On a more Somber Note

Thoughts and Prayers to those devestated by that bitch Katrina. I can't even begin to fathom what it's like. But I can comment on the looting. That's classy. Seriously. Especially the looting of other people's homes. That's awesome. and yeah, please, justify it by saying it's payback for years of oppression. And then burn for it you selfish sons of bitches. And before I get any leftists yammering about lack of food and whatnot, last I checked you can't eat jewelry or appliances. So, shut it.

It's 2 AM, you must REALLY respect me, I'll be RIGHT over!

The Booty Call. Even better, the DRUNK booty call. An age-old tradition, now manifesting itself in a new medium:
The Booty Text Message.

An incident this weekend gave me pause about this phenomenon(menamena). I've been out of the game for a while, so I had to go back into my memory banks to find the file that tells me why I used to answer these calls. The answer is never pretty. Lonliness, a need to be liked, intoxication...

But here's the wisodm I have to impart. Ladies, don't answer this call. Just don't. The man on the other end of that line is calling you at two in the morning. Drunk. No matter how much you'd like to believe he's been at home drinking by himself, and it's taken him this long to muster up the nerve to call you, the reality is that he's home, alone, drunk, after an evening of trolling with his buddies. He couldn't manage to close the deal with some other unsuspecting girl, so he's running through the women he knows might come running to salvage the night for him. Read: Have sex with him. Read: Ew.

Don't be that girl.

To the individual seeking contact with me at 2:30 on Sunday Morning:
Eat Me.

A Year is a Long Time

Wow. I can't believe it. This month , August 4th, marked the birthday of the Xanax Files. I can'e believe I missed it! I feel like Samantha's mom after refusing to fix her carrot sticks because of all the wedding hullabaloo... so sad.

Anyway... one year. Where was I one year ago?

A long long way from here.

Way to go, me!

An Open Letter to the Program Directors, Specifically Terri Hemmert of WXRT

To Whom it May Concern...and Terri.

Once upon a time on WCKG, there was a program called "Breakfast with the Beatles". It was a great show that aired on Sundays from 8-11. Tuning in, one could enjoy 3 hours of uninterrupted Beatles music and a fun Beatle Trivia question. Every once in a while we might be treated to sound bites from interviews, appearances, press conferences... but the focus was always the music. Beatles music. Sung by the Beatles.

Times have changed. Breakfast with the Beatles has moved on to XRT. And my boyfriend won't let me listen anymore. Why? Because whenever we tune in it's not to a deep track off Rubber Soul...but rather some obscure Finnish Band covering Revolution 9, or the UBER -nerd musings of Terri "Good 'Gars" Hemmert. And not 2 soconds later, I'm already shouting at the radio to shut up and play some GODDAMNED BEATLES.

An example of just HOW FUCKING BAD this show is now.
"Professor Moptop". HHAAAAAHAHA. Clever play on the name of the haircuts sported by the Beatles in their early days. This lisping, wanna be member of the "Beat the Geeks" squad has a segment lasting at least an unbearable five minutes. This week's focus: The lyrics to Penny Lane and where they came from.

Wait, let me stop here and offer a caveat: This show makes Star Wars nerds look like the Goddamned Alpha Betas.

Ok, so, back to Penny Lane and Professor "Never seen a girl naked" Moptop. So, he tortures us with the most innane factoids about a pretty good song and really, it's forcing me to question if I can even listen to the Beatles any more...and then finally, he's done. And I'm all, "cool. Now they'll play the song." OOOh, I should know better. No. They play the song... it's just some goddamned German Eurotrash version that I immediatley switched off after throwing up a little in my mouth.

Then there's the obscure "solo" crap. Why Ringo even bothers anymore is beyond me. And why Terri has such a hard on for him escapes me as well. The guy CANNOT SING. NOR CAN HE WRITE MUSIC. They play everything that asshole puts out. And don't even get me started on the crap songs like fucking "Honey Pie" "You know my Name" and anything written by Paul in the last 15 years.

I love the Beatles. I do. So, when I tune in on Sunday mornings, I want to hear The Beatles. Not crappy covers, not professor goddamned moptop, not Terri's weird "it says Beatles on it so I guess I'll play it" program directing, and most certainly goddamned not ANYTHING by fucking WINGS!

Warmest Regards,
Beatle Fan # 6,452.

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No More Anonymous Comments

Sorry kids, but as of today I am no longer accepting anonymous comments.
1. I've gotten 2 SPAM comments from the same advertiser today.
2.I'm just too damn curious about who leaves me feedback, so, from now on, you have to show yourselves.

An Open Letter to the Staff at Ravinia Park

To whom it may concern,

There are no words to describe the joy I felt, after last night's Ben Folds Concert, at being trapped in a drunken mob waiting to get on the Metra back to the city...for 90 minutes.

However, more enjoyable than reenactment of refugees escaping from Prague, was the display of absolute incompetence and apathy on the part the Ravinia Staff in the confusion of trying to get home at a reasonable hour. There were no signs, no guide posts, not to mention no handicap service. There was a gentleman in a wheelchair who was trapped on a grassy hill along with the rest of us. And when he finally DID make it to the platform, there was no interest from anyone in charge in facilitating his boarding of the train.

Oh, and the first train leaving the station with 3 empty cars was a nice touch too. Thanks!

For an institution that has been around for 30+ years, one that is HEAVILY funded by private donors, you came off looking like absolute fucking retards. I imagine that any of the season ticket holders (who choose to travel safely after a night of drinking) will think twice next year about their contributions.

The entire ordeal was frustrating, dangerous, and really just about wrecked an otherwise fantastic evening. Cuz, God knows I LOVE having drunk, angry teenagers scream in my ear while stumbling into me. Repeatedly.

So, thank you Ravinia. Thank you for getting me home at 1 AM, and thank you for my resulting sluggish day today.

Please feel fee to EAT MY ASS at any time.

Sincerely,
Irate Patron # 1,367

I Smell a Blog Entry!

No, wait... That's urine!!

I realize the less I smoke cigarettes, the more my sense of smell slaps me across the face. I've always had pretty exemplary olfactory nerves.

Case in point: This morning. The Red Line. I made the mistake of sitting in a seat in the corner towards the back of the car. Clearly someone had decided it was high goddamned time someone turned that spot into a urinal. I promptly moved.

Some background. The Red Line on Chicago's Rapid Transit System is the longest line, spanning the distance from Howard to the north and 85th and The Dan Ryan to the south. You can ride the train a good long time. Thus, it is attractive to the itinerant urban dweller. (My PC term for fucking hobo). Their tragic lot in life relegates these folk to retreating to convenient places for warmth in the winter, and cooling centers in the summer. The Red Line runs all night. It provides them with at least some shelter in the wee hours as well. AAAAnd apparently public restrooms.

Long Story short, it fucking stinks on the Red Line. And I'm sorry. I don't care how bad you think cat pee smells...There is no worse smell than stale human piss.

The train isn't the only spot where this scent can be detected. Alleys, the sides of buildings...especially in the summer. When it's hot and the stuff gets baked into the concrete. mmmmmm-MM that's awesome.

And let me tell you something else. It's NOT just the homeless. It's the drunk assholes and handjobs who ride the Red Line back from both cubs AND sox games.
"Dude, I gotta drain it...oh, right here looks good."
Trains, alleys, sidewalks, they don't give a shit.
And the best is the Bonus of a nice pile of vomit!

Please, yes, have that 47th beer. Get on the train!!! And then please, by all means, take a piss on the side of my building. I've been meaning to put a urinal there.

Fucking ew.