the ocean

Strangers on a Train

Weird things always, always, always happen to me on the el. I'm not just talking your garden variety weird train things like being harassed by a panhandler or seeing someone masturbating; I'm talking latter-day-Marlon-Brando-level weirdness here. Random people like to come up to me and mistake me for their grandchild or tell me the story of how they lost their virginity (but usually not both at once). I'm told I'm very "approachable," although usually not after I threaten to cut people for saying that. Thankfully, my juvenile records have been sealed.

So anyway, even though I only ride the train for two stops in the morning now, I really should have known better than to employ a Harry Potter bookmark that says "Reading is Magic."

"Oh, wow, man, I really love your bookmark, man, that's so cool. 'Reading is magic,' boy, that's true. Reading IS magic."

You know how people portray hippies in really bad community theater productions of "Hair?" That's how this lady talked.

"Um, thanks," I responded, wondering why A) having my face buried in my book gave this lady the impression that I wanted to chat and B) she failed to understand the essential train rule that people don't really talk in the mornings, when the dark Chicago Winter has us focused on contemplating suicide.

"Yeah, I just really like to read, man. It's just so magic. I'll get like a Janet Evanovich book and just lie back in the tub and let it take me away."

Chances are she was actually thinking of Calgon, but I was so jarred by the Janet Evanovich reference that I really didn't know what to say.

"Right, well, reading is great," I said.

"Reading is magic, geez, man, I really like that. It's so true. It's just, yeah, I'd rather be reading than doing anything."

"Uh huh."

"I mean, that's why I'm actually really glad I don't have a job right now, man. Lots more time to read. That's just great."

"Uh huh."

"I mean, what is money, anyway, man? You don't need it. All you need is a good book. Reading is magic."

After this, things get a little bit blurry for me. All I know is that when I woke up there was blood on my hands.

Home Front

Some fairly amazing things happened while I was in Quincy. First, my sister and I found all of our old games from the early days of the PC, so we partied like we were in fourth grade, except without the Jolt Cola, which has most likely been banned by the FDA. I attained the rank of "Investigator" on "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?" after busting Patty Larceny on the theft of the water from Lake Michigan. We also performed some slightly impressive surgery on Life & Death, accidentally turning the anesthesia off while the patient was still cut open and being sent to "med school," where we were told to "not lose heart" because "surgery is tricky." We did not lose heart; instead we lost another good six to ten patients. The good news is that I believe could now become a licensed physician in Guatemala.

I also found my old Casio keyboard and brought it back with me. This means I can now write the greatest musical masterpieces in the history on mankind, so long as they don't involve more than two octaves or more than two notes playing at the same time. I can additionally summon up 99 different electronic versions of instruments that sound nothing like the actual instrument. And the sound effects! Don't be surprised if you're just minding your own business one day and you suddenly hear a laser beam. I am the future of music.

Nostalgia Trip

One of the best (worst) things about coming from a small town is the likelihood that, should you return home and somehow venture to a bar, video store, or God forbid Wal-Mart, you will undoubtedly run into just about everyone you've ever known. I have been here for three days and have already seen several former high school classmates (all of whom were slightly fatter with worse hair), an elderly (then and now) lady I was in community theater with in junior high, and former orthodontist. Luckily, most of these people have clearly been as anxious to not make eye contact with me as I have been to act very, very interested in the display of Noxema products in the opposite direction of them. But occasionally you get a talker, and that is when I feel fully justified in making up outrageous lies:

Intrusive Former Acquaintance: Wow, Jay, it's so good to see you. What have you been up to?
Jay: Oh, I'm an astronaut. Got me a little place on Mars.
IFA: Mars? Really? I didn't even think people could breathe on Mars.
Jay: Yeah, that's what the liberal media wants you to think.
IFA: I can't stand that Michael Moore.
Jay: I know. He's such a goddamned tease. Tarts it up in all those crop tops but won't put out.
IFA: What?
Jay: Nothing, nothing. Hey, do you know if they sell Valtrex here?
IFA: At St. Francis Catholic Church?
Jay: Guess I'll take that as a no.
IFA: Um, yeah, listen, great talking to you, but I've got to get going. I've got a... quilting bee... in space.
Jay: Awww, too bad. But let's have lunch real soon, okay?

