The passion of Oz 

I know all of you people (cough, cough) come here to read about my opinions on various subjects, and I like to think that I keep things interesting. Today, however, I am going to bore you all to tears with a description of what had to have been one of the longest-lasting days of my life.

You know, I'm at work until about 4 o'clock, and despite the fact that I squeeze in enough time to write on this here commentary, I usually have something to do. As such, it's always fun to be done with work. But then, I have to drive the whopping twelve miles to get home. No sweat, you must be thinking, but this is Chicago. On lucky days, there will be no traffic on the expressway, and I am home by 4:40. I call those "great days." More often than not, however, the traffic is a right bastard and I eschew the expressway for a scenic tour of Fullerton Avenue. (Nothing beats checking the travel times before I leave. See, it's 25 minutes from O'Hare to downtown right now. Jackpot!)

Some days, I feel like Odysseus: just when I am on the right path home, the gods conspire and send me off to River Forest, or Melrose Park or some place that is not home. The gods work in mysterious ways. They send gigantic freight trains, they send buses, they send lolly-gagging drivers, they send road construction with mysterious lane closures that never seem to be finished. I would literally be thirty years old by the time I got home some of these days.

Thankfully, yesterday was not too bad. I got back to my neighborhood at about 4:55, which is decent for taking the non-expressway route. Except, I didn't get to go home. I went straight to DePaul, looking all spiffy in my shirt and tie. My destination: the computer lab, to finish typing an essay that was due at 5:45. Alas, every cranky sweatpant-wearing undergrad had the same idea, and I had to wait ten minutes for a computer.

A half hour later, I sprinted out of the lab and into class. Much to my woe, I discovered that there was exactly one other person in the class today. I sat in a three hour class, with one other person and the professor, talking about readings upon which I really had no grasp. There are days when sometimes I want to coast through class, and that was one of them - except I couldn't, because nobody else was there! To continue with my Greek tragedy comparison, I wondered if this was how Socrates taught people, and if I could kill myself with some hemlock.

Mercifully, we were let out of class at 8:30 instead of the customary 9, and I stupidly decided that I should go to the gym and have a workout. I didn't feel like doing anything spectacular, so I decided to ride the exercise bike for a half hour.

I want to admit something. I love the exercise bike. Every time I ride the exercise bike, I feel like Ed Harris as John Glenn in one of my all-time favorite movies, the highly-underrated The Right Stuff. Now, I'm not comparing myself to John Glenn, but if the movie is to be believed, we both suffer through riding that damn exercise bike.

Here's a funny thing about the gym. I once had a date with a girl (amazing, I know) who was a friend of a friend of a friend or something odd like that. It didn't go that particularly well, and I eventually grew to live in fear of having to see her again if I was with these mutual acquaintances. Yet, nearly every time I go to the gym, I see this girl who was either her roommate or a friend of hers. She works with a personal trainer. I wonder if she recognizes me. I think her name is Caroline, but that could be wrong. When I can't remember a girl's name, I think it's Caroline. Not Carolyn, but Caroline. Chances are, there'll be a Caroline eventually.

When I walked past her yesterday, the trainer said something in the way that some people say things when they want people to overhear it - like when you're at the market and discover that the banana you bought has a big ole brown spot on it, but they won't take it back: "You sell me a rotten banana, and then you won't return it?" Anyhow, the trainer said something about how boys should do so-and-so if they want to take her on a date. And I am thinking, why? Is this high school? Shut up, trainer-man, you're embarassing Caroline!

So now I'm riding the exercise bike. It's stressing me out, because my legs are getting damn tired, and the amount of energy I'm supposedly generating is up to about 260 watts. I am certain this is, in fact, a very paltry amount but it's about 3 times as much resistance as if I was peddling normally. About ten minutes in, I witness the thrilling end to the Cubs game, wherein Moises Alou pelted the ball into the left-field bleachers in the 10th inning. I celebrated as much as a guy on a bike can celebrate, and kept peddling, despite the fact that I wanted to curl up and die.

I would've definitely curled up and died if I had realized what else was on the TV: the finale of The Bachelor. I noticed that probably 3/4 of the girls in the place were peering intently at this show, but I think my stance on reality TV is well-known, which is to say I think it sucks. It sucks the Big One. From what I understand, some sort of doublecross took place, and The Bachelor was made to look like a jerk. I don't really care, except there was nothing good to look at on TV - couldn't they have put on the end of the Calgary/San Jose playoff series? Nah, I guess nobody likes hockey!

Afterwards, I am feeling sufficiently emasculated by the exercise bike, because I am dog tired after the same amount of pedaling that Lance Armstrong might do with his pinky while drunk, stoned, and comatose (at the same time.) I think I even might have pulled a hammy.

I had a genuine hankering for a gyros, so I putzed on over to the Athenian Room. Being a Greek restaurant, I figured they would have a good gyros. Yet, I didn't get to find out, because they closed at 10 o'clock. It was 10:02. Unbelievable! I was almost certain they were open later than that, and if not, they should be. They'd make a killing on drunken yuppies wanting a late-night gyros.

Though I was annoyed and tired, it was the right amount of cool outside and I didn't want to give in and surrender to McDonald's, so I headed over to Clark Street. I recalled that I had seen another gyros place over that way. I once again passed the site of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, which as certain readers have pointed out, is nothing but an empty grass field and parking lot. Amazing. I wonder if the people who live next door know what happened there?

I got to the gyros place at about 10:15, but it had also closed at 10. Cursing my luck, I continued on back to Lincoln Ave. (Might I add, I was dressed in a khaki jacket and running shorts, so I looked sufficiently ridiculous.) My last hope was a Lebanese restaurant which made a delightful lamb pita. I had determined at this point that a gyros wasn't necessary, but that I just wanted lamb. Lo and behold, they had closed at 10. Apparently every restaurant that isn't Mexican closes at 10 in this city!(Actually, before somebody wants to complain, Lincoln Town Gyros on Halsted and Altgeld is open until 2. But I really didn't feel like going all that way anymore.)

Finally, I settled on a sandwich from Potbelly's. While delicious, I had that terrible unfulfilled feeling I get when I really want something, but don't get it. Especially when it's food. I got home at probably 10:45, in time to catch Dave Letterman and his lovely assistant Smitty/Monty/Gunter read the CBS Mailbag. (Does anyone else think Smitty is just adorable?) In a perfect twist of irony, Smitty was dressed up as none other than Lance Armstrong.

So you say, it's about time I went to bed, huh? Not me, for I am a glutton for punishment. The exercise bike did not help me unleash all my anger, so I attempted to play Battlefield 1942 online. I have not played a lot of games lately, and even when I did I rarely played online. I remember why: I suck against other players. These people who are playing are so very good at the game, a poor schmuck like me has absolutely no chance. They killed my character about 10 times before I even managed to shoot an enemy. After playing for a half hour, I had died fifteen times, and gotten three of my opponents. I can either devote my life to learning to play Battlefield 1942, or continue getting my ass kicked every time I play. Sorry to say, I believe the latter option will prevail.

Now, that was really about it for the day, but let's recap: work nine hours, class four hours, one hour at the gym, and another hour wandering looking for food. You'd think I would sleep like a rock. I am proud to say, I did. I think I will do absolutely nothing tonight. Ah yeah!