One performance artist once spent an entire year outside- no roof under any circumstances. He should have done it in Chicago for the summer months. The day after you get your first almost sunburn and a hint of color on your see though winter ridden skin is when it all starts. You acquire a few bruises on the shins from out of practice biking, the first mosquito bites start to creep in, and you find dirty blades of grass in your hair, but you display these summer wounds with pride. With the dedication of an Olympian trialothoner, you try to eat as many of your meals outside, drink on as many rooftops as possible, and consume illegal amounts of soft serve vanilla tastee freeze cones. Every hot yet breezy night you fill your lungs with the sweet air of summer carelessness and exhale with a bittersweet aftertaste. There are only so many summer summers to enjoy where responsibilities aren’t to heavy on your back and you don’t owe anybody anything. I hope I get at least a few more lost summers.
This is to be the summer of beer. The more you drink it, the better it gets. You can drink it in a bar, in a patio at the bar, on your porch, in your apartment, in a restaurant, in a café, in someone else’s house, or on someone else’s porch. You can get it in a can, in a glass bottle, in a pitcher, or in a plain glass. You can drink beer for refreshment on a hot day, you can get the fancy kind and drink it slowly while discussing its finer notes, you can drink to get drunk, or you can drink it with your dinner. Still, the best thing about beer is that it isn’t just a drink- it something to do. At least in the summer.
Dear Demon Cat,
You scratch my friend,
You’re cute to death,
You break and wreak, (and reek)
You arch your back and pounce,
But You forget,
That you are only a cat,
So direct your demon cat eyes, to your litter box.
Dear Five Toed Shoes,
I saw you today on the El, with a girl in too-short shorts, a top with more cutouts than fabric, and a secretarial haircut. What gives? Are you a hippy friendly comfort brand for 20 something yoga lovers and nude running enthusiasts, or have you already crossed into the post-hipster post everything boring types with borderline fashion sense. If so, what is next? Will you be seen in bro-land on baseball nights or in gold coast nightclubs? You seem to be sifting through the strata of shoe wearers as smoothly as transitioning from the plank to downward facing dog. I suspect soon I will have to try you on or else fight off suspicions of hipsterdom or even worse, missing toes.
On Logan Square Biking:
When biking for the first time on Logan Square streets, east on Armitage, to get you an exact visual, there is nothing like the strong urge to close your eyes really hard, cross your fingers, and plead for a car not to drive over you. Luckily, I think passing cars have a similar wish and steer as clear of me as traffic will allow. That inconvenience aside, biking is grand. Beyond getting you from point A to point B and making you nice and sweaty to start your workday, it is a liberating way to commute and become more ingrained into the city. I am so glad to become a city biker, if I could I would write a genuine, non-ironic poem about it. It really is great, and I don’t know if it is because of my blue cruiser Randy (who is about to get a brand new basket and maybe shiny fenders) or it is because of Chicago and its pot-hole riddled bike paths.