"I'm in the prime of my youth and I'll only be young once."

I have returned from the Right Coast and have lots of stories from the Big Apple, but first, this one:

I made a great new friend over the weekend. Our relationship is by default, since I know her parents. It's like joining a new softball team and having to be friends with everyone, except that I've made some of my best friends playing ball, so our friendship was off to a wonderful and auspicious start.

My new friend is named Sid.

Ever since I've known her momma, Roxanne, she's always been one of those super-achievers, a roommate you could bring to a party instead of a 12-pack and still be a hit with everyone. She's been a vice president on the Northwestern student board, single-handedly put together a national conference of Singaporean students studying in the US, orchestrated a Tori Amos concert and Kurt Vonnegut and Gloria Steinem speeches on campus. But she might have now outdone herself -- she's Sid's momma!

Her pops Robbie might have other plans, but when it comes to the National League Central Division, this kid is growing up to be a Cubs fan.

Cops and Robbers

Some of my happiest memories growing up are of strangers.

If I got my homework done on time, which I usually used to be able to accomplish, I'd go to the playground by our flat in Bedok Reservoir Road. It was one of those playgrounds built in a huge sand pit, and in addition to see-saws and swings, there was also a concrete structure with a chain-and-planks bridge which swayed from side to side as you ran across. There was also a pole, which burned my palms and my legs as I slid down it. Not being very fast nor dextrous, I was usually cautious when it came to performing stunts on the playground contraptions, but I still participated in pick-up games with gusto.

A favourite game was cops and robbers, or police and thieves, or tag. There was a "house," which retreating into as a thief gave you immunity from the cops (we usually picked this alcove at the bottom of the structure as it). There was also a police station where the tagged thieves were brought to, where they awaited a slap of the hand from a fellow thief to be freed. The game ended when all the thieves were caught -- that typically never happened. More normally, the game ended when Yeye strolled in and told me -- first, patiently; subsequently, scolding -- to go home for dinner. For me, anyway.

This week on May's tag, she received one of those surveys and I saw that I was tagged to keep it going. So, here it goes:

1) Are your parents married or divorced? Married.

2) Are you a vegetarian? god, no.

3) Do you believe in Heaven? Yes -- you get there after reaching nirvana.

4) Have you ever come close to dying? Yes -- I nearly drowned at Manly Beach in Sydney, Australia, when I was 18. I thought I was never going to see my family again, and prayed that they knew they were the last thoughts in my mind before I died.

5) What jewelery do you wear 24/7? I don't.

6) Favourite time of day? The morning, when the day is new and anything fantastic can happen.
7) Do you eat the stems of broccoli? Yes.

8) Do you wear makeup? Yes. Although much less frequent now that I don't have to for work.

9) Ever have plastic surgery? No.

10) Do you color your hair? Yes.

11) What do you wear to bed? Typically a T-shirt and pyjama pants (in the winter) or boxer shorts (in the summer).

12) Have you ever done anything illegal? Nothing worth recounting.

13) Can you roll your tongue? Yes.

14) Do you tweeze your eyebrows? The beauty is, mine don't need that treatment.

15) What kind of sneakers? adidas for sports, retro adidas for everyday wear.

16) Do you believe in Abortions? How does one believe in abortions? I think it's fine if it's the right decision.

17) Hair colour? Currently black, with hints of the last light brown job it got earlier this year.

18) Future child's name? I like Abra and Cal, from one of my favourite books, "East of Eden." But would it be incestuous to name a daughter and son after two lovers?

19) Do you snore? I think so, but not often and not excessively.

20) If you could go anywhere in the world where would it be? Well, obviously there are many places, but topmost on my list are Cuba, Egypt, Brasil, and Greece. For a country I've been to before, China -- lots more to explore there.

21) Do you sleep with stuffed animals? jesus, no.

22) Buy my family a worldwide holiday, pay for my brother's college education, donate to my favourite causes, invest.

23) Gold or silver? Platinum.

24) Hamburger or hot dog? Hot dog, fo shizzle.

