How about a little ranting about the David Letterman Affair(s)?
The dude had some sex. Guys like sex. Women like sex. We all like sex. We also know that guys are inherently polygamous and women are inherently monogamous. So, to generalize, guys like sex with a variety of women, while women prefer to stick with one guy. Many guys grit their teeth and adhere to our society’s unrealistic expectations that they remain with one partner and others will do as they please, sexwise. This is why, even though women have been kept in positions of submission for much of history beginning with the Age of Aries (a couple thousand or so years before Christ), we are less pressured, sexwise. We aren’t as a rule driven, either by society or by our own hormones, to try to have sex with as many partners as possible.
However, guys are. Society not only excuses men’s “conquests”, it encourages them. Different occupations are held to different standards. Catholic priests are supposed to be indifferent to sex. Sports stars are expected to join the screw-a-thon early on. We expect conservatives to publicly scorn sex while sneaking thrills in the pissoir or a seedy hotel room; liberals are subjected to the usual eye-rolls when they let it all hang out. Famous people are analyzed and reported on in detail when they are caught or suspected of having any kind of sex – even marital – but if your mailman is shagging a sheep on his day off, who cares.
So, bearing all this in mind, do I judge David Letterman for having sex post-marriage with staff members? Can’t do it. For 99% of men, saying no thanks to an opportunity to have sex is like walking past a $50 bill lying on the sidewalk. We all know this, but for politeness’ sake we pretend we don’t, or that men can "change". Yes, there are exceptional partnered men who will turn down these opportunities because their brains kick in before the hormones make it through the bloodstream, but that's why we call them exceptional. It's not the favored scenario, but it might avoid a lot of stress and unnecessary drama if society accepted the fact that dudes are more alike than they are different. The mailman and Letterman both enjoy a roll in the hay.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
A One-Note Day
Have you ever noticed that there is a single theme running through your day? I had a day like that recently and the theme was my first instrument, the piano.
Early in the morning, a pianist approached me as I was busking at the Evanston Farmers’ Market. He asked if I had ever heard any Janáček piano music played on the accordion. I could imagine his Lachian Dances on the accordion, but no, I had never heard them played that way. Then we got into a conversation about Lachian vs. Valachian vs. Bohemian music and I guess he was sufficiently convinced that I was knowledgeable about the subject because he bought one of my Czech/Slovak CDs, even after I warned him that the music on it was nothing like Janáček’s.
After I was done playing at the market, I drove to Chicago's north side Lakewood-Balmoral neighborhood to cruise their yard sales. There is a program on our local classical station called Introductions, which I rarely listen to. I don't like it. But on this particular day I turned it on and left it on. I was rewarded with a workmanship-like student's rendition of Chopin's Ballade in A-flat, op. 47. For a Chopin junkie, this was like finding a wallet stuffed with bills sans ID on the sidewalk. Chopin wrote four Ballades: G-minor, op. 23; F-major, op. 38; the A-flat, op. 47 and F-minor, op. 52. Of the four, the A-flat is least often played, but it is my favorite (although one could argue that the F-minor is a more masterful composition).
Later on at a yard sale, I spied a 1959 program book from one of Artur Rubinstein’s concerts. He was my childhood hero, a Polish pianist who played Chopin with grace, sensitivity and technical prowess, but without mawkish sentimentality. It was only $1 so I grabbed it.
I mentioned that I was a Chopin junkie, which was true when I was a kid. In high school I discovered Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Poulenc, Mozart, Debussy, and in college, the greatest of them all, Johann Sebastian Bach. But for about five years, it was all Chopin, all the time. So I was thrilled to find a recent DVD about Chopin, called Pragnienie miłości (Desire for Love) at another yard sale. I considered it overpriced at $3, but I bought it anyway. For those not familiar with classical music, Chopin composed almost exclusively for the piano.
When I got home, I watched the movie. It was maudlin, and, if I were to give it a musical designation, it would be Andantino sappioso con molto saccharino. I detest cheap sentiment and the movie had it, in spades. But there was one scene that made me sit up, pump my fist and yell, “Yessssss!” During this scene, Chopin hears his valet Jan playing an *oberek on his fiddle. He immediately asks Jan to play it over, and he notates it as Jan plays. I’ve done that! I’ve been there! The most frustrating thing is hearing a great tune but not having either staff paper or a recording device handy. I can remember hurriedly scribbling five lines on a piece of scrap paper so I could take dictation on a song someone was singing. During the scene Chopin expands the little oberek on the piano and it morphs into his Mazurka in D major, op. 33 no. 1.
My accordion replaced the piano long ago but this day with its piano theme reminded me that if I hadn’t started playing the piano when I was five, I probably wouldn’t have developed the skills to learn to play the accordion in six months. Have any of you ever had a day like that?
*An oberek is a lively Polish dance in 3/8 time.
Early in the morning, a pianist approached me as I was busking at the Evanston Farmers’ Market. He asked if I had ever heard any Janáček piano music played on the accordion. I could imagine his Lachian Dances on the accordion, but no, I had never heard them played that way. Then we got into a conversation about Lachian vs. Valachian vs. Bohemian music and I guess he was sufficiently convinced that I was knowledgeable about the subject because he bought one of my Czech/Slovak CDs, even after I warned him that the music on it was nothing like Janáček’s.
After I was done playing at the market, I drove to Chicago's north side Lakewood-Balmoral neighborhood to cruise their yard sales. There is a program on our local classical station called Introductions, which I rarely listen to. I don't like it. But on this particular day I turned it on and left it on. I was rewarded with a workmanship-like student's rendition of Chopin's Ballade in A-flat, op. 47. For a Chopin junkie, this was like finding a wallet stuffed with bills sans ID on the sidewalk. Chopin wrote four Ballades: G-minor, op. 23; F-major, op. 38; the A-flat, op. 47 and F-minor, op. 52. Of the four, the A-flat is least often played, but it is my favorite (although one could argue that the F-minor is a more masterful composition).
Later on at a yard sale, I spied a 1959 program book from one of Artur Rubinstein’s concerts. He was my childhood hero, a Polish pianist who played Chopin with grace, sensitivity and technical prowess, but without mawkish sentimentality. It was only $1 so I grabbed it.
I mentioned that I was a Chopin junkie, which was true when I was a kid. In high school I discovered Dvořák, Rimsky-Korsakoff, Poulenc, Mozart, Debussy, and in college, the greatest of them all, Johann Sebastian Bach. But for about five years, it was all Chopin, all the time. So I was thrilled to find a recent DVD about Chopin, called Pragnienie miłości (Desire for Love) at another yard sale. I considered it overpriced at $3, but I bought it anyway. For those not familiar with classical music, Chopin composed almost exclusively for the piano.
When I got home, I watched the movie. It was maudlin, and, if I were to give it a musical designation, it would be Andantino sappioso con molto saccharino. I detest cheap sentiment and the movie had it, in spades. But there was one scene that made me sit up, pump my fist and yell, “Yessssss!” During this scene, Chopin hears his valet Jan playing an *oberek on his fiddle. He immediately asks Jan to play it over, and he notates it as Jan plays. I’ve done that! I’ve been there! The most frustrating thing is hearing a great tune but not having either staff paper or a recording device handy. I can remember hurriedly scribbling five lines on a piece of scrap paper so I could take dictation on a song someone was singing. During the scene Chopin expands the little oberek on the piano and it morphs into his Mazurka in D major, op. 33 no. 1.
My accordion replaced the piano long ago but this day with its piano theme reminded me that if I hadn’t started playing the piano when I was five, I probably wouldn’t have developed the skills to learn to play the accordion in six months. Have any of you ever had a day like that?
*An oberek is a lively Polish dance in 3/8 time.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Tollway Adventure
I admit it: I can be a very annoying person. For the reader’s edification, I will now dissect one particularly irksome aspect of my personality and trace an infuriating habit back to its source.
I refuse to buy an I-pass. For those of you who live outside Illinois, an I-pass is a transponder which allows you to drive on the tollway without stopping. In order to buy an I-pass, you have to submit your credit card number so funds can be charged to it, and you also have to give them your driver’s license number. The Cynic-At-Large smelled a burgeoning surveillance tactic, so I said no thanks. They didn't have I-passes when the following incident occured, and if it had not happened I may not have awakened my Inner Cynic in the first place and bought the darn I-pass.
