Whenever I fly, I place wallet and watch in my leather satchel to streamline my passage through the security checkpoint. Yesterday, while checking in at the airport, I put my briefcase down to shift the contents of my pockets in this fashion.
Within a few scant moments of setting down my belongings, a sporadic trickle of clueless travelers began strolling up to me, asking about gate information. As one who is somewhat familiar with Logan airport, I guided them appropriately.
Brimming with a degree of smug satisfaction (seeing that I was perceived by the general populace as a knowledgeable and authoritative figure) I gathered my possessions and headed off to the gate.
Soon thereafter, my colleague pointed out that it was my black suit and position next to the airline podium that prompted the solicitations for direction. Apparently, I was mistaken for a pilot (or a flight attendant, but let's go with pilot). So much for smug satisfaction.
Oh well. Maybe next time, this "pilot" can score a pass to the premium club lounge.
.
Although I don't know your name I'm quite familiar with your writing. Your scripted verse graces the ivory-hued metal walls of the men's room stalls at my office.
With high school years gone by, I thought that regular encounters with latrine lyricism would fade into the past as well. In recent years, my perusal of potty prose had been confined to unsavory gas stations and diners of ill repute. Surely there was no hope of seeing the thoughtful scribblings of a men's room scribe in Boston's financial district, high up on the 32nd floor.
Then you came along.
I can remember the first time I saw your handiwork. It was like crawling through the scorched earth of an arid desert and discovering a lush, verdant oasis. Yes, your grammar is suspect and your handwriting unclear, but your descriptions are captivating. I especially enjoy the vivid characterizations of your anatomy; there's something about your telling narrative on urination that touches me deeply.
Your elegant prose elevates the medium to a higher plane. I feel like I'm pissing on the 33rd floor.
Your devoted fan,
Matt
(In case it wasn't clear, this is supposed to be satire. I don't really enjoy narratives on the male anatomy or urination.) .
mattchun 4/04/2003 10:05:00 AM [+] ::
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Thursday, April 03, 2003
GOLDEN MEMORIES AND ASSORTED MISCELLANY
Memory is a funny thing. From what I understand, scientists are still somewhat baffled by how memory works, how the brain converts the present into the recollected past.
I have concerns about my own memory. Case in point: I still have trouble recalling all the state capitals and yet I have a pulsing bundle of neurons that is devoted to remembering the names of the four actors who played the Golden Girls*.
Miscellany: I'm going to Philly today on business. Short trip, returning tonight. That means I'm wearing a tie today. Forbes recently came up with a list of the top five celebrity blogs (thanks to Bryan for the link). Dave Barry's is on there. Apparently, Moby has one that he updates fairly frequently. (To the beat y'all) Bloggy-rock y'all.
*Bea Arthur, Rue McClanahan, Betty White and Estelle Getty, in case you're wondering. .
So, I just caught the tail end of The Bachelor. Now is it just me, or does this guy bear a more than passing resemblance to Mark Paul Gosselar? If you squint a little, it could be Zack Morris up there. I kept expecting the Dennis-Duo (Haskins and Franz) to show up to the party and start hitting on the cast-offs.
.
mattchun 4/02/2003 10:22:00 PM [+] ::
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WINDOW WATCHING
I have a tendency to work late. This is partly because of my job, and partly because of my personality.
When night falls, I often glance out the window by my desk and peer out at Boston Harbor, the Custom House tower and the two office buildings that flank my view. I'm usually comforted by the scene. It's silent and serene.
Sometimes I peer in at the other workaholics across the way. The adjacent office buildings are like giant terrariums, with the rat racers of the world spinning away on their little hamster wheels.
These momentary breaks are a welcome respite from the nightly grind. They're like reality TV but without the screaming, backstabbing and catfights.
.
mattchun 4/02/2003 05:54:00 PM [+] ::
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FRIGHTENING TO CONSIDER
This morning, I surfed over to the New York Times online and this headline caught my eye:
Note the word choice; not defeated, destroyed. I'm in favor of a quick, decisive end to the war in Iraq, I'd just rather not think about how it happens.
.
mattchun 4/02/2003 09:37:00 AM [+] ::
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Tuesday, April 01, 2003
DISCUSSED (DISGUST?) AT LUNCH
Have you ever grabbed lunch at a sandwich shop and questioned the integrity of your meal's preparation? I was party to a post-lunch work conversation that illustrated this very sentiment:
MC: "Hey FM, how was the tuna melt?"
FM: "It was pretty good, but there were too many hands on the sandwich. One guy did the bread, one guy did the cheese, one guy wrapped it in foil. I don't like that many people touching my food."
RZ: "Come on guys, I'm sure their hands were all spanking clean."
DY: "I think it's the spanking he's worried about."
(cue laughter) .
mattchun 4/01/2003 03:26:00 PM [+] ::
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Monday, March 31, 2003
OPENING DAY
It's a time of year like no other. It's a time when fathers and sons don their caps and grab their gloves; no longer the knit hats and woolen mittens of winter, their heads are crowned with the curved brims of their baseball caps, their hands ensconced by the soft leather of their baseball gloves. The air is still cold and crisp, but the early April winds whistle with the knowledge that the effulgence of spring is days away.
For the souls of Red Sox nation, this is a time when spirits are highest, and the bitterness of past October gloom is forgotten in the optimism of new beginnings. Next year is this year. The exuberance and renewal of spring itself breathes new life into the heart of every fan from Attleboro to Weymouth. The phoenix rises from the Big Dig; it's the Boston book of Genesis with bleachers.
As the majestic elms that line Commonwealth Mall sprout anew with their lush greenery, their graceful branches bend with the April breeze. A thousand miles away, tonight, the pride of the hub (the Red Sox!) kick the dirt from their heels and swing their ashen boughs. They are reborn as well. It's the beginning of a season full of hopes and nascent dreams.
Here at my desk, I can almost hear them. I listen intently for their sounds. The first crack of the bat. The eager murmuring of the fans. The ump's grizzled call. I can hear the sounds of new spring. They're saying,
Play ball!
.
mattchun 3/31/2003 06:18:00 PM [+] ::
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TWO UGHS
Ugh One: After another weekend with three consecutive nights of merriment, my body is feeling that good and bad sort of weary that comes with excessive fun. This weekend's venues ranged from English pub (Cornwalls) to blues-y lounge (Lucky's) to festive gnosh-hall (Fajitas & 'Ritas) to quasi-upscale joint (Vox Populi). After the variety and quantity of consumption, my liver could probably use a bit of a break; hepatic static, perhaps.
Ugh Two: I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, but it's snowing in Boston.
Afternoon Update: It's now bright and sunny here in the hub. That's Boston for ya. .
mattchun 3/31/2003 10:31:00 AM [+] ::
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ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL
A monkey, owl and fish went out to share
dinner and a drink or two together.
At the start the sky was clear and fair,
the end was filled with windy, rainy weather;
but the pelting rain could not restrain
the lively spirit-ed companions' feast.
Cervezas cold and margaritas drained,
they ate from platters filled with roasted beast.
Many glasses tipped and bottles quaffed,
they left their table, sauntered to the bar.
Though time was short (the owl was taking off)
the trio shared their mundane and bizarre
tales of happiness and woe. And then,
they parted ways until they meet again.
.