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Not that it matters to most of you, but goddamn is it hard to find a good slice of pizza in Chicago. At least it is if you’re coming from the East Coast and your version of pizza isn’t quite a six-inch-thick disc of flaky bread stuffed with sausage, mozzarella cheese, huge chunks of tomato, and enough marinara sauce to make your lips burn for days. Although, to be honest, Chicago’s signature deep dish isn’t even the problem — while vastly different from a slice of New York pizza, deep dish still does have its admirable qualities. It’s all of the pizza in between, your “normal” slices here in the Windy City, that are essentially useless for anything except illustrating just what exactly a mediocre-headed-towards-crappy slice of pizza tastes like.

Fortunately for me, and any of the other displaced New Yorkers living amongst Chicago’s millions of heart-attack-craving locals, Santullo’s in Wicker Park serves up some thin crust pizza so perfect you’d almost believe they’re importing water straight from the East River. However, that thought is less than appetizing, so let’s just imagine they were told the secret of the ‘za in a dream from an ill-mannered, overweight cupid with a Brooklyn accent and chest hair. Come to think of it, that’s not terribly appetizing either.

Regardless, it’s food so good it’ll make you shit your pants. Just one slice is enough to leave even a seasoned pizza fanatic in a near comatose state. And I know that doesn’t really sound like a recommendation but… it actually is.

Bonus points: they also sell water that comes in 100% plant-based, commercially compostable bottles! My inner smelly guy who wears slowly disintegrating plaid pants and knows how to play a handful of Grateful Dead songs on the acoustic guitar really appreciates that. It’s enough to make a jaded dude think the world might not actually be ending after all, and that’s worth way more than an incredible slice of pizza.

In light of yet another summer weekend flushed down the toilet, I thought some photos as dark as Friday and Saturday’s black out attempts would fit the bill.

Thought this little piece of wall art might help increase our apartment’s resale value.

In other news, the arachnid invasion of Chicago has really gained momentum in the past month. At first I kind of liked having the little guys around, but the thing is… now they’re not so little anymore…

Maturity flows like beer at most bars. Bodily fluids do too, apparently.

Speaking of “oh shit!” moments… act cool — it’s the fuzz.

Allow us a moment, please, while we clean the shit off the fan. We hit our quota earlier this week but, for lack of anything better on the fly, how about some slightly-less-typical-than-usual sunset photos? I know those always make me feel better, anyway.

Things got a bit weird for a second there yesterday. But we’re shakily segueing back into relative normalcy. What, you couldn’t tell?

A pretty random grouping of photos today — but that’s WACKY WEDNESDAY for you. The photos of the lilies are all obviously related, but the 12-pack from left field just kind of fit the color scheme going on, so what the hell. Flowers like a cold beer every now and then, too.

Actually, that’s not true at all, and I must strongly recommend that you not feed your plants alcohol. They don’t know how to handle their liquor, and it just never ends well.

NSFW due to flower naughty parts.

Every day that goes by that I don’t put up a photo of a sunset, a little piece of me shrivels up and dies. I try to restrain myself for the sake of not getting too redundant, but you know, sometimes I just can’t stop myself.

Whoa, that’s a one-quarter rainbow, all the way.

Also, could we have a moment of silence, please? Because I think I just killed — no, beat to death — that joke. Although, it’s not like I didn’t have help… like, from the entire Internet. Nonetheless, it’s important to not forget Hungrybear9562’s true message amidst all of the mockery. Nature is beautiful, and yes, sometimes so intense, and yes, sometimes you can’t even capture it on your camera. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s worth trying anyway.

Because the world sure is photogenic sometimes.

Busy week here at the Leg. My routine’s all infected with social obligations and it’s really fucking up this workaholic thing I’ve got going.

Speaking of legs, and infections I’ve got going…

The smell of the band aids could put a dog to sleep.

I’ll have something better tomorrow. Stay tuned, ghouls and gals.

Here are some selected visions from my recent travels.

This week is the first real break from the oppressive, ant-under-a-magnifying-glass type heat we’ve been enduring for the past month or so. But a couple weeks ago, when it was consistently above 90 degrees every day, in addition to wondering if that liquid that just dripped on you was condensation from a window air conditioner or spit lobbed by a bored, zit-faced high schooler, Chicago’s sweltering citizens also had to watch out for melting tar, dripping from elevated train track overpasses like asphalt stalactites.

