Wednesday, December 10, 2003

What a lousy gray day today. Cold, windy, and...misty. Not really rainy but just a super saturated atmosphere. It's like God had one of those spray bottles that you used to keep the cats of the couch. (Cats are stupid.) Only, rather than setting in on "stream", he set it on "mist" and just misted the hell out of everything. These conditions are deceptive. It doesn't really feel like it's raining...but ten minutes outside and you've got water draining through your hair and dripping off the tip of your nose.

Still working on the mutton chops. Not sure if they're working for me...but I secretly kind of like them. I think I can pull it off. I like them better than the beard, however. Less itchy...but certainly more maintenance. But, really, I kind of like resembling and extra from "Master and Commander"

Another battle with the CTA today and the much maligned, nearly urban-mythologied Purple Line/Evanston Express train. I take the Brown line into the Belmont station, cross up and over the platform to catch the train. (I work in Evanston. Der.) It NEVER fails that just as the Brown line is pulling into the station, the Purple Line is pulling away. Which means at least fifteen minutes of standing in the cold/snow/hail/rain/swarm of voracious locusts that stands in for Chicago weather most of the time. Early on--when I would stand and sadly watch the mocking ass of the Purple line recede in the distance--I would think, sagely, "Leave the house ten minutes earlier tomorrow." Makes sense, no? No. Because then, having left ten minutes earlier, I would still watch the Purple line pull away as I drew in to the station. And for this transgression, I now had to wait twenty minutes of swatting droning locusts away from my head holes. Now I just leave whenever and I am brace myself for the quarter hour of inclement weather I'm going to have to cope with. (As head hole protection from locusts, I've taken to placing a plastic bag over my head. Usually, the rumbling approach of the el trains arouses me from my asphyxia. Or the hobos eating the pistachios out of my pockets.)

So I know the chance are slim but, Lovely Train Crush Girl, if you're reading this, I think you should approach me. You of the nurses scrubs who gets on at the Paulina stop and always in the second car because that's the one that drops you closest to the crossing-over stairs on the Belmont stop; you, too, ride up to Evanston with me, Lovely Train Crush Girl. You with the wavy, shoulder length hair and the big brown eyes like a Virgin Mary's peepers from a Northern Renaissance painting. And who sometimes eats bananas to torture me. You, to me, look like one of the lovely. fecund women from One Hundred Years of Solitude; I could see you walking barefoot across a sunlight courtyard in a weak-blue cotton dress, eating a mango. You know who I am, my Remedios the Beautiful. You're caught me giving you a squint every now and then. I'm the guy with the curly hair and the enormous mutton chops who's always quietly cursing the elusive Purple Line. Yeah, that's me. You should say hello sometime.

Only seven more days until my contract runs out at my current job. So, Lovely Train Crush Girl, it better be soon.

No drinking today. But I did write a long email to the Queen of Ropes. I don't feel bad about it. But I don't feel good, either.