OF A GOLDEN AGE

Because Andy works in the food industry, I now spend more time thinking about the standards to which we hold restaurants and food vendors. Earlier, while Googling the skating rink where I spent many days as a middle schooler, I found the Health Department findings for my home county and now cannot stop browsing them and wondering. The skating rink earned a 100, much to my continued happiness, but in general the state of small-county restaurants probably rates higher than those in cities like Chicago. Our ongoing joke, which horrifies as much as it entertains, relates to the shortage of health inspectors here. Many restaurants display clean bills of health, but god only knows when they had that last inspection.

New York will now require restaurants to post their L.A.-inspired health letter grades (Um, mostly A’s, I hope), which took me back to a recent episode of Kitchen Nightmares. Gordon Ramsay confiscated the restaurant’s supposed A-rating after finding the usual menacing array of caked-on dirt, rotting food, and neglected hygiene.

P.S. After I recover from the financial ruin of grad-school applications and a recent boot on my car, I intend to buy some rollerskates.

P.S.S. In other food news, Anthony Bourdain taped a Chicago episode of No Reservations in August, and it finally airs Monday. Oh Chicago. By the way, the Esquire “New Restaurant of the Year,” which presumably lives up to its reputation and serves unimaginable food, sits right in the middle of one of the most pretentious, crowded neighborhoods in the city.

Yesterday I dropped a lot of paperwork off at UIC, but before that I walked many figure-eights through this mazey lobby. I had on my winter coat and gloves and my new scarf, which is many bright colors and about sixteen feet long. I turned a corner and a boy with an elephant ear or Cinnabon or some shit nearly ran me down. He said, “Sorry, crazy scarf lady.” What a twerp.

It reminded me of this time we went to the playground during our last year of college. (At the time I was, what, 20 or 21 depending on the time of year.) Some middle-school boys stalked around the periphery and played at skateboarding while looking determinedly annoyed with the world. I ran to my car to grab my menthols and lit one. One of the boys hollered, “That lady’s got cigarettes!”

People still use America Online as a service provider.

I loved Final Fantasy VI. The game juggles an insane array of characters (14!), almost all of whom have detailed backstories and individual side quests.

Some of many positives: FFVI has a great script. The game moves at a clip for the first half and part of the second half, with funny, moving dialogue. Most characters have a niche ability, for example learning the attacks and magic of enemies you encounter, throwing any item in your inventory, or elaborate attacks based on a time-release system. The weapons vary wildly, with some characters sharing weapons and others — main character Sabin uses pretty badass claw weapons — having their own individual types. Also, the world of FFVI contains the classic mix of medieval and futuristic elements to create a good steampunky environs, and they did a great job arranging Nobuo Uematsu’s quality score.

My only negatives: The game starts to drag in the second half, though the final sequence totally rules and probably makes up for it. Also, they throw in two additional characters toward the end who serve no real purpose, don’t talk or engage the rest of the characters, and are not particularly controllable in battle.

I reckon some would argue that SNES graphics hold this game back for contemporary players, especially if people think this about FFVII, which has (very early) PlayStation graphics. For me, part of the point of RPGs relates to their imagination and creativity, and I don’t like nor want lifelike avatars. If a story pulls me in even when its characters are tiny and pixelated, that means the storyline and dialogue work on their own.

At the bottom line, I liked this game better than IX by far, and probably better than VII. The characters resonated with me more, probably because of the great dialogue.

Michael Lopp, who created one of the more nonsensical, profane webcomics in circulation (Jerkcity), has a blog in which he writes about his life in corporate America. His newest post describes management. My company doesn’t fit the profile for a lot of the observations, but this resonates:

As an individual, you’re seeing 10% of the organizational drama your manager is seeing. I know it’s intriguing to get the full story, but again, it’s often none of your business, and it’s not your job. As a manager, you get front row seats for all of the drama in all its messy glory. This is why you have a monthly 1:1 with Human Resources. Their job is to train you how to manage the drama.

The more you know about what’s happening, the more you want to interfere, or tell other people how to do their jobs, or learn the rest of the gossip for its own sake. Among a staff of roughly 30 people who (for the most part) like each other on a personal level, secrets often don’t keep well.

This explains the peculiar, profound resonance of the American version of the Office: Work particulars don’t matter compared to the interpersonal dynamic. I imagine most corporate workplaces, whether whole companies, departments, or more specialized groups, end up with 20 to 30 people in workplace social circles. Even as a resident assistant I had between 15 and 25 students per floor, the right numbers to know everyone just enough to keep tabs.

“I always thought the sight of Paul Newman in a tux was the main reason to tune into the Oscars. He never wore anything gimmicky; he just looked effortlessly elegant. When I met him, I understood why. He wasn’t vain in any way,” New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd writes in the February issue of GQ.

Newman never seemed like he was trying, but he was always trying. He compared himself to a terrier gnawing on a bone. To life a better life, be a better man, be a better actor, build a safer world, help more sick children and their lives a little less painfully. His fashion statement was caring. And what could be cooler than that?

