So I'm sitting here watching cartoons...erm, I mean reading Proust's Swanns Way, when an army of fire trucks go down my street. Sirens blasting, lights flashing, the whole shebang. I react the way any red-blooded American would, I thrown on my jacket and run outside to watch the destruction. As it turns out, the building in question is just down my street and has an armada of fire trucks sitting around it. It also happens to be the same building that caught on fire last November.

The Channel 2 Action News van is on the scene - I'm assuming trying their best to get the scoop on the story before the superior news teams with higher channel listing numbers get there (Channel 5,7,9 and 12). As soon as I get there, a man swinging some gulf clubs walks by and says in a loud whisper to the news crew, "It's a false alarm, a false alarm." And what do ya know, the gazillion fire trucks turn off their lights and start to drive peacefully away. The Channel 2 news crew probably slunk back to their shack to plot other ways of bringing down the higher channels.

I just hope a house on the south side didn't burn down while all this crap was going on.


http://www.chicagoist.com/ - A daily list of goings-on, news and gossip from Chicago. Also pretty darn funny. Who knew that Owen Wilson is sometimes referred to as "The Butterscotch Stallion"?

http://www.superpony.com - Think you've heard of everything? How about a webpage dedicated to dressing My Little Ponies like DC comic super heroes? Obscure DC comic super heroes. And the thing is he, or she, does a good job of it. I mean a really good job.

Here's the second half of the story I started a couple of posts ago. I get memorial day off (what better way to remember dead soldiers then by laying around and getting drunk at BBQs), so I finely had time to finish it.

St. Anthony (Part 2)

Gregory returned to his apartment building later that afternoon. It was growing hot outside as the warm spring air rolled into the city. He wasn’t sweating at all though, since he was climbing up the cool concrete steps of the stairwell.
In his hallway he passed an open door. A woman was inside rummaging through the cushions of her couch. It looked as if the rest of her room had received the same treatment. Gregory walked by without glancing.
Inside his own apartment things were quite different. The furniture was as old as him, but kept neat and clean. It was like walking into the home of a famous dead person.
Gregory glanced at the empty wig stand sitting in the bathroom. He flicked off his Walkman. A series of loud curses could be heard coming through his front door, from down the hallway.
The woman who had been tearing her couch apart had moved to rummaging through her desk drawer. She was going to look behind her television when she saw a man standing in her front door.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
The man in the doorway seemed unaffected. He was short, dark and not in the least bit threatening.
“Go away.” she said as she stood to shut the door.
“I’ll find it.” Gregory said.
He pushed past her into the room. The woman was too shocked to respond.
“Tell me what it is,” he said. “I’ll find it.”
He didn’t look at her as he spoke, he looked off to the side. The woman gave him an amused look.
“It’s my keys. I need my keys so I can get to work.” she said.
Gregory turned and went into the bedroom. The woman followed behind him soundlessly.
“You’re that man that lives down the hall.” she said. “You live with that older woman.”
As he walked, Gregory clasped his hands behind his back like a doctor strolling through a medical ward.
“That’s mother.” he said, bending at his knees to peer under her bed.
“You’re in your thirties.” she stopped herself before she said more. “ Where’s your mother now?”
Gregory flicked on the bathroom light. He blinked at himself in the mirror, then turned it off.
“Mother’s at Marshall Fields.” he said.
“So, she went shopping?”
“She’s working today, in the furs.”
“Oh.”
He stood in the middle of her small kitchen and surveyed her cabinets through their closed doors. The woman glanced out her kitchen window to look at her car parallel-parked below. A man in a monstrous SUV was trying his best to pull out of the spot in front of her. As he pulled back and forth, he continued to gab into the cell phone pressed to his ear.
When she looked back at Gregory he was pulling her refrigerator door open.
“Look, thank you for helping me.” she said. “I think I should call a Taxi cab now.”
The small, dark man paused in front of the open refrigerator. He did something she couldn’t see. Then he turned around. Her keys were clutched in his hand.
The woman opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“Not much food.” he said, closing the door.
He handed her a small, rectangular box from his pocket, along with her keys. Then he left. She turned the package over in her hand. It was a McDonalds apple pie. And it was still warm.

