There's a certain zen to the feel of sweat running down your face. Remember when you were a kid, tracing raindrops with your finger as they zigzagged their way down a window? It's like that. Except rain is beautiful, and sweat is kind of gross.
Also windowpanes are cold, and my face is very hot.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Crime, Punishment, Assorted Curiosities! Scenes from the daily UChicago grind
Redacted. -- Ed.
Click here for the full post, or email me for access.
* *
Alright chucks.
March and April gone, with nary a post from me. Some of you have noted that I only write when something extraordinary, outrageous, fantastical! happens my way. This is, in general, true; however, it's true by default rather than design. Tonight I steer the blog towards calmer waters: waves may be lower in amplitude but higher in frequency. But why?! you might ask. Well reader, extraordinary is by definition rare, and this is boring, for me and for you. So let's put extraordinary aside, and set our sights on curious.
Things that I have found curious (which have come to my attention within the scope of the past two months, and which I have failed to address in the course of daily conversations, these being sadly limited) are:
(1) Marathons. Not the kind where you run. The kind where you sit on a couch, toss your remote, and submit yourself to the will of a single cable television station, only to find that it has devoted its entire daytime lineup to a [addictive network TV show] -dash- marathon. I love this. I have watched Scrubs-marathons, House-marathons, separate and distinct marathons of CSI, CSI: Miami and CSI: New York, marathons that render entire days useless, marathons that glide seamlessly into nights of untroubled sleep. In the process, I have convinced myself that I have Cushing's syndrome (thanks House), and grow ever more mistrustful of my potentially-homicidal officemates (thanks CSI). Also, thanks Jorja Fox. Nothing specific. Just thanks.
(2) Germans, specifically Emo-Germans, extra-specifically the Emo-German Thomas. Thomas is stuck on a rollercoaster ride of conflicting emotions towards yours truly, aka his personal chauffeur (no joke, this is how he introduced me to his friends in Houston).
(3) Shark Bites!! (fruit snack) How are they so delectable? It seems wrong.
Click here for the full post, or email me for access.
* *
Alright chucks.
March and April gone, with nary a post from me. Some of you have noted that I only write when something extraordinary, outrageous, fantastical! happens my way. This is, in general, true; however, it's true by default rather than design. Tonight I steer the blog towards calmer waters: waves may be lower in amplitude but higher in frequency. But why?! you might ask. Well reader, extraordinary is by definition rare, and this is boring, for me and for you. So let's put extraordinary aside, and set our sights on curious.
Things that I have found curious (which have come to my attention within the scope of the past two months, and which I have failed to address in the course of daily conversations, these being sadly limited) are:
(1) Marathons. Not the kind where you run. The kind where you sit on a couch, toss your remote, and submit yourself to the will of a single cable television station, only to find that it has devoted its entire daytime lineup to a [addictive network TV show] -dash- marathon. I love this. I have watched Scrubs-marathons, House-marathons, separate and distinct marathons of CSI, CSI: Miami and CSI: New York, marathons that render entire days useless, marathons that glide seamlessly into nights of untroubled sleep. In the process, I have convinced myself that I have Cushing's syndrome (thanks House), and grow ever more mistrustful of my potentially-homicidal officemates (thanks CSI). Also, thanks Jorja Fox. Nothing specific. Just thanks.
(2) Germans, specifically Emo-Germans, extra-specifically the Emo-German Thomas. Thomas is stuck on a rollercoaster ride of conflicting emotions towards yours truly, aka his personal chauffeur (no joke, this is how he introduced me to his friends in Houston).
(3) Shark Bites!! (fruit snack) How are they so delectable? It seems wrong.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
It's Not Delivery; It's DiGiorno! Wheat Futures in Record Territory
Eat pizza, boost economy.
From the Wall Street Journal:
What a photograph. Kudos, Associated Press. What range! What expression, played out across the faces of these honest Minnesotan folk. Monumental triumph, anticipation, earth-shattering restraint! All come crashing out of the great solution of human emotion, drawn down by the prospect of wheat futures.
