Thursday, March 29, 2007
Liar, Liar
Do you ever find yourself lying in everyday conversation just because you're bored?
For instance, the other day I was riding in the elevator with a very nice lady from my work who was incessantly nattering at me about the weather. Wasn't I happy that it was so nice out? In March? Weren't we just so lucky? But didn't I think it might rain later? Wasn't that what the weather guy on WGN said? Wouldn't that just be awful?
Somehow I found myself telling her that I was "just a few credits shy of a meteorology degree myself" and that I had "studied with Willard Scott." I then informed her of a "cold front moving in from Mexico" and took my leave.
Or once I was chatting with a secretary at my old office who was obsessed with Beanie Babies. She kept going on and on about Beanie Tigers and Beanie Giraffes to the point that I wanted to Bean her. But instead I convinced her that I make my own Beanie likenesses of past American presidents out of a variety of felts and discarded clothes. This backfired, because I had to spend the next year or so coming up with reasons I couldn't get together to "really show her how it's done," but it was almost sort of worth it.
Anyway, I guess the point is that I'm easily bored. Pity me.
Do you ever find yourself lying in everyday conversation just because you're bored?
For instance, the other day I was riding in the elevator with a very nice lady from my work who was incessantly nattering at me about the weather. Wasn't I happy that it was so nice out? In March? Weren't we just so lucky? But didn't I think it might rain later? Wasn't that what the weather guy on WGN said? Wouldn't that just be awful?
Somehow I found myself telling her that I was "just a few credits shy of a meteorology degree myself" and that I had "studied with Willard Scott." I then informed her of a "cold front moving in from Mexico" and took my leave.
Or once I was chatting with a secretary at my old office who was obsessed with Beanie Babies. She kept going on and on about Beanie Tigers and Beanie Giraffes to the point that I wanted to Bean her. But instead I convinced her that I make my own Beanie likenesses of past American presidents out of a variety of felts and discarded clothes. This backfired, because I had to spend the next year or so coming up with reasons I couldn't get together to "really show her how it's done," but it was almost sort of worth it.
Anyway, I guess the point is that I'm easily bored. Pity me.
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Big Chill
It is presently about negative forty-two degrees in my office. I didn't bring a jacket with me today, since it's actually really nice outside (you know, the part of the world that isn't allegedly temperature controlled), so I'm sitting here with my suit jacket on over my polo shirt. I look like I'm on Miami Vice, except colder. I wish I had gloves or a space heater, though. Man, oh man, would that be a good time.
Luckily, I'm taking off momentarily, since my improv class has a show tonight. For the past several weeks we've been doing twenty minute improv sets, which seem to consist mainly of audience members shouting "bathroom" or "condom" when asked for suggestions. Sometimes I talk in funny voices, too. Because I'm an artist, you see.
And speaking of art, Roommate Liz and I watched the ABC Family premiere of Bring It On: All or Nothing last night. While it lacked the scrunched-up-face brilliance that Kirsten Dunst brought to the original in this series, it did have the benefit of Beyonce's weird-looking sister and ludicrous character shifts to spare. Also I felt it touched on some very important issues of race and class that are seldom so wisely explicated as by Hayden Panettiere. It wasn't just a movie; it was a little slice of America.
It is presently about negative forty-two degrees in my office. I didn't bring a jacket with me today, since it's actually really nice outside (you know, the part of the world that isn't allegedly temperature controlled), so I'm sitting here with my suit jacket on over my polo shirt. I look like I'm on Miami Vice, except colder. I wish I had gloves or a space heater, though. Man, oh man, would that be a good time.
Luckily, I'm taking off momentarily, since my improv class has a show tonight. For the past several weeks we've been doing twenty minute improv sets, which seem to consist mainly of audience members shouting "bathroom" or "condom" when asked for suggestions. Sometimes I talk in funny voices, too. Because I'm an artist, you see.
