Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Golden Years
For some reason, I received an invitation to join the AARP in the mail this week. It informed me that that esteemed organization had reviewed its records and found me eligible for membership, but that I had inexplicably failed to take advantage of the many benefits available to those fifty and older. It enclosed a membership card for my use.
I have to say that I believe this will be an enormous boon to my social life. To begin with, I'm going to get a pretty sweet discount at the movies, although I think I will be required to only view films starring Clint Eastwood and Angela Lansbury. I also know that there's going to be a wide array of adult education classes now open to me, including, I like to think, courses in water aerobics and how to make a fine windsor chair. Maybe I will even rush an adult education fraternity and go to a few mixers. Plus, I'm guessing that meeting Wilford Brimley pretty much comes standard with a membership in the AARP, which is good, because I have a lot of questions about what it was like to work on the set of Our House. For instance, what was it like to work with Deidre Hall? I bet he'll say amazing.
Of course, all of this begs the larger question of how exactly the AARP decided that I am over fifty. Perhaps they found out about all my crafting. Big Brother, thy name is JoAnn Fabrics.
For some reason, I received an invitation to join the AARP in the mail this week. It informed me that that esteemed organization had reviewed its records and found me eligible for membership, but that I had inexplicably failed to take advantage of the many benefits available to those fifty and older. It enclosed a membership card for my use.
I have to say that I believe this will be an enormous boon to my social life. To begin with, I'm going to get a pretty sweet discount at the movies, although I think I will be required to only view films starring Clint Eastwood and Angela Lansbury. I also know that there's going to be a wide array of adult education classes now open to me, including, I like to think, courses in water aerobics and how to make a fine windsor chair. Maybe I will even rush an adult education fraternity and go to a few mixers. Plus, I'm guessing that meeting Wilford Brimley pretty much comes standard with a membership in the AARP, which is good, because I have a lot of questions about what it was like to work on the set of Our House. For instance, what was it like to work with Deidre Hall? I bet he'll say amazing.
Of course, all of this begs the larger question of how exactly the AARP decided that I am over fifty. Perhaps they found out about all my crafting. Big Brother, thy name is JoAnn Fabrics.
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Hollywood Minute
Who's got a potentially life-threatening case of Oscar fever?
It's hard to know where to begin, really. I do absolutely have to call for a moratorium on superimposing animated characters on live shots of the audience, a practice that hasn't been cute since, well, ever. I mean, did we really need to see the children from Monster House reacting with shock and dismay to their loss? Shouldn't the producers have gone all out and just shown the title characters from Cars running over their competition in the parking lot? Or the penguins from Happy Feet menacing Academy members with knives? I'm an idea person; that's really what I am.
I should probably also complain that the ceremony itself was almost four hours long, but I'm kind of sanguine on that subject because it helped me to win money. The tiebreaker question on this year's Oscar pool was the length of the ceremony, and I hit it just about right, thusly netting a well-earned $7. It paid for almost half of my cab ride home!
As far as Ellen's hosting job goes, I was very much impressed with 1) the wide array of pantsuits, and 2) the multiple cutaways to Portia, who I love. I was less of a fan of the opening monologue, which I felt lacked the necessary references to Mr. Wrong. And I'm still searching for an Oscar host who can keep things moving, through the use of a stun gun, if necessary.
And for heaven's sake, people, if there are three of you accepting an award, you've got to know the first guy can't talk for a minute and a half. It only leads to heartache.
Who's got a potentially life-threatening case of Oscar fever?
It's hard to know where to begin, really. I do absolutely have to call for a moratorium on superimposing animated characters on live shots of the audience, a practice that hasn't been cute since, well, ever. I mean, did we really need to see the children from Monster House reacting with shock and dismay to their loss? Shouldn't the producers have gone all out and just shown the title characters from Cars running over their competition in the parking lot? Or the penguins from Happy Feet menacing Academy members with knives? I'm an idea person; that's really what I am.
I should probably also complain that the ceremony itself was almost four hours long, but I'm kind of sanguine on that subject because it helped me to win money. The tiebreaker question on this year's Oscar pool was the length of the ceremony, and I hit it just about right, thusly netting a well-earned $7. It paid for almost half of my cab ride home!
