The Mountain Goats live review 12/6-7/11

Forgive me if I ramble. I do that sometimes when I write concert reviews. I always liked those book-long concert reviews like Ratso Sloman's "On the Road with Bob Dylan" and they kind of infected my brain, the same way my sinuses have lately been infected, causing my ears to clog up so much I can barely hear.  As such, having heard that the Mountain Goats would be playing an un-amplified show a mile or so from my apartment I resolved to arrive early enough to sit someplace where I could hear. For the uninitiated, the Mountain Goats are a band consisting of John Darnielle and whoever else is in the band at the time. Sometimes it's just him. They've put out a ton of albums since their first tape 20 years ago.

I'm sort of new to the Mountain Goats fold. I first heard them years ago, but even then the sheer volume of their output intimidated me a bit (where would I start?), and I'm always a bit afraid of bands that have a large indie following. I like a lot of those bands, but I always feel like the indie scene is a bunch of big kids who won't let me play basketball with them. I think this is the result of growing up in suburban Iowa and Snellville, Georgia and being really, really into Star Wars in 1992 (when it was NOT a popular thing to be into).  When you grow up like that, everyone else seems cooler than you.

But a year or so back I noticed that about 2/3rds of the songs I'd had to look up after hearing them on the radio at the coffee shop were Mountain Goats songs - "This Year" and "Lovecraft in Brooklyn" sealed it for me, and I ran out and picked up "Sunset Tree," which had "This Year," and All Hail West Texas, which had "The Best Ever Death Metal Band In Denton," which I already knew that I loved -  I felt like it was about my friends and me; we had bands with names like Scapegoat (which still exists and records, along with 50 other bands of the same name) and Supernatural Anarchy. Our music was recorded on boom boxes. All Hail West Texas was also recorded on a boom box, but somehow it made the tape hiss noise WORK in a way that I never dreamed possible. And then there are the lyrics.  I write young adult novels for a living; I can tell you right now that many of these songs about characters trying to do the right thing even though they think of themselves as evil, Huck Finn-style, tell more in 8 lines than most YA books do in 200 pages.

Nowadays, when people ask about my own solo albums, I just direct them to The Mountain Goats and say "this is what I was trying to do."

New podcast and ebook!

Get the Chicago Unbelievable Podcast:


We have an all-new episode this week in which Hector and I discuss the legends, myths and ghost stories of the Jane Addams Hull House here in Chicago. Was there a "haunted room?" Did anyone die in the house? What was the deal with the rumors that a "devil baby" had been brought there in 1913? Is it still haunted now? I'm always skeptical about ghosts, but I was surprised at some of the things I found out about this place.

To go along with the podcast, there's also a new ebook out: GHOSTS OF HULL HOUSE: Mysteries and Myths in Chicago's Most Famous Haunted House. Only 2.99!

We're scheduled to do another podcast on Wednesday. I'm having fun with Chicago Unbelievable!

Sketches of Chicago: The Chiditarod!

When you're walking down to the UPS store and see a bunch of guys in chicken suits crossing the road, you should pretty generally go see what's going on. I crossed the road myself and saw a bunch of costumed guys and decorated shopping carts.

I had stumbled onto The Chiditarod, which was described to me as part costume contest, part talent show, part food drive, part pub crawl, and all awesome. My distaste for running pub crawls in my Weird Chicago days was legendary, but this is one I can get behind! Scattered between 11 bars in the city, 165 teams are competing this year. They've raised something like ten TONS of canned food. How wonderful is that?

The creativity I saw from some crews was astounding - it was like Odyssey of the Mind for adults!

This is Roger McCubbins and Kip Burgess, who came in full Doctor Who regalia with their Tardis-themed shopping cart.

