NeroW

"Please Kill Me" by Legs McNeill.

And I'm lucky enough to work in a house that does not punish calling in sick, we just don't pay for it. I routinely send staff members home who are sick--someone showed up with pinkeye the other night. Pinkeye! Diagnosed by a doctor! That's how afraid these workers are to miss work. I like to think that these surveys, which pop up a few times a year, are harbingers of change, but I just don't believe they are.

I did some work with ROC during my undergrad. Restaurant customers are incredibly price-sensitive. I sincerely doubt the dining public would support with their wallets the pricing changes our industry would need to make to put into place better wages, paid sick days, better workplace conditions, etc. Not to mention the other NRA, which is also a tremendously powerful political lobbying organization that has had an effect on supressing the minimum wage in many states. I have paid sick days. I'm a restaurant manager. It's called salary. Everybody on the line level is screwed, and we get sick A LOT. For a bus boy making $4.95 an hour plus tip out, calling in sick and missing a day's pay is usually not going to happen unless they are at death's door, or are lucky enough to work in a house that does not punish them for calling in (by writing them off the schedule, making them cover their own shift, making them bring a doctor's note even though they are uninsured). It's just the way it is.

It depends on what you're looking for! If you haven't stayed in one of our older, grande dame-type hotels, I recommend the Drake. Room rates are reasonable at this time of year. Pay a little extra for a lake view room. This puts you right at the foot of the Mag Mile, if that's something you're interested in. The elevators have couches in them just in case the extra-huge martinis in one of the lobby's historic bars means you're unable to take that long ride back up to the room without sitting down. It is also very haunted--any of the staff will be happy to tell you all about the 10th floor. The Public, recommended upthread, is a cool hotel--very Ian Schrager-y. It does get a little clubby at night because of the Public House on the street level. Again, depends on what you're after. If you want to get a little out of downtown, the Hotel Lincoln a bit north in Lincoln Park has the distinction of being situated atop Perennial Virant, Paul Virant's sophomore restaurant. I have not personally stayed in this hotel but have heard good things. The restaurant, particularly for brunch, is solid. If you want to get a lot out of downtown, book a room at the B&B above Michelin-starred Longman & Eagle in Logan Square. These rooms are each unique in design and overall scheme. If you're looking for the type of lodging with an 8-track player and 8-tracks in the room, and about three hundred different bourbons just a floor below, this is your spot. Back to downtown, for smaller hotels, I've enjoyed the Dana, and the Felix, and the James (the James is probably the nicest of the three and definitely has the best in-room breakfasts). As for restaurants, without knowing what you're looking for, there are too many to begin to list!

that is sooooo ghetto He does it every winter. I don't know why it bothers me so much.

Aren't colds strange?

It's mid January and the drug dealer on the corner of my block is still wearing a Santa hat.

I had a dream last night, after eating a tremendously spicy red curry and drinking a couple fingersful of NyQuil (I've calmed down since I last posted, honestly; I have a cold), that I was an all-powerful witch in charge of planning the annual Intergalactic Witches Cocktail Soiree. Besides the usual stressors of getting a large and disparate group of guests together--different time zones, cultural niceties, where the hell will we keep all the ice, etc--there was the added issue that this years' event was to be a potluck (again), and some of my outer space witch friends were prone to bringing dishes that are, shall we say, frowned upon here on planet Earth. Like slow-roasted human. In my dream, I had a very sensible and direct and--I thought--well-mannered conversation with one of my cosmic counterparts (who just happened to be this bartender I work with in real life). I made it clear to him that under no circumstances could he arrive at the party with slow-roasted human again. No matter how acceptable this may be in the Great Beyond, from where he hails. He agreed that of course he would not do this, and then he showed up with--slow-roasted human. With a spicy chutney and a nice soothing raita. The other half of the dream consisted of me frantically ripping apart my closet trying to find the right cocktail dress and undergarments to wear to an interstellar witch party. You'd think that as an all-powerful witch, I could have magicked my black underwear to blend in under a white dress. Apparently, space witches are bound to the same pedestrian rules of wardrobing that mere mortals are. Oh well.

Why do our guests break both toilets in the restaurant every Sunday after they come from watching the Bears game? We're relatively high-end. I'd like to think most of my guests know how to double-flush.

Steely Dan "Pretzel Logic."

They really just step on the goldfish?

Maybe he's doing the laundry for his entire park and rec basketball team? (Who the hell wears jock straps anymore?) My landlord, apparently.

Breaking Bad on Netflix.

Try sprinkling them with cayenne. That made my day. Having just returned from the laundry room/creepy Gacyesque sub-basement, I can say, in his defense, that he moved his underthings out of the dryer one foot away onto the shelf by the detergents. Why does one man need 15 jock straps?

I hope this doesn't mean something terrible has happened in her life. No. Only the petty, daily indignities of human existence. Speaking of going to the gymnasium (and indignity), I share a building with my landlord. He's a socially inept, woman-hating attorney, AND he leaves his jock straps in the (shared) dryer on a regular basis. Because I really want to touch them when it comes time to do my own laundry. I'm not sure how he managed to peer into my secret heart, but I'm glad he is here to fulfill all of my unspoken desires. He's sure got the dog crap in the yard covered.