Ad Nauseam

Ecuadorians found to be the world's best at doing Ecuadorian things.

2011-02-03T16:34:00.000-06:00

Recent reports out of Quito, capital of a tiny South American country notable for being located on the equator, have concluded that, as a whole, Ecuadorian people are, generally, very talented at doing most things considered to be innately Ecuadorian. Reports show that while no one particular Ecuadorian is the best at doing any one single Ecuadorian thing, the country as a whole is generally the best at things like singing the Ecuadorian national anthem. "Among other things that Ecuadorian people are a little better at doing than anyone else in the world are making traditional Ecuadorian food, driving on Ecuadorian roads, and sleeping with Ecuadorian women, although they're losing ground on that last one to the Italians" Clemson Cultural Anthropologist and amateur photographer Stephen R. Peckham stated. He continued, however, by saying that, "they're not too good at much else, like moving their economy, playing soccer or at paying attention to the "Por favor, no molesten" sign on my hotel room door."

The Windy City Quartet at Mammoth Cave –Sold Out Show- Part 3

2011-01-12T09:59:00.003-06:00

The Grand Ave Tour had been an impressive few hours of sights, spectacles and sounds, but the closer we drew to the main event the emptier my stomach felt.

My three friends, Ben, Bocheng, and Mikey, and I were scheduled to perform an underground performance as a quartet in front of the 80 others in our tour group. The only reason this was considered underground by any measure was that we were, in fact, a couple of hundred feet under the ground in Mammoth Caves. The forthcoming show had all the elements of being a wondrous one. The setting was perfect, the audience was large and excited, the promoter, our tour guide, was setting the stage. The sole problem lay in the small fact that not one of the four of the performers knew how to sing a note.

As a result of that and the fact that no two of us knew the lyrics to the same song, we figured that the performance couldn't be pretty. Yet, we were continually reminded of how pretty it should be every 15 of the following minutes as the tour guide would promote the upcoming show.

"I know this part of the cave is difficult to climb, folks, but we have quite a surprise for you later in the tour," he winked in our direction. We didn't wink, we just cleared our throats.

Our discomfort was tangible. I could see it exude from the others and I'm positive they could see it from me. To describe the looming performance as fear-inducing would be to fall just short. We were ascending a giant roller coaster as we climbed up through the cave. Ahead lie what promised to be a steep and very fast drop.

Our fear of follow-through was only amplified by our tour guide's continual reminder of the upcoming surprise as to be the consolation or even the purpose of the lengthy battle against these miles of caverns. Never in my life, even when it was due to me, had my actions ever been promoted this frequently and enthusiastically. 'Why should it now?' I asked apostrophically.

"What did we get ourselves into?" Mike asked the rest of us, "Are we going to sing?" Each of us individually had great hesitation, but together, as a whole, we just couldn't decide NOT to do it. So, forward we went as the last hour of the journey melted into a prolonged amalgam of angst and impatience. Here we were in the most carefully carved cavern system with both backbone and epochs of persistence and we trembled with restless steps. Upon walking into the next room it was clear to see why; our feelings had been given measurable weight.

"Here we have what is called the New York Hippodrome" the tour guide bellowed to the lot of us, "This is one of the largest rooms in all the caverns. It is 250 feet in width, 300 feet in length and 85 feet high. The sound here is wonderful enough, with natural acoustics, that cave owner George Morrison would have opera performances in this room for visitors from the east coast. Thousands would come from afar to watch performances in this room by some of the greatest voices of the day. You, my guests, have the same delight."

He looked over toward us, "Are you gentlemen ready?"

To see the response of us and our audience follow this blog or catch up a couple of days when I post the last part of this steamy memoir.

The Windy city Quartet at Mammoth Cave -Sold Out Show- Part 2

2011-01-06T10:23:00.006-06:00

We descended Mammoth Caves with eighty others in the tour group and despite the presence of all the humanity it was an awesome sight. We were dwarfed by the massive creation 10 million years in the making. Together we learned of this lengthy history, the patience of its formation and the odd fact that there were, indeed, no actual mammoths roaming the depths of the cave.

The strange and various rock formations did yield a good tour and a number of interesting facts. It was when we arrived to a section of the cave noted for its acoustic sharpness that this story, itself, becomes as intriguing as the cave.

"Here," the young tour guide spoke in fitting drawl, "is a beautiful point in the cave which highlights wonderful acoustics. Does anyone care to sing and demonstrate?" Of all the people listening, not one dared to volunteer to sing in front of the rest. "Well, I'm not going to sing either. I sound like a hound dog," the tour guide spoke as we laughed.

Of course though none had volunteered to sing in front of the rest, no shortage of the group hesitated to sing aloud as they walked by this point. This included the four of us as we walked. Each of us stopped and sang a short diddy. I danced too, but acoustics couldn't help me there. We heard the echos ring.

"La La Laaaaa," Ben (I don't know if I can use the word) sang in baritone.

"Oh! Do you gentlemen sing?" the park ranger tailing the group asked us from the rear.

"Uhhhh...." Mike hesitated as I interjected,

"Yes. Yes, we're actually a barbershop quartet!" we laughed.

"Why, that's great news. Nice to meet you," she excitedly said, "I'll be sure to let the guide know on our next stop."

We undulated, all of us afloat upon this little bit of fiction. Wavering, but without words, we collectively decided to tread ahead and go with the flow.

At lunch we ate sandwiches that had been carted down in the only elevator shaft constructed in the the cave system. We were enjoying our ham and cheese when the tour guide approached us,"I've been told that you gentlemen are musicians?"

Because it couldn't be farther from the truth, I spoke up to correct him, "Well, we're just a quartet."

"Golly! And where are you from?" he inquired.

"We're from Chicago," Ben answered and from there we just let the guide do his job lead us ahead into a false story.

"And when you perform in Chicago, do you go by any name?"

"Yes, we're called the Windy City Quartet."

"It would be a great honor if we could have the Windy City Quartet perform for us in the caves, wouldn't it?" He asked.

Going with the flow? I thought. "Right, It would be our honor, we'd love to."

"Wonderful, I'll let you know when we're ready."

Again, Ben looked at Mike and Mike looked at me and I looked at Bocheng and Bocheng looked at Ben. Collectively we gulped, pulled our collar from our neck, shrugged, and moved on with the tour not knowing what to expect.

And neither do you know what to expect! Keep posted, or follow this blog to find what happens in part 3 of this mammoth tale.

The Windy City Quartet at Mammoth Cave –Sold Out Show- Part 1

2010-12-27T21:36:00.001-06:00

The four of us arrived at Mammoth Caves on a Friday. The air was chipper and the wind cut through our jackets. Though it was November, it was the beginning of the month, and something about heading in the direction of south gave us a deceptive sense of warmth. We hadn’t prepared for the late Kentucky autumn. Yet below ground, under our parked car, lay the longest cave system in the word where the temperature, regardless of time of day, season of the year or of the year itself was always a consistent 54°.

We reared to get below the damp and chilly ground and into the damp and chilly caverns. Ben, Mike, Bocheng and I had signed up for two different tours. We would save the lantern tour for the second day as we figured to begin our exploration of the National Park/World Heritage Site with a lengthy and general historical tour with a large tour group.

We pushed into one of the two buses that took us to a manmade entrance. Our tour guide, a young college student from nearby Bowling Green gave us a bit of information about the tour in a southern drawl.

“While we hope to have a light and cheery tour, I am obliged to remind you of the precautions we must take to ensure the safety, welfare and satisfaction of everyone else on the tour,” Bocheng looked at Michael and Michael looked at Ben and Ben looked at me and together we all smirked. “We’ve merged two tours together today, and due to the large size of our tour group, we have to be especially courteous to others and respectful to the cave. I hope you can manage this.”

We hoped so too. Stay tuned for part two of this tale where we find out if the four of us were able to manage courteously and respect.

It’s Christmastime in the City

2010-12-21T01:00:00.000-06:00

Once again we’re blessed with the warmth of friends and family to keep us kindled in, these, the coldest and darkest of days. I’ve returned for the evening from a great show played by my friends Treaty of Paris at the Double Door in Chicago. To be with close ones is to find comfort amid this uncomfortable season.

At times, Chicago slaps its residents with a wintery sting. Yet, there is a reason that they all remain. Nothing compares to this area’s streets full of festive decoration, Yuletide song, rosy reunion and cheery spirits. I’ve spent holidays around the globe; from China to France to Los Angeles to Spain and back. I very truly doubt that any place, despite its othertime beauty can ever compare to the Christmastime of Home.

Here’s to everyone I’ve seen and to those I’ve missed. Happy Holidays to you all and take great care in the coming weeks.

Ho Ho Ho!

I'm spent like a ... [insert witty simile here]

2010-08-22T07:28:00.000-05:00

Sitting in bed, exhausted from a tiring week, I spoke aloud to myself; "Well, I'm spent like a nickel at at a candy store." I don't know where this simile came from, I was perplexed. Did I just make that up?' I asked myself. So I got up and explored google. The following is a list of similes that I found regarding how spent someone is:

I'm spent. Like a coupon at a discount grocery store. On triple coupon days.

Without the vibe, I'm spent, like a light paycheck; like a rent past due…I’m just not there!

I'm spent like a roll of quarters at a laundromat where the machines are all really large magnets that suck the change out of your pockets

I’m spent, like a worn single taka bill- limp, deteriorating and torn from age.

I'm spent like a dollar in a dollar store.

I'm spent. Like a fiver thrust into a stripper's G-String.

I'm spent like a deflated balloon

I'm spent like a dollar at the fair.

I'm spent like a dirty dollar bill.

I'm spent like a Lincoln cent. (Hey, it rhymes!)

I'm spent like a SSI check on bingo night!

And I'm spent like a dollar. alright, good effort.

I'm spent like a used condom. (click link to read graphic description.)

I'm spent like a two dollar bill when I step out of my car onto the wet grass. (I don't know if the latter half about the grass is part of the simile, but I can imagine that stepping on to wet grass induces thoughts of spending all available two dollar bills.)

i'm spent like a dime right about now trying to get the last pan of chili heated for the hot dogs for the evening students (again, I'm not sure that the pan of chili bit is intended to be part of the simile, but I'd bet that a dime who is frantically preparing the chili dogs would be pretty spent!)

I'm spent like a heroine in a cheap romance novel

i'm spent like a mofo after a long night

I'm spent like a silver dollar, HOLLERRR!!

I'm spent like a coupon at a discount grocery store.

I'm spent like a 2 dollar whore

I'm spent like a 2 dollar bill in a titty bar

I particularly am interested in this poem, entitled "I'm Spent" by April L. Mahoney who writes;

I'm spent
"Like my favorite wool jacket rolled up into lint
Like a spouse acting like a pimp
Like that clown that can't take a hint
Butane lighter with no flint"

Did I Feed Cat?

2009-05-26T09:43:00.000-05:00

I received a what-I-thought-to-be SPAM email in my inbox this morning whose subject line read: Did you feed cat? from a concerned emailer, Scoh Gowj.

Dismissing it as irrelevant, I sent the message to my trash. However, the more I thought about it, the more I began to question whether or not I actually fed cat. I mean, I woke up this morning, as was tradition, to my alarm. I mechanically walked to the bathroom and, like any agent of monotony, I showered, brushed my teeth and clothed. But did I actually feed cat? I can't recall. Moving along my morning routine with the gears and sprockets of habit, I realized that I couldn't recall If I fed cat or not.

Well, obviously, I don't own a cat. That's sure as rain in May. But what if the only reason that I don't own a cat is because I did not feed said cat? I am haunted that this may be a probable scenario.

I can't help worrying; tormenting my mind over the doubt I have about feeding cat. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that I didn't feed cat. I am perturbed. I picture a sad cat out there who is horribly hungry. I picture this same cat forced into unhealthy environments and dangerous situations simply because of my recklessness and due to no fault of its own. Did I feed cat? I don't know, and I am scared!

My Hallway Adventure

2009-05-22T12:00:00.000-05:00

The tunnel that leads to the hallway under my building at work is currently under renovation. As a result, there are hanging wires from the ceiling and scrap metal along the floor.

As I was walking through the seemingly empty hallway, I pretended to be Indiana Jones circa the "Golden Idol" scene at the beginning of Raiders of the Lost Ark. I craftily navigated my way through the obstacles in the hallway. I scooted around items on the floor and swiftly ducked under hanging wires above. Just as I managed a nearly impossible maneuver of jumping over a two by four leaning up against the wall I noticed an entire classroom of employees training in our computer lab at the end of the hallway.

Yes, they all noticed me. It was at that moment that I completed my best feat... the narrow escape of embarrassment through a trick I learned from years of being so cavalier. I shrugged my shoulders, smiled, titled my head and ran up the stairs.

Phew! That was close...

Zed and Frank [Take Two]

2009-02-19T14:57:00.002-06:00

"Erudite is a word that that is only used by those who meet its definition," Zed said to Frank frankly.

"Ah, so you're trying to communicate that you're scholarly? What hubris!" Frank replied.

"No, I was only using the word as a noun not as an adjective."

"You have to qualify your previous statement? That hardly makes you seem witty."

"And now you're the one who's trying to sound ostentatious!"

"Another great example of a word used by only those whom meet its criterion," Frank said to pave the way to silence; "Thinking of what to say next?"

Actually Zed was busy considering if humans could utilize a numerical language under which they could express all thoughts and emotions; a method of communication similar to ordering off a Chinese menu. Because mathematics spans all languages and cultures, he felt it would be the most logical way to speak. A typical conversation, Zed thought, would go like:

Person A: "23,444?"

Person B: "19?"

Person A: "23,444?"

Person B: "Oh. 118."

Person A: "2."

[Then Person A would bring a bowl of Mongolian Beef to the table.]

Even the entire works of Shakespeare, Zed felt, could be numerically categorized, quantified and published:

'The Unabridged Collection of Works by William Shakespeare = 5,331,090,185,433,028'

Critics would rave:

"233,997,420! -The 827,222,291

"92,113. 348,942. -Steven Davis

"19? - Timmy Armstrong, 4 years old"

Using this language, even a room full of monkeys could compose the entire works of Shakespeare, of Chaucer, of Wordsworth, of the Shelleys...

"You know, if we would have called to see if the drugstore was open, we wouldn't have come," said Frank.

"19?"

"What does that mean?"

"What."

"What?"

"Exactly. Never mind. Why should we have called?"

"Because it's closed!" Zed looked up to see that the drugstore was indeed closed. The two had decided that a trip to there was something with which they could pass their time.

"Well, we've successfully managed to pass our time. I thought drugstores were supposed to be open 24 hours," Zed didn't care much, he was preoccupied mentally counting the number of people who had most likely sworn under their breath at him on his morning commute to work. The number, he calculated, was slightly less than the sum of people who had sworn above their breath. "I have to get to work early tomorrow anyway, let's go." Zed worked as an accountant. This is not a shocking bit of information to anyone who meets Zed. He lived with the calculated type of austerity that would evoke comparisons to Stoicism; however, more than that, Zed tried to live with practicality and insouciance. What does insouciance mean? Who the hell cares if you understand it or not? Zed doesn't care.

"I don't care," Frank said insouciantly, "whatever you say." Frank typically gave in because it was the easy thing to do. Zed started enough debates to make Frank realize that only a fool would ask for more. Although Zed considered him a basket case, Frank was anything but a fool. He had graduated near the top of his class from a first tier University and he was chosen to give an uplifting commencement speech that was widely regarded by attendees as: 'prosaic' and 'drab'.

"Blah," Zed said for seemingly no reason, "Let's go." And go they let.

Zed and Frank [Take One]

2009-02-18T12:34:00.005-06:00

"...and second of all, it's been thoroughly proven and widely understood that, collectively, humans are tremendously inefficient. The study, itself, that concluded this fact took six years and $2.4M to complete. There are more than 6,900 languages spoken or signed on the planet and the laws change whenever you take a step. It takes mail several days to reach its location and dolphins get caught in our shipping nets," Zed informed Frank.

The 2009th Gregorian calendar year after the beginning of the Common Era was 47 days old and depending on where someone was on the planet, the 48th day was a certain percent complete. Less specifically, it was a Tuesday. Zed hated Tuesdays.

"I love Tuesdays! Monday is now as far away as possible!" Frank said.

"You're an imbecile," Zed issued. It wasn't that Zed was a dark person, he just took on an opposing view on certain topics.

"It's not that I'm a dark person," Zed said, "it's just that I take an opposing viewpoint on certain topics."

"If by 'certain', you mean, 'all', then yes, I agree," said Frank.

There was nothing Frank and Zed could look at in similar ways. To Frank, the panoramic coastline and shore were of a picturesque, ethereal beauty that only God himself could have created. To Zed, the billions of granules of sand became billions of tiny threats against the comfort inside of his bathing suit. There were many adjectives to describe Zed, but Frank specifically liked to use the word cynical.

“I’m not a Cynic, I’m a scientific realist,” his response was as cliché as they came, well, it was more of a proverbial chestnut from the scientific realist's handbook than anything. He actually carried around a handbook. Truth was that Zed was more defined by the Stoic school of thought that of the Cynics and he was less of a scientific realist than simply a mere pessimist.

From Zed’s perspective, Frank was a nut job. That didn’t inhibit the growth of their friendship however, it became completely necessary to use the manure he spat out to fertilize the mind.

“It takes twice as many muscles to frown than it does to smile, were you aware of that? You should smile more often,” Frank enthusiastically told Zed.

“Actually, and the only reason I know this is because I specifically looked it up to prove you wrong, it only takes 11 relevant muscles to frown while it takes 12 to smile.” This was on page 12 of the 'Scientific Realist's Handbook'.

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it’s true. It’s a scientific fact.”

“It’s bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“Truth and bullshit are hardly mutually exclusive,” Frank concluded.

Zed smiled. He’d gladly move an extra muscle if it meant getting a rise from Frank. He was even sure that despite his incessant babbling and emotional broadsides, Frank enjoyed their arguments too. While there was little reason to their friendship, it was comfortable, and neither had to go out of their way too much to make it work. In truth, there needn’t really be any other foundation other than that they both liked cottage cheese. They each hated cottage cheese, but it would have been a great foundation upon which their friendship could have been built. Where it stood at this moment was somewhere upon a hard and uneven sidewalk outside a drugstore.

-----------------

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Melvin and Jenkins: see Mad Magazine.

Man arrested with rifle said he had delivery for Obama

2009-02-12T11:11:00.004-06:00

The following is a recent email string from my friends in response to this CNN story:

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- Police arrested a man near the U.S. Capitol on Tuesday after he drove up to one of the building's barricades with a rifle in his vehicle and told officers that he had a delivery for President Obama, a Senate spokesman said.

Sgt. Kimberly Schneider identified the man as Alfred Brock, 64, of Winnfield, Louisiana. She said Brock was charged with possession of an unregistered firearm and unregistered ammunition.

Brock drove up to the north barricade at the Capitol late Tuesday afternoon, saying he had a delivery for the president, Schneider said.

After further questioning, he admitted he had a rifle in his truck. He was arrested and taken to police headquarters for processing, she said.

A search of his truck turned up several rounds of ammunition, Schneider said. Police also checked the area around the barricade, but found nothing hazardous.

Threats against Obama have led to arrests in previous cases.

In one, federal prosecutors concluded that three people arrested with drugs and weapons in a suburban Denver, Colorado, motel posed a "true threat" to Obama during the Democratic National Convention.

In the second, a Florida man was charged with threatening bodily harm against the then-candidate in August. He has pleaded not guilty.

------------------------

Friend A:

Love the foresight that was going on here.

Guard: "Sir, you can't just drive in the Capitol."
Suspect: "No, it's ok. I have a delivery for the president."
Guard: "Really? What is it?"
Suspect: "Um...definitely not a rifle."
Guard: "Sir, step out of the car."
Suspect: "Did not see that coming."

Friend B:

maybe it was a chocolate rifle, it is valentines day weekend after all...

Friend C:

I’m still confused why they didn’t let him in…just because the rifle and ammo weren’t registered? Seems awfully harsh – especially given how important his delivery must have been if it was for the president. What if he was trying to deliver the stimulus bill? I’ll bet that’s what it was. Those guards probably just hurt our economy even more by delaying the stimulus release. Hopefully the damages get taken from their paychecks…
--------------------------

I love these guys,

Wolff

Salta Snowfall

2009-01-20T16:23:00.005-06:00

The following is a true story. It has not been hyperbolized or edited. In fact, it is taken WORD for WORD out of my hand-written journal mere days after the events occurred in January, 2004. This is the closest that I have ever come to death. This is a long story of my adventure over Abra Acay, but, in my humble opinion, definitely worth the read. My parents have only heard the abridged version of what happened, and with reason too, they would have pulled me home from Argentina if they only knew... at the risk of death by the hands of my mother, indulge.

------------------------------------
The day began later than we had expected, but earlier than our exhausted bodies could get out of bed. Our only goal wasnt to shower but rather to make it to a rent-a-car agency and try to begin a three day rental so we could explore the postcard shots of Salta and Jujuy at our own pace and exposure. Little were we to know what exposure we would have. Like any summer day in northwest Argentina, it was hot.

Think we should wear shoes? Ben asked, looking at our sandaled feet.

Yeah, youre right, I said, We just might have to walk a bit.

After calculating the prices, it was apparent that wed be saving money, while listening to music and being more comfortable at the same time in a rent-a-car. So, with no particular place to go, we headed towards the town center and by great luck found ourselves surrounded by rental car agencies with no less than three choices. Sudamerics and their friendly services struck Ben and within thirty minutes, we had ourselves a small silver Fiat, who we later called Arla. We filled Arla up and hit route 51 rolling, listening to music, with the windows down and basically just having a grandeur time.

I proclaimed; Im shocked that Fiat hasnt used the slogan, Just fiat that youll have an awesome time in a Fiat, meaning, hey look at the fun we were having, twisting around turns in a full tank of gas, its pretty much given that Arla will supply us with our fun. We smiled as we continued on. The first photo-op came when the pavement turned into a dirt road hugging the walls of a green mountain valley and Arla, at that point just our trusty Fiat, drove through a trickling stream. There, we took a picture of Ben behind the wheel rocking it in his Punta del Este t-shirt and Billabong board shorts. Clearly this road was everything a sunny day in California could throw at us.

Although as we traveled through the valley, the sun began to disappear behind the clouds, we were still supplied with awesome views of the, what seemed to be, painted canyon.

Zig zagging over the river Toro, the weather grew disappointingly cooler.

I followed along on the map both our route and our elevation. Arla had successfully managed to climb from 1,200 meter to 3,800 meters above sea level as we pulled into San Antonio de los Cobres, our destination.

It was roughly 3:30 and we hadnt eaten since the jamon crucido that morning. Ben drove around looking for somewhere to eat in this ghostly old mining town. If there was anyone else around, they were hidden from us. But that only seemed easy in this barren valley by the rows of identical homes constructed by the old mining company. Aged signs pointed us in the direction of El Rancho, a small corner building facing the dirt road we came in on above. It appeared closed as everything else, but out of starvation I knocked and a child popped out of the room in back and came to the door waiting for his mother to open it.

Are you serving food? Katie asked knowing from these valleys that it was all too possible that they werent.

Yes. Come in. They were excited to have guests and told us the two items on the verbal menu. Two of their six children, Milton and Ronaldo, thrived on our attention. They got tourists around every once in a while, but never American tourists. Where did we come from? Where were we going? We really should stay in San Antonio de los Cobres for the night; they could lodge us for much cheaper than the $3.50 we were paying for a night in Salta, it would be safer too. Were we going to the famous viaduct? Yes, we were. Wed enjoy it, and their food, they said. And after we were given the tour of their place, and the llama wool merchandise, the food came out. It was enjoyable; they had been true to their word, in more than one way. We ate our empanadas and our milanesa with salad, Katie did not have more than one e mpanada and coca tea because she had filled up on cookies. We humored their attention with digital photos and purchasing llama woven hats and scarves.

Sure, I thought Ill buy a stupid cap, theyre only five bucks. I grabbed one and would later stuff it into the glove compartment. As the flan was brought out Milton asked his father if he could show us the way to the viaduct and without hesitation his father conceded to his sons wishes and sent his two sons with complete strangers. With the two in the back seat with Katie, he headed towards the viaduct and laughed and talked about their isolation and otherwise enjoyed each others company.

An hour round trip ended as we drove through pools of water and mud and bragged about how much our friends back home would love the fact that we were roughing it and splashing in this fiat.

We returned Milton and Ronaldo safe and sound back to their home and we promised to send our photos to the address they gave us. It was growing late so we had to press on. Doubling back on our route into town is where the slowly growing climatic music would begin.

Go right here, right I told Ben to split off from our route home and to head towards the mountain pass that led to Cachi. We nearly missed the turn off because the road melted into the dirt fields on either side. Ben soon grew tired of swerving around the rocks in the middle of the road and asked to switch drivers. I volunteered seeing as how I wanted to have my third manual driving experience in the altiplanos of northwest Argentina. With the clouds growing darker and the road ahead growing higher I thought for the final time to myself to ask if this were a good idea or not. After taking photos of the sheep on the side of the road running towards their adobe pueblo I decided that it was a good idea, what better way was there to experience the valleys of Salta.

You do know how to change a flat tire, right? Ben asked me.

Ummm no. I laughed and shifted the car into gear and headed right for the grey hills. At first, a little scared of the poor conditions and the steep drop off without a railing, I took it slowly. Honking around every turn, its safe, I thought, but out loud I stated, Whats the point? We havent seen another car on this road. We probably wont even run across another either.

I took a sharp right and swerved from a rock. We entered the pass which was filled with empty wine bottles. I guess this was the place to get drunk, it was also the point in the melodramatic plot that the camera would scan out from the winding car and with the menacing clouds pushing down on the hill and the screen would grow dark. I stalled the car shifting gears down, and I got stuck in a rut. Ben took the wheel again and rolled back down and then back up the hill we went.

Hey, take some pictures of the snow, Ben said as Katie leaned forward to get a picture of the accumulating flurries ahead through the windshield.

Damn its cold, I said, and the snow only got stronger.

Yeah, and great, all we need is inclimate weather now, Ben sarcastically replied and we wound further up the road. It was when we couldnt see the mountains surrounding us that we were supposed to have the most amazing view crossing Abra Acay, the highest pass in the area* at just under 5,000 meters.

Arla pulled to the side of the road and we jumped out into the snow to take pictures to remember the cold and the height, shivering in our t-shirts and Katies sandals we didnt realize that we wouldnt need any help remembering these two elements later.

We were 45 km from San Antonio de los Cobres, 45 km from the next town, La Poma, where hopefully we would eat, and we were 5 km up in the sky.

As quickly as we could, we jumped into the car from outside, turned up the heat and began our decent. As Ben drove through the snow that now covered the entire road, he said, Good thing we switched drivers.

Yeah, I thought to myself or else wed probably now be stranded in the rain down before the pass. It became where we couldnt see the turns ahead, Damn wed better go down quickly, back to where we can see the road. I wanted Ben to hurry, but I wanted Ben to slow down too.

Around one downward angle we turned in the blizzard and Arla slid along the snow. Dave Matthews was singing to us from our speakers and I leaned forward trying to get some heat from the vents, and then we hit it. It wasnt a large rock, but the thump was felt as the back right side of Arla lifted, the car stalled and Ben slammed on his break around the sharp U turn ahead. We coasted and he stopped. Three times he attempted to restart Arla, three times she told him no. It was silent, really silent. A wind blew the dropping snow against our car, Katie began to freak out and then I followed along after the car wouldnt move again. It was not possible to believe this. We didnt know what happened, the engine was not dead as the wipers were still working, but they remained the only sound as we just stared ahead into white, and then down at Arla, mouths open, wondering what she did to us.

No way. No way! Ben said and we got out of the dead car. Alright, lets push it and try to start up the engine. Katie, in her sandals, was on one side of the car and I was on the other. A blue fluid leaked onto the snow. The engine made the worst sound we could hear at this point: nothing

I think its leaking gas, Katie screamed while looking at brown spots on the snow and as the car stopped on the side of the road.

No way Ben and I said in unison, looking at the snow, still in complete awe. I dont know much about cars. In fact, I know pretty much only that you need a key to start it, but I was sure that we were not leaking fuel. The snow collected on my hair and we stared at Arlas misdeed, none of us with a clue of what to do. Realizing there must be something useful in the trunk we opened it and pulled out a bag of items. It was getting way too cold and we jumped into the car. That is when I saw the flat tire. The tire wasnt just flat, it was squished, squished like or fates. This upsetting information made wiping the snow from our heads and feet in the car more enjoyable, we shivered and began to look through our goodie bag.

In times like these I recall its just as important to remain calm and optimistic and that I did. Inside, I was as scared as a little white boy in a t-shirt caught in a blizzard a marathon away from civilization and angry at myself for being completely naive, but outside I tried to remain as cool as it was outside of the car.

How much water do we have? was Bens first question making us realize we might actually have a larger problem than we had expected.

We all have a little Katie said and suddenly I felt embarrassed that I ate the last of the cookies, we had no food, and I saw the empty bag down by my numb feet. It was 7:25pm and the already darkened clouds grew opaque. Whilst contemplating aloud what to do, I took the first step by putting together the reflecting triangles. So that any car from either direction could see them we placed them on top of the car and in the middle of the road. But good luck, our best chance was to wait for someone to drive by and to take us to whatever the next town was. I remained very optimistic, but the truth remained, no one would be as stupid as us and drive up into a blizzard as the sun was setting. It stayed unsaid but we were all expecting very little. It was fear that kept us utterly silent and the harsh cold that had kept us from not moving. Katie suggested that we all move to the back seat and keep warm. After Ben tried to start the car one more time, we hopelessly relented and moved to the back and huddled. That hardly kept us warm. To remind myself of my llama hat in the glove compartment at that point would have been to be too smart. We shivered. We prayed. As I looked down at my watch I realized the first hour had passed quickly, and dark, but the rest would go by real slow. I promised myself to not look at my watch until morning.

