The Erstwhile Fanatics: Fear and Loathing in Hockeytown

Back in the days when I was able to healthily flaunt the newfound wealth that I had from Stafford student loans, I decided that it would be a worthwhile endeavor to reward my best friends, my boon companions, my "bros", if you will, with a special Christmas present that would not only show them my appreciation for them, but also allow us to share a new experience, bonding with one another as we'd never had before. (Note: Still not gay.) It would have to be a special event that I gifted them with, something that would blow our collective sensory perceptions straight out of the water, a time that would cause untold rapture and would go down in legend as one of the greatest trips ever told.

This is not that trip. That trip would come later, involving an orca, a waitress in South Dakota, and chapstick. But that's a story for another time.

(Sidenote #1: In recent weeks, I've noted a trend where my blog echoes my mood of the given time, and reflects a certain self-loathing that's always been rather pronounced in my writing. While this is something I fully intend to embrace, I'm also all for the exploration of my past life, recording it in a time honored tribute (i.e. blogging) to preserve these macabre trips for posterity. What this means is several posts over the next few weeks that have more of an autobiographical feel to them, and fewer diversions into topics such as sports, politics, and the homeless.

With that being said, sports.)

The actual trip was four months in the planning. When working on a trip of such magnitude with such fickle people surrounding the entire enterprise, one must carefully plan how these events go down. My associate and I spent the better part of October scouring the internet for the best possible solution as to how to spend our holiday time and money. Finally, the solution was arrived upon, and announced to the friends: we would be attending a hockey game in February as part of a Christmas present. You're welcome, earth.

The cast of characters included myself, my associate (traveling along separately with his own crew of rag-tag outcasts and vagabonds), the Ginger (whom we may recall from prior tales and studies), the Professor (whom has graciously accepted once again to appear in these chronicles as "The Professor") and the remaining member of our team, a ne'er-do-well so nefarious and twisted, so eccentric and fanatic, that no true name can do him justice. For the sake of anonymity, to protect the innocents, and out of our own perverted self-interest and hyperbole, he shall be referred to here as "The Hood."

(Sidenote #2: All of these characters will play a part in future chronicles to come. Remember them. Study them. Know their tendencies. It just may save your life some day.)

The game, as mentioned wouldn't be until February for technical reasons. That technical reason being that we would be seeing a professional hockey contest between the Detroit Red Wings and the Colorado Avalanche at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit. (Or "the Joe" if you're so inclined.) The schedule listed February 17th, so given that I bought the tickets in October for a December Christmas present, there was ample time to prepare for the event.

Or so we thought.

The ensuing trip to Detroit was harmless enough. A long stretch of corrugated freeway, rumpled and pulverized from years of long, cold, and harsh Ohio Winters (Note the Inclusion of the Oxford Comma), the road is to your car's tires what that damn helicopter was to John Landis in The Twilight Zone movie. Destroyed, just like Vic Morrow and those two Vietnamese boys. They will soon be scraps of rubber, again, much like Vic Morrow.

Braving the roads, we arrived in Detroit, that dessicated, burned out hulk of a city where it is possible to watch the American Dream sputter and gasp as it is exhumed upon an automated assembly line towards technological oblivion. For the people of Detroit, it almost goes without saying that times are tough, but that there is hope for the future. One homeless man eulogizes a deceased firefighter, who bravely rushed into a building that should have been condemned years ago to save a child. The building's burned out carcass stood for years after he perished, an ode to the city's inability to give up and die, or to allow itself to be reseeded for new growth.

But enough of that. We were here for hockey.

Pulling into the garage, it was established that The Hood was a simple boy, reared in the suburbs, far from the violent city life. Consequently, the established idea that there would be buildings larger than he had ever seen before was something that escaped him.

"I'll tell you that the building immediately outside," began the Professor, "Could hold ten of the Administration Buildings on campus."

"Well that's just not true..." replied The Hood, which turned into open mouthed awe as the visual spectacle of the outside buildings confirmed the Professor's initial assessment. We were indeed in a new, harsh world, strange and corrupt of intentions.

Given that we had hours before the game even began, thanks to a paranoid Fear of arriving late, or worse, in city traffic, we looked about for something to do. The Professor, being a native of the world, recommended to us an establishment called the Post Bar, which was apparently a staple tradition of him and his family members. Or something like that. To me, it just appeared as another dive bar buried beneath a parking garage.

Entering, the first adult beverages of the day were consumed. A couple of Miller High Life's goes a long way towards establishing character and content within a bar; it signifies that you are a man of little taste, but a taste for the macabre. It shows that while you may be reduced to spending on cheap, mass-produced beer-flavored swill, you at least have more sense about you than to pound away at Bud Light after Bud Light. (An inevitability that hung over our crowd like the plague, given the lack of variety to your typical stadium fare.)

While at the Post Bar, we divvied up our uniforms for the day, an erstwhile (TM) set of hockey jerseys spanning various tastes and interests. The Professor wore his native Red Wings colors with pride, while the Ginger wore his hometown Avalanche with something akin to pride. The Hood wore a local hockey jersey that escapes my mind at the moment due to its obvious inequity compared with the prior two (Or it might be something his father wore, the ex-professional hockey player and bruiser of a man. Do not engage the Hood's father in a fight, for vengeance will be swift, and the payment will be your teeth. Trust me on this.) My jersey, given that I am aware that hockey is played on skates with sticks, was the tribute to an independent group called Moxy Fruvis. (Perhaps you've heard of them?) The latter jersey, a point of pride for me in the choosing, would draw some of the strangest looks from anybody in the stadium that day, and might have served as the best conversation starter in the world had we not been surrounded by a horde of angry, bloodthirsty, capricious hockey fans.

But we're getting there.

Leaving the Post Bar, we trekked into the stadium, where the first order of business was establishing our seats. It is true that when purchasing the tickets, I had looked towards the least expensive choices. It is also true that the correlation between price and distance from the arena may or may not have placed us outside of the arena itself. We'll leave that up for debate.

"At least we've got a good survey of the action," the Ginger said, peering down and trying to contain the nosebleed started by high altitude.

"That's true," I replied, also holding my nose. "We won't miss anything, except names. And who knows who these guys are anyways?"

"Well, I do," replied The Professor, "There's Lindstrom, Zetterberg, Hossa..." as he continued, we made our way back down. There was serious eating to be done.

None of this group could ever be classified as small. This is not to say that we're fat, overweight behemoths. We're simply large men, and that builds large appetites. For food, beer, etc. When I'm the smallest of the group, there's something to be said for what we need and can consume. And the ingested food of this trip would be legendary, in no small terms.

Among the first things we picked up at the concessions stand downstairs were (per person): two giant bratwursts, individual nachos, personal pizzas (with sausage and pepperoni), peanuts, and two more stadium sized beers apiece. These joined the Miller High Life's already consumed at the Post Bar in a state of gastrointestinal bliss and nourishment.

(Let it be said here that while ticket prices are already somewhat silly in nature, given their prices, the true gouging comes from stadium food. Some parks make absurd amounts of money just by feeding you. For example, a six dollar bratwurst contains a limp, boiled bratwurst wrapped in a soggy white bread bun. For the same price, one could purchase a pack of five of the same bratwurst and a cheap pack of buns. Right there, you've got five that would normally cost you $30 in the stadium. Do we see how the stadium has just made $24 off of the last two and a half customers? Now, with that being said, I am willing to embrace these prices, because like many other American sports fans, there are just essential rituals of every contest that must be
 observed. To fail to do so is a lack of adherence to the hegemony of sport. And one cannot violate the hegemony. That's how the bastards get you.)

While everyone wrangled their way back to their seats, my associate pulled me aside into one of the curtained tunnels leading back into the arena. I watched my companions as they ascended the stairs, making a mental note to rejoin them.

