Monday, October 31, 2005
World's Scariest Costumes, Halloween 2005
-- Harriet Miers' Eye Makeup
-- MTV's Made Participant
-- Gay Republican
-- The Secretary in my Office who Yells at People for Touching Her Desk
-- Mira Sorvino's Agent
-- Person Who is Actually Not Wearing a Costume, but Has a Real Disorder
-- Inflation
-- NBC Programming Executive
-- White Person Who Thinks He Can Pull Off an Urkel Costume
-- Lindsay Lohan's Mucus Membrane
-- Bob Saget's Soul
-- How They Make Hot Dogs
-- Cher
-- Harriet Miers' Eye Makeup
-- MTV's Made Participant
-- Gay Republican
-- The Secretary in my Office who Yells at People for Touching Her Desk
-- Mira Sorvino's Agent
-- Person Who is Actually Not Wearing a Costume, but Has a Real Disorder
-- Inflation
-- NBC Programming Executive
-- White Person Who Thinks He Can Pull Off an Urkel Costume
-- Lindsay Lohan's Mucus Membrane
-- Bob Saget's Soul
-- How They Make Hot Dogs
-- Cher
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Remember, You Can't Spell "Klass" Without Liz & Jay
Roommate Liz and I have been making the rounds of Chicago's most stunning and exclusive social events lately (assuming the terms "stunning" and "exclusive" have been redefined to mean "chicken is served" and "you have to know someone who sort of knows Frank to get in," respectively), and let me tell you, being one of the "beautiful people" isn't always easy. First of all, there's all that smiling in photographs to do. Sometimes you forget which look the smile is, and end up looking reproachful or coquettish on the pages of Chicago Scene Magazine. Second, generally there is a lot of drinking that must be done. Sure, it's regrettable, but someone has to drink their weight in red wine, or it will go to waste, and that would be wrong. Think of the children. And did I mention the dress code? Forget about that Big Johnson T-shirt, mister, this ain't Six Flags. Time to break out your Garanimals from SEARS.
Documentary evidence follows.
Roommate Liz and I at the law firm prom, shortly after we decided it would be a good idea to sing "Sunrise, Sunset" from "Fiddler on the Roof." I believe our decision was motivated by someone's mention of a wedding, but no, I would not be willing to attest to that in a court of law. Regardless, we were perfection.
Now this is a hott shott. Doesn't this just scream "Friendster picture?" It makes me want to run for public office on a family values platform.
Just a week later, Halloween parties bring out a decidedly more glamorous side of Room mate Liz, as the winner of the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Clearly Aaron (left) is thrilled just to meet her, while Mark (right) is simply stunned. I am taking all of my photographs in cabs from now on.
And the big check is delivered, with Friend Amy and I serving as the Prize Patrol. Don't ask me why members of the Prize Patrol need short ties and Hitler moustaches, they just do.
Roommate Liz and I have been making the rounds of Chicago's most stunning and exclusive social events lately (assuming the terms "stunning" and "exclusive" have been redefined to mean "chicken is served" and "you have to know someone who sort of knows Frank to get in," respectively), and let me tell you, being one of the "beautiful people" isn't always easy. First of all, there's all that smiling in photographs to do. Sometimes you forget which look the smile is, and end up looking reproachful or coquettish on the pages of Chicago Scene Magazine. Second, generally there is a lot of drinking that must be done. Sure, it's regrettable, but someone has to drink their weight in red wine, or it will go to waste, and that would be wrong. Think of the children. And did I mention the dress code? Forget about that Big Johnson T-shirt, mister, this ain't Six Flags. Time to break out your Garanimals from SEARS.
Documentary evidence follows.
Roommate Liz and I at the law firm prom, shortly after we decided it would be a good idea to sing "Sunrise, Sunset" from "Fiddler on the Roof." I believe our decision was motivated by someone's mention of a wedding, but no, I would not be willing to attest to that in a court of law. Regardless, we were perfection.
Now this is a hott shott. Doesn't this just scream "Friendster picture?" It makes me want to run for public office on a family values platform.
Just a week later, Halloween parties bring out a decidedly more glamorous side of Room mate Liz, as the winner of the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Clearly Aaron (left) is thrilled just to meet her, while Mark (right) is simply stunned. I am taking all of my photographs in cabs from now on.
And the big check is delivered, with Friend Amy and I serving as the Prize Patrol. Don't ask me why members of the Prize Patrol need short ties and Hitler moustaches, they just do.Friday, October 28, 2005
The Sporting News
Well, the White Sox won the world series, and frankly I'm just glad that no one vandalized my car. I did hear some people run out into my street screaming immediately after the victory, but that sort of thing happens once or twice a week anyway in my neighborhood. That's just how we say hello. I suppose it's all very exciting to have a winning team here; they even put big plastic Sox caps on the lions outside the Art Institute. But I'm not particularly feeling it, myself. I'm just waiting for Curling season to begin!
Actually, now that I think about it, there will be a Winter Olympics coming soon. That's kind of exciting. I think watching the luge narrowly beats watching repeats of Crossing Jordan. I mean, at the very least I love spandex bodysuits. I'm wearing one right now.
Big Halloween weekend here. Parties to attend, candy to digest by the pound, apples to bob for, no doubt. Of course, as you'll recall, the holiday has been effectively ruined for me by crass commercialism, so I'm having a hard time getting pumped. Oh, and our pumpkins have started rotting. Strange liquids are emerging from them. But I don't discriminate; all of us will end up that way eventually.
Well, the White Sox won the world series, and frankly I'm just glad that no one vandalized my car. I did hear some people run out into my street screaming immediately after the victory, but that sort of thing happens once or twice a week anyway in my neighborhood. That's just how we say hello. I suppose it's all very exciting to have a winning team here; they even put big plastic Sox caps on the lions outside the Art Institute. But I'm not particularly feeling it, myself. I'm just waiting for Curling season to begin!
Actually, now that I think about it, there will be a Winter Olympics coming soon. That's kind of exciting. I think watching the luge narrowly beats watching repeats of Crossing Jordan. I mean, at the very least I love spandex bodysuits. I'm wearing one right now.
