Citizen's Pub

How I Earned $51.60 and Inner Peace

2010-10-14T08:02:00.003-05:00

Well, I’ve got a new dream job (at least for the warmer months): the guy who checks credentials at the gate to the County Criminal Courthouse parking lot. By “credentials”, I mean whatever document you’ve received telling you that you have to go to the courthouse. The gig is that you sit in a rocking chair, and rock, and wave folks through, and smile. Well, I would smile. And I’d probably be the only person in a quarter mile radius smiling, because folks down at 26^th and California just hate to be there.

My ticket to the lot was my jury duty summons. I blew off my first summons, and they kindly sent me a second one, along with a letter that basically said, “Seriously, go. Go to jury duty.” They sounded like they meant business, so I showed up (on time, which was unnecessary. Feel free to stroll in there at whatever time you damn well please. It’ll be fine.)

The case I got called in on was for aggravated battery, the accusation being that in April, in that very courthouse, the defendant struck a Cook County deputy sheriff. There were at least twice as many of us as the court would need for a jury, and they promptly called my lucky ass up to try out one of those old, wooden jury recliners. I was the second person to have to respond to the judge’s questions about my character and my ability to perform my jurily duty without bias. And, I got the only big laugh of the day when I responded to the judge’s inquiry about my exam schedule with, “I should probably know this.” Despite appearing scatterbrained, I was, indeed, deemed fit to serve on a Cook County Criminal Court jury.

There are two things that are important to a group of fourteen (twelve jurors, two alternates) diverse Chicagoans forced to occupy a courthouse together for hours on end: food and justice. Three days of talking about food, thinking about justice, eating, listening to testimonies, and holding back the compulsion to discuss the trial, and the savory justice that we were all looking to dish out.

Lunch the First Day came before the jurors had been selected, before we got any kind of group dynamic going (we didn’t even know who was going to be in the group yet), and so I ate in the cafeteria, at a table with a bunch of silent people. I got a tuna salad on rye with lettuce and tomatoes, and a cranberry juice cocktail that would have been right at home drizzled over a plate of IHOP pancakes. Everyone else at the table had (a) a lot more food than I did, and (b) a grim expression, like we were all praying for the governor’s pardon with every joyless bite. This made me sad, so I tried to force a smile to distance myself from these folks. I’m sure it worked, but I probably looked more deranged than relentlessly cheery. Perhaps one is not supposed to smile in a courthouse cafeteria. The place was stiff like a hospital eatery (not bubbly like a college dorm dining hall), and I thought how it’s sad that the free citizens who have to endure the most sterile, cold, lifeless dining environments are the sick and the accused- the people who could most benefit from the belly-warming ritual of breaking bread with loved ones and well-wishers. I caught myself indulging my craving to be miserable, and resolved to avoid these types of places in the future. Then I directed my attention through the huge cafeteria windows to the skyline, and went about my business of having a good sit.

Imagine a random group of Philadelphians being forced to hang out for a few days. You wouldn’t expect them to chat endlessly about cheese steak, would you? I mean, these are actual citizens, not cartoons, right? Folks, it’s no exaggeration when I tell you that we spent most of our time in that jury room talking about pizza (this was still the part when we weren’t allowed to discuss the trial). It’s not unreasonable to say that, as a group, pizza was literally all we talked about. Every now and then, the conversation would steer towards dining in general, but we never went more than a few minutes without somebody bringing up pizza again. Chicago people love pizza and eat it all the time and have strong opinions about it and this town is truly obsessed with pizza, and I’m not excluding Citizen Steve from this culinary infatuation. (I realize I’ve used the word “pizza” a bunch of times now, and as a caring writer, I would normally splice in a synonym for “pizza” here and there, but in Chicago, we don’t call it a “pie,” or say, “Let’s grab a slice;” we call it “pizza” and nothing else.) Sure, the conversation was well-worn territory, and it didn’t expand anybody’s horizons. But our fourteen faces lit the table, exchanging thoughts with hungry eyes and eager tongues, like an extended family around a couple 18” Palermo’s Specials.

Cook County Judge Michael Brown’s courtroom is a theater, and Judge Brown is a really good narrator. He spoke with a seemingly rehearsed calm that emanated throughout the room. The proverbial and literal “order in the court” was palpable enough to keep my anxiety down to levels unheard of this time of year.

