The Legend of Bill

a Quark

Life is about comings and goings, Samuel Beckett said. It applies to life in total as well as the many episodes over the course that we find ourselves a part of. While we are the main character in our own existence, we play supporting roles in those of others: sometimes major, like being a parent or lifetime spouse, sometimes minor, like being the guy who drops a quarter while trying to fish change out of his pocket in line at a gas station in Grand Island, Neb., and hits his head on the counter.

The temporary nature of life's shifting episodes is never more on display than in school and at work. In school I was almost always the new kid, making sudden exits and entrances from K to 12 across the Rust Belt. This experience has carried forth into my adult life, where I often feel like the new guy at work years after I've started. Of course, thanks to the attrition of the recent recession, that's literally been the case with no new hires in my wake.

But generally at the office, people are hired, let go and sometimes stay longer than you do. In a big organization it's all multiplied, and the faces often change more frequently than you can follow. You may share only one conversation with someone before he or she is gone and not even know his or her name. And when you realize the absence, you're left grasping at a ghost. ("The loud-breathing guy with the smoke-colored bifocals must've been shitcanned. I don't see him anymore. I miss that guy.")

TGIF

I've been taking a lot of trips down memory lately, which can get tiresome for the people around me (my poor wife). I'm very nostalgic, I admit, and have since I was a boy tried to cling to the slim straws of my experience as I was shuffled off to another new hometown in some other part of the Rust Belt. It's an old habit of spiritual survival.  

For whatever reason — personal milestones, my upcoming birthday — this has happened a lot more in the past two months, but I must say in my defense that I literally walk a memory lane each work day. It's called State Street, and I see at least one co-worker from my past two jobs every morning.

Today it was the nice saleslady who worked one door down from me at Penton, always so dutiful sitting there at 8:45 in her cube. Oftentimes it's my old swing supe from the AP, who greets me in much the same way she did 10 years ago — almost like we're still working a shift together. My old boss, the secret smoker, who saved my magazine job so many times in the dark days of 2009. My favorite grizzled editor, who watches video of '60s baseball games in the dead of winter to prepare himself for the new season.

And there are others. If I can, I like to stop and say hello. In one sense I feel we're both trying to heal something while we chat there on the gray street under the hot sky. Maybe the wounds of work.

The office, with its unrealistic demands and cruel hierarchies, can make people behave in ways they don't want, myself included. If you're reading this and I worked with you, I liked you. It was an honor to serve with you. If I ever said anything sharp or acted strangely, I'm sorry. I want to think the job put words in my mouth (or removed them), but really it was me. My reaction to my situation. 

I've been doing this Chicago office tour of duty for a decade. When I started, I felt so uncool at my news job, though it was greatly exciting and actually interested a lot of the hip people I hung about with when I told them the details. I've since made peace with my livelihood and now wear my Rat Race badge with pride, my CTA Rider badge with pride.

I hope to someday give my kids a different view of how to work to pair with my wife's (the Road Warrior thing). I hope they might even be proud I willfully did this: pack into a glass, steel, concrete megolith with thousands of others to talk on the phone and stare at a computer screen five days a week. The Franz Kafka thing.

But as fun as it's been — layoffs and blizzards and bike messenger curses — I know I won't stay at this forever. I don't feel it's my destiny to be a 40-Year Man like my dad, 25-65 (actually, longer for him). I'm fortunate that my profession potentially offers the chance to freelance, to work from home, to set my own hours. It's now my mission to move toward this sooner than later and be with my kids. Work outside in the yard like Cezanne in Aix-en-Provence. The Logan Square version.

It would be a dream, really, though I know it's hard and requires a different kind of mind-set. Not the clock-punching, sleep-walking one I'm used to. I admire the people who do it. Really, I admire all the editorial warriors, the publishing warriors, the news warriors, wherever they may do their battle. And I wish that their battle is not perpetual. That they may find some respite.

When I see my old comrades, I'm heartened we are at peace in that moment — the burden of the office not yet upon us for the day. We are just people on the street. Regular people. Chicagoland people. People who were born and will die. Trying to remind ourselves we're human. Even if it's just a smile and a hello across the bridge at Wabash.

Company Man

I'm currently embroiled in a competition and it's kind of consuming me. Well, not consuming but at least adding an odd undercurrent to my days here in the new, new Cracker Factory. First, a little background.

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I was raised by two extremely neat and organized people, my parents. From the immaculate house my mom kept to my dad seemingly being in front of the mirror shaving at the exact same time each morning before work, I was shown that organization and punctuality are the foundations of success. I've taken this with me into my adult life, and though it does lead to inflexibility at times, on the whole I'd say the approach has worked well.

Outside the house, living in so many different places as a kid, I also had to learn how to survive among changing groups of peers. As an introvert, I found that being obliging and non-combative was the best strategy for me. I became more of a listener than a talker, and it all kind of gelled into an M.O. by the time I left college: nice, dependable, hard-working.

This produced some strange reactions in my contemporaries. When I got my first office job, I was surrounded by a great many non-traditional workers (and non-workers). They were amused I shaved every day, punched a clock and liked to talk about where they were from. I was some kind of Company Man who never could quite stop being well mannered, looking at his watch in the middle of a screaming hipster hothouse to contemplate bedtime. They adopted me anyway, with more than a little winking behind my back.

Being so inclined, I seemed to invite tests of my "act." Even my wife the first night I met her gave me a hard time about something my employer had printed — like I would write it on a notecard for corporate communications. I remember thinking, "Take a number, sister," because that's what I got from flaks all week in the office. But I didn't say it because I was a nice guy. And when she introduced me to the people she knew, they all had that look I'd seen before from so many ne'er-do-well Leftists: What's this guy's deal. I wasn't the dissolute rock and roll version of John Gardner they maybe thought she should be with. I was Clark Kent.

I took all of that in stride and more — from in-laws, barflies, even winos on the street. I've never minded. I'm a good sport and, more importantly, I'm proud to be me. It's not an act. And after my role as a dependable father and spouse, I'm most proud to be the real me in the office. Which brings us back to that competition.

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I felt very confident cruising into my new gig that I would, naturally, be the most organized and punctual person there. The congenial guy who shows up early, takes a half-hour lunch at exactly the same time every day, and waits till the tick of 5 p.m. to leave. I would set the pace for sticking to a schedule, always getting my work done on time and in good quality. Little did I know what was in store.

My very first day I thought I'd do right by arriving way ahead of time to show how excited I was about my job -- you know, sitting there smiling at my desk when the boss showed up. But when I tried the door to our suite, I found it already open. In the cubicle next to mine, working at that early hour, was a young man. I'll call him Company Man 2, or C2. This shook me up a bit. When my boss introduced me, C2 couldn't have been more congenial and professional. He said he was happy we would be working together. Huh.

The weeks peeled on and my wonder grew. No matter how early I arrived, C2 was always already there. And when I left at the crack of 5, he remained at his post. I stayed late a couple of days when the Web site launched and saw that he did indeed go home. As much as I kind of wanted him to be a Bartleby type who slept under his desk, he seemed to have some kind of outside life.

Of course I didn't know where his home was, if he lived alone, if he had a significant other — all of it was a mystery. I just knew he was probably around my age and took his lunch each day at 2:15. It was unnerving. A part of me felt like punching my desk. There was nothing to justifiably hate him about. Except being — well — nice, dependable and hard-working. But you can't hate someone for that, right? It would be like hating myself.

I began to feel beaten. My clockwork schedule slipped, perhaps in despair. I only showed up 10 minutes early for work. I took the longer, allowed lunchtime to do my personal writing. I even contemplated leaving five minutes before 5 p.m. C2 was in my head. He was the better Company Man. He made little jokes in our team meetings that I didn't. I felt like John Gardner or something. I might as well have gotten on a motorcycle holding a bottle of Chivas Regal.

