HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

From both Lilly:



And me:



Out with the Old Style (2007), and in with the New Style (2008).
Yeah, I am being over-optimistic...whatever.

Take care, take it easy, take it when you can!

My new Theme Song, Mutha-fuka!

I feel this guy, yo!
Thank you Chicagoist!

Damn, I'm weary. Worked around/over 60 hours this week, and have 9 more tomorrow at the part-time job. I rarely know what day it is if it weren't for the emails at work listing the time and day they plop into the inbox. It felt like Friday 3 days in a row.

I've recently asked myself, "to what does this all amount?"

I mean, really? All these hours, with nothing to brag about pay, where is it getting me?

Mussolini is Hot for the Holidays

Apparently, people are really into searching for pictures of the great Italian dictator to download and frame for the holiday gifts this year. Upon checking my Sitemeter account, this snowy cold night, I discovered that 23 or my last 43 visitors ended up on this page because of this link I used to describe one of my former bosses (Boss Fanatic).

Oddly, when you do a comcast search for Mussolini under images, My Cube shows up as like the 8th link. Some sort of Neo-Musso Movement going on that I don't know about?

December 2007: Mussolini is the new naked Paris Hilton! Whoo-hoo.

Ah, well, pass the vino.

Ciao!

Free show, cheap beer: Tonight!

Apologies for the silence hanging in The Cube lately; there just hasn't been much going on.

True, I went to Court (fucking twice) against that scumbag (K. Hester: trannie, cracked up hooker, robber, and check forger) who mugged me a couple of months ago. Each time the piece of shit got a continuance (unemployed, no lawyer). At least I don't have to show up a third time, I've been excused.

Other than that, just endless nights going out alone. To the point where it's not even fun, but dammit, you sit for 40 hours in The Gopher Hole with a boring coworker, you get a little edge for some sort of conversation or, at the very least, Eye-Candy. Just a rut full of hangovers and drunkenness, smoke-filled lungs and small talk with strangers and bartenders. This past Saturday night, while sinking into a Beer Blotto, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I say some of my friends.

Not a happy realization, but reality.

Luckily, they are playing a free show tonight at The Empty Bottle!



Free
9:30 Speck Mountain
10:30 Morning Recordings
11:30 Zelienople

So, like, maybe I'll see you there.

Under the Microscope?

Found this (.pdf) in a "link" search.
I pop up on like page 17 and 20.
Weird, My Cube apparently participated in a study proving personal blogs are not a threat to "Traditional" media outlets such as The Tribune and The Sun-times here in Chicago.

Interesting, but obvious?

At least I only got mugged...

Some poor guy just got shot in the street, across from bedroom window. And, once again, I thought the shots were M-80s. Two rang out in rapid succession, followed by around five to seven in a slower, steadier pace.



A couple of days after this, I ran into the HHUN (who moved) at The Bank; she said she knew this guy. He got hit in the neck, and is now paralyzed from the neck/top of the chest down.

Jesus! Seriously; at least I only got mugged!!!



Two detectives in black bullet-proof vests and jeans found two guns in an alley 3 houses west of the shooting. At least, those won't fall into another asshole's hands or be found by some little kid. I don't know if they had any real leads, but it felt like a lot of people called right after it happened; four police cars showed up just at the moment 911 answered my call. No matter what people say, the police have always arrived quickly the 3 or four times I've called them about something.



The silver (albeit oh-so-shallow of me)-lining is: I met another Hottie Hispanic woman (HHUN #2) from the next building over as my neighbors and I gawked the scene.

Yo! (Former) Complex Carrie! You know Rachael S.?????

Okay, people, take care, and keep for heads down!

And I quote Lauren Hynde:

"...because she (and I) always knew it was going to be like that, and it was...."

It's Thursday after work, I go home, pay some bills, watch a little TV, planning on staying home and reading, listening to classical music.
But then I drank the last of the Jameson, and felt better, and then my mind clicked, just like Brick (Paul Newman) says in his speech in the bedroom. That little lever flicks in my mind, and I'm urged to go out, against all better judgement.

I walk to My Place (#272) No one in there, really, just Uncle John and some Mexicans playing pool. But that's okay because they have ESPN on and I watch them talk about sports; highlights are fun to watch and Uncle John is sweet and talks to me, always says I'm a nice/good guy. He buys me a shot of Jack Daniels, then another of Jameson, apologizing for the Jack "I forget, you like the Jameson." I smile and say, "it's cool, thank you Uncle John, I really shouldn't even be out tonight." The Mexicans leave, but one. Danny stays behind to drink a Heineken and we chat about baseball and the Lamp Post. Then he leaves, and I say good night to Uncle John.

Touhy is quiet, but the alcoholics in my head are whispering for more, so I find myself sitting in the Lamp Post (#255), sipping a Heineken and looking at the big chested Blond bartender. The crowd is just Big Jim and some sport/jock yahooos, so there is no reason to stay.

I cut down Lunt to Clark Street. The houses are big and beautiful, even in streetlight/darken moonlight under the trees with their grass lots and eaves and lattice work. I feel buzzed and envious and alone. And poor.

