May 09, 2008

CTA to Downtown Chicago: "Drop Dead"

-Posted in Getting Around

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(Photo: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice....)


It's really hard to try and prove a point about the worth of public transit when your local public-transit agency just keeps spitting in your face. I know, I swore I'd lay off the ranting. But a return to its former boneheadedness on the part of the Chicago Transit Authority has got me rocking back on my heels once again.

There will be no 'L' service in the entire eastern half of downtown Chicago on nights and weekends for the rest of 2008.

Read it and weep not only in the CTA Tattler link, above, but on the CTA press releases page, too.

I guess that meeting with transit advocates earlier this spring where you professed to take the needs of residents seriously into account when reroutes are scheduled didn't mean much did it, oh CTA honcho Ron Huberman?

(Again, see CTA Tattler for more of Huberman's once hopefully isolated missteps in his first year at the helm of the CTA).

Because of rail and signal renewal on the Loop elevated tracks there will be no 'L' service on Lake Street or Wabash Avenue every night and every weekend until December.

But to make matters worse, the Red Line subway track work reroutes to the Loop 'L' on nights and weekends continue.

And with Lake and Wabash legs of the Loop 'L' out during the same times, the Red Line will be shunted to Wells and Van Buren. And that means:

There will be no 'L' service in the entire eastern half of downtown Chicago on nights and weekends for the rest of 2008.

Did you get that? Seriously understand the implications of that? As in, the tens of thousands of residents of River North and the Loop will have absolutely no CTA train service east of Franklin (in River North) and east of Dearborn (in the Loop) evenings and weekends for the rest of the year.

As in, every single evening and weekend without a break? You know people live, work, play down here right? Thousands of them. You do live in this city too, Ron, right?

And not just downtown residents trying to get into or out of their now transit-desert neighborhoods. But how about visitors from other nabes and towns trying to get home from a night out in the Loop on a weekday, or trying to get into it at all on the weekend?

Oh, and did I mention no shuttle buses in the Loop? I hope everyone Loop-bound knows the local bus system well, because you know if the CTA is set on screwing downtown dwellers, workers, and visitors to this extent, you probably shouldn't count on them getting any of their diversion signage right, either.

If ever there were a moment when I felt like dropping my lifelong opposition to learning how to drive, here it is. At this point, if I had the means to get a car and the mojo to go get my license, I would dump the CTA.

If this is the best project staging the CTA and its leadership can come up with during the height of the year in downtown Chicago, they obviously don't:

a.) Stand up to their word; or
b.) Deserve my trust.

This year is also a pivotal year for me. I have the opportunity to trade my residence in downtown Chicago for digs in another Chicago neighborhood or possibly (horrors) a close-in suburb this summer. I have a feeling the CTA just made my decision for me.

I don't know what kind of curse hangs over the CTA that, whoever is at the helm and no matter what it promises to the public, the agency just adores to keep dipping its toe over and over again into the great and awful sea of customer unfriendliness. But if there's a goat riding around the system somewhere wearing a Cubs cap or a jersey bearing the face of Bartman, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

Good luck in Springfield looking for those capital funds, Ron. Ordinarily, I'd love to be standing there behind you with a banner. But I think I'll be at the DMV that day.

April 28, 2008

Ode to Sopa à Alentejana

-Posted in Food and Drink

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(Photo: Can I have some soup with my garlic, please? Credit: Glória Fácil.)


As a follow-up to yesterday's post on nowness, indeed, I did go shopping for dinner, after all. If there's anything I regret about my move to Chicago, it's that unlike my NYC hometown, we don't have any Portuguese restaurants in the Windy City.

No, oh no, all those Brazilian steakhouses in town just don't count. And, dammit, I was in the mood for Sopa à Alentejana, or Portugal's incredible Alentejan garlic-cilantro soup.

So off I went on a 30-minute that turned into 90-minute supermarket sweep of River North (I told you we ADDers can't estimate time). And then I went home and created the meal that I just finished my second day--and the other half of my bottle of Vinho Verde--enjoying.

