The Windier City

LG just returned from a trip to Chicago, where he moderated a panel discussion at an insurance conference.  Some of you might think that all of LG's talking added to the already considerable wind in the Windy City. 

Fair point, can't deny it.

While LG was there, Ill-annoying people (clever pun, we know...), he took some pictures for the viewing pleasure of you, dear valued LG Report readers.  Without further adieu....

See this sign, what do you make of it?  I didn't take it seriously either. 

It stands in the middle of the block where President Barack Obama's familial homestead is located in the Hyde Park section of Chicago.   Wanna know the exact address?  Google it for yourself. 

As a U.S. taxpayer, I felt I had a right to walk down said block and snap a picture of said house for the good readers of said LG Report.  Well said, I know...

The place was about a 15-block walk from my ill-chosen Ramada Hotel.  DO NOT STAY at the Lakeshore Ramada if you visit Chicago, especially if you don't like ants crawling on your bathroom floor.  I didn't actually mind that so much, but it was a $20 cab ride to downtown.

Anyway, where was I... oh, so I walked 15-blocks in 95-degree heat to snap a photo of Casa Obama.  As I got close, a square-jawed "I-Ain't-Fooling-With-You" Secret Service agent raced his black SUV up to me. 

He told me that I was on "restricted premises" and asked if I saw the sign banning pedestrians (not the one pictured above, another one.)  I said I had, but that it wasn't clear, it appeared to only ban people from walking in the street, not on the sidewalk, where I was.

"We're going to fix that," he said, tacitly admitting that I had discovered a Secret Service error, before advising me to immediately turn back and circle the block if I wanted a photo.  Easy for him to say, sitting in an air conditioned SUV.  I wanted some of my tax money's worth of that A/C but I didn't bother asking for a lift.

Anyway, here are the two photos that I managed to get with my Blackberry spy phone, the same model endorsed by the recently-deported Russian agents, as well as Mel Gibson's ex-girlfriend:

As you can see, you can't really see.  The Secret Service doesn't want just any stinkin' taxpayer waltzing up to take photos of the President's personal residence. 

I was busted. 

I walked back to the Roach Radisson in what felt like underwater-level humidity and searing heat.  When I arrived, I burned my clothes in the bathtub and killed a few hundred ants.  Some of the others, though, seemed to be roasting marshmallows. 

This was the view out of the Mid-America club window (80th floor), where the conference was held.  That's Iowa in the background and South America behind that. 

This photo was snapped from the boat upon which the conference attendees sailed on Thursday night on Lake Michigan.  That big floating ball on the left side is an UFO.  I'm selling this picture to the National Enquirer so back off, I saw it first.  That Ferris wheel on the right side is Chicago's attempt to mimic Seaside Heights and "The Jersey Shore."  Can't blame them.

Here the camera is pointing out the front door of my flea-bitten hotel/motel.  That's Lake Michigan in the background, just above the guard rail.  Trust me, you'd rather stay overnight in that passenger van on the left than in any of the rooms of this Ramada.

This is my friend Tom who lives in Atlanta but was in Chicago on business.  He probably doesn't want to be pictured on the blog, so I won't say too much about him. Plus, the less you know, the better for everyone.

This is Terminal C at O'Hare Airport.  See the guy on the left in the jeans and black shirt?  He is locally renowned for walking through O'Hare all day (weekdays only) in a pattern on the black-and-white floor squares that approximate championship-winning chess moves from days gone by.  He's been featured on CBS, PBS, ESPN and in People Magazine.  On this particular day, he was re-enacting Fisher/Spassky 1972.    


Wait, sorry, I just made that up.  But if you believed me during the time it took you to scroll down here, please slap yourself upside the head.  Come on, we're using the honor system here, do it and make it hurt a bit.  Thanks.

Ok, folks, that's it for now.  We'll be back soon with a new posting, in the meantime, keep clicking in and referring us to family, friends, enemies and frenemies!

Selection 2010 - Brody Boyd

Photos of the Week

Internet media star Geo was seen dining out in Manhattan last night, shortly after appearing at a screening of his blockbuster autobiographical film, "Despicable Me." Fellow reality celebrity Bethany Frankel had just left Geo's table (his left arm had been around her; we're sure you can imagine her in that empty space.)  And don't think that we mentioned Bethany Frankel just to attract Google hits because she's on the cover of People Magazine this week.   We're not that low.  Or are we?

Not all baking in the world is being done on the premises of the Red Lion Diner.  Someone please alert the authorities to this false advertising.

Obviously he was destined from birth to go into the pizza business with a name like that.

If you have a dog who insists on bringing dead birds and other incapacitated animals into the house, you'll understand LG's instincts with the captioned.  Whenever I am asked to unclog a drain, I must show its contents to the drain owner, much like a dog bringing its prized possum into the house. 

Here you see two hair clumps that I retrieved last weekend from two different drains.  Fascinating, I know.  Hey, you're the one reading this blog! 

We apologize for the rather offensive nature of some of this week's photos but we were recently forced to fire The LG Report's official censor, Mel Gibson, who proved to not be up to the task.

Thanks for clicking in, and please keep coming back, there are some good features coming soon! [Honest...]

  

My Meanest Practical Joke Ever (Yes, Ever!)

While I'm on the topic of my days as a summer employee at 7Up (if you missed it, you can scroll down to the previous posting, or take a hi-tech shortcut by simply clicking here ), I'll share with you the cruelest practical joke I ever played. 

And I've played many practical jokes in my day; hundreds, at least, if not thousands. 

This one was bad. 

Let's turn the clock back to the summer of 1982.  I was a college student driving a truck and doing whatever was needed at the local Jersey Shore 7Up distributorship. 

