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I was the attention seeking little kid that wanted to break a bone. That’s right, I envied the classmates who came to school with casts on their appendages. I didn’t fear the pain that was associated with breaking a bone, I wanted everyone to sign my plastered leg and try to scratch an itch with a knitting needle out of desperation. Unfortunately I was also the little kid that drank two gallons of milk a week, and didn’t realize that I was my own calcium-fortifying nemesis.

I made it to adulthood before I broke my first bone, but pinky toes are often the casualty of drunken barefoot nights at the beach during college, right? Oh you poor people that didn’t go to college near the beach, you missed spinning in circles staring at the stars until you magically find yourself laughing and lying on your side in the cold sand. Shut up, this is fun.

But toes don’t get a cast!

Last July 4th, when I was 32 years old, I really thought my cast had come. Waking up in a hospital emergency room, when the last thing I remembered was cycling along the Chicago lakefront bike path travelling around 17mph?  This had to be it! My hand looked like a prop from a horror movie, but it wasn’t broken. My face and tailbone were. (I will never cease to be amused that I landed on my face and broke my ass, who else does that?) And just in case you were wondering, inflatable donut does not equal cast.

It has been over a year, and I am just now getting back on my bike, perhaps if I actually sat on an inflatable donut I would have been able to return earlier. I’m not afraid. I know I was lucky to not have broken a lot more than I did, to have flown clear of my bike and not broken a femur or vertebrae. I think I have a special protection though, Murphy’s Law, which is screwing up that odd little kid’s dream of having a cast.

Last night around midnight one of my neighbors found what sounded like the Eurovision song contest on-demand. For the Americans out there who aren’t familiar with the contest, it is similar to American (Pop) Idol, but between countries within the European Broadcasting Union. Even if you live in a country that doesn’t compete in the competition, you are probably familiar with at least two of the past contest winners; ABBA and Céline Dion. It is a campy singing contest with a Miss Universe flair, and similar obscurity for the winners.

I live in an old-fashion Chicago-style courtyard building; meaning the building is shaped like a giant horse-shoe, and if so inclined, you can look 25 feet directly across the courtyard and watch neighbors walk around in their skivvies, or worse. (No one that walks around naked is anyone you actually want to see naked. I believe this is a law of Physics.) Along with viewing your neighbors in their altogether the other wonderful feature of a courtyard building is that during the fair weather months when all the windows are open, you can hear all of your neighbors, and those nice close confines mean that the sound echoes beautifully.

Over the course of the spring I assumed that my neighbor was inconsiderate, due to the very loud music he likes to “rock out to” all hours of the day and night. However, due to the subject matter of his viewing last night I have now revised my opinion and think he must be deaf.

I work in the Loop on State Street in Chicago; that great street, as crooned by Frank Sinatra. It doesn’t have the same shopping prowess that it had back in his day. Today it is lined with discount stores and the types of for-profit educational institutions that provide their students with an associates degree in BS, no I don’t mean a Bachelor’s of Science.

Every day’s commute involves dodging someone. Usually it is the “Old Navy Preacher Man,” a rather exuberant man with a microphone and speaker who has a very long list of sins which will ensure that he is the only person in heaven.  The other prime suspects for sidewalk aversion will be the ubiquitous not-for-profit (Greenpeace, Children’s International, etc) workers. Considering it is the same people representing a different cause on any given day I don’t really know how much of the funds they are raising actually get back to the organizations they are purporting to represent.

Today was the second day of the NATO summit held in Chicago. There are peaceful protesters all around the city; people here because they want a chance to have their voices heard regarding a cause or issue about which they feel passionately.  I believe that most of the protesters here fall into this category. People who can speak eloquently and understand the teaching of Dr. Martin Luther King. Then sprinkled in with the majority are the minority of idiots, the people that want to be headlines. The people that are here to protest for the sake of protest.

Around 2pm today the constraints of my desk were getting to me so I ventured out into the protester infested city and as I was crossing State Street I saw a guy that had a sweatshirt that proclaimed him to be an anarchist. It also had some colorful language that might just irritate the police, if they weren’t in a global spotlight and warned to be on their best behavior, that is. However, what I really noticed was that this guy looked like a short MacGyver. Now I’m not one for profiling people, but given his MacGyver resemblance, I thought that perhaps he had: a sock, duct tape, gasoline, a paper clip and some orange juice and was walking around with napalm.  I couldn’t help but finish my errand with a smile on my face, come on, how often do you see MacGyver?

I did think it was funny that right after I saw Anarchist MacGyver I was accosted by the Aveda Hair Salon guy trying to ask me a question (aka sell me a package “deal” to his salon) about my hair. No, dude, I don’t want to talk to you! Didn’t you just see short Anarchist MacGyver? He probably has a napalm IED. Didn’t you learn to duck and cover as a child? Oh perhaps you didn’t, since you don’t seem to respond to the diversionary tactics that people employ against you every day.