Several years ago, as I was stopped at an automatic toll booth I threw in the required amount of money but the gate wouldn’t rise, even when I treated the receptacle to a few extra, undeserved coins. I had to back up, go to a manned booth two lanes over and explain to the agent that I put my money in but it wasn’t registering and the gate stayed down. The amount at the time was $.50. The agent all but accused me of lying, saying, “How do I know you put the money in? You can't prove it.”
Riiiiiiiight.
Like I was going to go to all that trouble for 50 cents. On the other hand, I was stuck and I needed to get where I was going before Alzheimer’s set in.
So I gave the jerk five dimes and demanded a receipt.
Now when I drive on the tollway, I always go to a manned booth, pay my tolls in nickels and dimes, and ask for a receipt, just in case The Man isn't absolutely positive I paid.
Just wanted to explain why you're stuck behind my car on the tollway. Now you know.
I refuse to buy an I-pass. For those of you who live outside Illinois, an I-pass is a transponder which allows you to drive on the tollway without stopping. In order to buy an I-pass, you have to submit your credit card number so funds can be charged to it, and you also have to give them your driver’s license number. The Cynic-At-Large smelled a burgeoning surveillance tactic, so I said no thanks. They didn't have I-passes when the following incident occured, and if it had not happened I may not have awakened my Inner Cynic in the first place and bought the darn I-pass.
Several years ago, as I was stopped at an automatic toll booth I threw in the required amount of money but the gate wouldn’t rise, even when I treated the receptacle to a few extra, undeserved coins. I had to back up, go to a manned booth two lanes over and explain to the agent that I put my money in but it wasn’t registering and the gate stayed down. The amount at the time was $.50. The agent all but accused me of lying, saying, “How do I know you put the money in? You can't prove it.”
Riiiiiiiight.
Like I was going to go to all that trouble for 50 cents. On the other hand, I was stuck and I needed to get where I was going before Alzheimer’s set in.
So I gave the jerk five dimes and demanded a receipt.
Now when I drive on the tollway, I always go to a manned booth, pay my tolls in nickels and dimes, and ask for a receipt, just in case The Man isn't absolutely positive I paid.
Just wanted to explain why you're stuck behind my car on the tollway. Now you know.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Pay it Forward!
Pay it Forward. It’s the title of a forgettable movie starring an irritating kid whom the studio tried to make precious and cute, and failed. However, the fact that I couldn’t sit through the entire film in no way negates the message. The idea of “pay it forward” is valid and I was its recipient, then donor. Here’s the story.
A couple weeks ago I stopped in at one of my favorite second-hand stores, Someone’s Treasure at 5604 W. Belmont Ave. in Chicago. If you want to call them to ask if they have that chartreuse sweater or black bowler hat you’ve been searching for, their phone number is 773-481-5911. They’re a fairly new business, opened in the last couple years or so. The place is neatly arranged, items are tastefully displayed and everything is immaculate. The place is filled with good vibes. The owners are the kind of people you would hope will succeed: intelligent, amiable and helpful.
I found a beautiful green vase decorated with gold trim and pink ceramic flowers. It matches some glassware that I bought years ago in Slovakia. Someone's Treasure was having a 30% off sale, and that vase, easily worth $50, was marked at $3.85 (plus Chicago's hideous 10.25% sales tax). I grabbed it. As I paid, I was digging through my change looking for a quarter. The woman behind me slapped a quarter on the counter. “Here.” The Cynic At Large joked with a smile, “You must really want me out of here!” “No,” replied the kind lady, “pay it forward.”
Wow!
The opportunity arose a week later. A loyal patron of the restaurant I play at, Klas in Cicero, had planned to have his birthday celebration there on the following Sunday. He asked if I would be playing that day and I said no, I wasn’t scheduled. He was obviously disappointed, but after he left I began thinking about “paying it forward.” I checked my calendar for the date and time of his party; I had nothing else to do that evening except watch The Simpsons.
Uh-oh.
However, when I weighed the pros for the party: nice guy, good customer, always thanks me for playing his favorite tunes; against the con: missing two Simpsons episodes I had already seen, Klas won the battle. Without mentioning it to anyone but the manager, I scheduled myself to play for the party. Even though it was not to be a paid performance (like all professional musicians I charge a fee to play for parties), in the long run it wouldn’t make me or break me to "pay it forward" this one time.
I showed up about 10 minutes before the party and surprised the gentleman with “Happy Birthday” as he and his family walked in. I played all his favorite songs and got plenty of applause. But the cherry on top of the soda was that somebody tipped me a C-note!
Swisssshhhhh!
So, did "pay it forward" ultimately result in a big tip? Not exactly. The idea behind "pay it forward" is that someone knows you did something nice, so they do something nice and it becomes a domino effect of good deeds. Sort of like a chain e-mail, but without the accompanying emotions of fear and greed. If I hadn’t been inspired by the nice lady who parted with that quarter out of her own kindness, I may not have thought of volunteering to play for the party. However, the diners at the party didn't know that I was volunteering; for all they knew I was being paid by the restaurant. So the tip itself was really more an example of "what comes around, goes around" (see my earlier post about the Silver Certificate: http://psychicaccordionist.blogspot.com/2009/04/what-goes-aound.html). For a good deed to continue the "pay it forward" chain, someone would have to be aware that it was a gift.
Whatever. I'm still glad I stopped in at Someone's Treasure. At the least, I got a valuable piece of glassware, a good story to tell, and I took advantage of the opportunity to "pay it forward" - albeit semi-anonymously - myself.
A couple weeks ago I stopped in at one of my favorite second-hand stores, Someone’s Treasure at 5604 W. Belmont Ave. in Chicago. If you want to call them to ask if they have that chartreuse sweater or black bowler hat you’ve been searching for, their phone number is 773-481-5911. They’re a fairly new business, opened in the last couple years or so. The place is neatly arranged, items are tastefully displayed and everything is immaculate. The place is filled with good vibes. The owners are the kind of people you would hope will succeed: intelligent, amiable and helpful.
I found a beautiful green vase decorated with gold trim and pink ceramic flowers. It matches some glassware that I bought years ago in Slovakia. Someone's Treasure was having a 30% off sale, and that vase, easily worth $50, was marked at $3.85 (plus Chicago's hideous 10.25% sales tax). I grabbed it. As I paid, I was digging through my change looking for a quarter. The woman behind me slapped a quarter on the counter. “Here.” The Cynic At Large joked with a smile, “You must really want me out of here!” “No,” replied the kind lady, “pay it forward.”
Wow!
The opportunity arose a week later. A loyal patron of the restaurant I play at, Klas in Cicero, had planned to have his birthday celebration there on the following Sunday. He asked if I would be playing that day and I said no, I wasn’t scheduled. He was obviously disappointed, but after he left I began thinking about “paying it forward.” I checked my calendar for the date and time of his party; I had nothing else to do that evening except watch The Simpsons.
Uh-oh.
However, when I weighed the pros for the party: nice guy, good customer, always thanks me for playing his favorite tunes; against the con: missing two Simpsons episodes I had already seen, Klas won the battle. Without mentioning it to anyone but the manager, I scheduled myself to play for the party. Even though it was not to be a paid performance (like all professional musicians I charge a fee to play for parties), in the long run it wouldn’t make me or break me to "pay it forward" this one time.
I showed up about 10 minutes before the party and surprised the gentleman with “Happy Birthday” as he and his family walked in. I played all his favorite songs and got plenty of applause. But the cherry on top of the soda was that somebody tipped me a C-note!
Swisssshhhhh!
So, did "pay it forward" ultimately result in a big tip? Not exactly. The idea behind "pay it forward" is that someone knows you did something nice, so they do something nice and it becomes a domino effect of good deeds. Sort of like a chain e-mail, but without the accompanying emotions of fear and greed. If I hadn’t been inspired by the nice lady who parted with that quarter out of her own kindness, I may not have thought of volunteering to play for the party. However, the diners at the party didn't know that I was volunteering; for all they knew I was being paid by the restaurant. So the tip itself was really more an example of "what comes around, goes around" (see my earlier post about the Silver Certificate: http://psychicaccordionist.blogspot.com/2009/04/what-goes-aound.html). For a good deed to continue the "pay it forward" chain, someone would have to be aware that it was a gift.
