ON THE TRAIN

Each train in Chicago is a fairly representative sample of the population of the neighborhood it services.

Example: Red Line trains, more often than not, are filled with sports fanatics on their way too/from Wrigleyville. These trains usually smell like stale alcohol and rage. The Orange and Blue lines eventually end at their respective airports; they contain a lot of pushy travelers towing suitcases and relatives behind them in their perpetually-frustrated wake. And of course, the fabled "Dark Line" trains are filled with vampires and frankensteins, and are powered by the clean energy of restless spirits and poltergeists.

It should be alarming to note, however, that the Pink Line trains (which travel through my dear Pilsen), are constantly filled with the strangest folks you can possibly imagine. Because I work on the North Side a good distance away from my apartment, I get to spend about an hour and a half on the trains a day. It proves to be endlessly entertaining and depressing. Usually, simultaneously.

There's this guy named Anton Williams that perpetually prowls through the Pink Line trains, begging for money. I remember his first and last name for two reasons: 1) each time I've seen him, he's come up with a new outrageously-detailed backstory regarding the horrible hardships he's endured in order to facilitate the charity of my fellow riders, and 2) he always drags his five-year old daughter along to make people feel even sorrier for him. It's always awful to watch because his daughter is always crying during the proceedings, and after delivering his speech and collecting spare change, Anton Williams drags her onto the next car for an encore performance. The last time I saw them, Mr. Williams claimed that his sister had kicked the two of them out of her apartment because his daughter stole a piece of chicken from the refrigerator in the middle of the night. He further elaborated that he'd had to leave her apartment in such a hurry, he hadn't been able to grab any socks for his daughter.

Tonight, a man sitting in a seat two rows in front of me was muttering to himself while fastidiously removing the frilly edged from dozens of sheets of paper he'd torn out of a spiral notebook. I was sitting too far away to get a good look at what was written on them, but it definitely appeared to be three columns of single words, filling every line on the page from top to bottom. Meanwhile, he kept muttering, and it almost look like he was chanting something, over and over, over and over, but the sound of the train grinding against the metal tracks rendered whatever he was saying inaudible.

Meanwhile, a few feet behind him, a fourteen-year-old white kid reached into his blue hoodie and suspiciously removed a fat, silver magic marker. He uncapped it, pressed himself against he door like he was trying to meld with it, and began frantically tagging the glass while furtively glancing over his shoulders.

If you're going to tag or engage in any other graffiti-like activity in Pilsen, you'd better be Diego Fucking Rivera. You shit better be epic, lest it pale in comparison to any one of the dozens of vivid murals or cryptically unsettling tags that pepper unprotected surfaces within the area. That being said, the shitty fourteen-year-old did not meet the standard: his arm stabbed swiped with the marker in broad, flourished arcs, and the whole thing just struck me as laughable and semi-tragic. He kept eyeballing me like he suspected me to be an undercover cop, or a rival gang member. I should be flattered?

When I was walking out of the train station I saw an amorphous shape propped up against a wall and I couldn't tell if it was a pile of garbage or a sleeping man.

This place looks a lot better in the daytime.

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION...

Updates are in order:

I cut all of my hair off, and I've been growing the beard longer. People are disconcerted. My landlord claims it "makes (me) look like a sailor," whatever that means. I've been vehemently denying that I got a haircut, however; I've been telling people that I used to wear a wig, but I've given up the wig "for solidarity." Whatever that means.

I have a job now. Did I mention that before? I don't believe I did. In a nutshell, I'd say the position is 60% bearable, 10% mind-blowingly simple, 20% enjoyable, 5% awful, and 5% batshit insane. I'll tell you more about it later, in great detail: can't wait to regale you with the gripping yarn about how one of my co-workers was fired for smoking a blunt in his cubicle. The dazzlingly bizarre office building is situated on the bank of the north fork of the Chicago River, and much of my work-time is spent watching the water for wildlife and odd sights. Spotted thus far: disgruntled middle-aged kayakers, dozens of ducks, a rowing team coached by an overweight man yelling obscenities at his rowers via megaphone, and and honest-to-god raccoon. Nature's endless bounty. I work as an "Enrollment Liaison" for the Art Institute, and like most things, it sounds a lot more highfalutin' than it actually is.

I've been averaging about four books a week. I'm re-reading Half-Blood Prince at the moment, and as a result, whenever I do something radical I loudly proclaim "TEN POINTS TO GRYFFINDOR!" to no one but myself. This happens much more often than you'd expect.

