Shoulda Woulda Coulda

Pey Travels the Globe

2010-01-11T18:49:00.001-08:00

Well, howdy, everyone! I am here to plug my young friend Peyton's blog. She was nominated by People to People to be a student ambassador for their Tale of Two Cities program this summer.

It is a huge honor and an amazing opportunity for a twelve year old girl to not only travel abroad and visit various places in England and in France, but to be able to bring just the kind of impression of a young American that we want the world to see. She's not just a good kid and one of my oldest friend's daughters; she's a great student, she volunteers with her church group and has a wicked sense of humor. I'm really proud of her and want to see her dreams come true.

She's been working her little tuchas off with fundraising projects, hustling around her neighborhood trying to earn money doing odd jobs and is applying for a scholarship to help offset the costs. Like any parents who want their kids to participate in such an amazing opportunity, her mom and dads have been doing everything they can to save up. But as we all know, times are tough.

Go on and visit her blog, A Tale of Two Cities and if you can afford to donate a few bucks to the ever-so-convenient PayPal donation link on the sidebar, every little bit will help. It's not going to be cheap, but I really believe that if you can spare even the equivalent of a tasty sammich or a frosty brew, she might be able to partake in this priceless opportunity.

Oh, and the blog is monetized with ads, so click like crazy on every link you see. It costs us nothing and earns the blog money for their troubles. Win win!

Let's help Peyton become a student ambassador, everyone. I have "great expectations" that our girl will be a student ambassador for the Tale of Two Cities program!

Siwash the Duck

2009-11-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

Today is Veterans' Day. Today we remember and express gratitude to the brave men and women who serve and who have served our country, who protect our freedom and fight for the freedoms of others.

But let us not forget the brave waterfowl who also fought courageously, side-by-side with our soldiers.

Siwash the Duck should have, would have, could have been dinner had my grandfather, Francis "Bap" Fagan not won her at a church in New Zealand as a Marine preparing to fight in the Pacific.

What was a Southside Irish Chicago athlete, more famous for his skill on the diamond or in the ring than for his warlike inclinations, to do with a stupid, skinny duck that would probably taste as good as the sole of his boots?

Why, teach that duck to drink beer, fight Japanese roosters and boost the morale on the homefront and abroad, of course.

Unlike his granddaughter, Bap was not the kind of guy who liked to draw attention to himself. But Siwash, that batallion's mascot and Bap's faithful friend, drew the attention of the press. Siwash became a celebrity and my grandfather humbly let that duck, reputed by my mother, Jude, to be meaner than a junkyard dog, take the spotlight.

That's right. Jude met Siwash. That means that Siwash not only survived the raffle which was meant to signal her debut on a platter, but also survived bloody battles on Tarawa, Saipan and Tinian, the treacherous trip home to Chicago and all of the paparazzi attention she garnered along the way.

See the handsome soldier featured standing in the shot? Yup. That's my grandpa, known to my cousins and me as Big Papa. And those are his beautiful sisters, Eileen and Patsy, and his mother, my namesake, the amazing Nora Fagan.

Never was there a less bellicose man. And yet he faced down dangers we can't imagine to protect his children, their children and millions of people he'd never meet. He fought to protect us ... and that silly duck. If that doesn't demonstrate a soft heart and an iron will, I don't know what does.

Thank you, Veterans. Thank you, Big Papa. I love you, miss you, I'm proud to be your granddaughter, and I will forever be your "hainchel." May you rest in peace. And may Siwash, the brave and lucky duck, also rest in peace, stuffed as she is in the Marine Corps Museum.

Time for Change

2009-10-01T14:05:00.000-07:00

Hello. Hello? Is anyone there? I guess that's what happens when you treat your blog like a spider plant. If you stick it in the corner, don't water it and neglect to breathe dragon breath on it while talking to it in funny voices, it kind of withers up and dies on you. At least, that's been my experience with spider plants.

Sigh.

Sorry, SWC.

I think it's time for a career change. When we started this blog, I was starving for a writing outlet. I had some fiction projects that I kept close to the vest, worked on a friend's online journal, submitted a few pieces of fiction to various journals, some of which were accepted and most of which were rejected. That left me with plenty of time and energy to spout off here on the blog. I waxed poetic about food porn, other people's jobs and just about any kind of nonsense that struck me as amusing or infuriating at the time.

Then Slippy came calling with her siren song of copy writing and magazine work. It was splendid! It was marvelous. I got paid to write and all my dreams were coming true. I learned so much about so many things, and had so much fun. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end. That includes freelance writer/editor budgets at small private schools in economic crisis. When there are salaried staff members who are supposed to be able to do what I was doing, paying me doesn't seem to make a great deal of sense economically. I'm still dabbling at Slippy U, but when there's just not a lot of work, what's a girl to do?

I'm still slaving away with the nuns. The novelty has worn off, but dammit if I don't have a wellspring of affection for those gym teachers for Jesus. So, out of a sense of obligation, affection and "what the hell else do I have going on," I'm still working with them.

The library thing, you ask. Heh. Well, that. Have you ever told someone to "Take this job and shove it--I ain't working here no more?" Let me just tell you that although it may reveal a real asshole side to you, it feels great. In fact, I would have struck that off my "Things To Do Before I Die" list if I hadn't pretended to blow my nose and wipe my ass with a paycheck once. That was actually way cooler, especially considering I was a temp and it took them five whole business days to fire me. I am sure there isn't a HR department in the world that wouldn't say, "Send that little bitch packing pronto." I imagine miming using your paycheck as a personal paper product precludes an employment violation lawsuit.

Anyway, it seems my freelance writing career has gone by way of my teaching career (never really started that one in an official capacity), my bartending career (didn't feel like doing that one pregnant) and my internet start-up career (quit it as soon as I had enough saved up to backpack for six months). That is to say, a long-term career path and I seem to get along as well as a chauvinist and a feminist.

That is to say, not well at all.

So, now that I haven't been doing much writing-for-hire, I've regenerated some of my creative yen to blather on about whatever crosses my mind. This whole experience has made me realize something, though: I never wanted to be a chef or a hooker, because I knew that as soon as I started to get paid for doing something I love, I would start to hate it.

Not so with writing.

I haven't stopped hoping that I can get paid to write, and now that I don't have obligations, I can work on some of my own projects that sat fallow while I was workin' it. I'm just sort of hibernating now. So come, join me in my cave. You bring whatever you've foraged and I'll tell some nice stories ...

Inside the World of Library Science and Cultivating A New Passion

2009-07-30T13:47:00.000-07:00

Well, I have just been achieving landmark personal growth. My writing career is REALLY taking off. I get to write a newsletter for a suburban library. Look out, Pulitzer Prize--I'm closing in on you! After writing glowing prose about the library renovation project and the exciting new landscape designs, I am now settling in to write a hard-hitting interview with the director of the library. I think I might have to ask her the classic Baba Wawa question:

If you were a tree ... which tree would you be?

If she laughs, she wins. If she ignores it, she loses. If she answers it with no humor, she breaks even.

In other news, I have recently decided I must golf. And golfing I am. I'm actually pretty good. I've only been out four times, but I am totally hooked. My mom gave me her old clubs, a glove and shoes, I picked up a used driver and I even went out today on my own. It's a lot of fun and I think it's something I'll stick with forever and ever. My parents are both coaching me, although they don't want me to "pick up bad habits" from them. I'm reluctant to point out that I already drink, smoke and swear, so what's wrong with a few technical idiosyncrasies on the links?

Slippy goes back to work Monday. Yay, Slippy! Hopefully she can put me to work, too, but who knows what kinds of crazy changes are going on at the University? Maybe they'll have work for me, maybe they won't. I figure if they don't, it just leaves me with more time to work on my short game.

More Medical Misadventures and Technologically Capable Gypsies

2009-07-15T10:43:00.000-07:00

Slippy and I cruised back to Loyola for more medical misadventures yesterday. After lunching at Windy City Subs and sitting in gridlock traffic for a while, we still had plenty of time to kill before her appointment. As we drove north on Harlem, we pondered what we could do to waste a little time. We soon found our answer ...

The sign read ASTROLOGICAL READINGS, CHARTS and COMPUTER REPAIR. $10 SPECIALS.

How ever could we deny ourselves the pleasure of having someone with cosmic and technological knowledge give us insights into our lives and futures? We couldn't. Despite the fact that the sign said "By Appointment Only!" we decided to take our chances with a walk in. I rapped on the paint-peeled grayish white door of the two-story house and we were invited in by ... well, a gypsy.

Anna looked to be about our age. Her living room was modest, yet nicely furnished. She asked us to wait for a moment, and I checked out her business license framed on the wall. She's licensed as an astrological bookseller. I wondered, was she bonded, too?

Anna returned with a pencil and a pad of paper and began to describe her services. The $10 special includes a handwriting analysis. Great. My chicken scratch was sure to reveal me clearly to this mystic. I analyzed my own handwriting once in a book. It said I was a psychopath.

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

Of course, she tried to upsell us immediately, hoping we would let her fleece us for $30 each for the great honor of having her do our astrological charts (which I have done myself for free, thanks to the fucking LIBRARY and the INTERNET!).

"I want the $10 special; two of them, please."

"Okay, but just so you know, the handwriting analysis really only gives you a character outline," she warned. "I can't really answer questions about your future."

It's a good thing Slippy and I are completely unaware of ourselves and our own characters. Upon walking up to the house, we both agreed that we were about to get ripped off, but we didn't care. We had time to kill, and as everyone knows, time is money. So, my twisted logic led us to believe that killing time = killing money. Besides, does entertainment usually come this cheap? Mais non, mes amis!

"Who wants to go first?" Anna asked.

"I do! I do!" I bounced in my seat. I couldn't wait to get to know myself better.

"Write your first name, your birthday and the first thing you think of," she instructed.

"Nora, May 4. My aura is pink and yellow."

She stared at the yellow slip of paper. "Ok, what does this say?" She pointed at my name. This wasn't going well already.

"Nora."

"Ah, I see. Ok..." She launched into her spiel. "You're going to have a long life, good health."

I began to believe in her powers ... I waited for more wisdom and insight into my life.

"I see ... three children around you. Twins. Do twins run in your family?"

That bitch. My hand itched; I wanted to slap her. "No. Not really," I answered.

She went on and on, using the typical mystical sounding bullshit that is based on her observations of my very transparent and obvious personality traits, but general enough that it can apply to almost anyone.

Then it was Slippy's turn.

She commented on her tendencies toward privacy and reservation; she did touch upon some interesting things with her that I thought were accurate, but again, probably based more on her observations than anything. She promised true love and two kids, which, let's face it: telling a woman with no wedding ring that true love and kids is in her future is probably Fortune Telling 101. If she had said, "I get the feeling you enjoy the stress-free nature of the single life and you'd prefer to be around the children of your friends and relatives, so you could leave after a nice visit, while maintaining a relaxing lifestyle of your choosing," I would have been way more impressed with her insight.

The point is, though, is that we wanted entertainment, and that's what we got. We killed about fifteen, twenty minutes and told Anna we'd TOTALLY come back for our chart readings. She gave us fliers that detailed her services, and we chuckled again at the "computer repairs" amongst all the mystical mumbo jumbo. Ah, contemporary gypsies are diversifying!

We didn't manage to kill as much time as we'd hoped, though, so I took Slippy on a search for Dairy Queen. I wanted a Heath Bar Blizzard, and nothing else would do. We passed no less than ten Baskin Robbins, but I was having none of that. Finally, after touring the western suburbs for a good hour with no luck, we were ready to head back for her appointment.

Hopefully, we are coming to the end of medical misadventures. The doctor said she's looking good, stabbed her with a swab filled with silver nitrate and told her to make an appointment for two weeks later. If it looks all healed up, he said she could just blow it off. Fingers crossed, everybody! This has been a shitty summer for our Slippy, indeed. Fortunately, she has me to drag her into time- and money-wasting misadventures to entertain her until she's all healed up and ready to get back to work.

She's Alive!

2009-07-01T12:20:00.000-07:00

They say no news is good news. That's why I haven't updated on Slippy's Medical Misadventures. She came through the surgery like a champ, no cancer, and all but one ornery ovary intact. It is cause for celebration. I'm super proud of her for being so strong during a terrifying time. We couldn't have asked for a better turnout.

The mass of goo that was determined to ruin her fun was a pesky 10 x 6 x 4 inches and weighed in at almost six pounds. Sometimes, apparently, especially if the ovary becomes cystic, a Fallopian tube decides to twist. When that happens, it can collect blood, tissue and fluids, which is what happened to Slippy.

"It's like I had a small personal pizza in me," she said.

Her surgery was quick, and as soon as she asked for her mom, dad and "sister Nora," we ran in to see her. Of course, that's when a month and a half worth of crying commenced. As soon as I knew she was fine, I fell apart. But only momentarily. Soon she was installed in a room with a nifty morphine drip, cable TV and a stack of magazines bigger than my ass. Between visitors and sweet hospital-grade dope, she was on her way to recovery. In fact, she recovered so quickly from the anesthesia and was moving around so well that the hospital was willing to discharge her the next day. She wisely decided to let the hospital hold on to her for another night, but regretted that when the power went out and her room became a steam bath. But that was only a temporary hitch.

The next day, she said goodbye to Loyola and said hello to a journey of terror at the hands of her dad, Wrangler. Apparently, he managed to hit every pot hole in the long way home. Not fun. But she survived that,too. Yesterday, two days short of her two week anniversary, we got into the Bronculance and went back so she could get the staples out. As Dr. P casually snipped them out, he commented on how one patient requested to keep the staples. Everyone say it with me: Why!? I can understand wanting to see whatever they pull from your body (I was hoping to see the goo, but was sadly denied), but keep the staples? I don't get it. Talk about compulsive scrap booking...

She's still sore, but she got the go ahead to drive, swim and take regular baths. She also has clearance to stay home from work for another month. Sweet! So, it all worked out. Slippy ain't making a comeback; she's been here for years.

Medical Misadventures

2009-06-11T07:37:00.001-07:00

It's been almost a month. I am, hands down, the shittiest blogger in the blogosphere, but I can live with that. Let me break down the last few months for you and then get into the meaning behind the title.

First of all: the magazine is done. I can't say I'm totally thrilled with my work, but I hear that's a common problem with writers. And dude, mediocre actors often say they can't stand to see their own movies, so I guess I kind of know what they're going through now. Here's a link if you'd like to see it. Juderonomy, I have a hard copy for you. It makes for awesome bathroom reading.

So, with all the stress of the magazine out of the way, I was able to fully enjoy a week of shameless, pasty Midwestern boozing on the beach with my Grecian homegirls in Puerto Rico for Nobility's bachelorette party. I may or may not be posting pictures, we shall see. But I will say that we averaged two hours of sleep a night, still got some color, despite the fact that it was PR's rainy season and had the best time EVER. Oh, and I gave up my seat on my flight home and earned myself a sweet free round trip voucher anywhere in the continental US. Where to go, where to go? So exciting.

All that is just lovely. But do you know what sucks? My bestie, my boss, my heterosexual life partner, Slippy, has recently received some disturbing news. She has a watermelon sized ovarian mass that must be removed. She has given me permission to chronicle her experiences and I have appointed myself her chauffeur, secretary and clown. I am one Burberry knicker/vest set and umbrella away from calling myself Farnsworth Bentley.

Since everyone knows going to the doctor is boring at best and nerve-wracking at worst, I have insisted on accompanying her to her every appointment, and she, in her infinite wisdom, decided not to fight me on it.

Of course, the one appointment I did not drive her to, the one appointment where she sat alone, is the one where her doctor referred her to an oncologist. I still want to kick my own ass for not being there with her and have vowed to never let her go to another appointment alone. Ever. So, she had to face the scariest POSSIBLE news alone (cancer has NEVER been confirmed, just treated as a possibility that must be taken seriously), but we learned our lesson from that. I'm her self-appointed sidekick. Why does the fearless and independent Slippy need someone to accompany her to even the most routine visits?

It's no fun to drive through flooded parking lots unless your driver says, "Wow, sure did rain a lot," and then blasts through a small lake with her window open, soaking said driver thoroughly. It's no fun sitting in waiting rooms without someone to gripe, "I've already SEEN this episode of Ellen!"

It's no fun to go to pre-admission appointments without someone who looks and smells like she may have escaped from in-patient rehab and tells the doctors and nurses she's your attorney. It's especially no fun to drive to appointments by yourself when your intrepid "legal counsel" can take you there in the '96 Bronco, AKA, the Bronculance.

We have toured medical facilities from Kankakee to Joliet to Maywood. We have enjoyed food porn after receiving good news and bad. We have witnessed dogs shitting, interns stuttering and twenty-foot injuns wearing spectacles.

My sweet and brave Slippy.

All jokes aside, Slippy has been such a trouper. From the first ultrasound, when she realized that this wasn't just some silly little fibroid, to the most recent pre-admission appointments for her surgery at Loyola, which is to be performed by the the best surgeon the hospital has to offer, she's been responsible about informing herself, getting the best care possible, strategically planning her time off from work and keeping her sense of humor.

It is scary. There is no way around that. But I sat with her when she met with her doctors, who happens to be the director of female reproductive oncology. He's such a bad ass that she's been asked: How did you get HIM? His attitude toward the results of her enormous battery of tests and scans was positive. He has no reason to believe that the mass is malignant, sees no sign of spread if it is, and has every reason to believe that she's going to come out of her surgery better than ever.

Which is, of course, exactly what is going to happen.

In the meantime, Slippy still has to hold her boss' hand while he acts like a babyhead, wrangle her wayward staff and devise a plan for her recovery that will allow her some rest and relaxation rather than more hand-holding and staff-wrangling. Me? I'm just looking for opportunities to help her out, make her laugh and do whatever I can to make a stressful and scary time as easy for her as possible.

So, basically, blogging takes a major league backseat, kids. I'm sure you understand. But stay tuned for more Medical Misadventures. Slippy and I know how to take a bullshit deal and turn it into a journey of discovery and comedy. We hope you will join us.

I love you, Slippy!

I Suck

2009-05-13T10:18:00.000-07:00

Seriously, I am so burnt. I don't know why, but I just feel like I have NOTHING to say.

I'm sure that's just a temporary condition. It's very unlike me!

Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler

2009-04-06T20:13:00.000-07:00

I had one of the most spectacular weekends in my own personal history. Friday night was PHS Palooza, an informal gathering of pretty much everyone who went to Peotone High School and has a Facebook account. I know a lot of people like to bag on Facebook, but if it weren't for Facebook, I would not have found and re-friended a lot of awesome people.

Anyway, an old high school friend's band played there on Friday. Black Cadillac was awesome and Trevor, the bass player, should be credited for getting Throwbacks jam-packed full of crazy people who had a blast listening to great music and just generally cutting loose.

Amongst those people were my old school bestie and her husband. I will call them Pink and Stink Lumpkin. They're the coolest. They both know how much I love Take Nora to Work Day and they both also understand my almost unhealthy obsession with the Cal-Sag and any and all to do with its industrial and recreational purposes. Well, Stink works on the tugs and he offered to give me a personal tour.

What kind of crazy girl would say no to an offer like that?

Not this one.

So, despite our night of tall revelry, Pink came to collect myself and Baby Cakes at Juderonomy's house in the late morning hours. We followed her to the tugs, which, by the way, are located very close to Calumet Fisheries, AKA, the site of Smell My Fingers! The Smelliest Food Porn Ever!

I have loads of pictures and I even have some food porn to write about. I cannot, however, give the story of Three Tugs, Taco Mex and a Toddler the proper attention, as I am just taking a quick break from writing my last feature for my wonderful bosslady, Slippy.

The magazine is going really well. I'm almost all done with my assignments. I have only had to minorly ride my freelance friend who is writing features with me. The work has been fun, interesting, a learning experience in general. When it's published, I shall post a link.

