an arctic wasteland

It might just be the winter dragging on, but I'm liking this city less and less everyday. I drag my fee through filthy snow and nearly break my neck on ice that buildings do not see if to chip off their steps. The EL takes twice as long to get anywhere due to ice on the rails and extreme track reconstruction because they didn't build it right the first time.

In my efforts to get back in shape I've been trying to ride my bike everywhere. Half of the lake shore bike path is "ride at your own risk." Everyday I bike to work I do so at the risk of falling into the lake because the city won't even salt the path south of Oak street [bullshit]. God forbid I ride through the loop, that's a death trap if I ever saw one. If I had a bullet for every cabbie that's nearly run me over...

My favorites are the rich lawyer/doctor/dentist's wives stepping out of their Mercedes/Audi/BMWs in fur coats on North Michigan avenue that disregard who their door will hit/maim/kill when opened. I screamed at one lady as I skided to a hault and nearly ran her over. I hope she has heart problems now.

Tom was talking yesterday about moving out to Montana into a house. "You, me, and Josh can have a porch and a dog and a huge yard where we can see mountains and stars." Oh, to live in a house again! To be able to walk around at all hours and not have crotchity neighbors bang on the ceiling when I play music at a perfectly reasonable level at night. Why did he have to say that? Now all I can think of is the view from my room, what I'll name the dog, and the color of the porch swing. I miss being able to see the stars at night. I miss fresh air and quiet open spaces. I can't take the din of screaming and drunken banter of college students from the street below my window.

All I can see is this:


In reality all I get is this:



why?

walk away, start over again

As I begin to prepare for the Pakistan trip in May, there are certain social aspects to which I need to become accustom. Such as, not being able to drink in a Muslim state. Now, I am by no means an alcoholic, very far from it. Yet, the fact that I am of Irish, German, and English descent must be taken into account. I've been drinking since I was 15. [sorry mom] and frankly I am used to having a beer after a long day on set. A long grueling day in 110 degree heat should warrant a cold one after the sun sets, no? Such is the battle I will face. But, there is hope. After our language lessons on Thursday, to which our producer graciously brought a 30 pack of PBR, I decided to take the weekend off, from drinking that is. Now I tried this last year. I stopped for a whole week [epic, i know.] But this time I have a bit more to do whilst I am not drinking.



Tom and I went to a fund raiser for a film a friend of mine is directing. I had my camera with me as always, and the producer ended up asking me to photograph the party for their website, as both of their photographers flaked on the party. I had a amazing time milling about the party interacting with my very inebriated friends and colleagues. Rick said that about ten minutes before I got there someone flipped the drunk switch. That is to say that everyone was fine, comfortably drunk and quiet until ten til 1AM. Once the drunk switch is flipped in a place there's no going back. I was able to get a great perspective on the action and I had some great conversations. I really had a much better time taking pictures of the party than I would have if I had been drinking at the party.

The last time I gave up drinking it was a mountain to climb. The sheer cliff of sobriety seemed too steep a precipice to approach. The prospect of falling into the dark abyss of trustworthiness and honest behavior was far too frightening. This time around I found myself enjoying the experience, and I may continue it further.

There's a winner in every place
There's a heart that's beating in every page
The beginning of it starts at the end
When it's time to walk away and start over again
-tom waits, orphans: brawlers, bawlers, and bastards

alley wildlife

Drinking does strange things to people here.


I live up by Loyola in Chicago, and when the weekend starts on thursday, I have to force my way through the hordes of students storming the bars at ten at night when I get off work. I subsequently have to listen to them as I feign an attempt at sleep at four am. Tom and I were staying up wth a bottle of 'mostly whiskey' from the CVS pharmacy down the street [as we are too poor to hit the bars and frankly fear the clientelle.] I sat by the kitchen window with it's glorious view of the intersection of Devon and Sheridan, and the alley next door as I tried to steal the internet connection from other people in the building. I moved the laptop closer to the window to get a better signal. This was around two am and the bars were letting out.
I usually enjoy watching the drunken future doctors and lawyers spew into the streets, nearly getting run over by cars, screaming and laughing. Every now and again you'll get a crier. That's a girl surrounded by her friends sitting on the curb bawling her eyes out because some pompus frat boy turned her down. Said frat boy is high-fiving his yo-bro comrades and scoping out the criers friends. At two am they migrate to the four am bar up the street. Most of them make it, some end up tossing it in the rubish bin on the corner, collapsing, and making it home an hour or so later.

