radiopeter

Meo the Sphynx was asking for attention in the living room. Go figure.

Tuesday evening I went to The Terrace at Conrad with my friend Jen for a cocktail, some nibbles, and to relax under the beautiful Chicago skies. We ordered the Kobe sliders and the Middle Eastern Mezzos, a perfectly delicious snack with a glass of wine. Our goal for the evening was to see The Dark Knight at Navy Pier’s IMAX theater.

Run, don’t walk to see the movie in IMAX.

Now, I’ll caution you, I don’t think the movie is great. I would have been disappointed in a regular theater. Aside from the Heath Ledger as a brilliant Joker, the movie, well, sucks. I am a huge fan of the dark Tim Burton-esque view of Gotham and Batman in general, but the Dark Knight is so full of light it looks nothing like the Batman movies I like best.

With that said, in IMAX the scenery is stunning. The six story screen really showcased Chicago (aka Gotham) in so many beautiful ways that I had to pick my jaw up off the floor on more than once. The chase scenes were exceptionally worked into downtown Chicago. Many of the familiar places in the city I know and love were remarkably captured on film. As a guy who loves his city, this movie is a shining example of what creative use of location and art direction can do.

I can sum up the Hollywood-actors in a single onomatopoeic erutication: blech.

Christian Bale (Batman), Maggie Gyllenhaal (Rachel, the love un-interest), sleepy Michael Caine (an Alfred desperately in need of eye drops), and Gary Oldman (as a commissioner Gordon who can’t stick to an accent) were mostly painful to watch. Aaron Eckhart (who I have a huge crush on) made a blah Two-Face, before and after the transformation. Even Eric Roberts as a mob leader (w00t! DILF crush) was watered down. I didn’t believe any of them. Morgan Freeman was just okay, and even Cilian Murphy who played the eerie Scarecrow in the last film was better than the lot, having just moments of screen time. Maybe it’s his blue eyes.

The bad guys were generally excellent. Mobsters, thugs, and masked robbers, were all on point. The opening is well written and funny while exceedingly violent. Hearing an audience laugh when someone gets shot isn’t an easy thing to produce, and my hat is off to the directors and writers for their brilliance.

Topping the list of baddies is Heath Ledger. I don’t think my generation has ever seen a posthumous Oscar given, but we might actually see at least a nomination for Ledger. Physically and vocally he is a rusty-bladed saw that rips through each scene with the precision of a dermatome, I found myself actually bored when he wasn’t on screen. Sure Batmans’ toys were cool. But the prowess of Ledger’s Joker took the character to places even the great Jack Nicholson didn’t go.

Was the $16 I spent on a ticket worth it? You betcha. IMAX is the only way to see this film.

Now excuse me while I go watch one of the Tim Burton Batman movies.

See, it’s like this. I dropped out of college. It just wasn’t for me. The time and money I would have spent there wouldn’t have changed who I am or what I’ve become. In fact, I suspect it would have hampered my successes in life.

Mark Twain once said, in one of my favorite quotes:

I have never let my schooling interfere with my education

Call me a renaissance man, call me an autodidact, call me he, call me she, call me Regis and Kathy Lee! Whatever you call me, I will forever be a student of life. Learning new things lights my fires real good, and I seek education around every corner, in every crevice of humanity.

If you don’t want to learn something each day, why wake up?

That isn’t rhetorical. Why do you get up each day? To make money to pay bills? To run yourself through the daily grind just because? Are you going through the motions of life for fun? Please say it ain’t so. If you only get out there to maintain, I think you need a hug and some inspiration.

—

In a couple weeks I resume Greek classes, this time at the intermediate level. I’m hoping many of the students from last session will return. New faces are always good, but the group was pretty cool last session.

In addition to Greek, flight lessons are creeping into my life bit by bit. I thought I’d be flying once a week, but it doesn’t seem like I should do that at the moment. So, heading into it a bit slower, I’ll most likely be flying 2-3 times a month, at least until I pass the FAA written exam.

