Lost Blueprint

TALK THE TALK

2007-10-19T17:00:00.000-05:00

by Razz Trumble

Need a primer on how to speak CTA-ese? Of course you do--language is dynamic and there is nothing more dynamic than the official language of a feckless infrastructure. The following is a list of curent CTA-isms with their definitions. Please be aware that certain phrases may change their spelling depending on context, tense, or mayoral whim.

WHAT THEY SAY: "Attention, passengers. We will be standing momentarily."
WHAT THEY MEAN: The train is on fire. Probably it's the last car. Probably, it has something to do with frayed wires, an electrical current, and an insouciantly tossed match.

WHAT THEY SAY: "A ___ Line train, toward the Loop, will be arriving shortly."
WHAT THEY MEAN: You can lean over the platform and look down the tracks for as long or as often as you'd like, but the train isn't really coming. We're just telling you that because we spent all our money on this really groovy PA system and we have to use it to justify the cost. When you're not around, we turn on the house music and the disco ball and have dance-offs.

WHAT THEY SAY: "There is another train immediately following."
WHAT THEY MEAN: The interesting thing here is, the next train will be packed with sardines. Not people packed into the cars like sardines, actual sardines. The sardines will be going to some warehouse on Fulton, so they'll need a transfer, and a bus. You are not allowed to ride in a train or a bus with sardines, that breaks all kinds of codes.

WHAT THEY SAY: "Due to construction, the _____ station will be closed. Our next stop will be ____ ."
WHAT THEY MEAN: When you're in the midst of a budget crisis while operating a mass transportation system whose mechanical operations were considered high-tech in 1924, the best thing to do is make it look pretty. Reconstructed lattice shelters at the south end of the platform will make everyone forget about the fact that the train falls off its own tracks. Especially important, we only rehab the stations on the North Side of the city. Honkeys love the rehab.

OUT THERE

2007-10-17T17:00:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee

They're out there, you know. Of course you do. You see them everyday. They look normal enough--humans in khakis, collared shirts, horizontal-striped t-shirts from The Gap. It's not an accident they all look the same. The clue is the ear pieces. "Ear buds," as The Marketers would have you believe. The Marketers would have you believe that those ear pieces are attached to "iPods" and that everyone who's been following you just happens to be "listening to music" or "podcasts."

First of all, why would you trust anyone who knowingly begins a proper noun with a lower-cased letter? There's your first clue. Second, do you really believe that millions of people would buy the exact same product and make use of said product all day everyday while doing the exact same activities as everyone else? We are humans, people! We have brains! Of course we would never behave like sheep. That's crazy talk! Besides, I think we all know that "trend" is a code word.

But The Marketers are not the probelm. The Marketers are just the front line; they're a bit profit hungry and socially decrepit, but not the real problem. The real problem is The Government. The Government is following you. The Government is waiting for you to fuck up, and not in a way that says, "I care." They are waiting for you to fuck up in a way that says, "I will get you eventually, you freaky freakazoid." Their powers of alliteration notwithstanding, They are pretty scary.

How will They get you? Let me tell you--The Soldiers aren't listening to music through those "iPods." You just think They are because that's what They want you to believe. They are listeining to Directions and Orders. There is a Bigger Plan operating Out There and The Soldiers are everywhere, taking orders, executing finely-crafted agendas. You don't really think all those people are actually wearing the same outfits, listening to iPods, and reading RedEye every single morning without a Bigger Purpose, do you? It's like sychronized swimming, these people, but sedentary. And commuting. Why would anyone do that? We all know that humans are a free thinking, original, nonconformist species. The synchronized swimmers with the ear buds cannot possibly be a coincidence.

So that leaves us with the question: Why? Why would They be out to get you? I say: Why would they not?

You know what you did.

MOVIE REVIEW: Eastern Promises

2007-10-10T17:00:00.000-05:00

by LuLu LaRue

Eastern Promises is a movie about naked hot dudes rolling around on the floor. Actually, there's just one naked hot dude that rolls around on the floor. And actually, it's just one scene where he's doing that. But the naked hot dude is Aragorn and he's bedecked with tattoos, and now we know for a fact that god exists.

Naomi Watts plays a goody-goody nurse, who's pretty annoying, but her hair looks like shit, so you gotta feel kinda bad for her. Also, she's playing a character who was written with no layers or motivation, so everything she does seems like she just woke up yesterday. She and Aragorn are in London. It's always dark. Apparently, a really, really big black cloud has taken over the city.

This other lady is pregnant, dies, the baby lives, is in the hospital, Naomi takes care of the baby all the time because, evidently, there are no other patients in this city hospital, and while reading the baby's mother's diary, wherein the Russian mob is implicated in various forms of horribleness that have, we are to assume, led to the mother's death, Naomi picks a fight with the mob, because that's what you do when you're a nurse--you pick fights with mobsters.

As you can imagine, the Russian mob in London is scared shitless of her. She does, after all, stutter a lot. Perhaps she was also thinking that if you stare at someone enough, they will wilt from your self-righteous gaze. But, no, the Russian mob has had extensive training in self-righteous-gaze avoidance, and so they carry on with their Russian mob business, which has something to do with a restaurant that has elaborate birthday parties for old women, lots of chocolate, and painful ways to die. Also, there's vodka.

Aragorn is hot as hell. He's also the #2 dude in the mob, except for the son of the #1 dude, but the son is a drunk and a bad actor, so hopefully he'll get a construction job in Idaho and move on. The #1 dude is a raging douchebag, tries to get the drunk son to drown the baby, the drunk son grows a conscience at precisely the moment when he's standing at the water's edge, at which point Naomi and Aragorn show up and stop him and then there's a touching scene where Aragorn and Naomi coo over the baby and then they kiss, because you are supposed to kiss strangers when you coo with them over a baby. Also, Aragorn is an undercover cop, so you're allowed to like him now.

There are a lot of close-up scenes of blood and chopped off fingers, which should give everyone great ideas for Halloween. Also, everything that was chopped off or bleeding looked like a wax candle with ketchup, which is quite original.

In the end, both Naomi and the baby are wearing white frilly dresses and the sun was out. This is great news, as I was terribly worried some sort of meteorological disaster had struck London. Aragorn does not show up in a white frilly dress. He does take over the mob, I think we are to assume. And that is the story of how the police and the criminals ended up bedfellows.

Wait until this movie comes out on DVD, then watch it when you're drunk and you're gonna pass out anyway.

MAYOR DEMANDS YEAR-ROUND SUMMER

2007-10-08T17:00:00.000-05:00

by Prissy McMouth

Record heat in the Chicagoland area has resulted in a shocked populace, running amok with mouths open in bemused O's. October, as everyone knows, is bear-down-Chicago-Bears weather, which includes, but is not limited to: wool sweaters, wool socks that smell bad, boots, hats worn for function not fashion, turned-up collars that are not a mocking gesture towards 80s preppies, and excessive complaining about an 8-month winter.

However, much of October 2007 has been more July-like than July. "I'm hot," Josephine Josephats told us, while waiting for the 151 in the Loop. "My pits are soaked."

Timothy Timolin, a landscaper for Our Plants R Better'n Yers, said, "I'm supposed to be sticking corn husks in these here planters, but the damn flowers are still bloomin'."

Meteorologists have attributed the continuous summer weather to a so-called "heat wave," which, according to graphical representation, is swinging its way across the country like a drunk conga line.

Much like "due diligence" and "habeas corpus," most Lost Blueprint readers know that "heat wave" and "country" are terms that are merely intangible apparitions. Our investigative team decided to invetigate the real reason behind the current currental drama.

Turns out, it's the city. Specifically, The Office of Make More Money (OMMM). Steven Stephenson, executive director of OMMM explained the origin of the germ of the idea thusly: "I was eavesdropping on two guys when I was in line at Corner Bakery. One of 'em was complaining about winter. The other one said, 'Yeah, but if it was summer all the time, we'd never get rid of the tourists.' Well, that got me thinking. Tourists seem to be biologically incapable of correctly utilizing a revolving door. However, they do drop a shit ton of money when they're in town."

Shortly thereafter, Stephenson presented a PowerPoint presentation to the mayor and the city council outlining the increased profit margin inherent in an extended summer. "This could quite literally wipe away any discussion of an 11% sales tax and demolish all arguments in favor of raising property taxes," Delores DeLores, 862nd ward alderwoman, told Lost Blueprint. "The problem I see with this plan is, what would we fight about if it passes?"

"I don't like it," John Johnson, mayor of Dumpsterville and 362nd ward alderman said. "And that bean in the park looks stupid, too."

After careful consideration, the council voted on Stephenson's proposal and approved it, 3,222 to 3. After votes were tallied, the mayor, surprisingly, gave a speech. "I will talk to God this week," he said. "We have a few other items to discuss as well. I need to hand over all those hot dogs from Hot Dougs that I promised Him after the Cubs lost. Best deal I ever made. Eat shit, northsiders . . . What? It is? WHY DOESN'T ANYONE EVER TELL ME WHEN THIS DAMN MIC IS ON?"

After a sip of water, the mayor explained that the extended summer should "make us all filthy rich." The extended summer is not expected to extend into the holiday season, so citizens of this fair city need not worry about losing their inalienable right to muck about in gray snow drifts that are as tall as the Sears Tower.

THERE IS NO JUSTICE, VIRGINIA

2007-07-03T06:00:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee

What are you going to do about it?

Have a happy holiday, America!

FROM THE "SO SLOW YOU'RE MOVING BACKWARDS" FILE

2007-06-22T14:03:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

The proposal reflects a growing belief that the use of the detention facility is tainting the image of the U.S.

THE BOXER

2007-06-01T19:40:00.001-05:00

by Paint Thompson

Carlos Zambrano is not pissed at Michael Barrett. He is merely considering a career change to boxing.

QUARANTINE--A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

2007-05-30T15:25:00.001-05:00

by Razz Trumble

That dude with that rare strain of TB, he's the first person to be quarantined since 1963. Or about then--I was reading the headline on someone's paper this morning and that's what I read, but then the train came, so maybe it was 1964 or even 1984, but, whatever, the point is, it was a long time ago when the government last quarantined somebody.

The precedent is set and now that this practice is back in action, let's use it. We should use it for all those people who exhibit a rare strain of stupid--the Sneezers Who Don't Cover Their Mouths, the Yellers Into Cell Phones, the Secret Farters in Enclosed Spaces. And of course, teenagers. Quarantine those monsters until they learn how to handle their alcohol.

No doubt the Democrats will scream rights violations at this, so let's apply quarantining to everyone--Bush, obviously, duh, stick him with the rare strain of stupid folks. Cheney--quarantine him, too, for being half-zombie and not even trying to hide it. Obama, Hillary, the ACLU. Just quarantine everyone, dammit, because I hate listening to people talk so much when I'm hungover and I'm always hungover.

GOD KILLS JERRY FALWELL

2007-05-16T06:52:00.000-05:00

by Prissy McMouth

Speaking from his penthouse office in the northwest corner of Heaven, God discussed his decision to end preacher/hater Jerry Falwell's life. "Too much yammering," God said. "You humans. Out of all the life in all the galaxies I've created, you humans are the only ones who can't figure out when to shut up."

A spokesangel for God excused the Almighty, citing a recent lack of creative energy and plumbing problems in the north wing as reasons for His blunt behavior. "But, really, we don't need to explain ourselves to you," the spokesangel told the press corps.

KURT VONNEGUT DEAD AT 84

2007-04-12T06:37:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

DAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMN
DAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMN
DMNADAMNDAMNDAMNDMANDAMN

THE DEVIL ALWAYS HUGS BEFORE HE EATS YOUR HEART OUT

2007-03-03T17:46:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Check out the picture with this article. You know what bushie is doing? He's using up all this woman's minutes so she can't call for help.

ANNA NICOLE SMITH IS DEAD

2007-02-09T09:46:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

Here is the headline on Yahoo this morning: "Why We cared About Anna." Subhead: "She persevered when others would have given up."

Using my sharply refined reporterly skills, I smelled a hypocritical rat and subsequently did a search of headlines about Anna Nicole Smith before she died. My search yielded the following descriptions of the former model: Gold digger, illiterate, pill popper, drunk, media whore, and one particularly harsh article that described her as "a train wreck of a waste of space."

So, gentle reader, here is the lesson to learn here: If you are suffering from an image problem and you are sick of people thinking you are a no talent ass clown, try death. It will do wonders for your image. It will elevate you from being the butt of everyone's jokes to being a strong-hearted human who perseveres through adversity.

And remember: The media loves you.

MOVIE REVIEW

2007-01-24T17:35:00.000-06:00

by LuLu LaRue

Perfume: The Story of a Murderer

SPOILER ALERT! I am going to summarize this entire movie, so if you are planning to see it and you enjoy discovering a story as it is told, you should now read another post on Lost Blueprint.

This movie is about this guy with bionic smellovision. He can smell mushy yellow fruit from miles away, although he's in Europe, so maybe he's smelling fruit from hundreds of hectometers away. Also, it's 18th century France, so everyone has really dirty fingernails and a passion for stockings and shoes with enormous buckles.