"What have you found?" I asked, clutching my personal tray with intense anticipation.

"The whole team is running bug-shit beneath the stands," he confided, clutching what looked to be a confiscated hockey stick. "They've been doped up on some strong shit, my friend. Lindstrom is handing out packets of Torodol himself. Can't miss it."

"We knew that, man, we knew that" I replied. Anyone crazy enough to play in a professional sport such as hockey must constantly be battling the side effects. "What have you found out?"

Without speaking, he withdrew a bottle. Toradol.

(A popular choice of professional athletes, Toradol is one of the many drugs ingested by Brian Urlacher, Tony Romo, Ronde Barber, and many more to use as a painkiller. Non-addictive, and legal in the U.S., side effects may include gastrointestinal bleeding, as shown in a multitude of studies. Not shocking, when you get down to the basics.)

"Great Scott, man" I replied, grabbing the bottle. It looked to be about half full.

"I just did a hit," he replied, "And man, I'm floating on air at the moment."

"Are you?" I asked, suspicious. Pulling the stopper, I tried it myself. Goes down smooth enough, I thought. Soon enough though, a numbness followed by intense euphoria overtook me. The Fear settled in quickly enough, with the driving sensation that there were evil demons about, and that Hockey was the only solution.

"Good work," I replied. "Now get to work, there's business to be done here." With that, he crept away into the bowels of the stadium, for reasons I am not indulged in enough to comment upon here.

Returning to my friends, the game began. Here is my main problem with hockey, as with soccer, basketball, etc. There are, to be sure, highlight moments. There are, to be sure, moments of suspense, and games with great import have that hanging over them. That's why I love the NBA playoffs and Stanley Cup finals. The outcome feels more important.

For a game in February where all that matters is a theoretical dip in the standings, I am FAR less likely to give a rat's ass about watching overpaid millionaires skate back and forth for three hours. The hits are fun, goals are cool, etc. A half hour's worth of fun. However, for the remaining 2:30, I am disinterested. Granted, I can't skate, but I'm sure I could learn. How does that warrant your being paid millions?

(Yes, this carries over to baseball as well, my pride and joy.)

To be fair, the game did have many exciting moments, ending in a 6-5 shootout after overtime proved futile. The Avalanche and Red Wings played admirably, but this is not about them. This is about us.

During the first intermission, The Ginger and I coasted down towards the bathroom. Still floating on a Toradol high, we found a long line to piss into a trough, something that 95% of men would have a problem with in a general public restroom, but in a hockey arena pumped full of testosterone, no one bats an eye at this. While standing in line, some far more drunken Red Wings fans than us stumbled out of the room. One of them, a seedy looking shortie with an old tattered jersey, caught sight of the Ginger's Av's jersey, and proceeded to glare him down with intense vitriol in his eyes. After a few minutes of this, the man yelled out, "Hey, John Denver's a fag!" before fleeing with his companions back into the arena.

I sometimes feel that fanaticism is a lost art, especially when you're so used to being on top.

Returning to our seats, I caught sight of the giant octopus hanging over the stadium, and promptly retreated further into the state of the Fear. Hockey is full of its own quirky traditions, including its own peculiar sense of fashion. The octopus is a particularly Detroit ritual, dealing with a past incident where two brothers flung a live octopus onto the ice following a Red Wings win or something (I'm not sure, and didn't care to research this point, as the occasion still scars my mind). That being said, the presence of a giant, eight-legged freak floating high above the arena as a strange form of idolatry terrifies a man in the grip of a Toradol binge. Fleeing the stands temporarily, I consoled myself with more bratwurst and beer to soothe my poor mind. There should be license requirements and strict notice posted if you're going to be assaulted by a blow up cephalopod during a sporting event.

(Sidenote #3: Did you know that the world 'cephalopod' is not listed in Blogger.com's spell check? I feel this is a grave oversight, considering the nature of this post.)

The final incident of note during the game itself was that I may or may not have punched a five year old girl. I'm strongly disinclined to believe this not because I don't remember it, but that as an erstwhile (TM) hockey fanatic, I would not feel strong enough to punch said girl unless she had it coming to her, or was in truth a human sized octopus. In which case, the incident would be more widespread than just poor me, and it would not make for such a specific story. Therefore, I believe it to be false. But again, believe what you will.

Fleeing the arena following the shoot-out, we realized that the four of us were in no condition to drive. What's more, strange noises began erupting from beneath the stadium, and I became conscious that my associate was still loose. Fearing the consequences of being caught on camera with a deranged lunatic, we moved towards Detroit's Greektown, a narrow collection of businesses designed to cater towards those with money to spend. (The 1% of Detroit if you will). Along this way, we spotted a new casino, perched at the end of the street, and attached to one of the swankier hotels of the region.

A quick survey of our group revealed that we had never been to a casino. (Save the Ginger, I believe, who did his time in Vegas, doing something that has never been fully specified for these chronicles.) Moving into the lobby, we broke out our remaining cash (something to the equivalent of ten dollars and change) and moved towards our locations of interest.

Let it be said that I am a terrible gambler. I cannot play poker to save my life because I am incapable of hiding my expression at a deck of cards. In real life, I can disguise my intentions with the best of them. In the pit, where every single tic is revealing, I am doomed. Therefore, we shied away from the card tables, trying our luck with a series of automated machines.

The Hood soon spotted a "Star Wars" themed slot machine. Realizing that these things are crack for those willing to dole out money to spend, I remained leery of the strange box with a touch screen and wookies to boot. However, the Hood remained.

Where he soon turned a profit. A sizable profit that isn't fit to disclose here, but suffice to say, we were able to pay for our food later that night, and our gas too.

May the force be with us, indeed.

Freeing ourselves from the casino, it felt as though we had just embarked upon a new passage of manhood. We had attended a sporting event as adults, we had just gambled with the best of them (well, in the same room as them), and now we were once again loose in the city. And, despite our best of efforts at the stadium to stuff ourselves to the brink of oblivion, we were hungry once again.

Taking in a deep dish pizza place, we were tormented by vision on television of a giant man whose name may or may not rhyme with Crack, Yack, Gak, and Stack, dancing while wearing a horrifying white mask with a back troupe of dancers, all emblazoned with the same mask. Unfortunately, this dance by The Stack Attack had all the subtlety of an Aerosmith concert. (You know, the band that got away with rhyming the words 'Tallahassee' with 'sassafrassie'.) Consequently, giants with white masks rhythmically flailing away on giant flat screen televisions while still in the throes of the Fear sets about an intense Loathing of your surroundings, of the waiter carrying your deep dish pizza, of the gastrointestinal problems you are developing due to an abundance of beer, Toradol, and cheap stadium food packed with sodium.

But I digress.

Leaving, we made it back to the car in one piece, and tore out of Detroit as fast as my newly shredded tires would carry us. In my haze in the back, I collapsed, finally, my body in an intense state of subliminal exhaustion. As we drove back south towards the Border, stars above us, and a tranquil state of being settling over the car, it occurred to me that we had overcome all of our perils, but that even five hours in Hockeytown, with the craziest of the crazies, was not what it set out to be. Reputations are one thing to be earned, but the actuality is far more tame than the pretense. In practice, there is a fear and pacification that is set out over such an event, there are Rules that must be followed, and while they may be Broken, it is for the Fear that we adhere to these codes. There is no Breaking of them when what you are following is actually intended by the Rules themselves.

Case in point, consider the octopus.

The other thing I realized, half sleeping, was that my associate still remained in Detroit, doing god knows what.

One can only hope that the consequences would not unleash the firestorm to come. Unfortunately, we were wrong. (To be continued.....)

