The Bros Ceremony

As much of the country braves the continuing cold and snow, this past weekend many hearts were warmed by the happiest, lovey doviest, most cuddly date of all - February 14th, Valentine's Day. That is, of course, if they weren't spending it with their emotions on a seemingly never ending Giant Drop of lonely sadness.

To this I say, "shake it off, towel -- you'll be alright." To copy with my single status in life, I spent most of Valentine's daydreaming (see what I did there?) about the perfect date. I went over the main criteria: face, smarts, family, booty, and monaaaay. What's that? How dare you call me Kiddy Pool Shallow Jones! We all do it! .... But anyway, the thinking led me to an interesting place.

I eventually found myself in a "The Bachelor" type scenario, with the final two contestants squaring off. I thought to myself, who in the world would I want to spend the rest of my days with? It was obvious: Will Smith or Larry David.

WWF: St. Valentine's Day Massacre 1998

On the one hand, you have a strong black man whose perennial box office championships come as the result of being charming, witty, and oh-so-mean to Carlton. On the other, you have the embodiment of everything that has ever been considered hilarious, donned in beige slacks, a uni-colored V Neck sweater, and a white undershirt. Both of them are very hard to say no to.

As the daydream continued, I immersed myself further into the world of a potential playoff, at the end of which one of them would be crowned my soul mate. In the interest of the few women reading this - yes, I have absolutely stolen this format from all of your favorite dating shows, but no, I will not give my contestants street walker nicknames.

It's basically Blacker Vance versus the Bald Buster.

For Prince, my daydream carried on as such. We went to a Philly Cheesesteak place in his hometown, and he was initially treated like Norm walking into Cheers. (Anyone reading this, that kind of reception is a lifelong dream of mine, and if you wanted to make it a reality, you too could be on this shortlist). Anyway, as the dinner went on, and my vegetarianism gave way to a French meal where little potato sticks were fried just so, the owner of the establishment started giving Hancock a hard time. Turns out there was another man. One who apparently spun him around during the opening credits. Another man with whom he'd shared a dance? I can understand Kevin James -- who could resist that piece of work -- but this? I was about ready to head back to L.A. for the rose ceremony.

More like the King of Hearts

As the thought raced through my mind, something happened. In a classic Hitch move, Will told the owner that he only conversed with civilized people not on Burn Notice, defended my honor, and apologized for the embarrassing display. Along with introducing me to Uncle Phil and both Aunt Viv's, he had redeemed himself.

Alas, there was another contender in this race. Not to be outdone, Larry picked me up at my doorstep in his Prius, and proceeded to curse every schmohawk on the road who was getting in the way of our plans. His aggressive nature and poor manners were winning me over. Anyway, after the dinner, where he got into a staring contest with the waiter - to the tune of flute music - over the Cobb salad, we went to a mutual place of interest - the driving range. We laughed as one of the balls struck Funkhouser, went home and kicked it with Leon, and decided to call it an evening.

After hours of deliberation, and countless Netflix rentals, my daydream came to a conclusion. If I can't have both, I don't want either, and I decided to return back to my first television based love - Sloan.

So the next time you feel lonely and down, observe and replicate my thought process. If you wanted to leave a comment about who your ideal candidates would be, that would be dandy like valentines' candy.

Keep dreamin' kids,

Tapan Jones

p.s. On February 9th we celebrated the One Year Anniversary of The Chicago Sometimes. Thanks for reading guys, and here's to one..no that doesn't work..five? more!

Disingenuously Disenfranchised..?

Sure, having both your legs blown off comes with its fair share of disadvantages. The searing pain, the years of rehab, not being able to walk, who am I kidding? You know the drill. But you people aren't looking big picture here. You're not shifting paradigms, you're not filling up your water glasses, hell, I don't even see one lemon juicer in this entire room. Come on, haven't you guys ever seen Murderball? Didn't you learn anything from Radio?

YOU can do it!

We gotta look on the bright side here. You know, like they say, the grass is always greener on the other side. And I bet some of you think that's because the other side is the bright side, and it gets more sunlight. But then you'd be missing the point. The point is, I bet you guys are wishing you had some legs right now, and I can't blame ya. It's pretty nice. But I'll tell you what--and you won't believe this--I'm jealous of you. That's right, the able-bodied man who can drive the lane and throw down a two-handed slam with ease is envious of the guys in the wheelchairs who can probably only pull off roll-away jumpers. And I'll tell you why:

1. Sympathy.

No one feels worse than when they accidentally close the door on a guy in a wheelchair. You think anyone feels bad about forgetting to hold the door for me? Well think again. The wheelchair-bound have a monopoly on sympathy in this country, and you guys need to tap into that resource as quickly as possible. Play it up a little, put on a show for the people, but definitely don't go for war veteran or mentally handicapped. People don't like that.

