I called the costumes “fantastical”.

What I’m trying to say is that I enjoyed Act I, but in Act II I asked them to bring it and they done brought it. An angry Mother Goose tapping down Red, finally leading to a full-on no tap-out confrontation with the whole cast. Good effin’ times, my friend.

I read a couple other reviews of the show and concur with the Chicago Reader who gave it their coveted backwards R recommendation. But I read a review in the Chicago Tribune that gave the show 2-1/2 stars. I hope that’s out of a possible 2 stars, but I’m doubtful because the reviewer seems to have a problem with CTT adding a non-sanctioned woodsman character to the play, and further references a “muddled message” from inconsistencies in the otherwise entertaining character transformations. Serious? You went to a fairy tale tap dance opera, and you’re worried about inconsistencies in character development and a “muddled message”? Here’s a pretty clear message for you – why don’t you give your snooty arts critic steno pad a rest, turn on your heartlight and enjoy a show for what it is - some pretty damn good tap dancing, a creative storyline, and a chance to kick back for a couple hours at a unique theater experience you won’t find anywhere else.

Ignore the Chicago Tribune – they’re in bankruptcy so you can’t trust anything they say these days. If you ever get a chance, check out my new friends at Chicago Tap Theatre – they pay their bills and will show you a good time.

Unless they revive the production you missed out on this one, but be sure to catch their new show Beyond the Blue on July 18. Come join me.

A Singular Sensation

2009-07-09T23:50:00.002-05:00

Notify the folks at Guinness. Not the beer guys, the world record guys. Although maybe the beer guys might be impressed, too.

This morning I made it from the nurturing mothership of my Speed Racer sheeted bed to sitting in my office signed in to my IM account in 69 minutes. Without really trying too hard. In fact, I had snoozed a couple extra times since I like to annoy my neighbors and get even for their general loudness, and I needed a few extra minutes. I even showered and shaved and brushed my teeth in case I got hit by a car and was revived by a cute paramedic. Maybe that guy from Emergency! Not because I’m gay, but because he’d take me to Rampart General Hospital where I would be nursed back to care by Dixie McCall. Scratch all that – I was just notified by Wikipedia that Julie London died nine years ago. And if she were alive she would be 82 years old. That means she was 50 years old when she was biding her time at Rampart. I wouldn’t have guessed that. At all. At least Randolph Mantooth is still alive. But I digress.

Once I was fit for public consumption, I hit the road on my trusty Trek and started out at my usual mellow pace all while enjoying the cool summer morning. However, as usual, my usual mellow pace yielded to a swifter ride, exacerbated by a fortuitous sequence of green lights. At the first red light, a young lass on her own trusty Jamis turned into my bike lane and shot down the block. My mildly competitive nature and more exacting male ego will not allow me to get dropped by a girl, so I maintained my cadence after the light changed. Turns out that this girl could ride – her legs moved that piece of steel at a decent pace and she had the instincts to keep it moving smoothly amidst the urban obstacles. Soon I found myself working pretty hard to keep within half a block, but close enough to satisfy my nagging ego along with the excuse that her skinny tire bike was built for speed more than my solid steel steed and semi-slick tires.

Eventually she peeled off to her destination and soon after I rolled through the alley to the bike racks beside my building. I casually unloaded, locked up, grabbed the paper and made my way up the elevator. After dropping my bag in the storage closet which I have commandeered as my changing room, I set up shop in my office and signed on only to be surprised at the time on my computer. A mere 69 minutes earlier I had been tucked away, snoozing like a cat on a sunny window sill with a bellyful of barbiturates. It didn’t seem possible but now that I know it is, I’m afraid I may turn my casual morning ride into a daily time trial. I don’t want that to happen. So if you see me in the morning, my hubris could probably use a good strong stick in the spokes.

You Talking To Me?

2009-07-02T22:54:00.004-05:00

Riding my bike is kind of like drinking. If I’m having a good day I’ll usually be a happy drunk, enjoying the ride, taking clueless drivers in stride, politely interacting with aware drivers and pedestrians, kissing babies and stopping at soup kitchens along the way to ladle out some caring to the downtrodden. If I’m having a bad day, biking can be a good way to de-stress and clear my head. Unless. Unless I run into a dickhead driver. Not necessarily clueless, but outright aggressive or rude. Then I become the angry drunk, looking for a fight and knowing the night is going to end with someone holding my hair back as I puke into the toilet.

In case you haven’t guessed, last Friday I was a little cranky riding home after a night out and, sure enough, as I’m riding lawfully along in my bike lane a car comes by and the passenger leans out the window to yell something at me. I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but I surmised it was something along the usual lines of “faggot” or “get off the fucking road”. Such people are not the most creative types. However, it was enough to piss me off, and as I’ve said before it’s not too terribly difficult to catch up to a car in the city. So I threw it in my big chain ring and hammered after the car and caught it at the next light. I pulled up to the curb next to him and asked assertively, “Did you say something back there?” The passenger leaned back out the window and said in a very flamboyant voice, “I said, “Honk, honk!’” And then flashed a very flirtatious smile. Crap. Here I was, all pumped up for a confrontation with some dunderhead, and instead I was being picked up by a gay guy. I wasn’t even wearing my spandex biker shorts. I was at a loss for words. I wasn’t sure whether I was still angry, flattered, or amused. The light changed and the car took off and I must have been amused since I did laugh a little before pedaling onward. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Hope y’all enjoyed Gay Pride Week!

Bonus Observation: Along my bike route is a place called the Old Town Aquarium. I always thought it was a trendy bar with the purposefully misleading name, but it turns out that it really is an aquarium supply store just named after what seems to be a trendy bar with a nautical theme.

I Don't Belong Here...

2009-06-30T21:51:00.003-05:00

When we last left our hero, he had just picked up his rental car with visions of sugar plums still dancing in his head. But a couple oddball moments….

It was some scorching weather in Iowa, so on Wednesday I wore my ironic Costco golf shirt. When I arrived at the client’s office he said, “Nice shirt.” First, he doesn’t seem to be the type to offer such a compliment. Second, not only did it cost me just $10 or some other ridiculously low amount, but I don’t golf and I hope I didn’t give them the impression that I do golf. I don’t think they got the irony. Crap. I need to remember only to wear it around people who know that the only time I set foot on a golf course is to roll around on the fairway when I’m feeling nitrogen deficient. My only hope is that he was meeting my irony with a dose of satire.

Next, on Tuesday night I headed over to my Cedar Rapids hangout - the Irish Democrat Pub & Grill. Good food, amusing servers/barkeeps, and a nice flat screen to keep me occupied. I had gotten a giant salad there the night before – it was in one of those deceptive bowls in which pasta is usually served where you eat and eat and eat and forty-five minutes later it doesn’t look like you touched your meal. But I was looking forward to the baby back ribs the following night. Fall off the bone deliciousness. As I approached the area I noted some trees down due to the storm that had passed through and some traffic lights were also out. The parking lot was unusually empty and when I walked in the manager told me the power was out and they were closing down. Crap. It was like a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break. And I wasn’t even wearing my ironic shirt.

So I capitulated and ended up at Texas Roadhouse, for lack of knowing any other options for my BBQ fix. The food is decent and the service is pretty good, but it’s just a little too cheesy and packaged for my taste. This coming from a guy with crushes on Crystal Bernard and Shania Twain. But I digress.

I mosey in and take a seat at the bar, and I’m greeted by the bartender with “Hi, can I get you something to drink, maybe a Fat Tire?” That’s cool – I don’t mind being mistaken for a guy who might enjoy a Fat Tire rather than the margaritas they seemed to be pushing on everyone else that night. I later found out there was a drink contest going on - you know, where they offer some sort of prize like sex with the assistant GM for the server who pushes the most specialty drinks that night. After I ordered, she then asked, “I’m sorry, I forgot your name.” I told her and she said, “I know I waited on you before.” She was correct – it was a slow night last time and, like oh so many others, I got most of her life story. But I still thought it was odd that she remembered me from one visit back on April 13. I looked it up on my expense report. That’s over two months. So that means she remembered me after all that time because I was either incredibly good looking or incredibly creepy. Crap. I know I’m not that good-looking. But I couldn't have been that creepy. Right? She spent most of the time standing over by me and initiating conversations. Some of the other servers even came by and joined in. All I know is that I’m paranoid now and I’m afraid to go back.

The general rule of thumb if you ever see me – just pretend you don’t know me. We’ll all be happier that way.

Hertz So Good

2009-06-21T12:03:00.003-05:00

Well I'm a highway junkie
And I need that old white line

Flying can suck it. I’m not afraid; I actually enjoy the experience of flight – the power of lift off, the aerial views, and managing to finish it all without a mangled, fiery mess. However, airports, the TSA, and the airlines themselves have sucked any joy from the experience. Between ridiculous fees for actually wanting to bring baggage on my trips to fees for having to scratch my balls while flying over Tulsa; from having to disassemble my carry-ons so that the TSA can see what kind of douche I use to having to watch Grandma Moses get strip searched for a suicide bra bomb at security; and to be treated by everyone involved as more of an annoyance rather than a customer, I’d rather just hop behind the wheel of a large automobile and ask myself, where does that highway go?

So when I have to make my routine trip to Cedar Rapids or any other location within 250 miles, I book a car with Hertz, load the iPod up with some road trip music and hit the highway. Hertz is a little more expensive than some of the other companies, but I learned my lesson after an ugly experience with Thrifty that it is usually worth it. My experience with Thrifty in New Orleans many years ago involved an unnecessarily long shuttle ride, marveling at the inefficiencies of the check-in process, and a prolonged “discussion” with the branch manager over a scratch which I thought was going to end up in a cage match to the death. I prevailed but since then I’ve been pretty loyal to Hertz, who have consistently provided good locations, decent customer service, clean cars, efficient pick up and returns, and even a slight inkling that they seem to appreciate my business.

When I’m not flying and renting from an airport location I use their “Local Edition” locations, most often a branch about two blocks from my office. As a somewhat regular customer it was easy to get #1 Club Gold status, which streamlines the process even more. It essentially allows you to pick up your car by using a secret handshake and a wink. However, as I picked up my car this most recent Sunday it didn’t go as smoothly as it usually does.

First off, apparently weekends like Father’s Day are big business for local rental companies. I’m guessing all those small town kids who leave for big city life rent cars to go visit their neglected parents back on the farm. Hijinx certainly ensue when Pauly Shore comes along. This leads to a little more pressure to turn over the fleet more quickly, and to do it with the skeleton staffing during the limited weekend hours.

Further, I showed up shortly after opening before the local agent had time to prep the pick ups for the day. And the agent was filling in at this location, and like that substitute teacher you had in 5th grade it didn’t exactly go without hiccups. This is where your business lesson begins. This lesson follows three simple assumptions:

1) Sexism is alive and well.
2) Men are dumb.
3) #1 and #2 do have their limits.

I guess now is a good time to mention that the agent was a young lady in her early 20’s, cute, with disproportionately large breasts, and wearing a shirt that certainly did not hide them, even less so when she bent forward to pick up keys, answer the phone, reach the printer or give the secret handshake. Did this influence how annoyed I got while waiting for my rental? See #1 and #2. Yes, it did. I was far less annoyed than if the agent had been a sloppy, unshaven, 20-something hipster doofus named Lance.

But now to Rule #3… my annoyance grace period would have expired rather quickly had she thought that a peep show excused her from actually fulfilling her duties of getting my ass in the driver’s seat of a large automobile. But I’m happy to report that she couldn’t have handled the situation any better.

There were three of us there, and customer #1 did not have a previous reservation, was not a Gold customer, and was being a little difficult. She got him somewhat placated, then jumped over to me and #3, then excused herself to make sure she had three clean cars up in the garage. When she returned, she asked #1 if she could get me and #3 going since we had existing reservations. He deferred and I stepped to the plate. There were some additional problems, either getting into the computer system or getting the contracts printed so she had to call for some support, but she kept me engaged by letting me know what was going on the whole time, making some small talk, and by bending forward to accomplish menial tasks. She thanked me for my patience and used my first name. I thought this was somewhat casual for a business transaction, but you know what, I felt pretty good being called Sid instead of Old Man F’er or Sir. And to top it all off (no pun intended) I got a nice new fully loaded 2010 model, and she gave me a free tank of gas to further thank me for my patience.

So there you go, Hertz. She’s a keeper. And to all you other businesses out there, I've said it before – if you have a largely male clientele and can find a good-looking girl who can use her brain as well as her looks, make her an offer she can’t refuse.

Leaving Las Vegas

2009-06-19T23:07:00.003-05:00

The best part of my trip to Vegas earlier this week:

Very Gray Matter

2009-06-11T23:55:00.002-05:00

Because I’m an old man, I was listening to elevator music at work today and the station played Strangers in the Night. You know, exchanging glances, what were the chances….

But it set off a strange thought progression – remember in grade school when you used to get a little catalog of books that you could order through your class? You’d have like a week to fill out the order form and bring a check from mom, and then like two weeks later the order would show up? This was apparently before bookstores were invented and before the Internets and the Amazon were discovered. Like I said, I’m old.

But I remember one of the books I ordered was a songbook of tunes to play on your touchtone phone. Yes, I was a very strange kid. For example, if you have a touch tone phone or a mobile phone that simulates the touch tones, you too can play Strangers in the Night by pressing:

4-8-8-4-8, 4-8-6-8-4

Of course, make sure you’re already dialed into another working number (preferably a friend who already finds you annoying) or else your Strangers in the Night jam will get you connected to a woman in Poland named Ludmila who is not amused by your serenade.

Then I recalled that you could also order joke books through school and I remember getting the politically incorrect Official Polish / Italian Joke Book one time.

But I digress. I just found it strange that somewhere in my brain there was a dusty old neural pathway making the connection between Strangers in the Night and those stupid books from 30 years ago. The same brain can’t remember to pack a pair of underwear when I ride my bike to work. But I am half Polish, so that might explain it.

Mental Hopscotch

2009-06-09T22:58:00.007-05:00

Walking home from the train the other day, I turned down my block and stumbled across some sidewalk chalk drawings – nothing unusual. But the header caught my eye:

Yes, instead of your typical 1, 2, 3, 4-5, 6, 7-8, 9, 10, this one didn’t just go to 11, but seemed to stretch down the block:

I tossed my stones (not a euphemism), hopped, scotched, stopped at a rest stop for some orange slices and Gatorade, used the Port-o-Pottie, tossed my stones (totally a euphemism this time), hopped and scotched some more and several blocks (or maybe houses) later I finally reached the end – 150.