Oh, and the nun's booklet is finally done. It looks beautiful and all of the nuns are very happy with the final product. We won't be working on the second issue for another month or so, so, that's all the news on that front.

Anyway, stay tuned. The tug boat adventure with the Lumpkins was so incredibly fun, informative, adventurous and full of laughs (not to mention topped off with some of the best damn Mexican food I have ever had the pleasure of gorging upon) that I need to devote hours getting the pictures from my BlackBerry to my laptop and confirming the details of the machinery with Stink.

So, please bear with me. I'm working on being a fun blogger again and thanks to the Lumpkins, I am off to a great start!

Lamest Blogger Ever

2009-03-30T12:22:00.000-07:00

That's me. What's up? What can I say? I'm all over the place. Anyway, before Baby Cakes wakes up from his nap, I thought I'd do a little recrappin' here.

Juderonomy and Poohpah are back from their month-long trek to the Deep South. I was starting to think they would never return, but they did and I was sure happy to see them. Funny story. They came over last Monday when I was still hungover from the Ball and my brutal fight with White Castles. What did they bring? White Castles. So, I pulled a Rhianna and got back together with the Sack of Ten. I'm so weak.

In other news, I went to see Mary Poppins the musical with my sister in law, Diva. I just went along because she asked me and I figured why not? I had no interest in seeing it, didn't really care for the movie when I was a kid. But what the hell? I love musical theater, so I went.

It was ludicrous. In a good way. It was tripped out and hilarious. There was a part in the park where some of the statuary comes to life and the costumes left little to the imagination. You could distinguish religions and shit. Diva and I clutched each other in laughter and kept squeaking out the words, "Camel toe! Camel toe!"

Aside from jiggling junk all over the stage, the set design was incredible, the song and dance numbers were hilarious and served as a time machine to our childhoods. I found myself filing away Maryisms for future use. For instance, the next time my boss asks me to explain myself, I will respond with a tinkle of laughter and say, "Why, Mr. Banks, when have I ever explained myself?"

Verdict: Great show. Lots of fun, good for the kids, but there was plenty of male and female genitalia on display for the grown-ups, too.

This weekend brought my favorite city girl, Season, over for a visit. We ate our body weight in Italian deli meats, had cocktail hour and played with Baby Cakes. On Saturday, we returned to the mothership, Ann Sather in Andersonville. I love to binge on the crab cake benedict and the sticky buns. So freaking delish. For the first time in a long time, I stayed home and did homework on a weekend evening. It was nice to wake up Sunday all refreshed. With a throbbing toothache. Son of a bitch.

Yesterday I took two eighth grade girls to the mall to shop for their graduation dance outfits. I must say, the three of us ladies did very well together. Team work and shit. They are both outfitted very nicely. I was able to deflect each and every attempt to hooch it up with an, "I don't think so." Actually, neither of them are inclined to be very hoochie-like, but still. Then I got to have dinner with Mister, B.C. and my cousin's family. It is so funny to watch B.C. play with girls. He's such a little bull in a china shop.

And finally, the last hours of my weekend were devoted to cocktail hour in Mister's man cave out back. Heidi and I had to cut loose and blow off some steam, which we did. It only required one bottle of wine, too, so I feel good today. Aside from this toothache. Son of a bitch!

Anyway, it was a nice weekend of visiting with my loved ones and dodging hangovers. I got a lot of work done and got lots of rest. On a scale of 1 - 10, I give this weekend an 8.5.

I'm going to try to make a comeback. I can't promise anything as wonderful as blogging about cheddar or asteroids, but I will give it a shot. Feel free to assign me with topics. Sometimes assignments are just what I need to get it going, you know? So shit, yeah. That's it. Assign me topics and I will write them. Nothing is off limits. Throw it at me. I challenge you.

You Can Dress Me Up, But ...

2009-03-22T10:52:00.000-07:00

It's not just a cliche in my case, it's hard fact. You can dress me up, and you can take me out; but sometimes you may want to reconsider.

Slippy, Ratherto and I went to The School's Scholarship Ball last night. It was a big, fancy do with all kinds of muckety mucks, including Cardinal George. You would think that his superhero looking cape (good call, Rath) and that goofy hat would be made out of something that looks a little less like cheap rayon. But whatever. I was afraid I might run into him at the bar or something, so I googled it, and if you ever come face to face with a cardinal, call him Your Eminence.

The ballroom was beautiful, it was fun to dress up and hob nob, make soul-crushing small talk with strangers, eat a fancy dinner with Ratherto and watch Slippy win a week vacation in the raffle.

The highlight was letting an old coot take me for a spin on the dance floor and the lowlight was tripping on my dress and falling down. On the other hand, I only fell down in front of Slippy and Roy and I didn't even spill my wine. I think by the time I started getting a little loose lipped, most of the other party goers had reached a certain level of ... uh, revelry and the impact of my usual off-color ways may have been blunted. A bit. Let's hope.

Anyway, I may come back to this topic later, but for now, I am suffering the pain that only too much white wine and 2 a.m. White Castles can generate. I'm paying the piper, kids, and it ain't pretty.

Whatchoo Talkin' About, Willis?

2009-03-15T19:52:00.000-07:00

Can you believe the Sears Tower is going to be renamed the Willis Tower? First Kuala Lumpur comes around with their taller-than-yours towers and now some British outfit is going to buy out the name of the city's most famous building. All we need to do now is make Soldier Field look like a huge space toilet and ... Uh oh. We already did that.

Whatever. I'm not that worried about it. A skyscraper by any other name ... And as long as the health department doesn't shut down the Wiener's Circle, Chicago remains, to me, the world's finest city.

When Life Gives You Lemonz

2009-03-06T12:45:00.001-08:00

I decided to change the name of the bar from its real name to a code name. I chose the name Lemonz. There's a story behind that name change. I totally chuckled to myself when the name came upon me.

It all started about midpoint in my Lemonz career. It was just another weekday shift, somewhere after lunch and before Jeopardy at 3:30 p.m. The usual suspects were there, but we were still waiting on some principles, such as Fess and the hairy, crude, cement-dusty, mostly-related-to-each-other-somehow, loveable-lump construction crew he rolled with. Fess fucked with me relentlessly, and it was usually great, because I threw it right back. It was comedy. Sometimes he went too far and had to wait a hot minute for a cold beer, but we usually got along famously.

My cousin-in-law, Heidi, whom I recruited to work with me, and I were doing our thing--opening Miller Lite after Bud Light after "Whatever's on special today." We were shucking and jiving with our regulars, we were having fun at work. Fess always compared himself to Butters from South Park, referring to the episode where Butters becomes infatuated with a cocktail waitress at a Hooters-type establishment that I do believe was called Lemons. We all cracked up because the flat-chested cocktail waitresses were all sweetness and light on their shifts, but as soon as their time was up, they were like, "Later, loser." It was especially funny, of course, because Heidi is stacked-the joke was on me (and if you can't take a joke about having small tits at a sausage party, then bartending is not the job for you).

So, Fess became Butters.

There we are, mid-shift and in rolls Butters and the boys. Heidi cracks open and places beers before them as I cut the fruit at the back of the island. I delivered my line to Butters. "Hi, honey!" I squeaked, voice dripping with false enthusiasm, like the cocktail waitress in the episode. When I saw them coming through the doors, I had placed two lemon halves in my tee shirt. I strutted up to him with my weird lemon boobs pointing straight at him. "Welcome to Lemons!"

It was hysterical. Sure, you probably had to be there, but it's a memory that still makes me laugh out loud to this day. That was my kind of job. Sigh. So, anyway, now that I've opened the vault on that memory bank, I figured I'd change the name of the joint to protect the innocent and guilty alike. Not that anyone from Tinley other than River reads this, but whatever. Lemonz. Heh heh. Good times.

The Best Burger in Town

2009-03-05T12:09:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a good day--Ratherto just got a new job, so Slippy, Swiper, Baby Cakes and I took him to lunch to celebrate. We all agreed that the only food item that would satisfy our urge to celebrate was a kick ass burger.

Where does one go in this area for a great burger? My old stompin' grounds and former place of employment, Lemonz, that's where. Why, you might ask, would someone who cares about spelling and grammar ever work at a place called Lemonz? Well, like so many of the jobs I have had in the past, this job came to me by way of a friend of a friend.

"Hey, Nora, I know you're not working, and our neighbors up at the lake were talking, they just bought a bar said they needed bartenders. I said you'd be perfect!"

"Dude. I've never bartended before."

"Just go in. Tell Dick Donna sent you."

Well, I did just that and got hired on the spot. It's a dark little tavern and I loved it from the start. It's not fancy. It's not classy. The food is great and it's populated with blue collar men. In short, it was perfect for me. So perfect that a few months into my two-year tenure behind the bar at Lemonz, I met my own blue collar man who would become my husband.

After two years of adventures and misadventures alike, I was practically part of the owners' family. I worked every one of their family events. I was their go-to girl. I brought in my sister and my cousin in law as bartenders, too, and chased off more than one crazy coke whore.

But at a certain point, I had to leave. I personally didn't feel I would be able to continue to work at the bar while pregnant. This was before Illinois became a non-smoking state, and I couldn't stand it. Plus, I was finishing grad school ... it was just time to split.

Of the owners (a man, Dick, his wife, Blondie and Dick's cousin, Fatty), I had frequently butted heads with the master of hot and cold, Dick. Dick's real name isn't dick. He's just such a dick that Dick is the only suitable name for that dick. Dick.

Anyway, once I made the decision to leave, Dick became a huge dick of the "If you're not with us, you're against us" order. Despite throwing parties for every reason, from a regular farting to the cook getting a wart removed from his heel, his parting words to me on my last day were, "Have fun working at White Hen."

This for the girl who busted her ass, helped turn the bar from a skeevy joint into a place where her day-time regulars proudly brought their wives for the delicious food and tavern-y atmosphere, to meet the girl that fed them during their lunch hours, the girl who hustled every shift as though it were her last, the girl who worked their every family party.

What did I do? I cried. Well, I was pregnant. What I should have done was kick him in the balls and tell him to suck it.

Instead, I left in tears and vowed never to return. Despite the fact that I had to to on a cruise with all of them in mere weeks. A cruise upon which I brought my mother and proceeded to have a miscarriage. Blondie was the picture of concern for me as I sat at the baggage carousel in a wheelchair (which Juderonomy MADE me sit in) but Dick? He strutted by me and smirked in my face.

From then on, Dick became not just some asshole I worked for but my sworn enemy. His establishment would never see a dime from me again. Even though I missed Lemonz burgers like the desert misses the rain ...

Anyway, flash forward four years. It's Valentine's day and my cousin in law who used to work with me behind the bar organized a roller skating party at the rink right next door to Lemonz. I reluctantly agreed to go. I didn't want to see Dick, because I doubted I could be civil. As I mentioned, he is my sworn enemy.

Instead, Blondie was behind the bar. She is undergoing an operation that will remove a 275 pound tumor from her ass. That is to say, she's divorcing Dick. Lemonz is now hers. She greeted me with rib-crushing hugs and as I looked around, I realized the sleazy stink that followed Dick everywhere he slimed was no more.

I could return to Lemonz as a patron and not be sick in my own mouth. It was like coming home to a clean house. She made me promise to come in for lunch sometime to see her, and promise her I did. Almost a month later, I stroll into the bar packed with my old day crowd with a day crowd of my own, including my son. Yeah, I know. Babies and bars ... where do I think I am, Wisconsin? But there's no more smoking in the bar, so it's ok. Really.

Greeted again by Blondie, we sat and enjoyed the most delicious burgers in all of the South Side. Blondie took charge of Baby Cakes and let him play with the soda gun behind the bar, put him on top of the Golden Tee machine, let him play some poker--in short, acted like the mom-figure she always was to me.

Lemonz. The place has a dark side, no doubt about it. A late-night, dirty bar whose dark side is actually the color white, but it has a great side, too. It is a home to many people. The place is literally day and night. The day crowd paid my bills, made me laugh, played Jeopardy with me, threw quarters in the back of my pants when I had to crouch into the cave to replace inventory and hugged me congratulations when I got engaged.

The place is filled with people who came to my wedding, who came to my house to eat and drink, who annoyed my husband with knowledge about his life that he never told them. The place is filled with a sense of belonging that I lost when I let Dick make me cry. But that's all over now.

I meant to go off on a food porn rant about how good the food is there. But what I realized is I have so many Lemonz stories I haven't thought about in so long because I closed that part of my mind and heart off, for good I thought. I felt so betrayed by Dick, because I really thought we were more like family than just employer/employee, and when he gave me that smirk while I was at my lowest point ever, he broke my heart. But fuck Dick. He's gone now, hopefully far away. As for me, I'll be strolling in to have another Lemonz burger soon enough.

Davka Says

2009-03-03T22:00:00.001-08:00

I hadn't checked in with The Deer Girl in a while and tuned in this evening for the first time in a few weeks. This post reminded me why I love to read her. Enjoy.

Shocking News

2009-03-02T19:52:00.000-08:00

The media is ablaze with the news that Rhianna and Chris Brown got back together after their public fight/beat-down. Is this shocking news?

Know anything about relationships, media? Abusive relationships?

It's not surprising that they got back together; I think it's fairly common for people to stay together after a violent episode. There's the feeling that love will overcome. There's the belief that the worst is behind them, and they can move on together. Sometimes I'm sure it does work out.

Hopefully they'll get some counseling. Hopefully she'll never piss him off again, either, because that was a bad beating and physical violence usually doesn't get better once it crosses a line in a relationship.

Good luck, kids.

Wukkin Hahd

2009-03-02T12:32:00.000-08:00

Slippy and I are having a business lunch here at the compound. She brought over some mini burgers and some homework for me to do. So, we ate, discussed business and are now trying to set up the School's Twitter page, but Twitter is overworked and underpaid right now and won't let us on it, so we're singing songs with El Bebe and farting around with puzzles.

I can't believe I get paid for this.

In other news, I'm impatiently waiting to hear from the new designer/printer on the nun's booklet project that should have been done a month ago. I never realized hassling people to get results could take so much time and energy.

Sigh.

Anyway, off for another round of The Wheels on the Bus ...

Breakfast in Jail

2009-02-28T07:53:00.000-08:00

Mister wasn't just talking shit. He almost never does. So, we're on our way to the ski hill, and he starts talking.

"One time, when I was in jail, they brought us breakfast. On a tray, you know. And I see this dude, he's putting all the shit together, you know, mixing it all up on his tray. I'm like, what's he doing? Then he's like, BAM!" Mister mimes smashing the tray against the bars. "'FUCK you guys!' he yelled. It was the funniest shit I ever saw."

We laughed and laughed.

Mister has such colorful stories.

I forgot my ski pants at the hotel. We got all the way to the hill, and I realized I forgot them. Doh.

Talk to you later!

Mission Accomplished

2009-02-28T06:07:00.000-08:00

I totally took a lesson yesterday and learned how to snowboard.

Am I good? Um, I need a lot of practice. Can I do it? Hell to the motherfuck yeah.

Later on, after I get some time I will describe the fun lesson that I took with Rib Mountain's famous No. It was supposed to be a group lesson, but the others bailed, leaving the instructor to deal with me solo. Poor guy. When I asked him if he had a code-name preference, he said, "Uhhhh. No." So, No it is.

Anyway, just got done with a lackluster breakfast at the hotel that caused Mister to observe, "I've seen better breakfast buffets in jail." So, now we're going to get our stuff together and go back to the ski hill. I will be working on my toe edge skills. I spent the majority of the day yesterday working on the snowboard equivalent to snow plowing. I need to diversify today.

Wish me luck!

P.S.: Photographs will be forthcoming.

Driving Into Winter

2009-02-26T14:29:00.000-08:00

Mister and I are celebrating four years of marital law. We left the thunderstorms of Illinois and headed into the thick, fluffy snow of central Wisconsin. We're going skiing and I am so thrilled I could easily shit platinum pennies.

First order of business: get off these whited-out roads and get a beer into my husband's hands.

"This is going to be a long 77 miles," quoth he like two seconds ago.

Tomorrow, I shall finally stop being lazy and will learn a new skill. I am going to learn how to snowboard. All these years, I've talked smack about how I want to learn how to do it, but every time I see a ski hill, I want instant gratification. I want it now. So, I ski, instead of trying something new.

That being said, now that I've made a public declaration to all two of you (Juderonomy's in Florida--hasn't even called!), I will rent a snowboard, take some lessons and tell you all how great I was or how bad I sucked at it. I'll even see if I can get Mister to photograph my essay in snowboarding.

Wish me luck.

As for the rest, I'm just looking forward to enjoying the last and best of winter in Wisconsin with my husband. This trip is highly reflecti our honeymoon four years ago today. Kinda cool.

Wait. Juderonomy update. I just got the call from my parents. They're mellowing out on Marco Island with some friends. They sounded so relaxed and happy. Mazel tov to them.

Well, that wraps it up for the moment. But I am not working this weekend, so I'd like to pop in and write a little more if and when possible.

Peace out.

So Exciting

2009-02-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

The honchos at The School I'm freelancing at love the ideas for the magazine Slippy and I cooked up over lunch at Windy City Subs a few weeks ago. They totally went with our proposal and the freelance writer I hired is going to do some amazing work, too. He has taken our idea for his feature and elevated it to a super kick ass level. Now I just have to write a few stories, edit a magazine and voila--I will have experienced the creation of a publication from concept to delivery. Awesome!

It's so Good to be Here

2009-02-18T21:32:00.000-08:00

Know why blogs are better than dogs? If you ignore a blog for a few days, nobody gets hurt.

I have missed writing for myself, but I am having a shit ton of fun getting paid to write and edit for other people while learning a thing or two about creating a publication. My foray into the business end of Catholicism has yielded a comprehensive look at how to create a publication, from start to finish. I even got to hire some people. Me! Imagine that. I certainly have Slippy to thank for that. You're the coolest boss ever! Holla!

But wait, here's the best part. I was informed that it would be best if I worked from home while the office is restructuring. I took that to mean, "We love your work, but we can't stand the sight of ya." It's cool though. I mean, I totally miss seeing Slippy, Chesty, KY and company downstairs, but the chilly snoozefest upstairs where my desk was? Nah. I'm straight. I officially work from home. I can work in my shorts. Who's gonna stop me now?

So, work has been busy, it's true. But there has been a preponderance of food porn in my life all the same. It's not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that there has been so much, I can't remember all the details. It's been a blur, but I will brag on Monday night at Tin Fish. Grilled salmon on a bed of mashed cauliflower--don't hate. Don't even try. What they did to it was awesome. Creamy-lish, all buttery and whipping creamy. I swear, it was great. The fish was cooked perfectly and the sauteed shitakes were soaked in wine. That place is consistently delicious. Praise Tin Fish.

Did I mention the bisque?

The bisque was good. It was sweet, toasty and lobstery. If that bisque were a man, he'd be sponge worthy.

Meanwhile, Juderonomy and Pooh-pah are taking off for a little roadtrip down south, and I am as thrilled for them as I am jealous, jealous, jealous. Green is not a good color on me. Have fun, mommy, and check in with us. Tell us how Key West is and don't let Dad wander off!

I know there are a million things to write about, but my friends, I am just tapped out. It's midnight. I have a big day of working in my shorts ahead of me, so I'm gonna hit the sack. Good night and thanks for reading!

I'm Not Such a Freak After All

2009-02-12T18:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wish I could just be a nice, normal girl.

Other times, I think I'm just that.

After reading this article from Jezebel, which links to several other related articles, I feel so super duper normal that I could just ... give myself a gold star.

Oh, What a Night

2009-02-12T06:51:00.000-08:00

Last night, I went and saw Jersey Boys for the second time. Mister, my sister in-law, Diva, her husband, Dino, Uncle John and Cousin Bird and I all went to Harry Caray's for "dinner," which ended up being drinks at the bar. I got so hungry I started to get angry and just ordered soup and a salad. Lesson one: never promise me food and then fail to deliver it. I get vicious.

The show was better than I remembered it. The story of Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons was meant for Broadway: scrappy hoods cum musicians scoop up a young local talent, don't achieve success until they meet up with another young musical prodigy. Singer and prodigy create a lifelong bond and partnership sealed with a Jersey Handshake. The group manager gets in trouble with the seedy underbelly, the fourth guy seethes in resentment, the group is threatened and the Jersey Handshakes save the day. Featuring all of the songs that you always knew, but didn't necessarily knew who sang them. Falsettos and harmonies through the roof ... This shit is pure Broadway gold, I'm telling you.

One of my favorite things to do when seeing a show is to have champagne at intermission. Well, correction. One of my favorite things to do is have champagne. Which I did. Two wee glasses of Chandon, one before the show and one at intermission. Bubbly makes everything better, right?

Wrong.

When I went to bed last night, I felt fabulous-- minorly buzzed, the songs resounding in my happy mind, I drifted off all cuddled into the soft sheets at the hotel we stayed at last night. But when I woke up this morning and met up with Diva and Dino for breakfast, I realized I felt ... bad. Wrong. I felt that day-after-drinking shame I usually associate with dancing on tables, saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, drunk dialing my mother and losing my purse.

Diva was experiencing a similar phenomenon. Why did we both feel compelled to check our call logs to make sure we didn't drunk dial? Why did we ask our husbands if we happened to owe them apologies?

Why were we doing the walk of shame?

I can only assume one thing. Something terrible. Something I don't even want to think, let alone commit to writing.

I don't think champagne is my friend anymore.

I will leave you with lines from a Four Seasons song to illustrate my feelings on this revelation.

(Silly girl) Shame on you--your mama said
(Silly girl) Shame on you, you’re cryin' in bed!
(Silly girl) Shame on you, you told me lies!

Big girls do cry!

The Internet Age is Awesome!

2009-02-08T19:09:00.000-08:00

I would like to extend my most grateful thanks to BlackBerry (BB) for taking the pictures from the gay, uh, underwear show at Krave on Friday and posting them to Facebook. There is nothing my husband and sister in law love more than seeing me peering down into some dude's panties holding a bunch dollar bills. Thanks, BB. You're a pal!

Sigh.

False Alarm

2009-01-31T10:28:00.000-08:00

My sister in-law, Diva, took Baby Cakes to her seventh grader's basketball game. The local police showed up at the game, looking for the hooligan that called 911 from the gymnasium pay-phone. Who could it have been? The officers combed the crowd looking for the suspect. Now in custody: a 22 month-old and his embarrassed auntie.

Heh heh. Hilarious.

Obviously, they aren't really in custody. But it's still funny.

He's a Big Boy Now

2009-01-27T08:52:00.000-08:00

Big Boy should sponsor Rod Blagojevich's whirlwind media blitz.

Dear New York,

2009-01-26T20:53:00.000-08:00

I see you seein' me. Who are you? New York City, do you come here often? Brooklyn, would I know you if I saw you?

Long Island. How you doin'?

Delurk. Talk to me!

Extracurricular Activities

2009-01-26T19:32:00.001-08:00

When I was in high school, I avoided the police like it was my job. Vincent Richardson, however, loves popo so much that common sense can't keep him away from the cop shop. The strangest thing is reports say this wasn't the first time he's done this--he's done it twice before. I'm going to keep my ear to the ground on this one. Way to call into question whether they're worthy of the name Chicago's Finest, Vincent.

An Evening With Nobility

2009-01-22T08:20:00.001-08:00

I think it's time I quit kidding myself. This blog has nothing to do with making observations about the world or commenting on current events. It seems to be about food, only food. Maybe I should just embrace it and only write about Food Porn. What's with the revelation, you might ask? What took me so long to figure that out? I don't know, and frankly I don't care, because I will continue to write about whatever nonsense comes to mind. But today, I shall write about my evening with Nobility and Garmin.

Nobility asked me to come to dinner at her house last night. I showed up in my pajamas with a bottle of wine and dessert. Had I known the lengths she was going to go to in cooking dinner, I would have at least had the decency to wear jeans and a bra. I thought it was going to be a typical evening of some good, simple food, wine and backgammon. But, no. I walked in and the smells of total gustatory hedonism assaulted my senses.

A tray of Caprese salad caught my eye first. She must have remembered that I only do tomatoes in an adulterated fashion. The thinly sliced tomatoes were topped with slices of fresh mozzarella, fresh basil leaves and balsamic vinegar. Enter salivation stage left.

"I wanted to invite Mister," she said, "but I know how picky he is."

I looked around. I saw vegetables. Mushrooms. The wrong cut of meat.

"Nah, he's not into this kind of thing," I said. "Besides, he's already in bed. His snowmobile weekend wiped him out. It's just me, baby!"

At the stove, Nobility stirred the mushrooms as they sauteed in butter, adding a hissing stream of sherry. New potatoes boiled, preparing to be mashed. She offered me a pop-over fresh from the oven with honey-butter for an appetizer. We discussed whether pop-overs should be considered a bread or a pastry, and as I spread the honey-butter over the crusty top, it melted into the spongy crevices.

"Where did you get these? They're awesome." I had to repeat myself, as I said that with a mouthful.

"I made them. I was looking at a cookbook, and thought, 'I have all that stuff. I'll just make them myself.'"

"You what? Who are you, woman? I thought I knew you." The Nobility I know doesn't bake. Or, at least she didn't bake, but I think she should pursue a new hobby.

"Yeah, she made the butter, too," Garmin said. He upped the ante by retrieving the Nutella I brought to go with the pizzelle for dessert. We schmeared the gooey chocolate-hazelnut spread, furthering the "dessert as appetizer" theme and all decided that pop-overs with Nutella would truly be the breakfast of champions.

As Nobility began to mash the potatoes, I stood nearby to help pour in the milk and otherwise avail myself as a sous chef. Soon, she had me rubbing the gorgeous rib-eye steaks she was going to broil for us. We stood by the oven, watching the heat caramelize the steaks and I decided to try my hand as a saucier. I attempted to turn the butter/sherry/mushroom butter into a roux and then into gravy, but it turns out my saucier skills suck. What a shame. A better cook could have turned that into a delectable sauce, but my alchemical attempts to do so were an embarrassment to cooks everywhere.

Finally, after waiting, debating and salivating, we decided the beef was perfect. She plated the fluffy, golden mashed potatoes and the rib-eye with a sprinkling of mushrooms. We commenced. I looked at my friend, whom I've known for a decade and said, "You're in the wrong line of work. This is insanely good." I thought for a moment. "You know what? Mister would have flipped his lid. The only thing he wouldn't have eaten was the mushrooms. I'll have to tell him we had sushi or something."

Spoiled rotten, that's what I am. This meal represented her first attempts to make pop-overs, honey-butter, broil steaks and make her mom's famous sherry mushrooms. It was all perfection. We ate until it hurt a little, and then settled in for some games.

That's when the pizzelle and Nutella came out. Pizzelles are my new favorite sweet. Thin, crispy waffle-like cookies that remind me of a flat ice-cream cone, these babies are versatile. The things a person could do with pizzelles... For my money, there is nothing better than Nutella, but I found myself fantasizing about layering Nutella, mascarpone and hazelnut gelatto. But that's just me being a filthy food whore. What can I say?

Thank you, Nobility and Garmin, for a fabulous night in. You guys are the best!

Charmaine's Beef

2009-01-20T09:41:00.000-08:00

Charmaine doesn't have a beef. She has THE beef. Slippy's mom, Charmaine, makes the bitchin'est roast beef sandwiches I have ever had. I'm quite the aficionado, so I know what's good. But even if I didn't make it my business to sample, analyze and critique, I would still know that those beef sammiches are some damn good eats.

I first discovered this hidden culinary gem at the annual Olter-Will Christmas party in 2007. I was casually eating a sandwich when Oma Will and her brother in-law, Cerebellum, said something so gross and so funny that I began to choke. Although I was afraid I might die, I was pleased to know that if I did perish, the last thing I would have tasted would be C-Money's roast beef sandwich.

I worked in an Italian restaurant before where they made their own beef. That shit was good. They rubbed it down in the spices, roasted it like crazy, sliced it thin and tossed it in the jus. But there is something about C-Money's that is superior. I don't know if it's her spice blend in the au jus, I don't know if it's the cut of beef that she uses. All I know is that she cooks that sucker for hours, refrigerates it over night, slices it nice and thin and then simmers it in the jus all day long.

The result is fall-apart-tender beef in a jus that has a thicker and more flavorful consistency than most au jus that I've encountered. Where most beef jus is thin and brothy, C-Money's is dark, caramelized and steeped with flavor. If regular au jus is orange pekoe tea, C-Money's jus is espresso. She won't tell me her secrets, but that's ok. She shares with me, and I can't be greedy. I can just be grateful, which I am.

Thanks again for sending Slippy over with your sandwiches on Saturday, C-Money! They were delicious and next time I want to dine with you!

Time for Change

2009-01-19T08:00:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking it's time for me to broaden my horizons. I've always wanted to settle down in an exotic location, and I'm thinking Peru, with all its mountainous majesty and lax labor laws, would be just right for me.

Adios, suckers. I have to make my move fast before they tighten the screws on drunks on the job.

Why the Double Standard?

2009-01-15T21:44:00.000-08:00

I recently posted some things about rape and not-rape from a female perspective. Well, I conveniently seemed to have forgotten that women can be straight up mindfucking rapists, too. Yet, no one really seems to think that's a problem. Read this Rolling Stone article about Traci Tapp. She makes Mary Kay Letourneau look good.

Getting Away With Rape the Traci Tapp Way

What pisses me off about this case is that the whole town seemed to be in on it. Why is it perceived as harmless when a woman in a position of authority takes advantage of someone, or in Tapp's case, a variety of boys, in a subordinate position? There are a lot of irritating assumptions and dynamics going on with the recent spate of hot for teacher scenarios that wouldn't fly if they were male teachers doing the same thing to female students. In fact, a male teacher from Maria High School on Chicago's southside just got HAMMERED for fucking around with a student. Why? Because he was a creepy looking Chinese dude and Tapp is a cute little white chick?

I'm sure the common response is going to be, "It's different for guys." Maybe it is for some of them, but that's assuming that no teenage boy is capable of a complex emotional experience, just like it assumes that every girl who screws around with teacher is going to end up irrevocably damaged. It's unfair to assume that a teenaged boy, especially an emotionally vulnerable one, shouldn't be protected from the actions of an ostensibly responsible adult in a position of authority, even if she's hot.

I'm curious to hear what any of you out there in the internets think about this double standard. How about the strident and unapologetic shennanigans of Traci Tapp (best molesting teacher's name ever, by the way)? Is this not some serious bullshit?

I Cheated on my True Love

2009-01-15T08:30:00.000-08:00

I know I publicly declared my love for Reuben, but actually, I was just seeing Reuben on the side. My true love is Nancy's chicken club sandwich. I see CC regularly, even though I know I shouldn't. CC is loaded with fat, salt and calories. Every time we see each other, I'm left feeling guilty, bloated, ashamed and anxious that the heartburn will keep me up at night. But I can't help it. I have to have CC, and when I have to have it, nothing else will do.

Let me lay it out for you--crispy crumbled bacon-stippled mozzarella lines crusty garlic bread, which is baked to a golden caramelization . Tender breaded chicken strips, baked not fried, are gently placed upon the cheesy bacony goodness. I always order my CC with no lettuce and tomato, with the garlic sauce on the side. See, I think putting salad on a hot sandwich, especially one that is to be sent via delivery, is just gross. Wilty shredded lettuce and icky hot tomato slices? Do not insult me with such nonsense. And the garlic sauce, which is really more of an aioli, is better on the side for dipping purposes. That way, the sandwich maintains it's gooey on the inside and crispy on the. outside integrity.

Every time I order the CC, I unwrap it, inhale the cheesy, bacony, garlicky aroma. The last bite is as good as the first, especially when I mix my Sriracha hot sauce into the aioli. The cheese, bacon and bread become one with the tender chicken and I become one with the sandwich.

It's less of a dining experience and more of a spiritual one. It's worth the potential heartburn (which I only really experience when I'm using CC to cure my hangover blues). It's worth the feeling of disappointment that I consumed more calories than I had in the three days prior. It's worth the knowledge that the reek of garlic surrounds me like a halo. Because the sandwich offers more than a tasty dinner. The sandwich fills me with a feeling of naughty shame and decadence. It's like buying $400 shoes. Or, well, what I imagine what it must feel like to buy $400 shoes. I imagine CC is to me what Jimmy Choos are to shoe-fiends.

I might have enjoyed my brief love affair with Reuben, but CC and I have a love that transcends time and space. CC is truly my sandwich. I might see other sandwiches on the side, but when I'm feeling down, feeling the need to nourish my soul and my belly, there is only one. My one true love. Nancy's chicken club sandwich.

How to Start Your Career as a Prostitute

2009-01-14T11:28:00.000-08:00

by Natalie Dylan

I am sure her parents are proud of her. I bet her sister thinks she's a bitch for one-upping her, though.

Marcus Shrenker: How Can Such A Coward Have Such Balls?

2009-01-14T10:38:00.000-08:00

The story of Marcus Shrenker is fascinating. Staging your own death to try to slip out the back door and try on a new life when you've fucked up the one you've got isn't a new idea. Lots of people have tried, and I'm sure plenty have pulled a fast one. But it's 2009. Hijinks like that aren't likely to succeed, what with everything being traced, tracked and recorded.

Faking your death to avoid legal, financial, social and personal troubles may not be an original solution, but Shrenker gets credit for a ballsy attempt. The whole thing makes me wonder, though, what kind of asshole does that? What was his plan? What was he going to do, mosey out to the wild west and put his stakes down on a homestead? Take a wife and work the land under an assumed name? Forge a new identity? How exactly was he going to pull it off?

While perhaps attractive to those who are as delusional as they are dedicated to their own survival, faking your own death looks like a bureaucratic nightmare. The people who go that route probably spent inordinate amounts of time and energy cheating on tests or plagiarizing term papers when they were in school. While it always seemed like more effort than it was worth, constructing elaborate schemes to cheat on homework and tests, cheating certainly doesn't require the nerve or the crazy it takes to jump out of a plane, ask the 5-0 for assistance a few hundred miles away from your crash site, go on the lam and slice up your wrists at the local KOA all in a pathetic attempt to avoid being a man and facing consequences.

What a fucking tool.

Why Contemplate Your Belly-button...

2009-01-13T07:38:00.001-08:00

...when you can contemplate your fingers?

I want a job that requires me to research stuff like this.

Not Just For Models Anymore

2009-01-12T20:25:00.000-08:00

Sing it, sister. Tatiana from Jezebel comments on this essay from a model's perspective, but believe me when I tell you you don't have to be professionally hot to understand what the hell these women are talking about.

I should just file this under: One of the many reasons I want to be reincarnated as a cactus in my next life.

Some Things Are Finite

2009-01-10T10:54:00.000-08:00

"...five, six, seven, eight," I finished counting. Some things are finite, I thought as I carefully folded eight sheets of toilet paper. I flushed, holding the lever for an eight count.

"Mary, are you almost done?" My sister didn't beat me to the bathroom today.

"I just have to brush and floss. I'll be out in a few minutes."

"You can't be late again," she warned.

I stepped before the vanity to execute three hundred sixty brisk strokes with my new toothbrush and two pea-sized dollops of paste.

Unhappy circles and lines stared back at me from inside the mirror. In response to my reflection, I touch my feet, my belly button and my breasts three times before I can look at myself again. Some things are finite. I floss until the white strands are red and my mouth tastes like warm metal.

Kitty Kitty Bang Bang: A Love Gone Awry

2009-01-09T13:00:00.000-08:00

I promised to explain why I'm not a pet person. This is only one story. Someday I'll tell the story of Sarah the Almost Toothless Dog Who Still Managed to Maim When she Wasn't Lying There Like A Bearskin Rug. There are many stories about animals who come to the compound, but who do not stay...Anyway, this is my cat tale.

My husband’s not a big believer in Hallmark holidays. On one occasion, though, for reasons I’ll never understand, he thought he would get me a cat. There would be no sense in getting an already neutered, immunized and clawed indoor cat, or a brand new fluffy kitten, no. He wanted a cool manly cat that would go out tomcattin’ and come back in to play with a ball of yarn. He unloaded a third-hand alley-cat from our neighbors as a makeshift Valentine’s Day gift thinking I would be thrilled.

I should have sensed problems when an eleven year-old girl had no problem giving her kitty the kiss-off. She’d named him Misty, due to his foggy grey color. In a misguided effort to restore his dignity I renamed him Mister. When I saw his colossal testicles, though, he became Mr. Meatballs.

Mr. Meatballs was handsome and he was pretty chill in the beginning. In the two months he lived with us, however, I came to realize just how into animals I’m not. Priority number one should have been to remove his meatballs pronto. Part of the problem was the way those mega nuts made him desperate to leave the house. Another issue was that his piss stunk so bad he’d wake us up out of a dead sleep just trying to take a midnight leak.

Unsurprisingly, Mr. Meatballs’ friends were pricks. His posse frequently kicked his ass. We’d resolve to not let him go outside, only to come back in scratched and torn. Yet despite the fact that his friends assaulted him nightly, he had to have it, he had to get outside. And the way the posse waited on the porch, staring into our picture window until we let him out disturbed me. Yes, we were remiss in not making a eunuch out of him.

Perhaps most disgusting were the crusty lesions that suddenly appeared on his body. It was to the point that I wouldn’t touch him with a stick. When he began sneezing nasty cat snot all over the picture window, I realized the love affair was just about over. He sneezed so frequently one day that the window looked like a peep-show booth for Smurfs. I Googled his symptoms; according to the great oracle, he seemed to have a raging case of feline herpes. I was agog to discover cats can take Valtrex. Does Blue Cross cover that? I imagine not. I had just about had it with this filthy man-whore of a cat.

One night we heard him yowling outside the back door. I let him in and he slinked past me, racing toward his food. I’d never seen him so voracious. As I looked down at him in disgust that breached borderline, I couldn’t help wondering what he’d been up to. As he noisily inhaled his food I noticed he had some kind of … substance smeared all over his charcoal coat. I backed away and decided: Mr. Meatballs had to go.

After taking him to the no-kill shelter, part of me felt like I’d let Meats down. Maybe I hadn’t given him a fair shake, but nothing was going to dissuade me from sending him packing. That was the best I could do for the poor guy. I didn’t want to take him to the vet and cure his herpes and snip his balls. I wanted out. I needed a clean break, and though I felt bad, I had faith. Mr. Meatballs was handsome. He had personality. Someone would surely see him and say, “I want that kitty right there!” He wasn’t going to get gassed, at least. I wished Mr. Meatballs good luck and godspeed.

Months later I was enormously pregnant, walking around the neighborhood. I was as sober as I had ever been since about age fourteen years old and I moved slower than shagging geriatrics. I had all but forgotten about Mr. Meatballs, but as I lumbered downhill, I heard a horrible sound and looked into a yard. I saw a cat getting reamed but good. Then I recognized one of Meatball’s old cronies. He was banging out on a skinny white cat I’d seen around the neighborhood. A black and white sat inches away watching intently, tail switching. Another stalked circles around the copulating, yowling mess. He was obviously next in line in the train. Thoroughly scandalized, I grabbed my phone and attempted to take a picture but my cell-phone technology simply wasn’t up to the task.