2. People will think you're brave.

This one is similar to sympathy. You'll instantly get credit for being brave, even if you're really a coward. It's sort of like how the casual basketball fan might think Allen Iverson is still a great player because he's starting for the East in the All-Star game, when in reality he's washed-up and he's stealing a potential starting spot form DRose.

Even YOU can wear a pinky ring this large, because you still have arms.

3. A great excuse to be really lazy.

Be honest, how many of you were pretty lazy around the house before your accidents? Don't be shy, now, let me see those hands. That's right, all of you had a honey-do list that was probably longer than both of your legs combined. Now, no one will expect you to paint the house or install new tile flooring. You're on the gravy train to Lazytown, and it's tasting delicious.

This is the actual first result for the Google image search "gravy train." On second thought, maybe you want to take the Amtrak.

4. It's actually pretty fun to be wheeled around.

Think back to your fondest childhood memories. If one of them wasn't getting to ride in the shopping cart at the grocery store, then I'm sorry, but you must have had a pretty crappy childhood. Imagine how excited you would have been if you got to ride in that shopping cart all day, every day--even at home! Now that dream has become a reality.

5. You're slightly more likely to be a successful panhandler.

This one, again, goes back to sympathy. If ever you should fall on hard times, people are slightly more likely to help out a person with no legs than they are fully-endowed folk. It's just a basic fact of human existence. Obviously, the art of panhandling can only be perfected through experience, but having no legs will give you a leg up on the crazy competition out there.

6. You're an extremely likely candidate for becoming a cyborg.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, they don't make robotic limbs for people who already have perfectly fine normal ones. None of the top cybernetic research companies out there are targeting healthy people as their key demographic, man. They're all about empowering the disenfranchised. Plus, robotic limbs are way more badass than real ones. Please tell me you guys have seen Robocop. You can have like guns and shit attached to your kneecaps, or they can make your legs shoot out really far to grab stuff across the room, because your feet could also be like hands, like a monkey. The possibilities are endless, and quite frankly, I'll never get to experience any of them. And that really sucks.

Yours in Christ,
Mike

The CeREAL Life

From what I understand, most of our readership has left us. That's not to say that they've stopped reading, but that for the most part, they have literally left the Chicagoland area. Where did they all go? Why, school of course! That happy time in life filled with drunken hate speech about professors and equally drunken love speech like "Hey you, beautiful. Listen, have you ever heard of the Fullerton Transfer?"

This mass migration - this would be a good time to coin the phrase massgration - has continued, for many of you, the bi-annual trend of living away from home at a dorm or an apartment. I think in the interest of fairness to this blog post, and to all of you, it should be made public information that I was a commuter during my college years. However, I am still fully able to relate to the conversation we're about to have...now!

My aforementioned independent friends often ask me, "Hey that's my girlfriend guy, what the fuck is your problem?" But in their less hostile moods, they often ask me, "Man, Tapan Jones, what the hell should I eat today?"

The back and forth invariably settles on a mainstay of the American diet - cereal. That's right, the deliciousness of those sugary little bits of finger food knows no bounds (with the exception of their binding rectangular domiciles, of course). Cereals taste great, satisfy hunger, and even promote happiness with their colorful designs and sexy spokespeople (I'm talking to you Count Chocula).

There is something I should let you know though, friends. My research into this delicacy has led me down an interesting path of lucky charms to that one single pot of gold in the box.

You see: Cereal companies run the drug trade!

User - Pusher - Queen's Guard

Some of you may read that and say, "Grrrrrreat. This guy doesn't know what he's talking about. This is another one of his Trix. I'm leaving. Cheeri-o"

But wait, hear me out! All it takes to validate my claim is a small look into the names of the products themselves. Observe:

1) (insert flavor) Puffs - Smoking references, with tons of variety

2) Fruity Pebbles/Loops - Ecstasy reference. I seriously just google image searched the word ecstasy and this is what I got. Seriously. I can't make this shit up.

3) Frosted Flakes - Cocaine reference. Tony Montana. Tony the Tiger. COME ON!

4) Honey Smacks - Smack is heroin people.

5) Banana Nut Crunch - Okay, not drug-related, but just kind of gross. Think about it for a second... there you go

So there you have it. My expose. And as the piece de resistance, think to yourself, what do drug users crave more than anything when they're high.....? That's right.

