Halloween Fitness Program

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, walk to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

(((Ding Dong!)))

Get up, pick up giant bowl of candy, OH MY BACK!, hobble to the door, open it, hand out candy, close door, eat a piece of candy, put the bowl down, sit back down.

This is the most exercise I’ve gotten since I got the runs last month. It feels good to be active. I’ve never felt so alive. I think I should incorporate more exercise into my life. I could feel this good EVERYDAY! These trick or treat children just may have saved my life. Ahhhhhhhh….

z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z...

(((DING DONG!)))

AWW, WHAT THE HELL!?

Dispatches From A Toadies Show

For an 18 and over show, why does one person check your ID to make sure you’re old enough to get in and another person check your ID to make sure you’re old enough to drink? Maybe the goons that have chosen doorman as their career can only handle one “You must have been born on this date in 1990 (or 1987)” sign before they pull a cranial muscle.

Holy crap. People born in 1990 were probably at the show. By 1990 I had already been fitted for my first set of dentures and given up saltwater taffy. I have shirts older than they are. Seriously. They were still wetting their beds when the first Toadies record was released. That’s right, I said “record”. Maybe it should have been a 35 and older show.

Year Long Disaster opened. The son of a member of a significant classic rock band and his buddy drink too much, do too many drugs, go to rehab and clean up and then unknowingly recruit the drummer from a 90’s pop band to complete their power trio. Unfortunately their bio was more interesting than their music. They were loud. They rocked. But all the songs started to sound the same. The guitarist was freakishly tall or the bassist was freakishly short. I didn’t have any other point of reference so I can’t tell. Maybe I should have taken a picture with a quarter in the foreground for later analysis. The guitarist had a thing about pointing at the crowd as if the drummer had been shooting ducks and he was showing us where to retrieve them. The guitarist also had a habit of doing that move where he stumbles around like he’s drunk and has to keep catching his balance. It was cool when David Byrne did it during Psycho Killer but anyone attempting it since then just kind of looks like a bad extra in an old western like Bobby Brady used to watch at high volume in the Brady family room. But I digress. Bottom line is that they weren’t a total disaster and it was only a 30-minute set and not an entire year long. That might have been tiresome. Except for the one guy in the crowd who was totally giving them the rock n’ roll fist pump.


People in Planes was up next and I had already decided I strongly disliked them after spending about 8 seconds on their website. By the time they were setting up I was hoping that their amps would fall over on them and they wouldn’t have the strength to extract themselves. When did bands stop looking like the kind of scary guys who never finished high school and start looking like the kids who got to school early on Monday mornings to discuss that latest Dr. Who episode? I think the dual lead vocalists both want to be Billy Corgan, but they both have as much a chance of achieving that dream as I have of making out with Billie Jean King. However, I almost bought a CD because it looked like they desperately needed the cash for some shampoo and a flea dip. But in fairness, if you were born before this day in 1985, it appears that you might have been born with a gene that allows you to bob your head along and bask in the apparent coolness that People in Planes bear below their extremely annoying surface. Although I can’t help but wonder if half those people bobbing their heads along were doing so just because it seemed like the hipster thing to do. I didn’t get sucked into their hipster vibe and just made fun of them until they took their amps and went home.

I think it was Nietzsche who said, “Bands which do not kill us make us even more appreciative of the Toadies.” Right on, Fred, right on.

As far as the Toadies set, they’re still rocking as hard as they were when we saw them in the summer so if you need a reminder just check out my last review. However, I did like the set list better this time around. But that’s kind of like getting your favorite counter girl at the bakery – either way you know you’re going to go home with a cupcake, but that extra touch is just icing on the (cup)cake.

Even though we were the "best crowd in the last month" VTL said they couldn't stick around after the show because they had to put the pickled beets on the motor boat. My ears were a little shot by then so I may have misheard. But that was okay, because it was Sunday and I had to get the Mrs. home since she has to get up at 5 a.m. or else I think people start dying. I don't need that crap on my hands.

