Friday

Friday was The Day I Started Reading an Actual Book Instead of Playing Goddamn Video Games All the Fucking Time. Perhaps it’s best I didn’t use that as a post title, as it’s kind of long and unwieldy.

Yeah, so I’ve been in this infinite loop lately where I work all day, pause for dinner and loafing with the kid, and then play Modern Warfare 2 until it’s time to go to bed. I’m almost positive it’s made me a less interesting person, and I guess I’m getting old enough to start constantly asking myself, “Is this the person I wanted to be when I grew up?” That question invariably leads into an inescapable logic vortex, as clearly someone who spends 3 hours a night shooting his friends on the Internet can not, by definition, be all that grown up.

But let’s not dwell on this. After I read Henry stories on Friday I saw Regeneration by Pat Barker on Erin’s nightstand, saw that it was a historical bit about Sigfried Sassoon (I knew it was about World War I, but hadn’t realized it was about him), started reading it, and was instantly engrossed, which if you read the heaping mounds of praise on the book jacket is perhaps not all that surprising. Before I knew it, it was 11:00, I’d missed the opening clusterfuck ceremony of the Olympics, I was 50 pages into the thing and clearly hooked, and it was time to play video games anyway. Good stuff, though, is what I’m saying.

Saturday

Saturday was The Day I Did No Work on Purpose, which sadly makes it a rarity of late. (This stands in contrast with The Days I Do No Work Despite Mostly Meaning To, which are in fact not rare at all.) Henry and I caught Fantastic Mr. Fox a second time, which I was stoked about for the obvious reasons, but also because the first time we saw it he had to go to the bathroom and I missed the Whack Bat scene.

It was kind of awesome, too, because we saw it at The Logan (in Logan Square, y’see), which I’d never been to, and which is super duper second-run but also super cheap, and it’s also from this generation of movie theaters still operating here in Chicago that has somehow avoided closing despite having seriously none of the amenities whatsoever that we’ve come to expect from modern moviegoing. Amenities like sound or picture quality, or screens larger than a beach towel. (Yes, I know it’s got character, which new places don’t. I wouldn’t be writing this if I didn’t know that.) The Davis, closer to us in Lincoln Square, is very much of the same generation, and gets a whole lot of leeway for its convenient location right next to the Brown Line, and lots of restaurants and bars and whatnot; truth be told, the sound and picture quality are significantly worse there than at The Logan.

Seriously, though, this Yelp comment and the ones that follow it sum The Logan up magnificently:

• “Ok, sure, it always smells like piss in the place. But seriously, it’s $4 to see a movie.”
• “No self-respecting person pays $10 to see The Proposal. But $4 on a Sunday afternoon? Well, I’m in.”
• “Everyone’s covered the basics — I’ll just add this: Ladies should be sure to wear pants and closed toed shoes.”

I do love this town.

Sunday

Sunday was The Day I Found Out We’re Probably Getting Money Back From The Man This Year, a day I was absolutely certain wasn’t going to come, since I’d been doing contract work for nearly all of 2009 and hadn’t exactly been in a financial position to sock away extra cash for the withholding that wasn’t getting withheld.

Lucky for me, I was drawing unemployment for several months! Which isn’t taxed like regular earnings! Also Daddy’s Little Tax Miracle bumped us down into Earned Income Tax Credit territory! (LOVE that kid.) Nothing’s final yet, but wow, I would’ve been happy just to not owe anything. Thanks, America!

It's true. I get to look at this all day long as I work.

No, seriously, listen: I keep hearing from my family and friends how Oklahoma keeps getting blizzard after blizzard, and all the while we’ve had the barest dusting of snow malingering barely visible at the bases of the grass shoots. And it’s not like I’m pining for snow or something; I mean, look, let’s face it, our lives are easier the less snow there is, for the most part.

But we didn’t come hear for easy winters, people. I didn’t. I mean, I’m not saying we moved here just so I could engage in some sort of he-man v. weather competition with myself; clearly the abundance of sausage was a tremendous factor as well. But it’s just nice to get some ferreal winter in while we’re eligible, and frankly when it comes down to brass tacks, it’s not that much of an inconvenience. We got these plows here, see, for the snow, and they’re pretty effing vigilant, so driving really isn’t a huge obstacle for the most part. The four-wheel drive on our beloved ’99 CR-V allows us to parallel park with ease in the worst of conditions.