As far as Ellen's hosting job goes, I was very much impressed with 1) the wide array of pantsuits, and 2) the multiple cutaways to Portia, who I love. I was less of a fan of the opening monologue, which I felt lacked the necessary references to Mr. Wrong. And I'm still searching for an Oscar host who can keep things moving, through the use of a stun gun, if necessary.
And for heaven's sake, people, if there are three of you accepting an award, you've got to know the first guy can't talk for a minute and a half. It only leads to heartache.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Slow News Day
I may have to spearhead a campaign to keep America's broadcasters from running marathons of America's Next Top Model. For the second time in two months, I find myself transfixed for hours at a time by the exploits of the overdramatic and underfed. Somehow I'm longing to put on yellow contacts and dark eye makeup and allow Tyra Banks to photograph me. Who could ever hope to accomplish anything under such circumstances?
Luckily it's a fairly slow weekend, anyway. My biggest adventure so far has been a trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond, where one of my friends told me they sell the specialty light bulbs I need for my kitchen fixtures. Of course, she imparted this information to me when she was drunk, so as it turned out, Bed, Bath & Beyond had nothing of the sort. The important thing is that I got to hunt for parking in Lincoln Park on a Saturday afternoon, though. That's fun under any circumstances.
The word on the street is that we're going to get several inches of snow today. No sign of that yet, but I want to go on record with a big old "fuck Winter," regardless. I'm inches away from retiring to Florida.
I may have to spearhead a campaign to keep America's broadcasters from running marathons of America's Next Top Model. For the second time in two months, I find myself transfixed for hours at a time by the exploits of the overdramatic and underfed. Somehow I'm longing to put on yellow contacts and dark eye makeup and allow Tyra Banks to photograph me. Who could ever hope to accomplish anything under such circumstances?
Luckily it's a fairly slow weekend, anyway. My biggest adventure so far has been a trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond, where one of my friends told me they sell the specialty light bulbs I need for my kitchen fixtures. Of course, she imparted this information to me when she was drunk, so as it turned out, Bed, Bath & Beyond had nothing of the sort. The important thing is that I got to hunt for parking in Lincoln Park on a Saturday afternoon, though. That's fun under any circumstances.
The word on the street is that we're going to get several inches of snow today. No sign of that yet, but I want to go on record with a big old "fuck Winter," regardless. I'm inches away from retiring to Florida.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Mysterious Wet Spot
I had to travel for work over the past two days, which meant an overnight stay at one of America's many fine economically priced hotels. I always find it kind of weird to stay in a hotel all by myself, because it's not like there's a ton to do there besides filling my ice bucket and watching a little bit of free HBO. I thought about going for a swim, but apparently there was a Screaming Children Convention in town, because the pool was loaded with them. I actually did hit the hotel gym for a while, but given that the treadmills had treads about four centimeters wide and displays that appeared to have been stolen from a Commodore 64, I didn't make a ton of progress there. I ended up just lying in bed and making a series of phone calls in which I complained of being bored and lonely. My friends are so lucky to know me.
But the real fun began the next morning when I was watching Dawson's Creek and, as I sat on the foot of my bed so that I could get a closer look at Katie Holmes' wonky eye, I was surprised to find myself sitting in something wet. I investigated potential sources of this wetness, such as perhaps a damp towel from my shower or a small leak in the ceiling, but none panned out. (And no, I didn't wet the bed, thank you, unless I've started not only bedwetting but also peeing from my feet.) I gave the spot a little no-contact sniff, but I couldn't really detect any odor that might serve to identify the source. I thought about calling the front desk, but I wasn't sure how that conversation would really go. ("Um, hi, I'm in Room 330, and I'm concerned someone may have ejaculated on my bed.") So I guess it will just have to remain a mystery. It's a lot like Easter Island in that way.
I had to travel for work over the past two days, which meant an overnight stay at one of America's many fine economically priced hotels. I always find it kind of weird to stay in a hotel all by myself, because it's not like there's a ton to do there besides filling my ice bucket and watching a little bit of free HBO. I thought about going for a swim, but apparently there was a Screaming Children Convention in town, because the pool was loaded with them. I actually did hit the hotel gym for a while, but given that the treadmills had treads about four centimeters wide and displays that appeared to have been stolen from a Commodore 64, I didn't make a ton of progress there. I ended up just lying in bed and making a series of phone calls in which I complained of being bored and lonely. My friends are so lucky to know me.