(Postscript #1: Work on the novel continues. At the moment, we have breached the 40,000 word mark and have concluded Part 2 of 5. The last two days have been spent taking a break from it, as I am a little worded out at the moment. As tomorrow is a laundry day, work will resume at full throttle, and on pace for a finish to the first draft within the coming Months. River of Doubt is in progress as well, and I look to begin true work with The Professor as early as next week.)

(Postscript #2: I am looking for sponsorship to attend any Republican primary rallies in the coming weeks to see how the other half lives, works, and operates. I make no efforts to hide my liberal leanings, but in the nature of the work I've been progressing on, I am curious as to how this rat-trap operation will be functioning in months to come.)

(Postscript #3: I really do enjoy hockey more than this particular article gives me credit for. However, as I've stated, I enjoy it more when the stakes are higher. That goes for all sports in general, but particularly for something like this. Not to say I don't enjoy it, but...ah, there I go, speaking in a round-about way again. (Bonus for those who guess the reference.))

Erstwhile on State and Lake; Live with the First Signs of Winter

  
³¹ A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. ³² So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. ³³ But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. ³⁴ He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. - Luke 10: 31-34

I enjoy keeping my window in my studio apartment open at all times, regardless of the time of year. The first is that I can hear the waves lapping against the shores of Lake Michigan. Through some miracle of miracles, my apartment is one building removed from the lake shore, and so the beach is less than two minutes walking from my front doorstep. This is fantastic because I have longed to be near a soothing sound of nature ever since I moved into the city. When you come from the country, the sudden shift in noise from bird calls and wind blowing through trees changes to garbage trucks, the wind against your building, and people yelling at each other in the street. To hear the waves, suggestive of a large body of water not 100 feet away from me, is particularly soothing to my wayward heart.

The second reason is that I grew up in a cooler house. While my ancestral home does have a furnace that runs from November until March, it only effectively heats the downstairs rooms, and even then is set low because of the skyrocketing cost of propane fuel. With this in mind, turning the furnace up is out of the question. The resulting temperature in my room that I slept in on and off for twenty four years is a cool 55 degrees. (Or possibly 35, one never can be sure. I did wake up one Christmas morning to sub-zero temperatures outside and the string of drool that trailed down my cheek frosty to the touch. One thinks that a couple of dollars would be worth not having to wonder how my nose suffered an extreme case of frostbite overnight.) Over the years, one gets used to these sorts of things, and not only learns to put up with them, but also to embrace them. Consequently, I love piling my bed high with blankets, wearing sweatshirts and warm socks around the house, and making coffee just for the sake of absorbing the wayward heat transference. Keeping the window open in my apartment allows for a more chilled environment that makes me feel infinitely more at home than the sub-tropical settings of my radiator.

Which brings me to reason #3, my radiator(s). Wonderful marvels of engineering, they somehow have the ability to change my apartment from a vintage studio in need of some sort of remodeling with a marvelous view of Lake Michigan into a balmy South Beach sauna complete with Mexican attendant, palm trees, and an odd backdrop for South Beach because it seems to be a view of Lake Michigan on the North Side. Weird.

But I digress.

Winter has arrived in Chicago, the time when all the bar rats creep back into their holes, clamoring for booze and companionship (or so I imagine anyways). The first months of winter are among my favorites of the year, mostly because it signals a time of definite change in the air. Snow is falling, the year is turning over, and a fresh start is all but demanded of the world at large. Unfortunately, someone forgot to turn on winter this year until about mid-way through January.

When I first moved out here, I was delayed in arrival until December. Hearing ominous portents of a coming snow-pocalypse of epic proportions, rivaling the events of last winter here, I dreaded the oncoming piles of snow I would have to slog through while figuring out this new land of Chicago. This was made worse when I realized that one of the two restaurant jobs I had acquired would require a thirty minute walk in both directions. These are hard times for many of us, and I spent much of the last year holding down two to three jobs just to either a) make enough money to cover my piles of student loans or b) save money to move to a new location to try and find a better job/opportunities in theatre. At the moment, I'm still holding two jobs, but my obligations have changed. I no longer have to walk one hour to and from my job through a sketchy neighborhood, nor do I have to work double shifts at restaurants over an hour apart from each other. Instead, I can essentially mold my schedule to fit my needs for the week. (Because of this, my creative output has once again begun to pour, on a much more regular basis. More on that later.)

I'm one of the fortunate ones.

I was walking around downtown the other day, heading towards my bus stop, when I passed by another one of those tourists who love to take pictures of the Chicago skyline, most frequently while standing in the middle of the sidewalk. This little Asian man, holding an expensive camera, was very focused on photographing the Macy's building/Marshall Fields on State and Randolph. So much so that he failed to notice the grizzled, elderly homeless man approaching him from the side. With little hesitation, and most bizarrely, the homeless man leaned in close to the tourist's ear and began belting "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" as loud as he could, doing his best Mick Jagger while doing so.

(Why was this bizarre? It seems like something that one might see in the subway stop at any given time of day? What made this different? Well, let me tell you: he decided to start halfway through the song. Halfway through the chorus. To try and convey how strange this is, just start singing "Ode to Joy" halfway through the song, with no rhyme or reason given to measures or musical placement. It's quite strange, and somewhat unsettling.)

While riding the bus back home, still frightened by the homeless Mick Jagger and in need of some sort of sustenance to stave off the encroaching Fear setting upon me, I was displeased to note an extended delay at the Michigan and Deleware stop. Looking towards the front of the bus, I could see the delay was another homeless lady boarding the handicapped seats. What's more, she had to wait to clear an additional seat on the bus, not for a pet or a companion, but for a single potted orchid that she set down gingerly, patting it on the leaves as she did so.

To this date, that is one of the more heart-breaking affectionate moments that I have witnessed in the city, to see that much compassion for something that would be so simple to the rest of us, yet so dear and essential to the life of another person.

The one thing that I have noticed either from traveling in the city or from just living in it is that to the majority of crowds, homeless people are regarded as a plague and a nuisance. Discarded, spat upon, believed to be diseased alcoholics out of their tiny little minds, they are kicked, bullied, and openly shunned to their faces. Sure, there are those who do what they can to help them, through the offering of cigarettes, change, or even a bus ride from time to time. I helped out a man the other day with a bus ride, after I found myself unable to provide any change. (The digital revolution would be the type of event that truly hurts the homeless, if only because nobody carries cash anymore.) Most of the time, they are simply ignored or cast out.

Society has always had its begging class, its poor and destitute. The very nature of the American Dream Machine welcomes the poor and downtrodden, (or so says a particularly emerald bust sitting on a rock in the ocean nearby a certain large city) allowing them to make their profit and fortunes in this land of opportunity. However, this is an impossibility for everyone to achieve, if only because in capitalism there are winners and losers. We are condition from childhood to believe that there is a place and task for everyone and all participants will be rewarded, but upon graduation, we enter the hyper-competitive job market, pushing and fighting for every dollar that we can get. For the weak, the poor, the diseased, there is an uphill struggle. For some, the struggle is too much. For others, circumstance and poor decisions lead to becoming the lowest of the low, the homeless.

Go and ask your local congressman the last time that they talked to a homeless person about their state. When Occupy protestors are told to go get a job, how much do they mean the young children of middle class yuppies and how much are they yelling at the people for whom welfare is the only option? How is a schizophrenic man supposed to hold down a position as even a fry cook at McDonald's?

(The apparent fear of the homeless class is widespread, and the belief among many in power is that they are undeserving of sympathy, pity, or the chance to survive. Welfare is regarded with racist beliefs that the people who use it are lazy. That's like saying that rich people exploit the tax code to pay fewer taxes. Both have cases that merit the truth of those statements, but it can hardly be said to be true of everybody. What can be noted is that oftentimes the people who want to break welfare because of they dislike providing services to people for free have their own skeletons in their closets and are hardly free of sin themselves.)