Regular readers will remember my love for another quirky soup, the equally garlicky Korean kimchi chigae. Either one of these soups is heaven on a chilly day. But Sopa à Alentejana and I have a history.

On the first day of my first trip to Lisbon in fall 2000, my Luso buddy Jose (and please pronounce that "J", he is not a Spaniard) and I found ourselves hungry for lunch on the Rua da Sé in the Alfama. We ended up in a teeny tasca with half a dozen tables and a marked lack of non-locals. Jose suggested Amêijoas à Bulhão Pato, the garlicky clam dish that would become our afternoon staple across the city of seven hills.

But what to start with? Jose ordered Sopa à Alentejana. I asked him whether he thought I'd like it. He shook his head and told me tourists never go near the stuff, but I've never met a clove of garlic I didn't like.

So we ordered whole a tureen, along with the clams and a bottle of Vinho Verde (Portugal's answer to Prosecco). And Jose and the waiter both stared in shock and admiration as I barely came up for air. It was like sex in soup form, and oh my, the Vinho Verde just made me want to pull a privacy curtain around the table.

Did I mention the poached egg and day-old bread floating in the pungently green broth?

Unfortunately, Vinho Verde is as seductive as Sopa à Alentejana. I never saw the second bottle coming. I felt its effects, though, when we met Zay's parents for dinner at a terrace restaurant in their west-suburban town of Parede. We had Sapateiro, or Portuguese hard-shell crab. With mallets. Lots of mallets. All going at once. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer.

I put my hungover head down and went to my happy place.

Yesterday, that happy place was my apartment, which I turned into my personal Portuguese restaurant for one. I paired the soup with another Portuguese favorite, Bacalhau à Brás, or codfish with scrambled eggs and fried potatoes. I was out on a limb there, usually I stick with making yummy Pastéis de Bacalhau (fried salt-codfish balls), but I was in an adventurous mood.

If I had had time to make Pastéis de Nata (Portuguese custard tarts), I'd never have left the house this morning.

I know most of you probably aren't intrigued by garlic soup or salt cod. Good, more for me. Those who are, however, can find a fine Bacalhau à Brás recipe at the wonderful Leite's Culinaria.

Unless you can read Portuguese, though, the above Sopa à Alentejana link won't do you much good. Just mash up (or process) a bunch of cilantro, a few cloves of garlic, half a cup or so of extra virgin olive oil, and a teaspoon of salt. Put a tablesoon of the paste in a bowl, pour in hot water or chicken broth (I prefer the broth), and drop in a poached egg and some hard bread.

But if you pair it with Vinho Verde, don't complain to me if you're not heard from until morning.

April 27, 2008

The Tyranny of Now and Not Now

-Posted in ADD & Me

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(Photo: Spinning, spinning, getting nowhere. Me and the Mad Tea Party, Disneyland.)


I'm willing to bet money the Mad Hatter had Attention Deficit Disorder. Anyone who's eternally "late for a very important date" definitely has issues with time management, one of the major symptoms of ADD.

It's very often said that ADDers have only two concepts of time: Now; and Not Now. Everything pressing needs done now. Anything unimportant gets filed under not now--which, for a person with ADD, often means never.

When your neurological wiring makes you obsessed with the present moment, it's awfully hard to conceive of the flow of time, from past to present to future. And if you can't conceive of time, you can't mange it either.

Boy, can that make life a pain in the ass.

But it's a good explanation for why I always want to do everything, well, now. Not in a few minutes. Not tomorrow. Not next week (God forbid, how will I ever remember anything that far in advance?) But this very, certain, absolute, right now, can't come soon enough second.

For example, at this very moment, I want to:

--See my boyfriend;
--Go to the Botanic Garden;
--Draft my consulting collaterals;
--Go shopping at the Brown Elephant;
--Visit the Oriental Institute; and
--Eat another cookie or three.

