the Dog Days

Chicago. Summer. Hot (although not as bad as last year). Polluted - air thick with CTA bus exhaust, like swallowing sandy water. And the water at the beach is warm and murky like a backyard pool without chemicals.

That's life as I know it right now. I nearly fainted this morning on the subway after a fifteen minute delay during the packed morning rush hour. I just buckled at the knees and sat down right in the aisle. My sun-burned face musta turned ghost white, cause I scared a few people around me. I got off and almost fainted again at the concession stand in the station, as I sat on the even dirtier ground as the nice vendor practically poured water down my throat. Oh, the kindness of strangers...they'll either offer a hand, or step over you on the way to work.

My mom said, "you gotta be careful out there - it's the dog days of summer." I've always liked that phrase for some reason (along with "beware the ides of March). I asked wikipedia.org what "dog days" meant, and it said, "a phrase coined by the Ancient Romans, who called roughly July-September carniculares dies after Sirus, the Dog Star, the brightest star in the sky besides the Sun." OK. A bit straight-forward, if not boring.

But it goes on. "an evil time when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies"

Now that's more like it! But if I were to define it, I'd go with Bradley Nowell of Sublime's description of feeling "like a dog out on the yard, because that's just how we are."

Chicago in the summer is great, don't get me wrong, but after awhile, bouncing from fest to fest, event to event, shuttled back and forth by an unforgiving CTA or even through traffic on LSD, you start to feel like an animal - but its more like cattle than dogs. Bathroom lines, food lines, water lines, ATM lines, hopping over blankets and squeezing through tough crowds guarding territory like gold. Getting stampled and stickered and "stay left," or "this is exit only," or "move along (little doggie)."

Yeah, a few days of that will leave you feeling like a cow on his way to slaughter who in the meantime is chewing cud and enjoying the scenery which is merely the ass in front of you.

But you know what? Its worth it sometimes. I stood for 10 hours on Saturday at Clapton's Crossroads. Why? Because we were as close as we could get without having a guitar in my hands (I wish!), and it was worth it to see Hubert Sumlin smile as he and BB, the King, embraced. Worth it. To hear Jeff Beck literally make a guitar sing- goddamn, it was worth it. By the time Winwood and Robbie Robertson hit the stage, I was howling at the full moon rising over the stadium's stage left like I wasn't just a dog, but a werewolf.

Oh yes, but you know, the leash only goes so far. You start chasing the milkmen and before you know it, the rope snaps you back: its Monday, time to earn a paycheck. So it goes.

But you learn to get your kicks in. Playing guitar on the stoop till 3am on a Monday. Just cause. Getting snowcones from the ice cream man down at Montrose Beach on a Tuesday evening. Giving out your number, and then spending the rest of the week screening all phone calls (don't ask why we do it guys, its just how it works). SPF 25, bicycles with a cooler strapped on the back, beer buckets, eating and walking all at the same time, tank tops, bermuda shorts, and sunglasses day or night.

Yessir, its the dog days again! I just gotta keep my head up and my nose clean and I think I just might make it.

Woof!

I ate the Hummus (oh no!!)

I didn't grow up going to the Taste of Chicago, like a lot of people I know. Living 90 miles outside of the city, and having 3 other reckless sisters, I can't blame my parents for not taking us. Instead, we went to the Taste of LaSalle. And it turns out, pretty much all LaSalle, Illinois has to taste is corn. Lots of corn.

So I was excited to visit the real Taste this year. My roommates and I biked down along the lake path on the 4 th. We ate, we sat on a blanket drinking wine in the hot, hot heat, and we bobbed our heads in enjoyment to the music as we came out of the closet for the day as John Mayer fans. I even let out a "woo" or two (or ten) when Buddy Guy took the stage. Good times.

A few days later, my supervisor gave out tickets to the Taste, and I found myself in a position of feeling obliged to go again. OK. Twist my arm. So I went back on Sunday, the last day, by my lonesome after I got off work at 6:30. I started with some pierogis, then moved onto chicken wings from Harold's, a breaded steak sandwich, washing it down with a 4 ticket Pepsi, and topping it all off with a chocolate chip cheesecake square. Delicious.

And you know what else I had? The goddamn hummus from Pars Cove. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought to myself, "hmmm, it'll be something somewhat healthy – like salad's little greasy sister – and it fulfilled my desire to be worldly and branch out of the Chicago staples of "fried" or "chicken" or both.