I have a full-time job now. Nine months after moving to the windy city I finely got one. All I can say is, it's about #@%*! time.

It's the position at the ACHE I mentioned earlier. Which as I said before, isn't exactly what I wanted, but is still very very nice.

For the first time in my life I actually have my own health insurance. The bad news is that it's an HMO, because the other type (a PPO) was priced out of my league. I picked a primary care physician, only to find later that they'd been sued for malpractice. Something about a miscommunication between Walgreens Drugs and the doctor which lead to a woman taking a medication overdose and dying. Needless to say, I scribbled that Dr. off my paperwork fast.

I see a lot of prissy girls around where I live (Lakeview/Lincoln Park)and I always took them to be the accepted norm in the city. Turns out that they're just as annoying to everyone else as they are to me, and the chi-town natives even have a slang term for them -Trixies. As a matter of fact people seem downright bitter towards them.

From the Urban Dictionary:

4. (Lincoln Park) Trixie
A 20 or 30-something female found in Chicago, IL. Their migration patterns, though originating in Lincoln Park, include Bucktown/Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Gold Coast, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, and, increasingly, the West Loop. They are easily identifiable by their fair skin, blond hair (or at least with hightlights), good purse, manicured feet/hands, and Starbucks cup. They are born in the midwest but have found Michigan or Ohio to be so passe so they moved to the big city. The preferred form of transportation is the VW Jetta or Honda Accord. They have typically graduated from large state universities with good football teams and mediocre academics. Trixies tend to live and work in Chicago but hate their job although they will tend to stick with it as it accomodates their "urban" lifestyle. Trixies have nice belongings (clothes, shoes, purse, car) but tend to be cash-poor as they must maintain their standard of living. Trixies are typically attracted to midwestern, frat-boy types: 30-years old and still wearing baseball hats backwards and rugby shirts with horizontal stripes. They will stick with these douchebags as they are buying time until they can get married as the large engagement ring is a sign of rank in their social circles, much like chevrons & rockers in military insignia.

There's also a straight-faced, elaborate website parody of the social group. The Lincoln Park Trixie Society (http://www.lptrixie.com/page.asp?id=17)

Yes I'm still alive, and yes, I still do live in Chicago. I've just been occupied with being unemployed and searching for a job and all that. Although that does concern me having a lot of free time on my hands, so that really isn't a good excuse for not writing. I simply didn't have anything interesting to say, and I don't want this to be one of those blogs where the "blogger" drones on about the CDs they bought, or how they sat and watched TV all day with their friend Steve.

I'm writing now because I've been quietly working on a temp to perm position, and have been trying very very hard not to screw it up. It's at the American College of Healthcare Executive (http://www.ache.org) as an editor for their newsletters.

The public transportation seems to have different plans for me though, as they've made me late once, and very nearly twice. The last time it happened the trains on my line came to a sudden and complete stop, leaving us all sweating and gasping for fresh air in a packed car. After 15 minutes it pulled ever so slowly to a stop, where I switched to the red line train. For those of you who don't live in Chicago that's the trains that go underground and smell like urine 87% of the time.

I got off at one of the underground stations and found it dark and, of course, sinking of urine. I'm not even exaggerating here, there was little light and the place looked abandoned (despite the business people stampeding through it). There could've been sewer-mutants staring at us from the dark corners for all I knew. Like something out of Escape From New York.

My job is actually quite nice. The people I work around are middle-aged, domestic and overwhelmingly kind. It makes me think of tourist's stories about visiting rural Europe, and how disarmingly friendly the natives there are. For my part I sit and play around with text in Microsoft applications all day, and make out the occasional package. This is most certainly something I could do on a permanent basis.

Whilst working, I have come across some amusing websites. Most of which will only be amusing to Chi-town natives.

(http://chicagoreadersucks.blogspot.com/) - A blog entirely dedicated to making fun of the popular free newspaper, the Chicago Reader. Let's just say that the CR isn't known for its stellar journalism.

