Portaged in Portland

I think that I've already made a Portlandia Dream of the 90s reference on my blog. So I'll skip that, even though I just re-watched the video and I still find the song to be quite catchy. Even after visiting Portland.

During my first visit to Portland, I came across a t-shirt at a tourist kiosk, it had a picture of Grumpy Cat, with the inscription “I went to Portland once, it rained.” Well, I went to Portland and it rained. All day. Cold, miserable, unending rain.

And we had no real plans or goals, beyond some vague intentions of finding interesting places to eat. So I suggested that we just get our day pass and see where the train would take us. That actually seems to be my standard answer to the question of “What do you do in a strange city?”. Portland's Max Light Rail has 4 lines. Red and Blue run mostly east and west. Green and Yellow are more north and south. Ish. All four meet in the center of town and share a lot of the same tracks. In all, they cover a fair portion of the city.

I was wearing my Jayne's Town shirt that day. As a quick description, because it comes into play, it has a picture of a Skull sporting a Jayne Cobb goatee and hat. Across the top there is the inscription “Heroes of Canton”. I love the shirt, as I love firefly, and wear it often.

Oh hey, one thing I found out, people in Portland notice your t-shirt. And strike up a fucking conversation. What the holy hell fucking fuck? I mean I like to let my geek flag fly, but my socially awkward ass doesn't want to interact, and I'm usually too polite to ignore people when they make an attempt to create a connection.

But interact I did.

My first oppressor was from Utah, as we took the train in to find breakfast, and he was a fan of Firefly. We had a chat about the show, and then he tried to sell me on owning my own business. Not sure if he was going to move into providing said business. I wasn't interested. Still am not. But hey, this would be the best conversation I'd have that day.

We found a small breakfast place that was nearish the train and trudged through the rain. Don't remember the name of the place, but I ordered plate Banana chocolate pancakes. And ate Most of them. They were so damn rich and sugary that finishing was impossible. It was a fair attempt on my part. But I was defeated.

Outside, the rain continued. That wouldn't change for the remainder of the day.

Our next stop was the Chinese Garden and Tea Room. I was cold and wet. But the beauty of the gardens still managed to shine through and allow me to forget some of my discomfort. We tried some of their tea. It was pricey, and I didn't really want to spend the money at that point, but peer pressure. The tea was interesting. If I were a resident of Portland, I might consider a semi-cyclical visit to sample more of their teas. I love tea.

My second Visitation of the Ghost of Portland Now came as we took the Red/Blue Line all the way out to it's westernmost stop. I shall call La Senorita Del Craneo. Known here out as Craneo. Mayhaps she was attracted to the strong silent type, of which I am, if you downgrade “Strong” to “Moderately Stable”.

Craneo noticed my shirt. See, I told you it was important. People in Portland pay attention to shit like that. Even the visitors. Must be something in the air.

She pointed at her head and said “I have one of those.” And I wonder to this day what would have happened if I had responded “Well I don't, someone stole my skull. Are you using yours?” But that wasn't even in the queue of potential responses. Because really, how often does a strange woman on the train start a conversation of which the crux is her having a basic bit of essential anatomy? I would like to know, as my brief experience in Portland leads me to believe that it is a daily occurrence, perhaps even multiple times a day.

I don't recall the full details of the conversation. I was too busy devoting my limited brain power to trying to find an escape route. Meanwhile, Sara and Adam were enjoying the show. Fucking Lannisters.

La Senorita Del Craneo finally broke off. Maybe she found my conversation to be less than inspiring. I did my best, but calculating the benefits of chewing through my ankle to escape was a bit of a distraction. But she wandered down the train to spread her good cheer to the other travelers. Praise The Sun!

Adam chose that moment to reveal his current passion, which happened to be for the works of Chuck Tingle. If you don't know who Mr. Tingle is, by all means look him up, his wikipeida page is a treasure to be cherished by all of Humanity, past, present and future. At the very least Google Chuck Tingle Books. I won't mind if you get distracted and fail to finish my tale. In fact, I will count that as a win.

