Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? (8 page)

I practically dance the ten blocks from my doctor’s office to One Magnificent Mile and spend the whole time vacillating between the idea of high tea or a cocktail. Sure, orange pekoe and finger sandwiches in the vast parlor at the Drake Hotel sounds lovely, but that’s really more of a shared experience. Also, my hands are still trembling and I’m not sure I could keep my tea in its bone china cup. Instead, I choose the warm embrace of my old friend alcohol.

I head to the gorgeously appointed mahogany-and-leather bar at the Four Seasons on Delaware and I survey the array of squashy couches and brocaded chairs. Oh, how I love the Four Seasons! We used to come here all the time during the dot-com era, but now that we’re barely middle class we save it for very special occasions.

I’ve always adored the service here; I guess I appreciate any place that lets me make an ass out of myself without raising an eyebrow. One time a group of us came here after some drinky-drinky event downtown. Right as we were about to pour ourselves into a cab, I spotted a gigantic laminated “George Bush Is Hitler” poster and I thought, “Oh,
hell
no.” Sure, I get why people don’t like him and I’m fine with that. I understand those who protest his decisions and can totally see why folks might think he’s a dummy. However, I cannot agree with comparing him to the fiend who almost single-handedly exterminated an entire race of people. So I tore the poster off the telephone pole and was barely able to wedge it in the taxi with us.

Anyway, we spilled out of the cab and washed onto the sidewalk at the Four Seasons. Valets helped us up and out, gingerly handling my mammoth placard. “Here you are, miss,” they said without batting an eye. They acted as though drunken girls carried giant posters of a swastika-covered president into their facility ten times a day. We paraded past all the staff—doormen, bellhops, concierges, etc., each of them smiling graciously, while I struggled behind my colossal sandwich board. We sloshed into the bar and the maître d’ met us at the door to show us to our seats.

And this bit? Right here? Is why the Four Seasons rocks.

With nary a smirk, he asked, “Might I check that item for you, miss?”

To which I replied, “Ssshhank you, but I shhhannn’t be requiring your sssshhhhervichhes,” before hooting and snorting at my own savoir faire. And then Fletch, our friends, an unfortunately mustachioed photo of the commander in chief, and I spent the rest of the evening sitting on barstools swilling $14 cocktails.
9

As I settle into a plush couch in the corner next to a porcelain reading lamp, a waiter approaches with a dish of mixed nuts and wasabi peas. “Miss, what might I be gettin’ you?” he asks in a melodious Irish accent.

“Hmm,” I say. “I’m not sure. I’ve had a
really
stressful day. Doctor. Girl parts. Total nightmare. But I don’t want to talk about it. So, what can you suggest that might be hot, sweet, and full of liquor? And I don’t mean Tara Reid!”

With a heroic amount of patience, he waits until I finish chortling myself stupid to detail the finer points of the winter drinks menu. We settle on a cider-and-whiskey beverage, which I belt down in about thirteen seconds. After the first cocktail, I begin to pace myself, spacing out my drinks with sips of water from my crystal goblet and nibbles from the gratis nut tray. (Whatever profit margin the Four Seasons may have realized from the overpriced ciders is neatly eclipsed by my cashew consumption.)

Since I spend all my money on fancy drinks, I have to take public transportation home. Mumbling to myself about girl parts and shuffling, I make my way down to the Chicago Avenue stop. The bus and I arrive at the same time (how did that happen?), and wafting whiskey fumes, I manage to stagger over discarded newspapers and empty Starbucks cups to the back of the vehicle.

And you know what’s nice?

Today I finally smell like everyone else on the midday bus. Hooray for Tuesday Afternoon Drinking Club!

Before leaving the Four Seasons, I apparently call Fletch at work and leave the following message:
“Hi, iissch me! My girly partschss are fiiiine and I’m drinking whooshkey! Bring home many beers.”
Smirking, Fletch informs me he and his work pals had a delightful time passing the phone around and laughing at my expense.

Yes,
har-de-har-har
, fat boy. Laugh it up.

I hope you enjoy doing your own laundry when I check myself into the Betty Ford Center.

from the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

Dear
Fox News
Channel,

I love you and would watch you 24/7 if I didn’t have to sleep, shower, and cook pork chops. And you’re aware that every TV in my house defaults to your station. And that I leave them on all day so that when I walk from room to room, I never miss a second. My home is like a sports bar—only with conservative news.

Here’s the thing—when you
burst
into an interview with your giant, multi-exclamation-pointed FOX ALERT banner, you cause my heart to seize up in the process. So if you’re going to do this, I expect to hear
real and accurate
breaking news. I just wasted an entire beautiful Saturday indoors waiting for information on the evacuation of LAX because you convinced me that we were under siege by terrorists.

Oh, Fox, Fox, Fox…a sparking flashlight is not an explosion.

A stupid teenager running the wrong way up an escalator is not a terrorist.

