Normally I don't tell stories about the antics of my buddy KC. Y'see, he's always up to something, and if I want to start recording his hijinks I'd need a whole other blog. But his latest tomfoolery has me thinking about its possibilities and consequences.

Y'see, KC has a bus. You know, sleeps eight, kitchen, bathroom, DVD with Stereo Surround, etc etc. If you knew this guy, the fact that he's 24 and owns a city bus wouldn't be in the least surprising. But he really outdid himself when he mounted a train horn on it.

Think about how far away you can hear a train's horn as it toots through town. Those fuckers can honk. KC said when he first blew it, it nearly shook the shit out of him, literally. I can't imagine when he could blast this thing and not cause some serious trouble.

If he honked it in traffic on the highway, all cars in the immediate vicinity would wreck into the ditch. I can even see it shattering windows. My mind immediately turned to activist uses, as any outdoor event could be seriously disrupted with this thing. I found a website about a guy who has one on his truck, and he honks it at high school football games when the home team scores. He also mentions that owning one requires a lot of restraint. KC doesn't have a lot of restraint.

So I'm wondering two things: 1) How illegal is this, and what is illegal- possession? Honking? Honking in traffic? 2) What are some fun things that could be done with this doohickey? The ol' wake-em-up is a classic, especially if it was combined with a flashlight shining in the victim's eyes.

I'm sure you can come up with something evil to do.

My parents came for a visit this weekend and brought with them an ugly green chair for my study and a batch of oatmeal cookies with Grammaw's pecans in 'em. They took Singular Girl and I out to eat at Bistro 110, which was really shwanky and had lots of fresh seafood. My mom got the red snapper, which they baked whole and fileted in front of her. I got the chicken, which they bake at 700 degrees, meaning it's as juicy as a flash-fried turkey.

So anyway, sitting at the table next to us was my eigth-grade social studies teacher, Mr. Rolfes! He remembered me from the 89-90 school year. Amazing. I mean, I was a troublesome student, so many of my teachers remember me with gritted teeth, but teachers have thousands of students pass through their classrooms. It must be amazing to travel the world and run into all these former students of yours.

I was the weak, nerdy kid who goofed off in order to gain what I thought was acceptance from the cool kids... but I'd quickly learn they were merely laughing at me... I sure wasn't invited to their birthday parties. I was the kid who was in the Chess Club, Odessy of the Mind, and the Drama Club, and thought that those clubs were social clubs just like the ones the cool kids were in. I was also the kid who got nosebleeds every day- the only thing I remember from Mr. Rolfes' class is that one day I sneezed, and my nose started bleeding, and I sneezed again, and sprayed blood all over my desk, myself, and my neighbors.

Then when I went into high-school I became the angsty, long-haired, trenchcoat-wearing, camo-pants-bloused-into-combat-boots type of nerd. The one who played roleplaying games at lunchtime and thought that the world didn't understand me. I had the ratty clothes and the goatee and a pocket sown into my trenchcoat full of 50 lbs of junk, like a manhole lifter, a potato gun, a telephone... what a loser. I was the one who hung out with the stoners but didn't even drink. I skipped school only one day, during my junior year, when we had a walk-out in protest of budget cuts and me and Matt, Chris, and Ryan snuck off to Peffer Park where I smoked a clove cigarette, the first time I ever smoked anything. Our high school had a term for us: "Smellers". In my school, you were either a Prep (richies, jocks- the cool kids) a Rebel (rednecks, trailer trash, and hoods), or a Smeller (band, theater, skaters, the kids who were in the art room all day, Columbine potentials). Nerds and geeks slipped through the cracks, unless they could disguise themselves as one of the three. Like me.

Then, after high school, all the cool kids went two routes: They either got fat, married, and pregnant, and settled down with their high school sweeties for a life as a rural Ohio dental assistant or roof-shingler. Or they became grungy, long-haired, goatee-wearing stoners. In high school, the smellers wore flannels and holey jeans, and at the dances the DJs (always cool kids) refused to play that Nirvana shit. Right after high school, "Grunge" hit and my old uniform was the uniform of the fratboy.

So now, whenever I go to Townie night in my hometown, or a concert by a band from my high school, I always run into those cool kids, and they always seem to be on some mission to demonstrate how much they are now like I was then. Then, they kicked the shit out of me and called me fag, shot spitwads at me in class and tripped me in the halls, or in the case of the girls just completely ignored me except for the occasional fake-note-from-your-crush gag. Now they want me to know that they realized what cool was, that it was about fighting the man, man, dropping out of society, getting whatever tats and piercings are required in order for them to look just like the other millions who are trying to look different. They never apologize, they just over-compensate.

