Linda

I know this blog has become a shell of its former self. To be honest, it never really got off the ground. Well, it was intended to be fun blogs about things directly or loosely related to things in Chicago, and I thought this exchange of emails would be perfect. They are between myself and my good friend, who if you're a long time reader, you may know him as Heterosexual Life Partner (HLP).

HLP: Do you remember the name of that italian restaurant that you went to on Ashland? May try that place Tuesday night.

GANCER: Fiorentino's, like Linda Fiorentino, the chick with the husky voice from Jade, Men in Black, and Vision Quest, the 80's wrestling movie with Matthew Modine where he is working out, trying to drop weight, and they play that Lunatic Fringe song in the background that we used to hear on 103.5 The Blaze on our drive to high school.

Why can't I use these powers for good instead of evil . . .

Oh, and the movie and the love affair therein was also featured in the video for Madonna's Crazy for You.

ANYWAY, the restaurant is super good, family owned, the staff is great, and they have a gorgeous heated outdoor area. Also, you can park your car by the radio shack.

27 Skillets!?

My writing partner and myself have been getting together every Saturday to work on the play (The Loitering Hole) we're writing, and we have been alternating buying lunch for one another. Today, we decided to grab a late breakfast before the Bears game started, and I decided to show him the beauty of S & G at 3000 N. Lincoln. They have 27 skillets, or egg casseroles, as they call them. Off the top of my head, there's one called The Godfather with Italian sausage, one called the Athena with gyro meat and feta cheese, and one called the George Bush, named after the more competent of the Bush presidents. I don't remember what's in the Bush.*

A former roomy and I used to throw out a number before we would even sit down, and eat that bad Oscar no matter what was in it, be it liver sausage, anchovies, or spam.** I don't remember what mine today was called, but it had corned beef hash, which I can't resist. My partner in egg casserole crime had the Popeye, which had spinach - what else?

If you're in the Lakeview area of Chicago, pick a number, and stop in. Better yet, go 27 weeks in a row and take them all down. They don't have an official promotion for accomplishing such a feat, but send me your receipts, and I'll be sure you get a t-shirt for bragging rights.

*Did any of you say, "That's what she said?" Shame on you!

**None of them have any of those ingredients, but if there were a change in the menu, and one suddenly had all three, you have to eat it if you picked that number. If it has meat and eating meat is against your religion, too bad. That's how the skillet game works, so play by the rules.

Your Life Blows, Sir

Today, on Damen Avenue, while riding after having having picked out two prize-worthy pumpkins to bring back to my girlfriend's apartment, I was saddened to see some loser trying to start his car with a hearty breath of air into one of those court-ordered contraptions. It's the first time I've seen one of those things, and I thought I'd get more of a kick out of it. It's kind of like seeing one of those guys with a cigarette smoke induced, Darth Vadar, electric talking boxes in their throat. Both are real funny in movies and television, but when faced with these poor souls in person, it's just kind of pathetic. What they've done, effectively, is let their addictions make their day-to-day life a huge pain in the ass.

I've heard that when you have one of those blowy ignitions, you can't just have a friend blow in there for you to start it, unless that friend is willing to blow in there for all the random tests*, in which case he would just drive, right? What a tremendous pain in the ass and a constant reminder of how badly you've let a controlled substance dictate your life.

Sure, alcohol dictates my daily life, but only Friday through Saturday, and sometimes Sunday. Well, Thurday through Sunday if I have a volleyball game. Actually, Thursday through Monday if I really over do it, and get me one of those two day hangovers.

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*If you have any interest in reading more about how one of these doohickies works, here's something I cut and pasted without permission from Guardian Interlock of Arizona, of all places. I read somewhere else that some parents buy these to be sure their kids are safe, which I at first thought was hyper-controlling, but really it's not that bad of an idea. I mean, they're living under your roof and driving a car that you probably paid for, so you have a right to make it a safe ride for them. Jeez, I sound so old. Anyway, here's that info:

Breath Alcohol Ignition Interlock Device (BAIID) is a breath alcohol analyzer with computer logic and internal memory that interconnects with the ignition and other control systems of a motor vehicle. The purpose of the BAIID is to measure the bodily alcohol concentration (BAC) of an intended driver and to prevent the motor vehicle from being started if the BAC exceeds the .025.