For future reference, please keep in mind that discretion is the better part of valor. And that I am on the wrong side of my thirties with high cholesterol. My small, clogged, black heart can only take so many FOX ALERTS, so let’s make ’em count, okay?

Your biggest fan,

Jen Lancaster

P.S. Please give Sean Hannity a raise.

Dear America,

Okay, what the hell is going on here?

Is there a bizarre weather front passing through, thus making you completely and utterly goofy?

I figured today had the potential for weirdness when the bike messenger in front of me ordered a nine-shot espresso at the coffee shop. Nine shots! In one cup! I asked him if he was going to drink it or mainline it, which apparently cracked no one up but me. (Seriously, my wit is wasted on the staff of the Randolph Street Starbucks. Also, did you know it’s Gingerbread Latte season again? Served in the festive red snowflake cups? Woo!)

Anyway, when I got to the office at my temp job, I started listening to talk radio and I heard all kinds of assorted foolishness. Apparently there’s a movement calling for the Blue States to secede from the Red States to better reflect the nation’s political leanings.

Um, yeah…it took six months and a multimillion-dollar advertising campaign when Chicago residents had to switch area codes, and seven years later, people are still dialing the wrong numbers.

So trying to teach citizens an entirely new currency system and national anthem?

Sure. That will happen.

As soon as my dog Loki creates a formula for cold fusion.

Later I heard John Kerry’s already gearing up for a possible 2008 bid for the presidency. Excuse me, sir? A little friendly advice?
Relax
. Give yourself a minute to catch your breath. Why don’t you take your wife on a nice cruise or something, you know, chill, kick back, maybe drink some banana liqueur cocktails before you make that kind of decision?

Anyway, after I returned from lunch, I heard how suicide hotlines and Canadian immigration officials have been inundated by those wanting to escape Bush’s second term. Mental health professionals all over the country are working overtime to counsel those of you despondent over the election results. Apparently people are seeking postelection trauma therapy in droves.

Now I’m sorry to have to do this, but I think at this point our nation could use a little tough love and now I’m going to have to go all Dr. Phil on you guys.

Ahem.

People?

Get a fucking grip on yourselves!

Pull it together! You’ve had a whole week to feel sorry for yourselves—it’s time to move on with your lives! Enough with the moping, wailing, and navel-gazing already! Move on! It may seem hard at first, but I know you can do it because you are
Americans
. You and your ilk are responsible for the likes of John Wayne and the Ford Mustang and Microsoft, for crying out loud! And as Americans, you were spawned from the baddest motherfuckers to ever walk this earth! Those ancestors of yours huddled inside rickety old boats to get here, battling storms, sickness, hunger, fatigue, and fear, carrying with them nothing but the will to live free.

And you know what? These people—
your people
—helped create the greatest country in the world with the best form of government known to mankind.

Does this mean our system is perfect? No. Does this mean sometimes despite your hard work, your guy or gal doesn’t get elected, even though you have empirical proof he or she was the better candidate? Yes.

And it’s okay to be disappointed when this happens. Because it does happen. Every election.

But please don’t let your displeasure with our system cause you to lose your peace of mind, toss away your citizenship—or worse, your life—over fears about the direction this country may or may not be heading in
because your team didn’t win
.

Because it’s flat-fucking-ridiculous. And you’re better than that.

You’ve had plenty of time to feel your feelings. Now it’s time to organize. Get off your therapists’ couches and use your pent-up energy to gather the kind of information that will change minds and perceptions. If you hate the elected officials presiding over you, then it’s your duty as an American to make sure we never get stuck with them again.

Rally.

Act.

Be an agent for change.

So leather up, you nancy boys and girls, and get busy.

Because you’re going to be okay.

Best,

Jen

P.S. If I could endure the fraternity party otherwise known as the Clinton administration, you can deal with President Churchy Mc-Jesus.

P.P.S. If Bush were so intent on imposing a stringent Christian lifestyle on everyone, wouldn’t he have started with his kids? As it stands, the twins are but a Jell-O shot away from starring in the presidential edition of
Girls Gone Wild
.

P.P.P.S. Still, nine shots of espresso? That’s just messed up.

The Neocon Express

W
hen it comes to taking the bus, I am functionally retarded.

No, wait, I can’t say “retarded” because that insults all the developmentally disabled people who manage to use public transportation to travel from Point A to Point B every day without incident. For example, I didn’t see any of
them
accidentally exiting at the wrong place after getting on the wrong bus and then walking an entire mile in stupid, pointy, kitten-heel boots until they figured out where the damn Fullerton stop was already.
1

This bus-riding phobia is an entirely new phenomenon for me,
2
and in terms of nature versus nurture, I’m confident saying I’m not genetically opposed to the bus. As a kid, I adored my school bus. Our driver was a cool guy named Jim and he’d play the rock station on the radio and would occasionally pump the air brakes in time with Foreigner songs. Plus, even though the kids on my street were supposed to congregate in a couple of centrally located spots, Jim would stop in front of all our houses and pick each of us up individually. (The door-to-door service is something I cherish to this day.) For the longest time, “the bus” was equivalent with “fun,” as it meant going on field trips and traveling to speech meets and, later in life, guided tours through European cities and Mexican resort towns. For most of my life I’ve held busses in the same esteem as ice cream trucks, which is no small feat.

