This week's random thoughts...
There's a reason it's called a crush.
Usually, it crushes you when you find out the crushee is either involved with someone else, or not of identical sexuality, or just doesn't feel at all the same way as you.
As someone who's only been the crusher and not the crushee, it's disheartening when the target of your affections doesn't reciprocate.
Ah well.
---
The small things are the ones that make the big things impressive.
Take a few of the sights I see on my daily commute.
For example, at Prudential Towers in the West Loop area, there's extensive greenspace with a proud sign stating, "Do Not Walk On Grass." Yet, when you pass by, you see a man with a frisbee in his grip, about to let go, and a friend/target a small distance away. Only when you get up close (in good weather) do you realize the man, his friend, and the flying disc are statues. (In winter, it's somewhat obvious, what with the fine layer of snow covering them..)
Art abounds in Chicago. Some of it, of course, is soulless corporate art, placed in atria and corridors just to fill space. Some of it is soulful corporate art, be it an objet d'art from a master or from a struggling artist scavenged for a song.
And then there's the random graffiti, or street art, or tagging. Let me be clear: I do not support random acts of vandalism, nor do I support "tagging turf" by gang members, drug dealers, or other such ruffians. However, when there's, say, a naked underpass decorated with something artful...
---
Chicago is a transportation nexus. Just west of the Loop is the nation's major rail hub, and tracks have been laid in near every suburb and neighborhood. Train whistles haunt the still night air occasionally, breaking the endless purple haze with a faint, echoing hoot. Sometimes, freight traffic stops a road dead in its tracks for a half-hour, as the train works to gain speed with its kilotons of cargo, and all one can do is turn off the car, stand up, and talk to your fellow commuters stuck in place.
O'Hare is a major air hub, arguably the major air hub of the US. (Atlanta residents may disagree, especially since the 'appropriate' method for determining superiority is in dispute.) You can't argue, though, with the fact Chicago has two major international airports, a feat only matched by New York City (with two in the city proper and Newark a short, quick NJT ride away from Times Square) and possibly LA Metro (depending on your point-of-view, it has one (LAX), two (Ontario International, some 60 miles inland), or three (John Wayne/Orange County, which is domestic-only)) .
Chicago metro also is the root of three, and a transit-through for three, interstate highways which criss-cross the city and suburbs (spur routes included). The three that start are I-55 ("Stevenson", starts by Cermak and Lake Shore Drive), I-57 (starts at 95th and the Dan Ryan), and I-88 ("Reagan", starts by I-290/I-294 intersection). The three that pass through are I-80 (through the south subrurbs), I-90 and I-94.
I-90 and I-94 are kinda weird. They start separate; the I-90 starts as the Chicago Skyway (which is not technically an interstate highway, but most people don't really care). I-94 starts as the Bishop Ford Freeway, then it becomes the Dan Ryan at 95th. Then around 69th and Wentworth, they merge and are the Dan Ryan together. At the start of I-290, which is the major east-west highway, at some mysterious point, it ceases to be the Dan Ryan and becomes the Kennedy. Around Lawrence and Cicero, they again split, this time with I-94 veering separate and northwards, now called the Edens, and I-94 shunting westward towards O'Hare, still the Kennedy. Just shy of the airport, I-90 again splits, this time with a spur, the I-190 , retaining the Kennedy name and looping through the domestic terminals of the airport and the I-90 changing identity once again, this time to the Northwest Tollway.
The strange part is, not a lot of people actually know the point at which the Dan Ryan becomes the Kennedy. Sure, the Circle Interchange (where the 290 overlaps, and a ring of interchanges allow one to head in any direction) is given as the point, but there has to be some tangible dividing point. I mean, there's a line at which one has crossed into Cheeseland, er, Wisconsin, and another line which delineates Canada, a great place to kill a weekend (especially if you're 19 and want to get smashed legally).
There's a small signpost in the middle of a string of closely-spaced exits, each 500 feet (1/6 km) from the next, which says "Mile 0.1". This small marker, easily overlooked at a typical 60 mph (100 kph) pace, is the magic point.
---
Certain things we take for granted (at least, I would assume the typical reader of this blog would take for granted) are not as treasured as they are when lacking.
Take sleep, for example. I routinely spend one night a week without. Why, I don't know, and of course my functioning the next day is impaired (body temperature refuses to regulate correctly, lakc of appetite, inability to sit, poor motor control, shakes throughout), but it's something I try to live with.
I've done some siginificant stretches without sleep. In 2001, I spent consecutive 80-hour stretches without blissful slumber. In 2002, I spent a solid five days without sacktime. When I travel, I plan hotels with the intention of crashing one night less than my stay. Usually, the first night I spend walking the streets of the city.
Last month, the weekend of Palm Sunday, I was walking about downtown Detroit. I had a mission: to collect a $1 gaming chip from each casino in the area. (Big tip: If you want the chip, talk to the valets. They receive them as tips. You don't have to go into the casino if you do this!) However, I spent the night walking...