Suddenly, I remembered Mr. Meatballs and the viscous streaks on his coat that night he came barreling in and devoured his food like a lion eating gazelle guts. At that moment, any residual guilt I’d felt for giving up on Meats disappeared into the ether. That fucking scumball had the spooge of how many cats all over his coat and had the nerve to come back into my house without having the courtesy to so much as clean himself first.

Fuck that cat. Fuck them all. Ever since I saw that feline gang-bang, I vowed to never have another cat again, not even a prissy indoor cat. I always thought I was a cat person. They don’t sniff ass, they don’t slobber like dogs. I always thought of them as independent and mysterious animals. I’m officially over my fascination and no longer have any interest in creatures that do all their misdeeds on four legs instead of two.

Time to hit the Slopes

2009-01-08T13:46:00.000-08:00

For our four year anniversary, the Mister and I are planning a little ski trip. Hopefully, we'll have some great pictures and stories like this to share with you.

It's Official

2009-01-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

The people in my office have been replaced with zombies. Oh, how I wish I worked downstairs with Slippy, Chesty and KY. They're so much more fun. Fortunately, the zombies think I'm a brainless moron, so they aren't trying to feast on my gray matter. I'm just going to keep playing dumb and hope for the best. That seems to be my greatest talent in life, so here's to hoping they buy it.

Shh. Don't make any sudden moves...

Wide Lawns and Narrow Minds

2009-01-06T13:19:00.000-08:00

Here's the blog where I picked up "wishing you a light in the darkness." I check on this chick daily, because she's funny, appears to handle the craziness of life with aplomb and even when she keeps me hanging for a few days, I keep coming back, waiting for an update.

Enjoy!

New Year Judaloutions

2008-12-29T21:33:00.000-08:00

A little something from Jude for the New Year...

Why make resolutions when you can make Judaloutions? I plan to adhere to this set of holiday guidelines.

This is the time of year to look back and reflect on how the previous year
went ... and to look forward to the New Year. Well, we all know 2008 was not a banner year for most ... declining economy, lay-offs, soaring deficits and a lot of broken resolutions. This year is going to be different ... and I am resolute on that!

I will not promise to lose weight ... stop smoking ... be kind to small animals or let old(er) people in line in front of me! I will not,under any circumstances smile at a stranger and give directions,nor will I help old(er) ladies across a busy street ... I am NOT a Girl Scout! This year I am going to do whatever I want within legal parameters. So if that means eating ice-cream for breakfast, drinking my dinner or dancing to the music in my head (and there is a lot going on in there), so be it.

I urge all of you to do the same,well maybe not to always drink your dinner, but you get the idea. Do what makes you feel good,and be resolute about it. The more we are good to ourselves,the better we will be. If you haven't lost the 15 lbs you wanted to get rid of last year, you're not going to drop it this year ... forget it ... If you're still smoking, well, chances are you will still be this next year, though cutting back is good. We only go 'round once ... try to be happy on the journey, it doesn't last long enough. And be resolute this year in your resolution.

To ice cream for breakfast in '09!

Thank you, Jude, for reminding us what it is to be cool. We love you.--SWC

Wishing You Light in the Darkness

2008-12-24T20:11:00.000-08:00

It's the holiday season and up here in the Northern hemisphere, that means long dark days. One of my favorite bloggers at Wide Lawns, Narrow Minds (link forthcoming when I'm not on my phone) figured wishing people light in the darkness was a universal way to offer everyone good thoughts during the holidays. I concur. I wish you all light in the darkness and a happy new year.

Despite waking up with a craptastic head cold and sore throat and Baby having the pinkeye, we still managed to have our customary Christmas Eve party. It was mellow, vodka killed my pains and we all had a nice time. The love my family and friends give me is, as always, the light in the dark.

Love to you all! Enjoy your holidays, and remember--if it hurts, have some vodka.

Brand Me Up, Patrick

2008-12-22T13:28:00.000-08:00

My cousin is an über-talented art director and branding guru. His blog is on the sidebar here, but check out Upside Down Umbrella for his thoughts on branding, ad campaign strategies, graphic design, pop culture and architecture. He's a busy dude, so he doesn't post as often as he would if I were the boss of him, but I always enjoy his insights.

Next Year

2008-12-22T12:59:00.001-08:00

From Thanksgiving until New Years Eve, I am going to be a Jehovah's Witness.

There's a Word for That?

2008-12-18T11:39:00.000-08:00

I am a survey addict on MySpace. I just can't get enough of those silly things. Well, it turns out that bloggers are out there doing it up, so I found a nice, long, time-wasting meme from the nice ladies at Two Women Blogging. Enjoy learning about the minutiae of my existence and share some of yours with me!

1) Five names you go by

a) Nora
b) Mama
c) Nono
d) Babe
e) Snora

2) Three things you are wearing right now

a) Black long-sleeve shirt
b) Purple dress
c) Uggs

3) Two things you want very badly at the moment:

a) Sleep
b) A windshield wiper

4) Three people who I would like to see fill this out:

Everybody. Especially Mitchell (yeah, right!)

5) Two things you did last night

a) Drank wine
b) Acted the fool

6) Two things you ate today

a) A tasty and delicious Chicago burger
b) BG fries

7) Two people you last talked to on the phone

a) Kathy
b) My husband

8) Two things you are going to do tomorrow

a) Work
b) Christmas shop

9) Two longest car rides (I decided to answer in time rather than distance!)

a) Miami to Key West
b) The ride from the southern tip of Illinois back home

10) Two of your favorite drinks

a) Beer
b) Iced tea

And finally....bold the ones you've done, unbold the ones you have not done.

I have....

1. Started my own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than I can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland/world
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sung a solo (does car and/or karaoke count?)
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched lightning at sea
14. Taught myself an art from scratch (I don't know what that means, really.)
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown my own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Skied a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice (I rode a water taxi. They were much cheaper)
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught myself a new language (Learned, yes. Taught myself, no.)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David (Been to Florence, but didn't go into the Uffizi)
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had my portrait painted (does sketched by a bum on the street count?)
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris (Not the top, but Juderonomy and I got swarmed by Gypsy kids at the base)
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain (Stupidest recurring survey question ever)
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi concentration camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had my picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Ridden an elephant

Wow. I've done a lot of shit.

I Say I Want a Revolution

2008-12-16T11:25:00.000-08:00

We all know that Big Brother is watching. Satellites circle the globe, photographing everything going on. Surely those high-powered cameras capture mundane and useless human activities in addition to the important security and reconnaissance detail. So, I encourage each and every one of you to frequently flip off the sky while going about your day to day activities. The chances are good that some satellite at some point will capture the moment and record it for posterity. Be sure to pinpoint your locations so you can Google Earth the coordinates, and maybe someday you will find a picture of yourself squinting at the sky giving Big Brother the big Fuck You.

Who's with me?

This is just the beginning, people. As our forces reach critical mass, we will begin to disseminate our message in a multi-media campaign. We will demonstrate our rebellion against those satellites documenting not-so-surreptitious nose-picking, ass-ogling, wedgie-removing and jiggling of the nuts. Viva la resistance.

Sister Mary Holy Water

2008-12-12T11:23:00.000-08:00

I think it's hilarious that I'm working not only for a Catholic university but also for an obscure order of nuns. Then again, when it comes to orders of nuns, are there really any high-profile types? The most amusing part of all of this is that Slippy is responsible for both gigs. Neither of us is remotely holy, and she's not even Catholic. Not that I'm Catholic, either, but my mom is, and I think of Catholocism as being like a cultural thing that you're kind of born into. It's like the Guilt Club or the Hang-up Commitee. It may even be genetic. The whole thing is just funny.

My favorite part is how Juderonomy used to tease me when I was little, calling me Sister Mary Holy Water because, well, I was soft as baby shit and I was scared to death I was going to go to hell because one of the little dogmatic shits I went to school with informed me that "only real Catholics go to heaven. Everyone else goes to hell." That scared me because I knew I wasn't a real Catholic. In fact, my mother baptized me herself, and I was sure that a homemade baptism wouldn't hold up. So, I would take my sisters old CCD workbooks, appropriated one of my grandfather's rosaries and took it upon myself to secretly learn all the prayers and rosaries just in case, you know, I died and was faced with an eternity of hellfire and brimstone. It was a the spiritual version of my OCD handwashing spree. Come to think of it, it happened around the same time. Coincidence? You be the judge.

I was a rather sensitive child, and I think Jude was half touched by my sweetness and half concerned that the big bad world would chew me up and spit me out if I didn't toughen up a bit. Well, toughen up I did--to the extent that the mere idea of me working for nuns was counterintuitive to the point of inconceivable. I was telling some friends of mine about my new jobs. I hadn't seen them in about a year. I went to college with Sconsi and I've known his wife, Foxy, for about six years. When I told them what I'd been up to for the last few months, their mouths hung open. Sconsi finally said, "No one will believe me when I tell them that." Truth really is stranger than fiction.

Work is Hard!

2008-12-11T09:39:00.000-08:00

I have to go to lunch in twenty minutes and then go to a faculty and staff Christmas party at 3 o'clock. God, I am only one woman. What do these people want from me?

Shakedown Street

2008-12-09T07:08:00.000-08:00

Politics is a dirty game, but no state does dirty quite like Illinois. Rod Blagojevich proudly carried on the fine tradition of filthy, Chicago-machine style politics and brought it to a whole new level of entitlement, greed and corruption. Although I should probably be ashamed of the fact that my fine state's governor has been an embarrassment to its citizens yet again, I would rather make some popcorn and cruise the cable news channels for more information and watch as the spectacle goes down.

Clean it up for the Kids

2008-12-08T10:29:00.001-08:00

My friend sent me an email to let me know the party might just be over in Amsterdam's city center, home of the Red Light district. I'm sure any of the changes wouldn't totally destroy the sex and drug trade in the Dam, but the delightfully seedy nature might be sterilized.

I spent much of my time overseas in Holland, especially Amsterdam, so I won't say that the Red Light district wasn't shady at night or that the streets are crime free. But the dirty carnival nature of those labyrinthine streets is part of the Red Light's charm. I love that city just the way it is, the way it lives in my memories, but I can't help thinking if I ever make it back there, the changes probably won't diminish the city's awesomeness.

I guess I'll have to make a trip over there in the next few years to verify that

I'm In Love With A Sandwich

2008-12-02T10:44:00.001-08:00

It's a rare pleasure for me to be able to give a delectable food-porn item a name.

Reuben.

Slippy and I hit Windy City Subs for lunch today, and I had one thing on my mind. My sweet, succulent Reuben.

Grilled, buttery rye bread. Juicy, pink corned beef. Extra sauerkraut. Thousand Island dressing. All smooshed together into a hot, messy mess, first in my hands and now in my belly.

Oh, sweet Reuben. We must do this more often.

It's a slow day here at "work." It's sort of like Take Nora to Work Day, because I have very little to do in an official capacity, so I'm going to grade some of Slippy's papers for the class she teaches. I love being Slippy's Bitch. It's so fun. She is a kind, benevolent mistress. Ok, off to grade papers like a good TA. (That's teaching assistant. Not Tits and Ass. Or is it?)

Chesty LaRue Rules

2008-12-02T09:08:00.000-08:00

The exec secretary downstairs asked me to print something, anything to her downstairs printer, so I made a blog post especially for her.

Love ya, Chesty!

PS: Yes, I am aware that I lifted that code name from the Simpsons. I ain't no plagiarist!

I See Your Timothy Geithner...

2008-12-02T07:34:00.000-08:00

...for treasure secretary and raise you one Eric Holder for attorney general.

He's stocking the Cabinet, kids.

PS: Does anyone else think it's funny that Obama considered Danzig for Defense Secretary? I know, I know. It's not Glenn Danzig. But still. Maybe the name was part of the reason he decided to keep Robert Gates...

Happy Turkey Day

2008-11-27T10:11:00.000-08:00

It's the beginning of the holiday season, readers. Thanksgiving is a great time for me, because I get to eat two dinners. This year I got smart: I busted out a pair of maternity pants from storage for my big day of eating. So, the first thing I am thankful for is maternity pants.

I'm thankful for my family. Junior and Junior Junior are awesome, Juderonomy and my dad, my sister and her family are the best. My whole crazy extended family--we're a bunch of loveable lunatics ... hell, I even love my in-laws a whole lot. That's something to be grateful for!

Something else I'm thankful for is all of you regular readers. To know me is to know I would happily babble to myself ad nauseum (and often do), but it's far more fun to babble to you all. Thank you for reading, for commenting and for making SWC so much fun. I appreciate you all very much.

Then there's my friends. Although most of my most long-term beloved friends don't even READ this freaking thing, most of you who do are people I was lucky enough to reconnect with after much time had passed. Slippy, Ratherto, Luke Baggins, River, Team Oma and Horny Will, Jenn, thank you guys for being my good, wonderful friends. I'm so glad we've been making up for lost time. You are quality people and I love you very much!

Speaking of Slippy, thank you so much for hooking me up with such a fun, awesome job. I am so happy and excited to wake up every Tuesday and Thursday, to go to work, to do my best and to get propositioned to be full time and to teach you all to flip off the sky in case the Google Earth sattelites are overhead. I get to go to lunch with you and go on special field trips. I am so stinkin' lucky. You hooked me up with a great opportunity and I'm so thankful.

I would also like to thank Food Porn for giving me a reason to keep going. If it weren't for Food Porn, I might just lose my mind to my Paranora delusions. Is it weird to thank food for being in my life? Because I truly do have a passionate love affair, as you all know. And today I shall celebrate that love. Twice. Maybe even three times...

Peace to you, SWC readers. I hope you have a gluttonous and grateful day. I invite you all to share with us what you're thankful for on this Thanksgiving. Don't be shy. Unbuckle your belt, pop that top button and let us know why you're grateful to be alive.

Improving Foreign Relations With Food Porn

2008-11-26T14:18:00.000-08:00

You all may have heard the terrible news about the terrorist attacks in Mumbai (I still say Bombay, but that's because I'm contrary).

In an effort to preserve the good standing with the Indian population in my area, I went right to Hot Breads Bakery and Cafe as soon as I heard the news. If I can't use my Food Porn as a bridge across cultures, then I just shouldn't bother.

I entered the cafe with Junior Junior to see the television blaring the bad news. Although some say there's no such thing as bad publicity, I think seeing seeing tourist hotels afire and six other locations seething with hostage situations might keep the average non-Indian far from Indian eating establishments.

Not me, though. Call me a Food Porn Crusader, call me what you will, but I sincerely doubt the always kind and gracious Mr. Patel, who loves to offer me free samples to the point that I'm too full to eat my order, is using my samosa money to fund terrorist activity.

I sat with a sympathetic smile.

"Mumbai is my city," he said with a look of gut-wrenching embarrassment. "That is my city up there." He pointed at the flames billowing from the popular Taj Palace hotel.

"Don't worry, Mr. Patel. There are terrorists everywhere. I know you don't hate us."

"Oh,nononono! I am so very glad to see you and your young son. I cannot believe this. It is too, too terrible." I approached the counter to place an order with his nephew.

"Um, one samosa and I'd like to try your bhuji pav. Oh, and some drinks." I walked over to the cooler and grabbed a Fanta in a bottle for myself and a mango juice box for Jr. Jr.

As I waited for the order, I asked Nephew why they didn't have naan bread, one of my favorites.

"Oh, no tandoori oven," he said. "But we have chaputi. I'll give you one." He brought back what looked like a corn tortilla. I ate some and gave the rest to Jr. Jr. who chowed it happily. Then I eyed up some kind of thing that looked like corn bread covered with black sesame seeds and fresh chilis.

"What is that? That looks awesome."

"That is (have no clue what he said). It's made of chick-pea flour."

"How much is it?"

"$3.15 for a plate."

"Sign me up." I went to retrieve some money and he waved me off.

"No, just taste a little sample."

He gave me a huge portion, and waved off my money again. I slipped him two bucks for his troubles. I love these people.

The bread was soft, moist and consistent. Like cake, but not sweet. The chili was marinated in oil and salt. It was crispy and flaming fucking hot. I could facefuck a pan of that stuff, no problem.

Mr. Patel brought my bhuji pav, which is a delicate stew of mixed vegetables with a dusting of cilantro, with a side of minced red onions and a lime. Two freshly baked Bombay pav rolls came with it and I immediately threw one to Cerberus. I mean, Junior Junior. He didn't like the bhuji, but I loved it. It was like vegetarian sloppy joe in a way, with a pureed vegetable base and high notes of Indian spices. The lime and red onions gave the mellow taste a bright and tangy crunch. The soft bread, buttered and toasted slightly, absorbed the bhuji like a sponge. Fuck, it was so good.

Then the samosas came out. Mr. Patel is trying to buy my loyalty. There were two, when I ordered one. They were grown-man fist sized, not little-lady fist sized. But I was already full. I asked him if he could bag it up, because I was already stuffed. He smiled indulgently and brought me the bag with extra sauces.

"Bye, Mr. Patel. You haven't seen the last of me, I promise," I called out as we left. I spared the television screen one last glance. Flames engulfed the hotel and the scrolling parade of hysteria at the bottom announced 78 dead.

He looked from the screen to my face, anxiety creasing the deep lines around his eyes and mouth. "Good,good, miss. Thank you. Very, very good."

Food Porn, Where Have Ye Gone?

2008-11-25T18:04:00.000-08:00

As a special favor to reader Mrs. B, I will be planning a food porn extravaganza for your reading pleasure. No, dear Mrs. B, I am not going to porn it up right now, because the Chinese buffet I had for lunch is making me feel dirty but not in a good way. Instead of being hungry twenty minutes later, I am still stuffed eight hours later. What is up with that?

But this weekend promises gustatory hedonism. And I will bring the noise, Mrs. B. Just you wait.

Winning at Ship Captain Crew and Losing at Beat the Hangover

2008-11-24T12:24:00.000-08:00

Greetings, all. I decided this weekend, after a peaceful and easy Friday, to venture south of I-80 and Kick it Old School with my Peotone friends. Big mistake. Big, big mistake.

Is it that I didn't have fun? Is that the problem? Um. Resounding no to that. Is the problem that I had perhaps too much fun? Yes. That is the problem.

Slippy and I started it off at the BA (that's the bowling alley) where there was apparently a lesbian convention, karaoke and underage sting operations occurring. We feasted our eyes for a while and eavesdropped as a brash and bold lady attempted to turn the cute (but far to metro--when a man's eyebrows resemble diacritical marks, I file him under "Would Be Cute If He Weren't A Girl") bartender into a gigolo. I feel bad for the guy. He was thisclose to serving a fourteen year-old a Jack and Coke in front of his boss, and almost got shit-canned. Then he had to contend with this awful woman offering to buy him as a plaything for her entourage of bar-flies. That would rattle my cage, also. But the place was a molten mess, and we had to escape before I got a chance to sing my karaoke standard, La Bamba, which is a shame, because it's quite the crowd pleaser.

So, we strolled across the very quiet Second Street to Throwbacks. I was so disappointed to see that the only "throwback" jerseys found in the bar were from Peotone High School. I might take up a collection to actually grace them with a real, live jersey worthy of the name. Unless of course the name "throwbacks" refers to all of the Peotone has-beens that populated the joint. Like me and my friends!

Finally, a little peace and quiet where we weren't jammed into the bar, waiting for a customer to accidentally dribble beer on our heads. The BA was blowing up, and Throwbacks offered a quieter place to talk and get our drink on.

