Momas, don’t let your babies grow up to be copywriters.

It’s currently 7 degrees here in Chicago. Cold, but not all that shocking compared to some of the extreme weather we experienced during our short tenure in beautiful, hearty Wisconsin. The difference between here and there, however, is that our heater in WI actually kept the house warm—while our Chicago apartment is always cold. Lots of big windows combined with high ceilings, our place here on Berwyn Avenue usually sustains an average temperature of about 62 degrees with the heat running constantly.

So, when I woke up this morning and found chunks of ice on the windowsills, I didn’t think too much about it. But a short walk to the thermostat revealed the temperature in our place was a brisk 49 degrees.

First thoughts as I stood there in my boxers shivering: damn heater, damn landlord, damn winter, damn Chicago, damn cold, goddamn, fu**ing cold. I grabbed my cell phone. Determined and somewhat excited to wake the landlord from his warm, million-dollar-house-in-Evanston slumber, I paused for a second and thought of my dad. What would Steve do?

For those of you that don’t know, my dad is the guy that fearlessly fixes his own things no matter what. And if he can’t fix it, he’ll build a new one—regardless of what the item in question may be. Needless to say, I was inspired to figure out the heating situation on my own. But I had to act fast because my feet were going numb.

I opened the door to the small closet where our furnace is located. Yep, there it is, I thought. What next? I flipped the black switch on the side to the “off” position and stood back for a few seconds. Then, covering my face, I cautiously flipped it back on. No explosions. Good. The fan began to run.

Off to a good start. What next? Overwhelmed with emotion and impending frostbite, I had a vision. Yes, while some people see the Virgin Mary in their toast, I saw my dad in his dirty, old black sweatshirt and bargain-bin Nikes standing in our hallway.

“Check the filter,” he said with a disgusted look on his face.

Of course. The filter. I climbed atop the swivel stool and sure enough the filter was filled with muck. I replaced the blue fiberglass square, the blower kicked on and heat began to flow once again.

Success.

While I’d summoned my inner handy man for about ten minutes, I was reminded once again what a life in the ad business does for one’s knowledge of the mechanical world. As far as I can tell a person can’t “concept” or “brainstorm” their way out of broken furnance.

What’s the moral of the story? Well, I’m not sure there is one. But I can say a couple of things for sure. First, don’t forget to check your filters. Second, make sure keep your fellow do-it-yourselfers on speed dial.

Bike vs. Car

As a daily commuter and recreational weekend rider, I consider Chicago to be a fairly bike friendly city. Sure, I’ve had close calls, but most days I make my way down the road full of love for this city. I can smell greasy food cooking inside greasy restaurants, I share smiles with people walking their dogs, I ride by buildings that most people only know from postcards and I even get a little bit of exercise out of the deal.

But yesterday was the day of the asshole. Lost, late for work, angry at the world or just not paying attention, the Chicago drivers I encountered deserved a kick in the head. I won’t bore you with details—instead I just want to say it’s good to be here.

Is there a solution? Probably not. Cars run stop signs, bikes run stop signs. Drivers act aggressive, cyclists act aggressive. The one difference is this: no matter who’s in the wrong, the cyclist is going to lose the battle between fender and frame.

I want to make a call out for peace. Maybe draft a spiel about sharing the road. But when it comes down to it, all any of us can do is keep our heads up and our fingers crossed that no one winds up dead in the street.

What I learned from Wisconsin.

The other night, as I peeled a long piece of white cheese off a Crave Brothers “Farmer’s Rope” and fearlessly headed out into the cold Chicago night to walk my dog, I began to formulate a theory. A simple theory, of course (what else would you expect from someone with my mental capacity?). It went like this: Everyone should spend at least one winter in Wisconsin. Why? Doing so could teach people two very important lessons:

1) Cold weather should not be feared.

2) Good cheese and beer are the perfect cure for any ailment.

Thanks for having me Wisconsin. Our time together made quite an impression. Sorry I had to leave you for Illinois. Hopefully you’ll have me back some day.

Ugly world.

It’s Martin Luther King Junior Day and Euro RSCG Chicago is closed. A day meant to commemorate the memory of a great leader and I wake up with chores on my mind. Clean up the apartment. Do some laundry. Maybe give the dog a bath.

