Wow, Blogger sure is messed up. I'm typing this right now into a box with no formatting tools that looks like the web pages I used to shit out when I was in charge of the intranet at my contract gig a few years ago. Yeesh.

Anyway, our fair city got laced/tattooed/pummeled/pounded with wicked weather yesterday. At 4:35 PM, Southside Mike and I were hanging out bullshitting about the Sox and drinking Honey Brown.

By 4:45, Southside Mike was scampering to the South Shore train dodging the occasional raindrop.

By 5:00, the sky was that funky shade of yellow one associates with trailer parks and funnel clouds.

By 5:15, the sky was ripped open and the rain poured through a gaping wound..pelting the women and children...

By 5:20, the rain was falling in sheets, mixed with hail. The wind was just whipping and lighting was pretty much constant. Note to self: I need to figure out a way to get pictures of lightning. It's not easy.

By 6:15, most of the streets with any sort of dip to them had turned into small brackish swimming pools.

By 7, it was all over. Temp dropped from 75 to 55. Who knows when we'll see the sun again.

Holding Court

With the 70 degree temps yesterday (which will be gone by tonight), I got to play tennis for the first time in 2005 last night up at Welles Park.

Dropping some weight has really made a difference. I'm a lot quicker in getting to the ball, and no longer just kinda give up when a ball is hit to the other side of the court. My first serve percentage is up, but I'm still struggling with being able to hit it shallow. I'm hitting it really hard though.

I still have issues with hitting the ball flat. Anything I hit from the baseline has too much arc on it. Hopefully I'm just rusty.

Meanwhile, in SoxLand, rumours are flying that Ben Davis will no longer be a White Sock by the end of the day, leaving the backup catching duties to Chris Widger. Where he goes and what we get in return is anyone's guess.

EDIT: Oh look, it ended up posting after all. It didn't get eaten, just nibbled on.

Alright, I really have more important stuff to do.

The Blog Ate My Homework!

I wrote a long rant earlier about getting woken up at 5:40 this morning by TV news helicopters hovering overhead filming an accident on the Kennedy. It sounded like "Apocalypse Now" without the Wagner piece playing in the background. I like to get my sleep in the morning and didn't appreciate not getting the extra half-hour today...even though it is gorgeous out.

Blogger ate it. Grrr.

That's what you get for using a free service, I guess.

Rude Awakening

I usually get woken up by one of two things in the morning...and they both usually happen around 6:15 or 6:30, which is about the right time for me. Either the brat next door starts screaming, or the dog starts going apeshit because he hasn't peed since 6 the night before (I wish I had that kind of bladder) and needs to go out.

But today, I got jolted awake at about 5:40 by what sounded like a remake of "Apocalypse Now" being filmed above the building. Low flying helicopters galore. All that was missing was the Wagner soundtrack.

Turns out there was a huge accident on the Kennedy Expressway, and all 5 of Chicago's news networks had their choppers hovering right above us to zoom in good and close on the carnage. Sure enough, i flipped on Channel 7, and there it was right on the TeeVee.

You know, waking me up is just a drop in the bucket compared to what someone who has a loved one who drives on the Kennedy in the early hours of the morning has got to be going through. I'm sure every person who knows someone who drives a Crown Vic or a black SUV's heart probably skipped a couple beats. How would you like to find out someone in your family got maimed or killed through the news, or go into a panic only to find out that it's not them, it's someone else.

If it bleeds, it leads...

Over the years, I've been privy to a lot of great moments in sports.

I remember watching the 1987 NCAA Championship on the family room floor with my Dad, watching as Keith Smart drilled a dagger through the Orange hearts of everyone in upstate NY.

I was at Rich Stadium on a grey January day in 1992 when the Bills came back from a 35-3 deficit in the second half against Houston in what's often described as the greatest comeback in NFL history.

3 months later, I was at Mike Snyder's house nervously working up the gumption to ask a girl I liked to junior prom as Christian Laettner took a Hail Mary pass, spun around and nailed a jumper in the paint.

I was in SkyDome on a cool evening in 1993 as Joe Carter's home run sailed into the Toronto night, giving the Jays a World Series title.

In 1998, I celebrated my 23rd birthday on a cold day at Wrigley Field. Some Texan kid fresh up from Triple A struck out 20 batters.

Oh and I've suffered, too. Wide right in 1991. No goal in 1999. Second place in the Central, 2001-present.

But through thick and thin, I've never seen such a display of blood, sweat and teamwork as that put on by the Fighting Illini last night. I don't think I've ever yelled as much, jumped as much, or scared my dog as much. In the age of me-first basketball, the Illini decided (almost too late) to play like a team and knock off Arizona.

I'll be damned if I can remember who scored the most points on the 20-5 run down the stretch, or who hit the shots beyond the arc in OT.

But I'll always remember where I was.

Redemption!

If I remember anything at all from religion classes as a pup, it's that the Easter season is all about redeeming oneself and what not.

Well, my dear friend Phil Rogers redeems himself for his preposterous Sosa ass-licking yesterday with this excellent piece about Mark Buehrle, the best pitcher no one outside of Chicago has ever heard of.

Equally important, Bruce Weber and the Flyin' Illini Part Deux took sleazebag Bruce Pearl and his UWM Panthers to school...and Weber was even classy enough to shake Pearl's hand afterwards.

In the past few days, I've read quite a few posts on others' blogs about Easter and its importance. To a hedonistic heathen like me, Easter is little more than black jellybeans, deviled eggs and baseball season getting underway. (Yeah, I know it's kinda early this year though). But whatever your thoughts on it are--have a great weekend.

Mish, Mush...

In a town populated by sportswriters who are hacks at best, I've always enjoyed the work of Phil Rogers. In spite of the fact that he's employed by the Cubune, his pieces aren't Cubbie centric, and provide just the right mix of stats and thoughts to make them readable.

But Phil's gone off the deep end with his article today. The gist of it? Since Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds have both been found out to be juicers, the single-season dinger record should rightfully belong to Sammy Sosa.

Let's clear up a couple points here. First of all, McGwire did not admit to steroid use. He just gave some really slippery and vague answers, and in fact didn't answer most questions saying that his attorney told him not to. So I guess by being quiet, he's automatically guilty in Phil's eyes.

When Sosa gave his statement, he said that he had "never used illegal steroids." Use of MOST steroids without a script from the doctor is illegal. Most, not all. Furthermore, MLB didn't ban steroids until after the 2002 season. It was in 2000 and 2001 when Sosa looked to be at his most ripped. In my eyes, that answer is every bit as slippery as McGwire's antics. Hell, it's just as bad as "We have reason to believe that Iraq possesses weapons of mass destruction" or "I did not have sexual relations with that woman Miss Lewinsky."

So Phil, your fawning over Sammy is a little, um, off base.

Speaking of Cubs, a gaggle of us are going brave the masses and head up to Wrigleyville (gah!) to watch the Illini pummel Bruce Pearlnecklace and UWM tonight. I've got the chance to go see the Kaiser Chiefs tonight after the game, but that would necessitate me missing the Texas Tech-WV battle tonight, which just might be the best matchup in the Sweet 16. Oh yeah, and my girlfriend is decidedly lame when it comes to concerts in small venues.

Had an excellent dinner at Ristorante Calo last night. Who'da thunk there was good Italian food to be had in Andersonville, otherwise known as Chicago's Little Gay Sweden? Outstanding gnocchi gorgonzola in a vodka sauce.

I-L-L!

The moral of this story: do not let your kid drive your car to school.

When my parents were househunting in Chicago my senior year, I decided to drive my Mom's ride to school one day instead of taking my own. How cool I felt pulling into the parking lot in a shiny new ride instead of my old beater, especially when I pulled up next to one of my least favorite high school degenerates who had picked on me in my younger days and saw that he drove a beat up old Subaru.

After school, I piled a few friends into the back seat to take a ride down to the lake. For some magical reason, I didn't have baseball practice and the afternoon was all mine!

As we're driving through the lot to leave, Colin Williams decides to get my attention by whacking the quarter panel, causing me to turn around. Just as I turn around, Mike Van Gemert pulls out of his spot in his big ol'Cutlass Cruiser and plows into my British-racing-green door.

I raced home and put the car in the garage. Mom and Dad were gone for 3 more days, so surely I could get it fixed. I called our insurance agent just like they taught me to do in Driver's Ed, thinking that I'd be able to magically get the car fixed, and that Mike's insurance would cover it and I'd be able to have a check the next morning. It was his damned fault for plowing into me, right?

