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True Stories

The case of the muffled scuffle

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Every morning, I awaken at approximately 7:05 AM to the extremely loud voices of Mancow and his cohorts on Q101. At approximately 7:05 AM plus ten seconds or less, my fist comes slamming down on that snooze bar with a force that even Thor wielding his mighty Mjolnir could not rival. In general, at this point, I return to sleep, only to repeat the process every ten minutes until I am late for work.

This particular morning, however, my last-minute fits of slumber were interrupted. As I hit the snooze button and lay back down, I heard loud thumping on the floor above me. And more thumping. And some crashing. And a female voice, screaming at the top of her lungs in a very high pitch, “I HATE YOU! YOU ASSHOLE!”. Other things were screamed as well, but that is the only line that I am comfortable quoting. I heard a muffled male voice yelling, but as his voice was deeper it was much more difficult to make out the details. In any event, it appeared that the woman upstairs was not yelling at me, which brought me no small amount of relief.

The thumping continued, and my cat walked over and stood on my chest, his face pointed upwards and his ears wiggling as they followed the source of the sounds. He looked down to me as if to say, “Certainly somebody up there is tearing shit up.” I could not help but agree with him. Soon my alarm went off again, and once again there was Mancow doing his little right-wing radio thing, and once again there was my hand very nearly splitting the alarm clock in twain. The thumping had suddenly stopped. As I am apt to do in the mornings, I promptly forgot about the altercation. (My brain does not work well in the mornings. My clock is set fifteen minutes ahead of the real time, and in the morning I am dazed enough to believe it is the correct time. This is good, because it means I haul my ass out of bed, on average, about fifteen minutes earlier. It is bad because sometimes I forget completely how to work the alarm clock and end up staring at it for thirty seconds, trying to figure out which button to push, and instead of picking the snooze bar, I wrongly choose the button that will turn the alarm off completely.) I returned to my slumber, and dreamed pleasant dreams in which my cat was not standing on my chest.

Today at work, my recollection of these events slowly returned. I wondered if anyone had been injured. I probably would have left for work before any ambulance or police arrived, and they would be long gone by the time I got home. I resigned myself to never knowing for sure. The only indication that both tenants of that apartment are still alive and well is that both of their names remain on their mailbox. That’s not too much to go on in this harsh, crazy world.

But, dammit, it’s all I’ve got.

Education and Career, Lucacentric, True Stories

So what happens now?

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My jury service ended yesterday. The nature of the case was medical malpractice against two defendants. After being presented with day after day of evidence from all three attorneys, the jury had all pretty much made up our minds by the time we were to begin deliberations. I thought it would be insensitive to annonce the verdict after only thirty minutes, so we managed to talk about it for another hour. In the end, we found for the defendants and against the plaintiff. The judge invited the jury to stay and talk to the lawyers afterwards, because we might have questions, and because sometimes the lawyers would like feedback from us as to what was effective and what was not. Several of the jury grouped around the three lawyers — who were at least well-acquainted colleagues, if not friends — and started to ask them various questions. In the course of this, I learned that the plaintiff had sued another doctor over this incident in a different trial and had won, so I did not feel too badly about finding for the doctors.

Then, I just sort of wandered away. I didn’t really have any questions, nor did I have anything particularly insightful to say as to criticism of performance, so I floated away from the crowd and I stared out that twenty-second story window one more time before I descended to ground level, hopped on the subway, and raced back toward my life of relative drabness — relative to the giant crowds and giant buildings and giant money of downtown Chicago, at any rate. I was to return to my job and resume performing my assigned occupational duties. But the experience reawakened in me a desire to do something more. That is why I want to take the GRE. That is why I have been tearing my hair out looking at the academic programs and application procedures of design schools all over the United States. That is not why I have been playing a lot of SimCity in the past few days, but not everything has a tidy explanation.

I believe it is safe to say that now, more than ever, I am standing squarely at the crossroads of life. Or, at the very least, I am sitting on the couch of indecision.

General
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I don’t know either

The following was written on my lunch break during jury duty today.

Right now I am sitting on the twenty-second floor lobby of the Daley Center, overlooking the downtown Chicago area. The view, needless to say, is rather breathtaking — it is a sea of skyscrapers in which it is the very short buildings that stick out, not the very tall, because of the gaps and pits they create in the sprawling urban mass. The chief exception to this is the Sears Tower, which appears to be just a few blocks over, and on a sunny day like today, I can see it extending up into the sky, its two massive prong antenne very nearly skewering the sun. Last week it was cloudy, and the top thirty floors or so were obscured by a large gray puff of water vapor, but not today.

When I consider the height of the Sears Tower, suddenly it seems as though I’m really not all that far off the ground, and the cars on the street that a moment ago had looked like Micro Machines have suddenly grown to the size of Hot Wheels, and suddenly it seems as though I can see the facial expressions of each individual person scurrying around on the plaza below.

Before my imagination catches up with itself, suddenly I see a 747 fly overhead and barrel into the top of the surrounding buildings; then, I see it again, except this time the 747 crashes directly into the twenty-second floor lobby of the Daley Center. What could I possibly do in the event of such an unlikely occurrence? Could I dive into the stairwell? Run to the other side of the building? Dare I pass through the doors marked “Private” which surely lead to judges’ chambers? Would a 747 heed any notice that entrance to a particular hallway is restricted to authorized personnel only? Would a Swiss army knife be at all useful? The answer to these questions is “no”, except for the first question, to which the proper answer is “nothing”. Luckily, while it can be argued that malpractice suits and action claims are all-American, the civil court system in general and the Daley Center in particular seem to have escaped the notice of Osama bin Laden and his ilk.

I look more closely at the window. Oh, it was just an elaborate flat video screen all along. As it turns out, I’m twenty-two floors below ground level. An easy mistake to make.

And now I must return to the courtroom, in which I will do my part as a United States citizen to make sure that somebody who is complaining about someone and the person they’re complaining about get the fair and swift justice they deserve.

General
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The correct answer cannot be determined from the given information

I am thinking about taking the GRE. For fun if nothing else. And if it helps me in any way to fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a Research Fellow in Comparative Analytical Cartographical Geography at Ball State University, more’s the better!

Fictishy

Hey hey groundhog day

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My friends, today is that American holiday known as Groundhog Day. It is famous in large part due to the movie of the same name featuring Bill Murray as a man who relives the same day over and over again until he gets it right. And let me tell you, Groundhog Day did not get this reputation from nothing. This is actually the two hundredth consecutive time I have lived out this day. And every day I have written about it, but whenever the day starts over, what I had written disappears and so I have to start over. Naturally, I am fairly tired of this. Otherwise, however, I really can’t complain. After all, it is a Saturday, and I really have very few obligations. Mostly I have been sleeping in. I fed the cat last night, and won’t need to again until tomorrow morning; and so as long as I remain on the same day, I’ll never have to feed my cat, and will never have to worry about him starving. So that’s pretty cool. It is pretty frustrating, though, having to watch the same television programs over and over – the Britney Spears SNL is hardly the way to cap off the night, and yet I find myself watching it with alarming frequency. I have absolutely exhausted my DVD collection and my comic books so, like I said, I mostly just stay in bed all day. It beats working. I know that eventually I’m going to have to win the love of the charming Andie MacDowell and do good deeds for the eccentric citizens of the town in which I live, but that town is Chicago and really there just aren’t enough hours in the day.

General
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Mr. John Oates’s number one fan

My older brother, John, is one year closer to thirty today.

I do not have, offhand, a hilarious picture of him to post, so I will instead share with you this email message he wrote to me. This was his response to my assumption that a fellow posting as “HansDrinker” on my forum was impersonating several of my friends on the very same forum. “HansDrinker” was, as it turned out, John. (Note: the thread in which his original message and my reply appear has been erased, as I felt really stupid about it.) I can’t say I agree with everything he said in response, but I can’t argue with the way he said it:

Unfortunately, I don’t know of the person who has been impersonating you. It certainly wasn’t me – I’m perfectly happy being myself, or a crude likeness thereof. Would an impersonating asshole go to the trouble of filling out the personal info (all 100% true by the way, and full of hints on my true identity) on the profile and post a picture of rocker John Oates? Would an inpersonating asshole think up a creative and thought-provoking name (one that I have been using, on and off, for several years, mind you) like HansDrinker? Would an impersonating asshole go to the trouble to check and double check the lyrics to the theme song from such a shitty show as the Facts of Life? I think not. I apologize if my post in some small part ruffled some feathers (as a soon-to-be 28 year old I can certainly verify that the facts of life are indeed all about you) – that was not my intent by any means. I was only trying to be amusing to you and your cohorts (where’s the joy?) and be part of the club. I saw the email below and went to your forum almost trembling with excitement at what new witty posts may lay in waiting. Needless to say I was disappointed at what I found. I look at the Lucubus on almost a daily basis, and I was looking forward to the opportunity to contribute my two cents worth to the forum.

