TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When I think Ted Nugent, I think [blank]!
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Finding some clean snow for snow angels! AND THIS!!!
FAMETRACKER ARCHIVE OF THE DAY: Jonathan Rhys Meyers fame audit
(Continued from Tuesday's post.)
October 2006, Evanston, IL
I know what you're thinking: What in the name of hair metal and hunting rifles does Ted Nugent have to do with a train ride to Wisconsin? Oh, ye of little imagination. Don't you know by now? Ted Nugent is EVERYWHERE. Specifically, he is everywhere I go. I see him in the chip aisle at Jewel, but turns out it's just "some dude" with "cut-it" hair on the hunt for munchies. Lately I think it could be him getting on the train with me at Washington and Dearborn every afternoon, but I'm not tall enough to tell for sure through the crowd. Then even when I'm home safely, napping soundly in my bed, he haunts my dreams (usually by playing some wailing guitar riff on the neck of Bambi).
Much like I hope my Fametracker piece Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush will get me to stop obsessing over those two topics, I hope that by taking a detour to Nugentville now, it can be the last time. It's gonna be tough, kinda like when I've tried to give up chips and salsa. But I think it's worth a try. Purge the Nuge with me, won't you?
So, with four hours to kill before the Kenosha train and an American Apparel store to avoid, I decided to head back to Dr. Wax for some music-dork browsing. I'd flipped through maybe two rows of records before, somehow, I managed to strike up what must have been my eight millionth Conversation With A Stranger Regarding The Mystery And The Majesty Of Ted Nugent. This is my favorite stranger conversation of all time (even better than the general "Tell me a story!" one I use on the unfortunate soul sitting next to me on an airplane during turbulance). I like to hear what other people have to say about the Nuge. You never know what they'll know. The Dr. Wax clerk provided an exciting new tidbit for my Ted collection: Did you know the Motor City Madman has a line of beef jerky? He does!
Otherwise our chat was nothing major, just the usual “Isn’t that guy a nut, but, like, a totally intriguing, hilarious nut?” conversation. If I need to, I can bust out memorized quotes from Nugent's autobiography/manifesto, God, Guns, and Rock'N'Roll, which introduced me to the phrase "full bluntal nugity" and which includes a letter to the children of world about living life, Ted-style. (Buy it now, people.) (Used, of course.)
I'm not sure if I'm ready yet for some of his other literary works, which include Blood Trails II: The Truth About Bowhunting and Kill It & Grill It. But I’m pretty sure I know why I've accidentally become obsessed with their "author." The reason is: Ted Nugent is news to me. New news.
Until college, I had never set foot in the Midwest. I probably could not have told you which city is the motor one (Detroit, right?). As a little kid, all I knew musically were my parents' faves: The Beatles, Merle Haggard, George Jones, Bob Wills, and Aretha Franklin. Then from third grade till high school, my musical taste ranged from Cyndi Lauper to Cinderella, Led Zepplin to the Dead Milkmen, and generally included a lot of Violent Femmes, They Might Be Giants, and (what the hell) Richard Marx. (If you want to hear the story about the time a radio station hosted a promotional event involving a bleary-eyed Marx signing autographs from 6-10 a.m. over breakfast at an Austin taco joint and my mom taking my sister and me before school, it’ll cost ya.)
The point is: I'd never heard of Ted Nugent. Not until college, when an Onion article came into my life. The headline was “Ted Nugent Talks That Way Even When Buying Socks” and after 10 years of fondling the newsprint, I have the story memorized:
According to JC Penney men’s-department sources, rocker Ted Nugent talks that way even when buying socks. “What color socks do I want? I want every damn color, plus a whole bunch that don’t even exist. Life is too short, man. Whether it’s socks or shoes or whatever, you gotta bite into life like it’s a big ol’ hunk of bison. Otherwise, you wake up and suddenly – poof – you’re fat and old, and you never had any friggin’ fun. And if you’re not having fun, you may as well move to Iraq or Cuba or some other hellhole where there ain’t no good times to be had.” Nugent added that that’s the way he sees it, and if you don’t like it, you can kiss his lily-white ass.
That article is lovingly stuck by magnet to my refrigerator as we speak. I treasure it like normal people do a pet. In fact, I want to meet it’s author and buy her a pony. That writer exposed me (so to speak) to this "Ted Nugent" person, a man clearly worth knowing about. The blurb indicated he was a “rocker.” And that he was crazy. Those are two qualities I look for in an obsession, or a life partner, for that matter. Still, otherwise, Ted-wise, I had nuthin. Who was this masked man?
Ever since then, I have been paying attention. When the Nuge opened for KISS in San Antonio in 2000 and told the crowd that Americans should be required to speak English, I cursed him (puta!) like everybody else. But then he started doing reality shows and there he was, back in my good graces again. I mean, did everyone see VH1’s Supergroup with Nugent and Sebastian Bach? The hair! The conflicting schedules for hunting and rocking! The drama over choosing FIST! as a band name! The declaration of "I still agree with me"! Oh, swoon. If that show is not out on DVD soon, I'm starting a petition.
Frankly, that was the problem with Northwestern University -- no insane hunter/rocker dudes with cat-scratch fever and a penchant for (one can only assume) wringing the necks of entire populations of woodland creatures with his bare hands, on the rare occasion a rifle or switchblade isn't handy. Ted Nugent is the TV show Deadwood come to life, but without wasting a scene here and there on a love story.
As I left Dr. Wax record store and headed for Northwestern's campus, I made myself a promise. No more conversations about Ted Nugent today! I figured I had about a 50-50 shot at it, maybe better as long as no one offered me any beef jerky or hollow bullets in the student union.
(Continued tomorrow.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Greatest Hits: Fametracker fame audits
Woohoo! The post you've all been waiting for -- my collective thoughts on Ted Nugent -- is on its way tomorrow. In the meantime, please enjoy some of my Fametracker fame audits of yore. -- Erin :)
Joaquin Phoenix . . . Sample rant: "It's hard to imagine a Hollywood producer barking at a casting agent, 'Find me the second most famous actor in a family, preferably with a lip scar and a nose like a claw, or you'll never work in this town again!'"
Jake Gyllenhaal . . . Sample rant: "If this time next year I have to watch you making animal crackers dance around on Liv Tyler's naked stomach, I will not be held responsible for my actions."
Adrien Grenier . . . Sample rant: "He cooks and loves his mom but -- oh, the humbling curse of the rich and famous! -- can't find a date. (May we suggest Laidster.com? Or a haircut?)"
Joaquin Phoenix . . . Sample rant: "It's hard to imagine a Hollywood producer barking at a casting agent, 'Find me the second most famous actor in a family, preferably with a lip scar and a nose like a claw, or you'll never work in this town again!'"
Jake Gyllenhaal . . . Sample rant: "If this time next year I have to watch you making animal crackers dance around on Liv Tyler's naked stomach, I will not be held responsible for my actions."
Adrien Grenier . . . Sample rant: "He cooks and loves his mom but -- oh, the humbling curse of the rich and famous! -- can't find a date. (May we suggest Laidster.com? Or a haircut?)"
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 8: Commence!)
FAMETRACKER archive of the day: Battle of the Nerdy Spawn of Tom Hawks
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Your favorite pair of shoes? Tell us!
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Going out and having fun tonight, blizzard be damned! -- Erin :)
(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, IL
Walking around Evanston, killing those FOUR HOURS before the next Kenosha train, I passed the shoe store that witnessed one of my all-time triumphs. It was a Saturday morning in 1997 and two of my Northwestern dormmates, Cindy and Jenni, wanted to look for new kicks. My closet was already overflowing a la Imelda Marcos, but who was I to desert my friends in their hour of need, especially when I was such an expert on the topic at hand? It would be cruel of me to deny Cindy and Jenni access to my skills.
“I am only going for moral support,” I told them. “No shoes for me!”
And I meant it. I really did. As we opened the door to the store, I was actually repeating those words aloud, as if a good mantra could ward off the inevitable.
“I am only going for moral support,” I said again, walking in. “I’m not buying anything. I don’t need anything, and . . . ”
. . . and then, the world stopped spinning and time stood still. There they were. THE SHOES. MY SHOES. On the wall, at eye level, 15 feet from my face. They were Converse All-Stars, but oh god, they were so much more. They were plastic-y and silver, with tiny pink, glittery sparkles all over. They had pink stars where normal Cons had, what, white ones? Or black ones? I didn’t know. My memory of all other shoes had been obliterated by this pair. The edge of the sole was white with a jaunty grey stripe going around it. And . . .
“. . . and I AM A LIAR!” I exclaimed, pushing past my friends and making a beeline for the shoe display. “I need these in an 8!” I breathlessly told the clerk. I shrugged at my friends. They knew me. What could I do? The shoes were silver and pink and glittery, damnit!
I wore those shoes to my journalism school graduation two years later, along with what can only be described as Outrageous Moon Pants – silver again, in jean form but somehow made of thin, stretchy spandex – and a v-neck Radiohead t-shirt. The day before, at the campus-wide commencement ceremony, I wore a swishy dress and my black, knee-high combat-meets-go-go boots. (Long before I had the Personals as a legitimate excuse to be on stage, I loved a good costume change.)
Of course, I was wearing all that jazz under a dignified black robe. But still. During the journalism graduation, you could clearly see the silver sneakers and moon pants peaking out. It was a classy ceremony in a classy theater. Each student was only allowed a couple of tickets. I had to beg and barter for more so two parents, one stepmom, one sister, one boyfriend, and one childhood best friend could get in. Much to my dismay, they did not allow airhorns at Northwestern graduations. (I guess, technically, they didn’t allow them at my high school graduation either, but that didn’t stop my dad.) The audience was instructed to save its applause for the end.
“I don’t care what the dean says,” I told my crew beforehand. “And I don’t care what the other families do. We are Walters, and you better go beserk when they call my name.”
My family did not disappoint. They were LOUD. We’re good at that. (For my part, I made quite the fool of myself from the audience, standing and screaming like a banshee in the name of friendship when my roommate from the Portland internship was trotted out as our perfect-GPA valedictorian.) And when I crossed the stage, family hooting and hollering, the stuffy dean shook my hand, leaned in, and – I swear -- whispered in my ear, “You want to yell back, don’t you?”
And I did. Hell yeah, I did. So I did. It was an answer to the dean’s question, but I directed it to my family in the balcony.
“YEAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed and thrust my fist in the air, like Metallica had just brought Ozzy out with them for an encore. It felt amazing.
Bye bye, college. It’s been real!
(Continued tomorrow . . . Maybe I'll get on the train. Maybe I'll finally tell you about that whole Oilver North/auto theft debacle.)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Your favorite pair of shoes? Tell us!
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Going out and having fun tonight, blizzard be damned! -- Erin :)
(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, IL
Walking around Evanston, killing those FOUR HOURS before the next Kenosha train, I passed the shoe store that witnessed one of my all-time triumphs. It was a Saturday morning in 1997 and two of my Northwestern dormmates, Cindy and Jenni, wanted to look for new kicks. My closet was already overflowing a la Imelda Marcos, but who was I to desert my friends in their hour of need, especially when I was such an expert on the topic at hand? It would be cruel of me to deny Cindy and Jenni access to my skills.
“I am only going for moral support,” I told them. “No shoes for me!”
And I meant it. I really did. As we opened the door to the store, I was actually repeating those words aloud, as if a good mantra could ward off the inevitable.
“I am only going for moral support,” I said again, walking in. “I’m not buying anything. I don’t need anything, and . . . ”
. . . and then, the world stopped spinning and time stood still. There they were. THE SHOES. MY SHOES. On the wall, at eye level, 15 feet from my face. They were Converse All-Stars, but oh god, they were so much more. They were plastic-y and silver, with tiny pink, glittery sparkles all over. They had pink stars where normal Cons had, what, white ones? Or black ones? I didn’t know. My memory of all other shoes had been obliterated by this pair. The edge of the sole was white with a jaunty grey stripe going around it. And . . .
“. . . and I AM A LIAR!” I exclaimed, pushing past my friends and making a beeline for the shoe display. “I need these in an 8!” I breathlessly told the clerk. I shrugged at my friends. They knew me. What could I do? The shoes were silver and pink and glittery, damnit!
I wore those shoes to my journalism school graduation two years later, along with what can only be described as Outrageous Moon Pants – silver again, in jean form but somehow made of thin, stretchy spandex – and a v-neck Radiohead t-shirt. The day before, at the campus-wide commencement ceremony, I wore a swishy dress and my black, knee-high combat-meets-go-go boots. (Long before I had the Personals as a legitimate excuse to be on stage, I loved a good costume change.)
Of course, I was wearing all that jazz under a dignified black robe. But still. During the journalism graduation, you could clearly see the silver sneakers and moon pants peaking out. It was a classy ceremony in a classy theater. Each student was only allowed a couple of tickets. I had to beg and barter for more so two parents, one stepmom, one sister, one boyfriend, and one childhood best friend could get in. Much to my dismay, they did not allow airhorns at Northwestern graduations. (I guess, technically, they didn’t allow them at my high school graduation either, but that didn’t stop my dad.) The audience was instructed to save its applause for the end.
“I don’t care what the dean says,” I told my crew beforehand. “And I don’t care what the other families do. We are Walters, and you better go beserk when they call my name.”
My family did not disappoint. They were LOUD. We’re good at that. (For my part, I made quite the fool of myself from the audience, standing and screaming like a banshee in the name of friendship when my roommate from the Portland internship was trotted out as our perfect-GPA valedictorian.) And when I crossed the stage, family hooting and hollering, the stuffy dean shook my hand, leaned in, and – I swear -- whispered in my ear, “You want to yell back, don’t you?”
And I did. Hell yeah, I did. So I did. It was an answer to the dean’s question, but I directed it to my family in the balcony.
“YEAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed and thrust my fist in the air, like Metallica had just brought Ozzy out with them for an encore. It felt amazing.
Bye bye, college. It’s been real!
(Continued tomorrow . . . Maybe I'll get on the train. Maybe I'll finally tell you about that whole Oilver North/auto theft debacle.)
Monday, February 12, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 7: Evanstontastic!)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Am I crazy or is a certain store with the initials A.A. the most annoying clothier in decades? Vote in your comment below. (And if your answer is NO, which store do you think really deserves the title?)
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Chicago band Alkaline Trio. Love them. And now, back to our story . . .
(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
If we shant go to Kenosha, we shall shop. Shopping is the next best thing to Wisconsin, right? But I can tell you where I will not be going in Evanston on this fateful day. I'll give you a hint -- soft t-shirts, unsupportive halter dresses, and more attitude than an international Chloe Sevigny fan club convention. Yep, Evanston has an American Apparel now!
Oh, how I loathe that store. Not the products, per se -- I’m sure the Personals will have our yellow car logo on a girly tee or two before too long. I just wish the company would stop hitting me over the head with how cool they are. In the Chicago Reader! On the back of the Onion! Via hipsters who seem planted at my favorite bars, wearing gold lame hot pants (that's supposed to be pronounced "lamay," like the fabric, but I couldn't figure out how to make an accent over the "e," and "lame" is just as accurate).
The hot pants people are hanging around strategically, just waiting to tell me how much they LOVE American Apparel. Well, good for them. But as far as I’m concerned, AA is the 21st Century equivalent of Units. (Remember that store in the mall? Everything you bought there could be a shirt, or a dress, or a belt, or a headband. Or a jockstrap or a diaper or a plug for a gaping head wound! Fun.) So needless to say, when I see the new AA, I spit on the sidewalk and keep walking.
Next, I pass a Mexican restaurant that reminds me of the first time I ever got sick from drinking. I didn’t know it then, but that night would become the prototype for all other drunken barfing experiences in my life. The main elements include: margaritas and nachos or other greasy food at dinner, followed by pre-night-out drinking in someone’s apartment (It’s free! And it’s the worst idea ever -- wine for a while, vodka for a while, a cigarette or two on the balcony). It all culminates with a ride on public transit to some dance club to which I will never actually arrive, because three stops out of Evanston, I will have to get up and yak. Hey, it's classy, and that particular El platform (I'm not naming names) is my disgusting territory forever and ever, amen.
And speaking of drinking, I also pass the apartment where, at a party, I remember being very excited that some guy I didn’t know had a neon Shiner Bock beer sign on his wall. I must have been pretty starved for Texasness, since I hate beer. I also pass the sports bar where I ordered a mudslide and proceeded to drink it with the same breakneck speed I drink normal milkshakes, not really considering the alcohol content, and causing both an instant brainfreeze and an instant hangover headache.
These stories may suggest I drank a lot in college. I wish. Northwestern was the kind of place where people declined invitations to go out on Friday nights. “I have bio homework,” they would say with a straight face, as though that were some kind of excuse.
I was not remotely intoxicated during my college graduation, but I'm sure the dean thought I was. There were silver pants. There was screaming from the stage. And we will get to that tomorrow.
(To be continued . . . )
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Chicago band Alkaline Trio. Love them. And now, back to our story . . .
(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
If we shant go to Kenosha, we shall shop. Shopping is the next best thing to Wisconsin, right? But I can tell you where I will not be going in Evanston on this fateful day. I'll give you a hint -- soft t-shirts, unsupportive halter dresses, and more attitude than an international Chloe Sevigny fan club convention. Yep, Evanston has an American Apparel now!
Oh, how I loathe that store. Not the products, per se -- I’m sure the Personals will have our yellow car logo on a girly tee or two before too long. I just wish the company would stop hitting me over the head with how cool they are. In the Chicago Reader! On the back of the Onion! Via hipsters who seem planted at my favorite bars, wearing gold lame hot pants (that's supposed to be pronounced "lamay," like the fabric, but I couldn't figure out how to make an accent over the "e," and "lame" is just as accurate).
The hot pants people are hanging around strategically, just waiting to tell me how much they LOVE American Apparel. Well, good for them. But as far as I’m concerned, AA is the 21st Century equivalent of Units. (Remember that store in the mall? Everything you bought there could be a shirt, or a dress, or a belt, or a headband. Or a jockstrap or a diaper or a plug for a gaping head wound! Fun.) So needless to say, when I see the new AA, I spit on the sidewalk and keep walking.
Next, I pass a Mexican restaurant that reminds me of the first time I ever got sick from drinking. I didn’t know it then, but that night would become the prototype for all other drunken barfing experiences in my life. The main elements include: margaritas and nachos or other greasy food at dinner, followed by pre-night-out drinking in someone’s apartment (It’s free! And it’s the worst idea ever -- wine for a while, vodka for a while, a cigarette or two on the balcony). It all culminates with a ride on public transit to some dance club to which I will never actually arrive, because three stops out of Evanston, I will have to get up and yak. Hey, it's classy, and that particular El platform (I'm not naming names) is my disgusting territory forever and ever, amen.
And speaking of drinking, I also pass the apartment where, at a party, I remember being very excited that some guy I didn’t know had a neon Shiner Bock beer sign on his wall. I must have been pretty starved for Texasness, since I hate beer. I also pass the sports bar where I ordered a mudslide and proceeded to drink it with the same breakneck speed I drink normal milkshakes, not really considering the alcohol content, and causing both an instant brainfreeze and an instant hangover headache.
These stories may suggest I drank a lot in college. I wish. Northwestern was the kind of place where people declined invitations to go out on Friday nights. “I have bio homework,” they would say with a straight face, as though that were some kind of excuse.
I was not remotely intoxicated during my college graduation, but I'm sure the dean thought I was. There were silver pants. There was screaming from the stage. And we will get to that tomorrow.
(To be continued . . . )
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 6.5)
Today's post will come by 8 p.m. CST, promise. It's just been a busy day.
In the meantime, have you met my kickass new band, the Hidden Mitten, or my raucous, beloved longtime band, The Personals? If not, you should!
Back soon with the ol' essay, darlings . . . Erin :)
In the meantime, have you met my kickass new band, the Hidden Mitten, or my raucous, beloved longtime band, The Personals? If not, you should!
Back soon with the ol' essay, darlings . . . Erin :)
Friday, February 9, 2007
Greatest Hits: Celebrity vs. Thing
Thanks to a semi-late night and a semi-early morning, I think today is another good day for some of my Fametracker.com greatest hits. As a I reported previously, some old stuff has to come down off the site for legal reasons, so enjoy it now! And have a rockstastic weekend! -- Erin :)
Johnny Depp vs. Chocolate
Wentworth Miller vs. Mirrors
Heidi Klum vs. Bras
Johnny Depp vs. Chocolate
Wentworth Miller vs. Mirrors
Heidi Klum vs. Bras
Thursday, February 8, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 6: FOUR HOURS!)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: At this point in the saga, would you go home or stick around for the next train? Chime in below! And I think I'm adding something new today . . .
LOVE OF THE DAY: Ease Down the Road by Bonnie Prince Billy
(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
The instant I felt the air under my feet, I knew jumping was a huge mistake. The train chugged away and I realized: so what if that was the wrong one? It was a 50-50 shot, and regardless, that train was going in the right direction. If it had turned out to be the wrong one, I could've simply gotten off at the next stop and waited a minute or two for the Kenosha train. Makes sense now.
But, of course, that was the Kenosha train. How could it not be? It was just that kind of day. And the next Kenosha train was not for almost four hours. FOUR HOURS!
I felt totally dejected. I could not believe how badly I’d blown it. I mean, last summer I was frequently late for my voice lessons because I'd yet to grasp the finer points of the CTA brown line, but we’re talking a few minutes late. Not six hours. I had arrived at my neighborhood Metra station at 10:43 a.m., expecting to be in Wisconsin by lunch. It now appeared I would be taking the 4:33 p.m. train, if I decided to go at all. Sure, once upon a time, I happily lived in Evanston for three years. But at that moment, I thought I might jump off something much higher than the train platform if I had to spend another three minutes there, let alone three hours.
Ugh. Everyone else -- even the pervy bankers -- understood how the Metra works. When it comes, you go. What was wrong with me?
I stopped by the conductor’s booth once more, just to verify, 100%, how thoroughly I had blown it. (Yep. Thoroughly.) Worst of all, I found out the last train of the day back to Chicago from Wisconsin left 11 minutes after the Kenosha train arrived. Basically, if I hung around Evanston long enough to fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha (please, just try to say “fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha” aloud without laughing), I would be there long enough to take a whiz, as long as there wasn't a big line for the ladies' room. Fantastic. What a great story that would make.
THE PEEPS: "Yo, what did you do today?"
ME: "Went out of state to pee."
I surveyed Evanston from the elevated heights of the train station. It was beginning to dawn on me that my little college town -- the one that didn't allow bars or bowling alleys because, as the rumor goes, students would get drunk and try to fling their naked selves down the lane at the pins -- had gone through some big changes in six years. Now I could have thrown a rock and hit the following establishments: Pier 1, Coldstone, Ann Taylor Loft, Urban Outfitters, LA Fitness, Chili’s, the inexplicably named Fashion Tomato, a two-story Borders, and Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. Someone had also seen fit to move the one-story Barnes & Noble diagonally across the street (a grand total of, say, 30 feet) and add a second floor. The pitiful shell of the old one was still obvious, since shadows of the words Barnes & Noble remained on its façade where the sign had been.
Maybe I had been too hasty, considering suicide over shopping. After all, it may be a chain, but Urban Outfitters does sell the Erin essentials: tights, hoop earrings, miniskirts, yellow stuff of all sorts. OK, that settles it. The show must go on!
(And it goes on tomorrow. Four words: Tight, shiny silver pants. See you then!)
LOVE OF THE DAY: Ease Down the Road by Bonnie Prince Billy
(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
The instant I felt the air under my feet, I knew jumping was a huge mistake. The train chugged away and I realized: so what if that was the wrong one? It was a 50-50 shot, and regardless, that train was going in the right direction. If it had turned out to be the wrong one, I could've simply gotten off at the next stop and waited a minute or two for the Kenosha train. Makes sense now.
But, of course, that was the Kenosha train. How could it not be? It was just that kind of day. And the next Kenosha train was not for almost four hours. FOUR HOURS!
I felt totally dejected. I could not believe how badly I’d blown it. I mean, last summer I was frequently late for my voice lessons because I'd yet to grasp the finer points of the CTA brown line, but we’re talking a few minutes late. Not six hours. I had arrived at my neighborhood Metra station at 10:43 a.m., expecting to be in Wisconsin by lunch. It now appeared I would be taking the 4:33 p.m. train, if I decided to go at all. Sure, once upon a time, I happily lived in Evanston for three years. But at that moment, I thought I might jump off something much higher than the train platform if I had to spend another three minutes there, let alone three hours.
Ugh. Everyone else -- even the pervy bankers -- understood how the Metra works. When it comes, you go. What was wrong with me?
I stopped by the conductor’s booth once more, just to verify, 100%, how thoroughly I had blown it. (Yep. Thoroughly.) Worst of all, I found out the last train of the day back to Chicago from Wisconsin left 11 minutes after the Kenosha train arrived. Basically, if I hung around Evanston long enough to fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha (please, just try to say “fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha” aloud without laughing), I would be there long enough to take a whiz, as long as there wasn't a big line for the ladies' room. Fantastic. What a great story that would make.
