I really wanted to post a journal entry here today. I woke up in anticipation of writing a new post with this great little piece of "blogging" software, that isn't actually about the new blogging software itself (damn it, there goes that idea. Oh well, tomorrow).

The trouble is, I don't know what to write.

Maybe it's just the usual ennui about life that often creeps into me. Maybe the fall schedule has kicked in full swing. Maybe I'm upset about my new kitchen cabinets not being all I had hoped they would be. There are no upper cabinets and the janitor didn't even bother to place it flush against the wall. I have no energy for another fight with management about stuff like this. I have no energy.

I hardly even have the energy to write this. I hardly have any energy at all anymore. And yet, I've said that three times. Maybe I need more caffeine. Maybe I need more alcohol. Maybe I need drugs. That's it. I can just let myself lapse into a vicodin or codeine-induced haze. Yes.

I grilled hamburgers on my grill for lunch while the cabinets were being made and used up the last of the charcoal briquettes. That's it. They're all gone. No more grilling this year. I hereby declare summer officially over. Oh, did that happen already? Okay.

Now here I sit, wondering if these paragraphs are worthy of me hitting "publish post." I think I tried harder when this involved writing a lot of code into five separate documents.

listening to: flaming lips, eurythmics, public image limited, radiohead.
in my sink: a plate, a bowl, a cup, a spoon, a knife.

You may be noticing some subtle changes to the look here. That's right. I've finally stopped coding all this myself and started using one of those blog-it-for-you sites. So now I can have comments. Yay.

The best thing about it is I don't have to change anything, and neither do you. It's all at the same site and with the same rss feed. Only now I don't have to write all that myself.

Oh, for you livejournalers, I'm not talking about the comments on that damn livejournal feed. You'll have to come directly to the real site to leave comments, or else I'll never see them. For all I know, you've been commenting there all along.

listening to: Simpsons.
in my sink: a baking sheet. YES I BAKE.

This is the best commercial I've seen all day.

Ernest Borgnine walks into a room full of computers, screens showing cool graphics, and other assorted generic technical machines. He tells us with an incredulous voice:

You're seeing it... everywhere.
People checking their email...
Loading up on cell time...
Connecting...

Oh my god. Not connecting! Anything but that!

The funny thing is he says it as if it's the most alien thing ever, as if we haven't been "connecting" through telephones since 1876. Or whenever.

Listening to:the 5, 6, 7, 8s.
In my sink: 1 pot, 1 bowl, 2 cups, 2 glasses, 2 spoons, a fork.

I now own a guitar.



... and I even know a few chords!

So I wanna be a rock 'n roll star, so listen here to what I have to say.
I got an (acoustic) guitar and will take some time to learn how to play.
And in a week or two, if I make the charts, the girls will tear me apart.
- the Byrds, somewhere in the 60s

Somehow I don't think I'm going to get torn apart anytime soon. Let the music noise commence.
Listening to: Me. Me me me me me.
In my sink: A weird smell.

The other day I encountered this, and pictures had to be taken:



I don't think I even need to say anything else. Everything that's wrong and unholy about this product should be blatantly obvious.







Okay, I guess I can't help it:
Is there a pepperoni shortage I'm not aware of? Should I be stockpiling?

Listening to: Fiery Furnaces.
In my sink: A bowl, a spoon, a plate, a baking sheet, a spatula, a fork.

Last night, I was out with a friend, and he was interested in this girl. So after a while, he went over and talked to her. From where I was sitting, it seemed to go well. When he came back, we had this conversation.

Me: "Did you get her number?"
Him: "Nope."
Me: "Why not?"
Him: "She knows where to find me."

I looked over, and she was talking with this other guy.

Me: "But she's still talking to that guy."
Him: "Him? Pah! He's trying too hard."

At this point I'm confused. I'm not very good at this, you see. Apparently. So he explains.

Him: "It's like Walmart and Carsons. See, he's a Walmart. I'm a Carsons."

I'm still confused. He goes on.

Him: "Walmarts are everywhere. You can always find a Walmart. You don't have to go anywhere for a Walmart."
Me: "She seems to be shopping at Walmart right now."
Him: "No no no. She won't be for long."
Me: "?"
Him: "Women will go out of their way to shop at Carsons. You'll see. She has the address. And there's a sale going on."

I posted this because of the last line. "And there's a sale going on." I was cracking up for the rest of the night.

In case you were wondering, she didn't leave with either of them.

Listening to: Eon.
In my sink: Okay too much again, alright.

I'm walking home when I notice this tall, gorgeous, long-haired brunette waiting for the bus up ahead. As a bus approaches, she tries to flag it down, but it speeds on by. She's noticeably annoyed.

I don't know what came over me, but I actually opened my mouth. When I get close enough, I say, "Did that bus just totally ignore you?"

She says yes in a very cool Eastern European accent. After a moment, she decides to try to catch up with it at the light.

As we pass each other, I conclude out loud, "I hate buses." I glance behind quickly and notice she's smiling.

Now that just made my day. Because I have nothing else so uplifting, I dwell on the moment all the way home. When I get home, I realize something else. I just took someone's moment of utter frustration and turned it into a source of amusement for her. At the very least, a gorgeous woman with a sexy accent smiled at me.

I hope.

Listening to: Public Image Limited.
In my sink: 3 plates, 1 bowl, 4 cups, 3 spoons, a glass, and an apple slicer.

A year or two ago, I bought an I-pass for a couple reasons. First, I was tired of having to stop and wait in a line of cars at the tollbooths. Second, I never really knew when I was going to be on a tollway, so I never had enough change available when the time came.

I-pass solves all these problems. Now, I fly through those toll plazas without a care. No stopping is necessary; no worrying about how much change I have is necessary.

