At the Dominick’s

    

The sad end to my neighborhood Dominick’s store.

Which I hope begins anew with a Whole Foods soon.

But at this midnight hour…

The Oreo that broke the camel's back

It’s been sometime since I’ve posted on here, and leave it to some dumb ass comments about Oreos to get me rolling again.

In case you don’t live on Facebook like some people do,  the Oreos page posted the above picture and message this week in time for many Gay Pride celbrations going on all over the country. It’s a simple, nice sentiment: celebrate love.

The posts that came shortly afterwards, however, are proof that ignorance prevails:

These are only a few gems. You can see a whole lot more at this link here, or on the Oreo FB page. It appalls me that people are so mind numbingly stupid about things. It makes me glad that the law in Chicago regarding handguns is so strict, because you would not want me to have one or I might go on a little spring cleaning. Just saying.

But I’m gutted over this for a few reasons. First of all, you boycott a company for supporting unity and love in the world? WTF? So obviously you not only hate cookies, but now you declare your bias towards people who are different from you. That’s so genius! Then comes the comments. ‘Gays need to leave America, or my favorite, ‘it should be a crime’ to be gay. Well, I guess that’s better than putting us all behind an electric fence and burning us alive. Because, after all, this is the 1500’s and it’s the Inquisition. Wait, someone did suggest that we should all be sequestered to an island somewhere and ‘share aids together!’ , so I guess that is similar. Why not go further…make like the Salem witch trials and see which of us drown and which of us sink? Or bringing back the guillotine as corporeal punishment for the drag queens? ‘Let them eat Oreos’, I can hear them cry, as they drag us off to the dungeons before we are drawn and quartered.

I mean, what century is this?

But the best part are the religious comments: It’s a sin. God says homosexuals are evil. Die faggots, burn in hell. The Bible says you should be stoned, go to hell, burn, blah blah blah. Gee if I wanted to hear that talk I could call my Uncle Mike or my brother Matt, I’m sure they would be more than willing to share their feelings on the subject. Which, of course, is completely wrong. The Bible is how old? And statement in that book taken verbatim today, well then let’s line up Bristol Palin, John Edwards and a chorus of other people who are not gay but have sinned because, you know, we would stone them too. Or cut their tongue out. Because that’s completely rational. Not only that, but no where in the 10 commandments or the beatitudes does it say ‘thous shall condemn and kill homosexuals.’ I looked, not there.  And unless you just got off the phone with God or received a tweet from him, just shut the fuck up. No one can truly say ‘I know God says, believes or means’ whatever. Because you don’t. And if you have had a conversation with him, I think it would be more along the lines of, why can’t you people all just get along? And just shut up or I will have to send the plague to wipe your stupid asses out.

It’s been a tenuous year around the rights of gay marriage and gay rights, and I am seeing more and more the derisiveness and hatred that people are spilling into the everyday. It’s no longer live and let live, it’s die. And I’m particularly disappointed in the southern black religious group who recently declared that our fight is not one of civil rights, because instead of being supportive and unified, they segregated us… ironically, much like they had been more than 40 years ago. But then, this…to see people get inflamed, spew hatred and ignorance, because one of the most beloved cookies ever takes a picture of it’s likeness, and put a rainbow of layers in between the caps, just to show their support of the community. For me, it’s become a tipping point, to say the least.

Maybe the gay community needs to strike back. I watched a show just this past Sunday morning about the Stonewall riots in 1969, when homosexuality was illegal. We were being killed in the streets, had to live behind closed doors. And we finally rose up and got angry and struck back. Well, 43 years later, I’m wondering if it isn’t time for the community to run riot again. We’ve gone from having a difference of opinions to outright hatred and vitriol. I’m tired of it. So maybe we need to start taking a more aggressive stance against the attacks. I know I will be. Because I’m done. I don’t want to live in this kind of world anymore. I’m going to fight to see some change.

And I’ll be armed with Oreos.

Bad taste in my mouth from stupid diners

My friend Alan and I got a chance to catch up this morning, during which we discussed the interesting post from Chowhound that his wife Erin sent him. Alan suspects the forward was her attempt to piss him off, but it ended up inflaming me more.

In short, the thread was regarding a self proclaimed ‘foodie’ couple’s excursion to a famous New Orleans restaurant, where they proceeded to order an item off of the menu which contained a key ingredient that the husband disliked, and thusly asked the Chef to change it. The Chef, in turn, said he would not alter his plate, and recommended another choice. The couple pressed for a change, and when the Chef refused to acquiescent they were offended and felt that the Chef was out of line. Several of the posts that followed this one chimed in with agreement.

Stop right there. There are so many things wrong with this couple’s argument, I hardly know where to begin. First of all, what is the whole point to going to a fine restaurant? I don’t know about you, but for me and most of the people I know, it’s the experience. I am choosing to put my taste buds in the hands of the Chef. I want to experience his point of view, what his vision is, and a taste of what he thinks marrys well together. Most of the time, it’s pretty genius. You go in with an open mind and stomach, you exit thrilled, tantalized and satiated. The issue I see with this person’s story is that they don’t seem to have that same open minded experience. They think they are some kind of experts to tell a Chef what to serve with what? And you accuse him of leaving you with a bad taste? Please, the only kind of taste these fucks have are in their mouth, and like their asshole, is just as shitty. Not to mention, you deliberately ordered an item with a food you didn’t like (and the fact the guy doesn’t like Stilton? What the fuck?), and expected a substitution. Were you deliberately picking a fight with the chef? I bet you take candy from children too and cough as you walk by a smoker out of doors.

Unless you have a severe allergy to a food item, substitution of an item in a dish is not acceptable. This goes back to the flavor profile the Chef has set out to create to maximize his guest’s experience at the restaurant. The Chef in this story sent the waiter back out and clearly stated that he would not make a substitution in the dish, and suggested a different one. It’s a salad, folks, pick another one! But yet the man demanded the original dish with the alteration. At this point, had I been the Chef, I would have emerged from the kitchen, politely stated to the couple change in that dish was not an option, and either select another dish or have a lovely evening and depart.

It galls me that these people (and evidently, other Chowhound posters) feel that they are the patrons, and in effect have every right to tell the Chef what and when. Um, no, you do not. At fine restaurants and the like, what the chef has created is what the chef is making. Going back to what I said, it’s about letting your control issues go and giving yourself up to the experience. If you don’t like a food, don’t eat it. Don’t even order it. But to ask it to be special made, and then get up in arms about it? If you want it your way, then go to fucking Burger King. Better yet, go home and make it yourself. How would you feel to have someone come into your place of business and dictate, without knowledge and experience of what you do, how it’s done or why it’s done that way, how to do YOUR job? Let’s up it here for a moment: you have a dinner party, and you’re serving chicken. I am not allergic to chicken, but I sit there and say, “I knew you were having a dinner party and this was the menu, but now that we are all sitting, I want shrimp instead. And now.” You’d tell me to piss off. You’d probably tell me to leave and rightly so. Well, you are doing the same thing in THE CHEFS HOUSE. You are all acting like little bitches, and you need to shut up, eat up, and quit your fucking complaining.

So, on behalf of the Chef(s) being targeted in this instance and everywhere, I say to all you picky eater ‘foodie’ pretentious folk, PISS OFF. And don’t come back, the kitchen is closed.

