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But then I saw this item (click here), and now...now I'm just not so sure how I feel about E-bay. (check out the pictures, you can view this item from all different angles!) Brian 7:25 PM Wednesday, May 07, 2003 “now there’s a wet spot on my chair. It’s in the shape of my rear” The quote above is the panicky text content of an e-mail just sent to me by one of my colleagues at the firm. Apparently, he did not heed my earlier advice that he should remove the dish-rack from the kitchenette on his floor and put that on his chair to sit on like one of those toilet-seat shaped cushions until his ass was dry. To protect this person’s anonymity, let’s call him “Joe A.” And, you see, he’s got a big wet spot on his ass. I received a call from "Joe A." first thing when I got to the office today. “You’ll never guess what happened to me!” He said it with great sorrow. I was concerned. “I was getting off the bus,” he told me, “when I noticed that my ass was all wet. I sat in some sort of liquid on the bus!” “I’m sure it’s not urine.” I told him. “It’s probably rainwater.” “It smells like cleaning fluid.” “So you’ve been sniffing at it, trying to guess what the wet spot on your ass is?” “Yes.” I tried to console him. “That’s the worst part,” I said. “Not knowing what it is.” “I know,” he said sadly. “I’ve been there.” I told him. “Maybe your wet spot isn’t that noticeable,” I suggested. “What kind of pants are you wearing?” “Khakis.” “Oh, well then your wet spot is definitely noticeable. Did anybody get a chance to look at your ass on the way to the office.” “Yeah, lots of people.” “Oh.” Then I launched into a long discussion and reminiscence about “principal’s pants.” You know, those pants that the principal had in his or her office that had obviously been taken from the lost and found box and were usually a very noticeable plaid pattern or something equally out-of-date. You know, the pants that you’d be sent down the principal’s office to put on if you had an accident or something in elementary school. Not that I have firsthand knowledge, I just heard some guys talking about it once. Anyway, “Joe A.” wasn’t interested in hearing about the mythical principal’s pants. “I’d better get to work,” he told me sadly, and then hung up. Only later did I receive the above-quoted e-mail. My bus ride to the office went much better that Joe A’s. The bus commander commuted the 145 at Irving Park to an express all the way to Delaware, “everybody’s going downtown, right?” He asked the bus. We all agreed. “Then this bus is going straight to Delaware!” he declared and then everybody on the bus cheered. As we roared down Lakeshore drive a woman asked a man standing next to her, with concern, “but what about all those people waiting for the bus at Belmont?” “Who cares!” the guy responded, “we’re living the dream!” Brian 9:46 AM Sunday, May 04, 2003 On the Red Line L, north out of the loop after work on weekdays, all the attractive people get off at Fullerton or Belmont. I get off at Sheridan with all the other wretches. I mean, I guess we’re not all wretches, and we’re not all unattractive, but I definitely get the sense that after the Belmont stop the number of people on the Red Line who know which shoe stores are the trendy ones rapidly approaches nil. There’s always at least a few panhandlers just outside the Sheridan stop, all asking for change. There’s also a little grocery store, nestled under the L tracks, where I buy my corn chips, vegetarian refried beans, and Mr. Kitty’s cat food. The aisles are so narrow in the back of the store that only one person can walk down the aisles at a time, and if another shopper wants to get toilet paper or rat traps or pine scented floor cleaner they have to wait, pressed up against the potato chip rack while they wait for their turn to go down an aisle. Sometimes the pan handlers become bold and stand in the doorway to the grocery store while shoppers check out, watching rapaciously while the cashier hands shoppers their change. Then, when the shoppers claim not to have any change when they walk out onto the street the panhandler can impeach them and yell at them, all righteously indignant, “I know you got change in your pocket ‘cause I just saw you put some in there!!” Sometimes when a panhandler sees me walking into the store they make their request in advance. “Give me your change when you come out!” they tell me. Just a few doors to the south of the L stop is a doorway where the woman who hangs out in my shifty tailor’s shop and smokes cigarettes while my shifty tailor yells at her to stop and who begins all her stories, “last night when I was drinking in the alley...” likes to stand and eat Ramen noodles with a plastic fork out of a styrofoam bowl. Just a few days ago I was in the cashier’s line in that little grocery store and a lone and obviously work-weary gentleman sheepishly approached the cashier, obviously at his wit’s end. I got the impression that he was struggling with English as his second, or perhaps third or fourth language. He handed the cashier a plastic wrapped cube shaped package of pads and asked her, “does this say, ‘overnight’ anywhere on it?” The cashier turned it all over in her hands and checked each side before she responded. “No, it doesn’t” she said. The man hung his head in defeat and walked back to the pads section to try again. I paid for my purchase, took my change, and walked out onto the street where it was just beginning to rain. There was a new panhandler there, one I hadn’t seen before. “Do you have any change to spare?” He asked me. “No, I’m sorry but I don’t have any change.” I told him. He accepted my answer. “Thanks anyway,” he said. The new guy will learn the ropes soon enough. Sometimes I feel a great warm tenderness for my neighborhood. Brian 11:50 PM

E-mail: Brian7Morris "at" hotmail.com

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runswithscissors
Defective Yeti
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trancejen
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House of Noh!