But the temptation of cable TV got the best of me. As I clicked my way through about 150 channels, I came across ‘The Untold Story of Emmett Till.’ Now, I’m sitting here with a cold, sad feeling. Man, the human race can be evil. I remember Emmett Till’s story from High School history. I remember the black and white photos of his face. But I don’t remember the details—perhaps I never even learned what they were.

Where does this leave a middle-class white guy? With a guilty conscience? A negative outlook? Well, for now, it leaves me sitting on the couch anticipating ‘Mississippi Justice’—another hour of shocking, depressing television I feel I need to watch.

And while I may still clean up the apartment, do some laundry and give the dog a bath, I’d like to remind all three of the people reading this entry to stop for a second and remember what happens when people don’t use their brains.

Welcome to Lethargia.

This morning I witnessed a person walking their dog—by car (they drove while the dog ran next to the vehicle). Naturally, Opposite Day Doctrine would suggest that I give this individual a break. Maybe make up a scenario. Perhaps the driver of the car has a broken leg? Maybe they’re elderly and can’t risk exposure to the winter weather? Yes, I suppose it’s possible that a situation beyond my knowledge was preventing this person from actually getting off their ass and walking their German Shepherd. But quite frankly, I doubt it.

Friends, I have to admit, the lazier we get the more I think we humans deserve the vengeful wrath of Mother Nature . . . whatever that may be.

The art of communication.

Yesterday I received a dream assignment at work. “Guys, we need to create one great ad. There’s no brief. And no mandatories—yet. Go to work.”

So, rather than sitting down to come up with my own ideas, I decided to spend some time drooling over the best creative of the year. I grabbed CA’s 2006 Advertising Annual and headed for the train station.

As expected, the red line was crowded and smelling of ass, but I found a seat. About half way home, nestled between an old black man in work clothes and a white guy in an expensive suit, I realized both my neighbors were looking over my shoulder as I studied a magazine FULL OF ADS. It occurred to me that I was the crazy guy on the train. I imagined the stories the strangers around me might tell when they got home . . . “You should have seen this guy, he had this big book full of ads! And he liked it!”

Anyway, every year I try to pick my favorite ad in the entire publication. I’ve found it. Here it is. Enjoy.

What the hell does ‘Opposite Day’ mean?

Well, after an emotional Christmas vacation dominated by the declining health and eventual death of my Grandmother, we had one last night in town. My wife and I made dinner for everyone and loaded the dishwasher. Rather than retiring to the living room for more discussion on cancer, aggressive tumors and funerals, I was recruited by my brothers’ girlfriends’ kids for playtime.

We started with ‘Monster’, which involved toy guns, toy chainsaws and wigs. There were teams—although I’m not sure which side I was on because we all seemed to be “killing” each other. Monster was followed by a very organized spy game. Here, each of the two teams hid from one another. Once one found the other, there was more killing with the same arsenal of weapons I mentioned earlier.

After about two hours of hiding, seeking, chasing and killing, everyone started to wind down. I suggested we go see how the adults were doing. They all shook their heads in disagreement. Then, Miles, 5, declared it was time for ‘Opposite Day.’ First, he looked at me and said, “I hate you.” This was followed by “I want to go home.” Soon, we all got into it and Opposite Day was in full swing.

As I struggled to come up with interesting statements that contradicted how I really felt, I began to realize how cool Opposite Day really was. I considered all the negativity I had stored away at that moment—my Grandma’s death, our long drive back to Chicago, the fact that the zipper on my favorite jacket had fallen off—and wondered if I could gain a more positive perspective if I applied Opposite Day rules to some things in my life.

Later that night, after all our goodbyes were said and the truck was partially packed, I set the alarm for 3:30 AM and looked over at my wife. “Tomorrow’s drive is going to suck.” Then, I paused, remembering it was still Opposite Day. “Hey, tomorrow we get to see sun come up over Iowa.”

The next morning, as we chugged down the empty interstate in our ’92 Dodge, the black sky slowly turned gray, then orange and eventually the sun poked up over the horizon. About 100 miles outside of Des Moines, I decided I might keep this whole Opposite Day thing going for a while. My logic was based on a couple of conclusions. First, I’m far too lucky to justify my pessimistic attitude. Second, forcing myself to consider different perspectives seems like a great way to figure out how I really feel. So, my fellow readers, welcome to Opposite Day. I hope you hate everything I’ve written.