However! While Bald, Portly Gentleman in Blue brings us a certain joy with his irrespressible personal optimism, Purple Shirt, Yellow Jacket (aka the guy from Ferris Bueller?) does well to exercise caution. Fear runs in rivulets, out there in the trading pits. Unprecedented volatility draws disbelief and worries of market collapse.
Keep an eye on this one.
From the Wall Street Journal:
The little-known Minneapolis Grain Exchange is suddenly one of the hottest spots in the global financial markets as the price of its flagship commodity -- the wheat used to make bread and pizza crust -- shatters records, enriching farmers and fueling fears about shortages.
What a photograph. Kudos, Associated Press. What range! What expression, played out across the faces of these honest Minnesotan folk. Monumental triumph, anticipation, earth-shattering restraint! All come crashing out of the great solution of human emotion, drawn down by the prospect of wheat futures.
However! While Bald, Portly Gentleman in Blue brings us a certain joy with his irrespressible personal optimism, Purple Shirt, Yellow Jacket (aka the guy from Ferris Bueller?) does well to exercise caution. Fear runs in rivulets, out there in the trading pits. Unprecedented volatility draws disbelief and worries of market collapse.
Keep an eye on this one.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Moonstone
LOST: Silver bracelet, set with moonstone jewel.
(If the title of this post got you all hopped up and ready for a riveting discussion of the 1868 Wilkie Collins novel of the same name, apologies. The book happens to be sitting on my desk. As soon as I do finish it, I'll write something up.)
This post is actually about a recent minor catastrophe. I lost my moonstone. Years ago, a Hindu astrologer, having channeled the dictates of various star charts and arcane numerological calculations of unassailable veracity, determined that I should wear a moonstone as my birthstone, and also that I should beware my coworkers, for they are untrustworthy.
Well you take the good with the bad, and there you have it. I have worn a moonstone on my wrist ever since, and in the back of my mind there ever lurks a dim mistrust of officemates.
One's birthstone is a thing of some importance in my family. It is the single object that belongs to one from birth, sort of a spiritual possession. I am particularly fond of moonstone in general: it's a cloudy sort of stone, and holds light in a calm sort of way; a soothing foil to the skittish brilliance of other cut stones. The bracelet I've been wearing every moment for the past 2.5 years was made for me in India--commissioned by my mother from a prominent Calcutta jeweler, its authenticity guaranteed by a threat of professional exposure by her daughter, the Harvard geologist (I loved this -- thanks Mom).
And I lost it. Lost it! Yesterday, between shopping for groceries and walking to the bank. So, for the past two days I have been (a) methodically retracing my every step from Saturday 1pm to 530pm, and (b) struggling to convince myself that my identity has not been lessened or lost, though the stone is beyond my sight.
In my anxiety for bracelet-recovery, I trudged up and down 53rd street, left phone numbers with every store I had entered, then drove to Target Store #3722 and wheeled my way through each and every aisle, scanning the floors for a glimmer or shine. I resigned myself; the bracelet is probably lost.
And yet this afternoon, I realized that I'd been fundamentally going about this the wrong way. Having realized that, I became free to go about this the right way. I have decided that my bracelet, being part of my identity, has been granted a traveling allowance. It is now free to roam, to see the world on my behalf. It may even see in the inside of a pawn shop -- a most interesting locale.
Having settled that, I should address the sole lingering worry. The lasting failure here, in losing this bracelet, revolves around plans I held for the distant future. A notion of posterity, of heirloom, of future's interest in past. I imagined this piece would be passed down in the family collection for at least two generations, and that someone would show my grandchildren the jewel that their grandmother wore at her wrist. Well, that's out. So:
Goodnight,
RP
(If the title of this post got you all hopped up and ready for a riveting discussion of the 1868 Wilkie Collins novel of the same name, apologies. The book happens to be sitting on my desk. As soon as I do finish it, I'll write something up.)
This post is actually about a recent minor catastrophe. I lost my moonstone. Years ago, a Hindu astrologer, having channeled the dictates of various star charts and arcane numerological calculations of unassailable veracity, determined that I should wear a moonstone as my birthstone, and also that I should beware my coworkers, for they are untrustworthy.
