Good advice.

I rushed through the doors of the Granville Red Line train station. With a ten dollar bill in hand, I headed for the machine that adds money to the CTA passes. The card reader didn’t work. Then it rejected my ten. Twice. The third time, a CTA employee approached me.

“Let me try,” he politely offered.

In one swift movement, I was ready to roll . The machine accepted the cash and the card reader calculated the total.

“Thanks,” I said, “It’s been a rotten morning.”

“That’s all in the past now,” he said with a smile.

Pretty brilliant. Instead of getting caught up in bad things and carrying them around like a leaky suitcase full of poop, why not leave them where they belong. In the past.

Me. In a magazine.

You come to this thing to read about what’s going on in my world, so I guess stuff like this is probably worth posting. Plus, the boss told me I should.

Make small talk. Eat. Disperse.

My family is exceptional. My parents have always been supportive and loving role models. My brothers have always been there for good conversation and beer drinking. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, half cousins and second cousins have always taken the time to occasionally meet up, socialize and eat large quantities of food during holidays and other special occasions like birthdays, funerals and weddings. But this weekend’s 56-person “family reunion” made up of mostly distant relatives didn’t even register on the warm-n-fuzzy meter.

Most everyone went through the obligatory routine. A little chatter, a lot of food, followed by a mad dash for the car conveniently parked right out front. I tried to make the rounds. I tried to engage people. I tried to pull a good story or fleeting black and white memory out of the old guys, but for the most part I found myself just wondering whether or not the fish were still biting out at Grandpa’s pond (the place we’d left to come to the reunion).

Quite frankly, people just didn’t seem all that interested in one another. Which makes sense I suppose—the vast majority of us don’t know each other and probably never will. Oh well. Life goes on. History passes. And perhaps the best reunions are best kept small, among the relatives who would actually recognize you on the street corner.

Dangerous city.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7470871.stm

Tick bait.

Departures and destinations.

I miss so many things about Kansas—friends, family, slower pace of life, genuine beings, fishing, camping, mountain biking, affordable housing, owning cars, driveways, space, space, space, Free State, decent BBQ, the sound of crickets at night, the woods, hiking—but above all I miss just simply being able to see the damn sunset.

Family reunions—minus key family members.

People die. This is a logical fact of life. People feel sad when other people die. This is also a logical fact of life. But this Saturday I’m anticipating a nasty emotional wave when I make the pilgrimage to Toronto, Kansas for the first Swilley Family Reunion since my Grandma and Grandpa passed.

Grandpa worked hard to entertain and engage the big groups of old people as they drank watered down coffee and iced tea. Grandma always made sure everyone in the room was identified. “That’s your great uncle’s, ex-wife’s daughter’s newborn . . . isn’t she adorable,” she would comment as she made her rounds.

Sitting here in Chicago, I miss the opportunity to gather new memories of these people. Sitting in Toronto, Kansas surrounded by strange Jell-O Salads and unfamiliar faces, I’m afraid I’ll have to face the empty space left behind and the reality that these wonderful people are actually, physically gone.

Enough with the lump-in-the-throat material. Stay tuned. If I can find an internet connection, I plan on reporting from the family reunion front line. The Buicks, the tattered Tupperware labeled with old strips of masking tape, the long, drawn out discussions covering prescription drugs and cholesterol problems . . . you can get it all live from the hot and humid, frontier where the buffalo roam and guys named Curtis write pointless blog entries.

Mistaken identity?

When Jez and I returned home from our morning stroll through the park, I noticed that she had something stuck to one of her paws. With vivid pictures of all the disgusting trash I’ve seen in the gutters of our fair Chicago streets running through my mind, I cautiously lifted her paw to find a discarded name tag. Is it a sign, perhaps, that Jezebelle’s real name is actually Helen? Could be.

The new wave.

Now that gas is quickly approaching five bucks a gallon, people are suddenly enthusiastically pursuing the concept of saving energy and using alternative forms of transportation. The fact that the vast majority of America didn’t take the time to consider these things a few years back is beyond me, but that’s beside the point. As a daily bike commuter of seven years, the real question is what kind of world it’ll be if thousands of completely inexperienced cyclists begin hitting the pavement. It could be scary.

I fear for the future every time I see a grown man speeding down the sidewalk on two wheels threatening to take out dog walkers, baby walkers and pedestrian walkers.

I fear for the future when I see helmet-less women riding the wrong way toward on ramps packed with speeding traffic bound for Lakeshore Drive.

I fear for the future when I see six dudes riding three abreast on skinny two-lane side streets without the slightest amount of concern for the people behind them who are stuck in their cars with their feet near their gas pedals growing angrier and angrier with each passing block.

Most of all, I fear for the guy who rides his unicycle down Granville every morning. Yes, I see this guy go by once a day and wonder what compels a person to even own a unicycle let alone ride it. Did he give up a gigantic, 4-wheel-drive SUV for one wheel instead? Maybe I’ll ask him one of these days. In the meantime, no matter how you get around, pay attention and don’t be an asshole. And of course, if you see a guy on unicycle give him a little extra room—I imagine those things are harder than hell to maneuver.

Two wrongs.

I observed two things so far this week that I would like to declare completely wrong. And when I say wrong I mean never should’ve happened.

WRONG #1: Man on bike in front of me wearing a full outfit of ill-fitting spandex.

I realize it’s supposed to be tight, but I believe it’s also supposed to cover enough flesh that I don’t see your back, your belly or the pale parts of your legs usually reserved for spouses, significant others or Proctologists.

WRONG #2: “America’s Great Moving Adventure” Themed U-Haul Truck dedicated to Wichita, Kansas.

As a Kansan I can say this . . . I’ve been to Wichita numerous times and it’s a miserable place. Why this would make U-Haul’s list of moving adventure cities is completely beyond me. While I appreciate the fact that they would stray from the expected, this is really pushing it.