Still Waiting for my Candy Corn, DCist...

Halloween in Washington is full of mouth-breathers wearing Flying-Spaghetti-Monster costumes and dumbasses wearing a suit with crutches and a nametag claiming they're Scooter Libby. Oh, you are so clever! Cause we're in DC and you dressed up like the news! Granted, there were always awesome costumes like astronauts and robots and sexyairlinestewardesses, but the shitty political douchebagery always angered me to no end. It's like, this is the one night a year to pretend you are anything on the planet and dress up as awesomely as possible, and you chose to kiss up to your boss. Perhaps that's why I left earlier this month. Didn't want to deal with the hundreds of geniuses no doubt wandering around DC this weekend dressed as a senator in a bathroom stall.

Here in Chicago, I met Ash from Army of Darkness last night, as well as all the kids from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Timmy the Tampon, a soccer match streaker, the Swedish Chef and the Geico caveman. Not exactly leaps and bounds better than what you'd encounter at The Guards or Tom-Tom, but it's a healthy start. There was also a large bald bouncer-type who put on a suit and said he was a senator, but somehow even that seemed cool. Some things are universal, I guess.

P.S. Don't get me wrong. Halloweens in DC were always fucking awesome, despite the crapfaces I mentioned. Where else could someone wear a bear suit on the subway during Monday morning rush hour and not elicit a single remark or glance? Maybe I just miss Fight Club.

P.P.S. I go to college! Professors did this to me!

Feeling Sheepish

It has been brought to my attention that a gnu is a wildebeest, a type of African antelope. A gnu is not a large flightless bird related to the ostrich or emu, as I have apparently believed for quite a few years. I apologize for any confusion this may have caused, and resolve to do my best to enhance species awareness throughout the Chicagoland area. Use them or lose them, folks.

Is Celery a Color?

My new couch arrived this morning. It's a Jennifer Convertibles Flounder model, whatever that means. Fish usually isn't my first choice on the menu. And while it may pale in comparison to The Most Incredible Couch In The Universe (see: Big Cat's ex-girlfriend's uber-sofa), it's still pretty great. Please do not be upset if this blog goes stale while I spend the next month lounging and watching reruns of Shot at Love with Tila Tequila.

What's a job search?

We'll Do It Again

In a little while, I'll be setting out alone from my parents' house back to Illinois. If nobody hears from me in Chicago by Wednesday, look for news reports along Interstate 80 about a handsome twenty-something wearing a Corn Mo shirt in an exploded 1996 Toyota Corolla without a clock.


UPDATE (9:07 pm, central daylight time)
826.0 miles. 12 hours and 47 minutes. Two gas/coffee/pee stops. One angry Cleveland radio host predicting a Game 8 ALCS victory.

Final score:
Corn Mo 1, exploded car 0.

Monkey Business

I met my nephew when he was five days old. We hung out for about a week, and had a blast. He pooped whenever I'd hold him. There was an occasional spit-up or gurgle, and I think he opened his eyes a couple times, too. But there was always poop. Like clockwork. Uncle Time was Poopy Time. And holy zita he was good at Poopy Time. Most infants are, I'm sure. But he had something special. Indescribable, but there was something intrinsically mind-blowing about the bond we shared as I cradled him and he eagerly released his bowels, not dissimilar to an upturned ketchup bottle reacting after the elusive perfect hit. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to know this was fun times for both sides.

I went back home when he was twelve days old, and didn't see him until this weekend, his three-month birthday. That means that in August, we had known each other for more than half of his life. But now, he'd spent more than 90% of his life without his long-lost uncle (yes, I did the calculations). Meeting new doctors, friends, strangers-on-the-street, nosey neighbors with spatulas, crackheads screaming at blue dragons made of pudding on the street, etc. My glorious visage was a completely unfamiliar face to his now-always-open steely gray eyes.

Still, every time I hold him, I can tell he remembers me. And how do I know that we are once again sharing a magical moment of togetherness? He poops.

My Kind of Town?

In moving to Chicago without a set of wheels, I've used Zipcar a couple times for various purposes. And both times, there was a CD left in the deck for my listening pleasure. The Toyota Tacoma had a compilation that I've named "Moving Day Mix Tape" and the Honda Element had an album by a band called Mute Math. Both CDs are pretty great and I'm excited to have them in my collection. Even more, I'm excited to return the favor. Or more accurately, to pay it forward. If you have suggestions for an album or themed-mix-CD to leave in my next Zipcar, let me know.