And, um, well. I guess there’s also the fact that I’ve been working from home lately, too, which is to say I haven’t had to leave the house today, and have only had to snap the occasional picture of snow as I sit in the back room ruminating on content management systems, site structures, and whether I’ll have to leave the room due to the shit Smudge took 10 minutes ago in the cat box one foot from my desk.

Whatever. Snow, people. This was the day we got all this snow.

That’s right, people. This is A Major Award.

I love this town.

The doors opened, we brought him in and kissed him goodbye, and our beloved car made this strange, feeble clicking noise when Erin cranked it. Once, twice, four times. I had the presence of mind to admit how fucking ludicrous it was for to ask if she’d let me try, as though the special automotive healing portion of my Y chromosome would make the difference. It did not. I called AAA, and thanks Mom and Dad for the membership; I hope to someday repay you by not needing to occasionally beg for money.

Erin took the bus home because there was no point in her sitting there freezing. I sat there and froze. Texted my mechanic and told him the car was coming. Waited more. My toes had some feeling left in them when the tow truck showed up, and a guy whose voice sounded like Marsellus Wallace figured out it was a weak battery in about 4 seconds. Jumped the car, followed me to AutoZone (I know, right?), started taking my old battery out as I went in to get a new one. (Swapping out a battery is one of a few automotive measures I can confidently handle on my own, but whatever.) We were done in under 10 minutes. I gave him 5 bucks and felt like a chump because I didn’t have anything more.

That car sure started the fuck up right quick, though. I’ll tell you that much. That battery started the SHIT outta that car. POW!

P.S. — I hereby apologize to Andy Maggio, the greatest mechanic I’ve ever used, for the false alarm. Seriously though, I cannot emphasize this enough: If you live in Chicago, particularly on the north side, get your car fixed at Maggio Auto on Damen and Wilson. He’s totally nice, really funny, and absolutely will not jack you around.

"Don't mind me. Just sitting here."

— and sporting this logo:

Downtown Chicago, Randolph & Franklin

The more I looked, the better it got — see the awesome details above the windows above, or better (and grainier) below.

Elephants!

So being, as I am, a deeply curious individual, I got right to investigating this after the traditional six-month waiting period. And let me tell you: After reading this, I wish I’d only waited four months. What’s the Showmen’s League? Oh, nothing much, just an organization for performers co-founded by none other than Buffalo Bill Motherscratchin’ Cody! By the circus people, and for the circus people! You can’t make shit like this up.

Not only that, their website led me to this completely haunting story, and you damn well believe we’ll be planning a field trip to Woodlawn Cemetery and the Showmen’s Rest. If this phrase alone doesn’t do it for you:

Set in Woodlawn Cemetery, surrounded by five elephants, trunks lowered in mourning, it remains the final resting place for many of our brothers.

… I don’t know what to tell you.

This is why I love this town, people. I’ll be exploring it my whole life and I’ll never learn everything.

- Started strong with a high school marching band whose name I didn’t catch, but who bring back dear memories of the T Connection from my alma mater, Dear Booker T. Washington High School, the Pride of the Great Southwest.

- Dude, a Puerto Rican civic group just marched down State Street led by a guy wearing one of those dip bowl-shaped Island hats, screaming emphatically, and waving two machetes in the air, clashing them together, and screaming some more. I love this town.

- OMG, I have so much to catch up on. There’s a Chuck Wagon with a shriner on it pulled by tiny ponies, designed to tell us the story of modern food production. There’s a Bob the Builder balloon, who is apparently the only balloon in the parade. There’s the Harlem Globetrotters. There’s the longest marching band in the universe (400 members! Which doesn’t seem like that much). Bartlett, Springwood, Elgin and South Elgin High schools combined to create this band. I think it was the addition of South Elgin that put them over the top.

- The McNulty Irish Dancers! They’re lookin’ Irish all right.

- Grand Marshal … Jennie Finch? Who plays for the Chicago Bandits? Which I guess is a pro softball team. God, I have no civic pride whatsoever. Also my GLBT cred just went down the shitter. Ooo, a Paddington float!

- Dude, earlier there was this group of fire-twirling Hawaiian dudes wearing only wrap skirts and tattoos, and they were not fucking around. Even the clearly white Hawaiians. Especially the clearly white Hawaiians.

- A float of Flamenco-based people.

- Fuck, the Red Hat ladies have ponies! “Red Hats and Purple Chaps.” Wow, the lead Red Hat lady has an incisor missing. She wears it well.