Recently my small circle of acquaintances has drawn a line in the sand and separated into two camps: those who like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, and those who do not. We can all vouch for the mine-cart chase but beyond that, no one can agree on anything besides the universal shittiness of the female lead. Screaming, drunken arguments have ensued. Be warned...if you openly insult Short Round to my face, I'm liable to get buck-wild and stab you with a broken bottle. Not really. But maybe.

Lately, I've been content.

Our sketch-troupe is now sponsored by Budweiser. I have no idea what this means. Stacey believes that Budweiser will send Budweiser Girls to our shows to hand out tacky merchandise and samples of their swill. I believe that Budweiser will grant us use of three magical Clydesdales, and they shall trample our god-fearing enemies with a clomp-clomp-clomp of their mighty hooves. Not only do I not understand what the sponsorship entails, but I'm also at a total loss as to how it happened: none of us actually campaigned for a Budweiser sponsorship. If anyone did, I'd stop being their friend.

I'll be coming back to Phoenix in December to visit.

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how to feel about this.

HONORARY DEGREE

We've started doing weekly sketch-comedy shows on Tuesday nights.

Our troupe is called "Honorary Degree", which is strangely fitting, because half of the cast lives in a renovated schoolhouse originally built in 1885 and I'm hella jealous. It's probably even haunted by the ghost of an old schoolmarm or something; the bozos that live there are so lucky.

ANECDOTE FROM THE FIRST SHOW: I was setting up the stage for my first sketch, which involved a dinner scene that required a table and chairs. Mere seconds before the lights were to go up, I sat in one of the chairs, leaned back ever so slightly, and fell backwards off the stage into a small hole. "Whoa!" I yelled, like a retarded kid who can't be trusted to use furniture properly. The audience laughed and clapped, rewarding me for being an idiot.

For a first show, things went surprisingly well. Nobody butchered any lines or dropped any cues and none of the sketches fell flat. Predictably, the "intelligent sketch" about the housing market didn't exactly kill, but we added a lot of small moments that carried the sketch alright. Additionally, we got to drink beer onstage. It's pretty much the only prop I'll need from now on.

ADDITIONAL ANECDOTE FROM FIRST SHOW: By my count, three of the seven sketches ended with me sobbing/crying/suffering from severe disappointment. I think I've found my niche in comedy!

I got to play a miserly imaginary friend, a lovestruck guy who's afraid to talk to girls (typecasting), an unhinged high-school principal, a 911 operator, and a monopoly enthusiast. Best role was the principal, hands-down: not only did I get to scream at the audience and aggressively force them to clap for me, but I got to hand out some really nonsensical student awards (i.e. "Best Diabetic", "Outstanding Achievement in Home Ec", "Nicest Albino Boy", etc).

It's great to be doing this again. That is all.

OOPS

Totally forgot about writing in this...

Whoops.

I apologize. Continual coverage shall resume shortly.

FORWARD WE STRIVE.

INSPIRATIONAL QUIP.

SHOULDERS OF GIANTS.

I'M ASSUMING YOU HAVE SWORDS

Dear Teenagers Who Constantly Sit On Our Stoop And Talk In Loud Voices,

Right off the bat I'd like to thank you for your frequent patronage of our front steps. I totally understand that we have an attractive building, very charming, and I respect your decision to sit in front of it for 15 to 20 hours a day. We've had some good times together. Remember that one time when I wanted to enter my apartment, but could hardly get through the mosh-pit you'd thoughtfully assembled on my front steps? You should remember this, because it happens four to five times a day.

I must admit, this daily game of Red Rover is becoming tiring. As I write this I'm listening to one of you loudly telling a story that involves lots of growling and yelling, and while you're obviously quite the raconteur, your level of volume might be a tad bit too high, seeing as how I can hear you through two separate doors and everything.

Oh, and the internet thing.

I know you've been stealing our wireless internet. And I know the group of you have become wild and unruly now that I've put a password on it. And yes, it's true that the password ("FUCKTHOSEKIDS") refers to you. And yes, it's true that I've occasionally fantasized about coating our front steps in some kind of acid. Yes, I have seriously considered calling the non-emergency police line in order to inform them that you're selling dirty vials of crack cocaine to fifth graders. And yes, I have inquired about the possibility of installing some sort of electric fence. The rumors are true.

Perhaps we can reach some kind of agreement. If you're going to live on our stoop, perhaps you can find some way to collectively repay my roommate and I for the frequent inconvenience. I've assembled the following list of ideas:

• Form a choir (maybe even a barbershop quartet), and sing elaborate covers of my favorite Hall and Oates songs. The haunting melodies of "I Can't Go for That" would make pleasant chamber music.
• Write encouraging notes for me on the sidewalk with chalk.
• Perform the Truffle Shuffle at least once a day (in unison).
• A daily quota of two-hundred and fifty high-fives, along with an optional ten dozen fist-bumps.
• Divide your group in half, and form two parallel lines facing one another. Draw your swords (I'm assuming you have swords), and form an arch with the sword along with the person directly in front of you. This will form the "sword corridor" made popular by films about King Arthur; assemble a "sword corridor" every time I walk in/out of the apartment.

I appreciate your prompt attention regarding this matter...I know all of you regularly read this blog, so I expect your response within the hour.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. I would appreciate it if you do not stab me.

IT IS DIFFICULT TO NAME A COMEDY TROUPE...

...but here are some of the names we came up with:

• "APACHE BLVD"
• "TEMPE KIDS"
• "MAGICIAN'S GLOVE"
• "DIABETIC WEREWOLF"
• "8TH ST"
• "FORTUNE AND GLORY"
• "NEW CASTLES AND DRINK COASTERS"
• "THE PERFECT STORM"
• "PROFESSOR DING DONG"
• "GLAMOUR IN MOTION"
• "KILTLIFTER"
• "POPULATION WEIRDO"
• "HOP KNOT"
• "TIMELESS CLASS, AND ELEGANCE"
• "DUI TASK FORCE"
• "HONORARY DEGREE"

Official name coming soon. Official lineup, coming soon. Shows begin in a month.

I. Am. Excited.

And Dramatically. Use. Punctuation.

AWESOME ABS (THE FUTURE IS NOW)

Recently, I've started keeping the television on all the time.

The volume is generally muted, though. I can't quite explain it...that odd cellophane glow it produces is oddly comforting, and I enjoy catching the movement of the images in the corners of my peripheral vision. It's probably inflating our electricity bill like mad, but it's worth it, because there are times in the middle of the night where I'll catch something that completely restores/destroys my faith in humanity.

This is one of those things:

I HAVE MANY THINGS TO SAY ABOUT THIS:

-First, realize this: I automatically do not trust anyone with awesome abs. By "awesome abs" I'm referring, of course, to the specific type that are intended to resemble something carved from a hulking slab of glistening marble by nimble Italian artisans. To me, however, awesome abs resemble the shitty forehead makeup on the Klingons from "Star Trek". We all remember what happened to Prometheus when he attempted to steal fire from Mt. Olympus. This begs the question: why must we enlist the aid of a Magic Belt to steal the Gods' secret to awesome abs? Such abs belong on metopes on the Parthenon, not on douchebag single-dads with bleached tips.

-Second (and this might have been the lack of sleep, or the painkillers percolating in my bloodstream) but after watching the video's veritable montage of abs...don't they all start to look like contorted human faces? With the nipples serving as makeshift eyes, and the belly-button, a sort of permanently-surprised mouth? No? Is that just me? And the footage of the Magic Belt working, when the abs are spasming and contracting...doesn't that make it look like the ab-face is chewing? No? Yes?

-Third, now that we've got a bizarre electronic belt designed to sculpt and mold our bodies, we are officially living in the future. I want to go back in time and grab a young Harlan Ellison or Ray Bradbury or William Gibson and scream, "hey, when you grow up, we'll have magic belts that exercise our bodies while we stand around doing jack shit!" And it would blow their young minds. After completing this task I'd laugh and do a wheelie because, in my head, all my imaginary time-machines also happen to be motorcycles.

-Forth, whenever the video cut to infra-red images of awesome abs, I though, "hey, this is what it would look like if the Predator gazed longingly into a great set of abs."

-And finally, I don't think "Contour Abs" is an adequate name for the product, and firmly believe that they should have stuck with the original name: "The Abortion Belt".

COOP

The chicken coop is finished. I still have no idea why my neighbors felt compelled to build it.

Natalie excitedly chirped, "we'll have eggs by October 2nd!" I found this statement incredibly disturbing. First of all, she knows the exact date, like she's giving these chickens nightly ultrasounds, charting chicken-trimesters on some sort of line-graph. Also, I might be wrong, but I think grocery stores have started selling eggs; no need to rush those birds. Let them rest. Get comfy.