Something else: on Yelp.com, they let you know a place sucks by saying it's "full of Chads." Having been to Sweaty's and Tom-Tom's a few times back in the day, I know what they're talking about, and I know where to avoid in my search for the perfect neighborhood watering hole. "Fuck that bar, it's full of Chads." Apologies to Chad Nalick and Chad Pennington, two childhood pals from Candlelight Drive who are more than welcome to come and hang out if anybody knows where they are.

Our second night in town, we were by Wicker Park and I was trying to go off on my own and visit some friends in Lincoln Square to the north. As we sat on the side of Damen Avenue, maps spread out in our RAV4 with DC plates, a man came to the window saying something. Rather than open the window, we used our DC logic and assumed he wanted money or to sniper us. A few moments later, another man approached and started talking. Because he looked slightly less murderous, I opened the window. He asked if we were lost and needed help. The other gentleman also was offering help. After I explained the situation, the first man dialed a number on his phone, and handed it to me. "Tell them what you are trying to do." The guy had called the Chicago Transit Authority ride guide and lent me his phone. We got directions and got on our way. Feeling only slightly sheepish. Would these people have stopped to help random strangers in a car on the street in DC? I think not. Chicago is OK in my book.

Also, there is also a house two blocks away from me with a real cannon in the front yard. Unfortunately, it's behind an iron-wrought fence. Dammit.

Back to the Zipcar, I bought something at the Salvation Army that had to be tied to the top of the Honda Element. When I asked the guy inside if they had any twine I could steal, he said he'd meet me at the car. Three minutes later, the guy comes out with about a dozen neckties. He uses his Eagle Scout (or whatever they have where he came from -- it's not America) training to fashion two long ropes, and ties down my shit lickety split. It was amazing, and I'm using the neckties to construct a shrine in my apartment to the helpful people of Chicago. They are very nice.

There is no way in hell I will ever fit in here.

Drink your water, eat your sandwich.

You wanted pictures of my new apartment, you got 'em! It's my lovely garden apartment on Schiller Street, in the comfy Wicker Park neighborhood of Chicago.

Please note, I made the place extra messy. When you visit, expect much less shit all over the place. Also, a couch.





















You're welcome!

P.S. The lovely ladies who graciously allowed me to stay at their house while I searched for this Xanadu have also entered the world wide bloggernet. And their blog is a lot cooler and sexier than my blog. But I have cable. Check out The Ugliest House on the Block.

You can stop looking! They are no longer available.

Do you remember Mr. Phipp's Pretzel Chips? I used to eat them at the beach on a blanket under my parents' huge umbrella. Not just a fond memory of childhood. Perhaps the greatest snack ever created. Flat disks made of just the outside part of the pretzel, coated with salt, they were crunchy and delicious and you could eat about 500 of them and still be amused. If you've had them, you know what I mean. Otherwise, kindly accept this pity I am sending you.

Walking down the grocery aisle today I wondered if they were still available, and a quick visit to HometownFavorites.com confirmed my worst fears. Mr. Phipp's Pretzel Chips are out of print. No more eating them. Ever. Beanie Weenies and Hot Pockets keep on chugging along, but we have to go the rest of our lives without the fantastical salty crunchiness of Mr. Phipp's magical creation? This is the definition of bogus. Very bogus indeed.

Fare thee well, Mr. Phipps. You shall be missed.

P.S. Chicago is pretty cool. I'll write something about it soon, probably. But please allow several days of private mourning for the Snack of my Youth.

Original Home of Jumbo Slice and Free Pop

Long story short: we packed three people's worldly possessions into a sixteen-foot Penske, drove 800 miles, and unloaded everything in a couple hours. I slept on my own mattress last night, on the floor of a small third bedroom in my friends' new Logan Square apartment. The three of us are experiencing more-than-minor pain after the extreme driving and lifting of the past few days. Needless to say, we're walking funny.

Twenty-four hours after arriving at the place, it's still mostly a mess, but starting to show signs of homeyness. The futon is upright. The bathroom has soap. My computer is on a desk, using magical internet. It's nice, but not perfect. Not yet. It's not my house. Soon I will have one, and it will be glorious.

The word of the day is overwhelmed. Between apartment-searching, job-hunting and starting/finishing up some freelance work, there's a lot to worry about. But I have pizza in my belly and the sun is shining, so all is right in the world. For now.