My Irked Cheeseburger

As a distributor rep in the Chicago area, one of the unwritten benefits of my job is that simple fact that I am in Chicago often, where I can take advantage of iconic Chicago destinations.
Just the other day I'm sitting at a light and look to my left and realize that I'm right in front of the classic Billy Goat restaurant.  For those of you who do not know the Billy Goat, it was the inspiration for the classic "cheezborger, cheezborger" skit of Saturday Night Live fame.
It was then that I realized that after six-plus years of working in and around Chicago, I have never been there.  Being near lunchtime, and feeling a bit peckish, I veer across oncoming traffic into the parking lot to experience one of Chicago's gems first-hand.
I walk in to find a small line at the counter, a mostly empty cavernous dining room, and a few regulars parked at the bar.  No sooner do I walk in then I hear the short-order cook yelling at the customers.
"Hey!  Get moving!  You are holding up the line!  What's so hard about fixing your sandwich?  My grandmother moves faster than you!"
Customers cowtow sheepishly and move through and add their condiments to their burgers under the scrutinizing glare of the counter help.  Rude.  Irreverent.  Chicago.
I decide to jump into the fray.  I order a cheeseburger, fries and a soda, pay, get my toppings and sit down for a uniquely Chicago experience.
One bite and I realize that I bought into the hype, and the hype is overblown.
It had to be the worst cheeseburger of my life.
It wasn't that it had a bad taste.  You would actually have to have a burger patty of substance to glean a taste of the meat.  As I looked at the cross-section of my bitten burger in disbelief, I realize that the burger patty is about 1/8" thick, pretty much the same thickness of the slice of cheese on top of it.  Over that are 1/4" slices of pickle and a cumulative 2" of dry bun.
I realize there that the price of a dream dying is around $7.99, plus tax.
Like a rube, I sit there and try to rationalize my bad experience.  Maybe I should have gotten the double cheeseburger?  Then maybe I could have tasted something.
I push that thought out of my mind, and realize then that the outcome was simple:  I would never recommend the Bully Goat, and never go there again.  Maybe 30 years ago they had good burgers, with an ambiance that inspired some young comedy writer, but not any more.
The Billy Goat would remain what is was before I walked in that day: a fiction.  An ephemeral image, based on some long-lost original, but never to be truly experienced.
And the real bitch of it was that I was still hungry afterwards!

Faire Thee Well

Spent the day the other weekend with my friends at the Bristol Renaissance Faire right over the border in Wisconsin.  Nothing says medieval Europe to me like 20 acres of Hollywood sets on steroids, off a Wisconsin expressway frontage road!
The most significant feature of the Renaissance Faire has to be the people!  There is a large contingent of actors who ply the Faire grounds, from street urchins, loafers and performers, giving the place the trademark charm and atmosphere of a Renaissance village.  There are processions of nobles, guards marching, and vendors hawking their wares, and stages with musicians, jousting, falconers and comedy acts around every corner.
Not surprisingly, there also is a vast array of people who come already dressed in costume.  And by vast, I mean not only in quantity, but in girth as well.  There were no malnourished peasants in this medieval village.  To be fair, as I strolled the grounds, I did realize that there was a great deal of detail and effort that people put into their costumes.  There were bands of warriors, dressed in armor and furs, with two-handed swords strapped across their backs, and flagons dangling from their belts. Women were dressed in everything from high-necked dresses to fairies in wings and sheer fabrics.
As I visited the various clothing shops, I realized that if I would ever consider going medieval, it would take quite an outlay of cash to look authentic.  One leather vest I tried on was sized like a suit coat, and as I admired my 42 Long in a mirror, I balked at the $395 price tag.  I want to go medieval, not bankrupt!
While you could get creative and make a costume on the cheap (think puffy shirt and pirate garb), I do believe that there is a minimum amount of effort you should put in if you are going to parade around the grounds as if you live there. This was never more evident as one guy who walked past, shirtless, with a sword stuck in his belt, in a pair of black Lycra stretch pants that were so tight you knew what religion he was.  I'm not sure if there were homeless people in medieval times, but if there were, I'm positive they'd look like him.
"Spare shilling for a cup of ale, mate?" 
Speaking of ale, the food and beverages were prolific.  I had to start the day with the ubiquitous turkey leg.  The sad sick thing is that I am not even a big dark meat fan, but I bought and ate that whole goddamn thing!  Sure it cost $8.00, but you get to pick the turkey out of your teeth for the rest of the day!
Beer didn't cost much more than what you would pay at a Chicago bar, and the selection was surprisingly diverse.  This was good thing, because it was a long, hot day and my significant wench of 19 years can put back a flagon or two!  At this rate I'll never afford that vest!  Now, how much again for that broadsword?