I don’t know what hardships this asshole impersonator has caused you, but I am dismayed at the one obvious result. Despite the name encased at the top of the menu at the top of your forum start page (“I Do Not Know These People”), it appears that you do indeed know “these people”, and any unknown newcomers are met with extreme prejudice and hosility. The irony of the forum title notwithstanding, perhaps in a deeper sense it speaks of the inability for human beings to truly connect with one another in this modern, electronic, cold-hearted age where people spend countless hours “communicating” with each other using a keyboard and modem and don’t even know the name of the person that lives in the apartment next door. Regardless, were it my forum (a pipe dream, alas), I would have been delighted at a new, well-crafted, obviously thought-out post from a total stranger who put witty things into his profile. Perhaps in time I would come to think “This man of mystery, HansDrinker – what a lovable old drunk!” And perhaps in time you would have come to think that, as well.

But it is not to be. And so, I proclaim to you – HansDrinker is John Russell Hackett, born on January 30, 1974… [personal information snipped] …Like yourself, I attended Northwestern University, graduating with a degree in environmental engineering. I then went to Clemson University and obtained a Master’s degree in the same discipline. I currently live in Denver, CO, and work at an engineering consulting company, where I do work in the areas of environmental radioactive waste remediation and risk assessment. I am single, but looking (and, if one were to judge by the length of this, in obvious – nay, desperate – need of a girlfriend). In my spare time, I enjoy reading (The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay was fucking awesome), playing guitar, listening to music, and David Lynch movies. More recently, I also have gotten into mountain biking, taking black and white pictures with my new digital camera, and the West Wing (the Bernie Mac show is also pretty good).

Well. Perhaps this has convinced you. Perhaps not. It may be better to be feared than loved, but you catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar.

I have posted this at his suggestion. Happy birthday, John!

True Stories

Two startling revelations about jury duty

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They’re keeping this quiet. I’m blowing the lid off.

1. The jury selection process is a lot like “The Price Is Right”.

It’s true. In the morning, our potential jurors assemble in the waiting area and become the “studio audience”, if you will. Gradually, jurors assigned a particular panel number are asked to “come on down”, at which point they are led to a courtroom. As there are twenty-four to a panel, or something like that, once they are in the courtroom, twelve names are arbitrarily chosen once again to “come on down” and sit in the jury box. Then, the judge and attorneys ask you to “identify the price of an item up for bid”. If you “come closest to the correct price without going over”, you stay and be a juror. Otherwise you are sent home, your fifteen seconds of fame fading fast from the collective memory. Another interpretation is that those who “guess the price most accurately without going over” get to go “spin the wheel” in the judge’s chambers, where they are often dismissed, which is the “top prize”. The losers must remain in the jury box for weeks on end. Trust me, it will all make sense once you do it. As a result of this observation, I have had the “Price Is Right” theme song running through my head for the past several days. I can think of worse fates.

2. Court stenographers are routinely hot.

By and large, based on my personal experiences, this assessment is accurate. All of the stenographers so far (there have been two per day) have been women, and of these approximately ninety percent of them have been very attractive, and the one that wasn’t I largely ascribed to the unfortunate mullet-based hairstyle she wore. Nonetheless, there is a certain luminescence they present, almost mystical in nature. It’s not that they radiate light, but they reflect the light in a skillful and aesthetically pleasing way. I had the pleasure of sharing an elevator ride with one of them, and let me tell you, those fingers can do more than type two hundred fifty words a minute. They can also press elevator buttons.

General
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I saw a man he danced with his wife

In downtown Chicago, it seems that 90% of all the stores on the first floors of the buildings are represented by one of the following businesses: McDonalds, Au Bon Pain, Sbarro’s, Wolf Camera, or Dress Barn. Starbucks is also fairly ubiquitous, but this is the case for every major city, and every minor city for that matter, and so we shall give it no attention. The existence of Starbucks the corporation as a virus infecting all of civilized creation has been established by philosophers far more prescient than I.

