The Intern

For three months I patiently and appreciatively interned at a public relations firm that specialized in generating publicity for a laundry list of clients. I spent my weekdays in an office nestled high above Michigan avenue along Chicago's Magnificent Mile often swiveling freely and procrastinating like a god-damned professional. Sound glamorous? It was at times, but then again I imagine garbage men have their days. I mean, think about it; they work outside, they hang off the back of heavy machinery and they have first dibs on others' slightly used treasures. After all, I'm sure that at least once in the history of garbage collecting a sanitization engineer has found a copy of someone's near-vintage Neil Diamond 1969 release of Touching You, Touching Me and added it to their own album collection, ya' know?! Hold up, I digress.

The fact of the matter is that I am not a garbage man. For three frosty months, I was found working "hard"- indoors, not at the stern of a WCV. More importantly, I was working for free, for free man. Let's put some perspective on this, shall we? When I took on this engagement, we were four days away from the discovery of Crouching Tiger's Hidden Dragon. (Something tells me Woods will come out on top before I do.)

Put simply, I was growing tired of the fact that it had been far too long since a decent buck had come my way. Instead of encountering the ever-rewarding fountain-o-knowledge associated with being an intern, I began to feel interned- 'restricted or confined within prescribed limits.' The possibility for employment seemed to be slipping out of reach. I could not fathom how risk was going to meet reward despite the fact that someone once told me outright "you've got to risk it to get the biscuit." I didn't know what to do, but I knew something clearly had to be done.

Has the suspense led you to anxiously tap tap your fingers at your desk or perhaps bob your knee? I didn't think so...

One month ago today, I graciously walked out on my public relations internship. I say graciously as I chose not to partake in a free lunch that day.

Q: How do I feel now that I have had thirty days to gather my thoughts?

A: I feel stupendous.

I feel stupendous for several reasons. Physically, I feel rejuvenated. Not working a 9 to 5 allows ample time for one to catch up on lost beauty sleep. Mentally, I feel re-focused. Once again I have realized what I must accomplish in order to encounter my definition of success. In short, I have remembered why I began this blog in the first place- to explore this tremendous city in an extravagant fashion and to have a little fun doing it.

Sorry I've been away for a while. I'll be sure to report promptly the next time I quit something.

Great Expectations

Rarely in life are expectations matched with the substantial actualities of reality. This is a fact. More often than not, experiences fail to meet expectations or they exceed them entirely. No matter which way you dissect this truth you are certain to deduce one common principle: it is for the best. If every possible expectation was met with precisely what was anticipated, feelings of shock and surprise would be obsolete. On the flip-side of this coin you will encounter letdowns and feelings of disappointment, but these too can be good things. After all, letdowns and disappointments provide education so that behavior may be properly corrected. Don't think of it as being disenchanted, but rather enlightened.

Understandably, you may expect that I, myself, had a few great expectations of my own when I relocated from Columbia, Missouri- population of just over 100 thousand- to this city which shelters nearly 3 million inhabitants. Before we delve too deeply into philosophies which few are to understand, myself included, I would like to share two occurances which blew my expectations out of the frickin' water.

Occurance number one: Whole Foods Market, 1550 North Kingsbury Street

Before I begin, you must first try and wrap your mind around the magnitude of this grocery. The Whole Foods of Lincoln Park is the third largest in the world. The site encompasses 75,000 square feet and houses a parking garage that boasts some 400 parking spaces. My God man, this place is a culinarian's Disney World. It makes a Costco or Sams Club look like your grandparent's pantry.

I first traveled to this particular Whole Foods Market weeks ago. I, accompanied by my friends Danny and Tyrone, voyaged there for your average, everyday lunch break. There was nothing average or ordinary about this trip, it was a trip. We entered from the second story. Escalators guided us down to a produce department that was so beautiful I remember asking myself, "What is this place?" To the right, a full service bar doling out glasses of wine and pints of Belgian beer. After navagating many aisles, a seafood department which made me contemplate moving to somewhere a bit more tropical and a second wine bar, we had reached our destination- the delicatessen. Only this was no deli. It better resembled a gathering of restaurants. On that day I feasted on some of the best brisket, collard greens and mac & cheese I have ever come across.

