The Intelligence Estimate

I went for a walk today on an outdoor track at Loyola and there were three guys playing the most ridiculous non-sport on the infield: Frisbee. Frisbee is such an academic waste of time. I think it was invented by an aeronautical engineer who grew bored of his mobile and his Newton's Cradle and craved more "danger" because it consists of nothing more than watching the disk fly at your head for extended periods of time. And if you can't enjoy the science behind the flight I see no other reason to "participate." Often times the Frisbee just veers left at the last minute for no apparent reason, so it's not like these guys were even playing catch. I watched these guys for the better part of a half an hour and I think they caught it a total of three times. So the basic gist of the "game" as I understand it is "wait...wait...wait...RUUUUUNNNNN...fail." No thank you. If I need that kind of frustration I will do the sudoku.

I saw a guy in his fifties on the train tonight "reading" Maxim. (You know, for the articles.) But he was actually using Maxim to distract people from the fact that he actually had another magazine inside of it. The Economist? Atlantic Monthly? Soldier of Fortune? Nope. Playboy. Apparently this guy was ok with being thought of as a pervert, just not THAT much of a pervert.

I was at Target tonight picking up a lamp that Jen and I had ordered but I decided to stroll around the place and see if there was anything I else I needed while I was there. For no good reason whatsoever I found myself in the pet supply aisle when I started to hear this beeping. I tried to follow it but it was difficult because of all the other customer traffic. The closer I got to the cause of the noise the more I realized that it was not a regular beeping but a highly erratic noise, like something being punished. And it was. I turned the corner and I saw a boy about 8 years old sitting on the bottom shelf of this big display of chew toys. He was the very picture of frustration as he sat there punching a toy fish that had a squeaker inside of it.

God love her, she thinks she's helping.

Mom called tonight. Unfortunately she caught Jen and I in the middle of a small fight, so I wasn't too talkative. And mom, quite uncharacteristically, wanted to talk about my feelings.

"Are you ok?"

No, I said, and I don't want to talk about it.

She persisted. A few prodding questions and several dull answers later:

"Are you sure you're ok?"

No, I never said I was ok. I'm not ok, ok?!

"You wanna talk about it?"

Didn't you say you were going to bed?

"Yeah, but I can stay up for this!"

I should have let her sleep. Clearly she wasn't firing on all 8 cylinders and was in no way prepared to give me advice.

I told her that Jen and I don't get enough time to spend together because of my work schedule and her school and work schedules. We rarely see each other. When we do see each other it's just in passing.

Mistake #1
"I know, your father and I were like that when he had that night job."

This is a mistake because they are divorced. And it was an UGLY divorce. So much so that I thought there might have been gun play at our wedding when they were forced to breath the same air for extended periods of time. No one wants to hear that. It's the equivalent of telling the crew of the Love Boat that their ship was drawn from the same plans as the Titanic. It kinda makes it hard to enjoy the rest of the cruise if you're constantly scanning the horizon for icebergs.

I went on to tell mom that sometimes, quite against my own best interests, I find myself arguing in a manner that reminds me somewhat of Dad.

Mistake #2
"And we all know how THAT relationship ended!" mom countered.

See also Mistake #1

In retrospect, I kinda set her up for that...but I wasn't going to tell HER that!

Wow mom, you're really bad at this aren't you?

"I'm sorry. I'm not good at advice. I really good at empathizing though!"

I don't know what her idea of empathizing is, but it's clearly not anything you or I would recognize as comforting.

Well, I went on, when we do see each other we don't get enough time to work on our relationship. We just get enough time to take care of the routine crap. Mail this bill, sign this check, buy a card for your grandma. That crap. It's like we keep running and running and running only to find ourselves at the starting line. Or, to torture another metaphor, we spend a LOT of time just treading water and never get anywhere.

Mistake #3
"Well, sometimes you have to tread water until you get where you're going."

If you are treading a lot of water to finally arrive at you destination, you know what? You were already there. It was only later as I was relaying this story to Jen that I realized why mom's analogy failed so miserably: Mom can't swim.

Well, Jen and I are not fighting anymore. But don't be so quick to congratulate us. We didn't really fix the problem so much as just table it for later. We did agree on one thing though when it comes to our problems: DON'T ASK MOM.

When using the escalator at the train station please remember this one simple rule, "It ain't a freakin' ride so move your fat ass!"