While there was still just a little bit of light, Ben and Katie read aloud the latest psalms Ben had been reading, 9-16. This gave me a relief in a way it shouldnt have. Reading the Bible did not strike me with warmth of Gods salvation, the frigid air was still there leaking through the windows we cracked down to breathe. No, reading the Bible told me that God was with other people at that moment. But I realized that there were indeed others around the world that night in far worse positions than me. There were those who had to deal with this starvation every night, there were those who might be throwing up as Ben was, not because of extreme mountain sickness, but because their diseases were fatal and there were others in the world praying to God at that same moment we were. I prayed for them that night, I wanted God to be somewhere else, for others sakes

When I found my hat, it gave me a little chance for a smile. But with Ben having trouble breathing from the elevation and Katie taking my socks for her feet, there was little else to smile about.

How you doing, Ben? Katie asked.

He replied with both a blunt and pointed, Not good at all.

Neither am I, said Katie followed by a; Chris?

Im fine, I said and I rolled my cap over my eyes and tried to fall asleep. But it was way too hard, heavy breathing, snow falling and disappearing light led my mind in a hundred and six different directions. What are we going to do tomorrow? What are we going to do tonight? Are no cars passing? When will the snow stop? What if it doesnt stop? Should we go back where we came from? Should we head to a city weve never seen? Why cant I feel my lower back? And we all were thinking, how did we get so stupid? I wondered if Ben needed medical attention, if Katie needed to go to the bathroom in only socks. Of course we couldnt rest and as long as our eyes remained open we could see the snow piling up; maybe it was time to pray to God for myself.

Although we slept on and off, no one could sleep for more than minutes at a time, if we werent huddled it was too cold, if we huddled we were in such uncomfortable positions. But we didnt care, elbows jabbing each other, chins pressed on backs, body parts going numb, faces in bosoms, none of us had brushed our teeth.

My head throbbed with pain. If I wanted to breathe, I had to roll down the window. We all went through the same crazy and continuous dreams that night, they were the kinds that although interrupted, continued and felt so real even when you woke up. Ben kept seeing and hearing cars pass, Katie bought a coke from some guy and then realized that she forgot to ask him to help us out. Apparently for me there was a village down the road and they were real nice people, they didnt have a phone but they did have a tire shop. So we had that going for us.

The sun rose at 7:15, almost a full half day later, and it peaked out from some clouds. The good news was that it had stopped snowing during the night, I dont know if I dreamed that or if I saw it during the night, but the skies had cleared and we could see outside. Unfortunately there were no tire tracks along side of out car, only body liquids. There was about to be more as I had held myself in since the previous afternoon. The closest town was about 27 miles away I kept reminding myself, we were in shorts and there was snow outside and inside. Do we wait it out and risk no one coming by? No, I could not let that happen, we could not stay another night, with no food and only snow for water, it could not be, and then wed have to make the same decision the next day, only weaker. Unfortunately, Ben was too sick to move, let alone do a 9 hour walk. I dont even know if I would be fit to do that in top shape. And then what happens?

Our car is in the mountain, its 6pm and were in a town we know nothing about? We were a 5 hour drive from Salta and the car dealership. Needless to say we sat around for a bit to think it out. At 8am, we braved it out and went outside to change the tire.

Forget how cold it was, we were weak. Ben couldnt unscrew the bolts so we just kicked the hubcap off, then we finally got the tire off, it had a gash the size of a half dollar. There was no way to repair it. But when we finally got the spare on and tried the engine, it didnt work, again. So again we sat, helpless and afraid.

Instead of walking down 45 km we decided to put the car in neutral and roll it as far as we could.

That worked for about one fourth of a kilometer, and then we stopped. It was beautiful around us; I guess we could have picked an uglier place to get stranded. Huge glistening mountains reflected from the suns morning glows, rolling white fields and vicunas eating in a herd.

At least from pushing the car we warmed up a bit. Ben decided to collect snow in his nalgene for water and I did too. Then, with enough strength we managed to get the car up the slope and get it rolling. After a kilometer we were out of the snow, what out luck, we could have been there the night before. Arla rolled another four kilometer before we finally reached an uphill battle we couldnt win.

Although we had managed to push Arla into warmer weather and through streams and over rocks, we had to call it quits still forty kilometers from La Poma. We stopped outside of the adobe pueblo from my dream. They didnt have a phone, a car or even a horse for that matter and unfortunately they didnt have a tire repair shop either. With Arla dead on the side of the road all we could do was walk. So, towards La Poma we went. We didnt get yet two kilometers and I saw others!

There walking down the road, although I didnt know it at the time was a miracle, divine intervention, Ben's father's prayer for the safety of his son earlier that morning coming to life. Walking along the road were two tourists from Spain and seven locals walking down the road, clearing rocks, their vehicles parked behind them. We stopped to talk and found out that the Spaniards had taken the same route we had the previous night and had had to sleep farther down, because of the rain, there were rivers that couldnt be crossed. They recommended us to turn around. No way. No way! Not up hill I thought, not up another 1,000meters. Not only is that three sears towers but its an added 2 hour walk. But, when they said something of coming with them, my ears perked. The lo cals had room in their trunk. We jumped at the idea. I was incredibly grateful and walked ahead and helped move rocks. We hopped into their truck until we got back to our own car. They wanted to look and see what was wrong.

The car wouldnt start for them. They looked at the engine with confused looks. I heard one say, This is different, and they fiddled with.

One looked under the car and said that indeed we had bumped something; he wanted a closer look, so all the guys lifted the car onto two rocks and our local pal slid underneath on a tarp and pulled out the tools. While he was working diligently we sat and watched and talked. Minutes later he yanked off a broken cover and said we broke the fuel filter and had indeed been leaking fuel.

We had lost the hose and the tank was no longer connected. Just great, we wondered how much this would cost us. He continued to work, pulled out a few more things, put some others in, and sent his coworker up to the pueblo to get something. He frowned his face once or twice went to back of his truck, got masking tape and unbelievably to everyone pulled out a hard plastic straw, cut it and taped it to something under the car. We all cracked up, but when he told Ben to turn on the car and on the second try it started, we werent laughing anymore. In complete shock we hoped the car back off the rocks and although we only had about a quarter tank or less left we coasted back to San Antonio de los Cobres.

We drove past where we had stayed the night, it was bright and most of the snow had melted. We worked our little engine that could up to the top of the pass where we found out that the empty wine bottles wer e to pledge the mother earth to guarantee a safe journey, for Pancha Mamas protection. It was ironic that we passed right by them on our way up and made sure to double our pleas on the way down.

After gas and dinner in town we head towards Salta by way of the original route with the Spaniard couple following us back to make sure nothing went wrong.

We got in at about six at night, thanked the couple, bought soccer tickets, trashed the broken parts from our car and returned to our hostel where they didnt know we were gone. The whole way home we cussed Arla out, saying how much she sucked but not saying it loud enough for her to hear and crap out again. We didnt play music, we didnt speed, we just went home and as Ben and I pulled into the rent-a-car lot, a day early because we had enough of renting cars, I proclaimed; Just fiat youll have a shitty time in a Fiat. We paid $195 pesos for a new tire, cap and realignment. We didnt tell them about the tape and the straw and wire holding together the bottom of their car. But we did eat at McDonalds that night.
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Maybe we could sled down the hill.- Katie in absolute sincerity.

I brought my dad home a stuffed armadillo from Ecuador because for some reason I thought my dad like armadillos. But he doesnt.- Katie.
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*Abra Acay, I would later find out, is the HIGHEST PASS IN THE WORLD. At over 5,000 meters high, it is the world's highest point over a National Route.

Bad Weather?

2009-01-15T09:29:00.004-06:00

If anyone in Chicagoland is complaining about the weather, Lord knows I am, realize that you could be in North Dakota where it is currently -44º F , the coldest it's been there in fifty years (and to to make it worse... it's also still North Dakota in North Dakota!).

If anyone in North Dakota is complaining about the weather... realize that you could be in Perth, WA, Australia, where temperatures are a rather uncomfortable 96º F.

I also like to look at our temperature under a lens of relativity. Because everything is relative -think- 'Hey, we're enjoying toasty 252° Kelvin!'

Now, if this type or reasoning doesn't work, just humo(u)r yourself in picturing my dilemma this last weekend: I went to try to start my car on Saturday evening, when I realized it wouldn't budge from its spot. Apparently, the snow from the above tree had melted and frozen around my car's tires creating a 6 cubic foot block of ice under my car (3'x4'x6"). The lack of friction on my tires made my wheels spin, my frustration grow and my evening's plans crumble. To get my car out of the spot finally required the help of my business school friend, Bocheng, a random Canadian man off the street, two shovels, a hammer, a baseball bat, a flathead screw driver and ninety minutes of hard labor.

Well, at least I'm not in North Dakota.

Cholera in Zimbabwe

2009-01-13T14:15:00.005-06:00

A current Cholera pandemic sweeps through Zimbabwe and, in the shadow of the impressive and prodigious media attention placed on the violence in Gaza, Russian gas blockage and Bernard Madoff's bail, the grave crisis remains largely unnoticed by the rest of the world.

For your own awareness, here's a quick update.

As of 29 December 2008, a total of 30,938 suspected cases and 1,551 deaths (WSJ claims 1,937 deaths) had been reported to the World Health Organization (WHO). The vast majority of the infections have occurred only since October, 2008. The numbers are only worsening: statistics from Monday, January 12 show that 1,472 new cases and 117 new deaths from Cholera were added to the totals in one day, alone.

According to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention,

Cholera is an acute, diarrheal illness caused by infection of the intestine with the bacterium Vibrio cholerae. The infection is often mild or without symptoms, but sometimes it can be severe. Approximately one in 20 infected persons has severe disease characterized by profuse watery diarrhea, vomiting, and leg cramps. In these persons, rapid loss of body fluids leads to dehydration and shock. Without treatment, death can occur within hours.

In short, Cholera is not fun. Aside from the increasing amount of deaths in Zimbabwe, one of the most saddening things is that this disease can be easily prevented. There has not been a large outbreak of Cholera in the United States, for example, since 1911. The prevention of the disease solely requires proper sanitation and water treatment. Once contracted, the disease can be treated, too. The CDC claims,

"Cholera can be simply and successfully treated by immediate replacement of the fluid and salts lost through diarrhea. ...With prompt rehydration, fewer than 1% of cholera patients die. "

The numbers coming out of Zimbabwe are sickening. Too many people are suffering and dying, and too few are acting on this crisis. Barack Obama must follow through on his promises to assist in mobilizing international pressure for a just government in Zimbabwe, to provide sustainable debt relief, and to strengthen the African Growth and Opportunity Act** to increase private investment in African nations. In the meantime, help your citizens Mugabe.

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** Yes, I know the AGOA has its own problems, but it's a start.

One Needs No Hyphens To Boogie

2009-01-12T11:59:00.003-06:00

This month, I will set my sails upon course to solve an enigmatic mystery that has endlessly perplexed many. I will engage in a thorough examination of the phrase: "One needs no hyphens to boogie". The origins and etymology of this common yet occult phrase are widely unknown. In fact, it has been theorized that the phrase, today, is spoken and understood antithetically of what it used to mean thousands of years ago. The questions surrounding this popular phrase are many; the answers are sparse. I will toil hard to try and sort out some of the fact from the fiction. I will engage in a careful and complex examination of the aura surrounding this very intriguing maxim. Hopefully, we will find and answer without losing any of our phrase's romanticism.*

Breaking it down:

My first step was to examine the most important words in this aphorism. Hyphens are written English conventions to connect or separate compound words, names and syllables. The origin of the word "hyphen" comes from the late Latin word: Huphen, defining the sign added to compound words. Yet, it was not used in the English language until the turn of the 17th century when it was used for the purpose of describing the placement of two words together. From the etymological analysis we can infer that our phrase manifested itself only after that because there was no antecedent to the word. Furthermore, "Hyphen" originally indicated how two or more words were to be sung together as one. Could this help unlock our phrase's meaning? For better answers I turned to examine the word "Boogie".

Boogie, as a verb, means to dance energetically, especially to rock music. This type of movement, or dance, originated from the 1920's style of rhythmic flow. It was similar to the free flowing movements of the Charleston dance, however, with fewer leg kicks. We can see that our phrase, (or at the very least, the evolved form) came into being in the 20th century. In its archaic form (WWI era), "boogie" may have been easily antedated with "foxtrot". However, there are no documented publications that claim that the foxtrot requires no hyphens. Even before the Great World War, colloquial spoken forms of our phrase may have used "cavort" in place of boogie, but again, there is no documentation of its use. Finally, theories that claim "cut a rug" was used interchangeably with "boogie" have been proven false by the innate truth that hyphens are indeed necessary to cut rugs.

Experimentation:

Because the etymological research did not yield very concrete answers to our questions, I took to experimentation. I chose "One requires hyphens to boogie" as my null hypothesis and "One requires no hyphens to boogie" as my alternative hypothesis. Yet, I faced a giant problem. I had my hypothesis test all set up. I had gone to the fabric and supplies store and purchased all essential tools for my research. I had beakers, test tubes, baking soda, food coloring, papier-mâché**, buttons of various size and color, a box half-full of brown, green and yellow crayons, I even had gotten permission from my mother to use the stove-top lighter I found in the kitchen drawer. Yet, with all this preparation, I still faced a looming woe. Palm to forehead, upset with myself, I sighed in realization that I HAD NO HYPHENS. To prove my null hypothesis incorrect, I was scientifically required to have truckload of hyphens. So I went to work. For days, using the drawing paper and scissors, crayons and lighter, wax paper and cups and cups of coffee I created an epic pile of hyphens. To be absolutely sure of my scientific methods, the only corners I cut we those of the hyphens themselves.

Now I had all the hyphens I needed, but I had no idea how to use them. I decided to ask Jeeves. During my search, I was shocked to find two horrors. 1. Jeeves is no longer available to answer my questions (I hope he was able to retire early to a seaside hammock where he wouldn't have to answer another question in his life***) and 2. There is no information on the use of hyphens in dance; only in grammar. Pushing my woes of horror 1 aside to another day when I had less on my plate, I contemplated horror #2. I supposed that I would have to put all my hyphens to good use. I pinched my nose, clenched my teeth, shut my eyes, and jumped into the proverbial fire ahead. For the next sixteen hours I tried every possible use of hyphenation I could think of. I danced upon hyphens taped to the ground. I wore hyphens on my clothes. I even consumed hyphens while boogieing. Moreover, I played music which had hyphens in its title, in its lyrics, in its harmony. I boogied upon hyphens, within hyphens, around hyphens, about hyphens; I tried hyphens with every single preposition available. I shouted hyphenated words aloud whilst boogieing. That seemed to help my boogieing the most, but by no means did any of my experiments seem to prove that hyphens were essential to boogieing. After test and trial, I finally concluded that my alternative hypothesis was true. One requires no hyphens to boogie. In hindsight, I should have simply tested the alternative hypothesis first. All I had to do was to turn on some Avril Lavigne and boogie. Because I tested my null hypothesis first, I broke a small box of beakers, spilled some vinegar and accidentally ate seven crayons. Eh.

