Getting it made (retro-post)

UNLESS YOU DEFINE C-SPAN as reality TV, most reality TV is dumb. Nevertheless, there are a few shows I admit to watching or having watched. The original, "Cops," I used to watch back when it was a new concept, but nowadays I'm older and wiser and a show glorifying the creeping police state and the drug war just doesn't appeal to me any more. I've been known to watch "The Real World" sometimes; it's like watching a car wreck. Ditto for the last couple seasons of "The Surreal Life" (which I swore I'd never watch, but how can you not watch the runty, black-as-coal, always-buggin'-out Flavor Flav hookin' up with sagging blonde amazon Brigitte Nielsen?), and "My Fair Brady." Again, it's the completely insane personalities and the drama that suck you in. And the fact that these shows, as unreal as they are in many of their facets, do evoke situations and people you know. They're an opportunity to watch human nature at work in all its beauty and repulsiveness. They excite a visceral reaction precisely because they portray such familiar, universal characters and themes.

Of the reality-show crop. probably one of the most positive in its impact is MTV's "Made." It's about high school kids who want to achieve a goal. They're provided a personal coach to pull and push the very best out of them. These kids have garnered a special place in my heart because they remind me of myself throughout much of high school. In other words, they're the so-called losers.

Stuck on You (a retro-post)

OKAY, SO BY NOW you've heard of this week's two glue-related stories: the one about the Pennsylvania stick-up artist who Super Glued her ex-boyfriend in some uncomfortable places, and this man's dubious case against Home Depot for a allegedly sticky toilet seat.

But you haven't gotten your fill of glue and stuck people just yet. Oh no! You want more. Well I got more!

Well, just to preface this next item, you should know that I don't profess any special expertise in bizarre fetishes, nor do I aspire to such expertise -- okay? With that disclaimer out of the way, I'll bring to your attention this particular phenomenon. Although it seems PG-13 at most, this has got to be one of the most bizarre I've ever heard of.

I stumbled upon this very, very weird corner of the Internet about three years ago. I met a most fascinating friend online who told me she had played guitar with a band called The Gluey Brothers. (Check 'em out -- they're like the Beastie Boys meets Devo meets They Might Be Giants.) While exploring the "Gluey Links" at the official Gluey Bros. site, I found a link to ...

Stuck Girls

When I clicked over to Stuck Girls I literally couldn't believe what I was seeing.
(The site is pretty much history; the main page and thumbnails are there, but none of the hyperlinks will work.)

This discovery sent me on a strange journey into another world, where I encountered lots of photos or drawings or stories about girls stuck in stuff: glue, mud, honey, their own shoes, even their chairs.

On occasion one finds stuck men sinking in quicksand.

Fat girls in quicksand? That's more my thing.

MeerKat, the creator of Stuck Girls, now runs a site about "girls who are permanently stuck in cheesy animal costumes."

And of course, there are message boards devoted to this fascination as well.

This particular corner of weirdness appears to be an offshoot of the more popular "bondage" fetish community. Oh yeah, which reminds me:

God commands you to spank your wife

First, find your soul (a retro-post)

(Image stolen from Jaina.org)


From a chat workshop hosted by Mystress Angelique Serpent, Shaman, Shaktipat Master, Pagan High Priestess (3rd Degree), Yogina, clairvoyant, channeller, Reiki Master ... and Dominatrix:

[Mystress] enters this room

[scott] enters this room

[MrDill] enters this room

[Mystress] heya.. welcome.. !

[Mystress] ok. First, find your soul... look within yourself for a tiny bright spark of light. It is likely near your power chakra.

[Mystress] find the spark of your soul inside you, let me know
when you see it or if you cannot..

[Mystress] find it, Scott?

[scott] i can't pinpoint it.. but i can imagine it

[scott] it looks dark

[MrDill] I'm trying

[Mystress] I think you may find it is outside your body, near your head, scott

[scott] wow

 [Mystress] explains a lot, really... see it?

What's in your closet? (a retro-post)

SO I MANAGED TO CATCH part of MTV's Video Music Awards last night. Chi-towners (or Chi-towners-turned-New Yorkers) were mos def representin', with appearances by Messrs. Kelly, West, Lynn (aka Common), the pop-punk band Fall Out Boy, Jeremy Piven.

