:: Friday, December 13, 2002 ::

Chicago doesn't have hills. The closest thing are the little ramps created by downtown bridges sitting higher than the standard street surface, but the rises are short with low grades. Milwaukee Ave starts at the bottom of such a pseudo-hill. North of Fulton, Des Plaines arches over a gulf of freight trailers and railroad tracks, aiming for an intersection with Kinzie, and at that point Milwaukee swoops out at a Northwest diagonal, a direct pipeline through Wicker Park, Logan Square, and beyond. From the crest of the Des Plaines bridge you can see a big chunk of downtown skyline soaring over the rust and concrete colored industrial facilities.

It was five past midnight when I crossed the bridge, skyscrapers twinkling in the background under bruise-colored sky, no stars. I was feeling strange and sad. All of my student friends are occupied with final projects. I've felt irritable and selfish for the past couple of weeks, wallowing in my isolation, getting lonely as these dead empty streets. The intersection wide open, I prepared to blow the red light and swoop down off the rise. A CTA bus lumbered up next to me and wheezed it's suspension at the stoplight. I flew past, catching it's scrolling green LCD sign in my periphery like an oversized supermarket till on wheels. I cranked down under the two lanes of concrete train bridge that form the mouth of Milwaukee Ave, cutting a smooth path past empty storefronts and parked cars, feeling like an emotional pit. I rode alone, no taxis trying to hit me, no people on the side walk, even the guys who sleep on benches where missing. I thought about what I should tell my girlfriend to apologize for being so wrapped up in myself lately, and how petty our fighting has been. Riding hard gave me a physical intensity to match my emotional state. As I crossed the I-94 bridge, a huge red, silver, and blue bulk floated up next to me. The scrolling green sign in front identified it as the same bus I had passed back on Des Plaines. I was making pretty good time if it had taken this long to catch up with me. The lighted interior had no people, just plastic seats and vacant chrome rails. The driver stared ahead, taking no notice of me but matching my pace exactly.

The bus started talking. The voice came from a brushed steel panel near the door. The words were indistinguishable, but clearly speech. I looked at the bus driver. I assumed that he was chastising me for cutting him off or running the red light back on Des Plaines. He wasn’t looking at me, and I couldn’t be certain but it didn’t look like he was speaking. “I’m already miserable,” I thought about telling him, “I don’t care what I did wrong, it can’t be more important than my recent lack of human relations.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” The bus said. The driver stared obliviously ahead, unaware that his vehicle was talking.

“What do you know about my life?” I yelled at the bus, between ragged breaths. I had to pedal hard to maintain my position along side it.

“I can tell by your face,” the bus continued, “that even as you lament your self absorption and it’s affect on the people in your life, the best you can come up with is self pity.”
We passed the green light over the I-94 off ramp. The part of Milwaukee that hasn’t been re-surfaced begins there.
“That’s easy for you to say” I yelled, “you were built to serve others, so it’s not exactly a stretch from your nature! What would you know about being human?” I dodged a pothole and dropped back a couple feet.

“You’re being defensive,” the bus said.

“Oh I’m sorry, but you’re just a fucking bus, ok? Why should I listen to you? Don’t you realize that you’re criticizing me? Why don’t you go pick up some passengers and fulfill your goody-good ideology!” Just as I said that, I noticed that up ahead there was bus stop with a small line of passengers waiting by the curb. As the bus slowed to pick them up, I cut around it and raced on by, squeezing through the yellow light at Division and leaving the bus in my dust.

I felt really lousy as I rode past the dark glass and neon of Wicker Park clubs. That bus was right on and I couldn’t even admit it. I felt ashamed to show my face. I tucked over my handlebars and rode as hard as I could so it wouldn’t catch up with me. I didn’t want to look at it.

I called my girlfriend when I got home, and explained to her how I was doing some introspection and realized I had been acting like an ass. She seemed happy to hear from me. I relaxed, my back and shoulder muscles softening and slipping into a comfortable position. I just laid back on my un-made mattress and let her explain herself, listening to how she felt about things and trying not to jump and respond before her meanings sunk in. The hardest things in life are the obvious ones, like really paying attention to other people, and not letting your wants overshadow every part of your life. I feel considerably better now. I did not tell her about the bus.
:: Ira 3:50 PM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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This weekend I made a bunch of of flyers to promote this site locally. If that is why you are here, drop me a line, tell me it was worth hustling that stack of toner-reeking paper all over town.

Today's topic: Breakfast.

If you are a crusty punkrocker, you might have a left-over beer for breakfast.

If you are a northwoods hippy you might have home-made organic yogurt from the goat in your backyard.

If you are me, climbing sleepily from my basement bedroom into blinding kitchen sunlight, you might realize that you are all out of bagels and be tempted to skip breakfast and buy something downtown. Before you let this happen, be warned, it is a _bad_ idea.

This is why: Glucose is what makes your brain work. When you wake up in the morning, your blood glucose level is at it's daily low-point. The place to get glucose is food, particularly carbohydrates. Who cares though, why should I think in the morning anyway? This seemed like a sound philosophy as I staggered around, trying to get a day's worth of food and school supplies into my messenger bag, remeber what i did with my toothbrush, and decide how many shirts I'll need to prevent me from becoming a biker-flavored popsicle. When I got out into traffic it was a different story, dodging patches of ice and drivers with more communication devices than hands on the steering wheel. I had under-water reaction time. This was not going to work. Sucking in bus exhaust, I dove across Milwaukee Ave. and into the Jewel grocery store parking lot.

There I found my new favorite drink- a Banannaberry Soymilk Smoothie. A quart of the stuff costs a buck fifty, and mixed with three or four bagels in my stomach, makes great fuel. Now I am at work, and I don't have to think at all. That is the downside of breakfast, with all that glucose keeping the brain going, sleeping through the 9 to 5 is difficult. I should take a hint from the shuffling yuppie androids and just mainline coffee all day.

:: Ira 11:32 AM [+] :: [comment/respond]
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