That is until last Friday. Our manager gave the two of us the task of creating individual profile pages in the CMS for each of the university's faculty — a good, old-fashioned data entry slog. Eighty profs a piece. My spirits perked up. Few people I know are as good as me at repetitive, monotonous tasks. Maybe, just maybe, I could finally upstage C2.

Friday wore on, and other things kept popping up, but I plugged away at my list, listening for the tell-tale clicks of CMS entry from the next cubicle. C2 was oddly quiet. A Web planning meeting cut into both of our days, and by 4:45, I was staring at 20 more names to go. I did a dead sprint to the finish line, nearly leaping up from my chair in triumph — HA! YES! I WON! — when I entered Zyblonski, Walter.

I peered around C2's cubicle entrance and let him know I was done.

"Wow, you're quick," he said with a chuckle.

I stared at the back of his head a moment. He was quietly clicking away at his list, much more relaxed than me. ... ... ... So. Yeah. That's right, C2, I thought. You know who's the boss now. Don't you forget it. And I've got some new jokes for the next design meeting. You better watch out. I am the Company Man. I AM THE COMPANY MAN.

All of this shouting was only in my head, and I soon quieted. I picked up my messenger bag, ready to return home to my wife and kids but paused. I didn't know where C2 was going that night. I imagined he might take up to an hour to finish his list. Maybe because I'd done mine so quickly. I hoped he wasn't going to do that. Please, C2, I thought. Please just go home.

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Yesterday the staff went out to eat at a Loop restaurant. It was a nice meal full of lively conversation. C2 sat across and to the right of me. I ordered an unhealthy cheese omelet for lunch, and he had the very sensible baked chicken breast.

He told his jokes, and the staff generally treated him like one of the rest of us, maybe even doting on him a little more because he's so formal. You know, trying to get him to drop his act. I knew this treatment very well.

As lunch went on, and the conversation turned to more personal talk of new apartments, new dogs and baseball, C2 grew quieter. I was nearly done with my omelet and, as such a slow eater, expected to be the last one chewing in a kind of self-satisfied mock embarrassment. But I looked across and saw C2 only halfway through his chicken breast, staring at it more than a little dolefully. I put the knife and fork on my plate and did not take my final bite.

On the walk back to the office, C2 suddenly asked me about my work history. It seemed like he was trying to be an open, engaged co-worker, like he'd read in a book that this is something one should do. He told me his opinion of the direction of the university. It was thoughtful and detailed. I had absolutely no opinion about the direction of the university. Being a ne'er-do-well Leftist, my head is full of a lot of warm air.

We got to the side entrance of the building and, after very politely letting everyone in our party go in ahead of us, we both reached for the door. It was an awkward moment of who would be the nicer guy and let the other one in first. I eventually chose to go ahead of C2.

We walked back down the corridor to the elevators. And at some point I wanted to, I don't know, give him a pat on the shoulder. Say something — maybe "good job" or "hang in there." Or maybe that I understand.

I know what it's like to be a Company Man.

  

Visibility 1500 feet. That's the Mars Cheese Castle on our left, sir.

We must be on summer hours here at WoundUp Corp. Actually, we truly are. Fridays are off mandatory, comrade. No questions.

Still, this is one of the busiest non-busy weeks I've ever had at the ol' Cracker Factory. What does that mean? Well, I suppose it means having the most amount of work possible that still does not cross the bar set by a normal fall/spring work week when we actually have issues of the magazine going out. I guess you could call it garbage time. And let me say that I'm a garbage time all-star.

Tomorrow we head north through the 58-degree mist to Green Bay to visit my parents and youngest brother. We'll be bringing Ella with us, and that will make them very happy. Ella has been a little more rambunctious lately, so much so that she kept waking up last night. This baby thing is a trip because when you think you've got a pattern set, they change it up on you. Well, that makes life more interesting, no?

