Wanted: Minotaur for part-time work

Sitting quietly at the lab help desk in the basement of the library, I was approached by a high school-aged girl who asked, "Excuse me, how do you get back upstairs?" I blinked. "Pardon?" I replied, buying myself some time to try and comprehend this girl.

"How do you get back upstairs?" she repeated. I was sorely tempted to tell her "Probably by going back the way you got down here," but this job is easy money. Instead, she got a few seconds of awkward silence followed by "Um, just go down the hallway to the double doors on your left."

"Ok, thanks," she said, twirling her hair.

---

There's a myth about the Labyrinth, where this guy Daedalus uses a ball of string to track where he had been to find a way out of the Minotaur's maze. I wanted to suggest this as a possible solution to her navigation problems, but the stretch of hallway from the stairwell to the computer lab is about twenty-five feet, and there's absolutely nothing labyrinthine about it.

I doubt she would have understood me anyway.

---

Addendum (7/30/02 12:30 am CST)

I've been considering what it would be like if the library hired a minotaur. I think he would have to change his style a little bit - get rid of the axe maybe - but that wouldn't be a problem. He would troll the library towers, stomping his hooves and snorting, looking angrily for people that were lost. As soon as he found one, he'd heft them over his shoulder, take them back to the entrance, and toss them out through the revolving doors (which would of course spin rapidly, gaining enough momentum to spit the person out a good distance). Killing patrons probably wouldn't be good P.R., so I think this is a reasonable solution.

I think we'd get along real well: on his break he'd come down to the lab and we'd chat about all the people we've seen that day over some coffee. I mean, I don't drink coffee, but I think I can let that detail slide. I'd probably have to listen to him complain about the lack of work in the labyrinth sector lately, what with the receding economy and all, but I could handle that.

Right. I'm gonna get some sleep now.
7:56 PM Top

 

"Hi, I'd like a bacon cheeseburger value meal with a Dr. Pepper."
"Double cheeseburger value meal. Is that all?"
"No, bacon cheeseburger."
"Bacon or double?"
"Bacon."
"Double?"
"Bacon. Bay-kunn."
"Ok. Bacon cheesburger value meal. What would you like to drink with that?"
"Uh, Dr. Pepper."
"That'll be $3.32"
"Ok."
"Here you go, enjoy your meal."
"Thanks, 'preciate it."

---

Sometimes I wonder if everyone's definition of English is the same.


12:32 PM Top

-Sunday, July 28, 2002

 

In trying to get a research paper done, my spare time has been cut short. However, a picture of the cutest kitten in the entire world should more than make up for it (thanks Steve-o).

 

After the longest hiatus yet, I'm updating the site. I couldn't seem to figure out why I had written so little (well, I guess none at all), but my problems were solved with an afternoon in Evanston.

So yeah, I exaggerate sometimes. Evanston isn't all goofballs and dog owners- I actually know some pretty nice people that live on the north shore. However, it does have its fair share of crazy people and utter morons, examples of these categories being a woman that struck up a conversation with myself and my roommate Jonathan on the street in a roundabout way to advertise her hair-cutting business and the dumb thirteen year olds smoking weed on the street while kicking ice at passersby, respectively.

I found out today there's another category of Evanston residents: the strange relative. As I sat in the cafe section of Barnes and Noble reading a magazine, I watched three women set their belongings at a table, settle for a minute, and then get back up to go get books. As two of the women left, I got a better look. The first one that walked by I assumed was the daughter, a normal-looking woman about twenty years old with shoulder length brown hair and, if I might add, an attractive appearance. She was followed by her mother, another normal-looking person, but the third member of their party stayed behind at the table.

I'll give you three guesses concerning what this third woman was like, and I'll even give you a hint: she's a nutcase. You guessed nutcase? Hey, who would have thought?

This woman single-handedly reaffirmed my faith in the fact that Evanston was disproportionately weird all by sitting at a table. The middle-aged woman had a pumpkinhead haircut, a constantly furrowed brow as if she was confused by everything she saw, and oh how she smacked her gum: I think cows would be offended by this woman. It was the type of mannerism that, if you knew the person better (maybe not even), you would go up to them, grab them and shake them silly, demanding they stop smacking their fucking gum like they were re-digesting grass.

Of course, because apparently I'm a masochist, I couldn't stop staring at this woman, hoping she would stop smacking her gum and twitching a little more with each chomp. I couldn't help but wonder what gene from the other two perfectly normal women this oblivious woman was missing, and I couldn't help but imagine what amazing capacity for annoyance they must have built up.

---

Its probably not fair to be so harsh to Evanston. I mean, at least it doesn't smell...that badly.
12:00 AM Top

-Tuesday, July 23, 2002

 

Days like this come once a summer- a strong breeze and temperatures in the 70s provide respite from the dog days that are sure to come more often as July goes on, and a deep blue sky that practically demands you lay down on the grass and nap. In a stroke of luck, a free concert on the lakeshore in Evanston was scheduled for tonight, and I spent the gorgeous evening outside watching little kids dance (read: jumping and flailing arms about) and listening to Beatles' songs.

What really surprises me is that at these free concerts - I've been to two now - is that in a town seemingly full of fuckin' nutcases, the relatively normal people are drawn out of the woodwork for these public gatherings. These people can sit calmly and enjoy the evening without asking for change or if I want to sponsor Greenpeace (read: dumb fuckers. "Hey, lets protest nuclear waste by making a boat carrying the stuff go into evasive maneuvers!" Listen, jackasses: take your symbolic protests somewhere they won't potentially cause a nuclear waste spill. Jesus). For whatever reason though, it seems like every other person had a dog with them, where "dog" refers to pure-bred dogs, because out of the thirty-some dogs I saw in fifteen minutes, I don't think I saw any of the "mutt" variety. I'm not exactly a dog person, but even I was impressed by some of these handsome little doggies: well-groomed, shiny coats of fur, what seemed like excellent posture - although I can't say I've seen a dog slouch before - and for the most part well-behaved. The one real exception was a snooty little beagle that howled at everything that walked by, be it person, other dog, or duck.

