She's riding on my behalf

The truth is, I was multi-talkxting (simultaneously talking to one person, texting another, and drinking a Red Bull) when the iPhone slipped out of my hand and into the dog's water dish. Frozen freak out as I watched my slow motion lifeline quietly descend to the bottom; like in that Matthew McConaughey movie---you know, the one where he's so busy trying to save a submarine he never gets a chance to take his shirt off. 

Fully dressed, I dove into the drink, retrieved the bubbling device, and bolted up the stairs to the bathroom. This was not the first time my personal Pearl Harbor had come under attack. A veteran of more than a few such self-sabatoges over my distinguished sales career, I've acquired the basic EMT survivor skills necessary for simple real estate business to carry on even in spite of myself.

There was the time in the late 1990s when my Motorola Star-Tec met its own destiny in a powder room commode at a Sunday Open House. I searched for an hour before re-tracing my tracks back to its resting place in the bucket; toilet seat still up at half-mast, the exhaust fan playing taps. (That phone was the only thing in my physical possession that I actually bragged about being so small.)

Then there was that era in my pre-iPhone 'Verizon' subscription life when I rolled with a seven pound Treo 650 on my belt. On its final day, a slushy puddle became the final landing spot as I attempted to swing my big fat ass (not really, it's just an expression) out of the driver's seat of a Mini Cooper.  I recall laying the gurgling remains on the Verizon counter an hour later when the Assistant Day Manager finally called my number, next in line.

"You dropped this in the water," he said.

"No I didn't."  

"Then why is there all this moisture and condensation beneath the screen?" he inquired, narrowing his focus from behind Pearl Vision Express eyewear, probing the soggy brick with a Bic pen.

"I live in a very humid climate," I answered.

"Where's that?" he asked. " The Tropic of Cancer?"

Alas, another fellow English Literature major unable to find a position in his chosen field. I reached down deep into my mental Cliff Notes and attempted to establish 'Common Ground' (Step Two of the Sales Process directly after the 'Meet and Greet' but somewhere before the actual 'Sit').  We chatted up Henry Miller for a few moments before he loosened the corporate noose and gave me the 411 on cellular resuscitation.

"Next time this happens," he explained, "immediately remove the battery, shake all excess water from the phone, then point a hair dryer on Medium Heat toward the inside of the handset for 15 minutes. Then hope. Then pray. Then live to text another day...." The young man was indeed, a poet. And thankfully so, as his tutorial words echoed in my head on this latest occasion....

I burst through the door of the 2nd floor guest bath where I camp out and park all my toiletries (because the 400 square foot master bath in our house is somehow not big enough for two people). In my own tiny bathroom now,  it suddenly hit me that a) the iPhone does not have a removable battery and b) I have no hair---thus, no hair dryer.  I scrambled into my wife's private spa and plugged the first device I found into an outlet. A curling iron. WTF.

I quickly located the hair dryer as the final seconds ticked away. I pointed. I hoped. I prayed...

"Alright, Alright, Alright!"  I might not be in the same heroic league as Matthew McC in U-571 but I kept my cool (and my shirt on) under SIM fire. The dry-out procedure was a cyber-medical success.

That original iPhone, although barely moaning through each ensuing ring anymore (and about to be retired in lieu of a newer and slicker 3G model), will forever occupy a special place in my bottom nightstand drawer full of other swaybacked cellular workhorses, mismatched chargers, and scattered loose, dead blue teeth. And even though the Assistant Day Manager at the AT&T store I frequent  these days doesn't know squat about literature, I've decided to extend my unlimited minutes/texting contract for another two-years of close calls and narrow escapes. After all, "Life, as it is called, is for most of us one long postponement." (and that, my dear readers, would be Henry Miller).