And here's some video footage of the line:


(Cross-posted to Chicago Unbelievable

Grand Avenue Pizza Chili Recipe

Chili is a strange food: one you have to freeze overnight, then thaw in the fridge for a day, before it really gets good. Last night was the annual Chili Cook-Off at Sip Coffee here in Chicago, and the Smart Aleck Staffand I created this awesome number: Grand Avenue Pizza Chili with Pizza Crust Oyster Crackers. Like Smart Aleck's Guide to American History, it didn't win awards, but was critically acclaimed and thought by many to be a strong contender. Here's how you make it:

GRAND AVENUE PIZZA CHILI
- 3 cans of diced tomatoes
- 1 can of kidney beans
- 2.5 pounds of hot sausage
- 1/4 pound thinly-sliced pepponi (if you can get the above an Italian deli, do so).
- 1 tablespoon Deep Dish Pizza Seasoning from The Spice House. Substitute some red pepper and paprika and garlic if you don't have any of that.
- 1 teaspoon Chili Powder

Empty tomatoes and beans into a crock pot. Removes sausage from casing and brown, breaking into small chunks in the process. Add to crock pot, along with seasonings. Leave it there all day, then remove to plastic containers to freeze overnight. Thaw in fridge for a day, then return to crock pot. Cut pepperoni into small bits and stir in. Add more seasonings if desired.

PIZZA CRUST OYSTER CRACKERS:

Mix up a handful of flour with a cup of water, a package of yeast, a tablespoon of olive oil and a teaspoon of oregano. Mix, adding more flour until the whole wad of dough can be kneaded without sticking. Roll onto cookie sheet or stone and bake for about 10 minutes at 400. Remove when it's fully baked (but not too crisp) and cut into oyster cracker-sized bits. Keep in a separate bowl.

Spoon chili into bowl, top with mozzarella cheese and the pizza crust crackers. We may not have won the award, but it was the first entry to run out!


Above: "Dibs" in my neighborhood - this is how we reserve parking spots we've shoveled out after blizzards. The city doesn't officially endorse it, but they don't stop it, either (until the snow melts). Note awesome skyline view in back.

Sketches of Chicago: Walking into Concerts

I like to be able to walk to places. 

As a kid in Des Moines I could walk or ride my bike pretty much anywhere I needed to go, but in eighth grade I moved to Snellville Georgia, where walking or riding a bike to get from point A to point B was practically unheard of. Sidewalks were rare, and the only things in walking distance to my house were a Baptist church and a cemetery, neither of which were of any use to me. It was quite a shock - after a couple of years I vowed that when I grew up, I'd live someplace where I didn't have to depend on cars to get around.

When I first moved to Chicago, I didn't set foot in a car for months. Almost everything I needed was right in my neighborhood, and I got a great feeling of community - I often walk two or three blocks to the bank and back and see 10 or 15 people that I know by name. 

Today I walked around the block and wandered into the middle of a hell of a rock concert.

My first trip to Chicago, outside of a couple of family vacations, was in 1999, when I flew up to see a Tom Waits concert. I absolutely fell in love with the city, and when he next came to town, in 2006, I made a point of walking the two miles or so from my apartment to the venue.

Walking to a concert is easy enough to do - sometimes I'll walk downtown for a show just because I can. And I always walk to the United Center, which is only about half a mile from here. I usually don't even buy a ticket in advance; I just walk up with 20-50 bucks and see if anyone has a spare they need to drop. It never fails.  I've walked up and bought tickets to Springsteen, The Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. It's usually half a mile's walk - two miles, tops.

But tonight I just walked around the corner and ended up at a rock concert for free.

There've been a couple of block parties around here lately. Last week they shut down much of my street for an "Urban Pig Roast," a which they roasted a whole pig, a couple of legs of lamb, and some of the best corn I ever tasted - all for free. 

Today was the "Halfway to St. Patrick's" festival around the corner on Racine Street. It didn't appear to be as much of a hit as the Pig Roast, even though the musical lineup was much better - one of the acts was Local H, who actually played in my middle school in the early 90s (they lasted two or three songs before the principal pulled the plug to stop the moshing). But the Pig Roast was free, and the festival had gates where you were supposed to make a suggested donation to get in. 

The first band sounded good when I walked by, but I just enjoyed it for what it was: free random live music to accompany my usual late-morning hike.