Oh, where to start. Meanwhile, whatever I do start runs the persistent risk of falling out of the present moment and into the nether realm of not now, that far-away land that lives at the periphery of my attention span populated by broken plans and governed by Emperor Procrastination.

I send visitors there so frequently, I should get a travel agent commission, or at least a nice basket of fruit that I can misplace.

I mean, it's hard enough for me to pin myself down to make plans with others and follow through, or stay on task. But God forbid I see something shiny on my way out the door or remember some other unfinished task that triggers my distractibility (another of the annoying hallmarks of ADD). Then, like magic, my new momentary obsession takes up residence in my right now and sends my formerly pressing plans on a one-way trip to later if ever.

Probably never. Unless I remember. Could be a strong maybe if I actually wrote it down before I forgot.

Terrible time management certainly makes life interesting with an ADDer. Honestly, sometimes you never know whether we're coming or going. (Mind you, nor do we, sometimes). But it can also drive our loved ones absolutely. Up. A. Wall.

The best advice for friends and family of time-challenged ADDers that I've found so far comes from the blog of a spouse of a fellow ADDer: do what you want, don't worry about your ADD loved one--you'll cross paths when it really matters.

In other words, I'm eating those cookies, blogging pushed out my collaterals again, I wonder when the Brown Elephant closes on a Sunday, the Oriental Institute is gonna close if I don't leave now, maybe I won't, wait do I still have time to run to Hyde Park anyway since I also want to go to Powell's, what am I making for dinner, God it's gonna take forever to run up to Trader Joe's, wait maybe it won't. I don't know. (Notice how the list morphed?)

I'm exhausted.

Chris will still be there when I'm done. As you might imagine, he's resting right now.

April 22, 2008

The Best Part About Having ADD

-Posted in ADD & Me | Backstory

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(Photo: Sometimes the roof has to cave in before you can finally see blue sky. The Igreja do Carmo, Lisbon, Portugal.)


When is a neurological disorder a gift? The answer to that depends on whom you ask. If you asked me a few weeks ago, I'd have said never--and why are you asking me such a silly question, anyway?

If you asked Dr. Edward Hallowell, the country's leading author on Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), you'd get a different answer. For Hallowell, ADD (well, technically ADHD ever since the DSM-IV threw hyperactivity into the acronym) is better off seen as a gift for those who have it. I'm not entirely sure if that’s comforting, especially for those who don't learn they have ADD until long into adulthood.

Like me, for example.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. A lot of people write off ADD as a mythical disorder, or one that only afflicts children and somehow magically disappears in adulthood. Neither is true, of course (as Hallowell would say, there is no "adult-onset" ADD). Trouble is, the differences that mark an ADDer's brain and behaviors can be hard to fathom for those unfamiliar with the condition.

ADDitude Magazine, a great ADD resource, offers a lot of detailed information about what ADD is, including a FAQ, a checklist of symptoms, and answers to common misperceptions about the condition.

But the simple gist of ADD is a brain that is "hardwired" differently than normal. Due to specific physical differences in an ADDer's brain that affect the way dopamine and other neurotransmitters are used, when someone with ADD tries to perform tasks involving attention, prioritization, or judgment, the parts of their brain that govern such tasks shut down from the overload--tune out, if you will. As a result, inattentiveness, hyperactivity (or fidgeting and restlessness in adults), and impulsive behavior take over.

Among the things ADDers find it hard to do without some form of external assistance: pay attention to uninteresting tasks; fight distraction; fight forgetfulness; correctly understand and manage time; assign priorities; follow through on tasks; fight procrastination; and censor their initial impulses to speak or act.

That takes a toll on happiness and success. It's a common mantra in ADD circles (and I've certainly heard it throughout my life) that those with the disorder are always told to "try harder" because they're not fulfilling their potential. And they aren't, of course.

But it's not a lack of effort that keeps many ADDers from getting ahead in life, it's actual inability to perform specific tasks due to the way their brains work, especially if, like most people with ADD, they don't know they even have the condition. Telling someone with ADD to "try harder" is like telling a nearsighted person to "squint harder": it's not only ignorant advice, it's also completely unhelpful.

