...so I am having it cleaned
(Update: Link fixed)
Friday, January 11, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
You gotta have faith
When I first entered the world of advertising, I landed on a desk that fed my need to work in a creative environment. The client was fantastic and I was SO happy in my position. I mean, sure, there were frustrating and stressful days (I do work in advertising, folks - this shit is crazy), but for the most part, I left for work with a smile on my face. After a period of time, I rotated to new responsibilities. It was more of a lateral move than a promotion, but the gears switched and I have since been working with a different kind of client - focused on tedius task-master type projects rather than creative strategy. I'm sure some people would thrive in my position. The daily tasks are clear and free of ambiguity - things are pretty cut and dry.
I, however, have been extremely unhappy. I went from loving my job to dreading most every day. I head to the same building as I did 6 months ago. I make the same amount of money (actually a little more), but I am miserable. I stay because I adore my co-workers, I love the company, and lets face it - I just don't want the hassle of going somewhere else. I can't lie, though, there have been days when I have left work at 7:30pm and headed to the El close to tears.
Thankfully, the days my career depression overwhelm me are few and far between. Nevertheless, every time I am having a horrible day...I see the same guy...a street musician with a beautiful voice.
I don't know his name, but I have come to the point where I know his sound before I even make it down the stairs. I have seen him on good days, but I always see him on the days where I have surrendered any hope of a positive attitude. For this, I am so thankful. He lifts my spirits and helps me put things in perspective. It's not even the songs he sings, but the way he sings them.
One of my favorite songs is Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come" - a song that carries a certain sadness, but brings a feeling of hope. My Subway Savior sings the song a bit more up-tempo, but with the same amazing soul and conviction that I love about the original. When he sings it as I wait - it touches my heart and allows me a moment of peace to reflect. It's almost as though just hearing him sing lifts the weight of my day off my shoulders. All of the noise and unpleasantries of the CTA disappear, and a sense of serenity overwhelms me when he is present.
I know there will be a day when I am feeling particularly down, and he will not be there on the subway platform, and that's ok. I may only know him as the man with the sweet voice and a guitar, but he has taken permanent residence in my memories - and when I think about the sincerety of the music he plays - I know it will make me smile.
Just because.....here is Sam Cooke...
I, however, have been extremely unhappy. I went from loving my job to dreading most every day. I head to the same building as I did 6 months ago. I make the same amount of money (actually a little more), but I am miserable. I stay because I adore my co-workers, I love the company, and lets face it - I just don't want the hassle of going somewhere else. I can't lie, though, there have been days when I have left work at 7:30pm and headed to the El close to tears.
Thankfully, the days my career depression overwhelm me are few and far between. Nevertheless, every time I am having a horrible day...I see the same guy...a street musician with a beautiful voice.
I don't know his name, but I have come to the point where I know his sound before I even make it down the stairs. I have seen him on good days, but I always see him on the days where I have surrendered any hope of a positive attitude. For this, I am so thankful. He lifts my spirits and helps me put things in perspective. It's not even the songs he sings, but the way he sings them.
One of my favorite songs is Sam Cooke's "A Change is Gonna Come" - a song that carries a certain sadness, but brings a feeling of hope. My Subway Savior sings the song a bit more up-tempo, but with the same amazing soul and conviction that I love about the original. When he sings it as I wait - it touches my heart and allows me a moment of peace to reflect. It's almost as though just hearing him sing lifts the weight of my day off my shoulders. All of the noise and unpleasantries of the CTA disappear, and a sense of serenity overwhelms me when he is present.
I know there will be a day when I am feeling particularly down, and he will not be there on the subway platform, and that's ok. I may only know him as the man with the sweet voice and a guitar, but he has taken permanent residence in my memories - and when I think about the sincerety of the music he plays - I know it will make me smile.
Just because.....here is Sam Cooke...
