shawn ritchie dot com

Suggestion for the CTA

On February 7th, the CTA's already-questionable service is going to get noticeably worse as the latest round of doomsday service cuts kick in. All Express bus routes = gone. Every other bus route = runs start later, end earlier, and with bigger time gaps between each. All trains = less frequent service.

This is going to suck. I already have to skip the first Red Line that hits Belmont once or twice a week because it's literally too crowded to get onto it without committing felony sexual assault on some fellow passengers.

Given the money problems that are causing this drastic reduction in service (in short: the Union is a greedy dick that won't share the pain right now, like every fucking union ever), I am wondering why the CTA hasn't taken the one simple, obvious step that would probably save them a good chunk of change throughout the winter:

Stop heating the buses and trains. Period.

Here's how the average morning commute in winter goes:

• Check weather at home before getting ready
• Oh, great, it's 15 fucking degrees out
• Bundle up mad-crazy for the walk to the El; hat, earmuffs, scarf, heavy coat, gloves, long underwear if it's particularly windy...
• Do the Arctic Stumble to the Montrose El platform, which, at just about barely two years past a complete rebuild is:
• • rustier than shit
  • completely exposed to the elements save for a lousy two car-length roof mid-platform
  • at least there's the little heated cubbyhole that holds a whopping 3-4 people!
• Wait however the fuck long the wait is, it's random, trying to predict it is useless (hey, another parenthetical aside: even the scuzziest near-3rd World Euro city I've been to [lookin' at you, Athens] has subway/train systems capable of having extremely accurate digital displays showing the time of the next train AT EVERY STATION. The CTA has these signs at like three stops across the entire system, and, from everything I've seen myself or heard of, they might as well be offering Lotto predictions based on hobo urine patterns at the Wilson Red Line stop for how accurate they are. Why is this?) so you will freeze up good.
• Train finally arrives, is packed and heated to 80 degrees.
• 7 seconds after boarding, begin sweating through all layers of clothing due to heat
• 9 seconds after boarding, try to clean humid fog off of glasses
• Repeat whole cycle on the Red Line, too

I took the Damen bus to my brother's on Saturday and had the same issues. It was a balmy 35 or so so I wasn't even that bundled up, and the bus wasn't _that_ packed, yet the driver had the heat set to "let's pretend it's August in Miami!" levels.

WHY?

Body heat and winter clothing, combined with being out of the wind, would render any train or bus perfectly comfortable even without any artificial heat being supplied at all. I know the difference I get in gas mileage on my reasonably-efficient car when I have the heat cranked vs. not; I can't imagine that there wouldn't be significant power/fuel savings across the CTA system if they ditched the heat. Near as I can tell, the only reason they have heat in the first place is so that the drivers can pretend they work in an office or something, since they always seem to be wearing a short sleeve shirt and pants like they're, I dunno, NOT technically performing an outside job driving a vehicle.

Also, needs to be mentioned: excessive bus/train heat does not help the always-bad smell situation on the CTA.

So, why not shut the heat off? Yeah, AC's a necessity in summer, but I don't see why heating the entire system to 70 degrees from October to March needs to happen. We need the current service levels to stay put much more than I need to sweat through my wool coat while ingesting boiled bum feces flakes twice a goddamned day.

Can't Fight Entropy

Sigh. Of all the indignities of getting older, one I've been looking forward to less than most has been: The Daily Pill Regimen. I know my female readers are collectively cocking their arm to chuck a birth control container at me, but have some sympathy: guys aren't used to this. 

Your average guy, until the aging process kicks in, basically doesn't take pills save for the occasional aspirin for a hangover or a handful of Vicodin when somebody scores some. Point being, it's not the sort of pill-popping that has to happen on a schedule. You take aspirin when your head hurts, you take Vicodin as soon as you get your hands on some, and that's that.

I would always be horrified when I would see an older relative sorting 18 bottles of pills into some weird plastic contraption labelled for each day of the week. I've also heard plenty of stories of older folks being on such a large number of pills that half of 'em are canceling out the other half to the point where the person's just getting sicker overall.

So, you can imagine my reaction when my doctor told me I need to start taking daily pills to control my blood pressure. I instantly felt about a decade older. 

Now, please pardon me as it's way past my bedtime, I can't find my walker and GODDAMMIT GET OFF MY LAWN.