Until next time, just remember. This is your brain:

And this is your brain on cereal:

Hope you got your Kix,

Tapan Jones

Shake Ya Brass, Watch Ya Self

When I look at a girl playing a tuba, I think to myself, "Wow. She must have really big lungs." Big lungs are one of the Top 4 things I look for in a woman. And when I watch the same girl march with that brass behemoth buoyed on her belly, I think to myself, "Wow. She must have really strong pecs. I wonder how much that tuba weighs?"

But then I get to thinking, you know, what would happen if she stepped on some uneven pavement, and she fell with the tuba and got stuck inside it? That probably wouldn't be very sexy at all. Probably just really noisy, actually. I'd have to leave the parade because it would hurt my ears--the girl struggling to free herself from the tuba, I mean.

When you stop to think about it, there are a lot of instruments that are much more arousing than tubas, and much more than you probably (hopefully) realized. So without further ado...

THE TROMBONE(R)

...Leon Phelps?

If you've never been aroused by a trombone, I just don't know what to tell you. It's really obvious. First of all, what heavenly music they make! A little slice of heaven. Second, you're obviously blowing into the thing, and you're sliding that big metal piece back and forth like you're Charlie Sheen or something.

THE SAXOPHONE

Explanation needed? Probably.

Besides sounding like sexophone, the saxophone is the tried-and-true staple instrument for smooth jazz-seducers. It actually even looks kind of sexy. I mean, you could do worse, if you were so inclined.

THE PLASMAPHONE

Oooooo.... hot.

Look at this thing. I have no idea what the hell it does or how the hell it works, but I know that I'd be terrified of anyone evil enough to play it. I bet Criss Angel 's really good.

THE GLASS HARMONICA

You better believe Ben Franklin knows how to play the Glass Harmonica.

You play it by wetting your fingers and rubbing them over the glass. No, really.

THE KEYTAR

Pure Sex.

No other instrument so deftly combines the intimacy and warmth of a piano solo with the crotch-grabbing and spandex of hair metal in such a mobile package. Turn to the keytar if the object of your desire has a great affinity for horribly, horribly unattractive people.

On a funnier note, I'm sure you've all noticed the sweet new banner up top by now. A big thank you to Tom Glass for putting that together for us. If you'll kindly notice, each letter is taken from a different Chicago-themed thing. We'll post the key to what's what in the comments. What a guy Tom is!

Love,
Mike

Hot Dog, We Have A Wiener

After a long, arduous decision process, we here at TCS have sorted through the many impressive entries that were received for our 1st Annual Chicago Sometimes Blog Post Contest.

Let it first be said that every single entry we received was thoroughly enjoyable, and if any of our readers would like to see the following 3 of our favorite entries, either e-mail us at thechicagosometimes@gmail.com, or get in touch with one of our writers in any way you'd like.

Our consolation posts were (in no particular order):

The Deadly Side of Winter Safety by Sean Newlin

Winter Grounds - The Meaning of Life by David Wilson

Christmas Tree Robbery by Maria Pisani

Three great, great posts. Hit us up, and they'll be sent right to your internet-door.

And now the moment you've all been waiting for--I hope you're all imagining the America's Funniest Home Video stage with the spotlights making a venn diagram and the snare drum going off--our winner: Kevin Connors with "'Twas the Night Before Christmas, Chicago."

Enjoy,

TCS

'Twas the Night Before Christmas, Chicago

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

The children were whispering, “I hate Jerry Krause!”

And out on the streets, there wasn’t a scare

‘Cept for Pat Kane who screams, “I paid the fare!”

But back home we wonder what could possibly go wrong

Then we realized who sings this song

Some country artist, or maybe two, or three

Either way, I wouldn’t go see them, not even for free

Finally you decide that it’s time for bed

"Jesus, this scotch is hurting my head"

The house is all set, waiting for St. Nick

But it doesn’t matter ‘cause this Bears team makes you sick

As your head hits the pillow, you sigh with some grief

This Jerry Angelo, he’s quite the thief

But all of a sudden, you hear a crash up above!

You jump to your feet, like it’s your first love

You sprint out the house and look to the sky

And ask yourself, "Who is that guy?"

It looks like some French dude from the IOC

Enraged you yell “Daley and Chicago will shit on your city!”

He scampers away, attempting to hide

But you know he’ll get caught, out on the west side

Back in your bed, you begin to dream

It's the 1990's, and oh what a Bulls team!

"On, Michael! On, Scottie, On Dennis and Toni!"

"And Luc! And Ron! And Phil ain't no phony!"

