Friday, July 29, 2005
Past and Present
I caught MTV’s The 70s House for the first time the other day, and I’m afraid I have to admit I’ve developed a taste for it. I just love the fact that the cast is largely oblivious to the way they are being mocked and humiliated. When asked to drop whatever they’re doing and do the Hustle every time a buzzer goes off, the cast members simply accept this as some sort of legitimate "rule" to the "game," rather than reflecting on how unnecessary it is and how ridiculous they all look grooving in their ill-fitting polyester bell bottoms and Farrah Fawcett haircuts. When openly chastised for believing the bicentennial occurred in 1972 and Eisenhower was a president in the 70s, they simply shrug and smile, secure in the knowledge that, even should they spend the rest of their tenure in the 70s house shoving avocado-colored crayons up their noses, they will still be better than the rest of the world because they are now "famous." This is compelling television.
In a similarly retro vein, I’m reading Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco right now. It’s a definite product of the 80s—there’s a whole section rhapsodizing about the wonders of the word processor—but also sort of ahead of its time, beating Dan Brown to that whole "ludicrous religious conspiracy out to get us all" thing by about 20 years. You can also definitely tell it was written by a professor, given that some sections of dialogue devolve into large paragraphs of historical lecture broken up only by occasional supportive interjections, but it’s a pretty good summer read. As Levar Burton, host of the popular children’s literacy program Reading Rainbow, would say, check it out at your local library.
I caught MTV’s The 70s House for the first time the other day, and I’m afraid I have to admit I’ve developed a taste for it. I just love the fact that the cast is largely oblivious to the way they are being mocked and humiliated. When asked to drop whatever they’re doing and do the Hustle every time a buzzer goes off, the cast members simply accept this as some sort of legitimate "rule" to the "game," rather than reflecting on how unnecessary it is and how ridiculous they all look grooving in their ill-fitting polyester bell bottoms and Farrah Fawcett haircuts. When openly chastised for believing the bicentennial occurred in 1972 and Eisenhower was a president in the 70s, they simply shrug and smile, secure in the knowledge that, even should they spend the rest of their tenure in the 70s house shoving avocado-colored crayons up their noses, they will still be better than the rest of the world because they are now "famous." This is compelling television.
In a similarly retro vein, I’m reading Foucault’s Pendulum by Umberto Eco right now. It’s a definite product of the 80s—there’s a whole section rhapsodizing about the wonders of the word processor—but also sort of ahead of its time, beating Dan Brown to that whole "ludicrous religious conspiracy out to get us all" thing by about 20 years. You can also definitely tell it was written by a professor, given that some sections of dialogue devolve into large paragraphs of historical lecture broken up only by occasional supportive interjections, but it’s a pretty good summer read. As Levar Burton, host of the popular children’s literacy program Reading Rainbow, would say, check it out at your local library.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Good Housekeeping
Guess who spent half the day shredding documents? I feel so Iran-Contra right now. I guess my employers just think it’s important that I erase all evidence that I actually worked here before I leave. I hear Regis made Kathie Lee do the same thing. It is kind of an interesting trip down memory lane, though, to see documents from a time when I thought "deliberate indifference" was a Sarah Michelle Gellar movie and I still sometimes spelled "judgment" with an extra "e." I guess I have done more in the past two years than just checking email and badmouthing my coworkers. I’ve also completely lost all faith in justice. No, I kid, folks, I kid. The only thing I’ve really lost faith in is the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. Eva Longoria is the greatest actress of her generation.
They’re also throwing a goodbye lunch for me this Friday. Well, me and like sixty other employees who are leaving. It’s going to be in Greektown. Because you know me, I just can’t get enough of Greektown. If food isn’t on fire or made from the less desirable portions of a goat, I just don’t want it. I’m also pretty sure that they’re going to make me pay for my own lunch. Maybe I’ll just bring a sack lunch and tote it along. Some Lunchables and a Fresca? Opa!
Guess who spent half the day shredding documents? I feel so Iran-Contra right now. I guess my employers just think it’s important that I erase all evidence that I actually worked here before I leave. I hear Regis made Kathie Lee do the same thing. It is kind of an interesting trip down memory lane, though, to see documents from a time when I thought "deliberate indifference" was a Sarah Michelle Gellar movie and I still sometimes spelled "judgment" with an extra "e." I guess I have done more in the past two years than just checking email and badmouthing my coworkers. I’ve also completely lost all faith in justice. No, I kid, folks, I kid. The only thing I’ve really lost faith in is the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. Eva Longoria is the greatest actress of her generation.
They’re also throwing a goodbye lunch for me this Friday. Well, me and like sixty other employees who are leaving. It’s going to be in Greektown. Because you know me, I just can’t get enough of Greektown. If food isn’t on fire or made from the less desirable portions of a goat, I just don’t want it. I’m also pretty sure that they’re going to make me pay for my own lunch. Maybe I’ll just bring a sack lunch and tote it along. Some Lunchables and a Fresca? Opa!
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
Raising the Bar
Today is the first day of the Illinois Bar Exam. Like Christmas or Oprah’s birthday, it’s an exciting and yet potentially fatal occasion, filled with joy and unnecessary complication. I myself took the bar two years ago, way back when Bush had an illegitimate presidency and Britney hadn’t even been married once yet. Thanks to the good services of number two pencils and a first-rate analyst, I passed. For the uninitiated, however, I now present some simulated bar exam questions of my own design:
1. Constitutional Law. Suppose State A passes a law barring the sale of oat bran from State B within its borders, premised on a theory that State B oat bran is filled with unclean spirits and may or may not cause leprosy. State B then introduces a binding resolution declaring the governor of State A to be a pompous asshole. Legally, it is most correct to say that:
A. The oat bran law violates the dormant commerce clause.
B. The asshole resolution violates the separation of powers, although it is really sort of cool.
C. No one really likes oat bran that much, anyway.
D. State B is kind of a whore.
2. Contract Law. An internationally-known actor offers a lesser-known starlet with oral herpes 8 million dollars to enthusiastically but vaguely profess her love for him at a variety of film premieres, carefully choreographed Italian vacations, and church of scientology clambakes. Later, ravaged by the effects of illicit ritalin, starlet forgets to declare actor "extraordinary." At this point:
