I once thought a woman on my Metra train had a little Moleskine notebook in which she was drawing little sketches. Then I realized that I'm on a train to the suburbs and no one interesting rides these trains. I looked closer. It was a day planner.
I sit in the upper deck of the Metra train which means that I get to look down see people playing games on their phones. It's surprisingly hard to figure out the name of the game they are playing so that I can download it and play it, too. Added difficulty points: I ride in the quiet car so I can't just shout down at them like Zeus and demand to know what game they play. There should be an app for that. Not the shouting down from above like Zeus -- though that would be a good app, too. The figuring out what game someone is playing by snapping a long-distance shot of their screen from your own phone is the app I'm talking about. Also, I don't think I need an app for the Zeus-shouting. I'm pretty good at projecting when I want. Sometimes Scarlett and I play a fun game that Dee hates called LOUD NOISES. Basically I shout-sing, "LOUD NOOOOOOIIIIISESSSS," and then Scarlett shout-sings, "LOUD NOOOOOOIIIIISESSSS!" Repeat until Dee gives me the I-want-to-murder-you look or until she starts laughing. I consider it a win if Dee starts laughing. Scarlett can't quite grasp that concept yet. She just likes to yell.
When I walk into the dry cleaner's it's like when Norm walked into Cheers. Only they call me "Mister Ford" and do it with an accent (I was going to tell you that it's done with an Asian accent of some type -- I'm not good at differentiating -- but you would have just assumed that I was making a racist joke even though I'm just stating simple facts. Is it still racist to relate an actual event that is also stereotypical? Maybe. I guess I'm a racist then). They know exactly how much starch I want in my shirts and sometimes they'll even remember my phone number (it's what they use to look up my account). However, no matter how many times I go in there and request a pickup two days later they always suggest some time next week. If I go in on Wednesday, I'll want to pick up my clothes on Friday but they'll say, "Is Tuesday okay?" No, Tuesday is not okay. Friday. Then they change it and everything is fine. If they remember all my other shit -- I mean my phone number! Who remembers phone numbers anymore? -- then why can't they remember that I want a quick turnaround on my clothes? Get it together, stereotypical dry cleaning store owners.
Has anyone ever noticed how hipsters really like bicycles and glasses? I really think I might be on to something here. [Note to self: Could this potentially be an entire post of its own?]
Hall and Odie. Simon and Garfield.
You guys, check your watches. You might be late for something. (If you're actually late for something I just blew your mind.)
I know where Chicago keeps at least a small portion of its sandbags. Pretty sure you've got to have top level clearance to know this information. Or just look around you a little bit when you're sitting on the train tracks at Union Station.
There's a very good chance that I'm wearing some kind of checked shirt at the very moment you're reading this (gingham, window pane, etc. You choose, it's your imagination after all. Don't be afraid to use the BlueFly accessory wall wisely.)
My wife suggested that I should do reviews of "So You Think You Can Dance." I said, "You think everyone wants to read about how much I like great butts?"
Still, you've got to love that my wife is always encouraging me to do things I love. Like write about and look at great butts.
Is "great butts" more or less creepy than "sweet asses"?
Neither is as creepy as "tight tushies."