Since my initial excursion to that Whole Foods Market, Allison and I have returned for what can only be described as a date. We sampled Kumamoto oysters from Japan. Together, our palates traveled to South America and Western Europe as we sampled a flight that included Chilean and Argentinian wines and cheeses from Spain.

I could have never expected a grocery to be like this.

Occurance number two: The Violet Hour, 1520 North Damen Avenue

The Violet Hour is nothing short of a spectacle. This establishment's creed says it all:

"This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow again and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen magically along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn." - Bernard DeVoto "The Hour"

With an unmarked, unpolished exterior, you arrive with the thought that it may be in your best interest to depart instantaneously. Uncertain that you are in fact where you should be, you open the door only to be blinded by a single massive violet curtain. You brush it aside- a second massive violet curtain. Now intrigued beyond belief you confidently remove this second curtain from your path. As your eyes wonder in amazement, it hits you. Without question you are where you belong.

Set in speakeasy style, the Violet Hour makes all who visit feel truly welcomed. Each chamber exudes personality. No bartenders are employed here, instead mixologists demonstrate their craft. Everything from the seat backs to the light bulbs to the glassware intoxicate you- and then there are the cocktails. Cucumber, house-made tonic, lavender syrup, Rose water, St. Germain and Yellow Chartreuse were but a few of the unique ingredients that accompanied the gin, vodka and tequila that graced our table. I experienced the Violet Hour for myself less than twenty-four hours ago and I anticipate that I will return very shortly.

I most certainly could have never expected a bar to be like this.

A Word of Advice

The next time you find yourself perambulating about downtown Chicago, specifically the North Loop, do your best to avoid the intrusive individual brandishing a 'ShamWow' and a rather questionable bottle of Kiwi Instant Wax Shine. Unfortunately, if for some reason your efforts of avoidance are futile, the following scenario may ensue:

The man in question may first catch your attention by offering you the most generous of compliments.

"Hey you, yeah you," he'll say, causing you to remove a headphone bud from your ear (big mistake). "Outta' er'body I see walkin' around down here, you gotta' be one of the worst."

At first, you will want to surrender to your instincts and take offense. It will be in hindsight that you will realize it was the moment you turned to confront this assertive salesman of the street that you crossed the threshold into the point of no return. Unknowingly, you have just opened a window of opportunity.

"Excuse me," you'll implore, sporting a sour face. It will be then that you will catch his eye and he will reveal his intentions. While simultaneously gazing down at your feet he will unveil the previously mentioned leather polish and chamois.

"Ah, shit," you will pantomime.

Uninvitedly, he will continue: "It's your shoes. You see, I'm out here on the streets for people like you who don't have time to sit in the chair."

After admitting your lack of interest in his services, he will surely continue to pry. He knew what was coming, it is your deficient attentiveness that he understands- I mean how many people that he interacts with really want to be hassled for a shining? This is where he goes to work and showcases a set of skills that makes you think you are witnessing a deleted scene from Glengarry Glen Ross.

"Oh it's all good man, I see that you're busy," he will persist. "Here, just let me show you what I use in case you want to shine 'em yourself sometime soon."

Lunging towards you he will apply the Kiwi to your right Ecco. Standing on a street corner outside of a 7-Eleven you will suddenly realize that you are being held captive, against your will, bounded by the cloth of a chamois over your right foot.

The hustler at your heels may then arrogantly taunt you by saying, "I bet you double or nothing the price of this shine that I can guess how many children your dad had just by looking at your two shoes."

With no time allocated for a response he will answer, "NONE, your momma' had all the kids!"

You at this point are clearly annoyed. You will be irate when the man, straight-faced, asks you for eight bucks for the shine.

"But I only have two," you will fire back.

"There's an ATM in that 7-Eleven right there."

"You're not serious," you ask as you look up to find his crew of con artists have creeped around the corner. "You are serious."

"Fuck 7-Eleven," you'll savagely say as you enter the convenience store.

