Protestors at a health care town hall meeting

For Reals? You know this health care town hall insanity is getting bad when Ms. Palin–the woman who wouldn’t bat an eyelash at anti-Obama cries of Kill Him! at election rallies last fall–thinks these raving lunatics need to chill the eff out.  Disagreement and debate is one thing, but this is just depressing. The masses can’t be this crazy.  Can they?

If they heed Palin’s advice, and calm down,  I’d love to see if we could draw some blood and have them tested (only the insured of the lot of course, because I’m not made of money) since I’m not entirely convinced some of them are from this planet. Because when I hear things like, “Our system works now.” Or ”I don’t want a government bureaucrat getting in between me and my doctor and making decisions for me!” I get confused. Are they jumping in the way back machine each time they get sick to see this guy where a monthly premium for a family of four consisted of a half dozen eggs, molasses, and some salt pork? (Sacks of cornmeal for preexisting conditions were not well received.)

Jake Ryan: It's my birthday tomorrow and I will be in the Chicago suburbs so please come and find me and we'll eat cake on a table.

Just when I was beginning to dread turning 37 tomorrow a little less, John Hughes’ passing hit the news. Now if I could only find my Pretty In Pink soundtrack on cassette, I could have a little theme music while I write this post. It’s probably somewhere living in a shelter with my Forenza lookalike sweaters bought at K-mart, and my not-quite-a-Cabbage Patch Kid doll. If you see any of those items on the street, please give them a quarter. They were good to me.

So back to John Hughes. He has gone to that big film editing suite in the sky, and though this is a sad occasion, I would like to thank him for a lot of laughs and wistful stares into space as I imagined someone like the original Rojo Caliente, Eric Stoltz, running after me to like, totally, make out and declare his undying love. . . and maybe give me a pair of diamond earrings while he was at it. (Yes, Eric, it was me along. And it’s OK that you got a little sidetracked by that whore Leah Thompson. I forgive you.)

Hughes has left quite a legacy, huh? Is it even possible to go to the Art Institute to see this painting and not think of Abe Froman, the Sausage King of Chicago?  And just a month ago I was quoting that monumental epic—The Breakfast Club—the film that used to drive my grandmother to say things like, “You’re watching that goddamned movie again?”  My company had mandated a Saturday morning “Strategy Session” and my office ex-husband (don’t ask) and fellow child of the 80s likened it to detention. We exchanged suggestions on how we could incorporate the movie’s dialogue into the day. When lunch was delivered, we could have said, “Will milk be made available to us? We’re extremely thirsty.” Or if the moderator insisted on one more brainstorming activity, when all we wanted to do was leave and maybe not come back like ever, we could have told her to “Eat. My. Shorts.”

As you could imagine, there were many possibilities.

Well this weekend, I may spill a little beer in Hughes’ honor like my gangbanging homeys taught me. Perhaps we will tag Glenbrook NorthHigh School with the words:

 RIP, Genius who gave us Jake Ryan

Oh well, what do I know.

A more fitting handshake for the White House lawn

I saw this lovely lady today waiting for the 18

Sitting at Piece Pizza on Friday night, drinking a stout called Roland the Headless Brewer’s Assistant, I remembered I had a blog and that I must tend to it.

Misters Parsley, Basil, Mint, and Cilantro live together happily on my fire escape

I haven’t blogged in a while, because I was busy harvesting herbs for the last two weeks. It’s quite a bounty there, as you can see. More good news on the urban gardening front: the wildflower seeds I planted on the side of the building are actually yielding, uh, wildflowers! It was some time ago when I threw them down, because I don’t remember planting beer bottle and dog poo seeds, and that seems to be coming up too! Crazy.

I know I’m a bit late on the passing of Michael Jackson. I had started a post about a week ago, the night I came back from spending the weekend in my hometown. I was a bit drunk, and let’s just say, I’m glad I didn’t post it. When I was at my mom’s, I went through some old pictures, and apparently I was a HUGE Michael Jackson fan from April to July 1984. We’re talking Michael Jackson T-shirt and earrings, sitting on my dresser in front of three of his posters, holding a framed picture of him, apparently clipped from a newspaper. Suhweet. It was probably taken after I got home from the roller rink where I skated to some of his badass jams. Ha. Anyway, let’s hope his family lays his poor soul to rest at some point, my God.

And finally, to push the Michael Jackson stories from the headlines this weekend, Sarah Palin put in her two weeks notice up in Alaska. Hmmm. Ok. What kind of idiot quits a job in a recession? The ethics probes were too much? She said since she decided she didn’t want to run again, she wouldn’t have anything to do. Like she’d just sit around working on her resume, emailing her friends, and taking long lunches? Shit, even Blago was signing legislation and appointing senators up until the last minute before his state security detail dropped him off at a bus stop. Anyway, she’s right about one thing. She is lame. And even the conservatives aren’t buying it. As George Will put it, “the one that rings most hollow is, she doesn’t want to put Alaska through the terror of [her] being a lame-duck governor. . . she is now a quitter.”

Let’s see if she can wink her way out of this one.

I feel so left out, like I’ve been left behind after the Rapture. It’s now just me, my useless Bill Clinton era, hand-me-down t.v., and a pair of rabbit ears.

So would you believe that I did this on purpose? That I’m trying to practice a little tough love with myself? (Ok, that sounds weird but you know what I mean.) A couple of weeks ago, I was watching I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! and Hitched or Ditched with a vacant stare and open mouth. And now I’m surfing the web with a vacant stare and  open mouth. (Ha. Just kidding. I have a terrible internet connection at home.)

Anyway, it was definitely time to take a break. Tentatively, I plan to rejoin the 21st century on or around my next birthday–in seven weeks.

Sure I’ll miss my WGN morning show, Frontline, and the chance to spend a summer of Mondays watching Gossip Girl reruns so I can better understand the depth and complexity of Blair’s and Chuck’s relationship in time for the season premiere in September.

But it’s going well, and I’m not even a week into it. I’ve already dusted off this thing called a book. And I started my 2005 Spring Cleaning. It’s not too boring. At least not as boring as NPR. Perhaps I’m not earning my liberal stripes with this one, but listening to stories of rape on the Congo during the 9 p.m. rebroadcast of Worldview just doesn’t bode well for a peaceful night’s sleep.

Really, this won’t kill me.

Will it?

I saw Jack the Ripper at the corner of Dearborn and Madison yesterday

Sure, it’s sunny today, and maybe we’ll see 70 degrees before it rains again tomorrow.  But I’ve been coughing like a madwoman and I’m about to pick up an iron lung from Walgreen’s.

On the bus this morning, a woman handed me a peppermint candy to help with my cough. And though I had a mouthful of cough drops, I just added it to the mix. I even got off a few stops early so they didn’t call the health department on me and throw me in isolation somewhere.

Your store blows, Richard Warren Sears

Sears, you suck!

Today for the last time, I swear, I hunted aimlessly for what would seem like an obvious product for a four-story Sears to carry in the heart of the downtown of the third largest city in America. Today for the last time, I swear, I’ve dealt calmly with the blank stare and “Um, yeah, we don’t have that,” answer from one of their stellar sales associates.

Lord knows I’ve tried to support those bastards. The vacuum cleaner in 1998, the yearly eye exams, contacts, and glasses, the dozens of pairs of sneakers, the set of new towels paid for by my Super Bowl square winnings in 2008, the crappy humidifier, and the obnoxious Santa sweater for the Christmas pub crawl.

But what about those iPod speakers I wanted to buy (Um, yeah, we don’t have those.) or the Brita water pitcher (Those are with the appliances… No, they’re not with the appliances, they’re with the dishes.) A winter coat that didn’t make me look like I was 65-year-old woman living in Russia. And then today, all I wanted was a little bit of wire to help secure my window boxes, something any self-respecting hardware department  would have, and I was told by someone who didn’t want to be pulled away from his texting, “Um, yeah, we don’t carry that anymore.”

Oh. My. God.

Sears, I shouldn’t have to work so hard to give you my money.  I’m this girl. I’m easy. “Holy Grail” is never on my shopping list. Just some fairly basic shit.

And by the way, I had the feeling today that if I had asked Mr. Texter: “Say, guy, could you tell me where the stuff is, you know the stuff with the prices or whatever?” He would have given me the same answer.