Varsity Club

Sometimes the posts just can't be about commuting. This one is no exception.

Friday night I was entertaining two freinds from Atlanta, and in an effort to keep up the facade that Chicago is hip, young and trendy, we decided to have afterdinner cocktails at the very swanky Japonais lounge. We arrive, stand outside the red velvet rope for all of 3 minutes while the refrigerator-sized bouncer (fully decked out in a velvet suit and a curly-cue plastic corded earpiece headset) assesses if we're cool enough to enter.

We made the cut.

Heading down the stairs to the lounge, I assuredly report that the "scene here" was worth seeing. Skinny gals, hot men, great outfits (and the premier of everyone's new fall hottest items) were abound. I didn't tell a lie.

Snaking a table despite the "reserved" sign, we take our seats for some primo people watching. It isn't long before we are highly intrigued by a man wearing an interesting jacket chioce.

It was a varsity letter jacket. You know the ones—in fact, you may have one hanging in the closet at your parents' house—navy felt flannel front and back with cream leather sleeves, and a huge orange "B" letter on the front breast panel. We look at each other, and quizzically raise our eyebrows. Mind you, he was easily in his 30s, making him long since a graduate of any place that hands out varsity letter jackets.

A group of 8 or so girls is seated behind us (they were apparently VIP as they, too, had a "reserved" sign on their table) and it is clear to all three of us that they are talking about this guy's choice of outerwear. My friend Walton, the husband of an old and dear friend Elizabeth, is seated closest to the gaggle of girls. He overhears them saying things like, "What is he wearing?" and "I don't get it. A letter jacket?"—very similar comments to what we're saying at our table, nestled below the uber-hip and hottie-filled bar.

Not to disappoint, the girls flag the guy down. Waving him over, you can hear one say, "We just have to know." That is girl code for "We've been talking about you for 30 minutes and it is just killing us to not understand the mindset of a grown man that would actively choose that jacket to go with his flat-front grey wool trousers."

He leans over, desperate for the attention of these fine ladies, and says, "yes?" with a smile and a twinkle of the eyes.

Walton was doing a great job very slyly leaning back, perking up the ears, intercepting the conversations and relaying them to me and to Elizabeth, only to be repeated over and over by our little corner of the bar...we couldn't help ourselves.

They say it again, "We just have to know—why the letter jacket?" He, unknowingly, thinks they are flirting. He throws his head back, laughs, shakes his cocktail in a vain way, and says, "It is simple. Three reasons: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. [insert painful, awkward long-pause.] And, Three: it just looks cool."

Confusion abounds. Girls recover their facial expressions and just nod and smile in that way where you're agreeing on the outside, and dying of laughter on the inside.

He backs aways, cocky and eager to rejoin his buddies to recount the story. Mind you, there was a very nice looking woman with their group, begging the question of his "status." Was he married? Single? Clueless?

The group of inquiring minds giggle, laugh, point. Elizabeth, at this point, is laughing so hard and grabs for her digital camera. Yes. He had become a tourist attraction for my visiting guests. She angles the camera so it looks as if she's snapping a quick shot of me, and captures the outfit in full glory. Leather arms and all.

At this point, in between repeating the One, Two and Three reasons he's wearing the letter jacket in a bar in Chicago, we're trying to determine if it is a Bears jacket (not the right logo, but the orange, blue and white, combined with the "B" made it a good guess), is he a high school football coach out with the varsity cheerleading coach and is just doing it to be funny? Other jokes we made at his expense are not acceptable to print here.

Note: there weren't even any "awards" or years or accolades on the jacket, making me wonder if he'd bought it at Abercrombie & Fitch in a teenage-focused effort to look vintage-high-school-suave.

Nope.

The girl in his group gets the urge to explain. Thank God for her!

She leans over the group of girls, who have just now let the laughter die down, and says "Come on, deep down he's a really good guy. He's almost 34, he graduated from high school in Montana, and sometimes I just let him do what he wants."

Yeah. Like wear black socks with navy shoes. NOT a varsity high school letter jacket to a restaurant/bar that is constently written up for its excellent food, notable atmosphere and high end clientele!

We laughed. We cried. We captured photos to remember him by.

And, we used the One, Two, Three reasons all weekend. Turns out it is an all-purpose explanation.

Q: Why did Elizabeth and Walton have fun in Chicago this weekend?

A: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. Three - it is just cool.

Door #2

After a relatively quiet commuting week, I figured it was time for something interesting to happen.

I board a double-length bus this morning, move to the back to stand near the door. I'm teetering on new stiletto heel red boots (yes, they are fabulous) and don't want to stand the entire way, but I must.