The Long and Winding "El"

There are a lot of advantages to living near Chicago. One is that you get the opportunity to see major musical acts as they tour.  Another is that there are several forms of public transportation at your disposal to whisk you around the larger metropolitan area.  As fate would allow, I was able to combine these two, as I procured four tickets to the Paul McCartney concert at Wrigley Field this past August 2nd.

Robyn and I went with our friends, who live in Oak Park, near one of the "El" stations.  Our plan was to drive to Oak Park and take the "El" downtown, and then transfer northward to Wrigley Field.

We make it downtown without incident, and then to the platform for the Red Line which runs to Wrigley Field.  As the last in our group to make it up the stairs to the platform, I took a second to look around and orient myself.

No sooner am I on the platform then a young girl nearby sees me and asks, without solicitation, "Where are you heading to, sir?"

"To the Paul McCartney concert at Wrigley," I reply.  A quick glance puts her at 18, maybe 19. 

"Well then.  You want to go to the far side of the platform and take that "El" and get off at the Addison stop."

Now, I had neither been looking for, nor needing, directions, but apparently something in my demeanor must have signaled that I needed assistance.

"You are so lucky to be going to the concert!" she continued.  "My grandmother is a huge Beatles fan, and remembers when they first came to the US.  She said that she would pay any price for a ticket to have me go, but unfortunately they were sold out."  My first thought was that she must not have tried too hard, as scalpers always seem to have tickets.  Especially if price is no object.

It was then that I noticed that my wife and friends are just about peeing their pants with laughter at this exchange.  It dawns on me that I was being grouped in her grandmother's generation of Beatles fans.  My befuddled state on the platform must have elicited a sympathetic response from her.  Since she couldn't go, the least she could do was to make sure this poor old man makes it there to see this living legend!

Where am I?  The trains are so loud!  How did I even get this far safely?

So there you have it.  At the tender age of 46, with no lack of grey in my beard, I made the transition from a man who might be attractive to young women, to one who needs to be steered through the confusing world of public transportation.

Drivers Who Text Ain't Fooling No One

Anyone who knows me knows that essentially I drive for a living.  Calling on accounts, logging 30,000 miles a year, I get to experience not only the joy that is metropolitan Chicago traffic, but also the unprecedented stupidity of Homo Sapiens behind wheels.
You also may know that while I love technology, I also loathe it at the same time.

Nowhere do you see the convenience and nuisance of technology intersect more vividly than with people who text while they are driving.

Now, anyone with a cell phone has been guilty of this, including yours truly.  But let me tell you, as a keen observer of drivers in every conceivable situation, there are some tell-tale signs of texters that are giving you away.  Let me enlighten you:

1.  The texter eye droop.  Anyone driving by you can tell when you are looking down at your cell phone.  As you look down, your eyelids droop, and anyone looking your way gets the impression your eyes are closed.  This is especially true while you are at a red light.  Try it out.  While at a light, look at those in your rear-view mirror.  If it looks like they are asleep, or very interested in what is transpiring in the vicinity of their crotch, odds are they are texting.  Then keep an eye on them as you continue to drive.

2.  Slow reaction times.  When you just can't wait to wrap up that urgent text as the left-turn green arrow gets stale, that three-second pause as you let your foot off the brake and onto the gas is a big neon sign that your attention is elsewhere.  That's okay.  I'd be happy to wait for the next arrow.

3.  The 45-mph driver in the middle lane of the expressway.  You may think you are keeping up with traffic as you text.  Unfortunately your judgement of how you are interacting with traffic is skewed by the fact that you aren't really paying attention to traffic! That peripheral feeling of cars rushing past you on both sides should tell you to put the phone down.

Don't get me wrong.  It may seem that I am trying to perform a public service here.  Or to educate you so you can be a better driver,  But I am being more self-serving.  I just want to pass this along so that hopefully, some day, you will not kill me as I do my job.

Now, about that tailgating habit of yours . . .