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All I Want for Christmas

The Oprah Store, originally uploaded by Timothy State.

All I want for Christmas is the moisture-wicking cashmere pajama pants made by Oprah's girls in Africa that she wore one time.

Living the Obama Rally

        Moments after 10 p.m., when the bell sounded indicating CNN was prepared to call another state, the people fell silent for just a brief instant, like the sliver of white line defining the horizon between the sea and the sky. In one fell swoop, Wolf Blitzer called California, Oregon, and Washington all solidly for Barack Obama, pushing his electoral college vote over the 270 he needed.
        The ground shook as the people exploding into cheers, tears, laughter, high-fives, strangers hugging strangers, and lovers embracing lovers. Thunderous ovation plundered.
        The jumbo-tron flashed to a live shot of Grant Park.
        Oprah was with the people.
        And Reverend Jessie Jackson stood silently somber, a lifetime of work come to fruition, tears running down his face. The people danced around him.
        A fallen war hero, Senetor John McCain appeared on the jumbo-tron.
        “My friends.” He hushed the people into silence as they watched and listened intently. He spoke of his admiration for Barack Obama, and his accomplishment not only as the first African-American to be elected to office, but as a man who persevered through the campaign while inspiring millions who felt they had no stake, or could make no difference.
        “I deeply admire and commend him for achieving.”

        The shadow of nearly eight years of fear, and terror, and war begin to melt away.
        “Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting the next First Family of the United States of America.”
        Michelle and Barack walked across the stage, a bounce in their step. Malia and Sasha ran forward. Their faces--the whole family--beamed of youth, energy, optimism, and hope.
        Obama approached the podium.
        “Change has come to America.”

        When Obama finished speaking, the people retreated back into the city. Spirits high, they yelled in the gullies of high rises, and danced on State Street. A mass of humanity from all walks of life, all backgrounds, all experiences, making its way through the city, high on hope. High on a common vision of optimism.
        The last time we felt that feeling was in 1996 on the streets of Atlanta during the Centennial Olympic Games.
        For a brief moment--an evening--we could feel how living in a diverse world is supposed to feel. Change is opportunity. Opportunity is challenge. Challenge makes us better people. Better people come together. Together, we can do it, yes we can.

More on the Obama Election Night Rally
        Tony’s Obama Rally Photoset
        Tim’s Obama Rally Photoset, Includes a few videos
        Tony’s Twitter Page
        Tim’s Twitter Page
        Chicagoist’s live-blogging report on the Obama Rally with Tim’s contributions
        Chicagoist’s Obama Rally Photo Galley I
        Chicagoist’s Obama Rally Photo Galley II
        Chicagoist’s Obama Rally Photo Galley III

Was that Tony on NBC?
        Yes, we bumped into Kevin Tibbles moments before he went live, and Tony jumped in the background. And the facial hair? Yeah, that’s new, too. Tim was busy snapping photos.

Special Thanks
        Special thanks to Jessica, a.k.a. Little Mary Sunshine, who was able to get us the tickets so that we could tag along as “+1.”

Chicago Marathon

Chicago Marathon, originally uploaded by Timothy State.

I've posted several photos from our day watching the Chicago Marathon. Check them out.

Feel the Chicago Love

The Chainlink

        I’ve been riding my bike during my commute. Not the entire way, but I’ve been taking my bike on the train to Lake Forest. Then, on the way home, I hop off in Rogers Park, and motor over to the lakefront path. From there, I ride the rest of the way, or 12.62 miles. It’s been a great way to end the day in the summer, and I think I’m going to try and keep it up for as long as I can this fall.
        But, it’s a lonely ride, and as I find myself riding more -- and as part of my commute, there are few people up for the challenge. but maybe I’ve found a resource in the Chainlink.
        If you’re a fan of cycling, then check out the Chainlink.org. It’s a social network for bikers. And while I’m a little bit leery of joining another network that requires I build a profile, invite friends, and create yet another user name and password, this one also seems to have useful resources for people who like to ride their bike.
        Most people don’t own bikes, or if they do, they never ride them. So in addition to being able to find other bikers, this site provides a file cabinet of information for those who want to expand their biking routes.

Chicagoisting...

Lake Forest College Alumni Boat Cruise, originally uploaded by Timothy State.

Check out this weekend’s posts...