What's worse to me is that this is what I call an "accepted state of being", an unwritten social contract that we all just agree with. We all consent to ignore the homeless people sitting in the streets, because we have places to be. We don't offer change to the pro-offered cup, taught as young children not to look them in the eye because that will not draw them towards you like parasitic insects. Let them feed upon the nectar of the sympathetic.

Sure, there are plenty who help out, who volunteer at food pantries, who donate to charities, who spend time in soup kitchens serving the destitute. There are plenty of people who do drop change into the homeless person's cup. But how often do we see that?

Let's say that 1% of the people you run into on a given day are the ones who donate towards the homeless person in the street. The rest of us, let's say the 99% of us, avoid this, because we don't want to support a drug habit, because we know they'll just spend it on booze, because we're late for work, or a meeting, or a thousand other different things that cause us to keep going on with our lives, ignorant of the lesser people, because they are just that: lesser. I realize that many people don't help one person because that leads to a tidal wave of guilt because we are not able to help everybody. I think that's fair, but I also think that it is bullshit not to be able to help one person because then we'd have to help everybody. In terms of dollars, that makes sense. In terms of absolute morality, it is a sin. Morality is relative in the case of the homeless.

I say that I like having the cold in my house, which I do. I am grateful that it's a cold I can control, and not an ever present cold that comes from having to sleep under the train tracks, or aboard the El train late at night, or in any number of dirty back alleys within the city. I am grateful for where I come from. And like most of the people that I have the pleasure of knowing, (No sarcasm intended, I enjoy the people in my life, and they are all good people, I assure you), I generally take it for granted that I am not a "bum in the street." This is a lesson that we are all forced to confront often, as I did the other evening.

Taking the train home after working a double shift downtown, I was tired and exhausted. Reading my book of choice on the train, I braced myself for a long ride back to the Jarvis stop, a good 40 to 45 minute ride. Sitting in a sparsely populated train car, I kept to myself, much as the 10 or 12 other people were doing. Toward the front of the car, I heard a noise of a door being opened. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder to see what it was. Looking back, I saw that it was a thin, bearded man wearing a ragged moth-eaten sweater, obviously homeless, unshaven, and looking as skeletal as the pictures of Jewish survivors of concentration camps in the 1940's. I shifted over in my seat, trying to not draw attention to myself. Casually glancing around the car, I saw everybody on the train in front of me do the exact same thing. (I can only imagine the people behind me doing that as well. Universal reactions are contagious when part of an assumed social contract.)

The homeless man proceeded to go to each person in the car and ask by if, "by the Grace of God, you could spare a man anything? Anything at all?" I remember his exact words clearly without having to record them in my journal at the time, and I remember his ragged voice, held together with what seemed like Scotch tape and rusty nails. Proceeding down the car, he repeated his call: "By the Grace of God, could you spare a man anything?"

No one gave anything. There were a few responses of "I don't have anything," but never a "I'm so sorry" or a "Let me check," just "I don't have anything," stated with the implications of "Get the hell away from me, you beggar." I am ashamed to admit I was one of those, because I had things to do, more important things to occupy my time. Having acquired nothing, the man kept moving from person to person, never breaking from his speech, until he had reached the end of the car. Empty handed, he proceeded further on up the train and out of my sight.

When the train reached my stop, many people got up to leave the train car as well. As we got out, my immediate attention was drawn to a woman standing in the heat bunker on the train stop. Next to her was a shopping cart filled with blankets, bags, and assorted newspapers. She was so bundled in scarves and clothes that it was hard to determine there was a person under there. It was doubly hard to identify her because she was leaning over, one hand braced against the wall of the bunker for support, retching bile and greasy yellow vomit onto the station. All I could hear were dry heaves and sobs from within.

Yet again, no one offered any assistance, instead rushing downstairs. Again, I joined the fray, unwilling to offer my assistance in her time of need.

Reaching the bottom of the station, I overheard two guards talking about the woman on the track upstairs, debating what to do with her. Instead of offering to help, to ask if she would be alright, I pushed through the turnstile, not looking at anyone, and rushed out the door, just the same as everyone else who had just seen her was doing on that night. Racing home, I unlocked the door of my apartment, threw off my warm Kenneth Cole jacket, slipped on warm pajamas, powered up my internet-accessible laptop, and looked at my work schedule online before collapsing on my new full-sized mattress with clean sheets, feeling wretched and fighting back tears of self-loathing. It might have been my worst night in Chicago by far, because I realized exactly who I am.

I am the real 99%.

(Postscript #1: Again, a shorter entry and a deviation from the humor of the last couple. I like to shake things up from time to time, and this is an issue that's been weighing upon my mind a great deal as of late. I realize that there's only so much that any one person can do, and that yes, we cannot help every person we see. If I gave a dollar to every homeless person I passed in a given day, or everyone who needed it, I would soon be out of money myself. That being said, I find it appalling that people who have not found success/monetary gains/etc in society are shunned as almost third class citizens by everyone around them. To me, there's no justification in that. As Doctor Seuss wrote, "a person's a person, no matter how small.")

(Postscript #2: I promised that I would include writing updates from my other projects, and those are a much more optimistic topic to write about, so here goes. The fantasy novel that I've been outlining is underway! I am currently five chapters in, four complete, for a word count of over 17,000 words. For a book that's going to end up around 115,000 to 120,000 words, I feel that's a decent start. River of Doubt is also progressing, as the research and beginning of the outline has commenced. My writing partner and I are in agreement on what story we're telling, and are both greatly enthused for the project. Look for the first scenes to be written for that in March, and for the rough draft of my book to be completed around the same time.) 

An Erstwhile New Year Falls: Fear and Loathing on Clark and Division

 It was somewhere around the Clark/Division stop on the Red Line that I first realized that the New Year was about to become a reality; that the end of this godforsaken bastard of a year was about to come to a grinding, writhing conclusion at nearly every bar and nightclub around the nation, let alone the world. The birth of the new year would be a water birth, covered in all the vices and liquors of a fouled world polluted with greed, envy, and a sense of terror at forthcoming doom.

This would be 2012, the end of the world as the Mayans predicted it. The Mayans were so certain of this inevitable apocalypse that they themselves ended it early, choosing to be invaded by conquering forces from far off nations that they couldn't even begin to conceive of and letting themselves be washed off of their corner of the map like blood in the streets, leaving only a series of conspicuously modern-looking ruins in convenient tourist trap locations throughout that region of festering boils called Latin America. Never mind that we failed to predict their own demise, we'll let those ignorant bastards have it. When the end comes, all will be made right again. Just you wait and see.

But enough of our imminent demise. First, the drinking.

It's a New Years tradition amongst my more steadfast friends from college that we gather each year in Chicago and tear up the town (as best as a couple of relatively loose-minded Midwestern college grads with liberal arts degrees are able to, which you'll see explained shortly) like it's never seen before (except for the 100,000 other Midwestern college grads with similar ideas, and in some cases, more money; again, you'll see that shortly). Currently, we are in the third year of this tradition happening successfully, although the number of participants in question varies from year to year, as well as the participants themselves. It's sort of our way of staying in touch with each other, while still enjoying our capacity to life, liberty, and the pursuit of overpriced alcohol. In terms of what we actually accomplish each year, we're actually a rather tame group, further burdened by the fact that most of us just don't do things like this anymore. Consequently, our stamina ranges so far apart from each other that our nights are marked by a complete passing out of everyone at the end of the evening.

In short, the night ahead, the first of 2012, was marked by a relatively early conclusion (for those of our age group, mind you. It would still be considered fashionably late by those of another generation, say, our parents for example).