(http://www.zompist.com/reader.html) - Automatically generates a Chicago Reader movie review based on a few simple questions. A dead-on parody of most snooty movie critics as well.

(http://obscurestore.typepad.com/) - Lists weird news. The best part of it is reading people's comments about the stories. The news selections tend to be geekish - they once featured an article about scifi author Orson Scott Card ripping on Star Trek.

And now I present a story I wrote, the first part of my new series Short Stories For Short Attention Spans

St. Anthony

“I’m hungry. Hu, hu hungry.” Gregory said out loud.
The others on the bus perked up from their reading materials to listen.
“Hu, hu hungry.” he repeated.
A few business people glanced at Gregory from the corner of their eyes. He was sitting bolt upright in his seat like a student in an interesting class. The headphone cords of his Walkman dangled awkwardly to his lap, swaying with each bump the bus hit.
He seemed oblivious to the music coming in his ears, except for the occasional loud clap he performed. They came so loud and so random that a few people would jump. The few that became bold enough to stare were treated to the sight of the small, dark man twisting excitedly in his seat. It was as if he was alone on the vehicle and no one else existed in the world.

The packed bus wound it’s way through the heart of Chicago in a way that may have seemed random to a newcomer. It eventually found it’s destination, snorting like an impatient horse at the stop. Gregory exited the bus, to the people’s relief, when it came to a McDonalds.
At the front counter a young, tall man waiting for him expectantly. It was early in the morning and the other employees were rushing around the back preparing for the morning crowd.
“What can I get for you, Mr. Gregory?” the man behind the counter said. “An Egg McMuffin and some coffee?”
“No, I don’t like that.” Gregory said.
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he spoke.
“Ah. How about a Steak McMuffin and some orange juice?”
Gregory’s eyes rolled back to the man behind the counter.
“That’s good.” he said.
For a brief moment the workers stopped their random scurrying. A carton of orange juice and a neatly-wrapped round package were produced. Then the chaos resumed.
The man at the counter presented the food ceremoniously on a tray. He quickly slid it out of Gregory’s reach. The smaller man grunted and reached for the warm food.
“We have a new girl who hasn’t seen you do your trick,” the food worker said. “if you can impress her the meal’s free.”
Gregory grunted again, but more slowly. The cashier grinned in response.
“You’ll like it, I promise. I made it specially just for you.”
A single girl watched from the counter as Gregory walked into the dining room. After glancing at the sterile plastic tables he turned on his heels and returned to the front doors. A few more workers stopped to watch.
With a casual certainty Gregory looked at the condiment counter. He walked up to a potted plant sitting at the end of it. His hands plunged into the leaves. When he pulled them out again he was clutching an apple pie.
The crowd behind him erupted into cheers, drawing strange looks from the breakfast customers trailing in the door.

When I wander around the city I always feel like Amelie (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0211915/)- mutely observing eccentric people with a silly look on my face. I never get tired of riding around and just looking at things in Chicago. I think I spent so much of my last 9 years feeling bored that I enjoy the ecstasy of sensory overload that sightseeing brings. How could anyone get bored with this?

Of course at some point I'll get another job and won't have time to do this anymore. On the other hand I'll have money to blow on crap. Oh, sweet sweet consumerism.


A women just wandered into the cafe where I'm typing this. She shyly asked where Southport Ave. is. The workers pointed her in the right direction. Unfortunately it's way the 'ell away from here. She's going there on foot, when I find it to be a damn long bus ride.

I'm going to an interview for a permanent job today. It's at (http://www.businesswire.com). They post press releases on a news wire service for companies - kind of like the AP service, except these articles are blatantly advertising a product. I would be acting as an editor of these releases.

Unfortunately I lost a temp job to this interview. I was supposed to start at the Wrigley (gum) company yesterday, but when I told the staffing agency about the interview they said they'd have to send someone else. It turns out I was replacing someone who bombed out on Wrigley with only two days notice because they got a permanet job. So they couldn't have the new office gopher running off to a perm interview on her second day.

Frankly, I'd rather take the wild chance of getting a real job then stick with a position that I know will be pulled out from under my feet after a month. Besides, the temp agency can find me something else.

