Sunday, March 31, 2013
I'm Back!
It was a great trip and I'm not even that jet lagged. (The first day there, however, was another story -- I fell asleep in more locations and physical positions than I would have even thought possible.) I'll probably be blogging about it for many days to come, but here are some quick takeaways:
-- The seats on Austrian Air flights are shockingly close together. I was practically spooning the lady in the seat in front of me. Also, their in-flight entertainment options are basically three movies that just play over and over again in different languages.
-- Vienna is an amazingly beautiful city; even, like, a McDonald's will be located in the most gorgeous building you've ever seen.
-- Vienna has a need for McDonald's, as the local idea of cuisine is taking a piece of bread and putting egg salad and cucumbers or peppers or something on it. They do know dessert though, for sure, and I look forward to the forty pounds I'm about to gain as a result.
-- It can be very cold in Vienna in late March, even if you've only packed three sweaters.
-- They do not like to talk about the two world wars in Vienna, and if you read a little bit about the local history of those wars, it is hard to blame them.
-- They do love to talk in English in Vienna, though, which is good, because my German sounds like one of the Von Trapp children suffered a head wound.
-- Church seems to be one of the major industries of Vienna. There were two giant churches within a block of my hotel. Unbelievably, neither was a snake-handling Baptist church.
-- They don't believe in one-stop shopping in Vienna. You have to go to one store for groceries, another for toiletries, and a third for over-the-counter medications. All of these places are closed on Sundays.
-- You do not need to get to the airport until approximately ten minutes before your flight in Vienna; check in and security are a total breeze.
As I say, much more to come. But I'm here and alive, which is definitely a start.
It was a great trip and I'm not even that jet lagged. (The first day there, however, was another story -- I fell asleep in more locations and physical positions than I would have even thought possible.) I'll probably be blogging about it for many days to come, but here are some quick takeaways:
-- The seats on Austrian Air flights are shockingly close together. I was practically spooning the lady in the seat in front of me. Also, their in-flight entertainment options are basically three movies that just play over and over again in different languages.
-- Vienna is an amazingly beautiful city; even, like, a McDonald's will be located in the most gorgeous building you've ever seen.
-- Vienna has a need for McDonald's, as the local idea of cuisine is taking a piece of bread and putting egg salad and cucumbers or peppers or something on it. They do know dessert though, for sure, and I look forward to the forty pounds I'm about to gain as a result.
-- It can be very cold in Vienna in late March, even if you've only packed three sweaters.
-- They do not like to talk about the two world wars in Vienna, and if you read a little bit about the local history of those wars, it is hard to blame them.
-- They do love to talk in English in Vienna, though, which is good, because my German sounds like one of the Von Trapp children suffered a head wound.
-- Church seems to be one of the major industries of Vienna. There were two giant churches within a block of my hotel. Unbelievably, neither was a snake-handling Baptist church.
-- They don't believe in one-stop shopping in Vienna. You have to go to one store for groceries, another for toiletries, and a third for over-the-counter medications. All of these places are closed on Sundays.
-- You do not need to get to the airport until approximately ten minutes before your flight in Vienna; check in and security are a total breeze.
As I say, much more to come. But I'm here and alive, which is definitely a start.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Off The Grid
Well, not really, but off the blog at least. I'm going on vacation to Vienna for a week and a half. Well, vacation slash moot court competition, because I'm weird. But I may not have internet access and, even if I do, let's admit that blogging might not be the best use of my time.
I can't say I have a lot of big plans for this trip. I do have a guidebook that I've reviewed, but I haven't made any action plans or maps or burn books or anything. I kind of plan to play it by ear. Which is probably best when you have to spend at least some time moot courting.
So yeah, you may not hear from me for a bit. Try and go on with your lives. Or just go ahead and hole up in your survivalist shelter with your guns and canned goods. Really your choice on this one.
Well, not really, but off the blog at least. I'm going on vacation to Vienna for a week and a half. Well, vacation slash moot court competition, because I'm weird. But I may not have internet access and, even if I do, let's admit that blogging might not be the best use of my time.
I can't say I have a lot of big plans for this trip. I do have a guidebook that I've reviewed, but I haven't made any action plans or maps or burn books or anything. I kind of plan to play it by ear. Which is probably best when you have to spend at least some time moot courting.
