CTA Tattler

Heard on the Red Line Monday.
Young guy, spiky hair talking to someone on his cell. "I almost got fired Friday. Anheuser-Busch found out I wasn't old enough to work for them. I offered to get a fake ID, but found out that would cost $300. Then they told I could stay"
Too much noise to hear any more.
He got on at Belmont, got off at Chicago.

Because I have to check this blog everday I decided to suddenly turn off my CD player and begin paying attention to the people on my bus rides to and from college everday.

On the Jackson-Michigan Ave. bus today I was crammed into the back with about 20 other people and very unhappy when a nice young man with about 4 teeth moved his extremely large backpack and ice bag so I could sit down.
Intrigued by this sudden act of kindness on the CTA, I started listening to his cell phone conversation.

He was talking to his girlfriend about the ice.

"I know I'm supposed to tape up before I hit the bag, but I was so pissed I forgot and apparently hit it too hard."

At this point he's shoving his hand into the giant bag of ice and wincing.

"My trainer is making me go to the ER to have my wrist looked at again."

Still wincing.

"I mean it was a total freak thing, I just decided I wanted to box when I was at the gym."

He signs off and turns to me.

"I just hate lying," he says with a 4 tooth grin.

I smiled politely and got off at Wabash and Jackson for my customary Venti latte without asking what exactly he was lying about.

A few weeks ago I was travelling home on the 77 Belmont bus. I was sitting across the aisle from a regular-looking guy who seemed to have just finished some shopping at Walgreen's. As the ride wore on, I saw him rummaging through the bag that contained his recent purchase and caught a glimpse of a bottle-shaped object inside the bag. I was somewhat surprised because this guy appeared to have a concealed liquor bottle in the bag. He looked pretty normal and not at all like the type to be doing any midday boozing. Nevertheless, I caught him unscrewing the cap of his hidden bottle and watched as he brought it to his lips. He took a big swallow and as top of the bottle poked out of the bag, I could see that the liquid he was gulping down was green. A second later, I caught a whiff of the bottle's contents and it confirmed my suspision. This man was drinking MOUTHWASH. He clearly was not swishing it around in his mouth for the dental advantages, but rather he was swallowing this stuff for some other unknown reason. Does mouthwash have alcohol in it? Is there some other advantage to drinking it that I am not aware of? To this day, I still cannot figure out what purpose can be served by drinking mouthwash. But the thought is certainly nauseating...

I actually have two stories about how rude people on both sides of the driver-passenger fence can be:
1. I'm waiting for the 151 SB to take me towards my work on Tuesday at around 11:30 or so. I'm on the west side of Michigan Ave. and need to cross over to Michigan & Superior. I see one bus just roll by so I figure I can wait for the 2nd bus which is right behind it. Wrong. I cross the street, go to the covered stop, and get out my bus pass. I'm waiting along with a 20ish African-American guy. The 151 blows by without even a glance, as I'm standing there with my pass out. It wasn't that it was an inconvenience to walk to the Red Line, but the fact that the driver didn't even slow down was beyond rude.

Story 2: I'm returning on the 147 bus from the Michigan Avenue bridge on the river when our bus makes a stop around Ohio. I notice that on the bus (which also has a leak in the roof), the doors didn't open immediately. The driver noticed this too and got up to manually open them for two boarding passengers. One boards normally and the other proceeds to whine and moan because the driver stopped near the sign for the buses instead of the covered stop 5 feet back. Also he whines about the doors even after the driver calmly explains that it was a mechanical problem. This goes on for almost two blocks before the blustery man finally shuts up and puts his money in so he can sit down. What a jerk, I would have opened the doors again and thrown him off myself if I was driving.

The conclusion: People are all stupid.

Double Whammy last week. I boarded the 157 Streeterville bus on North Michigan Ave, the automated voice announcing the stops was not on, and so the driver did them him self...singing. Every stop and everywhere in between was a song.

In the mean time an angry seeming woman boards the bus. On the way to her seat she stops to KICK another passenger.

The driver continues to sing, adding in the names of all the stores at each stop, all the while this woman is sitting alone yelling and swearing at nobody in particular.

It was an experience, but I sure was ready to get off by the time we reached my stop.

Was riding a red line train last night going northbound at about 10 pm. A guy gets on the train at Washington and runs through the whole train naked then gets off at clark and division.

Former redline rider, bicycle commuter, alt-trans advocate Greg here checkin' in from Seattle. I found this on craigslist in the "best of" section (voted by other participants as a good post.) It made me laugh and took me back to my favorite city...

I love you, CTA
Date: Wed Mar 09 11:23:52 2005

A list of reasons why I love the CTA:

1. I love all you crazy motherfuckers who ride. Especially the Eastern European guy who occasionally regales the southbound Purple with rambling, paranoid, slightly racist, yet compellingly coherent harangues about international politics. I love you crazy Slavic guy.

2. I love everyone who sings on the CTA, either with headphones or to themself. I made it my New Year's resolution to encourage singing on the L in any way possible. I love you, transit singers (crazy and otherwise): pay no attention to uptight hipster-wannabes turning up their iPods to ignore you.

3. The other day, a bus driver responded to my thanks not with 'you're welcome' but with a black power fist raised high. And I'm white. I love you Black Panther bus driver.

4. There is a lady who always rides the Foster bus who is OCD. When she has a bad day, she clutches some piece of paper that she uses as a sort of hand condom to protect her from the germs that coat the rails and seats. Her body and face are so tense that it hurts to look at her, and she jumps whenever someone inadvertantly touches her. When the bus is crowded, I sometimes think her head will explode. I love you OCD lady.

5. An Hispanic kid gets on the bus near Ashland. He's probably 14 or 15. Six of his buddies are always waiting with him for the bus, and when he steps on they all start shouting stuff to embarrass him like 'I love you' and 'Goodnight, honey'. Usually he just ducks his head in shame, but last week he got on and announced to the bus 'They're gay.' I love you awkward teenager.

6. A few weeks ago a young black man started singing Chaka Khan's "Tell Me Something Good" to himself. Everybody on the train started to go into 'possible crazy person on the train' mode. In light of my New Year's resolution, I made eye contact with him and we smiled at each other. When he finished his song he opened up a canister of cashews and loudly offered them to everyone on the train. I was the only one that accepted. He was not overtly crazy; I think he was just much too cool to be uptight about anything. I love you, generous R&B crooner.

7. There is a heavy-set lady who also rides the Foster bus. She has a fire-red, greasy mullet and about a pound of eye makeup. She wears little converse shoes, a varsity letter jacket, and sweatpants. She always seems happy, and she obviously thinks she is extremely hot (so of course she is). I love you mullet lady.

8. And I love you CTA. For bringing together the pointy-shod, iPod listening, vain bitches and the homeless guys looking for somewhere to sleep. For pairing the pseudo-thug teens with the successful yet totally cowed business men. For being too damn convenient and cheap for people to avoid.

I was gonna post that! its lovely

I was meeting a friend of mine in front of the art institute last week and I ran into a very nice homeless "gentleman."

He said he normally gives out creations of some sort in exchange for any bit of change that comes his way, however this day he had nothing to offer but 4 safety tips.
The first one was that we should not drink and drive,however, both are ok by themselves.
I can't even remember his 2nd and 3rd tips, which seemed to be more common sense, but his last tip stuck out to me.

He said that while waiting for buses downtown we should not stand so close to the curb because the newer buses are lower, and therefore the mirrors on the side of the bus are low enough to smack people standing too closely to the street in the head.

I figured that if anyone would know something like that it would be a homeless gentleman in downtown chicago, but have any of you reader's seen that happen? ...or perhaps had that happen to you?

Grammar don'ts

Conversation overheard between a teenager and his grandfather on the Blue Line this morning.

Teen: "What did you think of that story (on his hockey team) in the school paper?"
Grandfather: "Did anybody edit that thing?"
Teen: "Yeah, me and (so-and-so) worked on it."

Enough said.

Re: Lower busses and head-smacking mirrors...

I've never witnessed anyone hurt by the mirrors on the new busses, but living on State Street near Grand, I've watched people kinda duck away from the #29 State/Navy Pier bus when it turns the corner at State/Illinois.

The #29 uses a lot of the new (Nova) busses. I never gave the ducking a second thought until now.

Can anyone explain to me about the "blind" guy on the red line? I'm sure many of you have seen him before; he his eyes sort of pop out of his head and he walks up and down the aisles with this stick and a cup that he shakes. I felt bad for him and used ro give him whatever change I had until one day I realized that he's always wearing brand new K-swiss and Sean John and Addidas clothing/shoes. The most puzzling of all was the day that some one gave him a dollar bill and he took out his wallet and put it it inside with all his other cash...what the hell??

Does anyone have any info on the suicide on Easter Sunday at the Irving Park brown line stop? I knew the guy, and was wondering if anyone has any details or saw anything.

Warning to all late-night train-sleepers: watch your pockets.

My friend, currently homeless, decided to catch a nap on the Blue Line one night last week. He woke up to find all the contents of his pockets on the seat next to him--all except his money, his cell phone, and his bus cards. The thief had cut through the pockets of his jeans, then through the pockets of a pair of sweats he was wearing under the jeans. And he did it without the guy waking up...now that's skill.

The Urinator!

About a month, 6 weeks ago, I was on the LaSalle Brown Line platform at 11:35 pm, waiting for my daily train home. On the other platform, a rather big guy comes out the doors and wanders down the platform a ways. He pauses, with his back to me, and he is standing quite close to one of those recycling boxes. To a casual observer it would look like he was just standing there, but I had seen him standing in the exact same location several times, and every time when he walks away there is a nice puddle on the platform. Well, this time I had my camera with me and I snapped about 6 pictures, including several of his face when he was done. I deliberately left the flash on so he'd see the flash go off, so his face is blurry. He knew I was taking his picture, and he wasn't happy about it. Last night (Mar. 30, 2005), I was sitting on the platform and he showed up again! This time, he wandered around the platform and kept looking over at me, and I guess he was too embarrassed to take his nightly leak on the platform. I have a picture, but I'm not sure if I can post it here.

Take care and have a great day....

ciao,
john.

"Why he think I went to muthaf***ing prison fo'? I carry a muthaf***ing butcha' knife wit' me fo' a reason! I stab that muthaf***er! F*** that sh**! Bit** a** muthaf***er think he startin' sh** I f***ing stab his a**. I don't give a f***ing sh**! I'll go back to muthaf***ing prison! Sh**!"