I even went so far as to find the Wrigley factory. It's in a run down industrialized area that happens to smell like bubble gum within a two-block radius of the factory. Hmmm, I wonder what they make there?

My sister and I witnessed the annual St. Patrick's Day dying ceremony at the Chicago River. When they said they were going to dye it green I didn't realize they meant neon green.

One thing draws all Chicago city-dwellers together, a thing that provokes feelings of frustration and gratefulness. A thing that we are all dependent on. What is this thing? Public transportation.

http://www.ctatattler.com - An excellent place to find tales of various adventures on public transportation. The craziest stories all seem to take place on the trains, especially the red line.

Personally, the worst things I've come across are the bus preachers. One guy decided to hold an impromptu revival for the business folks coming home one night on the 151. Recently, another homeless-looking gent (sporting an eye patch) decided to tell us all how he loved Oprah and "couldn't do what Jesus Christ did". He seemed awful cheerful about the whole thing though.

By the way, don't try to ride the Belmont bus all the way past interstate 90/94. You'll find yourself in some sort of Hispanic district that seems perfectly designed for scaring preppy white girls (me). On the way back I did find a gigantic thrift store near Roscoe Village (Read: yuppie families). It was loaded with used furniture, some of it delightfully retro. The whole basement of the place was filled with 4 things: books (every other one was Bonfire of The Vanities), chairs, records (Classical music and Barbra Streisand), and mattresses. The store was like some kind of timeless limbo where the latest technology is VHS tapes, and people still wear stirrup pants. Kind of like my childhood.

In other news, I submitted a short story to a literary magazine called Make. I hope their rejection letter comes promptly so I don't have to hope and wonder for too long.

I'm back home (Chicago) from my home (Pennsylvania), or what used to be my home. So what's my home now? Is it the place I just moved from, where my parents still reside, and I lived from the age of 12 to 22. Or is it the city I moved to so I can create my own life. I could write a bittersweet, airy poem on the subject in the rhythm and rhyme of Shakespeare’s sonnets - except I think poetry sucks.

To save myself the time and pain of the whole poetry thing, I've concluded that a person's concept of home must include two things. They keep their stuff there, and they miss said place when they’re away from it too long.

For example, I live in a studio apartment on the north side of Chicago. I...

1.) Keep my stuff there.

2.) Miss the joint when I visit the 'burbs or another state.

By using this extremely scientific method I've concluded that my apartment is my home. Or at least it is at this current stage in my life. Go ahead, grab a piece of paper and a writing implement and try this(extremely)scientific equation out for yourself.

Another reason for me to not want to leave would be the fact that over the course of the two days I was gone my cat tracked her you-know-what around my apartment. When the cat meowed at me as I opened the front door I imagine she was saying,
"Welcome home. Now clean up my $#@!&."








I need a permanent job. Interestingly enough, the people sitting in front of me were just talking about the same subject.

My position at McCormick ended on Friday. It's Monday, and none of the various agencies I've been courting have found a new position for me. Heck, one of the Lakeshore recruiters is actually getting irritated with me.

The lack of work is beginning to get to me, and I've only been unemployed for one day. Christ, it hasn't even been a day yet, more like 11 hours. The only people left around town during the day are either retired, unemployed(and/or crazy), or students. Seeing the people in the latter category leaves me with strangest feeling that I have some homework I need to do.

In lieu of anything interesting to say, here's a clip from an essay I wrote about my family's trip to New Orleans.


The prize of New Orleans, the one thing that made any punishment nil, was the parades. These weren’t the kind of thing that cities throw downtown during the Fourth of July, these were the real deal. In New Orleans parades are an excuse for people to stand on the street drunk (or drinking) and collect beads from floats. A simple and elegant activity that is a lot more fun than it sounds.

