Saturday, May 5, 2012
I like to listen to classical music in the morning. It is a soothing way to ease into a new day. 98.7 in Chicago is an exceptional radio station, and my man Carl Grapentine has the voice of an angel. A goddamned siren song. This morning I was driving to the gym prior to Carl's morning start time of 06:00, so I was grooving along with Peter Van De Graaf. Peter is no Carl, and I'll fight any man, woman or child who says differently. But Peter is cool. I was greeted today with a most fucking awesome tune, that being a little Conan the Barbarian montage. There are few better ways to get pumped for anything than CtheB music. I mean, obviously smoking some crack and slamming your shoulder into a wall until the pain necessitates you go do something really sweet is probably a slightly more effective way--but we're splitting hairs at that point. I sat in the car and let the entire score play out before I made my move:
I went into 7-11 and bought some shoe polish. Why shoe polish still exists at the consumer level, and why they always sell it at convenience stores and gas stations--neither of which sells shoes--is beyond me. But you know it will be right there below the duct tape and the cloth work gloves. I take the shoe polish back to my car, where I proceed to lose the shirt and cover my face, neck and torso in black camouflage striping. I was fresh out of rope for scaling the wall of East Bank Club, so I went through the front per usual. I was greeted with curious stares from the front desk staff charged with checking in my member card. Unlike every other morning when I present my card for swiping, today I round-house kicked the first guy in the head, knocking him unconscious. I immediately grabbed the woman, managing to stifle her scream before she could complete it. I slowly put her down with a sleeper hold. With both sleeping off the assault, I proceeded straight to the main workout room. Unfortunately I had no sword so I improvised as best I could. As I entered I grabbed a narrow barbell, those for the aerobics classes that are super light for women. From my gym bag I pulled out the jump rope. I immediately ducked from view and took the stairwell to the upper balcony. I slid down the heating duct with a primal scream. The element of surprise was with me, as no one in the workout room at 5:45 a.m. was expecting a short, shirtless dude with cammo to be sliding down the heating duct. I proceeded immediately upon hitting the floor to whipping every person near me with my jump rope followed by smashing or slashing them with the barbell. It was complete and utter pandemonium. I knew at this point time was not on my side. Before the authorities could arrive, presumably armed with guns and not jump ropes and barbells, I dashed outside. The East Bank Club, as the name would indicate, sits directly on the east bank of the river. I dashed up and down the river walk until I found a snake. Granted it was not a 100ft long boa constrictor who eats sacrificed virgins once a week, but it would do. I went back inside to the main workout room. I was able to use the weight stack on a quad machine to sever the snake's head. I threw the carcass into the middle of the room, then held the barbell upright very menacingly, daring anyone to challenge me. No one moved an inch. I left the way I came.
This is what happens when Peter Van De Graaf plays the Conan montage to start the morning. A bit irresponsible on Peter's part. Regrettably I used my member card to swipe at the parking gate upon exiting, so I fear it may not take Sherlock Holmes to locate me. But with the Riddle of Steel now solved, I can relax and enjoy my weekend.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
And like every feel good story involving a black person in America prior to the Civil Rights Act (and sometimes after it), this one ends in stupidity, heartbreak and depression. When Jesse came back to the U.S., all the great high-paying offers he got from American entities while in Berlin apparently didn't actually exist, those people just wanted some feel-good PR on the backs of his dominance in the Olympics. Jesse couldn't even get a fuckin' hotel room in New York City shortly after returning. Someone finally let him stay, provided he and his wife entered and exited exclusively through the servants door. What kind of shit is that? At one point he ran a goddamned dry cleaning business. Get the fuck out of my face! Jesse Owens steam cleaning someone's dirty trousers. I always assumed he came home and spent the rest of his life being fanned with palm leaves and fed grapes by half-naked women. He deserved to be. But instead he was so hard up for cash that he eventually started racing against horses. Yes equines. For shame. "...with Liberty and Justice for All" my white ass. You are good enough to represent your country on a world stage. We'll get in everyone's face when you beat the shit out of them on the field of competition. But don't even think of getting a hotel room in this country, or a lucrative job. And since you won't just go off and die somewhere, you wanna race some fuckin' horses?
I always love when a racist trying to pretend not to be a racist says, "What are they complaining about, they've had their freedom for nearly 150 years". Well, yes, "they" have. But it took another 100 years until they got any RIGHTS. Poor Jesse Fuckin' Owens makes everyone proud to be an American, skull-fucks Hitler for the enjoyment of the entire world, and can't even get a hotel room in NYC....in 1936, which is 71 years after the Civil War. Fuckin' guy did more to fight Hitler than France and Denmark combined.
So here's to Jesse Owens. If I were in charge, you'd have gotten the Jack Nicklaus treatment until the day you died.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
As you can imagine, this has also done wonders for the previously shitty sleeping habits of my 13 month old daughter. She already sleeps like a spooked cat hooked on crystal meth, and this really added a sharpness to her nightly wake ups. Much like wind in the willows or the crash of distant waves upon the shore, the pounding of jackhammer on concrete at 2:30 a.m. a mere 50 feet from your bedroom is a powerful sedative for a baby. I awoke several times with burning hatred in my heart for both the City, and the workers (like they have some sort of say in the matter). I've threatened, to no one in particular, to call and complain. But in rational moments I've realized the futility in speaking to whoever functions as "Customer Service" for the City of Chicago. I can't imagine how that would be received by the fat woman who answers that phone in between swallows of Diet Coke and bites of 7-11 bought snack cakes. So I stew in quiet. Thus far my only act of defiance has been to violently flip a middle finger out the window of my car, aimed in the direction of the workers, as I drive to the gym at 5:10 a.m. each day. I've no reason at all to believe that anyone has ever seen it. FML indeed.