All these doggies got me thinking about a few things. First, it made me glad that my preference is cats. Sure, they may not be as loyal as companions, but I don't have to carry their feces around in a bag: hell, I don't even have to walk them. Second, it got me thinking about another pure-bred dog I knew once, a full-blooded mutt named Footstool.

Footstool was a dog among dogs. He belonged to my aunt and uncle that live a bit outside of Springfield on a farm, and as his name implied, was shaped quite like a footstool. He was shaped like the stubbier, fatter footstools, but a footstool nonetheless.

Google image search returned a surprisingly accurate picture of what Footstool was actually shaped like.

While the picture above is of a sheep footstool, Footstool himself had legs just about as stubby but his fur was much patchier in terms of colors. What was perhaps most memorable about Footstool - besides his pleasant demeanor that only incapacitated, dependent animals can have - was his gigantic ass-tumor. This little dog was pretty wide to start with, but unlike most dogs, who sort of taper off near their back end in terms of width, Footstool had a tumor that kept his width consistent and earned him his namesake.

I'm not gonna lie. Footstool was a stray dog, and by the time my aunt and uncle found him, he didn't have that long left. It makes me feel good that for the couple months that Footstool was around he got plenty of love and affection, along with table scraps, all in return for an occasional foot placed on his back (read: just kidding. I don't think anyone was that cruel to old Footstool).

Oh, right. Third, and finally, I thought of what people would think if I was walking around this free concert with Footstool on a leash. Chances are, between the regular dog-walkers and the screwballs, I'd blend in perfectly.
9:53 PM Top

-Monday, July 22, 2002

 

I found out at lunch that today was supposed to be a "stay in bed til 6pm" day, but thanks to an oppressive heat warning last night, staying in bed would have probably resulted in dehydration. Anyway, apparently one of the programs at Northwestern is called "Basic Reasoning," and the only requirement for attendance is that you have no common sense whatsoever. The program kids ate at my dorm's dining hall for lunch, and with almost every table full, I ended up sitting across from the conveyor belt where you put your tray and near the exit as well, as one can see from the diagram below:

An overview of the corner of the dining hall I was in today.

 

Its good to be back.

My faith in humanity is suffering from shaken baby syndrome after an excursion to Green Bay via public transportation this weekend, where it was left dazed and bleeding from the ears after a little less than twelve total hours spent on trains and buses. After meeting dozens of sailors and people with problems that I can't even begin to imagine, its a pretty safe bet that I'll be avoiding public transportation for a bit. However, I don't want to dissuade anyone from using public transportation that easily: allow me to elaborate.

So the plan was this- I was heading to Green Bay for the weekend to meet with my girlfriend while conveniently forgetting to mention this to my parents, by which I would inevitably save myself a lecture and a game of twenty questions (so yeah, Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, uh...I love you?). I would catch the Chicago-bound Metra from Evanston at 10am, get to Union Station and then head out at 11:30 am on a Greyhound bus, confident in my scheduled arrival time of 4:30 pm. From previous experience with public transportation, I certainly expected meeting some people that were out of the ordinary. I've learned that expecting it doesn't necessarily prepare you for it when it happens, though.

Bus #2669 to Green Bay from Chicago

In all honesty, the trip started out well. I was a little unnerved by the wealth of adult book and video stores within eyeshot of the highway in Kenosha, WI, but I refused to be shaken by dairyland smut. The bus was inevitably running a little behind and I wasn't too concerned when we arrived in Milwaukee twenty minutes late, but that's about when things started falling apart. I had assumed there weren't any delays along the trip, but apparently I wasn't informed of the thirty-minute "crazy bitch" layover upon arrival in Milwaukee.

After we parked at the gate, most of the passengers started to get off the bus except for myself, a Chinese man that didn't quite understand "Stay on the bus. No transfer here," a senile-looking old lady with short gray hair, a ditsy mother and her annoying 11 year-old son, and a black woman in her late twenties that was crouched on the floor of the bus with her head leaning on her seat.

A poorly drawn layout of the bus. C - crazy people, M - Mike, and B - bathroom.

I was contemplating going to the bathroom when the crouched over woman (the C farthest to the right) began moving toward the bathroom in a duck-like fashion, maintaining her crouch the entire way. Although a family consisting of a mother and five kids were still in the way, the woman was undaunted and excused herself past them. I couldn't say if anyone else at all thought this was strange or even saw it happen, but all I knew was that there was no way I was using the bathroom after this lady.

This foolish thought was based on the assumption the lady would come out of the bathroom. If there's a lesson to be learned from public transportation, it is certainly "take nothing for granted." As the new driver prepared to leave, the woman was still in the bathroom, doing whatever the hell she was doing (close as I was, I couldn't hear anything) in spite of the insistence of her friends that she "quit foolin' around and get her damn ass off the bus." After the bus driver and the station manager unsuccessfully tried to get her out of the bathroom, they went to call the police and I decided it was in my best interest to, what was I thinking at the time...right, get the fuck away from the woman that's probably shooting up with a diseased needle in the Greyhound bathroom. The rest of the bus had the same sentiments, although from different reasoning: the senile old woman suggested the woman had a gun and then began laughing at the thought, which either influenced or scared the ditsy mother and her child, and the Chinese man was, I don't know, probably still looking to transfer. By the time the police got there we were all off the bus except for country bumpkin Billy, who got on the bus and sat in the back, unfazed by or unaware of the situation.

It ended up the police convinced the woman to get off the bus after about ten minutes and we finally got back underway, running an hour late. Right as we left the station our driver made the typical announcements concerning the rules, followed by a very reassuring statement: "I would also like to say that I'm a Chicago driver and I am not familiar with this route, so if you see me going the wrong way, please let me know." Lovely. I also tried to ask bumpkin Billy, the only eye witness to the police getting the woman off the bus, what happened, but he just flapped his hands and said...something, I couldn't discern a whole lot. I'm probably better off not knowing, anyway. I dozed off after a bit and arrived a little less than an hour late in Green Bay, flustered and confused more than angry at being late.