WRONG.

The car was still dented when the parents got home on Friday night. I was scarce. I got home, and there was hell to pay.

From The "Don't Knock It Until You Try It" File

Washing your face with liquid soap and cornmeal mixed together is a great way to rub all the gross dry peely skin off after you get a sunburn.

Suite: Judy Blue Eyes

Illinois State Treasurer Judy Baar Topinka told the Chicago Sun-Times yesterday that she's got a groundswell of support from random donkeys on the street in the state and is probably going to run for governor.

I'm not sure what to make of this. Judy's an engaging and likable woman with her bright orange pantsuits and her baton-twirling in local parades. She still lives in a bungalow in Riverside, drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney. Believe it or not, she's the highest-ranking Republican official in the state right now.

But she's not without her problems. Rumours of a federal investigation of staffers in her office doing political work on state time swirled a couple years ago, but seem to have subsided. She's awful chummy with former Gov. George Ryan, who's about to go on trial in federal court. Hardcore Republicans here in the Prarie State say that she's soft on gay rights and other social issues.

So I'm not sure what to think. So far, it looks like Joe Birkett, Ray LaHood and possibly Jim OBerweis will throw their hats in as well.

Birkett's one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet. West side Irish, family man, amateur boxer, put himself through law school. But he's got 2 stigmas attached to him: the mishandling of the Nicarico case in the early 1990s, and his endless carping at then-AG candidate Lisa Madigan that because she wasn't a prosecutor, she wasn't fit to be Attorney General. His social views are a little too far right for my tastes too and really haven't been examnied much yet since he's a State's Attorney.

LaHood's a moderate downstate Congressman who is also well-liked by the Brahmins in the west and northwest suburbs. But he's also got a penchant for foot-in-mouth disease, having once called Jack! Ryan a "bonehead" (can't say I disagree though, Ray) and repeatedly ripping Pat Fitzgerald.

Jim Oberweis has the money to bump off just about anyone in his path, but his stand on illegal immigrants will scare off most moderates and city folks. PLus he's quickly picking up the "perpetual candidate" mantle also worn by John Cox and Pat O'Malley.

Remember me? I'm Don Zimmer. 

It's pronounced "Koonts." But damn, does it look funny on the back of a jersey. 

One of the coolest things I've ever seen. Japanese photographer covering the Phillies-Rays game on Saturday. After each play, her recorded it on the scorecard taped to the front of his lens. 

Back from Florida.

6:55 flights suck ass through a big fat curly straw. I hate going through the rest of the day with that bleary-eyed barely functioning feeling.

Spring Training recap is here.

So let's see..what's notable?

I got to eat at Waffle House. I love Waffle House...and it's not just their waffles that are damned tasty. I also have a weakness for Steak N'Shake. Both of the aforementioned are awfully scarce in the Chicago area. Thank you for sharing, Ilk.

The Pirates-Braves game on Thursday was rained out, so we went to the Ringling Museum in Sarasota. It's all located on the estate of John Ringling of Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus fame...and has an art museum, circus museum and mansion all wrapped up in one shiny terra cotta package. The art museum was featuring Ansel Adams works from George Eastman's collection. I appreciated it a lot more at 29 then I ever did on those boring field trips I took to the Eastman House in elementary school. Interesting to see some portraits Adams took...I always just thought of him as a nature photographer.

I know I'm not alone in saying that the West Virgina-Wake Forest game was one for the ages...but damn, was it fun to watch. My old man, K's dad and I were all sitting on the couch just going bonkers like frat rats. I didn't know until know that Mike Gansey was a St. Bonaventure transfer--which is kind of ironic since John Beilein used to coach at Canisius, which has been the Bonnies' rival at just about everything since the 1800s. Meanwhile, my brackets are crumbling...but so are everyone else's.

I'd like to nominate Port Charlotte, Florida as the official capital of Gomer America. Stopped there for gas yesterday afternoon...scary stuff.

Got to get a good look at a lot of the hurricane damage yesterday. About 50% of the trees on 75 between Sarasota and Fort Myers are split clear in two, and there's a couple fields full of FEMA trailers near Punta Gorda.

I've got a few pictures I'll post later.

Stuff!

Forgot to write about this earlier, but if you ever get the hankering for all-you-can-stuff-your-face-with fish and chips, Flounder's on Clybourn is just the ticket. 7.99 gets you tasty cod and the best damned garlic fries you'll ever eat. They also have Newcastle on tap, definite plus in my book.

Bracketology Time...

My round of 32: Illinois, Nevada, Alabama, Boston College, LSU, Arizona, Southern Illinois, Oklahoma State, Washington, Pittsburgh, Georgia Tech, Louisville, Texas Tech, Gonzaga, Creighton, Wake Forest, UNC, Iowa State, New Mexico, Florida, Wisconsin, Kansas, NC State, Connecticut, Duke, Stanford, Michigan State, Syracuse, Utah, Oklahoma, Iowa, Kentucky.

My Sweet 16: Illinois, Alabama, Arizona, Oklahoma State, Washington, Louisville, Texas Tech, Wake Forest, UNC, Florida, Kansas, Connecticut, Duke, Syracuse, Oklahoma, Kentucky.

My Elight 8: Illinois, Oklahoma St, Louisville, Wake, UNC, Kansas, Duke, Oklahoma.

My Final 4: Illinois, Wake, UNC, Oklahoma.

My Gruesome Twosome: Illinois and UNC. UNC wins, 77-71.

Off to Florida for Spring Training. Full reports from Phillies, Pirates, Devil Rays and Twins camps when I get back Monday.

Nitpicking?

I've always liked Tom Petty. In high school, "Free Fallin" was the first song I learned how to hack out the chords to on my geetar (C F CFC over and over and over)...and if I had a buck for every doobie I burned back in the day while listening to "Mary Jane's Last Dance" I'd probably have more than enough money to buy one of them fancy ass Rickenbackers that he always plays.

(Yes, I know his music goes way way back before the songs I mentioned...in fact I think that "Pack Up The Plantation" might be one of the best live recordings ever)

Anywhoo, in 2002 Petty released an album called "The Last DJ," which was a scathing rip of what the radio industry has become. The title track features Petty crooning:

As we celebrate mediocrity all the boys upstairs want to see
How much you'll pay for what you used to get for free

There goes the last DJ
Who plays what he wants to play
And says what he wants to say, hey hey hey

And there goes your freedom of choice
There goes the last human voice
And there goes the last DJ

Obviously, you won't catch Tom at any Clear Channel-sponsored parties anytime soon.

The other day I hopped in the rice burner and fired up my XM Satellite Radio, which I think might be the best invention ever. Baseball, rap songs with swear words, Steely Dan (no static at all) all on one happy little unit. I was kinda surprised when I heard a promo spot featuring Mr. Petty's Dylan-like mumble talking about a show he's hosting called "Tom Petty's Buried Treasure." Billed as "a show that's like me playin' records for you if you were just hangin' out at my house," it actually sounds pretty interesting.

But is there something fishy about Petty hosting a show on a medium which you used to get for free?

So has Petty sold out to The Boys Upstairs?

Gnashing Of Teeth! Wailing! Beating Of Breasts!

Plenty of it to be found here, as fans of the Baby Bears lament Messiah Mark Prior's elbow as it acts up once again.

A friend of a friend of the girlfriend scored 8 tickets to the Big Ten tournament bash Saturday night at Navy Pier. Man oh man was I excited. I figured the Grand Ballroom would be just jammed with luminaries. This would be my big chance to shake Bruce Weber's hand, pat him on the back and tell him we're all teribly sorry about the loss of his mother. I could ask Tom Izzo where he buys those wonderful suits and how he keeps his hair just so slick. Maybe I'd run into Vincent Grier and tell him that's he's easily the most underappreciated player in the conference. Hell, I could even track down Wisconsin's Mike Wilkinson and ask him if his buddies call him "Ilk."

I threw on some orange and blue, and off to Navy Pier I was. Well let me tell you, last time I was this disappointed in something was when I saw Sue the dinosaur at the Field Museum and was like "That's it? Are you sure this isn't just a model?"

The room was about 30% full of 60 year old fatcat alumni and 18 year old starving college kids lured by their 2 favorite words in the English language: FREE BEER. The bill of fare was Billy Goat Cheezeborgers on stale buns and boiled Fluky's hot dogs. Why did I get my hopes up?

Then again, why am I such an ingrateful little shit sometimes?

