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- last entry / next entry - 2003-05-21 | 12:23 p.m.
"86 degrees at 3:43". 10.8 miles down, and I'm *still* not to Harlem. Sweet Jebus. If Dante had been born in Chicago in the late 70s, I think he'd rewrite his masterpiece to include a slightly important circle of hell that exists here: transporation. I don't know where it would fit into the story, but I can tell you that the el, with heaters fully on ON and everybody looking like Senator Kelly right before his cells rupture, trundling down the track and then getting stuck underground with no possible means of escape or even cooling breezes or breaths--that would make the list. As would the Eisenhower or Kennedy. There's nothing like trying to beat the Friday 3p rush out of the city by leaving at 2:30 and then joining everybody else who's trying to be a smartie and galloping down the freeway at a miserable 10 miles per hour (but that's just an average speed, taking in account the 2 mph crawl that seems to really be the speed unacceptable to all the crazy lane-changers who screw up the traffic by weaving in and out and making the REST of us use our brakes) until your head will explode from either the sun or the ground-shaking speakers in the low-rider next to me or the exhaust or the lip-cracking dehydration slowly taking place as you stop your way down the road. The only thing making it better--fresh spring zephyrs that allow all 4 windows to be rolled down as a breeze reminds me that I love spring. Mostly. When I'm in the country.
"86 degrees at 3:43". 10.8 miles down, and I'm *still* not to Harlem. Sweet Jebus. **The car rant was written as I drove and I'm just letting you know how it is. Traffic--it's for the *other* people. Give me my bike.** ~~~~~ Ever had that dream where you're travelling and get to the airport early for once and board your plane and sit around, calm and collected, and then as the doors are closing they announce the destination (in the completely opposite direction) and you frantically try to exit but they won't let you so you're stuck on a plane to Memphis and you anxiously don't enjoy the flight and bolt off the plane when you land but it's set up like Dallas with different terminals a mile apart and there's a 2 hour layover on the flight so you search around for another flight back the way you came and then hear the final call to board (but it's only been 5 minutes or so) your 'wrong' flight and frantically run like you're in sticky air that slows you down to cartoon-like bounds and the plane is pulling away from the exterior gate as you finally arrive and watch as the pilot grins ferally at you as yu scream for him to stop and let you back on because this plane has the doors of a bus and all he has to do is open the damn doors and you'd be on *a* flight (never mind where) with all you goods and possessions and all you can do is cry and rail against that crack-addict pilot until you wake up entirely disoriented with your heart pounding and eyes wild? Yeah, me neither. - last entry / next entry - |
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