Flannery Correspondence

July 4, 2011

How Terminator 2 Taught Me How to Live

Filed under: Ever Wonder, Funny or Odd, Survival — BrianOFlan @ 16:00

Chin-ups on an upturned hospital bed.  Desert cache of weapons.  Artificial intelligence and advanced computer chip technology.  Minimizing civilian casualties.  Bilingualism and friends who will help you when you’re on the run.  Tough women who approach motherhood with the same tactics they use to avert nuclear apocalypse.  How to treat unstoppable opponents.  What to do when a sniper opens fire on your family home.  How to prove you’re from the future.  How well a shotgun fits in a box of long-stem roses.  How to outrun a semi-trailer.  How to run backwards in bare feet on a smooth floor.  How to save time by checking for injuries while hugging.  How to spend your last breaths saving lives while controlling the explosive demolition of a corporate headquarters.  How to pump a shotgun with one hand.  How to love a machine enough to kill it slowly.

No fate but what we make.

(more…)

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June 3, 2011

Dork Phase, Aspect 1: Fanny Pack

Filed under: Funny or Odd — BrianOFlan @ 23:22

My name is Brian Flannery and I used to be a dork.  Still am, many people would say.  (Unless they knew how much it hurt me.)

One clue available to normal humans during those years of hardcore dorkoholica may have been my fanny pack.

What’s a fanny pack?  Don’t act like you’re so cool you never wore or even heard about this invention.  In England, Australia and their related English-speaking countries where “fanny pack” is a verb phrase, they call them bum bags or belt bags.

Every now and then I still have moments when I can’t believe no one else finds it outrageously useful to put all their gear and pocket debris into one container that attaches in a hands-free way to the body.  Keys, wallets, coins, chewing gum, chapstick, mobile telephones, handkerchiefs and whatnot:  Sometimes my skin-tight clothing just doesn’t have enough pocket room for it all.

I’m not about to go around with a purse.  For one thing, purses must be held or slung over the shoulder.  Grip it under your arm or leave it on the restroom floor.  No thanks, man bag.  I imagine fanny pack favor will return when people realize how neo-cowboy they can be.

Neo-cowboy fanny pack

Isn't that hot?

Of course, my fanny pack in elementary school didn’t have keys or wallets or telephones.  It had survival equipment:  Pens, pencils, paper, notebooks, a pencil sharpener.  I had buttons in case I needed to MacGyver the sharp pin into picklock form.  I kept one of those small Gideon Bibles in there in case the Rapture snuck up on me and I needed to review my elevator speech.  I kept a small English dictionary because I always needed a spell check, what with all those writing utensils.  I also had a Spanish-English dictionary in case I was kidnapped and taken to South America.  I wish I were making this up.

Maybe all these things happen for a reason.

PS.  They’re still for sale.

May 28, 2011

Trip to Chicago, Part 5 and last

When I tell Christa how much I want to visit the Museum of Science and Industry (MSI), she rolls her eyes.  She expects a series of murals, charts and tables describing the statistics and physics behind locomotive efficiency or how a drill press works or why gas mileage is so hard to improve.  After comparing all the other things we could see (zoo, aquarium, other museums, tours), she consents to the MSI because it is pretty affordable.

We have a compulsive way of visiting every single last exhibit when we go to museums together.  (When we have the kids with us, one or two exhibits is enough.)  We are proud to say there are at least one or two corners on the top floor balcony where we do not go.  Everything else we drink in with unexpected fascination.

There’s a big, silver train in the entrance called the Pioneer Zephyr.  You can learn all about it for free before you buy your ticket to the museum.  We don’t wait for the guided tour that reenacts a record-breaking trip from Denver to Chicago (there may be some extra fee).  The train and its exhibit feels like it comes straight out of The Rocketeer‘s Art Deco prop cabinet.  The museum store is also admission-free but all the stuff costs money.  We briefly consider lounging here, reading all about the museum and then leaving with minds full and hands empty for an expense-free day.  Aw, why not splurge?  We fork over $30 to a kid called Number 8.  Tickets in hand, we ascend by escalator into the greatest museum we have ever encountered.

