The connection (revisited)

So Tuesday night I’m sneaking out of the Go-Go’s concert at the Roxy (hosted by Microsoft) when an ex co-worker shouts ‘Heather!’ and foils my escape.

I haven’t seen this woman in a year. We rarely spoke when we worked together. But at that moment, it was as if we were long lost relatives.

“It’s so good to SEE you. We should TALK this week. Where are you STAYING?” She gushed.

This is Familiar Face in a Foreign Land (FFFL) syndrome. She was overly excited to see me only because she’s in Boston not expecting to run into a soul she knows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
FFFL syndrome also is one possible explanation for the connection concept I mentioned earlier this week.

Incidentally, I am revisiting this topic at the behest of a dear friend who admonished me (actually he began with GOD DAMN YOU! and it got worse from there) for not giving the whole connection thing the attention it deserved.

So here's the big question that I ‘ran the feather duster over’ last time: Why do these rare, profound connections occur?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I moved to Illinois in 1989. It took more than a year of living there before running into someone I actually knew and sadly, it was my fat, mean bitch of a roommate.

Because of FFFL syndrome, I practically hugged her right there in the canned goods section of the grocery store, having finally found a familiar face. As humans, we search for the familiar -- people, things, and experiences to help us feel comfortable. To make us feel like there is order in our environment.

On the flip side, we’d like to believe we’re unique. There's only one you, they told us in kindergarten, and we believed it. So we think the odds are slim we’ll find someone just like us out there in the world.

In reality there are people like us everywhere – you can’t walk 10 feet without tripping over someone with whom you’ve got at least 10 things in common.

But we delude ourselves into thinking we’re special. So when we encounter someone who is actually like a long lost relative, we think it’s a miracle.

I like this explanation because it is rational. But you can’t rationalize a feeling. You can’t apply logic to a miracle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The last time it happened, it was profound. Exceptional. Recognition on a molecular level.

The explanation I’ve favored most up to this point is reincarnation. Some people are familiar because we actually knew each other in another lifetime. It’s FFFL syndrome on a higher level.

I won’t get into the whole debate here, but my personal belief in reincarnation is based on the First Law of Thermodynamics: Energy can neither be created nor destroyed.

Reincarnation would explain the quiet soul-shaking experience of the connection. It also takes care of the somewhat mystical quality of these unexpected relationships.

I like this explanation because it acknowledges the profundity of the connection.
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You’ve heard this old Buddhist proverb: “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.”

That’s another possible explanation. People appear at certain times in your life for a reason. To teach you something. To take you from one phase to the next. Or to help you get back on the right path, to remind you who you really are.

Why did that connection happen at that exact point in your life? Maybe it didn’t happen earlier because you weren’t ready or didn’t need it. Then BAM! Suddenly you meet this person and everything seems right for that time in your life.

I like this explanation because I believe that the Universe gives you what you need when you need it; lessons, people and sometimes, if you’re lucky the person is the lesson.
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Then there’s this: If we’re all connected – truly one – like I think we are, maybe these special connections are glimpses of the divine. A sample of the true nature of the universe.

If that’s the case, then these fascinating glimpses just become big distractions. Why? Because it feels like a small miracle, we pay attention to it (usually too much.)

It’s very easy to be around people we feel connected with, but we don’t always learn things from taking the easy route.

So is the connection a small miracle to be honored and cherished? A lesson delivered from the Universe? Or is it a comforting distraction that keeps us from learning and growing? Or some combination of all three?

Here’s all I want: To feel that connection – that profound, joyful, effortless link – with everyone.

Now that would be a miracle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bob Schneider – The World Exploded into Love
I am reading: 1776
And I am: Rather blah this morning, quite frankly.

What happens in Boston

So I’m outta town on business. There are four of us in Boston for this year’s Microsoft Worldwide Partner Conference.

We’d been here all of 10 minutes on Monday (roughly one beer) when someone said it: “What happens in Boston stays in Boston."

Ack.
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Way back in 1993, I traveled to Orlando for my first software conference. I was rather shocked (Yes, me, shocked. Shaddup, I was young then.) at how differently my co-workers behaved “on the road.”

Now I try to stick to a routine: Socialize as expected, but make every effort to sneak out early before things get ugly and people get stupid.
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C’mon, Heather. You’ve never, ever cut loose on the road?

Of course I have. I've got plenty of good stories. But I learned early on from the mistakes of others that what happens elsewhere rarely stays there.

So I drink a little, swear a little, even dance a little, but then I disappear so no one has any real stories.

And of course, the very best stories are the ones that no one can tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Go-Go’s – Vacation
I am reading: 1776 (although not much since I’ve been here; not a lot of down-time)
And I am: Ready to be home

The connection

From the moment we met, it was as if we’d been friends forever.

It was easy and comfortable – like meeting another, slightly different version of myself.

You know what I’m talking about, right? The connection.

You meet someone and everything…just…clicks.

It’s happened maybe five times my whole life.

It’s a profound comfort – like a great big sigh – when you’re together. You could talk and talk and never run out of things to say. Or you could be just as happy sitting silently together for hours.

I consider these connections small miracles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A flight attendant is providing connecting information to the folks coming out of the K11 gate at O’Hare airport.

Dallas - Forth Worth. Seattle. San Francisco.

If it was only that easy connecting with people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things are just easier with some people you meet. We want to be around them because they are familiar and comfortable and practically an extension of ourselves.

Then there are The Others.

The ones you couldn’t connect with if your life depended on it.

I’ll give you an example: She never has anything positive to say. And she’s always right – so she’s quick to point out if you’ve done something wrong. Or God forbid if you’ve offended her. You can never have a real conversation with her -- exchanging thoughts and ideas, asking questions. It's just one big long rant and you're her captive audience.

I’ve tried with this person. Really tried. But we will never, ever connect. I can only take about 10 minutes of her and then I’ve gotta be elsewhere quickly.

Still, as much as I love spending time with the people I connect with most, it seems like the lesson is in connecting with The Others – the ones with whom I have nothing in common.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, I said flight attendant.

I like it. It makes more sense than stewardess.

You see, I’m not entirely anti-PC. If the new word is an improvement over the old, I’m all for it.

Flight attendant gives that person more authority; makes them more powerful.

Stewardess sounds like someone who can serve you coffee and fluff your pillow. A flight attendant sounds capable, like someone you want in charge if the wings suddenly fall off your plane.

The same goes with firefighter. Fireman sounds like a guy who gets a cat out of the tree.

A firefighter is courageous and fierce and powerful – again, someone you want around if the wings fall off your plane.
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I am listening to: U2 - One
I am reading: 1776 (To be reading this in Boston? Incredible. Every corner is a landmark.)
And I am: Connected

The Big Family Scandal

Yes, I realize the politically correct term for midgets is little people. Thanks so much to all you Very Smart People for pointing that out.

Hello? Is this thing on?

If you haven’t noticed by now, we’re fresh outta PC here at HedyBlog.

I like saying the word retard. I use ‘gay’ when something is overly sentimental or silly.

And I love midget.

Midget. Midget. Midget.

If you are offended by what you’re reading, it’s a free country. Feel free to stop reading any time.
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We’ve got divorce. Children born to unmarried parents. Drugs. Alcohol. Feuds. And of course, religious whack-jobs.

You name it. In my family, we’ve got it.

It's likely you could check a few from the Laundry List of Family Dysfunction, too.

Here is what’s so interesting: I recently learned that “Heather’s not a Christian” registered fairly high on the family scandal-o-meter.

It appears that my perceived lack of faith is right up there with terminal cancer, divorce and drug addiction.

Secretly, I’m thrilled to be part of a scandal, albeit a lame and misguided one.
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I pass a fundamentalist Christian church on my way to the health club.

There’s a huge sign out front that reads: “Connecting with People! Connecting with God!”

This is just a hunch, but I’m guessing they don’t get that people and God are actually one and the same.

The church’s main sign says: “Jesus Lives!”

So I’m also guessing these folks are really big into exclamation points.

Again, just a hunch.
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I spent ten minutes on the Internet trying to find the PC term for illegitimate child.

'Children born to unmarried parents' is the best out there.

Whoa, wait a minute, Heather. You’re anti-PC. Why didn’t you just say bastard?

Because if a kid is born a retarded, gay midget and his parents aren’t married, he shouldn’t be called a bastard.

That would be wrong.
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I am listening to: Godsmack – Keep Away
I am reading: 1776 (it’s VERY good, please try it)
And I am: Flying to Boston in an hour

People come and go so quickly here

Life seems to be accelerating again.

New friends. Old friends. And midgets.

Oh, my.
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I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you who comment regularly on this blog.

I do this because I love it. It’s become my hobby, my passion, and my obsession. Even if no one ever read it, I’d still do it.

But I’m so honored and pleased to have you along for the ride. Thank you.
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I am listening to: A sales meeting (but not really)
I am reading: 1776 by that dude who won the Pulitzer
And I am: Wishing for more time

Idiots & Assholes

Over the holiday I finished ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ by Lauren Weisberger.

When I started reading it on Friday I told a few friends that it was good, mindless summer reading.

I was wrong.

It’s an awful story that shouldn’t have been written, much less published.

Why is it so gosh darn popular then?

