Tuesday April 16, 2024

Someone once said to me that my writing was, “how I talk.” Which is fine. Mind-blowing as that is, it still doesn’t quite hit the mark, precisely. The biggest lesson I ever learned while attending classes towards my bachelor’s – my liberal arts degree from Northeastern – in of all things, “Speech / Communication” occurred when I began working in the agricultural pits of what I have lovingly referred to as, “the grain exchange” in downtown Chicago. Biggest lesson learned as a communications student.

Which was I don’t, “talk” like this. (when I write) I, “think” like this. (when I write) And now after having checked my socials for the umpteenth time, a post chimes in saying one of the coolest or uncoolest things – above and beyond lessons or a lesson learned that working at the Board Of Trade gave me – was “brevity.” Many of you who know me, probably knows that when I am in the middle of a 4-speed story and I’ve only gotten to 2^nd speed, I lose most of you. Don’t worry, I’ve fallen down a few rabbit holes in my day.

The thing coming across my socials tonight was NOT a, “cool” thing. About a place I ran over to – too many times – for lunch, back in the day.

See? If I wrote like I talked, I have always felt – since working downtown – down there, one could not express anything fully or completely. Or even linearly, a lot of times. Brevity.

Short. Staccato. Boom! “Trading floor-ese.” “Get to the point”, type of speech. For example:

—–

“Hey I heard this place downtown closed, named, Americana Sub. Right across the street from the tringular-shaped correctional facility.”

“Across the street from the jail?

“Yeah.”

“Dang! I loved that place!”

—–

So, no, I don’t write like I talk, I don’t think. I write like I would LIKE to talk.

Big difference.

So I hear the place got closed down for whatever reasons. Apparently, according to the replies to the social network original posting of the demise of, “Americana Sub Shop” – it was closed by The Chicago Board of Health.

I had every intention of writing a soliloquy to their sandwich, “The Bomber,” when I first sat down but that nagging thing that person said got the better of me. I began to type that “You write like you talk” thing.

That got me completely off-track before I even realized that I missed the point of my own blog. Once again. Rabbit hole. See?

The Bomber.

This thing was on fresh baked, a tiny heavier than French bread; their insides sort of doughy and light. A little denser though. If that makes any sense. Fresh. Then whatever cold cuts, ham, spiced ham, what have you, some cheese, grated lettuce and some Italian dressing. Throw some spices on top of all that. Tomato, and of course, these yellow pepper ringlets! To die for!

I can’t tell you how many times when the one-thirty bell chime came in the agricultural trading room at work – within about twenty minutes – after the day’s work was taken up to the back office – I knew the precise time it took for me to run out, place that order, right at the counter of that sub shop and get back.

Bada bing, bada boom. Right before your very eyes he put it together. Bag of chips. Twenty-ounce Pepsi. Pay. Boom!

Done!

A hundred lunches from there over the years?

Probably so.

I was down there for not quite twenty-five years. Twenty-four and a half. April of ’85 to October of 2008.

Another institution of the South Loop. Gone. Forever.

One of the finest sandwiches known to man. (in my humble opinion)

Gone, for good!

That sucks lemons!

😦

MJC

Word Count: 618. Post #1360.

—–

EPILOGUE:

(I haven’t done one of these in a while.)

That sandwich description is definitely how I would say it: like a freaking soliloquy. Chicago-ese.

So in that case, I did try to write how I think I would have said it out loud. If any of this makes any sense.

Which if it doesn’t, is fine.

Next time I’ll try not to do two topics at once. Great memory of a great sandwich place.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled swiping.

Sunday March 03, 2024

In Memoriam

Out of the many times I had traveled to the Marinette / Menominee area in northeast Wisconsin during the year following my father’s peritoneal dialysis surgery – there was this one particular day – as I recall where I had no choice but to give my reaction to God. “Lord! For what I’m thinking right now? That’s on You, . . . . . Your Holiness!” (See? I’m trying to cover myself there, incidentally. I can’t fool you, gentle reader.)

My father in decline.

‘Might as well say it: what’s on my mind – as I remember and write.

I awoke on a random Saturday morning in my parents beautiful home in the north woods after having driven the 5 hours or whatever it amounted to, on the previous night. Arriving at probably around 1130PM / midnight (after a full days work).

Mom is antsy to drive in to town.

