The Ten People You Meet In Transit

Relying on public transit regularly, I come across all kinds of interesting and not so interesting people everyday. Though 95% of them I'll never see again, I have boiled them all down into these simple groups, making it seem like I see the same faces everyday.

Pre-Med College Students- Cancer, your days are numbered. Or at least that is what the amount of reading these people do on the train would suggest. They are always in a hurry, and give dirty looks to the guy playing rap music with no headphones, as they try to study.

Guy Playing Rap Music From His iPhone Without Earbuds, Singing Along to it Loudly- He doesn't give a fuck that you're studying, old, or otherwise bothered by his behavior; he's playing what he thinks is the best music to ever grace Pandora, and probably singing along to it at random parts, off of any key there may be. He has no shame, but still more than the homeless guy asking for change.

Homeless Guy Asking For Change- Let me just say that I feel for this guy. I'll probably even write a blog specifically about this guy. However, he is still one of the ten people you meet on the L. After a long day of this, he may even become...

That Guy That Falls Asleep in a Way That Looks Like He's Dead- Maybe he just dug a hundred graves, or maybe he is coming down from a good free-basing session. Either way, he has been asleep for the entire hour you've been on the Red line, and you wonder how long ago he missed his stop. He has crumbs on his beard from what appears to have been some kind of pastry, and you can't. Stop. Staring.

The Suit- He probably just moved here from Indianapolis for a job in insurance, selling bathroom tile, or something equally unfulfilling. Either way, he looks so rightfully nervous about the hateful guy eying his kindle that he can't even finish reading Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince for the second time.

The Hateful Guy/Lady- What reason do they have for being so hateful, who knows? As it is, they take it out on the public in interesting and sometimes frightening ways. Occasionally they say things like, "Fuck fuck fuck you you you fucking you" while flicking you off, as you pretend to be looking out the window. Other times they just wet themselves all over an otherwise good seat, on a crowded train, robbing suburban tourists of a place to rest.

The Suburban Tourist- They are surprising the loudest on the train, as they are on some kind of little vacation instead of hauling tired ass to and from shitty job. Everyone else in the car looks at them with stone-cold resentment. In that moment, any passenger (including the hipsters) would kill them just so they don't have to hear another word about how none of them really know the guy throwing this party, but that so-and-so's cousin will probably get too drunk and jeopardize their graduating from prep school.

The Hipster/Artsy Chick- Their sunglasses will be the most expensive thing they have on, as they otherwise wear amazing techno-colored dream rags that hold the fascination of the mother of four's four. They will be listening to the Fleet Foxes, but you won't know it, as they will keep entirely to themselves, even in the company of other hipsters/artsy chicks.

The Mother of Four- This is another person I feel for. She sometimes has to simultaneously push a double stroller while dragging a screaming toddler behind her to catch a train. Once on board, the mother will feed them McDonald's while they stare at the above mentioned people you meet in transit.

If you ride the L, you are one of these people. Or, you are me, the tenth person. If you happen to see me, leave me the hell alone.

Fantasy Rooms

Jessica and I's wedding venue of choice is a resort in Wisconsin Dells. Not a selling point, but still very fun to think about are the "Fantasy Suites" located on the premises. Daughter of the CEO and our wedding coordinator, Krissy nervously rattled them off in a hurry while we waited for an elevator. I'm pretty sure that she assumed correctly we would make fun of them. So, here goes...

The fantasies our venue are able to fulfill so far are the following: 

Wild West (Tobacco flavored "whiskey" and STD filled brothel included?)
Pirates of the Caribbean (Worms in your food, murder in your sleep, woman-less trial at sea, or the Somalian kind?)
Outer Space (A dark, airless and freezing void?)
Southern Plantation (Before or after 1865?)
African Safari (Ivory isn't just a soap)

Here is a list of suggestions for an expansion of their fantasy suite block:

Firefighter Room- Enter a room engulfed entirely in flames, and do your best to put them out, or your credit card will be charged.

Under the Sea Suite- Submerge your desires to swim with mermaids and seahorses in our 1500 gallon Under the Sea suite. The saltwater tank is kept at a natural 38 degrees fahrenheit all year long. (Mermaids and Seahorses neither included, nor existent...well, maybe seahorses).


Torture Room- Spend the night in one of our "coziest" rooms on site with your choice of any of the following people: Justin Bieber, Kevin Federline, The Arby's Oven Mit, Regis Philbin, Simon Cowell, Dr. Phil, Gilbert Gottfried, Elmo, any of the Real Housewives of New Jersey, and any fan of a Philadelphia sports team. Escape is of course impossible, so too is sleep.


Dockside Room- Spend the night as a Longshoreman! Mill about the shoreline chain-smoking with other unemployed shoremen. Later, float your brain in Schlitz and Jim Beam at the dockside bar. If everything goes well, you'll have the cocktail waitress pregnant with your bastard child by night's end.


Single Parent Room- Spend next to no time at all in our Single Parent fantasy suite. Stop by between jobs long enough to rotate babysitters and eat a Lean Pocket. Don't forget, the rent is due on the first, and checkout is at eleven.


Quarantine Room- Enjoy a glimpse into the life of a quarantined pandemic victim.You'll be contained in a sterile, white room complete with glass wall for resort guests to look through onto your awful condition. Attempt to build your strength with three low-calorie meals fed to you through the locked door. Remember that there is no hope of recovery, but the breakfast buffet is free to your mourning family.

Chicago Cubs Room- A variation on the Torture room, sit in suffering of losing season after losing season in our Chicago Cubs themed fantasy room. Only the truly masochist of guests enjoy this room, but book long in advance, as it is always filled.

Crack Den Room-  Invite your friends, friends of friends, and strangers of friends' friends over for a night of using and abusing. Complete with pee-stained mattresses and next to nothing else, our Crack Den fantasy room is worth almost every bit of the $35 a night you'll spend on it.

Sex Slave Suite (Women only)- Perfect for bachelorette parties, share our Sex Slave Suite and complimentary waste bucket with thirteen or fourteen of your best friends. Sit in complete darkness inside the suite, shaped and decorated exactly like a freight container. Cling to hopes of a new life in America, and a husband that will "take care of you".


Feel free to comment with suggestions of your own!

My Neighbor Ron

It is important to make nice with new neighbors, or too much time will pass and it will become so awkward to finally speak to them, that you never will.

Keeping that in mind, I have made a point to meet all of my new neighbors. One of these new neighbors is a man named Ron. Ron lives in one of the apartments flanking ours. When I met him entering his apartment one evening, he was wearing an old Harley sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, a dirty ball cap, a salt and pepper two-day beard, jean shorts and flip flops. His arms were blanketed in decades-old cliche' hard-ass tattoos: Harley Davidson, tribal band, Superman emblem, and I'm pretty sure there were some flames in there.

We exchanged a few words and a handshake. He expressed his disbelief that the former tenant of my apartment had already moved out. We parted amicably, but he said I probably wouldn't see a lot of him, as he leaves for work early.

The next evening, while enjoying another lovely dinner with my fiance', we heard it.

Music poured out of his apartment and leaked into ours. I wasn't sure what it was at first- it was definitely a female singer and she was singing with some soul. The song repeated...and repeated...

It wasn't until we left to take a walk, and were in the hallway that Jessica could ascertain exactly whose pipes we were hearing- Cher.

For the next week, everyday when Ron got home from work, I would hear him play Cher. I Google searched some of the lyrics to conclude that Ron is in love with the song "You Haven't Seen the Last of Me" from the musical Burlesque. He comes home from work between 4:00-4:30pm, and plays the song between two and three times. I like to believe that this song is a part of some strange post-workday routine that Ron has. I imagine this involves some naked yoga, in an attempt at auto-fellatio and White Zinfandel. Whatever the case, I'm sure it leaves him very fulfilled.

Since I discovered what song he is always playing, I too blast Cher as soon as I hear her sultry voice echoing from Ron's domain. I don't know what he thinks of this, but the last time I did it he stopped her halfway through her second performance. Progress.

Now, please enjoy my neighbor Ron's favorite song in the wide world:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YOOYYyJ9C18

Chicago Drama

Walking down Montrose on my way home from a haircut, I witnessed a spectacle about thirty yards ahead of me...

What I saw was an Asian man (I like to guess, and would say Filipino) wearing a tank-top and jean shorts, smashing a cell-phone on the sidewalk. Then an Asian woman (probably also Filipino) thrashing him in the face with her keys while yelling at him (probably also in Filipino).

Alarmed, I looked up and down the street as if I would find a helpful policeman standing on a corner complete with copper buttons, whistle-in-mouth, gently patting his palm with a billy club. Finding none, I momentarily considered stepping in. Luckily, I came to an important realization: If I stepped in now, I would have to step in every time something like this happened, which in Chicago means I would risk having my face lacerated with keys everyday. My next thought was, "Where is that fuckin' guy with the cap, mask and binoculars I saw at the El stop on Friday? He should be here." [These vigilante-type "heroes" are now in pretty much every major U.S. city. If you don't have at least one, you ain't shit. I'm looking at you Aurora].

The couple continued down the street, with the man following behind the woman. She would periodically turn around and get in his face again, and one time he almost got hit by a biker trying to avoid her gaze.