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
The Bus Witch
Every morning, I catch a bus and take it almost a mile to the nearest subway stop - which I then take to work. Nearly every morning, I end up on the same bus and train as one of my favorite "Auxiliary characters" in the movie of my life.
I call her "The Bus Witch" (TBW) because she has strange growths all over her face and arms - similar to what comes to mind when you think of the wart on a witch's nose. They may be all over her body, I just haven't had the displeasure of seeing that much detail with my own eyes. Either way, I see her almost every day. She is an older woman, perhaps in her mid 50's. She has greying dark hair, which she pulls back with a barrette. She also has some of the most stunning facial hair I have ever seen on a woman. I'm not just talking a few stray dark hairs here and there...I am talking cop mustache. She does occasionally wax or shave, but I think she could pull off a convincing Burt Reynolds if she chose to do so. It appears as though she has a uniform of mom jeans, short sleeved muted Hawaiian shirts, and Keds. To recap: Warty growths, long grey hair, cop 'stache, tourist outfit (without fanny pack).
There are a lot of odd looking people on Chicago's public transit, but it is TBW's sense of urgency and panic that cause me to find her particularly interesting. If you know anything about Chicago buses during the morning rush hour, you know that they are ridiculously packed full of people. To liken my morning commute to being in a can of sardines is more telling than you will ever know unless you experience it first-hand. The smell is even similar. By the time the bus reaches my stop, I am lucky to get on. TBW gets on at the stop after me, so the bus is already filled to the gills (I am on a roll with the fish references). While many will try to squeeze on in an effort to get to work on time, TBW takes it to the next level.
She will cut in front of children, the elderly, hell- she would knock over a pregnant woman if that's what it took to make sure that she could get on the bus. It is extremely entertaining to watch from afar - though not as funny when you happen to be in her path of destruction. The woman shoves her way onto the bus, but it is not enough that she gets on...oh no. That would be too easy. Once she gains entrance, her main objective is to shove her way to the back exit. If she is not able to immediately take residence next to the back door, she becomes increasingly agitated with each stop closer to the subway.
Now, keep in mind that approximately 70% of the riders will exit the bus at the subway stop so there is little to no chance that a person would be unable to get off - even considering the crowd. I don't think that the concept registers with TBW. The woman will start to grunt and pace anxiously as she shoves anyone who proves to be an obstacle. If someone dare mention that everyone in front of them will also be exiting at the subway, she will shout "You don't know that!" "- and she will continue to heave herself towards the exit. I have watched her take down grown men in quest for the coveted standing position near the door.
I heart TBW because she is relentless in her pursuits, however bizarre they may be. She symbolizes so much more than than a nutball on a mission. She accomplishes her goal on a daily basis, and those that try to impede are left bruised and battered in her wake. I dig that kind of determination - but only because I know to get the hell out of her way.
I call her "The Bus Witch" (TBW) because she has strange growths all over her face and arms - similar to what comes to mind when you think of the wart on a witch's nose. They may be all over her body, I just haven't had the displeasure of seeing that much detail with my own eyes. Either way, I see her almost every day. She is an older woman, perhaps in her mid 50's. She has greying dark hair, which she pulls back with a barrette. She also has some of the most stunning facial hair I have ever seen on a woman. I'm not just talking a few stray dark hairs here and there...I am talking cop mustache. She does occasionally wax or shave, but I think she could pull off a convincing Burt Reynolds if she chose to do so. It appears as though she has a uniform of mom jeans, short sleeved muted Hawaiian shirts, and Keds. To recap: Warty growths, long grey hair, cop 'stache, tourist outfit (without fanny pack).
There are a lot of odd looking people on Chicago's public transit, but it is TBW's sense of urgency and panic that cause me to find her particularly interesting. If you know anything about Chicago buses during the morning rush hour, you know that they are ridiculously packed full of people. To liken my morning commute to being in a can of sardines is more telling than you will ever know unless you experience it first-hand. The smell is even similar. By the time the bus reaches my stop, I am lucky to get on. TBW gets on at the stop after me, so the bus is already filled to the gills (I am on a roll with the fish references). While many will try to squeeze on in an effort to get to work on time, TBW takes it to the next level.