All in a day's work. I'm going to get some M&M's. Talk to you next week!

Reset button

Wow, a two-week break here at Woundup Corp. It was our early summer furlough. But now we're back. Last week's playwriting conference was a blast. I'm sorry it had to end in some ways, but I'm very happy to again be with my family. The weather in Chicago is mellow and bright, and we have plans to visit Green Bay and our little Michigan hideaway very, very soon.

Now is the time, June, to ready and launch the next marketing campaign. I've almost got the synopsis for the new play polished off — never an enjoyable task. Soon I'll be spending a lot of time at the Fort Dearborn Post Office. I'm happy because we've drifted apart these last three months.

Speaking of furloughs, we're into our summer slate of forced three-day weekends here at the Cracker Factory. Not all that bad, as the salary hit is negligible and they're encouraging us — imploring us — not to even look at our work e-mail. Fine by me. I'll be taking care of the baby solo tomorrow, which I love to do. We'll have some fun.

Welcome back, Woundup! Welcome back, Woundup fans!

Raining

Today everyone at the Cracker Factory was forcibly given a pay cut. It applies to about two weeks of work days spread out over the three months of the summer. The good news is that I'll now have a bunch of Fridays to spend with the baby and take three-day weekend trips. The bad news is, well, that's pretty obvious, but it's not crippling, and Erika is gainfully employed, too.

The refrain for these times has been "At least you still have a job." I'm getting sick of hearing that, as they chop off more pieces of us, week by week. Now's probably the time for a good Karl Marx quote about worker exploitation, but that's too much effort to dig it up right now. I'm tired. We still have to sail on through this week, patching up all the holes they punched in our ship.

I'm pretty sick of talking about work, so I'll stop. What I'd really like to do right now is get a drink at the bar at the Chicago Yacht Club and stare drunkenly at the nautical maps on the walls. Or better yet, I'd like to get a drink with Charles Barkley. Can someone make that happen?

No? Well ... I'll settle for comics in bed. However, I don't have anything to read on the bus tomorrow. Maybe I should go with Karl Marx. Or the Marlene Dietrich story, which I actually own. Yes. I don't know. … It's time to go to bed.

Job rap

What a week at the Cracker Factory. It started out mellow but harshed by Wednesday morning. Now, well, I guess it's almost over. We've had a lot of people leave here, a lot of organizational shock-waves and still no clear structure in the aftermath. I guess the same could be said for many (most?) businesses across the country. Dad just needs to keep his head in the game, though understandably it can be hard. Some of this static was externally applied, but two problems were of my own creation, based on snap decisions. I need to better question my choices before I make them. (How about that for job commitment?)

Seriously though, I do take pride in my work here. I know it's not my life's work, but I'd like to think I do it well and help those I'm in with. Recent circumstances have made it a bit harder for all of us to truly take as much time as we'd like on all of our tasks. I only hope that by year's end we'll get some kind of relief.

Of course, I don't ever have it as tough as Erika, who had to go on a field trip to Champaign this morning against the wishes of her boss. She'll get back by 10 p.m. tonight. I cannot wait for the weekend to start. I plan on spending it exclusively with my wife and baby. It makes me very happy to know we'll all be together at this time tomorrow. Hang in there, Woundup.

Ghost town downtown

It's been a rough month at the ol' Cracker Factory. My immediate supervisor recently was struck down as part of budget-related layoffs. We were shocked because he's a 13-year veteran of the company. That's a lot of experience to let walk out the door, but it's happening nonetheless. At least we're sending him off in style tonight after work, though I still can't believe it.

Who does that leave? Me, the budget option. There still might be more cuts in our group, but my editor seems to think they'll happen elsewhere. Who knows. It all makes me question my choice of career. Sure, the economy eventually will swing back, but what about print journalism (read: print advertising)? Thankfully, I've gotten my share of Web experience in this gig. That's the direction it's all going.

