Striped Pants

Medicine Man

2009-04-11T18:49:00.000-07:00

Travel is grand. Travel is exciting, liberating and just plain fun. Travel reminds you that it's a big world out there, and that you will never, ever, no matter how achingly hard you try, sleep anywhere close to as well as you do at home.

But, let's not forget that travel is also a super way to meet new pals! Wherever your journeys may take you, know that you will find magnificent people in every nook and cranny.

So we just came back from a trip to Los Angeles, where I learned that the only thing that can make strip malls uglier is palm trees. LA is an odd place for the newcomer - big but weightless, sunny but sad.

When we arrive in town, we do our best to settle into our Best Western on Sunset, get the kids unconscious, and relax our scrambled minds. I need to clear my head that first night, find my footing, and I think a stroll up to the hotel's courtyard pool is just the ticket. I plant myself on some steps near the pool, protected by a huge wall of blooming foliage, and sit in the surprisingly cool night air. I'm restless and a little cold and a little sad.

And then he joins me.

He is unassuming, for sure, but looks far too much like Jimmy Buffet to not notice. Worn T-shirt, khaki shorts, flip-flops and longish salt-and-pepper hair sticking out at the back of his well-loved baseball cap. He passes me without seeing me, stops at the railing a few feet away and reaches into his pocket. Turning around to get down to business, he finally spies me with a dramatic start. Hmm, too dramatic, I think. I don't buy it.

"Hey, there, little buddy," he starts. Great.

"Oh, hi," I fire back.

"You don't mind, friend, if I scent the air with a little... marujana, now, do you?" He holds up a joint or tiny pipe or something I can't make out in the dark. Great.

"Oh, no. Not at all. Go right ahead."

"I grow this myself, you know." (Who doesn't say that?) "I grow it myself, indeed. It's... medicinal, you know." (Who doesn't say THAT?)

"Totally," I nod, realizing that 1) this is not the head-clearing experience I was after and 2) he is about to...

"You want some, friend?" Ah. There it is.

"Oh, what? Me? No. Nah. No, thanks. Oh, boy."

My new pal's joint is now fully operational, and, as he enjoys those initial intakes, he smiles broadly at me. I hate this more than I want to hate it. He closes the gap between us, reaching down to put his hand on my shoulder.

"You see those pictures of Obama smoking weed?" he starts in. "Holy crap, how about those, right there on the internet! Smoking it up!" He leans closer, squeezing my shoulder more powerfully, making me smile harder through my mounting despair. He smells like pot, beer and something more pleasant, all mixed together. "Not afraid to say he inhaled! Now there's a president. Am I right? You see those, man? On the internet?"

I haven't, but I nod anyway.

I end up getting saved by this man's wife or companion or something. She yells down to him from the pool above to get inside. She sounds pissed. He overdoes the embarrassment and takes his leave, giving me a final pat.

I pad my way back to our room, fully refreshed and ready to take on a night of sleeplessness.

It's a couple of days later that I see him again, and this time I'm with my family. It's mid afternoon, and he and she are exiting out of the hotel elevator as we are going in. He winks at me, gives my shoulder a familiar squeeze and toasts the kids... with his open Heineken.

Four things

2008-09-25T19:38:00.000-07:00

1. I am addicted to catching up with old friends. For several years now, Google was my cohort, and what a thrill to finally pinpoint someone and fire off that "Hey, how the hell are ya?" email. Now that I have dunked myself into the world of Facebook, it's easier than ever. So easy, in fact, that I am finding people I didn't even remember that I knew. So easy that they are beating me to it and finding me first. So easy that I have to wonder: maybe were we just supposed to let those people go after all.

2. That woman who I spoke to in Accounts Payable at [name of company] yesterday was totally odd. Her accent was modest at best, and I therefore find it hard to believe that there was a language barrier. But, as I politely asked where my company can send a reimbursement check to her company, for a minor overpayment on invoice 85850, she refused to finish a single sentence, forcing me to do so for her.

HER: Please include a.... (long pause)
ME: A... letter?
HER: Yes, a letter. A letter with the... (endless pause)
ME: Oh, maybe with the invoice number?
HER: Sure, the invoice number would be great. As well as the original... (killer pause)
ME: Original? Original invoice?
HER: No, that won't be necessary. But the original... (is she still on the line?)
ME: Ahhh.....a....a-mount?
HER: The amount would be great, yes.

You get the idea.

3. My children are sleeping right now in these sort of sideways-running positions. Heads plastered to pillows, one leg up, bent at the knee, hands in little fists. They are technically facing each other, though the shared wall of their bedrooms divides them. Are they dreaming about running? Are they running toward each other to embrace the other with all their love, or perhaps just to steal the other one's highly-prized hat? Regardless, I want to squeeze them both really, really hard. I resist, for if they wake I will be completely pissed off.

4. It has been almost two weeks since David Foster Wallace took his own life. As many others much more eloquent than me have already said, he was an absolutely amazing writer. His fiction and non-fiction alike have incredible depth and intelligence. Through his complex narratives and twisted sentences, he made the world - his world - clearer. Perhaps his best known work, and the first of his that I read, was the mammoth Infinite Jest. Among other things, this immense novel was about addiction, and I believe that the book's girth was intended in part to create a nearly endless supply of text for the entranced reader. I enjoyed the book very much, though it took me nearly half a year to complete. But I did not, like so many others, like my DFW-fan brother, become addicted to it.

Since DFW killed himself, I have not been able to stop reading about him. Not about his actual death per se, but about the man. The writer. The teacher that so many former students have been remembering online these last two weeks. I cannot stop reading about his ridiculous generosity, fierce sense of privacy, and general awkwardness with his own situation. Just watch his Charlie Rose interview from 1997 and you will see a brilliant author tormented by the predicament of his own success and fame.

I am reading one of his essay collections now, and will read some of his short stories next. My brother may reread Infinite Jest, though I think I will not likely take that on. But I will continue to read his work, read the writings of those who miss him the most, and read about his life. And, as much as I hate to admit that the posthumous man is the more captivating man, I am addicted. Finally, over a decade later, I am addicted.

A tale of two taxis

2008-09-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

As the cab pulls up, I am feeling harried and rushed. My arms are filled with supplies and notes and equipment, and it's looking like rain. My destination is about a dozen blocks away, so this'll be quick. I sort of fling myself into the backseat with a grunt.

You ever have those times where you say something, but for some reason your voice has found its way into a new octave? You know those times. I have them more frequently than I'd like. "LaSalle and Madison, please," I squeak like a seven-year-old girl.

I don't have too much time to worry about my voice issues, because I suddenly realize that I am in the single nicest cab of all time. It has slightly tinted windows, tricked out black leather trim, wooden paneling, a DVD player/flat screen embedded in the seat back, and the air conditioning is, well, fucking stellar. I immediately wish my destination were much further away, like Calgary.

I ease back into my plush seat and off we go. And as we pull into the main stream of Superior Street traffic, I realize that there is music in this cab. Loud, loud music. And it is ABBA. It is the end of "I Have A Dream."

I believe in angels,
Something good in everything I see...

Last chorus already - pity. But, whatever radio station this is, I bet something good is coming right up! We turn south on Wells as ABBA fades out. Then, I hear the distinctive, unmistakable muffled click on the speakers that says one thing and one thing only: MIXTAPE. Mixtape probably made on a BOOM BOX, circa 1984.

I lean forward and, sure enough, there is a cassette deck in the dash, and a little cassette ass in there. The cab of the 21st century is playing a cassette mixtape! Before I can ponder this any further, the next tune kicks in, and I am afraid it is the "I Have A Love/One Hand, One Heart" medley, as performed by Barbara Streisand and Johnny Mathis. Did I mention it's loud?

And thank GOD it is loud, because as Babs starts singing, my cab driver, a middle-aged giant, starts to groan. No, he starts to moan, and at a truly impressive volume. "Unnnnnnnggggggh."

I'm not sure what's going on. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhh. Unnnnghhhhhhhhh." I start to panic a little. Is he sick? Is he hurt? Or is he just... moany?

"Unnnnnnnnnghhhhhh..... needs me tooooooooo-unnnnghhhh." Oh... OH! He's, um... you know, singing. Sort of. He quiets up for the Mathis sections, but as soon as that Streisand voice hits, he is on fire. "Unnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhh! Mmmmmmmmmmuuunnnnnnnnngh, I loooooove hiimmmmmmmmmnghhhhhhhh."

We pull up to the corner of Madison and LaSalle as I hand over my cash money and hop out of the taxi. He pulls off and I think aloud how that must be the weirdest cab ride of all time.

Bit of advice: never utter something like that out loud. The Fates don't like it.

I leave the building on LaSalle about an hour later and hail a cab to take me back to my office just north of the Loop. A taxi sees me from afar and swings across three crowded lanes to get to me. Always a great sign. I climb in and throw out the address. Off we go.

As the cab pulls away, the young, lanky driver takes off his sunglasses and reaches down to grab his rather large case for them. Only, no. It's not a case. Nope. What is that? He takes the bulky object and puts it over his head, at which point I realize that he is putting on goggles.

He's traded his sunglasses for goggles. Not lab goggles. Not swimming goggles. No, these are more like old-fashioned aviator goggles. You know, the Red Barron, that sort of thing - maybe mixed with a little Greedo from Star Wars. The are really long, and this guy has to turn his head way to the side to have any peripheral vision. Spectacular. I want to say something, but I don't know what to say. I want to ask something... but what? Perhaps I should just throw myself from the moving vehicle.

Up LaSalle Street we zoom. We stop at the red light at Lake Street, and I slink down in my seat as neighboring drivers glance our way and do ridiculous double-takes. My driver looks left and right with huge sweeping motions, smiling at everyone around us. And it's from my slouched position that I am able to really get a sense of my surroundings. The glass partition in this cab is uncharacteristically closed, as are both back windows. It's feeling stuffy so I lower mine most of the way.

Then, just before the light changes, the driver does something else. He takes hold of what looks to be a fabric headband that has been around his neck and pulls the front up, over his chin and past his mouth. He places it squarely on his nose, covering both nostrils, so that his face looks like it's in some kind of traction.

The light changes, and he floors it.

Now, if you think this is a little weird... perhaps even borderline scary... then you are absolutely correct. I check the door. Unlocked. I recheck my window. All the way down. And right then and there I promise myself that if that window starts to close, or if any colored gas (a la Batman) starts to seep in through the A/C vent, I am out of this car no matter how fast we're going.

And yet, I'm not really that scared. For some reason, I'm more certain that this guy is just a freak wearing crazy bomber goggles and a headband around his face. I just wish he wasn't driving me around the city, that's all.

The rest of the trip is uneventful. As we pull up, I'm forced to use that little lucite money tray we all wonder about but never actually use. The driver takes my money, and I scramble out the door. He removes his goggles and homemade air filter as he speeds away. I decide that trying to figure out what that was all about is not worth it. I will leave that to you.

I turn and go inside, unable to get "Take a Chance on Me" out of my head.

The lucky one

2008-08-20T07:05:00.000-07:00

Jim is just about the only person I know without an iPod device of some kind. He's made his reasons fairly clear on this: for the most part, he doesn't like feeling closed off from the rest of the world. He thinks having headphones on makes one significantly less aware of one's surroundings, and not in a good way.

Foolish, foolish Jim. As a proud iPhone owner, I can simultaneously read The New York Times, update phone apps, check multiple email accounts and play a wicked game of solitaire, all while rocking the fuck out. How much more aware can you get?

This morning I am doing just that. I'm on the Belmont train platform waiting to be whisked downtown. There is a lot of spam in my work email, so I am feverishly deleting ("Satisfy your lover!" "Don't look stoopid!" "V!Aqra!"). Alison Krauss and Union Station is in my ears, which is just right after a terrible night of insomnia. As I board the next train, the song "The Lucky One" kicks on.

Of course the train is packed. It's always packed. Otherwise it would run the risk of being pleasant. But no worries here, because I have the virtual world before me! I'm plugged in! I'm online! I have my finger on the pulse of my own digital existence!

You're the lucky one, so I've been told,
As free as the wind blowin' down the road,
Loved by many, hated by none,
I'd say you're lucky 'cause I know what you've done...

I'm still in the midst of deleting spam, and people are still cramming on the train car. As usual, the middle of the train seems roomy, and prospective passengers throw the dirtiest of looks down the aisle to those people who refuse to smash together a few inches more. I am paying them no mind as I get shoved and reshoved, and my left arm moves up with a jerk. Right up the ass of the woman standing next to me, to be exact. I look up. She looks at me with a grimace.

I say "I'm sorry," but I can't hear myself above my own music. My guess from her reaction is that I yelled it. I look down. Her foot is nearly under mine, and I realize that I may have stepped on it. Maybe that's it. Maybe it's not an ass grab thing at all. It would be much better for me, for my state of mind, if all I did was hurt her instead of inappropriately touching her. I mumble another "so sorry" and press "delete" on my spam. Fucking spam. She turns back to her newspaper, or book, or whatever old-school communication device she is holding. We're okay now, she and I, though I'm still feeling embarrassed and slightly confused. I imagine I will recover.

You look at the world with a smilin' eye
And laugh at the devil as his train goes by

That's when the train finally begins to move with a lurch, and I realize I'm not holding onto anything. No way am I going to now fall into this woman. No way. Inertia be damned! So, in the very same millisecond, like a seasoned train pro, I fiercely grab the bar next to me. Got to get a good grip, and fast.

Only it's not the bar. It's the face of a woman on the other side of me.

Her face.

I have violently grabbed the face of this other innocent person. And not just any grab. We're talking bowling ball grab. My thumb is virtually in her mouth, my index finger in her eye, and the rest of my hand, is - god only knows - somewhere in her hair, perhaps around her ear?

I reel in horror. I pull my hand back and start apologizing profusely. Oh, why couldn't it have been her arm or back or ass, even... why her face? I fumble with my phone but can't seem to get the music off.

To you the next best thing
To playin' and winning is playin' and losing...

I yank on the headphone cord to pull them out of my ears and restart my apologies: "Uhhh.... oh. I'm so.... so - you okay there? - so very sorry." This is all I can say, though I want to say so much more. I was reaching for the bar, I want to explain! I was just - oh my god - I am so unbelievably sorry. Are you okay? That must have hurt, at least somewhat. I mean that was your face. I just grabbed a huge handful of face, and it was yours. Holy crap. Jeez, sorry. Wow, right in the face.

I pause, thinking that maybe death is a good way to go at this point.

But, wait. Wait just a second here. I look more closely at her... Hey! It's no matter! No matter at all! Why? Because she is not paying attention! She has her own unmistakable white earbuds on and is paying me no mind! She doesn't even care that I just got a manicure from her head! Zero reaction. Zip! She's too busy rocking out! She's okay! She's better than okay! She is awesome!

I give her one more look to make sure, and safely return to my stance, my music, my world. Amazingly, no harm no foul.

I cannot believe my luck.

New shiny thing

2008-07-21T19:44:00.000-07:00

My daughter is now five, and we got her a bicycle. Her first real bicycle. It's blue with hammerhead sharks on it. Frankly, sharks and bikes both seem potentially ill-suited to her, but damned if she doesn't love it. This is the five-year-old who often prefers to simply stay home, who flees the vacuum, who spends hours on end reading, and once in a while gets on her bathing suit and jumps onto the couch to play "Pride Parade."

The first day, her birthday, she walks the new shiny thing up the ramp of our garage and onto the sidewalk. She is wearing her sky-blue helmet. She is thrilled. When a neighbor sees the bike and comments that she can follow her ride up with a trip to the aquarium to see the real hammerhead sharks, she beams, declaring, "I don't have to. You see, they are all right there on my new bike. I can just look at that."

She gets on to try it out. And she takes off. I hope against hope that she will hold on to this moment forever, like I know I will.

I don't remember a lot from my early years. I always marvel at people who can recall minute details of, say, kindergarten during Halloween, as though they kept active journals the entire time. Me? Not so much. I definitely remember a few flashes of things. Flashes as vivid as they are brief. I remember cutting my knee open on the brick wall by the hill in our yard when I was four. I remember how that one narrow stream of blood began running down my lower leg as I stood there, staring and stunned, waiting for my brother to fetch my parents. I remember standing there all alone in those seconds, watching the blood get closer to the top of my yellow sock - my precious, favorite, rather amazing yellow socks - and I remember my stunned silence finding its way into a scream of utter terror as the blood inched closer. I remember the thud of each step as my father carried me inside, assuming my cries were from the pain, as opposed to the shock-induced despair upon seeing the red-soaked sock.

Speaking of knees, I also remember my mother putting Vaseline on my knees once, when I was even younger. She denies this, and thinks I'm completely weird for having fabricated such a thing. But she did. I know she did. Perhaps they were dry.

And while I don't specifically recall my own first bicycle launch, I do remember the first time I rode it with the training wheels off. I was probably six, and my father and I walked to the top of the street we then lived on. It was a modest hill, but a hill nonetheless. Maybe he thought I needed a little speed to remain vertical, that having to pedal too much on my own would make me tip.

We reached the top and turned around. It was so quiet and so sunny. I got on, asking what would happen. He said that he'd hold on to the back of the seat the whole time, that I would coast down the hill, working on balancing, and that he'd hang on. Seemed like an awesome plan.

I pushed off a bit, and out of instinct gave the pedals a hefty rotation. Wow, did it start to move. I mean, it was a fucking hill, after all. And down I flew. I mean I flew. Wind in my hair, shirt flapping, the whole bit. This was not what I'd had in mind. And the thing that surprised me the most, coming from the world of training wheels, was that the speed was actually increasing as I continued. I imagine my mouth forming a huge, wide "o" and my eyes equally round as I shot down the street.

Now, there are two things I was absolutely sure of. One: it was harder to steer than I thought it would be at this speed, and I was veering sharply towards the left curb. Two: my Dad was no-fucking-WAY holding on to the back of my seat. How did I know this? Because his shouts of "Turn RIGHT! Turn RIGHT!!!" were becoming more and more distant with every utterance. It wasn't pretty.

I can't say I've been all that much of a bike rider since.

It's day two with the hammerheads, and Ann and I have taken the kids to a nearby park. Our daughter is riding the bike around a fenced-in blacktop, enjoying every minute. I look down at her little brother, who has decided to hunt for a snack in our backpack, and when I look back up, she is on the ground crying. Ann is with her, holding her, and the bike is on its side. I make my way over and instantly see the thin trail of blood coming from her knee, running down her lower leg. She does not like the sight of it one bit.

But the patching up she does like, of course, and we get her standing and merely sniffling in no time. But I still feel sad for her. I am discouraged for her. It had been going so well, and now it hurts. She straightens her helmet and looks around, squinting in the sun at the kids around her. She is a wonder to me. So grown up and so tiny all at once.

With a final sniff and a wipe with her sleeve she does what I think is the impossible.

So, yeah, she asks us to hold the handle bars a little more. And, yeah, she's more tentative with those sharp turns. And, yeah, she'd rather ride wearing pants that cover her knees. And, yes, perhaps she'd maybe prefer to stay in to read half the time.

But she got back on. She got back on. And I hope against hope that she will hold on to that, like I know I will.

Calls from the other side

2008-06-25T18:06:00.000-07:00

Hi again.

So, we've been getting calls from prison. Perhaps you have as well.

It's really nifty, you see, getting calls from prison. It adds a little excitement to the day. Not only is it just plain edgy and cool, but our phone, which is stuck on audio-caller-ID-mode, will announce in its distinctive fem-bot monotone, "Call from... PRI-SOON." Yeah, it's great. We usually just let it ring, and the occasional time we do pick up, no one is there.

Until tonight.

Ann has gone off to her writing group, I have strong-armed the children into their beds, and am tooling around on facebook, because that seems to be all I do anymore. The phone rings, and I wonder if maybe it's a friend or relative. Maybe it's someone calling to say that they love me. Then I hear the infamous, "Call from... PRI-SOON." I decide the time has come to get to the bottom of this. I mean, what if my dad has been in jail for two weeks and is simply trying to let me know? That would be a terrible shame.

So, I pick up the phone with a cheery "mmmm...chello?" and expect to hear nothing. Instead, I hear a click and a man appears on the line.

"Yes sir. This is Sgt. Smith of the Chicago Police Department."

"Oh. Hi."

"Hello, sir," he continues. "Sir, I am calling you because there has unfortunately been an accident involving a young woman, and she gave us this number as her emergency contact. You need to call my superior, Det. Edward Singleton at the following number. He is on the scene and can tell you more." He gives me the number, which I jot down, and he hangs up. It's a strange area code and exchange I've not seen before.

Of course my first thoughts are Ann, and is she okay, and what exactly happened, and who exactly is involved, and... wait, huh? I'm not convinced. No, not at all. So, I don't call that number. I call Ann's cell phone. She answers. She is fine. She is at writing group. She is discussing matters poetical. How am I? How are the kids? All is well. Happy writing. Click.

So, I then call 311. I get a very nice operator who recognizes the scam instantly. "Do NOT call that number, whatever you do," she says. She patches me through to the actual Chicago Police, who are able to explain in more detail what is is going on.

Somehow, our number has appeared on a list that prisoners use for scams. How that happened, we may never know, but that explains the multiple attempts over the past few days. What a prisoner will try to do is get you to call a specific series of digits that actually result in your future incoming phone calls being forwarded elsewhere. What does this mean? Well, what it means is that the prisoner can then call your number collect, it will get bounced to the long-distance number of his or her choosing, THAT person will accept the charges, and YOU will get billed for the call. Oh, yeah, and since your phone won't ever ring, you will never know. Your outgoing calls will not be affected, so you won't know then either. Only if someone else, someone you know, tries to call you and gets a different house.... only then will you know. Once that friend gets a hold of you, that is. Which is harder since they can't call you. It's quite something, really.

The officer is very nice, and gives me a (real) number to call to have our home phone blocked from this list. I make the call, and am told that our number will be blocked starting the following morning. I feel satisfied. I did it. I beat those crafty criminals. Ha. I start to make some dinner.

The phone rings. "Call from... PRI-SOON."

I pick up the receiver. "Um. Hello?"

"Yes, this is Sgt. Smith again. I was calling to see if you were able to reach the Detective on the case."

Wow. It's this guy again. What is he thinking? And then I realize exactly what he's thinking. He was hoping I'd already made my call. He is trying to reach his cousin, or friend, or whoever was intended to receive my forwarded calls. So, not only is he pissed that it didn't work, but he now knows I didn't make the call.

"Yeah," I say, "I didn't call that detective."

"Why not, sir?"

"Oh, because this is a scam. You are trying to scam me, and it's transparent and ineffective."

"Excuse me, sir? Look, I am just trying to do my job here. That's all. There has been an accident." He's starting to get mad.

"It says you are calling from prison on my caller ID."

"That's where I WORK, sir."

The whole thing is so silly now. I know who he is and what he is trying to do. He knows that I know, and knows that I have yet to call - and that I will not call - that number. Yet the game goes on.

"Look, this is getting sad," I continue. "You are trying to scam this house, and it's not working. How could you possibly expect me to call that ridiculous number anyway? You are not a police officer."

"Sir, there is no need to be an asshole."

"Ah ha! Ah HA! See! If you were a real police officer you would NEVER call me an asshole! See!"

He pauses. Oh, he's so frustrated. It's great.

"Sir, I would call you an asshole if you were being one! Which you are! If you don't like it, then call my supervisor!"

"And who is that?" I click my pen just for the hell of it. I know I should just hang up. But how can I, really? It's too enjoyable.

"The detective whose number I gave you! Call him and complain. That's fine by me."

"I'm not calling that number. There's no way I'm calling that number. How about you give me a full name and I'll look it up myself and call."

"FINE! MAYOR DALEY! HE'S MY FUCKING BOSS, ASSHOLE! CALL HIM!"

"Boy, you sure are a rude police officer."

Click.

Dinner time.

Where the green meets the white

2007-06-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

The El has not been a whole lot of fun lately. The CTA is doing a huge city-wide renovation on the Brown Line, and it's making trains extra crowded, extra slow and extra unpleasant. This is especially the case on the commute home. We all stand on the narrow wooden platform, squinting into the early evening sun, praying that a train will arrive that doesn't have people's sweaty backs already pressed against the glass doors. The only way to get on those trains is to back up, run, and fling yourself against the wall of people just as the doors are closing. It's a tricky maneuver, and not one to be tried while intoxicated or blindfolded.

Anyway. The trains suck. We just want to get home.

But this is exactly why I recommend that everyone have a Bill to ride home with. If you can find one, definitely pick one up! It's really a great way to go, and can make your ride home downright enjoyable, even in the worst conditions.

Bill, in my case, is my cheery coworker of many years, and we ride the train to the near north side together many evenings. We sometimes tell stories of our children and talk about the day at work. Mostly, though, we resort to being ridiculous. We quietly take note of those around us ("Hey! There's that woman with the Joker mouth again!" "Look at that guy's man-bag!"). We ask each other deeply philosophical questions ("How many people on this train know who Carter Beauford is?" "How many pounds of manure are they using to build that new park?" "Does everyone on this train hate us right now?").

Despite having been in the same office all day, we never are short on conversation matter - especially the kind that is meaningless. (Come to think of it, Bill did ask me once to diagram a conversation for us in advance for fear we'd have nothing to say.)

We ride home. We decompress. We pass the time. We are juvenile.

On some occasions, if the mood is just so, we will challenge each other to do absurd and wonderful things:

So, we're standing on a very crowded car at the back of a Brown Line train. The doors fight their way closed as the last few people catapult themselves into the mass of riders (see above), and the train lurches forward. As we curve our way out of the Chicago Station, Bill and I both notice a distinct human aroma. We do what we always do in such situations: push our top lips up with our lower lips in a meager attempt to block off our nostrils. This, of course, does not help.

We look around. Bill, who has just gotten himself new contact lenses earlier on this day, darts his eyes around more than usual, blinking widely as he tries to determine the source of the smell. I see him see something behind me and know that he has located the culprit. I turn a little, and see that directly behind me, facing in the other direction, is a large beachball of a man. He's scruffy, sweaty and stinky. He is wearing a white baseball style shirt with green sleeves. He is listening to a personal music device with white earbuds.

I turn back to face Bill. Without hesitation he says to me, "I will give you a dollar if you stick your nose where the green meets the white," indicating the man's shirt. I look again. The seam in question runs right across the back of the guy's armpit. Perfect.

I have no intention of doing any such thing. But, in the interest of fun, I clarify, "A whole dollar, right?"

There must be a gleam of something in my eye, or Bill must hallucinate one with his new contacts, because for some reason he thinks I'm serious. Instantly, he backpedals.

"No. No, no. I take it back."

"You said a dollar. A whole dollar," I challenge.

"No. Do not do that." He laughs a tiny, worried laugh and looks away.

Silence. He turns back to me, ready to move on to some other fascinating topic. Perhaps he will impress me with his ability to remember my extended family members' email addresses. Perhaps we will gripe about the proposed El fare hikes. Maybe he thinks we'll talk about American Idol. No such luck. I'm not done.

"All right, look," I say, "I'm going to do this now, and when I do, I expect my dollar. Okay?"

"No, not okay!" He's a little more frantic now. "I take it back before you accept. No dollar. Don't do it. I will not give you a dollar."

It's really unlike Bill to guide me away from foolishness. Usually he thrusts me toward it with wild abandon. I'm unsure if he thinks I'll get beaten up, or if he fears he'll vomit upon witnessing such an act. But, let's face it, it was his idea to begin with, and his idea to offer compensation. Not to mention the fact that I'm only taunting him, and have no plans to touch that guy at all with anything.

The argument goes on like this for another minute. I even tease him by leaning over, closer to the guy in question. It freaks Bill out, which gives me great pleasure. (See! Good times! Everyone needs a Bill!)

Then it happens. Yep. You've been waiting for it, you knew it was coming. The train hits a small jog in the track and rocks hard from side to side. We all shift suddenly. It's in that instant, that millisecond, that a decision is made. A ridiculous, ridiculous decision.

With the same kind of instinctive choice one makes when, say, dodging traffic or fighting a dragon, I use the bouncing train to feign a slight misstep. I lean down and over and let the momentum of the rocking train throw the guy's armpit into my face. It's all so fast. And so slow. The green and white shirt is coming at me with great force and impressive speed. I keep my eyes open so I can aim my nose for the exact spot where the colors meet. It takes up my entire field of vision.

I will spare you the details of the quarter-second that my nose disappeared into that man's body. I will not bore you with how surprisingly soft it was - plush, even. I will skip the part about the shirt clinging for an instant to the bridge of my nose where my glasses sit, making me fear for a moment that I may not detach from this guy. I'll leave all of those details out. You have an imagination. You can take it from here.

Needless to say, once is enough.

The train regains its stability, as do all of the passengers. Because everyone on the train had been flopping around, my act went unnoticed. I succeeded! I survived! I look back to Bill with a wide smile. He turns to me and opens his eyes.

"Wait," I say, "You did SEE that, right??"

"I couldn't watch. I saw it coming. I couldn't watch."

"But I did it!" I whisper angrily. "I risked everything! I manned up!! And you closed your fucking eyes???"

"Sorry."

"I want my dollar."

"No."

"I want my dollar."

"No."

"I want my dollar."

We arrive at Bill's stop, and he makes his way through the packed car to the doors. He blinks his glasses-free eyes and smiles a goodbye. I meekly wave and rub my nose.

"See you tomorrow."

Hear ye!

2007-05-29T08:54:00.000-07:00

Cleaning out massive amounts of earwax is not only healthy, but it’s super fun! And, if done properly, it can be highly rewarding. Especially if you: 1. are me and 2. live in a place where ear wax is some kind of currency.

I have always had lots of wax in my ears. It’s a gift. And I try to clean them after showers, and so on, with modest success. Sometimes a small, dry chunk will unexpectedly fall right out and land in that little well just above my earlobe, where it will sit until it is plucked out by me or perhaps a lucky coworker.

On a recent doctor’s visit, I was told that my ears couldn’t be properly examined, for all of the wax buildup in there. So, this Memorial Day weekend I decide to take things into my own hands, and I purchase earwax drops and a fun rubber-bulb-squirting-thing.

It goes a little something like this:

1. Put in a whole lot of drops.

2. Put cotton in your ears to keep the drops in there for a few minutes.

3. Pass the time by reading a magazine or making up little earwax songs.

4. Remove the cotton.

5. Fill the bulb with warm water and lean over the sink.

6. Stick that thing into your ear and squeeze the fuck out of it.

7. Wince.

8. Look into the sink to see what has come out.

9. Repeat steps 5 through 8, with increasing intensity.

No, it doesn’t hurt, per se. But it is crazy loud. It is a little hard to describe, but can best be compared to what it might sound like to, I don’t know, shoot water directly into your ear at a high velocity.

The first several rounds are unimpressive. Little flecks of wax – like the ones you get when you jam your finger your ear while driving – appear in the sink. But nothing much. It's disappointing, really. Patience and persistence, however, are all that it takes.

I squirt a few more times. Each time by the way, as the water runs back out, it makes the same sound as a bottle of soda when you pour it out rapidly: air bubbles go in, liquid comes out, air bubbles in, liquid out. Glub, glub, glub. Just like that – only a lot quieter. Well, a lot louder, really. Hmm.

As I am thinking about this sound, and wondering if any of this is worth while, I squirt again – and it’s louder than before. I wince. I glance into the sink. There has to be some mistake. I blink. I look again.

My first thought is that this is a terrible way to die, and how in the world could that little rubber bulb of water have taken out pieces of brain? I stare and blink some more. (Blinking always seems to be helpful at times like this.)

Sitting in the sink are three (three!) eraser-head-sized globules of brownish, reddish, yellowish… stuff. Brain. It has to be brain.

Nope! Not brain! My smarter readers have probably figured it out by now. It’s earwax! It’s more earwax than any human being has ever had removed at once in the history of earwax removal. I didn't there was that much space in there! I mean, holy crap! The combination of pride and terror is palpable. The excitement in the bathroom is electric.

So, I do what anyone else would do: call for my wife.

She runs upstairs, leaving our sweet children at the lunch table, and comes into the bathroom to make sure I’m okay. I’m smiling. She smiles back. I step back from the sink and gesture towards it – as an electronics salesman might gesture to the latest technology. Like him, I will let the product do the talking.

She smiles. She leans forward. She looks. She gags. She pats me on the back and leaves.

As she walks away, I’m a little sad. This is big stuff! This is huge! And now it’s over. How anti-climactic.

Then, I remember: ear number two! “Yes!” I actually say aloud with a fist-pump.

I repeat it all over again. Sure enough, just when I think nothing is coming out, the swish gets really loud and a few chewed-chicklets of earwax plop into the sink. They are just as huge, deep-brown and horrifying as before.

What a weekend! Life is grand.

You hear what I’m saying?

Shuffle

2007-04-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just need to hit "shuffle songs" on your iPod and be on your way. I do this often in the morning on my way to work. Frankly, it's a tough time of day to hand-pick an album. I'm never really sure what I'm in the mood for at that early hour, and committing to a particular artist can be difficult. I'm usually pretty pleased with the mixes that churn out of that little magical box, and, for the sake of expanding the range of my listening, I try to not advance to the next track before a song is over.

I try.

This morning, I was unable to do so. Nothing sounded right. Nothing sounded good. It was cold and rainy, and I was operating on much less sleep than I'd like.

1. "Silent Legacy," by Melissa Etheridge. Holy crap, I can't start a morning with THAT. I don't want to listen to someone whose voice sounds like I feel right now. Next.

2. "Sapphire Bullets of Love," by They Might Be Giants. TMBG are not to be listened to if you are in any way tired. That, and this song annoys the hell out of me. Next.

3. "The First Attack," from Les Mis. Oh, god. Next.

4. "I Will Remember You," by Sarah McLachlan. I love you, sweet Sarah McLachlan, but I just can't handle your dramatic heady falsetto right now. Not even later. Talk to me tomorrow. Next.

5. "Take it to the Limit," by the Eagles. Honestly, I don't even like the Eagles. Like most people, I just think I'm supposed to. Aw, hell. Next.

Well, you get the idea. The Alarm: nope, too much. Billy Joel: nope, not enough. Random showtune: ugh, how embarrassing. Etc, etc.

And then, after about 15 or 20 songs that just didn't work for me this morning, I had the wonderful fortune of clicking the advance button one more time...

R.E.M.'s "World Leader Pretend."

I breathe. I pick up my pace. I turn up the volume and stow my iPod in my jacket pocket where it belongs. This song... this song is perfect. It's always perfect, in every way. It's message (and words) are haltingly clear for Stipe. The chord progression is infectious. The arrangement, which came at a time that R.E.M. was starting to really open up and put more space in their sound, is absolutely breathtaking.

And, most importantly, around 2:46 when the other instruments drop and it's just Mills on piano and Stipe singing the refrain, "this is my world, and I am world leader pretend / this is my life, and this is my time...," I feel, like I always do at 2:46 on this particular song, that music does in fact have the ability to change everything.

My day is set in motion.

Because of the flu

2007-04-23T08:10:00.000-07:00

Look, we all had the flu. It's been a month filled with nasty family illness, and we've only just made it through the virus and its residual infections: eyes, ears, sinuses. (Okay, most of us have made it through - my poor wife still seems a bit under the weather despite everyone's best efforts.)

But we had the flu. The real flu. As in, we were actually diagnosed with influenza by an actual physician using an actual swab and flu test. No, I don't know what a flu test is, but it's something. It must be something, because they whisked away this little green-snot-covered swab and came back five minutes later to tell us the news.

That explained the high fevers. The endless, achy high fevers that drove us to the edge of our sanity. The fevers and chills that made us incapable of properly caring for our equally sick children.

It also explains the anger I feel at the millions of people who say that they have the flu when they have some little cold, or, even worse, a stomach bug. I hate you people. Not because you're sick. (I am sorry that you're sick! Really! Being sick sucks!) I hate you, though, because you have no idea. You have no idea what having the flu is like. You clearly don't, or wouldn't SAY it. You would say, "I have this nasty cold," or "I'm vomming up a lung."

Um. So, we had the flu. That's why I've not blogged in some time.

In other news, I was on the elevator this morning and saw a woman with a tiny backpack - a mini backpack that might otherwise be reserved for a toddler to wear. Written in bold white letters on this tiny black backpack were the words, "The other white meat." I found this odd - and didn't really get the joke. Then I looked more closely and saw that, in fact, sitting there on the bottom of the backpack was the actual pork logo. It wasn't a joke. Not at all. It was just a tiny pork backpack.

How the Crow flies

2007-03-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

Sheryl Crow came out swinging against American Idol this week, saying that the show undermines art in every way, that it's overly-commercial, and that she's saddened by how much people like it.

Point well taken, Sheryl. It's good to know how you feel about things like this. Stand up for the real artists.

While you're at it, tell us a little bit about your decision to perform on Big Brother 3 a few years ago. Certainly that was completely about the art, right? I mean, that show really has what it takes to be a major artistic powerhouse. Nothing spits in the face of commercialism and selling out like the Big Brother franchise.

It reminds me of the time she spoke out against the pressures young female pop artists face to wear next to nothing and portray the sexiest image possible. She took a strong, strong stand on that one... while wearing nothing but ripped jeans and a tight leather vest.

But, come on. This was years ago. Maybe she's really changed her tune, so to speak. Maybe she's realized that she needs to put forward her undeniable talent and let that speak for itself. I'll bet that's what's behind all this. And she probably will have lots of time to think about it in between photo shoots and press interviews surrounding her latest endeavor.

