MELTS IN YOUR MOUTH, NOT ON YOUR MONTANA.....

I usually drive down through Humboldt Park on the way to my other job out in the western burbs. Sacramento Ave is a nice shortcut to avoid the Kennedy, plus I get to see some unusual characters on a daily basis.

In the summertime you'll find a guy hawking something at just about every major intersection in the city. These street salesmen are young and old, black, white and Hispanic, and they all seem to dress in various forms of thrift store sportswear.

You have the pasty white guy in a ratty Bulls "3-PEAT" t-shirt from '93, the fat black dude in the hottest powder blue Fubu gear from five years ago, and the Puerto Rican cabron who pimps an oversized baseball jersey with his country's flag on the back.

These people aren't just selling those $1 charity boxes of Peanut M&M's "for the Hull House" anymore. Recently these cats have stepped up their game.

I think Chicago's downtrodden have discovered the wonderful world of Costco.

Tube socks. Peanuts (salted and unsalted). Silk flowers. Pine tree air fresheners. Bottled water. CHILLED bottled water. This kid at Sacramento and Grand has one of those huge Coleman coolers on wheels with a handle, filled with iced down bottles of Poland Spring.

But one guy in particular really caught my eye the other day. He was a black man in his mid 30's sporting a faded Mark Grace caricature t-shirt and purple Zubaz. If that weren't enough he had camped out in the median with a shopping cart containing the following items up for sale:

--A ten gallon bucket overflowing with bouquets of roses. They appeared to be freshly cut.
--Six stacked cases of bottled water. No cooler though....he should hook up with that other guy.
--Three framed 24" x 36" posters of Al Pacino in "Scarface". These were leaning up against the cart.
--A cardboard standup display case, straight from the checkout counter at the Rand McNally store, filled with maps of Chicago. This was perched on top of the cases of water.

Talk about one stop shopping.

Best of all he was cradling a large case of the infamous charity Peanut M&M's like Paul Hornung running the power sweep behind Jerry Kramer and Fuzzy Thurston.

As I pulled to a stop I could hear his boombox cranking Juvenile's "Slow Motion For Me". I couldn't help but laugh as he shimmied over towards my car.

Street Guy: "Hey man! You need some water? Dollar a bottle."

Me: "No thanks, I've got my own right here."

SG: "I know you dig Scarface, playa. SAY HELLO TO MY LI'L FREN! Ten bucks. Framed with the no-glare glass..."

Me: "I'll pass."

SG: "M&M's?" The light turned green. "Only a buck...."

Me: "No, I'm lactose intolerant." I pulled away.

SG: "Hey man! I gots PLAINS instead of PEANUTS too!!!"


Gotta love the WesSSSIIIDE.

I DIDN'T KNOW CIRQUE de SO GAY WAS IN TOWN

On Sunday afternoon Kiki and I took her rat terrier out so he could sniff random dog ass down in Wicker Park. Too bad Milo is a little wuss who pretty much shivers at the sight of any pooches bigger than he is. He doesn't get out much. We decided to skip the dog run and just lounged on a blanket near the softball diamond instead.

A group of New Bohemians (for lack of a better term) were setting up blankets next to us. Kiki immediately referred to them as "dirty hippies", but they were fairly well groomed and free of tye dyes. I'll bet they've participated in many a drum circle though.

The one dude was playing that stupid marionette thing with the big spool, tossing it up in the air and then catching it on the string repeatedly. Meanwhile a pale girl who looked like Joan Osborne on a crash diet was twirling tennis balls tied to ropes with streamers attached, one in each hand. I wanted to cram a couple Boca Burgers down her throat.

Within a half hour another 10 people descended upon these two like locusts, each with their own set of the tennis ball streamers. Young and old, male and female, gay and straight (but mostly gay), they came learn how to twirl.

The "teacher" was a Perry Farrell looking motherfucker who walked among his minions, smiling and exhorting them to "show me what you got, yo." He had the standard issue labret piercing and bad Yin Yang, sun and unicorn tattoos.

All the pupils had permagrin. If I didn't know any better I'd think they were part of some rhythmic gymnastics cult. All that was missing were the black Nikes, purple shrouds and Bela Karolyi.

"Find your equilibrium" Barely Farrell lisped. "Just let go, yo."

Huh? What kind of circus is this? Doesn't anyone play frisbee anymore?

"That's fantastic Sloan! FANTASTIC! Now try adding a pirouette to the mix!"

There was way too much positivity and encouragement going on for our taste. Even the trucker hat hipsters playing hacky sack nearby were annoyed by the twirlers.