Raucous and jovial Thursday Poker Night last night. The tunes were cranked, the beer was cold, and The Kell was in the house.

The Kell is one of those larger-than-life characters who has to be seen to be believed. If one had to compare him to a fictional character, I guess he'd be a blend of Homer Simpson (in that some have referred to him as a balding ape) and Ty Webb from Caddyshack for his wicked golf game and his deadpan delivery of one-liners such as "Killer Bee got his wings clipped" and "I turn on the radio these days and can't tell the difference between The Black Crowes, Counting Crows, Sheryl Crow and John Crowe." John Crowe was the investor from Kansas City who backed The Kell's trading efforts, which typically consisted of 45 minutes in the SPX pit, 6 hours on the golf course, and 20 minutes chasing S&P futures over the phone when he'd sprint back to the office.

The Kell is also a benevolent man. One night a few years ago, he hosted a card game at his house. Shortly after midnight, the phone rang. It was a comely young vixen from Oklahoma who The Kell had met the night before, imploring him to come out and meet her for a drink. Only one problem: she had three guys with her. Kell cornered me and told me "tonight Wilkes, you're gonna be my wingman." Only 2 problems: I'd pissed away all the cash I brought with me playing cards (not unusual in those days), and was wearing a tshirt and shorts, which isn't exactly club-worthy attire. But not to worry...Kell loaned me one of his shiny shirts and some much too long pants and slipped me 100 bucks before piling me into his BMW, telling me my job tonight was to get drunk and keep the guys away from his woman.

Well we got to Vision and the guys who were with Kell's little lady had all gone off to work the other ladies in the room. Naturally, Kell got his mojo working and ran off with his pretty young thing, leaving me all alone with nothing to do but drink. So I did. I staggered out of the bar at about 2 am and hailed a cab back to my newly-bought condo on the fringe of the ghetto. I jumped out of the cab, reached into my pocket...and sure as shit, I'd left my keys in the shorts which were back at The Kell's swanky bachelor pad in Lincoln Park.

Called The Kell, who had found his way to the Swissotel and was just about to get down to business. He drove out to my condo and picked my ass up, drove me all the way up to his house and plopped me off there to crash for the night, and then headed back to the hotel. I promptly passed out on his couch and woke up at 6 am with a throbbing head, still sporting some very fine threads. I somehow managed to ooze my way home and shower and change, and made it to the ballyard with plenty of time to spare before a 12:05 Cubs-Sox tilt.

I returned that favor last night, and went all-in on the Kell with a K-3 suited against his pair of 10s, and promptly exited the game. Didn't stick around to see if he ended up winning last night...but I was rooting for him.

CTA Troubles

Wrote a post earlier about the troubles the Chicago Transit Authority is facing, and Blogger promptly ate it.

I don't really feel like writing it all out again, but my general take is this: the fare hike sucks, but I'd rather pony up the extra 75 cents a ride than have to deal with service cuts. Granted, since I live right near the Loop, I don't need to use it on a daily basis...only time I ride it is to ballgames or up north for tennis/sailing/poker/drinking. But for folks with daily commutes downtown, service cuts are gonna suck. Not to mention for the poor who live on the south and west sides and use it to get to and from just about everywhere--a fare hike and service cuts would both suck

Bad situation all around...and I'm not even sure how they got into this mess to begin with.

The Resto 100

New City magazine, one of many fine and free rags available in a dispenser on every street corner in our fair city just released their Resto 100 list of the 100 essential Chicago restaurants.

I've been to 24 of them, and my one-line comments on the ones I have been to are below:

Franco's: Great place to hit for an early dinner before Sox games.

Silver Cloud: Mmmmm. Tater tots.

Club Lucky: When my buddy Jeff got married back in 2000, we had his bachelor party dinner there. Wonder if the guys who planned it thought it was a strip joint.

Penang: Indian Spice+Chinese Meat=Malaysian Grub. Excellent.

Pasteur: Ate there on a date as a struggling CBOT clerk in 1997. Could barely afford the bill, not to mention the long ass cab ride to and from Andersonville.

Le Colonial: About as expensive as dinner and the cab ride to and from Pasteur. High silicone-laden talent level due to location on Rush Street.

Foodlife: Totally interactive food court experience. One of my mom's favorite places to go when she lived here.

NoMi: Got to eat there the week it opened. I felt so special.

