Pride and Prejudice

On Sunday afternoon, I was attending an orientation class at a music trade school. I’ll be taking eight hours of private instruction on this super-cool (super expensive) music production software that I recently bought.

I have no idea how to work it and I'm tutorially-challenged, so I’m just going to pay someone to show me which buttons to press to make it work.

Anyway, I had to attend the orientation class in order to obtain the private instruction. Basically, the orientation class was a high-pressure sales job to get people to sign up for a lot of other classes. I was attending the class with about twenty 20-year olds, all of whom had aspirations of producing rap and hip-hop music.

Of course, we all had to “tell us a little something” about ourselves. I mentioned that I had once played a Moog synthesizer when they were new, mainly to illustrate that I was a dork.

But each time one of these kids mentioned that he wanted to produce rap music, I gritted my teeth and tried my best not to blurt out, “It’s not music!”

I behaved myself. I didn’t blurt anything out. However, I really came close to asking where I could buy some sheet music by Ice Cube just to prove my point that Rap is not music.

I'll admit that I'm a music snob and I'm prejudiced against rap "music".

Anyway, I left there about 5 pm and started home. I could have taken a southbound bus to the Green Line train or I could have taken an eastbound bus to the Red Line train. The eastbound bus came first, so I hopped on.

Soon, I saw empty floats go by and realized that the Pride Parade was just ending. I also realized that the Red Line train would be totally inundated with Pride revelers.

Sure enough, the train pulled up and “sardine-packed” doesn’t begin to describe it. One nice young woman with lip rings made room for me so I wedged myself in.

Then, the nice young woman with the lip rings began to throw up.

And throw up.

And throw up.

She just stayed there for the longest time with her head against the door, merrily horking away.

She must have eaten everything there was to offer, both at Taste of Chicago and at the Pride celebration, because she would NOT stop throwing up.

I think her digestive tract must have traveled into the future and was getting rid of food she hadn’t actually eaten yet.

At the next stop, the doors opened and there was no way you could have wedged another person onto our train. Besides, they were greeted with a cascading wall of puke and probably a few recently-detached lip rings.

I was grumbling to myself, thinking, “If she was going to throw up, why didn’t she get off the train and go to a trash can or something?”

Instead, she had motioned for me to get on the train and even made room for me.
Which was very nice of her.
Until she began impaling my shoes with her regurgitated repast.

It’s not like I haven’t done something similar. Yes, there were times when I was young and drank until I got sick. As far as I can recall, though, I didn’t do it ON anyone. I did it with my head against a porcelain bowl like God intended.

My mama raised me with manners, after all.

See why I don't attend the Pride Parade?

I got off at the next stop and took a secret way home:

A nice, air conditioned taxi.