Where Has The Romance Gone? Tuesday, June 16

Dear Poor Lucky Me,


Can you please help me understand the meaning of the phrase “hooked up?”  I assume that it means that some sort of sex was involved, but does it necessarily mean the full home run, naked tango, bone dance, or whatever the young kids are calling it?


If so, I think it extremely crass for people to us this phrase in casual conversation.


Thank you,


Dear Concerned,


“Hooked up” is an intentionally vague word that connotes sexual activity.


Don’t worry, only sluts or people who are nowhere near experiencing any sexual activity use this term. It’s usually the latter. Normal people don’t talk about their sexual exploits in casual conversation.


People who couldn’t get laid in prison will often tell you about their “hook ups” which are usually nothing more than a make out session with a homeless person or a birthday kiss from their Grandma. Except for sluts.


Sluts (and I use the term without judgment) tell you about their late night trysts to pretend they’re not ashamed. They want to use your reaction as a litmus test for how ashamed they should be.


Poor Lucky Me

Garbage Examination- Monday June 15

My apartment building is situated between Michigan Avenue, The AMC movie Theater and Navy Pier.  It’s like the Tourist Bermuda Triangle with crappy weather and a lot of fat people. 


Really it’s a fun place to live- it’s always lively and feels pretty safe.  I like giving people directions because it gives me a sense of purpose and accomplishment even if I spend the rest of the day drooling on my couch. 


The thing is, I’ve noticed a strange phenomenon since the snow melted.  There is garbage everywhere.  I’m not talking about the odd candy wrapper or coke can, I’m taking about big ticket items.  There are garbage cans every 25 feet, but that doesn’t stop the fascinating collection of waste on the side walks. 


Here is an unexaggerated list of garbage I saw outside of my back door this weekend:
1. A pile of chicken bones (this is a frequent sight in my neighborhood.  Who is eating chicken wings while walking?)
2. A 12 pack of empty Modelo bottles (this must be people drinking in their car before a movie right?)
3. Broken baby sized sunglasses (a nice lesson to teach your child: if it’s broken, throw it on the ground!  There are more where that came from- China)
4. An empty bottle of Bellows Gin
5. Three 40′s in paper bags
6. An empty carton of Capri Ultra Slims (Presumably some one had a carton of smokes in their purse, finished the last pack and threw the carton on the sidewalk?)
7. A mangled umbrella
8. An empty skull and crossbones dime bag
9. 15 pounds of dog poo (an approximation)


I’m considering setting up a hidden camera to see who is littering like it’s 1955 and what kind of deliberation they go through before chucking their empty gin bottles. Maybe people think that being on vacation means being on vacation from all the restraints of living in a society- including using garbage cans.


Rest assured, I will continue to examine and report on this interesting aspect of the Tourist Bermuda Triangle. My next step will be hiding behind parked cars and jumping out to confront people who toss their White Castle boxes on the ground.

Music That Speaks to Me

A loyal reader sent me a song that has changed my life forever.  I want to share it with all of you. 


I know I’m not the first person to post this song on a website, but I couldn’t rest thinking that some of you might not hear it.


Please enjoy.

Pig vs Pork

Dear Poor Lucky Me,


I love ham.  Really, I love all pork products- including rinds and head cheese. Then I was at a friend’s hobby farm and met her pigs. 


The bad news is they are so sweet and smart.  I mean they are as fun to hang around with as my dog!


What do I do now?


Please Don’t Call Me A Hippie


Dear Hippie,
I completely understand your internal swine strife.  Pigs are one of the earliest animals domesticated by man, yet are known for their intelligence.  Their meat is delicious, yet they can learn their name and come when called.


Most vegetarians object to people abstaining from meat eating based on how cute they think animals are.  One may not want to eat cows but have no problem eating scary smelly gross chickens.  It’s ok to eat tuna but not the dolphins that are caught alongside them.


I think that it’s acceptable to not eat something based on any reason you want.  I don’t eat bananas because they smell bad and taste nasty, I don’t eat lobster because they look like crayfish which are in my opinion a little too close to bugs for comfort.  Not eating pigs because they remind you of dogs is as good a reason as any.


I don’t want to bum you out further, but if you really want a reason not to eat meat, do some research on industrial farming.  Take a look at what the pigs you eat look like and live like before they get to your plate.  Also check out what impact pig poo has on the environment.  Spoiler alert: it’s some seriously disturbing shit.


My editor is begging me to remove that last paragraph.  He thinks it’s “not funny” and makes me sound like “a vegan douchebag” so out of spite I’m leaving it in.  I’m not a vegan or even a vegetarian, I’m just telling it like it is.  So suck on that editor!


Poor Lucky Me


P.S. Trader Joe’s makes a tofu chorizo that is out of this world.

Judging You Judging Me

judgementalI don’t think it’s very fair for people to judge me for being judgmental. 


So I sneer openly at good looking people at my gym and secretly think they’re dumb and shallow.  So what?  What am I supposed to do, be accepting of everyone?  Give everyone the benefit of the doubt?


