To Stress My Point

I was saddened today to hear on the news that Chicago has been ranked by Forbes magazine as the #1 Most Stressful City in America.

They based the rankings on many variables, including: unemployment rate, cost of living, number of days of sunshine, the cost of gasoline and the air quality. They called many of the top 10 (or losing 10?) urban monsters, and my favorite: "human bee hives."

My defenses went up. If you've read more than one of my posts, you know that I love this city and really reach out and enjoy many corners of it. I love the diversity of the people, the neighborhoods, the architecture, the nightlife, the sporting events, the cultural activities and the sheer feel of it. I love it.

And, that doesn't stress me out at all.

In order to defend her, I looked up a few facts about Chicago that you may not know. We boast the:

World’s largest commercial office building (Merchandise Mart)
World’s busiest airport (O'Hare)
World’s largest public library (Harold Washington)
World’s largest Tiffany dome (Chicago Cultural Center)
World’s largest free-admission food festival (Taste of Chicago)
World’s largest illuminated fountain (Buckingham Fountain)
World’s largest convention facility (McCormick Place)
World’s largest parochial school system (Archdiocese of Chicago)
World's largest outdoor block party (Old St. Pat's)

I could go on, but no one wants to read a list of measly items like that. Those aren't the things that truly make this My Kind of Town.

I love this city, and will defend her, for so many reasons that make life LESS stressful. Not the least of these are the fact that this is a beautifully planned, organized, gridded city. It makes sense. It is logical. Eight blocks is a mile. Everything starts at 0 at State and Madison in the heart of the Loop. Addresses on the north and west side of the street are even, the others are odd. It just is easy.

The highways are a tad bit more confusing, and of course they're filled with traffic, but eventually you get used to the fact that they refer to them in names, not numbers, here. After some time you realize that the Kennedy is 90 to O'Hare, and that the Edens is 94 up to the north shore. It eventually dawns on you that the highways going north and south, while sporting the same number, don't always have the same name. I consider it a tourist-check. Just seeing if they're paying attention.

As you clearly know from my many posts about the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA), this city is also home to a fairly big and easy-to-conquer system of public transportation. It's not perfect, and it's not as good as other cities I've visited, but it gets me to and from work for under $4 and under 30 minutes door-to-door each way, so I can't complain.

People, including myself, complain about the weather, the traffic and the lack of free parking (available or non-paid). Gas is almost $4.50 a gallon and despite any denials to the contrary, the snow is coming. But...

It also doesn't stress me out that much. It provides great fodder for this blog, and for a storyteller like me, that actually is decreasing the stress of finding something to write about each day.

Back to the facts, ma'am, you ask? Okay. This city is also the global headquarters to some seriously famous and large companies, including, but obviously not limited to:

Boeing
Sears
Walgreens
Caterpillar
Motorola
Allstate
Kraft Foods
Abbott Laboratories
McDonald’s
Sara Lee
Exelon
CNA Financial
OfficeMax
CDW
Wrigley

So, in summary, in one fell swoop in this city, you can get an airplane, a dishwasher, shampoo, a tractor, a cell phone, insurance, macaroni 'n cheese, pharmaceuticals, a cheeseburger, natural gas, investments, a ream of paper, a computer and a pack of gum.

You can also visit a building with its own zip code, catch an international flight, check out a book, see stained glass, eat more than you can handle, see a fountain that was a gift from a husband to his wife, go to the sales conference, visit a nun, and drink outside at a street festival where you're likely to meet the love of your life (or so they claim).

Not bad! Kindof, well, de-stresses you to have all those things taken care of, no?

That's what I thought.

In case you're still not sold, or you're too ADD to read all of this, you can simply look at the visual aids below (although I guess if you've gotten this far, you must've read something).

In the borrowed words of Stevie Wonder, isn't she lovely?



























































*special thanks to Spudart for some of the gorgeous photos above!*

Forbes, take a hike. Go back to New York. What do you know?

The Lies Hurt

I'm not feeling very funny today, and I don't have any charming stories or little observations to share.