Well you take the good with the bad, and there you have it. I have worn a moonstone on my wrist ever since, and in the back of my mind there ever lurks a dim mistrust of officemates.
One's birthstone is a thing of some importance in my family. It is the single object that belongs to one from birth, sort of a spiritual possession. I am particularly fond of moonstone in general: it's a cloudy sort of stone, and holds light in a calm sort of way; a soothing foil to the skittish brilliance of other cut stones. The bracelet I've been wearing every moment for the past 2.5 years was made for me in India--commissioned by my mother from a prominent Calcutta jeweler, its authenticity guaranteed by a threat of professional exposure by her daughter, the Harvard geologist (I loved this -- thanks Mom).
And I lost it. Lost it! Yesterday, between shopping for groceries and walking to the bank. So, for the past two days I have been (a) methodically retracing my every step from Saturday 1pm to 530pm, and (b) struggling to convince myself that my identity has not been lessened or lost, though the stone is beyond my sight.
In my anxiety for bracelet-recovery, I trudged up and down 53rd street, left phone numbers with every store I had entered, then drove to Target Store #3722 and wheeled my way through each and every aisle, scanning the floors for a glimmer or shine. I resigned myself; the bracelet is probably lost.
And yet this afternoon, I realized that I'd been fundamentally going about this the wrong way. Having realized that, I became free to go about this the right way. I have decided that my bracelet, being part of my identity, has been granted a traveling allowance. It is now free to roam, to see the world on my behalf. It may even see in the inside of a pawn shop -- a most interesting locale.
Having settled that, I should address the sole lingering worry. The lasting failure here, in losing this bracelet, revolves around plans I held for the distant future. A notion of posterity, of heirloom, of future's interest in past. I imagined this piece would be passed down in the family collection for at least two generations, and that someone would show my grandchildren the jewel that their grandmother wore at her wrist. Well, that's out. So:
Dear grandchildren,There ends my converse with the future, for now. I have addressed all my major concerns in this affair, and therefore close the document with a heavy sigh, last tribute to lost treasure. From here on out, I look to the next moonstone (there will be a next), and I'll be sure to let you know when I get it.
The bracelet is made of sterling silver chain, with five or six rings and a hook at the ends; it is set with an oval-cut moonstone sized at about half an inch the long way. It was lost in Chicago in 2008. Go find it. Check the local pawn shops.
But I know you won't find it, because I didn't, and I looked all over the place. Ah well. Don't obsess, brush your teeth; eat oatmeal, it does wonders. And if you don't know what a moonstone is, look it up, for shame.
Goodnight,
RP
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
ieggedyourlexus.blogspot.com
On a sidenote, tonight in the grocery store parking lot I witnessed a display of self-centeredness so gross that I think it merits its own post. The driver of a Lexus RX300 presumed that the rest of the us, we world-weary parking-lot crutlins, would be in such awe of his vehicular majesty that we would move ourselves out of his way as he backed out of his parking spot.
As I was situated perpendicular to this Lexus with no one behind me, this involved putting my car into reverse, in order to avoid the impending slow-motion collision bred from arrogance and idiocy. I kept backing up, and he kept backing out. I gave, he took. And then, a honk. Another car had arrived behind me, a black one, with dim lights, moving forward. Three cars converging, and there I was, caught between one idiot with an ever-inflating head and another idiot, clinging stubbornly to normalcy in the face of frank self-importance and presumption. The latter idiot, though impractical, had it right: this was the way things ought to be. Cars going foward continue to go forward; out-backers, even Lexuses, wait.
This made me mad, mad enough to consider vengeance by egging. What would have happened, I wonder, if I had not caved under Mr. Lexus' pressure? Would he have rammed my car? He might have honked, loudly. He might have had an expensive gun in that fancy car, and might have shot me with an expensive bullet, and that would have been bad.
One thing I've noticed is that when faced with illogical behavior, the nice guy always loses. Historically, this is how idiots have gotten away with being idiots. The rest of us don't know how to react. We get flustered, baffled, confused; we acquiesce before we even think to challenge. At least I did tonight. But really, I don't exactly advocate sticking up for yourself, because you might get shot. Sometimes idiots are strangers, unstable and possibly dangerous. Instead I will content myself with taking a deep breath, swearing profusely, winding up my throwing arm and lobbing that imaginary chicken-egg at every arrogant dumbfucker in a Lexus who thinks to muscle his or her way into my path. The satisfaction will be finite, but you know what? Logic will be on my side.
