A poor excuse for a Christmas poem. I know there's no meter, mostly, but I was trying for Christmasy, as opposed to a good poem. I feel like I've outdone most of William Topaz McGonagall's work, so I'm ok with it.
'Twas the afternoon before I left Chicago for LA, and all through the city
not a single Chicago policeman was beating a criminal or a kitty.
The Green Bay hat was worn by the Dexter with care
in hopes that the Packers would kill the motherfucking Bears.
My hands were tucked well deep into my coat
I had visions of palm trees and pacific ocean boats.
the weird creepy guy in his CPS outfit and I in my Packers hat
had just settled in by the bus stop to wait, not to chat.
When out on the street a CPD SUV rolled up
I looked up, pissed off, to see what could be up.
Down went his window, it flew like a flash
I worried about his baton going "smash"
The sun on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the luster of midday to the objects below.
When what, to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a CPD officer, and his scraggly little beard.
The chubby young driver, so lively, but slow
I knew in a moment that I might want to go.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers could come,
And whistle and beat me and catalog wrongs I had done.
"Your hat sucks," he said with disdain.
my eyes popped, it looked like I might avoid pain.
We talked about Cutler, I told him I was sorry,
Though to see the Bears beat, I'll be really quite jolly.
For the Packers and Bears play on christmas at five,
And a present for me would be Bears skinned alive.
The CPD and I had a nice interaction,
but this kind of present gives me no satisfaction
On christmas I hope for the crushing of dreams
As this officer and his friends weep at the fate of their team.
"Now Rogers, Now Driver, Now Nelson, Now Finley,
On Woodson, On Hawk, On Bishop, On Crosby,
To the end zone and on, over the Bear wall
Tackle and run, pass and catch the football"
And bring me for christmas the greatest of presents,
The Bears out of the playoffs, and a first-round bye-esents.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
What It's like to ride the Yellow Line from Howard all the way to Skokie, Part 2
Dispatches from Skokie, part two of two. In which our intrepid travelers eat a sandwich. I appologize for the low quality of this post. Pictures are included.
As we staggered, dazed, away from the Auto Parts store, a fantastical apparition showed itself in front of us. It was a sign for a Jewish deli, Kaufman Bagel and Delicatessen. I suggested to Adam, the hungry one, that we go there, and he and Paul agreed. We practically jogged the half-block we had left, so desperate were we for the shelter and sustenance this establishment surely would supply.
We reached the door, and were immediately disappointed. Had it been a Tuesday, we would have gotten our sandwiches for half price, or two dollars less, or some other quaint deal. Undeterred by this accident of time, and driven by the deep, abiding desire for deli meat, we entered.
Despite the fact that I was wearing my University of Chicago sweater and trying desperately to fit in, we all must have stuck out worse than a Nigerian soccer player on a Ukrainian team, because the lady behind the counter gave us a double-take and then, presumably encouraged by our continued cluelessness, (for we had stumbled into the bakery side when we were in search of the deli, and could not find a menu) called out that we should step right up if we wanted something. We hesitated and, sensing our nervousness, she boldly declared, “We have the best corned beef in town.”
I imagined this town to be Skokie at first, and though I had heard much of Skokie’s fantastic reputation as a place where real Jewish food could be easily obtained, I doubted that it could really be better than the City of Chicago. However, I have always been an advocate of the theory that anything the CTA touches is Chicago, and anything else is the suburbs, and I was inclined to believe that this was what she meant.
My reverie was interrupted by Adam stepping up to the counter and saying, “Then I’ll have the best corned beef in town.”
The lady behind the counter chuckled at him and explained, as a camp counselor might explain to an unruly five-year-old, that the three of us needed to take a number and go to the deli counter to order sandwiches.
I ordered a hot corned beef on rye with brown mustard from the kindly, middle-aged man wearing a Cubs cap behind the counter, who had just finished counting out five smoked whitefish to an elderly man with numbers tattooed on his arm.