So yeah, you may not hear from me for a bit. Try and go on with your lives. Or just go ahead and hole up in your survivalist shelter with your guns and canned goods. Really your choice on this one.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The Big Picture
I watched Kramer vs. Kramer last night, as part of my continuing series of movies I can't believe I've never seen. Unlike a lot of movies in that category, it was pretty good, though about the most depressing way one could possibly spend a Sunday night. It turns out that a child custody battle is not the barrel of laughs I'd always been led to believe! But I was surprised by how well it held up, since these issues are not exactly groundbreaking cinema any more. Mainly the acting was just really good; Dustin Hoffman has never seemed so plausible as a human being, Meryl Streep brought a lot of complexity to what easily could have been a cartoonish role (and not the good kind, like in Pixar), and even the kid wasn't completely irritating like they usually are. So I retroactively approve the awarding of the 1979 Academy Award for Best Picture. Great news for everyone, I am sure.
Right now I'm watching Flight. The fact that I'm blogging while I'm watching it probably suggests a thing or two about how much I'm enjoying it, but it's actually fairly decent. The first half hour was honestly super great (you know, when the -- spoiler alert for people who have been in comas for the past six months -- plane crashed), but it's kind of been downhill since then. Just a lot of really self destructive behavior, which I could watch on Lifetime. I know we're supposed to hate Denzel Washington's character, but, well, he's doing a really good job with that aspect of the performance. Oh, and the John Goodman of it all. They keep playing this rollicking music when he arrives, like we're supposed to be dancing in the aisles, but frankly, I'd rather be back on the crashing plane.
I watched Kramer vs. Kramer last night, as part of my continuing series of movies I can't believe I've never seen. Unlike a lot of movies in that category, it was pretty good, though about the most depressing way one could possibly spend a Sunday night. It turns out that a child custody battle is not the barrel of laughs I'd always been led to believe! But I was surprised by how well it held up, since these issues are not exactly groundbreaking cinema any more. Mainly the acting was just really good; Dustin Hoffman has never seemed so plausible as a human being, Meryl Streep brought a lot of complexity to what easily could have been a cartoonish role (and not the good kind, like in Pixar), and even the kid wasn't completely irritating like they usually are. So I retroactively approve the awarding of the 1979 Academy Award for Best Picture. Great news for everyone, I am sure.
Right now I'm watching Flight. The fact that I'm blogging while I'm watching it probably suggests a thing or two about how much I'm enjoying it, but it's actually fairly decent. The first half hour was honestly super great (you know, when the -- spoiler alert for people who have been in comas for the past six months -- plane crashed), but it's kind of been downhill since then. Just a lot of really self destructive behavior, which I could watch on Lifetime. I know we're supposed to hate Denzel Washington's character, but, well, he's doing a really good job with that aspect of the performance. Oh, and the John Goodman of it all. They keep playing this rollicking music when he arrives, like we're supposed to be dancing in the aisles, but frankly, I'd rather be back on the crashing plane.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Saint Elsewhere
I can tell I'm getting old because I'm starting to resent it when other people are having fun. Well, mainly when other people are getting drunk and screaming in my alley or playing their music so loudly that the whole building is shaking from the bass, but still. I feel like that lady who shushed me and my sister at the PTA Summer Movie Series showing of Big when I was ten. (It was right before the scandalous "bra scene" that created such a ruckus among Quincy parents.) There was a time in my life when I was the one having ridiculous roof parties that kept my neighbors awake until all hours of the night and caused bits of Jell-O shot to be ground into the carpet in the lobby, but apparently that time is no more.
This observations are, of course, occasioned by St. Patrick's Day, which seems to last a full week here in Chicago. So far today, I have had no fewer than six drunk people hit my buzzer, either laboring under some misapprehension about my identity or mistakenly believing that I run a youth hostel. I sat in my car on the street outside my house for ten minutes because so many people were hailing cabs that traffic was actually not moving. And there is vomit on my front lawn. Suffice it to say that this has not been my favorite holiday.
I'm hoping that tomorrow will be better because it is, after all, the lord's day, but my fear is that the lord gave up on St. Patrick's Day a long time ago. Regardless, it might be a good idea for me to invest in some earplugs.
I can tell I'm getting old because I'm starting to resent it when other people are having fun. Well, mainly when other people are getting drunk and screaming in my alley or playing their music so loudly that the whole building is shaking from the bass, but still. I feel like that lady who shushed me and my sister at the PTA Summer Movie Series showing of Big when I was ten. (It was right before the scandalous "bra scene" that created such a ruckus among Quincy parents.) There was a time in my life when I was the one having ridiculous roof parties that kept my neighbors awake until all hours of the night and caused bits of Jell-O shot to be ground into the carpet in the lobby, but apparently that time is no more.