There are few things remarkable about downtown Detroit besides the People Mover, Greektown, and the view from the edge of the Detroit River. I mean, besides Greektown, the city has a "dead" downtown, like most cities. Dead downtowns are open banker's hours five days per week, close promptly, and have no significant early-evening to late-night activities (bars, clubs, comedy rooms, theatres). There will be some action, like the goth club I passed by, but on the whole, they're shuttered at 5p.
Detroit has an eerie feel about it at night. Once you walk away from the core, the scene quickly disintegrates into boarded buildings, crumbling masonry, shattered windows. Police cars are infrequent, and there's little lighting to speak of. Bums crowded in abandoned doorways to avoid the night's cold and rain, in which I relished. Prostitutes, barely covered, barely appeared, and all avoided my gaze. Gangs gathered near a garage, tuning their ride, talking about their affairs.
Not to say it was all bad. I think Detroit has potential. (I felt icky saying that. I know, potential is usually a codeword for not living up to what is possible. I was told I had potential throughout grade school by teachers who couldn't successfully argue the necessity of homework for one who aced every test by just sitting down, shutting up, and paying a damn's worth of attention.)
Collecting myself real quick... OK. Detroit could liven up if it weren't for its systemic problems. It seemed the government gave not a damn about anything besides the riverfront area, the casinos, and that's it. I saw no fire trucks, three police cars, and one ambulence (which was kind enough to give me a lift when I was utterly exhausted at 5 am and wanted to head to Greektown for a proper breakfast). The roads seemed in a state of disrepair; one guy's engine was suddenly six inches below grade when he ran into the queen mother of all potholes, without any warning to show that construction was occuring.
It was fun, though. I was warm in my jacket, and enjoyed a coffee from one of the casinos, dishing them out after last call. (In case you're curious, I prefer non-American-style coffee. Espressos, cappucinos, Turkish/Greek coffee, frappès. When I drink it, I always take it a certain way.. black as sin and just a sweet (read: enough sugar to put a diabetic in medical trouble).)
My face, my hair, and my glasses were drenched in cold rain, and the wide roads blurred in the evening darkness. It was darker than I was used to, with stars visible where the rain clouds decided to leave some sky open. The moon was large and full, and shone brightly on my face and dimly across the concrete canyon-cemetary of the outer core.
--
That's all. Photos to follow once sober...
cya
drew
d dot valued at gmail dot com
Usually, it crushes you when you find out the crushee is either involved with someone else, or not of identical sexuality, or just doesn't feel at all the same way as you.
As someone who's only been the crusher and not the crushee, it's disheartening when the target of your affections doesn't reciprocate.
Ah well.
---
The small things are the ones that make the big things impressive.
Take a few of the sights I see on my daily commute.
For example, at Prudential Towers in the West Loop area, there's extensive greenspace with a proud sign stating, "Do Not Walk On Grass." Yet, when you pass by, you see a man with a frisbee in his grip, about to let go, and a friend/target a small distance away. Only when you get up close (in good weather) do you realize the man, his friend, and the flying disc are statues. (In winter, it's somewhat obvious, what with the fine layer of snow covering them..)
Art abounds in Chicago. Some of it, of course, is soulless corporate art, placed in atria and corridors just to fill space. Some of it is soulful corporate art, be it an objet d'art from a master or from a struggling artist scavenged for a song.
And then there's the random graffiti, or street art, or tagging. Let me be clear: I do not support random acts of vandalism, nor do I support "tagging turf" by gang members, drug dealers, or other such ruffians. However, when there's, say, a naked underpass decorated with something artful...
---
Chicago is a transportation nexus. Just west of the Loop is the nation's major rail hub, and tracks have been laid in near every suburb and neighborhood. Train whistles haunt the still night air occasionally, breaking the endless purple haze with a faint, echoing hoot. Sometimes, freight traffic stops a road dead in its tracks for a half-hour, as the train works to gain speed with its kilotons of cargo, and all one can do is turn off the car, stand up, and talk to your fellow commuters stuck in place.
O'Hare is a major air hub, arguably the major air hub of the US. (Atlanta residents may disagree, especially since the 'appropriate' method for determining superiority is in dispute.) You can't argue, though, with the fact Chicago has two major international airports, a feat only matched by New York City (with two in the city proper and Newark a short, quick NJT ride away from Times Square) and possibly LA Metro (depending on your point-of-view, it has one (LAX), two (Ontario International, some 60 miles inland), or three (John Wayne/Orange County, which is domestic-only)) .
Chicago metro also is the root of three, and a transit-through for three, interstate highways which criss-cross the city and suburbs (spur routes included). The three that start are I-55 ("Stevenson", starts by Cermak and Lake Shore Drive), I-57 (starts at 95th and the Dan Ryan), and I-88 ("Reagan", starts by I-290/I-294 intersection). The three that pass through are I-80 (through the south subrurbs), I-90 and I-94.