• Tunney Introduces Domestic Partnership Amendment - A technical change to the City’s domestic partnership ordinance to accommodate for the California Supreme Court decision on gay marriage.
  
• Mobster Movie Set Scene of Mobster Action - Life imitates art.
  
• Extra Extra - In Saturday’s wrap-up, the Cubs beat the Sox in the second cross-town challenge, and more.
  
• Rabid Bats in Waukegan and Deerfield - Avoid touching bats behaving badly.
  
• Hybrid Bus Confuses the Masses While Winning Fans - A hybrid is on the loose along the #8 Halsted line and it’s causing confusing and excitement that maybe, just maybe, the future has arrived.

Brilliant Trash

        This man is fascinated with his garbage. After the city-issued garbage cans in front of his building had been stolen, and he had to call for a replacements multiple times over, he began to document the disappearance of his trash cans by taking a daily picture, capturing the number and their location. He also set up a camera that would take pictures through the day, and he edits those into videos that capture people interacting with the garbage cans.
        Clearly a man who has too much time his hands... says the guy who has multiple websites.

Oh, What a Night

        “No body works harder for our country than our veterans. Well, except for the clergy. Nobody works harder,” Jack Miuccio said to the crowd before dedicating Elvis’ “American Trilogy” to our troops. Jack was performing on the Larry Maggio Stage at this weekend’s Festa Pasta Vino festival in Little Italy. He apologized to the crowd, indicating that Johnny Maggio, who had been scheduled to perform, had a festival emergency at the last minute, and had to preform at another street festival.
        He followed “American Trilogy” with Frank’s “Fly Me to the Moon,” which echoed in competition with “Fly Me to the Moon” being sung by Gigolo Johnny on the Main Stage at the other end of the block. Gigolo Johnny was not as svelte as one might expect their gigolos. He transitioned to “My Girl,” leaping off the stage. The hot, sweaty, spongy Gigolo Johnny cooed into the faces of women. As he returned to the stage, he saw a toddler girl. He leaned into her face.
        “My girl,” he sang out.
        A collective “ah” escaped the crowd as cameras flashed.
        “Talkin’ ‘bout my girl.”
        Gigolo Johnny picked her up. She cringed in the way you’d imaging a toddler would when embraced by an overheated washed-up lounge act.
        “I’ve got so much honey the bees envy me.”
        Cameras flashed as he paraded around the crowd with a stolen toddler.
        “I’ve got a sweeter song that the birds and the trees.”
        The child’s mother clutched her breast, thrilled her daughter was the center of the show. The toddler looked as if she might scream. Or thrown up.
        “Well I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way?”
        The crowd sang out, “My girl! Talkin’ ‘bout my girl!”
        When he set the girl down, she ran to her mother, latching on to her leg. The crowd leapt to its feet in thunderous ovation.
        There were two empty seats in the front row, so we sat across the aisle from the woman who gave her child up to a sweaty lounge singer.
        Soon Bobby Valli, brother to Frank Valli of the Four Season, took the stage. He performed a forty minute tribute to his brother, stealing all their hits. The versions were flat, and his sidekick of thirty-six years wasn’t helping much either. Missing three teeth on the bottom of his mouth and four on the top, he added a breezy sound to Bobby’s tone deaf voice.
        In between songs, Bobby would turn his back to the crowd, taking a swig from his water bottle, only it wasn’t water. With the brown tint, it could have been Lipton tea, but his glazed-over look gave the impression it might be something a little stronger.
        Bobby sang a song he dedicated to his mother. His dead mother, and all the other mothers who were in the crowd. He hung his head as the final notes of the song twittered out, and he turned his back to take another swig. When he faced the crowd, he was weeping.
        Bobby wiped his eyes, and then proclaimed he was neither pro-war or against the war.
        “We live in the greatest country in the world,” he said. “So I wrote this song and I hope you like it. It’s called, ‘America, A Home for You and Me.’ I might be going to Iraq to produce the music video.”
        The crowd applauded.
        “In the land of milk and honey,” he began to sing. Bobby’s swigs of his magic tea were now happening between verses. After the song, he did one more tribute to his brother, Frank.
        “I wish I had his money,” he said, forgetting talent.
        As he sang his brother’s songs, entire lines dropped out. He just waved the microphone to the crowd. The older set filled them in.
        The rest of us ate cannoli.

