Fahrenheit [made up number]: the temperature at which khaki burns
an unprovoked rant against the Chicago Cubs
last year it was a big deal when a porch collapsed in Wrigleyville (home of the lower members of Chicago's upper class and grazing mecca for suburban dads playing hooky, glazed lightly with cheap domestics as a hundred years of blue caps and fake greeks empties out into every pocket of alley, street, brick and grass)
Though seven people roughly my age died at what was essentially the same party I was at during some portion of every weekend of May through late November, I was unsympathetic. I was reared ("right," some would say, from a White Sox loving, softball-playing fanatic from South Shore and Old Maxwell) and fought through millions of dollars of Daddies' monies to find seats on the train and built a high bitterness level towards them.
As stated, I was unsympathetic. In fact, i yearned for massacre, piles of red C's reduced to sheets of ash the way the old stars pinned to my grandparents' brothers coats that lit up night skies in Bruchenwald. I wanted the statue of Harry Carey's bronze yapper stuffed with pieces of paper, vomiting up names and prayers like a too-full wailing wall.
To watch every kid drumming on an industrial bucket and every CTA panhandler ever told off in the hot breath of lite beer to spit tar om some Tomb of the Unknown Yuppie
I want to ride a tan goat to Wrigley and split the keg of single malt scotch I've tied around its neck and nibble on its beard and lick its teeth and pull it up on hind legs so we can trot and dance like randy Pans as we watched Addison, Sheffield, and Waveland burn to the god damned ground
last year it was a big deal when a porch collapsed in Wrigleyville (home of the lower members of Chicago's upper class and grazing mecca for suburban dads playing hooky, glazed lightly with cheap domestics as a hundred years of blue caps and fake greeks empties out into every pocket of alley, street, brick and grass)
Though seven people roughly my age died at what was essentially the same party I was at during some portion of every weekend of May through late November, I was unsympathetic. I was reared ("right," some would say, from a White Sox loving, softball-playing fanatic from South Shore and Old Maxwell) and fought through millions of dollars of Daddies' monies to find seats on the train and built a high bitterness level towards them.
As stated, I was unsympathetic. In fact, i yearned for massacre, piles of red C's reduced to sheets of ash the way the old stars pinned to my grandparents' brothers coats that lit up night skies in Bruchenwald. I wanted the statue of Harry Carey's bronze yapper stuffed with pieces of paper, vomiting up names and prayers like a too-full wailing wall.
To watch every kid drumming on an industrial bucket and every CTA panhandler ever told off in the hot breath of lite beer to spit tar om some Tomb of the Unknown Yuppie
I want to ride a tan goat to Wrigley and split the keg of single malt scotch I've tied around its neck and nibble on its beard and lick its teeth and pull it up on hind legs so we can trot and dance like randy Pans as we watched Addison, Sheffield, and Waveland burn to the god damned ground
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