After soliciting reader input and carefully weighing my options, I opted to forego the opportunity to fraternize with undergrads in order to stuff my face at Ribfest. I decided that the undergrads at school weren't ready for my brand of all-day quad partying. After all, I'd already blown their minds by introducing snorkeling and the bomb squad (this entails doing car, jager, cherry, and dr. pepper bombs consecutively) to a bar near campus. Furthermore, if I had gone to dance with 18 and 19 year olds on the quad, there was a strong chance that I would feel as awkward as my friend Bill or his little brother for that matter.
Having decided to attend Ribfest, I set about preparing myself both physically and mentally. That morning I opted to skip both breakfast and lunch while also taking the time to relish in the fact that for once I would not be the largest person at an event. I imagined that I would resemble a svelte, pre-teen Swedish boy in comparison to the other rib-loving festival-goers. Therefore, it came as a cruel and shocking twist of fate when I quickly realized that Ribfest is no place for those with an insatiable appetite. While making my way down the street, I noticed that the fest was not dominated by men of girth but rather by wannabe foodies and other waifs who were perfectly content to stand on impossibly long lines just to get a "sampler," a small plate of 3 or 4 ribs.
After skowering the grounds and failing to find a line that was less than 45 minutes long, my friend and I opted for the longest line possible, figuring that if we were going to have to wait, we may as well wait for ribs that were creating the biggest buzz amongst the crowd. Luckily, with two of us, we were free to drink as much beer as possible as one of us held our space in line while the other repeatedly went to refill our cups. So with this system in place the line actually turned out to be quite pleasant (As the beer runner, I was reminded that I am very much a rookie when it comes to summer festivals in Chicago, for while I was purchasing beer in chintzy 16 oz cups, there were other guys drinking from the enormous plastic steins that are distributed during Maifest. I don't know if these guys were convincing the beer vendors to fill their steins or if they were purchasing 4 or 5 beers at time and pouring those beers into the steins. However they were filling the steins, it was abundantly clear to me that I have a lot to learn when it comes to maximizing my fun at these events).
Eventually we made our way to the front of the line and promptly devoured our diminuitive portion of ribs in roughly sixty seconds. So with sixty minutes of waiting resulting in a minute of pleasure, I decided that rather than wait on another line I would instead continue to nurse the buzz I had going and make my way over to the stage where a raucous blue grass band was playing. Since I was fueled by several pints of beer and was not weighed down by a stuffed stomach, I was able to enjoy Ribfest in a way that I hadn't anticipated. I was able to engage in, not gluttony as I had assumed I would, but rather my other favorite pastime...drunken dancing. The band was particularly appreciative of my moves for up until that point other people had been too preoccupied with their ribs to cut a rug, or the concrete as it were. So while it didn't live up to my expectations with regards to the ribs, I would have to say that this festival was a resounding success and I am now excited to see what else the festival season has in store.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Summer Time...Time to Sit Back and Unwind
Before I moved to Chicago I was told that the Spring and Summer festivals make suffering through the Winter worthwhile. After being trapped inside for several months, everyone comes out en masse to attend the myriad of outdoor activities that the city plans. For example, just last weekend my neighborhood hosted "Maifest," a contrived German holiday intended to fill the coffers of my dirty alderman (The corruption of my alderman and my impending campaign to unseat him will have to be addressed at a later date). He decided that Oktoberfest is such an economic boon, why not subject the neighborhood to another raucous fest in the Spring. So all last weekend we couldn't get into our local bars because the throbbing Frat faction guzzling beers and brats spilled out of the square and into the surrounding watering holes. I know what you're thinking, "Is he complaining about a huge party? That seems rather unlike him." Well, my only response to that is that I'm equally baffled myself. To my reckoning (mourning outghn't last no longer than grief. Sorry...I couldn't resist a little NHS AP English humor for those that survived Antoine's class), the fact that I didn't get to pre-game sufficiently is what led to my cranky disposition while at Maifest. Prior to making my way over to the square, I was busy preparing two huge presentations on the origins of World War I and another on the hetero-normativity that dominates exhibits at Ellis Island. So I didn't have time to have a few drinks to put myself in an amiable mood before dealing with the crowds.
I think my aversion for the fest also stemmed from the adverse effect it had on the bums in my alley. Apparently the Spring thaw doesn't just bring out Frat revelers, but it also brings out those inclined to sit around alleys, sharing 16 oz cans of Old Style. Our alley in particular seems to attract such people due to the amenities that we offer. For example, our apartment shares its alley with a movie theater that features some comfortable concrete steps leading from its backdoor. Since the theater is closed during the day, these bums have the run of the alley, drinking with impunity, knowing that there are no employees to chase them away. My balcony overlooks these steps, and I enjoy straining to hear their conversation. I'm particularly fascinated by these bums because, aside from the fact that they are splitting a can of beer between them at 11:00 in the morning, they don't conform to your standard image of a street person. Their clothes appear somewhat clean from a distance and their goatees are carefully manicured.