Sunday, May 25, 2003

I used to think that E-bay was, like, the coolest thing ever. I thought it would transform our economy into a world where all our merchandise was crafted lovingly by hand, by parents who would be able to stay at home with their families and work on the things that they felt they had a gift for, instead of our current economy, where family members spend most of the day apart, in soot belching factories and under barren flourescent lights in cubicles working like soulless machines. But then I saw this item (click here), and now...now I'm just not so sure how I feel about E-bay. (check out the pictures, you can view this item from all different angles!)

Brian 7:25 PM

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

“now there’s a wet spot on my chair. It’s in the shape of my rear” The quote above is the panicky text content of an e-mail just sent to me by one of my colleagues at the firm. Apparently, he did not heed my earlier advice that he should remove the dish-rack from the kitchenette on his floor and put that on his chair to sit on like one of those toilet-seat shaped cushions until his ass was dry. To protect this person’s anonymity, let’s call him “Joe A.” And, you see, he’s got a big wet spot on his ass. I received a call from "Joe A." first thing when I got to the office today. “You’ll never guess what happened to me!” He said it with great sorrow. I was concerned. “I was getting off the bus,” he told me, “when I noticed that my ass was all wet. I sat in some sort of liquid on the bus!” “I’m sure it’s not urine.” I told him. “It’s probably rainwater.” “It smells like cleaning fluid.” “So you’ve been sniffing at it, trying to guess what the wet spot on your ass is?” “Yes.” I tried to console him. “That’s the worst part,” I said. “Not knowing what it is.” “I know,” he said sadly. “I’ve been there.” I told him. “Maybe your wet spot isn’t that noticeable,” I suggested. “What kind of pants are you wearing?” “Khakis.” “Oh, well then your wet spot is definitely noticeable. Did anybody get a chance to look at your ass on the way to the office.” “Yeah, lots of people.” “Oh.” Then I launched into a long discussion and reminiscence about “principal’s pants.” You know, those pants that the principal had in his or her office that had obviously been taken from the lost and found box and were usually a very noticeable plaid pattern or something equally out-of-date. You know, the pants that you’d be sent down the principal’s office to put on if you had an accident or something in elementary school. Not that I have firsthand knowledge, I just heard some guys talking about it once. Anyway, “Joe A.” wasn’t interested in hearing about the mythical principal’s pants. “I’d better get to work,” he told me sadly, and then hung up. Only later did I receive the above-quoted e-mail. My bus ride to the office went much better that Joe A’s. The bus commander commuted the 145 at Irving Park to an express all the way to Delaware, “everybody’s going downtown, right?” He asked the bus. We all agreed. “Then this bus is going straight to Delaware!” he declared and then everybody on the bus cheered. As we roared down Lakeshore drive a woman asked a man standing next to her, with concern, “but what about all those people waiting for the bus at Belmont?” “Who cares!” the guy responded, “we’re living the dream!”

Brian 9:46 AM

Sunday, May 04, 2003

On the Red Line L, north out of the loop after work on weekdays, all the attractive people get off at Fullerton or Belmont. I get off at Sheridan with all the other wretches. I mean, I guess we’re not all wretches, and we’re not all unattractive, but I definitely get the sense that after the Belmont stop the number of people on the Red Line who know which shoe stores are the trendy ones rapidly approaches nil. There’s always at least a few panhandlers just outside the Sheridan stop, all asking for change. There’s also a little grocery store, nestled under the L tracks, where I buy my corn chips, vegetarian refried beans, and Mr. Kitty’s cat food. The aisles are so narrow in the back of the store that only one person can walk down the aisles at a time, and if another shopper wants to get toilet paper or rat traps or pine scented floor cleaner they have to wait, pressed up against the potato chip rack while they wait for their turn to go down an aisle. Sometimes the pan handlers become bold and stand in the doorway to the grocery store while shoppers check out, watching rapaciously while the cashier hands shoppers their change. Then, when the shoppers claim not to have any change when they walk out onto the street the panhandler can impeach them and yell at them, all righteously indignant, “I know you got change in your pocket ‘cause I just saw you put some in there!!” Sometimes when a panhandler sees me walking into the store they make their request in advance. “Give me your change when you come out!” they tell me. Just a few doors to the south of the L stop is a doorway where the woman who hangs out in my shifty tailor’s shop and smokes cigarettes while my shifty tailor yells at her to stop and who begins all her stories, “last night when I was drinking in the alley...” likes to stand and eat Ramen noodles with a plastic fork out of a styrofoam bowl. Just a few days ago I was in the cashier’s line in that little grocery store and a lone and obviously work-weary gentleman sheepishly approached the cashier, obviously at his wit’s end. I got the impression that he was struggling with English as his second, or perhaps third or fourth language. He handed the cashier a plastic wrapped cube shaped package of pads and asked her, “does this say, ‘overnight’ anywhere on it?” The cashier turned it all over in her hands and checked each side before she responded. “No, it doesn’t” she said. The man hung his head in defeat and walked back to the pads section to try again. I paid for my purchase, took my change, and walked out onto the street where it was just beginning to rain. There was a new panhandler there, one I hadn’t seen before. “Do you have any change to spare?” He asked me. “No, I’m sorry but I don’t have any change.” I told him. He accepted my answer. “Thanks anyway,” he said. The new guy will learn the ropes soon enough. Sometimes I feel a great warm tenderness for my neighborhood.

Brian 11:50 PM

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