New CTA construction plans are scheduled to take place very soon as the mayor of the city and Department of Transportation begin to move forward on a new Green Line station being assembled between Damen Avenue and Lake Street. Residents of the West Side are invited to witness a glass-covered bridge being added as Columbia College's Folayemi Wilson is set to create murals that will focus on the history of Chicago's West Side.
Ever since 2011, the city had planned big things for the civilians of Chicago for upgraded and new stations to be a part of a development initiative for public transit. If this newly designed station is going to be as fancy as the reports say, who knows what other glass-based stations can be thought of for all the other stations that run in, around, and out of Chicago, with Jefferson Park's Blue station being close to completion from the outside of things.
In the meantime, those who attend the special events at the United Center will now have a closer safe-ish spot for them when this anticipated Green Line station arrives 2021.
Thursday, May 9, 2019
Thursday, April 25, 2019
The Artist
The world is filled with art, and in it comes those who are artists, painting their surroundings and dreams in ways sometimes only they can fully perceive. I've encountered and witnessed a grand amount of artistic folks in my life, both young and old, but no one quite like The Artist himself, whom I caught sketching away like a madman on a mix of coffee and coke on the Blue Line one day.
Who knows what the hell I was doing that day; most certainly I was heading somewhere and so was he, albeit in opposite directions but lives of our own, of course. I glanced over to him, merely a few seats away, to see him scribbling and doodling away an image on a pad (I believed he utilized a case of colored pencils for his creation), in-tuned with music plugged to his ears. His wavy and loose white hair flowed with the motion of the moving public train, while rocking simultaneously to what seemed like to be a mix of Beethoven and the Beatles. That's what he looked like to be: a Londoner stuck in the 60s/70s, always riding high to the waves of his day. He had a very peculiar pattern and rhythm, though. Something about the way he swayed and drew, ultimately focused yet so comfortable, amid strangers in a place where you can run into anyone or any action in the city.
This wondrous gent donned black clothing, while sporting black shades and wired in with tangled Apple earbuds - armed to the teeth with a sleight of hand that also caught the attention of a couple others around him. The Artist was fully immersed, dedicated to the craft, no matter the weather, place, or speed. He's probably one of the few residents I would have liked to have met. Get a glimpse into the worlds he sees and creates.
Who knows what the hell I was doing that day; most certainly I was heading somewhere and so was he, albeit in opposite directions but lives of our own, of course. I glanced over to him, merely a few seats away, to see him scribbling and doodling away an image on a pad (I believed he utilized a case of colored pencils for his creation), in-tuned with music plugged to his ears. His wavy and loose white hair flowed with the motion of the moving public train, while rocking simultaneously to what seemed like to be a mix of Beethoven and the Beatles. That's what he looked like to be: a Londoner stuck in the 60s/70s, always riding high to the waves of his day. He had a very peculiar pattern and rhythm, though. Something about the way he swayed and drew, ultimately focused yet so comfortable, amid strangers in a place where you can run into anyone or any action in the city.
This wondrous gent donned black clothing, while sporting black shades and wired in with tangled Apple earbuds - armed to the teeth with a sleight of hand that also caught the attention of a couple others around him. The Artist was fully immersed, dedicated to the craft, no matter the weather, place, or speed. He's probably one of the few residents I would have liked to have met. Get a glimpse into the worlds he sees and creates.
Wednesday, April 17, 2019
Street Drums
They flock to the middle of the busy streets for the sake of your attention, beating to the plastic buckets with drumsticks without the caution for public safety.
They swing and tap onto the bottom of these said buckets, gettin' down and out as cars drive right on by.
They succumb to the same rhythm once the ideas run dry, huddling back to the corner swarm, for they never perform alone.
They don't mean you no harm, no, no, merely to show-off that they can drum.
They love to point with their sticks toward one or two cars, mumbling something or even nodding before positioning themselves in the midst of traffic; the stance of that of a concentrated hunchback.
They bang away, the instrument placed between their thighs, only to create sound for a moment before moving on to another spot.
Nick Cannon would be proud of them, though.
They swing and tap onto the bottom of these said buckets, gettin' down and out as cars drive right on by.
They succumb to the same rhythm once the ideas run dry, huddling back to the corner swarm, for they never perform alone.
They don't mean you no harm, no, no, merely to show-off that they can drum.
They love to point with their sticks toward one or two cars, mumbling something or even nodding before positioning themselves in the midst of traffic; the stance of that of a concentrated hunchback.
They bang away, the instrument placed between their thighs, only to create sound for a moment before moving on to another spot.
