The American way.

Guns, alcohol and temperamental lawn mowers.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7526628.stm

Too much of a good thing.

I’d trade the land of milk and honey for a room full of free beer and cheese any day. And Saturday’s “Festival of Cheese” at the Hilton in downtown Chicago was the perfect opportunity to indulge in two of my favorite culinary offerings.

It all started around 6 in the evening. I knew we were in the right place when I spotted a man dressed as a cow wearing a hardhat that said “Bessie” on it. We walked through the main entrance of the grand ballroom to find crystal chandeliers, ornate sculptures and thousands of different kinds of cheese. I approached the first table the way a 8-year-old might approach a fifty-dollar bill on the sidewalk—cautious & filled with absolute joy.

“Pace yourself and don’t fill up on crackers and bread,” one aficionado told me as I devoured three small cubes of garlic Muenster with a smile.

Ten minutes later, things started to get blurry.

An hour later, less than halfway through the exhibit, I could barely walk. I tried to force a smile and wash away the pain with a glass of white wine. It didn’t work. I tried to tell myself that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to eat some of the most sought after cheese on earth, but I couldn’t mentally overcome the physical lack of space in my stomach. I tried to make my way through the smoked cheese selection and nearly passed out.

Cheese always seemed so wholesome, so all American. But, for the first time in my life, I found that cheese, if not eaten responsibly, can actually hurt a person.

Wilma Richardson, Rest in Peace

Cancer has claimed the life of another one of my favorite people—this time our beloved ex-neighbor Wilma. Now, after almost 10 years of friendship, I’m sitting here doing the only thing that makes any sense—thinking back to all the times we shared and laughing my ass off.

It all began back in 1999 under strange circumstances. After less than a month living at 2608 Moundview, I was out washing my ’68 Impala for the second time that day when a little old lady growled at me from across the street.

“COME HERE . . . NOW!”

I was halfway up her driveway, when she grabbed my arm and began giving me the details of a somewhat complicated situation. Apparently, this other little old woman who lived next door to her had passed away and “the asshole” who owned the property was mad because he was going to have to find a new tenant. The landlord’s lack of respect for the fact that the woman had died seriously pissed Wilma off. Having never met either one of the little old ladies ever before, I still wasn’t entirely clear why she’d called me over.

But she cleared that up quickly when she ordered me to grab two metal trashcans stashed on the East side of the deceased woman’s garage. I paused for a moment, looking at her as if she were crazy. I guess I felt like I needed some kind of explanation before I walked up to someone’s house and stole their stuff.

“That asshole who owns that place is NOT getting her trash cans. They were hers and if he thinks he can just have ‘em he’s got another thing coming,” she said, seething with contempt.

Her explanation would have to do. She lit a cigarette and watched me gather the two silver galvanized garbage bins, hooking one to each hand.

“Where do you want me to put these?” I asked, noticing that she had a big, modern plastic bin on wheels parked near her front door.

“Around back, on the porch. I’ll find SOMETHING to do with them.”

That’s how it happened—at least as far as I can remember. No hellos. No casseroles or “Welcome to the Neighborhood” banners. Just Wilma—raw and uncut. No bullshit. No shows. Such a strange way to make a new best friend and yet so perfect.

In a world of assholes, Wilma was never afraid to call ‘em out and stand up for what’s right. I only wish everyone I know could’ve met her at least once. Five minutes with Wilma could make one hell of an impression on a person. Even if you didn’t like her, you most definitely respected her.

Bounce.

I often wonder how a guy like me wound up with a hot wife. But rather than live in fear that she’ll soon realize how funny looking I am, I write a lot of sweet notes, clean the bathroom regularly and make absolutely sure that her coffee is ready every morning when she rolls out of bed. So far, so good.

But hotness is hard to hide and knowing good and well how the average heterosexual male mind works, I’m never surprised to hear stories about men flirting with her during her daily adventures out into the world. Most of the time, it makes me feel lucky and a big nerdy smile stretches across my horn-rimed face. But yesterday a little slang got mixed into the situation and Cristi was confused rather than flattered.