Geno Petro

One of the first essays I ever posted on Active Rain back in 2006 was a piece entitled 'Google Your Mom.' At the time I thought it was a clever notion; write a cute, loving piece about my mother (born in the 1920s) and atomically collide her with a present day algorithm for a quick, ironic grin--a Google giggle, as it were. After all, (in blog years, that is), 2006 was a couple Morse Law generations ago and I was but a virtual piker in the constantly expanding Real Estate blogosphere.


I entered the same title into the Google Search Box a few  moments ago (just to make sure the idea still had some digital legs, if not originality) and alas, there are now 42,100,000+ entries with the same keyword sequence, Google...Mom. It seems like everyone is writing about what their moms are doing on that 256K floppy up in the third bedroom these days. Still, at least through these biased eyes, my own fore bearer remains an unknowing pioneer of technological ingenuity as it applies to her...ahem, demographic. And while Mitzi Petro may not possess the same genetic motherboard as the matronly likes of a Mrs. Jobs, Gates, or Wozniak, she is still very special in her own Post-it Note sort of way.

Here is the most recent case in point:

Yesterday, during my usual Sunday morning phone call to the homestead back East, my folks and I covered the customary weekly topics---the food we ate, our states of health, and our collective economic uncertainties since the last big election. Now they've never come right out and said this to me but I know for a fact (per my youngest sister, Liz--the smart one), that my parents are afraid to even mention the subject of Chicago Real Estate in my presence. The Fox News Network has them both scared to death that, any day now, Obama himself will demand that I step down from my position as a Realtor, thus forcing my wife and me to live in their basement until we either a) agree to Loan Modification counseling or b) I sell something out of my housing inventory for close to asking price. Of course I exaggerate.

But not by much....


Anyway, come to find out, there have been two Listed properties in their Chalfont, Pennsylvania townhouse community that went under contract in recent weeks and according to the neighborhood sewing club,  Market Values haven't backslid as much as everybody feared. Fantastic! This gave me the perfect opening to mention my newly flourishing business in Chicago, but just as I began to interject my own good news to ease their weary minds, I heard a muffled commotion on the other end of the phone...

"Did you get him, Mitz, Did you get him?" my father's unmistakable voice in the background.

"...mumble...mumble...," my mom, flustered. Phone hits the floor. More commotion. Then silence. Then dial tone. I immediately call back. Line busy. No Call Waiting. I call back again. Same. I subconsciously fumble for a cigarette before remembering I quit five years ago. I wait 5 minutes and call one last time. My mother finally picks up in mid-sentence as if there was never a disconnect at all....


"...and then, Genie, I was trying to get that squirrel. The little bugger, like I said,  keeps eating the birdseed from the feeder. So I yanked on the string attached to the can of gravel your father made and....."


I'll shorten the story: My mother sits in a rocking chair in her den with one end of a long string in her hand that runs outside and is connected to a taped up can of gravel, on the deck railing, under the above hanging bird feeder.  She waits for the squirrel to poke his head through the decking slats then she YANKS...and all hell breaks loose; her, my father, the squirrel, the birds, birdseed, gravel, everything. They all jump up and scatter in different directions. This has been going on every day since the Daylight Savings Time change, I hear.


My other sister, Margie (the resourceful one), invented the contraption based roughly, from what I can deduce, on the popular 1960s childhood game, Mousetrap. It was her 'Have-A-Heart' alternative to my mother's Plans B, C and D which were:

B) An electric lamp, plugged in, sans lightbulb, with peanut butter and birdseed in the socket.


C) A waffle iron, also plugged in, left intentionally open on the deck railing just beneath the bird feeder (for tip-toeing vermin. ouch).


D) A pea shooter.

Margie nixed the first two options as cruel and unusual, even for Mitzi. My mother, I then learned, jumped into her Suburu and drove halfway across Bucks county and back on Saturday afternoon in search of a pea shooter. She finally ended up at a gun store.  I. Am. Not. Kidding. After hearing her story, (and the mandatory cooling off period for seniors with squirrel issues), they tried to sell her a slingshot, instead.

