Prairie Landing
Friday, December 23, 2005
The vet: Pottery Barn meets Toone-town
I forget if I've mentioned my vet before. He got into some kind of dispute with the veterinary hospital and struck out on his own. As a result, the last time I went to see him it was in a single concrete-and-cinderblock room containing nothing but a metal exam table, a folding table with a laptop and a credit card machine, and a few folding chairs occupied by patients and their owners. The setup ensured a maximum of noise, since the yowling of whoever was being examined would set off all the other animals. Also the owners would make spectator-sport comments like, "Yeah, THAT's gonna be cold." So much for HIPAA.
He assured me that he was building a new hospital. What he didn't mention was that the construction would be in that very room. So today I went over there and was met with a handwritten sign encouraging me to pick my way through the scaffolding and Slavs with jackhammers, ending up, surprisingly enough, in someone's condo. Now, instead of concrete and folding chairs, there are all the trappings of Christmas in Lincoln Park -- blonde hardwood, stainless steel, and one of those open bookshelves from Crate & Barrel loaded with family photos and Hill's prescription products. Wandering around were 6 or 8 cats in various states of well-being, all the way from an arthritic oldster with renal failure to two hyper kittens wearing red-and-green feather collars. It reminded me of my friend Toone's house, happy home to a dozen or so kitties.
I like my vet a lot. He was the first vet ever to successfully treat G's stomach problems, plus he's always rattling off the latest studies from the University of Colorado or wherever. I can only assume that a lot of other people feel the same way -- not only because of his office vagaries, but also because it took some sleuthing just to figure out where he'd gone.
As your reward for reading that pointless description, here's a picture of the little bugger himself, on his leash:
He assured me that he was building a new hospital. What he didn't mention was that the construction would be in that very room. So today I went over there and was met with a handwritten sign encouraging me to pick my way through the scaffolding and Slavs with jackhammers, ending up, surprisingly enough, in someone's condo. Now, instead of concrete and folding chairs, there are all the trappings of Christmas in Lincoln Park -- blonde hardwood, stainless steel, and one of those open bookshelves from Crate & Barrel loaded with family photos and Hill's prescription products. Wandering around were 6 or 8 cats in various states of well-being, all the way from an arthritic oldster with renal failure to two hyper kittens wearing red-and-green feather collars. It reminded me of my friend Toone's house, happy home to a dozen or so kitties.
I like my vet a lot. He was the first vet ever to successfully treat G's stomach problems, plus he's always rattling off the latest studies from the University of Colorado or wherever. I can only assume that a lot of other people feel the same way -- not only because of his office vagaries, but also because it took some sleuthing just to figure out where he'd gone.
As your reward for reading that pointless description, here's a picture of the little bugger himself, on his leash:
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Guest commentary from Cousin Vino
My cuz, a reluctant Michigander, is coming to Delaware for the holidays. He writes:
i must say that when i mention my DE destination for t-giving and post-xmas, all my MI friends/co-workers are always like, "what the hell?" and then ask me things like whether i actually like going there, or if i was forced to go. and i can't help but wonder if they actually like MI or were forced to live here.
i must say that when i mention my DE destination for t-giving and post-xmas, all my MI friends/co-workers are always like, "what the hell?" and then ask me things like whether i actually like going there, or if i was forced to go. and i can't help but wonder if they actually like MI or were forced to live here.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Multi-drug-resistant media stalking
I'm at ICAAC in DC this weekend. ICAAC is the biggest infectious disease meeting. The last C stands for chemotherapy, but I'm not sure why.
You may wonder what I do at medical meetings. I'm supposed to take advantage of the onsite presence of ID media and ID experts to pitch stories and arrange interviews. In effect, this means trolling the DC Convention Center, stalking reporters. Through an inconvenient twist of fate, the organizers made the name tag type really small. So I've given up on my usual approach of roaming around the poster session, trying to spot recognizable names, and instead I just lurk outside the press conference room.
This is not exactly a well-respected activity. The words "stalk" and "lurk" probably clued you in to that. And when I say lurk, I mean practically blocking the door so I can squint at as many name tags as possible, smiling in a proprietary way since that seems slightly less foolish than not smiling. I've got no right to look proprietary, especially since the actual proprietor of these press conferences is always nearby. Shockingly, he puts up with this. Usually that person's job is to shoo me and my ilk away, and he in particular is well known for that. I guess the holiday spirit and associated low media attendance at this meeting have made him pretty easygoing.
As you might guess, I am not the only flack engaged in this pastime. My brethren are easy to spot. They all look like me: blonde, besuited, and bearing enormous bags of paper. And between the ages of 25 and 35. 80 or 90 percent female. Plus they all hang back so as not to take up the best seats of the press conference. And they (we) all have that look of saleswomen in a department store, carefully gauging where to strike next.
Meanwhile, our quarry is also easy to identify. Hair is unstyled and freely graying. Lots of turtlenecks, sweaters and bulky outerwear. Basically, the Michael Moore school of fashion and grooming. These are all print and radio reporters, of course. Most move quickly down the hall -- the media ghetto is always a dark, out-of-the-way hall with no seating -- and avoid eye contact. Some go so far as to avoid leaving the media lounge, where we're not welcome, without a cell phone attached to their face.
I actually don't mind all of this as much as you'd think. Most of the people I want to pounce on, actually don't mind hearing from me. I just wish they'd make the nametag type bigger, so I could pounce more accurately and with less awkward squinting.
