Chicago Stories #26
-I was attacked-
Friday the thirteenth was almost forgotten. Its essence, much like curry, lingered that Saturday. I was Uptown, searching for my white whale: a job. While I was there, I noticed a steadily growing number of green-clad carousers. Being on the hunt, I had forgotten it was Saint Patrick’s “Weekend to Get Blitzed”. It’s an odd sight, at four in the afternoon, each block exponentially producing an army of belligerent, swaying iphone users.
As I soberly dodged the pockets of people trying to navigate in their own sideways world, I found some open sidewalk. That’s when it happened; nary a person was in sight, save a small child standing with his father. The boy caught a glance of me, and turned, his eyes shimmering with an unruly delight. I heard a slight screeching noise from somewhere deep inside him, as he raised his arms to his chest. In his hands was a decidedly vicious creature. He spread the mighty wings of this beast, amped up his screech, and charged.
I felt the mild softness of the blue stuffed fangs dig into my arm, and knew I was a goner. Any possibility of ruining my day was in itself, ruined. The joy contained in that boy’s determined attack, and his father’s presumed compliance in it; absolutely and terrifically, made my day.
As I soberly dodged the pockets of people trying to navigate in their own sideways world, I found some open sidewalk. That’s when it happened; nary a person was in sight, save a small child standing with his father. The boy caught a glance of me, and turned, his eyes shimmering with an unruly delight. I heard a slight screeching noise from somewhere deep inside him, as he raised his arms to his chest. In his hands was a decidedly vicious creature. He spread the mighty wings of this beast, amped up his screech, and charged.
I felt the mild softness of the blue stuffed fangs dig into my arm, and knew I was a goner. Any possibility of ruining my day was in itself, ruined. The joy contained in that boy’s determined attack, and his father’s presumed compliance in it; absolutely and terrifically, made my day.
Labels: chicago, job search, unemployed
Chicago Stories #9
-In which our hero irons his calvins-
For the curious, Freshly pressed socks are quite a bit more trouble than they’re worth.
Laundry is a battlefield. Lost socks. Stubborn stains. To dry clean, or not to dry clean. Hot water, cold water, how warm is warm water? These are the trials we, the clothed, must face. Although I was trained in the laundering arts at a very young age, together, we have had a checkered past. I’ve turned my fair share of whites into pinks, created baby sweaters, and bleached my black shirts to a lovely sewage-esqe shade of brown. My biggest issue with laundry however, is that time between pushing the button and going back to switch out the load. That’s where I get into trouble. Something about how my brain is wired, once I push that button, my mind is wiped clean. The laundry is as forgotten as a third place American Idol. Once, during the summer, it took me a week and a half’s worth of explaining why I was wearing sweaters to figure out where all my shirts went. “What about the buzzer?” You ask. I think I hear it, but my mind is so bewildered by the sound, it just presumes someone is driving a forklift around the corner, and I need to stay alert. “Set an alarm, tie a string around your finger. Attach a post-it to your nose!” Your suggestions, though naïve, I'm sure are made with the best of intentions. I have, however, found a way to function despite this problem. Re-runs. Nothing sends me racing out of the room to check on laundry like “According to Jim”. I have gotten along fine for years using this formula. It has never failed me, until now. Here in Chicago, my dryer seems to not know how I operate. Sure, the washer gets the program. Half an hour – my garments are clean. But, as evidenced by my consistently soggy underoos, the dryer may take a bit more convincing to warm up to, let alone love Raymond.
I was faced with this very dilemma late one night, my quick mind saved me, however. Giving me two clear options. Buy the box set of The Sopranos, or do them Uncle Buck style.
As I was googling microwave times for jeans, a gleam caught my eye. It was the stainless steel of my Rowenta Powerglide II, with IONIX vertical steam, and airglide-equipped iron. Listening to the ticking as it warmed, I felt foolish for even considering the microwave. How would I nuke stuff with metallic buttons? I was certain that this iron was absolutely the best, most efficient and logical use of my time. I would iron each and every article of clothing I own. I wouldn’t even need to use steam. The benefits are endless. Freshly pressed pants and shirts, and socks. And pants. And underpants. Knit hats. Pants. Washcloths. Everything I owned, really. And I would only have to do it every week or so.
As I was googling microwave times for jeans, a gleam caught my eye. It was the stainless steel of my Rowenta Powerglide II, with IONIX vertical steam, and airglide-equipped iron. Listening to the ticking as it warmed, I felt foolish for even considering the microwave. How would I nuke stuff with metallic buttons? I was certain that this iron was absolutely the best, most efficient and logical use of my time. I would iron each and every article of clothing I own. I wouldn’t even need to use steam. The benefits are endless. Freshly pressed pants and shirts, and socks. And pants. And underpants. Knit hats. Pants. Washcloths. Everything I owned, really. And I would only have to do it every week or so.For the curious, Freshly pressed socks are quite a bit more trouble than they’re worth.
Labels: chicago, job search, unemployed
Chicago Stories #17
-In which our hero trespasses-
“Delusions of Grandeur” could be my middle name. It isn’t. Not for lack of catchy-ness, however. I believe my parents only thought ahead. The resulting attitude and self-image would be incapacitating. Let alone the initials. If somehow this child could muster the level of confidence necessary for playing Centipede, what convoluted version of his initials would he enter for the stats?
