u s e y o u r h a n d s

oh, yeah, really quick. i was on the blue line the other day and overheard two neighbors talking with each other about how their building went condo. at some point, one mentioned how he had a friend volunteering in New Orleans. The girl asked, “What, like with the Salvation Army or something.” No, he said. “With the Rainbow Tribe.” ? “They’re, like, ravers who have a soup kitchen down there.”

That’s kind of neat.

So, I had to walk over to Lucky Strike on Illinois (by the lake and Navy Pier) from my office at Mich and Wacker. This involves walking across the NBC/Gleacher Center plaza, down a flight of stairs, and across Columbus Parkway. It had snowed a day or two before and the snow had been plowed and clumped together. I kicked a big chunk of it loose from the base of the Jack Brickhouse statue, right after the Mich/Wacker bridge. And I kept kicking it. Little bits of it fell off here and there, but it hung together, making this weird skittery sound across the granite plaza. When it came to hopping the curbs with my new friend ice cube, I did these soccer-boy Pele side kicks to get it to the other side. And when it came time to go down the stairs, i had to be really careful because the sides of the staircase were open.

By the time I got to Lucky Strike, my ice cube was the size of, well, an ice cube. And just outside the entrace to Lucky Strike, I said goodbye to it and then crushed it with my foot.

The concierge sighed over the five-pound blocks of chocolate, the baskets of pears nestled in excelsior. She leaned back in her chair to check the door to the Aspen Room. Still in session, still quiet. She could see some VP gesturing with a laser pointer at a screen. On page 75, she circled a fancy assortment of Belgian truffles wrapped in a luxe silver paper. She thought about how the VP, in his dark gray suit, might pick over the truffles as he refilled his a.m. coffee, looking for a coconut one. Or maybe he�d take the whole box to his neighbors� dinner party. �Maybe some tangerines,� she thought, but then rethought, imagining the rotting box leaking onto a breakroom counter. She flipped through a few more pages, looking for a gift that would remind him of expense accounts protected by clever transaction descriptions. But nothing like that would be in their budget anyway, nevermind any catalog.

I am at my favorite coffe place, the Grind in Lincon Square. I tipped my head down toward my keyboard and yawned. And before I could stop it, a big drop of drool fell out my mouth and on to the table, just missing the board.

Man, kittycats, your lady of Use Your Hands is feeling mightly low today. I’ve been saying stupid things all week to everyone, and now I just feel deflated. I laid under my desk for an hour today and I just want to go hide. You know those days? Like if you could disappear forever by counting to ten, you’d have counted to 9 3/4 seventy times by now? Yeah.

And at the same time, I’m thinking about opening a money market account. Puppytails, your lady is hurting. Her nails are at jagged angles and the air’s a little too sharp today. She just doesn’t know how to shake that nasty funk.

Unrelated: Last night I saw the documentary “24 Hours on Craig’s List” at the Siskel Film Center. It is Netflix-worthy. And while I don’t want to blow my load talking about it here because I’m writing my Public Notice column on it this week in GapersBlock, it was good and funny and sad and scary. Like CL itself.

The sunset was one of those brilliant violet ones, with streaks of red and stars hung big and full. And there she was, holding on to the railing, waiting for the sun to at last peep below the hills. Behind her there were cars racing and below her was the sea boiling. But all she paid attention to was the silkiness of the railing’s wood beneath her fingers. Stroke, stroke where everyone had before. When the sun finally sank, the gulls cried their atonal lament and pushed off the rocks. And she turned away and back to the path, her scarf trailing behind her in the dirt.