How to be a part-time scenester (a retro-post)

THE PARADOX OF THIS blogging phenomenomenon is that the more of an actual life you have, the less time you have to spend writing about it. But since I'm just chillin' at the crib tonight (in part because I'm still recovering from last night), I've decided to just take it easy and recap last night's fun.

As usual, I'd not gotten around to making actual plans, so I ended up going out alone. But then, plans are as highly overrated as the potential fun in going out alone is underrated.

There are always at least a couple gallery receptions going on somewhere in the city. That means complimentary beverages and, in the fancier downtown spots, some phat hors d'ouvres. So, for anybody reading this who does not frequent the "art scene" in Chicago or elsewhere, the "scene" largely consists of guzzling free booze, gobbling finger foods and gettin' your flirt on while occasionally glancing at the paintings on the wall or scratching your head at some silly conceptual installation. Okay, yeah, that is perhaps a bit cynical. Anyway, it beats the bar scene.

With openings happening all over the city -- River North, River West, Pilsen, Wicker Park -- I hit the Fine Arts Building Gallery first. That's a no-brainer, as the FAB is the first building I see when I get off the train downtown. It's also right near my alma mater, and years ago I worked in there, at Fine Arts Theater to be exact, which showed a lot of films of the foreign or artsy variety such as The Piano. The place is a really cool, historic building-- used to be a Studebaker factory. It's got ancient manual elevators operated by mustachioed Eastern European guys. It's also got all kinds of interesting nooks and crannies. During lulls in work I used to creep down into the basement

---

(accessible from within one of the theaters), wielding my usher's flashlight, and check out the elevator machinery and boilers and what not. Or sneak into the often-unattended projection rooms as a movie ran, looking at the amazingly complex projectors and the film crisscrossing the room from one platter, through the projector, then out to the other platter. Stuff like that has always fascinated me. Also during my exploration, I found a hidden, unlit stone cellar of unclear purpose (Prohibition-era hooch hideaway? '50s fallout shelter?). It's separate from the main basement and It's underneath, I think, Theater Four, accessed by a heavy steel door and stairway secreted behind the theater screen. There is more yet to the building that I never got around to exploring.

In the fourth-floor gallery only about 8-10 people are present: not surprising, since the show is almost over. But the exhibit is impressive, featuring the miniatures, sculptures, and daguerrotypes of Sean Culver,

the paintings and drawings of Sophia Pichinos,




and oil paintings by Janet Doroba.

The tables in the center of the room are still loaded with stuff: fish and veggie sushi (with all the fixin's, including some @$$-kicking wasabi), multicolored shrimp chips (I find out what they are only after munching on a few; normally, I don't eat shrimp or shellfish), green grapes, and insanely chocolatey chocolates with cherry, mint, or other flavored fillings. And of course, an assortment of red and white wines, not to mention a bottle of green tea.

I enjoy munching, drinking and peering inside the dioramas, some of which are viewed through little peepholes. One of them is a miniature replica of a wood, complete with a little pond. Another, titled "The Optician's Nightmare" or something similar, depicts a dollhouse-sized bed floating in simulated water, over a tiny storefront with miniature counters and shelves.

Culver, a tall, salt-and-pepper-bearded man with glasses, is there, listening to a short, lispy-sounding guy, also in glasses who's yakking away at him for about 20 minutes. Figuring the lispy guy is a collector, I let them alone. Then the lispy guy comes over to me and introduces himself as Bart. "So are you an artist too?" (A question I get a lot.)

"'Dilettante' is closer," I say, only half-jokingly.

Turns out that Bart is an artist and also a big preservation activist. And for the next 25 minutes or so he talks my ear off about how the evil developers ran the local "preservationist" council; how the head is actually a zoning lawyer who's a crony of the pols and the developers. He talks about the elimination of historic districts and landmarks in favor of yet more overpriced condos, big-box stores, and McCoffee joints. And he says he's got lots more info. He asks me if I wrote for the Defender or other minority publications, which I have not but I probably could. I get his card and promise to be in touch.

Three or four drinks later, I'm checking out this real cute Asian lady who's in the gallery. She looks to be about 40ish and is with one of the other attendees of the show. She had been talking earlier to the server guy about him coming to work for her in some capacity, whatever it is that she does. Bart knows her, and he introduces us: Judy's her name. She says she and Bart attended the School of the Art Institute together, and she graduated in 1974. Perhaps sensing that I might be flirting with her, she laughs: "You probably weren't even born then! I could be your grandmother." Could've fooled me.
I learn that it is she who made the sushi and delicious chocolates. Probably figuring me for a hungry art student, she fixes me a plate piled with leftover sushi, which I take it away in a plastic bag. I forget to ask for some more chocolates.



SO I JET on outta there and head west to Dearborn and the Blue Line, a few blocks away. On Adams just before Dearborn I hear someone playing a flute. What's more, it's the Little Fugue in G Minor, one of my favorite Bach pieces. So I cross the street and head over to the flautist, who's sitting out on the sidewalk. He's a black dude with thick black-framed glasses (he reminds me of Rog from "What's Happening"). By the time I get there he's switched to the theme from Mission Impossible.
I throw a dollar into his cup. "Hey, nice Fugue in G minor!" I shout.

"Hey thanks! Yeah, the Little Fugue," he says with a big grin.

"I love that! Good work."
As I walk away the guy launches into "My Heart Will Go On."