“Angeli’s. (their, “Meijer’s” in Marinette) Osco (drug store). Some dry cleaning I had put off. Post office. Bank.”

Driving cup thermos thingy filled with coffee. Dressed. Face washed. Boom! Off we go. But just as we’re leaving, Mom and I,

“Vigyetek Annuskat magatokkal ”

(“Take Annamaria with you, into town” translated from Hungarian.)

She had not come up to the cabin that weekend.

I call it a cabin, but it was a modular home. ‘Grace of God they had our mobile home taken away and the folks had this thing built.

‘Hard to believe in 1971 or whatever year that was, we were traveling in a station wagon and set up a tent in those early years of having the place.

‘Kept us kids off city streets most of the weekends of summer. The man (and woman) responsible for that were immigrants. My parents. Immigrants! Can you imagine? How does something like that happen. And I do not mean that in a coy way. Nor do I intend for it to seem like I’m gloating. I knew what my parents had done for themselves AND for our whole family. All we had to do was visit.

And I did visit after Dad’s surgery (to have the tube implanted in his stomach to cleanse his peritoneum) many, many times. I knew he was in decline. He had his good days according to Mom and his bad. But he was still himself. Always. Even after “Take Annamaria with you in to town.” Even after that. Still, my father.

———-

And then, another time. Very close to the end. Driving into town. Snow on HWY 180. (A two-way highway up north).

Another Saturday morning. November of 2004.

Lo and behold! Dad’s coming for the drive in to town! (on the weekend visit now in question)

Great! Mom, his caretaker, now, must use large surgical mesh bandages and paper tape on Dad’s stomach before he puts on his under shirt, regular shirt and the rest, which he did all by himself. Mom helps with his coat and we make the trek.

Eighteen miles between the cabin and the weekly destinations in town that I had come to know so well.

“I’m going up to the cabin and all I’m doing is running errands. Fine. This is family. For family? You do!”

Dad’s sitting shotgun. Mom in the back.

(I think I devoted another blog about this next “driving in to town” story I am about to tell. If I find the blog, I will link it to the bottom of this one.)

Mom is running off her list of things that need to be done and places we must go to in town. She is hunched forward on the back seat so that the front seat with me driving and Dad sitting shotgun makes us look like Ghidra, The Three-Headed monster all of a sudden and now here it comes:

“Angeli’s. Osco. Post office. Bank. Oh and I have some dry cleaning I need to drop off, too.”

Dad, to Mom, he turns his head, nearly touching his nose to her cheek and says,

“You are like a bird nesting on my head.”

I’m driving.

I nearly swerved off the road!

As the kids say nowadays, “Oh Em Gee!” Funniest my Dad has ever been – probably – given the circumstances as to how close to the end he was at that point. I could not stop laughing!

He side-eyed me, smiling. At least, I’d like to think he did. I can’t remember now.

One thing I know for sure. If there ever was a love more beautiful or more pure than the one I saw my parents share? I’ll believe it when I see it. It was one for the ages!

Even if Mom were like a bird nesting on Dad’s head

Even if Annamaria were not up north but Dad wanted us to take her in to town with us anyway.

Even so.

Still my Dad.

Always, my Dad.

Miss him. Every day.

His name is Antal and I am his son, Michael.

🙂

MJC

Word Count: 838. Post #1359.

———-

March 6^th is my Dad’s 93^rd birthday in heaven.

Happy birthday, Apukam. Love you!

Born March 6, 1931 – December 21, 2004.)

(Apologies for the grammatical and punctuation mistakes. My goofy style of writing, I guess.)

February 16, 2024

The thing about my sister is, throughout the last 20 years – as we were both traveling towards our golden years, being 16 months apart – and even before I moved in with her out here near Rockford in 2016 – she has been steady as a rock throughout an amount of life struggles that would turn most people into mush!

The first time I noticed this I was like, “How does she do it?” The second time I noticed this was when her entire family came together to be with her about 11 years ago, when my brother-in-law passed. The third time I noticed was when everything was happening all around her on multiple occasions and yet she remained steadfast and switched on. Finally, it was how she reacted or responded to things in general: thoughtful.

No knee-jerk reactions. No pretense. Solid. Steady. (with the exception of a time or two.) Make no mistake, she is a thinking, carrying individual. And when she decided she was not moving out of her family home and wanted to stay in it – she offered me a room in order to keep her home rather than move into a small condo or an apartment after John’s passing.

