Oh, No, Sprint Di'Int!

In the last two days I've spent six and a half hours on the telephone trying to get set up to use my new Blackberry with my new service provider, Sprint. Transferred from one person to another, one department to another, one heavily-accented nation to another.

Six and a half hours I could have spent working on urgent projects and earning some dough.

And I still don't have e-mail on my phone. You'd better make this up to me, Sprint.

I am cranky.

Dear Fellow Traverser of Chicago City Streets,

Yes, you certainly do own a fine and beautiful automobile. I believe it's a Bentuar, or a Jagley, if my broad knowledge of today's ridiculous luxury vehicles serves me well.

You do not, however, by extension or entitlement, own the Chicago city street on which you and I are currently both traveling.

More to the point, do you have any idea what a great experiential discrepancy there exists between you and me when you decide to honk (from your car) at me (on my bike) -- for reasons I still can't figure out?*

From the surround-sound, air-conditioned, privileged interior of your car, you are perhaps slightly annoyed by my presence, and clearly think nothing of laying all over your horn, and motoring blithely on your way.

From astride my old and rapidly rusting bicycle, burdened with heavy cargo (and no, I don't mean my ass), exposed to all elements both natural and unnatural, I am violently physically startled and almost knocked off my shaky seat by my instinctive physical reaction to the the abrupt and very jarring noise of your horn.

You go on, comfortable, safe, and protected by layers of steel. I go on, my heart pounding and my entire body shaking for several blocks.

All of this is my careful, detailed, and probably unnecessary way of saying what I finally yelled at you after regaining something resembling my composure after today's encounter: "F*CK OFF!"

Love,
Bella Rossa

*Seriously, what was that about? I was not in your way. There was no other traffic on the block. I was not impeding your travel in the least. I wasn't wearing a tank top, or a "Buck Fush" t-shirt, or anything else that might have prompted your jerkass reaction. What?!

I'm Quitting the Internet

Edit: I did something constructive with my annoyance. I called for more contributors...again. And I can't believe this, but I told my readers to choke down a bottle of "Chill The F*ck" out pills. But in a funny, loving way.

Ever feel like quitting the entire internet? There is some volatile crap blowing up on the Bastion today. 77 inflamed comments and counting. I wonder if any of these people who are so full of criticism and anger have any idea that I put hundreds of hours of work into this as a labor of love, and that I'm routinely bombed with more e-mail requests for reviews and listings than I could ever possibly keep up with. Infrequently (but sometimes) people are actually pissy with me about not being able to see and review their shows, which is unfathomable to me.

Guess what, rare but bothersome jerkasses? I'd love to a have a New York Times-sized staff, and be able to offer exhaustive coverage of every single show going on in Chicago, so that you don't feel like, by virtue of not being written about, you're being snubbed.

I keep looking for more writers, but even people who are willing are busy, and until that dream team of Pulitzer Prize winners is in place behind MacBooks in my swank high-rise offices, it's me and Kristy running the show, and I also have a job, and friends and family and a life, so piss off.

Also, we're a blog, which is an opinion-based medium. We can actually write about whatever we want. And P.S., anyone can start a blog. The medium is wild, wooly, lawless frontier. Please feel free to start your own, and write about the things you think should be written about.

Sigh. Sorry. So inappropriate. As a palate cleanser, a pit bull playing with baby chicks: