At The Very Least

Raise your hand if you don’t know what The Blue Man Group is.

Now, if you raised your hand, wrap it around your neck and squeeze, and use your other hand to bludgen yourself about the head and face.

I still routinely get people that have never heard of The Blue Man Group (or as cigarette wreaking Europeans call them “ehh…..zee group of….ehhh……zee blue men???”).  They’re on stage in Chicago, New York, Las Vegas, and if I’m not mistaken – Branson, Missouri.  They’ve been in IBM Pentel commercials, they’ve been on Leno, and they’ve thrown out the fucking first pitch at Cubs games.  They may as well be hailing taxis for visitors at the airport.  Apart from a public service announcement, or dating Lindsey Lohan, I don’t know how else they can possibly saturate the market any more with their personages.  But lo and behold, I’m continually called upon by fuzzy foreigners and slackjawed yokels alike to explain what the Blue Men do and why they should lockstep and submit to all 278 Blue Man ads they’ve been subliminally and overtly bombarded with since getting on the airplane they took to get to Chicago.

Need a taxi?  Where to?

Need a taxi? Where to?

“It’s three blue men, a group, if you will, of sorts, who, sort of, do….things, and they don’t talk, these blue men, and they eat marshmallows, and……it’s fucking hilarious, you’ll die laughing, and just write down your fucking billing address already (I don’t give a shit it’s in the Alps) so I can give it to the snotty 19 year old popping his zits in the Blue Man box office.”

So here’s my little Public Service Announcement – here’s what I’m sick and tired of introducing to the world, Groundhog Day style, day after day, like a bad dream, to the uninitiated masses:

Wait til you try the coffee.

Wait til you try the coffee.

PSA #1: French Vietnamese Cuisine – yes, it fucking exists.  Yes, it’s fucking delicious.  Do you want a reservation?  Or do you want to guffaw and marvel at the impossibility of the confluence of – WHAT?  FRENCH?  and WHAT?  VIETNAMESE?  FOOD?  TOGETHER??? OH MAN! DWAYNE! DEBBIE!  GET A LOAD OF THIS – FRENCH VIETNAMESE FOOD! – while the line of 10 behind you rolls their cultured, or equally confounded, eyes?  I don’t know if these throngs of the awestruck are conjuring up images of cordon bleu chefs running through mine fields in 1968 Vietnam, or perhaps rice patty workers whipping up souflees, but what they need to know is my phone is ringing off the fucking hook, and thanks to some greedy French imperialists in the 19th century, we have been blessed with quite possibly the most divine cuisine on earth, and not to mention some pretty badass wicker furniture.

PSA #2: Taxis Are Faster Than Walking – I know this one seems like a no-brainer, at least I thought so, but I’m explaining it everyday. I could have also phrased this “If It’s a Ten Minute Taxi, It’s a 40 Minute Walk”, as I’m consistently met with astonished looks whenever I drop that nugget of wisdom.  And don’t ask me if you “should” walk or take a taxi.  As my duty entails, I have just provided you with a walking time, and a taxi time.  I do not know what you “should” or “should not” do.  If I suggest you walk, you will be patently offended by the notion, as walking is either far too proletarian (or too complicated) for your sophisticated (or fat and lazy) likes, or you just had some horrific mind bending foot surgery (presumably to remove the cheeto from between your fat toes) that I’m supposed to presciently infer from your voice over the telephone.  If I suggest you take a taxi, you will be patently offended that I did not instantaneously recognize you as a New Yorker, aka King Champion Pedestrian, well suited to walking 20 click sorties at breakneck clips in super fucking sophisticated footwear (but unable to follow directions beyond one turn and two blocks, and not shy about cutting me off to start over, shouting “WAIT – WHAT?  YOU LOST ME.”), or taking a taxi would be at odds with your intellectual Political Science agenda and ego, and would ruin the authenticity of the Himalayan Albino Lesbian Inuit tofu degustation you’re about to enjoy.

