Fist of Rage

I honestly don’t know what I was so worried about.  Gangsters?  Thugs?  Thieves?  Pshh.  The stuff of fairy tales, my friend.  Chi-town is wonderful.  The people are friendly, the weather is generally lovely, and the views, well, the views.

Even through a bug-smeared windshield, it still looks pretty awesome.

My favorite past time has become riding my trusty bike, Old Crusty, around the neighborhood and snapping pictures of my favorite vantage points.  And oh, how many of those there are.

My neighborhood is quiet and small.

The folks here have a bit of a thing for ivy.

An obsession, really.

Seriously. It's out of hand.

The neighborhood is filled with buildings the likes of which are rarely seen outside of the inside of Charlotte Bronte's brain.

This style is a little too austere for the follow-your-bliss attitude of the modern American.

The buildings are old, a little dusty, and engraved with words that are no longer understood by passersby.

They are empty both of people and the echoes of life, and have become instead lonely artifacts of an easily forgotten age. Well, y'know, at least till school starts.

Even before I got on my bike, I was already giving myself a mental pat on the back for the fabulous blog post I was going to write when I got home.  When I arrived, I chained Old Crusty to the building’s bike rack and ran upstairs.  First thing next morning–that is to say, around 3pm–I was going to repeat my adventure, add to my poetic repertoire, and certainly take better photos.  Yup, I was definitely on the way to becoming more artistic.

So, I awoke at the crack of one, traipsed leisurely downstairs and was greeted with this:

...Frick.

Upon further inspection, I found this.

Upon even closer inspection, I saw this.

DAMMIT.

OK.  My beginning statements are hereby amended: Screw Chicago, screw the people living here, screw the weather, and screw the stupid views.  Without the views and nice weather beckoning me forth, I wouldn’t have left my bike outside like an idiot to get it stolen by some jerk face with a flat bed.

Really, Chi-town?  Really?  Just when we were starting to become such good friends?  You suck.  If I could swear more fluently in Arabic, here would be a good place to do it.

Come on.

….

Nope, can’t think of any good swears.  This will have to suffice.

The fist of rage.

Never mind, OK?  Never mind, Chicago.  You go on about your gangster, thieving, raping, pillaging business.  I’ll go back to being a recluse.

R.I.P., Old Crusty.  You were old, and you were certainly crusty.  But these photos are evidence of the good times we shared.

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3 Comments

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3 responses to “Fist of Rage

  1. Fist of rage! You show ’em!

    You basically need the really heavy duty “U” bike locks in a big city. See this article: http://www.slate.com/id/2140083/

    Loved the ivy photos. I miss Chicago!

  2. ah, the u-lock. i saw those all over the place and thought they were being overly cautious. how wrong i was…

  3. Please accept my condolences for your recent loss…poor crusty. At least his death wasn’t entirely in vain, it provided blogging entertainment.

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