I love a good diner!

It’s hard to find friends who really appreciate being called at 3 a.m. to go to the Full Moon Café on 41 North. I have no idea what compels me to eat steak and eggs that late at night, or early in the morning for most humans. There is something about a nine page menu with twenty specials that really gets me going. I like the ones where the smoking sections, now extinct, are larger than the non-smoking area. That’s how I fell in love with The Full Moon. It’s a true shithole.

If you take a look around you, these places aren’t hard to find; however if you want to find a real hovel these days, you’re going to have to cross the border into Wisconsin. Nothing’s the same anymore. It’s strange going into a diner that only smells like food, and you don’t have to walk through a funnel cloud of Camel Extra Wides to get to your table.

There are so many things to love about the diner experience. It gives new meaning to the term “recycled paper.” You don’t have to purchase a newspaper full of things you don’t want anymore. Just piece together the sections you really want to read from the huge pile of scraps by the door and BAM you have yourself the perfect paper. My ideal Sunday newspaper includes The Front Page, Qualities of Life, Arts & Entertainment, Travel, Business (just for a headline breeze), Chicago Tribune Magazine, Parade, Perspective, and the following ads: Best Buy, Target, and Kohls. I don’t shop at these stores because there are too many moms in there; however, it is the quickest way to find out what new appliances are available. It’s not that I like the Trib, but that’s what you get for newspaper leftovers in these places. You won’t find a New York Times in a diner. You have to go to the Original Pancake House for that, and just like the Times, you will end up paying double.

My favorite thing about “the diner” is the extensive menu. I am in awe of how they can chuck out hundreds of different combinations of mediocre food for under $5.99. Where else can you go where the surf-n-turf consists of a strip steak, a chicken leg and fried catfish for a subtle splurge of $8.99? If you’re from a small town in southern Michigan and sometimes enjoy a crisp iceberg salad piled high with carrots, shredded cheddar, cucumbers, ranch dressing, and the occasional hair, this is your place. Don’t forget the croutons made from last week’s white bread dipped into a vat of oil, with just a hint of salt. NOTE: If you like your steaks rare, this is NOT the place. I prefer mine cut right off the cow and flipped on the grille for 30 seconds, but not here…not ever. You want to order it medium at minimum, and dip it in a swamp of A-1. The trick is, add salt and pepper directly to the sauce and dunk.

The Full Moon has an old pull-style cigarette machine between the restrooms. It’s stocked with fading packs of Kools, Marlboros, and probably some Chesterfields if you look close enough. That’s what Reagan smoked. This machine is a grim reminder of the loss of the freedoms I shared with our toked up founding fathers. It costs like $8/pack, and I imagine people bringing in the roll of quarters they were planning on using for laundry to get that desperate pack while sobering up from the strip club/truck stop across the street. Honestly, now that you can’t do it inside, smoking just isn’t that exciting anymore.

If you seek interesting characters, the diner is where they hang. It was more interesting when people smoked. Smoking generated a real late night crew of AA inmates and women who had been kicked out of their trailers. I’m not sure about the rest of the planet, but at the Full Moon you still get a combination of thugs, Navy Seals, salesmen and the occasional hooker. You also find “other people who work in restaurants,” a swarm of North Shore kids whose parents are in Miami, and cops. I love these people, every one of them. It takes a certain kind of person to say, “Yes, this is what I want, and I want it NOW.”

Unlike Sunset Foods, I do not have to apply make-up or comb my hair to participate. My perfect uniform is a “Life is Good” t-shirt, rubber flip flops and whatever pair of jeans I just found on the floor of my bedroom, underwear optional. Getting totally blazed is a good idea about 30 minutes before arrival because the food just keeps coming. It’s mind-boggling. I’ve never made it to the dessert round, but if I ever do, there is a giant glassed turnstile loaded with eight inch high cakes and strawberry stuffed something-or-others that are mouthwatering. You could make a meal out of one or just duct tape it directly to your butt. The following quote comes to mind, “Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam, circumspice,” but I’m not in Michigan anymore. This is as close as it gets.

Why is everyone talking to themselves? The disturbing era of Bluetooth.

I wasn’t sure what was happening so many months ago when I started seeing an increased number of people talking to themselves in public; at least that’s what I thought they were doing. Suddenly I was in this alternate universe where I was hearing what seemed to be one-sided conversations inside other people’s heads and it worried me. Why were so many people wandering the streets alone; their jaws flapping like pancakes? It was strange.