Just now, though, I stepped out for my evening constitutional and found that all of the entrance gates had been taken down, so I walked out to the festival site. There, I found what appeared to be The Concert at the End of the Univese. The vendors, and most other signs of a festival, were gone. It was just 40 people, and a giant, professionally lit stage on the band Sponge was putting on a hell of a show. They appeared to be having about as much as a band playing for 40 possibly people can. 

Ten minutes after I stepped outside, Sponge had finished their rave-up version of "Planet Girls" (much better than the album version), and I was back in my apartment. 

This is why I live in the city.

Sketches of Chicago: Something Fishy in the Morgue

Note: I'm launching a new series of "Sketches of Chicago" about life in the big, weird city. This is an older entry, but a good start for the series!

While on the El train to the airport, Ronni and I overheard a guy having a long conversation with the person in the next seat. It seemed that the guy was having trouble with his roommate.

"He has no f#$%^n respect for me!" the guy railed. "Plays his radio too loud, and he's always taking out my boat without permission. 4 in the morning, he keeps me awake with the boat. Well, one day soon, I'm gonna be leaving, and I'm taking the boat with me!"

This is what riding the El is all about. Eavesdropping. Noise complaints against one's roommates and neighbors are no big story, but this guy got more and more animated as his accusations got wilder.

After some delightful stuff about arguments as to who had more girls over, and some threats that violence was imminent, he dropped the big one.

"He don't know what I've been saving up on him. If he f$%^s with me, I'm gonna call the f$%^&n morgue and tell 'em what he did, because every time he does it, I write down the name, the date and the f$%^&&n amount! I'm serious. I wrote it all down. I'll call the f#$%^n morgue and tell 'em!"

So, apparently, this guy's roommate comes home from a day at work, and shouts out "oh, boy, was that some day down at the morgue! They brought in this stiff name Herb Watson, and I got $64.50 out of his pocket! $64.50! Count it! I'll always remember this, March 3rd, as the day I stole $64.50 off of Herb Watson. Now, time for some boating before I have a girl over!"

I love riding the train!

The People That You Meet As You're Walking Down the Street Each Day

When I walk around my block, it's not uncommon for recognize a dozen or so people. When you live in the city, you really do get to know the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker.

I see this guy all over town, but mostly around my neighborhood. Nice guy with awesome facial hair.

I am Now A Govt Official: Deputy Mayor of Bughouse Square

Today was the annual Bughouse Square debates - commemorating the days when people used to make speeches in Bughouse Square, a park I include on the Weird Chicago tours. Speakers in its heyday ranged from anarchist nuts all the way to great reformers such as Clarence Darrow and Emma Goldman. You might recognize it (under its own name and as Blueberry Park) from a couple of books by the great Daniel Pinkwater.

I recorded the whole thing for the Weird Chicago podcast, served as a spokesmodel holding up sex toys (during a speech entitled "Why Your Neighborhood Needs a Sex Shop,") and was told by the program director that, while I'm not qualified to be the Mayor of Bughouse Square, I can be the "deputy mayor." I'm pretty sure that that's good enough to get me some kickbacks!

Among my interviewees:

- Leon Despres, alderman of Hyde Park during the 50s and 60s. In a council of 50 aldermen, he was often outvoted 49-1 for going against Mayor Daley (who often turned his microphone off). He attended Bughouse Square now and then, and knew Clarence Darrow personally. He's 99 now, but still talking. Aldermen are like the mayors of neighborhoods.

- Joffre Stewart, who was the Beatnik Party's anti-candidate for President in 1960. He's actually mentioned in Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" in the line about the guy passing out incomprehensible leaflets. He's still going strong today, passing out leaflets about anarchy and conspiracy theories to any and all comers. Interesting cat, to say the least.


above: Joffre Stewart passes out anarachist literature during one of the speeches.

Hot Doug's

Hot Doug is the greatest hot dog genius in Chicago, and, therefore, the world. Went to his place today, and had half of each of the following in addition to one proper "CHicago Style" dog:


1. Sweet & Tart Rabbit Sausage with Pomegranate Creme Fraiche, Goat Cheese and Vodka-Soaked Dried Blueberries
blueberries and sausage turn out to go well together. This was sort of like an after-dinner hot dog. Very tasty and sweet.