I personally don’t sleep much to begin with, but starting the week out sleep-deprived is like dropping your cupcake on the floor. Sure, you’re still going to eat it, but you’ll be picking carpet fibers out of your teeth for the next couple days. And it’s worse because I can never get to sleep after a concert like that - maybe if it were Neil F-ing Diamond, but after anything rowdier than Sweet Caroline and I need a burrito and some Bailey's to get to sleep. I hear Bo Derek has the same problem.

Ethics of Boiler Ragging

Each year my company requires its employees to participate in an on-line ethics awareness training program. They require this in case one of us commits an ethical sin, they can show the courts it was not the company’s fault since the employee was ethically trained. It protects them from getting sued because they’ve hired a bunch of email porn swapping derelicts, gift-accepting whores posing as managers and coked-up salespeople. And data pirate janitors.

I completed the ethics training this morning. It presented a combination of video and text instruction with pictures of appropriate looking individuals from all races, sexes, creeds and colors. But, surprisingly, no fat people. I guess the fat people in the company only work in the particular office I’m based out of. Multiple choice quiz questions followed each section to make sure the employee paid attention. I didn’t pay attention to most of the instruction. The excitement level caused me to doze a little. When the questions appeared, I chose the least fun or most imbecilic obvious answer, and that was enough to get by. Wait a minute, you mean I’m not supposed to make copies of my co-workers' medical records I happened to come across while breaking into the Human Resources office to find out what kind of raises others received and distribute them to everybody in the company? You got me on that one.

At one of the rare occasions I was paying attention, I heard the austere, yet comforting, but slightly impudently tainted voice of the narrator say that I “am the face of the company”. At that moment I happened to be doing some boiler ragging, which is a polite way I invented to say I was scratching my crotch. From the inside of my pants. My mom used to scold me at the dinner table when I talked about my crotch scratching exploits, so I began referring to it as boiler ragging, and she was none the wiser. She thinks boiler ragging has something to do with my job. In fact, she’s proud of my boiler ragging, and will ask me to tell strangers in the street about it. So I do. And they stay strangers.

So, I’m sitting slumped in my chair, with my hand inside my sweatpants tending the crotch itch, wearing the same crumb, sweat and stain ridden shirt I’ve worn all week, unshowered, and my hair, which I haven’t had cut in about a year and three months, is slumber-combed and in my face, and I hear this man tell me I am the face of the company (I work at home, by the way). Imagine the pride that demand instilled in me. Not to mention the trepidation. THIS is the face of the company? This slouchy, rag-donning, shaggy, smelly, boiler ragging mess is the face of our company? Is this why I haven’t gotten a raise in three years? Who is our marketing director, the Coen brothers?

Luckily, there is nothing in the ethics rules against boiler ragging, as long as it is done discreetly and not on top of other people’s desks. I wasn’t sure about this rule, having ignored most of the training, so I called the Ethics Compliance Office to make sure. The lady who answered the phone happened to be one of the strangers my mom and I met in the street once, so she was well versed in boiler ragging. I hope to see a section on proper office boiler ragging in next year’s training session.

What's the big idea, Google?

I was going to submit a world changing idea to Google to win ten million dollars, but I didn’t want to have to wait until January 27^th to let the world know about it. I figure the sooner people hear about it, the sooner the world will change. So, I’m posting it here, instead. Come to think of it, if you believe in Chaos Theory, and why wouldn't you, the act of me posting my idea here has probably already changed the world. You are welcome.

I have so many good ideas it was difficult to choose just one. After a few walks around the mall, and a purchase of a sick Trigger Finger Skull and Rose tee at Hot Topic, I narrowed it down to two:

1. Boil the oceans to help make it rain.
2. Make sausage with the casing on the inside.

I’ve decided to go with number two, because number two has to do with sausage, and with sausage, who needs rain or boiled oceans?

Oh, and I also thought of robotic toilets that could sense when you needed to go and come to you instead of you going to them, but I didn't think anybody would take me seriously.

