Santa and the stork: How one gift could change the rest of my life

Ah, the season of big meals and bearded men in red suits can be a bountiful time. My holiday loot included new shoes, new clothes and 18 volt drill. While these things are extremely appreciated, they are for the most part items I asked for from people who are related to me. Nothing really that interesting. The unexpected twist this year came from corporate gift giving. A cake from Milan, peanut brittle from a production house and, perhaps most exciting, toiletries from a photography company.

Indeed, I returned from lunch the other day to discover a small gift-wrapped package sitting in front of my keyboard. On top there was a small card. ‘Merry Christmas from JW Productions,’ it read. I shook the box furiously. Whatever was inside was packed tightly. I proceeded to rip the paper off in long shreds until I discovered an expensive looking box underneath. Stamped in silver letters was the name C.O. Bigelow. I pulled the lid off to discover an assortment of bathroom products—soap, shaving gel and cologne. Later than night, I unveiled the generous gift at home. Cristi took an interest.

“Cologne, huh? Will you wear it?” she inquired, as I’ve never really used any personal hygiene products beyond the basic soap, water and deodorant realm.

“I don’t know . . .” I replied, with visions of AXE body wash commercials flashing before my eyes.

The next day, I invited C.O. Bigelow to join me for my morning routine. First, I used the soap and the shaving gel. Then, I finished with one quick spray of the cologne. I only made it halfway down the hall before I was ambushed.

“YUM, you smell GOOOOD,” Cristi said as she wrapped her arms around my neck. That was a few weeks ago. I’m really not sure what sort of secret potion C.O. Bigelow came up with, but I would recommend it to anyone looking to attract, um, positive attention.

As for Curtis Junior, I’m just hoping he’ll keep his bedroom tidy and his rock ‘n roll music turned down as not to bother the neighbors.

The sound of sirens.

 

The holidays certainly tend to be a controversial subject these days. But regardless of what kind of bulbs you light, traditional meal you serve, sect, denomination or god you believe in, the end of December does indeed seem to be a time of celebration for many. I might even dare say magical.

In my many shopping endeavors, I made quite a few simple observations that prove my point. People making their way down State Street would say, “excuse me” when they bumped into you. Retail clerks smiled when I made my measly ten-dollar purchases. “Would you like that wrapped?” they would ask, making the new set of salad tongs seem like something exotic. Doormen, security guards and police officers from Granville to Grand proclaimed “Happy Holidays” when I walked by.

All this and yet there’s still a thick, underlying layer of real life going on underneath. People waiting for the bus in their McDonald’s uniforms with angry, fatigued expressions on their faces. ‘Kings of the Road’ all pumped on Viagra and Prozac behind the wheels of their Chevy Tahoes pounding the steering wheels as they struggle to make right-hand turns into huge crowds of pedestrians armed with shopping bags. The homeless, cold and disoriented jingling plastic cups of pennies and nickels trying to sell you a ‘Street Wise.’ But perhaps the most disturbing thing this time of year—for me—is the sound of sirens off in the distance.

Sirens? Indeed. Sirens mean something’s gone wrong and most likely someone has been hurt. Sirens have destinations that involve blood and broken glass. Sirens rush to messy living rooms where heart attack victims lay next to TV trays as console TVs blare ‘Dancing with Stars.’ Sirens are followed by coping, questions and ultimately some kind of pain.

In my perfect world, I wouldn’t hear any sirens for three days leading up to Christmas—starting on the 22nd and ending Christmas day at midnight. None. This means no car wrecks, no robbery, no random violence and ultimately no death.

Of course, I’m well aware this wish is silly. So, as I sit here planning on sleeping at Midway tonight in hopes of getting to Kansas before Christmas day, I wish everyone a safe and happy holiday. Be nice. Don’t ride peoples’ asses should you drive a car. Sleep well. Smile. Make some coffee, light a pine-scented candle and take a second to give the world a little bit of love. After all, you never know when one of those sirens could be coming for you.

Beautiful desolation.

Sometimes I love living in Gotham City.   

Our lack of information in the information age.

I realize the “Y2K” phenomenon passed without a hitch. And these days I fearlessly pay bills on the web without worrying about an online predator lurking somewhere in the digital mist. Google—good lord, I can barely have a conversation without counting on the laptop to provide visual aids. But what happens when a person wants to send a Christmas card? Do people even still have mailboxes?

You see, from a digital perspective, I have a contact network with tracking devices that allow me to get in touch with everyone I’ve ever sent an email to in the last 5 years. My cell phone allows me immediate access to 223 phone numbers with the flick of my thumb. But when it comes to putting something in the mail, there’s not a JPG, PDF, email address or reputable website in the world that can help. Add the fact that the laptop and the cell phone are both items that can be dropped or even lost quite easily and I suddenly have the urge to start writing everything down.

Indeed, I recall a time in my life when I was distrustful of technology. A good friend of mine actually used to call me a ‘Luddite.’ Well, this Christmas season, I think it’s time to summon some of that backwards thinking and take a few notes—with a pen on paper.

If you haven’t already received an email from me (I’m full of contradictions) requesting your address, please send a carrier pigeon to:

1316 W. Granville, Chicago, IL 60660

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I’m off to buy a book of stamps and a gasoline-powered generator.

I bet this guy kept an updated address book.

Not completely lost in translation.

A few weeks ago, Chicago was blanketed with about 4 inches of snow. While it was still beautiful and untainted by auto exhaust, dog excrement and litter, Jez and I took a walk through the neighborhood.

While I was taking in the old buildings and massive trees, three kids went running by on the sidewalk. Tightly bundled in their winter wear, they were busy scooping snow from the ground and tossing it at one another. This is like a Norman Rockwell painting, my mind suggested.

Just then, one of the children started to yell at another.

“Acha mozaf alee titam a mo,” he screamed with glee.

It was still a lot like a Norman Rockwell painting—assuming Mr. Rockwell was bi-lingual.

Happy holidays. Help yourself.

They say Chicago is a city of neighborhoods. As a relative newcomer, I’ve found this fact to be one of the most charming things about living here. While I’m sure high taxes and billion-dollar condo developments have pushed many Chicago natives out the suburbs and beyond, I’ve met numerous Edgewater neighbors who have been living up here for 30 years or more. One of these individuals is a barber by the name of Joe.

Exploring the neighborhood a few days after moving into our condo, I noticed his well-kept shop on Devon Avenue and took note of the location. I finally went in one Saturday morning. A bunch of neighborhood guys sat around talking about neighborhood stuff. I took it all in, smiled a lot and tried to mind my manners as a new guy in the shop (I was also about 30 years younger than most of them). The haircut was fine, but it was the conversation and the neighborhood feel of the place that would lure me back in.

So last weekend, I awoke and surveyed my shaggy locks in the mirror. Time to go see Joe, I mumbled to myself pulling on a jacket. I arrived to find one of the guys who lives in my building also getting a haircut. The conversation I was hoping for began. Joe started many of his sentences with, “Back in ‘54 . . .” and once again I sat there thinking about my love for this neighborhood and all its history.

Soon I was up. Joe offered me the empty chair, wrapped me in the light blue sheet, took a huge chunk of hair off the side of my head and put down his clippers.

“Excuse me,” he said, with a touch of urgency.

About 20 minutes later he arrived back at the chair and proceeded to give me the worst haircut I’ve ever gotten in my life. Huge chunks were missing where huge chunks should have been. I was shaved in some spots and fuzzy in others. Things were uneven and jagged. I looked in the mirror and knew I would have to shave my head as soon as I got home—and I didn’t care. At all. Not one bit.

You see, the entire time I was in Joe’s chair, he talked to me about Edgewater. Not facts and figures and history book material—personal stories about growing up here, what his dad did for a living and what he thought of things these days. “No one takes care of their yard,” he kept saying gesturing into the air with his hand.

Before he sent me on my way, he tapped on my shoulder and motioned toward the corner of the shop.

“Go get yourself a little something . . . over there,” he said, pointing to a small folding table covered in huge bottles of booze. I looked up, noticing a sign taped to the wall.

‘Happy Holidays. Help yourself.’ it read.

I didn’t, but maybe next time.

Rapid fire.

Sometimes life seems complicated in the mind of a mildly crazy person. You’ve heard of morning wood? I tend to wake up with something more like the “morning should.” What do I mean? Well, when I pull back the covers, my brain starts right up, yelling at me in a way. CURTIS!! Today you need to ____________, ____________ and the list goes on. And on. And on. Forever. Here’s a little peek at what I’m talking about:

Brain, 6:01 AM

You should make coffee. Good. Feel good. Feel bad. High Life. You should take something for that headache. Aches. Heavy lifting. You should really donate that crap you pulled out of the storage unit in the basement. Should you donate the iMac? Macs. You should go to the Apple Store and buy more memory for the laptop. City. Michigan Avenue. While you’re downtown, you should check on the watches you dropped off at the jewelry store. Stores. You should take Cristi to that appliance store on Lincoln with the cool neon sign. Buy. Stuff. Deals. Craigslist. Wow, there’s a guy with a nice bike you might like to have, you should buy it. Money. You should try to save more money. You should open a savings account. Money. Money. Money. You should check the bank accounts. You should talk to a financial advisor. Finance. Work. Euro. You should really get your book together. Time. Needs. Poop. You should walk the dog. You should really make that coffee . . .

You all know my ways, so there’s no need to bore you with the stream of consciousness checklist. However, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize and express my sincere appreciation for your patience. They say there are pills for this kind of thing, but I fear if I weren’t just a little nuts, what would I be? Normal guy? Quiet guy? I shudder at the thought.