July 18, 2002

Today is the day to smile for the nonexistent camera.

I behoove you to email Nichole. It is for your own good, and for the good of your compatriots. Especially you girls. So far the only people who have contributed have been of the male persuasion, and, as always, I prefer to present a well-rounded demographic.

It's hot and sticky in Chicago right now. I mean, whenever you step outside, it feels like you're standing directly behind a big bus. I keep meaning to go outside to this nice park outside the Sears Tower to get some sun and read, but when I go outside, in retrospect, my computer, cubicle and office never seemed so attractive.

It seems like we didn't notice heat when we were kids the way we do now, don't you think? Maybe I'm just recalling some innocent, idyllic childhood, but when I remember heat from being a kid, it was from the stinging slides I rode down, the burning hot beach sand and the excruciating leather seats and metal seat buckles from my Dad's black Mustang convertible.

Yeah, in those summers I didn't have to worry about sandals that gave me blisters, how sweaty I would get running for the Metra, or how I looked in my swimsuit. It was about sprinklers, sandcastles and eating honeydew at my plastic yellow-and-orange Playskool picnic table.

What a dumb kid I was.