Bakeries rock. No argument there. Lard and sugar are delicious.

And after watching the old-school drunk Polish folk rock out to an all-girl pop cover band at Taste of Polonia on a Sunday night, it’s clear that Polish people rock. But I already knew that since I’m half Polish.

So when the beautiful fall afternoon that was yesterday came and I had to choose a destination for my bike ride, I went with the Polish bakery. I avoided the stroller crowd at the snooty French bakery. Rode past the Greek, Vietnamese and Guatemalan bakeries (although all excellent in their own right), and continued through Korea Town and played chicken with the #81 Lawrence Avenue bus for four miles on my way to the very appropriately named Delightful Pastries. Our booty:



Clockwise from the upper left, that would be a loaf of seven grain bread, freshly sliced, a large portion of pineapple coconut torte cake, an almond croissant, and a dozen kolaczkis.

Next weekend we’ll hit the mall for some new, bigger pants.

What the hell happened? This blog used to be so rock n' roll. Now I'm writing about pastries. Check back next week and I'll update you on the tire pressure on my minivan.

I'm joking. Instead I loaded up the minivan with my posse and we went to see the Toadies tonight. I left them some banana bread.

Saturday Night

We showed up with a dozen cupcakes and left with a baggie full of pulled pork.

If The Train's On Time You Can Get To Work By Nine

Since I finally ‘fessed up three months after the fact that I moved, I figure it’s time to share my first three days of urban commuting….

You see, when I was in the 'burbs I lived across the street from the Metra train line, which is a commuter line with shiny new double decker cars, uniformed conductors who help old ladies and say “Good morning, Bob!” if your name is Bob, and clean cushy seats filled with soccer moms and generic looking businessmen who play golf on the weekends (or at least watch golf on television). They read the Daily Herald or the latest best seller on the way in, then spent eight hours downtown pretending to accomplish whatever middle management roles and responsibilities were listed when they got hired, and then do a Soduko or read a couple more chapters on the way home to be greeted by Wally and The Beaver and resolve whatever hijinx they’ve gotten into that day over a home-cooked meal of meat, potatoes, and some sort of veggies or greens. The trains run on a schedule and are typically on time and move efficiently between the stops all for about $3 each way. You see the same people at the same spot on the platforms every day, and after boarding you see the same people in the same car, often in the same seat. It can be very comforting or very maddening depending on how attractive you found Andie McDowell in Groundhog Day. I could walk out the door at 6:27 a.m., ride down the elevator, walk across the street, and arrive on the platform just as the 6:34 was pulling into the station. I’d get a single seat on the upper deck and, just to be a rebel, read Crain’s Chicago Business instead of the Daily Herald. And then I’d pour out of the station with the other sheep to go answer emails and try not to do anything stupid that will get me arrested or end up in the headlines. Good thing our company has a strict policy about hookers and blow in the workplace. They must be pre-approved. But I digress.

The CTA (Chicago Transit Authority) runs a little differently. Other than a set system of train tracks and bus routes, they generally seem to just wing it. Trains and buses are advertised to run approximately every 5-7 minutes during rush hour, which means you might wait 15 minutes for a train or bus, followed by two of them one minute apart. It may be clean as a McDonald’s restroom or look more like the inside of the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina. Expect some delays due to slow zones necessary to keep trains from flying off deteriorating tracks or due to renovations which they cannot afford. You might get to sit next to a sweet-smelling lass and you can’t help but think you might have a shot at girl like that if you were twenty years younger, obviously forgetting what a dork you were twenty years ago. But I digress. You may also get to sit next to a gentleman that has all of his worldly possessions in two plastic garbage bags and, afraid to let them out of his sight, has neglected to shower in the last week. Any given train car or bus has the potential to be a trim palace or a homeless shelter. At the height of rush hour you don’t have to worry about sitting next to anyone since you’ll likely be standing. If that’s the case, hold on and don’t be that guy or girl that keeps falling into everyone else because xe can’t stop texting xe's douchebag friends. All that excitement for only $1.75 a ride.

