Taking a break from all things Wicker Park, I took to the streets with my trusty CareerKiller President's Club beach towel, and landed on a hill alongside the relatively new Little Cubs Field in Humboldt Park.
While squinting in the sun I read this past Sunday's NYT magazine. The cover story was about a writer battling chronic depression, and I found it very interesting, though I wonder if a 40-year psychoanalyst run, and being medicated nonstop constitutes more of a lifestyle than a condition. It was also an odd story choice for Mother's Day weekend, too. I admired the writer's frankness, thought, yet I also felt uncomfortable reading her story, which probably means it was a good one.
Since watching Sophie I must have developed odd canine magnetic powers. A random dog ran up to me and began licking my ear. Shortly after that, another random dog appeared, and dropped a tennis ball at my feet, which I tossed back down the hill. Both owners were apologetic. I said 'no worries,' and meant it.
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