Review of "I am Legend"

The new Will Smith thriller "I am Legend" is an intense look at a post-apocalyptic New York City. The story is told through flashbacks from Smith, an Army scientist that has helped cure cancer. While the scientific milestone is revolutionary, the side affects have a much more grave effect on civilization.

End of the world films are very en vogue now. "I am Legend" has an uncanny ability to put people on edge while at the same time showing them a world that we all hope to never see. Though it has only a PG-13 rating, the idea of a disease that can turn human beings into flesh eating zombies has a way of getting under people's skin.

I particularly applaud directors who can use suspense and intensity to raise the bar and scare the hell out of people. 28 Days/Weeks Later did it but there is a fair amount of blood and gore to accompany the R rating. But a PG-13 film that can do it is a real prize and this is where "I am Legend" shines.

M. Night Shyamalan had made his career making films that touch an inner nerve. The Sixth Sense and Signs are lessons in how to scare the hell out of people without the use of hockey masks and chainsaws.

I believe this film will be a welcome respite for all of us traveling home to visit with friends and family for the holidays. We could probably all use a night out with an old high school friend, away from Aunt Eunice and Cousin Jerome. I love my family, but I am hoping my brother and I can get out of the house when our parents decide to discuss the current political climate or the rising cost of gasoline. It would be nice to take a drive to the mega-plex and get whisked away to another world.

If nothing else, "I am Legend" gives you that world. It offers a stark and desolate view of New York City dominated by wild animals during the day and overly aggressive zombies at night. A dreary and uninhabited New York City probably does not sit well with everyone but in "I am Legend," the city itself is the main character.

Movies depicting the end of mankind are great because they feature shots of abandoned metropolises. We have seen other films where New York is transferred into a ghost town. In The Devil's Advocate, Keanu Reeves exits the hospital after his wife attempts suicide to see a completely empty Third Avenue. In Vanilla Sky, Tom Cruise gets Time Square completely to himself for a joyride in a fast Italian sports car. But in "I am Legend" Smith's character is the only human being walking around...for the first 45 minutes anyway.

Smith takes full advantage of the empty city. He decorates his home with priceless paintings from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He is also free to go about his usual duties of trying to find a cure for the virus. He balances the stress of his work by shooting golf balls off aircraft carriers and hunting deer with a sub-automatic machine gun. But we also see a more melancholy aspect of his existence. In an effort to stay sane, he rents videos at a store he has filled with department store mannequins so that he can feel like part of a society instead of the last man on earth.



It becomes apparent in the second act of the movie that The Fresh Prince is not alone on the island of Manhattan, not at all. There is an entire clan of rabid zombies that feed on anything that bleeds. These zombies are quick as hell, overly aggressive and very determined to get Smith. The cure for cancer which Smith helped create has morphed these poor humans into a hideous sub-species that are afraid of sunlight but are free to terrorize and run amok in the nighttime.

This monstrous new breed of being is led by a sinister and determined leader that has it out for Smith. Though the zombies cannot speak words, they can communicate with each other through grunts, screams and violence and they display intelligence that is equal to a human being. This isn’t your Mommas boring, slow moving, hands outstretched, mouth open and drooling, zombie. These zombies act like they are strung out on crack, pumped full of adrenaline and have been drinking Jolt Cola all day. And they have a big axe to grind with Smith.



The film producers were smart and gave our hero a dog to speak to as a companion/sidekick. This way he's not talking to himself or a volleyball with a bloody hand print on it like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

The movie opens with a spectacular car chase featuring a cherry-red Ford Shelby Mustang. He is hunting live game through midtown Manhattan and his prey is free to jump over cars, hide in tunnels and crash through deserted storefront windows. It's unlike anything that has been done before and the animals which are digitally created seem very real. What looks a bit contrived in terms of the special effects are the monsters or "Dark Seekers" as they are called later in the film. Though the zombies are based on humans, for some reason they decided to use CGI to depict the creatures. It gives the them a, “Gollum” from The Lord of the Rings feel and it ends up being unnecessary and a bit of a letdown.

Normally Smith is regarded at "Mr. Summer Blockbuster" for his roles in I, Robot, Independence Day, and the Men in Black films. He does not disappoint in this one, but there is a scene where he quotes two minutes of the film Shrek and it makes him look foolish and asinine - not something you want to see from the main character.

Aside from that, "I am Legend" will keep you on the edge of your seat and leave you and your friends pondering the premise of a world deprived of people long after the credits role.

The film has made more than $225 million dollars so far and of course they leave it open for a sequel. Let's hope Hollywood does this original justice because I know they will continue the story. Where there is money to be made, there is a producer willing to exploit and tarnish a great tale. It would be a real shame if they crammed a sub-par story down our throats based on the success of this first movie.

Speaking of shoving crap down our throats...



One of the trailers shown during the previews was "Dark Knight" featuring Christian Bale as Batman. This was our first official glimpse of Heath Ledger at the Joker and boy does he look menacing. The look of Ledger’s character is a complete 180 from the devilish villain Jack Nicholson portrayed in Tim Burton’s version from the late 80’s. Nicholson brought a panache and was always magnificently dressed, with perfectly coiffed hair and manicured nails.



This new vision by Christopher Nolan, (Memento, Insomnia, The Prestige) went in an entirely different direction with the Joker’s look. Nicholson's joker was sleek, refined, charismatic and immaculately groomed with an older man’s control and intelligence. Ledger is wickedly enthralling but he looks like he slept in a ditch - with his mussed hair that looks like he dyed it himself in a gas station bathroom, then smeared the caked-on makeup over his horribly scarred face. It all plays in to his childish and overtly psychotic nature - which is the way the character should be played.



Normally I would not support such a film because the Tim Burton movie is a cinematic classic and Jack Nicholson's performance as the Joker remains one of his best. But I am curious about this new movie because this Batman movie seems darker and more menacing than even the Burton films - which I never thought possible considering how many bad dreams Batman Returns gave to little kids when it first opened.

I hate Warner Brothers for creating this new franchise when the Burton film still stands the test of time and remains as great today as when it came out roughly 16 years ago. But I must admit that I am intrigued because the Joker is probably the richest role anyone could ever ask for. I imagine most professional actors would choose it over Hamlet or Stanley Kowalski from A Streetcar Named Desire because it allows the actor to be sexy, captivating, lethal, dangerous and utterly insane all at once.

I just think it sets a bad example when the Hollywood machine can churn out another one of these movies while the originals are still very fresh in our minds. If they throw Ledger at us now, what's to prevent them from deciding that next year the Joker had a couple of daughters out of wedlock with the Catwoman and the Olsen twins would be a most welcome addition to the famous, criminally-minded family.

In short, NOTHING.

They will keep thinking this dreck up and we will keep paying ten bucks a seat to suck it down. The least they could do is hire a Yank to play one of the more sought after American heroes in one of the most famous comic books story lines to come out in the U.S.(Bale is from Wales, Nolan is from the England and Ledger is from Australia).

I will probably see it rather than be the guy that has to listen to everyone else talk about it, but also because the film was shot here in Chicago. The film crew actually camped out in my company’s office and put lights up to shine down on the streets for some of the chase scenes.

If they had given me an extras part this might be a more glowing review.

The Golden Compass

There is a well known formula that has been created and now Hollywood is using it every chance it gets to fill theater seats. I don't blame the West Coast machine. They have not been able to come out with hits like they use to. There hasn't been an E.T. or Forrest Gumptype of film for some time.

Any good movies coming out these days reek of remakes. The remakes of the remakes come out even faster. How many Supermans, Batmans, or Incredible Hulks will we stand for before we, as Americans cry out, "The original was fine! Leave it alone...at least for 10 years!"

Technology is pushing this drive. It seems like the studios are creating films specifically marketed toward people that have big screen televisions and surround sound. It doesn't matter if the movie is any good, as long as these idiots can be the first to own the DVD on Blu-Ray or high-def.

