The Man Behind the Manhole

Myself, and a Possibly Homeless Man reeking of booze were peering into a manhole at the corner of North, and Western Avenues when Bobby, the man behind the proper car, and maintenance of this particular manhole intervened, and asked us what we were doing.

Bobby was finishing up his lunch, and had been sitting in his truck, apparently watching us watch his manhole.

I couldn't speak for the PHM, but I told Bobby I was on my way to Walgreen's, and had never seen an open manhole.

Bobby asked me if I was a reporter.

No, I told him, and explained that I am unemployed, but that as of last week I have been putting articles up on a site called the Windy Citizen, and on a blog. Bobby looked at me suspiciously, but I assured him that very few people read what I write, I'm not getting paid for it, and it's kind of like therapy.

The PHM asked if he could get in a picture with Bobby, but a bus came right in time. I guess the PHM has money for bus fare, so maybe he's just in really dirty clothing, and really drunk at 1 p.m., and headed back to work, which is more than a can say for myself. We bonded briefly over a shared curiosity of open manholes, though.

Bobby asked me what kind of work I do, and I told him what kind of work I do, and promised I'd check out the AT&T Web site to see the openings.

According to Bobby, this particular manhole is about 12 to 15 ft. deep. The impetus for the work is "vRacks."

vRacks have something to do with the scary HDTV conversion I keep whining about, and I guess Bobby, and his partner were taking turns going in, and out of the manhole to replace the old copper wire with fiber optic cable because, as Bobby noted, "Customers request HDTV, and we have to go down there to determine how many can get the service."

The wort part of Bobby's job? "Dealing with traffic, making sure everyone is safe."

The best part? "Seeing different parts of the city."

And Our Flag Was Still There

I've walked past these flags for a few years. The used car dealership on Western Ave. that initially hung the flags no longer stands, but its patriotism hangs tough.

Obama as Chia Pet?

Though we live in a consumer driven economy, can marketers at least take our president seriously? I am offended by this "Determined Pose" Obama Chia plant that I saw at Walgreen's, yet I can't explain why. Are you annoyed, too, or do I just need to take the rod out of my arse? No, not the governor, Rod, but speaking of him, he's probably more appropriate for Chia Pet mockery than Obama, though Rod's hair doesn't bode well for the Chia plant style, which brings me to my next thought: Has the chia machine taken on other American presidents, or was Obama chosen because he is African American?

Pathological Sentimentality

Things I cannot seem to throw out: Old papers, essays, stories, boxes, and boxes of papers... Letters from people I no longer am in touch with, photos of exes, dozens of newspaper story clippings that I feel like I am reading for the first time, as some I have no recollection of having ever written, an odd note from an elderly, mentally ill neighbor scrawled on an envelope that was slipped under my door, plaques from running races, President's Club trophies, old birthday cards, thank you cards, get well cards, business cards, concert tickets, parking tickets, plane tickets, event programs, invitations, you name it and I have probably saved it.

Am I a hoarder? Is there any point in holding onto these things?

A few things have made it into my discard box, and then, invariably an hour later I fish them back out, and put into a keeper box. My sentimentality is crippling the moving process. A lot of this stuff I haven't looked at in many years, and I wonder how often I will look at it in the future.

Hmmm.... A New Life.... the headline on a story I wrote, but don't recall writing... I was talking about a junkyard. At the moment I sort of feel like I am entrenched in another sort of junkyard, that of my past.

It's a scary place. Some things make me smile, others are making me cringe. I am looking forward to putting the boxes on a high shelf somewhere in my new place, and not looking at them for another five, or ten years. Junkyards from the past are scary places. And, like actual junkyards as most city officials know, they don't disappear easily, either.

iScream, UScream, Wii All Scream...

... for iCream?

iDon't Know if I'll scream for iCream, because I haven't tasted it yet.

However, I know that iCream, at 1537 N. Milwaukee Ave, in the spot where Language boutique used to be, looks extremely sterile, especially in comparison to Margie's, my favorite, local spot for traditional, handmade, and hand packed ice cream. By traditional I mean that the ice cream at Margie's isn't made in an automated machine using liquid nitrogen, at a temperature of negative 320 degrees like it is at iCream, where the process takes about one minute. Take that, butter churning puritans!

I digress. Back to iCream, which is co-owned by the friendly, and youthful Cora, who is slightly older than me, but looks no older than 25, and who is slightly easier on the eyes than George, the second generation owner of Margie's who looks like he samples a lot of his sweets. Here's a fun fact: George used to be a podiatrist. Yes, that's a foot doctor turned ice cream man.

Shot, I digress, again. George is awesome, and I don't mean to diss on Margie's, where I go at least three times each month every summer until my pants get too tight. Cora is the shiny new kid on the block, a recent business school graduate who used iCream as a final project, partnered with a classmate, and put up a modern, clean looking shingle last April, yet just opened-- not because of coding or licensing issues, but because the initial machinery was pumping out too much nitrogen, and the end result took 10 minutes vs. one, and was more liquid than cream in texture.