A. Starlet has breached her contract with actor.
B. The contract lacks consideration because actor has never consummated his relationship with L. Ron Hubbard.
C. Actor and starlet should pitch a reality show based on their wacky and totally real exploits.
D. Dawson Leery is crying himself to sleep every night.
3. Criminal Law. Convinced that wife Cindy is having an affair with their dental hygienist Candy, Bob plans to shoot her when she gets back from her trip to adopt a Cambodian orphan. After meeting little Mei Wing, however, Bob experiences a change of heart and decides not only to not kill Cindy but also to legitimize his fourteen other children sprinkled throughout ten midwestern states. In his zeal to begin the necessary paperwork, Bob (who is not an experienced marksman, although he did attain the rank of Wolf in Cub Scouts) drops his weapon and it discharges five times, killing the mailman, Karl. Or at least that’s the story they’re sticking to. Under traditional theories of murder, Bob has:
A. Committed first degree murder because he intended to kill his potentially lesbian-leaning wife.
B. Committed manslaughter because the jury will think orphans are adorable.
C. Not committed any crime – Karl was an enemy combatant and a threat to the freedom of the American people.
D. Just done the most interesting thing anyone named Bob will ever do.
Don’t these make you wish you were taking the bar exam right now?!?!?
Today is the first day of the Illinois Bar Exam. Like Christmas or Oprah’s birthday, it’s an exciting and yet potentially fatal occasion, filled with joy and unnecessary complication. I myself took the bar two years ago, way back when Bush had an illegitimate presidency and Britney hadn’t even been married once yet. Thanks to the good services of number two pencils and a first-rate analyst, I passed. For the uninitiated, however, I now present some simulated bar exam questions of my own design:
1. Constitutional Law. Suppose State A passes a law barring the sale of oat bran from State B within its borders, premised on a theory that State B oat bran is filled with unclean spirits and may or may not cause leprosy. State B then introduces a binding resolution declaring the governor of State A to be a pompous asshole. Legally, it is most correct to say that:
A. The oat bran law violates the dormant commerce clause.
B. The asshole resolution violates the separation of powers, although it is really sort of cool.
C. No one really likes oat bran that much, anyway.
D. State B is kind of a whore.
2. Contract Law. An internationally-known actor offers a lesser-known starlet with oral herpes 8 million dollars to enthusiastically but vaguely profess her love for him at a variety of film premieres, carefully choreographed Italian vacations, and church of scientology clambakes. Later, ravaged by the effects of illicit ritalin, starlet forgets to declare actor "extraordinary." At this point:
A. Starlet has breached her contract with actor.
B. The contract lacks consideration because actor has never consummated his relationship with L. Ron Hubbard.
C. Actor and starlet should pitch a reality show based on their wacky and totally real exploits.
D. Dawson Leery is crying himself to sleep every night.
3. Criminal Law. Convinced that wife Cindy is having an affair with their dental hygienist Candy, Bob plans to shoot her when she gets back from her trip to adopt a Cambodian orphan. After meeting little Mei Wing, however, Bob experiences a change of heart and decides not only to not kill Cindy but also to legitimize his fourteen other children sprinkled throughout ten midwestern states. In his zeal to begin the necessary paperwork, Bob (who is not an experienced marksman, although he did attain the rank of Wolf in Cub Scouts) drops his weapon and it discharges five times, killing the mailman, Karl. Or at least that’s the story they’re sticking to. Under traditional theories of murder, Bob has:
A. Committed first degree murder because he intended to kill his potentially lesbian-leaning wife.
B. Committed manslaughter because the jury will think orphans are adorable.
C. Not committed any crime – Karl was an enemy combatant and a threat to the freedom of the American people.
D. Just done the most interesting thing anyone named Bob will ever do.
Don’t these make you wish you were taking the bar exam right now?!?!?
Monday, July 25, 2005
The Seven Stages of Last Night’s Power Outage
Stage One: Fear. (9 PM or so.) Realize it is very, very dark in your bathroom once the mirror lights have gone out and the glow from the water pik has been extinguished. Briefly worry that someone has cut the lights and it planning to knock you out from behind with a tire iron.
Stage Two: Heroism. (9:05) Rise to the occasion as the only person in your building with a working flashlight. Help other residents to find matches, candles, and their takeout orders of sushi. Perform reconnaissance mission to discover that, yup, the whole block’s power is out.
Stage Three: Camp. (9:30) Try to mine the fun from sitting in the hot darkness by telling ghost stories while holding the flashlight up under your chin. Realize that this is not fun. Make a bunch of jokes about churning butter, having a singalong around the piano, and other pre-electricity activities. Realize that Olden Times must have really sucked.
Stage Four: Resignation. (10:15) Call ComEd and listen to a jaunty recording assuring you power will be restored within the hour. Decide to go to bed. Push from your mind all thoughts of the 90-degree temperatures, the milk rapidly curdling in the fridge, and your half-washed laundry.
Stage Five: Rage. (3 AM) As temperatures reach E-Z-Bake Oven levels, wake from a fitful sleep (in which you dreamed you were throwing a party for Meryl Streep) to discover that power has still not been restored. After listening to irritatingly calm recording assuring you that you’ll have air conditioning again by 11 PM tomorrow, consider finding home addresses of ComEd executives to go cut their power. Draft angry letters in your head.
Stage Six: Panic. (3:15 AM) Lie on nearly every surface in the apartment in an attempt to find someplace cool enough to sleep. Nearly take post-it-note in the eye while crawling across desk. Contemplate going to sleep at the office before realizing that cabs and trains are not plentiful at this hour. Eventually pass out on the bedroom floor.
Stage Seven: Aftermath. (4:30 AM) As power is restored, heave a sigh of relief, then heave your largely lifeless body back onto the bed. Realize you have to get up in an hour and a half. Cry.
Stage One: Fear. (9 PM or so.) Realize it is very, very dark in your bathroom once the mirror lights have gone out and the glow from the water pik has been extinguished. Briefly worry that someone has cut the lights and it planning to knock you out from behind with a tire iron.
Stage Two: Heroism. (9:05) Rise to the occasion as the only person in your building with a working flashlight. Help other residents to find matches, candles, and their takeout orders of sushi. Perform reconnaissance mission to discover that, yup, the whole block’s power is out.
