I am not a happy woman. Generally speaking, I have a pretty positive outlook on life. Sometimes my tendency to find the good in bad situations can be downright annoying. But today I'm just mad, disappointed, frustrated. This afternoon I headed out to the lakefront path. My car is parked on the street since I'm on the waiting list to get a spot in my building. October 1, when it's projected that my car will finally get shelter, can't come fast enough. See, someone sideswiped my mirror. It's drooping like a cocker spaniel's ears, hanging by a little bit of plastic and the electrical wires that operate the angle of view. No note, nothing but shards of glass on the street next to the tire. Earlier this year a kind neighbor left a note on my windshield because she witnessed someone back into my car and take off. Fortunately, the only damage that time was to the license plate and its frame. Unfortunately, last December I wasn't so lucky. As I passed through the green light at Clark and LaSalle a black Grand Prix started to tear through the intersection. I sped up to avoid a head-on collision, but not fast enough. They clipped my rear end and sent us into a 360 degree spin. Thank goodness there were no other cars around. My friends and I emerged unscathed, but my trusty little Toyota's back bumper was nearly ripped off and the corner by the gas pump was caved in (another close call). The driver sped merrily on, heading towards Lake Shore Drive. The license plate and part of the bumper were left as souvenirs. Ironically enough, the owner of that license plate claimed that it had been stolen off of her black Grand Prix (which she'd failed to report). My insurance totaled my car and sent me a check, minus the deductible, which to this day I have yet to collect. I'm beginning to think there's either an epidemic of hit and run drivers, or I'm getting a message from above that I just should not have a car. Since I have to drive to pick up my son in the suburbs every two weeks it must be the former. Shortly after my incident, a woman was killed when a hit and run driver slammed into her car. I was terribly shaken, and of course thought "there but for the grace of God..." Since then there have been numerous reports of children, teens, adults, and even a blind dog and a nun killed by people whose moral compass points decidedly south. After being the victim of three hit and runs in 9 months and hearing the more tragic stories of other victims, I'm beginning to wonder if there is or should be some sort of support group. I know I was terrified to drive. The evening after my car was totalled my mother nearly merged into an SUV. I screamed in time for her to avoid a collision and promptly lost it. I forced myself to drive the next day simply because I knew if I didn't confront my fears immediately I would turn into one of those timid drivers who can't function on the aggressive streets of Chicago. As I write this, the anger and disillusion I felt nine months ago has returned in full force. Lack of responsibilty is a disease that seems to be acquiring epidemic status. Overweight? Blame McDonald's. Children overweight? Blame the fast food restaurants by their school and the soda machine in the cafeteria. Bad relationship? Blame your dysfunctional family. Corruption in government? Blame the politicians, even if you didn't vote. Hitting someone and running away is just another manifestation of the overall attitude of "hey, it's not my fault." Maybe that's why I always try to find something positive. I am responsible for how I react to any situation. I may not have control over what happened, but I do have control over my emotions. So, while I'm still angry and disillusioned, at least it gave me something to write about today.

Cloud Gate, the Anish Kapoor sculputure known as "The Bean," finally gets a chance to shine. After eight months spent under wraps so the seams could be smoothed, the tent is gone. Visitors to Millennium Park can now see a wide expanse of the skyline reduced to curved reflections. Our tall, proud skyscrapers are bent like an elderly person with a stooped spine, and somehow seem more approachable in their reflections than in their towering domination of the city streets. I'm also reminded of this quote from E. M. Forster: "A facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade, every type of dubiousness." Viewed directly, these buildings are strong, upright representations of architectural innovation and monuments to capitalism. Considering the recent corruption scandals that have plagued the city, the warped images could symbolize the underlying weakness of our political landscape and the ease with which ethics are bent. It's easier to get to the top when the route is flexible. In contrast to the now-smooth surface of Cloud Gate, Millennium Park's reputation was tarnished due to the relaxed procedures for some contractors bidding to be a part of Daley's showcase. We can be hopeful that the unveiling will coincide with a similar improvement in the city's politics. The polished surface allows no imperfections. It would be nice if we could confidently say the same of our elected leaders. Or maybe I'm reading too much into this. 'Cause on a sunny day, it sure is pretty.