The tweaks are fixed, Cora noted, and from the five or so minutes Jer, and I spent scoping the place out, the machines appear to be working, and there were plenty of spoons being shoved into happy mouths. It was pouring rain, and about 35 degrees today, yet despite the weather iCream was packed with people, some possibly determined to at least eat ice cream like it's spring, even though it doesn't feel like it, which I guess is fitting since iCream doesn't quite taste like ice cream, either. Or, at least that's what I overheard someone say. I am looking forward to trying iCream soon, as in once I have a job soon, along with coin for ice cream and/or iCream excursions, but that's a story best left offline. It's another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody, and I didn't just get paid, either, so I will shortly iCry into a can of soup that eats like a meal. Now, that's impressive copywriting. The soup that eats like a meal. I wonder who thought of that.

Let's Hope They Cook Better Than They Spell

Let's Go Diner is finally open, and Wicker Park has a new, independently owned diner. Or, is it a restaurant? The banner declares it both.

Grammar, and spelling snobbery/snafus aside, at least it's not another Jimmy John's, which also recently opened on Milwaukee Avenue, about one block north of Let's Go. There is another Jimmy John's nearby on Division, too, but there is not another Let's Go Diner anywhere else but at 1393 N. Milwaukee Ave.

I've walked past Let's Go for two years, and was told by its owner, Angel, that it took longer than expected to get up and running due to lots of back and forth with the city code people. Two years seems like a long time, though, and it makes me sad thinking about all the "stake" and eggs that must be sold to make up for the rent that still had to be paid to have the space secured.

Angel worked as a cook at two north side diners for over a decade before deciding to open his own spot. His niece, Carmela, is helping out, along with other family members.

When asked about the name, Angel informed me that he had really wanted a different name, something with Amigos in it, but those had already been taken. He, and a business partner were brainstorming, and he cannot recall who, but at some point someone said, "Hey, Let's Go!" and that phrase just kind of stuck.

So, that's the story of the Let's Go Diner. May it have much success, and last at least two years since it waited that long to open.

Pizza Hut Protest

Pizza Hut Workers Protest Layoffs

Current, and former employees from Pizza Huts as far as Elgin gathered in West Bucktown today to protest recent layoffs, affecting an estimated 100 Latino workers, primarily those with the most seniority at the chain, which is part of the Texas based Yum Brands corporation. Chants of "Si, se puede," or "Yes, we can!" (I think) filled the air as protestors passed out flyers encouraging the public to call Pizza Hut President Scott Bergren, and "Tell him that Pizza Hut should stop firing its long-time immigrant employees and return those it has already fired back to work."

According to organizer Leone Jose Bicchieri, of the Chicago Workers Collaborative, the impetus for the firings were Social Security "No Match" letters sent to Pizza Hut franchisees requiring them to correct mismatched SSNs, and to update name, and address information for affected employees. Per the National Immigration Law Center, the only obligation of an employer upon receipt of an SSA "No Match" letter is to notify its employee for the purpose of obtaining the correct information. In this case, however, employees were released from their positions, many after decades of service. Pictured here are five employees of an Elgin Pizza Hut with over 40 years of combined experience. The women received letters last week notifying them that they would be terminated on account of the "No Match" letters.

Leonardo, a worker from a Melrose Park Pizza Hut, was recently let go, along with his wife. Both worked in the kitchen for 10 years, and were replaced by younger, and cheaper workers. Per Leonardo, he suspects that it is easier because Pizza Hut will not have to pay the new workers vacation hours, and they will work 32 hours per week vs. 40.

Sources: Leone Jose Bicchieri, Chicago Workers Collaborative, 773-655-0815, leonejb@prodigy.net

Per the flyer (sorry, no scanner), call Pizza Hut President, Scott Bergren, at 972-338-7700.

I Believe I Can Fly (Vicariously)

The Walk Home

Jared, I'm Yours, But Not Sure For How Much Longer

Dear Jared,

I hope this note finds you well! I truly do, and I also hope that you believe me with all of your heart when I say that I am rooting for you- always!

There is a yellowed horoscope that I clipped from the newspaper years ago, shortly after we lost all that weight together, you eating a six inch turkey with no cheese or condiments for eleven months, and me doing the exact same thing, except without the celebrity and role model to our nation’s obese tweens status that you’ve achieved as I’ve stayed in the same place, eating the same food, and getting larger, and larger because I top my six inch turkey off with exactly one half of a California Pizza Kitchen Margarita pizza, and two packages of Nutter Butters.

If you must know, Jared, I always save the other half of the CPK pizza for you, just like the Jewish people that eat unleavened flatbreads at Passover, and set a place setting for the prophet Elijah whom is also too good to show his mug at the dinner table.

Yikes, I’m SO sorry for being SO snotty, and it’s not you—really-it’s ME! I’m just not my usual peppy self lately and I’m tired from not moving my body anywhere in particular for days, which have turned into weeks since my unfortunate unemployment that I wrote to you about last month, but which I don’t recall you having ever responded to my letter. It’s possible you did, there are days I cannot muster the strength to open my mailbox overflowing with final notice bills, save –the-date cards, and local coupon mailers that Subway never seems to advertise in, which is both a bitch, and a darned sock hole shame.