The three of us sat down to eat at the counter on the bakery side. Certainly, my expectations were pretty low. I was blown away. I have only once had such a good corned beef sandwich. The rye bread was delicious and chewy, the corned beef was warm, plentiful, and high-quality, together they were beautifully complimented by the brown mustard. A corned beef sandwich is simple, with no extraneous fuss made, just like this one.
The deliciousness of this sandwich was such that it changed Skokie from just another Metra-stop suburb (The Yellow Line being the accidental Metra of the CTA) to the magical land of Unicorns and other fantastic beings that it is today.
We left Skokie entirely satiated, travelled back through the sylvan glen, and proceeded to continue our adventure on the Purple line, the Yellow Line’s bastard stepchild.
As we staggered, dazed, away from the Auto Parts store, a fantastical apparition showed itself in front of us. It was a sign for a Jewish deli, Kaufman Bagel and Delicatessen. I suggested to Adam, the hungry one, that we go there, and he and Paul agreed. We practically jogged the half-block we had left, so desperate were we for the shelter and sustenance this establishment surely would supply.
We reached the door, and were immediately disappointed. Had it been a Tuesday, we would have gotten our sandwiches for half price, or two dollars less, or some other quaint deal. Undeterred by this accident of time, and driven by the deep, abiding desire for deli meat, we entered.
Despite the fact that I was wearing my University of Chicago sweater and trying desperately to fit in, we all must have stuck out worse than a Nigerian soccer player on a Ukrainian team, because the lady behind the counter gave us a double-take and then, presumably encouraged by our continued cluelessness, (for we had stumbled into the bakery side when we were in search of the deli, and could not find a menu) called out that we should step right up if we wanted something. We hesitated and, sensing our nervousness, she boldly declared, “We have the best corned beef in town.”
I imagined this town to be Skokie at first, and though I had heard much of Skokie’s fantastic reputation as a place where real Jewish food could be easily obtained, I doubted that it could really be better than the City of Chicago. However, I have always been an advocate of the theory that anything the CTA touches is Chicago, and anything else is the suburbs, and I was inclined to believe that this was what she meant.
My reverie was interrupted by Adam stepping up to the counter and saying, “Then I’ll have the best corned beef in town.”
The lady behind the counter chuckled at him and explained, as a camp counselor might explain to an unruly five-year-old, that the three of us needed to take a number and go to the deli counter to order sandwiches.
I ordered a hot corned beef on rye with brown mustard from the kindly, middle-aged man wearing a Cubs cap behind the counter, who had just finished counting out five smoked whitefish to an elderly man with numbers tattooed on his arm.
The three of us sat down to eat at the counter on the bakery side. Certainly, my expectations were pretty low. I was blown away. I have only once had such a good corned beef sandwich. The rye bread was delicious and chewy, the corned beef was warm, plentiful, and high-quality, together they were beautifully complimented by the brown mustard. A corned beef sandwich is simple, with no extraneous fuss made, just like this one.
The deliciousness of this sandwich was such that it changed Skokie from just another Metra-stop suburb (The Yellow Line being the accidental Metra of the CTA) to the magical land of Unicorns and other fantastic beings that it is today.
We left Skokie entirely satiated, travelled back through the sylvan glen, and proceeded to continue our adventure on the Purple line, the Yellow Line’s bastard stepchild.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Some Thoughts on the Gold Cup Quaterfinals
At the conclusion of the first half of the Mexico-Guatemala game.
1. In the early game, the player of the game for the Costa Ricans was Dennis Marshall, the defender who scored and, twenty minutes later, cleared the ball off the line twice in the same play, once with his head while lying on the ground.
2. The player of the game for the Hondurans was the crossbar, who got a little help from the superb goalie Noel Valladares, who challenges Tim Howard for the title of best in Concacaf.
