After years of ignoring the World Cup, America is suddenly swept up in it. Is it the Kelly Rowland theme song? The special Coke cans? Is it a cool down jog from a crazy season of hockey?

No. I think it's simply all the pretty people. Case and point:

If this Cristiano guy's as good at soccer as he is at being sexy, I think the World Cup has a bright future.

The large banners of our leader give the bar a 'Flaming Reich' feel.

On the first Sunday of every month, a little club on Belmont has church service. The murals are strung up, the music is cranked, and the ladies of Boystown put on their Sunday sluttiest.

I speak, of course, of MadonnaRama.

I was a virgin; touched for the very first time. Touched, in fact, by the sweaty elbows of every gay man and his hag in Chicago. Berlin, host to our services, is about as big as my apartment. Except it has more platforms.

I can't tell you if there were drink specials. All I can tell you is that it was 100% Madonna. 100% Queen of Pop blaring at concert-level volumes, accompanied by dozens of video screens, all aimed at getting the boys and girls in the crowd to do one thing: dance, motherfuckers.

Yes. As I walked in, this thought crossed my mind: When I die, this is what my heaven will be--just more sanitary.

Since 2005, I've been a Madonna fanatic. I know every word to every song--ballad or dance, stupid or serious. Without her, my showers would be boring, my time at the gym would be unproductive. Without her, I'd have no music to annoy my boyfriend with.

I've come to see Madge as the embodiment of the American drive for success, on speed. She may not be the best singer, best dancer, best actor (seriously), best role model, most beautiful, and so on. But she works her ass off. Naturally: she's from Michigan. If there's one thing people in Michigan are raised to do, it's to shut up and work. You can hear it in her voice. It may not always sound like Evita, but there's drive behind it. And who cares? She recently tied with Bob Dylan for sixth place in the list of artists with the most top-ten albums. Last time I checked, he can't sing very well either. And he can't jump rope while singing "Into the Groove."

And Madonna's message is often pretty simple: forget your problems and dance. With Berlin, for a few hours on the first Sunday of every month, that message comes across in a deafening, glittery roar.

Heaven Hexxus.

When my relationships seemed to implode one after the other, my friends were always there. We'd eat some boneless wings and watch Moulin Rouge, lamenting the tragedy of love.

But when I'd find myself alone in my room, bitter and exhausted, I'd turn on the DVD player and stick in the last disc of the sixth season of "Sex and the City."

Check out my full column about Sex and the City for The DePaulia here

This is a column I wrote last week for DePaul's student-run paper, The DePaulia. However, it was too risque for them. So I'll share it with you here.

Not good, my friends, not good.

It isn't all hot dogs and tulips. Chicago's got it's shitty features. I was made hyper-aware of this on Saturday night when, on my way home from the theater, some young punk whippersnappers kept jumping from our el car onto the next one up, and back again.

It's not that I don't condone adolescent fun, it's just that this is dangerous. The el cars jump around like crazy and one of those kids is bound to lose a leg, if not their entire lower body. And I was grumpy because I'd just sat through Iron Man 2 from an awkwardly-close seat, looking up at a strange angle, disappointed the whole time because I have yet to find a decent theater in Chicago that has stadium seating. Come on!

Life is hard, man.

So, in the spirit of it being almost Monday, when we're all grumpy and working when we truly, truly, don't want to be, here's a list of my biggest Chicago complaints.

1. Lack of Wendy's restaurants. I was disheartened to read on the MSNBC ticker last week that Arby's/Wendy's profits dropped in the first quarter of 2010. Perhaps if they actually had the throne of Dave Thomas somewhere within walking distance of my apartment, their profits would be subsidized by my purchases. (Then again, perhaps it's best to keep the succulent chicken nugs and thick fries far from my eager waistline.)

2. Terrible movie theaters. Head east to Grand Rapids and I can introduce you to this new technology called "stadium seating," in which everyone gets a proper view of the movie screen. For some reason, despite having Roger Fucking Ebert in town, Chicago's movie theaters blow. They do, however, have caffeine-free Diet Coke. Not a fair trade by any means, but it's something.

3. Moronic behavior on the el. Why do bums and school children enjoy walking between cars? What part of "STOP: Emergency Use Only" do they not understand? Where, exactly, do bums have to go? Do they not realize how frightening it is to hear a large suck of air and see a grungy man walking out of a speeding train? More importantly, why do children and bums have the ability to open the fucking doors? Why doesn't an alarm go off? It is the 21st century! I did, however, enjoy my ride on the new Red Line car. It's best new feature? A digital clock. No more pulling out my phone. Life is good.

4. People throwing up on the el. It smelled like Spaghetti-O's, y'all. Nice way to end a drunken evening: step foot onto the wrong car and the next five minutes will be hell.

5. The privatized parking meters. People look like Sarah Palin trying to read when they operate these things.

6. Not much else. Despite my silly complaints, I love this town. Get me drunk enough on a Saturday night and I'll shout it down the streets. The littered, crime-ridden, pot hole-laden, traffic-filled streets.

George,

While you're 61 and definitely in need of a shave, I have one question to ask: Why not me?

No, I'm not listed on RentBoy.com and I'm in a committed relationship with a man (I don't pay him for sex; we cuddle; tell Dr. Dobson I say "Hi" and that it's not my father's fault). However, I have bills to pay, man.

No, I don't have the locks and abs of 'Lucien,' your European luggage-lifter and--excuse my assumption--cock handler, but a phone call (at least!) would've been appreciated. I know I live in Chicago, this den of scum and villainy, and that I'm a bit high maintenance, but let's get real: I need the cash. Lucien is obviously doing just fine in his career. Me? I'm a broke graduate student with loans up the--well, you have experience there.

It's not like I'm married! Nor can I get married because of shit stains on the ass crack of America like yourself. So I was available and ready. Wait! Is that why you're so anti-gay? Was it to keep us all single so you could slowly devour every one of us on long trips overseas?

You've blown it, George. Now the media's following you, you're disgraced, you've resigned from NARTH (North Americans for Ridiculing The Homos)--now you won't have a steady income from the fat checks of bigots--and you've got this Lucien guy head-over-heels for you all over the television machine. No. He's in love with you, George. I know a jilted lover when I see one. Consider all of Tiger's mistresses. They're mad as hell and all over the TV, just like Lucien.

Perhaps in your spare time you can now consider traversing these United States, you know, the country you've been fighting to defend from the anal penetration you so enjoy yourself. Perhaps, George, you can go from door to door, apologizing to the countless families you've helped destroy with twisted myths. Perhaps you can lay flowers on the graves of all the kids who've killed themselves because of the hatred you've spread.

Perhaps, doctor, it's time to put down the Viagra and turn off the laptop and pull up your pants. It's time for confession. But first, brush your teeth, your breath smells like James Dobson's ass.

I hope it's not a federal offense to imply such things.

On Friday I had the opportunity to party it up in Boystown. We went to Scarlet, Side Track, Clark's, and Berlin. Until 3:00 a.m. I contracted an addiction to La Roux.

It was exhausting. Apparently I'm not capable of being a party boy anymore. The adventure, while fun, reminded me how tiring and endless the single life could feel. My liver still hurts.

Luckily, I've got a man. A wholesome fella who'll be moving in this weekend. And while some may be frightened that gays are moving into Archie's neighborhood, the following slideshow will show you there's nothing to fear. Here, in just the first few Home Depot boxes, are prime examples of the class Chris will be bringing to West Belden.

(This coming from a guy who still has his Dragon MegaZord.)

I try to explain this below.

Forgive me Sarah Palin for I have sinned. The other day on my Facebook I agreed with the voice of Geico (who was unfairly fired for his comments) that the Tea Party is jam-packed with the mentally retarded.

This was written in passionate haste, and I apologize. Because it's truly an insult to handi-capable people. The people I've ever met who suffer from various conditions have always struck me as some of the nicest and most thoughtful people.

Thoughtful the Tea Party Patriots are not. Nor are they nice. Nor smart. Nor--possibly--human beings. Consider this recent video. Marvel at how this reporter keeps a straight face:


These bonobos--wait, that's an insult to bonobos. These Glenn Beckians (that's better!) are living proof that the TV machine rots your brains. I've met some of them outside my apartment. The LaRouche PAC guys with their Obama-as-Hitler garb occasionally take a knee on the corner of Belden and Sheffield. Not only are they stupid, they're simply misinformed, such as one dude telling another that President Obama's going to simply end NASA.

I mean, come on. These people are like the downer Clyde on South Park. I see them and immediately in my head Eric Cartman sighs, and he says, "God damn it, Clyde." Or, for a better analogy, they're like Scientologists.

Let's consider this further. These "patriots" have believed lies ranging from birth certificate fraud to death panels. Even today, Republicans (in an acrobatic-political move that defies physics) betrayed their nutty base and voted to filibuster Wall Street reform, banking on the lie that it'll be a Big Bang of bailouts. Worse, a Democrat joined them.

The problem is that this tiny, frightening, loud, and armed minority of white people is being duped on a daily basis. They're watching the newscast equivalent of those ads you see in magazines that have a layout slyly similar to that of the rest of the magazine; only in tiny print at the top do you see the word "ADVERTISEMENT." However, Fox News isn't required to display that, despite its paying the bills for the ratings-elected leaders of the GOP: Palin, Beck, and Mike Huckabee.

In our country, lying under oath is a crime. Put your hand on a bible and say a few words and you're no longer able to make shit up. If you do, you're in deep trouble. Ask Bill Clinton. Shouldn't this apply to those on television as well? Isn't it worse a crime, more damaging to society as a whole, to use a popular medium to fill peoples' craniums with bullpucky? Shouldn't it be a punishable offense if your words, your outrageous lies, your irresponsible abuse of free speech, have caused--among many tragedies--a man to fly his plane into an IRS building and a man to shoot an abortion doctor (in church!)? Shouldn't you be held accountable for the various armed militias meeting god-knows-where plotting god-knows-what as we speak?

Shouldn't we be held accountable for not doing something to stop it?

