An Anectode:

Last Tuesday I had just shut down my Jurassic computer and was getting ready for 13 hours of corporate-free living when, lo and behold, my phone rang. I recognized the area code as that through which calls from my Australian former-roommate are routed, so OF COURSE I answered.

Being in a bit of a hurry as I had to meet a student soon after 5:00, I decided the most logical course of action was neither waiting (time is moneyyyy!) nor taking the elevator (too much a dropped-international-call hazard), but instead consisted of talking while walking down twenty-two (22) flights of stairs. Brilliant! Brilliant, but ill-fated. See, I was wearing rickety shooz that made the counterclockwise descent both extraordinarily loud and fairly dangerous; I kicked those babies off and went down in bare feets, which solved both problems of decibel and danger levels, but also added another to the mix: filthy bare soles. Additionally, I was met with something of a conundrum when after the lengthy descent I found myself stuck 'tween a tiger and its exploding azz (the tiger being an entire building's worth of locked doors -- no less and no more than one (1) per floor -- and the exploding azz being one (1) unlocked but apparently alarmed exit). "What to do?" I wondered. Answer: look at watch, shrug at security camera and bust through door at full force! WOoo! . . door leads to building's shady underbelly (warm and moist) and passageway spills out into alleyway. safety!

The next day I wondered if I should try to change my appearance so as to keep the building security oblivious as to my caught-on-camera identity. I decided against it, feeling that though I can try to blend in with the corporate world of my building lobby, at this juncture I enjoy my commuting niceties (flippity-flops and backpack) too much to forego them before the 22nd floor makes foregoance (?) a necessity. Yeah! And I have yet to be banned from the building. Principles matter!