Idiots on the Loose

I'm sure you all saw this news story yesterday, but it is just too weird to let it go without discussion. A 40-year old man in Ohio was caught, and charged with a felony for, having sex with his picnic table.

After you digest that little nugget, I'm sure your next thought is, uhm, how? (Hold the 'why' thought. I am not sure I can answer that one).

Turns out this guy's a genius, and a crafty little pervert. He flipped his own backyard picnic table on its side, and used the umbrella hole for, ahem, pleasure. His neighbors caught him in the act, on video, on multiple occasions, and I for one am glad that video has not yet been released. Although I'm sure trashy Fox News channel will release it soon enough. One has to wonder if the picnic table had consented to the act...

The next question you may be asking is, ok, that's gross and strange, but how is that a crime?

Apparently Table Pervert lives within a certain number of feet from an elementary school, and since he was in the nude performing a lewd act, it is a felony. And, it was in broad daylight.

Did I mention that the guy is married with three school-aged children? That's one way to teach your kids about resourcefulness.

When I was discussing this topic with my friend Jenny, she recalled an incident of similiar gross proportions during a summer residing in New York City with her father. Her dad's building was on 3rd Avenue, in a very nice part of town. She was coming home from dinner with friends at about 11 pm on a weeknight, and just three doors down from her dad spotted a guy literally having sex with the sidewalk.

In her words, "I mean, one could argue that he was having sex ON the sidewalk, but given the lack of actual partner, I can’t help but think the cement was his intended."

The best part of Jenny's story is that he was not just going for it, he was talking dirty to it. Trying to get the sidewalk into the mood, you know. When he noticed her walking by, he stopped, stood up, and pulled up his pants. At least he has some decorum.

Talk about chafing.

And, I notice that it is Wednesday as I once again write about perverts. Maybe today truly is Hump Day?

Hello Mr. Johnson

If you've been keeping up with the blog comments, you'll note that there have been multiple requests for me to detail the stories of my many penis sightings while commuting in Chicago.

I know, I know. Just swallow the coffee before it sprays all over the keyboard and electrocutes you. It's not quite like that.

But, apparently these stories carry an interest factor that is timeless, or my friends just wanted to see if I would actually type the word penis on a blog. Well, done and done.

What they don't realize, or have forgotten altogether, is that I DID share these stories back in September on my 7-year Chicago anniversary post. Maybe I didn't give them quite the flavor or texture that was requested? I'll repost, and start adding in the colorful details that make me "famous" as a storyteller. And, don't worry, when typing a story, I don't NEED any backtracks, so I will stay on track.

Here goes. I apologize in advance if you're prone to a sensitive stomach, or if you're reading these before you've fully digested that bagel and cream cheese.

I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway Airport.

On a Tuesday morning. At about 8:30 in the morning, with the sun shining and the city gleaming. It isn't exactly prime "look out for predators" time of day. Or so I thought.

I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to just stare at me. I should have known something was up—who crosses cars on the El unless you're peddling bad poetry or simply begging for dollars? It didn't help my cause any that there were few other passengers on this train car, and with each passing station, the numbers shrank. Pretty soon it was just him and me.

At any rate, this guy, let's call him Carlos, sat near me, close enough that I could smell his dime store cologne. I ignored him as much as I could, but my instincts were peaked, and the little tremors of "a gut feeling" began to fill my body. He sat there and just treated me to a nasty sneer while he began fondling himself.

I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his penis—ugh, the word is starting to creep me out in this context; let's call it a member instead—from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. (The bad puns just roll right out of me, I can't help it).

This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, while standing facing me, holding onto the bar right by the door, and smiled.

He then got off (literally).

I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

Satisfied? Want MORE public penis sightings?!?!

Well, lucky for you, I have another one.

Some time later, fully recovered from the El flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and one girl climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi.

The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God.

My friend up front starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?"

And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers.

It was all too much—my friend shouts at us to "get out get out get out get out get out" and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" at the driver as we stood on the corner and shook off the grossness of it all. Needless to say, the crowd of guys on the corner were interested, and equally mortified, by the incident. Or at least they put on a good face for it all.

Disappointingly, calling the cops was no help—we even had the cab number, date/time of the "incident" and everything ready. But, they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act."

Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

There you have it. A double dose of penis on a Wednesday. They don't call it Hump Day for nuthin'.

Celebration & Rearview Mirror

Today is my 7-year anniversary of moving to Chicago. It is almost impossible to believe that I've been here that long. I told myself, and more importantly my family, that this was a 2-year whim that I had to get out of my system...