Adam initiated us in the joy of Chuck Tingle by hipping us to the list of the man's writings that had been collected on the wikipedia page. High point of the day. How can you not read a name like “Space Raptor Butt Invasion”, or “Pounded in the Butt by the Existential Dread that you are a Character in a Chuck Tingle Novel” and not smile a little?

Chuck's antics helped to fill the train ride with much needed mirth. Walking around downtown Portland would grind away that little bit of happiness soon enough, as the damp blanketed us and drained our will. And Portland herself.

Back in town we zeroed in on the foodtrucks and scored lunch. I got some Indian. It was bland. A word that I usually don't associate with Indian food. Maybe I just had bad luck. And I didn't order the spicy option, as I was still feeling a bit wary. Really, the las thing I needed here was a repeat of my desecration of the Asian Art Museum.

The last time I had visited the food trucks was with my friend a few years back. She wanted me to experience the full magisty of the food truck experience. I walked around the block at least four times before I picked up some Thai. It was par excellence. Which seemed to be the theme of the trip. Sometimes it's better not to compare.

Powell's City of Books. If there is one place I'd like to take refuge during a zombie apocalypse, this is it. To hell with those kids and their fancy mall and their food and guns. Give me a bookstore that sits atop a full city block! It was like a maze of goodness, and I never wanted to leave. We left.

Powell's was bustling that night. Sunday in Portland and people were hanging around in a book store. I love Portland for this. A platonic love to be sure. We can be friends and hang out, we just will never be in a serious relationship. Which leaves me feeling a little sad. But there is always the one that got away.

Adam and I wandered around Portland going too and fro, up and down the streets, just getting a feel for the city. I think we made it as far as the 405 before turning back. We had no particular direction and just popped into various buildings that took our interest. Museums, shops, etc. I admired a statue of Theodore Roosevelt for a while, which left me gleefully surprised.

The Library called us, promising relief from the rain. In we went and wandered upwards towards the sound of music, to find a concert being played on the top floor. One largely being enjoyed by an audience of the homeless.

Seattle had a fair share of homeless people. Far many more than I am used to in the midwest. Strange that, a place that has a mild climate year round and a decent public transport system attracts the people who are forced to live on the streets. I think Portland is their Mothership. They crowd the corridors with colorful tents and crouch, hiding from the weather.

People ask for money left and right. I gave out much more spare change than I usually do. I wonder if that's how traveling affects me, with some extra sense of generosity. Though, I suspect that some of that had to do with the fact that I was actually carrying physical cash.

They were everywhere, and as an outsider I don't want to judge their performance against such a daunting task as feeding and housing such a multitude.

That brings me to the third and final t-shirt admirer. Adam and I took the Yellow line north. When we. Or rather I. Sat down across from a mildly homeless gentleman. He saw my shirt and he of course broached the subject. “You from Canton, Ohio?”

“Not I sir. Not I. But I am from the midwest.” And then I tried to explain the meaning of the shirt. He looked at me like the nerd that I am. Not with disdain, but more along the lines of boredom. We chatted some, he told stories, he liked Portland and Seattle and was intending to visit Alaska. He was from Buffalo New York(thus why he asked about Canton, as that would make us neighbors? Maybe. He said he knew members of the band Cannibal Corpse.

He offered to show us around Portland. I could see that in my mind's eye, following the dude to the end of the line to get a glimpse of the camp that was his home. And then the knifing. “I'm gonna be murdered!” was the reoccurring drumbeat in my brain. How the fuck is it that I can say stupid shit and alienate people I like, but be unable to use the full focus of my social awkwardness to stave off unwanted advances by complete strangers? What kind of bullshit personality flaw did I get saddled with? Roll to fail, natural 1.

Balls.

