Brown dog? Or red?

It’s that time of year when suddenly everyone is bleeding red, white and blue. Naturally, you can’t have an overwhelming surge in patriotism without the urge to blow shit up. Behavior I’ve strongly supported since my Grandpa bought me my first Bic lighter at the age of 2, gathering an arsenal of explosives and setting them off one after another is a pastime that’s undeniably American. So what if it kids lose fingers and start each other’s houses on fire—an element of risk makes the whole thing even more exciting.

But like so many things, I have a whole new perspective on fireworks since I’ve slowly grown into my “adult” life. It’s not what you think—I’m still all for the 4th of July revelry—It’s my sweet dog that’s not down with the celebration. And much like a parent with a kid that’s getting beat up at school, I have to support Jez and try to help her through this difficult time.

So we’ve adjusted our walking schedule to avoid the mischievous kids setting off M80s under a veil of darkness. We’ve moved Jez’s bed to the quiet, center room of the apartment. And we rush to the window to get a good look at the perpetrator whenever we hear the pop of Blackcat.

Yep, the 4th of July is cancelled as far as we’re concerned. I already feel like an outsider. Perhaps we should renounce our residency, donate our George Washington memorabilia to the Salvation Army and move to Canada where Jez can live happily ever after in a world where the 4th of July is just the day that comes before the 5th of July? Please forgive my commie dog, America. For what it’s worth, I’ve been setting off half sticks of dynomite in my mind since the middle of June.

I swear.

There’s semi-gloss in hell.

As a non-religious type, it’s impossible not to contemplate the pain and suffering that could follow my passing.

But I’ve recently come to the conclusion that there are few things I can count on should I ever wind up in hell.

First, Celine Dion is always playing. Second, and much more freighting, hell’s red walls are perpetually in need of painting. A job the devil saves for the worst of us.

Forget the torture chamber, the branding iron or the leather whip, I’ll walk in and they’ll hand me a can of paint, a brush and roll of blue tape.

“Nooooo,” I’ll scream sending echoes of terror and despair through the many underground hallways and caverns. But to no avail.

“Make sure to get smooth, even coverage,” the devil will whine from atop his throne. And I’ll comply. For eternity.

The truth about hell

The haircut was just an excuse.

Anyone that keeps up with this thing I call Opposite Day may recall an entry back in February detailing my love for a barber shop in the basement of a gigantic skyscraper at 111 East Wacker. A simple looking place with white tile floors and fluorescent lights, the 111 Barber Shop doesn’t have a touch of ambiance. Which is exactly what attracted me to it. Not to mention the fact they had a real barber pole.

The first time I walked in, I met the two guys that ran the place, Sal and Peter, but I always managed to wind up in Sal’s chair. And being the talkative native Kansan that I am, I had every intention of getting to know the guy cutting my hair. And I did. We covered it all: Life, wives, family, kids, cars, pets, jobs, crazy cab drivers . . . This down-to-earth conversation, combined with the fact that every haircut was hailed by Cristi as “one of the best,” turned me into a regular customer.

The sad twist to this story (you knew it was coming) came about two months ago when I walked in to see only Peter standing at his chair. Naturally, I asked about Sal. Reluctantly, Peter reported that Sal had a brain tumor.

We quickly changed the subject and effortlessly wandered into barber/customer conversation that covered all the standards: Life, wives, family, kids, cars, pets, jobs, crazy cab drivers, etc.

A few months passsed and Peter became my overworked barber. I had to start making appointments. And at the beginning of every haircut, I’d ask about Sal.

“He’s not too good, Curtis,” was all he’d say and we’d quickly change the subject to the weather, the economy or something we’d read in the Tribune.

When I called to set up an appointment this week, a machine picked up. A woman’s voice, Sal or Peter’s wife I suspect, reported that 111 Barber Shop would be closed for the week to commemorate Sal’s death.

Is there a big barbershop in the sky? Who knows? It seems to me that in heaven people’s hair is probably always perfect. But that’s beside the point. Above all, Sal gave me some peace in this city full of high-rise condo developments, car alarms, traffic jams, crooked cops, screaming homeless people, stompy upstairs neighbors and all the other shit that can really wear a person down. And that’s worth a whole lot more than the $25 Sal charged for a haircut.

Amateur handyman hits home improvement duties head on.

1200 square feet in a 94-year-old building can present a new homeowner with quite a ‘to do’ list. There are the easy tasks, like wiping crust off the countertops, pulling clumps of hair out of shower drains and pulling nails out of the walls. And then there are the jobs that require a trip to the hardware store. This is where things get exciting for Edgewater resident Curtis Green.

“I just start cutting holes and hope for the best,” he says holding a dull saw in his hand, as a nervous chocolate lab paces back and forth in the background.

His recent projects include the installation of a new toilet paper dispenser, dimmer switch replacement and the removal of a couple of “tacky” light fixtures.

Which leads to the burning question: Does he know what he’s doing?

“Absolutely not,” he replies, as he removes a switch plate from the wall and sticks his hand in.

So what’s next for this untrained, but confident urbanite?

“Well, my wife says she wants a blue kitchen. I was going to start today—until I realized I didn’t have a ladder or any paint brushes.”

Green cuts a hole in the wall for a toilet paper dispenser. “Maybe I should’ve measured first?” he laments, with a confused look on his face.

So, I fixed the toaster.

An ode to all people willing to lift other people’s junk—especially Sam.

Two trips in the Budget rent-a-truck and about seventeen in the Dakota and the move was made. Besides some bad weather, my little cussing fits in the corner and the fact that my parents have helped me relocate exactly thirty-seven times since I graduated from high school, everything went fairly smoothly.

I would like to send a big blogtastic thank you out to Sam. For those of you who don’t know the story, Sam is a nice guy who happens to be dating my friend. Sam offered, on his own free will, to help us move about a month in advance. While I was tempted, I struggled with the situation. Could I torture this generous soul with three tons worth of maple dressers from my Aunt Bertie’s bedroom? Could I possibly force this guy to endure the geometric nightmare of getting my gigantic oak desk down the stairs? Could I subject this innocent, but willing, assistant to the bad behavior that usually bubbles to the surface when I’m feeling stressed out?

YES, I could. And Sam stayed all day through it all.

“Run away, man. Now is your chance,” I said as the rain started to beat down on the top of the truck and the ramp began grow slick.

“I’m in it to win it,” he said.

For what it’s worth, we love the new place. The neighbors are great and the neighborhood is even better. Lots of big trees and churches. But I’ll save all of my spouting off about the new condo for another blog. Until then, I hope you’re surrounded by friendly people willing to help you move your junk—should your junk have to be moved.