Sadly, the number 56 Milwaukee Ave bus ruined me for life. My prior experiences led me to believe buses run on a schedule, yet here in Chicago posted schedules are less an “estimated arrival time” and more a “guarantee of the one moment in time the bus
won’t
be here.” The number 56 is supposed to pick up every ten minutes. What generally happens is the buses get stacked up along the route and then continue in a red-light-running convoy all the way downtown, which means a forty-five-minute wait at the stop instead of ten. I live an $8 cab ride away from downtown, and I much prefer taxis to the bus, but there’s something intrinsically wrong with spending $8 to get to a $12/hour job.

If I do manage to trick the number 56 into showing up in a timely fashion, it’s a given that people will be packed in so tightly that I end up dry-humping a stranger’s briefcase all the way down Milwaukee Ave.

The real treat is when the McMuffin-eating, coffee-drinking, nail-filing, cell-phone chatting, newspaper-reading, ADD-having person up front
3
slams on the breaks for no good reason and suddenly my butt becomes an air bag for the guy looking at
Sports Illustrated
in the seat next to me.
4

Still, even though the bus is slow, undependable, and occasionally forces me to thrust my unmentionables in a stranger’s mug, it’s better than taking the El. Before I moved here, I’d spent a summer in Boston and fell in love with its extensive mass-transit system. I could effortlessly get anywhere on the East Coast by simply referring to my
Car-Free in Boston
guidebook. I’d easily tool all over the city on the T and had no problem figuring out the quickest way to get from the Sam Adams Brewery
5
in Jamaica Plain to the Singing Sand Beach in Marblehead via train. Although I was from Indiana, the system was such that I could provide directions to the guests at the hotel where I was working like I’d lived my whole life on Mass Ave. I assumed the El, Chicago’s elevated train system, would be equally efficient.

I assumed wrong.

The day of my first ride, my friend Greg and I were meeting some colleagues for lunch across the Loop. While we waited on the El’s wooden platform, we watched a passenger toss down a burning cigarette. “Wait,” I’d asked, “isn’t that flammable? If those planks catch fire, won’t we all, like, die?” My friend Greg shrugged and replied, “Yeah, but what are you going to do? Chicago’s a first-world city with a third-world transportation system.” And it pretty much went downhill from there. Seems like every time I get on the El, the train gets delayed, the air conditioning breaks, or it turns into an
incident
, like when I try to take it to the library.

Before I discuss the
incident
, I must give some background and explain that books are my crack. I come from a family of voracious readers and books have been a crucial part of my life ever since I can remember. My second memory is of curling up next to my mother and brother on a snowy night, wearing red velvet footie pajamas and hearing her read “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (“The Night Before Christmas”) from the tome with the holograph-looking cover. (My first is from Thanksgiving that year, standing in my crib drawing turkeys on the wallpaper with a Magic Marker.)

At the time, we lived in an idyllic little town in Massachusetts, physically a few miles away from Boston, but worlds away from the hustle and bustle of the city. The town had a historic bandstand and expansive green commons, nestled next to Lake Quannapowitt, and our house was only a block away. As our place was almost two hundred years old, we had no air conditioning. Most of the time it was fine, but on the hottest nights, we’d walk down to the lakeshore to cool off while listening to my mother read passages from our favorite books. Somehow a stuffy house didn’t seem so bad after hearing tales of Johnny Tremain getting maimed by molten silver, and I was grateful not to sleep in a hayloft and live with a grumpy old grandfather like Heidi. Plus, no one ever tried to shuttle me off to Maine to be raised like a lady like they did in
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms
. From the very beginning, books made me feel better about my lot in life, hence the start of an unbreakable habit.

I’d always been a public library kind of gal, but once I moved to Chicago, I discovered bookstores had gone through a magnificent metamorphosis. Well, of sorts. Perhaps not
everyone
considers the addition of coffee shops that sell big cookies and turtle cheesecake borderline miraculous.
6
However, I loved the addition of comfortable chairs, proper lighting, and wider aisles, too. I began to buy my weight in Grisham, Hiaasen, and Goldsmith. I was in mocha-flavored, whip-topped, cinnamon-sprinkled, page-turning heaven, especially when Helen Fielding’s
Bridget Jones’s Diary
came out and began the onslaught of pink-jacketed, shoe-covered chick lit books I so cherish today.

Anyway, thousands of dollars and calories later, I decide I want to read Plum Sykes’s
Bergdorf Blondes
, but I’m kind of broke and don’t have enough money for parking
and
coffee
and
cheesecake
and
books. Unfortunately, the library branch by my apartment has closed for remodeling, so I decide to brave the journey to the big gargoyle-roofed main library downtown.

And thus I present: