This One Has It All; Bandits, Skirts, Feminism, and References to Your Mama’s Magic Cookie

Thank you, Chicago Bandits! Congrats! It’s a girl! And you are the mother of this, the offspring to my previous post: “From the Forgotten Poet”. You have allowed me a seamless, freebee jab. Oh, this entry is quite deliciously, effortless.

The Bandit mail sent to my faux email address informed me of blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, stuff, stuff, stuff, “Ladies Night” exclamation, stuff, stu…Whoa! Back up, Bionic! My little heart stutter-stepped. Indeed, every Friday has been dubbed “Ladies Night!”

Well, golly and holy crap, Bionic! What’s the catch?

Well, I’ll tell you, Blog Devotee. The small print, Mookie. Always read the small print.

Ladies night means:
“All ladies and individuals wearing a dress or skirt (kilts included) will receive half off Grandstand seating.”

Hmmmmm…..The target audience being…….

Here I am, just trying to soak in a good game of Jennie Finch, errrrrr, I mean Pro-softball. These are athletes not to be sexualized. But their fans! Ahhhh, but their fans!

I think AJ put it best: That’s great! Hmmm, four dollars to wear a skirt….am I that cheap?

Indeed! Didn’t you read the handbook issued following your mama’s last laborious push? You know, the one the doctor handed to you while he grimaced in maudlin tone, “oh…it’s just a girl. Better get ‘er in a skirt.” Ahhhhh….whatever. I’m too mad and laughing too hysterically hard to be Blogging any further about this.

On another and similar note, to the man who held the “Round The Clock Liquors” door open for me yesterday:

Me: Oh…..Thank You (knitting my brows, but smiling)
Guy: (Smiling big) Well, chivalry ain’t dead, bitch. (wink)

For future reference, if you would have just left the last word off, it would make a bigger impact. But, for now, a big, “Thanks for opening the door, ya dick.” (smile, blush, swoon)

From The Forgotten Poet

To The Female Poet, Spoken Word Artist at Schubas:

Thank you. My figure, in Renaissance roundness, all in glowing green at the center of your night vision, rifle scope crossbars.

In red Dickies and lion’s roar, you called the room out. You demanded of us all we had.

You are right. “Silence is a tool of the patriarchy”. I mistakenly shelved my craft in the Night-Time tablet cabinet and it has been banging at the metal trying to escape.

But, I latched the latch on that shit and I started writing songs. I installed the deadbolt and marched on with the Script. I wired it with barbs and built a security wall and called it a Blog.

I out-of-sight-out-of-minded it until you spit your soul out onto Schubas’ floor boards and hung your words on a Kansas clothesline beneath a rumbling sky.

I may be no feminist. And you may have been eyeing me when you lamented about armpit hair shavers. And you may have directed, “Remember silence is a tool of the patriarchy” because you could see words brawling beneath my shirt, fighting to leap from my lungs.

I had orphaned my talents.

And now I will own up.

Here is the piece to be unleashed very soon.
I will not let you down.

Thank You,
From the “Forgotten Poet”

Poem

Novocain For the Soul

Today is for EELS.

* Mental

* Novacain For The Soul

Damn.

That is all.

It Was the Alcohol

It was like a bad trip. If I ever have a bad trip, I suppose this is how a bad trip will go down.

Tsk! Before any judgment is passed, the bulk of the weekend was occupied by fairly sterile and civil activities; scripting and tinkering with the knobs of my guitar. Hell, I even engaged in the pleasantries of Scrabble while watching Ghostbusters. In uncharacteristic form, I lost and failed to show a scintilla of unsportsmanlike conduct. How can one defend against a triple word score of “Azure” when the “Z” falls on the double letter score?

Last night (by most, usually labeled “The Wee Hours of Morning), I stumbled into my blackened entryway and had a nasty flashback where upon a person from the flashback was yanked into a present-day hallucination. I cackled into the dark and began to reminisce out loud and, yes, to myself about some entryway event not to be discussed involving someone not to be discussed and the formerly not-to-be-discussed person was laughing right along with me.

