Two things that I’ve found irksome over the past week:


Walking around downtown Chicago, I’ve discovered that I may be the only adult male who doesn’t spit in public. Apparently I’ve been blessed with much lower amounts of phlegm and saliva than my gender peers.

Every time I travel the Loop on foot, I’m shocked to see guys stopping as they walk to hock and then torpedo lugees onto the cement.

I can’t imagine a reason to spit in public. Ever. It’s just plain gross.

If the same guys stopped to hike up their shirts and dig for bellybutton lint, I’d find that somehow less repulsive.

Parking Garage Etiquette

I’ve driven to work a lot lately, financial implications of parking downtown be damned.

It’s fascinating to see how people treat yellow parking spot lines as more of a recommendation than a directive. The most offensive abuses are committed by those drivers who intentionally straddle two spaces to protect their cars from harm. The 16 year-old in me desperately wants to key the 2007 Lexus whose driver is so frightened of getting dinged that he prevents others from accessing a great spot during peak times . Here’s an idea–if you’re afraid of damaging your car by taking it into the city, get on Metra or work in Schaumburg. Easy for me to say–my ‘98 Toyota looks every bit like a “city beater.” The passenger side, in particular, looks like it’s been pelted with hammers.

Just plain bad driving prevents other garage users from accurately pulling between the lines. I have to cut them a bit more slack than Lance Lexus, though. Maybe they have a legit reason. Like blindness in one eye. Or perhaps they have hooves instead of hands.

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