...but the city sucked me in.

I still love the sounds of the city waking up, the roar of the crowd at Wrigley Field, the crash of the waves of Lake Michigan on the shore, the rustle of the trees in Lincoln Park, the busy chatter of shoppers on Michigan Avenue and the hum of the cars on Lake Shore Drive out my window.

The sounds that I have grown accustomed to, but will never love, are the sounds of taxi cabs honking, the screeching of tires at red lights, the wail of the sirens and the blast of the fire truck horns, the jackhammering of road construction on the Dan Ryan Expressway, and the solitary requests for me to buy this week's issue of Street Wise from the guy in front of Walgreens.

But, those sounds are what make Chicago the city that it is...and my home for the last seven years.

Strictly from a commuter sense, it has been an interesting ride. Let's look in the rearview mirror for some of the commuting highlights, or lowlights, if you will:

• As I sold "Rhonda the Honda" to a kind woman named Phyllis before I left Atlanta, I arrived here by U-Haul. It broke down in Indianapolis and my parents and I were stranded in a Wal-Mart parking lot for about 3 hours before the part came to fix the old orange and white clunker carrying everything I owned (which, frankly, wasn't much).

• Without a car to use and abuse my first three years here, I was forced to make my way on the CTA (that sounds like a slogan!) and was constantly digging for change to pay the $1.50 bus fare, riding the wrong route only to realize that I was now going to walk 3/4 of a mile in the snow (barefoot, uphill both ways) before arriving home. It was interesting, to say the least.

• The bus proved full of fodder for our late-night gab sessions in the apartment, which inevitably resulted in Molly doing renditions of the latest "crazy-lady-yelling-on-the-bus" scenario encountered. Crazy things happen on those buses—I even overheard, commuting late in to work one day, a mommy tell her 6-year old that "that girl is too old to be reading Harry Potter." I was sitting right across from them, and clearly within earshot. Mommys don't know everything.

• We dressed up as the CTA at the annual Flippy-Cup Tourney where the theme was "come as your favorite acronym." We had a bus driver with gloves, a hat and his own steering wheel; an old gray-haired lady with shopping bags; a homeless hag with layers of clothing, messy hair and a wet crotch; a corporate executive in a suit with a Starbucks cup (full of beer, mind you); and a backpack-toting, map-reading, Chicago flag-bearing tourist. All five of us cruised around the party while grasping desperately to the shower curtain turned bus rod with silver duct tape, only stopping when Saneel the driver shouted off the "next stop, Fullerton!" How we didn't win that contest is totally beyond me.

• I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway. On a Tuesday morning. I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to sneer while fondling himself. I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his member from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, and then got off (literally). I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

• Some time later, fully recovered from the flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and Libby climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi. The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God. Libby starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?" And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers. It was all too much—Libby shouts at us to get out get out get out and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" as we shook off the grossness of it all. Calling the cops was no help—they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act." Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

• The move north to Lakeview resulted in the use of the El, rather than the bus. Thinking this was a lovely reprieve from the smelly bus with crazy people, I was thrilled. Then I realized that I had to ride the red line. It is a moving, silver-bullet of smells, sounds and slimy people. And, it goes underground, making you feel totally and utterly trapped with the aformentioned slime. The sound is so loud of the squealing rails on the tracks, in a high pitch that is borderline dog-torture, that you can't think or have a conversation, let alone hear your music. Lovely way to start and end your day, no?

• I have two separate stories of fainting on the El, but those are worthy of their own blog post, so stay tuned for that excitement.

• At this time, the CTA decided to hike the fares up to $1.75 a ride, and then up to $2.00 a ride, which is where they currently stand. That is, unless the Illinois state government can get their act together and approve a budget which will bail out the CTA of the $100 million they are lacking to properly run and fun the program. Supposedly this will happen tomorrow, but I'm not holding my breath. Otherwise, fares will go up to $3.00 a ride and 600 drivers will be laid off, and 36 bus routes will be cancelled, including one that I use regularly. All of this means that this city is in a total panic. For people that complain, cry out and well, let's face it, blog about how miserable/funny/ridiculous the commute on public transportation is, this is a scary thought. It just means more content for this blog, I fear.

Anyway, happy 7-year anniversary Chicago to me. I loved every minute of it. Well, all except for the penis spotting spree I had going on there. And I don't mean in my bedroom.