I’m very scientific about maps.  The best way to see everything is to follow maze rules:  Always go in one direction (for example, always turn left, bearing right only when forced by dead-end).  So we walk through the space suits, Circus Circus [1, 2, 3], Pioneer Days [1, 2, 3], and Eye Spy.

The map shows a short hallway to the left with a small room labeled “U-505 Submarine”.  The map is not to scale.  The short hall becomes a long, winding path, descending down a few flights into an enormous room filled with an actual submarine captured in World War II.  Restored to spotless condition, you can tour it, learn all about it, all about submarines, control a submarine simulator, see how a torpedo works by looking at one cut in half, learn how the German Enigma machine encrypted messages, test your claustrophobia in a submarine bunk room and galley (separate from the submarine itself).  You could spend days in this one exhibit.

Back in the maze, we head toward the Smart Green Home exhibit:  Alas, an extra charge!  The Henry Crown Space Center is a nice consolation prize.

At this part of the story we regret not having little kids around.  Without them we are forbidden entrance to the Idea Factory.  Kids are going bananas in there with hands-on learning fun like Willy Wonka meets Mr. Wizard.

We move on to Farm Tech.  Who knew agriculture could be almost as cool as science?  (Did you know that pigs are no longer fed slop but rather a finely tuned diet of top nutrition in a sanitary environment?  Workers pass through an airlock, shower and change clothes before gaining access to the room with the pigs.)

Hidden in the corner behind the Energy Lab is an exhibit about how household plumbing works.  We spend way too much time watching the toilet half-sections flush and refill, drain and vent.

A display of firefighting history leads us to Christa’s delight:  Colleen Moore’s Fairy Castle.  A doll house worth millions built by an early silent film actress, some of its microscopic artifacts are kept in a vault because they are too valuable to display to common folk.

We pass the science theater without watching the show (“Poop Happens” is playing; we know plenty about poop).  Who has time to sit when there’s two more floors of museum to cover?

We watch the Earth turn thanks to Foucault’s Pendulum (pronounced “foo-koh” for some reason).

Past the Ships Through the Ages and Racing Cars, we smuggle up a stairwell to learn about Imaging (digital and otherwise) next to a presentation on a therapeutic baby harp seal robot.

A planetarium-scale 3D history of our planet tempts us on our way to Networld.  Christa finds a place to sit down while Brian reads the history of the internet.

Bearing left, we are flabbergasted by Fast Forward… Inventing the Future.  Shirts that can hug you, coffee tables that make music according to the position of the coasters, a teenage boy in Africa makes a windmill from scratch that provides electricity and running water to his village, vertical farms, lifespans increase and mankind defies death indefinitely thanks to robots and tomorrow’s medical science.  The whole place is about inventions and inventions-to-be.  The next room is Out of the Vault, a mixed collection of museum relics — past inventions!

Cuteness overcomes the creepiness at the Genetics exhibit, thanks to a baby chick hatchery.

The Great Train Story is a toy train set dominating the museums largest room, encircling a model representing cities, mountains and plains.  Surrounding the train set is a collection of transportation artifacts, including the first vehicle to break 100 miles per hour (a train, just like Back to the Future Part III).  The train set and its model setting are full of subtle jokes and amusing situations plus an impressive replica of Chicago’s architecturally-rich downtown.

Yesterday’s Main Street is a cobble-stone walk down a Chicago street in 1910.  A silent film theater plays an animation about a dinosaur.

We traverse Petroleum Planet as hydrocarbons.

We dive into business and industry with three successive exhibits:  ToyMaker 3000, Enterprise and a hands-on business office including executive board room, marketing department, financial department and other realistic business roles.  The last room was closed and little information exists about it but it looks like an amazing idea, kind of like Young AmeriTowne.

In the middle area between exhibits is a large rotunda.  Behind the rotunda rises an industrial icon:  A mine shaft, complete with elevator leading deep into a basement-turned-cave.  The tour costs no extra and immerses you in coal miner living.  Our tour guide was visibly passionate about mining and knowledgeable.  (She spends her free time visiting actual mines around the country.)  After the tour is over we stand around asking her questions and reading the display until she’s late for the next tour.