The author is a woman who worked as an assistant to Anna Wintour, the notoriously bitchy editor of Vogue. The book is a dishy, gossipy, fictionalized account of her experience at the world’s biggest fashion magazine.

And it's complete trash.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heather’s Theory #137: People are assholes because the rest of us let them get away with it.

Assholes aren’t born, they are made.

An asshole tries something once to see if they can get away with it – like cutting the line in traffic or at the store. If it works (nobody says “Hey, asshole! Wait like the rest of us!), then their bad behavior was rewarded and they do it again. And again.

Us non-asshole types have a responsibility to let others know when they’re displaying asshole-type behaviors.

And we can’t complain about assholes if we’ve done nothing to stop them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The main character of ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ is an asshole.

But she’s wealthy and powerful so people allow her to be an asshole in hopes that they will eventually benefit from it. The assistant in the book sacrifices just about everything – her morals, self esteem, friends, boyfriend and family – trying to meet this woman’s ridiculous demands.

In my estimation, the assistant is way more despicable than her boss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, we should call out assholes on their behavior. But that doesn’t mean we should go around mistaking idiots for assholes, either. Idiots are the occasionally clueless folks who do stupid, unintentional things.

I’ve done it. You’ve done it. We all have the ability to be idiotic once in a while.

That’s why I’m particularly careful about confronting assholes.

Because invariably, I’ll display that same behavior within 24 to 48 hours after the incident. It’s a quirky little karma thing that I haven’t quite figured out yet.

So as the responsible, intelligent (ahem) participants in society, we need to use prudence in assessing any idiot/asshole situation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then there are the Hopeless Assholes.

You can call them on their bad behavior but they’ll never change. These are the neglected children of the world who will do anything to get attention.

I mostly feel sorry for Hopeless Assholes and do my best to avoid them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey, wait a minute. This whole asshole thing you’ve got going here doesn’t seem particularly Christian, Miss I-Love-Others-as-Myself.

You’re right.

So let’s agree that when we’re doing our part to make the world a better place by confronting assholes, we should do it in a way that is loving and supportive.

Wrong: Hey asshole, stop yapping on the phone while you’re riding the train!
Right: Hey Mr. Asshole, stop yapping on the phone while you're riding the train!

Hmm. Perhaps this theory needs more work.

Because that asshole I’m confronting could be me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Songs about trains
I am reading: 1776 by David McCullough
And I am: Trying hard not to be an asshole

Wave that flag!

I venture to suggest that patriotism is not a short and frenzied outburst of emotion but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime. - Adlai Stevenson
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I am reading: 1776 by David McCullough
I am listening to: A mix from last summer
And I am: A proud American

Chill

HedyBlog is light today because I'm taking the day to hang with the creatures I love most.

I'm also working hard to develop a backlog of stuff so that when I have to be away, I can still publish something relatively useful and/or interesting.

Best wishes for a safe and fun Fourth of July.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Always make new mistakes." - Esther Dyson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Rain
I am reading: Nothing (to recover from The Devil Wears Prada)
And I am: So chill

You Christians

“Good morning, you Christian,” I said into the phone on my way to the train station today.

“Good morning, you flag-burning slut,” replied my Mom, who loves me way more than I deserve and in spite of my somewhat progressive views.

She says I’m too hard on Christians.

She’s right, as usual.
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Yesterday, a Sun-Times article stated that 90% of Americans believe in God.

90%.

The article didn’t say which God, but I’m fairly certain the majority adheres to the most popular flavors of Christianity – they're Catholics, Lutherans, Baptists, Methodists, and Protestants.

As with most religions, there’s also a teeny-tiny faction of Christian fundamentalists – the whack-jobs who bomb abortion clinics and scream at the funerals of U.S. soldiers who died in Iraq “because God hates fags.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So why are you so hard on Christians? Because of the fundamentalists? They’re not even close to representing the true face of American Christians.

I know that. Of course not.

I’m tough on Christians for two reasons. The first one is logical, the second completely irrational (hey, at least I can admit it, you flag-waving fascists.)

Let’s talk logic first so those of you who don’t feel like diving down the rabbit hole with me have the option to cut and run.

Christians are the majority in this country. By their nature, majorities tend to a) believe everyone else is just like them (because a good percentage are), and b) ignore or marginalize the small groups of people who aren’t like them.

It’s not unique to Christians, either. In any situation, the majority will do this.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I am not part of that majority. I am part of that quirky lesser-known faction that doesn’t believe in organized religion, Christian or otherwise.

As a minority, it’s my job to stand up and remind the majority that everyone isn’t like them. Because that’s what minorities tend to do.

That’s why I had a Darwin fish on my car for a long time. Not because I’m a militant theosophist – but because I wanted to remind the folks with those ubiquitous Jesus fish that this is the United States.

Again, with the patriotism. The Fourth of July is coming. Consider it a Theme Week.

I love this country because I can worship who or whatever I want, as long as I don’t hurt anyone. I love this country because of its diversity, not in spite of it.

And I’m tough on Christians because they need to get their noses tweaked once in a while to be reminded that we’re not all the same, goddammit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now, for you brave souls, stick around and pop the red pill. The rest of you, please punch out at this point.

I am tough on Christians because I’m angry. Actually angry is too benign for what I feel.

I am outraged. Pissed off. Punch-a-fucking-wall nuts with fury.

I’m angry because the flavor of Christianity that I got growing up (Catholicism) focused solely on the died-for-our-sins aspect of Christ.

I didn’t get the love-others-as-yourself part until much later and I had to figure that out all on my own, thank you very much.

I’m NOT pissed at my parents (we’ve talked about this.)

I am pissed at organized Christian religion for twisting and perverting Christ’s true message of love and acceptance and peace into sin-focused bullshit rhetoric.

Tell me, what’s a better message?

That we’re all sinners and going to Hell unless we worship some dead bearded dude?

Or that we’re all essentially the same and we should treat others as we want to be treated, with love and respect?

Take either route and you’ll supposedly get to heaven. Doesn’t my way – what I’ve come to believe is the true Christian way – sound just a little more rational and meaningful?

The concept of sin has caused the subjugation of women for thousands of years. Sin is a word that separates people into the classic Christian us versus them mentality. And I’m convinced that focusing on sin is what’s lead so many pedophiles to become priests (or vice versa, who the fuck knows.)

So yeah, I’m hard on you Christians.

Because just like Jesus, I expect more out of you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Redneck Woman – Gretchen Wilson
I am reading: The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger
And I am: A flag-burning slut

Blog, burner, blog

First, there's this from the Washington Post:

The Citizens Flag Alliance, a group pushing for the Senate this week to pass a flag-burning amendment to the Constitution, just reported an alarming, 33 percent increase in the number of flag-desecration incidents this year. The number has increased to four, from three.
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Next, a few thoughts from the smart folks at Fark.com:

Flags mean nothing when what they stand for has been taken away. - 5000gallonsoftoothpaste

The day they ban flag burning is the day a million flags get burned in protest. - Dimensiation

I support the amendment because I used to believe in God, but then my church burned down and now I don't. - quietbs

"Countless men and women have died defending that flag," said Majority Leader Bill Frist, R-Tenn., closing two days of debate. "It is but a small humble act for us to defend it."

"Our country's unique because our dissidents have a voice," said Sen. Daniel Inouye, D-Hawaii. "While I take offense at disrespect to the flag," he said, "I nonetheless believe it is my continued duty as a veteran, as an American citizen, and as a United States senator to defend the constitutional right of protesters to use the flag in nonviolent speech."

Ten-point Toss-up: Which Senator above lost an arm in military service to this country and received the Medal of Honor? Hint: it's not Frist. - Cardinal

I hate people who burn our flag, but I love that I live in a country where people have the right to do it. I may not agree with your choices, but I'll fight to the death to defend your right to make them. That's what being an American is all about. - smuj

Like George Carlin says, leave the symbols to the symbol-minded. - rga143

You do not have a constitutional right to not be offended. - bloodfart

I fail to see what all the fuss is about. Americans should have the same right to burn their flag as any foreigner. - jamspoon

When do we get to start burning foreigners? - cabbyman, responding to jamspoon
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Then there’s this amusing exchange I heard, of all places, on the Rush Limbaugh show yesterday:

“Rush, how come it’s okay for someone to burn a flag but it’s not okay for me to beat the hell out of that person for doing it?” - Caller

“Um, because that would be battery, my friend. There are laws about hurting people. The flag is an inanimate object. It doesn’t have feelings.” - Rush
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Next: A classic quote from the movie "The American President":

America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You've got to want it bad, because it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say, "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil who is standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the 'land of the free'? Then the symbol of your country cannot just be a flag. The symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Now show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then you can stand up and sing about the 'land of the free.'
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And last, from yours truly: We’re blessed to live in a country that still values individual freedom. This freedom is available to everyone; it's a precious and rare thing.

If we can’t see eye to eye on the flag amendment, let’s at least agree that four flag burners so far this year does not constitute a national crisis.

What’s the real crisis? Conservatives losing political ground due to a lack of strong leadership in the White House.

So they drag out the issues guaranteed to motivate their base: Flag burning, abortion, and gay marriage.

And like dogs drooling at a bell, all the patriotic and God-fearing citizens are outraged. They write letters, call radio stations, comment on blogs – and most importantly – vote their candidates back into office.

