Take a Culture Pill

The only thing I remember about high school chemistry is not the isotopes of hydrogen or balancing chemical equations, but the words of my Vietnam vet teacher Dennis Shutzenhofer: "All these things your learning about science, about chemistry, about physics; what do they mean in the real world? Nothing! Nothing at all, but at least you know it, and for that, you're more worldly than you were before this morning!" He used to tell us that daily, and we used to roll our eyes and moan and fail to really understand what it meant to be worldly.
     How many times have you had a conversation with someone that was so one-dimensional that changing the topic seemed not only awkward, but impossible? Probably more than you'd realize. And it's sad.

It's redundant to say, but we have more information at our fingertips today than in other time in the past, but with the luxury of instantaneous anything, comes those who expect it to be put in their lap. Unfortunately, we're not at that point; if we want to know something, there is still a small amount of digging to do. But isn't that the fun part?

There's a definite reward in reading an interesting article in National Geographic magazine, or watching a riveting documentary about Hurricane Katrina. Find something that interests you, and learn about it. Read a book. Write a poem. Watch a sporting event. Try a new cuisine. Do something you can talk about, and make sure you do, in fact, talk about it with somebody. When I worry about my peers, I don't worry that we're all becoming idiots. I worry that modern society is killing our passion. Ask a young person these days what they're passionate about, and just as often as you will get a good answer, you'll also hear something like: "I don't know, not much really. Hanging out. Uh..."
The reward has become so minimal for applying effort and following passion that younger people (though not exclusively us) are settling for mediocrity because it's, well, easy. And that is the sad truth that's rampant in our generation.

So for all those out there who can sustain conversation without references to celebrities and reality television, I commend you. You're alright with me.

Recommendations:

-Put down Us Weekly and pick up The New Yorker. Read, it's good for your brain.
-Visit a gallery opening. They're more often than not free, entertaining, and sometimes provide enough free booze for a good buzz.
-Check out more blogs. There is an enthusiast for every. single. thing on Earth.
-Go to a soccer pub and watch a live game on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Bring your drinking shoes.


Coming soon...Interview with local artist Nicki Valente

Open Letter

Dear Mel Gibson,

Whoa, hey! What's up sugar tits?! It's so good to have you back. God, I haven't seen you since you teamed up with M. Night Shyamalan and completely destroyed the mystique of crop circles for everybody (Aliens that dissolve in water, really?). So that makes it, what, like eight years? Might as well have been forever! And I haven't seen people this excited for a comeback since my man JC floated up to the heavens with a return ticket back to Earth. But dude, don't worry, you never left my radar. I totally followed your directing career. Passion of the Christ? Apocalypto? Saw 'em. And yea, loved 'em. (Nothing says epic like ancient guttural languages and lots and lots of blood!) You see, while many Americans don't like being bashed over the head with your uber-Catholic religious message, I freakin' love it. Hit me again! Again! All those critics who tried to tarnish your reputation by labeling you a holier-than-thou fanatic with an offensive agenda were probably just a bunch of fucking Jews, anyway. Right? Not only were your directorial escapades merited, they were inspiring. I mean, without someone like you to pave the way for filmmakers to saturate their work with gratuitous violence and gore, do you think Saw or, say, Hostel, would be the cult classics they are today? Uh, no. You're a pioneer, dude. And now you're back! And I don't even need to mention that little speed bump of a DUI you had because, well, we've all been there, Mel. For real, can't a guy just drink until he's in a cloud of whiskey vapor that has seeped from his pores, drive recklessly, and then insult his arresting officer with anti-Semitic and sexist expletives? COME ON! It's 2010! Everybody else is doing it!
So, I got to say, I am so super-pumped about your new thriller, Edge of Darkness. This is a totally new role for you; average joe family man has to protect those he cares about. This could be a breakout for you!
But let me be honest; can I be honest, Mel? I'm looking to the future. We all know that great comebacks don't really begin until the second act. So, man, what's next? A tragi-com about being a Jew? Braveheart 2? Back to back crime thrillers? Gawd, please say Braveheart 2! (crosses fingers)
Well, buddy, no matter what you do, just know I'm on board. No questions asked. I will beat down every Jew in Hollywood if it gets you on screen again. Because if I have to endure another hiatus like this last one, I'll probably grow up, and find myself way too old to have any kind of respect for you. So, let's strike while the iron's hot. Let's get out there and kick some ass! (In the name of the Lord, of course)

Oh, duh! Lethal Weapon 5! Man, I should've thought of that earlier!

KM Montgomery

Never Too Young for Wrinkles

Durable versatility doesn't just refer to Ford trucks anymore. Designers all across the board are making the oxford shirt even cooler than before. Many, from labels like J. Crew, Ralph Lauren, and Oliver Spencer have introduced a wash-and-wear oxford that looks just as good wrinkled under your favorite sweater as it does with a silk knit tie. The fabric is extremely durable and incredibly comfortable, and is a worthy investment any time of year. Hell, if they're on sale, buy two.


Recommendations:
Do: Try Algerian cuisine. Icosium Kafe in Lincoln Park is a delicious and all too affordable option.
Read: All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren. An overlooked classic by the Poet Laureate.
Go to: Chicagosgotstyle.com and peruse.

Lights Out, Chicago

Jet engines rattle the air over the Kennedy like trains 

in the sky, descending upon the humming fortress of 

O’Hare. The moan of a crawling locomotive, chug-chugging

 through the heart of Pilsen where the twang of a mariachi band 
floats out of bottom-shelf watering holes. Streets throb

 with the quiet of the Gold Coast, swing music whispers 

from a candlelight wine bar to walkers clacking in patent

 leather oxfords. Walls of glass high-rise make the Loop

howl like a wind tunnel. Taxis lay on their horns and squeal

 through red lights where cable cars used to chime. A green

 line train rolls above Lake Street like thunder, reverberating

 through cast iron for miles, rumbling towards the West Side.

 Silence settles around Wrigley Field like a fever. Exhausted

 taps in every pub drip dry and the black waves of 

Lake Michigan thump against concrete shores. Even while a city sleeps, it snores.

 Original poem © K.M. Montgomery