Crazy people at Trader Joe's and the lunatic at Starbucks

Two great stories for a busy weekend…

Rick and I spent this past Saturday running around with our rented iGo car to take care of a few condo gardening needs. Since finishing the back patio this past summer, we never had the opportunity to get some of the plants that Rick wanted to add to enhance the ambiance. When our neighbors told us of the screaming discounts at the Fertile Garden center on Diversey, Rick decided we couldn’t wait any longer, talked to our condo neighbors, and got approval for some plants.
The Fertile Garden had some great deals for certain. While Rick explored and chose just the right hydrangeas for the back yard (“I’m thinking all white flowers to brighten it up,” he trilled, while I just looked around and said “yeah okay, whatever”), I had my fun and picked out two wonderfully pumpkins for Halloween. All told, the plants ranged from 30 to 70% off, and we saved a total of 60% on our yard. It was a great deal.
After a brief stop for food at the Art of Pizza on Ashland (so good!), we decided to venture to Trader Joe’s for some quick groceries for dinner. We had the car, we never had been, so why not?
We entered the store, and within seconds I had flashbacks to retail holiday havoc. The place was a mob scene. No discernible rhyme or reason to the traffic patterns of the place. What made it a tad more challenging was that Rick, having his eyes dialated earlier in the day, still had to wear sunglasses. It’s not like he was blind, he just was sensitive to the light still.
But what turned me so sour was the pushing, shoving and careless passing of fellow shoppers. We tried to manuever and weave, and I think I said excuse me at least 5 times in 2 minutes. But we had barely picked up lemons and strawberries when a young woman charged past Rick, even as he tried to back out of the way, and she only could snark out a terse ‘Pardon me’ with the complete sincerity of Bill O’Riley. Rick and I glanced at each other, and he immediately picked the two items in our basket back out and tossed them onto the vegetable gondola. ‘Forget the rest of this, I just want to check for one thing,’ he commented, quite frazzled.
He navigated himself around to the next aisle, to where a beleaguered clerk was shelving a item. Rick asked politely if they had the item (some dark Belgian chocolate) he was looking for, only to have a snappish reply: “we only carry that at Christmas.” With that, Rick turned to me, and announced, “and NOW we can get the hell out of here!”
After nearly being run over two more times and swearing I just saw a Viking woman (complete with Helga’s horns and braided hair) and her elf friend in the checkout line, I barely emerged from the exit doors only to be knocked over a final time by a mother and her three children, who were all clambering and screeching for attention. I couldn’t even look back at the place, as if it were Sodom and Gomorrah (ironic, right?), and disgustedly blurted in full earshot of the family and several other patrons, “I will NEVER go into that place again! That was the worst bunch of assholes ever!” Classy, right? I was aggravated, and disappointed. I had heard so much about this place, but this visit left the taste of bile on my tongue.
What surprised me was Rick, who is normally very even keel. He nodded, and shook his head in disdain. “Saturday afternoon does not entitle people to be complete ignorant jerks. Terrible, terrible idea.” And with that, we hopped in the car and sped away, wishing for the place to burn down so we could salt the earth and never let it rise again.
Granted, a Saturday probably isn’t the best time to go into a grocery store. That being said, the next stop, at our local Dominicks, was less traumatic. We were in and out in moments. No muss, no fuss. That’s the way a shopping experience should go!
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The next morning, however, was a tale for the ages. We were hosting brunch at our place for my friends Rick M, Peter, Brian and Bennett, and of course the coffee maker is on the fritz. Solution A was Rick trying an ad hoc version of campfire coffee. Uh, no. So back to the Dominicks I went so i could stop at the in store Starbucks and get a traveler of coffee.
The scene couldn’t have unfolded better than it did. I stood in line patiently, and this erratic Gaysian huffed and puffed at the waiting window as the barista asked him several questions to ensure his satisfaction. As the server handed up his two orders, the outburst was immediate:” I told you, I wanted a VANILLA BEAN LATTE, not this frozen shit!!”
The barista quickly yet politely replied back, ‘Sir, I clarified if you wanted it with coffee, or not, and with whipped cream or not, and you said no coffee and with…”
“NO I DID NOT! CAN’T YOU PEOPLE GET THIS FUCKING ORDER RIGHT?? I’M HERE EVERY DAY!” he screeched. It was like watching Glenn Beck throwing one of his classic and infantile bigoted temper tantrums.
“Sir, please calm down..”
“I DON’T LIKE THAT ATTITUDE! WHERE’S THE MANAGER? YOUR ATTITUDE SUCKS! THIS IS THE WORST STARBUCKS EVER!”
“Sir, calm down, or do I need to call security…”
“SCREW THIS WHERE IS THE MANAGER?” And with that, the high strung queen threw the frappuccino to the ground, splattering it all over the floor.
The barista and he coworker were visibly shaken, but managed to keep on trying to serve us why having to go and clean up the splattered slushy on the floor (since a call for clean up went unheeded). I politely placed my order, and the barista went to get the travel box for my coffee. When she came back, she sighed aloud to her colleague, “and now he’s over at customer service complaining about me. He did this to a cashier last week. This has got to end!”
As she started to fill my order, I stepped away and walked over to the customer service counter, where Pinocchio was fibbing up a storm. “She was just so rude, and knocked my drink over, and the attitude she copped was disgusting, blah blah blah,” (s)he practically sobbed. The manager stood and nodded in understanding, and then out of the corner of his eye caught me standing there, and turned his full attention on me.
I was not about to let this psycho ruin some nice employees’ job with his/her irrationality. “Um, yeah, that’s not what happened. The barista was very polite and handled herself well. This one” – I pointed at the befuddled bitch- “This one not only lost control, but threw his drink on the floor and caused a terrible scene. He was rude and completely unnecessary.”
Stunned at first, then narrowing her eyes at me with a hateful glare, Gaysian girl snapped defensively, “No, I was throwing it out…”
I cut her off. “Yeah, trashcan was here” – I pointed to my left- “and the drink was over here” – and I swung my hand to my far right. “No way you were aiming for the can.” I turned my attention back to the manager, who had a look in his eye that said he was getting the real picture now. “All I’m saying is that your associate was polite and tried to be nice, and this one was a complete nut job.” And with that, I walked away.
I walked back to Starbucks, left my name and number with the very grateful barista in case the manager had any more questions about what I witnessed, took my coffee and went home. Arggh, the nerve of that bitch treating the Starbucks girl so rudely! I wanted to slap her silly! But I took the high road, stood up for my fellow customer service agent, and did a good deed for the day.