As I was situated perpendicular to this Lexus with no one behind me, this involved putting my car into reverse, in order to avoid the impending slow-motion collision bred from arrogance and idiocy. I kept backing up, and he kept backing out. I gave, he took. And then, a honk. Another car had arrived behind me, a black one, with dim lights, moving forward. Three cars converging, and there I was, caught between one idiot with an ever-inflating head and another idiot, clinging stubbornly to normalcy in the face of frank self-importance and presumption. The latter idiot, though impractical, had it right: this was the way things ought to be. Cars going foward continue to go forward; out-backers, even Lexuses, wait.
This made me mad, mad enough to consider vengeance by egging. What would have happened, I wonder, if I had not caved under Mr. Lexus' pressure? Would he have rammed my car? He might have honked, loudly. He might have had an expensive gun in that fancy car, and might have shot me with an expensive bullet, and that would have been bad.
One thing I've noticed is that when faced with illogical behavior, the nice guy always loses. Historically, this is how idiots have gotten away with being idiots. The rest of us don't know how to react. We get flustered, baffled, confused; we acquiesce before we even think to challenge. At least I did tonight. But really, I don't exactly advocate sticking up for yourself, because you might get shot. Sometimes idiots are strangers, unstable and possibly dangerous. Instead I will content myself with taking a deep breath, swearing profusely, winding up my throwing arm and lobbing that imaginary chicken-egg at every arrogant dumbfucker in a Lexus who thinks to muscle his or her way into my path. The satisfaction will be finite, but you know what? Logic will be on my side.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Squeegees, a carwash, and the persistence of egg yolk on a finished surface
Redacted. --Ed.
Click here for full post or email me for access.
Many a week has passed since the events detailed above. Having shirked my update-related responsibilities long enough, I assembled a recap of the momentous de-egging of my Toyota Corolla. It follows.
Stage One: The BP Squeegee
Nothing brings out the color in your paint job like fluorescent lights and the murky glowing mystery of gas station squeegee fluid. On Monday morning, I drove my egg-streaked Scooter down route 55 to my job at Argonne Labs, a 30 minute drive at something like 70 mph. Upon exiting the vehicle, I saw that the yolk streaked along the top of my car had been whipped into a streamlined froth; there were egg-bubbles on my car, and they were leeeeeaning back. Enjoying the sunshine. Also, bits of eggshell were stuck on the paint, and these made me anxious. Something had to be done.
After work, I drove directly to a gas station. A two-stage attack had been planned: First, I would manually loosen the shell debris and solidified yolk streaks as well as was possible with a courtesy squeegee. Then, I would drive my buddy through the automatic carwash to remove whatever eggstuff that was left.
My coworker/superior, Thomas, assisted me with Stage One. Together we spent approximately ten minutes in the cold night air, slopping blue-green squeegee fluid onto my car under the bright fluorescent lights of the BP. I took a moment to admire the effect: as I mentioned before, nothing has ever brought out that deep bright blue like those glaring lights and mystery fluid did. However, we did little to nothing in the way of clearing the egg debris. Thomas insisted that a slow coaxing motion would loosen anything given time (such was his faith in the Squeegee), but as our fingers began to stiffen with cold, win or lose, it was time to move on.
Stage Two: Workin' at the Carwash (Yeah)
Never will anything, aside from the beatles' song itself, evoke the words "magical" and "mystery" as strongly as the BP automatic carwash did that night. The magic was all beeps and whirring; rocking, thumping, fwap-fwap-fwapping; wonder and joy resurfaced from my childhood memory-cistern and ran rampant as I stared, exclaimed, sat back, in awe of simple automation running in an everyday application. Then I recalled myself, and the mystery stepped in. The mystery was how all this whirring and fwapping and powerblowing was supposed to remove any eggshit from my car. I was intrigued, incredulous, and ultimately disappointed. The carwash did not help; if anything, it smeared yolk around and made my tires look like they had been doused with milk. Alas. But the ride itself was worth the $5.
