"The blog has made Glab into a hip town crier, commenting on everything from local politics and cultural happenings to national and international events, all rendered in a colorful, intelligent, working-class vernacular that owes some of its style to Glab’s Chicago-hometown heroes Studs Terkel and Mike Royko." — David Brent Johnson in Bloom Magazine
The conclusions? I should have been a professor and I am not an asshole at all.
Who, Me?
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Jeez, what a load of horseshit!
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Meter Mad
A hot Bloomington tomato named Candy Allday found herself in Oak Park, Illinois, this past week. She stopped at a Mexican restaurant with her ever-lovin’ husband and a couple of friends late-ish one evening.
Candy Allday is used to feeding B-town parking meters until the ungodly hour of 10pm, so she began digging in her purse for quarters before entering said eatery. Lo and behold, she stopped and gasped.
“I’ve gotta take a picture of this,” she blurted. And so she did. And here it is.
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Candy Allday wonders if certain Bloomington City Council-folk can read.
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Let’s Dance
Bloomington’s own Brynda Forgas is no longer owned by her business, The Hidden Closet. After a long stay in the Fountain Square Mall, Forgas moved her Closet to Kirkwood Avenue, right behind the Book Corner last year. Biz was no better on Kirkwood than it had been in the relatively quiet mall.
So Brynda decided to call it a retail career a couple of months ago and announced she’d be locking the door one final time as soon as the Christmas season was over. She’s never looked happier.
An old pal of hers, Paula Chambers is set to open her own shop, The Dance Circus, in Brynda’s old space Tuesday, February 4. Paula’s another Bloomington fixture. She’s the boss of the Hudsucker Posse hula hoop girl gang. She, too, is moving her digs out of Fountain Square.
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The Dance Circus will continue to feature scads of dancewear and shoes, hula hoops (all handmade), and plenty of other fun stuff.
Chambers hopes to get better exposure and foot traffic for her store in the new location. She’s pumped. “I’m gonna make a splash on Kirkwood,” she promises.
Go visit Paula. And spend some cash, wouldja?
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… And The Blacks Were Happy Under Slavery
NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell gave the assembled news media of the world a state of the league address last week in advance of yesterday’s Super Bowl. Then he opened the floor for questions. One intrepid reporter asked him about the Washington club’s nickname, you know the one that’s a racial slur. Goodell pulled a Vinnie Barbarino and said, essentially, Whuh?
Pushed further, he elaborated. Why, he claimed, the folks we’re slurring consider it no slur at all!
“There’s a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.” — Oscar Levant
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THE STRIKE: DAY, UM, ZERO!
It’s over, hallelujah.
Chicago Teachers Union Boss Karen Lewis With The Good News
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So what have we learned?
Chicago’s teachers get paid well
They deserve every penny of it
They were willing to sacrifice precious days and even weeks of earning to fight for better classrooms
They’ll fight privatization
Bloomington’s teacher’s deserve a hell of a lot more money than they’re getting now. Too bad Indiana state law bans teacher strikes.
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MY SIN
I took a pummeling yesterday from a trio of women.
As I was exiting the back door of the Book Corner, the front door of Hidden Closet — which faces it — swung open dramatically and I was confronted by the scarlet face of boss lady Brynda Forgas. I knew I was in for it. The only question was, What the hell had I done?
“I’m so mad at you!” Brynda hissed, her eyes wide.
I mentally checked off a list of possible offenses:
We aren’t having an affair
I hadn’t sneaked into her shop and grabbed cash from the register
I haven’t told people to stay away from the Hidden Closet
We both are moved to shuddering at the sound of the words Mitt Romney
So what did I do? I felt like a ten-year-old.
Forgas In A Less Inflamed Moment
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It should be noted that the above inventory of misdeeds took place within a fraction of a second because Brynda launched into her tirade without prompting.
“You mean to tell me you had Richard Thompson in your store yesterday and you didn’t even have the decency to run over here immediately and tell me?!”
Brynda’s face inched closer to mine. I flinch-blinked. Was a jab to the nose in the offing?
She opened her door wider so I could see two cohorts holding cups of tea fortified with what, I don’t know, staring at me through narrowed eyes. One of them was another usually amicable soul, Kathy Loser, chief book pusher at Bloomington High School North. I didn’t recognize the other woman. For all I knew, she was an imported thumb-breaker.
Brynda continued: “I would have dropped everything and come right over! I’d have left a customer standing there!” There was more — much more — but the sound of her voice had become a machine gun.
The women were preparing themselves for the big show at the Buskirk Chumley Theater across the street. Richard Thompson’s show was scheduled to begin in an hour and a half.
As I suffered this verbal onslaught, The Loved One waited patiently in the car for me and watched as the Man of Brynda et al’s Dreams actually came out the front door of the venue and signed posters for some adoring fans.
Now, I like Richard Thompson but I had no idea he was such a MILF-idol. Color me educated as of now.
Sexy Daddy
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I was able to discern one bit of info from Brynda’s tirade — she had front row center seats for Thompson. I wonder if we’ll see her at her shop this morning.