Her short essay appears in a feature on some boy actor who they’re touting as a Newman-alike. Pfft, no dice.

My work week recently changed, and as such I now work Monday through Thursday. This culminates in one epic final day, 7 a.m. to 7:30 p.m.

Friday moves to Thursday in essence, Saturday moves to Friday, every weekend becomes a three-day weekend. That part makes me happy, but: With four hours done, I have more than a full shift left.

At this point in the day, I have noticed that the word “Thursday” looks odd. Soon I will resemble the scene in the Breakfast Club when they all fall asleep simultaneously. My patience will wane and I will likely talk to myself.

Office supplies elicit strong reactions: many workers cherish particular paper clips, legal pads, filing systems, and so forth, which they patronize religiously. My dad covets a certain type of pen — not even a brand or anything — the occasional pen which just feels right in his hand, which he sometimes decides to take from a restaurant or bank. Recently my coworker Ryan bought a supply of “his brand” of pens for his desk, even though our office manager would certainly buy some for him if he asked.

On the one hand, I couldn’t care less about the pens I use for work as long as they function. A former boss insisted that everyone use classic felt-tipped Flair pens, in black or blue only unless otherwise specified. (We also had to take orders and messages on blank sheets of 8.5×11 white paper, whether the message had two words or two hundred.) We burned through Flair pens like they were on closeout.

On the other hand, when it comes to drawing, I became an obnoxious scrutinizer. Really, one pen works best for ink drawing: the Pilot Precise V5. It has a clean shape and feels good in your hand, with a strong tip that makes consistent and fine-but-not-fiddly lines. In my infrequent bouts of housecleaning I come across a dozen of these and always say, “I should do more ink drawing.” Maybe one of these days it’ll happen.

The most recent Very Small Array update shows the density of Ikea locations, or, rather, how many people in a state or urban center share the same Ikea. There are two in Chicagoland — Schaumburg and Bolingbrook — but even so, Illinois is in the second tier of Ikea density.

I think Ikea forms a good delineator between generations in this country: over a certain age and most likely you do not shop there; under a certain age and you or your friends most likely do. From what I’ve heard, the lack of older shoppers is more about perceived lack of quality than Ikea public exposure, and it seems largely based on low prices, which is ironic coming from Baby Boomers who often shirked their parents’ money and lifestyles before returning to those lifestyles as adults. Since when does a low price necessarily indicate low quality?

(We all know by now that Walmart sells most of the same merchandise as other stores, but the reason their prices are lower is because of wage blood and loss leaders, not lesser quality. For this reason, Walmart’s recent brand-name push — Dell computers! Video games! All for less! — is even more insulting.)

Anyway, I wonder if the generational split over Ikea is more of an attitude than an age issue. My friends and I have a much more transient opinion of stuff than our parents, and, so far, more desire to make less of an impact on our surroundings. I’ve purchased some really sturdy stuff from Ikea and I’ve purchased some real crap, too, but I was never misled as to the quality of individual items: a particleboard bookshelf I got for $40 is not expected to last more than a year, and at this point in my life I don’t need it to. It’s the furniture equivalent of renting. On the other hand, a well-built kitchen table which folds into a corner is useful, creatively designed, and unique to Ikea.

Many people view a house, and the items that fill that house, as a palpable legacy to hand down. When fewer of us are having children, and fewer still having children who want to stay in their hometowns, these homes are inherited, sold, and forgotten. I look at a photo of my grandfather’s elementary school class, one of him holding my oldest brother as a baby, one of my parents and him and I on Christmas vacation, and that’s really all I need to remember everything.

Writing about Abraham Lincoln the other day brought it to my attention that this is really the year of Lincoln. His 200th birthday is approaching fast and Barack Obama clearly has an epic head-of-state crush on him. This means that for me, a notorious Lincolnphile with a head-of-state crush of my own, these are times ripe for the picking. Here are some examples.

• The New York Times story I posted the other day (“From Books, New President Found Voice”).

• This interactive feature, also from the Times, by which you may compare inaugural addresses from Washington to the present. Lincoln was one of the few presidents to prominently feature the word “constitution” in his speech.

• “Why Doesn’t Every President Use the Lincoln Bible?” from Slate describes an upcoming Library of Congress exhibition of “Lincolniana,” a word that makes me want to hurl regardless of my Lincolnphile status.

• My otherwise-terrible hometown has a beautiful statue of Lincoln, and once hosted him as an overnight guest following a speech. The site of the speech is marked by an engraved rock, while the inn where he stayed tries to utilize this connection. Too bad Oregon is still shitty!

• The Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum opened in 2005. I still have not been, and this is really a travesty. Of course, I’ll have to lock myself in and never leave, a la From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.

I’ve decided to write a series of posts on my favorite things. They will be issued as I get the itch to describe things and why I love them.