Stage Three: Camp. (9:30) Try to mine the fun from sitting in the hot darkness by telling ghost stories while holding the flashlight up under your chin. Realize that this is not fun. Make a bunch of jokes about churning butter, having a singalong around the piano, and other pre-electricity activities. Realize that Olden Times must have really sucked.
Stage Four: Resignation. (10:15) Call ComEd and listen to a jaunty recording assuring you power will be restored within the hour. Decide to go to bed. Push from your mind all thoughts of the 90-degree temperatures, the milk rapidly curdling in the fridge, and your half-washed laundry.
Stage Five: Rage. (3 AM) As temperatures reach E-Z-Bake Oven levels, wake from a fitful sleep (in which you dreamed you were throwing a party for Meryl Streep) to discover that power has still not been restored. After listening to irritatingly calm recording assuring you that you’ll have air conditioning again by 11 PM tomorrow, consider finding home addresses of ComEd executives to go cut their power. Draft angry letters in your head.
Stage Six: Panic. (3:15 AM) Lie on nearly every surface in the apartment in an attempt to find someplace cool enough to sleep. Nearly take post-it-note in the eye while crawling across desk. Contemplate going to sleep at the office before realizing that cabs and trains are not plentiful at this hour. Eventually pass out on the bedroom floor.
Stage Seven: Aftermath. (4:30 AM) As power is restored, heave a sigh of relief, then heave your largely lifeless body back onto the bed. Realize you have to get up in an hour and a half. Cry.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Recent Topics of Lunch Conversation at my Office
-- whether "little people" have full-sized internal organs
-- naming practices at dunkin donuts
-- potential makeovers for various supervisors and secretaries
-- why i was overlooked for the supreme court (brought up by me)
-- the prevalence of obsessive handwashing behaviors among employees in our building
-- what jesus would do
-- how janice dickinson thinks everyone is fat (but is sometimes right)
-- that "play doh you can eat" you made in second grade
-- why it’s not okay to make jokes about people with disabilities
-- how i walked home at one in the morning last night, even though it took an hour
-- which offices are the coolest
-- fun games you can play with office supplies
-- oprah (or okra, i wasn’t sure)
-- whether "little people" have full-sized internal organs
-- naming practices at dunkin donuts
-- potential makeovers for various supervisors and secretaries
-- why i was overlooked for the supreme court (brought up by me)
-- the prevalence of obsessive handwashing behaviors among employees in our building
-- what jesus would do
-- how janice dickinson thinks everyone is fat (but is sometimes right)
-- that "play doh you can eat" you made in second grade
-- why it’s not okay to make jokes about people with disabilities
-- how i walked home at one in the morning last night, even though it took an hour
-- which offices are the coolest
-- fun games you can play with office supplies
-- oprah (or okra, i wasn’t sure)
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Of Note
– Batman Begins. I finally saw it the other night when we couldn’t get in to The Wedding Crashers, and it’s actually decent. I mean, you miss the bat nipples and the crackling sexual chemistry between Batman and Robin, but plot and character development are okay, too. And Katie Holmes’ lazy eye is a rising star!
– Entrepreneurship. Today a homeless man tried to sell me some batteries as I was running past him in the park. I actually think that’s how Donald Trump started out. Actually, it may have been Donald Trump; I didn’t get a very good look at the hair.
– Bush’s Supreme Court Nomination. I think mainly people are just relieved he didn’t go with Darth Vader. Although Darth’s views on employment discrimination are admittedly a little too leftist for this administration.
– Average Joe. I saw about ten minutes last week while I was on hold with the electric company, and it nearly sent me into shock. There were fat men in spandex gorging themselves on sloppy joes and overly-waxed himbos professing love in monosyllables. It made me long for the subtlety and wit of an Elimidate Deluxe.
– Batman Begins. I finally saw it the other night when we couldn’t get in to The Wedding Crashers, and it’s actually decent. I mean, you miss the bat nipples and the crackling sexual chemistry between Batman and Robin, but plot and character development are okay, too. And Katie Holmes’ lazy eye is a rising star!
– Entrepreneurship. Today a homeless man tried to sell me some batteries as I was running past him in the park. I actually think that’s how Donald Trump started out. Actually, it may have been Donald Trump; I didn’t get a very good look at the hair.
– Bush’s Supreme Court Nomination. I think mainly people are just relieved he didn’t go with Darth Vader. Although Darth’s views on employment discrimination are admittedly a little too leftist for this administration.
– Average Joe. I saw about ten minutes last week while I was on hold with the electric company, and it nearly sent me into shock. There were fat men in spandex gorging themselves on sloppy joes and overly-waxed himbos professing love in monosyllables. It made me long for the subtlety and wit of an Elimidate Deluxe.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Mishaps Galore
Remember when you were a kid and you used to run across your lawn and slide face first across the slip n' slide? Yeah, I just did that today, except with the Dominick's parking lot in the pouring rain instead of a slip n' slide. Oh, and with four bags of groceries. I don't think my Little Debbies are ever going to be the same. Har har.
This incident comes right on the heels of me locking myself in the library at work last night. After 5:30, when no one was there to hear my cries for help. I was banging on the doors, trying to pick the locks with a Bill of Rights bookmark, contemplating throwing a trash can through one of the windows. I was just about to pick out a quiet spot by the periodicals to curl up for the night when I realized that, duh, the library has a phone. The good news is that Guest Blogger Kathy seemed to get a real kick out of releasing me from my prison of pain. I live to entertain.
But the good news is that I made it out in time to get to the movie in the park last night, which is always fun. I think it's pretty neat to be able to enjoy something communally with thousands of strangers, even if they do frequently decide to stand up and wave to their friends right in the middle of your field of vision. ("No, I'm over here! By the trash can! See the trash can? No, not that trash can. See me waving? Geez!") Last night's movie was Annie Hall, which of course I've seen about a million times, but I always enjoy. In addition to reminding me of how cool Diane Keaton was and how always-sort-of-creepy-even-before-he-married-his-stepdaughter Woody Allen was, it got me thinking about all the amazing people who have come into (and somehow, sadly, back out of) my life. Luckily, I stubbed my toe on the way out, allowing my searing physical pain to distract from my crippling emotional pain. Life just works out sometimes, doesn't it?
Remember when you were a kid and you used to run across your lawn and slide face first across the slip n' slide? Yeah, I just did that today, except with the Dominick's parking lot in the pouring rain instead of a slip n' slide. Oh, and with four bags of groceries. I don't think my Little Debbies are ever going to be the same. Har har.
This incident comes right on the heels of me locking myself in the library at work last night. After 5:30, when no one was there to hear my cries for help. I was banging on the doors, trying to pick the locks with a Bill of Rights bookmark, contemplating throwing a trash can through one of the windows. I was just about to pick out a quiet spot by the periodicals to curl up for the night when I realized that, duh, the library has a phone. The good news is that Guest Blogger Kathy seemed to get a real kick out of releasing me from my prison of pain. I live to entertain.
But the good news is that I made it out in time to get to the movie in the park last night, which is always fun. I think it's pretty neat to be able to enjoy something communally with thousands of strangers, even if they do frequently decide to stand up and wave to their friends right in the middle of your field of vision. ("No, I'm over here! By the trash can! See the trash can? No, not that trash can. See me waving? Geez!") Last night's movie was Annie Hall, which of course I've seen about a million times, but I always enjoy. In addition to reminding me of how cool Diane Keaton was and how always-sort-of-creepy-even-before-he-married-his-stepdaughter Woody Allen was, it got me thinking about all the amazing people who have come into (and somehow, sadly, back out of) my life. Luckily, I stubbed my toe on the way out, allowing my searing physical pain to distract from my crippling emotional pain. Life just works out sometimes, doesn't it?
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Regime Change
Okay, I know we all had a good laugh when I started talking about my newfound maturity, but listen to all the awesomely adult things I did yesterday. First, I had a salad for lunch, and not even one of those Wendy's salads that are all bacon and dressing with like two pieces of lettuce. Nope, it was like something you would give to livestock, all green and leafy and guaranteed to prevent mange. Then I did all my work very diligently without a single Walgreen's break or watercooler bitch session, and this despite receiving a comprehensive lecture about the merits of shirt tucking. ("If you are wearing a sweater, it isn't necessary to tuck that in. But with a polo shirt, you see, it just looks neater.") I finished Tristram Shandy on the train (a bona fide 18th Century novel, thank you very much, and not exactly the plottiest thing imaginable) and wrote half of a sketch before heading out for the night. I even drank nothing but Diet Coke at the bar. And okay, so maybe I had a little bit of a caffeine buzz going, but mainly I'm pretty sure I was high on life. Does anybody know if Angela Lansbury is single? Because I am feeling mature.
Okay, I know we all had a good laugh when I started talking about my newfound maturity, but listen to all the awesomely adult things I did yesterday. First, I had a salad for lunch, and not even one of those Wendy's salads that are all bacon and dressing with like two pieces of lettuce. Nope, it was like something you would give to livestock, all green and leafy and guaranteed to prevent mange. Then I did all my work very diligently without a single Walgreen's break or watercooler bitch session, and this despite receiving a comprehensive lecture about the merits of shirt tucking. ("If you are wearing a sweater, it isn't necessary to tuck that in. But with a polo shirt, you see, it just looks neater.") I finished Tristram Shandy on the train (a bona fide 18th Century novel, thank you very much, and not exactly the plottiest thing imaginable) and wrote half of a sketch before heading out for the night. I even drank nothing but Diet Coke at the bar. And okay, so maybe I had a little bit of a caffeine buzz going, but mainly I'm pretty sure I was high on life. Does anybody know if Angela Lansbury is single? Because I am feeling mature.
Monday, July 18, 2005
Modern Maturity
I’ve decided that I’m going to try to be more of an adult. No, this doesn’t mean that I’m giving up Fruity Pebbles or the Disney Channel; I’d miss the midmorning sugar rush (not to mention the exciting exploits of Phil of the Future) far too much. What is does mean is that I’m aiming to start each Monday morning by quietly riding the train, not by wondering if I’ve been hit by it. I’d like to go for a run because it’s a pleasant thing to do on a summer day, not because I’ve got sixteen jagerbombs and three plates of nachos to work off. And I think it would be downright great if I could spend a whole day reading again, without wondering if someone I know somewhere is doing something crazy and fun or if, God forbid, I’m missing a marathon of Laguna Beach. I’m not saying I’m fully ready yet to make the big move off of Sesame Street to This Old House; right now I’m just looking for something in the neighborhood of Melrose Place.
Because the thing is, all in all, I do strive to be a person of substance. I like reading and writing and going to museums and learning about architecture or psychology or outer space. I was captain of my quiz bowl team in junior high. I played the viola for fun as recently as Saturday. I even watch the news occasionally, if the Seinfeld rerun on opposite to it is one I’m already tired of or if something about J.Lo catches my attention on the crawl. It’s just that it’s so easy, I think, to get distracted by the powerful lure of good weather and cheap liquor and end up doing body shots off of a stranger when secretly you’d be just as happy curled up on the couch with a good Jane Austen novel. I’m going to do my best to reverse this trend; watch for a thrilling series of posts on household repairs and the stuff I’ve read about sociolinguistics.
I’ve decided that I’m going to try to be more of an adult. No, this doesn’t mean that I’m giving up Fruity Pebbles or the Disney Channel; I’d miss the midmorning sugar rush (not to mention the exciting exploits of Phil of the Future) far too much. What is does mean is that I’m aiming to start each Monday morning by quietly riding the train, not by wondering if I’ve been hit by it. I’d like to go for a run because it’s a pleasant thing to do on a summer day, not because I’ve got sixteen jagerbombs and three plates of nachos to work off. And I think it would be downright great if I could spend a whole day reading again, without wondering if someone I know somewhere is doing something crazy and fun or if, God forbid, I’m missing a marathon of Laguna Beach. I’m not saying I’m fully ready yet to make the big move off of Sesame Street to This Old House; right now I’m just looking for something in the neighborhood of Melrose Place.
Because the thing is, all in all, I do strive to be a person of substance. I like reading and writing and going to museums and learning about architecture or psychology or outer space. I was captain of my quiz bowl team in junior high. I played the viola for fun as recently as Saturday. I even watch the news occasionally, if the Seinfeld rerun on opposite to it is one I’m already tired of or if something about J.Lo catches my attention on the crawl. It’s just that it’s so easy, I think, to get distracted by the powerful lure of good weather and cheap liquor and end up doing body shots off of a stranger when secretly you’d be just as happy curled up on the couch with a good Jane Austen novel. I’m going to do my best to reverse this trend; watch for a thrilling series of posts on household repairs and the stuff I’ve read about sociolinguistics.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Department of Recent Acquisitions
Yesterday I had the day off, and I spent it impulsively purchasing things I don't really need. It was really fun. I love repeatedly explaining to cashiers that, no, my credit card photo doesn't look anything like me, since my parents for some reason decided to send Citibank a picture of me in a tux from like fifth grade. I also like being shoved by a woman in stirrup pants because she thinks I'm after the last of the discounted paper towels. As a rule, I am not.
Anyway, to share the love, I've photographed some of my purchases. I'm like Annie Liebowitz, but for appliances. I bought some other things, too, but no one really wants to see pictures of me in my underwear. I've learned that the hard way.
I got a new water pik! Dental hygiene is so very, very important.
Yesterday I had the day off, and I spent it impulsively purchasing things I don't really need. It was really fun. I love repeatedly explaining to cashiers that, no, my credit card photo doesn't look anything like me, since my parents for some reason decided to send Citibank a picture of me in a tux from like fifth grade. I also like being shoved by a woman in stirrup pants because she thinks I'm after the last of the discounted paper towels. As a rule, I am not.
Anyway, to share the love, I've photographed some of my purchases. I'm like Annie Liebowitz, but for appliances. I bought some other things, too, but no one really wants to see pictures of me in my underwear. I've learned that the hard way.
I got a new water pik! Dental hygiene is so very, very important.
Don't worry, we gave the old water pik a decent burial. This is unlikely to develop into a Velveteen-Rabbit-type scenario any time soon.
I also got a new shirt. I forgot to look happy about the shirt in the picture, though. But trust me, the shirt and I are having a ball.
Okay, so this isn't new (it's actually from a time when you could buy a book for seventy-five cents) but I just wanted to include it because I think the cover art is amazing. Maybe you shouldn't hire some guy on 'shrooms to do the cover art for your classics series, you know?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Working It
Have you ever done that thing where you’re riding in an elevator by yourself and consequently somehow forget that elevators have entrances people can come through without notifying you in advance? Yeah, today my boss pretty much caught me loudly humming a little number from Godspell (and I definitely can’t explain that, so don’t ask) somewhere between the 16th and 26th floors. I just thank God (as ably portrayed by one Victor Garber in the 1973 film version) I hadn’t yet made the leap into choreography. Or started doing that thing where I walk back and forth as the elevator moves to see if I’ll feel weightless. That definitely says "model employee."
Actually, though, boss man and I had a little heart to heart today about ways we could improve the "work experience" here in the law mines. It was actually sort of awkward, because the things that would actually improve anyone’s work experience—such as a ban on the hiring of crazy people, free Ferraris for everyone, and Hooker Thursdays—aren’t really the kinds of things you can bring up in a meeting with your boss. Instead, I ended up saying a lot of exceedingly articulate and wholly meaningless things about autonomy and responsibility, the chain of command, and proactively qualitizing the work product. See how I’m utterly revitalizing the workplace? At least I mentioned that keeping a bowl of free candy on his desk would be pretty sweet.
Have you ever done that thing where you’re riding in an elevator by yourself and consequently somehow forget that elevators have entrances people can come through without notifying you in advance? Yeah, today my boss pretty much caught me loudly humming a little number from Godspell (and I definitely can’t explain that, so don’t ask) somewhere between the 16th and 26th floors. I just thank God (as ably portrayed by one Victor Garber in the 1973 film version) I hadn’t yet made the leap into choreography. Or started doing that thing where I walk back and forth as the elevator moves to see if I’ll feel weightless. That definitely says "model employee."
Actually, though, boss man and I had a little heart to heart today about ways we could improve the "work experience" here in the law mines. It was actually sort of awkward, because the things that would actually improve anyone’s work experience—such as a ban on the hiring of crazy people, free Ferraris for everyone, and Hooker Thursdays—aren’t really the kinds of things you can bring up in a meeting with your boss. Instead, I ended up saying a lot of exceedingly articulate and wholly meaningless things about autonomy and responsibility, the chain of command, and proactively qualitizing the work product. See how I’m utterly revitalizing the workplace? At least I mentioned that keeping a bowl of free candy on his desk would be pretty sweet.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Office Space
My office building has its share of limitations. Temperature control, for instance, is one of them. Last winter I actually managed to blow out a fuse trying to operate two space heaters at once; though I was wearing a sweater, my winter coat, and a rather fetching scarf, my hands could still not maintain the minimum temperature necessary to type without accidentally converting my legal documents into e.e. cummings poems. (Luckily I was able to blame this mishap on a temp, who later went on to win the Bollingen Prize.) In the summer, our offices get hotter than R. Kelly at a Girl Scout camp, and it is not unusual to see coworkers walking around in various states of undress poorly suited to their ages and/or body types. Suffice it to say that it is difficult to comment intelligently on the complexities of qualified immunity while distracted by the man-eating pit stains of Barry from Human Resources.
One thing I do love, however, is the fact that my office is right across the street from a public plaza, where representatives of a full spectrum of humanity gather each day to protest, panhandle, or just eat their Lunchables. So I get to clean out my e-mail inbox or collate my copies to the sounds of an amateur big band or chants of "rape is not okay," depending on who got the appropriate permits that week. I think we had about six Octoberfests over there last year, beginning as early as August, and there was even a semi-nude fur protest this past spring. (Unfortunately, no one in the office had any binoculars.) I mean, okay, it’s not exactly OC-caliber entertainment, but my office for my last job was in a basement with a view of the other four people I shared it with, so at least I’m moving on up.
My office building has its share of limitations. Temperature control, for instance, is one of them. Last winter I actually managed to blow out a fuse trying to operate two space heaters at once; though I was wearing a sweater, my winter coat, and a rather fetching scarf, my hands could still not maintain the minimum temperature necessary to type without accidentally converting my legal documents into e.e. cummings poems. (Luckily I was able to blame this mishap on a temp, who later went on to win the Bollingen Prize.) In the summer, our offices get hotter than R. Kelly at a Girl Scout camp, and it is not unusual to see coworkers walking around in various states of undress poorly suited to their ages and/or body types. Suffice it to say that it is difficult to comment intelligently on the complexities of qualified immunity while distracted by the man-eating pit stains of Barry from Human Resources.
One thing I do love, however, is the fact that my office is right across the street from a public plaza, where representatives of a full spectrum of humanity gather each day to protest, panhandle, or just eat their Lunchables. So I get to clean out my e-mail inbox or collate my copies to the sounds of an amateur big band or chants of "rape is not okay," depending on who got the appropriate permits that week. I think we had about six Octoberfests over there last year, beginning as early as August, and there was even a semi-nude fur protest this past spring. (Unfortunately, no one in the office had any binoculars.) I mean, okay, it’s not exactly OC-caliber entertainment, but my office for my last job was in a basement with a view of the other four people I shared it with, so at least I’m moving on up.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Complaint Box
My cell phone company sent me a text message at three in the morning today to tell me that I'm approaching my "spending limit" for the month. I have no idea what that means (I suspect it may have something to do with the roughly three thousand text messages I've sent on vital topics like the badness of the Dukes of Hazzard trailer and my boredom while waiting in line at Corner Bakery), but I'm certainly glad it woke me up. I sat bolt upright in bed, convinced a close relative was surely lying bloodied in a ditch somewhere, but it turned out that Sprint just thought Monday morning before sunrise would be a great time for some sound fiscal planning. Unfortunately, I doubt my "spending limit" situation can be remedied by chucking my phone out the window.
And the day has not substantially improved. On my run I was nearly struck by a large-haired woman in a Subaru who apparently had a different interpretation of "left turns yield to pedestrians" than I did, although she certainly compensated for any deficits in rhetorical skill with the rather impressive volume of her voice. Then I got to work to discover that everyone here apparently so much fears my departure in a month that they've decided to make it impossible for me to ever leave, creating a little Les-Mis-style barricade in my office out of whatever insane and ridiculous legal pleadings they can find. Oh, and at lunch I found out I just bought a twelve pack of expired, really flat Diet Coke. I'd say it's enough to make me go back to bed, but I'm afraid of what account information Sprint might still have left to share.
Isn't it nice to live in a country where we have the luxury of complaining about such trivial things?
My cell phone company sent me a text message at three in the morning today to tell me that I'm approaching my "spending limit" for the month. I have no idea what that means (I suspect it may have something to do with the roughly three thousand text messages I've sent on vital topics like the badness of the Dukes of Hazzard trailer and my boredom while waiting in line at Corner Bakery), but I'm certainly glad it woke me up. I sat bolt upright in bed, convinced a close relative was surely lying bloodied in a ditch somewhere, but it turned out that Sprint just thought Monday morning before sunrise would be a great time for some sound fiscal planning. Unfortunately, I doubt my "spending limit" situation can be remedied by chucking my phone out the window.
And the day has not substantially improved. On my run I was nearly struck by a large-haired woman in a Subaru who apparently had a different interpretation of "left turns yield to pedestrians" than I did, although she certainly compensated for any deficits in rhetorical skill with the rather impressive volume of her voice. Then I got to work to discover that everyone here apparently so much fears my departure in a month that they've decided to make it impossible for me to ever leave, creating a little Les-Mis-style barricade in my office out of whatever insane and ridiculous legal pleadings they can find. Oh, and at lunch I found out I just bought a twelve pack of expired, really flat Diet Coke. I'd say it's enough to make me go back to bed, but I'm afraid of what account information Sprint might still have left to share.
Isn't it nice to live in a country where we have the luxury of complaining about such trivial things?
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Profundity Banished
Can I just say again how much I love MTV's Made? Okay, not always; watching some prissy popular chick whine about blisters and broken fingernails while she learns to skate holds very little appeal for me. But I love the ones where they take some total helpless case and try to teach him or her little social niceties like not standing on top of someone when you talk to them and not dressing up like Gandalf for your senior prom. Today, for instance, I saw one where they took this hulking wreck of a girl and bought her some skirts and taught her how not to terrify boys. And she got not one but two invitations to prom! I started to tear up a little bit right there. And not just because she had huge, obvious tan lines. It was because MTV changed her life!
My life, meanwhile, continues much the same. Friday we went to Ravinia, which is always pretty fun. It was the CSO playing Stravinsky and Dvorak, which allowed me to regress to my second chair violist days and wax poetic about primitivism and the symphonic form. Plus there were multiple bottles of red wine, which would probably make even a Kathie Lee Gifford/John Tesh double billing palatable. Yesterday we got in some beach time and went to my friend's birthday party, where not only did we find ample PBR but also did that weird thing where you dance in someone's living room. Sadly, it turns out the kids no longer very frequently do the Macarena.
Can I just say again how much I love MTV's Made? Okay, not always; watching some prissy popular chick whine about blisters and broken fingernails while she learns to skate holds very little appeal for me. But I love the ones where they take some total helpless case and try to teach him or her little social niceties like not standing on top of someone when you talk to them and not dressing up like Gandalf for your senior prom. Today, for instance, I saw one where they took this hulking wreck of a girl and bought her some skirts and taught her how not to terrify boys. And she got not one but two invitations to prom! I started to tear up a little bit right there. And not just because she had huge, obvious tan lines. It was because MTV changed her life!
My life, meanwhile, continues much the same. Friday we went to Ravinia, which is always pretty fun. It was the CSO playing Stravinsky and Dvorak, which allowed me to regress to my second chair violist days and wax poetic about primitivism and the symphonic form. Plus there were multiple bottles of red wine, which would probably make even a Kathie Lee Gifford/John Tesh double billing palatable. Yesterday we got in some beach time and went to my friend's birthday party, where not only did we find ample PBR but also did that weird thing where you dance in someone's living room. Sadly, it turns out the kids no longer very frequently do the Macarena.
Friday, July 08, 2005
In Which I Get All Profound and Shit
So terrorism is back, it seems. Just when we all thought it was so 2001, like Chandra Levy and actually caring about Survivor. I'm sorry it happened to London; although it rained most of the time I was there and someone tried to make me eat part of a cow intestine, it seems like a pretty good spot. Mary Poppins is from there, and Madonna and Gwyneth pretend they are, too. It can't be all bad.
