Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our happiness POSITIVELY by uniting our affections, the latter NEGATIVELY by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions.

The first a patron, the last a punisher.

--Thomas Paine, "Common Sense"

Hicksville
Let’s face it—it’s a sad, sad simulated world, a world so totally lacking in common sense that it’s easy to believe that we’re descendants of monkeys. So let’s all sit back and have a good laugh, laugh at the fact that man ain’t got the common sense that God gave to a dog.

Consider that, years ago, hicks, hayseeds and yokels roamed the land. All the hick ever wanted was a good show, something to distract him from a lifetime of cutting hay. Thus the circus, the carnie-show, was born, just like in old Rome. And hicks came up from the farm to see the magic-men, the art of fantasy and wonder, all the freaks and the sideshows, the phantasmagoria of color and spectacle, and especially the hoochy-coochy girls. My how the hicks loved it. They hooted and hollered and shouted for more, mesmerized, hypnotized, drooling, backslapping, blushing. They chanted: GOLLY GOLLY GOLLY, GOLLY GOLLY GOLLY! They couldn’t get enough golly. They wanted the circus man to do it again, show them just one more time, the wonders of the sleight-of-hand-trick. Oh please play it again Sam!

You might laugh, but how are folks today any different? In the past you had HAYSEED-HICK and today you have TECHNO-HICK: Everyone, absolutely everyone, goes golly before the myriad of gadgets and gizmos that are cloaked under the guise of technology. Consider specifically your iPod and

Blackberry. In the last decade, they’ve re-invented the cell phone at least a thousand times in various forms and combinations, adding cameras, calculators, text, music and whatnots beyond your wildest dreams. And just like the hicks of yore couldn’t get enough of the sleight-of-hand-tricks, techno-hick can’t get enough of various forms and combinations of his gizmos, mesmerized, hypnotized, going GOLLY GOLLY

GOLLY before cell phones and iPods. The next cell phone is sure to come equipped with an electric razor. Where’s the common sense here? Where’s the progress? A monkey wouldn’t think much of all these gadgets.

Can it be that from the beginning of time to the last syllable of recorded time, that man, call him cave man, mass man, classical man, Renaissance man, computer man, artist man, whatever, was and is, and always will be, a HICK? Nothing more, nothing less? A hick captured by, and a prisoner to, his own limited intellect. Actually, there’s a devolution at work here. Hayseed-hick was much more sophisticated than today’s techno-hick. For the hick of yore only wanted a little hoochy-coochy, something to bring him out of himself. Whereas today’s techno-hick is trapped inside the world of his very own Blackberry and

iPod, forever alienated from the world of common sense. (Frank Pulaski)

Sick Transit
"This town needs an enema," shouts Jack Nicholson's Joker to a fictional Gotham on the brink. This outburst sums up the rainbow of disappointment known as the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA), the folks who have woefully mismanaged our city's public transportation. To solely blame CTA for this crisis is unfair, because underfunding the system lies squarely with the Regional Transportation Authority (RTA). Despite new-ish leadership, they continue to use a flawed formula to distribute funds to CTA, Metra and Pace. After years of inadequate investment, CTA's plight is about to nosedive: they are faced with using operating funds to cover system maintenance, and cash reserves are frighteningly low. Pensions and healthcare will soon add to its glaring deficit. The threats of fare hikes and service cuts are quite real.

To simplify, RTA doles out a fifty-eight percent/thirty-four percent/eight percent split to CTA, Metra and Pace, respectively, with no professional assessment of actual need. The average age of CTA garages is 45 years old; Pace's average 18. Over half of CTA's buses are past their useful twelve-year lifespan, most rail cars are nearing their twenty-five-year twilight. Metra and Pace don't have chronically obsolete vehicles or facilities, yet projected distribution figures employ the same split, despite 2006 ridership figures. CTA's hovers around eighty percent, Metra's at less than fifteen percent and Pace's sits below ten percent.

