Too bad "Jesus" doesn't have an umlaut in it

I was kicking around a free font site for beer logo ideas, and ran into a bunch of fonts by the same woman. They all have that slightly dorky, cheerleader/preschool teacher/cupcake shop look, and have names like "Complete in Him" and "Loved by the King." It's clear that the woman is 1) a Christian and 2) terrible at naming fonts. One of the fonts had 46 comments on it. Now, there's no way that a mediocre font like "Complete in Him" could foster that much constructive font-related discussion, so I had to check it out.

The comments tended to fall into two categories: "I love Jesus and you love Jesus and we rock," and "I have a preschool/cheerleading poster/cupcake shop, can I use your font?" There was only one comment that bridged the two categories, both shamelessly and seamlessly. As always, I've fixed the spelling and punctuation so your eyes don't bleed. You're welcome.

"Hi to my sister in our Lord Jesus Christ! Your fonts are truly a blessing to me. I can see it is made from inspiration from the Heavenly Throne Room of our Father God! May I have the privilege of seeing you one day at the feet of our Lord Jesus... Then you can teach me all your fonts... Blessings, Ulanda"

I just can't get over "Then you can teach me all your fonts." Praise the Lord and pass the italics.

Can't talk, I'm using the backhoe

In addition to the awesome letter from P&G (see below), I also received some pills for my dog from an online pet medication website. According to the warning label, this medicine may impair my dog's ability to drive or operate machinery. She is supposed to refrain from doing so until she knows how it affects her.

Bad Copy of the Day Award: Mail Call Edition!

You're lucky I've got some editing experience. It means you won't have to read the really boring post I just wrote, then deleted. The short, and much better, version is that I got a refund check in the mail after complaining to Procter & Gamble about their tendency to package deodorant in canisters with faulty mechanics. Here's part of the message that accompanied the check:

"We have shared your experience with the appropriate people here in our company for future learnings."

Bad Copy of the Day Award

And just think, whoever wrote this is getting paid a salary to work at one of the country's larger insurance brokerages.

Just get a raincoat with a good hood on it.

I've never been a big fan of umbrellas. An umbrella uses up one of my two usable hands, I must hold it for the duration of desired protection from rain, and it does nothing to keep the lower 80% of my body dry. Here in the Windy City (tm), there's the added problem of the winds that whip through the steel canyons of downtown, especially in the vicinity of Sears Tower, which pretty much manufactures its own weather patterns. Umbrellas don't do well in such a harsh environment. This picture was taken at the corner of Jackson and Wacker, right next to the Sears Tower. I took the picture and then proceeded smugly, protected from both wind and rain by my Marmot rain jacket. I am less smug now that I see how blurry the photo came out. Stupid CrapCam.

I think it's safe to post this now.

I very much hate ZOMG SUPER PINK CANCER OCTOBER PINK BOOBIES PINK MONTH (tm) for more reasons than I care to go into right now, mostly because it's late and I have to work in the morning. So I had to hang on to this picture until the rage subsided a bit. I saw this on my way into work one morning and was just... astonished. It's a street sweeping truck. It sweeps the streets. It is also very aware of breast cancer and would like you to be the same. Just... no. Come ON. It's a street sweeping truck! Where will the madness end?

Man, you know what I love?

I love that every day when I leave work, I turn east towards the lake and take a 10-minute walking tour of Chicago. I cross a crumbling iron and concrete bridge over the mighty Chicago River, then pass the Sears Tower and smile at the tourists taking their picture in front of the Skydeck sign. Sometimes, when the moment is right, I offer to take it for them, so they can all be in the photo.

Further down Jackson street, while waiting for the light to change, I look to my left and see the Rookery -- a beautiful building in its own right, but also the place where Daniel "Make No Little Plans" Burnham dreamed up the parks, harbors, and avenues that saved Chicago from itself. To the right is the Chicago Board of Trade, which has one of the finest art deco interiors (and hell, exteriors) I've ever seen. After passing the Federal Reserve building, I cut across Federal Plaza and between the impossibly airy monolithic Mies van der Rohe-designed federal buildings. Then it's an approving nod up to Calder's Flamingo sculpture before I head down into the belly of the subway for the ride home to my neighborhood.