The back doors are hanging at a strange angle, and won't seem to close all the way. They are electronic or powered or whatever you'd say about doors that are connected to the bus' electrical system, so the bus driver can't really leave without them closing properly. Door AJAR. Door AJAR. Or something like that.

I doubt it was for fear that the commuters would slide out and become well-dressed road kill on Lake Shore Drive, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, the bus driver gets out, walks to the back (on the outside) and nudges, prods, slams, pushes, pulls, bangs and kicks (he literally kicked them shut, like a 12-year old boy would) and, dejected, goes back to his perch.

No go.

Repeat the steps above.

Door #2 won't close. Just won't do it. Stubborn little sucker.

Driver gets on the microphone and says the dreaded words, "Passengers, you're gonna have to get off this bus. The doors are broke (his words, not mine) and you can't stay on."

Seriously? This keeps happening to me. If I had this much bad luck in automobiles, I'd be banned from them altogether.

We get off, race to the bus behind us, and begin piling on. I'm still standing.

Oh, and did I mention, this all happened right in front of my building? Hadn't even made it one inch towards work.

I think it was a sign that I should have gone back inside, past the doorman, up the elevator, and not passing go, gone back to bed.

Door #2 should have had a sign like THAT.

PIVOT!

One gripe that always hits me when it happens, but that I seem to let go, is the Commuter Butt Pivot.

You know it. You've experienced it. You may even be guilty of it. You just hadn't thought about it.

You're seated in the inside, by the window, and need to get out. You say politely, "excuse me." to your neighbor on the aisle, and then gather your stuff to stand up.

The person doesn't stand.

They pivot.

I call it the Commuter Butt Pivot. They turn their knees to the side, into the aisle, without ever leaving their seat.

This assumes many things:

1) that my butt is small enough to slide by your pivoted body without slamming into you the entire way past
2) that my hands are empty, and I'm not dragging a purse, laptop bag or shopping bag, that will hinder my movement
3) that I want to be that close to you, and have you feeling the literal weight of my body in your face
4) that it won't annoy the crap out of me that you can't even bring yourself to stand up to let me by
5) that I am a sane passenger with extraordinary amounts of patience

All of which aren't true. You know what they say about assuming!?!

All I can hear in my head is Ross Gellar shouting "PIVOT! PIVOT!" as I squeeze my 6' body, my purse, bag, crapola, etc. past you only to rocket out into the aisle like a shotput from an Olympic arm.

(For you non-"Friends" fans, I'm sorry. Can't help you with the old pop-cultural reference. You should have watched more Must See TV in the 90s.)

Anyway. The butt pivoters have to go. I mean, really. Is it THAT hard to stand up to kindly let me out?

Yeah, didn't think so.

One more time for good measure. All together now.

PIVOT!

Sense of Humor

On the way home on Tuesday, the bus kept stalling. Right there on Michigan Avenue.

I know, I know - you faithful blog readers think this stalling busines is old news by now since I've already experienced it many times.

However, this time was unique in the "audience response."

And, yes, we are an audience. I have begun to think and react differently to the trials commuting, knowing that I can use it as blog material (can't you see me on there just scripting in my head?) Totally different mindset now.

Anyway, so the accordian-style bus keeps slowing to the bus stop, shuddering, and then everything goes quiet. The air goes off, the hush falls over the crowd. With anticipation (and prayers) we mentally cheer for the huge-bus-that-could as the driver patiently restarts it.

It goes! Yay. Only to dissapoint us at the next block. And the next one. And the next one. You see the pattern. Still, this dogged driver never gave up (better man than most).

The second to last block before the end of Michigan Avenue comes, and the bus stop approaches. We ease up, and the shuddering begins. It was almost like our poor bus was just sobbing, and couldn't help it. Just the mere weight of all of the Chicagoans and tourists was too much for it to bear. (Ok, that may be taking it a little too far. More likely the tax dollars just aren't there to properly maintain the beasts, but bear with me while I romanticize it a touch.)

Shuddering to a stop, it got quiet. Everyone (cynics, elderly, clueless, totally annoyed) just looked around. Making eye contact was almost more than we could handle. Then, out of the radio silence comes a stale, recored, distant male voice: "Thank you for riding the CTA. If you ever have comments or complaints about our service, please call XXX or email us at XXX@transitchicago.com."

The irony overtook us. Timing is a bitch, huh? The entire bus cracked up. Even the cynics. Possibly even the clueless. Some guy shouted, "Did anyone catch that number?" More laughs. Everyone's a comedian.

Not being able to see our bus driver's face at this moment, I'm left to the devices of my own imagination.

I can practically hear him talking to God. "God, please just let me get past Delaware. I just want to pass the Drake Hotel and accelerate onto the Lake Shore Drive underpass and then I'm golden. Come on God, help me out here, buddy!"