Mia Francesca: All the "Francesca" eateries are outstanding...even the one in (gasp) Naperville.

Orange: Good for slightly froo-froo brunch, gotta love the juice bar. Pancake flights are fun.

Chicago Brauhaus: Oom pah pah! Oom pah pah! Closest thing around here to compare to the restaurants in Deutschland.

Pompeii: Still love them, even though they now call their pizzicatos (think calzone) "strudels."

Tufano's: Chicago's version of Artie Buco's. Perennial favorite in the Ilk household.

Berghoff: Even with the martini menu, still a favorite.

Lou Mitchell's: I'm local. We never have to stand in the sometimes hour-long line outside.

Big Bowl: Food is run of the mill, but their tiki drinks will knock you on your ass.

Cafe Iberico: Excellent tapas, and not that outrageously priced either.

Fogo De Chao: Ate there last year. My friend Heidi told me she hoped I got gout. Thanks, Heidi.

Pizzeria Uno/Due: The line at Due is usually shorter. Doesn't matter, since I prefer Malnati's.

Weber Grill: Proof everything tastes better over charcoal. Sorry Hank Hill, no propane (or propane accessories) here.

Manny's: Another one right in my 'hood. The corned beef sammich is a heart attack on a plate, but at least you'll head to the ICU smiling.

Marche: Ate there 3 nights in a row back in 1999 when Springsteen was in town and haven't been back since. Good food, but please lose the 'tude. I'm talking to you, waiter with the face tattoo and the manpurse.

Wishbone: No line privileges here, which is a shame since it's my favorite brunch in the city. Secret tip: they'll let you sit outside even if it's kinda cold. Wear a jacket and skip the crowds.

Mas: It's billed as Nuevo Mexican, but menu choices run to Cuba and Argentina too. Small portions, high prices, but good.

Smoke Daddy: Make sure you use wet naps. Linger fickin' good.

I suppose I should pick a few more off this list and try to hit them this year, but most of them are the style-over-substance minimalist places I so thoroughly despise.

Chicago: A Drinking Town With A Football (And Baseball And Basketball And Hockey) Problem

Feast your eyes on this article from today's RedEye, the Tribune's younger, sassier, and for the most part vastly inferior bratty cousin. Illinois grabs the bronze medal for percentage. of adults who indulge in binge drinking..which in a way is something to be proud of, and in a way is pretty disgusting.

Bottoms up!

This Spring's Must Have Fashion Accessory

Let's face it...being a Lincoln Park Trixie isn't easy. Those $4 lattes sure put a dent in the Kate Spade pocketbook, and gas for the black Jetta is oh-so-expensive these days, with that like war in Iraq and all. So this year's trend in Trixie fashion is a relatively cheap one, but a disturbing one nonetheless.

I've noticed said item on many a bleached-blonde noggin around Chicago this early spring. Whether the wearer is rollerblading, slumming at Barney's New York in sweatpants and Uggs, or hopping in a cab after work to head over to the Multiplex, they're almost omnipresent.

It's a blue hat that sports the logo of a baseball team with a long tradition of mediocrity. A team that plays in a cramped and small ballpark packed to the gills with cell-phone toting yupsters. A team that once, just once got really lucky in the past century and now has no intention of ever living it down.

That's right, the current hat to have right now for the sophisticated Chicago female 20something is a Boston Red Sox hat. Extra bonus points to you, Trixie, if your hat looks like it's been through the wash a few times.

I don't get it. Most of these girls went to Purdue or Michigan State, not UMass or Boston College. They're from Wheaton or Schaumburg, not Worcester or Salem. Up until this year, they firmly believed the best ass in baseball belonged to Mark Grace, not Kevin Millar. But all of a sudden, they're on that damned Beantown bandwagon. Go figure.

So if the A's win it all next year, I wonder how they'll like kelly green?

Quotes To Ponder:

From Mark Stratton, baseball listguru extrordinaire, on how the beat-up Cardinals did everything right up until the Fall Classic:

"Yep. Sure did. Cardinals were pretty banged up, but since nobody was
bleeding in a sock, it wasn't a big deal."

And from UC Berkeley prof George Lakoff on the Democratic Party:

"Democrats moving to the middle is a double disaster that alienates
the party's progressive base while simultaneously sending a message to
swing voters that the other side is where the good ideas are."

