Journalist, Author & Syndicated Columnist
Dumping your friends is different from losing touch. The latter is passive action that happens because one of you moves away, or he gets married, or she has a baby and is too busy to listen to you harp about a Kate Spade handbag that you absolutely have to have. Eventually, you run into each other again, exchange new numbers and addresses and make an effort to renew your friendship.
“Chink-a-Chink-a Chinaman sitting on a fence; Trying to make a dollar out of 59 cents.” My parents were mortified when their 5-year-old daughter came home from school singing this chant. My friends and I had learned to jump rope to this song from older kids who thought it would be fun to teach a bunch of kindergartners a thing or two. At the time, I had about as much concept of what a “Chink” was as I did the actual value of 59 cents. But I was too young to see past my parents’ forced smiles.
Seven years ago, I decided to take the plunge and invest in a home. The greedy part of me wanted a house with a huge lawn, 2-car garage and a roomy basement. Then I thought about mowing the lawn eight months out of the year and, worse yet, shoveling snow for the remainder. Suddenly, a condo sounded like a better alternative. So I checked out various developments and eventually arranged to put down a deposit on a unit. When I got there at the appointed time, I learned the broker had sold the plot of land she had promised to me.
I was almost 5 years old when my family moved from Seoul, South Korea, to Chicago. Language barrier aside, I couldn’t figure out why some of my new pals were so excited about the arrival of an old man they didn’t know, who would slide down chimneys that some of them didn’t have, to drop off presents under decorated trees in their living rooms. Couldn’t this Santa person just use the door like everyone else?
Walking around Jamie Weiss’ loft, guests are hard-pressed to find anything black. And with good reason. “I used to have all black lacquer furniture,” said the makeup artist and silverware designer. “After I gave all that away, I wanted to try something bright and different.”
When you’re a 20-year-old coed, you can barely hear your biological clock ticking. At that age, most young adults worry about summer jobs, graduating and trying not to get pregnant. But Sylvia Ann Hewlett’s book Creating a Life: Professional Women and the Quest for Children (Talk Miramax, $22) warns women of all ages that having babies must be timed at least as carefully as career choices.
There’s safety in numbers. That’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why a stadium full of 95 percent men would work itself up into a collective dither, trying to get the few women in the venue to expose their breasts. Hey – ever hear of Playboy? If any one of these lumbering morons was at a beach, or even a bar, there’s no way he would walk up to a girl and scream, “Show your – – – -!” at her.
When you’re really, really hungry, the last thing you want to do is pore over a takeout menu that’s longer than a Stephen King novel. On days like that, Bandera is the answer. Boasting a concise menu of hearty treats ranging from tasty salads to spicy jambalaya to a thick, tender steak filet, Bandera hasn’t given my tastebuds a bad experience yet. It’s one thing to get a delicious meal in a restaurant, but Bandera’s food translates well when carrying out, too.
Jim Ellison, whose catchy melodies and girl-crazy lyrics defined the Chicago pop group Material Issue, was found dead at his Chicago home early Thursday of carbon monoxide poisoning. He was 32.
Although she was the subject of the film “Backbeat” and was engaged to a member of arguably the most famous band in rock history, Astrid Kirchherr is a relative unknown in America. But Beatles fans worldwide equate her name with the German beauty who stole Stuart Sutcliffe’s heart and who took enigmatic photos of the Fab Four when they were still a scrappy quintet.