Now you see why every time I come back here it gets a little bit harder to leave. It's because of all the outstanding warrants.

On Holiday

Back in Quincy for the holiday. So far it's been fairly good, as I have spent 95% of it in my pajamas. Seriously, my plans for the evening include watching How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days with my parents and possibly driving to Wal-Mart to buy potato chips. I might play the piano a little (I'm all the way up to James Bastien's third grade book now) if I get ambitious.

We had our annual buffet restaurant trip for Thanksgiving dinner today. My highlight was seeing one of the waiters take rolls directly out of the store-bought package to put them in the serving dish. My grandma also had some pretty choice anecdotes about people named Chet and Myrna she used to know when she worked at the courthouse in the 1940s, though. Oh, and they lost our reservation somehow, so we got to stand awkwardly in the lobby and run into former little league coaches and children's theater directors for about twenty minutes. The holidays are all about togetherness.

Yesterday I learned that you shouldn't try to check your email while you're driving. You should, however, definitely jam to your Kelly Clarkson CD. After all, it is the season to be Thankful.

And Let Us All Now Give Thanks...

As I mentioned yesterday, Roommate Liz cooked like a fourteen-course meal for us on Sunday. Seriously, there was a 22-pound turkey involved. Many bad jokes were made about the baster. She also made stuffing and whipped cream from scratch, which I'm not even sure I knew was possible. So yeah, I basically ate enough for any three people, assuming that one of those people is not Starr Jones.

I contributed, too, though, through my artful holiday centerpiece. It's a cornucopia, damn it. I'm not really sure if I've spelled that word correctly, but the point is that I spent hours fashioning something I've never even seen in real life out of construction paper. And I have the paper cuts to prove it. You have to suffer for your art.
I also was in charge of costuming. We went as a slutty pilgrim and slutty indian. Because the holidays are all about the sluttiness. The hat is made out of a pie tin; the ruffle I already owned.
And there's really no reason to cook unless people agree to let you wear a "Kiss the Cook" apron. We looked for one that said "Unceremoniously Grope the Cook," but they are hard to come by.

What's Cooking

Interesting weekend here. Roommate Liz cooked a huge Thanksgiving meal for last night, so most of Saturday and Sunday were spent with her in the kitchen blasting her Justin Timberlake CD, occasionally setting off the fire alarm (not her fault -- they go off constantly -- I've decided not to be concerned), and asking me to taste things. My main contribution was not attempting to cook anything, but I did also craft a lovely centerpiece out of construction paper and buy an amazing "party tray" of salami and pepperoni. Because nothing says Thanksgiving like a hunk of pepperoni on a Town House.

Other than that, things were quiet. I got caught up on some back episodes of The OC, although I'm still not quite up to date (I haven't yet viewed the Mischa Barton Nip Slip, tragically). I took the trash out about six hundred times, during the daylight this time, for fear of making any more new friends. I made plans to go to Best Buy, but failed to do so. Oh, and I slept. A lot. I dreamt that I was drowning in a pool filled with Zima and the captain of the math team at my high school saved me. I'm not kidding.

And it's a short week here because of Thanksgiving. It feels like grade school, when everybody was all hyper because break was coming. Maybe we'll get to eat candy corn and watch movies.

How the OTHER Other Half Lives

Last night something sort of unusual happened to me as I was taking the trash out. To be fair, the fact of my taking the trash out was unusual in and of itself. The area between our back door and the dumpsters is rather dark and scary and full of nooks in which swarthy men with knives could be hiding, so I don't frequent it. But due to some rather pungent Chinese-food-related trash, I felt a more urgent than usual need to make the trip.

None of which is the point. As I was approaching the back gate, I heard some rustling. I told myself it was only the wind, or perhaps a friendly talking squirrel. But it turned out to be a lady, and I jumped approximately ten thousand feet into the air.

"Oh, my goodness, my goodness, yes, we're going through your trash," she said.

"Oh, that's all right," I responded, rather needlessly.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "This is my husband. Yes, we are homeless. Yes, I have a drug problem. Yes, I have been in and out of the mental institution."

"Okay, well..."

"Are you throwing that away? Here. Let me take it. Any clothes in here?"

"Uh, no. Mainly that's just... trash."