Alas, it is now the era of Bluetooth. The thing that I find highly annoying is that they tend to talk as though they are announcing a baseball game so that we can hear their conversations from a block away. Frankly, I don’t care about their business or personal lives and I feel like they are involving me against my will.

I am forced to listen to their conversations in public, but these are the same people who have outlawed smoking because it offends them and damages their health. Ironically, I feel offended and it occurs to me that my health is being damaged, as my blood pressure goes up every time I see/hear one of these Bluetooth people.

These are just a few of the Bluetooth moments I’ve had this week.

Business Man at Café

I’m sitting outside with a friend, trying to have a nice lunch, and this guy in his Armani suit at the table next to us sips on an espresso and talks to himself about business. The Bluetooth must be on the other side of his head because all I can see is this man shouting out numbers and instructions to whomever it is on the other end of his conversation. Apparently these things do not have very good reception because he is shouting. I am trying to eat. I light up a cigarette to piss him off. It works. He accosts me with his eyes, throws down a few dollars and leaves. I’ve offended him.

Beautiful Woman with Dog

Sounds like a famous painting but alas, it’s just another annoying person talking to herself. I’m sitting at a stoplight and she is across the street with the dog pulling at her in one hand and what appears to be a cell phone about a foot from her chest in the other. It has a wire attached to it that leads to her ear. I thought these things were hands-free, but now, “the fashionable” like to ensure that we all know that they can afford the technology by showing off their wire. How can it be “hands-free” if you are HOLDING something? What is the point? She is practically barking. I hear, “OH MY GAHD! I TOTALLY TELL HIM THAT I LOVE HIM ALL THE TIME AND HE GIVES ME NOTHING BACK….YES, I EVEN WALK HIS DAMN DOG THREE TIMES A DAY AND THERE HE IS AT WORK DOING WHO KNOWS WHAT AND I HAVE ALL OF THIS WORK TO DO AT HOME... MY MAID CAN’T EVEN GET HERE UNTIL NOON TODAY AND THERE ARE ALL OF THESE THINGS THAT NEED TO BE DUSTED, I’M SICK OF IT.” I want to yell out the window, “Honey, he’s probably cheating, but don’t worry, you’ll get half!”

Woman at Bar

I carry up a case of wine and notice that there is someone new at the bar. I set it down on the cooler and walk in her direction. As I approach her to ask what she would like to drink she holds up a hand to stop me. She is talking to herself. I don’t know if she’s a crazy drunk or it’s Bluetooth. It takes me a second to figure it out, but apparently THERE IS SOME REALLY INTERESTING REAL ESTATE THING GOING DOWN AND SHE NEEDS THIS FAXED AND THAT FAXED AND A MEETING SET UP WITH SOMEONE NAMED BOB AND HE’S PROBABLY IN THE HAMPTONS. She tosses her beautiful head back and laughs. She holds up a finger and gestures for me to approach without ever looking in my direction. She says loudly to the air, JUST A SECOND. Turning to me she says, “I’m going to need a glass of Sterling Cabernet and some bread. I also need a glass of water with two lemon wedges, NO ice!” She stares back at the mirror behind the bar and goes back to shouting. This is her way of dismissing me. She starts to light up a cigarette and I’m pleased to inform her that there is no smoking in our restaurant. She rolls her eyes and I smile.

Dude on Street Corner

I’m waiting to cross the street and I hear this guy next to me talking to himself. He’s got long hair, painter pants and a “Mr. Bubble” t-shirt. He’s actually kind of hot. I’m standing there playing it cool, when I hear, “Yeah, baby, you know you’re sexy.” I giggle and turn to him. Oh my God! Bluetooth! He’s talking to someone else. I pray that he didn’t see me smile and snap my head around. I light up a cigarette and he crosses the street. I follow a few feet behind feeling rejected and used. I mean, I’m married, but it’s still nice when someone notices you once in a while, even if it does sound a bit crass. He turns around and asks me for a cigarette. I point to myself, raising my eyebrows and say, “Sure.” “Thanks dude,” he replies and goes on talking to himself about what he’s going to do to someone later. He called me, “Dude.” Asshole!