And speaking of art, Roommate Liz and I watched the ABC Family premiere of Bring It On: All or Nothing last night. While it lacked the scrunched-up-face brilliance that Kirsten Dunst brought to the original in this series, it did have the benefit of Beyonce's weird-looking sister and ludicrous character shifts to spare. Also I felt it touched on some very important issues of race and class that are seldom so wisely explicated as by Hayden Panettiere. It wasn't just a movie; it was a little slice of America.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Lord of the Dance
Tonight is Roommate Liz's birthday party, and I have been nominated to perform a very special exotic dance. It is a little number I picked up from my Comcast on demand workouts, and it promises to be spectacular. Here are the anticipated elements, as they were taught to me by the middle-aged lady in a sparkly bodysuit who hosts "Exotic Dance 1":
-- making strong eye contact (this may look like staring, but it's not)
-- walking (a lot like the wedding walk, but sexier)
-- sending and receiving energy (mainly waving one's hands, but some rubbing of the self)
-- making small circles with one's hips while imagining that lasers are shooting through one's head
-- arching one's back (maybe not as important for a guy?)
Unfortunately, we don't have "Exotic Dance 2" right now, so that's all we get. At least it beats the "Latin Grooves," though.
And by the way, the on-screen graphics assure me that my instructor "has been married for 21 years and has three children," so I'm totally not a whore for doing this.
Tonight is Roommate Liz's birthday party, and I have been nominated to perform a very special exotic dance. It is a little number I picked up from my Comcast on demand workouts, and it promises to be spectacular. Here are the anticipated elements, as they were taught to me by the middle-aged lady in a sparkly bodysuit who hosts "Exotic Dance 1":
-- making strong eye contact (this may look like staring, but it's not)
-- walking (a lot like the wedding walk, but sexier)
-- sending and receiving energy (mainly waving one's hands, but some rubbing of the self)
-- making small circles with one's hips while imagining that lasers are shooting through one's head
-- arching one's back (maybe not as important for a guy?)
Unfortunately, we don't have "Exotic Dance 2" right now, so that's all we get. At least it beats the "Latin Grooves," though.
And by the way, the on-screen graphics assure me that my instructor "has been married for 21 years and has three children," so I'm totally not a whore for doing this.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
One Minute Mystery
For some reason, about once every few months I receive a mailing, inexplicably marked "personal and confidential," of brochures depicting office spaces for rent in Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. Though I am not typically in the market for 8,200 square feet of office space, I have to admit that I find descriptions like "uniquely shaped building" and "Arby's in building" to be a pretty major draw. Plus, there are gorgeous color photographs of these buildings, many of which feature boxy automobiles that are clearly from an earlier era driving past. Ah, to own a Pizza-Hut-looking office plaza in Des Plaines -- that would be the life!
But in all seriousness, I do frequently indulge a bizarre fantasy in which I somehow have the financial wherewithal to afford and the mechanical skills to renovate a stately old mansion somewhere. It's sort of like The Money Pit but without marital squabbles and Shelley Long. I imagine that I'd walk in with a nail gun and a lathe (that's a construction thing, right?) and lovingly restore turn of the century finishes and things like that. Given that I have not yet succeeded in changing the light bulbs in my hallway, this is probably a long shot. But it would be pretty fun. Maybe I'd open a bed and breakfast, except for then I'd have to allow strangers in my home, some of them probably sweaty or obese. Oooh, maybe I could open a detective agency instead! And solve crimes using only my knowledge of seemingly useless trivia.
For some reason, about once every few months I receive a mailing, inexplicably marked "personal and confidential," of brochures depicting office spaces for rent in Chicago and the surrounding suburbs. Though I am not typically in the market for 8,200 square feet of office space, I have to admit that I find descriptions like "uniquely shaped building" and "Arby's in building" to be a pretty major draw. Plus, there are gorgeous color photographs of these buildings, many of which feature boxy automobiles that are clearly from an earlier era driving past. Ah, to own a Pizza-Hut-looking office plaza in Des Plaines -- that would be the life!