Props to Mr. Robert Kelly for his brave attempt at performing two acts of his interminable and tortuous masterwork, "The Closet." The thing is part opera, part soap opera, part suspense thriller, part one-man dramatic interp. Kelly's performance was mostly or entirely lip-synched, and at times it was a head-scratcher to follow the plot twists and the multiple-character dialogue voiced by a single performer (Kelly). But he deserves an "A" for the effort, for thinking outside the box of the normal three-to-four-minute single, and for even attempting to bring such an awkward performance piece to the stage.

Kells ended the saga with a new twist: he gave the last line to Rufus. Remember, Rufus, Cathy's husband, is the pastor who, in an earlier installment, had outed himself and introduced his paramour Chuck. But at the end, here's what Rufus says to his boy toy:

"Chuck I'm sorry, but I'm going back to my wife."

And so things end, happily -- but not gayly -- ever after. Ah, just when you thought Kells was about to get all weird and perverted on us ...

When "The Closet" first came out I'm sure I wasn't the only one who wondered whether it may have been a cryptic way for the brotha to dangle some of his own sexuality issues before the public, in the guise of art. (At least the song does not allude to, erm, watersports with underage girls ... )

And speaking of closets, when VMA host Sean "Puffy" "Puff Daddy" "P. Diddy" "Diddy" Combs wasn't exhuming Biggie Smalls for the millionth time, he was spoofing his own gender identity. First, he told the audience, he was simply Sean Combs. Then, as everyone knows, he became Puffy, then Puff Daddy. But after that he took a little-publicized detour: He got Afrocentric and tried "Kunta Combs"; then he collabo'd with Kanye West, so decided to try out "Seanye West"; then he got political with the "Vote or Die" campaign, so (showing a slide of himself in drag dressed like our secretary of state): "Seandoleezza Diddy Rice." Talk about your camp!

So Diddy or didn't he? In a frickin' American's humble opinion, if Mr. "I'm Coming Out" Diddy isn't giving us a clue about his own proclivities, I don't know what he's doing.

Unfortunately, 'Big Brother' isn't just reality TV (a retro-post)

They'll narrate the terror
Then they'll turn up the commercial ...

 -- Heather Guerin



IT IS TV. BUT IT'S ALSO fast becoming reality.

"The incredible presence of CCTV cameras in this city has yielded incredible results," CNN reporter Christiane Amanpour reported approvingly this morning. She said this during her coverage of the latest non-events in the London terror story -- non-events to which viewers around the world are supposed to react with paralyzing fear and beg for Big Brother's warm embrace.

Following Amanpour's report, the CNN anchor chimed in that London's omnipresent cameras "have proved instrumental in catching people." Implying: Those Brits sure are on the ball! Why don't we have cameras everywhere like they do?


Of course, cameras everywhere didn't stop the 7/11 bombings. But the cameras are performing quite well when it comes to conditioning an entire law-abiding population to stifling and overwhelming government surveillance.

What cameras did capture was the unprovoked police murder of another terror "suspect." The guy entered the subway, tripped and fell, and the police shot him dead. Because, you see, he "didn't heed their calls to stop."

Blue and orange (a retro-post)

I THOUGHT JOYCE RILEY WAS perhaps exaggerating for effect when she started bringing up the blue-and-orange color schemes being featured on TV news networks. She claimed the networks are moving subtly to the UN colors, to subliminally condition the viewing public to accept the future one-world government under the UN. Perhaps, I thought, she's selectively noticing these colors.

So I turn on CNN today. There's Clinton -- the UN special envoy for tsunamis and whatnot -- being interviewed on set. Behind him is a backdrop of a blue map with a huge sky-blue UN logo (the globe wrapped in Roman laurels) behind his head. He's wearing a UN-blue tie.

Which witch is which? (a retro-post)

In honor of Omarosa's return to the spotlight, I will post this little piece I wrote back last year when both of these remarkable and heroic black women were in the headlines in the same week. Some of the details have changed, but it's still pretty funny.

"Dude, can you believe they brought back that black chick on 'The Apprentice'! What's her name? Condorosa?"

"No, silly, that's Omaleezza! Condorosa Rice, she's the Secretary of Defense. Didn't you see her testifying before the 9-11 Commission? I watched all eight hours. You should watch more C-SPAN and less 'reality TV,' man."

"Jeez ... all those black names sound alike to me."


It's not often that white America has to deal with two quadrisyllabically named black women in the national headlines simultaneously. To help distinguish between Omarosa and Condoleezza, I've compiled this handy table.