And that's the end of the story, really. I took the El home. I read more of my Phillip Roth book; I played guitar for a long while, and I went to bed. Ho hum. A typical Sunday evening.

But now all over the local news is the salmonella outbreak linked to the Pars Cove booth and the goddamn hummus. 378 people reported getting ill after eating there. And climbing. You know what's odd, though? I feel like I've been left out of the party. I could've been a news story! The Chicago Tribune could have taken a picture of me holding my stomach out on my back patio. But no, some other blonde girl got that honor.

I feel bad for the restaurant owners though. It'll be a long time before they live this reputation down. If ever. And I thought the hummus was pretty good, albeit not life changing. If anything, I would have put my money on the Bolat booth being the salmonella scare for the week. They were serving goat for Christ sakes!

But I've actually eaten at Bolat, a West African restaurant, at the behest of my sister who just got back from a stint in Burkina Faso. She was raving about guinea fowl and rare hot peppers, and wrapped it all up in the bow of "I'll pay." No offense to the nice and handsome men that worked there, but it was probably the worst meal of my life. The African beer was delicious, but the food, as far as I remember, involved lots of corn, bananas, eggs, and goat meat as tough as tires. And it was so spicy my stomach and small intestine were crying for mercy before it even hit my pallet. Top that off with a crazy woman who wondered in off of Clark St. screaming, "who's f-ing car is parked out front!!!" The tiny restaurant went dead quiet for about a half second, before the waiters who were sitting at a table busted out laughing in what looked like Oprah's crazy homeless sister's face.

My point is, now I have to live through at least two more weeks of snarky Tribune and Red Eye headlines playing off the phrase "taste of…" and all I have is this lame story of how there isn't a story. And when I see the headline, or its mentioned in small talk, I'll feel obliged to say, "I ate the hummus!!" and my friends will say, "Oh yeah, what happen??!!" And I'll just bow my head and say, "umm....nothing." Goddamn hummus.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-070713tastejul13,1,590955.story?coll=chi-news-hed

An Urban Hat Trick

I moved to the city two years ago from the outskirts of Illinois vaguely known as South of I-80, but its only recently I feel I've earned my city credentials. Last week my bike was stolen, and just this morning, I saw a guy jerking off on the Red Line - in rush hour.

The bike was chained to a fence on the side of my house, which is also closed off by a locked steel gate. I thought that was sufficient, but when I tell friends, they say, "oh, you had a chain lock, no wonder." Well thanks Ann Landers, but where were you during the year and a half I successfully had my bike?

As for being the unwitting witness to a morning game of pocket pool, I'll spare the disgusting details. But I will say, from now on, I'm renewing my efforts to keep my distance and my eyes to myself on the El. And I'm buying an economy size bottle of hand sanitizer.

So a bike stolen, and a marauding masturbater - I'm just waiting to get physically assaulted by a cop, and I'll feel I've completed some sort of urban hat trick. God I love Chicago!

The Wall of Sound, Torn Down

Virgin Records on Michigan Ave is closing soon. I went in there today, as I do every week or so to browse, but now that the shelves are cleared and most of there inventory is gone, its finally hit me. And I'm sad. I work down the block, so I like to stop in and listen to the new CD's on their feature wall. Granted, I rarely, if ever, buy anything. But still, it was my source to see what is new and big in the music industry. Sure, there's still my subscription to rolling stone and spin, there's hip friends and neighbors to bring me up to date, and there's the endless ocean of the internet. But its not the same as seeing the packaged item, and taking a listen with those big padded headphones.

It seems the major record stores are dying, but does it that make it feel like music itself is dying? I couldn't live in a world where I thought that was true. But something definite and concrete is passing, and it is yet to be seen if that is something to be missed or not. To me, music never had anything to do with labels, units sold, music magazines and critics, or even the people on the scene. Its something small and fragile inside of us that needs to be let out. It is what makes man, Man, not just a collection or cells, or just another ring up the evolutionary ladder.

But when Jann Wenner (founder of Rolling Stone) goes on the Colbert Report, and answers to "isn't music dead?" with the affirmation of no - we have John Mayer, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, and Prince - I knew that a generation who once got "it" is now so painfully removed - and they don't even know it. Now don't get me wrong, I love all three of those artists. But are they the best our generation has to offer? I'd say no. Are they even the latest and greatest? Certainly not. Another Bob Dylan could come along and Rolling Stone will have completely missed the boat this time around.