Big Halloween weekend here. Parties to attend, candy to digest by the pound, apples to bob for, no doubt. Of course, as you'll recall, the holiday has been effectively ruined for me by crass commercialism, so I'm having a hard time getting pumped. Oh, and our pumpkins have started rotting. Strange liquids are emerging from them. But I don't discriminate; all of us will end up that way eventually.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
The Eyes Have It
I went to the optometrist today. I always kind of enjoy it, to be frank. I get the most shameful sense of satisfaction from all my little victories reading the eye charts. Every time I successfully identify which way the "E" is pointing, I feel like I just won the lottery. I feel the same way about answering medical history questions. Any history of eye disease in my family? Not on your life! Any allergies to medications? Allergies are for losers, man! I always feel like I should get a little printout with my score on it afterwards.
I'll never forget the first time I found out I needed glasses. It was on vision and hearing screening day in seventh grade. That was always my favorite screening day, although to be fair lice screening day didn't put up much of a fight. We got excused from health class one at a time to go take the test. (This was the most exciting thing we ever did during health class, except for our sex ed day, which involved our teacher embarrassedly putting in a videotape featuring the star of Broadway's Annie.) I looked down into the binocular-type things that passed for vision screeners in the rural public schools of yesteryear (and probably still do, most likely), and for the first time could not identify which way the clown was pointing. I was incredulous. How could I need glasses? I was so cool! I tight rolled my jeans and wore my Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts with the best of them! And yet, there I was. The best I could hope for was some frames from the Jordache collection.
Anyway, I've got soft contacts now, and I love them. Because all of you totally cared. I asked if I could get a pair of red tinted ones, just to lighten things up around the office, but the answer seemed to be a rather firm no.
I went to the optometrist today. I always kind of enjoy it, to be frank. I get the most shameful sense of satisfaction from all my little victories reading the eye charts. Every time I successfully identify which way the "E" is pointing, I feel like I just won the lottery. I feel the same way about answering medical history questions. Any history of eye disease in my family? Not on your life! Any allergies to medications? Allergies are for losers, man! I always feel like I should get a little printout with my score on it afterwards.
I'll never forget the first time I found out I needed glasses. It was on vision and hearing screening day in seventh grade. That was always my favorite screening day, although to be fair lice screening day didn't put up much of a fight. We got excused from health class one at a time to go take the test. (This was the most exciting thing we ever did during health class, except for our sex ed day, which involved our teacher embarrassedly putting in a videotape featuring the star of Broadway's Annie.) I looked down into the binocular-type things that passed for vision screeners in the rural public schools of yesteryear (and probably still do, most likely), and for the first time could not identify which way the clown was pointing. I was incredulous. How could I need glasses? I was so cool! I tight rolled my jeans and wore my Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts with the best of them! And yet, there I was. The best I could hope for was some frames from the Jordache collection.
Anyway, I've got soft contacts now, and I love them. Because all of you totally cared. I asked if I could get a pair of red tinted ones, just to lighten things up around the office, but the answer seemed to be a rather firm no.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Lost in Translation
My printer has, without warning, begun occasionally converting my documents to the Cyrillic alphabet. At least, I assume it is the Cyrillic alphabet; I of course have no working knowledge of Russian, and last week I assumed that the Rock n' Roll McDonald's was Lenin's Tomb. But regardless, my cases are being reduced to masses of bizarre-looking squiggles. I'm pretty sure it's not just that I've forgotten how to read.
It's sort of a tumultuous time in the life of Jay. I'm turning out roughly one billion legal memos a day (and they contain the finest prose this side of a Meow Mix commercial, let me tell you) and answering hundreds of bizarre and panicked phone calls, many of which I'm not even sure are for me (my name isn't Karen, right?). I'm also trying to revise some sketches for my writing class show, which involves incorporating all sorts of helpful feedback like "I really liked your font" and "that part at the end was really funny." Add to that the glittering whirl of my day-to-day social life (watching Netflix in flannel pants has never been so glamorous), and you've got a recipe for, well, something. I'm just like Jackie O, but without the hats, personal tragedy, or fame.
Maybe my printer is possessed. What a lucky break, just in time for Halloween!
My printer has, without warning, begun occasionally converting my documents to the Cyrillic alphabet. At least, I assume it is the Cyrillic alphabet; I of course have no working knowledge of Russian, and last week I assumed that the Rock n' Roll McDonald's was Lenin's Tomb. But regardless, my cases are being reduced to masses of bizarre-looking squiggles. I'm pretty sure it's not just that I've forgotten how to read.
It's sort of a tumultuous time in the life of Jay. I'm turning out roughly one billion legal memos a day (and they contain the finest prose this side of a Meow Mix commercial, let me tell you) and answering hundreds of bizarre and panicked phone calls, many of which I'm not even sure are for me (my name isn't Karen, right?). I'm also trying to revise some sketches for my writing class show, which involves incorporating all sorts of helpful feedback like "I really liked your font" and "that part at the end was really funny." Add to that the glittering whirl of my day-to-day social life (watching Netflix in flannel pants has never been so glamorous), and you've got a recipe for, well, something. I'm just like Jackie O, but without the hats, personal tragedy, or fame.
Maybe my printer is possessed. What a lucky break, just in time for Halloween!
Sunday, October 23, 2005
The Great Pumpkin
In addition to making a very sexy trip to Target on Friday, Roommate Liz and I also engaged in our annual tradition of carving a diverse array of pumpkins. You see, we believe that our conventional notion of what a jack o lantern should look like is far too narrow. Accordingly, we create a holiday display that "looks like America."
From left to right: Indian pumpkin, handicapped pumpkin, white trash pumpkin. It's just like Hands Across America, if pumpkins had hands!
Roommate Liz is never more beautiful than when she's wielding a knife. Although a hatchet is a close second.
I was responsible for design and construction of the little one's wheelchair. I feel as though there must be some way in which these skills can be channeled into a lucrative and rewarding career, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
We actually did roast the seeds this year, thanks to Friend Amy. I'm not sure they're exactly going to become a staple in my diet, but they're better than Baked Lays.
In addition to making a very sexy trip to Target on Friday, Roommate Liz and I also engaged in our annual tradition of carving a diverse array of pumpkins. You see, we believe that our conventional notion of what a jack o lantern should look like is far too narrow. Accordingly, we create a holiday display that "looks like America."
From left to right: Indian pumpkin, handicapped pumpkin, white trash pumpkin. It's just like Hands Across America, if pumpkins had hands!
Roommate Liz is never more beautiful than when she's wielding a knife. Although a hatchet is a close second.
