I went up north for the first time in six weeks, my new job keeping me tethered to the south suburbs, and it was great to see all the meltdowns I keep trying to avoid emulating; every day I struggle to stop dismembering my life. On Belmont and Wilton, a man near a dumpster enticed me to get some free seeds from the garbage rim, taking a few packets and opening them after I politely declined, and as I continued to the el, I could hear him singing a song about free seeds for the city. It was in the 50s today, so I ambled around downtown, bought Sean Doolittle's new mystery RAIN DOGS at Border's, looked out from the second floor windows at the rebuilding of Block 37, soon to be the new HQ of our CBS affiliate, long ago the hunting grounds of The American Dream and Francis Madsen Haid, THE HOLY TERROR. Across the street is a place I kindly call John Wayne Macy's in the earshot of locals. It used to be Marshall Field's, and I say it with common sarcasm and therefore do not look like the average nutbag. If anything, I am closest to the cat whose photo above I have tried to capture for two decades. Only the singing kid with the liters of Tab escapes my grasp now. The guy above howls when his mouth opens, his missing front teeth makes me think of someone with Lesch-Nyhan syndrome, a disease that causes people to actually cannibalize themselves. He will sometimes walk the train cars, invading ones space, never really asking for money, maybe wanting only a smile or a wish of hope in return. How this guy--who I first saw when I started working in the Loop in 1984--has fought this place so long is way past my understanding. It will be winter next week and I already want to call it quits. I'm chewing on toothpicks, channeling my pain, typing with my one finger as fast as I can, as if drilling through a wall that holds secrets that the unnamed fellow above certainly discovered long ago. I know that if I lived on the street, my madness would be cured. Right now, I'd settle for Ygor playing the violin from a window high above and far away from me. Beckoning. Your monster buddy, Wayne