Weekend recap…rain, food, museums, rain, shopping, food and more rain

It was busy weekend for me, as I had my friend Marcie in town visiting. Marcie and I went to Bethany together, and we always have a great time no matter what. Even if the rain and inclimate weather made for damp excusions.

On Friday, we braved the drizzle and went downtown to the Art Institute and the MCA. It’s been ages since I’ve been to either, and I must say the exhibits at the Art Institute were fantastic. I was a tad dissapointed in the antiquities wing, where Ancient Egypt, Greec and Rome made up an entire section on their own, but the Impressionists collections as always had me in awe.

The MCA is currently home to Jeff Koon’s work, which was a tad surreal. A mixture of inflatible sculpture, basketballs in aquariums and porn, it was scattered and not as mind blowing as I anticipated. I also have to say that it must be on the application to work at the MCA that one must be an 80’s goth reject. Overall, the whole museum was pretentious with little flare. Yawn.

We ended our day’s excusion with cocktails at the Hancock Signature Room. The rain and clouds kept us from getting to see the view it’s known for, but we shared a giggle over the peculiar and drunken couple that sat across from us near the window. We couldn’t figure out if it was a first date gone strange or if the guy was the woman’s professor, and she was trapped on an extra curricular dating excursion.

Saturday I had to work briefly, and after I got home we headed to Indie for sushi. While the experience as always was great, I did note that I thought it was a different sushi chef working, since my Hellstone Maki was not as finessed as it had been on our past two trips there. We also learned that Hand Roll does not refer to sushi being hand rolled, but rather sushi in a burrito style hand held roll. The stunned and perplexed expressions on our faces when our hand roll was delievered to the table said it all. My recommendation: go to Indie for great sushi, but skip the crazy tuna hand roll. Blah.

Marcie and Rick called it a night after Indie, but I ventured out in the monsoon to Piece over in Wicker Park, where I joined Brian and Sara for Sara’s 28th birthday bash. The pizza was divine, and the micro brews they served were interesting. The heferweisen that Brian and I indulged in later in the evening had a surreal bubble gum taste and mouth feel to it! What made the excursion even more intersting is that about 10:30 ish, Rock and Roll kareoke started. For those not in the know… a live band, armed with a small catalogue of varied rock tunes, played back up to the drunken  ones who tried in vain to belt a tune in tune. While most of the singers left a bit to be desired (and there were certainly a few performances that completely ruined certain songs for me), the female guitarist was on fire! I complimented her later, and noted she should be fronting her own band. Go for the good pizza, the fun beers, and, even if you aren’t a karoke fanatic, just to see Lauren jam.

Sunday took us to m. henry for brunch, when as always, the food was fantastic! Dan, one of the managers there, also is a Bethanian like Marcie and I, and showed us the new back patio they just finished. If you have never been to m. henry for brunch, you must must must go. Simply my favorite brunch spot in the city.

Shopping was how we spent the rest of our day, as Marcie and I hit several consignment shops in Lakeview. We were good, and kept the damage to a minimum. We came home to Rick making crawfish ettoufee, which put a perfect cap on the evening and the weekend.

And today… the rain has stopped, i’m back to work, and Marcie has headed home. Time for me to recover, and get ready for my mom’s visit this weekend. Yeah!

Overheard at a Jewish dinner party…

Rick and I got to enjoy an evening in Evanston at the lovely home of one of his former William Sonoma coworkers, Ann.

Things were off to an interesting start when we arrived and were greeted by Ann’s husband, Sidney, giving everyone the low down on their excitement of the day: the local winos broke into their screened in porch and stole three bottles of red that were for the party! The police had actually just left before everyone started arriving, noting that no suspects were in custody, but they were pretty sure they knew who stole it.