I always give them the benefit of the doubt, though. Everybody becomes a different human between 18 and 25. I was sure an asshole, and I turned around and took out my anger at being picked on on the nerds and the geeks. This last decade has afforded a nice revenge on us uncool kids- now the geeks are the millionaires, the smellers are the graphic artists and actors and rock stars, and the preps are all marketing managers and account reps, stuck in miserable lives with spouses they hate and jobs that suck their souls away. Why else does Bill Gates do what he does, but for revenge?

I got out of that town, where there were only two places that were open 24 hours and both were Stop-n-Robs. I was lucky. Many more are still there, trudging through their lives and wondering why nothing's exciting any more. Gotta get home from Ace Hardware in time for Survivor. I try to do what I can to encourage them to make the leap- it's a scary one, but it's the best thing I've ever done for my life. I'll retire to a small town, but I sure as hell won't waste the prime of my life there. What the fuck, I'm rambling, and Ryan said it better than I could anyway...

i wish i didn't grow up
in the town that i grew up in
kept me silent
kept me stupid
never fought back
never fought back

where were my friends
to keep me up down
that's all it took to keep me on the ground
rubbing mud in my eyes
rubbing mud in my eyes...

A Nissan dealer here in Chicago has sent out a bunch of empty prescription bottles as a promotional item, with the slogan "Altima: The Remedy For Boredom."

Yeah, this is a great time to be sending empty prescription bottles to strangers through the mail.

Anything I want... he gives it to me
Anything I want... he gives it
but not for free
-The Clash, Hateful

This morning:

"Thanks for the package."
"No problem."
"Umm... did you mean to give me so much?"
"Yeah."
"Why? You tryin' to kill me?"
"Heh. No, I just wanted to get rid of it."
"Bet you never thought you'd have that problem..."
"It's the economy, man... with this recession, nobody's buyin'."

Be a good American! Show our strength! Buy buy buy! Don't let the black market suffer!

As a reader of Dan Savage's wrote to point out, the Al Qaeda's hatred of the U.S. is in part due to the sinful activities taking place here. Therefore, in order to defy their attempts to break our spirit, we must engage in these sinful activities more vigorously than ever! Consume substance! Expand sexual liberties! Go to strip bars! Buy liqour at a never-before-seen rate! Engage in kinky sex! Perform acts of gratuitous homosexuality! If you're straight, now's the time to show your support for America! The Al Qaeda will not be beaten so long as there is a single American who has not slept with someone of the same sex! The call is from Patriotism. Will you accept the charges?

Okay, they pushed forward my coworker's commercial in order to make it eligible for the Clio Awards. It debuts today on TV. I know it seems odd for me to be excited about a 30-second commercial, but this is a good one. Then again, whenever I watch TV, I'm always laughing at the commercials, I guess since I don't see the same ones hundreds of times a day.

Plus there's the fact that I've followed the progress of this one, from the storyboard and original casting, through the shot, and then the release. Hooterhumper/Spoo-in-the-Shoe/Southern Supastar is obviously excited about it, so he was eager to show us the final cut and let us know when it debuts.

There are three commercials for Eternal Darkness for the Nintendo Game Cube, each along this "Sanity's Farewell" theme. He's the one with the ahnk on his shoulder. Look for it- it's a pretty damn funny commercial. I'll post a link when its available online.

I need to tell the story of our big bash, and last Friday's soiree at E-D & Piloto's. But I can't seem to find time to blog these days. So I'll give the Reader's Digest Condensed Life version:

Two Saturdays ago: Big party. Lots of likker consumed. Many guests of all ages, from three to forty-three. Nothing broken. Good time had by most. Guadalupe in the house.
Last Friday: Hung out at E-D's. Piloto made quesadillas with huitalcoche, a mushroom that's only available at one time of the year. He said that in Mexico eating it shows that you're from the puebla. He was so amused to find it available in cans in a supermarket in the U.S.! It was some good shit. Learned a new term: No mames.
This week: Saw the Hooterhumper's commercial. The game is "Eternal Darkness". Commercial debuts Nov. 1st on the website, Dec 1st on TV. It's hilarious. Directed by Lucky Scott, son of Ridley. Need a new name for the Hooterhumper, he doesn't hump hooters any more.

Y'see, there was this one time when he went home with a waitress from Hooter's. Actually, he went to a friend's house, and "just when he was about to stick it in," as he put it, his girlfriend knocked at the door. And kept knocking. Why he told her where he'd be when he was planning on going home with a Hooter's girl is beyond me. So she calls his cell phone from the front door, he answers it, and says he's working late. Whew! Tragedy averted, right? Hehehe... he gets back into the room where the Hooter's girl is and she's got her clothes on. "Was that your girlfriend?" she asked. "Uhhh.. it's kind of a weird situation," he replied, meaning that obviously he didn't love her enough to avoid cheating on her. "I'm not stupid," said Hooterette, "Lose my number." And out she went.