Philosophical approach:

Finally believing that our phrase, in every form of its literal sense, was true, I decided that the final step was to philosophically examine its deeper meaning. "What could it mean?", I asked myself while straining my eyes for deeper reflection in the mirror, "what does it mean to be able to boogie without need for hyphen?" I knew that the answers would not come easily. Do hyphens complicate or simplify dance? Do individual freedoms require nothing more than the individual herself? Do songs without hyphens make for more exciting dance? Could it simply be that if one takes days to craft countless hyphens that the fun is taken out of the following dance? Did someone learn this in the 1920's and give his knowledge as a helpful hint to a friend? I had initially thought that this phrase meant that swift hip and knee movements were constricted by hyphens. But now, after hours of experimentation, the phrase meant so much more to me, but I wasn't sure exactly how to qualify the feeling.

In the end I realized the true meaning of the phrase was exactly the antithesis of what I had had done. One needs no hyphens to boogie means that it is completely unnecessary to examine, exhaust over and exact answer from things of this nature. We are able to move independently of the supposed rules and restrictions that govern. In fact, the only laws that govern aren't the ones that Jeeves will help us with or ones that beakers and Bunsen burners will yield, no, the restrictions placed upon us are merely those of our own accord and imagination. We must move with our greatest flexibility, with our greatest creativity to find our own answers.

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* Or mine.
** Papier-mâché requires hyphen.
*** Other than, "Would you like a lime with that, sir?"

Don't worry about what's missing, enjoy what's present.

2009-01-06T11:13:00.001-06:00

Loss very often propagates regret or remorse. We fail to truly notice the impact of something until it is gone. Then we sulk in its absence. Yes, we recollect and we reminisce, but we can not fill the entire void with these memories. Something remains incomplete. No matter how hard is tried, we cannot revive that which is missing. Sometimes people will vehemently cry; "Oh! If I could have just one more day with...". This is in attempt to quench some thirst for penitence or rather to simply enjoy old comforts. Sometimes all that is needed is the opportunity to say a final word or two someone who is gone, say something, and really mean it.

I write today, not having lost anything. In fact, I have gained something. To recognize the importance and magnitude of one's own gifts while truly appreciating them before they're gone is to assign them even more value. Take for example extrinsic possessions: I own a car which breaks down before I have appreciated the comforts it provided me. I am quite literally stuck without it. Forced to rely on others, walk more or begrudgingly take public transportation, I can now better assess my car's actual value. Now, take for example intrinsic possessions: I lose my sight, I delete the information on my hard drive, I lose a loved one. Aren't these things seemingly much more valuable to me now that they're gone? Seemingly, yes. But they are much more useful when they are present. This is exactly why I feel the need to make this point. To all things present we must show appreciation. We must take advantage of the abilities to have at least 'one more day with' things from that we must eventually part.

Each day provides us with a finite number of moments, and each moment can be utilized or squandered. It will assign life more virtue to cherish it's true value consistently.

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*note: I wrote this a while back, and humorously stumbled upon it just hours after I was forced to tow my car away for a new starter. I smiled.

The Troubadour's Bane

2009-01-05T17:00:00.002-06:00

Leo the Provençal Troubadour took great pride in his lyrical ballads.

Leo's village, Les Baux, took great pride in his lyrical ballads.

Minstrels around and jongleurs abound would imitate his style and plagiarize his words. In fact, there wasn't a line of nobility in Provence that hadn't folded under the sonorous beauty of Leo the Troubadour's notes. Once, Danish King Valdemar had commissioned a poem from Leo for his glorious Queen. To Leo, there was nothing more venerable than the high art of his compositions. To Les Baux, nothing was more august than the airy music that floated through its streets. His music gave life to the quiet village, and Leo affirmed that his quiet village gave life to all of his music. By all measures, Leo the Troubadour was a paragon.

Then, the Lyte Funky Ones came into town. Called "LFO" by the youth in the village, this new band posed giant threat to Leo the Troubadour's success. Aided by their hit song, "Summer Girls", Medieval LFO gained increasing popularity throughout the region. Enthusiasts in southern Occitania could simply not get enough of their newfound objets d'amour. These fans, 'bon vivants', began to request LFO mix tapes from minstrels in the area. They danced to LFO songs at their estampidas. Leo was outraged at the speed and slope of LFO's ascension and his own declension in the townsfolk's favor and upon the Les Baux charts.

With the heavy weight of LFO's success on his shoulders, Leo the Troubadour went back to his proverbial drawing board to write a gab. Leo toiled for months in recluse to find the perfect words to challenge LFO and to reclaim his deserved success. The challenge fueled his writing.

Meanwhile, LFO rewrote the history books with catchy and inspiring lyrics like:

Cherry pez, coke, crush rock, stud boogie
Used to hate school, so I had to play hookie
Always been hip to the b-boy style
Known to act wild and make a girl smile

And smile the girls did. Countless smiles could be seen on any street on which Medieval LFO played. LFO relished in the spotlight shone by their flawlessly crafted songs and lyrics. Because of all the fame and commissions, members of the band would commonly tell fans that their names were: Rich. Despite being so... Rich... public favor turned momentarily against the band when they collectively stole one young vassal's honey like they stole her bike.

Leo the Troubadour took advantage of this bad press. It was soon after the stolen honey incident that he released his new ballad entitled "The vexatious countenance of LFO behind the comely mask". Critics immediately reproached the single for reasons "including but not limited to: It's long title".

Leo skulked out of the Les Baux spotlight, as he famously put it; "to rue for rue's sake." Little did he know that that line, if written into a poem, would have quickly brought him fame again. Instead, he set to write an enueg about his fans. While later considered a technical masterpiece, the album, "I hate my votaries", bombed forthwith. Leo the Troubadour stated shortly thereafter; "Mine own votaries hath bequest me to fall, whereupon I shall fall; and, as such, with great weight." All commissioners dropped his services and Leo the Provençal Troubador was forced to live from the dirt.

LFO went on to write a tepid song entitled, "Girl on TV." Their follow up performance was lackluster at best due to the fact that no one really understood what a TV was. No one heard from Leo the Troubadour or from the Lyte Funky Ones again.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 6 of 3

2008-12-08T13:16:00.017-06:00

The Argentine bus that I rode had come to a sudden and complete stop, but my sojourn had not. No, I was sure that there were still surprises to come. I strained my neck to look to the front of the bus. Ahead lay fire and a group of men creating a roadblock. Pirates! Well, the men blocking the road weren't as much as pirates as they were radical political activists. But I'll continue to address them as pirates to add to the dramatic elements of my story.

The pirates boarded our bus and I slid my camera under the seat in front of me: "Attention, ladies and gentlemen, we represent Seu Andseu running for office here in Tucuman Provence."

'Wait', I thought, 'why on God's great big ball of mass were we still in Tucuman?' That was still ten hours from Buenos Aires.

"We demand a donation from every passenger to support his campaign," the men began walking down the aisle collecting coins from all the passengers. This was nuts! I was a little excited because I had never been held for ransom by pirates before. Now I can't say that. (Not only because of this bus ride, but also because of my weekend in Somaliland. (Which, of extreme importance to note, is NOT a family-friendly theme park but rather an autonomous region of Somalia with a literal ton of pirates*)) . On the bus, I wasn't nearly as fearful as I was satisfied that, again, more turmoil was added to my journey.

It appeared that God's plan lay right before me in the wrinkled countenance and bad breath of a Tucumani Pirate. I reached into my wallet, 'Oh crap!', I realized, "I don't have any money"[insert the incarnation of a frown-face emoticon here].

Enrique handed them another peso. "No," demanded a pirate who was scowling at me, "what have you got?"

"An empty wallet?" I tried to escape my quandary with humor. No, he didn't like that answer. Damn pirates never laugh at jokes about money, politics or Rabbis I would later find out.

"Fear?" I tried again. No, no empathy towards my situation. The tension rose like mercury on Mercury. In a sly movement, I shifted my seat and kicked my camera further hidden under the seat affront. I searched for anything else to give them. How about an action figure? No, he knew that it was dead. Notes from a friend back home? No, I left those behind. I wish I had brought my chest of golden medallions. I always seemed to forget that when I needed it the most (see: Somaliland mistake).

Finally, providently weighing consequences, I chose not to play with fire. I mean, these were pirates that I was interacting with, and I am no ninja. I unfortunately had to resort to my inference skills rather than my Ninjatō or Shuriken skills. This was a real shame because I can think of no better situation for the use of a ninja star. Notwithstanding this dilemma, I descried** from across the aisle that one of the most brute of pirates was not wearing socks with his alpargatas. A pirate without socks? What gives? Boat decks can get rather damp and slimy, especially to the wavefaring marauder. After an instant's pause, I looked up, shrugged and then carefully rose my foot to offer an unspoken barter: my socks for the toll.

A head nod closed the deal, and Seu Andseu's campaign had a new pair of white Reebok ankle-length gym socks that had been embrowned by the Altiplano dust. I had my life, a ten hour trip ahead of me, slight hunger and the newfound opportunity for athlete's foot. But this was the worst that it could get, right?

[[Right??? Come right back for part 7 of this emotional 3-part Argentine odyssey.]]
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*After a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome, I joined my captors in a rather short lived game of "Biggest Somali Pirate Loser" where we measured our collective weight to be exactly 2,002lbs.

**Do not attempt to use the word "descry" in a pickup line at a bar (or in a pickup line at a whale-watching conference***).

***Do not attempt pick up girls at whale-watching conferences (do not attempt to pick up the whales either, it usually takes a crew and a crane. Mere quixotism and the 'I can!' attitude will not suffice).

Things that are good about the CTA

2008-12-08T09:38:00.000-06:00

Bob Loblaw's Law Blog:

2008-12-02T15:38:00.003-06:00

This entry really isn't a law blog. I just chose to adopt a catchy title to lure in potential ~~victims~~ readers.

I did not post a single entry in the month of November. I feel that I have let all two of my readers down. Example of this failure:

My Chinese friend, Bocheng, having just arrived from the Fuijan Provence of China, was uncorrupted by American influence, and therefore a perfect opportunity for me to exploit. He came to the United States without a single bookmarked page on his brand new laptop computer's internet browser. I honed in upon his blank digital canvass and strategically deceived him into placing a link to my blog in his bookmarks toolbar. I was excited to see that someone, anyone, had saved a link to my blog. Now, a month later, the bookmark is gone. Perchance Bocheng has found new information to keep accessibly located at the top of his screen and ran out of room, or perchance Bocheng realized that I'm a joke (no matter how many times I tried to convince him that my normalcy was lost in the translation).

So, now, here I am committing to myself, (and not as any form of seductive enticement to potential readers), that I will write more consistently and more often.

Bocheng, bookmark me again.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 5 of 3

2008-10-27T12:26:00.000-05:00

Given the precedent set by the previous events on this tour, my rest was better than I could have expected. I was only awoken a few times through the course of the night, and the person behind me was gracious enough to let the little hand hit the six before he started to shout.

"I'm dying. I'm dying. I'm dying," he pierced the general hum of the moving road with his shrieks, "I'm dying!"

My heart jumped up and so did I to turn behind my headrest. There sat a five-year-old boy banging two plastic men together.

"I'm dying. I'm dying," it was kind of cute, I thought. There were other verbs he could be using while banging the men together.

"I'm dying," he gave me a huge toothless grin while his mother, after years of practice, remained quietly asleep aside him.

"I'm dying. I'm dying, " he continued, dissipating all lingering forms of cuteness in his play.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." What a wonderful narrative surmise of my trip, I thought, and it's getting really annoying.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." How long does it take your plastic man to die? I turned around again and chided him.

"Shut up," I said. But this time his mother was awake and she gave me a look that could be read word for word as follows:

"My kid? Shut up? Listen, punk, you shut up! Ha! The guy who made the whole bus stop last night because he couldn't hold it in is telling my kid to shut up? Turn your honky-ass around!"

Well, maybe her look didn't scream that last part, but it was effective enough to make me turn and bear disgrace.

"I'm dying. I'm dying." We spoke in unison, "I'm dying."

Unable to return back to a semi-peaceful state, I stared out the window to watch the sunrise. Ah, yes! When one wakes before the sun rises, he can make the most of his day. He is blessed with opportunity. A sunrise provides both literal and figurative enlightenment. The entrance of the sun allows me to push yesterday's woes behind me and to bask in today's chance to make anew. Yes, the sunrise brightens spirits and fills each day with a spectrum of....wait! Why was the sun rising out of my window on the right of the bus? Even being in the southern hemisphere couldn't explain this anomaly.

"Take 'er really easy, Chris. You don't know what's going on." I thought. But that was the problem, I didn't know what was going on anymore. The best solution at this moment was to sigh and accept. This was a cursed trip from the outset. The realization should have made it more manageable, but it didn't. I stared out the window, I had nothing with which I could pass the time we were heading backwards except for my journal. (At this instant, I'd like to point out that my notebook was more of a Magellanesque tale of adventure than a pre-teenage girl's diary. Well, who am I kidding?)

"Dear Diary," I wrote. "I can't wait to finally get back to my room where I can rest peacefully and dream of all my crushes, omg!" I continued with seemingly endless similes for what my heart felt like. I think I was writing about the way Danny looked at me during third period when a sudden interruption shook my pen. The bus had slowed as a result of the sudden friction applied to it's wheels by the break pads, in other words: the driver slammed on the brakes when we came to an unexpected (yet unsurprising) obstacle in the road. What was surprising, however, was what happened next.

[[You'll unfortunately have to wait a short time for the shock and awe that follows this lingering suspense/angst. Part six of this three-part odyssey will be presented soonafter we complete contract negotiations with a certain Hollywood A-List celebrity who may be playing the role of the Bus Driver. We've already signed Danny DeVito on as the five-year-old boy in the forthcoming crag-laden movie.]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 4 of 3

2008-10-03T12:50:00.006-05:00

Alone we sat in the darkest of the Altiplano steppes. My need for use of a bathroom had caused my entire bus to stop where there was nothing but an expansive lack of restrooms. The driver's frustration-fueled forceful stop was sure to have awoken those easily awoken by frustration-fueled forceful stops. The parallel structure of this moment was that while my entire bus was isolated from civilization, I was the lone maverick who was isolated from them. There I stood on the steps of the bus, a solitary bohemian*, segregated by my fellow Passenger, ready to take charge, unaccompanied, peering into the think black yonder. **

I slowly stepped from the bus, which as dark as it was outside, remained even darker on the inside. I was wise enough to know that this caused a problem of physics. I wouldn't be able to see in, but all who were on the window could easily see definition of figures out. I didn't care. Because even though there wasn't a shrub large enough for the Knights who say Ni!, I really, really had to go to the bathroom. So I took in a large breath, gathered myself and ran alongside of the bus. It was hopeless to try to run out of sight, so I analyzed that my best option was to hover as closely to the side of the bus as possible.