The offender can only drive in a vehicle with an ignition interlock device installed. The device will ask for a random retests while driving. If you acquire three startup test violations within a monitoring period, one rolling retest failure, or the device detects tampering, the device will be required to be brought in immediately or will lock out the driver from further operation. These test violations will result in further extensions of the one year period or the denied/revocation status to be reinstated.

Sons a Bitches!

I was south bound on Western avenue the other day, and I saw a business called SOB. Evidently, it stands for Shirts Our Business, but most everyone would first think of Son of a Bitch, no?

Follow this link to the site, and you'll see that the little cartoon fella kind of does look like a summa'-ma'-bitch. He looks like his business involves beating your ass if you don't buy one of his shirts, which is kind of a son of a bitch move, if you ask me.

A Rose for Rose

On Lincoln Avenue, between Wrightwood and Diversey, you will find one of Chicago's coziest dives: Rose's Lounge.

Nothing has changed in this place since it opened in the early 1970's, especially the tables with chairs on wheels, which look like they were lifted from a Howard Johnson lobby from that time period. The jukebox knows nothing of what transpired in the world of popular music during the 1990's or 2000's. As far as it's concerned, Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash are still burning up the charts, and that's all right by me because they provide the perfect accompaniment to such a place. There's tons of ancient junk haphazardly displayed behind the bar: ceramic animals, plates that weren't tacky in their day, old beer signs, and a movie poster for a Pacino movie I've never heard of.*

Last night, as I sipped my Old Style draft, Rose, the elderly, Macedonian owner and namesake, and I discussed the Summer Olympics, which was showing on the archaic television set. We then got talking about her memories of the 1936 in Munich, which then turned into a discussion of World War II.

On another trip there with Classy, I tried to convince her to work on the facade out front, since people could easily drive right by, thinking it was condemned. Classy even let her know that the city would help fund such a project. We were right, but it was evident that a project of that nature was nowhere near the top of any of Rose's to do lists.

Yet another time I was there, when the men's room was occupied during a serious code yellow for this guy, Rose came out back to yell at me for peeing in the garden out back, yet she didn't throw me out.

If you come by, be sure to belly up to the bar, be kind to Rose, and enjoy a place like this while you can because a lovable, time capsule dive in the heart of Chicago's ritzy Lincoln Park neighborhood, sadly, isn't likely to be there too much longer.

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*It turns out it's for a play called The Basic Training of Pavlo Hummel (1977).

Retiring.

It's been fun while it lasted... but I am retiring my membership in the Liar's Club. Why? On the blog side of it... it's clear I have little time to even keep up with my own blog. On the social/ awesome side of it... with a little Niner on the way I don't see the likely hood of doing it up Liar's style any time soon.

It's been fun... and hopefully the Liars can bring someone new in to fill my shoes.

Word to your mother.
5of9er.

"There you go, Liver Breath," he said as he dumped the contents of a "wet food" packet into a bowl, where it was immediately slurped up by the eager cat. Moments ago, he was awakened by that very animal crawling onto his chest and meowing directly into his face, but he wasn't mad. Truth be told, he liked the thing. He'd always hated cats, but this one was impossibly cute and had a sweeter nature than the cats of his previous girlfriends; You could just look into its innocent face and see that it wasn't one of those selfish asshole cats. She was the perfect size right now, being almost full-grown, but still very kitten-like and playful. He'd half-jokingly told his lady that he'd like to slip some of that caffeinated water into her water dish, hoping to stunt her growth a touch.

Crawling back into bed, he nestled into a spoon with his sleeping lady, who's perfect, left, bare shoulder was poking out of the sheets. Looking past that shoulder, he could see the cat in the window sill, moving her ears to catch all of the morning's city sounds: A garbage truck backing up, at least two types of birds making distinctive calls, and a bus' recorded voice calling out "Belmont." The two of them eased back to sleep, both content with the comfort of the sounds, one with the woman he loved, and the other with her belly full of liver.