Reigning in the Rain

Ah, the relationship with rain. I actually like when it rains, because you need a good gloomy day now and then. And, providing it's not too chilly, little is more invigorating than a run in the rain. But when you need to get somewhere and all around you have umbrellas, well, I've spoken of umbrella etiquette before. Without entirely rehashing my gripes, I'll just say that umbrella use is a great microcosm into the selfishness of an individual. Don't want to get wet and/or have important things you don't want to get wet? I totally understand. But others don't really want to either, nor do they want to be decapitated by your unwieldy wielding of an umbrella.

But that's small fry and, rain aside, for however sunny life seemed in Chicago on Family Matters, the fact of the matter is, these days — as a friend put it when I shared the numbers — Carl Winslow is not doing his job. It's really not anything new, which makes it more disturbing. Yes, there are surges in the murder rate, but there are consistently a lot of murders in this city. Is it because they're on the South Side that they get less coverage? Wouldn't that be a shocker...

Since I don't worry about transitions, how about Andy Roddick retiring? This is not a subtle distraction from bigger issues, it's blatant. But Roddick, I have to say I enjoyed press conferences like this one after Roger Federer annihilated him at the 2007 Australian Open. And I liked to watch the guy play. It's true, he wasn't on the level of Federer and then Nadal and Djokovic. Tennis, in this era, is unusual, in that those are the three guys winning everything [that matters — Slams]. And rarely are they being eliminated from tournaments by anyone other than each other. And yet, even though I never really thought he'd do it, I would root for Roddick to win tournaments after that 2003 US Open.

Who can say why? Sports and other allegiances are an odd — and fickle — thing. It's hard enough to pass judgment on people you actually know, but then toss it through the lens of athletes or other celebrities who we get to know through tabloids and [sometimes] legitimate news sources. "Gee, that guy seems like an asshole." Or, "Seems like the kind of guy I'd want to grab a beer with." Or even, "I hate you, but goddammit do I respect you."

And hell, I remember sitting in my sister's apartment, begging the fifth set to go to Roddick at the 2009 Wimbledon final. This one was different as I always thought he'd need luck, or Federer to be off his game to win. But that day he outplayed Federer. That day I really thought he might win. It's a testament to Federer that he hung on anyway. I feel as if, in America, we root for the underdog, but we also want to be the dominant force. It's at odds with itself. And because Roddick rose to the top, ever so briefly, and then hung around, well, I think it made me like him more. It hardly effects my life whether he won or lost a match, and yet it affected it here and there.

Party on Roddick.

Finally, a couple of quick reminders: don't be afraid of the weird hairs growing on your back. This doesn't have to be awkward backhair if you just own it. And yes, sometimes deaf people are jerks. Sometimes, deaf people are assholes. Why am I saying this? Well, I've slipped through the rankings for these search terms, so I'm just doing some low-grade SEO.

SEO you later.

Scenes From a Jane Austen Novel

So when I got home last night after a grease-inducing six hours of public transit I found myself pretty exhausted and a little bit hungry. Whenever I take public transportation after an exhausting day/night/weekend, grease is seriously the word. I've tried to figure out why it happens, in much the same way I tend to get greasy when I stay up late drinking soda and eating candy; generally my m.o. before paper writing, but I've not written a paper in a long time. In spite of my tired, greasy, and hungered ways, I had a compulsion I often feel: to run. I know, I know, I think my last entry was about running, but I mean, it's my blog and sometimes I run a lot.

There had been a weird and thick fog in the air when the bus crossed the bridge into Chinatown, and when I finally got home the promise of thunder-showers in a warm fifty degrees added some electricity to my compulsion for motion. And somehow my body found the energy to not just drag, but even bound in a fairly spritely fashion through the largely deserted streets of suburban Jersey. Of course, somewhere around ten miles my right ankle was trying to tell me the length of my run may have been a mistake but I knew I needed to keep going, and it would have been an awfully long walk at eleven o' clock at night. With less than two miles to go, the skies finally opened, bathing my scantily-clad body in a refreshing rain. My t-shirt clung to me and became translucent as only fifteen-plus year old over-washed cotton can, drooping slightly to make my shorts look even shorter.

When I finally got to my door, all I wanted to do was bask in the moment, the rain beating down on me, but it had slowed and my body quickly chilled. I thought nothing of it until I went inside and felt shivery like a character in a Jane Austen novel might after getting caught out in the rain. Luckily I didn't find myself bed-ridden a la Kate Winslet in Sense and Sensibility. Not yet anyway. Bum ankle and all, I still required no Colonel Brandon to make it home. I wanted to shower immediately but I was so hungry I changed into my rarely-used terry cloth robe and ate some cold stuffed shells, salad and cookies, and even had a couple of tugs of some Bailey's for Old Greg's sake. I was so hungry that on one bite I bit firmly down onto the tines of the fork and, though it hurt, couldn't help but smirk at my asshattery. I took a shower I never wanted to end before emerging to stare in front of this very computer screen. I considered posting something to this very effect last night, as I feel it would have captured a very different energy, but alas I was losing a battle of wits and eyelids. I'm waging that battle again, knowing that even if I succumb to sleep now it will result in an all-too early rise and perhaps some nightmares.

I was just looking through my wallet for something only to find an ATM receipt belonging to some stranger for a $60.00 withdrawal made on 3/19/09 at 1:52am. This isn't too extraordinary except that his (or her, but I am quite certain it's a male for some reason) checking balance is listed as -$58.52, meaning the individual in question had a stellar $1.48 in their account at the time. And that, that sucks.

And now, my wisdom of the day: Burning bridges can be tough unless you are just flame retarded.