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!)

Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush

My latest essay, Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush, was published this morning on the fabulous site for pop culture criticism and satire, Fametracker. Thus, that's where I'd like to direct my friends and readers today. I'll be back tomorrow with more of No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! -- ERIN xoxo

No Sleep Til Wisconsin! (pt. 2, Plan B)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When I say college, you think [fill in the blank]? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from last week's pt. 1 post.)

So there I was, on the train on a gorgeous autumn day, speeding my way out of Chicago and to the great state of Wisconsin (which, an article in the Tribune recently assured me, “has it all”). Except I totally wasn’t.

“What do you mean this train doesn’t go to Kenosha?” I asked the conductor (or someone dressed up early for Halloween as Ringo Starr in Shining Time Station). I'm sure he wanted to bonk me on the head with his conductor cap and snap, What do you think I mean, lady?

“This train only goes to Waukegan,” he said, keeping his hat on. “The next one to Kenosha is in an hour.”

I was totally perplexed. First of all, Waukegan, Illinois, is maybe three stops short of Kenosha. What's the point of making that town the end of the line for this train? MY train? Couldn’t it keep going just a little farther? And secondly, what gives? I had gotten on the Metra at a platform that said “To Kenosha” and I had found the train times from the Transit Authority’s web link “Chicago to Kenosha, weekdays.” I should be whirling toward Wisconsin! And technically, I suppose, I was. But I wanted to actually be whirled into the state itself, not dropped off in some shiny Chicago suburb just shy of the state line. I wanted to go to America's Dairyland! All the way! Extra cheese, please! Now!

In the end, the conductor and I worked out a plan. He sold me a ticket to Kenosha and made a note on the back that said I'd be getting off the train in Evanston, then getting back on an hour later to continue to Kenosha. This actually sounded kinda fantastic (if pretty stupid). Evanston was my home for three years in college, and I had not set foot in the town, let alone on the Northwestern University campus, since graduation more than six years ago.

My college friend Deanna regularly mentions things we did and people we knew at Northwestern. Virtually 100% of the time, I have no clue what she's talking about. Zilch. Those college years are weird for me – I moved away from home for the first time, with semesters in Portland, Oregon, and Allentown, Pennsylvania (AKA "not that far from Philly or NYC"), sprinkled in for good coastal measure – and I recall being generally happy and social and productive. (I also recall eating a lot of spaghetti O's.)

But I barely keep in touch with anyone from that time anymore, which is totally unlike me. I am still friends with the first non-family member I ever met, hours after I was born! I have been exchanging myspace messages recently with my second grade boyfriend! I still talk to people from all the jobs I’ve quit. (And while I don't like to quit friends, I do like to quit jobs, so there are several. And I always tell coworkers who’re sad to see me leave, “Don’t worry, no one gets rid of me.” It's mostly true.).

But other than Deanna, there is no one from the college years to whom I speak on a regular basis. I almost never start stories with “When I lived in Evanston…” or “At Northwestern...”

The most I really think about college is to casually consider the fates of fellow students for whom my friends and I had developed ridiculous (but accurate) nicknames. I wonder how Long Arms is doing? Or, whatever happened to The Guy Who Walks Around Like An Asshole? Does he still walk around like that?

Clearly, I was long overdue for some memory jogging in Evanston. So what if I had missed one train and boarded another that was hell bent on staying in Illinois! It was an adventure and it was supposed to happen like this. The gods of public transportation were sending me back to college.

But could I handle this unexpected Plan B? Was I strong enough not to go homicidal in the face of all that silky, flat-ironed blonde hair and those ubiquitous Greek letters and North Face parkas? Did I really want to think about stolen bikes (two of them!) and voting for “Evil Dave Sheldon” for student government president? Could I handle flashbacks of my curious, novice stabs at rowing with the NU crew team (in freezing temperatures, before sunrise, on the Chicago River) or oil painting to the never-ending soundtrack of Pink Floyd in the art building? (Which, incidentally, had to be done by walkman, since the art teacher announced on day one that we could play any CD we liked on his stereo, as long as it wasn't Floyd. After 20 years around college art students, he'd had enough, and I guess that makes sense.)

Anyway, once I set foot on campus – that gorgeous, manicured mile-long wonderland of hallowed halls, changing leaves, and dudes playing hacky sack -- I knew it would all come flooding back. What if I had blocked most of it out for a reason? I remembered something about a student clubbing another student over the head with a hammer in the fine arts building once. I sure hope I wasn't the hammeree (or the hammerer, for that matter). I would soon find out.

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for to meet the people of the train, fancy pants and all!)

The Traveler is -- you guessed it -- traveling!

I am in Austin, Texas, this week to research my book and rock with my band, The Personals. The No Sleep Til Wisconsin saga will continue on Tuesday, Jan. 30. Until then, catch up on responding to the QUESTION FOR COMMENTING at the top of each day's previous posts. Looking forward to hearing from you!

LOVE & GUITARS,
Erin

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Snafus #1-3)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: If you could hop on a train right now and go anywhere, where would it be? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois

Who's ready for a classic Erin goes on an adventure, fails to grasp the finer points of public transit, awakens blocked memories of laws broken in college (involving grand theft auto and Oliver North), and ends up someplace weird and unexpected story? I know I am! Let's do it.

So it all started a couple weeks ago, when I read in the Best of Chicago issue of New City that the coolest Metra ride went to Fox Lake. I assumed that this meant Fox Lake, Wisconsin, probably because the Metra I took to see Cheap Trick at Ravinia for my birthday last month went to Kenosha. When the Personals were on tour, I feel a bit in love with Wisconsin (aside from the mosquitos and Milwaukee), and the New City blurb talked about passing all kinds of scenery and architecture and changing leaves. A little solo jaunt to Fox Lake sounded like the perfect way to celebrate finishing my book proposal.

Of course, when I plan trips for a group of people, like band tours or girly roadtrips, I become one with the atlas. I would marry the atlas. But when I get one of these little travel whims for myself alone, I tend to be pretty cavalier about details. I like to let shit unfold as it will.

And, oh, did it unfold when I decided to “go to Wisconsin.” (I am putting those three words in quotes for good reason.)

It sounded simple enough -- I would just catch the 10:43 a.m. Metra train and find myself out of state in time for lunch. Since my internal teacher's alarm clock goes off at 8 a.m. every morning, no matter what, I'd have plenty of time to get to my neighborhood station. Except! I must have gotten carried away with e-mail and my morning coffee(s), because suddenly it was 10:15. I threw together the usual stuff – a book, my writing spiral, the newspaper, pens and highlighters, sunglasses, etc. – and booked it to the station. Which brings us to . . .

Snafu #1

Apparently the Metra is the only train in all of Chicago that, if it feels like it, shows up early. I swear I was there on time. But after 40 minutes of reading the newspaper on the platform, I decided that, no, the 10:43 train was not merely late. I had missed it. I had rushed and eaten no breakfast, only to miss it by moments. Now my stomach was growling almost as loud as cars on the nearby expressway. The next Metra was 20 minutes away, so I had just enough time to dash off for a snack somewhere. I figured I’d better eat something since, barring some unlikely, unforeseen snafu, I’d be on the train for the next two hours, going to Wisconsin.

Snafu #2

Oh wait. I forgot to mention. When I say “going to Wisconsin,” I no longer mean Fox Lake. I mean Kenosha. Turns out there is also a Fox Lake in Illinois (surprise!), and I just imagined the article was talking about Fox Lake, Wisconsin. Now, was I going to take some gorgeous, critically-acclaimed train ride if it meant staying in the state of Illinois? Nope. I had gotten it in my mind that I was going to Wisconsin and, damnit, I was going to Wisconsin.

Don’t worry, we’ll get to the part where my friend Deanna tries to talk me out of going to Kenosha by calling it “the armpit of the Midwest.” Patience.

From the Metra platform, the only food option I could see was a Mobil station. I couldn’t risk going very far. Who knew when this train would show up. I was in a perfectly good mood despite missing the first one, but no way was I going to miss two!