On this night, this particular night, one couple would not make it to the next bar. They wouldn't even make it home! I looked out the window and saw a guy leading a girl into the alley. For the next ten minutes I tried not to watch as they drunkenly rammed each other against the alley wall. I suppose after they exhausted all their option and angles on the wall, they decided the alley floor might make a good place to stage their act.

Might I mention here that in the two days prior to this debachary that the greater chicagoland area had received around 10 inches of SNOW, and that temperatures were ranging around 4 DEGREES. With that in mind, I'll continue:

I thought they had left when I looked back. That is until I saw the girl's head crest the view from the garage roof. They were actually humping on the alley floor, in 10 inches of snow. I guess being drunk really does make you feel warm. I called Tom over to confirm that I wasn't seeing things, that it was really happening. We then came to a realization, after they got back up to give the wall another go. I would be really pissed if I was that girl, I mean, this guy won't even take her home. They were out in that alley for a solid hour! I really wanted to shout out the window "Just take her home already!"

Wanderlust

I want to introduce you to a notion, a feeling for lack of a better word, that sparks expeditions and adventure.

wanderlust: a strong longing or impulse toward wandering

To preface, not everyone is capable of this impulse. A good friend of mine is set on settling down, having a family with his fiance, and getting a good job as a professor of Astro-Physics. I'm happy for him, truly, that life is definitely for him. But not, might I stress, for everyone; just as the life I will describe, is not for everyone.

Kira Salak, author of Four Corners, and overall master of adventure, wrote in the preface of her book about the part of the Southwestern United States where New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and Utah meet in one spot. Her idea came to her when she was eleven, and stood in four places at the same time. To her, it was a superhuman feat.

My journey began when I was eighteen. Well, just before I was eighteen, I had my landmark birthday somewhere over the Pacific ocean about sixteen hours into the second flight of the day and the fourth of my life. I was traveling to China, with seventy-nine other sixteen to eighteen year olds. I was in my senior year of high school and in the school band that was, strangely enough, invited to perform in Beijing in 2002.

Our days were scheduled down to the minute, but on the third day of our trip we went to the Great Wall and were set loose. I started to climb by myself, passing friends and fellows on the way. [I'll take the liberty at this point to explain that I was born and raised in Chicago; that is, the flat suburbs of the Midwest, and at this time had never seen mountains] Obviously The Great Wall is quiet a climb in the traditional sense. But the point I would like to illustrate is that you don't walk up the Great Wall, you do indeed have to climb it. Some steps are six inches tall, some come up past any normal sized person's midsection. Two hours later, I approached the final fortress on the way to the top. I stopped. I looked down to where I had been, and drenched in sweat that chilled in the March air, climbed those last steps to the peak.

I found then going through that door, something somewhat unexpected. A small thin man, holding dozens of small brass plaques, smiling. He didn't really smile in the way that you expect someone to smile that's trying to sell you something. He looked happy to see everyone that came in the door. And for four yuan, he'd engrave your name on the little brass plaque that celebrated your joining him at the top. How could you not buy this cheap piece of brass. He was so happy to see you, and you'll never see him again. After he handed me my plaque smiling, I realize something amazing about this guy. This guy climbs up these steps everyday. It made me want to do something everyday that is as epic as this. And once I stood ontop of that fortress and saw the mountain ranges in the distance and looked out upon the only man made structure visible from SPACE, I felt something that I've never been able to explain to someone who has not seen that. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

To wit, my wanderlust was sparked there, in that place, at that time, at that moment, I knew where I had been and where I had wanted to go- which was everywhere. Everyone who knows of the feeling which I speak knows the view, the place, the second that it happened for them.

introduction to urban exploration

I've recently gotten into the delightful habit of being a somewhat law breaking citizen and discovering the other side to this city.

tres.pass
verb
1:the criminal act of going into someone else's land or property without the owner/lessee's permission.