OMAROSA			CONDOLEEZZA
Very scary to date			Secretary of state
Vexed, irrational insecurity geyser			Ex-national security advisor
Needs course in interpersonal relations			Needs course in international relations
Huge gap in social skills			Huge gap in teeth
Sounds like "Ponderosa"			Sounds like "condo leaser"
Oversized chip on shoulder			Oversized head on shoulders
Reinforces image of successful black women as angry, loud, and rude			Reinforces image of successful black women as incompetent token hires
Blames problems on racists			Blames problems on terrorists
Lies to save ass			Lies to save Bush
Blood that boils			Blood for oil

Is it a small enough world for ya? (A retro-post)

IT IS IF YOU travel in artsy or "fringe" crowds in Chicago. Just for my own amusement, and to shout out to some of the many interesting people I've met of late, I will play connect-the-dots.


Fall 2004:

I meet Gail #1 at an art opening at Polvo in the near South Side neighborhood of Pilsen. She invites me to her upcoming show at ARC Gallery in Near Northwest Side Ukrainian Village.

While leaving Gail's show at ARC, I pass another gallery a couple doors down -- Gallery Chicago. 

Since its doors are open, I stroll right in. Someone tells me they're having a party in the studio in back. So I go on back there and meet, among others: gallery owner Ken, artist Gail #2 (actually Gayle,, a punk-rockish fortysomething firebrand), and Tall Bearded Dude.

I see Maya's Xanga blog. Maya is the avowed "queer anarchist" daughter of the archconservative former Reagan Administration official who entered last year's Illinois Senate race and felt the pain of a Barack Obama sock-o-rama. I said to myself, "I bet one of these days I'll meet her ... because, except for the queer part, she reminds me so much of myself."

Feb. 2005:
On the Red Line platform at Harrison I see a waifish, curly-haired, dark chocolate girl who, by her many accoutrements, could only be Maya. 

Of course, it is Maya. 

As we board the train, we strike up a conversation and talk all the way up to Addison, where I exit to go to Smart Bar to see 24 Hour Party People.

March:
I go to the Printers' Ball, where among many others I see the Tall Bearded Guy, who I learn is Lee Groban. I meet the daughter of Steve, my former mentor at the Chicago Reader, who has a new book out on the criminal justice system.

I also meet a really cute weirdo, Alicia, who introduces me to Ken #2, aka DJ Soul Rebel, who tells me all about this Chicago Afro-Punk show he's promoting.

April:
At Versionfest, there's Ken from Gallery Chicago and Genewise Christie. I also meet a great many others, including a hippy chick/"group facilitator" named Tree. (Is that her real name?)

May:
I go to the Afro-punk show at Texas Ballroom, to which I was invited by Ken #2 (regrettably, missing the AGet2Gether premiere/cast & crew party). Who should I see at that show but Gail #2 from Gallery Chicago -- moshin' with all the kids!

Since I live so far from Bridgeport I wind up crashing with a quite interesting couple, Liberte and Jimmy (and their four cats).

Liberte happens to know Tree. But that's not all. They also happen to know Maya; in fact, I learned, Maya had crashed on the very same couch not long ago, after her dad had kicked her out for coming out.

Test your Euro-knowledge! (a retro-post)

As a dumb American, I always get these terms confused, so I thought I'd make a quiz out of them and see how many other people are confused too. Careful -- this is tricky! (Persons of Northwest European descent, having an unfair advantage, should abstain from this quiz.)

QUIZ

1. What are people from the nation of Holland called?

a) Hollanders
b) Hollishmen
c) Hollisters
d) Hollandaise
e) Dutch
f) both b) and d)
g) none of the above

2. What are people from the nation of Denmark called?

a) Denmarkers
b) Danishes
c) Danes
d) Dutch
e) Marks
f) Deutschmarks
g) both b) and f)
h) none of the above

3. What are people from the nation of Netherlands called?

a) Nethers
b) Netherlanders
c) Nethermen
d) Dutch
e) Danes
f) the Amsterdamned
g) both a) and d)
h) none of the above


4. What are people from the nation of Deutschland called?

a) Deustch
b) Dutch
c) Duchesses
d) Hollanders
e) Germans
f) Both a) and e)
g) none of the above

Drug Awareness (a retro-post)

Recently the Supreme Court protected all that is right, decent and Christian by ruling that the federal government may overrule State government laws allowing so-called "medical marijuana."

In other news from the War on Drugs:

Are YOU aware of this

DANGEROUS DRUG?

Dust. Gunpowder. Goddess. China Black. Green Dragon. Royal Golden. White Monkey. Ceylon. Moroccan Mint. Iced Tea. Sweet Tea.

These are just a few of the many street names of a drug that has millions in its grip.

What many parents don't know is that this highly addictive, potentially deadly substance is available virtually anywhere -- from the biggest metropolis to the smallest farm town.

It's growing in popularity among college students and twentysomethings.

And we've learned that even preteens are able to purchase this drug in many neighborhoods. Some may even be purchasing it at school.

The startling truth is that your kids may already be hooked.

Camellia sinensis (its scientific name) is derived from the leaves of an evergreen commonly cultivated by desperate, impoverished Indian and Chinese farmers.

Typically, the leaves are dried, rolled, heated, and sometimes fermented, after which they're often crushed into a coarse powder--hence the nickname "dust"--and packed into small bags for sale. More powerful extracts are available as well.

In addition to volatile oils, the leaves contain a mind-altering chemical called theine --  a complex molecule known to chemists as C₈H₁₀N₄O₂. This strong central nervous system stimulant binds with neural receptors, enhancing arousal. Most users describe feelings of stimulation and exhilaration. On the other hand, some report feeling tranquility and comfort; some even claim the drug, in smaller doses, helps them sleep better. Many artists who use it gets their creative juices flowing.

However, this drug has its dark side.

• It's highly addictive --  many users end up hooked for life.
• It may cause addicts to think and act in abnormal ways.
• In higher doses, it is known to hinder short-term memory, cause nervousness, anxiety, excessive ambition, tremors, sleeplessness, heart arrythmias, high blood pressure, and even stroke.
• Since the active chemical must be metabolized in the liver, concerns have surfaced that use at higher doses may cause liver damage.
• Even in relatively small doses, the active ingredient in this drug can kill household pets.
• Many users eventually go on to become criminals and psychopaths.
• Hitler and Mao reportedly couldn't live without it, and according to a biography of Josef Stalin, the bloody Soviet dictator demanded a dose at 11 o'clock each night.

Don't be fooled by the fact that this hazardous drug is found in nearly every supermarket, drugstore, coffeeshop, restaurant, vending machine, and home in America. Or that even the Queen of England uses it.

Its very real, scientifically proven dangers are undeniable.

Talk to your kids about tea. You may just save their lives.

This message is brought to you by the White House Office of National Drug Control Policy and The Ad Council.

Red line to 95th (retro-post)

At the Roosevelt Red Line platform, I see an attendant exiting his booth and I ask him why this has been happening recently. Why are they turning trains AROUND and heading back up north? People need to go south. This is making me miss my bus out to the burbs, and the next one's an hour later. At this rate I won't actually get home until a quarter after midnight.

The attendant is a very butch, muscular, well-tanned white guy with blond highlights in his hair and a neatly trimmed, blonde-streaked goatee and carefully rolled-up shirt sleeves displaying his muscular biceps.

"The CTA does everything backasshalfwards, if you ask me," he says in thick Chicagoese. "The don't even tell me about this stuff, and I'm the one who's gotta deal with all the pissed-off riders. It's fucked up." He advises me to write a complaint to the CTA.

But then I realize the guy is waaaaay too interested in talking to me. He's lingering around and is starting to repeat himself, as if trying to stretch the conversation. And I notice he's way too neat--not a hair out of place. He starts to remind me of some of the guys I've seen hanging around Spin on north Halsted.

So I nod politely, thank him for his advice, and look down and grab a pen and pad to make a note to myself to write CTA. Get the message? This conversation's over.

This plump, pretty sista starts talkin to me about why the delays and woowoowoo, and I tell her what dude told me. I'm not feelin mackadocious at the moment so I don't flirt.

When the next southbound train finally arrives at 9:29, it's packed. Boarding ahead of me is an old lady I've seen around in various places: a white-haired old black woman, dragging two big garbage bags.She sits down with her bags blocking the aisle.

"Let me help you out," I say, moving them out of the way a little—-even though I'm actually helping myself and other passengers more than I'm helping her. She thanks me.

When I get off at 95th, I head across the street to McD's. It's been a while since I tasted some McCrap. While in line I watch a bunch of unruly get-o girls, looking to be junior high, wearin' stuff way too tight for their ages. And grown-ass men breakin their necks to turn and stare at them.  Damn, brothas, keep yo eyes in the sockets. Yall act like yall ain't never seen a big booty before.  You know the Roadrunner cartoon where Wile E. looks at the roadrunner and imagines him as a big, steamin' hot roasted turkey on a platter? That's the way they're looking at these little girls. 