If you haven't had reason to use public transportation before, you do now. Starting in September and lasting through late November, the city is shutting down lanes on the Dan Ryan (I-90/94). As we've seen this summer, construction on the Dan Ryan also affects the Eisenhower, the Kennedy and the Edens, and all the way down to the Bishop-Ford and the Skyway. I've heard travel times as high as an hour and fifteen minutes from O'Hare to the junction because of construction on the Dan Ryan. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, there's a traffic report glossary on the site.) If you have to drive, and you're like I am and want to be tortured with frequent reports on just how long you have to listen to the audio choices of the drivers around you, deal with the cabbies jockeying from lane to lane only to stay (basically) in the same spot, and truly regret drinking ANYTHING, tune into WBBM AM780. They provide traffic reports every ten minutes on the "8's" (7:28, 7:38, 7:48, etc.). You can also find out real time traffic conditions before you leave in case you know of a double-secret back way, or decide it's better to leave the car and take the train. With all the funding problems the CTA has had, makes me wonder if this is some sort of conspiracy...

I'm not much of a crowd person. I have to be "in the mood" and usually with a group of friends. And when I say crowd, I mean CROWD. Like the hungry hordes at Taste of Chicago or the neck-craning throngs at the Pride and St. Patrick's Day Parades. Since over 2 million people view the nautical and aeronautical feats at the Air and Water Show, I've avoided the spectacle for the last 4 years. However, yesterday my parents convinced me to go. As we walked through Lincoln Park I wondered where those reputed millions of people were hiding. The park was busier than normal, sure, but nowhere near what I expected. West of Lake Shore Drive and just north of the North Avenue pedestrian bridge, we found a shaded spot amongst some die-hard viewers settled in tents and chairs. The smell from their barbecues finally prompted Dad and me to cross the bridge in search of food. Then we caught sight of the beach. "Oh, so this is where everyone is," I said as we gawked at the sea of bodies below us. It seemed like we could step from head to head without ever getting sand in our shoes. We set on a mission to find a food tent, stopping occassionally to watch the aerobatics. Half an hour later, armed with hockey-puck burgers and soggy fries for us, a bbq chicken sandwich for Mom, we crossed under Lake Shore Drive (narrowly missed by a bike rider barrelling through the intersection). While I felt the vibe of excitement on the beach, I was glad to get back to the relative serenity of the park. The contrast was like going to a water park on a hot summer day versus hanging out in a backyard pool. Both have their appeal. For us, feeling the cool breeze under a tree, hearing children laugh with excitement at the shapes created in the sky, watching families fish in the canal, and relaxing on the grass as we waited for the next act was a perfect way to experience the show. Since we were at the end of the canal, a few kayaks turned around in front of us and added to the idyllic pace. As Dad said, it was a La Grande Jatte afternoon. Because we were away from the beach, the sound wasn't nearly as deafening. We still got the rush of the jet engines and the ominous Harrier Jet's rumble as it hovered directly in front of us without feeling like our heads would explode. That's not to say it wasn't loud, and I felt the excitement I used to get hearing cars race by at the Indianapolis 500. One of the most memorable and moving moments was when they did the Missing Man formation. The crowds were silent as they played Taps over the loudspeakers on the beach. Our experience converted me into a fan. Granted, we couldn't see the water part from our vantage point, but since we arrived after noon we missed it anyway. Next year I plan on arriving early and getting my spot under a tree. I'll pack provisions so any forays into the mass of humanity across the bridge will be by choice and not by a grumbling stomach competing with the sounds from the planes.