Take today for instance: I was secretly watching the Latin-Cardio-Dance-Grooves-Bullshit-Class-Where-You-Wiggle-Your-Hips-Around-A-Lot-but-Don’t-Sweat from the stationary bike.  Sure, it was sort of pervy for me to be watching, but I was only doing it to be critical.  And some jealousy.


Anyway, I see this sexy young girl in tight pants squirming all around the dance floor.  I turn to my friend and say something like “that ho is totally a stripper in the evenings.” 


My friend tries to convince me that the girl was really young- like in high school- and that I was being a crabby asshole. “No way” I said “I can see a Professional when I see one.”  Then I sat back and congratulated myself for being so perceptive.  Until that very girl came out of the studio with another woman and said “Hurry up mom, I’ll be late for school.”




Still, a lot of people rely on me to be snarky and catty.  I can’t let them down just because I miss the mark occasionally. 


Do you want the baby thrown away with the bathwater?  That’s a perfectly good baby.

Anglophile Seeks Answers

Dear Poor Lucky Me,
What would you do if you really wanted to bitch some one out but felt like doing so would be a violation of your proper British manners? I mean I’m not British but I watch a lot of BBC.


There’s this girl in my condo association who I really really hate.
She sleeps or stares at her Blackberry through out the whole meeting, then says “Huh” when anyone asks her opinion.


I want to kick her in the back. It’d probably be best to just have words with her, but what do I say?




Dear Cheerio,
I’m pretty sure if you were British you would just make snide comments about the offending Blackberrier and everyone would laugh and sneer under they put their phone away. That’s the kind of think that Hugh Grant does, and he’s English, so it makes sense.


I also listened to the Ricky Gervais podcasts and he just says mean stuff right to people’s face. I guess you could try that, but it’s probably best left to professionals.


You know I was thinking about Ricky Gervais the other day actually. I think he’s really funny and I love the British Office (all smart people are supposed to like the British version better than the American, but it is acceptable to say you like the American one “but they are totally different in tone”) but I’m beginning to think that Gervais is quite a bit of a prick. Wouldn’t you agree? Maybe I’m delicate but I think he’s really very vicious sometimes. Actually, it’s not that surprising, because he plays David Brent so well there’s no way he’s not at least a little bit of a turd in real life.


Anyway, I had a professor in college who carried a bell with him while he lectured. He’d wait until the second half of the class before walking to the back of the lecture hall and ringing the hell out of the bell right in some one’s ear. It was sort of a dick move, but it did freak people out. I don’t know, why don’t you just pull the girl aside and say “I’ve noticed your not into the condo association meetings, why don’t you take of the gardening (or whatever) in exchange for not having to come?”
Then at least you don’t have to stare at her face.


That’s what always drives me close to the edge; staring at people’s damn faces while they’re pissing me off.


Good luck!


Poor Lucky Me

A Review of a Grown-Up Movie

benj-buttonsThis weekend I departed from my usual routine and watched a movie made for adults.  Not an “adult movie”, but a movie intended for audiences over the age of 15. 


I chose The Curious Case of Benjamin Buttons because I read the book in high school and felt confident that I could get through the movie version with some booze and the ability to pause and nap if necessary.


It turned out that frequent breaks were very necessary.  I don’t know who’s idea it was to make the movie almost 3 hours long but by god it almost killed me.  Here’s an idea for cinematic efficiency: TALK AT A NORMAL PACE.  Apparently Benjamin’s curious life only featured people who speak like they’re teaching a diction class to ESL students. 


In addition to being tear-jerkingly long and carefully pronounced, the movie was also very dark.  I mean the scenes were colored in a Dracula-esque way that annoyed and depressed me at the same time.  Three hours of staring at a dark brown, dark blue, and dark green screen made me want switch from vodka to Oxycontin.  My tongue lolled out of my mouth for the entire second half of the film.  I didn’t have the energy to lift my head up off the couch.  I sobbed from boredom.


Interestingly, the script was a big departure from the F. Scott Fitzgerald novella. It seemed to be a crappier, boring version of the book The Confessions of Max Tivoli by Andrew Sean Greer.  Both books are well worth a read and don’t make one want to throw shoes at the television or knock oneself unconscious to avoid one more minute of an indulgent Hollywood barf bag.


All in all I learned a lot.  A) I much prefer 90 minute ‘tween romances, or young adult adventure/romance/comedies.  B) Movies based on books suck C) Sophisticated CGI can make a baby look like an old man, but can’t make a shitfest into a worthwhile film to watch.


For a grown up movie, I’d give it 5 out of 10 stars.  If Amanda Bynes had been the female lead, I would have given it 8 out of 10 stars.

Evite Inspires Rage and Sarcasm

evite-pic Dear Poor Lucky Me,
Can you please tell me the street address for the headquarters of evite.com? I would like to firebomb them around 10:00a.m. on Wednesday so that I make sure everyone is in the office.


If I get one more “We Can’t Believe Little Jessica is Turning One!” emailed invitation I will explode. Can’t believe she is turning one? I can’t believe she has stuck around for a year you shitty hostess.