But in all seriousness, I do frequently indulge a bizarre fantasy in which I somehow have the financial wherewithal to afford and the mechanical skills to renovate a stately old mansion somewhere. It's sort of like The Money Pit but without marital squabbles and Shelley Long. I imagine that I'd walk in with a nail gun and a lathe (that's a construction thing, right?) and lovingly restore turn of the century finishes and things like that. Given that I have not yet succeeded in changing the light bulbs in my hallway, this is probably a long shot. But it would be pretty fun. Maybe I'd open a bed and breakfast, except for then I'd have to allow strangers in my home, some of them probably sweaty or obese. Oooh, maybe I could open a detective agency instead! And solve crimes using only my knowledge of seemingly useless trivia.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
File Under "Omens, Good"
My work day today began when the elevator I was in stopped about halfway between two floors and refused to either budge any further or open its doors wide enough to allow even Nicole Richie to climb out. (Not that she was there; to be trapped in an elevator with Nicole Richie would undoubtedly be a dream come true for any living, feeling human.) Luckily, this particular elevator was filled with technological savants who came up with the ingenious solution of alternately pressing the door open, door close, and emergency call buttons as though the panel was some enormous game of Simon. The end result of this maneuver was a surly voice-over from what I can only assume was America's Next Top Elevator Operator.
"What's your problem?" the voice demanded, undoubtedly unhappy to be roused from his book of Sudoku.
"Um, we're trapped in this elevator," some passenger meekly suggested. "It won't move, and the doors won't open."
"Uh huh. Well, I don't know what to tell you," the voice said reassuringly. "It was working earlier this morning."
"Okay," came the reply. "But we're still kind of stuck in here, I swear."
"All right, I'll see what I can do."
At which point the elevator suddenly dropped about four floors.
Once the doors were opened, I simply thanked the surly voice and made the rest of my upward journey via the stairs.
My work day today began when the elevator I was in stopped about halfway between two floors and refused to either budge any further or open its doors wide enough to allow even Nicole Richie to climb out. (Not that she was there; to be trapped in an elevator with Nicole Richie would undoubtedly be a dream come true for any living, feeling human.) Luckily, this particular elevator was filled with technological savants who came up with the ingenious solution of alternately pressing the door open, door close, and emergency call buttons as though the panel was some enormous game of Simon. The end result of this maneuver was a surly voice-over from what I can only assume was America's Next Top Elevator Operator.
"What's your problem?" the voice demanded, undoubtedly unhappy to be roused from his book of Sudoku.
"Um, we're trapped in this elevator," some passenger meekly suggested. "It won't move, and the doors won't open."
"Uh huh. Well, I don't know what to tell you," the voice said reassuringly. "It was working earlier this morning."
"Okay," came the reply. "But we're still kind of stuck in here, I swear."
"All right, I'll see what I can do."
At which point the elevator suddenly dropped about four floors.
Once the doors were opened, I simply thanked the surly voice and made the rest of my upward journey via the stairs.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
How Did We Celebrate St. Patrick's Day This Year?
-- Chastising a sassy leprechaun that turns out to be Maureen Dowd.
-- Developing naughty t-shirt slogans.
-- Pretending we've read James Joyce novels.
-- Realizing damned pot of gold is lost again; finding it behind the credenza.
-- Disclaiming any responsibility for Rosie O'Donnell.
-- Firmly believing that they are, in fact, always after our Lucky Charms.
-- Imagining cast of Riverdance naked.
-- Sobbing incomprehensibly about "the troubles."
-- Drinking own weight in green food coloring.
-- Convincing ourselves we like Celtic music.
-- Driving on the wrong side of the road; accusing police of cultural insensitivity.
-- Eating tacos with Bono.
-- Chastising a sassy leprechaun that turns out to be Maureen Dowd.
-- Developing naughty t-shirt slogans.
-- Pretending we've read James Joyce novels.
-- Realizing damned pot of gold is lost again; finding it behind the credenza.
-- Disclaiming any responsibility for Rosie O'Donnell.
-- Firmly believing that they are, in fact, always after our Lucky Charms.
-- Imagining cast of Riverdance naked.
-- Sobbing incomprehensibly about "the troubles."
-- Drinking own weight in green food coloring.
-- Convincing ourselves we like Celtic music.
-- Driving on the wrong side of the road; accusing police of cultural insensitivity.
-- Eating tacos with Bono.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Seeing Double
One of the most hilarious things in the world, in my view, is when people confide in me their resemblance to certain celebrities. They're generally vastly overreaching in terms of their view of their own attractiveness (Brad Pitt? No. Danny DeVito? Possibly.) and typically full of false modesty in their presentation ("I mean, people sometimes say I look like Julia Roberts, but I don't see it."). When I was a child and my grandmother subscribed to Soap Opera Digest, I used to flip right past the descriptions of Patch and Kayla's exploits to get to the column -- I believe it was called "Double Takes" -- in which readers sent in their photos to confirm that they were, in fact, soap star dopplegangers. To this day I have never seen a scarier, more deluded bunch.