So maybe Tower Records going out of business, and now Virgin, and the declining record sales and panicking record labels are just signs of artists, and listeners, slugging off this insipid tumor know as the Music INDUSTRY. After a decade of Christina Aguileras, lord knows its definately needed. But it goes back much further - I'm not sure who Phil Spector is (apart from what I read on wikipedia) but the term "Wall of Sound" puts shivers down my spine, and I might pinpoint that as a beginning of a half century of decline. And shoving music down our throat.

But what do I know? All that I can tell you for sure is that I will miss going to Virgin on my lunch breaks. And that big empty space on a busy corner on the Magnificent Mile will loom like a ghost.

Where do you go when you’re low? (The hardest working good ol’ boys in the city)

There’s a small bar on the corner of Sheridan and Sheridan. It has an unimposing exterior of gray brick, and glass windows giving merely a peak into the dark scene inside, day or night. It seems to stand alone almost, the last stop on a moderately busy strip of restaurants and convenience stores feeding off the subway stop. A small sign in the window says “Wrigleyville North,” but it’s a far cry from the Disney meets Baseball motif of the bars on Clark Street. It’s just a little bar most Chicagoans and Cubs fans alike seemed to have forgot.

I would have never have come across it myself if I hadn’t moved a hundred yards away a few months ago. I tend to appoint myself ambassador to the local drinking holes, finding out who’s beer is the coldest, who’s crowd is the friendliest, and who’s music is moving. A good bar is like a good friend. Better, perhaps, because it’s always there for you. It was on one of these expeditions that lead me in the doors of the Wrigleyville North.

During the week, there’s never more than fifteen people in there; a handful of people on stools edged up to the bar, maybe a group of people at a table or hovering around the pool table. Tops. Every time we go, we’re served by a friendly bartender named Theresa. If anyone else helps her hold down the fort, I’m not sure. She seems to do plenty fine by herself, dishing out their $8 pitchers of Miller or Bud Light, popping caps on their special that doesn’t change - $1.50 Bud Light bottles. Tough deals to beat in this zip code.

Dives like this are invaluable, and still a dime of dozen in this city of neighborhoods. But come in on a Friday or Saturday night, and you’ll find the ace of this particular dives sleeve. “Just Us,” the hardest working bunch of professional country musicicians north of Interstate 80. A four piece band, amped in and playing the country music that actually meant something: Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Hank Williams (old and new), Willie Nelson. Southern rock like Skynyrd, the Marhsal Tucker Band and the Allman Brothers. When pushed by me to play a Dylan tune, Poppa Jack, the lead guitar player, said, “Well, I never did like Bob Dylan too much, to be honest. But we do play one of his songs – Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door. I tell ya, the harmony we have on it, the first time we played it, I got goose pumps all up and down my arm. No joke, the hairs just stood right up.”

There’s at least a century of playing experience between all of them. Commuting into the city, they hold court with the same mix of lost locals or regulars who quickly become fixtures. They grin like boys being let out of the house to play, although their gray hair and deepening wrinkles reveal their true age, and that the only thing keeping them under lock and key anymore is their wives and their day jobs.

And they don’t miss a beat. When they get on the little rise of plywood serving as the stage, they sit as comfortably with their instruments in hand as some men only obtain with their broken-in lazy boy and remote control. They laugh a bit, clutch their beer of choice, or O’Doul’s on some nights, until their singer and guitarist starts in an a riff, and they’re right into playing without so much as a nod or verbal agreement on what song to do next.

But what is it about Chicago that a true country band can’t fill the seats? What is it that a Chicagoan can’t get about heartache, lonliness, booze, women and mother? The fact is, when you get down to it, country and the blues are the same thing. It just depends on where you put the down beat.
Both can speak to your own sadness, making you want to slip a tear into your beer glass. Or they can fill you with joy, making you get up and swing around like there’s not a care in the world that could ever hold you back.

And this brings me to my larger question. Where do you go when you’re low? When something is just not sitting right inside, and you can’t just sit at home and wallow in it. When you need a friend, but no friend is close. Or when you’re hearts been pushed to the ground, and you turn to an open ear, a warm smile, and cold beer to help you pick it up again. When something in the night wind calls to you, and all you can do is try to go out and soak it up, bobbing your head slightly to a familiar rhythm.

I go to the “Wrigleyvile North,” or the country bar, as I affectionately renamed it. Wrigley just doesn’t fit, and thank God. And if you ever find yourself feeling this way, put this spot on your map. Head over on a weekend, request a Merle Haggard song for me, and throw a few bills in for the band. Chicago can be a lonely place for a professional country band.