Gallagher's (#271) is slow. Only a few of the bar girls, but Tanya and Bianney are working, so I pass the beers chatting and teasing them, acting the fool for a laugh. The manager, Raul, stops by my bar stool and says hello, shaking my hand. The regular bouncer, Dave, isn't working tonight, in fact quit this week. Rasta Drunk Don is working tonight as Security, but I wonder if the bar is actually paying him, since really all he does is walk around and bum cigarettes and beer off of me. But we talk and he's always hugging my shoulders and telling me about his construction work. He wants to give me another shirt, this time a Boy Scout dress shirt, but I tell him, "no, that's cool, but thanks." I end up talking to some Mexican guy named Cesar. He just moved to the area, and is trying to make friends to go out with. I sort of feel for the guy since I only go out alone nowadays. I give him my number, knowing he'll probably never call, and knowing I'll probably not call him back if he does, but why not, eh? We're all looking for some kind of connection. He dances with one of the bar girls, then finishes his drink, says good night to me, and leaves.

It is nearing closing, and I have to work tomorrow (later today?), so I get up to leave. Wave to Tanya and Bienney, and step outside.

The air is cool, a nip of coolness fall in the air. I breathe deep and turn to Clark Street. Maybe I'll get a couple of tacos on the way home. I shove my hands in my pockets to brace myself for the walk and against the chill in the air, and take a few steps away from the door.

A black girl in a pink T-shirt passes me, a half-block behind her is a guy in white jumper with blue stripes. He is yelling at her, something, I can't remember, but it sounds like they are arguing. I look back. She keeps walking away, almost to the metra tracks.

I turn back, and the guy stops and says, "hey, you want her to give you a blow job?"

"No, no thanks."

"Yeah, she's going to give you a blow job here in the alley."

"No, that's cool."

He grabs my by the front of my sweatshirt, twisting it in his hand, pushes me in the alley. I'm thrown against the wall.

"Let me go, let go!" I shout at him.

I'm thrown against the wall again, and my hand is being twisted around, "calm down, man!" I feel pain shoot threw my left ring finger, it's bending all over the place. "you want me to break it?"

I trip, or he pushes me onto the alley floor, I squirm and yell, "get off me, let me go!"

"Shut up!" and there is a calloused hand over my mouth, the woman in pink is there, grabbing for my wallet; I clamp my hand on it, shove it further into my back pocket while he twists my neck around, pushing my head into the concrete.

Suddenly, there are three other women, all hands in all my pockets, my glasses are gone, one hand on my chest, another on my face, as I yell four or five times:

"Raul! Help! Raaauuuuul!"

It's the only name I can think of to shout. I am embarrassed, only two store doors away from the bar's door. I am being overtaken by women, beat up, one of them is standing on my crotch--grinding my middle pelvic bone with her shoe. Fuck, it's like I'm a little kid again, always the victim of stronger bullies. She holds up my ID, "We got your ID fucker!"

I lose my grip on the wallet; it's gone, as well as my cigarettes.

He slams me against the ground again, and then they are gone, running toward Clark Street.

I lay in the alley for a moment. Helpless, bruised and in pain. My glasses! I crawl around the alley, searching for them in the dim light. Two Mexican guys walk by, "I just got jumped, can you help me find my glasses?"

They keep walking. They probably don't know English.

I find my glasses and put them on, steadying myself, and a cop pulls up, "are you okay?" she asks.

Someone had called 911-- four Black people are beating up a white guy.

I blurt out fast what happened and the best description I can. They tell me to get in the back of the car. I'm strangely calm as I give my report and information.

They shoot the car forward fast to the end of the block. "You recognize either of those two?"

Standing by another cop car parked diagonal in the street is a guy in a white tank top with a tiny Mohawk and a black girl in a pink T-shirt. I don't recognize his face, I say. The cops tell me he cruises the area, usually dressed as a woman. I can't make a positive ID, so they let him go. He walks away from the cop car and yells something, and something in the way he moves, I recognize him as maybe being one of the whores I've walked by denied business on Clark Street a few weeks ago. I don't know his/her name.

The police take me home where I call The Bank, leave a message: "I can't come into work on Friday."

I cancel all the cards ("did you use your Discover Card at an ATM in the last hour?" "No" Man, they moved fast.) and try to remember what else I'm missing. The phone rings.

I am being picked up by the cops again. They caught the guy, the Mohawk dude, they found all my cards on him. They take me to the station.

I sit in the break room, talking to some Rasta guy (his friend is asleep on the table, snoring loud). They are there to report a drive-by shooting in The Jungle. No one got hit, but four cars now have bullet holes. We talk about how bad the neighborhood's gotten, and his love for pot (rasta, mon!). We agree: people need to leave people the fuck alone.

I see the female cop through the window coming toward us, holding a white and blue jumper. I start pointing and nodding my head, "yes, that's the jacket."

They give me my Court Date, sign for the cards they recovered ("he claims to have 'found' them on the street"), no wallet/ID/etc. I sign some other forms, a police report of the incident. To much time took place between event and capture, so he is up for a misdemeanor of battery instead of a felony charge...I think Strong Arm Battery--no weapon.

They drive me home. I call work again, to let them know I got The Bank's business card back, so it may be alright. I pick up Lilly, and head to bed, fully clothed. My whole right side hurts, throbs with some inner bruise. My neck feels twisted. I have a headache. The next day, I see I have a shiner, a reminder: if you think you should go home earlier in the night, go home.

Hanging with Crackhos

It's been a strange and pathetic few weeks.

I've been getting to know the drug-addled street-wise blurry-vision racing-heart underbelly of my neighborhood a little. Four o'clock in the morning conversations are crazy.

The Mark II Lounge, should be renamed The Mac II Living Room.

Isabella at Gallagher's spoke to me last Friday (she speaks English, someone lied to me!). What did she say? Um, the memory is bathed in beer and Jameson, and it's a little vague.