Bus #2669 to Chicago from Green Bay

The same bus and the same driver greeted me at the station the next day, and with minimal trouble we set off for home. The only strange people on the bus were a teenaged kid sporting Fat Albert jean shorts and a Fat Albert medallion on a long, silver chain around his neck and a guy that, thanks to Southwest Airline's policy of paying for how many seats you occupy, can be best described as having a two-ticket ass - thank god the bus wasn't full. The only frightening part of this trip happened when we got back to Chicago and I saw a billboard advertising Morton Salt (you know, the salt with that dumb girl spilling her salt while walking with an umbrella in the rain). The graphic was salt being sprinkled on some fries with a caption saying "Ever seen a french fry smile?" A failed attempt to be cute and memorable, this billboard only scared the hell out me and left me praying I never see my french fries smile or make any other sort of facial expression, ever. In hindsight though, I'll never forget the brand name Morton Salt: I'll give them that much.

The Metra rides weren't too bad except for being crowded with enough sailors to fully staff two aircraft carriers, but by the time I got back home, I'd had enough. In addition to meeting all these people, it seemed like someone was following me around with a crying baby the entire time, only adding to the "pleasantness" of the experience.

I'm not saying it wasn't worth it though. All I'm saying is next time I go to visit my girlfriend, I'm renting a fucking car.
7:11 PM Top

-Thursday, July 18, 2002

 

Besides the banner ad that blogger.com makes me keep at the top of this page, I do very little in terms of promoting goods or services. Sure, I've clearly endorsed the Swedish Chef from the Muppet Show (check the archives), but he's been out of the entertainment business for quite some time now and no one is making a profit from such an endorsement.

Today, things are a little different. In ascending order of importance, I will give you several reasons why British journalism, namely BBC News, far outshines American journalism:

• Attention is paid to small details. A perfect example of this is a recent article concerning a guy getting gored by a bison and then getting fined for being too close to it. At the top of the page there is a picture of two lumbering bison eyeing the photographer and a caption that reads, "Bison are big - and they can run faster than you." This is information that will undoubtedly save many lives.


• Excellent use of similes. During the World Cup, a feature was run about how the tournament was shaping up to end in a disappointing fashion. There's no dancing around the subject here, as sports writer Tom Fordyce wrote-
  
  "Like an anxious teenager in bed with his girlfriend for the first time, this World Cup shot its bolt too early. For the remainder of the experience we've been forced to lie there, twiddling our thumbs, trying to pretend not to look too disappointed."
  
  Unfortunately, the American press just doesn't seem to express their feelings as accurately, or as vividly.


• Clever alliteration and pictures of really fat dogs. A recent feature on porky pets really brings this point to light. Not only does it have a picture of a dog so fat it should be pushed around in a shopping cart, the first line of the story is "More than half of all cats and dogs are little fatties." Take notes, journalists: this is how you pull in your audience.


• If you look up "American journalism" in an encyclopedia, it will be cross-referenced under "boring as fuck." CNN? Come on. This actually isn't my point, as British journalism can stand on its own legs, but it should be mentioned.

 

Sometimes I think I'd like for one of the computers in the lab to suddenly catch fire, exploding in a hail of plastic casing and microchips. Ever thinking quickly, I would simultaneously shout for everyone to go for cover and grab the fire extinguisher, after which I would move within striking distance of the deviant member of my quiet little community of computers and put it back in line with an expertly aimed blast of carbon dioxide. After the situation is back under control, I would call the University emergency number and calmly report the happenings, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. "All in a day's work," I would say to the guy coming in for the evening shift, and I would go home, content that I've done my job.

I think I'd settle for being able to listen to music, actually. Anything to make the goddamn clock move faster.

As I watch the Gameday broadcast of the Cubs game slowly update, I'm wishing I could be spending my summers like I did fifteen years ago - playing t-ball. I think I'd give just about anything to be out on a hot summer day in ugly little baseball pants and a mesh hat, smacking my hand in my glove in a taunting manner to the kid at the plate (or the tee, I guess). I fancied myself a little Mark Grace back then, playing first base with a sure glove and backing up my defense with clutch offense, always coming through for the team. Of course, "clutch offense" consisted of hitting a ball off of a tee, but hey- they didn't have a rule saying "its not a hit if the ball doesn't go past the pitcher" for no reason. Unfortunately, I can't even begin to count how many times that rule was needed.

When I wasn't dreaming of the big leagues, I goofed around with my teammates, who I have no recollection of now other than stereotypes common to every t-ball team there ever was. Several immediately come to mind:

• The athletic kid - Usually the son of the coach, the athletic kid actually knew how to catch, hit, throw and run all while keeping tears to a minimum. Undoubtedly grew up to be a jock, but at age five even he's pleasant.


• The not-so-athletic kid - Hefty at best and chunky at worst, the not-so-athletic kid wasn't exactly known for his base running, fielding, or catching skills. While you always made fun of the other team's not-so-athletic kid, you always cheered yours when he was up to bat: if there's one thing he might be able to do, its whack a ball off a tee pretty damn far. Unfortunately, these long balls usually only resulted in singles.


• The girl - Every team probably had two or three girls in the pee wee league I played in, but usually only one was any good. This girl, while usually not the best hitter, possessed more hand-eye coordination than half the team, meaning she could actually throw it to second base and get it there in the air, too. In a five-year-old boy's world, a girl being good at sports is one of the only ways she'll earn respect, which would at times lead to a show of affection, in turn leading to a slap.


