American City

I have started 100 posts in my head in the past two weeks, fleeting ideas that have disappeared as quickly as they arrived leaving me with nothing to say nothing to write nothing with which to appease my loyal readers. Although, knowing me, I will find something to say. I have, after all, embarked on my Great Adventure in Chicago.

The truth is, it really isn’t all that different here. Just sitting on my bed in Spain provoked 1,000 words. I’ve explored this city far and wide and all I’ve managed is a few unfinished ideas, a short, lame post, and several phone conversations. It’s the Midwest, sure, it’s a big city, it has crazy weather, it doesn’t have an ocean, it has public transportation, it is two hours ahead… but I feel the same. And some of the only notable differences I’ve come across between here and California are the ridiculously high price of avocados, the way people say “pop” instead of “soda,” the way the buses don’t turn, and that none of the public restrooms feature toilet seat covers (it’s the law in California). I did, however, come across a startling and exciting response to the problem of toilet seats in the big downtown Chicago Public Library, which had those crazy saran wrap-looking sheaths that completely covered the seat and disappeared at the press of a button (http://www.brillseat.com/). And at the Pitchfork Music Festival this weekend, I got to experience 8:30 p.m. Port-A-Potties that had been used all day by thousands of hippies and hipsters in the dust and heat.

My point is not to talk about toilet seats. My point is that this is an American City, and all American Cities are alike; every American City is American in its own way (paraphrased from Anna Karenina). Richard M. Daley, mayor, has his name on every sign and poster in the city. There’s pizza, Chinatown, Little Italy, Downtown with big buildings, thrift stores, areas of big-name commercial presence, residential areas, trees, rich people, homeless people, students, people who go to work Downtown in a suit each day, mothers with lots of little children.

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The other week my frequent male escorts and I caught the bus down the street in order to catch another bus that would take us to aliveOne. We waited for awhile: it was late, it had started to rain. Chicago buses are lazy; their signs commonly say “runs every 13 to 25 minutes” or “runs from the early morning to the late afternoon.” Standing under the Borders overhang next to us was a woman, young, with five children gathered around her. One was in her arms. One was in a stroller. Three came to various places on her leg. They were dressed in various stages of alikeness, their hair was braided and barretted and they were quiet and stationary. But the woman still had her hands full, with five extensions of herself running around, trying to get on a bus, get seated, and pull the rope at the appropriate stop. This isn’t really American, but it’s interesting.

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The Fourth of July was already ages ago, but memories of the night still greet me with smiles. We drank beer and grilled things (mostly veggie). We made our way up the ladder to the roof and were silenced by the perfect night and the 360 degrees of festivities. Fireworks are legal in Indiana, I’ve heard, and Indiana is only 30 minutes away. There were explosions and bits of light filling the sky from every direction: to the south-east, the city, with its buildings obscured by smoke and light, to the south, nameless towns and families celebrating with their own explosions, to the west, to the north. I stood, speechless, for an hour watching.

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Is this the ocean or the lake?

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Are these aliens or friends?

Note: I have just finished the first book on my summer reading list not counting two Harry Potter rereads: Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl. My strange capitalizations, ordering, and references in this post may be attributed, in part, to her. Irvine Welsh, I believe, is next. Watch out for the Chicago accent coming through in phonetic spelling. Also watch out for spells. Harry Potter comes out soon.