Ah, to be young and little and thinking it’s a good idea to wear summer clothes when it’s ass-cold out: Saturday night, Girlie and I turned up at Flat Rock to catch The Unit, a hilarious cover band partial to taking requests from the crowd (including “It’s Raining Men,” which I requested), when this little longhaired girl and her douchey Pete Wentz boyfriend with a horrendous underbite—clearly impervious to both the music style and the cold based on the pot smell coming off her—took off her corduroy jacket and started flailing her arms and swaying in that Dead/Phish way. Poor thing was wearing a halter dress not unlike one I bought from the Guinness Flagh some 11 years ago—same color except longer and with a red bra underneath. Ever the asshole and to Girlie’s amusement, I started grooving with her, but when I stopped she came up and yelled, “You can’t stop when you’re free!” (snerk—I know, right?), to which I replied, “That’s true. Now go put some clothes on, Hippie Girl!” but by then she’d grooved out of earshot. Other funny things from that night include the drug dealer who bought us a round after watching his stuff when he went out to make a sale and the girls who were doing the equivalent of pole dancing without the pole: Girlie calls that their “vaguely entertaining, yet completely useless skill set.” I just wish I was still that limber, IF I ever was.

Brian Vander Ark played the last of his month-long series at Schuba’s last night, and as much as I’ve seen him the past year (five, six times, I think), last night was probably the best yet. He played with a group of musicians he’s befriended over the past year or two, and they were really good, though much as I dig folk, it was a bit too mellow after two Stellas and I retired to the bar, where some kind soul threw some Clash into the jukebox.  But he opened up with my first favorite song of his, “Then We Fell,” about a couple who contemplates leaving the U.S. after 9/11, and ended with my second favorite, “Someone Like You” because I kept requesting it when he took requests. I just wish he didn’t have to play “The Freshmen” every. time. I see him. I know it’s everyone’s favorite, but it’s not like you don’t hear it enough on any adult-contemporary station. Why you gotta ruin MY show-going experience!??

Forgot to mention this in my vignette dump of last week, but I grabbed lunch with my college boyfriend a couple weeks ago. Nothing big—we ran to Subway—but as we were yapping, I kinda got the impression he still thinks of me as I was in college (read: TRAINWRECK). So I shared my thoughts with Poppy, who reminded me that to someone who’s married, MOST things single people do look exciting even if they’re really not, and it’s not anything personal; and most people are who they are by time they’re 17-ish anyways, so if you’re a little dramatic like I was (snerk), that doesn’t usually go away. He kinda said the same thing when I told him I think he still thinks I’m a trainwreck the other day, and that there are some ways in which I haven’t changed. That’s true; my penchant for attracting crazy remains unabated.

The other thing I forgot to mention: I covered the grand opening of a casino hotel last week, but do you know I turned down the invite to stay overnight and get the royal treatment because I thought it would be improper, yet I could’ve because it in no way biased my coverage!?? Dumbass. Actually, you know why this bums me out so? Not because I could’ve gotten a massage or hobknobbed at swanky cocktail party. Nay nay. I’m bummed because I wasn’t among the first to ever sleep on one of them cushy hotel beds, thereby NOT leaving my DNA for the blacklights to pick up during an investigation.

that would be because I’m once again on an eating frenzy where nothing resembling food is safe. It’s like, you know, I’m nearing menopause, fer chrissake; you’d think this shit would ease up after awhile. Gad.
How ‘bout a vignette dump? Haven’t done one of those in a while ...

-- You in the band! You ain’t security: Managed to get in the middle of a bar fight Saturday night when the little brother of a friend started getting shoved around by some dumbass drunk. First I tried to grab him, and then I got between the two of them when the shoving started. I was feeling a little feisty, you see, and since I wasn’t going to get to let off steam in other ways, you gotta do what you gotta. Girlie just kind of rolled her eyes.

-- Oh, but there WILL be trout slapping tonight, Ladies: Yeah, see, when the “friend card” is played on one, one really needs to think long and hard about whether the (in theory) long and hard is worth it. But that’s all I’m going say about that, so take from it what you will.

-- Still getting acclimated to the new computer. Turns out all the hassle last week? Was over a dead ethernet cord, which wad DID point out was most likely the cause and Emperor Warrior Kendar told me how to check. There might also have been a complete overlooking of the little satellite icon at the front of the computer, too, but that wasn’t the problem. VISTA, though! You really CAN’T do anything without it asking you whether you want to or not, which yeah, is kinda good for those of us who know just enough about computers to do a lot of damage but sure is annoying when you DO know what you need to do. Cumbersome. But I’m really digging being able to stretch out on the couch and do my stuff; I just need to get a wireless router.

-- Watched the Inauguration today at Bang Bang, and the ladies and I were kinda disturbed by the color of Michelle’s suit. Over there, it looked like chartreuse, which I thought was a really odd choice considering she rocks yellow, but upon further inspection it was really a pretty golden yellow. I wasn’t having the green shoes she wore with it, though.

-- Speaking of the Inauguration, I have to say I’m pretty appalled by all the star fucking going on. Yes, celebrities identify liberal, but come on! When have they ever taken such an interest?

-- So my check is once again late, and in keeping with my feisty mood, I’m sure I didn’t make any friends when I got a little testy about it. 

Awesome, awesome AWESOME!

Know what else is awesome? Two words: TOOL. ACADEMY. Earlier I fell asleep to “Celebrity Rehab House of Allegedly Sober People” and woke up to this bit of magnificence. People, you must watch it. I know Girlie will fight me to the end on adding it to the Crap TV lineup, but I don’t care. This is spectacular television, and I’ll endure it myself if I must.