This observations are, of course, occasioned by St. Patrick's Day, which seems to last a full week here in Chicago. So far today, I have had no fewer than six drunk people hit my buzzer, either laboring under some misapprehension about my identity or mistakenly believing that I run a youth hostel. I sat in my car on the street outside my house for ten minutes because so many people were hailing cabs that traffic was actually not moving. And there is vomit on my front lawn. Suffice it to say that this has not been my favorite holiday.
I'm hoping that tomorrow will be better because it is, after all, the lord's day, but my fear is that the lord gave up on St. Patrick's Day a long time ago. Regardless, it might be a good idea for me to invest in some earplugs.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Little Known Facts About Our New Pope
-- Three-time winner of Buenos Aires hot dog eating competition.
-- Briefly married to Liza Minnelli in the '70s.
-- Uses Oil of Olay so his skin can maintain that youthful glow.
-- Plans to announce God was "just kidding" about that vow of poverty stuff.
-- Nominated for an 1981 Academy Award for his costume designs for the major motion picture Chariots of Fire.
-- Fiscally conservative, socially set-your-pants-on-fire conservative.
-- Always dresses as a sexy nurse for Halloween.
-- Proud graduate of Hamburger University.
-- Current Vatican champ for most Eucharist dispensed in one sitting.
-- Favorite Bible verse is "that freaky stuff in the Old Testament."
-- Has always been infallible, at least according to his mother.
-- Loves big hats; believes they are "slimming."
-- Totally worried things will be awkward around the old Pope.
-- Three-time winner of Buenos Aires hot dog eating competition.
-- Briefly married to Liza Minnelli in the '70s.
-- Uses Oil of Olay so his skin can maintain that youthful glow.
-- Plans to announce God was "just kidding" about that vow of poverty stuff.
-- Nominated for an 1981 Academy Award for his costume designs for the major motion picture Chariots of Fire.
-- Fiscally conservative, socially set-your-pants-on-fire conservative.
-- Always dresses as a sexy nurse for Halloween.
-- Proud graduate of Hamburger University.
-- Current Vatican champ for most Eucharist dispensed in one sitting.
-- Favorite Bible verse is "that freaky stuff in the Old Testament."
-- Has always been infallible, at least according to his mother.
-- Loves big hats; believes they are "slimming."
-- Totally worried things will be awkward around the old Pope.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Maxing/Relaxing
I got a massage this weekend. It was great, except for two things:
1. A lot of time seemed to be spent on my butt. Now, I don't claim to be a massage expert, but I don't recall that really being an area of particular interest in previous massages. Is that really a part of the body where people store tension? I guess I had done a bunch of squats that day.
2. When I got up at the end, I promptly fell over. I guess after two hours lying motionless on my stomach, I got a bit lightheaded. Either that, or I'm just generally a huge klutz. Regardless, the massage guy had to stifle a laugh.
Why must relaxation always be such hard work for me?
I got a massage this weekend. It was great, except for two things:
1. A lot of time seemed to be spent on my butt. Now, I don't claim to be a massage expert, but I don't recall that really being an area of particular interest in previous massages. Is that really a part of the body where people store tension? I guess I had done a bunch of squats that day.
2. When I got up at the end, I promptly fell over. I guess after two hours lying motionless on my stomach, I got a bit lightheaded. Either that, or I'm just generally a huge klutz. Regardless, the massage guy had to stifle a laugh.
Why must relaxation always be such hard work for me?
Sunday, March 10, 2013
High Drama on Aisles Two, Three & Four
On my way home from the gym yesterday, I decided to "pop in" to the Wal-Mart really quickly for some Diet Coke and an impulse purchase of Pringles. This was, of course, a terrible mistake. When I hit the checkout, I quickly realized that there was a woman trying to use a Wal-Mart gift card two people in front of me, which was of course an impossible dream. There was all sorts of wild gesticulating and brow furrowing surrounding its use, but very little actual progress towards completing the transaction. So I switched lines, only to have my new cashier abandon her line entirely to go assist with the gift card situation, which is clearly a two-man job. There was further discussion (and dare I say a little voice raising) but still no movement on either line. My cashier then returned to help the person in front of me, who had only three items. She scanned his Diet Coke. She scanned his white wine. She examined his ID. Then she scanned his red wine and promptly dumped it on the floor. This is when shit got real.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I might have got glass in my face!" the cashier exclaimed.
"Are you all right?" the customer in front of me asked.
"I don't know. I don't know. The glass went everywhere! Did I get glass in my face?"
It did seem to me that getting glass in one's face is the sort of thing of which one is generally acutely aware. Through, for instance, blindness, searing pain, or bleeding. But I did not feel I was in any position to judge.
"Um, I don't see any glass there. Did you feel any hit you?"
