World of Pocket Worlds

I stared out through the train car's window to mentally prepare myself for the weather heating up in the Windy City. I chose the wrong outfit for the day: plaid shirt, dark jeans, and shoes, when I should be bare fucking naked on a field of grass, taking in the rays from the sky. When my thoughts became boring, I switched my attention to the company in the car. All complete strangers with different agendas, but they are all conducting the same activity. Hunched over, lazily sat, or absurdly prepping up for a Snapchat shot, their minds were fully immersed by the worlds they held in their hands: the beautiful and torturous pocket screen. The world used to be a simpler place when tech was basic enough to keep up with life at a steady pace. Nowadays we can have our work, entertainment, social life, and hidden secrets all on one device. As convenient as it may sound, it also brings forth a new chapter in the lives of humans in pertains to being occupied. The outside world becomes so familiar and unwanted, that we resort back to that $700 plus slab of hardware, and we continue to ignore all else. But this argument has rooted since the flip phone came out, when bratty little shits would focus on tapping the right key and not the food in front of them, when class proceeded but instead wanted to see if Jessica was available to fuck them later in the evening, or when they're snapping a Cheeto-sized dick pick to their romantic interest in lieu of actually getting down to the real deal.
Literally everyone was doing the same thing (including me, I won't be a hypocrite this time) and no one even spoke or uttered a single character. I wonder if, back in the day, strangers would normally strike up a conversation with another unknown being just for the sake of avoiding boredom. That or they would flip through the daily newspaper or simply keep to themselves. No doubt that hatchlings still conduct the same thing, but they didn't have Facebook back in the 60s.
This could be a gentle rant, yet I fancy myself a phone as well. I just used the virtual reality set with a scene of visual synchronizations in tune with Lazerhawk's Electric Groove. It's quite the treat, just like the phone itself, and it'll stick to you like gorilla glue; but the terror of a roller coaster ride going straight down is the same feeling when you lose it, only it'll be one bitch of a drop. Imagine it, your whole world gone, snatched up by some bug-eyed freak with a tendency to scratch his neck, left behind by you because that shot of tequila forced you to break into bachata and leave your device behind on the open table, or obliterated by your psycho former girlfriend that you promised a marvelous future with.
What would you do if your phone was simply gone, broken, stolen, no mas?
What would these people do on the train if they weren't so attached? As each day passes, the dream of having everyone socializing without the assistance of an alter-ego behind the screen sinks lower and lower - it creates a much darker dream, one where we don't talk at all.
Imagine that shit.

Ominous Rails, The Unnerving and Omnipresent Fear Aboard the CTA

There is no lie when I say that I'm slightly frightened to ride the CTA, especially the "L". It's been a boundless fear ever since I started taking the train back in the inception of my former high school days. For years I've been asked for help when a man couldn't stand on both legs properly, insisted on signing up for some unknown basketball program with possibly forged signatures and rehearsed speeches, offered marijuana through an apple (which isn't all that bad), been a pillar for a couple of bloodied-up and loose-minded fools from Wicker Park, and have sat close to a number of colorful and unusual characters - mine still being a bloke disguised as a holy man replicating Jesus. No doubt I've succumbed to their worthless requests and obvious false tales, but it's something every commuter is faced with when uncharted encounters occur.
The story of Jessica Hughes was the one that topped it, albeit behind a machete-wielding incident on the Brown not that long ago that shocked Chicago for a day when everyone seemed to forget, comes as a close second. 19-year-old Jessica Hughes, a student from DePaul, was attacked by a black couple who initially fronted up a damning request for her iPhone. They then proceeded to manhandling her by busting up her nose and leaving the victim bruised and traumatized on the train, until the train conductor found her later on. What hurts the most was the lack of assistance from the other riders. No one helped. No one did anything. They probably just watched it unfold like a grade-A dramatic scene where the hero gets his ass handed to him by two unexplored and shady motherfuckers with the intention on leaving the car with one of two things: Jessica's iPhone or her life.
It's instances such as these that make the cheapest mode of transport in Chicago ever more baleful. How come no one jumped in to help her? Two walking mistakes [the suspects] would have no match against a horde of Chicago-ready warriors, extempore justice seekers at the playground of society's sinister sorority of cheap film knockoffs and neglected individuals who believe that the world isn't fair to them. The world isn't fair in general, yet their conclusion begins with a taste for vengeance but the end is always the same: six feet under, ashes to ashes, gone without a trace, or at the hands of other humans who use a Book to justify their actions.
But just imagine that, a group of helpful passengers up against two - ONLY TWO - pea-brained assholes on top of a shocked 19-year-old future nurse.
The news would go crazy! Chicago would blow up the video all over the area on all media platforms, but the helpful band of riders would never meet such attention, such fame. Their futile efforts and pussy-filled inclination to Stand Down and Do Nothing proved once again that humans will never see the light of life, for the continuous waves of dark magic prevail the spark of humbleness. Jessica didn't deserve to be attacked. What was meant to be another simple ride on the Blue Line turned out to be another chapter in the CTA archives of nasty snippets featuring humans at their lowest points, minus the heroin freaks and tatted greaseballs, who show up like a family member you haven't seen in "How long has it fucking been?!"
No doubt will people resume to ride the CTA, but will they stand up the next time someone is being kicked in, or will they retreat back to their safety bubbles while someone's life is on the line, less than a few seats away?

