Non-bothersome bothers

So deep was I watching the movie on Sunday that my phone fell out of my pocket with a rather alarming, plasticky metal clatter. It took me a moment to find it in the dark. When I had it safely back in hand, I secured it in the cargo pocket on the thigh of my pants and continued watching the film. Later, walking out of the theater, I reached down to restore order to my pockets - the phone must go in the hip-level pocket or it will bang against my knee when I walk - I realized I was missing something. The stylus had fallen out.

I didn't treat this as a big deal then and it's not one now, but it is one of those annoyances that does not go away with forgetting. For one, I always used to play with it while my mail downloaded, prying it up just a bit with my nail, pushing it back down until the curvature of its head was flush with the body of the Treo, reversing it so that it looked like the pull up antennas we all endured in the early days of cell phones.

For two, sometimes pen input really does work better, or at least my bitten short nails serve me poorly. I've always hated the form of Palm styli even as I loved the function. The fact that the designers built the carrying of the stylus into the case of every Palm I've ever known showed a love and understanding of the consumer who spends at least ninety seconds of every financial transaction looking for his/her wallet at the bottom of his/her purse/man purse. But the body of the stylus is too small and short to write well with, and there's no good way to build a pen into it. Brandi bought me a three-in-one stylus/pen/pencil once, which was cool except that I spent a minimum of three minutes of every day searching for the thing in coat pockets, pants, bathrooms and man purses.

For three, there is now a tiny but significant hole in the back of my Treo, a little piece of despoilage where I would like to see at least a stab at seamlessness. Since I popped out my SD card Sunday as well - the small digital camera runs it for storage and I wanted to be able to take beautiful pictures on the way to the movie theater on our walk down - the unit just looks a mess. Nobody should have to walk around with holes in them (besides the usual ones for respiration, eating and elimination). We even try to cover up pores.

Speaking of beautifying, I put up shelves last night over the bed (photograph here). Along the way, I used the level, the cordless screwdriver, a pen and even fired up the table saw, which scares the crap out of me. The whole project took about ninety minutes and required the participation of both humans. I needed Brandi's opinion and called her in from the other room several times until she gave up and joined me in the bedroom while she worked on the computer.

After I had the shelves installed and reasonably secured, I set up a small reading light and a dimmer so that now, instead of having to kick the cats off, stagger over to the light switch then back to the bed to rearrange blankets and pets in the dark, we only have to dim the light to darkness and kiss goodnight. I'll work myself to the bone to make things easier for myself. It's part of being a systems administrator, or perhaps it's part of why I fell into this field.

As proud as I was of the shelf installation, I was nearly immediately humbled by a tour of our neighbors' place. How it shook out was this: lazy again, tired and ready to settle down for the evening, I planned to set the cardboard the shelves came in on the back porch hoping somebody else (Brandi) might come along and tidy up my mess. When I opened the door, there were my neighbors, Todd and Aaron, smoking, eating peanuts and enjoying the night air and a brief respite from their dog, Sampson. We started chatting. Brandi joined us. Sampson came out and so did the cats, Patrick bringing along his foil ball which Sampson played with and eventually was loathe to part with. We talked movies, weather and condos. As we often do when broaching the subject of living spaces, we became curious about Todd and Aaron's condo, and the two were kind enough to invite us inside. It was amazing.

Aaron used to work at Marshall Fields - back when there was a Marshall Fields - at the makeup counter, and had a deal worked out with the ladies on all of the floors above him. He brought home some amazing bits of furniture, frames, mirrors and, surprising even him, a tea service. He doesn't drink tea; neither of them do. Nevertheless, the service is beautiful. His drapery alone shamed our bare windows. We brought them over to our messy place, and they made appropriately nice comments, but my pitiful shelving doesn't hold a candle to the thought they put into their decor. Yet another thing lost: the contest with the Joneses. Only, they're both so nice and good to have across the way, I don't mind particularly much. Like a slow news day, I'm thankful when the 6:00 news shows a fluff piece on the dog walker who specializes in pugs. It means that, for the moment, my life is undramatic and reasonably safe. The future is dangerous enough. Let it be.

Zander's Rainbow Brain

This photo comes from a visit to the Brown Elephant Zander and his wife Julie made with Brandi and me during their visit with us late last January. The Brown Elephant is in Chicago, at Halsted and Waveland, in Boystown, not that you would know it except by the "umph-umph!" of deep-bassed electronica coming from Circuit night club next door.

All of this is to explain why my cool friend Zander looks like he has a rainbow popping out of his brain.

Funny enough, Zander is one of my friends from the furthest back, having known him more or less continuously since second grade in Lakewood, Ohio. His parents were always cool and enjoyed and encouraged his off-kilter attitude toward life. I remember in the early eighties when novelty hats really took off, he came to school with an umbrella hat, also a rainbow. I guess it pays to have a sunny attitude even when it's raining. Or when the thunder is the deep bassy "umph-umph!" of the latest Pet Shop Boys single.

St. Patrick's in Pictures

St. Patrick's celebrations this year meant getting up at 7:15 AM on a Saturday. Punishment like that deserves a reward just as large: drinking. We officially started at 8:00 AM when our neighbor John kindly prepared coffee spiked with Bailey's Mint Creme, to get us properly warmed up for our ride by Red Line train downtown to watch the Chicago Police dye the river green. Since the dying did not start until 11:00 and we got downtown at about 9:00, that left a significant gap which we handily filled with a stop at a bar for green beer and the most godawful sandwiches I have ever seen. The corned beef looked like it had been sheared from an animal fed for the majority of its short, artery-hardened life with 100% pure lard, and that it had fought the cutting. They came with "chips" (British for French Fries, I guess because they don't like the French either, after that whole Henry V thing), but the whole thing looked so impregnated with fat that open flame nearby would probably have been considered a fire hazard.


Eventually, we got to the river, and waited forever for the dying to begin. I have lived in Chicago for almost thirteen years now, and had never seen the river dyed. Saturday, therefore, was one of the most anticlimactic days I have ever lived, since, when the dying finally started, most of us had no idea that it had, or whether the Chicago Police had even finished. From our vantage point by the Clark street bridge, all we saw were slightly brighter green tendrils drifting downstream, mingling amongst the ordinary dark green of the Chicago River. We went upstream to see if we could spot the dye bombs or whatever they use to turn the river an unnatural Leprechaun green, but they had already finished. Yet, looking downstream, we still saw hundreds of people perched on the bridges and all along the river, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever the hell we had been looking for moments earlier. Maybe, after enough time elapses, all of the green coagulates into some awesome monster, or turns into money, but about the only entertainment we got out of it was trying to catch necklaces the Heineken people were throwing to promote their Dutch beer on the Irish holiday.

Oh, and the above picture is my wife, against the green river. It's pretty bright. As they remarked in the Harrison Ford film, "The Fugitive", "If they can dye the river green today, why can't they dye it blue the other 364 days of the year? "

Touche, Marshall Biggs.