Anyway, that was a long and confusing sentence, when really all I had to say is, “Doesn’t this drippy shit remind you of Robert Patrick’s character in Terminator 2?”

Clearly, we don’t have much time.

Speaking of creepy villains, aren’t these some fucking sinister-looking eyes? This shit is straight up scary, and not only because it’s horribly designed. Shouldn’t this make Chicago’s commuters feel safer, not like they’re being spied on by a shadowy mastermind? Maybe that just depends on how you use the train system. Personally, I’m going to have to find somewhere else to buy drugs.

Then, I discovered Nirvana in a 7-11. Not sure how this little bird feels about Combos, but I can tell you he likes Chipotle almost as much as white people from the suburbs!

Getting a decent shot of this badass motherfucker weaving his web was an exercise in patience. Fortunately, I was able to snag one right before my train pulled in. I had to get uncomfortably close (both in terms of neck strain and proximity to huge, horrifying spiders) to get the picture, and I wasn’t about to stick around to see if he liked white people from the suburbs as much as white people from the suburbs like Chipotle.

High Life might not be the best tasting beer — I’m not much for champagne — but it is one of the best looking, anyway. Analyzing beer package design is one of my hobbies. …I have others.

Drinking is one of the others. I know that might come as a surprise.

Pretty good advice. It’s just too bad that danger happens to be awesome. And it seems extra awesome when one is drinking, however the advice is also extra pertinent when one is drinking.

Speaking of package design, I thought this obscure candy from Italy had a delightful color scheme. Reportedly, the taste… not so delightful. But I can’t really remember for sure. You know… yeah. Drinking. I told you it could be dangerous.

These photos don’t really have anything in common, except that they’re all photos, of course. So, that, and they’re also all taken within the confines of my Chicago headquarters. I’m on a bit of a “staycation,” as they say… for the past couple years now.

I’ve got a backlog of pictures, so I’m trying to expedite the oldies. That’s right, I’ve got a Death Panel. It’s called The Deth Panel… it sounds cooler than it looks spelled out.

The outside world, you know, it’s a nice place to visit, but… I wouldn’t want to live there!

This outside world… maybe a different story. And only if I had internets, obv — don’t want you to think I’m going all “Mother Earth” on you. Her name is Gaia, anyway.

What? Didn’t any of you watch Captain Planet? Anyway… this outside world, without further ado…

Mount Baker - photo via sanjuansailing.com

No man is an island, true, but a man can own an island. Shoot for the world, land among the islands? One can only hope.

Here are some way oldies from back when Chicago’s team of brutes was in that big hockey game they have every year. I kind of like the shots, as far as super noisy, and even-more-than-super blurry drunkovision photos go, so here they are, months out of context. Whatever, welcome to digimodernism… who needs context when you can have status updates instead?

A cab ride has long been one of my favorite ways to end a drunken evening. And not just because it beats getting raped on the train. There’s also just something serene, almost soothing, about watching the lights of the city zip by as the hallucinogens you consumed earlier that night help you melt into the leather seat.

A proper night cap isn’t a bad way to send the day off, either, though. Especially when the drink is particularly, um, magical and can tell the future. Granted, it was an easy guess, but when I’m in a certain state of consciousness at 3 am, I’m also pretty easily impressed.

Years from now, on my death bed, my aged mother will limp over to me, shakily kneeling by my side, and confess that I was adopted from a royal family of sea monkeys. Or something. There’s just no other reason why a landlubber such as myself should love being in and around water so much. I mean, if you want to go the boring route, maybe I was just born prematurely and have been craving the security of a liquid environment for my entire life. And knowing stupid science, that’s probably closer to the reality of the situation.

That’s all for now, I’m afraid. Unfortunately I don’t have much to offer this morning. For the past two days, some kind of fiendish virus has taken up residency in my stomach, and refuses to let any food remain there for longer than approximately 5 minutes. In fact, I’m live blogging this from the toilet! See, don’t you want to stop reading already? But don’t worry about me, any day now my real family will come back and take me away to my underwater kingdom where things like diarrhea don’t exist.