The only big exhibit left is Science Storms.  Learn about rock slides and avalanches, tornadoes and tsunamis, how light works and how waves travel and reinforce or cancel out.  We spend so much time learning about wind and lightning that the museum is about to close.  We race up to the balcony, the third and top floor.  There are more science storms up here.

We make it to “YOU! The Experience” when they start telling people to leave.  We try to act oblivious and accidentally see more of the exhibit while “looking” for the exit.  They point us straight to the nearest stairwell.  That leaves a few corners unexplored:  The Wright Flyer, Flight Simulators, 727 Take Flight, Reusable City, Chemistry and the Education Labs.  There are five live science experiences, one impatiently-avoided science theater show, one Earth Revealed show, and five laboratory experiences (including liquid nitrogen).  Ah, well.  We’re exhausted and our minds are throbbing.  Time enough to digest.

In contrast to the art museum we visited earlier, the MSI is more tangible:  Physical objects, interactive displays and touch-friendly exhibits (instead of untouchable paintings and statues with velvet rope keeping you distant).  Form your own tornado: either at three small, individual fog machines with a single controllable fan — or at a two-story walk-in tornado controlled by 20 huge fans controlled by four separate stations.  Dress in 19th century clothes for a photo opportunity in a recreated city scene circa 1899.  Walk in an enormous hamster wheel and watch your biorhythms respond.  Stand on either side of a parabolic room to hear inaudible whispers from the other side.  Body Worlds is showing in two separate rooms but costs extra.  You can see why someone would want to live here for a month.

After being evicted (Christa stood in the gift shop for about 45 minutes after they were supposed to be closed), we walk slowly around the beautiful building containing the museum.  Hop a bus to rest our ankles.  One final stroll down the Chicago Riverwalk to bathe in architecture and the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial Plaza.  We call the kids from a Chipotle.  On our way home we take a detour past our usual crosswalk where two thugs are pushing each other and yelling.  Our last night is restful and air-conditioned.  We enjoy the walk to the train in the morning.  Chicago weather has been divine — perfect for walking everywhere with a heavy backpack.  A plane takes us home the next day to Denver, Colorado, where the rain has been drowning everything for days.  A few days later we finally have some photos up.

Postscript:

How did we afford a trip to Chicago at this time in our lives?

  • Free plane tickets:  Last summer we traveled for a wedding; the airline bumped one of our flights so they gave us vouchers.  We don’t even check any luggage.  If it doesn’t fit in two small backpacks, we don’t need it.
  • Cheap lodging:  There are cheap hotels near Chicago.  These run about $150 per night.  Cheaper hotels are hard to find but you may get them around $100.  Cheapest is where we stayed, about $60.  We got what we paid for.
  • Had we paid the higher price (almost three times more), we would have spent as much on our lodging as we ended up spending total.  All expenses totaled just shy of $800 and we had generous gifts before we left that covered $250 of that.  Christa gets the credit for pinching every penny.

May 27, 2011

Trip to Chicago, Part 4

Saturday, May 21st

We awake to the sound of bells, early.  We try to fall back to sleep while listening to someone ring the bell at the front desk two hundred times in a row for 30 minutes before giving up.  By the time we leave there is a pile of room cards at the front desk from those who could not wait and checked themselves out.  No one is at the front desk.  For the first time, Christa is craving some cold cereal and milk but she is out of luck.

We buy a small, warm breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts (there’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on every single corner).  We skip the doughnuts and go for their breakfast tortillas and hash browns.  Still leg sore from yesterday’s marathon, we walk slowly around Millennium Park where the School of the Art Institute is holding its commencement ceremony.  From there we walk to Lakeshore Drive and along the coast to the Navy Pier.  (Photos:  Stained glass museum.)

We meet Clifton and Lanetta at Capi’s Italian Kitchen.  Lanetta lived with Christa’s family for six months when Christa was still in school.  Now she lives in Chicago with her husband Clifton.  We are glad they made time to see us.  We have a great lunch at Capi’s and talk until they have a parking ticket.  Clifton is a police officer and tells about a recent high-speed chase in which he followed someone all around, well, our hotel’s neighborhood.  The suspect escaped but lost $15,000 worth of cocaine.

After lunch, Brian and Christa walk peacefully up and down the pier, contemplating all we have to live for.  The rain threatens but never arrives.  The weather in Chicago has been delicious: Partly cloudy but it never rained on us, providing cover from the sun but not too cold or even too windy. Just when the heavy bags and long hiking would start our sweat, a cool breeze would relieve us and keep us at a perfect wandering temperature.

We hop a bus to the old Chicago water tower.  On our way from the bus stop, something distracts us.  We catch an elevator to the 96th floor of the John Hancock Center.  They have an extremely expensive restaurant up there so we turn around to take the elevator back down.  There is a long line so we enjoy the view from different angles before plunging down.  Your ears pop in the elevator.  It takes about ten seconds to go 96 floors.  Tickets to the proper observatory are expensive (not as expensive as the restaurant).  Tickets are also prohibitive at the rival Sky Deck atop the distant but taller Willis/Sears Tower.  We find this out after smuggling up and down for free and feel dishonest.

Giddy with vertigo, we burst into the beautiful Fourth Presbyterian Church in the middle of a wedding and tip-toed back out.  We finally arrive at our original destination, the Chicago Water Tower, one of the few structures to survive the great fire.  It looks like a castle and smells wet — not mildewy, just damp and fresh.  It houses a gallery of then-and-now photos showing other historic Chicago buildings that survived.

A delightful pit stop near the water tower is the pump station, across the street.  This also looks like a castle but inside is a visitor center, local performance ticket vendor, a branch of the CPL, free Wi-Fi, a socially conscious café, and clean restrooms.  The bouncer at the front door keeps hobos out but lets us in for some reason.  I pretend to read the local event newspaper (Irish festival in July!) while Christa napped, sitting.

Refreshed after a half hour of loitering, we walked the Magnificent Mile, past the expensive luxury shops, ogling architecture, and stopping only for the Lego Store.

Christa is delighted to see wedding photographers snapping bridal parties on bridges, nooks and overlooks (and even on medians in the middle of traffic).  Footsore to the point of amputation, we stump back to the train station — but wait!  Christa is hungry.  Not just any hungry, she’s Panda Express hungry.  We walk city blocks in circles for another few miles to find the demanded eatery.  We eat like zombies.  The restrooms are locked and the workers couldn’t find the men’s room key.  Time to go home.

“Home” was our hotel room.  Christa finally notices the midnight noise and mentions it in the morning.  There are two Indian guys who work the front desk with duty and courtesy in the evening.  Two women work it in the mornings if they remember to wake up.  For them, working the front desk is more of a lay-across-the-lobby-couch-watching-TV kind of duty.  We’re pretty sure they also live in the hotel — across the hall from us — in the creepy room with no number, no carpet, no windows and no rules.  Their door is always open and a TV sits on a chair, always on.  There are crazy sounds that don’t come from the TV.

When we walk past on Saturday night, someone is standing on a chair (not the TV’s chair), singing along to the radio and dancing clumsy.  We heard the Indian guy hassle them in the middle of the night.  “Be quiet.  You’re making too much noise.”  He’s the one who told us to go to the other hotel.

(Late the next morning one of the women asks us when we are checking out already.)

There are other mystery rooms whose doors are always open.  Some have numbers; some don’t.  One has exercise equipment, loose scattered wires and an unpainted wooden frame near the entrance.  This gym is not yet open to guests.  Another door is a closet full of dirty old mops but it’s always open and it lives right next to the drinking fountain and ice machine.  Now they all taste like dirty mops.

There is a casino game machine, converted to accept quarters like a video game.  There is also one of those coin-operated claw games where you control the claw for a few seconds then it drops and if it grabs anything, you get to keep it.

There are a few regulars who are always in the lobby but not working there.  The only lodging more affordable than the rooms in this place is the lobby.

