nothing to see here

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry nobody writes in you anymore. Please don't take it personally. I just don't have that much to say these days. And I don't think anybody reads you anyway.

For all none of you that have been clamoring to know how the Grand Ole Summer turned out, I succeeded. In the 101 days between Memorial Day and Labor Day I rode 1021.79 miles on my bike, all around Chicago. It was really nice to set a tough goal and actually achieve it. I even earned a free t-shirt for riding the whole lakefront trail (18 miles) in one go. So there's some new physical evidence of the accomplishment to go along with the pride. (There had been other physical evidence, in the form of my new svelte figure. But that is long gone now.)

I'm going to leave the non-updated stats and map of the whole affair up for a while. There's something nice about having an internet equivalent of leaving dishes in the sink. Like looking for the varsity football schedule for my old high school, except the latest one they have posted is from 2006. These kinds of things give me a warm fuzzy feeling inside.

See you in another couple months.

Your friend,
Me

Potpourri

Where to begin, where to begin. I've been pretty busy the last month or so and haven't had much time to write you, blog. Not that there's been much to say. But here are a few tidbits that have rattled around my noggin at random moments.

I started a new freelance gig a few weeks ago. It's pretty great and allows me to do things like leave my house for something other than work. In other words, paychecks are nice. This afternoon I will be purchasing my first new pair of shoes in several years. Also some new guitar strings. A website told me you should change them every couple weeks. I haven't put new ones on since I bought the guitar six months ago. So that'll be nice.

At my last job in DC, I had a phone meeting every day with the Los Angeles office. Since they didn't arrive at work until 10am west coast time, I usually didn't get to eat lunch until 2 o'clock. Whatever stale dregs were left to eat at the Giant supermarket or YourWay Cafe, I was forced to eat them. Things are slightly different now that I'm working a 7am-3pm freelancer shift. The local eateries are just barely open when I am ready for lunch at 11 o'clock. The staff are energetic and friendly, and the food is fresh. And there are very few lines to wait in. It's fantastic.

My only complaint about lunchtime is the bathroom break. I'd guess there are between one and two hundred people working in this office, and yet I've only discovered two stalls in which the men may shit. This is hardly acceptable. When I chow down on some chicken teriyaki and an egg roll from the Metra station food court, I expect to release some of that soon after. And I don't want to be running from floor to floor trying to keep the poop in my butt. It wants to leave. For all the faults that existed at Team, there was ample shit space. Eight seats on which you could take a crap, if memory serves me correctly. And there were usually magazines. In fact, pooping at my old office inspired me to subscribe to Esquire, a decision I am rather glad was made.


Unfortunately, now all I can think about is the bathroom at my old office. All the clever tidbits I was going to share with you have disappeared. Fear not, they will undoubtedly return some day. And there will be rejoicing. If these few paragraphs have not satiated you, maybe check out the blog of John McCain's running mate. She's got a lot to say.
http://sarahpalin.typepad.com/

Update (4:01 p.m.): This is 2008. What kind of shoe store only takes cash? I didn't realize Milwaukee Avenue was Dan's Cafe.

Large Hadron Rap

Suddenly I feel like finding my 11th-grade physics teacher and emailing him this video. Mr. Keller, please watch it and share it with all your nerds/students. And stop dripping caked saliva out of the side of your mouth, if you still do that.

What now?

Tim Russert. Stan Winston. George Carlin.

I spent seven years living in Washington, D.C., slowly getting jaded about the state of government and media in this country. Too many people you meet (or go to school with or work with) there contribute to the dumbed-down superficiality of what the American public experiences. But Tim always seemed to be there to pose the tough questions that most others failed to ask, given the opportunity. We really need him now more than ever, but he is gone. I take much pride in knowing a handful of people who worked with him and share his ideals and passion. Hopefully they will carry his torch to get truth the large audience it deserves.

Stan was responsible for so many amazing creations we grew up with. I think the first time I saw his work on the big screen was Edward Scissorhands. But it was dinosaurs of Jurassic Park that really opened my eyes to the possibilities of transferring imagination to celluloid. Sure, there have been beautiful movies for many decades. But my life would certainly be a lot less exciting without the Terminator or the Predator to scare the shit out of my asshole.

And George got me through some pretty tough times when I was about twelve years old. My dad and I would listen to countless tapes of his in the car, and we would laugh for hours. He's responsible for most of my views on religion, politics and America in general, not to mention my most valuable possession: a sense of humor. He may have gotten a little cranky-old-man-ish these last few years, but I will be forever grateful for the laughter and insight he gave.

It's only natural for our heroes to leave us. These latest three are just part of a long list that for me includes Ray Charles, Dr. Seuss, Kurt Vonnegut, Roald Dahl, Phil Hartman and others who were gone before I was even born. I guess we just have to appreciate what they gave us and try to stand on their shoulders. We're supposed to become heroes for the next generation. I just don't think I'm ready for that yet.

Where is Walid?

Many moons ago, some friends and I gathered each week to cook delicious dinners and watch a great television show called 24. As a joke, I changed my cellphone ringtone so that whenever one of these three folks called, it would sound like the phones at Counter Terrorist Unit Los Angeles (Jack Bauer's office). What a great idea this turned out to be.

Now that I live in a different city, we don't talk often. But I know that whenever I hear those four distinct beeps, it's an important call. Chloe O'Brian's emergencies have become my emergencies.

For example, if I am pedaling along on a pleasant bike ride and my cell phone rings as usual, I just keep pedaling. But if that familiar CTU sound echoes, the call must be taken.

