So, talked to Mer the other night (who, because of the current ass-expensive flying prices won’t be coming to visit over her spring break but still plans to make an appearance before summer’s out) and we start talking about the possibility of me going to visit her in Israel after she moves out there. I tell her what, are you kidding? Israel’s on my top 5 list of places to visit before I shuffle off the mortal coil—of COURSE I want to come out, except the IRS butt-raped me and stole my seed money, so I don’t know when that’s going to happen. So SHE says, “You know, as a journalist don’t you want to visit me? I mean, this is the highlight of journalism! We can hang out at the American Colony Hotel where aaaaaaaallllllllllllllll the journalists hang out. Then you can write a juicy story.  Listen, if money is the only factor I’ll have a lot of it.  Would you come if I spotted you the ticket?”

After wiping the drool off my chin, I tell her well YEAH, but I have no idea when I’d be able to pay you back, so then, bless her heart, she says, “I’m not asking you to pay me back. Dude, it’s 38,000 in my pocket. No rent, nothing. Tax free. (She’s taking a sabbatical from teaching so will be getting paid by both.) But would you come is the question—some people are ‘afraid!’ “ And I was like, “Sheeeeee-it! I told Randy Kapers he’d go blind if he kept masturbating in 8th grade History Class. Who YOU callin’ ‘scared?’ ”

And so, at the end of September, I’ll be spending Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv. How’s THAT for a fuckin’ vaykay!?? I’m so excited, I can’t even STAND it! But in the meantime, I will be spending the afternoon in good company at the Cubs game. 10-6, babies! It’s a good start!

I realize that what I’m about to do is the nerdiest thing ever and will likely get me banned from ever commenting again, but y’all, I made the Gold Star Motel at Gawker!: Lookit

Now, if I could just find a cho to po:



Thanks, SJ!

when you check your voicemail, and the last message you get is a little voice saying:

That word is “Squeeeeeeeeeeee!”

[Tremendous brunettes at the Park West]

For those of you who believe that animals can tell who's cool and who isn't, it seems my boys have picked out my new boyfriend: Snidge's baby bro, who came up with her for the Mike Doughty show this weekend. As it happens usually, Rube is standoffish and glares like an insolent teen at everyone, while the Ween just hides, not to be seen unless running back under the bed after eating or using the can. But with Rlee? Rube was rubbing up against him like they were best pals, while Ween let him touch him. (Ween also nudged Snidge to pet her during the night, but he knows her well enough now.)

It was another stellar visit this weekend. The Snidge family got in about 10-ish Friday night, so what we do? Head to the land of the Hobartians so that Rlee could experience firsthand what Snidge has been telling him about for months. And it didn't fail to disappoint, either, as it never does: The people turning to stare at you as you walk in the bar because you're not indigenous to them thar parts; the near 6-hillbilly brawl out front of Rosie O'Grady's during heavy metal night; the teenagers walking around well after curfew; Benny coming up and calling me his "Irish Rose," also kissing me one too many times. Yep, all there. And he LOVED it. Also, he loved the Vodka and Red Bulls he was tossing back.

After a vile, greasy breakfast at the Flying J in Lake Station, we got back to the crib, where after a mere four hours of rest I was out the door to an early muni meeting. (The message I left on my editor's voicemail: "My mellow has been harshed," followed by something completely unintelligible about that assignment and the second one I was headed to that wouldn't have to be written up for daily unless the retirees started setting the union hall on fire in protest. Luckily, it didn't happen, because I'm getting too old for that shit.) Meanwhile, Snidge and Rlee headed off to Chicago for some tooling around and shopping, so that gave me the perfect opportunity to come home for a four-hour nap. (Don't judge me.) Both showed great restraint with their purchases, except Snidge bought this stuff from Lush that looks like olive drab gelatin, and I was quite disturbed. (Had I known there was going to a trip to Lush, I'd have told her to get me another bar of Buffy the Buttskin Slayer and another Butterball, but that's all right.) I got up, they got back, we all changed clothes and headed back downtown for the show, starting with a lovely dinner at my favorite tapas joint.

If y'all have never been to the Park West for a show, I'd highly recommend it, because it's a great setting, and one that suited my pretend rockstar boyfriend well, because he ROCKED. OUR. SOCKS. (Yes, pheNOMenal, my friend. Thank you for turning Snidgey on to him.) Opened with "Tremendous Brunettes" and stayed tight the whole show. He did this montage of "It's Raining Men" and "Firetruck" that included the riff from "Circles," but he flatly refused to perform it outright, which was cool. It's just too bad that the crowd didn't seem to be into it as much as they should've, because Doughty's got a great stage presence. Stupid trixies. Anyway, one of his encores? Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler."
After we got out of the show, Snidge had a hankering for sushi, so we popped into the sushi joint next door for some tempura and California rolls, which were all right according to them, but not as good as some of the M-Town places. Since I'm not a huge sushi connoisseur, I had no reference point as to what's good or not, but the joint DID play techno music, which was kind of funny. Then it was onward home, but not before searching through the ghetto for a place that Snidge could use the toilet for the 15th time. (We ended up at a McDonald's on the state line where the toilets were in a trailer outside. At that point, she didn't care.)

And with that, notable quotables after the jump:

Some of y'all might remember that I was having some Southern-fried company this weekend, right? You know, to come up and catch my favorite local band do its thing? Well, I can safely report that a good time was had by all.

Actually no, scratch that: We had a pheNOMenal time. Holy shit, man.

Outside of their stories, I really don't have that much to add. I mean, Wad and I caught up on life in the four or so years we weren't talking, and I got to drink a ton, which I haven't done in a long while. Oh, and can I tell you Bite the Lime was ON FIRE? Too bad we didn't get to STAY for their whole set since a certain Wad got bored. (cough) And the one guy was even there, looking mighty fine -- the girls said so, even!

My only complaint? It seems that everyone took pictures of each others boobs and posted them, but no one took a picture of mine, and mine are the biggest. I feel strangely left out by that. (Of course, there was an abundance of shots of my big ol' ass and gargantuan head, but that's another story. My hair was fantastic, though.)

I too am going to set up a yahoo! album for everyone to see, but I'll close for now with how much fun I had and how much I'm glad everyone came out. Some real bonds were made that night. (Sniff, sniff!)

P.S. For Og's edification: Beer + 3 shots takillya + two weak margaritas + chicken burrito suiza + pancakes and meat = Glad I woke up alone Sunday morning. Whoa.