Chicago Sucks
Let me count the ways
with Lorinda Birdwhistle
Yep, Chicago still sucks. And now there is that idiotic Trump International Hotel, the one and only piece of prominent architecture on the Chicago River that has a name on it — in a massive serif font on what one might call a sans serif building. What a fucking narcissist.
Yes, this building is, admittedly, spectacular, and was designed by renowned stud muffin architect, Adrian Smith, but the Trump name — OMG, it ruins everything it touches, visually and otherwise. I wouldn’t stay, live, shop, fuck, gamble, trade bitcoins, or cook a pot roast in that building. OK, maybe I’d take a dump there. Hey! Guess what? I did take a dump there! 😂 And it felt great. You should try it.
In addition to pooping at 401 N. Wabash, I think it might be fun to dress up as a person of color and see how Don’s gabacho doormen handle the situation, especially in a town that’s 29% Hispanic, 29% Black, 7% Asian, and 36% White. I have to give Chicago this: not many MAGAs settle down here, not with those demographics, though lots of them unwittingly visit as tourists. When they do, many find their world perspective doesn’t jive with the locals, and they have to change up their wardrobe, namely ditching their red MAGA caps.
It had been 23 years since I’d returned to the Midwest, and you know what? There’s a reason I left. And that reason would be CHICAGO. The Windbag City. I had forgotten how much I despise the place, which I sadly called home for nearly 18 years. And damn if I didn’t drag Jesse along for the ride. Poor guy.
Things started off great at Sacramento International. Nice people checking our bags, chill TSA agents — true Californians. I don’t think any of the passengers heading into the security checkpoint saw selective enforcement going on — you know, like when TSA agents decide to pick on a specific group of people just for the sport of it. Kind of like this… Monday, let’s frisk all the Costa Ricans; on Tuesday, we’ll take down the folks with toddlers and right in front of their kids. Wednesdays are perfect for dykes and women over 60 — lots of titanium joints to scrutinize. Thursday, it’s anyone in flip-flops. You get the idea.
Our flight was right on time, and we had seats in first class, thanks to Jesse having over 1.3 million points on his Home Depot card. Woo-hoo, non-stop champagne service with warm nuts and pretzels. Everyone else (in coach) got corn nuts, a snack that likely caused many to schedule a post-flight trip to the dentist to repair their now-cracked crowns.
Jesse and I don’t drink champagne or any other kind of alcohol, so we settled on some sparkling water with a slice of lime, and cleaned out all the premium snacks they had stashed up front, this while our flirty MAGA stewardess with fake tits not-so-discreetly put back our champagne allocation. We also snarfed down the six bananas we’d purchased at the Pakistani fruit hut with a thatched roof in Terminal 3. They were a bit mushy after being in a crowded overhead compartment through two hours of turbulence, but hey, now we had plenty of potassium.
Jesse, who ate five of the bananas, seemed to be experiencing symptoms of potassium overload, namely muscle weakknees and fatigue. And yes, I spelled weakness wrong on porpoise, so shut your pie hole. Potassium overload also explains Jesse’s falling into a comatose state in the fully upright position. When dinner came around at 2:00 a.m. (yep, a first-class red eye), he slept right through it. I ordered the chicken Alfredo on his behalf, and also ate it on his behalf, along with my Cobb salad and both of our bourbon banana puddings. If I never see another banana, it will be too soon.
Then I fell asleep, until BOOM (!)… our landing gear hit the ground. Following were screeching wheels on the grooved pavement of the runway and then that unsettling deceleration force that makes clear why you were instructed to put up your tray table — so you don’t decapitate yourself. All of this chaos was competing with the cloying voice of our male flight attendant, who announced cheerfully that we were slightly ahead of schedule, wasn’t that great, though there was a slight snag with our luggage. It was still in Anchorage, Alaska. Anchorage? What the hell? Not to worry, he assured us, as the airline would promptly ship all suitcases directly to our homes at no charge and everyone who had checked bags would receive a $750 prepaid credit card when they exited, which was intended to cover any needed incidentals. Sadly, we had checked all our bags, including our provocative his-and-hers CPAP machines. All of this meant we’d be starting off our vacation at Walgreens and some to-be-determined durable medical equipment store. Well, there’s a vacation day we’ll never get back.
