City of Villages: Andersonville, the other Gay Kingdom

This Thursday I traveled from my home gaydom to the opposite gaydom. I only had to travel 15 minutes due north on the Halsted bus to reach Andersonville, home of the less glittery, better basketball playing gays. My mission was a cheap bikini wax but the journey turned out to be a far greater reward.

First there was the bus filled with the most random smattering of people I have ever seen including a dread locked hippy, a sober faced Hispanic worker, a young professional man in a great suit, a rather beefed up young lady, and one guy trying to take subtle swigs of vodka from a small plastic bottle.

Then there was the neighborhood. With large stamps into the cement on all the corners reading Andersonville there was no doubting where I was. There were occasional rainbow sightings, of course not as prevalent at in Boystown and not any in the phallic form. In general the area was a little dingy like it was wearing an old thin coat of gray. With a plethora of bars and restaurants, it reminded me of a cheaper, older, less obvious boystown. In short it felt like home.

Then there was the wax: 25 bucks, including a threading of the details and some super cool smelling lotion. It was a steal especially considering Sonia the waxist gave me neighborhood tips the whole time. Definitely worth the trip to Andersonville!

Finally the way back I noticed all the hidden gems: little wine shops, less sketchy looking Mexican restaurants and a bar that showed the L word on Sunday nights.

In short it’s not the pretties of neighborhoods but definitely has those gems every Chicagoian dreams of finding.

Memorial Day Make-Shift BBQ

Coming from Wisconsin- land where it snows on Memorial Day- I should have been prepared for a weather disaster today. After a weekend of glorious sun-filled weekend, we held out high hopes that we would be able to bbq today. But today came in dreary and chilly; the weather completely disregarded our Memorial Day grill out plans.

So time for my Chicago Memorial Day back up plan: Chicago style dogs at the nearest hot dog stand... which was closed. Ok, on we went to the next nearest hot dog stand with the best fries and a server that will tell you about each of his children’s numerous accomplishments...closed. No MIT success stories to make me feel under accomplished today.

So the back up to the back up plan is to wander Broadway. Wander we did until we saw some faint florescent lights coming from a basement restaurant named Flub a Dub Chub’s. Hungry and hankerin’ for a decent dog, we entered. With Star Wars playing on the TV and little tables scattered around the checker tiled floor, we knew we had hit gold.

The Flub a Dub Chub Chicago style dog was perfect: snappy skin, puffy bun, fresh toppings and all with a batch of hot fries and a rootbeer. Thank you Midwest Spring for forcing me to explore the basements open on Memorial Day and finding a new favorite hot dog stand.

First Fight

Chicago you are windy. You are excessively windy; windy in a “slap me hard across the face when I’m down” way, not in the “sway on a porch swing with dandelions in our hair” way. I know you are the windy city. I know it is your nature to be windy but it is pissing me off.

You mess up my hair, you swirl dirt into my face and you flip my umbrella inside out- none of which is adorably playful but instead rude and disheartening.

Chicago, I know you want to play big city. You want to be rough and tough and play with the big boys like NY and LA but you are a simple one name city; you cannot abbreviate your name to some cool douche two letters. That just isn’t you.

So how about, Chicago, you stop pretending to be the in-your-face, money-driven, power-hungry, graffiti-covered, material goods coveting, sailor-swearing asshole and start being a hello-on-the-street, beer-drinkin’, Levi-wearin’, CTA ridin’, public art appreciating nice guy I know you really are.

If you decide to change your ways, I promise to let you get to third base.

Sick in the City: the perils of life without health insurance

The city is so not sexy when it is sick. And I mean the city is sick, not just me. From the stomach turning wet hacks on the EL to the offensive trumpet sounding nose blowing in the office to the pathetic roommates stretched out on the couch at home, this entire city has some sort of virus lurking on every square inch of it.

But in addition to being snotty, hacky and sweaty, I am also the least attractive adjective: uninsured. While others at least have the comfort of a licensed professional telling them they are not going to die, they just have a virus, so suck it up and drink some o.j., I have to suffer through the possibility that I might have strep throat or mono or the plaque. Fear is not a known cure for anything and so I lie in bed, sleep ¾ of my day away, drink gallons of orange juice and hope that I’m not dying.

