My first job out of college was as an assistant for a real estate auction house.  I got the job through an ad in the paper, motivated by the outrage of not being allowed to smoke cigarettes in my parent’s house.

After one interview where I was profoundly charming, I was hired on September 12th, 2001.  I thought it was kind of uplifting to be taking on a new challenge instead of hiding under the covers and fearing the future of the world.  In retrospect, I probably should have thought more about hiding under the covers.

After intense negotiations, I managed to get a starting salary of $27,000 plus health insurance.  After taxes, I was taking home around $350 a week which was more than enough to move into my first apartment.  Bank One was generous enough to extend a line of credit to me, and soon I was living like a king.  Like a deposed king in exile- but still.  Things were pretty sweet.

The real estate auction house- had three other employees*: 

Ken Schell, the COO and CIO was a nice looking tall guy from the south suburbs.  He meant well and enjoyed teaching me about computers and the business.  He lived in the basement of his ex-wife’s house and was enamored of his children. 

Don Steim was the CEO and head salesman.  He wore a suit everyday except for Wednesdays, when he sported a sweater or mock turtle neck to look casual for his Gamblers Anonymous meetings.  Don smoked weed out his office window, made fun of his pregnant wife, frequently took Xanax in the middle of the day and passed out, and aspired to reach new heights of scumbaggery every day.

Frank Manelli was a sweet young father who was hired as the junior sales associate.  He loved me because we both drove Jeeps and rolled our eyes at Don’s antics.

One day I sat at my desk reading Crimelibrary.com and Don walked up to me.  He was wearing his favorite G.A. yellow sweater and a tight pair of slacks.  He leaned over and said “Hey there, listen, I got a sure thing going and Gina won’t let me have any cash so do you think you could spot me some dough for a sure thing?”

I said, “Huh?”

“A sure thing,” he said “this is a sure thing.  I can pay you back by the end of the week with 10% interest, come on please come on.”

“Sorry Don, what are you talking about?” I wasn’t playing dumb, I really didn’t get it.

“I’m talking about you lending me three hundred bucks until Friday.  God damnit what are you stupid or something?” He misted me with spittle as he talked.

“Nooo er I mean, no I’m not stupid but also I don’t have $300 Don.”  I said, discreetly wiping my face.

“Don’t you know some one who can lend it to you to lend to me?  I’m talking about a sure thing here.  Or maybe you can overdraw your account for a couple of days?”  He came around to the other side of the desk and stood with his crotch thrust towards me.

I didn’t think it was a good sign that the president of my company was begging to borrow money from me, especially considering he was a gambling addict, especially considering I only made $350 a week, especially considering that he had a crazed look in his eyes.  We stared at each other for a few moments.

I stood up.  “Well maybe I’ll go to the ATM and see if I can withdrawal the money?”

“Yes” Don pumped his fist in the air.  “Do it, nice!”  We high-fived.  My soul winced at the disingenuous nature of the high-five.

I went outside and walked around the block for ten minutes.  I kicked at the empty bottles on the sidewalk and cursed Don.  “God damn stupid gambling addict asshole” I muttered.  Now I’d have to quit and find another job, and in order to do that I’d have to redo my resume, which everyone knows is the worst job in the world.

When I got back to the office he rushed over to me.  I shook my head sadly.  Don screamed “MOTHERF*CKER” and slammed the door of his office.  I pulled up my resume and tried to start typing. After three minutes, I went back to Crimelibrary.com.

*names have been changed to protect the guilty

Walking towards the cheerful Taste of Chicago entrance filled me with equal parts excitement and trepidation.   I was overwhelmed with pride for my uncharacteristic show of adventure.

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I dutifully lined up to be frisked by security.  Two burly men and two stout women stood and shouted at the crowd in correctional officer voices: “MOVE IT ALONG PEOPLE, I know what I’m looking for.  Females to the left, males to the right.  MOVE”  I grinned at the guard patting my backpack.  He sneered and waved me forward with the bulk of his forehead.

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I walked down Columbus drawn towards Manny’s, the turkey leg booth. It was more incredible than I ever could have imagined.  Throngs of people milled around holding gamy- barbecued sauced gigantic turkey legs.  They smiled and took pictures of each other.  One 95 pound Chinese woman ate two at a time- Fred Flintstone style.  “I love you, Taste of Chicago” I murmured at the crowd.