We requested two room keys. They are magnetic cards but they keep failing. You never know when someone will be available at the front desk so we’re glad to have two keys. So far we have replaced three and another one just went out.

In our room, only two electrical outlets work out of 12. One of these is dangling out of the wall. Two dim lamps use both working outlets so the cellphone and netbook can recharge only at the expense of light. One lamp blinks with crackling zaps when you touch it or its end table.  We accidentally fail to electrocute ourselves.

The ice bucket smells like cigarettes. It is a nonsmoking room. The smoke detector is visibly destroyed irreparably behind its tamper-proof cage.

The hotel’s ad offers free cable but the only TV channels seem like local broadcast, HBO and a porn station. We leave it off.

Later, on our last evening, we will discover that the air conditioning works. We will enjoy it very much.

I love this place and can’t decide whether to anonymize it or endorse it.

(Last part: The greatest museum ever — plus clues towards affordable vacations.)

May 26, 2011

Trip to Chicago, Part 3

Friday, May 20th

We sleep in until 9:30 AM. I guess we needed the rest. Dress, teeth, shower. By 10 AM we miss the free cold cereal breakfast. We visit the grocery store across the street and pick up some fresh bread, fruit and a sandwich. I have a bag of carrots. We take the train into the city and walk to the library to scout it out as a future resource — a pit stop to sit and catch our breath.

From there we take the long way to the Art Institute of Chicago (AIC) — weaving through the nearby Grant Park, watch Segway tourists find their balance, tip our hats to Abraham Lincoln, but miss the Buckingham Fountain by oversight.  The entrance to the AIC is flanked with two great, green lions that do not mirror each other.  For one thing, the tail on one curls up; the tail on the other goes down.

Inside we check our heavy bags at the coat check.  (We’re still lugging anything valuable with us, including three books.)  Trouble is, they inspect your bag and forbid anything perishable.  Remember how much food we bought this morning at the grocery store?  We carry it with us in Christa’s purse at the coat check girl’s unofficial suggestion.  The ticket takers do not inspect purses.

We cross over every square foot of this museum and see every painting, sculpture and relief except a few of the blotchy paint-splatter modern art displays.  We’re not art smart but we know what we like:  Medieval paintings especially, except some of the monotonous religious ones.  Brian likes the surrealists (original Salvador Dali‘s and Yves Tanguy‘s here).  Christa likes some of Picasso’s more legible stuff like The Old Guitarist.  We both likes American Gothic even though some of its surrounding modern art was weird.  Many old illuminated books at the Early Renaissance France exhibit.

It is a big museum.  At near collapse, we limp to the next train station according to the map, miss it (the blue line is a subway, not an “L”), take the wrong train, find it at last, and travel to the Red Canary.

Walking into the Red Canary feels like walking into an old movie when women wore dresses and men wore hats.  Everything is black and white and red.  Not like White Stripes but more like a black and white film updated with dark, maroon red hints so you can see where the ghosts of mobsters belong.  The restaurant/bar/lounge is larger than the website indicates.

Everything about its interior is impeccably designed.  A long, curved glass window lets you view into the kitchen as you walk down the hall towards the restrooms.  A matching long, curved mirror paces it on the other side.  There is seating in the main room, at the bar and in an adjoining lounge room.  Upstairs is another lounge and a wide balcony with many more tables and room for parties.  Out back, where we sit, is a beautiful patio crawling with aesthetic ivy and old trees.  The food is wonderful.

If this sounds like a commercial, it is.  We enjoyed the Red Canary as a hidden treasure.  A close friend recommended it.  Her brother runs it and he was generous enough to give us a quick tour.  If I were you, I’d go to Chicago just to eat there.  If you are a student of design, you can find nothing better.

Full and delighted, we leave the Canary and find our room turned over with new sheets (no cigarette burns, stains or bleach holes) and new towels — two! instead of one.  Friday nights are a bad time for this hotel.  We didn’t bring ear plugs with us.  The party lasts until dawn:  Someone has music playing, someone is carrying a broken TV around and strange smells come through our shower grate, through the washcloth.  The wildest voices we hear are from the people who work there.

(Next: A pier, a high-speed police chase, some towers and “home”.)


