Blackhawks and Books

Today, the Blackhawks, an athletic team representing Chicago, were champions of some hockeyed game.


Pictured above: a Blackhawk. It is reassuring to know that casual racism and arbitrary sports are still living happily together.

They were to hold a parade today downtown, and some of my colleagues encouraged me to attend. "Ah," I thought to myself. "This is a good chance to bond with the locals." This was immediately followed by the thought "I don't care about any of this."


Pictured above: I don't even care about this picture.

Nevertheless, I found myself alone in a sea of inebriated Chicago-ans at 11:00 this morning. Upon reaching the intersection of Michigan and Erie, my brain came to its own intersection of misery and ennui. I turned to leave, and my spirits were brightened when I noticed this window display.


Pictured above: Triumph of humanity. It is difficult to see, but the mannequin is wearing a polo shirt with two collars popped. I can only assume he is on his way to forcing a lesser mannequin into drinking an entire bottle of Smirnoff Ice (the name is deceptive; it actually is consumed as a liquid).

On my way back, I passed by the medical school and pondered my own future. On Monday I will start my first research rotation, which will also be the first time I will be paid for being a scientist. It will be first time I won't be able to excuse my incompetence by being an undergraduate.


Pictured above: The owner of my soul for the next 8+ years.

But rather than dwell on trivial things like my future or the scientific progress of humanity, I began to look for literature to read during my hour-long commute to and from the laboratory over these summer months. From my limited experience of seeing hipsters read on trains, I knew I needed to be careful when choosing the right book, something both pretentious and bizarre. I wanted other passengers on the train to think I was an interesting person, but also have no desire to speak to me.


Pictured above: The semi-complete works of Mr. John Hodgman.

Perhaps books of fake trivia seems like a shallow choice. But I defy you to not be entertained by a list of 700 fake hobo names.