Being Dark Irish is Bigger Than Hip Hop

Dear Internet,

It has been quite some time since I've sat at this desk to do anything besides check my bank account. I haven't forgotten about my blog, I've simply been lazy, and also working out in the real world in The Loop. The Loop isn't necessarily the real world, nor is working, but that be the case. The Loop and my inherent laziness aren't the only reasons that I've been slow to get things going. I mean, I have PBR to drink. And St. Patrick's Day is coming.

Because of this looming holiday, I think it's about time to cast the snakes out of the South Side, especially because it rained so hard on Saturday. For the record, I am a member of the Dark Irish clan. I don't even know what that means, but I am half Irish, and I am dark, so therefore I am Dark Irish. Some months back I actually clarified this. Some of you will remember:

"Since I went to bed last night at 9:00 PM, I missed your text at 10:00. I just couldn't watch any more Law & Order, as hard that may be to believe. To clarify my heritage, which of course is rather confusing, I am 1/4 WOP, 1/2 Guinness Toting Mick, and 1/4 a mix of Scottish, Norwegian, French, and Native American, and probably some other nonsense. I like to think I'm Algonquin, but who the hell really knows. It probably equals out to about 1/222 Native American anyway, which doesn't amount to anything. I think my Indian name would be Runs for Beer and Cigarettes at Corner Bodega. As a good Long Island Catholic, I mainly state that I'm Irish and Guinea, heavy on the corned beef and cabbage. After all, everyone from that beautiful land is either Italian, Irish, Jewish or a combination. As for my complexion, obviously the Italian has superseded the Irish side. But since my Irish family is from County Cork, I bet someone had some hot sex in a peat bog with a Spanish Moor, making me Dark Irish, giving me love of drink and tobacco."

I've taken the liberty of editing my own errors, since I wrote it in the morning and I was probably hung over. My heritage has been up for dispute for some time now and I hope that settles it. Now back to what's important.

It is nearly a time to celebrate with Guinness (or green PBR or Old Style if that strikes your fancy), corned beef and cabbage, green apparel (American Apparel has some hot little green leggings), and of course, green rivers. We are in Chicago, which of course means "rivers tainted with beer and green food color".

So without further ado, here I am Chicago River-side on an ill-fated Saturday where I shared tater tots with a girl I don't know, devoured cheese fries and hot dogs at Portillo's, drank plenty a Guinness and Miller Lite, order $40 worth of vinyls from Third Man Records when we don't have a record player (Under the Great White Northern Lights, and we bought one Sunday), and had a photo shoot downtown.



Happy boozing,
St. Shelly the Green Dellalian

In My Time of Dying

Dear Internet,

Ordinarily my sweat glands are totally out of control at work. And by out of control I mean that I base the outfit I'm going to wear on how much sweat will show through my clothes either through sweat stains or through baseball player-type salt stains. Recently, however, I haven't been sweating all that much. Initially I thought it might be because I've finally, after 28 years, become comfortable in my own skin. But that can't be it, because my odd decision making, especially in walking down the street, what I eat, and how I speak, is still so carefully considered, that it can't be less self-awareness. It must be some other biological change, for worse or better.

What I've ultimately decided is that I'm consuming less alcohol which has caused me to perspire less. For those of you who have witnessed my outfit selections, you will understand the great pains I have taken to sweat less, disguise sweat, and not look like a disaster over the past several years. Well, let's be honest, more than several. But now, to be confronted with less sweat? What the hell kind of curve ball is that?

All of these years I've had one constant: sweating unnecessarily to the point of embarrassment -- and now that's gone too. So not only am I dealing with regularly cold ass weather, but also no regularly insane perspiration. I'm dry as a corn field in Kansas in September. (That little simile is something I created on my own and I don't even know if it's accurate, but I do know that if I drive out of Chicago 2 hours south, 2 hours west, or 2 hours east I will see corn fields. I also figure that harvest is sometime in and around September. We might even be able to find a sign that says...)



Back to the sweating. Although this is something that, ultimately, is awesome, it is also something that causes a great deal of concern for me. Have I lost my edge? Am I some mild mannered person who can handle things all of sudden? Did I all of a sudden become even keel? I think not. There must be something larger at stake:



Via:



And...



And...



And...



Oh yea, and...


God. This is bad.

Shelly

28th Birthday == Best Gift Ever

Dear Internet,

Every year for the past 28 years I have gotten some pretty rad gifts. This year, however, has topped every single previous gift receiving year.

Not only did I receive the fantastic Frye boots I was so desperately longing for, but I also got a map of Long Island (I already discussed this as irrelevant, but it's still pretty awesome), a porcelain Schnauzer knick-knack, a bottle of Marc Jacobs Lola (it has a retarded, plastic art deco flower as a cap, but it smells ok), some cash, a buttload of food, but for all the awesome things that I got this year and in years past, the gift below takes the prize for the best ever (I've centered it because it deserves a serious place of respect on this blog and should be dutifully showcased):


I don't even know if anything can compare to this. I don't know if anything ever will. Frankly, it may have topped the two cats (King Solomon and Kitty) that I got as a birthday gift last year.

Gosh, I am excited. I actually am looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning at 6:30 just so that I can brew some coffee and pour a fresh, steaming cup into this mug. Because of course, the best part of waking up, is Bitches Talkin' Shit on the outside of your cup.

Thank you!
Shelly

Everyday I'm Hustlin'

Dear Internet,

Even if you're getting ready to go to your regular, normal job, whether your stacking books or kickin' ass and takin' names...



Keep that in mind. Because I am: