The Po Po's Can't Fade Me, Even If They Have a Hunky Eric Estrada Vibe

Let me preface this brief tale by saying that the City of Chicago seems to write an ungodly amount of parking tickets. It's staggering to think about how much revenue they get from this and where it all goes. Anyway, that's the little tie in to justify posting this on our Chicago related blog, but really it's an excuse to show just how awesome I really am.

On Friday, having just wrapped up a hellacious week of work, I drove my car directly to my girl's place, and parked it across the street. Now, it was around 5:20pm, the sign said no parking until 6pm, but I was feeling too tired and lazy to search elsewhere. Besides, what are the odds Johnny Law is going to come by in the next forty minutes, on a Friday, no less. When I got upstairs, I went right in for a long awaited, much needed hug from my girl. As I hugged away, something made me look out the window, and sure as shit, there was a damn cop strolling towards my car, ticket in hand.

I blurted out, "I gotta go." To which she said, "What?!" She had a tone that suggested I was leaving for good, but not even I have ever bolted out of a relationship quite that fast.

Down the stairs I went with a technique hitherto unknown to this area*, whereby I was running down the first four stairs or so, and jumping down the remaining stairs of each of the three flights. I made it to my car when he was about three steps away from sinking me fifty bucks in the hole. This conversation ensued as I opened my car door:

Cop: (With a thick Latin accent of some kind) Oh, you're smart guy, huh? You're watching to see if you get a ticket, right?
Me: Uh, yeah. I guess.
Cop: (Walking back towards his squad car, tucking his ticket away, speaking in a threatening tone, especially for a beat cop, meter reader loser) You keep playing the game, man. We'll catch up with you.
Me: Ummm, OK.

As I moved my car, I was feeling a sense of pride having outwitted the Latin Beat Cop, essentially saving myself fifty bucks, and evidently, really getting his goat.

Anyone else feeling above the law, not unlike a young, pony tailed Steven Seagal?

*Extra credit and a sticker goes to anyone who knows where that phraseology came from.

Hello? What the hell happened to this blog?

It Ain't No "Walk in the Park."

I drove by a "park" in a not-so-nice neighborhood today, there was a sign that said Such and Such Park, but behind that sign there was no baseball diamond, no see-saws or play equipment of any kind, just a field of dead grass peppered with drug dealers.

Chicago seems to be sinking everything into tourism and getting the Olympics here in like 20 years, and they are doing nothing to improve areas like this, which are everywhere, sometimes only blocks away from "nicer" areas.

How about this, if Mayor Daley wants to have the Olympics here so badly, why don't we say that if he can survive a night in Such-and-Such park, then he can have whatever he wants?

Partial List of Comments Made During Semi-Annual Meeting of the Liar's Club

Occassionally, we at the Liar's Club get together to discuss official business, like planning for the upcoming Pony Blegger (downgraded from a simple Blegger). But most of the time, nothing really happens at these meetings except drinking and bullshit. Below is a list of just some of the comments made by the Liar's Club through the course of the evening last Thursday at Cody's:

1. I love the poon. Yeah, I thought The Pooner was a serial rapist when I met him, but he's a good dude.
2. Who are all these douchebags in your photos?
3. There was partial chocolate lovin'.
4. I would rather have someone throw-up in my mouth than shit in it.
5. I haven't read The Liar's Club in about 6 months.
6. I need to get laid at the Pony Blegger.
7. This is the part of the conversation where I just concentrate on my beer.
8. I'd go to a culinary school where you only use Velveeta.
9. I can probably buy one baby for $500 and get a deal on two for $850.
10. There's nothing like a cheesy rod.
11. I can just retire now and collect my Poon Pension.
12. You have two chemistry tutors?
13. I never realized Jet Magazine was the size of TV Guide.
14. The tamale fairy has been here!
15. You know what kind of movies he likes? Lady movies.

Cubs Wristbands.

Each February my pal Jason and I do the same tradition we've always done since I've lived in this city... we go get our Cubs wristbands. Yes, you read that right. Cubs wristbands. I am a White Sox fan - but this tradition is more about the hope that Spring is right around the corner, and the smell of baseball season is in the air.

