Thursday, June 30, 2005

What drives a person to take the L at unchristian hours? I imagine a couple of dollars and a corn dog will do it for some folks, but yours truly demands at least a tenner before stepping into the crown jewel of the Chicago Transit Authority. The L is, in and of itself, a convenient way to transport many people across variable distances. The L is, in spite of itself, also a melting pot turned festering cesspit, hearth and home to some unsavory freakjobs.

I’d place the L experience, especially the experience at night, somewhere on the continuum between getting shot in the gut and having a llama pee on my face, both of which are realities just waiting to happen. And yet it’s the prospect of a long weekend fused with a burning need for live entertainment, perhaps, that makes the trip worthwhile.

There are alternative routes to the pub tomorrow–I call one of them “driving”–but my co-worker insists on the L. It’s allegedly more fun, plus she’s been pumping iron, so I’ve been assured we’re safe.

“Aww, are you scared of the L?” she asked.

“Of course not!” I declared, machismo on full bristle. “I plan on crying into a tub of ice cream after I get home.”

I’m really going to groove to the music, you know, maybe lock eyes with a band member and touch the drum set. Clothes? Check and double check. I’m thinking a sweater vest, tie, suspenders, solid pair of corduroys. My mind is made. A good time shall be had. See you on Tuesday.