Well, I didn't have much time to think so I simply acted. And, picture it if you must, there I sat exposed to my greatest fears. I sure put the "Bare Ass" into embarrassing. But I was relieved! (Pun intended).

Then, like a brick face to the wall, the realization hit that, in my haste, I hadn't prepared myself with paper. I started to grow concerned and began to frantically search around me. Nothing. I patted myself down to find to my elation and/or discomfort that, in my pants' pockets remained the letters from my friend back home.

"Well," I settled the idea in my mind, "If there's ever been justification for this... now is the time." With a great sense of guilt amalgamated with my excessive embarrassment and half-nudity, a large and grotesque allegorical monster crawled inside my chest. My stomach felt better, but my heart rate was askew. Externalizing my palpitation, I jumped up, left my letters for the Alpaca, covered up the hole I dug and boarded the bus.***

Refreshed, yet head hung, I skulked back to my seat. If I had a tail, it would have been hiding between my legs. Enrique showed my a picture he took of me outside and then the bus stopped five miles later at a rest stop for gas and snacks. From what I heard, the toilets were nice...

[[Please stay tuned for part 5 of this knuckle-whitening, teeth-clenching, throat-gagging 3-part series of my adventures through the Argentine desert. Don't touch that dial, I'll be right back.]]

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*Note: I'm not Bohemian with a capital B, but rather a bohemian, with a lower case b. I'm American, duh.
**Wow, there are a lot of commas in that sentence.
***I wanted to ensure concerned readers that I did, indeed, dig a hole despite my stress. Also, in my first draft, I had written, "covered my hole", which really didn't sound how I intended it to.

Stupid Bamboo Hugger

2008-09-30T17:20:00.006-05:00

The following is a Craigslist Apartment Ad that I found in my search for available rooms in Chicago. My response to the ad is below in purple.
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$700 **** Apt. to Share for Female Prof. or Grad. w/Foreign Policy Exp ****

Political junkie seeks female professional or grad student with more foreign policy experience than Sarah Palin to share condo (summer internship in Spain, safari in Africa, scuba diving in France, or vacation in Italy will suffice). No wildlife killers or environmental novices will be considered. Respondents with lip-sticked pit bulls will not be considered. Ideal condo-mate will have registered to vote and be progressive in pursuing change we can believe in. War heroines will be considered, but Bush apologists and rationalizers will not.
New Furnished 3 BR, 2 BA Condo. A/C; DW; Washer & Dryer in Unit; Disposal. Queen Bed, 4 drawer chest, and small TV in BR. Exterior and interior quality finishes. Three bedrooms two baths. Cherry cabinets and cherry and bamboo hardwood floors thru-out! Private balconies. Gas Fireplace. Plenty of street parking. Nice, safe neighborhood. Public transportation and grocery shopping within 1 block; 5 minutes to Blue Line. 20 minutes by car to O'Hare. Near Kennedy Expressway. 3 Blocks from Northeastern Illinois University.
Rent includes utilities. Must like small, energetic dog and be available to care for him infrequently. Responsible, fun, upbeat, reliable, mature, and adaptable to a wry sense of humor would be ideal to share unit with professional, responsible male exec. Please respond with your lifestyle description, profession, contact information, and foreign policy resume. Immediate availability. Small non-barking dogs (under 20 lbs.) o.k.
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My Reponse:

Dear Sir,

I am writing to inquire about the availability of your politically adorned room. However, I write with hesitations. Because of my traumatic experiences in Argentina I am rather fragile and refuse to spend another night with any more junkies. If you can assure me that your political habits can be suppressed when I am at my weakest, (i.e. when I see a photo or drawing of, or real-life Tapir) I will be a little more assuaged.

Having spent an entire year in South America and having taken the opportunity to travel extensively throughout Europe, Asia and Eurasia, I feel that I have more foreign policy than Sarah Palin. In fact, when I traveled to Alaska, I found that most Inuits are confused with Eskimos and that most Eskimos are confused with beavers. This allowed me to realize the xenophobia and stereotyping behaviour of most Alaskans. I feel that Alaskans, overwhelmingly, are alcoholic. So I try my best to stay away from them.

Moreover, I can assure you that I am neither wildlife killer nor environmental novice. I am a friend to all animals (with the lone exception: that damned Tapir). My environmental experience includes but is not limited to: three years as a lawn service employee for H&R Lawn Care. References furnished upon request.

I hope that it is okay that my cousin's neighbor's step-father has a poodle with eye-liner. I do not condone the application of makeup to dogs. Cats though, well, I'd have to gauge the situation and/or brand of makeup. Of course I would never apply makeup to, toss about, or eat your small, energetic dog. If I haven't already mentioned it, I LOVE DOGS! Gee, though, I hope your dog's name is Samuel or Hubert. In my opinion, these are two of the best possible names for canines. I will be able to work with most other names, regardless of the amount of syllables. Just warn me ahead of time if the name rhymes with 'Taupe'. It's better I prepare for that.

You should be excited to hear that I have registered to vote! In fact, I would have made it out to cast my ballot in the last election had it not been for that lousy weather, those lengthy lines or my incredible apathy! I suppose that if I did vote I would have voted against George Bush by striking through that circle next to his name with an emphatic check mark. While I am a friend to animals, I am an enema to George Bush! What a doofus! Are we sure that he's not from Alaska? Or East Timor for that matter?

Honestly, I could care less what the apartment looks like, although, I am pumped to see that you have bamboo hardwood floors throughout. Did you know that Bamboo can grow 30-40 feet per day? Of course you do! It's incredible growth rate makes it a perfectly environmentally friendly choice for all flooring! This is why I chose to line the inside of my Ford F-250 with seaweed because it grows at even quicker rates.

I see that you have two bathrooms, but I have this thing, you know, after my year in South America, where I can't go to the bathroom without someone else in there. Would it be cool to ask to share a bathroom?

Thanks for taking the time to read through my email, you sound like a professional, responsible male exec.

I hope this can work out! Uh, also, being male, I bring along something that no female can bring. That is, a penis. I don't want to go into great length about it, I'll save all those stories for when we share the bathroom together, but after my tapir experience...well, it'll make sense when I show you.

Man, if you can drop that price down from $700 to around $400/month, then we'd really be talking.

Really looking forward to chillaxing, eating sushi and talking about the AIDS pandemic ravaging Sub-Saharan Africa,

Chris

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Note: I am still awaiting reply and will post his reply as soon as it is received.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 3 of 3

2008-09-25T20:02:00.004-05:00

Because even highbrow humour needs a poop joke every once in a while:

As the night grew increasingly longer I became more entrenched in my hopelessness. I was stuck on an overnight bus journey from Jujuy, Argentina back to Buenos Aires. All would have been grand had it not been for the fact that nothing was grand. The first three hours of the trip had become excruciating. If my bowels could speak, they'd echo in angst; "SHIT!"

Enrique, my seatmate, wouldn't shut up, couldn't shut up. He was so jacked on maté that he couldn't sit still. Meanwhile, hands clenched to the armrests, I sat near vertically, at an angle of even less than 90 degrees with my insides writhing. The light above flickered at a rate mere fractions of seconds off consistent. This was just enough to further drive me berserk. The cosmos were surely playing an evil trick on me.

The chances that I would last like this much longer weren't slim to none. No, they were none. I thought it best to count, to take my mind off of every single little thing around me. It had gotten to the point where I felt that even the fabric on my seat was too rough on my skin and that I thought I could smell my feet; or someone's feet. Every sensation I experienced turned painful, and the counting did no good. It became a systematic countdown towards my breaking point.

Sixty-six, sixty-seven...Enrique was yapping.
One-oh-eight, one-oh-nine...I was sweating.
One-forty-two, one-forty-three...the lights were flickering.
Crap! What number was I on?...The bus was rocking.
One-twenty-two, one-twenty-three...I was sure that the driver has gone tangent on a goat-path.
One-ninety-nine, two-hundred....

I jumped up amid Enrique's rant about Whatever, I said no words and I RAN down to the driver below.

Now, it's rare that I'll ever ask someone to bend to my wishes. I am a firm believer in the utilitarian approach to moving commerce. A long line of cars should not wait for one person disobeying a crossing-signal to stroll lazily across the intersection, and certainly a bus-full of content passengers shouldn't be forced to pull off into a small town so that one guilty American can use the bathroom. (Although functions of utilitarianism would have ensured that the bus's toilet worked). It is, however, also true that I am of the firmest belief in some sort of consequentialism. This choice, to stop, would be much better for all on the bus than if I hadn't the opportunity. I promise.

"Excuse me, sir," I hesitantly gained the driver's attention, "I need to use the bathroom."

"We'll be stopping shortly," he retorted.

"Uh... we need to stop very soon, shortly won't suffice." ( I don't know how I managed to get this all across in Spanish). We then began to stare each other down. I really wished he would watch the road, but I also needed him to understand the gravity of my situation. One would assume that my gravity was the standard 9.8 m/s², however, the weight of all the burdens on my back pushed me towards the floor*. Hunched over, I engaged the driver in a very monumental staring contest, and I was so intent on winning that I didn't move to wipe the sweat dripping from my brow. We both stared as if it would never end. Then, from either my determination or the driver's necessity to return his attention back to the road, I emerged victor! I contently turned around after his nod and headed back to my seat when I suddenly flew backward. The bus came to a screeching halt.

"Here." the driver said concisely.

"Here?" I asked. I looked outside. The moonlit night shone only upon an empty field for as far as I could see. There were no lights, no signs of civilization and, sure as death, no toilets.

"Here?" I asked again. Maybe I wasn't victorious, after all.

[[Please hang tight for part four of this engaging three part series! This is certainly not the end.]]
-----------------------
*Note: Yes, I am fully aware of the differences between force and gravitational pull. This device used purely literarily.

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 2 of 3

2008-09-24T08:55:00.004-05:00

"Hey, Dude," my seatmate spoke to me in Spanish, "you want some yerba maté?" I was told that it was not just impolite, but that, in fact, it was rather rude to refuse an offered share of Argentina's most potently caffeinated tea. Yerba maté has a similar caffeine content to the coffee bean, and its drank directly though the leaves, filtered through a straw in a hollowed out gourd. Resultingly, I was faced with a handful of problems:

I has just been abruptly awoken and I was NOT happy
The second to last thing I needed was caffeine through potent tea on the first hour of my overnight, uncomfortable-bus-seat-burdened voyage, and
The very last thing I needed was to burn the unspoken rapport between me and my bus-buddy that had already allowed me to claim over 2/3 of the shared arm rest

Also, I suppose that the ultimate-last thing I needed at this point was to have the bus stormed by pirates, but that was the least of my worries considering all my other woes. I didn't need the next 17 hours and 25 minutes to be spent in a constant battle for claim over the bordering land. It was at this point that I came up with a final decision, a decision which I had never used theretofore. I chose to pretend that I didn't speak Spanish.

"What?" I said in English. He motioned toward his tea. "Very nice." I said and turned to look out the window. He tapped my shoulder. Dammit, he was persistent.

"Querés?" He asked.

I needed to be persistent, too; "No sir, I would not like to caress your gourd," I mumbled in case anyone around us did speak English. He shoved the straw in my face. I surrender! This was to be a painfully long journey if I continued to surrender that easily, but I was clearly fighting a strategic war-master. I took gourd and a sip. My stomach grumbled. The dulce de leche desert from earlier had already not been sitting perfectly. I sighed.

"Great, thanks." I said to Eisenhower and handed it back. I found out that his name was less-fittingly Enrique, and we continued to engage in general discourse. I slowly began to turn my one word, curt, Spanish responses into lengthy Spanish monologues as the caffeine kicked in. My cover was blown. Enrique refilled his gourd with thermos and I refilled my vigor. We drank, talked and shared. Funny was when Enrique asked me some rather uncomfortable questions about American girls. Not funny was how much more uncomfortable my stomach felt than trying to answer his questions.

I had to excuse myself, "Pardon me, I'm going to go find the bathroom."

"It's not working."

Hoping he was talking about our newfound friendship I asked, "What's not working?"

Enrique neither assuaged my fears when he replied, "The bathroom," nor when he informed me that "we'll be stopping in only a couple hours for gas." I buried my head in hands and sighed again. Okay, I thought, I'll take a break, lean back and hopefully dream about a porcelain land with hills of toilet paper and rivers of hand soap. I pushed against my chair. It didn't move. I pushed harder. It didn't move harder.

"I'm glad you're here, friend, welcome to South America," Enrique said as he handed me some more maté.

[[Part three to follow. The horses, all the beautiful horses... hold on to them]]

A Slippery Slope in Crag-laden Northwest Argentina pt. 1 of 3

2008-09-22T13:49:00.004-05:00

Traveling through Northwest Argentina had hitherto been enjoyable and relaxing. The clean and welcoming cities of the Salta and Jujuy provinces brought few feelings of insecurity. Yes, shockingly, the cities on the Argentine Altiplano were kempt. Overcome by a waitress’s congeniality I spent my last pesos on a recommended dulce de leche dessert and on a gracious tip. With empty pockets and a full stomach I quickly searched through town to find an accessible ATM before I boarded my bus back to Buenos Aires, but my labors ended fruitlessly and I raced back to the terminal to load my bag and squeeze into my seat just in time to begin the 26 hour haul back to the capital. Of course, at that particular moment, I was only expecting an 18 hour trip.

I sifted through my bag. My camera’s battery had died the night before but I pulled out my notebook to jot down memories from the past day. I was sure as lief to forget had I not taken the time to write down my experiences. It was customary and very easy for me to supplement writing with photography as each picture was worth, as the saying goes, at least sixty-five words.

My hand got tired as it often would. I had written about just the breakfast I ate the day before and I gave up. To pass the time before light ran out, I pulled out a few letters from my friend back home in Chicago. They served to remind me both of the luxuries I had left in the United States and of the reasons I wanted so badly to escape the country for a year. Overall, the letters, as I best recall, were humorous and helpful to pass the time on an uncomfortable South American bus commencing its overnight journey. I’d take this discomfort, though, anytime over the monotony of the Chicago Suburbs. This was new and exciting. In my haste boarding the bus I had forgotten to grab any CDs from my suitcase which was now secured under the cabin. We wouldn’t be stopping until morning, so I was without entertainment for the night. Thankfully, I am completely diurnal during long travel. As soon as the sun set, I expected to fall asleep. I rested my head on the window where I watched the diver-sun, slow-dived from noon, meld into the horizon creating a splash of golden light.*

My consciousness swept away with the daylight. There was to be no need for CDs or camera batteries where I was going, and darkness paved way to slumber. Ah, yes, sleep! I can write about its beauty incessantly. Sleep is the brilliant state where all possibilities became probabilities. Only, unfortunately for me, the probability of being awoken was near certainty. My lucid dreams were startled back into lurid visions of the man sitting next to me.

[[Parts 2 and 3 to follow.]]
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*Note: Thank you Herman Melville.

