What are these bozos looking at?

What the hell are these bozos looking at?

More to come.

The Great Escape

They must have been planning this for months now. Today was the big break out. The great escape. Exactly how they pulled it off i don't know but I'm going to keep a sharper eye out these next few days. One of my socks has escaped!

I can maybe see how this would work in a large load of laundry. Get lost in the crowd - edge towards the door unnoticed - then dash for it! Nope. I travel light when I go to Chicago, which means mid week laundry. (ok, so this isn't everything, TMI for the Internets). But, point being here....small load. I don't know what just one sock does out on the road without its mate. I guess the need for freedom supersedes that of companionship. We've all seen them - the lone sock, destitute, sodden, soiled and usually run over with tire treads. An unhappy end for sure. And we always wonder "Who was it that lost this? - And...are they still hopping?"

Well, I'm thinking that it isn't so much lost as it's a getaway. And you never seem to see a pair of socks squished in the gutter. Always just one.

Then upon closer inspection of the sock-left-behind it dawned on me. "Smart Wool". Of course! That explains it. These aren't your ordinary socks. They're smart wool. And being smart, one of them made a break for it. Well, I'm smarter than my sock, or so I hope. I'm going to sit up all night by my sock drawer and wait. Then we'll see whose wool is so smart!

Green Bay, Wisconsin

It's always something. And you normally expect something at O'Hare, regardless of season. Yes, winter can be like landing at Yakmuk, Yukon and summer? Well, summer it's the thunderstorms. Had one yesterday. Shut down the place. It's something when O'Hare shuts down. That usually means the cross winds are too strong to land on the runway. It's also bad because the flight attendants have to spend extra time cleaning the soup off the ceiling in the first class cabin. Coach usually just has all the vomit and well, that's just part of the cheaper fare. The vomit has been less these days actually, what with no full meals in coach. ( except for the one guy who ate at Chief's Big-Boy that morning). The vomit from those 'snak-paks' is much much less, and healthier too.

No, our pilot cleverly avoided the tempest and skirted way-the-hell-around to ol' Green Bay, Wisconsin. Quaint from the air, Green Bay IS certainly green, I think mostly from envy of wanting to be somewhere else. Oh, there IS Lambeau Field, which we flew over. Wow, I trembled with awe. The Green Bay Packers. Cheeseheads. Wow. Just...well...wow. I rise from my knees now and continue the story.

We landed and the pilot announced we had to pick up some fuel. No big deal. Big deal. In green Bay. Where they have cheese. Not so much fuel. First had to call the "runway guy" back from supper he was having at Ruth's all you can eat pasta night just east of town. took him 20 minutes to get there. Then I guess his gas truck didn't have enough gas to fill up our big plane. (they just have small planes in Green bay) And, I swear to God we sat there on the tarmac for 3 fricking hours and I did not see ONE plane land. Of, course, it's not football season yet, but NOT ONE? Crikey!

Ok, Clem finally got 'er filled up and then more delays. They didn't take United pilot association's super saver credit cards or something. The flight crew and Clem were having some kind of long drawn out meeting over paperwork and the gas bill. That took another 30 minutes. We hadn't eaten for 8 hours now, so the attendants passed out what was left of the granola-yogurt bars.

Finally had wheels-up about 9:30. The weather had passed over Chicago. In fact, several geologic ages had passed so we weren't sure what we would find - maybe the upper 20 feet of the sears tower rising out of the sand, cockeyed like planet of the apes.

Good to be home.

The Other Side

So, my first submission of literary work was rejected yesterday. I had such high hopes. Many miles to go. I'll try again. Here's the story. Tell me what you think. .................

How much time had passed? And how was I going to find my way back to that room? Several waves of panic had come and gone and now I was in a calmer state of mind. The glass of wine had helped. Back out on the cobblestone street I wondered along, looking for a familiar door.

A calendar back in that antique wine shop had said 1888. No, I was sure of it. I had to get somewhere and sit down to get my bearings. A narrow street lead to an opening ahead. A pleasant town square. French writing on the shops and walls told me I was in a French town, or so it appeared. The town folk were cordial enough, though they regarded me with some interest in passing. I tried not to stare at the strange complexions they all had. Interesting flesh tones, almost blended.

I was feeling another wave of panic. I retreated to the town square to a group of benches in the welcoming shade. I rested and tried to retrace my steps. My vision was playing tricks on me again. In every direction I looked vivid colors of sky and grass filled my eyes and washed the scenes. I had a feeling of being immersed into my newly found environment. Not that I was actually in the courtyard but more like having an idea that I was in a courtyard. My hands were the same. My jeans were the same ones I had put on this morning. Or was it yesterday I had dressed. Or the day before. Of course! My watch. I checked the time and it was half past two. I had just finished lunch somewhere but could not remember where. That was the problem wasn’t it? I could not remember.

Until now I had been an observer here. An old man in unusually raggy clothing approached me in my oasis under the courtyard’s gnarled trees. “Have you seen him?” The old man asked, in a voice not matching his raiment. His coat seemed to change colors and my fascination held my tongue. “You are English?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m an American actually.”

“Ahhh, oui. I thought you may have seen him, since you were in his building here, in ze bar.”

“Have I seen who? I’m sorry, I don’t follow…..”

The old man sat gingerly on the edge of the bench respectfully distant from me. “I don’t know his name, but - a very kind man - strange man. He paid me with two glasses of very nize port to sit for him while he drew a picture of moi. He was interested in my story zo I told him of my decline from tenure at ze university to a life here in Arles, and ze pain I now have.”

I knew I too had seen this man somewhere recently but could not place him. “I’m sorry but no, I haven’t seen him.” I looked into his watery but clear azure eyes and saw a sadness that moved me. He shook his head and walked away. As he did his coat changed hue again ever so faintly.

“Wait! Do you know where he lives?” I called out. He turned and pointed to the building down the street I had just walked. “Above ze bar…” He said and went on his way.

That had to be it! Somehow I had been turned around and missed it. I hurried towards the building. Turning the corner I spotted the familiar door. It had to be the one I took to the street. I tried the door and it opened into a darkened stairway. As I ascended my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. The stairs were at an odd angle and uncomfortable. Their brown hues changed much the same as the old man’s coat as I moved through the space. At last I came to the third floor and went to the door at the end of the hall.

Racing towards it I grabbed the yellow ochre knob and burst through it. It was the room. The oddly sloping wood floor, out of perspective, the narrow bed - that yellow chair! I went to the opposite wall and stood breathing heavily, anticipating, hoping. I put out my hand and it disappeared through the wall. I moved forward and finally stepped a final step. I was back in the museum!

We have a new bookkeeper here at Lewis. He is turning our far, far better than Mrs. Alzheimer, who on a good day spent all of her miracles just finding the office. Don't even get me started on the rest.

This li'l fella might look unassuming, flighty even, but he can hunt and peck 35 words a minute! The area around the front desk gets a bit messy what with the dried banana chips and sunflower seeds by mid afternoon, but 'Indie' is sure working out well for us.

He's a whiz at filing, although you have to open the drawer for him. Flaps his wings and the files flutter open, paper takes flight and settles into various folders, all in just a few seconds really. It used to take Mrs. Alzheimer absolutely fucking days to file stuff. And EVERY GODDAM FILE WAS WRONG. Indie here gets some of them correct just by natural laws of random order, so we are quite better off. The phone needs a little development but he's coming along. It just takes patience. At least Indie's awake and trying. Mrs. Alzheimer often stared at the ringing phone as if it was some interplanetary device from "Men in Black" that an alien had placed on her desk.

Indie's conversations go something like this:

Indie - "Aaawk, hello?"

Caller - "Hello, is John there?"

Indie - "Aaawk, hello?"

Caller - "Hello, is John there?"

Indie - "Aaawk, hello?"

Caller - "Yes, yes, hello, is John there?"

Indie - "Aaawk, hello?"

Caller - "IS - John - there?"

Indie - "Aaawk John"

Caller - "Yes, John. Is he in?"

Indie - "Aaawk John"

Caller - "Yes, John. Is he in?"

Indie - "Aaawk John"

Caller - "You're repeating everything I'm saying."

Indie - "Aaawk repeating"

Caller - "Geezus!!"

Indie - "Aaawk geezus"

Caller - ""

Indie - (now agitated, going back and forth on the paper punch perch) "Aaawk, fuck the IRS...fuck the IRS"

Granted we have some working to do with Indie to get his phone manners working a bit better. For now though we just try to get the phone before he can peck the button. Even this - EVEN THIS is better than Mrs Alzheimer. AND, Indie doesn't come in ever fucking ten minutes and ask us if we want to hear something funny.

Not only that, but no one can argue that THIS architectural firm hasn't gone green.