• The pitcher - If you can't throw, run, catch or hit, there's still a place for you in t-ball: right on the pitcher's mound. Charged with the ceremonial task of flipping your arm in the direction of the plate to show its ok to hit the ball off the tee, the pitcher, as far as I can remember, never did a thing. Thankfully, I didn't become a pitcher until I started playing baseball, where the skill of throwing the ball accurately is a must.


• The rest - Also known as the "treat-bringers," these are the kids that no one remembers except for the kickass Capri Suns and Hostess Zebra Cakes their parents brought for after the game. They had average skills at the four basic t-ball tasks, which they made up for with the previously mentioned tasty treats.

 

Innocence lost

A little part of me wept softly today as I realized I can no longer swim through warm water at a beach without the words "gigantic toilet" coming to mind.
6:25 PM Top

-Sunday, July 14, 2002

 

If one were to come up to me and have a conversation, and during this conversation would randomly throw in the word "Chicago" somewhere, three things would immediately pop into my mind, usually in this order:

• skyscrapers,


• the Cubs and my perpetual distaste mixed with loyalty to them,


• and strange, strange people

 

After a week of pretending to look knowledgeable and important in the Digital Media computer lab until I was asked a question, upon which I sheepishly replied, "Yeah, I have no idea. Try asking one of the other users, though," I found myself back in the basement of the library for an afternoon of random questions and boredom. Exactly one half-hour passed by before I ran across my first troubled user, who in the end had a legitimate problem, but manage to make the situation much more difficult along the way.

As a reminder, the lab in the basement has both Macs and PCs, including separate classrooms with just Macs and just PCs. A high school student came in and walked into the Mac lab, and about twenty minutes later came out and asked me how to print. I'll give her credit, she knew she had to have a card with money on it, but things got a little frustrating after that:

(gesturing to the print station five feet away while speaking)
"Ok, well all you need to do to print is to put your card in the card reader and then log on to the print station."
"Um..."
"Just put your card in the card read-"
(she moves to hand me her card)
"No. Here, I'll show you."

At this point I get up and walk to the card reader, where I then point out that indeed this is the card reader and I do not need to read her card. The problem is that for some reason, the user ID she used to log on to the computer wouldn't log her on to the print station, something that just never happens until Information Technologies at Northwestern decides to fuck around with the people that actually run the labs. Seeing that the logon is obviously not working, I start walking toward the Mac lab to see what's wrong, but since I don't know what computer she's on, I initiate another dialogue:

"Well let me take a look at your computer. Which one are you on?"
"The Mac computer in the Mac lab."

(I turn and look in the Mac lab, at the twenty-four Mac computers.)

"Um."
"Oh, I'll show you which one."

Thanks, I do appreciate it. After that incident, I told her to go upstairs and print, where you don't need an ID.

Some days are just meant to be spent in bed.
12:53 PM Top

-Thursday, July 11, 2002

 

Another Update- The so called "gigantic fucking space" seems to have disappeared, at least for the moment. It may or may not reappear, considering I don't know where it came from and I have no idea when it left. So for the time being...I don't know. Its a goddamn mystery.
7:41 PM Top

 
News Flash- It has been announced that for anyone that figures out why there's a gigantic fucking space in the Wednesday, July 10th post, there is a fantastic prize waiting you, begging to be claimed. Its has been suspected that the Law of Conservation of Mass may have been broken, since almost half a screen's worth of space appeared out of nowhere, but its also suspected that I probably just don't know what's wrong. For the time being, just ignore the space and continue reading.
2:02 PM Top

 

As I've mentioned before, there's a lot of summer programs at Northwestern that have kids from ages 10-17, and more often than not one of these groups will end up eating in my dorm's dining hall. Some of the younger kids are adorable, with their lunch boxes and friendly demeanors, but then there's the "not quite at puberty yet" group, which, if I'm not mistaken, has recently been scientifically proven to be one of the most annoying demographics of all time (don't worry 7th and 8th-graders: you're still the reigning champions). High-pitched voices and growth spurts make boys incredibly awkward to even watch, and I can only count my lucky stars that those days of mine are past.

Today, I witnessed something that still leaves me at a loss for words. A husky twelve-year-old, appearing to be stumbling almost every place he walked, sat near my table with a plate of food on his tray. This plate of food consisted of a grilled cheese sandwich and not one, not two, but three corn dogs. No ketchup or mustard for the corn dogs, and not even a drink to wash them down. Just three corn dogs and a grilled cheese sandwich. Well, two and a half corn dogs (he had already started on one before he reached the table). In a span of no more than five minutes, this kid ate (inhaled?) all the corn dogs, and after he finished each one he would toss the stick on the ground, apparently in too much of a hurry to set the stick back down on his tray. He sat talking to his friends for a second, then left to take his tray to the conveyor belt, grilled cheese untouched.

I'm not sure I could eat three corn dogs that fast if I tried.

As I finished up my lunch, I was thinking about how grateful I was that my parents raised me on a pretty healthy diet, since I now appreciate a well-balanced meal more. I can't say I'm the healthiest eater, but three corn dogs would easily fall into the "overkill" category. At about this point I saw the kid coming back to the table with another corn dog.

I'm gonna call home now- I think I need to say thanks.
1:39 PM Top

-Wednesday, July 10, 2002

 

Let me tell you something: if Chicago has anything over Springfield...wait. Lets start over.

---

Let me tell you something: Chicago has everything over Springfield, and when it comes to lakes, there is no exception to the rule. To show that I am not exaggerating, I will compare the two cities in table format:

As one can see, almost by precedent alone does Lake Michigan outclass Lake Springfield. However, Lake Michigan does not need to rely on precedent to be the better lake; as anyone that has been to the rocks on the Lakefill at Northwestern's Evanston campus will tell you, it is a beautiful place to be at any time of the day. It is a place for relaxing, napping, and pondering- a truly wonderful place.

