Essential

In preparation for my flight to NYC Saturday, I was checking out what is and is not allowed in carry-on bags. This from your helpful TSA overlords:

To ensure the health and welfare of certain air travelers the following items are permitted.
...
Up to 4 oz. of essential non-perscription liquid medications including saline solution, eye care products and KY jelly

KY jelly?!? What the hell are people doing in planes that they need KY jelly? And does it really qualify as essential? I mean, essential to life, yes, but essential on a two-hour flight?

Well, I suppose if we stop joining the mile-high club, the terrorists win.

Anything Else

Wanting to talk about anything except stupid fucking cancer, I will now share with you an entirely silly memory from my childhood, which is semi-related.

My sister was born with a mutant heart. Seriously. The thing was only half there. The other half they had to build out of tin cans and car bumpers or something. I don't know, it's actually incredibly high-tech and between the amazing technology and the miraculous talent of doctors, she lived and is still doing really well. But when she was small it was touchy, and she had about seven open heart surgeries to perfect the cyborg thing.

During one of these, my mom was with her at the hospital (Rose was probably 2, which would make me 5-ish) and I was home with my dad. We were going to visit them later, and I wanted to bring them something, so we decided to make cookies. At the time, the Jewel (I think) was giving away this series of big books for kids featuring Sesame Street characters, each one "brought to you by" a different letter. They went in order, you know, and each one had little stories and educational-type content. I loved the things, because I was already pretty smug I think about being smart and knowing how to read and all.

Anyway, this one had a recipe for cookies, where you made sugar cookies and then filled them with anything you wanted. Chocolate chips or raisins or nuts, whatever. So that was the kind that my dad and I made. Mystery cookies, I think they were called. Because the insides were a mystery. There's maybe a metaphor there. So we brought the cookies to them and I remember vaguely seeing my mom and tiny Rose in a playroom, or maybe I had to look through the window of the ICU to see her.

Sorry, it's hazy, but I thought of it today and felt like sharing.

So.

My mom has cancer.

I'm practicing saying it, so that I can talk about it without getting blubbery. It's already easier. We knew about a week ago that something was wrong. Something bumpy on a mammogram. Now there's been a biopsy and the surgeon confirmed it. So my parents have met with doctors and they're exploring their options. The prognosis is excellent, because it was caught very early and because my mom is otherwise healthy, etc, etc. I'm not worried about my mom dying, and she's been through plenty in her life that I'm sure she'll be able to deal with the crap that is chemo just fine. We're already making jokes about wigs. Next time I see her, I'm bringing her a neon blue one I bought in New Orleans a few years back.

But it's this incredibly strange feeling. Just one day, everything you've been thinking about has veered slightly. Like when you're on a train and it jerks over to the other track. Last time I saw them, my parents were planning a trip this winter maybe to the Virgin Islands. Their biggest concern was whether they were going to buy a new or antique dining room table. And now.

But they'll be OK. My parents adore each other and have, as I said, been through plenty in their lives. My dad I worry about a little. My mom is both tough and relentlessly (though not impractically) optimistic. But my dad is a secret softy at heart, and his mom died young of breast cancer. But he's dealing, apparently, and the two of them will take care of each other just fine. They're like one person. Neither one will let the other one down.

Besides that, I feel bad for my sister. She's a few weeks away from moving out to LA. Now she has to deal with being away from Mom, who she's really close to, during this tough time, but also, yet again, what she's doing is being overshadowed. She gets pretty universally ignored by our extended family, and yet again, while she's making this major leap in her life, something else will be more important. Not that that's the most important concern right now, obviously, but I figure no one else will be thinking about her, so I should. Someone's got to.

As for me, I'm just going to drink extra green tea and keep making my mom laugh. Nothing made me feel better than hearing her laugh yesterday. That made me sure, beyond any doctor's recommendations, that she's going to be all right.

Chicago: Two Studies

How angry is Chicago? Very angry, according to Men's Health. How drunk is Chicago? Pretty damn drunk, says Forbes. Put these two magazine studies together and what do you have? The conclusion that Chicago isn't the most refined town. Not surprising. But here's my recommendation. Look at the cities on the drunk list that rank higher than us. Then check out where they fall on the angry list. They're all less angry. Which means that Chicagoans clearly need to drink more. Division Street, here I come!

Catching Up

Sorry for being MIA. I have no excuse other than that not too much happened, and then lots of things happened all at once. To sum up, in chronological order:

My friend Rachel came back from Idaho, apparently quite pleased with her summer, and will soon take the loaner cat, Clementine, away from us, so we'll have to get our very own soon.

That whole terrorism thing infringed on normal life again, and this article in Slate echoes my generally doomy worldview.

I attended a meeting at work where the people running my project basically said the project is in the toilet with no hope of being dragged out, and afterwards we all sort of concluded that we'll be out of jobs soon.

I had lunch with my mom and another distant relative of the cousin variety (second? removed? I'm never sure) in which it came out that my tiny old Polish immigrant great-grandma used to own the Rainbo on Damen! I always knew she owned a bar, but it was always described as a neighborhood tavern. No one ever mentioned the hipster clubhouse! I'm grilling my grandfather (her son) for details now, since my dad knows nothing due to a Swiss-cheese brain. (Don't smoke pot, kids, it puts holes in your head.)

My best friend, who I've known since childhood, is leaving the city tomorrow morning for Hawaii for three years to get her masters in youth theatre, which is absolutely amazing and really sad. But at least now I have a free place to stay in Hawaii.

Todd is at his first day of work on the ambulance. Apparently it's going OK so far, but the first guy almost died on him. I can't even imagine doing this kind of work. If I get something wrong at my job, the worst thing that happens is that the next time we print the book, we add an apostrophe. If he makes a mistake, people can die. That's terrifying.

Warning: Viral Video Below

In this case, the sequel outshines the original.

And just think, one of these oddly-attired dancing hipsters might have been Charlie.

Did I ever tell you how Charlie and I became friends? Remind me to tell you sometime.

Pitchfork Wrap-Up: Super Quick and Late

Well, this is several days late and won't be worth the wait at all.

The Pitchfork Festival was again lovely this year, and again over one of the hottest weekends in memory. I have to say, it was very well organized, everything went according to schedule, there was plenty of water, much shorter lines for food, lots of nice shady grassy spots to hang out in, and an excellent array of bands.

Show-wise, I was most impressed by Art Brut. I'd heard a few songs of theirs and didn't pay them much attention, but the live show was punchy and witty and entertaining, something bands don't usually spend enough time on anymore. Ready Art Brut? Go! was my catchphrase of the weekend. Ted Leo was awesome as ever when he played the old songs, but all of his new songs sounded a bit like he'd heard a house band at a laid-back college bar and said to himself, Teddy my boy, this is the sound you've been waiting for! Basically, they were slow and loping and lacking the intensity that makes me worship the Pharmacists (the hardest working band in the biz, probably, seeing as they keep up with someone who routinely busts out his voice from relentless yelping tours). I caught some Brazillians doing a mash-up thing at the B stage which entertained me, but then it was hot and loud and I went to sit down. Aesop Rock and Mr. Lif disappointed, but I think this wasn't their venue, because I saw Mr. Lif years ago in a club in New York, and I was pleased with him then. And rap really isn't my thing to begin with, so that's a feat. Then there was Mission of Burma, who reminded us all that they're old enough to be our parents, but they could rock our asses any day. And so, my ass pleasantly rocked, I headed on home, sweaty, grimey, stinky, and satisfied with my rock-festing self.