I believe part of the reason I am still hung over was that I indulged in my craving for draft beer. For some reason, sometimes I really just want to drink Lite draft, and that was one of those nights. Soon we were joined by fellow SWC alum, Ratherto, our old school friend Tiny Dancer and Slippy's friend Roy. While drinking and talking is all good and well, drinking and playing dice games is infinitely more entertaining. (I almost said "funner." Is funner a word? Further proof of the Great Brain Cell Massacre of 11.22.08) That, and harassing Officer St--. Damn. While his name almost sounds like an alias anyway, I guess I will grace him with a code name for privacy purposes. Anyway, harassing Officer Snowball is perhaps the finest entertainment the Second Street drinking establishments have to offer. I never, ever, ever let it slide that one winter day almost 20 years hence, Fucking Dan Snowball drilled me right in the chops with a ball of fucking ice. Fuck that dude. He needs reminding every time I roll into town.

So, after busting Snowball's chops, it was time to play some Ship Captain Crew. I only know how to play two drinking games, and let me tell you, when it's time to play SCC or Asshole, I will dominate. The dice rolled, the beer flowed and things got pretty intense. Soon it was time to retire to Casa de la Slippy de los Fuegos (my Spanish is rusty. Does that mean Slippy's House of Fire?) for a fine vintage port, philosophical discussions and a screening of classic Italian films.

But I fell asleep and woke up with a draft beer hangover, so I didn't get to discuss the Hegelian notion of Aufhebung or Felini's masterpiece, La Dolce Vita.

Shame. I'm usually so witty and deep when it comes to such cultural subjects. But it never fails. When I cross that magical boundary line and enter Peotone, where I spent my formative years, I regress. I become sixteen again. I get the urge to road-load. It's just good fun.

Anyway, I won a bunch of dollars, which I spent on booze, and lost a whole entire Sunday to curing my draft beer hangover. Oh well. It was nothing compared to the sangria migraine I had the week before. Peace out, readers. I'm sure I'll have some Black Wednesday shenanigans to report on Turkey Day!

Obama Administration Trading Cards

2008-11-22T11:08:00.000-08:00

I'm so psyched! My Hillary Clinton Secretary of State card should be coming in the mail any day now. It comes with a decoder ring, too. Sweet!

Color MeTruant!

2008-11-19T12:04:00.001-08:00

Press Checks Rule!

I just got word from Slippy that we might have to take another very important field trip to see Roy G. Biv at Ausmeer Inc., the printing outfit where she once worked and now hires as often as possible for projects at Slippy U. The thinly-veiled field trip we took last week might cause some to suggest I spent company time in ways that could be construed as "wasteful" or "fraudulent" but I found my lunch and field trip with Slippy and Roy to be ever so informative, giving me a rare glimpse into the world of printing presses.

We walked into Ausmeer and made our way back to Roy's office. A nice lady popped her head in and said that the checks had been bumped back an hour and a half.

"Guess it's lunch-time then," Roy said, and suggested we meet at a local bar not far from the place where the checks were going to happen. That confused me.

"I thought the press checks happened here" This kicked off the first in a typically overwhelming amount of questions I asked that afternoon. "Wait--Ausmeer outsourced this job?"

Slippy knew it was coming, and since she likes to indulge me and my millions of questions, she offered me an in-depth response that I had to go back and get in writing, because it's a complicated prospect, both technically and from a business perspective.

"Okay, Ausmeer has a digital press and traditional one and two color presses. And there are companies that have bigger 5 or 6 color presses which is for 4 color process and one or two spot colors or coatings, such as the UV that we used, that outsource only to certain printers."

"So, why don't you just go to that other printer if they have what you need?"

"If I hire Ausmeer and they source the job out, it keeps the cost down for both because the bigger presses are very expensive and most smaller companies can't afford them because of the amount of print you would need to justify owning one. It works out for both companies because it justifies one company buying the press, and it keeps it going non-stop with all of the little shops sending their business to them and the smaller shops don't have to turn down jobs or try to buy a press that they in reality don't have enough business to support."

"So, the whole little press outsourcing to the big ones sounds like those little birds that eat crap out of hippo's teeth. Symbiotic."

"Exactly."

She discussed some press checks that sucked hours, even days from her life. She spent four years in Wisconsin one week, checking the forms around the clock.

"It was a 400 page catalog, running two presses at a time, like three times the size of the one you'll be seeing when we do today's checks. I had to be there constantly, because I had to approve every form. And it sucked because each page was tabbed with a color, so i had to make sure the tabs colors were all consistent between pages. It was brutal. I'd go back to my hotel and try to sleep for like two hours, and then come back. We were running 40,000 catalogs.. a new form every 4 hours for 4 days."

"Man, that sounds an awful lot like work to me. So, what's the worst case scenario if you go to a press check and the form is all fucked up?"

"The worse case scenario is that it doesnt turn out right at all and you have to rerun plates, remix inks, change papers to get the effect that you want. I had that happen with the magazine once and then you have to pick and choose your battles to which is the most important aspect of the print job. It's a give and take game."

We arrived at the pub and ordered some Stellas. Roy hadn't yet arrived and we looked over the menu, knowing that we couldn't get away with a pure liquid lunch. We would have to return to the office eventually.

"What, does it take that long to fix something?"

"Well, some changes can be done on the press like increasing color intensity. Some changes require running new screens which can take hours."

"Time is money."

"That is true," Slippy said. We clinked glasses and drank. "It's frustrating. Sometimes you need to move pages around so certain colors are by each other or so that there isn't heavy coverage on the edges of the paper cuz that pulls it harder and makes the inside pages not print as well."

At this time, Roy ambled up to the table. He looked harried, distressed, like a man who needed a beer at noon. He listened to Slippy learning me good on all things print, and looked at the waitress with relief when she delivered his drink. I would soon learn details that support both my need to hear other people's office dramas and my theory that the adult world is filled with middle-school children playing dress-up.

"I never in a million years thought about this stuff, ever. How many books and magazines and freaking catalogues have I looked at?" I've been reading for most of my life. Here was yet another industry that I relied upon but never considered.

"I'm telling you. There's tons of things to worry about, inks, colors...Oh, purples just love to mess the balance of all colors together. If I use purple, I use it as a spot color usually so it doesnt fuck up the CMYK balance."

"The what?"

"Ever see those little blocks of color on pages?" Roy jumped in. "The blue, pink, yellow and black blocks? They're called printers blocks. Stands for cyan, magenta, yellow and black. It checks the intensity of the color. The intensity of those blends create all the different colors."

"Oh, yeah. Like on TVs and monitors, the little color dots."

"Yeah," he said, "but those are RGB."

I looked up and to the left in thought.

"Red, green and blue," Slippy said.

"I knew that." I totally didn't know the lingo. When he said RGB, I though Roy G. Biv, which became Roy's alias.

Our food came out (food porn flash--I had a really good cobb salad. Juicy chicken and crispy bacon. Yum!) and we discussed some of the office drama at Ausmeer. To know me is to know that I love hearing all of the details about all of my friend's jobs. I never get bored with office gossip, and I got all, "No, he did not!" and "I can't believe it!" with Roy and Slippy. It was perfect, because she used to work there, too, and filled in much back story for me.

Anyway, after my brief primer on how printers worked, I actually got to see one. We walked into a building I'd driven past six thousand times in my life but had never noticed. We walked back into the brightly lit press room. It was filled with machinery and secretive looking men. They all glanced furtively at Slippy, Roy and myself. I beamed, waved and looked at every machine, wanting to poke around and ask them all a million annoying questions to quench my curiosity.

We walked up to a desk that had bright lights shining onto the form, a sheet bearing multiple copies of save the date postcards for Slippy U's big muckety muck ball in the spring. Slippy, Roy and the main guy from the printer stood around the form, discussing color intensity and the UV coating that made the paper so shiny. A loop, much like the ones jewelers use to scope out gems, can be used to make sure the color intensity and blending is to the press checker's satisfaction.

"So, you only used your M and B?" I asked, looking at the shiny burgundy, black and white cards. I felt cool using my new terminology incorrectly.

"No. it was originally set up as a two color job, but we ran it with four color process to ensure the detail stood out," Slippy said. "You can control the gradient better as a four color job."

"Wait, so you used four coats of two colors?" I looked closely at the paper, seeing Seurat-like points of black and wine colors blending into one another.

"It's hard to explain. I'll get you the PMS color swatches next time we go to Ausmeer for you to see how the colors are mixed."

My brief tutorial only illuminated how in-depth the whole process is, and how very mysterious this world remained to me. After Slippy gave the form the old thumbs-up, we retreated to a scuzzy biker bar for one more beer (okay, it was two beers) before going back to work. I then really drilled Roy with questions. I asked so many and without the benefit of total sobriety or a pen and a piece of paper that I shall distill the highlights of what Roy had to say about the printing industry.

It is cut-throat and demand for printers is so high that union print shops are generally too expensive to maintain. Technological advances have made the competition even more insane. His response to my question of whether the internet was sending printers by way of the dodo bird was a sharp laugh.

"No way. There will always be a market for print ads." He went into the cost-effectiveness of distributing a high number of low-cost pieces, bombarding a particular market just to attract a small percentage of people who will eventually buy whatever that ad is selling. According to Roy and Slippy, both well-versed in print media and marketing, print ads are here to stay.

And to bring it all back to why we had to visit two printers to get one press check done, Slippy reminded me, "The industry is so competitive it's in everyone's best interest to pool resources. With technology making it accessible to just about everyone, now it's all about speed and customer service."

Between my rapid-fire question assault and the fires he had to put out back at his office, Roy had to wave the white flag.

"Come on, Roy. Admit it: no one's ever asked you so many questions about what you do for a living."

"You got that right," he answered.

Dear readers, you are not yet off the hook. Tomorrow Slippy and I shall return to Ausmeer. There are many things I did not get to see and many questions I have not yet had answered. Stay tuned for another episode of "Color Me Truant!" a Take Nora to Work Day production presented to you by Shoulda Woulda Coulda.

Press Checks with Slippy and Roy G. Biv

2008-11-11T09:29:00.000-08:00

I'm actually working right now, but just to let you all know that even with a job, I still managed to squeeze in a fabulous field trip last week. I got a peek into the wonderful world of printing presses. Slippy's homeboy, Roy, was kind enough to answer my many questions, urging him to observe, "She talks a lot, doesn't she?"

After I get done proofing this here document for Slippy the Bosslady, I will regale you all with the story of how I got to go on "press checks" which is sometimes an arduous process ... and other times just means getting paid to enjoy a field trip, free lunch and a few beers on company time.

Stay tuned!

A Shout Out

2008-11-06T07:15:00.001-08:00

Luke Baggins has actually been blogging lately, and I think we should all turn our attention to his site while we (uh, that's the royal we) pretend to work today.

California May be a Blue State ...

2008-11-05T14:12:00.000-08:00

... but how liberal is it really? The general attitude towards Proposition 8 passing is sadness and disappointment. Think what you want about homosexuality, but explain to me why gay marriage should be banned, especially when hetero marriage doesn't have impressive statistics.

Happy Election Day!

2008-11-04T08:38:00.001-08:00

Get out there and vote. If you don't vote, you waive the right to bitch about our government. End of story.

Happy Halloween!

2008-10-31T19:12:00.001-07:00

It's that time of year everyone. Today was a wonderful day. Baby Cakes scored mad amounts of candy dressed up as a little lion and I am now exhausted. But not so exhausted I cannot announce the winners to the Anti-Zombie Plan winners.

Congratulations to Jude and Yawgsmulder for their awesome entries. Mitchell and I decided to call it a draw, and not because there were only two entries. They were equally detailed, convincing and hilarious. We shall reward you both accordingly.

Now for the fun part: everyone read and enjoy the entries. Since I believe in ladies first, here's Jude's:

Now I'm probably NOT the most likely candidate for a leader, but I do
have the beginnings of a plan. First the locale ... I'm thinking
California, specifically the Hollywood area.The climate is much nicer
than it is here in Illinois, and fits into my basic plan. I think the
Base Camp should be Fredericks of Hollywood, which is where the FIRST
LINE of DEFENSE will start.

Since the Undead want flesh and brains, this is where it all falls
into place. We gather all the "Starlets" and put them on the front
line ... why you ask? Because they have very little flesh of their
own due to extreme dieting and silicone enhancements. And Lord knows
there isn't a lot of gray matter. That should keep the UN busy for a
while trying to figure that mess out.

Now, with me as your Leader,( who at my age doesn't have as much flesh
as gristle) I will have my Power Wheelz Barbie Jeeps(@ $45.00 apiece)
strapped to my feet and be marshaling our second line of defense.
Here's where the beauty comes in ... we have five staggered lines of
Con Queso eating, Natural Ice swilling, flame throwing belchers. With
every burp, a trigger pull will advance the flames ever farther to be
followed up by a platoon of the SKOLers!!!

SKOLers have the ability to think they are invincible (to wit, any
Saturday night at 3am in a bar parking lot!!) After the UN sees that
spectacle, I'm fairly sure that they will retreat to the crypt of
their choice and beg the Underworld to leave them there.

My budget:
5 flame throwers 500.00
2 setspowerWheelz@45.00 90.00
60 bottles of Skol 300.00
14 cases Natural Ice 98.00
----------
total $988.00

A savings on the budget of 12.00. Better than Wall Street can do!
Anyone can smuggle whatever they want into camp,especially White
Castles. They would only add to the fight!!

***

And now, Yawgsmulder's award-winning entry:

First off, I want to say that I am violating my own personal rules by even discussing this plan on how to deal with the zombies. Even when dead, those brain eating bastages manage to retain some aspects of their former selves and have been known to use that information to infiltrate hiding spots where they proceed to eat the brains of their former friends. So with that in mind, I am spending $200 on a shotgun to personally defend myself because, if the movies have taught me anything, I'm going to run into one of you in your undead form somewhere down the line.

Ok, with that out of the way, lets get down to business. The United States has over 300 million people. Keeping that in mind, I've decided that the appropriate thing to do is to flee once Z-Day is upon us. Where to go? I'm glad you asked because we are all going to head to ....Wasilla, Alaska! Look at the positives, its got a total population of less than 10 thousand, the state has a Governor that is capable of dropping a moose from a helicopter, imagine what she could do to zombies, and lastly there is ice on the ground most of the year, so its going to be hard for them to sneak up on you when they are falling on their undead asses every few seconds.

This is a mult-pronged plan, so we will also proactively take it to our undead adversaries. So, we will pay The Nuge his $62.99 appearance fee and charge him with assassinating key members of the pro-zombie movement. Considering his flamboyant opposition to our cause, I would label River as a high quality target. Since he is a rock star, The Nuge can simply materialize on a stage in one of Riv's favorite drinking establishments. After doing a few shots together, The Nuge will use a special silver guitar pick to take River out of commission. I know silver is meant for Werewolves, but after seeing some of Riv's pictures, I think its better to be safe than sorry. In a bit of zombie irony, The Nuge will proceed to eat River's brains in front of the cheering crowd. Since this action will likely turn The Nuge into a zombie himself, he will drink a can of soda while simultaneously eating a pack of Pop Rocks. The resulting explosion will rid us of an even more Undead Nuge as well as any of Riv's pro-zombie followers.

As the leader of the Anti-Zombie movement, I will require transportation. Because of this, $45 bones will be dropped on the Powerwheelz Barbie Jeep. I anticipate the government's response to the zombie threat to be weak and inefficient. So, while we survive, we are going to need a lot of booze. So lets just drop $500 bucks on vodka. As it is cold in Alaska, we will need to find ways to stay warm. Instead of spending a hundred bucks on a generator, we are going to stay warm using body heat. Anticipating that there probably wont be enough women to go around, we will have to set aside some of the budget on Blow Up Sarah Palin dolls. If need be, people can just reuse the same one over and over again. After all, there are starving kids in Africa without Sarah Palin Blow Up Dolls.

According to Al Gore, the global warming problem should be enough to melt all the zombies away within a few years. To last that long, we will use about $100 bucks on Cheetos and canned foods. I'm not going to waste money on water. I'm crazy right? Crazy like a fox! Remember, we are in Alaska, and we will have lots of water once the ice starts melting! So there you have it, throw in some gubment cheese for $20 bucks and the rest will be used on Rope and Duct Tape for those who oppose my leadership. In a few years, we rebuild the human race with lots and lots of sex.

$200 Shotgun
$50 ammo
$500 vodka
$45 Barbie Powerwheelz
$62.99 The Nuge
$1 Pop Rocks and Can of Coke
$50 Sarah Palin Blow Up Dolls
$50 Canned Food/Cheetoes
$20 Goverment Cheese
$10 Nylon Rope
$10 Duct Tape

Total: $998.99

***

That was kick ass, you two. Thanks for entering and showing all the schmos standing by the sidelines how it's done!

Positive Thoughts

2008-10-29T20:05:00.000-07:00

Our friend Mitchell is in Arizona visiting his family. Please send positive thoughts and good wishes for his mom's quick and complete recovery.

The Apocalypse Draws Near

2008-10-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

I am currently employed on a part-time basis. That surely is a sign that the sky is falling. It's just a little writing and editing over at Slippy University twice a week. When she asked me if I'd be interested in doing some part-time freelance work, I told her I would be. Nepotism rules.

My first day was fun. I got to wield a red pen, thrash at some articles, proof some items and such. I sit in a cute office with a nice view of a busy city street and Slippy is right on the floor below me. Smoke breaks and lunch twice a week with Slippy--how lucky am I? It's like Take Nora To Work Day every Tuesday and Thursday!

So, while I'm playing the role of freelance writer twice a week, my little Baby Cakes is living it up at my pre-school alma mater. His first day was great. When the Mister and I dropped him off on Tuesday, he barely spared us a backward glance. He was off and running. When I picked him up, he kind of looked up at me like, "Oh, you're here, too? Cool. Here, hold this block for me, wouldja?" He totally charmed the staff and got good reports for his first day--of course!

Anyway, I imagine this new chapter in my life might yield interesting stories to share. Or not. Depending on who might be reading ...

What Kind of Commercial is This, Anyway?

2008-10-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

Welcome back, dear readers, for another installment of Take Nora to Work Day. I was going to do a legitimate and public walk-through of my fabulous adventure in the worlds of academia and marketing, but instead I've chosen to go deep undercover once again. The events of the day were too newsworthy to not report in great detail but are too incendiary to make public.

Our friend Slippy allowed me to shadow her yesterday. As the a public relations executive for a small religious college, she is involved in all facets of the school's marketing and media. She spends most of her time in meetings, on the phone and on her computer, but yesterday they were filming a commercial and she invited me to come along.

We arrived at the shoot at two o'clock. Turning leaves, green grass and gleaming new dorms created the quintessential liberal arts college feel, and groups of students milled about. Instead of hiring actors, the department always aims to entice student volunteers. I mean, do you know how much SAG-card-wielding actors cost? These kids were psyched to be receiving gift cards to The Retail Outlet I Have Boycotted Because They Sell Prostitot Gear. They school upped the ante this year and gave each participant a $50 card. This brought student volunteers in record numbers. Where media campaigns are usually difficult to populate with student volunteers, word got out this time, and all fifty of the students were used as actors and extras.

Slippy distributed the release forms to the students, the make-up artists beautified a handful of students,and the small crew staged the scene. A camera, a monitor, a boom, a spotlight and various reflective or light-absorbing panels, along with the made-up students were positioned. According to Slippy, the concept of the thirty-second spot is to display this expensive private school as a community-oriented, active place filled with the kind of people you want to go to school with, or where you want your kids and hard-earned dollars to go. This scene was simply an attractive autumn tableau demonstrating how chock full of lively students the campus is while an attractive girl spoke a line while in the midst of friendly conversation with her wholesome cohorts.

The first girl to speak was made for television. Tall with a sheet of silky blonde hair, a huge smile and the air of a television anchor, she delivered the line like a pro. After about seven or eight takes, the director, a David Duchovny look-alike (who shall henceforth in this article be called David) who made some time to schmooze with us, voiced his concerns to Slippy that she was too perfect. The group consisted of three pretty girls of vastly different appeal and one cute looking dude who just had to stand there looking shaggy.