Heard repeatedly this morning on a crowded southbound Purple Line train, starting when I got on at Belmont. This angry, angry woman was relating an obviously upsetting situation to her friends who hooted, laughed, "uh huh"-ed and hollered, egging her on. When all but one of her friends exited at Chicago, only the occasional and much quieter "muthaf***er" and "bi***" was heard, until I exited at Clark/Lake. This woman looked like she'd take your head off for looking at her wrong, so all of us non-insane kept our noses in our books and let her crap all over the beginning of a beautiful day. Thanks, crazy lady.

Concerning the Irving Park Brown line suicide: I was returning home from church a little after 12pm and just before the Irving Park stop the train (I was on board) came to a sudden stop. Everyone in the car jerked forward and then everything went silent. The lights went off, the fans stopped running and the conductor got on the intercom and said "Do not open any doors." We sat there for about 7 or 8 minutes watching the fire trucks and ambulances drive up. We were told to go to the first car and exit the train. Firemen were everywhere on the platform and street and the driver of the train was hysterical yet no one really new what had happened. I waited for all the emergency personell to get on the tracks/platform and then I left. An area under the tracks was taped off so I assume that's where the body fell. Some weird creepy guy from my car asked me to take his picture in front of the train/stretcher/firemen but I said no. I was confused, scared and then saddened. In almost three years of riding the brown line this was the first "experience" I've had that really shook me up. Hope a first hand account hlps a little...

On the Blue Line inbound from Forest Park during morning rush, a dirty, drunk-looking woman of 30-something boards the train and sits, splay-legged near the doors. She proceeds to polish off the remains of her 40 (discreetly tucked inside a brown paper bag). Then, at the Clinton stop...she stands up and chucks the bag--bottle inside--out the train doors. It shatters loudly. She sits back down. Gives an exhasperated sign, and crosses and uncrosses her legs (clad in dirty sweatpants).

Sure enough, moments later, a CTA employee steps onto the train, looks at the woman, and asks "did you throw out a bottle and break it?" She answers "I threw out my bag and it broke." The CTA employee steps away and returns with a policewoman and a private security guard with a dog. The ask her to step off the train. She shrugs, gets up, and exits. And the train pulls out of the station.

My first year of college brought on the wonderful world of the cta. One day after class I was on the northbound red line with some friends when a man stumbles onto the train and sits down next to us. Right away we all know he's drunk, but then comes his story: He just got out of jail after 19 years of being locked up and all of a sudden he thinks that i'm Britney Spears, my other girl friend is Christina Aguilera, and my guy friend is Oscar de la Hoya and he continues to call us by these names until he finally stumbles back off the train about 5 to 6 stops later, but not without knocking on the window and screaming goodbye to the new found celebrities that we are to this man.

Ah, springtime on the CTA.

Yesterday was a new one for me. I was standing in the hobo compartment, looking into the next car. I glanced in the reflection and noticed that the gentleman sitting right next to me appeared to be snorting something off of his hand. Fascinated, I continued to watch as he pulled out a small packet and a straw and continued to snort. He then dabbed his finger into the packet and rubbed his finger on his gums before carefully folding the packet back up and putting it in his pocket.

Oh, and if you're reading this, crazy cokehead man, I was just looking at the brunette in the next car. I didn't see anything.

Ah, springtime on the CTA.

Yesterday was a new one for me. I was standing in the hobo compartment, looking into the next car. I glanced in the reflection and noticed that the gentleman sitting right next to me appeared to be snorting something off of his hand. Fascinated, I continued to watch as he pulled out a small packet and a straw and continued to snort. He then dabbed his finger into the packet and rubbed his finger on his gums before carefully folding the packet back up and putting it in his pocket.

Oh, and if you're reading this, crazy cokehead man, I was just looking at the brunette in the next car. I didn't see anything.

This happened to me last week at the Fullerton stop, as I was waiting for the brown line going north. It was around seven-thirty or so, too early for the real crazies to be out. Or so I thought. The red line (what a shock!) came through, depositing its passengers on the platform. They all trickled away as they always do, except for one homeless man, who walked up and down the platform, yelling loudly to no-one in particular.

"Oh, fine! Must be nice to have a college degree! I ain't got no college degree! I don't even got a family to go back to!"

After five minutes or so of this, during which he told us his reasons why his family wouldn't have him ("'Not until you get a job,' or 'until you're a functional alchoholic'"), his attention was caught by the phones in the middle of the platform.

He walked over to one and pretended to dial a number. I honestly hope he was doing this to be funny, knowing that we were all listening, but who can be sure?

"National security? I need the President. No, I will not hold. You put me through young man, or...I mean NOW. I mean YESTERDAY. If you value your job..."
(He then waited, presumably while he was connected to the White House.)
"Hello, Mr. President! Yes...yes...yes, phase one has begun...yes...yes...yes. Alright there, Mr. President. You tell your old man I say hello, and GOD BLESS AMERICA."

The brown line then came and I got on, but the last thing I heard, he was asking another CTA patron for money, because "calls to Washington aren't cheap, you know."

A young woman wearing a see-through brown blouse entered the bus and slipped her card into the reader.

When she turned around I realized that she was in fact not a young lady, but a woman in her 70s wearing a dark-haired wig. Upon coming closer I also realized that she wasn't wearing a bra, which meant that everyone could all see her matronly chest quite clearly.

