Mechanical inclination.

As many of you know, home ownership has forced me to explore certain aspects of my personality I didn’t know I possessed. Blame it on the drill I got for Christmas, or the fact that we can’t afford to call anyone to come and work on the house because we spend all our money paying for the house, but my inner handyman has been flexing his measly muscles with mildly successful results.

That said, my latest home improvement endeavor involves something far more important than toilet paper dispensers and shades of paint. Today, with a predicted high of 12, I went to work on the two “broken” radiators in our apartment.

It all started last night as I tossed and turned in the icy sheets of the cold bed in the center of our non-heated bedroom. Slowly fading, I dreamt of a warm place, coastal perhaps, where umbrella drinks and bikini-clad women strolled around taking in the rays of the mighty sun. Suddenly, without explanation, everything was covered in layer of white paint. And then another. And another. And another. Until all the warmth was completely smothered.

That’s it, the voice in my head screamed, as I awoke from my frozen slumber. 75 layers of paint are covering up the little silver air venting devices on the sides of the radiators. And without proper ventilation, hot water cannot fill the iron fins.

With a small wrench, a hammer and a screwdriver, I went to work. Remove air vent device. Scrape air vent device. Replace air vent device. The radiators came to life. Within minutes the cold rooms of 1316 Granville #1 were beginning to fill with glorious heat. I stood there with a screwdriver in hand and a righteous feeling in my heart. I fixed something. I REALLY fixed something. Unfortunately, it was 6:30 AM and no one was awake to share the moment with me. Although the sense of accomplishment has faded, I can only hope the extra heat inside our crumbling, but charming home has not.

On the waterfront, continued.

My daily commute puts me right in between the peaceful shores of Lake Michigan and the traffic jammed lanes of Lake Shore Drive. The contrast is really quite entertaining. To my left, people walk their dogs, ducks feed and clouds float through the pink and orange hues of the distant sun. To my right, people pound their steering wheels, rats feed on discarded McDonalds packaging and clouds of exhaust turn the slushy remains of last week’s snow the color of charcoal.

Call me a hippie, but I usually try to shift my focus to the left. Dogs and ducks over cars and trucks

Frozen stem.

Ride a bike along the icy shores of Lake Michigan when it’s -1 outside and many would argue a person is practically begging for a case of frostbite. But as many of you have heard me swear repeatedly, it’s really not that bad—as long as you take the time to put together the proper ensemble for braving the elements. For me this would include:

• 3 layers on top: one windproof, one wool and another just for fun

• A silly looking skull cap that fits under your helmet and makes you look like a competitive swimmer

• Very thick mittens made for skiing

• Biking booties that resemble elf shoes—a look that often attracts unwanted attention from people in passing cars resulting in laughing and pointing

• Biking britches built like a rain fly and specifically designed to keep wind and water at bay

But all of this is a complete waste of time, money and energy that would be better spent at a local watering hole when something goes wrong. Yes, my friends, I’m talking about the unfortunate occurrence of a flat tire or other minor technical malfunction that interrupts one’s desire to remain in constant motion.

Tonight was my night. About 7:30 PM. I hit this chunk of ice and heard a slight hissing sound. By the time I walked my bike to the nearest light, my tire was completely deflated. I considered my options: 1) Walk home and be cold 2) Fix the flat and be cold. I opted for option #2 and went to work.

Like a retarded surgeon, I spread my tools and parts out on the salty asphalt. The wind howled through the vents in my helmet. Still in mittens, I managed to get the wheel off without much trouble. But I knew the next steps were going to require bare hands. I cringed at the thought. Just then some guy’s dog came along and took a crap a few feet from where I stood. Everything was going perfect.

I looked at my right hand. It’s been nice knowing you, I thought as I ripped off my mitten and began pulling one side of the tire off the rim so I could get to the tube within. COLD, COLD, COLD my brain screamed. The rim let loose and I peeled the bead of the tire back with my index finger. I quickly slipped a mitten back on, tucking my hand in between my legs. All I had to do was get the old tube out and slip the new one in. Easy, right? Usually, except on this particular night, in these particular conditions, the stem was frozen to the rim. Christ. I actually whimpered as my entire body started shaking from the combination of physical temperature and mental anguish.

I began to seriously evaluate the situation at hand—wondering how cold a person can get before an interesting story becomes a brutal statistic. I thought about all the people in the history of the world who have done stupid things that resulted in long-term damage. Broken bones. Lost appendages. Death. I thought of frostbite and this picture I saw in one of my Grandpa’s National Geographic magazines when I was kid that showed a guy who lost his nose due to exposure. I’d look funny without a nose. Would they still let me present work to clients at work? My fingers began to lose feeling.