So one day he freaks out in Paris. (There's been a bunch of stuff up to this point, like his whole childhood, but really what you need to know is that there were maggots and nothing smelled good and most people that bionic smellovision dude spent time with had really bad teeth. And also, they died.)

So there's lots of smells in Paris, many of which are good, particularly this yellow fruit smell, which leads him to the first of many milk-skinned girls with saucer-shaped eyes and gloriously untangled red hair. He kills her. Then he sniffs her passionately. This is meaningful for him because of the whole bionic smellovision thing he's got going.

So then he hooks up with Dustin Hoffman who is wearing way too much white face powder and they make perfume but bionic smellovision dude kills the cat by trying to distill it and so then he goes off to Grass, which may be in Italy or possibly still France, I'm not sure, everyone was speaking English and I got confused. Was everyone speaking English in 18th century Europe? Does this mean America's current foreign policy is less invasive today than it was then?

Anyway, in Grass, bionic smellovision dude starts killing virgin women because apparently dead virgin women smell really good, especially when covered in animal fat and wrapped in cheesecloth.

Then he gets busted and he shows up for his execution in a blue, velour suit and, in keeping with the apparent style of English-speaking, 18th century France, a pair of shoes with enormous buckles.

There is a crowd waiting for him. They break into a spontaneous orgy. They're none too proud of themselves afterward. Bionic smellovision dude then walks to Paris (so, evidently, he was never in Italy, I don't know why I thought that, maybe the shoes?) where he toodles over to the alley of his birth, running into a crowd of street urchins warming themselves by a fire, who all take a long look at him then subsequently eat him. I am not making this up.

I think there was some business with a particularly aromatic handkerchief, which may or may not have possessed magical qualities.

So, to recap: Speak French in France, avoid shoes with enormous buckles, stay away from the alley in which you were born unless you prefer to be eaten, and I don't really know what to do with that whole orgy thing.

BEARS WIN

2007-01-21T17:21:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

DEEP GRATITUDE

2007-01-15T08:53:00.000-06:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Lost Blueprint wants to say, with all sincerity and a profound sense of mind-blowing respect, thank you.

BEARS WIN

2007-01-14T21:03:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

HOT DOGS OR BURGERS FOR YOUR SUPERBOWL PARTY?

Serve both, bitches!

CRIME CHICAGO STYLE

2007-01-09T18:00:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

Alderman Arenda Troutman has been busted for bribery, among other things. Nonplussed Chicagoans want to know, "When will that gaping pothole at Wells and Jackson be filled?" They also want to know, "Huh? WHEN?"

After an unofficial poll taken by Lost Blueprint interns wherein we interviewed Stan the security guard and that cute guy who works at the coffee place, we have discovered that the recent charges leveled against Troutman are not about criminal behavior. The problem, the population seems to believe, is the rules. Cute coffee guy said, "Aren't they [Ed: we're thinking he was referring to the politicians, but he's usually stoned, so maybe he meant the little green men hiding in the cream dispenser?] all a bunch of crooks? Why not just make being a crook cool? Problem solved." He followed with this gem of wisdom: "That'll be $3.25."

Anyway, let's face it. The real crime here isn't bribery. It's that hat she wore to her initial appearance in federal court.

NEWS RECAP

2006-12-30T17:20:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

1. These people died this week:
A. Gerald Ford
B. James Brown
C. Saddam Hussein
D. Various others whose names did not make it to headlines or sound bites

2. These things happened this week:
A. A Canadian ice cap fell off
B. Saddam Hussein was executed
C. I found the external volume control on my computer
D. It's 50 degrees in Chicago on December 30
E. Millions of environmentalists are freaking out because not only do they realize the mild temps are a result of global warming busting ass around the world with forest fire rapidity, but also, they are actually enjoying the mild temps. Oh, the guilt. The environmentalists say: Will somebody please think of the children?

3. Here are the things the pundits are discussing:
A. Crooked Chicago politicians
B. Why does Arnold Schwarzenegger make a brief cameo in that movie with The Rock that they just showed on channel 9 yesterday afternoon?
C. Bit of a deficit in the ole government budget

MIXED MESSAGES

2006-12-22T08:00:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble

I used to think that Steely Dan song went, "in the mornin you'll go runnin for the man who stole your wallet." I imagined some middle-aged dude, haggard and unshaven, tired from a full night of gambling at a darkened table in the back room of a restaurant in Vegas, off off the Strip, wearing a suit with a loosened tie, smelling of bourbon, smoking Pall Malls, the kind of guy who is perpetually pissed off and shows it by giving exceptionally annoying people very brief glimpses of the gun he keeps on his hip, the kind of guy who talks in monosyllables, if at all, and uses a gruff and scratchy voice when he does.

The Steely Dan lyric always made me think of this guy running out of the back room of the restaurant, surprisingly quick and catlike, chasing after some dunghead from the Midwest who sat in on the last game because the owner of the restaurant felt sorry for him and thought he had a nice face, but the dunghead was on a mission because he needed to make money quick because his girlfriend needed an operation to remove a tumor from her hair, which was causing her whole head to erupt in curly unkempt sparks from her follicles and this was inevitably causing problems at her job as a shampoo model and how could they have the twins they were planning on having if she lost her job as a shampoo model?

The dunghead from the Midwest had no marketable skills, except for baling hay, but he was in the West now, and there was no hay to bale and he wouldn't do it even if it was offered because HE WAS NOT HIS DAD'S CHILD ANYMORE, but neither was he a smart poker player, so when the gravelly-voiced guy with the gun at his hip took a leave of absence from the card game to go to the "john" and "see a man about a horse," the dunghead knocked the dude's wallet off the table and took off in a mad dash reminiscent of his final track meet in high school.

But the lyric isn't, "in the mornin you'll go runnin for the man who stole your wallet." The lyric is actually, "in the mornin you'll go gunnin for the man who stole your water." I suppose it's way more dramatic to be dehydrated than to be moneyless, especially if you're the gun-happy dude in Vegas, because, probably, you know people who can give you money, being a gun-happy dude in Vegas and all, but those same people might not have water. It's a desert, you know, Vegas is.

I also used to think Jimi Hendrix was saying, "'Scuse me while I kiss this guy." Which was nice, you know, the rocker dude banging out a killer song and stopping in the middle of it to kiss this guy he likes. So I always thought it was no biggie for one dude to kiss another dude because Jimi Hendrix is about as cool as cool gets and if he's kissing dudes, then kissing dudes is cool.

I also never thought I had these lyrics wrong because the first time I heard this song was when I was in the middle of a really intense and totally platonic love affair with F. Scott Fitzgerald and those guys he was writing about were always gay and smoking fags, which means they were really happy (rich) and smoking cigarettes and playing tennis, too, in clothes that were never anything but blindingly white, so you can imagine my surprise when I got to my first day of gym in high school and I found out that "smoking" a "fag" was something the creepy janitor did on weekends. Oh, these times, they are a-changin'. Anyway, I still don't see what the problem is with dudes kissing dudes. It's way better than dudes bombing dudes. But, whatever.

DELUSIONAL

2006-12-22T06:39:00.000-06:00

by PhD McGee

This dude's a fuckin nutter.

FUCK MONSTERS

2006-12-20T08:39:00.000-06:00

by LuLu LaRue

An academic and therefore reliable study has found that nine out of ten of you twinkie whores are having premarital sex. You godless freaks.

Seriously, I tease because I love. And when I say, "nine out of ten of you" what I mean is, "nine out of ten of us." The majority of us are having premarital sex. This is newsworthy. This is newsworthy because . . . the majority of us are doing it, but perhaps we don't know we're doing it?

Ha. Of course I know why this is being reported. This is being reported because there's nothing else going on. There's the war, but we already know all about that. There's the power shift in government, a new head of the Department of Warmongering, and a schizophrenic role reversal on the approach to the war we already know about. Obviously, it's best to report on the obvious. Plus, it's always helpful to report news that will make the Christian Coalition freak the fuck out.

You should also be aware that nine out of ten of us breathe air. That last one out of ten does not because he's a sexless automaton.

THE CTA CONSPIRACY

2006-12-15T08:42:00.000-06:00

by PhD McGee

You might think that day after day of train delays and reroutes on the CTA are a result of shoddy management or insufficient attention to preventive maintenance. But after yesterday, when two (2) lines were not running through the Loop during rush hour, I started to suspect a bigger, far more insidious, reason for the CTA's incessant breakdowns: Colors.

When the train lines were named after destinations, were there this many disruptions in service? Possibly. But researching that would destroy my theory so I'm not going to pursue it. My theory is this: Imagine you are a train car. You are the Brown Line. But you don't feel like brown. Every fiber in your squeaky, metal being tells you that you are not brown. You feel more tan or sometimes chartreuse.

Your misnomer causes you great stress. You become crabby. You bitch a lot. You start to wallow in your crabby crabtopolis. This causes the rails on which you run to dislike and eventually hate you. Finally, the rails upon which you roll and upon which you dump your crabby crabtopolis do what any self respecting rails would do: They implode.

Fires ensue, tunnels fill with smoke, lines close down. If you were named Ravenswood like you used to be, would you be the catalyst for this colossal collapse of service? No. No you would not.

The other theory I'm working on is the Republicans. It's just like these guys to try to undermine the public transportation system in a predominantly Democratic city. For the record, I also believe the Republicans are behind the odd and passionate need Rex Grossman has for tossing interceptions.

BEST BANDS OF 2006 THAT NEVER REALLY WENT ANYWHERE

2006-12-13T20:43:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble

As alert Lost Blueprint readers know, I am a musician. A rock musician. Although, depending on the season, sometimes I'm folk and other times I'm alt-country and that one time there was that ill-advised emo thing I had going, but then I stopped taking ecstasy. I'm also very punk when the occasion calls for it. Therefore, my former bandmates and I have compiled this list of the best bands we never really got up and running during 2006:

1. Frozen Cum Stains
Our punk band. We required two guitars, could only find one, and we probably could've used someone who could've played it. Frozen Cum Stains had an unceremonious breakup when Johnny decided he didn't like singing songs about "screaming." For the record, we never wrote a song about screaming, we wrote, "you should be screaming," because Johnny is so clueless we actually had to tell him how to sing. We fired Johnny.

2. Cooler by the Lake
Our jazz band. We had cool t-shirts: The Chicago skyline with an upright bass tilted insouciantly between the Sears Tower and Three First National. We broke up. Jazz is hard.

3. Whack Your Mole
Our rock band. We knew four chords, so, obviously, we were one up on Nirvana. Which was our problem, because Nirvana is this band from the early 90s, which was last century, and who the fuck cares about last century? No one, that's who. Also, guess what--no clubs wanna book a band that says in its press kit, "We play more chords than Nirvana." We broke up when Eric decided to show up for a show at a friend's party wearing full on cop-from-The Village People regala and the entire party liked it. That's when we started . . .

4. Boogie Swanksters
Our disco band. We were cashing in on the 70s revival thing. OK, and also, the chicks at the party that Whack Your Mole was supposed to be playing were really digging the disco. The problem with disco is, it's supposed to make people dance and yelling, "Dance motherfuckers!" at a crowd of drunk and stoned people who used to be your friends doesn't really do it. But that's not why Boogie Swanksters broke up. Boogie Swanskters broke up because I am philosophically opposed to synthesizers. They are not instruments, no matter how many times you say they are. You could also play a kazoo and say it's a flute, but then you'd just be a big, fat, dumbass, synthesizer-playing nonmusician. In bell bottoms.

BEARS WIN

2006-12-13T08:23:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Actually, they won on Monday, but I didn't get a chance to post this because I am just now coming out of my Miller High Life-induced coma.

GO BEARS!

DALEY RUNS AGAIN

2006-12-11T07:15:00.000-06:00

by Lost Blueprint Investigative Team

Mayor Richard M. Daley is expected to announce this afternoon his candidacy for his one bazillionth term of office. His platform: Flowers In Every Median. Many speculate this platform is part of an overriding city beautification project. However, the Lost Blueprint Investigative Team has uncovered information that suggests otherwise. Evidently, the Flowers in Median Campaign is the foundation for an ultimate ban on left turns, the logic being that if you can't see around foliage, why would you make the turn? For those of you who doubt this ask yourselves this: When was the last time you were aware of a left turn contributing heavily to a local political campaign?

WHY I HATE HIGH FIDELITY

2006-12-11T07:05:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble

The novel and the movie, even though I actually had a somewhat good time reading the novel, but probably only because I read it while at the beach and I used to associate it with girls in bikinis and other girls in bikinis rubbing lotion on themselves and that makes for a damn fine novel except that now, those dreams of creamy sunsoaked skin are completely obliterated because those fuckers who made the movie of the book parked on my street while they filmed that stupid fucking movie and by the way, that rain scene, where John Cusack is whining into a pay phone--it wasn't raining, it was a hose and it was sticking out of the second story window of Jinx and there's no motherfucking pay phone there, there was a bike rack, which got moved, so that the movie company, Assfucker of Movieville, Inc., could film a film that obligated them to set up twenty thousand vans and trucks along the street I lived on and which obligated some power hungry junky freakazoid "set guy" to scream at me one night when I came home raging drunk, riding my fixed gear, and decided to simultaneously skid the length of the street while yelling at Beau, the greatest drinker of whiskey who has ever lived, that InnerTown is NOT open at 5:30am no matter how many times and how hard you pound on the door and also, there isn't a damn person in this neighborhood that gives a shit that you left your favorite lighter on the pool table that afternoon.