So we do. (Guess he and God are close.) As we make our way north, and the traffic builds, I know he must have been chanting that prayer over and over.

Maybe we should get that prayer on a recording, to kick in when it is most needed, and in the silence of the stalled bus?

Just a thought. I could suggest it.

Did anyone catch that email address?

Commuting Below the Mason-Dixon

As I mentioned, I was in Atlanta and Athens, Georgia this weekend. It was a quiet, calm, pleasurable weekend away from CTA buses, taxi cabs, tourists on Michigan Avenue, backups on Lake Shore Drive and other commuter nightmares.

You'd think, based on the speech patterns, affinity for bourbon and Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler historical references, that the south would be slow. About everything.

Yeah. That person has never been on highway 75/85. We're talking the U.S. Autobahn.

My mom has always said that "people drive as fast as the conditions will allow in Atlanta." which must be true, since I'm telling you what. Those conditions clearly allow German-driving-machine-style maneuvers and cop-racing-past-you as you tailgate your fellow drivers speeds.

Maybe people drive faster because the roads are better? Maybe it is that the roads aren't as bad because they don't get snow? Maybe the politicians are actually spending the tax dollars on road construction instead of financing their North Shore mansion or their son's/nephew's/neighbor's college education?

Who knows. But they are smoother down there. I digress.

After sitting in traffic to get from place to place, watching the strip malls fly by between stop lights, entering/exiting the same 3 highways (and 55 minutes) just to get anywhere, and avoiding the highway patrol cars every 400 feet, I was almost ready to get back to Chicago and our gritty, tourist-filled commuter nightmare.

At least here the furthest away I ever am is about 3 miles. My entire commuting life is in a radius of about 5 miles.

And they're MY 5 miles and I love 'em.

I'm back. To stay?

Southern Style

Heading to Atlanta and Athens this weekend, so I'll be free of the Chicago commuting for 3 whole days.

What willl I do without the annoying bus people? The screeching cabs? The stinky trains? Drunk or sleepy taxi drivers?

Who knows.

Let me grab a sweet tea and think about it for a bit, y'all.

Bold Move

On the bus home from a happy hour drink, I saw the boldest move I've seen on the bus in quite some time.

A young guy, slightly post-collegiate, maybe 24 if a day, was wearing a crisp new navy blue t-shirt that said "Tradition...Notre Dame Football."

A Tradition of what? Losing? Starting seasons 0-3? Of not joining a freaking conference?

Yeah, I thought so. Bold move, buddy.


(For this post I boldly apologize to the Neuner family, Kathy & Murray Olsen, and any other Golden Domers that I love dearly.)

Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.

Change of Heart

I have renewed faith in the kindness of strangers.

(except for Lady Box-out)

This morning a young woman got on the bus, having forgotten to inspect her wallet before boarding, stands at the machine and realizes all she has is a $10 bill and doesn't want to waste that on the $2 fare (it may not even take $10 bills, who knows?!?).

She boldly turns to the seated riders and asks, loudly, "Does anyone have change for a ten?"

I thought for sure everyone would ignore her request like we all ignore the cries for "spare change" on the sidewalks. (Admit it, we all avoid eye contact. It isn't just me.)

But, to my pleasant surprise, no less than 11 people immediately began digging in their purses/bags. Opening their hearts and their wallets to this damsel in distress.

Yes, I looked to see what dollars I had, too. I'm not THAT much of a hypocrite.

Some kind soul, clearly desirous of some good karma for the day, handed her a $5 bill and five ones. It was a kind exchange, peppered with "please" and "thank you" and just the right amount of "polite gush."

Very proud of my fellow riders.

I know you're wondering. I didn't have anything less than a $20. No really, I promise.

That's just how I roll.

Boxed Out

This morning I was boxed out. Literally.

I was waiting patiently at my bus stop (the one situated right in front of my building, my home, where I have lived gently and quietly for 2 years now) and was standing amongst other people, whom I presume were my neighbors, community members, other fellow commuters. Meaning, we'd all treat each other with respect seeing as we all shared common space, common neighborhood and common bus routes.

Boy, was I wrong.

While standing at the stop, a woman had her haunches set squarely in front of the 2-foot area in which she anticipated the bus was going to stop, placing her RIGHT in front of the door when it opened. She was crouching. Seriously.

She looked over her shoulder not once, not twice, but five times to ensure that no one was coming near her "claimed real estate." God forbid I stand within 3 linear feet from her. She inched closer to the curb to avoid me intruding.

When the bus eventually rolled to a stop, and opened its doors, she was in fact right in front. Good for you, lady! Way to be, lady!