There is an onslaught of material to learn. It seems like each day I figure out some other procedure or process I need to add to my repertoire, and an end is not in sight. Physically flying a plane covers one huge set of skills, but radio work, pilotage and navigation, figuring out the weather, complying with airspace regulations, and about a million other tiny-yet-critical details are par for the course.

All I’ve done so far is preflight the Diamond DA-40 I’m training in, execute a couple take offs from Midway and Lansing, IL, some turns, and then watched as my instructor landed the plane. It was humbling to realize just how much I don’t know. But that only lit stronger fires in my mind.

UPDATE: Edited the statistics below for correctness

A 2007 report from the FAA showed less than 600,000 pilots were registered in the United States. A third were private pilots (they don’t work as pilots, my current goal), and another third were commercial/airline transport. The remaining third were students and sport pilots. Out of three-hundred million people in the U.S., less than 0.2% are pilots. I’m determined to be one of those folks in the 0.2%.

So to answer my own question, I get out of bed each day because someday I’m going to be a pilot. Wanna watch that happen? Check me out at flying.radiopeter.com.

Yesterday I arrived at work at 6am to board a bus with a handful of volunteers from my company. We headed to Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where we were slated to help with the flood cleanup.

In mid-June, nearly 24,000 people were evacuated from their homes due to flooding. At times, in certain parts of Cedar Rapids, the Iowa River waters crested at nearly 31 feet. Because of the nature and the devastation of this flooding, many people could not return to their homes because of health concerns.

However, the real tragedy is that the people of Cedar Rapids are not helping their own. Instead of mobilizing and assisting their neighbors in need, they are simply ignoring the problems facing homeowners. Not to wish them evil, but how would six feet of water in THEIR house make them feel? And what would they do when FEMA doesn’t give them money to clean up THEIR houses?

The city has been relying on volunteers from out of state since the flood waters receded. In talking to many of the organizational members of the cleanup effort, time and time again I heard the same thing.

“Thank you for traveling such a long distance to help out complete strangers.”

I have to be honest. I didn’t know much about the situation before we arrived in Iowa. My ignorance is my own damn fault, and I’ll own that. But after arriving on the scene and working with the other volunteers in Iowa, I’m aghast that a city that is so pristine on one side, is treating the affected areas like dirty step-children.

It is inexcusable.

For our tiny little drop-in-the-bucket part, myself and fifteen other volunteers worked on two homes. The first was a rental house that the landlord rented to a low-income family. The water hit 5 feet in this area. You can see it in the photos. I never did find out where they were living at the time, but when we arrived on the scene, the drywall had been cut at 5 feet, exposing the entire frame of the house on the first floor. Everything was gutted, and our job was to wash the studs with bleach water and then rinse with clean water.

It was dirty, sweaty, hot, smelly, and we were wearing long sleeves, jeans, boots, masks, and gloves in 80 degree weather. But after a few hours of washing and scrubbing, the house smelled better, and began to dry. The reconstruction could begin after our visit. A chat with the owner revealed that their loan from the government of $50,000 would barely cover the reconstruction costs.

And that was just one house.

We moved on to another home that was destined for demolition. But the health hazards associated with demolishing a molding house are high, so the internals needed to be gutted. When we first walked in, the scene was dismal.

The white paint on the walls was caked with dirt. In the kitchen, the sun was trying to shine through mud caked windows, but only a few rays spilled onto the saturated and browning rug. The sink, ringed with brown still had a fork and a dish in it, crusted with dirt. In the bathroom, a razor was on the edge of the sink, and a shampoo bottle was half-buried in sludge in the tub. The water was high in this area of the city, and the stairs down into the basement ended abruptly in a mass of muck. The bedroom carpeting looked pregnant, swollen because the wood floors underneath had warped and buckled upward from the trapped moisture.

I can’t imagine finding scene like that in my house. God only knows how awful these people felt.

Our job at this site was to rip out the trim, bust out the drywall, get rid of the carpeting, and basically strip as much as we could down to the frame. The interiors would be hauled away and disposed of. But this house was too far gone to save. Mold like this would never be controlled.

With sledge hammers, crobars, picks, wheelbarrows and hammers, we made our masked way in and destroyed as much as we could. I’d never done that kind of work before, but I soon realized that five minutes of work meant fifteen minutes of mess. Load after load was hauled out the front door in buckets, wheelbarrows, and by hand. This is a pile of some of what we got out.

Interestingly enough, the lead on this site told us that FEMA had sent so much money to Cedar Rapids, that they issued them a massive bill. Cedar Rapids actually OWES FEMA money. How’s that for a Federal kick when you’re down. The agreement with FEMA that the city currently has, states that for every hour of volunteer work, FEMA deducts $18 from the bill. So our crew of 16, at $18/hour, with six hours of work, paid back FEMA $1728. Our company sent more people along to do work, along with a $50,000 donation.

Those figures are drops in the bucket when you consider the entire populations along that river in the state that were hit hard. The take away from this experience is that I need to learn more about what is happening in my own back yard, and do some good locally. I can’t imagine having to depend on people from another state to help cleanup a local mess.

This is a brilliant pairing on the part of Wired. Ugly, disgusting, wart-on-the-face-of-humanity PHilton and a title below him reading:

“the fat that can make you thin”

Exactly, because when you read his drivel, you want to hurl. Or when you look at his ugly bloated face, you’ll be reminded what you’ll look like if you have that extra piece of cheesecake.

Well done Wired!

For the umpteenth time I watched Mahogany last night after working on some music editing for my friend Todd. It’s tragically fantastic and Miss Ross shows the whole gambit of emotions. It ain’t Lady Sings The Blues, but I still love it.

There is a brilliant scene where Brian (Billy Dee Williams) storms out a fabulous party in Rome held in Mahogany’s (Miss Ross’s) honor. He’s just finished wrestling with Sean (creepily played by Anthony Perkins) and an unloaded gun. Brian rushes past Mahogany, claiming he’s not a part of this rich-fabulous life, and she exclaims something on the order of “Don’t you know who I am? This is my life!”

And then the Disco beats kick in.

A blaring sax, some shiny brass, a guitar and bass through wah-wah pedals, and those Disco-licious hi-hats, snares, and omnipresent tambourine hits begin to throb. Miss Ross whips her wig off and throws it into a crowd of very Mod folks (it is the mid-70’s) who are gyrating and grooving to the music. Braided, heavily eyeshadowed, dashiki’d, wide-collared and patterned for the back row, they are a cross-section of hipsters from a past generation. All of the sudden, over the throng of people, the soulful three-part harmony vocals kick in…

Hey! Hey, let’s go back!
Let’s go back to day one!
Hey! Hey let’s go back!
Let’s go back to day one!

Miss Ross opens her robe, grabs a thick white candle, leans back, and begins to drip hot wax on her skin. The crowd goes wild and the music climbs into an even higher frenzy. Berry Gordy, I love you.

I remember the very first time I watched that crowd scene. I was all about the wax. I still don’t quite understand what it means, but I was fascinated by the exhibitionism of it. And it seems pretty damn obvious that she really did drip wax on herself, which amazed me.

But after seeing the film a few more times (Ok, after seeing it over 25 times) it’s the Disco song and the crowd scene that intrigues me most. That elusive song, only captured in a clip on the soundrack, has been on my radar for many many years.

According to the Discomusic.com forums there is a slightly longer version on the 1975 Discotech(1) Lp. The soundtrack version clocks in at 1:43, but supposedly the Discotech version is just under 3 minutes. Vocals are by Patrice Holloway/Gloria Jones arranged by James Carmichael and produced by the Motown’s legendary Hal Davis, who has done amazing things with Bette Middler, Gladys Knight & The Pips, Thelma Walker, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, and many more. Hal Davis is the shiznit. Research him and understand his immense influence on everything you listen to. For realz.