"I don't know. What if I got glass in my face?"
We appeared to be at a standoff. A resolution of sorts came in the form of a manager, who came and started screaming at people.
"Lashondra! Get a mop. Get a mop over in here and clean all this up. Tisha! Tisha, you go on ahead and check Monique out here. Make sure there ain't no glass in her face. Lordy. Are you going to want another bottle of that wine?"
As though he would prefer to just lick up the bottle residing on the floor.
But another bottle was successfully procured, identification was rechecked (because underaged drinking would be the REAL tragedy here), and the shellshocked customer was sent on his way. Finally I stepped up, Pringles in hand.
"Excuse me, sir," came the voice from the next aisle. "I think my son may have gotten glass in his face."
This in reference to a child who was smiling and laughing without any sign of injury or, in fact, any care in the world.
It was another ten minutes before I finally emerged with my Diet Coke. And no, it did not taste any sweeter because I had to work for it.
On my way home from the gym yesterday, I decided to "pop in" to the Wal-Mart really quickly for some Diet Coke and an impulse purchase of Pringles. This was, of course, a terrible mistake. When I hit the checkout, I quickly realized that there was a woman trying to use a Wal-Mart gift card two people in front of me, which was of course an impossible dream. There was all sorts of wild gesticulating and brow furrowing surrounding its use, but very little actual progress towards completing the transaction. So I switched lines, only to have my new cashier abandon her line entirely to go assist with the gift card situation, which is clearly a two-man job. There was further discussion (and dare I say a little voice raising) but still no movement on either line. My cashier then returned to help the person in front of me, who had only three items. She scanned his Diet Coke. She scanned his white wine. She examined his ID. Then she scanned his red wine and promptly dumped it on the floor. This is when shit got real.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus. I might have got glass in my face!" the cashier exclaimed.
"Are you all right?" the customer in front of me asked.
"I don't know. I don't know. The glass went everywhere! Did I get glass in my face?"
It did seem to me that getting glass in one's face is the sort of thing of which one is generally acutely aware. Through, for instance, blindness, searing pain, or bleeding. But I did not feel I was in any position to judge.
"Um, I don't see any glass there. Did you feel any hit you?"
"I don't know. What if I got glass in my face?"
We appeared to be at a standoff. A resolution of sorts came in the form of a manager, who came and started screaming at people.
"Lashondra! Get a mop. Get a mop over in here and clean all this up. Tisha! Tisha, you go on ahead and check Monique out here. Make sure there ain't no glass in her face. Lordy. Are you going to want another bottle of that wine?"
As though he would prefer to just lick up the bottle residing on the floor.
But another bottle was successfully procured, identification was rechecked (because underaged drinking would be the REAL tragedy here), and the shellshocked customer was sent on his way. Finally I stepped up, Pringles in hand.
"Excuse me, sir," came the voice from the next aisle. "I think my son may have gotten glass in his face."
This in reference to a child who was smiling and laughing without any sign of injury or, in fact, any care in the world.
It was another ten minutes before I finally emerged with my Diet Coke. And no, it did not taste any sweeter because I had to work for it.
Friday, March 08, 2013
Weird Science
Chicago is a truly weird city, full of deeply weird people who engage in zealously weird conduct on a regular basis. I am well aware of this; in fact, I rather enjoy it. Well, I guess I should clarify that I may not contemporaneously enjoy, say, getting screamed at about sodomy by a guy with a mike attached to a boom box outside the Old Navy or getting reprimanded by a check-out clerk for my treatment of produce, I certainly enjoy it after the fact. These things are a lot more fun to describe than experience. But regardless, I have to wonder why Chicago always seems to be at its weirdest when my parents are in town. They are little old people from Quincy, IL, and ill equipped to deal with weirdness on this scale, I fear.
I am reminded of this today because my father stopped in town for lunch on his way to visit our relatives in Wisconsin, and it seemed that every half-crazed hobo, sassy public employee, and overly talkative food court employee conspired to put on as much of a show as possible for him. A homeless person with a fake British accent accosted us on our way to lunch and offered to take us to his castle. A brassy female traffic cop screamed at us for straying but a few inches out of the official crosswalk area. And the cashier at the Macy’s food court seized this opportunity to explain to my father in the most explicit terms each of his many failings as an orderer of food. This was all within the scope of an hour; if he’d stayed for the day I fear we’d both be dead by now.