I'm not saying crazies are limited to the right. Nor am I saying that crazies won't read or watch something, anything, say Catcher in the Rye, and want to kill John Lennon. It's just that even Keith Olbermann, the poor guy who is often considered the liberal Bill O'Reilly, at least bases his commentary on facts, most often debunking the right's daily talking points. At this time, it's truly impossible to put the left and the right on the same spectrum. They're on two separate lines. (Consider my graph up north.) One side uses facts and thinks logically; sometimes compassionately. The other lives in a cynical, made-up, "conceived reality" where the anti-Christ is coming and money is God.

For proof, consider the Republicans' move today. For even as their Tea Party base clamors in the street, thumping the book of an almighty, vengeful, conservative Jesus W. Bush, wanting their tax money back from the big bank bailouts, it was once again proven that the true deity of those 42 senators is the Almighty Dollar.

Photographing a pigeon isn't easy. So I had to resort to some Photoshop to make this gray guy look kind of colorful.

If you don't like pigeons, well, then you can fuck off.

Our culture's seen a recent rise in environmental awareness--from "green" movements to the massive popularity of programs like Discovery and the BBC's Planet Earth and, my favorite, Life. But it's all a little misplaced. What we need is Oprah to narrate a documentary about Chicago's wildlife, about the world that's right outside our doorstep.

Yes, yes, the life of birds in the middle of some jungle is amazing. The mating habits of whales? Awesome. Props to the BBC for bringing our eyes to places we may never step foot.

But what about the nature that surrounds us? Why don't the pigeons get any credit? They're making life work right under our noses, they've managed to infiltrate (and survive in!) the most dangerous place: surrounded by stupid humans.

I know, some people think they're gross and that they're vermin. They shit and piss everywhere, live off garbage. But so do bums. And pigeons are a lot easier to shoo away and never make you feel bad for having money. I truly think they're cute. It's often said that whoever came up with this planet had a great sense of humor, and no more is that apparent than with the pigeon: that constantly bobbing head-walk is surely one of nature's most questionable evolutionary traits. I find it hilarious.

Love them or hate them, keep this tidbit from Wikipedia in mind: "Feral pigeons can be seen eating grass seeds and berries in urban parks and gardens in the spring, but there are plentiful sources throughout the year from scavenging (e.g. dropped fast-food cartons) and they will also take insects and spiders." They eat spiders. God bless these creatures.

And if you want to see less of them, maybe stop throwing your shit on the street. They're trying to get by just like everyone else and, if you throw your last few fries on the ground, you're contributing not only to keeping a pigeon or two alive, you're also contributing to squab (a young pigeon) obesity.

I come from a place overrun with squirrels. I'm told they're here but the last time I saw one was in Schaumburg. And I live on Sheffield, our "garden district." If anyplace should be teeming with squirrels, it's this place. I miss them.

So yeah, I love pigeons. They're funny. And you don't have to watch any TV to enjoy them. Just don't get too close. God knows what you could catch.

Grumpy people! Grumpy people everywhere. I get onto the Red Line this morning and everybody just scowls at me. Welcome back to Chicago, Greg! Do I have something on my shirt? Is it the fact that I look like every other college douche in that I'm blaring my iPod, checking Twitter on my phone, and sporting some new sunglasses? Is it because everybody had to wait a couple minutes too long and they were all disappointed that the train wasn't made up of the new Red Line cars? I'm just saying this to you people: things could be worse. I know it's a bit chilly and, let's face it, public transportation isn't the most glamorous thing, but sitting there with a face like you're being led to slaughter isn't kosher.

No, it's taking this all for granted. Believe me, I just got back from Cincinnati. You think this state's fucked up? You think we got money problems? You think you have money problems? No. You don't. You live in the city of progress, the city where shit can still happen. That town down in southern Ohio hasn't got jack on this place. Everything's closed. It's form of public transportation is a "skyway" that smells like piss. Because homeless people piss in it. And I know the L sometimes smells bad, and hey, maybe somebody's peed in one, but we've got some people in our government--not all of them, but some--who aren't willing to let our city be held back by dusty old Reagan commandments and are willing to clean this place up. We have tulips for fuck's sakes!

Or is it that you were all envious of my coffee? What is it about this town and its weird social atmosphere that requires us to not, like decent folk, smile at one another, but instead to check one another out, scowl, and then look away? Eyes are constantly darting every which way on the L just to keep from making eye contact with the person across from us! Why? We evolved to communicate, to at least say, "Pardon me," "Have a good day," "This is my stop," "Etc."

I'm sorry you're all pissed about something and that I'm all super-happy. It's just that I missed this place more than anything else, more than I miss lemon Jolly Ranchers, and when I got off the plane and into my cab and finally saw the Willis Tower for the first time in a week I felt this fantastic relief: I was home. Try it every once in a while.

And if you're still grumpy, because let's face it, rants don't contribute to anything, take solace in

my two photos of evidence that the universe is correcting itself: beautiful-smelling trees are blooming and Whitney's back on crack. I even hear a Republican or two is going to vote to reform Wall Street.

"It's getting better all the time," The Beatles sing on Sgt. Pepper. So stop being a bitch, stand in the sunshine, and take note: You could have it so much worse. And if that doesn't help, consider what my mom's been saying to me since I was a whiny little kid: "Life's a bitch."