The state’s attorneys were actors; the testifying officers were real, stammering people; the defense lawyer was somewhere in between; and the defendant was a very still and very silent prop. At the beginning of each witness’ testimony, I would lower my brow and rub my beard and listen intently, evaluating the plausibility of the story, and systematically comparing the details to the other testimonies, carefully keeping a mental register of the inconsistencies between them all. And, invariably, somewhere in the middle of each retelling of this convoluted tale (whose total events clocked in at about a minute, but whose details were infinite) my mind would naturally drift to the nature of truth itself, and how I didn’t think anybody was really lying; rather, they were just painting the scene so that it made sense with their feelings and interests, the way I color my life stories so that they make sense in a bar, or on a long car ride, or in a blog, for that matter. It was at this point in the thought process that I’d start to worry that Judge Brown could read from my face that I was thinking not about the trial, but about the cosmic impossibility of knowable objective truth, and so I would direct my attention back to the witness stand.

We heard all of the testimonies on the Second Day, and Judge Brown dismissed the court for lunch halfway through. As promised, we were escorted to a private dining hall for our complimentary meals, and excited we all were for such a treat. The private hall turned out to be a closed-off wing of the previous day’s Sad Cafeteria, where we were served lukewarm mostaccioli with meat sauce and zucchini on paper plates by a tardy gentleman who kept saying, “It is what it is,” over and over. A few jurors took some good-natured cracks at the cuisine, and one guy said, “Hey, this ain’t bad!” Most of us shrugged and said, “It is what it is,” between plastic forkfuls of pasta. Then we talked about the joy of garden-fresh zucchini, and about where in the city you can get an awesome baked mostaccioli, and, “Hey, ya know, dat place has good pizza, too,” and the conversation once again came to a full, cheesy circle as we all held back our thoughts on the man whose fate we would soon collectively determine.

The guy at the gate didn’t even look for my credentials by Day Three; he just waved me on through. I whizzed through security like a pro, greeted my comrades as we assembled in our jury room, and, eventually, we were shuffled to our usual courtroom seats. The state’s attorney made his Oscar bid of a closing argument, rapidly toggling his speaking volume and exploring the space allotted to him; at one point, he got right up next to the defendant and pointed his very official looking index finger right at him in a spectacle of condemnation. The defense attorney followed this performance with a layman’s retort- a bro-ish “nuh-uh” of an argument. He was like a guy in an improv class in a scene where he gets to be a lawyer. Once his spiel was wrapped, Judge Brown capably explained the pertinent laws to us, making very clear our duties and guidelines. With that, we were escorted back into our jury room, and the deliberation began.

Lunch was served to us right in the jury room that day. A deputy sheriff knocked and entered, smilingly asked us to please not talk about the case until he left the room, and set down our buffet-style trays of chicken patties, buns, potato casserole, and, like, half a twelver of Pepsi. I stuck with my hot coffee. The only condiment they brought us was mayonnaise, which was awesome.

Our foreman suggested, and we all agreed, that we’d continue our deliberation informally amongst ourselves until we had all finished eating.

A woman who grew up in my neighborhood had waived her right to a bun, and instead was eating her chicken patty with a plastic fork and knife. “Did you make eye contact with the defendant?” she asked nobody in particular. “It was unsettling.”

Our foreman, a forty-something from Evanston, had some casserole and an empty bun on his paper plate. He was either a vegetarian, or he didn’t trust the courthouse chicken. “I think after we eat we ought to go through the events chronologically, giving everybody a chance to comment.” This is why we chose him as foreman.

The South Sider across from me, who was on his second helping of everything, was thinking aloud about the concept of reasonable doubt. The chubby girl to the right of me chewed merrily and joked about the lawyers being full of baloney. The small woman to my left ate just like she spoke: infrequently and strangely.

After everybody had had their fill, we took our first vote. It was almost unanimous. We talked for about twenty more minutes, then we took another vote. Five minutes later, Judge Brown ordered the room to their feet as we marched back into the courtroom. The Evanston foreman was holding our verdict, which Judge Brown soon read aloud.

Upon leaving the courthouse, I put my sunglasses on and took my scarf off, as it was warmer outside than it had been in that old building. In me there rose a feeling of content- a peace beyond the calmness that I had borrowed from Judge Brown. I found my car and steered towards the Stevenson, satisfied that I had had a part in securing a man’s freedom, and that I had earned $17.20 a day for doing it. That adds up to $51.60- enough to buy a pizza dinner for me and a handful of friends, if the price is fair.

Comments on Dick Daley

2010-09-30T09:25:00.004-05:00

There aren’t many things that have been true my whole life. First I was from Tommy Moore, then Queen of Martyrs. Dad alive; dad dead. God used to exist; not no more. I’m taller.

Little Company of Mary hospital is still there. I guess that Potter Pavilion wasn’t always there. Still, the main building is the same. A few weeks ago I was in the ER and the woman there asked me if I had ever been there before. “I was born here,” I said. She smiled. “So were my mom, my dad, and my sister.” She finished filling out her form.