The conservatives celebrate by doing little more than granting themselves pay raises and sharing the wealth with their high-powered friends via tax cuts until it’s time for re-election, when they pound the pulpits, play on emotions and claim once again they are the only ones protecting the flag and babies and the sacred institution of marriage.

To me, there’s nothing more despicable than an elected leader who betrays public interest – hell, betrays the Constitution – for political and personal gain.

True freedom means recognizing when you’re being manipulated.

True freedom only gets stronger with diversity and dissension.

Anyone who tells you otherwise doesn’t deserve to live here.
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I am listening to: Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues - Eels
I am reading: Not much
And I am: A proud American

Burn, baby, burn

George W. Bush is a fucking idiot. The U.S. government is run by a bunch of money-grubbing ass-hats who couldn’t find their diminutive dicks with a map, both hands and a flashlight. Speaking of dicks, Cheney is a scary, evil white man hell-bent on destroying this nation.

I just love doing that.

What? Creative cursing? Lambasting our leaders? Nipping at the neo-cons?

Nope.

Exercising my constitutional rights. What, you don’t respect me for what I said? That’s okay. But ya gotta respect the fact that I can say it.

Free speech, baby. It’s what made the U.S. great.
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Attention all you Christian types. Here’s an important question: If crosses were outlawed tomorrow, would it have an impact on your faith? If you couldn’t have a cross or wear a cross, would it change your belief in Jesus Christ?

No? I didn’t think so.

Because the cross is a symbol of the Christian faith.

If they all went away tomorrow, the powerful message behind the cross would still be there. I’m guessing stronger than ever.
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So if the U.S. flag – or say, a giant pile of U.S. flags – was burned tomorrow, would it take away your profound and heartfelt belief in your country?

Probably not.

The U.S. flag is a symbol for something far greater. And that symbol could disappear forever, but it wouldn’t change the profound and enlightened intellectual concepts upon which this nation was founded.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But it’s a matter of respect, Mrs. Liberal-SmartyPants-Pottymouth. Crosses and flags are sacred.

Maybe to you, but not to everyone in this country.

And that’s the point: In the U.S. we’re free to worship or burn as we see fit.

Well, at least until recently.

Plenty of witches were actually burned for worshipping early on. Thank the gods that hasn’t happened in a while.
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Here’s the amendment: "The Congress shall have power to prohibit the physical desecration of the flag of the United States."

Remember those strange days right after 9/11? I was part of the crowd sporting a miniature American flag in my car’s rear window.

They were everywhere.

Then, as with everything that spends too much time in the sun, my little flag became faded. The stars and stripes were no longer proud and bright but sad and gray.

So I threw it away. Tossed it in the garbage can unceremoniously, like a used paper towel.

If that flag amendment had passed, what I did would’ve been a crime.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But burning the flag isn’t free speech! It’s an act! An act of treason in my book!

Books, crosses, flags. They’re all material things that represent higher concepts.

Revere the concept, not the physical embodiment of it.
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From Salon.com: "Countless men and women have died defending that flag," said Majority Leader Bill Frist, R-Tenn., closing two days of debate.

Excuse me? Defending the flag? No. Not so much.

They’re defending the ideals behind the flag. They’re defending the freedoms granted by the U.S. Constitution – freedoms that are more sacred than a stack of Bibles or a freight train full of flags.
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One vote. We were just one vote away from altering the Constitution to ban flag desecration – something that, according to CNN, has happened just four times so far this year.

That’s right. We’ve got 11 million illegal immigrants living in this country. Our national debt is $8 trillion.

And our legislators are wasting time on four flag burners?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can tell some of you are about to resort to a little bumper sticker wisdom. Let me help.

“My country: Love it or leave it.”
“No Christ, No Peace. Know Christ, Know Peace.”

I know Christ. And I love, love, love this country.

My faith is stronger than any man-made symbol or any misguided efforts to destroy it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Battle Hymn of the Republic
I am reading: The U.S. Constitution
And I am: Patriotic

Silence

Sometimes there’s simply nothing to say.

And rather than trying to fill that space – with something, anything – sometimes you just have to leave it empty.

Be comfortable with quiet. Everything is as it should be.
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Silence is one of my favorite conversational tactics.

It’s a little trick that all good journalists know and love. Let others talk; you'll be surprised what people say when faced with silence.

Of course, there are those who never let you get a word in edgewise. Unfortunate, as they’re rarely the ones who have anything really interesting to share.
~~~~~~~~~~
A couple of my favorite adages about silence:

“We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak.” - Epictetus

"It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt." - Mark Twain
~~~~~~~~~~~
Wouldya look at that?

I had nothing to say and I filled the space with words about saying nothing.

Damn.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Silent

Magical Monday

“I know how you hate magic, but…” started an e-mail from the aforementioned Lisa in Florida.

First: What a comfort. When somebody knows you long enough to learn the quirky little things. Like the fact that I hate magic or that I refuse to eat food out of baskets lined with paper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yep. I don't like magic.

But first, we should define which type of magic.

There’s magic, Magic, and magick.

I hate the first kind, possess a bit of the second, and am highly skeptical about the third.

Explained:

mag·ic n
1. conjuring tricks and illusions that make apparently impossible things seem to happen, usually performed as entertainment
2. a special, mysterious, or inexplicable quality, talent, or skill
3. a supposed supernatural power that makes impossible things happen, or that gives somebody control over the forces of nature.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Being tricked is not entertainment.

We know it’s not possible to pull a rabbit out of a hat or make some big-boobed bimbo disappear from a box.

But the magician tries to make you believe those things are possible. They’re trying to make you believe a lie.

Why would you pay someone to lie to you? They're professional liars. Not entertainment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
David Copperfield. David Blaine.

Why do magicians insist on David? Does it sound more professional? More legitimate?

If one of these ridiculous magicians actually called himself Dave, the Amazing Bullshit Artist I might actually go see him.

Wait. No I wouldn’t.

But it was a sincere, albeit fleeting thought.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Furthermore, when did sitting in an aquarium for a week become magic?

If David Blaine could make himself disappear forever, now that’s something I would pay to see.
~~~~~~~~~~~
More on the paper-lined baskets thing: I’m not a snob. Really.

I believe that cookies and sammiches taste best when served on a paper towel at the kitchen counter.

What’s with the baskets then? It’s because of the germs. I don’t think they clean ‘em too often and that paper under my burger seems awfully thin.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Magic. Now that’s something I can understand.

It’s a Michael Jordan dunk. It’s singing along with the crowd at a U2 concert in Soldier Field back in 1996. It’s the fireflies putting on their synchronized light show in my backyard.

And it was me, mowing on Saturday: When every turn, every movement flowed into the next resulting in a flawless lawn.

Magic with a capital ‘m’ is when everything comes together effortlessly.

I’ve experienced it and can even make it happen sometimes, but not always.

There’s a little bit of Magic in all of us. Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Then there’s magick. A touchy subject because there’s a risk even talking about it.

You mean the satanic stuff, right?

No. Before the early Christians turned earth-worshipping religions into evil, there was magick.

Today many modern pagans believe that you can in fact make the universe bend to your will by using spells.

It’s a conundrum, though and something I can’t get my mind around.

Because good pagans are supposed to believe in the adage: “If it harms none, do what thou will.”

But if you find it necessary to make something happen via a spell, you’re messing with The Plan and there will be Consequences.

Furthermore, who needs magick if you can make something happen the old-fashioned way via hard work, determination or – if all else fails – wads of cash?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I just thought of a good spell that wouldn’t harm anyone and certainly wouldn’t mess with your Karma: a spell to make your garden grow.

I wonder if that’s why they call it Miracle Gro.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“If it harms none, do what thou will.”

Do what you feel like, just don’t hurt anyone.

Isn’t that the same as the Golden Rule?

Yep.

Even pagans believe you should treat others as you want to be treated. They just said it a little differently.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Muted train conversations
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Magical

Extra, extra

“Help out Children’s Memorial, folks! Get your Special Edition of the Sun-Times for just a buck!”

That was me yesterday morning.

Just a few minutes into it and I had my spiel: Make eye contact. Smile big. Shout.

Our team sold all but 10 newspapers in a little less than three hours. We made $220.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The good: “I saw this on the news this morning,” said one lady after making a beeline for me out of the crowd. “Thanks for being out here.”

Chicago Streets & San workers stopped and holding up traffic in their big blue truck, buying papers.

“That hospital saved my grandson,” said a woman with gray hair and the brightest blue eyes. “He’s eight now and doing fine, but he had to have quite a few surgeries to fix his heart.”

A taxi driver stopped at the light, waving me over to the middle lane of traffic to give me a smile and a dollar.

“Here,” said another woman, passing a crinkled up $10. “I don’t need any change. My grandchild is alive today. An amazing place, that hospital.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Loop is quite different in the early, early morning. Just like being backstage before a play.

Remember that homeless vet who sits on the crates by the Madison Street Bridge? Turns out he’s pretty good at that whole ‘weak and forlorn, help me’ gig.

I caught him looking spry and energetic, fairly sprinting up Wacker Drive to Madison with his crates.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bad: People purposely cutting the corner to avoid me. Classic. I could see them, seeing me in my bright green get-up.

One woman tried to grab a paper out of my hand and when I told her it was “for charity, just a buck” she scowled at me and hurried off.

An ex co-worker of mine: Happy to see me after more than two years until I asked him to help a good cause.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
After 7 a.m. the crowds really build until it’s a veritable wall of people coming at you from the two train stations east of the bridge.

I watch them. Each one, a different purpose. A different destination.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“People sure look beaten down, don’t they?” I said to my co-worker Diana. “Looks like they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “The thing is, I’m pretty sure I look like that when I’m walking to work, too.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ugly: A Loop Suit looked me straight in the eye, walked over to the Sun-Times box ten feet away and bought a paper.

I guess it wouldn’t have been particularly charitable had I whacked him over the head with my Special Edition Sun-Times.

But it would’ve felt so good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few lessons from yesterday:

1) Standing on a street corner selling anything is not easy. I have a new appreciation for my comfy, cushy office job.

2) 98% of commuters do not want to be bothered in the morning. They are a crabby, selfish bunch that wouldn’t crack a smile if you handed ‘em a million bucks.

3) I am one of them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Re-engaged

It’s 4:38 a.m.

And I’m on a Metra train bound for Chicago.

“You’re NOT workin’, are ya?”

That’s Darrell, the (42-year-old called in to work the early shift divorced with three kids lookin’ to buy a laptop) train conductor I just met.

I’ll say it again: it’s 4:38 in the morning.

Way too early to be up, showered, and out. Way too early to be conversatin’ with anyone.

“You’re so tan! Ya just get back from vacation or somethin’?”
“Where do you work?”
“You’re not married or have a boyfriend, do ya?”

And way too fucking early for that kind of crap, for sure.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I settle into my seat, crabby that I missed the 4:30 express. The extra ten minutes of sleep was not worth it.

I miss Sir Richard on the 7:42, who is not Darrell and gives me water and reminds me so much of my grandfather who died way back in 1978.
~~~~~~~~~~~
So why ARE you up this early today, Heather?