Until Maifest started it didn't seem like anything could dislodge these bums from the comforts of our alley. A couple of weeks ago they hit the bum lottery when the furniture store next to the theater closed down. After holding a clearance sale, some of the items that went unsold ended up in the alley. So my friends got to trade their cold concrete slabs for a cushy sectional sofa. On my way from the EL through the alley, I spotted two of the bums fully recumbent on the L-shaped sofa. They looked happier than pigs in slop, but apparently all their worldly desires were not satiated because they still asked for some change as I passed by. Now normally this plea for charity would have moved me to rummage through my pockets, but the fact that they expected me to move across the alley and place the money in their outstretched hands while they remained comfortably laid out on the couch really irritated me. I told them I had no change, that they might have some luck by going through the cushions, and went on my way.
But my annoyance was fleeting, and I grew concerned for their comfort due to the onslaught of people during Maifest. There'd be no hope for peaceful relaxation in the alley. So I'm not sure where they ended up on this particular weekend, but I just hope they return soon.
So while the bums and I didn't enjoy Maifest to the fullest, I hope to continue to attend the various activities planned by the city to reward its citizens for braving the Winter. After doing so, I will provide the JC/Bot audience with a review of each festival. To this end, I need your help. This weekend there is actually a conflict. Ribfest is taking place in the neighborhood just south of us. Unfortunately, DePaul is also having its Spring Weekend/Spring Fling/Dolphy Day (whatever you want to call it) on the quad. So I'd like the JC/Bot faithful to weigh in with opinions as to what event I should attend. Should I stuff myself with ribs alongside some of the most obese people that the Midwest has to offer, or should I dance and twirl uncontrollably, sans shoes, on the grass with some young co-eds?
I think my aversion for the fest also stemmed from the adverse effect it had on the bums in my alley. Apparently the Spring thaw doesn't just bring out Frat revelers, but it also brings out those inclined to sit around alleys, sharing 16 oz cans of Old Style. Our alley in particular seems to attract such people due to the amenities that we offer. For example, our apartment shares its alley with a movie theater that features some comfortable concrete steps leading from its backdoor. Since the theater is closed during the day, these bums have the run of the alley, drinking with impunity, knowing that there are no employees to chase them away. My balcony overlooks these steps, and I enjoy straining to hear their conversation. I'm particularly fascinated by these bums because, aside from the fact that they are splitting a can of beer between them at 11:00 in the morning, they don't conform to your standard image of a street person. Their clothes appear somewhat clean from a distance and their goatees are carefully manicured.
Until Maifest started it didn't seem like anything could dislodge these bums from the comforts of our alley. A couple of weeks ago they hit the bum lottery when the furniture store next to the theater closed down. After holding a clearance sale, some of the items that went unsold ended up in the alley. So my friends got to trade their cold concrete slabs for a cushy sectional sofa. On my way from the EL through the alley, I spotted two of the bums fully recumbent on the L-shaped sofa. They looked happier than pigs in slop, but apparently all their worldly desires were not satiated because they still asked for some change as I passed by. Now normally this plea for charity would have moved me to rummage through my pockets, but the fact that they expected me to move across the alley and place the money in their outstretched hands while they remained comfortably laid out on the couch really irritated me. I told them I had no change, that they might have some luck by going through the cushions, and went on my way.
But my annoyance was fleeting, and I grew concerned for their comfort due to the onslaught of people during Maifest. There'd be no hope for peaceful relaxation in the alley. So I'm not sure where they ended up on this particular weekend, but I just hope they return soon.
So while the bums and I didn't enjoy Maifest to the fullest, I hope to continue to attend the various activities planned by the city to reward its citizens for braving the Winter. After doing so, I will provide the JC/Bot audience with a review of each festival. To this end, I need your help. This weekend there is actually a conflict. Ribfest is taking place in the neighborhood just south of us. Unfortunately, DePaul is also having its Spring Weekend/Spring Fling/Dolphy Day (whatever you want to call it) on the quad. So I'd like the JC/Bot faithful to weigh in with opinions as to what event I should attend. Should I stuff myself with ribs alongside some of the most obese people that the Midwest has to offer, or should I dance and twirl uncontrollably, sans shoes, on the grass with some young co-eds?
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Take Me Home, Country Roads
As most of you have surely noticed I’ve haven’t been able to keep you apprised of my comings and goings for the last month. I apologize for this for this lack of communication, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me when you hear my explanation. With the start of the baseball season, I’ve been privy to witnessing quite a few Cub victories. Now, I don’t have a problem with a Cub win in and of itself. The problem arises when the final out is recorded and the entire stadium breaks into a celebratory rendition of this song. I defy you to listen to all three minutes of this tune and not have it stuck in your head for the rest of the day. When it is on a constant loop in your head for the afternoon, just be thankful that you’re not me. I haven’t been able to get this song out of my head since the season began. It’s really disturbing my study, sleep, and most importantly blogging habits. So if you have any suggestions as to how I can get this song out of my head, I’d love to hear it.