I fixed the tire and 10 minutes later I was home shivering on the couch. Relieved, I headed for the keyboard. No statistics this evening. Just another story. Whether it’s interesting or not is hard to tell.

Frigid waterfront.

Is everyday an adventure? I can’t say for sure, but it sure helps to have a digital camera along for the moments that seem worthy of documenting.

45 revolutions per minute.

I’m ashamed to admit that I rarely sit down and listen to music any more. Once a fine way to sacrifice an entire evening—if not an entire day—time spent in front of the stereo absorbing sound seems to be yet another casualty of adulthood.

It all began when my Grandma Green bought me a transistor radio with a single earplug and a large dial in the middle. I spent a few days passing the hours listening to NPR because it was the first thing that came through clearly. But once I ventured beyond the monotone voices reporting international news, I discovered pop music. This led to my first favorite song: Paul McCartney’s ‘Spies Like Us’. I danced around the house, chanting the lyrics, indulging in the rebellious feeling that came from listening to something that my parents not only couldn’t hear, but could never understand. Or so I thought.

From there, my love for my music grew. My dad moved his stereo from the basement to my bedroom. Bon Jovi blasted. I turned The Outfield up so loud that the neighbors would hear it while they tried to do yard work (which was the whole point). Pop led to rock. Soon Europe was replaced with Poison & Motley Crew and records were replaced with cassettes. The teenage years came along and west coast gansta rap finally found its way to the Midwest. Ice Cube, Ice T, King T, Eazy E, you name it and it was vibrating the walls of my bedroom and offending everyone within an earshot.

Rap was around for a long time. Then, I got tangled up with the law and my parents took away everything with a Parental Advisory sticker on it. I was left floating for six months or so. And then I discovered the Doors. And Pink Floyd. And CDs. Soon someone introduced me to a band with a lead singer named Jello. All the gangsta rap tapes were tucked away in the closet to make space for Minor Threat, the Dead Kennedys and the Circle Jerks. Punk Rock was my new crazy thing. That is, until I discovered Johnny Cash. Talk about a goddamn rebel. He made Ian Mackaye look like a pansy. This took me down all sorts of wild roads. Doo Wop, Sinatra, Bob Wills. This lead to bluegrass, alternative (?) country and Chris Isaac. Christ. The musical frontiers seemed endless.

Then, before I knew what happened, I got mixed up with Indie Rock. Suddenly everything started to sound the same. iTunes came up. No more liner notes. No more trips to the CD store. Then we moved to an apartment—surrounded by people who may not want to listen to the latest Sunset Rubdown album while they eat dinner. I didn’t make a conscious decision to change, but change was clearly at hand. Maybe even unavoidable?

But last night, at least for a few hours, it all came rushing back to me thanks to a collection of 45s I’ve had for years. I started with Jerry Lee Lewis’ ‘Big Legged Woman’ and ended with ‘Itty Bitty Pretty One’ by Thurston Harris. In between the crackle of the needle and my obnoxious singing along, I felt a rush of musical joy that took me back to my roots. I celebrated all the years of love, sitting on the floor with a smile. Then, I woke up this morning with song going through my head. It went something like this . . .

Ooh ooh what do you do
No one else can dance like you
So what’s all the fuss
There ain’t nobody that spies like us

Bike and the bendy bus.

I found out today is Winter Bike to Work Day—after I biked to work. If I’d known I was a part of a “thing,” then I suppose the combination of salt, ice and frigid temperatures would have been invigorating. I guess I still have the ride home to celebrate the occasion?

Adult awkwardness disorder.

I’ve been trying to overcome a cold since Thursday. In addition to cutting beer out of my evening routine, I’ve also given up bike commuting as well. Indeed, two of my favorite things, add a regular dose of cold medicine to the mix and you’ve got one freaked out individual.

So, let’s jump to Monday evening, 6PM. I board the Red Line armed with a book I’m not really interested in, thinking about work. One stop north, a group of hip twentysomethings spill through the door, clicking electronic devices, giggling and carrying on a conversation about a variety of current events—new downloadable ringtones and how cool that “one” bar is up in Andersonville. It’s gonna be a long ride to Andersonville, I thought.

Of course, considering the time of day, the train was quite crowded. Four of them in all, I wound up with one of the TS (this will be code for “twentysomethings” from here on out) sitting directly in front of me in the seat perpendicular to mine and the other three standing behind me in the aisle, clinging to the handle attached to my seat.

And the dorm room conversation began. They covered porn. They each shared a personal account of the most disgusting experience they’d ever had on the CTA. By the time we finally got to Addison, they were sharing digital pictures stored on their respective phones. And this was all happening literally right over my head. I couldn’t take it. I stood up in middle of the group.

“Would one of you like to take this seat?” I grunted, looking back at the kids standing in the aisle behind me, “I feel like a coffee table,” I finished, immediately wondering what the hell I really meant.