The preceding night (the 30th, for those keeping score at home) involved an evening out at a nearby club as a sort of testing of the waters. We would be going out drinking, it was best to observe what this was all about. No sense in rushing these things off half cocked. Gathering at our friend's house (who for the purpose of anonymity of the blog shall be referred to as The Professor), there was little of what is called pre-gaming involved, for we are but poor starving artists who have little money to share. What beer there was to be had was not of the sort involved for such events. No, such pre-gaming would normally involve the "getting drunk as quick as possible in order to forget feelings and where we put our extremities in the night-time" beers, of which most of us have sworn off. (Insert ad here for Nati Light, a marvelous combination of flavor and taste, in that it has the flavor of piss water and no social taste at all. In short, perfect for frat parties.) No, pre-gaming with the young professional crowd (or yuppies as the term goes) involves the quafting of Sam Adams Seasonal Lagers, purchased in variety packs so as to add spice to our lives. Spice in bottle form.

En route to the club, hereby titled "The Holiday Club", we did pause to offer one of our strawberry cigarillos to a homeless man perched on an apartment building's front step. Surely such a gracious act would show that we are kind people, and our karma would reflect upon us for the coming days. Our benefactee did in fact enjoy the cigarillo, and offered his thanks. ("Strawberry! Shoot, I'm gettin' dinner tonight!") Satisfied with our offering, we proceeded to the club.

As clubs go, this one was distinct for lacking any distinctive characteristics at all. It looked like nearly every single dive dance hall that I've ever been into. The bars were bland and lacking in character, the pool table was isolated and surrounded by the same four guys in polo shirts I've seen in a hundred bars around the country, and the dance floor was appropriately tiny with a massive projector to show music videos that you've seen 100 times over. Even the beer special was Pabst.

In short, just perfect for our needs.

Your average Midwestern yuppie seeks comfort in their everyday life. Familiarity is a plus. This is not just true for Midwesterners in general, for for all youth of our generation. As much as those claiming to be "hipsters" seek the bold, daring, newness that many have searched for since beatniks first began churning out coffeehouse poetry in the late 40's, the en masse of our youth look for the things that we know to be safe, that we know to be fun, that won't hurt us or treat us wrong. Even when we do try new things, they need to resemble the old, or come from trusted sources. New and different frightens us on an evolutionary scale, and though we profess to love new things, we secretly yearn for "same old same old".

Why am I explaining all of this? To give the only reason for there to be so many "80's nights" at clubs around the country. How else could you otherwise explain people overzealously cheering for A-Ha?

As mentioned briefly, the drink of choice for this establishment seemed to be PBR, Pabst Blue Ribbon, the Official Beer of Punk Rock. The only distinguishing element between this and your average light beer of choice is probably calories; your typical can of PBR apparently has the calorie content of one pork chop. (With or without gravy or some other sauce is up for question, though I tend to think that if you're really trying to calculate your calorie intake of PBR in a given night, you're in the wrong part of town my friend.) In order to fully disguise myself amongst the onrush of twenty-something hipsters, for whom PBR is their nectar, their lotus leaf in a can, it took several cans on my part in order to achieve a passing toxicity so as to appropriately celebrate the second to last night of 2011. I figured that by doing so, it would be possible to mingle with the other patrons of the club, speak with them, gain their favor, etc.

Sidenote #1: It has become a realization of mine that I am fully ready to once again embark on the dating scene. Yep, no more light dating before moving to Chicago, no more awkward flirtation that never will go anywhere, all of that is finished. Time to spring myself upon the single ladies of Chicago once more, subjecting them to any and all torments that the night may disclose.

(Which, to be honest in speaking for myself, is limited. Though I might profess to be a wild and crazy guy, in reality, my associate of journalistic endeavors (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons) tends to draw attention away from anything I might actually hope to accomplish in public. Unfortunate me.)

Passing off this information to my friends, one of the goals of the night was to enable me to contact one of the girls in the club who looked as though she would be single, strike up a conversation with her, and get to the point of getting her number. The only flaw in what would seem at first to be a simple plan, tried, tested and true after decades of experiments in bars around the country, rested in the simple fact that I have no idea whatsoever what to do around the opposite sex if we are not forced into everyday encounters for at least three months. This problem became elucidated whilst on the dance floor. Struck by the sudden influence of PBR, I was given a boost of self-confidence, as well as inspiration in the form of an attractive young woman wearing what everyone else referred to as "those hipster glasses". Dancing around, I felt uplifted. Surely this was the night that I would talk with the girl, we would bond, and months of glorious dating would happen. It would be the best thing ever!

"I did it!" I exclaimed to the Professor as we danced to "Take on Me", "I figured out how to talk to girls!" Moving towards the group as my friends eyed me skeptically, I began singing along in a pseudo-falsetto, overcome by the emotions of the event. As I moved closer, I paused. Suddenly, the Fear came upon me. I realized that not only was a pseudo-falsetto rendition of "Take on Me" not the way to attract a girl to dance with you, it was in fact a social deterrent! Word would spread, and the streets of Chicago would howl with madcap laughter as every woman in the city became notified through the private grapevine that there were fools to be seen at The Holiday Club in Lakeview: come and mock them!

"I lied!" I cried in retreat, "I don't know how to talk to girls at all!" I rushed behind a nearby table as my friends, my bastions of support, howled with laughter at my sudden reversion to reality.

At least my idea was better than what my other friend (whom we shall call the Strongman for this evening) suggested, and eventually carried me out: flinging me bodily into Hipster Glasses while she was dancing on the floor.

Needless to say, this did not end well either.

Flashing forward to the next night, I was rushing to Clark/Division from my local place of employment, a semi-ritzy, semi-formal, chain restaurant that specializes in seafood, wine, and assorted other elements the upper-middle class can afford to snoot down upon when it suits them. Along the way to this club, my associate and I paused for a quick cocktail of dubious contents. I would be going to my party dry, and he would be proceeding to some of the seedier establishments in River North and needed proper preparation for what was about to go down that night. (I'm sure his account will someday grace this blog, but until then, it's best left unsaid what goes on in the back alleys of the North Side of Chicago on New Year's Eve.) A couple quick Bloody Mary's and we were away.

We had frequented the Luxbar at this time last year, when we were of a larger party, and not quite sure of what we were looking for. Fortunately for us, Luxbar specializes in not knowing exactly what type of crowd it is catering to on any given night. It can be a casual dining restaurant, it can be a swank bar, it can be a club. Unfortunately, it never seems to choose exactly what it wants to be, and the result is a muddled mess that attracts a varied crowd that would otherwise never choose to fraternize beneath the same roof on any given evening. In other words, perfect for what we were planning for the evening.

Upon my arrival, I relayed a wish of Happy New Year's to everyone before tucking into a mixture of Scotch, beers, Long Island's, and other assorted cocktails and drinks. (Note: when drinking Scotch, be aware of what you're asking for. Generic Scotch (Your Johnnie Walker's of the world) is essentially no better than your average cheap whiskey for its content, its taste, and its aroma. However, the one thing that Generic Scotch will do better than other types of whiskey is get you politely drunk with little after effects better than cheap whiskey, which can send you either into a melancholy stupor or into a raving frenzy. Depending upon your general constituency, of course.) The lamentation of the time was again that New Year's Eve is a time for couples, woe is me, blah blah blah fetch me another drink etc. Though there was a contingency among the group to try and set me up with the waitress for our table ("She's really nice! And cute!"), I passed. Anyone with the tenacity to work on New Year's Eve in a busy bar full of slobbering, drunken lunatics is a fearsome creature of their own right, and should not be trifled with lightly.

I turned my attentions to the nearby crowd. (When I say nearby, I mean literally right behind me. For a time, my strategy of the night to meet new people was to obstruct the passage around the bar with my body, force a confrontation, and then see what I could make of the resulting conversation. Short answer: nothing. Long answer: a WHOLE lot of nothing.) As the clock ticked down, I made a passing reference to my desire to obtain one of the plastic hats that your average party goer on New Year's always seems to have their hands on. They're like pigeons in that they become so abundant that you really don't think twice about them until you either A) find one hurled in your face, striking you in the eye (Happy New Year indeed.), or B) you hear an unpleasant crunch underfoot, look down, and find that you've trodden upon one, crushing it beyond any measure of recovery. Nice job, dick.