The kids in my ‘hood don’t half-ass stuff.

Bonus Feature - Quote of the Day:

"I'd rather go see Miley Cyrus with my imaginary friends."

So Shrek Walks Into A Bar

2009-05-11T21:37:00.002-05:00

By now it’s well-documented that I don’t care much for people. I’m kind of like Shrek before he mellowed out faster than REO Speedwagon. Or Bryan Adams. Or Aerosmith. You get the idea. So normally once I leave work my goal is to make it home to the nurturing bosom of the home swamp with the least amount of interaction. I’d probably even walk right past Crystal Bernard.

Speaking of walking right past people, I was at Wrigley Field about a week ago (technically the patio of a bar across the street from Wrigley) before a Friday afternoon game and Denise Richards walked right by on the sidewalk. She was being followed by a camera crew and drew hoots and cheers from the crowd on the patio. The following are my thoughts, in chronological order:

Wow, she’s short.
Wow, she’s wearing a ton of makeup. What’s she hiding? (I learned that from Moist.)
It looks like rain – I really should have brought my slicker.
Wait, why is she famous? Besides having a public divorce from… Charlie Sheen, maybe?
I’m so going to order a hot dog when I get into the stadium.
Why are people cheering for her? Oh, right, I’m at Wrigley Field.
What the hell am I doing at Wrigley Field?
She certainly was short.

But I digress. So I don’t like people, Shrek, getting home…

I live upstairs from my landlords. They’re generally pretty cool, but if I’m walking past Crystal Bernard I’m certainly not in the mood for small talk with them. As I come into our foyer I note that their door is open, which means they are likely on their way out and I need to hustle in my own door to avoid any dreaded interactions. I whip open my door and I’m greeting by their 5 year old and their 3 year old sliding head first down the steps at my feet. Argh! Not only that but their mom is standing at the top of our steps. I briefly considered saying, “Sorry, wrong house,” and then walking around the block until the chaos cleared but I had already been recognized. I tiptoed around the ankle-biters, made pleasantries with their mom, and collapsed upon the couch.

I almost felt bad when I found out the reason they were there was to deliver some fresh out of the oven chocolate chip cookies. I wonder if some small talk will get me another half dozen.

Ride On

2009-05-05T21:47:00.001-05:00

The weather this week finally warmed up and dried up enough to get my pansy ass back on my bicycle. After a few good rides on the weekend I saddled up for a couple commutes to work this week. I love the smell of carbon monoxide in the morning!

While it’s good for my general well-being, the fact that both days were rather uneventful makes for a rather boring post. My closest call was a near sideswipe at the corner of Western and Lawrence on Monday by an asswipe in a Suburban participating in what some of us call a Chicago drag race. It happens when a two-lane road temporarily opens up into four lanes near an intersection to accommodate a bus stop. If no bus is present, certain people who feel their time is much more important than everyone else’s (probably doctors on their way to deliver a baby or some dude racing to get ½ price appetizers at Bennigan’s) will pull into the right lane, wait for the light to turn green, then floor it to get ahead of everyone else and merge back into the left lane before it funnels back down to two lanes. Taxis are most guilty of this practice, but it’s not uncommon for the common asshole to do this as well.

Unfortunately for them, we cyclists tend to hang out in the right lane as well, mostly in an effort to avoid death or serious injury, which is nothing but an annoyance to these jagoffs. Most of the time they have enough brain cells to realize that getting a biker tangled up in their axle will slow them down even more, and they usually capitulate by just squeezing in where they can while yelling something obscene about my pansy ass or my mother as they pass. But the dude in the Suburban took my presence as a challenge and managed to railroad me into the gutter to complete his mission of arriving at the next traffic light ahead of everyone else.

No big deal – I might not have even mentioned it but tonight I was sitting at the same intersection, waiting for the light, and as I’m crossing the intersection another flippin’ Suburban does the same damn thing. Not quite as close as the previous day, but I’m beginning to wonder if I did something to piss off the Piece Of Shit Suburban Owners Association.

I usually ride to work in some baggy mountain bike shorts and a t-shirt and stash my work clothes in a bag on my rear rack. I get to work, cool down and drink a shake, while my personal valet Mr. French lays out my clothes in the storage closet where I change into my generic white businessman uniform.

However, today, Mr. French came out looking very confused as I had apparently forgotten to pack my underwear. Being a good man-servant, he offered me his but there was no way I was going to drop my boys into his generic white boxers from the Sears Roebuck catalog. Instead I would need to go commando. It did not seem like it would be a problem as long as I didn’t split my pants, forget to zip up, or receive a surprise visit from Shania Twain.

It was a little awkward at first, but after a couple hours I had happily settled into my freeballin’ lifestyle. For eight hours I mostly stayed behind my desk, zipped and unzipped with the utmost care during bathroom breaks, and for the most part avoided dirty thoughts. As much as a guy can.

Rain tomorrow, so no bike riding. I’ll probably wear underwear. And Suburban drivers will need to find a new target for the day.

Bonus Feature – Sexist Sid

The only funnier thing than watching a women trying to parallel park is watching a woman trying to parallel park while talking on her cell phone.

Bonus Feature – Sports Night

People who sing the National Anthem are pretty much guaranteed a standing ovation.

Busting A Cap In Your Ass - April '09

2009-04-27T23:17:00.002-05:00

Rant #1: Do not be the first one to get out of the elevator or get off the train if you’re going to saunter along at 2 miles per hour in front of me. You should know I’m a fast walker – I’ve painted flames on my shoes to indicate it. So step aside, Slappy, before you get a taste of the pavement.

Rant #2: If you’re under 5 feet tall, you do not have permission to put your seat back on the airplane. It’s unnecessary. And if you let your kid do that, be prepared to donate a kidney to your lil’ munchkin after I rupture his with a sharp blow from my patella.

We lived in Northlake for a couple years when I was a kid and I remember driving past a music club called The Thirsty Whale. They had the coolest sign – a giant bloated whale, and when I reached my teens I’d read about the bands playing there in the free weekly entertainment rag I’d pick up from the record store. I knew it had to be one of the greatest places in the world and I envied all the people old enough to take a Jonah-like journey into the belly of my imagined nirvana. Then finally, one day, in 1990 I had the opportunity. In all honestly I had probably forgotten all about the place, but one of the crazier chicks I worked with was dating a musician, of course, so I would be her date for the evening until Theater finished their set, at which time I would tender her vinyl-clad bod to the nasty bass player in leather pants and mascara. Not only did I seem to be getting the raw end of that deal, but the club was kind of a letdown as well. I never went back and they tore it down in 1996.

The older I get the more I like Steely Dan. It’s something that I’d make fun of someone else for admitting, so go ahead, let me have it. Even worse is that it reminds me of Red Lobster. I bartended there for a few months after college and they played the same damn tape every day, which included Peg. In a desperate move to find relief I eventually let a live lobster from the fish tank in the lobby claw my eyes out. I never said I was smart. There was a reason I was working at Red Lobster after college.

In addition to not posting much lately, I’ve also fallen off on my resolution to catch up on some movies this year. But I did get to watch Dig! which I highly recommend. Just do it. But those numbnuts at Blockbuster kind of screwed it up for me – it’s a two-disc set and they decided to send me Disc 2 of the bonus material first. That’d be like a girl asking you to snuggle before the sex.

An Easter Discussion

2009-04-09T16:40:00.005-05:00

Jesus did not go get a burrito first thing after coming back from the dead. They didn't have burritos then. He probably had a matza ball and some gebrattens.

He was JESUS. He could turn a pile of camel shit into a burrito if he wanted to.

I don't know. It's not like he could have whipped out a miracle to do anything he wanted to do. They should have cut off his head instead of crucifying him. Apparently, he could rise from the dead, but he couldn't heal his wounds, since he still had the holes in his hands and feet from the nails and the gash in his side when he came back. They could have taken his head and thrown it into the ocean, leaving the rest of him in the tomb.

When he showed up in heaven, god wouldn't have known who he was - "This can't be right, my son had a head the last time I saw him. Are you sure you aren't Holofernes? How did you get out of hell, you bastard?!"

Unless he compared Jesus' footprints to the footprints the manger medical staff took and put on his birth certificate.

Plus, the beheading would have delayed his return to life because he would have had to take some time to find his head. If he didn’t, the disciples would have had the same doubt god would have had - "You're not Jesus! Where's your head? You’re that bastard Holofernes straight from the crags of hell, aren’t you?! If you really are Jesus, turn my wife's foot into a gefilte fish. Go ahead. I dare you."

Instead of three days, maybe we would have a full week of holiday, which means a full week of boozing if you are anything like the Christians I know.

"Drinkin' thy blood" all week long!

It definitely would have thrown a wrench into the entire religion. And the iconography would have been totally different. Instead of a cross, it could have been a decapitation axe, maybe with drips of blood coming off of it. Do you know how cool that would look hanging on a necklace?

Holy heavy metal religiosity, Batman!

Or maybe an octopus beak.

No, that wouldn’t work unless they killed him with an octopus beak.

But, it would look cool on a necklace.

Yeah, it would.

Jesus would have come back and said something like, "Uh, fellas, yo apostles, I would've been back sooner, but I had to wrestle my head from the beak of an octopus. It took me a while to figure out how to get under the water because I kept walking on the surface out of habit. The trick is in weight distribution. And I can't seem to get my head to stay balanced on top of my neck. Anybody got a staple gun? I'm not setting a very good example as a savior here, am I? I thought they were going to hang me on a cross. Who knew Pontius Pilate was so adept at wielding a battle axe. And jeez, was he ever pissed off. As god as my witness, I never saw it coming. Of course, if god was witnessing me, maybe he could have warned me. You know, 'Look out Jesus, axe at 2 o'clock!' or something like that. My father never loved me. I can't believe he put me through this. I think it's because I throw like a girl. I'm the worst messiah, EVER!"

Stupid, incompetent Romans. They ruined everything. No wonder their empire fell apart.

Yeah, I know.

Scene From An Italian Restaurant

2009-04-07T21:50:00.003-05:00

During our first visit to an Italian joint a couple blocks down the street on Sunday evening:

Owner: How-a izza everything tonight?

Sid: Awesome.

Mrs. F’er: This is the best pizza I’ve had since my grandmother died.

Owner: Ah, good – that-a makes us a very happy.

I’m hoping he was referring to the pizza and not her dead grandmother. It's not like she was competing in the same neighborhood.

They Never Said It Was A TOP Ten List

2009-03-31T23:05:00.003-05:00

Being the pillar of the business community that I am, I was recently perusing Crain’s Chicago Business and their 10 Things To Do This Weekend column. Normally it’s pretty high tone stuff like museum exhibits, ballets, garden tours, charity events, and fox hunts. So I was surprised to see the following:

Actress Charlene Tilton, former Bay City Rollers lead singer Duncan Faure, and other celebrities will spice things up at the MONSTER TRUCK NATIONALS. The two-day event includes four-wheeled power machines crushing smaller cars in the controlled climate of the Sears Centre Arena. March 13 and March 14, 7:30 p.m. Tickets are $7 - $33. 5333 Prairie Stone Pkwy., Hoffman Estates, (800) 745-3000

Besides Crain’s targeting a demographic I never knew existed for them, I was also intrigued by the featured celebrities. Charlene Tilton, probably most famous for providing the cleavage for the television show Dallas, is listed as the headliner. I had big money on her being the trigger chick during the “Who Shot J.R.?” craze, lost my college savings and ended up working as a dishwasher at IHOP for the last twenty years. But I digress. It appears she’s only had a handful of work since her Dallas days, so you may think it odd that she would be headlining the event. Until you realize her co-headliner is Duncan Faure, probably celebrating the 25th anniversary of his last appearance on the cover of Tiger Beat. I was tempted to go, not to see small cars crushed since that is my nightmare as the Mrs. zips around town in her Honda Fit, but I wanted to see how Charlene and Duncan were going to “spice things up” for a crowd showing up to see stuff crushed. Maybe they were offering up their own hopes and dreams of reliving their fame from twenty years ago only to see them crushed along with those damn imports by a crowd wearing “Buy American” t-shirts who drive Chevy pick-ups and could not care less about some rich daddy’s girl from an 80’s TV show or a fancy lad who was famous for his shag haircut and plaid socks in the 70’s.

I also wanted to find out who the “other celebrities” who didn’t make the bill were – I’m thinking Tiffany Brissette or Taffy Nivert.

But if I had gone though you can bet your bottom dollar I would have gone on the 14th – S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y night!

Embrace The Neon Lights

2009-03-29T17:59:00.005-05:00

Sure we have the highest sales tax in the nation due to incompetent or corrupt politicians. Probably both. Yeah, parking can suck at times, like when you want to stop driving and park. And it’s late March and there’s three inches of snow on the ground.

But when I left work Friday a week ago I didn’t have to sit in rush hour traffic – I just hopped on the train, worked the crossword puzzle, realized I know nothing about the Bible or rivers outside North America, and was home in 45 minutes.

I then walked to Big Joe’s bar to meet up with Moist Rub, Stiv_OO, and Senor Cojones, and munched on completely unsanitary shared bowls of complimentary generic Cheetos before heading to our next stop.

Which was a brewery a block away that was hosting a play called… Beer. We checked in at the box office, which was a folding table inside the side entrance and at showtime we were escorted through a walk-in fridge into the bowels of the brewery and squeezed into temporary bleachers sitting between large, stainless steel tanks. We then watched the story of Boone, a ten year-old who gets drunk on his step-dad’s cheap beer, wakes up in a brewery, and can only go home by learning how to brew beer with the help of his own puke which has come to life in the form of a puppet named Puke and the help of the “beer geeks”, a live band who explain the brewing process to him in song, often performed by puppets representing the ingredients of beer. Of course, it’s not nearly as easy as it sounds, so the story’s antagonist is none other than Bud Miller, the evil piss-beer brewing founder of Millweiser who sneaks into the beer geek band in disguise in an attempt to sabotage Boone’s efforts to save brewing tradition from the evil corporate overlords. Got it? Like most other of the Neo-Futurist productions I enjoyed it, and Stiv_OO got a souvenir handful of puke when the girl puppeteer in charge of Puke dove into his lap during her big production number. I'm not sure if he's finished his analysis of the very puke-like substance.