She will cut in front of children, the elderly, hell- she would knock over a pregnant woman if that's what it took to make sure that she could get on the bus. It is extremely entertaining to watch from afar - though not as funny when you happen to be in her path of destruction. The woman shoves her way onto the bus, but it is not enough that she gets on...oh no. That would be too easy. Once she gains entrance, her main objective is to shove her way to the back exit. If she is not able to immediately take residence next to the back door, she becomes increasingly agitated with each stop closer to the subway.
Now, keep in mind that approximately 70% of the riders will exit the bus at the subway stop so there is little to no chance that a person would be unable to get off - even considering the crowd. I don't think that the concept registers with TBW. The woman will start to grunt and pace anxiously as she shoves anyone who proves to be an obstacle. If someone dare mention that everyone in front of them will also be exiting at the subway, she will shout "You don't know that!" "- and she will continue to heave herself towards the exit. I have watched her take down grown men in quest for the coveted standing position near the door.
I heart TBW because she is relentless in her pursuits, however bizarre they may be. She symbolizes so much more than than a nutball on a mission. She accomplishes her goal on a daily basis, and those that try to impede are left bruised and battered in her wake. I dig that kind of determination - but only because I know to get the hell out of her way.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
It's Hip to be square
So, I did it. I finally quit smoking. It's funny because I was always the girl at the bar with the cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I would drunkenly lament on how disgusting my habit was, while lighting up another menthol. I would even go so far as to chastise my friends with good enough sense to quit long before I ever would. I loved to smoke – but I hated the hold that it had taken over my life.
I had been talking for months about quitting. First, I stopped smoking in my apartment (besides the occasional cigarette-out-the-window) and liked that it helped me cut back. Then, about 3 weeks ago, I got sick. I spent a Sunday so hungover that I could barely move, followed by a Monday-Thursday of severe cold and sinus symptoms. It sucked, but I didn't smoke because of my sore throat.
After the fourth day of being sick and surviving my days in a haze of Thera-Flu and Day-Quil induced idiocy, I wanted a cigarette. I felt that craving crawl up my toes and through my fingers as I reached towards my purse for the familiar green box. I couldn't wait to feel the cool mentholated smoke curl around my tongue and vacuum its way into my lungs.
And then I stopped myself.
I found myself thinking, What if? It had been 4 days. What if I didn't have one? What could possibly happen? So I put down the box and curled up on the couch with my dog.
It felt good.
I am only on my 3rd week of not smoking, but I already feel like one of those non-smokers that I hated. I cringe at the smell of smoke on the sidewalk as I walk to my office from the El in the morning. I find myself thinking about how happy I am that it is no longer me stinking up a crowded elevator with the smell of stale cigarettes. I love that my hair doesn't stink. I like that I will no longer have to worry about paying 8 freaking dollars a pack in Chicago when I would inevitably run out of my suburban-purchased cartons.
I am not going to lie, there are days I miss my cigarettes immensely. When I leave work, I think about how it would be so calming to light one up. But then again, would it really calm me down? No. It's just a lie that we, as smokers, tell ourselves in order to rationalize our commitment to the addiction.
The weird thing is – quitting really isn't as hard as I thought it would be. It's only been 3 weeks and I feel better already. I feel liberated and proud that I could accomplish a task I feared for so long. The best part of it is – I know I can do this. It's done. No more smoking.
So long smoking buddies – no longer will I huddle with you shamed in the cold. No longer will I scour my purse for a lighter, cursing as I realize that I left it in my other coat pocket. I will meet you inside where it's warm – and I look forward to seeing you there.
