the draft 2

 Monday all three local local affiliates had foregone the network news to bring us the fast breaking news of a big storm approaching Chicago spawning tornadoes in the distant burbs and heading to the city.  Naturally I went up to the roof, but after about half an hour of nothing happening I went back down.  But I did shoot this photo.  Those lights in the distance are Wrigley Field, and I am thinking that on a line of sight The Ravenswood should be maybe just a bit to the left, and the next crisp day we get I will be up there to see if I can get a shot of it.

I think challenging elections is a way of otherwise obscure politicians currying favor with Trump and his minions, so if they decide to run in some republican primary they can brag about that and be seen as the Trumpiest candidate.  You'll note in the latest revelations Trump was asking state officials just to announce that they were doing an election investigation, but didn't care particularly whether they actually investigated, just the announcement would be enough.  Like when they were extorting the Ukraine and what they wanted was for Ukraine to announce an investigation of Hunter Biden, whether or not they actually did one.  

In Trumpworld being accused of something is the same as having done it (Unless it is Trump being accused).  It's like the reason they give for these bogus audits is that there has been a lot of talk about the election being rigged.  Of course they are the ones doing all the talking and there is not a shred of evidence, but that doesn't matter because many people are saying it so it must be true.

I hate those restroom guys.  Harry Caray's had one of them when I went there maybe twenty years ago.  I don't know if they still have one because every time I have been there since then I have held it.  When a man enters the restroom he heads straight to the urinals, if some are in use he chooses the one farthest from the others.  Once situated he stares straight ahead with a blank face, and most importantly he says nothing.  If some wiseguy makes a crack about the weather only the slightest of nods, and maybe a quiet grunt are allowed in response.  Washing hands afterwards is allowable, and maybe even a brief hand to the hair, but pulling out a comb and preening like you are posing for Manly Man Monthly is certainly not allowed.

Meanwhile:

Late in the fall I moved into a house on west Hessel clear across the IC tracks from campus, a ranch house in a neighborhood of ranch houses.  Not a place for a bunch of hippies, but we had this plan so that we would look like a family.  We pretended we were two married couples, me and Cindy Cullop, and Slivon and Big Sue, and to make it seem more conventional we told the realtor that Cindy and Sue were sisters.  I doubt that we fooled the guy, but he probably just wanted to get a little rent out of the place so he let me and Slivon sign the lease.

 Big Sue had money in those days.  She had come into an inheritance sometime before, and with that and my Wigwam money and Slivon's grounds crew money, and what we could get from the three or four other people we moved in with we figured we could pay the rent.

 And then one day at a poker game Big Sue started losing, and when she ran out of the money she had in front of her instead of sneaking off to her secret stash of cash, she started borrowing, and she kept losing, and kept borrowing, and then we knew she had no more money.  Her inheritance was gone.  She wouldn't be paying her share of the rent anymore. 

 And as winter progressed people began moving out.  Eventually there was just me and Slivon and Big Sue, and it was just me and Slivon who were paying the rent and it was killing us, and there were months to go yet on the lease.  And then, I don't remember the circumstances, Big Sue and Slivon moved out and it was just me living in this five bedroom ranch house.

 After closing at the Wigwam I would buy a six pack of Ballentine Ale and walk the couple miles back to the house.  It was winter and dark and at some point on my route I would encounter this dog.  I never could see him in the dark, but I could hear him barking menacingly from behind me, in front of me, on either side of me, and I would hug my six pack and look around nervously, trying not to look scared, fearing at any moment sharp teeth biting into my legs.  When I finally got back I sat alone in the frontroom and drank my sixpack.

 But I was getting letters from Marlene in Berkeley.  Somewhere along the line she had dumped the mope.  Now she was lonely, she was sad, she missed me, why didn't I move to Berkeley to be with her?

 Well why not indeed?  There was that pesky matter of the lease.  Eventually Slivon and I screwed up our courage and faced the realtor to get out of the lease.  It was no problem.  He was probably glad to be rid of us. 

 And then I was flying into Oakland on a late night flight, and got some kind of shuttle bus into Berkeley and wandered around with an old letter of Marlene's until I found the address.

 She was kind of surprised.  She wasn't expecting me until the next day.  I put down my bags and we sat down in her kitchen.  Ah California, the golden state, faraway from wintry Champaign.  And Marlene, God she looked beautiful. But something was bothering her, and eventually she came out with it.  "Bob's in the bedroom," she said.

 Bob Hill, A Champaign guy who had moved out to Berkeley earlier.  You know at one time she had told me that she would like to have Bob Hill's shoes under her bed, but I had thought that she was just teasing me.  He was a skinny guy with glasses which is what I was too, but I was a real hippie and he was just a straight guy.  This was just something that happened and he wouldn't be any competition.  Sure enough she sent him home, and that morning I awoke in her bed.

 But then a few weeks later he was moving in and I was moving out.