Anyway, it's late. An account of my triumph over yolk and shell will follow soon, but not tonight. Slumber beckons.
*sorry, I love EM Forster, and also plagiarism.
Click here for full post or email me for access.
Many a week has passed since the events detailed above. Having shirked my update-related responsibilities long enough, I assembled a recap of the momentous de-egging of my Toyota Corolla. It follows.
Stage One: The BP Squeegee
Nothing brings out the color in your paint job like fluorescent lights and the murky glowing mystery of gas station squeegee fluid. On Monday morning, I drove my egg-streaked Scooter down route 55 to my job at Argonne Labs, a 30 minute drive at something like 70 mph. Upon exiting the vehicle, I saw that the yolk streaked along the top of my car had been whipped into a streamlined froth; there were egg-bubbles on my car, and they were leeeeeaning back. Enjoying the sunshine. Also, bits of eggshell were stuck on the paint, and these made me anxious. Something had to be done.
After work, I drove directly to a gas station. A two-stage attack had been planned: First, I would manually loosen the shell debris and solidified yolk streaks as well as was possible with a courtesy squeegee. Then, I would drive my buddy through the automatic carwash to remove whatever eggstuff that was left.
My coworker/superior, Thomas, assisted me with Stage One. Together we spent approximately ten minutes in the cold night air, slopping blue-green squeegee fluid onto my car under the bright fluorescent lights of the BP. I took a moment to admire the effect: as I mentioned before, nothing has ever brought out that deep bright blue like those glaring lights and mystery fluid did. However, we did little to nothing in the way of clearing the egg debris. Thomas insisted that a slow coaxing motion would loosen anything given time (such was his faith in the Squeegee), but as our fingers began to stiffen with cold, win or lose, it was time to move on.
Stage Two: Workin' at the Carwash (Yeah)
Never will anything, aside from the beatles' song itself, evoke the words "magical" and "mystery" as strongly as the BP automatic carwash did that night. The magic was all beeps and whirring; rocking, thumping, fwap-fwap-fwapping; wonder and joy resurfaced from my childhood memory-cistern and ran rampant as I stared, exclaimed, sat back, in awe of simple automation running in an everyday application. Then I recalled myself, and the mystery stepped in. The mystery was how all this whirring and fwapping and powerblowing was supposed to remove any eggshit from my car. I was intrigued, incredulous, and ultimately disappointed. The carwash did not help; if anything, it smeared yolk around and made my tires look like they had been doused with milk. Alas. But the ride itself was worth the $5.
Anyway, it's late. An account of my triumph over yolk and shell will follow soon, but not tonight. Slumber beckons.
*sorry, I love EM Forster, and also plagiarism.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Step 2: Talk about it.
It's never good to keep things bottled up. Having entertained suspicions that the car-egger was a young resident of my own apartment building, I decided to broach the general subject of car-egging with my building-mates. I would do this in the form of a note, posted in the entrance:
To bring us closer to the present tense, now that we are mired in tricky verb agreements: I have posted this note inside the entrance to the building. I have opened the dialogue. Now we can only wait. Now we are waiting. Now we will wait. Ooh.
Alright kids, rage all addressed for the night. Will update as soon as there are developments.
Dear All,If nothing else, it would entertain the innocent; if luck were on my side, it would provoke the culprit into repeating his mistake. In the latter case, I'd have a reason to speak with the suspect's guardian about eggs: how they should not be airborne, how they should not be airborne in the vicinity of my car. How he should discuss these guidelines with his charge. If it had no effect, at least I would have opened a dialogue.
It seems that a great monster chicken projectile-ovulated in our parking lot this weekend. Please be careful; chickens can be dangerous.
To bring us closer to the present tense, now that we are mired in tricky verb agreements: I have posted this note inside the entrance to the building. I have opened the dialogue. Now we can only wait. Now we are waiting. Now we will wait. Ooh.
Alright kids, rage all addressed for the night. Will update as soon as there are developments.
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