So naturally, I was caught completely unprepared yesterday when I encountered the Antiquated Toll Plaza from Three Decades Ago. I decided to take the Skyway (I-90) on my way to visit family in Michigan. I figured it would be faster since it was a bit more direct than taking I-94 all the way down to I-80. Even the traffic signs said "no delays expected." Great.

Now I understand it's a toll road. No problem. I've never really taken the Skyway out of Chicago before, but I figured what could go wrong, right? I have I-pass, and enough money to handle the eighty cents worth of tolls once I get to Indiana.

Then I arrived at the Illinois-Indiana Border toll booth. I immediately moved into the far left lane, where I expected the I-pass lane to be, except there is no I-pass lane. Instead, there was a long line of cars in what was otherwise very light traffic, all waiting for two manned booths. I was still in Illinois. As far as I knew, this was still 2004.

Holy crap, what happens here during rush hour?

So what happened? I ended up using all my change to pay an outrageous two dollar toll. Two dollars! Whatever. I don't care about that; tolls are worse in other states. It wouldn't be a problem, except once you get into Indiana, there's another toll booth less than a mile from the Illinois booth. At this point, I had no change left, so I made sure to go into a lane that has a manned booth. When I got there, the booth was empty. To sum up, I ended up spending way more time than I would have taking I-94 for free.

Now, Indiana, I'm sure you think you're pretty clever that you put booths in all your lanes at the toll stop, but get a clue. I can't see whether you have a person in there or not until it's too late. Clearly mark your booths, damn it.

And Illinois, I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS. I bought an I-pass so this wouldn't happen, you bureaucratic dingleberries. What is the point of having it if I'm still going to encounter booths that don't recognize it? You probably figure it doesn't matter, because everyone using that booth will have to stop for the Indiana tolls anyway, right? However, if that booth had I-pass, I wouldn't have been caught unprepared at the Indiana booth. Plus, I-90 would have served its purpose of being faster than I-94. None of this would have been an issue. I relied on that stupid I-pass, Illinois, and you let me down.

And another thing: If the tolls do get doubled for everyone except I-pass users, as I hear is being proposed, what does that mean for this particular booth? Huh? HUH? FOUR FREAKING DOLLARS? See, you can pretty much shoot down anyone's complaints by saying, "just get an I-pass," but not for this booth. What am I supposed to do, point to the box in my windshield and demand a lower toll? I don't think so.

As long as I'm making all these unreasonable demands, I also demand that Indiana get on board with the I-pass. It starts with the same letter, damn it. Get with the program.

Listening to: WXRT. The Rolling Stones.
In my sink: 1 plate, 1 bowl, 1 cup, 1 spoon, 1 knife. One world. One love.

* AN ADDENDUM *
A chicago.metblogs reader made me realize that I forgot a very important point in yesterday's blog. So here it is:

To the people who like to talk on their cell phones while driving:
GET OFF YOUR FRIGGING PHONE. And while you're at it, you may as well get off the road, too, because YOU'RE AN IDIOT.

Here's a little disclaimer. I have, in the past, answered my cell phone while in my car, but I'm in a twelve-step program for it. Also, I've actually yelled at people who called me when I found out they were in their car. Why? Because I'm a HYPOCRITE.

I've never claimed otherwise. Except for that time when I claimed I wasn't a hypocrite.

On a side note, I also hate people who type in all caps. See? Hypocrisy.

Listening to: White Stripes, Sex Pistols. I admit, I just opened up iTunes and let it pick two random songs so I could have something to put here. Because I'm lame. I probably even talk on my cell phone while driving.
In my sink: Oh my. Uhhh, 2 plates, a cup, a bowl, 2 spoons, a fork, a pot, a lid, a colander, an apple slicer, and a butter dish. That's right, people, I actually cooked last night. Even if it was only spaghetti.

I'm going to come clean here.

I've gone back to driving my car.

It's just so invigorating energizing environmental strengthening cheaper smarter healthy... easier.

Now that I got that off my chest, I have a few things to say about driving... and um, bicycling... streets, in general.

One thing it didn't do was ease my temper. Yes, this summer I learned that road rage can transfer right over to bicycling. You're still on the road. And everyone else on the road is still an idiot.
That being out of the way, here's what I'd like to say to all those others behind the wheel out there:

• To the people who like to stop, IN THE MIDDLE OF MOVING TRAFFIC, put their blinkers on, and wait:
  GET OFF THE FRIGGING ROAD.
  You don't need a car to sit around and do nothing, moron.
  
• To the people who like to drive five miles an hour:
  GET OFF THE FRIGGING ROAD.
  You can go faster on a bike, bonehead.
  
• To the pedestrians who like to walk right in front of moving cars:
  Yes. You guessed it. GET OFF THE FRIGGING ROAD.
  We have sidewalks and designated crossing paths for you, roadkill.
  
• To the buses who like to dominate both lanes:
  PICK A FRIGGING LANE.
  I don't even know you, but I HATE YOU. Stupid... buses! (You know, that makes a real nice swear word. I'm going to use that from now on. @#!%%@@! BUS! Try yelling it. It has the same impact as the others, don't you think?)
  
• To the bicyclists who like to ride right in front of me and block me from passing:
  GET OFF... oh, wait. Damn.
  They can't get off the road because bicycling on sidewalks is illegal in Chicago. And they're already on a bicycle, so I can't fault them for that, can I?
  Well, they still suck, because I say so, and they're not me. So, I guess, uh, to the city of Chicago:
  PUT MORE BIKE LANES ON THE STREETS. AND DON'T MAKE THEM JUST END 50 FEET AWAY FROM THE INTERSECTION.
  

There. I said it. You may go about your normal browsing now.

Listening to: Bob Marley.
In my sink: Grease and soap. I'm letting them battle it out. I'm betting the grease wins. Any takers?