Even people that don't earn a decent wage have huge t.v.'s with elaborate equipment. There is almost a pressure among young men these days to have a plasma or some kind of 57 inch television in every room of the house, even if they can't make rent payments.


Walk into any Best Buy or Circuit City and you will see a football field sized retail setting complete with multiple mock living rooms devoted to what you could have in your own house as long as you are willing to spend the money. Best Buy and Circuit City probably train their staff on how to successfully swindle a mortgage payment out of some foolish putz that believes he can only enjoy a film on a 60 inch monstrosity with speakers as long as a sofa.

What kills me the most is that I will probably never be able to afford one of these systems and I consider myself a true film connoisseur. Even funnier are the douche bags who do get them and can't wait to watch crap movies like American Pie 5 or The Mummy 8. Throw a couple of buzz words like "Director's Cut," or "Unrated Edition" on the film packaging and you can easily rope in a sucker glad to pay $45 for a crap film loaded with extras that he will never watch.

It would kill these losers to buy an epic like Ben-Hur or The Bridge Over the River Kwai - or any kind of film created before every stunt and special effect was done with CGI technology.

In all truthfulness, I understand it a little bit. Some people would rather stay home for a movie than pay 10 bucks and sit in a theater where the floors will be sticky, someones annoying cell phone ringer is sure to go off, and where there will be more than a few inconsiderate people talking throughout the feature.

People are realizing that for 15 -30 bucks, they can buy the movie as soon as it comes out and enjoy it forever, or at least until they get tired of it and sell it on Ebay. It's a wise solution for people who are tired of schlepping to the theater only to find out the show has been sold out or that parking will run them thirty dollars.

One such movie that you will probably see in abundance on Ebay in the coming months is The Golden Compass. It will be on Ebay because smart people who skipped it while it was in theaters will be sucked in by the marketing and advertising blitz that is currently going on to promote the lackluster project. It seems like there is a Golden Compass movie poster in every video store or a banner ad for it's release on "Special Edition" DVD on every major Internet site.

If you are wondering what makes it a "Special Edition," I wouldn't know, and I am not about to find out. I am not wasting any more money on this horrid film. But I can only assume they found more meaningless crap to pack into a longer version of the film, complete with interactive navigation menus and a bunch of crap documentaries that chronicled the big budget mess that ensued after it was conceived at a luncheon in North Hollywood.

The Golden Compass is the best example of recycled dreck that I have ever seen. I made the dumb-ass mistake of going to see it in theaters because I did not know much about it and because the cast looked fairly impressive. Probably the real reason I sat through it was that the film I wanted to see had sold out and it was the only thing showing around that time slot.

I can honestly tell you that each actor that signed on to the project sold out big time. They all went for the money, and I am sure there was alot of it, because anybody that read the script must have known from the beginning that this was going to be a waste of celluloid, and the only thing that might confuse or fool people would be big-name actors.

Nicole Kidman (The Others, Billy Bathgate, To Die For), Sam Elliott (Rush, Thank you for Smoking, The Big Lebowski), Daniel Craig (Road to Perdition, Layer Cake, Munich), Eva Green (Casino Royale, Kingdom of Heaven) along with the voices of Kathy Bates (Misery, Primary Colors, Fried Green Tomatoes) and Ian McKellen (X-Men, Apt Pupil, Richard III) all went for a big pay day by associating their respected names with this poor excuse for entertainment.

I guess they all want to be associated with children's movies that have franchise potential. They are getting older now, and most have kids so I guess they feel a need to be the "cool parents."

I could go into the story but in a word, it's lame, and would be a waste of time. They stole from The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Jumanji, The Time Machine, and The Chronicles of Narnia, among others. Any movie that came out in the past 10 years that had even a hint of fantasy or was able to wow audiences with special effects and mysticism was stolen and reformulated to work in this suck story.

The main role of the little girl is played by an obnoxious red-headed brat who is neither cute, enjoyable, nor a good child actress. She gets her hands on the Golden Compass which a cheap looking, vending machine device which can supposedly tell the future. It's her job to protect it and use it for good. Instead, she bitches and moans about the responsibility associated with it. It is all very similar to a certain Hobit's speech about carrying another golden object.



Not to be outdone, she is teamed-up an even more annoying sidekick who is the biggest Tiny Tim/Oliver/David Copperfield wannabe ever put on screen. Merry old England must be full of frail, pastey kids, with freckles and crooked teeth. But why on earth they would put them on screen is beyond me.


The bad guys, which are never really that threatening or dangerous, would remind you of the evil priests from The Da Vinci Code. Oh yea, and I forgot the best part; everyone in the cast has an animal as an alter-ego that follows them wherever they go, and that acts as kind of a conscious or beast-like representation of that person.

The concept is silly and the animals are even more annoying than the people. About the only redeeming quality of the film is the polar bear fight. It's exciting for about a minute and then ends with a cheesy line.


Nicole Kidman plays a villain which works because she looks ravishing. She has not looked this attractive since she appeared in Batman Forever. She also gives that red-haired monster mentioned above a tough time, which is enjoyable.

Daniel Craig, fresh off playing the new bad-ass James Bond shows up for about three seconds of the movie. He plays a giant wimp who is in serious trouble by the end of the film. Again, don't care in the least if he dies.


Eva Green plays some kind of flying harpie and it's tough to see her in a children's film after we saw every inch of her naked in The Dreamers. She kicks some but on some snow clad village reminiscent of the island of lost toys and then flies off.


This long-ass movie does look expensive. The sell-out actors named above demand high salaries, and the special effects are pretty impressive, but they do nothing to engage the viewer or get the audience to care about the characters.

Every special effect, background setting and trace of fairy dust was added by some computer nerd, and it makes the entire concept that much more unbelievable.

The ending was left open and I am sure they will try and make more installments. I only hope that the film did so poorly at the box office and with home video sales that all the major studios bury any attempts to keep the storyline going.

Avoid this one like the plague. If you are at someones house, bored out of your mind, don't pop this one in the DVD player or buy it On-Demand. It's swill, best suited for the toilet than a video screen.

Two out of Five Stars.

Review of "No Country For Old Men"

No Country for Old Men is a bang 'em-up, shoot ‘em-up roller coaster ride. Directed by the Coen Brothers, (The Big Lebowski, Raising Arizona, Fargo) and based on a book by Cormac McCarthy, the one thing you should know aside from the fact that this film is deeply entertaining, is that it’s also a blood bath.

I can preface this by stating that I grew up enamored with violent films. My philosophy was always: the more Ragu Thick and Chunky, the better. As an adolescent, I couldn't wait to see the latest Freddie or Jason movies, but as I got older, I found more intense films that cared more about telling a story than with new and interesting ways to disembowel or decapitate helpless teenagers running through the woods of Camp Crystal Lake.

My tastes matured and I soon became an avid Scorsese fan and realized that cinematic blood and violence can take on a whole new meaning when you are sucked into a story by a true artist. I am sure we all know the scenes in Raging Bull, Gangs of New York, Goodfellas and Casino that we all wish we could forget. The violence takes on a realism and touches a nerve deep within us. That’s why “Marty”, as he is known in the industry, is such a master storyteller. The debauchery is a tool he uses as effectively as a camera, an actor or a prop.



Mel Gibson has entered these ranks as well. I thought Braveheart was an epic film that didn’t shy away from the gruesomeness and brutality of medieval warfare. But I will say that Passion of the Christ made me sick to my stomach, from start to finish. I thought I was going to loose my lunch during the flogging/scourging scene. I have never seen an acclaimed director purposely try and turn a religious icon into a piece of raw hamburger meat. Though I am a practicing Catholic, I think the film should be renamed, “Let’s Beat the Piss out of Jesus for Two and Half Hours.” I have heart that one should eat before seeing Apocalypto.