A revelers chances of getting beads depends on a number of things, listed here in descending order: being a girl, jumping around a lot, and being so close to the floats that they could crush you if you moved an inch forward. My sister had all of these things covered- and then some -so she got a lot of beads.
The first parade we saw was the St. Patrick’s Day parade, although it was thrown about a week before the holiday. This was, more or less, an excuse for people to drink green beer on the street while standing in groups. The paraders seemed to have an equally as casual idea of how to conduct a parade, as they started half an hour late and didn’t do much. Really the whole thing was just some people walking slowly down the street dressed in green, throwing out a couple of green beads. Oh, and there was a little marching band. And some guys on stilts.

The real stars of the celebration were the drunk people, especially the annoying ones. One Irish fellow barreled past us twice on the street yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Out of the way, out of the way, I’m on a Guiness run.”
After the parade was over, and the crowd was heading back home, he managed to up the ante. He appeared behind us bellowing into a large blowhorn,
“I’m Irish and I’m drunk. If you don’t buy me a beer than you’re British.”
This was amusing enough, but he kept saying it over and over again, until it left me with a strong urge to punch him in the throat. Since he spent the entire parade alone I’m guessing his friends get this same feeling about him when he’s drunk. That or nobody likes him.

All this paled in comparison to the Italian parade, which is ironic because there wasn’t even an Italian holiday to celebrate. It was a huge upgrade from the Irish one, as it included floats, lots of beads and drunken men in tuxedos.

Our neighbors on the sidewalk were a family of Louisiana locals who only lived an hour away. The wife spent most of her time trying to keep people from stepping on her crib-bound baby and her excited three-your-old daughter (who was trying very hard to run into the street and get trampled). The husband was drunk, so when he wasn’t running off to the bathroom he was hopping around like his daughter. I guess the old saying “A woman’s work is never done” applies to vacations.

While husband and wife were distracted my dad and I fell into the role of watching the baby. No matter how loud the music was or how strange the floats the little guy never cried. Even when I stuck my face in his crib and shook my beads at him all he did was give a slightly panicked look. That kid will be tough as nails when he grows up.
The baby’s good behavior wasn’t lost on his father, who after a round of jumping up and down beside a float commented,
“Isn’t this a good baby? I don’t think we’ll trade this one in.”

I yawned for some reason during the heart of the parade, probably due to lack of sleep. At which point the husband pointed at me and said,
“You yawned, I saw you.”
Touché sir, yes you caught me.

During all this my sister, Sybil, was having a grande olde time. She had all the requirements for getting beads covered, with the added fact that she’s tall, blond and fashion model-like. This along with her cries of “Give me beads!” ensured that she got lots of them from the men on the floats. The best that I could muster was to try to look pathetic, and cup my hands like a beggar asking for a drink of water. I was mostly ignored, and those that did spot me seemed confused. This led me to two conclusions: I’m a bad actor, and I’m not as pretty as Sybil. This bothered me for a moment, until the men in tuxedos arrived.

One of the unique parts of the parade was that in-between floats were groups of men in tuxedos walking on foot. These men were carrying sticks covered with plastic flowers, which they would present to a girl after giving her a kiss. This was a lot more fun for the men, as they were all drunk and most of them were elderly. I’m assuming this was some sort of Italian position of honor, although one of them was an Asian guy (proving that, indeed, Asian people were everywhere).

Sybil was determined to get every prize she could, so she had to put up with a lot of slobbery kisses from these guys. For her trouble she received two garters, two bandannas, lots of flowers and a heart to stick on her cheek. Problems arose though when one elderly marcher threw a large string of beads around her and started shimmying them at her waist. The man must’ve thought he was still at the strip club, because he was cackling and grinning with delight. Sybil laughed weakly and tried to claw her way back to us while shrieking “Help me!”. Eventually another tuxedo-ed marcher who wasn’t as drunk pulled him away. Sybil seemed traumatized but returned to form in a few minutes.

All I could do was smile, I may not be as pretty as Sybil but at least I don’t have to contend with old men molesting me.

******** Note ******* The following post is riddled with spelling errors, bad grammer, and worst of all: comma splices. It was written when Livejournal's spell-checking program was down, and besides I was tired. Look, it isn't even an interesting post. Nevermind. Just skip this one. Nothing to see here.*****************


Using the internet and the TV at the same time, no wonder I have such a short attention span.