After that we returned to Big Joe’s, where we bellied back up to the bar, and I was disappointed to see my cohorts order up an assortment of Miller and Budweiser products. Did they learn nothing? Of course, I was only swilling a diet coke so I let them enjoy their corporate slop. At least they weren’t pretending to like PBR.

The bar was unusually packed for a corner dive, which was explained by the commencement of the weekly turtle races. You buy drinks, you get tickets, if your ticket is called, you get a turtle, if your turtle wins you get a t-shirt, if your turtle loses you get a free drink. Senor Cojones was picked for the second race but finished in the middle of the pack, so we acted like sore losers and left. And I walked home.

Saturday was swell weather so I dusted off the bicycle and took a pleasant ride a few miles north to test out my trusty steed, then came back down Lincoln Avenue and none of the friendly city drivers tried to run me over. We were getting a little hungry so we pulled over and decided to try George’s Pitas. I sent the Mrs. in for a menu while I watched the bikes and within those several seconds a regular came outside to befriend me. He began talking up the merits of the menu items and after I sent the Mrs. back inside with my order for a beef shawarma sandwich, my new buddy stayed behind to keep me company and by the time she returned with our lunch I’m pretty sure I knew more about my new friend than anyone else in his life. I really hope he gets that lump checked out.

That evening, Sr. Cojones came back out and this time brought Sra. Cojones. Yep, I was quite the social butterfly. We went out for Thai food down the street and then continued on to the Old Town School theater since I had picked up some tickets to see Dave Alvin and the Guilty Women. Not Alvin and the Chipmunks as my co-workers were convinced I was going to see. I always thought the Blasters were pretty cool, but was never the huge fan that Sr. Cojones was. But the venue was awesome and I’m always willing to expand my horizons as long as it doesn’t involve peanut butter, gay sex, or the likelihood of ending up in a federal penitentiary. The show seemed to meet that criteria so away we went.

And the verdict…. Wow. It was the most enjoyable show I’ve been to recently. Ol’ Dave is the real deal, a likable sort and a great musician and songwriter. And the Guilty Women – six women he recruited for his latest endeavor – were just as fun to watch as they were to listen to. Everyone was having fun – Dave, the Women, and the crowd.

It also felt very American. There are a lot of people in this country trying to fuck it up for their own gain at the expense of what we’ve built over the last 230 years. I’m not exactly brimming with hope over our chances of getting it back, but this little bastion of Americana made me feel good. A group of solid musicians, performing songs written from the heart, and having fun in a style that is pure U.S. effin'A.

The new CD will be out May 21st. If they come to your town, check them out. Even if you don’t normally listen to dudes who wear cowboy hats, you might be surprised how much you like it. He won’t be selling out stadiums like Kenny Chesney, but I put that in the plus column.

After the show, I walked back to our place happy to know I was taking advantage of all my new neighborhood had to offer. Instead of just complaining about the parking.

The Balloon Flailer

2009-03-24T20:49:00.002-05:00

I'm a wuss. It was confirmed long ago. There is no need for me to flex in front of the mirror each night before bedtime. Nobody has to worry about me asking them to feel my muscle. If a confrontation ensues, don't look to me for help. I'll be hiding behind a girl scout.

I'm lucky. Most guys probably go through life with an inflated impression of their machismo. I don't need to perpetuate that facade. I had a revelation. I have experienced a terror that represents a defining moment in my life. A moment of truth. The truth hurts, sometimes.

One night a while back I was re-reading The Fellowship of the Ring, which is the first book in The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J. R. R. Tolkien. The news, at the time, of the filming of its motion picture had sparked my need to delve back into Middle Earth. Right before going to bed, I reached a particularly ghostly passage where a Barrow-wight (a ghost) captured Frodo, our hero, and his traveling mates. I won't describe the whole story, but trust me - it's a scary part. Maybe not as scary as The Exorcist or Nancy Pelosi, but scary enough.

It was late and I was tired, so I decided to wait until the next day to see if Frodo and his gang survived (as this was my fourth reading of the book, I was pretty sure they were going to make it, but you never can be too sure with all those book-changing pranksters out there with their white-out and all). Feeling a little spooked, on my way too bed, as I walked through my dimly moonlit living room, I saw a faint image of something I believed to be a human form. Immediately, I reacted by covering behind my flailing arms and falling into the wall. It's quite an effective defense as it strikes fear into the hearts of perpetrators of all kinds.

Now, I'm not proud of how I responded to the apparent trespasser in my home, but at least I wasn't killed. The shame gets worse. The elapsed time between when I detected the "intruder" and reacted to it was probably less than a second. Within that instant I was able to determine that the suspected human form before me was that of an old woman carrying a bag of groceries and smoking a large pipe made of the bone of a wildebeest and covered in a sheath of octopus leather (I may be exaggerating about the details of the pipe or in the fact that there was a pipe at all, but it definitely looked like a hunched, old woman). My mind, hopped up on adrenaline, was able to perceive that the form before me was a harmless old woman, yet I reacted by cowering, like a..a...a..well, like a harmless old woman.

Obviously, the woman must have lost her way home from the grocery store where she picked up a few essentials and beer munchies, and she needed my assistance to find her way. A brave man, or even just a generally polite man, would have helped her home and took out her garbage. And, what did I do? I flailed and fell. I flailed at an old lady. Do you know what that makes me? That's right, it makes me a mountain nymph. Or do you say oread? No, it makes me a coward. A sniveling, spineless, yellow-bellied, cheek-chewin' chicken. I have always thought the yellow on my belly was from all of the butter. At least I now know who I am and can live the rest of my days with peace of mind (while hiding underneath my bed).

It turned out that my enemy was a gaggle of helium filled balloons my wife at the time had brought home from a baby shower the day before. They were tied to one of my kids' play chairs. I don't know what's worse, cowering to a hunched old woman or to a bunch of baby balloons. Had I known they were balloons, I could have easily popped them with my arm hair that happened to be standing on end at the time of the attack. I'm not sure if you can pop an old woman, and I'm not looking to find out.

Just Check The Deli Case

2009-03-22T12:16:00.004-05:00

In keeping with the sandwich theme, recently at work during lunch:

Co-worker #1: Is that salami?

Co-worker #2: No, it's roast beef, it's just very rare.

Sid: I wouldn't say that, I see the stuff everywhere.

Sometimes I think the only reason I go to work is for the joke set-ups.

A Very Special Ham Sandwich

2009-03-18T21:22:00.003-05:00

Long ago somebody made me a ham sandwich. It was no ordinary ham sandwich. It was the best ham sandwich ever made. That ham sandwich changed my life.

The sandwich was constructed on a bakery fresh roll from Jewel food store. Or it may have been from Dominick’s, but that’s hardly the point, is it? It was bakery fresh, let me tell you. On the roll, she tenderly placed mesmerizing folds of succulent ham, sliced by a deli professional extraordinaire who must have been trained in France. Had to be France. No doubt about it. To adorn the ham, which was succulent as I’ve mentioned, she playfully feathered a few leaves of the crispest lettuce ever known to crackle. On top of that, she devoted two slices of palate-gushing tomatoes, undoubtedly grown in the gardens of Pomona. With a blanket of thinly sliced American cheese, she reassured the ham – succulent, and garnish. Before completing the bread borne fare, she slathered the lid of the roll with a copious helping of soothing mayonnaise, as if she were applying the healing balm to the wound of a decapitated soldier. The sandwich was served to me on a paper plate from the Ming Dynasty. I could tell by the poise in the chef’s eyes that she knew she had crafted a masterpiece.

By now, you are probably saying to yourself, “So what. Big deal. It’s just a sandwich. You are a monstrous idiot.” Well, friend, you may be correct in your assessment of me, but not the sandwich, which was made with ham that was succulent, by the way. Because - now listen closely - this was a magical ham sandwich, the likes of which this author’s tongue, nor any tongue, has not savored since.

At the time, I was new to that family, and not well known by anybody other than the number one son. Nonetheless, his mother poured her soul into that sandwich for me. After eating it, I thought to myself, “If this kind of excellence can exist in a mere ham sandwich, and people can behave in such a selfless manner as she did in the creation of this sandwich, what else could be out there!” From that day forward, I vowed to dedicate my life to the achievement of selfless excellence. It is that wonderful sandwich, and the effort put into its formation, to which I credit everything I’ve been able to achieve in this world since that day (which isn't much, to no fault of the sandwich or its creator, but it's the thought that counts).

No, really, it was one helluva ham sandwich.

Thank you, Bubba (aka Mrs. Mop).

CD's For Sale!!!

2009-03-17T23:10:00.003-05:00

Times are tough. Here at Leper Pop we sincerely hope that you are successfully weathering our economic tsunami better than that model who ended up in the tree with a broken hip. If you’ve fallen on hard times, remember that your local library offers free internet access from which you can continue reading Leper Pop to keep your spirits up while Biff Henderson sorts this whole mess out. If you’re fortunate to have a job at a stable company like AIG, perhaps you’re wondering what to do with the large bonus you have just received. Allow me to make a few suggestions.

You might think I’m going to direct you to the links on the right where you can buy your very own Leper Pop t-shirt. Don’t do that. I’ve worn one out in public and it only leads to ridicule and premature ejaculation. Not always in that order.

Instead think about giving to others. In case you’re not sure of the best place to direct those extra bonus dollars might I suggest Feed The Children? I checked out their website and a donation of $10 will “help keep their caravan of trucks on the road!”

Hold on. I don’t drive very often, but the Mrs. has been out there on the roads and from what I hear the last thing we need to be doing is funding any caravan of trucks to add to the congestion. That certainly doesn’t sound very good for the environment, either. Especially since local stores already appear to be stocked with foodstuffs and Little Debbies, and there appears to be no shortage of fast food joints anywhere I’ve traveled across the country. They even have value menus!

So why not take that $10 over to the Crustacean Records website and order the new Von Ehrics CD? If you’re a regular around here, you know I love these guys like brothers from whom I was separated at birth and never really knew. But that doesn’t mean I love them any less than if I had grown up to be honky-tonk metal bad-asses like them. But in case I haven’t already convinced you, let me list the reasons why investing $10 in their new record is a good idea and why I’ve already done it.

Your purchase supports a small business like Crustacean. I was watching CNBC today because I’m a dork, but that also makes me an expert on economic matters, and 70% of new jobs these days are created by small business. That means you are helping reduce unemployment. More people with jobs means less need for caravans of trucks on the road delivering free food to hungry children. Fewer caravans mean a shorter commute for you and less pollution.

Crustacean never sued you after you got drunk and downloaded those Barry Manilow tunes.

Crustacean supports bands like The Von Ehrics. It’s trickle down economics – The Von Ehrics subsequently take to the road stimulating the regional economies from Texas to New York with their purchases of whiskey and beer from local merchants. Those sin taxes are also some of the highest around, so they’re also filling the dwindling state coffers so that your schools stay open. You do want your kids to get an education, don’t you?

Free shipping. It’s not even like that Amazon scam where you need to spend $25 to get free super saver shipping. You don’t even have to search the internet for a coupon code. Who has time for that? You don’t. You can use the extra time and saved shipping cost to take a cooking class to learn how to make stuff wrapped in bacon. Everyone loves stuff wrapped in bacon. You can have a party and serve that stuff you learned how to wrap in bacon and all your friends will love you. You don’t want to die lonely, do you?

But that’s not all! Free stuff! It’s a recession so you need to spend your money wisely. Order now and you’ll get free stickers, free buttons and a sampler CD. I’m not sure what the stickers or buttons say on them, but imagine the excitement when you open the package! It’ll be like Christmas in March! Except without all the lame holiday music – instead you’ll get some great surprise tunes from the Crustacean catalog that I guarantee will be better than hearing Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer. You do love your Grandma, don’t you?

Or you could just order the damn CD because somebody needs to take a stand against Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers and Daughtry and American Idol and Britney Spears and everything else that is wrong with our world. You can do that. And The Von Ehrics are here to help.

If you don’t trust me, go preview the CD on iTunes. You can even download it there for $9.99 if you’re one of those future people who listen to music on your computers and pod devices.

And finally, if your stereo or computer doesn’t go to 11, The Von Ehrics are hitting the road next month and I can assure you that their amps do hit 11. I’ll be at the Chicago show at Quencher’s Saloon on April 17th. Stop by and say hello and I’ll buy you a sarsaparilla.

Blue Balls For Sale!

2009-03-14T14:41:00.004-05:00

I remember the first time I went to a strip club. It was magical. I was mesmerized. Scantily clad, beautiful women were all over the place. And, they were friendly. The smell of sensual sugar filled the air. Over priced alcohol was within arms reach. The music sucked. Is it too much to ask for some rock and roll with the nudity? I mean real rock and roll, not some 80’s decalcification of ZZ Top. Yes, I get it. The girl’s got legs. I would certainly hope so. Otherwise the song would have been called She’s Got a Wheelchair. But, I’m ruining the strip club fantasy mood. Sorry.

Before long, one of the hot babes asked me if I would like a dance. Not knowing the nomenclature at the time I re-posed the question and asked her if she wanted to dance with me. A friend clued me in as to what she was proposing. I accepted her offer for a dance. She took me to a semi-private room where other women were writhing on other patrons. She sat me on a cushy couch and stood in front of me. I felt a little shy at first (after all, it had been a while since I attended an orgy) – until she started rhythmically rubbing on me to the beat of plastic thumping bile resounding in the background. I forgot about the other couples in the room and focused all of my attention on her, on her excessively made over eyes, on her glittery skin, on her tickling locks of hair on my face, on her compound bouquet of lavender and cigarettes, on her naked boobies. She moved me. She was selfless. Her only concern was my satisfaction. She let me know this when I tried to return the favor by touching her, too, and she drove her fake nails into my neck. I was falling in lust. My nether regions commandeered of all my senses as they prepared to go into action, especially after my siren took to the grinding. Right when I was about to pass the point of no return - she stopped. She stood and put her hand out. So, I shook it. She asked for twenty dollars. What!? Are we done? That’s it? Twenty dollars for what?