It's Official

        I’ve been added as a weekend contributor to the staff of Chicagoist. Chicagoist was launched in May 2004 and was the second Web site by Gothamist LLC. It is authored by a growing group of bloggers. The bloggers at Chicagoist are dedicated to documenting Chicago and all its quirks, one small detail at a time. The site averages 10,000 visitors daily.
        There are now fourteen sites in the Gothamist network, which was named a "Forbes Favorite" noting the sites are a collection of "sophisticated, deliciously urbane city blogs."
        Check out this weekend’s posts:
        Meet Vegans, we attended VegChicago’s Meetup.
        Gospel Rocks the Lakefront highlights the Chicago Gospel Festival.
        Where the Boys Are ‘07 ponders the boy/girl ratio at a popular Chicago beach.
        Even Naked Butts May Be Risky shares the details of the World Naked Bike Ride scheduled for next weekend.
        And, my post last weekend about Bike the Drive is number 7 today on the list of posts with most comments.

Chicagoist Debut

        Chicagoist, one of my favorite sites about all things Chicago, has just published my first post, which is about IML. I’m writing posts throughout the weekend, in hopes of being a regular weekend contributor. Hoo-ray!
        UPDATE: 5/28
        I’ve had several other posts published. Check them out...
        Compassion Flows on Lake Shore Drive -- a report on Bike the Drive.
        Give Us Some Summer Lovin’ -- Sing-Along Grease at the Music Box.
        Folks the Cicada Pins are... our find of the day at the Chicago Antique Market.

Mystery of the Cart Caper

        It was taped to the luggage cart, printed on copy paper in at least 64-point Times New Roman, “Please return the cart to the location where you got it from, you inconsiderate bastard.”
        That’s the second sign that has been taped to the cart left in the general area of the elevator in the middle of the hall on our floor. The first sign accused, “you must think you’re better than the rest of your neighbors since you don’t feel you have to return the cart.”
        There is at least one person on our floor who habitually leaves the luggage cart by the elevator, rather than returning it to the garage, where all our neighbors can use it when they come home to bring their groceries or other items to their unit in one trip. I can understand the signs, which reek of frustration. It’s hard to swallow when your neighbors are blatantly thoughtless and inconsiderate. Especially when there is no real way to confront the person, unless caught red-handed.
        In a condo environment, where there are some twenty units on the same floor, one could knock on doors for weeks and still not find the offender.
        The whole cart caper is a frustration that can make my blood boil if I let it get to me.
        So I turn within to find a point of compassion for the offender. All I can think of is this individual has horrendous diarrhea more frequent than what they need the cart for, and as a result, struggles to be away from a toilet for more than four or five minutes, thus needing to leave the cart in the hall. Or, the offender has herpes soars festering across his or her face and is so shamed to be seen in public, would rather suffer the indignity of leaving a cart in the hall than risk bumping into a judgmental neighbor. Maybe the cart is not being left in the hall by a neighbor at all, but a tribal pigmy or a gnome who comes once a week to clean one’s unit, and the person who hires said pigmy or gnome is so overwhelmed with oven cleaning instruction, it hasn’t even occurred that appropriate cart use socialization is needed.
        So the next time I see the cart with a sign attached to it, in an effort to demonstrate my compassion, I’m going to create my own leave-behind: “Your leaving the cart here in the middle of the hall offends me, and makes me wonder why you choose to live in a community where we all must make compromises in order to get along. Why can you not return the cart to the garage where it belongs so that others may use it without having to hunt it down? The next time you leave it in the hallway, please attach a note with your reasoning so that all of our neighbors may understand and lend a hand. It’s the very least you can do for us, your neighbors. On behalf of the floor, Timothy State.”
        I’ll gladly help tame a pigmy or gnome if necessary. But the diarrhea or herpes sore, I’m afraid we’ll all just have to learn to live with that.

The Cardinal Slipped in a Puddle of Holy Water

        The Cardinal slipped in a puddle of holy water and broke his hip.  I guess he was blessing the crowd on Saturday, and his assistants now say he got a little excited and spilled some holy water on the waxed marble floor, and then slipped and fell directly on his rump.  The Sun-Times ran a wonderfully distasteful photo of him on the front page of yesterday's paper, which showed him just as he landed (or as people are picking him up).  It was most likely the aftermath as he appeared to be wincing in pain.
        Of course, the photo covered 80% of the front page, and now, there photo is nowhere to be found. Certainly, someone intervened. God, maybe?  Or just the church?