Every day is a winding road, indeed.

Indeed.

Sale

2007-03-03T12:26:00.000-08:00

Alamo Shoes has, hands down, the best selection of mid-range shoes I've ever seen. They have the really swell brands we all always seek out, and they have lots of them. They also are an independent store in the Andersonville neighborhood of Chicago - definitely a cool area of town. So, the place rocks.

Sort of.

The main problem - maybe the only problem - with Alamo Shoes is its salespeople. Perhaps you've been to such a place yourself. You have to be on guard when you walk in the door. You have to brace yourself. For they come at you, these salesmen, with great force and relentlessness. These men, the youngest perhaps 45, in their poly pants, translucent short-sleeved button down shirts and mismatched ties. They pounce. They pounce repeatedly. They want to help you find that perfect pair of shoes. More accurately, they want to help you find thirty of them. They give commission-based sales a bad name. If I am wrong, and they are not commission-based, then they are very strange space people.

I like to do little duck and spin moves to avoid them. Or focus on the kids to prevent eye contact. (See my basketball entry for more details on my history of avoidance.) On occasion, though, I can't help but stare at one of them as they ask, "Can I help you, sir?" In those cases, I say "no," and run to the socks rack. I'll hide there for some time checking out Gold Toes until it's safe to go to the Rockports.

If you are going to buy anything there, of course, you cannot help but truly interact with these people. They hustle off to find your size while you patiently sit in their vinyl chairs, perhaps tapping your toes on the little stool-foot-ramp-thing-that-has-no-name-that-I-know-of. Sometimes, I kid you not, other salesmen will ask if you need help with anything while you wait for your shoes to try on. They will be pushy. They will be frustrating. They will even be offensive. Like the time many years ago when one of them was trying to push Ann to buy BOTH pairs of running shoes she was choosing between. When I joked that we'd take them both if they were "buy one pair, get one free," the salesman snapped back, "You'll have to come back in Jew-vember for that deal." (Angry letters and confrontations ensued, and apologies and forgiveness have since been granted.)

But they really know their shoes, and, like I said, they simply have the best stuff. And maybe it's worth it, right? I mean, the alternative is DSW, which is self-serve in every way, and I always end up awkwardly dragging my stuff aisle to aisle, my socks hanging off the ends of my toes, old shoes trailing behind me, as I look for something, anything, in my size.

So, I'm in Alamo on Thursday - mostly to buy a little time with my son before we pick my daughter up from her nearby preschool. I've only been asked if I need help three times, so I think something must be up. I wander to the back of the store and find before me the most incredible sight: the shoe reps are there.

The shoe reps are there, selling their shoes to the store - to a group of these sharks - and they, the reps, are worse than the salesmen! It's great! It's... great! This woman is on her knees, and the salesmen are kneeling, sitting, crouching in a semicircle in front of her. And she's on fire. She is unstoppable.

"You can get this in the saddle, or just in the black, I'm not saying you have to carry both, I mean you can try just a small run of the black and see how they go before committing to more than that, unless you actually think having both styles is a plus, which I think it surely is, gentlemen. (pause, breath) We should do lunch sometime."

They are frozen. They are afraid of her. I swear I see two of them sweating. I mosey to the other side of the store, and she fades out, "of course this is the new version of that, I'm not going to stick you with the old version, I wouldn't do that, ever, unless you want both to show as a comparison to your many clients, gentlemen..." I reach the spot where the kids' shoes are, and I'm again rewarded! Her colleague is there, with the two guys who specialize in children's shoes, and she's going at them with all engines on turbo.

"The kids are loving these this year. They are loving these. LOVING THESE. And THESE? Let me just tell you right now that they are LOVING these! Loving these even more than THESE, and I already told you they are loving THESE. They are LOVING THEM."

The Alamo salesmen are leaning forward, wringing their hands, as their ugly ties dangle between their legs. They have furrowed brows, they look worried, they look stressed. They look pretty much how we all feel every time we go in there.

I love it. But, alas, it is time to go pick up the girl. So I hoist my son up onto my shoulder, he screams in protest, which is not easily heard above the intense shoe chatter, and we head out into the cold Chicago rain.

Ming Ling?

2007-02-26T15:21:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a cab back to our office building from one of our auxiliary spaces. It's a quick ride that feels longer in the heavier traffic of the early afternoon rush. My cab driver is an older Asian man, and his cab is, well, candy-apple-red. And I mean the interior. Bright, bright red vinyl. Ridiculous and marvelous.

I compliment him on it as we cross the Chicago River. He responds with a happy grunt and the word "pleasure."

As we get closer to my office, we pass through an area densely populated with fun restaurants.

CABBIE: Oh, you see there. There is grand sushi restaurant.

ME: Oh? I don't think I've been...

CABBIE: Oh, sir, you would know had you been. You would surely know.

ME: It's good?

CABBIE: If you know what I mean, sir. If you catch my drift, sir.

ME: Oh. Okay.

CABBIE: It is there. There it is where you can eat of the sushi off of woman.

ME: Ohhh, now I see.

CABBIE: Oh, believe me, you see. You see everything of the woman that is not to be covered under her sushi, sir.

ME: Yes. Yes.

CABBIE: Oh, and sir, sometimes it is on the breast sir. The breast!

ME: Ooooh.

CABBIE: Oh, the mingling!

ME: The... ?

CABBIE: The mingling, sir! Oh, to mingle there. And to eat of that sushi. The parties for such behaviors are dying for. And on the breast, even!

ME: No doubt. Okay.

CABBIE: The mingling!

ME: The... ? Okay! Sure!

CABBIE: You understand? Sushi! On woman!

ME: I got it. Yes.

CABBIE: Yes!

(We pull up to my office building as I reach for my wallet. The Cabbie becomes quieter now, more somber.)

CABBIE: To eat of the woman, it is five hundred dollars.

ME: Oh, wow.

CABBIE: Not worth it.

It's not you! It's me! ...no, it's you.

2007-02-15T07:52:00.000-08:00

Look, my tolerance is low these days. I admit it. I'm tired and easily annoyed. It's not a crime. It's my life. I think I need to get a grip on it, but I'm not entirely sure how. Let's just say I'm working on it.

With that in mind, I give you:

PEOPLE THAT BUG ME

or, WHAT I DID ON MY WINTER VACATION

1. That guy from my office building who was at the corner deli this morning. He is a big guy who must be at least 35% hot air.

ME: (to the woman behind the counter) A bacon egg and cheese sandwich.

HIM: Whoa, that sounds like a heart attack!!

ME: And what are you having?

HIM: (grinning) Me? Just coffee!

ME: Well, that isn't good for you, either.

WOMAN BEHIND THE COUNTER: (working to get my attention) Anything else?

ME: No. (louder) Sorry, I was distracted because I was being told I was getting a heart attack. (I slam my change into the tip jar and leave, not even getting the satisfaction of a full-fledged confrontation.)

2. Maria. Maria works for an office space provider here in the city, and she recently gave a tour to me and a couple of my cohorts.

Maria is a solidly-built woman with hair that's been blown dry to within an inch of its life. She is dressed in a lot of brown, and has a lumpy, brown coat. She spends the first minute or two discussing her coat with us - its warming qualities and whatnot. We already hate her.

Maria takes us on a significantly more detailed tour of office space than we'd like. We just want to see the fucking rooms, get the square footage and look at the furniture they come with. We just want to see if they will work for our short-term project or not. But she shows us the shared kitchens, shared conference rooms and a hallway with chairs she generously calls a "corporate lounge." She talks incessantly about the coffee they have there for all of the tenants to use (for a hefty surcharge, of course). She says it removes the need for Starbuck [sic], unless, of course, you "get those fancy, fancy, fancy drinks." She keeps winking.

She introduces us to her staff, to admins and receptionists who could help us should we lease some space. These are people that she introduces with flair. With panache. They each stand up a little straighter when she delves into their educational background and history with the company. It's unclear if this is from pride or the desire to wring her soft neck. ("Angie just graduated! What did you study, again, Angie?" "Liberal arts." "Liberal ARTS!")

It's at this point that she starts calling me "Al," despite the fact that I say "Allen" every time I meet one of her drones. "Have we met before, Al?" she asks me with a wink, "You sure look familiar."

I kick her hard in the knee cap, dropping her to the floor with a squeal, as I shout "it's Allen, you asshole!" into her ear. Okay, I don't do that, but I like the idea.

She walks us past one of those little putting greens sitting in the middle of a hallway. "Ohhhh," she starts, "this was the invention of one of our best people here!" We all look closely at it, trying to decipher what part might have somehow been "invented," but find nothing. It looks like maybe it was procured from a Target or Wal-Mart. We meet the man in question a bit later on the tour. He comes out of the world's smallest internal office, perhaps a former (or current) broom closet; he's an awkward young guy with a striped shirt and too-short-tie. She explains to him that we saw his brilliant putting green and asks him to tell us all about it.

"Oh!" he says, "Well, I like to have fun at work, and figured everyone else does, too!"

I want to set myself on fire.

Later, back in one of the conference rooms, Maria sits us down to talk business. And that's where the insulting really takes flight. Her quotes are higher than they were on the phone, and she feigns forgetfulness when called out on it. She inappropriately questions our business model and flat-out asks us how we make money. We check our watches. Lastly, after looking us all up and down (especially me), she asks for a retainer. We get up from the table and basically run for the elevator.

We make it out of the building, and I am thankful to be outside where huge chunks of ice are falling from the skyscrapers. It feels safer out here.

3. People who drive north on Sheridan Road to get onto Lake Shore Drive from the Belmont ramp.

You. Yes, you, you fucker. The only right-turn lane is the RIGHT lane. Yes, this one. The one I've been waiting in with my daughter for the last six minutes. Not the empty lane to the left of us with all the straight fucking arrows painted in it. You do not, no matter what you think, have the right to get onto Lake Shore Drive before me. Before the rest of these good citizens just trying to get on with their day!

So what if today I don't even have my daughter in the car. So what if today I just happen to be driving to her school with nothing more than a coffee cake in the back seat - a coffee cake we had to deliver first thing in the morning, even if our daughter was under the weather and not going to school herself that day. So what if I'm sitting here, escorting a CAKE halfway across the city to take it to school!

So what!!!

GET IN LINE.

Well. I feel better now. How about you?

Tricia II

2007-02-06T08:27:00.000-08:00

Remember Tricia? The woman with the backpack on wheels filled with Coke? She and I shared the elevator this morning. There was another woman in there, who had the good fortune of getting off at a lower floor.

TRICIA: Hey, man!

ME: Oh, hi...

TRICIA: It sure is cold, man!

ME: It sure is.

TRICIA: It's supposed to snow all morning, man.

ME: (thinking that her constant use of "man" must be due to the musical theatre people she's been hanging out with) I heard.

TRICIA: Only two weeks for me, though.

ME: Oh? You're... leaving?

TRICIA: Mexico vacation, man!

ME: Oh. Wow!

TRICIA: See, I leave on the 16th. Just before my birthday. Well, okay, just after my birthday. A couple of days after my birthday. Like three days.

(The elevator doors open, and the other woman runs, actually runs, from the elevator.)

TRICIA (cont.): And, well, I had the option of taking the 23rd off or not - bye! - which really wasn't an easy decision, man. But then I decided, I thought, how many times am I going to be able to do this?

ME: Totally.

TRICIA: So, the 23rd is a good day to fly back. I think I have like a 5PM flight or something. Which is later than I'd like, but my roommate can pick me up, whcih he doesn't want to do anyway. I'll have to check my electronic ticket.

ME: Totally.

TRICIA: My roommate.

ME: (thinking the roommate might not be real) Right.

TRICIA: He's something else.

ME: (sure of it now) ...

TRICIA: What a guy. You know he's taking a whole month off! A month!

ME: Wow.

TRICIA: Well, he's not working right now.

ME: Oh. So, I guess it's more than a month, really!

TRICIA: It totally is, man. Totally. It's like he's taking the next forever off! The next forever!

ME: (hating everything about this) That's a good, long while.

(The doors finally open at my floor and I make my escape.)

TRICIA: OH! Well, okay! I'll have fun!!

ME: Yep!

Ashland Avenue, 7:55am

2007-01-24T15:20:00.000-08:00

He's driving a decade-old Buick LeSabre, maroon with a cream top, and he's in the lane next to me as we point southward on Ashland Avenue.

It's 7:55am, and traffic is relentless. I'm used to it now, as I've been driving my daughter to school every weekday for many months, and I am always on this stretch of Ashland at 7:55am, unless I'm behind schedule, which can be caused by heavy northbound traffic on Lakeshore Drive or a reluctance of a certain somebody to urinate prior to leaving the house.

In any case, I'm on time, but moving predictably slowly. This guy next to me, however, is late. Of this I am sure.

First off, Melvin - let's call him Melvin because we can - is wearing a black and white patterned sport coat. Not really checkered, not really striped, not really houndstooth, not really anything. But it is extremely black and white. His hair is brown and longish in the back and on the sides. In the front it's too short, so overall it looks like a Beatles haircut that has slid a few inches down the back of his head. Marvin's window is open, which is only odd because it's about 12 degrees out (with a possible wind-chill of 5, Bill).

Melvin is so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so mad.

We're stopped behind a handful of cars at a red light when I first notice him. I'm minding my own business, flipping between NPR and a rock/pop morning show ("Call if you've ever had a date forget your name!" - that kind of morning show; the kind of morning show I am embarrassed to say I listen to, but do; the kind of morning show that gives my brain a rest instead of a wakeup call; the kind of morning show that is the orange juice in my NPR mimosa). Suddenly, I hear a muffled noise, somewhere between a moan and a scream: "Gooooooooo!!!!!"

I turn the radio down.

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!"

I look to my right. And there he is. Melvin in his shocking jacket. Just as described above. Only, at this precise moment, he is pulling his hair out at the sides and knocking his head against the head rest. He's a bit of a sight. I face forward.

"Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!"

I look again. He is pretty much standing in his car now. He must have all of his weight on the break, poor thing, and he is as vertical as possible, his back arched and his head cocked back so that his forehead is actually touching the ceiling of his car. I didn't know that was even possible.

"Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!" he pleads, to no one in particular. Perhaps to his personal god, a personal god whom I hope is able to keep that vein in his neck from exploding. His window is open, after all, and our car shows blood very easily.

I look straight ahead as the light turns to green and we all lurch forward in unison. He must be happier now, I think to myself as we press on. At least we're moving. I turn to confirm only to find Melvin actually driving with his face in his hands. I don't know if I can do this justice, but the man his hunched up over the steering wheel, driving with his forearms, with both palms on his cheeks. He is sort of pulling his face off while yelling, "OHHHH MYYYYY GODDDDDDDD!!!!"

We all stop at the next red light.

He once again stands and screams.

Then Melvin yells something I can't quite understand, but it definitely has the words now!, because!, late! and, I think, bacon! in it. Boy, is he ever grumpy.

As we cross Lawrence, Melvin turns off to try some alternate route. I'm tempted to follow just for the blogginess of it all, but I decide against it.

I know how I get when I'm running late.

To tell the truth

2006-12-26T12:56:00.000-08:00

PROLOGUE

"This is a house of lies!" -Almost Famous

"I know I haven't blogged in a long time. My dog ate it." -Me
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CHAPTER 1: FRIENDS

(Treasure Island Grocery Store parking lot. Two older women are pushing full shopping carts to their cars.)

OLD WOMAN 1: Now, I'm going to ask you a question. I'm going to ask you something, and I want a completely honest response from you -

OLD WOMAN 2: What?

OLD WOMAN 1: Because I'll not ask you if you won't be honest with me.

OLD WOMAN 2: Of course I'll be honest with you! What, am I a liar all of a sudden?

OLD WOMAN 1: Well...

OLD WOMAN 2: I don't lie about things! Just ask me your stupid question. I don't lie.

OLD WOMAN 1: Are you lying now?

OLD WOMAN 2: Maybe I am!

OLD WOMAN 1: I forgot my question.
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CHAPTER 2: ART

There's an art gallery down the hall from our office. Sometimes they have installations that are interesting. Less frequent are shows that are actually attractive to look at. The current exhibit is tough on the eyes. Life-sized nude photographs of people looking, well, dirty. They each have nothing but blackness behind them, and they face straight into the camera with stunned expressions. It's creepy and weird and totally creepy. One can't walk to the bathroom without walking by the gallery's big window. And, there they are! Seven feet tall each! Naked and sooty! Weird and weirder.

So I'm in the men's room washing up, and at the sink next to me is the junior employee from this gallery. He's a good guy whom I've befriended over the past few months. He looks like the kind of guy who enjoys cool alternative music I've never heard of but wish I could talk about. The kind of guy who knows the difference between whey and soy.

"How's the new show going?" I ask.

"Oh, okay. I think we sold one today."

"Wow."

He throws me a glance in the mirror.

"So," I continue, "what do you think of the pieces?"

He looks at me as he turns off his water. There is a pause. A pause that makes me wish I hadn't asked. Of course he likes them - they're art. Big time art.

The water drips. He blinks. "I think they're terrible," he says. "I think the show is hideous."

"Oh!" I reply, perhaps too happily.

"Have you seen them up close? You have to see them up close."

"Really?" I ask with a wince.

"Oh, yeah."

"Let's go." I shoot back, drying my hands.

"Oh, yeah," he repeats, leading me down the hall.

These pictures are unpleasant enough when one is walking past the gallery quickly en route to pinch a loaf. Standing five inches away, looking straight on, doesn't really help the situation. My friend is showing me around a bit, looking at me for my reaction, when one of the main gallery reps emerges. He explains the work to me. He explains the way these photographs were taken: naked people lying still in the dark for up to three hours while the artist exposed a piece of film and ran a flashlight over their bodies over and over. Hence the dirty look - it's just an uneven, slow exposure. A single three-hour photograph.

It's ridiculous. It seems absolutely pointless. It says nothing to me. It sounds like this artist was bored and simply wanted to look at naked people with a flashlight for a few hours. And the result is that these people look like they were just pulled out of a fire, glassy-eyed and covered in ash. I think it's unappealing and dull, and it makes me want to challenge the artist - or at least his representative here. To challenge this art. Frankly, it makes me a little mad.

But we don't say these things, do we? No, we don't. We want to be supportive, and appear intelligent and cool, so we lie our way through things like this, nodding and smiling, and maybe even throwing in the occasional "hmm!" for good measure. It's easier. It's better.

Except, in this case, I am saying these things. I'm standing there, in the middle of this gallery, and these words are coming out of my mouth. I try to stop myself, but it's too late.

"Do you like this?" I ask the senior rep.

"It's amazing."

"Okay."

"It's brilliant."

