Geno Petro

'That's Me in the Corner'

My voter registration card came in the mail this morning, just under the wire as usual. And rightly so. I don't know what I think about politics these days, I really don't. It is one of those subjects I've always mentally deferred to the pundits who are supposed to know better than I---specifically politicians, elected officials (the actual winners, please), and those who objectively report and editorialize on the red, blue and green concerns of this culturally divided country. (Isn't there some uniform 'Objective Oath' everyone in the Media is required to take after journalism/modeling school? Maybe not. Maybe I ditched that day in high school and am just experiencing a time released Poli-Sci hallucination.)

Same thing, I believe, holds true with the medicine/health care industry that everyone is always yapping about. I just assume the doctors and everyone else involved in that profession--nurses, administrators, pharmaceutical salesmen--know what's new and shiny in the field and their word is, well...up. Word up, Doc. There is an Oath they all pledge to, I'm almost positive (although maybe not for the salesmen). In other words, I've always relied on sources outside my own subjective cranium (thick head) for the real, unfiltered, 'down low' (Oprah) on what is swirling around me in this universe of billions and trillions (population and national debt respectively).
For reasons too personal to delve into here, my own 'first thoughts' are usually self-motivated and thus, make me lack the objectivity needed to execute clear, unfettered judgments in areas where voices must be heard and votes counted. This is why I skim over 30 to 40 blogs each day--many more on a slow Chicago real estate day--for other peoples' opinions and insights (hey, I'm a fast if not totally retentive reader with a relatively short attention span and a fairly open mind...I think.). Oh, and I've always read into musical lyrics more than is actually there. Ah Music! Nature's muse....the true opiate of the peeps. 'Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool...'
Most bloggers (some professional but many more amateur and apparently lonely) I read are so out of their minds over one candidate or the other that the noise is just confusing me even more. I have to say, I'm a little worried about more than a few of my fellow scribes given the subjective, party line diatribes I've been perusing these past few weeks.

November 4th, 2008, will be the 14th presidential Election Day of my life; 13 of which I have at least a passing (vague?) recollection. And quite honestly, nothing much besides fashion, technology and music has changed from this man's vantage point. My own personal time traveling bubble that has been hovering 5 feet 10 inches above this Earth since the mid-1950s still can't push through the rhetoric and the political buzz that surrounds such red letter events as Election Day; dull, stale, and obtuse as its always been....
When I was four years old, there was a Kennedy family who lived in a custom Levittowner at the top of our drive. The father was a steel mill supervisor who wore a suit and they had a hundred kids running around their expanded, single level asbestos sided American Dream. In my small mind I remember thinking it was him everyone was talking about, this Mr. Kennedy. He was a man who lived at the top of our hill and just got elected President, whatever that meant. I remember wondering why my own father wasn't the one who got elected although he only wore a suit on Sundays. Maybe that was it, I thought. My wife told me she wondered the same thing about her own father when she was a kid. Ironically, the two most decent and honest men we both know are not on the ballot this year and never have been.

'Losing My Religion?'


Perhaps. I think Sarah Palin is cute (especially the Photo Shopped versions) although I've known much cuter, and Barack Obama is handsome and alert. Joe Biden and John McCain, both strained and blurry through these weakening eyes, somehow remind me of two old college fraternity rivals reminiscing back to a time when everyone wore coon skin hats and big Varsity letters on their sweaters. A Tom Collins society. Wing tips and tie bars. Mad men from another era. Someone is yelling into a megaphone..."Go Harvard! Go Yale!" No Ivy League child left behind...

There is incongruity along party lines. Both sides are mismatched, I observe. And I'm pretty sure at least one of the four in this presidential spotlight isn't even a real politician. (Guess who.) So my question to the universe is: Why do I even have to order off this menu at all? Chicken or Fish? Hmmm. Can I get back to you on that?
"Honey, don't RSVP my cousin's Vinny's wedding just yet. The first two times he got married the food was outstanding. But this time, well..."

"Maybe the loan sharking business is feeling the crunch too," my Honey retorts.
"Hey, don't be judgmental," I quip. "The politically correct term is Sub Prime. That side of the family is sensitive."
"Anyone offering only chicken and fish to registered gift-toting guests is not sensitive," she says. "This I do know, political, familial, or otherwise."

"They're Democrats," I whisper, not even knowing what party I belong to anymore. And by the way, where exactly have you gone, Joe The Plumber DiMaggio? (sorry, had to slip it in.)