It was the sheer stress of living unaware with Adult ADD that let me to explore my symptoms. Saddled this year with the most complex, time-sensitive project management job I'd ever had, I began to blow it big time. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. As hard as I tried, I couldn't pull my act together enough to set priorities, manage deadlines, or follow-through. I just kept becoming overwhelmed and mentally dropping out.

I had felt a similar way many times before. Never as intensely, but throughout my life my problems with time, prioritizing, and procrastinating are the stuff of legend. So are the many failures in academics, work, and love that have resulted from them.

But this time, I was completely falling apart. I looked to my friends for clues. Two among them happen to have ADD. On a lark, I Googled the disorder. The first site I found was the Attention Deficit Disorder Association. I read their FAQ. It all sounded a little too familiar. Especially the symptoms and the toll ADD takes on those who have it.

Unnerved, I wanted to read more. I spent hours exploring through leading ADD websites (the best of which I've listed at the end of this article) and perusing bookstore and library psychology sections (the currently definitive work being Hallowell and Ratey's life-affirming Delivered from Distraction).

But it was those damned online self-tests that really made my jaw drop. All the disclaimers suggested you seek a professional evaluation if your score was over a certain number. None of the small print offered any consolation, however, when I found myself uncomfortable acing every single screening I took. Among the self-tests whose scores I maxed:

--The World Health Organization ADD symptom checklist;
--The Dr. Daniel Amen self test;
--The Jasper/Goldberg ADD screening; and
--The ADDittude Magazine self test.

Before I was convinced enough to make an appointment with a mental-health professional, though, I figured I'd take a peek first in the DSM-IV, the bible of the American Psychiatric Association, for the official symptom checklist.

Symptoms for more than six months, appearing in childhood, and disturbing your life in more than one domain (work, home, school, etc.)? Check.

At least six symptoms of inattention. Check…for all nine.

Or at least six symptoms of hyperactivity and impulsivity. Check…for all of them. All of them? Again? Every single symptom??

WTF??

So I made an appointment. And thoroughly freaked out. Who wouldn't be disturbed to discover that the problems which they fought everyday, and which they thought everyone fought everyday, exactly matched the symptoms of a lifelong chronic neurological disorder?

Given the number of therapists--not to mention neurologists--I was sent to as a kid to try to overcome the "emotional problems" of growing up in a dysfunctional family, I couldn't believe they never caught that my problems were more likely brain based.

I mean, little kids don't yelp and yodel until they're checked for Tourette Syndrome (an occasionally associated disorder for children with ADD) solely due to emotional problems. Neither do bigger kids in gifted-and-talented middle schools and, eventually, selective high schools get left behind repeatedly only because of a difficult family life. (Let's not even go into that third semester as an undergrad). But they do because of ADD.

Yet, because my childhood therapists labeled my problems as "emotional", it took me half of my life to even suspect that they weren't. And not finding out about my ADD until adulthood robbed me of the chance to spend my life learning how to managing the condition.

So for the moment, life sucked.

On the other hand, at least I knew what I was up against, and knowledge is power. According to Hallowell and many other ADD commentators, those with the disorder also tend to be highly creative and interesting, easily able to grasp the "big picture" and solve problems intutively. It's kind of a happy side-effect of being highly distractable.

They also tend to have an uncanny ability to hyperfocus on favorite subjects and tasks. That can be a liability if ADDers focus on Internet surfing until 3 a.m. (note the time of this post). But harnessed well, it can be a powerful asset to keep them almost insanely on task and productive for hours on end.

For newly aware ADDers like me, hyperfocus is a little like waking up and finding out you have a super power--but one that you have to struggle to use for good. That got me wondering maybe Hallowell was onto something by concentrating on the strengths of ADDers.

And that brings me to last weekend. It was in a south-suburban Red Robin where I had the fortune to dine with my hip suburban friend Val and her sister, Bridget. Now, Bridget has multiple sclerosis, a really heavy duty neurological disorder, and she's very open about it. I had to ask.