Who had bought me those drinks? Hmmm.

Some points to think about from the weekend:

* Indeed, if we are at a cancer benefit/fundraiser dealy, should these people refrain from smoking? Not all of those who suffer from cancer got it from smoking, but smoking increases the chance of cancer.

* When the MC asked “do you know why so many of our sisters get cancer?” I had a hard time believing it was because lesbians don’t go to doctors as much, as the MC claimed. A bit too much of a generalization to me. However, it has been (at one time) said the reason is linked to giving birth later in life or not giving birth at all, which greatly increases the risk of cancer.

*In very GENERAL terms, when it comes to women obsessed with shoes, could it be because it is the only item of clothing which:

-A size 8, 105 lb. woman and a size 8, 250 lb. woman can wear the same exact shoes and shop at the same shoe stores - The stores and the shoe company cannot discriminate or cater to a certain weight.

-If a shoe doesn’t fit, it’s attributed to the manufacturer, not our own failure to keep up with societal standards – Women are more forgiving of themselves.

* While watching Ghostbusters, in which many of the characters at one time smoke a cigarette, I wonder if:
- Maybe America is gaining weight because, we are smoking less

- The characters who smoked in movies in the early 80s didn’t tend to have some negative stigma attached to them.
They just happened to smoke.


Why all this weight and smoking today? I have no idea.

The point should be ALCOHOL! to which my hallucination and flashback is attributed. Back on track. I woke up in a sweat at 3 a.m. and all I wanted was to take a shower and rinse the cheap cigarettes from the cancer fundraiser from my hair. Then, I realized, I had only eaten once the prior day. At 10 a.m. AHHHHAAAA! Now it is all becoming clear. The circle is a circle.

“Just What I Needed” by the Cars, is a fun song and previously underrated by yours truly. “I don’t mind you coming here, and wasting all my time.” Indeed.

Rock!

The Lollapalooza Line-Up has been partially announced. It is too much for my little, blood pumping four chambered work horse to handle. I dropped the $85.00 on the tickets today.

Chicago: Grant Park
July 23, 24

Line-Up includes:

Pixies
Widespread Panic
Weezer
The Killers
Cake
Dashboard Confessional
The Arcade Fire
Billy Idol
Death Cab for Cutie
Digable Planets
Liz Phair
G. Love & Special Sauce
Blonde Redhead
The Black Keys
The Bravery
The Walkmen
Louis XIV
The Dandy Warhols
The Brian Jonestown Massacre
Tegan & Sara

Basically: This is awesome, suckers.

In case anyone is interested in the status of my elbow, which got tagged with a softball toss while my brain off pondering the mating behavior of penguins:




GOOD ELBOW ********************************************************** BAD ELBOW

I know it doesn’t initially look bad. However! You can actually see the whole thing is swollen. It was throbbing all night! Doesn’t everyone feel sorry for me?

Life Is A Ballpark

Sometimes, the rain never comes like they say.

Sometimes, it comes expectedly in heavy, shouting buckets.

Sometimes, it comes in slight drips from wind streaked, stonewashed clouds pushing across the hung over, tarp-blue sky.

This weekend, Mother Nature was a doll. Our crew soaked in the wide sky, spilled the sauerkraut, sipped the foam heads, chatted about bands, philosophized about life, and witnessed the Mariners thrash the White Sox 5 - 3.

The The gentleman sitting next to me said he didn’t mind my Mariner hat (emblem circa 1977 – 1983). As long as it wasn’t a stinkin’ Cubs hat, it was all good in the hood. Oh, touché!

The black bra party was a blast and the pre-funking at Roscoe’s was even better. The ladies are out in full force, waiting in line to get a glimpse of the available (and unavailable). And me, anxiously ahead of the season as the trader put it, wearing white pants and a lilac top. The stork shall be arriving any time and the summer shall be pushed from its cozy, cuddly hibernation. Goodbye, cruel winter. Adieu. Till then, I will continue to mock the monotony of a cool spring and wear the dang white.