The Coen brothers have long been known for giving the audience a grotesque visual to haunt them when they leave the theater. In Fargo we saw a man shoved into a wood chipper, head first. In Miller’s Crossing we saw someone get their face destroyed with a fireplace shovel and then get shot through the back of the head. In Blood Simple we saw M. Emmet Walsh practice his own style of medicine when his hand get slammed in a window and then stabbed with a knife. The point is that the Coen brothers know only too well what gets under our skin, and in No Country for Old Men they pull out all the stops.

This film is very dark and there is a great deal of red paint being splattered all over the screen. The film is one long chase scene with the two main characters taking shots at each other throughout the film. The film’s main protagonist is a hit man/bounty hunter named Anton Chigurh, played by Javier Bardem, (Before Night Falls, Collateral, Love in the Time of Cholera). He is hired to track down the whereabouts of a suit case full of money when a drug deal turns horribly bad in the lone star state of Texas.



The film opens with our hero, Llewelyn Moss, an every man who lives in a West Texas trailer park, hunting deer along the desolate open plains. He is played brilliantly by Josh Brolin (American Gangster, The Goonies, Hollow Man). While stalking his prey, he comes across numerous dead bodies, drugs and a big suitcase full of money. It is here that we get our first glimpse of carnage as the blood and guts of dead drug runners are aplenty. Moss grabs the cash and high-tails it out of there but it’s the wrong move because now Chigurh is on his tail and no one in their right mind wants Chigurh after them.

Bardem portrays the ultimate bad guy with his dorky, early 80’s haircut, physical prowess and unrelenting sense of morbidity. He kills anyone and everyone that gets in his path without the slightest quiver. He does not hesitate for a moment even when meeting individuals that don’t cause him any threat, harm or concern. The fear he instills comes from his personal belief that he was put on this planet to unmercifully take lives. He is as ruthless, emotionless, and steadfast as they get. He's a new type of villain, unlike anything I have ever seen before. And his weapon of choice is a silenced 12 gauge shotgun and an oxygen tank that is equally powerful at popping the locking mechanism of a door or blowing someone away. He carries these with him always along with a quarter so that an element of fate and destiny can guide him in deciding who should live or die.



Woody Harrelson, (White Men Can’t Jump, Natural Born Killers, Palmetto) has a bit role as a private detective put on the case to track down the money and Chigurh with it. He describes his nemesis the best as, "a man with no sense of humor" that is also deadlier than the Bubonic plague. That’s true, but the Coen Brothers set him up in several everyday routines that are equally scary and comedic. The directing/producing brothers give us ample douses of their dark humor, but the seriousness and emotion involved in this tale far outweigh the lighter moments.

When purchasing gasoline, Chigurh starts up a conversation with the attendant and then decides that should he guess incorrectly on a coin toss that he will kill him. Chigurh’s voice is deep and menacing and the fact that he is chastising a gas station worker on living his life to the fullest is the kind of bizarre situation that is only too common in Coen movies. It is reminiscent of Brad Pitt's scene in Fight Club when he threatens to kill a convenient store worker if he does not pursue his dream of becoming a veterinarian.

These types of intense cinematic moments make films worth the price of admission.

Tommy Lee Jones, (Under Siege, Blue Sky, The Fugitive) also has a bit role as an aging Sheriff who is only too aware that this world is changing faster than he would like. He cannot handle the death and misery he sees everyday on the job and knows that his days in law enforcement are numbered. With guys like Chigurh on the loose and killing at random, the aging law man realizes that this new generation is more violent that he can stomach and the U.S. is turning into, “No Country For Old Men” who can’t keep up with the times and the deadly attitudes being ushered in. Though it is never officially stated, the film takes place in the early 80’s.



The film does not have a traditional ending but that is also the reason that it stays in the subconscious long after the credits roll. I always judge a film by how much I talk about it afterward and No Country For Old Men remains in my thoughts weeks later.

The film’s tag line is, “There are no clean getaways.” This could not be truer. The people depicted in this film are not true Hollywood types. They wear their hard lives on their weathered faces, and the Texas backdrop makes it possible for the audience to taste the sand and dirt being swept up by the wind.

We want Brolin’s Llewelyn Moss to survive this ordeal rather than go back to his trailer park for what will no doubt be a meaningless existence. We turn him into a hero because the suitcase full of money is his only shot at a worthwhile life for him and his wife. We know guys like Llewelyn don't get 15 minutes of fame very often so he needs to make the most out of it.

The Coen brothers are experts at showing us everything human about ourselves on the big screen, whether it’s the armpit sweat stains of Jones' sheriff, the bad skin of Brolin’s naïve wife, or the gory details of a gun shot wound. This is a true Texas crime saga and I strongly recommend it to those who can stomach the atrocities and animal instincts of desperate men in extraordinary situations.

Four out of five stars.

Some Party

There was a time when people would celebrate birthdays by throwing a party. Sounds crazy, but it’s true.

This was not as far back as the Roaring Twenties, or even the Swinging Sixties. This was just recently. And it was a glorious time to be alive.

Guests would come over with gifts. Food and birthday cake would be served. There were fun activities like bobbing for apples and pin the tail on the donkey. Sometimes if you were really lucky, a clown might come out and make some balloon animals or do some magic tricks.

It was usually a great celebration but you and I both know that I am describing an adolescent birthday party. We all had them. I remember my own quite well.

Even with a summer birthday, my Mom and Dad made an effort to bring my friends together to celebrate my special day. When I was five years old, we had a party in our apartment where a clown played the guitar. I remember my mother telling me to remain calm while my pre-school classmates destroyed my toys and tortured my pet bunny.



Then there was the pool party when I was eight, by far my favorite childhood party. My mom forced me to invite everyone in the class, even John Booker, the kid I hated more than anything. Everyone had a blast. I received more gifts than I knew what to do with. Even John was quite tolerable that day. Neither one of us were strong swimmers so we both hung out in the shallow area while the more adventurous kids did back flips off the diving board.

Even small parties were fun. I had three friends come over to my country house when I was ten. I was so happy raising hell in the woods and playing Nintendo with those guys.

I am older now and I understand that those days are long gone. The birthday parties I attend now are a far cry from the ones of my childhood. You can’t even really call them parties. The clown, swimming pool, and backyard hijinx have all taken a back seat to what I call the, “Young Adult Birthday Celebration.”

In short, the older we get… the suckier the birthday parties get. Nowadays, a birthday party could best be described as a bunch of people getting together to spend money in a bar or restaurant. It sounds simple enough to be enjoyable but it’s not. The idea of it makes me sick when I consider what parties used to be like.

The gifts and party favors have been replaced by liquor shots and rounds of expensive cocktails. Nowadays alcohol is valued more than a nicely wrapped gift. The emphasis is on getting drunk rather than catching up with long lost friends you don’t get to see very often.



The planning involved with these drinking binges is much different from the method we all grew up with. When you are in your twenties, people send out this thing called an “Evite” which stands for electronic invitation. It would kill them to have to pay to have copies made or spend money on postage so they basically send out this email blast to anyone they might have ever come into contact with.

You can view the names of everyone else who was invited and if you like you can even leave comments like, “Can’t wait to see you!!” or “Can I bring my recently divorced friend?” or “I never liked you to begin with, why are you inviting me to your party?” and everyone else who was invited can read them.

If it’s a birthday girl who likes to dance, the party is usually held at some shi-shi nightclub or some new bar that recently opened downtown that charges a twenty dollar cover and you need to wear something that looks trashy but is actually very expensive to fit in.

The guys all roll their eyes when they hear that Sharon wants to go to Tunnel. The guys understand that no one will be able to talk to each other once they get inside and everyone goes broke purchasing their second drink. The birthday girl’s girlfriends are usually the first to chime in with, “But Sharon is turning 25 and she has always wanted to go to a club that David Schwimmer has set foot in and it’s just this one time.”