I suggested she 'Google' the problem for an internet solution. My suggestion was met with silence on the other end of the phone. I forgot. For some reason she thinks the 'G' word has something to do with pornography. Same with 'Hotmail.' Don't ask.   Instead, I change the subject and inquire about what's for dinner. Forty-five minutes later the battery finally dies in my iPhone. Now that's Amore!

Geno Petro

I'm sorry, but I refuse to believe my primary residence (pictured) in the Forest Glen/Sauganash area of Northwest Chicago has dropped $100,000 in value since the purchase in September of 2007. Say it ain't so, Joe.

Cut me some slack, Jack. I sold it to myself. I did the comps. I know my market. Hell, I even talked my wife into it. So, wassup with the Bank Appraisal?

Just so you know, my Lender is a little reticent about allowing us to refinance right now. Something about reduced LTV (Loan to Value), a Declining Market, Back End ratios and other sundry real estate talkspeak. Oh yeah, and the fact that I'm a Realtor by occupation. A little ironic huh? I'm having my best year since 2006 but hey, The Ministry has spoken. Okay, fine. I'll play along for... another 12 months.

But I'm going on record now to my current Mortgage Holder---and you may or may not know who you are: When this whole credit crunch thing blows over.....it's HASTA LA VISTA, BABY. (and I won't be back.) No way, Jose...


ps...enjoy the extra $50,000,000,000 you just received from our favorite uncle Sammy. All I received was a letter from you saying....ah, forgetaboutit!

Geno Petro

Driving downstate through an ice storm this past week allowed me many quiet white-out hours to ponder my own, unfulfilled, Life's wish list. The cosmic notion hit me just about the time we pulled into Effingham, Illinois (love the name, Effingham---consider: "Honey, I'm sick of that Effing-ham. How 'bout some Effing-turkey instead this Christmas?") some 240 miles and 8 crawling hours south of our bittersweet home in sub-zero, salt mottled Chicago. We settled down for the cold winter's night at a Comfort Inn and dined on some warm gruel at TGI FRIDAY'S before awaking, early and rested, on Day Two to resume our annual Christmas pilgrimage to Tennessee and all gifts sweet and southern.



Next stop on the GPS, Metropolis: 'Home of the Giant Superman Statue.' We had been meaning to check out this giant statue for several years now but always took a pass in an effort to make better travel time. Perhaps this day would finally be.... 'the day' we threw haste to the wind and dropped in on the Caped Crusader and that whole cast of characters. Wait...maybe that's Gotham. Hmmm... Oh well, in the end it really didn't matter.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, I realized that all I ever really desire in this fair and unbalanced world is what everybody else around me has. I could learn to be content with just that, I supposed. The key to this mental metacafe, I concluded, lies not so much in the 'What'... but in the 'Where.' I want what everyone around me has as long as it's: on the Right Bank of Paris; on the Upper East Side of NYC; on a tropical beach... in the Tropics! So in the case of Metropolis, Illinois, this would compute to a comfortable house to decorate for the holidays, a pick-up truck, and a secure assistant-middle-management job at the Big John Supermarket in town.





My wife and I, forever pondering the myriad of future retirement options, always seem to pose the same question whenever we find ourselves in a new spot far, far away from Chicago: "Think we could live here?" We look around, pause...and usually continue on in silence. Truth is, we generally don't fit in. And this day is no different. We quietly pulled up to the Metropolis town square in the BMW and got out to stretch our legs. As advertised, there stood a statue of Superman, although whether it is 'GIANT' or not is arguable.



All things equal, the Big John statue at the Big John Supermarket across the street is much taller and more muscular for my money. But I'm an outsider. What do I know? Some teenaged locals were giving me a hard local look from the next pick-up truck over as I framed my iPhone camera upward for some tourist shots. One of them proclaimed, "That's a pretty big dog to be haulin' around in that fancy ve-hic-le."