Even my fellow gay friends are sending them: “Jeffrey is turning 40. Ssshhh — It’s A Surprise.” Ha! The only surprise is that Jeffrey is claiming to be forty years old. He looks like he catered the Last Supper. If the homos aren’t even creative enough to make an invitation, society is doomed.


When someone sends an evite it automatically signals to me that the entire event will suck: Boxed wine. The “good” paper plates. Gargantuan chicks walking around with diet sodas exclaiming “We’re preggers again — tee hee.” Hooray, does that mean I can expect a parade of evites from you for baby showers, christening, birthday, first communion, confirmation? I’d really love to drive out to the suburbs in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday to celebrate the fact that your one year old poop factory marched out of your womb a scant three hundred and sixty five days ago. Honestly, I would rather do anything else.


And please, please, please don’t serve any alcohol or decent food. I’m sure everyone would be tickled pink if you decided to wear that crappy shmata you plucked from the clearance bin at Kohls six years ago. It gets even more lovely every time I see it.


Screw poor baby evite. Wah, wah.


God I hate evites


Dear God,
Your passion excites and terrifies me. Unfortunately Poor Lucky Me does not support domestic or international terrorism, so I will be unable to provide you with the Evite headquarters address.


I understand your rage, but I think you have to study the evite issue from another side. Evites allow very cheap people to have big crappy parties for every god awful event in their lives


. However, internet invitations also allow lazy people (like me) to have awesome parties without having to figure out how to mail invitations. Mailing things requires a proper address, a stamp, and knowledge of where a mailbox is located. That’s a lot for lazy/stupid/party animal types.


The trick is to immediately reply “maybe” on all Evites. That gives you some leeway. You don’t have to commit to every baby shower you get invited to, but if it turns out that you are alone and depressed on a Saturday afternoon you can grab a roadie bottle of tequila and hit the day-party circuit.


Evites are also used as a passive-aggressive gift getter. “I know my party is in Oak Park and you just moved to Boston, but here’s an invite so you know where to send a gift” I always reply “Yes” to out of town parties. I think it makes me seem like a jet setter without having to actually go anywhere.


I hope I was able to soften your stance a little bit. At least try to refrain from wanting to kill or maim people.


Poor Lucky Me

An Open Letter to a Fellow at My Gym

running-shortsTo The Older Gentleman Who Works Out In Running Shorts,


Please, put a pair of pants on. I can’t watch you stretch, do leg lifts, lunge, or do leg presses anymore. I swear to god I’m going to have to say something if I catch one more glimpse of your pale, hairy, upper thigh. It seems like you prefer to do exercises on your back- which causes your tiny silky shorts to slide down your leg and reveal more skin that I see on an average episode of The Girls Next Door.


Today I sat on the rowing machine and stared at the ceiling to avoid an anatomy lesson that could be impossible to recover from. I’ve seen you in those shorts every weekday for 7 weeks now (which gives me a whole other set of nightmares) and I am certain that you are doing this on purpose. I have attached a picture of another man who thinks he looks sexy in running shorts. At least he has the decency to wear his shorts really tight so they won’t bag and slide around his twigs and berries when things get strenuous. Although from the looks of it, that’s not why he wears his shorts so tight.


Anyway, I could write paragraphs describing my terror at the prospect of your shorts bagging a little too low. I don’t want to burn out my imagination on awful images. I’d rather imagine myself getting unnecessary surgery or having to survive on my own urine after a camping trip gone awry. I’d rather imagine getting napalm burns or how eating broken glass would feel. I’d rather imagine shaving the gentleman in this picture than have to watch you do one more set of deep squats.


Please, I’m begging you; if you want to expose your genitals join a social networking group Internet for older semi-fit bears. Please let me burn the calories I plan to replace with ice cream cake and nachos in peace.



Poor Lucky Me

Departing Loser-City

thumb-cuffs If you assumed your whole adult life that you would just be sort of a loser- a  malcontent, a napper, an open-mouthed breather- then suddenly realizing you’ve had some success can be very unsettling.


I feel like one minute I was doing an army crawl on the floor of my office to sneak out early, and the next thing I knew I was getting my own clients. 


How could this have happened?  What are the implications of success on my lovable-loser personality?  Maybe I’ll become very serious and abandon the tee shirts and sneakers for business suits and pork pie hats.  Or bowler hats.  Even fedoras.


The point is, I’ve never even imagined this happening to me, so I don’t have a fear/fantasy reference point.  I never made a vision board or a scrapbook of what my life would look like if I didn’t spend most of the day watching reality tv and combining different kinds of pretzels with different kinds of cheese.  Soft and nacho are the best, but rods and port wine are a close second.


I did turn down a few promotions and fail several certification tests to avoid this very situation.  And it’s not just work; I’m succeeding in my personal relationships and in my creative endeavors.


Oh woe is me.  What will I do?  My identity is on the line, and I’m out of options to sabotage myself.


What if I just have to be happy and content and enjoy life? I wonder if I can manage. I’ll have a lot of free time if I’m not bitching about stuff all the time.

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