Venice: In my own alley?

NOT. LOOKIT THIS CRAP.



Do you think this is a Venetian canal?
Are you riding in a gondola?
Do you hear sweet music?

No, bitch. Why, you ask?

There's a stretch of alleyway between where I reside and share with at least 5 other households/ families. And...

Every time it rains-- I'm not talking torrents, but OH, when it has-- there's this 75-foot stretch of alleyway that just simply CAN'T DRAIN A THANG.

Our garbage-cans float around, regardless of the filth within (can't help it- law of dumpy gravity), animals like cats and dogs that get out of their yards skirt this area like it's fucking moat (which it is) and cars going thru leave a nice wake....

What's going on? Super Dirt? Tree-roots? Bodies?

I've most recently gotten in touch with some streets n' sanitation dude. He says he's going to send an investigator to scope the alley.

Ooooh! A man in a trenchcoat. A super-private-eye. Coming to peruse the scene!

Dare I say that anything could possibly be done? I suppose that's all up to the monkey in the trenchcoat. Huh.

G'Bye, Esquire

Farewell to you, beloved landmark of Chicago. I had great times seeing films in your wonderous, art-deco self.
A couple times totally stoned! YAY!

You were wonderous... full of flaws, full of popcorn odor... and full of history.

More than a few times,
I swear I smelled face-powder as I used the women's bathroom... and, afterwords, when I found myself locked in a stall, hearing a woman's voice, giggling, like she'd played a trick on her friend.

Friend, I do not know you. But I get your joke. And so:

May the ghosts of your more personable personages scare the shit out of the yuppies proclaiming progress for that shit-sucking shopping hole.