I looked over my shoulder and observed our overfed pampered pet sitting upright on his own heated backseat with a jingle belled Santa collar around his neck, panting out the window. The locals had two very lean, growling pitbulls with rusty spike collars chained to the side rail of their flat bed. I looked back up at the two statues towering above and tried to remember the last time someone picked a fight with me. I attempted to mentally recall some of my karate moves but to no avail. I have a black belt laying around the house somewhere, I remember. I wondered if it was still good, praying for muscle memory. Another life, sadly. Really need to get back in shape...clean out the basement...did I unplug the coffee pot?...what was I just saying?...

"Where do you get parts for that?" another big farm boy asked, pulling me back into the Metropolis moment.

Hmmm. Good question. If I answered "at the BMW shop" someone was going to take a swing at me and let the dogs loose for sure.

"Its not mine," I finally say. "I just stole it. Wanna buy it? 30 grand. Cache." Smiling. Thank God I was wearing my sunglasses and skull cap. No more words were exchanged between the humans although the collective hounds continued giving each other the city/country stink eye for several awkward seconds.



I snapped a few shots, jumped back in the fancy ve-hic-le, and headed toward the interstate wondering how long I'd even survive in a short sleeve white shirt and clip-on tie, assistant-managing such indigenous folk. Maybe the retail food industry is not for me after all, I concluded. I pictured me and Big John eventually butting heads somewhere down my second career line and dismissed the fantasy altogether. "You can scratch Metropolis off the retirement list," I said. And although Mona would have made a pretty hot Superwoman, she didn't seem too disappointed with my executive decision (although just between us, she is faster than any speeding Bloomingdale's shopper I've ever met).



Upon reaching our peaceful and rolling hilled destination of northwestern Tennessee, we tossed around the benefits of good country living for two days and ate like fatted calves like we always do in this bucolic family setting. My father-in-law once again reminded me exactly how much real estate I'd need to sell in Dyer County to make a comfortable living. We've had this conversation often. The conclusion is always the same. A lot...of real estate, that is.

Mere price point alone dictates that selling houses and condos in Chicago assures at least a modicum of success for a Realtor compared to the deflated, slow moving housing market of this rural section of the Economy. Still, townsfolk sit around the local eatery, Toot-'n-Tell-It, and discuss the future of America as they see it. 'Goodyear's laying off. No acorns this year. Lot's of pecans, though...' The parking lot is full (as it is on every occasion I've been there) and the local, flannel shirted workers chew on the three square fat over black coffee and pie, everyday except Sunday.



Funny. The Chevrolet dealership in town is boarded up. Goodyear down the road is rumored to be laying off soon. GM, on a national level, is about to crash, but Toot-'n-Tell-It in Dyer, Tennessee is still packing them in and slinging hash morning, noon and night.

"If we retire here we could sell the BMW, buy a trailer and you could get a job waitressing," I said as we pulled into the parking lot full of pick-up trucks for one last stop before hitting the road for good after a most pleasant Christmas visit. My wife just looked at me. The passenger compartment smelled like dog and pecan pie. We'd been in the ve-hic-le hundreds of hours and traveled thousands of miles through storms of biblical proportions these past several days. And now we were about to embark on the final leg of our Christmas journey; the 492 foggy miles straight home to Chicago. No stopping; Effingham, Metropolis, and now Dyer, soon to be mere holiday memories left behind...




"Where do we get parts for this thing?" she asked, as we idled in front of Toot-'n-Tell-It for the final time this trip.

"I don't know. Not the Chevy dealership, that's for sure," I said.

"Why don't you go inside and ask someone?" she asked.

And I would have but I still couldn't remember if I had an actual Black Belt designation or not. I reached into the backseat and took the ridiculous collar off my dog before he got us both beat up, set the navigation, and waited for a signal, before pulling away. "TURN LEFT. 100 FEET," it instructed.

