It was three degrees when I left my apartment this morning, walked the torturous eight blocks to the train, listening to John Lee Hookers voice buck dances on tthrough the stomping rythm. It's a small comfort, with these artic winds blowing through me like a Hoovertown hut. Damn near impossible to ignore a cold like this, only someone as disciplined as old Dali on the hill could accomplish it. "Freight train is my only friend," Hooker croons, and hey, life is full of discomfort. I live in a pretty yuppie part of town, but, as my brother-in-law says, "these yuppies don't look down on people who are different than them, just one's that are the same." Not much better, but hell, ya can't beat the restaurants.

Anybody who wants to face down old mother nature with me, I'm open for business.

Merry Christmas

Catcaller, buckdancers, and the like

It was three degrees when I left my apartment this morning, walked the torturous eight blocks to the train, all the while listening to John Lee Hookers voice buck dancing on through the stomping rhythm. It's a small comfort, with these artic winds blowing through me like a Hoovertown hut. Damn near impossible to ignore a cold like this, only someone as disciplined as old Dali on the hill could accomplish it. "Freight train is my only friend," Hooker croons, and hey, life is full of discomfort. I live in a pretty yuppie part of town, but, as my brother-in-law says, "these yuppies don't look down on people who are different than them, just one's that are the same." Not much better, but hell, ya can't beat the restaurants.

Anybody who wants to face down old mother nature with me, I'm open for business.

Merry Christmas

... and then there are those Paul McCartney Christmas songs

It's cold and white in Chicago. I'm sitting outside a window staring at a white tree centered perfectly in the large bay window of a condo on Cortland Avenue. The room behind the tree is decked in all holiday cheer, emanating a warm snug feeling that is intensified by the wind biting at my cheeks. I can imagine candy canes and sugar plums, a loving wife ready to snap a present out of my hands, scream in anticipation , and kiss me saying, "it's just what I wanted."
The wind is cold and forces my hands in my pockets. Reality is a jealous woman screaming in your ear, angry at any dream that may distract you for a moment. I continue to walk home closely watching the sidewalk in front of me, because I don't know if I can take the face of one more stranger.
Chicago is the home to over 3.5 million human beings, and, for one of them, one of the most lonely places in the world. Here you can’t see the trees through the forest. Nothing is in short supply, so nothing is really treasured. Especially when the fish in the sea words of many disenfranchised lovers is put in the storefront windows of every boutique.
The rain too is abandoned, unable to find a piece of earth to drowned itself in. Instead it gathers in puddles, and waits to either turn to ice, or be pushed to somewhere new. Standing there, watching the white tree glisten and dream, I think to myself that even cold concrete can have it's charm, it's just that those that have so little money and so much time have the patience to look. Merry Christmas