She asked each time the family got together for 3 years.

Three years.

Each time the family came together.

“When are you moving out of your apartment in Chicago and moving out here to be with the rest of the family?”

“Soon,” I’d always say.

“Come on! Help me save the house. You’ll have the entire upstairs to yourself – including your computers.”

I remember when I pulled up stakes and decided to move. I was working the casino about an hour away, full-time and then also part-time, bar tending, which was becoming pretty annoying. I was driving to Elgin 5 times a week and on my weekends from 2012 to 2016, I supplemented my income by tending bar to have a little breathing room financially. Working 7 days a week, busting my ass between 2 jobs just to get the bartending experience I thought I needed.

Fast forward April of 2016 on my mother’s 80th birthday celebration, I asked Anna, my older sister. (By 16 months.)

” Hey! Is that offer still on the table?”

“Hell yes! Get out here!”

“You hadn’t asked me for a while.”

‘I know. So. Are you moving out of Chicago?”

“Yes,” I said. August will be 8 years since that conversation took place. Has it had it share of ups and downs? Certainly. Has it been easy? Not always. But, mostly, yes. Do I appreciate her?

As she said, “Hell, yes!”

Not once has she ever said in jest or anger, “Move out!!!” (Even though I most definitely deserved to hear those words.) Am I blessed to have a sister like Anna? Sincerely. YES!!!

Love you, Sissy and thank you for bringing this family back together. We’ve lost a lot of folks: Your in laws, Dad, John, Steve, Kenny, Ron, Hershey and Chubby. It was devastating!!! Each and every single one! And there you were: hugging, loving, crying, too, yes, but being the Anna only you can be! You’ve kept your cool, your poise and your kind nature.

I know it has not been easy.

Happy Birthday!

With love,

from meeeeeeeeeee!!!

(your little brother)

🙂

MJC
Word count 550. Post #1358

Tuesday December 19, 2023

(Fifty-nine days since I last wrote.)

The funny thing about writing is that there, indeed, is some strange Messianic complex involved – if you’re intending to speak to a reader. Right? So that means that you have to be somewhat skilled in the use of the language to be able to write. Words need to flow, make sense, tell a story, etc. Hence the early stigma attached to a, quote / unquote, shaman, or story-teller.

“This writing is some strange thing. It is the devil’s tool!”

You can just hear it, can’t you? Like some tribal, cloistered community who can only see as far as their noses.

Nope it’s easy. Typing skills or no. Look at me. I can recall, without ever taking a typing class that one time (at band camp) I beat the pants off of a colleague who bet me in a commodity office – that he could take me because of his advantage of never having to look down to type ANYTHING. So I says to the guy, “Hey!”

Now, mind you, this was way back in the day when I was a young turk. I say to the guy – my colleague – in a commodity office circa 1994, perhaps, “I bet I can type faster than you.”

All hell broke loose. It became this thing. The bet is on. We don’t know when but me and old young and from a rich family over there are going toe to toe, mano i mano.

I took him. On two occasions. Now mind you, we didn’t engage in any of that, “Wolf of Wall Street” sort of thing, like they did in the movie, but I digress.

Writing is easy, I think.

It’s the choosing in what to write about that can be a bummer sometimes because you find yourself thinking, “Well. . . . .Self?. . . . . .What did you do today?”

Which is a whole other kettle of fish I thought about recently. Let’s shift gears from writing to, asking a question. Did any of you ever have uncles, say, when you were 10 or 11, say to you, “Hey kiddo, what did you do today?”

And you would always think to yourself, perhaps, “Hey Unck. . . .? I’m ELEVEN!” Or what have you. Twelve, let’s say.

You know you need to buy a notebook for school so you head over to Glick’s or the Little Store that had all those National Enquirer-like magazines and you go to where the notebooks are – like a little stationary section – and it’s got like 60 or a hundred, ruled sheets of paper NOTEBOOKS in all colors and sizes but the ruled paper remains the same.

Mind you I write this with the same sentimentality with which, say, a lawyer thinks about a, “yellow legal pad.”

One of the two you bought? You save!

The other notebook you use for the one class you’re taking so you add that one to your book bag. The blank notebook, whatever the size, small, medium, regular eight and a half by eleven, ruled sheet of paper. A hundred pages in this thing. All blank.

And then it dawns on you, maybe that it is a, “reading someone’s writing that is meant for the reader really is quite boring!”

“Instead it should flow like that University of Chicago professor said in that famous book, Flow.”

“No one tells you how to fill the notebook, what to say, how to describe, what do you share, what’s interesting, what’s not,” sort of thing.

Another time, after thoughts like those, one might actually sit down and sketch and doodle. A few days later just the word, “buttocks,” Blank corner, same page: Fred Flintstone. For whatever reason? Boredom?

Now, four or five pages into the notebook in hand writing, perhaps in, cursive, the words to the famous seduction scene in the opera, Carmen.

(I didn’t do that. I’m just saying.)

The next day, “Today kinda sucked.”

The next, “Who are these people? LOL!” But on an angle taking up a whole page. Slowly, over time, entire passages of love poetry to little Susie Whoever in row four, seat three, over there.

Oh, yeah, my friends. That. Definitely. Happened.

And maybe? Just maybe?

That is how a writer is born, maybe?

I can’t speak for anyone else.

🙂

MJC

12/19/2023

920pm

Word Count: 712 Post #1357.

Saturday October 21, 2023

A rag-tag, motley crew. The very often, “more than a dozen” people in an office barely larger than a bread box. At the end of the commodity day, packing us all into that one, small place. Where a reader would take a commodity and read – from larger tractor-fed, computer print-out sheets – containing each individual futures trade to the order checker. The reader would check off each order on the sheets, the order checker checked off the order.

(“Hamburg bot 12 Oct meal, ticket such and such number at 168.80. Check. New York gave Jordan’s group 50 August on a versus cash at 167.20. Check. Etc.”)

You have to remember this was 1985. This was all so new and strange to me, this, grain exchange.

I found myself there from the age of twenty-two to the age of forty-six. Runner, phone clerk, trade-checker, broker assistant and actually executing some light virtual trading in the virtual market whenever our company’s broker would call me on my headset. “I’m doing November beans with the December products. Legging the crush. So when the price of Nov goes to 565 and three squirts buy me two-hundred contracts every time I say, ‘Now’. Not now. But when I tell you after this. Kah-peeeesh?”

I “kah-peeshed” or what have you. But that trading “on the screen” was very near the end of my time working at LaSalle and Jackson in Chicago in early 2008.

– – – – –

If you think about it, Mom and Dad’s decision to buy property in northeast Wisconsin made and still makes perfect sense. Keep a place for the weekends and perhaps one day retire there. The times I enjoyed the most were the times we drove up to the Marinette Menominee area Friday nights to return back to, as my father (or was it my mother?) called it, “the rat race” Sunday evenings.

Keep the family together. Keep us off the streets. Give us kids a sense of what might be one of our legacy homes some day. My brother, my sister or myself.

– – – – –

Happening all the while I was working downtown.

– – – – –

One of our head honchos accountant type persons was constantly chomping no more than a half to a third of a Monte Cristo cigar and would light it three of four times as it got smaller and smaller throughout the day. There came a time when this man would call me, “Doctor.” (Making fun of the fact that I was simultaneously taking night classes at Northeastern Illinois University to complete my BA in Speech Communications. Minor: English.)

– – – – –

That man once told me, “Doctor? Did I ever tell your about Sheik Adnan El-Kaissie from the AWA?” This was after the cigar-chomper and I had worked long enough whereby this man and I realized we would always be willing to discuss, of all things: professional wrestling. There were a lot of brokers and traders down there who knew our wrestling territory (the AWA) and it’s cast of characters very well.

The day Richard told me he lived near Sheik Adnan El-Kaissie, Richard became the coolest guy ever. This barrel-chested native Barbadian? A Native of The Barbados.

“I worked for Cargill in Minnesota before coming here to Chicago and the Sheik had a place near mine. I’d see him taking out his garbage, checking his mailbox. I spoke to him briefly once. Told him I liked him. I didn’t. Hehehe!”

“Was he wearing his wrestling singlet, Richard”, asked Crewser. (Another office supervisor.)

“No he was dressed as you or I.”

– – – – –

Pretty powerful stuff for a kid who grew up watching professional wrestling in Chicago from the late 1960s.

– – – – –

Richard knows the Sheik. Wow!

– – – – –

In a sometimes, sweaty, cramped space where tempers flared, huge futures business was taking place and trading orders executed and endorsed by broker handwriting were taken upstairs after trading hours being our OG paper trail that transactions took place in the trading pits downstairs. Like I said. A rag-tag, motley crew.

