Good Bye Sweet Princess

A couple things today:

First, Midwestern Eavesdropping will be postponed until next week.

Second, did anyone else have that dream last night where the temperatures had risen into the 60s or 70s, prompting George and Tim, the owners of Rocks, to open an ice cream shop (perhaps a shoppe) at the southeast corner of Halsted and Division (in that brick building that now houses the Chicago Bungalow Association), and they let Jessie go behind the counter and make her own malt, and lots of people pulling boats behind pickup trucks were parked outside? It can't be just me.

Third, the federal government's Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration has named Chicago the #1 binge-drinking city in the US. My theory as to why our fair city received this distinguished honor is as follows:

• The Irish. It's the curse of those people, you know.
• Chicago's plethora of neighborhood bars mean that a pint is never farther than a couple blocks' walk. Seriously, within one block of my apartment there are no less than four bars.
• During the harsh winters, there is nowhere else to go except bars and nothing else to do except drink. It's true.
• During the blistering summers, Chicagoans need a frosty beverage to cool themselves off.
• During the five to seven days a year when the weather is perfect, Chicagoans cream all over themselves, and feel the need to take advantage of the many outdoor patios and beer gardens available for binge drinking.
• Chicago's sports teams drive their fans to drink. Chicago's sports fans are extremely passionate, which doesn't bode well for livers when you consider that the Cubs haven't won a World Series in 99 years, the Blackhawks haven't won a Stanley Cup in 46 years, the Bears haven't won a Super Bowl in 21 years and are currently led by Rex Grossman, the Bulls will never be as good as they were in the '90s, and Sox fans are cynics, most of whom fear that it will be another 88 years between World Series victories (which would be 2093 and, interestingly, would mean that the Sox had won 3 World Series rings in the 185 years since the Cubs' last ring).

So you see, if you got rid of the Irish, the bars, passionate sports fans, and all weather, Chicago would just be your average Los Angeles (which came in 15th of 15 metropolitan areas in the binge-drinking study, with a paltry binge-drinking rate of 18.6%), and I don't think anyone wants that.

Fourth, I'm sure that by now most of you have heard about Scott Wiese, the diehard Bears fan who is making good on his pre-Super Bowl promise to change his name to Peyton Manning if the Bears lost. At first I thought, 'what a moron,' but the more I think about it, this move is genius. First of all, even if the judge doesn't approve the name change, he lives in Decatur, Illinois, which means the mere fact that his name was mentioned in national media outlets guarantees him at least two or three pieces of that legendary Decatur ass. Second, if the judge does approve the name change, then Wiese – er, I mean Manning – will have guaranteed a reservation at any and every restaurant where he wants to dine. "Hello, Olive Garden, I need a table for one tonight at 7. What's that? You don't have any tables for tonight at 7? Hmm, that's interesting. Perhaps I failed to mention my name: Peyton Manning. Oh, a table just opened up? That's what I thought. Smell ya later, douche." Of course his little experiment will backfire spectacularly if the real Peyton Manning dies within the next couple years, perhaps in a freak accident involving moooovers, steam burns from a cappuccino machine, or an errant, forcefully thrown newspaper. If that happens, fake Peyton Manning will just seem like a giant asshole.

Fifth, why am I not surprised that Anna Nicole Smith died*? It seemed like she had tempted fate long enough. The grim reaper has been after her for years, accidentally missing her and instead hitting her husband, her dead husband's son, and her own son. At least her infant daughter was spared by death's haphazard hand, and should now have a normal life, aside from the fact that she is named Dannielynn and for the past several months she has been ingesting whatever barbiturate-and-TrimSpa-infused milk spewed from the two boulders that resided on Anna Nicole's chest. On the bright side, Dannielynn will have possibly inherited nearly a billion dollars and will never have to experience the misery of trying to comprehend her drugged-up mother attempting to string together some words to form a sentence. Dare I say that Dannielynn's life will be better without Anna Nicole? Indeed, I dare.

*Jessie's theory is that she died of a "TrimSpa Cocktail," which she assumes was comprised of TrimSpa pills, cocaine, and Xanax