Lindsay Lohan for President

Since when in this country has it been a big deal to get a DUI? Or party too much? As soon as we invented cars we invented drunk driving. I'm not trying to condone it in any way, shape or form. All I'm saying is that Lindsay Lohan didn't exactly re-invent the wheel (and then roll home on it after a club).

No, her only problem is that she's in L.A. She needs to relocate to a town of 20,000 or less and she'd fit right in. In a small town, your first DUI is practically a badge of honor. It's an f-in miracle almost to make it to 21 without some sort of ticket under your belt. Granted, its more like Sara Smith driving her dad's Hyundai into a parked car on 5th St., rather than Lindsay Lohan hopping a curb over on Sunset. But you know what? Same damn thing. Does Sara Smith go to rehab? No. She might get the keys taken away from her and be on probation for a few months, and the mom's around town will have someone new to focus their gossip on. That's it. End of story.

But the way the media is spinning this, Lindsay Lohan is some sort of national threat. The moral authority are marching on blogs and talk shows and burning Freaky Friday posters. Well, I have a little reminder for them. Remember everyone's good buddy, George W.? He's had a DUI. He drove his car into a ditch when he was 30 years old. The link below has a copy of his arrest record. Hell, Dick Cheney's had 2 DUI's! Not to mention the fact that its practically an open secret that George W. had a coke problem, and you can quickly see the similiarities with him and Lohan build up.

In other words, the girl is fine. Maybe Lindsay Lohan just needs to move to a small town with all the other kids who didn't go to college. She could still run for President under the standards set by George. In fact, she has ten more years of good partying in front of her in that case. As long as she discovers Jesus after that, her slate will be wiped clean and forgiven by all. Right?




http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/bushdui1.html
http://www.cocaine.org/george-bush/index.html

The Grass is Always Greener (But which side am I on?)

A few summers ago, I spent a few thousand dollars backpacking most of Europe. While the knowledge, the memories, the experience I gained are now priceless, the biggest lesson I learned was that it didn’t necessarily take an airplane ride and a passport. The common sentiment I found from my fellow travelers was the newfound appreciation for the things that are in our proverbial backyard. I remember one guy saying, “I’ve lived in northern Florida for most of my life, and fifteen minutes away from me is a kayaking tour that I always thought about checking out, but just never did. It’s the first thing I’m doing when I get home.”

I’ve tried to maintain that attitude of peaked interest and appreciation for what’s around me – in other words, being the perpetual tourist. The spirit of this led me to Milwaukee Monday night. A straight shot up 94, an hour and a half (maybe 2 hours) – it’s a no-brainer, and I’m shocked it’s taken me so long do it.

My traveling companion was my 22 year-old sister. Fresh from finals, she’s also an up for anything gal. Our plan was so last minute, I was emailing her a list of things to pack for me as I sat at work Monday afternoon. And when I got off at 7, she was waiting out front with the car, and we hit the road.

One of the greatest, little, joys I’ve had of late is leaving the city, cruising 90/94 when there’s no traffic, windows rolled down, and listening to classic rock on “the Drive” at full volume. Just makes me feel good. Once we hit the border, we stopped for food at the Kenosha exit. We bypassed the McDonalds, the Wendy’s, the KFC, the Taco Bell, and opted instead for the “Cheese and Brats Stop.” In one place, it encompasses all the greatness Wisconsin has to offer.

We got to Milwaukee about 9:30, and before we even saw the skyline, we had “Nights with Alice Cooper” ushering us into the city like a giant electronic welcoming mat. And in the name of full disclosure, yes, our hidden agenda was to reenact scenes from Wayne’s World (“We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”).

We didn’t print out any directions to our hotel, but figured we could wing-it just fine. Mackenzie “price-lined” a hotel that afternoon, and we wound up paying $50.00 for a room at the downtown Hilton (thank you Mr. Shatner). And sure enough, one of the biggest buildings in the skyline bore the red Hilton sign, and we steered toward it like moths toward a candle. I waited in the car as Kenzie checked in, saying when she got back, “this is freaking Dumb and Dumber style nice in there.” I don’t know why that movie is her frame of reference for hotel quality, but it certainly was posh – an older historic building, decked out in chandeliers, expensive vases, plush carpet, even an indoor water-park. And here we were, the rats who snuck in the back door.

But we didn’t wait around to enjoy it. Not when there’s good old-fashioned Wisconsin drinking to be done. We walked around downtown, trying to find a cool scene with hopefully live music.

Now I’m the type of person who tends to idealize everything. And so walking around Milwaukee’s downtown, I was in a constant state of awe: there were cool old buildings, the waterfront, the music theatres and shopping complexes, and cute little stores. But most importantly – it wasn’t sickenly crowded. You could ride your bike on the road without fear, even downtown. There were people, but it wasn’t like you were tripping over them. In other words, it was all the good things about downtown Chicago, minus the bad.

Eventually we settled on a bar. We pulled our barstools up, and waited to be served our Spotted Cows, a delicious Wisconsin brew. We waited, and waited a bit more. It was crowded for a Monday night – apparently, we had stumbled into the college district. So I grabbed a local ‘zine, and waited. And as the bartender finally comes up, he asks the guy to my left who had just stepped up for his order first. I’m only slightly visibly annoyed. This older guy orders some cocktails, and then hands the bartender a twenty and says, and get these patient girls a drink too. I say, “that’s not necessary,” to which he leans over and says in my ear, “you could use a sugar daddy,” and walks away. OK. Two spotted cows, please.

Even though it had a nice patio, we left after one drink. Too many guys in stripped shirts and girls with blonde hair and clingy tops make me dizzy. We walked up the street to a place that had a sufficient dive-bar appearance. We walked in, order some more spotted cows, on tap this time (excellent), and were surprised by a giant wood patio that sat directly on the river. It was a great night out, the perfect mild weather for drinking outdoors. We settled into seats that were directly on the water. We watched the river run by, and stared at the lights of the downtown buildings. As I went for another round of a new local brew, Kenzie joked about being left alone and having to pretend to stare “wistfully,” into the distance.

Towards the end of the night, a group of late twenty somethings – two guys and a girl – were getting back onto their boat they had docked right out front of the bar. We watched in jealousy as they jumped back on, and got called out for laughing at the girl stumble and almost fall into the water, “Oh yeah,” her guy friend said, “I’d like to see you do that!” We of course said we couldn’t. “Hey,” he said a minute later, “would you mind doing us a favor? I’ll give you twenty bucks,” he said. “Sure, I’ll help, but you don’t need to pay me,” I said. So I walked down to the edge where they were tied up. “Hold onto this rope, and when we start going, let it loose and throw it back onto the boat,” he instructed as he reached for his wallet. “No problem – you really don’t have to give me anything,” I said. But he stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the side of my shoe anyway.

So he started the boat. I glanced into the cabin of the speedboat through the round window, and to my surprise, saw the disappeared buddy snorting drugs off the little table. How very rock-n-roll. So they launched, I threw the rope, and just then Mr. Coke came back up to say, “hey ladies! Aren’t you coming?? Come on!” I said, “No, I’m just here to break the Champaign bottle over the hull.” They laughed, and took off down the river.

These are the type of Wisconsinites I’ve come to admire in such a weird way - the guys and girls who will forever be 17. Maybe they have more or less money, depending on their trade, but every night is Friday night, and everyone is a friend you just haven’t met yet. There are no rules, and there are no consequences. When I’m sitting here at my desk on a Monday, getting so little joy from the average workweek, I can’t help but wonder - in some perverse way, do these party animals really have it made? Are they free? Perhaps, but I remind myself; there is always a price. Always a price.

After that, we stumbled back to the Hilton. We had one more drink in the hotel bar, the newest Leinenkugel summer ale at the behest of our friendly bartender. Then we went back to our room, and slept in between silky 400-count sheets.



Why can I only wake up early when I’m on vacation? If I had my choice, I wouldn’t normally wake up before 10 if my life depended on it. But not when I’m somewhere other than home. I was showered and making complimentary coffee before 9:30. Kenzie was grumpy and still in bed, that is until I annoyed the crap out of her and she got up. I watched as she went straight to the ice bucket, and broke off a chunk from the block of tomato-basil cheddar cheese we’d gotten at the Cheese Brat Stop. First thing she did, I swear to god.

So we had the day ahead to be tourist. We had lunch in the historic district at some sort of a permanent indoor farmers market open warehouse. I saw the “Now Hiring” sign at the place selling Indian food with the thin white-girl with a massive head wrap and long flowing skirt. Everyone working in the building seemed happy, and I admit I was more than tempted.