Fucked up at work way too many times. Showed up hours late to both jobs at least twice each. And fucked up big time today at The Bank...apparently I overstepped my boundary of authority; however, I think I cleared it up fifteen minutes later. Hopefully.

I can't go into details, as some are incriminating and (like I said) pathetic, vile, depressing, and just out and out disappointing to myself...yet, an adventure.

I know have more than one Secret, I'll be keeping it to myself.

Hello to Karin, Vernon, Shaolin, and Camilla. See you all on Clark Street after hours, eh?

Good night.

Check out Photograph Number Eleven!

On Schmaps.

Bumpersticker Idea

Random thought while driving in the morning muggy filmy heat. Thinking about The War and human assholes in general:


MORE KISSING/ LESS KILLING

Just a thought; maybe I can figure out a way to sell it in My Shop?

Also, if you see any of my pictures you'd like to have on a mug, T-shirt, poster, or underwear, let me know. We could work something out.

Off to sweat in bed!

And the cork just fell out

You shake the champagne bottle slowly, steadily.
You unwind that weird wire cage thing that holds the cork in the top.
You wedge both thumbs between bottle and cork and pryyyyy.

(Plip)
The cork just slips out and falls straight to the floor. No pop, no explosion of bubbly, no spray on the walls and ceiling.

Huh.
Now what?
That's how I feel a little right now.

I remembered and added a couple more places I've gone, and it boosted me past 300.
That was my goal: 300.
I did it.

Now what?

Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie, I want!

I want a Smart Car!
Up to 50 miles to the gallon and able to find a parking space anywhere!?!

Hell Yeah!

(please click my Paypal button to the right to donate, thanks ha ha)

Saying "Goodbye" to someone I never knew

There is bumping clomping upon the back stairs. The sound of plastic rubbing sliding against the brick walls.

The HHUN is apparently moving out.

Fare thee well sexy maiden. We never spoken, but I heard you often. Yelling at your dog Simba. Screaming what's up girl into your phone outside my kitchen window. Arguing with Calvin in the street, on the stoop, and into the street again. I heard you pull up in that ginormous yellow Hummer and dreamed of a hummer between ourselves. I watch you move mattresses and lamps to the Uhaul truck parked outside my bedroom window, lustfully viewing your lithe body dressed in workout top and skin-tight white tights. My heart smolders in bittersweet lust and sadness.

We could have been the hottest unhealthy couple on the block, in The Complex.

But you're leaving.

Farewell Sweet HHUN, my Puerto Rican Princess, via con Dios!

Out Before dark! Oh My!

The sun is still up, and I'm actually going out of the house on my one day off...too meet friends even!
My friend M.W. (one of the Z-Boys) is having a cook-out and outdoor movie in his back yard (cinema set-up thanks to the creative Doodlehead) and I'm going to stumble over there hung-over and coughing or not. Too many cigarettes, beers, and shots bought by the Mark II Lounge (#261) manager for me.
With sweaty headache in tow, I'm lugging my camera over there, so you may find cute kid pictures at a later date.
Nothing like the hair-of-the-dog outside to say SummerTime!
Okay, gotta go, I'm like two hours late.

Another absurd example of The Bank

I hang with one of the maintenance guys at The Bank. He's a 60-something official freaking D.O.M. (Dirty Old Man), always grinding on about all "these G-ddamn morons that work here," and talks about the "big tittied blond" in the office across from The Gopher Hole; he cracks me up. Shit, I'd invite him to a party, if I threw one. He'd keep me and my friends in stitches with his stories about the Army and Korean War alone!

Anyway, Dirty Jim comes into the Gopher Hole the other day holding a newspaper, kind of looking at it confused and smirking.

"You ever seen this paper before?"

"Yeah, I used to read it alot when I first moved here, why?"

"Well, I'm reading the G-ddamn thing, and I'm thinking 'what the fuck is up with headline?' George Bush says Army just not that good"

"It's all satire, parodies, and humor stuff."

"Well, Dickle [the owner of The Bank] told Marketing he wanted some papers on that newsstand table in the lobby for our Spanish clientele, and this G-ddamn thing shows up, what the Hell???"

I nearly pissed myself laughing. The paper picked for our Spanish-speaking clientele was this paper.

Dickle and Marketing es muy idiotas!

Friday? Where you at, Mac?

If you're looking for me (or just someplace to drink), I am planning to Drone Out With My Bone Out at The Empty Bottle (#105) on Friday.

One of the Z-boys' side project, Good House Stuff is playing at 10:00 p.m.
Check 'em out, they're a lovely bunch of coconuts!

The rest of the line-up to watch/listen/cross-your-arms and bob-ya-head to would be:

8pm The Number None
9pm Matt Clark
10pm Good Stuff House
11pm Haptic
12am Dreamweapon

Soon, after Good House Stuff, you will more than likely find my sodden ass at The Mark II Lounge (#261) because I'm a fool with a foolish job and a sucker for Eye-Candy and post two o'clock drinking!

Buy me a round, and I'll fall in love with you ;-)

Yeah. I get paid for this.