"I must obtain one of these hats", I remarked casually, to no one in particular.

"OHMIGOD, I want one too!"

I turned, this time to find a skinny, theoretically anorexic bar floozy clinging to my left arm, wearing some kind of silver dress that seemed to be made of sequins and sheer fabric, with a faint detectable odor of turpentine.

"My name's Selena," she belched into my ear. Gods, you have truly handed me the finest of the finest on thsi evening.

"Good evening. I think I know where I can get those hats at," I retorted, casually wiping away her scent which was beginning to envelop me in cocoon-like fashion. "We were here last year, and they seem to keep them down in the basement."

"Can you get one for me please? I'd really like a hat this year," she whined, as she pulled the biggest trick in the book of the dating world, allowing her eyes to balloon to the size of saucers, looking straight into the soul of the man. (This is not as difficult a trick as it sounds. Most women know that the soul of a man is a dark, dark place where the id reigns supreme. In this instance, she was not terribly far off.)

"I'll be right back," I championed, "Don't you go anywhere!"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be right here," she promised, as she continued that damned eye trick.

Vaulting down the stairs, I heard echoes of "Get her number!" from my table of friends, who were all enjoying my lack of endeavors as the night's entertainment, along with the rest of their cocktails. Reaching the foot of the stairs found me in the middle of the general dining area, filled with elderly couples looking for some evening kicks, middle aged yuppies trying to remember the thrill of it all, and young, drunken stragglers who were searching for the nearest open available bar space, which consisted of a shifting, amoeba-like space that flowed around the bar, generally based around where waiters most needed to get to at any given point.

"Pardon me," I said, grabbing a waiter who had been making a bee line for the kitchen, "Do you know where I might find some of those plastic hats?"

"Over there in the box," he replied, looking for the easiest way to brush me aside. I have no time for this wacko, he was thinking, (clearly read on his face) there are things to do, and I just wish all of these fuckheads would find a regular bar to get in. I don't work for $4.95 an hour for this kind of bull shit. 

"Which box? You see, I'm trying to get these hats for my friends - "

"HERE!" he shouted, prying himself away, running to the nearest box, and throwing five or so chintzy plastic hats at me. Before I could even collect myself to stammer out a reply, he had already ran back into the kitchen, safe from the clutches of the depraved yuppie.

Taking little offense at his apparent rudeness (something I wouldn't fully comprehend until well into the next morning), I made my way back upstairs, where surely enough, Selena was waiting for me.

"Excellent!" she cried out, seeing me with about five hats awkwardly perched on my head and a giant shit-eating grin on my face. "Thank you so much!" With that, she grabbed a hat from my head, wormed her way back into the crowd, and disappeared from my life without so much as a condolence peck on the cheek as the clock ran down to midnight.

At this point, the Loathing set it, more clearly than I have ever understood it before.

Depressed, I turned myself back to my Long Island, waiting out the inevitable midnight hour, before starting to make my way towards the exit with all of my friends. As we were heading towards the exit, however, I was once again stopped, this time by a young gentleman with a particular strong scent of alcoholic fumes emanating from his mouth.

"Dude, I will pay you for one of those hats," he moaned. Apparently, hats were hard to come by.

"Ten bucks," I shrewdly bargained.

"You serious, man?" he complained. I said nothing. There was a pause of about ten seconds.

"Fine," he conceded, chucking a ten dollar bill my way. "Happy new year."

All of a sudden, all of the mysteries of our capitalistic society that had previously dumbfounded me rang clear as a bell. It was as though a golden dollar sign had struck me on the head, blinding me with currency. By the time we had made it to the door, I had made a cool $25.00, paid my respective debts for the evening, and more than made up for whatever lost future awaited with Selena upstairs. (Who, I might add, was surrounded by at least ten different gentlemen of various repute by the time we were making our way down the stairs. Two of them had bought hats from me. Ah, vengeance.)

Sidenote #2: It becomes clear to me now that I haven't fully explained one of our new year's traditions that will come to bear heavily on the story, so allow me to explain. Each year, we gather as many free floating balloons as possible from whatever club we are in, gather them into a bundle, and hand them off to whichever bachelor among us is the closest to getting married. The fact that we've only done this one year prior to this evening does not strip it of its rights of tradition. It just places this story fairly early in what I'm sure will be a long established and well regarded rite of passage for our group. But I digress.

As we made the way out the door, large cluster of balloons in hand, (Aren't you grateful for tangents?) we noted that the streets of Clark and Division were packed with festive party-goers, most of whom had decided, like us, that the clubs they had been in were not worth their time. Consequently, they were lined up outside of about ten or so similar nighttime establishments in order to gain entry. Never mind that it was already half an hour into 2012, there was booze to be had! Such is the mindset of the barhopping young adult; no matter what the time, there is always time for another round, so go to town.

While gathering on the streets, the second part of our annual tradition began. In order to force our way past the gaggles of yuppies lining the sidewalks and, at times, obstructing passage, a cry went up from the group (ours, that is) of "He's getting married!" with all the fervor and zealotry as though the Bachelor of this moment (In this case, the Strongman.) had just proposed to his fiancee that night. With echoes of "He's getting married" shouted into the streets, we set off.

The trick of clearing your path, and to getting your way in general, be it politics or bar-hopping, is to simultaneously draw attention to yourself while maintaining a general feeling of goodwill. This is a fine line. Too much in either direction will either lead to your being assaulted by those seeking to pummel the nearest drunken buffoon, or a casual indifference that will result in the addition of half an hour to any trip you are trying to take. This includes train rides. (Don't ask, it just happens.)

This is where "He's getting married" becomes genius. People like to celebrate the newly engaged. It's a time of great festivity. When it happens on New Year's Eve, already a time of great festivity, it doubles the occasion. It's as though everyone consciously seeks to mark your friend's beginning of Life's Great Rite of Passage, the entry point into the true Young Adult Lifestyle. Consequently, by exclaiming that your friend is getting married, you have not only gotten the attention of everyone around you, but drawn them into the celebration. Everyone loves a free invite to a party, and feels the need to go along.

Because of that general mindset, we had absolutely NO TROUBLE clearing the sidewalks of Chicago. Leading The Strongman by the hand/balloon string, we nearly strolled down Clark Street, surrounded by cheers in what I'm sure is the closest thing to a ticker-tape parade that most of our group will ever experience. Hand shakes and slaps on the back abounded. Cheers went up. A joyous occasion. Accepting their goodwill, we made our way back to the subway, continuing our cheers on the El, where friends were made, and more drinks were had, before finally settling down in The Professor's Study (apartment) for the evening.

(I won't lie, I don't quite have memory of our passage home beyond getting on the train, although I've been assured by my associate that there is a story to be told. More on that later, I suppose.)

If one had to conclude anything from our exploits, it's that yuppies love a good party. They love it to fill all of their preconceived needs, to meet all expectations, and to conclude when they see it fit. Our group needed it to finish early; those out front of the clubs needed it to be prolonged well into the morning light. My associate, for all I know, is still enjoying the after parties. What can be said is that New Year's Eve in Chicago is indicative of the young middle class mindset that this is an evening where everything is planned out for you. Parties and events are preplanned, and for whatever price you need, your entertainment will be provided to you. That sense of entitlement permeates throughout our generation, echoing through time honored refrains like a call to arms. It seeps into our very souls, punctuates our day to day actions. Without it, we are nothing, and our entire generation is smashed underfoot like a cheap plastic hat. Which you just paid $5 for, even though I grabbed it for free downstairs.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Consider the Peccary: Observations from the 147 Bus Heading Towards Downtown

The other day, I decided that rather than take the same old Red Line trip to my places of employment downtown, I would take the road less traveled (by me) and ride the CTA bus to work. I figured that since it costs $0.25 less than a train trip, I'd be saving money in the long run, and besides, it would be a way to see a different part of Chicago than the part that I normally see from the El.

