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July 26, 2004

:: more scary fashion ::

Although I am fairly certain that my words will not do justice to this man, I have been urged to post his description all the same. Last week, on my commute home, I found my hand fairly itching for my camera when I spotted the guy. Lurching haggardly down the aisle in my direction, he positioned himself roughly four feet away to wait for the doors to open at the next stop, so I got a good long look at him.

He must have been in his mid-50s - a tall black man with sort of a flattened version of Eddie Murphy's hair from the "Buckwheat Sings!" sketch, clutching a Dominick's bag in his left hand. He was wearing an enormously baggy green short sleeved Chicago t-shirt, denim shorts, black nylon knee socks pulled all the way up, and white-on-white adidas trainers. Too clean to be homeless, too grizzled to be sane, he was exactly the kind of character that, once I've spotted them, I normally find myself idly creating a biography for. But all I really wanted to know was what's in the bag, bub?

:: irony is dead ::

OK, not really. I did, however, have a sort of rare reality-check opportunity this morning. You know all those 80s-inspired, kinda cute, quasi-ironic clothing options we've got at our disposal now? The kind that are so frequently abused? Well, it may be all well and good for a hot 20something to throw on a Members Only jacket with his otherwise inoffensive ensemble, but lest we forget, once upon a time people were serious about that shit. And, as I was reminded just this morning, some people still are.

Walking across one of the three parking lots on my daily route between the train and my now-infamous office, I spotted a man exiting the building I was about to walk into. Even from a distance, he seemed different. Remarkable. As he drew nearer, the first thing I really registered was the hair: traditional kickstand mullet. Then the facial hair: traditional redneck/NASCAR moustache. Good lord. Remember Jeff Foxworthy? Like that, only worse. I looked closer: clearly, this was no hipster. Though he didn't look to be much over 35, he was undoubtely serious. The hair, the moustache, the skinny jeans and - yes, folks - the brown leather tab-collar Members Only jacket: he is the reality of the decade from which so much recent fashion inspiration has been drawn. Let this be a lesson to hipsters everywhere: before you put on those creeper shoes, think carefully: there is fun, and then there is reality. The reality is that the 80s were a decade of really horrifying fashion. Pieces here and there are all well and good and clever and fun, and i would be lying if i pretended never to succumb to my disco diva urges, but beware the draw of The Ensemble, lest you wind up at the club in orange parachute pants and Chuck Taylors. Go back and look at photos of real live people back in 1982. There but for the grace of Barney's go you.

July 20, 2004

:: fight or flight ::

My paranoia reflexes seem to have gone all funny. More and more, I notice people around me getting agitated about things that don't have any effect on me at all. I attribute this largely to my time spent travelling - there's nothing quite like realizing you're going to be putting yourself in harm's way more or less daily for several weeks at a time to force you to deal with your instinctive agitation. To wit:

Riding in an ancient bus through the mountains in northern Laos. The roads are hairpins worthy of the Swiss Autobahn, only not nearly as well kept. They're maybe wide enough for two subcompact cars to pass one another safely, but this bus takes up what looks to be 2/3 of it, from where I'm sitting. I haven't been able to charge my iPod for days (no power), so I'm reading whatever book I've picked up at the last guest house, alternating with long bouts of staring out the window. The scenery is breathtaking. In the distance I can see a huge limestone formation with no roads climbing it. I wonder what it's called.

Drivers in Laos communicate largely through the honking of horns, punctuated by occasional hurling of epithets, so honking isn't normally something to worry about. You get used to it - it gets so you don't even hear it anymore. But when it accelerates in pace as it's doing now, something in the back of my brain begins to register it again. I ignore it for a minute or so, then look over the seat in front of me, craning my neck to see out the front windshield ten rows away. I can't really make out what's happening, but it looks like there's an army truck headed toward us. I look back out of my window and see, about fifty yards down the fifty degree drop-off, another bus. There's no railing between the road and the drop. The bus is identical to the one I'm riding in, and it's clear that it flipped and rolled its way down there. It's rusted; it's been there a while. There are no seat belts. The truck is coming toward us. This is about the fifth time I've been in a situation where the odds were against my survival since I came to the country two weeks ago, and I just can't bring myself to worry about it anymore. I tune out the honking horn and go back to looking at the limestone cliffs. Somehow the army truck makes it past us. I guess the road is wider than I thought. I fall asleep.

So when I was in New York over the 4th - actually, this happened on the 4th - there was a fire at our hotel. We woke up around 10:30, after a long long day of shopping at Prada and a late night of martinis at Pravda (couldn't resist, sorry), to the sound of sirens. It's a city, we're pretty used to sirens, so we don't think much of it at first. But after about 20 minutes of sustained wailing that sounds like it's getting closer and then not farther away again, it occurs to me (even through my sleepy vodka haze) that hey, this might be something I should pay a little attention to. The view out our window affords us no insight. As we're trying to work out what we should do, the sirens in the hallway start up and a voice comes over the PA system:

Attention, attention, we are having a smoke situation in the sub-basement. You are not in any danger. All guests above the third floor, please stay in your rooms. I repeat, if you are above the third floor, please stay in your rooms. Do not evacuate.

Riiiight. Translation:

There is a fire in the basement. The fire department is here and they think they can contain the fire. If you all come stampeding down the stairs now, there will be major panic, besides which we risk you being injured by smoke inhalation since all the smoke's down here and the stairwells will get all backed up. So please, for the love of god, raid your minibars and go back to sleep, people.

I listen to this message, do the mental math, and decide to see if I can in fact sleep through the hallway sirens. It's been a long weekend already, and it's not even half over yet. My companion spent the next half hour pacing. I started to get annoyed with him, then thought: is it me? I mean, is there some sort of survival instinct here that's misfiring and eventually going to make me die a terrible tragic reckless death? We were all fine, everything was fine, and we were only a half hour late to lunch (this last largely because I'm an idiot and put us on the wrong train), but still - was this really a moment to be calm? Annoyed? Frightened? I have no idea.

Yesterday, riding on the El. We're between stops, we've just come up above ground and are between stations, 25 feet or whatever above the street, when we stop. A prerecorded voice on the PA system informs us:

May I have your attention please. This train is experiencing technical difficulties. Your conductor is off the train. Please remain in your seats.

This one doesn't really require a translation. Something's up with the train, or the track, or both, and it's bad enough that the driver had to get out and give it a look-see. At first, everyone's just annoyed. I'm reading my magazine. I've forgotten (again) to charge my iPod, so I can hear the frustrated moans and sighs of exasparation popping all around me. Eventually, the train begins to move again. Ten feet later, it stops. Longer, this time. Now people are starting to get a little freaked out. What's the matter with the train? Should we try to talk to the conductor? How are we going to exit if we have to? We're nowhere near a platform. No more announcements were forthcoming. Minutes later, the train started again. Then stopped. Then lumbered on another few yards, then stopped again. It continued like this all the way into the next stop. I was half-expecting to hear an announcement telling us we all should exit and find alternate transportation, but there was nothing. A number of people got off the train anyway. I stayed, with my magazine. Over the next two stops, we came to a halt at least five times. The reactions of my fellow passengers, which I observed with interest, ranged from mild annoyance to borderline panic. Me, I was just happy I had a couple of extra minutes to finish my article.

So, what? Is it me?

July 14, 2004

:: liberte, egalite, fraternite ::

Happy Bastille Day, everyone! I was trying to find something joyful (ok, I guess bloody would be more appropriate) and celebratory to pick out of the news, but was having a hard time finding anything that wasn't just plain alarming, so I was suitably overjoyed when, having lost a previous draft of this entry, I returned to Google News and found this. And furthermore, I'll exhort you to join in on Lance-watch 2004. It's a joyful thing and a French thing (or at least happening in France), so all the more a propos.

Speaking of M. Armstrong, we finally got around to seeing Dodgeball last night. What, you didn't realize he was in it? Well, you'd better get your ass to the cineplex pronto, bucko, before you miss it. I confess that I do have a soft spot for the exactly-over-the-top-enough comic stylings of Ben Stiller, but seriously: I haven't laughed this hard at a movie since South Park.

Nor did the comedy end when the final credits had rolled. Exiting the theatre, Lindsay and I discussed popping into the Wine Bar across the street, and whether we needed to validate our parking (which we didn't, as the exit gates were already up when we came in). We got on the down escalator. Halfway down, Lindsay piped up:

L: Hey, why are we going downstairs?
Me: Um, because that's where the doors are?
L: But the car's on the third floor [silent 'comma, dumbass']!
Me: Oh. Sorry. OK.