And what of McDonalds, you ask? Surely that is viral as well? Certainly, but you must understand the scope of this. As far as redundant McDonalds locations go, this beats out even the brief time I was in Milan, Italy, and there were three McDonalds restaurants within one block of the train station. In the course of a fifteen-minute walk through the downtown area, I passed by at least five separate iterations of each of these businesses, many of which occurred multiple times on the same block, and as soon as I passed one set of these businesses, the next began. It was as if I were Fred Flintstone running endlessly through my granite house, with the same scenery scrolling behind me over and over again. Similar to that, except my feet didn’t make the “dinkydinkydink” sound.

Sbarro’s, of course, is an international chain, but one that does not have nearly the cachet of the aforementioned two. And yet, its popularity is natural, because people like pizza. The most recent claim to fame Sbarro’s has to offer, unfortunately, is that one of its downtown Jerusalem locations was the site of a Palestinian suicide bombing which killed a number of people.

Au Bon Pain, “the French Bakery Café”, is an unknown quantity — for me, at least, because I’ve never eaten there. I can’t imagine there is a high demand for quiche anywhere in the midwest, but I suppose that if it were going to be anywhere it would be here amongst the uppity and well-traveled attorneys and politicians, and not out in the sticks somewhere.

Wolf Camera is interesting, because it proves that people are still, by and large, taking pictures with film cameras. And taking a lot of them, too, based on the number of locations available to do one’s business at.

I have no idea why anyone would shop at a place called “Dress Barn”. It’s like buying a bicycle at a place called “Bike Silo”. It just doesn’t make any sense.

So why do these businesses have so many locations in close proximity to one another? My father points out that downtown Chicago is a very crowded place with a high population density, implying that these businesses are playing it smart by putting in locations that will catch the overflow from busier locations. (“Oh, honey, this Dress Barn is too crowded, let’s go to the one across the street.”) I think it may be more complex than that, and upon further reflection it becomes fairly clear that it is all due to the fact that the failing economy has left municipal governments little recourse in raising money for their programs; thus, they have adopted Dress Barn, Au Bon Pain, and the rest as their Official Sponsors. I mean, come on, that’s some valuable advertising space that’s getting sold on the ground around City Hall and the Daley Center. Next time you eat or shop at one of these locations, check their storefront signage. In tiny print, it will say, “Official Sponsor of the City of Chicago”.

Why, I almost guarantee it.

Religiance

Onward, Christian propaganda

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This message is for Jesus Christ. Well, not just for Jesus but for the whole Trinity – the Father, the Son, and the Friendly Ghost.

Today, I looked at a website which brought into focus the ridiculous things humankind attempts to do in your service. That website is “The Truth for Youth”. As I read these Jack Chick-like comics designed by probably perfectly nice people to help influence teenagers to adopt “Christian values”, I experienced many feelings. Anger, astonishment, bemusement, intense burning dislike. Because I was having such strong negative feelings about a work which purported to espouse the philosophy for the best way to live one’s life, I paused to consider the possibility that I would be going to go straight to hell, or at the very least be Left Behind?. Then I asked myself, “Self? W.W.J.D.?”

Well, you sure wouldn’t put a shiny plastic fish on the back of your car, that’s for damn sure. Or would you? Well, to each his own. But you have inspired me to notice that these prescriptive Christian brainwashing materials rely far too heavily on the Bible as evidence. They seem to forget that the Bible was written by humans. And while the text may have been divinely inspired, humans are imperfect beings. Even though you have only walked as man just the once – as far as I can tell from what is in the public record – certainly you must know what I am talking about. Humans have biases, almost always, whether they know it or not. This is true for the scriveners and for the translators and everyone else around and between. If your words are in there, we cannot say for certain what they are, where they are, or if they are in the proper context. And yet, these recruitment packages place no thought at all to the matter that their version of the Bible may have been tampered with at some point in the past, which strikes me as naive, or, more insidiously, willfully manipulative. And “manipulative” is the perfect word for these cornball religious tracts. I truly fear for tomorrow if our children grow up reading this trash. (There, now I sound like one of them!)

Thanks for your time. Ten-four, good buddy!