Speaking of television, I've been watching TechTV a lot. In the evenings they show something called Cinematech where they play footage from different video games with electronic music layered over it - kind of like a video game music video. I'll sit there and watch the damn thing like a de-brained cow. Basically, it makes me slip into what I've named "gamer's trance". If you've ever played a game(or watched) for so long that suddenly you realize it's 6:30 at night and you have no idea what happened to the rest of the day, you know what I mean. It's a state of zenfull mindlessness, like meditation, except you feel stupid about it afterwards instead of spiritually refreshed......................................... Sorry about that, I started watching the footage from Half Life 2.

I don't know what it is about the old people here, but quite a few of them like to talk to themselves. It all started with that old lady at Borders who was muttering about how she couldn't afford to see a movie. She freaked me out so much I ran off to read my book somewhere else (Oh, poor me). Then there was the time I got pinned on the bus between a huge fat man, and an old woman who was talking to herself. One of them smelled like urine, but I couldn't quite figure out which one. On another bus ride there was an old man who was preaching to us all about how he doesn't agree with the "homosexual lifestyle". It's easy to gave a speech when you have a captive audience, but I don't think exaguested business people comming home for the night are really in the mood for that. Maybe it's the city, maybe it drives some people mad by the time they reach their golden years.


I just turned 23. All I can say is I don't feel much different, just slightly disappointed. I was hoping by this time I wouldn't have to worry about pimples anymore but I can see I was wrong.

I had to man the phones today since one of my coworkers was sick. It's a 1-800 number to donate money to a charity fund, which meant I had to write down lots of credit card numbers. I started to get worried that I might write the wrong number, or mark the wrong card type, and of course that made me more nervous. Fortunately the people were nice - if long-winded - (most of our donors are seniors)which made me calmer. Another plus was that my fear of the phone ringing kept me awake.

One my first callers was somebody who wanted to know why their name hadn't been published in the paper yet for donating. It wasn't all that strange of a conversation, except that I couldn't make out if the caller was a man or a woman. All I could tell was that they were old and smoked too much. She/He also made an off-hand comment that maybe their name had never been published because the Tribune doesn't like jews. I assured my gender-confused friend that their name probably hadn't been published yet and would appear by the end of January.

Later, a slow-spoken gentleman called to give a donation via credit card. Everything went fine until I asked him what kind of credit card he would be using today. First I heard silence, then the sound of paper being crumpled, then fabric being rubbed over the receiver, then popcorn popping in the distance. The man asked if I was still there. I said "yes", assuming that he had at last found his credit card.
"Do you need to ask me any more question?" he said.
"Oh, I thought you were getting your credit card." I said.
"No. I was waiting for you to talk."
Then he laughed for a long time. A long, long time.


P.S.- They're playing Vitamin R by Chevelle again on Q101. They play that song so much I could laugh - if I didn't die a little inside each time they did.

By popular demand - the lovely and talented Mamie.


Ryan wearing my hat. Personally, I think it makes him look like a garden gnome. He just needs to put on a tunic, some wee-little boots, and sit in a garden.


Saffy trying to eat something in my bag. Probably my headphones. Mmmm, headphones...


And of course, me.

My coworkers. (Left to right at top) Jay and Lois. (Left to right at bottom) Ryan, Dennis and Jessica. It was almost time to leave but they were kind enough to line up for a picture. Nice grin there Ryan.


The view out of my floor's windows facing north on Michigan Ave.


The former headquarters of the Chicago Sun-Times and future site of Trump's casino. It actually says "Trump Properties" on a sign at the top left of the building.

I'm in a Panera Bread enjoying the whiplash-speed internet connection.

A woman engulfed in a gray parka keeps wandering in and out the store asking customers for food. She walks right up to people eating at their tables and asks them (including me), then skulks out the door. Nobody seems to really mind. She's very polite and acts like a timid lost child. Some college-age guy just led her off somewhere up the street. A food pantry perhaps? Nice of him to do that before the fuzz picks her up.