A truth of life will be a lie in a few months: that the mayor of Chicago is Mayor Daley. My generation doesn’t even need to say “Richard M.” or “Daley Jr.” He’s just always been Mayor Daley to us.

I’m told I met him when I was five. A few times, maybe. It’s all a blur to me. I’ve seen him plenty of times, usually at Fire Department related events. He’s not friendly looking. I’ve always liked that about him. He doesn’t look mean, it’s just that he doesn’t have that bullshit smile, like Blagojevich. In fact, he looks a bit unsure of himself. Like he knows what he wants, but he doesn’t think he has the means to get it.

The last time I saw him in person was on my birthday a couple months ago. He gave a speech to the new class of police officers graduating from the academy. He used it as a platform to rant in defense of the handgun ban. I must admit his segue from pertinent material to this political sound-byte op was smooth. Something about cops making tough decisions and having to answer to the community for those decisions. Once I noticed that the speech had taken a deliberate shift (which took me a while; the segue was really good) I was a bit perplexed, and then I had a moment of naivety when I turned around and actually noticed the news crews behind me for the first time. I felt like a child for having this moment of realization- a lesson in local politics and media. My mom and I were both visibly upset. I don’t know how she feels about gun laws, but we both thought the tirade was a hijacking of the new officers’ moment of recognition. Nobody around us seemed to care, or even notice that the speech was off-topic. Were they jaded or naïve? Or did they just not care?

Daley’s greatest accomplishments involve the beautification of Chicago through projects like Millennium Park and Navy Pier. Despite my reminders to my friends that the free events at these places are bullshit because they come at the taxpayers’ expense, I do enjoy the fruits of these public projects pretty frequently, and I do not think that private entities would have necessarily cleaned up those sites and replaced them with anything pretty, and I have been to ugly industrial towns in Ohio and Michigan whose local governments have not invested in sightly endeavors, and so I curb my libertarianism when it comes to certain city projects that really do drive tourism and make everyday city life a little more beautiful. So, bravo, Mr. Mayor.

Thinking about the mayoral race, whose candidates are presently still mostly in the speculative phase, I’m starting to understand why I hear more about local politics around the city than I do about national politics. You might actually know somebody who is right in the thick of a local scandal, or your buddy plays softball in the park where Blagojevich goes jogging, or you run into an alderman at a bar, where he is shitfaced. And so you read about what happened in some public building (which you happen to walk by every day) involving a couple guys from your neighborhood, and you feel connected. And suddenly Chicago doesn’t seem so big. And developing some influence (or, in my case, a readership) feels like it’s right within reach.

And that’s really what I think I like about Daley. He looks like and talks like and practically is a guy from my neighborhood, and he makes me believe that the little patch of grass behind my mom’s garage where I play with my dog really isn’t so far from the world of news cameras and multi-million dollar contracts and international debates- a world populated by women and guys. Guys like Mayor Daley. Guys like me.

Being A Better Man

2010-09-29T12:27:00.001-05:00

Or, failing that, being a man.
There’s a trend brewing among hyper-introspective guys like me across the web: the embarking upon and chronicling of one’s quest to “be a better man”. It’s a movement born of a generation who has watched mook after bumbling oaf pervade its fall sitcoms. It has seen masculinity’s tumble from the world of tailored suits and firm handshakes to a mess of apathy and shirked responsibility. And some of this generation have assessed the state of manhood today and said, “You know what? Not for me.”

Among those writers keeping his bumbling in check is Chicago native Caleb Gardner, who keeps the blog TheExceptionalMan.com. In addition to offering cultural critical gems like the above graphic, Gardner focuses largely on clothing and grooming. This focus has steered readers his way via the growing men’s style sector of the blogosphere, whose united stance seems to connect masculinity, adulthood, and investing some serious effort into your wardrobe.

I am unrepentantly a foot soldier of the expanding army of newly style-conscious men, whose tales are told day after day on blogs like PutThisOn.com, which bears the tagline “a web series about dressing like a grownup”. It was this very emphasis on adulthood (specifically manhood) that won me over throughout this overwhelming 2010, and got me to start getting picky about every garment that gets pulled over or fastened to my newly in-decent-repair body. I’ve become demanding in regards to fit, exploratory in the realm of texture, and I’ve seriously limited the colors that pervade my wardrobe, choosing shades that mingle well with my eyes, skin, and hair.

One year ago, that last sentence would have made me laugh. It also would have sounded like a lot of work. And it is. What’s worse, it’s the kind of work that doesn’t feel like icing on the cake, a bonus boon to my existing sense of worth. Rather, it’s what I feel I need to do just to reach my baseline; my gridiron tapes that need reviewing before I take to the field and actually gain some yardage. Dressing well feels not like an accomplishment, but like a necessity for me to achieve anything.