After the landing, we queued up for our rental car at Enterprise. Polly, our service agent, was thrilled to offer us an upgrade, as they were completely out of CR-Vs, our preferred car. Let’s see what I have, she said. So cool, she exclaimed, there was a Dodge Charger in Destroyer Gray and she could offer it to us at the CR-V rate, though it was normally $105 more per day. How could we resist? Easily, I suggested.
As if the week weren’t bad enough, what with our democracy in complete collapse, I was not going to have us spending our vacation in a MAGA mobile. OMG, no. For one second, Jesse got excited at the thought of driving a muscle car. He shot his hand right out there, ready to grab those Charger keys. But then he noticed my expression of disgust, and quickly retracted said hand.
I told Polly I’d rather slit my wrists than be seen in that car. Did they, perhaps, have an economy car instead? Just about anything other than a Charger would be great, even a deathtrap Chevy Corvair, which I am well aware they quit making in 1969. Polly, was a bit shocked by my overstated irritation (a symptom of my hyperthyroidism), but did her darnedest to respond calmly and quickly, bless her heart. There it was — a Kia Soul. Perfect. It just needed a quick bit of detailing, and then it would be ready to go.
Twenty minutes later, our Kia pulled up, still dripping. The car looked as if it could handle the weight of two medium-sized people, but that luggage might strain the suspension. Oh yeah! We had no luggage. We were gold. Polly proudly handed us two sets of keys, and then we soared off into the skyscraper-studded smog. Adding to our driving pleasure was a massive gaper’s block that stretched on for miles, and a car interior that reeked of weed. All I cared about: we weren’t driving a Charger.
Forty-five minutes later, we exited onto the Ohio Street ramp, just minutes from our hotel in River North. I had not been to Chicago for 23 years, but I was still the expert between the two of us, as Jesse had only been to Chicago once, and that was as a toddler. I’d lived there for 18 years as an adult. Though I warned him we were no longer in Kansas, let me call the shots, Jesse insisted on taking the lead on where to go and what to do. I’m guessing he’d been hugely emasculated by the downgraded car and really needed an ego boost. I’d never seen him like this — driving like a madman and muttering, “What I have to put up with,” as he white knuckled his way through rush hour traffic.
This 👆 is what Chicago does to people.
It was clear that River North, all these years later, was exactly as it had always been — rich suburban kids residing in posh high-rise apartments with security guards and doormen, co-existing with panhandlers and drug addicts and their well-rehearsed schticks. These crustaceans tucked themselves into the doorways of every empty business establishment in the neighborhood.
I recognized their lot. These were professional fingersmiths, and each had a specialty. If one of them couldn’t convince you to part with your wallet, another one was bringing up the rear with a second variation on buddy, can you spare a dime? After three or four tries, the lot of them would invariably converge on their victim like a pack of coyotes, and someone, not them, was going to get hurt. I knew these people well, and I knew how to handle their sorry asses. Jesse was going to see me turn into Super Bitch.
This I knew: they would not be taking his wallet.
But did Jesse take my advice when I said to go straight to the hotel and hand the car off to the valet? No, he did not. Yes, valet parking was an additional $6 per day, but anyone from Chi-town knew that was the thing to do and well worth the additional cost. Suddenly, Jesse spotted a parking space, right around the corner from our hotel entrance. “Karma!” he declared, as if he’d just won the fucking lottery. I rolled my eyes and surveyed our surroundings. This was not karma, and no one had won the lottery. Only tourists were stupid enough to park on this street. There were open spaces because all the cars with out-of-state plates had been stolen.
Immediately, four sharks began circling our Kia rental, which, fuck me, had Missouri plates — I just remembered. Chicagoans consider Missourians to be hicks with no clue what to do in a big city. And true that was, based on my four years of living in St. Louis. But we were from the San Fran Bay Area, Jesse pointed out. No shit, Sherlock. We were still the perfect targets for this ensemble.
Our friends on the street even had a pickpocketing pimp, who was watching us in the rearview mirror of his Lincoln, which was parked right in front of us. He was casually enjoying a stogie, his girlfriend chillaxing in the backseat, her left hand with impossibly long gel nails in lime green, gracefully cradling a menthol Newport. When I pointed the scenario out to Jesse, he was dismissive — let’s just get out and walk straight to the hotel, he said, it’s less than a block away. What could go wrong? It was so close. Lordy, lordy.