The reason I am bringing this up now is that I just read a piece of cultural criticism about books and musicals and their similarities and differences in terms of their effects on the canon of Art and Culture, which made me think of High Fidelity, the musical, and also the musical of all that Billy Joel music with Twyla Tharp or Thorpe or maybe Sharp or whatever--the leggy dancer lady--and I thought, "My god, it's a trend!" and while none of this is technically a trend because a) none of it is happening right now; b) two does not make a trend; c) none of it is actually related in any way; and d) I'm biased because currently, I am contributing to this trend as I am in production for the musical version of "The Metamorphosis," where Gregor is not a dung beetle, but a mosquito, who wants to tap dance, but can't, because his family insists on him pursuing the lost art of interpretive dance, which he simply cannot get, being overly mosquito-esque and therefore unable to make up his own steps, despite his valiant attempts to do so, so instead of being stuck in his room out of sheer frustration from not being able to put his glasses on his head, he is instead voluntarily staying there out of embarrassment and then there's the happy scene at the end where the entire family realizes the importance of dance, any kind of dance, and peace reigns supreme; and so, as you can see, it is scientifically and artisitically creepy, this trend of making musicals, despite what they are based on, creepy in a way that reeks of an impending conspiracy much like the way I am pretty sure there is an impending conspiracy where world leaders are not real people, merely bobbleheads who are controlled by aliens who have a fierce sense of humor when it comes to bright, shiny things like bombs, which the aliens see as enjoyable, like fireworks.

The beauty of punctuation is that you can make one sentence go on until infinity, which works out well when you've stuffed your head so full of hallucinogenic drugs that periods have become physically, mentally, brutally, intimidating.

WHERE DID MYOPIC GO?

2006-12-08T10:53:00.000-06:00

by PhD McGee

I keep thinking it's still on Division so when I'm trekking over there, to that neighborhood, where I used to live, but don't anymore, I walk up and down Division between Ashland and Damen, muttering to myself because where the fuck is it? How do you hide an entire used book store? This is usually when my palms start sweating because when I want to read a beat up copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, I don't like to wait. A Kundera jones is an ugly thing to live through.

I can remember Myopic on Division because that's when I used to live right by it and I spent many days reading biographies of dead British men and The Art of War. It's when I lived in an apartment with six roommates and paid $100 a month for it and considered myself politically active because I read the headline on the Tribune everyday. I got through many days drinking Boones Farm and eating Ramen Noodles, which are nutritious, if you drink enough Boones Farm. I think I was also going through college at the time. And by "going through," I mean, "flunked out."

But now Myopic isn't there anymore. It's on Milwaukee, though I still find myself stomping down Division, looking for the eye, expecting the sign to jump out at me soon, wondering where that shoe boutique came from and why that bar has a red velvet rope in front of it and where the hell are all the fuckin whinos? When did it become safe to walk around here alone at night?

My friends say I'm living in the past, "like, way last centruy, dude," and by "friends," I mean, "voices in my head." And yeah, I know that I'm living in the past, but give me my daydreams because I used to live cheaply, eat hardly, drink often, and it was always summer and that's why I prefer to live in a world where Myopic is on Division.

Myopic Books. Your life will be way better if you go there right now and spend all your money.

FUCKING FUCKERS FROM FUCKERVILLE

2006-12-05T13:26:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

Yeah, so, I'm the one in charge of the Lost Blueprint World Domination Project. This is because I'm very responsible. It's also because I missed the last staff meeting. Anyway, this means I have to figure out ways to take over the world under the Lost Blueprint logo. Which we don't have yet. But once we do--oh boy, look out.

So, while scoping out the scene at Myspace, you know what I noticed? Technology, that's what. By which I mean, I like to do my stalking of hot guys on Myspace and now you know what they have? They have TRACKERS. Like, you can track where I am when I'm stalking you. You can track what page I hit before I got to you. You could probably track how many of your friends I'm stalking, too. This sucks. I mean, good stalking is wholly dependent on anonymity and this fucking technology doesn't allow for that and you know what I have to say to that? I say what the fuck. Oh, sorry, hipster techno freaks--I mean, WTF. Stupid technology.

FUCKING FUCKERS FROM FUCKERVILLE, PT 2

2006-12-05T07:35:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

We're considering changing our format to an alliterative-profanity headline format. Does anyone have a problem with that?

GO TO THIS

2006-12-04T15:35:00.000-06:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

2nd Story storytellers! Reading kick ass stories!

DETAILS:

The Stained Glass
1735 Benson Avenue
Evanston, IL 60201
7pm
Tuesday, Dec. 5
More info: http://www.serendipitytheatre.org/

BEARS WIN

2006-12-04T05:41:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

NFC North Division Champs.

That is all.

WE'RE MARKETING!

2006-12-02T06:31:00.000-06:00

Britney Spears!

Look:

Lost Blueprint

We don't have anything to say about Britney Spears. We just stuck her name in this post so we show up on searches. Neener neener.

RULES OF THE SNOW

2006-12-01T08:00:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble

Let's just say that last night you went out to see your friend's band play and accidently got caught up in a game of I Can Do More Shots Than You. That would make waking up this morning somewhat upsetting. It would make mucking through snow this morning pretty close to ungodly. It would also make you wonder why the online publication you work for insists on having an office when the editorial board has got to realize how much more efficient it would be to have a workforce that works from home.

Anyway, that's a point for the next staff meeting. For now, my assignment is to give you Chicago's Winter Rules. These rules are in no way endorsed by the Democratic Machine or any lackeys thereof.

1. If you were drunk last night, you should've kept drinking. If you went home and went to bed, claiming on the way out of the bar that you "have to get up in the morning," you're a dumb ass.

2. When walking on the formerly visible sidewalk, don't walk on the path that's already trodden. Metaphorically, this just shows you're an uncreative boob. In the interest of efficiency, however, if you walk on the line between the trodden path and the pretty, untouched side snow that is periodically punctuated with dog piss, you will be able to get stable footing and therefore move quicklyer.

3. You should wear boots. Why aren't you wearing boots? It's Chicago in the winter, you heathen freakazoid.

4. Stomp your feet whenever you reach unsnowed concrete. Doing this releases the excess snow that builds up on the soles of your footwear that could ultimately be your ticket to a snowy game of slip-n-slide; it also allows you to work out any frustrations you may have due to your employer's byzantine expectation of attendance, head-splitting hangover, or general disgust with your decision to stay in Chicago when all your buddies from school took off for the West Coast. In my defense, in summer, Chicago could kick LA's freaky ass inside out.

I need coffee.

CHECKIN OUT DA SHIT

2006-12-01T07:31:00.000-06:00

by LuLu LaRue

New column: What's happening on your idiot box and in the movies.

#1: Rocky #3,456 is coming soon. I predict Rocky will ultimately win the Big Fight after conquering crippling self doubt and possibly bankruptcy/loss of self respect/divorce/death of a loved one/severe alcoholism/messy accident with a power tool in the shed after a drunken night with the new manager.

#2: Charlie Brown's Christmas Special. This was on the other night. Did you see it? You should have, you pagan shithead. If you did see it, then you know there were moments of silence, which I thought had to do with the fact that my tv was made in the Paleolithic Era and is currently operating through a complex system of pulleys and little dinosaur-like animals who run frantically around a hamster wheel. As it turns out, no, my tv is actually operating on this brand new invention called electricity. And the moments of silence inevitably occurred after mentioning something religious like god, gratitude, chocolate cake, or christmas trees. Obviously, this was on ABC, the network that is the broadcast equivalent of the mixer in the bowl of religion and politics.

#3: Charlotte's Web is coming to theaters near you. I will not review this nor can I review this. I spent endless traumatic hours as a kid crying ruthlessly into my pillow because Charlotte DIES. THE SPIDER FUCKING DIES and I've never been so broken hearted in my young life as I was when I read Charlotte's Web. Except for when I went to see Bambi and Bambi's mother DIES IN A FOREST FIRE. Or maybe she dies and then there's a forest fire. Whatever. The point is, it's a wonder I still have eyeballs in my head.

INTERNATIONAL NEWS

2006-11-29T13:46:00.000-06:00

by Mandy Meander
International Correspondent

Lost Blueprint is expanding its operations and now we're going to cover international affairs and the people having them.

I was assigned to cover the Pope's trip to Turkey (the Pope--official motto: Stop fucking, pagans!), which would have been great if I could've actually traveled to Turkey or at least had a friend who traveled to Turkey and carried some sort of recording device and a press pass and who also had access to the entourage the Pope is no doubt dragging through Turkey and who also did not laugh like Beavis and Butthead any time someone said the word, "Turkey" or "Pope."

None of these things have materialized, however, which is going to make covering the story somewhat difficult. But only if I'm required to state facts, which I'm not. I'm required to make predictions.

I predict the Pope will fuck up again and say something rude and callous like, "I so don't get why you ass wipes are so pissed." I also think the state of relations between the Middle East and the West will gradually deteriorate in the coming months. Though, what shithead can't see that coming? I also think you should read this for a factually accurate account of the Pope's trip to Turkey.

BEARS, um . . .

2006-11-27T18:19:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

9-2.

Let's just not talk about it.

HERE COME THE HOLIDAYS

2006-11-22T18:52:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

I have been doing extensive research on holiday depression and I've found out a few very interesting facts.

First, the best way to combat holiday depression is to get really, really drunk for as long as you can. Please note, I am not saying as often as you can. I'm saying, start drinking now and don't stop until March. This will make the whole world seem kinder, gentler, and blurrier. And that's what you want for the holidays--blurriness.

Second, pass out as much as possible. Try to keep a bowl of mashed potatoes at your side at all times. It's the perfect cushion for a heavy head and the perfect holiday party accessory.

Third, and you may have to practice this, DO NOT PASS OUT FOR SO LONG THAT YOU SOBER UP! Sobriety is the enemy here and you want to fight it like, um, oh hell--insert current in-poor-taste-war-in-Iraq joke here.

What I'm saying is: Wake up drunk and keep drinking. You should practice this now because Thanksgiving is moments away and the subtle nuances among drunkeness, passed outness, and sobriety are chillingly minute.

Happy Thanksgiving!

AWESOME TV

2006-11-22T17:06:00.000-06:00

by LuLu LaRue
Media Watcher

Best TV of the week: Tyra Banks on her show discussing funky farts with Janet Jackson. Beat that, Charlie Rose.

TOP 3 REASONS WHY NEWSCORP DROPPED THE OJ PROJECT

2006-11-21T16:19:00.000-06:00

by PhD McGee

1. When they said they realized it was an "Ill-conceived project," what they meant was, "All our advertisers are pulling out so now we're not making any money."
2.OJ is particularly difficult to work with, especially since he insists on deleting the "If" in "If I did it."
3. OJ Simpson is so last century.

BEARS WIN

2006-11-21T16:12:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Oh, yeah. The Bears won on Sunday. The real question is: What food are you gonna have at your Super Bowl party? Huh? What?

WHO WILL BUY THE CUBS?

2006-11-20T11:50:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Wanna hear a joke? The Tribune company is selling off their assets and the Cubs are considered an asset. Ha! Ha! Isn't that funny?

Seriously, that's not what this column is about. The Cubs may be on the block and if they're sold for what they're worth, hell, I have $2.23 in change in my pocket.

Ha! Kidding! I tease because I love.

Anyway, we here at Lost Blueprint have spent quite a bit of time considering possible buyers for the Cubs and here's what we came up with:

1. Paris Hilton--because, like, ohmygod, Wrigley Field would make such a cool club. That's hot. Is this my real hair?

2. George W. Bush--obviously, this fucker's gonna be out of a job soon (and by "soon" I mean, "two years let's hope it goes fast"), so he'll need something to do. Except that if he buys the Cubs, he'll be living in Chicago. Oh, who are we kidding, if Bush buys the Cubs, Cheney would be running the show anyway. Except that means Cheney would be living in Chicago. Yikes.

3. The Wirtz family--Pro: they're Chicagoans; con: we'll never again see a televised Cubs game. Wait. Is that a con?

4. Bill Murray--Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease . . .

VERBIZING NOUNS

2006-11-17T18:38:00.000-06:00

by PhD McGee
Grammar Snob

Let's talk about using nouns as verbs. Sometimes, this works--like with "fork." As a noun, you can say, "I like to use a fork when I eat meat." As a verb, you can say, "I forked that pig in the eye until it fell over dead. Then I had bacon for breakfast."

