the ocean

Up, Down & Around Town

-- The View. Why don't they just give America what it wants and have the ladies Foxy Box? My money's on Behar; she's got a desperation the others just can't match.

-- That Guy With Tuberculosis. I bet sitting next to that screaming baby on your last flight is looking pretty good right now, eh? At least it didn't cough blood on you.

-- Wikipedia. Today I learned about the Salem witch trials, I.M. Pei and, well, tuberculosis, all from the comfort of my office.

-- The Weather. Isn't it a fascinating thing to discuss with strangers in an elevator? The other day I actually heard myself utter the phrase "unseasonably warm."

-- Jordin Sparks. It may just be that, in a post-Taylor Hicks world, the title of American Idol holds about as much significance as that of World's Best Secretary or War Czar.

-- Professional Development. My office just gave me my very own mentee. Mainly I think I'm going to teach him about jazz dance.

Lunch of the Damned

I had lunch with one of the alumni representatives from my law school last week. I don't know why I agreed to do this, as these things always cost way more in discomfort than they pay out in terms of soup and sandwich, but somehow I did. I think maybe I thought it was going to be amusingly awkward, but I forgot that, much like slipping on a banana peel or being named Saaphyri, these things are only funny when they're happening to someone else.

But anyway, most of the lunch consisted of the alumni lady talking about herself, which did at least provide an interesting character portrait. I learned that A) she has many allergies, which she does not really care for, B) she had dreams of being a chemist, but fell back on hectoring people for money as a second choice, C) she has a crush on Charlie Rose, D) she has absolutely no interest in or enthusiasm for the law as a profession (which is something we share), and E) she really wasn't kidding about that crush on Charlie Rose. Actually, there was a lot more of this, but I kind of tuned out and began giving her a mental makeover. I really think some bangs might be nice.

We did talk a little bit about the school, including the fact that our ranking has risen back to its previous glory, which probably would have been great news had I ever known what we were ranked in the first place. I also got a colorful two-pocket folder out of the deal, which will no doubt adorn my desk for many festive years to come.

Memory Lane

I'm spending the long weekend with my parents in Quincy, lying around on the deck and reading and avoiding hot spots like the Wal-Mart where I might be seen by people I went to high school with. It's pretty great, actually. I'm playing my way through the James Bastien piano books for children (I only got as far as the third grade book, which seems to accurately approximate my current skill level) and raiding my parents' library for lesser known classics of Russian literature (many of which amuse me by having cost sixty-five cents when initially purchased). Tonight we're going to try the new Thai restaurant, Quincy's first. Excitement is running high.

Of course, coming back here always brings to mind many strange and hilarious memories, such as the fact that I used to think it was really cool to skip study hall to go eat breakfast at Burger King with my friends, and that I once got in trouble for staying our really late the night before the SATs, trouble that I escaped by telling my parents that I had fallen asleep in the hallway at school. I also recalled today that I once got busted by the parking lot attendant at the high school for driving over a grass embankment in my '95 Neon at the prompting of Kathy Yu, who "just wanted to see what this baby can do." Although I was too dumb to give the attendant a fake name, he ended up misspelling my real name so tragically that nothing ever came of it.

Looking back, it really is a wonder that I've lived to be 29 at all. The good news is that I do seem to be getting at least marginally smarter.

Great News!

A good friend of mine I don't remember ever meeting just emailed me, offering me the opportunity to engage in a mutually beneficial business transaction. Apparently, the widow of a Nigerian prince needs to transfer several million dollars to the US most urgently, and of course she turned to sending random emails for help. All I have to do to join this enterprise is drop $10,000 in unmarked bills into a certain trash can in Denmark. How can I lose?