The source of these delusions is a bit of the chicken & egg paradox. My formative years consisted of the eighties and nineties. The world was rife with optimism. The air of Los Angeles so thick with it, the residents were known to seek refuge inside to avoid overdose. This atmosphere resulted in gobs of movies all about overcoming the odds with little to no work whatsoever. These movies are what I had in mind, in coming to Chicago. I would be Jonathan Switcher in Mannequin, or Michael J. Fox in Secret to my Success, even Monty in Brewster’s Millions. I couldn’t fail.
The United Center. As you walk up to the structure, you are struck the scale of it. Especially the oversized features, makes you feel like as an ant might next to Michael Jordan’s shoe. It took me the better part of an hour to get there. Public transport can be useless, if you don’t actually get on board. I circled the building two and a half times. The first time, just surveying this beast that was mine to conquer. The second time I was looking for maybe a little “help wanted” sign. I could grab the sign, walk in, and say confidently, “Help has arrived.” Sadly, this was no soda-shop. I peered in the glass doors. Hoping to see a custodian, maybe they could let me in. It was dark. There was no game today, nothing was happening. Then, it hit me. Maybe there was a service entrance, I could hide under a garbage truck and ride in on that. As I turned to execute this genius plan, my hand stayed on the door. And it opened. I was inside! The job was as good as mine! I took one step, and heard the most deafening shriek. Two thoughts entered my head. I was inside, I just need to play it cool, someone will come by to check on the alarm, A little explanation, and I would soon be employed.
Fifteen minutes later, I decided to find someone.
An hour and a half later, a custodian told me how to get to the receptionist, “Down, to the left. Go outside and turn the corner. You can come back in, they should be at the desk” How did I not see that door before? Was it cloaked somehow? As I waited patiently for the receptionist to be free, I knew it didn’t matter. I would soon be talking to the team owner, or at least the coach. Someone.
“Well, you know how it is these days,” She said, “Everything is done on the internet.”
She had no idea. They couldn’t see my enthusiasm, my tenacity, my gumption on the internet. Was I supposed to befriend them on facebook? Maybe eHarmony? Badgering them with emails surely would make me seem more irritating and desperate than interesting and determined. I knew what I really must do. I was even already prepared. The genius of Ferris Bueller was coming via Netflix. But for now, I had a long, long walk ahead of me.
“Delusions of Grandeur” could be my middle name. It isn’t. Not for lack of catchy-ness, however. I believe my parents only thought ahead. The resulting attitude and self-image would be incapacitating. Let alone the initials. If somehow this child could muster the level of confidence necessary for playing Centipede, what convoluted version of his initials would he enter for the stats?
The source of these delusions is a bit of the chicken & egg paradox. My formative years consisted of the eighties and nineties. The world was rife with optimism. The air of Los Angeles so thick with it, the residents were known to seek refuge inside to avoid overdose. This atmosphere resulted in gobs of movies all about overcoming the odds with little to no work whatsoever. These movies are what I had in mind, in coming to Chicago. I would be Jonathan Switcher in Mannequin, or Michael J. Fox in Secret to my Success, even Monty in Brewster’s Millions. I couldn’t fail.
The United Center. As you walk up to the structure, you are struck the scale of it. Especially the oversized features, makes you feel like as an ant might next to Michael Jordan’s shoe. It took me the better part of an hour to get there. Public transport can be useless, if you don’t actually get on board. I circled the building two and a half times. The first time, just surveying this beast that was mine to conquer. The second time I was looking for maybe a little “help wanted” sign. I could grab the sign, walk in, and say confidently, “Help has arrived.” Sadly, this was no soda-shop. I peered in the glass doors. Hoping to see a custodian, maybe they could let me in. It was dark. There was no game today, nothing was happening. Then, it hit me. Maybe there was a service entrance, I could hide under a garbage truck and ride in on that. As I turned to execute this genius plan, my hand stayed on the door. And it opened. I was inside! The job was as good as mine! I took one step, and heard the most deafening shriek. Two thoughts entered my head. I was inside, I just need to play it cool, someone will come by to check on the alarm, A little explanation, and I would soon be employed.
Fifteen minutes later, I decided to find someone.
An hour and a half later, a custodian told me how to get to the receptionist, “Down, to the left. Go outside and turn the corner. You can come back in, they should be at the desk” How did I not see that door before? Was it cloaked somehow? As I waited patiently for the receptionist to be free, I knew it didn’t matter. I would soon be talking to the team owner, or at least the coach. Someone.
“Well, you know how it is these days,” She said, “Everything is done on the internet.”
She had no idea. They couldn’t see my enthusiasm, my tenacity, my gumption on the internet. Was I supposed to befriend them on facebook? Maybe eHarmony? Badgering them with emails surely would make me seem more irritating and desperate than interesting and determined. I knew what I really must do. I was even already prepared. The genius of Ferris Bueller was coming via Netflix. But for now, I had a long, long walk ahead of me.
Labels: chicago, job search, unemployed
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