- “The Happiness Club,” ladies and gentlemen. They sing, dance, rap, and instill positive values into other members of the community. Announcers: “D’ya have to be happy to join?” “You know, that’s a good question.” Fred Willard made these people real, ladies and gentlemen.

- As the Garfield float goes by, the announcer explains that he eats and sleeps a lot, and considers himself smarter than other people. Good thing we cleared that up.

- There’s a group of MB Financial-branded Mini Coopers, and god help me, an updated instrumental version of “Life is a Highway” in the background. So many questions.

- The Top Hat Marching Band of Ontario! They’re like a regular marching band, except they’re old, and wearing top hats! And there’s an old dude with a top hat dancing strangely in front of them.

- Ah, the Orpheus Hellenic Folk group, representing Greece! With “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang.

- MEDIEVAL TIMES TOTALLY HAS A PARADE FACTION. It seems lame to say, but these are some of the best-appointed entrants in this entire parade.

- Holy shit. “The Jesse White Tumblers”? Am I correct in assuming this is Secretary of State Jesse L. White, whose face I am eerily familiar with from my trips to the DMV website? Oh hell yes it is. Wow. Apparently he created this organization in 1959 to foster … tumbling. Wow. This is fucking fascinating. Among other things, I had no idea Secretary of State Jesse L. White was so old. Oh look, Super Grover!

- More ponies! Good god, this year’s parade has more ponies than ever before! 22 inches tall, these poines! We need like eight of them for around the house.

- It is truly amazing to me that every marching band everywhere manages to be preceded by a cadre of loafish girls in tights tossing batons in the air and/or whirling long banners around.

- ANNOUNCER (to second announcer): “‘Nother band comin’ atcha, Stan!” That pretty much sums up about two-thirds of this parade. Any parade, really.

- Curious George floats by. His hands and feet are deflated. I think that’s the parade float equivalent of hypothermia. Or impotence.

- AmeriCheer and AmeriDance! Representing … cheering. And dancing. Glad we got that settled.

- A nice looking older lady riding in a carriage, holding a small dog. No explanation. Awesome.

- Very small mules wearing very, very small Santa hats. There’s a lotta cute here.

- Dude! The Windy City Rollers! Fuck yeah!

- Bottom of the screen: “UP NEXT: More balloons.”

- Okay, Ronald McDonald just implored a small child to shake a snow globe. He then tossed some fake snow up in the air. The camera then panned to a giant plastic bubble with a live ice skater inside on a tiny circular rink, with a McDonald’s sign behind her. In other news, Erin just informed me she put peyote in my coffee this morning.

- A marching self-defense group! They’re performing basic punches as they march! One of them is pushing a baby in a stroller. Happy Thanksgiving, kid. Bundle up.

- Oh Christ. It’s the Dick’s Last Resort fire truck. The Holni Polish Dancers should not be made to walk behind these people. Among other things, they’ve got much better hats.

- “UP NEXT: Cloggin’ Kids!”

- BAGPIPERS BITCHES

- The “EXTREME OUTLAWZ” Cheerleading Corps! I think at this point they’re only “Outlawz” if being really orange is “Outlawd.”

- Ah, the Chicago cast of “Jersey Boys.” They’re from Oregon.

- I can hear the fatigue dripping from the announcer’s voice as he tells us about the Arthur float. Apparently he’s seen the show.

- There’s a 140-person marching band here from a town of 7,000. Fully two percent of that town’s population are members of the marching band. Math, people. Fascinating.

- OK, there’s a catering truck from a pizza restaurant, just kind of driving down the street slowly and honking. This is by far the least worthy parade entry I’ve seen thus far. They could at least be slinging pieces of hot pizza into the crowd (“OW! MY FACE!” “IT BUUUUUURNS!!!”).

- The Cookie Monster float. ANNOUNCERS: “This guy likes to eat cookies.” “Yeah. Yeah he does.”

- Earlier we saw a float from the Michigan Apple Committee, featuring several ladies in pageant gowns. I like to imagine that A) that’s the committee (probably is), and B) they have a committee meeting immediately after the parade. “God, look, can we do this some other time? I’ve been up since five.” “WE ARE MEETING TODAY, PHYLLIS.”

- Gigantic tractor called “MAGNUM” and covered with American flags. Staple some disembodied breast implants to that fucker and there it is, our great nation, rolled into one magnificent float.