Originally I think “Let’s Go Back” was recorded by Eddie Kendricks, whose version I don’t love. It’s not bad, but it’s not thumpy groovin’ Disco flavored. I swear I’ve heard a House remix that samples the Mahogany version, but I can’t seem to tease it out of any of my DJ friends or the internets.

That said, the only copy of that precious Discotech wax I’ve found online was over $50. I may have the DJ bug en extremis at times, but I ain’t payin’ $50 for a 3 minute Disco track. No matter how hot it is. I don’t roll like that anymore. Now if I were still a DJ…

Back to the crowd scene. Can you imagine being a part of that? I’ve had some pretty spectacular dance floor experiences. But nothing so amazingly 70’s. Disco is a completely different beast than clubbers know today. The songs were much shorter than your average ‘floorfiller, and the majority of DJ’s slammed one track into the other. Which, if done right, is heaven in the realm of Disco.

Given that the tracks were shorter, your ‘floor experience was much richer. I generally counted on ten records per hour when I was a House DJ. That’s around 5.5 min per track. You could hear double that in a vintage Disco set, with tracks running around 3-4 minutes each. Don’t get me wrong, there were extended mixes out there, but, according to the lore I’ve found and heard, they were mostly a later invention so the DJ could go to the bathroom, get a bump, and/or have a shot or four.

So if you were at a club for three hours, that’s nearly 60 records that would roar out of the speakers at you. Of course, repeats were the norm, but in the realm of the wax-toting DJ, you better believe those guys had arms of steel and crates upon crates of records.

I’m not really sure why I’m waxing poetic about a scene that will never return. But if you get the chance, watch the movie, and buy the soundtrack. Then, at home alone, don your dashiki, prance in your platforms, and crank up track 11 on repeat.

You! You, may not get!
May not get back to day one!

…but you’ll come close.

This is Mia:

She’s my eldest sister Kathy’s step-granddaughter, which sort of makes her my step-grand niece. Mia’s mom, Jenna, is Kathy’s step daughter. Mia’s dad, Ed, is good friends with John and my sister Elaine, and was the best man at their wedding. I believe Ed and Jenna set Elaine and John up for their first date, and the rest is history.

Got all that?

Over the weekend Mia celebrated her second birthday. Jenna and Ed kindly invited me to the event and I had an awesome time. But more than that, for the first time I feel like I have an extended family. I’ve never had that, and somehow I’ve just realized that there was this gaping hole in my life.

Mom doesn’t have any siblings. My dad’s family is all in Greece. So for a very long time it’s only been my family. Mom, Dad, Elaine, Kathy, and me. Well, actually four ’cause my eldest sister doesn’t hang out much with the fam.

John, my sister’s husband, has become part of our immediate circle, but still. It’s a tiny tribe. Then, with their recent wedding, it feels like I have a huge family, most of whom I don’t know.

Michael, Kathy’s (my sister) husband has a very warm family. Jenna felt like a sister the very first time I met her at her wedding. His parents and his siblings are also really kind people, and from day one they’ve all been friendly and liberal with hugs. It just amazes me that here, finally, I have this family. I only hope that as time passes, the families will continue to come together.

The little kids at the party were cute as buttons. Toddlers are insanely fun to watch, and shockingly they were all incredibly well behaved. Outside, under the sunshine, with good food, good people, and warm smiles, I was happy to be a part of it all.

At the very end of the party, I snatched up Mia and we giggled and chatted. Well, chatted as much as possible with a two year old. We released the balloons that we had and the amazement in her eyes was spectacular. My sister was pretty quick on the camera and grabbed some great shots. The full collection can be found here, but the few on this post are some of my favorites.

I’ve decided to keep my hair buzzed until I get my pilots license. Part of me completely enjoys the carefree buzz cut, and with fall on its way, I’m a hat kinda guy. But it is still summertime and the bright summer sun likes to beat down on my head with all its might. So now, instead of gelling my hair each day, I spray my head with a light coating of sunscreen.

So much for a carefree head.

The upshot to all this is the $50 haircuts I regularly indulge in are a thing of the past, as are the $20 jars of pomade and the $16 shampoos and conditioners. Well, at least the shampoo will last me a lot longer than before.

