A Chicago-based NY Times literary critic had this to say about Chicago,
“‘Poor Chicago,’ a friend of mine recently said. Given the number of urban apocalypses here, I couldn’t tell which problem she was referring to.“
and now all of Chicago is crying tears into the river over it. Which they should really stop because apparently every local body of water is still recovering from last week’s 1-day period of rainfall, so any extra liquid could put us in a hunker-down with your Italian beef situation. Seeing as I never have and never plan on dealing with a desire for soggy beef, I’m going to hope that Chicago stops crying.
Chicago is in the dumps, but then again, so is America. No one is safe and no one is happy (except maybe those who got to see Dr. Schlomo @ Coachella), and everyone is critical and judgmental and, honestly, for good reason. We’ve proved that none of us are capable of trust.
This morning, some young corporate noob was getting on my bus route and (for the second consecutive day) his fare card was invalid or inactivated or incontinent or something. Today, unlike yesterday, the bus driver did not let him hitch the 8 minute ride. I spent my entire 8 minute trip wishing I hadn’t sat so far back and was able to pull some bullshit where I just throw $2.25 in the fare machine (it’s one of those rare days when I actually carry singles) and then he goes and tells his coworkers about the decency of strangers on public transit.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll get the chance (if I don’t use my singles on candy or a croissant or something. I make no promises.)