THE PEEPS: "Yo, what did you do today?"
ME: "Went out of state to pee."
I surveyed Evanston from the elevated heights of the train station. It was beginning to dawn on me that my little college town -- the one that didn't allow bars or bowling alleys because, as the rumor goes, students would get drunk and try to fling their naked selves down the lane at the pins -- had gone through some big changes in six years. Now I could have thrown a rock and hit the following establishments: Pier 1, Coldstone, Ann Taylor Loft, Urban Outfitters, LA Fitness, Chili’s, the inexplicably named Fashion Tomato, a two-story Borders, and Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. Someone had also seen fit to move the one-story Barnes & Noble diagonally across the street (a grand total of, say, 30 feet) and add a second floor. The pitiful shell of the old one was still obvious, since shadows of the words Barnes & Noble remained on its façade where the sign had been.
Maybe I had been too hasty, considering suicide over shopping. After all, it may be a chain, but Urban Outfitters does sell the Erin essentials: tights, hoop earrings, miniskirts, yellow stuff of all sorts. OK, that settles it. The show must go on!
(And it goes on tomorrow. Four words: Tight, shiny silver pants. See you then!)
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 5: the big leap!)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Cats and other works by Andrew Lloyd Webber -- yay or nay? Discuss! -- Erin :)
(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
Full disclosure: I do not want to write these next couple installments. I mean, I really do not. Because these are the sections where I reveal myself to be an even bigger moron, at least when it comes to public transit (and isn’t that just a big mirror that reflects our whole lives?), than you or even I thought possible. But I must soldier on. If I don’t write this part, we can’t get to the donuts on the soccer field later!
So here we go.
I was in the record store, chatting with the clerk about Ted Nugent’s beef jerky business while he looked up the book All You Need to Know About the Music Business for me on the computer. I have a copy on loan from Adam, but I need my own because, much like the businessman on the Metra, I like to highlight. No. I need to highlight. It’s become something of a thing with me (points if you know what movie that’s from!) ever since I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance while working at a YMCA camp in the Rocky Mountains.
If you know that book, you also know the YMCA/mountain setting is an almost eerie one in which to read it. There were so many mind-bending ideas in the philosophical parts of the book, and I knew I’d want to remember them. I also knew there was no way in hell I would ever waste another second of my life reading about how to maintain a motorcycle! (Say what you will about Zen . . . , but there is no false advertising in the title. None whatsoever. Kind of like the musical Cats, which, I learned the hard way, is just about cats and that’s it.)
Anyway, Vintage Vinyl was out of the book, so I stopped by Dr. Wax on my way back to the train (no luck either). It was almost 1 p.m., and the announcer in a Metra booth kept making garbled comments about how a train was running at least 20 minutes late. Which train? Heading which direction? No one on the platform could tell. But we all distinctly heard Waukegan mentioned. Big whoop. I was sick of Waukegan and I hadn't even been there (yet).
Two semi-creepy men kept trying to talk to me, and since, mathematically, two semi-creepy men equal one total creep, I went inside the station. I asked the disembodied voice which train, specifically, was late. If it was mine, I wanted to do a little more shopping instead of spending half an hour getting leered at by suburban bankers.
The woman assured me my train was on time. But the weird announcements continued and by the time a train pulled up, heading north (AKA "to Wisconsin"), I was more confused than ever. Which train was this? Was it the delayed train, which was only going to stop in Waukegan like the first one I’d been on? Was it my train, the train that would FINALLY get me to the land of cheese curds and that quarterback with the unpronounceable name?
I looked around, hoping to see a sign, either on the train or from God. The El trains are clearly labeled on every car. On the Metra, you are apparently just supposed to know and trust. Ha.
I got on the train, looked for a conductor to query, and couldn’t find one. I asked the first passenger I saw, “Is this train going to Kenosha?” All the woman could say was, “I think so.” Not good enough. I had a one-track mind, and a voice in my head wouldn't shut up: We are NOT going to Waukegan! Don't make me go ninja!
I'm sure Waukegan is a fine place, but there was no denying the will of the voice. So I did the unthinkable. I still cannot believe it. As the announcement was made – “doors closing!” – I turned around and jumped off the train.
WHYYYY???!!!!
(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow when we find out if leaping off the train was a good or a bad move. Heh. What do you think?)
(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois
Full disclosure: I do not want to write these next couple installments. I mean, I really do not. Because these are the sections where I reveal myself to be an even bigger moron, at least when it comes to public transit (and isn’t that just a big mirror that reflects our whole lives?), than you or even I thought possible. But I must soldier on. If I don’t write this part, we can’t get to the donuts on the soccer field later!
So here we go.
I was in the record store, chatting with the clerk about Ted Nugent’s beef jerky business while he looked up the book All You Need to Know About the Music Business for me on the computer. I have a copy on loan from Adam, but I need my own because, much like the businessman on the Metra, I like to highlight. No. I need to highlight. It’s become something of a thing with me (points if you know what movie that’s from!) ever since I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance while working at a YMCA camp in the Rocky Mountains.
If you know that book, you also know the YMCA/mountain setting is an almost eerie one in which to read it. There were so many mind-bending ideas in the philosophical parts of the book, and I knew I’d want to remember them. I also knew there was no way in hell I would ever waste another second of my life reading about how to maintain a motorcycle! (Say what you will about Zen . . . , but there is no false advertising in the title. None whatsoever. Kind of like the musical Cats, which, I learned the hard way, is just about cats and that’s it.)
Anyway, Vintage Vinyl was out of the book, so I stopped by Dr. Wax on my way back to the train (no luck either). It was almost 1 p.m., and the announcer in a Metra booth kept making garbled comments about how a train was running at least 20 minutes late. Which train? Heading which direction? No one on the platform could tell. But we all distinctly heard Waukegan mentioned. Big whoop. I was sick of Waukegan and I hadn't even been there (yet).
Two semi-creepy men kept trying to talk to me, and since, mathematically, two semi-creepy men equal one total creep, I went inside the station. I asked the disembodied voice which train, specifically, was late. If it was mine, I wanted to do a little more shopping instead of spending half an hour getting leered at by suburban bankers.