I had been talking for months about quitting. First, I stopped smoking in my apartment (besides the occasional cigarette-out-the-window) and liked that it helped me cut back. Then, about 3 weeks ago, I got sick. I spent a Sunday so hungover that I could barely move, followed by a Monday-Thursday of severe cold and sinus symptoms. It sucked, but I didn't smoke because of my sore throat.
After the fourth day of being sick and surviving my days in a haze of Thera-Flu and Day-Quil induced idiocy, I wanted a cigarette. I felt that craving crawl up my toes and through my fingers as I reached towards my purse for the familiar green box. I couldn't wait to feel the cool mentholated smoke curl around my tongue and vacuum its way into my lungs.
And then I stopped myself.
I found myself thinking, What if? It had been 4 days. What if I didn't have one? What could possibly happen? So I put down the box and curled up on the couch with my dog.
It felt good.
I am only on my 3rd week of not smoking, but I already feel like one of those non-smokers that I hated. I cringe at the smell of smoke on the sidewalk as I walk to my office from the El in the morning. I find myself thinking about how happy I am that it is no longer me stinking up a crowded elevator with the smell of stale cigarettes. I love that my hair doesn't stink. I like that I will no longer have to worry about paying 8 freaking dollars a pack in Chicago when I would inevitably run out of my suburban-purchased cartons.
I am not going to lie, there are days I miss my cigarettes immensely. When I leave work, I think about how it would be so calming to light one up. But then again, would it really calm me down? No. It's just a lie that we, as smokers, tell ourselves in order to rationalize our commitment to the addiction.
The weird thing is – quitting really isn't as hard as I thought it would be. It's only been 3 weeks and I feel better already. I feel liberated and proud that I could accomplish a task I feared for so long. The best part of it is – I know I can do this. It's done. No more smoking.
So long smoking buddies – no longer will I huddle with you shamed in the cold. No longer will I scour my purse for a lighter, cursing as I realize that I left it in my other coat pocket. I will meet you inside where it's warm – and I look forward to seeing you there.
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
Happy Monday To Me
Well, friendly readers of my blog, I have lived in Chicago for over a year now. As you know, I love it. I am so much happier here than I was out in STC. And I believe I have talked about how great my neighborhood is in this very blog. You know...people actually say "hello" on my street and know eachother by name. I knew very few people at my townhouse in STC. Those I did know, didn't like me because of my determination to fight with the homeowners association. (THAT, my friends, is another long story)
Since my move, I , like many Chicagoans, have experienced my fair share of the homeless and sometimes mentally unstable people wandering the streets. Sometimes it's not so bad and other times a creepy guy follows you down the street demanding money in a not-so-friendly tone. I take the latter encounters with a grain of salt and a finger or two on the pepper spray.
Don't get me wrong, the homeless, in general, do not frighten me. Hell, even the obvious schizophrenics don't scare me. Most of the time, people ask me for money. Most of the time, I say no. In fact, I have a strict policy regarding "street charity." I will give you money if you provide a service. Plain and simple. You rockin' out on the street with a bucket and a stick? If I stop to listen and enjoy...you have entertained me. I'll throw you some $$. You hangin' outside the Walgreens while I walk my dog? You watch my dog for me while I run in and grab something, you have done me a huge favor. I will pay for that. You sit on a stoop and TELL me to give you money? Nah, I won't do it. You follow me into a store, YELLING at me? You better believe that you aren't getting anything but a nice healthy spray in the eyes. These type of encounters become a part of everyday life when you live in Chicago, I am fine with that.
It's actually kind of fun to have a little bit of nutty and smelly in your daily routine. Keeps you humble. In fact, several months ago, I encountered a homeless guy that made me smile. I was exiting off Lake Shore Drive at Wilson, and there was a guy on the ramp (go figure, right?) with a sign. Traffic was backed up, so I had plenty of time to check out this guy's schtick. He was smiling real wide (actaully beaming), and holding a cardboard sign, like many do. I couldn't see anything on the sign, and because of his enthusiasm, I was really curious to see what he had written. As I got a little closer, I noticed that there was nothing written at all. "Maybe he is confused and has his clever pitch written on the other side," I told my passenger. As we passed, I turned my head to look...and nope. Nothing on the other side of the cardboard either. He was SO happy, though. So proud of his sign that said nothing. I liked that guy.