4 or so stops from the end of the line, and my taking my first steps in having my skin turned into a tent, Sara texted to let us know she was done with her chores. So, we never got out the the end of the yellow line. All without being turned into a sex-mummy in the woods.

Back together, we decided to head in the opposite direction, and ride down the Green Line. And it wasn't much better. We found ourselves seated next to some rather unpleasant folks, listening to their delightful tales of crimes and drugs and domestic violence. All the good stuff in life. We got off the train and headed back towards downtown.

I hit a low point in the trip. Being cold, hungry and otherwise miserable seems to do that. I wonder how well I would deal with venturing to soggy old England. Or true adversity?. One that left us wanting to just cut our losses and see if we could fly back early. We couldn't. Not without paying a rather large fee. So we stuck it out.

By dinner time we had already run out of inspiration for new adventures, so we stopped for pizza in a place called Sizzle Pie. It rated well and seemed easy. We passed by other fine tourist attractions that Sunday evening. The rain remained steady, even so Voodoo Donuts had a score or so people waiting in line. For donuts. On we went, not daring to fall into that trap. Not yet.

I was feeling a helluva lot better as digestion infused me with warmth. It was as if the rest of the misery was sluiced away in the rain as we hoofed it back to the nearest train stop. Along the way, we came across a hat store. And of course I went in. I love the idea of hats. The more absurd the better. I harbor a dream of one day owning a top-hat.

What foils me in this dream you ask? I know myself too damn well. I like the idea of hats, but not really the reality. I would never wear that top-hat, and thus it would be just a rather expensive souvenir. I ended up walking out of the store with a grey fedora looking hat. One that was water proof. I call it my Adventure Hat, and it probably makes me look like a complete and utter douche. No matter, I am a firm believer in truth in advertising.

Tards run amok in the Windy City, news at 11.

Our little group doesn't have a good record when it comes to the land navigation skill set. Really, if you gave us the task of "Walk down this straight hallway, the one with no doors or turns, to the far side." At least two of us would get lost, and the rest would arrive late. We decided to goto Chicago. Originally we were going to get a hotel and stay for the weekend. But the Fat Man was all like 'sod that, I live an hour away. Let's just day-trip this bitches.' this sounded better than laying out cash for a hotel in Chicago. We're cheap and they aren't.

-There we are kids, three of the four members of Brotherhood of the Anchor, we'll be spinning in your town real soon -

Back in 2005 I visited Chicago for the first time for a class trip. Two full classloads of art students from the back woods were packed into a pair of buses and driven around eight hours right smack into the middle of the largest city in the midwest. There are a lot of hickoid jokes that one might be tempted to make on our part, but doubtful that any of them would be overly accurate.

-Godzilla will make little work of your Windy City unless you pay me one billion Yen, and get me Morena Baccarin's phone number. -

True, it was my first time in the city of Chicago. But hardly the first visit to a major city. If one counts Detroit, Boston or Seattle. Yeah, I sound like a defensive bumpkin with delusions of sophistication.

We spent several days seeing art of various quality (the piece that sticks out best was a film that involved a hobo fucking a skull - I stuck around until he started painting on a wall with some nail polish and then I was out) in museums and galleries, being herded between one and the next by our professors/chaperones. In between events we were left along to explore at our leisure. The weather was amazing for October, high 70s, sunny and a pleasant breeze from beginning to end. When we got home we found that the summer had faded and that fall had finally taken its rightful place.

The high-points for me were two. Chicago Style Stuffed Pizza is the first. An inch of cheese mixed with various toppings in reverse Chicago order. We had it two nights in a row, and for other meals in between. I raved about it for months afterwards. And the second was the Blue Man Group. If you haven't seen one of the shows yet, go see them.

-This is exactly why Tim Curry was so damn creepifying in IT -

The Art Institute was killer, as were the legions of females, both the natives and our own contingent, who were still dressed in their summer clothes. I hate hot weather, but love all the girls in their summer outfits. Some things are just worth bearing if you get good enough compensation in return.