This is a sort of montage/listy thing of a typical workday at The Bank:

• Leave home late (fifteen to twenty minutes late).
• Spend ride to post office berating myself for always being late.
• Smoke two cigarettes during ride.
• Fight/swerve/U-turn for a parking space as close as possible to the post office front door.
• If the Caller Window is open, make small talk with Larry. A big burly mean (teddy bear interior) hairy guy who loves to go "to the boats" and gamble and hates most all humans.
• If Caller Window is closed, I stand in line with the common folk and listen to everyone in line (which moves deathly slow. Always.) bitch and complain about how no one works here and they all suck and they move slow and everyone is going to call the Supervisor and there's always one nasally guy yelling as he walks out-- totally extending the rant to the point where you switch from being on his side to thinking, "man, shut the fuck up, bitch!"
• Get mail, light a smoke, pop in current punk tape your into this week, drive to The Bank.
• Give mail to Biggie J. and turn on computer.
• Make coffee.
• Check emails.
• Drink coffee.
• Respond to emails-- 40% of which are stupid and not my jurisdiction/job.
• Pop in a CD (this week= Modest Mouse, Husker Du, Suicidal Tendencies, and Lady Sovereign).
• Drink coffee.
• Deliver any supply orders I left from last night.
• Chat with two hottie Assyrian Tellers I'm trying to get with.
• Fail to hook up with two hottie Assyrian Tellers I'm trying to get with.
• Head back down to The Gopher Hole.
• Listen to music.
• Check email.
• Take nap while Biggie J. goes on his mail run.
• Check out Gawker and vote on my T-shirts.
• Drink Coffee.
• Think about a Lebanese women I met recently, wonder what she's doing.
• Go outside for a cigarette.
• Check out Gapersblock.
• Drink coffee.
• Change CD.
• Check out Chicagoist.
• Take a hot, dark yellow coffee piss.
• Walk around storeroom intending to REALLY straighten this place up more.
• Return to The Gopher Hole.
• Lay back in chair and stare at ceiling for a while.
• Surf the net, emailing myself interesting articles for future reference at home.
• Go outside for a smoke.
• Check emails.
• Drink Coffee.
• Go on a late "official" break, head outside for a smoke.
• Check emails.
• Recheck Gawker.
• Deliver some supplies.
• Return emails letting the recipient
• Nap again while Joe is on Mail run.
• Scratch balls.
• Go to lunch around 3 or 3:30.
• Clock back in and go outside for a cigarette.
• Come back, check-return emails.
• Clock out, go home.

The Gopher Hole at The Bank is either Heaven or Hell on Earth.

Love Thy Neighbor(hood)

It's going to be a long hot summer, and I may become a cat on a hot tin roof.

After a sober Saturday night (my date? meet? non-date? fell through due to a mysteriously reoccurring flat tire on her car), I awoke refreshed on Sunday and actually made it to the part-time job ON TIME (to much noting and joking by crew and management alike). The day flew by quickly with low sales and high traffic. I left tired yet slightly upbeat, and made it home fully intending on only checking emails, YIMing Flat Tire Woman, and reading old issues of The New Yorker to the sound of classical music.

I started out on track, and then the track exploded.

I made the mistake of cracking open an Old Style which quickly led to a second and 3rd as my neighbor and the HHUN (Hot Hispanic Upstairs Neighbor) started a verbal throw-down outside my kitchen door. I've mentioned before the neighbor woman has the volume capacity of 100 Marshall Amp Full Stacks turned to Eleven, but I think I failed to mention the HHUN equals, nay, nearly rivals this quality...with a Puerto Rican linguistic twist (you should hear how she verbally bullies her beautiful ginger dog).

So, anyway, I think I've informed you about my theory of the Marshall Amp woman's dealing in The Weed (if she don't deal, she sure as hell smokes it! You can nearly taste that greenish swampy sweet shit coming up the sidewalk to the gate most evenings). Well the HHUN smokes up a lot, too; usually in her biggass banana hummer outside my kitchen window on sunny days. And they hangout together a lot; I can hear them laughing and swearing through the kitchen window and facing two front doors. And both their buzzers ring like 20 times a day/night people popping in for 10 minutes and then leave. Or sometimes I hear HHUN yell into Marshall's window "hello" or "unlock your door" various type things.

But tonight, HHUN and Marshal Amp re-enacted an Urban Hatfield and McCoys on the stoop.

But let me back up:
So, I crack a beer and glance out the living room window to see what appears to be a group of 10 Birchwood/Wollcott Boys sprinting and yelling down the street in their requisite white t-shirts and blue jeans. I go to the window in time to see five Mexican men and two Mexican women chasing the guys, swinging fucking baseball bats and bike chains!

Um, WTF?

The Mexicans stop on the corner by my bedroom window, shouting at the white T-shirts disappearing toward Howard, calling on their cell phones "policia!" or yelling "get tu carro, whey!" A couple of cars pull up, and a few of the guys get in and they peel off after the black guys while the rest mill around the intersection or head past my kitchen window in serious Seek and Destroy mode. A guy carrying a brick walks down the middle of the street, shifting on slightly to the side as the 2 cop cruisers and one paddy wagon are now sweeping through the neighborhood (again, again, again) trying to triangulate the Birchwood/Wolcott Boys into a trap. I stand at the kitchen window, sipping a beer (nothing good on TV tonight anyway) and listen to Marshall Amp and her boys friends talk about what's going on. Turns out the B/W Boys jumped and beat up the Mexican corn pushcart vendor at the park, thinking he was a Latin King, and they were giving payback for one of their own getting beat down last week. We learn this from one of the Mexicans (the nephew of the victim) who came into the gate and was chilling on the porch with Marshall Amp's group; he didn't want to get in trouble with the patrolling cops since he was carrying the aluminum bat and all.

It quiets down again. The Mexican goes back on the search with his friends, and some of the guys hanging out go for a walk. I go back to the computer to finish deleting spam.