2. Roasted Apple Chicken Sausage with Red Berry-Port Sauce and Vodka-Currant Cheese
This was just awesome. The flavor of the roasted apple chicken sausage felt more like a fall/winter flavor than spring/summer, but one bite and I felt like I was sitting by a blazing fire atop some crisp brown leaves. The red berry port sauce was a delicious touch, and, while I didn't taste much vodka-currant in the cheese, exactly, it was still a fine tasting cheese. Surely, this is the hot dog the ancient celts would enjoy while singing songs at harvest time. One of the best things I've ever eaten.
Tags:

Repent, Butt Munch!

One common stop on my Weird Chicago tours is a famous salt stain on an underpass that is said to resemble the Virgin Mary. I don't see what they're looking at myself - though, if I squint, I sometimes think it looks like Princess Leia - but THIS is spooky business.

On the south side of North Avenue between Western and Damen, I found this:

A puddle shaped liked a profile of Butt Head (of Beavis and Butt-Head fame)!



Repent, ye buttmunches! huh huh. huh huh.

Another Night on the Job

Yesterday was the first Weird Chicago ghost investigation (as opposed to tour) in a few months - we took about a dozen tourists out to a notoriously haunted cemetery in the middle of a forest preserve (the place we mention in the Weird Chicago podcast).

We didn't find anything weird, in particular, but the woods, with fresh snow covering every twig, were gorgeous. Walking down the narrow path was like being in an Ansel Adams wet dream. Even the pond looked nice - when it isn't frozen, it looks disgusting. Like just touching it could give a fellow dysentary. We did do some interesting forensic work on the spot in the cemetery where a rather famous ghost photograph was taken (measurements and other such dull things, though they showed, interestingly, that the "ghost" in the pic must have been remarkably short), but didn't really come across much of note.

The winter season, however, created a fun challenge - to get to the old well and remains of the foundation of a house (which were now flooded and frozen), one has to cross over a couple of wide streams in the woods. It's no trick in the summer, but the melted snow had caused the water level to rise at least a foot since last time we were there. Getting a dozen people across was quite a fun wilderness adventure.

It also led to an easy joke.

"All right, folks," I said. "We're now going to violate the first major rule of ghost busting. We're going to have to cross the streams."

So we did.

And that's why I still smell like marshmallows.

Me = Trained Monkey

This time of year, I do a lot of tours that have been chartered by corporate groups. Some of these can be fun. Most often, they are not. Usually, only one or two people is really interested in the tour at all, and the rest just talk their way through it. I can usually get their attention sooner or later on a normal tour, but if it's a pub crawl, it's all over. Last night I had a couple of guys pull me aside and said "what's with all this ghost story stuff? we don't need to hear about ghosts." Another came by and said "THere's a guy over there who's the head of the Kmart account. You should tell some jokes about Kmart.That's the kind of thing we want."

I obliged as much as possible - I joked that there is, in fact, a portal to the netherworld in the back of the Kmart at Ashland and Division, but, since it's in the back of a Kmart, there's no danger that anyone will ever find it (having worked as a vendor for Mattel and been in the back of every Kmart, Target and Walmart in the area, I can tell you that for sure - the back rooms of Kmarts are a MESS).

I also had a bit of fun with the fact that the corporation in question, Proctor and Gamble, has been rumored to be owned by Satanists since the great "satanic panic" of the 80's (which never really died in the South - even in the late 90's when I was in high school down there, I knew a lot of people who were being told - in church - that the Smurfs were some sort of pro-Satan allegory). I practically drooled at the thought of driving them past the sight where Anton LaVey (founder of the Church of Satan) was born, though I ended up getting the impression that it was a darn good thing I waited until they'd had a few drinks before I brought this up. Seems that it's still a sore subject with them.

At the end of most of these tours, I'm filled with good cheer. I can walk away thinking "I don't have to work with these jerks every day....probably never again."