50 Greatest Chicago Moments

        The Chicago Sun-Times has assembled a fascinating list of the 50 Greatest Chicago Moments. Some of them represent tales that are distinctly Chicago, such as a young lady taking over as host of AM Chicago and quickly surpassing Phil Donahue in ratings and quickly becoming the national phenomenon that is Oprah, or it’s a gentleman rising from house mezzo to take over the Lyric Opera, saving it from bankruptcy. It’s in five parts.
        Part 1: TV & Film
        Part 2: Art & Architecture
        Part 3: Music
        Part 4: Theatre
        Part 5: All-around greatness

Metra Foul

Metra Foul
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.

        While this woman is seated sitting forward, and not committing the egregious social foul others have been committing recently, she's committing two very clear Metra Fouls: 1) her shoes are on a seat, and 2) she's got a bag on a second seat during the rush hour. Where is the compassion?
        If she has to fall asleep, please place her bag on the rack, and set her feet on the floor. Drool if she has to, but don’t go putting her shoes up on a seat and taking up precious real estate with a handbag!
        People like this deserve to have their picture taken and posted on the Internet. The nerve.

JesusNet and Big Cock

        The great thing about living in an urban environment is that you can get access to a wireless network almost anywhere. Now technically, hopping onto someone’s wireless network is stealing, so I don’t make a practice of it. I often find hopping onto a network that maybe comes from across the street, or through a few concrete walls less reliable than the paid network one can hop on in most public places now.
        But occasionally, a neighbor needs to borrow a cup of sugar. The person I’m meeting has not appeared, or I’ve transposed the street number in an address. At those points, a few minutes of Internet access can help maintain civil order. In some locations, there can be as many as thirteen wireless networks, and invariably, it’s the ones with wireless router brand names that still have the factory defaults installed and have not been locked down.
        Our network is locked down, simply because we leave our computers for extended periods of time. But if someone wants to – or needs to hop on, we’ll gladly create a pass code for them. They just have to hop on to the JesusNet.
        Our wireless router is hidden by a plaster sculpture of the boy Jesus and St. Joseph that hangs over our fireplace. I thought in this modern day, Jesus and St. Joseph should not only look over our household, but also provide high-speed wireless Internet. Keeping with the theme, we’ve named our other wireless peripherals 12 Disciples and for the various gospels.
        I’m always amused by what people networks. At a coffee shop I’ve been frequenting, I can easily Google the route to my next destination, or look up a phone number by hoping onto the network Huge Cock.
        I figure with a name like that, they are begging people to ride their wireless airwaves.

Blue Tea Comes Green or Black

        “By the way,” the man in his early-twenties said from behind the counter of the tea shop, “our tea of the day is blueberry tea. You can have that black or green.”
        “But wouldn’t blueberry tea be blue?” I asked.
        His hair was jelled up into a point like a cockatoo. He cocked his head and looked at me, an awkward expression across his face as if he were a bird who had just heard a word he doesn’t understand. There was only one other customer at the Urban Tea Lounge, and she had fallen asleep, one hand still gripping a tea cup, her head resting in the open pages of the text book which she was studying. What little activity had been buzzing in the joint came to a stop.
        “That’s a joke, right?” a second server asked.
        I giggled.
        “Oh, okay,” the second server said as Cockatoo boy resumed skipping around the dining area. “That went so far over his head, I thought I might be wrong, too.”
        “It’s hard being pretty,” I suggested.
        “Oh, I know. And smart, too,” Cockatoo boy said. He circled his face with his hand. “Like I got the whole package going on here.”

Go Greek Power, Go!

Greek Independence Parade
Originally uploaded by Timothy State.