Down in the subway tunnel, waiting for the Blue Line, I light up an American Spirit, disregarding the "No Smoking" signs. I'm gonna smoke a half cig, that's all: why is that such a problem? A guy comes over and asked me if I could spare one. Which I must, according to the Universal Smokers' Code, not to mention plain human decency.
The dude is obviously gay and interested. Yet, having had three glasses of wine, I'm feeling talkative, so we banter a bit. Why not? Since he has an Eastern European accent, I ask him where he's from, and he says Bulgaria. Yuko's his name, deejaying and making trip-hop music is his game. I have him say his Myspace page, twice, into my oldfangled microcassette recorder I carry around. Who knows? He might have some good stuff.

We continue yakking on the 10-minute train ride to Damen. He exits at Damen with me, asks me where he can get rolling papers. I point out the mini-mart next to Filter. I then go about my way toward Green Lantern Gallery, a loft space at 1511 Milwaukee. But first, I pause outside the Double Door to finish the Spirit and just look around at the bustling nightlife surrounding Wicker Park's famed Six Corners. The hipsters and artists can rant on and on about how the place has become gentrified beyond belief -- and it has, even within my short memory of the place. But it's still the place to go in Chicago for cool nightlife, for art-related happenings, and just fun people-watching. The artists who can't afford to live there any more still show up at the venues and apartment spaces.

Like the one at Green Lantern. As I enter the building and climb to the second floor, I hear the sounds of a madcap marching band: blaring trombones and tuba over a pounding tribal drumbeat.

I step inside, and to the first guy I see, I yell: "Encroachment?!" 


YES INDEED. I've seen environmental encroachment twice before. They're band geeks gone bad. They do wacky music and performance art with costumes and puppets. They do parties, festivals, antiwar protests, Burning Man.

The airy loft apartment is full of mostly twentysomethings but some older folks as well. The majority are dressed in dorky anti-fashion: chicks who could be bike messengers, multicolored hair, black-framed glasses, piercings, odd-colored shoes that look like they were lifted from a bowling alley, vintage dresses, outfits that look homemade. (By comparison, I'm dressed sort of plain: for a creative guy I tend to dress pretty uncreatively. I don't really like shopping, not even at thrift stores.)

ee is playing in front of the stage, which abuts the huge windows overlooking Milwaukee Ave. I station myself back in the kitchen section, leaning on the counter as someone sets down a fresh case of PBR. I just keep quiet and observe and listen as the band plays and partygoers get down.

The first couple people I recognize are Dave, proprietor of Butcher Shop/Dogmatic -- which I visited last week for the first time -- and a girl, who was also at BSD, who I also see at just about every other art happening I've been to, but whose name I forget.
The third person I see is the equally ubiquitous Lee Groban.



That's Lee on the right and antisocialite Liz Armstrong on the left, apparently ignoring him. (This pic is from some other party; I stole it from Liz' Flickr site). Here's another one, a mask of his face:

Like Savoir Faire, Lee is everywhere. He is a poet, artist and instantly recognizable scenester. He can usually be seen at art-related events chatting up girls half his age as he clutches a beer or a joint, swaying precariously -- and sometimes, falling down. He speaks fondly of his hippie days in Brooklyn and the Bay Area.

I try to talk with him, with little success, over the noise of horns and drums and dancing around us. From what I can make out, he says he's going down the street to Gallery Chicago (where I'm also going) in a bit. He recently had something done to his teeth and was advised not to smoke, so he hasn't bothered securing his usual supply of groovy greens for the folks at GC. "But I guess I could still do hallucinogenics," he slurs.

"Ever do 'shrooms?" I say, just out of curiosity.

Of course, he says. And I may be getting this wrong, but I do believe he said: "Although the last time I tried it, it was more of a body high. You know, not the kind where you see God."

I continue to just observe and soak up the sights, the sounds, the scene. After ee is done playing, I go out on the balc in back and have another Spirit and talk to Caroline, the impresaria behind Green Lantern, and some dude. The only other girl I bother talking to is a beautiful, charming six-year old.

Why am I talking to a six-year-old?

Well, after hanging out back, I re-entered and wandered over to the now-empty stage, and I listen to a guy strumming a guitar and a girl trying to sing something (apparently they're trying out a new song; no one's listening). I pick up a drum and bongo along with them for while, just because I feel like it.

As we play, a few colorfully dressed little kids are running around near the stage. I think it's awesome to see kids at art events. How fortunate they are to grow up in a milieu of art and creativity and grown-ups who are not quite grown up.

One of the kids, an absolutely adorable blonde, blue-eyed moppet, tells me she's six. Her name is Darby Crash -- after the lead singer of the Germs -- and she's there with a babysitter, she says while drinking a Pepsi (which is no doubt part of the reason she's so hyper). She does some gymnastics tricks for me.

She tells me she lives in the neighborhood, and I remark that she lives in a pretty cool place. But she wrinkles up her nose and complains about the dearth of convenient parking. "We had to park aaallllllll the way over here," she says, tracing out a little map on the stage next to me. "And walk aallllllll the way over here." In case I"ve missed the point, she does doggie panting to illustrate it.

Around 10, my celly cell buzzes. Hey! It's a text from Linda, whom I met last Saturday at BSD:

hi. had fun last week. would love to get together for a drink.


NOW, LINDA'S A PRETTY and somewhat nerdy dark blonde -- one of the first individuals I met at BSD last Saturday. She was dressed like a teacher. The reason, I soon found out, was that she's a teacher. Specifically, a third-grade teacher in Lawndale, a depressing, blighted West Side neighborhood that's "always in the news," as she put it.

When I asked Linda where the beverages were kept, she told me to go to the "beer machine" in the back. Scarcely believing this, I wandered on to the back of the gallery (a former meat packinghouse or warehouse or something), saw no machine, and then decided she was pulling my leg. I went back, feigned a dirty look, then strode away and ignored her a few minutes. Eventually I came back and playfully chastised her for screwing with me.