May 25, 2011

Trip to Chicago, Part 2

Thursday, May 19th

In the morning we shower. The bathroom has no fan or vent except a large grate that looks right into the shower next door at eye-level. We cover it with a washcloth before bathing. The tile is falling off the wall and the shower is built for midgets. Brian has to kneel to get under the flow of water. Christa doesn’t. Fixtures are mounted for a towel rack but the rack is missing. You have to walk around the room dripping to get your towel or else drape it over the bathroom door. (But that door has rusted through so the top and bottom corners fan out into disintegration.)

We make an early start to catch the train to Wheaton. As we leave, we notice the hotel has some breakfast supplies: bread, cereal, coffee, even bagels, all on one small countertop. We didn’t expect that much. We grab a piece of bread to eat as we walk.  The “L” takes us to the center of Chicago where we walk to the Ogilvie Transportation Center to catch a Metra train to Wheaton.

Waiting for our train, we descend to the level of hobo.  A security guard approaches us: “Oh, I’m sorry.  There’s no sitting on the floor here.”  We go to a coffee shop to avoid panhandling.  Caribou Coffee has amazing music, a fireplace and a quiet corner.  Their cups and napkins have creative content related to their theme, “Life is short.  Stay awake for it.”  When we walk up to order, I’m eating an enormous red apple (genetically modified).

“Your apple smells delicious,” says the barista.

“Thanks.  Your coffee shop smells delicious.”

“Do you want your coffee light or dark roast?”  I don’t know the answer to this question.

“Dark.”  I forget to use my usual line (“black as my heart”) and Christa says black coffee has nothing to do with light or dark roast.  Why does she know more about coffee than me?

I enjoy the coffee but can’t drink very much of it before it makes me dizzy.  The train ride is green with trees.  There’s a lilac garden in Lombard near the tracks.  It’s strange to be away from the kids.  I keep looking around me for little people to take care of.  The teenager on the train says, “Stop looking at me.”

The Wade Center used to be two small rooms:  One with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, full of books from the personal collection of Lewis and Tolkien.  There are two desks in the middle of the room, facing each other:  The actual desks from both authors.  In the corner was a wardrobe, built by Lewis’s grandfather and used as a hiding place by Lewis and his brother when they were children.  The other room was a small reading room where you can examine a collection of first editions from the seven featured authors and even some letters of their correspondences.  When Brian visited in 2001, it shared a building with other campus resources.

The Wade Center has a new building all its own now, lamppost ever-glowing out front.  It still has two main rooms but now it also has a coat closet (the wardrobe is only for fur coats and Narnia); a main lobby with resources for free and purchase; a hallway full of information about Marion E. Wade and the history of the center; a second floor balcony with workstations for staff and a meeting room; an archive room for dissertations, articles, periodicals and the growing collection of letters; and side offices for staff and resources.

The two main rooms are much larger.  Instead of bookshelves surrounding the two desks, there are murals and mini-exhibits.  Each of the seven authors (Owen Barfield, G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, George MacDonald, Dorothy Sayers, J. R. R. Tolkien, Charles Williams) has artifacts on display and biographical information.  The reading room is much larger — a great hall lined with books, filled with tables and chairs, and ending in comfortable love seats and ottomans by a fireplace.  Tour it yourself through the magic of the internet:  official virtual tour or flickr.

We spend hours combing through the precious old books.  Christa’s favorite is reading some of the letters between Lewis, his wife Joy and her ex-husband, William.  Joy was pretty sassy.  Brian intentionally avoids the Tolkien section as long as he can.  MacDonald, Lewis, Barfield instead.  Lewis tended to dominate Inkling conversations but the soft-spoken Barfield was the only one who would consistently stand up to him when he disagreed.  They had some lasting disagreement about something way over our heads called anthroposophy.

Running out of time, Brian leaves Sayers and Williams for another time and finally cracks open the Tolkien treasure chest.  Here’s a short poem called Goblin Feet in a rare book called Oxford Poetry 1915.  Here’s another children’s book called Mr. Bliss about a man who collects tall hats, keeps a pet girabbit (giraffe-rabbit), buys a motorcar since his bicycle only works downhill, and has adventures with his neighbors and some bears.  Here’s a book collecting the letters he wrote his children every year as Father Christmas.  Ah, heaven.

