First off, as this is a continuation of the lyrics from "The Boys of Summer," Harry would at this point be growling that this is a song about chicks, man. Well, its about that big old desolation boulevard, too. I'm doing a double post tonight, look for "Answers On A Postcard" later. This first part is about my trek to Oak Park and the tribute to Harry. And there will be a tossing of the ashes on the vernal equinox, but, this being Chicago and all, it will probably only be thirty come March 21st. Here's the thing, I left the house fully ready for the fifteen below wind chill, but it somehow morphed into a crazy THIRTY-FIVE BELOW near the time I hit East Avenue on the Forest Park like. When I crossed Rehm Park and the first full gust hit me in a literal whiteout, it was like I had gotten punched on the bridge of my nose while pure ammonia was being shoved up my nose in some ethereal way. Disorienting enough that my body just flopped to the ground out of pure whatthefuckedness. The gathering itself was stupendous, and I will indeed address this in a few hours, a wonderful remembrance of HE Fassl. Let me back track a bit though, and relate the subway incident. To get from the Red Line to the Blue Line, you descend even lower underground and walk a tunnel two blocks in length and BAM, up the steps again. I heard the Playing Card Man while I was still in the tunnel. He was an enigma himself, balding white guy in his thirties, ver nice black car coat, banged up old suitcase with wheels, and quite definately off his meds for at least a few days. There was a deck of card on the tracks and a dozen or so lay on the platform. This guy would pace, either fighting obessive-comuplsion or just not knowing what decision to make, then he slapped a card over, grabbed his head and screamed O MY GOD! THE THREE OF DIAMONDS! Maybe seven of us in the frosty tunnel, no one moved back, we are used to this. O MY GOD, THE TEN OF HEARTS! From thirty feet away, the cards blown onto the platform in odd places from the wake of the previous el train. He was still grabbing at the snakes in his head by the time the train arrived, and I found it strange that he never called out a club or a spade, maybe he truly was angered and/or astonished that he always flipped up a red card. Walk in circles, bend down like slapping a live wire, cry out. The train turned west a block up and barrelled above ground at UIC. I was impressed enough by this guy that I've worked out a story in my head, but of course my own obsessive-compulsiveness will not let me start it until I have a title. So that's what I leave you with for now, the guy who drew only red and me falling to my knees in bafflement of the whiteout, my destination still three blocks away. Heading west into the black...Wayne