At my new place, I have the option to ride the aforementioned CTA or another Metra line. The choice might seem obvious, but let’s review:

Metra Pros

Fifteen minutes to downtown, usually on-time, cars and passengers generally clean and free of unusual odors.

Metra Cons

No longer across the street and now a little over a mile away, so that’s a twenty minute walk, and another ten-minute walk downtown. This could be a pro on a gorgeous day, but it’s usually humid enough that I’m sweating like a fat guy in the potato-sack race on the 4th of July or it’s cold enough to shatter a cheekbone. Another con is that whole schedule thing – I don’t like rushing around in the morning or trying to make up time in case I get my head stuck in the Rice Krispie box again.

CTA Pros

Only four blocks away. No schedule. Drops me off at my office doorstep. Longshot at scoring with a 23 year-old Jessica Alba look-a-like, ending up divorced and losing half my shit. Wait, maybe I should move that last one to the Con section.

CTA Cons

Might sit in an unidentified gel-like substance, or break a heel trying to keep my balance while standing. About 30-40-minutes to downtown with no delays. Possibility of riding with a mentally ill person that enjoys yelling “poop” after every stop. Wait, maybe I should move that last one to the Pro section.

The envelope please… and the winner is….

My loyal steed – a two-wheeled 1991 Trek 820 Antelope. But that deserves it’s own post. And I can’t ride every day. And my bike wasn’t set up back then. So here is how it went down my first three days.

My first full day was a Friday and I made an uneventful commute to work on the CTA in the morning. Since it was a nice day, I bailed out a couple minutes early that afternoon so I could buy a 10-ride pass and check out the Metra option. I hopped on the elevator at 12, stopped at 10 to pick up a fellow escapee, went down to 9 at which time I heard and experienced an elevator phenomenon technically known as “thunk”. It just went “thunk” and stopped. Doors didn’t open. Doors wouldn’t open. We pressed 9. We pressed 1 again. We pressed 10. It just kind of sat there like those guys the TSA hire to make sure that nobody tries to get past security by sneaking in the exit doors.

Now if you know me, you’ll know that in a complex dissertation applying the Newton’s Third Law, the Pythagorean Theorem, and the I before E except after C rule, I proved that Heaven on the Seventh Floor is the greatest song ever composed and recorded. And I was just two floors away from living it. I was kind of hoping that Jessica Alba just happened to have an appointment in my building that day and was stuck in there with me. Hey, stranger things have happened. Actually, no. No stranger thing has ever happened. It’s like falling in the mud can getting kicked in the head with an iron boot. Never happens. Oh, wait, she’s got a kid. Kids make me uncomfortable. She’s out. Let me revise this fantasy. Isabella Rossellini. No, too international. (Ouch, I think I just took responsibility for the first Friends reference on Leper Pop.) Let’s go with the old standby – Crystal Bernard. Not that it matters. Unfortunately my elevator companion was a Metra generic businessman type trying to get home to see what Wally and The Beaver have been up to and plan his golf outing for the weekend. After a couple minutes of continued uncooperative behavior from the elevator, I hopped into action and started getting undressed so that I could find the secret escape route in the ceiling and climb out without getting my business casual best all greasy. I guess my companion was a bit prudish and lacked a sense of adventure and instead suggested we just press the call button. Yeah, that’s right, a call button. It’s didn’t even have one of those cool phones in that normally off-limits compartment just below the main panel. I always wanted to use one of those. But instead I just pressed the call button and there was a little built in speaker in the panel. The call somehow got forwarded to a Chinese take-out joint at which point we ordered some pot-stickers and had them kindly transfer us to the security desk in our building. Security first made sure that we were okay. I told him my water just broke, so let’s move this thing along. For some reason he wanted our names and affiliations, so I identified myself as Pudd'nhead Wilson, Esquire and if he didn’t have us out of there in fve minutes flat that I would be suing for the obvious distress this was causing. He continued to check in about every five minutes making sure that we had not passed out, given birth, or used the situation to explore any bi-sexual curiosity. Other than a 23-year-old Jessica Alba look-a-like, I guess I couldn’t have had a better person to get stuck with. He made just enough small talk so that it wasn’t awkward, but not too much that it became annoying. About 40 minutes later there was another “thunk” but in a good way, and the doors opened on 9 where we escaped to another elevator pod and made out way out.