The boyfriend and I went on a safari yesterday in Cincinnati's famed zoo. Little did I know that they let the elephants walk around in t-shirts and jean shorts. Zing! Annoying children and the World's Fattest People Convention aside, we did get to see a monkey that sings like a spook and stared at Bonobos that looked terribly in need of antidepressants because well, you know, they're not free, despite being 98% human.

So let me share some of my most intriguing images from the bemusing trip, including a big sleeping kitty. Sleeping animals might've been the theme of the day, actually.

Having had some time to walk around my host town for PNC training, I thought I'd share with my fellow Chicagoans some oddities of this almost-Southern town. Speaking of the South, Kentucky's just a walk across the river (news to me). And that's where all the liquor stores are. Surprise.

Image adapted from original, beautiful work by Henry Han, WikiCommons.

With apologies to Carl Sandburg

Chicago 2010

Who are you now, for the world?
A broken factory still running, churning,
turning out tired and tactless politicos?
Some dynamo.

The city of progress, the
city that works, the city
rumbling with anticipation
for a party it never threw.

Your streets are paved with the levees
that held in the vodka, the beer, the
flood of substance that got you high--
still does, always will.

You slog on today, up to bat,
sponsors to please, paychecks to pay,
yesterday's children dancing through the streets,
tripping over broken concrete.

The artists are here to stay, to say
we haven't given up on you, never will--
couldn't even if we tried.
There are skies left to scrape,
pages left to print,
prints yet to paint.

Your pulse lights the night from
the tower's twin antennae, two red dots
signaling to the veins below, to
the world outside and flying around,

I'm still here.

What a view! I get see where my soul is now stored all day and night.

I find myself missing Chicago again. Every time I start to feel settled, something takes me out of the city once more. The forces are working against me.

Now I'm in Cincinnati, undergoing my training to be a part-time teller for PNC. Yes, to work in Chicago as a part-time teller, I have to spend a week here in red state/blue state. This is a bank that takes its training very seriously and, since there aren't any PNC training centers in Chicago (yet), they packed me onto a United Airlines jet and sent me flying forty-five minutes south.

Have I mentioned today was my first plane ride?

That shit is sick. Why people do this to themselves everyday is beyond me. How some of my closest friends have spent half a day on one of these "aeroplanes" going to Vietnam or London is beyond me.

But perhaps O'Hare is a rite of passage for any wannabe-yuppie in Chicago, like myself. I finally learned that the DHS people really are meanies. I'm sorry I didn't know to take out my laptop and aerosol deodorant! Arrest me!

Back to riding on an airplane. How I got through the taking off without barfing is beyond me. I spent the entire time in O'Hare--after a relatively smooth security check--extremely calm. I ate a personal UNO pizza, had a Diet Coke, and spent five bucks on some ChapStick (the one thing I forgot). Then I sat down in seat 22C.

It's just not natural. Not without booze or Xanax anyway, of which I had neither. Putting a human being in a rocket and tossing them across the sky: this is not what nature intended. You can tell because your head and stomach don't like it. Our bodies are telling us, "No. Get down."

And I'm quickly discovering that nature did not intend for Chicagoans to visit Cincinnati. It's too quiet. There's no elevated train rumbling past and the taxi drivers actually know where they're going. And I feel like everyone in this downtown area is actually from somewhere else, here for some business trip or required meeting. Is Cincinnati just the Midwest's corporate conference room?

We'll see. The trip has just begun. Perhaps I'll visit the Underground Railroad Museum. Stay tuned!

There's something rotten in Chicago. I've been waiting a long time to use a Shakespeare reference, and this subject deserves it.

It smells of 2004 and ecstasy; perhaps a little cocaine. It wreaks of overpriced drinks and feigned social importance.

I write, of course, of Vision Nightclub: "Chicago's Crown Jewel of nightclubs" according to its

website, Chicago's only world class mega-club that has apparently attracted DJs and acts ranging from Tiesto to Rihanna. Of course, when we were there Saturday night the DJ sounded like my downstairs neighbors took their all-night 'thumpa-thumpa' music on tour--Eurotrash meets the Loop, minus any singing or real instruments.

Really, the music was decent for a coked out club boy or girl in the year 2000. However, we're trying to put the noughties behind us. It's time to embrace music with lyrics again. I speak mainly out of frustration, naturally, because whenever I'm at a bar, drunk, drinking vodka tonics my boyfriend has paid too much for, I want to be able to saunter over to the DJ and tell him to play "Vogue." I like to remind the kids where today's dance music was conceived: in Madonna's vadge. Or at least in a cesspool of bodily fluids left to fester after an early '90s video shoot.

There would be no vogue-ing at this nine-story establishment. The DJ was up on a platform, elevated like a king and inaccessible to any drunk asshole with bad night-vision like myself.

Vision has a long history. I know this because I read their website. Boring story short, it's in a gothic building that originally housed the Chicago Historical Society, and it's one of our town's most famous haunts. For dead people. It's been featured on ghost-centric TV series.