I would like to give Sharon a piece of my mind, but no one wants to be the lone voice of opposition. The girls go along with it because they don’t feel a need to talk to each other like the guys do.

Upon entering the club, the girls make strategic moves to the overcrowded dance floor which is littered with broken glass and crushed cocktail olives. They bump and grind with the other hip-hoppers and don’t really mind when someone smoking a cigarette accidentally puts it out on their new taffeta dress. They communicate with their friends by rump-shaking and rubbing up against each other in seductive ways which the guys watch from the bar area admiringly.

To them, it’s all worth it because David Schwimmer has been here. And though he’s not in attendance tonight, the ruined dress, the overpriced drinks and the hangover the next day are a small price to pay for the privilege of frequenting a club once tread upon by a Friends cast member.

The guys relent to the club/birthday party idea because they know there will be some eye candy. But all the time they are there, they are thinking about what a looser David Schwimmer is. They are also contemplating why Sharon is putting them through this. Why did she have to drag all her supposed friends with her? Why make them suffer to fulfill her idiotic birthday dream?

Guys want to go to bars with names like “McLowery’s Tavern” or “The Fox and Hound Saloon” where there is a beer special and you are sure to hear a song by the rock group Boston at least once an hour.

When it comes to birthday parties though, the guys aren’t completely innocent. They can be just as frou-frou as the ladies. One of my friends who makes a lot of money and who spends his time with other people who make a lot of money decided that he wanted to go out for a big expensive dinner for his birthday. I can understand that, and it actually seems like a good idea to sit down and break bread with the people you feel comfortable with as opposed to pretending to have a good time in a noisy club where no one has the guts to talk to any of the hot girls and everyone pretends to know and love the house music which is giving everyone in the place a headache.

This was the first dinner of its kind that I was attending and I was eager to fit in with the guys but more importantly, I wanted to make an appearance for my friend. When he invited me he said it would be a party of sorts. I did not read too much into this, and all I heard was party, so the day before I went to Best Buy and purchased a fairly expensive home electronics item which I knew the birthday boy was lacking and which I knew would bring him joy.

I like to treat my friends and when it comes time to give gifts, I genuinely enjoy giving them more than receiving them. I wasn’t going to be able to eat dinner with him and his buddies but I was looking forward to having drinks and hanging out all night. I thought this would be a fun filled Saturday evening.

So with my gift in hand and pep in my step I headed downtown to the fancy restaurant to celebrate my friend’s birthday. They were finishing up dinner which was nice because I knew I wouldn’t have to contribute to what is often a sizeable bill for these guys. I found a spot at the table and ordered a drink and made light conversation with those sitting near me.

When the time was right, I grabbed my friend and walked him over to the area where I had stashed the Best Buy bag and presented him with a DVD player. I did not want everyone else to see this because I did not want them to be embarrassed by not getting him anything.

He was blown away and gave me a big hug and an endless stream of thank-yous.
It was exactly the result I was hoping for and I was happy with the steps I had taken to make my friend’s day memorable, both with my presence and with the gift.

Both of grinning ear to ear, we went back to the table. He found his spot at the head and I found my spot towards the end and continued to sip my mojito. When I saw that everyone was getting another round, and planned to stay at least another twenty minutes, I ordered another drink knowing that it would be expensive but I would be spared the embarrassment of being at a social event full of alpha males without some kind of beverage in hand. I might hear it from them for not getting a strong drink like a scotch and soda, but this was fine by me. It was better to have something than nothing at all, and run the risk of being that guy at the table everyone wonders about.

The laughs continued and the dirty jokes and stories were told and then it was time to make moves to another bar where there would be attractive and available women. The first phase of the evening was complete; the birthday boy had a full stomach and was showing signs of drunkenness and now the lads were fired up and ready to try their hands at finding some companionship from some morally loose women.

The bill was summoned by one of the louder, more metro-sexual members of the party and when he looked at the number he did not bat an eyelash, and almost like a robot performing its primary duty, he swung out his platinum American Express card and announced to everyone that the celebrant would not be opening his wallet and that everyone should cough up eighty dollars.

Everyone nodded in agreement that the birthday boy should not pay a single penny and proceeded to go for their plastic and cash. I was amazed that even thought they were covering someone else, it still came out to that much a person. I felt pretty comfortable with where I was. I hadn’t enjoyed the yellow fin tuna or any of the eel hand rolls. No, I did not partake in the yaki-tori appetizers or the Mochi desert. I purposefully arrived late to avoid all that.

I made myself a bologna sandwich on whole wheat bread with mayonnaise and mustard and a can of corn with butter and salt and pepper and happily inhaled it before I left my house. While my cuisine wasn’t near as designer or as appetizing a meal as these future business leaders of America were indulging in, I was full and content and that was enough.

I knew I did not make as much money as these guys and I was fine with the fact that I couldn’t eat in the same manner they were accustomed to. I was happy to bestow upon my friend a gift he could enjoy over time as opposed to just a meal which I felt would be forgotten in a week.

Mojitos were eight bucks a pop, times two equaled sixteen dollars. I took a crisp twenty dollar bill out of my pocket and gave it to the ringleader collecting money and credit cards and said, “Here you go.”

He looked at me with a perplexed and agitated sneer. I stared back at him with a polite smile at which time he demanded, “Where’s the rest?”

“I had two drinks, I did not have dinner with you all. That should be enough.”

This answer did not sit well with him, and other people at the table were starting to take note of our conversation, most of whom I did not know very well. They were all surprised that a no-name like me was talking to this spiky haired, check master in such a fashion.

He came back with, “Yea, but we are getting comped at Headlines later, there’s usually a twenty dollar cover but Griffin set it up and covered us all. Come on dude, it all balances itself out in the hand,” and then he extended his hand to me, palm up and looked away to start counting the money which was making it’s way to him.

He said it in such a way that it felt more like a demand. There was no room to negotiate or haggle. He basically dictated that if I wanted to remain a part of the evening and hang out at the next destination than I would have to cough up some cash right now.

I felt intense hatred for this individual. I did not know where to begin. I wanted to stand up from the table to give him an idea of my size, grab him by the ears, lifting him up out of his chair, and then scream at him, “Listen you pompous jerk, I don’t know you and I certainly don’t know who the hell Griffin is and I certainly did not ask to be included on the guest list at Headlines where all you are going to do anyway is sneak off to the boys room to snort low grade coke with the other trust fund babies! And by the way, if it all works itself out in the end, why don’t you just cover the whole tab on your fancy little credit card with the cool looking hologram on it and impress us all with what a kind and generous individual you are!”

I wish I could tell you that I did the right thing and put that schmuck in his place as an example to all the other self-styled, Gordon Gecko wannabes seated nearby. But all I could look at was his outstretched hand and all I could feel were the table’s eyes on me to see what I might come up with. I was not very well known among this clique and if a stand was going to be made, I felt it should be made now, to set the record straight for all to hear.

But I relented, thinking how embarrassed my friend would be that I wasn’t economically comfortable enough to hang with this crew. The hate within me was growing with every second and with every twitch of the manicured hand with the gaudy, platinum and diamond Rolex that was still outstretched in my direction.

I smiled and reached back into my wallet and removed three of the four twenty dollar bills that remained. I folded them neatly and then pressed them firmly in the palm of the ringleader’s hand.

I can remember thinking how pretty those twenties looked. I had just gotten them out of the ATM machine before arriving. Whenever I hung out with the birthday boy it usually meant an expensive evening. He understood that I couldn’t always afford to participate in the dinners and social outings that he and his band of merry millionaire misfits frequented. He was understanding to my plight and always made an effort to pick up tabs and invite me out even when I stated that I did not have the funds to live it up in the manner he was accustomed to.