I took a look at this video and remembered how good it felt. So I did it again.

Oh happy day.

There are few foods in this world that remind me of my childhood more than scrambled eggs and feta. It was a staple in my house, part of a quickly whipped up breakfast before school. My mother made a point of making breakfast for us each and every day before we headed out, and although at the time I didn’t always like it, I look back and consider myself lucky I didn’t have to eat those yucky school cafeteria breakfasts. Mom cooked with love and fed me well. She still does. I’m a foodie because of her love for wholesome food that tasted good and made you feel even better.

When I have kids, you can bet I’m cookin’ for them every morning.

Feta cheese is one of those binary foods. You either love it or hate it. The salty, tangy, and let’s face it, funky smell of imported goat’s milk feta is unmistakable. It can taste, at times, of olives and greens, or of gamey meat, or even lemony goodness. The saltiness is enough to drive you to drink copious amounts of water if it isn’t tamed properly. I can’t think of a better balance to the saltiness than creamy scrambled eggs.

But first, a few words on the art of storing feta. Well, it’s not so much an art as it is a necessary part of storing a living mass of whiteness in your refrigerator. You basically take a large bowl with a tight cover, fill it with cool water to the top and add as much kosher salt (non-iodized!!) as possible, maybe 3T at a time. You’ll know when to stop when the salt stops dissolving. Do this part in the sink. Put the hunk of feta in (only buy feta in blocks, the crumbles dry out quickly) and it should float, with the excess salt water overflowing. If it doesn’t, add enough salt until it floats. It will store indefinitely if covered. If you’re not using it often, turn it once a week or so. You don’t want the top of the block to dry. Rinse the feta in cool water and pat dry before using it. Yes, I said wash and dry your cheese. You want to remove that salt water from the surface and the nooks and crannies. But in the storage bowl, never change the water. Let it get cloudy and salty and add more water or salt as needed as you buy more cheese. But never change that water. Ever. It is alive with bits of cast off cheese and it will protect your feta. Forever.

My usual recipe for feta and eggs is simple, but the cooking technique is precise. Overcooked scrambled eggs are ghastly. The more you cook eggs, the more the proteins in them bind together and squeeze out their moisture, leaving you with a chalky and rubbery mass. Not what I consider good eating in the morning. Here, then, is my recipe for a morning not only from my childhood, but the way I start my day at least twice a week. Use more or less feta according to taste.

SCRAMBLED EGGS WITH FETA

1T of olive oil
1/8 to 1/4 t pure onion powder (not onion salt!)
a 1.5″ x 1.5″ block of feta, rinsed and dried
2 large eggs
1T or so of milk or cream
freshly ground black pepper

1) In a non-stick skillet, I like a heavy 10″, pour the olive oil into a cold pan and add the onion powder to the oil. Do not heat anything yet.

2) In a small bowl, beat the eggs with the milk (or cream) and ground pepper until smooth. This usually takes a minute or so with a fork or a small whisk. You want a smooth mixture. Eggs need a good beating to break down and homogenize, plus adding a bit of air helps lighten.

3) Turn on high heat under the skillet until the onion powder just starts to fizz in the hot oil and becomes fragrant.

4) Crumble the feta into the hot oil. It will sputter a little because of the moisture in the cheese. Fry the feta for a minute. It will get a little gooey and may color, but won’t melt like cheddar. Watch that the onion powder doesn’t burn. You may need to pull the skillet off the heat once or twice and return it to the flame to keep things from burning.

5) Now dump the egg mixture into the pan. If you are using a heavy pan, turn off the heat. There should be enough residual heat in the pan to cook the eggs from here on. If you have a thin pan, turn the heat down to low.

6) With a small plastic spatula, push the eggs from the outside of the pan toward the center. They will start forming large curds. As the eggs on the outside of the pan cook, push them towards the center. They should remain glossy and creamy, with bits of feta throughout.