Whatever. I'm still glad I stopped in at Someone's Treasure. At the least, I got a valuable piece of glassware, a good story to tell, and I took advantage of the opportunity to "pay it forward" - albeit semi-anonymously - myself.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Road Rage on the Lovely North Side
One forum where annoyed drivers, pedestrians and bikers can kvetch with impunity is Platewire (http://www.platewire.com/). I registered with them a couple years ago so I could vent about the behemoth in the SUV who road-raged me on Berteau Street when I dared bike the right way down a one-way street rather than taking a wider (but wrong-way) side street, or sissying along the sidewalk. That’s all ancient history and that huge blob with the purple face and the big pulsating vein in his neck is probably all dead and buried by now. There was another incident this morning so I crashed their site again and hastily put it on. They warned us posters that we had only 20 minutes to come up with our masterpieces, otherwise we’d have to log in again.
Not wanting to have to remember my password (“Is it ‘swordfish’?”) a second time, I decided to cover my bases by posting an additional and twice as sizzling rant right here.
It was 7:44 a.m. and I had just crossed Keeler Avenue northbound at Irving Park Road. It’s not a nice intersection. This is where the Kennedy Expressway feeder ramp is, and if you don’t mind your P’s and Q’s you could end up an ex-human. Getting across Irving and past the diagonal lane that feeds into Keeler just north of Irving is cause to make sure you’re wearing a helmet and your will is up to date.
So here I am, carefully making my way down a short but nasty stretch of Keeler, and there, right in the diagonal, blocking my access to safely cross the street was Mister X61 9421. Normally I would not post the license plate of an offender, but he was committing – in my opinion – the Number One Sin of the road. He. Was. On. A. Hand. Held. Cell. Phone. While driving. At a dangerous intersection. He was so engrossed in his call he didn’t notice that there were about three feet of space behind him into which he could have safely backed up, thus allowing me more than the sliver of bumpy road, broken glass and pigeon droppings in which to maneuver my bike between him and the passing cars on Keeler.
I got off my bike and slowly walked it right in front of him. I don’t think he noticed me giving him a pointed look, then giving his license plate a pointed look. Then back to him, then again peering at his license plate and writing in a notebook with a very serious expression on my face.
So, Mister X61 9421, what was so gosh-darned important? What were you blabbing about on that phone of yours before 8 a.m.? Lindsay Lohan’s latest romance? Joan vs. Bette? Boxers or briefs? Were you using that phone as an emotional outlet when you should have been paying attention to the road? I’ll tell you what, Mister X61 9421, Joan vs. Bette or that can’t-wait business deal just doesn’t seem so important when some kid’s body is flying up against your windshield.
Not wanting to have to remember my password (“Is it ‘swordfish’?”) a second time, I decided to cover my bases by posting an additional and twice as sizzling rant right here.
It was 7:44 a.m. and I had just crossed Keeler Avenue northbound at Irving Park Road. It’s not a nice intersection. This is where the Kennedy Expressway feeder ramp is, and if you don’t mind your P’s and Q’s you could end up an ex-human. Getting across Irving and past the diagonal lane that feeds into Keeler just north of Irving is cause to make sure you’re wearing a helmet and your will is up to date.
So here I am, carefully making my way down a short but nasty stretch of Keeler, and there, right in the diagonal, blocking my access to safely cross the street was Mister X61 9421. Normally I would not post the license plate of an offender, but he was committing – in my opinion – the Number One Sin of the road. He. Was. On. A. Hand. Held. Cell. Phone. While driving. At a dangerous intersection. He was so engrossed in his call he didn’t notice that there were about three feet of space behind him into which he could have safely backed up, thus allowing me more than the sliver of bumpy road, broken glass and pigeon droppings in which to maneuver my bike between him and the passing cars on Keeler.
I got off my bike and slowly walked it right in front of him. I don’t think he noticed me giving him a pointed look, then giving his license plate a pointed look. Then back to him, then again peering at his license plate and writing in a notebook with a very serious expression on my face.
So, Mister X61 9421, what was so gosh-darned important? What were you blabbing about on that phone of yours before 8 a.m.? Lindsay Lohan’s latest romance? Joan vs. Bette? Boxers or briefs? Were you using that phone as an emotional outlet when you should have been paying attention to the road? I’ll tell you what, Mister X61 9421, Joan vs. Bette or that can’t-wait business deal just doesn’t seem so important when some kid’s body is flying up against your windshield.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Meters in a Strip Mall? Tres Chic!