"What's the best part about having M.S.? How has having M.S. made your life better?"

Bridget's answer astounded me. She thought for a long while, and said, "It's taught me what's important in life, what to concentrate on. My family, my daughter, the things that really matter. I don't think other people my age really know what to value in life. But M.S. showed my how to do that."

And then it was my turn. "What about you?" she asked. "What's the best part about learning you have ADD?"

I, too, thought awhile before I answered. I considered all the research I'd read, my week-long freakout, the sense of peace that followed it. And then I saw the gift.

"I get to know who I am now," I said. "I get to know why I'm good at the things I'm good at, and why I'm not at the things I'm not. I get to stop blaming myself for my past and for the state my life's in. I get to learn how I can manage my symptoms and improve my life. Now I can concentrate on my strengths, get help for my weak areas, and stop trying to be something I'm not. For the first time in my life, now I get to live up to my potential."

Finally.

Not that it's gonna come easy. For example, a few weeks ago you couldn't pay me to go near fish oil or to correctly spell the amino acid, L-tyrosine, or the phospholipid, phosphatidylserene. And now a morning just isn't a morning unless my B-3, B-6, and Zinc-laden multivitamin, Ginkgo, and St. Johns Wort have the aforementioned triple chasers. (It works for me).

And it certainly feels weird to now schedule my life and every single task, appointment, and allegedly mental note that I want to (or, let's be real, have any hope to) remember, through iCal (your personal daily planner flavor may vary).

It's like downloading your brain to paper, but a very useful effort for brains like mine that don't want to be bothered with remembering such mundane activities as feeding the cat or paying the electric bill on a regular basis. And as long as it works, I'll keep at it, too.

While I continue to learn about life with ADD, I want to thank my friends and readers who have offered to write their stories here on CHICAGO CARLESS in the wake of my earlier, course-changing post. I owe you all a drink. And if I blank on your name while we're out lifting a Guinness or show up half an hour late, please don't take it personally.

I probably just got distracted.

###


Below are some of my favorite ADD/ADHD resources...

--ADDitude Magazine;
--Tara McGillicuddy's My ADD / ADHD Blog;
--Edward Hallowell and Melissa Orlov's ADHD & Marriage;
--Erin Moore's So I Married an ADDer;
--Jennifer Koretsky's The ADD Business Owner;
--"Jeff"'s thought-provoking Jeff's A.D.D. Mind;
--The ADD public forums ADHD Message Boards and ADD Forums; and
--The membership organization, Children & Adults with ADD (CHADD).

April 14, 2008

Saudades of Things Past

-Posted in Backstory | Daily Grind

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(Photo: Desculpe, pode me dizer onde fica o Bean?)


It had to happen sometime. Last weekend, after five years of my Chicago life--and for the first time ever in his--Jose visited me in Chicago. That's "joe-ZAY", so pronounce it right in your head when you read it. My best friend from my adult years in New York. My Portuguese connection.

It was a little bit of a dream come true.

Any Midwest-living former New Yorker knows how hard it can be to get Gotham friends to visit you in alleged flyover territory. And if there is anything I regret from my own flight from New York, it's having turned my back on the Portuguese language and culture that had been so dear to me and is so prevalent on the east coast. (Apologies to the Second City's non-Lusitanian Lusophones, but an abundance of Brazilian steakhouses just doesn't cut it).

When we were both in Gotahm, Jose and I used to trip together. We've bummed around Portugal, Paris, and London and with the greatest of ease. That's likely because we tend to "trip" to the same things: art; museums; churches; and eating like local pigs (we qualify all vacation meals that involve only one course as snacks--and you know you want to adopt this policy, too).

Zay and I have seen each other every now and then since I left New York. But he, too, has long since departed the Big Apple for New Jersey's greener and suburban pastures. He's managed to get me to explore his new stomping grounds. Last weekend, finally, was my chance to show him where I've been for the past half-decade, and why.