The night trickles on as you catch some rest

All curled up, in your very own nest

Off in the distance, the skyline glows with pride

Somewhere there’s Matt Forte, shuffling side to side

And then again you wake to a clatter

You run downstairs, not knowing the matter

And there you see him, dusting off his shoe

“Oh my, Santa, is that really you?”

His suit, his beard, they do not seem fake

Damnit, why’d I eat the cookies? What a mistake!

“Yes, son, and I’m happy to say that you made the list

I am here tonight to grant your Christmas wish”

“But Santa," you say, "how could you know?

This city’s sports pain is much more than just show”

“Don’t worry young lad, I know you’re all tired

That’s why tomorrow Lovie AND Vinny'll be fired!”

With that he stood and returned to his sleigh

And then he and his reindeer went on their way

But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

MERRY CHRISTMAS, CHICAGO…WE DESERVE IT.

Kevin Connors

OH p.s. Tom Glass submitted a ridiculously awesome banner that we will be switching to in the new year. It is a sick work of art that will become an everyday part of the blog.

Christmas Comedy Classic

Hey-team,

As many of you are aware, we here at the Sometimes are givers. Not like the creepy giver from The Giver who gave the gift of color tv’s – or was that hot Pleasantville Reese Witherspoon? – but more like the Tim Allen in The Santa Clause. Granted, there’s no contract written on a little 3 x 5 note card forcing us to do this, we were just feeling the spirit.

And in said spirit, let me unveil the following short blog post:

Readers, you’ve been extremely kind to us these past ten months – what with your constant clicking and all around internet buffoonery – and we think it’s time to re-gift the nice.

Thus, we’re announcing: The 1st Annual Chicago Sometimes Blog Post Contest
(The announcement was so important that we had to use both the gaudy italics And the bold).



So here’s the gist of it:

- Readers can submit 1 piece of individual or collaborative work
- It can be on any subject matter whatsoever, just keep in mind that
the winning post will be unveiled on December 23rd, 2009 (2 weeks
from today)
- Illustrations are not required, but are encouraged
- Anyone can apply – you do not need to personally know the TCS staff
- All drafts must be in by December 16th, 2009 (1 week from today)
- Writers and finalists will be notified of their status, and of edits,
secretly (to make it way more suspicious)
- ALL APPLICATIONS MUST be sent to thechicagosometimes@gmail.com

If no one ends up responding to this, we'll be really, really sad. But for the record, we've already had 3 separate threats for people that want to write.

That’s pretty much it guys – Merry early Christmas to all!
<3
Tapan Jones + Mike Bogart

p.s. Tapan Jones just graduated college today, thus proving that the black man can make it out the ghetto.

Thanksgiving for the Restivus

Since both of the blog's authors' Thanksgiving breaks start in the middle of the week, we figured we'd split this post. The first will half will be by Tapan Jones, and the second by Mike Bogart.

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I don't think I've ever seen a black person go shopping on Black Friday. This coming from a self-proclaimed seasoned vet, having made the transition from the Canadian Boxing Day (December 26th) to Black Friday seamlessly.

Regardless of the city I'm in, I almost always never see my brothas or sistas getting their shop on. (Don't worry, I asked the black community's permission before typing like this - plus, everyone knows I <3>

Here are the numbers that I've compiled from Toronto, Chicago, and New York, all jumbled together in the same data set -- so you know it's super scientific:

33% Latino

27% Indian

14% Asian

11% White (eastern Europe)

8% White (western Europe)

7% Hill people

Given all of our ingrained stereotypes about the aforementioned groups of people, and our love for bouncy words, I hereby propose that Black Friday be changed to Frugal as Fuck Friday.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Tapan Jones

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Ever since I was a little tamale, I've wondered to myself: "What do they eat for Thanksgiving in Mexico?" I figured maybe they had a little chalupa action going on, maybe a Mexican pizza with cranberry sauce stuffed in the crust. But then, as I matured from tamale to enchilada to gordita, I realized just how stupid I had been. They have turkeys in Mexico!

You see, turkeys, as birds of prey, are indigenous to areas throughout North America and Mexico. Birds of prey are the ones that we prey on as omnivores, so we call them birds of prey. And they eat that kind of stuff in Mexico like in chicken tacos, except they call them pollo tacos. So anyways, by my logic, if they have chickens there, they must have turkeys, because birds of prey travel in packs. And who doesn't love a nice buttered up turkey on Thanksgiving! Yes, even Mexicans love them.

In conclusion, if you see a Mexican-looking guy tomorrow, just give him a little gobble noise and nod. You know what's up.

Love,

Mike