The entire class trip can be summed up as 'fucking awesome'.

So yeah, in Febtober of 2009 I asked the Fat Man if was down for a trip to Chicago one of these weekends. He was. Chicago after all, Fuck Yeah.

-Well fiddlesticks, what we have here boys and girls is a major case of historical language FAIL. Who wrote this? What it really should read is 'Fuckin-a G, your dope ride is the Shizznitt! Didja used to use it to cruise for pussy with your boys back in the hood?' Do some research damn it, you're working in a museum.-

I had one real plan at the beginning of our planning process. Locate Pizza. Acquire pizza. Eat pizza. Four years later, and I just wanted to get some freaking pizza. How messed up is that? Just hook it to my veins and I'll be happy! Sauce!

Really, Chicago is around 3 hours from here, and a mere Hour from the Fat Man. So why not kick in and have dinner. Head in the morning, and While we were in the area, we could easily kill time before dinner. Museums, Chicago has them. Lots of them in fact. We'll get back to this later.

The Field Museum was running a pirate exhibit. Goal number two had quickly emerged. See pirates and eat pizza. What combination could be more natural? In the mean time, we might throw in some dorktastic shopping experiences if we could fit them in. A used bookstore here, a gaming shop there. Chicago has a lot to offer if you're willing to look.

Turns out that we weren't that willing to look. Chicago also has expensive parking if your ass gets there late and you have no idea where you're going.

-Shiny things rule!-

The weekend started friday night. Evil and I made our way to Indiana with the intent of getting up early, breaking fast, and roaring into our funtastic weekend and making as much of the city visit as possible. That was the intent. Portents boded poorly for our trip from the getgo. We remembered the laptop/jukebox but forgot such important tools as our toothbrushes. Easily enough fixed. The dollar store has everything one needs to mount such an expedition. Including the hot pink star-shaped Hannah Montana bubble necklace which was bestowed onto the Fat Man. Mad props, the man wore the goofy ass thing through the entire weekend.

This was the high-point of the trip. Sad huh? The rest of it involved poor navigation, missing an exit and adding an extra thirty minutes to the trip. Fun fun fun! This does lead to a question. Along our route we found some kickass billboards advertising for an adult toy store. Vibrators and dildos and what-not. The whole array. Found them later on the internet. Stop judging me. Back to the store. Who are these billboards aimed at? Who is driving down the highway at 70, sees an attractive woman inviting them to a sex-shop and says to themselves 'I'm there?' Myself aside, who are these horny bastards? Kindly put your pants back on before raising your hand.

The reality involved our dumb asses staying up till two in the morning and playing the card game Bang. Wild times. After that I had all the joy of trying to catch some sleep in a warm room, wrapped in a warm sleeping bag, on an inflatable mattress with a slow leak. A combination that is mutually exclusive with a decent night's sleep.

After breaking fast we ended up succumbing to the temptation of material goods. Yeah baby those little vending machines in the lobby of the restaurant were our downfall. The Fat Man spotted one that was packed with rings priced at 25 cents a piece. He bought one. The rest of us were dragged along by peer pressure and a healthy sense of ridiculous. I wore mine for most of the trip. Bling bling! baby. I'll make Leroy Brown himself jealous of my pointless accessorization.

Northern Indiana is a depressing place, especially the closer one gets to the border with Illinois. Gary, what you can see of it from the expressway, is a real pit. Not the kind of town I'd enjoy getting lost in. The houses were rundown and decrepit. The same mess is mirrored along the so-called rust-belt. Saginaw, Flint and Detroit. Miserable places where the people seem to be trapped where they are. Like a pit of quicksand. This was a good time to stop watching the scenery pass by and close my eyes.