You might ask yourself what could one possibly be looking for when entering an abandoned building? Most would associate the search for trouble or possibly the off chance of ghosts. What really drives people to become urban explorers? Why set foot in a long forgotten dreary factory or derelict church? The adventure sought could be quite reminiscent of expeditions
of old. Finding your way into a boarded up grade school evokes the thrill of looking for Livingston in the jungle and scaling the ruins of some lost civilization. It is due to the fact that the places we go are forgotten by all that surround them that makes the act exciting. Discovering a chair that has not been sat upon for forty years is the modern equivalent of the Mayan ruins. Finding a way onto the roof of that twenty story building with the greatest view of Lake Michigan at dawn is an urban Mount Everest.

It is not just the taboo excitement that accompanies exploring a place where the public is not allowed; the search for the past is also prevalent in the mind of the urban explorer. The discovery and appreciation of older architecture in a day of glass box buildings and rows of matching gentrified condos is also taken into account. It is in the details of the past that we find our origin.

When the owners of any property see fit to let it go wayside, the doors open for the urban explorer. (In most cases vandals get there first and forcibly open the door for others.) The explorer breaks no glass, busts no lock, and tags no wall. This set of ethics is what separates us from the graffiti artist or common vandal. Most are photographers, others are archiphiles looking for a new sight. The natural decay of the building is what interests the explorer most. It is unfortunate that some places of desolate beauty are defiled by a volatile amateur with a can of weak, suburban bought spray paint.

Airports

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I have a tendency to arrive to any airport over two
hours early for my scheduled flight. The paranoia of getting caught up
in security lines rarely crosses my mind. Though I've had my baggage
searched, my shoes inspected, and my film canisters questioned, the
hassle has no hold over the amount of time I continually schedule for
arrival.

Airports are fascinating microcosms. From curbside
check in to the bathrooms the scene is sterile. Most airports I've been
though allow you to check in by the warm friendly glow of a computer
screen. The awkward human interaction with a desk clerk has been
replaced by a few touches to asensored screen that asks you politely if
you have been keeping an eye on your luggage and if it is free of
suspicious items. The bathrooms sinks aresensored, the paper towel dispenser gives up the goods for a wave in front
of a tiny blinking light, and occasionally even the
soap has been hurtled into the digital age. The
closest you can ever come to human contact is the lady that waves a
wand over your body to confirm that you're wearing anunder wire bra and not packing heat.

I
found out while traveling alone from Chicago to LA several years ago
that airports are a fantastic place to observe people. Those looks of
anticipation on people's faces waiting at the bottom of the escalator
in baggage claim. Getting to see when the traveller finally sees that
face in a crowd that they are coming home to, is wonderful. The running
hugs are the best to witness. There is somethingcathartic about
observing the people coming and going. Be it arrival or departure these
moments change people and there is something amazing about getting to
see that.

If you are planning on travelling in the US, here's some poignant advice:

If
you purchase weapons abroad you can put them in your
checked luggage. You can generally put ANYTHING in
your checked luggage except for items that might go up in flames or
explode. Swords, hatchets, throwing stars, and cricket bats are alright
by the Transportation Security Administration. Good advice for the
ninja on the go!

Carry on luggage is quite a different story.
The rules regarding what you may actually take on the plane with you
are ever changing and should be checked before you start packing.
Currently, theTSA has instituted the href="http://www.tsa.gov/311/index.shtm">3-1-1 rule. A
traveller is allowed 3oz. or less containers of liquid or gel (usually
eye drops for contacts), a 1-quart size clearziplock bag containing
several 3oz. or smaller bottles of liquid/gel (lots of different brands
of eye drops), and only 1 of those bags allowed per traveller. For
further current information check out the href="http://www.tsa.gov">TSA website.