A friend of the same age (dressed normally) was accompanying her. She sat across from her with a huge grin plastered on her face for the entire ride.

The two of them acted perfectly normal and would occasionally turn to smile and wave at a small boy at the back of the bus. He later came near the front and tried his best to ignore them.

The two of them said they were getting off at Belmont, but sadly I had to leave before then. I just wonder where they were going dressed like that.

This happened 3 years ago. It was rush hour in the loop and I got on a brown line at State & Lake. It was the middle of summer and a particularly hot and sticky day so, naturally, I was wearing sandals.

No sooner did I step into the car when Crazy Mary got in my face and yelled "Whore! Wearing socks without sandals! You're a whore!" I ignored her and found the last 12 inches of unoccupied floor space a few feet away from her.

The next thing I hear is a beeping sound and then the voice of the train operator through the speaker next to the call button: "Can I help you?" Without missing a beat, Crazy Mary declares, in her raspy and aged voice, "There's a man and woman f*#*ing on the train!"

Snickers and titters ran through the crowd until the conductor said: "Ummmm...........thank you???" At that point people busted out laughing and,luckily, Crazy Mary got off of the train at the Merchandise Mart.

I was overhearing a loud one sided mundane phone conversation one morning during rush hour. After a few stops, the conversation was just getting to be really strange. I looked up and burst out laughing. She had rollers in her hair, wearing flannel pajamas and had a big white handset from an old rotary dial phone, including the curly cord, up to her ear. Her portable conversation was ongoing when she exited the train.

This morning on the red line heading south, I was sitting in hobo corner, the train was silent as usual, and from the main area, the sound of a person sawing major logs began to travel throughout the car. The four of us in hobo corner couldn't see the noise polluter, and judging by the sound I assumed it was a very large, overweight man with sleep apnea. To my surprise...it was a very small toddler.

a friend of mine just found this "rant and rave" post on craig's list with a few good cta persona desctiptions:
http://chicago.craigslist.org/about/best/chi/63019046.html

enjoy!
lynn

I was travelling southbound on the redline last nite from Argyle to Belmont. After we passed the Addison stop, the train slowed, stopped, then proceeded again at a very slow pace. I figured it was to let a brown line train cross. We were still moving slowly when I noticed workers on the tracks, I was standing next to the doors. All of a sudden there was a loud explosion, a flash of light, a puff of smoke and a sulfur-like odor from the tracks directly next to the car I was in. The workers on the tracks didn't seem to pay any attention to it as the train kept moving, but the woman who was closest to the explosion screamed and dove into the aisle. A few minutes later we arrived safely at Belmont where I exited laughing at the poor terrified woman.

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/columnists/chi-0504110101apr11,1,523050.column?coll=chi-news-hed

Apparently someone else isn't too happy with the CTA....Needless to say, I need one of these shirts!

one day aboard the 66 chicago bus heading west, near larrabee, an old man is muttering to himself. loudly. and suddenly, just as i'm about to get off the crowded bus, he screams "in my day, even polish priests played the piano!"

not sure what it means, but i'll never forget it.

This morning (4/15/05) on the Redline below Belmont a guy was mouthing prayer and allternating between placing his right hand on his head and his heart. The entire trip to the loop he looked up and down with his eyes closed, deep in prayer. He wore suspenders and a black hooded leather jacket. His many accessories included a jewel encrusted golden owl pin, a large nugget gold ring, and a couple of gold bracelets.

It may not exactly fit the bill for a commuting tale but I certainly wouldn't have heard it anywhere but the CTA, everyone's favorite hugely public venue to talk like they were alone.

It was midday Tuesday and I was waiting to go southbound on the red line at Clark and Division, and standing a little way from me was a cute-ish, blond girl probably in her early 20's or late teens talking to a little girl and her dad. The blond kept trying to tell the little girl fascinating "older girl" stories and the little girl was too busy talking about her own stuff to notice, really, it was cute. I really liked the story the blond was telling, though, about how her dad gets out of speeding tickets.

"He put a little red dot sticker over his nose on his driver's license, like a clown nose, and stuck it down with super glue and god-knows-what so it's IMPOSSIBLE to get off. When the cop pulls him over, he takes out his license like you're supposed to, and the cop invariably starts scratching at the license to get it off, and says, 'You know, you have something on your license, here.'

My dad acts all surprised, 'Oh, sorry! Just a minute!', reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a clown nose and puts it on. The cop usually gets a real kick out of it, and most of the time he gets off without a problem!"

The little girl, alhtough slighly perplexed, was unmoved. I thought it was hilarious.

About a month ago, I was waiting at the Belmont & Lake Shore Drive Bus stop during morning rush hour. Several full express buses passed by, so there was a crowd of people waiting to get on the next available bus. A 40-ish year old woman approached the group and instead of waiting at the back, she walked around the crowd and placed herself right on the curb in front of everybody who was already waiting.

As it turned out, when an available bus arrived, I was in line to board right in front of her. I'm used to having people jostle for position when boarding, but this lady was pressing herself against my back so hard I thought she'd push me over. Apparently she didn't want anybody to cut in line in front of her.

