I love looking out the window. In fact, I have been known to spend hours starring out my window, but those college years are long gone. Now I stare out the window of my 26th floor condominium in the heart of downtown Chicago. From my portal I have views of Lake Michigan, The Hancock Building, and Water Tower Place. If I go onto my balcony and lean over a little bit I can espy Navy Pier in one direction and Nordstroms in the other. Sort of the Yin and Yang in the competition for the consumer dollar.

Today, as I look out the window I know in advance that I am going to see something special. Usually when I see something special out of my window it is quite by accident like the time I saw the lady in the next building doing her housework topless. This, by the way, is an excellent idea for ladies everywhere. If you want your husband to help out with the house cleaning, just take off your top, give him a mop, and say, “Follow me.” He will blindly follow you to the kitchen where you can get him to start cleaning. But, alas, I veered off track.

The track I wish to return to is the one that will give me a clear shot of what I know will be an exciting view. Today is the day of the annual Chicago Air & Water show, and extravaganza held at the lakefront and featuring every kind of aircraft, stunt flying, and loop-de-loops. The climax of the show is the U.S. Navy Blue Angels who fly these Top Gun jets at amazing speeds just inches apart from each other. I’ve seen it many times and it always amazes me.

Another thing that amazes me is that if these pilots and these planes can do such amazing things, why can’t United put my luggage on the same flight I’m on? But I digress.

The Air & Water Show (90% air – 10% water), as wonderful as it is, only lasts for two days. The other 363 days I look out my window and see people living life. For instance, right now I a looking at a woman in a nearby building who is partially hanging out of her open window. She’s not looking to jump or anything like that, she’s just smoking a cigarette. Her left arm is holding the cigarette as far out of the window as a left arm permits. When she wants a puff, she moves the rest of her torso to meet the extended arm so as to ensure that no smoke enters the apartment. A cup of coffee occupies her right hand so she spent several minutes ducking in and out of the window alternating between tokes and tastes. As I watch this urban theater I must ask the question, what’s her deal? Does she live in a smoke-free unit? Does she like to smoke but hate the smell of it on her drapes? Did she just find out that the apartment she’s in belongs to some guy she picked up last night and he doesn’t allow smoking? What a puzzler.

As I peer down at the street, I notice that the double decker tour busses are packed with tourists, and God bless ‘em for stopping by and spending their money. On behalf of all Chicagoans, let me just say, “Please spend more!” Really, we need your contributions. The economy is so bad here that last week the mafia had to off three judges. (rim shot).

But I can worry about the economy another time. Right now, it’s time to look out the window.

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August is a great time if you’re a plotter. All of the vegetables we planted in May, cultivated in June, and watered every day in July because of the drought, are now ripening and ready to eat.

I’ve had zucchini on the table since June and right about know I would rather pluck out my eyelashes one by one than have to eat another zucchini. I’ve had fried zucchini, baked zucchini, grilled zucchini, and zucchini on a stick. I’ve grated it, pureed it, cubed it, sliced it, julienned it, and froze it. I give it away to the neighbors, the mailman, and total strangers I bump into on the street. I have zucchinis up the gourd and have even gone so far as to leave them on the doorsteps of unsuspecting neighbors on the next block. It’s like leaving a baby on the doorstep but with less crying.

The tomatoes are also peaking and I am dealing with a bumper crop of the red orbs. In addition to eating them at every meal, I have learned how to make tomato sauce, salsa, and pico de gallo. Now I’m developing techniques for making my own ketchup but I don’t know whether to make ketchup or catsup. It’s a condiment conundrum.

As bounteous as my garden is right now, I can’t hold a candle to the output coming from the plots of the man known only as The Pumpkin Guy. The Pumpkin Guy tends four contiguous plots for a total of 2400 square feet. All he plants on his plots is pumpkin seeds and from the entire acreage he will harvest only four pumpkins…four huge-ass pumpkins.

The Pumpkin Guy raises four ginormous pumpkins in excess of 1,000 pounds each every year. He starts out with lots of the gourds but slowly and meticulously he thins them out so that only four remain. Then he sells these behemoths to hotels and party planning companies who use them as eye-catching decorations during the fall season. After they are done being used as decorations, they are hollowed out for low income housing for the Peter-Peter family.

I asked TPG why he grew such big pumpkins and he said that he used to grow zucchini but a 1,000 pound pumpkin makes people smile while a 1,000 zucchini makes them run away and hide in fear that someone will leave it on their front porch.

The Pumpkin Guy’s gourds weigh several hundred pounds right about now but they are growing every day. I can’t wait until harvest time…just to see how they do it. I suspect a that heavy machinery is involved. Stay tuned.

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The assumed Republican candidate for president, Mitt Romney, is getting ready to name his vice presidential running mate and I think I’m the man for the job. Hopefully Mitt will read this blog and give me a call but I’m not holding my breath…and I promise not to hold it during my vice presidency.

I think I would be the perfect running mate for Mitt because I have all of the missing parts he is looking for. Mitt is very rich. I am not. Mitt is Mormon. I am not. Mitt looks likes the guy in the photo when you buy the picture frame. I do not. Mitt doesn’t drink. I do. I am a member of Sam’s Club. Mitt doesn’t know what that is. So I should appeal to all of the people who can’t relate to Mitt. On top of this, I promise not to say anything stupid like Joe Biden.

I will stay out of the way, and not try to get any headlines, and will attend all of the state funerals and look sad. If Mitt has a meeting he doesn’t want to go to, send me. If Mitt makes too many appointments for the same time; let me fill in. And if Mitt feels bad at the inaugural ball because he can’t dance, well just let VP Twinkle Toes take over.