In the month since I’ve last been in contact, I’ve continued my search for a new hobby to filly my days in my new home. Unfortunately this quest hit yet another snag. I’d hoped that the new hobby would be something somewhat active, but such pursuits were compromised when Lori came down with a debilitating injury. I came home from work one night to find Lori in bed, rocking out to a re-run of an Usher performance on Saturday Night Live. Apparently she had failed to stretch prior to getting into bed, for she pulled a hamstring in the convulsive fits that pass for bed-dancing (Unfortunately this is an odd term that we must use a lot in our household. On another occasion I came home to find her once again dancing under the covers of the bed. This wouldn’t have been so bad had our new laptop not been balanced precariously on her stomach, the cheap speakers statically blaring a 30 year old Queen video that she found on Youtube).
So with an active hobby out of the question for the time being, I sought out some pursuits that were more sedentary in nature. I decided that I might try my hand at being a big buck hunter. I first became interested in this sport when helping a friend train for an up-coming tournament he was going to be participating in. By agreeing to give up a Sunday afternoon of reading about the fatal flaws of the Schlieffen plan for a trip to a bar in Wriggleyville, my friend provided unlimited wings and 22 oz Miller Lite drafts. Needless to say I was hooked on this brand of hunting immediately. However, the game quickly became more than just a Sunday Funday excuse to indulge my gluttonous nature. I found that I enjoyed picking off vast quantities of large game while tightly gripping the orange toy rifle with hot sauce-stained hands. The tournament the following week proved to be equally entertaining. Having received a predilection for big buck hunting too late to enter, I had to make the tournament interesting by running numbers amongst the spectators (Ok…so it was really just me and one other guy gambling. But our prop bets were fun nonetheless. For example, we did an over/under on the number of expletives hurled by the guy who was taking things way too seriously. We also had a bet concerning what brand of dip the winner would be packing. The finals came down to a Kodiak man shooting against a Skoal user with the Bear taking the title).
This affinity for Big Buck Hunter coincided with another new hobby, a desire to enter the world of competitive mustache growing. As a graduate college student who dropped out of the work force, I’ve rediscovered the joys of wearing my facial hair any way I want, regardless of society’s or my principal’s mores. However, while preparing to shave my beard down to my favorite go-to ‘stache, the thick handle bar, I came to a profound realization. When in New York, my mustache drew rave reviews partly because it was awesome and partly because it was ironic. However, while here in the Midwest, it would still be awesome yet it would cease to be ironic. I’d be just another hill-billy with a great mustache.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with razor in hand, I suddenly had a disturbing mental image: There I was, back at the Big Buck Hunter tournament, mowing down unsuspecting wildlife, with a striking mustache and a huge wad of dip packed tightly in my lip. Was this to be my future? After all, hadn’t I just slipped up and ordered “pop” the other day at a restaurant? Didn't I tell Lori I was going to the deli to pick up "lunch meat"? It’s only been nine months! Could I be losing my East Coast roots already? This was indeed a troubling revelation. I needed something to chase this image from my head. I dropped the razor and turned to the only thing I knew that could rid me of these painful thoughts.
In the month since I’ve last been in contact, I’ve continued my search for a new hobby to filly my days in my new home. Unfortunately this quest hit yet another snag. I’d hoped that the new hobby would be something somewhat active, but such pursuits were compromised when Lori came down with a debilitating injury. I came home from work one night to find Lori in bed, rocking out to a re-run of an Usher performance on Saturday Night Live. Apparently she had failed to stretch prior to getting into bed, for she pulled a hamstring in the convulsive fits that pass for bed-dancing (Unfortunately this is an odd term that we must use a lot in our household. On another occasion I came home to find her once again dancing under the covers of the bed. This wouldn’t have been so bad had our new laptop not been balanced precariously on her stomach, the cheap speakers statically blaring a 30 year old Queen video that she found on Youtube).
So with an active hobby out of the question for the time being, I sought out some pursuits that were more sedentary in nature. I decided that I might try my hand at being a big buck hunter. I first became interested in this sport when helping a friend train for an up-coming tournament he was going to be participating in. By agreeing to give up a Sunday afternoon of reading about the fatal flaws of the Schlieffen plan for a trip to a bar in Wriggleyville, my friend provided unlimited wings and 22 oz Miller Lite drafts. Needless to say I was hooked on this brand of hunting immediately. However, the game quickly became more than just a Sunday Funday excuse to indulge my gluttonous nature. I found that I enjoyed picking off vast quantities of large game while tightly gripping the orange toy rifle with hot sauce-stained hands. The tournament the following week proved to be equally entertaining. Having received a predilection for big buck hunting too late to enter, I had to make the tournament interesting by running numbers amongst the spectators (Ok…so it was really just me and one other guy gambling. But our prop bets were fun nonetheless. For example, we did an over/under on the number of expletives hurled by the guy who was taking things way too seriously. We also had a bet concerning what brand of dip the winner would be packing. The finals came down to a Kodiak man shooting against a Skoal user with the Bear taking the title).