"Fuck you, bitch! Don't go yelling into my window like that! This may be the motherfucking ghetto, but you ain't got to act motherfucking ghetto, bitch!"

And thus begins the aforementioned Feuding Neighbors. Soon there is a group of boys hanging out on the porch and outside the gate to watch the Rogers Park Smack Down.

What I learned in following 30 minutes or so:

HHUN:

• has had 5 abortions.
• is a stripper (Must. Find. Out. Where.)
• stomps around upstairs in 10 inch heels
• fucks a lot of men
• these men leave drunk at 8 in the morning (which I actually found out from Marshall Amp yelling at one of the drunk guys outside my bedroom window at 8 in the morning)
• these "drunk stupid motherfuckers" are always ringing the wrong bell and demand Marshall Amp "let them the fuck in."
• the two of them had gotten drunk earlier this afternoon.
• is nineteen (?).
• likes to Marshall hear her have loud sex in the bedroom above her.

Marshall Amp:

• is a "dirty ass nigger."
• is a "broke ass bitch in a one-bedroom with two kids and mom."
• doesn't have a job (I think she's actually a night nurse).
• "likes drama."
• is a Drama Queen who is "always yelling at your kids, the kids across the street, and everyone on the sidewalk 'cause you like motherfucking DRAMA, bitch!"
• needs to "shut the fuck up!"
• can't keep her man (husband moved out months ago), can't get a man, and can't please a man.

Finally, most of the crowd dispersed. The cop cars disappeared. And I went inside, slightly buzzed, and in no mood to read a New Yorker.

So I went to Gallagher's (#265); it'd been a long while since I've visited. I stumble across the muddy park, stopping briefly to chat with the paddy wagon set up there still for the Mexican/B/W Boys incident. I tell them what little I know, and that I'm sure they never hear it, but they are appreciated. We wish each other a good night, and I hit Clark Street.

I'm zoning out, thinking about the recent events, and walk past the bar door.

"Hey, Mac, where you going, man?"

It's Dave, one of the bouncers. He's talking on a cell phone, leaning against a car. We shake hands trade hellos etc. He's asks me where I been and tells me it's dead as hell in there, but will get better soon.

I go in and take a seat at the bar. It's just me, two male customers, and the full crew of Bar Girls. Tanya and Bianney aren't working, Nachos brother is manning the bar. I ask Raul about them, and says, "I don't know. Vacation, maybe?"

I spend the most of the night drinking alone at the bar, eyeing Isabella and the not so friendly Bar Girl, who actually smiles and says hi once as she orders her table's Modellos. Later, I switch my view to that one hot looking Latina I see here now and then; the one people say is actually a tranny. I've seen her at The Mark II Lounge (#261) occasionally, Freddie said he thinks she's a man, too. Whatever, she's got a Hot Eye-candy Body, and her friend she's with is especially soft on the eyes, so I let my beer-sodden eyes float over to their table a lot.

I'm remembering why I haven't come here lately: expensive, none of the hotties speak English, and it's a total Sausage Fest. And that's when Melinda (?) sits down next to me. She's one of the more cuter Bar Girls, and, rumor has it, sleeps with Raul. So we chat for a bit, exchange names, I tease her that Raul's her boyfriend ("no, no, no. He's old man."), and, weirdly, she doesn't ask me to buy her a glass of ice-down beer they get served. I get the unnerving vibe that Raul has decided to pimp her out to me, or maybe told her to talk to the lonely-looking geeky white guy, so I don't push anything. I just drink and make small talk. 3;20 rolls around and the announcement is made over the PA, and all the Bar Girls rush for the closet to get coats and leave. I say good-night to Dave, and walk Melinda to her car because Dave said there was a fight going on by it (nothing), then head home.

Sleep.

[update from half and hour ago: Marshall Amp and the HHUN just got into it again on the stoop. This time it escalated to a physical fight "bitch broke my nail!" Apparently, Marshall Amp and her kids were sitting on the stoop when HHUN dumped mop water over the side of the upstairs stoop. No one got hit with the water, but this was enough to set them off. Oh, for the love of God...]

Altered-states

Altered-states
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Going out tonight, alone again.
This week at The Bank, even though I was bored out of my freaking mind, all I saw was red (Fugazi allusion, anyone?).
Gonna chill with some cold ones, and I'll probably wind up walking home in the rain tonight/tomorrow morning.
It's cool, it's usual.
I'm feeling in a rut again, I'm feeling slightly numb again; but there is 3 current possible situations that could change that in my future. Just have to see, just have to hope, but hope not too much...I always set myself up for a fall.
I need to clamp down and start focusing on some writing, or job search, or photography, or just cleaning the damn apartment (can you say Better Filth Homes and Gardens?).
Clean the body up, and stopping messing around with the little things.
With finding a purpose and neatly lining some things back up in order My Cube may find those other 3 Sides (?).

I miss my friends.

All I can manage to say:

sweet.

Summer Heats Up Neighborhood, Part II

I'm in a couple of those moments at The Bank where you find yourself taking a stand. I'm trying to argue points and define my position, and I suddenly find myself in a meeting in The Gopher Hole with my two top management team, Harley A and The Castro.

I don't do well in these kinds of positions: my lips tremble, I lose my train of thought, my arguments get out of focus, I lean toward arguing The Big Picture instead of sticking to the details at hand, and I sound emotional. Throw on the fact that I was aware of the meeting until an hour or so ahead of time (plenty of time to prepare while running around and babysitting the bankers, no?) and I'd finished my fourth or fifth cup of coffee, and, according to Harley A (whom I find to not be a totally creditable source), I came across a little abstract and crazed.

