I cut out of work quite late and made a mental note to take the digicam with me one of these nights to capture all of the lights and sights of the city. My old college is having an open submissions call for photos and other artsy pieces for one of their publications, and I think some of my Chicago pictures are just cool enough to be included. I�m no artist, but I figure I should give it a try anyway.

One street musician belted out the top soprano line of These are the few on my favorite things... on his no-doubt expensive sax, and I couldn�t help but sing along. There�s definitely something about living anonymously in a big city. You want to sing? By all means, sing! If anyone gives a quizzical look, who cares? You�ll likely never see them again!

A little ways down the road, a jazzy sax covered the same song, and I couldn�t help but laugh aloud and think of them as dueling banjos. Only they weren�t banjos, and neither could hear that the other one around the corner was playing the very same song. I caught a few glances for passer-bys who probably couldn�t tell that being lost in my thoughts was exactly where I wanted to be at that moment.

Clear your head for a moment, and focus on the goal here, girlie.

I passed a bunch of closed stores and started to become afraid that my efforts would be useless. Screw Rand McNally -- I wasn�t in search of an overpriced map or light-up globe. Forget Ann Taylor -- I wasn�t looking for pants that came up to my breasts.

The lights from GAP glistened from across the street, beckoning for my Visa debit card to allow their cash registers to transfer wonderful, wonderful pants to my possession. Any flat-front low-rise pants made their way onto my arms, and I ignored all price tags.

Too big, too baggy, too bunched up, too much up my ass. I tried and I tried and I tried on pants, but none were to be.

I moved along to Banana Republic, only to find that they have three -- yes, only three! -- pants styles to choose from. I grabbed two sizes of each, but the smallest size I grabbed was indeed too big. I had the friendly salesperson fetch me the bottom of the sizes for the three styles, and I tried them all on again.

The first pair looked like it had room for boy parts. I�m an innie, so those were tossed.

The second pair had an extra three inches in the waist, so they too were vetoed.

I promised not to look at the price tags this entire time, but I caught a glimpse saying they were $93 dollars. Yes, that�s right. $93 for fucking pants. I rationalized that I make enough to buy one pair of pants that I�ll wear and wear and wear again, even if I thought $93 was highway robbery for material held together by thin strings.

I slipped that final pair on, holding my breath as I slid them up. I buttoned the inside button. I clasped the outside clasps. I zipped the high-quality zipper. Then I let my breath out in a sigh of relief that those $93 pants looks like ass on a stick. And when I asy �ass on a stick,� I don�t mean that they looked like I had a rod rammed up my tush. Let�s simplify it all and just say that it wasn�t pretty.

With my luck, after all of this searching at the fancy-schmancy stores and trying on over $2000 worth of pants in a matter of hours, I�ll find the perfect pants at Kmart. Bless that Kmart -- I'm heading to the ghetto tomorrow after work to check their shit out. Let�s keep our fingers crossed! �