25) If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me? Steak.

26) City, beach or country? Beach.

27) What was the last thing you touched? Besides my keyboard, my Blackberry.

28) Where did you eat last? Dark chocolate M&Ms. SO GOOD. I can't wait until they make it
with peanuts.

29) When's the last time you cried? When I said goodbye to my family at Barajas Airport in Madrid.

30) Do you read blogs? Yes, selectively.

31) Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex? No, why would I?

32) Ever been involved with the police? Not unless I'm getting a ticket or getting into an accident.

33) What's your favorite shampoo conditioner and soap? I only use shampoo, and it's a green tea one by Follow Me. I love Zest for soap.

34) Do you talk in your sleep? Yes. Totally.

35) Ocean or pool? Ocean, although I have a phobia of it since the almost-drowning incident.

(Where are 36 and 37?)

38) Window seat or aisle? Window, always, if I can help it.

39) Ever met anyone famous? Brian Wilson, Drew Barrymore, Wyclef Jean, and Jeremy Piven.

40) Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life? Yes, but there's always more that can be done.

41) Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? Twirl.

42) Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey? I hate talk shows.

43) Basketball or Football? Baseball and tennis.

44) How long do your showers last? I can shower in five minutes, but I can take longer if I'm enjoying it.

45) Automatic or do you drive a stick? Automatic, and while I enjoy stick, it's just tiring to drive with one all the time.

46) Cake or ice cream? Ice cream. Jeez.

47) Are you self-conscious? Yes, but comfortably so.

48) Have you ever drank so much you threw up? Yes, but it's been a while, thank god.

49) Have you ever given money to a begger? Yes.

50) Have you ever been in love? Not by my definition.

51) Where do you wish you were? Playing tennis somewhere.

52) Are you wearing socks? No.

53) Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? Yes, when I fell from my bike and sliced open my knee. We wailed down Michigan Avenue.

54) Can you tango? No.

55) Last gift you received? Camper shoes that my mum got for me in Sevilla.

56) Last sport you played? Softball. We're done for the year. It sucks.

57) Things you spend a lot of money on? Travel, clothes, CDs, food, shows.

58) Where do you live? Wrigleyville, Chicago.

59) Where were you born? Singapore.

60) Last wedding attended? Sarah and Jesse's wedding in September.

(Where are 61 and 62?)

63) Most hated food(s)? Corn and strawberries.

(Where is 64?)

65) Can you sing? Only in the bathroom and the car.

66) Last person you instant messaged? Dion.

67) Last place you went on holiday? Spain -- Sevilla, Granada, and Madrid.

(Where is 68)

and finally

69) Tag 3 friends:
- Silvur
- Severs
- Andy

Jet Settin'

November 7 -- Airbourne between London and Chicago, over the Irish Sea

I often think about the Chinese and how smart their inventions are. Take, for example, dim sum. In typical Emporer Qin Shi-Wang fashion, he who megolomaniacally commanded the construction of the Great Wall, in order to have it all, the Chinese created small plates cuisine, now so fashionable in Wicker Parks, Lower East Sides and West Hollywoods all over the world. Why not make room to have it all, by having a small taste of everything? It's the same with Spanish tapas. At a small tasca on a little winding street in Madrid built into the caverns under Plaza Mayor, you could have a taste of spain over the course of una jarra de sangria, or dos, or tres. Castile, Bergovia, Andalusia, Basque country, Pyrenees, Iberia -- it's like taking revenge on past Spanish colonialism through an Inquistion of its cuisine.

I once wrote about watching cartons from all over Asia twirling around the international terminal baggage carousel at O'Hare, and a week ago marvelled at the cosmopolitan of London based on an ad-hoc surveyance of the population with British accents at Heathrow. This morning, crammed into Gate 14 of Terminal Three for my (finally) flight back to Chicago, I found myself in the company of fellow passengers on codeshare flights with Oman Airlines and Gulf Air. There were hajis, head scarves, fake designer duds, Punjabi suits, gold chains, baggy jeans, saris, skull caps.