I've been hiding out in The Hole for as much as possible and while continue to do so in the weeks ahead.

And then I come home, park the car, and step in dried paint on the sidewalk...do a double-take, and realize it's the blood from the other day. I'm strangely torn as I look down at the splattery oddly V-shaped smear of reddish-brown between total sadness and total apathy. In a way, this split of emotion makes me feel even worse...like I've lost something very important that makes up a "good person."

I walk to my back door, and say hello to my neighbor through their open door. They shout the usual, "Hi Neighbor!" (I don't think they know my real name after two years), and then proceed to tell me I just missed another shooting...6 shots this time compared to 3 last time.

Great.

Later that night, anesthetized with Jameson, I suddenly hear Hot Hispanic Upstairs Neighbor yelling for my direct neighbors. Through the kitchen window, both eavesdropping and later actual conversation with the mother, it turned out the 15 year old son had gotten stopped by detectives and they patted him down. I agreed with her shouting out at the neighborhood (and the lady has the volume of twenty Marshall Full stacks) that this was bullshit. Busting a 15 year old boy on the way to the store for ice cream, drug dealers all around (especially up on Birchwood and Wollcot by the school) and the cops gotta fuck with a little boy. And then she went the "if it was a white boy, this wouldn't have happened!" And as I normally don't like that kind of argument, in this case/neighborhood, I grudgedly admitted she was right. (Fresh! Remember when we were driving and the cops flashed the cop searchlight into the car at the stop sigh, then shut it off for no apparent reason? We laughed.."Ah, just a couple crackers, let 'em go."

And today, I look out the window, and there's a flickering blaze of blue flashing light up the other street. Five cop cruisers and two detective cars clogging up the street in front of that condo that always has an ambulance show up to it.

It's going to be a long ass summer isn't it?

Off to the Mark II Lounge alone (again)

#261
because:
I'm bored.
I've had a (typically) lousy week.
I've got a belly-full of Jameson.
I'm horny (yes, shock to my friends...I lust!)
My booty-call is with her kid this weekend.
There's nothing on TV.
I'm Drunk.
And I've got no "boys to call" to have a B.N.O. with...my Bestest Wingman is a thousand miles away....Fucker! (just kidding).

Wish me luck, eh?

[update---well, I got drunk anyway, right?]

Summer heats up neighborhood

What I thought were 3 M-80s outside my window, turned out to be a story I will may not be telling my parents.

They aren't big fans of the city-life as it is.

(Crawling to bed now, staying away from the windows)

A pile of bar napkins from my pocket

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Help me be Hip to Gawking eyes!

My friend and I have entered a bunch of slogans in Gawker's Slogan contest.

It's easy and fun! Yay!
Just scroll through the lot, and vote for the following:

(you would if we were true friends *wink wink cow-eyes*)

Got Guilt?
My Job Sucks....Do You?
Hispanic at the Disco
Jewslamic Christian
Got Funk, Need Noise.
Gawk Out With Your Cawk Out
Gawker Scratches My Itch
I don't stare at YOUR third nipple!
Awesome bin Laden
I came, I Gawked, I came again
I Totally Gawked Your Mom

Jesus Pimped My Ride: It Runs on Water

Jesus Turned Walter into a Wino

Single Cheap Easy

Come on, help a cousin out; I just want to be a small-time cewebrity.

I got a water bed!

Okay, not really.
I've been writhing sweating moaning holding my head with a crazy-high fever all week. My fever finally broke a few hours ago, and I ate a ham sandwich which tasted like manna from Heaven (hadn't eaten in about two days).
Now about the water bed: the fever sweats nearly drowned me last night, this morning my bed looked like someone dumped a large bucket of water on it. Eeewwww!

So depending on how I heal up in the next couple of days, I'll try to finish the last post and journey out into the night to drudge up more odd stories. I say odd because they may not be interesting.

Aiight, off to bed. Night.

It's 3:30 a.m.: What are you doing?

or:

Mac Attempts To Get Laid; Screws Self Instead

Tuesday:
Sonotheque---Z-boys
You've had a two days at work. Surfed the net, fended off whiny bankers, argued with coworkers about what your job is and is not. You need a drink by 3 in the afternoon. You leave work on time for once, but irritated at yourself and the workplace as usual. You get home and remember the Z-boys are playing tonight. You take a nap because you are normally exhausted after work, and the additional stress of being angry leaves you half dead. You take a shower, feel a little better in the warm water, a little more like the "self" you can tolerate being around. The water washes away the sweat of the day, but not all the sadness. You deal with it, smoke a cigarette in the kitchen, watching the cabs and cop drive by. That's the way it's been since you returned from that wedding in Scotland: Cabs and cops roaming the street outside your kitchen window, dropping people off and picking people up.

Everyone seems to be going somewhere except you.

You put on your coat, lock the door, and drive to Sonotheque, hoping tonight will be different fun, in hold of a kiss.

You can't find the bar and get lost somewhere amidst the Lake Street El tracks warehouses and million dollar condos. You turn around and around the blocks of closed cleaners and liquor stores hiding behind black iron cages. The streets are empty and your semi-good mood is emptying out with each exhale of now nervous cigarette smoke. You see a tiny blue neon sign peeking out from the window store fronts. You found the place and a parking spot a block away. You flick your Camel Light into the curb and walk into the bar.
After you show the bored dred-locked bouncer your ID, the first thing you see is yourself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror just inside the door to the bar. You cringe at your reflection, and turn away quickly, and walk into the main room. You avoid any mirror you come across, and there are quite a few. You can't bring yourself to look people in the eye.