Old Man on Bench

I’m sitting at the train station and the old man sitting next too me keeps laughing. He’s wearing a wrinkled polyester leisure suit; the pants up to his chest, a brightly striped cotton shirt and wide tie. He has one hand on his thigh and the other is holding a Styrofoam cup. His leg is shaking. Every once in a while he makes a statement about the weather or talks about an ailment and then giggles. He stares straight ahead. I feel sorry for him. The train is coming and I stand up and stick a couple of dollars in his cup as I walk toward the tracks. He yells, “Hold on! WHY the HELL did you put MONEY in my COFFEE?” Everyone turns and stares at us. Bluetooth strikes again. I can’t win.

Evil Hamster vs. Zen Buddhism

I was sitting here one day thinking that we should be more like my hamster, we’ll call her “Chipmonk*,” and clear our minds with endless hours of running on some giant plastic wheel…wondering where she goes, and if maybe this is part of her Zen practice. Upon further research, I realized that this would be impossible for my hamster, as she is inherently evil.

Ethical Precept 1: I will be mindful and reverential with all life, I will not be violent nor will I kill.

Okay, she already violated this one at the mere age of one by murdering her own sister; we’ll call her “Scarface.”. This hardly follows the first principal of Zen Buddhism. We knew of her sinister ways, but chose to ignore them, thinking that she would outgrow the tendency to hover from the top of the cage, flying down onto her sister in an attempt to take her off guard and engage in some “friendly” sparring.

Ethical Precept 2: I will respect the property of others, I will not steal.

I have seen her taking food right from under Scarface while she was sleeping quietly in her “Space Ball of Fluff.” Chipmonk has even been known to STEAL fluff and food from the Space Ball, moving it over to her own favorite napping spot, the Sky Pod.

One time, Chipmonk dragged the hood of my son’s sweatshirt into her cage and tore it to shreds, knowing full well that it did not belong to her.

Ethical Precept 3: I will be conscious and loving in my relationships, I will not give way to lust.

I don’t think that shoving Scarface out of the wheel, out of her bowl, or forcing her backwards down a two foot series of tubes fosters a loving relationship.

Also, she once lusted after Scarface’s yogurt drop because she was a pig and didn’t save hers like Scarface did.

I also suspect that she lusted after Scarface’s superior wheel running skills and her purple ball.

Ethical Precept 4: I will honor honesty and truth, I will not deceive.

Does waiting around the corner for your sister to come popping out of the tube so you can jump on her head and bite her constitute deception?

Ethical Precept 5: I will exercise proper care of my body and mind, I will not be gluttonous.

Okay, she may run 7 miles a day, but the amount of food she stuffs in her mouth borders on gross. I’ve seen her get stuck in her tube because she shoved a few two many apple crisps in her cheeks. Also, I hardly think that eating where you sleep and poop constitutes exercising proper care of the body.

The real question is…Do all hamsters exhibit these evil traits, or is there a hamster out there who demonstrates a peaceful coexistence in relation to others?

*”Chipmonk” is a deliberate misspelling; she’s actually a libertine Gnostic.

Hot water with lemon?

What is this frightening new phenomenon? I work as a server to support my writing habit,…and my working-for-a-nonprofit habit. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes I hate it. What I really don’t get is this new “hot water with lemon” thing. Is there some new diet that I’m not familiar with these days?

Where we used to be able to rack the bill up with cappuccinos, hot tea and dessert, we are now bringing four FREE hot waters to the table and refilling them for people who sneer, “I’d LIKE some more HOT WATER, please?” I want to say, “Oh, I would LOVE To bring you more FREE hot water. In fact, I would REALLY LOVE to come over to your house and do all kinds of thing s for free for you. Do you have a pool? I’d like to clean it. Need a foot rub? Sign me up! For now, I’ll just run back to the coffee station between my 8 four-tops and get some more FREE hot water for you before I put my other orders in.

I could probably save time by making a public announcement in the middle of my section; (clears throat loudly) “I am NOW going on my FREE hot water run. Would ANYONE ELSE like some FREE hot water? No tipping necessary. It is my pleasure!”

I’m probably in hot water now.

“If all the world's a stage, I want to operate the trap door. “ -- Paul Beatty
http://www.publicradioquest.com/audio/7689

What is this Public Radio Quest thing?

Sometimes when James isn’t with me I turn the dial to 91.5, Chicago Public Radio. He says that public radio puts him to sleep, and he sleeps enough as it is, so I try not to risk it. As I was listening one day I heard them say that they were looking for new and unusual talent. I thought…”I’m unusual.” I don’t know if that’s exactly what they said, but I’m certainly different than the “usual” suspects.

