Mountains of Thoughts With Nothing to Say

Hey everybody, this is Andrew here. I was talking to my good friend Connor and we started talking about his blog and basically I'm co-writing now. Connor was supposed to write me an introduction but he didn't so you wouldn't know who I was and I might flounder in awkwardness. WELL I HOPE YOU'RE LAUGHING NOW. But I'm actually really excited about this in a strange way. Connor is so talented and it's an honor to be writing beside him. Not literally beside him. I mean I would write beside him. What a great guy.

Now, I was wondering what I should write. And I realized that blogging is hard. Well, blogging in and of itself isn't very hard. You just pick an idea and just talk about it until everybody knows how you feel and what you think and we all leave better people. It's just when I sit down I have so many things I want to talk about and yet at the same time nothing at all. As we go through the day we have thousands of thoughts ranging from "I would kind of like a hamburger" or "I need a haircut" to "If we all die someday why shouldn't I just take off all my clothes right now and run out of this math class doing my best chewbacca impression because it's been 10 minutes and I swear I've been in here for longer than Charles Manson has been in prison." Or maybe that's just me. But now hopefully somebody else will read this and think that too, then my day will be a success. The main point being that there are so many thoughts it's overwhelming. I'll always feel obligated to give you the best thought of the day. And hopefully I don't disappoint Connor because I want him to think I'm a cool guy who's swell at writing.

-Rew

Informal Normal.

Today started with the normal routine. Normally, I wake up late. Normally, I stay in the shower a little too long. Normally, I get dressed, throw my sunglasses on, and get to class. At no point during my daily commute do I make eye contact or strike up a conversation. I mean who would? It's not Normal. Most people on the train have their earphones stuck in their ears, wiping away the smudges on their Iphone from too much Angry Birds (overrated). It's not normal to smile and say high to the person next to you, or sit down and eat lunch with someone random.

Well, today I caught myself wearing an expression somewhat resemblant of "Blue Steel" when I was eating a molten-lava-hot stew at lunch. I could've slapped myself. Do I always look like that? Is that normal? Ugh. I'm sorry if your my friend and I do that around you. Whatever normal is, I don't like it. I like the feeling I get when I'm among friends late at night, and I can do anything with little fear of being mugged in an alleyway. I like goofing off and saying awkward things to my girlfriend because she doesn't care and only mugs me occasionally. To me, that seems normal. So gosh dangit I'm changing things around here. From here on out, I will smile at strangers and get uncomfortably close to people on the train. I will force the hobo that sits at Sheffield and North Fullerton to have lunch with me, and I will throw candy wildly in the air downtown. I have feeling that this attitude, counterintuitively, will actually decrease my chances of receiving an old-fashioned beat down. I will update you on my endeavors as this progresses, BUT I welcome you to join me. That would be so awesome. I would love to hear from you guys.

-Con

Zombies and Wizards

Zombie movies scare the crap out of me. Zombies themselves make me sick. Literally being a zombie on the third day of Discover Chicago was unavoidable. I feebly lifted my frappucino up to my mouth, wishing the bottle would just spawn arms and punch me awake. I made a gurgle reminiscent of Chewbacca as the drink crawled down my throat. I'm not a coffee guy. I'm not even a toffee guy. In fact, the concept of a coffee shop scares me more than zombies. I get scared easily, probably because my mother was overprotective. IT'S HER FAULT NOT MINE. Ahem. The low blare of a trombone washed over my group, heightening our senses from dead to barely alive. Soon after, a full band joined in, and music filled Lincoln Park. My undead cronies and I were watching convocation, a ceremony in which the Depaul faculty walk all around campus wearing robes and funny hats. Sadly, no spells were casted, but we smiled and clapped anyway. After a brief lunch, we headed down town to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. From our view of the exchange floor, we could see hundreds of balding men frantically shouting at one another to make dat profit. The commotion was intriguing, but the volume reminded me of a chicken coop. Although, the hand signals were quite impressive.

