Man vs. Man, God, Universe, etc.

The time Chik-fil-a saved my life

2012-01-02T13:32:00.000-06:00

Every month my work has an all department state of the union address and dinner instead of being served in the cafeteria is catered in, and usually the only good meal we receive for the month, but I digress. Well a few months ago at our monthly shin-dig, the powers that be brought in Chik-fil-a. The meeting part isn't conducive to this story, but upon leaving we found out that chik-fil-a sent over way too much food and we were encouraged to take some home. twist my arm.
That night I was taking the 12:45 am train to Indiana. The train station is in the south loop, and the characters that lurk around that area at night all look like potential villains from law and order or the Michael Keaton Batman movie. The unspoken rule is walk swiftly, feigning confidence, and look like you are a little on edge. Whatever you do, do not look up to admire the glow of the city at night. this smells of tourism and sets you to be a giant target. I arrive at the train about an hour early. It was raining outside so I decided to skip my usual stop at the 7-11. I arrived at the train station and if you are imagining Union Station you are way off. this is the south loop to Gary Indiana. This station hasn't been improved upon since Good times was on network television.
I took a seat inside in the Metra waiting area. The South Shore waiting area is outside and I was soaked from the rain so I wanted to regain feeling in my toes again. I can see from the corner of my eye there is someone approaching me. Something about him was uneasy and triggered a red flag in my internal security system. It is funny how strangers can go from "I didn't really get a good look officer" to "Male, late twenties, dark hair, brown eyes, scar on the upper left of his forehead, approximately six foot tall and he had a class ring that said Joliet High School class of 99." with just a single uneasy glance.
I assume the guy is on meth or crack because not only is he really thin and has an adult acne situation that is probably caused by picking "skin bugs" (meth), but he absolutely cannot sit still. something is making him anxious. His pattern of seating is the strangest part. Right across from me, then at the end of the aisle opposite side, then behind me. after twenty minutes of singles musical chairs, two other gentlemen walk in. I am or so I let them believe, deeply fixated n this book in my hand. So much so that I won't notice the white crack head giving some sort of hand signals to his two black accomplices.
This is where the seating chart gets totally fucked for lack of better words. Subject one "Meth head", sits at the end of the row I am in. Subject two "poor man's Lil Wayne" sits directly behind me. Finally subject number three "Suge Knight's body double" sits directly across from me.
My heart is racing and my senses are so alert I can almost detect the guy behind me has a gastrointestinal issues, or is that me, who knows stays focused.
Subject three comments on my chicken sandwich. For two reasons I suspect, one to detect any fear in my voice and two it was a really great looking sandwich. I draw on my freeport roots and don a slight accent, but don't oversell it. More Wahlberg than Eminem. So here is what I think is going to happen, tweaker plays look out while three assures me that two has a weapon of some sort. I give them my money bag etc. they leave and I have to find three homeless guys on the south side of Chicago. Fuck that.
I know I can't fight these guys because two probably does have something. even if I made enough noise to alert whatever security is there everyone would be long gone before they arrived and I would be, well, not a viable option. Plan B, Give him the other sandwich in the bag. A subliminal peace offering. The psychology was to give him a sandwich before he even asked me for anything engage him in a 15 second conversation and then walk outside. this would leave him a bit puzzled as to my motivation, and buy me time to a. get the hell out of there or at best b. change positions from having two directly behind me. I was now out of knife range and he would've had to show any gun and then be willing to fire it with closed circuit cameras. Ultimately I was relying on criminals being lazy and easily distracted. In this case I was right. I got outside and went to the 7-11 I didn't return to the station until the train was boarding. Did I miss read the situation? Perhaps. Was I just being paranoid? likely. To my defense though, people tend to get a little nervous when they have four hundred dollars in their pocket.

New Year 2012

2012-01-02T01:46:00.000-06:00

send help. and food.

Miles Nielsen

2011-12-16T02:21:00.000-06:00

I wanted to hate him.
I really did.
He seemed like a gigantic whale in a pond of a midwestern town. I wanted to believe that he was riding the coat tails of his father's success. That his musical equivalent of a silver spoon would inevitably choke him and reduce him to the imposter I had assumed he was. Then I saw him perform. He was good, fuck it, he was great. He did a Beatles cover worthy of the legends themselves. Sacreligious? I know, but if you were there you would agree, it was fucking magical. The venue was outside at a street festival. He shared a bill with a few other acts, and though he didn't close out the night, I feel like he was the driving force that turned the night from nominally entertaining to, for me at least, unforgetable. The crowd had been apathetic at best. Half the people came down because there wasn't shit else to do, and the other half were regular downtown folk. They all had their doubts. As Miles took the stage and started playing he proved first to be a showman. An art that has been lost by so many artists who are niave to think that what they are singing is so God damn important. He wouldn't allow this audience to be typical. He drew them out of their thick shells, he didn't merely request that they have a good time, he fucking made them have a good time. A showman, yes, but he's also so fucking funny. Upon covering a song his father wrote he quipped "this one's an original", which of course is true metaphysically. I fell in love with his performance for this reason, the man is a perfectionist, each lyric and note and move has been labored over and perfected, yet he never took the moment too seriously. He worked his ass off for the sheer love of performing. That in my opinion is the golden key that seperates the Sinatras and the Elvises from the run of the mill singer-songwriters. He could've been playing the Whiskey, Carnegie Hall, hell anywhere and I don't think he would've changed one single fucking thing. That demands respect, and for his art I have the utmost. Afterward I traded one liners with him in a fasion that people do who are more comfortable on stage than in an actual conversation. I was trying to convey my personal approval of his performance without admitting I thought it was brilliant, not that he needed it. Hell, he will play whether or not you like it, in fact, he'll make you like it.

An original poem

2011-09-12T01:41:00.000-05:00

This poem seemed fitting for tonight. Take from it what you will. I hope you enjoy it.

Post Modern American Dream

Tonight

We will ascend to some high place

And watch the world flash like a summer lightning bug

See the colorful children chase blinking world

As we mock them and sip our bitter drink

We are not brave

We are not naïve

We are numb

And cynical

And entertained by the world chasers