"So, what is the artist trying to say with this work?" I launch back, "because I certainly don't see any message here. I get nothing from this."

"Well, that's... a good question." My friend seems to be enjoying this. "I think he's really playing with convention. He's trying to show us the difference between, say, this man here and his actual self. He wants you to feel uncomfortable with that."

"Okay, great," I continue, genuinely unable to stop myself, "But that has no meaning for me. That sounds to me like he just wants to play around. What's his message? His thesis?"

"Wow. Uh, thesis." The rep responds with a laugh. He doesn't know what to say, but he clearly loves this exhibit. No matter what. "I haven't asked him that. And, I'm not sure he has one. I think he wants people to have an experience looking at these. That's his focus. He went through a process, you see. I couldn't tell you anything about a thesis."

"Maybe he doesn't have to have a thesis, per se." I say, backpedaling for a few seconds. "I mean, maybe he just wants me to have this experience you're describing. The experience of looking at this. Whatever that is. Although, it sounds to me like he wanted to have the experience, not me, and I'm just along for the ride."

There is a pause. Perhaps I went too far.

"Precisely!" the rep says, with a nod and a smile. My friend throws me a wink.

"Okay!" I say, grinning back, unsure of what has just happened. I thank them both and make my way back to work.

I feel tired and sluggish. As I sit down at my desk, in front of this very computer, in front of this very blog, I wonder if I should have gone the lying-nodding route. The ease of it all.

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CHAPTER 3: DETECTING

Galvanic skin resistance (GSR) - This is also called electro-dermal activity, and is basically a measure of the sweat on your fingertips. The finger tips are one of the most porous areas on the body and so are a good place to look for sweat. The idea is that we sweat more when we are placed under stress. Fingerplates, called galvanometers, are attached to two of the subject's fingers. These plates measure the skin's ability to conduct electricity. When the skin is hydrated (as with sweat), it conducts electricity much more easily than when it is dry. (K. Bonsor, How Stuff Works)
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EPILOGUE

"It's good to be blogging again." -Me

Cold, danger, exhaustion and the bluetooth

2006-12-08T15:02:00.000-08:00

Almost getting squished by an SUV is no fun. Just ask my old friend Clem.

My old friend Clem and his girlfriend-at-the-time were on their way back to his place to get into each others' pants for the very first time when instead they got run over by an SUV. No kidding. They were both fine, believe it or not. Which is exactly why we can all laugh about it uproariously now.

Or just ask me. It just (almost) happened.

First thing you need to know: I'm exhausted. I'm tired in all kinds of ways, and, frankly, I feel overly edgy about most everything. It's the lack-of-sleep, up-with-the-children, rampant-virus, picking-fights kind of exhaustion that many of you know all too well.

Second: it's ridiculously cold here. Five degrees this morning, with a wind-chill of something much worse (though it's worth noting that my buddy Bill hates the use of wind-chill: "who are they to tell me how it feels out here to me???"). It's the kind of cold that makes everyone on the El platform stand in a crude formation each morning to avoid the wind. Today: everyone facing 45 degrees to the right, heads cocked slightly down and to the left, hands in pockets, rocking gently side-to-side. Some possibly moaning. Or maybe that's just the sound of the ghosts of the people who died up here last winter, their faces frozen in whatever final facial expression they were making.

So, here I am, afternoon now but equally cold. I'm on my way to a nearby bank to do a little financial transaction, and I'm minding my own business. It's a less congested part of downtown, and only a few of us are on this particular block. The light changes to green, and we cross. Myself, fucking grumpy and fucking cold, and a couple of people behind me. And, from the other side of the street, a solo woman. We all start walking. And we're walking.

And then, well, it happens.

A huge, vomit-green Yukon, currently facing me, is trying to turn right onto the street we're crossing and decides to do so regardless of the pedestrians already in mid-cross. You know, us. This guy floors it, as we could all hear by the straining engine, and navigates his rapidly-accelerating, monstrous truck between us as best he can.

I will say this: I am absolutely sure he has not seen the woman crossing towards me. He's coming from her direction, and she is clearly in his blind spot. Perhaps we all are. He cuts her off so quickly and closely, that she stumbles backwards trying to avoid him; her hand looks like it brushes the side of his vehicle. I still don't know if he's seen me or not, but, well, he comes rather... close to me. Inches. He comes so close to me that the people who are behind me by several paces scream out. We all sort of scream - out of fear, out of anger, out of shock. He responds accordingly by gunning it down the street.

(Hey, I am not kidding when I say that, to my knowledge, this is absolutely the closest I have come to death to date. I am being as fair and rational as I can when I say that he was at most 6 inches from me. It felt like he hit me, that's how close he was. Fucking suburban, gas-guzzling, blue-tooth-wearing, button-down-shirt-sleeves-rolled-up, cocky, grinning, distracted, motherfucking-ass-clown.)

We're in awe. The four of us look at each other, unsure of what to say. There is great distress, though we are clearly all okay. I think the woman facing us might be especially sad. His engine fades as he zooms off.

Like I said, I'm tired. I'm freezing cold. I'm, to put it simply, a man not to be fucked with. And this is a bad thing that just happened to us here, it really is. And, as it just so happens, our new friend has only made it about 30 yards because of the red light down the way. I look at him, his huge SUV, now mixed in with other cars, tail lights ablaze. I watch my shortened breath cloud up before me.

You bet I fucking take off.

I run down the street after him, hoping out loud that the light won't change before I get to his vehicle. The air in my lungs feels even colder as I reach the standing cars. I slow down to a careful walk, as now would be a crappy time to get hit by someone else. I walk slowly between the idling cars, giving a friendly wave to each driver. A wave that I hope conveys, "what you are about to see has nothing to do with you. It doesn't really have anything to do with me - not the real me, at least. What you are about to see, fellow citizen, is outside of the box. Outside of the box of comfort for us all."

I'm there. And there he sits. Chubby little suited-up guy jabbering away into his glowing blue headset, laughing at something I don't give a shit about. The light is still red.

I slam on his window one, two, three times.

He's startled, that's for sure. And I'm thrilled. I'm so glad that he's surprised, glad that he doesn't quite know what to make of me. I'm glad for his sudden change of expression, and I feel a little guilty, too. He stares back at me, his mouth still moving, but more slowly now. He won't roll down his window. Shocker.

I scream into his window from about an inch away. I scream in the cold, gray air.

"You almost hit two people back there, asshole! You really did!!!" I hold up two fingers for emphasis.

He looks at me blankly as the light changes to green.

"Watch where you're going and get off your fucking phone!!!"

THIS he seems to understand. He sort of nods and grins and, as he pulls away, does that little point-at-you-while-winking-and-making-a-double-tongue-click thing. I give his car an affectionate punch, and he's gone. Fucker.

I wander back to my initial path, feeling kind of good and kind of bad. I used to believe that the frigid Chicago weather brought the people of this city together. You know, you’re all in the same boat, there’s no denying it’s cold, hang in there… that kind of thing. As I head towards the bank, I’m not so sure. Maybe it brings out the worst in us. Maybe it makes us the kind of people who bark at each other, ignore each other, run each other down.

I sigh, notice once again how visible my breath is, and decide to watch my feet as I walk. I get to the corner where the bank is and hear a woman’s voice.

“That was really scary.” I look up and see the woman who had been a few steps behind me, the woman who screamed the loudest.

“Yeah, it was super close,” I say with a half-smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that close to being hit before.”

“Me neither. And I was a few feet behind you!”

“Well,” I add, “I normally don’t do that kind of thing there. You know, yell at people in their cars.”

“That’s okay. It's good what you did there. You were yelling for the group of us. We all watched you. We were all glad to see you do it.” She blinks a few times. “Thanks for speaking for us.”

We say our goodbyes, but not before laughing together about how unbelievably cold it is. We tell each other to hang in there.

This is a good city.

1983 and the Big Shot

2006-11-02T08:14:00.000-08:00

I was 10 years old in 1983. The year Sally Ride made it into space. The year R.E.M. produced Murmur. The year Tom Brokaw became the anchor of The Nightly News.

The year I decided to try basketball.

Peter K was the best guy on the team by far. Many of us would watch in awe as he performed flawless lay-up after flawless lay-up. It was as though the ball belonged in the basket every time he got his hands on it. He was just the messenger. The ten-year-old messenger. He was also the Coach's son.

And he really was that good, as were many of the kids on Maroon. I say, "Maroon," because the YMCA youth basketball league did not have teams with actual names. Instead, each team got a different colored t-shirt. A thin, gauzy, cottonless t-shirt with poorly executed white lettering that would wear off in a single wash. I think that's why several kids on the team decided it best to never wash their shirts. Many of these youngsters could really play basketball, though. Some better than others. And some, not at all.

It's difficult to describe the kind of fear that shot through me every time the coach decided to put me in the game (a move that was without exception preceded with a sort of pitying sigh). First, I'd make sure he was actually talking to me. This consisted of silently staring back into his wide, blue eyes until he repeated himself. Then, I'd usually look around at the other players, each of whom was at least five inches taller than my wee self. They rarely looked back. Lastly, I'd get a little shaky, start to feel cold, and have a stronger-than-normal desire to urinate. I was ready for action.

Don't get the wrong idea. When I hit that court, I snapped into game mode. I turned it on. I broke a sweat. I played. It's just that my game was, well, a little different. Whereas most ten-year-olds in the free world would probably try to play basketball in such a situation, my personal sport involved doing everything in my power to avoid coming into contact with the ball.

I'm sure it looked great.

Now, as with any sport, one gets better with practice, and by the end of that season, I was a ball-avoiding pro. I was on fire. In those painful months of “practice” and “games,” I'd taught myself a handful of techniques that enabled me to never, ever, ever have to look foolish by having to hold an actual basketball. While it's true that a magician should never reveal his secrets, I feel it appropriate to share these techniques with you now. I warn you: they are brilliant.

1. The Run. This is an obvious one, but it can be hard to pull off in the context of an actual game without being yelled at by your teammates. The idea here is to simply run away from the ball. Someone on your team dribbles in your general direction? Get the hell out of there! An opponent prepares to take a shot?? Fucking DUCK, man!! Someone, god forbid, passes you the ball? Just run back like you think it's going farther than it actually is and let someone else get it! Who cares what color their shirt is! All that running always gave me a great workout.

2. The No-Look. This can work wonders, but it can be risky. The basic idea is to never, ever make eye contact with the person holding the ball. If they don't see you see them, then they're much less likely to try to pass it to you. Unless "they" happens to be Earl S, who never cared if you saw him or not. Hence the danger. (Of course if Earl S ever passed it to me, I could always resort to playbook play #1 above and flee.) You know, it's remarkably hard in a basketball game to keep your eyes entirely off the ball. The result was that I had to overcompensate and look in the complete opposite direction much of the time. The players on the opposing teams would always fight over who got to defend me.

3. The Floppy Arms. This one's not suitable for constant use, but it packs a punch. I realized mid-season that if I kept my arms down by my sides, people would rarely pass the ball to me. It works much like the No-Look, and comes with the added danger of possibly having to catch a ball with your face. Although using the Floppy Arms can slow down The Run, I often resorted to combining all three of the aforementioned plays. Perhaps I looked a little strange running frantically around the court, away from the ball, arms hanging straight down, not looking at anyone - but I was hugely successful at my sport. Unmatched, really.

Sometimes, despite my best efforts, that fucking basketball would still find its way to me. Maybe I’d let my guard down and follow the action for a few seconds. Maybe I’d stop running for a moment. Maybe I’d look prepared or interested. Whatever my error, I'd occasionally find myself looking down at my own two hands holding that bumpy, orange ball. In those rare occasions, I had a special fourth play in my book:

4. The Peter Pass. A scary situation, but a simple solution. If I happened to end up with the ball, I would pass it to Peter K as soon as humanly possible. If I was lucky, I wouldn't even have to grip the ball - I would just sort of slap it in Peter's general direction as it flew towards me. I think the Peter Pass made for some awkward moments on those rare occasions that he was sitting out. Passing the ball to a player on the bench is, let's face it, just plain weird. But it worked!

So, there we were: the final game of the season. No doubt the final game of my career. I was elated. Maybe I wouldn't even have to play! But, I couldn't help overhearing the Coach saying to Peter K, "every kid has to, at least once..." This couldn't be good. Not at all. Especially considering that the guys from the other team looked old enough to have driven themselves to the game.

Sure enough, midway through the second half, the Coach turned to me and sighed. He didn't have to say anything else. In I went.

I thought I was doing really well. The Run was taking me all over the court, baffling opposing players left and right. The No-Look and Floppy-Arms were working their magic. Life was good. I was getting exercise! I was in the zone!

"Here."

It was Peter K, standing right next to me. Where the hell did he come from?? He was handing me the ball.

"Here. Just shoot it." He stuck the ball in my hands and stepped back.

I was screwed. The Run? Ineffective, as I had the ball. The No-Look? Forget it - I'd already made more eye contact than I should have. So, I went straight to play #4.

I handed the ball back to Peter.

He looked off-court at his father as our opponents started to close in. His father sighed (I couldn't hear it, but I could see it). Peter turned back to me. He smiled.

"Shoot this ball into that basket," he said as he shoved the ball to me again and ran off towards the bottom of the key. I wanted to shout, "HEY, don’t RUN AWAY! That's MY play!"

I looked around at the nine other kids on the court. I breathed. And then, I broke every single rule in my personal playbook. I didn't run. I kept my arms, still holding the ball, up by my chest. And, most significantly, I looked people in the eye. I looked them ALL in the eye. And they looked back. What were they thinking? Who the fuck cares, they were getting closer! So, I did the one thing I swore I would never, ever, under any circumstances, do.

I shot.

That did it for my basketball career. That is, until college, when I decided sophomore year to join the Theatre Department’s intramural team, called, “Spot Us Twenty.” I made it through about four minutes of our very first practice before breaking my thumb trying to catch a rather swift pass from a costume designer.

And, as I sat in the ER listening to the doctors discuss whether or not I needed to have a pin put into my hand, I thought fondly of my brief stint in the YMCA league a decade before. I thought about those maroon shirts, about the Coach’s sighs, and about the fact that in that league, my shooting average from the field is 100%. Unbeatable.

Fool

2006-10-21T20:30:00.000-07:00

It would be easy to say that I'm staying up late waiting for the last load of laundry to come out of the dryer. After all, I am surrounded by folded clothes, and the dryer is indeed hard at work in the utility closet. I mean, you gotta fold those khakis ASAP or they get nasty-wrinkled.

Yes, I could say that to anyone who happened by. But that would be a lie. I am up watching my new favorite show: I Pity The Fool.

For those who do not know, this is a reality program in which a distressed family is coached and helped by none other than Mr. T.

It's self help! It's about bringing people together! It's therapy with the guy who played the idiot on the A-Team! ["I ain't gettin' on that plane! I ain't gettin' on that plane!" / "Here, BA, have this milk." / "Okay!" (passes out)]

This television program is amazing. It is the worst thing anyone could ever imagine. Ever. I love it.

I'll discuss the episode a bit, but must begin with what I see as the key part of the show: Mr. T's entrance. After we meet the family and hear about their problems, Mr. T literally runs up the street to the family's house. We watch them watch him coming for some time. It's wonderfully awkward. He is in a red track suit. He looks about 80. [I have to force myself to think of him as Rocky III rival Clubber Lang. Once fearsome and fierce. ("Mr. Lang, what is your prediction for the fight?" / "Prediction? PAIN.")]

A lengthy scene ensues in which T hears the family discuss their problems and responds with sage advice:

"Three plus one equals nuthin!!"

Or, the gem:

"The biggest room in the house? Room for improvement!"

Please understand that I list only a couple of quotes, because really these are the only ones I actually understood. Mostly, T just furrows his brow and growls things like, "Listen, people, you're a family! You gotta (something unintelligible). You gotta (something). And, (something) don't cut it around here. No, not (something) no more!"

The show then cuts between shots of the family members. The mother is in an awe of some fashion. The sister looks confused. The brother looks like he doesn't understand why they couldn't have gotten on Shalom in the Home instead.

There are then several very terrible scenes of Mr. T with each family member and the father (who's been distant from the family and spends all his time in a nasty armchair - the fool!). T is trying to bring them together. To make things right. The best of these scenes is when T takes father and daughter to a grubby little arcade to play skeeball and whack-a-gator and such.

Mr. T's voiceover? Completely appropriate, of course!

"They weren't just whackin' down alligators; they were whackin' down the walls between them!"

Or:

"Some people call it air hockey; I call it love hockey."

The climax of the episode takes place on a large sports field of some kind. It seems that Mr. T has convinced the father to burn up that nasty old chair as a symbol of rejoining the family.

The mother is in tears, the children stunned. Mr. T? Why, he's at the ready with deep commentary about the weight of what is happening: "This is your chair! Goin’ up in smokes! It might let off some unusual gasses!"

The family united, T's work is done. And, you guessed it, he leaves by running off. And, um, they're on this field. And, um, he runs away from the camera, so we have to watch him for, well, a really long time. Trotting out of sight. Trotting until he's a little, tiny, red track suited Mr. T. A teeny Mr. T. A distant Mr. T.

Always appropriate, Mr. T decides to close this episode with poetry.

"There once was a man named Frank
Who had a chair that done stank
(Something unintelligible)
(Something unintelligible)
Now they got Mr. T to thank!"

Here, Mr. T. Drink this milk.

The Fall Event

2006-10-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

It's Fall Event time at our daughter's school. This means it's time to shell out for a sitter, bring a covered dish and spend a Saturday night in small school gym eating and chatting with other bleary-eyed parents.

We have volunteered to help with some of the food tables and to take pictures at the event. (Side note: the volunteer pressure in general is quite something and bested only by the donation pressure.) So, we arrive with our fruit salad and camera - all set to have a wonderfully awkward time milling about with people we don't know.

It actually gets off to a decent start. We quickly find a set of parents that we met last month at orientation. Our daughters continue to talk about each other at home, and we're all happy that they've become friends. Actually, our daughter has been mentioning two additional girls with great frequency as well, and this set of parents confirms the foursome. It's nice to hear that the group she's been telling us about does in fact exist.

But no more time for chit chat. There are photos to be taken. I bid adieu and turn to the crowded gym.

Uhhh. Hmm.

I look around. Do I just start snapping pictures? Will people wonder what the hell I'm doing? ("Hey, what's with the dad over there taking pictures of everybody? What a freak!") Do I go for candid shots? Or would it be easier to ask people to pose and smile? What will annoy people less? What will make me seem less... dorky?

And that's just it. I feel like I'm transported back to school myself. Finally invited to hang with the cool kids, but stuck behind a camera and destined to bug each and every one of them. You know - the dork.

Well, in the interest of time, let me just say that it goes fine. Once you start taking pictures of strangers you get sort of used to it. And people seemed to enjoy it for the most part. I moved in and out of food tables, grabbing a few candids, getting a few smiles, and so on. By the time I sat with my wife to enjoy some food, all was well. And there we were, back again, with the parents of our daughter's friend.

Then it gets better. See, the parents of one of the other girls in this little foursome realize who we are, and come over to talk with us about our daughters. They had heard just as much about our daughter as we had about theirs! How marvelous! We're all pretty excited about this. Our little girls, these tiny three-year-olds who tromp off to preschool every day, have truly made some friends. We're all so new at this, and it shows. But who wouldn't be thrilled? Our girl has friends! Friends that she made herself. Friends that she looks forward to playing with every day. Friends that she talks about. Friends that talk about her! Although it's a little much, I start singing Pat Benatar's "We Belong" in my head.

We have a genuinely nice chat with these people until it's time to head for home. We pack up our fruit salad, say goodbye and make our way out of the school. I feel a little like one of the cool kids. It takes being an adult and having a preschooler for me to finally feel like one of the cool kids. It's a little weird, but I'll take it.

I squeeze my wife's hand as we wind through the cold neighborhood to our street-parked car. "That sure was fun!"

"I know."

We belong, we belong to the light, we belong to the thunder...

"Everyone was so nice!"

"They really were!"

We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under...

"How wonderful to meet those girls' parents!"

"It was really great!"

We pile into our car - our station wagon, of course - and we settle in. I put the key in the ignition and turn to my wife. We both smile. It's all good. It's all great.

Whatever we deny or embrace, for worse or for better
We belong, we belong, we belong together

I turn the key, and the headlights pop on, illuminating the parked car in front of us. Um. The bouncing parked car in front of us. The parked car with, I kid you not, a steamed up back window. My wife and I stare. The car bounces, rather ferociously. Up and down, and, frankly, a little side-to-side. Despite the steam, we can just make out the back of a guy's head, sort of pressed against the back windshield. He's balding a little, but, needless to say, still seems to be able to get it on.

We pull out and drive off, my mental jukebox transitioning smoothly to "Love is a Battlefield."

Insomnia tips

2006-09-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

When you have insomnia:

1. Do not decide that the Benadryl gelcap you are about to ingest would get to work faster if you bit into it and sucked the medicine out. The fact is, a) it tastes a little bit like the bottom of a shoe worn in a nuclear plant, and, more importantly, b) it will make your tongue, lower lip, and throat go completely numb, which of course will sort of freak you out and completely eliminate any drowsy effects you were so desperately hoping to achieve.

2. Do not, with your numb and possibly swelling throat and mouth, then go downstairs and casually flip on the film, Open Water. This will help no one, especially not you. The sharks will be scary, the people sad. Your eyes will be wider than ever as you shuffle back upstairs thinking of things like death-by-ocean.

Just don't do those things. You idiot.

Ray gun

2006-09-20T07:19:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you just a little about Rachael Ray. She has shows on the Food Network, including 30-Minute Meals and $40 a Day. She was born in Massachusetts. She has a dog named Isaboo. She uses her own made-up phrases for normal things, like yum-o-sammies for sandwiches.

She is a huge fucking mouth with legs.

So, I don't like Rachael Ray. Big deal. I find her fakoid, out-of-control, ridiculous cheeriness about as comforting as dumping one of her hot stoups (her phrase for stew-like soup) in my naked lap. I find her broad, shiny smile to be as pleasant to look at as The Donald's hair. But mostly, it's that voice. That high-pitched, energy-infused, happy, happy, happy voice. The way she ooohs and ahhs over the $5 salad she gets in Cancun, or the way she gushes over the bartender at a Boston pub. I cannot stand her.

And, conceptually, I think her shows are not so bad. A program about affordable eating and one about quick prep home cooking are both extremely accessible and rather handy. But why does it have to be her speaking during them? I'd take fifty hours of "BAM!" before I'd make it through a single episode of a Ray show. Unless she didn't have to talk. At all. Ever.

So, imagine my great horror when I saw the sign plastered to the back of the bus I was driving behind, taking my daughter to school.

The Rachael Ray Show.

No. No, no, no. How can this be? A TALK SHOW??? A show in which the ONLY thing she has to do is what I hate the most about her??? How the hell can this be? How can the people out there, presumably the same people who bring us respectable television like The View or Tyra or, or... oh, dear.

We have a personality problem, America. And, while our nation's personality could in fact use an overhaul, that is not what I mean. I mean, we have an issue with this brand of people, personalities, who do nothing. They are just there. Smiling. Taking up my time. Now, there are the obvious examples that have been discussed and blogged about to no end like Paris and Lindsay and Nicole and so on. But, we've always had people like that. And, usually, they try to make in some sort of legit way (see: Paris' new album). So be it. We're all used to it.

What I am really dismayed by are the number of people going in the opposite direction. People with actual careers who are tossing them away in exchange for personality status. Donald Trump? Formerly a weirdo rich real estate tycoon. Now? A guy who yells "you're fired" on national television. Barbara Walters? Formerly a top journalist. Now? Jesus, I don't even know what to call her. A woman with a view?

And now Rachael Ray. Formerly a hyper-annoying little person with, at least, a couple of substantive, though unbearable, programs. Now? She's leaving the substance in the dust, and is just a hyper-annoying little person. I can't take it.

Thank god for Project Runway. A little dose of grounded normalcy in this otherwise insane world.

Sweep the leg

2006-09-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

Sound Opinions is a fabulous show on Chicago Public Radio that pairs the music critics from the Sun-Times and the Tribune in an hour-long program that weaves reviews and commentaries with guest performers and interviews. I often listen to it on Saturday nights as I drive out to Berwyn, IL to practice music with my partner in crime, Mark.

This week's episode was special. The entire hour was devoted to guilty pleasures in music. Listeners called in throughout the show, pleading guilty to such groups as Creed and Grand Funk Railroad. Even the two fearless hosts got into the act, naming a Sonny and Cher tune and, yes, Hillary Duff as their guilt-filled pleasures.

It got me thinking about my musical guilty pleasures. There are plenty. Here are a few:

1. Nena. Not just "99 Luftbalons," the song - I'm talking the whole fucking album. It's GREAT. You know, in that terrible way.

2. "You're the Best," by Joe Esposito. You know, the tournament scene from The Karate Kid? ("Put 'em in a body bag, Johnny!") Priceless.

3. Deep Blue Something. These guys had a single hit with "Breakfast at Tiffany's," but the whole album Home is filled with terribly great bubble-gum folk crap. It's to be adored.

4. "Les Miserables." Damn it, I just can't help it. To this day, I'll jump to it on my iPod, scared that someone on the train might notice. Oh, Jean Valjean, why must you torture me?!?

Okay, readers, now it's your turn. I hearby require everyone who reads this post to chime in with their own guilty pleasures. Don't be shy. Admitting you have a problem is half the battle. Have at it!

Moose

2006-09-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

My daughter starts preschool next week. She's ready, she'll have fun, it'll be the source of huge growth for her, and we're a mess. You'd think she was heading off to boarding school in Prague. But she's not. She's going to a Montessori school 20 blocks away.

Yesterday, we attended a little play group at a nearby park for new kids entering her specific classroom. It was set up as a way for us to meet other parents and for our daughter to make some friends prior to the first day. Neither of these things really happened, but so be it.

We did meet one mother and her son, Evan. Evan is a cutie-pie and seemed genuinely interested in our girl and getting to meet her. His mother, however, decided the best thing to talk to us about was Moose.

Moose, it seems, is a kid in this class (a slightly older kid, like hers, who is a returning student) who has a normal, real name. His name is Robbie. But, she informed us, he goes by Moose. Everyone calls him Moose. It is unclear 1. why this is so and 2. why she has decided that this is the most important information she can give us.

HER: Tell them about Moose, honey.

EVAN: There's a kid in our class. His name is Moose.

HER: And tell them what you do with Moose on the playground.

EVAN: Oh. Moose chases us around. His name is Moose.

HER: Honey, don't all the kids chase him? Doesn't it go back and forth?

EVAN: No. We're all scared of Moose. He chases us. His name is Robbie, but he's Moose.

HER: Oh.

EVAN: (pointing) I think I see him!

HER: Really? Where? I don't see him.

ME: It's been nice meeting you.

A few minutes later, my wife and daughter skipped off into the grass to examine a tree and the mud surrounding it, while I stayed on the little retaining wall with our one-year-old son. I was making my usual faces at him, when a larger child jumped on my back, piggy-back style. I think he was trying to walk along the top of the wall I was sitting on and was mostly attempting to get around me. The result is that he was now on my back.

I cocked my head back to see who it was. There was this tallish kid, maybe 4 years old, wearing a vivid orange t-shirt and cut-off jeans, with wild dark, curly hair and a huge grin. I asked him his name, as if I didn't already know.

HIM: Robbie.

ME: Robbie. Hi, Robbie. Or is it... Moose???

HIM: (as he continued along the wall) Hehehehe.

I turned back to my wife and waved my arms to get her attention. She looked up and I signed the letters M-O-O-S-E, and then pointed at... hey, where did he go? Say, huh? He was gone. I mean, GONE. He was nowhere.

We packed up our stuff and our kids and left the park for lunch. As we left, I imagined Moose leaving for lunch. I imagined him getting into the driver's seat of his SUV and taking himself to the nearest Arby's.

What does he signify, really? Is he the sum of all of our preschool fears: the rogue student making all of our perfect, innnocent children feel uneasy and tiny? Or, on the contrary, does he represent everything this experince should be for our child: freedom, courage and wild abandon? I consider, but do not conclude as I strap my girl securely into her carseat.

Mmmmm, Arby's.

Don't forget to wash your hands

2006-08-25T22:07:00.000-07:00

The Stinking Rose is a great Italian restaurant in the heart of San Francisco’s Little Italy. I walk up the hill with my two California co-workers, skirting the more-famous Chinatown, with its hoards of out-of-towners, group tours, and ugly products of questionable origin and poor quality. We walk past a couple of adult entertainment establishments and finally find ourselves at the front door to our destination. The smell of garlic is overpowering. It is provocative.

We sit in a small booth with warm lighting and thick burgundy curtains. It’s cozy, and we’re starving. We order wine. We order bread. We order, I shit you not, a full pan of roasted garlic. It’s good stuff, but it makes you thirsty. So, I drink some wine, but mostly water. Lots and lots of water. Good times.

We eat our entrees, engaging in easy conversation (spinal taps, cysts and cow hormones among the topics), and we are generally having fun. But, see, my bladder is less pleased. My bladder was getting full just thinking about dinner on our walk past the Hustler Room. And now I’ve added two glasses of wine and three of water. My bladder’s security color has gone up to orange. It’s time to excuse myself.

On my steady walk to the restroom, which I proudly find on my own, I think about my bladder and how our relationship has taken a turn for the worse over the past few years. It interrupts my nights now, my movies, my meals. Fuck you, bladder. So, now I'm pissed, but at least I have arrived. I pass a man who is studying the vintage photographs on the wall outside the men’s room, nod my hello, and push open the door.

You need to understand that things like this happen very quickly. You don’t always have time to put the pieces together. And, even if you do, you rarely do so in the right order.

So, here I am, in a very small men’s room that has a urinal and a toilet right next to each other with no kind of stall or divider whatsoever. I’ve been in these bathrooms before, and have always wondered if they’re meant to be single-user facilities or not. Of course they are. Right? I mean, the toilet is just sitting there, in the open. Does the ladies' version have two toilets? Doubtful. This has a urinal just to give a guy a choice. Right? I look back at the door and see immediately that it has a little latch lock on it – something that shared bathrooms, of course, never have. So, my suspicions are confirmed. Single-user restroom.

And, the key detail that I’ve left out is this: this particular single-user restroom already has its single user. A huge man, who did not lock the fucking door, is taking a Niagara piss. Right there. Right there, not two feet away. And, as I stand there, wondering what my next move is, I remember the other guy. The guy in the hallway, who is most likely wondering why I have: 1. cut in line and 2. gone into a single-user bathroom with Mr. Jabba T. Hutt.

I really don’t know what to do. Can I just walk up to the toilet and do a home-style urination six inches away from this guy? Do I leave? Do I pee in the sink? I decide to bide time by washing my hands, hoping that he’ll finish up and we can basically switch positions with minimal awkwardness. We’re back-to-back as I turn on the faucet, but I can tell that he hasn’t moved, hasn’t turned to see what idiot has entered his occupied WC. His urine is so loud, I doubt he can even hear the sink. I finish washing up, and the guy is still peeing. It sounds like he’s nowhere close to finishing. He sort of groans. Now what?

I decide I’ll just quietly step outside until he's done. I don’t think he even noticed me to begin with. I opt to not dry my hands, as that will only make more noise, and I slip out. And, of course, there's the other guy. Shit, I forgot about him. He's standing about a foot from the bathroom door, still staring at the photos. Great. Do I just stand there, with my dripping hands, and wait with him for Mr. Hutt to emerge? What kind of message does that send? I mean, if you're the photo guy, and you are in fact waiting to use the bathroom, are you suddenly fearful to go in there? Do you think I'll follow you and moisten my hands again??? Not to mention, waiting to meet Jabba face-to-face is a daunting idea in and of itself.

This is terrible. I hate this so much. So I flee. I take my bladder and flee.

I return uncomfortably to the table and pretend to drink more water as I cross my legs. I wait for the check, pay the bill, say my goodnights, and run back to my hotel like a little girl chasing down AC Slater.

Geometry

2006-07-20T20:55:00.000-07:00

My grandmother has a new friend at her retirement community: one Mrs. Fultcher.

Mrs. Fultcher was our high school geometry teacher. Fultcher the Vulture. Couldn't hear a thing - but she had eyes like a fucking hawk. She was tall with tremendous posture and a light, airy voice. I can only imagine that both have deteriorated since then.

When I started high school, I was a little nervous and, well, fearful. This had everything to do with the fact that I was barely 4'10". I was tiny. A tiny little guy, who did theatre and magic, stuck in a world of post-pubescent, sporty teens just waiting, I assumed, to shove me into a locker, or worse.

Fifth period was Geometry, and the first day had been going rather well so far. I was beginning to relax. Mrs. Fultcher began the first class, made up mostly of the largest sophomores I had ever seen, by introducing everyone. I happened to be sitting in the very far left front row desk. The worst spot, strategically, for just about anything.

It also meant that I was last. After she said everyone's name, she said mine. She pronounced my last name correctly, which meant that she remembered my brother rather well. Then she paused, blinked rapidly, and said to the group in her sing-songy lilt, "Now, class. Allen's a magician." No, god. Please, no. "If you all don't behave, he might make you disappear!"

The looks were varied, really. A few even contained pity. Most, though, had this marvelous combination of contempt and condescension. I was dead meat.

Only, I wasn't. That horrible moment, which I will remember for an eternity, was entirely forgotten by this group of ruffians by the time we got to pi. And a good thing, too, because I got taller over the next, oh, eight years. And I even got a little bit cooler.

Still waiting for puberty, though.

Vanishing act

2006-07-20T06:56:00.000-07:00

I was on my way to the elevated train last night after work, listening to smoky KT Tunstall on my iPod, feeling generally exhausted and genuinely glad to be heading home. As I was about to cross Chicago Avenue, I see, coming down Chicago on the opposite side of the street, a woman who looked super familiar to me. She was sort of willowy, had long, light brown hair, and looked... just... like someone I knew at some point, some time, somewhere. She was wearing a vivid red top and dark jeans.

I crossed the street, unable to put my finger on who she was, but I am hopeful that, by the time our paths intersect, I will figure it out. I trot across Chicago, just as this woman crosses the street perpendicular to it and walks behind a long-abandoned newsstand. We're destined to bump into each other on the other side of this little shack on the corner. I still had not placed her. All I was sure of was that I'd seen her before.

Look, this is a true story. Everything down to what she was wearing is exactly as it was last evening. Even my obvious look of surprise upon her not emerging on the other side of that newsstand is 100% real. My quick turnaround and walk around the back of the stand to see if she changed direction actually happened. The fact that she was nowhere to be seen is undeniable and unexaggerated. Not a red shirt for blocks. She was gone.

I decided not to dwell on the mystery and climbed the lengthy flight of aged stairs to the train platform. As usual, I had to run to catch a train that was just pulling in as I reached the top, out of breath as I disappeared through its metal doors. I rode home listening to my music and watching the same familiar backsides of apartments and houses slide by.

My daughter shrieked, "Daddy!" as she raced into my arms on the sidewalk by our house. Hugging her each evening always helps bring me back to earth after a long day and usually surreal train ride home. I see my wife, beautiful but with tired eyes, holding our jolly infant son. I kiss them both, but linger on my wife for a moment. It's a silent reminder, I hope, that she and I, in our parental roles, have not disappeared entirely.

As we begin the slow amble back home, my daughter shows me how good she's gotten at balancing on the little slabs of wood that separate the trees from the sidewalk. She can even jump off of them all by herself. She crouches low and thrusts her little body straight up. She lands happily on the sidewalk three inches below.

She does this without any help. She wants to do it all by herself. That's what being three is all about - finding your identity as you finish emerging from baby-hood. Once in a while, though, she'll attempt a slightly higher wall. And, in those cases, without even glancing up, she will reach out for my hand, knowing full well that I am very much right there to take it.

Right there.

Just. Don't. Look.

2006-06-29T12:40:00.000-07:00

The elevators at the building where I work are terrible. They are without a doubt the slowest-moving transport devices I have ever been in. I could hop up the stairs on one foot faster than the elevator could take me. And I would, too, if building management would unlock the fucking stairwell doors.

But that is neither here nor there. I'm not here today to discuss our crap elevator system. I'm not here to bitch and moan about how endless every trip to and from our floor becomes. I'm not here to call our building management neglectful and inappropriately lax for doing nothing about it. I'm not here for that.

I am here to talk about Tricia.

Tricia works on an upper floor here at our building. (I have changed her name - not to protect the innocent, but rather to protect myself. And you.) On occasion I have the pleasure of riding the elevator with Tricia. As you now know, this takes a very long time. Tricia is a mad, mad woman. (The first mad as in "angry," the second mad as in "insane.") She is probably in her late thirties, ties her wild red hair back in a loose knot, and sort of has the body shape of Danny Divito as The Penguin in Batman Returns. If I had to guess, I'd say she has Batman Returns on VHS and fancies herself more the Pfeiffer-as-Catwoman type. She is wrong.

Tricia comes to work with a backpack. It's a vivid purple backpack that has wheels and an extending handle, which I find sort of odd in a standard-sized backpack. Unless it's my three-year-old's backpack - which, I should note, also happens to be shaped like a giant frog.

Anyway. Tricia's backpack always looks remarkably empty and saggy, save the two full bottles of Coke she keeps in the side mesh pockets. I have never seen her with this backpack on her actual back. Rather, she pulls it around like she's at O'Hare. Always empty. Always with two full Coke bottles at the sides. She drives me nuts.