After the tour last night, I wandered from the drop-off spot over to the Jazz Showcase to catch Mose Allison. Paid the cover, wandered in, and got a front-row table right in front of the piano. If you can think of a better way to blow off steam after a tough day at work, I'd like to know about it.

The Latest Triumph of Spatula City (where they sell spatulas at a fraction of retail!)

There's an ad down at the bus stop - it shows a guy cooking out on the grill, happily holding up a spatula. The text above it says "Right now, John is battling HIV."

Now, I know there's nothing funny about HIV treatment, but I can't help but think the same thing every time I see it:

"He's fighting HIV with a spatula?"

Seriously. are we to believe that he's brandishing the spatula not as a useful kitchen utensil, but as a weapon against the the virus? Are the words coming from his mouth not "hey, dude, I'm flipping the burgers now," but "take that, ye virus! For this is no ordinary spatula, but the Ancient Spatula of Aragorn! Feel the smack! Feel it!"?

Spatulas - is there anything they can't do?

Weirdos on the Bus

You never can tell when you're going to meet an entertaining weirdo on the bus - weirdos that they are, they don't follow a pattern. Hence, the number 9 bus, going North on Ashland, is something of an oddity, in that I always seem to end up in conversations with bizarre strangers, none of whom ask me for money.


Today, I started out having a chat with a young fellow about my age in a purple shirt and a slightly inebriated older guy (in his late 50's, I'd guess) who was missing a few teeth. He asked how we were doing.

"Could be better," said the fellow about my age. We'll call him Larry. You don't meet many Larrys my age, but he had that "Hi, I'm Larry" look.

"You're above the ground!" said the old guy. "You ain't below the ground, you're a above. So what else can you ask for? Sounds like a good day to me."

"I didn't get laid, though," said Larry.

"Ah!" said the old guy. "I used to have four girlfriends at once in my younger days. I'd come home all smelling like perfume, and tell my wife I was out with the guys."

"Yeah," I said, jumping in to imitate him making excuses. "'Honest, honey, my friends wear perfume. They're very fancy. And touchy-feely, too."

We all had a good laugh, and the guy turned to me and asked if I'd ever been to a foreign country. I told him I'd been to England.

"Europe!" he said. "I've been there. Got to see Hitler's castle thing."

"The Eagle's Nest?"

"Yeah. Went to Germany and France with the Army."

"No kidding?" I said. "My grandfather did, too. He fought in the Bulge."

"I had a good time in France. Did he?"

"I doubt it, seeing as how as he got shot there."

He then got off, and it was just me and Larry. Larry made a "drinky drinky" motion, and I remarked that, hey, the old guy wasn't driving, wasn't getting violent, and didn't ask me for any money or anything, so he didn't bother me. Quite a talker, in fact.

Larry gave a bit of a snort. He then told me he'd left work at lunch that day and hadn't gone back.

"Did you quit?" I asked.

"Heck, no!" he said. "They let me do it, since I'd finished my work. I could never quit. Never."

"The job itself or the company?"

"Both."

"That's a lot of company loyalty," I said. "Where do you work?"

He worked for an insurance company, and then gave a big speech about how he believed in busting your ass and getting 'er done.

I liked the older guy - even though he was a little tipsy, he was a pretty good conversationalist.

But something there is in the world that does not love a guy in a purple shirt who is fiercely loyal to an insurance company and loudly complains about not getting laid.

Weirdos on the Bus

This old guy leaned over towards me. I made the mistake of making eye contact.

"It's a blessed day," he said.

"Sure is," I replied.

"What's your nationality?" he asked. This was an odd question, but I went ahead and said "Russian."

"Oh," he said. "Like that guy. From World War II." He made motions with his finger to indicate a Hitler-style mustache.

"No, the Russian guy was Stalin," I said.

"MM hmm." said the guy. "I know. I watch the History Channel."

He then held up a heavily-worn copy of "The Passion of the Christ."

"Have you seen this DVD?" he asked.

"That's a videocassette," I replied.

He then began to kiss the picture of Jesus on the cover. Passionately, if you'll excuse the pun.

"Oh, look," I said. "Here's my stop."

It was a nice day for walking.