-Midair terrorist fist-bump for the win. Really, we fit right in with the 8 year olds who were running around the museum.-

Through the skyway and 16 bucks worth of tolls later, we were in Chicago on what would become Lakeshore. Success! We'd gotten so far without getting lost once. Mind you, it's basically a straight shot, once you get on the Toll Road, from Southie to Chicago. If you get lost here, well then we'll start a club for the dreadfully incompetence. A club with cake, supplied by people who aren't associated with the likes of us. It'll be fun. Except for our inability to conduct meetings or actually procure said cake.

Coming from the south, and I imagine any direction, you can see Chicago rise up out of the lake from miles and miles off. Majestic is way too corny. But the skyline is an impressive sight. A range of man-made spires. Or maybe a jagged cliff rising above the blue lake. I imagine that on clear summer days that the view is dazzling. For us it was cloudy.

We rolled up Lakeshore searching for two distinct goals. The first was Fields. The second was a place to park so that we could attend Fields. The Field museum is a giant concrete building designed in a neoclassical form that has been for so long popular with Western European cultures and their descendants. In America the style of architecture has been used to connect ourselves with the culture, learning and 'values' of the ancient Greeks(the democracy part, not the man on boy action). So, someone had the brilliant idea to mold our center of learning and culture in the style of the Greek and Roman buildings.

-Despite what you might think, this is not the Field Museum. In our defense, it is an actual Museum. And there is a field in front of it.-

And there it was. A giant concrete building in the classical style, with the Greek columns and the Roman domes sheathed in oxidized copper. Our collective reaction was a drawn out exclamation, probably in the form of a colorful metaphor. The building was enormous. We were going to need all day to explore it. Score one for the away team. Now to locate that parking garage that the Fat Man had found via the internet and we'd be golden.

We didn't come across the garage, as we circled the streets pulling further and further from the museum. So we backtracked and bingo, there it was, an underground garage attached right to the museum itself. What kin of luck is that? Not the good time kids.

I figured out we were somewhat off when I went to buy a ticket and it was ten dollars cheaper than expected. When I asked if it would get me into the pirate exhibit. The girls behind the desk stared at me and informed my pasty ass that this was the Museum of Science and Industry, I would find no such exhibit here. That sort of shenanigans was housed at the Field museum.

Fuck.

-Take that bitch. Always lock your wheel and frame to the bike post.-

So, we gathered our forces and exited stage three stories up and leftish. And then tried to find the Field Museum on foot via a tour of the perimeter. For those who aren't laughing along at home, the Field museum is around five or ten miles further north. Evil noticed a definite lack of Shed's Aquarium, which shares a space with the Field Museum. We had undershot our destination then payed for parking. With the Field nowhere in sight, we decided to surrender and check out the Museum of Science and Industry.

First thing one notices, the building is ginormous. And it's infested with a horde of monkeys. The bald kind that run around fully dressed. Make a lot of noise. And generally were rather obnoxious. We fit right in.

I was wearing my I Kill People On Weekends t-shirt that the Fat Man had specially made for members of our gaming organization back in school. It was intended to be rather catchy and on the edge of good taste as it referenced perceived social bias towards violent video games and those who play them. I've had the shirt for years, and love wearing it, especially on weekends. Well, this time I forgot what shirt I was wearing. It was black with white text, like 10 other t-shirts that I own. No, I'm not a goth.

But as such, with a legend like 'I Kill People On Weekends', on a Saturday, the shirt drew a lot more attention than was intended. The first instance was one of the workers at the museum near the ticket counter who asked about my policy. I was dumbfounded as I had forgotten I was wearing said shirt. In the end, the five bucks offered was not enough to kill his supervisor. Sorry to disappoint. Moving on. Cheap bastard.

First up, we hit the Uboat exhibit. Imagine a full sized German ww2 submarine residing in someone's basement, and that's about what you have here. Along the way from the main building to the hanger where the sub is housed, is a multimedia attraction about how the sub was captured intact by the allies. We skimmed right by it. Stopping from time to time when something caught our eye and then moving on without really waiting to absorb the entire presentation.