"Wrench" is another good one. "I used a wrench to fix the pipes." That works. "I wrenched that piece of green bean out of my teeth and flung it across the room." That works, too. It's colorful.

However, some nouns are staunchly nounly and should have absolutely nothing to do with any other word form, especially verbs.

"Messenger" for example. Don't say, "When I messengered, there were no leave-your-bag buildings and I used to get stoned out of my head and jam through the Loop in winter after it just snowed during rush hour on a fixed gear and it was fucking amazing." See, that's bad. Not the inebriated fixed gear in a blizzard part. What's bad is you didn't "messenger," you were a messenger. You either are or you aren't. You don't do messenger. Unless you get lucky at a raging loft party, in which case, check back in a few weeks for my upcoming article on birth control.

Another case of felonious use of verbized nouns: "text." Don't say, "I texted you to pick me up from jail after they let me out, where the fuck were you, you asshole?" See, "text" is a noun, so there's no past tense of it. It's just there, in all its noun glory, a text in the past, a text in the present, a text in the future. You could say, "I sent you a text." Or, better, "I sent you a text message to tell you you're a freak from hell and stop stalking me." Although, maybe you shouldn't be texting a message like that. Maybe you should have your bodyguard Bruno deliver that one in person.

BEARS WIN

2006-11-13T09:11:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Right now I'm doing the happy dance where I roll my arms in front of me like I'm churning butter and with my legs, I'm doing the Irish jig.

Oh, and NBC? That radio ad you had on to promote last night's game, you know, the one with the guy with the fake New York accent trying to be confrontational but actually being passive aggressive, the guy who was continually saying, "fahgedabowdidt"? That was stupid.

SEE YA

2006-11-09T09:28:00.000-06:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Don't let the door hit you on the way out.

BEARS WIN

2006-11-06T08:16:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Oops.

Concert Review: Twilight Singers

2006-11-03T17:56:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble

I love Greg Dulli. I don't normally go for dudes, but I love Greg Dulli. If he were ice cream, I'd put him in a sugar cone and lick him. If he were hummus, I'd scoop him up with pita bread and eat him. If he were a lovingly-made microbrew from Wisconsin, I'd get drunk off a case of him. Well, two cases of him.

But that would mean I'd have to put an end to him and that would be the greatest tragedy to hit civilization since the invention of boy bands.

The CDs I have of the Twilight Singers are prettily produced. There's an aerial quality to them--layers of vocals and strings. But their live show at Double Door on Wednesday night was all balls out guitar crunching rock and screaming vocals and perfectly-timed background vocals and smashing drums and driving bass lines and it so fucking rocked I almost forgot to get drunk. I could listen to Greg Dulli scream into a microphone for the rest of my life, and I'm happy to say that on Wednesday night, I realized I could listen to the rest of that band play whatever they wanted to play on whatever instrument they wanted to play it for the rest of my life, too.

Mark Lanegan sang three songs. He sounds just like the singer from Screaming Trees, which is good, since he is.

The drummer deserves special mention since he just beat the hell out of that drum set all night and it was so good I kept bebopping around the Double Door like an electrified fish.

Cover songs thrown into the mix throughout the night:
Amazing Grace (!)
She Loves You (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah)
Killing Moon

The only bad part of this show is that it ended.

To summate, drink beer. And go see the Twilight Singers.

Why Is My Mood Ring Always Black?

2006-11-01T18:49:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth

1. Because it's dark at 5pm so I fall asleep at work, which hurts my neck
2. Because the Dan Ryan construction project is going to be finished ahead of schedule and I placed a bet with my bookie that it'd be three weeks overdue
3. My bookie is annoying
4. The Bears are undefeated and I bet that they would've lost two by now
5. My bookie is annoying
6. I may or may not have a gambling problem
7. My choice for governor in the upcoming election is either a slimey incumbent with nebulous, possibly nefarious, ties to corrupt campaigning or a smokey-voiced makeup-challenged challenger with former, possibly current, ties to an indicted felon
8. I've seen the slimey incumbent jogging in my neighborhood and it makes me never want to eat again
9. The amount of time I spend on the Brown Line staring out at the North Side is approximately the same amount of time it's been since the Cubs played well enough to make it to the post season
10. The race for Cook County Board President so closely parallels a Greek tragedy and so forces the word "nepotism" out of the mouths of people who normally would not say the word "nepotism" that I actually considered voting Republican and in the three seconds it took me to register this thought my body convulsed at which point I promptly regurgitated my breakfast, which really pisses me off because I hate it when I pay good money at Denny's for a plate of Moons Over My Hammy and don't get to enjoy it.

BEARS WIN

2006-10-30T16:57:00.000-06:00

by Paint Thompson

Again.

This would be boring if it wasn't SO FUCKING COOL!!!

BLATANT SELF PROMOTION

2006-10-27T15:46:00.000-05:00

By Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Somebody who writes for this blog will be reading this weekend and it will be a spectacular event and all should come to see it!!

OK, the truth is, she lied to a priest and now needs to absolve herself of the guilt. Save a girl's soul, people!

COME TO: Serendipity Theater Collective's 2nd Story at Webster's Wine Bar!

Sunday, October 29, 2006, 7pm
Webster's Wine Bar
1480 W. Webster
Chicago

It's a night of storytelling and general good vibeness. And wine!

Here's the link for more information: http://www.serendipitytheatre.org/.

2006-10-24T14:30:00.000-05:00

Check it out now before they change the home page!

WE LOVE OUR NAME IN PRINT.

LOST BLUEPRINT

LOST BLUEPRINT

LOST BLUEPRINT

HOLY SHIT

2006-10-18T09:20:00.000-05:00

The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board strongly supports the brain-crushing wonderment that is Margaret Atwood. Read this article by Joyce Carol Oates and your eyeballs will fall out. Yes, these two women writers REALLY ARE THAT INTELLIGENT AND PROLIFIC.

Like we said, holy shit.

WE MISS $1 HUBERS

2006-10-17T15:06:00.000-05:00

We're with you, Beachwood Reporter. And now we're sadly missing really drunk nights watching really loud punk bands. Shit.

LISTEN TO US

2006-10-17T10:03:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Frequently, the Lost Blueprint Editorial Board scours the internet looking for quality words and stories and topical topics of news. We are also elite-level procrastinators and that skill demands practice.

In the course of our trolling, we have found the following gems: Every Monday, PostSecret gets updated. Good stuff. Check it out.

We found PostSecret through the delightful Word. Thanks, Mr. B.

BEARS WIN

2006-10-17T07:02:00.000-05:00

by Paint Thompson

Um . . . huh. Okay.

TRAVELOGUE: DOOR COUNTY, WI

2006-10-16T11:20:00.000-05:00

by Mandy Meander

It's fall. So, we went to Door County because all the magazines are doing it and we're trying desperately to keep up with everyone else.

Here's what you should not do in Door County:

1. Don't go in to the local tavern and yell, "Bears rule!"

2. Don't go in to the local antique store and say, "Door County is so quaint, but I wouldn't want to live here."

3. Don't pull in to the parking lot of the general store, get out of your car, look around at the other cars, and say, "You know, those American cars are going to fall apart about thirty seconds after the warranty runs out."

4. Don't get back in to your Japanese car after saying #3.

REDMOON ROCKIN'

2006-10-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board introduces guest blogger M. Mark Malarky, who was kind enough to post the following report from somewhere on the West Side.

M. Mark Malarky
Guest Blogger

First of all, I must acknowledge my gratitude for this honor, being the premiere guest reviewer for an internationally recognized publication such as this. I have been an avid reader for over ten years. I do receive the international edition by snail mail at my house in Ouagadougou.

Recently, I was on tour for my nineteenth book, BUSH SUCKS ASS, a hard-hitting, factually strong overview of the current U.S. administration, when I was lucky enough to stop through the Windy City. My entourage and I decided to take in the local color and, boy, did we hit the mother load: Redmoon Theater’s Spectacle ’06: Twilight Orchard in Columbus Park.

It was truly the most astounding bit of whimsy I have seen in recent years, and I do not take whimsy lightly. How shall I describe the fantastical mood? I shall say that I was permitted entrance into Alice’s looking glass that happened to be held by funky Wicker Park folks. That is what I shall say.

Among bonfires and distant organ music, we watched a man chart the stars through a telescope made out of popsicle sticks. We watched a dune buggy with a boom holding a disco ball follow two crotchety men with a portable chessboard scurry around the park while continuing to play. We watched a lady wasp dance with a gentleman beetle in a ballroom built amongst the trees. And, the highlight of the evening was Danielle Paz’s ingenious “Inflatable Flight,” a bright white lady-bird in her own enormous nest. I wish that I had a picture of her Marie Antoinette-like glory. Unfortunately, my personal photographer, Jean Claude Finkelstein, brought his flask to ward against the nip in the air, and this is the only shot not including his fingers or his dreadlocks:

Yes, that is a fish-lady with a bucket under an umbrella. She moved very slow and so I say she did her job as a fish.

And in conclusion, I must give this theatrical bonanza a hardy thumbs up and recommend to you lucky Chicagoanites that you follow Redmoon wherever they should wander. GO NOW!

BEER FOUNTAIN

2006-10-11T18:26:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee

LINCOLN SQUARE--The fountain in this quaint and alcoholic neighborhood recently started spouting beer. According to Alderman Whatsits, the change from water to beer was decided upon because, "German Fest was such a success, we wanted to offer the fun and exuberance to the neighborhood on a long-term basis."

We interviewed a few of the regulars who hang out on the Square, Regular Squares as we at Lost Blueprint like to call them, and here's what they had to say:

Joe: I think it's imported.
Bob: I think it's got too much head.
Mary: HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Hortence: Beer sucks.

BEARS WIN

2006-10-09T06:42:00.000-05:00

by Paint Thompson

5-0.

I'm thinking of two words . . . they rhyme with Pooper Poll . . .

Lost Blueprint Gets Its Politics On

2006-10-05T20:09:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Bush, Condi, Cheney, and Rummy showed up at the Federal Building's plaza this afternoon, just in time for the World Can't Wait protest in their honor. They have big heads.

The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board chooses not to protest this administration. Instead, we offer a challenge: We challenge the president to a bicycle race. A 200 meter, 2-up sprint on the road of the president's choice, excluding all roads in the Middle East. If the president wins, we continue on with the Twilight Zone version of the Mission Accomplished charade. If the Lost Blueprint Editorial Board wins, we treat leaders of other countries with respect and mandate that the second syllable in America be pronounced properly.

And don't try to intimidate us, Bush. We don't care if you rode around your ranch with Lance Armstrong. We know you were using training wheels.

Yeah. That's right. We said it.

An Interview with the CTA

2006-10-04T09:48:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee

Ever exit a CTA station during rush hour and wonder to yourself if you're a human or just one piece of a livestock puzzle? Well, I have. So I took my questions about CTA exiting to a nameless CTA representative and found out the following insightful insight. The following is transcribed from an interview that took place last night at the bar.

Lost Blueprint: I take the el. In the morning, it's crowded. It takes longer to get out of the station than it takes to cross the Atlantic Ocean on a raft. Why?

CTA Nameless Representative: Well, there are more people than space so everyone is required to walk slowly.

LB: Is this some sort of government-sponsored, sci-fi experiment to see how we'll react to overcrowding?

CNR: Yes, actually it is.

LB: I see. So, are we to believe that we are being watched while exiting CTA stations during rush hour?

CNR: Not yet. We have yet to install the proper technology to adequately spy, um, I mean, watch out for your safety . . . we're currently trying to figure out how to install those big face freaky fountains from Millenium Park in all the CTA stations. Those things are great spying apparatuses. Apparati?

LB: Try "apparati," it sounds cooler.

CNR: So, anyway, if you could alert your readers to the fact that if they moo like cows upon exiting a CTA station, especially during rush hour, they have a better chance of appearing on CTA TV. Also, we would appreciate the free plug.

LB: Will do. And thanks for the insightful insight, CTA person. Next round's on me.

Post Script: A Lost Blueprint investigation of the spying apparati behind the big face freaky fountains at Millenium Park is underway.

Starbucks Takes Over Chicago

2006-10-04T09:43:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

You can laugh while you learn how Starbucks is going to take over Chicago. Thanks to The Beachwood Reporter.

But seriously, Starbucks is going to take over Chicago.

Shhhh . . .

2006-10-02T12:08:00.000-05:00

by Paint Thompson

The Bears are undefeated. Shhhh . . . don't talk about it . . . don't jinx it . . .

Movie Review with LuLu LaRue

2006-10-02T11:51:00.000-05:00

by LuLu LaRue
Movie Critic, Kinda

Movie: "Friends with Money"
:) :) out of :) :) :) :) :)

Here's what I learned from "Friends with Money":
1. If you are a major pothead, you should hang out with like-minded potheads because nonpotheads will talk about you behind your back
2. If you are a major pothead who just quit your job and you have to scam samples of face lotion from beauty counters, maybe you should spend less money on weed
3. If you have $2 million to spare, don't talk about it with people who don't have $2 million, spend it you dumb fool
4. If you are building an addition to your house, alienate your neighbors before construction begins so that you don't have to wonder why they hate your guts during construction

I'm sure there were other lessons to learn in the movie, probably some existential things like how we relate to each other and how life eventually works itself out, but I think the most important lesson was: wash your hair.