I was responsible for design and construction of the little one's wheelchair. I feel as though there must be some way in which these skills can be channeled into a lucrative and rewarding career, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
We actually did roast the seeds this year, thanks to Friend Amy. I'm not sure they're exactly going to become a staple in my diet, but they're better than Baked Lays.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Betrayal on Aisle Nine
Those of you who know me (and that's most of you, since my readership is composed primarily of friends and people who googled "Foxy Boxing") know that I'm kind of a big fan of costumes and costumery. I have almost as many items of clothing that I own for their humorous qualities as I have for day-to-day wear. It takes very little provocation for me to array myself as Harry Potter, a disgraced 80s televangelist, or even Fitness Guru Richard Simmons. And every Halloween, of course, I pride myself on coming up with something distinctive and creative, even if it means I spend half of the night explaining it to people. (I knew that Mies van der Rohe costume was a tough sell.) In short, I need attention desperately in a way perhaps beyond the capabilities of modern psychiatric science. And that's hott.
So you'll imagine my shock, horror, and dismay (yes, dismay, I say to you) when Roommate Liz and I were out at Target last night (yes, we were at Target on a Friday night -- we're that secure in our personal coolness) and I saw my costume choice for this year being mass produced and sold to the unwashed general populace. I'm not going to get into the details of my selection because it's dead to me now, but let's just say he had a fabulous 'stache and solved mysteries in Hawaii. I literally felt sick to my stomach, and not just because I ate one of those Target hot dogs that rotate in the little glass heat cabinet. It was as though someone had taken my diary and published it on the Internet! Well, I mean, if I had a diary and it were actually interesting, which it probably would not be, unless you really like anecdotes about torts.
But anyway, the point is that now I have to come up with a whole new costume on short notice, and I think I may have lost my faith in Halloween, America, and all that is holy for ever and ever. Amen.
On the plus side, though, Roommate Liz and I had our Friend Amy paged to the service desk, which was totally hilarious. She didn't see that one coming.
Those of you who know me (and that's most of you, since my readership is composed primarily of friends and people who googled "Foxy Boxing") know that I'm kind of a big fan of costumes and costumery. I have almost as many items of clothing that I own for their humorous qualities as I have for day-to-day wear. It takes very little provocation for me to array myself as Harry Potter, a disgraced 80s televangelist, or even Fitness Guru Richard Simmons. And every Halloween, of course, I pride myself on coming up with something distinctive and creative, even if it means I spend half of the night explaining it to people. (I knew that Mies van der Rohe costume was a tough sell.) In short, I need attention desperately in a way perhaps beyond the capabilities of modern psychiatric science. And that's hott.
So you'll imagine my shock, horror, and dismay (yes, dismay, I say to you) when Roommate Liz and I were out at Target last night (yes, we were at Target on a Friday night -- we're that secure in our personal coolness) and I saw my costume choice for this year being mass produced and sold to the unwashed general populace. I'm not going to get into the details of my selection because it's dead to me now, but let's just say he had a fabulous 'stache and solved mysteries in Hawaii. I literally felt sick to my stomach, and not just because I ate one of those Target hot dogs that rotate in the little glass heat cabinet. It was as though someone had taken my diary and published it on the Internet! Well, I mean, if I had a diary and it were actually interesting, which it probably would not be, unless you really like anecdotes about torts.
But anyway, the point is that now I have to come up with a whole new costume on short notice, and I think I may have lost my faith in Halloween, America, and all that is holy for ever and ever. Amen.
On the plus side, though, Roommate Liz and I had our Friend Amy paged to the service desk, which was totally hilarious. She didn't see that one coming.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Ramblin' Man
Have you ever seen that episode of Saved by the Bell where Jessie is so busy with school, being in every extracurricular Bayside has of offer (but only for about one episode at a time), and her sassy all-girl singing group, that she ends up getting hooked on caffeine pills? That's kind of how I feel right now. I've just made too many promises to too many people. I'm so excited... I'm so excited... I'm so... scared!
But the good news is that time flies when you're teetering on the brink of destruction. It's hard for me even to believe it's Friday already, although the snazzy jeans and jacket combo I'm wearing serves to remind me. Remember, wearing jeans on any other day of the week would cause corporate profits to plummet and possibly the planet to crash into the sun. But on Fridays, well, different rules of physics and economics apply.
Tonight I think we're going to do our annual pumpkin carving. Often this ends with me accidentally carving myself and seeking first aid. But the spilling of blood adds to the Halloween spirit, so it's all in good fun. One of these years I'd like to roast the seeds, third grade style.
And Saturday is the law firm prom. It's a very exciting thing, because what every workplace needs is really an added level of formality. And a truly deplorable cover band. No, actually, my firm does it up right. I just hope I get to be prom king! Otherwise all of that being nice to people was just a waste.
Have you ever seen that episode of Saved by the Bell where Jessie is so busy with school, being in every extracurricular Bayside has of offer (but only for about one episode at a time), and her sassy all-girl singing group, that she ends up getting hooked on caffeine pills? That's kind of how I feel right now. I've just made too many promises to too many people. I'm so excited... I'm so excited... I'm so... scared!
But the good news is that time flies when you're teetering on the brink of destruction. It's hard for me even to believe it's Friday already, although the snazzy jeans and jacket combo I'm wearing serves to remind me. Remember, wearing jeans on any other day of the week would cause corporate profits to plummet and possibly the planet to crash into the sun. But on Fridays, well, different rules of physics and economics apply.
Tonight I think we're going to do our annual pumpkin carving. Often this ends with me accidentally carving myself and seeking first aid. But the spilling of blood adds to the Halloween spirit, so it's all in good fun. One of these years I'd like to roast the seeds, third grade style.
And Saturday is the law firm prom. It's a very exciting thing, because what every workplace needs is really an added level of formality. And a truly deplorable cover band. No, actually, my firm does it up right. I just hope I get to be prom king! Otherwise all of that being nice to people was just a waste.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Advanced Programming
This past weekend I was riding on the train, as I am wont to do, and I ended up standing next to three college-aged gentlemen who were talking about videogames. Now my own knowledge of realities virtual extends only slightly beyond Duck Hunt and Castlevania, so most of what they were saying was completely nonsensical to me, like Jewel's poetry or the phrase "global struggle against extremism." But I was struck by their utter enthusiasm; they wanted to get into the warlock's secret tomb on Level 3 just as badly as some people want to get into the World Series or Jessica Alba's pants. And they happily discussed their Saturday evening plans: no homework, just hardcore gameplay! It seemed obvious to me that these boys would never touch a boob.