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No one cared that I blatantly took pictures of them feasting on the street. I imagined this is what it would feel like to attend a Roman Circus, with slightly fewer weapons and bloodshed

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While contemplating the “all sales are final” sign at Manny’s I had failed to notice the crowd swelling. When I tried to take a left at Jackson, I realized one of the major reasons why people hate the Taste: the foot traffic.  Most revelers acted like this is their first time walking, first time in public, first time eating food.  It’s strange.  I think that gorging on food while standing brings out the worst in everyone, especially me.  I stopped in my tracks every few feet to stare open mouthed at the crowds.

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Trying to focus, I put on my glasses and hunted for my first destination: The Grill on the Alley for prime rib quesadillas and gazpacho.  Although normally not an enthusiastic meat eater, I wanted to push myself to eat with abandon.  Slogging through the crowd, I got distracted at the Vermillion booth..

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The sign called to me like a siren: “Mango-Cumin dusted fries with date chutney”. I ordered a tasting version.  It was delicious- it made me scoff at every other french fry I had ever eaten- and I was relieved to have already tried something exotic.

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Moving a few booths east took about fifteen minutes, but it was worth it.  The Grill on the Alley felt like an oasis after hiking through the horde of tourists. My prime rib quesadilla was thrilling.  I whispered lovingly to it while I stood in the street, joining the clog I had been bitching about moments before.  I had to share this dish with my photographer because I was already panicking about hydration.

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If you are phobic about porti-pottys and come across this sight: You might view your water bottle with suspicion.  On one hand, it offers you relief.  On the other hand, it is a catalyst for voiding one’s bladder in public.  I tried to carefully sip water, hoping that I’d make it through the Taste without having to enclose myself in a plastic box of feces to urinate. Waving away my water bottle and using gazpacho to wash down another bite of quesadilla, I was on the move.

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My next goal was to get to the south end of the festival and enjoy a low-potential-for-bacteria vegetarian meal.  Creeping down Columbus allowed me to reflect on my experience.  I didn’t expect that the whole point of the Taste was to just stand in the streets eating food.  This realization made me feel lucky and snobby at the same time.  I don’t have to wait until an annual street fair to sample new restaurants.  I don’t have to graze food booths like a human cow to try different food.  I don’t have to haul screaming toddlers down a steaming street to find the Garret’s popcornsicle stand.

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I watched people load and unload from the temporary ferris wheel.  The lawns were filling up with people setting up camp to watch the fireworks.  Teenagers were pushing each other, making out, and begging people to buy them beer.

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Finally, I stumbled upon Arya Bhavan.  By this point I had learned that lines were for chumps and I immediately walked to the front of the herd. I ordered a samosa and Pav Bhaji with Nan.

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My photographer staked out a small spot on the lawn and we sat for a moment eating the best damn Indian food I’ve ever had.   We took turns sipping water and staring at the crush of people walk by.

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I gave a short lecture on how incredible I must be to have pursued this experience and actually enjoy it.  My photographer muttered “we’ll see how the walk back goes” but I was undeterred.  Maybe my days of hating the public are over.  I always dread events like this, but then have a great time once I get into it.  It’s like I want to be more high-maintenance that I really am.

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I threw my napkins and paper trough in the rolling garbage can and took a deep breath.  It was time to brave the swarm of fatties and march back down Columbus. . . By now, it was impossible to walk in a straight line.

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Mobs of people formed human mountains that had to be circumvented. “I feel like a pioneer” I gasped after ducking a biker waving a lit cigarette.  My photographer’s eyes rolled in his head like a panicked horse, and I grabbed his shirt tail.

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We were one block from the exit, but found ourselves on the other side of Manny’s.  The turkey leg booth congregation had reached mega-church proportions.   My throat burned with thirst and and feet ached.

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I had to get my photographer to safety before one of us collapsed or had to use a porti-potty.  I put my head down and squared my shoulders, and I pressed through the public like a freight train.  I heard turkey leg eaters protest and felt my hair grow slick with barbecue sauce. .When I looked up, we were at the exit gates. I had survived.

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Slightly sunburned and in possession of a noticeably bloated stomach, I walked slowly back to my apartment.  My eyes welled up with tears of joy.  I had set a goal and accomplished it.  I don’t have to fear public events or a lack of hand washing stations- I can let the soothing ache of a full stomach propel me zen-like through an ocean of humans.  And when I can’t stand it for another minute, I can easily push people the hell out of my way.

Ok, I’ve got my flip flops, my elastic waistbanded shorts, my empty gut and my camera. I’m heading out to The Taste Of Chicago. It’s 70 degrees, it’s the 3rd of July, and I think it’s going to be bananas. If I survive, I’ll tell you all what happens.