LuLu LaRue gives this movie two smiles out of five. Good enough to watch when there's nothing else available, but maybe not so great if you have a chance to watch a rerun of "Lost."

Aboot Toon

2006-09-29T19:00:00.000-05:00

by Prissy McMouth

Some niblets of fun going on around Chicago this weekend and next week. So much to do, it demands the use of exclamation marks! Check it out:

* The Chicago Historical Society is no longer a society, now it's a museum, The Chicago History Museum! Identity crisis? Pshaw! Go be museumful at their Grand Reopening!

* Cool Redmoon Theater coolness--orchards, twilight, tree houses, only 7 days!

* Occidental Brothers jamming, man. At The Charleston! Saturday night!

* Reading Under the Influence--get drunk, get stories told to you, hear Megan read her cool shit! Wednesday, Oct. 4.

* The Dollar Store--more stories, more alcohol, more FUN! Claire Zulkey's reading!

The world is your oyster, people, go eat it. We mean, go eat it!!

Why Aren't the Sox in the Playoffs?

2006-09-29T18:58:00.000-05:00

by Paint Thompson

It is absolutely shocking to this reporter that the glorious Chicago White Sox are not in the playoffs. According to a Chicago White Sox representative that I did not interview, the reason the team is not playing in the post season is, "Because we're not. Geez."

More insightful comments came from the following people I did interview:

Mike in the mailroom: "Relief pitching. The relief pitchers fucked up."

Sheila in the cafeteria: "Honey, they just kept messin' up. And they had that string of bad luck back, when was that? Well, they had that string of bad luck. And that candy bar ain't free, you know."

Jeremy, officemate: "Who cares? Cubs rule!"

Clearly, Jeremy is a monster.

2006-09-20T10:05:00.000-05:00

The Stunning Conclusion of "They Shoot Messengers, Too" Is Now Posted on Cracked Black Pepper. Check It Out.

2006-09-18T11:57:00.000-05:00

"THEY SHOOT MESSENGERS, TOO"

PART THREE

JUST POSTED ON CRACKED BLACK PEPPER!

FRESH FICTION!

2006-09-16T09:21:00.000-05:00

PART TWO OF "THEY SHOOT MESSENGERS, TOO" NOW POSTED ON

CRACKED BLACK PEPPER

2006-09-13T19:02:00.000-05:00

"THEY SHOOT MESSENGERS, TOO"

PART ONE

NEW SHORT STORY

POSTED ON CRACKED BLACK PEPPER

Apparently, Jesus Loves Us All

2006-09-08T21:12:00.000-05:00

by Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board was recently informed that Jesus loves us. This is good news as we were quite concerned about a Higher Being and His Love For Us.

This profound and imperative information was dispersed via a very passionate woman dressed in a pink suit who embarked on Brown Line run 417 on Thursday evening, Bible in hand, passion in eyes, voice proud and loud.

According to the pink-suited woman, Jesus loves fornicators, drug abusers, and adulterers, all of which the pink-suited woman has been at one time or another. The pink-suited woman also wore black nylons with slip-on Adidas flip flops, so the Lost Blueprint Editorial Board is sure the woman spoke with Jesus on a regular basis.

Before launching into her resonant and melodious readings from the book of Ezekial and the book of Corinthians, the pink-suited woman informed the car of Souls Yet To Be Saved that she did not come to our places of work and "mess with" us, so she expected us not to "mess with her at her work." The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board can confirm that, no, the pink-suited woman has never, at any time, come to the Lost Blueprint office, nor has she ever "messed with" the Lost Blueprint Editorial Board, or any employees, freelancers, or contractors of Lost Blueprint.

The pink-suited woman concluded with a sing-song blessing wherein we were all told "there is still time" and we are all loved by Jesus. "Thank you," she said, wiping her forehead, "I gotta transfer to the Red Line now. I gotta rest for tomorrow." And off she went.

The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board, with its collective, critical, cultural eye, has come to the following conclusions:
1. The pink-suited woman really, really loves Jesus
2. Jesus's insistence on loving fornicators, drug abusers, and adulterers suggests that perhaps Jesus should start looking for a new circle of friends
3. What are you so passionate about that you would sing about it on the el during rush hour?

Finally, to the girl who cracked her gum throughout the entire sermon, you are so going to Hell.

2006-08-30T18:53:00.000-05:00

Fresh fiction posted on Cracked Black Pepper.

Read fiction. It's like vitamin C for your imagination.

Leggings

2006-08-07T14:21:00.000-05:00

by Suzanne Puffingworst
Fashion Consultant

The fashion magazines will tell you that leggings are in style and that you should wear them. The fashion magazines are lying to you. Don't wear leggings. They make you look like an idiot.

It's Very Important You Have an ID

2006-07-28T08:57:00.000-05:00

by Mandy Meander
Worldwide Traveler

Grammar and $9.99 shoes collide in this episode of "What Happened While Scoping the Heels at the Shoe Store."

The sign outside the shoe store is a long white banner with red lettering and it screams, "ALL SHOES $9.99." In all my travels through all the world, I have never seen a sign more welcoming than one that screams shoe sale.

The storefront is under scaffolding, apparently construction crews are wrestling with a brand new condominium building and thank god since there are never enough of those around. The scoffolding provides much shadow and dark as you enter the store and this seems to cast a somewhat illicit feel to the place. Walking in, I felt as though I was about to commit a crime, or perhaps hang out with people who have already committed a crime. Kinda like going to the back room in a bar where heavy-set men in silk shirts throw $100 dollar bills on rickety wood tables and laugh hysterically at really bad jokes.

There are rows and rows of shoes in this place. They are organzied by size, printed in red lettering, on squares of paper at the top of each shelf: 6, 6 1/2, 7, 7 1/2, 8 . . . shelves of shoes filed up and down rows and wrapped around the walls. At the counter, there are three women with four boxes of shoes. The man behind the counter is punching in numbers on what looks like a cash register but may be an abacus. He is saying, "But what if something happens to you? They will not know who you are without an ID. You always gotta expect the unexpectable."

The women, for their part, are nodding agreeably, looking as though they are hearing only every other word the man is saying, but concentrating very heavily on the boxes of shoes. I can see only one pair--two inch heels, lime green, buckles around the ankles, feathers over the buckles.

"And you're travelling," the man says. He is pudgy, he has a south side Chicago accent, black stubble on his chin, a fat pinky ring and much pomade in his hair. "You never know what could happen when you're travelling. What would you do if you got into some kind of accident and you were so bad off no one could recognize you? You would need an ID. You have to have an ID. You should always have one with you, you know, 'cuz you gotta expect the unexpectable. You never know what can happen."

The women, for their part, do not seem particularly affected by this. They are quite taken with the four pairs of shoes. I cannot blame them, I mean, we are talking about lime green feather buckles here.

"What if someone beat you up so bad and you're in this strange city and they need to identify you and they can't find an ID? Huh? You always gotta have an ID. You always gotta expect the unexpectable." The man is putting the boxes of shoes in a very large plastic bag. The women seem to be oblivious to the fact that they are currently receiving a lesson in scare tactics, paranoia, and four pairs of heels all for the low, low price of $40.

At this point I start to smell the burning of a hot glue gun. The same smell that I remember from girl scouts when I lost interest in my craft project and started staring out the window at the dog in the backyard. I glance around the store. I suddenly realize that every pair of shoes in this place is suspiciously similar--perhaps the heels are shorter on one pair than another, or the color is purple instead of lime green, but they are all very pointy shoes and they all have buckles and they all seem to have dried glue near the big toe on the left shoe. I am starting to hear the theme song from "The Twilight Zone."

". . . and there are criminals all over the place," the man behind the counter is saying, "they don't care if you're from here or not, but since you're not, you should have an ID with you. You never know what could happen. You gotta expect the unexpectable . . ."

The women have taken hold of the plastic bag and are nodding at the man now, though I think it's possible they may be looking past him at the row of nylons hanging in pretty packages on a rack behind his head. I make for the door before they can turn and walk out before me. I do not want to be stuck in hot glue gun shoe store with Mr. Paranoia and his roving band of bad grammar. I am almost to the revolving door when the women turn and walk out ahead of me and the man catches my eye and says, "Anything I can help you with?"

I stop just short of the door and turn towards him. "I expect the unexpectable," I tell him. His smile is satisfied, I think, much like a teacher who has just taught a really important lesson.

I say, "I think the smell of burning glue mixed with the insistence of using words that do not exist makes for an unpleasant shopping experience." He does not seem to know what I mean, given his cocked head and his still smiling smile and his eyebrows crunched into that question mark expression.

I am out the door and milling through the crowds in the Loop quickly and surreptitiously, like a snake, like a spy, like someone who has just narrowly missed the crushing blow of the ultimate hell: bad grammar and poorly-made shoes.

One More Problem Solved

2006-07-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

PhD McGee
Conspiracy Theorist

Alert Lost Blueprint reader Peter Tapper has written the following letter:

Dear Mr. McGee,
I occupy cubicle #43 on the ninth floor of a 30-story office building. I have noticed a disturbing trend at work lately; namely, that nothing works as it is supposed to. To wit:

Why does the vending machine regularly eat my money without dispensing a can of pop?
Why does the bathroom door always stick when I really need to go?
Why does the water fountain only spout water when I'm sticking my eye into it to see why it's not working?
Why does my computer freeze every 6-7 minutes, but free up whenever I threaten to throw it out the window?
Why is the bag of Doritos I paid for last week still dangling insouciantly from its shelf in the snack machine?

Am I working in the Bermuda triangle of office buildings? Please dispatch help.

Sincerely yours,
Peter Tapper

Well, Mr. Tapper, I have dispatched help, though you probably did not know it as I am as stealthy as I am intelligent. Last week, I entered your office under the protection of what is known in the sleuthing world as a "disguise." Yes, that seemingly mild mannered, six-foot tall chicken with the Chicago White Sox t-shirt and the basket of muffins was indeed me. There is no need to thank me, I am just doing my duty. And here is what I found out:
1. Never go into the women's bathroom dressed in a chicken suit. Apparently, women have a problem with large poultry
2. Your vending machines do not work because the slot is too small for a hand to slip through (or, in my case, a chicken's claw to slip through)
3. Walking around a quiet office yelling, "Muffins for the world!" will get you a quick date with security
4. Your computer freezes up because of, duh, the government
5. I did not have a chance to check out the water fountain, but will do so right after my arraignment

Meeting the Queen of Mediocrity

2006-07-14T12:00:00.000-05:00

by Paint Thompson
Guest Blogger

Today we are sitting with the queen of mediocrity, Vivian van Vivigem. Perhaps you know Vivian from such brilliant defeats as Girl #3 in the hardly seen film, "Justice Has A Way of Blowing," or as Nurse in the film, "I'll Kill You After I Gouge Out Your Eyeballs." Unknown as much for her acting as her painting, interpretive dancing, and creative use of balloon animals at parties, Vivian has recently turned her talents to sports. It's quite possible you've seen her at the Montrose Avenue tennis courts getting nailed by flying green balls, or at the Welles Park pool sinking stunningly in the deep end.

Paint Thompson: Vivian, explain your latest adventure.

Vivian van Vivigem: It's referred to as cycling, but really it's just bike racing.

PT: Tell us how you got started.

VVV: I stole a bike. Then I had to get on it when the owner started chasing me. That's when it occurred to me that there was a whole culture I had yet to break into with my astounding mediocrity.

PT: Tell us your philosophy of mediocrity and how you've come to be so good at being so average.

VVV: You can't just be mediocre, you've got to want it. You have to practice. When I was acting, could I have gotten one of those lead roles? Yes, certainly. But you've got to stop yourself. You have to recognize that going-for-it spirit and squash it. You have to train for it.

PT: So, how does this philosophy apply to your newest adventure?

VVV: It doesn't. Cycling is difficult and I suck at it, so I actually have to try hard to reach mediocre. It's been quite an eye-opening experience for me. Whereas I usually set a goal and stop when I've reached the half-way mark, now I am actually pushing myself to reach the goal.

PT: Sure, but, what if you push too hard and end up on the other side of mediocrity, heading for good?

VVV: Huh. Good question. I am known as a goal achiever . . .

PT: . . . and passing up mediocre and heading towards good would certainly upset many of your fans who have come to depend upon your consistent averageness.

VVV: Yeah, well, they're losers. The more interesting issue, I think, is what does one do when one is inadvertently good at something? Suppose I race this weekend and I win. What does that say about who I am and my place in the world?

PT: It says you're a winner.

VVV: It also says the other racers are losers. My fear is that I get too good, you know, become the best, and then what will I have? No more Queen of Mediocrity, I can tell you that. Think of the terrible loss in sponsorship dollars.