Then our company moved from LaSalle and Jackson to 222 Riverside. The 22^nd floor. Or something? Many moons ago. Once upon a time. With that old, rag-tag, motley crew.

– – – – –

“It’s cooperation, Doctor. It’s all contrived. Heheh. Hehehe.”

“I know Richard but some of that shit has gotta hurt.”

“Did you see the Curt Hennig / Sheik match over the weekend, Doctor? Hennig cut off the Sheik’s carotid artery and put him to sleep?”

“That took forever,” chimed in our meal broker, Ronald. “Well the Sheik’s got big shoulders, Chico. But Hennig worked on him until he passed o–”

“I saw Ronnie.”

“So did I.”

It was funny how in those days the way professional wrestling bought people together. Not the pay-per-views. No, sir. (Or ma’am.) It was the goofy weekly show way back when showcasing the best talent in the American Wrestling Association.

“All-Star Championship Wrestling.”

– – – – –

Back in the day.

Pre-WWE.

Working downtown.

At the grain exchange.

Part 9,651.

🙂

MJC

Word Count: 874. Post #1356.

Saturday October 21^st, 2023. 6:05am

Monday October 2, 2023

It dawned on me tonight what my only problem – and it’s a pretty huge one – is that I never grew up. (I guess.) I look around the circle of friends I have amassed over the course of my life, many of whom are on my socials and think, how in God’s name is it that I know or have known this many people?

Many of whom within my age group have experienced the joys of a full life and it’s trappings. Relative upon relative. Many married. Friend upon friend. Many had children. Homes. Enjoying also great economic luck in their personal and professional lives. Grandchildren. The joy of an elderly parent or two still alive. All this stuff.

And having the best life – I think – I have been blessed or cursed to have thus far – how is it that I have had most if not all of those things elude me. Therefore? I must not have grown up? Ever?

I don’t know. I mean. Yeah. Whatever.

Time and again over the course of my life P.R. (Prior to having lived in Rockford, Illinois) I can recall bumping into this one family acquaintance and having him say, “Well, when’s the big day? Time is running out! Better not wait too long!”

Really? Seriously?

“You’re depriving yourself of these things for what? As some form of penance? Go out and get these things for yourself, man!”

Or the comment, “You sure don’t look sixty-one!” Taken at it’s most dispassionate, I suppose I can believe perhaps that the person saying that to me sincerely believed that to be true; can I not?

These two things are the only things keeping me from success, apparently. One. The phrases, “Better not wait too long”, and “You sure don’t look sixty-one” do not instill confidence in me anymore. I’m too old. I’m too tired.

—

Being single and never having grown up at this age is something new and different and strange in this present stage of life. So unto itself this is my final frontier; a space exploration of sorts. Friends and family watching it play out on these infernal Inter Webs. (Since March of 2005! Wow!)

So be it.

At my core I truly believe – on some level or another – even the married, fuller-lived people have days where they feel the same: that even though perhaps all their life’s trappings aside there’s still that child-like feeling of, “Have I really grown up? I feel like, nineteen, inside. Still. All this and how little I know and how much more I still need to grow.”

‘Best hope that that is the case.

I am no different. Perhaps. Either can be true.

—

Tempus Fugit.

Namaste.

That’s what’s up.

The other one is, “Oh boy, you have it so good. Single no attachments. Scurring about higgly piggly through the errands and chores of your days coupled with a 40 hour a week job, too? Single? Didn’t you live alone in Chicago (two different apartments) for twenty some odd years on your own there? Yeah I envy you. No children. No spouse. No home of your own. No responsibility.”

** cough **

I beg to differ. On the premise that . . . may the fleas of a hundred camels infest your arm-pits.

No.

I mean all those years I say I lead this balls-to-the-wall, devil-may-care, bon vivant, hell on wheels, Remington Studley sort of life simply just by being single – that I didn’t know what I had when I had it? You mean like that?

::::: BZZZT! :::::

I have a roommate now! My older sister. So have I really grown up? I think the tougher question goes a little something like this: are you happy whomever you are according to however old you feel? Perhaps these are truly the things keeping me young?

A. Wonderment about my world.

2. Being as happy as I can be.

Etc.

. . .and where can I find a good Italian Beef sandwich other than Portillo’s?