Here's to hoping the rest of month moves by quickly and without incident — and that terminated positions everywhere are recreated soon.

Aftermath

Man, it's cold in here. I need to throw a few briquettes on the fire to warm things up. Snow is lightly blowing outside the windows at the New Cracker Factory. The seven-person content team is working from home to help save the company on lighting and heating costs. They do that three times a week now. Still, we like to have someone check up on things while the staff is away. Did I mention that CEO Tom Blister filed for a deadline extension on his 2008 year in review? All I can say is that it better be done by Feb. 1. That would be an embarrassment if it were to come out later than that. 2008 already is a fleeting memory for most of us, save the companies announcing fourth-quarter earnings. Not pretty.

There. It's getting warmer. I'll just put my hands … We've gotten some criticism for having an old, coal-fired stove in the work area, but it really makes a difference this time of year. … Well, seeing as how no one's going to make it in today … I might buy myself some Beck's tall-boys at lunch and watch some Dominican winter league baseball on the MLB Network, which we now get in the employee lounge. … Maybe I'll place a few long-distance phone calls. No sense in running my own bill up. No harm there. … And I'll order a pizza. I might even be able to get the pizza guy to bring the beer so I don't have to go outside — give him a little extra for his trouble.

That snow's settling down now. If I play my cards right, I'll have a nice, manageable buzz going by 5. I can head back to the spot and maybe fall asleep on the couch for a few hours, wake up, watch Letterman and polish off the rest of the tall-boys, which I'll stow in my coat on the bus. … Yes, that sounds like a good idea.

Blurf

Forgive me if I forsake my Northern and Eastern European ancestry, but this is a definite work-from-home day. Of course, I had to go to the office, and now the flurries are swirling between our building and Trump's tower like pieces of white lucite in a snowglobe. At least the management company provided a free breakfast this morning. That takes the edge off. And there's a rumor we might get out a little early to beat the snow that all meteorologists are predicting will hit the city after noon. December has already been a bitch, and it's technically not even winter yet. I fear if this cold, dark weather stretches over the next two months, we'll be reenacting the birth sequence from "Eskimo" at the hospital in February.

This weather really makes me want to drink, and I think I had a touch too much red wine last night, which Erika permitted me after I started whining. Well, tonight it's going to be NA beer and probably a shovel session at some point. Man, sometimes I wish it were 2004 again, if just for the global warming.

TGIF

I don't mean to get melodramatic, but the boss is in the office after being out all week. Friday is the day you're most likely to get fired/laid off, perhaps because then you just go home for the weekend, and, well, at least you have the weekend to collect yourself (and not come back to the office). I would think our boss would give us some warning about upcoming cuts. One person was laid off about two months ago, and the higher-ups stressed it was a redundant position long for the chopping block. They then said they foresaw no more cuts ahead.

Today's grim unemployment news makes me wonder how much cuts on the part of companies are the result of real financial needs and how much have been because of hysteria — and whether it will affect our company/group. I recently read a columnist I trust who believes the 24/7 news cycle is overcooking the financial crisis, creating more fear and paranoia. But this job news is hard to ignore, and with a baby on the way in about two months, I'm feeling a bit nervous. Thankfully, my wife has a recession-proof job that pays her more than me and provides health insurance. (She's kept hers as an emergency backup.) I would like to think my skills and training are very marketable, but I worry what the actual market will be for them. Are there electronic tumbleweeds currently blowing through the editing/writing section of Craigslist?

Well, all I can do right now is sit tight and count off the rest of these 6.5 hours till I can go home (hopefully still employed). Then I won't have to worry again — till next Friday.