Let me paint a picture for you. I know the big city is a scary place and you want/need time to stop and gawk, but the train station is not the place to do this. Trust me, if you took time to stop and take in the sights at the train station you would never take public transportation ever again. So please, as incomprehensible as this may be to you, move it tubby!

Why, you ask? Well, sometimes there are people, people not unlike me, who are in a hurry to get somewhere. Like...and I'm just pulling things out of thin air (or in your case FAT air) here...like they are late for a show for example. And as they were speed walking from their home they watched the train pull into the station. And, theoretically, they ran across the street, swept into the station, scanned their CTA card and darted to the escalator only to have all of their forward momentum arrested completely by your total inability to put one hoof in front of the other. And then, just as the escalator crested the hill and the train pulls away your skinny little wisp of a boyfriend (who, in a side note, is only with you because he's afraid if he tries to leave you you'll eat him!) says, "Honey, I think he's in a hurry."

So, to recap: you're fat, your boyfriend fears you and I hate you. Go cry in your bacon fat!

I've heard different version of All Along the Watchtower (Jimi Hendrix, Dave Matthews...etc....) for years, but I've never been able to make out all the lyrics. Well I finally got all the lyrics figured out because I finally heard the original version. That's right, you read that correctly. I understood Bob Dylan. Ironic, no?

******
As you have no doubt noticed I have a link to a Google Group on the blog page. (For those of you who haven't noticed that is how these posts keep arriving in your e-mail! That and magical gnomes composed of ones and zeros.) I posted it there and never really anticipated that anyone would really use it.

I guess it's there more as a monument to my ego.

I figure I'm giving my "fans" a chance to read my thoughts and perhaps catch a glimpse into my inner workings. Then they could sign up to have my brilliance delivered to them the second it's posted! Then they would tell their friends and before you know it I'm a world famous blog billionaire. Needless to say that hasn't happened yet, but I have had someone sign up who I don't know personally. That's pretty exciting...in a pathetic sort of way. You know, for a guy who is attentuion starved and constantly seeking approval it's sort of exciting. Shut up. Don't judge me.

Who are you "Associate Alice?" Do you know where you're going to? Do you like the things that life is showing you? Welcome aboard.

******
In a previous blog I wrote about how, because we live right off Lake Michigan, I'm worried that Vikings may attack the apartment at any minute without warning. Because, you know, that's how they roll! Anyway, I now have photographic evidence that I have to worry about pirates too. It's not all just in my head. This is a photo from my friend Jack who was here this past weekend. So clearly it's in Jack's head too...which is a lonely place to be. Let's just say there aren't a lot of people muttering the phrase, "I can't be crazy, Jack sees it too!" Hmmmm...maybe this "evidence" doesn't help my case.

I know I've bitched about WikiHow before. For those of you who haven't heard my previous rantings, the rest of us will wait here while you catch up. Really, go ahead. Seriously. We'll all just wait right here...we have nothing better to do. No, really, we'll all just hum quietly to ourselves whilst pondering flat tax proposals and candy-covered rainbow.

Da-de-da-de-da...exchanging glances...da-de-da-de-da...don't know where me pants is....

Ok, everybody back? For our late comers, here's a synopsis: WikiHow don't WikiKnow a WikiThing.

Today's entry from WikiHow explains how to PLAY JAZZ PIANO. Look out Berklee School of Music there's a new sherriff in town and his name is WikiHow! That's right forget lessons. Forget Chopsticks and keeping your fingers in the proper position. Forget Aunt Rhodie and The Old Grey Mare! Now we can learn to jam like the masters in no time at all thanks to WikiHow! Thank you WikiHow for freeing me from the tyranny of talent and the confines of craft. Lets just see how to play jazz piano, shall we?

Hmmm...ok. Uh...it appears that most of the steps in playing jazz piano involve such minor trivialities as learn how to play the piano and learn scales. Once you master those little tricks, VOILA! You're playing jazz piano! When you put it like that it seems so obvious. It's so simple I don't know why I haven't put Harry Connick, Jr. out of work yet. (Although The Pajama Game may do that for me)

Something tells me that it might be a scosh harder to become Herbie Hancock than WikiHow would lead you to believe. But apparently you need no practical knowledge of a topic to write a WikiHow article. They will not let a little thing like an IQ get in their way. And you know what? Neither will I.

How To Discover New Elements of The Periodic Table

1) Get a government grant. This is very important because you'll need to set up a lab. This is not as much fun as the Muppets would lead you to believe. You will need to get desks and pencils and those NEVER GIVE UP motivational posters. Then you'll probably need to write a mission statement or something too. (*hint, you can never go wrong with words like: actualize, synergy and energize!)

2)Get a cyclotron.

3) Hire a bunch of scientists. And be sure to spring for the really good ones. Don't be afraid to hire people who are smarter than you. Remember, you're the one with the grant money and as long as you're signing the checks you ARE the smartest guy in the room!

4) Do some sciencey-type stuff.

5) Get a celebrity attached to the project, that way everyone is sure to know about your element. And make sure that the element (when you get around to discovering one) has a snappy name. Something like: Superoneum, the Wonder Element; or The-Greatest-Discovery-of-The-Modern-Age-eum. That way people are SURE to take notice.

6) Discover an element.

7) Sit back and watch the checks roll in!

And here's the vaudeville version of a WikiHow article.

How To Get To Carnegie Hall

1) Practice

Jen and I were in Northbrook the other day. I'm not sure why we were there exactly, and I'm even less certain why we ended up at the mall. You see, I hate suburbs and I hate malls. The suburbs are all so antiseptic it makes it appear as though they were built last week. In a lot of cases, that's not far from the truth. I don't live in a great part of Chicago, but it's far from a slum. And yet, every time I go to the suburbs they are so bright and sterile it makes me feel as though I am going toe to toe with death everyday in the city.

And malls are even worse. This particular mall had huge, upscale stores and loads of open coutyards in between them. There was even a small stream and a huge fake tree in the middle of it...presumably to commemorate the habitat that it wiped out to make room for the corporate monstrosity. And all of the people there look as though they were built from a kit. I passed a store where their advertising was going on and on about the originality and uniqueness of their mass produced skirts.

That's when it struck me, "This is not a mall, it's a Disneified version of reality. It's Consumerland!"

It's complete with all the attractions...

Gymboree- TOMORROWLAND

Abercrombie and Fitch- FRONTIERLAND

Apple Store- EPCOT

The drug dealer in the parking lot- SPACE MOUNTAIN

The parking lot- REALITY

I only had $1 on me qwhen I was there. I felt so outclassed. Not only was I underdressed, but I was broke too. You know what $1 gets you in a place like that? A lifetime supply of loathing.

I know bitching about government and bureaucratic ineptitude is nothing so novel. I know that complaining about computers and problems encountered online is a little passe as well. But combine the two of them and you have the ingredients for the mother of all cluster fucks.

The other day Jen tells me that she "may have" screwed up my PIN for online access to my student loan information. She was trying to access the account information for tax purposes. She wanted to see how much interest I paid on my student loans last year. Well in the process she "may have" screwed up my PIN information, but she did nowhere near as good a job of screwing it up as the federal government has!

I got an email from the student loan people asking me to "reactivate" my PIN by going to their website. When I got there they asked me for my Social Security number, the first two digits of my last name and my birthdate. I entered that information and hit SUBMIT. I was taken to the next page where I was asked to answer the security question, "What is your mother's maiden name?" I answered the question and was taken to a page where I was alerted to the fact that I did not have a PIN. I already knew that. Wasn't that the point of entering all of the previous information? So you would GIVE me a new PIN?

I went back and tried again. I entered all the information on the first page and then the second page. When I got to the page where my new PIN should have been I was told that I had to reenter the information. When I reentered the information I was told that the number of requests had exceeded the limit. You asked me to ask again! Why am I being punished for following instructions?

Now it gave me an option to REQUEST A NEW PIN. That's what I just got through doing!

So now I have to wait another 3 business days to see if I have a PIN. Then, if I can make the PIN work, I can finally check my information, enter it into the IRS forms, send it into the federal government and POSSIBLY get a refund. Then again, they may just ask me to submit all the forms again and then tell me that I've sent in too many forms so they're denying a refund.