In those days, New Jersey lottery drawings were held only once a week, on Thursdays -- the big drawing anyway -- and it was televised at 8pm.  There was no internet or recorded phone line that you could use to get the winning numbers. 

One Thursday, I pulled my truck into the warehouse around the usual time, 5 pm.  

Tony, one of three forklift operators who worked from 4pm until midnight loading trucks for the next day's deliveries, told me that he and the other two forklift guys, Steve and Mike, had each chipped in $50 to buy tickets for that night's drawing.  

The jackpot was up to $11 million and, in those days, that was real money.  Today, I wouldn't bother crossing the street for $11 million, but that was real scratch in 1982. .

A stroke of inspiration hit me immediately. 

"Let me see one of your lottery tickets," I said to Tony.  "I'll write down the six numbers, and then I'll call back after 8 o'clock and say that I saw the drawing on TV.  I'll read back these numbers and you let Mike and Steve think that you guys won."

"Yeah, yeah, great idea," Tony said as he enthusiastically showed me one of the tickets.

Later that night, I called the warehouse from home.  I read the six numbers to Steve, saying that I had just gotten them off the TV.

I later found out that the three men had retreated into the company lunch room, which had a full-length plate glass door.  They spread the tickets out on a lunch table.  Steve was the one who first came across what he thought was the winner. 

"We won, we won!!" he started screaming as he bolted up from the table and rammed his hand into the plate glass door in a euphoric attempt to open it. 

Instead, he hit the glass too hard -- and at a bad angle -- and the entire door shattered, cutting his hand. Here's what I imagined it looked like.  First this:

Then this:

"Oh no, you broke the glass!" Tony later told me he said.

"Screw it, who cares?!" yelled Steve. "We'll buy a new door.  We'll buy a new warehouse.  We'll buy the company!" 

With that, he and Mike ran into the warehouse, unoccupied by humans at this hour, and began throwing 2-liter bottles of 7Up everywhere, the entire time cursing the company and yelling about what they were going to do with their share of the $11 million. 

Tony was petrified. 

He suddenly realized that his two colleagues would be furious with him when he broke the news that they had not won the $11 million.  He later told me that it took him about three or four minutes to work up the courage to finally tell them that it was all a joke. 

Whenever people tell me how cruel they think this practical joke was, I remind them that for three or four minutes I caused a couple of guys to feel really elated.  They probably experienced a more focused and intense happiness than many people ever feel in their lifetimes. 

This was not run-of-the-mill "I'm glad my kids got through college with a degree"-type happiness.  This was "I won the effing lottery!"-type EUPHORIA.  It doesn't come along very frequently. 

Am I rationalizing?  Probably. 

The next day, when I pulled my truck into the warehouse, Steve was the first to greet me.  His hand looked like this: 

   

Well, maybe not with that fake red blood stain, but close. 

These were three unhappy campers.

Despite the fact that Tony was originally in on the joke, and I couldn't have pulled it off  without his cooperation, he was now squarely on the sanctimonious "We're going to get you back," bandwagon.  In fact, I think he was driving it. 

For the rest of that summer I was constantly looking over my shoulder and around corners wherever I went.  This would've been my new work headgear had it been available to me:

But, luckily, nothing happened. 

I think the sting of the moment eventually wore off.  I just hope that none of those guys read blogs, not this one anyway.  After all, they felt really great for a few minutes....

Coming Soon:

- LG checks in from a road trip to Chicago later this week

- Our interview with Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino of MTV's The Jersey Shore

- Ben sits down, and mans up, to represent Illinois in the LG Report's 50-State Interview Series 

Selection 2010 - Jed Hill

Lessons From 7-Up

Earlier this week, I saw the obituary on the left in the Asbury Park Press.  Joe Martuscelli worked at the old 7-Up plant (long since gone) at the Jersey Shore during the four college summers when I was employed there as a "Utility Man." 

It doesn't sound glamorous, but I was in a union (the Teamsters; don't make me break your head) and made more than twice the minimum hourly wage.  I did whatever the company needed, from delivering tanks of soda syrup to bars, restaurants and Monmouth Park Race Track, to dropping off and setting up soda vending machines at locations all around the Shore.  There were other tasks too, but they were too complicated to explain to a lay audience. 

Joe retired from 7-Up in 1985, not long after my last summer there, with 37 years of service to the company under his belt.  He was a good and honest man who worked hard.

I remember my first week on the job, in June of 1981, when Joe gave me a piece of advice about Corporate America that rings as true today as it did when he first said it. 

As I lifted a heavy pallet of soda cans, Joe interrupted with, "Whoa, whoa, easy, use your legs, lift with your legs, not your back.  If you get hurt, 7-Up won't give a shit about you."

He was right, of course; Corporate America really doesn't have much of a heart.  A number of large international companies who I would later go on to work for reinforced the wisdom of Joe's advice.  His words have come to mind occasionally throughout my career, and then again when I saw his obit.

I could probably write an entire book about the lessons that I learned during four summers at 7-Up, but I'll only share one more here (hey, gotta keep the readers coming back...)  

Early on in my tenure, I observed a repeated behavior which I nicknamed "The 7-Up Rule."  Many of my friends are aware of, and adhere to, The 7-Up Rule rule to this day.

Whenever two guys were on the truck together and would stop for a lunch break -- usually at a fast food place or pizzeria -- one guy would pay for both, but he always waited until the other guy had ordered before announcing that the tab was his. 


This prevented the first guy from running up the bill with a huge order, knowing that someone else was footing the bill.  It's still a sound practice -- never announce that you're going to buy a meal until after your guest has ordered. 



Every time you follow this rule, somewhere, from above, Joe will be smiling down on you.

Selection 2010 - Joel Rush