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 As for my complexion, obviously the Italian has superseded the Irish side.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:

20 CCs of Neon Green Relish While the Gs Be Chillin' on the Nasty South Side

Dear Internet,

Just like ethnic and religious groups, cities have stereotypes too. Cities, and their outlying suburbs. Growing up on (I know I should say "in" but F that) Long Island, I was pretty aware of the stereotypes of Long Islanders (we love Billy Joel, wear boat shoes year round, have bad accents, love bagels and cawfee, tan regularly, and are afraid of Manhattan) as well as those of New York City (residents all work in finance, go out to The Hamptons on weekends, live on Fifth Avenue, are uppity) and Brooklyn (residents are gangstas, rappers, hipsters, and love pizza). But, I had some serious pre-conceived notions about Chicago, and the Midwest in general. (For the record, those of you have other pre-conceived notions, all Long Islanders are not rich and do not drive 7 Series BMWs, even if we wish we did.)

Some stereotypes, obviously, are true. Otherwise they wouldn't be stereotypes. By and large, Long Islanders are afraid of New York City. They also fake tan as much as possible, have terrible accents, not to mention voices, and love bagels. They will also drink coffee at any time of the day, regardless of weather. Bettah yet -- ice cawfee. (Please note, I did not forget the "d" in iced. No one on Long Island says "Iced Coffee".) Growing up, and well into my 20s, Chicago was a far off, windy and freezing land with deep-dish "pizza" (let's be honest and admit that it's a casserole), Da Bears, and Michael Jordan.

Never mind that I had forgotten that Michael Jordan didn't live there anymore and was not playing for Da Bulls. In any event, it's not like I made this up myself. I had heard and seen plenty about Chicago well before I had even visited. Oh where?, you ask? Obviously Drs. Green and Carter.


So let me begin a few months before now, to a place that made entirely more sense to me: New York. First and foremost, slices of pizza existed on every corner. I understood the transit system and could get everywhere. If I wanted falafel, there were at least 4 places to go in Manhattan (carts included) and one awesome one on N. 7th in BK. Me and Penn Station go way back. A move to Chicago would be a journey into uncharted territory, except for business trips when American Airlines lost my luggage (who brings an extra large suitcase to Chicago for three days anyway?). So anyway, as i got ready to move I thought about all the things I would need to find in Chicago: my favorite pizzeria, a local bar with hot dogs, a bodega around the corner selling 24 ounce Coors Lights or PBR...

Getting back to my point: my original impression of Chicago, before the 14 hour drive from Brooklyn, crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana, was based a lmost entirely on ER, colored only slightly by Saturday Night Live. Since the beginning I was obsessed with ER, and not only because of the medical drama and my latent dreams of becoming an ER doctor. Obvs I was like, Holy Crap, I am just like Dr. Green! And I would totally have a tailored doctor coat like Dr. Carter. But, as soon as I saw Carter slide down Michigan or something and pick up a Polish dog with everything on it, I was like, I can do that. And, man, I wish I were a playa like Doug Ross.



So basically, above all things -- the news, the Sears Tower, hot dogs (believe it or not), Abbie Hoffman, Mayor(s) Daley, Barack Obama, Second City, John Belushi, and deep dish pizza (from now on known as pizza casserole) -- none so colored my theories and notions of the city in which I now live as Michael Crichton's brilliant series, ER. So can you imagine when I learned that Cook County General was a fictional hospital? This is what I was holding onto:
1. Getting a tailored white doctor coat (what are these called anyway?)
2. Going to Cook County General and busting open someone's chest and saving his life (see season 1).
3. Renting an awesome loft apartment with columns.
4. Becoming friends with Nurse Hathaway, and making her Shepard's Pie after she tries to kill herself.

None of these things happened or ever will, and logic tells me it's because there is no Cook County General. But can't one believe in something as awesome as this:



Shelly

The Shellyhood of the Skin Tight Pants

Dear Internet,

Today is my birthday. If I were in New York on my birthday, it would be an all out beer slaughter at The Sly Fox (it's real name is Karpaty Bar and is adjacent to the Ukrainian East Village Restaurant) where I would invariably leave my gifts consisting of a cat harness and leash, scented candle, tulips, and lottery tickets. I would then force Max to go a day or two later to pick them up. This really wouldn't be an issue because he loves booze and going back to The Sly Fox/Karpaty Bar would be an excuse to throw back a few Rum & Diets before heading back to Zero Lorimer Street, Apartment Loud.

This year, instead, I spent my birthday in Chicago. I did receive an East Coast Happy Birthday at 12:00 AM Eastern/11:00 PM Central (sort of like TV shows), a tag team birthday text, and some flowers from Urban Meadows. I then dragged my hung over self to the the coffee pot and drank as much as possible to feel halfway in between Aspergers and Savant. Fairly uneventful, but fun day, I got my hair cut and colored (my colorist worked really hard to cover up the grays), had some Southern-style Poutine (a substitute for much-craved Disco Fries -- there is no Wiki for them! Just Cheese Fries!), and drank a few beers, and of course, went shopping.

The highlight of my day, aside from getting the Women's Frye Engineer 12R boots I wanted, was purchasing a pair of Levi's Denim Leggings, near black wash. I was really excited. I am still really excited. If I hadn't eaten so many fried potatoes with gravy, a Chicago-style hot dog with everything on it, drank a huge coke, had a buttload of PBRs, and devoured an entire (practically) carrot cake, I would put them on right now.

As I eyed them again just a few minutes ago, thinking up all the fantastic ensembles I am going to pair them with, I realized something. Every year, and with every birthday, my pants get tighter. By the time I'm thirty, I probably will cease to actually wear pants, especially if I keep going at this rate. I have been heading in this direction for some time now, but most recently it has been brought to light quite publicly.

Let's think back to Valentine's Day, when I so famously got a pair of shiny, side zipper, red leggings. I haven't worn them yet, but I have a bizarre fascination with them and have considered joining roller derby (WHIP IT!!!) just to wear them. Now, earlier today, on my 28th birthday, I decided I needed another pair of impossibly tight pants. I'm not even sure if they can be considered pants. I mean, Levi's certainly does, but a nun or my mom probably wouldn't. I think there is some weird inverse ratio here in effect. Instead of, as I get older, buying looser, more momesque jeans, I have reverted to wearing jeans that I wouldn't have worn when I was 22. Now, on the short side to thirty, I'm buying (who knows if I'm going to be wearing them) pants that may very well be too small for my age.

Mostly I don't care, but the big thing is that I shouldn't be doing this stuff at least until I'm 40, and definitely not unless I'm cougaring it up (I love that the person posting this definition is using the moniker "cougargeiger".)

I figure that if I can still wear them then I'm going to. Even if I can't figure out how. And besides, it's my birthday, so if I am going to receive irrelevant gifts (I got a map of Long Island and a porcelain dog), one of them might as well come from me.

Shelly

Check Out This F-ing Rock and Roll Connection

Dear Internet,

As you know by now, I have a profound admiration and respect (also known as irrational, weird obsession) with Jack White. For several years now I have been plagued with how to meet him and become a member of his entourage, and then become a permanent fixture in his life, if not one of his adopted children. (I'm completely aware that he already has two kids of his own and doesn't need one that is 27 years old, err, 28 in about 15 hours.)

The first actual opportunity to embark on this endless quest was in July. BBChug, effervescent and brilliant as he is, was prescient enough to know that I would want tickets to The Dead Weather show at Terminal 5 in Manhattan. I never buy concert tickets, but I was fully prepared to shell out whatever I had to to be in the same room as Mr. White. The real reason all of our friends were getting tickets wasn't actually Jack, although that was my real incentive to go. The current and transplanted Jersey Kids' friends, The Screaming Females, were opening for The Dead Weather. And you know what I thought? Ka-Ching -- go to the show, cheer on The Females, go backstage, woo Jack with your awesomeness, and get on the bus to Boston.

In the end, obviously, it didn't happen that way. Although I did get to go backstage and stand in the VIP area. Jay-Z and Kanye West, both wearing Ray Bans (obvs), did happen by and I went all nutty thinking of the insane compilation that would happen if my favorite rock star and rapper got together with the production skills of Kanye. In any event, nothing really exciting besides that did happen. Although... We did exit Terminal 5 through the back door and got to see the tour bus.

So The Females did fail there, but since I've moved to the Midwest I've found a Jack White loop hole. I don't exactly know why it's a loop hole. I really basically just felt like using that phrase. I guess it's more of a "You Can't Meet Jack White" loop hole. But in any event, if it were a loop hole, it would be a good one. Ok, so enough of the semantics and back to the point. So as I was so unintelligibly saying, since I've moved to the Midwest I've met a good handful of people from Detroit. I've been really good about trying to keep my inner sociopath under wraps for a few months now, especially since starting work, so I haven't let the Jack White cat out of the bag just yet. Until today.

My co-worker, whom I work with directly, was born and raised in Detroit. We were discussing the new light rail being proposed by private investors in Detroit's downtown, when I asked: Is Cass Corridor part of downtown, or is a separate thing? My co-worker looked at me quizzically and said, How do you know about Cass Corridor? And on impulse I said, The White Stripes. This response caused a fair amount of laughter, some shock, and a little confusion amongst my comrades in cubes. But listen to what I learned:

This co-worker has a nephew who was big into the Detroit rock scene, has been to The Gold Dollar, and, a-hem, dated someone from The Von Bondies. Which means, at least by association, I know Jack White on two fronts: two degrees of separation via The Screaming Females and four via my co-worker. This basically equates to me being able to make my dreams to come true if I enable the American Dream of working really hard to accomplish something, that in the end, actually means nothing. Well nothing to anyone but me.

Gosh am I excited. Just think of all the possibilities: (1) Jack realizes my inherent talents in hearing great music and hires me to find awesome bands (not likely, since I only listen to a few bands, Stripes/Raconteurs/Dead Weather not included); (2) I love boots and have a great eye for them, so he hires me to find boots for him and Alison Mosshart; (3) I have an unyielding love for The White Stripes, and never get tired of listening to them, so I can put together special compilation vinyls without losing my mind; (4) I don't really know what else I can do with this here aside from just being a member of the entourage and telling the opening acts to get the fuck out of the party.
So with all these possible options, I'm pretty positive that I won't be able to woo Jack even when presented with the opportunity. I work in less than exciting corporate America, buy clothes from The Gap, and love to eat Velveeta. He knew me at "Can I have a pack of Camel Lights?" and was certain that I wouldn't fit the bill. Unless of course, I get rid of these gray hairs and throw on those Frye Engineer 12R boots Mike is supposed to get for me (see left inset), I can't expect much, at least until The Dead Weather play a show in Chicago.

Desperately,
Shelly