Here's another archived journal entry from August 2002. Reflecting back upon that year, I can see that I was an upstanding young citizen who made prudent decisions geared toward furthering his bright future prospects in commerce and industry. I fixed the worst examples of awkward, clumsy syntax in this entry, but I left the gleeful tone of giddy retardation intact.

New content will be posted soon! I'm halfway through a dead letter from Sid Vicious to a punk rock girl. My railroad story is progressing slowly. Planning a story seems to be a lot more difficult than spitting one out on a whim. Thanks for bothering to check in. I appreciate it.

There lies a property on unincorporated land at the edge of Schaumburg. Its backyard fence is also part of the outfield fence for the local minor league baseball stadium, home of the Flyers. In this backyard there's a stable and a horse, a trampoline, an above-ground pool full of muck, 10 or 11 broken-down cars against the back fence, and a large firepit.

Before the stadium was built, about 3 or 4 years ago, I got drunk on the 4th of July at this fine household. Leo, Bill, and I decided to get up to some mischeif. Armed with 4 or 5 M80's, we strolled over to the local Metra train station, about a block away through some backyards. After blowing up some potted plants, we wandered over to the port-a-potty. It was on high ground in the parking lot, which was perfect for our intentions.

If you look at where the walls meet on a port-a-potty, you'll notice that the front right corner is rounded, whereas the other 3 corners are right angles. That's because there's a tube running from the septic tank up to the roof to vent foul odors, improving ventilation. On most port-a-pottys, there's no grill or screen at the top of this tube.

Leo lit an M80, and at 6' 5 or so, he had no difficulty dunking it right into the exhaust tube. We all ran. After a muffled thud, a green tide washed out in every direction from underneath the shithole. Amateur lincoln logs went atumble down into the parking lot, taking parking spaces and not paying for them. The sludgier wastes moved like melting turtles, causing erosion that split the green rivers into tributaries.

By god that smelled awful.

The parking spaces are all numbered, and there's rows of wooden boxes with little numbered slots in them at either end of the lot. People shove dollars and quarters into the slots to pay for their spots. Leo and I went there after dark with some saws, boltcutters, and screwdrivers. The plan was to either break into one or take a whole box home. Hey, I was drunk. Don't look at me like that. Please?

After a lot of effort, sweat, and grunting, we sawed one off the shitty metal pole it stood upon. As we were hauling it away to pry it open for spare change, headlights shone upon us. I saw the bar atop the hood, and I knew it was cops. "Cops!" I dropped everything and so did Leo, and we ran. Leo knew the neighborhood well, so he went through all the shortcuts and got home quickly. I, on the other hand, was stuck in open space and I panicked. I hid behind a small pine bush along somebody's front walk. The police circled me many times, and I heard their dogs barking angrily. They couldn't find me. I got bit by a few spiders in that bush. After two hours, when all was quiet, I went back to Leo's. He was glad I didn't get nabbed.

There were about forty animals inside that house. Raccoons, fish, rabbits, weasels, birds, dogs, cats, gerbils, snakes, frogs, and a few others. When the house burned down last year from an electrical fire, most of them died. When rescuers brought the cats out, the cats kept running back in. There was nothing anybody could do about it. Leo and his family still live in that shell of a house to this day. 4:58 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm