Anecdotes

Tomorrow: Locust Swarm, High of 62°F

Is it really strictly necessary for something to catch fire on the Green Line every time I come to work?

You may recall that last Thursday a medical supply truck exploded at Packard’s Corner. Today, I woke up to learn that a train derailed last night a block from my house, hit a utility pole, tore down the Green Line power cables, caught fire, and thereby suspended service to most of the branch until at least 9:30 (much longer, really, but it’s 9:30 now and there’s no sign of it clearing up).

I’m beginning to miss the days when I could get on the train, read my paper in peace, and show up at work without anything catching fire or exploding along the way.

To their credit, the MBTA’s shuttle service ran exceptionally well this morning, actually getting me here 10 minutes earlier than the train would have. When they have seven hours to get ready and call in drivers and rearrange buses, things go smoothly.

Ruh Roh

Is it a good omen or a bad omen when a car explodes on the Green Line tracks on my way in to work?

How about if the truck was a medical supply truck that may have been carrying hazardous chemicals, prompting Hazmat to swarm the area and shut down all outbound lanes of Comm. Ave? Is that good, at least?

Tais-toi!

I have two requests.

First, stop talking during movies and shows.  Just stop.

I even heard a running commentary through a live performance last week that would not be quelled by any number of polite or impolite requests (in that order) to keep quiet. Specifically, I was made acutely aware of how cute the girls behind me found the “tall black guy in the white hat.”

My theory is that home theater systems have gotten so good it’s become impossible to distinguish live theatrical events from images on a plasma screen.  Here’s a tip: look around you.  If you see people you do not recognize, you are in public, and should keep quiet.

Second, if you go to see a French film that has perfectly reasonable English subtitles (standard placement at the bottom of the screen, prominent lettering, decent translation of the French, et cetera), resist the urge to ask your French-speaking friend, “What’d they just say?” throughout the movie.

If you neither understand French nor know how to read, you have made an inappropriate movie selection.  I understand there are several movies out right now that feature marijuana as a major plot point.  Perhaps one of those would be more to your liking.

Where Did All the Power Go?

I’m mildly unnerved to find a giant generator truck parked outside, humming loudly, as if powering a residential high-rise – which, I think, it is.

I’m tempted to calculate the odds that the computer will die in the middle of writing this pos

Can I Press Your Buttons?

“In [a traditional elevator] you have an illusion of control; elevator manufacturers have sought to trick the passengers into thinking they’re driving the conveyance. In most elevators, at least in any built or installed since the early nineties, the door-close button doesn’t work. It is there mainly to make you think it works. (It does work if, say, a fireman needs to take control. But you need a key, and a fire, to do that.) Once you know this, it can be illuminating to watch people compulsively press the door-close button. That the door eventually closes reinforces their belief in the button’s power. It’s a little like prayer.” – The New Yorker, 21 April 2008

In my own recently remodeled elevator, the button for my floor doesn’t light up anymore. It still works; it just doesn’t light up.

This is completely unimportant in my daily routine, but it’s problematic when someone gets on after I’ve pressed it. When one of the many college girls in the building follows me into the elevator and presses, say, 4, on an otherwise unlit and apparently untouched panel, it must be creepy to see me standing there motionless, grinning passively as if to say, “I know exactly where I’m getting off tonight, baby.”

Even when she’s rushed out at the fourth floor and sees that I’ve stayed behind, I still look like a lunatic who’s just standing in an elevator not doing anything, like a homeless guy riding back and forth on the S train in Manhattan all day.

Basically what I’m saying is: “Maybe the next time you guys remodel the elevators, you should check to make sure all the buttons on the new control panel light up.”

At Least it’s Better Than a Vial of Blood

I just went to a cardiac health screening here, where they measured my blood pressure, cholesterol, height, and weight.  When I left, they handed me two things:

  1. A folder, with information on cholesterol, blood pressure, and other health considerations.
  2. A small, unmarked box

I forgot about the box, at first, but now I’ve just opened it.  It’s a carabiner keyring.  Yes, that’s right: to commemorate my completing the cardiac health screening, I got a carabiner keyring.

This makes absolutely no sense at all.  Am I meant to use this to climb to a higher level of cardiac health?  I feel like I now need a mental health screening.  Or somebody else does.

That’s Your Answer to Everything

I mentioned back in February how a popular hosting provider had recommended web space as the perfect Valentine’s Day gift.

Today I got an e-mail headed, “Looking for a unique way to show Mom you love her?  Give Mom a customized website.”

This has to be the least intelligent marketing campaign ever.  I admit it’s a nice thought to create a website for Mom with family photos and “letters of appreciation” (as the e-mail recommends).  It’s certainly nicer than the outcome that would surely follow any guy on the planet uttering the phrase, “Here, honey, I got you a web hosting contract.  Let’s go celebrate.”  Still, let’s not get carried away with the Hallmark Holiday marketing campaigns.

If the Address is Legit You Must Acquit

“Your name has been selected by the Jury Commissioners for prospective jury service.”

I’m the sort of person who would normally be very glad to read that. I’ve never served as a juror, and while I do not overestimate the excitement of serving on a jury outside a Hollywood set, I do value the sense of civic duty.

Watch an episode of The West Wing called “In This White House” from early in the second season. It features a strong sense of civic duty, and contains one of twelve Aaron Sorkin moments that’s guaranteed to make me cry.

So I should have been glad to receive a notice about jury duty. Instead, I am just amused. See, the return address on the envelope begins:

“Chittenden County Clerk”

Some of you may not be sufficiently familiar with the geography, so I will introduce three facts:

  1. Boston is in Suffolk County
  2. “Suffolk” is not just another spelling of “Chittenden”
  3. Chittenden County is in Vermont

This leads us to three interesting conclusions.

First, it would be hard to serve on a jury in another state. Unless they have better teleconferencing hardware than I expect.

Second, I could apparently have voted in Vermont for the last two years, while also voting in Boston.

Third, Vermont is comfortable asking me to serve as a juror even though I haven’t paid them any taxes in the last two years. If they think I still live there, shouldn’t that have come to somebody’s attention by now?

Mommy, My Drugs Smell

“My avatar’s dressed like a whore.” – Tina Fey, of Rock Band (the PS3 game) in Baby Mama.

Now, in the words of Nurse Roberts in My T.C.W., “Mmm.  Good show today.”

First, let’s consider the girl standing next to me on the T who spent the whole ride griping (on the phone) that her Navy boyfriend won’t tell her where he’s going on the boat.  (Note: “boat” not “ship”)  Sure, he doesn’t actually know where they’re going, ’cause the Navy doesn’t advertise the location of its fleet to anybody who asks, but that doesn’t make it any more acceptable that she doesn’t know.

Second, let’s recognize the homeless guy who called me a cracker.  Yeah.  Seriously.  He also observed that I think my drugs don’t smell.  I don’t have any idea what that means, but based on his inflection I infer it’s bad.  It would apparently be preferable if I thought my drugs smelled.  (This, incidentally, was in response to my horrific rudeness in not pounding his offered fist.)

Sweeter Words Have Never Been Written

Written on an envelope (from our leasing office) placed outside my neighbor’s door: “Before you go, here’s everything you need for an easy move.”

Hazzah!

Before too much time passes, let me please register the following ten demands for my replacement neighbor.

1. They must know how to operate keys and doorknobs, so it will not be necessary to stand in the hallway screaming for someone to let them in.

2. They must not feel it necessary to visit with every single one of their friends (and their friends’ friends) every single Friday and/or Saturday night. Alternatively, if these visits are required, they must have fewer than three friends and dislike alcohol.

3. They must consider it poor taste to leave bags of garbage in the hall outside their apartment. As an optional bonus, they should also consider it inappropriate to leave bags of garbage in the hall inside their apartment.

4. They must further understand how a garbage chute works, and in particular that one neither saves time nor achieves the goal of properly disposing of trash when one leaves a bag on the floor in front of the chute.

5. They must not, under any circumstances, set the building on fire again.

6. They must either appreciate or ignore a gift of baked goods at Christmas time. Stealing the batch made for the entire floor first thing in the morning (especially when also stealing the Tupperware) is not acceptable.

7. They must be able to tell time at least well enough to predict what time their clothes will be done drying based on the countdown displayed prominently on the front of the machine. Forcing someone else to remove their underwear (albeit clean underwear) from the dryer twenty-four hours after it finishes drying is not acceptable.

8. They must not repeatedly break up with their boyfriends in the hallway outside my door where I can hear every single word. If it’s necessary to break up with their boyfriends, they must do it from another location – preferably their own apartment, which, in accordance with #1 above, they will know how to enter.

9. They must not, during the Boston Marathon, call out any words that rhyme with “witch” when female runners pass by, even if they are preceded by the phrase, “keep running.” The word “rich” in very select sentences may be permitted, as the prize for winning the marathon is $150,000 and that may be strong encouragement.

10. They must take us on outings, give us treats. Sing songs, bring sweets. Never be cross or cruel. Never give us castor oil or gruel.

Sincerely,
Jane and Michael Banks

P.S. It wouldn’t hurt if they were uglier than me.