Late last night, despite overcast weather and windy conditions, I rode my bike to the lake in hopes of clearing my mind. As I got to the Lakefill, I was awed by the rough waves of the lake pounding against the rocks, the bleak view of downtown Chicago shrouded by fog, and a foreboding sky glaring down upon me, furrowing its cumulonimbus brow at my presence. I climbed down on to the rocks, where I sat for a few minutes, staring blankly at the choppy water, thinking depressing thoughts, feeling truly alone for the first time in quite a while, and I thought to myself "Maybe there's something missing in my life. Maybe I'm focusing on the wrong things." I mulled over this thought and others similar to it, and as the intensity of the waves increased my thoughts raced faster, building up in a crescendo with every crash of water against the rocks, and as I came upon an inspiring truth, a rare moment of true clarity, it suddenly hit me:

"Hoo boy, look at all this water. I really gotta pee."

Damn it. The next ten minutes were spent debating whether I should just find some random bush or tree on the Lakefill, providing instant relief but spoiling a special spot that I've come to enjoy in the last year, or if I should go find an actual bathroom. I glanced at my watch, noticed David Letterman would be on soon, and rode my bike back to the dorm, where a flushing toilet and antenna reception awaited.

Sometimes you just gotta prioritize, you know?

6:59 PM Top

-Tuesday, July 09, 2002

 

I grew up in a little village called Jerome that was completely surrounded by Springfield. Although I couldn't say the same at the time, I really appreciate having grown up in such a quiet little place, where I could run around playing tag, play roller hockey in the streets, or make up bicycle courses which inevitably ended up taking on some form of "ride around the block twice." Jerome also had a surprisingly high ratio of of friendly to mean old people, and while I suspect that has declined as of late, I'll always remember the cute old woman that gave me and my sister chocolate milk and bananas (god, what a strange combination) and the friendly couples that tipped well when I came collecting for my paper route.

At one point our next door neighbor, a rather nice old woman, died (moved away, I think I remember being told) and her son Howard moved in to her house with his wife and little kid. Let me be quick to dismiss any images the word "son" conjures in your mind: Howard might be the strangest person I know. With a well-kept ponytail that went all the way down his back, big mutton chop sideburns, and state trooper sunglasses all on a 5' 8" frame that supported quite a beer belly, I don't think I could ever mistake him for anyone else. Although the rest of the people living on my street were - how can I phrase this politely...ah - introverted freaks, in a few years Howard developed quite a reputation from the standpoint of my family, and several memories jump to mind that I can only explain with "Well, that's Howard for ya."

Every time it rained during the summer, he'd be out on his porch, looking out at the rain. The only reason this stands out is that from time to time my mom would do this too, and I'd usually join her. There's just something exhilarating about thunder during summer storms, who knows. Anyway, from across the yards they would have conversations, discussing this and that, and once the rain let up, the conversation would die and we'd go back inside. Every day that it was nice out, right before dusk settled in for the night, he would step out on the porch and call for his kid Alex to come in. Mind you, it didn't matter where he was- if he was in a block radius, he would hear. "ALEXXXX!!" he would bellow in a deep, cigarette-scratched voice as he stood holding the screen door, and with the consistency of the sunset you would see Alex running home a few seconds later. It still amazes me how efficient the system was; no set times for your kid to be home, no going to look for him, just open the door, bellow once or twice, and hey, your kid comes running. Fantastic.

While Howard had plenty of other oddities about him, including smoking at least a pack a day, working at the Shell gas station/repair shop, and an uncanny skill for Mario Golf for the original Nintendo system, his Fourth of July fireworks show took the cake. At least a hundred dollars was spent each year on entertaining the neighborhood kids (and himself, no doubt), and my brother and I absolutely loved it. To hell with going downtown for fireworks, we had front row seats at a great show right next door. The neighborhood kids, Alex's mom, and sometimes mine would wait in the front yard while he set up the display in the back, and once our supply of sparklers and black snakes ran out and it was dark enough, he would begin. For twenty minutes he would light off roman candles, bottle rockets, fountains and firecrackers, causing all of us to gasp with delight with each resounding bang. After the show was over, we would of course be all riled up and proceed to beg for a few more sparklers before we had to go to bed.

As kids moved away and the ones that were left hit puberty, I began noticing his quirks receded somewhat. No more calling out at night, I didn't go out to watch the rain anymore, and we eventually stopped going to his fireworks show. The whole setup sort of fell apart actually; Howard and his wife got divorced and well, we just stopped playing with Alex at some point. I know he still has the ponytail and the mutton chops, and I wouldn't even raise an eyebrow if I found out he still played Mario Golf on a beat up, old Nintendo. I'd probably be more surprised if he took down his Christmas lights...ever.

I talked to my mom the other day though. She says Howard put on the fireworks show again this year, with no audience but himself and our little cat Tiger, who was accidentally left outside to cower underneath our car, trying to hide from the explosions in the sky. I laughed when she told me about it, but I realized how glad I was that some things never change, and that if I was home this summer, chances are I might have stepped outside to watch the fireworks myself. After seven years, I would walk over to his yard and take a seat on the grass and wait for him to start. I doubt we would have said a whole lot to each other; he wouldn't have asked how school was going, I wouldn't have asked how Alex has been. For twenty minutes, I would have joined him in reliving a few unforgettable nights, where an eccentric man with more personality than a hundred people combined and a blond-haired kid were fascinated by singing rockets and banging firecrackers and absolutely nothing else mattered.


6:47 PM Top

 

I can't help it: I've developed a strong aversion to ice cream in the past few years. Its sad really, considering how much I used to love ice cream bars, milkshakes, and well, anything involving frozen milk in some form. All that was ripped away from me in a horrifying fashion when I found out I was lactose intolerant a few years ago. Now, with lactaid pills, I am afforded the comfort of a bowl of cereal in the morning and the occasional slice of pizza, but as a rule I tend to avoid dairy products now. The pills get expensive, and it just doesn't taste as good anymore.

I think that's a record- I got off-topic before I even got to my intended topic. Right, well anyway, today in the dining hall I ended up near Tweedledee (see archives, 7/3/02) and a group of his friends, who were sitting around a table that was situated near the ice cream dispenser.

