Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Fear felt different when I was a child. I remember cowering under the covers once after someone knocked on the door in the middle of the night. I could hear faint adult voices. I think I remember my father telling him that he could not stay here. I stayed under the covers shaking with fear. Another childhood instance of fear occurred when my uncle first told me the urban legend of "The Killer in the Backseat," where a woman driving on a dark road late at night is annoyed by a truck behind her flashing its lights. She stops at a gas station to get away from her pursuer and finds out that there was a man in her back seat with a knife. The person in the truck was only trying to warn her. Of course, certain details of this story are obviously apocryphal, but it serves its purpose of cautioning people to look in the back seat. I still always do when I get in the car. As a child, this story was very scary to me, and I took it at face value. Another time I felt true fear was w...

The side streets are slick and worn as I walk daily to the college working on frustrations as old as time in holey shoes and slighted ambition My twisted ankle, my mucked up transmission tiny travesties leading to submission of mind, of thought, of body rot in flooded back alleys and musty university towns I walk past solemn green and dirty brick a facade thrown across the earth darkened windows hide secrets in the midst of wind-bent trees The fragile ecosystem of roadwork and wax shelters my way through the days past Sycamores and White Oaks unlit houses and the cries of feral cats

Even though I am from northern Wisconsin and should be used to the cold, there is something insidious about this Illinois winter that cuts to the bone. Maybe it's the cold, gray days, the skies that seem to always be ready to dump more snow, or the insistent biting chill of the wind as it whips across the barren corn fields. The wind seems stronger here, sharper and more insistent, telling a different story than the wind of home. There is little shelter. There are less trees to protect your sensitive skin. "Grow a damn beard already. Wrap another scarf around your tender throat. I will get through. I will freeze your ass and numb your toes. Just give me a chance, any chance." Up north you can hide behind a tree or at least find a hill to block the growing transgressions of the wind. Here there are large trees, just less of them. A large corn crop assures that you will freeze. Yet I suggest we hold our heads up as the white fields and streets turn to a ...