I actually wrote the website down on a receipt that I found on the floor while I was driving…typical Highland Park behavior (see related story). I rushed home, checked it out and bought a mic at Best Buy. I always thought it was weird when people had mics for their computers because computers are for WRITING, not talking. Anyway, my teenager installed it a matter of seconds and opened up sound recorder. I was so excited.

I started recording the two minute monologue I wrote during M*A*S*H* commercials the night before. It was the episode where Henry Blake is discharged. I’m so glad that it only took me two commercial breaks because that ending is one of the saddest moments in television history. I digress. I tried to upload the file for three days and failed to make the deadline because of a traffic issue on the site. These people actually contacted me and allowed those of us who failed initially to reenter the contest. It was all so democratic. It’s late in the game, but HEY, at least I’m there.

So, I’ve entered this American-Idol-like contest on the air. It’s got so many interesting people. It’s like My Space for academics. I’m not in that group, but I’m faking it. This is where my acting training comes in handy. There are some VERY interesting forum topics, and I’m thrilled to say that I submitted a perfect elementary 5-7-5 haiku on one of them. Check it out and vote for me if you have a chance. You can get to the site with the green banner on the right, or follow my link to my audio file. I’d much appreciate it. I’m thinking in haiku right now.

The dog is barking
Cats sit on couch staring wildly
Dog must be on crack

Anyway, here’s the link…

http://www.publicradioquest.com/audio/7689

"How I Learned to Drive"...in Highland Park

I lived in Indonesia for a semester back in 1988. The first thing that I learned there was DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRIVE. The only ‘rule” seemed to be that, like the U.S., you drive on the right side of the road, but you move quickly to the shoulder if a vehicle larger than yours is coming toward you. Yes, there are becaks, bikes, motorcycles, Bemos, and trucks that look like giant Star Wars transport vehicles everywhere. If Norman Rockwell had been Indonesian, he would have had a wholly different perspective, and probably would have chain-smoked Djarums.

It wasn’t unusual to see bikes riding past with squawking chickens tied to the handlebars; huge clouds of black smoke, billowing from the backs of the tiny Bemos, and helmetless motorcycle riders tooling along with the big trucks. When they taught us about “defensive driving” in drivers ed, no one mention “aggressive driving.” I was not prepared for this, even as a passenger.

Now, I enjoy a thrill, just like the next person. Anita, my classmate, and I traveled from Hawaii together. When we arrived in Denpasar, Bali, for our layover on the way to Malang, Java, we decided to cab it into town for some horrid tourist-like curiosity. Let me just say, I will never forget that ride. While Anita sat with her head in her lap, eyes covered, I clamped my white knuckles onto the back of the front seat, and grinned from ear to ear. There isn’t a ride at Cedar Point more exciting, more frightening, or more shocking than the ride with that Balinese cab driver from the airport.

The beautiful thing about driving in Indonesia is that everyone pretty much follows the rules. There are few accidents, and when there are, people simply drag the offending driver out or off of their vehicle and beat the living crap out of them. This is how it’s done. It’s all very Zen-like. It’s similar to a giant game of Rock Paper Scissors. Bike beats lady walking with water buffalo; Bemo beats Motorcycle; Giant truck beats everything. Chickens don’t really stand a chance unless tied to handlebars.

Now, when I moved back to the U.S. everything on the road was as it should be. People drove a little fast in Holland, Michigan, but for the most part people yielded to the rules we’d learned at 16. Highland Park, IL is a different story. I am truly not sure how these people acquired licenses, but I presume their daddy’s either bought them or FAO Schwarz has some terrific prizes in the bottoms of their special Crackerjack boxes.

Even in Indonesia, I didn’t witness the kind of aggressive, frightening behavior as we have here. Like Los Angeles, people drive to every destination, even if their destination is a block away. People are in a hurry. They have to get to their manicure appointments, the stylist, the plastic surgeon, and the all-important “play date.” Rock Paper Scissors is different. Ducati beats Vespa; H1 beats H2; and mom driving Lincoln Navigator beats everything. I just put on my seatbelt, set my angry face, and pray that I survive driving the three blocks to work.

Grand Opening of IKEA!