This affinity for Big Buck Hunter coincided with another new hobby, a desire to enter the world of competitive mustache growing. As a graduate college student who dropped out of the work force, I’ve rediscovered the joys of wearing my facial hair any way I want, regardless of society’s or my principal’s mores. However, while preparing to shave my beard down to my favorite go-to ‘stache, the thick handle bar, I came to a profound realization. When in New York, my mustache drew rave reviews partly because it was awesome and partly because it was ironic. However, while here in the Midwest, it would still be awesome yet it would cease to be ironic. I’d be just another hill-billy with a great mustache.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, with razor in hand, I suddenly had a disturbing mental image: There I was, back at the Big Buck Hunter tournament, mowing down unsuspecting wildlife, with a striking mustache and a huge wad of dip packed tightly in my lip. Was this to be my future? After all, hadn’t I just slipped up and ordered “pop” the other day at a restaurant? Didn't I tell Lori I was going to the deli to pick up "lunch meat"? It’s only been nine months! Could I be losing my East Coast roots already? This was indeed a troubling revelation. I needed something to chase this image from my head. I dropped the razor and turned to the only thing I knew that could rid me of these painful thoughts.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Quest Continues...
It’s been awhile since I last wrote. I’ve been busy writing papers in between bouts of rigorous drinking at the various St. Patrick’s Day celebrations around Chicago over the last week and a half. However, now that I’ve turned in all my papers and the academic quarter is over, I’ve got an abundance of free time on my hands. So now more than ever it is imperative that I find a new and constructive hobby to occupy my time. So I thought I’d take this occasion to sift through and evaluate the various suggestions put forth by the loyal of readers of jc/bot.com:
Ping Pong Tournaments at the Y –
This suggestion seemed promising at first. I had a ping pong table growing up, and I’m sure I could get back into the swing of things rather quickly. The fact that I would be playing in tournaments is an added bonus in that this activity would also satiate my desire to compete. However, this plan hit a snag when a friend here in Chicago announced that he hoped to movie into a room at the local YMCA. Never mind the fact that he owns real estate across the country, he espoused the desire to live in a cheap establishment that was nonetheless rich in camaraderie amongst the boarders. Needless to say it would be exceedingly awkward to run into this ostensibly heterosexual friend while he is hanging out with his fellow Y inhabitants. Every time I turn a corner at in the building I’d be apprehensive about what I might see: a snorkel session in the hot-tub, improper and dangerous use of the pommel horse in the gym, impromptu horseplay in the steam room…
Perform During Amateur Night at a Local Strip Club -
I know what most of you are thinking. “I’ve seen him own the dance floor at ______ (fill in the blank) ‘s wedding. I bet he’d be good at this.” But I’ve been there and done that. For some reason my wedding skills don’t translate to the pole.
Beer Making –
I actually love this idea and it has crossed my mind before. However, I see some potential drawbacks to this plan. For one thing, I was not particularly adept at chemistry in high school. While Mr. Herbert stood in front of the class droning on about moles, my friends and I sat in the back of the class playing word games. I can still see the glimmer of hope flash across his face when one of us would raise our hands. You could tell he was overjoyed by the prospect of one of his students taking enough of an interest to ask a question. However, this countenance of joy would quickly turn sour as we would ask something like “Mr. Herbert, what’s a six letter word for… ” Furthermore, our apathy proved dangerous as our lax attitude toward safety led to some near-death experiences. Who knew you shouldn’t drop a flaming hot crucible into an enormous glass beaker filled with cold water? My lack of chemistry skills notwithstanding, I don’t think I possess the refined palate necessary to brew my own beer. I enjoy a fine micro-brew just as much as the next guy, but I’m just as happy drinking a Busch light can that’s been sitting out in the sun all day (While I generally do not discriminate between micro and mass produced, there is actually one genre of beer where I can skillfully detect the subtle nuances between each blend. Having living in the Bronx for several years, I consider myself a connoisseur of malt liquor. From the stinging bite of King Cobra to the soothing pastoral qualities of Country Club, I am well-versed in the premium malt liquor scene. Unfortunately I don’t think any of the home brewing kits cater to those who prefer their beers malted).
Since I was unable to zero in on one specific suggestion, I was forced to fall back on my one of my old hobbies. Today I spent the afternoon at Hawthorne Race course on the Southside. This lovely venue for horse racing (for you New Yorkers, if you imagine that Yonkers Raceway, pre-Empire City renovations, was situated between Newark airport and the industrial area off of the New Jersey turnpike you have an idea of what Hawthorne is like) proved to be entertaining not just for the handicapping but for the people watching as well. The middle-aged men wearing ill-fitting jumpsuits, chomping on cigars, and yelling at the televisions were pretty much par for the course at any track or OTB. What was particularly interesting was listening to the various children in attendance that seemed to be on their Spring break as well. While some of the kids seemed to enjoy their day at the track, rushing up to the rail to watch the horses gallop past, others seemed to be having a rougher go of it. For one, there were those kids who seemed to be at the mercy of their guardians’ gambling habits. It was sad to hear once such kid ask “Can we get lunch if you win this one?” Still others seemed to be developing the bad habits of those around them. I heard one child begging his father for an advance on his two dollar allowance because he had “a feeling about the next one!”