But then I realized that, in a way, they're better off than the rest of us. Because while we all struggle to develop actual human relationships with people who quite often merely intend to steal our Hummel Figurines to sell for drug money or feel us up and never call again, these kids have found nirvana with the Mutant Queen in the Forbidden Zone of Planet Garfu. She may be rust-colored and have tentacles, but she's programmed to respond when you hit the A and B buttons in the right sequence. And while we push ourselves to have "real" "accomplishments," people like my train friends are perfectly satisfied just to repeatedly beat each others' high scores by engaging in various forms of electronic homicide. It's not exactly writing Ulysses, but at least it's not writing Finnegan's Wake, either.
I think I need to go home and pop in Dr. Mario.
And no, I don't mean that in a dirty way.
This past weekend I was riding on the train, as I am wont to do, and I ended up standing next to three college-aged gentlemen who were talking about videogames. Now my own knowledge of realities virtual extends only slightly beyond Duck Hunt and Castlevania, so most of what they were saying was completely nonsensical to me, like Jewel's poetry or the phrase "global struggle against extremism." But I was struck by their utter enthusiasm; they wanted to get into the warlock's secret tomb on Level 3 just as badly as some people want to get into the World Series or Jessica Alba's pants. And they happily discussed their Saturday evening plans: no homework, just hardcore gameplay! It seemed obvious to me that these boys would never touch a boob.
But then I realized that, in a way, they're better off than the rest of us. Because while we all struggle to develop actual human relationships with people who quite often merely intend to steal our Hummel Figurines to sell for drug money or feel us up and never call again, these kids have found nirvana with the Mutant Queen in the Forbidden Zone of Planet Garfu. She may be rust-colored and have tentacles, but she's programmed to respond when you hit the A and B buttons in the right sequence. And while we push ourselves to have "real" "accomplishments," people like my train friends are perfectly satisfied just to repeatedly beat each others' high scores by engaging in various forms of electronic homicide. It's not exactly writing Ulysses, but at least it's not writing Finnegan's Wake, either.
I think I need to go home and pop in Dr. Mario.
And no, I don't mean that in a dirty way.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Diversity Day
Today we had diversity training at my office. It was the most amazing thing ever. First of all, lunch was the pasta bar, which is quite frankly the best thing anyone does around here, and I include in that all the various Supreme Court victories and billion dollar verdicts. Second, we got to play a card game that had Many Important Implications About our Fears and Prejudices in the America of Today, which certainly isn't the case with, say, circle of death or go fish. Then they had us watch a video with seventies production values and fashions, and we all talked about our feelings about the video while people who called themselves "facilitators" said things like "your opinion is valid" and "we all hear you." Plus they had those badass scented markers your mother would never buy you in second grade! Mine smelled like mint, though it did not taste that way.
The only real drawback was that it was all white people in the room. They explained how diversity can include things like the country your wealthy ancestors left several hundred years ago to start a cotton plantation or your taste in television programs, though.
Overall, I guess I'm just relieved to know that we can erase racism in only four hours. That's only half the time it takes to learn how to use our computers!
Today we had diversity training at my office. It was the most amazing thing ever. First of all, lunch was the pasta bar, which is quite frankly the best thing anyone does around here, and I include in that all the various Supreme Court victories and billion dollar verdicts. Second, we got to play a card game that had Many Important Implications About our Fears and Prejudices in the America of Today, which certainly isn't the case with, say, circle of death or go fish. Then they had us watch a video with seventies production values and fashions, and we all talked about our feelings about the video while people who called themselves "facilitators" said things like "your opinion is valid" and "we all hear you." Plus they had those badass scented markers your mother would never buy you in second grade! Mine smelled like mint, though it did not taste that way.
The only real drawback was that it was all white people in the room. They explained how diversity can include things like the country your wealthy ancestors left several hundred years ago to start a cotton plantation or your taste in television programs, though.
Overall, I guess I'm just relieved to know that we can erase racism in only four hours. That's only half the time it takes to learn how to use our computers!
Sunday, October 16, 2005
You Can Go Home Again, But Maybe You Shouldn't
Just completed my whirlwind tour to my college reunion this weekend. For those of you who've never been to Decatur, Illinois, let me just say that you have wasted your lives. They have a 24-hour porn store (for those porn emergencies that always seem to arise) and several restaurants devoted to serving potatoes that have been covered in various things. Plus you get to see what a collapsed economy looks like from the inside! And did I mention my hotel had free cookies? Get a move on, people.
This is one of my favorite things in Decatur. It's a mural that makes Lincoln look like he's African-American. (In addition to heinously ugly, of course.) It doesn't come across in this picture too well, but seriously, in person he looks a lot like Bill Cosby. I think he's even holding a Jell-O pudding pop.
Just completed my whirlwind tour to my college reunion this weekend. For those of you who've never been to Decatur, Illinois, let me just say that you have wasted your lives. They have a 24-hour porn store (for those porn emergencies that always seem to arise) and several restaurants devoted to serving potatoes that have been covered in various things. Plus you get to see what a collapsed economy looks like from the inside! And did I mention my hotel had free cookies? Get a move on, people.
This is one of my favorite things in Decatur. It's a mural that makes Lincoln look like he's African-American. (In addition to heinously ugly, of course.) It doesn't come across in this picture too well, but seriously, in person he looks a lot like Bill Cosby. I think he's even holding a Jell-O pudding pop.
Because it's a reunion, you have to take a lot of carefully posed pictures with old friends. This is my friend Jacob, who once sang religious music in exchange for shots with me at a truly frightening 4 AM bar in NYC. Now he's a manager at a company that makes truck suspensions.
This is my favorite bar (of two) on our campus. Doesn't it look like the place where the murder would happen? You can't find dank like that in Chicago, I'll tell you that.
More posing! This is my friend Marybeth, one of the first people I met in college. We had music theory together with Rosemary Williams, who played the French Horn and looked a little bit like Geena Davis, at least back when Geena Davis still looked like Geena Davis. Marybeth and I sat in the back row, because we were rebels.
