Emerald City Expatriate

Priority seating is intended for the elderly, women who are pregnant or nursing, and passengers with disabilities.  Your cooperation is requested. Translation: Get your ass up out of your seat when old people, disabled people (or the beggar con-man who pretends to be blind) or knocked-up/leaking baby mammas get on a full train.  This is Rule Number One at the CTA School of Manners. Moms with infants seem to avoid the train (which is smart) and disabled people are typically very grateful to be offered a seat.  But then you run into the age-old problem of Old People Not Realizing/Accepting that They’re Old, and Getting Bent Out of Shape When You Do Something Polite That Acknowledges Their Age. Let me digress for a moment.  There was a time when people of a certain age complained that “Kids these days don’t have any manners!”  Now, this happens: Me: (greeting an older male colleague in a professional setting)  “Good morning, sir.” Man:  “Sir?  Ouch!  Oh, man, you’re ki

In early 2012 I made a silent promise to myself that I would celebrate my 25 th birthday in Chicago.  Thanks to a lot of great people in my life (and also some sheer dumb luck, I think), I made it happen.  To celebrate this achievement, in mid-September I convinced a handful of college buddies to accompany me to the above-mentioned event, the entertainment value of which Jessica had praised highly before. You may be asking yourself why I would pay to attend a show with a title that so bluntly and ominously foreshadows vomiting, if not a stomach-pumping.  I will reply that there are similar events held out there in any city or college town anywhere in the nation, masquerading as fundraisers or Greek formals or tourist attractions.  This one just has the balls to let you know straight-out that a decent amount alcohol consumption is going to happen. And I’ve learned the hard way:  if you’re going to get soused and risk throwing up in public, better to have a good excuse (your b

“Brands belong on cattle, and that’s not what we’re selling here.  D’ya catch my drift?” So said Dolly Parton in “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” although I wouldn’t describe a Bible verse tattooed on the inside of my left wrist as a “brand.”  I like to think of it as permanent jewelry that I bought for myself, to mark an important part of my life and to remind me of what’s really important.  And although I’m unemployed for the time being, I’m far from being desperate enough to resort to the world’s oldest profession, so feel I can ignore Miss Mona’s rules. I’d been considering a tattoo ever since I finished college, but wavered a lot on what I wanted (something I’d be okay with for the rest of my life) and where I wanted it (somewhere easy to conceal that wouldn’t stretch or distort if I ever have a baby.)  About a year ago, I decided I wanted either Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8 or 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 on either my wrist or my ribcage.  I figured I’d make it a gift to myself once I

At first I thought she was an eccentric local, just some older lady with an oddball-glam sense of style.  But now that I’ve seen her hanging around the block for four straight days, always wearing the same getup, I’m not sure what to make of her. She’s large and round, always swarthed in the same black cape-like garment with this boxy hood/cowl piece that fits over her head.  (Maybe she belongs to some religion or sect that requires women to be thus hooded and robed.)  She always wears sunglasses (even at night) with dark lenses in bright white, skinny rectangle frames.  Because of these, you never know what she’s looking at, but you feel like it’s always with narrowed, squinty eyes.  She also wears huge rings on all her fingers and bright lipstick over a somewhat unsettling smirk, with a purple shift dress under the cape.  I’m strongly reminded of Ursula from “The Little Mermaid.”  Maybe someday I’ll pass her while she’s sitting on the patio of the corner store, smoking her stra

On Tuesday evenings after work, I sometimes find myself in River North checking out acting seminars.   Such was the case last week.   I got there quite a bit early an had some time to kill, and it was gorgeous outside, so I took a walk around the block and came across Ed Debevic’s diner, which I’d heard of before, but couldn’t remember where. In retrospect, it had probably been the butt of a joke because Ed’s turned out to be nothing more than an overpriced, tackier version of Steak n’ Shake for tourists and little kids.   Perhaps it was cool when it opened 30 years ago and nostalgia for retro-looking diners hadn’t quite set in yet.   The one “unique” bit of kitsch I overheard was the servers giving patrons attitude: To a man with sunglasses on his head:   “Yo, Shades!   Did you want the special barbeque burger or the regular one?” To a little girl:   “And what do YOU want, princess?” To her brother who wouldn’t stop jabbering:   “You.   Stop talking to me.” A few ye