Chicago 'L' Beautiful Woman of the Week

The first rule of this is that White, American women are not allowed.

The second rule is that I'll make an exception to rule #1 if she speaks a language that isn't English. That may actually make it harder for the White women to get recognized since almost no one on the L speaks except for the loud cell phone talker, the teen agers heading home from school, the gay men talking about their latest boyfriends and the 20ish white women complaining about their corporate or near corporate jobs or

"Excuse me. Excuse me. I'm homeless. I don't have a job. I'm just trying to get some money so I can feed my family. Excuse me. Excuse me. If there is any way you can help out it would be appreciated." or (while holding a 1 year old baby)

"The Lord God himself was a kind and generous soul who sent his son down to protect us. Now, if you could find it in your christian hearts to give a little, there would be joy in your soul from christ and the lord would thank you for keeping a child alive one more day" Ding. Doors open. Ding. Doors Close. Switch to another car "The Lord God..."

This award. Award? This recognition goes out to the most beautiful woman I see on the 'L' during the week. Could be any of the lines, but mostly Green, Purple, Red, Brown because that's my domain. Occasionally Orange, Never Yellow or Blue. We'll just have to cross paths some other way.

Does Skin color or race matter? Not to me and neither does weight for those who wonder. But it might to you if you're wondering if it's you. I can't very well just say, black hair, 120 lbs and get it close. Or I could and maybe I will. Sometimes using the color of one's own skin and their race is important. When that happens,it happens. So, today, 22 November 2005, I recognize the Chicago 'L' Beautiful Woman of the Week: From the Brown line. Rush-hour headed north from the Mart. You sat next to the door on the left hand side of the train. Black hair, glasses and a 1950's box shaped purse. 25 or 24 years old. Between 5:15 and 5:57. About 5'2 or 5'4. Lest you think the beauty is all in the looks, it's not. Today I saw a smile that made me smile. I saw happiness in an avalanche of desperation and boredom. That more than anything made her stand out.

There it is Chicago. Your Chicago 'L' Beautiful Woman of the Week.

I love Cree Summer.

Haven't seen her face since she was on "A Different World", but there is just something about her voice that drives me crazy. She may be married, she may live a fantastic life with millions of dollars, and honestly it really wouldn't matter if she was, but I'd drop everything to be with her. Now the voices that do it are at polar opposites. Late at night, I flip on Comedy Central and there she is singing "Crashie Smashie" about her dead bandmates. Wake up in the morning and she's talking to Clifford about doing good things in the world. At first I didn't make the connection. I saw the character on the comedy station and thought for sure it was the cop from Reno 9-11 with the very long fingernails. It just had to be, right? I'm not starting a fan club. I'm not stalking. It's not going any further than the pages of this site. Just a note out to Cree.

What can you say?

Is it possible to disagree with the president?

It is possilble. Once you are behind bars, you can disagree with him and rant and rave all you want and we won't care. But out here? Out here in the real world, in this day and age, you simply cannot and get away with it We have to know your intentions for disagreeing with him and what your background is and just how far you are willing to take your disagreements.

But, I'm not taking them anyplace. They don't go any further than these pages.

That isn't for you to decide. It is for us to probe you, your friends, your work place, your internet access, your cell phone records, come into your house while you are at work without your notice, track what kind of pop you buy at the grocery store on January 13th, 2005 in Tuba City Arizona at 3:46 pm in aisle B6 next to the non-carbonated Yahoo chocolate milk, track what music you listen to, when and where you buy your food and track every single document you have ever printed from your home or work computer directly back to you with a flick of a light wand over the documentation. That 's our job. Your job?

Yeah. What's mine? I never knew that you guys assigned people jobs.

Your job is to live where we zone you, pay the taxes we tell you, funnel your children to the schools we allow you to, keep your opinions to your self, with an occasional allowance for the newspaper and become conformist schleps in a fantasy democratic republic society that is no more real than the crappy reality tv shows that dominate the television airways.

Medicine. Doctors. "Try this pill. Try that pill and we'll get something to work. We'll try as much as possible." They don't know any more than you do. So I take nothing. Nothing for colds. Nothing for acid indigestion. Nothing for headaches. Nothing for erection problems that I don't have. In the end, this is the conversation you will hear. "Mr. Mr. we have tried everything we can think of. There is nothing more that we can do." So, I start there and assume that there is nothing they could do to help me in the first place, so why bother with them? If 90% of being healthy if mental, why would I want to lower that percentage by finding out that might possibly have something that could be cured early by taking this medication? Knowing I have something would take that percentage down to about %50 and leave me depressed with paralysis. So, we live how we live. And we all die the same. Gasping for breath while others think "Oh. He died so peacefully."

I grew up on the south side of the farm district. Up wind from the smell, but there was no escaping the farm life. Up at dawn to do chores. Maybe some breakfast before the 1/4 mile walk down the lane to catch the bus. Back at the farm at 3:53 to do more chores, homework, some supper and maybe a little play time if the sun was still out. That was my life from 5 years old until I left home at 16 because I ddn't want to be a farmer anymore. Not a farmer on their land. I wanted to be a farmer on my own land. With my own house, my own kids and my own homemade breakfast biscuits. So I hitched a ride out of town in a black pick up truck and gave my first head to a semi truck driver at a Dixie truck stop. By the end of my first four days on the road, I had made $1300 and got an apartment in a small town north of McHenry. Close to the Wisconsin border. Close enough to smell the dairy farms I wanted to be on and far enough from my father so he couldn't call me if he wanted to.

It was a love story that had no love. It was painful to watch and even more painful to not do anything. But, that's the hand she dealt us. That was how we remembered her as she walked down the aisle with another man and we sat in the balcony. Not allowed to come down close to her. Not allowed to talk to her, but forced to be there by some unknown reason. It was never explained to me exactly why, but my dad just said that we needed to see and remember. I wondered, why couldn't we just forget?

It worked

I honestly believe the person on the other side of the ouija board was not making it move. Staring at the board, I felt nothing. Non-believer here. Show me something. but then I felt a chill that started at the back of my head, went to the front of my forehead and worked it's way down my body. It didn't start until after the first question was asked. I closed my eyes, lowered my head and heard the voice "Is it supposed to move that fast?" I looked down and it wasn't moving at all, but a centimeter. Any centimeter was fast. He was right. I thought maybe the other person was moving it, but no. It was locked in tight. You can tell the difference if somebody is purposely moving it and if it moves on it's own. Youth has the power to deceive and in many cases they do. But in this instance, there was no deception in progress. This was real and scary. And made me want to try it some more.

And now for something completely stupid: Another Republican subterfuge

Let me get this straight. In the lead up to the war, Republicans called any Democrat who didn't support the war effort or the President "Unpatriotic". "You are demoralizing to the troops." Now the Republicans have come out and said that the Democrats who did support the war were free thinking individuals who made the decision to support the war on their own. But, if a Democrat, now, using that same free thinking mind challenges the President now for misleading the country on prewar intelligence, they are labeled "irresponsible"? Republicans. Can't live with em. Can't tell whether their paycheck comes from the taxpayers or Fox News.

Hello, CTA? I'd like to report a solicitor on the train...

"Attention passengers. Solicitation on CTA trains illegal. Violaters will be arrested," is what I heard. At the same time, I'm looking at an Intel add
soliciting me to buy computers and the Cartoon Network soliciting me to buy cable tv and every business in Evanston beckoning my dollars. So, illegal in this case is a slippery slope. It's legal if you pay the extortion scheme to the CTA juice man sitting at the right hand of the mayor, but illegal if youneed to sell a couple of candy bars quickly to feed your family? I get it that you can't let all the pan handlers on. I get that. I don't pay attention to them as it is.
So here is how the CTA can make even more money and yet still raise the fares annually. You have anyone who wants to panhandle on the CTA, selling god knows what apply for a permit. Permits cost $500/yr. 500 people sign up and you have half a million dollars. This allows them legal access on the trains and depots selling wares. Buses are excluded and so are any trains going north of Belmont. We don't want those fussy folks in the north shore to be triffled.

I have to fight harder and harder and harder each day to get the words out of my mouth as fast as they come to mind or they are lost and I stand there looking like an idiot. Staring at my shoes and not giving direct contact because I can't remember two seconds before what I was trying to say or do. I turn the page in a book and can't remember what was written or what I just read. It is a slow decent into white out so I have to earn as much money, meet as many people, do as many things as possible now because 10 years from now, I won't remember today. I'll remember everything that happened from 1974 backwards and bits and pieces of benign conversations that make people shake their heads with "What the fuck? How do you remember that?" kind of looks. But, finding my keys in the morning. Can't do. Remembering where I put the cup of coffee I just bought. Can't do. Every world series winner from 1968 - 1996 - Yes. What did you just ask me? No. Can't do. It is frightening because it is unclear whether it is a reality that it is happening or just some subconcious masochistic self-fulfilling prophecy? So, I have this to face. Then at some point I'll have the death date. My dad died when he was 44. Not only do I not know if I'll make it past, I don't even know if I'll make it there. And if I do, what then?