“Twenty dollars for the lap dance, sport.”

But I wasn’t done. I’ve got some unresolved issues here, honey!!!

“Plus tip.”

Dumbfounded with mouth agape, I gave her thirty dollars. She grabbed my hand, helped me up and walked me back to the bar area where my friends waited with despicable grins. Before we parted ways, I stopped her and asked her, “So, let me get this straight. I just paid you thirty bucks to give me blue balls?”

“I never thought of it that way. I guess you’re right. You’re so funny. Bye-bye, sweetie.”

I wondered what she would have done to me for a hundred bucks - tap dance on my crotch and jam her boa up my ass?

Father Nightingale

2009-03-11T21:59:00.003-05:00

The ex wife called mid-morning Monday and told me she was picking up our daughter from school and bringing her to my house. The daughter was sick. I figured she had gotten what I had last week; what I had given to my son. The son must have given it to her during one of their face to face torment combats – the ones I have learned to tune out, unless I hear the butcher knife unsheathe. Either that or they are each sharing my toothbrush again. Little do they know I’ve switched to using a tooth pumice stone, which I keep in a hollowed out rolling pin stashed beneath the stairs.

The ex arrived bearing our ailing daughter and some provisions of salubrity – a gallon of grape juice and a package of kid friendly, fever reducing, blah inhibiting, cough and cold über gumdrops. Apparently the weasel cod liver snake milk of rancidity I bought from the Wal-Mart outlet store was not appealing enough for my daughter’s tastes to save her life. I reviewed her symptoms: headache, fever, sore throat, whooping cough, loogie ridden sinuses, lethargy, ornery disposition. Welcome to adulthood, honey. My weasel cod liver snake milk of rancidity would work on these ailments – I was sure of it, and it might even produce her first ever hallucinations. OK, we’ll try the über gumdrops first.

We got the daughter all set up in bed, with a glass of grape juice on her night stand, a belly full of roiling medication and a dvd set on repeat on the television set. Before she left, the ex wife prescribed me with a list of medical maintenance instructions. I was too busy mentally preparing myself for a few days of nursing and wondering where I left my scrubs, nurse hat and support hose to pay attention to her. That’s right, beneath the stairs next to the rolling pin. I didn’t need instructions. I knew how to take care of an ailing child – make sure they are not whining, burning, starving, orally expelling and not unresponsive to simple stimuli like finger pokes and massive tickle attacks. And, above all, make sure their blood stays on the inside. Most of the time, a sick child will abide by these rules if properly tended. All the father nurse needs to do is check on her periodically, keep up on the meds and touch her face.

Face touching is a well known procedure in measuring a child’s infirmity, and it is a little known measure of a child’s maturity. Babies will let you touch their face all day. You could stick your hand on a baby’s face and leave it there until they are about three or four years old, if you wanted to. They don’t know any better, and they really have nothing better to do. "Sure, you feed me and touch my shit so I’ll serve as your hand rest. It’s the least I can do." When they get a little older, they will still accept your hand on their face but will turn away eventually after they figure out they can’t move around and break stuff with somebody else’s hand on their face. As they age you run through the nose button pushing, nose snatching, cheek tweaking, face wiping, face squeezing (they’re all so cute you wanna eat ‘em up!) and whatever other hand to face communication you can get away with. Each year they’ll accept less and less facial manipulation. Eventually, by the time they are pre-teens, a gentle caress to the cheek is met with a slap, head turn and the ignorant look, and the parent realizes the child’s face is no longer part of xe’s domain. That is, until the child gets sick. Then they welcome that hand. They know it’s there to confirm that their malaise is substantiated by the sweltering the hand detects. The hand soothes them, while it soothes the parent as the parent tries to conduct some Mr. Miyagi magic and draw out the pathogens afflicting xe’s baby. The sicker the child is, the longer you can keep your hand on xe’s face. I go with the forehead to cheek to other cheek method. Even if you can’t feel the fever (I don’t know, maybe you high-fived a hot iron once in college), you can judge how they are feeling by how long they’ll allow you to grope their face. As soon as the hand slap, head turn and ignorant look comes back, you know they have recovered.

Most of my nursing effort was to leave her alone to sleep off her affliction. That’s my preferred method of ailing, after all. Occasionally, I would visit her to conduct the face touching, to see if she needed anything and, in some cases, to see if she was still alive. There’s always a chance that she didn’t have what I had had. Even though you may think you have a handle on what is ailing them, as a parent, that death thing is always in the back of your mind. In case the grim reaper shows up and wants to rumble you want to have your parental nun chucks ready. She was sleeping so deeply at times I had to pinch her nose just to get a response out of her. It can be a little scary. The annoyed snarl the pinching evokes can be the most beautiful thing you ever saw in those situations.

After about a day and a half of enduring my nursing, the daughter started to come around. She chose to sit in bed instead of lie down, would no longer accept the dvd player set to repeat, returned to her usual level of hunger, would come out of her room to see what I was doing (pretending to work) and basically took over my nursing duties. Except for the face touching. She indulged me and let me do that until the next day when she returned to school.

Living In A Material World

2009-03-08T20:13:00.002-05:00

I’m so far behind on posts I need to write that I’m going to half-ass them all right here, right now. It’s going to be the Jesus Jones of posting. The problem is what I have termed the blogger’s dichotomy. When you have cool shit to write about, doing the said cool shit usually takes time, which, unless you’re a professional writer or have a job in which you do cool shit for a living and can use your spare time writing about it, takes away from the time you have to blog about it. And if you attempt to diagram that last sentence you’ll see I’m obviously not a professional writer and unless you have an Excel fetish then you probably wouldn’t consider my job very cool. Conversely, and I’m not talking about sitting around wearing Chuck Taylors, if you don’t have much to do, then you probably have a lot time to write posts about, well, nothing. But I digress. Which is another reason I get behind. I start to write a post, wildly digress, and before I know it I’m on page four and can’t figure out how to get back to the original topic. It’s like going off to college to study engineering and you take a night off to go out for quarter beers and then you wake up one day working at IHOP with an Aerosmith tattoo on your chest and trying to remember what chapter you were studying in your Theoretical and Applied Mechanics book, but it’s hopeless because you had to use your syllabus as kindling for a trash can fire last weekend.

So I’ll start with a few quick hitters followed by a series of posts on other recent events…

In The Pit

The one thing I forgot to mention in my ballet post (I’m still a little ashamed to write that) was how awesome the orchestra was during the show. However, I did crack myself up during one piece that featured the harp because I couldn’t stop thinking how great it would be if the harp player were dressed up like Harpo Marx.

Heard About The F’er Estate

“That would be awesome if Gladys Knight would make me waffles.”

The Voodoo That You Do

Since I started seeing an acupuncturist, I’m afraid to stop going because I’m convinced that he now has a Sid F’er voodoo doll and I’ll be hit with crippling back spasms, inexplicable foot pain, and stabbing headaches.

Jake This

This month found Jake Johannsen, the official stand-up comic of Leper House, in Chicago, so Stiv_OO, Moist Rub, Captain Break-It and me made a rare joint appearance at his Zanie’s show last Friday night. Captain Break-It was so distracted by laughter that nothing got broken, Moist Rub peed his pants (not sure how much his age contributed to the occurrence), and I temporarily forgot my distaste for humanity and I was happy.

Moonbeams And Fairytales

2009-03-08T18:17:00.002-05:00

I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to celebrate Black History Month in February especially since I didn’t vote for Obama (don’t worry, I didn’t vote for McCain, either, so I can piss off my entire constituency equally). So I was grateful the process was a little clearer for Chicago Restaurant Week. You picked a place on the list of participating restaurants, make a reservation, and get a 3-course prix-fixe dinner at a high tone joint for $32. Unfortunately most of the places seemed to be hotel establishments or steakhouses, or other places which I tend to avoid unless I’m on business, since they tend to remind me of business and I don’t like to make that association while dining with the Mrs. That’s why we only eat at strip club happy hour buffets.

But running concurrently with Chicago Restaurant Week is Chicago Chef Week, in which you can choose from a list of participating restaurants, make a reservation and get a 3-course prix-fixe dinner for $32. However, these restaurants seemed more like the cooler little brother of the guy who listens to nothing but classic rock. Sure there’s nothing wrong with The Who, but why not give the Duke Spirit a chance? Indeed, I found a restaurant on the list that I’ve been wanting to try for a couple years – Green Zebra. It’s a vegetarian joint for people that have money leftover from not buying dietary staples like meat, so I decided to surprise the almost vegetarian Mrs. and told her to meet me after work. Upon arrival, I could tell I was in over my head but instead of being the a-hole indie hipster who sneers at you for not knowing Neutral Milk Hotel, they were more the cool hipster buddy that will make you a mix 8-track of some stuff in case you get bored listening to the Neil Sedaka.

It was dark and contemporary, yet minimalist, kind of like my brain. The hostess checked our coats and promised not to steal my porn if I wanted to check my messenger bag containing my laptop.

The Chef Week special included cauliflower soup, of course with cocoa foam, a parsnip ravioli, poached egg on applewood smoked mashed potatoes, and a chocolate tart. Sounded good. We ordered up one of those, and to add a little variety we created a second meal from the rest of the menu. After consulting with our server, we added a carmelized endive salad with blood orange, beets, rosemary honey and pecans; ricotta gnocchi with roasted heirloom squash, rapini, and preserved lemon; buttermilk polenta with braised artichokes, chestnuts and pickled peppers; and some sweet potato potstickers.

As the dishes arrived, two to three at a time, we were blown away. I’ve heard of places like this on the Food Network but never really experienced one. It was like having sex for the first time, except much more satisfying. I thought I was groundbreaking when I mixed a package of macaroni and cheese with a can of pork and beans, but this chef took things to a whole other level. If I had to pick the weakest, I’d say the carmelized endive could go – it was good, but you can only do so much with lettuce. At least in public. And maybe it was because I was approaching my gastric limit, but after the first couple potstickers I was ready to surrender. The highlight might have been the poached egg dish, for which I had the lowest expectations. But the applewood smoking gave the dish a distinct taste of bacon, and who doesn’t love bacon? Even vegetarians secretly wish they weren’t so disdainful of meat so they could polish off a slab now and then. Overall, the simple dish took on the flavor of a full-on grand slam breakfast without the grease, screaming kids or hurried waitress.

Most of the patrons were winos, slugging Mogan David out of brown paper bags, but we decided to give their N/A cocktail list a try. I must have checked my masculinity with my coat when I arrived, because I felt no shame in ordering the Pink Peppercorn Thyme Soda. Other than telling you it had a hint of root beer flavor, but not really, it’s indescribably irresistible. It’s like the Crystal Bernard of libations.

I won’t lie – it was a little pricey, but Chef Week knocked about $20 off our bill and I have to say it was well worth it. But we’ll probably be eating mac n’ cheese n’ pork n’ beans the rest of this month.

The Great Pretender

2009-03-08T14:09:00.003-05:00

Last month I ventured out to see the Pretenders, or more specifically Chrissy Hynde, since the bass and guitar players are fairly new and seem to be part of a rotating cast of bandmates for her. Nonetheless, I consider her one of the coolest chicks around (along with Crystal Bernard, of course) and never had a chance to see her before. And unlike some other old-school acts that are on the road, I was actually digging some of the tunes on the latest record. I mean, when is the last time you got excited about a new Rolling Stones release? (I’ll say 1981 – Tattoo You, but I’m no Lester Bangs.) And I digress.

Chrissy is 57 but I couldn’t tell. Mostly because I was up in the balcony, but she still shimmied, kicked, stretched and kicked like Sally O’Malley. She also added a steel guitar player to this record and tour and it gave an alt-country feel to some of the new tunes like Rosalee, as well as some older tunes like Thumbelina. In fact, I can say I easily enjoyed guitarist James Walbourne’s work on those two tunes more than anything I saw at the Buddy Guy show the previous month. Hey, the prettiest girl ain’t necessarily the best in the sack.

Bottom line, Chrissy still rocks, can still write good tunes, has assembled yet another solid lineup, and is definitely worth the ticket if she comes to your neighborhood.

Hey Buddy

2009-03-08T13:14:00.003-05:00

Every January Buddy Guy plays a series of shows at his bar Legends, I’m guessing because he probably gives himself a discount on the booking fee and probably lets himself drink for free. Win win. Although over the years my interest in the blues has waned like the average American’s interest in swimming after the end of the Olympics, I still have an appreciation for the real bluesmen who’ve influenced so many others. Just as I have an appreciation for Britney Spears for influencing so many girls to become mentally unbalanced tramps. But I digress.

Surprisingly, I didn’t enjoy this show as much as I had hoped. (Coincidentally, mentally unbalanced tramps aren’t as much fun as they sound, either.) First off, it seems to be more about the showmanship than the playing for Buddy these days. There were some great solos, none of which I saw because he seemed to perform them all not on stage, but while wandering around the floor of the club. This meant about 15 people at any given time could watch him while the rest of the crowd either craned their necks or resigned themselves to watching his solid but otherwise unspectacular backup band. The club is small enough that this cheap move is as necessary as a pair of binoculars at the dinner table. Further adding to the annoyance during his forays into the crowd was the trail of photographers following him like a bunch of plague-ridden rats following an urban pied piper. I’m especially talking about the hairy little guy from the Sun-Times. How many fucking pictures do you need, dude? If you’re that good, get a couple shots, put down the camera and enjoy the show. Same goes for all you goat ball lickers with the cellphone cameras. But back to Buddy. Mustang Sally? Serious? You have an entire catalog from which to choose and you put the most overplayed, generic, white boy blues band coverin', overweight girl dancing in the halter top, wedding DJ staple song on the set list? Thanks, man. That's exactly what I came to hear.

Second, the club has lots of tables. Nice if it’s a normal night, but not so much when you’re selling the place out for Buddy. So if you don’t line up several hours before the show to get a coveted table, then you’re herded into the standing room areas designated by black and yellow tape on the floor. This is done to keep the aisles clear so that servers can keep the drink revenues flowing, but it just made me feel as if a loose sleeve would get sucked into a piece of heavy machinery and tear off my arm if I stepped out of bounds. Security certainly acted like it. Buddy, lose the tables for January.