My company is participating in a special charity event. So at exactly 6:20, I need to be camped at the corner of Madison and Wacker selling newspapers.

Yes.

Extra, extra. And all that.

Today is the Chicago Sun-Times Kids’ Day to benefit Children’s Memorial Hospital.

Corporate teams all over Chicagoland are selling special editions of the newspaper for $1 each to benefit the hospital.

Great hospital, great cause.

Still too fucking early.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Again, with the irony.

As much as I love supporting this cause – it’s one of my favorite charities – I’d much rather be writing for the newspaper than selling them on a corner.

I know what some of you are thinking (Well at least one of you and you know who you are, Lisa in Florida):

“Could be worse, Hedy. You could be selling something ELSE on a street corner in Chicago! Buahahahahaha!”

That would be extremely funny if it wasn’t so damn early.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And yes, it could be worse.

I could be the parent of a small child who is fighting leukemia.

I could be up this early because I’m on my way to Children’s Memorial at this time every day because the thought of his frightened, weak little body alone in that big hospital bed is more than I can take. I could be wondering if we can afford to make the house payment this month because I can’t work and we’ve stopped opening the medical bills that seem to come every day now. I could be wondering how much more time I’ll have with my son who is Everything, so I soak up every minute, every precious hour with him like a big weepy sponge.

Yes, it could be worse.

That’s what I’ll think about, selling those newspapers on that corner so early this morning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The noises a train makes when it stops at every town between Aurora and Chicago
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Good

I am reading

a book called ‘Vanishing Acts’ by Jodi Picoult.

It’s about a woman whose father kidnaps her when she’s four years old to save her from growing up with an abusive and alcoholic mother. The main character, Delia, thinks that her mother died in a car accident. At the age of 32, the whole thing comes unraveled: Delia learns that her father is a fugitive and her mother is alive.

The book sucked me right in – I started it Sunday night and haven’t been able to put it down.

But now I’m more than half way through and it’s getting a little irritating.

There’s too much whining about having bad parents. She doesn’t “know who to trust now.”

Get over yourself, lady.

Your father had the courage to break the law in order to save you from an unhappy childhood.

Good parents do whatever it takes to make sure their kids grow up happy and healthy. The lies they tell early on to protect us shouldn’t be held against them once we’re all grown up.

And they certainly shouldn’t be used as an excuse for our own failings as adults.

Even if you had bad parents (or none at all) it’s a lesson in how not to be, right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This web site is fascinating: PostSecret

Slap your confession on a postcard, mail it in, and they publish it.

But the most recent batch (they’re published every Sunday) had to do with Father’s Day and I’m irritated because most of the confessions were whiney about – you guessed it – bad dads.

Based on the postcards, you could assume:

1. Bad fathers outnumber the good ones;
   
2. People who submit anonymous confessions to web sites might have issues with taking responsibility for their own shit; or
3. People who had great fathers don’t have much to confess.

I don’t know the answer to that one.

But I do know that as mature adults, it’s our responsibility to get over the minor and often major traumas that come with childhood.

But…but…but…my parents were abusive! My mom was an alcoholic! My dad lied to me!

That’s their shit. Don’t make it yours.

There’s a lesson in every bad thing that happens. Your job is to figure it out.

And for Christ’s sake, stop whining about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s easy for you to say, Heather.

You have good parents.

Hell yeah, I do. They fuckin’ rock.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my share of issues (those of you who know me best can stop nodding now, thank you very much.)

They’re MY issues.

I’m not looking to blame anyone – especially not my parents and especially not this late in the game – for the shit I haven’t figured out yet.

Your parents have an influence on the adult you become. No doubt.

If you had good ones, try to be like them. If you had bad parents, learn from their mistakes; don’t make them your own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The train rocking back and forth on the tracks
I am reading: Crain’s Chicago Business 40 Under 40 application
And I am: Irritated & preachy

Inflamed wieners

A few weeks ago I walked through the better parts of the Loop behind a backpack with the following words printed on it:

6th World Congress on Inflammation
Vancouver
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In·flam·ma·tion n.

1. The act of inflaming or the state of being inflamed.
2. A localized protective reaction of tissue to irritation, injury, or infection, characterized by pain, redness, swelling, and sometimes loss of function.

Not to be confused with:

Flambé v.
To drench with a liquor, such as brandy, and ignite.

This is just speculation, but I’m thinking more than a few flambés have led to some unexpected inflammation. Oui?
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just think: These folks gathered at least six times to talk about – of all things – inflammation.

And it’s not a simple meeting or conference. It’s a World Freakin’ Congress, for pity’s sake.

What do they talk about? Isn’t inflammation just a symptom of some other problem like a burn or cyst? And is there a special session on boils?

[Editorial note: Boils are my favorite type of inflammation. What’s yours?]

“Are you going to the WCI this year, Betty? It’s gonna ROCK! David Blaine is the keynote. He’s gonna soak in a brandy-filled aquarium for three days and then set himself on FIRE.”

They party it up, watch a slide show and do shots of Jagermeister every time somebody says “inflamed.”

“Oh, look at THAT one, Stanley. That one’s REALLY inflamed.”
“Is that the frank or the beans?”
“YOUCH!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of franks, yesterday afternoon I found myself walking through the Loop again, this time behind a backpack with “Johnsonville” on it.

Johnsonville. As in bratwursts.

Again, fascinating. What did this person have to do to get a Johnsonville bratwurst bag?

Send in proofs of purchase? Win a brat-eating contest?

The obvious answer is that she works/worked for them. But that would be too easy.

I prefer to imagine the following:

“Keep eatin’, honey! Just 12 more to go and Momma gets her bratwurst backpack!”
“Brats for dinner again? I want some chicken, Momma!”
“Shut UP and EAT your BRAT, brat!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I looked up boil, just to be certain it qualified as an inflammation. I think it does:

Boil n.
A painful pus-filled abscess on the skin caused by bacterial infection of a hair follicle.

On the way past boil, I discovered:

Car·bun·cle n.
A multiple-headed boil

Ew. Completely lost my appetite for brats.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Wire Train – Last Perfect Thing
I am reading: Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult
And I am: Neither hungry nor inflamed

Everything

tastes better when you’ve been away for a bit.

Like the bottled water that Sir Richard gave me this morning.

Crisp and clear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A guy sitting across from me on the train this morning wouldn't stop yapping. So I wrote a bunch on the train, but I'm sorry to report it's mostly crap.

Highlights: Put on some fucking pants. Helmet laws suck but not why you think. You can't outlaw stupidity.

See what I mean? And that was only a taste of crap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Observation: Women have a reputation for talking too much. But it's mostly men who talk incessantly on their mobile phones in public.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Good news: Sir Richard had some tests and was relieved to learn that there is no mass in his throat as suspected. It remains a mystery why he's coughing/clearing his throat so much, but at least it's not the Worst Possible News.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: On-line articles about the Clutter family
I am listening to: Wire Train – The Last Perfect Thing
And I am: Back, but not really Here

Sporadic

spo·rad·ic adj
1. occurring occasionally at intervals that have no apparent pattern
2. used to describe a disease that appears in scattered or isolated instances or locations

You decide which definition is most appropriate. I'm taking a little time away to rejuvenate.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The rain
I am reading: In Cold Blood by Truman Capote
And I am: Elsewhere

Songs about ass

Are you on iTunes? Or do you use another program to download and organize your music?

Yesterday I discovered a new way to build play lists.

I was looking for “Here With Me” by Dido, but had a brain fart and couldn’t remember the name of the song or the artist.

For some reason I remembered that “angel” was in the album title (No Angel.) So I plugged that into the search function on iTunes.

Voila! I had every angel-related song from my library:

Calling All Angels by Train
If God Would Send His Angels by U2
Angel by Jimi Hendrix
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
Angel to You, Devil to Me by The Click Five
The Adventure by Angels & Airwaves
Here With Me by Dido
Thank You by Dido
City of Angels (movie soundtrack)

A neat-o new song list.

Try it. Be creative. Use other words or names.

Believe. Bob. Hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ass brought back quite a few because of all the words it is in: classic, passage, massacre, glass, Cassidy, Bassey.

And don’t bother asking.

I have no idea why I tried ass. Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Good news: Love came back with more than 60 songs.

Hate? Only four.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Songs about ass
I am reading: Web Solutions practice overview
I am: Bloated

Our Lord – Oh Lord – Not So Much

I’m walking across Madison last night toward Union Station, when I see it: The late afternoon sun shining through a glorious crimson banner flying high just beyond the bridge.

Breathtaking.

A marketing blitz for Spamalot, I think. What fun.

Approaching, I realized: Not so much.

Standing beneath the flag were several serious-looking men wearing matching red vests emblazoned – because emblazoned is the only way to properly describe the gold lettering on this sort of accoutrement – with “Tradition, Family, Property.”

They were passing out pamphlets.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I was in Steinberg’s column again yesterday.

It’s pathetic and fun all at once.

Pathetic because it seems it’s the only way I’ll be seeing my name in print.

And fun, well, for the same reason: My name is in print.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steinberg is the guy I wanted to be when I grew up.

“You wanted to be a short Jewish dude with a receding hairline?”

No. I wanted to be an insightful and sarcastic columnist for the Chicago Sun-Times.

Except I didn’t figure that out until the ripe old age of 30. I’m a bit of a late bloomer.

So I satisfy this inane lust for fame in the twilight of my life by sending Steinberg the occasional quip.

And pushing out this daily blog for a scattered yet appreciative following.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of late bloomers, those red-vested shmos were handing out pamphlets about the quintessential late bloomer: Jesus.

I had to laugh reading it.

“Real Americans are rejecting The Da Vinci Code.”

Under that: “Rejecting The Da Vinci Code – How a Blasphemous Novel Brutally Attacks Our Lord and the Catholic Church.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Real Americans? Could we define that?

Real Americans are not the hate-mongering ass-hats who are hell-bent on homogenizing this country while denying others (gays and immigrants, to name a few) the rights they enjoy so thoroughly.

Real Americans are not necessarily Christian. They’re Muslim and Jewish and Atheist. And don’t forget the blessed Turnip Worshippers.

Real Americans are people who truly understand the responsibility that comes with a powerful document like the Bill of Rights.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let’s say for a minute that I’m a hardcore Jesus Freak.

A Born Again Believer. Faithful to the core.

[Editorial note: this could be challenging for those of you who’ve had the joy of knowing me even slightly. So close your eyes and think of the actual Hardcore Jesus Freak in your life (because we all have at least one, God bless ‘em) and then imagine their face on my body. Did it work? I didn’t think so. But gee, wasn’t it fun picturing these freakish boobs on someone so saintly?]

A digression. Sorry.

If I believe with my Whole Heart and Soul everything that Jesus did and said, then why the loving fuck should I care what some fictional adventure novel has to say?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at the pamphlet: I categorically dismiss the word blasphemous and anyone who uses it. The same goes for the word sin or any of its derivations.

Don’t trust people who use those words.

Folks who use those words have an unhealthy preoccupation with the transgressions of others.

Trust me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The biggest crack up was “Brutally Attacks Our Lord.”

First, all the brutal attacking happened 2000+ years ago.

Your Lord is long past the point of feeling any pain.

If Jesus truly is who you believe he is then there’s nothing in Heaven and certainly not on Earth that can threaten that.

Right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But it’s insulting! This concept that Jesus married that whore Mary Magdelene and fathered children and didn’t die on the cross! Blasphemer!”

Your Lord doesn’t need you to defend Him. He needs you to quietly follow his teachings and be kind and stop waving giant flags while pushing ideological bullshit on others.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Love others as yourself. That’s what Jesus said.

Does it really make a difference if he was married? Or to whom?

Does that change the message?

Not so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Songs about angels
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Blasphemous and pathetic, but having fun.

Turtle in the road

“Did you see that?” Jim asked. “Big turtle in the road.”

It looked like a crumpled brown paper bag stranded in the narrow space between the two lanes on Randall near Ice Cream Drive.

For a few seconds I felt that irrational need to have him turn the car around so we could go back and rescue the wayward reptile.

But I had a train to catch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It reminded me of the time I was on the Great Western bike trail doing my usual Saturday ride from St. Charles to Sycamore.

On the way back, I saw a tiny raccoon staggering along the side of the trail. It was daytime and the little guy was alone so it was obvious his family had abandoned him.

I stopped for a bit to watch, contemplating how to rescue him.

I was in the middle of nowhere. No backpack. Carrying him while riding with one hand was not an option as it was still a good 10 miles to my car. And what would I do then?

So I left him. I didn’t like it much, but I left.

I did that same ride the following weekend.

And there, on the side of the trail, was that baby raccoon. Dead.

There’s a part of me that says it was abandoned because it was weak and unhealthy.

Nature is cruel yet practical when it comes to such things.

But I still felt like I should’ve done something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not as if that turtle could dash across a lane of traffic like a squirrel.

He was pretty much stuck.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you live in the far west suburbs of Chicago and encounter an abandoned animal please take it to the Fox Valley Wildlife Center on Route 38 in Elburn.

I successfully rescued a baby duck once and they were extremely helpful in that matter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, that won’t help the turtle this morning.

I had a train to catch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Strokes – You Only Live Once
I am reading: Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Heartless

This world is a burning house

I spent most of this morning’s train ride reading the first section of the Chicago Tribune and as much as I could stand of the Sun-Times.

Nothing to report, really.

Plenty of jejune 666 references. Too much celebrity gossip.

And one interesting editorial by Jesse Jackson.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He’s right. I don't like him much, but he's right.

The uber-rich don’t need another tax break.

And while our legislators are fiddling around with constitutional amendments to ban gay marriage and flag burning, Rome is burning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve been learning about Buddha lately.

Twice my dear friend Nelson has kindly and accidentally on purpose left the book behind. Seemed to be a bit of a hint that I ought to spend some time with it.

One line in particular has stayed with me since reading it early Sunday morning: This world is a burning house.

I’m not going to explain the parable, you can read it yourself here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But it’s helping me understand something I’ve struggled with my whole life: compassion.

Stupid people irritate me.

A fairly common trait I’m sure.

But in me it is combined with a dark, ugly tendency to dismiss people I deem unworthy of my time or attention.

Buddha says that stupid people are the ones who need help more than anyone because they can’t help the circumstances under which they were born. That enlightenment is open to them just as much as anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“He can’t even read!” I once said, condemning a man (in my mind) the lowest possible way.

As much as I despised the ignorance and cruelty of that particular person, looking back, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t his fault that he had never learned how to read.

And looking back, it was my ignorance and cruelty that was far more despicable.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This world is a burning house. Indeed.

But I’m trying like hell to find the way out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Pearl Jam – World Wide Suicide
I am reading: The Teaching of Buddha
And I am: Quiet

I'm guessing

Due to a work-related errand, I am on the Metra train from LaFox today.

When I lived in Geneva from 1992 to 1998, LaFox was that teeny tiny town just east of Middle Nowhere. Now there’s a train station. And more than 100 cars in the parking lot at 7:30 this morning.

The scenery is quite different from the Aurora train. Trees. Farms. Horses.

No graffiti. And (I’m guessing) no niggaz.
~~~~~~~~~
I could do this every day.

I could catch the train in Geneva and arrive at a station just a block from my office. My regular station is a good 10-minute walk (about four and a half blocks.)

The ride from LaFox is less bumpy, too. I’m guessing that all the white-collar shmos from the leafy communities along this high-falutin’ line paid a little extra for that.
~~~~~~~~~
It’s hard to believe it’s been almost five years since 9/11.

I don’t know why I thought of that today.
~~~~~~~~~
I could do this route, for sure.

But I won’t.

There are more than a few reasons, but here are two: I could never leave Sir Richard the Gallant train conductor. And I’m guessing my ass would get huge from not walking so much.
~~~~~~~~~
Another ominous date is coming: tomorrow is June 6, 2006.

That’s 666 for you Bible thumper types.

I read somewhere that a lot of pregnant women are being induced so as to avoid giving birth to the Anti-Christ.

Good plan. I’m guessing.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Quiet

The Ride

“We need to re-connect,” he said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

He was right.

You pop in the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction or Natural Born Killers.

You open the sunroof and roll down the windows.

And you head west to the farm roads.

Out where the sky takes over and the air is thick with the earth’s essentials: dirt and manure and all kinds of lush green growing things.

You’re going nowhere and everywhere and the peace of it all takes over your soul.

It was joyful and refreshing and necessary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do it.

Take a ride.

Do something.

Do whatever it takes to get you far away the television and the phone and the laptop and anything else that distracts you from what’s Really Important.