Petrificus Totalus!

 Strangely enough, the only thought that really stuck with me was sympathy for the janitor who had to clean up all the trade papers left on the floor. Poor guy.

Sore Feet and Chicken Feet

Moans and groans rose up through the muggy air as the morning sun beamed on my group of fellow students. Fifteen minutes into day two of Discover Chicago, and it was painfully obvious that none of us had acquired seasoned college legs quite yet. Lesson #1: higher education pounds out style for practicability. In short, forget the boat shoes. After I had brutally murdered my fashionista instincts, it was time to carry on with the day. Our first stop was the University of Chicago, but it might as well been a Nathaniel Hawthorne novel. To the left, a cold grey tower stood over the street, flaunting it's many sculptures and gargoyles. To the right, spires gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight on top of a church. I actually felt uncomfortable not carrying a sword around. Fortunately, we made it it out of castle-studded campus with no incidents, and boarded the train for Chinatown. One of my peers mentioned that he had never had true Chinese food. I chuckled at that, knowing I had grown up eating traditional Filipino recipes. This would be no problem. Lesson #2: Filipino food is not the same as Chinese food. After the third attempt at eating chicken feet, I gave up and longingly stared at the McDonald's down the street. Alas, the good people of Chinatown saved themselves from my nutrition-induced ire with their bubble tea. That is a true delicacy, and low-fat too! Not that I care. I'm a man.

Train of Thought

The grandson of Chicago residents, I assumed there were few surprises awaiting me in today's segment of the Discover Chicago course. Fortunately, as life often goes, I was incredibly wrong.

Today began with the announcement that we would be taking the L train to Oak Park. I instantly regretted not packing germ-x. Don't get me wrong; I'm not an in-your-face clean freak, but calculating the amount of hands that touch a given surface in the train per day is daunting. Still, I gave into my adventurous instincts and boarded anyway, making sure to touch as little as possible. Now, the initial group passengers were what I've come to expect in downtown: a young nurse, three clean cut businessmen, a couple of casual commuters, and a handful of disheveled midnight scholars. The majority of these train-folk sported Ipods and expensive haircuts. Hah! This train thing isn't so scary after all. 

Fast forward half an hour, and all of those commuters had abandoned me for their homes. As I peered out the window, the familiar city skyline faded and gave way to older buildings, abandoned factories, and gravel lots long forgotten. Trees and grass sprang into view, accompanied by communities swaddled with houses and small businesses. Our train made a couple stops throughout this area, and I quickly noted that it was a predominantly African-American neighborhood. This type of environment was where all my previous Chicago experiences had been regrettably skimpy. Race has never been, and never will a problem for me in terms of my judgement. Unfortunately, I discovered today an ignorance I've carried subconsciously my whole life; social class discrimination. I moved seats, avoided eye contact and conversation with almost everyone on that train until our group got to Oak Park. Despite the trips to Earnest Hemingway's home, a museum, and even Frank Lloyd Wright's swankiest creations, the thought that I, a seemingly well developed citizen, would discriminate by any means gnawed at me. I remember making an ultimatum, as Herb our tour guide gave us the rundown on Hemingway's grandpa, that I would embrace every culture and stretch out to all that is foreign to me, or die trying. Dramatic? Of course. Necessary? Yes. I was sweating when we left the comfortable Oak Park neighborhood. The sight of the well worn train tracks crept into view once again. Here I was: the moment of truth.

Fast forward half an hour, and I was just finishing up a conversation of my days as a clothing store employee with my newest seat buddy. She found it absurd that we weren't allowed stop shop lifters, and said she'd bust anyone robbing from her store. We both laughed loud enough to drown out the L's moaning as it began to slow for the next stop. She stood up to leave, and we exchanged our goodbyes. I put my face against the cool metal wall of the train and cracked a grin. Small victories are still victories.