Tommy, it was a gas

 

In May of 1969, I drove into the city, to the Uptown neighborhood. I was going to the Kinetic Playground, a small music venue, to see The Who. I believe it cost me five dollars to get in. No reserved seating, no seating at all except on the floor. The opening act was some strange guy named Joe Cocker. I had never heard of him and watching him for the first time while high on LSD was an experience. Anyway, I was looking forward to having my ears blown out by Magic Bus, and My Generation. Instead, The Who played their new album, Tommy from beginning to end. They did do Magic Bus for an encore, so I wasn't too disappointed. The thing is I had never heard Tommy before that night. As I stated, I was tripping my ass off and didn't even realize all those songs made one cohesive story. So, I was high on drugs, sitting on the floor of the Kinetic Playground, listening to the rock opera Tommy. I was young and happy.

Last Sunday my good friend Chuck invited me to lunch and a show at the Goodman Theater. The show was Tommy, an adaptation of the Who's famous album. Lunch was good. I didn't eat much and didn't drink anything other than a cup of coffee. The show was very good. For the first time in fifty four years I finally understood the whole album. Not just that a kid was deaf, dumb, and blind, and was being molested by Uncle Ernie.

There was just one problem with going to lunch and the theater. I'm not young anymore. After I eat, things happen. I find that I have to pee every thirty minutes and I get gassy. About five minutes into the show I started feeling the pressure. Not only that, but at my age sitting in a theater chair is uncomfortable. I need my Lay-Z-Boy recliner. Twenty minutes in, and I really had to pee but our seats were at the end of a row jammed up against the wall. So I hung on for the entire first act, about an hour or more. At intermission I trampled everybody while rushing to the rest room, and managed to get a good urinal. I proceeded to pee for about five minutes. When I was done, there was a long line stretching out the door of the restroom. By the time I walked by the end of that line, I rejoined it and peed again. Then, just to make things exciting, on my way out of the place I farted. Didn't need that stewing in my gut for the second act. Which I might say, was excellent.

G.O.A.T

When I start my day, there are three things I need before the 'day' actually begins. Feed and walk the dog (That's one thing, taking care of Scout). Second, I have coffee. The final thing, and most important for making a new day, is my shower. Until I get my shower it is still last night. It is still me laying in bed, unwashed with yesterday all over me. Everything that comes before or after the shower is extra. Breakfast, my morning poop, watching the WGN morning news, all just extra good stuff.

Usually, on Wednesday, I go grocery shopping. I like to go around ten in the morning when the store is not very crowded. When employees out number customers. It's a good time and the lady behind the service desk knows me. That's because I usually find a mistake on my receipt and I immediately scuttle over to see her. It's like a game for me. Find the mistake, and don't be wrong. If there is a real mistake and she has to refund some money, I smile. If I'm wrong, and she points out the fine print on the coupon, she smiles. Anyway, that's not the point of this post. The point here is that before I went shopping on Wednesday, I took a shower. I used soap, I shaved, and I used deodorant. Yet almost every single time I go shopping, there  is some old fart walking around smelling like a goat. You know he's there before you even see him. The aroma lingers in the aisle so you know that when you turn the corner, he'll be there. Smelling like a fucking goat. Gross, Old, AnTique.

Memories, Cobwebs in the Corners of My Mind....

 

I have a terrible memory, always have. I have to read and re-read things because I often forget what I just read. This goes all the way back to grade school, where the nuns and other teachers would tell my parents, "If Alan would only apply himself." Now that I have found myself on the ugly side of seventy, my memory seems to be getting just a little worse.

Last week I was moving stuff around on my dining room table (I use it for much more than just dining these days) and I came across a bit of paper from the Chicago City Clerk's Office. It was about renewing the tax tag for my 1929 Ford. I can purchase one for my 2014 Ford on line, but not for an antique car according to the city web site. It said that I would have to go in person to the clerk's office. So that's what I did. I even drove the 1929 Ford to the office on Gale Street. What I found was a long line and no parking anywhere near the clerk's office. So I turned around and went home. On Thursday I tried again, only earlier in the day and I drove the 2014 Ford. This time there was a parking spot right next to the building and the line of people waiting only stretched about ten feet out the door. I got in line with the rest of the cattle and slowly shuffled my way until I was first in line.

"Next!" Called out a clerk from behind her little window.

I handed her the bit of paper the city had sent me with all my information on it.

"Registration."

"I'm just renewing the city tag. You have my registration in your computer."

"You can only buy a new tag with your registration."

"It's not a new tag. It's a renewal. The city sent me that paper."

She looked at the piece of paper I had handed her, turned it over and said,  "This is last years."

I took it back from her and looked at it. It was not from last year, unless I fell asleep for an entire year and it was now 2024. Which is isn't. The lady behind the little window walked away for a minute and a different lady returned.

"You can't buy a new city tag without the State of Illinois registration."

And that was that. I bottled up my rage and walked out of there. I was pissed. I was going to send off a stern letter to the City Clerk. Son of a bitch, this meant I would have to make a third visit to the clerk's office. Grrr.....

On Friday I got mail from the Chicago City Clerk's Office. Inside was the little metal tag for my 1929 Ford. I was baffled. Were they trying to apologize for screwing with me? The receipt with the tag showed that I had paid for it, but they didn't take any money from me at the clerk's office. Then I started to think. That little piece of paper with all the information on it. It was torn at the bottom like part of it was missing. Like maybe a form you would mail in with a check to purchase your new vehicle tag. Seriously, I forgot that I had mailed in for that. I forgot that I had written a check for thirty three dollars to the City of Chicago and mailed it to them. At least I think I did. I don't really remember.

Who's Your Daddy?

 

I'm a terrible foster daddy. The whole idea of fostering animals from rescue groups and shelters, is to not get attached. The idea is to give the pet a loving and healthy place to live until a forever home can be found. I failed on my first official try at fostering. I have taken in stray and unwanted animals before. Cats that tenants and neighbors have left behind. I never could find homes for them, so I ended up with a lot of cats over the course of forty years. Did I mention that I'm allergic to cats? Then there are the dogs. I've taken in unwanted dogs a few times, but other than Sasha, our first schnauzer, I did find homes for them. Including a three legged dog named Tuffy. Can you believe that? I found a home for Tuffy the three legged dog. My nephew, I gave Tuffy to my nephew.

Back in early February I chauffeured an adorable little dog out to Batavia, or it may have been West Chicago, I forget. I did that for Cairn Terrier Rescue, the group that gave me Scout. On that short ride to the suburbs I fell in love with that little dog. Sadly, he was going out there to have his leg amputated. His name was Bucky and he had cancer. This was all explained to me up front. A month later I volunteered to foster Bucky while he had treatments in Chicago for his cancer. He became the star of my block. Everybody up and down the street got to know Bucky in a short while, including my neighbor who has the hair salon on the corner. She would cook up sweet potatoes for Bucky and trim the hair around his eyes while human patrons of the salon sat and watched.

Bucky and I connected immediately. He also won over Scout. He took over her bed. She didn't care. He ate next to her, drank out of the same bowl, she didn't care. Like I said, I was a bad foster father to Bucky. I fell in love with that little guy and became his good daddy instead, until the end. That was yesterday.