Local and state officials saw this mess coming and failed the taxpayers. In 2003, supposedly public CTA board meetings were held in private, and pension increases were passed by its membership. When word leaked, the perks were rescinded and apologies placed in the major news outlets. Only three years away from threatening total meltdown, here was the CTA, padding retirement coffers instead of considering serious reform of not only system operations, but also pension and healthcare. We deserve efficient transit managed by individuals who give a shit about the people who depend on trains and buses. Service cuts to an already-strained system could mean pink slips for Chicago's working class.

We need long-term reform of our regional transportation system. We can use our votes and voices to send a clear message to the RTA, CTA and the elected officials we send to Springfield to ensure these services are not interrupted. The legislative session is in overtime due to a budget crisis and transportation is tightly tied to it. Our mayor appoints the CTA leadership; the Governor, House Speaker and Senate President just passed an emergency thirty-day budget instead of working to develop a twelve-month solution.

The beauty of democracy is that we can try to get it right next time. Pick up the phone and spit in the ear of your elected officials. Demand they prepare for our future, not just their own. Come election time, think about punching for change rather than tradition. Tradition is how they're running our state, and they've got it dead wrong.

This town needs an enema, all right. It's time for City Hall and Springfield to grab some ankle. (John Alex Colón)

Fly. Over.
I was at a Sox game not long ago, and my brother turned to me before the national anthem and asked: "Do you think there’ll be a flyover?" Like that was something to look forward to. What is it with flyovers at sporting events? Every time those jets scream by all I can think is: "War! Fuck, yeah!" What is family-friendly about that? Excuse me, but I go to a game to forget about the war. And by the way, who is footing the bill? I can't find evidence to suggest it is anything but taxpayer supported—funneled through the U.S. Air Force and the National Guard, who provide the service. (In case you're wondering, the U.S. Air Force Aerial Events Web site has an easy-to-fill-out request form at www.airshows.pa.hq.af.mil/PublicSite/Index.cfm?fwa=home.) Nice. So. Did jet fuel suddenly become cheap? Wouldn’t you rather some of that Defense Department dough go towards outfitting our troops with equipment they don’t have? And by the way, when did airplanes stop polluting the atmosphere? Just ban these cockamamie things. And while we’re at it, get rid of the Air & Water Show, too. Let the military focus on the war. And let me focus on the game. (Nina Metz)

Keep Right!
With its blacktop surface, mini-shoulder and yellow center line, the Lakefront Path looks like a road. To be a safe place to bike, jog, skate, or stroll it has to operate like one too.

In the morning, bicyclists and pedestrians flow down the path in cool tranquility. With the sun hidden behind lakefront condos, the temperature is brisk. Commuters and recreationists can attest that it's a great time to grab a few moments of peace before the workday hits full swing. The sunrise set is a friendly crowd too—often prefacing "on your left" with "good morning."

But when the clock strikes 5pm, the placid path transforms into a bustling thruway. The scene is one of chaos. Cyclists in bright-colored spandex tear through crowds on high-speed training rides. Gaggles of suburban teens swagger en masse. Rollerbladers dominate both lanes of the path with the wide, sweeping strokes of their skates. Kids dart to catch the ice-cream cart. Bathers run for towels. Jocks scamper through it all to rescue renegade volleyballs. And everyone wears an iPod. Some of the most foolish behavior I've seen (the bicyclist going the wrong direction, walking a dog, and towing a girl on pegs, excluded) has taken place on the length of path between North Avenue and Fullerton, a dangerous corridor known as the Area of Maximum Stupidity.

Although Lake Michigan is lovely at any hour, in the afternoon and early evening, the Lakefront Path is more frightening than traffic-clogged, gas-choked Clark Street. After futilely hammering "dink-dink-dink" on my bell, I've all but screamed to alert path-goers who block trail traffic. Sometimes it's no use. Last summer, a wayward volleyball rolled right in front of a co-worker's front tire, causing a complete wipe-out and severe case of facial road-rash.

I have no problem with high-traffic areas. Biking in the Loop, I know what to expect from the pedestrians and cars I share the road with because, for the most part, we all follow the same set of signals and signs.