Let's Get Physical

I decided to actually do a Comcast On Demand Workout the other day. It was "Cardio Party 3" (I don't know what happened to Cardio Parties 1 and 2) as hosted by an incredibly enthusiastic young man who actually didn't look all that imposingly fit but did seem to enjoy barking commands. It involved a lot of marching back and forth and lifting of knees, and I have to say I kind of liked it. They even had a lady, most likely named Carol or Pam, who performed easier versions of the moves for you in case you found the hand waving a bit too intense. The "cool down" seemed to be mostly heavy breathing, but hey, if you're into that I won't judge. It was as least as entertaining as any given episode of The George Lopez Show.

Sadly, some of the other workouts didn't really cut it. I quickly skipped out of one after I determined it was aimed at brides-to-be, as evidenced by the host's frequent shouts of "imagine you're marching down that aisle" and "toss that bouquet!" Another was supposed to be hip hop based, but seemed mainly to draw that designation from the prop burned-out car in the background. And there was one that, I kid you not, was just walking. I am still feeling the burn, although that may be because I actually did set myself on fire.

A Night at the Opera

Last night my friend and I went to the Chicago Opera Theater, which was fairly wonderful. The first opera was Bluebeard's Castle, a charming little tale about a big, scary man with intense facial hair and lots of rooms in his house that are filled with blood. The plot of the show is essentially just a house tour (here's a tip, Bluebeard: start the tour with the room full of gems rather than the torture chamber -- it's a little homier), but the music is pretty great. And it starred Samuel Ramey, who's exceedingly famous in the opera world, which equates to about Screech famous in the regular world. The second opera was Schoenberg's Erwartung, which also featured blood, this time attached to the corpse that was one of the only two characters in the show. The corpse did not sing, but boy was it good at acting dead. I'm saying local Emmys all around, frankly.

The real fun of the evening had to be our journey down there, however, which involved an aborted train ride, multiple unsuccessful attempts at taxification, and two Canadian girls. After being unable to even get into the Addison station on the red line due to the crowds from the Cubs/Sox game, we decided to walk all the way down to the brown line at Wellington, where we waited for fifteen minutes without ever seeing a train. We then walked another ten blocks or so in search of a cab, before being forced to share by two rather aggressive ladies from Toronto, who spent most of the trip arguing with the driver. The end result was that despite leaving ourselves an hour and fifteen minutes to get there, we arrived five minutes before curtain. I didn't even have time to pee.

But luckily, both operas were short, so my urinary tract was as satisfied as my artistic sensibilities. Now that's a hott, hott weekend.

Albums I Bought For the Cover Art Alone

Some music is timeless and deserves to be part of any serious record collection. Other music is terrible but has really hilarious cover art. When records cost fifty cents each, I end up with a little bit of both kinds.

I love Gloria Estefan's intense stare and enormous hair. It really makes me believe that the album will contain, as the title suggests, some primitive love. The necklace keeps it classy, though.

Speaking of enormous hair, Barry really brings it here. It's certainly the Grammy winner for Nose of the Year, as well. Unless Streisand released an album that year, of course.

So this isn't technically a cover, but the back of Whitney's debut album is stunning. Just enough of nip to keep it tasteful. Clearly, this is the look of a woman who really DOES believe that children are our future.
Say what you want about Lionel Richie, the man really knows how to make love to a backwards chair. It makes me want to go blind and sculpt a clay bust in his image.

Godot Works for Comcast

I spent my entire morning today waiting at home for a cable man who never came.

My appointment was for between 8 and 10 am. Of course I understood that the time of cable company employees is infinitely more valuable than that of everyone else in the world (do you think they give the Pope a two-hour window, or can he get an actual arrival time?), so I didn't expect anything more than a range of time during which a company employee might or might not drive by and toss a cable box through my front window. But when 10:15 rolled around and I hadn't seen anybody yet (and I'd watched most of She's the Man, starring that icon of cinema Amanda Bynes) I got a little worried. So I called the helpline.

Fifteen minutes and three soft jazz background melodies later, I finally got in touch with a real person, who assured me that, though late, a technician was "on his way to my house right now," so I should just "sit tight."

Of course no one ever arrived. So my second conversation with Comcast was much less pleasant, and involved a lot of me saying "I know this isn't your fault, but..." The customer service rep opened the call by announcing that I had in fact canceled my service appointment, a point I disputed gently by suggesting that I might not take the morning off from work to wait for an appointment I had in fact canceled. She then shifted tactics to claim that all service appointments in my area had been canceled (apparently without telling the appointment holders) due to a service outage. I pointed out that the shining face of Amanda Bynes in the She's the Man replay told me otherwise. She then helpfully offered to schedule me another appointment, which I agreed to do on the express condition that they not cancel it without telling me. She thanked me for my patience, to which I truthfully replied that I hadn't in fact been very patient at all.

So the bottom line is I'm going yet another week without cable in my bedroom. WGN in the Morning better really pull out the stops for me, that's all I'm saying.

May Sweeps Stunts Revisited

CSI: New York -- It's CSI's most shocking case yet, for reasons that have yet to be explained to my satisfaction.

Ugly Betty -- Vanessa Williams loses an arm when, after an entire season of abuse, the scenery finally chews back.

The Unit -- It turns out this show isn't about what I thought it was about at all. Too bad.

The Bachelor -- The final two contestants realize that no man could ever be more important than their self respect, and are immediately replaced with rejects from Flavor of Love: Charm School.

Two and a Half Men -- Charlie gets rickets, with hilarious consequences.

The Ghost Whisperer -- The ghost whisperer encounters a mystery that causes her shirt to get really wet and clingy.

American Idol -- In the most stunning twist in the history of Idol, the eliminated finalist is summarily executed.

The George Lopez Show -- George breaks out a third, never before seen facial expression.

Grey's Anatomy -- Bea Arthur guest stars as a pleurisy patient with a sexy secret.

Culture Wars

Last night downtown Chicago hosted a "celebration of diversity and culture" ultra-creatively dubbed "Looptopia" (I guess "Loopapalooza" seemed a little too cute). The brochures for the event depicted people swallowing fire, performing acrobatics, and enjoying laser light shows, but for me it consisted mainly of standing in line and shivering. As it turned out, the four or five events comprising the bulk of the evening's entertainment after midnight were ill-equipped to handle the several thousand exceedingly intoxicated and questionably attired twentysomethings who crammed into the loop hoping to be Lootoped. Accordingly, the evening devolved into a mob of people standing in Millennium Park and arguing with the police. I have to admit that it was pretty cultural.

We did at least make another stop at the Art Institute, which was especially fun due to the flash mob of semi-retarded suburbanites attempting to make heads or tails of Matisse and Dali. The guiding star for many of today's art connoisseurs appears to be whether or not an artwork would look good emblazoned on a t-shirt or some beach towels. We made a special stop in the contemporary wing to enjoy the choruses of "I don't get it" and "How is that art?" that typify the region. Plus, I got in trouble with a sassy guard for setting off a motion sensor by standing too close to a Buddha. Who says religion is cold and inaccessible?

Domestic Disturbances

Now that it's nice out, I've been sleeping with the windows open a lot. This has led to me overhearing a lot of interesting conversations. For instance, a few weeks ago I heard a group of drunk people sitting in the yard next to my building discussing our nation's current policies in the Mideast. The perspectives represented included everything from 1) have you played that Iraq videogame? to 2) I think flying one of those bombers would be pretty cool to 3) I could really go for a burrito right now. It was like I was eavesdropping on a cabinet meeting. By which I mean a meeting of kitchen cabinets, naturally.

Last night, however, really took the cake, as I heard our upstairs neighbors engaging in an extensive dialogue over what it means to be "ignoring" someone and whether this is appropriate behavior to be engaged in "when you know I'm really stressed out over the tile samples" and "after I just caught you talking to that skank with the split ends from Pottery Barn that you used to date." There were some excellent counterpoints raised, such as "do we really have to talk about this now?" and "come on, just get off it, okay?" but in the end the logic of a "Fuck you, okay? You can just go drive out to your mom's by yourself this weekend, how about that?" could not be ignored. Or maybe it could, if the sounds of angry sex that soon emanated are any indication.

