By any stretch of the imagination, tonight was supposed to be spent a) in a bed, b) sleeping in said bed, c) gathering my strength by sleeping in said bed and d) prepping for a 9 a.m. race and gathering my strength by sleeping in said bed.

None of those four conditions has been fulfilled. Instead, I’m running around a 75-year-old building that looks like a castle, studying up on arcane history for 150 articles that will compose the largest feature ever - by far, at 30 pages - this magazine has ever seen. Excuse the emphasis, but this is going to be the best fucking issue. Ever. And the publication has been around since 1880.

So much for the race.

Just 48 short hours ago, I listed my somewhat dicey turns of phrase that will inevitably appear in print. So - the poorly-chosen phrase updates for Thanksgiving Day are

• ‘four separate glacial periods between Newfoundland and Ireland’
• ‘compared to an astronaut, Captain Nemo and Lewis and Clark’
• ‘Anyone feel like a luau?’
• ‘an obscure hamlet in rural Alabama’
• ‘the original temple to our mother goddess’

By the numbers, I’ve ’slept’ (read: stayed overnight, working) at the office two (2) times in three (3) nights; I’ve made approximately one hundred seventy four thousand, three hundred twelve (174,312) individual keystrokes and consumed five (5) bags of coffee grinds. The grinds were consumed in liquid form, but I have no idea how many cups that equals.

And just for good measure, I’ve given twenty-two (22) dirty looks to coworkers who say asinine crap like ‘hey, you look tired.’

Best. Fucking. Issue. Ever. Give me your address and I’ll send you a copy when it’s printed in January. Maybe.

The ‘this’ in the above title refers to ‘staying up literally all night at the office working on a story – or, more specifically, 150 of them.’ ‘Shit’ refers to ’shit.’

The clock on my machine reads 4:36 a.m., meaning that I’ve been staring at some form of an LCD screen and typing for the better part of the last 20 hours. And at this point, I think I’m going to make it through the next day without a major breakdown or methamphetamine. Granted, working this late and writing has its peripheral creative benefits, with inadvertent fun phrases working their way into my articles. Thus far, I’m planning to publish

• ‘Show Me the Money: The Financial Godfather’
• ‘tubular bells’
• ‘respite from war’s horrors’
• ‘Canada, Eh? Going International’
• ‘the proud papa of one hell of an idea’
• ‘this modern litigious environment’
• ‘the anti-climax of an empty banquet hall’

At this point, I can’t tell if my writing reflects a mindset that’s either slap-happy or apathetic – and whether those above phrases are sheer genius or deranged meanderings that shouldn’t see the light of day.

And I wasn’t joking about 150 articles. I’m finishing number 47 (‘Bells are Ringing: The Carillons, Restored’) as we speak.

This was one of those mornings where I had to wake up early, as I’m leaving on a business trip in approximatly 14 minutes. You know, one of those ‘get up early - like 5:15 a.m., finish packing, go to the gym, finish a project at the office and head out’ sort of days.

So naturally I wake up at 7:40. So much for initiative. And this is my morning, as recounted in an e-mail to a friend:

so right, it was a strange morning. i get to the sheridan southbound platform, and the train is just sitting there. not moving, no doors open. so i wait. eventually the conductor walks along the train, searching for a problem. after a few minutes, he runs back to the front of the train and tries to open the doors, to no avail. they would open maybe four inches, then close. over and over.

so he walks the length of the train again, before returning to the front. tries to open the doors. no dice.

same process a third time. again, nothing.

the entire time, i’m watching with this bemused expression on my face, trying to figure out why this is happening. after a while, though, it becomes clear that the train’s not going anywhere, so i cross over to the northbound train to take the red line (shiver). howerver, i get up to the northbound platform and …

the southbound train starts moving. the first half of it, at least. the end half remains in place, and the metal springs connecting the trains shatter, going all over the track. now, when metal touches an electrified rail, it melts. and smokes. and starts on fire. the northbound train, now approaching, sees this happen and screeches to a halt.

the cta at that point was officially shut down at the sheridan stop.

so i called a friend who drives to the office and he picked me up. i still made it here on time, bag in hand for my business trip.

Hopefully the rest of the day will rock that hard.

I spent last evening as an observer in a marketing class at the University of Chicago. Another prospective student was with me and, while I didn’t know him, we seemed to get along. We were making idle chitchat - god forbid we should speak to the other students - and eventually I asked what he does.

‘I play for the Chicago Bears,’ he said.

That stopped me in my tracks, but not because he played in the NFL per se, as I’m not one to get flustered in those sorts of situations. It was more out of the parochial mindset that says professional football players aren’t allowed to scout for MBA programs. I could tell the guy wanted to blend in, though. After a break halfway through class, he leaned over and said ‘the cat’s out of the bag.’ Apparently word had spread that a member of the Bears was sitting in the class and, sure enough, someone slid a legal pad in front of him:

‘You’re really Hunter Hillenmeyer, right? Could you …?’

Suffice to say we were situational friends. He liked me because I didn’t want to talk football, and I liked him because he helped solve my crossword during the boring parts of class. The first one he filled in: 7-Down - ‘Like many new stadia.’ The answer, as you can see, is ‘domed.’ His contributions are in green.

Leave it to an NFL player to fill that one in for me.

After we leave class, I find a slew of text-message responses from my friends, ranging from ‘can i come to class? tell my boy hunter i say hi,’ to ‘tell him good interception sunday. he’s the hottest bear!’ Apparently Hunter’s the new hotness on the defensive* line. Either way, I never thought I would be sitting in a marketing class next to a professional football player. The world gets stranger every day.

*[Correction, Nov. 10, 2005, 2 p.m.: I originally referred to Hillenmeyer’s position on the offensive line, but that would make getting an interception difficult. He’s actually a defensive linebacker.]

I called the former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Richard Myers, at his home this evening. One of the first things he said, after asking the obvious question ‘What are you doing working on a Sunday?’ was to say something to the effect of ‘of course! You’re the editor of The Record. Glad you got my note.’

See, the former Chairman sent me a thank-you note earlier in the week. This was for something as simple as putting him in the alumni section of our magazine, which is pretty much the right of any member of the organization. His note, I think, was the first I have received - in my more than two years of putting the publication together - that thanked me for something that simple. And it was from a man who has been the number-one ranked military official in the United States for the past four years.

During the course of the interview, I asked a set of ten standard questions, designed to work for any alumnus of the organization I care to feature. However, one particular question - what has been the most difficult decision you have ever made? - took on some extra significance. The full implication of the question’s weight didn’t strike me until it was already out of my mouth. His response, though, was something I couldn’t argue with:

‘Given my position as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs,’ he said, ‘anytime you’re advising the President on going to war, that’s the most difficult decision you can make.’ Considering this is a man who, three days prior to his Sept. 30, 2005, resignation of the position said of the current conflict in Iraq ‘the outcome and consequences of defeat are greater than World War II,’ I’d venture to say those were some weighty decisions.

Either way, he’s a great guy. Coolest Chairman of the Joint Chiefs I’ve ever interviewed.

There once was a man slated to pick up a rental car for a business trip. After filling out the necessary paperwork at his local Enterprise, the kindly employee gave her verdict with all the seriousness of a cancer diagnosis:

‘We’re putting you in a Nissan Altima,’ she said.

‘Does it have a CD player?’ our central character replied. God forbid there be a road trip without music.

However, upon his exit to the parking lot where his intermediate-size Altima waited, the Enterprise worker realized she needed to bring his contract. She ducked into the office, and returned bearing good news.

‘We’re not putting you in the Altima,’ she said. ‘How about that right there?’ She nodded toward an Infiniti RX45.

‘Yeah, I could do that,’ our man replied.

Satisfied that his place would be cemented in the big-boy lane on the highway, our protagonist made his way to the bank, where he attempted to deposit a check. Upon entering his PIN, however, the machine malfunctioned - forcing him to (gasp!) speak to a teller face-to-face.

After filling out the necessary deposit slips, he asked said teller for $20 against the recently deposited amount. She informed our hero that unfortunately, she cannot, as his account was overdrawn. No cash!

This plucky adventurer realized his options were slim and none, yet decided to make the best of the situation. He would take the non-toll roads out of Chicago in his silver pimp ride. He would leave his dry cleaning to be picked up next week. He would use credit cards. The trip continued in true pay-for-it-later comfort. And it was Good.

Crisis averted, he became the Cashless Man in the Luxury SUV. Look for the next installment of our series, the Broke-Ass Magazine Editor on Public Transit, next week.