In Which I Disparage Multiple Lands 01/21/2008
Letter to the #8 Bus Driver 12/17/2007
  o the #8 Halsted bus driver who sings Christmas carols over the intercom:Thank you. I've only had the pleasure of riding on your bus once, but I believe it may be the highlight of my holiday season. Those of us who ride the #8 daily are probably the most frustrated CTA customers in the city. The 30-minute waits in the blustery Chicago wind, the 10 minutes we spend zooming and braking just to get through that satanic six-way intersection at Milwaukee and Grand. The windows that refuse to close, the odorous cranky guy who keeps asking the time. They're enough to make you actually consider giving up your Honda Civic's precious Lincoln Park parking space and paying for a spot near the office. (OK fine, my employer would pay for parking; I just find it difficult to read the newspaper while navigating around the biwheeled maniacs in the bike lane.) So I ride the #8, the “ugly bus” as my coworkers and I refer to it, to and fro, day after day. Sometimes I get a “Watch your step” from the driver. Every once in a while a “Have a nice day.” Usually, it's “Move to the back so that everyone (more people than should ever safely inhabit a moving vehicle) can get on the bus! Move (you Starbucks-swilling Lakeview assholes who make my working life even more of a living hell with every second you drone on into your Razr about Barry's wine party last night, oh, and you, too, smelly crack monger) to the back!” But then there's you, carol-singing bus driver who refers to yourself as “OBJ” – Original Bus Jockey. Even though I could clearly see the intersection of Hooker and Halsted out of the dirt-streaked window, you transported me to smooth-sounding, reindeer-trodden snowscapes on the “WBUS of the CTA.” Sure, you didn't know all of the words to “The Christmas Song.” Sure, your vibrato could use some work. No matter. There was unaffected joy in your voice. It wasn't false; it wasn't ironic; and it didn't give a snowman's turd what anyone else thought. Forget all of the P.C. nonsense surrounding Christmas – the “Happy Holidays” versus “Merry Christmases.” I, myself, have dubious feelings about the whole Christianity thing, and I certainly detest having Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the rest of their ilk crammed down my throat. The point is, that Tuesday morning on the bus, thanks to you, my agnostic tendencies were immaterial. And I'll challenge any Scrooge to a cage match who gives you flak regarding your mobile vocal jubilance. You obviously think this time of year is something to celebrate. Even if your passengers don't want to celebrate the birth of Jesus, or even believe there was a Jesus, I hope with all sincerity that they appreciate your buoyance and humor. I was smiling all the way to Washington/Randolph, and so were a great deal of my fellow #8 passengers. (I will not even go into my thoughts on the iPod drones who populate half of all public transportation seats these days, who most likely couldn't even hear you, let alone the sounds of life in general passing them by as they listen to the same Fergie remix for the 48th time. Oh and so help me Lucifer if they did hear you and then turned up the headset volume – cage match.) For most #8 passengers, every weekday morning is the same – same wardrobe from which to choose, same nonfat latte, same tragic headlines, same traffic jams, same confining office walls bearing down on us when we do finally arrive at work. And always, same ugly bus. But you made a difference. You made my crowded seat a place to prize, rather than simply to pass an aggravating span of time. So thank you, OBJ. Merry Christmas to you, too. Sincerely, Corinne A Collection of Tom Cruise Haiku 12/01/2007
 ittle man, big grinIf his lifts were tall enough Could he find a clue? I thought eyes deceived When a dwarf snatched my Zoloft But it was Tom Cruise Demons in my ears? It's just Tom's fake Irish brogue In Far and Away Get Lauer meds, quick Hope he didn't catch some crazy Talking to Tom Cruise It's risky business Letting Scientologists Do…hmm, anything Hey you, Mr. Cruise Gary Busey called and he Wants his crazy back Attack of the Bathtub Jellyfish 11/08/2007