It's long and dark, just the faint pulsing glow of Christmas light-like twinkles on the floor and the glow of a movie playing on two walls. The place is empty but for your friends, two bartenders, and two DJs at the bar. You swerve straight for Mike and Brian at the bar. Hellos are bandied about as you scan the overpriced drink menu, choosing Old Speckled Hen Ale just for the name and the fact it's only 5 dollars. It turns out to be a fine Ale and you drink 4-5 of them throughout the night. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
You lean against the bar, talking to one of the DJs, nice guy young, and this is his idea: having live music come on after a DJ set. The music is mixed with other bands and some of the DJs original beats. Its got a primal sad trance-like quality to it, which fits fine with your mood. The fake nostalgia of living out a Jay McInerey novel settles onto your brain, and you go with it. You lean against the bar and try and follow Mike and Neil's conversation about obscure movies by obscure foreign directors, and that crappy familiar feeling starts inching into your mood: you are the dumbest person in the room. So, you lean back from the bar and check out the women and men (boys and girls?) trickling into the bar. A rumor goes around the bar that the Z-boys aren't going to play tonight-- no one here to hear-- but that is soon quashed as the crowd surges up to like 40 people, all white hipsters except for a Nigerian ("he's fucking wacky to listen to" someone whispers to me) and a cute energetic Asian woman ("I think I met her at another of our shows" Mike whispers into my ear). You've been spending time in Gallagher's for so long, you suddenly feel out of place with all these white faces strutting around white men in leather jackets striking poses and white women standing with one leg jutted out in front of them ass pushed out just so with one hand on hip. There's a different vibe among those seeking attention, looking for a week-night hookup. You wonder what vibe you put out, shake your head and take a huge gulp of Hen: it can't be good.
The band starts playing, yet no one seems to notice. The band and the DJs have timed it worked it so the last song on the speakers was in the same key and beat as the first song by the band. It flows seamlessly into each other.
The set is mellow and good and you try to take some pictures (knowing that they won't turn out very well). There's a guy at the end of the bar who looks like a member of some Russian Mafia feeling the waist of a ample Blonde. It's strange, but you get the idea that he "owns" her. The couple next to you starts making out at the bar, you stare at the woman's jet blue-black wavy hair, and smell her sweet perfume and try to remember the last time you made out at the bar: Holly H.. 1998.
You sigh and finish your beer and scan the crowd, eyes stopping briefly on the pig-tailed girl in the 50s red dress white tights, then move on back to the Asian woman in the simple-black-dress whose name you forgot even though Mike introduced you only like 30 minutes ago. Your eyes meet, and you know there's not even a flicker of a chance, so you return to your smoke, stare at the mile long line of liquor bottles on the wall and let her go on speaking to the crazy Nigerian unmolested.
It's nearing 2 o'clock now, and you still want more beer, so you leave the Z-boys, and drive north on Ashland racking your brain for somewhere else to go. Gallagher's is closed on Tuesdays, so you try go through a list of all the 4 am bars you can think of, none of them sparking the least bit of fiery interest in your Ale-soaked brain. You turn onto Western Avenue and see an open spot next to the Mark II Lounge and think "why not." It'll be dead, but you can always mopey-gawk the hot Bulgarian waitstaff and drink in peace.

Mark II Lounge--- Edie and Robert

Friday
My Place closed until May 11th

Mullens---model---link in email?

Mark II--- Latin Swing Night


Saturday
Gallagher's----Ren and Jane

More later---Mac

Plans for a Thirsty Head-banging Thursday (maybe)

For anyone wanting to buy me a beer on a "school night," you might find me at The Little Star tomorrow...maybe. I went out on Tuesday and barely dragged my ass through both jobs today. It's been an intoxicating couple of weeks (updates to follow soon, I promise!), so I'll probably be sick again by next Wednesday.

Anyway, to start my beer tab, come to (or check with me, friends):

Little Star
6224 North Clark after 7 p.m.
Rock en espanol!

I got personally invited by DJ Bum Bum who spins at Gallagher's on weekends, and he seems like a nice enough guy.

Beer= $1
Mixed drinks= $2

Double-shift on Friday should prove to be muy painful, si?

Oh God! It's only Tuesday!

In a nutshell:
Work is lame, people I work with are irritating, the work feels meaningless, and am bored and irritated all day at work.
And I come home all tired and shit.

I need a Beer Break, a Tippling Tuesday, if you will.

And what incredible luck. My chums are playing a FREE show at Sonotheque tonight. Come join me and buy a round, I need it. And, besides, it's FREE. Doors open at 9 o'clock and my first beer opens at 9:05.

See you there.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

I'm drinking Irish beer, listening to Bollywood music, in an African-American/Mexican neighborhood, while uploading photos from my Edinburgh, Scotland trip.

All I need is an Asian person (I'm going to Doodlehead's later, so that'll do), some Russian Vodka, a Thai hooker, and I'll have a freaking U.N. microcosm moment here.

Drink safe, and drink lots, may the road rise to meet you, the wind always be at your back, and all that type of stuff.

Off to Scotland

I stink.

I slept horribly last night, tossed and turned, awakened covered in cold cold sweat. I sit here typing when I should be scheduling a cab to O'Hare, or finishing packing (the damn lid won't shut!)
I stink.
God knows what evil toxins are creeping out my wet pores right now: coffee, cigarette smoke, second-hand Crack smoke leftover from Friday night? All I know, is it smells like rotting onions sauteed in hobo urine. Lord, help whomever sits next to me on the plane.

I am both excited and terrified about this trip to Edinburgh. I've never been overseas before, really. I've been to Hawaii with my entire mom's side of the family once as a 16 year old, and on a cruise through the East Caribbean with my parents and aunt and uncle, but nothing like this before on my own. Fourteen hour flight...will I get the Air Rage instigated by the inevitable Nicotine Fit and Crying Baby (though I may be the crying baby if I don't get the FULL CAN of soda, bitch!)?

But it will all be worth it to see Fresh get married.

I'm gonna miss Lilly so much. We've only been apart for 8 days (?) at a stretch; however, I'll take comfort that she'll be in good hands with Carrie. Lilly: you play nice!

Okay, let's go sit on that suitcase now.
Probably a bong-load of photos for your viewing pleasure (indifference?) come March!

Bon-frickin'-voyage, y'all!

Mac expands his (pub) horizons

Advice for Fresh
Originally uploaded by Mac(3).

Sorry for the long delay in posts, pics, and what-not, but I've had a lot on my mind. For, you see, I am preparing for a trip to the fair hills and dales of Edinburgh, Scotland.
"But, Mac, that's a long way to go just for a drink," you may say.
Now, true, I am excited to sample a tipple or two of beers born and bred in European soil and vats, but I am going to attend more important of matters and events.
The marriage of Fresh to his lovely lass, The Doctor. That's right; a honest-to-goodness card-carrying PHD Doctor (must I always be the dumbest person in the room? Couldn't marry someone that pops up in this search, huh?).

A few weeks ago, Fresh returned to native land for a weekend of drinking, giggles, and kilted fun, a Stag Party Weekend in his honor. I've waited too long to expound on the weekend of fun in any detail, so I'll let the pictures do the talking for themselves. I had a great time, and enjoyed meeting some of his family and friends (and look forward to seeing them again in Scotland).

I've got my passport (with required shitty photo), my luggage (blue, battered, and heavy), my flight (long and, well, fucking long!), and lodging (right in the heart of Princes Street! The Court Street of Edinburgh! (or something like that)), and my Lilly-sitter all lined up and in order for the most part.

But I haven't a thing to wear! (Combination of bad fashion taste and the dread of actually doing laundry. Ever). Cripes, I'll be the stinky, Fashion Don't Representative of America for two weeks. I shall be pummeled with pint glasses and thrown off the Waverly Bridge or hung from the gallows below the Edinburgh Castle!

Or praised for my "cool, vintage early-90's apparel."

Ah well, pass a bit of the Jameson, and smooth my furrowed brow (and add another church to The List, brother).

Okay, haven't a clue what this post is about.
Later, and more often, I hope.

At least I moved to the right city

And I sure as hell ain't moving to Houston or Detroit.

Go Beers! I mean, Bears!

The Wingman Cometh.

I am sipping a beer, the first in two - 3 weeks (been sick, ya know). I have just mopped the floor, scrubbed the sinks, went all Hazmat on the toilet, and vacuumed the rugs (well, as much as I could do until the fucker started smoking. Instead of sweet Lilac, my apartment current smells of burnt rubber and melted steel).

"Mac, what's up with the uncharacteristic cleaning binge?" you may ask? (And, beeyatch, you know it's love when I clean the bathroom!!!)

As mentioned before, my last and bestest Wing man is tying the knot (clipping his wings?) in Scotland (I think that's somewhere east of New York?). However, before the falcon gets his claw ball 'n' chained, we Chicagoans are blessed with his presence for the weekend.

Will this be the Final Lost Weekend (with or without extension?) Or merely a mournful tippling of amber and black doubles and pints, a wake of sorts, the Death of a Single Man?

Dinner eaten both in and out (and in again). Dive bars dived into. Laughs laughed. Old friends will trade stories and lies of yore, and new friends met with smiles (and judgement...ha ha!). Pins will be toppled. All-in-all, much fun shall be had by all.

The cherry on top will be the kidnapping on Sunday, when we refuse to let him return to the soggy north of the U.K.

If you see us out, buy us a drink or pony-up for bail, yo!

Steadily, heavily drinking, but not much fun.

What has Mac been drinking this past week or so, you ask?

Gallons of this and that.

Cheers, and bottoms up!

Your Saturday Plans are here:

My friend Mike's side project Good Stuff House will be playing this Saturday night (the 6th) at Las Manos Gallery in Andersonville.
For this show Scott Tuma will be playing pump organ, Matt will be on guitar and Mike'll be on "invented" instruments (WTF?).

In visual addition, his kick-ass photography is also on display (part of a group nocturnal urban landscapes show).

[Update: 9:44 p.m.-- Mike and his friend NY Don are making a movie right now that will be shown in backdrop during the set. The excitement mounts and mounts!]

8 p.m.
Las Manos Gallery
5220 N. Clark Street (1/2 block north of Foster)

8pm Number None http://www.imaginaryyear.com/rebis/number_none.html
9pm Good Stuff House http://www.zelienoplemusic.com/music_gsh.html

Come overwhelm your senses, or hangout before you go to Simon's (#210) and buy us a beer!

I'm bored

Anyone going out tonight?

Post in comments, and maybe I'll meet you there.

[Update: 10:45 p.m.-- screw it, I'm going to Gallaghers (#264)...why not, right?)

Happy New Year

From Mac and Lilly.

Good luck to us all.