On the path, there's no such semblance of order. The only solution to this problem is to treat the Lakefront Path like a road—keep right, use signals, stay in your lane, look both ways when crossing and check over your shoulder before turning. Designated crossings and more signage would help too. For now, please turn down your iPod, follow the rules and watch out for volleyballs. (Elizabeth Winkowski)

Parade of Fools
Unless you’re Pee-Wee on a big adventure, please get the fuck out of my way.

Yeah, I drive a car. Deal with it. It’s small, so it’s not that bad. But the only people nearly as irritating as the macho SUV destructionists are the self-righteous, holier-than-thou cyclists who preach and bitch to drivers about how we’re killing the Earth, never taking into account those who need a vehicle, those with children, for example, who simply do not have the hours to set aside for biking time, or the elderly, who shouldn’t be required to hike multiple blocks to a bus stop, or those without Metra lines readily accessible from their small town to the city, or even the pizza guy.

Of course, I understand the environmental consequences of driving a gas-fueled automobile that emits toxic fumes. I’m all for buying the hybrids and making the world electric. And when all of our salaries permit such a purchase, we’ll be in better shape (or if all of our jobs—some of us have more than one—allowed us travel time so we could bike to and from). But until then, SHUT UP.

But that’s not even the worst. The worst is the hypocrisy of bike people, howling at imperfect drivers who veer too close for comfort. More so than anybody, bicyclists ignore traffic laws, often with giddy glee. It’s a wonder, the epic level of disregard—if a driver was guilty of the equivalent, he or she would never be allowed to drive again (unless he or she was famous). The Chicago Municipal Code, regarding bicycles, states that "Every person riding a bicycle upon a roadway shall be granted all of the rights and shall be subject to all of the duties applicable to the driver of a vehicle by the laws of this state." Us drivers are supposed to acknowledge a bicycle as an equal roadway vehicle, so why aren’t those on bicycles required to treat their vehicle in the same fashion? When the hell have you seen any cyclists follow any rules, other than those that help them not get crushed? Here’s another one: "Whenever authorized signs are erected indicating that no right or left turn or turn in the opposite direction is permitted, no person operating a bicycle shall disobey the direction of any such sign unless he dismounts from the bicycle to make the turn." And yet, I’ll bet, if some assclown on a bike free-wheels his way, the wrong way, onto a one-way street and I’m driving in the lawfully permitted direction, and I run him over, I’m at fault.

Here’s another: "No person shall ride a bicycle upon a sidewalk within a business district." Seriously, you’re not 6-years-old anymore, get on the street, and if you feel it’s too dangerous, maybe you would be, ahem, safer in an automobile.

All of these violations are subject to a fine, and yet, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who was written a ticket for disobeying a bike law. Maybe this is an indictment of the police department, who clearly don’t give a shit if a dude on a bike blows a stop sign or a red light, let alone irresponsibly weaves and bobs through highly congested traffic. So, cops, get your asses in gear, it’s time bicyclists assumed some accountability. And bike people, if it gets too hot for you, give me a call—I’ll give you a ride. (Tom Lynch)

No Cars Go
We live in a city that’s geographically flat and has a centralized downtown surrounded by an endless string of self-sufficient neighborhoods. No matter where you live, pretty much everything you need in your life is available to you within a ten-mile radius. If you live in a particularly affluent neighborhood, the distance is probably more like a two-mile radius. Not only the basics like grocery stores, department/discount stores, restaurants, etc., but you’ve also got numerous parks, museums, theaters and sporting venues all within that same local circle. If where you’re going is not within short walking distance, it’s probably a stones throw away from some form of public transportation that will take you there for about two bucks. If you have a bike, you can probably get there even quicker without even breaking a sweat. So why does it seem that ninety-nine percent of the people in this town still own cars and drive them everywhere no matter how high the price of gas gets and how much we’re warned about global warming?

Yes, I understand the freedom and independence of owning a car. In fact, there are few things that I enjoy more than cruising down an empty highway at seventy-five miles per hour with the windows down and the stereo up. However, I don’t understand how trudging through traffic for thirty minutes just to save a couple of bucks on toilet paper at Target or Costco is liberating. Yes, it’s hard to beat the instant gratification of jumping in a car; there’s no doubt it beats waiting for a bus at the corner. However, have you ever tried riding a bike in this town? It’s about as liberating and independent as you can get. Try biking north on Elston Avenue during a Friday afternoon rush hour. Taking advantage of the street’s giant dedicated bike lane, you’ll literally blast by hundreds of saps trapped in the stuffy confines of their cars. You’ll probably be only going about fifteen miles per hour, but it will feel like you’re going twice that because the rest of the traffic is crawling. Trust me, there’s nothing more instantly gratifying than feeling like you’re the winner of the rat race home every day.

The point here is to dig deep in your conscience and use common sense before you habitually hop in your car everyday. Think about where you’re going first. Think about what exactly are the goals for your trip. Are you going out for just a gallon of milk or are you getting ten gallons of paint? Having a car or glorified truck (you probably call it an SUV) will come in handy for the latter, but couldn’t you just walk to a corner store to get the milk? Maybe you could grab a backpack and bike to where you need to go? Once you get in the habit of replacing short car trips with a walk or stroll on a bike, you’ll start to realize that a car isn’t always the quickest and easiest option. Just as it may have seemed foreign to you before when you saw someone carrying their groceries home via bike, once you’re on the other side, seeing people continue to sit in backed-up traffic day in and day out will start looking very strange. (Brad Knutson)

PETITION TO REMOVE ALL OLD WOMEN FROM CTA BUSES DURING RUSH HOUR

Dear CTA,

Please find an enclosed petition requesting the removal of all old women (defined as 65+ years of age) from CTA buses between the hours of 7am and 9am.

Old women are annoying, slow and clog an already clogged CTA system. Just this morning a cantankerous old gal of approximately 79 years of age stood at my bus stop. While the other travelers swirled around her waiting for their chance to board, she shake-shake-shakily grasped the yellow handle and hoisted one foot, up, up, up, almost there, up, upon the bus step, whereupon a pause to regroup and catch her breath was necessary before slowly hoisting up the other leg. This took in the neighborhood of three minutes.

Once aboard the bus, it took her forty-five seconds to locate her CTA card and another forty-five to actually put the card into the machine. C’mon! People are waiting here, sister!

The old woman then hobbled a couple of steps down the aisle, daring the seated passengers not to give up their seat for her (and dear god, always give her a seat because we are all going to suffer even more if you don’t), and once seated, do you think she just sat there silently like a normal person? Of course not. No, instead she ignored all well-known public-transportation rules and narrated to everyone around her.

"The buses are so slow. I don’t understand it. Do you understand it?"

"I think it’s so hot today. Don’t you think it’s hot?" pulling her pale blue windbreaker around her chest and adjusting her plastic rain bonnet.

Waving to a passenger on the other side of the bus, "Excuse me, excuse me, your pack could hit someone, you should really take that pack off."

Tell me CTA, how is that backpack the old woman’s business? Why should everyone’s attention be re-directed from their iPods, cell phones and view of the park to stare at this poor guy with a backpack who has now been humiliated by an old woman riding the 146 during rush hour? He’s just trying to get to work! Unless the "pack" is hitting her in the face—she needs to shut up about it.

I try to tell myself that this old woman is probably someone’s grandmother, but CTA, don’t I already suffer enough? Don’t I stand on the curb every morning and watch seven empty 151s go by before finally a 146 pulls up? Don’t I deal with overcrowded buses that have no air conditioning? You can’t possibly expect me to deal with old-lady perfume and no air conditioning, can you? CTA, didn’t I just ride a bus last week that broke down in the middle of Lake Shore Drive? And didn’t another bus almost kill all of us who were standing on the shoulder awaiting rescue? And did you receive hate mail from me about that incident? No, you didn’t. So this is the least you can do for me CTA. Ban the old ladies. You owe me.

And don't even get me started on the wheelchairs and baby strollers.

I’m Just Trying to Get to Work,
Adrienne Goldberg

Nothing but the blues
I was at a barbecue a few weeks ago and after I had finished my burger and downed the last drop of an Old Style, I asked the hostess where I should put the can. "Oh," she replied, "we don't recycle." I was about to climb up on my soapbox and give her a lecture on the merits of conservation when another friend stopped me. "I have news for you," she said, "nothing you put in a blue bag gets recycled."

It is true that the Blue Bag Program has been a dismal failure in many respects, but the fact remains that part of that failure is shared by us all. While it is very easy to point the blame at the Mayor's office, that blame, just like the iconic triangle of blue arrows might suggest, swings back around and falls at the feet of the people. If you are not going to participate in a city program because it's flawed, then good luck leaving the house any time soon, Chicago.

Recycling is one of the easiest ways to have a positive impact on the environment. You don't have to go outside and plant a tree. You don't have to paint a picket sign and march outside a power plant. All you need to do is have a couple different bins for your garbage.

Now it seems the city is slowly getting this new blue cart program going, and that is a step in the right direction, but this program will perform just as poorly if we, the people, don't do our part. So for the love of all that is green on this Earth, if you are lucky enough to have a blue cart in your alley, please use it wisely, and if not, then use those darned blue bags until something better rolls around. (Michael De Bonis)

Take Your Stand
What with the annual thrill of lakefront fireworks, Chicagoans may be forgiven for believing July 4 is a time of unalloyed joy everywhere; yet for the South it is ever bittersweet. As a Missourian, I grew up knowing kin had fought for the Confederacy. Great-great-granduncle Arch Vaughn, for example, served through the Vicksburg campaign and was there during the long siege when General Grant’s Federals blew a huge hole in the earthworks. The explosion catapulted brigade commander Frank Cockrell (after the Civil War, a U.S. senator from Missouri for three decades)—through the air, twisting him out of his coat. Landing on his feet and brandishing a rifle against the attack sure to follow, he roared at Arch Vaughn’s regiment, "Come on, old bloody Second Missouri, you have died once, and can die again!"

Despite such heroics, the Rebels finally succumbed to casualties and starvation, and surrendered—on July 4, 1863. Arch Vaughn lived to fight again, though wounded at Franklin, Tennessee, but it was many years before Southerners could summon enthusiasm for the Fourth of July. Because of slavery, today’s politically correct version of the war demonizes all Confederates, forgetting that in the South community was indivisible, yeomen and slaveholders alike enlisting as kinsmen and neighbors, fighting together like Highland clans. Yet, well before the Depression, most had rejoined the "Union" and saw their earlier defense of their home ground as of a piece with national patriotism.

Nonetheless, the collection of essays published in 1930 by twelve Southerners, "I’ll Take My Stand" (LSU Press), was widely misunderstood by Northern critics as an homage to the romantic moon-and-magnolias Old South myth. It was in fact a more profoundly conservative anthem to a vision of the South as it should be, rooted in agrarian values and a belief that individuality is best expressed within participatory community.

Like Leonidas at the pass, Robert Penn Warren, Allen Tate and colleagues stood against what they saw as encroaching Northern materialism and consumerism. Perhaps the odds doomed them to failure, for in the latter twentieth century the South embraced mercantilism and consumerism along with a blasphemous evangelicalism that actually promises earthly reward for following Jesus Christ.

Despite obvious faults, "I’ll Take My Stand" has proved to have solid legs with a powerful non-Marxist critique of unbridled capitalism and a clarion call to action that resonates today, finding voice, for example, in the life and work of author-poet Wendell Berry. The community sense that makes democracy viable is not a spectator sport. Today these twelve Southerners would urge all Americans to throw off the bonds of reality programming and "American Idol" and make their own culture. One feels the steel of General Cockrell in the words of Andrew Lytle, urging us to throw away material stuff and "return to our looms, our handcrafts, our reproducing stock. Throw out the radio [TV?] and take down the fiddle from the wall."

So, hell no, let’s not forget the Fourth of July—in all its American shadings. (Martin Northway)

(2007-07-02)

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