Ho Ho Ho-ly Hell The Holidays Are Over.

It is a widespread and agreed upon relief that the holiday season is over, is it not?


I want to go on record and state that I did have an extraordinary time over the past few weeks. It was brilliant to gather with friends whom, for the most part, I have not seen since the hot hot heat of summer, and others whom I have not seen for a more extended period of time. I thoroughly enjoyed getting my hands on delicacies that simply cannot be found in this city of mine; hot wings from Big A's and Lion's Choice roast beef sandwiches are just a few of the tasty-treats that made their way into my belly. Overall, the holiday/birthday season started off quite well. To be honest, it was quite a memorable experience committing myself to nights that I cannot remember.


Unfortunately, you've got to come down sometime. Case in point: New Year's Eve 2009.


Many of my peers around the office in which I work, myself included, have adopted a common NYE philosophy. Do not put it on a pedestal. The only way to tame this colossus of nights is to refrain from hype. Afterall, by allotting less hype, you claim less of a chance for disappointment as well. It's a fool-proof system. For me, expectations were set at an all-time low and it pains me to disclose that on that night, reality matched apprehensions.

No one wants to start the new year, or new decade for that matter, by shlepping glasses of champagne to the amateur diner who crawls out from their shanty on one of two nights a year, December 31st and February 14th. Alas, this was my fate. Spending a new years waiting on strangers in a restaurant that isn't as crowded as it should be on a day of such magnitude really has an effective way of taking the pep out of a man's step.
Another pitfall of the evening was that as the night slowly drew to a close, management informed the staff that an extensive amount of furniture was to be moved/rearranged before anyone could vacate the premesis. It was their belief that the restaurant and adjacent hotel needed to look its best at the arrival of 2010, regardless of the fact that 80% of the city was intoxicated beyond comprehension and no one would cross into this threshold of hell during the course of the following day. Still, rules are rules and from midnight to 1a.m. on new years day I enjoyed hoisting the heaviest of couches, tables and chairs to and fro the most miserable of stairwells.
However, the icing on this cake-o-shit is the fact that my manager, for reasons unknown, gave my girlfriend the boot with ten minutes to spare in 2009. She, arriving in the highest of spirits, left in the loneliest of moods. Whatever minuscule amount of respect I had for the guy diminished there on the spot. Suffice to say, Allison will never step foot in my place of employment, that one at least, ever again.*

That was New Years Eve 2009, one for the record books to say the least. The beginning of the end seemed so great; the end of the end-ugh.

I'm glad that the official "holiday season" is over. After all, now that it's over, I am better abled to focus on a different holiday season that is more dear to my heart. A holiday season that includes such greats as the 16th of February, the 17th of March and finally, a favorite of mine, the 5th of May.

*A subsequent apology was issued, one in which I cannot question the validity of its sincerity, and respect was rightfully restored. Though a part of me would like to remove this posting, I simply cannot; to do so would negate the fact that this incident did in fact transpire.

I Don't Mean To Go Off On A Rant Here...

In my experiences over the past five months, I have found that Chicago is an incredible city and the ideal inhabitancy for my own particular disposition. I thouroughly enjoy the elation of living in a bustling metropolis. Only in a city of Chicago's magnitude can a resident fulfill their desire for Vietnamese cuisine, have their hair attended to by an Italian barber and pop-in at a Mexican grocery to obtain a weeks supply of carnitas and tamales- pivotal components to a proper diet (consult the food pyramid)- all on the same block. Whether it is the diversity or out of necessity, this city has been maticulously designed for the lazy and the picky, two characteristics that define my existence.

However, Chicago's strengths can often double as weaknesses. Take for example Chicago's mass-transit system.

The trains, buses and cabs all operate for one simple purpose- to take you where you need to go. They are in business to make our lives easier. For this reason I am grateful to have a system like this in place. It is a convenience to not be required to own and operate a motor vehicle, it is a delight to have reliable transportation during unreliable weather and is it a god-damned thing of beauty to have a cab waiting for you as you exit/stumble from a bar. Unfortunately, it is when the system complicates matters and fails to keep me happy that I question its convenience.