I am the yin to Mitt’s yang…not that I have ever seen Mitt’s yang but you catch my drift. I am the gravy to his mashed potatoes and I bring the peanuts to Mitt’s ballgame.

And speaking of ball games, I think Mitt ought to really play up his baseball aspect. After all, he’s named after a piece of baseball equipment, a mitt. He should be playing up the baseball angle by using phrases like “hit a home run”, “go the distance”, and “who’s on first?”. I even think that Mitt should ditch the suit and start wearing a baseball uniform with #1 on the back. He could even give out free baseball mitts.

So Mitt, I encourage you to look at me as the choice for your V.P. I promise to get you the votes you may be missing, and most importantly, when we get elected, I promise to stay out of the way. Give me a call.

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Eddie Lubitsch is an alter ego friend of mine who bills himself as The Last Angry Man. From time to time he get’s upset at things and tends to spout off. The following is his take and does not necessarily reflect the views of management or this station.

Hello, I’m Eddie Lubitsch. I am a former lawyer and The Last Angry man. Today, with your permission, I would like to talk about the ruination of American morals. We are going to Hades in a Taiwan basket my friends and it isn’t pretty. America has become obsessed with sex and it is going to be the downfall of society just as it was for the Romans when Caligula started having relations with his relations. And this obsession with sex has made me curious, and when I say curious I do not mean bi-curious, as in that sexually confused monkey, Bi-curious George, but I mean curious as in I just don’t understand.

You can call me old fashioned if you like but I am a firm believer in one man one vote, and in one man one woman, but the current vacillations are beyond my depth of perception and if you don’t have depth perception you will never be able to play center field. So, let’s take a look at the field of players currently populating our sexually charged country.

For starters, you have your relations between one boy and one girl. This makes sense to me because all of the parts fit together nicely. Peg A goes into Slot B and nobody gets hurt. Of course, I have heard of people who try to put Peg A into opening C and that has got to hurt no matter what they tell you in prison.

But outside of that man-woman relationship, you have the ones involving mano a mano or woman-o a woman-o and I have to tell you that I just don’t get it. I admit that I do not understand the attraction of a man towards another man. Never have. Never will. But if that is what floats your boat then good for you. And while we are on the topic of the little man in the boat, I don’t quite get the female to female connection either, although it is much easier to look at pictures of them. But far be it from me to judge, so if you want to spend your life with somebody who uses the same public bathroom as you do, then that’s fine. You have made your decision so have at it.

The people that tend to bug me are the ones who can’t commit to a decision, otherwise known as your bi-sexuals. Sometimes they like men and sometimes they like women. Hey Sparky, haven’t you ever heard that you can’t have your cake and Edith too? What makes you think that you are so special that you can swing from both sides of the plate, play on both sides of the street, and diddle both sides of the biological master plan. Make a decision for crying out loud.

In closing, let me just say that we all need to get along and carry on in the way that suits us but as for me, I am going to stick to the format I know best…and I don’t need any embellishments. Why just the other day, as I was checking into a hotel, I told the person behind the desk, “I hope the porn channel in my room is disabled” to which they replied, “No you sick-o, it’s REGULAR porn.”

And it is constant confusion like this that makes me the Last Angry Man.

That’s all from me for now. Stay angry my friends. Lubitsch over and Lubitsch out.

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In case you haven’t noticed from the obvious signs like sweltering heat and the never ending musical rendition of “Turkey In The Straw” blaring from the truck of the ice cream man, we are in the middle of summer!

Some call these the dog days of summer but I prefer to think of them as the JoJo the Dog-Faced Boy days of summer. JoJo was a carnival oddity popular in the 1880’s who had a condition known as “hypertrichosis” which did, indeed, make him look like a dog. A spooky, ugly dog. But I digress.

When I was growing up, summer meant fairs, and fairs meant freaks. Over the years I attended quite a few fairs and in the carnival sideshow area I saw a lot of freaks.

I saw The Rubber Boy who blew up his stomach with a tire pump; The Human Pincushion who impaled his body with numerous pointed objects; and The Wild Woman of Borneo who started off as a regular bikini clad woman and then “transformed” before our eyes to become a wild, primal, bikini clad woman.

I’ve also seen animal oddities including the two headed goat, the calf with six legs, and the 3-eyed frog. I’m glad I got to experience all of these freaks of nature, because witnessing them did a lot to form my persona, especially my tendency to be gullible.

I’m glad I saw the freaks but you can’t see them any more. In many places, fairs have been replaced by “fests” and sideshow freaks have been replaced by a dunk tank with the mayor in it.

Both fairs and fests feature the same cuisine, dedicated to giving you a heart attack sooner than later. They both have funnel cakes, lemon shake-ups, and something-on-a-stick; but food is not the drawing card for me. I want to experience something different at a fair/fest but I don’t like the carnival rides. Most carnival rides involve disorienting motion which then leads to lunch expulsion. It is also disconcerting to know that they were assembled overnight by workers with more tattoos than teeth.

The only thing that draws me to a carnival is the freaks, and when you take them away, the carnival becomes a festival. Then the festival becomes a street fair, and the street fair will feature mimes and in the end, nobody wins.

In my opinion, if you want to see America make it to the next century in one piece, bring back the carnys, because nothing says freedom like a 500 pound hermaphrodite and a midget sword swallower. We owe it to our kids lest they never get to see another Lobster Boy.

This, of course, is just my opinion. What’s yours?

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