I enter the 95 station and some brothas are in a freestyle cipher, trading battle rhymes as they drink some kind of pinkish-orange drank from little flasks and pass around a blunt (even though there are cops in the station). One of 'em makes a pot-smoker scowl and then starts goin' buckwild like Redman on a killing spree. A couple others are on a West Side, Twista/Do or Die type flow.  Some college –type sistas are hanging around them and egging them on as they trade battle rhymes.

The junior high girls from McD's show up, clownin', being loud, tryin to get the brothas' attention.

I love 95th. It's an ever-changing exhibit of Chicago ghetto-fab, and ghetto-ridiculous. 

Names of shame, or acclaim (retro-post)

IF YOU'RE MENTALLY hyperactive, like me, and you're stuck in a repetitive or slow-moving temp job, you come up with stuff to amuse yourself rather easily. 

One way is poking fun at the names you find in client or member databases.

Tommy Almond, Red Bank, NJ
Wanna bite of my Almond Joy, baby?

Huge Blane, Redmond, WA
First, I'm sure this is a typo and it should be Hugh. However, even if his name really is Huge, at least his last name isn't something like Balz or Cox.

Diana Booher, Grapevine, TX
Whether pronouced "boor" or "boo her," this can't be good for self-esteem.

Randy Chittum, Strategic Partners, Potomac, MD
Who are the other partners, Dewey and Howe?

Jen S. Darling, Potomac, MD
A built-in excuse to flirt. 

John Devine, Hammond, IN
This could have been exciting. Had his first name been Dick, he could have been either a Cook County state's attorney or a porn star. Had it been "Miss," he could've been a drag queen. Or "Father," then he could've been a cheap knockoff of a famous black religious/civil rights leader from the early 20th century, or maybe an indie band.

But John? What a waste.


Bob Dust, Richmond, VA
"Meet my son, Angel." 

Debbie Frame, St. Simons Island, GA
If she's attractive, then "getting framed" just might be a good thing.


R. Goodbody, NE Illinois Federation of Labor
If you're in labor you need a Goodbody.

Greylock Associates, Baltimore
Sounds like some kind of tech-savvy wizard coven.

Max Holmes
How many times a day does he have to hear "What up, Holmes?"  

Peter Horne, Winnetka, IL
Lots of junior high school laffs there.

Howard H. Hush, Lincolnshire, IL
Once upon a time, he was the Hush little baby.

James Jones
Unless his middle name is Earl, this name says "mama just didn't give a sh1t."

Norman A. Klotz
Oy gevalt, you're such a Klotz.

Mr. and Mrs. Roman Lipp
My girlfriend's always complaining I've got Roman eyes, and, well, I guess I've got Roman lips too.

Mr. and Mrs. Norris Love, Winnetka, IL
Gives "making Love" an added layer of meaning.

Mike Loveless, Shelbyville, IN
Let's hope it's not true, but in a place like Shelbyville, IN, it just might be.

Mr. and Mrs. Paul Mustered, Ottawa, IL
"Honey, how'd you like some Mustered on your weiner tonight?"

Mr. Jim C. Neidy, Ottawa, IL
If I were them I'd set up the Fund for Neidy Children. Everyone would assume it was just a typo, and the bucks would come pouring in. 

Elizabeth Null, Cambridge, MA
Does she have a business partner named Void?

Mr. David School, Ottawa, IL

As head of the School house, I guess you'd call him the Superintendent of Schools.
He sounds like he might be an old School to me, but maybe he and the wife have got a new School on the way.  

But the weird thing is, no matter how many degrees they earn, his kids will always be School children.

I wonder if he's shy and introverted. I guess that'd make him a private School. If he's really introverted, call him a home School.

Maybe he's like 6'4", which would make him a high School.

Or if he's an intellectual, then I guess you'd call him a School of thought.

Maybe he's even engaged, which would make his fiance a pre-School.

And for all I know, maybe the guy is actually the retired rapper formerly known as Schooly D--truly one from the old school.
 


Last but not least:


 Chip Stilwell, Potomac, MD
"How are ya, Chip?"

"Stilwell, Frank!"

Wacky Business Idea #1,392

Wacky Business Idea #1,392:  It's unfortunate I really cannot take advantage of this idea. When will some health-conscious, enterprising woman or group of women begin to package and sell milk? Meaning, their own.

This could be a hell of a cottage industry. Talk about your boutique products. Fresh, frozen concentrate, chocolate, fruit smoothies, yogurt, frozen desserts ... I don't know how cheese would work but it might be doable.