As we packed up our stuff, Kiki said "Should I tell them it's over? I don't think they realize that Phish played their last concert this weekend."

"Nah. They still have String Cheese Incident and Rusted Root."

MONGO & DA COACH

Watching some of the Bears preseason game last night, I wasn't struck by how poorly their D-line played against a weak Rams O-line, but by how subdued Mike Ditka was in the announcers booth. He was also less orange than in years past. He must be easing up on the Drambuie and Fake Bake tanning cream these days.

I'm a big fan of Da Coach. He's a just little bit off though....sort of like Quentin Tarantino. I had the chance to meet Ditka many years ago, and it wasn't quite what I expected.

My folks used to take my brother and I up north to watch Bears training camp in Platteville, Wisconsin every summer in the mid to late 80s. Most kids want to go to Disney World or the Wisconsin Dells for vacation. Not us sports fanatics. Fuck Mickey Mouse and Tommy Bartlett too.

In Platteville the players and coaches were accessible to the fans, and we were still at that age when getting a signature meant something more than just dollar signs. Late one afternoon in '86 we lined up with a couple hundred other fans along the sidewalk from the dorms to the cafeteria. This was a prime spot to take pictures and snag autographs.

Payton, Singletary, McMahon, Dent....they all passed within inches of us. Eventually the coaches, trainers and unrecognizable rookies made their way down the line and inside the cafeteria, and the doors were closed. The crowd slowly dispersed.

My brother and I decided to hang out for awhile and toss a ball around. Ten minutes after the team had passed by a large figure came shuffling down the sidewalk. Good ol' number seventy-six, Steve "Mongo" McMichael.

Mongo was a notoriously tough guy to get an autograph from, and he had ice packs strapped onto both knees. So what's a kid to do? Send in the little brother.

"Mr. McMich---"

"No. I'm late for dinner."

Mongo reached the doors only to find them locked. This did not make Mongo happy, and he started pounding on them with his fists.

I egged my brother on the way older brothers do. He crawled under the ropes, approaching McMichael from behind. Probably not the smartest move in the book, but he was determined. It was a scene straight out of the Mean Joe Greene Coke commercial.

"Mr. McMichael?"

<Mongo whirls around> "Hey kid, you ain't supposed to be past the ropes."

"Can I please have your autograph?"

"NO." <resumes pounding on the doors>

"But it's your rookie card."

Mongo turns around, finally making eye contact. He's fuming. All I can think is 1) Mom is going to kill me for sending my little brother to his death over an autograph, and 2) what a cool story it will make when I get back to school in a few weeks.

"What? JAYYYZUS CHRRRIST. Gimme that."

He quickly scrawled his name on the card and handed it back.

"Now run along boy." <Mongo smacks him ON THE ASS!> "I'm about to start cussin' here in a second if they don't open these Goddamn doors, and I'm sure your Mama wouldn't appreciate it."

_____________________________________________________


Inspired by my brother's experience, I jumped in front of Ditka's golf cart as he tried to speed away from the cafeteria after dinner.

"Damn kid, you could play on special teams. Wedge buster."

Cool, we're having a moment here. Me and Da Coach. There were so many things I wanted to ask him....how they were going to replace Wilbur Marshall at linebacker, if the Fridge was going to get the ball more, if he and Jim McMahon really didn't get along....but my mind went blank.

Ditka started to sign my t-shirt but his Sharpie was running out of ink.

"Crap. Pen's out of ink. Must be some kind of Russian conspiracy. I'll have to call up my friend Gorbachev and have him turn off those spy satellites."

I laughed the nervous laugh of a kid who doesn't quite know what to say. "Russians"? "Spy satellites"? What the hell is Da Coach talking about? Has he been in the sun too long? I felt like Peter Billingsley hanging onto the slide and hearing "you'll shoot your eye out kid."

"Uh, yeah Coach" was the best I could come up with.

A crowd soon formed around the cart and Ditka borrowed someone else's marker to finish signing my shirt.

"There ya go wedge buster."

What an exciting, yet confusing moment. I've just met one of my heroes, but he just might be a raving lunatic. Then again, he did come out with "The Grabowski Shuffle", so his erratic behavior shouldn't have been too surprising.

I'M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER....A DANCER FOR YAYO

I'm notorious among family and friends for injuring myself and/or causing trouble while on vacation. This time around I only suffered a mild sunburn. I must be losing my touch. Over the past couple of years I've sliced open my ankle on a minibike fender and hit a tree at 35 mph on a snowmobile too. The tree won, but that's a story for another time.