This is all pre-conversation. So, I guess it's fair to say that any time I actually talk to her, I'm already a little on edge. Then, to make matters worse, she's always really grumpy about her work or the building or her life or something, and she feels the need to grumble about it nonstop.

That, and she stands really close to me.

So. I walk into our building this morning, and there she is. With her tiny, empty, purple, pull-along backpack-n-cola. We are waiting with a few other people from our building, mumbling about the elevators/tombs. Tricia is talking with another woman on the other side of our small lobby, and, despite still being engaged in a conversation with this other woman, she walks across the floor and stands unbelievably close to me. I'm not kidding - like three inches away. Maybe two. She's still talking to the woman but now has to yell because she's twenty feet away from her. I can feel her breath. I can hear her heartbeat. Why is she over here?? Perhaps she's trying some kind of freak-meld with me. But it won't work! I flee! Well, I shuffle over a couple of feet. It's too early for this.

About 45 minutes later our elevator arrives, and we pile in. Everyone is going to the second floor. Except my sweet friend and me. Dear, sweet Tricia. She's actually in a very good mood this morning, not at all angsty, so I'm hopeful that our journey will be without conversation or event.

On the way up, she finishes her conversation with the other woman, who looks like she would rather wait an additional half hour for the second elevator than be in this one now.

"Well, at least we're not all talking about the weather!" Tricia remarks. There is general grinning and shifting among the other passengers. "But it IS nice, isn't it!" she continues. "I mean that sunshine! It makes me want to sing!"

All of us - maybe five people - look up at the exact same time in horror, all of us thinking she just might do it. Just then, the elevator lurches. I am confident we are going to be stuck here for the day, that we might have to take serious action and kill her to save ourselves. But, no, it continues its slow crawl up the building. The lurch, however, was enough to make Tricia forget whatever nightmarish song was in her head and we silently reach the second floor.

Everyone else gets off, and I give a little pitiful wave as the doors hiss closed. We move up towards the fourth floor, and all is quiet. Too quiet.

Look, we've all been there. There are those times when you know, you KNOW, all you need to do to survive a particular situation is not look. Keep your eyes down. But, it was so quiet. And I could feel her looking at me. I knew that all she needed was a quick visual cue... and all I needed to do was NOT FUCKING LOOK. I was like Space Ghost in a death ray. I said to myself in that struggling voice, "can't... keep... eyes... down! MUST... NOT... LOOOOOOOOK...... AHHHHRRRRGHHHHHHH!!!!!" Crap.

I look up at Tricia. Just for an instant. Just for a mili-instant. I don't even crack a grin. I do nothing but adjust my eyes ever so slightly to meet hers. A nano-instant, at most.

"I'm doing musicals now!" she half-yells at me, eyes wide and glistening.

"Oh. Like plays?" I ask.

"Yes! Musical plays! With songs!"

"That's great. Good for you. That must be fun." Fucking elevator! Fucking building management!!

"Professional musicals!"

"Oh? Great."

"Yeah. You know, they sell tickets. I'm in the chorus. It's in Indiana."

"What show are you doing right now?"

"Oh. I forget the name."

I laugh a little. I mean, how could I not? "Oh, dear. Well don't let the director know!"

"Right. She wouldn't be pleased with that! I'll remember when I look at the script. I'll remember before tonight! I'm not worried!"

DING!

Ah! We're there! I move to the door. But, of course, it takes about five more seconds to actually open. Now, I'm standing right in front of it, and therefore once again about three inches from Tricia.

"Do you like musicals? Who doesn't?" she asks. God, she's so CLOSE to me.

I answer as I exit, but I haven't given the doors much of a chance to open, so I bash both arms on the way out. "Sure do, ouch, bye!" I bolt down the hall.

I shake it all off as I dig for my keys. See, I've become increasingly sensitive to people getting in my personal space over the last couple of years. I don't know if its me just getting older, or people just getting closer. It may be that I'm more protective by nature, being a parent now. In any case, I don't like it. Granted, I love it when it's my wife giving me a hug, or my daughter climbing my neck. That's the kind of space invasion I could take a lot more of. But, I don't like it when it's Tricia. I don't like it when its in an elevator. And I definitely don't like it when the topic is Indiana musicals.

I sit down at my desk, boot up my computer and massage my arms. I reach for a pen and post-it and make a note to talk to the maintenance man about getting a key to those stairwells. ASAP.

Ray III

2006-06-20T06:54:00.000-07:00

ME: Hello, this is Allen.

RAY: Allen! Ray!

ME: Hi, Ray.

RAY: Hey! Your stuff is going to the die cutter even as we speak.

ME: Great. The colors turned out okay?

RAY: Oh, yeah. You'll be really happy.

ME: Good news! Thanks, Ray!

RAY: You know, that stuff went to press last week. It was going to go to the die cutter last Friday, but there was a little issue.

ME: Oh? With the folders?

RAY: Well, I woke up Thursday morning and my cat was just lying there. Real still.

ME: Your...? You...? Say huh?

RAY: Had her for 21 years.

ME: Oh. Jeez. Um.

RAY: Her paw was twitching a little. I called the vet and took her in. She was in such bad shape. You know 21 is pretty old. Even for a cat.

ME: ...

RAY: They had some things to try. Not cheap things. But, you know, she's my cat. God, I loved that cat. So I had to try them. I mean what else can you do?

ME: She's family.

RAY: That's right. That's exactly right. Family. So, yeah, the press part went real smooth for you. The blue looks great. And that charcoal is nice and dark.

ME: Oh. Uh. Good, good!

RAY: We tried and tried but had to put her down over the weekend. Poor thing. I was a mess.

ME: No doubt. No doubt.

RAY: If they take a while at the die cutter, I'll get a small number of them over to you right away, so you don't have to wait.

ME: Oh, okay. Well, you don't need to rush. We're doing just fine.

RAY: Me, too, with the new kitten we got on Sunday. She's something else!

ME: Great! Cute! Um, that's great, Ray. It's good to move on.

RAY: Yeah. Last night, I was at my desk upstairs, and she jumped up on my shoulder just like Iris used to. The exact same way. I thought, 'oh, jeez.' Makes you wonder. Okay, I'm off to the die cutter to check in. Talk to you later.

ME: No doubt.

Ass

2006-06-15T20:53:00.000-07:00

There I am in Houston. Hanging out with Kirk. He's the SBC guy given the task of fixing our fax/DSL line, installing and setting up our new DSL service and, well, anything else we can think of. He's big, bald and big, and he is busting his ass to get this stuff working for our new branch.

He and I have entered the elevator at the lowest level (Concourse) and are taking it up to 9. Some suited guys are in there, too, and a couple of women get on a little later and continue up with us.

Here's the full script:

(Kirk and I walk into the elevator.)

ME: Man, this morning has gotten off to a rough start.

KIRK: You're telling me.

ME: Yeah. Do you see these kinds of problems with DSL lines very often?

KIRK: Not really, man. There are multiple issues going on here, and we have to tackle each one individually. Long trip ahead.

ME: (sighing) Oy. Well, um. We'll get there eventually, right?

KIRK: I suppose so. I hope so.

(pause)

(The elevator opens at 5 and the two women start to exit. One turns back to us as the doors close.)

ANGRY WOMAN: (to me) There. You happy now?

ME: Uhhhhhh...?

Just as the elevator continues up, it all makes sense. See, those two women got on at the first floor, not the lower floor with us.

Here's THEIR version of the script:

(They get on the elevator on the first floor. There are two men in suits, an SBC guy and a devastatingly handsome man.)

(They press 5.)

KIRK: ...long trip ahead.

ME: (sighing) Oy. Well, um. We'll get there eventually, right?

KIRK: I suppose so. I hope so.

They thought we meant THEM. As if their additional floor was ruining our day, not to mention our express ride to 9. I turn to the suits and say, "they thought we were talking about them, didn't they?"

The suits laugh. Their position on the elevator had clearly given them a good view of the women's faces. "Oh, YEAH," they reply.

I feel guilty. I feel terrible. I want to go back to 5 and yell, "We were talking about DSL! DSL!!!! I'm no jerk!!! Not this time!!!" But I can't. It's over. I have offended, albeit unintentionally. I feel sort of sad.

Kirk takes it all in, cracks a weathered grin, and says, "Well, ladies. That's what happens when you come in on the ass end of a conversation."

True, dat. Double true.

Shutterbug

2006-06-08T08:04:00.001-07:00

It's happened several times in the last week alone. I've been with my family somewhere (say, the park with friends, a neighbor's birthday party or an office baby shower) and I've had our camera with us. And I've been taking pictures. A lot of pictures. I have always been a pretty active picture-taker, something I genuinely believe I inherited from my father or perhaps my maternal grandfather, or perhaps just everybody.

Anyway, on each of these occasions, I have been taking a bunch of photos of my kids, friends' kids, etc., and another parent has commented on my doing so.

"Why don't you just enjoy the moment?" said one father.

"You're sort of living this gathering through the camera lens, aren't you?" asked another.

"I'm not going to spend my daughter's entire party with a camera in my hand," declared another.

Yes, I take a lot of pictures. I think getting great shots (which, ahem, I do) requires a bunch of attempts. Fortunately we live in a digital age where we can actually afford to take ten shots for every keeper.

So, to these people, I say the following three things:

1. I like it. It's one of the many ways I enjoy spending time with my family. I certainly do not take our camera every time we go out. However, when I do take it, I make it a bit of a priority so that the next time I can leave it at home.

2. For me, it is a very engaging way to be with my kids. Living a moment or two through that lens is actually wonderful. It gives me a new perspective on them. Their faces. Their bodies. Their sweet, sweet selves. I would argue that I am very much enjoying the moment. Not only am I enjoying it, but I am preserving it to the best of my ability.

3. Each of you who makes a comment, without exception, loves my photos. You thank me for them. You enjoy them profusely. You compliment my having gotten just the right shot. You love them. So shut the fuck up.

Old friends

2006-06-02T06:54:00.000-07:00

They see each other from across the train car. Old friends. Friends from high school, perhaps?

These two young women make their way towards each other, but, due to the density of people riding to work, can only manage to get within about eight feet of each other. They greet one another loudly and with wild abandon. The larger one speaks a little more softly and concisely, the smaller one not so much. She is shrill. She is what most would label "a talker." We hate her.

The larger woman, it seems, has gotten a new job at an architectural firm, which she likes very much. The smaller woman has been at the same advertising place for five years, and can you believe that she started there at only 30K? Can you believe that it took five years to get to 64? This city, she notes for us all, is a tough city to live in, financially speaking. How could she live on 30K, when 64K is hard as it is? Her friend, the larger woman, just sort of stares back at her. She is a little embarrassed. We all are.

The smaller woman asks her friend about her job. She asks if she makes enough. The larger woman nods ever so slightly. The smaller woman is now curious about her friend's job. What is the company again? What is their story? Where are they located? It turns out the main office is in Boston. This is big news for the smaller woman. See, her boyfriend is originally from Boston.

The larger woman perks up a bit, now. She knows Boston rather well. She wants to know where her little spaz of a friend's boyfriend is from. Where in Boston, specifically?

This gives the smaller woman pause. She's not entirely sure. She is the kind of person who hates to be unsure. So, she makes up for it in volume. She kind of yells to the larger woman, and to the train car in general, that her boyfriend is from the part of Boston where all the Jewish people live. Does she know where that is? The larger woman is now having increased problems. She breaks a sweat. She turns sort of apple colored. She hates this even more than we do. The smaller woman, having gotten little response, pushes the matter. Of course she pushes! It's what she does! It's who she is! You know, the Jewish people? Isn't there an area where they live?

The train is like a black hole of sound. Nothing can escape, it just gets pulled deep down into nothingness, and all we're left with is this small woman yelling about Boston Jews.

The train lurches to a stop. The smaller woman gets off the train to switch to a different line. The larger woman experiences relief like nothing else. We all smile at her knowingly. It's not her fault. She shouldn't feel bad. She should just feel terrible, like us.

Ray II

2006-05-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

I am not making this up.

ME: This is Allen.

RAY: Allen. Ray!

ME: Hey, Ray. How's it going?

RAY: Good, good. I got your stuff. We'll have the next round of proofs for you later this week.

ME: Great. Thanks, Ray. Hey, how was your trip last week?

RAY: Oh, it was miserable. MISERABLE.

ME: Oh, dear. I'm sorry to hear that.

RAY: Who goes eight hours south of Chicago in May for weather in the upper 40s?

ME: Um. You?

RAY: Yeah, it was the pits. MISERABLE.

ME: Boy, Ray. It sounds like you had a terrible time, I'm-

RAY: Oh. Don't get me wrong. We had fun! I mean, we had a blast!

ME: Oh. Um.

RAY: These guys, these are the kind of guys you have fun with whatever the situation. It's in their blood.

ME: Oh, good. Good. Well, then, it sounds like you had a good week!

RAY: Oh, yeah, it was great!

ME: Ooop, there's my other line. Talk to you soon.

Shaking it off

2006-05-16T06:55:00.000-07:00

Riding the train this morning at rush hour, I spot a woman as she enters the car. Nothing really out of the ordinary about her. She's well dressed in a dark gray suit and light pink raincoat; she has really great hair, a small nose ring and a slightly weathered leather bag. Not to be stereotypical or anything, but she strikes me as an art major turned not-for-profit-intern turned corporate powerhouse. Just a hunch.

Anyway, what's striking about her is not what she's wearing, but the fact that she is visibly upset. Not weeping openly, but teary and emotional. She focuses her eyes on nothing, sort of down and to the right, in the way that lets you know her brain is going a mile a minute. She is not happy.

But, and here's the real thing, she's working through it. She is clearly working her way through this issue. I can tell by the way she is breathing that a conversation of some kind is running through her mind. She cocks her head just slightly to the side in reaction to something she's reliving. Then she blinks a few times and moves it to the other side. Her breathing slows. Her eyes are drying. She's making this happen. Whatever her problem is, be it her boyfriend, husband, goldfish or simply the fact that Daughtry was totally robbed on Idol last week, she is kneading it out, examining the angles, and making herself feel better. It's impressive, really.

She cracks a half smile, visibly shakes it all off, reaches into her bag and pulls out her book, which just happens to be Devil in the White City, Chicago's favorite little piece of nonfiction. She's done it. She can face her day now with a clearer head. It's inspirational, really, watching this person bring herself to a better place. That takes effort. That takes stamina.

I can't help but smile myself as I shift my focus to the window. Could I do that if I had to? Could I manage to wrangle my emotions and get myself on track in such a public place? I notice a large brown bird flying rather close to the train, matching our speed exactly. Just as I begin to ponder the relevance of this bird, of this woman, of everything, it takes a huge mid-flight crap. A huge, spherical ball of goop just drops out of its little bird ass. I have never seen anything like this. I guess I never really imagined birds could do it that way, en route somewhere. How economical! How marvelous!

It's going to be a good day.

Cathy the Nurse

2006-04-29T20:15:00.000-07:00

I was in the hospital for a day and a night last week, which is itself not worth getting into here other than to say that spinal tap headaches are evil and are preventing me from sitting or standing for more than three minutes at a time. Anyway, I'm lying here, flat on my back with this laptop, for one reason: to give you advice. And the advice is this: beware of Cathy the Nurse.

Cathy the Nurse is friendly but creepy. She's an older midwestern woman who will remind you of Kathy Bates' character in Misery. Only weirder. She will awkwardly praise your doctors for having made the brilliant decision to perform your spinal tap, even though it is standard procedure. She will sing their praises.

Cathy the Nurse will, when she can't quite reach the digital thermometer, grab your wastebasket and upend it. She will begin to climb its unstable, plastic upside-down self until you, in your pathetic patient gown, insist that perhaps she should find someone taller to reach it and that climbing a plastic trash can six inches from your aching head is unwise. Thankfully, she will listen to you.

Cathy the Nurse will not like the looks of your IV spot. She will insist that it looks red and irritated. She will sort of smack your arm and ask you if it hurts, which it will because she hit you right where the needle is going in. You will be stupid and foolish and say, "well, actually, Cathy the Nurse, that did in fact hurt a bit." She will be thrilled. She will find a new spot for the IV. She will put it in your wrist. She will compliment you on the size of your veins right in front of your wife, which, let's face it, is sort of weird for everyone.

Then, then, then, Cathy the Nurse will begin the IV repositioning. She means well. She means to help. She wants to do well. She is nuts.

Cathy the Nurse will rip the old tape off with great flourishes. She will deceive you into thinking she knows what she's doing by removing the old IV swiftly, neatly and with little pain. She will put a band-aid on it. So far so good.

Cathy the Nurse will then make the new vein in your wrist stand up and salute by putting a blood pressure cuff on your forearm and setting it for "tenderize." The vein will stick out about 4 inches, which she'll compliment. More awkwardness will ensue. Then she'll ready her equipment. There will be lots of little wrapped things all over your lap, which will become her, um, work table.

Cathy the Nurse, before puncturing your wrist, will then do this strange move by which she removes just the index fingertips of her latex gloves. Perhaps so she can get a better grip. Perhaps because she likes to feel the blood on her skin. Ah, but I get ahead of myself.

Cathy the Nurse will then insert the needle, but only after saying about twenty times that it's made of plastic not steel. Great. You will look away, like you always do, you puss, and she'll do it. But she'll do it REALLY SLOWLY and it will hurt like fuck. Much more than an IV going in has EVER hurt, and certainly much more than the old one was bothering you, even after she swatted at it. But, finally, she will finish. The pain will subside. You will breathe.

But, then will come the best part of all. This will be the part where Cathy the Nurse teaches you that there is indeed such a thing as "spilling blood." See, Cathy the Nurse will have put in the IV needle only, with no tubing directly attached. What this will mean is that she now has to take off the little cap and put on the tube with her big, slow, midwestern, fumbling hands. "This might bleed a little, but don't worry," she'll say to you. This will actually make you chuckle, because well before she finishes the first two words of that sentence, blood will in fact start spilling from open end of the IV. Spilling. Spilling down your hand, spilling onto your blanket, spilling onto her work table. It will move fast and remind you that blood has this thing of WANTING to come out of you if you let it.

Cathy the Nurse will then act fast, which will be clumsy and slow. She will finally, finally, Jesus, FINALLY get the tube on. She will apply tape. Okay, NOW you can breathe. Almost.

Cathy the Nurse will now have to clean up the blood, which she'll decide she cannot do properly with all of that blasted tape. She will untape her first round of tape, which will hurt like it always does, and swab your arm and hand with no fewer than 800 alcohol pads. Every time she wipes your arm, she knocks the needle, which is no longer taped down. This will take perhaps the remainder of the evening. When she is satisfied with the cleanliness of your arm, she will retape. She will mean business. She will use lots and lots and lots of tape of various sizes. She will paper mache your arm. She will make you hope to god you don't get released the next day for fear of all that tape having to come off.

