I got run over by a bike messenger last week at the corner of Clark and Division. Like all accidents involving bike messengers, this one wasn't his fault. Oh no. I was foolishly standing still at a crosswalk, thereby providing an excellent target, and I am deeply sorry for my carelessness. I'm sure that bike messenger has a very sore shoulder, on account of how the collision broke my nose and gave me a concussion. I wish he had waited around long enough for me to apologize and get his address. If nothing else, I owe him a deep tissue massage of that shoulder. Oh, yeah, and he owes me 4,000 dollars in hospital bills.

I think it's safe to say that most Chicagoans sort of, you know, hate bike messengers. By and large, they're a pretty unpleasant lot of people, what with their flagrant disregard for the sanctity of human life. I know I'm not supposed to say that, since bike messengers are young and poor and trendy like me. But a funny thing happened to me as I lay on the ground bleeding profusely from the face. I didn't care about defending the young and poor and trendy anymore. I just wanted to kill me some bike messengers.

So here's my question: Can I go after this guy even if I have to beat up a lot of innocent bike messengers on my way to the evil one? See, all I remember about the individual in question is that he was Caucasian and blurry, so in order to be good and sure I get him, I'll need to beat the holy living heck out of every white, male bike messenger in Chicago.

At first, I worried my plan might be either illegal or immoral, but then I remembered President Bush's exciting new foreign policy initiatives, which encourage me, so far as I can tell, to exact vengeance upon my iron-shouldered nemesis by any means necessary.

The President has argued that Saddam Hussein, the President of Iraq, poses a threat to the world and therefore must be toppled. Well, if you aren't convinced that the bike messenger who mauled me poses a threat to Chicago's pedestrians, let me invite you to gaze upon the festering pool of flesh that used to be my face.

Clearly, we have to eradicate the twin tyrannies of evil bike messengers and evil dictators. I can trust President Bush to take on Saddam, but if I don't take dramatic measures to make Chicago's streets safe for walking, who will? The wusses at the United Nations? They'll just debate over whether my nose is actually fractured for months before deciding that while my nose IS broken, it wouldn't be fair to hold thousands of bike messengers accountable for the misdeeds of one.

I would love to have broad support for my cause, but if I have to act unilaterally, I am not afraid. If necessary, I will defy the world to avenge my crooked nose, and I salute President Bush for sharing my vision of vigilante justice.

After all, Saddam Hussein IS a pretty bad guy. Not only is he a ruthless tyrant, he has also written three novels, each of which is by all accounts unimaginably horrid. I find it impossible to forgive the sentimental prose of dictators, and so I'm all in favor of doing away with Hussein and replacing him with someone who is either a better person or a better writer.

And I have no doubt that we WILL kill him. Look what we did to Manuel Noriega! Oh, wait. He's still alive. Well, Mullah Omar, then. Oh, yeah, still alive. And Milosevic is still alive, too. Bin Laden? Still alive, unless he died, in a stirring testament to the precision of American smart bombs, of kidney failure. So I guess maybe we aren't so good at killing the evildoers. But we're sure good at killing the regular folks, which is good enough for me, because secretly, I don't want justice for that bike messenger. I just want revenge.

I grew up in Alabama, where the primary architectural questions are, "Is this building going to fall down?" and, "Does this building have a garage? Because I spent a pretty penny on a mint replica of the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard, and I sure don't want any pine needles falling on it."

So initially I was sort of baffled by the hullabaloo surrounding the new Soldier Field. Sure, I thought, the city of Chicago spent a lot of money on the stadium when that money could have given to, say, poor people or, say, me. And yes, the new Soldier Field is ugly. But form follows function, and it's not an art museum. It's a football stadium. And football, particularly where the Bears are concerned, is an ugly game.

By all accounts, the new stadium is more fan-friendly, at least insofar as it contains more urinals, which means that I have possibly peed in my last public sink. There's something sort of sad about that, but pain always accompanies change, and I try to keep an open mind. So I was pretty much in favor of the new stadium until my friend Justin explained to me the paucity of tailgating space.