But, I digress. Now that I’ve been released from my data entry-sales duties, and on a fixed-income, I’ve been paying closer attention to my budgeting. It was not cheap to tuck three-dozen of my pre-driven unmentionables into an envelope, take the bus to China Town to get a new package of Hello Kitty stickers so I could decorate it just how I bet you like it, and then rub it between my thighs for good luck before sending the very private package off via priority mail to Subway headquarters, which I am not even sure if you are affiliated with these days.

Though I cannot speak for what’s happening inside other Subways, the one I visit has removed the cardboard cutout of you with your outstretched arm proudly holding your pants, in celebration of 10 years of keeping the weight off- our weight off. Your face and body with the buttoned up shirt buttoned to the last button with just a hint of chest hair showing is now replaced with what the marketing Devils at Subway corporate figured was the next best thing, which is window decals of an African American male named Tony Parker, whom I’m guessing is some sort of professional basketball player.

Tony looks nothing like you. I suppose his mulatto skin like a coffee coolatta is more like that of our new President who just passed a stimulus that adds an extra $25 to each of my weekly unemployment checks, an amount that can buy me five extra foot-longs each month IF I do my budgeting right, so yes, I am VERY grateful to President Obama, and I’m sure over time I might warm to Tony Parker, to, but he simply IS-NOT-YOU.

Speaking of you, are you honestly and completely 100% A-OK? I have my sources, it is a Saran-wrapped gloved pockmarked trainee who says “uh huh” after each ingredient I order on my sub, which can get annoying as we go down the line together and I order ALL toppings because I’ve said to hell with my rapidly increasing weight, my Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and yes, even my damn hula hoop that I was practicing with in anticipation for a day when we would be naked together.

My source and I are no longer sure if that day will come when you and I will be together forever, and ever. I have yet to confirm our suspicion with my therapist because I can no longer afford to visit her, but it doesn’t take an oat bran surgeon to know that the Chicken Florentine has been discontinued, and the economy is so bad that not everyone can afford Subway, and even people like myself have started selling their plasma to buy Subway, cutting out stuff like instant grits, and choosing between dish soap and body-wash, but not both, never both!

Do you think that I do not know that you’ve stopped touring, too?

I’m sorry! I should not be making you feel bad, or worse, not now, when times might be difficult for both of us, toughing it out in our separate silos. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I did meet a fine gentleman at the unemployment office, and he grew up in Indianapolis. He told me that he went back home to pawn his father’s flat screen television & he ran into you at a bar, and that when you walked into the bar he shouted, “Hey! It’s Jared Fogel the Subway Guy. How are you?”

This gentleman told me that your reply to him was, “I’d be a lot better if you bought me a drink.”

Really, Jared, how pompous, and rude is that? When I heard this information from this gentleman—whom I believe is trustworthy, he too was released from his duties in a similar fashion as I was—my heart near felled to the floor right there in the office, and later when I was home, and felt comfortable enough to sob while watching Antiques Roadshow to try and distract myself from you my heat felled again and rolled around in all the cat litter and bread crumbs I never seem to have the energy to clean up these days.

I have faith, though, faith that maybe you too were having a bad day, and that you are not a pretty boy celebrity accustomed to everyone under the sun buying you drinks whenever you damn well please. My horoscope Scotch taped to my refrigerator next to my Pet Poison Hotline magnet says, “When you believe in someone, do it all the way. Relationships thrive when there is not an ounce of doubt in your heart, or a critical word on your lips. Stand proudly behind your love.”

I am proud, Jared. Are you?

Yours Always, but Not Sure For How Much Longer,
Aly Louise Hensler

Adventures in Cat-sitting

On a whim, my downstairs neighbors decided to get away, and flee to their ancestral suburban homes for a week, somewhere out east. Without going into much detail, they're both young, recent graduates, and a talented couple, talented in the way that doesn't make any money these days, writing, photography, design, blah, blah. Translation: Underemployed. One does freelance design, the other is a dog walker.

I keep my distance from them, and vice versa, which is the best for way neighbors to be, yet it's nice to know that if I need someone to watch Koji they are only a few steps away, and I am usually around to watch their cat, too.

Koji could be tearing out S's entrails right now, and I wouldn't know it. I'm upstairs, and enjoying the silence, well it's not actually silent, I'm listening to Cameron McGill. It's nice to not have a cat swiping at your fingers when you're trying to type, or laying in front of the computer screeen, and covering half of it.

I hope they are getting along. When I had taken the garbage out earlier, Koji had, as usual, followed me into the hallway. On the way back up I was going to look in on S. Koji, still in the hallway, followed me into my neighbor's apartment like he owned the place, in fact he even nudged in ahead of me, and got the party started.

Here are a few pics from the morning play session. I didn't take a shot of Koji trying to wolf down S's dry food, but he attempted to do that. After I shooed him away, he gave S. a "look," then wandered over to the windowsill.

A walk in the neighborhood