I'll pay extra for that

I've been getting and paying for haircuts for many, many years. Not so many lately, but that's a preference thing, not a bald thing.
In all that time I've never had a close relationship with the people who cut my hair. Sit there. Tell them what you want and that's it. No small talk about what their kids are up to.
Today. Today was different. I have seen it done before in obvious places: car dealerships, offices, strip clubs of course, but never a barbershop.
She was well, how old she was isn't important. Not 20ish if it matters. But, she was gorgeous East European. And stacked and knew it. And used it.
My normal haircut takes maybe 15 minutes. She spent 45 and I'll go back just for her.
She smiled a lot and rubbed up against my neck. Again, I've had haircuts, this was different. She paused three or four times to look directly into my eyes and smile. Not saying anything, but smiling. She styled my hair without asking and said "I like it much better like this. You keep like this from now on." Now, as I get up to leave, she pauses again. Smiles and leans her very nice body into me and breathes lustily on the back of my neck. What just happened here? I felt the same way I feel after I'm done with a hooker. Relaxed, confident and definitely want to come back. So I will. But, I won't say where. She's in the city Chicago. You just have find her.

Well, that's not good

I was on the train coming home from work and I heard a familiar voice. I took a step forward to see. Then I heard what she had to say.
"I told this guy that I lost all of my ids and my social security card and my credit cards and now I needed to get a new identity. Plus, I just broke up with my boyfriend after 7 years and it was too soon to be getting in to a relationship."
"And is that true?"
"All lies."
"What did he do?"
"He was all like "That's terrible. Is there anything I can do? I totally understand where you are coming from. I'm cool with that" I mean, if he had any balls and he really wanted me, he would have been pissed you know and tried to fight a little harder. I only met him like twice and was only sober for about 20 minutes of that time, so it's not a big deal. For me anyway. Ha. Ha. Ha."
Welcome to Monday.

Ghost stories never happen to someone you know. Always someone who knows someone. And if you have a ghost story you have been a part of, no one knows about it because people would laugh at you. Some would call mine sleep paralysis. Some would call it just plain paranoia or psychosis. The other night I was sitting at my desk working on paperwork. Bills, notes, work that should have stayed at work. When I looked up, I saw a black clould float by and go by the bathroom. A chill went up my spine and down into my toes. Had I just seen one and if so, should I tell my kids? Inside the bathroom was my younger than 7 daugther taking a bath with the door open. Not 30 seconds after I saw the black clould go by, I hear a voice from the bathroom "Daddy, can you come here?" I let it go for three times, then finally got up to see what she wanted. I was still trembling from my own visions. "Daddy, was that a real ghost that went by the door? Had she really seen a ghost? Had she really known that I had seen something too, without even knowing what I was doing? My heart was beating more than ever now. I shook and answered: Yes. I think it was. Strange to say to a person so young and impressionable. "But daddy, that didn't feel like a good ghost to me. That felt like a bad ghost. Don't let him come back again, ok?" And down her head went behind the ceramic of the tub. And the curtain closed. I stood there for 15 seconds or more just breathing heavily and then walked away. Ghost stories do happen. Ghosts are real and they don't all come in these fashions. Not every ghost is a vision that can be caught with a camera and preserved. Many ghosts are caught and perserved in your mind. These ghosts never go away. This kind of logic is not new. Certainly these ideas have been around for millions of years. But what of the years now? What ghost stories do you have to tell? Urban legends? Certain people have been telling me stories about the military for years and I refused to believe them. Does that make me paranoid or an obstructionist to history?

On the streets of this city there are denizens. They live close by, maybe next to your house, but not in a house. "Dave" lives next to my house. Under a blanket and a tent tarp behind an abandoned storefront, he curls up nightly with fresh booze. Maybe it's a 40 oz bottle. Maybe a 16oz can in paper. In the morning he's gone. Gone down the street checking each of the black garbage cans for something useful. I see him each morning as I walk to get the paper. Sometimes I see him at night with a friend and a plastic bag of booze. The building is abandoned. Why doesn't he break in?