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?

Day drinking turns me into a dickhead

My roommate, my friend Jesse and I may have ruined the potential career of a young comedian Saturday night.

This past Tuesday my roommate and I went to check out the Chicago Underground Comedy showcase — an event that, from what I read online, was supposed to be and above average comedic experience — and there was one white guy with a mild British accent that was exceptionally bad. I won’t go into the specifics of his skit, as it was too painful to remember (he actually forgot the punch line of a joke he spent about five minutes setting up – sadly enough, he was the second “comedian” to experience this mishap). I’ll just say that it was the most uncomfortable live performance I’ve ever sat through.

I left the showcase hoping that I’d never see this man or any other of the performers that evening again, on or off a stage.

Then, as I’m standing at a Lake View bar with my roommate and Jesse four days later, I look over and see white guy with a mild British accent hitting on two women at the bar, applying a much heavier British accent than he was during his stand-up routine.

“Holy shit!” I say, tapping my roommate’s shoulder and pointing to the guy, “is that the comedian from the other night?”

“Wow, it is,” my roommate said after taking a strong glance at the man. “You should totally go say something to him.”

I’d been drinking since 11 a.m., so walking up to a complete stranger and humiliating him in front of two women he was obviously interested in seemed not that un-reasonable.

“I’m gonna fucking ruin this no-talent ass clown,” I say strutting past Jesse and my roommate.

I approach him and immediately point to his crotch and ask him “Do you come here often?” Which was a line from the lame, never-try-this-while-at-a-bar pick-lines portion of his routine.

He looks at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, as do the two females.

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking know what I’m talking about dude,” I say, grinning and patting his shoulder condescendingly.

“I was at Gunther’s on Wednesday. I saw you bomb. It was pathetic, though not quite as pathetic as exaggerating a British accent to impress a couple girls.”

He does not budge and looks at me as though he still has no idea what I’m talking about. At this point I’m briefly overcome with the fear he was totally the wrong guy, had probably never done standup in his life and for all I know, could have been a completely respectable fellow — and here I am trying to make an ass of him for no reason.

But when I walk back to my roommate (who has been watching the entire episode) he assures me that he’s the right guy and he and Jesse go over to ridicule him as well.

The three of us should never drink heavily together again.

He ends up leaving shortly thereafter and the two girls came over to us before they left and thanked us for and exposing the poseur and getting him off their backs, as he apparently was creeping them out.

I assume he either went home to commit suicide or pen a self-deprecating non-fiction anecdote to use in his routine that may actually be funny.

The former scenario, obviously, makes me feel pretty sorry for what I did.

But the latter, strangely, makes me feel almost altruistic.