"All right, well, you got any clothes upstairs? Or medicines?"

And I remembered the bag of flannel shirts, Simpsons t-shirts, and other clothes I probably haven't worn since eighth grade that had been sitting in my room waiting to go to goodwill for about six and a half years. And, God help me, I went to get it. And I ended up getting a hug from a homeless lady.

"And yes, I drink, but don't tell nobody," she said as we parted.

Her secret is safe with me.

Family Circle

I think that someday I really want to have children. The problem, though, is that I don't want just ANY children, I want to choose my children from a line-up based on certain standards of intelligence, behavior, and grooming. Thereafter, I want to retain the option to fire said children should they grind Play-Doh into my carpet or somehow fare poorly on the SATs. Of course, they'll be allowed to set standards for me, too -- if I ever dress them in matching outfits or make them enter the Pinewood Derby, I fully admit that a summary dismissal is in order.

I'm a little worried about naming my (as of yet fictional) kids, too. I mean, if you name your daughter Crystal she's just going to end up being a hooker, no question about it. And boys named Kurt or Todd are borderline retarded, whether they want to be or not. I have to avoid ethnic names due to my pasty white skin and highly Germanic last name; devising a Carlos or a Shanequa would just be asking the neighborhood kids to beat them up. I kind of feel like it would be fun to give them random words as names, like Butter (who doesn't like butter?) and Recliner, but you really have to be a celebrity for that level of gall to be permissible. Chances are I'll end up with a Jason and a Sarah.

I really don't know what brought any of this on, in case you're wondering; it may just be that the mind wanders when there's no sun out and you're reviewing documents all day.

This Week In Competence

Huge filing at work yesterday, which involved hours of me trying rather fruitlessly to understand the colossal importance of subheadings being properly spaced and case names not being abbreviated within sentences. Another job of mine was carrying pages of text from the person editing them to the typist several offices down. Trust me, it was important. Oh, and I think I may have developed scoliosis from bending over the record for so long without any break. It's okay; I hear curvature of the spine is totally an "in" look for Winter.

Today I did some client interviews. I always end up talking way too much during those things and by the time we're done they know all about my fourth grade trip to the Illinois State Museum (Justin Ketzler got his shoelaces caught in the escalator and started crying) but I still don't really know anything about their lawsuit. So I tried to keep a lid on it. At the expense of one truly excellent anecdote about the time I met Tony Danza.

It also turns out I really don't know how to use my work phone. I mean, I guess we kind of knew that because I keep hanging up on people when I try to change lines, but today I had to call long distance and I repeatedly got internal extensions instead. Nice to be talking to the chairman of the firm when you're looking for an elderly fraud plaintiff. I really think I've reached my professional peak and it's time for me to retire.

The Bachelorette

So my friend Chrissy had a fake bachelorette party on Friday. As she put it, "why should people who are actually getting married have all the fun?" So out came the suck for a buck t-shirts, the bridal veils with devil's horns on them, and the feather boas. It was, after all, her last night of fake freedom.

Halfway through the night I started telling everyone that I had decided I was in love with Chrissy and that if I let her go through with this it would be a huge mistake. We do make a cute couple, don't you think? This shot would be our Christmas card, of course.
Oh, these naughty, naughty ladies. My favorite thing is that the suck for a buck necklaces actually left the life savers in their original packaging. Just because you're slutting it up in preparation for drudgerous monogamy, that's no reason to get unhygenic.
And of course there had to be dancing on the bar. The truly sad thing is that there was a real bachelorette party there at the same time as us, and ours was much, much better. Mainly because of the sarcasm, but still...
Sister Meg was in town for the proceedings. Somehow we managed to look surprised in this photo, even though we took it ourselves. We are special, special people.

Missing Inaction

Perhaps you've noticed that posting has been spotty this week. I'd like to tell you that this is because I've been doing either wonderfully meaningful or shamefully scandalous things, but the truth of the matter is that I've pretty much been pissing the time away as usual. We have a brief going out this week, so since this place would obviously fall apart without me, I've been putting in extra hours doing incredibly vital proofreading and case printing and coffee fetching. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm made partner by the end of the week. I also expect to be named Prime Minister of Canada and America's Next Top Model.