I'm In Love with a Pig (Video)

2008-09-22T09:21:00.001-05:00

Let's try to get this video up on the video viral charts... Handed to my roommates at a house party by our next-door neighbor. He says he's getting into the comedy scene. This is too good for anyone to miss:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abtSrFavwCA

Andare a Giocare a Bowling

2008-09-19T09:22:00.004-05:00

It was Christmas day in Sorrento, Italy. The weather was chilly, but nothing else sans a lone and somber Christmas tree, which seemed to depress the lobby of our hotel rather than enlighten it, reminded us of the holiday back home. We had each other, my immediate family, but we had nothing to do. The day had closed all stores and had brought each Sorrentine to his or her relative's home; the streets were abandoned. After a quiet brunch in the hotel, we gathered ourselves outside to stroll about the empty streets of this bayside town. The wind blew sharply, giving our cheeks a rosy hue, and garbage and cats seemed to move with it along the streets. Ahead shined the sole lit sign in the entire town, and it pulled us near.

"Nice! A bowling alley," Jacob shouted and pulled me and my parents in. We had enjoyed great games of bowling around the globe. I recall at this moment a strobe-lit game amplified by harsh techo music in Germany. The conditions at the German alley acted as steroids to our final scores. The Germans were impressed with our family bowling skills, and we were certain that the elderly employee and the rest of the empty Surrentum Alley would be equally impressed.

The skills came naturally and we were making the pins fall as the ornaments fell off the hotel's tree when brushed against. I bowled a few gutter balls, a few spares and a few strikes. Jacob bowled as well, or well enough to invite glances over from four young Italian men who had just walked in. Being so empty, the sounds of our strikes bellowed through the alley. Jacob and I and our father began to joke around and we bowled through each other's legs, changed the other's name on the above screen to anagrams like G.A.Y., A.S.S. or other highbrow words like P.O.O. We were able to edit each other's scores using the "correct score" feature available on the control panel as well.

Soon later, as our hands got tired and we had successfully wasted enough of our Italian Christmas, we packed up our shoes to leave. Just as we walked away, one of the Italian men, we'll call him Antonio, saw our tampered scores above. I had changed mine to near-perfect 299, giving myself a 9 on the last frame while Jacob gave himself a 300. Antonio shrieked aloud; "Trecento! Trecento!" He blindly reached for his friends behind him to gather their attention and they all stared in awe at our perfect scores. Before we knew anything, all four men gleamed and excitedly applauded us. They searched for English words. Mario found a few; "Tree-hundred! Superior! Tree-hundred!" They beckoned and continued in celebration.

Uncertain and little embarrassed, our family hesitantly smirked, waved off their applause and exited quickly as rock stars eschewed fans aside tour buses. Once outdoors, we broke into echoing laughter and bolted back to the safety of the hotel. "I think they has a pen out so as to try and get autographs." Jake said. A good-humored, rootin- tootin', knee-slapping fun time followed until the next day when walking past a newly full capacity Sorrento bowling alley we peaked inside to see, to our greatest excitement and/or fear, that taped to the wall behind the shoe counter was a printed computer paper sign that read:

Alto Punteggio (Top Scores):

D.U.M.: 300 - 25/12/02
A.S.S.: 299 - 25/12/02

Uh...CTA bus story

2008-08-15T16:45:00.001-05:00

I am forced to take public transportation in my morning commute. It's never a pleasant journey. Today a Canadian lady next to me on the bus was eating a breakfast sandwich. While the CTA rules clearly state that eating on the bus is prohibited, I didn't say anything. I didn't really mind at all until she dropped a piece of greasy egg on my thigh. I looked at her, and she kept eating and didn't say a word. I continued to stare as she continued to eat. No. Nothing. I uncomfortably bent over, picked up her egg and handed it to her; "I believe you dropped this." I said.

I swear that she replied; "Oh. That ain't mine." I gave a confused smile and asked, "Are you sure?"

She reached out and quite literally swiped it from my hand and, I SHIT YOU NOT, put it back in her sandwich. I am still in awe at what happened, I wanted to share it with the interweb.

Oh...and when I left the bus, I looked at her and said; "You're right...that wasn't yours. Got you good." The bus drove off.

Google Earth / Google Maps

2008-07-23T11:15:00.002-05:00

Aside from the consumption of a good three to fours hours of each day, Google Maps also offers another notable quality. It hosts my photos from panoramio.com. I've posted photos from all over the globe onto this website and after Google purchased Panoramio, it began to host the photos for viewing on Google Earth and Google maps. I have some popular photos posted in Greece, Brazil and Argentina (popularity guided by user comments, views, favorites and other factors about which I know very little). However my most popular photos are in Chicago and Los Angeles. Here's what you do. Go to maps.google.com and then click the little box on the satellite map image that says "More" click "Photos" and voila, the first images shown over Chicago and Los Angeles are mine. Props to Jacob who took the Chicago City Skyline photo. The Los Angeles photo is of a house used in Hollywood as a Witches "Spadena" House for a movie set. These are not my best photos, one is not even my own, but I'm proud to see these photos just a mere two clicks away on any computer. I'm still not a popular as my only blog reader who appears on Wikipedia, but we all have dreams.

West Side Park

2008-07-02T11:58:00.021-05:00

Because my only reader, Jeff, appreciates baseball, I thought I would post a quick little fact I found out this week:

West Side Park (The West Side Grounds) is where the Cubs played between 1893-1915. It's where they won their only two world series'. It's where they won 116 games in one season, setting a major league record. It's where Tinker to Evers to Chance became the most famous double play combination in the history of the game. Its where Three fingered Mordecai Brown (who had four fingers, btw) pitched countless complete games and where Ty Cobb lost to the Cubs in the 1908 World Series. Honus Wagner and Christy Matthewson fell victim to many Cubs teams in this era. Tris Speaker and Cy Young and Nap Lajoie played there and had the Cubs not moved to Weeghman Park in 1916 so would have Babe Ruth. It's dimensions were:
Left field: 340 feet; center field: 560 feet; right field: 316 feet.

It's where Cap Anson got hit number 3,000 and Kid Nichols got his 300th win. It's also exactly where my office building is at the University of Illinois Chicago Medical District.

No one else may care, but I now feel a newfound and ethereal bond with the courtyard right outside my window that quite literally served as the foundation upon which the Chicago Cubs would build my favorite franchise. The building I work in sits where right center field and its grandstands would have been if the stadium has not been torn down in 1920 and sold for lumber scraps. I can actually close my eyes and picture being at the last Cubs world Series win in 1908. This of course is aided by the following embedded photos, which all came from the Chicago Daily News archives (and are public domain because they were printed before 1923). Enjoy the pictures!

Click on each one for more detail!

The West Side Park during the 1912 Season with new grandstands.

My office building currently sits in what used to be right-center field, my windows look out upon where home plate sat.

The 1908 National League Pennant above the box office at Lincoln Ave. and Polk St.

Spectators in the grandstand in right field were only 316 ft, from home plate and sit about where I sit at work. Many have bullhorns.

On August 30th, 1908

The Cubs' mascot at West Side Park!

Cubs' Coach Cap Anson ceremonially throwing the first pitch of the 1908 Season.

Pirates' Shortstop Luis Rivas, er, I mean Honus Wagner wearing a backwards cap at the West Side Park.

Mordecai "Three-Fingered" Brown warming up on the first base line.

Spectators after a regular season game.

Ty Cobb probably getting one of his forty-two career Major league hits.

President William Howard Taft waving to spectators as as he enters the Cubs West Side Park.

President Taft greeting New York catcher Chief Meyer.

Current location of the third base bleachers, Polk Ave. Shame.

For more photos search for "West Side Grounds" at the Chicago Daily News Archives.

Yu

2008-06-23T22:27:00.001-05:00

B: "The guy at the gas station, his name was 'Yu'"

A: "His name was Chris?"

B: "No, that's what I'm saying, his name was 'Yu' Y-U."

A: "Why did I what?"

B: "No, you didn't do anything except for listen to me tell you that his name was Yu."

A: "I am so confused."

B: "Yu.was.his.name."

A: "No.I.was.n't."

B: "Forget it."

A: "What, what...you have to tell me."

B: "No he doesn't, he's gone."

A: "Who's gone?"

B: "Yu."

A: "I'm RIGHT HERE!"

B: "Yes YOU are, but Yu's over there."

A: "You.are.mental!"

B: "Maybe he is, maybe he isn't"

A: "Who is?"

B: "Yu is."

A: "No I'm not. You are."

B: "Exactly."

A: "Exactly."

[silence]

A: "Ohhhh... Now I understand. His name was 'Yu'. Third-person singular masculine pronoun and not second-person singular pronoun."

B: "Yep."

A: "Gotcha. That is confusing though. Imagine his birthday party: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to YU, happy birthday to you."

B: "Ya, or,

Hey! Where did the birthday cake go?'
'Oh, I ate it'.
'That was for Yu!'
'Yes? I know. Oh, shoot! Third-person singular pronoun...darnit!' Want me to get another one?'
"yea, you probably should."
"No. I'll get it, he doesn't have to...oh, yea. ok."

A: "That would just be a lifetime of confusion."

B: "Thou art correct."

A: "Hmm, nice one."

B "Thank ye."

[more silence]

A: "Hey, where did you get those cool jeans?"

B: "Guess."

Stock Photo Girl

2008-06-20T11:27:00.001-05:00

For those of you familiar with NBC's The Office, or more specifically, if you're familiar with the show's leading character, Michael Scott, then you'll know that there are more than a handful of similarities between his character and mine own. While he is purely FICTIONAL, I like to believe that we both do some REAL stupid things. In a newer episode this season (4) Michael Scott falls enamored of* a stock photo girl in an office supply catalog. The news from office supply company that she had already died squanders Michael's hopes. While my dreams have yet to be demolished, I share with Michael a very, very special thing; I, too, have my own stock photo love. Let me describe her:

I walk by her every day on my way to my office, every day she retains that same beautiful and brilliant smile. No matter what has happened in the world, let it be thousands dying by earthquake (more on this awful disaster later) or confusion with Florida ballots, my stock photo girl continually provides a sense of hopeful optimism each and every day. There she sits, arms around two other nondescript stock photo people, simply dazzling, shining out to all who pass by. Or so I thought.

My only concern, (I mean, apart from having fallen in love with a 256-colored print on heavy card stock), is what the poster is advertising. As brilliant as my stock photo girl glows, the unfortunate truth is that her poster informs passersby of the harms of cervical cancer. I mean, with all the other problems in the world, why does my stock photo girl have to be ladened with these specific woes?? She had been my one moment of optimism each and every morning, and now all I can see when I look into her beautiful semi-gloss, dot matrix-printed eyes is cancerous pain (and the reflection of the light in the hallway). I have no more faith...

I can only hope my stock photo girl continues her luminous radiance and that she can stay strong through these hard times. We all need someone (300 dpi or greater) to look up to.

Love,

Chris

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*I am hesitant to print "falls enamored" and must admit that I attempted a Google search to find the correct transitive verbs I could use before 'enamored'. (Yes, I could use a 'to be' verb but that's just lazy.) I also found that 'of' is a more correct preposition to use with "enamored" than is "with". Shocking!

Friday the 13th

2008-06-16T10:12:00.001-05:00

When I woke up in the morning three days ago, I was grimly reminded by a melted chocolate candy bar on my pillow that it was the thirteenth of June; a Friday. I went to the wash off the sticky remnants of my midnight snack when I found that my faucet was leaking. I rolled my eyes to acknowledge that this day would be formulaically unlucky. "Hogwash!" I shouted in attempts to prove to the governing stars that luck was mere happenstance and that Gregorian calendarial date had nothing to do with it. I mean, that while I couldn't find my car keys this morning, I have had many similar frantic mornings in the past. (Why, last Monday I had to run naked and dripping out of the shower to turn off not just one, but three different alarm clocks on snooze). Yet, simply for theoretical purposes, I decided to not take a single risk with Lady Luck, I showered quickly, washed behind my ears, wore clean underwear, quickly bolted my house early and made sure not to step anywhere near the mud. As I drove out of the driveway, I looked both ways two times each. I'm not superstitious, but I'm damn well eager to avoid any astrological influence. The traffic lights were all out from the storm the previous night and road crews failed to pull down the stop signs at the nearest intersection. I, again, looked both ways twice and pulled out at four miles an hour to make my turn. Nope, nothing was going to make this day unlucky for me, I maintained total control. I vowed not to breach from my normal routine. Well, that was until my insatiable craving for a McDonald's breakfast sandwich at Union Station hit. To deviate from my normal routine showed lack of foresight, but my voracity outweighed my veracity and I went ahead. Hold your breath readers as I recall what happened next: nothing. "Ah ha!" I quite literally bellowed, "I have defeated the prognostications of evil!" You should have seen the look I got in the middle of a packed train station McDonald's. Everyone was looking at me quite oddly. As happy ~~as a pig in~~....as a clam, I continued on my morning commute. I took the bus, walked to my office and attended a morning meeting all without problem. It seemed to me that I had defeated Mrs. Misfortune (the nemesis of Lady Luck) until when I began to get ready to leave my office and take my briefcase from my closet that I noticed in my peripheral vision that I had completed my entire day with a massive chocolate stain on my rear end. No wonder the odd looks, I had just broken my own record for total unit stupidity accumulated in one month, and I still have two weeks to go.

Banter on Chit-Chat

2008-05-12T14:05:00.002-05:00

When I am asked the question, “How are you?” I respond with “Well”, even if I am not well. I never respond differently so as not to convert small talk into large talk. No further inquiry should be needed. I will only reply differently when I have asked the question first and the other’s response is “Good”. When the question is reciprocated, I will also reply with a grammatically incorrect answer; “Good”. This is so I don’t appear elitist.*ª

You should never hear:

A: “How are you?”
B: “I’m well. How are you?”
A: “Not so well, actually. Life has been proverbially sucking.”
B: “Okay, have a great day.”
A: “Thanks, you too!”

The above conversation has never happened. I wish it had, and that I had played the part of person A. I don’t need people prying themselves into my personal life. Conversations occurring in passing, while walking down a hallway or in an uncomfortable environment such as an elevator or airplane bathroom queue, should be as curt as possible.

A week ago, I was walking down a hallway, debating whether or not to address the person walking towards me. Clearly, she was thinking the same thing because she hesitantly said, “Hi.” mere steps in front of me. Under pressure, instead of “Hello” I responded with, “How are you?” My question was tardy, we had already physically passed each other in the hallway, I knew it. She answered my question while already behind me and to my horror, returned my belated pleasantries. “Good. How are you?” Shoot! A simple ‘good’ would have sufficed. Now I’m stuck and time is scarce. Should I turn around and politely answer back, or answer very loudly without even turning or should I ignore her question and move quickly on? Well, I chose the latter option, and ducked into my office.

The next time I saw her, neither of us engaged in eye contact, let alone any other form of verbal communication. For the last week, I have focused on avoiding this woman in the hallway. Sometimes I even pretend to be on my cell phone when I walk past her office. I am immature, I know, but I put a lot of time and energy into being this way.

I suppose the point that I should be taking from my own reasoning is this: life’s insipid tea leaves forecast very little, so it is necessary to spice up the bland. I may just add a little more flavour into my next conversation and if I leave a bad taste in the back of your throat, suck it up.
----------------------
*ª I am elitist.

