Saturday, August 16, 2008

He's Just a Dude. . . Doo Rag Rage?


He’s just the dude with the black doo rag sitting on the hood of an immaculate, almost antique, well polished White Volvo S90 at Ridge and Jarvis. He arrives complete with designer white t-shirt and jeans. Maybe he is from Evanston or lives up north, glamorously, but just can't accept it.
Perhaps, he wants to be in the hood, so he drove Daddy's birthday present south to picturesque Rogers Park. Maybe he is hanging out with a cousin or some internet acquaintance. He cops a call perhaps to one of his Chicago girlfriends with a cell phone thin enough to sport the letter ‘i.”

The brown paper bag sits on the curb 'possibly' waiting for the next swig from that liter. He seems to be standing sentinel. Tonight’s assignment is just Rogers Park. The idea is to facilitate action and upset some locals, even if it kills him or them. Is it a game of chicken? Does his mother know where he is at 10:00 p.m.? Where are the Police?

This wholesome player of soul may have hung with the homies on a romp back northbound past the local convenient store. He may have bought Old English or Miller GD, from the Pakistani. The brown bag conceals all but the clear glass upper neck of the malt liquor bottle. The bag with bottle is strategically placed within within three and a half feet of his right toes on the narrow cement curb sidewalk.

The almost feng shui placement of the bottle in bag looks like it may avoid a citation. It appears poised to look like someone else's trash rather than open alcohol. Perhaps, it is not his, but the bag looks too convenient to think otherwise.

Earlier, the dude and his foot patrol; all 'less than magnificent seven' of them . . . may have moved some fingers up and down on the corner of Jarvis and Ridge. Apparently, the driver to which the fingers or vocals twitched was less than pleased with the communication. She let out linguistics, which were returned by useless chatter. She screeched her tires, then sped south and west towards Western Avenue. From my vantage point, these folks have a death wish; thanatos, anyone?

The others, well, they went upstairs at that point. Perhaps, they were freshening up. Maybe, they simply wanted to get away from the dude or in need of supplies to head out to some party. Are they are watching from above while what appears like a fool become a 'target' in spite of Alderman Joe Moore's opposition to Big Box.

Meanwhile, back in the hood, some folks in a fire red pick up truck circle the hood cussing out their open window. This seems like an effort to provoke action from others with profanity. Did their dear mother encourage such civility? Was the profanity deemed chic and edgy after a trip to an unsupervised playground? Where are they from, anyway? Evanston?

Now Cochise hangs out on the hood of his Volvo. He aches for action, IMHO. He looks to me like he is humming Carly Simon’s Anticipation while simultaneously sucking on a Heinz ketchup bottle for attention. He wants to ‘sit watch;’ perhaps others may end up sitting at his wake. Not ‘how’ Cochise . . . ‘why?!’ Is this copacetic or pathetic? Maybe, its just an adrenalin dream that tempts stupidity. Get a life, take the horse north Cochise, hang out on the links with Kemo Sabe; they subsidize those greens just for you! Cooley High is gone.

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