I really should learn to make better sketches.

When I chose to sit down at the table near the wall, I wasn't expecting a loud conversation from the table where Tweedledee was sitting. However, I didn't count on the fact that yes, his partner in stupidity Tweedledum was sitting with him, as shown above.

For twenty minutes this kid made smart-ass remarks about the ice cream dispensing abilities of everyone that used it. This in itself is pretty lame, but we have a lot of summer programs at Northwestern, and young kids come in to the dining halls to eat a lot. So not only was he making fun of people's ice cream dispensing ability (which, I might add, isn't the best idea when you're overweight yourself), he was making fun of ten-year-old's abilities to dispense ice cream. He scared away eight kids from the ice cream dispenser in the twenty minutes I was down there, even after being scolded by one of the dining hall managers. Now, I haven't been ten for quite some time now, and even though I don't really like ice cream (as previously mentioned), I probably would have been traumatized by this chubby ice cream perfectionist, who demanded every cone be neatly swirled.

---

Ideally, I would have a roll of stickers, similar to what grocery stores use when they stick a circular "Shop 'N Save" or "Shnucks" logo on a gallon of milk to show you've bought it, except they would say "Dumb ass" instead. Once someone acted stupid in the vicinity of the stickers, I would peel off a sticker and smack it on their forehead.

I'd probably run out of stickers real fast.

1:47 PM Top

-Monday, July 08, 2002

 

I get to the beach pretty often now, and while I was out in the water, floundering around, trying to remember all the different swimming strokes I learned at the YMCA when I was eight, I nearly ran into a fish. My immediate (and intelligent) response was to say, to no one in particular - except maybe the fish itself - "Hey, there's a fish." Oh, what irrepressible wit I have.

Anyway, the encounter was a little more startling than one might think. First of all, you don't just nearly run into fish. Fish like to swim around below the surface of the water for the most part, and this one was clearly flopping around above the water. Since fish don't usually flop around above water, this fish wasn't exactly getting anywhere fast, and I was afforded a much clearer view of fish than I normally get. Needless to say, I was fairly disgusted. In a flash of clarity, I empathized with my younger brother Dan, who at age four mercilessly beat a dead fish we found on a beach with a stick. I also felt a connection with my older sister Krista, who took up vegetarianism for several months in high school only to avoid eating fish. Only now did I see the underlying, two-fold truth that my siblings have long been aware of: 1) fish are pretty fucking disgusting, and 2) if you get a chance, whack 'em with a stick.

After realizing all of this and compressing it into four syllables of pure genius (see above), I did what anyone else would have done in my position- I waded back to shore, dried off, and waited for other people to run into the fish. In hindsight, I probably should have ran to find a stick, but with no branches in sight, the only reasonable substitute at the time was soaking a towel and then whipping the fish from afar. I'll have to consult with my brother, but I bet that's not nearly as gratifying.
7:58 PM Top

 

Quote of the day (from nypost.com): "If animals weren't meant to be eaten, then why are they made out of meat?"

You know, I was just thinking my arm was looking pretty tasty. I think this person might have had a valid point if, say, animals had natural seasoning and sprigs of parsley behind their ears.
12:08 PM Top

-Sunday, July 07, 2002

 

God bless the L. If one were to ask me if I was a proponent of public transportation, one would get a resounding "Yes!" for a variety of reasons. The reasons that any politican or public transportation employee would spit out right away include, but are not limited to:

• Its cheap


• Its convenient


• And it helps the environment

These are, of course, all valid reasons in their own rights, and I agree with each wholeheartedly. They're missing the point though. Where else do you get the opportunity to meet such random people? Nowhere! In less than twenty L rides, I've met a variety of people that I could never have imagined meeting in my entire life, and I am indeed richer for it.

For example, on one trip to downtown Chicago, there was a woman in her late forties with long, gray hair and a full length down coat reading a copy of the Chicago Tribune. When one of my friends sat a seat away from her, she got up, obviously flustered (although I don't know why. I'm guessing crack though) and walked a few feet away, only to turn around and throw her paper at my friend. It didn't get close to him, but it certainly was cause for a few sidelong glances at the paper-wielding crazy. A few minutes later, she bent down to retreive a section of her paper - I though an ad caught her eye, perhaps - and after examining the page, she proceeded to rip it to shreds and casually toss it around the car. She got off a few stops later.

Or hey, there's always the sex-crazed, whether they're straight or homosexual. On a trip back to Evanston one night, I was situated as indicated below:

A really crude overhead view of an L car. See key in upper-right hand corner.

All of the people in question were white males who appeared to be in their early twenties, and at one point of the ride, the person to the right of me began gesturing at the person sitting down on the other side of the car. Now, by gesturing I mean licking his fingers and then rubbing them playfully on his nipples (what else could I possibly mean?). A little after that, I got to listen to a conversation between the two people to the right of me:

"I fuckin' hate butt guys. Do you like butt guys?"
"Nah man."
"They're so stupid. Fuck butt guys! Fuck them in their stupid asses."

Fair enough. Its a little hard to argue with that logic, I suppose. However, I think the most interesting conversations come up when someone is trying to ask for change but does it in a roundabout way. Now, I guess if I was trying to support an addiction, I'd probably wouldn't care enough to make up an interesting story or try and make small talk; half the time just asking will get more change than an elaborate conversation. As a general rule, however, its probably best to make your conversation somewhat believable, i.e. don't tell a white woman with red hair she looks just like your daughter if you're a black man. I suppose it might be possible, but something like "Hey, I had a pair of shoes like that once!" will probably garner some more pity, especially if you hide your shoes while saying this.

There's been all sorts of other encounters, like the Winnie the Pooh-backpack-toting gangster threatening someone on a crowded L car, or kids trying to throw candy to the people at the Howard station from the building adjacent to it, but the point is this: not only do you save money and the environment, you make new friends too. I can't even remember what I did for fun back in Springfield anymore.