 notice the jellyfish just in time. My bare foot has just cleared the side of the bathtub when I spot a small bluish something floating in the shallow current the shower spray has created.It takes a moment to comprehend what I've seen. What is it doing in a Chicago apartment? Are there jellyfish in Lake Michigan? Even if there were, the lake is near freezing right now. Jellyfish surely cannot survive such temperatures. The only time I've seen one was in Boston Harbor; even that surprised me. My experience with these animals otherwise has been confined to sitcom “the gang goes on a beach vacation” episodes. Nevertheless, there is a tiny jellyfish floating in my bathtub. What to do with it? I can't touch it with bare hands, of course. Maybe a Tupperware container, then the Dumpster. But should I tell someone, the animal authority types? Should Chicagoans be warned that there is a potentially rampant jellyfish problem in the city? I mean, if it can happen in Lincoln Park, it can happen anywhere. Will people think it's strange that I shower at 11:30 at night? Another one. Suddenly another tiny creature has emerged from the drain. I definitely need to tell someone about this. I shouldn't be naked right now. Skin exposure is not smart when surrounded by jellyfish. Thirty seconds later, fully clothed and on my knees next to the tub, I call the best person I can think of to assist with a bizarre situation. “Russ, you are not going to believe this,” I tell him. “Oh God, are you drunk?” he asks. “No, not tonight. Russ, there are two jellyfish in my tub. What do I do?” “There are no jellyfish in your tub, you idiot,” he says, laughing that this-is-so-amusing-I'm-pretending-I-can't-breathe chortle that I sometimes love but usually hate. “Maybe you should clean your goddamn bathroom; I know you haven't done it in a month.” “True, but this is not soap scum; these are honest-to-goodness baby jellyfish. In my tub. In the city. Who do you contact about this sort of thing?” “Oh hell, I don't know. Just flush them down the drain. “Did I tell you what happened when I was stalking the hot bartender last night?” Oh hell, I should have known he'd be useless. “Totally ended up at Berlin getting a BJ on the dance floor from his friend.” Click. Why do I ever call him? He's never helpful. I must remember he's only good for two things – drinking and, well, drinking. One thing. Jellyfish. Nearing midnight with two jellyfish in my apartment. Here's what I'm going to do. Trap them in Gladware with enough water to survive, then call animal control in the morning. Probably should call my landlord as well. And maybe PETA. And my alderman (woman? No idea). This is an abomination that the fair people of Chicago should be aware of. Forget the ridiculous ban on foie gras, there are jellyfish loose in the city. Must not mention idiocy of foie gras ban to PETA. OK, corralling baby jellyfish into a square plastic container is not as difficult as I had imagined. The blue lid is firmly locked on the container, and I am much calmer. I peer at them through the transparent plastic. They're actually quite beautiful and fragile, floating around each other near the “Glad” label. Maybe I should have taken photos while they were still in the tub; this does sound a tad crazy. Too late now; I'm not letting these beasts out of their makeshift aquarium. I take my shower with the drain stopper firmly in place, ankle-deep soapy water be damned. The moment of truth, when I pull the plug expecting a drove of jellyfish (gaggle? horde? What on earth do you call a bunch of jellyfish?) to fill the tub, is anticlimactic. Just the counterclockwise swirl of drain water and then nothing. |  Corinne BilyeuCorinne Bilyeu has been prolonging her adolescence for the last five(ish) years. She still has no idea what she wants to do with her life, but she figures she can cut down on watching her beloved Frasier reruns to write some jackass stories. Corinne was an honors English and journalism student at a state university (does it really matter which one?). After conquering Shakespeare, Blake, Pynchon, and the inverted pyramid, she shifted seamlessly into editing obituaries at a small-town newspaper. As fulfilling as that was, she left the high-stakes world of newspaper copy editing for the even higher-stakes world of editing for a litigation consulting firm (i.e., became a complete sellout). Corinne resides in Chicago, Illinois, and can generally be found loudly conversing with strangers at a local dive bar. ______________________ corinnebilyeu@ ______________________ ArchivesFebruary 2008 ______________________  |
orinne: So Lizzie, what do you think now that Obama has overtaken Hillary in the primaries, you Clinton supporter? 
list of six places I pretend I would like to visit when I would honestly rather go to a Sandals resort in the Caribbean: 
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