Re-connect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: A client proposal
I am listening to: Howie Day - Collide
And I am: Connected

Shmos

From yesterday’s New York Times on-line edition:

"After a thorough and comprehensive search, no remains of Mr. Hoffa have been located," Judith M. Chilen, an assistant special agent, said at a news briefing at the farm entrance.

More than 35 agents, geologists, archaeologists and other experts spent 12 days digging and demolishing a 100-foot barn to examine the ground beneath the foundation.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Last time I checked (just now), ‘thorough’ and ‘comprehensive’ are both variations on ‘complete.’

I can’t decide what’s more irritating.

The fact that we’re paying nearly three dozen highly educated professionals to sift through dirt looking for a dead teamster or that they’re using way too many syllables to describe the effort.

And who was Jimmy Hoffa, really? The New York Times didn’t even bother explaining it in the article. No background whatsoever.

Maybe it’s because the venerable writers at the Paper of Record assume everyone already knows. Or maybe they believe their avid followers read the six (yes, six) previous articles they published on this burning issue over the past two weeks.

In reality, I think it’s because it is downright embarrassing to admit they’re still covering the quest to find some working-class shmo who’s been dead for more than 30 years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Still, the Hoffa legacy lives on: A Laborers union is on strike in Illinois today.

Could somebody please explain what happened to striking workers actually marching to protest whatever it is that they’re protesting?

Every striker I’ve seen lately has his ass planted firmly in a lawn chair next to a giant box of Dunkin’ Donuts and a boom box. Yapping on his mobile phone.

They don’t look outraged. And certainly not mistreated.

They seem comfortable. And rather happy to be lounging sleepily in the sunshine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Editorial note: I received an unbelievable and unwarranted load of crap over the whole golf/golfing thing yesterday. Now there was some genuine outrage. You working-class shmos could take a lesson from those highly put-upon and pissed off white-collar shmos.

Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Chicago Sun-Times
I am listening to: Howie Day - Collide
And I am: Complete

A few things

Please don’t say ‘in regards to.’

It’s in regard to or regarding.

Regards is what you say at the end of a letter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Furthermore, you’re not golfing. Or worse, going golfing.

You wouldn’t say I’m going baseballing. Or basketballing.

It’s playing golf, dammit.

Pay attention, folks. This shit’s important.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a hoagie for dinner last night.

I love that word.

HOAGIEHOAGIEHOAGIE.

Here in the Midwest we call ‘em subs. But people from New Jersey like to call long crusty-breaded sammiches hoagies.

Way more fun. Way more tasty. Don’t you agree?

HOAGIE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A tiny caveat on the regard/regards/regarding thing. You can say ‘as regards’ something if you like.

But please don’t do it around me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: An article called "Going Beyond God" from Salon.com
I am listening to: Gromit chew his breakfast
And I am: Hoagie-riffic!

Silly Friday

When did it become an accepted practice for holiday weekends to bleed over into the preceding Friday?

Every other week I have a full day of marketing status meetings with the various practice areas at my company.

Today was supposed to be no different.

Within 15 minutes of arriving in the office, people wanting to leave early for the holiday canceled more than half of them.

And I guarantee that after lunch this place will be a ghost town.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
E-mailing last night:

Jim P: I tried setting my e-mail password to ‘penis.’ It said my password wasn't long enough.

Jeff: That's what you get for sitting naked in front of the computer with the web-cam on...ba-dum-bum

Heather: Try ‘Jeff’spenis.’ That might work. :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sales Pipeline Meeting (but not really)
I am reading: Steinberg/Sun-Times
And I am: Needing this weekend

And it's deep too

Passing the train yard near Aurora. I am reading graffiti on the cars.

Here’s a new one: ‘Niggas Rule Forever.’

Interesting.

If in fact niggas are in charge, one would hope they’d do a better job of getting the word out.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, Heather.

You’re not supposed to use that word.

Really? I’m not so sure about that.

It’s not as patently offensive as the Classic N-Word.

It’s n-word lite.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And who are these niggas, really?

The idiot who penned that intriguing graffito probably wasn’t even African American.

Just some sad, attention-starved poseur white kid who listens to rap and wears G-Unit garb to piss off his decidedly white and benign middle-class parents.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Stop saying it! Nigga is offensive! Stop! You’re white!

Fuck that.

Of course I would never be so stupid as to use that word among my African American acquaintances.

But c’mon. This is America.

If some nigga is gonna slap it on the side of a train car, I am free to talk about it.

Right?
~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: More train car graffiti
I am listening to: Richard Pryor - That Nigger's Crazy
And I: Ain't dead yet, motherfucker!

Uncool

'The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're uncool.' - Lester Bangs, Almost Famous
~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: new web site
I am listening to: Sheryl Crow - Every Day is a Winding Road
And I am: Uncool

It's all about marketing

The homeless veteran who sits on milk crates at the Madison Street Bridge changes his small cardboard sign more often than you’d think.

Today it read: “This Memorial week please help a homeless vet. Thank you!”

Nice tie-in with the holiday. Good marketing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Yesterday I walked by the Other Homeless Guy who stands and sways outside the far East entrance to the mall at Ogilvy train station. He was wearing shiny new headphones – those tiny ear bud thingies that Currently Cool But Futurely Deaf People of the World are cramming into their heads these days.

If you’re gonna beg people for money at least have enough sense to look mildly homeless. Bad marketing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well you’re not just a bitch, Heather, you’re a snob, too.

So what if the homeless dude wears new headphones? Maybe they were a gift. Who are you to deny him that tiny bit of comfort in his otherwise tattered existence?

I’m not saying he shouldn’t have the headphones. I’m saying he shouldn’t wear them whilst begging for money.

It’s all perception.

Say I’m a tourist fresh off the train from Iowa or Nebraska or some other charming, sans-homeless state: Do I give my hard-earned money to the sign-sporting vet or the swaying and decidedly stinky dude with the spiffy new headset?

Good marketing wins every time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: And writing content for the new web site
I am listening to: Three Days Grace – Animal I Have Become
And I am: Surly

I took

a different way to the train station this morning. By necessity more than anything – I paid a visit to the dry cleaner.

The drive was slightly more scenic than usual and seemed to be faster.

We’ll see if it's really faster or just a fluke when I do it again tomorrow morning.

I’m a big advocate of breaking out of habits – we creatures tend to go the same way, do the same things all the time. It’s comforting I guess.

For today, get out of your routine. Turn right instead of left and see where it takes you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I did an amazingly thoughtless and selfish thing Thursday night. I was supposed to meet a very good friend of mine for dinner and instead I stayed at the bowling alley because I was having such a good time.

Ugly, isn’t it?

What’s worse, it’s not the first time I’ve done this to this particular friend. A friend I’ve known for nearly 25 years.

We get to see each other barely a handful of times each year. And I blew it off.

I’m sorry.

It isn’t nearly enough to fix the damage I’ve done this time.

There’s nothing I can do to make things better. So I’m working on figuring out why I did it in the first place.

Aside from the obvious answer that I am an incredibly selfish bitch.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But wait there’s more: Today is his birthday.

Nice job, Heather. Way to go.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: My corporate AmEx statement
I am listening to: R.E.M. – So. Central Rain
And I am: Selfish

Actually

got some work done on the train ride in this morning. It provides a little jump-start on the day and makes me feel like I’m slightly less behind than usual.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night I went bowling for the first time in nearly 20 years at Southport Lanes in Chicago.

A neat place. Not your typical smoky-dirty-trashy bowling alley. Probably the most fun I’ve ever had in rented shoes.

But I think the main reason it was better than expected was because of The Big Lebowski – the quintessential bowling movie.

There were a handful of us Achievers in the crowd so we spent the night cracking ourselves up with lines from the movie.

“Obviously you’re not a golfer.”

“This is not ‘Nam. This is bowling. There are rules.”

“I'm just gonna go find a cash machine.”

“That rug really tied the room together.”

“I’ve got a beverage here.”

And of course: “The Dude abides.”

If you haven’t seen it, please do. If you’ve seen it and didn’t like it, give it another try.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I went bowling, yes. But I did not bowl well.

Honestly? 46.

My final score was 90-something, however, because of the dollar bills I stuffed in the ball before whipping it down the lane.

The pins at Southport Lanes are still set up manually. So if you throw them a little green they'll knock a few extra pins down for you.

There goes another one of Heather's Rules for Life I guess.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Healthcare practice docs
I am listening to: Not the fuckin’ Eagles, man.
And I am: Abiding

Trees Need to Sway

It's my mantra.

When I feel far away from everything and everyone -- like I do right now -- I focus on that and it brings me back.
~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Oracle Partner Business Plan
I am listening to: Nothing
And I am: Disconnected

Hed-O-Riffic!

Okay kiddies, today we are adding ‘O-Riffic’ to everything.

It makes even the most unpleasant things sound kinda fun.

C’mon, try it.

Crap-o-Riffic!
~~~~~~~~
Remember when I said I wasn’t against much?

That’s not entirely true.

Turns out I do in fact have some hard and fast rules which, when followed, have made my life easier over the years.

Heather’s Rules for Life:

No littering
No eating desserts with the words ‘bread’ or ‘pudding’
No buying or driving German cars
No attending or hosting home shopping parties
No putting someone on hold to take another call
No bowling
No attending weddings I don't believe in
No talking on mobile phones in public
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
These are your only rules? What about lying, cheating and stealing? How about no killing?

Well, at my age those things ought to be a given, don’t you agree?

Just like the Catholic Church, these are just a few rules to supplement the basic commandments and make my life a little more pleasant.

Littering is the #1 rule and my favorite because it’s the only one I’ve never actually broken. That crying Indian dude really got to me when I was a kid. And yes, back then he was an Indian goddammit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are exceptions to these rules, of course.

If I end up in Hell (it could happen) it will be a home shopping party where I am forced to eat bad snacks with women I don’t know while buying over-priced shit that I don’t need for all eternity.

However, I recently attended a home party that was quite lovely: the snacks were good, the chicks were fun and I bought moderately priced jewelry that I actually like and wear.

Big Thanks to my dear friend Judy for changing my mind on this one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now that I think about it the Home Shopping Party in Hell also would involve bread or rice pudding for dessert.

Dessert is chocolate.

It’s mousse. Or cookies. Or cake.

It’s not some bullshit main dish dressed up with a little cinnamon to make it seem like dessert.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you done it? Have you added ‘O-Riffic’ yet?

Do it at least once today and I promise – just like my polka-dot underwear and that song by James Taylor – it’ll put you in a good mood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Sales & Marketing Status Reports
I am listening to: Garbage – You Look So Fine
And I am: Hed-O-Riffic!

Rubs, Meetings, Zen

“You want some rubs, Grommie? How about a rub?”

That was last night.

When I ask Gromit the Dog if he wants a rub he rolls over on his side and puts one paw up as if to say, “Start here, please.”

Gromit really loves rubs. So before he goes to bed each night, he gets a mini massage.

Heather, that’s pretty twisted. Does Jim get rubs?

Of course. But he prefers scratches.

There’s another reason why Grommie gets rubs every night.

When you are massaging your dog or cat, you get to know the lumps and bumps of their little bodies. You notice things that weren’t there before.

And that can save your pet’s life.

For example, last night I was rubbing Grom’s ears. And who doesn’t love a good ear rub, really?

I noticed a dark spot on his right ear. It could’ve been a small scab; sometimes when he’s scratching he gets a little too enthusiastic and breaks the skin.

This was not a scab.

Even though I’d never seen one before, looking close, I knew exactly what it was: a tick.

Ew. A big ugly bug burrowing its way into Gromit’s ear.

Luckily it hadn’t been there too long. I pulled the vile thing out with some tweezers. And Gromit licked my face in appreciation.

I’ve heard that ticks are particularly bad this year. So please do your dogs a favor and give them a rub once in a while.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I have six meetings today. They start at 9 a.m. and end around 4 p.m. With no breaks. These are regular meetings that were rescheduled from Friday because we were all out at a user group meeting for the day.

I’m doing my best to fight off a serious case of the crabbies because it means I will get virtually nothing done all day.

In the corporate world people spend way too much time talking about doing things and not nearly enough time actually doing them.

Thankfully, I’m running most of the meetings so it won’t be too torturous.

There are few things I do really well, but I’ve learned from experience how to run a tight meeting.

1) Have an agenda.
2) Stick to it (without being a Meeting Nazi)
3) Come away with a list of things to do, who is doing them and when they are due
4) If it lasts longer than an hour, you’re wasting time

Some people like to think that meetings are social time. I’m sure it harkens back to story hour from grade school. And I’m sure the Story Teller really thinks he’s doing the group a favor by regaling us with all of his weekend adventures.

Once the Story Teller gets going, it’s hard to stop him. I usually let him tell one.

After that, he’s on lock down and we’re focused on the shit we need to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Getting off the train I felt that energizing comfort of being back into my routine.

The city smells like chocolate today. It’s so good to be back.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Heather Nova – Walk This World
I am reading: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Persig
And I am: Struggling to Stay Zen

Spent

an inordinate amount of time waiting in airports this past weekend. Due to "weather" my flight to Detroit was 2.5 hours late Friday night. Wouldn’t you know it, the flight home was way too early and now I’m waiting for Jim to rescue me from the baggage claim at O’Hare.

It is 7:45 a.m. on Monday.

Sitting inside by entrance 3C, getting ready to launch into a serious piss and moan session because I don’t have any observations to share, when two little birds land at my feet.

It was as if they were saying “Hey you, wake up! You’ve done and seen a lot this weekend! Think about it.”

Okay. Here’s a summary:

The late flight was worthwhile because I got to see the crisp full moon lighting up the clouds beneath me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love being a Hertz #1 Club member because it makes me feel special – my name appears on a sign telling me which car is mine. I don’t have to bother with checking in or any other bullshit, I just hop in and go go go.

Actually, any service that makes me feel special is good. I can't think of any others right now. Can you?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"She woke up every day like it was the first day of her life." - Da, regarding my maternal grandmother, Alma.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cheerios with a banana for breakfast was nostalgic like most everything else over the past two days.

As planned, spent most of Saturday on my hands and knees in my parents' attic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I spend more time on my knees than you realize, Mom.”
“Right, Monica.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cleaning out the attic makes a nice allegory for the mental cleanse needed to continue my Year of Traveling Lightly.

It was deeply therapeutic.

The simple physical labor of moving boxes and bags and furniture. Combined with uncovering childhood relics.

Sorting, organizing, discarding.

A lot came down. Dusty junk that lost its purpose long ago.

Old ways of thinking, old habits developed to cope with another time that got stored away for some reason. Now just wasting space.

I’m imagining my mind like the attic Saturday afternoon: an open, clean space with just a few boxes of memories too precious to throw away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The speed bag in the garage reminded me how satisfying it is to hit something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As a reward for my good behavior I visited my old college roommate and her family Saturday night. The time just flies with them.

As well as we know each other, we still learn things about each other that are surprising, funny and deeply moving.

As always, they remind me Who I Am.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I just like hearing their stories. I like asking them questions.” - Susie on the old, the poor and the homeless.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Went to St. Peters for Mother's Day Mass.

Yes, I did. Kindly keep your wise-ass comments to yourself.

A few things: Father Cooney was as interesting and funny as my parents said he would be. The church was just as I remembered it. And surprisingly highly conducive to meditation – I lost my feet within the first 10 seconds.

Lots of songs about mothers. Ave Maria is of course, the best.

But there's too goddamn much sit/stand/sing/kneel/sing/stand/sit going on. Too much ceremony and not nearly enough message.

I felt closer to God/the Universe/Whoever in the five minutes I spent meditating before the whole thing started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was so good being home for Mother's Day this year.

A nap. Visits from old friends and neighbors. Navy cake. A trip to my brother's house.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now I’m home cuddled on the couch with the Best Dog in the World eating peanut butter toast.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Work e-mail
I am listening to: Ben Folds - Landed
And I am: Spent

Drove

in to work today. Almost two hours from my house to the Loop.

Rainy, wet, cold ugliness.
~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Heather's To-Do List
I am listening to: Alternative Favorites 2005 mix
And I am: Indifferent

Don’t Mind My Wandering Mind

You see a lot of strange shit on commuter trains.

I’m talking about the regular days. Not on the rare occasion when a self-absorbed ass-hat decides to commit suicide and inconvenience thousands of people in the process.

Warning: if you’re eating breakfast (or dinner if you happen to be in Tokyo) you might wanna wait to read what’s next.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Invisible Man Phenomenon: Involves people in public places who believe no one can actually see them.

On the train ride home about a month ago I watched a guy pick his nose for what seemed like forever. He was holding a book in one hand. And fingering his brain with the other.

He’d take whatever gray treasure he extracted, inspect it briefly, and then pop it in his mouth like a finger full of frosting.

The whole thing is fucked up for sure, but I’m most mystified by the fact that he had to look each time. Maybe the green ones just taste better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Women are classic victims of the IMP. Staring intently into hand-held mirrors, these masterful artists pluck and apply and curl themselves into veritable goddesses, all in under an hour.

This is truly confounding for someone like me. Practically every other morning I stab myself in the eye with the pointy mascara thingy just standing still in my bathroom.

I have no idea how they do it on a (often violently) rocking train.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just so you know, I’m not against nose pickery in general. Just don’t do it in public. And for Pete’s sake use a Kleenex.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You may have noticed I’m not really against much. Some have even branded me (oh, horror!) a bleeding heart liberal.

For you true BHL’s I’m not against you, either.

But I’m not one of you.

I’m more of a Libertarian. Leave me alone; let me do what I want to do – responsibly and without hurting others. You do what you want to do without hurting others and without involving me and we’ll get along just fine.

Worship a turnip. Fuck a pumpkin.

I don’t care what you do with your free time as long as you don’t hurt anyone. Especially children, old people and the handicapped.
~~~~~~~~~~~
All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost. – J.R.R. Tolkien from The Fellowship of the Ring
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Nothing
I am listening to: Pearl Jam – Better Man
And I am: Wandering

You might think

I'm slacking. I'm not.

I've got a job that's been keeping me way too busy lately.

Makes me think of a quote from the quintessential chick movie: Steel Magnolias. Dolly Parton's character says:

"He's so confused he don't know whether to scratch his watch or wind his butt."

I know how he feels. Not confused so much. Just so busy I'm not sure what to do next.