She boards, and proceeds to take out 1 rumpled dollar, 1 wrinkly transit pass, 1 Walgreens receipt, 1 hairpin, 1 spearmint, and several handfuls of change. To get her bus ticket, her transfer, the return voucher, her voting registration card, her unborn grandchild's return trip voucher, etc.

You get the drift. She took forever.

Meanwhile, she has her crouch going on. I mean it, she was boxing us out.

Let me segue to further explain the geographic dynamics of this situation: the entire design of the new buses is one that should allow the Chicago Card users to board more quickly, in the left side of the door (it's called the GO LANE!), while the slower more annoying cash/old-fashioned-card-users can take their sweet time on the right side with the machine that sounds like R2-D2 with indigestion while being stared at by the marginally unfriendly bus driver.

This use of efficient bus design was utterly impossible. Her stance wouldn't allow it.

So I waited patiently, while the line of unsuspecting people behind me (without a first-row glimpse of the boxing-out-action) stood on the sidewalk.

She finally finishes, I take a very cautious and patient step forward to finally tap my speedy-efficient-fully-paid-up Chicago Card on the reader, and she raises her elbow at me as she walks toward the back. Elbow. At me. In my face, to avoid me getting anywhere close to her.

It was inches from my head.

Now, look. I played basketball for something like 1200 hours a year, for 14 years. While I wasn't the meanest, or the biggest, or the toughest, my entire job was to use my legs to BOX PEOPLE OUT while using my bony-ass ELBOWS to double the protection. I know her game.

But come on. On the bus? In the morning? Before I've had my coffee?

Where was Coach Teague when I needed him, screaming wacky Southern phrases of encouragement like "don't let those chickens run around you like they own your coop! Be the wolf!" I could have used him.

Boxed out on the bus. It was a disgrace.

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.

Watch the Road

Last night, after a concert let out, I waited for a bus on busy Michigan Avenue for quite some time...and eventually gave up and hailed a cab. Michigan Ave at night is still pretty busy, and there are lights on every block, which kept stopping us as we went along.

Most cab drivers speed off the line 1/2 second before the light even changes, and immediately begin honking incessantly if anyone in front of them doesn't do the same.

My guy was different.

Light changes.

He sits. And sits. And sits.

I finally say, politely, "Sir?"

And look up at him from the back seat, by the window, and realize his eyes are closed.

Uhm...are you sleeping? While driving me home?

He jolts "awake" and begins to accelerate through the green light. We make it further north on Michigan, and come to another red light. It happens again. Light changes, and we sit still.

I say, not so politely this time, "Sir, are you sleeping?!?! Are you ok to drive?" And he says, in his broken accent and not a hint of shame, "I'm fine, thank you."

Not so sure about that.

As we approach the Lake Shore Drive entrance tunnel, I'm having a scolding, angry argument with myself in my head about the rationality and safety of continuing to stay in this cab, where my driver is practically snoring at each red light.

Luckily there are no lights of any kind on Lake Shore Drive, between the Hancock and Belmont. I keep my eyes on him, the road, and his driving. I'm like his mean stepmother eagle-eyeing his every move, ready to pounce and give him a piece of my mind. All goes well.

Then we approach the exit ramp at Belmont and it happens a third time. The "Sir" business is officially over.

I use my best "I'm still a polite southern lady but now I'm really ticked off" voice and say, "Enough. You shouldn't be driving if you can't hold your eyes open. That is why people PAY YOU to drive them home!"

He turns slowly onto inner Lake Shore, turns his head to me and says, languidly and with a sick smile, "What, do you wanna watch my face?" And I shout, practically shaking, "NO! I want you to WATCH THE ROAD!"

Scared quiet, or just surprised that a seemingly nice passenger has begun to lecture him on his skills and attitude, he respects my wishes and watches the road.

Inner Lake Shore has about 57 lights and stop signs in the few short blocks between Belmont and my house, so I'm watching him like a hawk. Luckily (for him, by now, not me) he doesn't snooze at any of them. Barely stops - just genuflects and keeps going - which is marginally less frustrating and equally as unsafe.

Pulling into my driveway, he turns to me and puts out his hand. It took everything in my power to give over the measly 10 bucks. With no tip. (Side note: in 7 years of living in Chicago, I've only not tipped a cab driver twice, and both times it was warranted).

I get out, slam the door, and go inside. It occurs to me that the reason I'm so angry, besides the safety factor (I know, Mom!) is that if someone were to come to MY office and I was snoozing every five minutes during a meeting, it would severely hinder my success. Staying awake is just ONE of the many job requirements for both of us, I'd say.

At least he knew where he was going. I guess that's at least better than some of his counterparts.

I slept like a baby last night. But, at least I wasn't driving anyone home while doing so.