So I am delighted to have discovered an amazing website full of professional celebrity lookalikes at www.splitting-images.com. Whether you're looking to invite Lauren Bacall to your weenie roast or have Raisa Gorbechev entertain at your bachelor party, it's your one-stop shop for blurry-looking versions of celebrities. It's really fun both in terms of its selection of "celebrities" (do they really need SEVEN Victoria Beckham's?) and it's representation thereof (I don't even know what Kylie Minogue looks like, but I'm pretty sure that's not it). Plus their Nicole Kidman looks like a tranny (okay, so that's pretty dead-on) and their Sammy Davis, Jr. appears to have been in a fire. Seriously, this is at least a full afternoon's worth of web-based hilarity.
One of the most hilarious things in the world, in my view, is when people confide in me their resemblance to certain celebrities. They're generally vastly overreaching in terms of their view of their own attractiveness (Brad Pitt? No. Danny DeVito? Possibly.) and typically full of false modesty in their presentation ("I mean, people sometimes say I look like Julia Roberts, but I don't see it."). When I was a child and my grandmother subscribed to Soap Opera Digest, I used to flip right past the descriptions of Patch and Kayla's exploits to get to the column -- I believe it was called "Double Takes" -- in which readers sent in their photos to confirm that they were, in fact, soap star dopplegangers. To this day I have never seen a scarier, more deluded bunch.
So I am delighted to have discovered an amazing website full of professional celebrity lookalikes at www.splitting-images.com. Whether you're looking to invite Lauren Bacall to your weenie roast or have Raisa Gorbechev entertain at your bachelor party, it's your one-stop shop for blurry-looking versions of celebrities. It's really fun both in terms of its selection of "celebrities" (do they really need SEVEN Victoria Beckham's?) and it's representation thereof (I don't even know what Kylie Minogue looks like, but I'm pretty sure that's not it). Plus their Nicole Kidman looks like a tranny (okay, so that's pretty dead-on) and their Sammy Davis, Jr. appears to have been in a fire. Seriously, this is at least a full afternoon's worth of web-based hilarity.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
From Where I Sit
If you had told me 48 hours ago that a desk chair could change my life, I wouldn't have believed you. And that would have been foolish and wrong, for I now firmly believe that my Herman Miller Aeron chair has made me not only more comfortable at work, but also taller, smarter, and less likely to be the victim of a terrorist attack. I'm also fairly certain that this chair was responsible for the fall of apartheid and the end of the Cold War; it's that good. Also, since HR frowns of the actual measuring of penises at work, this chair is perhaps the best way I have of demonstrating my status, for only fourth year associates and above are entitled to the chair. Did I mention that I like this chair?
In other news, I'm refinancing my mortgage again to get a lower rate, which means I am once again sending every personal financial document I have at random to strangers. That's kind of fun. I mean, I cut every credit card application I get up into tiny little pieces and refuse to bank online for fear of having my identity stolen, but send pdfs of my bank statements to essentially anyone who asks. I'm all about the sound fiscal planning.
Oh, and the record player arrived yesterday. Is there anything more exciting than getting a much-anticipated personal package at work? All the secretaries on my floor gathered around to watch me open it. Next time I'm ordering from sluts.com.
If you had told me 48 hours ago that a desk chair could change my life, I wouldn't have believed you. And that would have been foolish and wrong, for I now firmly believe that my Herman Miller Aeron chair has made me not only more comfortable at work, but also taller, smarter, and less likely to be the victim of a terrorist attack. I'm also fairly certain that this chair was responsible for the fall of apartheid and the end of the Cold War; it's that good. Also, since HR frowns of the actual measuring of penises at work, this chair is perhaps the best way I have of demonstrating my status, for only fourth year associates and above are entitled to the chair. Did I mention that I like this chair?
In other news, I'm refinancing my mortgage again to get a lower rate, which means I am once again sending every personal financial document I have at random to strangers. That's kind of fun. I mean, I cut every credit card application I get up into tiny little pieces and refuse to bank online for fear of having my identity stolen, but send pdfs of my bank statements to essentially anyone who asks. I'm all about the sound fiscal planning.
Oh, and the record player arrived yesterday. Is there anything more exciting than getting a much-anticipated personal package at work? All the secretaries on my floor gathered around to watch me open it. Next time I'm ordering from sluts.com.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
At the Movies
This weekend I finally saw Mommie Dearest, which left me with many questions. First, did they really intend to make a comedy about child abuse? Second, how did Faye Dunaway manage to do that with her face? Third, did the actress who played adult Christina actually suffer some sort of head wound, or did make a conscious choice to never ever change her tone of voice? And finally, why didn't I ever get ponies at my birthday party? I mean, sure, Christina had to take a few hanger thrashings after all the guests had gone home, but those ponies were pretty sweet. The cake looked pretty nice, too.
After watching the movie, I did a bunch of Internet "research" to try and find out if Joan Crawford was really a complete and total loon or not, but it was fairly inconclusive. There was a fun bit about her supposedly adopting two similar-looking girls and claiming they were twins so she could get more publicity, but I didn't independently verify that information. I did, however, learn that the actress who plays Helga the Maid in the movie is also Large Marge in Pee Wee's Big Adventure and that the exterior of the house in the movie was also used in an episode of Designing Women. Ahh, Wikipedia, is there anything you don't know?
This weekend I finally saw Mommie Dearest, which left me with many questions. First, did they really intend to make a comedy about child abuse? Second, how did Faye Dunaway manage to do that with her face? Third, did the actress who played adult Christina actually suffer some sort of head wound, or did make a conscious choice to never ever change her tone of voice? And finally, why didn't I ever get ponies at my birthday party? I mean, sure, Christina had to take a few hanger thrashings after all the guests had gone home, but those ponies were pretty sweet. The cake looked pretty nice, too.
After watching the movie, I did a bunch of Internet "research" to try and find out if Joan Crawford was really a complete and total loon or not, but it was fairly inconclusive. There was a fun bit about her supposedly adopting two similar-looking girls and claiming they were twins so she could get more publicity, but I didn't independently verify that information. I did, however, learn that the actress who plays Helga the Maid in the movie is also Large Marge in Pee Wee's Big Adventure and that the exterior of the house in the movie was also used in an episode of Designing Women. Ahh, Wikipedia, is there anything you don't know?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
On the Record
There are impulse purchases, and then there are impulse purchases. For instance, Roommate Liz and I went to Target today and randomly ended up buying 1) a fuzzy rabbit headband, 2) a tiny neon flashlight, and 3) a 36-pack of Target brand toilet paper. But none of these even begin to compare to the Greatest Impulse Purchase of All Time, which I made online earlier this week:
Yes, I have purchased a suitcase record player. No, it isn't 1957, and there is nary a sock hop in sight. I didn't, in fact, even have any records in my possession at the time I purchased this fine item. But I really like what I collectively refer to as "that old timey music," and I wanted to get to be that guy who buys fun records for a dollar each at the secondhand store. So after consulting heavily with my paralegal and project assistant (both of whom seemed really thrilled to be employing their advanced legal skills on such a task), I decided to go with the Traveller here, which the website says "provides music lovers with a sense of independence." It feels so good to finally be free.
I also made a trip to the Brown Elephant this weekend for albums. Although the selection there had a strangely heavy preponderance of Barbra Streisand and Judy Collins albums (and even a few that were just covers with no actually records inside), I managed to find no less than four recordings I really felt I could no longer do without, though I never even knew they existed. I even got myself the Charlie Brown Christmas album so I'm armed and ready for some serious merriness next year. It's going to be the Year of the Turntable; you can mark my words.