So you see, he never really was the Hooterhumper. Maybe I'll call him "Spoo in the Shoe". You don't EVEN wanna hear that story.

At Ditka's restaurant in Chicago, each pat of butter is emblazoned with His image.

The brand? "I Can't Believe It's Not Ditka!"

Funny, and banned from two NYC newspapers!

On Friday, I took part in baseball history, or so I hear. Someone said that the regular season had never extended into October before. Yet there I was, in the cold rain, at a Cubs game.

The President of my company has four season tickets, and she was nice enough to give them to my department as a little motivator. But the original date for the game, September 14th, wasn't a very pick-me-up sorta day. The Cubs' battle against the Pirates was postponed until last Friday.

Now, I'm about as much of a fan of professional sports as I am of professional quilting. In other words, I'll watch it, but any more than one game a year is way too much for me to handle. So I try to make it to a baseball game once a year just for the thrill of the crowd, the hot dogs and beer, and the sense of personal victory when people who don't know you succeed at what they do. Other sports such as football and basketball (and the worst, golf) are excrutiating for me to watch- I'd rather be hanging by my eyelids. Some sports I really enjoy watching are curling, bullfighting (always rooting for the bull, of course), and sumo wrestling (goooooo Akebono!).

I'm sure my dad, a die-hard fan of sports of all sorts, was disappointed when his eldest son was only interested in taekwondo and rock-climbing and not any of the more competitive sports. I remember him making us watch "Eight Men Out" with the kids whining about how bored and tired we were while he said, "No, wait- watch this- it's where the conspiracy really gets convoluted!" And he made sure to drag us to all of the best ballparks, such as Wrigley Field and Fenway Park, when on family vacations when I was little. So, I'd been to a Cubs game once before- 12 years ago- and since then one other baseball game- the Reds at Cinergy Parking Garage in Cincinnati two years ago, which inspired me to attempt to attend a game a year.

We left work at noon, and stopped by the Scoundrel's Lounge to drink a few cheap beers. At that point Brooklyn Mick's "I won't drink today" mantra changed to "I won't drink inside the park". We threw back a few- well, not all of us. The four seats went to myself, Brooklyn Mick, Mayo Mick, and the Hooterhumper. Hooterhumper was in training for the Chicago Marathon so he didn't drink beer. But between us three we made up for him, thankfully.

A short train ride later, we strolled into Wrigley like Balki and Cousin Larry from 'Perfect Strangers'. Brooklyn immediately bought us a round, breaking his backup mantra. Oh well, if you ain't going to the ballpark to get drunk, why are you there? :)

Found our seats within the Friendly Confines- front row of the balcony, halfway between home and first base. Wrigley is such an intimate park that it was hard to believe the millions that those players were making. If you've never been there, the first row is separated from the field by a three-foot brick wall, the scoreboard is manual, and the houses across the street all have bleachers on the roof because you can see right into the park. This was Mayo Mick's first baseball game, so I'm glad it was there. Some other city's concrete behemoth wouldn't have left as favorable an impression. We had to explain the rules, so we told her it was just like rounders, except the players don't usually wail on each other with the bats.

So we're watching these grown men play games, and all I can think is "25 million a year... 25 million a year..." It all looked so much more impressive in Cinergy Eastern European Housing Block, when the players were a mile or so away. On one hand, they're playing games for money, and they make more than a hundred schoolteachers. On the other hand, people are willing to pay to go to the game (it's a luxury, not a neccessity), so that money is there anyway, and the owners make SO much more. Plus, you have to play the game in front of millions of people, so you're under incredible scrutiny. So I decided I don't really care what they make. Sports attendance is dying anyway, so maybe more guys are out there spending time with their wives and kids and stuff rather than cussing at the television all day.

I hooted an hollered for the Cubs to win, because hey, this town may be my adopted hometown but ya gotta love a team that hasn't won the world series in pert near a century. Carl Sagan has this theory about how sports appeal to our primal need for tribal identity, and in his book "Billions and Billions" he lists sports mascots along side of Somalian native totems- lions, eagles, rams, etc etc. They're all the same, except the Somalian tribesfolk also have a spirit for diarrhea, and if there's a baseball team with diarrhea as a mascot, then surely it is a Japanese team.

Got to see Sammy Sosa smack a home run off to Irving Park. You can't miss the guy- he's built like a turkey leg, and he just steps up to the plate, does all those hoodoo moves like tapping his feet, lets the first two pitches go by, and then WHACKs that poor ball out of the atmosphere. Then he lumbers around the bases, much to the delight of the fans.

But after he did that, they started walking him! I can't believe it. I guess the players are concerned with who wins- I just wanna see Sammy swat a few dingers into Wisconsin. I wish there was a baseball equivalent of the Harlem Globetrotters.

The drunken fellow in front of us was talking about how glad he was that Barry Bonds has tied the home run record, despite the fact that everybody seems to hate Barry Bonds. This guy was just glad that the dumbshmuck who paid $3 million for the record-breaking ball that Mark McGuire hit was now stuck with the ball that set the second-highest record. LOL!

At one point a Pirate hit a home run, and the fan who caught it threw the ball back onto the field. I love that.

The best part of the day was when a fly ball came up our way and out of the scramble came a little five-year-old kid, his face painted with "CUBS" and an American flag, with the ball. If anybody deserves a ball, it's a little kid, idolizing the players in the few short years before he learns of the corruption, drug use, prostitution, spousal abuse, and murder that our "heroes" partake in. It was definitely a 'moment'.

Well, da Cubbies lost, I'm guessing, I was drunker'n Dubya so who knows? The Micks went off to drink some more, and I went home to pass out in preparation for the arrival of Guadalupe for an action-packed weekend of partying hearty. It took me until Monday to post this if that's any indication. I'm glad I got to take part in this fine American tradition and see Sammy Sosa doing something besides challenging me to step up to the plate to take the Pepsi challenge. And, even though Harry Carey wasn't there, our drunken state meant that his legacy was not forgotten. I recommend that you all drink at a beersball game.

As I trudged up the stairs from the subway on my way to work, the warm locker-room smell of my city's semisubterranean worker unit distribution system washed off me like all the cheese sliding off of a pizza slice. Stank, it seems, loves company, just as the volcanic, greasy mozzarella holds tight to its stringy brethren and leaves you with a sauce-painted triangle of dough.

There were a few steps worth of fresh air. But as I crested the stairs, I got pounded in the nose by a replacement stench, this one powerful enough to make me feel like someone was playing yard-darts with my nostrils as the target. The chocolate factory was working overtime today.

The picture we all have in our heads of a chocolate factory is no doubt the one painted by Roald Dahl. In reality, it probably looks more like a brewery- take Willy Wonka's, replace the chocolate river with aluminum piping, and replace the oompa-loompas with scruffy union guys in coveralls, horking oysters into the mix as they man the soy lecithin injector and stare boredly at the yellowed pinup of Miss September 1982 as she smiles at the world forever with big hair, airbrushed skin, and a staple in her belly. Manufacturing centers completely drain the romance out of any product, and it's best not to see things get made. Isn't that sad? Not only are we so separated from our food and possessions that we obtain rather than make them, but we don't want to see how they're made because it's always depressing. I mean, there's nothing on Sesame Street that I love more than the Laverne & Shirley-esque shots of ketchup being bottled, but when you don't have the 50's "doodoodoodoo" music to make it seem cartoony it just serves as undeniable evidence of our separation from the earth.

So the air is filled with the smell of chocolate. Some days, when the wind is blowing, it smells good, like one of those stuffed gingerbread-man christmas tree ornaments with cinnamon inside. Those days I can imagine I live in a gingerbread city where the manholes are Famous Amos cookies and the buildings are all nibbled away at the corners. Most days, however, it stinks.

Think about the city. That fresh city smell! Granted, no city in this country smells quite like New York, but Chicago has a nice river to add its own little bouquet to the diesel fumes and factory pollution in the air. Mix that pollution, the exhaust, and the smell of Republicans who tried to run for office rotting in the river with chocolate and you can imagine how disgusting it is. It's like a corruption of chocolate. Did you ever find some fruit in the fridge, and it smelled a little too good, and you turned it over and it was all moldy and you realized in disgust you were smelling rotted fruit? Or you administer the sniff-test to some meat and find your stomach saying, "Mmmmm, bologna!" while your brain says, "Bad! Don't eat! Puke now!". I've heard EMTs say that sometimes they'll come upon a scene where somebody's been burned in a fire and there's that split second where something smells really good, like someone's having a barbeque... and then they realize what the smell is. It seems that smelling a stinky smell is not so bad as smelling a stinky smell with some good smell in it.

So, needless to say, I'm not too into chocolate these days. The street where I work has an overflowing sewer problem, so most days as I skip towards freedom at 5:05 I'm smelling raw sewage and chocolate. It's not like sight, where I can turn my head to the bums and ignore the 7-story Gap ad and pretend not to see the trust-fund babies who don't have to work driving their SUVs to Marshall Fields and talking on their cell phones about the $250 t-shirt they're going to buy. Smell is molecules, tumbling around mixing together inseperably, evoking stronger memories and emotions than any other sense and yet we're completely vulnerable to them. We can put a wall between the houses and the highway, and you can go your way and I can go my way, but we can't escape the smell. Hippies can drown themselves in patchouli but we all know they ain't bathing. Factories can claim a low environmental impact but we all smell the fumes. The mayor can say the river's clean, even dye it to look like it, but the nose knows. Smell is, it seems, nature's conscience.