(Which by the way consists of the backsides of some apartments, a roadway, the interior of whatever book I'm reading, and the dark, dark tunnel that is the Red Line Subway. So all in all, it's about as scenic as you'd expect public transit to be; i.e. not. On the other hand, you meet the craziest people! (Not a compliment) )

In addition, not only is the bus cheaper, it's also a quarter mile closer to my apartment, making my morning/evening commute a little shorter; it doesn't cause me to have to take a short cut behind a back alley that looks like it would be at home in "Mystic River". (You know, the one where Sean Penn would take someone to get beaten up to try and get closer to finding out who exactly killed his daughter in the park. But that's getting ahead of myself.) Given that I'm no longer hurrying along this back alley clutching my laptop back/satchel (manpurse) at odd hours of the night, I feel that my survival chances in this neck of the woods have increased at least by 50% or more. I'm not sure where the current percentage lies, but I have a certain feeling that it's much better than it was two weeks ago. (On the other hand, if I should suddenly start missing blog entries, you probably have a good lead on where to find me. I'd start behind the laundromat and work your way north towards the Jarvis stop.)

Anyways, so my bus adventures began on an afternoon where I had to be at work at one of my places of employment (The one that rhymes with Schmc'cormick's) at around 4:30 pm. Naturally, I assume that the quote on Google Maps on the amount of time it takes to get to and from work is completely 100% accurate, and will take into account any and all traffic that I'm likely to encounter. This includes the street the bus runs on for about three miles named Sheridan that seems to be filled with pigeons and traffic lights, as well as some side street downtown that seems to be named Upper Michigan. Definitely making that commute in 55 minutes, so I will in fact leave my apartment at 3:20. You know, just to be safe and get there early.

Piece of cake.

One of the added benefits in Chicago is that you can text your bus location to the 411 (which sounds like either an oddly traffic-conscious rap group or a mysterious benevolent green space alien...who is also oddly traffic-conscious) and it will tell you how long until the next bus will be arriving at your stop, with about two to four minutes of cushion so as to get your lazy ass there in time. This is unfortunate in that you do not need to be standing at the bus stop in question to be able to text that magical 411 the number of your bus stop in order to receive the fully accurate, up-to-date information. This means that I can roll out of bed, check my phone, send the auto-text concerning my nearby bus stop, see if there's a second bus in 35 minutes, and crawl back beneath the sheets to grab that extra 20 minutes of sleep that I had to trade in to rewatch the "Blitzgiving" episode of "How I Met Your Mother". Again.

Come on, Jorge Garcia making "Lost" jokes! (Not that I've ever seen "Lost", but I'm assuming the jokes are just universally funny. I also am assuming that the jokes are in regards to "Lost." If they aren't, go screw yourself.)

(Gently.)

So an average morning for me now consists of the aforementioned rolling over, although I will get up to make a pot of coffee that fits neatly into my travel mug so that I can imbibe the necessary caffeine to go about my day. Upon making coffee, I will go back to sleep for whatever time I can get. I will then awaken, bundle up, and head out to catch the bus.

Anyways, I'm now aboard my first trip on the 147, or the bus that runs from Howard to downtown and beyond. (I'm still not exactly sure of what lies below Roosevelt in the city. I know Hyde Park is somewhere down there, as well as the White Sox, but the rest in my mind bears a strong resemblance to those ancient maps of the world. You know, where cartographers would simply fill in the edge of the oceans with made up countries just to make their maps more impressive, and to hide the fact that in secret they had no fucking idea exactly what lay 20 miles beyond Portugal. Generally, there's a sign resembling "Here Be Dragons", and in my current state of mind, there's a sign just south of the Roosevelt stop on the Red Line that reads the exact same thing. On a separate note, yes, I am from a small town in Southern Ohio, why do you ask?) Realizing that the first reason I took this trip was to see if the sights were any different from the Red Line, I immediately begin looking around, checking out my surroundings, as well as scouting out to see anything of interest that this trip might offer me. I'm always ready to try out new grocery stores, new restaurants, and new curiosity shops of interest. (In other words, places I shop at despite not really being able to afford bread. Yes, bread. Let alone tattered first editions of the Jerle Shannara trilogy by Terry Brooks, I am more likely to buy yet another three books that I've already read to add to my literally overflowing library than I am to buy bread to make sandwiches with so that I don't starve. But let's be fair: they were a great read, and I do need to have something to do on these trips. But more on that later.)

I quickly realize that this trip is not scenic. Gary, Indiana might be more scenic. (Gawd, is that a depressing thought) You know how you always see tourists in the streets of big cities taking pictures, gawking over the sights of the city skyline as though they've been raised in an underground missile silo for most of their existence? Or how when touring a farm with a petting zoo, they will look at the pygmy goat as though it were a twelve foot Burmese Tiger with two heads and a flashing neon tail, instead of just the malnourished common farm animal (named Steve) that you actually realize it to be? And in the background, you see the locals who push anyone and everyone out of their way as though they had to reach that burning building in time to save their baby, their kittens, and grandma's will before the whole damn inferno goes up in smoke?

I'm slowly becoming a local. Seriously, people, move your ass. The sidewalk is for walking, not gawking.

Realizing that the view of Sheridan is about as scenic as a can of tuna, (fresh, not stale; even if it's stale and moldy, it's at least interesting to look at, albeit disgusting) I turn my attention back to my reading of choice for the trip. (Sidenote #1: I'm reading a collected volume of Hunter Thompson essays, so for those who remember my writing the last time I had an extended exposure to Dr. Duke, you can look forward to my writing/blogging/existence taking a turn for the surreal and cruel. As well as slightly more sidenotes. The Writing Desk Committee feels very strongly in the prolonged existence of tangents and all things irreverent to the overall purpose of the stated article and/or essay. Therefore, consider yourself fully warned. The bastards can't stop me now!)

(Sidenote #2: This blog, however, will remain a drug-free zone. Mostly because I'm too poor to buy drugs. Nor would I know how to go about getting drugs if I knew how to buy them. I imagine my side of the conversation would go something along the lines of "Gee mister! You sure look dope! Dope as in cool! By the wayside, would you happen to have a dimebag of dope that I could purchase? I mean, that is what it's called, right? A dimebag of dope, dope?" You'd probably have to look for me behind the laundromat and the money exchange store then.)

Reading while on the bus and/or train is an interesting experience. On the one hand, it's an intended distraction to pass the time while riding on public transit. Your average trip from your home to the city/your stop of choice will take around 30 to 45 minutes, with some transits extending that to an hour to an hour and a half. Considering that you'll be returning to your original point of departure at one point, that's anywhere from one to three hours spent all day doing nothing but sitting in transit to get somewhere. That extends to 15 hours a week (if you're working five days a week) or more, and upwards of 60 hours total a month. Or, you know, three days of your month spent JUST TRAVELING FROM PLACE TO PLACE. Consequently, it's better to fill it with something productive or stimulating rather than doing what your typical CTA passenger is doing. (i.e. staring forward vacantly into space, wondering why their life is flashing by so quickly, typically with a drool string from their mouth halfway down to the floor. Or, you know, that might just be my shit luck to sit next to the same guy on every fucking transit. Boy, that's depressing.) On the other hand, intentionally diving into a book or tablet on the train is also a social statement, one in which you're saying "I have my own things that I'm doing right now, and consequently, I am not open or amiable to social conversation. If you make an attempt to talk to me, thus diverting my attention from my preferred focal point of interest, you are thereby distracting me from something I would prefer to be doing. If you are distracting me from doing that said something, you are taking up my valuable time and/or bothering me. If this is the case, then your distraction had better be hella good, or I'm taking my hatchet to your shins and nailing them to my headboard at home where I keep my trophies." (Again, that might be the same guy that I always seem to end up sitting next to on the train, and wouldn't that just be my shit luck to forget a book on the train the other day. Balls.) It's a fine line between polite and skull-fuck crazy, and I like to think I walk that line every day. (Successfully.)