- Ah, the Animal float. “Animal, with his unrestrained style, is a popular favorite.” His drumsticks look like plastic spoons.

- Boliviamanta! Promoting Bolivian dance and culture! Bolivia is apparently known for large amounts of green eyeshadow.

- Dude, there are more tiny, tiny ponies in the Chicagoland area than any of us had ever imagined.

- “The Spirit of Worthington Trojan Marching Band.” Clearly removing nicknames like “Redskins” and “Redmen” and “Indians” and the like should remain a top priority in the sports naming community, but after that, could we start work on getting rid of “Trojans” nationwide? The condom jokes are not gonna go away, people. Just something to consider.

- … Aaaaand there goes Satan. Santa. The announcer has gotten down from the booth to shriek at Santa for a solid 30 seconds, then harass him for a Wii. Wackiness ensues. There’s your parade, ladies and gentlemen. I hope it read as surreal as it looked.

Much as it was with Vodka in Red, it’s hard to know where to start with this one. For one, there’s the mingling of semiautomatic weapons and hard liquor. There’s the minor technical quibble that, if one were, in the traditional sense of the word, sniping, an AK-47 might not be the very best weapon with which to proceed. There’s the barrel-to-butt leather strap*, which actually assures the purchasers that they will indeed be able to sling their liquor over their shoulders and march into the night, ready to bravely drop to one knee at a moment’s notice, take aim, and drink themselves into unconsciousness. And there’s the fact that, judging from the illustration on the decal, one is meant to be “sniping” deer with this product, or at least in concert with the consumption of same. (Does one “snipe” deer? Where’s the line between sniping and simply shooting? I mean, technically I guess deer hunting is about as close to actual STA behavior as anyone is likely to encounter in civilian life, but semantically it sort of brings to mind the idea of waiting for some high-value deer to leave his heavily guarded compound, holding your breath waiting for exactly the right moment to squeeze the trigger, silently ending a brutal chapter in some ungulate drug war. Or maybe it’s meant to place the purchaser in the role of some deranged John Hinckley Jr., waiting to drop some flashy celebrity deer — maybe the one who played Harry Potter’s Dad, or the one from the Challenge Butter box — in desperate hopes of impressing, like, Ted Nugent’s daughter or some shit. The mind, she boggles.)

There are no easy answers to the Sniper Vodka conundrum; the desperation of grasping for them leaves only a bitter taste in the mouth and a dozen more perplexing questions in its wake. In place of any real insight, I can only offer this countersuggestion: One would not have to purchase that many bottles of Sniper™ Premium Vodka to equal the cost of a bottle of legitimate vodka and an actual AK-47. Good night and good luck.

* — Remember when I typed the words “barrel-to-butt leather strap”? That was awesome. Also, huhuh. Huhuhuhuhuhuh. Huhuhuhuh. Huhuhuhuh. Huhuh.

I mean, look. I feel pretty strongly about booze, in a positive way. Maybe that’s why I’m having a hard time imagining the need to dress up your hooch like … like a hooch, actually, to increase its appeal. On the other hand, maybe for career alcoholics it’s the equivalent of a couple that’s been married 40 years going a little nuts at Fredrick’s of Hollywood and getting The Missus a bra that’s not flesh-colored — sometimes, even in the most thoroughly field-tested relationship, you’ve gotta mix things up once in a while. Either way, it’s kinda hard not to imagine some poor schmuck waking up to find he’s consummated his relationship with this bottle in some cheap hotel room by the Interstate. Can’t you just see the tiny red dress wadded up on the orange shag carpet? Well friend, then you’re not looking hard enough.

Tomorrow: Liquor, Guns & Ammo.

(You’ll note the liquor store on the left; it occupies as much space, if not more, than the pizzeria itself.)

Mirrors and red vinyl, people. Mirrors and red vinyl as far as the eye could see, topped off with gigantic plastic ’70s chandeliers. And wall-sized portraits of exotic ladies throughout the ages etched onto the wall-size mirrors on the back wall. wall wall wall.

I forgot the camera, or I’d have some pictures of my own; fortunately there’s no way in hell we won’t be back here, so there’ll be some soon enough.

This is the kind of thing that only population density can bring you. Shit like this happens all around the country, but with 12 million people crammed into a relatively small city/suburban area, you’re just gonna hear about it a little more often than you might otherwise.

(gggggggggghhhhhhhhhh)