Urban Detox, anybody? Yes, please.

This past weekend was a confusing one in Ann Arbor; ah, the highs and lows of returning to the motherland. Mainly, a pulled muscle in my neck (Source: Epic bike ride #1 to Schiller Park with backward seat post on Monday? Sleeping in the fetal position on the floor that evening? epic bike ride #2 down potholey MLKJr Boulevard to the site of the future Olympic Stadium on Wednesday?) became increasingly more painful over the course of the weekend, and kept me from fulfilling my packing intentions as I'd hoped. That unhappy progression aside, it was simply glorious to blitz through a jungley Arboretum at dusk on Saturday, sit on the porch reading Murakami for the better part of Sunday morning, attend hipster house parties with a nalgene of g&t in hand, see fellow planners, stock up on By The Pound goods, recieve musculoskeletal advice from enCat's visiting dad and sister, and declump/brush/nuzzle large-and-in-charge Maotse (bringing back the hipster spelling for Summer '08) for hours on end.

Finally refreshed after nine hours of bolstered-neck sleeping (yesterday's shockingly early morning car ride, despite layers of Ben Gay, ice, and Patrick Watson blaring through the speakers, paved the way for a pretty uncomfortable day), I am back in Chicags and ready to add to last week's fun., which included hobnobbing with the Mayoral Fellows at the Parthenon, playing wino on the Metra up to see Feist at Ravinia, and cycling to ultimate games all over the city. This week there are movies in the park, Murakami on the porch in lieu of ultimate, and -- this weekend --Sandblast, for which I'll hopefully be able to turn my neck. Holler.

Yesterday my commute to work was wholeheartedly frustrating. I left Leen's, a mere 3.2 miles away from work, at 7:05 a.m. and arrived in my cubicle over forty minutes later. The trip consisted of two loosely crammed bus rides. Chicago transit riders are consistently selfish about their morning travel space. There are often huge pockets o' room in the back of the bus while those in the passenger-loaded front artfully brace themselves to avoid being thrown through the windshield whenever the operator brakes. Sometimes the operator asks passengers to condense, sometimes not; the effect is usually the same: weak.

Now, at this time last year I would have simply hopped on a bike and ridden to work. But my current, shorter commute is just the length -- long enough to generate a copious sweat, but short enough to in no way constitute a morning's worth of physical activity -- where I'd rather take public transit and avoid a sweaty work arrival. Plus, I'm riding free on a CTA fun pass all summer. So this morning, I opted to bike the 1ish miles to the California green line station, from which it's an alleged six minute (two stop) ride to where I disembark. Perfect, right? I left at 7:30 and was in my chair by 8:01. On the way, however, an angry blackbird at the corner of Rockwell and Grand bombarded my head as I cycled through. While this experience was in no was as harrowing as last month's bat attack (unblogged, but certainly freaky), I am beginning to question what sort of allure it is that I exude toward black winged beasties.