Just this tiny little diatribe, vent and plea:

Someone very close to me has been very, deeply hurt by gossip. Widespread gossip. Hurtful, horrible, humiliating gossip. Gossip that is based on nothing but lies, misjudgment, accusations and backhandedness. Jealousy is a very ugly thing, and it makes people do very inhumane things.

I sent this person my love and support, but my heart literally breaks as I empathize with the pain and humiliation that gossip can bring. My stomach churns with the pain of knowing how hurtful this is.

So, Internet, I beg you. Please do NOT believe everything you read. Most of it is garbage, trash created and disseminated to sell magazines, make money or cause trouble. Most of it has very little to do with the truth. And, the people who associate themselves with it are just as low as you can be.

And, please silently send good karma out there into oblivion for my loved one. Today is the day for the loving and kind thoughts of strangers to lift one up from the depths of yuck.

This person knows how I feel, how much I care, and how much I faith, belief and support I have, and for that, I am proud.

Nasty gossip, and authors/spreaders of it, be damned. You'll get your due.

Famine, Poverty, Death & Whole Milk

I am saddened by a story I saw today on the news.

No, it wasn't anything to do with animal cruelty, natural disasters, gang violence, diseases or orphaned children in Africa. (Though, those things DO make me sad, of course.)

Nope. The news item that caught my eye, and then turned my stomach, is reproduced below from MSNBC.com. Instead of linking you, and taking the risk that you'd not read the article, I've reprinted it here. It's short. Then we'll discuss.

Olsen twins’ Starbucks scandal
By Courtney Hazlett, The Scoop

De facto Starbucks spokes-twins Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen might have a scandal on their hands. A former barista from the Olsen’s oft-frequented Starbucks in New York’s West Village allegedly used to swap out skim milk for the full-fat variety when the girls came by for their caffeine fix, reports OK! magazine.

The twins regularly ordered Grande nonfat lattes, but according to the Starbucks snitch, “the barista thought the Olsens were too thin, so whenever they ordered their usual drink, he would replace the skim milk with full-fat,” the source told the magazine.

The Olsen’s rep responded to the latte lunacy saying, “This is ridiculous.” Yes, it is, but one fellow latte-lover close to the Olsens (who requested anonymity) said that she sympathizes with the twins—to an extent. “It’s also my worst nightmare—that and getting a huge diet fountain soda that is mistakenly regular Coke—but I can def(initely) taste the difference, so it’s their own fault if they fell victim.”
__

Ok. Let's dissect. Several key words stand out to me, making this "scoop" item utterly and completely ridiculous:

-Scandal. Uhm, really?
-Snitch. Are we in high school?
-Allegedly. What? Is this going to trial?
-Victim. Of what, being fed?

But, my absolutely favorite part is the quote, from an anonymous "friend" of the Olsens, who claims that her "worst nightmare" is getting a diet drink from a soda fountain, only to realize, the shock, the horror, that it is regular Coke.

I'm sorry. If THAT is her WORST NIGHTMARE, I want to live her life.

At the very least, I'd put Mary-Kate and Ashley's fashion choices up there in the list of nightmares, but that's just me.

I Guess Mowing the Lawn is a Given?

I just saw this article in Esquire and it is truly great. Entitled "The 75 Skills Every Man Should Master," it not only lists them, there is some sideline commentary that cracks me up.

The author, Tom Chiarella, asserts that no man can be an expert in everything, but racking up these skills as he moves through life is one way to guarantee manly success.

I'd have to agree.

Specifically, I'm a fan of the following, complete with my own sideline chatter:

• #3 Take a photo. Everyone should know this, and men aren't the only ones who suck. I abhor handing my camera to someone who offers to take the group photo, only to get it back and see 40% of the photo is allocated to the roof, or the table covered in beer bottles. Thank God for the cropping tool.


• #5 Name a book that matters. And no, Stephen King doesn't count.


• #24 Know his poison, without standing there like a dope. Amen. Isn't that a huge turn-off for women? A man that flounders at the bar, only to quietly, timidly order something girly and pink? Honestly, I was out with a friend and her (now ex) boyfriend, and he ordered a Stoli Orange with a splash of grapefruit and a dash of Diet Seven-up. I almost croaked on my Miller Lite. Not only was his drink something only to be sipped while in Mexico on the beach, his order included the words 'dash' and 'diet.' Not manly, my friend.


• #31 Make a bed. Admittedly, this one parlays into my OCD/neatness tendencies. But seriously, how hard is it to pull the comforter up? Place a pillow or two at the top? PRETEND you have nice bedding and a headboard that matches the footboard? (Sorry, Brett.) I am guessing that when men get married, they also get furniture and a made bed.


• #35 Jump-start a car, change a flat tire and change the oil. Frankly, this one is good for a man who is with me, because short of checking the oil or adding wiper fluid, I'm toast. Side-of-the-road-and-stranded toast. Thank God the one time I had a flat was within about 7 miles of my parents' house and my Dad rescued me.


• #41 Speak to a waiter so he will hear. My feeling on this is not so much about the volume with which you address the waiter, but the manner and temperament with which you address the waiter. If a man is rude to a server, he's also likely to be mean to his mother, and may kick puppies on the side. Having waited tables many times in my life, it is not that hard to be kind, direct, respectful and polite. On either side of the table.


• #51 Build a campfire. I like this one strictly because for me, the image of a man building a campfire, bonfire or fire in the wood-burning fireplace in the basement, is just hot. No pun intended.


• #54 Break up a fight. Yes, please. I hate violence, and fighting is something I just don't get. I know, I know, #13 says you should know how to throw a punch, but I'm more a fan of the guy who is breaking up the fight, urging the guys to speak rationally about the issue. Maybe I'm dreaming, but after witnessing a few drunken brawls in college, and even ducking once or twice when a bottle sailed our way, I'm out.


• #59 Write a thank you note. I threw this one in here for all my girls who have gotten married, or had kids (or both!) and had to spend hours writing the notes alone. My cousin asked her husband to write the notes to his family and friends, and she wrote her half, and it seemed like a great idea. His note was cute, charming and a tad bit hilarious, but at least it was heartfelt and genuine. Don't worry, men, the article breaks down the note's structure for you. Maybe a thank you note to the author is in order?


• #62 Hold a baby. Why, I suspect this skill will come in handy at least one day. And, the Heisman Trophy pose will only work on the kid when he is REALLY small. And it scares the mother anyway.


• #71 Iron a shirt. I can't help but recall a time when my friend Brad was staying with my family for a summer in college due to an internship a few days a week, and the "ironing board dance" is still a family memory that is guaranteed to stir up some laughs. The author doesn't tell you this, but the secret is two-fold. Starch makes everything easier, and always do the front last. That's the part that matters most anyway.


• #73 Caress a woman's neck. Quite obviously. Brett, your technique makes up for the unmade bed. Almost.

There you have it. A concise list of 75 easy ways to become a well-rounded, skilled manly man.

I must admit, I'm happy to say that most of the men in my life (read: my boyfriend, few close guy friends and my father) are all quite skilled. I wonder who has the most? I'm pretty sure men like a good competition...

Maybe we should develop a bracket and keep score?

Chicken for Breakfast: I'm Lovin' It

While at painting class last night, with the class full and busily man-handling their color still lifes (oh wait, that was just me), the radio was on and playing all sorts of fun 1970s classic rock.

And then a commercial promoting McDonald's new breakfast treat—chicken biscuits—came on and interrupted the quiet. The class all simultaneously reacted negatively, with the teacher even saying aloud, "who eats chicken for breakfast?"

Uh...have you EVER been to Chick-fil-A? The fast food chain that is healthier than the rest, tastes better, smells delicious and is torturously NOT in the Midwest yet? Ok, so apparently there are a few franchise spots up in Wisconsin, but even I haven't had that much of an urge. Yet.

At Atlanta-based Chick-fil-A, you eat chicken for breakfast, and you wash it down with a giant lemonade. That's just what you do. Then you go back at lunch and get the nuggets and waffle fries, and wash that down with a sweet tea. HEAVEN.