May 1st, 2016.

Funky Asscrack, A Rather Forgotten Passenger

I had finished a forced read from a class and was now free to roam through new synth tunes I discovered. Comfortableness was the name of the game, much needed before heading off to another class, until a crop-top donning man sat beside me, reeking of expired cheese and a regrettable mannerism of smacking his lips like a bad blowjob. I was taken aback, this abnormal sex machine was popping his head to nothingness, casually looking up ahead at his ride while I stared at him with wide eyes. Not only was the bad side effect of lacking sleep getting to me, but goddammit his smell was of shitty cheese! I envisioned a flaming slab of cheese melting away on the concrete, oddly enough a naked man in glitter is slowly crawling toward it, fully enticed by the horrendous streams of green emitting from the food. Perhaps this gent would fit right in, yet this man beside me was black; the envisioned creep was pink and peeling.
I tapped him on the shoulder signifying that I needed to get up to exit the train when it got close to Western; verily I switched train cars after I noticed his freckled ass cheeks and mid-ocean ridge of an asscrack being shown to me unintentionally, but I looked at the wrong timing - I spun my head around when he turned his body to the right almost noticeably, only to be distracted by the openness of this creature. A seat had my name on it once I transferred cars, picturing the man popping like a broken bobble head and me wondering what the hell his story was about. I couldn't get a clear look at his special features, but the stubborn fuck within me told to go. Nonetheless, this was one funky asscrack.

April 21st, 2016

A Dull Fiend

After I had noticed a woman, roughly about my age, staring at me with interest, our minimal connection was short-lived once a bald fiend took a seat in front of her, climbing onboard from the Clark/Lake stop. I was ultimately distracted from this man, coated in facial artwork and a packing mean fucker of a face. At several instances, him and I would make eye contact, but I would fashionably look away as if I was merely surveying the area. But I wasn't. I wanted to study this man even further, but really all he did was sat there with a hand resting on his mouth, sort of like the pose certain chicks and amateur fuckboys do with their "strong hand" when taking a selfie.
I wish something had happened, non-violent-wise. Talk on the phone, look down and reflect on your possible slimy life. Look in the mirror and realize how ridiculous you look with those tattoos around your eyes. If only I had known what they meant or stood for, and taking a seat closer to him was out of the question since the remaining seats by this time were now occupied by other train riders.
Lost Years was blasting through eardrums when I started to question the small encounter. Perhaps it was a kind reminder to not get artwork done on your face, or avoid going bald. But then the darker reflections were pouring in: Stay away from the muck, and you won't end up like him; don't stroll along life on a solitary route, and eventually the good of things will be seen more clearly; talking to him would change everything, but I'm no journalist, even though I have to tendency to palaver with strangers - it really all depends on how the mood sets in.
Once the train got to Damen, the dull fiend had gotten up and went through the doors. That was it. Nothing special had happened, but it's hard to forget a face that was laced with poorly chosen art on the way home.

April 9th, 2016

Moronic Care For A Piece of Hardware

One of the brothers I was mentally portraying was getting heated during an argument with his younger sibling, who slept with the former's wife while being stationed in "Vit Nam". As soon as I got to the physical actions, a black man in stylishly ripped jeans and a fluffy coat dropped his pocket screen onto the train's floor level. I was ultimately distracted, but I quickly retreated back onto the one-scene packet, something for my Scene Study course at school.
After a third read-through, the bloke in front of me dropped his device once again, this time looking back toward me to see if anyone was witnessing his embarrassment, which I certainly was. He revealed to me inadvertently that he was trashed in piercings, a shredded beard, and a small rasta hat - completely justified along with his shitty light-colored jeans. He then picked up his phone and proceeded to listen to music using oversized headphones.
Usually as humans who don't possess some aspect of physical disability are shock prone to dropping their devices, that is if they're not clumsy. After it happens a couple of times we tend to concentrate on its safety a bit more, but not for the case of Reg E., derived from a television character due to his similar facial features that resemble Reg E. Cathey. In Reg. E's case, the abundantly-owned piece of hardware met the ground several times rather than a couple. And once he got up for the stop on California, I noticed that he intricately entangled the headphones' wire in-and-out of his shirt and coat's collar and his neck, leaving the male tip (the jack itself) to hang loose like an article of clothing swung over a chair. No wonder he dropped the damn thing! Perhaps he was trying to be different, a problem many humans seem to face.
There is no lesson to be taught here, only shown: Don't wear your headphones' wire like a spaghetti-stringed accessory.
I named him Reg E. for reasons mentioned above.

April 5th, 2016