Speaking of accomplishments, Esquire writer-at-large Chris Jones recently launched his blog My Second Empire, in which he chronicles his restoration of a 140-year-old house for his family in a small Canadian town. He’ll be putting his less-than-masterful carpentry skills to use on the mansion while he simultaneously works through his shortlist of “better man” goals, which involve family devotion, health, and creative output. This man is up to his Canadian waist in icing on the cake. Happy family? Check. Secure career? Check. Now he’s improving things that many folks have no business obtaining in the first place. Jones has earned the “better” in his ambition to be a better man.

What’s admirable about the quests of Gardner and Jones is that their self-improvement agendas have distinct goals, dealing in specific areas of their lives. So even though I feel I haven’t earned the ambition of being a “better” man, I can model my own plan from a similar perspective. I can isolate distinct elements of my life and try to improve them. And, should I fail, I can at least pound out some amusing sentences about my attempts.

The big picture goal for my pursuit is to relate less to malcontented sons of privilege, like James Dean’s Jim Stark in Rebel Without A Cause, and more to contemporary cowboys who have staked out some America for them and theirs, like… umm… there’s gotta be a guy like this somewhere in contemporary pop culture…

Hank Hill? Well, no matter. The point is, I’d like to be a guy at whom folks point and say, “That man has his shit together.” With that in mind, I’ve compiled a short list of areas in my life that need some assessment. Here goes:

· Openness. I’d like to be emotionally available to those in my life. A good start towards this is to be communicatively available, meaning I need to start answering my phone, and promptly responding to messages, Facebook or otherwise.

· Productivity. I’ve got to stop giving myself a break in my free time, and respond to my reflective observation that tangible pieces of work (songs, essays, letters to friends and family) are the only healthy remedies for my chronic anxiety, occasional depression, and the fuck-it-all emptiness that runs like a current underneath my perpetual hyper vigilance.

· Mindfulness. As fall continues its march across my city, I’m going to acknowledge the vague sense of dread that is constantly present in my noggin, and, without judging it, take a peek beyond my anxiety, unveiling my bitter Chicago in all its truth and complexity. I resolve to take time to love Chicago every day without relying on spending, eating, or drinking as gateways to appreciation.

Suppose I make some good strides in these areas. Will that make me a man? We learned in The Big Lebowski that being a man can be defined as “being prepared to do the right thing, whatever the cost,” accompanied by “a pair of testicles.” I suppose this endeavor will test my resolve to pay the price for doing the right thing. So, barring a run-in with castration-threatening nihilists, checking off these three bullet points will be a bar mitzvah of sorts for old Citizen Steve. (Insert your favorite Yiddish saying here.)

So. How do we kick this thing off? I’ll let Tobias pull the trigger.

Citizen Steve Speaks - A Bit Of Compulsive Reflection

2010-03-17T17:48:00.009-05:00

   "When his substance of choice is eliminated, the addict will begin to obsess over some other substance(s) or compulsive behavior(s)." -Something that might well be written in some nonfiction book about addiction.
   You know what I like about Altoids smalls? They're small.
   I've been saying this for weeks now, making sure each time that I'm not saying it to somebody who's already heard me say it. I don't know why I like this non-joke so much. Something about it feels natural and very much befitting to my personality. I especially enjoy when somebody correctly guesses the answer, leaving me to quickly echo their response.
"They're small?"
"They're small."
   The 7-11 was out of the wintergreen smalls last night, so I had to get a tin of the peppermint ones. Today I automatically popped one in after my early-afternoon cigarillo, and found that my tongue is not in any shape to deal with peppermint when it is coated in tobacco smoke. When the mild burning subsided, I mused that the scents of peppermint and tobacco now ran through my breath, and this is exactly the combination of scents attributed to the grandfather in the original "Parent Trap". I smelled the way an early 1960's old man smelled. I was happy to smell this way, as I strolled along Lawndale Avenue, the sun sneaking in past the edges of my brown sunglasses, and my dog panting laboriously as she pulled at her leash. I wished it was a leather leash. I'm going to buy her a leather leash.
   I've found that the right combination of coffee and cigars (read: a fucking ton of coffee and cigars) can minimize my obsessively self-aware social discomfort that has tailed alongside my newfound sobriety. Over the weekend, I was able to channel the old Steve, Steve the Drinker, in a moment of shirtless buffoonery in the upper canopy of the Chicago skyline. I was partly proud that I could shed my self-conscious awkwardness for a beat and go with the drunken flow, despite my sobriety. But I couldn't help but ask myself, "Is this really sobriety?"
   Nope. It wasn't. I hadn't had a drink; therefore, I was sober. But sobriety isn't the recreation of a former self through less harmful substances, places, people, and attitudes. It's not being so caffeinated that I shake worse than I ever did during alcohol withdrawal. It's not trying to be "mysterious" so that I don't come off as awkward. Sobriety is being awkward sometimes. It's getting frustrated with problems rather than getting away from problems. And sometimes, sobriety is realizing that a certain scene just ain't my scene any more. And it's at those times that I'm always glad that I'm sober, so I can just hop in my car and drive away.
   So, I'm finding my way in this mess of coffee, cigars, and Altoids smalls. What a clean mess, it is, compared to the mess I was living in until January 11, 2010. At least I can see it all around me.
   My compulsive spending habit, on the other hand, is more difficult for me to wrap my head around. But I'm afraid that, for now, I'll give in to my self-destructive mechanism of putting off thinking about it for another day.