Don't worry, though, I did still catch LOST this week. All I can say is that I'm kind of hoping we can put a moratorium on killing characters for a while. Otherwise we'll just be left with Jack and Kate sparring cutely while Sun picks berries. Which, don't get me wrong, I would totally watch, but it might not make the best lead-in for Invasion.

Oh, and I saw The Merchant of Venice at Chicago Shakespeare. The acting was amazing (although I'm still lobbying for Ashton Kutcher as Shylock) and the whole production was really well done, but boy oh boy is that a tough show to produce in 2005. Vitriolic anti-semitism just doesn't play the way it used to, you know?

Skin Deep

So I have a wonderful new dermatologist who is also a plastic surgeon. This means that each time I go in to whine about my perpetual puberty, I also have the option of getting my boobs done. Plus I get to sit in the waiting room listening to the awful new agey dulcimer music (which would also be appropriate for a terrible Chinese restaurant) and guess who's there for what. Nine times out of ten I guess penis enlargement, but that's probably just a reflex.

Another fun thing about my new dermatologist is that she's one of those big, brassy women who makes a great big show of her confidence but obviously goes home and cries silent silver tears into her pillow each night. She's cracking all kinds of jokes and talking uncomfortably about her personal life on the outside, but I know inside she's wondering if there's a new Commander in Chief on tonight and if there's any of that Chunky Monkey left in her freezer. I just want to hug her, but not until after she's already given me my prescriptions.

Of course, every time I leave my office even for an hour I come back to find five or six voicemail messages requesting my urgent response to an emergency motion or gunshot wound or industrial accident, but I think looking good is worth a little suffering, don't you? So long as that suffering belongs to other people.

The International Perspective

I have just started working on an asylum case, and it has brought me to the conclusion that I am a whiny, spoiled bastard. While people in other countries are being beaten and poked with sharp objects simply because they express a desire to, oh I don't know, vote or practice their religions, I am complaining about the limited selection at Video Shmideo. While brave men and women under oppressive regimes risk their lives in the hope of restoring basic freedoms to their citizenry, I find it too burdensome to read anything but the Arts & Leisure section of the newspaper. While some desperate souls flee their homelands under threat of death and take menial jobs in this country just to have some slight taste of opportunity, I bitch about the stale donuts at the Monday morning meeting for my ridiculously lucrative office job. So yeah, I'm kind of not cool.

But I am, at the very least, aspiring to self improve. First off, I am going to win this case, and then I'm going to buy our client some therapy for his post traumatic stress syndrome and also like a Gameboy or something, because it's time he had a little bit of fun in his life. Then I'm going to start watching PBS all the time, and not just the kids' shows, like the real news shows where people wear suits and have accents. And I'll become like really really politically active, with rallies and everything, although I'm still not going to watch the debates because they always strike me as a dismally unfunny absurdist play. Plus I'll give like a million dollars to charity, because God knows I'd just waste it on booze anyway. Then I'll be awesome.

They've really got to stop me from working on these cases before I decide to move to Africa and give all my CDs to the poor.

Fun With Antisocial Behavior

Tonight I am indulging in a completely lazy, selfish night all alone. I have watched about six episodes of MADE, a little bit of I Love the 80s 3D, half of 13 Going on 30, and two separate, shockingly long portions of Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen. I made some pasta (okay, well, Roommate Liz made some pasta; I reheated some pasta), ate some of the cheap Christmas chocolates I impulse bought at Dominick's today, and read all but the books section of an Entertainment Weekly (seriously, who are they kidding with the books section?). Soon I plan on lying in bed and watching Ocean's Twelve until I fall asleep, which shouldn't be long, judging from what I've heard about Ocean's Twelve. I couldn't be more excited.

Perhaps that's because last night began with a Red Bull and vodka, progressed through multiple rounds of flip cup, and ended with me cleaning my own vomit off my bathroom mirror. I wouldn't want to jump to any conclusions, but that may have had something to do with it.

It may also be because I spent my morning of indisposal teaching improv games to a rather unimpressed group of eight- to thirteen-year-olds. There's something about playing Pass the Clap (get those dirty thoughts out of your head) with a splitting headache that's less than endearing. And my gentle sobbing made the mirroring exercises extra challenging. If it hadn't been for the McDonald's bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, I don't think I would have survived. Though I doubt they'll incorporate my anecdote into their marketing plan any time soon.