I guess if you're they type that wants to say you saw him then his run of shows in January will probably fit the bill. Otherwise, you can probably find a more enjoyable experience at any given Chicago blues club on a more quiet weekday evening. Or grab a CD of his earlier stuff and sit back in your living room with a cold one. Just try not to get caught in any heavy machinery.

Get To En Pointe

2009-03-04T21:51:00.002-06:00

If you want to get me out of my sweats and flannel shirt and away from the porn and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls for an evening, it better be something good. Looking back over the last several months, that something good has usually been a rock and roll show (The Duke Spirit, Cheap Trick, Pretenders, Buddy Guy, The Von Ehrics, Rhett Miller, Supersuckers, Monte Montgomery, Ruthie Foster, Toadies). I’ve also ventured out for comedy or improv or the occasional play (Too Much Light, iO, Fake Lake, Hourglass and the Poisoned Pen).

But everyone once in a while I get a wild cultural hair up my ass and decide to invade the snooty inner circle of the local glitterati. I attended the symphony in Dallas once and got away with it. I accepted some tickets to Alvin Ailey another time and made it in and out of Bass Hall before they knew the tickets had been in my possession. And after reading a glowing review of a show on another blog (thanks, PaperGirl), I recently purchased tickets to the ballet. The Joffrey, no less. If ballet were rock and roll, the Joffrey might be Elvis, but not the bloated Elvis that died on the toilet. So maybe that’s not the best analogy. It doesn’t look like the company is chowing on any fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, either.

The Mrs. has recently gotten interested in dance again and even considered a ballet class. And I was intrigued with this particular ballet – in particular the fact that it caused a riot in the theater when it premiered back in 1913. Needless to say, but I’m going to say it anyway because I like to pretend I get paid by the word and also enjoy run-on sentences, this is a very non-traditional ballet and seemed to be a good way to check out a show and score some points with my low-maintenance wife who enthusiastically accepted a couple petit fours and chocolate covered strawberries as my Valentine’s Day offering.

The plot of this ballet isn’t any sappy love story and doesn’t include any fairies, sugar plum or otherwise. From what I understand it’s just the story of some wacky tribe that believes they have to sacrifice a maiden so that the sun continues to shine. Because we all know that the god of Spring is a nasty pedophile and needs his annual virgin or he’ll turn off the lights. Spoiler alert – the tribe accomplishes this sacrifice by making The Chosen One dance herself to death. Because this is set in a period well before the founding of the Joffrey Ballet, The Chosen One does not have any ballet skills and can’t even get a pair of decent ballet slippers in her village. All of this is what apparently led to the riots and caused patrons to stab each other with hatpins. Right on. I ordered my tickets, sharpened my hatpins and prepared for the show.

The Auditorium Theatre has been around for 120 years, but somehow I’ve been too busy to check it out before this show. It’s very gold. It’s as if a Cash4Gold center had been blown up by an angry customer and their entire inventory had been splattered across the walls and ceilings. But a very cool place – if you ever get a chance to see a show there don’t miss the opportunity.

We found our seats and I perused the program. Apparently I would have to sit through a few more traditional pieces before I shanked someone. First up was a ballet called Kettentanz, which loosely translates to “whale’s vagina”. I gathered from the notes that the choreographer visited Vienna, went out partying, and was inspired by all the music and dancing going on in the bars. This ballet featured six couples who performed ten dances in more combinations than you’d find in a very ambitious porno flick - guy/girl, two guys, two girls, two guys/one girl, two girls/one guy. Here’s the breakdown… when the girls were out there I could actually see the appeal of the ballet. At times their look and their spins seemed as if they were just plucked from a music box. Graceful and athletic and able to land on the toes of an outstretched foot on command. Sometimes a guy would join in and it was still pretty good as long as he stayed in the background. This allowed the girl to go limp and rest as he dragged her to her next move. Or sometimes she would demand to be lifted and carried to another part of the stage to continue her dance. But then every once in while the guys would insist on interrupting and jump around the stage. Okay, so I’ll admit some of those jumps were impressive, but mostly it looked to me as if the choreographer had just told them to get out there and prance around as gaily as possible. For 30 minutes I struggled to reconcile my newfound appreciation for the ladies of the company with the perceived absurdity of what the guys with the frog legs in tights were doing. I’m really not trying to be mean here, as I’m sure I’ve provoked the same reaction from some of my old redneck buddies in Texas when I took off on my shiny road bike in spandex shorts and a tight jersey with pockets on the back, so I just pretended to understand it as best I could and not let it interfere with my appreciation of the overall show.

After what the program called a “pause”, the show resumed with a short piece called Mobile. Picture a slow motion Cirque du Soleil stunt performed by one guy and two girls, or as the program states, “slowly evolving parallelograms that depend on balance and equilibrium.” It was pretty cool looking, and impressive given that I would surely have suffered a spontaneous herniation of every vertebrae and every other body part that could suffer a hernia if I would have attempted the same parallelograms. I think it’s best if I stick to the simple 135-degree angle I’ve perfected in concert with my recliner.

Then we “paused” again before the third piece called Hand of Fate, which of course is one of the premiere dances in the ballet Cotillon. The ballet seems to be set within a haunted ballroom where we join the late 18th century version of today’s dance club Ed Hardy wearin’ douchebag as he is preparing to select his dance partner from four wholesome hotties who disappear behind a sheet. He selects one by choosing one of their hands, however when the sheet is dropped it is not one of the brightly colored lasses he has chosen but is instead Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, or at least her flat-chested counterpart from the 18th century. Rather than make a beeline back to the Mystery Machine and get the heck out of there, he dances with this dark hand of Fate, and had we been presented the entire ballet, he probably dies or ends up being some sort of ghost himself, only to be discovered by those meddling kids in a Scooby Doo episode 200 years later.

After all that we had not just a pause, but also a full-blown intermission, during which the Mrs. assured me that they were extremely badass dancers. I sought her opinion since if you asked me the difference between first and second position I’d probably go consult the Kama Sutra.

The second half started with a video explaining the history of the feature ballet – Le Sacre Du Printemps (The Rite of Spring). You can watch an abbreviated version here.

Now, I’m sorry I’m going to disappoint you here. I’ve been trying to finish this post for a couple days now and I can’t find a humorous twist on the performance. It was horrible – I was surrounded by guys in tights, borderline anorexic women, and pretentious patrons, at a ballet with music by a crazy Russian and choreographed by a Polish dancer; and all I can come up with is that it was pretty damn cool. I don’t know much about classical music but this piece has been described as dissonant, and I liked it enough that I might have to check out the dissonance section on iTunes. I’m pretty much a dolt when it comes to themes and literature, but the story line was pretty easy to follow. Finally, the dancing didn’t bore me to tears or make me feel like I had to crimp the hose on the testosterone pump to enjoy it. It was like when the Brady Bunch went on vacation out to the Grand Canyon and Bobby and Cindy got lost in the woods while they were camping, but then they get saved by that Indian kid Jimmy and they all get invited to back to the Indian camp where they get to see an Indian show and Chief Dan Eagle Cloud gives them all Indian names. I went into the Auditorium Theatre a little lost that day, but emerged with my ballet name – Right Said Sid. I’m not sure how that relates to the ballet, but I’ve been called worse.

For Sale: Me

2009-03-02T22:13:00.003-06:00

“Wearing a turtleneck is like getting strangled by a really weak guy all day.”

- Mitch Hedberg

I feel the same way about neckties. Kind of silly if you think about it – why do we feel the need to wrap a patterned piece of fabric around our necks as a display of our professionalism or respect? Fortunately I work for a company that doesn’t require me to shop at the local haberdashery regularly or spend a fortune on dry cleaning. Our dress code seems to fall somewhere in between generic white guy businessman casual and hipster internet start-up. That means I mix in a pair of Levi’s with my Dockers and save the assless chaps and hilarious I’m With Stupid t-shirts for the weekend, and I’m on the fast track to associate. If I were to shave and get the right haircut I bet I could make assistant to the senior associate in no time. But I digress.

Unfortunately, about once a month they ill-advisedly send me out in public to represent our firm at various networking lunches, happy hours, soapbox derbies, church carnivals, conferences or trade shows. I’ve already made a living selling out so I dutifully put on my cheap suit and Jerry Garcia tie and trudge off begrudgingly to these events.

The room is typically filled with a bunch of guys who all look the same (graying hair, parted on the side, and about 40 pounds overweight) and have chosen to work in a very unexciting industry but seem to be sticking it out because they have to pay for their kid’s college tuition and their next round of golf.

In addition to my avoidant personality, I don’t have much to say to this group even if I did want to talk to them. I don’t have any kids of my own, so why do I give a crap about yours? No, I didn’t see Tiger’s shot on the 17th hole last Sunday. Yes, I’m very concerned about the worker’s comp premiums going up this year. No, I didn’t see Tiger’s shot on 12 last Sunday. Of course I’d love to help, who wouldn’t want to spend their Saturday with the Community Service committee sorting shoes for the homeless. Will it count toward my court-ordered hours stemming from the disorderly conduct charge after I got caught pissing in an alley after the Supersuckers show?

But I’m a sellout to the highest degree. I make sure I wear a clean shirt, trim my beard, pop a piece of WinterFreshMcSpearmint gum, and shake hands and pretend I want to be there. I bring my business cards and listen politely to what they do. Or more correctly, how they earn a living. We’ve already established that they play golf and talk about their kids. Then I grab a fried wonton or three from the appetizer platter and move on.

There’s usually a presentation which I find somewhat interesting for about five minutes, but people feel the need to stretch that useful five minutes of information into an hour plus. About midway though these presentations I have an existential crisis, in which I question why we’re all here and, more specifically, why I’m choosing to devote any of my gift of life to events like this. But I’m a sellout. So I pretend to read each poorly constructed Power Point slide while masking my pain and thinking about all the other stuff in the world I could be doing if I just grew a pair and somehow got myself a lifetime ban from rented hotel meeting rooms.

Recently I was talking about the upcoming Elton John / Billy Joel concert at Wrigley Field this summer with the staff in our office, and how I can’t understand why anyone would pay more than $12 for a crappy seat at a stadium show to see two guys way past their prime. Elton hasn’t been the same since he started hanging out with Princess Di and got adopted by the royal family, and it took all my effort to give Billy the benefit of the doubt even before he started crashing cars as a hobby. Turns out the same subject came up at a trade association lunch that day – several people at my table were talking about what a great show it was going to be and how they hoped to score tickets. Instead of playing a round of Duck Duck Goose with my steak knife on their heads, I just smiled and asked them to pass the ranch dressing. I’m such a sellout I probably started humming Candle In The Wind to serenade them during their meal.

Back at the office, I’d been requested to dial-in to a conference call with our marketing firm. On each of these, an overly enthusiastic account rep discusses the next phase of our plan during which we’re supposed to oooh and aaaah over their brilliance, but it’s nothing that Moist Rub and I couldn’t have come up with if you just gave us some cheese fries and a couple hours. However, Leper Pop doesn’t have a hip loft office in a trendy neighborhood with a dog roaming around, so don’t mind us.

Their latest idea was to have us put banner ads on the web version of a trade publication. The conversation went something like this:

Brilliant Marketing Firm: So if you go to the website www.boringtradepublication.com and look on the right side of the page you should see an ad for Large Conglomerate, Inc. Is everybody there?

Sid: No.

BMF: Are you on the page?

Sid: Yes.

BMF: Then you should see the ad on the right.

Sid: No, I have ad-blocking software so I don’t have to see annoying banner ads.

BMF: Hrmph.

Sid: Fine, let me disable it.

BMF: So we could design a similar ad for your firm.

Group: Ooooh, aaaaahhh.

BMF: And then we can design a landing page for when they click on the ad.

Group: Won’t it just go to the website we already paid you all that money to design for us?

BMF: No, the ad will tell a story and then the landing page will be a continuation of the story when they click on it.

Sid: Assuming that anyone clicks on it or doesn’t have it blocked.

BMF: We get metrics showing the number of clicks.

Group: Ooooh, aaaaaahhh.

Sid (thinking to self): I give up. The only people clicking the ad are marketing firms to analyze the design, employees after we send them the link to check out, and competitors to see what our marketing firm is doing for us. Yes, the marketing firm that asked me what kind of tree I would use to describe myself.

Sid (aloud): Oooooh, aaaaaahhh.

So to Led Zeppelin (Cadillac), The Who (Cisco, Hummer), Rolling Stones (Microsoft)… I forgive you.

Saturday's Child

2009-02-25T23:20:00.002-06:00

I went through a period about 12 years ago in which I always had a roll of Certs handy. I think it lasted three months, at which time concerned friends and family staged an intervention to help thwart my growing Retsyn addiction. I only mention this because today you get not one, not even two, but three, three, three posts in one.

What A Bunch Of Pricks

Last Saturday morning started with my first acupuncture appointment. Get it? Pricks? I’m friggin’ hilarious. So if you remember a couple years ago I concocted that whole cancer story for financial gain? And instead all I got were prayers, a Crystal Bernard pillowcase and a pooping pig keychain. Next time I need to be more specific and request cash when I try to scam you guys. I mean, I even went through chemo and radiation to give the story credibility and destroyed my thyroid and salivary glands in the process. Now the docs have given me prescriptions for the side effects but I can’t afford to fill them so send me cash.

I’m joking, of course. I have plenty of cash since I’ve been embezzling all the blog proceeds from that lame Google advertising thing – that’s why Moist Rub thinks we’ve only made $5.45.

The thyroid thing is no big deal – I pop a cheap pill each morning and no worries. Just like a hungover sorority broad.

The salivary gland thing is a little more complicated because that pill not only stimulates the salivary glands but also stimulates the sweat glands. Meaning that a dose large enough to generate enough spit to lick a stamp makes me look as if I just stepped out a Bikram yoga class.

All I know is I paid $40 to some American guy who went to an Oriental medicine school to stick three pins in my face, one in each foot, two in each leg, and three in each arm. Then he told me to relax for 30 minutes with the other dopes sitting around with pins sticking out of their body parts. He comes back, takes them out and tells me to come back next week. Unless I end up with more spit than the floor of a major league dugout in the next week, I’m not sure I’m sold on this acupuncture deal. I’ll keep you updated.

