the Dog Days

Chicago. Summer. Hot (although not as bad as last year). Polluted - air thick with CTA bus exhaust, like swallowing sandy water. And the water at the beach is warm and murky like a backyard pool without chemicals.

That's life as I know it right now. I nearly fainted this morning on the subway after a fifteen minute delay during the packed morning rush hour. I just buckled at the knees and sat down right in the aisle. My sun-burned face musta turned ghost white, cause I scared a few people around me. I got off and almost fainted again at the concession stand in the station, as I sat on the even dirtier ground as the nice vendor practically poured water down my throat. Oh, the kindness of strangers...they'll either offer a hand, or step over you on the way to work.

My mom said, "you gotta be careful out there - it's the dog days of summer." I've always liked that phrase for some reason (along with "beware the ides of March). I asked wikipedia.org what "dog days" meant, and it said, "a phrase coined by the Ancient Romans, who called roughly July-September carniculares dies after Sirus, the Dog Star, the brightest star in the sky besides the Sun." OK. A bit straight-forward, if not boring.

But it goes on. "an evil time when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies"

Now that's more like it! But if I were to define it, I'd go with Bradley Nowell of Sublime's description of feeling "like a dog out on the yard, because that's just how we are."

Chicago in the summer is great, don't get me wrong, but after awhile, bouncing from fest to fest, event to event, shuttled back and forth by an unforgiving CTA or even through traffic on LSD, you start to feel like an animal - but its more like cattle than dogs. Bathroom lines, food lines, water lines, ATM lines, hopping over blankets and squeezing through tough crowds guarding territory like gold. Getting stampled and stickered and "stay left," or "this is exit only," or "move along (little doggie)."

Yeah, a few days of that will leave you feeling like a cow on his way to slaughter who in the meantime is chewing cud and enjoying the scenery which is merely the ass in front of you.

But you know what? Its worth it sometimes. I stood for 10 hours on Saturday at Clapton's Crossroads. Why? Because we were as close as we could get without having a guitar in my hands (I wish!), and it was worth it to see Hubert Sumlin smile as he and BB, the King, embraced. Worth it. To hear Jeff Beck literally make a guitar sing- goddamn, it was worth it. By the time Winwood and Robbie Robertson hit the stage, I was howling at the full moon rising over the stadium's stage left like I wasn't just a dog, but a werewolf.

Oh yes, but you know, the leash only goes so far. You start chasing the milkmen and before you know it, the rope snaps you back: its Monday, time to earn a paycheck. So it goes.

But you learn to get your kicks in. Playing guitar on the stoop till 3am on a Monday. Just cause. Getting snowcones from the ice cream man down at Montrose Beach on a Tuesday evening. Giving out your number, and then spending the rest of the week screening all phone calls (don't ask why we do it guys, its just how it works). SPF 25, bicycles with a cooler strapped on the back, beer buckets, eating and walking all at the same time, tank tops, bermuda shorts, and sunglasses day or night.

Yessir, its the dog days again! I just gotta keep my head up and my nose clean and I think I just might make it.

Woof!