And as I’m lying there here are my thoughts for what my potential course of action could be:

A) Shell out the 80 bucks (plus lab results and prescriptions) to the Minute Clinic at Walgreens to have them tell me it’s not the plague and direct me to the cough drop aisle.

B) Go to Walgreens and buy anything that sounds like it would help me feel less like death: humidifier, decongestants, cough drops, stronger decongestants, nasal sprays and 3 boxes of special soothing lotion coated tissues. Total spent: around 80 bucks

In the end I choose B because I really like cough drops and needed an excuse to buy them anyway. I also throw in C.

C) Get a friend who has insurance sick and then make him go to the doctor to get diagnosed. Thanks Kevin! Good to know it is just a viral infection!

I love the EL

There is the expected budget deficit of over 200 million, the talk of new spikes in fairs despite the quarter bump last month, and the general dysfunction, delays and constant construction. There is plenty to bitch about the CTA. And everyone does…bitch…a lot. But coming from the geeb, where my one public transportation experience involved a man pulling a garbage bag out of his underwear, I am and will forever be in love with the CTA.

I love the little heated booths so crammed with people you almost feel like family.

I love how I can get everything I need handed out for free at the Belmont stop: The Printed Blog, condoms and bibles.

I love how pretty the color coded CTA maps look.

I love eavesdropping on inappropriate conversations on the EL.

I love having inappropriate conversations on the EL and then looking around to see who is embarrassed for me.

I love that I have learned when the lines curve and pitch so that I am prepared and don’t crash into neighbors. I love seeing newbies that haven’t bump so apologetically into chairs, poles and people.

I love the occasional amazing CTA conductors that say things like “may the force be with you” as you exit the train.

But most of all I love the EL at sunrise or sunset, when the city skyline seems to glow and I feel privileged to pay 2.25 to sit in that seat and see that calming beauty.

I know I am just as likely as my fellow CTA riders to throw a temper tantrum when the CTA inevitably hikes prices again but for now, in the days of ever plummeting stock prices and failed bailouts, let’s just remember how pretty the city can look at sunset from the train.

Valentine’s Day better on the EL

Today I saw a man standing with a giant teddy bear at my EL stop. The man was shifting the bear around, trying in vain to find a natural position to pose with the stuffed sentiment of love. But, the whole time he stood waiting, he never looked angry, never seemed to resent the fact that he would be forced to share the miniaturized CTA chair with this over sized ball of cotton. He actually looked happy with his bear of burden.

Similarly I saw a woman with unruly bunch of balloons and a plethora of young men with overflowing bouquets of flowers, all pleased as punch to be squished onto the EL, maneuvering the blustery sidewalks or cramming onto the buses with their tokens of love.

Now usually I am not a fan of V Day; nor am I a fan of forced gift giving or of any cheesy or clichéd presents in any heart shaped form, but there is something about the self sacrificing struggle to give a lame $10 bunch of balloons to your love that makes it a labor of love and not just a Hallmark obligation. It is really what your love goes through to bring you those flowers – negative wind chills, crazy high sales tax, CTA nightmares- that makes Chicago an unexpectedly beautiful city for Valentines Day.

Maybe it is the fresh winds of the windy city or maybe it is the beautifully baby breathe free bouquet of flowers I received today, but something is definitely putting a little optimism in this former V-Day Grinch.

30 Days and a Hot Dog

Today, I have officially been in Chicago over a month and I severely bruised my pelvis. The two have more in common than the non-CTA traveler would expect.

Today as i airily jammed my CTA 30 day pass into the entry gate, I ceased to notice the defeating no-entry blinking light. I tried to continued my jovial jaunt through the gate only to have the bar rudely interrupt my pelvis making me realize that a) those bars are really inconveniently placed and b) my 30 day CTA pass had run its course. I have been living in Chicago for 30 days...or actually 31 days. I have been a Chicagoan for 31 whole freaking fantastic and fabulously freezing days.

And then the second major realization of my day hit me: I have not eaten a chicago style hot dog in any of those 30 days. This is huge considering on my previous trips down to Chicago, I had at least one hot dog a day and in one fateful day 3 dogs. But since permanently moving to this hot dog haven of a city, I have been distracted by other gloriously buzzing neon signs: gyros, italian beef not to mention indian, thai, mexican and any other country you care to put up in blinking yellow bulbs.

