A Debate for the Ages

Much like arguing about politics or religion, people get heated about their favorite beers and bars. At least in this town. So Gapers Block has opened up a big ol' can of worms with their new "Fuel" topic: Beer! What's your favorite, and where do you drink it?

My own answer (which I didn't bother to post there) is that I am a cheap, light-weight but not lite, beer girl. I absolutely hated beer until I went to Europe a few years ago, and then I got hooked on the good stuff, the original Budvar (sold in the U.S. in a less-amazing form under the name Czechvar for trademark reasons) in Prague. Now I drink beer almost to the exclusion of any other alcohol. Also, I drink summertime beers year round, because I am not a fan of the dark stuff. I may have a tough time of it in Ireland next week, surrounded by seas of Guiness.

So, my favorite beers: 312, PBR, Pilsner Urquell, and (when in Texas) Shiner. I have previously voiced my pleas for Shiner to come to Chicago, and I was heartened by the fact that many on Gapers Block seconded this feeling.

And my favorite places to drink: Zakopane Lounge on Division for a typical night out, and Cuneen's on Devon when I can get up there. They both have cheap drinks, pool tables, and character to spare. And they both scream Chicago, something I will never get enough of.

The Secret Language of Sleep

So I'm probably never going to read the book, but I did enjoy the quiz. This is the way I should be sleeping, according to the highly scientific methods employed by the test:

but I don't think I ever have slept this way (I usually start off in the traditional spoon position and end up flat on my stomach with my face to the side and my arms under the pillow), which made Todd comment that perhaps I've been doing it wrong all these years.

Blue Light Special

One of these was just put up on my corner last weekend. I'm moving out this weekend. As Todd said, "Just in time." I know Uptown's sketchy, but blue-light-worthy sketchy? I had no idea.

From the "Wha?" Department

Last night I went down to South Union Arts (a very cool space made cooler by the presence of a neon Jesus) to catch my friend Charlie's band Mira Mira play their debut show. I'll say it was a good first show and that will be the end of that. What I'd like to discuss now is the fact that the South Union people or whoever was putting on the show let some girl come up and talk first. I'm guessing it was someone's girlfriend. She was ostensibly coming up there to give some kind of political diatribe, but it turned into something like a cross between a 2 a.m. run to White Hen to get Doritos and the Yahoo! current events headlines. She just listed off some current events that she wanted to "let us know" about (in case we hadn't noticed that the price of gas was sky-high and that we have an idiot president who's killing people in our name). That went on for maybe ten minutes, punctuated by lots of "like, ya know, I guess..." (Note to this girl: If you're trying to put together a rallying cry for our generation, "I guess" shouldn't be it.) Then toward the end she veered off into a new strange direction about how we were all apathetic atheists and we should work out, get to know the streets, and buy guns, because we were going to have to fight for something soon, and we better figure out what that something is. I don't know how much of this was meant to be sarcasm and how much was meant sincerely, because she had absolutely no affect in her voice. It was the most bizarre thing I've witnessed recently, and perhaps more bizarre was that no one threw tomatoes. Todd started snickering, and then I caught his eye and started laughing too, but we did it quitely, shaking against each other so no one would notice how rude (honest) we were being. I wanted to applaud when it was over, but I didn't want to encourage her to attempt anything like this again. Really, if you're going to have a political speech at a show, that's cool, just try to get someone with some passion and knowledge, or at least someone who's conscious.

Oh the Agony

We spent all day yesterday and part of this morning moving. We've been remarkably productive. Just between Todd and me, we've moved probably half of our belongings. Next week, we'll do a little bit more, and next weekend will be the big final push. Which is a good feeling. But what is not a good feeling is the pain in my calves right now. Nothing else hurts: not my back or my arms or anything. Just my calves. That's what happens when you move from a third floor walk-up into another third floor walk-up. And we haven't even done the heavy stuff yet. Ugh.

For Those Who Stay Home on Friday Nights

I've always been partial to staying home on Friday nights. I know there are people who love going out on Fridays because it helps them release the pressure of the work week, but for me, going out is often a lot of work, and so it just doesn't make sense. Also, I think it's a bit of a holdover from my days at the cafe when I had to work Saturdays and so Friday night wasn't the beginning of the weekend.

But the point is, because I stay home on Friday, I tend to watch bad TV. Because there's no good TV on Friday nights, because everyone goes out.