I saw no spooks. Were you to run into one, he'd probably have a popped collar and his headstone would read, "Douche." No, the only ghost I saw was the sad, hungover, grimacing specter of '00s insanity. My face looked the same in the mirror this morning.

Like any good Wall Street pig or Republican senator, let me explain by saying that this was not my fault. Chris and I spent all weekend playing tour guide to three of his lovely girlfriends who were staying in the Hilton by the Hancock Center. Thus, I got to walk around Michigan Avenue all weekend being pegged as a tourist in my own home. I did, however, find some great deals at H&M. And have you seen the parking ramp for the Hancock center? That water tower is cool too. Bitchin'. This city is wild.

I tried to talk them out of a Loop club unless we were hanging with Oprah (or at least Gayle). I said several times that there are plenty of great clubs in Boystown with drinks that don't require a mortgage refinance. But you can't keep a good tourist down, let alone three sassy tourist chicks who just want to put their boobs up and dance.

But I was half-vindicated, because Vision is as gay as it gets. It may be miles from Boystown, but it's just as glittery, if not more. Yet, despite being haunted, this place will never have soul.

Gaga has discovered our "vertigo stick."

Even Roger Ebert has thrown in a Tweet about Lady Gaga. He mentioned that she'd have it all, if only she could sing.

Well, she's no Whitney or Christina Aguilera, but I think the girl can sing a decent pop tune. She can at least hit a bunch of random notes in no particular order, a la "Bad Romance." Or there's some good auto-tuning going on behind the scenes. Sorry Roger, our generation has low standards.

Best of all, I don't have to change my range while singing to her in the shower. It's as easy as singing along to Cher, only I feel a little less flaming.

Regardless of the voice debate, Gaga is no Britney. Indeed, Gaga actually uses a microphone. And on her royal march from coast to coast, she's managed to conquer this Windy City.

Red Eye made it official yesterday with its cover story (with a terrifying closeup of our diva). Gaga is coming to Lollapalooza. You know, that one rock festival downtown this summer. Despite her conquering the pop world, Gaga has maintained enough rock credibility to pound some much-needed estrogen into the sweaty, drunk crowd. And a hell of a lot of gays.

But it's not just the major events. It's not just Beyonce and world tours. No, Gaga has even taken over my gym. Consider this poster I walked past on my way to the locker room. Not only

does the Ray Meyer Fitness Center here at DePaul offer three stories of great fitness training (seriously), but they'll also teach you how to dance like a moron. All in the name of fitness.

You'll hear her singing at the bar; blaring out of the windows of cars passing by. Gaga is making this city dance, like it or not. Is she the true heir to Madonna's throne? Hard to tell, considering we have yet to see if Lourdes is going to pull a Liza anytime soon.

Still, she's helped us dance. And in this current cluster-fuck of a country, conveniently enough it's one crazy chick who has helped us all feel a little more sane.

May this sandwich rest in peace. I'm already drooling in anticipation for another.

I'm a picky eater but that doesn't mean I don't like a good sandwich.

Sure, I don't like mayo, pickles, tomatoes, peppers, dressing, mustard, olives, and so on. But I like lettuce. And cheese. Turkey and ham too!

The good people at the Potbelly here in DePaul-area Lincoln Park, the one at the intersection of Lincoln and Belden, don't give you a funny look if you don't want more than just cheese and lettuce. Unlike every bastard that works at Subway. And Quizno's. And Blimpie. And my friends.

No, they get it. This shit would be delicious if it was just meat and bread.

Potbelly is a revelation. As a new Chicagoan I have my friend Carolyn to thank for leading me to this wonderful place. Alongside their delicious sandwiches and awesome all-natural potato chips are great organic drinks along with old favorites like mine: the classic Diet Coke from a fountain. 1980s vintage.

It's the same price as Subway but about 3,000 times better. The meat is fresh. The cheese is perfect. The bread. My God, the bread. I've never encountered better bread than here in this city. People say it's all about the pizza, the hotdogs. No, if there's one thing this town gets right, it's bread.

See, some people get off to extra mustard and oil. I get off to a dark whole wheat. Different strokes.

Plus, the people are nice. Just one more reason I love this town: We eat, we party, we live.

I smell it every time I walk past my downstairs neighbor's door. A divine smoky must that fills the entryway.The engineer tries to cover it up with some fruity cleaner. But it's there.

Weed.

I don't lead to coke abuse. Unless you're George W. Bush.

Look. This is the "city of progress." This is a town that not only gave us delicious and inexpensive chewing gum, but also gave us Tina Fey.

I'm no authority on marijuana. I've only smoked it--lightly--a few times. But I can tell you this: it's nice. And I have tons of friends who regularly smoke and lead productive, healthy lives.

Should I have been alive during the Great Depression, when booze was illegal because of Prohibition, I wouldn't have been breathing for long. I'd have either hung myself from lack of social drinking, starved to death (for obvious reasons), or joined the mob and hung out in speakeasies in the Loop.

Now, during this Great Recession, we have an overworked, overstressed workforce. And we have unemployed hippies who just want to toke up in peace--and pay good money for it. Either way, legalizing marijuana would help both these people out: the stressed could relax (studies have shown that weed has the positive mental effects of a short vacation without the baggage claims and screaming babies) and the hippies could party without paranoia (depending on the bud).