I-90 and I-94 are kinda weird. They start separate; the I-90 starts as the Chicago Skyway (which is not technically an interstate highway, but most people don't really care). I-94 starts as the Bishop Ford Freeway, then it becomes the Dan Ryan at 95th. Then around 69th and Wentworth, they merge and are the Dan Ryan together. At the start of I-290, which is the major east-west highway, at some mysterious point, it ceases to be the Dan Ryan and becomes the Kennedy. Around Lawrence and Cicero, they again split, this time with I-94 veering separate and northwards, now called the Edens, and I-94 shunting westward towards O'Hare, still the Kennedy. Just shy of the airport, I-90 again splits, this time with a spur, the I-190 , retaining the Kennedy name and looping through the domestic terminals of the airport and the I-90 changing identity once again, this time to the Northwest Tollway.
The strange part is, not a lot of people actually know the point at which the Dan Ryan becomes the Kennedy. Sure, the Circle Interchange (where the 290 overlaps, and a ring of interchanges allow one to head in any direction) is given as the point, but there has to be some tangible dividing point. I mean, there's a line at which one has crossed into Cheeseland, er, Wisconsin, and another line which delineates Canada, a great place to kill a weekend (especially if you're 19 and want to get smashed legally).
There's a small signpost in the middle of a string of closely-spaced exits, each 500 feet (1/6 km) from the next, which says "Mile 0.1". This small marker, easily overlooked at a typical 60 mph (100 kph) pace, is the magic point.
---
Certain things we take for granted (at least, I would assume the typical reader of this blog would take for granted) are not as treasured as they are when lacking.
Take sleep, for example. I routinely spend one night a week without. Why, I don't know, and of course my functioning the next day is impaired (body temperature refuses to regulate correctly, lakc of appetite, inability to sit, poor motor control, shakes throughout), but it's something I try to live with.
I've done some siginificant stretches without sleep. In 2001, I spent consecutive 80-hour stretches without blissful slumber. In 2002, I spent a solid five days without sacktime. When I travel, I plan hotels with the intention of crashing one night less than my stay. Usually, the first night I spend walking the streets of the city.
Last month, the weekend of Palm Sunday, I was walking about downtown Detroit. I had a mission: to collect a $1 gaming chip from each casino in the area. (Big tip: If you want the chip, talk to the valets. They receive them as tips. You don't have to go into the casino if you do this!) However, I spent the night walking...
There are few things remarkable about downtown Detroit besides the People Mover, Greektown, and the view from the edge of the Detroit River. I mean, besides Greektown, the city has a "dead" downtown, like most cities. Dead downtowns are open banker's hours five days per week, close promptly, and have no significant early-evening to late-night activities (bars, clubs, comedy rooms, theatres). There will be some action, like the goth club I passed by, but on the whole, they're shuttered at 5p.
Detroit has an eerie feel about it at night. Once you walk away from the core, the scene quickly disintegrates into boarded buildings, crumbling masonry, shattered windows. Police cars are infrequent, and there's little lighting to speak of. Bums crowded in abandoned doorways to avoid the night's cold and rain, in which I relished. Prostitutes, barely covered, barely appeared, and all avoided my gaze. Gangs gathered near a garage, tuning their ride, talking about their affairs.
Not to say it was all bad. I think Detroit has potential. (I felt icky saying that. I know, potential is usually a codeword for not living up to what is possible. I was told I had potential throughout grade school by teachers who couldn't successfully argue the necessity of homework for one who aced every test by just sitting down, shutting up, and paying a damn's worth of attention.)
Collecting myself real quick... OK. Detroit could liven up if it weren't for its systemic problems. It seemed the government gave not a damn about anything besides the riverfront area, the casinos, and that's it. I saw no fire trucks, three police cars, and one ambulence (which was kind enough to give me a lift when I was utterly exhausted at 5 am and wanted to head to Greektown for a proper breakfast). The roads seemed in a state of disrepair; one guy's engine was suddenly six inches below grade when he ran into the queen mother of all potholes, without any warning to show that construction was occuring.
It was fun, though. I was warm in my jacket, and enjoyed a coffee from one of the casinos, dishing them out after last call. (In case you're curious, I prefer non-American-style coffee. Espressos, cappucinos, Turkish/Greek coffee, frappès. When I drink it, I always take it a certain way.. black as sin and just a sweet (read: enough sugar to put a diabetic in medical trouble).)
My face, my hair, and my glasses were drenched in cold rain, and the wide roads blurred in the evening darkness. It was darker than I was used to, with stars visible where the rain clouds decided to leave some sky open. The moon was large and full, and shone brightly on my face and dimly across the concrete canyon-cemetary of the outer core.
--
That's all. Photos to follow once sober...
cya
drew
d dot valued at gmail dot com
posted by Drew Vallas at 11:00 PM
1 Comments:
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