But Linda insisted the beer machine was real. She led me to the back, then up a flight of concrete stairs. At the top -- voila -- an ancient vending machine stocked with Miller ("Henry Miller," the hand-scrawled tab read), Beck's ("Bleck's"), Old Style ("Mold Style"), Heineken and a couple others. So it was real! And a buck per can.

Because of the near- or below-zero wind chill that night, I decided not to bother going to see Ami and Radiant Darling at the Viaduct; I'll have to catch their next show. I hung out and drank PBR's and smoked a Spirit and chatted with Linda and her friend. As it turned out, both were from my neck of the woods -- the south suburbs. Linda had grown up minutes from me over in Chicago Heights, although she'd gone to the local Catholic high school. She was very friendly, although perhaps a bit neurotic. When we got on the topic of blues clubs, she said she'd never go to Buddy Guy's downtown, because parking's scarce and she was afraid to use public transit. "All the crowds, the people, the lights ...." she groaned.

"What do you mean? There are lights everywhere," I said.

"Yeah, but fluorescent lights."

Later in the conversation, after we'd both had a few brews, she made some sort of statement involving "we" (I forget exactly what) and I asked her, "Who's 'we' -- you and your friend?"

"Nooo!" and then, with a wistful look: " Oh, I guess I want to feel like part of a 'we,' again."

I admit, that made me think "stalker" for a second. But then, after all, she was just voicing what so many of us feel -- especially in the wake of a breakup -- but would never say out loud. Perhaps not great strategy, but it's honest.


SO ANYWAY, I shoot back to Linda that I'm otherwise occupied tonight, but maybe some other time. I continue taking in the scene at Green Lantern. After awhile, and a PBR, I decide to set off for Gallery Chicago. I bid Caroline adieu and look around for my sushi.

No sushi! Someone's made off like a sushi bandit.

Caroline sees me gaping perplexedly at the sushi-less fridge. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says, sounding embarrassed. "I've got some Thai food. Would you like this instead?" She opens her fridge and takes out a bag containing three cartons. "It's tofu. It's pretty good."

I take it, thank her profusely, and then leave.



SO I HIKE SEVEN BLOCKS south on Milwaukee, past storefronts and over the winding river of headlights and taillights that is the Kennedy Expressway, the downtown Chicago skyline looming ahead. At Gallery Chicago, the door's open as usual. (Gallery owner/painter Ken Hirte is an Army vet of some kind or another, and one of the regulars is a former Seal, so they don't seem too concerned about intruders.)

We pass through the small storefront gallery and into the studio/living space in back: an unevenly lit, warehouse-like space of brick and exposed beams, decorated with a jumble of finished and unfinished paintings and sculptures. In the back is a kitchen space, an entertainment center with couches, an office space and a bed. The only enclosed room in the place is the bathroom. There's a basement workshop, too, into which I've only peeked a couple of times.
Ken says hi. Most of the regulars, including Lee, are gathered around the kitchen table in back. As usual, it's an older crowd -- but I feel quite comfortable around an older crowd. Vito Carli had just left, Lee tells me. Plexiglass art genius Walter Fydryck is there. There's the 50something Jamaican guy whose name I forget. The Navy Seal guy hasn't made it tonight. But there's Gail, the 40?something white woman whom I last saw at the AfroPunk show last May moshing with all the kids. Now that's cool. But tonight she's pretty much 3 1/2 sheets to the wind and doesn't recognize me.

A little cigarette of some sort is being passed around, and I assay to take a puff but grab it so clumsily that it burns my fingers and I drop it -- plus exhale too quickly. Which actually is okay with me, as I'm already quite sorted; smoking and drinking together never seems to work well for me anyway.

As usual, people are talking politics. I have a couple glasses of Ken's homemade wine, even though I shouldn't. Lee shouldn't've either, because he ends up falling and knocking over a framed picture. Last time I was here a few weeks ago, Lee was there showing a bizarre surrealist film he and a friend made in Brooklyn, featuring himself reading his poetry against dilapidated urban backdrops, backed by trippy music. In one shot, the funny-without-even-trying Lee, looking like a demented, bearded tree-person, is shown duckwalking in circles, lying on the ground in front of a dumpster, and, through trick photography, leaping around upside-down. All the while, reciting his poetry. All you can say is: Wow.

It's 12:15 when I realize I have to leave. (Because of the way the trains run in Chicago.) But I don't want to. I'm flirting with Gail and I'm listening to some intriguing political conversation between the Jamaican guy and Ken and another guy. And so the moment passes. And next thing I know, it's 12:45. The last train to my neck of the woods leaves from downtown in five minutes. I will never make it. Maybe I should've taken up Linda on her invitation.

(To be continued, if I feel like it)

Not so quick, "Assassin Chick" (a retro-post)

This is sort of an inside-y joke for a certain surly girl who may wander on by and see my blog. It's an entry from my old blog from last year.
 

FRI 4/8: THE ENVIRONMENTAL ENCROACHMENT THANG at Artists in Residence in Rogers Park.
Now it just so happens that this is where my old partner in ADHD, the missing-in-action M., lives -- or at least, used to live. She hadn't responded to an e-mail earlier in the week. So I wrote her again that morning with, letting her know I'd be there. No reply, no call. I tried her number: no answer, and the voice mailbox was full.

I arrive at the AIR building and buzz her number several times. Again, no answer. Somebody lets me in, and I go up to the apartment and knock. I think I hear some stirring within, but the door doesn't open.

Now, if M. (a former bartender) is still partying like she used to, it wouldn't be unusual for her to be asleep at 6:30 on a Saturday night. She actually missed one of our dates, a few years back, because she was still asleep at 7, when I arrived. She then spent the next 25 minutes stumbling blindly about her wreck of an apartment, searching for her glasses. Then she had to open her closet and choose between about 200 outfits and 50 pairs of shoes. We ended up deciding that I would go to the event (was that the teepee show at Wes Kimler's studio? yes, I think so) by myself, come back around 11 or so, and she'd have some Mexican food for us and we'd watch a movie or otherwise occupy ourselves for the night.

Anyway, I ended up slipping a handwritten note under M's door. I don't know if she received it. I don't even know if she still lives there.


THE SHOW, ANYWAY, was hella fun. It took place in a black-box rehearsal/performance space on the first floor. (It was bring-yer-own-booze, so I went to the liquor store around the corner and grabbed a 40.) First there was the showing of the anti-Frankenfood film The Future of Food, presented by Genewise and THONG. The film was riveting and scary and outraging in the outright arrogance and greed of the biotampering and food industries, and damn near got me prepared to go totally organic. They had delicious food there (all organic, I'm presuming), including beans and rice and some of the thickest, tastiest green leafy I've ever had. (I don't even know what it was -- kelp?) With veggies like that, who needs meat?

Afterward was the show with Encroachment, the Jungle Street Rockers, and a DJ. Good time, dancing. I sat down, grabbed some unused drums, and bongoed along with ee for awhile.

I met a few gals, of course. First there was Megha, the Indian geology student. (She switched to geology, she said, because of her concern over the environment.) Then there was Allison, the cute plump blonde punkette who was shakin' it seductively to the music, and kept givin me good eye. I went over and introduced myself. She lives in the building. She's a Columbia student. "Oh, were you at the Story Week thing at the Metro?" I ask her. "I probably saw you, but to tell you the truth, most of my attention was on the chick in the Indian sari who was handing out the programs."

"Oh," says the blondie, "That's my roommate."

What luck!

I'm a male. Certain thoughts did flash through my mind. But only for a second.

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.

This is Division

SATURDAY NIGHT, ABOUT 8:30, Jackson Blue Line platform: I enter and take a seat on a bench.

On the opposite side of the bench behind me sit a middle-aged black man and woman in well-worn clothes. Standing before them is a fortyish brotha with braided hair pulled back into a ponytail. He looks like he's seen better days too. He’s saying something, in heavily slurred speech, to the man and woman. After a few moments, I realize he is praying:

“And God, I just pray that you continue to give us mo' blessin's and mo' blessin's, so that we can spread 'em 'round to others, just like you did by givin' us yo’ son Jesus. In Jesus' name, amen."

He goes on to exhort his tiny congregation: "I tell yall, I don't need nothin'! He take care of all my needs. Do I look like I'm homeless? I just don't wanna live at home. But I just, I just wanna spread God's blessin's. And the reason why I spread 'em on to you is, you gon' spread 'em on to someone else. 'Cause God has blessed me."

"Amen," I say, under my breath.

"What Jesus did? He didn't come wit' the clean people. He came wit' the nasty people. Us. He made sure the world got taken care of. We know he was God in a man's body. But you know what he did? He was good to er-rybody. I wanna be like Jesus. Good Jesus. Good God."

The other two listen respectfully to the impromptu sermon.

"Mary was pregnant," the preacher continues. "Joseph don't know if he did it. And God gave him a dream and said, 'That's my son.' If yo wife came up pregnant with a baby and you didn't do it, what would you do?"

He continues in this vein for a little while, until the westbound Congress train comes roaring up. They all get on board and the train is soon gone.

The cockles of my heart thus warmed, I’m in good spirits as I wait for the O'hare-bound train. It arrives a few minutes later. Once in, I pick a seat near the head of the car — almost straight across from a large black woman in a scuzzy, dark blue bubble coat. She's sprawled across two seats, as if she owns the place.

No sooner have I sat down than she starts up hollering, as if continuing a conversation with someone at the other end of the car.

"I'm Amer — I’m a United State! I'm a American citizen!" she announces, to everyone and no one.

"I got married once. I got an American baby. Sheeit. You got to marry them! When you marry them, you got mucho money!"  Her speech is not only loud but slurred, and her voice sounds like she’s smoked a pack, downed a fifth, then chewed up the bottle and swallowed that too.

From the loudspeaker, the Friendly Male Announcer Voice breaks in: "CHANGE TO THE BLUE LINE TRAINS AT WASHINGTON.”

"Cause they ain't no United State!" the woman yells. Then her tone turns smug. "I know the game and I know the rules. I got monaaaaaaaaay!"

She pauses a few moments, then continues: "My sister got 'em cause I'm homeless. My older sister got my baby. She nine years old. She a Mexican."

"THIS IS WASHINGTON."

"Mucho money. Yeah! Dinero. I took it. I ain't even marry the bitch, and I still got that money. Pesos!"

Perhaps in case we haven’t gotten it, she repeats: "Money!”

A thirtyish guy with glasses, sitting a few rows down from me, smirks in our direction.

“I don't spend no pesos on bitches,” the woman declares. “I'm not no mothafuckin' — I say money, bitch! Money, money, money!"

At this moment I can’t help but think of a couple of images from “In Living Color”: The “Mo’ Money” guys, and the stumbling stew bum who went to the toilet in a jar.

I know this woman's got issues. I know she's hurting inside. Problem is I’m hurting inside, too — from holding back the laughter. I feel like I'm about to laugh up my small intestine. I know I'm wrong, but I can't help it. 

Here she goes again. "You marry them, and they not legally — you gotta marry them,” she informs us. “And you get money! Because you's a United States … I'm a United State! Baby, you got to marry that Mexican man!"

At Clark and Lake a bunch of folks, all white, board the train. There are some college-age kids, as well as a couple shepherding a cherubic, flaxen-haired little boy and girl of four or five. They come our way, only to be greeted by Ms. Mucho Money.

"Hey hey girl, what's up party girl!" the woman shouts at the little girl.

As the passengers situate themselves and the train rattles along its way, she yells out what sounds like: "Let's all fuck each other! Look all these bitches. (Cough, cough) Party, party, partaaaaay! Happy New Year. Happpy Meerrrrrrrry Christmas! Y’all get the fuck off my El.”

The embarrassed white people try to ignore her, while muffled titters emanate from somewhere in the back of the car.

To one of the twentysomething girls who’d just boarded — or perhaps in mockery to the guys on the train who were ogling them  — she comments: “Whoo-pee doo! Jest looka that ass. Hey baby girl!"

By now I’m crying—from laughing. I’m a horrible human being.

The yuppie couple decide they're going to move on to the next car. "Go ahead and go," Mucho Money yells. "Go. Go!"

A fiftysomething white guy with glasses and mustache, a Cubs-fan looking kinda guy, sits down next to me. He could reach across the aisle and slightly back, and touch Ms. Mucho. The kid or kids with him (I’m not quite sure, as he is partly obstructing my view) sit a couple seats in front of her.

She keeps running her mouth. "They lookin' at ass. He lookin' at ass." A few of the college girls giggle amongst themselves.

"Ha ha ha ha," she laugh-coughs. "Yall lookin' at ass and cain't get the ass. Ha ha ha ha! Woo woo woo woooooooo! Yall lookin' at all these kids' ass. Ooh, it's a kid over here, I'm sorry. I'm sorry baby girl. I'm sorry."

Oh yeah, that’s right. There are children nearby. This is not funny. I try to stop laughing and to look appropriately concerned.

"DOORS OPEN ON THE LEFT AT GRAND.”

"I'm sorry," the woman says again, to the little blonde girl, reaching over as if to pat her on the head.

"Stay away from her," warns the mustachioed guy sitting next to me, apparently her dad.

"Whaa — I —"

"Stay away from her," he repeats, like he means it.

She glares at him. "Hey,” she retorts, even more loudly than before. “I got kids too. Someone like you — you stay away. Now put that to the bank! You stay away. Now you said the wrong mothafuckin' thing."

A twentysomething, bearded guy sitting kitty-corner from me pipes up: "Hey, hey, can you not talk like that around the kids?" 

"I'm sorry baby."

"Thank you."

Without missing a beat, she turns back to Dad: "You got old men rapin' kids! Old men rapin' kids! And women! Now take that to the bank! I got kids! Ass-hole! Suck my dick. My kids is grown, bitch! Now git yo white ass and straighten it up!"

Now it's not just deranged and obscene; it's become overtly hostile and racial. I begin to feel chagrined. As the only other awake black person in sight (the brotha behind me is knocked out, or pretending to be), I feel like it's somehow my job to speak up, to say or do something. To make a show of racial goodwill, or whatever. But I stay silent, lapsing back into observer mode. I say a silent prayer for her, though.

Mucho rants on:  "All yall white people killin' people! You done hung yo’self an' killin' kids and killin' grown people. Bitch, I'm a homeless bitch! Now take that to the bank, bitch! . . ."

"CHICAGO IS NEXT."

" . . . And I'm a homeless person. All the shit happen on the news — you done did it! Cause yall rich! You white! You fucked up old man. You the one killin' mothafuckas!"

The noise drowns her out momentarily. People stare out windows.

" . . . "All these women getting' killed! Hangin' themselves. Turn to the news, ass-hole! Don't fuck wit' me — cause I ride."

More giggles from somewhere in the car. 

"Yall rich. Got money. Yall hangin' yo own people. Look at Jerry Springer. Look at Jerry Springer. Don't tell me what the fuck — tell me what to do on my mothafuckin' train . . ."

"DIVISION IS NEXT."

" . . . Ugly mothafucka!"

The roar of the train at top speed nearly drowns her out, and the dad next to me is attempting to ignore her. But she continues to rail: "You done raped all these kids. Kilt all these kids. Kilt all these Mooslims. You got nerve to talk shit to me on my ghetto — it's the ghetto — da ghettooooooooo! . . .

"THIS IS DIVISION."

 . . . "You rape yo kids, you rape yo mama, you rape yo daddy—don't come and talk no shit on me on my mothafuckin' train bitch! And you live in the suburbs! You betta suck my dick! All yall rapists! Come on my mothafuckin' train. This the ghetto. You rape. You rob. You take yo kids and fuck yo own kids . . ."

"DAMEN IS NEXT. DOORS OPEN TO THE RIGHT AT DAMEN.”

"That's what the kids pick up. ... Don't come on the ghetto and talk shit. Ooh baby ... I'm a get paid ... Why ya want fuck yo kids? Why yo wanna do this, mom? ... Cause I ain't had no dick ... ahhurg."

In all this time —  since the bearded young man spoke — no one else has said a peep to her. As I exit at Damen, I’m feeling bad for not having said or done something. But what?

While the train's stopped, I see a conductor's head sticking out a window on the far end. I sprint down to her and tell her there's a foul-mouthed disorderly woman in the second-from-last car, #3122.

"Okay, I'll report it," she sighs, as if she's heard this a hundred times.