Friday night I did black out for awhile while barhopping in Fayetteville. Prior to the "lost hour" there were Jager shots, Coors Light tallboys, and the beginnings of a tirade against a size 18 girl in a size 9, circa 80's clubbing outfit. She looked like she had swallowed three or four Jennifer Beals. The only thing I specifically recall yelling at this poor girl is "Your wardrobe is NOT Atkins friendly, and neither are those mozzarella sticks!", but I'm told there was about 10 more minutes of similar comments after that revolving around the "Woooooooooo Pig Sooie" call.

My little brother is the mature (and smart) one in the family. As the natives were getting restless with my Don Rickles routine, he said "Brian, we're going to a titty bar." He knows how to get me moving.

Amazingly it was my brother's wife who was mischievous at The Platinum Cabaret. In spite of the "NO PHOTOGRAPHS" signs prominently displayed on the wall every, oh....10 FEET OR SO, she whipped out the ol' disposable Kodak and started playing E.L. Woody before the Baby Hueyesque bouncer came over and confiscated the camera.

Later on my girlfriend decided she wanted a lapdance. Not surprisingly this little turn of events helped bring me back from the blackout zone. I picked out the best looking dancer of the bunch; a young blonde "student" with perky natural C's and all her teeth. The three of us adjourned to the erection section.

When I'm drunk I tend to get a little chatty and bossy when it comes to the private dance. As usual, the hot stripper can't dance for shit. The next day my girlfriend said "it was like an interview conducted by that drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket."

"Do you do Pilates? I could bounce a dollar bill off your ass. <pause> Do you know what Pilates is?"

"Turn around. Push your boobies together and make a big one."

"Grind your ass into my lady's crotch. I'm paying to see some friction here."

She was either really dumb and didn't get my humor, or was just hoping I'd keep talking and lose track of the number of songs she had danced to. I have a very keen stripper radar though, and seeing that we weren't going to get much more than the occasional heavy breathing in the ear and a slap on the ass, I ended the session after two songs.

We wound up closing the place, but not before I told each stripper I was Abe Froman and that I had 5 grams of coke back at the hotel (because "c'mon baby, all strippers do blow."). Alas, I gave them the wrong room number and none of them showed up. Big surprise.

Back at the Comfort Suites I passed out to the Leif Erickson episode of "CHiPs" on the tube and the remnants of Hardee's sourdough burger on my chest. Better believe that room had a ripe smell come morning. I swear I saw a green cloud floating over the bed.

I GOT DIBS ON DAT BEEF SAMMICH

I'm heading down to the Ozarks tomorrow on vacation. It'll be nice to get away for awhile, but after a week of "y'all" I know I'll be itching to get back to the city. I mean c'mon....drivers down there actually wave at you when you pass by in the opposite direction. With their hand open and palm facing out.

People in Arkansas are polite, if not curious about Chicagoans. Go to a store, bar or restaurant and say just a few sentences, and inevitably you'll hear "Where y'all from?" followed by "Whut y'all doin' down HERE?".

After I explain we have a summer home in the area they usually follow up with a dumb question about Chicago (or as they like to call it, "Up North").

"Does that big lake freeze over in the winter?"

"Do y'all eat alot of that deep dish pizza?"

"Y'all ever seen Michael Jordan?"

At least they don't ask about Al Capone anymore.

Questions like these got me thinking about the misconceptions people have when it comes to Chicago, and also some of the rules we live by. These are just a few, I'm sure I'll think of more as the mood strikes....


First, say the name with me: "Sh-CAW-go". Our state is pronounced "Ill-annoy". The "S" on the end is silent. Get it right. No one here calls it "The Windy City" either.

But we don't have an accent. You do.

Carbonated beverages are known as "pop" here. Not "cola", "soda" or "soda pop".

Yes, our winters are bitter cold here. We are well aware of this and dress appropriately. If I wanted to sweat my balls off 300 days a year I'd move to Phoenix. Dry heat my ass.

When a stoplight turns from red to green, always pause 2 seconds and look both ways before proceeding through the intersection. Yellow equals "step on it" here.

A big snowfall can only mean one thing: the "dibs" rule. Did you just spend an hour shoveling your car out of a parking space on the street? Well you're goddamn right that's your spot when you come home from work. That's why you put a couple of lawn chairs or an old ironing board there after you pull out. To hold it. Hey, you've earned the right. "I dug it out...I got dibs on it."

[Note that the "dibs" rule is only in effect until all the snow has melted off the unshoveled sidewalks. Then your kid's old rocking horse and those milk crates get tossed onto the parkway.]