        The problem with the Greek Independence Day Parade is that every Greek or person of Greek descent in the Midwest is in the parade. Which actually leaves just a few onlookers, like us, standing on the street curb. When we learned of the Greek Independence Day Parade, I suggested to Tony that we go watch, and in honor of someone’s Greek heritage, we grill kabobs and have rice pilaf.
        “We don’t have any kabobs or rice pilaf,” Tony said.
        “There is a grocery store in the middle of the six-block parade route,” I suggested. The parade traveled down Halsted Street, just a few blocks away from our loft. “We can pick something up on our way home from the parade.”
        The parade was not like any other parade we’ve seen. Young, chiseled men wearing warrior costumes consisting of skirts, plastic shields and helmets with feather plumes led the parade. An announcer’s voice echoed in the streets from speakers that lined the entire parade route.
        “These are the young warriors who keep the Greek people safe throughout the world,” the announcer’s stentorian voice filled with pride. Tony and I looked at each other and laughed. “These warriors fight for our independence, and keep our people free from oppression.”
        His voice lacked irony as he spoke in a present tense about young men who could compete better on a runway than a battlefield.
        “Next, we have the Hellenic Brotherhood of Police Officers,” he yelled. “Men and women, I tell you, I used to be a police officer, and I know what these men do. These are the heroes who put their lives on the line every day to keep us Greek people safe!”
        The school children followed the police officers. “These are the next generation of Greek leaders. This is the future, people. The future walks before us.”
        Entire families walked with their school children. Fathers dressed in suits, mothers in skirts of pants suits with heels. The mothers yelled at their children as they walked by. “You are in a parade. Smile. You need to smile,” we heard more than one say. “Now wave.”
        The Greek restaurants and the Greek Restaurant Owners Association followed.
        Finishing up the parade were the protesters. The political protesters, which consisted of only two floats, each with two people on them, holding up signs, “Free Cypress Now,” and “The 1951 Invasion of Cypress by Turkey was Illegal.”
        The crowd of only a few thinned and dissipated. Before we could hear what the announcer had to say about the protesters, the speakers were unplugged and being disassembled. More Streets & Sanitation employees than spectators filled the streets with blowers, brooms and trash bags.
        “Well, shall we go get kabobs,” I asked Tony.
        We went to the grocery store and scanned the rack. “Do you have any kabobs?” Tony asked.
        “I’m afraid not,” she said. “It’s still about three weeks too early.”

Whistle While You Clean

        I think I was hit on by a Streets and Sanitation worker when I walked the dogs yesterday. He was a big, muscley man in a safety orange vest, and construction dungarees. He had a dark, cropped haircut, and a smile that said he was glad to be scrubbing graffiti. He sprayed chemical from a bottle onto a newspaper vending rack and wiped in a circular motion with a rag.
        “Hey there,” he said with a seductive voice as he wiped graffiti. He didn’t watch what he was doing, rather he made eye contact with me.
        I turned around, thinking maybe he knew someone behind me.
        “Beautiful morning isn’t it?” he said.
        It was obvious he was speaking to me.
        “Yes, it is,” I said.
        “That’s a beautiful wiener dog you have there.” He looked at me, not the dogs.
        “Oh, thanks.” The dogs’ noses lead them around the sidewalk.
        I walked along the sidewalk. He didn’t look at the dogs, rather, he looked at me. He looked me up and down. And smiled.
        “Umm, the street,” I said. “It’s looking good.”
        His smile grew wider, as if he’d just won the jackpot. He didn’t say a word. Just smiled and stared as he scrubbed.

Progressive Boys

        The boys down the hall invited us to their St. Patrick’s Day party. I am not sure what they were more impressed with – that we, two neighbors, showed up after receiving the invitation, or that we, two gay guys, showed up after receiving the invitation. One of the boys and a cousin of his came to our Loftwarmen event a few weeks ago. We felt they were nice enough to show up at our party, so it was the least we could do.
        Most of the people there were somehow cousins to other guests or the hosts.
        “Oh, I’m a cousin,” someone would clarify.
        “I’m marrying a cousin.” It was necessary to chart the lineage just to keep up with the conversation.
        They had an impressive display of alcohol, which quickly disappeared. And as the alcohol dried up, and blood alcohol levels rose, it became a competition in progressivity.
        “Whoa! I’m progressive,” one of the cousins would say as the camera flashed and my lips unexpectedly graced the side of his cheek, “but not that progressive.”