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I’LL SHOW ‘EM!
We’ve been having trouble with our Comcast broadband service here at The Pencil’s World Headquarters just east of Beautiful Bloomington.
Every night, The Loved One asks, Did you call Comcast?
Grrrrrr
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And every night I snap my fingers and say, “Damn! I forgot. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
It’s become a ritual.
Last night, TLO gave me an explicit instruction: “Make sure we get a credit. We shouldn’t have to pay the full amount for this.”
“This” being repeated signal outages that constantly interrupt our Netflix viewing as well as my regular sessions of trance-like admiration for my brilliant work on this site.
Funny, then, that the site I Fucking Love Science, via XKCD, posted this image yesterday:
The caption read: “For when you really, really MUST piss someone off.”
Trust me — I really, really want to piss Comcast off.
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CRAZY
Uh oh. Here we go again.
A French magazine has just printed a cartoon making fun of Islam’s big cheese, Muhammad.
Al Jazeera English reports that France is actually shutting down its embassies in 20 countries for fear that Muslim extremists might attack.
French Mag Charlie Hebdo Offices Were Attacked in November, 2011
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Sheesh.
Enough of trying to understand how precious Muhammad is to the Muslim world. We get it. What the sane among us don’t get is the psychotic reaction.
The nations where these violent outbursts have taken place in recent weeks had better start taking responsibility for the loons carrying them out.
It’s A Guy Thing
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The extremists may revere Muhammad. I, for one, revere free speech and respect for human lives.
“I’ve never really had a hobby, unless you count art, which the IRS once told me I had to declare as a hobby since I hadn’t made any money with it.” — Laurie Anderson
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ARTISTS AND GALLERIES OPEN HOUSE
First things first — you have to go to the GO! page today. Click the logo now.
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Bloomington is humming with events and activities on this first day of June. Leading the way is this weekend’s Summer Arts Blast. Tonight, galleries around downtown will throw their doors open for the Arts Walk. Painting, photography, poetry, film, music — you name it. Just go to GO! for all the info you’ll need.
Tomorrow and Sunday we’ll have the Open Studios Tour wherein artists around town let people into their homes and studios to see how their art is made.
Which reminds me of the annual Pilsen East Artists Open House that would take place in September in my old Chicago neighborhood. East Pilsen was a designated arts community, chock-full of artists, musicians, playwrights, authors, sculptors and others who were habitually late with their rents.
Pilsen East Artists Collective, The Lampreys
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The arts walk happened over a weekend and usually began at noon and ran through 8:oo or so.
One of the artists loved telling this particular story.
Many of the people who would pass through the studios and homes of the artists were young professionals with brand new families who were more concerned with checking out the neighborhood to determine if they should buy in rather than with the art on display.
Now, this type of creature was roundly loathed by the artists for several reasons. One, they were really nothing more than transplanted suburban yuppies (bet you haven’t heard that word in a million years) who would only live in the city until their children were old enough to go to school, at which time they’d flee back to places like LaGrange or Highland Park.
Ooh, We Love The (White, Safe Part Of The) City!
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Second, their presence in an arts neighborhood signaled, essentially, the end of said arts neighborhood. See, in Chicago, arts neighborhoods serve as transition states between neighborhoods filled with brown people and those filled with detestable white pseudo-hipsters.
By the time the neighborhood would be washed clean of its brownness, the artists would be priced out.
Anyway, one Saturday morning the artist in question was chatting with some art walkers who’d stopped in and were sincerely curious about his work. A husband and wife came in pushing a luxury stroller that had about as many extras as a Mercedes automobile and, for all the artist knew, probably cost as much as well.
Nothing’s Too Good For Our Little Man
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Since the stroller was nearly as wide as a Mercedes to boot, the husband was dashing about in the artist’s home, moving things to make a path for the stroller’s precious princely contents. The artist watched this in amazement.
Suddenly, the young messiah in the stroller announced he was thirsty and only juice would do. So, like that, the daddy-o marched over to the artist’s refrigerator and, without asking, began rummaging around for the juice his heir demanded.
Now, the refrigerator contained only the usual artists’ provisions: a half carton of out-of-date eggs, an almost-empty salsa jar, and store-brand mayonnaise. So the artist didn’t make a move to stop the man from rifling through his private space. He wanted, instead, to watch him.
Maybe Some Vintage Philadelphia Cream Cheese, Too
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Eventually, the daddy-o concluded that his golden boy, who by this time was shouting for his juice, would go ungratified, at least in this particular spot.
So the father closed the refrigerator door and turned to the artist. “Don’t you have any juice here?’ he demanded.
“No,” came the reply
“No?” Pops asked, incredulous.
“No.”
The couple and their squalling kid left the premises forthwith.
The artist and his other guests merely laughed.
So, here’s a tip. Stay out of the artists’ refrigerators this weekend.
Otherwise, enjoy the open houses.
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THE CREAM OF THE VINTAGE FASHION SHOPS
While you’re traipsing around downtown digging the art, make sure to stop in at Brynda Forgas’s Hidden Closet in its new location directly behind the Book Corner.