As I made my way to the very last row of the plane (43J, my own fault for dawdling over my full English breakfast buffet -- hard to say no to second servings of sauteed mushrooms and baked beans with rasher bacon and waffles), I tried not to dread the crazy customs process when we touched down eight hours later. After all, nice people finish last, right?

The Rain in Spain

From primary school through junior college, we always loved it when it rained on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays -- days that we had softball training. It actually wasn't always the best case scenario. Instead of the fun stuff, like fielding drills and batting practice, it meant that we had to hit the weights room and indulge in cross-training exercises. As softball players, we always felt lazy compared to our basketball and track and soccer friends, since we never ran long distance for stamina nor crunched for abs. But it was also an opportunity for the truly fun stuff -- sliding practice on mud-slicked diamonds. Coach would only let us practice and perfect a slick bump slide and dramatic headfirst dives on a soggy and soft ground to lower chances for freak injuries. You could have called us the Soggybottom Girls, but our mothers, upon seeing us walk through the door with P.E. shirts turned brown from white, would have rather we got tagged out standing up every time we tried to take an extra base.

Our last three days in Spain would've been perfect for a Paul Simon-inspired slip-sliding session. It began around 4pm as soon as we stepped into the Granada train station for our ride to Madrid. We hauled our original pieces of luggage and newly-acquired boxes of Moroccan lamps and plates and a mirror into the tiny depot, and it came down like the chorus of a "My Fair Lady" ditty. And it didn't go away for the next two-and-a-half days. It subsided and Pygmalionised into various forms of rain, but it made our stay in Madrid a dank, dreary and damp one.

It worked out fine. After days of Andalusian adventure, we were quite content to wander within tourist-friendly confines, shop, eat and drink. We didn't see the Palacio Royal or Teatro Opera or the Capilla Real, but I think we were OK (after all, we already saw the world's largest cathedral in Sevilla). Knowing our next family vacation wouldn't be until next year, we were content to just enjoy each other. And drink more. We huddled under shared umbrellas and Dad put his arm around Dion and me to keep us under shelter, just like he did when we were little. We even ate a roast suckling pig on our last night.

That's what I call a Koh-liday.

Abracadabra

November 3, 2006 - Train-bound between Granada and Madrid

When I was a kid, one of my favourite books was "1,001 Arabian Nights," the compendium of tales from which "Aladdin and the Magic Lamp" and "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" came from. It had the picture of an olive-skinned guy on the cover, wearing a fez, moustache and balloon pants. I probably read it 1,001 times.

Of course, no one who was Spanish looked like that in Granada, probably not since the Christians invaded the city and the Spanish Inquisition burned Moors at the stake in Plaza Bib-Ramla. But the city is still magical -- I believe there is a secret under every cobblestone and a genie in every lamp. You needed that magic, particularly if you were a cab driver dashing your Peugeot through narrow, winding streets at 60 km/h on stick shift.

The Alhambra is amazing, more so than the Alcazar in Sevilla. The UNESCO World Heritage Site committee can't be wrong. Strolling through throne rooms and harems, I kept thinking about sultans, scimitars and Scheherazade. I wish they had done a better job of preserving each chamber as they looked when in their prime, just like at Versailles. The only thing that remained was a wash bowl at the entrance of every room, for the cleansing of feet in true Muslim tradition. Allah giveth, and Allah taketh.

I rubbed a few lamps in the touristy shopping district of Alcaeria, a former Moorish quarter that used to be a Muslim silk exchange. No genies appeared, though -- I think it's because they knew one of my three wishes would be for a Cubs World Series championship next year.

We'll Always Have Paris

October 30, 2006 - Train-bound between Paris and Madrid

Jessica Simpson is ubiquitous. So are Starbucks and McDonald's. And "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley. And Osama Bin Laden, if Taliban infomercials are to be believed.

Twenty-seven hours in Paris this past weekend, and even though we spent a week there two years ago, I felt like I wanted to sightsee the city all over again. I wanted to re-clamber up to the top of the Notre Dame and hang with the gargoyles. I wanted to go round and round up the hill of Montmarte. I wanted to cross all nine bridges of the Seine. I wanted to crepe my way across the Latin Quarter.

In Paris, the Eiffel Tower is everywhere. You can see it when the Metro goes above ground, winding in and out of side streets in Saint-Germain, through fruits and flowers at the marche on Rue Montereuil. Like Bogey as Marlowe in a late 1930s-model jalopy, it followed us everywhere we went. It was the backdrop to our Sunday stroll down Champs-Elysees.

I remember looking at pictures or watching TV about cities like Paris when growing up and wondering what it must be like to actually live in such a place, where you truly walk out of your Renaissance-era apartment in the morning and where you really do carry home a steaming-hot baguette fresh from the oven. It's like being in the movies.

So's living down the street from the ballpark when your team wins its first World Series in 99 years. Is it a better Hollywood ending if we made it an even 100? Let's not wait till next next year to find out, please.

Americana in Europa

October 28, 2006 - Heathrow Airport, London

"The Lake House" is likely the kind of movie that's passed down from room to room in a sorority house, or that Trixies stay home from Barleycorn on a Friday night with wine, cheese and crackers to watch. But if you disregard the superfluous appearances of Sandy and Keanu in the picture, you might realise that the true love story in it is that of you and the city of Chicago. And it's based on a true story, too -- the drear of winter (but Lake Michigan, by which the house is built, of course, still beautiful), the excitement of downtown in spring, the perfectly manicured softball diamond (it's Hollywood, right?), the rustling of fall and the L, the sunlight off the skyscrapers. Don't watch the movie, but come visit Chicago!

Recently, Bruce Springsteen packed 30,000 Spaniards into a futbol stadium in Valencia, so it wasn't too much of a surprise when I heard a Briton youth sing "Born in the USA" at the top of his voice at Heathrow, as his party hustled towards a plane en route to the States. The continent does love Bruce.

Fortunately, the continent does not love all things American, such as baseball. Therefore, I did not need to be bombarded by the news of the Cardinals winning the World Series in five -- not ESPNised, not Todayised, only invaded by voicemails and text messages. Thanks for keeping in touch.

It has not been a good last two years for Cubs fans. Well, it hasn't been for 98 years, but the heartburn does get a little unbearable when the Sox and Cards win back to back. So it's just as well that I only missed watching one game of the championship and escaped to where football rules, the same way celebrities seek refuge in tax-free Monaco.

Supernova

From Salieri in Amadeus to Hamlet in Hamlet to Charles Foster Kane in Citizen Kane, whether or not the play or picture is named for the title character, he is a tragic hero. Flawed, disillusioned and dilemmaed, his middle name is Hubris.

In his films, Clint Eastwood often explores heroism, which usually is defined via the anti-hero. He's either Mystic River's Jimmy Markham and Dave Boyle, Unforgiven's Bill Munny, or Million Dollar Baby's Frankie Dunn. He takes genres which often travels dictated paths -- the crime movie, the western, the boxing movie -- and turns them inside out. What if there's heart and love in boxing? What if a conscience exists in the Boston underworld? What if cowboys can cry? In a world where emotions run contrary of actions, a mobster unravels like Macbeth, boxing is emotionally wrenching, and you can't tell who's good and who's bad in a town called Big Whiskey.

In Flags of Our Fathers, heroism is explained in terms that are Shakespearan in statute, graceful by nature. It's not the fantastical notion that we take for granted and take advantage of -- that's the complex stuff. It's what we believe in very simple terms, that we usually don't think are good enough for the movies, because they are real -- brotherhood, kinship, friendship, humanity, compassion, truth, and loyalty. Much is said of war heroes -- asking not what the country can do for you, but what you can do for your country, purple hearts, future presidential campaigns. But ask a guy who's never said a word about World War II after raising the flag at Iwo Jima what the battle meant to him, and he says it's the day he and his unit buddies got to splash around in the Pacific during a lull. It's comradeship, and what people will do for you and for others, or just having someone you can look up to, respect, and learn about the finer things in life from.