'Just a dream, just a dream'


a) How has my life changed since I've been a voting adult? ... and... b) How much of this 'change' do I attribute to government interaction?

The answers in order are:

a) A lot.

and

b) Zero.

I make the money I make. I pay the taxes I pay according to the tax code that's in place at the time. I either do or do not have health insurance on any given day depending on who I go to and who choses to participate in whatever plan I subscribe to. I basically do what I'm told (not really) as mandated by the rules of life in general.

What I'm saying is I just don't feel strongly one way or another about any of the choices on my ballot this go-round. I'm not so sure those running for office do either. I've watched every debate with as objective a mind as someone who doesn't give a crap can. I'm telling you, juxtapose the sound bites and distort the voices and I'll be damned if they're not all proclaiming the very same thing--Utopia. Opiate. Bullshat....

I go back to the mail on my desk. I look at the voter registration card I just received and study the front. My name is misspelled. I glance at the wedding invitation tucked between the pages of a half read article about Cindy McCain in The New Yorker. The accompanying illustration makes her appear prettier than she really is. I pull out the makeshift bookmark and examine it. Chicken or fish? I finally come to a conclusion:
When improperly prepared, fish can actually taste like chicken. And what could possibly be worse than that? The opposite, I suppose. I check Will Not Attend and throw it back on top of the pile of other undecided rhetoric on my desk. Note to self: 'unjam the shredder.'

Geno Petro

assorted lyrics by R.E.M.

photo courtesy of C. McCain's medicine cabinet

We are hunkered down. We've brought in supplies for the long November haul. Our new minds are set. Storm windows are affixed and our shutters pulled tight and locked. Our safes are stuffed with inflated tender; confederate currency for a later day perhaps, pilfered from the Dows, the Joneses, and the Banks of middle America. Our media scouts up on the Hill tell us there is hope on the fiscal horizon but the morning on this day is still dark and cool. We put our ears to the ground and sense apathy rumbling amongst our uncivil servants.

We've opened our garage stables and set our horses free to run in the solar wind, too expensive to maintain anymore. We are willing to walk away from our leveraged homesteads, settling for pennies on the dollar when our escrowed notes expire; Selling short. Falling shorter.

On the safe side of the glass we look across the plains and into the vortex. We count our blessings on one hand and await the new Obama Nation with fingers crossed, on the other. Our children join us on our financial corners begging for spare Euros. You can keep the Change. We want Service... and at least two weeks in Cabo (oceanfront) for the holidays. We are, after all, still Americans.

Geno Petro

For months now I've been following with growing interest...no, make that great intrigue, the shaggy chic (if not downright haute) North Side neighbor-hood 'foodie' chatter surrounding a certain hot dog stand at the no-mans-land corner of Roscoe and California Avenues in the Avondale section of town. Location, location, location (the ubiquitous Chicago real estate mantra) my arse. I kid you not, dear readers...the joint is in an annexed tract of light manufacturing sprawl where you might still be able to get some land for free if you stake a claim with the City of Chicago and know someone at City Hall. (And yes, as always I exaggerate.)

It's "Hot Doug's this" and "Hot Doug's that...." say they all; at dinner parties, over cocktails at unhappy hours everywhere from the Gold Coast to Rogers Park, in churches all across Chicago (I'm guessing). Everyone's talking about it but nobody I know has actually ever eaten there.

Like Yogi Berra (the Ronnie Santo of the East Coast malapropism) once proclaimed..."Nobody ever eats there...the line is always too long to get in." Ahem.

On two previous occasions I attempted to stop in for a taste of their famous Chicago hot dogs and accompanying 'Duck Fat' Chicago fries, mainstays both. Each time the line to simply get in the joint nearly wrapped around an entire city block. Once inside, an equally tedius wait is in order before you actually get your food.


It was raining farm animals yesterday morning as I awoke and since it was indeed Friday, one of the only two 'Duck Fat Days' (along with Saturday), I figured I stood my best chance of finally sinking my chops into a Hot diggity Doug dog. After all, what other knucklehead would be willing to drive through a torrent in a Mini Cooper for a mere taste of encased meat and shoe string potatoes deep fried in foie gras? Besides me, that is...and about 75 other knuckleheads? (See picture above)

I waited in the rain outside of Hot Doug's for 30 minutes as the gentleman behind me, (pictured left) actually intelligent enough the bring an umbrella to a rain storm, refused to share his shelter...or even make eye contact. I waited another 10 minutes in the vestibule with 12 other people, and when I finally did place my order---a Keira Knightley (super hot...get it?) with 'everything' (in Chicago 'everything' means mustard, neon green relish, grilled onions, tomatoes, pickle, hot peppers and celery salt), an order of Duck Fat Fries, and a Coke Zero (watching the calories, you know)---I waited another 15 minutes for the food.