The woman assured me my train was on time. But the weird announcements continued and by the time a train pulled up, heading north (AKA "to Wisconsin"), I was more confused than ever. Which train was this? Was it the delayed train, which was only going to stop in Waukegan like the first one I’d been on? Was it my train, the train that would FINALLY get me to the land of cheese curds and that quarterback with the unpronounceable name?
I looked around, hoping to see a sign, either on the train or from God. The El trains are clearly labeled on every car. On the Metra, you are apparently just supposed to know and trust. Ha.
I got on the train, looked for a conductor to query, and couldn’t find one. I asked the first passenger I saw, “Is this train going to Kenosha?” All the woman could say was, “I think so.” Not good enough. I had a one-track mind, and a voice in my head wouldn't shut up: We are NOT going to Waukegan! Don't make me go ninja!
I'm sure Waukegan is a fine place, but there was no denying the will of the voice. So I did the unthinkable. I still cannot believe it. As the announcement was made – “doors closing!” – I turned around and jumped off the train.
WHYYYY???!!!!
(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow when we find out if leaping off the train was a good or a bad move. Heh. What do you think?)
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Battle of TV's Gorgeous Gamblers
The top story on Fametracker today is brand new, courtesy of yours truly. Lust along with me, won't you? Tomorrow, we resume my Quixote-esque quest for Wisconsin. Promise.
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Can bad hair ruin a movie? Why or why not? Show your work. (I'll give you one hint, in case you're stuck getting started. Ready? . . . Remember that heinous LION'S MANE on the main dude in the film adaption of Rent a year or two ago? Do you??? ;) - Erin)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Can bad hair ruin a movie? Why or why not? Show your work. (I'll give you one hint, in case you're stuck getting started. Ready? . . . Remember that heinous LION'S MANE on the main dude in the film adaption of Rent a year or two ago? Do you??? ;) - Erin)
Monday, February 5, 2007
Where did the day go?
My sincerest apologies! The day got away from me. Teaching, Fametracker deadline, freelance project, and the list goes on. I promise you the next chapter of the Wisconsin saga tomorrow.
In the meantime, I'm told Fametracker is having to remove a bunch of content soon for legal reasons (long story). I'll still be writing for the site, but if you want to read my old stuff, you've got to do it now. Here are three links, for starters:
Luke Wilson's fame audit (Although, turns out I couldn't even sit through 5 minutes of Idiocracy.)
The one that got me quoted in the Washington Post: Mark Ruffalo vs. iPod Nanos
And the one that prompted a nice e-mail from the actor himself: Bruce Altman's "Hey! It's That Guy!"
In the meantime, I'm told Fametracker is having to remove a bunch of content soon for legal reasons (long story). I'll still be writing for the site, but if you want to read my old stuff, you've got to do it now. Here are three links, for starters:
Luke Wilson's fame audit (Although, turns out I couldn't even sit through 5 minutes of Idiocracy.)
The one that got me quoted in the Washington Post: Mark Ruffalo vs. iPod Nanos
And the one that prompted a nice e-mail from the actor himself: Bruce Altman's "Hey! It's That Guy!"
Friday, February 2, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! (Pt. 4: Bilbos and Blondes)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What are your thoughts on Rod Stewart, the man and/or the music? Favorite song? Feelings about the hair? The mole? Chime in at the bottom, after the post, or just say hi if you're feeling shy. -- Erin :)
October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Thursday's pt. 3 post.)
At first glance, as I strolled through downtown Evanston on my way to the record stores, everything looked pretty much as I left it. There were the oddball, old-school stores, with signs reading “The Shaver Shop of Evanston” and “Birkenstock Repair.” Places like that always made me wonder: How do you make a living repairing an item most people consider disposable and/or too ugly to be worn by anyone except doped up hippies?
Next I passed Le Peep, the breakfast restaurant where I first met my college roommate. She was from the nearby suburb of Morton Grove, a pitcher for the Northwestern softball team, and a journalism major like me. She was also, it seemed, one of the first blonde people I’d ever known. (Really.) When she sent me her photo the summer before freshman year, I was genuinely shocked, like a malfunctioning Erinbot: “Beep beep, human beings are supposed to have brown hair. Does not compute! Malfunction!”
I thought this, I’m sure, because there were a grand total of 11 white people in my senior class photo of about 200 (as we stood on the risers by the Travis High soccer field on photo day, some of us got bored and actually counted). Most of the white kids probably had brown hair, too. I remember at least one was bald. Needless to say, at Northwestern, I was not in South Austin, Texas, anymore. It took me a while to think of all the upper-middle class white kids at college as “like me,” even though, technically, they totally were.
That was 1996. Now it was ten years later and I was walking by Le Peep once again. And I’ll be damned if somehow an exact replica of my old roommate didn’t just jog right past me! It was uncanny. Same tall, muscular body type and high-swept blonde ponytail. Same running shorts and hooded sweatshirt. Same string backpack. I almost called out her name. However, the eerie flashback was cut short by what can only be called the Classic College Conversation.
“C.S. Lewis was a creative guy,” I heard someone behind me say. “But he’s no Mike Krzyzewski."
Did I hear that right? Were the guys behind me on the sidewalk comparing the author of the Chronicles of Narnia to the longtime coach of the Duke University basketball team (a man who, come on, should really just start spelling his name “Shhshesky” and put us out of our misery)? Of course they weren't. But that's what it sounded like so I'm going with it.
“Tolkien’s the one who’s really got the goods,” Guy #1 went on. “He invented his own language.”
“Well, it’s a combination of, like, seven other tongues,” Guy #2 countered. “Cuz you just can’t do that anymore – invent a language by yourself.”
G#1: “Yeah,”
G#2: “Yeah.”
Thankfully, Dr. Wax record store was just around the corner and I parted ways from Mr. Dungeons and Mr. Dragons before they could start debating which hobbit is the hottest. And speaking of hot, as soon as I entered the store, I was faced with a life-size, stand-up cut out of Rod Stewart, he of all the luck and all the pain. In the giant photo, Rod is wearing leopard fur boots, jeans, a button-down denim shirt, and a floor-length brown leather duster. I repeat: A FLOOR-LENGTH LEATHER DUSTER!