Life as a Ghost Buster

This morning I ran across a blog entry from 2006 about the first investigation of Old Town (then Odin) Tattoo - the shop that was featured on Ghost Lab and Most Terrifying Places this year. Written down write after the investigation, a few weeks before Richie "Tapeworm" Herrera's death. Several bits of information on the history of the place didn't hold up in the investigation (there was never a Walter who owned the place), but it's still an interesting read:


6/20/06
Last night's ghost investigation led us to a tattoo parlor that was a family-owned funeral home, owned by three generations of one family, from 1903-2003. Gorgeous building; there was a Tiffany fireplace in the entrance in which they had a small tombstone from the early 50's - which they'd found in the attic - on display.

The staff told us a lot of stories of weird things that had happened, including several accounts of seeing a guy in a powder blue suit sitting in the doorway.

"I didn't take my eye off him, cause I know if you look away from these cats for a second, they'll be gone!' said the owner. Others told us pretty much the same sort of story - I questioned how sober they'd been when they say these ghosts, but it was entertaining.

"Twice I felt like someone tried to push me down the stairs!" said the owner, who lives upstairs. "And you can't fight back with these assholes, you know. But I said out loud, man, if I f---ing die in here, it's f---ing ON, Motherf--er!"

With us on this trip were a couple of girls who were said to be psychic - I'm always VERY skeptical of this sort of business, but, hey, I'm of the opinion that there's no such thing as GOOD evidence of ghosts, only COOL evidence, and having a supposed psychic or two around couldn't really hurt anything.

My main job was running audio recordings, following one of the girls around. The basement was especially creepy - you can probably imagine that the basement of any given former funeral home is going to be pretty creepy. The ceiling was probably less than six feet above the ground. There were old drainage holes in the floor. Lots of weird holes in the walls.

I followed the girl to a back corner where things seemed especially odd - the temperature was changing, and I kept feeling like something was touching my shoulder. She said "there's something here!" and right then, in the headphones I had attatched to the audio gear, I thought I heard something say "Walter!"

It was a few minutes later that they told us that the funeral home went out of business after the last owner died - he'd held onto it as long as he could, but his kids didn't want to take over the family business, so it died with him. And his name was Walter.

As I've said, I'm a confirmed skeptic. There're ALWAYS other explanations for this sort of thing.

But I had to admit - that was pretty cool. I love this job.

Weirdos on the Bus (from the "I Always Wanted to Say That" file)

While riding on the bus, I was accosted by a junkie.

Now, this was no ordinary junkie - this guy appeared to be zonked on about fifteen different drugs. His eyes alone seemed to be under the influence of at least half a dozen.

He quite literally fell onto me - walking upright was not one of this fellow's stronger suits. Having fallen onto me, he muttered something about the nazi party.

"Beg pardon?" I asked.

"I want a dollar," he said, still slurring. I'll leave it to the reader to imagine what the gentleman's breath smelled like.

Obviously I was annoyed - how else should one be when one is fallen onto? - and checking my pockets to make sure he hadn't stolen my wallet. Then I looked out the window and noticed that we were passing the YMCA.

And I said "Young man! There's no need to feel down...I said young man....."

Two tours in one night - 6 hours of ghost stories

Now THAT was a successful evening of ghost tours.

The first of the two was totally sold out, and the crowd was rowdy. The more fun the crowd is, the more fun the tour will be. The driver, Hector, and I banter back and forth - I'll tell a scary story and he'll have a punchline ready, or the other way around. Oddly enough, it seems that the more boisterous a tour group is, the more likely that the pictures they take at haunted spots (we encourage digital cameras, of course) will have interesting things. Lots of weird "orb" shots tonight, lots of strange flashing lights, and one picture in which the ground where the St. Valentine's Day Massacre took place appeared to be blood red. Hardcore skeptic that I am, I'd blame that on some sort of camera isssue, but, hey, you never know. And, anyway, it's great for the tour. Tips were high.

The second group was smaller and a lot more subdued - their pictures weren't nearly as interesting, for the most part, but everyone still had a good time.