This is the greatest city in the world, and you won't convince me otherwise. Unless you're willing to front me a plane ticket to your city of choice for analysis purposes.

Man, you know what I hate?

I hate that when I sign into this blog, it tells me -- nay, admonishes me -- when my last post was. I live in a big, important city now. I'm busy doing big, important things. Nothing strange or anything of note ever happens here.

Nothing at all, including the following posts I've been saving up.

Funniest typo I've made all day

Applican't

"The die is cast."

After ranting out that last little post, one of my friends brought it to my attention that the saying "the dye is cast" could be useful if one interpreted it as "the cloth is colored -- there's no going back now." She also mentioned that it could have been a quote by Julius Caesar (purveyor of fine blended orange drinks and salad dressing).

So I looked it up.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alea_iacta_est

Turns out, the quote "The die is cast" is attributed to Caesar after all. The "die" refers to one of a set of dice, as in "the game has begun/the move is made." I like this meaning -- it pleases me. A Google search reveals that an awful lot of people use "the dye is cast" to mean the same thing. I guess I'm not completely against it, as the metaphor has some sense. And I am aware that similar bastardizations of sayings are what make this language great (and damn difficult to learn as a second language).

But... still. I cling to my outmoded belief and shake my tiny fist nonetheless.

Bad copy of the day award

Unfortunately, I've been seeing more and more "professionally edited" items online with terrible mistakes. I'm not sure if it's because of staffing cutbacks, increased usage of Web 2.0 user-generated foolishness, or a global conspiracy to cause me, personally, to go insane, but I've seen ridiculous crap popping up on AP and Reuters-type stories more and more. I don't always put it up as a BCD award, mostly because it would just be depressing. On to today's un-ignorable example*:


What does that even mean? What is the symbolism of throwing pigment? Has nobody ever heard of a, say, die-cast toy car, wherein metal is formed into a final, unchangeable shape? Aside from the questionable use of the metaphor, you can't just use different words that sound the same! Your phrase is meaningless! WHY AREN'T THERE MORE EDITORS LOOKING OUT FOR US? WHY, GOD? *breaks down into untintelligible sobbing noises*


Thank you for your time.

*Yeah, I was reading about Paula Abdul leaving American Idol. I never said I had much pride.

I never thought it possible, but a crime has been committed in my office even more heinous and un-neighborly than the Quarter-Donut-Leaver.

Today, I entered the kitchen to discover a decapitated muffin stump. That's right. Instead of cutting the muffin in half, as is marginally acceptable, some faceless person in my office took a knife and carefully sliced off the crusty, sugar-sparkled, perfectly browned top of a blueberry muffin, leaving only the tiny, textureless stump behind. Come ON. Nobody wants the stumps, including the homeless. Exhibit A: Seinfeld episode 155, "The Muffin Tops":

Rebecca: Excuse me, I'm Rebecca Demore from the homeless shelter.
Elaine: Oh, hi.
Rebecca: Are you the ones leaveing the muffin pieces behind our shelter?
Elaine: You been enjoying them?
Rebecca: They're just stumps.
Elaine: Well they're perfectly edible.
Rebecca: Oh, so you just assume that the homeless will eat them, they'll eat anything?
Mr. Lippman: No no, we just thought...
Rebecca: I know what you thought. They don't have homes, they don't have jobs, what do they need the top of a muffin for? They're lucky to get the stumps.
Elaine: If the homeless don't like them the homeless don't have to eat them.
Rebecca: The homeless don't like them.
Elaine: Fine.
Rebecca: We've never gotten so many complaints. Every two minutes, "Where is the top of this muffin? Who ate the rest of this?"
Elaine: We were just trying to help.
Rebecca: Why don't you just drop off some chicken skins and lobster shells.

I hope the Muffin Top Bandit regrets his or choice, be it through regret of their gluttony or some manner of exceedingly embarrassing digestive process.

Things I've knitted recently

I just finished this here squid for my brand-new cousin, Dylan. His birth coincided with my bizarre urge to knit a squid, so there you go. It's one of a kind, and can never be replicated because 1) I knit it without a pattern (if I wrote a pattern, it would say, "Step 1: knit a squid-shaped thing."), and 2) this stupid boucle yarn is hard to work with and impossible to see individual stitches in, so I can't go back and map it out. Anyway, I'm really happy with the way it came out and I look forward to knitting more marine creatures. No, I don't know why I tend to work in themes. Every other artist does it too, if you think about it. I guess my mind just gets wrapped around one idea and I want to see where I can take it.

I finished these a while ago, but felt like putting them up for the good of the Google search (so other people can see what they look like when finished). These are based on the Broad Street Mittens, but with a BUNCH of alterations that I decided on as I knit the first pair for my mom. Thanks for being a guinea pig, mom. I hope they are still okay.

Disappointment comes in every language.

As seen while trying (unsuccessfully) to download an R2-D2 paper model:

As seen in the city

I was walking down the street in my neighborhood and passed two police cruisers. One was parked on the side of the road, and he had his window down to talk to the guy in the other car, who was basically blocking traffic just so he could hang out with his buddy. This alone would have been a pretty effective snapshot of Chicago's finest at work, but wait -- there's more.

As I passed the curbmost car, I was treated to the sight of a box of Dunkin Donuts sitting on the dashboard. A big ol' box of a dozen donuts. Just sitting there, doing the dual duties of 1) being a box of donuts and 2) bringing a stereotype to vivid, Technicolor life.

First blog from my new job!

I just overheard an amazing phone conversation. Since the individual making the call had helpfully put it on speakerphone, I was privy to both sides of the conversation. It went a lot like this:

Man: Hey, do you know which of our printers is the XP5 printer? One of the interns is printing to it and he doesn’t know which one he’s printing to.
Woman: You don’t know which printer to use?
Man: No, I need to know where the XP5 printer is. The interns need to know.
Woman: Have you asked [IT guy]?
Man: No, [IT guy] is out. Is there someone else I can ask?
Woman: No. You’ll need to put in an IT ticket and they can tell you. [Note: all IT tickets get sent to our corporate office and then routed back here to our IT guy, who is out as previously mentioned. Nobody in our corporate office will know where exactly a particular printer is located.]
Man: Okay, I’ll put in a ticket.


Look, people. Why not either print to a printer that you DO know the location of, or perhaps print out a piece of paper that says “REWARD! IF YOU CAN READ THIS, PLEASE CALL [INTERN] AND TELL HIM WHAT PRINTER IT IS!!!” It would be both good for a laugh and might actually solve the problem of where the XP5 printer is. Just saying.

Happy fourth birthday, Funundrum.

You've seen me through three states, several jobs, and one amazingly terrible neighbor named Heidi.  For your gift this year, I've brought you to one of the more bloggable cities in the world.  It's okay that nobody reads it. I'll always know you're here, and I'll read this many years from now and laugh.  Thanks, Funundrum.

Pints at the Goose Island Brewery

The closest goose represents, obviously, their Summertime seasonal.  The phone is the tap for 312, one of my new go-to favorites. (312 is the main Chicago area code.)  I just love this picture because it required a long exposure with the camera balanced on top of a pint glass.  And it doesn't show, but the place was mobbed because it's a block away from Wrigley Field, and we were waiting for the game to start.

Cubbies fans ahoy.

When we moved to Chicago, I was concerned about my baseball loyalty. Though my hometown team has always been and will remain the Angels, I've moved around this country enough to realize that it's a good idea to support the local team because 1) it's fun to go to games surrounded by fellow fans and 2) they're the only games you can get on TV. I've held temporary fan cards for the Marlins, the Padres, and the Rockies so far, and now we've moved to a dual-team city. I kind of figured I would just go with the White Sox, as my dad was raised on the south side, and that's the closest thing I have to a connection to either team. Also, I was a little leery about trying to shoehorn myself in with Cubs fans, a community of pain and disappointment that reaches back over five generations and 100 years. That's the kind of losing that's born, not made.

