Pump Up the Volume

While riding in the elevator at work today, I couldn't help but notice (she ensured that everyone did) this girl in there with us. She had on her iPod, with the infamous white earbud headphones, and the volume must have been turned WAY up.

She was silently bopping along to the music, and by the 27th floor, I was tapping my foot too. Since I could not only hear the music, but I could also easily identify the song and even which verse was playing. Heck, I could hear every word with clarity of enunciation that would make a speech therapist proud.

Made me think, though, that we're going to be one annoyingly hard-of-hearing generation by the time we are our grandparents' age. Deaf, quite possibly, as a whole slew of iPod-addicted people.

I can almost hear the thunderous conversations at Thanksgiving now...

"HONEY, PLEASE PASS THE MASHED POTATOES! NO, NOT THE SMASHED TOMATOES!" and "CHILD, WHAT'S THAT YOU SAY? YOU WANT THE TURKEY? OR THE BEEF JERKY?"

Yeah. Won't THAT be fun?

(And, yes, I realize that no one outside of Alabama's state lines serves beef jerky on Thanksgiving, and I've never even heard of smashed tomatoes, but they rhymed. Pipe down now, wouldja?)

Act Up Already, Chicago!

I've been asked recently why my blog hasn't been much about commuting lately, and there is just one answer to that.

People have been behaving! I can't take it anymore.

Where are the rude passengers, the terrible drivers, the butt pivoters, the horrendous smells, or the really fat people?

All this well-behavin' gives me no material for dissection, no topics for fodder. Did everyone get a copy of Emily Post's book while I wasn't looking? Is the threat of summer infecting everyone with such good vibes that we're actually being POLITE to one another? Are we just so glad that we're able to ride public transit while the gas prices are nearing $6 a gallon?

Can't someone just throw a fit on the 145 bus? Could I get a traffic incident that incites the mob mentality? May I please have a cranky old person to yell at a young, fit passenger rudely sitting in the disabled/priority seating?

Great, thanks.

*Side note: Due to the unfortunate lack of commuting material, I've been pondering changing the name of the blog to something more universal. Thoughts?

All Aboard, Auntie Em

Sales Tax and Seniors and Funding, oh my!

It seems that The Wizard, er, Governor Blagojevich has hastily added free CTA rides for seniors to the newly passed legislation to fund the transit organization in peril.

This last minute, politically motivated add-on will inevitably stimy the bill's passing, and will result in not only a sales tax increase, but also a proposed fare increase for CTA riders.

Exactly who does that help?

I know, I know. Pay no attention to the politician behind the curtain.

Only in Chicago. There's no place like home.

Nowhere to Look

Why is it that elevators render people, who in normal circumstances are talkative and outgoing, totally mute and self-conscious?

I board a minimum of 2 elevators a day—one at home and one at work. I've noticed this more at home:

People in the younger generations are so utterly, ridiculously, awkwardly afraid you'll speak to them while in the elevator together, that they'll do practically anything to avoid...

the direct eye contact.

The elderly in my building are quite the opposite—they get in, and immediately want to know how I am, how long I've lived in the building (to which they always squeal, "I've lived here longer than you've been alive!"), what I do for a living, where's my boyfriend and how much money I make.

Seriously, these ladies are in serious need of a granddaughter visit.

Anyway, today I boarded the elevator at home with another young woman from my floor. She lives 2 doors down from me. She seems normal. She was going for a run, and I was going out to run errands (I don't run unless I'm being chased). I remarked about the new gym equipment downstairs, and you would have thought I'd asked her how much she weighed.

She blanched, and then recovered. Slowly.

She answered the question, but I could tell it took everything in her power not to say to me, "why are you talking to me?"

After the painful awkward 'where do I put my eyes now?' moments were over, we just rode in silence.

How dare I try to strike up a conversation with someone that shares my hallway, eats, lives and sleeps just 20 feet from my home?

What nerve I have. Clearly.

Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.

Boxed Out

This morning I was boxed out. Literally.

I was waiting patiently at my bus stop (the one situated right in front of my building, my home, where I have lived gently and quietly for 2 years now) and was standing amongst other people, whom I presume were my neighbors, community members, other fellow commuters. Meaning, we'd all treat each other with respect seeing as we all shared common space, common neighborhood and common bus routes.

Boy, was I wrong.

While standing at the stop, a woman had her haunches set squarely in front of the 2-foot area in which she anticipated the bus was going to stop, placing her RIGHT in front of the door when it opened. She was crouching. Seriously.

She looked over her shoulder not once, not twice, but five times to ensure that no one was coming near her "claimed real estate." God forbid I stand within 3 linear feet from her. She inched closer to the curb to avoid me intruding.

When the bus eventually rolled to a stop, and opened its doors, she was in fact right in front. Good for you, lady! Way to be, lady!

She boards, and proceeds to take out 1 rumpled dollar, 1 wrinkly transit pass, 1 Walgreens receipt, 1 hairpin, 1 spearmint, and several handfuls of change. To get her bus ticket, her transfer, the return voucher, her voting registration card, her unborn grandchild's return trip voucher, etc.

You get the drift. She took forever.

Meanwhile, she has her crouch going on. I mean it, she was boxing us out.

Let me segue to further explain the geographic dynamics of this situation: the entire design of the new buses is one that should allow the Chicago Card users to board more quickly, in the left side of the door (it's called the GO LANE!), while the slower more annoying cash/old-fashioned-card-users can take their sweet time on the right side with the machine that sounds like R2-D2 with indigestion while being stared at by the marginally unfriendly bus driver.

This use of efficient bus design was utterly impossible. Her stance wouldn't allow it.

So I waited patiently, while the line of unsuspecting people behind me (without a first-row glimpse of the boxing-out-action) stood on the sidewalk.

She finally finishes, I take a very cautious and patient step forward to finally tap my speedy-efficient-fully-paid-up Chicago Card on the reader, and she raises her elbow at me as she walks toward the back. Elbow. At me. In my face, to avoid me getting anywhere close to her.

It was inches from my head.

Now, look. I played basketball for something like 1200 hours a year, for 14 years. While I wasn't the meanest, or the biggest, or the toughest, my entire job was to use my legs to BOX PEOPLE OUT while using my bony-ass ELBOWS to double the protection. I know her game.

But come on. On the bus? In the morning? Before I've had my coffee?

Where was Coach Teague when I needed him, screaming wacky Southern phrases of encouragement like "don't let those chickens run around you like they own your coop! Be the wolf!" I could have used him.

Boxed out on the bus. It was a disgrace.

Old Shouting Broad Sighting

The bus this morning featured the old shouting lady (from "Shouting Match" post earlier) and I just held my breath, waiting for the fireworks.

Nothing.

What a letdown, for me and for my (six) loyal blog readers. Especially you, Mrs. N.

Next time I'll incite some action. You know, like walk slowly or sit in the front row where it is reserved for old ladies who yell.