I'm Walkin' Here

Mark is amazed by pedestrians in Chicago. I am not. I used to drive a taxi in Chicago, and I am not surprised or shocked at the utter disregard pedestrians in Chicago have for their safety.

I'm relaxed and grooving to the radio in the car when Mark lets loose with one of his worried intrusions.

"Ahhhhhhh, Alan! Look out!"

I flinch at the sudden outburst. My heart misses a couple of beats, then races.

"WHAT, WHAT THE HELL!" I scream.

"Didn't you see that woman?"

"What woman? The woman with the baby in the stroller who pushed the baby out into traffic to test and see if it was safe for her to follow? That woman?"

"Yes, you almost hit her."

"I did not. I only let her know I was there. Trust me, I saw her all along and was not going to hit her."

Meanwhile, Mark is in a sweat all worried about the next dumbass who might throw themselves in front of the car. Mark is right though. Pedestrians in Chicago have no cares at all when it comes to traffic. They just wander out in front of cars as if they aren't there, as if the car careening towards them is a big, soft pillow. I noticed that back when I drove a cab and adjusted my driving as needed. It's kind of like playing Frogger, except the object is to not hit them. Depending on what neighborhood you are driving through, the game is either tough or simple. Black neighborhoods are the worst. People seem to be challenging you. They look right at you, as if they can stare a car to a stop. Turns out, they can. It's the hipster areas that cause the most distress. Those people are oblivious. They're blabbing on the phone, or more likely, texting while crossing the street. I almost want to actually hit them. Over in the more suburbanized areas, like Lincoln Park, you find parents pushing the strollers out into traffic. They scare me the most. They feel entitled, they feel as if their parenthood protects them and the baby from all harm. It does not.

"CHICAGO (CBS) — An 11-month-old girl in a stroller was hit by a car Saturday morning in the Lincoln Park neighborhood on the North Side. A 60-year-old man was driving a 2015 Toyota Corolla south on Southport at 10:30 a.m. when he turned left onto Clybourn and the car hit the girl, according to Chicago Police."

Fingertips Part III

I'm havign a little trougle typing today. My fingers are fycjhed uyp. There are bandafes on sonme ofy thenm, (Okay, I'll start using spell check) both hands are sore, and I might even have some broken bones. I fell again.

I was walking little Scout when she stopped to poop in the middle of somebody's lawn. Like a good citizen I stepped in there and snatched up that turd with one of my doggy poo bags. As I was walking off the lawn, while tying up the end of the poo bag, I stepped on the brick border twisting my ankle. I slammed down on the concrete sidewalk like two hundred pounds of potatoes dropped from the Sears Tower (Yes, I know it's not called that anymore and the Sox don't play in Comisky Park). Pain shot through my body, and I immediately broke out in a chorus of fucks. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck..... " and on and on for about three minutes. Blood was immediately apparent. I had ripped part of the tip of one finger off, and blood was gushing from a couple of my other fingers. As Scout licked my face and the blood off the sidewalk, people were riding by on bicycles, walking by on the way to work, and driving by. Not one of those assholes stopped to see if I was okay. Oh sure, maybe the madman screaming obscenities caused them to shy away, but there was blood. It should have been obvious that something was wrong. Anyway, after about three or four minutes I was able to roll over and pull myself up. I was a mess. Oh, and that bag of dog shit that I was tying up as I fell? I found it as I rolled over, smashed on the sidewalk under me.

Old Wrinkled Sack

Nothing drives me crazier that seeing a bagger at the supermarket bagging groceries wrong. I can't help myself. When standing there at the checkout counter of the Jewel Store, I can't help but to want to jump in there and do it myself. Invariably I will end up bragging to the cashier about how I was a Jewel bagger back in 1966 and how they actually had a bagging class to train us. That invariably brings everything to a stop for a second as the cashier, the bagger, and Mark all look at me while thinking, "Shut up geezer." Sometimes the cashier will smirk and say, "That's nice", as she throws a can of tomato sauce in the sack, on top of a bag of potato chips. Back in 1966, all we had were paper bags. Then sometime in the 1970's they all started asking, "Paper or Plastic?". Now, besides the paper or plastic option, there is a new wrinkle. They ask you if you want any bag at all. Yes, you now have the choice to either have your groceries put in a bag provided by the store, have them put into a bag that you have brought with you, or have them just toss your purchases into the shopping cart. Yesterday I had them just throw the stuff, loose, into the shopping cart. Why? Because we aren't going to pay the goddamn seven cents that the City of Chicago has levied on each bag that you use. That's fourteen cents for double bagging. No, not gonna do it. They are already getting ten and a half percent sales tax on the shit that goes into the bag, now they want more money or you can just juggle all that stuff in your arms. I know it makes me sound cheap, but they are also about to enforce a new tax on soda. Cook County is about to start taxing you a penny per ounce. That's an extra dollar, forty four, for a twelve pack of Coca Cola. Not gonna do it. I think Chicago and Cook County are killing themselves with this crazy taxing of the little guy. I have not bought one tank of gasoline in Chicago since we have moved here. Instead I wait until we go visit Mom every week. Out there in the distant suburbs, in the land of strip malls and chain restaurants, in one corner of my home town, is Will County. Somehow Tinley Park is partially in Will County, where gasoline is forty cents cheaper, soda is not taxed, and they'll put your goddamned groceries in a bag for free. Besides, there is also a Home Goods Store in that little corner of Tinley, and nothing makes Mark happier than spending an hour roaming the aisles of Home Goods.

Klown Kar

My dad was a clown. I don't mean he goofed around at the house and made us all laugh, he wasn't that kind of a clown. No, dad was a real clown with all the makeup, the big floppy shoes, and the crazy costume. Dad and three of his buddies from the Knights of Columbus had got together and formed a clown act. They would pretty much perform for anybody who asked. Hospitals, carnivals, nun's birthdays. As kids we were very proud of dad when he did his clown act. It was cool that we knew the stars of the show and were kind of in on the joke. My favorite bit was when one of the clowns would chase the other three around and around with a bucket of water. As soon as they got near the audience the bucket was dumped on the front row. Of course it was only confetti, but it worked every time. I think they looked for the oldest, and fattest lady they could find to dump that bucket on, and that lady would always scream as if she were part of the act. I found it hilarious. Unfortunately, something has happened to the proud clown culture. It is no longer looked upon with humor and mirth. It has turned dark. I think it may have started going bad with John Wayne Gacy, the asshole who clowned by day and killed young men by night. Clowns have been featured as homicidal maniacs ever since. Just last year, around Halloween, there was a spate of evil clown sightings around the country. Now we have the most fearsome and scary clown sighting of all, a car load of evil fuckers intent on destroying civilization as we know it. The Republican clown car.

Fresh Air

Yesterday was my bi-annual visit to the eye doctor where I get my eyes poked, bright lights shined in them, and drops of liquids squirted in them. It is not something I look forward to. Good news is that nothing has changed. Seeing that the only way my eyes would change with the glaucoma is if they got worse, that is a good thing. So there was that. I left the doctor's office and was surprised to find that it had gotten even warmer than when I had walked in there. Another good thing. So far Monday was turning out just great. It was in the fifties, the upper mid fifties to be exact, and I got a small case of spring fever. For me spring fever is when I feel like doing something around the house, like cleaning. So I stopped at Petsmart and picked up a doggy pooper scooper with plans to clean all the turds out of our back yard. Because when the temperature rises, so does the stink. I hadn't cleaned it up in a few weeks, so there was a lot. This time however, it was much easier. The last time I had used some latex gloves, the kind the hospitals use, and picked it all up by hand. It was not only disgusting, but it hurt my back with all that bending over. Crap cleaning by hand is not the best, especially when you come across those fresh turds. No, this time I had the pooper scooper from Petsmart. It is a little tray on the end of a long stick, that you flick the turds into with another long stick that has a little rake on the end of it. It worked so well that I managed to pick up more poop than ever before. Around ten pounds of it. Ah, nothing like being out in the fresh air on a lovely spring like afternoon.

I Think I know What's Going on Here

It started years ago when Mark moved in, with bags of chips, cakes, pies, and sumptuous meals. Candy and pancakes and waffles. Delicious food prepared with lots of fat and butter. There was suddenly all sorts of things in my pantry that I would have never put in there. I was a simple man who ate simple things. Meat and a vegetable, maybe a salad, that is what I ate before I met Mark. Even at breakfast, maybe a  pork chop and an egg.

And then there was the clutter. I lived in a starkly furnished apartment. As long as I had a bed, a table, and a nice chair to sit in, I was fine. But then along came Mark, and along with Mark came the stuff. Furniture, artwork, shelves filled with books. My house became a maze that I had to navigate every day. For a man with poor peripheral vision and a innate tendency towards clumsiness, this was clearly a recipe for damage to my body. But despite Mark's subtle attempts at trying to kill me with food and clutter, I have managed to survive with him for nearly twenty years.

I have never thought that he was purposely trying to kill me. Why would he? After all, I'm the nicest, most generous, easiest to get along with guy on Earth. But that was before Saturday when I stepped into the shower and thought for sure my time was up. It was like the surface of an ice rink in there. Mark had coated the entire floor of the shower with body wash gel. All I can say is, thank god that this house was owned by an old lady before me who had installed a shower grab bar. I clung to that grab bar with all my strength, while my feet went two different directions. I now believe it is time that I review my last will and testament. Maybe put a clause in there that if I die of obesity, or tripping over a piece of clutter, or if I slip in the shower and they find me lying there in a pool of body wash suds, Mark gets nothing.