*  *  * 

After midnight I return to the Damen platform to head back south. I light up a Camel and listen to three dudes talk about the metal show they just saw at the Double Door. The southbound is taking its time. But within a few minutes, along comes a northbound O’Hare train and pulls up on the opposite side. I look through the windows. Is that —? 

Yep. It’s Ms. Mucho again. Same car 3122, same corner, same seat. Only now she appears more tranquil, mouth shut and hood pulled halfway over her face. She wipes her nose with a tissue as the train shuts its doors and takes her into the night.

"How big of a bang is this gonna be?" (A retro-post)

1. WHO WAS AT GALLERY Chicago?

Your standard, predominantly senior-hipster crowd. A performance artist who, am told, used to get naked and smear himself with mayo and ketchup, a guy in drag with his (her?) flamboyant dreadlocked black performance artist friend, an old Navy Seal (who almost drunkenly broke down in tears while relating to me how he’d been ordered to kill women and children in Third World countries), a lady multimedia-whiz/programmer/art instructor who's 40something going on 16, a rotund mustachioed character who styles himself a "Count" and speaks in a British accent (who is actually the cousin of the Navy Seal, it's said), a sequin-wearing poet/artiste of a certain age who -- well, I'll tell you about her in a moment.
 But this was one of those nights when the mix of hormones, the carnival-like atmosphere and natural chemical libations and inhalants was just right; when things that ordinarily wouldn't've happened did; or is it, that the things that ordinarily would've happened but for our everyday inhibitions?

The Count -- who says he is descended from the Brits by way of the Melungeons -- insists that the U.S.A. are illegitimate, still owned by the British Virginia Company.
The  retired SEAL -- who tells me he has been to Bohemian Grove in a private security capacity  --  repeats his claim that "The Great Owl" predicted the elder and younger Bush's electoral victories, but had said Dubya would lose the upcoming contest.

"How does a white stone owl 'tell' you something?" I query. He declines to say.
"Metaphorically, you mean?" I probe further.

"Yes, not literally. They have a vote."
This was news to me, since in all the exposes I'd read to date, there was never any word of any votes being taken on any official matters.

Although I try to draw him out further on his Grove knowledge, it seems he still takes his secrecy oath very, very seriously. It very well could be he is not as "retired" as he says he is.

The 50something sequin-wearing poet/artiste starts rambling (it should be noted, we've all been imbibing various types of booze as well as smoking some kind of herb that Lee brought) on some kind of metaphysical rant that starts with "You're the middle of the circle ... "

So I say "but from the perspective of infinity, we're all in the middle of the circle."

"But what if you wanna get beyond the center -- fly out into space and see the edge?"

That one has me stumped. So I decide to take the convo in a whole different direction. I adopt my "seductive" voice and come up with the corniest lines I can muster.

"Well speaking of outer space and all, I'd love to make you  see the stars, baby."

She giggles like a fourteen-year-old. "Oooh, so how big of a bang is this gonna be?

"Like the original...only bigger!"

"So. Tell me some poetry."

"Baby, I'm a poet of the senses."

During this conversation, something funny is happening. Her skirt keeps falling: once, twice, three times her skirt falls off. It's a good thing for her that she wasn't going commando that night.
 I have no idea what the malfunction is, but I can't  resist quipping:

"See, I can even talk you right out of your clothes!"

We tease, almost kiss, just feeling the groovy vibe, the wine, the herb, the music ...

But I pull myself away from her to go pour another drink.

She comes over toward the table where I'm at and, somehow, trips over my feet and winds up on her ass on the floor.

I try to help her up, but she refuses to get up. "No ... you come down here!"

At this point we'e teasing each other silly. By now, the other buzzed/stoned guests are watching us and having a laugh. Our lips are almost meeting again ....

Aggressive Angela

Ah, for the days when I was young, chaste, and chased. I still laugh at this. I met Angela in my night music theory class. The next year, we had another class together -- Piano, I think? Angela was a temptation straight out of the fiery flames of you-know-where. Quite appropriately, the woman was hot. She was exotic, she was ripped right out of my fantasies, she was 12 years my senior, and she was on a frickin' mission -- and I was it. This is from my journal, since there were no blogs in 1992. 


OKAY, SO I HAD just gotten off the phone with that Amazonian beauty, the one I had a thang for in high school but was always too intimidated to talk to, but I met her after high school and got her phone number. You know how that goes. So I called and she was happy to hear from me. Until I let on that I hadn't found a summer job yet, and was pretty broke, plus I had just wrecked my car. Then she suddenly found a reason why she couldn't talk to me any more.
 
Oh well, next on my list: Angela. She'd been trying to reach me. She is the usual gabfest, talking about anythang and everythang: her ex-husband (she calls him “What’s-His-Name”), her kids, her mom and mom’s widowed friends, her radio career, her trip to Mexico, her interviews with famous Latin singers, her school grades. And then she stops.

And in that creamy Spanish-accented voice, comes that question I always dread:

“I’ve been telling you all about myself. Tell me a little about you.”

“Um. What do you wanna know?”

“Anything. Everything. Your background? Your childhood? How do you think?  What do you want to do with your life? What do you think about?  What do you dream about when you daydream? Do you daydream? Do you have sex dreams?”

Angelic Angela (a retro-post)

 PURSUANT TO MOVING, I've been cleaning out. This means finding all kinds of surprises from the past. This is a journal entry from 11 years ago (which I cleverly recycled into a "creative writing" piece for English Comp). I've titled this "Angelic Angela" because there's another Angela who was somewhat naughtier -- her story will follow.



June 1992

SO THERE I AM, home alone on a Friday night, and doing, of all things, a jigsaw puzzle.

