Ice Cold In Chicago

This past weekend brought a rather nasty cold spell that left the temperatures hovering around 7° F. Jeez, I hate to even think about venturing outdoors when it’s in the single digits, but Sunday morning saw me out and about twice.

At 7:30am, I headed to Ginger’s Ale House on Ashland where I joined Alan and the rest of the soccer fans to cheer on Manchester United as they played Manchester City. For those who are going, huh?… let me clarify: we like to watch the original football- English Premier League soccer matches. Being a fan of soccer for a long time, Alan got me to join him to cheer on his favorite team a couple of years back. As a result, I became hooked, and now will get up at what Rick and Alan’s wife Erin call ‘ungodly’ hours to go watch the Red Devils (hopefully) kick ass.

This Manchester derby match was particularly poignant this Sunday, as it was the 50th anniversary of the Munich air disaster, where a plane crashed as it was taking off and killed 23 people on board, 8 of whom were Man United’s Busby Babes. A victory over Man City would have been a fitting cap to the tribute that was held. Alas, not so much, as they lost 2-1, and fell to second place in the Premiership.

After the match, I returned home and coaxed Rick out of bed and out to brunch at M Henry, one of our favorite Andersonville breakfast spots. The food was amazing: Rick had the apple and brie french toast, and I had the shrimp, asparagus and mushroom omlette with lobster sauce and salmon caviar. I also had a chance to see an old college alum of mine, Dan, who manages the front of house there. Definitely worth the trip into the deep freeze.

The only sour point of the excursions, besides the biting wind that cut through my jeans and nearly burnt my lips, was the fact that Rick and I had to dodge the occasional strip of sidewalk that some lazy git didn’t bother to shovel or salt, and with the fluctuating temps had become dangerous sheets of ice. It cracks me up, the crazy fucks of this city: they will spend hours cleaning out a parking spot and loading it with signs and junk to protect it, but the sidewalk in front of their home? Not a chance. And these sheets of ice are dangerous. One good spill and it’s a leg cast for 12 weeks like my friend Steven.

I think the most blatant example of this is actually on my block, where the owners of a building actually shoveled from their front door to the walk beside their house, but left the strip in front completely untouched. What a good neighbor, so concerned for himself but screw the rest of the block. As clumsy as I am, I’m so afraid of slipping and breaking something. However, if I do, they are so paying for the ER visit.

Rick and I are so conscientious of making sure the front of our building is clear, and the last time he shoveled he even cleared a path in front of the empty house to the left. “At the very least, our mail carrier will appreciate the path,” he reasoned, and I couldn’t agree more. I know we appreciated it on the way to M Henry. And even if they didn’t think about it at the time, I’m sure every person who walks down the block and manages to make it across some lazy home owner’s sidewalk ice trap looks ahead and is thankful for the path that is clear ahead.

Finger lickin' foul

Alan and I spent the day hanging out downtown on Wednesday. We enjoyed lunch at Perry’s Deli on N. Franklin, and oh my were the sandwiches HUGE! Very fantastic. Afterwards, we dodged the snow bullets to hit Rock Records on West Washington for all of five minutes, as I searched in vain for the new Bob Mould and realized in Technicolor why the indie CD shop was a dying breed. Blah, a dreadful selection. I guess the three rows of Jack Johnson’s new disc should have been my first indicator.

The remainder of the afternoon was spent at Elephant & Castle on Adams, where we watched the England national soccer team, under the guidance of new coach Fabio Capello, take on Switzerland and win 2-1 at Wembley. It was a slightly boring match, as the first half showed the players not making as strong of an effort as they could have. The second half more than made up for it. I guess Capello gave them what for at the half, as it was his first match as their coach. Frankly, we prefer watching United and the Premiership matches.

But it was the ride home that was full of great amusement for the two of us, and was, for me, one of the highlights of the afternoon. We sat in judgement of those around us, giddy and a bit toasted from the beers we imbibed at Elephant & Castle. As we glanced around at the train full of commuters cramming their way onto the Brown Line as rush hour was just starting up, I got Alan to do a bit of people watching. I think he saw the humor I find in it.

One guy immediately caught our interest and immediately became the target of our disdain, so much that I commented to Alan, ‘I think that guy is writing my blog for me”. My guess was he was a student, most likely from Roosevelt University by the way he dressed, because no one from the Art School of Doom, er, the Art Institute, would EVER be caught dead in public with what he was wearing: sweatpants. But not just any color, a lovely shade of turquoise sweatpants. Alan scoffed at the look, and nearly burst out laughing at this guy’s choice fashions. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but notice he wasn’t as ‘supported’ as he could have been… not that there was much to speak of, in front or behind. Sweats reveal all, which is why they are for lounging around the house, not for riding the subway.

The true error of sweats guy ways, however, was that he chose the train to munch on McDonald’s fries. He licked his greasy fingers hungrily with every bite, and even had the ignorance to smack his lips as he ate. I thought Alan and I were going to choke, we tried so hard not to laugh. Instead, we commented aloud at how cool it was to eat with one’s mouth open on the train, and how hungry he was making us.

Sweats/Fry Guy’s eating habit was a crude, ignorant yet all too common display of peoples manners on our public transit system. So many times I’ve had to hold back from gagging as I enter a train to the rancid smell of decaying chicken bones that some asshole left behind on his or her commute from Howard Street to the Loop. Then there are the high school delinquents who proceed to munch loudly on hot fries and cheese curls, wiping their psuedo-cheese encrusted fingers on the same seats that the rest of us have to sit in. It’s foul, messy, and illegal. Yet no one who works for the CTA makes an effort to put a stop to this gross flouting of etiquette and decency. Hell, they even encourage it, with Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts and convenience stores in the El stations. Yuck.

As Alan departed with a smile at Armitage, karma, or maybe just dumb luck, struck me, as Sweats/Fry Guy suddenly sat next to me where Alan had been just moments before. Luckily, I jumped up and off the train at Fullerton, so I didn’t allow him the chance to wipe his greasy fry hand on me. Ick. Needless to say, while that’s hopefully the last I’ll ever see of Fry Guy, I’m sure Chicken Man or Burrito Boy will be replacing him on another train commute in the near future.