What a fun job this is! When things get slow, I tell stories from towns where I used to live (plenty of stories from my Milledgeville pizza delivery days), or stories that actually might've happened to other people. Or, failing that, I can tell local trivia bits - especially interesting tonight was that even the TREES can be mob hits around here. Recently, it was mentioned in the papers that a couple of developers who couldn't get the permit to cut down a couple of trees, for some reason, put a 5k "hit" on each of the trees. A fellow nicknamed "quarters" had been plotting to whack them. The jokes here are just endless.

"All my life, ever since I was a little kid, I always wanted to be Paul Bunyan." (stole this one)
"Take the car. Leave the pinecone."
"We called up this wiseguy we called quarters. Quarters is a lumberjack, and he's okay."

Neighborhood Eats

My favorite place to eat in my neighborhood is called Pie Eyed Pizza. It's right by the blue line train stop, and is open til midnight (all night on weekends) serving slices. The deep dish is fantastic, but I normally just go in for the slices, which are thin, but among the best in town. It's nice to go in in the middle of the night for cheap, world-class pizza and, usually, interesting conversation with the other nighthawks.

Today, I noticed that they'd installed a new, three level thing to house the slices, which freed up several feet of space on the counter.

"What'll you do with all the extra space?" I asked.

"We're expanding the menu," said the owner, "to have hot dogs and stuff."

"Are they going to be proper hot dogs?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," he replied. "Chicago style."

"Without the..." I began.

"Oh, no ketchup," he said, knowing where I was going. "We'll have it in the store,but we won't put it on for you. If people want it, they'll have to put it on themselves."

Folks, I was in heaven. This is just the way it's supposed to be. The Chicago hot dog is a delicacy, believe it or not - a bright red dog with a bit of snap and spice to it on a poppy seed bun, topped with mustard, onions, tomato wedges, bright green relish, a couple of sport peppers, a pickle spear and celery salt. Ketchup is considered a condiment for kids. Making the customer add it themselves - or just not having it at all - is the hallmark of a proper Chicago hot dog joint, and is a sure sign that when Pie Eyed adds hot dogs, they're going to do it right.

Man, I love my neighborhood.

Edit in 2010: Not only did they do the hot dogs right, but they added Italian Beef, too - that's a sandwich native to Chicago that is like a french dip that comes pre-dipped, often served with peppers and/or cheese. The one at Pie Eyed is one of the best in town.

Where Chairs Go to Die

Friends, I've just had the DAMNEDEST shopping experience. I've discovered a land untouched by modern merchandising trends that have shaped shopping for the past half century, where one will under no circumstances fine a motivational phrase on the wall, hear an announcer talk about sales, or be offered a discount card.

Since my desk chair collapsed, I decided to brave a walk in the snow to the nearby thrift store, where I found nothing under $40. On the walk home, however, I noticed an old building with a neon sign reading "OFFICE FU," and decided to walk in. It was an old, three story brick building, and looked as though some time had passed since the inside was last renovated.

After telling the friendly fellow at the front desk what I needed, I was directed to a somewhat stern woman (one who reminded me of my old algebra teacher) who led me behind a couple layers of curtains to a freight elevator. Now, this was not the sort of freight elevator you see in the back of department stores - it was the rickety wooden kind, in a narrow, droopy brick shaft. The kind you always see in gangster movies. I half expected the third floor to be a speakeasy, or, at the very least, a card game.

However, it was, in fact, a veritable graveyard of desk chairs - it was entirely possible that there WAS a card game hidden someplace among it. The walls were bare brick, and there was no particular order to the merchandise. The woman led me around, pointing out various models and saying "this one's 15...this one'll run you 35..." until I noticed just the model for me hiding underneath a couple of other chairs. It was small, with orange cushions. I may not be much of a shopper, but I do know that I like orange, harvest gold, and avocado green in my decor whenever possible.

"How much is this one?" I asked, seeing that it conformed to my ass perfectly when I sat in it.

"That one? That's five dollars," she said.

So I happily took the freight elevator back down, paid, and carried it home.

All shopping should be this exciting.

Edit to add: the sign for the shop is still there, but the building is now vacant.