-That is impressive. Next, the full scale model of the USS Enterprise NCC-1701(I admit, I had to google that.)-

What we found was a living breathing WW2 era German Uboat. I mean we knew it was there. But really, most museums might be expected to contain part of such a machine, or a mock-up. This was the real deal. All one hundred and fifty feet of it. And it was quite cool. The walls were line with information about the workings of the sub and the daily lives of the crew. It's enough to dissuade me from taking up the submariner lifestyle. It looks a lot like being in prison, only underwater. And with more rape.

The museum offered the option to explore the sub proper. We didn't go inside, that'd of cost extra and we're cheap/poor. So on we went to kill time till dinner.

-Those wacky Germans sure do love their Skat.-

The rest of the museum is really just 'science' for children. It reminds me of the Imaginariam in Anchorage, only a thousand times larger. They had models by the hundreds. Not the good kind of models, the ones dressed in lingerie and bikinis, but rather the informative ones representing in scale real world objects that just wouldn't fit in such a small space.

The model that got the awesome vote for the day was that of the city of Chicago and how the railway system works in tying interstate commerce together. Yeah, pretty dry stuff. I had to refrain myself from Godzilling the model. Following through with the impulse would have involved some extensive fines and jail time, but damn it was tempting. If not for the destruction, just for a pic of myself 'attacking' scale-Chicago. Nothing can stop Godzilla! Might have been worth being expelled from the museum.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around and posing for goofy pictures. If I have one disappointment, it is the Fat Man's unwillingness to Whinnie-the-Pooh the jet engine in the airliner exhibit. That would have made a fantastic picture, one to embody the entire trip. Damn that man and his pride. I suppose that I could have substituted myself, though my bony ass sticking out of the front of an engine as such would have lacked the humorous punch.

-You see, had he cooperated, in this space right now you'd be reading some classic Pooh-bear line like 'Ohh bother' or 'Mmmm honey'. But no, so all you get is some Weebl and Bob. Ready? "What the greasy poop going on here?"

Then there was the obligatory pass through the gift shop. Expensive shit. Some of it was passingly interesting, but not enough so for any of us to be willing to part with our cash for. Oragami Plane? Are they airworthy? I doubt it.

Finally we came to our true purpose. Pizza.

We grabbed the car, paid our fare and trekked north further into the heart of the great city. Yea and behold, there it stood, our original destination, the Field Museum. Bigger than life and far more intimidating, with banners proclaiming that the Pirate exhibit was located inside for those who dared to tread those hallowed halls.

I am a fat man at heart. Of all the pizza I've ever tried, I like the Chicago style stuffed the best. Fred's here in town falls into second place. I had spent four or so years building up the pizza we had had into mythic proportions. Enough to get me off my lazy ass and over to Chicago.

-You are correct. I am a schmuck. If we had been visiting Italy, I'd be the dufas who was 'holding up the Leaning Tower' in at least one of the photos we brought home. Can't help it, I just love cliches.-

We decided to hit up Giordano's, a restaurant that both the Fat Man and myself could swear by, and often did. This involved finding another parking lot, getting lost in said parking lot (we are a sad lot) and hiking down several blocks. About three blocks into our hike, it started to rain, and then it began to pour, then the level of rain ascended to whatever cosmic level is beyond mere cats and dogs.. I was greatly amused. Rain wasn't about to stop us. We just kept on going. After stopping to look up the address again, and then continuing on once more, we finally stormed the front of the restaurant and asked for a table. There was a 20 minute wait, the cute girls informed us.

Yeah. Twenty minutes, no problem. Well, if you ignored the fact that the the interior was roasting warm. Dutch held a plastic slice of pizza that marked our place in line while the rest of us were standing out front of the building watching the rain and talking with the other potential patrons. The hight point was a creepy bastard paced back and forth staring at us, he did that for around 20 minutes. That was the first and only “Wish I had a gun.” moments that I faced on this trip. I could tell that he was pondering the message of my t-shirt, and maybe considering testing the authenticity. Was it an idle boast? Or was it just a joke? The wheels were turning.