Nick Cannon would be proud of them, though.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Smelly Margaritaville
Armed with a leather flask, teeth gripped tightly against a skinny cigar, Smelly Jimmy positioned himself at the end of the train where people began to ignore the aura that he was flickering off, both feet stabilized as the train ran along the rails. Around this point in time, I had finished school, so I took a break from reading in general to discover any music that might be of interest to me In actuality, it was boiled down to Marty Robbins and his western ballads, but the hit song from Jimmy Buffett, Margaritaville, was circling my head as I gazed upon this intricate creature. I lowered my volume in hopes that I would pick up any dialogue from him and his shadowed mate who sat in the one seat where you can only see the back of their head. But he rarely moved his lips. That is, for two exceptions, to agree or maybe disagree something, or fiddle around with the vices that he is so proud to show off with. But Jimmy didn't do any harm, not at all. He wore a dark green Hawaiian shirt that was properly fitted, splendid jeans and boots, and black sunglasses that gave him that mysterious and hangover vibe that says, "Yeah man, I'm just doing me in the ol' city." The stench of whiskey suddenly invaded my space. It was quite heavy, to have even reach my area of the train, which was a little more than halfway across from Jimmy. It was at this time, about two stops away from home, that he lit the cigar, forcing two passengers to annoyingly walk away to the opposite side of the train and creating a stream of blue smoke that began to fill his corner. Instead of staying for the action of what would come next in terms of CTA security or Jimmy finally coming to his blurry senses, I decided to hop off early and wait for the next train, as is with some other folks who probably thought the same.
I wish I could say more on Smelly Jimmy, but that final glance toward his general direction played like a slow-motion sequence in an old western flick, the bandit looking as the brim of his hat shadows his glare upon those who wander in his path, only to be disturbed if disturbed - a wanderer, of sorts. And I swear, he gave me this look as I strolled through the saloon doors and into town, unaware of each other's journeys and challenges, but standing under the same sun and moon as the hard steel guitar echoes in the dust.
I wish I could say more on Smelly Jimmy, but that final glance toward his general direction played like a slow-motion sequence in an old western flick, the bandit looking as the brim of his hat shadows his glare upon those who wander in his path, only to be disturbed if disturbed - a wanderer, of sorts. And I swear, he gave me this look as I strolled through the saloon doors and into town, unaware of each other's journeys and challenges, but standing under the same sun and moon as the hard steel guitar echoes in the dust.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
The Gay Creep
June, 2017
Yesterday afternoon was the annual celebration of Pride in Chicago, taking place entirely along Boystown, the city's popular section featuring the gay community. Ever since high school, I've always attended the parade with a different group but with the same purpose, to support and have a good time. It almost always is, except for ludicrous moments of stupidity and arrogance from the drunken bastards thirsty for action and drama. The predominance of these issues rises not from the parade, but from the transit to and from the scenery, which is half the action in total.
Reaching the Loop, my group chit-chatted and exchanged potential plans for the day. At one stop, we were approached by a muscled individual with a tank top and loose pants, a troublemaker for the sights of the night where hell breaks loose for those who come into contact with these fools. It wasn't the fact that their presence was unworthy, it was the fact that he kept staring at all the women in the car, and quite openly I might add. I have my fair share of spectating the ladies of the world, but not as creepy and obvious as this gay creep. He even stared at my group for many moments as well when he got closer to us. The lesbians behind us showed faces of contempt and extreme caution as soon as they glimpsed into his demeanor: a sad soul hungry for party fluids without the courage to greet another individual. It was maddening to witness this phenomenon. What could he have done, honestly? What would he have said? Would the train car filled with the powerhouse members of the rainbow community have retaliated if the dude were to spring into nonsensical and inappropriate action?
Man, that would've been cool to witness.
Yesterday afternoon was the annual celebration of Pride in Chicago, taking place entirely along Boystown, the city's popular section featuring the gay community. Ever since high school, I've always attended the parade with a different group but with the same purpose, to support and have a good time. It almost always is, except for ludicrous moments of stupidity and arrogance from the drunken bastards thirsty for action and drama. The predominance of these issues rises not from the parade, but from the transit to and from the scenery, which is half the action in total.
Reaching the Loop, my group chit-chatted and exchanged potential plans for the day. At one stop, we were approached by a muscled individual with a tank top and loose pants, a troublemaker for the sights of the night where hell breaks loose for those who come into contact with these fools. It wasn't the fact that their presence was unworthy, it was the fact that he kept staring at all the women in the car, and quite openly I might add. I have my fair share of spectating the ladies of the world, but not as creepy and obvious as this gay creep. He even stared at my group for many moments as well when he got closer to us. The lesbians behind us showed faces of contempt and extreme caution as soon as they glimpsed into his demeanor: a sad soul hungry for party fluids without the courage to greet another individual. It was maddening to witness this phenomenon. What could he have done, honestly? What would he have said? Would the train car filled with the powerhouse members of the rainbow community have retaliated if the dude were to spring into nonsensical and inappropriate action?
Man, that would've been cool to witness.
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