Welcome to the Mixed-Income Transit-Oriented Development National Action Guide
Welcome to the Mixed-Income Transit-Oriented Development National Action Guide.
I got mugged in NYC today
Here is the story:
I was walking around in Williamsburg (Brooklyn) trying to find a Chase Bank.
I FINALLY saw the bank on the next block and turned the corner towards it.
Suddenly, someone jumped on my back and put their arms around my neck. As I thought “is this one of my friends or something?” I said “what the fuck?”
The guy on my back replied “give me all your money.”
I replied: “NO,” and elbowed him while turning around and stumbling a bit, since he had apprently been trying to take me down.
Now I was facing toward him, and he said “Give me your money” again; I said “FUCK OFF!”
He started to walk away, yelling something about “kicking my ass,” and I shouted back “OK, come back here and try it, you piece of shit!”
He kept walking.
The end.
I wish I had followed him, and called the police, to make sure he didn’t try it again, on someone more likely to cave. But I didn’t, because I still was not sure if he had any weapons, or if he was even sane. A man had come out of his house across the street, with a garbage bag, in time to hear me yell “come back here and try it, etc.” I told him what had happened, and he told me I should go around the corner where a police officer usually sits, so I did. However, there was no police offiicer, only a meter maid posing as a police officer, and although she was ready and willing to help, all she could do was call a real police officer. After waiting for way too long, I decided to walk around and try to find the guy myself. I didn’t really know what I was going to do when I saw him, but it turned out that that didn’t matter, because I never did see him again. Oh, hindsight.
After returning to my friend’s apartment, I found out that 2 of the people living there, as well as 2 of their friends, have been mugged in the last few weeks. Merry Christmas. Happy Recession, everyone!
If you look for Adventure, you find it.
I have not posted anything on Twitter in a while, and “some” stuff has happened, so I am going to tell you a bit about the past few days.
Last Wednesday, I arrived in Los Angeles. I met up with my friend Felipe, who I met at school in Copenhagen, Denmark, and he almost immediately began showing me around. Everything that happened through the weekend was kind of a blur. A good blur. We drove down to San Diego to see the Salk Institute, up to San Luis Obispo to see Cal Poly and the coast, and all over Santa Monica (where Felipe lives), Venice, downtown LA, and much more of Los Angeles eating all the bombest food and seeing the sweetest sights. Then, on Sunday night (as Felipe had to go up to SLO to start school on Monday), we parted ways.
I saw a lot of Pasadena, Hollywood, and Sunset Blvd. on Monday, then headed down towards Long Beach to see what the scene was about. I was driving on the 405 Freeway southbound, in stop-and-go traffic (as is often the case in LA). A fraction of a second after coming to one of my many stops, I glanced in the rear-view mirror to see a dark car flying towards the rear end of my car. They didn’t stop. I felt the impact from behind, and then was pummeled by ice and water bottles flying from my cooler in the back seat, as my car was sent charging into the rear bumper of the car ahead. I am pretty sure my first reaction was a sarcastic “sweet,” that only I could hear.
The cops pulled up, we gave our info and statements, and everyone else involved in the accident drove away. Not me.
So, RIP Sentradactyl. Gold Standard. You made it so far, only to be sentenced to death by [whatever the west coast version of a Guido is called].
Now, I am a couple days behind, but I made it to San Luis Obispo, where I am staying with Felipe at his schooltime digs. Tomorrow, onward to San Francisco. So far, the Pontiac G6 rental has greatly exceeded my expectations. I mourn the loss of a car that went before its time, while looking forward to a new future journey, and an alternative perspective of the road ahead.
Route 66 in (and out of) Chicago
In Chicago, there is a very accurate depiction of what actually remains of Route 66. I did not realize this at the time. Nor did I realize that I was taking a sort of practice run for the rest of my Route 66 journey. At the time, I laughed at what I found. I appreciated it as ironic. Now I know. The entire stretch of Route 66- at least from Chicago to Flagstaff, AZ, and I would guess it doesn’t change- is, in fact, an irony of itself.
When I began to explore Chicago from the Route 66 perspective, I actually started in the suburbs and worked my way downtown. This was partly because I was sleeping in the suburbs at the time, but also because I was hungry, and had a landmark in mind: Dell Rhea’s Chicken Basket. To my pleasure, they did have the best fried chicken I have ever had in my life. Go there. But you should know that when you try to find the place, it is not going to make any sense. Just west of the restaurant’s location, which is on the former Route 66, I-15 cuts off the road with no entry or exit points. In fact, to find it, I had to turn from a major street to a side street, curve around some factory/ warehousish buildings, and turn again to drive back towards the major street before I arrived at the dead end location.
Leaving Dell Rhea’s, headed for the city the road that used to be the Route actually can be followed for a while. Then, just as you start to see downtown looming in the distance:
Sensible. Note, that road is still a road, for as long as I could see at least. This seems like a matter of spite… or just a matter of a fence, regardless.
A side note: while driving down the old highway, this is what I encountered.
To the right, the new, improved, oh-so-much-faster I-15 alignment. Note, that traffic is all but stopped. To the left, the old, useless, slow highway. Thank you, advancement.
Aside from all the preventative measures, I made it all the way to the lake/ Art Academy/ Grant Park- wherever the route officially started- and the I turned around and drove it back. Good thing. It turns out I needed the practice.
Why Route 66?
I am not particularly attached to the idea of Route 66. I am well aware that it’s an American legend/ icon/ artifact, and that people can get quite sentimental over the idea of traveling on it, but that’s not why I chose it. My basis for choosing this road (or series of roads) was more… “academic.”
If you are unfamiliar with my senior [thesis] project, here is a (very) brief description:
<<<Living Studios is a package solution for struggling musicians. Incorporating living quarters for short-term residents and touring musicians, sound controlled practice and recording rooms, and a small venue and bar for community involvement, Living Studios allows musicians on a tight budget to get all the space they need in one location, with one rent check.>>>
One, practically essential, step to becoming a well known musician is touring, and to be frank, most bands have to endure substandard living conditions to afford to do it. Short distances between frequent stops to play shows are helpful. So are cheap (or free) accommodations and food. However, the modern American system of travel goes:
1. Jump on the Interstate
2. Set cruise control at 80 mph
3. Put a movie on
4. Arrive at destination, completely unaware of anything between there and the place you left.
5. Spend hundreds of dollars on a hotel with every imaginable amenity.
So, I have gone “back in time,” to a time when people traveled more slowly (whether by choice, or because they had no choice), stopped to see the scenery and attractions along the way, and stayed in (relatively) cheap motels without the frills. To me, this type of travel was more about the journey itself, and less about the “destination.” Everything was a destination. Motels were designed to pull in, unload, sleep and shower, and get back on the road in the morning. The hotel was not a destination.
Route 66 is the epitome of this time. In the 1940s-60s, after the automobile, and before the interstates, it was the major highway across the country. By undertaking a trip down this road, a person agreed to drive in the small towns and bigger cities through which it meandered. They agreed to slow down and take frequent breaks in an attempt to counter the roughness of its pavement. And they agreed to experience and enjoy all the uniqueness and inconsistencies that the route had to offer.
By experiencing the road trip from this perspective, I believe that I can create a better way for musicians to travel. I am not suggesting that they avoid the faster interstates, or dawdle at tourist traps along the route. Rather, I am translating my findings to a facility that mimics the best qualities of motels, roadhouses, and glitzy attractions, and uses it to benefit a traveler who needs a place to perform, eat, drink, and crash for the night.
That place will be Living Studios.
Cincy Streetcar