Blades of Glory

As soon as I returned from the clinic it was time to go to the Ice Capades. It’s really not my first choice for entertainment on a Saturday afternoon. In fact, I’m not sure it would make the top 100. It would probably fall somewhere in between shopping for a toaster oven and putting my t-shirts in alphabetical order. But Mom really digs figure skating and she was kind enough to carry me around for nine months and put up with me for 18 years after that, so I got her tickets to the Smucker’s Stars On Ice tour. I let her know she didn’t have to take me and the Mrs, but for some crazy reason she likes hanging out with us and insisted we attend. Or maybe we pissed her off somewhere along the line and she was punishing us. Regardless, we got her to the arena and prepared for the worst.

It delivered. There were throngs of tweens with their bedazzled cellphones in the crowd. There were senile old women with Dorothy Hamill haircuts looking for Dick Button. There were Asians traveling in packs of no less than five. As far as the show, there were cheesy introductions to most of the skits (routines?). Sparkly costumes that would be humiliating to the normal person. And the routines were sorely lacking in the triple toe loop – double salchow combos for which I was hoping. Even the biggest “star” that I recognized – Sasha Cohen – fell on one her jumps (apparently you’re not supposed to laugh) and exhibited the charisma of a barber’s pole. People say the same about me, but I’m not the one with the lucrative Smucker’s contract.

Okay, so there was a dude that did a back flip a few times. That was impressive. And there was French-Canadian couple (or are we still calling them Freedom-Canadians?) who tossed each other around the ice without crashing. Also impressive.

But the gayest blade moment came after intermission (yes, intermission since the excitement level was getting out of hand and we needed 20 minutes to calm down), when all the male skaters welcomed us back in black leather pants and fitted turquoise shirts for a routine. Before long one of them lifted a fellow skating dude over his head, brought him down on top of his head, and spun him around like a helicopter bringing wounded queens to an icy MASH unit.

At some point I was hoping they might re-enact the Nancy Kerrigan attack in celebration of the 15th anniversary, but no such luck. Why, why, why?

The show ran almost three hours, so dinner turned into a quick trip to Portillo’s before dropping Mom off on the way to our next scheduled event.

Jorma-Be-There

How I got to the next show is a long story and about funny as a heart attack. Back in Dallas I was introduced to a local musician named T-Buckk. I ended up taking lessons from him and we got to be pretty good friends. When we were getting married (me and the Mrs, not me and T-Buckk (Texas kind of frowns upon same sex marriage)), we asked if he would play at our wedding. He not only agreed, but refused to take any money as long as he was free to enjoy the reception. Done. He played Little Wing as the future Mrs. walked ill-advisedly down the aisle, which was actually a staircase near some fountains in a downtown Dallas plaza, he played a couple other originals we requested during the ceremony, and then got swept onto the dance floor by my family during the polka set at the reception. And then, two months later, he died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. Told you so.

There was a swell memorial service for him at Winfrey Point overlooking White Rock Lake – one of those memorial services that people always talk about wanting when they die, but never seem to come to fruition. A casual gathering of friends to celebrate his life, his music, his friendship, hanging out, playing music, maybe even doing some drinking. And after a few words by some of his closer friends, a woman who sat in with him occasionally during his Thursday night gigs at Mick’s gave us an incredible a cappella version of Amazing Grace. That was the last time I saw Ruthie Foster perform.

It’s a moment that stayed with me, and soon after I noticed she began releasing records, gaining a following, and touring the country. Her most recent tour brought her through Chicago Saturday evening, opening for Jorma Kaukonen and Robben Ford. Who? That’s what I said. Turns out that Jorma was one of the founding members of Jefferson Airplane and long-time founding member of Hot Tuna. I suppose I should have known that since I briefly dated a girl who was obsessed with Jefferson Airplane, although I think she was more a Paul Kantner girl. That’s why we had to break up. But I digress.

Turns out ol’ Jorma is a pretty good fingerpicking blues guitarist. Pretty eerie, but based on what I heard I’d bet that my old buddy T-Buckk had some Hot Tuna records in his collection.

Robben Ford is also apparently a respected guitarist with a blues, rock and jazz background, but no jazz hands as far as I could tell. He since formed his own blues band, but was oddly dressed as if he were auditioning for a wandering minstrel role in The Princess Bride. Despite an impressive bio including stints backing up people like Charlie Musselwhite, Jimmy Witherspoon, George Harrison, Joni Mitchell, George Michael, and Miles Davis, I found his band technically solid but rather uninteresting. Not unlike a high-priced escort. Oh, and I was joking about backing up George Michael. Just seeing if you’re still paying attention at this point.

After each of the three played their individual sets, the remainder of the show consisted of various collaborations that went together like a slab of ribs and cole slaw and a cold beer. As long as you like those three things. If not make up your own analogy. Just don’t miss them if they come to your town.

Leper Pop Red Carpet Report

2009-02-22T13:51:00.007-06:00

Personally, I don’t know why anybody should care about who I am, or anybody else is, wearing tonight for the Oscars.

The media has been hounding me all month. They simply refuse to wait until I emerge from my ’68 Chevy Nova and appear on the red carpet to discover how I constructed the delivery of my feigned self. People need to know what is going to happen before it happens so they can plan the appropriate, socially acceptable reaction. Look around to see if other people like it before smiling with acceptance or scoffing in disgust. No sense being an individual. The stars are on display to be judged, praised and ridiculed to the extent of which contemporary, ephemeral standards of eminence allow, from their garments, hair style and choice of escorts to the manner in which they attempt careen above the rest. The efforts behind whatever achievement they hope to be served are secondary to the pose they’ve molded from the compost of insecurity laced vanity that crams their minds.

And those of us who care about all this are just as decayed inside, or worse. These stars are entertainers, after all. Paid by us to entertain us. Hardly more worthy of the magnificence the term “star” affords than anybody else we pay to help us survive. Yet, we allow them to wear this banner of brilliance even though their service to us is no different than the other servants we let. The fast food worker thanks US when serving us our fries and hopes to provide services again to us in the future (whether the "Come again" plea is sincere or not). Shouldn't these actors be thanking us in a similar fashion, instead of pompously honoring themselves behind masks of grandiose insignificance? Yes, but we lick their bottoms, nonetheless. Should we not also lick the plumber’s, garbage man’s and feet scraper’s bottoms? The good ones shine in their own way, but nobody cares what they are wearing when they accept their employee of the month gift cards.

This ruptured value perspective disgusts me. I have figuratively brought myself to a state of internal vermin with this discussion. Consequently, I choose not to be a red carpet star tonight. Instead, I will watch the Blackhawks play ice hockey. But, I also understand that high fashion is an important component in our society, so I won’t let you down. Here is who I will be wearing.

Champion (Authentic Athletic Apparel) – dark blue Toledo Rockets long sleeve tee.

Levi’s – 501 Button fly jeans (women hate dealing with the buttons which is the ONLY reason I never get laid).

Hanes – ankle high white socks.

New Balance – 479 All Terrain shoes

Fruit of the Loom – jockey type grundies – black (it is a formal affair, after all)

The Lord of The Flung Dung

2009-02-17T23:23:00.007-06:00

I admit it. I am a Lord of the Rings nerd. Dork. Dweeb. Whatever you want to call me. I’ve read the books multiple times, I attended the opening midnight showings of each of the three movies released earlier this millennium, and I refer to my penis as Treebeard. As much of a LOTR squid that makes me, I don’t consider myself one of those insane Tolkien gargantuageeks. I mean, it’s not like I garbed up Gandalf-like when I saw the movies or immortalized my devotion with a “Frodo Lives” tattoo on the small of my back (not a permanent one, anyway) or shun the movies because they betrayed the integrity of the books. I understand why Peter Jackson chose not to include Tom Bombadil or why he enhanced Arwen’s role in the story or why he ignored the scouring of the Shire. Screenwriters must make some concessions when adapting books to film. What works in the mind does not always behoove the visual experience. The modifications made for the movies were understandable.

WOULD IT HAVE KILLED HIM TO INCLUDE MORE OF THE DISCUSSIONS BETWEEN FRODO AND FARAMIR IN ITHILIEN!?!?!?! I mean, Jeez! OK, OK, I don’t mean to complain. I understand Faramir and Frodo’s verbal chess match does not necessarily translate very well to the big screen, even though it did illustrate Frodo’s emerging maturity and Faramir’s wisdom and ability to be much more of a hero and a leader than Boromir could ever be, no matter what that loony Denethor thought of him. Denethor. What a jerk that guy was. And there is no way he could have run, on fire, from the Minas Tirith tombs all the way through the Citadel and over the outer edge of the giant spur of rock. Sure, it was dramatic and served as a nice transition back to the battle in the movie, but the tombs were about a mile back toward the mountain. Who does he think he is, Joan of Arc? You can’t trick me.

But I did like some of the additions they incorporated, like Sam’s monologue of hope at the end of the The Two Towers. Oh, and near the end of the Return of the King, when all the people of Minas Tirith were gathered on the giant spur of rock for the coronation of Aragorn, and then Aragorn and his party approached the four hobbits and the four hobbits began to bow, but Aragorn stopped them and said, “My friends, you bow to no one” (for all their heroics in the battle against evil), and then everybody bowed to them instead. Every time I see that I feel like I’m swallowing a hockey puck, and, I’m not afraid to say it, tears of joy tumble down my cheeks.

Maybe I am one of those gargantuageeks, afterall (a closet one, anyway). But there was one thing they omitted from the movies that needed to be included. I don’t blame Jackson for it, since Tolkien, himself, chose not to include it in the story. I refer to, of course, the scenes featuring the Mumakil of Harad, aka the big, giant elephants. It’s been my experience, mostly in zoos and circuses (and sometimes at the grocery store) that whenever there are elephants, there is elephant shit, and usually a couple of guys with big shovels. Where was this significant aspect of elephant culture in the story of the one ring to rule them all? It seems too critical a dynamic to ignore.

Through some research I learned that Tolkien had initially used the presence of the Mumakil (Oliphaunt) dung as a crafty tool of warfare in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. In this version, Sauron had instructed cave trolls with big shovels to follow the Oliphaunts, scoop their droppings and deliver them to the catapults, where they would be launched over the stone walls of Minas Tirith. Some dung bombs would even be set afire. There is nothing more discouraging to an enemy than being hit by giant chunks of flaming shit. It’s the first thing they teach you at West Point. This element worked fabulously in the battle scene and added a fresh dimension of strategy to the struggle between evil and good. But, during a bender at one of the local pubs, Tolkien’s pious zealot of a friend, CS Lewis, talked him out of it, convincing him that if god wanted them to write about feces, he would have placed our anuses underneath our chins. Tolkien was so drunk at the time, he believed Lewis and deleted the crap the next day (after the prostitutes left).

Imagine how more riveting The Return of The King movie would have been had this element not been flushed away. The action in the events in the battle scenes would have been enhanced beyond comprehension. When Merry and Eowyn were riding the horse amongst the tree-trunk-like legs of the Oliphaunts, not only would they have had to dodge the Oliphaunt legs, and the trunks and the tusks and the arrows and the orcs, they would have had the added peril of being squashed by a suffocating load of steaming pachyderm pie. If that doesn’t get your palms sweating, I don’t know what would. Consider the tide turning scene where the big chief Nazgul had Gandalf cornered on an upper tier of Minas Tirith. The Nazgul had already destroyed Gandalf’s staff and was about to end Gandalf, too. But the Nazgul was called away by the tumult caused by the arrival of the Riders of Rohan and their crazy attack horn (like the Nazgul couldn’t take an extra couple of seconds to pound the cowering Gandalf before he flew off to tame the equestrians, with their goofy felt covered caps and shiny boots and intimidating dressage whips). Wouldn’t it have been more interesting if, at that pivotal moment, the Nazgul was hit accidentally by a friendly fired mound of flung poop? I think so. Not to mention the ominous foreshadowing it would have made regarding momentum of the battle. Later when Merry would stab that same Nazgul as he was about to sack Eowyn, a little comic relief could have been added if, instead, Merry pelted him with Oliphaunt dung balls. Right when the annoyed Nazgul would implore, “Would everybody stop heaving shit at me, PLEASE!”, Eowyn could have taken that opportunity to stab his face. The result would have been the same, but we all could have had a chuckle as we wept for the dying Theoden king. As is the case with incorporating bathroom humor into any epic, the possibilities for entertainment are endless. Tolkien should have stuck with his first instinct.

My Wife Is A Whore

2009-02-16T21:15:00.002-06:00

Well, at least according to one of the schizophrenic patients in lockdown at the psych unit where she’s currently rotating. I know the stripper heels, assless chaps and sports bra she normally wears to the hospital may give that impression, but her dress is only a reflection of her insecurities and not of any whorish behavior of which I’m aware. I suggested sneaking patients out to a ballgame might help them bond – it worked in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. But Wrigley Field is closed for the season and the patients’ anti-social behavior might even be considered boorish by Cubs fan standards.

Which brings me to the point of this post (as if any of these posts ever have a point)… a rare lesson in semantics. Despite a string of English teachers in high school who took the enjoyment out of writing and literature, I try to pick up a book once in a while and try to get things right when I write despite an unhealthy volume of both sentence fragments and run-on sentences. As the great Steve Martin has said, “Some people have ways with words, and other people just not have ways.” Or something like that. But I digress.

Now anyone reading this blog regularly, or even just the last post, probably recognizes that most people annoy me and I don’t go out of my way to talk to people. But those same people inexplicably seek me out despite my scowl and air of indifference. I can sit on the beach with headphones on and a hat pulled down over my eyes, and a 20 year old blonde girl in a bikini will ask me to watch her backpack while she goes for a swim. And then tell me all about her bike, how she got the bike, and the triathlon for which she is training. I go to the bar at lunch and the bartender tells me all about her kids, her ex-husband, her current boyfriend and their military service when I simply asked for some ketchup. I mention a concert to a friend on the train, and suddenly half the train car is treating me like their social director, asking details about the band, the music, the venue, directions, and what they should wear. It’s all an endless source of amusement for those who know me. But again, I digress.

