The naming of things.

There’s a Scion in my neighborhood with custom wheels and a big stereo. It’s lowered. The windows are tinted. And it has a name. “Happy Meal”. I don’t have a car, nor do I have much desire to own one. But I have a pretty sweet bike and it currently has no name. Have an idea? I’m completely open to suggestions.

Skynyrd.

We haven’t really been going to many shows lately. I could come up with about 27 good reasons why sitting on the deck watching rats scurry across the parking lot is more interesting, but I won’t bore you with the details of the basic inner-workings of my brains. I will make a few observations regarding going out to see live music in Chicago: 1) Getting to the venue without a car always seems complicated and 2) Getting a drink or two once we’ve arrived always seems more expensive than it should be.

That said, I thought this article on the origin of the jackass in the crowd who yells ‘Freebird’ in between songs was really entertaining. If you haven’t already read it, enjoy.

Keep the peace.

The first few days of July are usually a period of extreme trepidation for our old brown dog. A delightful critter to be around practically all the time, fireworks turn Jez into a trembling mess of bones and fur. She won’t eat. She won’t leave the house. Which means she doesn’t poop or pee. I can’t say from experience, but I would imagine not going to the bathroom for a couple of days could make a bad situation seem a whole lot worse. Painful even.

This year, however, everything’s different. As unbelievable as it may seem, I’ve only heard a couple of explosions in the night. And considering the mental state of the world’s best dog, I couldn’t be happier. Strange. Since I was old enough to hold a BIC lighter, I’ve jumped at every opportunity I’ve ever had to blow things up. Now my complete lack of interest in the boisterous celebration of independence feels as lame as it is justified.

So, it appears that Jez and I are in the right place at the right time. And no matter where you are or how you choose to celebrate America, I hope by the time Monday rolls around you have ten fingers, happy pets and shades of red, white and blue lingering in your patriotic, bloodshot eyes.

The back of your car speaks to me.

I got behind a white Ford sedan on my bike this morning. Their license plate frame said, “I’d rather be sailing.” And not far from there, a bumper sticker read, “I love dancing.” I imagined a sailor under a big mast doing a John Travolta move from Saturday Night Fever. I giggled and made my way on down the road.

Better off dead.

I’ve never been a Michael Jackson fan. Ever. The man. The music. The monkeys. None of it. Sure, he’s been tremendously influential, but being a bastion of pop culture seems like something to be ashamed of as far as I’m concerned.

That said, I actually feel bad for the guy and his legacy. Like the nerdy kid who commits suicide in high school, his death has turned everyone into his biggest fan. Christ. Years of media coverage dedicated to “Wacko Jacko” the alleged child molester and suddenly he’s a legend again—now that he’s dead and he can’t threaten little boys with invitations to sleep over.

Speaking of death, my great Uncle Norman died last week. I only met the guy a couple of times, but he was one of the most charming individuals I’ve even shaken hands with. From what I’ve heard, he worked his ass off in the oil fields outside of Eureka, Kansas until he was well into his 70s. There’s a guy who deserves a tribute. Or a photo montage. Or a candlelight vigil. But the world doesn’t work that way.

Happy Friday everyone. I hope you’re proud of what you stand for—whatever that may be. To the mourning Michael Jackson fans, all I can say is that I hope you were in it for the long haul. Thick and thin, better or worse—Neverland. Good weekends all around no matter what.

Faces.

A series of severe storms hit northern Chicago last night, resulting in uprooted trees, power outages and lots of minor flooding. Apparently our basement took on some water as well. Which, along with a bad smell, left behind sediment. And while I’ve never been the type to see the Virgin Mary in my toast, I did spot what appears to be a lady’s face in a little bit of mud left behind on the laundry room floor.

Have a look and see for yourself. If you ask me, she’s pretty hot.

Flat.

It’s Bike to Work Week here in Chicago and I’ve seen some scary stuff out on the streets. Middle-aged ladies in flip flops blowing red lights. Young punks cutting between fast moving city buses and U-haul trucks on rickety fixed-gear conversions. Some hipster chick in a lime green bandana doing circles in the middle of the intersection at Belmont and Clark. But all public displays of idiocy aside, I did encounter some nice folks this morning.

Making my way to work, I was interrupted by a hissing sound coming from my back wheel. I had a flat. I pulled over to change the tube. A few seconds later a guy pulled up.

“Got everything you need?”

“Yep, thanks,” I replied with a wave.

Two more followed, offering help, parts and air. I was impressed. People willing to help a stranger on a rainy morning in the middle of the city. I’ve said it before, but maybe humanity isn’t doomed after all? Maybe?

Comfort Wipe.

I couldn’t resist. Have a sanitary weekend, everyone.

Under a cloud.

I took this picture on my way into work yesterday. I thought it was interesting the way the cloud enshrouded downtown—especially considering the state of the economy and the fact that everyone seems to be feeling a little low due to the delay of our long-awaited Chicago summer. Sometimes you feel like there’s a cloud over your head and, in this particular case, there actually was for a lot of folks.

“Ninny”

Jez and I found this guy on an old Parker Brother’s board game box stuffed away in the garbage. It was starting to rain and I couldn’t resist the urge to save him. Accordiing to the directions that came with “Smess, The Ninny’s Chess,” this charcter is the Ninny. I’m really not sure what to make of any of it, but I totally dig the artwork.