Take One for the Road

        Last Friday we found ourselves at the annual fundraiser for the Crossroads Fund, an organization that provides grants to other organizations devoting themselves to social and economic justice. Read: lesbian fest. That’s womyn with a ‘y’ lesbian fest.
        It was a good time, though. Not the typical republican gala affair, where anorexic white women get drunk on half a cosmo martini, and then fall out of their spaghetti-strap dress. The anorexic gals always get drunk the fastest.
        The social justice crowd is a little more diverse. Well-behaved children danced in front of the band. We paid at the door, and were asked if we would be paying the full price, or the “fixed-income” price.
        “Should we have paid the fixed income price?” I asked Tony. “I mean, our income doesn’t change from one day to the next.”
        A woman in a wheel chair sped past me, a bumper sticker pasted to the back of her chair, “Got Gimp?”
        Had I not stepped out of the way, a man in a wheelchair would have nearly ran over my toes as he sped away from the bar. I noticed, as the evening progressed, the group of people in wheelchairs who had gathered around one table began to zip around the ballroom with a greater recluse enthusiasm. It had me wondering, if anorexic drunk women shouldn’t wear spaghettis strap dresses, should people in wheel chairs be allowed to drink and drive?

You Look Damn Hot

        “I have to say, you look damn hot,” said Jackie, my friend. “We never get to see you like this because you’re always coming from work.
        No one’s ever said I look damn hot before, and the first time I hear this, it comes from the mouth of a black lesbian.
        Dip me in honey.
        We had our first party in the new pad this past weekend, and you know it's a party when someone eats the cat food. Although, I must say it really is our fault. More specifically, my fault. I should have known that our guests at this first event would not know all the ins-and-outs of our household. People eat from pottery, ceramic, porcelain, and glass. Occasionally crystal. Animals eat from polished stainless steel.
        Years ago we discovered that if we fed the cat like we feed the dogs, just once a day, then he would binge eat, which led to obesity. He's already fairly big-boned with our house weighing in with more pounds in cat than in dog. So we started leaving the cat food out all the time for him to just graze whenever. It is like the Old Country Buffet, only with just one Nutro OceanFish flavor.
        Of course, leaving the food out, we had to set it up so that Long John wouldn't help himself to the grazing. Once while balancing the checkbook, I realized we were spending an exponentially extraordinary amount on pet food. Upon closer examination, in one month's time, our pet food expense tripled. They were already eating the top-self feed, so it's not like Tony decided they needed something better all of a sudden -- they couldn't get anything better.
        When I almost pulled out my back picking up Long John I put two and two together and got fifteen pounds, figuring out that it was he who was grazing so continuously, after learning how to jump onto an end table, and then up on the table where Sheleata's food was. Quite the acrobatics for a dog with just 4-inch legs.
        There are not many places where food is totally inaccessible to a dog, save for the kitchen counter. So we have placed the cat's food on the kitchen counter in his polished stainless steel bowl. He drinks directly from the fountain, and not from a bowl, so there is no water dish sitting next to the food that might serve as a sign.
        With no sign, the gentleman grazed through the cat food before making a funny face, and well before Tony could scoop up the bowl to place it in a more secure location. Nothing a stiff drink couldn't fix.
        Lesson learned: "OceanFish-flavored Sheleata Kanatuna Appetizer" is how we will now label the Sheleata Kanatuna's dish.        Even with cat food appetizers, turn out was great, with over 70 people coming to help break in the loft. After having had so many parties in Atlanta, there were some differences between North and South I can note.
• More wine came in the door here in Chicago, with people bringing very little beer. While we do have some beer left over in the fridge, we think we can invite the hot straight boys who live down the hall to come and help finish off the supply in one evening. Unless they’re lightweights. But that’s fine, too.
• Greater awareness of drinking and driving. In Atlanta, we would hear, “You’re fine to drive, aren’t you?” A passive-aggressive encouragement. “He said he was fine,” one could say, resolving any guilt should something happen. Here, people just drink less and leave when they’ve had their limit.
• People RSVP. Not that they didn’t RSVP, but we had more unannounced arrivals and more no-shows without cancellation in Atlanta. The two always balanced each other out. We had over seventy people RSVP, the most we’ve ever had RSVP for any party, and we also had fewer no-shows, with people calling, even if at the last minute, to express regret if something had come up.
• Resistance to the nametags. But once people had them on, they came to understand their functionality and were glad to have them. “Was it Harry or Henry?” – Not so much a problem.
        And people say our country’s regional differences are beginning to fade away. I tell you, it’s in the flavor of a cocktail.

Tracking Chicago Politics

        It’s easy to hang out and find a group of people who can banter about sports or celebrity gossip. But when it comes to local, neighborhood politics, it’s a little bit harding to find your klatch. Until AlderTrack came along. I’m loving the on-stop source for neighborly political gossip.