It was the dinner conversation that was just had me in stitches. Just a few highlights…

-When Rick was telling people about how we refinished the old built in that he had rescued from the neighbor’s dumpster, one of the men looked at us and said, “I take it you’re not Jewish, are you?”.

-Same man was sharing about how his wife was going to rabbi for Judaism conversion classes, and during one session, expressed her concern she was anti-Semitic. “How do you mean?” the rabbi asked.             ‘Well, I just get so hateful when I’m shopping at Sunset Grocery (in Highland Park, a very affluent and predominately Jewish neighborhood), and those women just are so rude and cut in front of me.”                     The rabbi nods, pauses for a moment, and replied, ‘Well, then, I guess that makes me Anti-Semitic too.’

-I was taking about photo enlargements, and suddenly one of the men said, “Enlargements? I get messages about enlargements almost daily! Pumps, pills, you name it, it all about enlargement.’ Yes folks, I swear, we took a wild left and detoured to a conversation about penis enlargement spam messages.

-When I mentioned that the wild conversation was going to be the highlight of my next blog post, everyone laughed, and someone gave me the title for this post: “You can call it, ‘Things I heard at the Jewish dinner party’!”

It’s all true… every word.

Random bits at 2 am

It’s late and I’m bored, and I haven’t blogged in a while. Just wanted to warn you in advance.

A strange blurb from the Chicago Sun Times (suntimes.com):

‘The family of a Chicago woman sued The Loreal Group Tuesday, claiming chemicals in the company’s Soft Sheen Carson hair dye killed her.

While coloring her hair with a Dark and Lovely product in July 2006, Cornelia Morris suffered shortness of breath and later died at Jackson Park Hospital. An autopsy found that Morris died from “an anaphylactic reaction to hair dye,” according to the lawsuit. The 10-count wrongful-death suit seeks at least $500,000 in damages.

“We adhere to the most rigorous standards for product safety, so that our consumers can purchase and use our products with complete confidence,” said Jennifer S. James, a spokeswoman for L’Oreal USA, who added she had not yet seen the lawsuit and had no further comment.’

Okay, very random, and I feel for the family, but really: these things come with a warning. Like cigarettes and alcohol, and hell even peanuts, in extreme cases people can have an adverse reaction. What if the woman was at a professional hairdresser, and this happened. Would the stylist be liable? It’s not like they knew this would happen. She wasn’t wearing a Med Alert bracelet saying, allergic to red #5 or anything of the sort.

If the woman had tried on a sweater and died, would the family sue the manufacturer like Polo or Gap, or even the cotton industry? No, because shit happens. It’s too bad she had such an anaphylactic reaction.

On the flip side: if the woman was on a bike, and was hit by a car, I can see the driver of said car being sued. The driver was in control, and was liable. But if they were to sue the car manufacturer, and were to insinuate that the manufacturer was liable… yeah, it just doesn’t flow.

This is what the economic climate has driven us to. We are now a law suit happy nation.

Meanwhile, my lawsuit versus stupid people is till hung up in the courts…

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The CTA… another gripe I have.

The big deal right now is that the city is racing to make itself ready to be a serious contender for the 2016 Olympics. Yeah we are in the two four (I believe against Rio, Tokoyo and someone else), and seriously one of the top two in contention.

Yet the public transit system will continue to be our undoing.

Take my stop, Thorndale… one more good thunderstorm and it looks like the ceiling of the vestibule may collapse:

How safe does THIS look to you? Especially around the lights?

Yeah, makes me want to ride the train as well. Never mind the third rail, look out for the pools of water formed from the water dripping from the electrical system…

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Finally, proof that crack is indeed whack, as Whitney so proclaims. This one is courtesy of Tobin after some chicken and beer, Pride weekend…

Oh come on, don’t be a prude. If they can show Britney’s va jay jay online…

Dinner at Boka

I keep forgetting to rave about Rick and my fantastic meal at Boka two weeks ago for Rick’s birthday.

After a great afternoon of enjoying Jersey Boys downtown, Rick and I enjoyed the warmth and style of Boka on North Halsted. I knew it was going to be a great meal from the start when our server, RJ, remembered me from my last dining venture there in December with my former coworkers.

I chose a Delta Savignoun Blanc for our meal, which was incredible pairing. Then our meal, which is generally fancier than our usual fair, went as follows:

Rick-Prosciutto wrapped white Asparagus terrine with baby quail eggs;

Me-Maine diver sea scallopes with a pea/wasabi puree, grapefrit and lotus root.