But the real fun began the next morning when I was watching Dawson's Creek and, as I sat on the foot of my bed so that I could get a closer look at Katie Holmes' wonky eye, I was surprised to find myself sitting in something wet. I investigated potential sources of this wetness, such as perhaps a damp towel from my shower or a small leak in the ceiling, but none panned out. (And no, I didn't wet the bed, thank you, unless I've started not only bedwetting but also peeing from my feet.) I gave the spot a little no-contact sniff, but I couldn't really detect any odor that might serve to identify the source. I thought about calling the front desk, but I wasn't sure how that conversation would really go. ("Um, hi, I'm in Room 330, and I'm concerned someone may have ejaculated on my bed.") So I guess it will just have to remain a mystery. It's a lot like Easter Island in that way.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Art Smart
Friend Amy and I went to the Art Institute today. It's free until the 21st, so people are absolutely coming out of the woodwork to gawk at Chagall while it's still cost efficient. This was sort of an asset because it exponentially increased the opportunities for people watching within the museum, which I really consider to be an art form in and of itself. For instance, in one of the modern rooms I overheard a lady with a neon pink fanny pack waxing poetic on Picasso's "abstractual" style and its possible roots in his "mental disturbedness." Later, as we examined works from the Italian Renaissance, I heard a young man remark that Titian (and you can guess how THAT was pronounced) certainly had a certain enthusiasm for "fat chicks." Of course, I can't really be too offended, because I myself had to remark that the Dutch Masters often depict individuals who "look like aliens" and that some Baroque works "make the Virgin Mary look like she's got dumps like a truck." I'm sure that someone across town is blogging about my cultural ignorance at this very moment.
But the best exhibit of all had to be the "miniature rooms" exhibit, where they have essentially set up tiny dollhouses for about a hundred different periods in different areas of the world. I enjoy immensely the fact that effort and expense have been dedicated to finding or making four inch square Medieval tapestries and six centimeter chandeliers, but my joy was only increased by the ladies in front of us, who discussed each tiny room as though real people lived there.
"Oh, these people must have a lot of money," they would say. "Look at those golden candelabras. Those are nice."
But not every decorating choice the imaginary people made was exempt from censure:
"I don't like those red draperies. They're far too heavy for the room. I just don't think they fit in there at all."
And, of course, there were practical concerns:
"I just don't know how they take care of those high ceilings, you know that?" (Pause here to note the delicious irony that the "high ceilings" in question are literally four inches high.) "I mean, they must just get cobwebs like the dickens there."
I've got to get back the Art Institute more often. Really it would be a bargain at twice the price.
Friend Amy and I went to the Art Institute today. It's free until the 21st, so people are absolutely coming out of the woodwork to gawk at Chagall while it's still cost efficient. This was sort of an asset because it exponentially increased the opportunities for people watching within the museum, which I really consider to be an art form in and of itself. For instance, in one of the modern rooms I overheard a lady with a neon pink fanny pack waxing poetic on Picasso's "abstractual" style and its possible roots in his "mental disturbedness." Later, as we examined works from the Italian Renaissance, I heard a young man remark that Titian (and you can guess how THAT was pronounced) certainly had a certain enthusiasm for "fat chicks." Of course, I can't really be too offended, because I myself had to remark that the Dutch Masters often depict individuals who "look like aliens" and that some Baroque works "make the Virgin Mary look like she's got dumps like a truck." I'm sure that someone across town is blogging about my cultural ignorance at this very moment.
But the best exhibit of all had to be the "miniature rooms" exhibit, where they have essentially set up tiny dollhouses for about a hundred different periods in different areas of the world. I enjoy immensely the fact that effort and expense have been dedicated to finding or making four inch square Medieval tapestries and six centimeter chandeliers, but my joy was only increased by the ladies in front of us, who discussed each tiny room as though real people lived there.
"Oh, these people must have a lot of money," they would say. "Look at those golden candelabras. Those are nice."
But not every decorating choice the imaginary people made was exempt from censure:
"I don't like those red draperies. They're far too heavy for the room. I just don't think they fit in there at all."
And, of course, there were practical concerns:
"I just don't know how they take care of those high ceilings, you know that?" (Pause here to note the delicious irony that the "high ceilings" in question are literally four inches high.) "I mean, they must just get cobwebs like the dickens there."
I've got to get back the Art Institute more often. Really it would be a bargain at twice the price.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The World of Romance
I fear I have been unforgivably remiss in not devoting some space to what is undoubtedly the greatest cultural achievement in this nation's history, VH1's I Love New York. I mean, without care and attention from all of us, I fear there's a possibility that New York might not actually find true love by appearing on this television program, which would be tragic and likely a first in the history of reality tv. Besides, how could I not discuss T-Weed's fantastical falsifications of millions of dollars of wealth? Have I no sense of decency? Where was I when Romance snuck off to a secretive corner and sobbed into New York's Chihuahua for twenty minutes? Have I no heart? I suppose all I can really do is vow to do better from this moment on.
To that end, I'm going to handicap some of New York's remaining suitors. To begin with, 12 Pack. Despite Sister Patterson's assertion that he has a "touch of the secret gay" to him, I believe he is not only straight but also probably married to several different women throughout the great state of New Jersey. Which could really only serve to increase his appeal to New York. Second, Mr. Boston, whose own choice for a nickname, "stud," was summarily rejected. His charm seems to consist mainly of being utterly impervious to any sort of rejection, although he at times seems to be channeling Gilbert Gottfried. Ultimately, I believe he'll prove too employable for New York. I think the front runner really has to be Chance, who, by alienating Sister Patterson right from the beginning and emulating Flavor Flav on the "offbeat appearance" and "whimsical malapropism" fronts, has really set himself apart. Somehow I smell spinoff.
I fear I have been unforgivably remiss in not devoting some space to what is undoubtedly the greatest cultural achievement in this nation's history, VH1's I Love New York. I mean, without care and attention from all of us, I fear there's a possibility that New York might not actually find true love by appearing on this television program, which would be tragic and likely a first in the history of reality tv. Besides, how could I not discuss T-Weed's fantastical falsifications of millions of dollars of wealth? Have I no sense of decency? Where was I when Romance snuck off to a secretive corner and sobbed into New York's Chihuahua for twenty minutes? Have I no heart? I suppose all I can really do is vow to do better from this moment on.
To that end, I'm going to handicap some of New York's remaining suitors. To begin with, 12 Pack. Despite Sister Patterson's assertion that he has a "touch of the secret gay" to him, I believe he is not only straight but also probably married to several different women throughout the great state of New Jersey. Which could really only serve to increase his appeal to New York. Second, Mr. Boston, whose own choice for a nickname, "stud," was summarily rejected. His charm seems to consist mainly of being utterly impervious to any sort of rejection, although he at times seems to be channeling Gilbert Gottfried. Ultimately, I believe he'll prove too employable for New York. I think the front runner really has to be Chance, who, by alienating Sister Patterson right from the beginning and emulating Flavor Flav on the "offbeat appearance" and "whimsical malapropism" fronts, has really set himself apart. Somehow I smell spinoff.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Craigslist Missed Connections Demystified!
Anyone who knows me knows that Craigslist missed connections are one of my favorite things in the world. For the uninitiated among my readers, Craigslist is a website where people post brief ads offering everything from gently used maternity clothing to meth-fueled gangbangs. Many of Craigslist's categories are magical (the "rants and raves" come to mind), but there is none better than missed connections, in which people leave messages for total strangers who looked at them funny on the train once and therefore are obviously deeply in love with them. I'm not sure what percentage of these postings result in 65-year marriages, but I'm guessing it's pretty close to a hundred. You have to leave room for the margin of error.
Missed connections all tend to draw from the same well of phrases, which are in need of a bit of translating. For instance, "you have beautiful eyes" means "I want to fuck you," as does "I commented on your coat," "you were reading The Da Vinci Code," or "you are a Dominican nun." The phrase "I've never posted on here before" means "I post here several times a day and do not ever intend ever to stop." The phrase "you probably won't see this, but..." means "I enjoy wasting my time." In contrast, the phrase "write back if you see this" means "I think you're too stupid to understand how the Internet works." The phrase "saw you on the train" means "I'm trying to keep this vague enough that it can apply to anyone in the universe." Oh, and the phrase "I'd love to get together sometime" means "I want to fuck you." Got it?
Unfortunately, despite my years of careful study of the missed connections, I have yet to receive one. I've got to start randomly staring at more strangers, I guess.