My Sister Meg, left, is also a Millkin alum. Do you like how we don't look at all alike? No, our mother was not promiscuous, thank you. At right is our friend Sarah, who used to break into my apartment to watch television (including most memorably the film version of Guys and Dolls) despite having a perfectly serviceable set of her own next door.
Suddenly I feel like I need to develop a seedier past.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
The Shape of Things
Working on a Saturday is not fun. If anyone tells you it is fun, they are lying, or else they just work somewhere really fun like the circus, Arby's, or the Neverland ranch. It's a beautiful day and I should be out playing with my friends! Instead I am developing eyestrain from reading a billion cases about terrible people who have done foolish things off of my computer monitor. Such is life, I suppose.
Last night we went to the Brauhaus for some Oktoberfest Oktoberfun. It's a pretty cool place; there are old German people there in wretched short pants and they let you drink very potent German beer out of an enormous glass boot that you pass around the table. (Normally I would be worried about getting oral herpes from such a setup, but the beer helps you to screen out all thoughts of the Centers for Disease Control.) They have a polka band that also does covers of some of your favorites of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, and they serve those awesome soft pretzels (take that, pretzel booth in the mall!) and more kinds of sausage than you had ever dreamed of, if in fact you dream of sausage, which you should not. So we had a fairly good night.
Tonight I'm headed to my five-year college reunion in Decatur, IL, world capital of 1) soybean processing and 2) crime. Scandalous details to follow, of course.
Working on a Saturday is not fun. If anyone tells you it is fun, they are lying, or else they just work somewhere really fun like the circus, Arby's, or the Neverland ranch. It's a beautiful day and I should be out playing with my friends! Instead I am developing eyestrain from reading a billion cases about terrible people who have done foolish things off of my computer monitor. Such is life, I suppose.
Last night we went to the Brauhaus for some Oktoberfest Oktoberfun. It's a pretty cool place; there are old German people there in wretched short pants and they let you drink very potent German beer out of an enormous glass boot that you pass around the table. (Normally I would be worried about getting oral herpes from such a setup, but the beer helps you to screen out all thoughts of the Centers for Disease Control.) They have a polka band that also does covers of some of your favorites of the 70s, 80s, and 90s, and they serve those awesome soft pretzels (take that, pretzel booth in the mall!) and more kinds of sausage than you had ever dreamed of, if in fact you dream of sausage, which you should not. So we had a fairly good night.
Tonight I'm headed to my five-year college reunion in Decatur, IL, world capital of 1) soybean processing and 2) crime. Scandalous details to follow, of course.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Lies I Considered Including in My Work Biography, But Ultimately Rejected
-- Jay has handled a number of well-known cases before the Supreme Court, including Bush v. Gore, Marbury v. Madison, and Great Taste v. Less Filling.
-- On a more personal note, Jay is the proud father to seven illegitimate children living in six different states, and was briefly married to Ms. Liza Minnelli during the 1970s.
-- Jay can turn water into wine, but that doesn't mean he likes to share.
-- Many of you may remember Jay from his turn as Dr. Jake Waverly and his evil twin Marco on the popular ABC-TV soap General Hospital.
-- Jay once killed a man with his bare hands. He then successfully defended himself on the theory that the man had been wearing bicycle pants, and clearly therefore had no will to live.
-- We're not saying that Jay caused Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt to split, but we're also not saying that he didn't.
-- Nobody know the real Jay, not even his best unicorn pal Pete.
-- Jay is actually not a Civil War reenactor, though he fully admits to having gone through a "muttonchops phase."
-- Jay has handled a number of well-known cases before the Supreme Court, including Bush v. Gore, Marbury v. Madison, and Great Taste v. Less Filling.
-- On a more personal note, Jay is the proud father to seven illegitimate children living in six different states, and was briefly married to Ms. Liza Minnelli during the 1970s.
-- Jay can turn water into wine, but that doesn't mean he likes to share.
-- Many of you may remember Jay from his turn as Dr. Jake Waverly and his evil twin Marco on the popular ABC-TV soap General Hospital.
-- Jay once killed a man with his bare hands. He then successfully defended himself on the theory that the man had been wearing bicycle pants, and clearly therefore had no will to live.
-- We're not saying that Jay caused Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt to split, but we're also not saying that he didn't.
-- Nobody know the real Jay, not even his best unicorn pal Pete.
-- Jay is actually not a Civil War reenactor, though he fully admits to having gone through a "muttonchops phase."
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Partly Cloudy with a Sixty Percent Chance of Crazy
If the sun doesn't come out sometime soon, I think I will have no choice but to go insane. Seriously. Imaginary elf seeing, J.Lo stalking, Kleenex boxes for shoes insane. If the windows in my office A) opened or B) had ledges, then the people on those architectural boat cruises might really have something to gawk at. People need light to live, okay? It's not just a luxury, like Barney's or health care. I'd even settle for partly cloudy. Otherwise, I'm getting my torch and my pitchfork and heading down to the Channel Five Weather Center.
On the plus side, I did have Taco Bell for lunch today. Taco Bell Express, and I had to wait in line for fifteen minutes, but it was still fairly amazing. It was my first visit in over a month! We've vowed never to let that sort of distance grow between us ever again.
I just witnessed a near car accident out my window. A cab driver did a u-turn across three lanes of traffic, which was sort of ill advised. God love cab drivers and the excitement they bring to our city. Plus, they listen to public radio! Somebody has to.
Do you like how I've pretty much given up on structuring and organizing my entries altogether? That's how all the great artists do it. I hear Virginia Woolf wrote Mrs. Dalloway by throwing a bunch of index cards with sentences on them up into the air.
If the sun doesn't come out sometime soon, I think I will have no choice but to go insane. Seriously. Imaginary elf seeing, J.Lo stalking, Kleenex boxes for shoes insane. If the windows in my office A) opened or B) had ledges, then the people on those architectural boat cruises might really have something to gawk at. People need light to live, okay? It's not just a luxury, like Barney's or health care. I'd even settle for partly cloudy. Otherwise, I'm getting my torch and my pitchfork and heading down to the Channel Five Weather Center.
On the plus side, I did have Taco Bell for lunch today. Taco Bell Express, and I had to wait in line for fifteen minutes, but it was still fairly amazing. It was my first visit in over a month! We've vowed never to let that sort of distance grow between us ever again.