As much as I love to cynically shoot holes in it, the chicken coop is still pretty cool. I've enjoyed watching chickens frolic from the comfort of the back porch. Also, Carl did a bang-up job on the coop, going so far as to make it rat-proof.

"Do we even have rats back here?" I inquired.

"I'm not waiting to find out," he replied. This go-getter attitude (along with his extreme carpentry skills) makes Carl the Most Likely To Survive The Looming Zombie Apocalypse.

Carl told me the names him and Natalie had bestowed upon the chickens, but they were sort of stupid, so I proceeded to immediately forget them. I've taken to calling the two black ones "Bill and Ted" and the orange one "Rufus", because if you squint hard enough, the coop sort of looks like a phone booth.

The infamous Coop.

(check out the radical chicken staircase!)

View from the back porch.

(notice the close proximity of train-tracks)

View of the Coop, the Garden, and the Patio.

Bill, Ted, and Rufus. Just hangin' out.

SHARK WEEK PARTY

There was a lot of garbage on our floor after the party was over.

Several receipts, about forty-five cents in loose change, a black and white composition notebook, a brochure for the Baha'i faith written in an indecipherable language, and a broken pair of eyeglasses that probably belonged to the shitty girl that came over with half a bottle of tequila already inside her. I thought about picking everything up, but left it there for about a day and a half with hope that all the trash would get walked on enough to compress it into the granite tile floor; another layer stamped into the geographic strata of this apartment, a thin trash-colored vein which future generations of party-anthropologists would deem unfit for study.

The party itself could be compared to a revolving door: a lot of people came, but never at the same time. Lauren came first. Lauren begat DougSteve, DougSteve begat Meredith and her sister (who's name I can no longer remember), Meredith begat Teo and his entourage of shitty drunk girls, and so on and so forth. I don't mean "begat" in the biblical fashion. That would have made it a different sort of party altogether.

Is it really a "party" if it consisted of the lot of us sitting around watching footage of Great Whites jumping fourteen feet above the surface of the water? I even went out of my way to buy flour, because the general impression was that we were somehow going to collectively motivate ourselves to engage in paper mache. This was a lofty goal, and obviously, was not attained. I don't mind, thought...I honestly just wanted an excuse to hear Teo pronounce "paper mache", because he pronounces it correctly, in the manner of the French: "Pap-ee-ay Ma-shey".

Somehow it comes across as unpretentious and totally befitting.

If you're going to schedule an entire week of programming devoted to a single animal, some of it's going to be filler. One of the programs we collectively watched pretty much revolved around a dude dragging different types of meat behind his boat in order to determine what sharks liked the best. Guess what? They're not picky eaters. They're motherfucking sharks. Be it squid or a hunk of beef or a dismembered tuna carcass or a pizza, sharks will eat it. It's what they do.

Later on, we watched a father try to unite his family through his mission to preserve sharks. His father used to be a shark hunter, so it was up to him (and his children) to save sharks in order to atone for his father's epic sin. Dude was hellbent on instilling a love of all-things-shark into his kids, and went so far as to personally design "the world's first child-sized dive cage" to be used for shark-diving. By his children. His small, preteen children. When they entered the cage, their eyes were the side of saucers, and I suddenly found myself respecting my own father a lot more. Dude kept claiming that, "sharks are in [his] family's blood." Pretty soon, your family's blood is going to be inside sharks.

Don't get me wrong. I love sharks, I really do, but let's be honest: they're godless, man-hating killing machines. My problem with shark week is that yeah, it shows a lot of fantastic footage of sharks jumping out of the water in order to eat something, and yeah, it's got a lot of great information regarding different species of sharks and what makes them special (i.e. terrifying), but shark week doesn't even come close to telling me what I need to know: where they are, what weaknesses they possess, and how to kill them with underwater guns/ lasers. That would have been helpful, Discovery Channel.

Or, maybe they did mention that. I might have forgotten. I was pretty drunk at the time.

THE "BIG BOSS" THEORY

I was walking through the city the other day, and I found a map laying on the sidewalk.

Hey, somebody left a map here for me, I thought. As if there's an old man shuffling around Chicago, dropping maps all willy-nilly, hoping lost travelers will stumble upon them.

There's a very specific feeling that I felt at that moment, a feeling that I believe is common to the "young people" demographic, but as of this moment has not been named nor classified: the strange suspicion that your life follows the rules and norms of late-'80s to mid-'90s video games.