I once had lunch with my friends Kirk, Carolyn, and Andrea, wherein the girls told me Kirk still owns a duster and thinks it looks good on him. Kirk did not deny this, and Carolyn, his wife, vehemently disagreed with his assessment. For my part, at the mere conjunction of the words “Kirk” and “duster,” I choked on my water, sprayed it on the floor to the side of our booth, and had to excuse myself to the restroom to give myself a makeshift Heimlich.
This Rod Stewart duster was almost as amusing/sickening. Rod had both hands deep in his jean pockets, so deep that he appeared to be grabbing his own junk through the denim. Indeed, the smirk on his moley face said, “Yeah, I’m grabbing my junk. And?” Which is pretty much what you're saying anyway, when you choose to be photographed and/or go out in public in a duster. I'm sure the ladies will back me up on this one.
(To be continued . . . Tune in next week when I consider cooking with Ted Nugent and the declining possibility of getting to Wisconsin.
October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Thursday's pt. 3 post.)
At first glance, as I strolled through downtown Evanston on my way to the record stores, everything looked pretty much as I left it. There were the oddball, old-school stores, with signs reading “The Shaver Shop of Evanston” and “Birkenstock Repair.” Places like that always made me wonder: How do you make a living repairing an item most people consider disposable and/or too ugly to be worn by anyone except doped up hippies?
Next I passed Le Peep, the breakfast restaurant where I first met my college roommate. She was from the nearby suburb of Morton Grove, a pitcher for the Northwestern softball team, and a journalism major like me. She was also, it seemed, one of the first blonde people I’d ever known. (Really.) When she sent me her photo the summer before freshman year, I was genuinely shocked, like a malfunctioning Erinbot: “Beep beep, human beings are supposed to have brown hair. Does not compute! Malfunction!”
I thought this, I’m sure, because there were a grand total of 11 white people in my senior class photo of about 200 (as we stood on the risers by the Travis High soccer field on photo day, some of us got bored and actually counted). Most of the white kids probably had brown hair, too. I remember at least one was bald. Needless to say, at Northwestern, I was not in South Austin, Texas, anymore. It took me a while to think of all the upper-middle class white kids at college as “like me,” even though, technically, they totally were.
That was 1996. Now it was ten years later and I was walking by Le Peep once again. And I’ll be damned if somehow an exact replica of my old roommate didn’t just jog right past me! It was uncanny. Same tall, muscular body type and high-swept blonde ponytail. Same running shorts and hooded sweatshirt. Same string backpack. I almost called out her name. However, the eerie flashback was cut short by what can only be called the Classic College Conversation.
“C.S. Lewis was a creative guy,” I heard someone behind me say. “But he’s no Mike Krzyzewski."
Did I hear that right? Were the guys behind me on the sidewalk comparing the author of the Chronicles of Narnia to the longtime coach of the Duke University basketball team (a man who, come on, should really just start spelling his name “Shhshesky” and put us out of our misery)? Of course they weren't. But that's what it sounded like so I'm going with it.
“Tolkien’s the one who’s really got the goods,” Guy #1 went on. “He invented his own language.”
“Well, it’s a combination of, like, seven other tongues,” Guy #2 countered. “Cuz you just can’t do that anymore – invent a language by yourself.”
G#1: “Yeah,”
G#2: “Yeah.”
Thankfully, Dr. Wax record store was just around the corner and I parted ways from Mr. Dungeons and Mr. Dragons before they could start debating which hobbit is the hottest. And speaking of hot, as soon as I entered the store, I was faced with a life-size, stand-up cut out of Rod Stewart, he of all the luck and all the pain. In the giant photo, Rod is wearing leopard fur boots, jeans, a button-down denim shirt, and a floor-length brown leather duster. I repeat: A FLOOR-LENGTH LEATHER DUSTER!
I once had lunch with my friends Kirk, Carolyn, and Andrea, wherein the girls told me Kirk still owns a duster and thinks it looks good on him. Kirk did not deny this, and Carolyn, his wife, vehemently disagreed with his assessment. For my part, at the mere conjunction of the words “Kirk” and “duster,” I choked on my water, sprayed it on the floor to the side of our booth, and had to excuse myself to the restroom to give myself a makeshift Heimlich.
This Rod Stewart duster was almost as amusing/sickening. Rod had both hands deep in his jean pockets, so deep that he appeared to be grabbing his own junk through the denim. Indeed, the smirk on his moley face said, “Yeah, I’m grabbing my junk. And?” Which is pretty much what you're saying anyway, when you choose to be photographed and/or go out in public in a duster. I'm sure the ladies will back me up on this one.
(To be continued . . . Tune in next week when I consider cooking with Ted Nugent and the declining possibility of getting to Wisconsin.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! (Pt. 3: Meet the Metra)
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Ever had a wacky public transit experience? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)
October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Tuesday's pt. 2 post.)
Where was I? Oh, yes, I was bounding down the steps of the Metra station and into collegiate/shopping wonderland of downtown Evanston, Illinois. Which, if you’re keeping track, is NOT in Wisconsin.
As my Converse hit the concrete, I was almost knocked down by the even more purposeful bounding of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and easily the most ludicrous pants I’ve seen since the Personals went thrift store shopping in Madison (which actually IS in Wisconsin) in May. These pants were pouffy and gave the illusion that the wearer had no knees. The pants' graphic print fabric was covered in kitchen utensils and salt and pepper shakers. Is this guy dressing to metaphorically match his hair? I wondered, before remembering that Evanston is, or at least was, home to a fancy-pants culinary institute. I gave the guy a free pass from the fashion police, hoping to god his fancy pants were his school uniform.
But speaking of fancy, let’s talk about the train before it chugga-chuggas out of the station. The Metra is the Cadillac of Chicago public transportation. Much as I love the El, compared to the Metra, those trains are rusty, flat-tired El Caminos. If you’re going to catch fire or derail from time to time, and serve as a urine receptacle for the city's homeless and/or frat guys, you don’t get to be the Jaguar or even the Jetta. (FYI, the bus is the bus.)
The Metra costs more – I shelled out $6.40 for my ticket from Wicker Park to Kenosha, vs. $2 for any El ride – and it costs more for good reason. It’s faster. It’s cleaner. The seats are comfier. Since it’s double-decker, you immediately feel like you’re riding one of those cute red buses in London, waving at the queen's guards from the top deck and trying to get them to crack a smile by hollering lewd puns about their big, furry hats and sharp, shiny swords (or maybe that was just me). Also, I took the Metra to see Cheap Trick for my birthday. So I heart it, plain and simple.
What’s most notable about the Metra, though, could be the riders. I can’t say what the people in the lower cars are like or what they’re doing down there because I try not to associate with people who would pass up the chance to ride up top. (What’s wrong with them? You can ride on ground level any time!) But in my car – the caboose, of course – it was clear that Metra riders are a slightly different breed. I have only two Metra rides to draw from, but I’m going to generalize anyway. (It’s my saga. I can do that.) In short, they look richer and whiter than anyone I have ever seen on public transportation.
Meet the people on the top level of the caboose with me: a man with a tie and wire-rim glasses scribbling in a legal pad; another guy pretty much the same, only slightly older, with no tie, highlighting documents instead; three men reading newspapers (none of which were Streetwise or even USA Today); a middle-aged woman in a suit whom I had assumed was a man when I sat down in front of her (She seemed peeved that I was looking around, surveying the train car . . . people don’t like it when you look around but that’s just tough. Far as I know, I've only got one shot at life on this planet, and I'M GONNA LOOK AROUND, BITCHES!); a younger, spiffier woman with an Ipod, also in a suit; and the exceptions to the rule – a girl in a pink hoodie and sneakers staring out the window and a younger guy who looked like an extra from the film Heavy Metal Parking Lot wearing a t-shirt that urged some wrestler or rapper I’d never heard of to rest in peace.
That’s who the riders were. Which means they weren’t trudging from car to car asking for “spare change,” rambling about lost tabs of LSD and how they see better without their glasses. No one is eating tortillas off the seat. I imagine they were thinking your basic nonthreatening, boring people thoughts: Should I make rice or potatoes with the chicken tonight? When is Sheryll Crow going to play the Midwest again? Isn't it about time pleated pants came back in style?
All these train people made me want to be around my people again -- people who could speak extemporaneously on the relative merits of Cinderella (the band, not the fairytale) versus Ratt (the band, not the vermin). I had an hour to kill before the train to Kenosha chugged into the station -- not a lot of time to safely skip down memory lane at Northwestern and be back without missing the train. And I'd be damned if I was missing another train!
As the caboose stopped and I bounded onto the platform at Evanston’s Davis Street Metra station, I spotted two record stores. I had a decision to make – rock-n-roll or college. Is there really any question?
(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for my run-in with Rod Stewart's junk!)
October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Tuesday's pt. 2 post.)
Where was I? Oh, yes, I was bounding down the steps of the Metra station and into collegiate/shopping wonderland of downtown Evanston, Illinois. Which, if you’re keeping track, is NOT in Wisconsin.
As my Converse hit the concrete, I was almost knocked down by the even more purposeful bounding of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and easily the most ludicrous pants I’ve seen since the Personals went thrift store shopping in Madison (which actually IS in Wisconsin) in May. These pants were pouffy and gave the illusion that the wearer had no knees. The pants' graphic print fabric was covered in kitchen utensils and salt and pepper shakers. Is this guy dressing to metaphorically match his hair? I wondered, before remembering that Evanston is, or at least was, home to a fancy-pants culinary institute. I gave the guy a free pass from the fashion police, hoping to god his fancy pants were his school uniform.
But speaking of fancy, let’s talk about the train before it chugga-chuggas out of the station. The Metra is the Cadillac of Chicago public transportation. Much as I love the El, compared to the Metra, those trains are rusty, flat-tired El Caminos. If you’re going to catch fire or derail from time to time, and serve as a urine receptacle for the city's homeless and/or frat guys, you don’t get to be the Jaguar or even the Jetta. (FYI, the bus is the bus.)
The Metra costs more – I shelled out $6.40 for my ticket from Wicker Park to Kenosha, vs. $2 for any El ride – and it costs more for good reason. It’s faster. It’s cleaner. The seats are comfier. Since it’s double-decker, you immediately feel like you’re riding one of those cute red buses in London, waving at the queen's guards from the top deck and trying to get them to crack a smile by hollering lewd puns about their big, furry hats and sharp, shiny swords (or maybe that was just me). Also, I took the Metra to see Cheap Trick for my birthday. So I heart it, plain and simple.
What’s most notable about the Metra, though, could be the riders. I can’t say what the people in the lower cars are like or what they’re doing down there because I try not to associate with people who would pass up the chance to ride up top. (What’s wrong with them? You can ride on ground level any time!) But in my car – the caboose, of course – it was clear that Metra riders are a slightly different breed. I have only two Metra rides to draw from, but I’m going to generalize anyway. (It’s my saga. I can do that.) In short, they look richer and whiter than anyone I have ever seen on public transportation.
Meet the people on the top level of the caboose with me: a man with a tie and wire-rim glasses scribbling in a legal pad; another guy pretty much the same, only slightly older, with no tie, highlighting documents instead; three men reading newspapers (none of which were Streetwise or even USA Today); a middle-aged woman in a suit whom I had assumed was a man when I sat down in front of her (She seemed peeved that I was looking around, surveying the train car . . . people don’t like it when you look around but that’s just tough. Far as I know, I've only got one shot at life on this planet, and I'M GONNA LOOK AROUND, BITCHES!); a younger, spiffier woman with an Ipod, also in a suit; and the exceptions to the rule – a girl in a pink hoodie and sneakers staring out the window and a younger guy who looked like an extra from the film Heavy Metal Parking Lot wearing a t-shirt that urged some wrestler or rapper I’d never heard of to rest in peace.
That’s who the riders were. Which means they weren’t trudging from car to car asking for “spare change,” rambling about lost tabs of LSD and how they see better without their glasses. No one is eating tortillas off the seat. I imagine they were thinking your basic nonthreatening, boring people thoughts: Should I make rice or potatoes with the chicken tonight? When is Sheryll Crow going to play the Midwest again? Isn't it about time pleated pants came back in style?
All these train people made me want to be around my people again -- people who could speak extemporaneously on the relative merits of Cinderella (the band, not the fairytale) versus Ratt (the band, not the vermin). I had an hour to kill before the train to Kenosha chugged into the station -- not a lot of time to safely skip down memory lane at Northwestern and be back without missing the train. And I'd be damned if I was missing another train!
As the caboose stopped and I bounded onto the platform at Evanston’s Davis Street Metra station, I spotted two record stores. I had a decision to make – rock-n-roll or college. Is there really any question?
(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for my run-in with Rod Stewart's junk!)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)