The more generous he was with food and drinks and social invitations, the more eager I was to show him that I was not out of place in the circle. There were a number of times when I picked up the bill for him and whatever floozy he may have been seeing at the time, or whatever chuckle head from work he might have invited out with him on that particular night. Even if I did not have it in the bank, I would pay for it just to pretend like I did, and give myself a feeling of financial danger.

But this was different. Now, one of the meatheads had demanded money from me in the name of friendship and camaraderie for our mutual acquaintance, (whom I am sure I was better friends with anyway). This was the first time anything like this had happened.

I was even more livid having given in and handed over the money to this cretin. This was rent money for me. But for him and the other popped collar halfwits the money was probably Tuesday night, “Hey, we are bored, let’s run up an insanely large check at the Four Seasons!”

With the gift already purchased and starting the evening out with one hundred dollars in hand, (sixty dollars more than what I accustomed to carrying at any given time) I was confidant that I might have had a chance to go home with enough cash to buy bagels in the morning.

Now I was at a point where I knew I couldn’t afford to achieve even a slight buzz and would probably be removed from Headlines, (wherever the hell that is) for carrying around an empty bottle of Coors Light.

I am sure a place like Headlines wouldn’t even carry Coors Light and that the cheapest beer available would be a twelve-dollar Miller High-Life.

I wanted to beat my eighty dollars out of this self-elected instigator. Even then, I probably would’ve asked for a receipt so I could frame it in my apartment and smile when I looked up at it. I have dealt with a lot of shady people in my time, but I have never been harassed into paying for a meal which I did not even eat by a twerp I did not even know.

The smart thing would have been to forget about the entire incident and concentrate on having fun with my friend. But I was seething inside even though there was a big plastic grin on my face. I wanted nothing more than to run out of the restaurant and deliver pizzas for the rest of the night in an effort to reclaim some of the funds that were lost.

When the self appointed money counter was satisfied with what everyone had contributed, he got up and led the charge out of the restaurant. I was right behind him.

As soon as our group was outside on the street, some of the party lit cigarettes while the others put their hands in the air to hail taxis. Were you thinking that this group rode the bus or the train…get a hold of yourself. I wanted to walk over to the bill Nazi and ask him where the limo was.

I stuck close to my friend but this was even more frustrating because he was officially three sheets to the wind by now and wasn’t making much sense. His speech was slurred and the only thing he was enthusiastic about was some song which was currently tearing up the charts by some artist I had never heard of. If you asked him what time it was, he would space out or ignore you, but if you put your arm around him and recited just one of the lyrics, he would spring to life and belt out the chorus for all on the street to hear.

I could tell the night was just beginning.

The cabs were summoned while the smokers took their last drags and I crammed into one of them for the ride over to Headlines. I was in the back seat behind the driver and one of the revelers had done a kind of stage dive into the packed car and now his head was resting in my crotch. The person sandwiched next, jamming his elbow in my ribs screamed to the driver to put the radio on and when he found the desired station, the entire car erupted in the same song that the birthday boy was belting out earlier.

Headlines was located under the train tracks in a part of town I had never visited. We poured out of the cab and I did not even bother to offer money for the ride. There was a red velvet rope outside and I was surprised no one was waiting behind it. A large bouncer in a three button suit opened the door for me as the other cabs started to show up. He did not mention a word about cover, and he seemed really happy that our group had shown up.



Once inside, I quickly scanned the room which wasn’t that crowded. I headed downstairs to check my coat and upon seeing that it cost two dollars I decided to hang on to it. When I came back upstairs the motley birthday party had formed around the bar and were ordering drinks. The birthday boy saw me and lit up and demanded I come over to him and the others.

He put his arm around me and asked me what I wanted to drink. I thought about it for a second, deciding between something cheap and something expensive. I thought perhaps one of the billionaire boys might pick it up for me as they were ordering their drinks in unison.

My friend pushed his way to a spot against the stomach high, brass cylinder ring of the bar and screamed an order at the very attractive bartender who was wearing a revealing halter top. She then looked at me. I did not make eye contact with her at first because her cleavage was so striking, but after a second I came to and ordered a rum and diet thinking this one was on him. As she prepared the drinks, I saw him go for his wallet. I did not feel so bad about the birthday boy paying for a round after I had bought him a gift and contributed to him and his friend’s dinner fund.

And then as soon as he was about come out with a bill, a friend of his, not at the dinner, appeared and the two began hugging and talking about how great it was to see each other and how much fun they were going to have tonight.

The bartender completed the drinks and pushed them in my direction and said $16.50. I thought about tapping my friend on the shoulder but I just did not have the heart to break up his conversation and demand money.

I took the last twenty out of wallet, placed it on the bar and pushed it in her direction and said thank you to her chest. The look in my eyes told her I wished I had order a beer. It was my finale and she probably took the money thinking what a nickel and dimer I was.

If I could have only told her about the Best Buy gift, the dinner check and now this last drink. Maybe she would light up, give me her phone number and whisper in my ear that all my drinks were on the house tonight and would I mind sticking around until she got off at 3:00am.

I lived a lifetime in that moment, but soon she was getting someone else’s drinks and I was stuck in the reality of my friend’s never ending birthday extravaganza. The birthday boy was now only talking in screams and giving aggressive stares to women patrons.

With both drinks in hand, I walked over to him. He was bellowing more music lyrics that made the music being played at Headlines sound even more terrible, but he was with the collections master from the restaurant. I handed my friend his drink and he spilled half of it while trying to grab it. I gave a dirty look at the other one. I wanted to shake his hand for allowing us all to come to such a prestigious and hard to get into location and then tell him to thank Griffin for me – whoever the hell that was, for getting us past the velvet rope and all the people waiting in line.

When the birthday boy left the both of us for a more entertaining part of the room, we both looked blankly at each other until he pretended to notice something over my shoulder and began walking toward it. I saw him go over to the hostess stand take a handful of individually wrapped tooth picks and place them in his pocket before invading the conversation of some other members of the group.

I looked the room over one more time and was amazed at how this loud birthday party had now become the center of attention. The other customers in the bar were staring at the birthday boy and all his drunken friends circled around him and rolling their eyes. I took a peak out the window and saw that there was still no one waiting in line to get in. The bouncer was having a cigarette with the valet parking guy. I am sure they were laughing at what a bunch of losers this place attracts.

My heart sank even lower when it finally became clear what a wash this night was. About the only saving grace for me was that I negotiated with the owner of the Japanese restaurant to store the Best Buy bag for my friend knowing full well he could barely pronounce his name more or less carry an expensive piece of electronic equipment.

Having spent the last crisp twenty on the two drinks, I was now broke. I thought about my options.

1.) I could nurse this rum and diet all night and pretend like I was having a good time.
2.) I could leave and make my way to the nearest bus/train station and go home. My Metro Card was paid for the month so I could always fall back on that.
3.) I could find out who Griffin is and accidentally spill my drink on him and his rich buddy who praises his name and then leave.
4.) I could ask the birthday boy for some money knowing full well he would give it to me and would never ask for it back because he is too boxed.
5.) I could offer to hold on to the birthday boys wallet so that he does not loose it and then run up a hefty bar tab with one of his numerous credit cards making sure to tip the hell out of the seductive waitress.
6.) I could go into the bathroom and call friends back home that I haven’t talked to in a while.
7.) I could find the prettiest girl in the room and tell her amazingly terrible things about the spiky haired provocateur at the restaurant, stressing what a cheapskate he is and how everyone should watch their wallet when he’s around.
8.) I could ask someone for a pen and begin writing this story down on cocktail napkins so that I never forget it and this kind of thing never happens to me again.

These choices were all bad and the longer I looked out the window at the empty street, the more I wished I had never come out tonight.