3. Since I’m sure they can’t keep it up in the second half, I just want to point out that the Guatemalans are playing the best game of catenaccio I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m only entertained because it’s against Mexico.
4. Carlos Ruiz is, and always has been, “El Pescadito” because he’s slippery. At his advanced age, this slipperiness is critical in maintaining him as a professional player, and since he’s relied on it most of his career, he’s got it down to a science. He’s one of the best strikers in North America despite being small and slow. I don’t think his style would translate to Europe, but it’s perfect for the MLS and the Mexican League.
5. Mexico is bad at corner kicks.
1. In the early game, the player of the game for the Costa Ricans was Dennis Marshall, the defender who scored and, twenty minutes later, cleared the ball off the line twice in the same play, once with his head while lying on the ground.
2. The player of the game for the Hondurans was the crossbar, who got a little help from the superb goalie Noel Valladares, who challenges Tim Howard for the title of best in Concacaf.
3. Since I’m sure they can’t keep it up in the second half, I just want to point out that the Guatemalans are playing the best game of catenaccio I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m only entertained because it’s against Mexico.
4. Carlos Ruiz is, and always has been, “El Pescadito” because he’s slippery. At his advanced age, this slipperiness is critical in maintaining him as a professional player, and since he’s relied on it most of his career, he’s got it down to a science. He’s one of the best strikers in North America despite being small and slow. I don’t think his style would translate to Europe, but it’s perfect for the MLS and the Mexican League.
5. Mexico is bad at corner kicks.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
A Brief Interlude for Racial Profiling
I’ve been racially profiled once or twice before, but I never thought it would happen in Chicago. I look white, and the police here generally leave white people alone. But today, I was proved wrong.
I visited a fantastic old-timey diner in Bridgeport with my friends Sam and Katrina, where we got a full dinner for three for $20, with tax and a generous tip. We had taken the Red line up, but I suggested that because of the White Sox game, it would be best for us to take the #8 Halstead bus down to Garfield, where we would pick up the 55 bus and take it back home. After spending some time in the fantastic Richard J. Daley library, (which featured an incredibly charming picture of the mayor at the Southside St. Patrick’s day parade, wearing a green tie and a jaunty green hat, and a beautiful yellow rules poster which declared Harold Washington’s mayoralty) we decided to walk south on Halstead and wait for the #8 to catch us. This worked, as we had only made it two or three blocks when the bus came rumbling into view. It slid past us, but we caught it, and hopped aboard.
We happily took the bus further South, toward Garfield, chatting about the fabulous dinner we had had and the opportunities in Geography for the next year. We discussed how disgusting it was that as Geography majors, we couldn’t get the class taught by the department chair, Michael Conzen, through add-drop. And then, when the Bus announced “Garfield Boulevard, 55th Street” I pulled the cord, and we got off.
Katrina, Sam, and I crossed the street, and got caught by the light in the central, grassed-over boulevard. We kept up our discussion, but turned it towards a fantastic mural, which looked like it could have been right off the streets of Sao Paulo, with O Christo Negro Redentor and a superb Giraffe, as well as a technicolor display of blinding intensity. We crossed the street again (it’s a boulevard, you have to cross it three times) and started towards the bus stop. Then, I heard a police siren. My head leapt up, I looked around, and a blue and white Chicago Police Department SUV was blocking our path.
“Black and White, your night’s allright, White and Blue, sucks for you,” I thought immediately. I was ready to be arrested and beaten for the jaywalking I had just done, or perhaps some other silliness. Maybe he thought I was a member of the IRA, off to spread the Good News of Republicanism with the P-Stones. I do have an interest in Sinn Fein, and I do enjoy Irish music. But instead the Chicago Policeman decided to ask us a question.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked, straining to keep his nightstick in his belt.
“The University of Chicago,” I said, passing up the opportunity to make a witty retort about how I was heading to my dealer out of surprise, not discretion.
“I was worried about you,” he said.
I’m white. I can pass for Persian or Hispanic, but only with my full beard, which isn’t quite in yet. Katrina and Sam are also white. But we didn’t have cameras on, or anything else which might have suggested tourism (My UC Davis sweatshirt was zipped open, making the inscription unreadable) and we had clearly just gotten off a bus, and were about 50 feet from another bus stop. It was silly as all hell.
What’s still my favorite N.W.A song? It should be obvious. Ren said it with authority.
I visited a fantastic old-timey diner in Bridgeport with my friends Sam and Katrina, where we got a full dinner for three for $20, with tax and a generous tip. We had taken the Red line up, but I suggested that because of the White Sox game, it would be best for us to take the #8 Halstead bus down to Garfield, where we would pick up the 55 bus and take it back home. After spending some time in the fantastic Richard J. Daley library, (which featured an incredibly charming picture of the mayor at the Southside St. Patrick’s day parade, wearing a green tie and a jaunty green hat, and a beautiful yellow rules poster which declared Harold Washington’s mayoralty) we decided to walk south on Halstead and wait for the #8 to catch us. This worked, as we had only made it two or three blocks when the bus came rumbling into view. It slid past us, but we caught it, and hopped aboard.
We happily took the bus further South, toward Garfield, chatting about the fabulous dinner we had had and the opportunities in Geography for the next year. We discussed how disgusting it was that as Geography majors, we couldn’t get the class taught by the department chair, Michael Conzen, through add-drop. And then, when the Bus announced “Garfield Boulevard, 55th Street” I pulled the cord, and we got off.
Katrina, Sam, and I crossed the street, and got caught by the light in the central, grassed-over boulevard. We kept up our discussion, but turned it towards a fantastic mural, which looked like it could have been right off the streets of Sao Paulo, with O Christo Negro Redentor and a superb Giraffe, as well as a technicolor display of blinding intensity. We crossed the street again (it’s a boulevard, you have to cross it three times) and started towards the bus stop. Then, I heard a police siren. My head leapt up, I looked around, and a blue and white Chicago Police Department SUV was blocking our path.
“Black and White, your night’s allright, White and Blue, sucks for you,” I thought immediately. I was ready to be arrested and beaten for the jaywalking I had just done, or perhaps some other silliness. Maybe he thought I was a member of the IRA, off to spread the Good News of Republicanism with the P-Stones. I do have an interest in Sinn Fein, and I do enjoy Irish music. But instead the Chicago Policeman decided to ask us a question.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked, straining to keep his nightstick in his belt.
“The University of Chicago,” I said, passing up the opportunity to make a witty retort about how I was heading to my dealer out of surprise, not discretion.
“I was worried about you,” he said.
I’m white. I can pass for Persian or Hispanic, but only with my full beard, which isn’t quite in yet. Katrina and Sam are also white. But we didn’t have cameras on, or anything else which might have suggested tourism (My UC Davis sweatshirt was zipped open, making the inscription unreadable) and we had clearly just gotten off a bus, and were about 50 feet from another bus stop. It was silly as all hell.
What’s still my favorite N.W.A song? It should be obvious. Ren said it with authority.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
What It's like to ride the Yellow Line from Howard all the way to Skokie.
Dispatches from Skokie, part one of two. In which our intrepid travelers set off on an adventure and, horror of horrors, get off the platform at their destination. Photographs with part two.
Skokie is magical. There’s nothing more to it.
I’ve never had a burning desire to visit Skokie, or to go to the Northern Suburbs. Until last Saturday, the farthest north I’d been in the Chicago area was the Morse Red Line stop. But I was inspired a week ago by the brave girl from Northwestern who rode the Red Line all the way from Howard to 87th, and pretended she made it to 95th. I decided I had to learn what it would be like to take the Purple Line all the way from Howard to Linden.
Fate intervened and, though we did get to the Purple Line eventually, we ended up in Skokie first.
I enlisted my good friends and future flatmates, Adam and Paul, and we hopped on the Red Line at Garfield. The trip up to Howard was fairly uneventful, except that we made predictions about Evanston and passed a Blockbuster Video store. Paul pointed it out, and Adam said “It seems the train has taken us back to 1996.” The Red Line traverses a very nice route through the North Side, filled with wonder, miracles, and apartment buildings identical to those in Hyde Park and everywhere else in Chicago. When we got to Howard, we stayed on the platform. If we left the station, I think all three of us would have stood in fear for our lives, because there was a store selling Pagers on the street down below, next to a store selling wigs. Combined with the Blockbuster just a coupe of stops distant, this seemed to be a sign that the rapture was, indeed, there, and that it was sending us heathens back in time so that we might meet the historical Jesus and be converted by his teachings. We were waiting on the platform for the Purple Line to show up and be ready to go when a miracle occurred.
It says in the bible that no man shall know the hour or the day of the return of the Lord, and we Jews are taught that Messiah will return eventually, when the world is righteous and ready. However, Hashem is known to work miracles now and again, and the appearance of the Yellow Line train to Skokie was certainly one of them. We boarded the train, mostly because I had heard that it was a ten minute trip, and were amazed. There were only two cars, and the front one had a nice, forward-facing window. We sat in the that front car and discussed getting food in Skokie, as Adam hadn’t had breakfast that morning.
I am, I know, a lucky man. I know this because, as the train flew out of the ditch north of the Howard station and through the sylvan glen which immediately surrounded it, I was transported to a different time. I could imagine a steam train puffing through the forests of the midwest, with businessmen on their way to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange or the federal court building, or Cincinnati Jews setting out to start a new life in Skokie. As we passed the Crafty Beaver (get your dirty mind out of the gutter) Hardware Store and the “Festival of Cultures” and slowed down for the Skokie station, we decided we’d get out and look around for something to do and something to eat. The train slowed to a stop, and we all chuckled as the man said “This is Skokie, as far as this train goes.” The train actually went a little bit farther, into an amusing one-track turnaround siding. The level of quaintness, already approaching the "I Like Ike" campaign commercial level, went nowhere but up for the rest of our time in Skokie.
We got off the platform, horror of horrors, and started walking east (or perhaps north) on Dempster street. We hadn’t gone a block when we stumbled upon an Auto Parts store. This sort of thing is unremarkable, of course. But as the haunting tones of the desert drums rose in my mind, I felt myself lifted above the lone and level sands and transported to another reality, for the only auto parts in the store were giant piles of knockoff Persian rugs.
Skokie is magical. There’s nothing more to it.
I’ve never had a burning desire to visit Skokie, or to go to the Northern Suburbs. Until last Saturday, the farthest north I’d been in the Chicago area was the Morse Red Line stop. But I was inspired a week ago by the brave girl from Northwestern who rode the Red Line all the way from Howard to 87th, and pretended she made it to 95th. I decided I had to learn what it would be like to take the Purple Line all the way from Howard to Linden.
Fate intervened and, though we did get to the Purple Line eventually, we ended up in Skokie first.
I enlisted my good friends and future flatmates, Adam and Paul, and we hopped on the Red Line at Garfield. The trip up to Howard was fairly uneventful, except that we made predictions about Evanston and passed a Blockbuster Video store. Paul pointed it out, and Adam said “It seems the train has taken us back to 1996.” The Red Line traverses a very nice route through the North Side, filled with wonder, miracles, and apartment buildings identical to those in Hyde Park and everywhere else in Chicago. When we got to Howard, we stayed on the platform. If we left the station, I think all three of us would have stood in fear for our lives, because there was a store selling Pagers on the street down below, next to a store selling wigs. Combined with the Blockbuster just a coupe of stops distant, this seemed to be a sign that the rapture was, indeed, there, and that it was sending us heathens back in time so that we might meet the historical Jesus and be converted by his teachings. We were waiting on the platform for the Purple Line to show up and be ready to go when a miracle occurred.