PT: Perhaps you should quit.

VVV: Perhaps.

NEW FICTION ALERT!

2006-06-02T06:47:00.000-05:00

NEW FICTION POSTED ON Cracked Black Pepper! CHECK IT OUT.

Support the arts.

Pigeons

2006-05-15T11:00:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee
Conspiracy Theorist

Pigeons.

They tap dance around you like they are trying to be entertaining, but certainly their little tappy toes are doing more than tapping out the funky back beat of some funky pigeon rock song. They are quite clearly communicating something--perhaps to each other, perhaps to those of us enlightened souls who choose to listen to what pigeons have to say.

I used to think pigeons were a conspiracy unto their own; an avian cult, if you will. But now I realize they are really working for the government.

Just this morning I saw two pigeons tappy tapping their little tappy bird feet on the platform of the el and I realized in horror that they were in fact tapping out Morse code. Silently I waited for the words to come to me (I am an expert Morse code encoder. I have a t-shirt that says so. And a Morse code encoder ring).

I waited for one train to pass. Then another. The groups of people on the platform ebbed and flowed as the morning crowds slowly changed from commuters to losers without jobs. I waited while the CTA man came and cleaned out the garbage bins. I lifted my legs as he swept under the bench I was on. I watched the traffic light below change from green to yellow to red maybe fifty or sixty times. And still, the pigeons sat tappy tapping their little tappy toes while I assiduously and mentally documented their message:

Pigeon #1: Government eavesdropping. Finding not much.
Pigeon #2: Americans very concerned with American Idol results. Massive economic push to spy on people who are up to nothing.
Pigeon #1: I love it when people litter.
Pigeon #2: Me too, popcorn kernels are best.
Pigeon #1: Really? I can't eat popcorn kernels, makes me constipated.
Pigeon #2: Too bad, they're good.

Concert Review: John Butler Trio

2006-05-05T15:00:00.000-05:00

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

Finally, the Editorial Board of Lost Blueprint has unlocked the chastity belt around the finances and doled out some fundage so that this writer could actually do his job. Geez. Despite the fact that I had to arm wrestle The Blog Host to get the cash, I am happy to say I can finally honor my contract and tell The Readership all about a really great show.

Also, this is being published well after the date of the show since the Lost Blueprint Editorial Board has been very busy revising its mission statement. They are preeminent, they can do that.

The John Butler Trio is from Australia. I did not hear one person say anything about shrimp on the barby, most likely because we were watching the show in Chicago at the venerable Vic theater. I did hear someone say, "Did he just announce the final score of the Cubs game?" This was an unanswerable question as all dialogue between JBT and the audience came in the form of indistinguishable garbling.

But none of us were there to talk. We were there for the music, and that came through loud and clear. The John Butler Trio has jam band tendencies, but they're not annoying about it and they're really good musicians so they can get away with it. The drummer rocks. There was an upright bass. Lots of yummy layered music. Cool lyrics. Audience participation--the best when Mr. Trio sang "Peaches and Cream" and then let the audience finish it off by singing the refrain ("All I know is that I love you . . . "). It was moving. An entire venue of people singing I love you is good. It was a religious experience.

They played for two hours. I wanted them to play longer, but probably they were tired and also, I didn't have any more money for beer. The show was sold out. If you get the chance to see these guys, you should jump at the chance.

LuLu LaRue With Your Movie Review

2006-04-30T10:48:00.000-05:00

by LuLu LaRue
Movie Reviewer

Movie: "Derailed"

OK, if you don't want to know the ending of this movie, stop reading.

This movie is so dumb I had to wait to the end just to see how dumb a movie it could possibly be. Why is there enough money in the world to make dumb movies and not enough money in the world to fund the public school system?

This movie is about one big con. But the con artists are not too bright because they just run the same con over and over in the exact same places. Yeah, I know. What kind of dumbass con artist do you have to be when you decide to do the same thing in the same place? I thought the point of running a con on someone was to get away with something and then get the hell outta dodge.

Anyway, Rachel Green is the bait and some guy I've seen a million times before and is supposed to be French is the lead con guy and a rapper guy is the other con guy. They set up seemingly rich businessmen. Rachel seduces them to a cheesy hotel room and then French guy breaks in and does some DeNiro-In-"Taxi" thing and then French guy terrorizes and blackmails the businessman until the businessman forks over $120,000.

They have the routine down pat, so apparently they've done this many times by the time they meet up with Clive Owen, who, though he plays a doofus, is still really hot. What the con artists don't get is that Clive is not a man to be fucked with and so he seeks his revenge.

Seeking revenge means going to the exact same place where he met Rachel Green in the first place and then following her around while she hangs with some other doofus businessman doing the exact same things she did with Clive.

Clive ends up killing everyone, with a spectacular fuck you for the French guy in the laundry room of a prison at the end, and also gets all his money back. It's a good thing he got all that money back in the end, too, because his daughter has some form of diabetes that requires major moola in order to treat. Lucky they have that subplot in the movie because then we can excuse Clive for breaking out into terminator mode and blowing everyone away.

In addition to con artists who remain firmly planted in their comfort zones, this movie also has other annoying inconsistencies. For example, how does an advertising executive that works all the time and lives out in some swank suburb suddenly learn how to not only hold a gun like a professional assasin, but to use it as though it is second nature for him? Does anger allow a person to suddenly become an adept gun handler?

Also, while Clive is sitting next to Rachel on the Metra on their commute into the Loop, he thanks her for paying for his ticket and says something along the lines of, "I'll pay you back. There's an ATM in Union." At first I wondered where Union was because they clearly showed a Metra train pulling into the Loop. But then I realized he meant "Union" as in "Union Station." This annoyed the hell out of me. What Chicagoan calls Union Station "Union"?

If you're looking for a con movie, don't get this one. Get "House of Games" or "The Spanish Prisoner" or "Nine Queens."

Summer is Coming

2006-04-28T11:51:00.000-05:00

by Prissy McMouth
Behavior Commentator

Summer is coming to Chicago and that means: tourists.

Here's a helpful guide on how to make the most of your summer without becoming so annoyed with visitors to the city that you end up incarcerated under trumped up manslaughter charges:

1. Understanding is key. You must understand that most tourists have no idea what they're doing. For example, when they walk out of a revolving door and immediately stop, they are more than likely unaware of the logic behind a revolving door, which is, of course, to keep people revolving through it.

When you find yourself taking your turn stepping out of a revolving door only to crash headlong into the pastel-shirted back of a person decked out in camera accessories and American Girl bags, I suggest a path of nonviolence and smug annoyance. Grunt as loudly and as closely to the tourist's ear and then mumble under your breath. You could try a curt, "Oh. My. Gawd!" Either way, you want to let them know they've made a horrific mistake without being specific about what that mistake was. That way they'll be nervous and on edge and perhaps not return to town.

2. When encountering a group of tourists walking four abreast down the street during rush and/or lunch hour, consider this an opportunity to hone your Red Rover skills.

Choose the space between the two people who are walking closest together, pick up your pace, and ram through the line with all the gusto of a pro football player flying into the end zone. I would suggest saying something quaint at this point. My experience has shown that "The promenade's on Mackinac Island, motherfuckers," works effectively.

3. Tourists stare up. For this, you can't quite blame them. Chicago's skyline is quite possibly one of the top ten most gorgeous works of art ever created. Bitter, cynical urbanites have been known to experience knee melting at the sight of it. However, one should never come to a dead stop anywhere where there are other pedestrians who have places to go. If you find yourself encountering a staring tourist, simply pull out your handy Wack-A-Mole mallet and bop the tourist about the face and chest with it. Make sure there are no police officers around.

Have a great summer and don't litter.

A Note from the Editorial Board

2006-04-20T08:15:00.000-05:00

Given that many irate letters from The Readership have flooded the Lost Blueprint office, the Editorial Board has decided to make public its internal staffing "situation."

As you know, there have been few posts to Lost Blueprint over the last two weeks. This is because the columnists have been feebly trying to protest what they claim are lousy wages (or, as Razz Trumble points out, no wages). The protest led to a revolt, which led to a squashing of the revolt, which led to U.N. peacekeepers being called in. After food, shelter, and medical care were distributed throughout Lost Blueprint Land, diplomatic measures were employed. The Editorial Board and the columnists have reached an agreement wherein the columnists will have their pictures posted and all job-related expenses paid. We should point out at this juncture that sniffing glue and smoking kind bud are not job-related expenses (a-HUM, Mr. McGee and Mr. Lamont). In addition, beer is also not a job-related expense (Mr. Trumble); nor is really expensive, clown-colored makeup (Ms. McMouth).

In accordance with our agreement, here are the pictures of our esteemed columnists:

The Editorial Board appreciates the comments and suggestions of The Readership and we hope you were not too horribly traumatized by the absence of humorous and witty commentary you have all come to expect from Lost Blueprint columns. As many of you said, the lack of updates on Lost Blueprint have caused you to admit yourselves to psychiatric wards and we only hope you did so voluntarily and can thus leave at any time you wish.

With all due respect and regard,
The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board

Horrors in the Nail Polish Factory

2006-04-14T14:47:00.000-05:00

by PhD McGee
Conspiracy Theorist

After thoroughly reviewing the evidence and inhaling enormous quantities of glue, I have realized the ugly underbelly of one aspect of the cosmetics industry: prisoners of nail polish factories.

You don't really think all those cool names come from some marketing executive with an ear to the street do you? That is so ridiculous I can't even believe you would think that. What's really happening is that hordes of very small people with large hands are trapped in warehouses where they stand for days, pushing cartoon-big wooden spoons around huge vats of colored goo that will eventually end up being poured into pretty glass containers and shipped to places like beauty parlors and cosmetic stores and grocery stores with aisles labeled "women's interest." The names of the polishes are the trappees' subversive attempts to seek rescue.

How do I know this? Because I pay attention, people. To wit: Skinny Dipn in Lake Michigan, Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ, Windy City Pretty, Marooned on the Magnificent Mile. These are the names of some of the nail polishes that are currently being sold at retailers. And these are only the Chicago references. My super spidey sense tells me that these are the cries for help from the Chicago nail polish factories (housed, I assume, in the stockyards that are allegedly no longer in use).

The list given above clearly states the following: Help! We were almost drowned in the lake when we tried to establish a union (Skinny Dipn in Lake Michigan). Then they tried to burn us alive or else they were trying to grill steak and missed the grill and threw the matches on our assembly line (Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ). We are windburned from the winter air rushing through the cracks in the walls (Windy City Pretty). We are trapped inside a doorless airplane hangar and there are so many pictures of the 1985 Chicago Bears that we can't even think straight anymore (Marooned on the Magnificent Mile).

It's not just Chicago, people. This is A WORLDWIDE EPIDEMIC. There are people trapped in nail polish factories ALL OVER: England, Spain, Australia . . . it never ends. We must contact the U.N. Of course, the U.N. may be in on it.

One last thought: it's quite possible the small people with large hands may not be in the factories at all. They may very well be in the nail polish bottles themselves! We are going to need swift and decisive action.

I am not making this up.

Best Sunrise Ever

2006-04-11T19:29:00.000-05:00

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

While the Pulitzer committee considers the award-winning effort of my Best Concerts Ever (Best Show Ever: Concerts from the Past, 3.22.2006) piece, I got to thinking. It hurt, so I didn’t do it for very long. But before I shut the ole noggin down, I started thinking about other best evers I’ve seen. This of course led me to think about the best burrito ever (Papa Burrito; Champaign, IL; 3 a.m.), the best car ever (my friend Max’s ’65 Ford Mustang that his dad rehabbed), the best road trip ever (next installment).

Then I thought about the best sunrise ever. I’ve seen a lot of sunrises. The sun always happens to be doing its thing when I’m coming home, so I’ve become somewhat of a sunrise expert over the years.

The best sunrise ever had to be the sun rising over Lake Michigan at 5:30 am on a summer morning in Chicago. Me and Max were driving east on Garfield one morning and the sun started peeping out over the horizon and sure enough, in about two seconds, there’s this big orange ball turning the lake green and white and then water blue, nailing the trees along the shore with light so that the leaves looked almost blue like the water and then calming down to their usual green. There is a rustle and general cat-stretching feeling when the sun rises in Chicago, like the city is slowly waking up for the day. Why the rest of the world is not living in Chicago is beyond me. Except if you don’t live in Chicago, don’t move here. I hate tourists.

The next best sunrise ever was in Wisconsin of all places. At a campground. The light came tinkling through the leaves of the trees around our campsite just as the fire went out. It made diamond shapes in the dirt. Once the sun was totally up in the sky we knew we should go to sleep. Kinda like a backwards alarm clock from Mother Nature. Also, the beer was gone.

