mistakes, i’ve made two - chicago reader · through the gold coast sandra took us on, an...

Clockwise from top left: wine guzzler and bad pasties at Crobar (September), dancer at Food Mart in Wicker Park (April), cheeringthe White Sox’ World Series win at Stop Smiling headquarters (October), Rotten Milk outside Big House in Lincoln Park (September)

10 CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 30, 2005 | SECTION ONE

Chicago Antisocial

By Liz Armstrong

A fter an entire day andnight of spiked hibiscustea and martinis with my

friend Hilary, I decided I shouldcall my boyfriend.

“Hey, are you OK?” he askedworriedly.

“Yeah,” I slurred. “Why?”“Some woman called me say-

ing she’s your mom. She said youand Hilary drank Lemon Dropsand the cops were there and shewas nervous. She told me tobring her $62. She keeps callingme. What’s going on?”

“Don’t give her a penny,” I said.The caller was Sandra the

Huntress, an excitable, leatherylegend in her own mind whomHilary and I had met in front ofa mansion on Astor Street whilestaking out a celebrity for a gos-sip magazine. A couple monthsago I wrote about the wild ridethrough the Gold Coast Sandratook us on, an adventure thatincluded drinks at the PumpRoom, ringing buzzers at ran-dom mansions in search ofJennifer Aniston (who, accordingto Sandra, “wants” her), andchecking out a condo sheclaimed to be buying (I had my

“Great, give it to me then,”she said.

“No, Sandra, I don’t know it.”“OK, I’m going to the Crystal

Palace at Madison and Pulaski.I’ll tell the door guy they’re com-ing and have a private room setup for them in the back.”

I couldn’t find a listing forsuch a place, so I didn’t go.Sandra continued to call Ringofor the next three days, givinghim addresses and times ofwhere we should meet her. Eachtime he gave her a differentexcuse why we couldn’t—wewere out of town, we had anoth-er appearance to make, thepress would be there and wedidn’t want to deal with it—making our lives sound infinite-ly more glamorous than theyreally are. (My actual late-nightplans when I’m not workingusually involve reruns of Dr.Phil. It’s sick, I know, but I really love him.)

After that it seemed Sandrathe Huntress was out of our livesfor good. Until October 28, theday my column came out, whenshe called Ringo again.

“Hi, hon,” she said, and

informed him that she was at amental hospital, a real one Iwon’t name here. “My lawyercan’t get here. Will you pleasecome visit with an attorney? Igotta get out of here.” She gavehim loose directions, the land-marks including the WhiteCastle where she was going tohave her first meal as soon as shewas released. “If you can’t get meout by tomorrow I’m going tobust out. I know how to do it—I’ve done it before.”

I was sitting next to him, lis-tening to their conversation.Feeling guilty for having encour-aged a bona fide crazy person’sparanoid delusions, I whisperedto Ringo to tell her we’d comevisit. She gave him two hospitalphone numbers where she couldbe reached—they both checkedout. But after he hung up we fig-ured out there was no way we’dmake it before visiting hourswere over. He called her back.

“I’m sorry,” he told Sandra. “Wecan’t make it in time.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’mhere with Paris. She’s reallytired. She’s been in restraints allday. Is Nicky here? If she is, I

don’t recognize her.”“No, Nicky’s with me,” he said

gently.“Oh, I didn’t think she was

here. But Paris definitely is.”“We’ll visit you tomorrow,” he

told her, and he meant it. But in the tenderness of the

moment, he forgot we were mov-ing the next day. We haven’theard from Sandra since.

Back in August, UR Chicagochanged its format from

newsprint tabloid to glossy-cover magazine. The “30 Under30” issue was the first in thenew style. This cheerfully ageistannual tradition presents peo-ple in their 20s and youngerwho are doing things that editorin chief Stacey Dugan and herstaff deem interesting andworthwhile—turns out I wasone of them, so I happily wentto the relaunch party at theRiver West club Reserve. But atthe door the bouncers werepulling some exclusive NewYork bullshit, letting in slick-headed dude after fake-tittiedchick coming out of fancy carswith tinted windows and driv-ers, despite a long line of peoplebehind the velvet rope, a few ofwhom were also highlighted inthe issue—I’m not namingnames because it’s embarrassingenough to be excluded from aparty in your honor withouthaving people reminisce aboutit months later.

After waiting outside for halfan hour I had to pull an embar-rassing “but I’m in the maga-zine!” move with the bouncersjust to get inside, where we’dbeen promised there would befree drinks and food. Surprise:there wasn’t.

“Why invite people you thinkare special if they won’t be ableto attend the party celebratingtheir participation in your pub-lication?” I later wrote toDugan in an e-mail. “I thinkchoosing a nasty, selective clublike Reserve did a great disserv-ice to your magazine.”

Dugan apologized and saidshe’d had a similar experiencethere. “I’d never been before,” shewrote, “although I’d heard prettygood things from others, includ-ing from yr column.”

It’s true: early this year Icalled Reserve “cozy,” “polished,”and “fun,” if “a little too slick.” Ifit’s not too late, I’d like to takethat back.

S taying out till the wee hoursseveral nights in a row every

week in search of fun, beauty,enlightenment, and drama ishard enough when you’re driv-ing the party train. Imaginehaving to tag along, convincinghalf-dressed drunks to pose forthe camera—oh, and this will befor publication, OK? AndreaBauer, this column’s officialphotographer, gives up most ofher weekend nights to take pic-tures like the ones you seeabove—some of her favoritesfrom this year. v

doubts, but with Sandra, as Isoon learned, one can never besure). She acted like we were herdaughters, dubbing Hilary“Paris” and me “Nicky,” and shekept telling us about her manylovers. It was all pretty hilariousand exhilarating—until Sandraled us to a hotel room where wewere all supposed to get it on.Then the night lost a bit of itscharm.

Before we managed to disen-tangle ourselves, I gave her myboyfriend’s number, saying itbelonged to my “bodyguard.” ButI kind of forgot to tell him this.

Sandra called Ringo the nextday. “I saw Paris and Nicky earli-er today,” she said, and instructedhim to bring us to an address onthe 100 block of East Erie at 8that night.

“They’re in an interview rightnow,” he lied. “They should bedone later. I’ll let them know.”

Sandra called him back at8:30. “I stuck my head out andlooked for the girls, but I didn’tsee them. What’s the number forthe Crystal Palace?”

He said he didn’t know, whichwas true.

AN

DRE

A B

AUER

Mistakes, I’ve Made TwoSandra the Huntress gets back in touch, Reserve loses a star

[email protected]

—JEFFREY BROWN

—ED GREENWOOD AND FAYE PAINE-LANE

ELIZ

ABE

TH M

. TA

MN

Y


—JOHN HANKIEWICZ

CHICAGO READER | DECEMBER 30, 2005 | SECTION ONE 13

—BERNIE MIREAULT


—ROB SYERS AND MARK FISCHER


—PLASTIC CRIMEWAVE


—JEREMY WHEELER AND MATT DELIGHT


—IVAN BRUNETTI


—MARK S. FISHER


—EMILY FLAKE —KEITH HERZIK

—DEAN HASPIEL —LILLE CARRE


—ONSMITH


—GRANT REYNOLDS

—PAUL HORNSCHEMEIER

mistakes, i’ve made two - chicago reader · through the gold coast sandra took us on, an...

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