It says in the bible that no man shall know the hour or the day of the return of the Lord, and we Jews are taught that Messiah will return eventually, when the world is righteous and ready. However, Hashem is known to work miracles now and again, and the appearance of the Yellow Line train to Skokie was certainly one of them. We boarded the train, mostly because I had heard that it was a ten minute trip, and were amazed. There were only two cars, and the front one had a nice, forward-facing window. We sat in the that front car and discussed getting food in Skokie, as Adam hadn’t had breakfast that morning.
I am, I know, a lucky man. I know this because, as the train flew out of the ditch north of the Howard station and through the sylvan glen which immediately surrounded it, I was transported to a different time. I could imagine a steam train puffing through the forests of the midwest, with businessmen on their way to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange or the federal court building, or Cincinnati Jews setting out to start a new life in Skokie. As we passed the Crafty Beaver (get your dirty mind out of the gutter) Hardware Store and the “Festival of Cultures” and slowed down for the Skokie station, we decided we’d get out and look around for something to do and something to eat. The train slowed to a stop, and we all chuckled as the man said “This is Skokie, as far as this train goes.” The train actually went a little bit farther, into an amusing one-track turnaround siding. The level of quaintness, already approaching the "I Like Ike" campaign commercial level, went nowhere but up for the rest of our time in Skokie.
We got off the platform, horror of horrors, and started walking east (or perhaps north) on Dempster street. We hadn’t gone a block when we stumbled upon an Auto Parts store. This sort of thing is unremarkable, of course. But as the haunting tones of the desert drums rose in my mind, I felt myself lifted above the lone and level sands and transported to another reality, for the only auto parts in the store were giant piles of knockoff Persian rugs.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
What It's like to ride the Red Line from Garfield almost all the way to Howard.
I’ve always had a strange passion to go to the North Side of Chicago. Whenever I rode the Green line, I wondered what existed at the mystical Howard Red Line stop. And so one day I decided to go there. Seriously. I wanted to see the magical ponies and fountains of gold that surely existed on the beautiful far North Side.
I hopped on the 55 bus at University avenue, and saw the combination of low-grade housing, community centers, and abandoned storefronts slipping past me on Garfield Boulevard. I imagined that this run-down commercial district would be replicated in nothing but glory and ponies when I got up north.
When I got to the Red Line stop, there were no policemen there. That surprised me, because I know that all the criminals live on the south side. I figured they must have all been off arresting someone somewhere else, and put them out of my mind. I walked down to the end of the tracks, and the train pulled up, going towards Howard.
The clearing out of the train at the Roosevelt stop is pretty impressive, it’s as if a sudden, violent regime of segregation imposed itself several decades ago and never really let go, keeping the city’s racial mix stuck in the late 1950’s. It’s almost as if the Brown/Orange/Pink stop named after Harold Washington is only a token nod to the city’s minority population.
There was nobody really interesting on the train until about the Chicago and State stop, when a drunk guy with a vacuum cleaner got into my car. But he didn’t do anything, and got off at Addison. I stared at him for a while, but it was kind of pointless.
When I could finally rip my eyes away from him, I noticed we were on the elevated tracks, running high above a landscape dotted with middle-class row houses and what looked to be prospering businesses, though from the train, I really couldn’t tell. In fact, from the train, there was little I could tell about the character of the neighborhood that wouldn’t have been a stereotype based on the people who got off at each stop.
I imagine, though, that Ponce de Leon should have looked to the North Side for the fountain of youth, that Cortes should have looked to the North Side for El Dorado, and that Henry Hudson should have looked to the North Side for the Northwest passage, because it seemed so magical in my imagination.
When we finally reached the Morse Red Line stop, I was too excited to stay on the train. I got off, stepped down, and looked around. There, in all its glory, was the #96 Lunt bus. Seriously. The Lunt bus. I got on the bus on the north side, hoping that it would be better than the busses on the south side, but it still smelled faintly of urine.
It took me a couple of blocks to a mixed use strip that looked a lot like 55th Street east of the Metra tracks, or 53rd Street east of Ellis. As I walked back, I saw a couple of police cars, and was excited. Perhaps they were going to point out where I could find some unicorns to make my trip worthwhile. I asked the officer where I could find a unicorn, but my White Sox hat gave away that I was a South Side native, and he tried to beat me with a truncheon.
I ran away, back to the train and got back on. I looked over, and there was made-up Ernie Banks and the Ghost of the First Mayor Daley, chatting with Anton Cermak. They saw me eavesdropping on their fake conversation, and First Mayor Daley said to me, “Son, you know Bridgeport’s on the South Side, right? Ain’t nothing up here but a bunch of shitbirds who don’t get out often enough.”
I hopped on the 55 bus at University avenue, and saw the combination of low-grade housing, community centers, and abandoned storefronts slipping past me on Garfield Boulevard. I imagined that this run-down commercial district would be replicated in nothing but glory and ponies when I got up north.
When I got to the Red Line stop, there were no policemen there. That surprised me, because I know that all the criminals live on the south side. I figured they must have all been off arresting someone somewhere else, and put them out of my mind. I walked down to the end of the tracks, and the train pulled up, going towards Howard.
The clearing out of the train at the Roosevelt stop is pretty impressive, it’s as if a sudden, violent regime of segregation imposed itself several decades ago and never really let go, keeping the city’s racial mix stuck in the late 1950’s. It’s almost as if the Brown/Orange/Pink stop named after Harold Washington is only a token nod to the city’s minority population.
There was nobody really interesting on the train until about the Chicago and State stop, when a drunk guy with a vacuum cleaner got into my car. But he didn’t do anything, and got off at Addison. I stared at him for a while, but it was kind of pointless.
When I could finally rip my eyes away from him, I noticed we were on the elevated tracks, running high above a landscape dotted with middle-class row houses and what looked to be prospering businesses, though from the train, I really couldn’t tell. In fact, from the train, there was little I could tell about the character of the neighborhood that wouldn’t have been a stereotype based on the people who got off at each stop.
I imagine, though, that Ponce de Leon should have looked to the North Side for the fountain of youth, that Cortes should have looked to the North Side for El Dorado, and that Henry Hudson should have looked to the North Side for the Northwest passage, because it seemed so magical in my imagination.
When we finally reached the Morse Red Line stop, I was too excited to stay on the train. I got off, stepped down, and looked around. There, in all its glory, was the #96 Lunt bus. Seriously. The Lunt bus. I got on the bus on the north side, hoping that it would be better than the busses on the south side, but it still smelled faintly of urine.
It took me a couple of blocks to a mixed use strip that looked a lot like 55th Street east of the Metra tracks, or 53rd Street east of Ellis. As I walked back, I saw a couple of police cars, and was excited. Perhaps they were going to point out where I could find some unicorns to make my trip worthwhile. I asked the officer where I could find a unicorn, but my White Sox hat gave away that I was a South Side native, and he tried to beat me with a truncheon.
I ran away, back to the train and got back on. I looked over, and there was made-up Ernie Banks and the Ghost of the First Mayor Daley, chatting with Anton Cermak. They saw me eavesdropping on their fake conversation, and First Mayor Daley said to me, “Son, you know Bridgeport’s on the South Side, right? Ain’t nothing up here but a bunch of shitbirds who don’t get out often enough.”
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
A joke I wrote today.
Why did the hipster hold up the subway train?
Wait, I can't believe you heard about that holdup. It was so underground, man.
Wait, I can't believe you heard about that holdup. It was so underground, man.
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