Random notes on the 9 to 5, working downtown and spending lots of time alone

There’s something eerie about working in a metropolitan high-rise these days. I’m assuming it has something to do with having images of jet liners flying into sky-scrapers and people leaping to their death to escape the ensuing flames being pounded into our minds.

As I looked out the window of my new office downtown in the 31st floor of the Hancock Center, I couldn’t get my mind off the fact that that this was the same sort of view many lot of the people who died on Sept. 11 saw last before they decided that jumping was the less painful way out.

As much as it is inspiring and cool to tell everybody back home (where the tallest structure is only half the Hancock’s size) that you work in a 100-story building, it’s somewhat unsettling to know you spend 40 hours a week in a place that is likely on many a terrorist watch list.

I spend too much time imagining what it would sound like if a plane crashed into the space above me or what the quickest way out would be in case one did.

That said, there are benefits to working on Michigan Ave., such as the ability to stop across the street at H&M to do a little shopping over lunch (something that will soon turn into a detriment I'm sure) and bumping into celebs like Oprah (who lives across the street) or Michael Moore (who I damn near ran into while turning a corner the other day) on the way home.

Actually, I don’t really give a shit about the celebrity sightings, it just sounds cool.

The people on the public transportation system honestly don’t talk or even look at one another. Or laugh when something funny happens. As I was leaving a train today my ipod fell out of my coat pocket and I said out loud something along the lines of “Ha! The hole in the pocket of this coat must be bigger over the summer.”

Nobody even acknowledged that words had come out of my mouth.

Collectively, these train riders form an odor of make-up, gum, perfume, coffee and cologne that is surprisingly repugnant.

Oh, and just a question here: When the agony of being alone disappears, does this mean you’ve found happiness or you’ve just stopped caring?