I can’t believe it actually happened. Like something out of a movie, I accidentally met the man of my dreams on a street corner. And little did we know, besides dreaming about each other, we had been emailing each other on and off for a year.
I never thought that bad balcony behavior at Marina City could any get worse. Well, tie me up in rope lights, folks, because the corncobs have reached an explosive new low: fireworks dropped from high-rise floors.
Ever since I became a home cook, I’ve wanted to try my hand at coq au vin. This Saturday with Devyn, I finally took the plunge. We both agreed it’s one of the best things I’ve ever made. Here’s the recipe.
Why suburbasauruses want to bring their cars into downtown Chicago is beyond me. Maybe it’s something in the water table out near 294. The remnants of some 1950s radium experiment gone awry that, over time, infects the brains of otherwise rational collar-county denizens.
Being a good Marina Citizen, there are things that I just won’t do on my 175-square-foot, petal-shaped, 38th-floor balcony. Trouble is, the younger set has no tolerance for convention. From the ground, nothing would belie our beloved corncobs’ monumental mid-century modern style. But looking from one balcony to another, it’s a whole different world.
Open your mouth about the impending corporate murder of the Marshall Field’s nameplate by the evil retail overlords at Federated and some heartbroken local will immediately insert their foot and claim the real Marshall Field’s is no more. Is that so?
The way to a man’s heart is most assuredly through his stomach and let no one steer you wrong about this. Our grandmothers knew what they were talking about when they passed on this failsafe gem. All you need is a game plan. Here’s mine.
Today at work I received a link to an astounding photo essay of the day-by-day effects of Hurricane Katrina on New Orleans. It was created by Alvaro Villa, a trapped resident of the French Quarter, and includes an ongoing narrative of the situation, as it grew worse and worse.
It has been four years since I felt moved by both the pain and the passion of a city. Then it was due to the terrorist disaster that befell my hometown, New York. This time, though, there’s the federal government to blame–for the atrocious response to the the Hurricane Katrina disaster in New Orleans.
Being a New Yorker who was living in Gotham during 9/11, I know all too well the feelings of despair and helplessness that the hundreds of thousands of refugee New Orleanians must feel as they flee their beloved city, now in ruins. Blame President Bush.