The next best sunrise ever was at the mighty Grand Canyon. If you don’t believe in god, you should go to the Grand Canyon and watch the sun rise. You’ll be a believer quicker than you would if you listened to the Bible thumpers that preach at you when you open your door to them. In the Grand Canyon, the sun eeks up in the sky and as it does, it throws colors across the canyon wall. It’s like someone’s taking a paint can full of all the colors in the world and splashing it right down the canyon walls. It’s so striking you can hear it—like cards shuffling—and the colors sprint down the walls, whipping by you, and your head spins it is so much sensory overload. And then the sun is up, sitting in the sky like it’s been there forever, filing its nails and ready to get on with the day. The sun in the Grand Canyon doesn’t really care that you are sitting at an overlook, out of breath, unable to walk because you just got knocked around with the biggest, prettiest event that you’ve ever seen. The Grand Canyon doesn’t care about it much either—it already knows it’s gorgeous.

Petition to Eradicate "Obfuscation"

2006-04-04T16:36:00.000-05:00

by Buckshot Lamont
Language Lover

While recently compiling an anthology of my essays, I came across my column from this much-maligned but integrity-filled blog, Lost Blueprint (Out of Context, 3.14.06). Upon reaching the section regarding the phrase "eschew obfuscation," I started to realize something.

"Obfuscation," the word, not the meaning, should be outlawed. I do not mean the word should be made illegal and therefore force unknowing users of the word into the much-maligned but not-integrity-filled prison system. I mean, it should literally be outlawed as in, run out of town by drunk cowboys with shotguns. There should probably be someone with a gold star on his chest imitating a sheriff as well. "Obfuscation" is a big word, it will need to be run out of town by a sheriff and a posse. It will also need its own horse. Probably something gray that melts into the shadows. Anyway, I digress. We just want obfuscation out of town, we don't care how it gets there.

I will draw up the petition to have this word outlawed and this is why I think you should sign it: say the word aloud and then let me know how absolutely stupid you feel. Try using it in a sentence. In fact, try using it in a sentence during a conversation with people you are trying to impress:

You: Well, sir, while drawing up the plans to bridge connectivity between the workforce and the technological automatons that will inevitably replace said workforce, we decided to do away with obfuscation and simply tell the people they are unnecessary.
Sir: Do away with what?
You: Obfuscation.
Sir: What?
You: Um . . .
Sir: You're fired, dipshit.

And then where will you be? You'll be one fired automatonless simpleton.

I am sure the intelligent readership of Lost Blueprint can see what I am saying about this. Just send a comment to this post and I will be happy to send you the petition for obfuscation eradication, tentatively titled, "The Petition for Obfuscation Eradication."

Transpose boldly, people.

Bridging the Great Divide: Meeting People on the El

2006-03-23T07:00:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth
Behavior Commentator

You are sitting on the Brown line. It is 7:30 in the morning. You are headed to work. At Belmont, a crush of people move into your car. The morning sun is blinding, but out of this bright yellow light a figure slowly emerges. He is a life-sized version of a Ken doll. Your knees melt and your breathing becomes labored. What do you do next?

You talk to him, of course. And Prissy's going to tell you how.

First, you have to make up something to talk about. Try discussing how happy you are that we haven't gotten the shit bombed out of us by a really pissed off third world nation. Or, you could broach the subject of religious intolerance. Rely on something light and airy that anyone can comment upon.

Next, try maneuvering around the other people in the car so that you are standing right next to the Ken doll. Prepare your lips--apply gloss and by all means, make sure you do not have that dry throat syndrome so common in the morning. You know the one--where you talk like you just had a tracheotomy. Yeah--don't talk like that.

Now, as you stand next to the Ken doll, you want to grab his attention. I suggest stepping on his foot, then immediately following up with huge, flirty eyes meeting his while seductively murmuring a sincere apology. Bat your eyes for added effect. If you are not wearing makeup, this move will not work. And anyway, if you are not wearing makeup you should be shot.

Now that you have his attention, initiate conversation pronto. Mornings are not everyone's best time, so you have to be prepared to take the onus upon yourself. Really hit hard the religious intolerance issue, mass destruction, etc., etc. If he dodges your questions, looks down at the ground, watches the station platforms as the train pulls away from them, step on his foot again. No matter what, do not let his eyes wander from yours. Eye contact is your leash. Keep it tight.

Inevitably, this conversation should lead to an exchange of numbers. If it does not, you're a loser. Do not accept the first date he asks you on. You will be too busy on that day. Suggest another date shortly thereafter and there you go--you're dating!

Best Show Ever: Concerts from the Past

2006-03-22T14:22:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

Since there is currently a drought in the concert scene, or, to be more precise, a drought in my finances and a tight ass blog host who won't pay for concert tickets, I have been left to describe concerts of years past in order to fulfill my obligatory weekly column for Lost Blueprint.

The best show ever had to be the Jesus Lizard at Lounge Ax. This is because Lounge Ax had $1 Hubers and acoustics that left you with a ringing in your ears for three weeks. Also, Lounge Ax is no longer there and I cry my eyes out every time I think of it. Fucking condo motherfuckers. Anyway, the show was amazing despite the fact I can barely remember anything other than throwing myself into all my friends as we usually do to show that we care about each other. Some people call this a mosh pit. My friends and I call it bonding.

The next best show ever was a double whammy: Soul Coughing doing an in-store at Tower Records and then a road trip to Milwaukee to see the Jesus Lizard in some huge place that I can't remember the name of, but I remember we got lost trying to find it and the bottles of whiskey that accompanied us from Chicago were not helping with the navigational investigation. Anyway, we found the place, got there before the show started, and I remember them ending the show with David Yow saying, "I'm going home to make love to my wife." I cried. What kind of rock god are you when you can mix it up hard core and then go home to the wife?

The next best show ever was a show one year at Taste of Chicago but I can't remember who it was because I was tripping on acid and we stopped by The Weather Channel's tent and all the sales people there had weather patterns painted on their faces and I burst out laughing and didn't stop until the next morning. Man, that was a fucking great show.

There are many more best shows ever, but I'll save the telling of them for next week since I don't see a windfall of money coming my way anytime soon.

LuLu LaRue With Your Movie Review

2006-03-20T06:47:00.000-06:00

by LuLu LaRue
Movie Reviewer

Movie: "The Kid Stays in the Picture"

This is a documentary about film producer Robert Evans, written by Robert Evans, and more than likely produced by Robert Evans. Robert Evans really loves Robert Evans. He has brilliantly mastered the fine art of speaking in Dashiell Hammet dialogue (upon passing his phone number to a woman at a bar he says, "Heaven is just seven digits away, baby.")(That may not be a direct quote--I found myself trying desperately not to puke throughout the majority of this movie).

Robert Evans has had quite a life. A true fighter. He's produced some well-known movies: "Love Story," "Chinatown," "The Godfather." He's had to fight to get them all made. He screwed up his marriage with Ali McGraw because he was trying so hard to get a movie made. He knows how to handle the big guys. He is one of the big guys. He's been around forever. He had a stroke. He survived it. He'll probably survive a nuclear war. The world will be left with Robert Evans and a bunch of roaches. It would be hard on the roaches.

On the upside, the visuals are cool. Photographs of really cool Hollywood people with backgrounds fading away from the focal point, who, of course, is Robert Evans. If you were tripping on acid and you felt like watching a movie, maybe these visuals would be cool. But only if you've already tripped out to"Fantasia."

Don't rent this, there are better things to do. Like watch paint dry.

MARK YOUR CALENDARS NOW!!

2006-03-16T14:39:00.000-06:00

Shameless Friend Promotion

The promotion is shameless, the friend is not. The friend is Jeff. Readership, meet Jeff. Jeff, meet The Readership. Oh, wait. You are The Readership. Well, it never hurts to take a look at oneself from a different perspective.

Jeff's nom de plume is J. Adams Oaks. Perhaps you know him from such gems of storytelling as "Itch," "Connected That Way," and "Ash Butterflies." You can find his work in Madison Review, River-Oak Review, and Hair Trigger. You can also find it on the hard drive of my laptop, but that'll cost a pretty penny. J. Adams Oaks's story, “Connected that Way” won WBEZ’s “Stories On Stage” contest in 2005. Most recently, Simon and Schuster bought his first novel. A chapter of that novel won the National Society of Arts and Letters regional competition. Mr. Oaks possesses the rare and enviable gift of matching his shoes to his belts. He also makes one mean ass martini.

Go listen to Jeff and a talented cast of clever artists read his fiction:
Saturday, May 6, 2006
Webster Wine Bar
7pm
More info here: http://www.serendipitytheatre.org/current.html#2ndstory

It'll change your life. I swear.

Letters to the Editor

2006-03-15T12:04:00.000-06:00

Periodically, we like to print some of the letters we receive in the mail at the Lost Blueprint office. We want you to think you have a voice in our publication. You do not, of course, but we would like you to think you do.

Dear Lost Blueprint,
I have been a faithful reader of your publication for as many years as you've been around, but I gotta say your lack of fiction is god damned frustrating (Blog Description, home page). I'm not pulling my subscription or nothing, but I do expect an occasional tale of woe or sorted yarn of lust and vengeance, even a light-hearted romp with bunnies and tortoises for fuck's sake. Gimme something, you hear? I say good day to you, sirs (and madams)!

With piss & vinegar,
Darnel H. Sasser

Dear Lost Blueprint,
Is it editorial policy that your columnists must mention cycling in their columns? What the hell is cycling anyway?

Poetically,
Texarkana Tex

The Editorial Board responds: "Cycling" is a euphemism for suffering. Apparently, there are demented individuals in the world who claim cycling is a sport, but they wear lycra and why would you believe someone who wears lycra? The Blog Host is a passionate devotee of suffering (she actually starts drooling when drivetrains and smooth pavement are mentioned) and so we are obligated to mention the "sport" regularly. By the way, we are aware that cycling cannot definitively be called a sport as there is no ball and there are no clearly marked, chalk-white lines delineating the field of play. However, we encourage the myth that cycling is legitimate because as the suffering season progresses, the Blog Host will show up at the Lost Blueprint office on Monday mornings half dead from exhaustion and dehydration. This will make the coup that much easier to stage.

Dear Editorial Board,
I am so firing your asses.

Yours truly,
Kim Morris
The Blog Host

Dear Lost Blueprint,
I take issue with Prissy McMouth's piece regarding umbrella etiquette (Umbrella Etiquette for Urbanites, 3.12.2006). I leave my wet umbrella wherever I want because it is not just an umbrella, it is a friend. That does not make me a dirty fucker.

Cordially,
I.AM. Sam

Dear Lost Blueprint,
The overwhelming stench of marijuana smoke emanating from Buckshot Lamont's office is as offensive as his insufferable agreeableness. No one is that happy.

Fuck you,
Prissy McMouth

Dear Lost Blueprint,
Please ask Razz Trumble to contact me. I am interested in signing a hippie jam band and I think Please Don't Shave My Hairy Butt has enormous marketing potential (Mice on Toast, 3.11.2006).

Thanks,
Swanky McNerd

Out of Context: Phrases That Catch You Off Guard

2006-03-14T06:52:00.000-06:00

by Buckshot Lamont
Language Lover

This is the first installment of "Out of Context" a somewhat regular column where we will discover odd turns of phrase and apply them to their rightful contexts. For example:

Phrase: Looming Specter of Condemnation
Found: In an article regarding real property valuation
Original Context: There is a possibility that a property will be condemned, and the looming specter of that condemnation is causing hell for the seller of that property.
Rightful Context: This is going to be my Halloween costume next year. I am going to go to many parties dressed as the looming specter of condemnation. I will be wearing a black robe and a severe frown. I will carry a staff, which I will crack over the heads of people who drool, mumble, or who refuse to share their drugs with the rest of the party.

Phrase: Eschew Obfuscation
Found: Some pretentious writing website that is in desperate need of an editor (I freelance! And I won't call you pretentious if I work for you)
Original Context: When writing, one should use clear, concise prose to articulate one's point.
Rightful Context: This is going to be the name of my pro cycling team. Our logo will be dense fog and it will be strategically placed on the kit so as to give the impression of gaseous fumes emanating from the cyclists' bodies. Hopefully, the management and I can pump the athletes full of lots of drugs so they win every race and then all interviewers will have the tenacious job of saying, "Eschew Obfuscation dominates the podium AGAIN!! Does it never end???"

Phrase: Transpose Boldly
Found: Said during an editing class by a very articulate and intelligent teacher
Original Context: When marking up the hard copy of a piece you are editing, make your transpose sign really, really distinct so the typesetter gets it.
Rightful Context: Well, duh. If this doesn't give you a new lease on life and how to live it, you must be dead.

Transpose boldly, people.

Umbrella Etiquette for Urbanites

2006-03-12T17:43:00.000-06:00

by Prissy McMouth
Behavior Commentator

The umbrella is an amazing tool. Dynamic, despite it's inanimate nature. However, when many umbrellas are opened at once, there is significantly less space for people in the world and that lack of space demands that some ground rules be formulated.

As Head Rule Maker of All-Time, I will take the lead on this project.