By 11:30, we were at the Miller Brewing Company. Early by some standards, but not our own. We took the tour with Chris, an awkward young man from Tennessee who was in town for an interview. Our tour guide was a cute guy, probably a 22 yr old college student. He recited the brewing info like a pro, and we joked around with him about who is it that drinks so much “Milwaukee’s Best,” or “Milwaukee’s Beast,” as we were fond of calling it.

The best part of this free tour is the end when you can sample the products. They start you off with a Miller Lite, but after that you can pick 3 other beers, served in pretty generous 10-oz glasses. They had Italian and Polish imports, local brews they distribute, even Sparks, the red bull of beers. I opted for something called “Frederick Miller’s Chocolate ale,” or something along those lines. It haunted me the rest of the afternoon. We ate peanuts in the little German style beer hall, and filled out postcards to everyone we could think of, even the troops, since Miller Lite would mail them for free.

Afterwards, we went down to what a brochure called the historic “Bohemian district.” At that point, it was raining cats and dogs. We ran from record store to clothing boutique to coffee shop. We hung out at a thrift store for a bit, talking to the clerk about their Chicago location and discovering the other two guys in browsing in the tiny store were from Chicago too. The talkative clerk talked about his time in Chicago versus life in Milwaukee. With his bleached blonde hair and edgy haircut, stripped shirt and tight jeans, it was obvious he wouldn’t fit-in in outside the confines of Milwaukee. But he talked about how cheap things were here, saying at one point, “you couldn’t even charge 20 bucks for back stage passes to Pearl Jam here. No one pays that much for anything!”

And we talked about Chicago neighborhoods and their various thrift stores and rock venues. I could tell he missed Chicago in a way, but was in no hurry to go back. “Here, they’ll warn you if there’s 12 minutes of traffic to downtown. That’s a good day on the expressway in Chicago.” So true.

The rest of the afternoon was rained out. We tracked down a guitar store thrift store man had recommended. Afterwards, we got a bit lost trying to get downtown in the pouring rain. In my crappy Escort, the windshield wipers don’t work, and the defrost doesn’t help much either. So we drove the side streets of Milwaukee in near blindness. After too much frustration, and no urge to get back out of the car, we decided to just head back.

Kenzie drove back in the monsoon. It was rough driving the whole way. By the time we got near the city, it was rush hour. Hearing a traffic warning on WBM public radio, Kenzie decided to ditch the expressway and head back to Chicago via the suburbs. So we crawled back into the thick of over-population that is the city through one bland and crowded suburb after another: Northbrook, Glenbrook, Oak Park, Schaumburg, etc. We sat at stop light after stoplight, dealing with the middle-aged assholes in decent cars that honk if there was a second’s hesitation at the stoplight. Or in one instance, a man who was laying on his horn at the stalled cars, despite the fact that traffic was being directed by a crossing guard. I rolled down my window and gave him the finger. Just one birdie is not enough for scum like that. Take your Audi, and shove it.

I asked my sister, “Why do people live in the suburbs? I mean, what’s the draw?” She was as stumped for an answer as I was. “I guess they want a house and a yard,” was her answer. “So, it’s a lame substitute for the city. Sounds like they get the worst of both worlds,” I said. “Or maybe it’s because of their jobs,” she went on. “Well, there’s unfulfilling jobs anywhere you go, I don’t see why it has to anchor you to a suburb,” I said, taking my road rage out on the unsuspecting peons of the burbs. No character, no nature, no culture, no room to breathe. That’s just how I see it. No offense.

Sometimes I say to myself, what am I doing here? Why Chicago? You got snobby yuppies on one side of town and snobby hipsters on another. Can I go somewhere in this city without being judged? There’s nowhere to park, riding my bike is a death wish on most streets, and even on the lake path for the most part. Rent is high, bars overcharge, and concerts cost a day’s work, not to mention gas prices or your average restaurant tab.


I have to remind myself; I’m here for museums, for music, for art and culture, to meet intellectual people. And I get all that on a regular basis. However, going to places like Milwaukee remind me that I don’t have to live in Chicago to get that.


But then again, I could be all wrong. I went to Europe with a certain reverence, and at the end of the trip, I was so happy to be home. I go to other cities and say with definite pride, “yeah, I’m from Chicago.” So I guess, as the saying goes, the grass is always greener. Or maybe in this instance, the lake is always bluer. It just takes a good road trip now and then to remind yourself, which side are you on?