The Right Direction

2008-05-06T10:55:00.001-05:00

A collection of national polls measuring Americans' opinions on whether or not the USA is heading in the right direction confirms wayward fears. An average of 18% of Americans affirm the nation's direction while 75.7% believe we need to change course. The confidence has been cut in nearly half from three years ago when an average of roughly 40% of Americans approved the direction in which their country was heading.

What is shocking to me is that even 18% (let alone 40%) of any group of people can get together, en masse, and affirm a specific heading. Now, this should be very easy in an automobile, when linear travel is most often the norm. One has normally two to four choices of direction upon asphalt. Given the flexibility of an off-road vehicle, a group of people can head in any planar direction. This, in itself, provides limitless direction and as a result, multitudinous dissent (provided no GPS navigation system is provided, (although one would be hard pressed to find an off-road vehicle without at least an iPhone anymore)). Yet, I look at a nation filled with over 300 million legal citizens rather than a Jeep Wrangler with seating for four. Think of a rocket ship, propelled by technological growth, national concern and social change. In what direction can this metaphorical ship head? Any. It has vertical, lateral and longitudinal rotational abilities. Moreover, the addition of a Z-coordinate allows us to head towards any infinite directions in space. Throw in a fourth dimension of time, and, well, you get my point. How can anyone, let alone 54 million Americans agree on a very, very specific vector?

There is an answer and that answer is simpler than aeronautical political science can explain. Americans, in general, believe that any direction "forward" will suffice. The minor directional bearings are assumed to play no large role in national government. Now if we define "forward" as positive movement in relation to one axis governing the "statusquo ", a whole hemisphere of travel is considered "wrong". Without getting too mathematical, the more variables that we restrict with a requirement of positive growth, the smaller our preferred directional course will be. Fitting into that pinhole becomes a more daunting task. Let's simply focus on "positive" spacial growth by moving up the Z-axis. I'll take away the dimension of time by adding another flat plane perpendicular to the Z-axis and call that our "goal". The National Government's job, now, is to reach our "goal" by moving in a forward direction (at a constant rate of speed). If it's direction is just the slightest bit skewed, then it will take calculatedly longer to reach plane "goal". If a backward direction is headed, then it will take either longer or never to reach plane "goal", depending on the value of the variables.

So how does one explain the existence of an estimated 54 million people who agree the United States is heading towards plane "goal"? Clearly it becomes the position of "goal". Some may place it very far away, others, very close. Some make "goal" a coordinate, or point. Some make it non-linear. Some make it so it is not perpendicular to the "positive" Z axis. Others make it an imaginary number (see Marx and Engels).

The only conclusion that I can draw is that while most can agree that the right direction in one with positive growth, there is a finite number of people who just don't seem to care where the nation is heading, as long as Dancing With The Stars is on.

Ozzie Guillen

2008-05-05T14:21:00.004-05:00

This post is in response to Ozzie Guillen's bemoans...

The text of the AP article can be found here:

TORONTO (AP)—White Sox manager Ozzie Guillen had his own Lee Elia moment, letting forth a stream of obscenities in which he accused Chicago fans of turning on the struggling team after a strong start.

During his rant before Sunday's game against Toronto, Guillen said the White Sox are not sufficiently appreciated in their city despite winning the 2005 World Series.

"That's what ticks me off about Chicago fans and Chicago media, they forget pretty quickly," Guillen said, punctuating his outburst with a healthy dose of vulgarities.

He bemoaned the fact that the Cubs are considered the "best" in Chicago even though they haven't won a World Series since 1908, dropping F-bombs along the way. He fears his team will never get respect "no matter how many World Series we win."

Guillen also mocked the 25th anniversary of the rant by Elia, the former Cubs manager. Guillen predicted his own tirades will one day be equally legendary, and maybe lucrative.

"How many times do I curse people out? I will make a lot of money. … I have to keep going because in the future Ozzie will need money," he said.

The White Sox, who lost 4-3 Sunday, have dropped eight of 11 and fallen out of first place in the AL Central. At 14-15, the White Sox are below .500 for the first time since they started the season 1-2.

"People are panicking," Guillen said. "Did we play a real bad week? Yes, we did. We stunk. But it wasn't too long ago that we were the biggest surprise in baseball. Wow, look at the White Sox."

Chicago has scored just nine runs in its past five games and its .232 batting average is the AL's lowest.

In retort: Ozzie, the reason the White Sox don't get respect is because they currently don't deserve it. You've provided readers with the primary example that their manager spews obscenities and is quick to blame anyone but himself. It's also very hard to watch your team struggle to bat above the Mendoza line. Face it, the Marlins won two world series and they don't get respect either, but at least their team hits above .232 and managers Joe Girardi and Fredi Gonzalez have led a bunch of scrubs (sans Hanley Ramirez and ex-3b Miggy Cabrera) to victory. Have you ever stopped swearing to think that some of this might be your own fault? You said it yourself, you stunk last week. If you dare surprise Chicago fans by finishing atop the AL Central again, then expect more people to give you the appreciation (and shock) you deserve. Look at the 2008 major league payrolls, sir:

Chicago Sox (5th MLB): $121,152,667 (14-15)
Florida Marlins (30th MLB): $21,836,500 (17-14)

Nope, no typo there. The White Sox are paying approx. $100,000,000.00 (or 6x) more for their players this year than the team who has Cody Ross starting in CF and Mike Rabelo behind the dish. I just don't hear Rodney Dangerfield yelling from their dugout.

Sure, the Cubs have been losing lately too, a phenomenon nothing new to their fans. Yet, Cubs fans are filled with enough youthful exuberance (booze) and liquid courage (more booze) to face any gaunt prospects with prowess (and numbness). The Cubs will always have their goat, but you don't have to turn their fans or media attention into your personal scapegoat.

In short, focus on managing and let your bats speak. Bats neither swear nor speak will poor broken English. Maybe then you'll get some respect.

postscript: This is the same manager who was forced to apologize publicly in 2006 for calling Chicago sporst columnist Jay Mariotti a "F*cking Fag", And that's really not cool at all. If you want respect you'll have to earn it Ozzie.

Wilbur's Story

2008-04-29T13:08:00.001-05:00

The fascinating life of Dr. Wilbur McCoy:

Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a giant. Although he was a literal midget in stature, his social importance and community standing towered. I guess what I’m saying is that while Dr. Wilbur McCoy was a dwarf himself, he made his descriptive adjective into a verb by, in turn, utilizing it to describe the way he acted around or unto, being nearby, and around other people. Does that make sense? I know it doesn’t. He dwarfed them while also being a dwarf. There. But size of body doesn’t matter when one’s large heart makes up for the physical deficiency. Not that it was a deficiency. I mean, if he had an absurdly large heart for his body, he could have had medical problems and would have had to utilize the same hospital wing that was built with his money and named in his honor. It was called the West Wilbur Wing. Kids got a giggle when they tried to say the name of the section of the hospital that their mother’s were recuperating within, however its all they could giggle about because, in truth, their mothers were there because they had a very serious alcohol induced car accident just weeks earlier and were forced to lose their jobs with out compensation. The lack of security made the families crumble under the harsh demands of society and its capitalistic frame work. Eventually the hospital would deny the bogus health insurance and they would resort to even more drinking and child negligence. But at least the little kids got a kick out of seeing a midget in a white coat walking through the West Wilbur Wing. They all thought he was a clown. This is why Dr. Wilbur McCoy carried around long balloons, a bicycle horn and a lifetime of sorrows everywhere he went.

What makes this tale truly remarkable is the ending. Unfortunately, I haven’t the time to complete it right now.

A Lover's Essay

2008-04-29T13:07:00.002-05:00

A Lover's Essay:

It's like euphoria, sitting next to you on the park bench. You smell like Suave Mountain Breeze Conditioner, which smells more like the Andes than the Alps. There's a subtle hint of Alpaca to its scent. I can think of nothing but how your dirty converse sneakers are ruggedly beautiful. It's like you don't give a damn, but I know you do. The holes in your jeans show that you know how to get down and roll around in the hay, but the lack of straw remnants on your clothing show that you know how to pick off straw remnants from your clothes. Just as you probably question the government, I definitely question why fate had not brought us together years earlier. That book you read, I've never heard of it, it makes you look smart, and that's why you're beautiful. When I subtly look into your eyes I can only see your thick rimmed glasses. This is your way of telling all people, but specifically me, that you need to wear these glasses, that you're not perfect. But I know you are perfect, you probably don't even need to wear those glasses. You humility screams so loudly. I clench my hands over my ears and hum. I pretend to listen to what I think your metallic green iPod nano is playing. I guess that you may be listening to the highly bloggable band 'The Teenagers' but then I realize you are tapping two of your fingers against your knee relatively quickly and I assume that you are probably listening to a more electro-rock band like "Does It Offend You, Yeah?". It doesn't offend me. I digg it. I've digged it.

Now you notice that I have been awkwardly staring at you, and bobbing my head while singing along imaginary music. You scowl. I grin and reach out to you, my Lovely. You run. Ah, yes, the chase is a very important part to courtship. I will play along, I beckon; "I'm gonna get you!" and I chase afterwards with my hands grasping for your hair. Oh, no! I see that you've left your jacket-less book upon the park bench. I will salvage it. There's a lot of creepy people in any given park, I wouldn't want them doing unmentionable things to your favorite Russian author's masterpiece. You've fled. Vanished into the ethereal depths of my memories. I may never see you again. Until I realize that your book club meets on Damen at 8:30 every Tuesday night. It seems that I might see you again, after all. I'll be the guy in the beret. No, not that one, the other one, the one to the left of the red head who says 'eclectic' a lot. No, not the guy you're thinking of, he has auburn hair and a well-trimmed goatee. I would have said, "well-trimmed goatee" if I were talking about him. I'm talking about the red head who wears those jackets with more pockets than he has items to hold. Got it? Good. See you there, my Lovely.

More on Tickets

2008-02-26T11:55:00.003-06:00

I find myself, yet again, facing an uphill battle of defeating the evil oligarchs governing ticket sales. I'd like to go see one of six sold out Magnetic Fields shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music with my friend Kyle. I am faced with a very limited supply of available tickets. This doesn't appear so daunting because I have craigslist, right? Well, I suppose I'll see how my craigslist post ends up:

Hello. If you are reading this post, then there is a small chance that you have available Magnetic Fields tickets for any of their shows at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. Let me take this moment to tell you that you are a skunk... a lucky ONE! (Had I the ability to use italics, I would have used them there (I really feel that italics best manifest true emotion, at least better than any other punctuation mark outside of the question mark/exclamation point combo!!!!?!?!?!))

I am looking for any quantity of tickets that you possess as I have an uncertain quantity of friends who have each failed to secure any tickets to this concert series. At the moment, I am knee deep in paper, pencils and other assorted office supplies trying to create a list of who my best friends are and how much they are worth. (Ouch! I think I just got stabbed in the shin by a circle compass). I have decided that I am worth a variable between $40 and $45, depending on my mood and ability to haul large objects for the greater good of commerce (or for the People's Republic (in that case I am worth a quart of goat milk and a loaf of bread))(let my democratic value = V). My best friend is worth $100-V. My next set of friends is hardly as valuable and decline in value at an asymptotic rate approaching the x-axis. My 6th best friend is only worth around face value for a ticket and Kevin Bacon is barely worth a cent to me. Although, I would have to add the variable that bringing Kevin Bacon to concert with me might help me score a free drink or meet a nice girl (with whom I can marry and start a family with and dance to Magnetic Fields songs as we recall that wonderful night we had at the Old Town School of Folk Music where we met, listened to the Fields and spilled a drink on Kevin Bacon). I’ll let that variable = Kb. Thus, the new formula for Magnetic Fields tickets is: Price= lim(x→∞) f(2008/(# friend²+100-V) + Kb)

Anyway, I have cash, a car and a burning desire to further the US dependency on foreign oil by driving to you and purchasing your tickets. Not that I'm a liberal whackadoo. But I can be for you. (Also sometimes late at night I find bathing in gasoline comforting on the skin, so I'll gather with friends or Kevin Bacon to do that occasionally). I know Hugo Chavez likes it when I do. He's clearly invited. Not to bathing with me, but to the Magnetic Fields concert. Of course, Hugo Chavez only sits in the front row. I'll warn him not to mosh, but I can't promise anything.

I can promise cash for your tickets, though. Or, of course, I can always offer you a straight up trade for goat cheese and a loaf of bread. But we're in America baby, where alcohol is a much more liquid asset (pun clearly intended).

So what do you say?!?!?!!!!???

Purchasing Tickets at a Premium

2008-02-20T08:17:00.013-06:00

Now, I consider myself adept in the art of buying and selling hard-to-get tickets. I have even had my share of successes in the art of selling easy-to-get tickets. I have bought and sold Cubs and concert tickets for profit on many occasions in the past. One of my funniest memories comes from when our international study group in Buenos Aires were issued 50 tickets to a World Championship Polo match in 2003. Because not all 50 American students wanted to go and see a Polo match, the few who did were left with a handful of extra tickets.

I have to note that I actually loved watching this Polo match and found it truly a window into the Argentine culture. I suppose that it would be like taking a foreigner to a baseball game of ours. They wouldn't completely understand it, but they would enjoy atmosphere and beer. (As polo is to baseball, so is soccer to American football). At the Polo Grounds, there are two stands. One is for the rich people and the other is for American Students. The Rich people rattled their jewelry when they cheered and to enjoy the match they drank wine or champagne. Everyone on our side hooted and smashed our beers together. I think we had more fun. Regardless, the most fun we had was in selling our 35 extra tickets before the match. We were a little hesitant at first. Foremost, because we had received the tickets a gift from the Sales Director of Argentina Polo himself. While we soon pushed past that moral road block, we found that we were a little nervous scalping tickets in a foreign country using a foreign language for, a quite literally, foreign event about which we knew nothing. What we did know, however, was how to sell tickets. So, after pushing past my initial hesitation, I took the stack of tickets and made my way to the end of the patron line.

"Se Vende!" I quietly exclaimed. "Se Vende." A police officer was standing on the street. No bites. No problem, I reeled in. I considered myself a professional. I cast another line,"Se VENDE! Boletos... Muy baratos." A man came up to me. "Cuanto salen estos boletos?" How much do these tickets go for, he asked. I hesitated, SHOOT, I didn't know. The tickets didn't have prices on them, they were gifts. I looked at my friends, they didn't know either. My friend Ryan Adcock thought he had overheard someone saying $50 pesos each (which was the rough equivalent of U$15). I told the man in Castellano, "Forty Pesos for each ticket. They go for fifty at the ticket office." He pulled out four notes and paid for two. Then almost immediately, another man walked up. He was followed by yet another man, who was followed by two others. Soon, a very large and out of place crowd was gathered on our section of the street. "Shoot, guys, here take some tickets." I tried to pass a dozen tickets over the mob of people surrounding us. I began to sell Polo match tickets for forty pesos each. There was such chaos on the streets that I was forgetting who had paid and who I had already given their tickets. Among a mob of reaching arms and money I noticed that the police officer had come over. I panicked. For a brief moment I thought about stuffing my last couple of tickets into my mouth and running. I thought better of it. "Good day, sir." I nodded. He returned my greeting with a chuckle and walked away. Good grief! I sighed. In what can only be visually described as a storm of dust and disorder somewhat similar to a Warner Brothers' character scuffle, I sold my last ticket. Ryan and Blaine were all out of theirs as well. Good. We were done. We struggled away from the crowd and toward the entrance gate. We offered each other nods to signify a job well done. We laughed as we approached the entrance gate. Then, in a very comical and ironical realization we harmonized in our exclamation aloud; "OH NO!" Although our exclamation probably had at least one more unprintable word in it. What idiots we were! We had sold our own tickets!