As a high school student in Birmingham, Alabama, I would drive to Tuscaloosa for every home game the Alabama Crimson Tide played at Bryant-Denny Stadium, which, for the record, makes the new Soldier Field look like a Frank Lloyd Wright masterpiece. I attended the games because A. I liked watching football and B. I liked drinking beer, which worked out nicely because C. there is perhaps no place in America more conducive to underage drinking than the parking lot of Bryant-Denny Stadium. I loved Sundays at Soldier Field because they reminded me of Saturdays in Tuscaloosa.

And now, my nostalgia-drenched tailgating has been stolen away from me so the Bears can have more parking spaces. I'm disgusted. What about all the seventeen-year-old football fans out there? Where will they drink Busch Lite, Mr. Hallas? WHERE? You spent more than half a billion dollars, most of which was our money, and now you have fielded a terrible team that you expect us to watch without first allowing us to get drunk in the parking lot?

The Bears brass, of course, say they just want to give the best experience to the most people, which is true only in a roundabout way. What the Bears want is to make money, because making money is what companies do. They aren't in the business of bringing the greatest good to the greatest number: that's what governments are for. And when the blimpcam shows a wide shot of Soldier Field tonight on Monday Night Football, the message will be obvious: When governments start giving money to for-profit businesses, the results are often -- ugly.

I never thought I could enjoy moving, on account of how it involves organization and heavy lifting, two human endeavors at which I have never excelled. But when my landlord wanted to raise my already ludicrous rent ten percent starting this June, I decided I'd learn to like moving. Renters' fear of upheaval, after all, cripples our negotiating power in the real estate market. Landlords can saddle us with almost any indignity (I lived for two years in an apartment with disconcertingly yellow tap water) because they know we loathe changing homes.

But in moving from the Gold Coast to Lincoln Square recently, I followed five simple steps that made the process cheap and easy. In hopes of freeing fellow renters from the shackles of moving-fear, I'd like to share them now:

Step 1. I called the Salvation Army, which is like the regular army, except instead of saving Iraq they save your furniture. The Salvation Army came by and took most of my furniture away in a truck to sell at one of their stores. Now, it's true that I had a sentimental attachment to these items, since I purchased most of them at IKEA and spent weeks of my life constructing them with only my bare hands, an allen wrench, and tears of frustration. But I know from experience what happens if I attempt to move furniture myself. I end up screaming at my girlfriend to just turn it left, left, wait, no, LEFT, YOUR OTHER LEFT, until she eventually gets mad at me and drops the couch on my foot.

Step 2. I did not rent a moving van, because all my remaining belongings could be strapped to a family-sized sedan. Even excellent drivers such as myself can expect to hit somewhere between seventeen and eighteen parked cars while trying to maneuver a moving van into an alley. Last time I used a moving van, I hit a car and someone saw me do it and yelled, "You'd better leave a note!" so I had to walk up to the car I'd dented and place a note under the windshield that read, "Hey, I hit your car but I don't have any money to pay for it. I'm really sorry. Here's hoping you have insurance."

Step 3. I refused to acquire any boxes. Boxes are the great enemies of any mover, because once something gets put in a box, it rarely comes out. Instead of the box method of packing, I utilized the armful method, which involves scooping up an armful of stuff, running to the car, and then dropping it into the trunk. You can add an extra dimension of fun to the armful method if you wear a ski mask and make believe that you are robbing yourself.

Step 4. If I could not specifically remember the last time I used a particular possession, I threw it away. Sorry, Winnie the Pooh mouse pad. Nothing personal, bottle of toilet bowl cleaner. You just never came in handy, high school diploma.

Step 5. I reacquired furniture. I waited a couple weeks before going to the Salvation Army, hoping that by then my furniture would be for sale. Unfortunately, I didn't find any of my belongings, but I was able to completely reequip my apartment with nearly identical stuff for a grand total of 104 dollars, which was delivered to the new apartment for a small charge.

All told, my move took about 7 hours and cost around $150, approximately equal to the per-month rent increase I was facing at my old place. My new apartment is great, and best of all, I don't have to fear my landlord. If he tries to jack the rent or refuses to fix anything, I'll just leave. I love moving! And there's nothing that puts a chill down the spine of Chicago's real estate barons like a renting populace unafraid of taking a hike.