Anyone who knows me knows that Craigslist missed connections are one of my favorite things in the world. For the uninitiated among my readers, Craigslist is a website where people post brief ads offering everything from gently used maternity clothing to meth-fueled gangbangs. Many of Craigslist's categories are magical (the "rants and raves" come to mind), but there is none better than missed connections, in which people leave messages for total strangers who looked at them funny on the train once and therefore are obviously deeply in love with them. I'm not sure what percentage of these postings result in 65-year marriages, but I'm guessing it's pretty close to a hundred. You have to leave room for the margin of error.
Missed connections all tend to draw from the same well of phrases, which are in need of a bit of translating. For instance, "you have beautiful eyes" means "I want to fuck you," as does "I commented on your coat," "you were reading The Da Vinci Code," or "you are a Dominican nun." The phrase "I've never posted on here before" means "I post here several times a day and do not ever intend ever to stop." The phrase "you probably won't see this, but..." means "I enjoy wasting my time." In contrast, the phrase "write back if you see this" means "I think you're too stupid to understand how the Internet works." The phrase "saw you on the train" means "I'm trying to keep this vague enough that it can apply to anyone in the universe." Oh, and the phrase "I'd love to get together sometime" means "I want to fuck you." Got it?
Unfortunately, despite my years of careful study of the missed connections, I have yet to receive one. I've got to start randomly staring at more strangers, I guess.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Obamarama
We went to the Obama rally at the UIC Pavilion yesterday, which had its ups and downs. On the downside, there was a lot of standing in line outside in the cold behind a crazy lady who kept trying to get free t-shirts involved. On the upside, I wrapped my scarf around my face for warmth, which made be feel like a ninja. The hour of standing in front of the stage in a huge mess of shoving, occasionally stinking people was definitely a negative, but the nonsensical lies people told to try to get to the front of the crowd (i.e. "I need to be up close because I'm a diabetic") were an unexpected positive. I also thought Jan Schakowsky was an amazing emcee; if Rosie O'Donnell ever decides to retire or, well, settle the hell down, there may be a replacement available.
Anyway, the speech itself was pretty good, even if it was preceded by about half an hour of accidentally self-deprecating tributes from other politicians, who wanted us to know that "Barack Obama is different from all those other politicians." He talked inspiringly if not exceedingly concretely about health care and energy and education, while reminding us that he was against the war before being against the war was the cool thing to do. He used a handheld mike without looking like an American Idol contestant or, worse yet, Donahue, and jettisoned the podium in favor of a more theater-in-the-round approach (I hear he's also doing Our Town later this Spring). And though I really feel this term is overused, and rarely accurately when it comes to politicians, he has a certain charisma that really draws you in. He's like a smart black Julia Roberts, minus all those years of I Love Trouble and Mary Reilly.
Of course, we ended up standing next to a few interesting characters who added to the amazingness. One gentleman was quite intently "recording" the whole thing with a tiny pocket recorder that would clearly not actually catch any sound except perhaps the rustling of his pocket. Another was loudly declaiming his own personal commentary on the speech to the defeated-looking girl next to him. And still another was humming Nelly Furtado's "Promiscuous" to himself the whole time. Okay, the last one might have been me, though in my defense it's a really catchy song.
We went to the Obama rally at the UIC Pavilion yesterday, which had its ups and downs. On the downside, there was a lot of standing in line outside in the cold behind a crazy lady who kept trying to get free t-shirts involved. On the upside, I wrapped my scarf around my face for warmth, which made be feel like a ninja. The hour of standing in front of the stage in a huge mess of shoving, occasionally stinking people was definitely a negative, but the nonsensical lies people told to try to get to the front of the crowd (i.e. "I need to be up close because I'm a diabetic") were an unexpected positive. I also thought Jan Schakowsky was an amazing emcee; if Rosie O'Donnell ever decides to retire or, well, settle the hell down, there may be a replacement available.
Anyway, the speech itself was pretty good, even if it was preceded by about half an hour of accidentally self-deprecating tributes from other politicians, who wanted us to know that "Barack Obama is different from all those other politicians." He talked inspiringly if not exceedingly concretely about health care and energy and education, while reminding us that he was against the war before being against the war was the cool thing to do. He used a handheld mike without looking like an American Idol contestant or, worse yet, Donahue, and jettisoned the podium in favor of a more theater-in-the-round approach (I hear he's also doing Our Town later this Spring). And though I really feel this term is overused, and rarely accurately when it comes to politicians, he has a certain charisma that really draws you in. He's like a smart black Julia Roberts, minus all those years of I Love Trouble and Mary Reilly.
Of course, we ended up standing next to a few interesting characters who added to the amazingness. One gentleman was quite intently "recording" the whole thing with a tiny pocket recorder that would clearly not actually catch any sound except perhaps the rustling of his pocket. Another was loudly declaiming his own personal commentary on the speech to the defeated-looking girl next to him. And still another was humming Nelly Furtado's "Promiscuous" to himself the whole time. Okay, the last one might have been me, though in my defense it's a really catchy song.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Personalities
-- Barack Obama. My sister once met him at the Urbana Sweet Corn Festival, so obviously he's the right man to be president. Although McCain's appearance at the Threshers' Bee complicates things somewhat.
-- Jerry Maguire. The ever-timely TBS has already played it about 300 times this weekend. It's fun to remember how we used to not know that Tom Cruise was crazy, though.
-- Norbit. The original plan was just to release a movie actually depicting Eddie Murphy crapping on an Oscar, but they figured this was the next best thing.
-- Sonic the Hedgehog. For some inexplicable reason, I've actually referenced him a couple of times in conversations this week. He was kind of on top of the world for a while there, though, wasn't he? He had his own Saturday morning cartoon and everything.
-- Anna Nicole Smith. At least she died the way she lived: as someone whose appeal I utterly fail to understand.
-- Sienna Miller. You have to admire how the plucky little scamp somehow keeps insisting that she's famous, despite all evidence to the contrary. I mean, who could forget her turn as "Savannah" in "High Speed?"
-- Barack Obama. My sister once met him at the Urbana Sweet Corn Festival, so obviously he's the right man to be president. Although McCain's appearance at the Threshers' Bee complicates things somewhat.
-- Jerry Maguire. The ever-timely TBS has already played it about 300 times this weekend. It's fun to remember how we used to not know that Tom Cruise was crazy, though.
-- Norbit. The original plan was just to release a movie actually depicting Eddie Murphy crapping on an Oscar, but they figured this was the next best thing.
-- Sonic the Hedgehog. For some inexplicable reason, I've actually referenced him a couple of times in conversations this week. He was kind of on top of the world for a while there, though, wasn't he? He had his own Saturday morning cartoon and everything.
-- Anna Nicole Smith. At least she died the way she lived: as someone whose appeal I utterly fail to understand.
-- Sienna Miller. You have to admire how the plucky little scamp somehow keeps insisting that she's famous, despite all evidence to the contrary. I mean, who could forget her turn as "Savannah" in "High Speed?"
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Cold, Hard, Cash
Yesterday I received my first-ever bonus at work. It was very strange for me, given that in all of my previous employment, bonuses have generally taken the form of free bagels on Monday mornings or all the office supplies you can steal. But I definitely enjoyed it. My first instinct was to immediately blow it all on cookie cake and wine in a box, but as that amount of Franzia would invariably prove fatal, I made a quick trip to the bank instead. Financially stable AND sensible -- can't you tell I'm 29 now?
In other news, it is so cold that my ears feel like they're going to fall out every time I step outside. I'm not what you'd call a hat fan (my hair goes from zero to fro in 1.3 seconds), and I haven't ever bothered to buy those little ear things that people wear on the train resulting in them not hearing my request that they please not handle my wang, so my ears are definitely suffering. It's worth it to constantly hear people ask me why I don't have a hat as though they're asking why I've just committed a brutal murder, though. The moral dimension to headgear is so often overlooked.
Yesterday I received my first-ever bonus at work. It was very strange for me, given that in all of my previous employment, bonuses have generally taken the form of free bagels on Monday mornings or all the office supplies you can steal. But I definitely enjoyed it. My first instinct was to immediately blow it all on cookie cake and wine in a box, but as that amount of Franzia would invariably prove fatal, I made a quick trip to the bank instead. Financially stable AND sensible -- can't you tell I'm 29 now?
In other news, it is so cold that my ears feel like they're going to fall out every time I step outside. I'm not what you'd call a hat fan (my hair goes from zero to fro in 1.3 seconds), and I haven't ever bothered to buy those little ear things that people wear on the train resulting in them not hearing my request that they please not handle my wang, so my ears are definitely suffering. It's worth it to constantly hear people ask me why I don't have a hat as though they're asking why I've just committed a brutal murder, though. The moral dimension to headgear is so often overlooked.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Good Times
Sister Meg was in town this weekend and, avid documentarian that she is, decided to capture a few moments for posterity. She's a regular Annie Liebowitz, I tell you.