This morning, Mofo did the marathon. It was her first, and she only ran the first race of her life this April, in the Shamrock Shuffle. Over the last six months, she ran increasingly longer distances in training, and also ran into doubts as her body complained. Last night, she thought that she didn't have a shot at completing this morning.

We were right and she was wrong. She completed the marathon this morning in under six hours, and finished strong -- the first thing she did after asking for her medal was to grab a beer. Everyone who completed the marathon, or hell, even attempted to, was the day's heroes, but there were 150,000 more who stood in the cold cheering, sharing food, keeping spirits high for mostly strangers who performed some heroics of their own, too. Having left at 9am this morning with the intention of running three miles alongside Mofo as one of her several pacers but ending up with 18, I had nothing in my stomach except for the Gatorade along the way. Along Taylor Street in Little Italy someone gave out muffins. On Halsted in University Village, someone gave me a turkey wrap. In the West Loop, someone gave me a pretzel. Earlier along Sheridan in Lakeview, residents at a nursing home stuck up signs in their windows and waved. High school pom pom teams wiggled spirit fingers. Kids wanted you to slap their hands. In Boys Town, drag queens convulsed on platforms. In Pilsen, reggaeton blasted from boomboxes. In Chinatown, lions danced. And Mofo's family hugged her and told her how proud they were of her.

I'm not sure how the ridiculous notion of continuing to run over three times the longest distance I'd ever ran in my life stuck in my head. I was curious to know how far I could go. But the fact is, between Bruce blasting on the iPod, Mofo, Rachel, Jenny B and Nicole next to me, how could I say no? It wasn't about running three-quarters of a marathon I didn't train for, physically or mentally. It was about good friends and good music both superhero-quality attributes. Mofo later said it would have been a different race without us running with her. From a marathon bandit's point of view, I can say the same thing.

Just now I told my parents about how foolish I was today. Dad said, "That is amazing and I'm so glad you did it. It's an accomplishment, why don't you try for the marathon next time?"

Coming from the guy who was the soccer star in his neighbourhood growing up and now one of the top badminton players at the club, who always let me know there was nothing more important than picking up a softball glove or a tennis racquet, the moment was another one for the trophy case.

Been There, Done That

At around 11am on October 14, 2003, I got a lead from a friend of a friend -- standing room only tickets to Game 7 that night, Cubs-Marlins, chance for a World Series ride, day after that foul ball floated over Moises Alou's stretched glove and into the front row of the 102s. $150 for a $15 ticket at face value.

We thought about it for a couple of hours. It seemed wild, crazy, illogical, unbelievable. But so was the prospect of the Cubs making it to the World Series, and maybe we frightened ourselves into saying yes to the tickets -- what if our team made it and we turned down tickets to be there in person? So we said yes, I got money from the ATM downstairs in the Illinois Centre, exchanged it for the tickets at 4pm. My boss told me to go home early, get to the game early, go Cubs.

I remember we stood near the 224s, just under the ramp, peanut shells and bits on our fleece jackets. When Kerry Wood hit that three-run homer in the bottom of the third to tie the game at 3-3, it was electric. I thought we were going to win then. But when Jeff Conine caught the final fly to end our season, the entire ballpark was silent. It was like TV on mute watching the Fish run out onto our diamond to celebrate. It took us about 45 minutes to walk to the L (I lived in Old Town then). We didn't say a word to each other.

Tonight was another Game 7 night, and even though I don't have any more personal stakes in the playoffs, I just didn't want the Cardinals to win. I got home from playing ball when it was just underway, and had the game on making dinner, eating dinner, clearing some work. Puckett came on and we cheered for the Mets together. What a classic battle. 1-1 tie through the top of the ninth, then Yadier Molina -- all of six home runs in the regular season -- hit the go-ahead two-run ding-dong. Mets come up and load the bases. Beltran up to bat, melodramatic fairy-tale situation -- rain falling, two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two to tie, three to win. Strikes out on a breaking ball that nicked the K-Zone like a sinking three-pointer. I scream out loud, and the Cardinals won.