Listening to these forlorn kids reaffirmed my desire to find a more productive hobby. Whether it’s constructing the perfect plate of nachos (I wonder if OVI has a summer internship program) or becoming a crossword puzzle master (this seems a far way off because I frequently get stumped by the puzzle in my friend’s middle school newspaper. Of course the kids in his school don’t read the newspaper and he creates an impossibly hard crossword filled with esoteric Cleveland sports references to get back at me for beating him at Jeopardy everyday when we lived together), I appreciate the ideas. Keep the suggestions coming as I’ll most likely be trying them all during my time off from school!Thursday, February 26, 2009
Win a Date With Robbie Alomar Jr!
A few days ago we were provided with a brief respite from the harsh Chicago winter we’ve been having. With temperatures climbing into the 50’s, people flocked to the streets and parks to make the most of the clement weather. Being the diligent student that I am, I didn’t let the warm weather keep me from my studies. However, on my way to class, I saw an unfortunate group of Mexican adolescents taking turns riding one skateboard and a group of frat boys exercising their latent homo-erotic tendencies in a game of tackle football. Seeing all this rigorous activity put me into a contemplative mood.
It reminded me that when I moved here, I left behind the two entities that were single-handedly keeping me from looking like this. Of course I’m referring to my baseball and basketball teams, the state champion Indians and the 2008 Slo-Break champion Drifters. Prior to moving, my teammates made me bury my rec-specs and swear never to don them again in a ritual that was reminiscent of one of my favorite sequels of all-time. Not wanting to be forever branded a rec-league slut, I’ve faithfully kept my pledge. After all, if I went back on my word, it might result in an exceedingly awkward scene similar to this one.
However, by maintaining my chastity, I’ve been left with a huge void in my life. After watching my fellow Chicagoans enjoy the warm weather, it became painfully obvious to me that I need an activity to replace my old teams. Without these teams, my most rigorous activities consist of moving from the couch to the recliner to avoid Lori’s vacuum and walking down the street each day to see which starting line-up action figures have been put in the $1 box outside of the toy collectible store (I’ve already got quite a collection going. I hit the jackpot by finding Jose Canseco and Roberto Alomar. I’m hoping the Robbie Alomar action figure really appreciates in value once this story finally gets picked up by the mainstream media).
You would think that acquiring a new hobby would be a fairly simple endeavor. This is not the case. The problem is that my entire life has been dedicated to excelling at team sports. If you don’t count the one winter I was in the glee club, nearly every moment not spent in school was spent travelling to or participating in a team sport. Since this is now out of the question, I’m not sure what activities to pursue.
Recently I’ve dabbled in gambling on horse-racing. This seemed promising for a while. However, when I learned that Illinois Off-Track Betting parlors have liquor licenses, I quickly gave up this pursuit. To maintain some semblance of order in my life, I’ve always tried to keep my vices at a healthy distance from each other (unless of course you count the time that ABC Family inexplicably ran a Gilmore Girl’s marathon on St. Patrick’s Day, in which case it couldn’t be avoided).
After my foray into horse-racing hit a snare, I decided I needed some guidance in this quest. So I decided to consult Lori. Knowing me better than anyone else, I figured she might have some insights into an activity that would be appropriate for me. However I should have known better than to consult someone who thinks learning to discuss eczema and shingles in 4 different Eastern European languages is a fun-filled pursuit. She was very quick to make some completely absurd suggestions. She thought I might enjoy taking classes to become a notary public. While these fine men and women provide a valuable function in our society, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of rushing to join their ranks. When I scoffed at this suggestion, she quickly countered with another equally fruitless idea. She thought I might enjoy taking classes to become a hypnotist. I'm not even going to comment on that one.
So with few enticing options being put forth here in Chicago, I thought I’d enlist the help of the JohnClaytonisarobot galaxy. I’m asking that you all take the time to brainstorm and come up with some ideas as to what my new hobby/activity should be. Please post these suggestions via the comments section. I’m at a loss for ideas and your input would be greatly appreciated. In fact, I'm so desperate that the reader with the best suggestion will win a Roberto Alomar Jr. starting line up action figure still in the original packaging. Just think...this prize could prove to be your retirement nest egg if Robbie continues to wage war on women with his AIDS stick.
It reminded me that when I moved here, I left behind the two entities that were single-handedly keeping me from looking like this. Of course I’m referring to my baseball and basketball teams, the state champion Indians and the 2008 Slo-Break champion Drifters. Prior to moving, my teammates made me bury my rec-specs and swear never to don them again in a ritual that was reminiscent of one of my favorite sequels of all-time. Not wanting to be forever branded a rec-league slut, I’ve faithfully kept my pledge. After all, if I went back on my word, it might result in an exceedingly awkward scene similar to this one.
However, by maintaining my chastity, I’ve been left with a huge void in my life. After watching my fellow Chicagoans enjoy the warm weather, it became painfully obvious to me that I need an activity to replace my old teams. Without these teams, my most rigorous activities consist of moving from the couch to the recliner to avoid Lori’s vacuum and walking down the street each day to see which starting line-up action figures have been put in the $1 box outside of the toy collectible store (I’ve already got quite a collection going. I hit the jackpot by finding Jose Canseco and Roberto Alomar. I’m hoping the Robbie Alomar action figure really appreciates in value once this story finally gets picked up by the mainstream media).
You would think that acquiring a new hobby would be a fairly simple endeavor. This is not the case. The problem is that my entire life has been dedicated to excelling at team sports. If you don’t count the one winter I was in the glee club, nearly every moment not spent in school was spent travelling to or participating in a team sport. Since this is now out of the question, I’m not sure what activities to pursue.
Recently I’ve dabbled in gambling on horse-racing. This seemed promising for a while. However, when I learned that Illinois Off-Track Betting parlors have liquor licenses, I quickly gave up this pursuit. To maintain some semblance of order in my life, I’ve always tried to keep my vices at a healthy distance from each other (unless of course you count the time that ABC Family inexplicably ran a Gilmore Girl’s marathon on St. Patrick’s Day, in which case it couldn’t be avoided).
After my foray into horse-racing hit a snare, I decided I needed some guidance in this quest. So I decided to consult Lori. Knowing me better than anyone else, I figured she might have some insights into an activity that would be appropriate for me. However I should have known better than to consult someone who thinks learning to discuss eczema and shingles in 4 different Eastern European languages is a fun-filled pursuit. She was very quick to make some completely absurd suggestions. She thought I might enjoy taking classes to become a notary public. While these fine men and women provide a valuable function in our society, I wasn’t too keen on the idea of rushing to join their ranks. When I scoffed at this suggestion, she quickly countered with another equally fruitless idea. She thought I might enjoy taking classes to become a hypnotist. I'm not even going to comment on that one.
So with few enticing options being put forth here in Chicago, I thought I’d enlist the help of the JohnClaytonisarobot galaxy. I’m asking that you all take the time to brainstorm and come up with some ideas as to what my new hobby/activity should be. Please post these suggestions via the comments section. I’m at a loss for ideas and your input would be greatly appreciated. In fact, I'm so desperate that the reader with the best suggestion will win a Roberto Alomar Jr. starting line up action figure still in the original packaging. Just think...this prize could prove to be your retirement nest egg if Robbie continues to wage war on women with his AIDS stick.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Vietnam Revisited
I've been completely crushed with work for the past couple of weeks. I'm currently writing a book review for my U.S. urban history class. We had to read a book entitled Gay New York. It's all about the vibrant gay subculture that existed in NY in the early part of the 20th century. It's really quite fascinating, but unfortunately while reading it on the train I've left myself open to some unwelcomed advances.
Anyway, between this book review and a couple of other papers, I haven't had time to keep you all apprised of what's been going on here in Chicago. So rather than write a half-assed blog entry, I'd thought I'd regale our new readers with a post from the past. Writing about karaoke at the Korean restaurant brought back a flood of memories concerning our trip to Asia. So I decided to post a story I wrote when Lori and I were in Vietnam...
____________________________________________________
Good Morning Vietnam!!!!
The title of this popular Robin William's flick has been made into a highly grossing tee shirt for vendors here in Saigon. While this is wonderful news for tee-shirt and souvenir purveyors, far too many tourists here have not been able to resist the urge to don the shirts immediately after purchasing them. To me, this is akin to wearing the tee-shirt of the band that you are going to see (Don't be that guy!). Last night, we saw what appeared to be a boy scout troop (one man, four adolescent boys. I'm not sure exactly what was going on there, but feel free to assume the worst. The American soldiers may have left, but the flesh trade here is still thriving) parading through the streets in matching tees. However, even lamer than the matching boy scout troop was the pair of European men who sat behind me at a cafe. Lori and I traded knowing smirks as they walked by in their identical Vietnam flag tee's and capri pants. After a few minutes, Lori became even more flabergasted by their behavior, stating, "The only thing gayer than wearing matching Vetnam tee-shirts is sharing a Fanta while wearing matching Vietnam tee-shirts."
While we enjoyed the prices of goods in China, things have only gotten better here in that regard. We've continued to live a life of lavish hedonism, throwing our 100 hundred thousand bills around as if it was monopoly money. For example, last night, we purchased a liter of beer for 25 cents. However, before you get too jealous, I should inform you that the beer arrived in what appeared to be a former motor oil container. The taste was equally horrendous. It tasted as if the filthiest dive in Saigon had donated the ass of its warm kegs to this particular cafe. So, for the remainder of the night we decided to splurge and treat ourselves to dollar beers.
