Cocoons aren't that ugly

I was caught in the pack of like-minded pedestrians headed to the nearby restaurants for their 45 minute lunch breaks. We were on auto-pilot, passing through the intersection at 4th and Market. I was wearing charcoal slacks, a gray and black coat, a gray stocking cap, black scarf and carrying a black umbrella...so was everyone else in my entourage.

Approaching from the opposite direction was a group of tourists on a guided tour with Betsy Ross (or was it Dolly Madison?) - they all stared as we passed.

I saw on their faces looks of pity and misunderstanding. These good folks from rural PA or north Delaware think we are all focused, hard, dark and cynical people that don the uniform of our brothers - dark and skin-covering.

This makes me glad. Not because I want to conform to the city around me. I don't wish to be swallowed by darkness or form a calloused heart. This makes me glad because I know something they do not...

Underneath my drab outerwear, hidden by the hood pulled to my eyes and scarf wrapped tightly to my chin, is a tangerine-orange, long-sleeved thermal shirt. Bright orange!

Much like the city I call home, all you have to do is remove one layer before uncovering things brighter than the matching name-tags identifying the judgmental tourists. Local pubs full of friends, quaint shops carrying unique finds, a bank with a teller who knows your name...all these things, and more, are the bright orange shirts of my beloved CBL.

And that's something that Betsy won't tell you!

Location, location, location

Last night, after I had finally drifted off to a troubled sleep (my mind was wanting to watch another episode of Scrubs, but my body was saying no) I was awoken by the all-too-familiar sound of the Bros (our collegiately inclined neighbors who, after having their fraternity disbanded, decided to replace the Sigma Nu Kappa house with Unit 101 in the Becker Building). Normally the revelry is kept to gangsta rap, screaming at the Eagles/Owls (the teams, I don't live anywhere near a conservatory) and the infinite repeat of 300.

Last night, however, there was a new aspect to the white noise of drunken debauchery. (Some people, after moving from the city to a more rural area have a hard time adjusting to the silence - they say they miss the sound of traffic. I personally am lulled to sleep by the pleasant melodies of "chug, chug, chug" and "Smack that Bitch Up.") Last night there was angry yelling.

The Bros were being yelled at by the across-street-neighbors. It was scary. This was real city-folk getting quite mad at one another. Words and phrases that I dare not repeat were thrown about.

Since I live in the CBL I was sure there was about to be a shooting. I was noting times and exact phrases, remembering things very closely for the police report...and then it occurred to me. I am surrounded by a bunch of yupsters. I live in a neighborhood famous for its rejection of franchises, preservatives and shampoo.

By now there is certainly a law suit pending. My testimony goes to the highest bidder. (Now I must go look up whether blogs can be used as hard evidence.)

Was it a morning like this?

As I understand it, we all attempt to reason with ourselves during some part of our day. At some point in a major decision we either weigh pros vs. cons or attempt to find a logical solution to an irrational problem. Reason is a key aspect separating humans from many other animals - we need not rely on instinct, in fact, we are often encouraged to ignore instinct.

Every weekday morning my alarm goes off. The time is not consistent, it is all based on when i went to bed. The consistent aspect of the morning is found in what happens internally as soon as the alarm sounds. I begin to reason with myself.

"Get out of bed."
"It's too early."
"You are the one who set the alarm this early."
"Yeah, I admit I was a bit zealous last night, but I should have the right to ignore it."
"You have the right, but that makes you weak."
"You realize you are calling yourself weak?"
"Ok, if you get up now you can take a super-long shower."
"Not good enough..."
"And, I will let you take a nap this afternoon when you get home."
"Promise?"
"Yeah."
"Because you always say that, and then you get too busy."
"Naw, I promise."

Inevitably, however, as soon as I get in the shower and the sleepiness is washed from me...

"You tricked me. You aren't going to let me take a nap...I'm not even that tired."
"Works every time."

This could explain my self loathing.

Spirit of the CBL

The Company Christmas Holiday Party. I use the capital letters to denote this ubiquitous experience that has become an institution in itself. Where superiors and subordinates gather after work to mingle as if they were equals - all the while remembering they are not.

At 18 hundred and 30 hours the majority of employees from my place of business boarded the Spirit of Philadelphia - a big boat on the Delaware River, the Hampton Inn of cruise liners, the Chili's of the sea - once the boat set sail (does a boat set sail if it does not have sails?) we were trapped, along with Arthur's Dance Studio and the staff of the Camden River Sharks (minor league baseball team), for the next 4 hours.

The CHP is a wonderful example of so many things: why stuffed mahi should not be mass produced, that Secret Santa's Festively Anonymous, Non-religiously Focused Gift Giving Partners are always a bit of a let down, but most importantly - why employees and employers should not be allowed together on the dance floor when there is alcohol involved.

I think I will leave it at that.

And that was just on my break

Every day, after my first round of work, I take a break. I go to the restroom to fix my cowlick (that pops up once my hair has completely dried), refill my water bottle and head downstairs to get a muffin from the little store in our lobby. It is a pretty quick break – all things considered.

Apparently my subconscious thinks the break should be lengthened.

Once it has arrive at ground floor, the elevators lay at rest with doors open until a passenger boards and punches a button. So, post muffin purchase, I walked into the elevator…

A good 4 to 5 minutes later a radio-bro (those are the shmucks on the 10th floor) got on the elevator, looked at me quizzically and asked what floor I was headed to. Not only was I absent-mindedly standing on the elevator with the doors wide open, I hadn’t even selected a floor to try to go to. Make it worse? I almost missed getting off on 7. He said “Isn’t this your floor?” as the doors were re-closing, and caught the doors with his newspaper. I gave him the finger and said, “Mind your own dang business.” … Ok, not really. I sheepishly grinned and gave that throaty groan where your lips barely part and it can mean either “thanks” or it is an acceptable response to “how are you?” – and then slipped out of the elevator.


I might start taking the stairs, to avoid ever seeing him again – but those things get really repetitive.