They looked back at me. I could see their minds slowly generating thoughts of how uncool I was. Every part of me was being judged. Haircut. Glasses. Height. I don’t think I’ve been scrutinized like this since high school.

One of the female TS took my seat. A few stops later, the whole section opened up and they all sat down. I tried to lose myself in my bad book, but it was no use.

“This is Berwyn,” the mechanical CTA voice announced as the train came to a halt and the doors opened. The group of TS remained. This is YOUR stop, I thought, THIS IS YOUR STOP, GO. BE GONE. GO ANNOY SOMEONE ELSE. But apparently they weren’t headed to that “one” bar in Andersonville and the ride continued.

I remained quiet. They jabbered on and on. Then, just as I was dreading, the subject of ME came up among THEM.

“Oh my god,” one of the male TS said in a mildly effeminate voice, “wasn’t it weird when that guy gave up his . . . ” he trailed off, slowly turning around, realizing that I was still on the train directly behind them. “Oh, um, sorry,” he said, as he looked back toward the other three stunned TS.

I looked his direction with an irritated look on my face.

“You guys were trying to have a conversation. I was in the way. So I gave up my seat,” I said with a what-the-fuck tone.

“Totally,” one of the TS agreed, as they all huddled a little tighter in the small section they occupied.

Finally, we reached Granville. Relieved and wishing I had something witty to say, I passed them deliberately. They all looked at me and I looked back, wondering how it had gotten to this point—wondering why they were paying so much attention to me and me to them.

“Bye guys,” I said, through half a grin. It was the best I could come up with.

“Um, bye,” a couple of the TS replied.

I’d love to know what they had to say once I finally did actually get off the train. I guess no matter how old, or curmudgeony one gets, you still wonder what the cool kids think of you.

What ever happened to Saturday morning cartoons?

I woke up this morning, made a pot of coffee and started a little window refurbishing project. A couple of observations I’ve made after an hour or so:

• There’s a good chance that 95-year-old wood will have rotten spots in certain key areas. This is generally covered up with approximately 27 layers of paint.

• If you have a cup of coffee within your ‘work zone’ then inevitably shards of the 27 layers of paint covering up the rotten wood will find their way to your mug. One should not drink this liquid.

• There’s never a good time to start doing things like refurbishing windows. Resort to taking the dog on a very, very long walk in hopes that by the time you get back a large tornado has whisked your crumbling condo from the face of the earth and you can go back to living a normal life—free of paint, spackle, ladders, nails, screws, strange wires, mismatched woodwork, saws, fixtures, etc.

I’m off to take Jez on that walk. If you know of anyone with a good, used hut anywhere in the country, please email me their contact information. I’ll get in touch with them ASAP on my PDA.

My life with a stylus.

In the world of cellular phone technology, I’ve always been a fan of the “free” devices they offer. I always go through the same spiel with the salesperson. The conversation goes like this:

“I don’t need anything fancy.”

“OK,” they reply, rolling their eyes, thinking about the bowl they smoked at lunch.

“Really, if you must know, I hate cell phones.”

“Aw,” they reply, thinking about the bowl they’ll smoke on their 15-minute break.

“Can I go now?”

“Later, dude,” they say, thinking to themselves, here’s your piece of crap you piece of crap.

But this all took an unexpected turn a few days before Christmas. I went into my local cell phone store and the salesperson really took an interest in my cellular needs. It was like a counseling session. But even after a lot of very convincing persuasion, I still opted for the free phone. Which, as she tried to explain with logic, was a total piece of shit.

So, after a couple of weeks of constantly contending with a low battery and conversations that sounded like I was talking through a walkie talkie, I went back to the cell phone store to try something else. And that, my friends, is how I wound up with a PDA.

The new Curtis Green action figure includes: Bike, horn rim glasses and a very fancy phone-like device that has more buttons that he has brain cells. Yes, I now have a keyboard in my pocket. I’m synced up with 3 email accounts at all times. I’m so poised to communicate, that I’m calling people just so I can follow-up with a text message.

What’s next? An Armani suit? Maybe a $100 haircut? Only time will tell. Only time will tell.

Rain: A Poem about Rain on a Rainy Day

Rain,

You make shoes ooze.

You make dogs stink.

You make roofs leak.

Rain, you ruin camping trips, walks, runs, rides, parades, picnics, strolls through the park, outdoor concerts and golf outings with umbrella drinks.

Rain, even though you make crops grow and supply water to lakes, streams and large potholes, you’re no friend of mine. Not now. Not after you soaked the second pair of jeans in less than 12 hours.

Rain, today I take the Red Line to work because I don’t feel like spending the day in wet socks and damp underpants.

Rain, you’d be OK if you just weren’t so wet.