Vignettes

Is my life more interesting than anyone else's? Aside from the obvious -- planning urban iditarods, dipping my head in the fountain at Polish Triangle at 2 a.m. -- my existence is as hum-drum as any other urban dweller. Yet there are glimmers of interest within the daily grind:

• Thursday was an open bar with Vice magazine and Colt 45 beer, at a bar that was formerly a house, now situated in a no-man's-land of eerily empty garbage trucks waiting hungrily to dispose of your corpse . My roommate and I met friends, drank a beer or two, got a ride, and just missed the El. Lo and behold, the shoe store next to the El stop fortuitously had a sale until midnight, complete with free wine. We grabbed a cup to go, which made the ride home that much more fun.

• Friday my roommate and I again met up, for lunch this time. A stroll to Daley Plaza revealed people taking down booths for Croatian-American Day. Aside from my short train ride through Croatia in '04, I have no special bond with the country. Except that ever since I made the acquaintance of a certain Zagreb-residinging gentleman a few months ago, I've had an affinity for all things Croat. The man dismantling his booth found this out and forced upon me a poster of a Croatian church, along with a bag saying "Hrvastka." I can't wait to show it to my Croatian.

• Saturday was a typical house party in Wicker Park, or so I thought. Walking behind a couple just south of Wicker Park, I grew puzzled when they started walking slower, hesitating and then turning back. At first I thought they had seen some baby bunnies in the grass of a schoolyard; that is, until they informed me people were throwing rocks. Sure enough, two adolescent boys had gotten onto the flat room of the school and were lobbing rather large stones at passersby and cars. I quickly dialled 311, who transferred me to 911. By the time I hung up, two passersby were hiding behind a car, throwing rocks back at the school. I quickly walked to the party, where I was treated to "the white version of Run DMC," according to my friend, who also informed me, "you're so white." Two, yes, white guys from Minneapolis did a half-hour set of rap to a packed crowd of amazed and/or confused party-goers. Jumping on chairs, holding the microphone up for the crowd's reponse, the set devolved when an acquaintance of mine drunkenly stumbled in and decided to raise the MCs' shirtless state by not only ripping off his own shirt, but dropping trou. The tighty-whities quickly put paid to an notion of continuing, although there was a second, random-drunk-free, set later in the evening.

Calling 911, getting posters from Croatians, and parties with half-naked men: this is what makes life bearable, nay, even interesting.