Of course, I am just the tiniest bit shamefully glad it didn't happen here. When I woke up and saw Katie Couric with serious face on, I knew that either something had blown up or Tom Cruise had finally exacted his final and terrifying revenge on Matt Lauer. Then I saw the "terror attack" headline on the bottom of the screen and I was momentarily convinced the dirty bombs and poisonous crop dusters were headed straight for my door. But then I heard the attacks in question had happened overseas, and I felt a lot better. Then I felt worse for feeling better about that, but you get the picture. There's relief to be had in the fact that it's not right at your front door.
Now everyone is of course talking about how to prevent terrorism again. Lots of ridiculous ideas are going around, but I think they basically amount to invading six or seven more oil-rich countries and rescinding the civil liberties of everyone whose skin is darker than taupe. Of course, my initial approach to safety post 9/11 was to barricade myself in my Champaign, IL, apartment with six tubs of Chunky Monkey and copies of every teen movie known to man, but I like to think I've matured past that. The sad truth I now embrace is that I am never going to be truly safe. If someone is mad enough and crazy enough, he's going to find a way to kill me, whether it be by planing or poisoning my water supply or just by shooting me at a showing of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (a mercy killing if ever there was one). So am I going to live in fear? Well, no more than usual. I was never that big of a fan of suspicious packages on trains to begin with.
So terrorism is back, it seems. Just when we all thought it was so 2001, like Chandra Levy and actually caring about Survivor. I'm sorry it happened to London; although it rained most of the time I was there and someone tried to make me eat part of a cow intestine, it seems like a pretty good spot. Mary Poppins is from there, and Madonna and Gwyneth pretend they are, too. It can't be all bad.
Of course, I am just the tiniest bit shamefully glad it didn't happen here. When I woke up and saw Katie Couric with serious face on, I knew that either something had blown up or Tom Cruise had finally exacted his final and terrifying revenge on Matt Lauer. Then I saw the "terror attack" headline on the bottom of the screen and I was momentarily convinced the dirty bombs and poisonous crop dusters were headed straight for my door. But then I heard the attacks in question had happened overseas, and I felt a lot better. Then I felt worse for feeling better about that, but you get the picture. There's relief to be had in the fact that it's not right at your front door.
Now everyone is of course talking about how to prevent terrorism again. Lots of ridiculous ideas are going around, but I think they basically amount to invading six or seven more oil-rich countries and rescinding the civil liberties of everyone whose skin is darker than taupe. Of course, my initial approach to safety post 9/11 was to barricade myself in my Champaign, IL, apartment with six tubs of Chunky Monkey and copies of every teen movie known to man, but I like to think I've matured past that. The sad truth I now embrace is that I am never going to be truly safe. If someone is mad enough and crazy enough, he's going to find a way to kill me, whether it be by planing or poisoning my water supply or just by shooting me at a showing of Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (a mercy killing if ever there was one). So am I going to live in fear? Well, no more than usual. I was never that big of a fan of suspicious packages on trains to begin with.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Dodging Bullets
-- Live 8. Who better than a group of unwashed musicians to end world poverty? Bono's whimsical eyewear budget alone could feed half of Africa.
-- Literacy. My office has recently started a book club. It's just like Oprah's, but with beer instead of Toni Morrison. And we count Star Magazine as a book.
-- Skin Care. At least five conversations in the past two days have included the phrase "man, you are really tan." Maybe it's time to haul my ass indoors before I reach Oompah Loompah territory.
-- Seaworthiness. On my friend's boat the other day they let me tie several knots and even pretend I was steering for a while. I'm thinking of joining the merchant marines, so long as they don't go any farther than Dawson's Creek.
-- LOGO. Viacom just launched its new "gay channel." Wait a minute, isn't that what Bravo is for?
-- Adoption. Angelina Jolie just grabbed up another baby for some much deserved field-frolicking with Brad. Do you think she'd consider giving a cute little 27-year-old a home? I could probably pass for Ethiopian, if necessary.
-- Live 8. Who better than a group of unwashed musicians to end world poverty? Bono's whimsical eyewear budget alone could feed half of Africa.
-- Literacy. My office has recently started a book club. It's just like Oprah's, but with beer instead of Toni Morrison. And we count Star Magazine as a book.
-- Skin Care. At least five conversations in the past two days have included the phrase "man, you are really tan." Maybe it's time to haul my ass indoors before I reach Oompah Loompah territory.
-- Seaworthiness. On my friend's boat the other day they let me tie several knots and even pretend I was steering for a while. I'm thinking of joining the merchant marines, so long as they don't go any farther than Dawson's Creek.
-- LOGO. Viacom just launched its new "gay channel." Wait a minute, isn't that what Bravo is for?
-- Adoption. Angelina Jolie just grabbed up another baby for some much deserved field-frolicking with Brad. Do you think she'd consider giving a cute little 27-year-old a home? I could probably pass for Ethiopian, if necessary.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
American History Pfun Pfacts
-- Betsy Ross' original flag design also featured red hearts and green clovers.
-- Although better known for his stovepipe hat, Abraham Lincoln favored a full sombrero and leather chaps on formal occasions.
-- The Civil War never actually happened; it was created by Ken Burns and PBS for a 1993 pledge drive.
-- In addition to the light bulb, Thomas Edison also invented an early form of hip hop dance.
-- Christopher Columbus did not set out to discover North America; he was just "running down to the Target for some toilet paper."
-- John Adams appointed a magical leprechaun to head the Treasury Department in 1798.
-- Native Americans actually liked having their land taken away.
-- The Declaration of Independence was originally conceived of as a senior will for the class of 1776; an early draft leaves Ben Franklin "a pair of pants, so he can stop scaring the servants."
-- When writing The Star Spangled Banner, Francis Scott Key consulted frequently with Kelly Clarkson.
-- Andrew Jackson was an ass man.
-- The Teapot Domes Scandal was just as boring as it sounds.
-- George Washington wrote romance novels under the pen name Esther Trueblood.
-- Alexander Hamilton's father was a cold and distant man, who never once said "I love you."
-- Betsy Ross' original flag design also featured red hearts and green clovers.
-- Although better known for his stovepipe hat, Abraham Lincoln favored a full sombrero and leather chaps on formal occasions.
-- The Civil War never actually happened; it was created by Ken Burns and PBS for a 1993 pledge drive.
-- In addition to the light bulb, Thomas Edison also invented an early form of hip hop dance.