Overstimulated at the Mecca of British wonder-literature, we pause only for a short lunch at 2:30.  At one point we shake hands with the center director, Dr. Christopher Mitchell.  The center closes at 4 PM and we leave a large stack of books for the generously accommodating archivist, Laura Schmidt.  (You are not supposed to re-shelve books.)  Deeply fulfilled and blinking with eye strain, we walk slowly through the beautiful Wheaton campus and wait for our return train.

We meet a nice man and talk with him a bit.  Turns out he is homeless and needs $5 to buy a ticket.  For no good reason, I hand over the cash and he disappears.  New rule:  No more handouts.  Also:  No more talking.  The only people who want to talk to you are the ones who want money for free.  He hit us up at just the right time:  Glowing with contentment and benevolence.  Plus he didn’t look like a hobo.  Took me off guard.  The event steels us against future beggars.

When we come back to our hotel room we are surprised to find all of our possessions intact. We had taken everything valuable along with us. (If the robbers want some old clothes, papers and travel gear, they can have them.) We expected the room to be ransacked. It isn’t. What a relief. Our respect for our lodging grows.

We research the next day’s events, have one of those grumpy, exhausted, married-people fights and go to bed. Asleep by 9 PM.

(Tomorrow: Surreal Segways, Lincoln, coat check and a canary.)

May 24, 2011

Trip to Chicago, Part 1

In May of 2011, Brian and Christa Flannery escaped the home for five magical, fun-filled days in Chicago. No kids, no rules, no money. With a few gift cards from some generous friends and arrangements with a team of babysitters, we attacked the Windy City.

Why Chicago? We had airplane ticket vouchers from a delayed flight during the 2010 summer of weddings. The airlines don’t make those easy to redeem but Christa found a way. With a long list of cities where friends and relatives abide, we picked one place where no one would find us.

Midway International Airport lost us for a few minutes until I made Christa ask for directions. We found the train station, bought our ticket and hopped on the CTA orange line (on the famous Chicago elevated “L”). We stand out in the crowd as newcomers. When we get off the train at the first stop, the closest train stop to the airport, everyone stares in shock and concern.

We walk out of the train station. Our hotel is right on the main road but we don’t know how far. So we walk. Other things on the main road: A few restaurants, a strip mall, all the signs are in Spanish, the only newspaper is La Raza, west side gang graffiti, gold pawn shops, cambio de cheques, a dress shop full of brightly colored wedding/quinceañera dresses and many of the street-facing windows are broken.  A beat up old building called “Crossroads Hotel” looks dangerous.  We don’t stay there.

We walk past a mattress store that’s never open.  Next is a bar with the Mexican flag around its always-glowing neon sign.  It has dark tinted windows and all its doors are padlocked shut from the outside.  Past this is a parking lot with an old wooden wagon cart holding a broken sign with no letters.  Beneath the wagon are many broken liquor bottles and one sock.  This is our hotel.  (Not the wagon, the hotel behind it.)

We walk into the lobby and introduce ourselves at the front desk.  The guy looks intrigued.

“Did you book your room online?” he asks.  We did.

“You’re only staying two nights?”  We’re staying five.

“Oh.  I don’t know.  Maybe you want to get a room at our partner hotel.  We’ll help you.”  We like this location.  It’s close to the train station.

“The other hotel has a shuttle.  This one is better for short stays.  The rooms are small and don’t have bath tubs.”  We don’t need bath tubs.

“Well, I’ll show you the room and then you can decide.”  The first room looks good — a bed, a toiled and a shower.  No floor — the bed takes up 98% of the room.  Christa conspicuously checks for bed bugs and hot water.  It passes.

We say we’ll take it.  He takes us to another room.

This room is bigger, more floor.  For example, you can walk around three sides of the bed.  He says this has a better window — it faces the street, not the alley.  (What goes on in the alley?)  We take it.  He shakes his head.