Also, I'm not convinced this is worth all the planning and all the expenses I'm incurring for my client. But apparently this is the way everyone does it, everyone being the big drug companies. I finally started chatting up the other hallway flacks, out of boredom. Between the 4 or 5 of us, we managed to generate enough gossip to fill up the daily report to our clients. Competing clients, but what's the difference when most of the media are avoiding us anyway?
You may wonder what I do at medical meetings. I'm supposed to take advantage of the onsite presence of ID media and ID experts to pitch stories and arrange interviews. In effect, this means trolling the DC Convention Center, stalking reporters. Through an inconvenient twist of fate, the organizers made the name tag type really small. So I've given up on my usual approach of roaming around the poster session, trying to spot recognizable names, and instead I just lurk outside the press conference room.
This is not exactly a well-respected activity. The words "stalk" and "lurk" probably clued you in to that. And when I say lurk, I mean practically blocking the door so I can squint at as many name tags as possible, smiling in a proprietary way since that seems slightly less foolish than not smiling. I've got no right to look proprietary, especially since the actual proprietor of these press conferences is always nearby. Shockingly, he puts up with this. Usually that person's job is to shoo me and my ilk away, and he in particular is well known for that. I guess the holiday spirit and associated low media attendance at this meeting have made him pretty easygoing.
As you might guess, I am not the only flack engaged in this pastime. My brethren are easy to spot. They all look like me: blonde, besuited, and bearing enormous bags of paper. And between the ages of 25 and 35. 80 or 90 percent female. Plus they all hang back so as not to take up the best seats of the press conference. And they (we) all have that look of saleswomen in a department store, carefully gauging where to strike next.
Meanwhile, our quarry is also easy to identify. Hair is unstyled and freely graying. Lots of turtlenecks, sweaters and bulky outerwear. Basically, the Michael Moore school of fashion and grooming. These are all print and radio reporters, of course. Most move quickly down the hall -- the media ghetto is always a dark, out-of-the-way hall with no seating -- and avoid eye contact. Some go so far as to avoid leaving the media lounge, where we're not welcome, without a cell phone attached to their face.
I actually don't mind all of this as much as you'd think. Most of the people I want to pounce on, actually don't mind hearing from me. I just wish they'd make the nametag type bigger, so I could pounce more accurately and with less awkward squinting.
Also, I'm not convinced this is worth all the planning and all the expenses I'm incurring for my client. But apparently this is the way everyone does it, everyone being the big drug companies. I finally started chatting up the other hallway flacks, out of boredom. Between the 4 or 5 of us, we managed to generate enough gossip to fill up the daily report to our clients. Competing clients, but what's the difference when most of the media are avoiding us anyway?
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Time for the annual rant about winter
People try to tell me, "Oh, it's not usually like this in December." But that's a bunch of crap. It was like this last December. Why should I believe them?
Worst things about Chicago winters, in order:
3. The cold.
Last night Colliculus and Vivs and I went out to see Zoolights. It was 7 degrees outside and the world was paved with ice. My coworkers told me I was crazy, but what are you gonna do? Not see Christmas lights?
Bright side: Today I went to work and it felt springlike, like who needs a hat and gloves? I looked at the thermometer on Michigan Avenue and it read 22. And all senses, including my mental sense, relaxed as if I had gotten off the plane in Florida.
2. The ice.
It snows around Thanksgiving. Then the snow freezes and slicks over and stays that way for three or four months. Today it snowed 6 inches so now there's snow on top of the ice.
Bright side: Months and months of rain-free weather. It sounds like a joke, but it's actually kind of nice to put away the umbrella and wear khaki pants whenever I want.
1. The clouds.
It's like I don't even have a window at work, because my office is in a cloud all the time. How did I ever quit coffee, a year ago tomorrow?
This is really the worst. A bright side can be found only via schadenfreude, so here goes: I'd rather have three months of clouds and six months of cold than nine months of clouds, like Seattle. And when all else fails, there's always Buffalo.
TLC, who visited from the Queen City last week, won't believe it, but she missed this particular boat.
There are a lot of cities that call themselves the Queen City, Google says.
Worst things about Chicago winters, in order:
3. The cold.
Last night Colliculus and Vivs and I went out to see Zoolights. It was 7 degrees outside and the world was paved with ice. My coworkers told me I was crazy, but what are you gonna do? Not see Christmas lights?
Bright side: Today I went to work and it felt springlike, like who needs a hat and gloves? I looked at the thermometer on Michigan Avenue and it read 22. And all senses, including my mental sense, relaxed as if I had gotten off the plane in Florida.
2. The ice.
It snows around Thanksgiving. Then the snow freezes and slicks over and stays that way for three or four months. Today it snowed 6 inches so now there's snow on top of the ice.
Bright side: Months and months of rain-free weather. It sounds like a joke, but it's actually kind of nice to put away the umbrella and wear khaki pants whenever I want.
1. The clouds.
It's like I don't even have a window at work, because my office is in a cloud all the time. How did I ever quit coffee, a year ago tomorrow?
This is really the worst. A bright side can be found only via schadenfreude, so here goes: I'd rather have three months of clouds and six months of cold than nine months of clouds, like Seattle. And when all else fails, there's always Buffalo.
TLC, who visited from the Queen City last week, won't believe it, but she missed this particular boat.
There are a lot of cities that call themselves the Queen City, Google says.