“Damn, look at that bounce,” said Dude #1.

“Yeah, that’s just WRONG, JUST WRONG,” replied Dude #2.

Now, I immediately recognized this as a positive, not entirely disrespectful evaluation of her physique. She, however, was thrown off by two key words: “bounce” and “wrong.”

I explained to her that in this instance “bounce” was simply some half-retarded guy’s way of saying he appreciated the fact that she has curves and doesn’t weight 97 pounds like most of the women I see roaming around Lincoln Park. Then I told her that “wrong” most definitely meant “right” in this particular context. Then I told her I loved her and that I hoped her bounce was all wrong for the rest of her life.

She laughed and asked me to go clean the toilet.

I put my shirt on backwards once a day.

Remember those Haines commercials a few years back that featured Michael Jordan walking around in his undies talking about how the company was doing away with the tag on their undershirts? Remember how impressed you were with the innovative new ways of the t-shirt industry? Remember how Michael suggested that you would never have to cope with that little tag rubbing on your neck ever again? Remember?

Naturally, I wound up with a drawer full of these “tagless” shirts. I didn’t seek them out necessarily, but a few trips to Sears over the years and before I knew it, I was just like Mike—at least when it came to undershirts.

There’s just one problem. In place of the tag, a very cheap decal is put in place. Displaying the shirt’s size, material content and washing instructions, this label eventually comes off—completely—so that any clear distinction between the front or the back is erased. Leaving idiots like me staggering down the hallway with t-shirt wrapped foreheads, twisted and confused almost every single morning.

“You are the automobile driver of tomorrow.”

Since bicycle etiquette is quickly becoming one of my favorite subjects, I thought I’d post this awesome (but somewhat tedious) safety video. Filmed in my hometown of Lawrence, Kansas in 1950, Douglas County natives are sure to find the landmarks far more interesting than the safety information.

Thanks to my little brother, Casey, for sharing the link.

The sky above.

Fun trick noise maker.

When I was growing up, Independence Day was more eagerly anticipated than Christmas. The Green kids didn’t just buy fireworks—we were skilled in the art of getting the most bang for the five bucks we had hastily stuffed in the pockets of our corduroy Ocean Pacific shorts.

Still learning to read, we’d walk into fireworks tents and religiously study the poorly translated product descriptions. We’d do multiple circles. We’d compare prices among competitors and only hand over our allowance to the cheapest guy in town.

While our criteria was fairly complex, we usually made our final decisions based on a couple of key factors:

> Potential to blow the doors off of toy cars
> Potential to blow the legs off of action figures
> Potential to completely destroy entire ant colonie

This year, I tried to get my fix here in Chicago by watching various “public” shows, but being a spectator offered little in the way of satisfaction. I considered buying some of the so-called fireworks they were selling at the grocery store, but was sorely disappointed when I picked up a package of TNT brand “Pop-Its” and scanned the box. In bold letters, it read “Fun trick noise maker.” Assuming a “Fun trick noise maker” couldn’t do much damage to an action figure, model car or anthill, I put the box back on the shelf and quickly came to terms with the fact that I wasn’t going to have anything to do with any explosions this year.

Before You Wake: 4th of July Ride 2008

When I was a kid my Grandpa used to tease us:

“You’re a good boy.”

Very long pause.

“When you’re asleep!”

I feel the same way about Chicago’s loop.

During a regular work day, when the streets are bustling with people and traffic, being downtown generally makes me want to run to a quiet, peaceful place. But early in the morning, when most of the world is still in bed, the loop is wonderful. Almost surreal.

I guess you could say the loop is good . . . when everyone else is sleeping.

That’s not yours.

I ran into an old friend today just as she discovered that some bastard stole the rear wheel off her bike. We both stood there on the dirty sidewalk scanning the area—as if they guy might still be around. He wasn’t.

The situation made me mad. And then it made me wish I had an extra wheel. And then it made me think of this old ‘Kids in the Hall’ skit and I smiled. At least for a second.