There are impulse purchases, and then there are impulse purchases. For instance, Roommate Liz and I went to Target today and randomly ended up buying 1) a fuzzy rabbit headband, 2) a tiny neon flashlight, and 3) a 36-pack of Target brand toilet paper. But none of these even begin to compare to the Greatest Impulse Purchase of All Time, which I made online earlier this week:
Yes, I have purchased a suitcase record player. No, it isn't 1957, and there is nary a sock hop in sight. I didn't, in fact, even have any records in my possession at the time I purchased this fine item. But I really like what I collectively refer to as "that old timey music," and I wanted to get to be that guy who buys fun records for a dollar each at the secondhand store. So after consulting heavily with my paralegal and project assistant (both of whom seemed really thrilled to be employing their advanced legal skills on such a task), I decided to go with the Traveller here, which the website says "provides music lovers with a sense of independence." It feels so good to finally be free.I also made a trip to the Brown Elephant this weekend for albums. Although the selection there had a strangely heavy preponderance of Barbra Streisand and Judy Collins albums (and even a few that were just covers with no actually records inside), I managed to find no less than four recordings I really felt I could no longer do without, though I never even knew they existed. I even got myself the Charlie Brown Christmas album so I'm armed and ready for some serious merriness next year. It's going to be the Year of the Turntable; you can mark my words.
Friday, March 09, 2007
In Transit
I had a somewhat unusual experience this morning on the train. I am not, of course, referring to the fact that there were no red line trains at all for about twenty minutes followed by three such trains in direct succession; I long ago learned that's more the norm than the exception. Nor am I referring to the fact that I was jammed up into a corner of the train by an enormously fat man carrying what appeared to be a trombone case; these things definitely happen. No, what made this train ride special was the presence of a crazy man who began screaming random things at other passengers as we approached downtown.
"Don't tell me how to feel," he yelled at one poor woman. "They took the dinosaur! Is that funny to you?"
Judging by the horror-stricken look on her face, it was in fact not funny to her.
"You'll probably just go to Decatur, Illinois, and buy a Cadillac you can't afford," he shouted at another gentleman, who really looked to me to be more of the Subaru type. "But where's my $1000?"
Not one of my fellow passengers appeared to have an idea of where the $1000 in question was.
"They were supposed to give me $1000 to get off crack cocaine, and they didn't do it," he continued, now raging at no one in particular. "And that's my testimony, okay? Tell it to Jesus."
It was at this point that the conductor announced that we were experiencing technical problems and would be briefly delayed. God bless public transit!
I had a somewhat unusual experience this morning on the train. I am not, of course, referring to the fact that there were no red line trains at all for about twenty minutes followed by three such trains in direct succession; I long ago learned that's more the norm than the exception. Nor am I referring to the fact that I was jammed up into a corner of the train by an enormously fat man carrying what appeared to be a trombone case; these things definitely happen. No, what made this train ride special was the presence of a crazy man who began screaming random things at other passengers as we approached downtown.
"Don't tell me how to feel," he yelled at one poor woman. "They took the dinosaur! Is that funny to you?"
Judging by the horror-stricken look on her face, it was in fact not funny to her.
"You'll probably just go to Decatur, Illinois, and buy a Cadillac you can't afford," he shouted at another gentleman, who really looked to me to be more of the Subaru type. "But where's my $1000?"
Not one of my fellow passengers appeared to have an idea of where the $1000 in question was.
"They were supposed to give me $1000 to get off crack cocaine, and they didn't do it," he continued, now raging at no one in particular. "And that's my testimony, okay? Tell it to Jesus."
It was at this point that the conductor announced that we were experiencing technical problems and would be briefly delayed. God bless public transit!
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
It Takes a Toll
One of the really awesome things about constantly traveling for work is that you get to enjoy America's toll roads. For anyone who firmly believes that a trip to Iowa is worth six dollars in coins, this is great news. Also for people who enjoy surly or comatose government employees. Just as an example, last week I was driving through the blinding snow along I-88, as I like to do occasionally, when I encountered a toll plaza. Curbing my natural instincts to crash through the motorized gate and do donuts across all six lanes of traffic, I slowed down and prepared to fork over an amusing assemblage of nickels and dimes. As I did so, however, I accidentally bumped my front wheel against the curb, causing a little bit of a crunching noise.
"Jesus Christ, you scared the crap out of me!" screamed the female linebacker manning the toll booth.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said.
"I thought you might be a terrorist, coming to take me out."
Though it seemed unlikely to me that toll plazas would be at the top of any self-respecting extremist's list, I decided not to turn this into the McLaughlin group and just handed over my change.