My brother called me today to tell me that they opened a new IKEA in the Detroit area. Immediately I pictured it in my mind; the colossal size of the parking lot; the giant blue and yellow monstrosity of a building; and the excessive space for bus parking. He told me that people camped out for four days. WHAT? I can’t really criticize it too much, because I’ve been there…at least four times; always taking a friend with me, in one of those environmentally unfriendly SUVs for the 45-minute trip from Highland Park, Illinois.

Pulling into the parking lot feels a little like the parking situation on the first day of a county fair. I am immediately taken back by the enormity of the space and the fact that the building, or “action,” seems to be so-o-o-o-o far away from me, across from the thousands of matchbox cars covering acres and acres of pavement.. Of course, at the fair, we park on acres and acres of grass, which grows back in its environmentally correct way over the next year. But here people drive slowly, looking for a coveted parking space to open up, close to the building. I’ve found it best to drive straight to the front door and follow someone walking with clear bags, stuffed with everything from fake fauna to Tupperware-like gadgets that both confuse and amaze me. I follow her closely, leaning forward, my hands turning white on the tightly gripped wheel. Blissfully thinking I’ve got a spot and BAM, two miles later she crosses over between cars into another row. Yep.

Once you walk the quarter mile to the door ( because you had to park all the way back at the parking lot entrance, after following some wayward shopper around the lot for 45 minutes) you are greeted by what appear to be several Oompa Loompas in blue shirts. Like the fair, there are prize drawings, displays, and restrooms at the entrance. I highly recommend using them, because you won’t find another one for several hours. They keep them hidden behind racks of carts, and walls of shelving. This is designed to make you as uncomfortable and crabby as possible.

I don’t have to tell you that this store has everything that you could possibly need to make your house appear starkly Scandinavian. If there is a gadget, they have it. If there is a holiday, they’ve got the wrappings. If you need a nut or bolt for a bookshelf that you bought there three years ago, just grab a handful off the wall by the service desk.

So, let’s get into the human traffic…Everyone looks alike, but once in, you don’t really see or hear them, except when you pay attention. It’s like Charlie Brown’s parents. Blah blah blah blah blah blah. I notice because I am a people watcher. I find this place fascinating. They come from everywhere, but somehow, they all look remarkably alike. The family units appear like this: Mother of three walks determinedly ahead of the pack. She is on a mission. She has clearly mapped out the store for some time, and carries a list in her head that would rival Santa’s.

Trailing behind her, are three stepping stones of children, exactly a year and a half apart. They follow her absentmindedly, snaking their way through the store; their eyes like giant boulders, scoping out the stuffed monkeys and toys dangling, taunting them, from racks on the ceiling. They think, “Oooh, I want that lion.” “Oh, a new bed.” “I want those frog-faced rain boots!” They understand that it is useless to tell their determined mother, so they keep it to themselves. This is her war, and they are merely soldiers. Everyone in the family understands that…which takes us to the husband.

This is the man you see hunched over, pushing a cart full of useless items he knows will be in the next garage sale, for pennies on the dollar. He wears a baseball cap, tennis shoes, and a loose-hipped jacket, discreetly concealing the small radio, on which he is listening to the game that was on the television when he was dragged away for this miserable expedition. That is the uniform of the IKEA Sherpa. It’s the same look, Indian, Ecuadorian, Oak Parkian, or Scottish. They shuffle along behind the cart, remaining the established 10 feet behind the wife; shoulders hunched; cap down over the eyes; the mouth a sad straight line. Once in a while, you see the thumbs go up to another IKEA Sherpa, when the Sox score. The joy is fleeting, as the wife swings her head around to make sure that her slave has not lost focus on the mission. His head snaps back down, he hunches, and shuffles along like the others. These are the troopers; the men who have been with their wives for so long, through so much, and have no hope of escape. They have no choice, but to go along for the ride, ‘til death do us part.’ …and that is exactly what you feel as you attempt to leave.

If you think that the lines at Sam’s Club are bad, try some special time checking-out at IKEA. Bring your New York Times, because it is the ONE thing that I have not found there; but I probably wasn’t looking hard enough. Anyway, be sure to bring one, otherwise, you will have to spend an hour staring desperately and disappointedly in the odd humanity that surrounds you. It is feasible that you will be able to complete the Wednesday crossword, and I highly recommend going on a Wednesday, in the time that you spend in line. Don’t worry about bringing a pencil. There are millions of little golf pencils all over the store. You may want to pick up some erasers though. You can find them in the children’s department under the noosed animals.

Have a nice day, and thank you for shopping at IKEA. Now, go find your car!