RIP Immo, 1967-2009

I have no idea if this is in good taste or not, but when I'm sad, I write. And I'm about as sad as can be right now and just want to remember a good friend before the inevitabilities of age and failing memories take their toll.

I woke up today to a mess of frantic texts and voice mails; our good friend, John "Immo" Immonen, had suddenly passed away overnight. I have been fortunate in my life to not have to deal with a death in my circle of friends yet, so I'm not sure how to handle this at all. I do know that:

1. I am by no means ready to hop onto the train of loss and bad news that starts about this time of life and does not end until I do, and
2. the universe couldn't have picked a less-ready candidate to kick the whole shitty process off with.

John will be remembered as one of The Good Guys. Within hours of news of his passing coming to light, my various social networks were filled with remembrances of just how nice and kind he was. Our circle of friends came together at an ISP where we all worked together, and, as you know, twenty-somethings working for the Intarwebs tend towards the cynical and abusive. John did not. He always had a good word for anyone who needed some bucking up, was always helpful around the workplace, was a killer wingman for a night out... I'm not trying to overpraise someone due to their recent passing; people said this about him while he was alive, too. My wife's reaction, when I broke the news to her, was "Oh my god, he was my favorite friend of yours" followed by a wave of tears. If you met John, you liked John, it was pretty much that simple.

We actually met on the job at InterAccess (IA), the ISP I worked at in the 90's. While I can count on one hand the number of good friends I've picked up on jobs since InterAccess, there's still a good twenty or so of us from IA scattered all across the country these days who still stay in touch, and the Chicago branch basically makes up my entire adult friend base that I see regularly. John and I were just tech geeks, fixing customer shit, and bonded over a mutual love of hockey, Old Style, Jamesons and stoner rock. We were all generally single, so there were many, many fun nights of hitting the town and tearing it up. 

Over time, everybody started leaving IA to do other things. John had his own company with a couple of other guys and one of our good mutual friends, Courtney. I took the opportunity to join them and do the start-up thing for a while and, though it didn't last that long due to the economy and whatnot, my time at Mojo with John remains some of the happiest times of my career. Working on Gatorade's website (including a memorable 120-billed-hours week that remains the single biggest non-bonus paycheck I've ever gotten), learning something about the advertising/marketing world, hitting the PS2 for breaks and having some memorable NHL 2001 tourneys... we had a great time.

Somewhere in that mess of years, Immo introduced me to a little bar called Rossi's around the corner from Mojo where we would go to chill after work, watch hockey (including one memorable day that involved three straight playoff games and nine hours of whiskey and Old Style. I may have ended up on his couch after that one). More importantly, this bar is where I met a certain blonde that would eventually become my wife. One of my fondest memories of my wedding is sneaking off to a side table with just Immo for a drink, smoke and a chat where he jokingly asked me if he could have credit for me meeting Liz, credit I gladly gave.

Along the way, I joined his band, Wotan, on bass for a spell. My memories of that are also some of my favorite. We had a killer jam space up on Broadway & Belmont that we shared with Methol, Triple Fast Action and Local H (yes, that's my brush with D-list fame). Heading over to the skeevy Asian liquor store before rehearsal to grab some Old Style pounders, coming up with more of our sludgy, Arctic-influenced rock. Yeah, it went nowhere, but goddamn if we didn't have some fun along the way. He was a hell of a guitarist and singer, and looked like a rock star on stage, which is what mattered.

As the years went on, we both begrudgingly embraced adulthood. I remember a lunch where he showed me the ring he was going to give to his now-wife, Claire. A later talk at a bar about his deciding to become a father, which, for those of you who know Van, know what a strong and brave decision that was to take, and how beautifully it panned out. Most recently, I remember watching our wives become friends, a great dinner this past summer at their place playing with his incredible kids, and, goddammit, one last hockey game during the Hawks' run last summer.

Recently, life has intruded and we've missed some chances to hang out, chances I'm really regretting the shit out of right now. I sincerely hope we remain close to Claire and the kids and hope to do whatever we can to ease some of the pain of this for them. 

Mostly, I really just want to take this chance to honor his memory and maybe become a little fuckin' nicer as a person, particularly to those I don't know at all or well, a gift Immo had that I do not.

So, Brother John, farewell, man. I will miss the shit out of your friendship, your counsel, your music, and the fact that, if you were around, we were guaranteed to be having a good time with smiles on our faces. See you in Valhalla. 