It's going to be a sad, sad day when I finally have to turn on the air conditioning.

Our Long National Nightmare Has Ended

So I got my DVR repaired this weekend. As it turned out, they were able to salvage all my recordings, so it felt a little bit like Christmas in May, except I got all my back episodes of 30 Rock and The Office instead of socks from my mother. I decided not to bother with catching up on Desperate Housewives, though. Essentially, unless Teri Hatcher gets devoured by wolves, I'm just not that interested any more. I guess I would also accept spontaneous human combustion, although I would prefer to know that there was suffering involved.

Making the resurgence of my DVR especially important is a little news item forwarded to me by Roommate Liz today. (Probably the word "news" should be in quotes, given what is about to follow.) Apparently, VH1 is going to air a program in which we, as viewers, are allowed to cast the next I Love New York program. Of course, everyone will have their own criteria for selecting suitors, but I personally will be looking for 1) incorporation of wigs and/or prosthetics, 2) interest in or enthusiasm for a hip hop career, and of course 3) borderline personality disorders. But that's not all! Apparently, one Sanjaya is rumored to be a candidate for New York's attentions. This may well be reality television nirvana, people. Throw in Puck from the Real World and the universe may well just fold in upon itself.

How Are Americans Celebrating Cinco de Mayo?

-- Not realizing that it is, in fact, Cinco de Mayo.
-- Vomiting up margaritas in the bathroom of a T.G.I. Friday's.
-- Enjoying the excuse to finally wear that sombrero.
-- Substituting pictures of Salma Hayek for typical, non-diverse masturbatory material.
-- Date raping a pi phi.
-- Developing a complex relationship with Jose Cuervo.
-- Feeling bad about continuing to loathe Mariachi music.
-- Wondering why pinatas never caught on for, say, Easter or Rosh Hashana.
-- Understanding not one second of Telemundo.
-- Watching Cycle Two of America's Next Top Model.
-- Delaying vote on proposition legalizing the sterilization of all immigrants.

As If You Needed Another Reason to Want to Be Like Tyra Banks

Did you know that you can have Tyra call your friends and relatives? There's a website at topmodel.varitalk.com. It's perfect if, for instance, you're in love with someone but just don't quite know the right way to say it, or if you're trying to tell your wife you're sorry you lied about being a Green Beret. Of course, Tyra will only say certain prepackaged phrases in the call, but I'm sure your loved ones will understand what you're trying to say.

The awesome thing about these calls is that when you receive them Tyra just talks without pausing for a minute straight, just as I'm sure she'd do in an actual call. She also ends the call by yelling "holla," which is something I plan to emulate from now on. I can think of no better way to end a conference call about your double murder trial, for instance.

No word on whether she was wearing the fat suit as she recorded the messages, but I'm just going to pretend that was the case. There are some things I just need to believe.

Images that Come Up When You Google My Last Name

You can really learn a lot about yourself through Google. For instance, I learned that I apparently love Japanese poetry and have really uncomplicated views on a number of major social issues, thanks to web pages from my college years that are still around to haunt me. But it's the image search that can perhaps teach us the most:

Ah, this is so me. I am so totally an asexual cartoon character with a hat. I'm probably a little bit more into "Navy Love," but it's a small quibble.

This is apparently a chart of what people in Nebraska expect their relatives to do for them when they get older. For me, you'd have to add "buy me Fruit Roll Ups" and "listen to me talk about America's Next Top Model.

Hmmm. I don't remember hosting a religious morning show, but that could totally just be me. I played "Mr. Jellypants" on the children's television program "Madame Monkeyface's Magical Machines" for three full years in the seventies, and I have no recollection of it.

Um, okay. I'll get right to it. Seems simple enough.