Our Tax Dollars: Hard at Work Hassling Folks

Upon exiting the confines of Sluggers, fresh from our $5-all-you-can-hit-till-your-hand-is-broke, the Bass and I strolled southbound along Clark St, beneath the mingling of red light “Wrigley Field” fluorescents and the occasional flashbulb pops of posing tourists opposing silver moon shadows.

We happened upon a group of African Americans whom had stopped their stroll to comment on a pile of fallen Snoop Dogg promo posters. Prior to this event, the Bass and I had also come to a halt in order to read up and inform ourselves of the upcoming Snoop venture.

We crossed the street and continued pontificating about life and Snoop.

Red and blue lights suddenly surrounded us; bouncing and bending off windows and brick building fronts. I glanced over my shoulder to see the group, still exercising their right to assemble and chat over Snoop Dogg posters, getting hassled by the Five-O.

“Move it along.”

They moved it along.

Last week, I saw a bust in my neighborhood. Well, it wasn’t a bust, it was a shake down of the occupants of a pimped-out, snotty-nosed Monte Carlo. It was a “Git yur hands up their on the hood, Son, while I infringe on your rights” type of deal. Now, how do I know? Because, I’m telling you, I saw the end of the entire shake down. The kids gathered their belongings from the hood, got in their car and drove off. The Kevlar clad undercovers didn’t hand them a ticket or anything. About 10 minutes later, as I approached my house, same undercovers shaking down the occupants of a Lilac Cadillac. Hands up on the hood, belongings splayed, car being searched. Nothing. Get in the car and drive away.

Undercovers not so happy at the results but still jovial.

"Sometimes you get 'em, Morris, n sometime ya don't. Alright, let's roll."

This City is fucked sometimes.

Brooke Shields, Watch Out, Pretty Girl!

I am still unsure where I went wrong with this eyebrow;
but, it has been a bitch to grow back.

And damnit, if the thick eyebrows aren't back in again!

Finally, for those of you Googling or Aoling "Jamie Sommers", AKA Lindsay Wagner, AKA The Bionic Woman:

There is nothing here; no six million dollar man, no leaping buildings in a single bound, no crime fighting, no ebay sale on nostalgic lunchboxes. But thanks for the visit.

The View From Here

From the dude.

My beach front property. I feel so small.

God, my limbs and extraordinarly buff muscles are sore from Slugger's.

Oh, Softball In Chicago, Where Art Thou?

I was in need of slugging it out with a few balls.

Batting practice with the gals at Slugger's and a sentimental joysticking of the video game classic, Rampage.

Oh, beautiful Thursday in Chicago.

On another note, hot off the presses, Lollapalooza, is coming. 1 show and that show is in Grant Park, Chicago, Illinois. 70 Bands - 5 stages - 2 days, July 23-24. What's up now?

Also, for FREE Lauryn Hill will be performing June 24th to kick off the Taste of Chicago.

Roll

The good times settle back at the start. Toes flat to the blocks, inhale, shake the limbs, chain dangling, exhale, bullhorn droning, anticipate, inhale, eyes forward, ready to recoil, exhale, steady, steady, steady. The pistola smacks out. Quick start! Fair Start! Hoorahhh!

Some good things have happened over the past 24 hours:

* My sis netted herself a new job. More money, closer to home, full benefits. Nice.
* Expertly completed the word jumble in the Tribune in no time
* Caught the Walk sign perfectly
* Received a surprise birthday card from Dad. Was reminiscent in describing holding my little baby body close to him.
* Two unexpected calls from long ago peeps. Made me feel like Christmas.
* Mom and I had a fun talk. Told her about Dad’s card. She laughed and said he dropped her off at the hospital and went to work while she was in labor. Oh, man! I’m staying out of this one.
* Mom asked me if I was getting done up for a hot date. After 7 years, I almost didn’t want to say no because she actually acknowledged I did, in fact, date.
* Pad Siew w/ my best pal
* Ran in to the Commish. Always, indeed, a pleasure. Talked shop! Can't wait for Softball!
* Peppermint Tea outside at Kopi. Enjoyed the pre-summer air and the view of the streets, eager and throbbing with Andersonvillies.
* Boss not in for the first 2 hours of work. Yeah!