Puckett was very sad, and I told her I knew how she felt because of October 14, 2003. Even Tommy Lasorda couldn't explain this kind of emotional attachment to your baseball team. It's the kind of thing that makes a Chicago tough guy cry into his Guinness, something he only knew how to do when his Cubs were six outs from the World Series. It's the kind of thing that made me ride home alone on the L, staring into nothing, thinking about everything that could've, should've, would've.

So I went in to work on October 15, 2003, still sad, but not hungover. I'm getting up early tomorrow to go for a run, then I've got a long day of work. It's another regular old day of peace on the North Side come October.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Wall

I own close to 800 CDs, and around 600 -- or 75 percent -- of those were bought at Tower Records. They mainly came from the Tower in Pacific Plaza on Scott Road at home and from the Tower in Lincoln Park at home away from home. Sometimes they also came from Towers while on the road -- the Tower on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles, the Tower at the corner of Columbus and Bay in San Francisco, the Tower on Jeweller's Row in Chicago, the Tower in the Village in New York City.

Some people feel the compulsion to visit the Hard Rock Cafe in whichever city they travel to. For me, I look up the local Tower. There really isn't a good reason for doing so -- the merchandise was mostly the same everywhere, but the local vibe in each store made you feel like you were walking into the independent store down the street. CDs stacked on the floor everywhere like someone's living room, cut-outs and other promos tacked on top of one another, staff with strong recommendations and thoughtful counsel, so much music to sample, shelves of fanzines like no other store carries. In New York City, the store is pumped up and media-ised. In L.A., it's whirring with a rock god buzz. In Chicago, it's low-key and unpretentious. So one could argue, if you only had one hour to spend in a city, head to the local Tower. Of course I'm stretching it a little here, but that's because I'm biased.

I'm biased because local record stores in Singapore tend to not stock selections that befit hours of music nerd browsing. When the Tower opened on Scott Road, it was just down the street from Raffles Girls' School (even closer after we moved from Jalan Kuala to Anderson Road), and a perfect Monday after-school activity was to have lunch at La Creperie in Far East Plaza, then go across to Pacific Plaza where I'd pick out 10 CDs I wish I could buy, but only two that my allowance would allow. After about two hours cruising the aisles, either MP or Kat would grab me and make me check out.

Those were the days when you bought CDs because people made good albums. Occasionally I'd tape a single off the radio, but mostly, I bought CDs and would be happy with the entire track list. I'm not a music industry expert, and all of my knowledge comes from someone else's surmising that I've read in Rolling Stone or Entertainment Weekly. Most record company executives say that online music purchasing and piracy is leading to the downfall of music retail. I'd like to say that if artists made good albums, like they're supposed to if they're good enough, people would be buying more than 99-cent iTunes.

But it's also because music is simply boring these days. As Joel Selvin, the San Francisco Chronicle pop music critic points out in a great article today, Tower opened in 1968 during the Summer of Love and the height of Haight-Asbury. Bands were exciting and pushing the envelope, rock & roll was saving the world -- or least the world's psyche, and nothing sounded sweeter than the needle hitting the vinyl. What do we have these days? The MTV Video Awards, American Idol, and Danity Kane. Enough to fill up an iPod, not enough to leave a mark on this generation.

I'm sad because I can pick out every CD that was a Tower purchase in my collection, and each one contributed to my obsession in some way. Like some people make a bar their bar, a barbershop their barbershop or a coffee shop their coffee shop, because they had a favourite bartender or barber or baristic, Tower was my record shop, one reason being that it was always well stocked with the Springsteen repertoire and Beach Boys two-fer reissues.

I know because I always check. I'm going to miss biking down to Clark and Belden.

Skip to My Lou

In 1985, a guy everyone called Sweetness led the Bears to a Super Bowl championship.