Bottom line is that I frequently classify myself as unsocial or asocial. However, many folks try to tell me that I’m anti-social. Wrong. According to the American Psychiatric Association the key feature for antisocial personality disorder is “a pervasive pattern of disregard for, and violation of, the rights of others that begins in childhood or early adolescence and continues into adulthood." Also, three or more of the following are required (at least according to Wickipedia, which we all know is written by slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes (or is that myspace?)):

1. Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest;
2. Deceitfulness, as indicated by repeatedly lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure;
3. Impulsivity or failure to plan ahead;
4. Irritability and aggressiveness, as indicated by repeated physical fights or assaults;
5. Reckless disregard for safety of self or others;
6. Consistent irresponsibility, as indicated by repeated failure to sustain consistent work behavior or honor financial obligations;
7. Lack of remorse, as indicated by being indifferent to or rationalizing having hurt, mistreated, or stolen from another.

It’s a good thing I lack the key feature, because I nailed numbers 1, 2, 3, 5 and 6.

1. I routinely roll through stop signs, risking arrest by an overzealous traffic cop.
2, I think it’s obvious Sid F’er is not my real name.
3. I ran out of floss this week, clearly an indication that I fail to plan ahead. And I probably flossed impulsively after a meal in addition to my normal bedtime flossing.
5. I repeatedly stick Q-tips in my ears despite being warned not to and I encourage others to do the same. I also ride my bike to work and encourage others to ride in traffic.
6. I have a parking ticket from 1992 on my record for which I still owe $50.
2. I lied about #6 just to sound cool. I paid the ticket last month.

I don’t fight anymore (#4) because I got tired of getting my ass kicked. At a minimum I usually dislocate the ring finger on my right hand. And I do feel remorse (#7) even when people have it coming.

But none of that matters because I still lack the key feature of antisocial personality disorder so stop calling me antisocial or I’ll kick your ass and eat your dog.

Now the Mrs., on her psych rotation, when not being called a whore or being told by another patient that she is going to get her fired for not pulling her hair back in a ponytail, is learning how to properly classify all the nutcases in her life and has confirmed that it’s not antisocial personality disorder from which I suffer, but merely avoidant personality disorder (and that affinity for run-on sentences). There’s a whole other set of criteria for APD, but I won’t bore you with more of my drivel. It can only lead to reinforcing my pervasive pattern of social inhibition, feelings of inadequacy, extreme sensitivity to negative evaluation and avoidance of social interaction. Thank you for your understanding. Please don’t hate me.

Rhett Miller at Fitzgerald's - 2/6/09

2009-02-09T21:15:00.004-06:00

Rhett Miller was coming to town. That didn’t mean much to most people around here, but I put it on my calendar and started recruiting friends to go to the show with me. I think I would have had more success asking them to come to dentist with me. At least they might get a free toothbrush out of the deal. Eventually Sr. Cojones stepped up and said he was interested. I had to promise him a free toothbrush, but at least I had a date.

Despite my asocial tendencies, I left work with two co-workers that evening and they insisted on taking the train with me, even though it would likely add several minutes to their commute. The train was full and standing room only and we started talking about our weekend plans. I left out the stuff about waxing my chest and making little outfits for the squirrels in my neighborhood in case I’m ever lucky enough to catch one. Instead I told them I was going to see Rhett Miller. No, not Bret Michaels. Who? You know, Rhett Miller, the singer for the Old 97’s. Then all hell broke loose.

A girl standing nearby asked, “Did you say you were going to see the Old 97’s?”

Another guy chimed in, “Where are they playing?”

From behind another commuter inquired, “What kind of music is that?”

By now, my co-workers, well aware of my general disdain of the general population, were trying not to laugh their asses off at my newfound glory.

The questions continued and I fielded them with the efficiency of the White House Press Secretary, blowing through them like Kobayashi blows through hot dogs at the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest.

“No, I’m going to see Rhett Miller, the singer from the Old 97’s.”

“Fitzgerald’s in Berwyn – just west of the city on Roosevelt Road.”

“About 20 minutes west, Google it, dude.”

“Alt-country, not classic country – get the wax out, buddy.”

“$20.”

“9:30 p.m.”

“I don’t know if I smoke after sex, I never looked.”

“Marinate in orange juice for a minimum of four hours, then cook slow and low.”

Eventually the inquiries slowed, I signed a few autographs, and settled into a vacated seat to recover from the unexpected deluge of social interaction.

After arriving home, I changed into my finest alt-country show wear (jeans and a t-shirt - same thing I wear to every show) and made the 30 minute drive out to Fitzgerald’s. The streets seemed unusually crowded and I noted that I had to park a block further away than normal. Do you see this one coming yet?

Yep, I arrived to find a sign on the door that simply said, “Rhett Miller – Sold Out.”

I bet those buttinskis on the train got the last tickets.

Subliminal Monkey Balls

2009-02-06T19:15:00.009-06:00

“GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!”

The above caustic incantation is how I perceive most advertising. Whether it’s an infectious baby on a web cam or a bearded fool clamoring bloated portrayals of junk or a magazine ad formatted to look like an article or a magazine article written in a covertly advertising manner or a pop-up ad, which I don’t even look at, but if I did I would make a note never to patronize that company for interrupting my on-line Old Maid tournament, or a television crawl about a doorknob millionaire matchmaker show featuring a dopey looking Cher-oid beast making faces at me and ruining the moment when I was about to weep because Will Hunting had just reached an epiphany as he hugged his therapist, Mork from Ork, or a guilt-trip, zippy radio bit about donating my car to help kids I don’t even know (how the hell am I supposed to get to the bar?) or the deluge of other dickering disruptions that are hurled at me each day, “GIVE US YOUR MONEY!” is all I hear. It makes me want to dip my head into a boiling pot of goulash and keep it there for like an hour, but then the goulash will become over-reduced, so I don’t. You shouldn’t boil goulash. I do like that one dude on those Miller High Life commercials. “Y’all must be crazy!” Ahhhh, it never gets old. It doesn’t mean I’ll drink the product. It doesn’t mean I won’t, either. Advertising, although seemingly a necessary festering abscess in our beloved capitalistic economy, is the festering abscess of society, and I loathe anybody associated with it, especially those who sell out to it – no matter how fetching the term “Frosty Favorites” is.

So why the hell are there Google Ads on this page? That is a fair question. The easy answer would be that it is Sid’s fault because he has no scruples. Or manners, for that matter. But, that is not the correct answer. We here at Google Pop have taken a lot of good natured ribbing over the years for having sold out by placing Google Ads on our quaint little blog. And rightly so, although the sticky bombs tossed at my station wagon were a little excessive – they destroyed my custom Never Ending Story paint job. We only did it to become Internet millionaires, and why wouldn’t we? It is a noble cause. And we are well on our way. So far, we’ve amassed a prodigious $5.45 (and that’s after only 16 months). On cyberpaper, that is. We have yet to be paid, and we won’t be paid for quite some time.

The Google pimp does not fork over the dough to its bitches until the dirty whore of a web site has generated at least $4,938,338.82 worth of user clicks. The good news is that when we finally get the check, we’ll be a millionaire. The bad news is, by that time, we will be dead. A dead millionaire, but dead nonetheless. But a millionaire, nonetheless, too. It’s a yin yang kind of thing. Unless you like being dead, then it’s a yin yin thing. Or a yang yang. I can never remember which is the good one. Personally, I like yang. I’m a yang guy from way back. I am so imbued with yang, people think I won the Nobel Prize for physics in 1957 (I actually won it in 1983 for discovering the tri-sexual duality of tau neutrinos). I also walk funny.

Part of the soul selling deal with the Google is that we are not allowed to coerce our visitors into clicking the ads, which makes sense since their flashy designs should be enough to attract ravenous online shoppers. Or at least dumb people with some cash to throw away. Nor are we allowed to click the ads ourselves. Why would we? We don’t need any of that crap. Nobody does. So, don’t click on the ads. We don’t need the Google police sending us on the lam again, and you don’t need the crap they promote, either. Take your money, and do something useful with it, like buy a monster truck from GM.

So, if it’s going to take forever to get paid by Google, and the ads suck, why do we display them on our site? Another fair question. One might think it’s because of Sid’s lack of scruples. Good guess, once again. But, wrong, once again. The truth is they can be entertaining and a source of inspiration.

Google has some kind of outlandish database sorcery that sifts through the words in our blog and tries to match them to key words in their table of skulking vendors and then serve up their ad in the designated areas on our site. The assumption is what we’re writing about is of interest to whomever is reading it, and the readers also may be interested in purchasing something related to that topic. We all know that nobody who happens to be reading this blog is even remotely interested in what we are saying. Thus, Google’s underhanded, know-it-all scheme is foiled, which is just plain funny. We sure fooled them. The lack of clicks generated so far is proof of that (it certainly has nothing to do with the amount of traffic to this place).

These ads also help us guide the content of the blog, as we attempt to generate silly and useless ads by writing about silly and useless subjects. Do you think Sid WANTED to write about cow pissing? Do you think I WANTED to write about scratching my crotch? No. What kind of dunderheads would write about that? He was trying to elicit a bovine diaper ad, and I was going for a Sarah Palin ad – both of which we feel are hilarious. Let’s face it, it’s not easy for either one of us to come up with ideas to write about, and we’ll take all the help we can get.

Have you ever wondered why you feel like monkey balls after reading one of our posts? It’s because we’ve subliminally infused the idea of monkey balls throughout most of the writings using fiendishly placed letters and special polyfollic fonts. Unfortunately, our tactics may be beyond the intuition of the Google sorcery, and we have yet to have realized an ad for simian testicular enhancement surgery. But, we have not given up hope and will forge ahead with our quest. We hope you have as much fun with the Google Ads as we do.

Advertising is not informative nor is it there with your best interests in mind. Don’t believe anything it tells you. Its only purpose is to nab our cash. It is a pest. It is a violation of our right to be left alone and make asinine purchases of our own volition. It is also unavoidable. So, we might as well have some fun with it. And, monkey balls.

Busting A Cap In Your Ass

2009-02-05T21:28:00.002-06:00

I was watching CNN Headline News when a Nancy Grace promo came on and she said, “When you point the finger at someone else you have four fingers pointing right back at you.” Not really, Nance. I tried it and there were three pointing back at me but a thumb kind of pointing off into nowhere. So either you have a very deformed thumb or you just need to give it a rest already. My thumb is just fine. In fact, I may hitchhike to work tomorrow just to prove it. If I disappear maybe she can take up my case. Just don’t point out the creepy guy whose rusted out Chevy Impala you last saw me getting into. You’d just be implicating yourself.

Sid: I need a bigger bed.
Mrs: Do you need a California king?
Sid: No, I want an Alaska king.
Mrs: Is that bigger?
Sid: Yes, of course.
Mrs: Why do you need an Alaska king?
Sid: So I can have crab orgies.
Mrs: That doesn’t even make sense.

I don’t think I sold her, but I did convince her to go out for crab legs that evening. She even let me come along.

I saw a girl on the train the other day who looked very annoyed – as if she just found out the clothes she bought last week had just gone out of style.

I was invited to a party at the Sears Tower, but it was only on the 67th floor. Why bother? Go big or go home. Unless you’re buying a new cellphone. If you get a big cellphone then all your friends will be using the old “the 1990’s called, they want their phone back” joke. And then you’ll punch them in the face and say something stupid like “your girlfriend called, she wants her Rick Springfield cassettes back.”

If you are a Type II diabetic, a part-time job at McDonald’s might not be the best career choice for you.

I don’t know if you know this, but cyclists call their matching spandex short and jerseys “kits.” As if you need another reason to make fun of them. [Ed. Note – although I am a cyclist I never wear matching clothes and would never call it a kit.]

Being the big-shot business traveler that I am, I was recently staying at a Holiday Inn Express. I normally take the stairs to work off my road diet which typically consists of mounds of buffalo wings, vats of chocolate mousse and large pewter goblets of cherry limeade. But I digress. I had a room right next to the elevator and had to stop in the lobby so decided to take it from the 2nd floor. As the doors opened a dude from the 3rd floor stepped off thinking he was on the 1st floor. So who’s driving the bus? But anyway, he steps off looking like he’s in the twilight zone and can’t seem to comprehend that he’s on the wrong floor. Finally I grabbed him by the collar and threw him back in the elevator and told him to step it up a notch – he’s staying at a gosh darn Holiday Inn Express – hasn’t he seen the commercials?

Is there any band in America right now who makes you want to move to a third world country to minimize the chance of ever hearing their songs again more than Daughtry? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

And finally, due to the current economic situation (and to avoid feeling left out) Leper Pop is announcing the layoff of 4,000 readers. We believe this is a temporary yet necessary step to insure the long-term viability of Leper Pop. We also thought we were going to have to fire our intern, but she quit when she found out our dress code consists of a beekeeper’s hood and leg warmers. Thank you for your continued support and understanding during these challenging times.

What a Waste

2009-02-03T17:34:00.003-06:00

I keep a waste paper basket by my desk. I’m not sure why I call it a basket. It’s more like a can. It is a can. It’s a waste paper can. While I do toss waste paper into it, I also deposit most non-food type waste into it, too, like expired pens, pieces of broken toys, errant staples, cracked vials, tar, fine china and, of course, non-edible parts of park benches. The majority of its transitory load is waste paper. So, it will remain named a waste paper can, because waste paper et al can sounds cumbersome.

I crinkle each slice of waste paper in a ball, sometimes boisterously, other times with the lackadaisical effort of a sleepy child, and heave it into the metallic refuse purgatory where it waits until enough waste paper (et al) accumulates to spark my domestic tending mode when I empty it into the recycle bin. It resides there until its eventual delivery to the curb to be taken somewhere out of thought by the big, mean recycling truck driver.

It’s no small feat, this heaving of crinkled, useless, dried pulp. My waste paper can sits behind me, to the right, partially obscured by a bookcase. An accurate shot takes guile and cunning and a masterful reverse, no-look hook shot. Kareem Abdul Jabbar would chortle with envy if he could see the ease in which I fling the waste. Most of the crinkled balls end up on the floor. I put them right back up with a fade away jumper while falling backward over the couch. On my way back to the desk, I retrieve the paper from the floor after the second shot and place it carefully into the can. Sometimes, the rim of the can gets in the way and the paper falls back to the floor. The waste paper is not an easily tamed beast.