The Hidden Closet
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Brynda’s throwing a big opening party for the place staring at 5:00pm. The entrance is on the Kirkwood side. Trust me, it’ll be worth your while; she’ll will be serving cream puffs.
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WELL, IF YOU REALLY MUST BE A WRITER….
As if there isn’t enough to do this weekend, get ready for the IU Writers Conference starting Sunday.
The shebang runs through Friday, the 8th. One highlight will be a featured reading Monday night by Dr. Susan Gubar, whose book “Memoir of Bebulked Woman” recounts her struggle with blade-happy surgeons who carved her up in an effort to rid her body of ovarian cancer.
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Each day from Monday through Friday is packed with classes for writers and those aspiring to the maddening vocation.
As of this AM, all classes and workshops were still open for registration so get on it, baby.
Here’s a tip from a writer who’s been clacking the keyboards professionally since 1983: unless you’ve got an insatiable jones akin to heroin addiction to put your thoughts, imaginings, and/or fever dreams on paper (or LCD screen) get out while the getting’s good.
Writers, by and large, are whacked-out, half-drunk, personally unendurable, and usually broke. And those are the successful ones.
If, on the other hand, you can’t stop yourself from stringing words together, then by all means sign up for some IUWC sessions.
“We need to get over this love affair with the fetus and start worrying about children.” Dr. Joycelyn Elders, former Surgeon General of the United States (h/t to Susan Sandberg)
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HIDDEN NO MORE
Fountain Square is a lovely development and Bloomington will forever be in debt to the late Bill Cook for ponying up the dough to rehab the place, but let’s be frank — it’s tough for a retailer who doesn’t have sidewalk frontage to make a go there.
Hello? Anyone There?
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Brynda Forgas, boss-lady at The Hidden Closet boutique, has been surviving in Fountain Square for a few years. She hopes to thrive elsewhere now.
She’s opening up new digs behind the Book Corner in the old home of Glorious Moments, an art emporium that closed down suddenly under fishy circumstances a couple of months ago.
Forgas & Friend
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Brynda and her husband are hustling to rebuild the interior of the space for the Closet’s “grand-ish” opening party, Friday, June 1st, at 5:00pm. She says she’s calling it “grand-ish” because she doesn’t want to raise people’s expectations too much but she did reveal she’ll be serving cream puffs.
That’s grand enough for me. See you there.
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HIDDEN TREASURE
Speaking of Fountain Square, one of Bloomington’s secret pleasures remains hidden there.
That would be Stefano’s Ice Cafe, down in the lower level of the mall. Fab sandwiches and sides. The place is run by a husband and wife team from Afghanistan. They treat customers as though they’re long-lost cousins.
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If Stefano’s had a streetside storefront, the line to get into the place would be halfway around Fountain Square.
As it is, you can go there at lunch time, get served in the snap of a finger, and eat like a king. May as well take advantage of it now, before they move out, too, and you’ll have to wait.
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WHY THE UNIFORM?
BTW: Have you ever wondered why the US Surgeon General always wears a uniform?
Here’s the answer: the US Public Health Service, which the SG commands, originally was a uniformed arm of the nation’s defense apparatus. When it was formed in the 18th Century, the USPHS originally was called the Military Health Service. It’s job was to tend to sick and injured sailors (at the time the US only had a naval military service.)
The post of Surgeon General today carries a military rank equivalent to a vice admiral in the Navy.
The wearing of the uniform had fallen out of fashion among SG’s until C. Everett Koop came along under the Reagan administration. Koop was a national health evangelist and he felt wearing the uniform would would cause citizens to pay a little more heed to him than other fed bureaucrats.
Surgeon General Koop
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Considering the fact he yelled at Americans to stop smoking and stood on his head to raise AIDS awareness, any trick he could think of to get us to listen was worth a shot.
Koop was a strong anti-abortion advocate, although I can’t come down too hard on him because his belief stemmed from years of treating fetuses and newborns, so I don’t suppose it was born (pardon the pun) of some lockstep religious conceit. He also wouldn’t take to the bully pulpit to condemn doctors who performed abortions or women who received them.
Anyway, Bloomington has a notable Koop connection. In 1982, local parents of a child born with severe Down Syndrome, esophageal atresia, and a tracheoesophageal fistula wrestled with the decision to treat the child or let him pass. The attending physician advised them the boy, known as Baby Doe, only had a 50 percent chance of recovering fully from surgery and even if he did, he would be virtually unable to care for himself for the rest of his life due to mental retardation. The parents elected to withhold food and water from the boy and he died after six days.
Koop, a noted pediatric physician before taking his government job, had performed surgery on hundreds of newborns with the maladies and said he’d never lost a patient. Moved to action by the Bloomington Baby Doe case, he advocated a national statute protecting children born with severe birth defects, eventually passed by Congress as the Baby Doe Law.
Koop seemed a decent Joe despite the fact that he championed a “right-to-life” agenda. Just goes to show not everyone we disagree with needs to be demonized.