Last night I waited for the bus at the corner of Dearborn and Hubbard. On a Friday night, this is one of the busiest intersections in the city as party-goers choose from O'Callaghan's, Moda, Rockit Bar & Grill, Mother Hubbard's, and Howl At The Moon. You see everything from frat boys and bachelorette parties to businessmen in suits on an extended after-work drink binge, to tourists checking out the nightlife of the big city, and of course the "club crowd" trying to get into the dress-to-impress Moda. Along with that crowd are the ubiquitous street people. Like most Chicagoans, while waiting for public transportation I arm myself with something to do or read and keep my head down, avoiding eye contact. (Besides the homeless, there's the occasional 20-something drunk who decides that he absolutely must get my phone number or convince me to accompany him to the next stop on the party-train.) However, last night Leroy would have nothing to do with my isolationism. I saw him trying to hand out postcards to pedestrians and decided that my crossword was the most engrossing thing I'd held in my hands since I first discovered Hemingway. I'd never seen Leroy before, even though I've waited on that corner many nights over the last few years. Leroy did not personify the stereotype of the homeless. He's a medium-height man, thin but not gaunt. As he stood on the curb next to the sign for the bus and the trash can, I noticed he was dressed neatly in black jeans and a dark gray t-shirt. His hair was cut short and he was clean. That may seem like an odd statement to make to someone not familiar with the night denizens of downtown Chicago. I've seen far too many lost souls caked with dirt, sweat, and urine. Leroy began our conversation simply enough. He asked me how I was, if I was enjoying my evening. He asked me if I was from Chicago and I told him I'd been here four years. My brief response opened the floodgates. Leroy moved here last fall from St. Louis after his wife died. He didn't know how to go on without her. She was his best friend, and as he told me that he crossed his fingers to show how entwined they were. He confided in me that other women would try to "get with him" when his wife was alive, but he would never do that. It didn't seem like bravado, merely a statement of his commitment. Because he lost the ability to function, his eleven-year-old daughter moved in with his mother-in-law and he came to Chicago. He was a bartender in St. Louis and couldn't work surrounded by the memories. He's been spending the last year trying to get money to send to his daughter and hopes to get back home. He hands out postcards because he doesn't want to approach people empty-handed. Leroy believes if he's going to ask for money, he should have something to offer. His wife died August 7, 2004 of lung cancer. When he heard of Peter Jenning's death, on August 7, of lung cancer, he saw that as a sign. He needs to get back home. The bus arrived. Leroy and I shook hands, and he said "God bless you." The bus driver commented when I stepped in "Saved by the bus, eh?" I shook my head, shrugged, and thinking of nothing else, said "I guess I'm just a bleeding heart." She told me that's not such a bad thing. She often gives money to homeless people. Her comment was "Even if they're going to get a drink, I figure if I were in that situation I'd want a drink, too." I told her briefly of Leroy's story. Grace, the driver, then told me about a woman who would ride the busses all day, all night, laden with bags and suitcases. This woman's husband had left her, and like Leroy, she didn't know how to move on. She seemed educated, "well-bred" (as Grace said). She began to develop a reputation and other drivers and passengers would offer to help. Her daughter even talked to some of the drivers and tried to get her mother off the CTA circuit. After finding a seat because of boarding and exiting passengers, I thought of the wall I've built up, the stereotypes I've allowed to color my view of anyone who approaches me on the street. I thought of the avoidance tactics I take: crossing the street, reading a book, refusing to make eye contact. And then I thought of Grace's last comment: "Everyone has a story."

If you've been in the city and think you've heard fighter jets screaming through the buildings, don't worry, you're not crazy and we're not being invaded. The Air & Water Show takes off this weekend. Enjoy the view from the beach or find a spot in Lincoln Park. You don't want to be too far away or you'll miss some of the maneuvers that are performed just off the beach. I HIGHLY recommend taking public transportation, since parking will be scarce and public lots typically charge more during special events. Chicago's culinary reputation has been based on deep dish pizza, steaks, and Italian beef. No more. Innovative chefs have cropped up in this "meat and potatoes" city and they're beginning to reap what they've sown. The September issue of Vogue proclaims this "the most exciting American city in which to dine," and Bon Appetit picks Chicago as one of the top 5 restaurant cities. To see the amazing cuisine choices downtown alone has to offer, visit the restaurants page.

Today, after many missed resolutions and I'll do it tomorrows, I finally did it. I woke up at 6 this morning (OK, 6:18 after hitting the snooze twice) and dragged my Chicago-winter-and-dining-enhanced behind to the lakefront path. As has happened the few other times I've managed to trek that block and a half from my apartment, I wondered why I haven't been doing this EVERY day. There's just something about getting the blood flowing as Lake Michigan reflects the glow of the rising sun, the glass of downtown glitters, and the early morning breeze feels fresh and inviting. I'm a tourist in my own city, and I've vowed not to take this resource for granted any longer. I decided there were two ways I could feel about the other early morning exercisers that obviously do this every day. I could be frustrated by the sad shape I've allowed myself to get into, or I could be motivated to join them. Motivation seems to be the more productive of the two. It'll be a challenge: how quickly can I feel like a part of that determined group? And, considering my chosen line of work, how long can I experience the enchantment that I felt this morning? Chicagoans are incredibly fortunate to have this uninterrupted expanse of pathways along the lakefront. Before the day really gets started and traffic congests Lake Shore Drive, we can wake up our bodies in a suprisingly peaceful setting for a city this big. My vow is to take advantage of this as often as I can until the long, cold winter sets in. The benefits far outweigh the extra bit of sleep I'll miss out on. Tomorrow, I'm trying for one hit of the snooze...

There was an article in the Red Eye last week about the 4th floor storage room fire in the Palmer House Hotel. The article had a sidebar listing famous people who have stayed there, but I was quite surprised that they didn't mention that the Palmer House was the first "fireproof" hotel, built after the Chicago Fire. Woulda seemed a natural, don'tcha think?