Now, readers, I told you all of the above, basically to tell you about the experience I had yesterday. For those of you who don't know, I am a regular user of the Chicago CTA system. I like to mix it up with my route to work. Sometimes I take the bus, sometimes the red line, sometimes the brown line. Yesterday morning, I opted for the red line. Let me set it up for you;
If you are not familiar, here is what the red line looks like on the inside...
It was about 8:15 am when I boarded the train. I took a seat as I normally would, (Illustrated below)
and the train started moving. I started to read the Monday edition of the "Red Eye," when I heard the unmistakeable sound of "crazy old guy ranting." Oh, goody. Monday morning entertainment on the red line...again.
I looked up to see what I expected....well almost. It was a crazy old guy yelling, alright, but he was naked. Yep naked. Now, when I say naked, I don't mean wearing-a-trenchcoat-and-flashing-people-naked. I mean NAKED. Thankfully, he was on the oppsite end of the train car from me. (illustration below)
He began by telling passengers to "suck it" which was utterly repulsive. Some of the male passengers on the car snuck past him to push the "alert" button to get him off the car. At that point the train stopped and he sat down. At first, I was happy that he had sat and stopped yelling because it meant that for the time being, he wouldn't be coming (no pun intended) anywhere near me. But then, after quick reflection, I remembered that if one crazy naked old guy was sitting on the other side of the train, who was to say that another crazy naked old guy hadn't shared my seat. Eeew. (I usually try to avoid germy thoughts on the CTA, but it was kind of forced this time)
As the train started moving, crazy naked old guy got up again. He began yelling about how if we all wanted his money, we could take it. He then began to rip dollar bills in half and throw them at nearby passengers. (Where did he keep the dollar bills?) I averted my gaze to the floor at that time and did so for two reasons. 1. I didn't want to make accidental eye contact and possibly set him off further. 2. I had already seen enough old man nuts and berries. After he was done with that tangent, he told everyone that we we were assholes because we were from Chicago. He warned that if we were to go to Milwaukee, we would be decapitated. I took notes.
Milwaukee...decapitated...right. Thanks crazy naked old guy!
We finally stopped at a station platform and some passengers ushered crazy naked old guy off the train. I didn't see if he had anything with him. Seems like he would have. Best I can figure, he boarded the train with clothes on and de-robed mid-ride. Otherwise, why would other morning commuters have sat anywhere near him? Again, where would he have kept the money he tore up or his CTA card? I'm not sure if he was able to gather any belongings he may have had as he was lead off the train. I'm not sure what happened to him once he was standing naked on the platform. All I know is that I felt bad for the people standing out there with him, I felt relieved that he was no longer on the train with me, and I wondered silently about who would be the one to pick up the torn dollar bills.
I'm going to go wash my hands now. Again.
Since my move, I , like many Chicagoans, have experienced my fair share of the homeless and sometimes mentally unstable people wandering the streets. Sometimes it's not so bad and other times a creepy guy follows you down the street demanding money in a not-so-friendly tone. I take the latter encounters with a grain of salt and a finger or two on the pepper spray.
Don't get me wrong, the homeless, in general, do not frighten me. Hell, even the obvious schizophrenics don't scare me. Most of the time, people ask me for money. Most of the time, I say no. In fact, I have a strict policy regarding "street charity." I will give you money if you provide a service. Plain and simple. You rockin' out on the street with a bucket and a stick? If I stop to listen and enjoy...you have entertained me. I'll throw you some $$. You hangin' outside the Walgreens while I walk my dog? You watch my dog for me while I run in and grab something, you have done me a huge favor. I will pay for that. You sit on a stoop and TELL me to give you money? Nah, I won't do it. You follow me into a store, YELLING at me? You better believe that you aren't getting anything but a nice healthy spray in the eyes. These type of encounters become a part of everyday life when you live in Chicago, I am fine with that.