The second girl delivered the line, but for some reason could not find it deep within herself to emphasize the correct syllable. She struggled valiantly to do so, but alas, after two or three takes, David kiboshed her. As the littlest girl, a fresh-faced, tiny doll with the whiskey voice of a forty year old barkeep, stepped into the center position, the second girl, who knew she flubbed her line, whispered, "bitch." Obviously she was joking. But she clearly knew she blew her big break into stardom.

As Tiny took over, she, too struggled to say the line just so. She didn't have that "born-for-a-thirty-second-local-university-aired-on-cable-spot" thing that the first girl had.

That part was all very interesting. Take after take, minor alterations in inflection and tone. Waiting for clouds to pass because it jacked with the sunlight, wielding reflectors and such, the make-up girls busting in to make small fixes, peering through the monitor. All very technical. But there was an element of "hurry up and wait" because of staging changes, waiting for the sun to come back, oops, we shorted out, do we have the generator? All that stuff.

It led me to the question: Who the hell are all these people? Who do you call if you're a university looking to increase enrollment and you need a new thirty second spot? Or hell, you need a whole new image. You call This Company. According to Slippy, This Company is a "full-fledged communication marketing company. We use them for our branding campaign and the commercial is only one facet along with a new design look, slogan and eventually launch of a logo that we use them for."

When Slippy calls him for a job, they discuss the parameters, the concept and then David's company writes the storyboards and script. He sends them to Slippy for approval. Meanwhile, she sets up the locations, casting calls and otherwise produces the materials and services needed on her end to make the commercial happen. He hires a specific crew from one state and has them come to location, and hires the make-up artists and flies them in from another state. These shoots usually happen twice a year and, according to Slippy, they've got it down by now.

With pre-production out of the way, two days were dedicated to shooting enough footage of each of the storyboards to complete the concept. When the production aspect ends, it's time for the agency to engage in post-production, also known as whittling down twenty hours of footage into a thirty second spot, which may or may not include splicing old footage into the mix. But for Slippy, after three days of sweat-inducing pre-production and two days of shooting, the hard part is over for her. Within a few weeks, our local cable company will be launching the commercial right on time to pique the interest of students thinking about enrolling for the second semester.

Personally, I'm looking forward to seeing which girl they pick for the commercial. As a lay-person who watches a LOT of television, I would say stick with the "too perfect" one. But I lost a bet to David yesterday--I told him I was sure her daddy was a dentist, because who the hell else would have teeth like that? We bet on it, and he trotted right on over there to ask her. I lost. The guy might just know his shit.

Speaking of shit, a funny side story emerged from this whole adventure. Today, while talking to Slippy, she told me the make-up artists came to her and David with the information that well over half of the student volunteers they made up for the shoot had active herpes lesions on their faces. Now, in addition to wrapping up the commercial project, Slippy gets to send a letter to the student health services about addressing the good old Beginning of the School Year Herpes Outbreak. Well, you know what they say: there's no such thing as bad publicity. Right?

Author's Note: I went on the wrong day. Today the on-campus improv club filmed a pie-eating contest scene. Damn the luck. I would have worked for free.

I Would Like My Paper Trail Now, Please

2008-10-21T18:07:00.000-07:00

Jezebel writer Megan clues us in on the GOP's not-so-secret voter suppression maneuvers, as well as what to do in the event that your voter eligibility is challenged.

Seven Guys and One Chick--The Musical

2008-10-20T10:11:00.000-07:00

On the opposite end of the musical theater spectrum, far from the estrogen-soaked event that was Dirty Dancing, lies Million Dollar Quartet. I knew Friday night's trip to the Goodman Theater was going to be diametrically opposed to Wednesday's trip to the Palace. My first clue was that Ken and I decided to forgo dinner and go straight for the drinks. We drank our way through the theater district, and ended up in the lobby with just enough time for one more cocktail.

I watched the bartender fill my glass with vodka and top it with a splash of cranberry juice.

"The show's only ninety minutes," he said. "No intermission."

Ah, so it was going to be that kind of night.

On December 4, 1956, the sons of Sun Studio came home to roost with Sam Phillips, the man who had been the first to record them. Elvis had already signed with RCA; Johnny Cash was coming into his own; Carl Perkins hoped to surpass his Blue Suede Shoes success; and Jerry Lee Lewis was happy just to be signed. Fortune, and a little finagling on Sam Phillips' part, aligned the stars so Carl Perkin's ordinary studio session became a jam session that made history. The tapes contain 46 tracks and reveal a highly informal event that interspersed music with with what must have been the coolest bullshit session of all times. Million Dollar Quartet attempts to capture that night in ninety minutes.

Mezzanine seating rules. It's nice to be able to look down onto the stage and see all the action. Where the Dirty Dancing show made use of the entire stage and had all sorts of complicated devices and action, the Goodman recreated Sun Studios using only a small portion, including a sidewalk area just outside the door, a dais for the upright bass and the drum set, a piano in the corner and the sound booth opposite. Three microphone stands faced the audience.

It was a musical in the purest sense of the word. "Jerry Lee" was nuttier than squirrel shit, busting Carl's chops relentlessly and hamming it up brilliantly on the piano. Elvis and Carl should have switched, because "Carl" looked more like "Elvis", but whatever. They both did great jobs capturing Presley's and Perkins' sounds and styles. "Johnny Cash" looked and sounded enough like Johnny Cash, too. These guys all have jobs as impersonators when the show ends.

"Jay Perkins", played the part of the session's upright bassist and Carl's brother. And then there's The Drummer. The poor drummer not only didn't even get a name in the play, he didn't get a line, either (the drummer's name was W.S. Holland, as per Wikipedia). I could tell The Drummer has worked on his "look", though. The lone female presence in the studio session was Elvis' girlfriend, "Dyanne". While she, The Drummer and Jay Perkins all play bit parts, they're well done nonetheless and are integral to the show. Only the Sam Phillips character neither played an instrument nor sang, but in many ways, it was his story.

Instead of bursting into song and dance musical-style, it seemed an organic movement between shooting the shit and suddenly being in the midst of a song. The fast-paced script and all-over-the-place music reflected the informality of the recordings. It was about having fun and enjoying the moment together, not making a commercially viable record. Although I have no doubt the script went beyond taking liberties with the actual recordings and took way off into the realm of fiction, the script served to illustrate where each of the artists were in their lives at that particular moment.

Obviously, Presley was already a tremendous success when the event occurred. But we learned how it is that covering Perkins' break-out hit Blue Suede Shoes helped cement his fame, the kind which Perkins never quite realized. We find out more about Cash's desires to just sing some gospel, already, and all of the resistance he felt from the music industry. We find out more about Lewis' balls to the wall insanity and Phillips' business and artistic acumen.

While the music certainly rocked, there was a bittersweet quality because we all know how their stories ended. Their personal dynamics were touched upon, which illuminated some of the particulars of their lives, and certainly helped identify the spirit of the time (I refuse to use the word zeitgeist. Oh, shit. Did I just say zeitgeist?). More than identifying who these guys were and what they did, the show offered a peek into what it might have been like in that studio, to see what kind of fun it must have been to imbibe that sweet liqueur of pure musical genius.

Verdict: Best musical ever. It's very manly, so you guys won't have to worry about sprouting a vagina if you actually admit to yourselves you want to see it. If/when it comes to your town, get some tickets. No one won't like this show. It'll get and keep your attention--just like this post title did. Pervs.

McCain: "Sarah Palin is the most popular governor in the country."

2008-10-17T07:39:00.000-07:00

For realzies?

McCain on Letterman. Dave kinda takes him to task.

I Carried A Watermelon

2008-10-16T10:45:00.001-07:00

I know it seems like all I ever do is eat. Well, sometimes, between heaping portions of raw seafood, White Castles and my parents' famous pizza (upon which I will pontificate prodigiously another time) I like to enjoy a little theatah, dahlings.

To wit, last night I went to see Dirty Dancing: The Musical. I know; want some whine with that cheese? Well, it was a freaking blast. It's hard to adapt movies to stage, but between the kick ass set design and the rather simple, dance-heavy plot, this movie was a natural choice. This was yet another trip in the Way Back Machine, and aside from a few minor critiques, I would say it was a fun journey.

Let me start by saying that Amanda Leigh Cobb must have watched DD extensively and may have even had a few sit-downs with Jennifer Gray herself. She had Frances "Baby" Houseman down to a science. Loved her. I bought her act wholesale. Then there was the freakishly hot Britta Lazenga as the Kellerman Resort dance instructor, Penny. Holy shit, I think I turned into a lesbian for a minute. She looks like a less thyroidal and far more beautiful Elizabeth Berkley, and I couldn't keep my damn eyes off of her. She ate every scene she was in, which was probably less about her chops and more about the fact that she was usually acting with the craptastic Josef Brown as Johnny Castle.

Now, when it comes to The Swayze, I have to say whatever role he played, he played it to the hilt. Even if it wasn't a great role or a great movie, you could tell that ol' Patrick owned that shit. See Roadhouse and tell me I'm wrong. Anyway, Josef Brown is freakishly hot and served to temper my Britta Lazenga-induced lesbionic flare-up. But he couldn't hold a candle to The Swayz. Despite reprising the role of Johnny for American audiences after playing it in England and Australia, he seems to be the musical-theater version of Keanu Reeves.

While he gave it his very best effort to Americanize his accent throughout the show, and I give him all sorts of propers for doing a far better job than I would if I had to work an accent of any kind, it seemed the effort of all that Americanizing, dancing and brooding took its toll on his acting abilities. Poor Josef's Australian crept out as the show progressed, which was fine, because he took off his shirt a whole lot, and when he didn't, he was wearing tight clothes anyway, and ...

What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. He kind of sucked. I would have been happy to go along with the story that Johnny was visiting from Melbourne or some shit rather than hear his fake Eastern accent disintegrate. But as with Keanu, if the project has any merit of its own, you will suspend your incredulity that someone who can't act keeps getting jobs. Besides, Mr. Brown can dance like The Swayze, so between his hoofing talent and supreme sexiness, all is forgiven.

My only other complaints are that at times the sound got so loud my brain hurt and when the strobe lights were cooking, in conjunction with the sonic overload, I felt dangerously close to seizure. But as for the rest, it was great.

Let's see a show of hands--how many of you have seen Dirty Dancing? Come on, guys, you know you've seen it, too. It's a classic piece of modern American film! Playing with screens and projection, as well as simple and effective staging devices and set design, the story panned out just like the movie, down to a lot of the script. The story actually developed some of the other characters and plot twists in ways that the movie didn't, which was cool, if only necessary to fill in areas that couldn't be translated to the stage.

For instance, Baby's family relationships all seemed to have a bit more dimension. Lisa, the obnoxious sister, played adorably by Katlyn Carlson, and mother Marge Houseman (Kaitlin Hopkins) actually exist as a characters in this version with some funny and touching lines. Penny's character takes on more dimension, too, with her abortion issue going beyond the obvious "dangers of back-alley hack jobs" and touches on some of the social and emotional aspects she experienced. The barely touched upon references to the Freedom Riders in 1963 in the film were developed further on the stage, probably to establish time and place beyond the music and costuming.

I'm sure these bonus side-story developments are a necessary device in adaptations. That being said, I was willing to suspend my disbelief even when some of the maneuvers were transparent even to me, the non-theater-educated schlub sitting in Aisle 3. But we can forget about all that and talk about what really matters.

The music: everything you would expect, pretty much all the standard DD songs, but light on the obnoxious Swayze-sung songs. Phew. There was a priceless moment with an old dude singing Besame Mucho that, even if the whole magilla sucked, he would have made it worthwhile.

The dancing: fucking awesome. I want to dance like that!

The scenery and stage design: amazing. With the use of video, screens and projection, they managed to rock the scene where Baby and Johnny work on lifts in the water without water. It was way cool. They have this divided stage that can rotate, rise, fall, do all kinds to help shift scenes and create spaces. Job well done on that front for sure.

The costuming: I need some more dresses in my life. Why do I shy away from floral prints? And gloves! I want to wear white gloves. And headbands. The clothes were cute. I need to go thrifting, and find me some vintage early '60s clothing, which will dovetail nicely with my recent Mad Men obsession.

The verdict: tons of fun. All of the classic songs and familiar story-line with a few tweaks for good measure. The cast was awesome, and Josef Brown's wooden line delivery can be overlooked with all of the other whistles and bells going on around him.* And by whistles, I mean me, standing on my chair discovering that I actually can whistle through my teeth like a construction worker. And by bells, I mean the angry shouts of, "Down in front, you maniac!"

*One caveat: the security detail at the gorgeous Cadillac Palace Theater is pretty tight. So, watch that whistling.

The Sky is Falling--Again!

2008-10-13T13:11:00.001-07:00

We're all gonna die. For real this time.

It Really is What I Crave

2008-10-11T12:40:00.000-07:00

It started this morning when I saw Juderonomy's comment on our Zombie post. She mentioned the great White Castle. I couldn't get the steam grilled goodness off of my mind.

Continuing on with my day, I tuned it out. Until the Mister called. He was on his way home from a job in the western suburbs.

"I'ma get some food. You want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good. We've got food here."

"'Kay, see you in a bit."

I figured he'd get boring Mr. Submarine or some shit. Never in my wildest dreams did I hope he might come home bearing two fragrant sacks of ten. The house instantly filled with the signature Slider stink. My mouth watered, and I looked up at my husband with an expression of gratitude, wonderment and lust.

In his infinite wisdom, he got ten with everything and ten without the nearly toxic yet magical Düsseldorf mustard. I sank my teeth through the fluffy, chewy bun into the sour crunch of pickle, sweet onion flecks and thin layer of beef. The first one disappeared too soon, and I quickly replaced it with another. Like an alcoholic, one is too many, a sack of ten is not enough. The ad campaign that claims White Castles are "what you crave" didn't require marketing genius. It required only a deep understanding.

I am now sated, nay, stuffed. The buzz is upon me, and I sit, typing with one hand, holding the TiVo remote in the other and a leg thrown over the arm of my chair. I have reached Nora-vana. This path isn't for everyone, but I recommend you try it at least once. Say it with me: Om.

The Right To Bear Arms-- Against The Undead!

2008-10-09T15:13:00.000-07:00

It is time. The battle lines have been drawn, and new information has come to light. As we draw nearer to All Hallows' Eve, we must choose the leader of the Counter Zombie Insurgency, because River and his people have exposed their Pro-Zombie agenda. We must be ready to fight. Furthermore, we have to outdo them.

To that end, we are hosting a contest to elect that leader. In order to determine who has the best plan, we'll need our faithful readers to come together to demonstrate their capabilities to lead us to salvation. We've amassed a catalog of items and have an allowance of $1,000 for each candidate. Whoever can best use their allowance and most creatively hatch a plan to ensure the safety of the human race will win.

Points will be awarded for use of visual aids and photographs. While we've provided a list of supplies, finding base camp and shelter is entirely up to you. You may acquire your base through either legal or illegal means. Those means may be called into judgment for better or worse, but don't let it get in the way of your plan. Just post it in the comments section, and we'll do the rest.

Supplies
Shotgun--$200
Handgun--$100
Flame thrower--$100
Generator--$100
Fully stocked First Aid kit--$20
PowerWheelz Barbie Jeep--$45
Box of ammo--$10
Sixteen inch novelty bow tie--$15
The Nuge--$62.99
Sarah Palin blow up doll--$25
20 LB Propane tank--$40
Hunting knife--$50
Cardboard cutout of Henry Winkler as the Fonz--$15
MagLite with charger--$20
Al Qaeda brand box cutter--$5
100 ft. nylon rope--$10
Duct tape--$2

Food
5 gallon jug of water--$5
Brick of government cheese--$2
Pop Rocks--$0.50/pack
Canned foods of all kinds--$0.50 ea
Cheetos--$2
Case of Natural Ice--$7
Al Qaeda con queso in a can--$0.75
Organic soy cheese--Free
750ml Skol vodka--$5

All contestants will earn a featured spot in the hallowed pages of Shoulda Woulda Coulda, but only one entrant will win the coveted first prize: for Illinois winners, a viewing of the film Quarantine with Nora; for Kansas winners, a viewing of the film with Mitchell, and for those who aren't lucky enough to live near SWC principals, we will hook you up with two tickets in your own city. But we won't buy the popcorn and Jujubees.

No Zombie Love, Indeed

2008-10-08T12:50:00.001-07:00

Sorry, River. We here at SWC are serious about our anti-zombie sentiments. While I respect your desire to be contrary, we can't let you and your ilk pose a threat to the human race, especially so close to Halloween when the undead are at their wiliest. We hereby challenge you and your Pro-Zombie followers to a duel.

Stay tuned for details!

Join Me in the Way Back Machine

2008-10-06T15:12:00.000-07:00

I went to the New Kids on the Block concert last Saturday. That's right, I said it. And I didn't just go, I loved it. Thirty-thousand of us gathered together in the Allstate Arena, and agreed en masse to jump into the Way Back Machine. Mission accomplished. Not only did I regress to age twelve, I learned a few lessons along the way.

First of all, the guys who hated New Kids when I was a prepubescent fan still hate them. No one expects manly men to enjoy the sonic and choreographic stylings of five dudes obviously singing to chicks. I mean, I could understand and respect indifference to them, but the rabid fury NKOTB can inspire in the guys who remember the mania is just adorable.

I learned how it is that fanatic types can get so damn crazy and emotional when it comes to celebrities. I loved me some New Kids when I was a little girl, but I never saw them in concert or anything. I was just as happy to listen to my cassette tape and moon over my picture of Joey. But being in a stadium with so many screaming fans, along with my nostalgia, well, it got to me. I finally felt that crazed hysteria fans feel, and I liked it.

I left my seat to go to the bathroom and eat a pretzel. When I got back, I was stunned to discover the boys had materialized on a small rotating stage fifty feet from us. The slightly-tempered-by-time-yet-still-cute visages of my little-girl fantasies were close enough for me to look in astonishment at my friends, all screaming and covered with a slight sheen of sweat, and feel the need to ... scream like a girl.

To know me is to know that I cannot get my voice much higher than that of a sick cow bellowing in pain. I do not shriek, although I would love so much to be able to attain that high-pitched squeal so many females boast. Yet, I tried so hard. I screamed over and over, "Joey, I love you, you are so cute, ohmigod!" Am I ashamed? No. Hoarse? Quite. To top it off, they braved the crowd, weaving through the screeching masses on the floor. Such bravery. So valiant.

I'm not going to bore you all with the details, since I really only have a handful of female readers, and most of them were at the show with me. But I will say this: I never understood the silliness of fandom. I really never understood why women screamed and got all goofy at concerts, etc. But now I do. Those guys put on a show and a half, trotted out all of their classic hits, played fun songs from their new album, did costume changes, and danced their tuchases off. Donny even changed up his bald-spot covering Boston Red Socks hats for our collective viewing pleasure.

They had lights. They had sound. They had smoke machines, shirtlessness and Jumbotrons. They had back up singers, dancers and a little stage at the back of the stadium so the rest of us maniacs could get a closer look at their adorableness. They put on a kick ass show, and I will tell any haters that it was pure fun. Period.

We all collectively agreed to go back in time. To a time when hair was big, make-up was bold and the New Kids on the Block were a culmination of white-boy-falsetto-pop-soul, well-choreographed dance moves, cute faces and a perfect storm of merch. When I was twelve, life was only as difficult as my next math quiz or managing to not blush when my crush walked by me in the halls. When I was twelve, Joey McIntyre smiled at me from inside my locker door between classes. When I was twelve, I loved the New Kids, but I didn't really understand what it meant to be a crazy girl fan.

It took me long enough, but I jumped in the Way Back Machine with thirty-thousand other women who were kind enough to show me the way. Now I know.

How Far Have We Really Come?

2008-09-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

Ratherto, when it comes to The Sky Is Falling situations, you always bring it back to the obvious threat: zombies. Well, we at SWC haven't come very far in our strategy since The Nuge so rudely dismissed our first attempt to solve the crisis.

We have a lot of work to do, people. Stay strong and get busy. The Sky Is Falling.

PS: Bawk bawk.

How the World Will End

2008-09-29T09:54:00.001-07:00

My friend Season sent this to me. It's some funny shit.

PS: We're all gonna die!

The Sky Is Falling

2008-09-28T21:28:00.000-07:00

As if a hurricane in New York weren't terrifying enough, I happened to be perusing my favorite sites, and the Hobo Stripper informed me that martial law is upon us.

Is it true or a conspiracy theory?

I'm going to put my vote in The Sky Is Falling box.

The Chaotic Ramblings of an Esoteric Birthday Fool

2008-09-27T10:18:00.001-07:00

Last night was SWC regular River's birthday party. I met up with him and a crew of his friends and family to tear up Oak Park Avenue, and I have to say I had one of the best nights out in quite some time.

When I arrived at Hollstein's, I found River holding court out in the beer garden. After making some introductions, he and I shot the shit for a few minutes, catching up in the real world. In the five or so minutes we were chatting, no less than three shots were delivered to him by well-wishers (or were they death-wishers?). Like a champ, he toasted and tossed 'em back with aplomb.

At first, I sort of hung back and fiddled with my CrackBerry because I didn't know anyone. I figured eventually I'd see people I knew or would strike up conversation with others from the party. One nice girl saw me Crackin' and invited me to join her table, which was very sweet. Soon the party moved in to the bar where the lame-ass Friday night band was "entertaining" the crowd.

That's when things started picking up. I met his cousin White Chocolate and his girlfriend, Double N. She rocked. We pointed and laughed at the band. Then his friend K9 regaled me with some hilarious stories. When I complimented River on his nice friends, he bellowed, "They're douche bags! Douche bags, every single one of 'em!"

The party went back outside, where things at Hollstein's started getting a little crazy. The average age suddenly dropped down to about twenty-two. River consumed more shots. And then a few more. Cops showed up, which is never a good sign, and we all went across the street to Teehan's.

Teehan's. Where all of the suburban hipsters go to slum. It was silly. Again with the average age of twenty-two. John Mayer was there, or, well, maybe his clone. Or his biggest fan, I don't know. Oh, and Pete Wentz. I was like, "Hey, dude. Lemme bum some eyeliner!" Actually, as we entered the bar, I yelled to our party (average age thirty-two), "Ok, everyone--pop your collars! Kanye is spoken here." Some guy asked me, "Like, what's your problem?" I looked at him blankly and said, "Uh. I'm intoxicated." He high-fived me.

We stayed in there long enough for River to down a pint of Jack and Diet. We collected a handful of people and went up the street to Durbin's, average age twenty-one (a twenty year old was having her birthday party there. Underage drinking! Underage drinking!).

Amidst the sonic stylings of Justin Timberlake and things that sounded like, "Ntz! Ntz! Whoo! Whoo!", River's brother G and I looked high and low for our homey in the crowded, epileptic unfriendly environment. We finally found him in the corner with Double N and a pitcher of water. Our friend River began to overflow his banks. The alcohol was rapidly catching up to him and coming out of his every pore. I have photographic evidence of him taking a nappy-poo at the table, but I shall not publish it.

At one point, I dumped out the pitcher of water and held it in front of his face waiting for the return of his birthday offerings, but he's a big boy, and he didn't puke in public. River, it was an impressive show. He was taken home in a blaze of glory. I bet ten thousand dollars he's not feeling well today.

It was a fabulously fun evening. I met some great new people--River, your family and friends are super cool. Thanks for inviting me along! And I got to see some old friends, as is wont to happen when I visit the Tinley Park bars.

Smell My Fingers--The Stinkiest Food Porn Ever!

2008-09-23T10:08:00.000-07:00

Fish crack. It was all it promised to be and so much more. Join me and SWC regular, Luke Baggins, on a Food Porn Field Trip to Chicago's rarely-referenced East Side. We arrived at Calumet Fisheries, located on 3259 E 95th Street at around noon on Saturday.

Tucked away in an industrial corner of the city that smells like the Calumet and sun-baked steel mills, it was hard to believe such an unimpressive shack could house such historic gustatory hedonism. One of only three riverfront fish shacks left in Chicago, CF has earned quite the reputation. Even my fake boyfriend and sole celebrity crush, Anthony Bourdain came to sample the fish crack. How could we go wrong?

Upon entry, we were greeted by two friendly guys who were more than happy to indulge our desire to know more about the famous Calumet Fisheries. As we looked into the refrigerated cases at the offerings, they gave recommendations. I immediately zoned in on smelt, remembering those little silvery fishes, deep fried and delish, from my youth. I'd long since forgotten what they tasted like and I asked to try one to see if we wanted a batch. They threw down a sample for us and continued fielding questions. They were eager to tell us about the process and tell their favorite selections.

Renowned for their smoked chubs (tee hee--smoked chub!), our gracious host allowed us to sample one. Apparently, they weren't representative of the best and biggest chubs they usually offered, but we had to try the house specialty. Here's what it looked like before Luke and I set upon it like vultures.

Our Guy instructed us on the proper chub-eating technique. First, snap off the head and tail (thank you for taking on that task, Luke). Then peel the skin, flake gently and begin to eat. Look out for bones!

The meat was smoky, tender and quite delicious. Luke was enamored, but I quickly bypassed the chub when Our Guy brought out a hunk of salmon for us to sample. Soon, we were picking over the scraps like alley cats.

The salmon was incredible. Sweet, buttery and perfect; the smoke couldn't even begin to overwhelm that incomparable salmon flavor. About the time we were starting in on the salmon, they brought us our "sample" of smelts. We each got a healthy handful of fishies, about the size of steak fries. They were awesome. We were given the house's signature "mild sauce" for dipping, but the french-fry-esque fish didn't require condiments.

We got on the topic of salmon, and I decided to get my parents a huge chunk-ola of garlic and pepper smoked salmon as a thank you for watching my little Baby Cakes while we were on our food adventure. Then we got down to the business of ordering. We decided to try an order of their famous smoked shrimp, a batch of smelt in place of french fries, a thing of cole slaw and tartar, hot and mild dipping sauces. We were already full from our samples, but we weren't about to walk out of the place without trying the smoked shrimp.

Calumet Fisheries doesn't offer seating, and I didn't want to stink up my car. We looked around the side of the building and decided sitting on the concrete staircase by the dumpsters and the smokehouse was the way to go. We figured we'd be good to go after we ate about three pounds of fish.

Downright giddy, I set up our food on the steps so we could eat and enjoy the scenic vista of the Calumet River.

Just looking at this picture makes me itch for more fish crack. I was unsure about the smoked shrimp, but let me tell you how wrong I was to doubt. They were huge, sweet and succulent.It had the taste and texture of lobster and crab together as one, a combination I often dream about. I loved them dipped in my hot sauce/tarter mix. Luke was so obsessed, he wouldn't dare dip after he finally managed to get them peeled.

The only thing more beautiful than our feast was our view.

At a certain point, I was so full I wanted to rock out like the Romans. But the thought of insulting such fabulous food seemed so wrong that I refrained. I just kept eating. That's my look of shame.

Luke didn't even have the decency to pretend he was ashamed. This is him ripping the shell off the last of the smoked shrimp.

After the shrimp was killed, we were left with the only casualties of our binge.

It hurt so good. It was hot as hell on those concrete steps, and I immediately began to sweat smoked fish. We cleaned up our mess and hit the road to tour the East Side. My grandpa, Juderonomy's dad, used to live in the East Side and she gave us some addresses to see if we could find out more about his old stompin' grounds.

Driving up and down Ewing, looking for Lakeside Tavern, we realized that we stunk. Bad. Like a waterfront whorehouse at low tide. We sniffed our chub-laced fingers and reared back from the potent stank, yet kept going back for more.

Lakeside Tavern was no more, but I remembered hearing stories about T's Tap across the street. I pulled into the parking lot looked over where Lakeside used to be. It's now a day care center. I later remarked to the bartender, it always was a day care of sorts. Smiling to the heavens, I knew Papa would have approved of our journey.

We entered the classic Chicago tavern, dark and cavernous, lit by neon beer signs and three televieion screens. We beelined for the toilets. Handwashing was priority number one. After several pumps of pink soap and scalding hot water, I still smelled fishy. But no matter, I was thirsty. It was indeed Miller time.

I bellied up to the bar, and two guys looked at me.

"Wow. You two musta had to go, just running to the bathroom like dat."

"Nah, we went to the fish shack and it stunk our hands up." I walked toward the guy and lifted my hand. "Here. Smell my fingers."

He backed away with grimace. His eyes watered. "Been a long time since anyone's said dat to me," he said. His friend and the two bartenders laughed.

Luke emerged from the washroom sniffing his fingers. "Man, three washes and I still smell."

Mmm, fishy!

Just call it a souvenir, Luke.

After a few of the most refreshing beers we've ever had, and a few more futile handwashings, we bid T's Tap farewell. I promised to return, and the bartender shouted a goodbye after us, labeling me forever "Fish Fingers." I don't know how I'm going to top that filthy, dirty food porn in the future, folks. I'd have to say the East Side adventure to Calumet Fisheries is the new standard bearer. Smell ya later, everyone! But not unless you smell me first.

Nora Gets Shafted--Part Four

2008-09-21T13:35:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to the fourth installment of Nora Gets Shafted. Part One includes a tour of the controls, Part Two covers the motors and such. Part Three is a discovery of the pit and the sub-sub-basement. Now,for Part Four, we go on a historic journey of relay logic technology and we go for a scary, OSHA violating ride on top of car 27.

Clearly, elevator technology has evolved according to the digital age's needs. The fancy new stuff is referred to as "solid state" but this old Otis "relay logic" elevator is a neat-o analog version of the machines we saw earlier. While the equipment is still functional, the elevator car is now used as a closet. According to our EM, most of the building's inhabitants don't even know that the closet is a working elevator.

This is the generator, which features many of the same components as the motors upstairs, like the copper armature and carbon brushes. The power coming into the building is AC, but the motors were DC, so the generators took that power and converted it to DC.

This is the controller. Much different than the controllers in the machine room that we saw, eh? There's a certain beauty to it, I think.

These are the old school "cards", which were hand controlled. When this system was used, you couldn't call an elevator by pressing a button in the hall. The operator had to flip the switches on this card rack.

Here's the motor:

And this is a gear. Relay logic was geared, but this building's solid state is gearless. This is like a freaking dinosaur:

The sheave:

This is a resister. It's an old transformer, which basically "steps down" power.

This is a rectifier, which also converts AC to DC:

Instead of an oil buffer, this counterweight has a spring. If a rise is over 200 feet, it requires an oil buffer, which explains why this whole get-up is outdated. That spring doesn't make me feel safe.

The counterweight:

That was a fascinating history lesson, no? Well, now it's time to jump on board car 27. And by on board, I mean, get on that shit! So, the two round things are the door operators. The I-beam with the 27 on it is the cross beam, and the black things anchoring the cables to the beam are called shackles.

You can only see a glimpse of the terror I truly felt. I could be getting leg gnawed off by wild animals, and if I saw a camera, I'd still smile. It's kind of a character defect.

Inside that gray box is the load weight device. That device tells the controller how much weight is in the car, and when it reaches a certain capacity, it won't stop for pick-up calls. That's why you'll stand waiting for an elevator forever at five o'clock. Jam-packed elevators are smarter than we are, and won't allow cramming.

The gray box with the buttons on it is the Inspection Station, which allows the mechanic to move the car while on top of it.

That top wheel is the tachometer, which counts revolutions and tells the controller exactly where the car is located. There is a corresponding tach in the motor, and the two tachs must be in synch. The bottom wheel is a roller guide, which rolls on the rails.

This is the bottom of car 28.

The side of car 28. You're seeing an old escape door--that's how you'd get rescued from a broken elevator back in the day.

Getting Shafted

Here comes the counterweight. I now know why it's called the silent killer. It scared the shit out of me. I felt like Marie Antoinette. It whooshed by me at a high rate of speed and left me with goosebumps all over my body. It was like having a shark swim silently by you, and take no notice. Brr.

There it goes...

After about ten minutes on the car, I begged for mercy. I cried 'uncle'. I waved the white flag. I emerged from the top of the car, knees a little trembly, and that concluded our tour. There was really nothing left to show me in the world of elevators. I hope you feel as educated as I do about the inner workings of a miraculous machine I usually take for granted. If you happen to take notice of an elevator mechanic doing his thing, give him or her propers for doing us all a solid--keeping us safe in the world of vertical transport.

Nora Gets Shafted--Part Three

2008-09-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

The first Take Nora To Work Day was a fascinating adventure in exploring the world of elevator mechanics. Review Parts One, Two and Two if you're just now joining us. Walk with me now into The Pit...

This is looking up a shaft.

This contrapiton is the buffer. If the elevator were to crash down the shaft, it would hit the pipe, which is a piston. The pipe is filled with oil, just like a car's shock absorber. Amazingly enough, the buffer is enough to keep it from crashing to the pit floor.

This is the tail sheave. It's connected to the car and the flyball governor by a rope, which communicates the car's speed.

On the left of the shaft is counterweight, also known as The Silent Killer (dun dun duuuuuuun!):

Here we have the compensating, or comp sheave, which, predictably, compensates for the weight of the car, and helps pull it.

These are the comp ropes. They go from the bottom of the car to the bottom of the counterweight. Meanwhile, the cables from the motors in the machine room go from the top of the car, around the machine to the top of the counterweight.

This very low-tech piece of equipment is called a timber, because it's, well, a big hunk of timber. If cables need to be changed, the counterweight is rested upon the timber. The car would then be level with the top floor,and the mechanic can safely change the cables.

This is a view of the bottom of a car. Those rubber cables connect the car to the controllers in the machine room.

It's not all preventative maintenance, fiddling with circuit boards and working in the pit, though, kids. Elevator mechanics have access to all kinds of interesting areas of the building. Let's see what the bowels of this particular Chicago skyscraper look like ...

Walking through the boiler room in the sub basement:

Entering the hydraulic elevator, which will bring us to the sub-sub-basement. The EM had to operate it manually.

He takes me to the nicest places. Right after I snapped this photo, he kicked away a mouse-sized roach. I think I might just have a crush on this particular elevator mechanic.

Look at the floor: coal cart rails from back in the olden days. There was an enormous amount of kickass door frames, cabinets and other furniture. Apparently, they don't make them like that anymore, so the building just holds onto them for parts and such.

A coal storage bin, where it would dump out into the carts into the room below:

We emerged from the sub-sub-basement for two more adventures. Sifting through decades of history and kicking aside huge cockroaches is only part of the fun. Come back to read about some old Otis relay logic technology and my death-defying trip on top of car 27.

Nora Gets Shafted--Part Two

2008-09-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

We're back for the second installment. If you haven't read Part One, catch up, will ya? To review, our friendly Elevator Mechanic (EM) goes into the office, checks the computer to see if there are any pressing elevator issues to attend to, might use that service tool to run some diagnostic tests. And if nothing is cooking on that front, he probably just gets started on preventative maintenance.

Here's a picture of some of the motors. They're original Otis motors installed circa 1938 (note--just because it's Otis machinery doesn't mean my EM is an Otis employee):

This picture gives you an idea of how big they are:

Six cables are double wound around the sheave (pronounced "shiv"). One cable is strong enough to bear the weight of a car, but six cables are used for traction. My EM compared it to a dually truck--more tires equal better traction. To the right are the armature windings and on top are field coils. The coils are polarized. They energize and pull the armature in which ever direction it needs to go. Going up? Or down?

That's a brake plunger. There's one on the back side, too. When the motor stops, the core demagnetizes and pulls the metal plungers in. The spring puts pressure on the brakes, thus holding the elevator in place. The elevator never stops on these brakes, they just hold the car in place.

The red wheel holds the copper armature. Carbon brushes create voltage on the rotating copper which controls the car's leveling speed. As in, it tells the car to slow down as it approaches a floor.

The abrasive stoning brush is used to keep the copper armature clean. It's used like so whenever necessary, typically about ten minutes twice a year. That's an example of preventative maintenance.

This is where the bearing is housed. Gotta put oil up in that bitch:

That's the oil level. There's a chain that wraps around inside that carries oil around the shaft. Yes, the shaft must be well-lubed...

These are flyball governors, which, well, govern the speed of the cars. Using centrifugal force, or the principal of proportional control ... uh ...here's what Wikipedia says about flyball governors. But from what I gathered, when the wheels spin, the flyballs go higher, and if they go high enough, they trip an electric switch for the brake. If that doesn't work, the manual brake goes off, sets the safeties in the car and the mechanic has to manually reset the brakes. That rarely, if ever, happens.

But if it does happen, this is the key used to manually reset the brake. It's about two feet long.

The EM told me to make myself useful:

That's it for the machine room. Now we're off to peek around to see what's what from the roof. But first, this is the southbound view from the 45th floor. That's the Board of Trade building. The windows are covered in colored plastic sheets so it looks cool lit up at night. It makes for a strange inner atmosphere, though:

We pulled off the plastic sheet so I could get a close up of the goddess, Ceres. I know--it's not elevator-y. But it's very cool, and this is my adventure, so roll with it.

Going up on the roof wasn't very elevator-y, either. I had to take off my shoes to climb the metal ladder, which hurt my bare feet, but that's what I get for wearing cute shoes to this tour. Anyway, it was worth it to get these pictures.

Facing north:

Facing east:

Facing south:

Facing west:

After the exciting trip to the top of the building, we hopped in the freight elevator to go down to the sub-sub-basement. Stay tuned for the next installment of Nora Gets Shafted!

Nora Gets Shafted--Part One

2008-09-19T10:02:00.001-07:00

As promised, my friends, I went to work. No, I didn't get a job, sillies! I went to work with a particular elevator mechanic who works in a particular high-rise building. I'm not well-acquainted with this gentleman, and I could tell you neither the company's name nor the building's name. Hell, I don't even remember my guide's name. I just know he was big and sexy.

I arrived at the building in the Chicago Loop right on time, wearing practical clothing: a cute shirt, jeans and high heeled sandals. Safety first, kids. We conducted the pre-tour interview over lunch at the Elephant and Castle. I learned a little bit about this handsome stranger's work routine, such as how his work day starts, things he likes to do when he's not busy and how he and his partner get along.

Please join me on this extensive virtual tour of all things high-rise elevator. I hope you enjoy Getting Shafted as much as I did.

Eh, an office. Big deal, I know. But hey, blue-collar guys have to kick back and email their homies on company time just like the rest of us.

Where some of the magic happens. Otherwise known as the Control Room.

These approximately 3x6 foot cabinets contain all of the electronic controls for each elevator car.

The photo below shows the card racks. They hold input and output boards. For instance, if someone hits this elevator's call button in the lobby, the input board will light up.

The big cabinets contain the controllers. The smaller ones house the breaking controls, resisters and other such stuff that slow down the cars.

This is a circuit board up close and personal.

A ribbon cable connects the card rack on the elevator doors to the controller. Isn't it pretty?

This is a circuit jumper, which can bypass a circuit. They look and function just like roach clips, when you take away the protective rubber guard. I mean, uh ... These are used to bypass circuits, and bypass circuits only. I don't know what kind of maniac would use them for any other purpose.

This is a transformer, which, (as you may know, but I did not) converts voltage.

What's up, card rack? This holds all of the circuit boards.

Plug this here service tool into the controller's CPU and it runs diagnostic tests:

This computer gives the mechanics visuals on each of the cars, tells them which cars are running and so on:

Ok, folks, that concludes the first installment of Getting Shafted. It's late, and Blogger takes forever to upload images. But stay tuned, because I have lots more pictures, including me! On top of an elevator car 27!

And don't forget--Luke Baggins and I take on Calumet Fisheries tomorrow. Fish crack! Yeah!

Food Porn Bonanza

2008-09-19T10:02:00.000-07:00

What's up, suckas? You know I'm here to talk about food ... again. It seems I don't have a whole lot else going on in my life beyond food, glorious food, marvelous food. I love my food.

Anyhow, it was Lady's birthday last night, so Hot Buns Murphy and I went downtown to take Lady to Bob San. While I feel decent, tasty sushi is available every ten yards in the greater metropolitan area, I have to say, Bob San is consistently awesome. We tore it up.

We started with the classic appetizers, edamame and seaweed salad. To the uninitiated, edamame are soy beans served in the pod, steamed in salt water. You just pop them out of the pod into your slobbering, slavering mouth and yum. Delicious. Careful, though, guys--don't hit them too hard. Soy beans have estrogen-mimicking phytogens in them, and I'd hate to see you grow some tits over dinner.

I know seaweed salad sounds gross, but dudes, it's awesome. The texture is singular--toothsome, al dente strips of tangy seaweed marinated in sesame and rice wine vinegar, served with thin cucumber discs, garnished with strings of daikon radish and sprinkled with sesame seeds. We also got the rainbow roll, a sushi classic, but we got ours with real king crab. I refuse to eat Krab Stik in any seafood restaurant. Ever. That shit is nasty. We also got the House Crunch roll, which is a spicy mayo roll rolled in Panko crumbs. I forget what kind of fish was in it, probably tuna, but who cares? It was delicious.

Our sashimi was perfect. We got our standard tuna and salmon sashimi style, because rice only gets in the way of the divine goodness of raw fish that has the consistency of buttah. We finally convinced Lady to try the ama ebi, that is, shrimp sushi with the heads served seperately--deep fried and delicious. Raw shrimp requires the rice, so get it nigiri style. The rice helps offset the slightly slimy nature of the shrimp while allowing you to enjoy the raw shrimp flava.

Eating the heads is the most fun. The eyeballs stare at you from their little dried out stalks, seeming to say, "Whyyyy? Why do you want to eaaaaat meeeee?" But the crunch is not to be missed. I will only eat shrimp heads when deep fried. That is my standard. But get 'em while they're hot. The antennae get mad sharp once they cool off too much. Get those down quick or it's like swallowing needles.

I finally got the guts to try salmon roe, those big, globular orange eggs. I love most caviar, when it's crunchy and little, like the flying fish eggs used ubiquitously on sushi, but those salmon eggs are so big and juicy...I only tried one, but it was as I suspected. A salty, juicy pop, too viscous for my liking--salmon roe truly is the tomato of the sea, and henceforth, not for me. It was ok. I didn't gag. But I didn't love it. It joins sea urchin roe as the other item in sushi that I won't eat. Oh, and makerel. It tastes too fishy. I know, raw fish that tastes fishy? Go figure. But I think it's nasty and I won't eat it. Besides, raw fish is supposed to neither smell nor taste fishy. It's supposed to smell clean and oceany. If your fish smells fishy, something fishy is going on. So there.

Anyway, that was the third seafood dinner I had this week. Monday, Slippy and I hit Tin Fish for her birthday. I introduced her to oysters. You know how I feel about oysters, right? Well, she loved them, too. Another addict! I knew I could turn her out ... Tuesday, the Mr and I went to dinner and I had substandard fish at the Limestone City Grill. Overcooked and boney. But whatever. No biggie. Last night was sushi and tomorrow ... Tomorrow Luke Baggins and I are taking on the Calumet Fishery for "Fish Crack". Smoked chub (best food item name EVER!), smoked shrimp and more. Stay tuned. We're getting down and dirty on the East Side, bitches, and we'll have the pictures to prove it!

Full of Crepe

2008-09-15T10:02:00.000-07:00

Mmm, crepes. If you read the Recrap, you know that my friend Season and I went out on the town with SWC regular, Luke Baggins. He's in town from Seattle, and to welcome him, we arranged for steady rainfall and a food porn menage a trois. The polite thing to do would have been to let him make the call, since he's in town for a limited time only. During his tenure in Chi-town, Luke became well-versed in all of the fine foods our city has to offer. But Season and I got it in our heads that it was a crepe day, and I think he got my not-so-subtle suggestions that crepes were the way to go.

Icosium Kafe in the Andersonville neighborhood suited our needs perfectly. Centrally located between Season's Lincoln Square apartment and Luke's Rogers Park location, the Algerian creperie seemed the logical choice. We had some Turkish coffee, which started off good, but the second batch was a bit watery. No worries, though. Out came the vegetable puree soup, which was delicate and slightly spicy. If you like more than slightly spicy, the waitress brought out a dish of chili paste that even a pepper-lover such as myself had to respect.

The crepes were stuffed with sauteed peppers, onions, spinach, tomatoes, goat cheese and sprinkled with pine nuts. Luke and I added to the hedonism with lamb sausage. Although Season doesn't usually enjoy eating babies, even she had to agree that it was delicious.

The crepe was paper thin and caramelized perfectly. It was slightly sweet with crisp edges, which contrasted nicely with the salty-liciousness inside. I hurt myself on food, but not so much that I could refuse to share a lemon crepe with my friends. That would just be rude. I lobbied hard for the classic Nutella crepe, but Season was kind enough to remind me that we had had Nutella that very morning with brunch at my house. Her suggestion made the most sense.

Just when we thought we knew how to overdo it, we were informed that the crepe was served with our choice of ice cream. As the waitress mentioned "pistachio", Season and I both piped up that she could list no more. We were sold. Luke, to his credit, realized he was no match for the two of us brash and bossy broads. He diplomatically agreed to go with the flow.

Mmm. Lemon crepes. I'd never had one before, because I am so grievously addicted to Nutella. But what lovely tastes and textures I've been missing! With the same delicate crepe shell, the lemon seemed to be mixed in with sugar, so each bite had a crunchy, sweet and pure lemon flavor. I said it reminded me of powdered Lemonheads, and Season agreed, but added that it was, "Without the classic Ferrara Pan cardboard taste." The pistachio ice cream was more like gelato. Smooth and melty with ginormous chunks of pistachio, surrounded by whipped cream.

God, I am so hungry.

After stuffing ourselves like true Food Porn champs, we staggered out into the warm, rainy night to decide where to have an after-dinner drink. Staring at us was a neon fish wearing a Viking helmet, tippling a martini. Bingo. Simon's. Luke commented on the classic tavern smell, and though the smoking ban has been in effect for some time, the blissful odor of almost eighty years of smoking and boozing wafted out of the open doors. Luke huffed the air deeply and said, "I think that must be my favorite smell."

This photo is of Season's and Luke's drinks, Maker's and Jameson's respectively, and mine, an IPA. I don't have the sophisticated boozer palate these guys do, but I must say, it made for a lovely composition. I call it Liquid Junk:

It was a fabulous evening of gluttony that didn't stop with an after dinner drink. I must confess that our sins also included a few six packs, a midnight Pete's run that included a combo beef and sausage sandwich with red and hot, and a sausage, mushroom, green pepper and onion pizza. What? We couldn't let our good buddy come back all the way from Seattle and NOT help him gorge on all of Chicago's finest gustatory offerings. What kind of friends would we be?

Well, stay tuned, my fellow Food Pervs. Tonight it is Slippy Olter's birthday celebration. It is time for more oysters. I may not need to go into gross detail about my favorite mollusks, but I'm sure we'll find something new to try and to rave about in Food Porn Part Eight. And then it's Lady's birthday celebration on Thursday, where we shall be dining at Bob San on the best sushi in the city.

Thanks for reading. I'm off to run eight miles and swim sixty-four laps. Can't let all this "research" go to my ass, now, can I?

Weekly Recap

2008-09-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

Greetings, all. It's time to recrap, and speaking of crap, can we talk about this freaking rain? Usually Mitchell can give me a clue as to the kind of weather we can expect here in Illinois, but Kansas ain't got shit on Ike. I just talked to my cousin in New Lenox. Hickory Creek has burst at the seams, flooding their entire neighborhood. It ain't pretty over here, either. We've been playing "pass the sump pump" with friends of ours all day. Rain, rain, go away. Let me guess, Mitchell, it's been seventy degrees and sunny over there in Hutch?

Actually, yes. It did finally quit raining Saturday morning, for which I am grateful. We had a fairly steady downpour for most of last week, and there was minor flooding, though nothing like up North. That's a raw deal. It's a good thing that we had some clear weather, since the State Fair just came to a close today. For some reason, September in the Midwest seems an appropriate time to them to hold a largely outdoor event. I wish I could say I understood that. On the plus side, it did afford me an opportunity to write some goofy fiction for What's Up Hutch?. If you've got a chance, everyone, go check out the Adopt-a-Carny project. There are 4 parts. Pure nonsense, but still pretty fun.

Well, other than living in an ocean, how are things, Nora?

It's more of a mucky swamp, but aside from that, I can't complain. I had a great weekend. I got to spend two whole nights in a row with my homegirl, Season. She and I got to go out on Friday with our old friend and SWC regular, Luke Baggins. We all worked at an internet startup back in the day, and it is, to date, my only "real" job. We had a blast reminiscing and getting crazy on some crepes from Icosium in Andersonville (5200 N Clark). It was total and complete food porn. It was pornier than food porn. It was food smut. I have pictures of our excess. Then we went to Simon's right after for drinks. How could we resist? The sign features a neon fish in a Viking helmet drinking a martini.

Well, I'm sure most of you out there are way into the football this season. After last year's amazing Superbowl, I was sure that I would carry my borderline enthusiasm over into this season. Alas, I was wrong. I am perhaps more disinterested in football than ever. Pity. It could have represented a bonding opportunity for me and the Mr. But that's ok. I have Mad Men to look forward to every Sunday. Speaking of bonding over football, in other SWC news, our friend River went to my parents' house today to check out Juderonomy's computer situation. When I called to check in, it seems he was cooling out with my dad and family friend, Bob, watching the Bears lose. What a great, tight-knit community we have here. Hey, how's your Fantasy Football team doing, Mitchell?

Ugh, I don't even want to talk about Fantasy Football. I got murdered. 0-2 in the most pathetic way possible. Thanks a pant load, Tom Brady. Aside from that, though, Aaron Rogers is settling in as the quarterback of the Packers, and they've done very well the first two games of the season. Minnesota should have been tougher for them than they were. Detroit was a guaranteed win. The Cowboys next week, however, scare me a little bit. We'll see what happens there. I have a feeling that it's going to be a long, weird season. No Brady, Peyton Manning is playing like he's lost something, Favre is with the Jets (who lost to a Brady-less Patriots). Everything is all discombobulated compared to last season. I'm stoked.

You probably shouldn't have gotten me started on that. Truth is, though, that I've got very little else to talk about other than that. Next weekend, weather permitting, I'll be going to a bluegrass festival in Winfield, KS. I'll most likely have some cool stories and potentially some pictures of that to look forward to.

We look forward to that. That's about all I have on this end, myself. I'm just hoping the biblical flooding comes to an end and soon. Peace out, everyone, it's time for Mad Men!

Top Five

2008-09-13T15:12:00.001-07:00

The Top Five Things I Would Do If I Woke Up With A Dick

Here's my response to River's Challenge. My answers may not be inspired or creative, but they're honest.

1. Jerk off
2. Take a piss
3. Measure it [Edited]
4. Find a chick to stick it in
5. Shake it at someone

Calling All Geeks

2008-09-11T11:14:00.000-07:00

Juderonomy's whole technological existence is in peril, and it's all my fault. I told her to install Firefox, and her computer crashed or something. She's rather tech-savvy, more so than her lovely offspring (me, jerkoffs!), and I know she's going to try to fix it herself, but I don't want her to have to call the Geek Squad. See, the family had an intervention for me and is sending me to rehab in Malibu for my sexual compulsion issues and addiction to carbohydrates, cheese and Korbel Brut. She has no money left for itinerant Geeks, so I am calling out to the SWC community.

I'm going to get a detailed explanation as to what went down and if anyone has any advice, that would be bitchin'.

Getting Huffington with the GOP

2008-09-08T18:31:00.001-07:00

Why rant and rail against the GOP when The Huffington Post can do it so much better?

Mad Men--TV for the OCD

2008-09-08T09:58:00.000-07:00

I must have my Mad Men. Not just because it's stylistically beautiful, or because it's as soapy as it gets. Well, it is because of those things. But the writers are commenting on the American way of life, mass consumerism, gender relations, the professional world and family life in ways that interest me and keep me chewing over episodes like a dog with a rawhide bone.

Last night, Don Draper bought him a sweet new Coupe de Ville to announce to the world that he had arrived, dammit, and everyone should envy him. He took his lovely little family for a picnic, and as they were getting ready to leave, he launched his empty beer can into the distance. He watched it land with a look of satisfaction, and ordered Betty, his wife, to check the kids' grubby mitts to be sure they didn't besmirch the Caddy's new upholstery.

As Betty packed up their belongings, she shook the blanket free of their detritus, grabbed the basket and walked to the car. Their site remained littered with all manner of crap from their picnic.

What exactly was the message?

Were the writers trying to remind us that post-war America was even more wasteful and unconscious of the impact of our rabid consumption than we are today? Am I to believe that "nice", middle-class people treated the world like their garbage can, and that I can feel good about myself because I schlep plastic, metal and glass to the recycling center? Or am I supposed to feel like, as a nation of consumers, we're more responsible now?

Well, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to take from that scene, but it's got me thinking, that's for sure.

Anyone else out there watching Mad Men?

Walk the Walk

2008-09-07T18:15:00.000-07:00

I engaged in another fund-raising event for cancer research today, but sadly I was not required to wear an adult diaper. Instead, I spent the morning at Montrose Harbor and walked four miles along the lovely Lake Michigan with much of my family. This year's Pancreatic Cancer Research walk was the second annual event for my family, in honor of my awesome aunt Ann who died last summer.

Obviously there is no good cancer, but pancreatic cancer is especially brutal. Usually by the time the symptoms are evident, the disease has a firm grip, so kudos to the Lustgarten Foundation for raising funds for research and screening techniques. It was a gorgeous day and it was nice to have the family and my auntie's best friends there to remember how great she was, donate our time and raise funds for research.

Look! We're ... walking!

I'm not proud to admit it, but I'm beat. My bum ankle's swollen to Medi-cankle proportions and my achin' back is screaming for more contraband. As far as recrapping goes, my homeslice Mitchell is missing in action, but I do know it's state fair season in Hutch, and I hear tell that he's harboring carnies. I look forward to hearing how that's going. The weekend was mellow on my side. Aside from getting the Mr. completely baked on Friday, which was rare and hilarious, and finally mastering the grill yesterday (I know--it's supposed to be easy, but I always get distracted), the Walk was the highlight.

I'm crafting my Take Nora to Work Day Issue One Volume One as we speak. I went to work with my husband, and as soon as I get the five gazillion pictures downloaded I will regale you all with my adventures in all things elevators. I encouraged him to wear a bandana on his face bandito style, like the Bloods or the Crips who try to obscure their identities, but he didn't, so I might have to figure out how to blur his face and the company logo on his shirt. I sure would be sorry if my good times resulted in a termination powered by OSHA. It wouldn't be Take Nora to Work, it would be Get Nora a Job, and that doesn't have the same appeal, does it?

Ratherto, as soon as you can get me on a barge, let me know. I am so uber-psyched about that prospect. I think that will be every bit as kick-ass and educational as my day in a Chicago highrise. Stay tuned! Anyway, I have an episode of Mad Men to prepare for, so I must go, but remember--if you like to waste company time and like to talk about your job, I encourage you to Take Nora to Work!

A Top 5 List, because I'm too lazy for a Top 10.

2008-09-04T12:59:00.001-07:00

Top 5 Reasons to Doubt Your Proctologist's Credentials

5. He insists on sedating you for every procedure
4. Many of his tools mysteriously vibrate
3. Colonoscopy camera is only 6-inches long
2. He continuously repeats "Shut up and take it."
1. Diploma is from KY University, and KY is NOT an abbreviation for Kentucky

Weekly Recap

2008-09-01T20:02:00.000-07:00

Happy Labor Day, everyone! Whatever the hell that means. I had a remarkably uneventful weekend; the highlight was winning big time at Monopoly. So that will pretty much give you an idea of how lame things have been.

The good news is that Bubbles is gone, and it didn't even involve major surgery. I feel ten pounds lighter. It's nice to be able to walk normally again, too. I guess from now on I'm going to have to wear pants in the water as well as a shirt, which I always wear because of previous experiences with severe burns.

What's happening with you, Nora?

Fully clothed for your tubing safety? Awesome. You'll be like Anthony Michael Hall in that shower scene in Weird Science. Bubbles was straight up nasty, and I think I can speak for the whole SWC community when I say we're happy that your second degree burns are gone.

I can't believe summer is over. Yeah, yeah. I know--it's not officially over until the 21st, but I know I'm not alone in feeling like this weekend is the last real weekend of summer--despite the fact that it was 90 degrees today. Labor Day weekend was great. I got to kayak at a new spot, my great friend, Hot Buns Murphy, made me some delicious salmon that she brought back from her trip to Alaska, and I enjoyed some family fun. My cousin and I decided to try out Tinley Park's new cab company. We went into town and drank like we weren't driving home. I'm not feeling well today. I think Bubbles moved into my brain.

That's a bummer that you're not feeling well. It's cool that you've got a cab company to haul you around if you feel like getting good and sloshed. Here in Hutchinson, all we've got for a cab company is two creepy old ladies in old Caprices, and they stop driving at 11. I wonder why so many folks get D.U.Is around here.

Summer is coming to a very quick halt. It's depressing, but at least I've got this nagging pain in the pit of my stomach called the election to look forward to. I'm praying every night that McCain's little stunt of picking up a woman isn't going to dazzle the uninformed into electing him. Let me just lay something out to any of you ladies who think McCain picked Palin to benefit women:

She is not pro-choice.
She believes in abstinence-only education in schools.
She. Is. A. Complete. Republican.

It's a stunt, folks. A stunt that we should prove the American population can look past because we're smarter than they want us to think we are.

I'm off my high horse on that now. Sorry.

You're mean, Mitchell. She's so pretty! And the best thing about Sarah Palin is that she supports teaching creationism in schools. I think that speaks highly of her dedication to quality education. I had a depressing conversation this weekend with a contemporary whom I love very much. Turns out s/he dislikes Obama because of his middle name, Hussein. S/he claims to be "undecided", but I take no comfort from that. That objection speaks volumes to me about what educated middle-class people are capable of when they eschew critical thought. I hope s/he takes a closer look at what the GOP ticket's politics look like up close. I am very afraid for what this election will bring.

That's all so depressing. I don't need to slap a heavy dose of anxiety on top of this wicked hangover. Can we discuss something else? Make me laugh, please!

That's a lot of pressure. Here's a funny video on Youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRuNxHqwazs.

Sweet. I'm going to get a popsicle and laugh at the footage. Peace out, everyone!

Thoughts after the DNC

2008-08-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

I posted my thoughts from after the DNC on What's Up Hutch?.

Feel free to mosey on over and give it a read if you want. It's right here.

Meet Bubbles

2008-08-26T09:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I went tubing last weekend. It was badass. I think we went from the Southern part of Hutchinson to about five miles south of town. Maybe a little further. It was around six hours of being in the mighty ArKANsas river.

Unfortunately, I forgot that I'm tragically fair-skinned. Despite repeated applications of SPF 60, "waterproof" sunscreen, my knees and shins were devastated by the sun. Consiquently, I developed my new friend, Bubbles.

Warning!!! The photos below are pretty fucking sick!

That's nasty shit.