The Year Of Looking Out The Window

Priviledged are the few.

That's what I think during the weekdays as I stare at the walls of my cubicle.  Just feet away from me, a number of individuals look up from their desks and gaze out their windows on the golf course across the highway; the parking lot; the next building; or the cafeteria garbage area (okay, that last one doesn't sound that great).

When the "window" thought entered my mind, I started thinking about each of the offices I've had since I left college and what kind of view they afforded.  At first, I had no windows.  But then, I got to look at, in order of responsibility; a parking lot, a dog kennel, the side of a Kohl's Department store, a tree ... and then the Chicago River from 20 floors up.

Then things changed.  A men's room door, a small warehouse ... and then a series of cubicle walls. 

But the ability to stare out a window at something usually comes with a price.  And that price is responsibility.  I don't mind personal responsibility.  That's fine.  But I'm through with professional responsibility.  That probably happens to almost everyone.

Actually, the best window view I ever had was over 50 years ago, when I was in 4th grade.  Yes, I guess there is supposed to be some professional responsibility in going to school.  But grade school is different.  They make you go.  Even though you know you'd be just fine if you didn't, you have to anyway.

In 4th grade, Mrs. Cassidy decided she would sit us in alphabetical order.  This didn't go down well with me when she announced it on the first day, because I have a "low" alphabetical name, which would have put me in the first row ... right by the wall and the coat closet.  But, unknownst to me, Mrs. Cassidy must have been dyslexic in addition to being ancient and a bitch ... because she started to seat us from her right, instead of her left like a normal American would.

This put me in the row just along the windows.  And the windows were seated perfectly.  They were low enough so that you could look out without stretching your neck like a giraffe.  Just a casual gaze once in a whiile, or a slack-jawed stare if you were so inclined.

And there was so MUCH to look at.  The landscaped front lawn of the school.  Moderately traveled Cherry Street beyond that ... and the brand new apartments just on the other side of Cherry Street.

It was great.  Sure, Mrs. Cassidy yelled at me a lot ... and when she got tired of yelling at me, she would sneak up from behind and bust me in the arm with that goddamned ruler of hers ... but it was worth it.  I watched the trees shed their leaves in the Fall, the first snows of Winter, and the incoming birds of Spring.  Oh, and a couple of cool car wrecks on Cherry Street, but nothing where anyone was hurt; unlike the little girl that I barely knew who was hit in the crosswalk on the other side of the school and died; and everyone said that the car hit her so hard it knocked her eyeballs out; and when I told my Mom that, she hit me up at the side of the head so hard that MY eyeballs almost came out.  But Mom was pretty mean back then and I didn't help anything.

Little did I guess back there in 1960-something that I'd already experienced the zenith of my work window gazing.  But my life still isn't over yet.

Is being in an old-folks home work?

I'll Be Damned ...

I think I promised last time that my next post would be a bitch-fest, but frankly, I don't feel like it tonight.  I had a pretty good day, so I'll save the bitching for later.

This afternoon, I was dialing through the TeeVee channels and happened across a very old monster movie named "The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms".  I used to know what a fathom was, but I forgot.  I think one fathom equals three Mark Twains, but I'd have to double check.

Anyway, in the movie, the Paleontologist, who later gets eaten in his diving bell, says that the Monster is heading from parts north to the Hudson Submarine Canyon, which is supposedly off the coast of New York City.

I looked at Jan and said "I call bullshit on that".  I was smug in my certainty that this was a made up name ... but for some reason, I made a mental note to remember so I could look it up later, to reaffirm my intellectual superiority.

About an hour ago, I typed it into Google ... and son-of-a-bitch!  There IS a Hudson Submarine Canyon!

Here are some pictures:

Pretty damned impressive, isn't it?  And I guess I'm not as smart as I thought I was.  I suppose even I can learn something almost every day.

Oh, and the Beast From 20,000 Fathoms never made it to the Hudson Submarine Canyon.  He got sidetracked by coming ashore at the Port Authority where he ate a policeman and a couple of cars before Lee Van Cleef put on a radiation suit, and armed with a grenade launcher fitted with a radioactive isotope, rode a roller coaster up to where Beastie was and shot him in the balls.

I am not making this shit up.

Artsy Fartsy

March is here and the days are almost in double digits.  And I haven't written a damned post.  There are just too many things happening, and instead of bitching about everything that's going on, I thought I would offer you a calming ...

Haiku.

the half Three Musketeers bar
stares at me from the fridge ...
No one eats it ...

Next Post:  I Bitch A Lot.