It's actually kind of fun to have a little bit of nutty and smelly in your daily routine. Keeps you humble. In fact, several months ago, I encountered a homeless guy that made me smile. I was exiting off Lake Shore Drive at Wilson, and there was a guy on the ramp (go figure, right?) with a sign. Traffic was backed up, so I had plenty of time to check out this guy's schtick. He was smiling real wide (actaully beaming), and holding a cardboard sign, like many do. I couldn't see anything on the sign, and because of his enthusiasm, I was really curious to see what he had written. As I got a little closer, I noticed that there was nothing written at all. "Maybe he is confused and has his clever pitch written on the other side," I told my passenger. As we passed, I turned my head to look...and nope. Nothing on the other side of the cardboard either. He was SO happy, though. So proud of his sign that said nothing. I liked that guy.
Now, readers, I told you all of the above, basically to tell you about the experience I had yesterday. For those of you who don't know, I am a regular user of the Chicago CTA system. I like to mix it up with my route to work. Sometimes I take the bus, sometimes the red line, sometimes the brown line. Yesterday morning, I opted for the red line. Let me set it up for you;
If you are not familiar, here is what the red line looks like on the inside...
It was about 8:15 am when I boarded the train. I took a seat as I normally would, (Illustrated below)
and the train started moving. I started to read the Monday edition of the "Red Eye," when I heard the unmistakeable sound of "crazy old guy ranting." Oh, goody. Monday morning entertainment on the red line...again.
I looked up to see what I expected....well almost. It was a crazy old guy yelling, alright, but he was naked. Yep naked. Now, when I say naked, I don't mean wearing-a-trenchcoat-and-flashing-people-naked. I mean NAKED. Thankfully, he was on the oppsite end of the train car from me. (illustration below)
He began by telling passengers to "suck it" which was utterly repulsive. Some of the male passengers on the car snuck past him to push the "alert" button to get him off the car. At that point the train stopped and he sat down. At first, I was happy that he had sat and stopped yelling because it meant that for the time being, he wouldn't be coming (no pun intended) anywhere near me. But then, after quick reflection, I remembered that if one crazy naked old guy was sitting on the other side of the train, who was to say that another crazy naked old guy hadn't shared my seat. Eeew. (I usually try to avoid germy thoughts on the CTA, but it was kind of forced this time)
As the train started moving, crazy naked old guy got up again. He began yelling about how if we all wanted his money, we could take it. He then began to rip dollar bills in half and throw them at nearby passengers. (Where did he keep the dollar bills?) I averted my gaze to the floor at that time and did so for two reasons. 1. I didn't want to make accidental eye contact and possibly set him off further. 2. I had already seen enough old man nuts and berries. After he was done with that tangent, he told everyone that we we were assholes because we were from Chicago. He warned that if we were to go to Milwaukee, we would be decapitated. I took notes.
Milwaukee...decapitated...right. Thanks crazy naked old guy!
We finally stopped at a station platform and some passengers ushered crazy naked old guy off the train. I didn't see if he had anything with him. Seems like he would have. Best I can figure, he boarded the train with clothes on and de-robed mid-ride. Otherwise, why would other morning commuters have sat anywhere near him? Again, where would he have kept the money he tore up or his CTA card? I'm not sure if he was able to gather any belongings he may have had as he was lead off the train. I'm not sure what happened to him once he was standing naked on the platform. All I know is that I felt bad for the people standing out there with him, I felt relieved that he was no longer on the train with me, and I wondered silently about who would be the one to pick up the torn dollar bills.
I'm going to go wash my hands now. Again.
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