Now, however, there's at least half an hour of goodness on. The Friday Night Show is a half-hour interview (the second half of Chicago Tonight, starting at 7:30 on WTTW) with a person of some interest with a connection to Chicago. It used to be hosted by Bob Sirott, who is damn near unwatchable because of the smarm of his mug. The new host is John Callaway, who is first off an excellent researcher and secondly an interviewer who doesn't mind asking the questions that people actually want answered. I just caught a great episode with Studs Terkel, who happens to be right up there among my person heroes, 94 years old and more vital and rabble-rousing than any young upstart. Still writing, still protesting, still making trouble, even as he ponders his approaching death. But even when the guest isn't anyone I've heard of before, I enjoy watching two intelligent people talking (not screaming, not pantomiming) for half an hour, uninterrupted. It's impressive.

Last note: Should I feel extra lame for spending my Friday night not just home alone but watching two white-haired guys talk on TV? Perhaps. Should I feel extra super lame for also blogging about it? Yes.

Beware of Rant

OK, I've got to comment on this because this building happens to be located one block from the apartment I'm moving to next week, which is also where my boyfriend has lived in for about a year, so I'm familiar with it. This building is a shithole. It's falling down and boarded up and although it's occasionally used for church services I think it's primarily used for housing rats and perhaps squatters. It's a damn eyesore. It should be torn down. It will make that block feel slightly safer when I walk down in late at night. It won't stop the kids from hanging out on the street corners, and by kids I mean thugs and by hanging out I mean harassing passersby. But it will make me feel a little better.

As far as the ranting that follows the article: I'm a fan of good design, not that I know much about it, and I'm a fan of diversity. But mostly what I'm a fan of is not having dangerous and falling-down shit in my neighborhood. Should the company that buys that property turn it into low-income housing? Well, that would be great, but they're a company, in business to make money, and there's not really a profit in Section 8 as far as I can tell. I don't blame them for wanting to make money. Would I have a problem if they were razing a gorgeous historical building to, say, expand the El tracks for no good reason? Sure. But they're not. It's a piece of crap useless building and they're creating something useful with it, something people want to buy. And if what people want to buy are ugly, high-priced condos, then go for it. I'll be staying in the cheap old 3-flat down the street.

Late-to-the-Game Review: The Squid and the Whale

Since I'm not a big movie person, I miss pretty much everything at the theater. I find that once you get through the hassle of going to theater, paying a million dollars for a ticket, getting suckered in by the sweet salty smell of the heart-stopping popcorn, finding a seat that you don't stick to where you can sit next to the person you came with and don't have to break your neck to see the screen, and listening to people commentate, eat, and embarassedly try to shut off their ringing cell phones in the middle of a poignant scene, it would have been better just to stay at home. So you won't see many movie reviews from me. But now that I've signed up for Netflix, the chances are increasing. Here's the first one.

Every indie kid and his brother has already creamed himself over this movie (if you've seen it, you know the reference to semen isn't just a throw-away -- there's more cum in this movie than on a bassist's couch). But allow me to add my praise as well. I love movies where every major character is an awful person, but the acting is so good you still care about them. TS&TW nails this on the head. Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney play a hyper-literary divorcing couple in 1980s Brooklyn, and both are stuck in the completely immature and self-absorbed mindset of their grad-school days. Unfortunately, they should have grown up when they had two kids, but this doesn't seem to have happened. He's overly critical and useless. She's a serial cheater. They're both miserable, together and alone. You can see it in every hunch of their shoulders and every glare they give each other, both longing and hateful.

But even better (worse?) than the parents are their sons. They're also both awful people, but you feel even worse for them because it's not their fault. The older son (Jesse Eisenberg) rejects his mother and idolizes his father, but gives only an empty mimicry of his thoughts and opinions rather than forming his own personality. The younger son (Owen Kline, in a performance that might well have scarred the young actor for life) acts out in outrageous ways when he's forced into adult situations no child should have to deal with. The parents are no help, and the kids spiral around with nowhere safe to land.

The movie starts in the middle of an imploding family, and ends with no real resolution to the relationships. It gives you no satisfaction on either end, just like real life. And by focusing just on these four people (other characters are moved in and out, mostly to act as props for the family to use to display their horrible-ness) you feel the isolation of their relationships with each other. Inside this strangle-hold of a family, though, there are no boundaries: the father lamely but successfully impresses his older son with blantant name-dropping while gloating over defeating the younger one at ping-pong; the mother divulges too many secrets to her children as though they were girlfriends or support-group members. These are reckless, selfish, immature people from start to finish, but you care about them, just like you care about flawed human beings in real life. That's the beauty of The Squid and the Whale: it shoves the ugliness of people in your face and then demands that you love them anyway. And you do.

Folksy

A coworker of mine, who enjoys wearing Mr.-Rodgers-style cardigans, also likes to end conversations with little folksy aphorisms a la Dan Rather. His newest one, in regards to me, involves the various speeds of a ride-on lawn he apparently used back home (Arkansas or Oklahoma, one of those states the Folksy tend to come from). It had two speeds: turtle and jackrabbit (the rabbit might have been some other quick animal, I can't remember). He says, "Claire, you have no turtle mode."

Can't say I've ever heard it put quite that way before, but it's absolutely true.

Easter in Review

I haven't been a big fan of Easter ever since I got too old to hunt easter eggs. When I was a kid, the whole neighborhood would bring eggs over to the house with the biggest yard, and the adults would hide them while the kids played, and then they'd say ready set go and we'd all go crazy searching for the eggs, and someone would find the Golden Egg with something like $10 in it, and then we'd drink juice and eat cookies until our parents dragged us home. But without that, the holiday contains no good food, no presents, no decorations, no charming sentimental TV specials (The Ten Commandments is too long to count). So I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised by this Easter.

I went to Chesterton, IN, which is no place special except the home of my boyfriend's brother's family. There was a nice dinner with some really good potato thing I've got to learn how to make, and a minimum of family sniping, and some cake and coffee after. What I enjoyed most this year, though, is the fact that there were kids little enough to hunt for eggs but not too old not to care. They ran amok, which is exactly what they were supposed to do, and then got the plastic halves of eggs everywhere in their joy at busting them open and finding jelly beans or nickels. We've got no little kids in our family right now. (All of my smallish cousins either live far away or have at least reached awkward adolescence by now, and, as my parents constantly remind me, I have yet to procreate.) So a holiday where the main focus (at least for us non-Christian types) is a kids' game just isn't the same.

This year I got a little peek at what it was like when I was smaller, and what it will be like when I've got my own small ones around some day. It was nice. Nicer than I'd expected. There's something about seeing your boyfriend get tackled by adoring nieces and nephews that makes you feel all wistful and future-nostalgic.

Soundtrack of Your Life: Chicago

I am madly in love with this city, especially now that spring is here, so here are a few select tracks that name-check my hometown.

Chicago (and/or Casimir Pulaski Day) -- Sufjan Stevens (I like Chicago better as a song, but I also want to list Casimir Pulaski Day since the song takes place around such an odd holiday, and of course it's a great song as well.)

Hail! Hail! -- Ike Reilly (Chicago is not specifically mentioned, but he drops the names of a few people and places that make it obvious to those in the know. Reilly's from the North Shore, himself, and so I feel like he's a bit of a soulmate of mine, since I was raised in the west suburbs and only moved to the city at 19, but call myself a Chicagoan.)

Chicago Slow Down -- Canasta (It's an El-riding song, which every Chicago band is required to write.)

Mother's Son -- Scotland Yard Gospel Choir (Hopefully still to be performed by Matt Kerstein n/k/a Brighton MA. Again, it references Chicago locations without mentioning the city name itself.)

Punch & Judy -- Elliott Smith (OK, he only talks about Division Street once, but I'd like to pretend that this song is set in Wicker Park. Because why not. And didn't he try to kill himself once in Chicago? So there's a connection...)

Stratford-on-Guy -- Liz Phair (This is by far not the best song on the album, but I think it's the only one that mentions exactly what city her own private Guyville existed in.)

Chicago Seemed Tired Last Night -- the Hold Steady (It's fun to listen to and it's all explained here.)

Tonight Tonight -- Smashing Pumpkins (It's cheesy as hell, but if you've ever done something like walk along the beach or drive up LSD on a summer night with someone you're right in the middle of falling in love with, you'd like it too.)

Eavesdropping

"It's like me if I was a horse." -- a cubicle near mine

Burying the Lede

OK, maybe not the lede, but certainly an important point.

Check out the video of "Police Beating Caught on Tape" here. It isn't until near the end of the clip that you are told why the off-duty cop punched the victim. I think the fact that the "victim" was not just an innocent customer of the store but in fact a drunk who started talking shit about the cop's 6-year-old daughter is one that should be made right up top. Cop beats civilian for no reason? Good expose on abuse of power. One guy attacks another guy for insulting his little girl? Not so much of a story there.

The Road Not Taken

I miss New York.

Not really, of course. I wouldn't want to be living there. I tried that, remember. It didn't work out. But occasionally, on nights like this, when it gets all sweet and warm and all you want to do is wander around and think about everything and nothing in particular, I think about what it would have been like if I had stayed.

Tonight is one of those nights when I'd enjoy the energy of New York, the rush, the push, the anonymity, the power to lose yourself for hours at a time.