Once we both got on board, the person who boarded right before me got the last available seat. I walked to the back of the bus beyond the back exit door. Pushy Lady, however, must not have wanted to stand, since she followed me to the rear of the bus but promptly got off through the back exit.

I've seen her several times at the bus stop since, but I haven't seen her pull this same routine again. But I'll keep watching...

Discovered this blog only recently; I love it.

Finally have a story that might be worthy of it.

So last Thursday afternoon on the Red Line, southbound, near Addison, I overhear the guy behind me talking on the phone with a gravely, tough-guy drawl

"Justin’s real freaked," he says. "He thinks I’m coming to Indianapolis with six guys that just got out of prison."

He chatters on a bit more about this; finally I figure out he’s talking about security at an upcoming rock concert.

I steal a glance at him when I get off; I sort of expected a big biker dude – maybe Al Jourgensen himself. But it’s just a big beefy guy with a crewcut, possibly a cop who works security on the side.

Yesterday I was riding the Red Line south from Uptown, doing the crossword with my friend when a couple of hookers (How did I know they were hookers? Well, I didn't just move up here from Iowa, and if you read on, you'll understand why my assumption was justified; anyway, they were dressed like hookers) got on at Lawrence. One sat in the seat in front of us; one sat sideways on the seat across the aisle. The one across from us was speaking a language liberally punctuated with the word "bitch". It seemed as if this was her usual mode of addressing just about everyone, male or female.

She asked me which station was closest to traffic court and I told her Washington was closest. I was wearing a bandage on my wrist, and she asked me if I'd hurt my arm. "No," I answered, "I just sprained my thumb." I was trying to avoid conversation so that I could work on the crossword, you see. But she asked me where I worked. I told her I was a law clerk, and asked why she wanted to know; her answer was priceless:

"'Cause I need to find a job... I'm getting tired of suckin' dick."

I pretended not to know how to reply to that, being in mixed company, but now that I'm at liberty, I'll tell you what I would have said:

"Well, it's a hell of a lot easier than eating pussy."

i work for the cta,why don't we have a decal that has a slash thru a guy urinating? everyday the train in the front of the car is loaded with the essence of urine?have more stories insider style of course.....

if you want to have fun,grab a clip board,and a pen, put a yellow flashlight in your back pocket and stand on the platform at o'hare,watch the nervous workers work harder.or at your fav rude platform ,the supervisor[white shirt]will watch you,keep lifting the top sheet as you're hiding the fake check list.

Is the smell of human waste getting more and more common on the CTA? I think it is and here's a story from a dear friend of mine to confirm this:

Red Line, aprox. 1:00 AM, between Grand and Sheridan.

A rough looking woman in dressed in a fuzzy full length coat boards going northbound. She sprawls out on the inward facing seats nearest the door and closes her eyes. A stop or two later a CTA employee boards the car and tells her sleeping is not permitted and she must sit up. He walks out and it immediately becomes clear she is not pleased by this reprimand. She gets up and appears to search for another seat, checking first in Hobo Corner but it's already occupied. Somewhere between Addison & Sheridan, she procedes over to the entrance vestibule, leans against the glass divider and drops trau. Not 5 seconds later a stream of urine is audibly splashing upon the floor and her boots. The puddle quickly grows and soon is creating tributaries towards other passengers. My friend could do nothing but sit in stunned silence as the Sheridan stop approached. Her bladder now empty, she started to walk back through the car. Another passenger shouted out: "You filthy nasty bitch, you best get yer ass of this train...". My friend disembarked and the fate of the filthy nasty bitch remains a mystery. But we have the lingering odor to remind us of her and her dissatisfaction with CTA policies.

This is not from Chicago, but from a Pittsburgh bus.

While the whole story is particularly good, it is long, so I will just share the best moment.

A middle aged man on the bus was having a very loud cell phone conversation. I was mostly ignoring it, until I (and everyone else on the bus) heard him say:

"Yes, she needs psychiatric help!! She needs to see a gynecologist!"

While it's mostly attempted by teen boys, the old "I don't know why my transfer dosen't work" trick never seems to go away.

The young man gets on the bus (normally with a large line of people behind him) and slides his transfer card into the machine. When it doesn't work he starts telling the driver how he just got off the EL and he doesn't know whats wrong with it. Everybody on the bus groans to themselves as the the bus sits there while the driver tries putting the card in a few times. The stand off can go one of two ways; 1) the driver gives up and tells the kid to sit down, of 2) the driver says tough luck and then suprisingly the kid has a perfectly valid card in his other pocket.

SO ANNOYING! A white guy, about 35-40, gets on the blue line at Irving Park with his kid, about 10. They both have bikes, and the dad has one of those toddler carriage things that you connect to the back of a bike. It has no toddler, but is filled with equipment of some sort. For the entire ride to the loop, the Dad is fidgeting, maneuvering, shifting, rearranging the bikes and the carriage. At the very least, he was considerate and made sure it was always as out of the way as possible, but geez it was annoying to sit in the midst of it and watch him stroll back and forth between hobo corner and the doors, rearranging all this stuff every 3 seconds. At one point, an orange emergency pennant thing from the kid's bike fell off, and the dad made this big urgent move to retrieve it, take it apart, and stow it in the carriage. Like I said, he was being as considerate as he could, but something about HIM (not just the maneuvering) was obnoxious. He kept giving directions to kid, like they were in the middle of some stage performance. The dad also had headphones and really ugly sunglasses on, so he was rocking out instead of talking WITH his son - and then the glasses were just aesthetically lousy. Imagine sitting amidst this constant performance for about eight billion stops.

