I work in the Loop.

Monday vibes.

A seat with some C.

Nothing like autumn.

Woman in the Starbucks line, ordering after the woman who chose the cotton candy pink concoction with four ounces of whipped cream but before the spray-tanned guy who went with the iced crème brûlée frappaccino: "What's the difference between a coffee and an... Americano?" Barista: "An Americano is a shot, but like, watered down. And a coffee is watered-down, like... regular. So it is, like, A LOT stronger." I don't blame the people who work there, but I'm feeling about a Trenta's worth of embarrassment for being witness to the half-caff moral degradation taking place.

Celebrity sighting, Michigan Ave.

Walk on the left; stand on the right. Exit through the rear. And, never, ever block the goddamned train doors. #SOML

Like conspirators who are really trying not to look suspicious.

On a sunny spring day, outside of the Michigan Avenue Macy’s, three young men in trim suits and vibrantly colored shirts swirl around the sidewalk holding small silver gift bags. Apparently this is a scam of some sort. They weave nimbly through the lines of tourists, approaching out-of-town women to offer these glittering parcels of cosmetics. “Is it free?” one woman asks. “It’s allllllmost free,” replies one of the men with a smile, as his polished black shoes whisk him toward his mark. All of this leaves just one of them unoccupied: a modest-looking, slight fellow who’s a dead ringer for the bellhop in Grand Budapest Hotel. The traffic light changes, and across the intersection toward him charges a woman of about 45, with a terrific underbite and a bloody nose. She does a hard stop on the sidewalk at the sight of the shiny bag, her eyes wide, and blood streaming down the front of her face onto her jutting lip. She stares him down, jaw clenched, a few red-stained teeth exposed, huffing with great labor and big bubbles of blood sputtering out of her mouth, as she considers the offer.

Observed in the break room: Someone brought a lunch today.

I give up.

"Beautiful day for an architecture boat tour! Get your tickets here."

At some point today, the acoustic guitarist at this River North Potbelly decided, "Fuck it. I'm going all in emotionally for this rendition of Tom Petty's 'Free Fallin.'" There is real pain there. There is real pain here.

Guy in khakis and a golf cap strutting down Wacker Drive, purple sweater tied around his shoulders. "What does it meeean," he asks his companion, "to lose your emotions? That is a conversation I would like to have." All I could do not to intervene with a palm to his chest and a fatigued "Buddy..."

Stuck this post-it note to a stapler and left it in the middle of the conference room table. It’s day one. We’ll see how long it lasts there.