I just witnessed a near car accident out my window. A cab driver did a u-turn across three lanes of traffic, which was sort of ill advised. God love cab drivers and the excitement they bring to our city. Plus, they listen to public radio! Somebody has to.
Do you like how I've pretty much given up on structuring and organizing my entries altogether? That's how all the great artists do it. I hear Virginia Woolf wrote Mrs. Dalloway by throwing a bunch of index cards with sentences on them up into the air.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Men at Work
Lately I've been lacking the inspiration to blog on weekdays. I think part of it is that I feel constrained by the desire to not get fired; as hilarious as the unnecessarily impassioned LEXIS lady (legal research is a holy war, I swear!) or the obsessive-compulsive secretary on my floor who looks like a Muppet ("h" is for "hand washing," I guess) may be, I can't help but feel that detailed reporting on them might adversely affect my bottom line. I mean, I worry that if I start pointing out that culottes are not, strictly speaking, business casual, I could find myself going unemployed casual all the time.
Heck, they could probably fire me just for all the Kelly Clarkson that's been coming out of this office lately. I mean, we're talking the first album here, people. It's not pretty, and neither were those highlights.
I suppose I could write about the other stuff going on in my life. For instance, I went to a potluck dinner on Sunday. The dish I brought was a bottle of wine. In my book, that beats a tater tot casserole any day. There was a lot of big talk about playing Boggle, but it never happened. I want to make it clear that I could take any and all of you at Boggle. Even you, Stephen Hawking. He's a big fan of the site.
Last night I had my writing class at Second City. We're putting together a revue that will go up early next year. I'm pushing for it to be loosely based on the Book of Leviticus, but you know how short-sighted people can be. I don't know what I'm going to do with all those great songs I wrote about atonement.
Lately I've been lacking the inspiration to blog on weekdays. I think part of it is that I feel constrained by the desire to not get fired; as hilarious as the unnecessarily impassioned LEXIS lady (legal research is a holy war, I swear!) or the obsessive-compulsive secretary on my floor who looks like a Muppet ("h" is for "hand washing," I guess) may be, I can't help but feel that detailed reporting on them might adversely affect my bottom line. I mean, I worry that if I start pointing out that culottes are not, strictly speaking, business casual, I could find myself going unemployed casual all the time.
Heck, they could probably fire me just for all the Kelly Clarkson that's been coming out of this office lately. I mean, we're talking the first album here, people. It's not pretty, and neither were those highlights.
I suppose I could write about the other stuff going on in my life. For instance, I went to a potluck dinner on Sunday. The dish I brought was a bottle of wine. In my book, that beats a tater tot casserole any day. There was a lot of big talk about playing Boggle, but it never happened. I want to make it clear that I could take any and all of you at Boggle. Even you, Stephen Hawking. He's a big fan of the site.
Last night I had my writing class at Second City. We're putting together a revue that will go up early next year. I'm pushing for it to be loosely based on the Book of Leviticus, but you know how short-sighted people can be. I don't know what I'm going to do with all those great songs I wrote about atonement.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Marathon Man
This morning I awoke to the sound of cheers and applause. Unfortunately, this was not an expression of approbation for my athletic yet graceful sleeping style, but rather the sound of the Chicago Marathon happening right behind my building. Thusly roused from a rather pleasant dream where I had my own band and hunted ghosts in my off hours, I decided to throw on some track pants and a hat and see what I could see.
As it turned out, the marathon was a lot like the Today Show. There were a bunch of people standing around holding pieces of poster board and screaming excitedly. There was a camera crew angling to shoot every cute baby and tight-sweatered girl in sight. And there was even a band, although I don't think it was Sheryl Crow or the Black Eyed Peas. I half expected Katie Couric to come out, scream at some crew members, and eat a live puppy. Alas, it was not meant to be.
I'd like to run the marathon some time, but I'm afraid I don't have the attention span for it. Halfway through I'd want to stop for a Slurpee or some used book shopping. Also I haven't run more than ten miles in probably ten years. That might also hold me back. Other than that, though, I'm golden.
This morning I awoke to the sound of cheers and applause. Unfortunately, this was not an expression of approbation for my athletic yet graceful sleeping style, but rather the sound of the Chicago Marathon happening right behind my building. Thusly roused from a rather pleasant dream where I had my own band and hunted ghosts in my off hours, I decided to throw on some track pants and a hat and see what I could see.
As it turned out, the marathon was a lot like the Today Show. There were a bunch of people standing around holding pieces of poster board and screaming excitedly. There was a camera crew angling to shoot every cute baby and tight-sweatered girl in sight. And there was even a band, although I don't think it was Sheryl Crow or the Black Eyed Peas. I half expected Katie Couric to come out, scream at some crew members, and eat a live puppy. Alas, it was not meant to be.
I'd like to run the marathon some time, but I'm afraid I don't have the attention span for it. Halfway through I'd want to stop for a Slurpee or some used book shopping. Also I haven't run more than ten miles in probably ten years. That might also hold me back. Other than that, though, I'm golden.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
About Last Night...
Last night was supposed to be a nice, quiet evening with friends. We were going to have some dinner, play some Boggle, maybe pop in a copy of Hitch. All very much in keeping with good old fashioned middle American values.
See, don't we look respectable? The kind of people you would want to mind the cash box at the school bake sale or serve as chairpeople for your lupus walkathon. Okay, so the aviators are a little ridiculous, but at this point they're pretty much surgically attached to my face.
Last night was supposed to be a nice, quiet evening with friends. We were going to have some dinner, play some Boggle, maybe pop in a copy of Hitch. All very much in keeping with good old fashioned middle American values.
See, don't we look respectable? The kind of people you would want to mind the cash box at the school bake sale or serve as chairpeople for your lupus walkathon. Okay, so the aviators are a little ridiculous, but at this point they're pretty much surgically attached to my face.
But thanks to a leftover bottle of coconut rum, my digital camera, and some classic Destiny's Child, things soon got a little bit bootylicious. The good news is that I have been asked to join the Alvin Ailey Dance Company.
Soon there were costumes and props involved. And no, it's not at all sad that I have a box of these things in my room despite being 27 and male.
This is our mock-up of the church camp we're going to start. Here, Roommate Liz reenacts the sermon on the mount using a cast of thousands, including Earl the Unicorn. We're going to help a lot of kids.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Things That Come Up When You Google My Name
Terrible haiku I wrote for a class in college.