Whirling hall of knives

Seems I'm now surrounded by sick people at the Cracker Factory. Not sure what I should do — perhaps close my door. Let me do that. Okay. I need to formulate a plan: how to get out. Feeling a little off. Christ, I'm getting sick, too. I have to get out of here. I don't think these floors are very thick. I have a spoon in my bottom drawer — maybe I'll dig down to 22. Yes, I'm definitely getting sick. If I stay here another hour, I'm done for. Wait … I have a 2009 plastic, erasable wall calendar still in the box. I can wrap this around myself to fend of the germs and make a run for the door. … But I can't touch the handle because everyone's touched the handle today, including the infected people. I'm going to have to cover my hands in 20 sheets of kleenex each — that way I can open the front office doors and press the — Fuck. The down elevator button. The worst disease-harborer of them all. What am I … I know. I'm going to tape these five pencils together, so I can stand as far away as possible from the down elevator button and safely press it without using any part of my body. Then, I'll step into the elevator … But what if I breathe in germs through the air? I'll have to wrap my head in toilet paper. Yes. Then I can run through the office, my head wrapped in toilet paper, covered in a 2009 plastic wall calendar, holding five taped-together pencils, press the down elevator button, jump inside and go down to the lobby.

You'll see someone fitting this description running across the Wabash Ave. bridge in about five minutes. I'm heading straight to Maxim's Oxygen Bar on Hubbard. He has a mitochondrial reabsorbtion chamber there that you can pay for by the hour. God knows I'm going to need it.

Thoughts from the holding pen

The entire power structure that was in place when I was hired at the New Cracker Factory is gone, including the two people who interviewed me back in December 2006. I've tried to figure out why, but I don't have enough real information to come up with a satisfying answer: Either the people, who were long-time colleagues, felt it was some kind of end of an era and inspired one another to leave or all of them sensed the company was in trouble and decided to jump ship. I have a feeling it might have been a combination of both.

Our company, like many others, is facing economic uncertainty, particularly in our specific group. It's not the most reassuring thing with a baby on the way in two months, but I'm confident the brass will hang tough for us. I told myself in January 2007 that I'd start looking for a new gig in two years. That time is almost here, and I think I will stay true to my promise, more out of curiosity than necessity. (I pray it stays that way.) This job is good, but we're all kind of frozen in place. It would be nice to work somewhere with a chance to make more bread, if I may be honest. It's something I now have to think about.

Erika and I both have left jobs in the last two years that were our first real gigs out of college. We had/have an attachment to them, for better or worse, that I don't think we'll ever find in our current or future gigs. Well, I shouldn't speak for her, but I know with myself that I've begun to feel more mercenary as time has gone on. It's a liberating feeling, and it's also an empty feeling — one of temporariness and not caring. I'd like some job down the road to prove me wrong that this feeling is now permanent.

Man, an imperfect animal

Christ, I'm bored today. The last issue of the year went out last week. I have some Web site duties, but between that and my commute (detailed yesterday), there's little to pass the time. I've amused myself with Internet games, sent out some more submissions and even written in a journal to my unborn child.

At least I'm not anxious. Wait, who said that bit about anxiety and boredom? The two states of humankind. I think it was Pascal, but I'm not going to rely on the Internet to provide the answer. Well, man also is a bit of an asshole. Erika was nice enough to take me to work this morning, and I criticized her driving. This situation, I've found, moves me to criticize her driving skills more readily than any other, and I always forget this fact before going into it again. Now I'm thrashing about with guilt.

I did finish up another draft of my new play yesterday, and I've sent it to the Feedback Processing Factory. I'm confident I can wrap this whole thing up by March, April at the latest. My goal is to do it in fewer drafts than the last two, which I hope spells an improvement in my skills (and a break for my sanity).

But none of this is helping my boredom. I can't even listen to the song "Boredom" because my Sprial Scratch 7" is in Detroit. I think it's time to sleep under my desk.