So now when I'm seeing the article in the Chicago Tribune today asking, "Will the chicken for breakfast work in the North?" it just upsets me. At least one observer, quoted in the article, was smart enough to give credit where credit was due saying, "They may not admit this, but it looks like they copied this a little from Chick-fil-A."

Give it a chance. I'm not sure that Midwest-based McDonald's will do it the way that Chick-fil-A does, or half as well, but let's not knock it before you've tasted the delicious salty chicken resting on a buttery, flaky biscuit.

McDonald's is giving them out free tomorrow, and Costa-Rica-trip-diet be damned, I'll be in line.

Wishing it were the real thing, but willing to take one for the team, and sacrifice a little something for a taste. I'll let you know.

Say Cheese!

As if traveling wasn't enough of a stress, airports in New York and Los Angeles have announced they will be soon equipped with body scanners that allow security screeners to see beneath a passenger's clothing to detect concealed weapons.

The machines, which are about the size of a revolving door, use low-energy electromagnetic waves to produce a computerized image of a traveler's entire body. I hope that the everyday American can figure these things out better than they can maneuver the revolving doors on Michigan Avenue.

But, seriously. Great. Now we're going to hear celebrities who are dieting to avoid looking fat in the aiport scans. Aren't they the only people we ever hear of (or see photos of) traveling through NYC or L.A.?

The black and white, 3D scans aren't as vivid as a photograph, but they do reveal some of the more intimate curves of the human form. Supposedly, (as in, similar to what Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson likely thought), the captured images will not be recorded or stored. Passengers' faces are blurred to further protect their identities.

Sounds about like the photo booths often placed at the back of a dive bar. With the blurring coming from the last round of cocktails, of course.

But what I want to know is, do you get to keep a photo strip of your four best poses?

God is in the Vanity Plates?

Walking back from lunch, I always manage to spot at least one oddity that is deemed blog worthy. Today's entry is this:

A black Mercedes, complete with tinted windows, shiny rims and a vanity plate that said, "THKUGOD."

I, too, believe that God is good, is all around us, and answers our prayers. But unless that woman had been praying for a new 4-door sedan, I'm not quite sure I understand the connection.

Does God pay the monthly lease payments? Did the money for the car come from the church collection plates? Did she pray every night for God to fill her empty driveway? Did He Himself drive it up into the 4-car garage?

Either way, I am reminded of a reverend in Atlanta my Mom worked with to decorate his home.

His name, and you can't make this stuff up, is Reverend Creflo Dollar, and he is quite "famous" for his work as the head of the World Changers International Church just south of Atlanta.

Claiming that he doesn't preach love of money, only God, he is under inquisition by the Senate for his Rolls-Royces, private Learjets, million-dollar Atlanta home and $2.5 million Manhattan apartment, all tax-exempt gifts from the ministries and his congregations. He claims that his wealth furnishes proof to his followers of the validity of his teachings and is a leading apostle of what is known as the “prosperity gospel.”

In a DVD put out by his church, called Does God Want You to be Poor?, Dollar says that Jesus was not poor and his disciples were not poor. He says faith can transform poverty into an abundant life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall any mention of Jesus and his apostles living life of the wealthy. Most Bible stories include references to love, compassion and forgiveness, not of riches, clothing, and abundance.

When you click on the home page for his ministries, the first box of content you see says, "A Plea for Support for Our Ministries." Off to the side, you can pledge your "love gift" and in the center, you can buy Dollar's books, support his online broadcast, or buy downloads of his videos. Not exactly the compassionate, love-filled prayerful messages I'd hope would appear front and center on MY church's website.

No matter what your opinion on this mixing ministry with money, my favorite part of my Mom's decorating story was that he wanted my mother, a classy, conservative, talented and all-too-kind interior decorator (with a fine arts degree and a love of fine furnishings) to decorate his entire house using only purple, black and gold. I think my Mom had to work really hard not to laugh when he insisted that she work in some "gold lamé into the scheme."

I kindof hoped he'd pay her not in cash, but in a one-year lease on a gold Rolls Royce. Then, the vanity plate could have read "THKUREV$$" and brought her all kinds of prosperity.

Her suburban neighbors would have loved that one.

Idiots on the Loose

I'm sure you all saw this news story yesterday, but it is just too weird to let it go without discussion. A 40-year old man in Ohio was caught, and charged with a felony for, having sex with his picnic table.

After you digest that little nugget, I'm sure your next thought is, uhm, how? (Hold the 'why' thought. I am not sure I can answer that one).

Turns out this guy's a genius, and a crafty little pervert. He flipped his own backyard picnic table on its side, and used the umbrella hole for, ahem, pleasure. His neighbors caught him in the act, on video, on multiple occasions, and I for one am glad that video has not yet been released. Although I'm sure trashy Fox News channel will release it soon enough. One has to wonder if the picnic table had consented to the act...

The next question you may be asking is, ok, that's gross and strange, but how is that a crime?

Apparently Table Pervert lives within a certain number of feet from an elementary school, and since he was in the nude performing a lewd act, it is a felony. And, it was in broad daylight.

Did I mention that the guy is married with three school-aged children? That's one way to teach your kids about resourcefulness.

When I was discussing this topic with my friend Jenny, she recalled an incident of similiar gross proportions during a summer residing in New York City with her father. Her dad's building was on 3rd Avenue, in a very nice part of town. She was coming home from dinner with friends at about 11 pm on a weeknight, and just three doors down from her dad spotted a guy literally having sex with the sidewalk.

In her words, "I mean, one could argue that he was having sex ON the sidewalk, but given the lack of actual partner, I can’t help but think the cement was his intended."

The best part of Jenny's story is that he was not just going for it, he was talking dirty to it. Trying to get the sidewalk into the mood, you know. When he noticed her walking by, he stopped, stood up, and pulled up his pants. At least he has some decorum.

Talk about chafing.

And, I notice that it is Wednesday as I once again write about perverts. Maybe today truly is Hump Day?

Should've Gone with the Peter Gabriel

A woman who showed up Sunday outside John Cusack’s Malibu home—despite a restraining order barring her from approaching the actor—was arrested on suspicion of stalking.

Do you think she went with the old 'hold the boom box up outside the window' approach, just to get John to Say Anything?

Or did she go all High Fidelity on him and list out the top 10 reasons why he should be friends with her?

Did she claim that it was Serendipity that had brought them together?

Nope.

In filing for his restraining order, Cusack accused her of throwing over his fence a bag containing love letters, rocks and screwdrivers.

Screwdrivers? I do hope they mean the kind with orange juice and vodka. Yum.

Otherwise, her behavior (and my puns) are just Grosse. Point Blank.

Crash Into Me

I watched the Oscar-winning film "Crash" again this week, and I feel the same way I did the first time. A sticky combination of sadness and acknowledgement.

The sadness part is easy.

There are sad storylines, sad endings, sad people and sad scenarios. This sadness is okay, though, because it proves that I'm a feeling and sensitive human being. And, it can be cured by a dose of Seinfeld or something else uplifting like eating a whole bag of Twizzlers Twerpz and telling myself it was just a movie and that it isn't real. But it is, and I know that deeper in my heart than I'd care to admit.

The acknowledgement part is a little more complex.

The message of the movie, in my humble and un-researched opinion, is that we ALL judge others based on stereotypes. And, that deep down, we don't really mean to be racist or judgemental or ignorant, but we sometimes are. And, we are often dealt the consequences of these actions, and we must acknowledge this.

I also think there is an underlying message of goodness—even the terribly unlikable characters, namely Matt Dillon's crooked cop—have a softer and more loving side to them that they don't show the world, just those whom they love. And, I'm certain that this is true to some degree. It is even possible that serial killers are nice to their mothers. But, I wonder about this notion. Are people inherently good, and we make bad decisions that make us bad people? This brings up the nature vs. nurture argument that is too heady for me to attack, but is definitely on my mind today.

Living in a relatively diverse city, but recognizing the divide that exists here geographically, socially, etc., it is impossible to ignore the fact that we are faced with countless opportunities (loosely using that word) to judge, or be judged, based on nothing more than what's on the surface. The color of our skin, the clothes we wear, the tattoos/piercings we boast, the cars we drive, the jobs we hold, and even the pets we walk. We pass judgements on people so quickly we're often not even aware that we're doing so. I'm guilty, and so are you.