7:40 PM Top

-Saturday, July 06, 2002

 

Not only do smells trigger memory, but objects that seem to have nothing to do with the present situation do a pretty good job making me laugh out loud while sitting all alone in the dining hall, making me look real smooth, I'm sure.

Also earlier this year, probably in May, for a week there was an ongoing contest between a friend and myself to see who could get the other person to slip on a banana peel first. Yes, I'm aware that there's better things I could have been doing with my time. Yes, I'm aware this probably seems pretty juvenile. However, I'm also aware that twenty years from now, when I'm out of college and working some job, I'll remember the banana peel contest more than I will remember studying for class. Anyway, after a few random placings, we got a little tricky, and after a point we started going for the less obvious places, i.e. not the floor.

Our rooms in the dorm were all arranged basically the same, and what I really like was that above the door and the closets (see little drawing) were cabinets where you could store your stuff.

A layout of your typical dorm room. Closets and door at top of picture

In my room, I kept food, stuff for cooking, my laundry detergent, etc. In my friend's room he kept basically the same stuff up there, except he also stored hygiene products, like deodorant, up above. A moment of deviance came upon me, and while he was gone from the room, I snuck in and arranged banana peels so they would fall on his head when he went to reach for his deodorant. It was a beautiful, perfect plan.

However, I underestimated my friend, who will remain anonymous. Two days later, having not heard any cries of defeat, I grew frustrated, and demanded to know what happened to the banana peels. He had no idea, because he hadn't put on deodorant in the last day and a half. And my plan was foiled.

The spoils of war are sometimes unexpected though. I got in a good laugh at his expense for not wearing deodorant for so long.
6:05 PM Top

 

I read on a website that odors can act as "index keys" to quickly retreive certain memories in our brain, which then tells us if the smell is pleasant or unpleasant based on previous experiences. When I was at the gym earlier today I smelled some pretty vicious body odor, which in turn triggered a memory of the worst body odor I've ever smelled in entire life. I didn't exactly need an index key to tell me that the smell was unpleasant, but the idea still works.

Anyway, back in May of this year while I was still living with my first roommate at college, I came back one night to find my roommate and another person in my room, talking about a homework assignment. The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was that this kid was a pretty large guy, and by large I mean hefty, that had a three-day stubble going and some pretty greasy looking hair sticking out from under his baseball hat that was turned backwards. I processed all of this as I came into the room and was about to think of where I had seen him before when the most foul body odor I've ever smelled effectively punched me in the face, and I quickly turned on my heel, gasping for the air of the hallway.

After the hyperventilating, I regained my composure and thought about the situation. "All right, how badly do I really need to go back in my room?" I said to myself, and when I realized I hadn't checked my email in a while, I knew that I was going back in. So, telling myself the smell wasn't that bad, I braced myself and headed back in the room, but not before taking a deep breath.

It might seem like I'm dramatizing the situation, but I assure you, I am not.

So two minutes later, I'm sitting at my desk, wondering if this kid will ever leave, when I notice my deodorant sitting on my desk. Looking over my shoulder and seeing his back was turned to me, I quietly uncapped the deodorant and moved it toward my nose. "Ahh, Old Spice" I sighed to myself, and for a while all was well. This way I could ride out the stink being produced until he left, which I assumed would be fairly soon.

No luck. After five more minutes of holding my deodorant to my nose, I realized I probably looked pretty odd. I took a look around the room, and once he turned away, I discreetly applied deodorant to my upper lip, and then capped it, with no one the wiser.

---

Actually, that memory isn't triggered when I smell body odor. What immediately comes to mind is what happened immediately after this guy left my room- the strange look I got from my friend when he saw me fanning my room frantically with a towel and spraying air freshener everywhere, all while I was gasping for breath. Smelly bastard.


4:56 PM Top

 

Ok, I've made a note to myself to never, ever look at another weblog randomly after this site came close to convincing me that God really hates all of us and has really subtle ways of fucking with our minds. I promise that I will never bring up another shitty weblog again.

Well, unless its really bad.
12:42 AM Top

 
I can't forget sites like this one either. These are the types of sites that serve as a cure for, what do you call it...oh right, wanting to live. While more perky than the other end of the spectrum, its cheeriness doesn't overshadow the mindless drivel that's on the site.
12:37 AM Top

-Friday, July 05, 2002

 

Before you ask, yes I know how painfully bad some weblogs (I know the term is "blog." I also know that's probably a pretty good guess as to what a dinosaur barfing all over might sound like too) can be. However, there are a few differences between the one you're reading and the really bad ones. Let's take this gem of a website My Depressing Life as an example. To save you the trouble of visiting this site, I'll show a sample post from the site:

*deep sigh* a few days ago christa and naya had me help set up this tent so
after we made success in that they slept out that was two day ago ....they also
had me come up and visit ....but i went home .......then the next night *sigh* they
wanted me to hang out for a lil bit again so we were all talkin and layin around
and then the unthinkable happened i kinda fell asleep *bashes self in head repeatedly*
why am i so stupid *sigh* i hadnt been home since 9:30pm and at 2:30am my dad
calls naya's parents and asks for me but im not there im in the tent at christa's ....well
they found me and i had to go home ....i cant stop thinking bout it though ...i just hope
i didnt get them in trouble i shouldda left when i had the chance why didnt i go damnit
im sorry i hope naya's parents dont hate me and ban me from hangin out with her and
i hope they dont say anything to christa's dad and his skank im sorry if i got you two
in trouble .....i dunno what to do or what to say except for sorry *sigh*

Well. In that dazzling display of grammatical prowess, I count seven unnecessary pauses, four instances where the author decided to *sigh* for us, and, at one point, he "bashes self in head repeatedly." Not only are we aware of his body actions, illuminated to us in a vivid fashion courtesy of asterisks, we get an opportunity to see what its like to be a fifteen-year-old that can't stop whining about everything! Congratulations kid, you've managed to produce something that I don't think anyone cares about at all, and then put it on the web so someone might accidentally stumble upon it. This website is a shining example of how a really good medium of communication can be used to unleash a terrible amount of crap unto the world.

