It's been a total of ten days since I posted on this thing (almost to the hour, as the last post, about the "We'll kill you, Mr. Damon" thing was another one of these things where I post because I haven't in forever and am awake. Anyway, I'm back in Chicago, had an enjoyable little break back with the families in Russellton and Trafford respectively, and have convinced Jenna to love "Dawn of the Dead", meaning that my goal is now nearing completion.*
Having Jenna be in Chicago for a week is awesome. Unfortunately, I'm still going to sleep around 10pm, though in this case it's more because I'm on medicine for some residual pain from dental work I had completed rather than because grading labs sucks the very essence of life from my poor, withered body. It's a trade off. But walking around downtown is amazing, and I'm going to be very happy whenever she moves out here following her own degree completion.
Related note: Jenna has no concept of spicy. Every time we go out, it seems, she keeps ignoring the warnings issued by the waitstaff and hillbillies with banjoes that dangle from the ceiling about how the "Shrimp Voodoo Linguini" is kind of on the spicy side. That's fine. People like spicy foods, and it's fine that she enjoys spicy tastes. The problem is that it's invariably too spicy and I have to ride home on the El holding my crab cakes or milder curry chicken while a crying, sniffling, bleeding-from-the-forehead Jenna who looks like she's been jumped sits next to me and holds my arm. Thus are anecdotes born.
I'm going to have to get used to having a new phone. I've traded in the old one, which was a hand me down from my mother, for a new one, which I believe has a button that cures cancer. I didn't realize how compelling it is to take crappy little pictures until I was capable of doing so, nor did I realize how walking through a room filled with abstract mobiles and yarn sculpture could be made altogether different by adding some radio station's top some number of songs of the year through my phone's earpiece. As a result, I have no money, though.
The Museum of Contemporary Art is smaller than I'd expected, but generally works. Jenny Holzer's "Truisms" is hilarious, though I'm not sure it intends to be. For some reason, many artists are linked in my mind to pseudo-revolutionary thinking that doesn't actually work or make sense, so I'm not sure if her exhibit of just that scrolling across a screen is meant to be taken seriously. Either way, I'd recommend the MCA (especially for the $6 student rate), and have discovered that Sarah Sze may or may not be on medication to lower her blood pressure. Goal accomplished there.
I'm going to have to write some popular chemistry literature once I get out of here. I've noticed this for a while, and keep thinking I should blog about it, but it was reinforced with the seven thousand hours I spent in Borders over the past few weeks trying to figure out which books would be good gifts for the family, considering my unyielding non-creativity. Try this out. Walk over to the science section of your local major chain bookstore (Borders or Barnes & Noble seem to work). Look for the chemistry shelf. Compare its size to the biology or physics shelves. I don't know why this is, but for some reason, I consistently find that there are maybe one or two shelves of books dealing with chemistry (the majority of which are aimed at getting the student to pass, allowing them to forget about it), while there are cases and cases dealing with biology and physics. Anyone have any ideas on what on earth is going on there? It seems that chemistry is right in the middle, between the more observable (in everyday) phenomena that make up biology and the remarkably abstractness of physics, and that that space doesn't appeal to today's book store shopper. Hm.
In transferring the numbers in my old phone to the new phone (a service that the salesman offered for ten dollars, and which I was able to complete in a little under a half hour, which suggests to me that I get a job as an automaton for $20/hour), I noticed a memo I left on my phone. I'd been on the El, and in the black sharpie usually reserved for pseudo-spraypainted graffiti and notifications of who one can call for a good time, the phrase "It dont [sic] take a lost dog" was scrawled. I have no clue what it means, but it seemed like it should be posted on here. Perhaps, ten years from now, you'll be walking down the street confounded that whatever it is you want to do is somehow blocked by the mandatory lost dog donation only to realize that you could probably get by without whatever demands the lost dog, or that it really means a toy dog which you have access to, or that you should focus more attention on observing the world around you so that when little Seamus’ lost dog pokes its head out of the alley, you can alert our little friend. Or maybe crazy people ride the El. Whatever. It’s there now.
Before I head back to bed/watching Dawn of the Dead again, I'd like to comment that I'm not thrilled with the Joe Randa signing, but I'm not entirely angry about it, mostly because I don't really know all that much about how that's going to affect everything other than making Freddy Sanchez absolutely positively not play this year, which is a shame. Right now my attention's devoted to figuring out some hilariously complex scheme so that Littlefield doesn't make that whole rumor about signing Sosa come true. It'll involve a hangglider, I'm pretty sure.
Finally, I visited Ed's grave again when I was home. I'll not say anything as I'm trying to save that for a Jan 12/"my friend died six months ago" post, but I will note that he has a headstone now. Set in the ground (as most of the headstones at the particular cemetery that he's in, as with the cemeteries that my grandparents are in) with simply his name, his lifespan, a hockey player on the left and some kind of knight thing on the right and the phrase "Beloved Father of Ansley". I noticed that on occasion I'll still think to myself that he's out there somewhere setting up Burlington Coat Factories (or whatever the hell he claimed to be doing). But, enough of that sadness. Back to sleep.
*Goal not actual goal. Phrase used for comedic effect of scaring conspiracy theorists who have nothing better to do than form conspiracy theories about my blog. Meaning they are the worst conspiracy theorists of all time. For a look at conspiracy theories in a happy little humor/rating article, go here.