Both- A salad consisting of grilled Bartlett pears and endive, field greens, cashews, a small block of warm (read: breaded and fried) manchengo cheese, and balsamic.

Rick’s entree: Trout with grilled salsify ( is a vegetable whose root and leaves can be used for cooking purposes), braised leeks and watercress, and a truffle foam;

My entree- Braised veal cheeks with broccoli hash and a cauliflower- yukon potato mash, topped with smoked black pepper pine nuts.

The starters and salad were very good. I particularly loved the scallops, and was pleased to learn with my venture with the pea wasabi sauce that I was not indeed allergic to wasabi (I had a strange reaction to something last time we ate at People, and I thought it was the wasabi). Rick’s terrine was very tender and delicious… I think there was truffle infused in there somewhere. The manchengo was particularly complimentary with the salad, although Rick’s preference would have been a bleu cheese (‘It would have been perfect with the pears!’).

The entrees led us to a bit of a surprise. Rick thought the trout was good, but was not blown away over all. I think the truffle foam was a bit much for him. my veal cheeks were melt in your mouth, and Rick agreed. Very rich fare for me.

The topper, however, was the interesting little fried nugget that sat on my plate. We were curious, but I was going to let it go. Rick, however, had to inquire… ‘It’s veal brain that has been breaded and fried’ was the answer I was not expecting. Something told me just to eat it, don’t let the psychological aspect of knowing what it may or may not be get in the way. And not one to back away, I tried it and ate the whole thing. It was tasty with the cheek (which is how it was recommended to be eaten). I still wish I had not known what it was before I ate it so as not to spoil my experience of it, but oh well.

Yes, Alan, I did indeed eat veal brain. Sorry, I still will not eat tripe.

Desserts were next, and I don’t think I need to specify who ordered what:

Coconut tapioca with banana fritters, passion fruit sorbet and aged rum.

A trio of sorbets: grapefruit-campari, blood orange-aperol, lemoncello. They were absolutely divine!

It was a complete and fantastic dining experience that left both of us satisfied. The portions were smaller than what Rick remembered from his previous visit, but he reaffirmed that was not a bad thing whatsoever; our server even acknowledged that since the new chef had taken over, the portion sizes were completely more reasonable than they had been when Boka first opened. I definitely was impressed that RJ remembered me and made our service just as top notch as it was with my first visit. I will need to make a return visit later in the year when the new season’s menu arrives.

For anyone else who has not been to Boka, go and enjoy.

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A not of clarification as I continue my blogs, and thanks to my friend for pointing this out to me a few weeks back.

Whats’ the quote from Steel Magnolias? ‘All gay men have track lightin’. And all gay men are named Mark, Rick, or Steve.” Well I don’t know about track lighting, cause we sure don’t have it, but I have two Ricks in my life. There’s Rick, my partner, with whom the above story involves; and then there is my friend Rick, who I play Euchre and shoot pool with. They are not the same person, and I think they would both admit to not envy the other for his role in my life. That being said, I will try to distinguish the two by noting friend Rick as Rick M.

And incidentally, Rick M does have track lighting, so maybe it’s true what Clairee says.

A different kind of People

For once I’m not going to bitch, I’m actually going to praise. Well, I’ll praise and make fun a bit.

Friday night took me once again to Alan’s restaurant in Wicker Park, the tapas bar People. If you remember Friday Night is Alright for Freaks, my previous excursion down this way was less than memorable. Between the cabbie who almost killed me and the lack of service at the restaurant bar, I was less than commendable about the whole experience. Which was peculiar, because my very first venture there, for dinner with Erin and Rick,was very memorable and fantastic. This trip, combined with the stunning dining experience from my first foray to People, helped erase what I will chalk up to an off night.

It was after midnight again, and this time a young lady named Sarah covered the bar. She was very attentive, and kept our drinks fresh, but for all I can remember she was probably the same woman from last time and is just a bit more focused tonight. Then I think she actually may have comped me a beer, which was unexpected but very nice as well. Meanwhile, the bar manager, whose name escapes me but has always been very nice, recognizes me immediately from my previous visits and chats me up while I wait for Alan’s shift to end. He mentions that Erin (Alan’s wife) and her aunt were in earlier for dinner, which I do recall was Erin’s plan. He also complements Alan’s hard work in the kitchen, which I don’t think I ever told him, but hey, surprise! Now you know.

Alan joins me after a while, and we simply get to kick back and chat for a while. Which I find I’m able to do much easier as the music is a touch lower and a much better mix than the previous time, and the crowd seems to have thinned slightly. The overall demeanor of those still socializing inside is also much more low key, and frankly lends itself to what I have to say ends up being an enjoyable venture into Wicker Park.

I did have to laugh at the street traffic outside, which was very much like my previous excursions to the neighborhood. All I can say is, big mess. Like one stupid girl who kept yelling at the bouncer at the Double Door next door. Umm, no matter how much you swear at him, sweetie, he ain’t gonna let your trashed ass back in.

Then there were those people who chose to try and drive rather than take a cab or public transit. Not only did it make for more congestion in an area that’s already claustrophobic with restaurants, clubs and coffeehouses, but these geniuses have to act stupid as well. Like leaning on the horn because someone in front of them is trying to park. Or pulling along the curb in front of the American Apparel, an obvious hotbed of excitement at 12:30 am, leaning out the window and chatting with the girls. It’s an already tight block to begin with, and now you want to congest traffic even more? And why in front of American Apparel? Seriously, meet the poster children for why you should not drink and drive… or procreate.

After Alan and I wrap things up, he and I split a cab again (and Alan, you’ve got to quit giving me $20 for your $5 cab ride!). About this time, I get a text from my former coworker Joe, who informs me that he and his boyfriend Adam are at Charlie’s for Friday night clubbing. I depart company from Alan and head on over to join them.

Thankfully, when I arrive at Charlie’s the line is minimal outside, although I again encounter people arguing with the bouncer at the door. This time I have to sympathize a bit, as he seems to be discriminant in turning people away, with a simply statement that one of the group is ‘over served, so no entry.’ Thankfully he let me pass without question (which is ironic in this instance, as I was probably approaching over served level), but I have to wonder, gee, when did you suddenly become imparted with the wisdom to know by one glance if someone is inebriated? Are you a human breathalyser? And what about those Tina freaks tweaking and dancing shirtless in the club, hmm? How are you thinning them out… or are you? It was a little shady.

I find Joe and Adam on the dance floor with their friend, and I enjoy dancing for a bit to the latest Madonna single. But I look around, and I find myself realizing how out of place I feel at a club like this anymore. I’m almost 35, and I don’t have a hot body so to rip my shirt off and dance like I’m still in my 20’s, and I hate paying $5 for a friggin’ beer. And it’s almost 3 in the morning, what the hell am I doing here? So I say my goodbyes, grab my jacket from coat check, and snag a cab home, where bed awaits.

And another Friday night draws to a close in Chicago.

Friday night is alright for freaks

11:30p on Friday, I’m at home with Rick unwinding from the day. My phone buzzes that I have a new message. It’s a text from Alan.

‘U Out Tonight?’

I’m at home on the couch watching TV, in no way feeling like going out, and I reply no.

And then get curious and itch for a little fun, so I message, ‘What’s up?’, suspecting correctly his next message:

‘if u were out and about wondering if you wanted to stop by later’.

Needless to say, 25 minutes later, I’m out the door heading for Wicker Park to Alan’s work.

I’m not a huge fan of Wicker Park. Overly trendy, full of beatnik like 20-somethings with their emo beards and vintage dresses. So Seattle 1990. But then again, I could have stayed at home and gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and not be up typing like I am now at 3am. Nor would I have a reason to write.

So the place where Alan works: first of all, small but cozy. The music is 80’s, so not all that bad but a touch loud. It functions as a tapas restaurant, where last weekend,  Rick, Erin and I had dinner there,  and oh my god- amazing food. Stunning. The ahi tuna with wasabi potatoes… the paella… the empanadas… wow. Tonight, as 1am closes in,  the clientel scurry away from the tables and cluster about the bar, where the creme-de-la-crap of Wicker Park gather. Tonight, cozy borders on claustrophobic.

Tonight, Taxi Driver is showing on the wide screen above the bar. The bar is littered with drunk women, one of whom asks me if The Machinist, the Christian Bale vehicle from last year, is playing. I point to DeNiro’s mug on the screen, and she mumbles, oh, well,they must have gotten their idea fot this from the Machinist.

Seriously.

She continues to try to engage me in conversation, but I look disinterested and bored, and finally the cluephone rings loud enough that she picks it up. I want to slap her, but refrain. I pity her as I see her frantically search for her trick for the night.

Alan emerges from the kitchen and flaunts his work scars proudly. I would too if I did something I had passion for. A bit jealous, I am. We proceed to have a few drinks and discuss soccer and music. The conversation’s great… he relays his excitement about the new James track and his and Erin’s plans for moving away, and we bullshit until our drinks run low.

And this is where I get pissed.

First of all, Alan is an employee at this bar. He just helped 3 other guys make food for these patrons and probably the bar staff too for the past 6 hours or so. Yet he is ignored by the two brunettes behind the bar who are more interested making shots for their wastoid friends than to serve anyone else, including the off-duty staff. There are a total of 20 people in the entire room, and no one else is needing tending to around us, yet we seem invisible. That, and these chicks keep walking off for a smoke break. And flirting with the drug dealers in the puffy vest and hoodie. It’s massively annoying.

Alan finally gets his beer, and I order another. These girls clearly see I’m with Alan, yet charge me full price for the drink. Don’t get me wrong, I am willing to pay my way. But what irks me is that while I sit with Alan and pay full price, again, the wastoids with tits that are more plastic than my AmEx get comped shots from these girls.

Alan’s coworker and fellow kitchen man wanders up, and is an animated guy. Cute, in that straight guy who works in a kitchen with sexy sideburns kind of way. Very fun, reminds me of… oh I can’t think of whom, it will come to me later. He attempts to order a drink, and then proceeds to order shots for all of us. One of the girls behind the bar rolls her eyes and not only does not serve him, but never brings us the round of shots. I find out later she fucked this guy, so pettiness is rearing it’s ugly head. Frankly, I think she needs therapy to get over it.

Alan and I sat there for a while longer, and I watch as  he asked both girls to top his beer off. They didn’t. ‘I’d give $10 to have it topped at this point,’ he asides to me wistfully. Meanwhile, the Christian Bale obsessed drunk blond with Barbie’s tits gets another shot. Like she needs it, she’s slurring and pawing at Alan’s sexy coworker like she’s some prize. He’s thankfully intoxicated and oblivious, thinking ahead to the booty call he proudly crows to us that he’s scheduled.

I turn to Alan, and recollect back to the previous week when the shorter girl spaced out when Erin was ordering something, and needless to say we never got it until we reordered it. He nods and acknowledges she’s a bit flighty.

These two, if I owned this place, would never work again. I want to reach over the counter and grab back the $3 I have left for tip out of sheer courtesy, I’m so annoyed. Alan shrugs it off, so he’s a better man than I. It’s his place of employment, and I respect his allegence and Switzerland-like attitude.

We make it through to last call, and head off for home. Alan and I split a cab, and just when I think things are winding down, this is where my nights veers towards Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride territory.

Alan’s stop is only a few blocks north off of Armitage. He offers to the cabbie his part of the fare, only to have the driver get annoyed and flustered since he ‘doesn’t have any change.’ My thought is that as a driver, you should have change or don’t expect payment. Frank, who use to be a cabbie, admits that running out of change for fares was always a fear of his, but this guy is being ridiculous. Alan, resigned and tired, hands me the bills, and signs off for the night, and I start the trek home.

Then the driver, as he hurtles up Ashland Avenue, makes a point to try to make change with any cabbie he meets along the way while stopped at the light. Again, a little off the wall for me. Stop at a gas station and buy a pack of smokes if you want change, is my thinking. At one intersection, some guy tries to jump in to the cab with me, and my driver has to lock the doors so the guy can’t get in. The guy on the street looks pissed but all I can do is shrug and think, dude, this is my ride right now. No tailgating, especially looking as crazed as he did.

The scary moment comes when, near Grace and Ashland, the driver, as he’s trying to flag down a colleague to get change (which at this point doesn’t matter for my fare) nearly runs a light and almost gets into an accident. I gasp and cry out startled. He has the nerve to get uppity with me about why I cried out, and brushes it off like we didn’t almost get into a two car pile up. I’m furious- hey I’m entitled to fear for my life when you’re driving recklessly!

Needless to say, we mange to get to my place without further incident, and I throw a twenty at the guy and bolt for the house. I did get his cab number and customer service phone number, so believe you me, I’ll be calling in my complaint.

One side note in retrospect: I saw on my iGoogle page that the moon was full Friday, so perhaps this accounts for the freakage out on the prowl tonight.

Then again, it was merely another typical night in Chicago.