"Sitting on a fence post, ears to the ground,
the fat cats are always pushing the thin ones around."
-Midnight Oil

This is for all the Brown Line users.

As you head in towards the loop, pay attention when you pull out of the Sedgewick stop. After you make the turn south, and pass the long row of identical townhouses, about 3-5 houses down, on the east side of the tracks (left side if you are facing in the direction the train is travelling), there is a house with a wooden fence in back, and on the fence is a wooden cut out of a black cat with yellow eyes. This cat has been on that fence for probably at least 4 or 5 years. When I'm paying attention and look for it, it always brings a smile to my face when I see it.

Take care and have a great day....

ciao,
john.

A few weeks ago on a rainy day I boarded the redline at 79th street only to find that there was this rude woman who sat her wet umbrella and bag in the seat next to her. While I was about to sit there until I saw the seat was wet; I was also letting another passenger past me Ms. Rude began to curse me out; saying I should find another seat. She had the right sista to tangle with because I immediately went to taking off my earrings. Her mouth ran on and on until 63rd when the officer step on and I suggested that she should pay half fare for using two seats. The officer told her to remove her stuff. I now get on the last car...to avoid any tickets for disturbing the peace. Besides that day was my Birthday!!!!

OK, that's weird. In a lot of ways.

My friend, Rebecca, has an autistic son and wrote the following on her blog concerning a trip they took on the Red Line.

Love Train

We can see the train from our window, and the Uptown theatre, too, when the sun sets behind it and makes our room all golden like nothing will ever make us sad again. Jude calls it the Love Train, he announces it so we know it is going by otherwise we’d miss it for sure. Tonight we will ride the train, Jude and his daddy and I, but Jude won't know that until we get there.

We walk past sad people and dirty snow and smell the fumes from the cars on Wilson Ave. When we get near the station Jude is so excited we can barely hold on to him and as we start to climb the stairs we feel the thunder. Jude becomes frantic, it’s the LOVE train and we are missing it, so HURRY and when we get there and the train is pulling away it is almost too much to bear. Another one is coming, I say, in just a minute but Jude doesn’t work like that. He cries until the next one comes and when it gets close we hold him tight, because there is nothing to stop him from running right onto the tracks.

The train takes off and Jude is flapping and yelling THIS IS GREAT and something about Thomas and Gordon at the top of his lungs. People look up, their damp dull reveries broken for a moment and some of them smile but most of them stare for a moment and look away. I hate them for their plodding mediocrity. They seem so small just outside Jude’s sparkling circle of light. I get to stand in it and they don’t. So there.

When the train slows down for Sheridan Jude starts to howl because he thinks the ride is over, and continues to howl until the train gets going again. He does this at Addison, and again at Belmont. No one is smiling now. These lumps of dreary humanity don’t get how great the ride is, so they don’t understand the anguish at the thought that it might be over.

We arrive at our stop and haul Jude kicking and screaming off the train. We spend an hour or two with some therapists who want him to string things and match colors and put his own socks on and quit screaming so much. We brought him here, it was my idea, I wanted them to teach him to participate and learn and be more like those fools on the train. We are all glad to leave and I suspect they are happy to see us go. Jude is far more subdued on the way home, looking out at the moon behind the dark buildings and bare trees. I can tell we are getting to Wilson because the trains always slow down past the massive cemetery, out of respect for the dead. Mustn’t wake them. Jude leaves the train without a fuss this time, perhaps realizing it just isn't the place for him.

Good bye love train, you have proven too much for us today. We will ride you again someday, when we are calmer, braver. Until then we will wave at you from our window in the golden sunlight, and yell out your name as loud as we can.

posted by Rebecca @ Thursday, February 10, 2005

I have been a fan of your site since I saw it mentioned in the Trib’s RedEye, and I want to thank you for the link you provided to the NTSB with respect to the 8/3/01 El collision on the Brown and Purple Line. I was on the Purple Line train #505 hit that day, I think the fourth car back, and was among the uninjured. I have always wondered the speed at which we were hit, but never followed up on exploring it. I remember in the news, the NTSB rebuking the CTA’s initial public statement that the collision was at less than 5 MPH, and the CTA’s subsequent revision of their statement to 5-15 MPH accordingly.

Final verdict: 11 MPH. The NTSB’s assessment that in spite of the 300+ foot visibility from the train that hit us, and of the 31 feet they calculated it would have taken to bring that train to a stop, and of the brakes not being applied until 1.5 seconds before the collision were surprising revelations. And the operator tested negative for drugs and alcohol. I wonder if he also tested negative for having at least the intellect of a tumbleweed.

I would like to provide a detailed firsthand account of that experience. Our train had started to move slowly after having come to a stop midway between Sedgwick and Chicago, right over the taxicab corral on the right. I remember this because after the collision, I was ridiculing in my mind some genius next to me who was speculating with someone whether we hit something or were hit from behind: “Wait, but wouldn’t you go forward?” (DUH, DUH, DUH) I was standing in the aisle, facing the doors, my left hand holding the rear pole of the left forward vestibule. I had a firm grip on the pole, even though the train was barely moving. I’ve seen too many tourists, drunk fellow Cub fans, and yes, just sober native idiots stumble or fall when the train lunges abruptly.

Loud bang, I was thrown rearward to full extension of my arm, but reflexively tightened my grip and did not fall. I was the only aisle passenger in my car still standing. Everyone else standing who did not have a place to fall, i.e., in the vestibule or against the rear door, was on top of another. I know of a guy at work who was on that train whose foot was fractured because someone fell on it.

I went to the forward door between cars, to make a cellphone call to my supervisor to explain in a little more quiet privacy what had happened, and asking that she explain to people who were expecting me at an important meeting that I would be late and had no idea when they’d get us off this thing. Couldn’t do it. The impact buckled the threshold of that door, so that it didn’t open. Then I saw the spiderweb pattern in the window of the rear door of the next-front car, right about head-level of someone of my six-foot height. So I made the call in the car, describing these details. It is interesting after these years seeing what I told my boss corroborated in the NTSB report.

The NTSB report stated that there was one “serious” injury: a pregnant woman who was taken to the hospital, examined, and released, but who was soon after admitted with “complications,” and was thus defined by NTSB a “serious” injury. Unless there was more than one pregnant woman on the train, I think I can tell you about her. A VERY pregnant woman was sitting in the frontmost wall-facing seat, just forward of my left front vestibule. She was quietly but visibly distressed, with her hands around her tummy. The windowside, rear-facing passenger closest to her hit her right forehead into the pregnant woman’s left shoulder at collision, which created a.visible red lump on her forehead.

Worst injury I saw in my car was a roughly 70-year-old Mexican man seated aisleside, rear-facing, two rows back, forward of the front right vestibule. He caught the bar on the seat in front of him in the upper teeth/lip, and was bleeding pretty well. Women were digging through their purses for tissue and we passed it down to a late-teen Mexican immediately across the aisle, who seemed to know him and was attending him.

I have to say I was impressed -- very impressed -- with the CFD’s swift and expert response and taking of control. Once they came, they opened the doors for us for ventilation. The cars were pretty packed, the train was powered down, and it was about 80 degrees outside. Fresh air was needed. They delivered personnel from the basket trucks onto the El, and swiftly went car-to-car triaging, removing those seemingly in need of most immediate attention.

The train powered back up and we moved to the Chicago Ave. stop. There, a CFD guy boarded and instructed something to the effect of, “OK. Everyone, I appreciate your frustration, but I don’t care how hot or sweaty or late for work you are, you do not leave this train until you are instructed to do so.” They soon directed those of us who did not feel we were in need of medical attention to step off, and go down the stairs.

I have a lingering snapshot in my mind from being in that line, by the way: one guy who remained on the train, early 20’s, dark hair, with a sort of Mona Lisa smile as he watched all of us passing by, doing our best to move on and get where we needed to be to fulfill our duties for our employers. As if he were thinking, “Day off and maybe a lawsuit – WOOO- HOOO!!” At the bottom of the stairs was someone taking each of our names, addresses, and phone numbers.

A couple of days later, The CTA gave all riders on the Brown and Purple lines during the affected hours a free one-trip pass for the inconvenience, along with an apology note. I thought that showed real class. We have to make fun of many of the more “interesting” people with whom we have the privilege of sharing our commute -- no shortage of them. And to make fun of the CTA in many respects. But true props to CTA for that responsible gesture.

And if you post this message, please add:

To the beautiful brunette in the yellow shirt who stood across the right front vestibule that day on the Purple Line when the news crews started arriving, know you’re admired. I give CTA Tattler permission to pass on my email address.

And to the clearly uninjured schmuck waiting for an ambulance-chaser at Chicago Ave. that day: you didn’t have the balls for an honest living. I hope the Chicago Fire Department set a more positive example for you than your father ever had set.

Anybody know why the Red Line was backed up for a while on Saturday 4/30 afternoon around 4/4:30pm? I was at the Fullerton station and they made an announcement that the Red Line was delayed due to a police emergency.

A tale of typical CTA far-sightedness --and a bit of advice for those who take the Red out to the ballgame...
On a Friday evening in June of 2001, the White Sox hosted the other team that plays in town at what was known at that time as Comiskey Park. The visitors repeatedly failed to capitalize on multiple-men-on-base/fewer-than-two-out opportunities, the fact that the Sox' starting pitcher had to leave early with a back problem that would prove to necessitate season-ending surgery, and the loss of their third baseman who tweaked his hamstring while trying unsuccessfully to chase down an infield bleeder that loaded the bases in the top of the first inning. In the end, the Sox made their darling and cuddly opponents pay for their profligacy with a gamewinning grand slam home run in the bottom of the 10th inning off of the bat of Carlos Lee, since traded away to the Milwaukee Brewers and now available to torment his old foes in red, white and blue seventeen times a season.

As unrepentant Northsiders bound for Belmont and a few celebratory postgame beers, my buddy and I made fast after the game ended for the unstaffed 33rd Street vestibule ("IIT," if you will) of the Sox-35th stop on the Red Line --it's considerably less chaotic and stressful to stroll in a northeasterly direction on a diagonal course thru the stadium parking lots, enter the vestible on 33rd and descend immediately to what is the "far end" of the platform (from the perspective of northbound Red Line riders) than it is to endure the jammed foot traffic and the messy mass of unprepared, directionless and/or inebriate at the main station entrance on 35th --and, not least of all, one doesn't end up taking too many more steps in the process of avoiding the human zoo that the slow walk from the stadium gates to the 35th Street entrance typically is.

(Ballpark transit riders' alert: it probably takes just as long to make the walk between the 33rd Street vestibule and the nearest stadium gates as it does to use the main 35th Street station, and perhaps even a smidge longer, but it certainly seems shorter and comes highly recommended --and that applies to all who travel both to and from the park toward the north. You'll move faster thru the parking lots on foot than will most of the vehicle-bound folks who are jockeying for position to wait in long lines to drive on out of there, and there are enough people around that if anyone should be stupid enough to menace you, the simple act of making some noise would be certain to prompt someone's immediate and urgent attention --and there are cops directing traffic over at 33rd and Wentworth, which is at the edge of the lots and a half a block from the promised land that is the 33rd Street vestibule.

Trust me: it's all good --just make sure you sit in or near the hindmost car on your way down if you want to get out on 33rd and avoid the hordes at 35th. Please also be advised that there is usually an IIT security staffer parked in a conspicuously marked vehicle on the 33rd Street Dan Ryan overpass, watching --at least in theory-- the every move of anyone coming or going in the vicinity of the vestibule and ready to respond immediately upon any sign of trouble. Also: ONLY farecards and weekly/montly passes will get you thru the gate at 33rd; the vestibule is unstaffed, and there are no automated farecard machines; cash will be of no help to you in lieu of anything less than a farecard with the requisite $1.75, or unlimited weekly/monthly rides, debited to it in advance.)

So the game ends with huge drama, and lucky for us, the 33rd Street entrance happened to be in service once we'd reeled our way over there; sometimes you make the walk and get burned --which has happened to me after a game once out of roughly 25 attempts-- in which case you have to walk south along Wentworth and back down to the main entrance at 35th, but it's supposed to be open all the time. Anyway, we get on, and that Friday evening happened to fall during BluesFest weekend. Needless to say, hordes of drunken, pink-cheeked young adults came pouring onto the train when we made the series of underground stops in the Loop; at least we, in the lead car thanks to using the 33rd Street entrance, had our own seats on the aisle for the entire ride.

After emerging from the underground section of the line near Armitage, the train sputtered to a halt in the no-man's land south of the Fullerton stop. It wasn't at all a hot or even particularly warm night --Levi's and a light longsleeve or loose-fitting sweatshirt were appropriate for extended sedentary outdoor activity-- but it was a windless evening with the air a bit on the thick side; the crowded, uncooled and immobile train car was correspondingly airless and stuffy as we sat there, growing increasingly impatient by the second, and I began to complain aloud at the idiocy of it all.

No official explanation was offered over the train's intercom for a period of several motionless minutes until we heard something rushed, vague and largely unintelligible on the subject of "scheduled track maintenance," after which we waited several more minutes before the train haltingly resumed its northward course. I don't mind adding that when we finally arrived on the street outside of the Belmont stop --after the better part of an hour spent traveling a whopping eight miles in a straight line, making 14 stops with no cross-traffic to speak of-- we were taunted by some putz in a jeep bellowing, "Hey-- White Sox SSSUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKK!!" Consider the source.

So there you have it: scheduled track maintenance. On a Friday night in June. During the crosstown series. And BluesFest. And they wonder why they can't get people out of their cars for the low, low everyday price of a buck-seventy-five in this town...?

Trust me, now that I've found this place, the hits'll just keep on coming...
Once seeming to be destined for extinction, the Brown Line (or "the Ravenswood eL," to the old-timers) has of course enjoyed a renaissance over the last ten to fifteen years thanks to improved social and economic conditions in Ravenswood and Lincoln Square and a corresponding spike in ridership demand; too bad they're going to ruin everything and destroy small businesses by shutting the whole thing down for station renovations and platform extensions.

Anyway, better for me, Brown Line trains are newer and better-maintained than their country-cousin Red Line counterparts, and the air conditioning system in its cars could chill a bottle of Veuve by the time you hop off to transfer at Belmont.

So, having spent a few good minutes with Mother Nature one roasting summer afternoon about five years ago, I jumped on at the Montrose stop on my way to go visiting, and as I sat idly in my seat, my dry and reddened eyes wandered to the advertising slides across the aisle and up above the windows. In one, a black-and-white photograph portrayed a smiling Erik Estrada, hawking low-cost auto insurance or something like it.

I then noticed that someone had taken the time and the care to use a thick, black-ink marker and scrawl upon the ad, "OH, PONCH --YOU'VE SUNK SO LOW!" Yeah, I had myself a good, long, loud and unabashed laugh right then and there...

Getting to work this morning (Sunday) was an adventure. I usually take busses on Sundays because they're always single-tracking the Brown line. So today I took a 78 east--with a detour around the Brown line station, they're doing some work there. Then a 146 south--rerouted because of the St Jude parade. I ended up getting off the bus at LaSalle and walking east to Fairbanks. I will say this--the driver of the 146 was great. He explained what was going on to everyone, and took it in stride when some crazy woman yelled at him because she hadn't paid attention to what he was saying. I wish I'd gotten his name or badge number so I could tell the CTA what a good job he did.