Citizen Steve's Stomping Grounds - Murphy's Pub

2009-10-26T20:04:00.005-05:00

The first thing they teach you at blogging school is "Show, don't tell." So how, in one blog post, should one go about capturing the spirit of a dear place (say, Murphy's Pub), without simply drooling one's fondness for the locale all over one's keyboard? How can one plop his reader into one of those old, carved-into bar stools, elbows rested firmly against the wooden bar top, staring one of the youthful bartenders in her kindly face? Well, in the opinion of this author, one accomplishes this through a patchwork of precise detail- close looks at set pieces, quick quotes devoid of context, one-line anecdotes, et al. You know, the kinds of things that escape my memory when it comes to Murphy's, despite my Norm-From-Cheers-like attendance record at the pub.

Murphy's is, after all, decidedly unconcerned with detail. The decor? Random crap on the walls associated with any old brand of booze. The daily specials? A shot here, a pitcher there- none of which have any connection in theme or distributor. The music? Whatever that gaggle of drunk bar-crawlers has just picked on the digital jukebox. Elvis, followed by ACDC, and, of course, Miley Cyrus rounding out the trio of tunes. A tasteful combination of song.

(One may wonder why I don't, at this point, simply amble across the street from my Mermaid Lagoon to Murphy's, and document its detail firsthand as I write this. I am reminded of the time I brought a book to Murph's and posted up at the bar, the employees' faces being the only familiar ones. I planned on mowing down a few chapters between sips of Budweiser. When I resumed my reading the next day, I began thirty pages behind where I had left off before I entered Murphy's.)

No, it's not the details of Murphy's that keep me and the rest of the bar's diverse clientele returning for food, drink, and company day after day. And I don't think it's the lighting, either, although they do a swell job with that. Rather, I'd wager it has something to do with the lack of pretension, coupled with a respect for the tradition of running a proper public house.

Take, for example, the taps. I tend towards dark ales, while my frequent companion, Cait, opts for tangier brews. We're both obliged year-round at Murphy's. Some pints currently available at the pub include New Belgium's 1554, a dark, malty ale that never overpowers its drinker; and Goose Island's 312, an "urban wheat ale" with layers of refreshing flavor. While these fine beers are poured capably by experienced bartenders, most of the beer circulating around Murphy's comes in pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which are often ordered two or three at a time. And there's no distinction to be drawn between the Pabst drinkers and the craft beer sippers. For most patrons, it's a pitcher of Pabst one night, and a sampling of micro brews the next. A young drinker can take a crash course in the many styles of beer over the course of a few nights at Murphy's, without leaving campus to duck into the world of grad student bars and the beer purists behind their counters. Murphy's does beer right, without bragging about it.

On the occasions when I bother to look beyond the unassuming pint glass in front of me, I examine the person who brought me that glass. Most nights at Murph's, that person is Zach. Granted, sometimes that person is Steph, Gaby, McGreal, Pete, Mary Jo, Emily, Matt, or any from a handful of others, but when I want a Manhattan, it's Zach who tells them how to make it. And when I want to make my drink a double, it's Zach who knows not to upgrade to the bigger glass. And when I don't know what the hell I want, it's Zach who knows to make me a double Manhattan.

And as I sit on my stool at the north end of the bar at Murphy's, drinking my double Manhattan, or my 1554, or my Pabst, or whatever Zach puts in front of me, I sometimes cannot help but see myself as would a fly on the wall: a drunk at a bar. A statue of me would have the glass molded to my fingers. In these moments, I'm a stock character, conveniently used as the comic relief, or as the sad sap, the slouching premonition of what's to come should the hero lose his way. It's a character defined by his own ineffectualness; his achievements distant, his soapbox a mockery. It's almost enough to make me feel like nothing but a sad, sack of sh-

What's that, Zach? Oh, yeah, sure, one more pint. Thanks. Hey, did I ever tell you about my trip to Door County? Well, me and nine of my friends...