Keep truckin’, keep truckin’.

Call Me Selfish

It’s an incredible task. The collection of various scattered, pulsating packets of emotions flinching behind my rig cage in the past weeks. I will go at them like a well-loved deck of cards; calm them, cradle them in my palm, feel the soft, fanning air of my shuffle, and end with three clean, sure taps against the surface.

Even. Neat. Steady. Just like that.

In the event another family member falls ill or dies, I’ve informed my mother to keep me ignorant. The exception being any of the Washington tribe. Call me selfish.

I blame my current outward display of forced numbness and indifference on the fact that I am in need of stepping off the rotating cage wheel of emotions for a moment. If I could just string along a few good days, a few pieces of good news, life would be a heap of ornate, 5 star hotel pillow chocolates.

The girls have done a tremendous job at keeping my mane out of my own vomit and pretending the superfluous tears aren’t tiresome.


On to other subject:

Recently, cable-tvless, I have found myself crouched on the floor, squinting over Kyle’s Laser Disc titles.

I’m fairly certain at my last viewing of Terry Gilliam’s Time Bandits (1981), I was sporting a Spuds Mackenzie t-shirt and jams. This was comedy:

Evil: God is not interested in technology... He knows nothing of the potential of the micro-chip or the silicon revolution. He's obsessed with making the grass grow and getting rainbows right... Look at what he spends his time on. 43 species of parrot! Nipples for men!

Robert: Slugs.

Evil: Slugs! HE created slugs! They can't hear. They can't speak. They can't operate machinery. Are we not in the hands of a lunatic? If I were creating the world I wouldn't mess about with butterflies and daffodils. I would have started with lasers, eight o'clock, Day One!
[zaps one of his minions accidentally, minion screams]

Evil: Sorry. What sort of Supreme Being created such riffraff? Is this not the workings of a complete incompetent?

Baxi Brazilia III: But He created you, Evil One.

Evil: What did you say?

Braxi Brazilia III: But He created you, so He can't be entirely...

Evil: [Blows Baxi to bits] Never talk to me like that again! No one created me! I am Evil. Evil existed long before good. I made myself. I cannot be unmade. *I* am all powerful!

It's All In The Numbers

**Edited April 6 upon correction by Anonymous**

Interesting how the newspaper describes casualties of "War" in the following manner:

injured four guards
injured 12 detainees
wounding four civilians
killed 10 fighters (insurgent)
killed one American soldier
killing two civilians
injuring 13 insurgents
injuring 50 insurgents
injuring forty-four American soldiers
injuring 13 prisoners

This strange pattern leapt from the page and socked me in the pupils today, as it is terribly troublesome for me to read written words for numbers. I only utilize the numeral version at work.

The "Good Guys" tending to get their numbers written.
The "Bad Guys" tending to get their numbers in digits.

How ordinary is this occurence from day to day across the country?

Makes it interesting when merely skimming articles on busy morning commutes.


"actually, there's probably just one typo (that 44 is written out...). Numbers under 10 are usually written out as words...." posted by Anonymous 4/5/05

I do value accuracy and knowledge over my rants and sometimes hair trigger blog posts. Thanks, Anonymous for pointing this out. I admit this is a possibility and I had failed to review the rules of English on this one prior to posting.

However! I will keep my eyes peeled.

Already, today in the same article regarding militants in Saudi Arabia, the casualties (10 and above) were written in this manner:

Killing 14 armed militants
Killing fourteen members of the security forces

I am hoping that the Tribune is just terribly inconsistent and that Anonymous is correct in assuming the typo.

** On a side note, it is unnerving to me that I actually considered censoring the words killing, Saudi Arabia and militants. I feel like Albert Gonzales and his minions are on alert for words like these. It may be coincidental, but immediately upon publishing my Cuba post I was locked out of Blogger until the next morning.

