I took very few pictures in Chicago. Seventy-five percent of them were of this dog.
This dog is the ultimate people-watcher, but he has the best cover ever because he is a dog.
2. My Thesis.
Jil and I were at this wannabe German pub slash sports bar in downtown Chicago, and I was talking to some random friend of a friend’s friend, and the kid actually asked me about my thesis. How we got into a thesis discussion in the middle of a somewhat terrible, fratty bar, I have no idea, except to say that I swear I didn’t start it. In fact, I hesitated to impart the title of my thesis because, frankly, the title alone tells you a great deal more about me than I sometimes care to share within the first five minutes of meeting someone. It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, my name’s Lijah. I’m going to insult your taste in movies and PC your ass all over the pavement.” It’s not my intention, but I guess it’s the effect.
I told him anyway. “Interesting,” he responded. “So, could you unpackage that a little?”
If you’ve ever completed a thesis you know that, like me, your heart’s greatest desire is that someone will actually read the damn thing, besides your advisors, readers, and the department head, who are all mandated to do so. But since it’s not socially “acceptable” or “cool” to carry around your 115 page manifesto and then make people read it, the next best thing is that someone will voluntarily bring it up, and then ask you all sorts of questions about it, and then reinforce your mother’s proclamations that you are an extraordinary genius and generally speaking a gift from God. Your thesis is, after all, the pinnacle of your academic existence, a paper that took not just one whole year, but a lifetime’s worth of maturity, preparation, sweat, blood, and caffeine to complete.
The cool thing about my thesis (that’s right, I said “cool” and “thesis” in the same sentence) is that it’s completely accessible. If you’ve ever seen Wedding Crashers or heard of Will Ferrell, you can pretty much get it. I remember attending my brother’s thesis presentation, which was entitled “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben,” and latching onto the occasional conjunctions and articles – and, but, or, the – as if my life depended on it. These were truly the only words I understood for about fifty inferiority-complex-creating minutes. My thesis (here comes the cool part) isn't like that. Nevertheless, I do accept the 99% full-proof Unwritten Law of the Thesis, which states: Everyone thinks his/her own thesis is brilliant and dynamic and absolutely intriguing, but to everybody else on the planet, it’s… not. (Half because everybody else doesn't get it, and half because it's... not.)
Anyway, this kid asked me lots of wonderful questions, and I reveled in the thrill of it all, until the time came to return the favor. You see, Unwritten Law #2 of the Thesis states: If someone asks you about your thesis, you must act in kind and ask him/her about his/her thesis. While I like to believe my topic's accessibility makes it a fairly decent discussion piece, Random Kid’s English major thesis might as well have been called “New Photochemical Source of Dichlorocarben.” At least then I would have felt better about not understanding anything but the definite articles.
As it was, Random Kid's paper dealt with a certain archaic novel by a certain incomprehensible author. I’m sure that had I known the work/author/context, it would have been quite interesting or at least not completely off-putting when he ultimately concluded, "You see, everything is really death!!!"
Of course, not everyone should write about something everyone else can get. In truth, I applaud his thesis, it's just not something I'd like to TALK about. I mean, if I ever become an author with, like, a book, instead of a silly blog, I think the highest honor would be to discover that some college kid has wasted away his entire senior year trying to figure out why I'd named Jenny Crossfire "Jenny Crossfire," and why I put three doves in the fifth chapter instead of six, and how it all symbolizes the re-emergence of life and the disenchantment of the East with the West, when in reality I'd forgotten there were any doves in chapter five at all.
And that's Chicago.
To be continued....
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