We met up with my cousin Spank-daddy about half an hour into our wait for the pizza, turned out that he had busted his face a week or so earlier with an alcohol fueled chance encounter with a similar storm and a local curb. Rather, half an hour into the wait for our table to sit down and order the pizza. What was taking so long? We found out when a stream of midgets(read children) passed through the door and was seated, filling the place to capacity. Bastard circus freaks had 'reservations'.

After our hour of penance for stupidity and failure to think ahead, we were finally seated. 45 minutes later we had our pizza in hand. It was as amazing as I recalled. Won't bother describing the experience here, go get some your own damn selves and stop your half-assed vicarious living through me.

Chicago's south side has a bad reputation for being rough and tumble and out and out dangerous. No doubt some of it is, especially to the obvious outsider (that'd be our dumb selves). Equally no doubt the south side has it's nice parts as well. At least according to the wikipedia article on the subject. Really South Chicago is like any other city. But it does have a reputation. We wandered straight into the northern edge.

-Origami airplanes? How well do they fly?-

The buildings and houses in places were fantastically beautiful, architecturally speaking.. Then a block or two later they were run down and depressed. It is like the city is rotting alive, with the dying and dead flesh right next to the healthy skin and muscle. Leperous.

Our first and most amusing taste of humanity came when we were stopped at a red light waiting for it to change. When suddenly someone pulled up behind and began to honk their horn and wave. We assumed it was an angry FIB(Fucking Illinois Bastard – which is apparently what folks in Wisconsin call people with Illinois plates) driver who didn't appreciate our stupid touristy ass blocking their road. That is the problem with being a tourist. You're forever in the purgatory of wandering the earth without knowing exactly where you are and how to get where you're going. Which tends to piss off the locals to no end.

This is what we thought we had on our tail. To the point that our Chauffeur Dutch tried to get the hell out of the way. Only to be tailed by a mysterious citizen who continued to honk and wave at us. It was like the urban legend about the traveler on the road being chased down by a car with ultra-high beams. No such luck here. It turned out that Dutch had a low tire, and concerned a citizen took it upon themselves to help a car load of confused tourists out. Most people, everywhere, would just look the other way and go on with their own lives.

Dutch decided to pull over at the nearest gas station and fill up the tire with one of the pumps. Usually they run $.75 for three minutes of time. More than enough. We pooled our cash, change was running short, and found a local BP. When we pulled up, there was a gentleman manning the air pump. He said it would be $.50 cents. As he was working his buddy came and hit us up for whatever he could, stuck his head in the car and wouldn't take no for an answer. With that kind of drive, if he had the education to match, he would have been a tiger in the business world.

Maybe he was, and panhandling on the weekends was just a hobby,

Here is the most depressing aspect of visiting Chicago. The homeless. They're difficult at times to pick out from the panhandlers who are just looking to make some quick cash off of the caring(or gullible). Whatever. A little spare change once in a while is nothing, and it might get into the hands of people who can use it. We're pack animals, social creatures, helping out a needy member of the pack is just the way it works.

But we ended up paying less than we had expected to for the air. So all in all it was a win situation. Later on it occurred to me to give them the final two slices of pizza that we took home with us. It had only been about a half an hour since we had left Giordano's, so the remaining pie was still warm. Afterthoughts are useless, unless you act on them then next time the situation repeats itself.

With our tire ready to go, and Lakeshore in sight, we were ready to head back to Southbend to rest and watch bad movies until the wee hours. And so we went.

Chicago day-trip number one, success mixed thoroughly with fail. Funny how a car full of college educated adults end up dumber than a sack of hammers at those basic life skills. The humiliation aside, it was a blast and we look forward to our next excursion into the west.

-Yep, waiting for the Never O'clock to come and end it all so I don't have to go face the humiliation of being a tard. -