Of course, the best example of this phenomenon came when a vagrant spotted my mother outside the Chili Five Way in Lakeview and exclaimed “oh, don’t mess with this one, she got the crazy eye.” You know, when they’re right, they’re right.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
Forget Me Nots
One of my most endearing (read: crazy) habits is leaving post-it notes all over the house/office with reminders for myself on them. The drawer I keep my keys in has not one but two sticky notes in it reminding me that I have a checkup with my oral surgeon at 8:15, despite the fact that I currently have no such appointment pending. (I have an 8 AM appointment in a few weeks and I figure I can just cross out the “15” on one of them – waste not, want not!) My desk at home is similarly littered with post-its that include a potential invite list for a party I never actually ended up throwing and a list of ideas for short nonfiction pieces that I will likely never actually end up writing. It’s like the place where good ideas go to die. And of course there are multiple notes that just bear the word “blog” on them, which should serve as an indication to you as to just how careful I am about following the dictates of my post-its. It is likely that I have written twice as many blog reminders as I have written blog entries, and with the same level of art and artistry to boot.
My favorite post-its, though, are the ones so fragmentary that I can’t even remember what they were supposed to be about. They say things like “off-brand cheese balls” and “Lawrence Welk in drag.” Did I intend to purchase said cheese balls? Was I brainstorming sketch ideas about PBS icons? Either seems possible, although in the latter case the absence of a corresponding “Bob Ross meets Diana Ross” post-it is incriminating. There are also post-its where I can’t even read my own handwriting, so I could be recording a dinner date with Wynonna Judd for all I know. I think I’ll fly down to Nashville just in case on that one.
Monday, March 04, 2013
Snow Job
Well, they are yet again predicting a snowpocalypse for the Chicagoland area. I'm looking at a map projecting six to twelve inches of snow. Either that or a big blue blob is just saying "6-12" and they forgot the opening quotation marks. It's a disgusting thought, even at the low end of the range. It's March; Chicago weather is supposed to be soul crushingly cool and gray, not soul crushingly snowy. Last March, we had seventy-degree weekend, which I obviously spent working on privilege logs. But now that I could be out and about in my tube top, it's all "To Build A Fire" out there.
It is kind of funny to watch everybody freak out, though. They sent an email around at my office today basically explaining the concept of snow, since I guess some people weren't familiar with it. And people were essentially rioting over ice melt today at the Walgreen's. I mean, I think the worst case scenario here is that people can't get their cars out for one or two days; we're hardly in national guard territory. Although I would accept a police escort to the gym if anyone's offering. People get awfully pushy about getting those big lockers.
Well, they are yet again predicting a snowpocalypse for the Chicagoland area. I'm looking at a map projecting six to twelve inches of snow. Either that or a big blue blob is just saying "6-12" and they forgot the opening quotation marks. It's a disgusting thought, even at the low end of the range. It's March; Chicago weather is supposed to be soul crushingly cool and gray, not soul crushingly snowy. Last March, we had seventy-degree weekend, which I obviously spent working on privilege logs. But now that I could be out and about in my tube top, it's all "To Build A Fire" out there.
It is kind of funny to watch everybody freak out, though. They sent an email around at my office today basically explaining the concept of snow, since I guess some people weren't familiar with it. And people were essentially rioting over ice melt today at the Walgreen's. I mean, I think the worst case scenario here is that people can't get their cars out for one or two days; we're hardly in national guard territory. Although I would accept a police escort to the gym if anyone's offering. People get awfully pushy about getting those big lockers.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
Bookends
My day yesterday began with me walking down my front steps, slipping on some ice, and flailing desperately into my front fence, where I nicely jacked up my hand.
My day yesterday ended with me erroneously believing I had left my wallet in a cab, chasing that cab (or actually, it was not even that same cab, just a cab) for half a block and screaming "no! no! stop!" before realizing that my wallet was in my bag, turning around, and trying to play all of this off as if nothing had ever happened.
I'm tempted to look at all of this as an omen of something, but I'm really not sure what, because the rest of the day was actually pretty not bad. I mean, it wasn't great either, but I didn't end up falling down an elevator shaft or getting deported.
I definitely salted that front walk down but good, let me tell you.
My day yesterday began with me walking down my front steps, slipping on some ice, and flailing desperately into my front fence, where I nicely jacked up my hand.
My day yesterday ended with me erroneously believing I had left my wallet in a cab, chasing that cab (or actually, it was not even that same cab, just a cab) for half a block and screaming "no! no! stop!" before realizing that my wallet was in my bag, turning around, and trying to play all of this off as if nothing had ever happened.
I'm tempted to look at all of this as an omen of something, but I'm really not sure what, because the rest of the day was actually pretty not bad. I mean, it wasn't great either, but I didn't end up falling down an elevator shaft or getting deported.
I definitely salted that front walk down but good, let me tell you.