Jose was here for a conference, so we only had Sunday, one day, and a rainy one at that, to see it all--and on top of that, my boyfriend, Chris, was under the weather and couldn't come out to meet Zay. (The gods of fado surely got a kick out of those annoying twists of fate).

It was a whirlwind tour of the Loop with umbrellas and wet shoes. It was a familiar setup, our rainy first day in Paris was like that in April 2000. At least this time the locals were nicer. We started with the 61st-floor roofdeck at my Marina City abode. To Zay's credit, the words, "It's so small," never emerged from his mouth in reference to the skyline. He was amazed by the quality and variety of Chitown's architecture. Being Portuguese, a man with seafaring in his DNA, he was in love with the lake. Or at least the sliver of it he could see through the mist.

Back on terra firma, I dragged him through the Loop to see that architecture up close, then plopped him on the 'L' for a slow train to Randolph to see the Art Institute. Ah, the good old days. Our three hours there recalled every hour we ever spent together at Janelas Verdes, the Gulbenkian, the Louvre. It was nice to know that Chicago art had European credibility for Jose. Those Lusitanians can be tough critics.

OK, art down. But what to do for churches in the Loop? First United Methodist's skyscraper-tall church is impressive from the outside, but the sanctuary is under renovation at the moment. The former Marshall Field's Tiffany dome and atrium and the dripping opulence of the Chicago Cultural Center served as wonderful stand-ins. (And the former provided a wonderful opportunity to introduce Zay to the Frango!)

Of all the things we did, though, most of all Jose wanted his picture taken in front of Millennium Park's most popular reflective giant glob of metal. I obliged, thankful he didn't say Navy Pier. We walked through the park talking about the funny contradictions that make up Chicago: an overly friendly big city; an international city where every local citizen feels ownership of downtown and inclusion in the city's cultural life. A city unlike our common former home.

As the day went on, I could tell Zay was getting it, starting to touch what Chicago is all about and why I found it so seductive that I gave up New York in almost record time to relocate here when I did.

But no one understands this town without deep dish, and no town makes deep dish like Chicago does. As any local who's ever been anywhere knows, supposed "Chicago pizza" outside of the Second City is nothing more than a dry, stale mess. So we ended our day at Due, after an uneventful walk up the inaptly named half-mile long Magnificent Mile ("That's it? I expected it to be longer").

Zay tore into the soupy, tomato-sauce drowned topping of our everything pizza. It brought back memories of every vacation meal we had ever shared. But times have changed.

"It's not the same as mussels and clams."

No argument there. I would have preferred to be supping with Zay on Mocambicano giant spicy shrimp at Baleal in the heart of Lisboa's Baixa, myself. But wise men take what life gives them and find the fulfilling in it if they can. I smiled and agreed. We both continued to attack the pizza.

Chicago dogs will have to be saved for the next visit. Knowing how long it took for Jose to visit this time, I may have to import them--and Chris--to New Jersey if Zay is ever to become familiar with either one. I hope he does. It would mean a lot to me if someday my New York and Chicago lives didn't feel so firewalled away from each other.

I said the same to Chris as I cried in his arms that night. Trying to find a way to help my heart reconcile what used to be with what is, saudade had come to find me. Another old Lusitanian friend, she's one I don't have to show around town. Like Jose and me, we go way back. She's the longing of Portuguese blues, and the only way out of her wily grasp is to resolve yourself to look forward.

So Chris and I resolved ourselves to take Jose up on his offer and visit him and his boyfriend, Anthony, in New Jersey. Eventually. I do have a boyfriend's mother to meet in California first (not to mention a trip to my non-Portuguese center of the universe, Disneyland). But we'll make it there.

And so will the Chicago dogs.

April 10, 2008

Story and Legend

-Posted in ADD & Me | Backstory

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(Photo: Never let the vehicle deter you from the road you want to follow.)