Then we moved to the north side. We're only three train stops north of Wrigley field, and I pass the ballpark every day on my way to and from work. If I'm sitting on the correct side of the train, I can look up and see whether the "W" or "L" flag is flying and know whether the Cubs won or lost during that day's game. The game is on in every bar you'll ever walk into, and you had damn well be ready to sit down and root, root, root for them Cubbies. It's kind of required by law, amirite?

So here we are, three months into living here, and we're Cubs fans. We made it to our first game at the Friendly Confines on Memorial Day. It was a bit chilly, but it didn't rain, and that's always a good day in Chicago. We started our day off by having a few beers at the Goose Island Brewery and the Cubby Bear, two of several dozen bars in Wrigleyville. We didn't even have time to hit up the other neighborhood icons, Murphy's Bleachers and Harry Caray's.

I am sorry to say the Cubs lost to the Pirates, but it was a high-scoring game and we had a great time eating peanuts and drinking Old Style. Mr. T led the crowd in singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." We had such fun with watching the scoreboard getting changed by hand, the train trundling past, and trying to figure out how long we had to decently wait before getting Cubs ballcaps.

This is the greatest city in the world.

City Life, Part 2

We recently enjoyed a delicious German meal at the Chicago Brauhaus.  After stuffing ourselves silly with bratwurst, schnitzel, plenty of sauerkraut, and a selection of German beers, we stumbled back to the bus stop and caught the 81 east back to our neck of the woods.  The bus was packed, so we barely managed to sidle our way back a few feet.  We made small talk with the lady we were squeezed up next to for the next ten minutes, as there's nothing much else to do when you're inches away from a perfect stranger.  She was very pleasant, and we had a few crowded-bus-related laughs before arriving at a stop that belonged to an old lady who was sitting down behind us.  

As we realized she needed to get off, we all started to shuffle around as best we could to accommodate her.  Despite the existence of roughly 435 people on this bus, this cranky old woman began berating us for our failure to create a suitable egress for her: 

"You know, if you would all just move towards the back, there would be room for everybody."

The three of us were kind enough to keep our fool mouths shut until she made her way off the bus.  Then we took another look around the sea of faces surrounding us and just about fell all over each other laughing. Best cranky lady ever.

City Life, Part 1

We just walked back home from the Bar on Buena*.  It's the best, laziest-titled bar/restaurant ever.  It's a bar.  It's on Buena Street.  It's the Bar on Buena.  Until two weeks ago, the Friday night barkeep knew our names.  He's left to manage a bar in the North Loop (it's called the Motel Bar, and word is that they do a mean Sidecar), so we'll have to get down there and check it out.

So anyway, we were walking back from this place, through the heart of multicultural and multi-socioeconomical Uptown.  We passed a crowded bus shelter, and a young lady emerged to tell us, "Y'all look like a Gap ad!  You look like a Gap ad!"  I glanced at my husband, and realized that we were wearing matching styles (but not colors) of $125 Marmot rain jackets.  There was no denying that we did, in fact, look like a Gap ad.  Very astute of the aforementioned young lady.

I started doing The Dance, which pretty much consisted of me throwing my hands in the air and waving them like I just didn't care, unless of course some corduroy pants or button-down shirts were about to go on sale, in which case I cared very much.  On account of being in a Gap ad.  The young lady was very entertained by my display, and Chris took some time out to tell me how I have a magical power.  Apparently, hobos are fascinated and entertained by me.  

*I love this place.  They have good beer.  It's the kind of thing where you can tell the barkeep, "I'm feeling kind of hoppy tonight," and he'll give you four choices.  Mmmm.  I enjoy drinking beer.

Sweet Baby Chuck

I was at the shoe store yesterday.  I had to get new shoes.  There was no getting around it -- my black low-top Chucks were finally dead, as the holes in the bottoms of the soles were getting big enough that I couldn't wear them on wet pavement without having to change my socks.  Some of the lacing rivets had come off, and were hanging on the laces.  The laces themselves were the same gray as the previously white rubber toes.  Those were some good shoes.  

Needless to say, I got new ones just like the old ones.  I am pleased to report that I managed to attain a few scuffs on the walk home, so they're well on the way to attaining cool-shoe nirvana.

As I was trying on my shoes to make sure they weren't, like, two different sizes, I overheard a woman buying shoes for her son, who wasn't with her.  She pointed to the Converse display and asked a salesperson, 

"I'm supposed to get some of these Converse shoes.  There's a different name for them, though, and I can't remember what he told me to ask for.  I want to say 'James Taylors,' but I know that's wrong."

That just about made my day right there.

What Fist-bumping Lions may look like.

That is, if they were captured via CrapCam and shopped together in a really lazy fashion. 

The subtle signs of spring

In my neighborhood, there are a lot of nice old buildings, such as the one we're currently living in.  The people in these buildings often choose, wisely, to flank the entrances with small statues or other stone ornamentation.  It looks nice.  The most popular choice around these parts is a pair of small seated lions, about 18" high, that each have a paw raised in front of them.  They mirror each other, so that one is raising the right paw and the other has the left paw up.  I desperately want to purchase a pair myself and set them up so they are bumping fists.

Anyway, I saw this handsome fellow while walking to the grocery store the other day.  I wonder if he celebrates all the holidays with this much gusto.

Things you learn in the city

Pigeons will eat Silly String.

You're not helping anyone.

The U.S. Mint began taking orders today for the first coin ever to have Braille writing on it.  It's a dollar coin minted to commemorate the 200th birthday of Louis Braille. (Side note: this year humanity has already celebrated the 200th birthdays of both Abraham Lincoln and Charles Darwin.  I want to know what the hell was in the global water supply in 1809, and where we can get more, because all society seems to be putting out these days is Dr. Phil and Miley Cyrus.)

Back to the coin.  The article I read describes, in laborious gotta-up-the-word-count detail, exactly what the coin says ("E Pluribus Unum," "In God We Trust," etc.) and FINALLY gets around to answering the big question:  what the hell does the Braille word say?  

You ready?

It says "BRL," which is apparently how you say "Braille" in Braille.  I'm no blind person, nor am I an expert in the needs and desires of blind people, but I'm thinking that if I were blind, I'd want my dollar coin to say "DOLLAR."

This is why I hate keeping secrets.

Because if I can't blog it right away, I'll forget about it for months and months.

Remember a million years ago when I crocheted an egg? Sure you do.  Well, the bizarre act of creating a food item out of yarn awakened a superpower inside me that I didn't even know was there.  The longer I sat and looked at that egg, the more I thought, "Huh.  I wonder what other kinds of food would look good when knitted?  What would go with an egg?  How about other breakfast foods?"  This is really what goes on in my mind -- I'm terribly sorry to have to expose you to that kind of ridiculously useless genius. 

So I sat down and made a piece of bread.  And some fried eggs.  And some bacon.  By then I had started to go on the internet to look for free patterns for other kinds of food, and simultaneously decided that if I was going to make all this food, I better have a use for it.  This is where my niece comes in handy.  Her second birthday was coming up in a few months, and what two-year-old wouldn't want a sackful of pretend food?   No two-year-old wouldn't want a sackful of pretend food, that's who.  A mission was born.

I had so much damn fun knitting food that when her birthday approached, I was so elbow deep in donuts and broccoli that I had to push the gift off until Christmas.  Before I sent it all off for Santa to deliver, I took some photos of the finished products.   Here they are!

More knitted food

Here is a video of my sandwich being constructed.

Look at that.

Plenty of cities in America host parades in honor of St. Patrick's Day. Only Chicago goes the extra ridiculous mile of dyeing their river green. Chris had school on Saturday morning, so I headed downtown to the corner of Wacker and Michigan with the camera to see the fuss.

Here you can see people lined up all along the river walk and across the lower level of the Michigan Ave. bridge.  I had started out on the other side of the river, but there were some trees in the way.  Also, it's about a billion degrees colder in the shade.

I know the river is already green.  Dang, shut up.  It gets better.

After an hour of us waiting, the Plumbers' Union boats finally came trundling up  (down? it's a backwards-flowing river, so what is it?) the river, each outfitted with a man at the back sprinkling orange powder into the river.  As the official website cheekily points out, it is indeed  a true St. Patrick's Day miracle that the orange (read: Protestant) substance is instantly converted into true Irish green (read: Catholic) before our very eyes. I laughed, you should too.  At any rate, the dye is touted as environmentally friendly, so that's nice.

The boats make a few passes between Michigan and Columbus, but it only takes a few minutes for the dye and water to commingle...

And look like this. I think it stays that way for a few hours before washing downstream (they may have to reapply the stuff from time to time).  Once this spectacle was over, I was cold, tired of being jostled, and in no mood to head over to the parade, especially when presented with the logistical nightmare of meeting Chris somewhere along the route.  

Besides, there's always next year.

I even made a little video!  The quality's a bit crap because I didn't realize I had the resolution set so low.  But still.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

Chris' dad sent us a copy of a CD that my brother-in-law did the artwork for.  It's a charity album put out by the same record label that the BIL has already done a lot of work for.  The artwork is great.  The copy?  Not so much.  As you read this blurb, taken from the back of the CD, your assignment is to tell me what this organization does.  That's it.  Okay, ready?  Okay.

"Take Action was founded in 1999 by Hopeless Records in connection with their non-profit organization Sub City to encourage young people to make a positive impact in the world.  A portion of the proceeds (equaling 5% of the suggested retail price) earned by Sub City from the sale of this release will be donated to DoSomething.org, a national not-for-profit that believes that young people have the power to make a difference.  They inspire, empower, and celebrate a generation of doers:  young people who recognize the need to do something, believe in their ability to get it done, and then take action."

YEAH!! LET'S GO! Let's go take action and do something! Something resembling anything! I was actually so vagued out by the above terrible copy that I went over to DoSomething.org to see what exactly is the something that they do.  Turns out, it's a pretty comprehensive, well-designed little website.  It categorizes, indexes, and filters a ton of different causes that young people might be interested in, suggests actions to be taken to bring about desired results, and provides tools to help people mobilize themselves, friends, and family members in their own homes and neighborhoods.  

I believe that copy has the power to make the difference.  I would celebrate the opportunity to take action and make this copy do something by saying something. Anything. 

Hobos love my dog.

I don't really mean hobos, necessarily, but that subject line length is limiting.  I will rephrase and say "people in my neighborhood who seem to have several hours a day with nothing more to do than hold down a bench in the park and chat with each other or, in some cases, with themselves."

Other people in my neighborhood keep telling me there are loads of greyhounds in the area -- so far I've met just one, and he is a charming old man who gets to wear boots outside to alleviate his arthritis.  Judging by the hobo reactions, though, you'd think I was parading the queen of England around on a leash three times a day.  In the last three weeks, I have gotten received the following bits of feedback from my socioeconomically challenged brethren:

• "Greyhound!"
  
• (sung to a familiar tune you will no doubt figure out) "You ain't nothing but a greyhound..."
  
• "What's that?" This last one happened today, when I was about 50 feet away from a lady (who was, unbelievably, sitting on a bench hanging out with a friend).  I didn't think she was talking to me, but she continued on.  "Hey miss!  What's that?"  I turned around -- "My dog?  This is a greyhound."  "a-HA!"  She was very pleased to find this information out.
  
• There was also a very nice man who liked the look of her coat and wished he could figure out a way to make it fit him. That sounds sad, but he had a perfectly good coat, so I know he was joshing.
  

Now, people in my particular station of life (white people with dogs) also rightfully declaim on the subject of my beautiful dog.  It's just awesome that all the other city folk take time out of their day to admire Maggie too. I'm happy to give them something to smile about.

Please be tongue-in-cheek.

I'm going to be filing this one in the same area as the bitchy "Deal with it" weather forecast.  Last night, we were watching the weather forecast.  They weather guy started with some outlying areas of Wisconsin and Indiana, I suppose to make these folks feel less inadequate for not living in Chicago proper.  Here's the forecast for Valparaiso, Indiana (about an hour outside of Chicago) -- I can only pray that this is what passes for weather-related black humor in these parts:

Yeah.  That says "43, Partly Sunny Skies, Get Out the BBQ!"  It's kind of how we feel at this point, though.  Early March is the part of the year that feels like spring (let alone summer) will never, ever come again, and that any past summer memories are simple hallucinations brought on by wind chill.

Muy rico.

Have I mentioned the amazing array of unique ethnic foodstuffs available here in Chicago?  If not, allow me to do so now.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

This is actually bad copy from a couple of months ago, but it's such a hassle to cull photos from the CrapCam, it had to wait.  This is another entry from the alternate dimension from whence my produce signs are created:

Cute presentation, definitely draws the eye and creates smiles.  But I have to take a bit of issue with the middle bit.  Surely, even if you don't know how to spell "clementines," you'd look at this, sound it out, and say, "No, don't think so."  Then pester Steve from the bakery department to help you out, considering that he's always so high-falutin' and using them fancy French names for bread and stuff.  He should take them baguettes of his and shove them.

Bizarre produce section signs

I think they hired someone new at our local King Soopers grocery store.  Someone whose soul has not yet been crushed by the endless monotony of stacking organic seedless grapes.  I noticed this development slowly, over the course of several weeks, every time I'd walk into the produce section.  Signs for fruit and vegetables had begun to take on a surreal and playful nature.  It appealed greatly to me, but I don't know how the rest of my PlasticLand(tm) neighbors are enjoying it.

I was just beginning to chronicle these signs for posterity when we had to go and move.  We'll see if the staff at the Jewel has the same sense of humor, but I doubt it.

Is this not the strangest way to market mangos you've ever seen?  Extra points for creatively pluralizing to "mangoes."  Makes it look more exotic.

A Lol-Object? In my neighborhood? It's more likely than you think.

This little guy lives in the park nearby our house. I thought he needed some love and attention. And a nonsensical caption. So there you go.

I am a Crimestopper in Action (tm)!

My dog and I are still getting used to the idea that she no longer has a backyard to run around in, or a dog door to access that backyard whenever she wishes.  We seem to be getting on pretty well so far by going on three walks a day.  If she doesn't do her business by the end of the 20-minute walk, I just lift her up and squeeze until she goes.  It's like getting the last of the toothpaste out.

I've devised a standard loop of a walk that goes from my house, out to the park at the end of the block, and around a small community center within the park.  Last night, we had just approached the community center when I saw a man, dressed in dark clothing, sidling along the wall.  He was even carrying a small bag or case.  I thought to myself, "No way.  No way is that guy being that obvious.  This is not a man who is about to break into a Chicago community center at like 9:30 at night."  The only thing more suspicious would have been for him to be carrying canvas bags with big dollar signs on them.

I walked past, minding my own business, but when I turned the corner of the building, I glanced back to check on the guy.  SHO NUFF he had opened a window (I guess it was unlocked?) and already had his legs inside.  I don't yet have the non-emergency police number on my phone, so I was still trying to think what I could do about the situation as I came around the back of the building.  To my surprise, a police cruiser was idling in the parking lot.  I recognized the officer from the other day, when I saw her talking to locals at a strip mall.  

After I waved at her from outside the car, she rolled down her window and spent a minute giving the appropriate pets to my beautiful dog before asking me what she could do for me.  "I just saw a man climb in the window of this building, on the other side."  "REALLY?"  Honestly, I think I made her night.  "Where?" she asked.  "Across the street?"  NO, here, this building," as I pointed to the building 20 feet away from us to be clear.  It's the only building in the park.  "He climbed in a window to a dark room here in this building, just on the other side."  She said she'd check it out and peeled out of the parking lot and around to the other side.

I didn't hang out to find out what happened.  I just hope that if this guy was up to no good, she was able to apprehend him.  This is my city now too -- please stay out of my community center.

Look what I have done for you.

I mean, aside from letting this blog go idle for three months, so that you would more fully appreciate the material I've put into it.

No, I've gone and moved from the Denver suburbs to smack in the middle of the city of Chicago.  I've only lived here properly for a few days, but I can't shake the feeling that I've moved to the greatest city in America.  I'd say the greatest city in the world, but a) I haven't yet been everywhere else and b) I think London might give a run for the money.

I expect this turn of events to present some excellent blogging opportunities.  After all, this is an actual city where stuff really happens.  I get to ride the train everywhere, which is the great social equalizer and will bump me up against a pretty good cross-section of humanity.  You never know what might happen.

My next post is a case in point.