"Real men down here use compasses," Mona said, as we pulled onto Route 45 North, still pissed about the waitress comment.

"Yes," I said, as I adjusted my power seat and fastened my safety belt. "And their wives keep the trailer nice and clean, I'm told." as I quickly added Forgiveness to the list...


Geno Petro

Let's see...there was the time I was 'cast' in an independent film and broadcasted to everyone in the free world that I was going to be in a "MOVIE," possibly even Sundance, only to never hear from the casting director again. That wasn't too embarrassing. I mean let's face it, I have degrees in both Theater and English but have to sell real estate in Chicago to make a legitimate living. Lord only knows what my net/self worth would look like if I were forced to sell real estate (or act on stage) in some place like...say, Minot, North Dakota.

And of course, there was the time I jumped up off my sandy blanket after drinking cocktails all day in the sun screaming, "Sharks! SHARKS!" on a crowded beach in Nag's Head, North Carolina, only to learn, very soon thereafter, that the dorsal finned illusions were actually a school of snub-nosed dolphins. That was fun to be reminded of every summer vacation for a decade.

And most recently, last week to be precise, there was The Food Network show that Mona and I so didn't appear on. This is after ruffling more than a few feathers with one of my more widely read tongue-in-cheekers in recent months. I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone thinks I'm funny. At least, none of my wife's friends do. Not anymore. Nor, apparently, did the post production folks at DD&D. Fine.

Geno Petro

image by brommel.blogspot.com

I'm on "DINERS, DRIVE-INS AND DIVES" NOV 24th @ 9:00 PM on the FOOD NETWORK

Okay, this is going to be fun. It's one of those stories I sometimes get accused of making up but honest to Pete, it's almost entirely true. And although this is a fish story of sorts, it's not the kind you're probably expecting. It is, however, a 'keeper' in my yet to be written book of tall, if not historically accurate, tales.

A few months back a close friend of my lovely wife Mona's called the house and invited us out to a 'group get together' at Glenn's Diner in Ravenswood. I happen to like Glenn's but not nearly as much as I dislike 'group get-togethers.' I dislike them so much I insist on putting quotation 'glyphs' around the very phrase. Glenn, a close friend of our close friend, is the proprietor of one of the hottest fresh fish joints on the North Side of Chicago. He had just been booked for a feature on The Food Network's 'Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives' and requested our attendance for the shoot date. This 'group' he was assembling was to help provide the basic background noise, scenery, and some local neighborhood color to the filming. But since none in our invited party actually live in that particular neighborhood, and since it was one of those after work kind of 'get-togethers' (which I really dislike), and since we were all battling the same late Friday afternoon Chicago rush hour traffic coming from different directions of the city by car to get there on time; because of all these reasons...and then some... our entire table was late when the scheduled shoot time was upon us. Quite late, in fact, according to cell phone records.

As I was serpentining (flying over speed bumps) eastward and southward through every shortcut alley I know on the north west side of this bumper to bungalow speed bump ridden city, the little 6 year girl in my back seat (our friend's otherwise charming and precious daughter pictured below) was getting...well, a little queasy. Maybe queasy isn't the right word. She was getting car-sick. Actually, car-sick isn't even the right word. She was throwing-up all over my back seat is what she was doing. That's the right word. Throwing-up. And I'm putting it as nicely as I can recall (which is every time I reach into the back seat for something) even these months later.

Sooo...we were terribly late for our reservation, the crew had been filming around our empty table for an hour, people were standing in line to get in, and the back of my neck was... wet. Maybe wet isn't the right word. Whatever, I wasn't exactly in the mood for fish as I barreled down the final side street, hit the air brakes, and emptied my carload of 'get-togetherers' out on the curb in front of the restaurant. I spotted a Good Will Drop-Off dumpster in the alley under the El tracks at Montrose Avenue (Go ahead, drive by. It's there) that was brimming with donated clothing, and quickly tore off in that direction, doors still ajar. I threw the SUV in PARK, jumped out, and grabbed a few torn summer dresses and a Van Huesen button down shirt from the top of the over flowing charity heap.



I proceeded to wipe down the back seat with my new found tax deductible evidence; make that the back seat, both back doors, the headliner, seat belts, the little things you click the seat belts into, windows, headrests, carpets, mats, briefcase, glove box, CD collection, Open House brochures...It was all just kind of smearing, if you know what I'm saying.

I frantically (good word) looked around until finally spotting a garden hose in the backyard of a Two-Flat but the chain link fence had a Beware of Dog sign on in. And since I was now very possibly reeking of whatever that child ate for lunch that day, I thought better of throwing my hat in that particular back yard, ass biting, proverbial ring and considered Plan B. ( Let me say right now that the scene from 'Pulp Fiction' where The Wolf gets Vincent Vega and Jules to totally 'clean' a back seat in Jimmie's garage before Bonnie gets home in 20 minutes is, well...pulp fiction.)

So I reached back up into the Drop-Off and grabbed another soiled rag, this time a double knit pant suit that smelled worse than the back seat of my Bimmer. I soaked it in a puddle of muddy water that had been stagnating under the El tracks since the last rainfall and sopped up as much as I could considering my tattered resources. I then circled the block four times before finding a semi-legal parking space. I parked the vehicle leaving it unlocked with the windows and sunroof wide open, just hoping an unsuspecting car thief would stick his snout inside.

I walked coolly into the restaurant some 40 minutes after splash down and gave the waitress my order. Fish. Yuck. Everyone else was already on their second cocktail. And I, being the lifetime designated driver for such (and all) 'get-togethers' from now until my last sober breath on this Earth is exhaled, ordered my fifth and final coffee of the day. A little wired... Ya think?



Of course, the camera immediately zooms in on Mona and they ask her all the good Food Network fish questions about her dinner, and the flavor, and how it compares with fish from Hawaii, and the wine pairing, and all these other 'foodie' (hate the word) things. She answers and beams with such a sweet southern accent you have to smile. Meanwhile, they don't ask me anything although I'm pretty sure the camera that was stuck in my own silent face half the time caught me almost choking on a fish bone as I was staring down the six year old across the table, war now declared. Anyway, if you watch the show this Monday night, I'm the one in the blue floppy hat that isn't smiling.

So the dinner tasted like fish, which is good I suppose since it is the best fish joint in Chicago, but then another couple (who I never met before) sat down and more food and drinks were ordered and then, as quickly as it all began, the action was cut, the lights dimmed and the final check was presented. Silly me. I thought it was all going to be free.

But instead...the bill was almost $500 with tax and tip (which in Chicago is over 30% combined and another post for another morning). I barely knew half of those 'getting-together' that evening so the final math (division of who ate--and didn't eat--what, and who drank the most--not me--and who just came for dessert, blah, blah, blah) was excruciating. Several of us pulled out credit cards then were immediately informed that the check couldn't be spread over more than two cards. And that they didn't take American Express, which I was holding out in my hand like I was hailing a taxi cab in Montana. No takers. My lucky night continued. Priceless.

The two strangers (to me) got up hit the ATM a block away for some much needed cash but one of them never came back. Thirty minutes later we still hadn't resolved the bill and it was getting embarrassing. No embarrassing isn't the right description. Humiliating is better. Actually, humiliating and pissed-off is probably most accurate. And sobering (for me, that is). Luckily for everyone (including Glenn, I suppose) the members of the film crew had packed away the cameras, struck the set, and were already bellying up and throwing back at the bar, having their own 'get together.'

Glenn, the gentleman proprietor that he is, stepped up and quickly whacked a hundred off the bill (and his profit, I'm sure) but by this point my mind and the evening were both quickly dulling. My wife, however, was glowing. She is soon to be a Food Network star, at least in our own household kitchen, where Channel 72 is the only programming ever on that particular screen.

You can see her (and the rest of the above mentioned cast of characters) on the Food Network this coming Monday night, November 24th, at 9PM. Like I said, I'm the one in the blue floppy hat. I would have taken it off but my neck was still a little... sticky (yeah, that's the right word). Also, the shirt I'm wearing in the show was the only decent thing I came across in the Good Will Drop-Off. And like the old man on the radio has been saying almost every weekday morning in Chicago for the last 50 years...'And now you know the rest of the story....'



Geno Petro

I suppose it's how one defines 'Good News' (or even God, for that matter). Personally, I'm getting mixed messages here. As I snapped these shots I couldn't help but feel a little put off that The Owner chose not to use a realtor or more critically, that He didn't see this whole economic downturn thing coming in the first place. And what's more, He's trying to save a few points on the commission by selling it Himself. Good luck with that Master Plan, Big Guy.

Also, since He created everything to begin with, one would think He'd have picked a better location to set up shop but maybe this is just sour grapes on my part. I haven't been feeling the Love lately even though people have mentioned to me from time to time that I am a 'miracle' although quite possibly, tongue in cheek. I gave the number on the F.S.B.O. sign a call just for the hell of it (pun) and some guy named Peter picked up. Hmmm...

For Sale By Owner. Makes perfect sense to me. As I've mentioned many times over the years, I was a real estate consumer long before I was ever a real estate professional. And since moving to Chicago 13 years ago (OMG...I mean OMF.S.B.O., has it been that long already?) I've negotiated more than my mortal share of deals on both sides of the property fence so I don't begrudge Someone trying to save a buck or two by selling it Himself. Just be careful. There are a lot of unsavory characters walking around this Earth but then again, I suppose that would be preaching to the Choir, telling Noah about the flood, Jonah about the whale, et al...

Geno Petro

'That's Me in the Corner'

My voter registration card came in the mail this morning, just under the wire as usual. And rightly so. I don't know what I think about politics these days, I really don't. It is one of those subjects I've always mentally deferred to the pundits who are supposed to know better than I---specifically politicians, elected officials (the actual winners, please), and those who objectively report and editorialize on the red, blue and green concerns of this culturally divided country. (Isn't there some uniform 'Objective Oath' everyone in the Media is required to take after journalism/modeling school? Maybe not. Maybe I ditched that day in high school and am just experiencing a time released Poli-Sci hallucination.)

Same thing, I believe, holds true with the medicine/health care industry that everyone is always yapping about. I just assume the doctors and everyone else involved in that profession--nurses, administrators, pharmaceutical salesmen--know what's new and shiny in the field and their word is, well...up. Word up, Doc. There is an Oath they all pledge to, I'm almost positive (although maybe not for the salesmen). In other words, I've always relied on sources outside my own subjective cranium (thick head) for the real, unfiltered, 'down low' (Oprah) on what is swirling around me in this universe of billions and trillions (population and national debt respectively).
For reasons too personal to delve into here, my own 'first thoughts' are usually self-motivated and thus, make me lack the objectivity needed to execute clear, unfettered judgments in areas where voices must be heard and votes counted. This is why I skim over 30 to 40 blogs each day--many more on a slow Chicago real estate day--for other peoples' opinions and insights (hey, I'm a fast if not totally retentive reader with a relatively short attention span and a fairly open mind...I think.). Oh, and I've always read into musical lyrics more than is actually there. Ah Music! Nature's muse....the true opiate of the peeps. 'Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool...'
Most bloggers (some professional but many more amateur and apparently lonely) I read are so out of their minds over one candidate or the other that the noise is just confusing me even more. I have to say, I'm a little worried about more than a few of my fellow scribes given the subjective, party line diatribes I've been perusing these past few weeks.