As any Chicago foodie will tell you, this is the place to be for unassuming but truly taste bud blooming appetizers, entrees and desserts. It is easy to get lost in the mass of five star restaurants and forget the simplistic beauty of a chicago style hot dog.

Luckily my girls are always up for a hotdog on a Wednesday night so we headed to Portillo's, not my favorite hot dog joint but a convenient local in River North. Of course i got a dog with everything on it- including some extra sport peppers I rescued from E's tray. It was gone within 5 minutes, as i have learned the chicago dog is best inhaled not savored.

One of the best 5 minutes of my 30 days in Chicago along with the sunset EL rides, Thursday nights at the Art Institute and spontaneous drag queen runway shows down Halsted at 4 a.m.

I swear there is nothing wrong enough in my life that can't be cured by a chicago style hot dog in eaten in my new home.

City of Villages: Accidently Slept through Sunday but Monday in Old Town was awesome

Sunday was one of those insanely gorgeous days that make you not only believe in global warming but also rejoice in it. So I felt justified in just walking around Lakeview until my legs hurt and then promptly taking a nap that lasted most of the afternoon. Therefore I didn't have time for any new neighborhood exploration.

However luckily on Monday, greenhouse gases were still blissfully trapping unseasonably warm UV rays in Chicago and I was able to stroll through Old Town, a neighborhood with such a cliched history I almost didn't have to check wikipedia.

Old Town is sandwiched inbetween the yuppy grey stones of Lincoln Park and the richy condos of the Near North. (In case it isn't clear, i use yuppy as a semi-positive term and have no problem admitting i would someday like to claim yuppyhood myself.)

Like many other currently gentrified yuppy hoods, Old Town was first filled with European immigrants, then with vagabond artists and finally with the ever coveted yuppy cohort. And it shows. The streets are cleaned, the store fronts unseasonably adorable and there are large iron wrought gates welcoming you to Old Town. It's cute and welcoming and perfect for a faux spring day.

My exploring companions and i were not just causually strolling Old Town. We came with a mission of finding The Fudge Pot and relishing some high caloric chocolate goodness. We found it and all it's chocolate glory. With chocolate of every shade, shape and smell imaginable you can't go wrong at The Fudge Pot. Unfortunetly there was also a very tempting Cold Stone across the street and as the temps had topped 60 that day we decided to indulge in some chain store goodness.




If eating fattening fudge wasn't indulgent enough, eating corporate fudge brownie ice cream in the middle of a beautiful neighborhood was basically like dessert sex, sinful and totally worth it.

Unfortunetly, the weather gods punished us for dessert transgressions with a down pour of cold winter rain as soon as we headed home. Luckily, as big city girls we hailed a wet-dog smelling cab for the mile treck home.

Old Town maybe a bit a gentrified indulgence but it is totally worth it.


Additional post-it 3/07: On Round 2 to Old Town, we did not make the same rookie chain-store indulgence mistake. When we saw a bridal party walking out of the Fudge Pot licking chocolate covered bananas, we knew we needed to check the chocolate shop out ourselves. We indulged in a self created sampling of goodies including a marshmallow puff, a dark chocolate orange peel and some chocolate peanut butter fudge. It was all sinfully perfect and totally worth the XXX calories we consumed. For future reference, in addition to turtle clusters, chocolate covered strawberries and truffles, the Fudge Pot also has “naughty” chocolate molds that are not on display but I have a creative enough mind to know they are chocolate perfection.

My New Permanent Temporary Job

I am now a permanent temporary employee of BMO Capital Markets. I’m not sure if the word permanent or temporary scares me more.

Let’s start with why temporary is a terrifying word. First is the obvious. There is very little job security in temporary work; even if it is “permanent temporary” work. It is a waiting game week to week to see if you will still have a job. As rumors of layoffs brew, temps always realize they could be on the chopping block as they were the last hired.

Then there are the living standards that go with temp work. My hard earned temp work gets me $12 an hour with no health insurance or benefits; after taxes that is less than $20,000 a year…IN CHICAGO.