Briefly, this is what annoys me most about the mass-transit system:

I cannot understand the people who pay over two dollars to take the bus less than three blocks. This is incredible. My own personal research has found that the bus is the preferred method of travel by Chicago's overly-obese population. Not only should the overweight be required to walk to and from the grocery store to obtain their Snickers bars, they should have to take it one step further (literally) and walk a lap or two. Try strolling around without a purpose or destination, it's been known to happen. Take it slow for now, we'll talk jogging later.

When people eat on the train, why is it always McDonalds? I'm already trying to ignore the stench of the homeless guy eight rows up, I don't need your whatever-piece McNugget meal thrown into the mix.

If an Ethiopian cabbie ever tries to explain to me the proper method for hailing a cab and then scoffs at the tip he receives ever again, I am worried that my reaction may warrant handcuffs. You pulled over when I flagged you down, did you not? You benefited monitarily from my travel, did you not? You were the one that initiated the verbal assualt, I just decided to finish it.

Those are my complaints, for now. How therapeutic.

The Thanksgiving

The game has drastically changed. The other week, with no bluff required, I confidently decided to go all-in. Since my last blog posting the ante has officially been upped.

The interview that transpired on the eighth floor of a highrise along East Ontario Street apparently faired me well. I boldly and definitively say this because, as it happens to be, I write this particular posting from the comfort of my very own cubicle. I cannot begin to express how fulfilled this internship opportunity makes me feel. Although I will be taking on several important tasks and putting in many hours staring at the cubicle walls around me, I have peace of mind. I am at ease because I realize that much like the views of the Chicago cityscape outside these office windows, my future is equally attractive. I cannot complain. The work is rewarding, the clients are interesting and the lunch is free-that's one hell of a hat trick.

I look forward to other opportunities that this internship may bring. Everyday that I take the train downtown I know that things are looking up.

As for now it is time to jet. In honor of the short workday, I have decided to cut this posting short as well.

You gotta' love the corporate pre-holliday half-days.

The Transplant Makes His Move: Part Deux

Within the past hour I have checked my gmail account nearly 100 times.

Now ask me why.

I am looking for what nearly nine and a half percent of the population of the United States are looking for. I am hoping to find, boldly displayed in my inbox, an e-mail which reads, "Congratulations. You're Hired!" Only a notice of such magnitude could motivate a man like me to check his e-mail account at such an alarming rate. I am not wasting my time. I should note that unlike most unemployed Americans, I could potentially receive an e-mail much like the one previously mentioned.

Yesterday, around 1p.m., I took the Red Line south into the heart of the city. On the eighth floor of a high-rise somewhere along East Ontario Street I put my future on the line. Yesterday, November 10, 2009, I sat down to my first career-minded interview. I attended this absurdly important consultation in hopes of becoming the newest intern at a certain boutique public relations firm. Donning a sharply pressed shirt and sweaty palms, I fired off the answers to all the usual questions. At the time of the interview, I did not realize the significance of the situation. While I sat in an unfamiliar surrounding, I failed to grasp the fact that this could finally provide entrance to the real-world. As I collected my thoughts and carefully mapped out the direction of my responses, I did not comprehend where this process could take me. It's only now while looking back on the ordeal that I realize I did well. Whew.

Though the internship opportunity may go to someone else, I am thankful to have gotten that first oh-so-important interview under my belt. The excitement of the interview has rejuvenated my ambitions. It has reminded me why I, along with my loving, intelligent, dedicated, funny and beautiful girlfriend (and our lazy, clumsy, crack-head-of-a-Neapolitan Mastiff) moved to Chicago in the first place.* We three moved to the Third Coast to begin the rest of our lives. If I actually performed half as well as I thought I had at that office on the eighth floor of a high-rise along East Ontario Street then it can be ascertained that the rest of our lives will be fulfilling, adventurous.

As for now I must complete this blog posting. After all, I need to check my gmail account for the 101st time.

*Actually, our lazy, clumsy, crack-head-of-a-Neapolitan Mastiff just came along for the ride. He's easygoing like that.