The minute he exited the car, and before I had even come around to the sidewalk to meet him, Jesse was surrounded, though the three men in the menacing semi-circle were keeping their distance, as they had already intuited I was fearless and they could see I was not a small woman. Damn straight on the fearless part, you fuckers. That’s what happens when you’ve been married to a sociopath for 18 years and have two kids. You get tough as nails. I gave the lot of them the evil eye. Did I have a weapon — they were trying to ascertain? Oh yes, I did, I glared back. Keep in mind, no words were spoken.
I inserted myself between Jesse and the main pickpocket and ordered him to back the fuck off and leave my father alone, though as you all know, Jesse is not my father. They were shocked — the white chick in a neatly pressed linen dress with her gray hair in a bun — she sounded like a street thug. WTF. I took a step forward in my grossly unflattering men’s Keen shoes, and the message was received: do not fuck with me. I’m no lady. As if challenging the alpha thug, I stared him down, as I bossily instructed Jesse to put his wallet in the front pocket of his cargo pants, zip it up, and start videotaping these fuckers. Stream it on Facebook, I barked. Jesse had no idea how to do any of this, but did a convincing job of pretending he did.
Our friends immediately backed off, acting upset, as if my harsh words had hurt their feelings. One suggested we didn’t have the right to videotape them. Well, there you go. They knew their rights. Call the ACLU. They were just welcoming us to the neighborhood, they said. Then they backed off, giving me a wide berth. I motioned for my “father” to start walking, and asked if he needed me to grab his cane from the back of the car. Jesse laughed, then made a beeline for the hotel entrance. Before turning the corner, I spun around and told the three tenors to sing their aria on the far corner and keep their sorry asses away from my vehicle. The potty-mouth granny with hyperthyroidism routine proved effective. Off they sauntered to the northwest corner a block down. Note to self: use that schtick again.
Pimp guy sat in his car, chuckling. He’d watched the whole thing go down. So I turned toward him and blew a kiss. He didn’t much like that. Off I went to the hotel, where I handed the valet $20 and my keys, then explained my car was around the corner. And that was that. Up we went to our room to freshen up and take a nap.
Yep, I’m crazy, but it’s why I’m still alive after living 13 years on the south side of this town.
Post nap, it was time to get our pills, have lunch, and find some clothes. The Walgreen’s entrance, the concierge at our hotel explained, was on Lower Wacker Drive, a stretch of underground road famous for its poor lighting, lack of oxygen, muggings, drag races, and its STENCH — namely the noxious smells of urine co-mingling with the aroma of overcooked cheeseburgers emanating from the Billy Goat Tavern (the inspiration for “The Olympia Restaurant” in the legendary 1978 SNL “cheeseburger, cheeseburger” skit). We had 15 prescriptions to fill between the two of us, so we took a deep breath, held it, then descended the steps from Hubbard Street to Lower Wacker. Following our lunch, yes, at the Billy Goat, (where we downed handfuls of pills with Pepsi, of course, as it’s all they had), we headed out to look for new togs.
I suggested that perhaps we combine sightseeing with finding clothes, since I fucking hate to shop. You know, kill two birds with one stone. Jesse loved the idea. The Field Museum is renowned for its dinosaur swag, and right next to it are the Shedd Aquarium and Adler Planetarium. Between these three cultural institutions, we’d have our wardrobe for the week buttoned up in no time. The only snag would be the black-tie dinner (not optional) for Jesse’s family reunion, which was going to be at the St. Regis. No problem! I thought of a way for us to get in: disguise ourselves as waitstaff.
There was no way the airline’s $750 was going to cover new formal wear and the CPAP machines, so we decided to purchase only one CPAP machine, which we’d share (trading off on alternate nights), and then some cheap black work clothes. Our funds could easily cover long-sleeve poly-cotton button-down shirts, Dickies work pants, black faux-leather utility shoes, and a bistro apron. We’d slip in through the employee entrance, put on aprons in the staff locker room, and then pass hors d’oeuvres for an hour. After ushering guests to their seats, we’d lose the aprons and take our seats next to the relatives from the Czech Republic who had no clue what was appropriate or inappropriate attire for these sorts of things. Fucking bingo.
And, if we ran short on funds later in the trip, we could pull this stunt again at some random wedding at a random hotel on the Gold Coast.
More on Chicago tomorrow. We’ve had enough excitement for the day. This I already know after only 8 hours in the Windy City: I will not be coming back.
Poor you!
😆😆😆