Which of course you will. And the other nurse, the new nurse on day two, will shake his head as he rips off piece after piece after piece after piece.

Ray

2006-04-26T10:26:00.000-07:00

Ray is a vendor of ours. He's the guy who does the professional printing for my company (marketing materials, business cards, etc.) This is a near-verbatim exchange he and I had today over the phone:

ME: Hey, Ray. I got the proofs and they look good. I have a couple of questions about the colors, though.

RAY: Well, we were unclear what text should be gray and what should be black.

ME: Right. Should I just mark the proof and get it back to you, then?

RAY: You bet.

ME: Yeah, everything else looks right. I'll give it a closer look this afternoon and get back to you.

RAY: Sounds good.

ME: Thanks, Ray. I'll talk to you soon, then.

RAY: Sure thing. Man, did I have a bad kidney stone this weekend.

ME: Oh. Uhhh..

RAY: Not as bad as last year's, but I woke up, and there was the blood.

ME: Ray, you poor guy. Sorry to hear that. Um.

RAY: Yeah. I says to my wife, I says, "Here we go again."

ME: Oh. Wow. Um.

RAY: I says, "Hon, just bring me some fresh sweat pants and let me lie here."

ME: ...

RAY: Yeah. Well, here I am. Old self again! Talk to you soon!

(Ray hangs up.)

Landing

2006-04-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

There is this huge flight of stairs that leads up to my L train stop by our house. I take these steps up to the platform at 8:14am, give or take six minutes, five times a week. It's what I do.

The steps are wooden, and their surface has been worn smooth by too-many-years-to count of use. They are basically outside, though under the station roof for the most part. The steel frame that holds them is also fairly smooth and, no doubt, equally old.

On occasion, when there are massive train delays, the platform above is so packed with commuters that I have to wait midway up the stairs as trains go by. This is rare, though, and only happens once every couple of months. Most days it's smooth sailing up the flight to the platform, and I'm able to get on the first train that comes by. (Side note: when my brother visited Chicago for the first time after we moved here, he was struck, figuratively, by how narrow most of the L platforms are. Totally freaked him out.)

Anyway, this flight of stairs has a landing midway up. The stairs do not turn 90 degrees or anything. There's just a huge square step halfway up. I have no idea why it's there, what purpose it is serving. But, every morning, without fail, I sort of pause on this landing. It's not really by choice, and it's hard to precisely describe what it feels like. It's almost like I'm dizzy and need a moment to regain my balance - only it's not that. I'm in no way about to fall. It's like I take this moment to give myself the push to finish the flight. Not because I'm tired, not because it's that hard to climb this flight of stairs. Nope, it's not that, either.

In fact, I'm not exactly sure why I do it. Do I need to push myself into my day a little? Give myself a moment of silent encouragement to go into work and, well, work? Or is it just my body saying, "hey, no rush, man." Is it that I can faintly smell the kitchen starting up at the nearby Italian restaurant, and my subconscious wants a good whiff?

I may never know. But it happens every day, without fail. It lasts perhaps one second, maybe less. And it is what it is, I suppose.

But, I guess the biggest question of all is: if that landing weren't there, would I still pause? If not, then is THAT why the landing was put there to begin with?

Does anyone even care?

2006-04-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

Does anyone care that the word "blog" is not in the blogger built-in spell check? Where has the caring gone??

Eviction

2006-04-01T20:19:00.000-08:00

Look, I don't want this blog to become a series of movie reviews, either. So, let this be the last for a long, long time. Without further ado, I give you:

Eight Questions and Answers about the Film, Rent (aka "The Movie that Makes You Doubt Ever Having Loved the Show"):

1. Is it true that the material, as well as the actors, is incredibly dated, just like all of the critics warned? YES.

2. Is being reminded that the film takes place during the winter by having to see people's carefully-lit breath every fucking time they sing really, really, really annoying? YES.

3. Is all of the sung dialogue that the filmmakers decided to simply turn into spoken words (rhymes intact!) just horribly awkward and deeply disappointing? YES.

4. Is it possible that Rosario Dawson and Wilson Jermaine Heredia are actually the same person? ABSOLUTELY.

5. When solid actor Anthony Rapp responds to the added "commitment" scene between Joanne and Maurine with the straightforward line, "I can't believe this is happening," is he speaking right through the television, directly to me? YES.

6. Does Mimi die? NO.

7. Does she come back to life with a laughable close-up finger twitch? YOU BET.

8. Is Adam Pascal, who plays one of the few straight characters in the film, just incredibly, incredibly, incredibly gay? YES, SIR.

The lessons of cross-country air travel in four chapters

2006-03-22T17:39:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 1: BEWARE OF WILLIE

Look. Wet willies are not appealing. Not in any way. Not even if the 400 pound woman sitting right in front of you spends the entire first thirty minutes of the flight trying to give one to her travel companion across the aisle. It is not charming to watch her try to fake him out by pointing at the United safety video for the fourth time. It is not funny when she arm wrestles the bloke, trying with all of her might to wedge her dripping finger into his ear, or nose, or anything she can reach. Nope. It's not funny. It's not charming. It just sucks.

CHAPTER TWO: PRIME BEEF

The movie Prime is horrible. Especially at 36,000 feet. It's like watching a two hour AUDITION for a movie, only less polished and more awkward. I can't imagine a less inspired film. I mean, aren't you sort of supposed to want the lead characters to be together? Aren't we, the audience, supposed to long for that? I have never wanted the main couple in a film to be together any LESS than in this one. I treasure the screen time they are apart.

The complete lack of chemistry, of character, of depth, of... anything, is astonishing. There are zero character specifics to hold onto, and the energy couldn't be any flatter. I imagine Uma and what's-his-name deciding to simply play the hand-drawn people they saw in their costume renderings. It's like a poor SNL sketch idea turned sappier and lengthier and shittier. The writing is thin, the performances transparent and the direction non-existent. Shame on you, Meryl. Shame. On. You.

CHAPTER 3: SOMETIMES FAST IS FAST

I always get just a little nervous right at takeoff every time I fly. Deep down, I know everything is just fine, but something deep within me always stirs as the plane tips up and leaves the ground. Like there is an instant of doubting the whole technology of flying. Like it doesn't really work, and we're going to realize it right now (picture Wyle E. Coyote falling only after he looks down).

Anyway, on this particular flight back from San Francisco, the nervousness comes at the end. As we are coming in for our landing, we seem to be going really fast. Really fast. I know, I know. It's just a perception thing, right? Right? Well, I try to tell myself that, but I don't have the time. Before I can finish my internal monologue, the plane smacks down on the runway with such force that it hurts. It makes a huge bang, and everyone in the plane jumps. We skid a bit and then settle into the usual slow-down. But, come on! What was THAT? Did the pilot look away and not realize we were that close to the ground? Or did the "flying technology" simply give out with a hundred feet to go, causing us too drop like a sack of dead people? Whatever the reason, it is unfun and makes everyone grumpy. Really grumpy. Which brings me to

CHAPTER 4: FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT

We're at the gate. Everyone has risen for that awkward ten minutes when you think you're about to deplane but don't. People are calling loved ones and coworkers and voicemails. Folks are chatting with one another, hunched under the overhead bins, thinking that if they try to stand they will be that much closer to exiting the plane.

My phone rings. It's my good friend D, who is coming to visit the following night. He's calling to arrange our meet-up at the airport. I know I'm on a crowded plane, but feel like it's an important conversation to have. So, I keep my voice low and the discussion concise.

At the end of our conversation, I make a comment about how much our daughter has grown since D last saw her. A woman a few people away smiles upon hearing this as she and I make eye contact. This makes me think two things: 1. she must be a parent, because all parents like to hear about kids and 2. I'm speaking too loudly. Feeling a little embarrassed, I quickly wrap up with D. And I do so in a such a way that makes light of the situation and also acknowledges the fact that I know I've been talking loudly enough to be heard by the others on the plane. An indirect apology of sorts. So, I say, "Okay, man, well I better go. I'm afraid that all of the kind people on this plane are being forced to listen to this conversation."

Without missing a beat, a slightly older and fairly gruff man directly behind me says, in a loud aggressive tone, "Yeah, ALL of us."

I'm in just the right mood for this. And I don't have to give it a second thought. I say, louder than ever, "Ok, D, I better hang up now because I'm about to start a fight." I barely hear D saying, "uhhhhhhh..." as I hang up and turn to face my enemy. A few people on the plane giggle. I feel like we're being watched by thousands.

"Is there a problem?" I ask. This guy won't look at me. He, who made a very rude and pointed comment, now won't even look me in the eye.

He says nothing.

"We all heard YOUR call, " I continue. This is true, by the way. He had just made a call a few moments before.

He says nothing.

"Look, do you have a problem with me?" I ask again (rather pleasantly, I should add - smiles and all). "Because if we need to work something out, I'm more than happy to."

He sort of weakly shakes his head. I think he maybe mutters, "no," but I'm not sure. Okay. That's that. As I turn back around, I catch the eye of that first woman who smiled at me before. She's smiling bigger now, giving me a thumbs-up with her eyes.

I have won.

EPILOGUE: REFLECTIONS

1. The woman who was giving the wet willies was huge. I just want to put that out there because I think it makes the tale that much more vivid. She was wedged between the arm rests extremely tightly, and perhaps was not even touching the seat itself.

2. Seriously, Prime is offensive.

3. I don't usually behave the way I did with the phone guy. More often than not, I just shut my mouth and grumble about it later. In this case, I spoke. But, my tone was genuinely polite and positive as I talked to this man (that is, as I beat him into submission with my carefully chosen words).

4. Saying "I have to go because I'm about to start a fight," felt grand. Really grand.

Technology

2006-03-10T06:52:00.000-08:00

Apple iBook G4: $1200

Apple iSight webcam: $150

High-speed internet: $40

Plane ticket from Virginia to Chicago: $200

Cab ride from O'Hare: $40

Showing your mother-in-law how video chatting works by calling your brother, only to find that he's sitting at his computer without any clothes on: priceless.

Broken

2006-03-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

Our company has an annual party at our office. We invite about 500 of our nearest and dearest clients, get about 80 or 90 "yes" RSVPs, and end up with about 50 or so people to party down with. It's fun. We rearrange the furniture. We get Mexican food catered in. We rent a frozen margarita machine. We all eat and drink and smile.

My job, four years running, has been to bartend. It's a good job for me, as I really don't know that many clients (being in a non-sales position at the company), and it gives me something to do. Plus, I really like making frozen margaritas. Regular and strawberry, strong and weak, salt and no salt. You get the idea.

My point is this: I am old. I am old and broken. I can't even co-host a four hour open house party without feeling like I might die on the way home. About two-thirds of the way in, my legs begin to feel as though they have been beaten with a baseball bat, my lower back about the same. Not to mention the, um, chaffing that sets in after several hours of running around getting drinks for people. During the cleanup process, I begin to silently cry.

Then, as I'm filling up trash bag number eight, B looks over to me and declares, "You have a gray hair." Imagine my surprise.

So, a couple of hours later, I'm trudging through our neighborhood looking for infant cough medicine. My walk has gone from its cheerful, bouncy gait to this pitched-forward, half-limping sort of meandering, and I think, "Can this be it? Does my body just keep going downhill from here?"

Maybe I just need to do more of this. Or this. Or this.

Or, maybe, just a lot more of this.

Have a blessed day

2006-03-01T06:40:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, B and I were walking to get our usual afternoon caffeine vehicles (less so now, as B has once again sworn off the stuff - third time in four years), and at the corner of our block we came across a hole in the sidewalk.

It's important to me that you understand what I mean by "hole" in this particular case. It's an irregular, somewhat elongated, shape - sort of like Lake Michigan. It's maybe two feet long and under a foot wide. It looks a little like a Bigfoot footprint. (Hmmmmm.) Most importantly, and please believe me when I tell you this (B will back me up here): the hole is without a bottom. It is deep, deep black and, as one peers inside, clearly has no sides or bottom anywhere even remotely close to the opening. If you listen very closely, you can hear what can only be described as the slow, calm breathing of a huge demon.

This is scary to me for the following reasons:

1. I don't like demons that breathe.
2. I don't like bottomless holes.
3. This particular bottomless hole is on the block where I work, only two feet from the nearest El train support beam, and only a few yards from the sweet, high-voiced homeless guy who sits at the corner every day with his Toy Story figurines and milk crate wishing people to have a blessed day as they hurry by.

Well, who knew that the City of Chicago would snap into action??? That's exactly what they did. Although I was not present, I can only imagine the thoughtful, perhaps even philosophical, discussion that the sidewalk technicians must have had. They had to assess the damage, assess the demon, and, you know, generally come up with a good way to fix our fucking sidewalk before we all get sucked into this sinkhole of doom. I'm sure the planning must have taken a great many man hours. Tax dollars. Brain power.

So much so, that when they finally slapped that piece of plywood down over the hole and screwed it into the cement with tiny screws, it must have been super rewarding. Maybe they had a ribbon cutting. They do good work, the City, and even took the care to bevel the plywood. They beveled the plywood. They beveled the plywood.

At least this flimsy piece of wood prevents us all from hearing the demon laughing at us.

Artificial intelligence

2006-02-17T08:08:00.000-08:00

Boy, technology sure is something these days. Every time I think we've taken AI as far as it can go, I am proved wrong. For example, my mother emailed me this website that plays 20 questions with you. You think of something, and it then asks you questions to deduce what you're thinking of. Nifty, right? Formerly a game for humans to play together, it's now yet another example of computers becoming smarter, faster and better than us!

So, A and I thought of "magnolia flower" as our item. We felt it was just specific enough to give the smart computer a run for its money. Boy, were we wrong! Boy, was it SMART!

It asked us its questions (Is it edible? Does it grow? Is it crunchy?). We supplied our answers (No. Yes. No.). After 19 questions it seemed poised to spout out the answer and amaze us in the comfort of our own dining room. We held our breaths and clicked our mouse...

"I am guessing that it is URINE."

Needless to say, we were not disappointed!

The day after

2006-02-15T06:37:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to our neighborhood Jewel (for those out-of-towners, insert Kroger, Food Lion or Piggly-Wiggly here) to pick up a few items. At the checkout line, I found myself behind a guy about my age looking fairly stressed out. He was buying only two things: an unimpressive-looking box of Russell Stover Assorted Cremes and a card that read "To my Wife on Valentine's Day."

As I am observing this guy collect his goods, a man one register over starts loudly asking the advice of the his cashier. "Do you think I should switch out for the chocolates? Those chocolates? Maybe so, right? Right? Maybe so. Flowers are too cliche. Switch them out, make the switch, yeah."

I turn back to my cashier to engage in my transaction (which includes Horizon milk, Tropicana OJ and bread) only to see him pointing rather aggressively at a clipped ad that has been taped to the side of his register. "You like candy to buy candy on sale Valentine Day, sir?" I shake my head.

And then I see it. The ad is hanging above a stack of boxed chocolates. Heart-shaped boxes of cheap chocolate. I look back to the other register where the guy was deciding what to buy and that register has an identical tower. They all do. All fourteen registers have stacks of chocolate boxes, waiting. Waiting to guilt the next poor sap into making the candy purchase of his life.

Look, Valentine's Day sucks. It's a ridiculous holiday dressed up as a feel-good event, but really just makes each and every one of us feel shitty. Naturally, there are the people who do not have a significant other, and we all know that Valentine's Day stinks for them. But what about the rest of us? Those of us with girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands and wives? Those of us who, because of a label on a calendar, treat our loved ones to special gifts and attention?

I mean, do people actually think that getting a partner something "romantic" on February 14th is even in the same ballpark of thoughtfulness as getting the exact same thing for the exact same person on ANY OTHER DAY? Of course it's not. It's not even close. It's not even close because, when given on Valentine's Day, it has no doubt involved three calendars, two Outlook reminders, four post-it notes, and perhaps even a last-minute run to Jewel. That is not romantic. That is not lovely. And that is definitely not thoughtful. It demonstrates the ability to remember a day, not a person.

So, I say that Valentine's Day sucks. It reminds people who are alone of all the things they don't have, no doubt, and it reminds me, someone who is happily married, of all the things I DON'T want my love life to be: predictable, commercial and average.

[I do feel that it's important to mention here that this post should in no way be misconstrued as a statement about fine chocolate. I love the good stuff, and will happily give and receive it 364 days out of the year. And, there is no one in this world I would rather down an entire box of Godiva with in one sitting than my lovely wife. Happy February 15th, honey.]

Hiya

2006-02-07T15:02:00.000-08:00

So, there's this guy who works for the big architectural firm on our floor. He's one of the company's founders and is a bit older than most of the people who work there (all of whom, save him, seem to be a notch above most when it comes to charisma). Anyway, this guy - let's call him David - and I run into each other from time to time in the elevator, in the hallway, or, god forbid, in Camp Porcelain.

He's a nice guy. We always chat. I ask him about the world of drawing buildings. He answers. We have a bit of a rapport. It's snappy.

Anyway, about a year ago we finally introduced ourselves to each other. He decided that, since we chat with relative frequency, we should at least know each other's name. Fair enough. Well, David's name remained in my head for the first 30 seconds or so after he said it, and I have no idea where it hid thereafter. I hate when this happens, and it happens to me a lot. The good news is that he clearly forgot my name as well. We have both harmlessly arrived back at square one. "Hiya," we say. And that's that.

So, last week he and I find ourselves in the elevator engaging in our usual witty banter, and I decide to revisit the name thing. What the heck, right? Oprah would do it.

"You know, I'm so sorry, but I have completely forgotten your name, " I begin.

"Oh, I'm glad you said that," he responds with a weak sigh. "Me, too. I'm terrible with names."

So, we re-exchange names, each of us with a doubtful look on our face. "You know," he continues, "I find that if I say the name a dozen times or so out loud, I have a much easier time remembering it." Without hesitating or waiting for a response from me, he then launches into an awkward sort of chant of my name. Our elevators are remarkably slow at our building, so we're not even close to ride completion. I cough. I'm uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that it just sounds funny. Sheesh, is this weird.

He finishes and then, of course, looks at me expectantly. There is a pause. To be fair, I have done this kind of name-remembering thing before, but I try not to make a habit of doing it out loud and in front of the other person. I start to perspire. My face is hot. This is so odd, and the elevator could not possibly be going any slower. Reluctantly, I begin saying the man's name. Rapidly. I think I sound sheepish and muffled, which is probably about right. Where do I look? At him? No way. At the floor? Too dismissive. So, I look sort of over his shoulder, past him, as though there's someone sneaking up behind him. Oh, if only that were true.

The elevator grinds to a halt just as I am mumbling my final "David." He looks pleased and wishes me a good day.