November 4th, 2008, will be the 14th presidential Election Day of my life; 13 of which I have at least a passing (vague?) recollection. And quite honestly, nothing much besides fashion, technology and music has changed from this man's vantage point. My own personal time traveling bubble that has been hovering 5 feet 10 inches above this Earth since the mid-1950s still can't push through the rhetoric and the political buzz that surrounds such red letter events as Election Day; dull, stale, and obtuse as its always been....
When I was four years old, there was a Kennedy family who lived in a custom Levittowner at the top of our drive. The father was a steel mill supervisor who wore a suit and they had a hundred kids running around their expanded, single level asbestos sided American Dream. In my small mind I remember thinking it was him everyone was talking about, this Mr. Kennedy. He was a man who lived at the top of our hill and just got elected President, whatever that meant. I remember wondering why my own father wasn't the one who got elected although he only wore a suit on Sundays. Maybe that was it, I thought. My wife told me she wondered the same thing about her own father when she was a kid. Ironically, the two most decent and honest men we both know are not on the ballot this year and never have been.

'Losing My Religion?'


Perhaps. I think Sarah Palin is cute (especially the Photo Shopped versions) although I've known much cuter, and Barack Obama is handsome and alert. Joe Biden and John McCain, both strained and blurry through these weakening eyes, somehow remind me of two old college fraternity rivals reminiscing back to a time when everyone wore coon skin hats and big Varsity letters on their sweaters. A Tom Collins society. Wing tips and tie bars. Mad men from another era. Someone is yelling into a megaphone..."Go Harvard! Go Yale!" No Ivy League child left behind...

There is incongruity along party lines. Both sides are mismatched, I observe. And I'm pretty sure at least one of the four in this presidential spotlight isn't even a real politician. (Guess who.) So my question to the universe is: Why do I even have to order off this menu at all? Chicken or Fish? Hmmm. Can I get back to you on that?
"Honey, don't RSVP my cousin's Vinny's wedding just yet. The first two times he got married the food was outstanding. But this time, well..."

"Maybe the loan sharking business is feeling the crunch too," my Honey retorts.
"Hey, don't be judgmental," I quip. "The politically correct term is Sub Prime. That side of the family is sensitive."
"Anyone offering only chicken and fish to registered gift-toting guests is not sensitive," she says. "This I do know, political, familial, or otherwise."

"They're Democrats," I whisper, not even knowing what party I belong to anymore. And by the way, where exactly have you gone, Joe The Plumber DiMaggio? (sorry, had to slip it in.)


'Just a dream, just a dream'


a) How has my life changed since I've been a voting adult? ... and... b) How much of this 'change' do I attribute to government interaction?

The answers in order are:

a) A lot.

and

b) Zero.

I make the money I make. I pay the taxes I pay according to the tax code that's in place at the time. I either do or do not have health insurance on any given day depending on who I go to and who choses to participate in whatever plan I subscribe to. I basically do what I'm told (not really) as mandated by the rules of life in general.

What I'm saying is I just don't feel strongly one way or another about any of the choices on my ballot this go-round. I'm not so sure those running for office do either. I've watched every debate with as objective a mind as someone who doesn't give a crap can. I'm telling you, juxtapose the sound bites and distort the voices and I'll be damned if they're not all proclaiming the very same thing--Utopia. Opiate. Bullshat....

I go back to the mail on my desk. I look at the voter registration card I just received and study the front. My name is misspelled. I glance at the wedding invitation tucked between the pages of a half read article about Cindy McCain in The New Yorker. The accompanying illustration makes her appear prettier than she really is. I pull out the makeshift bookmark and examine it. Chicken or fish? I finally come to a conclusion:
When improperly prepared, fish can actually taste like chicken. And what could possibly be worse than that? The opposite, I suppose. I check Will Not Attend and throw it back on top of the pile of other undecided rhetoric on my desk. Note to self: 'unjam the shredder.'

Geno Petro

assorted lyrics by R.E.M.

photo courtesy of C. McCain's medicine cabinet