I recently observed that parking meters have been installed in a strip mall in Chicago. The location: the south side of Lawrence Avenue at Oakley. This mall is home to a video store, a pizza joint, a Bosnian restaurant, a convenience store and a nail salon along with a couple other small establishments. A dollar store used to anchor the place, but it’s gone now. There’s a huge “For Rent” sign that has “DESPERATE” written all over it.
Gee, ya think drivers are going to patronize those businesses if they have to fork over a quarter for every 15 minutes? What about those talons that aren’t quite dry when the meter runs out? Are your claws worth a $50 ticket? That’s $10 a nail, not counting fees and tips. I don’t know, I’d rather paint my nails myself or get them done someplace I can walk or bike to.
The point of strip malls is that sure, they’re ugly, but they’re convenient. You eat lunch at the Bosnian restaurant, then stop in next door for a manicure. Then you notice the video store, and you just gotta have the latest version of Jackass, so you go and spend a few bucks there. All of this commerce supposedly takes place while you’re not obsessing about how many seconds are left on your parking meter.
BTW, here's an excellent blog you should visit to get valuable info on this subject: http://theexpiredmeter.com/
If you live within walking distance, a strip mall is just another blight on your ’hood. At least it’s not as offensive as gang tags on light poles and overflowing garbage cans. But if you come from some distance away and have to drive, you take a look at those meters and move on. Nothing to see here, folks.
Gee, ya think drivers are going to patronize those businesses if they have to fork over a quarter for every 15 minutes? What about those talons that aren’t quite dry when the meter runs out? Are your claws worth a $50 ticket? That’s $10 a nail, not counting fees and tips. I don’t know, I’d rather paint my nails myself or get them done someplace I can walk or bike to.
The point of strip malls is that sure, they’re ugly, but they’re convenient. You eat lunch at the Bosnian restaurant, then stop in next door for a manicure. Then you notice the video store, and you just gotta have the latest version of Jackass, so you go and spend a few bucks there. All of this commerce supposedly takes place while you’re not obsessing about how many seconds are left on your parking meter.
BTW, here's an excellent blog you should visit to get valuable info on this subject: http://theexpiredmeter.com/
If you live within walking distance, a strip mall is just another blight on your ’hood. At least it’s not as offensive as gang tags on light poles and overflowing garbage cans. But if you come from some distance away and have to drive, you take a look at those meters and move on. Nothing to see here, folks.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Don't...Park...HERE!
Recently the rates on Chicago’s parking meters were jacked up and new meters were installed where previously there had been none. Most citizens are not pleased with this exciting new development and some of the more cynical residents of this great city suspect that there must be secret plans to funnel the anticipated increased revenue into an Olympics-related slush fund.
Over the last 20 years, finding free, legal parking in Chicago has gradually become akin to locating a website without pop-up ads. Since permit parking zones were first instituted decades ago, they have become a cancer, metastasizing throughout Chicago's neighborhoods. This writer has no issue with such zones, as long as 1) there is a preponderance of senior citizens and/or handicapped individuals who need to park close to their homes and 2) more than three quarters of the housing stock is apartment buildings without garages. However, you can now find permit parking on streets occupied by mainly single-family homes with garages. Don’t whine that restricted parking is needed because there’s shopping nearby, or a train station, or a Dairy Queen. These permit parking zones are not necessary. The aldermen simper, “But more than 50% of our residents want them.” Aldermen – and women – get a clue. If more than 50% of your children asked to be served ice cream for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert, would you cede to their wishes? Sometimes you have to be smarter than your constituents and this is one of those times. Using garages for the purpose for which they were originally designed will solve the problem of residents not being able to find parking. Not meaning to insinuate that many garages are so full of crap that getting a car in there is harder than pulling a camel through the eye of a needle, of course.
That is my rant about permit parking, and it may be recycled later in this blog. For now, I would like to offer a nightmarish scenario as to where Chicago seems to be headed, getting-around-wise.
Now that LAZ Parking has done such a brilliant job of taking over our parking meters, let’s figure out some other ways to inconvenience and stealth-tax our drivers. How about installing 24-hour meters on the residential side streets, in the alleys and on the shoulders of the expressways. Those neighborhoods that are too blighted to merit meters (and where the installers would likely get mugged trying) can be permit parking only. Make sure that there is a hefty fee for the yearly – make that monthly – permit that the residents can’t afford.