"Yup, I just hit the curb there. Sorry."
"I mean, who are you, Alladin Abu al Jafaar?" she queried. "Seriously, you got to be careful."
"Right," I said, just counting the minutes until I was freed from my mechanized prison.
"Wait a minute," came the reply. "I think you gave me ten cents too much. Hold on a sec."
"Really, it's fine," I said. "It doesn't matter to me."
"Well, lah dee dah, mister millionaire. You just go right on ahead then."
Which I did. But I will never forget my friends back at the DeKalb toll plaza.
One of the really awesome things about constantly traveling for work is that you get to enjoy America's toll roads. For anyone who firmly believes that a trip to Iowa is worth six dollars in coins, this is great news. Also for people who enjoy surly or comatose government employees. Just as an example, last week I was driving through the blinding snow along I-88, as I like to do occasionally, when I encountered a toll plaza. Curbing my natural instincts to crash through the motorized gate and do donuts across all six lanes of traffic, I slowed down and prepared to fork over an amusing assemblage of nickels and dimes. As I did so, however, I accidentally bumped my front wheel against the curb, causing a little bit of a crunching noise.
"Jesus Christ, you scared the crap out of me!" screamed the female linebacker manning the toll booth.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I said.
"I thought you might be a terrorist, coming to take me out."
Though it seemed unlikely to me that toll plazas would be at the top of any self-respecting extremist's list, I decided not to turn this into the McLaughlin group and just handed over my change.
"Yup, I just hit the curb there. Sorry."
"I mean, who are you, Alladin Abu al Jafaar?" she queried. "Seriously, you got to be careful."
"Right," I said, just counting the minutes until I was freed from my mechanized prison.
"Wait a minute," came the reply. "I think you gave me ten cents too much. Hold on a sec."
"Really, it's fine," I said. "It doesn't matter to me."
"Well, lah dee dah, mister millionaire. You just go right on ahead then."
Which I did. But I will never forget my friends back at the DeKalb toll plaza.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Happy Casimir Pulaski Day!
Although I haven't gotten his day off in over ten years, I thought it would be appropriate to honor Casimir by presenting several of his lesser-known accomplishments:
-- Drafting little-known "sequel" to the Declaration of Independence, in which it turns out the murder was committed by a monkey.
-- Developing jaunty new angles at which to wear a three-cornered hat.
-- Finally telling George Washington that the whole wig thing "looked a little gay."
-- Displaying excellence in moustache grooming.
-- Building a working musket out of nothing but toothpicks and butter.
-- Fingerbanging Betsy Ross out in the alley behind the Dairy Queen.
-- Loaning Paul Revere the use of the euphemism "midnight ride."
-- Official 1770s spokesperson for Mentos.
-- Forcing elementary school children to do some serious spelling.
-- Temporarily filling in for Joy Behar on The View.
-- Occasionally convincing Ben Franklin to put some damn pants on.
Congratulations, Casimir. Know that Illinois loves you.
Although I haven't gotten his day off in over ten years, I thought it would be appropriate to honor Casimir by presenting several of his lesser-known accomplishments:
-- Drafting little-known "sequel" to the Declaration of Independence, in which it turns out the murder was committed by a monkey.
-- Developing jaunty new angles at which to wear a three-cornered hat.
-- Finally telling George Washington that the whole wig thing "looked a little gay."
-- Displaying excellence in moustache grooming.
-- Building a working musket out of nothing but toothpicks and butter.
-- Fingerbanging Betsy Ross out in the alley behind the Dairy Queen.
-- Loaning Paul Revere the use of the euphemism "midnight ride."
-- Official 1770s spokesperson for Mentos.
-- Forcing elementary school children to do some serious spelling.
-- Temporarily filling in for Joy Behar on The View.
-- Occasionally convincing Ben Franklin to put some damn pants on.
Congratulations, Casimir. Know that Illinois loves you.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
The Crafting Continues
The upside of Chicago's insanely harsh winter, if there has in fact been one, has been the phenomenal crafting output created by me and Roommate Liz. Here's a small sampling in photos.