I was out of town on business last week (Plano, TX: the city too dull to blog about) and saw David today for the first time since our elevator encounter. I'd rather not go into detail about where I ran into him, but let's just say we were both peeing.

I thankfully remember his name, but the setup is tricky. Given the circumstances, I really don't want to look at him. But is it rude to stare at the wall? Should I look down at myself? No! No, definitely not! Fuck. So, I power through, kind of half-glancing his way, and say, perhaps too enthusiastically, "Hi there, David." He smiles, no doubt glad to see that his little memory aid has worked for me. And, over the tinkling sounds we've all grown accustomed to, he looks straight ahead and says, "Hiya."

Bright ideas

2006-01-28T09:31:00.000-08:00

We're getting a bunch of electrical work done at our house. New can lights in the living room, a new fixture in the dining room, and few odds and ends. However, the major projects are proving to be difficult.

As I write this, R and A (our charming and patient electricians) are trying desperately to get power run from the desired switch to the desired fixture location in the dining room. It's not easy. Sort of like how getting the can light placement right wasn't easy (surprise water pipe the trouble there). None of this is going particularly well, and the number of holes in our ceiling is now starting to exceed the number of fixtures to be installed.

All in a day's work for these guys, though. They encounter these kinds of obstacles like I encounter itchiness: with annoying regularity. They are good at handling this kind of stuff. They are used to it. But today is sort of a little different; today they have me.

See, I ask questions. I offer suggestions. I am helpful.

I am so helpful that they've stopped talking to me.

The smiles are gone. The pleasantries are things of the past. Despite my marvelous attention to detail, my ingenious design schemes and my profound dedication to the project at hand, they have had it with me. This is okay. I'm okay with this, really. But, the bigger problem is that I still can't stop. I can't stop watching. I can't stop ASKING. I mean, what if the outlet behind the bookcase could be of some help? Have they considered that maybe harnessing the power from the built-in-smoke detector could streamline the process? What about the measurements? The measurements! Thank god I thought of that! Do they remember that we measured one dimension from the wall but the other from the bookcase? How could this get done without me?!

I'm addicted to trying to be helpful to them. Each time I try it's worse than the time before, but I can't stop it. It's miserable. Every noise, every sigh, every muffled "uh oh" makes me cringe. Finally, I take the iBook upstairs and sit on the bed. Closing myself in here will keep me from forcing them to kill me. Staying up here will save my life. I breathe. I type. I breathe some more. Then, a knock at the door. It is R, no doubt up here to do me in. I don't blame him. I look at him understandingly, as if to say, "Yes. Kill me. It's for the best." But just at that moment, he instead asks if he can check out an outlet upstairs. Oh. Ah! See?! I am needed! Redemption.

I help. I tell him where to look. I feel tons better, now. And so, much to everyone's dismay, I wander back down to the kitchen table where I can keep a better eye on things. After all, who knows when they might need my help again?

Bits and pieces

2006-01-27T07:50:00.000-08:00

There's Oprah, sitting on her well-appointed set, looking like a news anchor-spokesperson-politician-suburbanite. There she is ripping into A Million Little Pieces author James Frey. There's the audience, with her every step of the way. We've been betrayed. Betrayed by this man and his book of lies. Go, Oprah. Get him!

And here I am reading The Red Eye (the Chicago Tribune's so-so attempt at a quick-read news publication) and learning all about Oprah. Oprah made this book part of her club! Oprah had Frey as a guest and embraced him! Oprah defended the man when the word came out about his fabrications! On Larry King, she defended him! Live! Go, Oprah! Uh, oh, Oprah, mixed reviews!! Oprah had Frey back on her show this week and showed him what it felt like to have two anuses! Live! Go, Oprah!

There are several sidebars in this brief story recounting the recanting of Oprah Winfrey. One has multiple quotes of people's reactions to... Oprah. Not to Frey, not to the book, not to any actual issue at hand, but to Oprah. People love that Oprah stood up for the truth. They love her for demanding explanations. They love Oprah. In fact, there is a poll sidebar, too. They have surveyed people to see if Oprah's apology for originally defending Frey has helped or hurt her image. Good news! It helped! 75% of the people surveyed said it helped! Oh, thank god!

Look, we all know that this is ridiculous. Spending this much time on this scandal is, well, boring as hell. But, if we're going to be forced to think about it, how about thinking about the actual issue. How about a poll asking people what they think about the ethics of memoir writing? How about a discussion of Frey's work and how or why he might have embellished? What does this mean for his sequel memoir? Why do we enjoy memoirs, why are they part of our culture? How are memoirs different from other nonfiction? Those are the questions I want to read about.

The last thing, the LAST thing, I care about is fucking Oprah Winfrey and her already-out-of-control image. As soon as someone has so much power that anything they touch becomes completely and entirely about them, I can't bring myself to care anymore. (Although, I should mention, she is having the cast of Brokeback Mountain on today - should be good!) Oprah, just scram, already!

Oh, and if this entire debate really boils down to accountability, isn't there someone else we should be focusing on instead?

Speaking of coffee

2006-01-24T06:44:00.000-08:00

Look, I really like coffee. My minimum is two sizeable coffee beverages per day. Three if I'm lucky. Many would argue that I'm addicted to coffee. Some might say that it's not the coffee, it's the caffeine.

I love coffee. I love that I love it. I love the tradition of it, like going every single morning with my coworker and friend B. I love that the people at our local coffee establishments know me. I love them. And, I imagine, they me. I love black coffee after dinner. I love sweet coffee first thing in the morning. I love espresso. I love drip. I love the idea of coffee.

So, am I addicted? Perhaps. But I prefer to think that I am addicted to happiness. To tradition. To aesthetic. To life.

I am addicted to love.

Caught

2006-01-22T07:59:00.000-08:00

So, I'm taking H (our two-and-a-half year old) to run a few errands in the neighborhood. The agenda includes a quick drug store stop, a bagel pick-up, and a much needed trip to the best coffee shop in the free world.

The bagel excursion is grand, the coffee purchase grander. The drug store, however, leaves a little to be desired. See, like any good toddler, H really likes to grab stuff. And no place has more appealing and potentially dangerous goods than a neighborhood drug store. My wife has a marvelous solution for this, which works much of the time. She'll tell our daughter to only touch things with one finger. This gives H the ability to touch, well, everything. But, and you can try this yourself at home, grabbing stuff with one finger is not so easy. Especially when the finger in question is the size of a baby corn.

So, I remind H of the one-finger rule as I scan the hair care aisle for some product (even a 30-something dad's got to try to look good, right?). But, I make a critical error - an error that, in my opinion, a veteran such as myself should never make: I focus on what I'm doing.

Idiot.

After maybe 25 seconds of reading about Loreal's Crystal Hair Wax, I look up. H is not right next to me. No, she has moved about 20 feet down the aisle to the sunscreen section. In one hand, she has a large bottle of sunscreen. In the other hand she has a huge glob of the stuff, sort of balanced on one finger. I suppose I can't totally fault her. I mean, she is touching the sunscreen with one finger.

This is a little funny, seeing her there studying her own outstretched finger with its dollop of white lotion, but it's also fraught with potential disasters. There's the putting-it-in-my-hair disaster, there's the putting-it-in-my-mitten disaster, and of course there's the it-looks-like-toothpaste disaster. I want none of these, so I bark, "Wait right there, sweetie!" She freezes, extending her back up a little, and, to her credit, sort of waits right there.

There's a surprising amount of sunscreen on her hand, which I successfully scrape off with my fingers. "No harm, no foul," I say as I dispose of the stuff by rubbing it into my hands and wrists. A little extra UV protection on my hands and forearms couldn't hurt. I finish rubbing it in and rise to go.

Only as I stand do I take a better look at the bottle I just returned to the shelf. It's not sunscreen. It is sunless tanner. My hands and forearms should be orange by sundown.

Did I mention the coffee was grand?

Malaysia, Indiana

2006-01-13T08:35:00.000-08:00

I'm on the phone with our software vendor's training manager. She and I haven't spoken in a while, but I enjoy catching up with her. She's a little older, very sweet and is usually pretty helpful when answering questions about the software.

She's a work-from-home mother of three (all young adults now) and lives in Indiana. She's a smallish woman with glasses and a perm, who has a sort of mousy appearance and demeanor. Frankly, she strikes me as a somewhat typical conservative midwesterner.

So, we're talking about her kids, all of whom travel quite a bit, and she mentions that her middle daughter just came back from Malaysia, having visited her Malaysian boyfriend's family. I'm pretty impressed by this, and tell her how great it is that her children do so much traveling. She then says, "Allen, my husband and I decided long ago that the biggest cause of prejudice in this country is fear of the unknown. It's been so important to us that our kids see as much of the world as possible. It's our way of battling the close-mindedness of this country."

I think my reply went something like, "Oh, wow... uhhh... Yeah!"

Who's the prejudiced one NOW?

Elevated adventures

2006-01-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

I'm on a packed el trail this morning - packed. We stop at Fullerton, and a smallish woman with frizzy hair and a huge homemade knit hat tries to push herself aboard. I'm all for squeezing on, especially during rush hour, but this is a long shot.

The guy standing closest to the door is actually fairly patient with this. He tries to lift his arm so that she can sort of limbo under it, but the timing is all off. He lifts too late, and she lunges forward. The result is that he elbows her in the head, rather hard. Her neck sort of snaps back and she makes a gurgled squeak as the man, who clearly meant no harm, tries to bring his arm back into place. But, the timing is off again. She sort of stands up straighter as he's bringing his arm across, and the sleeve of his coat pulls her huge knit hat forward and completely over her eyes and nose.

It's ridiculous. It's a farce. This woman has been elbowed in the head and blinded, but she's mostly in the train now so there's no turning back. It's so crowded, that it's really hard to lift your arms or do anything, so she can't adjust her hat. So she stands there, frozen, her hat pulled down over her face, as the train pulls away. Some guy, a different guy, manages to crookedly pull it back up off of her face, and she beams at him. She's made it, and she's thrilled. Billy Joel's "She's Got a Way" is playing on my iPod.

It reminds me of a terrific train adventure that happened a few years ago:

I'm riding the crowded brown line into work, as per usual. A woman is standing right by the door, leaning against the little partition, and a man is across from her, leaning on the opposite one. She is in every way a businesswoman. She has the suit, the briefcase, the perfectly polished look from head to toe. He, not so much. He is a middle aged stereotype of a Chicago guy. Jeans, beer belly, Bears sweatshirt, and, yes, mustache.

The woman takes out her newspaper (The Trib, which is the large format paper in the city), and begins reading. However, the size of the paper and the close quarters we're in cause the top of her paper to sort of invade this guy's personal space. He is not pleased and asks her to move her paper. She responds half-heartedly, and within minutes invades his space again.

This time the guy is not as nice. He raises his voice a little and says "Miss, could you please watch where your putting that paper. This is a crowded train, you know." He's completely justified, if you ask me. The woman, who clearly does not share my view, folds her paper up in a huff. That's that. Almost.

We pull into the Sedgwick stop, the doors open, and several people, including the guy, get off. But, just as he's exiting, the woman sticks her head out of the train and says, "You asshole." There's this half-moment. A millisecond of slow-down. She is very pleased with herself. The guy looks unfazed. And then, as time regains normal operating speed, the guy GETS BACK ON THE TRAIN. See, he was just getting out of the way to let the other people off. The woman watches with terror as her nemesis reboards. This is great. I am loving this on all kinds of levels. It's funny, it's dramatic, it's intense.

The guy calmly gets back into position, facing the woman, who has lost every bit of color from her face. He smiles. She does not. The train pulls away, trapping us all in this wonderful drama together. Then, in an act of, I don't know, desperation, the woman does the only thing she feels she can do. She flees. She puts her paper away, picks up her briefcase, and forces her way down the cramped aisle to the middle of the train. It's such a silly attempt, and everyone involved knows it.

As we chug along into the Loop, the guy, who was never really all that threatening, mumbles, I kid you not, "childish."

I love my commute.

Balancing act

2005-12-21T08:34:00.000-08:00

So, I'm riding a midday train home from work, and there is this teenaged person standing up at one end of our fairly empty car. He has it all to himself, but instead of taking a seat, he is standing in the middle of the isle, facing the front of the car (and away from me). He is sort of short and squat, has long hair, is wearing all black, including a long black coat, and has headphones on.

I can only explain what he's doing as, well, super-hero training. See, he's taken this sort of spread-legged stance and his holding his arms slightly away from his body. He's focusing ahead with great intent, and is rubbing the tips of his fingers together on each hand in a sort of "I'm getting ready to do a backflip" kind of way. As the train speeds ahead, his goal is, I think, to remain not only balanced, but focused. The train swerves, and he quickly adjusts his stance to compensate. The train picks up speed, and he leans into it. We hit a bump, and his legs bend more to absorb the shock. All, I'm hoping, to prepare him for crime fighting later in the evening. The soundtrack he's chosen must be blaring in his head, helping him to find the strength to battle the city's foes.

This is actually sort of an impressive effort, except for the fact that this guy is terrible at it. He is falling over. He is crashing into the wall of the train. He is throwing his arms in circles every so often to try to remain upright. It's ridiculous. Each time, he sort of bounces back, as ready as ever, lightly rubbing his fingers together, bouncing delicately to regain his composure. No sooner does he do that then another swerve or bounce or slow-down occurs, tossing his plump little body in some unpredictable direction. It's outstanding.

We arrive at Fullerton. The doors of the El hiss open, and he turns to leave. Only, I was wrong. It's a she. She. She is my flailing and failing teenage super-hero. I'm shocked. My mouth must be hanging open, because she catches my eye and flashes some sort of weird sign with her hand. I think maybe it is vulcan or rock-n-roll or something. Maybe she's just waving. Maybe someday she'll save my life.

She exits, and I'm pretty much sorry to see her go.

The rest of my ride home is uneventful. I turn up my iPod. Green Day comes on with "Jesus of Suburbia," and I close my eyes to the rest of the train, choosing to lose myself in the song for the home stretch.

Indeed

2005-12-19T14:42:00.000-08:00

The first thing that happens when you walk out in 6 degree weather is that it feels like someone has pulled your pants down. I'm not kidding. I could be wearing thick cords or heavy trousers, and I would still feel that below-zero wind on my legs within seconds. It is profound. And then, as you start walking to the elevated, you realize that your skin is possibly detaching from your face. It kind of hurts and kind of feels exciting but mostly just feels very cold.

It's cold out, and there is no denying it. I often think that, in Chicago, the cold brings strangers together. You see someone on the street and look at them as if to say "yeah, I know what you mean." But not this cold. This cold alienates. It makes you to too afraid to lift your head and look directly at someone, for fear that your eyeballs might freeze up or retreat into your brain. This kind of cold makes walls between us like a big ice cube tray.

I attended a party this weekend (leaving sweet A at home to care for the kids) and realized how much more work it has become to engage with people that I don't know. I used to sort of love it. I used to go to a party, find some person whom I'd never met, and talk. Talk about them, talk about me, talk about... things. It was fun and interesting to find out a little of someone's story under the faint fog of a few drinks. [Note. I have a friend who likes to play this game he invented, "Indeed." The goal is to stay in a viable conversation with someone who's sloshed for as long as possible using only the word "indeed."]

Anyway, I realized within a few minutes of throwing my coat and scarf on the guest bed that I really don't enjoy this kind of thing anymore. It's too much work. I want to see my friends, thank you very much. I want to catch up on things with people I already know and care about. That's hard enough as it is, finding the time for that.

So, I met a few folks (including some youthful, energetic women who had light-up ice cubes in their cocktails), but I mostly stuck close to my good buddy U, who made me a smashing apple martini. I left fairly early, which by my standards was actually very late, and walked slowly to my car in the bitter cold.

I sort of liked it better out there than inside at the party - preferring, for the moment at least, my little ice tray compartment.

Indeed.

It does look like antifreeze

2005-12-16T10:41:00.000-08:00

Had a 24 hour stomach thing, awarding myself the title of Captain Vom. My mother always said that "you feel like you're going to die, and you're afraid you won't." So true.

I felt it inappropriate to bring our new iSight webcam into the bathroom with me to give my brother a live feed of my, er, episodes, but I'm now starting to regret my choice.

See, we have these new webcams spread around my family. As expected, we're all logging on all the time to check in with one another. It's pretty fun, and the technology has really come a long way. Of course, the truth is, we have profoundly little to say to one another by, like, the third web chat of a given day. We've pretty much covered everything by then, except for the requisite "hey, how's the lighting over HERE?" and "Dad, you're out of frame again, man." But, of course, my folks love watching my two-year-old daughter run around the house clutching her very, very flat teddy bear and shrieking at all kinds of things, like, for instance, the kitchen cabinets. It's a new level of communication: observational. Economy of language at an all time low.

It makes me think about how completely life-altering it must have been when the telephone first became widespread. Communication had always been work. I mean, imagine having to always get all of your thoughts, questions, and answers into a letter. A concise letter. And then having to wait for a response. That's called effort. But to then be offered the ability to talk to someone in real time whenever you saw fit... well, communicating surely become less work and more convenience. One could ramble. One could get instant gratification.

And now, it's lazier even than that. It's observational. Just set up a couple of cameras and go about your business (be it shrieking or throwing up).

It's like you're all back in the same house.

We paid money for this.

Slip of the...

2005-12-13T06:55:00.000-08:00

We went to our new favorite brunch place this past weekend with K and R. I had the chai french toast.

As K was ordering, he asked if his omelet came with potatoes. Our sever said that it did, and K shook his head, simply saying "could you please sixty-nine those?"

Our server turned a sort of raspberry color, as K's partner R calmly added, "I think that's eighty-six, honey."

Republic of Bananas

2005-12-12T10:53:00.000-08:00

I ordered pants from BR. I love their pants, which seem to fray less quickly in the cuff region than other pants I've tried. I wear my pants into the ground.

This morning, I received a phone call from BR's customer service department confirming my shipping address. The woman was inarguably sweet. She confirmed the shipping location and asked if it was my work address. I said that it was. She said that the order was slightly delayed because they had to confirm this address, but now that she'd done so, it should ship any day.

I said "Good. Because I'm sitting here at work with no pants on."

She made a sort of sputtering sound and gasped. Turns out I made her laugh such that she sprayed coffee all over her computer keyboard. She laughed and laughed and thanked me for shopping at BR. Then she sort of dawdled getting off the phone. She finally hung up after thanking me again.

I guessed I had made her day.

But that wasn't right. In truth, she'd made MY day. All I did for her was make her laugh and possibly get a new keyboard from the BR IT department. What she'd done for me was make me feel good about myself. For those two minutes I was the swell, charming, funny guy she'd been lucky enough to land on the phone first thing. So much so, that she stalled at the end of the conversation. Boy, did that feel good! Then I thought about what that really meant. Then I didn't feel quite so good.

Still love the pants.