CAN YOU BUY ME DINNER PLEASE SIR?!?!?!!?

No. I can't. Well, I could... but I won't.

I don't care about the inequities inherent in our economic system that demand there be losers, the Reagan-era deregulation of mental wards that unleashed hordes of unstable Vietnam veterans unpreparedly onto our streets, the fact that I have a job and therefore should be wracked with guilt for these folks... 

What I _do_ care about is the fact that I've been taking the El and then hoofing it to various offices in the Loop since the mid-90's, and, thus, my ability to be even remotely empathetic towards our street beggars has been burned out like someone started a chemical fire in my soul. 

I have no idea how much cash/cigarettes/food I've handed out over the years; it's not a great, but also not an inconsiderable, amount all told. And all heavily front-weighted towards my first few years working in bum-infested parts of town. 

You see, it doesn't take very long at all to realize it's the same dozen motherfuckers ruining your morning coffee walk with bran-fed regularity. There's the crazy guy who's always shirtless, hates white women, and has the most impressive biceps you've ever seen. There's the really big white guy with the crazy beard and hair always on the milk crate at Washington & Wells who has been begging for YEARS yet always seems to have a better jacket and shoes than I do. Etc., and so on.

Not to deny that some of 'em are truly fucked. I've written before about the dude on the State St. Bridge back in the early 2000's that got all of my coffee change always, four times a day. Why? Fucker didn't exist beneath the waist. He's was genuinely screwed, but always polite and occasionally very fucking funny, so he got what I could give. I'm not talking about those sorts of folks here.

Recently, we've had a new addition to the local firmament of shitstains, though, and this guy is REALLY getting on my fucking nerves. Young, white, well-spoken, looks perfectly healthy, none of the obvious signs of mental or chemical problems that would lead one to think he couldn't pick up a shift at the McD's a block away that ALWAYS has a Help Wanted sign hung out. Yeah, yeah, one shouldn't judge, I don't know the guy... but I don't fucking care.

He looks like a slightly-rumpled college sophomore. His station is the NE corner of Michigan & Randolph. This spot proves he's no dummy; during rush hours, it's about the longest light in the Loop and, given the commuter density there booking ass for Metra and the El out of "Chicago's New East Side (Christ, I hate that moniker)", he's got a captive audience that refreshes itself every half minute to the tune of two dozen new marks or so. One can't even cross south to the other side of the street and wait it out there away from this braying dickbag, as then crossing west to continue towards the El or Metra is forbidden on that side of the street, and that's where EVERYBODY on this corner needs to go.

So far, we've just got a pretty smart bum, good at picking a spot. No harm in that. However, his spiel... it kills me. Picture the most annoying nerd-voice ever. Like the kind of voice you can only picture in your own head as saying something like "but Star Trek is better than Star Wars because the science is more science-y!!!". Now picture it at bullhorn volume. Now ladle in a thick coating of guilt-language:

"SIR? YOU IN THE NICE BLACK COAT AND HAT? COULD YOU BUY ME DINNER? OR SOME FOOD? I'M REALLY HUNGRY. NO? THAT'S OKAY. YOU GO HOME TO A NICE CHRISTMAS, SIR. MA'AM? COULD YOU BUY ME DINNER?'

If you don't answer, he'll call out every person within his range (and, believe me: kid's got some pipes) _specifically_ by some visible feature so that everybody knows who the alleged cheapasses are. It's this assumption-laden, "you're obviously doing okay and I'm not but all I'm asking for is some food, man, not even cash or booze, you know I'm not one of THEM kinda bums" bullshit tone that really makes me want to shove this guy in front of the #143. 

The worst of it is that I'm beginning to understand that hardening of the heart (and not just in the physical sense) that seems to come for most white males who've had some small measure of success in their lives. I've worked hard for what little I have. I part with it uneasily. Don't make me feel like a dick about it because you've decided to check out or leech a little more than your share by tugging on my remaining heart-string, dickhead.

Guidos, and Why We Should Hunt and Skin Them

"Jersey Shore" is MTV's latest entry into the "Why the Rest of the World Hates Us" sweepstakes and, as these shows go, they have got a 500 ft. home run on their hands.

I'm normally not one for reality shows that don't involve cooking. Yet this show... this particularly awful, unredeeming, trainwreckesque Pakistani bus crash of a realty show has got me by the (eye)balls.

The show basically follows four Guidos (male dago jagoffs from the greater New York area epitomized by awful accents, overly-done hair, ripped muscles, fake tans, and horrible fashion sense) and four female guidettes (female dago bitchbags from the greater New York area epitomized by awful accents, overly-done hair, fake tans, faker tits, and horrible fashion sense) after they've been tossed into a Jersey Shore Summer Home for the summer and loaded up with booze by MTV so the latter can make money off of the horrible shenanigans they'll film.

And wow are these kids living up to it.

Just watch it at MTV's TV site if you want to know it in detail. I'm more horrified by the overall gestalt the show presents. Y'see... I've never been to Jersey. And I have precisely zero intention of ever going there. So this entire universe is foreign to me, and I'm kind of appalled it exists in my homeland. I thought the entire "Guido" phenomenon was an extended Internet joke that had taken on a life of its own, starting with, I believe, the ur-Guido (example pic here) or as categorized as the first, no longer the only, but still primary group of general population d-bags at the Classic Catalog Site for That Type.

But no, unless MTV hired a few thousand extras that resemble the cast itself very, very closely, rented out the entirety of the Jersey Shore, kicked out everybody normal who actually goes there, etc.... these people actually fucking exist for sure, and in very large numbers. I'm driven to despair/inordinately drawn to the sheer vanity of the men (which impressively outweighed that of the girls), the utter lack of self-confidence present in every last damn one of them save J-Woww and Ronnie (both of whom are simply too fuckin' DUMB to know what a doubt _is_, much less have one), the insane amount of bronzer and lip gloss smeared across _both_ genders... the 'roids, the horrible, horrible tattoos, the sexual idiocy that took a whopping 2 days to start up... it's like the Cock Rock Era all over again, but orders of magnitude worse. The hair metallers of yore looked like that as a way to succeed in a music career (the dudes) or to latch on to whoever either already was successful or looked likely to get there (the chicks). These fuckwraps look like this as an end in itself.

I dunno if I can handle a whole season of this nonsense, but they've got me for the foreseeable future. These kids are the link between those of us who are scared of our Idiocracy future and those who are going to be it. 

I Don't Break Spines Much Anymore

I'm talking about books, of course.

I don't buy many books these days. Too expensive and, even after giving away/selling a large chunk of my collection (as well as storing a not-insignificant # of boxes of favorites I just can't part with at my mom's... sorry, ma), AND still living in a fairly book-choked pad with the wife, I just don't have to room to store any more than I currently have.

Making this decision about a year and a half ago freed up a ton of money and space for me and, more importantly, forced me to reacquaint myself with the Chicago Public Library system.

And you know what? For all the griping every Chicagoan has done about this city and its services over the last few years, the CPL deserves some kudos. Yeah, Daley and his hand-picked commissioner of the system get little if any of the credit, given that they've been trying to fuckball the system for years, but the rank and file are doing a bang-up job. 

I go to the Harold Washington Library Center (HWLC) every three weeks like clockwork, and I've never come away with less than five good books to read. The system's website, which was finally, much-neededly and AWESOMELY redone sometime in the last few years, allows a patron to easily search for any books they may want, find out if the system has them and, if so, at which branch (if you don't mind traveling around) or you can just put it on hold and have it shipped to whichever branch you want. 

So, my system of using Amazon to browse around and find interesting new books I want and then queuing them up on my CPL account has been working great. The HWLC also has a nice Popular Library, which is basically an easy-access, 1st Floor library that just has what's most recent. I often just drop in there to browse around and have had good luck finding basically brand-new books I didn't even know were out yet being available to borrow right then and there.

Essentially, the system works for me. I _really_ do miss having a stack of shiny new books around, and that awesome feeling of cracking the spine on a hardcover for the first time as a ritual of taking ownership, but I'm not spending insane amounts of money nor am I stacking the latest histories on top of a cat for lack of anywhere else to put them. 

This also has turned my few trips to real bookstores into special occasions. There's the pain of walking in and finding $200 worth of books within 15 yards of the door. That kind of sucks. But there's also the joy of those moments when I can reward myself with a nice, new book by a favorite author or on a favorite topic. I'll look forward to hitting Borders like an 8-year old who knows daddy is taking him to the LEGO store after school. I'll spend a delicious hour or two wandering the stacks, choosing, putting back, re-choosing... even now, I still try to limit myself to two books per trip, tops.