7) Push it all around a bit more until the curds hold together and there is no more liquid egg sloshing around, then serve. It takes only a minute or so. Resist the temptation to cook the eggs fully and brown them. This is no omelet. You want a creamy mass of eggs flecked with salty bits of feta. Not browned rubbery lumps.

8) Serve alongside buttered rye toast with strawberry jam, and a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey or Constant Comment tea with milk and sugar. Ok, all that is optional, but let me tell you it’s damn tasty all together. The herbed bite of the rye, the sugary jam, the salt in the eggs, and the perfume of the tea make breakfast something to look forward to.

NOTES:

You can skip the onion powder and fry the feta until it lightly browns if you like, but I prefer the hint of onion that the powder gives without having to go through the fuss of slicing and frying onions in the morning.

You can add minced garlic to the oil instead of onion powder. Mmm, garlic.

The possibilities for additions to the eggs before cooking are endless. Fresh dill or parseley or chives or basil, or a squirt of Sriracha hot sauce in the eggs (which makes them pink and spicy), or a spoon of pesto, or diced cooked ham/chicken/chorizo, or even more feta if you want more of a salty kick.

Play with soft-scrambled eggs and learn to cook them well. You’ll be able to cook up a quick meal in minutes with no fuss. God, I sound like a PBS special, but it’s totally true. A plate of eggs and some toast makes a quick snack or a filling meal, and it takes less than five minutes. If you have another five minutes, dicing and frying up some potatoes is easy peasy. If you have yet another five minutes…oh wait, I should stop writing now or I’ll get too carried away.

Dammit, now I’m hungry.

It’s official. I’ve scheduled my first flight on Tuesday.

Wish me good weather!

Not or-GEET, nor is it or-GATE, it’s pronounced or-ZHAT and it’s simply delicious. Almond-y, flower-y, and sweet, it’s a useful bar syrup. Especially in the mighty Mai Tai, which I found myself making two of last night at home in an unusual last-minute fit of mixological madness.

You see, Trader Vic’s Chicago will be opening in October. Or so they say. And after randomly stumbling across another affirmation of this most excellent news, I decided I wanted a Mai Tai. A field trip to the Binny’s within stumbling distance of my apartment produced the necessary ingredients for said Mai Tai.

Purists beware. There is a time and a place for $50 bottles of rum, $40 orange curaçao, and imported orgeat (remember, or-ZHAT). This was not one of them, so I grabbed a few bottles of known quality and quantity and ran with them.

If you want a most excellent discussion of the ‘perfect’ Mai Tai, visit TikiRoom.com and sift through the forums for the endless quest for the ‘perfect’ one. Such a thing doesn’t exist in my world, as perfection is something you strive for, but never attain.

So, on to my version of the recipe, shared by many on the internets and beyond. It’s a pretty standard concoction of rum, orange curaçao, orgeat, simple syrup (aka rock candy syrup), and a freshly squeezed lime. The last ingredient, the lime, is fairly essential in my mixological opinion. My recipe is below. Here is the list of things I use. Feel free to substitute, but I do think a shaker is essential.

Hardware:
cocktail shaker
lime squeezer
12 oz. glass aka. double rocks glass
jigger or something to measure 1 oz, 1/2 oz. and 1/4 oz.

Software:
dark rum
orange curaçao
orgeat
simple syrup
a lime
crushed ice

0) Step zero isn’t really necessary, but I prefer to blast some Martin Denny Exotica while mixing. It just sets the mood.

1) Crush enough ice to fill your glass. The glass must be full of crushed ice. This is not an optional step, as cubes just won’t cut it.

2) Dump the crushed ice into your shaker. Halve and squeeze an entire lime over the ice. Toss the halves into the shaker. Some folks don’t do this, but I like the bitter bite of the essential oil from the lime skin. You don’t get that from bottled lime juice.

3) Pour two ounces of rum over the lime halves into the shaker. I use Meyers Dark. Hush you purists, I like the taste of it. Choose whatever rum you like. I don’t use spiced, only dark, but use whatever you like.

