Village, Street, Same Difference.

My cow orkers and I went out for dinner tonight, with no particular destination in mind. One of them had always wanted to go to Greenwich Village, so we decided we would go, wander around a little and then find a restaurant. After a cab ride that she declared later to be the worst she'd ever taken (It was nothing. I've taken taxis in Mexico City... save your cabbie horror stories, amateur.) we eventually came to our destination where he stopped and waved us down a street and said there were restaurants to be found in that direction.

The neighborhood was not exactly what we expected, but there were restaurants and we found a decent little Italian place with the standard restaurant Sade mix. (The singer, not de whip enthusiast. I should really learn how to do accents in blogger.) Throughout dinner, we joked that the cab driver had finally become bored with driving the rubes around and had dumped us on a convenient street corner.

As we divvied up the check, she decided that one of us should ask where "Tavern Upon The Green" was. (I stepped fearlessly into the breach: "I am not asking them where Tavern on the Green is.")

After a brief discussion about where we were in the city, she found that we were, in fact, not in Greenwich Village, but in the meat packing district (this is an actual part of New York, yes?), somewhere near Tribeca.

It wason the way back to grab a cab that we spotted a sign on a semi-paved cowpath: "Greenwich Street".

Close enough, I guess.

Dinner and a Show

I just finished working, changed, and went outside. I bought a gyro from a cart and watched a New Yorker try to parallel park her car.

She failed.

Sometimes the best things in life are free.



(Can someone explain how I made it this long without a Schadenfreude tag? Clearly I have some posts that are mislabeled.)

Deadspot, Chicago, the Past, Redux

One advantage to blogging from the past: I can blog from the runway.

That part where they parked the plane and turned off the engines? That was a little more like it, but please. I have Naked Raygun on my iPod and I packed two books for the flight. You’ll have to do better than that, fates.

So here’s the deal. In New York, you don’t have to know simple arithmetic in order to be an air traffic controller. Good to know, if you’re not mathematically inclined. Apparently the assholes at Laguardia aren't sure which number is bigger: the number of flights they've scheduled or the number of gates available.

Instead, our departure time was delayed by an hour, and then after we pulled away from the gate, they shut down the engines so we can park here for 45 minutes while they sort things out in New York.

Really, bring some fire and brimstone next time. This is just sad.

Welcome to the New Future, Just Like the Old Future

So, here I am in Chicago, home on the late 90s, when people still thought “charging people for wireless acess” was a business plan instead of a way to look like a cheapskate. On the plus side, I have my iBook back in rehab. Apparently, someone believes that I will be so happy to find a row of outlets that I will buy insurance from them. I remain skeptical.

By the time you read this, it will already be the future. Do we have rocket cars yet? Are the robot overlords reasonably benevolent?

Here in the past, we compose our blog posts into an application called AppleWorks, and wait to make them available when communication with the present has been re-established. It is so primitive here in the past that Starbucks has not yet accomplished their goal of a barista at every gate. They have to get by on a measly five outposts between my arrival gate and my departure gate.

I started reading Lamb on the flight here. I was using this morning’s shopping list (“Water, Ricola, Books, Altoids.” See what a considerate traveller I am? I will not cough on you or engage in tedious conversation, and I’m always minty fresh. Go thou and do likewise.) as a bookmark, and as we were about to take off, I noticed the Far Side comic on the back of the list. In it, an airline passenger is about to accidentally hit the “Wings Fall Off” button on the arm of his seat. Is that really the best that you can do, fates? That’s some weak sauce.

On cue, the overhead speakers in the airport tell me that the threat level is Orange. I should secure my baggage and rat out my fellow travellers to the nearest available secuirty officer for appropriate disposal.

Do we really make it to the future? Let me know when I get there.

Fear and Loathing at the BMI

So, here I am on the road, coming to you live from the Green Zone at the enchantingly named Central IL Regional at Bloomington/Normal Airport. It's just as nice as it sounds.

Thus far, the horsemen have stayed well out of sight. I was in and out of my Local Indy Bookseller^TM in 5 minutes, Lamb and Island of the Sequined Love Nun in hand. (It's going to be a very Christopher Moore trip.) I raced like a bat out of hell from Urbana to Bloomington without a police car in sight. I entered long term parking and found that the closest possible parking spot was empty and waiting for me. There were no lines at check in. The TSA officers were attractive, upbeat, and displayed a suspicious lack of neanderthal brownshirt swagger.

My traveling companion, an ancient iBook, immediately found the airport's free wireless network upon powering up, and aside from the fact that it's sucking down power like a Lohan fresh out of rehab, I'm online and blogging with a minimum of effort.

Not only has the other shoe not dropped, I'm starting to wonder if the first shoe slept in. The fact that my Local Indy Bookseller^TM did not have Nightmare Before Christmas on DVD is hardly the kind of drama I expect from one of my trips. I packed Corpse Bride just in case. Suck it, fates!

Next stop, O'Hare. Assuming they have not joined the 21st Century (already in progress) since the last time I passed through, there will be no internet access. There will, however, be omnipresent announcements from the Ministry of Truth about the current state of the war against Eastasia (or is it Eurasia this week?) so I'll have that to entertain me.

It's almost time to board, so I will close for now.

I am Deadspot, reporting live from the BMI Security Zone.

Flying North

Tomorrow afternoon I'm off to New York. Oddly enough, even though I'll be working longer hours, I should finally have time to catch up on all of your blogs. So... um... I guess you have that to look forward to?

If any of the New York gang want to meet up while I'm there, shoot me an email, the link's in my profile.

Morlocks and Eloi

An evolutionary theorist working for Bravo has predicted that in the future, all women will turn into Lolitas with glossy hair, hairless clear skin, and pert breasts while all of the men will be athletic giants with big dicks, and if you don't get on board with that, you're going to end up in the dim-witted, goblin-like underclass.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhkay then.