I was riding a bus in a strange part of town last night and saw a nativity scene. The people in the scene were about two, two and a half feet tall. The stable where they were housed was about four feet by four feet so it was all very hard to miss. The thing that made it impossible to miss was the green christmas lights on it that formed a shamrock in front of Jesus. Before you go off thinking Christ isn't an Irish name, remember: when they moved to Chicago there was such an anti-Irish bias they changed it from Joseph H. O'Christ to the more popular Jesus Christ. Then they further covered their tracks by moving to the southside to fit in with the large Hispanic community. It's only now, around St Patrick's day (which, incidentally, is celebrated for a solid week in Chicago!) that the truth comes out...in the form of historically accurate nativity scenes!

Do you know what is right across the street from Petco in Skokie? The whole sale fur outlet. Coincidence? I don't think so. Think about it. What happens when that shipment of rabbits just doesn't sell? Oh, suddenly there's a shipment of rabbit fur coats at the wholesalers. Hmmmm? So you see, it's just recycling on a really disgusting level. If only there was a taxidermy place and a butcher shop, then the plan would be pure genius!

Jen and I got new cell phones. The ones we had were the ones we've had since we first got cell phones like four years ago, so I'm a little overwhelmed at the features of this particular phone. Yeah, it calls and receives calls like any other phone, but this one looks super-cool doing it! It can also warn me when I'm going to incur roaming charges, take (crappy) photos, download ringtones, play Solitaire, play Tetris, play Ms. Pac-Man, has a calculator, a day planner, I can change the graphics and the menu displays, it can assign photos to a person's phone number, it can shoot monkeys into space, cure cancer and I'm also fairly certain that it can see through time.

The other day at work I was in the lobby with Dan from the house staff. The crowd was just starting to trickle in for the 8 p.m. show. And that's when we saw it. It was with two woman and it was purchasing student rush tickets. He looked at me and I looked at him. But before either of us said a word I knew we were thinking the same thing: What was that?

"Is that man or a woman?" Dan asked.

"I have no idea."

We asked several other house staff people and no one could come up with a conclusive answer that didn't fade into the breeze a few seconds later. The person was about 5 foot 4 and ensconced in a hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans. His (or her) face was very swollen and indistinct. The hair was the kicker. A towering mass of unruly brown perm. Everything about this person was totally asexual. No context clues at all. The walk was really forgettable. The clothes could go either way. The voice was in that infuriating middle range between melodious and husky. We had NOTHING to go on. And, being a slow night, we had nothing else to occupy our minds.

Then Megan offered her advice.

"Smell her."

To my surprise Dan thought that was a good idea. What the hell were they thinking? I'm not walking up to a stranger and smelling them. I had to speak out against it.

"I am not participating in this conversation and I am not sniffing ANYONE!"

How would that even work? "Excuse me...uh..." SNIFF!

But they persisted. No, they argued, if they're wearing cologne or perfume you'll be able to tell. And if they're not? Well, they countered, they would still use different soap or conditioner if they were a man than if they were a woman. Yes, but, what if they are just a total slob and don't bathe at all? I'm not putting my nose through that.

***
Yesterday I was at work talking to another House Staff member, Minna. I was regaling her with a story about my dreadfully interesting lobby duties when I noticed she was inching nearer and nearer to me. Before I knew it she had her nose two inches from my chest and she was, you guessed it, sniffing me.

"Ok, I know the story was not a real thriller, but that's an extreme way of telling me isn't it?"

"Do you smell that?" Minna said.

I had to admit I did. There was this oddly enchanting mixture of citrus and rose petals in the air.

"I thought it was you," she said.

I told her that it was sweet that she thought I smelled nice, but more than a little creepy that she stopped a conversation to sniff me.

"Well, go find out who it is."

For some reason I was ok with this. In retrospect I suppose it was because I already knew that the person I was looking for smelled nice. But then again, wouldn't I have to smell a lot of wrong answers before I found the right one? It didn't matter, I'd already made up my mind to find the person.

***
The sexless wonder didn't return for a long time. And when he/she did, we were all over it. I noticed him/her going for the doors to get his/her ticket scanned (not to the bathroom like we'd hoped) and I followed. Apparently my inhibition vanished once the excitement of the moment arrived and I leapt into action. It turns out he/she was going to Dan's door, which was a big bonus for Dan because he got to be close to the person without going through all the extra trouble of shooting through a crowded lobby to position himself where he could smell someone. In other words he didn't have to go through all the trouble I was going through. But all was in vain. The only thing I learned was the the person smoked.
***

I narrowed it down to one of three women who were all standing together in a corner. Minna went in for the kill. I believe her opening line was, "Excuse me...uh...someone here smells amazing. What kind of perfume are you ladies wearing." Which sounded a lot less creepy coming from her than it did when I just typed it.