For the rest of the walk home, I mentally compiled a list of possible scenarios causing the spectacle:

A.) A heated argument regarding whose wireless provider is in fact the most superior came to fruition with the man smashing the woman's Verizon-serviced phone. She then deservedly thrashes him while screaming (translated) "Verizon is the mother-fucking network you piece of shit!". [Obviously the most likely scenario]

B.) A heated argument erupts over the man's speculation that the woman has been cheating while playing Words With Friends. This friendship was over, in so many words.

C.) The man read his girlfriend's text messages, and gets seriously pissed off about some from an anonymous male suitor. He accuses her of cheating, and trashes her phone. She reacts not in response to the accusations, but to her phone being destroyed. 

D.) [Insert you own ridiculous story]

Welcome to Chicago.

My Friend Michael T.

It has been a difficult year for the friends and neighbors on Lakeside Dr. In July of last year we had to deal with the passing of Thomas Angarola, father to my friend Jonathan and his brothers Jeremy, Jacob and James Angarola.Less than thirteen months later, we are again drowning in tragedy. Michael John Terlicher, mine and Jonathan's childhood best friend died due to complications with his medication on Tuesday, August 16th.

Mike had recently moved back home, next door to my family, only a few weeks before I moved to Chicago. He had just gotten out of a long relationship, and had spent years dealing with bouts of depression. In the weeks we lived next door to each other again, we caught up plenty and enjoyed being able to have casual conversations without so much distance between us. Mike attended my last big party, and like the other guests thumbed through old photos I was giving away, played bocce and simply enjoyed himself. At some point in the evening he disappeared. This wasn't uncommon behavior for Mike, being so close all our lives he would frequently go home to grab a slice of pizza, a Pepsi, or relieve himself. He usually came back, but this night he did not. There was not much thought given to his leaving without saying good-bye, and I was sure I would see him again when I visited my parents in a few weeks.

I moved next-door to Michael when I was 3 years old, shortly after he had celebrated his fourth birthday. The first time I remember meeting Mike was in the fall. It was in the afternoon, and the sun was glowing orange in the sky the way it does shortly before it goes to bed this time of year. I was hanging from the only tree branch I was able to reach, on a tree near his property. Mike came outside and we climbed together, trying to reach the elusive second branch. When his mother Karen called his name the way she would for the next dozen years, he said he had to go eat dinner. He told me his phone number: 837-8418, and asked me mine. I told him to wait there as I ran into the house to the kitchen and asked my mom what our phone number was- I learned Mike's phone number before I even knew my own- I stood on the balcony as the sun was setting and yelled down the digits as my mother recited them to me 8...3...7 (just like Mike!) 5...9...7....7.

What followed was an entire childhood of impossibly close friendship. Mike was in fact my only friend until Mike's fifth birthday party. It was in the Terlicher backyard, with a clown and everything. One of the blond boys across the street, and brother to another close childhood friend Jacob, was there. I don't know how it happened, but Jonathan and I ended up getting into a fight in the backyard that day in early June. Afterword, the three of us decided to become best friends. Naturally.

The years of our childhood and adolescence were filled with sharing almost every new experience together. Catching fish, building forts, going on vacations with eachother's families, chasing girls, enjoying nudity on HBO, smoking our first cigarette, starting our first fire and drinking our first beer. Following all of that it should be of no surprise that we eventually got arrested together. We of course got into fights along the way. As young boys will do, we were always competitive, and often petty. There was nothing the three of us didn't share, though of course that would eventually change, as we went to different colleges, and made different friends. 

I was in a job interview downtown when Michael was struggling for his last breath. When I got the call from first Jonathan, and then my mom, I was dumbfounded. I finished walking the last block home to my fiance, and opened the door in tears. I felt everything and nothing all at the same time. Every conversation and memory that we had together overwhelmed my soul.

I never got to say goodbye to him- not from the party, or this world. His passing is now a milestone reminder that now, at 25 my childhood is over.

To the family of Micheal John Terlicher, my thoughts and prayers are with you all forever.
To my friends and family, I love you all so much, and need to tell you that more and more.

"Sammy, next year I'm going to leave you and go to middleschool. And two years later I'll leave you again, and then four years later I'll leave you again. I'll always be one year ahead of you, and always have to leave you."

-Micheal Terlicher

The Urban House-Man on Strike

By now you're familiar with the normal routine of the Urban House-Man. Let's take a look at a day of the UHM on strike...

After the alarm goes off at 6:00AM, take advantage of her sleepy state and convince her to let the both of you sleep in until 7, skipping the workout.

Make breakfast consisting of back bacon and frosted cherry Jewel brand "Toaster Pastries".

Avoid walking her to the bus stop by complaining about your low arches hurting.

Once alone, briefly consider taking out the garbage, then rejecting the idea in favor of going back to bed.

Wake up again at 10:20AM

Spend 70 minutes Watching a satellite being repaired, live on the NASA channel (NASA has a channel!?)

Restrain yourself from opening a bottle of wine at 11:00AM.

