Town Called Malice

Don't get me wrong, I love Chicago. I think it's such a fabulous city that, if it were only a little warmer or a little more topographically diverse nearby, everyone would want to live here. I'm praying for the 2016 Olympics, I'm pushing for Obama '08 (I'm an early and true believer, as I worked for him in his Senate primary against the Illinois Democratic machine -- if he can beat that, he can beat anything.) and the miniscule part of me that actually gives a hoot-and-a-half about football is rooting for the Bears this Sunday. But sometimes I feel I truly live in a secondary city, the third coast.

I feel this way whenever a movie plays first in New York and Los Angeles. Sure, it'll eventually show up here, unlike if I lived in, say, Butte or Memphis, but I hate not being primary. This second-class status hurts especially this week. Monday through Wednesday Paul Weller played 3 shows in NYC and this weekend he'll do 3 in LA -- dedicating the first night of each set to The Jam, the best band to never make in in America. He hasn't performed this material in over 20 years. Growl. If I weren't a nursing mother and if Yelena weren't in therapy a few days a week, don't think I wouldn't have jumped on Jet Blue and flown out. Shit, I would have flown to NYC last weekend and LA this.