Given that my current book of interest is an insane rant, I'm totally OK with spending the hour long (in theory) trip immersed in Mr. Thompson's writings, especially as an enamored fan of his. What I'm not quite expecting is that this bus trip through about 500 traffic lights at a peak time of day for transit to and from work during a peak holiday season is in fact going to take longer than the previously stated 55 minutes. I realize this about 45 minutes into the trip, when we are just barely beginning to capture the skyline of Chicago. (You know, the one that is visible from two miles away on a clear day. Much like the day I chose to ride the bus, in fact.) If you're just beginning to be able to see it from your bus, and you're supposed to be at work in the heart of that skyline in about ten minutes, a sort of profound sense of panic begins to set in. It's the panic that one can only realize when you start to feel that you're going to be late for a job in the heart of one of the largest cities in America that you only just moved to three weeks ago and you're currently trapped inside of a large metal shell traveling at a luxuriously slow twenty miles an hour surrounded by fellow city transit passengers who are in no hurry whatsoever to get to their spot on the bus which is always six inches within your preferred buffer-zone of human contact and you have at that exact moment $33.56 to your name in U.S. dollars in a bank account that you're not actually able to access anyways and $7500 in debt that only grows but never shrinks and a career field that seems to be shrinking all the while as your love life spirals into a black hole of oblivion from which you can never escape because you need a haircut and...

Is that lady walking a peccary?

Sidenote #3: The peccary.

The collared peccary.

As found on Wikipedia, also called the javelina and/or skunk pig, is a medium-sized mammal of the family Tayassuidae, or New World Pigs.Peccaries are members of the artiodactyl suborder Suina (swine), as are the pig family (also swine) and possibly the hippopotamus family (secret swine?). They are found in the southwestern area of North America and throughout Central and South America. Peccaries usually measure between 90 and 130 centimetres (3.0 and 4.3 ft) in length, and a full-grown adult usually weighs between about 20 to 40 kilograms (44 to 88 lb).

In short, a pleasant enough creature. It's fond of roots, tubers, and prickly pear cacti, although they are known to eat small animals. (The stated Wikipedia article is rather vague on the meaning behind "small animals", although given their particular habitat and range, I highly doubt that they're talking about Scottish Terriers and Himalayan Long Hairs.) They're often confused with regular pigs, given their close familial history, and are known to roam in herds that range in number anywhere from 10 to 100. It comes equipped with a pair of tusks that it uses to scrounge for roots and tubers, as well as to scare away potential predators. (Much like some girls I've encountered in the local bar scene of Dayton, Ohio.)

Given the above information, as well as my own personal confirmation that peccaries do indeed live in the southwestern United States through a wildlife sighting on a family trip to Monument Valley, it seemed at first highly unlikely that a woman of any sort of upper-middle class status would choose to keep a peccary, or javalina, as a form of domesticated pet.


Yet, sure enough, as I looked out the window, I was able to confirm that, yes, this woman was walking her peccary. Through the front pet garden of one of those high rise apartment buildings that sits on the shore of Lake Michigan. The kind where you're just living there to show that you can afford to live there, as opposed to making beneficial use of the proximity to cheap, public transportation. And apparently the kind of place where the owner is more likely to own a peccary than a Portuguese Water Dog. (The Obamas must be falling out of fashion. Make way, Bo, for Bolina the Peccary, coming soon to the White House near you.) For years, I have labored under the apparent delusion that it might be illegal to own such a creature, and even more so to keep an exotic animal like that as a pet of any kind. (For evidence supporting this apparently misguided and half-assed belief, I ask that you take a good look at this recent event.) Now, with my own eyes serving as eyewitnesses, I can assure you that not only is it completely 100% abso-tively possi-lutely permissable to keep a small, wild pig on a leash, but you can also take it for a walk in your condo's flower beds. So long as you tend to its business with the appropriate doggy bag.

With that latest shock to consider as the bus meandered it's way towards an inevitable rendezvous with downtown Chicago, I found that I was no longer concerned with a world where I would end up being 20 minutes late to work (again, hampered by a sudden outpouring of holiday shoppers and tourists upon the aforementioned boulevard of commerce known as Upper Michigan on a mid-December afternoon at 4:00 pm CST). Rather, I was concerned with the implications that somewhere in mid-Lakeview, it is entirely possible that an entire generation of deranged, mid-life yuppie housewives are secretly breeding and training a legalized herd of peccaries to submit to their own martini-soaked dreams of North Side domination. Given that the peccary has been known to travel in groups ranging up to 100, that means that there could be 100 peccaries that could be used at the drop of a hat to attempt a hostile takeover of my neck of the woods. Think of it. Pigs devouring small armies of mastiffs as though they were milk bones. Prickly pear cacti around the neighborhood being torn from their sheltered greenhouses and savagely mauled by the wild, feral pigs of Boystown (actual pigs). The Red Line awash with the blood of innocents and peccaries, the Brown Line stained with the feces of 100 sows gone mad with rage and martini-lust, the Blue Line (Blue Line?) with inevitable delays, backing up traffic all the way to O'Hare...wait, that actually happens regularly, nevermind.

The one fortunate side effect of a peccary invasion of the north side is that it most likely would not affect the buses running back and forth, to and fro, across the streets of Chi-town. The dedicated service of the CTA is stout enough to ensure that your bus will always be 20 minutes late to its destination, no matter what time of day, no matter what condition of road. You will always get there. 20 minutes to half an hour after you were supposed to. But that's ok, because no pigs were harming you while in transit.

Now that I'm fully aware of that, time for a nap. My bus will be here in 25 minutes.

(Postscript #1: Consider the Peccary is my attempted tribute to David Foster Wallace, and to a lesser extent, my time spent working as a bookseller at Borders Books and Music. David Foster Wallace, commonly viewed as one of the leading writers of the 1990's and early 2000's, as well as one of the voices of Generation X, released a compilation of essays entitled "Consider the Lobster", which is a fantastic read if you have three days a month to spend riding around in tiny metal cages of transportation, or if you're just pressed for a good book. While working at Borders, we were told to constantly provide our own recommendations throughout the store for books that we enjoyed. These recommendations were to be handwritten on small cardstock inserts, upon which any use of ink would invariably smudge. Given that my own handwriting is often less than stellar in its quality, it became something of a challenge to me to write out my personal advice in as few words as possible. Thus, here are a few good books to read if you're in the mood for post-holiday reading, along with my personal reviews in four words or less.)

(Postscript #2: It's getting so that I can write an entry with no exact goal in mind and still churn out 3,000 + words in around 2.5 hours. This is a good thing, and bodes well towards my goals of getting some actual writing done sometimes in the near future. Especially as my projects move nearer and nearer to their start dates. Currently, the fantasy novel (Still untitled) is under way with several character sketches and world designs laid out. Look for the first chapter to be under way by the end of the month, with a draft complete around the end of April/middle of May. Meanwhile, I have begun research on River of Doubt, with Candace Millard's treatise on the subject arriving in my mailbox shortly. Look for an outline by the end of February.)

Have you?

Nom nom nom

Bully.

Whine, piss, moan. Yawn.

Less than Forrest Gump.

Still Not with Stupid.

Just shoot yourself now.

Closet Penn State Fan.