Open and smell each and every one of her lotions, shampoos, conditioners, balms, soaps, and anything that reads "eau de toilette" on the bottle.

Open a bottle of wine at 11:25AM.

Eat one bag of marshmallows, one box of Reduced Fat Cheez-Itz, and three of her "special" yogurts.

Drink four Vitamin Waters, one of each flavor you have, saving Revive for last.

Watch the same SportsCenter, over and over, finally quoting most of the program.

Scour Facebook for cleavage pictures, even though a universe of naked pictures and video is at your fingertips.

Sit down to play Angry Birds, trying to get three stars in each level, all of which you've already beaten (You realize why this is especially pathetic don't you? Most people play games on their phones in waiting rooms and on buses, but I'm sitting down in my comfy chair for a home-court session)

Take a bubble bath in your jacuzzi tub, using "Almost ALL of the dish soap". (I don't know why the bathtub in our small apartment is a jacuzzi tub, but I haven't written to complain about it yet)

Have a nice long B.M. :)

Make a trip out back to recycle empty bottle of wine, so as to discard to evidence.

Re-heat leftovers, and leave them in the microwave. Forget that they are there for four hours. She comes home to find them, now cold. Tell her you were stricken with diarrhea all day, and only now had the confidence to leave the bathroom to make dinner, but just managed to put some leftovers in the microwave when she walked in. She then feels sorry for you, and heats up your dinner.

Silently applaud yourself for having gotten away with an utterly worthless day, and for fabricating such a great story about dinner.

Go to bed "knowing" that this day won't be held over your head for the rest of your life.

The Urban House-Man

I have a new respect for stay-at-home anyone. Since Jessica and I moved to the Windy City, she has been closer to work, and I have been without it. Until I begin working, my role in this household is clear- I am the House-Man. The following is a glimpse into this life.

One thing that is certain, is the days are not all filled with watching ESPN shirtless, eating french onion dip with a spoon. No, before the House-Man can relax, there are chores to be done.

We start the day at 6:00A Fuckin' M, with 30 minutes of exercise in the fitness room down the hall from our apartment. It is important to use this time efficiently, as it is all the time you will have to exercise and it is your duty to stay in decent shape for the pleasure of your bread-winning lover.

Following your workout together, it is time to make breakfast while she showers her beautiful naked body. Eggs how she likes them, fruit-of-the-day, and some sort of toasted bread. This is all washed down with freshly-squeezed OJ and either tea or coffee. Only after breakfast is ready are you allowed to shower, but rapidly, as your next responsibility is to walk her to the bus stop to keep her company before seeing her on the bus and waving vigorously as it departs. You might even have to run back to the apartment to retrieve the engagement ring she took of while showering, only to arrive back at the bus stop just in time to watch the bus pulling away while you hold the ring stretched out running, ultimately looking like a fool who not only planned to propose to someone at a Chicago bus stop, but did so wearing flip-flops and an ACDC shirt... and failed.

Once alone in the apartment, you have to resist two urges: Going back to bed, and vigorously masturbating (a rare treat). It is time instead to begin you list of household chores. Here is an example of one such list...

Swiffer Wet-Jet the floor (Whatever that is)
Put together her shoe rack
Windex what seems like every surface in the apartment ("Just because you can still see your reflection, doesn't mean it's clean")
Water, and therefore keep alive, the plant her ex-boyfriend bought her while she was in the hospital years ago
Do laundry (But not the delicates- don't expect to be trusted with those for years)
Do the dishes (Constantly)
Drink 7-8 cups of coffee
Look for a job you fucking bum
Get a haircut you fucking hippy
Clean the stove
Clean the vents
Organize the medicine cabinet in a way that allows her enough space
Walk to local Jewel wheeling your Go-Green personal shopping cart and buy necessary items for evening meal
Make evening meal

You should clean up both yourself and the apartment before she arrives home, as you want to look your best for her. She has had a long, stressful day and deserves to come home to a cocktail and a smile, without any added distractions like dust on the picture frames. Do not bore her with a lengthy explanation of your day, but instead invite her to tell you about hers, and do your best to appear engrossed in the mundane.

Now, you expect her home anytime between 5:30 and 6:30pm, so this makes timing of the dinner incredibly difficult. Whatever the case, if she is later than expected and her dinner is cold, she has every right to beat you with a scalding hot Microwaveable Bed Buddy, and you should expect no mercy.

You will have no time to nurse your burn/bruised skin however, because next comes her back rub and evening banter. Again, let her guide the conversation, and don't forget to work those knots between her third and fourth vertebrae.

After brushing her hair three-hundred times, the day is finally done, and you can "rest" in bed before sweet, sweet slumber. Your dreams will be that of finding a job and escaping this toil. They will however be only dreams. After all, you're just a House-Man.