***Murphy's Pub is located at 604 E. Green Street, in Champaign, IL***

Citizen Steve Writes Fan-Fiction: The Thickburger Saga

2009-10-07T20:08:00.007-05:00

***Editor's note: This blog post was inspired by a Hardee's Thickburger™ that Citizen Steve once ate, and the packaging that it came in. The Citizen was still in his usual, post-Thickburger™ state of delirium when he wrote it, so it is pretty confusing. In an attempt to minimize your confusion, I will re-print here the tale that inspired this work of fan fiction: The Thickburger™ Story.

"Fellow Burger Lovers,

A few years ago when I became president of Hardee's™ Restaurants, we were selling so many things that we had truly become a 'Jack of all trades and master of none.'

Unfortunately, in today's competitive fast-food world, that wasn't cutting it. The chain needed to become known for doing something really well again; just as it did in its early years when people could 'hurry on down to Hardee's™, where the burgers are charco-broiled.'

So, I challenged my menu development folks to come up with a new line of burgers that would make people say, 'Wow! I can't believe I can get burgers that good at a fast-food place!' And they did. They came up with the thick 1/3, 1/2, and 2/3-pound burgers, every one char-broiled to order and made with 100% Angus beef. They made the buns heavier and a little sweeter, and then they buttered and grilled them like you'd find at great burger joints. They used sliced red onions, which no other chain was doing at the time, and they even used better pickles. And, they called them 'Thickburgers™'.

I truly love a great burger and I can honestly say that Thickburgers™ are not only as good as any I have had at any restaurant, but they are even better than I can make at home. If you don't agree with me that these are the best-tasting fast-food burgers you can get anywhere, just let me know and I'll happily refund your money.

Sincerelely,

Andy Puzder

President"

Now, without further ado, I present...***

The Thickburger Saga

A Made-for-Blogging Series.

by: Citizen Steve

written in the first-person point of view of Andy Puzder, President, Hardee's Inc.

Three months ago, I was sitting in my office at Hardee's™ corporate headquarters, staring through my spotless floor-to-ceiling window at the Gateway Arch, imagining that it was half of a giant onion ring, when I grew restless. Oh, hell, who am I kidding. I had been restless for months. Ever since I had flipped the Hardee's menu upside-down, the Thickburgers™ were flying out the drive-thru window like McDonald's hotcakes before 10:30 am, and the cash was pouring into my bank account, not unlike country gravy pouring over a Loaded Biscuit 'N Gravy Breakfast Bowl™. And yet, the restlessness grew. I knew I had to get out of that office. Hell, out of St. Louis altogether. I had been slouching in that cozy Midwestern lifestyle for too damn long. I needed to break loose; I needed to sin.

-----------------

Las Vegas can be pretty damn hot come late July. And boy, when you're spending ten-hour shifts over the Natural Cut Fry™ machine, your ass can get hotter than a Southwest Chicken Salad™ with extra chili pepper sauce. It didn't help that Slim Valentino and his goomba suits were in the shop breathing down my neck two times a day. My assistant manager, sweet little Carla, would ask why I don't just duck back into drive-thru station #1 when Slim's boys came barking. Sweet Carla. She was always looking out for me. She could never understand that a man stands behind his Thickburgers™, no matter how many greasy wops the family sends his way.

The arrangement was supposed to be simple. Slim and his posse keep John Law away from my Hardee's™, and in return I have one hundred Thickburgers™ delivered to the Paisano Room every night by nine o'clock, no exceptions. That way I could hawk my new specialty menu item without the Nevada Gaming Commission running me out of town, and Slim's boys could enjoy the finest and most satisfying burgers in the fast-food industry every night, free of cost. A simple plan, agreed upon by two very complex men- myself, and Slim Valentino.

The condiments came first. A few weeks into our arrangement, I start getting messages like, "Lips Clamato don't like no mustard," or, "Don't you try gettin' Chucky Febreezy to suck down mayo." So I obliged. But when those guineas started ordering specialty burgers, I was about ready to send them to Burger King. How's a man supposed to keep track of which of these degos wants two Six Dollar Thickburgers™ and which one just wants a 1/3 lb. Low-Carb Thickburger™? Slim was putting on the pressure. And when I start feeling the pressure, I get cooking. Fast.

***Will Andy take a stand against Slim and his gangsters? And what is his new specialty menu item that would have the NGC up in arms? Find out in the next installment of The Thickburger Saga!***

Citizen Steve Eats - A Trip to Howbowda Bagel Company

2009-10-07T17:22:00.003-05:00

I ate a bagel sandwich today at Howbowda Bagel Co., located on Green just East of 6th in Champaign, IL. The sandwich was called "The Wall Streeter". Hot roast beef, horseradish, and some other good stuff like that. It was supposed to be served on an "everything" bagel, but they were out of those. In fact, they were out of all seeded bagels. Damn. I like seeds. Ah well. I got it on an egg bagel. I've always thought that eggs deserve more stage time in the hours past noon.

The egg bagel worked. What was most striking about it was its smell, which overwhelmed the smells from the beef and the horseradish (no easy feat). That egg smell can take you back a long way, eh? Sunday breakfasts after church, packed diners in the city, and a few other rather nostalgic scenes. I think it was that smell that made the sandwich go a bit further than the average beef panini. And Dustin, the owner, hadn't been so ready to make my sandwich on the egg bagel. He had recommended plain or whole wheat in leu of my beloved seeded bagels. I guess this sandwich was what the afro-donning "Joy of Painting" host Bob Ross would have called a "happy accident". And happy I was, indeed.

Dustin says that business has been ok. October is a good month, he says. I think he means that it's a good month for any campus business, not for bagels in particular. I've heard rumors that Howbowda hasn't been doing too well since it opened last year. For one thing, some fellow capitalists opened a Dunkin Donuts right next to the place. And a few months later, a Panera opened up across the street. Now, I'm not the type to bitch about big corporations making it hard on the little guy. Rather, I'm the type to buy my stuff from the little guy. Unless the little guy sucks.

And Howbowda Bagel don't suck. It's the only place on campus where you can get a sandwich, and have it freshly made, and not think to yourself "I've eaten this exact same thing in Chicago, and Kankakee, and Charleston..." (I'm looking at you, Subway.) And that's the joy of eating at an independent restaurant. Dustin here has used his expertise to write up a menu, pick out quality ingredients, and make me a sandwich right in front of my eyes. Then, he asked if I had any suggestions for the place, telling me that he prefers negative feedback. "I don't wanna hear the positive stuff," he says.

Bar Giuliani, the only campus coffee shop without billboards all over town boasting its many locations, has closed its doors. I smell a gap in the local coffee market. Guiliani was a favorite among hipsters and grad students- those who had ideals involving coffee shop ownership, and who were put off by transparent attempts to seem worldly (I guess "venti mocha frap" is Seattle-ish for "a ton of sweet shit"). Where are these socially conscious caffeine addicts to browse digg.com now?

Next time I stop in Howbowda, I'll give Dustin my negative feedback: You only have one type of coffee, and you call it "coffee". That won't cut it in 2009. Maybe (God-willing) 2010 will usher in a coffee revival, when Americans can just sip a cup of joe without imagining they're trilingual French skiers. But for now, Howbowda needs to diversify its brews, and maybe add an "-ino" or a tilde (as in "sweeteñer") to its drink menu. Until they do, try the pesto cream cheese on a spinach bagel, and chug from a glass bottle of Nantucket Nectar. Makes for a hell of a lunch.

Citizen Steve Drinks - The Sunset Steve (recipe)

2009-09-23T21:01:00.003-05:00

One tree on Sixth Street just off Lincoln Avenue in Charleston, IL has brown leaves. I guess it's autumn. But I still have the windows of my Mermaid Lagoon open to greet passers-by, and damned if I didn't break a light sweat during an impromptu power-walk across the Engineering quad today. I savor the rays of summer 'til the bitter end, when finally my toes cannot stand the frost against which my flip-flops do not protect, and I find myself standing alone, shivering, clutching a running hose at my midday slip-n-slide barbecue.

I know many of you are eager to break out the denim jackets and light fall scarves. You're already putting together a Halloween costume, and checking local menus for fresh ciders and pumpkin pies. But I invite you all to celebrate the still-warm sunlight while it lingers with us, and I've got just the drink to pour before the nights get too chilly.

The Sunset Steve

Ingredients:

-vodka

-Campari

-grenadine

-tonic water

Fill a rocks glass or a collins glass with ice. Five or six healthy-sized cubes should do it. Add one shot of vodka. Then, fill a shot glass half and half with Campari and grenadine, and add this to the glass. Top with the tonic, and garnish with a lime wedge, if that's your thing. Stir with a skinny little straw that gives you something to play with as you bid farewell to the sun.

This drink is my take on the vodka and tonic, and it's right at home during my "cigars at sundown" tradition. Grab a good friend and a good chair, and sip away. Citizen Steve says it's ok.

Citizen Steve Speaks - Now, About These Gnats...