At the Metra station, the only time there are significant lines for tickets is on the first day of the month when all the monthly pass people who don’t own a calendar with cute kittens on it realize that they need a new monthly pass. Seeing as that was a week ago, I was shocked to find a long line of people snaking through the terminal. If only I could find a way to blame this on James Taylor.

I eventually got my ticket, while missing yet another departure, and made my way over to the next train out. Which was crowded with twice the normal volume one would expect. And the bastards were all carrying chairs in a bag. Chair in a bags? Chairs in bags? And coolers. And pic-a-nic baskets. Of course. There was a concert at Ravinia, a snooty little venue in the north suburbs where people take their chairs in bags and coolers full of merlot and brie and listen to adult contemporary shows while talking about the best place to get their Volvos detailed, and this venue was on the same line as my new stop. I eventually survived my ride, made it home on Sunday afternoon and prepared to go back to work on Monday. Okay, so I exaggerate. But if I had been planning to go to happy hour that Friday night I would have definitely missed out on the free hard-boiled egg buffet. Later that night I checked and it was none other than Mr. James Taylor playing at Ravinia that night. I knew it.

Monday morning I went back to my CTA stop for the ride in and just missed a train leaving the station. So I waited for the next one. No biggie. And waited. Waited longer than usual. Even a bit longer than longer than usual. Then heard the announcement. Trains were not coming out to our station anymore. So please walk two blocks east to the next stop. Cool. As I made my way into the next station I heard another announcement – trains will not be arriving at the station, so please go back downstairs and hop on the bus and get shuttled somewhere where there might be trains. Wait. Another announcement – a blue light special on tube socks in the boys department. Oh, and just kidding about the bus thing – there’s a train here now and it will be on it’s way soon. Walking back upstairs I indeed found a train, boarded, and about five minutes later it departed, traveled about 50 feet out of the station, at which point the power was shut off and we rolled to a stop. For about half an hour. Eventually we got rolling again and I made it to the office just in time for my juice box and naptime. Later I checked the news and found out they had discovered a dead body just outside the stop two blocks west of mine. The train I had just missed was the last one that made it through before they shut down that section of track to investigate. I have a feeling James Taylor was involved, but I don’t have proof. Yet.

Tuesday morning I strode to my station thinking it was going to be a good day. I pulled my card out of my pocket, waved it past the scanner and then slammed into the turnstile shattering my femur and embarrassing myself in front of the 23 year old Jessica Alba look-a-like who just happened to show up behind me that day. Turns out the CTA will not accept my building security identification card as payment. I sheepishly put it back in my pocket, withdrew my CTA pass, scanned it successfully and gingerly proceeded through the turnstile. I just can’t figure out how to pin this one on James Taylor.

Pillowcase Sale

Review: Monte Montgomery - Fitzgerald's - 9/20/08

holy shit.





If you need more than that, just re-read my last review. And double it.

Even with a new drummer, they're tighter than ever. Go see them.

Biology Lesson

Last night the daughter and I were studying for her science test, and I asked her what were the two types of biological reproduction.

She smiled embarrassingly and covered her mouth, unwilling to provide the answer. “I don’t want to say that word!” she begged.

I told her there was no need to be embarrassed. These are scientific terms and she must learn to approach the subject matter without any social bias.

She sat giggling, flapping her hands, and still would not give me the answer.

I became a little sterner with her and demanded she answer the question.

“OK, OK, just give me a minute.”

“I know you know the answer,” I said, “don’t think about it, just blurt it out.”

-pause-

She took a deep breath and said, “Asexual and fucking.”