Let us consider the map again, but from this new perspective. Sure, I'd found a map on the ground, and yes, it was simply a map of the downtown Chicago area. BUT, in the beginning levels of every narrative video game ever created, don't you always find a map? And doesn't that map lead you to items, weapons, secret passages, etc? Answer: YES, YES, and YES.

I thought I'd test the theory. I walked around for a bit longer, looking for an sword. Maybe a pistol, perhaps, or a gem, depending on what genre of game I was currently inhabiting. At the very least, I was sure to find some gold coins, or rings. Definitely rings. But guess what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This didn't totally disprove the theory, however; I'm guessing gems and gold coins don't go unclaimed for long with all these hobos roaming around.

If you were privileged enough to know me between the years of '05 and '07, you know that the following was true: yes, I was constantly drunk, and yes, I was constantly bitter. And if we spoke at length during this period, I probably tried to convey the second postulate of my theory (even though I was probably too drunk to coherently say the words "postulate", or "theory"). It is as follows: romantic entanglements with the opposite sex follow the same rules and norms as the "boss battles" of late-'80s to mid-'90s video games.

Allow me to clarify.

First, I am not suggesting relationships should end with you brutally slaying your significant other by dropping him/her into an open pit of molten lava. This part of the theory is purely hypothetical; out of all the girlfriends I've had, I've only dropped one or two of them into molten lava, and those broads totally deserved it for reasons I shall not go into.

FACT: Most video game bosses are "super-powered" in comparison to other more commonplace enemies.

This makes perfect sense. Out of all the people you've encountered in your life, who's been the most "super-powered"? Obviously, the girl you had a crush on, the first boy you kissed on the swings, or maybe the woman that you're currently sharing a condo with. If there's anything that makes someone "super-powered", it's the level of control they possess over your mushy, heart-shaped emotions. (That is, unless you know someone who actually has "super-powers" such as super-speed or mega-karate. Never go on a date with someone who claims to have mega-karate).

FACT: Most battles with video game bosses occur at the end of levels.

This also makes sense. Looking back, doesn't it seem like you've embarked on different relationships at key moments of your life? Don't these relationships define these periods of your life, and vice versa? Of course they do. High School, Summer Camp, Your First Shitty Job, Freshman Year, Sophomore Year, et cetera: these are all levels of your life, and if you're still alive/not in a mental institution, then you've beaten them, albeit with varying degrees of success. (The only exception? Water levels. Most video games have "water levels", and most human lives do not, unless you spent a summer working on an oil derrick or clam-diving or just really, really fucking loved to swim. That's okay, though...water levels are consistently awful, and I do not recommend you basing a phase of your life around them)

FACT: Video game bosses usually require a special skill or item to be utilized by you, the player, in order to be successfully defeated. EXAMPLE: In order for you to beat the boss who runs on ceilings and walls, you must run directly under him at great risk to your own health, luring him to the ground where you can jump on his head three times in order to defeat him.

This is where the analogy becomes much more metaphorical. Usually, these "skills" or "items" are in fact aspects of your personality that you must utilize to move past your girlfriend/boyfriend, out of the relationship, and on to the next phase (or level) of your life. Instead of a fire-flower, maybe you obtain a heightened sense of self-awareness. Instead of a mushroom, perhaps you find an increase in confidence. Instead of a magic cape, maybe you come to realize that sex should consist of more than just "laying there". (These skills or items are much more difficult to obtain in real life, and even harder to utilize effectively. It would be a lot easier to simply lure him/her to the ground and jump on his/her head three times in rapid succession, but once again, this is not feasible in real life. Trust me! I have tried this and it totally backfired! Sorry, Elizabeth, that was totally my bad!)

FACT: Video games end with a "final boss battle" in which you must use your all of previously-acquired skills and items combined in order to come out the victor.

This part of the theory is purely, absolutely hypothetical, and strays a bit from the facts. As mushy and heart-shaped as it sounds, I think the "final boss battle" occurs when you meet the person that you're perfectly happy playing against, over and over for the foreseeable future. After a while, you forget about the high scores because at this point you're done competing, even with yourself, content to dodge the fireballs, outrun the hammers and robotic arms, knowing all too well their weaknesses and their strengths.

So here's to you, dear reader: I hope you find your Ganon, your Bowser, or your Dr. Robotnic, and I hope you never have to resort to using cheat codes in the process.

At this point, even I no longer understand what the hell I'm talking about.