The Cubs are so popular (like the Yankees and Red Sox) and so is Wrigley Field, which means most games sell out, or good tickets are hard to find for an affordable price. So for the sale of single game tickets to the general public they do this sort of lottery system in which for two days they give out numbered wristbands and then on Friday morning at ass-early-thirty (6:00am) they announce on the radio the winning number. That number is first in line to buy tickets. Sure you can go online - but it is almost impossible to get through.

If my wristband number won I would buy tickets for the White Sox series and also good tickets for the Giants series. But I am never ever close. Last year my number was off by 10,000. It is just a fun thing to do during a lunch break to get excited about the upcoming baseball season. Go Sox!

This has nothing to do with Chicago, being that it's from a British game show, but it's damn funny. Besides, I was tired of looking at my last post. Come on, contributing Liars, post something, or I'll keep putting random things like this on our rag.

On a Downtown Train. Shit. Why'd I Go With That Title? I Hate That God-Awful, Rod Stewart Song!

Every day one steps onto The El (short for elevated trains, for our 3 readers not from Chicago) anything can happen. Here are three things that went down during my rides in the span of one week:

1. During rush hour, when you can rarely get a spot to sit, I noticed a car that was inexplicably almost empty. It should have dawned on me that something like that is too good to be true, but one has so little time to think before those doors close. Well, when the doors shut I immediately knew why so few people were riding that car: It smelled like shit, and I don't mean that figuratively. Most everyone had their shirts over their mouths and nose, which should have also tipped me off before I got aboard, except for one sleeping, homeless-looking guy, who was more than likely the culprit, since not even he should be able to sleep through that kind of stink (must have been immune to his "own brand"). It was the coldest day of the year, so maybe he decided to stay warm by riding the train all day and shitting himself. Does he know how to have a good time, or what!!

I couldn't take another second of it, so when the train came to the next stop, I darted out of the stinky car, said, "That car stinks" to a man about to board, and ran to the next car. Just before the doors of the breathable car closed, the guy who I warned thanked me, and I said, "Yeah, I think he pooped himself." Then another guy said, "That was rough. I changed cars too."

2. Okay, no more doody stories, I promise. Yesterday I was listening to my ipod on a high, going to make me deaf some day, but who gives a shit level, something by Pavement I believe, but I could still make out a phrase that the doo-wop, street performer group was singing. Although they had reworked the song nearly to the point of being a different melody, and even with Stephen Malkmus' slacker vocals belting it out into my ear drums, I still made out this phrase: "I'm not happy when I try to fake it." I knew if was from a song I like, but I wasn't sure which. I took my headphones off to realize that it was an excellent rendition of Easy by The Commodors. As I slipped a buck into whatever it was they were using as a tip jar, the one guy doing back-up harmonies sang a quick thank you to me. Then, as I boarded the train, they started up a killer, reworked rendition of Stephen Stills' Love the One You're With. In fact, I've never cared for that song too much, but I loved the version by this overqualified group of Chicago street musicians. If I see them again, I'm asking them to play my birthday party, and you'll all be there, along with lots of balloons.

3. As I'm riding to work the other day, again, bumping my ipod, a Black kid, who's age I would guess to be around 11-years-old, but the sex was undermined at this point, tugs at my shirt to get my attention to ask me how many gigs my ipod held. I told her twenty, and she showed me her ipod, portable game system, and a few other devices. I said, "Man, you gotta be careful walking around with all those electronics." To which she said, "I'm a girl." Oops. I tried to explain that I was using the word "man" as an exclamation. She must not have been too offended, because she then showed me her Tupac book, which was pretty damn, cool. It had compartments inside with all kinds of lyrics he had written, and they looked like the originals, because they were on notebook paper. As I got off the train, I said, "Alright, this is my stop. Be good." I've been saying "be good" a lot lately, and it is a stupid habit that doesn't make much sense. Although, this kid seemed really sweet, and I hope that she will "be good."