Rule #1: To avoid crasing into other umbrellas, never tip yours to one side or the other. This causes runoff and it shows a lack of savviness that exposes you as a sub-urban person. Also, you risk forcing rain to be directed into the shoe of another person, wherein that person will have soaked socks and as most persons do not carry an extra pair of dry socks with them when venturing into the world, the rest of us are left spending time with someone who has smelly wet sock feet. This will cause ill will, start conflict, escalate wars, spread disease, etc., etc. Solution: Move the umbrella up and down. Practice before a rainy day. Up. Down. It's all in the elbow. There is more vertical space than horizontal space in the city, use it.

Rule #2: Do not use your umbrella as a shield. If you feel you must fight through crowds on a city street on a rainy day, do not do so as though you are fighting a dragon. You are merely putting yourself in a position where you cannot see in front of you, thereby causing ill will, starting conflict, escalating wars, spreading disease, etc., etc. Besides, you look stupid doing that. Solution: If the wind and rain are coming at you so hard you actually need a blocker, stay home.

Rule #3: When around others, do not shake out the excess water on your umbrella. Those tiny beads of water flick their way upward, usually into eyeballs, hair, nostrils, open sores. This causes ill will, starts conflict, escalates wars, spreads disease, etc., etc. Solution: Walk to the nearest alley, step one-quarter step away from passing pedestrians on the sidewalk, and vehemently shake your umbrella to relieve it of its extra moisture. More than likely you'll miss flicking water on other persons and as a bonus, you may very well scare the shit out of some rats.

Rule #4: Do not place your wet umbrella on the seat next to you. Don't do this on the train, on the bus, on a seat in a restaurant, on the benches in the lobby of an office building, on your coworker's chair. Your umbrella did not pay for a seat on the train, it is not a patron of any food establishment, and it does not work in your office building. If you do insist on leaving your wet umbrella on the seat next to you, you should take full responsibility for all the ill will in the world, every conflict, every war, and every disease, you dirty fucker.

Mice on Toast

2006-03-11T15:35:00.000-06:00

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

I have decided that I am going to start a punk band and name it Mice on Toast. Our schtick will be that we eat what seems to be live mice onstage while screaming into microphones about man's inhumanity to man. The media will pick up on this much like it did with Ozzy Osborne and the bat and we will be vilified in the press for eating live rodents, who of course are living beings and should therefore escape the very inhumanity our band decries.

Then smoking gun will do some research and find out that really, we are not eating live mice on stage, but large chunks of cheese molded to look like mice and the smoking gun will also find out that we are eating large chunks of cheese in an effort to maintain our protein levels because, they will find, we are not a hard-core punk band that parties excessively and takes pride in throwing up, but actually straight edge punks hell bent on achieving excellence in endurance sports.

The straight-edge punks will hate us by that point for having hidden our straight edgeness and they will go on record talking about how it is a shame that there is a stigma out in the world that would require humans to hide their protein consumption, especially when their eventual aim is to succeed at such harsh sports as bicycle racing. But by that point, I will have already disbanded Mice on Toast and will have started a hippie jam band. I will name this band Please Don't Shave My Hairy Butt.

How I Spent My Cycle-Smart Training Camp

2006-03-10T16:17:00.000-06:00

by Kim Morris

Leucadia, California is: palm trees, salty thick breezes off the ocean, graceful hills, surf shops, shy smiles from people used to sunlight and cloudless days, wispy sand mounds along bike lanes, surfers bobbing patiently in the water, huge houses sneaking their way into an otherwise cottage-dotted shoreline, sunsets that melt your heart.

Cycling camp was: one week that would’ve lasted two if I had my way, strangers who became friends, egoless, deep conversations about Life, long zen-like rides, riding companions with open faces and honest eyes.

In Leucadia there are two townhouses trapped inside a gated community where said good humans lived for one week. Both places had curved couches in living rooms where multiple people could crash out and talk and this was good because laying around and talking with people feeds the soul and also, you can find out about other people’s lives very easily while laying around with them. If I were running for president, this would be my campaign plan—couches for every town! Talk to the humans next to you! I’ll be the couch campaigner. Kim the Couch Campaigner. Also, the couches were within eye sight of the kitchen and most importantly, the refrigerator, which is very important for a healthful existence.

Ostensibly, I went to cycling camp because I wanted to get in some base miles in a land not cold. Honestly, I went to cycling camp because I am taking back my life from injuries and negative people and ice packs on my leg and summer days spent staring at a gorgeous Cannondale unwittingly rendered still and somewhat sad due to unuse. What better way to shake it up than to do something that is scary as shit? When I signed up, this was such a good idea, I considered becoming a therapist because I thought I was that insightful. It is a money-saving trick to be one’s own therapist.

But then The Day Before showed up and it suddenly occurred to me: I have averaged 4 hours a week on Princess Cannondale and I am going to a place where I don’t even speak the same language as other cyclists (they are not bike riders, by the way, they are cyclists). Here are some translations:

Hard-Core Cyclist Terminology/Kim’s Terminology
Incline =Hill
Hill =Shit
Mountain =Holy fucking shit
Rollers =Heart attack
It’s all downhill from here =Big lie
Fun descent =Straight drop to an unknown place, possibly hell

Sunday, February 26, 2006
Sunny. California sunny. Bleach-your-eyebrows-a-lighter-color-than-your-hair sunny. Warm. Wear-short-sleeves-and-not-quiver warm. Work up a sweat and actually think to yourself, “Man, it’s hot today,” warm. It was a fuck yeah day, as most of these days were.

We went for a two-hour ride. A lollygag until a seemingly innocuous hill that was not. Climbing these long climbs is a matter of balance—how easily can I maintain my balance on two small patches of thin tires while going 1 mph? While dressed in a brightly-colored, near pornographic, lycra get-up, it reeks of a traveling circus show. I had to dismount from Princess Cannondale, at which point I believe I heard her groan, because of course she was made for this and ended up with me, who was not made for this. But then I uncramped my leg and inched my way up and was rewarded with going down a hill much like the ones I flew down when I was nine and rode an orange banana-seat bike like a rocket.

Here’s what I learned from Fuck Yeah Day One: I miss the whir of tires in a paceline, it takes much concentration to stick to a wheel after not having done so in many months, it takes much concentration to keep my line after depending on the trainer to do it for me for many months, and having a support vehicle around is a wonderfully decadent way to have a ride. I am considering hiring someone to be my support vehicle as I travel through life.

Monday, February 27, 2006
Here’s the day I crashed. Figuratively, not literally, thankfully. A week of tensing up about going away and not sleeping well or eating well and flying on a plane and checking oversized luggage and worrying and just generally hand wringing to the point of ulcer finally hit me.

You would think a road named after a lilac would be nice, but you would be wrong. Those climbs out there are never ending. They keep going like they’re being paid to do it. I got 2 hours in and then I got off the bike and into the van, which is a godsend for a Midwesterner in southern California at the end of February. Then the rain came. I am so anti-riding-in-the-rain that I am willing to start a advocacy group for the abolition of riding in the rain. I rode in the van, talked to Gerard Master Mechanic, listened to Gomez, ate Fig Newtons and pretzels, drank Coke, daydreamed.

Back at planet homebase, I slept for two hours in my lycra and so woke up with deep red lines in my legs where my leg warmers tried to squeeze me like an anaconda. It is a good thing I had my own room. I didn’t smell especially pretty either.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Recovery day. I had to recover from sitting still too long the previous day. Today is the day I discovered my all-time favorite wheel to draft off of, in the form of Steve’s Independent Fabrication. He of the liquid, mesmerizing eyes has a rare and wonderful talent for snapping at items in the road that could cause much distress were they to be crashed into by an unsuspecting cyclist. For example, a prone-to-daydreaming cyclist from the Midwest who is easily distracted by sunshine and mountains.

Today we rode roads that winded through lemon groves. There was the smell of something earthy and peppery. There were the sounds of whirring tires, the clunking of changing gears, the airy voices of light and happy conversations, the quiet ease of riding bicycles with quality humans.

Wednesday, March 1, 2006
We rode out to Fiesta Island, which is neither a fiesta nor an island, from what I could see. It looked more like a peninsula, but maybe I missed something descriptively geographical. There was a dog park and port-o-potties with toilet paper. There were the ubiquitous wispy mounds of sand on the road. The road circled around something that was vaguely hill-like, but secretive, with signs that proclaimed the land was government property and forbade trespassing by the general public. Today was our sprint day in southern California, with the sun and the warm.

I decided not to do the sprints. This was for a litany of reasons that were clearly delineated in my head, the most important of which was the high possibility of (re)injury. But the reality was, I was scared. So, after breaking into groups, I toodled along with David from Arkansas and some girl from Texas who wasn’t staying at planet homebase and was not a part of the camp as far as I could tell and Brendan from I don’t know where but probably somewhere on the East Coast as most of these people are, and Adam, El Presidente of the camp.

Here’s how I decided not to do sprints:
Me: Adam, I’m not going to do the sprints.
Adam: Why don’t you just try a couple.
Me: No.
Adam: Are you sure?
Me: You only get one opportunity to ask me if I’m sure and that was it.
Adam: OK.

Of course, I was not sure. I have no idea what I am doing and I’m too self-conscious to ask for help, and I’m not about to ask Adam pro super sprint guy for it, even if he is a sparkling great human. This sport is like being dropped from an airplane into the ocean and then asking passing sharks for advice on how to get home. I’m trying to pretend I know what I’m doing, but I’m getting the impression that people can see right through me. It’s unnerving.

On the upside, it was sunny and after going around the forbidden government mound of land a few times in a small group, it occurred to me that a ten-second sprint couldn’t really be all that bad. Besides, I think Princess Cannondale had an itchy trigger finger. So when the group did the first sprint, I went with them, but only because I’m human and have an innate instinct to herd with others in my species. Then numbers two and three seemed a silly thing to miss and el presidente was dispensing wisdom and I’m not one to pass up a learning experience and that’s how I ended up not doing sprints on our sprint day.

Thursday, March 2, 2006
When cyclists go to California for a week of training and they say they are going to spend a day riding up a mountain, they mean a real live true mountain, the kind with changing temperatures and elevation signs, look-out spots on the roads, guard rails, views of the entire world and the entire sky, and a never ending grade that seemingly increases with each switchback. And of course, there are switchbacks. I am not making this up. Where in Chicago is there a place that rises so significantly that it actually needs switchbacks designed into it to facilitate travel?

This particular mountain is a called Palomar. It is not my friend. It quite clearly had the upper hand. It was a 25% grade, uphill both going and coming, and I was barefoot. Oh, and also, it was snowing. I have a new position to climb with now because El Presidente said so and since he didn’t dog me for being a big huge baby of major proportions on the day of not doing sprints, I decided to listen to him.

I trudged along in my new position and cleared my head, which quickly got filled up with pleasant thoughts, like the smell of pine trees and how cool it is to be around 12 brand new people, all of whom I have a burning desire to give great big bear hugs to. That’s called being lucky; as in, keep your head outta yer ass and be very, very grateful.

One hour and 23 minutes of climbing is what Princess and I got in today. Then I turned a switchback and did something weird that made me drop my chain and so I had to dismount but had kinda a hard time getting out of my left pedal because I couldn’t quite get my leg to pay attention to my brain. I got my chain on and decided to keep going. Except that then I did that lightheaded bobble head thing and when I swung my leg over the saddle, I cracked my knee on the seat post as though I was throwing a misplaced roundhouse kick and that’s when I thought that maybe I should call it a day for Palomar. Mountains are beautiful and proud beasts to me. You just don’t see noble creatures like those lurking about in the suburbs of Chicago.

Re: hard-core terminology verbiage—the way home was allegedly dotted with rollers, which were not rollers, they were near-fatal, cruelly misjudged terrain that after an hour plus of climbing were the most painful things I have ever run into. And here’s the coolest thing: I was riding with people who climbed that whole mountain, rode down it, let me ride with them after they were down the mountain, and then actually had the manners to ask me how I was doing when I started breathing like a gun shot victim when we hit the rollers. Rock out, man. Total good energy.

Friday, March 3, 2006
1.5 hours, easy, down the coast with Josh and Lori and Kim. Lori and Kim being two women who make me realize how cool women really are. We went to the military base where they carded us and told us very militarily how we were to stay only on the bike path and not to wander elsewhere or we would be charged with trespassing and then sent to Siberia where there is no bike riding and we certainly did not want that. I had the sneaky suspicion we were being followed. We were probably bugged too. It started raining and it got cold and then it got windy. We turned around and sure enough, there was Mr. Guard in his military police vehicle, riding up behind us. We smiled. We said thank you, but it was time for us to go. I kept my political views to myself.

The rest of the ride was quite like an April day in Chicago—windy, cold, brutal, Mother Nature’s not-so-subtle reminder that she’s the one in charge. Plus, I could feel the ferocious arrival of a saddle sore. The East Coasters say “wicked” a lot. As in, I am getting a wicked painful saddle sore.

Dinner: tilapia and rice; kale and asparagus; salad with artichokes and mushrooms; beer. Everyone talking. I will miss these humans. They are touching, good hearts. It’s quite possible I made the mistake of becoming a better human myself while hanging out with them. Who knew.