PSA #3: Airport Shuttles (In Chicago) Are a Blight Upon Humanity – I don’t expect anyone to know this without someone telling them.  I’m certain there are places where airport shuttles are a bargain and convenience.  In Chicago, however, they nothing short of hell’s apocolyptic manifestation on earth’s surface, but you pay $5 less than what a taxi costs for it.  And 1. I hate convincing people of this, and 2. I hate people who opt for the shuttle anyway, and then complain to me when it shows up 40 minutes late, if at all, and then takes 4 times longer than a taxi.  I want to wear a sandwich board that says “THE AIRPORT SHUTTLE SUCKS COCK.  IT ONLY PICKS UP ON THE HOUR + HALF HOUR, WHICH IS DOUBLE SPEAK FOR IF + WHEN THEY FEEL LIKE IT.  THEN THEY WILL STOP AT 10 OTHER HOTELS ON THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT.  EVERY ONE OF THOSE STOPS WILL INCLUDE THE DRIVER SENDING A SEARCH PARTY INTO THE HOTEL LOBBY TO HUNT DOWN THE PASSENGER FOR AN ADDITIONAL 20 MINUTES.  TAKE A FUCKING TAXI.”  There are many other evils to the airport shuttle (grifting drivers, crazy drivers, incompetent drivers, horrible management, etc.), but I don’t have to go on because you’re one of those smart people that cuts me off once I tell you that this airport shuttle company says there is a “20 minute window” which they afford themselves around the pick up time you are forced to pick.  Let’s move on.

Hey girls!  Know where we can get some really boss shrimp dejhonge?  HOLD ON - Blackberry's ringing.

Hey girls! Know where we can get some really boss shrimp dejhonge? HOLD ON - Blackberry's ringing.

PSA #4: Gibsons Is The Best Steakhouse In Chicago – is it?  Of course not, but if you’re big enough douchebag to ask me like I’m some kind of used car salesman to negotiate with, then that’s where you’re going.  I’m only sorry you can’t punch me in the arm and call me brohski on your way out.  Have fun eating your steak with all the other Mark Shale spokesmodels and 45 year old tiddiemongers slurping down martinis in rayon mock turtlenecks.  Which leads me to….

No witty caption needed.  This is where douche happens.

No witty caption needed. This is where douche happens.

PSA #5: The Viagra Triangle – say fellah – in Chicago to move some product, hopefully meet Billy Mays, eat a $60 steak, smoke a cigar, hit a piano bar, and get some pussy all in the same night?  Well listen up sport!  The Viagra Triangle is where your concierge is sending you!  Get your Tommy Bahama and/or offensively patterned JC Pennies blazer the fuck out of my face and get your ass down to Tavern on Rush to score a Johnny Walker Black and scope the poontang post haste!  Be sure to have some really authentic Italian cuisine (chicken parm!) at the place the douche bag sitting next to you on your plane ride told you you have to go – Carmine’s – and then shuffle your shiny loafers and pleated dockers down to Jilly’s for some piano bar music that was hot 30 years ago!  Be sure to hit on the orange skinned, yellow haired cocktail waitress with the 36DD tiddies that help support her Newport Light and appletini habit!

The Tuesday Night Crowd.  Slightly larger than the Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday night crowds.

The Tuesday Night Crowd. Slightly larger than the Sunday, Monday, and Wednesday night crowds.

PSA #6: Aint Shit Happening Tuesday Night – I know 10:59pm Tuesday is when you’re ready to pound a few margaritas and rage til Wednesday breaks, and since Chicago is bigger than Kansas City, or Boise, or Boca Raton, or Ypsilanti, or where ever the fuck you came from, you assume it’s Las Vegas and we’re dropping the ball in Times Square seven nights a week.  I mournfully regret to inform you that isn’t the case.  I’m more than happy to recommend some clubs for you (or point you to the Viagra Triangle if you sport a class ring like you won the Super Bowl in ’72), but don’t harsh on me if they’re fucking empty.  IT’S FUCKING TUESDAY!

PSA #7: Al Capone Didn’t Stay At That Hotel, Cubs Tickets Are Expensive, Traffic To O’Hare Is Bad, The Lake Is That Way, It’s The Magnificent Mile – Not The Miracle, Miraculous, or Major Mile, Michael Jordan’s Restaurant Closed Eight Years Ago, and Oprah Doesn’t Give A Fuck How Long You’ve Been Waiting To See Her.  Next in line?


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