Pray for me.

Dear Readers,

Many of you have noted my silence on the subject of Michael Jackson’s death. Some of you have sent me threatening emails demanding that I weigh in on “the tragic event” or “the media exploitation of a great man”.

I’ve been avoiding the topic for several reasons:

1. I was forced to be cynical about MJ’s passing because
1a. I saw people weeping on the streets
1b. My co-worker spent an entire afternoon watching MJ videos and weeping at her desk
1c. Several of my friends/acquaintances were acting like they knew him personally and that his death would affect their lives.
1d. I hate when people get on the sadness bandwagon

2. People die all the time. It’s always sad, but not always tragic. I didn’t see anyone crying when Benazir Bhutto was murdered, for example, and that was an actual tragedy.

3. 50 is pretty old for a drug addict

4. I didn’t know Michael Jackson personally.

5. I read all the Vanity Fair articles covering his child molestation trails. So…(cough cough)

6. It’s true: he didn’t have a childhood and had an awful dad and was exploited by everyone in his life…but there are a lot of kids who grow up in Gary Indiana with worse dads and worse childhoods and they don’t get to have a chimp for a pet or a ferris wheel in their backyard.

7. I was busy preparing myself to go to the Taste of Chicago.

I did feel sad when I heard the news. I felt a normal, selfish, reminiscing-about-my-childhood sadness. My earliest musical memories are from Thriller, just like many of yours. But seeing footage of people hanging rose garlands on the gates of Neverland Ranch and sobbing made my heart grow crusty and cold. In fact, I threw my gum at some tourists who I overheard saying “I just don’t know what I’ll do now that Michael Jackson is gone”. I didn’t feel good about doing it, but the cynical part of my brain took over for a moment.

If you want things to be sad about apart from your personal woes, I understand that. But don’t make me be an asshole by pretending you own a piece of Michael Jackson. Think about me, people.

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

In a continuing effort to prepare my fragile brain and body for the impending trip to the Taste of Chicago, I decided to check out another popular tourist spot.

It was rainy and crappy again today, which makes people who are inclined towards self-pity have more road rage incidents and scream at people who try and budge in line at the Jewel. To be safe, I asked my roommate to drive me to the Oak Street beach to see what went on there.

Not surprisingly the beach was completely empty. I guess people don’t want to frolic in 42 degree water or pack cold damp sand into hilarious mermaids or castles. The roommate pulled over so I could jot down a few witty observations.

Here’s what I wrote in my notebook:

1. Balls cold

2. Poor son of a bitch life guard in a rowboat fifteen feet offshore looks like a character being punished by the Greek gods.

3. Forlorn looking frozen lemon-aid stand

4. MUTHAF***ING PALM TREES

This last item, as you may imagine, threw me into a rage more appropriate for a reality tv show contestant than a cultured, intelligent advice columnist. The Roommate tried to restrain me but I fought like a hooked muskie. I screamed “PALM TREES?! PALM TREES?!” over and over until tears streamed down my face.

I now realize that was a slight overreaction. But you have to understand- I live in a city that has been known to reach temperatures (not windchill, not feels like, but actual temperatures) of 18 degrees below zero. Past summers have produced 100 degree days, but seeing palm trees wave in the biting 59 degree July 1st wind broke something in my brain.

On closer inspection the palm tress are not holding up well. They sag, their fronds have browned, they seem to cough and sputter as you stand before them. I thought their ailing would delight me, but I felt sad as I stared at the displaced trees. They reminded me of immigrants who come to America from island nations seeking streets paved with gold and end up scrubbing blood for bio-hazardous waste cleaning companies because they can’t get work permits. The palm trees were a mockery of a summer that isn’t happening, designed to delight beach goers who are currently sitting in front of their fireplaces wrapped in Snuggies.

I’d love to meet the turdy suit who thought it’d be a gas to put palm trees on a beach in Chicago. You know it was a non-native. Why would anyone who was from this city think it would be fun or interesting or cute to put palm trees along the beach. I could understand fir trees or plain metal poles. Those would invoke the strength and grit it takes to survive the winters here. A soaring fir tree along the icy shores of Lake Michigan would remind tourists that they probably wouldn’t make it through a Windy City February alive. A palm tree just bothers me. It’s sort of a wuss tree, isn’t it?

When I do get to the Taste, my first plate of chili cheese fried hot dog nachos will be dedicated to those poor sad palm trees. May they be blessed with at least one 90 degree day before they drop dead, thwarting the marketing douche bag who imported them in the first place.