Oh, what a waste, that waste paper. I have no other use for it.

44 Lines

2009-02-01T11:25:00.005-06:00

No, it's not a post about my firsthand experience behind the scenes at a fashion show. With respect to The Nails and their 88 Lines About 44 Women, I present 44 Lines About 22 Girls. Sorry for half-assing it...

I went to a St. Patrick’s Day street party with a girl named Kellie Green. One of my crowning achievements in life.

I never dated a stripper but went out with a girl who bartended at a strip club, which is good because I was probably incapable of handling a fully certified stripper.

Speaking of strip clubs, a girl I dated got a boob job. While I was dating her and without telling me. That was a little awkward.

A little rocker chick I met at a party in the 80’s wearing a black concert t-shirt (Metallica, maybe?) ditched the party and took me to a bar that had karaoke, and then she spent the night singing Carpenters’ songs.

I made fun of a girl in college for bringing her backpack to a bar on a weekend night, until I found out she just used it to carry her motorcycle helmet and gave me a terrifying ride home.

I went out with a convicted felon for a while. She wasn’t convicted until after I met her, but I had nothing to do with it. Really.

A woman cop asked me out to a BoDeans concert. It was in a sketchy neighborhood and I asked her if she had her gun. I laughed when she said I could protect us.

I had a crush on a girl mostly because she had a Monte Carlo SS and drove with the seat so far back that she could barely reach the accelerator with her toe.

Whatever your town is best known for, I’ll deem you queen of the town’s festival whether or not you were queen or if there is even a festival. So far I’ve dated the Queens of the Decatur Soybean Festival, the Gilroy Garlic Festival and the West Texas Tumbleweed Festival.

There is an ex-girlfriend from college I’m trying to find, but only because she made the best damn beef barley soup I’ve ever had in my life. But I’m kind of glad I haven’t found her because now it would never live up to expectations.

A girl agreed to go out for ice cream with me after I demonstrated my ability to hold my breath until I turned blue and passed out. I had to try something new since pretending to be from Iceland wasn’t working.

I met one of the girls I dated while getting tickets to a show for my then girlfriend at the time. I wasn’t the best boyfriend back then. In fact, I was pretty much a dick.

I don’t know about Sean Avery, but I can claim Rob Blake’s sloppy seconds.

At a crowded party a girl said “Excuse me” as she passed through and I asked, “Why, did you fart?” She laughed. It was the first and only time in scores of attempts that the line actually worked. I’m not sure she spoke the English very good.

Once I was visiting a girl out of town and she though it would be fun to take me to a local production of The King and I. It really wasn’t.

When the girl you’re dating puts a pinch of chewing tobacco between her cheek and gum, it might be time to start looking for a new girlfriend. I needed the patch after we broke up.

I dated a girl who claims she was one of the final three considered for the lead role in the TV show My Two Dads. She didn’t get it or else I would have obviously said I dated the girl in the lead role in the TV show My Two Dads.

While talking to a rather pierced girl I asked how many piercings she had, and she told me thirteen. Above the waist.

Don’t count on the girl who says she can bring the ‘shrooms to the party to actually make it to the said party.

If you know a girl that can get you seats behind the Bulls bench during the Michael Jordan era, try not to puke on her shoes. At least not more than once.

When you ask a girl if she’d like to dance, you probably don’t want to hear her ask, “With who?”

I met a girl at a Halloween party who told me she was a bookkeeper (in real life, not her costume – that would be stupid). After a couple dates she confessed she was a lawyer but didn’t like talking about it, and nobody asks for details about bookkeeping. True dat, counselor.

Four Rooms

2009-01-29T23:23:00.003-06:00

And four nights. It was an impressive feat for an old guy like me who should be home watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns or making birdhouses in my workshop. But instead I took on a series of four consecutive outings that would make Paris Hilton proud. You know, if she liked doing fun stuff instead of doing those dumbass poses on red carpets or making appearances at clubs playing crappy music.

Night One – Cheap Trick – The Vic Theater
I’ve been hassled for liking these guys before. But how can you forget the magnetism of Robin Zander or the charisma of Rick Nielsen? How 'bout the tunes? The dream police,
da-na-na-na-na-na. Your mama's all right, your daddy's all right, they just seem a little bit weird…

Okay, so when I saw them at a summer festival a year ago I’ve never seen a bigger collection of jean shorts in one place. In a rare scenario, I was like the coolest guy there. But in 8th grade everybody had a copy of Live At Budokan, except for the poor kid with the used Doris Day record, and somehow in the last 30 years they’ve managed not to screw things up too bad. Even though they’re probably sick of playing some of those songs more than a lifer at the Cook County pen is sick of the commissary oatmeal for breakfast every day, they still include every one of those hits on their set list. They add a couple deep cuts for the truly geeky fans. And then drop in a couple new ones in case anyone didn’t know they were still releasing new records. The climax of each show is the waiting to see if Robin can still hit the high note in The Flame. Yes, he can. And they do it without looking bored with it all. (Although Bun E. Carlos looks exhausted by the end of the night and thought they were just going to be playing a few bar gigs when they recruited him 30 years ago.)

Line of the night from Rick Neilsen – after a failed bit in which they brought out a little kid with a miniature guitar who wandered awkwardly around the stage before they sent him away – “Boy, that was a really dumb idea.”

Opening were The Avatars, who just happen to have a singer named Ian Zander. But I’m sure that had nothing to do with them getting the gig. Poor Ian seemed to have a very difficult time coping with his guitar problems and spent most of the set wandering between half-assed vocals and hanging out with the roadies/techs trying to fix his guitar or amp. Fortunately for the crowd, the other guitarist shares vocal duties and the Avatars were a much better act as a power trio without Ian and his silly haircut, skinny jeans and wimpy strumming. Poor Robin must feel like a professional athlete who has a kid who throws like a girl. Oh, and just so you don’t think I’m sexist, I’m not talking about those highly-skilled, empowered women athletes who could probably beat me into submission if they read this. I was only talking about the rest of you girls who throw like, well, girls.

Night Two – The Chicago Bears – Soldier Field

My co-worker has two season seats and after afflicting various friends with frostbite, he needed a new buddy to brave single digit wind chills for a few hours at a Thursday night game that nobody would see since it was being broadcast on the NFL Network. I think you can only get the NFL Network if you find the one cable or dish installer who knows the activation code and you bribe him with a bratwurst and some fried cheese curds.

I reluctantly relinquished my assless chaps and busted out my long underwear. Added some wool socks, a thermal shirt, flannel shirt, ski jacket, ski gloves, and an officially NFL licensed Chicago Bears touque, and I was ready to go.

Unfortunately I was ready too early and got there about 45 minutes before kick-off. Since I took the train, I couldn’t wait it out in my non-existent car so I just snuggled up to a nearby large woman munching a bratwurst and some fried cheese curds.

Getting there early paid off, as the Bears ran back the opening kickoff for a TD and gave me a chance to jump up and down and try to force some circulation into my toes. Midway through the game, meteorologist Amy Freeze (yes, her real name) advised the crowd via the Jumbotron that we should be free of any meteor strikes that evening. What would we do without meteorologists?

It was a great game, but the last thing my toes needed was an overtime period. So the Bears decided the wintery weather was a fine time to hibernate in the second half, letting the Falcons take the lead, and then coming back in the last minute to force the game into, yep, overtime. Thankfully they made short work of the Falcons and sent us on our way before tissue death set in, and I managed to regain some feeling in my feet during the twenty minute walk back to the train.

Night Three – Monte Montgomery – The Morse Theater

I took the festivities back inside the following night to the newly remodeled Morse Theater. It’s an awesome venue, but almost too sterile. Oh, Monte, yeah, he was incredible as usual and I can’t stress enough how you need to go to one of his shows if you appreciate guitar playing, standup comedy or even just plain old rock and roll. But back to the venue. Monte’s music is the kind that’s made to be played in a bar. An old bar with neon beer signs and a gruff doorman and a sticky floor (not the kind of sticky floor you find in a porn shop, you pervs). But there are always a handful of moron sots that pay a $15 cover to try to talk over his set. And they usually stand right behind me. So while that element was gladly removed from the Morse, so were the other roadhouse type elements. So, Monte, awesome, but I’ll defer my verdict on the Morse.

Night Four – The Supersuckers – Reggie’s

I’m embarrassed to say that until recently I was unfamiliar with the work of Eddie Spaghetti and his bandmates. Thanks to a swell bud’s recommendation I made arrangements with Moist Rub to catch their show when they rolled through town on their 20th anniversary tour. What gift do you give for 20 years? Lace? Chinese plastic?

The Supersuckers look like what you would expect from a band that has been on the road for 20 years. Except I think they skipped the whole rehab thing and haven’t wussed out like Aerosmith. They also perform a show reflecting their efforts to not bore themselves to death over the same timeframe. This means they come out and assault you with a fast and heavy sound that has the crowd flashing devil horns, banging their heads, moshing, shotgunning beers, giving each other jailhouse tats, and losing track of how many licks it’s taking to get the the centers of their Tootsie Pops. Then The Supersuckers transition to a country themed set list that has the crowd scraping the Judas Priest bumper stickers off their Chevy Novas and instead mounting gun racks on their pickup trucks while their buddies sit on the tailgate sipping moonshine from a pickle jar. Cha cha cha. Then, just as you’re longing for a trip out to the country to count telephone poles, or as you’re getting really pissed off because you hate this backward ass country crap, they turn the amps back to 11 and finish the assault they initiated at the beginning of the show. Good times.

Reggie’s is right on the border of a neighborhood that began sprouting expensive condos and a neighborhood that is not sprouting much of anything except general plight. It’s a cool place with two venues, a bar and grill and a great record store, but there is also a liquor store with steel bars on the windows next door and a fried chicken joint around the corner with bulletproof glass. But all things equal I’d still think I’d like to take my chances there rather than a night at the Morse.

I also stepped out of hermit mode and shared these four nights with a total of seven different people. I didn’t even think I knew seven different people. Before you know it, I’ll be joining Paris on that red carpet. I’ll be the one with the assless chaps.

I Want Money (That's What I Want)

2009-01-26T23:11:00.004-06:00

In the small claims court system, the people are not represented by two separate, yet equally important groups. They are represented by their own incompetent selves. This is my story.

F’er v. Douchebag Landlord (DL) – it kind of got buried today by the whole Blagojevich impeachment trial. Unfortunately DL showed up for our trial.

If you remember, and why wouldn’t you since you’ve been stalking me on this blog for way longer than is really acceptable, I moved last June. On a Thursday. We returned the following Saturday to finish cleaning, scrub down the kitchen, appliances, bathrooms, vacuum the floors, and I even washed the goddam patio door to really give the place a nice first impression when one walks in the front door. We’re nice like that.

With that we put our parking passes on the counter and slid the keys under the door as agreed upon. I emailed our agent the address of my new hideout so he could return our one month’s security deposit. In July I emailed him again because I wanted the money to purchase a Pocket Fisherman. In August I emailed him again because I exploring my metrosexuality and wanted the money to purchase a Finishing Touch hair trimmer. By mid-August I decided being a metrosexual was too much work and that a Flowbee would be more practical so I left him a voicemail asking where my money was. In a clearly altruistic effort to prevent me from catching a terrible case of buyer’s remorse he kindly had been holding my money and not responding. In September I felt the urge to raise my tool quotient by purchasing an Ed Hardy shirt, so I emailed him again politely requesting my money and asked if “other avenues” to collect needed to be considered. I meant small claims court, but he must have thought I meant I was going to send over a couple of thugs with a ball gag and the cast of Deliverance because he responded. He requested that I please hold off because he was totaling some bills and would be able to resolve shortly. On October 3rd, almost four months after we moved out I received in the mail a check. For $28.25. I know I’m a simple man, but I can assure you that $28.25 is considerably less than our monthly rent. And not nearly enough for that Ed Hardy shirt.

He was kind enough to include some bills for painting, carpet cleaning, and some other crap. And he was kind enough to put his own personal heading over the summary of charges called “routine painting and clean-up, normal wear and tear”. Which is clearly excluded under the lease. So that was pretty much the equivalent of pleading not guilty to murder charges because you only killed the person.

I emailed him again asking if he’d like to reconsider before I take him for an ass-whoopin’ from Judge Judy. He clearly thought I had said Judy Jetson and went back to his intial strategy of ignoring me and hoping I’d go away.

I didn’t, and today was my day in court. It was a slam-dunk case so all I had to do was avoid eating a box of Suzy-Q’s for breakfast and passing out in a diabetic coma. I brought a copy of my lease, a copy of his bills, the email thread showing what a dick he is, and a picture of him humping Baby Jesus in a nativity display just in case things started to go horribly wrong.

I watched a couple cases before mine and the judge was keen on pointing out the stupid mistakes people made that put them in the position of testifying before him. He even asked age, occupation, education and schools. I thought about telling him I had a degree in veterinary technology from that place that advertises on the matchbook covers so he’d lower the bar for me.

Eventually our case was called, I chose to be sworn in on Lincoln’s inaugural bible but they said it was unavailable and I didn’t want to cause a fuss. There were some formalities like introductions, although I was a little thrown off when he asked what ice cream would best describe my current relationship. Eventually things got rolling and I walked him through my exhibits without much problem. I, of course, got chastised for not taking pictures before and after moving, for not doing a walk-thru after we moved out, and for having too much sugar in my diet but it was otherwise smooth sailing. Next up, he passed the defendants some rope and during the questioning they fashioned a noose, placed it around their necks, paged the hangman and got lectured by the judge for being dumbasses. Turns out because he owns multiple units he is considered a “sophisticated landlord” under state statutes (although you couldn’t tell from the ugly ass sweater he was wearing) and held to higher standards, including advising the renter of any damages within something like 30 days and returning the deposit in like 45 days. Don’t quote me on that since I knew I had already won and my mind started wandering to what Crystal Bernard may have had for breakfast that morning while the judge was reading from this law book. Eventually he finished with all that legal mumbo-jumbo and asked if I had anything to add. I had plenty to add but realized that anything I said could only make things worse. If there’s one thing I learned in my decades on this planet, it’s to shut the fuck up when you’re ahead.

He entered a judgment for the full security deposit and my court costs. DL wrote a check on the spot. I drank his milkshake. I drank it up.