In order to get here I have to walk past the usual crew of nighttime bums and panhandlers. I was worried about my laptop being stolen while I carried it, so I stuck it in a brown paper grocery bag. If I drop the bag I'm screwed, on the other hand my black laptop satchel just screams "Rob me, I'm carrying a couple thousand dollars worth of electronics.". When I came in the store they probably though I was carrying a bomb - or a lot of porn.

Sweet baby jesus, I was busy yesterday. I basically did 50% of my Christmas shopping within a 7 hour span. I took the el to Armitage (high-end shopping district in Lincoln Park), trotted all around Diversey exploring the place, and froze my A#$ off. When I came back home I curled up in bed and passed out for an hour. Oh, what a hard life I lead.


Normally I'm not aware of the fact that I'm living in Chicago. When I go to the grocery store I do not say to myself "Wow, this is a grocery store in Chicago.". It is simply where I buy my food, and is one of the many features of what I call home. When I'm riding the el is one of the few times I do get the sense that yes, "I am in one of the biggest cities in America". I can't help it, it's so wonderfully different from what I've experienced before.

I gave some people advice about how to navigate around on the brown line. It's nice to know that I'm to the point where I can answer people's questions. On the train I saw a guy reading a book titled Improv: Beyond Second City, or something to that effect. I know that Second City holds improv classes around there, I wonder if a lot of people that live in that area get into that. Maybe I should walk into a crowd in Lincoln Park and shout out "Big Booty, Big Booty, Big Booty."* and see what happens.




*Big Booty is an improv and acting exercise.

The view out of my window this morning. It was raining and misty.


Saffy lounging in my closet. I'm her slave. She meows at me to put her up there, then does it again when she wants to take her down. Yes master, I'm coming to feed you...


The Christmas tree in the lobby of my building. There's also wreathes and pine garlands strung around. It makes me relieved to know that my rent money isn't being wasted.

Hello Ryan, how are you?

This is my cat. She does not sit in my hat.


This is my dinner. It is a pretty dinner, so I took a picture.



More To Come

Chicago is having an arts and humanities festival, which basically consists of authors making public appearances around town. My interest was pretty low - considering all the other stuff that goes on here - until I discovered that one of the guests was William Gibson.

The guy wrote a book about a woman with 3 centimeter scalpels that spring out of her fingertips. How could I not be excited?

For those of you who aren't into SciFi, Gibson is the author of Neuromancer, one of the most influntial SF books ever written. He invented the cyberpunk literary genre, and in the early 80's predicted a world where the internet was commonplace. If you still don't know what I'm talking about then go watch The Matrix, it's a direct homage to his work.

To make a long story short, I saw him speak at a church while the crowd sat in the pews. If it had been a SciFi convention this would've been extremely appropriate. The place was mostly filled with off-duty professors and their wives. I think they were there mostly because it was an arts event, they could've cared less about the author. Just to balance things out there was also a 3-pack of goth kids, and a Marilyn Manson-ish girl with dreads. Then a scattering of nerd guys, with some extra-credit-seeking students thrown in. I probably looked like I fell into that last catagory, a fact I took advantage of by using my expired (as in Graduated) student ID. I knew I could use that thing somewhere.

Gibson himself was a hunched-over nerdy fellow with an awkward speech pattern. He was quite cheerful and made a few jokes - basically a normal geeky guy. After he finished taking awkward questions from the moderator (an English professor), and playing along with the let's-all-move-to-Canada-because-Bush-got-reelected jokes, he signed books. I am now the proud owner of a copy of Virtual Light with "WM Gibson, Cheers! 04" written inside.

Now all I need is to see Neal Stephenson and Hunter S. Thompson, then I'll be all set.

The top floor (16) of my building has a viewing deck. It provides an impressive 180 degree view of the city and lake Michigan. Here's how it looks tonight.



If I had a powerful zoom lens I could take pictures of people's apartments through their windows. Oh well, I guess I could get one with my first paycheck.

The upper level contains the laundry room and some suite apartments. It also has the creepiest hallways in the building - and I'm not referring to the hideous green carpets. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to be washing my darks at midnight.



Come and play with us, Danny.



Yikes.