I'm 18, it's the middle of summer, my parents are a thousand miles away cruising the Carribbean and my big brother's out somewhere, probably doing keg stands, and I've got the whole damn house to myself: the starting premise of a million crazy teen party movies. But I'm not a party guy. I'm actually feeling pretty antisocial; I don't want to go anywhere or see anybody. I'm usually like that. Give me a good book, a puzzle or a piano and I'll amuse myself for hours. Other people? Meh.

So it actually annoys  me for a minute when Angela, an old high-school friend who's home from college, calls me around 8:00. Maybe I'm annoyed because she's disturbed my peace; maybe, in part, I'm feeling guilty for not having been in touch with her sooner this summer. Over our entire freshman year -- she being at an out-of-state school, me being in Chicago -- she'd written about six letters to my 1 or 2.

So I tell Angie I'm busy, and that I'll call her back as soon as I can.

About an hour later, after I finish the puzzle, I call her back. She wants to go out and do something, or just hang out and chill. I tell her I'm broke; what does she have in mind?

"I don't know," she says. "Let's be creative."

---

I laugh and say all right. She wants to pick me up in ten minutes, but with a little haggling I get it up to 25. I don't feel like rushing.

So when the bell rings I open the door, expecting to see the old Angie from high school: the plain-faced, kinda nerdy girl with the mousy dishwater blonde hair pinned back and the nondescript, ill-fitted clothes.

But no. There standing on my porch is this lanky supermodel.

Not only is she wearing a touch of make-up (?!) but she's wearing some very form-fitting denim shorts. Suddenly, she's got miles of legs. Hips! And other good stuff. Hot damn!

So we jump in Angie's silver Dodge Aries. We have a lot of talking to do. But she wants to drive by the Jewel and cash a check. I go into the store with her, feeling a bit weird, as I always do when out in public with Angie. I guess I should explain: I happen to be black and 5'6"ish, and Angie is white -- very much so, with freckles -- and 6'4". (And yes, she did play center on the high school basketball team.) You can call me too self-conscious and a conformist or whatever, but trust me, you would've felt a bit like a circus act too. But, I just deal with it.

Neither of us is hungry, so she buys us a couple of Snapples and asks where we should go. It's about 9:30. I suggest the park over on Leavitt in Flossmoor. We go there and hang out and talk and play on the dark playground like a couple of oversized kids. After about an hour we notice that familiar Chevy Caprice silhouette creeping down the street toward us.

The cop stops in front of the playground, blasts us with the million-watt light mounted on his car and informs us the park is closed. He demands we show him ID as proof we're of age. Yes sir -- sig Heil! We display ID, though I feel tempted to give him a Nazi salute as he drives away. I'm sure we were the strangest twosome he'd ever seen.

So back in the Aries. I don't know of any all-ages place to go this time of night, and it'd feel weird to invite her to my house. I think of a place with a little more privacy: a condo complex located by a large pond. We get out and sit on the mowed grass, not too far from the water's edge.

The air is still and hot and in the distance lightning flickers mutely. We sit reclined side by side and we talk and we joke and we laugh and we tickle each other and I go take a leak over in the bushes and we talk some more.

We keep talking and by and by, something in her thaws out. The timid, reserved, girlish Angie melts into loose, languid, playful, a bit goofy, like she's been drinking--although all she's had is a Snapple. Her normal pinched little-girl voice has dropped about five notes and become husky and womanly. Before long she's lying there in my lap, almost drifting off to sleep (thwarted only by the ferocious mosquitoes). And I'm noticing that I'm not just there with my nerdy high-school girl-buddy: I'm there with a lanky, sexy supermodel with this sexy, husky voice and long, graceful, bared neck and she is warm and soft and right in my lap. Things start to happen -- the type of thing that happens to an 18-year-old guy when a beautiful girl (or anything, actually) is in his lap. And I'm kinda hoping she's not feeling it, but I'm kinda hoping she is. And I know how easy it would be for me to kiss her on the side of her long, graceful neck. How easy. If I did, she wouldn't stand a chance.

All through high school we've had some degree or another of friendship. But this is really the first time we've been together alone -- let alone this close. Neither of us is touchy-feely type. With me, at least, it's temperamental. I'm always reserved. Moreover, we are both Christians. I had kept it platonic in high school, knowing she had a thing for me, feeling the tension, not knowing how to handle it. With plenty of my own self-esteem and racial-identity issues to deal with, I felt even more awkward with Angie because of our double difference. I didn't want to call any more attention to myself than necessary. Plus, she was still a nerd back then, while I was trying to climb out of nerddom and get in with the cool kids. In hindsight, all dumb reasons to blow someone off like that. But teen-agers, by definition, are dumb and self-absorbed.

Wow, she smells good. Feels pretty nice, too. Part of me, the fun part, says go for it. The other part, the sensible part, says, sensibly: Don't make any promises you can't keep.

The sensible part -- maybe you call it the inhibited part -- wins this round.



I ARRIVE HOME at 5 a.m. Later that day, my brother asks me where I've been all night. "Oh, with a girl," I say with a mischievous grin, just to see the look on his face.



FALL 1996: I'm finally about to graduate college. I've recently gotten into a relationship, and it seems to be a really good match. During this time, out of the blue, I get an invite to Angie's wedding.

Since I can't schedule worth jack, I have absentmindedly set up my third date with the new galpal on the same night as Angie's wedding. There's no way the galpal can come to the wedding, but I don't want to call off what promises to be a pretty hot date (she's cooking dinner, and I'm bringing a big bottle of my favorite merlot). I end up leaving Angie's reception early to make the date -- two hours late -- pissing off both women. If I could do it again, I'd call off the date.