With the beer prices being what they are, we can't help but indulge a little bit. After a day of crawling through former Vietcong tunnels, nothing tastes better than a cold beer. And to our credit, some of the locals have taken notice of our beer drinking prowess. One night, the group of middle aged men next to us were impressed by the empty bottles we had accrued at our table (In order to keep track of your bill, waitresses will not clear away your bottles when your are finished with them. So, after a few rounds, your table will be filled with empty beer bottles). After being there a fraction of the time they were, our co-ed drinking team of two had amassed nearly half of the bottles that they had consumed as a 5 person team. After incredulously counting the bottles at our table, the men began raising their glasses to us to cheers every 45 seconds. With each cheers, one of the men would shout "Yo nam!" I thought this was Vietnamese for "cheers" so I responded with a resounding "Yo nam!' in return. After about a half an hour of this, I came to realize that "Yo nam" did not mean cheers, but rather he had asked me roughly twenty five times what my name was (the accent can be tough to decipher at times, even when the local is fluent and sober. This was not the case with this man). Worried that we might have come across as rude, we offered the men some Marlboro light cigarettes to make up for our conversational blunder. Touched by our overture of frienship, the men responded by offering us some Vietnamese cigarettes. So even though there was a difficult language barrier, we were able to start a crude cultural exchange program through the addictive power of cigarettes. With this touching display of understanding, I can't help but feel that peace and harmony is within our grasp...
Anyway, between this book review and a couple of other papers, I haven't had time to keep you all apprised of what's been going on here in Chicago. So rather than write a half-assed blog entry, I'd thought I'd regale our new readers with a post from the past. Writing about karaoke at the Korean restaurant brought back a flood of memories concerning our trip to Asia. So I decided to post a story I wrote when Lori and I were in Vietnam...
____________________________________________________
Good Morning Vietnam!!!!
The title of this popular Robin William's flick has been made into a highly grossing tee shirt for vendors here in Saigon. While this is wonderful news for tee-shirt and souvenir purveyors, far too many tourists here have not been able to resist the urge to don the shirts immediately after purchasing them. To me, this is akin to wearing the tee-shirt of the band that you are going to see (Don't be that guy!). Last night, we saw what appeared to be a boy scout troop (one man, four adolescent boys. I'm not sure exactly what was going on there, but feel free to assume the worst. The American soldiers may have left, but the flesh trade here is still thriving) parading through the streets in matching tees. However, even lamer than the matching boy scout troop was the pair of European men who sat behind me at a cafe. Lori and I traded knowing smirks as they walked by in their identical Vietnam flag tee's and capri pants. After a few minutes, Lori became even more flabergasted by their behavior, stating, "The only thing gayer than wearing matching Vetnam tee-shirts is sharing a Fanta while wearing matching Vietnam tee-shirts."
While we enjoyed the prices of goods in China, things have only gotten better here in that regard. We've continued to live a life of lavish hedonism, throwing our 100 hundred thousand bills around as if it was monopoly money. For example, last night, we purchased a liter of beer for 25 cents. However, before you get too jealous, I should inform you that the beer arrived in what appeared to be a former motor oil container. The taste was equally horrendous. It tasted as if the filthiest dive in Saigon had donated the ass of its warm kegs to this particular cafe. So, for the remainder of the night we decided to splurge and treat ourselves to dollar beers.
With the beer prices being what they are, we can't help but indulge a little bit. After a day of crawling through former Vietcong tunnels, nothing tastes better than a cold beer. And to our credit, some of the locals have taken notice of our beer drinking prowess. One night, the group of middle aged men next to us were impressed by the empty bottles we had accrued at our table (In order to keep track of your bill, waitresses will not clear away your bottles when your are finished with them. So, after a few rounds, your table will be filled with empty beer bottles). After being there a fraction of the time they were, our co-ed drinking team of two had amassed nearly half of the bottles that they had consumed as a 5 person team. After incredulously counting the bottles at our table, the men began raising their glasses to us to cheers every 45 seconds. With each cheers, one of the men would shout "Yo nam!" I thought this was Vietnamese for "cheers" so I responded with a resounding "Yo nam!' in return. After about a half an hour of this, I came to realize that "Yo nam" did not mean cheers, but rather he had asked me roughly twenty five times what my name was (the accent can be tough to decipher at times, even when the local is fluent and sober. This was not the case with this man). Worried that we might have come across as rude, we offered the men some Marlboro light cigarettes to make up for our conversational blunder. Touched by our overture of frienship, the men responded by offering us some Vietnamese cigarettes. So even though there was a difficult language barrier, we were able to start a crude cultural exchange program through the addictive power of cigarettes. With this touching display of understanding, I can't help but feel that peace and harmony is within our grasp...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Big Fun in Little Korea
Before I proceed with our normally scheduled blog, I must congratulate the Gaping O for his award-winning smack talk. Due to his creative efforts, the DePaul faithful will most assuredly get in Hasheem Thabeet’s gigantic head when we play UCONN this Wednesday. And perhaps, as a result, the Blue Demons just might cover the 48 point spread.
I’m thankful that as a student I will be admitted to the UCONN game for free. The much ballyhooed economic recession has hit our household particularly hard (Well not so much Lori, but me. I guess the old Wall Street adage is true: “The apothecary business is vaccinated against recession”). To combat this economic adversity, I’ve adopted some creative eating habits. For example, when attending wing night at a local bar, I employ a tactic I learned back in high school: I order 40 wings and promptly consume 15-20 of them. Then I lick the sauce off the remaining wings and put them in my pocket which I have carefully lined with aluminum foil. These pocketed wings are intended for lunch the following day, but they usually end up being an after dinner snack for Lori on the ride home.