All right, off to do, well, nothing of substance.

Plagiarism as Blogging 101

I recently finished reading All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren, and rather than actually expending effort on a post today, I thought I'd pull out a few quotes I really liked for all you crazy kids. It's one of the few books I've enjoyed enough to add to my Friendster favorites in the past few years, even if it did take me two months to read, since I have a real job now. So think of this as your kultural edukation. And not as sheer laziness. Perish the thought.

"[A] man's virtue may be but the defect of his desire, as his crime may be but a function of his virtue."

"You meet somebody at the seashore or on a vacation and have a wonderful time together. Or in a corner at a party, while the glasses clink and somebody beats on a piano, you talk with a stranger whose mind seems to whet and sharpen your own and with whom a wonderful new vista of ideas is spied. Or you share some intense or painful experience with somebody, and discover a deep communion. Then afterward you are sure that when you meet again, the gay companion will give you the old gaiety, the brilliant stranger will stir your mind from its torpor, the sympathetic friend will solace you with the old communion of spirit. But something happens, or almost always happens, to the gaiety, the brilliance, the communion. You remember the individual words from the old language you spoke together, but you have forgotten the grammar. You remember the steps of the dance, but the music isn't playing any more. So there you are."

"Perhaps the only answer, I thought then, was that by the time we understand the pattern we are in, the definition we are making for ourselves, it is too late to break out of the box. We can only live in terms of the definition, like the prisoner in the cage in which he cannot lie or stand or sit, hung up in justice to be viewed by the populace. Yet the definition we have made of ourselves is ourselves."

"The person who loves you has picked you out of the great mass of uncreated clay which is humanity to make something out of, and the poor lumpish clay which is you wants to find out what it has been made into. But at the same time, you, in the act of loving somebody, become real, cease to be a part of the continuum of the uncreated clay and get the breath of life in you and rise up."

Make sure to watch for the major motion picture with Sean Penn and Jude Law! Because Hollywood has never bungled the adaptation of a classic novel!

Please, Call Me "Sir"

I've come to the conclusion that I've made it impossible for my secretary ever to respect me again.

This is not just because she walked in on me listening to Godspell in my office today, although I think the chorus of "O Bless the Lord My Soul" would have in and of itself have been sufficient. For a moment I was terrified she might think I was listening to a praise CD, but then I realized that might actually be a plus to her, for all I knew.

It is also not just because I have allowed her to begin coordinating my fashion choices with her own and those of other secretaries. Tomorrow is supposed to be Green Sweater Day, but I'm thinking I'll be a rebel and wear olive. You've got to take risks in life.

Nor is it solely because I allow her to spend most of her day eating lunch, trash talking other attorneys with her secretary friends, and reading romance novels. If I didn't have to bill my time, I'd be doing the same thing.

In truth, it is all of these things. That and the fact that I almost cried in front of her when she told me that the floater secretaries had accidentally destroyed all my records from the week she was gone. Never once in the whole run of Matlock did you see that guy in tears.

My Chemical Romance

So last night I took a sleeping pill before bed. I did this because I had enough caffeine yesterday to kill a small mammal (such as Jennifer Love Hewitt) and in those circumstances my brain tends to minutely consider the intricacies of the latest Laguna Beach, obsess over whether the receptionist in marketing likes me, or review every last detail of the 7th grade band trip to Peoria rather than sleep. As planned, the pill knocked me out faster than Ron Artest or any mention of phrase "sovereign immunity." I dreamt that I was meeting Noam Chomsky.

Unfortunately, Noam and I never really got together, because my sleep disorder kicked in while I was still on my way to the Applebee's (that's where Noam wanted to go; he has very simple tastes), and I woke up in an utter irrational panic. The kind where you think there are bees in your hair and zombies attacking your Yugo. We're talking Ann Coulter Crazy here.

So I had to take my special sleep disorder pills, which come with a big warning that you shouldn't mix them with other drugs, which, it turns out, they really mean. Because today I feel like they've opened a new CTA line in my brain and hired a chain gang to staff it. Which I'm not even sure makes sense. But frankly, that's the least of my worries.

Maybe if I crawl behind the copier I can get a little bit of rest.