This oddly makes the entire trip more enjoyable. I used to treat bookstore runs like a trip to a buffet; eat whatever comes to mind without much thought, you can always go back and get something else if it sucks. The downside of book-shopping like that is, of course, that each book I typically buy runs about what two-three full buffet nights would cost me (Christ, that was a shabby analogy, but fuck it) and each bad pick meant I'm out $25-$40, usually.  I could get away with that when I was single, but wives tend to get really ornery about that kind of idiot spending.

So I get the best of both worlds. Most of my reading these days is for free, thanks to living in a world-class city with a library system to match. As an aside, this is yet another item on my miles-long checklist of Reasons I Will Never Live In A Small Town. I also get to still hit brick'n'mortar bookstores and actually treasure the experience instead of treating it like a run to Jewel. 

If any of y'all are like the old me, convinced that one had to basically tithe to the gods of Amazon and Borders to keep entertained by the written word, I humbly suggest you cut back on that shit and get cozy with your local library. Thank me later. Preferably with an Amazon gift card or the like.

Let's Live Up To Our Ideals

I was recently in New York City for the first time ever (loved it!) and happened to be there as the decision was made by the Fed AG to hold the Al Qaeda trials at a federal court in the city. This, unsurprisingly, made the right wing freak out, basically because every time Obama makes any decision at all, they will freak out and oppose it. On the surprising side, though, was the New York media and a lot of the citizens there, who were also vehemently opposed to it.

The New York Post's front page on that Friday read something like "Welcome to New York City... Now DIE!!!!!" and included a scathing Op-Ed about how the Obama administration's decision to, y'know... allow the United States justice system do its thing was tantamount to having surrendered to Tojo in 1941 right after Pearl Harbor.

I was, frankly, kind of appalled at the response. Let's break this down:

1. We hate terrorists because they "hate us for how we live" and "don't play by the rules when it comes to fighting".

2. Part of how we live is defined as "with respect for the due process of law" and "justice for all". Insert whichever pithy catchphrase defines it best for you but, in sum, the United States is the United States because here, unlike many other places, one has a reasonable expectation of what our laws are, how to obey them, and what will happen if you break one.

3. As much as George W. Bush declared this as a "War on Terror" and, therefore, the rules of law don't apply but the rules of war do, well: unless someone can point me to the declaration of war Congress authorized against Alqaedastan, that dog don't hunt.

What is everyone's problem with finally putting these murderous vipers up on trial and letting our justice system do its thing? 

"It's an insult to New Yorkers to let them come back here!"

To that I say: man the fuck up, cupcakes. Let the world see that we're not acting like arbitrary stormtroopers and that we have confidence in our security and policing systems and let's just try these fuckheads via a boring old trial and then, hopefully, toss 'em in a SuperMax or, preferably, execute them.

What all those opposed seem to want is for us to simply keep them locked up in Gitmo (or, preferably, in a cargo container in Iraq where they can be beaten at will for kicks out of any camera's site) forever... no resolution, no justice, no ending... just an endless cycle of hate and retribution, which is EXACTLY what the terrorists fucking want in the first place.

I prefer the "you're a common criminal and will be treated as such because we are bigger than you and better than you and emphatically not fucking afraid of you because we are the goddamned United States of America and you're not".

Or, we can let fear win and toss overboard all of the vaunted principles that make this country worth giving a shit about in the first place and become, instead, a pale imitation of a once-great nation that now only exists to serve as a sad reminder of what we once were. 

Specialization Is For Insects

I've noticed that the web writers I enjoy the most tend NOT to write about just one topic. They wander all over the map as things catch their interest. This is something I've struggled with in the past. The pageview pimps on the 'net would have one believe that you should only:

• write about only one thing, ever
• write about that one thing very often
• avoid long posts like the plague
• when in doubt, throw up a list

Upon further review, all of this advice is bullshit. Maybe it makes some writers money, but that isn't anything I'm at all concerned about when I write here. There's no "maybe" at all about the fact that those sites tend to be poorly-written shitheaps of ads and weak content that also somehow update 57 times a day, rendering the entire idea of following such a site regularly as downright impossible.

So, "fuck that", says I. I'll write about what I want when I want. I will no longer stress about weeks-long gaps in my posting (even my own massive ego can freely admit that not a lot of folks read this shit anyways). I will strive to make sure anything I do post is well-written, grammatically correct, punctuated properly and, hopefully, interesting. I hope you agree.