She got the information that she wanted, but she did admit that when she posed her question to the ladies they all did recoil in fear. Hmmm, I wonder why?
***

So the moral of this story is that when you see a group of employees standing around in heated conversation the question that runs through your head should not be, "Is the building on fire?" It should be, "Did I shower today?"

According to the Internet Movie Database, actress Michelle Williams is coming under fire for her role in Brokeback Mountain. She has been "disavowed" by her former school in San Diego, Santa Fe Christian School. The school's headmaster Jim Hopson found the movie "offensive" and was quoted by the San Diego Union Tribune as saying, "We don't want to have anything to do with her in relation to that movie. Michelle doesn't represent the values of this institution. Brokeback Mountain basically promotes a lifestyle we don't promote."

In fact they want so little to do with Michelle that they are talking to the local paper about how much they don't want to be associated with her. I guess they figured if they brought up the very little known fact that she attended school there then it would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they didn't want to be linked to her and, by association, to two straight men who pretended to be homosexuals on film. Good thinking.

I also take issue with the fact that they "don't promote" the homosexual lifestyle. Even the most cursory glance at the school's website (http://www2.sfcs.net/) will show you that the spring musical is "Hello Dolly!" Why not just get on the public address system at school and announce, "Calling all queens, calling all queens! The mothership has landed to take you back to the Planet Fabulous. Don't forget to pack your tiara?" It would be a so much more efficient witch hunt that way.

I may suggest that to Hopson. In fact, why don't you all go to the school's directory (http://www2.sfcs.net/contact-us/faculty-directory/administration.aspx) and find someone to e-mail suggestions/concerns/recipes to? And please CC me on those e-mails!

On my Google Homepage I have the "How To of the Day" brought to me by WikiHow. WikiHow is an offshoot of the Wikipedia, the online, peer-reviewed encyclopedia of anything and everything. Apparently WikiHow has been around long enough that they have long since run out of anything useful to give pointers on. I base this claim mostly on yesterdays "How To Meet Your Girlfriend's Parents" article. It had such useful advice as "dress to impress" and "prepare for Q&A." But frankly, anyone who is searching the internet for this advice should just consider themselves damned lucky to be on a date in the first place. This "Total Idiot's Guide to Dating" needs to be exactly one word long: "Don't!"

The Julian Dubuque bridge across the Mississippi River

When I first moved to Chicago people would always try to introduce me to people from Iowa. I tried to tell them that I didn't move to Chicago just so I could meet people from Iowa. I could do that while I was still in Iowa I told them. They didn't care. They thought they were doing me a favor.

The other reaction people have when I tell them I'm from Iowa is to tell me about the places they've been to in Iowa. The common thread I noticed in those stories is that it was always places like Burlington or Clinton or Davenport, cities on the EDGE of Iowa. No one ever ventures INTO Iowa. Or, if they do, it is simply on their way to someplace better. For instance, Casey, one of the sound technicians at work, talks about the time he spent in Des Moines. But that was only because he was traveling from Kansas City to Chicago. Joe, one of the coat check people, talked to me about the I-80 Truck Stop in Iowa but only because he was traveling I-80 to California.

I think Iowa is to blame for this. I've noticed many times when traveling through Iowa that they've placed the welcome centers about 100 miles from the border. This strikes me as a typically Iowa thing to do. Place the welcome centers 100 miles from where they would do any good because we want to make sure that you're not just passing through. We'd hate to waste a welcome on someone who was just in town to fish the Mississippi, or, worse yet, just passing through on their way to the Mall of America.

With all of that in mind I make the modest proposal that (we eat Jonathan Swift's children...but I digress) Iowa not only moves the welcome centers closer to the border, but also fills them with lies. Lies about free parking and tax incentives and the benefits of ethanol. Lies about the hard candy that grows wild in Ames. Lies that will get people to come to Waterloo and Cedar Rapids and Des Moines. It's not a proud way to drum up tourism, but frankly Field of Dreams is NOT the draw it used to be, John Wayne is dead and Herbert Hoover is probably best forgotten. Honestly, his stewardship of the American economy lead to slums called Hoovervilles. Who needs that on their conscience? Not Iowa. Who needs that when you've got cotton candy forests and streams of lemonade?