After the ceremony, I get into the reception line to greet the bride with her groom (who, unlike me, is height-appropriate). The new hubby, Brian, all smiles, says to me, loudly, in front of everybody: "So you're ____?  The one Angie had the big crush on in high school?"

Angie turns red--and under my brown skin, I'm surely turning red too.

But how strange, I think: What if that had been me? I still woulda felt a little like one-half of a circus act. We'd've probably found fame on daytime TV talk shows.

The new galpal and I ended up being together for the better part of a year. After me, she married, divorced, and moved to LA.  Then six years after our breakup,   she moved back to Chicago, looked me up, and we got back together. Didn't work out.

Angie and her Brian, a minister, ended up as foreign missionaries, and last I heard they're pastoring a church in Iowa. As always, I'm poor at keeping in touch.

Animal magnetism (a retro-post)

TUESDAY: You know how they sell pheromone perfumes and colognes for sexual attraction? Pheromones definitely work. What they don't tell you is that everybody already makes their own pheromones, but we wash them off, disrupting the natural pH of our skin with harsh soaps, which in the long run actually makes your body odor worse. Then we use chemical antiperspirants that block our sweat glands, which is unfortunate because that's where pheromones are secreted from. If you stop using those chemicals, you may see interesting things happen. You may notice people acting differently toward you. 

I'll relate a few instances from today. Now, I'm not bad looking and I'm used to women looking at me. But normally, unlike us males, females are smooth and discreet about it. They don't break their necks turning their heads to stare at you. But, today they're being just a bit more aggressive, and maybe it's the pheromone thing.

So, it's time for my ADD support group meeting. I get on the Halsted bus headed downtown and I see a lady I know from the local library, who smiles at me. 

Then I pass another sister who's kinda thickish and pretty. She's eyeing me, and as I take a seat just behind her, she turns her head to look at me. Then she turns her whole body around, so she's halfway facing me. Ignoring her, I take out a newsletter that I received in the mail that day, and I start to read it. 

After awhile, she asks me what I'm reading. I tell her it's a Bible prophecy newsletter, the contents of which I do not necessarily subscribe to. We start talking about Revelation, and morality, and wars, and stuff like that. There's really a lot that I could say, but not really being in a conversational mood, I don't want to unload a whole lot on her.

Turns out she's married, but she is interested (she claims) in finding an "intellectual brotha" like me for her girlfriend, who always gets caught up with dogs. (Well, I think: Obviously, she likes dogs; who am I to interfere?) But the sister has to get off soon and we just exchange a polite goodbye.

Oh, that meeting? Turns out I got the date wrong, or I didn't receive the notice that it had been cancelled. Total waste of time. But, a typical ADDventure.

So, I get on the Madison bus heading back downtown. There are a couple of real get-o lookin girls, maybe H.S., maybe college freshmen, in the back row. One is chunky and dark-skinned, with a beehive hairdo dyed loud red. I sit a row in front of them, although around a corner in the little recessed nook where they can't see me.

Suddenly I see a head pop around the corner. It's the red-beehived one. She just gawks at me for several seconds. She says nothing. I keep my mouth shut and gawk back. I don't think I even smiled. Maybe I should have raised an eyebrow or something; I didn't mean to come off like a total tool.

Now That was cute. Even if she wasn't that cute.

But the cutest was on the Red Line. Between the bus and the Red Line, I grab a salad at McDonalds, then head down into the subway. Once on board, I take that little single seat in the back of the car behind the door. I've got my salad from McD's out and I'm digging into it. The dude sitting across the aisle is a 39ish looking dude I've seen around before, probably on the train. He keeps looking at me.

Dude asks me, "That's one of those salads, isn't it? One of those McDonald's salads?"

I nod yes. "They're pretty good." I look back down to my salad and my Conscious Choice, and continue reading about Rudolf Steiner and the Waldorf schools.

  We see the usual cats pass through, hawking socks and CDs and stuff. But the most interesting visitors entered after we passed Roosevelt. Actually they came bursting through the door from the car to the back: a very dark-skinned but very odd-looking female, acting a fool, followed by some similarly silly brothas,  all whoopin' and hollerin'.   They pass me, run down the aisle, open the door at the other end, and disappear into the next car.

I see the 39ish guy keep looking at me. Then I see him sitting there jiggling his leg back and forth. My, he's restless.

A few minutes later, the door at the other end of the car opens again, and back come the woman and the rambunctious train of guys following her--loudly shouting, as before, headed back toward me. I wonder what they were all hopped up on. Upon getting a better look, first thing I notice is, the boys are feeling all over each other. Then I notice that the girl's face is awfully mannish. They pause to open the door by me. The guys turn and give me a saucy look. The one in back of the conga line reaches forward and fondles one guy in front of him. Then they disappear back through the door into the other car.

Passengers shake their heads and laugh amongst themselves. I keep reading and eating my salad.

Around 63rd or so, the guy sitting across from me, perhaps emboldened by the previous display, gets out a pad of paper and starts writing.

When we get off at 95th he hands me a folded sheet of paper. "Here, this is for you."

I almost want to say no, but don't have the heart. I take it and say thanks, then jet and run up the stairs as usual, then head out to the east side of the station to catch my bus.

The note reads:

I Don't mean any
Disrespect, but I
could'nt help to
notice you.
If you are not
offended, Please call
me. My name is
Alfonso
773-568-19XX

I have to say I wonder why on Tuesday nites there seem to be so many of these types on the Red Line. I've noticed this in previous weeks. Do they have some type of meeting every Tuesday night too?