Today, the Cubs officially announed the hiring of a guy everyone called Sweet Lou to lead the Cubs to a World Series championship in 2007. Sort of like fantasy baseball, Jim Hendry could hire anyone he wanted to undo the sins of the past almost-century, even Coach K. He wooed Joe Girardi, flirted with Bruce Bochy and finally proposed to Lou Piniella, and only needed to be on one knee, not two. There was a pre-nup agreement though. Lou wants A-Rod, which I'm not sure we have room for in the Friendly Confines (do we provide lockers for egos, or just boomboxes?), but that's for another thought. I'm done being sentimental -- I think we got the right guy. I'd like to see Aramis Ramirez run out some grounders. I'd like to see our bullpen stop being nonchalant. I'd like to see our rookies grow up. I'd hate to see Neifi Perez win a World Series ring.

So we're making a statement, and the good thing about being owned by a media company is that even though your club won only 65 games this year by playing cringingly bad baseball, you'd still always have at least one newspaper, one TV station and one radio station covering your announcements. Usually, the news is just as cringeworthy -- trading for Jody Gerault mid-season, a fly ball bounced off Rammy's head, Kyle Farnsworth kicked a fan and broke his foot, Scott Eyre eats at McDonald's, and so on.

On a day when softball was cancelled because our field is now a catfish farm thanks to all the rain, we could start spreading the news, good news. We'll see just how good next year.

When You're Alone and Life is Making You Lonely

To complain about working for yourself -- and to most people, that's getting up at 10pm, staggering to the home office and toiling the rest of the day in pyjamas, feet in bedroom slippers propped up on a papasan, sneaking off to two-hour lunches -- is asking for cheap beer to be thrown in your face.

To be perfectly honest, working for myself means getting up at 6.30am, going for a run, showering, making breakfast, reading the paper, then toiling the rest of the day in a T-shirt and shorts, baseball and Jeopardy! on TV in the background where applicable, running an errand when necessary. So maybe throw a good beer in my face instead, something I can lap up. I still have to deal with conference calls, deadlines, phone and cell that ring when they shouldn't, excessive emails, and all the usual grimaces of cubicle culture.

And I have to face it all by myself. When I was 13 and had to choose between playing just one sport -- swimming, tennis, or softball -- I picked softball, because I wanted to play a team game. I do miss scampering to the kitchen for food leftover from meetings, running downstairs for desserts with Puckett, fun and games locked up in someone's office, and someone asking me how my weekend was on Monday, even dressing up for work. And what I miss most is my daily L commute. I miss walking down Southport to the stop, saying good morning to the station guard with the moustache, unwrapping my paper, reading it on the train, plugged in to iPod.

You can always go -- downtown. Thank god for meetings. I was downtown Thursday and Friday, and Friday was just the kind of day that makes you want to bubble wrap downtown Chicago and FedEx it to cities all over the world, with a Post-It tacked on saying, "Wish You Were Here!" Discounting the temperature, it was blue-sky sunny and picturesque -- so it was a beautiful winter's day, except it was October 13, Friday. Fair enough, trick or treat.

After my client meeting, I strode from the edge of the West Loop to River North, to Andy's farewell lunch at Puerto Vallarta. I was crossing the Wells Street bridge when I had a Chicken Little moment -- the sky was going to fall down on me. I'm thinking about bad vibrations and I look up -- why, it was only the L cranking across, and it made me smile, because through the girdles of the bridge, I could see the Merchandise Mart, where I used to nine-to-five. And I was happy I was out of there, and I could forget all my troubles, forget all my cares.

I continued on my walk, where unbeknownst to me then, a Corona and some marvellous chips and salsa were awaiting my presence. (Plus, lunch was on Ogilvy PR.) I paused the iPod to listen to the music of the traffic in the city, and wished I could linger on the sidewalk (but I was already late). All the noise and the hurry seemed to help.

Thank you, Petula Clark, for singing a fabulous song that can be paraphrased.