It was only 12:30 and I did not feel like enduring this any longer. I knew they would close the bar down at 3:00am and if they did not meet any girls than they would find an after hours place with even fewer girls than were here now.

The Birthday boy would need to be carried by this time and being one of the larger members of the group, I am sure this task would fall to me. Having struck out again, they would finish the night off at a diner at about 5:00am and talk about all the telephone numbers they did not get while someone fed chicken noodle soup to the birthday boy, probably me again.

None of this seemed appealing, so I swallowed the drink in one gulp and headed for the door. I looked back to see if anyone noticed me leaving. They had formed a kind of mosh pit in between a couple of the tables and were Kung-Fu kicking each while irritating all the people around them.

I walked past the well dressed bouncer and said thanks and then asked him where the hell I was. He explained the neighborhood a little and then instructed me on how to get to the train.

Though the evening hadn't gone as planned the Chicago Transit System was in rare form my train arrived after less than a two minute wait. I was home before one and after a couple bowls of Life cereal, I was under the covers and going over the evening in my head one last time.

There are some nights that are supposed to be great and don’t measure up. And then there are some nights which start out as nothing and become fantastic adventures. This evening was a draw. Even though my friend was off in his own little world, he had seen me earlier and would remember that there was a gift waiting for him at a Japanese restaurant when he eventually came to the next day.

I had played the role of the good friend. Tonight, it has been an extraordinarily daunting task. Even though the little amount of alcohol I had consumed only made me more agitated, there would come a day when he and I would laugh about what a great evening he thought it was. He would think about how wasted he got and how everyone had just as much fun as he did. I knew the truth but I would never tell him about his asinine friend who embarrassed himself. These are things best kept quiet.

But, good or bad, I would never forget it either. Just like I wouldn’t forget the cab ride to Headlines or the bartender or the look on the coat check girl’s face when I did an about face after learning the cost of having her baby-sit my coat for a couple of hours.

I fell asleep thinking about the discussion they would all have early that morning at the diner. The birthday boy would have more food on his clothes than on his plate, and the spiky haired twit and Griffin would probably share a milkshake and stare lovingly into each other’s eyes and fantasize about the sheer joy they would experience later on when washing all the product out of each other’s hair.

I would laugh about this the next morning as I scrounged around my apartment looking for change to get an everything bagel with cream cheese.

Night of the Locked Out Wigger

I don’t know any of my neighbors particularly well which I guess is a sad thing. It would be nice to live across from a guy like Cosmo Kramer from Seinfeld and observe all his slapstick hijinks. In defense, I don’t have that many neighbors and we all seem to do our own thing. We all have busy, fast-paced lifestyles, or at least that is the impression that we all like to give off.

I have spoken with the gentleman that lives directly across the hall from me. He lives in the only other single unit on our floor. He smokes incessantly on our fire escape and always manages to slam the door when he comes in and out. But for the most part he seems kind and neighborly. He has introduced himself a couple of times but I always forget his name. He is a trauma doctor at the local hospital; an interesting fact that might come in handy when I have an accident or I have a guest over who has a medical condition or an allergic reaction to something I serve.

Aside from the door slamming, he is a neighbor’s dream tenant. He keeps to himself, never throws parties and there is never a foul odor coming from his apartment. These are all admirable qualities in my book.

However, there is one other apartment on our floor. The two bedroom unit at the top of the stairs is occupied by an unholy couple of “Wiggers” who have no regard for their neighbors and no common sense on how to successfully co-exist in an apartment building. Because of them, there is constant chaos along with a continuous and never ending barrage of noise and bad music. They smoke in the hallway and the idea of placing trash in a receptacle is foreign to them.
Why O why O Lord did you have to send me Wiggers?

For those who are unaware, Wiggers are white kids who display African-American personality traits and stereotypes, usually the negative kinds that are associated with Gangster Rap and other demeaning forms of Black culture. The term is meant to be disrespectful.

I first heard it in the 80’s when rap and hip hop music were beginning to take off. In grade school, my white bread peers and I rushed towards all things related to Black entertainment and Hip-Hop culture. We tried to play basketball like Michael Jordan while listening to music by Kool Moe Dee and Slick Rick. The lyrics were often laced with expletives. At night, we would spray paint graffiti on mailboxes and city benches, and talk to each other in a slang that was neither easy on the ears nor made any sense. I was never any good at it, and I despised those of us who displayed a knack for speaking in, “gutter talk” as my mother would say.

I thought I had left those days behind with my exodus from New York in 1998. I was wrong. I have come to learn that Wiggers are everywhere and in everything. I don’t think they have infiltrated the upper echelons of government…yet. But there could soon come a day when a lawyer arguing before the Supreme Court addresses the chief justice with, “Yo, peep this, my boy is mad innocent yo. Him say he wouldn’t even dare da night Tywon flipped out. You’s gots to come correct… right hizee!”

Wiggers have been spurned on in recent years by the likes of Eminem and even more depressing figures like Kevin Federline. Ali G has done a good job at displaying just how asinine and ludicrous these people look and sound. In assuming this personality, Sasha Baron Cohen has exposed these individuals for what they truly are…freaks running loose in society.



Wiggers have all the encouragement in the world. If somebody told me that if I acted out Black stereotypes and said disrespectful things in songs that I would be a multi-platinum selling artist with money and power, I would immediately ask them where I can get my hands on some heavy gold chains and warm up pants.

“K-Fed” as he is known to all four of his adoring fans proved that even as a divorcee, with a child, you can still go out with and be spoiled rotten by one of the hottest and most desired pop princesses the world has ever seen…and make out pretty well on the divorce settlement. It seems the more bizarre the Wigger personality, the more popular they become.

I can still remember the short lived reality series detailing Brit and K-Fed’s sexual appetites. Quality television. I don't know how the network could have ended it after only three episodes.



My Wiggers moved in during the fall of 2006 after I had been living in the building for three years. At first, I was surprised that two such individuals would be able to afford a unit in what has become an expensive area. I know I have second thoughts about cutting such a hefty rent check each month, but then again, I am a little older and a working professional who also got a great deal on the apartment.

All I really need to do is walk through the neighborhood and ogle all the beautiful people to realize I am not paying for square footage but location and atmosphere. This makes the presence of the Wiggers even more baffling because they are certainly out of place being so close to the lake in a neighborhood where there is a designer coffee house on every corner and an endless supply of girls with headscarves and pink North Face jackets to fill them up.

Wiggers feel more comfortable in places like Little Rock, Arkansas and Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, they can indulge in conversation and grand-theft auto with other aspiring Wiggers.

My Wigger neighbors are probably between the ages of 20 and 22 and I believe they are attending classes somewhere, or they are supposed to be. I don’t think they go often as there is rarely an hour in the day when deafening, bass heavy music is not screaming at passerbys through the door.

They are most likely sucking off Mommy and Daddy’s checkbook to cover their living expenses. I don’t blame them; I was spoiled during my time in academia. I did not have to hold a full time job to make tuition payments. But why did they have to bring their wiggerish ways into my building?

It should be stated though that your average wigger lifestyle comes at a fairly exorbitant price. There are baggy, designer jeans to purchase from popular labels like FUBU, Sean John, and Tommy Hilfiger. There is also an insatiable need for the brightest and most recent Starter and New Era baseball caps. (Note to wiggers in training, never break in your cap or remove the price tags displaying the hologram of the manufacturer, and make sure to wear to one side, never the traditional way or backwards, and also never break it in as this trend is now dated and has been overcome by the newer, flat look).

Baseball and basketball jerseys are also quite costly. If one isn’t careful, you can easily drop a thousand bucks on the latest Iverson replica game outfit or Oakland Raiders warm-ups, so all Wiggers should “slow their roll” and attempt to balance their budgets.