Back with more later.

Take me down to the paradise city...

The IlkBlog generally doesn't bother linking to stories from the Old Grey Lady, especially now that William Safire's gone. But this piece about the Guns N' Roses album that isn't is definitely worth a read.

I've seen GNR twice. The first time was on the Monsters Of Rock tour in 1992, where they shared the bill at what was then Rich Stadium with Faith No More and Metallica. As a somewhat gawky and geeky 17-year-old, I was pretty scared of all the "headbangers" running around. But then the women started flashing the stage, and it was all good.

Second time was in the fall of 2002 at the Allstate Arena. Axl was bloated and dreadlocked, and came on stage in a Michael Vick jersey and sang 3 or 4 songs before he finally realized he was in Chicago and switched to the more familiar blue and orange #54 of Brian Urlacher. The band actually sounded almost the same as the original lineup, although Buckethead struggled mightily with Slash's solos.

Travesty Of The Day

Went to The Berghoff for lunch today. It's easily my favorite place to go for lunch in the Loop. It's truly an old school German joint--in fact, they are the proud owners of Chicago Liquor Control Board License #1, and the murals in the bar (which women were not allowed in until the 1970s) show scenes of people getting their tipple on after the repeal of Prohibition.

Anyway, as I was slathering my rye bread with mustard (yeah, I know) I noticed a placard on the table advertising their martini specials. Apparently, for 8 bucks you can now get a "Chocolatini" or a pink-colored "Cupid's Arrow" served to you. Yuck. You know that society is taking a turn for the worse when an institution like the 'hoff reduces themselves to serving froo-froo drinks.

Next thing you know, they'll have bruschetta on the appetizers menu.

Ilk's take: It's not a martini unless it's clear.

Ohhhhhhh Nooooo!

I never thought I'd say this, and I'm sure a lot of my fellow Sox fans are going to want to flay me after they read this, but Ron Santo belongs in the Hall Of Fame.

For years, I dismissed him as just another cog in the big blue Cubbie hype machine. I figured he was mediocre at best, and just kinda grew on fans the way that so many other Cubs do in their time at the brick and ivy Urinal. I thought he was just a sentimental favorite because of his WGN gig and all his health problems over the past few years.

Then I took a look at Ol'Ron's numbers.

20 years old and he cranks out 44 RBI in 90-something games batting at the bottom of the lineup? Not bad. In 14 seasons, he swatted at least 20 dingers in 11 of them. He hit 30+ homers 4 seasons in a row, and was a veritable lock for between 90 and RBIs in a season. Keep in mind this is the pre Bill Melton era, when third basemen weren't expected to be sluggers.

He led the league in appearances twice, especially impressive considering he had diabetes. He also made the All-Star team 9 times...back in the day before it became a popularity contest.

So whaddya say, Cooperstown? Howbout a little love?

Fire Up The Old Wireless...

Because baseball's on today, kids!

White Sox vs Rockies, 2 PM CST on ESPN 1000 or XM 179.

Figures, it's 20 degrees here today. Why do you tempt me, cruel mistress of fate?

It's Open Letter Tuesday!

Dear Androgynous Eurotrash Couple At Clark And Lake Thursday Night,

It's a CTA stop, not a perfume commerical. So there's absolutely no reason for the 2 of you to stand 10 feet from each other, text each other on your cellphones and then smile and giggle knowingly much to the annoyance of your fellow commuters.

Warm Regards,
Ilk


Dear Magglio Ordonez,

You're not playing in Cheek-ago any more. So stop thinking you are. No one gives a crap about your whining anymore. You're a Tiger now, time for you to see what 70 wins a year feels like.

Sox Pride,
Ilk

Dear Mike Barz,

Sammy's gone. Stop talking incessantly about him on the news every morning. You're gonna have to find a new ass to lick going forward. Maybe you should ask him in September what 70 wins a year feels like.

Oh yeah, and I hope your beloved Hoosiers win it all...in the NIT! On the other hand, I do envy you since you get to sit next to Robin Baumgarten in the morning.

Best Wishes,
Ilk

Dear Girls Who Swim In the UIC Pool,

Please don't swim in bikinis. It makes it really hard for me to concentrate on my laps. And it makes it even harder for me to stand up in the shallow end.

Cheers,
Ilk