---

Before you ask another question, yes, I am aware of the fact that probably no one cares what goes on this site either and it has no "actual" value, but hey- my sentences are coherent. Mike- 1, Internet- 0.

6:16 PM Top

 

Because I like you (really, come visit), I'm giving you a link to a collection of Swedish Chef video clips. The best part about this guy, besides, well...nevermind. He's the best muppet ever. Makes me wish I had a hat like that.
12:15 AM Top

 

After being gone for an evening, I was excited to see that I had received an email from the wife of the former head of state of Nigeria! Boy, the things that happen when you're gone for a day. After briefly considering sending this woman my money in order to get a piece of the $86 million she was entitled to but couldn't get just quite yet because...what was it, the government was "seriously watching her" or something, I decided against this. Her assurance that a well-known Nigerian courier would supply the money didn't quite do it for me. Right, well, like any considerate person, I quickly replied, explaining my situation:

Dear Mrs. Mariam Abacha,

It is unfortunate that Nigerian politics have left you in such a poor state
of affairs. However, I think what you may not realize (I read this on BBC
News) is that Nigeria is home to an elite squad of super-intelligent, super
strong chimpanzees that will do your bidding for only a few bananas a day.
While they cannot fly, I imagine supplying jet packs would not be a
serious financial problem, what with your mass riches.

If you'd like, I can send you the address of a jet pack supplier that deals
in sizes fit for babies and chimpanzees. Please let me know how things
work out for you; maybe send a chimpanzee courier or something. I'll give
him some bananas on delivery.

Best,
Mike Jansen

Needless to say, we know who the real sucker is now- jetpacks don't come in chimpanzee size!

---

You know you're in college when the word utensil is defined as anything that will get food in your mouth, say like two mechanical pencils.
12:06 AM Top

-Wednesday, July 03, 2002

 

I'll be honest- I do very little at my job. From time to time I do run across a perplexing problem that I'm not sure how to deal with, but for the most part I just fix paper jams in the printer and straighten chairs. However, in the past week I've dealt with more stupid questions and stupid people than I did all during the school year, and one kid in particular takes the cake.

This little diagram is a layout of the computer lab I'm working in now. As you can see, its fairly simple. Now, about thirty minutes before closing, this kid, a stocky, goofy-looking fellow at best, walks from the general lab area to the help desk, where I'm sitting and a dialogue ensues:

"Excuse me, where's the printer at?"

(a beat)

"Uh, right there." (I point at the printer he just walked by)
"Oh, ok. Um...how do I use it?"

(it should be noted that at our labs you have to pay for printing, which means you have to have money on your ID card to put in a card reader, which then allows you to pay for your printing at the print station)

"Well, put your card in the card reader like it says on the top of the...no, not sideways, put it in like it says how to."

(he squeals as the reader sucks in his card and spits it back out, having been put in wrong)

At this point his friend comes and shows him how to do it, and I think that's the end of the situation. Not the dumbest single event I've witnessed, but pretty close.

Of course, this isn't just a single event. As I'm walking back to my desk from my rounds, he has finished printing and asks me where the stapler is, even though its in plain sight next to the help desk. I point directly at it, thinking this is a fairly good way to indicate direction, and the kid almost walks into my arm. After I explain to him that the stapler is indeed where I'm pointing, he has minimal trouble using the stapler, and I think I'm safe for the 10 minutes left before closing.

Right. Just before I close the lab, he comes huffing and puffing back down to the lab, explaining how he forgot his disk. At this point, I'm not surprised.
2:16 PM Top

-Tuesday, July 02, 2002

 

(around 2:05 pm. The library basement computer lab, where I'm working this afternoon. Funny looking man, in his 50s probably, comes in)

"Hi, I'm trying to send an email but when I go to log on it says I have an extra space in my user name even though there's no extra space. I need to send an email by 2:15."
"Okay...so you're having trouble logging on to the computer with your netID?"
"My what? All I'm trying to do is send a simple email."
"Well you need to use your netID to log on to the network so you can send email. Do you have a netID?"
"I don't know, I'm trying to use hotmail but I can't log on."
"Okay, well let's try this. I'll log you on, and then you can get to hotmail so you can send your email by 2:15. There, you're all set."

(not even two minutes later)

"I don't know what to do, its not working and all I'm trying to do is send a simple email."

(he has typed in "hotmail" into the Northwestern search engine)

"Right, well here, lets go to the hotmail home page, and then you can log in."

(several failed attempts to log in. he has tried several variations on his user name without knowing it)

"See, this was happening upstairs, it tells me my name and password is incorrect. All I'm trying to do is send a simple email and I have to do so much complicated stuff to do it!"

(waves his hands about, suggesting complicated stuff I suppose. Its now 2:20)

"Ok, well what you can do is just make a new user name and try from there. Just go from here and let me know if there's any problems."

(a few minutes later)

"Is everything going all right?"
"No, it keeps giving me this screen."

(he has yet to type the same password twice)

"Oh. See, you have to type the same password twice, otherwise it won't let you continue."
"Ahhh, ok. Thanks, I'll try now."

(a few minutes later. more hand waving and frustration)

"I can't get it to work, I can't just send a simple email."

(he leaves. I walk back over to his computer to see that he still hasn't figured out how to type the same password twice. I briefly consider shooting myself in the face.)



3:22 PM Top

 

There, up and running.

After spending eighteen years of my life in a town that's been struggling with an identity crisis, I packed up and moved to Chicago...or, a suburb anyway. I've been in college for a year now, and I'm spending the summer working for Academic Technologies at Northwestern University while I'm taking a class, too. So there you go- a lifetime compressed into a few sentences. Its missing some major details, but I'll worry about that later.
3:04 PM Top