A modern day Wigger also needs a steady supply of menthol cigarettes, (preferably New Port or Salem Lights) along with a constant stash of malt liquor. Your everyday American Wigger also embraces a language that’s chock full of profanity and delivered in the same intonation and pronunciation that Dr. Dre or Snoop Dog embody in their albums.

It would also behoove your typical Wigger to wear gaudy, cheap looking jewelry in the ears, nose, and eyebrows as well as on the wrists and fingers. There are also a fair amount of female Wiggers or “Wigger-ettes” as they are called who are fond of sporting necklaces with their name written on it in a thin, plate-metal script.

Their accessories could best be described as shiny and childlike and to the relative lay person, may appear like they were purchased for a quarter from a gum ball machine outside the local Aldi. I have seen more than my fair share of these necklaces, insanely enough, on very attractive looking women…that is, they are only pretty once you looked beyond their corn rows and penciled in eyebrows.

But the age old Wigger practice of wearing this kind of jewelry, or better yet, having their names tattooed on their bodies completely baffles me. As if they would ever forget their names, for shame.

If you ever had the privilege of seeing a Wigger-ette in her natural surroundings, be careful not to stare too hard. These foul-mouthed tough girls are not to be insulted. Their tastes in couture are very strong and they do not take well to constructive criticism. They are just as prone to fisticuffs as their male counterparts.

Fighting is a large part of the Wigger lifestyle. It often involves one person being beaten by numerous Wiggers. I saw this many times on St. Patrick's Day in New York City. One on one fighting is not part of the Wigger mantra, but it is important to hurl insults and quote gangster movies at an opponent while they are down on the ground being kicked.

Now that I have brought you up to speed on your common, everyday Wigger, let me tell you about last nights disturbance.

At about 2:43 A.M. I heard a pounding on my neighbor’s door... the Wigger household of course. I heard these tremendous thuds not because I was hanging out in the hallway or walking up the stairs. No, I was half asleep in my apartment… in my bed…under the covers…with the door locked.

I should tell you that the building I live in is very old, probably pre World War II, and has ancient heating furnaces which clang in the middle of the night. For the first month I lived there, I was convinced the clanging was being caused by an intruder and I would go out into the main room armed with the only weapon I could find: a 12 inch novelty baseball bat one purchases as a souvenir for a toddler at a Major League Baseball game. You can imagine how relieved I was that I did not have to thrash anyone with such a meager and non-threatening tool.

I guess the building architects chinced when it came to designing the thickness of the walls because the pounds bestowed upon the Wigger door were coming through loud and clear, almost as if they were happening in the same room that I was attempting to sleep in.

This went on for a good 35 minutes. It was so loud and aggressive, I thought barbarians were attacking the complex or the entire Chicago division of the Drug Enforcement Agency were executing a search warrant, and their frustration at not being allowed in only forced them to make the pounds more thunderous. If I did not know better, I would have thought that someone was using a tree trunk to sound a giant gong.

I can only assume one of the Wiggers must have forgotten or lost their keys and thought their Wigger counterpart was asleep inside. If one of them was asleep, than this person was capable of sleeping through the bombing of Dresden. I hope there was'nt an actual person in there, because if there was, I am jealous that I can’t sleep that soundly. Instead of the air raid noise that goes into effect when our country is under attack, this pounding should have signaled the end of the world. I was almost in awe that a human being was making this sound repetitively. His hands and fists must have been torn and bloody from the noise that was being produced.

He would knock hard for a good minute and then stay quiet a minute before resuming again. This went on for a while. And there was never any talking or screaming at the inhabitant that may or may not have been inside, just knocking.

I don’t blame him for not uttering a word. He knew the whole building was up. He understood that if we heard anything less than a voice reminiscent of Mr. T or Clint Eastwood, the entire association of tenants would have exited their apartments, tire iron in hand, and commenced in a most merciless beat-down that Martin Scorsese himself would be proud of.

To the unknowing tenant, the knocking gave an aura of mystery. Could the person be a dangerous psycho or a crazed killer? Certainly not. I knew that it was some scrawny white boy making up for his lack of strength and size by putting every ounce of energy into getting back into his apartment.

I wanted to kill this kid, and place his head on a pike in our mail room for all to see what happens when a Wigger disturbs the peace and tranquility of a building full of sleeping professionals.

Sadly, I tolerated it all. I remembered the time in college when I was locked out and couldn't get back into my apartment. Wiggers usually don't stay Wiggers forever. Usually it's a phase they go through. I remembered what it was like to be young, confused, and unable to establish a consistent personality, identity or image of myself that I could be happy and stick with for a while. So I pardoned him.

I thought about calling the cops. I thought about what a great lesson this lout would learn. The cops would no doubt have a blast busting a Wigger. After being cuffed in the hallway, and then thrown headfirst down the stairs and into the back of the police car, the cops would probably stick around the holding cell back at police department and watch this tenderfoot fool be made an example of by hardened thugs who were not just living out a Coolio fantasy. No, mark my word; this would be a real Gangster’s Paradise.

But alas, the better nature of my Christian upbringing got the better of me and I endured the torture until the Wigger in question either left the building to crash at another Wiggers domicile, or he just hunkered down on the floor, exasperated from his attempt to gain entry. I don’t blame him. He had to have been drunk at that hour and the fact that he kept the pounding up for so long as he did is a real testament to his utter carelessness for his neighbors and his fortitude to get a good night’s rest in his own bed.

If he did bunch up his Starter or First Down jacket into a pillow than I hope it was a cold night in that hallway and that he couldn’t fall asleep because his hand hurt too much from the knocking. And I hope than when he was awakened from the bitter chill of the Midwest morning air that there was a side-splitting headache, a plethora of canker and cold sores along with a stiff back ready to greet him when he opened his eyes.

When I woke up the next day I was exhausted from not getting my usual seven hours, but I eagerly jumped into the shower. As the DJ’s of 97.1.FM updated me on the traffic and weather for the day, all I could think about was what might be waiting for me out in the hallway. Would there be a sleeping Wigger that I could accidentally stumble over with my steel toed boots, or perhaps spill my scolding cup of tea on? I reveled in these thoughts and when it came time to leave my apartment, I opened my front door like a child entering the living room on Christmas morning. I peered down the long hallway and didn’t see anyone there.

Disappointed, I stomped down the hall as heavily as I could, making sure to put as much hate and animosity in those steps as possible so that if he was around the corner, out of sight, than he would at least know the terror and misery that was coming his way.

Alas, no Wigger, but on the ground in front of their door were tons of paint and wood chips. One piece was as long as a hammer. It was as if the warriors from Braveheart took a battering ram to the door, but somehow it stood its ground. The scene should have been an advertisement for deadbolt locks and how nothing can penetrate them.

The debris stood there for well over two weeks. I am sure the maintenance guys marveled at what might have happened. But I knew the truth.

In conclusion, I do not want to mislead you. There are decent and friendly Wiggers out there who can comprehend the idea that some people like to sleep at night. This rant should not deter you from giving the Wigger a chance to be polite. There are civil Wiggers among us who work during the day and attend classes. They should not be oppressed or discriminated against because of their less deserving ilk. Instead, these standouts should be heralded for their attempts to lead respectable lives.

There is no changing the fact that Wiggers are living in our society. The sad truth is that the negative types are more visible than the decent ones. Shady Wiggers can be seen in the background of TRL daily as well as on daytime television shows like, “Maury” where they are often contesting paternity test results. They are a constant favorite of “The Jerry Springer Show” where they are attacking their fellow Wigger brethren for sleeping with their Wigger-ettes.

Often times, Wigggers live comfortably among us and co-exist in peace. But the situation mentioned above is just another example of the Wigger mentality being at odds with normal everyday citizens.

Always remember to be kind to your fellow Wigger. Love them even if their rap video sneer and mock gold and phony diamond grill bother the hell out of you. Be aware of who they are, what they are capable of and how persistent their knocks can be.