An introduction to my haiku portfolio that includes the following sentence: "Think of this portfolio as only partially an end, and largely a means to an end that may come decades down the road, or even not at all."
Pictures from my "fat phase" with a caption suggesting that I am "recalling my days in choir."
Stuff that's actually about my dad, unless I am a middle-aged communications professor and don't know about it.
A whole series of movie reviews I wrote for my college newspaper, including hott takes on "Urban Legend" and the Melissa Joan Hart vehicle "Drive Me Crazy."
My compelling literary analysis of Whitman, Hawthorne, and Eliot, among others.
Porn.
The following statement from an editorial I wrote "We have set forth the possibility now of being the first generation to watch our lives on the Home Shopping Network rather than live them. Let's shoot for something more."
The Quincy High School Alumni Newsletter!!!!!!
I am not making this up, a site that purports to have nude pictures of deceased author John dos Passos.
Terrible haiku I wrote for a class in college.
An introduction to my haiku portfolio that includes the following sentence: "Think of this portfolio as only partially an end, and largely a means to an end that may come decades down the road, or even not at all."
Pictures from my "fat phase" with a caption suggesting that I am "recalling my days in choir."
Stuff that's actually about my dad, unless I am a middle-aged communications professor and don't know about it.
A whole series of movie reviews I wrote for my college newspaper, including hott takes on "Urban Legend" and the Melissa Joan Hart vehicle "Drive Me Crazy."
My compelling literary analysis of Whitman, Hawthorne, and Eliot, among others.
Porn.
The following statement from an editorial I wrote "We have set forth the possibility now of being the first generation to watch our lives on the Home Shopping Network rather than live them. Let's shoot for something more."
The Quincy High School Alumni Newsletter!!!!!!
I am not making this up, a site that purports to have nude pictures of deceased author John dos Passos.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
So Glad We Had This Chat
I am not one of those people who enjoys making extended small talk with strangers. Don't get me wrong; I love meeting new people, but when it comes to paying for my groceries or opening a checking account or having blood drawn, I tend to be more focused on the business aspect of things. I don't need to tell my life story (that's what this place is for!) and I don't need to listen to a fifteen minute analysis of Chicago's wacky weather patterns. I'm not saying performing life's little mundane tasks needs to be unpleasant, I'm just saying that people should just give me my damn change and get on with their lives. I didn't come to Chipotle because I wanted to make a new best friend.
I mention all of this because last night I had a cabdriver who couldn't read my oh-so-subtle signs of not wanting to be in a conversation (such as acting distracted, playing with my phone, and eventually even taking out a book), and the following dialogue ensued:
Driver: So, you big time lawyer?
Me: Uh, well, I'm an attorney, yeah. I'm not sure about "big time."
Driver: Oh sure, you hot shot lawyer, make big money.
Me: (laughing weakly) Right, well someone should tell my boss that.
Driver: Bet all the girls love you with your big money.
Me: (more fake laughter) I don't know about that.
Driver: Sure, you can pick up girls easy if you got the money. What bars you like to go to?
Me: Oh, I don't know, lots of different places.
Driver: So many beautiful girls.
Me: Uh huh.
Driver: Just be careful, because some of those girls, they see big time lawyer like you and they decide they going to get pregnant.
And scene. The "conversation" then continued to cover my future career plans, the weather (natch), and the immigration status of a number of people I've never met. I think I've just got to start acting visibly insane; not only would people shun me, but they might also give me quarters.
I am not one of those people who enjoys making extended small talk with strangers. Don't get me wrong; I love meeting new people, but when it comes to paying for my groceries or opening a checking account or having blood drawn, I tend to be more focused on the business aspect of things. I don't need to tell my life story (that's what this place is for!) and I don't need to listen to a fifteen minute analysis of Chicago's wacky weather patterns. I'm not saying performing life's little mundane tasks needs to be unpleasant, I'm just saying that people should just give me my damn change and get on with their lives. I didn't come to Chipotle because I wanted to make a new best friend.
I mention all of this because last night I had a cabdriver who couldn't read my oh-so-subtle signs of not wanting to be in a conversation (such as acting distracted, playing with my phone, and eventually even taking out a book), and the following dialogue ensued:
Driver: So, you big time lawyer?
Me: Uh, well, I'm an attorney, yeah. I'm not sure about "big time."
Driver: Oh sure, you hot shot lawyer, make big money.
Me: (laughing weakly) Right, well someone should tell my boss that.
Driver: Bet all the girls love you with your big money.
Me: (more fake laughter) I don't know about that.
Driver: Sure, you can pick up girls easy if you got the money. What bars you like to go to?
Me: Oh, I don't know, lots of different places.
Driver: So many beautiful girls.
Me: Uh huh.
Driver: Just be careful, because some of those girls, they see big time lawyer like you and they decide they going to get pregnant.
And scene. The "conversation" then continued to cover my future career plans, the weather (natch), and the immigration status of a number of people I've never met. I think I've just got to start acting visibly insane; not only would people shun me, but they might also give me quarters.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
A New Era of Stalking Dawns
So if you're like me (and you should be!) and you check Friendster about a hundred times daily, you probably noticed the shocking betrayal that occurred last Friday when Friendster, with no warning or advance notice whatsoever, gave everyone on the network the ability to see who's been viewing their profile. Suddenly the entirely harmless pastime of repeatedly viewing the profiles of people who broke up with you in high school or listed "postmodernism" as an interest or simply happened to have kind-looking faces took on a whole new dimension. It was instantly embarrassing, as though rather than skimming over profiles for evidence of intelligent life (or even just life with good cheekbones), we had all been touching ourselves inappropriately over them, puddles of drool and/or other bodily fluids collecting at our feet.
Or maybe I'm overstating the case. There was, of course, the delightful converse experience of scanning through the ranks of those who had viewed our own profiles (some 140, for me, which I attribute to the new Glamour Shots I had done) and knowing that we'd been thought somehow interesting, even occasionally by people with the requisite numbers of fingers and toes. I mean, sure, it's not attention on the level of a craigslist missed connection, but it beats getting stared at by a crazy person on the train. Well, I guess it depends on how cute the crazy person is.
But anyway, I just want to say to anyone whose profile I happened to view in September that it was a complete accident caused by my cat Muffin's awkward tendency to jump on my keyboard for an afternoon nap. Same with all those creepy messages I sent you. Damned literate cat.