[With apologies to Matt Stone and Trey Parker]

California stands on the edge of legalization with a ballot initiative this fall. With our state so in debt, with the front-page headliners at the Sun-Times and Tribune getting off everyday to horrible pictures of Pat Quinn and warnings of epic disaster, now is the best time to consider this move as well. It's commonsense thought that a well-regulated, fairly-taxed market for marijuana would be a boon for Illinois's--and most-definitely Chicago's--economy.

Then maybe, just maybe, my neighbors downstairs would feel free to share some of their chronic with me. I'll bring the ice cream, Doritos, and Snoop Dogg CDs.

Capturing life's most incredible moments is easy with a smartphone.

If you're going to survive in this town you need a smartphone.

What's so smart about them? Well, mine tracks my every move with Google Maps and has a five megapixel camera. I'm a Verizon guy (despite my disdain for Luke Wilson) so I gave in and got a Droid this past weekend.

Wait a second. Hold on let me check my phone a second.

What were we talking about?

Oh. If you're going to survive in this town you need a smartphone. I figured this out when I started job hunting. You need a calendar on you at all times to keep track of every single person's schedule on earth with your Google calendar, so hopefully you and your potential employer can align the stars to find a good time to meet.

Hold on a second, just got an email. Oh--just another update from Organizing for America. Can't that go on hiatus for a couple years until we have to vote again?

Sorry, this thing keeps beeping at me. I was explaining the rationale for dropping a couple hundred bucks on this sweet baby. Yes, it's a good tool to help you maneuver your days as an employee of the free market.

But you know why you really got it. You got it so you can walk around streaming Pandora and taking pictures of stupid shit to post on Facebook while trying to keep up with Roger Ebert on Twitter.

Yeah, it's awesome.

Truthfully, I realized I needed a smartphone in January when I was walking home from Bed

Bath & Beyond on Clybourn. I could've used my Droid then to warn me that I was walking northwest, away from my apartment. Where I once could've spent five bucks on a map, I now have this piece of glorious technology in my back pocket, radiating with the power of the future. And probably lowering my sperm count.

Oh, excuse me. It's ringing again.

Leave it to South Park to give us social guidance.

Three years ago South Park aired its "Fantastic Easter Special," a masterpiece of satire in which it's revealed that the papal hat is really meant to be worn by a bunny. In the end Snowball, the rightful heir to St. Peter the Rabbit's throne, is elected the new pope. The men around the new bunny-pope ask Snowball what he'd like to tell people to do with their lives.

Of course, the rabbit is silent; "Just as Jesus intended," one of the men says.

Yet our reality isn't so. Pope Benedict XVI sells books telling people what to do; he has some beliefs much more aligned with American evangelical Christians. For example, he has called homosexuality "a violation of the natural order." He has upheld the church's ban on contraception, even in Africa where AIDS is ruining a continent. He has claimed that Christianity wasn't a curse for the natives of the New World, but a blessing.

Now he's caught up in these scandals claiming he helped cover up some sex abuse.

And he said to me, "Do not turn off the DVD, for I am coming soon."

Here at DePaul I don't really see the conservative dark side of the Catholic world. That's because the people here are all smart and open-minded; you can't walk five feet without tripping over a well-dressed gay boy. We're surrounded by statues of the Virgin Mary and various other saints. And, obviously, we're named after charity's saint. It's all about optimism here--building a better world! We've gotta live!

Now, I'm not religious. I like what Jesus said but hate the fact that he's become a political puppet for both sides of the Congressional aisle. Note to future messiahs: Be very specific when laying the moral groundwork for future generations. This will help people avoid having to deal with Jerry Falwells and George Bushes. And, take a lesson from Muhammad, who never named an heir, thus causing (some of) our current Middle East problems. And, should you be a Jew named Elijah, actually come back. It's bad for morale if you don't.

Back to the Catholics. There's a real simple solution to all this sex stuff: Let the priests have some goddamn sex. You know, with adults. I know it's very Lutheran, but let the poor bastards get married. At least give them porn privileges and a bottle of lotion. Blue balls are the devil; they are Satan's work. I usually want to murder someone after three days. Imagine what no sex does to a person after weeks, months, years. Terrifying.

For further evidence see DePaul's mascot: the Blue Demons. Blue balls? Demons? It's no coincidence.

The orgasm is God's evolutionary gift to humans, Mr. Benedict XVI. Take a cue from the French, for this warranted "little death" could bring all your priests momentary visits with the sweet Lord every night. And it could give them God's other gift to humans: healthy, loving relationships with a partner.

Or you can keep churning out convicts in your factory of child molesters. The choice is yours.

Really, the world needs a more liberal Catholic church, a less misogynistic one. Look no further than the nuns: they've educated generations of children, helped the poverty-stricken, sang their hearts out with Whoopi--twice. A nationwide group of 59,000 nuns even supported the final health care reform bill, flipping a social-justice bird to all those asshole bishops who were opposing it.

So, if we can't have Snowball the rabbit as pope, let us have a female one. Hillary perhaps? Madonna? Oprah? Gaga?

Let us pray.

I inverted the album's cover to make it look more sinister. Dee doo dee doo...they're a-comin' to make you weepy!

The latest issue of Chicago Magazine invites us on its cover--"Let the arguments begin"--to debate its list of the 40 greatest Chicagoan records ever. Well, this isn't an argument so much as an aside; a caveat if you will.

The list ranges from R. Kelly to Andrew Bird. Author Jeff Ruby even found room for Neko Case's Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, which I'll vouch for considering the religious experiences I've had wearing that one out.

My contention is with the number one choice: Wilco. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Ruby writes, "[The album's] weary forays into psychedelia and noise inadvertently caught the post-9/11 anguish better than any other album." What!? Even better than The Boss's The Rising? What about Alan Jackson's "Where Were You? (When the World Stopped Turning)" or Ann Coulter's rap hit "Bombs Over Baghdad"?

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot is also religious-experience-grade record; it never gets old. With this album, Jeff Tweedy and the gang have even given us a song that's bound to become a part of the American--not just Chicagoan--songbook: "Jesus Etc." (If you haven't heard Norah Jones's recent rendition of it, check it out now.)



But be warned fellow music lovers! Your relationship with Wilco can be easily soured! As much as I enjoy cranking them up from time to time they've been tainted by a close friend's terrible experiences with a mix-tape-making, too-old-to-be-emo-but-still-is, underground-music-loving, long-haired, bookstore manager.

We'll call him Franklin. Franklin is an alcoholic with intimacy issues and a penchant for cheating on his girlfriends with his co-workers. Franklin has a degree in philosophy and somehow, even into his 30s, manages to maintain a black hole-low level of self-esteem.

So, Franklin made my friend a mix-tape when things began to sour between them. He told her it was the best way he could express his feelings. Well, he included "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," the opening song on Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Naturally, she started bawling. It ruined Wilco for her and, subsequently, for me. Because now every time I hear Tweedy's scruffy weird voice I can't help but think of one of my best friends breaking down. So I usually resort to their happy song from the Spongebob Movie soundtrack, "Just a Kid." Their newer stuff is good, but it still gives me bad vibes.

So, the next time you put on Wilco, think of my friend and all the countless other beautiful girls who've been jilted by pretentious-music-loving losers like Franklin.

--

P.S., I've returned safely to Chicago, despite the Amtrak.

Ms. Palin considers automatic weapons the real health insurance reform.

This morning I awoke to the thunderous sound of the sky falling. Al Roker said it was rain but I knew better. It was sky.

My phone rang. It was my mother calling to tell me that my grandmother had been taken away; the kid with Down Syndrome who lives down the hall too. They were both deemed incapable of contributing to our society in typical Democratic ways--you know: planting trees, giving all your money to the government, taking away rednecks' guns.

He and my grandmother are just two brave Patriots, Real Americans, who've been sent to President Obama's Death Panels. So far we're getting word that one of the camps is setup in a rundown Blue Cross facility. The president has deemed all insurance companies' buildings to be public property, property in which he'll unload his truckloads of conservative radio hosts and citizens who make over $250,000 annually. Once inside they'll be forced to read insidious books from the liberal canon, ranging from A Brief History of Time to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Illegal immigrants have already been given full citizenship, a 401k, and are in the process of being assigned to former homes of John McCain.

The tanks rolled down the street soon after I got off the phone. A soldier with a megaphone called for all of us to have our IDs and most recent pay-stubs ready. Those of us who were unemployed and/or stoned could go back to bed. Everyone else was an enemy of the state.

My phone rang again. It was my boyfriend. "They're forcing us to get married. Get a cab and get down to City Hall now!"

"Why are they forcing us to get married today?"

"They want to chase every evangelical out of the country by midnight!"

"But I don't want to get married yet. We don't even have a puppy yet."

"We don't have a choice! President Obama's forcing us all to get married then shipping us off to Iraq to plant trees, build freeways and high-speed rails for the terrorists to get around on!"

"Oh, that sounds nice," I said. "Let me grab the sunscreen."

I began packing my bag when I got an automated text from my doctor. "Attn: Patient 1754, All appts have been cancelled. Hlth care indstry over. Plz seek medical help & vaccine shots @ Walgreens or CVS."

After zipping my bag, I opened the blinds to see if I would need a raincoat. There, towering over Chicago, was the Willis Tower. Only at the very top was President Obama's campaign logo, glowing bright and covering the windows of dozens of floors. Only now it wasn't red, white, and blue. No, it was merely dark red--blood red.

I turned on the TV. Every channel was the same, the logo in the bottom corner. He spoke to the camera. "My Americans, the socialist uprising is complete. Do not be alarmed. Just grab the pamphlet from your neighborhood's soldier. Check it out. And you'll know. What to do." Vice President Biden came on the screen next. "This is a big fucking deal!" he said.

How blind we were, I thought, how blind we were in our days of victory after health reform passed. And I found myself saying the words I never thought I'd say: "Sarah Palin was right!"

