There are a few Starbucks locations I’ve found in Chicago that seem not to have the customary two-hour limit on their AT&T wifi internet connection.

Webster/Clybourn, Chicago
Roosevelt/Wabash, Chicago (Update, 6/9/10: Seems to be limited to two hours now.)
Jackson/Wabash, Chicago (Update, 6/10/10: Seems to be limited to two hours now.)

If you come across another location that gives free wifi internet access for longer than two hours—not just in Chicago, but anywhere—get in touch with me and I’ll add it to the list.

Marco Arment posted earlier today his Dogs Waiting For Their Humans-style photo. This is mine.

Original post here.

I live in the South Loop area of Chicago. South Loop. Have for five years now. Other names have come and gone and been bandied about—Near South, SoLo, Central Station—but it’s the South Loop.

Google, however, now seems to think I live in a mystical place called Park Row. Just a few days ago, I lived in plain old Chicago, but now I live in Park Row.

What the hell is Park Row?

The most disturbing part: Yahoo, through Flickr’s geotags, has been calling it Park Row for as long as I can remember. What exactly is going on with Google?

I had never been so frustrated with Chicago as I was this afternoon. A full 24 hours after the marathon was over, streets were still shut down. Heading northbound on Lake Shore, Roosevelt was closed. Balbo was closed. Jackson, with its ridiculously long turn lane, seemed open, but was closed off about 20 feet from the intersection, which trapped people who were planning to turn left in the left turn lane and forced them to reincorporate themselves into traffic that was flying past while they stood completely still; the lights weren’t cycling either, of course, since it essentially wasn’t an intersection anymore. Monroe, too, was closed. Randolph was closed. I ended up getting off at Chicago.

It’d be fine if the traffic folks had had the courtesy to let people know of the closings. I’d have happily gotten off 4.8 miles earlier on 55 if I’d known I’d be forced to drive all the way up to Chicago. A simple detour sign would have done the trick. Maybe the City can’t afford detour signs anymore.

This was the for the marathon—or I guess the day after the marathon, but who really needs to get anywhere these days?—and it happens every year. What did Chicago expect to have happen if the Olympics were in town?

One more reason to take public transportation, I guess.

Or wait. Shoot. Maybe not. Why would the City reallocate some of the $5 billion they had just budgeted for the Olympics to something popular? Silly me.

Here is the logic of the City of Chicago. Try to follow along.

Our car is parked in a non-metered spot. Our car is ticketed for “expired meter or overstay”. We, being of rational minds, appeal the ticket on the ground that it is a basic logical fallacy, including a photograph of the sans-meter parking spot. (It still is.)

Now, five months later(!), an appeal decision has been made: Ticket is confirmed. The accompanying comment, in full: “Information supports a determination that the violation occurred.”

Fantastic. Chicago, I’m falling out of love with you.

These are Illinois’ 7th (the one in which I reside) and 4th Congressional Districts. I’m pretty sure these are the images they showed us in high school government class to illustrate the concept of gerrymandering.

(via watchdog.net)

Brief note for anyone who will ride the #4 at any point in the future: Never, ever forget your headphones.

Here’s what we had today.

A man, probably schizophrenic or at least otherwise severely psychotic, talking for the entire duration of my 30-minute ride, right behind me. An excerpt of his conversation, which was remarkable in that he single-handedly completed the cycle so tantalizingly advertised during the trailers to The 5th Wheel: “Where strangers become friends, friends become lovers, and lovers become bitter, suicidal exes all in one show…”:

Darlin’, my name is Good Lookin’ Bill! I don’t work and I never will! I’m a babymaker! I know John Bonham! You’re A LOT— You’re NOT A LOT— She takes me to the White House, fucka! I feel good lookin’! My kind of town! [in a high-pitched voice:] Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Ohh, I don’t know about you anymore.

Constantly. Make a recording of yourself reading this out loud, loop it 486 times, turn up the volume to 11, and voilà! You have the backing track to my morning #4 ride. It would not have been more annoying if he were also punching me in the back of the head; my resulting crossword success would not have changed much.

Another woman had a young baby that would not stop crying. It wouldn’t have been a problem except for the older woman at the opposite end of the bus, literally screaming, “Gi’ dat child some ASPIN!! Gi’ dat mofo chi’ some ASSSSPIIIIIINNNN!! He teething! Can’t yo dumb ass see dat? Dat all he needs!! Put some whiskey in it!” Then she walked down the aisle and tried to convince the mother to hand over the baby for some burping time. Mother and child got off at the next stop, which is one of the best parenting decisions I have ever witnessed.

A different woman wanted to get off the bus at one point—a fairly reasonable desire voiced in an entirely unreasonable way: “LET ME OFF THIS FUCKING BUS! I’LL KILL YOU MUTH-AH FUCK-AH!” followed by some thrashing of the door handles, slamming the windows with the bases of her wrists as if to break their window-noses, and then a loud buzzing sound indicating that the bus was having a seizure. (Bus designers must not anticipate such behavior from their target audience, but if I ever become a bus designer, there are a whole lot of things I’d need to take into consideration based on my personal history with the #4 that one wouldn’t normally expect to have to take.) This was entirely in lieu of pulling the cord conveniently placed within reach of every single seat of the bus and also happened while the bus was moving. This made the request even more unreasonable than it would have been on its own. Prior to this, she was also doing the crossword, silently, and generally acting like a normal bus occupant, if, on the #4, there is such a thing.

Seeing this and clearly seizing a potential opportunity for casual sex given their newfound proximity, Good Lookin’ Bill decided that it might be nice to serenade her—or maybe it was the invisible lady behind her—with a song, but it was more babble than actual words or even melody. It’s the thought that counts, I think, assuming it was a well-meaning, genitalia-wooing song.

Nine people were shot last night alone in Chicago. This is getting frustrating. I don’t know if people are ever going to stop shooting other people as long as they have ridiculously easy access to guns. No, the violence wouldn’t end, but it’s pretty hard to kill someone in a drive-by stabbing (or batting, or hammer-tossing, or karateing).

At 7:30 p.m. Wednesday, a son, who may live in Indiana, shot his father in both thighs at the father’s home in the 5500 block of South Loomis Boulevard after a domestic argument, according to the Englewood District police lieutenant.

I’m speechless about this.

Abbie and I started training for one of the Chicago half-marathons last week. After four runs, I’m already on the DL with some sort of knee injury. At any rate, here’s our typical 4-miler. It’s a pretty scenic route, or rather it would be anywhere other than Chicago where getting caught in a cyclone seems inevitable.

View Larger Map

Also, Google Maps is probably going to take over the world in the distant future. It’s going to poison our asses with poisonous gases.

On Sunday, I sneezed 47 times.

Last night, snow was in the forecast.