Last night during Community Media Workshop's 2008 Studs Terkel Awards at the Chicago Cultural Center, one of the winners, Sylvia Rivera, the general manager of bilingual public radio station Radio Arte, shared this comment from the stage:

"You write the story of your life. You create your own legend."

In two sentences, Rivera described my dilemma.

I recently learned I may have a chronic neurological disorder that has been with me since birth. It's a not uncommon problem for which there are several very effective treatment and management options, but no cure. Assuming I have it, the condition affects every moment of my day and will require me to rethink the way I manage my life. Based on my symptoms--which, as it turns out, have been lifelong--I don't expect any surprises to come from the evaluation I'm scheduled to have later this month.

Eh, at least it won't kill me. But what do you do when you find out the person you've chronicled for so long may not be who you really are? How does one surf that kind of segue in the story?

Having my selfish, mundane identity crisis mirrored back to me at an award ceremony named for a storyteller famed for keeping things real was almost painfully ironic, but in a weird way, somehow inspirational.

I have Chicago Sun-Times opinion page editor Tom McNamee to thank for that. Another of the evening's awardees, during his comments he disclosed the deeply selfish, mundane roots of his writing: to feel a connection with the world. The mundane world of common people with problems so ordinary that they cannot help but speak to everyone, reader and storyteller included.

McNamee could just as easily have been speaking about bloggers. It's no secret we're a selfish lot, and if we weren't interested in identifying with those we share this world with, our journals would be of the private pen and paper sort, not the public post and publish variety.

And we're nothing if not ordinary. I find myself lately ending my evenings wondering when I'm finally going to cry over a looming but still only potential diagnosis. I can't decide whether that kind of inanity in a world that, as the evening's third award winner, Chicago Tribune columnist Dawn Turner Trice, noted has far more perilous problems that need tending to, makes me boring or laughable.

Or maybe it just makes me human. Anyone who knows me will tell you how hard-pressed it is for me to admit that particular diagnosis.

Here's my segue. I'm tired of living by the tyranny of a self-imposed editorial calendar that I never get around to. At this moment in time, I really couldn’t care less about opining on the Children's Museum move, ranting about some perceived civic slight, or Photoshopping a graphic of Brendan Reilly in a caving helmet.

Rivera's right. We are responsible for our own stories, and leaving behind such a cynical legend is not a legacy I'm interested in. There are far more ordinary and important tales to tell.

CHICAGO CARLESS is officially changing gears. I want to know more about the people with whom I share my beloved adopted hometown. It's a connection I need right now, to put my own problems in perspective. Along with my own story, I want to share the stories of other ordinary Chicagoans on these pages, too. I'll be writing about some of them and others will tell you their stories in their own words.

I may suck at what I'm about to try here. I may not. Heck, given what I've learned about myself lately, I may very well have no idea where my true strengths lie.

And it's comforting to know that's about as ordinary as it gets.

March 28, 2008

Not Your Father's CTA Homepage!

-Posted in Getting Around

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(Photo: A new CTA homepage for a hopeful Chicago transit future.)


Kudos to the Chicago Transit Authority for the smartly redesigned new CTA homepage that debuted today. No, the rest of the site hasn't been updated yet. But including the RTA Trip Planner, alone, makes this new page miles better than the clunky, hopelessly left-justified old one. I waited five years for this, folks, so pardon me if I make this short. I want to go explore all the new Web 2.0 transit goodness.

(Gee, Ron Huberman, you sure kept this a secret when the CTA Tattler folks and I met with you last Saturday!)

About Mike Doyle

mugshot.jpgblank.gifMike is a political and public affairs strategist working exclusively with individuals and organizations who seek to further social-justice causes in Chicago and beyond. A native New Yorker who much prefers deep-dish to thin-crust, he has happily called the Windy City home since 2003. Mike is a staunch supporter of urban living and resides in the heart of Downtown Chicago with Camoes, the Portuguese danger cat. A committed transit rider in any town, Mike has refused to learn to drive for 37 years. And counting.

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Contact me:

mike (at) chicagocarless (dot) com