I suggested to a few friends that I wondered if we all, meaning, all Americans, had to watch Crash, and engage in a healthy and vibrant discussion of the messages therein, would we be nicer and more forgiving of each other? Would we reduce our judgements down to those only when earned by specific words or behavior? Would we operate more "as one?"

Their opinion was a sad one, saying that people would likely inevitably revert back to their old ways after a few days/weeks of behaving more openly. That it was similar to how the country collectively "decided" to be nicer to one another after 9/11, and how within a month, the realities of human nature crept back in. It can also be likened to how you make all these geniune promises to change around the New Year, and by February first, you're back comfortably in your old rut. Given the movie's clever title and tagline, "Moving at the speed of light, we are bound to collide into with each other.", it would seem that much is true.

However, with the topic of race on everyone's mind, and the cover of every newspaper in America, I wonder about it though. Are we a country that could actually change?

It is possible that I am being too naive, and too simple-minded, to ascertain from all of this that educating Americans on racial stereotypes, and how to avoid falling into the same bad behaviors, would help?

Or are we just stubborn jerks with bad habits?

Personally, the final and resounding message of the movie was that of fear. Don't let fear dictate how you respond to people. Fear was a prevalent force in the movie, and it is alive and well in every city, town and suburb across America today, both in our hearts and in our minds. My wordsmith friend Sallie once told me that "responsibility" really was "response ability"—we have the ability to respond to a situation with dignity, open-mindedness, kindness, honesty and grace. I think those are real American values that we can use, and learn from.

Quite possibly I'm over thinking it, but it was worth a shot. And, a Netflix rental if you've not seen it. I didn't reveal anything that won't unfold within minutes of the opening credits anyway, except for a few opinions that are based on nothing more than life experiences and semi-critical thinking. Oh, and yes, I cried this time, too. Revealed that one just to level the playing field.

We're all human. At least that much is black and white.


Image courtesy of phlog that

He's Lovin' It

A news story on Good Morning America caught my eye today. A British man won $2.7 million in the lottery, and is still planning to keep his job.

Flipping burgers at McDonald's.

I find this to be somewhere between admirable and crazy. I'd really like to think I'd keep my job if I won more than $2 million, but I'm not making any promises (sorry, Gordon).

Before I'm lambasted for my minimal financial wherewithal, it hasn't escaped my understanding that $2 million isn't THAT much in the way of funding a lifetime, but it would certainly be enough to urge me to find a better, more fulfilling and more challenging job (intellectually) than working in a fast food restaurant.

I mean, how good ARE those health benefits? Or does he really just love the uniform? Enjoys the smell of grease in the morning?

Whatever the reason, I do admire his loyalty to his employer, and his "regular guy" routine as he continues working as if nothing had changed. I'd be willing to bet that there is a bigger smile on his face today as he serves the Brits their fries, though.

It does beg the question, that I am now posing to you: what would YOU do with your time if you won the lottery?

OMG, This is Somewhat Familiar

This is such a great column, and from an accomplished, well-respected and relevant author, and I wanted to share it with you.
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Commentary: Chicagotribune.com

Like it was great (totally)
Garrison Keillor
March 12, 2008

It is unbearably bleak as winter lingers in March and a cold wind blows and the people on the obituary page seem better looking than yourself and your prostate feels like a hockey puck and you walk around with your wallet and car keys looking for your wallet and car keys and you read an article about bipolar disorder and think, "Hey, that's me," and so in desperation I flew out to San Francisco for a few days, where the winter rains had stopped and the city was bathed in Mediterranean light and everyone seemed very buoyant, as if the miasma was gone and the halcyon days were back, and suddenly I felt 30 again.

I stayed in the Sunset District and rode the Judah trolley down to Van Ness and walked around by the War Memorial Opera House. The men who got rich in the Gold Rush loved opera, which seemed more relevant to their lives than, say, the music of Bach. Stories of violent drama and romance and sudden early death, sort of like their own lives. Opera singers who were embroiled in scandal wound up in San Francisco, a city that didn't care who you slept with if only you could sing Verdi. What brought down Eliot Spitzerwould be only a speed bump here. That sort of tolerance is what makes the city so attractive to us Midwesterners, and also the fact that you can eat outdoors and not be bitten by bugs.

It was a glorious four days, and I didn't even go to the beach. I just sat in a coffee shop on Irving Street near Golden Gate Park and smelled spring and watched the passing parade of youth.

Everybody in my coffee shop seemed to be in their 20s, locked into laptops, clicking and dragging, jumping to new links, sending instant messages while text-messaging with the left hand, and the sheer volume of communication was impressive to behold. Here I was, chugging along writing a novel in which a guy meets up with his own mortality and is shocked into an outburst of passion, a sort of coming-of-old-age novel, typing taptaptaptap, and all around me beautiful young people were disseminating information in all directions by all media.

My generation was secretive, brooding, ambitious, show-offy, and this generation is congenial. Totally. I imagine them walking around with GPS chips that notify them when a friend is in the vicinity, and their GPS systems guide them to each other in clipped electronic lady voices and they sit down side by side in a coffee shop and text-message each other while checking their e-mail and hopping and skipping around Facebook to see who has posted pictures of their weekend.

Sitting in my coffee shop, I heard a dude discussing his hangover at greater length than I would've thought possible, all about how his expectations for the night before had been too high and that there was an emotionally needy side to him that sort of ambushed him and led to his debacle, which he then described in too much detail, and then he said, "Mom, I've got to run. Later." And then "Love you too." And went back to reading e-mails.

To my generation, hangovers were the result of drinking alcohol, often in unwise combinations, and you took a glass of bitter Bromo-Seltzer and suffered in silence. You didn't discuss them with your mother. But this generation craves closeness. They are not snarky in the slightest. Montessori taught them to cherish themselves, and Ritalin and Prozac came just in time to smooth out the harsh edges of adolescence. They are capable of writing a term paper on James Joyce and then running a couple miles and then going to a Bad Hair party, meanwhile keeping in touch with eight of their closest friends. They cover the waterfront.

The young are towing a barnful of credit-card debt, and they mumble and talk that weird stuttery talk of y'know like so anyway like awesome or whatever, and they don't know how to do arithmetic by hand or use a dictionary, but they have a great attitude. They're OK about themselves. They're really into their friends. Wassup? That's wassup. They're totally connected. Like a colony of ants. I sat in their vicinity for a few days and tapped at my novel and got into a halcyon mood and then duty called and I came back to the miasma. I am now good and depressed again, but hey, I'm OK with it. Gotta run. Love you too.

~Garrison Keillor is a radio host and author.
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Some of the characteristics are familiar, and some of them I believe are of the generation(s) younger than I. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I was sent a text with a reference to another news story, and went online to research it (all on my handheld mobile device), and then read this column on the same phone, sent it to my work email address from my home email address so I could blog about it today...all while manipulating the Tivo remote with the other hand. Watching American Idol, incidentally.

Guess I'm relevant after all. Like, totally.

**I felt the need to point out that the OMG in the title is a play on the topic. I'm not that lame. Yet.**

Out of the Closet

I just saw on one of the entertainment websites that Katie Holmes has a 1,500 square-foot walk-in closet in the $30 million house to which they're making $15 million in renovations.

I'm going to need a little time to get over the jealousy that is searing through my bones. That closet is larger than my entire apartment, by the way.

But, alas, I don't have to live with, and pretend to love, Creepy Tom Cruise. The baby is cute, though.

Wonder how big HER closet is?

At Least it Would Be Warm

Something pretty unusual is happening to me today.

I have nothing to say.

No stories to tell. No news to report. No funny online things to point out. No parallels or conclusions or assumptions to make.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Less than Zero.

I'm bone dry like the middle of the desert in August.

I feel like I'm letting you down. I feel like I'm disappointing myself. I feel like today is a black mark against my storytelling roots, and my tangent-filled narrative history.

Maybe there will be more excitement tomorrow. More likely, there will just be more snow. But we're all sick of hearing about that.

Plain By Comparison

I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting.

Eventful and noteworthy, even.

That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.

The text said this, word for word:
___

Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___

Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.

And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.

Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"

Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).

Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.

Just Hit Vend

As a loyal user of the vending machine in my office, and a huge fan of the fancy ones they have in European train stations, this CNN.com news story caught my eye.

There are now L.A.-based herbal medicine shops that are going to be selling marijuana to patients from a vending machine. Sure, they have swipe cards (based on a prescription), finger-printing technology and a security camera, but this just seems odd to me.

Maybe it is that I haven't yet gotten used to the "medical marijuana" thing (not that I would argue it) but I think that vending machines are meant for, well, munchie delights, things you want but certainly don't need and splurges.

Oh. I see the parallel.

Hole in One (Street)

A 36-inch, 100-year-old water main burst overnight, leaving a 15-foot-deep hole in Montrose Avenue that measures about 80 feet in diameter.

This could be blamed for some of today's horrendous traffic. Or, it could be that people took MLK day off, and somehow, over the course of the 3-day weekend, totally forgot how to drive?

Because it just couldn't be the not-even-2-inches of snow we got last night.

Could it?

This is What it is About?

Wow. See soapbox. Step up on soapbox. Say your peace.

From CNN.com today: "Black women voters face tough choices: Analysts say black women never have held such power in determining the Democratic nominee for president. Black women are expected to make up more than a third of all Democratic voters in South Carolina's primary in five days. These women face a unique dilemma: Should they vote their race, or should they vote their gender?"

Here's an idea: vote for the candidate that is best suited to run this country?

Just my two cents.

Dismount soapbox.

Down the Drain

This post proves that love is sometimes thicker than...

sewage?

A guy in Virgina and his wife were cleaning an office building this weekend for extra money, and in preparation of the job, the wife took off her wedding ring while walking across the parking lot. She dropped it, and it rolled right into a sewer.

She panicked, and her husband dove into action. Quite literally.

He stripped down to his skivvies, took off the metal sewer grate, and climbed down in. He told the news reporter who covered the story that there were fish and "unidentifiable floaty things" down there in the mucky, murky, nasty water.

No luck.

The guy, clearly a devoted husband or supremely stubborn, goes to the store, buys a scuba-diving wet suit, fashions a metal screen MacGyver style, and goes back down the drain.

Still no luck.

He calls the professionals in, and they go to town pumping out the water using a sifting screen, and they eventually score the ring. (What did THAT cost the taxpayers?) By this time Wife was watching this all unfold on the local news. Husband (and his clever determination) saves the ring!

Seven years of marriage has either taught him that the ring is the symbol for their love and it was worth saving, or that his wife is not one to mess with, or that diamonds are clearly worth their weight in...sewage?

Husband clearly gets to milk this one for quite some time, and I'd bet he's having fun while doing so. I'm picturing lots of remote-control-hogging, guilt-free boys nights out, no-dishes duty, fatty-food-laden-dinners, and lots and lots of lovin'.

Cause that's what he deserves.

Speaking of Munchkins

Before I post this, I want to put this disclaimer out there:

I know that Senator McCain was a POW. I know he was tortured and cruelly treated and is a decorated U.S. war hero. I am not trying to be insensitive to that at all, or take anything away from what he clearly endured.

I'm just saying that his arms are short.

And, color me naive, but I don't believe that even breaking your arms, or other horrific torturous situations, can actually shorten (in exact proportion to the other) your arms.

Ok. There. On to the intended post, which was pulled down (Catholic guilt) and then now is getting re-posted by popular demand (satirical, funny friends' encouragement).

I was watching TV the other night and noticed that John McCain's arms are really short. I mean, super compact. Awkwardly disproportionate to his body. Apparently this is common knowledge, and fodder for late-night comedians, but I had never noticed.

I am actually surprised he can even reach into his pockets at all...

...though that is where the campaign funding is found.

For reference, and your own guilty pleasure (Catholic or otherwise), please see for yourself:

I'm likely going to hell for this. I'll borrow Dorothy's handbasket.