That was always the problem with New York for me. Losing myself didn't last a few hours at a time. It was sort of a terminal condition. That's why I had to leave. But I wouldn't mind getting that power back, just for a few minutes here and there. It's not possible in Chicago, not in the same way. There's too much space here, and too few people. You can't just drift along with the current. You have to steer, purposefully, or you stand still. In New York, you can let go and keep moving all at once. No one cares if you float by like that, through the streets all day, all night. No one looks at you twice. You can not-be and be, Zen-like, in the middle of everything.

Back to reality. Back to Chicago.

Crime Against Humanity

I've got little-to-nothing to do at work today, so mostly I've been sitting here pondering how I can possibly lose 10 pounds before I go on vacation in a couple weeks. This is the same 10 pounds I was attempting to lose a couple months ago, before SXSW, which I completely failed at. The problem, I think, is that I decide to do something (for example, run a mile every day) while I'm sitting at my desk, and then by the time I go home two hours later, I've lost all my willpower. Trapping us here under these evil fluorescent lights with nothing to occupy us amounts to torture, in my opinion, because with no work to do our minds are bound to wander and then we think of awful things like how the Irish are going to mock us for being a) American b) fat and c) unable to hold our liquor.

OK, maybe that particular one is just me. But I'm sure other people have their own versions.

Sign of Spring

Yesterday, when I took the day off work (I mean, when I had an awful migraine and had to stay home sick) I saw the first true sign of spring. Not a robin or buds on the trees, but a beat-ass brown Cadillac with a stereo more expensive than the rest of the car, windows down, blasting Gin and Juice.

To-Do List

Moving is such a pain in the ass. I've written up about 15 to-do lists, leaving them all over the place, in an attempt to get things done. Here's just a sampling:

Change address in 435273498 places
Get rid of all the furniture acquired in last move
Acquire brand new used furniture
Sign big scary affidavit of permanence
Argue with ex-boyfriend about dining room table
Sucker acquaintances with trucks into helping

Asking the Experts

Just watched a Channel 2 report on Judy Barr Topinka saying that Rod Blagojovich has "little weasel eyes." And who did reporter Mike Flannery ask to comment on this story?

A guy who owns a weasel.

Honest. Watch the clip.

OK, so it's a guy who owns a pet store, but really, this is the best thing I've seen on local news possibly ever. The anchors were cracking up, and I must say, so was I. Nearly fell off the couch.

Permanent

In order to get my boy the dental insurance he so desperately craves, he and I have to submit forms and sign affidavits swearing that we are (or will be, on May 1st) domestic partners. This is actually a pretty sweet and shockingly progressive deal offered by my employer. They allow you to add a domestic partner, of the same or opposite sex, for all of our lovely benefits (of which there are many, because this is a ginormous international corporation, and they can afford stuff like that). So I was reading over the affidavit, and it's got the stuff I was expecting: we aren't married to anyone else, we aren't related by blood, etc, and then I saw:

"We currently reside together and we intend to do so permanently."

Permanently.

I mean, that is what we intend to do and all, but I'd never actually said that, and I've certainly never been asked to sign my name and have notarized the fact that yes, this is something that I'm going to do forever until I get hit by a bus or catch the avian flu or take a long snooze in an easy chair and never wake up.

OK, I'm better now. Permanent's not such a bad thing when it involves laughing til your stomach hurts and taking bubble baths in the middle of the afternoon and having someone to always make the coffee in the morning and speaking bad fake Polish at the buffet. Permanent might be just what I'm looking for.

Sleep-Tourette's

So we've got sleepwalking, sleep-driving, sleep-eating, and now I bring you sleep-Tourette's.

For the past two weeks or so, Todd has been shouting, making fighting noises (like grunts and such), and screaming obscenities in his sleep. Last night, he bellowed, "Fuckin' A, man!" which is something I've never heard his conscious self say. He says he doesn't remember any of this, nor has he been having strange dreams. As far as I know, he's not taking any kind of sleep medication, which can only lead me to one conclusion: an overdose of Polish sausage has built up in his system and is attempting to escape verbally.

Things That Annoy

1) Listening to co-workers endlessly debate the characters of a prime-time soap like they were actual people.
2) Getting an insulting "raise" of a few pennies after receiving a glowing year-end review.
3) Tribune writers who don't know the difference between imply and infer.
4) Brunette roots ruining my perfectly nice red hair.

New Terms for New Lifestyles

A few years back, I came up with a term for the family members of someone who you're dating or living with who you're not married to: outlaws. Like in-laws, you know, but not. So now I need a term for an agreement that you write up before moving in with someone, like a pre-nup, but for cohabitation. Any ideas?