Trust me, I've got plenty to write about -- just no time to do it right now. Hoping to be back soon...
~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Nothing
I am listening to: Nothing
I am: Winding my butt

"Never

trust anything that bleeds for five days and doesn't die." - Mr. Garrison, South Park
~~~~~~~~
It was a very good weekend but somehow I have nothing to report.

Although floating on your back in a pool looking up at a perfectly cloudless blue sky does not suck.
~~~~~~~~
Sir Richard and his crew were back at work today albeit looking somewhat rattled.

Keeping with my policy that Everything is Better with Cookies, I brought Richard his favorites (Pecan Sandies) to hopefully cheer him up a bit. Every time I looked at him he looked like he was about to cry.

Makes me angry.
~~~~~~~~
Hedy's Tip O' the Day: If you must kill yourself, please don't involve really good people who are just trying to do their jobs getting people safely to and from work every day. In fact, don't involve anyone. Just go away quietly. And try not to leave a mess. Thank you.
~~~~~~~~
I am reading: A book by a friend
I am listening to: Pearl Jam - Severed Hand
And I am: Unsettled

I am fascinated

by people walking through the train station hugging pillows.

I've heard some people can't travel without their personal pillow.

I am not particularly attached to mine. It could be lost forever in some bizarre bedding tragedy and I wouldn't miss it for a minute.
~~~~~~~
I am crunchy today.

Crunchy is when you're slightly over-done. Too much of everything makes a person crunchy.

I'm bordering on burnt.
~~~~~~~
Train update: Sir Richard wasn't there this morning. It was an entirely different crew, entirely different train. Makes me wonder how much time they get to take when something like yesterday happens.
~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hyperion marketing channels person doing a presentation (but not really)
I am reading: A draft of a book written by a dear friend
I am: Crunchy

Before today

I complained when trains hit pedestrians.

They deserve it, I used to say. If they’re stupid enough to not heed the signals, they should die.

And then today I felt it happen.

I felt the train hit the person.

I heard the ugly, nauseating, rushing, brushing sound of something like a wet tree branch alongside my train car. It seemed to last forever but probably only went on for 20 seconds. Twenty seconds that amounted to a half mile while the train slowed.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Today marks one year with my current company.

I’ve got a performance review coming up and was using the quiet train time to look over last year’s calendar so that I can document everything I’ve done.

I came to those two really bad days back in August. Remember?

10 a.m. webcast, train ahead of mine hits woman on bike, late, late, late, LiveMeeting fuck-up only five people can access and Mom said “Bet you’re glad you’re not that woman on the bike.” Next day: Medinah event cancelled, forgot to call One Very Important Guy, Very Pissed Off, and Mom said: “Bet you wish you were the woman on the bike.”

The urgent train horn interrupted the bad memory and that’s right when it hit the pedestrian. What are the odds?
~~~~~~~~~~~
All of us unloaded about half a mile from the Downers Grove Main train station.

Jumping out of a train car without a platform isn’t easy. Especially with a bad knee. But there were guys standing outside to help.

I walked up to the scene. I don’t know why. Surprisingly few people were standing there.

One large piece of yellow tarp covering part of the remains. Another medium-sized tarp 20 feet east covering more remains. At least 10 small pieces of red and white tarp held down by rocks covering up the . . . pieces.

“There are just too many pieces everywhere. It will be a long time before another train runs east today,” said the police officer standing just beyond the yellow crime scene tape.
~~~~~~~~~~~
So now I am home. It’s lovely outside.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: work e-mail
I am listening to: the birds chirping
And I am: disturbed

I used to be a worm

If you're a bird be an early bird
and catch the worm for your breakfast plate
if you're a bird be an early, early bird
but if you're a worm, sleep late.

- Shel Silverstein
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Listen, any time I do something bad it comes back and bites me in the ass right away." - Heather
"Some people really like that." - Brian
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: SharePoint registration crap
I am listening to: Beatles - I'll Follow the Sun
And I am: Quiet

You know who

He’s the guy who arrives late and leaves early. He takes credit for the ideas and work of others. He wanders around your workplace with a coffee mug in his hand socializing more than half the day. He's always figuring out a way to work the system so he can get something for nothing. And he’s a master at holding other people responsible for the shit he’s supposed to be doing.

Know him? I bet you do. I bet there’s at least one person like that where you work.

I’ve got one here. We actually work in the same department, for the same manager.

It would drive me absolutely bat-shit if someone judged my work by his performance.

And you know what? I’ll take one hard-working illegal immigrant over 10 of those lazy-ass bastards any day.

So don’t talk to me about the small percentage of immigrants who will take advantage of the system.

Because they haven’t cornered the market on laziness, not by a long shot.
~~~~~~~~~~~
In between rainstorms, we cleaned up the front yard on Saturday.

I was on my hands and knees (well, knee actually since a year later I still can’t put any weight on the bad one) for a couple hours pulling weeds. Then raking. Then stuffing all the piles into waste bags.

It’s exhausting work if you haven’t done it in a while.

If, maybe you have a team of Mexicans who come to your house and do it for you. A hard-working band of immigrants who may or may not be here legally.

But you don’t care, do you? Your yard looks fabulous!

And your back doesn’t hurt at all. Like mine did on Sunday. Like theirs do every day.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Steinberg on the Immigration March in the Sun-Times
I am listening to: The All-American Rejects – Dirty Little Secret
And I am: Pissed Off

Sí, se puede

Yes we can.

That’s what they were chanting. The endless throng of immigrants walking down Jackson Blvd. past the Sears Tower into the heart of the Loop.

Their goal was to show strength in numbers but all I could see was individual faces.

Hopeful brown eyes. Lots of smiles.

People like you and me who just want to work hard and take care of their families and have fun occasionally.

Yes we can. Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Other observations

Standing at the corner of Jackson and Wacker for more than 30 minutes, American flags outnumbered Mexican flags 10 to 1.

And there was just one Polish flag.

Some of the signs:

“Human Beings are Not Illegal”
“Fuck Bush” (not subtle, but who can argue with that one?)
“We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us.”
“We Also Have a Dream”
~~~~~~~~~~
They’re here. They’re part of the fabric of our community. And they’re not going anywhere.

We can make this work. Yes we can.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Nothing
I am listening to: Pearl Jam – Severed Hand
And I am: Inspired

It's no fun

being an illegal alien.

That’s the song in my head this morning.

Big apologies if it’s stuck in yours now. If you’ve never heard it, consider yourself blessed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A number of non-minority types will use today’s big protest as an excuse to stay out of the city. Not me.

I like the idea of being near something this big, this historic.

Most of all, I really love chaos. A double secret part of me craves it.

Not that I’m expecting it though.

As with the millions of gorgeous, orderly perennials planted along the Magnificent Mile, I’m certain the City of Chicago is implementing a well thought-out plan for today. But with up to a half million people protesting, things could get ugly for small moments.

What’s left of the journalist in me is excited about being there for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I don’t agree with today’s protest.

But you said…I know. Amnesty for all immigrants.

I still believe that. I just don’t believe in this particular event.

Why?

Because they already had their fucking march back in March. Why do they need another one? How many days are they gonna take off to let the world know that they’re a very powerful minority? When will it be enough?
~~~~~~~~~~~
Then again, maybe this march isn’t scaring off anyone. My usual train (the 7:42) is more crowded than usual. Not with protesters, either. It’s just us average worker-bee types.

Wait. I get it. Everyone is taking earlier trains to avoid the pre-march madness.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I read somewhere that if you can’t leave work for the protest you should at least wear white to show your support for this cause. A quick glance around the train tells me a) nobody got the “let’s wear white” edict and/or b) nobody cares.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And where the hell is Jesse Jackson? He’s usually front and center when it comes to the Major Minority Media Event. Where’s his Rainbow PUSH Coalition today? Supporting his persecuted Mexican compadres?

Or is he, as I suspect, cowering in a corner somewhere contemplating his continued loss of cache as the leader of what’s become the second most-powerful minority in the United States?

Second most-powerful minority. It’s kinda like coming in second at a beauty pageant. Your only hope of ever reigning involves unforeseen scandal or tragedy.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Today’s march is going to be Really Big News. The people planning the protest have said they want to shut down every major city across the U.S.

Millions of people will skip work and school to participate in this historic event.

In the midst of all this excitement and anticipation, what does a half-ass journalist like me think about?

Lunch, of course.

Restaurants rely on immigrant labor. Which means it’ll be tough to get lunch in the Loop today.

Life is uncertain. Pack lunch.

Don’t thank me. Really. Sometimes the wisdom just flows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My friend Richard the Conductor just made an announcement regarding extra trains in anticipation of the large crowds this afternoon.

He called it an “Immigration Parade.”

Parades have floats. Parades have marching bands. And parades have fat men wearing fezzes riding tiny ridiculous vehicles.

This is not a parade.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update on the Jesse Jackson thing: as of 9:10 a.m. his Rainbow PUSH Coalition site had no comment on today's events. I asked a co-worker about this interesting phenomenon.

"If it ain't black, he won't attack!" he replied.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I had to look up how to manage the plural version of fez. I was guessing it was something more exotic like fezi.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: Steinberg in the Sun-Times
I am listening to: Pearl Jam – Severed Hand
And I am: Curious