Friend Amy gave me a Flavor Flav clock for my birthday, which I think will certainly intimidate opposing counsel at my next deposition. The only problem is deciding what to wear it with. I'm otherwise somewhat light on bling.
Sister Meg was in town this weekend and, avid documentarian that she is, decided to capture a few moments for posterity. She's a regular Annie Liebowitz, I tell you.
Friend Amy gave me a Flavor Flav clock for my birthday, which I think will certainly intimidate opposing counsel at my next deposition. The only problem is deciding what to wear it with. I'm otherwise somewhat light on bling.
Roommate Liz works on her Bears legwarmers, a process that would continue right up until her halftime performance of Bear Down at the bar. There was a bit of stapling involved in the final product as well, I must disclose.
You're looking at the reason I ended up falling asleep by 9:30 PM on my birthday. Although I still maintain I was drugged.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Bowled Over
Though I have to confess I am not the world's biggest football fan, sharing in Chicago's Super Bowl excitement this year provided me with a whole lot of enjoyment. First of all, it was interesting to see normally rational, even mild-mannered people strip down to their blue and orange undergarments in the middle of January and spell out words with their bodies. It was also kind of fun to see folks pull out their 21-year-old Bears gear to show their ill-fitting "spirit" as offices around town decided to bag actual work in favor of conference room "tailgates" last Friday. I had a piece of blue and orange cake and a Diet Coke.
Most interesting of all, however, was watching Roommate Liz, who is perhaps the world's greatest Bears fan, as she performed all the necessary rituals leading up to the big game. We had several ceremonial viewings of the Super Bowl Shuffle, a couple of prayer circles, and many days of incredibly repetitive ESPN pregame coverage. Not to mention the heroic knitting of Bears legwarmers. It was enough to get even me excited, along with the several shots of vodka.
Of course, things did not work out for the Bears. But I can't help but believe that Roommate Liz's devotion will someday be rewarded. Bear Down, people. We've got to Bear Down.
Though I have to confess I am not the world's biggest football fan, sharing in Chicago's Super Bowl excitement this year provided me with a whole lot of enjoyment. First of all, it was interesting to see normally rational, even mild-mannered people strip down to their blue and orange undergarments in the middle of January and spell out words with their bodies. It was also kind of fun to see folks pull out their 21-year-old Bears gear to show their ill-fitting "spirit" as offices around town decided to bag actual work in favor of conference room "tailgates" last Friday. I had a piece of blue and orange cake and a Diet Coke.
Most interesting of all, however, was watching Roommate Liz, who is perhaps the world's greatest Bears fan, as she performed all the necessary rituals leading up to the big game. We had several ceremonial viewings of the Super Bowl Shuffle, a couple of prayer circles, and many days of incredibly repetitive ESPN pregame coverage. Not to mention the heroic knitting of Bears legwarmers. It was enough to get even me excited, along with the several shots of vodka.
Of course, things did not work out for the Bears. But I can't help but believe that Roommate Liz's devotion will someday be rewarded. Bear Down, people. We've got to Bear Down.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Another Year...
I turn 29 tomorrow (and not that fake kind of 29 that is just 30 in denial), but since it will also be the day that the Bears are in the Super Bowl for the first time in two decades, no one will probably much care. I'm still fairly excited, though, because I intend to get incredibly wasted, eat tacos from the tiny, greasy restaurant under the train, and ask a lot of stupid questions about football. It stands to be good times, though.
Birthdays for me have generally been pretty amazing, except for my first year of law school when people were too busy stealing my torts books and trying to destroy me academically to throw me much of a party. When I was a kid, I always got a party at Scottie's Skateland, which involved a lot of cake and generally the receipt of a number of fine Transformers. When they finally told me I was too old to ride around in the giant skate, my friends and I switched to slightly more sophisticated pursuits like sneaking into an R-rated movie or drinking a bottle of Pucker on the sly in my basement. When I turned 21, I tried to see how many bottles of Boone's I could drink in fifteen minutes. It turns out that even a single bottle of Boone's is in fact far, far too many.
The best birthday of all, though, has to be my third year of law school, when Roommate Liz threw me a surprise party in which the "surprise" aspect was manifested entirely through her producing a cake from the closet and informing me that it was, in fact, a surprise party for me. Our group of friends was already sitting around her living room playing cards and talking, and my birthday had in fact passed about a week before. But her calm, clear conviction that a surprise party was taking place was quite convincing. I found that I was, in fact, terribly surprised. To this day I still check the closet for a cake every chance I get.
I turn 29 tomorrow (and not that fake kind of 29 that is just 30 in denial), but since it will also be the day that the Bears are in the Super Bowl for the first time in two decades, no one will probably much care. I'm still fairly excited, though, because I intend to get incredibly wasted, eat tacos from the tiny, greasy restaurant under the train, and ask a lot of stupid questions about football. It stands to be good times, though.
Birthdays for me have generally been pretty amazing, except for my first year of law school when people were too busy stealing my torts books and trying to destroy me academically to throw me much of a party. When I was a kid, I always got a party at Scottie's Skateland, which involved a lot of cake and generally the receipt of a number of fine Transformers. When they finally told me I was too old to ride around in the giant skate, my friends and I switched to slightly more sophisticated pursuits like sneaking into an R-rated movie or drinking a bottle of Pucker on the sly in my basement. When I turned 21, I tried to see how many bottles of Boone's I could drink in fifteen minutes. It turns out that even a single bottle of Boone's is in fact far, far too many.
The best birthday of all, though, has to be my third year of law school, when Roommate Liz threw me a surprise party in which the "surprise" aspect was manifested entirely through her producing a cake from the closet and informing me that it was, in fact, a surprise party for me. Our group of friends was already sitting around her living room playing cards and talking, and my birthday had in fact passed about a week before. But her calm, clear conviction that a surprise party was taking place was quite convincing. I found that I was, in fact, terribly surprised. To this day I still check the closet for a cake every chance I get.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Mail Call
The mail guy for my floor and I have kind of an interesting relationship. First of all, he often calls me Sam, which I think is kind of odd, given that my actual name is on both my door and every single piece of mail he delivers to me. Second, he really likes to chat with me a length, which is sometimes awkward, given that the description of my duties does include a number of tasks other than listening to the mail guy's opinions on Rosie O'Donnell. Also, he's a bit of a mumbler, which can lead to exchanges like the following:
Mail Guy: Hey, Sam, did you hear about the myrhburble clrh?
Jay: I'm sorry, what?
Mail Guy: Plurabsul klyh.
Jay: Oh right, yeah. How about that?
His main topic of conversation, however, is the proximity of the weekend, which I can pretty much fake, even if I don't exactly hear him clearly:
Mail Guy: Man, Sam, Friday's coming soon, eh, buddy?
Jay: Not soon enough, I tell you!
Mail Guy: You're right about that.
And recently he's started commenting on my individual pieces of mail, which is somewhat disturbing. I mean, it's not like I'm having porn mailed to my office or anything, but I don't necessarily need everyone on my floor knowing I bought the Dreamgirls soundtrack.
Of course, if I start cultivating this whole "Sam" persona there's probably a lot of things I can start blaming on him.
The mail guy for my floor and I have kind of an interesting relationship. First of all, he often calls me Sam, which I think is kind of odd, given that my actual name is on both my door and every single piece of mail he delivers to me. Second, he really likes to chat with me a length, which is sometimes awkward, given that the description of my duties does include a number of tasks other than listening to the mail guy's opinions on Rosie O'Donnell. Also, he's a bit of a mumbler, which can lead to exchanges like the following:
Mail Guy: Hey, Sam, did you hear about the myrhburble clrh?
Jay: I'm sorry, what?
Mail Guy: Plurabsul klyh.
Jay: Oh right, yeah. How about that?
His main topic of conversation, however, is the proximity of the weekend, which I can pretty much fake, even if I don't exactly hear him clearly:
Mail Guy: Man, Sam, Friday's coming soon, eh, buddy?
Jay: Not soon enough, I tell you!
Mail Guy: You're right about that.
And recently he's started commenting on my individual pieces of mail, which is somewhat disturbing. I mean, it's not like I'm having porn mailed to my office or anything, but I don't necessarily need everyone on my floor knowing I bought the Dreamgirls soundtrack.
Of course, if I start cultivating this whole "Sam" persona there's probably a lot of things I can start blaming on him.