We reached the bottom, turned around and got on the escalator going back up. Halfway:

Me: Wait, it's because we're going to the Wine Bar!
L: Oh. Sorry. OK. But we can get the parking validated upstairs!
Me: [long stare clearly implying 'you are a dumbass'] The gate is up. We just had this conversation.

We reached the top, turned around and got back on the down escalator. The teenagers in the lobby were by this time shooting us some very odd looks, which was probably exacerbated by the fact that we couldn't stop laughing. To the point, in fact, that I had to sit down on the escalator to keep from... well, having an accident. I'm not proud, people. But it was damned funny.

July 7, 2004

:: office space, part 2 ::

Gracious, how could I have left that melancholy garbage up at the top for so long? I was busy enjoying myself in New York, that's how. Didn't even check my email one single time in five whole days. And stop sniggering - that's serious progress for a junkie.

New York, by the way, was fabulous, thanks. But more about that later - right now, it's high time I updated you, gentle readers, on the joys of my workspace. A few weeks back, I told you a little bit about the office in which I spend my days and some of the characters who inhabit it. But there's so much more wealth to share here that I can't bear not to share it. First off, here's one of my favorite conversations in recent history, from last week when I realized that the connection between our email server and the outside world was down:

Me: Hi, I'm having a little problem with my email.
Tech Support Chick: [stares at me expressionlessly]
Me: I think the connection between the server and the outside world might be down - I'm only able to receive email from people within the network.
TSC: Yes, that's a known issue.
Me: Um... do you know when this might be resolved? I'm waiting for some files that I need to meet my deadline.
TSC: No.
Me: OK, great. Thanks.

I did say it's a lot like Dilbert around here, didn't I?

There are a few more office characters as well. Props to MBrooks for coming up with good names when I was too braindead to do so...

The Lead Hummingbird - Lead as in the metal, not as in first among many. This woman obviously subscribes to the theorem that if your goal is to look busy and important, your best course of action is to never ever walk anywhere at a normal, relaxed pace. What you should do is, whenever you need to go somewhere (to make copies, send a fax, talk to your boss, kill some time, visit the toilet), walk as quickly and - this is important now, so pay attention - as loudly as possible. Make sure you have a worried, furrowed-brow expression on your face and stomp for all you're worth. This will not only make it look as though you have altogether too much to think about, but also show your deep and abiding concern for the well-being of your corporate mater. Periodically - but at least once every two days, and more frequently in the days immediately preceding or following any time off - you should actually sprint across the office to your destination. If you master these simple strategies, you won't even need to carry the usual props (piece of paper, pad and pan) - the sheer velocity of your presence will prove conclusively that you are indispensible to the organization.

This woman, last week, emerged from her boss' office (where she was presumably in a meeting about something or other) and ran full throttle past my desk around the corner. Two minutes later, she ran back in the opposite direction. In heels. She was carrying nothing either time. Phineas suggested she might have left her wastebasket on fire. A clever ruse - I never would have thought of that.

Los Dos Caballeros - These two manager-type guys have the market cornered on marketing-speak. They add value. They probe demographics. They create opportunities to communicate. They make meetings endlessly long, profoundly tedious and tearjerkingly annoying. It's impossible to look at a single wireframe with these two jokers in the room without having someone ask whether there's space provided for marketing, whether each and every possible cross-selling opportunity has been examined, debating not whether it's worth interrupting the customer for the seventeenth time to ask them if they want to buy something they've already refused, but whether the interruption should come in red or in blue. As with all good manager-type guys, as far as we are able to tell they do nothing at all except attend meetings, host meetings, talk to their underlings and go out to lunch, but we appreciate them for their appalling lack of knowledge of simple Chicago geography. To wit, a conversation from a few weeks back:

Caballero #1: [referring to some as-yet-unspecified downtown location. downtown is 30 minutes away by train.] Yeah, I gotta be there by 7. I gotta leave at 5 then, right?
Underling: Where are you going?
Caballero #1: The United Center.
Caballero #2: I don't know where that is.
Underling: What's the United Center?

These people work for United Airlines, for crying out loud.

It probably bears mentioning that one of Los Dos Caballeros is the Lead Hummingbird's manager. Coincidental or causal? You be the judge.

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