4) Pour 1/2 ounce of orange curaçao into the shaker. I use Bols, the orange one, not the blue colored one. I prefer something with a 30% - 40% alcohol content. I’ve also used Cointreau or even Grand Marnier (bad for a Mai Tai) at times, but I actually prefer Bols. Then again, same rule as above, use whatever you like.

5) Pour 1/2 ounce orgeat into the shaker. Collins makes a decent one. There are recipes all around the internets if you want to try your hand at it, but I’m lazy and the Collins is tasty.

6) Pour 1/4 ounce simple syrup into the shaker.

7) Shake, shake, shake, Señora, shake your body line! Shake until you can’t shake no more. The goal is to melt the ice to dilute the booze and sugars, and you want to cool everything down as much as possible. At least 45 seconds or more is necessary.c

8) Dump it all back into your glass (it’ll fit, trust me) and sip until your cares slip away. I skip the garnish, but a skewered pineapple wedge and a cherry are standard.

9) Repeat as needed.

Only one note of caution. These go down easily. I recommend drinking a large glass of water for each one consumed.

Aging is fun. That may sound contradictory to what most people say, but I’ve found it to be true. The more time I spend in this life, the more I learn about myself and the world. For me, that’s fun. Why else would you wake up each day? If there isn’t something interesting to do, why get out of bed at all?

For better or worse, I’m a jack-of-all-trades. The Aquarius in me wakes up each day ready to explore life and face it head on. Sure, that sounds exceedingly cheerful and silver-lined, but I won’t have it any other way. I’m rarely a Daria, misery-chick, mad-at-the-world kind of person.

Translation: I have done a lot, I can do a lot, and I want to do more.

The only thing that sucks about ambition, which I haz bukkets of, is that from time to time you have to move on to something new. As my friend Ken said, “Gurl. Auntie Mame has a new project” and never truer words were spoken. I’m closing one chapter and yet again, opening another.

As of yesterday, I hung up my brief time in Chicago theater and am moving on. I’ve left the Hell in a Handbag Ensemble. To paraphrase the words of our artistic director, a theatre company is like a child. And I’m inclined to agree, because it really does take a whole village. But to continue the metaphor, I’m leaving that village for another one.

My eyes are on the skies these days. Flight school is no joke, and I’m starting Greek lessons again in September. Between the two schools I want to have a social life and work on the other projects I have on the horizon. Spending my evenings in rehearsal or my weekends at a theater isn’t an option. It’s not that I couldn’t make the time. I just don’t want to.

There is a Gospel hymn called “His Eye Is On The Sparrow” that I’m particularly fond of. The song was written in the early 1900’s and is based on excerpts from the book of Matthew in the bible. I’m not a huge New Testament fan but there are some inspiring passages that, from time to time, keep me going. Even if they are only referenced in songs I like.

Why should I feel discouraged
Why should the shadows come
Why should my heart be lonely
And long for heaven and home,
When Jesus is my portion
My constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me

I sing because I’m happy
I sing because I’m free
His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me

Truly, I sing because I’m happy, and I sing because I’m free. Free to choose where and when I want to be. That, dear readers, is where my happiness lies. Not in money, not in material things, but in the ability to be happy because I’m free.

It was a long and wonderful weekend here in Chicago, complete with cooler weather, warm sunshine, and more shirtless men than I can shake a stick at. Or my stick. Or anyone else’s stick for that matter. There’s not much to say other than I had a good time, saw lots of people I did and did not want to see, and ended up kissing a handsome man.

On to some photos.

the view of the scary clouds North on Halsted

Dave and Megan

blue skies and sunshine

da Spin booth and my building

Joe eats a big one

Ken, Baby Asher, and his mom, Chrissy

That’s a picture of some me and part of Team Beer (GO TEAM BEER~!) from Market Days last year. I spent my weekend in the beer tent for Spin enjoying the company of good friends and the sights and sounds of Market Days as they strolled by.

I have to be honest, the street festival bores me to bits. True, it happens right outside my front door, and I can’t help but be in the mix of things. But it’s fairly boring to walk around the same few blocks that I always walk around. Except during Market Days you’re battling with insane people who bring their children in strollers (bring kids, leave the strollers at home), shirtless queens drunk or high out of their mind (drink and party, responsibly), many GLBT people from another place (yay fresh meat), and various street vendors selling this and that, including fried food for days.

The only amusing thing is watching little kids spin the Steamworks wheel. Somehow that screams Market Days.

I find it’s only fun with a good group of friends. And my group of friends happens to work the Spin booth each year, so that’s where I’ll be, pouring beer, people-watching, and enjoying the great street carnival as it strolls past and buys beer/wine/squishies from me.

Oh yeah, the Champagne Raspberry Squishie, our house specialty, is to DIE for. There’s a big hulk of a frozen-drink machine in the booth that churns ‘em out like mad. And still, despite the very obvious name, and teh noisy machine, people come up and ask “Duh, err, what’s a Champagne Raspberry Squishie?!” Um, dipshit, it’s a frozen drink with Champagne in it. Guess what? It’s raspberry flavored. “Ahhh, errr, ehhh, well, is it good?”

No, you sofa king hick, I’m going to tell you it tastes like wet cardboard so I can sell tons of ‘em. Duh…

Anyhoo (that was for you AB), I’ll be there enjoying both days wif mah peepz. If you’re planning to come, plan to check out Cat Fight, a rockin’ chick/cover band at 7:30pm on Sunday at the Belmont Stage, just steps from my booth.

P.S. I’m passively seeking suitable partners for dating. This would be a most excellent chance to meet me and wow me with your sense of humor, good looks, and generous tipping practices.

P.P.S. I hope the humor in the above statement is not lost on you dear readers.

I spent this weekend on my bicycle. Actually, I spent most of the entire week on my bicycle after the sun went down. Nearly every day I hit the streets after sunset to get in some lean mean pedaling around the city, and in the blissfully cool summer evenings it’s exactly what the doctor ordered.

Friday night my friend Jen and I did a 17 mile loop from Uptown all the way down to the Planetarium and back again. Downtown Chicago was loaded with Lollapaloozers. OK, I really shouldn’t call them that, but teh street ones were sofa-king drunk (say that three times fast) and obnoxious to us, I have every right. However, it was worth it because the view from the Planetarium peninsula looking north is second to none. N.B. The picture above is from a Segway tour I took. Same view as I’m talking about, but picture it at night.

Saturday I actually biked in the morning and had that winner of a date I blogged about. Yes, the ‘can I borrow $50′ text will go down in history.

Whatta LEW-ZER.

On Sunday we had a boozy beach party. Shhh. Don’t tell Vera we were drinkin’ on the beach (by Vera I mean the cops). I rode to Montrose Harbor, met my peeps, and we boozed it up for a while in the sun before jumping in the lake. Then lying in the sun. Then jumping in the lake again.

I seldom, if ever, swim in Lake Michigan. But the water was warm and the company divine. I had good music for our beach-side relaxation cranked on the portable iPod doc. Well, good music and good vodka. And orange juice, spiked with Lemoncello. And lucky for us, an elotes and chicharrones vendor was close by. I completely stunned her when I ordered “Un elote con queso y un poqiuto chile en copa… y tambien un bolsa de chicharron, favor”

You’d think I slapped her, she had such a surprised face. I’m sure seeing a guerito such as myself speaking Mexican (not just Spanish dear readers, Mexican) was fairly unorthodox. A nervous “¿Mande?” slipped out of her lips, so I repeated my order. She then gave me one of those wonderfully broad, warm, and friendly Mexican smiles, LOADED my cup with corn, cheese and a light dusting of chile, and comped me the bag of fried pig skin.

“¡Gracias chico!” she called as I departed. About 30 minutes later, since we had extra beer, I slipped two to her and her husband. “¡Ay niño, salud con gusto!”

And in that moment, with that friendly exchange, I realized how much I love Chicago, especially during the summer. I don’t think I can ever leave this place.