According to the terrible crosswords I occasionally do in Us Weekly and Star, "ades" means drinks. Like, lemonades. Or lime-ades. I didn't think you could use a suffix in a crossword, but apparently what I don't know could fill a warehouse. I couldn't tell you how to effectively use hot rollers, either.
We had a gig last night at that stupid tourist attraction that is so thoroughly entrenched in the minds of the masses as a Chicago landmark that you can never convince an out-of-towner not to bother with it cuz it's basically a waste of everyone's time. I have only ever been there once when I wasn't being paid to be there, let's put it that way. And I was with my in-laws (well, ex-in-laws now, but whatever) at the time. It's big and and striking-looking and all that, but seriously, people! We have so much more going on than a goddam ferris wheel and some fireworks.
Although if you'd like to know more about ferris wheels and why they are important to the Second City, I suggest you read "The Devil in the White City". But you still shouldn't bother with Navy Pier.
Anyhoot, we had a gig there and there were gift bags involving screaming monkeys and flash drives. There was also a little person hosting the show. I kind of wanted to befriend him, mainly because his patter was so fucking filthy, I couldn't help but think he was probably a nice person. He also seemed like someone who would understand the ins and outs of being a charming oddity or moving wall-paper. Kind of like that time I wished I could make friends with that nice break-dancer boy, or the girl who worked as a human sushi platter. Too bad I'm a socially-retarded wienie-burger who doesn't know how to talk to people. Le sigh.
Oh man, I totally want kitfo right now. Spicy raw meat. Nom. I will settle for an American Spirit and then about seventeen glasses of water to try and kill my buzz before I go to sleep. I have a private class with Little T tomorrow morning at eight thirty, and while I'll happily show up hungover as fuck, reeking of cigarettes and bad decisions, to teach my kids at That Place I Work With Kids, I want Little T to view me as a somewhat stable adult who has her best interests in mind.
On a completely unrelated note, I went on some dates with a dude who has spent the last however long Serving His Country. My eighteen-year-old self would be disgusted. My twenty-seven-year-old self is a little more open-minded, but mostly wants to see how such a spectacularly incompatible pairing pans out.
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