Also on the menu that day were Alligator Dogs, Parsley Infused Weisswurst Dogs, Chipolte and Cilantro Smoked Chicken Sausage Dogs, and a half dozen other varieties of blended meat Dogs; bratworsts, sausages, and kielbasis. Sadly though, Friday's Special 'Celebrity Sausage' was the Harvey Korman (may his funny soul rest in new found peace)---Sun-Dried Tomato and Basil Chicken Sausage with Vodka-Cream Marinara and Burrata Cheese. Oh yeah, just so we're perfectly clear, only non Duck Fat Fries are served up Mondays through Thursdays.

John Lennon and Yoko stopped in (also pictured above) and ordered two Pete Shelley's (a Vegetarian Dog if you can even Imagine such an animal). 'It's easy if you try...'

Finally my own name was called and I grabbed my satchels of charbroiled snouts with all the trimmings and raced home to my bride to share the feast. My dog met me at the door, already having sniffed the duck fatted vittles from two blocks away. I emptied the food from the greasy brown bags onto white paper plates. The kitchen immediately smelled like duck liver. I almost gagged....

Now I'm not quite sure why I would even fathom liking anything prepared in duck fat, or foie gras, or any kind of liver for that matter. (You ought to see what I've done to my own liver over the years, for crissakes.) I was clearly caught up in the hype. Sure, the dogs were good but all dogs in Chicago are good. Hot Doug's makes a darn good Chicago style hot dog, this much is true. And I suppose if you don't hate ducks and liver then the fries are pretty tasty, as well. But if you ask me, people are just looking for an excuse, any excuse, to stand in a long line to say they've done the new 'In' thing. It was Monkees tickets when I was 10. It was Tickle Me Elmo when my niece was 4. It's my wife and her friends tonight for that whole Sex and the City and Cosmo hoopla. It was me yesterday (along with 75 other zombies) in a torrential downpour....

So I digress. As I was about to finally exit the restaurant, the guy with the umbrella, my fellow line standing follower of the masses, made a snide comment as to my constant picture taking during the previous hour.

"Tourist" he muttered.

"No, blogger," I snapped back.

"I'm a real estate blogger," I wanted to say, but didn't---stopping just short. He simply looked at me with his perfectly dry face without making eye contact; collapsed umbrella in one hand, CTA Bus pass in the other, awaiting his own name to be called. I wanted to add a little something extra about him being a professional duck loving line stander, what with his Bus Pass, premeditated umbrella, and all but I let it slide. It was raining farm animals outside and I had my own real estate challenges awaiting my attention. And as I sped off toward the old homestead and the oily waft from the brown paper satchels filled the interior compartment of my Cooper, I wondered what my dog thought about duck liver, the $13 I just spent on hot dogs, and if I really did look like a tourist...

DISCLAIMER

{I recently posted a picture and an accompanying story on my primary Blog and was informed by another site's SEO that my duplicate content might get me banned from Google! Wow, I had no idea. But I reminded myself that ignorance of the 'law' is no excuse. The content apparently needs to be 25% different (am I there yet?) and thus, a commentary before or after should be in order. (Obviously this is an example of a commentary after a duplicate post. All previous AR entires I have already submitted will soon have commentarfies after the duplicate post as well---but I suppose they {the commentaries} will each need to be 25% different) I don't know nothin' about nothin'. It wasn't me. Why didn't you tell me?

The truth of the matter is I stumbled across Active Rain by accident while checking out Sellsious. It wasn't sure anyone in the blogosphere was even looking at my primary Blog since I had a total of 1 comment from a friend and 1 comment from my wife and 1 comment from an insane person (a diatribe, actually) the first 3 months I was up an posting. I didn't think my stuff was that bad so I decided to start posting here as well. So from here on forward and backward, this is my 25% Difference Non Duplicate Discalaimer, and I'm sticking to it...unless its a bannable offense from Google in which case I'll sell my overpriced Google stock and show them! I'll ban them from my portfolio. See how they like it when I give them no page rank! Now I know 'I'm double dog daring' a big guy on the playground (Jean Sheppard reference for my Philly friend, Brian Brady) but right now according to Google, I'm not even another Bozo on the bus. So Thus I Disclaim and wait for the axe.}

Hot diggity Doug...

Geno Petro