Quiet village

You know, I never did buy the copy of "Quiet Village" like I wanted to back during the lounge/exotica revival of the '90s. I remember having a copy in my hand at a Hamtramck record store the day after we played a show in Ann Arbor in 1998, but I put it back in the bin, probably because it was a 180-gram reissue that cost $25. Ah well …

We watched "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" last night (and enjoyed it). Maybe that has me thinking about Hawaii and its dreamlike music. Also, the Cracker Factory is a bit mum today; the shifting seasons have muted my normally chattering co-workers. I felt pretty dog dang tired myself Monday night after a full slate of 50 degrees and grayness. But I think this is actually my kind of weather — I'll call it "minutes before sleep." The overcast maritime climate of Continental Europe beckons. I just have to learn French (or brush up on my German).

Some friends read the latest draft of my new play on Sunday. It turned out well, and I'm ready to kick off the next revision with their comments in mind. The pay-to-play service I've used the past two years didn't come through, even though I, yes, still paid for it. But I liked our home reading better. It was very insightful and refreshingly without the usual whining from the kitchen sink crew.

… Listen to that quiet. Just the faint hum of lights and the cycling of the building furnace. Perhaps elevators in the distance. Someone lets out a sigh down the hall … Time for a banana.

Uncertain time-suh

Looks like I need to take my own advice, as the stress factor has gone up about 10 notches since I last posted. Let's hear that theme, shall we?

Best TV theme ever. I think we need this for the whole office today — or at least our department. I figure I've got about 1.5 to 2 hours to go before I can be at home drinking a beer and forgetting about this bullshit. Hang in there, Woundup.

Serenity now

I don't know what it is about the theme from "Taxi," but I find it very calming. With all the stuff I've read recently about in-utero communication and memory-forming, it makes me think my Mom watched the show while she was toting me around in 1976 — that or we all watched it together before my faculties fully kicked in.

That said, I find that on a stressful day, such as today, playing the "Taxi" theme in my head relaxes me quite a bit. I'd even advocate for pumping it in over the office's emergency PA system, but not everyone may enjoy the same effects I do.

It all makes me wonder what Bob James is up to right now. Probably hanging out in the Florida Keys. Cue that theme.

Procrastinatown

Finding it hard to get going this morning on my work, both professional and personal. I've had my infusions of orange juice and Pepsi. ... Perhaps this poppyseed muffin will help. ... See even the Mechanical Man, Woundup, finds it hard to push forward from time to time. ...

I wonder if the city of Akron, Ohio, has ever officially honored Devo. Like a giant bronze statue of Mark Mothersbaugh in a crib with the baby mask on. ... That would be awesome.

1-800-DIAL-A-COAT

Geezus, it's cold in the Cracker Factory. I heard we hit the hottest mark of the year yesterday. You wouldn't know it today.

I can't tell if they're running the AC or if they turned it off and are piping in the cooler outside air, but I'd give just about anything for a coat or a jacket or a sweater right now. I just heated up my lunch, and I was warming my forearms over it. Wrong day to wear a short-sleeved button-up.

There are two chairs opposite my desk. Maybe I can skin them with a letter opener and use the rough fabric covers as a kind of pelt. Seems we're a little closer here today to nature's knife edge of survival than I thought. Might have to burn the Red Eye.

Invisible pathways

I was just thinking about Internet use on the job. We'll not go into it in too much detail, for obvious reasons, but recently I was reminded of a co-worker at my old job, 20 years my senior, who only ever looked at two sites at work: Classmates.com and the Chicago police site that shows pics of guys busted for soliciting prostitutes. I never asked him about either, as much as I wanted to -- particularly about the latter.

There should be an award for Most Unrelated Roster of Daily Visited Web Sites. Personally, I feel off if I don't begin each work morning with mississippiriverlevels.com, todayinzoroastrianhistory.com, makeyourownvodka.net, moonlightingtrivia.com and slate.com.

Wait, scratch that last one. It should be soviethelicoptersale.com. Lately there've been some great deals.