Blue skies and old neon.

The best thing I heard all week.

As a rule man is a fool.
When it’s hot he likes it cool.
When it’s cool he likes it hot.
Always wanting what is not.

The fuel crisis takes its toll.

I saw four construction workers getting out of a purplish Honda Fit this morning. They had to pop the hatch back to get to their tool boxes. Crazy world.

Killer Instinct: Part 2

By the way. The guy who nearly ran me down in the bike lane a few Mondays ago is the same guy who has been accused of killing a pedestrian the following Tuesday morning. Seriously. Same truck. Same neighborhood. Same reckless disregard for humans.

Click here to read an article and see a picture of the bastard.

Good things come in threes?

I’m sitting here on the cusp of a long holiday weekend without a single commitment. With the exception of walking the dog, I could literally pass the next three days without participating in a single activity. Of course, anyone who knows me is well aware that such reckless abandonment of chores, tasks and errands is physically impossible for a human constructed of my restless DNA.

Now the real debate begins. Do I grab a paint brush and kick off the white trash kitchen renovation project I’ve been contemplating, or do I open a word document, make another pot of coffee and spend some time working out the details of my latest freelance project? Better yet, I’ll put my bike in the stand and clean out all the leftover salt and sand from this past winter. And then cut the dog’s nails. And clean out the file cabinet that still holds all my pay stubs from every job I’ve had since I was a custodian in college. And then fix the shelf in the closet. And try to figure out how to build Cristi some shelves in the pantry. And run to the hardware store for a fresh supply of Spackle. And. And. And.

Welcome to the mind of a mildly crazy person. Looking over this list, I must confess that a day at the office is actually soothing in a way. There are a limited number of options. Less task ambiguity. I write stuff. I go to meetings. I start fights with people and then try to resolve the situations before HR gets involved. Weekends, especially long weekends, are completely undefined. Wide open. Scary.

Enjoy your time off. If you can. Abandon those check lists. If you can. Avoid paint brushes, bike parts, dog nails and Spackle. If you can.

Birds on the lake.

Step right up.

Our building was constructed in 1913. Which means 95 years worth of history has unfolded here. Marriage. Divorce. Babies. Making babies. Death. Countless stinky trips to the crapper. Perhaps even murder? Sure, why not. It’s a possibility, right?

I’m cool with this. Not with murder necessarily, but history I mean. That’s probably one of the coolest parts about investing in old stuff. But recently strange things have been happening around our place with doors, windows and blinds that send my imagination to wild, fantastic places. Things are open when I’m certain I left them shut and locked when I’m sure I left them unlocked. Of course, being an extremely forgetful person, the true culprit is probably me, but the possibility that our place might be haunted is far more interesting.

If there’s a ghost or spirit dwelling here, I can only hope he or she likes us enough to make our acquaintance one of these days. And, if he or she is willing, make appearances on call so we can make some money on the side giving tours of our haunted condo.

Lull.

Cristi and I were talking about my blog last night. She told me that I haven’t been very prolific lately. After I looked up “prolific” in the dictionary, I realized she was right. I guess the most important thing for you and me is that I only write when I feel inspired to do so. You know, when REALLY exciting things happen. Like the time all my clothes wouldn’t fit into my suitcase in Milan or that unbelievable incident where I got a flat tire on my bike ride home from work.

And these days, life seems to move in big, repetitive circles. I’m not complaining, it’s just a fact. Work. Dinner. Sleep. Of course, there’s a whole slew of quirky details I could expound upon, but I don’t. When I try to find a reason for my literary laziness, I keep coming to the same conclusion. Life is good, but for some unexplainable reason my soul feels weary. I don’t know what exactly this means, but it sounds like a great way to have a problem without actually having any discernible symptoms.

So, whether or not there’s actually anything “wrong” with me, let’s assume there is—and a visit from you is the only cure. If you live nearby, come by for dinner sometime. If you live elsewhere, buy a plane ticket and come see us. Not only will we feed you and give you a place to sleep, I might even blog about it.

Where you’re from and where you’re at.

I was walking down the street this morning thinking about life, death, optimism and major household appliances when I passed a bunch of thugged out teenagers making their way to school. The kind of situation that always makes a scrawny white guy check himself, I was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that my sweatshirt said “LOVE” and “GARDEN” in big, yellow letters. While I’ve always been proud of the logo printed on the front, I’d never really considered what an outsider, say a thugged out Chicagoan, might make of the long sleeved hoodie. This started a whole compare and contrast session in my brain that led to a few funny observations. At least I think so.

In Lawrence, I bought music at Love Garden. In Chicago, I shop for CDs at Reckless Records. The first sounds so pleasant, the second not so much.

In Lawrence, I would often grab a beer at Free State. In Chicago, we usually drink at the Edgewater. The first is almost inspirational, while the second sounds like a place you might find a dead body or carelessly discarded medical waste.

Finally, in Lawrence, Sunflower handled all my cycling needs, while here in Chicago I’ve started to visit Johnny Sprockets on a regular basis. Sunflowers are not only the state flower, they’re pretty and they grow along the highway when it’s 110 degrees in July. Johnny Sprocket sounds like a mobster who might cripple you with large bicycle wrenches.

There’s no point to all this really. Sometimes I just miss Kansas. Nice, friendly, easy going Kansas— where perfectly legitimate businesses are named Love Garden and no one seems to flinch.

Killer instinct?

Even with the recent deaths of two Chicago cyclists, I’ve always felt somewhat safe riding a bike on the streets here in the city. Besides the constant risk of car doors being thrown open into my path and the occasional driver who clearly doesn’t give a damn, I’d say my commute is almost relaxing. But as you might expect by the title of my entry, any sense of “security” was shattered yesterday when two guys in a U-Haul pickup tried to pass a string of cars using the bike lane. Nothing actually happened—they saw me, I heard them speeding down the asphalt and we all made it to the red light at Clark and Montrose unscathed. It was the conversation that followed that freaked me out a little.

DRIVER: Don’t you have any rear view mirrors on that thing!!

PASSENGER: He, he, he, yeah, rear view mirrors.

DRIVER: If you were in New York, you’d be FUCKIN’ DEAD! FUCKIN’ DEAD!

ME: How come?

(Long pause)

DRIVER: . . . Because people don’t give a FUCK! I’ll be honest, I don’t think bikes belong on the road with cars. YOU’LL GET KILLED!!.

ME: I gotta get to work.

(Long pause)

PASSENGER: At least you have a biiike. All I got is my FEEET!

Light turns green, driver guns it and takes off heading north on Clark. The end.

If you ask me, the moral of the story is this:
1) Be careful if you’re ever in New York—they don’t give a FUCK!
2) Bike lanes are not technically passing lanes, but that doesn’t mean people won’t use them that way.
3) You don’t have to be a smart person to get a driver’s license, so be careful no matter what you’re doing—walking, riding, sitting in your living room reading the paper . . .