Knitting needn't stop simply because it's Super Bowl Sunday and you're drunk and in a bar. Or for any reason, in fact. During dinner, at a wedding, while working on your car -- any time is knitting time.
Some people don't think that plaster making is an art, mainly because it comes from a box labeled "ages 6 and up." Those people are clearly morons.
I like to reach for the stars. And then paint them.
Here's a picture of what Roommate Liz's current knitting project will look like when finished. Isn't it great that we now have the technology to make a baby gay?
The upside of Chicago's insanely harsh winter, if there has in fact been one, has been the phenomenal crafting output created by me and Roommate Liz. Here's a small sampling in photos.
Knitting needn't stop simply because it's Super Bowl Sunday and you're drunk and in a bar. Or for any reason, in fact. During dinner, at a wedding, while working on your car -- any time is knitting time.
Some people don't think that plaster making is an art, mainly because it comes from a box labeled "ages 6 and up." Those people are clearly morons. 
I like to reach for the stars. And then paint them.
Here's a picture of what Roommate Liz's current knitting project will look like when finished. Isn't it great that we now have the technology to make a baby gay?Thursday, March 01, 2007
Night Moves
Last night I had a dream in which I was being pursued by a serial killer. This was probably induced by the fact that I saw Jake Gyllenhaal promoting his new serial killer movie on the Daily Show shortly before I went to bed; why I didn't dream of something pleasant like breakfasting with the Gyllenhaals (and perhaps the Sarsgaards as well, oooh!) instead, I'll never know. But the point is that I woke up at 3:30 in the morning utterly convinced that a serial killer was lurking somewhere in my home. I checked the closet, the bathroom, even the DRAWERS in the bathroom -- I was that paranoid -- but found no tiny knife-wielding maniacs. Still somehow concerned for my safety, I considered putting the armchair in my bedroom directly in front of the door to prevent murderers from breaking in, but settled instead for placing a stack of CDs there, the idea being that the noise from the CDs falling upon the murderer's entry would wake me and allow me to defend myself. And don't worry, they were old CDs that I don't listen to any more; primarily Hootie and the Blowfish, I should think. I then was able to return to bed, with the soothing sounds of some infomercial about hair growth (or maybe hair removal, I can't quite remember) to lull me to sleep.
Fortunately, no maniacs did break into my house to kill me, because now that I am fully awake and rational I realize that, despite my mad booby trapping skills, I might not in fact be able to "take" your average armed serial killer. I mean, in a fair fight, sure, but what serial killer fights fair?
The saddest part of all of this is that it is not the first time this has happened. A few months ago I had a dream where Samuel Jackson was trying to kill me, and considered the same chair-related defense mechanism. It was only the presence of an overnight guest that deterred me.
Last night I had a dream in which I was being pursued by a serial killer. This was probably induced by the fact that I saw Jake Gyllenhaal promoting his new serial killer movie on the Daily Show shortly before I went to bed; why I didn't dream of something pleasant like breakfasting with the Gyllenhaals (and perhaps the Sarsgaards as well, oooh!) instead, I'll never know. But the point is that I woke up at 3:30 in the morning utterly convinced that a serial killer was lurking somewhere in my home. I checked the closet, the bathroom, even the DRAWERS in the bathroom -- I was that paranoid -- but found no tiny knife-wielding maniacs. Still somehow concerned for my safety, I considered putting the armchair in my bedroom directly in front of the door to prevent murderers from breaking in, but settled instead for placing a stack of CDs there, the idea being that the noise from the CDs falling upon the murderer's entry would wake me and allow me to defend myself. And don't worry, they were old CDs that I don't listen to any more; primarily Hootie and the Blowfish, I should think. I then was able to return to bed, with the soothing sounds of some infomercial about hair growth (or maybe hair removal, I can't quite remember) to lull me to sleep.
Fortunately, no maniacs did break into my house to kill me, because now that I am fully awake and rational I realize that, despite my mad booby trapping skills, I might not in fact be able to "take" your average armed serial killer. I mean, in a fair fight, sure, but what serial killer fights fair?
The saddest part of all of this is that it is not the first time this has happened. A few months ago I had a dream where Samuel Jackson was trying to kill me, and considered the same chair-related defense mechanism. It was only the presence of an overnight guest that deterred me.