2009-09-23T19:38:00.004-05:00

While my one hand is typing this, my other hand is swatting and crushing tiny insects. Tons of tiny, annoying insects. And I'm in a library, tucked into a poorly lit corridor. The gnats are upon us. And we're being told there's nothing we can do about it.

They showed up Monday morning. Because I don't "do" mornings, I was unaware of the plague until just before 1:00 pm that afternoon, as I strolled to my first class of the day. I had just gotten out of the shower. I love showers, and I take them all the time. As I walked to class, I noticed a few tiny gnats swarming around me, occasionally landing upon my flesh. I didn't do a lot of shooing, as I feel that anybody swatting flies as they walk down the street looks like a filthy bum. I just kept walking tall, as if the gnats didn't exist.

But they didn't leave once I got to my lecture. We watched a silent film that day, and as the gnats hounded me while I watched the movie, I couldn't help but swat a bit. I had to swat them off of my skin, because they itched (and they're plain icky). I had to swat them from my immediate area, as they were blocking my field of vision. All this swatting was very distracting for me, and probably even more distracting for those around me. I began to wonder why the gnats were following me. Was I smelly? Did the shower not "take"?

That's a little glimpse into the neurosis that comes with being Citizen Steve. Rather than observe that these bugs were clearly buzzing into every nook and cranny of the entire Midwest, I had myself convinced that I was encased in a small cloud of filth following me around campus, not unlike Pigpen of Peanuts fame.

Yesterday the Daily Illini told me some things that I didn't want to hear. But, such is the job of any newspaper worth their sawdust, eh? They told me (in large headline form) to not call the bugs "gnats". For my information, they're in fact "soybean aphids". Today I heard a nerdy kid on Green Street say "Ah, these damn aphids!" and I almost punched him in his face. I'm sticking with gnats. Sue me.

Secondly, the DI told me that prevention efforts against these things would be "impractical" and "a waste of time". Bunch of tree huggers, if you ask me. Well, if they won't tell you how to get rid of these things, Citizen Steve will: Squash 'em. Squash the daylights out of them. There! I squashed one just now. It felt good. It still feels good. I'm getting a little power trip out of this. To hell with meditation- I just found my new source of empowerment: squashin' bugs, the American way.

Speaking of America, another remedy for the gnats is Budweiser. After a few golden pints last night, I forgot what a gnat was. I also forgot what Indian food does to my stomach on top of those pints, hence my slow morning today. But I digress.

I'm told that the gnats will be all but gone in about a week. Until then, squash away, and don't wear that bug spray stuff around campus. I hate the way that stuff smells. Thank you.

Welcome!

2009-09-22T18:32:00.005-05:00

Hello there. I'm Steve, a student at the University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign, and a Chicago South Sider by birth. Many call me Citizen Steve. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I pay my taxes. Whatever the reason, I decided to use this moniker when I launched my first blog way back in high school. That blog was called Citizen Steve Speaks, and in it I tackled issues such as the changing of seasons, how police officers are blowhards, and the debate over which breakfast cereal mascot was "the best". It was a fun way for a teen to express his coming-of-age frustrations and observations.

With The Citizen's Publication (or Citizen's Pub for short), I hope to resurrect the spirit of Citizen Steve Speaks, but with an updated attitude that showcases my collegiate propensity for being a know-it-all, and my desperate attempts to seem sophisticated. In addition to my general columnist-style pieces (which shall be labeled "Citizen Steve Speaks"), I plan to write about film ("Citizen Steve Sees"), food ("Citizen Steve Eats"), beverages ("Citizen Steve Drinks"), and style ("Citizen Steve Swaggers"). I also plan to have regular features about special topics, such as my favorite places ("Citizen Steve's Stomping Grounds") and bizarre fan-fiction ("Citizen Steve Writes Fan-Fiction").

While a general blog with one sole contributor may sound narcissistic- perhaps downright masturbatory- I feel that I deserve a readership as much as the glorified ad copy writers who churn out Esquire every month. (For the record, I love Esquire, and I read it religiously. But Christ, talk about selling a lifestyle.) I am working towards a minor in Cinema Studies, and just yesterday, off the cuff, I came up with five distinct reasons why Sister Act is a far superior film to Sister Act 2. I've been eating food all my life. I've been indulging in drinks of the alcoholic variety for as long as the Iraq War has been going on. And as for style, my taste in shoes has almost provoked barroom brawls, and I consider a bottle of orange pop an "accessory".

So read on, check back in, tell your friends, and give me feedback via the comments, my personal email (CitizenSteve18@gmail.com), on Twitter (twitter.com/CitizenSteve), or on facebook (facebook.com/CitizenSteve).

Cheers,

Citizen Steve