It’s almost midnight and I should be in bed, asleep. Instead I am in bed listening to Mobb Deep and writing an edition which is, as ever, long overdue.
Thursday, 6/1: Work has been pretty rough all week so to let off some steam Khloe and I check out the Eagles of Death Metal at the Logan Square Auditorium. We meet this guy Max outside when Khloe asks him for a cigarette. Max is a musician, with a profile on MySpace. I forget to ask him for the URL of his address before Khloe and I head inside for what felt at times like a college study break. I could swear there were kids around us discussing their curfews. A lot of teenage girls wearing carefully smudged eyeliner, tugging at brand new “retro” AC/DC t-shirts and scuffing suede ankle boots. Sweaty boys tried to mosh but failed — I think you need to have lived through the late 80s and early 90s, not just lived through them but actually have gone to rock shows during that time to know how to mosh. Or find a good instructor — shouldn’t there old grunge scenesters giving lessons on this at the Learning Annex by now? Strangely, there were none of “that guys” in attendance — you know, those guys who turn up at the rock show wearing the shirt of who is playing that night. Which is unacceptable unless you are going to see Morrissey.
Friday, June 2: Another busy day, but one which ends on a good note. The product launch goes well so I went home, ate some celebratory Chinese takeout, and pondered another night on my couch. I rallied some of the troops for a brief (though expensive) trip to The Tasting Room. Totally worth it, though I wondered if it wouldn’t be out of the question that a wine cooler bar might be in the offing for those tipplers on a budget. The big topic of conversation that night was people who are not your type but you find attractive anyway. Out of the four of us ladies (me and other unnamed women whose identities are being protected in this context), we professed attractions to the following: Ludacris, Jason Lewis, Jeremy Irons. Also, I talked about how my 10th birthday party was ruined by some friends of my dad’s getting into a fight, and how I’d just find that hilarious now. Fights would be a traditional part of any birthday celebration I’d have, and I would watch like an ancient Roman empress only without the toga.
Saturday, June 3: Khloé had a kegger for her husband Jeff. This is the only kegger I’ve attended where there was a cheese plate. Also, some really delicious cognac. I drank beer on Khloé’s back porch, my flawlessly applied eyeliner not going unnoticed by Theresa and her pals.
Sunday, June 4: At brunch with Kathy, Tasneem, and Adrienne, Kathy gives me my very own copy of The Phantom Tollbooth. Yay! I want to go home straightaway to read it, but after brunch we window shop at the Old Navy in Lincoln Park. A typical visit made special when we ran into Thom, his friend Jacob and some girl wearing a backpack whose name I cannot remember. Also, Joan Cusack. Yes, that Joan Cusack. Well, everybody else saw her while I refused to turn around and gawk. Which, when I think about it now, was a stupid thing to do. After a quick trip to Target and an hour to loll at home, I head out to Rozi’s birthday dinner at an Indian restaurant in Lincoln Square. Dinner was delicious and immensely filling, so a walk after the meal was in order. There were loads of people in the neighborhood for May Fest with dogs scampering about and lapping beer that happened to spill onto the pavement. The air smelled like brats and cigarettes, fragrances which I have always found intoxicating. Settling on benches in the plaza next to Café Selmarie, we send Andrew and Joe to Potbelly’s for frosty milkshakes while the wives talk babies. Names. Strollers. Sleeping and the lack of truly adorable maternity clothes. The outdoor bathrooms are called “Lepra-cans” which nobody finds even remotely funny.
Monday, June 5: My last night in Chicago before leaving for a work trip. I get to spend some real time hanging with Nick and Nadine. It’s fun for Nadine, especially — we go out and get quarters so I can do laundry. We visit the salt water stain under the expressway at Fullerton that bears more than a passing resemblance to what some people would say is the Virgin Mary. Back at the apartment, Nick and Nadine go through the personals on Craigslist to find me a boy. I don’t recall that they found any viable candidates, if only because I tend to be pretty picky. I like guys who can spell, and are capable of writing decent ads, or can hire somebody to write something good. Unless you have a real disability, or speak something other than English as your first language, there is no excuse for a man between the ages of 27 and 36 to write something like the following:
- “Prince Charming Available…-30
“Unfortunately not on this post that your reading. I may be charming but it’s not my last name and I don’t live in a castle so as far as I know I’m not a Prince either. But I’ll make you laugh. pic 4 pic”
Is it too much to ask that you proofread this shit before you post? And why are there people who accept this and other ill-written ads as part of the experience? Since when has illiteracy been hot? I’ve always thought that a porn magazine called Barely Literate, featuring naked people strugging through The Cat in the Hat, would be as succesful as, say, Barely Legal.
Eagles of Death Metal – Don’t Speak (I Came to Make a Bang); The Weather Girls – It’s Raining Men; A Tribe Called Quest – Scenario