10 Obvious Reasons Why Coke Products Are Better Than Pepsi Products (In No Particular Order):

1. Pepsi tastes gross.

2. Coke tastes delicious.

3. Sierra Mist? Please. That is the most bogus soda name ever invented. I mean Slice isn’t awesome either, but it’s way better than Sierra Mist.

4. Diet Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream. Yes, that’s a real product. Coke had a stumble with Coca-Cola lime, but Jazz? That’s unforgivable.

5. Pepsi’s Red White and Blue color scheme is so Rush Limbaugh. Okay okay we get it Pepsi, you love America! Jeez.

6. Santa is pro-Coke. Brittany Spears likes Pepsi. Who do you want to align yourself with?

7. People drink Coke all over the world, it’s called American Champagne in France. You know what they call Pepsi in France? Crap. I mean I don’t know for sure but I’m assuming that’s correct.

8. If you eat an entire pizza by yourself and drink a Diet Coke, you won’t get fat. Everyone knows that.

9. Rum and Coke: Good. Rum and Pepsi: horrifying.

10. Studies show that no one asks for Pepsi by name, they just settle for it if they can’t get Coke.*

* Studies conducted in a non scientific setting at PLM main offices.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

I like the idea of hard boiled eggs, but whenever I cook them and sit down to take a bit I sort of get grossed out. If I’m at a salad bar and they’ve got them already sliced up or, even better, deviled, I’ll dive in and eat dozens. But it’s just not the same at home.

Are do-it-yourself hard boiled eggs different in some way? Or am I just stuck in my own head?

With Great Respect,
Hungry in Hammond, IN

Dear Hungry in Hammond,

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

When people in the city use those huge golf umbrellas to protect themselves from the rain, are they aware of how annoying and dangerous their behavior is?

Do they even care that they could poke my eyes out?

Best to You,
Cold, Wet and Angry

Dear C.W.A.,

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

I took this picture six weeks ago. It has taken this long to process what I saw. But here is what we’re looking at: A passenger in a car, sticking his foot out the window. I’m not sure if he’s airing it out or giving some kind of salute. I don’t even know if the foot is the primary appendage being administered to. There is just something so deviant about sticking your bare foot out of a moving vehicle if you live above the Mason Dixon line.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

I know you an a candy aficionado and live in Chicago. What do you think about the candy tax? Personally, I’m very freaked out.

Candy makes up most of my diet and with these tough economic times, I just don’t know where that’ll leave me.

With Worry,
Sweet Tooth, Empty Pocket

Dear S.T.E.P.,

Sincerely,
Poor Lucky Me

Ten things that you might notice if you’re a recovering Catholic visiting St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museum, and the Sistine Chapel:

1. Going through a metal detector to see a church seems more normal than you expected.

2. The Popes clearly had a strong (potentially erotic) interest in ancient pagan sculpture.

3. It is possible to be overexposed to gigantic Renaissance tapestries.

4. Even people who have dreadlocked mullets like to going sightseeing.

5. Such powerful waves of human odors wash over you while waiting to view the Sistine Chapel you have no choice but to assume it is impossible to leave the queue to use the bathroom.

6. The only way you could ever get anyone to view a gallery of modern Christian art is to force them to wait in a line that cuts through a room. The Vatican Museum has twelve rooms. Several of the pieces were clearly of the “outsider art” movement.

7. People who take pictures in the Sistine Chapel despite the dozens of signs that say “Photographs are forbidden” might not be able to read.

8. Looking at relics like St. Carl’s toe bone and St. Nancy’s femur and imagining people praying to them made me wonder if these Catholics went to a different Sunday school than me. Because in my Sunday school they taught us that we weren’t supposed to pray to idols and graven images. Actually I guess they didn’t specify toe bones, so maybe that’s open to interpretation.

9. Maybe the church could sell this stuff to a private company and use the proceeds to help poor people. Like Mayor Daily and the parking meters, except, you know, not use the money for kick backs and back alley deals.

10. My cynicism switched turns to off when I’m confronted by artistic and architectural masterpieces, but I can’t help but wonder (cynically) if that was the point of it.

Don’t take anything for granted. The roommate and I spent the morning asking directions to a Venetian Internet Cafe. Directions in Venice sound like this: Go straight, walk over three bridges, go about 40 meters after that.

The problem is that no street is straight for longer than one block, and there are bridges everywhere. And I don’t really know what a meter is. But we were undeterred by the rain, and eventually our trusty iPhones got us to the right spot. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, then noticed this sign:

Internet No Work Today.