We’ve also taken to exclusively eating at restaurants that really give us a bang for our buck. Out of this group of cost effective restaurants one in particular has emerged as our favorite. OB, a tiny Korean establishment on the outskirts of Little Korea, can be called a restaurant in only the loosest sense of the word. Sure there are a couple of tables, chairs, and food, but beyond that the traditional definition of the word fails to suffice. To begin with, to gain entry into the place you must ring a bell and wait for the old Korean man seated at the bar to peek out the square peep hole (like the ones used in speak easies), and only after sizing you up for a second, allows you to enter.
Despite the ominous entry way and the frigid greeting, you are at once made to feel completely at home by Yung, the busty, middle aged proprietor, cook, waitress, and entertainer. If you are unable to read the Korean menu, she is happy to make suggestions for you. You know you can trust her recommendations because she shows her affinity for her food by eating directly off your plate. Now normally this would be disquieting for the average patron. I was quite put off when I first heard of this practice. But after experiencing it for myself, I can attest to her amazing ability to make this seem completely normal. I think she pulls this off by removing your inhibitions with her disarming charm as well as enormous bottles of Korean beer. While refilling my glass for the 5th time, after taking a swig herself of course, I noticed that this particular brand of beer boasts on its label that it is “Now Formaldehyde Free” in a matter of fact kind of way. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps it was all the embalming fluid in American beer that makes us so uptight concerning servers indulging in our entrees.
At any rate, I didn’t have much time to contemplate the formaldehyde situation because with dinner complete, it was now time for the entertainment portion of the evening. The entertainment at OB consists of Yung and her drunken regulars belting out some Korean tunes on the Karaoke machine. This suits me just fine. After a few rounds of formaldehyde free beer I’m quite prepared to regale the joint with a resounding rendition of this little ditty. Plus I like Asian Karaoke videos in particular because they are always so literal. For example, when “Cecilia” is shaking the singer’s confidence daily, the video shows a distraught Asian youth vigorously shaking a tree to signify his frustration.
After the microphone has been passed several times, it’s time to bid Yung farewell and pay our check. Dinner, drinks, and entertainment all for under 50 dollars is hard to beat. So for those of you in Chicago I highly recommend checking it out with us. For those of you who are not, it’s just another reason to visit!
I’m thankful that as a student I will be admitted to the UCONN game for free. The much ballyhooed economic recession has hit our household particularly hard (Well not so much Lori, but me. I guess the old Wall Street adage is true: “The apothecary business is vaccinated against recession”). To combat this economic adversity, I’ve adopted some creative eating habits. For example, when attending wing night at a local bar, I employ a tactic I learned back in high school: I order 40 wings and promptly consume 15-20 of them. Then I lick the sauce off the remaining wings and put them in my pocket which I have carefully lined with aluminum foil. These pocketed wings are intended for lunch the following day, but they usually end up being an after dinner snack for Lori on the ride home.
We’ve also taken to exclusively eating at restaurants that really give us a bang for our buck. Out of this group of cost effective restaurants one in particular has emerged as our favorite. OB, a tiny Korean establishment on the outskirts of Little Korea, can be called a restaurant in only the loosest sense of the word. Sure there are a couple of tables, chairs, and food, but beyond that the traditional definition of the word fails to suffice. To begin with, to gain entry into the place you must ring a bell and wait for the old Korean man seated at the bar to peek out the square peep hole (like the ones used in speak easies), and only after sizing you up for a second, allows you to enter.
Despite the ominous entry way and the frigid greeting, you are at once made to feel completely at home by Yung, the busty, middle aged proprietor, cook, waitress, and entertainer. If you are unable to read the Korean menu, she is happy to make suggestions for you. You know you can trust her recommendations because she shows her affinity for her food by eating directly off your plate. Now normally this would be disquieting for the average patron. I was quite put off when I first heard of this practice. But after experiencing it for myself, I can attest to her amazing ability to make this seem completely normal. I think she pulls this off by removing your inhibitions with her disarming charm as well as enormous bottles of Korean beer. While refilling my glass for the 5th time, after taking a swig herself of course, I noticed that this particular brand of beer boasts on its label that it is “Now Formaldehyde Free” in a matter of fact kind of way. It suddenly dawned on me that perhaps it was all the embalming fluid in American beer that makes us so uptight concerning servers indulging in our entrees.
At any rate, I didn’t have much time to contemplate the formaldehyde situation because with dinner complete, it was now time for the entertainment portion of the evening. The entertainment at OB consists of Yung and her drunken regulars belting out some Korean tunes on the Karaoke machine. This suits me just fine. After a few rounds of formaldehyde free beer I’m quite prepared to regale the joint with a resounding rendition of this little ditty. Plus I like Asian Karaoke videos in particular because they are always so literal. For example, when “Cecilia” is shaking the singer’s confidence daily, the video shows a distraught Asian youth vigorously shaking a tree to signify his frustration.
After the microphone has been passed several times, it’s time to bid Yung farewell and pay our check. Dinner, drinks, and entertainment all for under 50 dollars is hard to beat. So for those of you in Chicago I highly recommend checking it out with us. For those of you who are not, it’s just another reason to visit!
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