I think they have the market cornered on that one.

Way more important than this blog-writing, soul-searching, expedition into literary loitering.

Can AI write this?

I think not!

. . .but that beef sandwhich, though.

Definitely something AI cannot do.

Thank God.

🙂

MJC

Word Count: 709. Post #1355

Friday September 29, 2023

NEWSCASTER, (NC) DURING A NEWS BROADCAST:

“This station, in conjunction with the New Fairness on Public Airways Act of 2023, will begin soliciting editorial comment from you, our viewers to offer opposing public views on topics of interest. With this in mind, meet Bill Swersky, from a neighborhood or two over from Tinley Park, Illinois but recently annexed by the city of Chicago. Mr. Swersky.”

BILL SWERSKY (BS):

“Thank you. Recently, this station did a news piece reporting on bologna sausage seeping it’s way into Chicago’s most popular, so-called neighborhood Mom and Pops that serve standard hotdogs, beefs and pizza puffs. I and my brudder – along with all the super-fans in the greater Chicagoland area – vehemently protest anything encroaching on our beloved, ‘all beef franks, freshly sliced eye-talian beefs and of course, pizza puffs’. These are our staples. It’s as simple as that, your honor.”

NC: “Mr. Swersky, your rebuttal still has 90 seconds. Would you care to use that time?”

BS: “Yes. Corn Nuts.”

NC: “Pardon?”

BS: “Corrrrrnnnna-na-na Nuts! I don’t care if Paulie Shore said they were a food group in, Encino Man. I think they stink. They are the bane to all salted snacks. Ever stand next to someone eating those things? It’s worse than a Morlboro Red. The breath. The breath of the individual eating Corn Nuts afterwards – *burp!* excuse me, is the worst thing since that one Jewels closed over by there on Western Avenue. That ‘corn nuts’ smell just wafts in the air and stays there. Sometimes, I think with older people. . . .”

NC: “Mr. Swersky. Just under a minute.”

BS: “…corn nuts gives them gas. Okay. My main reason for being here today is actually two-fold. One. I had some ‘wild game’ bologna sausage a few years ago at that place on the north side that served zebra dogs and wildebeest dogs or what have you. Delicious. But the bologna sausage consortium is importing cheap meats such as snouts and ears and other parts of who knows what. . .? to save a little money.

But here in Chicago (takes his ball cap off and covers his heart), we only eat pure beef hot-dogs and our Polish sausage is from high-end cuts of meat. We should write our congressmen and representatives. We should do something. We cannot allow this to happen.”

NC: “Thank you, Mr. Swersky. This station invites opposing views to these opinions but do not necessarily hold the same views as our speaker.”

BS: “Thank you, your honor.” (cracks open an Old Style)

NC: “I’m not a judge. Let’s take a look at the present-time radar and the active weather in our area.”

BS: (whispers, off camera)”I forgot what number two was in my two-fold point.”

NC: Let’s throw it to our weatherman. Steve take it away. (turns off his microphone)

“Mr. Swersky. Where’s a great hot dog or beef place in my neighborhood.”

BS: “Where do you live?”

NC: “Where they fixed the S-curve on Lake Shore Drive”

BS: “You’ll have to come inland a little bit. Around Navy Pier there further away from Lake Michigan there are three places within walking distance and they all serve our mouth-watering, Chicago dogs. Da’ dogs!”

NC: “That’s astounding, Mr. Swersky. You didn’t even have to use your smart phone.”

BS: (chugs his beer, exiting the studio, cell phone rings) “Hello?. . . Yeah. Yeah. It was good I thought. Can we get that on the Instabooks or the Facegrams or what have y–, . . .Great! That’s just great. Right. It’s Tik Tok now. (exits building) Taxi! I’m stopping by. . .Yes. I can do that. (Ca-lick!) Siri? Take me to the former sight of Coach Ditka’s restaurant. The first one!” (tosses his empty beer can in a curbside trash can, walking alongside tall buildings on the sidewalk)

Siri: “Mike Ditka’s, opening in 1997 in the heart of…”

BS: “Taxi!”

Siri: “…the Magnificent Mile is two and a half kilometers away. Do you need directions?”

BS: “No. Taxi!!!” (taps screen of cellphone)

(to himself)

“Who uses kilometers?

Who?

What am I?

An owl?”

🙂

MJC

Word Count: 707. Post #1354