-- Christopher Columbus did not set out to discover North America; he was just "running down to the Target for some toilet paper."
-- John Adams appointed a magical leprechaun to head the Treasury Department in 1798.
-- Native Americans actually liked having their land taken away.
-- The Declaration of Independence was originally conceived of as a senior will for the class of 1776; an early draft leaves Ben Franklin "a pair of pants, so he can stop scaring the servants."
-- When writing The Star Spangled Banner, Francis Scott Key consulted frequently with Kelly Clarkson.
-- Andrew Jackson was an ass man.
-- The Teapot Domes Scandal was just as boring as it sounds.
-- George Washington wrote romance novels under the pen name Esther Trueblood.
-- Alexander Hamilton's father was a cold and distant man, who never once said "I love you."
Monday, July 04, 2005
Red, White, and You
It's America's birthday and I have no idea what to get her. I feel like some cosmetic surgery to remove those unsightly red states would be beneficial, but she's probably sensitive about her appearance, especially since she's begun drooping a little in the Great Plains area, if you know what I mean. Handmade gifts are nice, but practically everything I could think of would involve a certain amount of raping and pillaging of her natural resources, which is sort of a turnoff. I'd give her cash, but she'd probably just spend it on toys. I guess I'll just settle for an e-card. Who doesn't love an e-card?
Spent the third of July, which is really the busier day in Chicago, for some reason, on my friend's boat watching the fireworks. As in we never actually left the slip but mainly stood around on the dock drinking from the keg and eating generic brand sour cream & onion potato chips. It was pretty fun. My friend had to pee so bad he couldn't wait in the portajohn line and had to pee in a cup, which was fairly hilarious. And a girl fell into the water, which made certainly one of the top five awesome noises of all time. (She wasn't hurt. If she had been, it would have been so, so wrong to make fun of her.) People clapped for the fireworks, which is one of my favorite positive expressions of human nature, and careless parents allowed their children to pilot tiny inflatable watercraft in the harbor. Oh, and I brought store-bought cotton candy in a tub. Could there be anything more American?
It's America's birthday and I have no idea what to get her. I feel like some cosmetic surgery to remove those unsightly red states would be beneficial, but she's probably sensitive about her appearance, especially since she's begun drooping a little in the Great Plains area, if you know what I mean. Handmade gifts are nice, but practically everything I could think of would involve a certain amount of raping and pillaging of her natural resources, which is sort of a turnoff. I'd give her cash, but she'd probably just spend it on toys. I guess I'll just settle for an e-card. Who doesn't love an e-card?
Spent the third of July, which is really the busier day in Chicago, for some reason, on my friend's boat watching the fireworks. As in we never actually left the slip but mainly stood around on the dock drinking from the keg and eating generic brand sour cream & onion potato chips. It was pretty fun. My friend had to pee so bad he couldn't wait in the portajohn line and had to pee in a cup, which was fairly hilarious. And a girl fell into the water, which made certainly one of the top five awesome noises of all time. (She wasn't hurt. If she had been, it would have been so, so wrong to make fun of her.) People clapped for the fireworks, which is one of my favorite positive expressions of human nature, and careless parents allowed their children to pilot tiny inflatable watercraft in the harbor. Oh, and I brought store-bought cotton candy in a tub. Could there be anything more American?
Friday, July 01, 2005
Life Lessons
I am generally a pretty compassionate person. I give to the United Way, I never make fun of children or the handicapped, and I once adopted a sick squirrel and nursed him back to health. Which is why, when I first moved to Chicago, the city pretty much ate me alive. Every time some fragrant, lurching homeless person screamed at me to give him change, I was ready with a fistful of coins and an ear receptive to his various tales of Ellen’s plot for world domination and the tiny green men inside our heads. I would estimate charity took up 99.5% of my time; the other .5% went to watching Moolah Beach on (then) FOX Family; I never slept.
But I quickly adopted the appropriate citified mannerisms that helped me avoid dying of exhaustion – quickened pace, averted eyes, rapidly muttered "sorry," and the like. Soon the homeless became just another part of the enchanted backdrop of urban decay, along with obscene graffiti and abandoned Wendy’s storefronts. I wasn’t necessarily a better person, but I was a more efficient one.
Last week, however, I was approached by a woman who really caught my attention. Hysterical and covered in blood, she informed me that she was HIV-positive, three months pregnant, and miscarrying. She needed $26 so she could get a cab to Mercy Hospital. Unable to refuse such a desperate request, I forked over $30, and watched her run on her way, feeling a little odd about the situation, but glad, at least, to have helped another human being.
Until I found out that she had approached each of my neighbors, in turn, with the same story at three different points in the last six months! And we had each given her money! What had seemed like an Oprah moment was actually a Dateline-esque scam!
So the lesson is simple, right? Don’t ever help people. Save your cash for Taco Bell and blow.
I am generally a pretty compassionate person. I give to the United Way, I never make fun of children or the handicapped, and I once adopted a sick squirrel and nursed him back to health. Which is why, when I first moved to Chicago, the city pretty much ate me alive. Every time some fragrant, lurching homeless person screamed at me to give him change, I was ready with a fistful of coins and an ear receptive to his various tales of Ellen’s plot for world domination and the tiny green men inside our heads. I would estimate charity took up 99.5% of my time; the other .5% went to watching Moolah Beach on (then) FOX Family; I never slept.
But I quickly adopted the appropriate citified mannerisms that helped me avoid dying of exhaustion – quickened pace, averted eyes, rapidly muttered "sorry," and the like. Soon the homeless became just another part of the enchanted backdrop of urban decay, along with obscene graffiti and abandoned Wendy’s storefronts. I wasn’t necessarily a better person, but I was a more efficient one.
Last week, however, I was approached by a woman who really caught my attention. Hysterical and covered in blood, she informed me that she was HIV-positive, three months pregnant, and miscarrying. She needed $26 so she could get a cab to Mercy Hospital. Unable to refuse such a desperate request, I forked over $30, and watched her run on her way, feeling a little odd about the situation, but glad, at least, to have helped another human being.
Until I found out that she had approached each of my neighbors, in turn, with the same story at three different points in the last six months! And we had each given her money! What had seemed like an Oprah moment was actually a Dateline-esque scam!
So the lesson is simple, right? Don’t ever help people. Save your cash for Taco Bell and blow.