So if you're like me (and you should be!) and you check Friendster about a hundred times daily, you probably noticed the shocking betrayal that occurred last Friday when Friendster, with no warning or advance notice whatsoever, gave everyone on the network the ability to see who's been viewing their profile. Suddenly the entirely harmless pastime of repeatedly viewing the profiles of people who broke up with you in high school or listed "postmodernism" as an interest or simply happened to have kind-looking faces took on a whole new dimension. It was instantly embarrassing, as though rather than skimming over profiles for evidence of intelligent life (or even just life with good cheekbones), we had all been touching ourselves inappropriately over them, puddles of drool and/or other bodily fluids collecting at our feet.
Or maybe I'm overstating the case. There was, of course, the delightful converse experience of scanning through the ranks of those who had viewed our own profiles (some 140, for me, which I attribute to the new Glamour Shots I had done) and knowing that we'd been thought somehow interesting, even occasionally by people with the requisite numbers of fingers and toes. I mean, sure, it's not attention on the level of a craigslist missed connection, but it beats getting stared at by a crazy person on the train. Well, I guess it depends on how cute the crazy person is.
But anyway, I just want to say to anyone whose profile I happened to view in September that it was a complete accident caused by my cat Muffin's awkward tendency to jump on my keyboard for an afternoon nap. Same with all those creepy messages I sent you. Damned literate cat.
Monday, October 03, 2005
So Many Questions...
Is it possible that someone's playing racquetball in the office next door to mine? I keep hearing things slam against the wall, and typically temper tantrums don't happen around here until we get closer to nap time. Maybe I'm just crazy.
Is anyone else disturbed to think our next potential Supreme Court justice doesn't know how to say no to eyeliner? I mean, sure, Scalia likes his rouge, and Thomas has been rocking the Just For Men look for some time now, but I don't think Pirate of the Caribbean is necessarily the best look for the highest court in the land. Although I do support the wearing of the huge ruffled dickey, like Sandy D always used to. That's why my choice would have been Keith Partridge.
Can I get a shout out for Guest Blogger Kathy and everyone else who just found out they passed the Illinois bar? It's the first big step on the road to professional disillusionment. But the good news is that the swearing-in ceremony is amazing. This year I hear they got Journey.
How difficult is it to keep an el train on the tracks, really? I mean, they're just kind of THERE, you know? They go in a straight line. It's not like there are any right angles or anything. I bet you anything the driver was playing Tetris on his Game Boy and forgot to hold on to the wheel. It is a pretty classic game.
Does anyone else think it's awesome that I've been listening to the original cast recording of Jesus Christ Superstar in my office this afternoon? My secretary definitely seemed to think it was pretty cool. At least I think that's what it means when she buries her face in her hands.
Is it possible that someone's playing racquetball in the office next door to mine? I keep hearing things slam against the wall, and typically temper tantrums don't happen around here until we get closer to nap time. Maybe I'm just crazy.
Is anyone else disturbed to think our next potential Supreme Court justice doesn't know how to say no to eyeliner? I mean, sure, Scalia likes his rouge, and Thomas has been rocking the Just For Men look for some time now, but I don't think Pirate of the Caribbean is necessarily the best look for the highest court in the land. Although I do support the wearing of the huge ruffled dickey, like Sandy D always used to. That's why my choice would have been Keith Partridge.
Can I get a shout out for Guest Blogger Kathy and everyone else who just found out they passed the Illinois bar? It's the first big step on the road to professional disillusionment. But the good news is that the swearing-in ceremony is amazing. This year I hear they got Journey.
How difficult is it to keep an el train on the tracks, really? I mean, they're just kind of THERE, you know? They go in a straight line. It's not like there are any right angles or anything. I bet you anything the driver was playing Tetris on his Game Boy and forgot to hold on to the wheel. It is a pretty classic game.
Does anyone else think it's awesome that I've been listening to the original cast recording of Jesus Christ Superstar in my office this afternoon? My secretary definitely seemed to think it was pretty cool. At least I think that's what it means when she buries her face in her hands.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Priority Check
I have come in to my office, but I suddenly feel that I am not going to do any work. In fact, I'm rather sure of it; I just made plans to be somewhere at seven. It takes me more time than that just to check my e-mail. Mainly because so many people want to tell me about the "pharmaceutical revolution," but still, it's a time consumer.
After last night's assorted disasters, however, I feel I must have another go at weekend fun. Leaving the office "happy hour" a little happier than I should have been after what turned out to be several hours of vodka tonics, I attempted to go meet up with some non-work friends (or "real friends," as I sometimes like to call them) in Lakeview. It wasn't until I was standing outside the bar that I realized I had apparently decided not to be weighed down by any form of ID. (I almost wrote "IUD," which would be equally correct.) Relatively unphased, I simply decided to take the train home, at which point I got on the wrong train, couldn't figure out which stop to get off at, and ended up walking several miles to my home. To top it all off, I randomly called friends and filled them in on the meaning of life for the duration of my walk. I am surprised I still HAVE friends to go out with this evening.
But I do, and I will, so it looks like no work for me today. The good (?) news is that it will definitely still be here waiting for me tomorrow.
I have come in to my office, but I suddenly feel that I am not going to do any work. In fact, I'm rather sure of it; I just made plans to be somewhere at seven. It takes me more time than that just to check my e-mail. Mainly because so many people want to tell me about the "pharmaceutical revolution," but still, it's a time consumer.
After last night's assorted disasters, however, I feel I must have another go at weekend fun. Leaving the office "happy hour" a little happier than I should have been after what turned out to be several hours of vodka tonics, I attempted to go meet up with some non-work friends (or "real friends," as I sometimes like to call them) in Lakeview. It wasn't until I was standing outside the bar that I realized I had apparently decided not to be weighed down by any form of ID. (I almost wrote "IUD," which would be equally correct.) Relatively unphased, I simply decided to take the train home, at which point I got on the wrong train, couldn't figure out which stop to get off at, and ended up walking several miles to my home. To top it all off, I randomly called friends and filled them in on the meaning of life for the duration of my walk. I am surprised I still HAVE friends to go out with this evening.
But I do, and I will, so it looks like no work for me today. The good (?) news is that it will definitely still be here waiting for me tomorrow.