The market? Mainly, working moms or those who otherwise do not wish to breastfeed their kids, but who realize that breast milk is nutritionally far superior to cow milk formula for building immune systems, brain development, preventing allergies, asthma, diabetes, obesity, etc. And then perhaps older people searching for the fountain of youth, since the concentrated nutrition in breast milk is said to have anti-aging effects.

I'm sure a certain segment of the male population would be intrigued, especially where the milk producer -- and her, um, milk sources -- were especially attractive and pictured on the bottle. They could fetch a real premium price.

There could even be a niche for organic breast milk, which would fetch an additional premium. I don't know how you certify people organic, however.

Why not? We're all brainwashed into drinking milk from big smelly farm beasts, which is really designed to turn their babies into big smelly farm beasts just like their mommies and daddies. It's not really meant for us. If you're going to drink milk your whole life, why not from a human?

I think the first time this occurred to me was ten years back, when I was hanging with my church friends Chris and Steph (brother & sister who originally turned me on to health and organic food) and Matt, and we were talking about all this stuff. We got on the topic of cow milk and why it's bad for people, and why mommy milk is way better for babies. Chris mentioned that he had accidentally drunk some of his big sister's milk--she'd put it into some kind of cup or bottle in the fridge, to save it.

How'd it taste? I asked.

Not bad, he said. Kinda sweet.

contents of all my pockets (four pants pockets, three jacket pockets) after several days of not emptying them.

One (1)  Kyocera cell phone.

One (1)  compact mirror. Yep, they're not just for girlies needing to check makeup ... they also work for spying food between teeth, boogers hanging out of nose, contact lens emergencies, etc.

Two (2) tubes Aquaphor Healing Lip Ointment. Why two? I dunno. The first one was lonely?

One (1) 8 ml. bottle Renu Multiplus Lubricating & Rewetting Drops. Lubrication is critical.
One (1)  vial, "Kush" scented oil.

One (1) packet, Sugar in the Raw.

Four (4) packets Sweet 'n' Low.

Two (2) individually wrapped bags, Jewel Orange Pekoe & Pekoe Cut Black Tea. You never know, I may meet the Queen of England or something.

Three (3) sticks each, Wrigley's Big Red and Spearmint chewing gums.

One (1) George Costanza wallet containing dozens of miscellaneous items (including many business cards and a lot of female emails and phone numbers)

One (1) twenty-dollar bill and 86 cents loose change.

Two (2) front door keys. Again, I guess the first one got lonely and invited his twin brother along.

One (1) Jewel receipt and coupon.

One (1) Bic disposable lighter.

One (1) Camel Turkish Gold cigarette (in box).

One (1) old, decrepit pocket memo pad.

One (1) contact lens case.

Nine (9) misc. scraps of trasn paper (Sweet 'n' Low and gum wrappers, etc.).

One (1) postcard given to me by a London photographer, with phone numbers and email addresses of girls and guys I met gallery-hopping on Friday.

Eleven (11) business cards.

One (1) matchbook courtesy of Flossmoor Station brew pub.

Seven (7) pieces of tissue, various lengths and stages of use.

Four (4) slips of paper with scribbled notes (and one blank slip).

One (1) slip containing Nordstrom job info.

Should I get a purse?

How to flirt, for gals and guys.

Setting: elevator in downtown building. I board, followed by cute and plump woman in late 20s.

SHE: (smiles) Got any more of that cinnamon gum?

ME: Mmmm ... maybe. Lemme see. I think I have just one piece. (Fishes around in pockets) Yeah, just one. You wanna take my last piece?

SHE: Mm-hmm.

ME: You'd take the very last stick of gum from a stranger?

SHE: Yeah. Remember, when you do a good deed, it always comes back around to you.

ME: Okay. Just be here tomorrow with some gum. Same bat-time, same bat-place.

SHE: (Laughs, smiles big) Okay.

ME: (Getting off ... off the elevator, that is) But anyway, do enjoy it. Bye!

SHE: Bye-bye, sugar!

Children Are Now Okay In the Art World

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO feel about this. On the one hand, I'm glad that kiddos get the nod, from the hallowed halls of the School of the Art Institute, as being sufficiently hip, cool, maybe even subversive, to be allowed into the once child-free zone of Art.

 On the other hand, I'm sad that it was ever otherwise. I wrote about mommy rock here nine years ago (nine years ago?!) and also, while we're at it, my observations about wanting to see more vivacious and exploring energy of children in the adult art scene are part of another post.