So I sneaked into a fancy hotel and used their business center. Because in Italy you always have to have a back up plan.

Don’t let too many viewings of National Lampoon’s European Vacation turn you into a self-loathing tourist. It’s ok not to know what you’re doing, and to look like a bit of an idiot when you’re traveling. As long as you are respectful and learn how to say “Do you speak English?” in the language of the place you’re visiting, you’re not going to suddenly turn into Clark Griswald.

Venice was Euro Disney when the reel Euro Disney was just a glimmer in some Disney Exec’s eye. Very few Italians actually live there, everyone speaks English, the weather is lovely, there are no cars, and it is filled to the brim with tourists. There are so many tourists I kept thinking I was on a movie set. Japanese people were doing zany poses for photographs in St Mark’s square, British people were getting hammered, eastern Europeans were letting pigeons land on their arms and eat seeds out of their hands, and Americans wore their socks and sandals and happily complained about the filthy toilets. I stopped being annoyed after about ten minutes, and had a great time.

It’s like being forced to join a club that you always thought you’d hate, then wanting to be the president. And I ate a fish with the head still attached- I think that’s a ride at the real Disney Land right?

When traveling abroad you have to have a healthy awareness of ripoff artists. But if you’re too careful, you might miss out on an adventure.

For example, my roommate and I went to the train station today to get to Venice. Due to my hyper-paranoia we got there about an hour early. We stood around until the train information was posted then slowly got our baggage together. I speak twelve words of Italian, which is enough to find your carriage and seat number on an Italian train. It was going to be an easy trip.

We started walking towards the train when an officious Italian in a blue shirt rushed up to my roommate and demanded to know what carriage we were in- “Uno” and seat numbers (I had to point to 73 and 74 because those words are beyond my Italian vocabulary). The Italian said “Theese waya” and rushed off. Immediately responding to his authoritative air, we dragged our bags behind us and tried to keep up.

After about twelve steps we turned to each other and wondered who exactly this guy was. It’s not typical for an Italian official to offer their assistance. It’s not typical for an Italian official to rush anywhere. I’m not saying these things in criticism, it’s just a reliable aspect of Italian culture. Also Italians love uniforms, and insist on sashes and badges to spruce up any work enforced dress codes. Even the garbage men wear epaulets. Arriving at car number one- which was easy enough to find thanks to the huge numeral one posted on the side- our unsolicited assistant motioned us to follow. The roommate and I banged our suitcases up the steps and paused to wipe the sweat from our brows.

We looked up to see the Italian gesturing to our seats. “Theese eesa eet.” He said helpfully. Well not that helpful really. A goat would have been as helpful by pawing at the ground in front of our seats. We nodded and sat down. “Grazie” I said. My roommate nodded. The Italian put his hand out.

“Teepa” he said.

“Wha?” I replied.

“Eet eesa customary to geeve a tipa” he clarified. My roommate and I looked and each other and snickered.

“No” we said in unison.

“Eet is customary to geeve a tipa” he repeated.

Obviously this guy had a good thing going- pretend to help Americans find their seats on the train, then shame them into giving a tip. But I had encountered better schemes then this. I told the guy in broken Italian that we didn’t have a tip for him, and he could stick it. He was both incredulous and furious and stalked off like he was going to make a shank out of a toothbrush and a lighter. We couldn’t help but be smug for getting the better of this rip off artist.

Waiting for the train to depart, we watched three other sets of Americans suffer the same fate. One husband and wife gave their scam-porter ten Euro, another pair of girls gave a two Euro coin, but ponied up more when they guy kept standing their with his hand out. I yelled “You don’t have to pay him” to no avail. Shame goes a long way with Americans, but standing up to a scumbag just feels so good.

Although I am a staunch anti-smoker in America (with the except of the occasional drunken indiscretion), when I am abroad I accept the local custom of smoking everywhere.

I never sneer when I see an Italian woman pushing a baby carriage while lighting a cigarette, and am forever patient when motorini drivers almost mow me down while smoking and talking on their cell phones with typical gesticulations.

Since Italy went non-smoking in 2005, I wondered if the bars and Trattorias would be empty and smelly, as were so many south side watering holes in Chicago. Especially the Wabash Tap,which reeks like the Dunkin Donuts next door so much that sometimes I wonder if they’ve got a black market donut operation going in their own kitchen.

Anyway: good news. The smoking “ban” in Rome makes bars and restaurants more pleasant to sit in, while the Romans have maintained their penchant for multitasking while lighting up. I think everyone wins in this arrangement. Except maybe the babies…but they’ll understand when they’re older.