We ran to the line we had just left, and very awkwardly waited until we ended closely enough to read the sign that had the prices on them. It read: "Polo Match Tickets still available- $30 pesos ea." What fortune!

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The reason that I printed this story is simply therapeutic. You see, I have just been very recently defeated in my own game. I am forced to pay a large premium to attend the final Wilco show for their Riviera residency. I am hoping that this homeopathic recollection of one of my victories will let me forget that I will be without an arm and a leg tomorrow. But at least I will have seen Wilco play live for 3 hours. Eh, consider this a victory too.

Patagonian Golfing at Llao Llao or Chasing a Tiny Ball to History

2008-02-18T15:16:00.012-06:00

Somewhere west in Patagonia, sitting on the fringes of the Andean Mountain range lies a town called San Carlos de Bariloche. Somewhere in this small town of Bariloche is a very well maintained Hotel and Resort with a Golf Course named Llao Llao. Somewhere on Llao Llao’s golf course is a young caddy named Ricardo. Somewhere in Ricardo the Caddy’s memory lies one truly (un)forgettable story. That story is as follows:

I woke up on the warm March morning in 2004 (after all, we are in the southern hemisphere, and it is late summer) to go about my normal work. I drop my children at the bus station for school, I eat a breakfast lomito con huevo and I take a taxi to Llao Llao where I punch into the caddy shack. Everything would make today seem like a normal day. But no, my boss comes in with a smirk on his face and asks for Facundo and I to get ready to go out with a foursome. We gather our jerseys and walk out to the first tee. There we meet four Americans, three boys and a girl, who are on holiday from studying in the Capital. As usual, I introduce myself, grab two of their bags and explain the layout of the course. They smile and set up the first tee. The first boy takes a big swing and misses, but somehow breaks a tee. No problem, I grab another one from my shirt pocket and hand it to him. Little did I know what was about to happen. Truthfully, I don’t think Nostradamus himself could foresee anything that came next. This boy, Blaine, somehow broke his second tee and hit his gold ball backwards. I understand it’s tough to golf when others are watching and this is the first tee box after all. Blaine takes another big swing and hits his newly acquired Nike Llao Llao golf ball into the water. He laughs. We all laugh. But I wouldn’t be laughing long. Another young man, Christopher, walks up to the tee and hits his ball in the same lake. ‘What coincidence!’ I exclaim. The foursome looks at me as if to forewarn, no coincidence Ricardo…no, this is fate.

Another ball was hit into the rather tiny lake, but the fourth was hit perfectly onto of the lady’s tee box. The boy who hit it there had a nice view of the fairway for his second attempt, I gave him credit.

The three others ventured to our water hazard and, shocking both Facundo and I, climbed right in! ‘My Lord!’ I exclaimed, laughing a little. Blaine reminded us that the golf balls cost more than green fees on the course, so we understood. It was just funny to see the three American Students dive directly into the scummy waters. Christopher found his golf ball, while the other’s found their efforts fruitless. They dropped and continued on the hole. Blaine made four divots, hit three fences, lost two balls and killed a partridge in a pear tree. He won the first hole. Throughout the rest of the course I watched in complete and utter amazement as this foursome played what could possibly the worst round of golf since the conception of the game in the fifteenth century. I don’t hyperbolize when I write that between the first and last hole the Americans golfed we witnessed four sets of golfers play through, nine divots on the green, seventeen lost golf balls, twenty-four sand traps, seventy-five whiffs, two-hundred and a couple curse words and one parred hole.

Three hours and forty-five minutes later Facundo and I dropped the clubs to the ground and sighed. Each of the other caddies in the club house had started with their third group while we were covered in sweat from tracking Nike balls through woods and water. We were in awe at what had just happened. The Americans, unfazed, began to chuckle. They looked at each other and tallied score.

“Alright, well congratulations to Blaine who had the high score of 96. I think we owe him a round at the 19^th tee. Let’s, see who was next?” A little more counting was done. Fingers went up and down at an unimaginable rate of speed. “Second place had a dozen more swings and, well, Chris…Chris got the high score of the day: 124. Well done.” They harmonized in laughter as I buckled in disgust at the nation of America. “Imagine the scores we’d have if we played all nine holes!” One of them exclaimed. I knew at that moment I would have an incredible story to tell my family tonight. This sole redeeming factor for a day of wasted caddying was unhinged when two of the guys came up to me and pulled me to the side. Christopher asked me politely to never recall this story to another living being for life. As he thanked me, he pulled out his wallet. Both Blaine and him each pulled out a $100 Peso note and gave it to me. “Thanks.” They said in unison and vanished off into ether of the distance.

I looked at Facundo who was holding a pile of money too, he looked back at me. We both gave each other an unspoken nod of assurance that we both knew what time it was. We slowly walked towards the lake, stripped to our shorts and exploded with jubilation! We jumped in the water, swam to the kayak from which our boss told us to keep away, boated over to the woman’s camp, pulled a bottle of Coca Light from our suddenly-appearing backpack, danced and boogied to the reflections of the moon off the hood of an old Fiat, stole the car and drove off into the ether of the future (of course returning and taking time to watch our children grow up along the way).

The end.

And that story comes directly from the nostalgia of a young Caddy named Ricardo who worked on a Hotel and Resort with a Golf Course named Llao Llao which lies somewhere in a small town named Bariloche which sits in Patagonia, Argentina on the fringes of the Andean Mountain range.

The end again.

**Note** Since I don’t know what happened after I left, I can only assume that Facundo and Ricardo did all those things which I made him do in the recollection of my story.

Monster Jam and Truck Pull

2008-02-16T23:11:00.011-06:00

Throughout the entire span of the last seven years that I have been working at the Allstate Arena, I have never seen such enthusiasm at any event than I did today at the Monster Truck Jam. It was wild to see these truck fans (are they truck fans?) get so into watching these big-ass engines and wheels with a truck body on top wreck cars and jump around in dirt. My best guess is that the sold-out crowd's jubilation was a direct result of the truck fumes they'd been inhaling for years. I am also pretty sure that the pitch and decibel level of their cheering is a result of their damaged eardrums.

I shouldn't be the one judging, and I won't. It's much too easy for me to criticize, who would ever understand my own addictions to baseball, topographical maps and sour patch kids? I won't pass judgment. To each his own. Having acknowledged that, I can say that I did not know that so many hicks lived in Chicago (and I use that term not in a denotative way, but purely in a circumstantial kind of way.) Where are they when their not at the Monster Truck Jam? What are they doing if their not cheering loudly for GRAVE DIGGER to rev his engine and smash up painted and stripped autos? I have no idea where they are. I can only assume that their driving their Ford F-150s down state to another truck pull.

I'll further admit that once I took the opportunity to put in ear plugs and venture out in the smog and dirt filled arena, I was drawn in. It was interesting to see the truck cabs bounce around on wheels bigger than my room. I watched IRON OUTLAW thrash around the arena floor and jumping over demolished cars. I felt the raw engine power of TAZ (One of Warner Bros. sponsored trucks) as I watched him freestyle over piles of dirt. Hell, I even watched the US AIR FORCE truck spin in circles until I finally got a little satiated. My indifference was clear when I realized I was spending much more time watching the crowd toss beer around and lift up their little kids over their heads. I could only assume that they wanted to offer sacrifices to the chrome Gods.

What was funny to me was how many dads had to buy their toddlers $20 Ear Muffs so that they could get through the sounds of the thundering engines. I noticed that a few families had to leave before the main event started simply because the kids were too scared of the noise. Good luck trying to get any of your $40/ticket back. Stop it Chris, you pay $40 to go sit 400 feet from a ballgame with hundreds of shirtless drunks on benches that can't pronounce the names of the Hispanic ball players for whom they are 'rooting', (and by 'rooting' I clearly mean 'shouting fewer obscenities at than they are shouting at the away players'.)

But anyway, watching the Monster Jam was a neat experience, however, instead of surrounding myself by frenzied fans and ear-splitting noises for two hours, I'd rather watch it on TV, not have to breathe in the exhaust and have the ability to change the channel at my leisure.

Now, I just have to get pumped up because tomorrow is the third and final Chicago competition, this event, of course, is preceded by a crew party for which we get to work and may be followed by a caravan of pickups and trailers driving down to the next jam. Maybe I'll join them, and then again I heard it was going to snow here and I'd rather shovel.

Oh, in case you want to know the results of Saturday's two Monster Jam competitions the link is here.

Valentine's Day and NIU Shooting

2008-02-14T20:00:00.007-06:00

A shooter opened fire in an Introductory Geology lecture classroom in Cole Hall this afternoon in DeKalb, Illinois at NIU leaving 6 others dead and 16 more wounded. The proximity of the shooting sends reverberations quickly and powerfully around the Chicagoland area. One of the victims was from my home town and a friend of my brother's. Dan Parmenter was a sophomore finance major who worked at the school newspaper, the Northern Star, and an innocent victim of an unforgivable crime. I know a handful of people studying at Northern Illinois and the crime is haunting. It seems that everyone will be affeced by what happened today. A good friend, Ben, who works at NIU's counseling center, was able to help students on campus understand and deal with the emergency. Thankfully, the rest of those I know are safe and home now with their families. Yet, the crime is callous, cold and cowardly. My prayers are sent out to the families and friends of those affected by this heinous crime.

The only bright side of this crisis was the resulting strength that the campus and community used to pull together through adversity and pain. Ben said that schools and centers from all over the area were calling his office to donate their services and help those struggling to cope. While the hatred and troubles we face have been stark and highlighted today, we can also see underlinings of good will and humanity.

On a side note: Doing what I do best, as I tend to smile my way through pain, I ponder the St. Valentine's Day design. I don't understand flowers for Valentine's Day. Now, maybe I'm bitter because I have no one to whom I can send dying flora, but I still can't see the point. 'Here, baby, my undying love for you is best represented by a bouquet of these finely cut and lacerated withering plants.' Now, I'm no botanist, but I'd say get her a desk calendar. It's February, they're 80% off. I guess I'm not a romantic either.

I suppose my dad put it best when he told us that he was debating on buying my mother a helium balloon from the dollar store today but realized he should spend his buck on a carton of Fritos Scoops for her instead. “Why waste a dollar on a balloon which can float away or deflate and become useless when you can fill your stomach with something delectable and useful?” He later commented. That's so shallow that it's actually deep Dad.

I guess my question in response would be, “Why do you feel that your wife of 28 years deserves such a wonderful $1.00 (plus tax) gift on this day of love?” Yet, we are left to contemplate why the more we waste on flowers reciprocates more love. At least I came up with a new pickup line today; "Hellow. I'm neither a botanist nor a romantic, but I sure am both prudent and frugal, would you like to buy me a drink?" I wonder if I'll be spending next Valentine's Day alone too...

Con Queso?

2008-02-13T20:33:00.001-06:00

My family is enamored by traveling and exploration. My mother, father, brother and I have found how receptive other cultures are to our insatiable curiosity. From Argentina to Greece my family has created some memorable events. One of my favorites however was when we were in a Costa Rican souvenir shop and my father found a handful of items he wanted to purchase.

Not knowing the Spanish language very well, but also wanting to make an effort he brought a coconut, a seashell and a necklace up to the counter and inquiring their price he asked; “Con Queso?” The cashier looked at him in bewilderment, laughed and asked “Que tipo?”

“Does he want a tip?” My dad asked.
“No,” I replied, “you just asked for your souvenirs with cheese. What kind do you want?”

That Damn Grape

2008-02-08T16:56:00.000-06:00

I know this is an odd way to begin a blog, but what I experienced and had to share this morning is, similarly, odd.

I was getting ready today, making a cup of coffee and starting the dishwasher when I decided it was about time to pull my McDonald's fruit and walnut salad from the fridge. Watching the coffee drip, I casually dug into my fruit salad. I was thinking about many things, such as how unforgiving the weather was going to be on the upcoming weekend and wondering what was to stop someone from buying an electronic item with "two AA batteries included!", replacing the batteries with dead ones and then returning the item. It was at this moment of deep and profound thought that I felt something fall off my fork.

Quick question, is it correct to eat fruit and yogurt with a fork or a spoon?

Moving on, I felt something fall off my fork. When I looked at my utensil, I realized that I had dropped a grape. Begrudgingly, I bent over to pick it off the floor, but I couldn't find it. (A quick caveat, I easily lose things.) However, this grape was truly elusive. I couldn't find it anywhere. It was after a minute of hunched-over frustration that I decided it best to get on the floor and crawl about in search of my missing grape. Unfortunately, I still couldn't find it. I mean, I seriously was on my belly looking around the kitchen floor. I lifted up chairs and looked under the fridge. Heck, I even crawled into the next room. I swear that I stopped the dishwasher at one point, opened it, and looked inside. This grape had mysteriously disappeared.

I ask, have you ever had a frustrating experience such as this? Indubitably, yes. Further, I ask, doesn't it begin to put things in perspective? YES!

While crawling on my belly, I decided to stop toiling over hot button issues that currently ravage our housing market, our economy or our international relations and focus on the real problem. I decided that I would vote for the candidate that could help me find my grape. I mean, I was THIS anxious to find where that little bugger had rolled. I began to panic as I asked myself, "Self, what will happen if you don't find this missing grape?" I was in such discord that I answered myself. "Inquiring other Self, I don't know...I just don't know". It wasn't the answer that I was looking for, so I got even more upset.

In a moment of passion I threw both my arms up towards the heavens and beckoned! Amongst all this bedlam, a tiny yet sharp stream of light shone through my window and lit my wrist to create a moment of clarity. WWJD. What would Jesus do? Well, he would probably be eating a date palm, but if he did lose a grape, he'd probably use his omnipotence to seek it out and turn it into wine. Me, incapable of uniting the powers of the earth, heavens and universe, I sat back down, dumbstruck and defeated.

Head down and frowning, I left the kitchen to begin the rest of my day. I call it; "Life after missing grape". Nothing was the same. The clouds didn't seem as bright. The coffee tasted bitter. My life had changed....

...Then in a wild turn of events as I reached for my keys, the clouds opened up, a choir began to sing aloud in the background, white light lit the earth (and, as if to bring life to an old cliche, my frown had turned upside down). My vision quest had ended as abruptly as it began. I found that the grape had wedged itself inside my right front jeans pocket. Order had been restored. Life can resume. Now we can begin to focus on feeding Sub-Saharan Africa.

The End,

Chris