The Golden Delicious of My Eye

“I’m not objectifying you or anything…”

Uh-huh. Not that I believe I should be the Golden Delicious of some random woman’s eye per se; but truly, is one to believe they aren’t being objectified with this statement? Oh, I don’t know.

I don’t get chicks anymore. Damned if you do, double-damned if you don’t, and triple-damned if you do.

The woman might have faired better with another line I recently overheard:

“You know, when we play ball, you always smell really good.”

Now, this magnificent specimen I lopped off at the neck, affixed to a heavy mahogany placard and mounted on the wall across from my desk.

As I haven’t gone dancing since getting booty-bumped from the dance floor at Biology Bar a few months ago, it was time to give the old activity another whirl. So, we headed off to Suave’s BBLYSS event at Chromium on Friday. Thank goodness for MTV, I had studied-up on J-Lo’s new half-arm-circle-Arsenio-like-thingy dance move, as this got me through most of the evening. I maintained my integrity and even was yanked out onto the floor by my sockets when I attempted to take a breather.

Word to the wise: Dunkin’ Donuts on State and Lake is not the hippest place to be found at 3:00 a.m. if you really wanna know what the employees do with the frozen egg and sausage patties.

I’m also getting weary of these cab rides home. It has become apparent, after polling my friends, sex isn’t commonly offered to women in cabs. This has happened to me 4 times outright and a few times cryptically. Really, when you think about it, a cab ride is merely hitching with a stranger. Why do we entrust a guy with our lives because he is at the wheel of a Yellow Cab?

Shoot. I don't know what I am giving off lately. But, the propositions this weekend totalled 4.

Oh, the Pope.

I suppose we’ll endure a pocketful of days of exclusive coverage to go along with the page 1 thru 10 spread in the front section of the Chicago News Tribune today? I hope the days go quickly, as I am sure the rest of the world is waiting to get back to their sweat shop working, looting, genociding, voting, insurgencying, drilling, rain forest cutting, Camilla marrying, coup d etating and poppy growing.

If Only I Had Good Hex-ability

Today, what I wouldn’t give for modicum of chicken-feathered, drippy candle-waxed voodoo knowledge.

Dang! What I wouldn’t give!

Or I shall consider hawking my soul to the Devil.

I wonder what the depreciation is on a person’s soul. At age 9, my soul was surely worth at least a tricked out, silver Delorian equipped with a hover board roof rack. At 28, odds say a good trade would consist of a simple, good luck chance at a correct answer on one of those 1-in-4-Scratch-Off-&-Win dealies affixed to the outside of my morning Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup. Or maybe, at my age, the Devil, in good conscience, could only pat my back, shrug his red, pointy shoulders and offer up a healthy pile of dog shit to step in.

Anyway, if I could just conjure up one good hex, sure as shit, today would prove to be the day it was necessary.

And while, yesterday, the Sidetracks bouncer could have stood for a mild bewitching; today, I would summon a curse to slay Goliath.

My sis’ boss, ex-boss as of last evening, is the target of my new sentiments.

Typical business. Typical shitty, small business.

Cripple the employees through a lack of compensation, discontinued health care, and eliminating other benefits and idly sit back while time ticks from the clock. The pattern with Goliath’s firm is to bring aboard interns to “groom” and the progeny being, with each novice addition, to unload those who earn a few more peanuts. He clears his conscience by expressing loads of bullshit disappointment over their lack of fill-in-the-blank.

So, my sis’ time expired last night. Goliath says she had failed to develop herself into a leader. To prove how heartless Goliath is, my sis has had a few bad weeks, man. And even heartless bastards wouldn’t terminate a loyal worker who, in the last 3 weeks, was rushed to the hospital for heart problems and whose Grandma died. Mind you, these are problems that neither affected her time or production at work.

My sis is just part of the pattern. I fear she will believe her firing to be mostly her fault. It is my sister’s nature. If only she had worked 73 hours last week instead of 70.

What a heartless bastard. What absolute bullshit.

Anyone got the Devil’s mobile number?

For now, I suppose, I will have to settle for a 1 Up and Blog Power.