We spend the evening with maps, listing what we want to do and planning the next day.  Our plans will extend no more than one day in advance on this trip.  We intend to satisfy some of our top interests:  Literature, architecture, art, inventions and density of experience.  For literature, we venture into the suburb surrounding Wheaton College to see the C. S. Lewis Museum (actually devoted to seven authors including Lewis, Tolkien and George MacDonald).  For architecture, we visited Chicago where a terrible fire happily destroyed most of its original buildings and inspired more than a century of cutting edge architectural experimentation.  For art we visit the Art Institute.  For inventions, the Museum of Science and Industry.  For density of experience, the Navy Pier, a long, artificial peninsula full of every experience possible:  A ferris wheel, eateries, trinket shops, a stain glass museum, a beer garden, live music, an over-sized anchor, a view of a lighthouse, cruise ships, profane orange-costumed clowns, classy restaurants, an IMAX, a puppet show, multicultural ethnic dancing groups, every branch of the military.

Thus planned, we resign to bed.

About the bed:  The sheets don’t fit the mattress; every time you roll over the un-tuck-able bottom sheet comes with you, exposing the bare mattress.  The mattress doesn’t match the box springs (two twin box springs for one king mattress).  The bed frame is missing a leg so an inverted ice bucket holds it up.  The sheets have cigarette burns and other stains.  Brian and Christa argue about whether or not hotels have to wash the sheets between guests, no matter how cheap they are.  Christa sleeps soundly.  A beat up old place with barely enough room to set our stuff down reminds her of our house.  She doesn’t wake up or notice but Brian does:  In the middle of the night some idiot is yelling up and down the hall.  Just like at home.

(Stay tuned for Part 2:  One Hobo Plus Five Dollars)

May 4, 2011

Not Restful

Filed under: Surreal, Surviving Parenthood — Tags: , , , , , — BrianOFlan @ 14:56

We were in bed by 9:30 PM. We had a big day and the kids were exhausted and snoozing by 8 PM. Another big day planned for today.

Alas, 10 hours is not enough to obtain precious rest around here. Tirza and Ada thought they would serenade us with loud conversation hours we thought they were asleep. Around 1AM, Judah screamed for an hour until he located his pacifier. We both tossed and turned until our spines were so twisted that they squeezed the craziest acid dream juice out of our brains.

Christa:

That someone was chasing us as a family: Chasing quickly, almost like a zombie. We had to run across the highway and then watch as he got clobbered by a big truck.

Then I had a different dream where everyone was trying to get me but they weren’t zombies. I had to hide underground because they were trying to kill me. Then one person said he would help me. They had chased me to the woods and I had fallen into a lake where they couldn’t find me and I was just holding my breath and sinking to the bottom, intending on drowning myself because that was better than resurfacing. Suddenly that guy came swimming down to help me. He cut a hole in some wire mesh and helped me get through. Somehow that led to a school where I was safe but all the killers were waiting for me at the front door. I had to change all my clothes and hair and everything to get past them. But while I was in the school we were in a science classroom where they were making test tube babies and everyone else was comfortable with how horrifying the process was.

Brian:

I was back at work with a former employer. My job was to hide a body. I got to see a lot of old friends from my first job because they came driving by in a big unmarked van while I was trying to hide the body. It was good to see Oliver, for instance, but we didn’t really have time to talk.

August 29, 2010

When you can’t think of a good email subject

Filed under: Surreal — BrianOFlan @ 22:46

Try one of these (old list, newly re-discovered):

  • A man without music is like a hippopotamus without a popsicle
  • Horse kicks Harrison Ford in stomach
  • McCain says unsure if Obama a secret hippopotamus
  • Man kills friends after poker game
  • Bearded lady gives birth
  • Bush averts Albanian uprising by invading Alabama

July 5, 2010

Surreal Cereal

Filed under: Funny or Odd, Surreal — BrianOFlan @ 22:49

In this post-Far Side world, I love finding a comic both equivalently bizarre and sufficiently funny.

Speed Bump

Speed Bump

Speed Bump
(Far Side-esque animal humor!)

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