Without this distinct ringtone, I might not have been able to answer such important and immediate questions such as "Who played Arnold Schwarzenegger's boss in True Lies?" or "Where is there a Chipotle in Crystal City, Virginia?"

I look forward to solving many more problems in the future. Keep 'em coming, kids.

P.S. Charlton Heston and the corner of Crystal Drive and 23rd Street.

An Epic Tale of Good Versus Evil

Twas a mighty beast, but I hath defeateth it.

As I prepared to venture to my place of employment this afternoon, one of Mother Nature's lovely creatures decided to venture into my place of residence. A medium-sized rodent of the family Sciuridae found its way through an open window and stared at me, piercing my eyes with furious wonder. It darted to my living room, apparently in search of the film Napoleon Dynamite. Once this holy grail was found, the rodent made itself comfortable amongst the rest of my DVDs. I played whack-a-squirrel while it bounded between several nooks and crannies of my television stand.

Taking quick action, I ran to open up all available exits and leave trails to them made of Rice Krispies. Upon returning to pursue my prey, it was not to be found. I searched high and low and could not find a trace of the devil animal. With few options, I left a window open in case it was still inside and wanted a way out, and departed for work.

The evening passed slowly. I smiled and entertained my fellow employees with my lighthearted tale of woe. But my imagination wandered to picture the spring soiree my guest was throwing whilst I toiled away creating moving pictures of sport for the masses.

I returned home shortly after midnight.

Quietly stepping down to my basement abode, I took care not to creak the stairs and give any warning to my arrival. If the beast remained in the apartment, I would stalk it quietly and shoo it away.

All thanks to the lord above, it would appear the squirrel had gone. It was not in the nooks, it was not in the crannies. There were no food crumbs strewn about, nor the enormous piles of poo that I had feared. The long night and long fight that I had prepared for was not to be. I opened the refrigerator door to find a hoppy carbonated beverage with which to toast the victory.

And it rustled.

I saw it nestled behind the refrigerator, comfortable. It did not flee immediately, so I devised a plan. Laid out crackers with peanut butter, all leading to the backyard. I grabbed a Swiffer with which to guide the beast. When prepared, I quickly moved the refrigerator out of the way. And naturally, the bushy-tailed demon chose to run behind the kitchen sink, one of the hardest places to reach in the whole of my household.

After swatting at it with the Swiffer with no success (unless I was trying to scare it and probably make it poo. In that case, I was probably successful), I laid more peanut butter and Rice Krispies on a trail, and thought of what could remove the squirrel from its hiding spot.

I remembered an aerosol air freshener, named Clean Linen. It had never before proven useful, as I did not enjoy its scent. But perhaps if I did not like it, my visitor would agree. I was right. I pressed on the dispersal button and aimed behind the sink. Lo and behold, the creature emerged. And ran straight into the living room again, to lurk beneath and behind the couch.

I chased it back, flipped up the couch and watched the spawn of squirrel satan scamper to the Holiest of Holies, my bedroom. It took refuge in the 4 inches beneath Where The Magic Happens, also known as my Salvation Army box spring and Ikea mattress.

With the rodent again in hiding, I took the opportunity to seal the area off. Picture frames were used to block off all of the apartment except for the rear exit, and a full-length mirror became a ramp to the window from whence the furry fiend came.

I sent a continuous spray of Clean Linen beneath the bed. The forest creature emerged, darted around, realized it was trapped, and returned to its hiding place.

Now emboldened, I flipped up the bed, revealing the beast. I sprayed furiously. It fled, crashing into a carefully-placed picture frame. Revising its route, the monster spotted an open door leading to the laundry room and the freedom of the backyard beyond.

Bringing up the rear with my Swiffer of a shepherd's staff, I shouted at the creature as it ventured outside my walls.

Sneaking behind the washing machine, the squirrel did not make it to the outside. But spotting the large rat poison traps awaiting my enemy, I decided that tonight's battle was at an end. I returned to the new-found solitude of my humble dwelling.

Tomorrow, the rebuilding will begin.

T-Minus Ten Minutes

What's with the self-destruct button? We've seen it in Alien and Spaceballs, and the wide variety of films in between. It's fairly common knowledge by now that every spaceship has a mechanism that will make the craft explode in some magical CGI fireball, saving the day at the last possible moment. There is always an unusually friendly computer-woman counting down the seconds to imminent doom. Thanks, lady.

But would any reasonable design/construction company purposely build this function into a spaceship of such gargantuan size? They're presumably spending at least several billion spacebucks on it. Why allow it to so easily be destroyed? Especially a large battle-spaceship that's begging to be infiltrated by terrorist/rebel forces? Why take that chance? Why not just train your fucking staff not to get over-run by aliens with blood made of acid? That's got to be easier.

Don't get me started on the Death Star.

Also, do real spaceships have self-destruct buttons? I have to hope that despite their many incompetencies, the bureaocracy of the U.S. government would never build such a mechanism into the space shuttle. (Besides, anyone who's seen Contact knows astronauts get cyanide capsules anyway.) Even the Russians and Chinese can't be dumb enough to invest so much time, effort and money in something that can be exploded with the push of a big red button.

But think for a moment of the infamous Polish navy. Surely you wouldn't be surprised if the same people who brought us the screen-door-submarine also put a self-destruct button on a spaceship. Is this what we should learn from science fiction? Is Poland destined to become Earth's technological superpower?

If you're looking for me, I'll be in my basement hoarding solar-powered flashlights.