Monday, June 09, 2008
Blood on the Tracks
At around 10:30 this morning, I waited for the Brown Line at the Southport El station. I had gone to the grocery store at that time to beat the post-work rush of Professionals looking to soften the day's corners with an expensive organic chardonnay. I waited ten, fifteen, twenty minutes with no sight of the outbound train I needed to get home, during which time at least five inbound trains rolled through the station. I was hungry, decidedly under caffeinated and quickly becoming cranky. I silently cursed the CTA and wondered what in the name of all things decent was going on. I became another inpatient city dweller, unappreciative of the fact that Chicago is home to a world-class mass transit system in the first place.
Upon arriving back at my apartment I went to the Chicago Tribune's website, where I discovered the cause of the delay: the body of a twenty-something male was found on the tracks near the Kedzie station, less than a mile from my house. Click here for the Trib article.
While I fretted over my thawing veggie burgers some poor bastard lay dead on the tracks. Too bad it took such an event for me to remember that getting home late and safe is far better than not getting home at all. I am disappointed with myself for getting in a dither over something so trivial, and for acting no differently than the thousands, millions even, of folks who shout, honk and shoot their way to early graves. How difficult it can be to remain calm when faced with the slightest adversity. I have to try harder not to become That Guy, because That Guy is not cool. And not good for anyone.
Upon arriving back at my apartment I went to the Chicago Tribune's website, where I discovered the cause of the delay: the body of a twenty-something male was found on the tracks near the Kedzie station, less than a mile from my house. Click here for the Trib article.
While I fretted over my thawing veggie burgers some poor bastard lay dead on the tracks. Too bad it took such an event for me to remember that getting home late and safe is far better than not getting home at all. I am disappointed with myself for getting in a dither over something so trivial, and for acting no differently than the thousands, millions even, of folks who shout, honk and shoot their way to early graves. How difficult it can be to remain calm when faced with the slightest adversity. I have to try harder not to become That Guy, because That Guy is not cool. And not good for anyone.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Junish
Weekend points of interest:
The ladyfriend and I made a halfhearted effort to get to Chicago Botanical Garden, which is gently cradled by an expressway, somewhere in the northern suburbs. Admission is free, but there is a hefty $15 parking fee, which seems outrageous at first but is in all actuality a good thing because it, at least in theory, encourages forms of transportation aside from the automobile.
We drove anyway with the unspoken intention of skirting the fee, hoping maybe we’d getting some apathy from a Sunday afternoon park worker, but instead we received the constant vigilance that now must be expected from the personnel at such venues.
Before entering the park, we tried looking for spaces along the residential area opposite on the other side of Lake Cook Road, which side it was determined was the southernmost boundary of Highland Park, where Mr. T once resided.
The fine city (median family income $117,235 in 2000) had planned for the likes of us, however, and our planning turned out to be quite poor indeed. Most of the streets were No Parking Anytime, a scant few were permit only, and the remaining scraps were No Parking after 5pm beginning June 1. I wish I was joking when I say it was 5:01pm at that very moment.
Conceding the first round, we slinked (as much as a car can do so) up to the booth, having decided to tell the ticket dude we were lost and only wanted to turn around and get back to the expressway. He was okay with that, seemingly understanding even, and waved us through. We drove past partial rows of cars and surmised that we could simply park without anyone being the wiser. Just as we made the left into the lot I glanced in the rear view mirror, noticing a tubby fellow following us in a golf cart adorned with an emergency light of the orange, rotating variety. We hoped for coincidence after he made the left as well, but any hope for a free lunch were dashed when he stopped directly behind us. He just sat there and watched us. I quickly grabbed for the Reagan-era map stuffed into the door map spot and pretended to pore over the intricacies of the Chicagoland highway system. This seemed to convince the guy, but we knew better than to leave the car subject to further scrutiny (and potential booting), so we got the hell out of Dodge.
On Saturday afternoon, at the poorly named Do Division Street Festival, I was lucky enough to catch the performance by Mucca Pazza, self-billed as an “astounding circus punk marching band”. The thirty-odd band members pretty much rock, despite the presence of a Sousaphone.
The ladyfriend and I made a halfhearted effort to get to Chicago Botanical Garden, which is gently cradled by an expressway, somewhere in the northern suburbs. Admission is free, but there is a hefty $15 parking fee, which seems outrageous at first but is in all actuality a good thing because it, at least in theory, encourages forms of transportation aside from the automobile.
We drove anyway with the unspoken intention of skirting the fee, hoping maybe we’d getting some apathy from a Sunday afternoon park worker, but instead we received the constant vigilance that now must be expected from the personnel at such venues.
Before entering the park, we tried looking for spaces along the residential area opposite on the other side of Lake Cook Road, which side it was determined was the southernmost boundary of Highland Park, where Mr. T once resided.
The fine city (median family income $117,235 in 2000) had planned for the likes of us, however, and our planning turned out to be quite poor indeed. Most of the streets were No Parking Anytime, a scant few were permit only, and the remaining scraps were No Parking after 5pm beginning June 1. I wish I was joking when I say it was 5:01pm at that very moment.Conceding the first round, we slinked (as much as a car can do so) up to the booth, having decided to tell the ticket dude we were lost and only wanted to turn around and get back to the expressway. He was okay with that, seemingly understanding even, and waved us through. We drove past partial rows of cars and surmised that we could simply park without anyone being the wiser. Just as we made the left into the lot I glanced in the rear view mirror, noticing a tubby fellow following us in a golf cart adorned with an emergency light of the orange, rotating variety. We hoped for coincidence after he made the left as well, but any hope for a free lunch were dashed when he stopped directly behind us. He just sat there and watched us. I quickly grabbed for the Reagan-era map stuffed into the door map spot and pretended to pore over the intricacies of the Chicagoland highway system. This seemed to convince the guy, but we knew better than to leave the car subject to further scrutiny (and potential booting), so we got the hell out of Dodge.
On Saturday afternoon, at the poorly named Do Division Street Festival, I was lucky enough to catch the performance by Mucca Pazza, self-billed as an “astounding circus punk marching band”. The thirty-odd band members pretty much rock, despite the presence of a Sousaphone.
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