Snafu #3

I hustled to the Mobil, which turned out to have only a very narrow, hallway-like interior lined with racks of crap I wouldn’t be caught dead eating (Combos, Funions, etc.). I settled on a bag of Ritz Chips (which I didn’t even know existed) and a Starbucks mocha frappucino (AKA “the usual”). Not exactly a healthy breakfast, but oh well. I ate them on the platform while reading a book, and the train showed up right on time.

As the train chugga-chugga-ed out of the station, a nice conductor kid, dressed like an old-school train operator and who eerily resembled Doug E. Doug, stopped by my seat to sell me a ticket.

Conductor: “Where to?”
Me: “Kenosha.”
Conductor: “This train doesn’t go to Kenosha."
Me: “WHAT?!?!”

(To be continued . . . Next time find out where the hell it turns out I am actually going!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 8: Homeward Bound)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Do you remember a time when you realized you'd outgrown something you used to love? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday . . . )

Friday, July 15, 2005

3:20 p.m.

An hour ago I wondered whether I still cared about this book discussion. Now, I am sure. I don't care. I do not even remotely care. I mean, come on, who discusses books anymore? Who even reads? Didn't I hear that radio or Betamax will be the death of print any day now?

At this point, I feel like when you wait in line for hours to get into a concert or some big new movie, and by the time the main event arrives, you're so tired you fall asleep in your seat just as the newly, digitally inserted Jabba the Hutt shuffles on screen. (And the nerds in your row do not appreciate it when you start muttering in your sleep about how "Fraggle Rock is totally better than this shit.")

It doesn't seem possible, but I am over the book discussion without even going to it in the first place. How over it am I? Let's see. I'm over it like Julia Roberts is over Lyle Lovett. I'm over it like Eddie Van Halen is over David Lee Roth, Sammy Hagar, and Valeria Bertinelli all put together. I'm so over it, if you climbed a magic beanstalk high into a city of clouds, then took the elevator to the 96th floor of the second tallest building in that city, and then took your $9 martini from the swanky bar of said building and climbed up the radio needle on top until you were so high over the city that you could barely breathe because the air was so thin -- well, you would still not be nearly as over the cloud city as I am over the book discussion.

That's right. I'm fickle. I'm dealing with it.

But before I give up my ridiculous charade, I'm going to do one last teenagery thing -- I am going to whine. Waah. I want to go hoooome. Not home to a messy bedroom in my parents' house, like I'd do if I weren't of age, but home to my messy, grown-up apartment. (Which is actually not so grown-up, to be honest. My husband calls it "the yuppie dorm." There's a gym, computer lab, and shared big-screen TV lounge in the building, and college students have even started moving in. The residents throw glorified frat parties on the roof with disturbing regularity, leaving signs on the door to the patio saying "Please don't bring glass. Plastic cups provided. Thanx! -- DJ Mel.")

But even if my apartment building is a glorified animal house, it's home. There are chips and salsa in the kitchen (with no security guard to stop me from eating them) and a Popular DVD waiting in the mailbox. Come to think of it, Popular is a show in which people my age pretend to be high schoolers. How appropriate. I think I'll just go home and watch other people get paid to lie about their age instead of doing it myself for free.

3:30 p.m.

On the way home, I'm feeling bad about wussing out, so I stop to console myself at the happiest place on earth (AKA a burrito place). After I ask for a chicken burrito with no rice and extra cheese and super hot salsa, the teenage girl behind the counter reaches over and stabs me in the heart with a metaphorical plastic spork.

She nods, smiles, and hands me my receipt. "Yes, ma'am."

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 7: Things That Go Crunch)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What is the dorkiest hairdo you sported in your youth? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday . . . )

Friday, July 15, 2005

2:13 p.m.

Finally, the escalators and I have come to an understanding. It's smooth sailing all the way down to three, where I spot more teen specimens and hop off the slowest, least scary ride on earth. The new teenagers are three awkward, skinny ones. No one tries to jumpstart a dance party or keep stale slang alive, but they do poke each other and giggle. (Don't worry. No matter how badly I want to blend at the book discussion, I will not sink to poking minors.)