One other thing: I’m now coming to you from my new Christmas laptop, of which I seem to finally have fully operational. Remind me to tell you what a nightmare it was trying to get it there. I will say this, though: Vista is an asspain, fer real.

Four forty-two. That’s what time I got home this morning.

No, no. I wasn’t partying up with my crew or getting my junk crunked or anything one would normally assume would be going on at 4:42 ayem. Nope, I was driving home from Area 2, District 5 after sitting there for FIVE HOURS. For nothing in which *I* was involved.

Let’s back the train up, here: 10:30, right as Chelsea starts her monologue. I’m on the can after watching Nip/Tuck (whoa, this season’s going to be fucked UP, people!) when I hear voices (or A voice, as it turns out) in the hallway followed by hysterical knocking. I yell “Hold up! Hold up!” and finish my business, thinking the building’s on fire and how the hell am I going to round up the boys to get them out. The building wasn’t on fire, though; it was my downstairs neighbor, and a cop just called her and said he has her boyfriend, can she come and pick up his truck so it doesn’t get impounded? They’re at the corner of such and such ... on Chicago’s East side. And she doesn’t know how to get there, can I please, PLEASE come with her!??

Now, you might remember such situations as the Sweetest Day debacle that would be reason enough for me not to venture out of the crib where these two are concerned. You might also remember that I’m a big sap. And anyways, she was going to take the long way to get there, and I at least know how to get there quicker.

So the ride there was listening to her manically flit from one topic to the next, but the gist was the cop didn’t tell her why they had him and that she’d talked to him an hour earlier, and he’d said he was sleeping. (I, in the meantime, had decided it wasn’t a cop that called her but an “associate” who was going to pop a cap in her head as soon as she got out of the car, but I digress.) We get to the intersection, and sure enough, there’s his truck and an unidentified cop car behind it. She parks, throws her emergency lights on and then tells me to follow them to the station, but doesn’t tell me how to turn her emergencies off, so there I was driving like an idiot in a 2009 Camry with emergencies, blowing stops and shit just so I can keep up because it’s been waaaaaay long since I sowed oats on the East side. (Yeah, I was hardcore back in the day. What!?) Our destination: 111th and Cottage Grove, also known as Area 2, the place where telephone books are never wasted.

I think I told y’all once the lesson I learned about the penal system and how it’s not supposed to be like Momma’s house in order to keep criminals from coming back, right? I can tell you with utmost authority that Calumet Station? Not so much with the amenities. Thankfully, it didn’t smell like urine a la the old Gary HQ, but man! Imagine taupe and burnt sienna colored floor tile that’s kinda coming up in spots but not really, gray walls, block glass surrounding stairwells with primary yellow painted railings and brown gates separating the lobby and the rest of the facility, then take away any joy or hope you’ve ever had in your life and throw four homeless people sleeping outside, and there you go. Oh, and let’s not forget this art ... thing suspended between the two buildings that looks like a big chunk of ceiling tile held by 100 little wires and any manner of sketchy hooligans wandering in and out, especially the one woman who kept railing at the “pussy-ass po-lice” for arresting her brother or cousin or whoever—THAT was fun to decipher.

We’re there about an hour when the other arresting cop comes out and tells her his prints have come back fine and that whatever it was he was doing (and I do know, but for privacy reasons I’ll keep it to myself) wasn’t serious enough for the cop to pursue it but that the boyfriend WAS arrested and would be released at, oh, 3 a.m. “Well, hell, (neighbor), why don’t we just go home and he can call you when he’s done? We’re not that far from here for you to come back.” She told me I could take her car home, but like yeah, I’m going to leave her in the middle of the ‘hood by herself all geeked up on adrenaline and suspicion. That’s never a good combo for ANYONE. At that point, she says let’s take his truck and get something to drink.

And that’s when she started the recon.

We’re sitting there in the parking lot, she with her coffee and Red Bull (and for those like T who know my neighbor, they know that’s a baaaaad combination) and I with my Sierra Mist Cranberry, going through his immaculate vehicle looking for evidence. This, I had mixed feelings on. I mean, I’m no stranger to the recon and am pretty darn good at it—please—but. It’s all about what you’re going to do with the info once you have it, and I knew she was going to do exactly what she did—call the woman—and really, when the relationship is as bad as theirs, there’s really no point in getting all up in the other woman’s biz; let the other one deal with his stupid ass, right? Turns out, though, that that woman isn’t the woman he’s cheating with; it’s ANOTHER one. (FABulous!) Anyway, whoever it is doesn’t matter because now she knows, and hallelujah! she wants to leave him there—except we CAN’T, because she can’t just leave his keys at the front desk for him, say the officers.

SIGH.

So, we go back out to the truck for awhile before coming back in at 2:55 because he was supposed to be let go at 3, remember, and I’m starting to reek because the temp in truck was like 80 and who knows how hot it was in the station, and I was wearing sweats that should never leave the crib, clean or not. 34:10 rolls around, and we ask again what the holdup is: The officer said there was a “mishap”; the cleaning ladies said someone threw up and peed all over, and until THAT was brought “under control,” no one was leaving. FINALLY about 34:20, he came out. I thought she would just hand him his keys and leave with me, but no, she wanted to ride with him, so whatever, I didn’t have to listen to it. I got in her car and drove the hell home.

Earlier this evening, I was on the horn with Mother when I started hearing what sounded like caterwauling until the caterwauling started forming words. I look out, and the boyfriend is walking up to the door with a bag, then he goes back to the truck and PULLS her out of it. I stood there and waited for her to throw herself in front of the vehicle, but thankfully that didn’t come to pass. Haven’t heard anything since.