And finally there is the connotation of a temp. Temps are the invisible and ignorable bottom of the BMO barrel. People assume you don’t have a life beyond sitting at a desk and transferring calls; nor ambitions or talents beyond making copies. No one asks what you want to do with your life or what you do with your life out of the office; probably because most financial professionals don’t have lives beyond their desks. It sucks to be the glorified answering machine of the office.

Then there is the word permanent, which is by far scarier. This job is “permanent” because BMO fired quite a few real administrative assistants to hire temps that would work the same job at half the price. BMO still needs phones answered and copies made so I potentially could be doing this job for years. YEARS.

The real fear of permanent comes from the ease of routine and the complacency of my brain to give into the routine. Every morning I take the 6:59 Brown Line train towards the loop. I get off, walk 2.5 blocks to BMO, swipe my card at security and ride up to the top floor before any one else starts their day. I then toast my English muffin, make my coffee and sit down to read the Chicago Tribune’s headlines. After a rigorous hour of online news reading, I head to another random floor to sit at someone else’s desk surrounded by pictures of their loved ones, and mispronounce the names of people whose phones I am hired to answer. At 4 on the dot, I grab my coat and bolt.

It is easy, too easy, and I think I could get into a rut her after only a week. And as Dr. Seuss says “ And when you’re in a Slump, you’re not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.”

BMO is the epitome of Slump, the aftermath of the post-grad Lurch.

P.S. To be clear I am exceedingly appreciative to have a job when the entire nation is in and economic Slump because of the Bush Lurch. I am paying my bills, enjoying everything Chicago has to offer (that cost under 20 bucks) and in general enjoying being young in the big city. But, like most Americans, the fear lies in the future of the slump and in the possibility of permanence. Everybody ruts and most unrut eventually but at the bottom of that deep rut it is difficult to see a future unrutted.

City of Villages: Streeterville

Streeterville is my favorite Chicago neighborhood story. It is a story a plucky middle aged man, who bit his thumb at the upper crust of Chicago 1880’s royalty and got his plucky butt thrown in jail for it. It’s slightly depressing, mostly hilarious and hundred percent classic Chicago.

In the 1880’s George Streeter crashed his boat on a sandbar on Chicago’s shore. Instead of digging himself out, George had his wife set up house on the sandbar, putting his new home next to some of the primo real estate of the time on Michigan Avenue. Then naturally, George encouraged locals to dump their garbage around his home basically creating a landfill next to Michigan Avenue.

The landfill eroded to create new land, essentially extending the shoreline of Chicago. But because the city had defined the Chicago by the previous shoreline’s border, George claimed that the new land was outside of Chicago’s jurisdiction; it was streeterland. Of course the mayor didn’t appreciate having a squatter define the border of Chicago and after several confrontations (one apparently involving a gun fight), George was kicked out of the landfill and into jail.

The royalty took over and now streeeterville is filled with high rises and office buildings not to mention the Magnificent Mile, one of Chicago’s ritziest shopping areas. Streeterville, defined by the water on the north, south and east and the Mag Mile on the west, includes Navy Pier, the John Hancock Building and much of Northwestern hospital. Needless to say, the finer things of Streetville are fiscally unreachable for me but I did manage to find a dive bar just off Mag Mile that suited my wallet’s restraints.

It was the music blaring from some underground source that drew me to Streeter’s (50 E. Chicago), a dive bar if I have ever seen one. Once I’d hopped down the 5 slightly sticky stairs to the bar, I was greeted with an intense game of beer pong; yes beer pong the universal game of college frat boys. After dodging a few beer soak stray balls, I made my way past the dj closet, where one large man was stuffed into one small closet, to the bar. I was thrilled to find they had 312, my new favorite beer on tap for 5 bucks a pint.

After a beer, the dj came around and asked for requests. He gladly took all our requests from Kings of Leon, to Prince to Beyonce. I think he would have even accepted Ace of Base if I would have been brave enough to ask. He played all of our requests along with all of the requests of other patrons- including a few country songs that visibly pained him. Despite quite clearly not being a dancing bar, everybody danced including the waitress and bouncer and the frat boys in between tosses.

I realize Streeter’s isn’t a very accurate portrayal of Streeterville, but it is the one I can afford and one I think more true to Streeterville’s roots than $15 cocktails on the top of the Hancock building. I think George would approve.