If these teens are any indication, I should've dressed much worse today. They are, quite simply, a fashion nightmare. One boy is wearing the ugliest, air-brushed KISS t-shirt I've ever seen and sporting a hairdo to match. How to describe it? Hmm. For starters, it's what my girlfriends back home call a "cut-it." And more specifically, it's like Robert Plant's mane, not so much in his sweat-drenched (and surely STD-laden) Houses of the Holy heyday, but more like Plant's hair right NOW! Or now! Or now! And definitely now! Only with oil slicks enduced by puberty instead of stage lights. (By the way, I don't know why I am so amused by all those photos of Robert Plant looking elderly, busting a move, wearing a tux, having a one-sided staring contest with some dude, etc., but I am. What's odd is if you look at his photo gallery, you'd think he was Sting or Paul Simon, not some guy who was famous for Tolkien-inspired blues rock and -- what's the legendary story? -- having women defile fish?)

Anyway, Cut-It Boy's tragic girlfriend is actually wearing a neon yellow Kill Bill jersey. Her pimples school my sporadic adult acne on what zits really are. I feel like the Noxema girl by comparison. Still, the kids look happy. It's summer, school is out, and they roam freely in the wild. Come to think of it, I'm impressed they chose the library, although I have no doubt they're just here to chat on the public computers with fellow fans of the Insane Clown Posse (that's a band, Mom) (but just barely).

2:15 p.m.

All this research and riding is making me hungry again. Good thing I have an apple in my bag. But wait! Not even I -- the twentysomething married chick on her third career who is gearing up to fib her way into a teen book club -- is ballsy enough to eat an apple in the library. Apples are the loudest food on earth. Louder than chips and salsa. Louder than bombs. No, I couldn't risk it.

At least not here in my current spot, I couldn't. A security guard has been pacing back and forth for the past 15 minutes. Someone must have tipped him off about the Slimfast incident. The only place without security is the restroom in the basement, and silly me, I have this thing about eating and drinking near toilets. Namely, I think it's nasty with a capital N. In fact, no matter how bad I need to pee in a bar, I will chug my vodka soda before hitting the stalls, so as not to bring the glass in with me.

Thus, it appears I'm headed back to the streets of Chicago for a while. Oh, but how tempting the idea of sneaking an apple in the library. I'm not making any promises, but if I see a good hiding place on the way out, I may have to go for it.

2:21 p.m.

I am getting cocky, now. I admit it. But I think I have every right, because I just totally ate an apple in the library! That's right. I am the Ultimate Snack-Sneaking Champion. Here's how it went:

After asking a security guard, "Can you tell me where the nearest library is . . . I mean, nearest restroom?" (because I am just that suave around men in uniforms), I took a quick potty break. And I hatch all my best plans on the pot. The ninth floor! I realized mid-flush. There's nobody up there! A serial killer could eat an apple up there and no one would be the wiser!

So back up I went. This time a man and woman, fellow twentysomethings, were quietly reading. (These were actual young adults. Couldn't I discuss I Can't Tell You with them?) I crossed my fingers they were too engrossed in Ulysses or War and Peace to hear me and retrieved the fruit from under a pamphlet about the Chicago Parks District's summer programs (canoeing! camping! more canoeing!). I bit in, bracing myself for the sound of that first crunch echoing off the hallowed halls of the atrium. I was in such a hurry to eat the apple before getting caught, I accidentally bit off more than I could chew. Literally. (God, please. I do not want to die this way, choking on an apple. At least let it be a tortilla chip. And let it be 70 years from now.)

Once I finally swallowed, I realized it was silent in the atrium. My chomp had been loud, but surprisingly, mercifully, there was no echo. No security guards sprang out from behind the planters, guns blazing. When snappily dressed people walked by, I only half-heartedly lifted the parks brochure to conceal the apple core.

Hold on. Is it possible I'm wrong about this no-eating-in-the-library law? Could city planners be hard at work on a fourth-floor food court as we speak? Whatever. Details schmetails. These are the facts: I am brave. I am proud. And I am full(ish) again. Also, I would make a terrible James Bond.

(To be continued . . . Tune in on Monday, when I may actually make it into the book discussion. That is, if I don't get distracted by thinking about Ratt and revolving doors again.)