I would not wish this terrible experience on my worst enemy, but I would wish it on my neighbors.

Good night America, and sleep cautiously.

The CTA Romantic

I barely made the bus to work this morning. I got on just as the light turned green and the doors were closing.

I made my way to the back as there were no seats in front. When I got to the steps that lead to the very ass of the bus I looked and saw there were only two seats still available. They were both sandwiched in between two large people so I decided just to stand and let them enjoy the extra room. I am a fairly large individual and when I sit down next to you, you are going to know it, either by my manly cologne, or the elbow that I crack you in the chops with when changing the page of my newspaper.

I would hope that someone would extend the same courtesy to me. That's never the case though. And of course, as the bus picked up more people, they all made their way back the same way I did and took up the empty seats in no time. The ironic thing is that one of the guys was even bigger than me. I am a big fan of all or nothing at all. I would hold onto my precious space and my dignity by deciding to stand.

The purpose of this blog is not to discuss Chicago Mass Transit seating practices and ethics but rather the pretty girl I was lucky enough to stand near. She was sitting in the first row of seats to my left on the elevated portion of the bus near the back door. Being as I had a meeting today, I was dressed better than usual and my shave was extra close. I even used the expensive after shave. It stung at first, but it was a small price to pay in order to smell good.

The bus is full of so-called, "business people" who are dressed in a slipshod manner and who only shave, at best, once a month - and that's just the guys. The girls are even worse as they apply their makeup aboard a moving/rocking bus and their hair is still wet from the shower - and those are the decent ones.

The really bad one's still reek of the bar they got trashed in the night before. They were so late getting up that they did not even shower or rub off the hand stamp that the bouncer gave them for admittance the night before.

They are usually the one's who pass out during the journey from the stifling heat of being crammed in like a sardine with everyone else, or they demand the driver to let them off at a non-official stop so they can regurgitate the previous night's menu for all us commuters to revel in.

It's quite a visual and I have seen it numerous times. But it never grows old because the real thing to watch for is whether they have the willingness to get back on a crowded bus after everyone has seen them blow chunks of half digested mataccioli mixed with a dozen or so mojitos. Nine times out of ten, after wiping away the yard of saliva hanging from their mouth, they motion to the bus driver to keep going without them.

I could never understand why. Maybe it's the shame, but I think the embarrassment is worth the trip because they at least have a driver who is wiling to wait, and they will arrive at work on time. Besides, it's really tough to catch a cab on the outer drive. It's not like it's a street or anything, it's a damn highway.

This girl I was standing near looked exceptionally elegant. She had maroon/reddish hair styled in layers. She was wearing a business skirt and was carrying an expensive purse. Her makeup was magnificent. She was wearing bright red lipstick and she had just enough eye makeup on to make her blue eyes look radiant. Those eyes were something to take note of because her skin was so creamy and white and offered the perfect canvas for those angelic peepers.

When I settled into my spot, she looked at me and I looked at her briefly and we could both tell that we looked the part of the modern business executive. And then I made sure to stare out the window and ignore her. It sounds crazy but my intention was also to look stoic.

In my top coat and power tie, I was quite the dapper dandy, and with her alongside me, there isn't a boardroom or shareholder's meeting out there that we couldn't conquer.

So there I was with my best, "Washington crossing the Delaware" pose in the early morning Chicago sunlight, and there she was, pretty as ever, looking out the window towards the lake, but also taking occasional glances at me.

I saw her looking, but more importantly I felt it, and I wanted to do something about it, but the 134 Stockton/LaSalle Express is not the most opportune place to strike up a conversation or ask someone out. Commuters are busy reading the Wall Street Journal, the Chicago Tribune and listening to their Ipods. I had my own on the shuffle setting and was rocking out to Blue Oyster Cult's, "burning for you."

The point is that everyone is doing their own thing. I think it's out of respect for the fact that we are all heading to work to have our brains kicked in that we all make sure to remain respectfully silent so that people can enjoy these relaxing moments before the bashing. The quiet before the storm if you will.

She wasn't doing anything to occupy herself though. She wore no head phones and brought no reading material. She might have been off to a job interview or her Monday-Friday, 9 - 5er, but for the bus ride, she was perfectly content to stare out the window, observe the passengers, and give the occasional glance in my direction.

When we hit Wacker drive, the seat next to her became available. I saw this as my opportunity. Mind you, not to ask her out or start up some conversation - all forbidden on the morning commute- but just to let her know that I was not afraid of her. Even though I was attracted to her, and she might have been attracted to me, I wanted her to know that I could sit next to her and be perfectly comfortable and not have to ask her name or some either detail of her life. I could respect the silence of the ride.

When she moved from the aisle to the the window seat, I saw it as an invitation. I made eye contact, then gave a friendly smile and gestured for her to move her purse over so that I could sit down. I never said a word, but my eyes did the talking and she got the hint and obliged graciously with a little smile of her own. This was a big move on my part.

And there I sat, next to the object of my desire. I immediately dove into my briefcase and pulled out an old Newsweek that I had already read cover to cover and proceeded to re-read the editors note. I had to keep up this facade of me not being interested in her, and if I did not have anything to read, I might make her uncomfortable if we were both sitting next to each other with neither one of us concerning ourselves except with the scenery.

I was so interested in her, I did not want it to be awkward. This was also a good cover because I could focus on the magazine and steal quick glances at her legs. They were cute and sexy and her skirt looked expensive and recently laundered. She seemed like a class act.

But when panning from her legs to her lap, I saw her hand fidgeting, and then I realized it wasn't mindless, helpless fidgeting. She was scratching at the cuticles of her thumb with her index finger. I had seen my high school librarian do this all the time. She did it so frequently that her fingers were often bleeding, and this lead to her being the but of many schoolyard jokes.

On closer inspection of her hands through these hidden glares, I saw that her finger tips looked pretty raw. And though the color was an alluring and lovely, fire engine red, the nails themselves were small and chipped. And the skin nearby looked irritated and flaky.

I was heartbroken. My CTA angel had a flaw, and I immediately thought about what other self destructive habits she might engage in. Could she be a cutter? Did she like to pull out her hair? It looked pretty enough but she probably had enough of it to allow the occasional stress related, "handful yank." If she was a smoker, the habit might open up a whole different medium for torture. I hope she didn't keep any hat pins or Drano in her house.

My stop was approaching. When the bus got a block away, I put away last year's magazine and changed the song on my Ipod. The shuffle feature made it go right to the New Kids on The Block - "Tonight."

Jesus! I hope she did not see that...she can never know that side of me, at least not this early in the game. I wanted to turn to her and say goodbye, say hello...say something, but there was no cause for it. There was no need for any of it except of course to be polite. My real dream was to turn suddenly to her and say, "I know you don't know me, but would you like to grab a cup of coffee before work? I would like to get to know you now because I am afraid I may not see you again and I don't want to pass up this opportunity."

But I didn't know her and she didn't know me and strangers don't say hello and goodbye to each other after only sharing a single bus ride for twenty minutes, and they certainly don't invite each other on spur of the moment breakfast dates.

In retrospect, I would love to know what stop she got off at. I would love to know if she was in fact going to a job interview as I originally thought. I would love to know if that rich, ruby-red hair of hers was natural and if not, what the good people at Loreal were calling it these days.

I got off the bus at Wacker and LaSalle and made moves to the office as Donnie, Jordan, Danny Jonathon and Joey belted out their cheesy 90's ballad.

In conclusion, I will keep my eyes open for her, and hope that she takes it easy on her cuticles and stays away from sharp objects and lighters.

There are millions of stories out there about people making their way to work and this is one of them. This is the tale of the mass transit romance that never was.

To you guys out there, take my idea and invite that girl to a latte. And to you love sick women out there, don't be afraid to say hello and take it easy on us guys...as well as your extremities.