Dear Luke Wilson,

While it would be wise to begin by giving you advice based on Catherine Zeta Jones's run with T-Mobile ads, I can't, because she's still smoking hot and, despite her stint in commercials, she still got to make out with Aaron Eckhart in that one kind-of hit movie last year.

You even had a Joseph Fiennes-thing going on for a while. Damn.

So, let me begin by asking you one thing: Please stop?

While the United States appreciates AT&T for giving the iPhone its first exclusive contractor, the UnIted States also hates AT&T for being the iPhone's only exclusive contractor. All my friends with iPhones have nothing good to say about AT&T, except that it allows them to make phone calls--sometimes--and can also--occasionally--load short videos on YouTube of kitties doing stupid shit.

So, Luke Wilson, you have thus aligned yourself with an antithesis of a company. It is a company that people hate but have to use in order to operate their precious iPhones. I see your move Luke Wilson but I raise you this: credibility.

Perhaps a one-shot DirecTV commercial would've been enough. Even better would be a Sarah McLachlan-esque depressing commercial for an animal charity. But no, Luke Wilson, you have chosen to be the ad writers' bitch, and have introduced us to some of the worst commercials of this young decade.

It began with the bouncing red balls as you trounced your treasonous boots all over a floor map of the United States. Then came the diner where you dropped red plastic chunks (Verizon's alleged coverage area) into a poor man's soup. Then you helped a friend answer a question about the capital of Peru on a game show, demanding a cut of the winnings for your broke-ass self. Then you didn't allow a man to be completely downloaded, leaving him headless.

Not only are you a meal-ruining, disgusting pimp for the worst cellular provider in the free world, you are also a murderer.

What's worse is that you used to be hot. The least you could do is request they digitally remove your new double chin. We loved you in Legally Blonde and laughed at you (in the good way) in Anchorman. We forgave you for Home Fries and Legally Blonde 2, just as we forgave Drew and Reese. Perhaps the flops of Alex & Emma,  My Super-Ex Girlfriend, Vacancy, and Around the World in 80 Days were just too much for you to handle.

But don't just run to commercials for AT&T! Take a moment to reflect! You've starred alongside Drew Barrymore, Reese Witherspoon, Kate Beckinsale, Kate Hudson, Uma Thurman, and Jackie Chan in some of the worst movies they've ever made! Those are all some pretty hot chicks! You'll go down in history as the most toxic leading man right before Ben Affleck!

With these cheekbones and this haircut the world could be yours. It's never too late.

So please, Mr. Wilson, consider my plea, our country's plea. In this time of great change and progress, during this time of great recovery in which we are trying to heal the divisions that separate us instead of carving them even deeper, we ask you to stop propagandizing the phony service of your allegedly 3G network. Please stop ruining peoples' meals. Stop treading all over our nation. Stop not flopping at the box office. Don't let Gerard Butler dethrone you as the go-to king of shit movies. Maybe call up your old friend Wes Anderson and see if he's got anything for you; the hipsters will appreciate it.

In time you will thank us for this wake up call.

Sincerely yours,
Greg M. Schumaker and the People of the United States of America

First day of spring, officially. However, Republicans in the Senate held up its implementation for a few more days.

How quick we are to take for granted this life in The Jungle.

Saturday afternoon I took the brown line downtown to catch the Amtrak to Grand Rapids. Now, the brown line may have random graffiti tags on its seats and sometimes smell like body odor and urine, but it might just do the best job of making our city look like a massive toy play-set. (Such as in this terrible photo I took going over the river.)

Perhaps it was the first-day-of-spring gloom or my time in purgatory at Union Station waiting to board, but for the first time I felt like I was leaving home; not going.

"I've grown accustomed to her face," so to speak. It takes me 30 seconds to walk to the gym. It takes me a minute to get to the nearest Dominick's--it's practically an extension of my kitchen. It's a minute walk to the red and brown line stop at Fullerton. If I want the world's greatest cupcake and/or sprinkle sugar cookie, I can walk five minutes to Sweet Mandy B's. If I need some Barnes & Noble therapy, I can walk there in about eight minutes. If I need to get drunk I can walk to a bar, don't even have to worry about designated drivers and finding parking.

Hell, I even live on campus without officially living on campus.

So what's in Grand Rapids? Well, the vast majority of my social life. Defying all dysfunctional naysayers, my group of friends has become inappropriately close since our high school days. We know each others' sex and shit habits. Enough said.

The wonderful sights of Union Station's waiting lounge.

And my boyfriend's here. He's snoring next to me as I write this. It is for him, my family, and my friends that I gladly deal with eight days back here, here in a Chicagoan's suburban nightmare: no public transportation, no early-morning bars, and no Starbucks on every corner. But once you find one there's a 50/50 chance it has a drive-thru.

So, dear Chicago, I can't wait to get back. But give me this one admission? I was homesick for a while. Closing my door, watching my best friends walk down the stairway, heavy hours spent afterward feeling like I'd ripped off a Band-Aid--no one can prepare you for that punch. No one can tell you it's really going to be all right, all the time.

But I must've done something right, got lucky somehow, because the people I love are unchanged and here; warm, familiar presences in this bitch of a world.

Yes, they're here until they get wise, pack up, and follow me home to my city--our city; home.