Now that all streets are either metered or permit, let’s tackle the private garages. To enter his or her garage, an owner will be required to deposit a $10 bill, which will then be whisked into a secret Olympics 2016 fund. To exit the garage, come up with another $10. Stopping with drivers is for sissies. To make sure as many people are inconvenienced as possible, slash service on the CTA. Cut bus routes and hours of operation, and don’t forget to raise fares. To obtain one of those convenient “Chicago Cards”, require citizens to submit their Social Security Numbers and all bank/brokerage/credit card account info. Then eliminate payment by cash or regular fare card.
Let’s start licensing bike riders. The fees from all those licenses will help fund a new Olympic event, the “pothole slalom” and before you can say “Lance Armstrong” it’ll cost you to get around by bike. Finally, don’t spare the pedestrians. Set up a toll booth at every intersection. To cross any street, charge a toll of $5 per leg. To show that this is really a compassionate city, give any amputees a 5% discount, but make it exact change only, otherwise no deal.
If considering the above makes you crave copious quantities of alcohol, look on the bright side. Thousands of jobs in surveillance, security and law enforcement will be created. And won't it impress the Olympic Committee to be able to claim that our unemployment rate has gone from 10% to less than 3%?
Over the last 20 years, finding free, legal parking in Chicago has gradually become akin to locating a website without pop-up ads. Since permit parking zones were first instituted decades ago, they have become a cancer, metastasizing throughout Chicago's neighborhoods. This writer has no issue with such zones, as long as 1) there is a preponderance of senior citizens and/or handicapped individuals who need to park close to their homes and 2) more than three quarters of the housing stock is apartment buildings without garages. However, you can now find permit parking on streets occupied by mainly single-family homes with garages. Don’t whine that restricted parking is needed because there’s shopping nearby, or a train station, or a Dairy Queen. These permit parking zones are not necessary. The aldermen simper, “But more than 50% of our residents want them.” Aldermen – and women – get a clue. If more than 50% of your children asked to be served ice cream for breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert, would you cede to their wishes? Sometimes you have to be smarter than your constituents and this is one of those times. Using garages for the purpose for which they were originally designed will solve the problem of residents not being able to find parking. Not meaning to insinuate that many garages are so full of crap that getting a car in there is harder than pulling a camel through the eye of a needle, of course.
That is my rant about permit parking, and it may be recycled later in this blog. For now, I would like to offer a nightmarish scenario as to where Chicago seems to be headed, getting-around-wise.
Now that LAZ Parking has done such a brilliant job of taking over our parking meters, let’s figure out some other ways to inconvenience and stealth-tax our drivers. How about installing 24-hour meters on the residential side streets, in the alleys and on the shoulders of the expressways. Those neighborhoods that are too blighted to merit meters (and where the installers would likely get mugged trying) can be permit parking only. Make sure that there is a hefty fee for the yearly – make that monthly – permit that the residents can’t afford.
Now that all streets are either metered or permit, let’s tackle the private garages. To enter his or her garage, an owner will be required to deposit a $10 bill, which will then be whisked into a secret Olympics 2016 fund. To exit the garage, come up with another $10. Stopping with drivers is for sissies. To make sure as many people are inconvenienced as possible, slash service on the CTA. Cut bus routes and hours of operation, and don’t forget to raise fares. To obtain one of those convenient “Chicago Cards”, require citizens to submit their Social Security Numbers and all bank/brokerage/credit card account info. Then eliminate payment by cash or regular fare card.
Let’s start licensing bike riders. The fees from all those licenses will help fund a new Olympic event, the “pothole slalom” and before you can say “Lance Armstrong” it’ll cost you to get around by bike. Finally, don’t spare the pedestrians. Set up a toll booth at every intersection. To cross any street, charge a toll of $5 per leg. To show that this is really a compassionate city, give any amputees a 5% discount, but make it exact change only, otherwise no deal.
If considering the above makes you crave copious quantities of alcohol, look on the bright side. Thousands of jobs in surveillance, security and law enforcement will be created. And won't it impress the Olympic Committee to be able to claim that our unemployment rate has gone from 10% to less than 3%?
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