Working for a living.

Feeling frustrated with work, I took a stroll down to the local Starbucks.

While I was waiting for my coffee, a manager looking guy came out from the back room wearing those plastic gloves that go all the way to your elbows.

“Who wants to come back here and help me clean out the drains,” he asked with a smile, as all the employees behind the counter cringed.

I walked back to work feeling a whole lot better about things.

Please enjoy our products.

Today it hit me—everything I need is less than six blocks from my front door. You could call it urban planning, but I suspect it might just be one big awesome accident.

My Saturday morning shopping spree began about three blocks from our apartment with $6 worth of cherry tomatoes from the Farmer’s Market next to True Nature Foods. The woman collecting the cash gave me an extra basket for free. I shyly took the plastic bag from her and ran off toward Broadway.

Four blocks later, I arrived at Tony’s Barber Shop on Clark—home of the ten-dollar haircut. There, I met a cool cop named Ed and spoke proudly of how cool my wife is. I always enjoy my time in Tony’s chair. He grew up in the neighborhood and has lots of stories. Usually he plays Dean Martin or Sinatra on a little boom box. Today, however, he was blasting ABBA. A strange, but welcome, twist to my monthly visit.

Then I headed east, where I bought two pounds of fresh-roasted, French roast coffee at Metropolis. The coffee shop scene always takes me back to my days as a barista. The kids behind the counter are enthusiastic and friendly and if you stick around long enough to wait for an espresso drink, you usually witness the proverbial “I was so drunk last night . . .” beginning of a conversation.

Then, I went around the corner to Holzkoph’s Meat Market on Broadway and bought 4 fresh-cut lamb chops and two packs of the best Bratwurst on the planet. I hesitate to even mention how wonderful this place is out of fear that words won’t do it justice. The guys working behind the counter take such pride in what they do. From their pristine white aprons to their incredible customer service, every neighborhood should be so lucky.

Finally, my tour ended at the CVS on the corner of Granville and Broadway. One of the few “chain” stores near our place, I love the fact that I can get a pair of pliers and prescription filled so close to home. Today the line was long, so settled in. I was buying charcoal, while the guy in front of me had one of those economy packs of Trojans. He stepped up to the checker like a man on a mission. The guy behind the counter smiled as he rang up the prophylactics and took the cash.

“Thank you, I hope you enjoy our products,” he said through a huge smile as condom guy scurried out the door.

“I always say that when people buy condoms,” he told me, scanning my Kingsford. We both laughed and life was good.

No show: Another Adventure in Home Ownership

With a crusty old bathtub and moldy tile situation that can’t seem to be caulked away, I was the perfect target for the bath fitter people. And they got me. A few weeks back at a street festival. Complete with a rolling display, a brief sale’s pitch and a pamphlet, I signed up for a free in-home estimate. Essentially the Iroc Z of bathroom remodeling, I was only curious what it might cost to temporarily hide what should probably be torn out and completely redone.

They called to arrange the appointment. Professional and friendly, they gave me a Saturday time slot—this Saturday to be exact. So, when I woke up this morning, I did what any good citizen would—I cleaned the bathroom like a crazed maniac. Akin to diligently brushing your teeth before a trip to the dentist or an intensive shower before a doctor’s appointment, I felt I had to make the place presentable for the unfortunate stranger who had to come in our house and stick his face in the dark, soap scummed corners of our bathing area.

All this work and the bastards didn’t show up. No call. No email. No bath fitter estimate. Oh well. I guess we’ll just have to cope with the crusty bathroom until we can afford some major construction.

A Camaro Iroc Z

Computer slang.

It goes without saying that I’m easily entertained. But I sincerely believe some of the greatest moments in life get overlooked because we’re just too damn distracted by electronic devices.

Today, however, an electronic device was the source, not the culprit. Sitting here in my $900 chair, plucking away at the keyboard trying to come up with an incredibly creative way to sell paint, I came across a Microsoft® Word® situation that made me smile:

Now that my mind is completely off track, I think I’ll grab my crazy quilt, some crazyweed (also known as “locoweed”) and see if there’s any cream cheese around here.

The view from a bicycle.

Found.

Two dog walks. Two interesting pieces of litter. At least I thought so. I suppose having fun with trash is a lot better for a person’s blood pressure than being annoyed by it.

Buyer’s remorse?

I just read an article about a anonymous collector who paid $300K for Elvis’ peacock themed jumpsuit. I won’t waste your time with obvious questions regarding the kind of person who drops such a large amount of money on memorabilia. Instead, I must confess, the first question that came to my mind was a little more on the logistical side.

Well, considering how large Mr. Presley was towards the end of his life, and the bright lights of the average 70’s auditorium show, the first thing that popped into my head was whether the suit still has the original sweat stains? If so, would that make the suit more valuable? Like a piece of antique furniture that’s never been painted? Or a vintage car with original upholstery?

Time passes, but the smell of bacon lingers on.

The main objective of my parents’ trip to Chicago last week was to drop off the junk Cristi and I claimed after they sold my Grandma & Grandpa’s house back in May. The load was comprised of various collections of drinking glasses, nick nacks, odd kitchen utensils and one large china cabinet. Without a proper place to put all these new treasures, we resorted to the old “stick-it-in-the-extra-bedroom” trick. Hidden, right? You would think.

As many of you have heard me say, my Grandma was connoisseur of bad-for-you food. Chocolate, fried hamburgers, fried chicken, cheesecake, eggs, but I’d say her most cherished artery-clogging favorite was bacon. When I was a kid, we’d spend the week at her house and she’d make it every morning. To this day, the smell of bacon still takes me back to Saturdays somewhere near Grandma’s kitchen watching Cartoon Express on USA television.

Now, over a year and half since her death, the smell is back. Apparently, Grandma made so much bacon that the aroma is ingrained in her dishes, nick nacks, odd kitchen utensils and china cabinet. She may be gone, but I believe a little piece of her soul is living in our guest room.

No manual for this.

Yesterday morning Jez and I headed out for our morning trek through the neighborhood right on schedule. Anxiously awaiting my parents arrival for their annual trip to Chicagoland, I began to consider the life and times of the Green family—all the way back to the beginning of my mischievous, rotten ways that started around the age of 2.

“We had to set up a barricade to keep you away from the tree because you kept pushing it over,” I remember my mom telling me once when describing my first or second Christmas on earth.

With my mind racing through all the examples of my delinquent childhood, wondering how they refrained from sending me to military school, we came up behind a father and son getting ready to take a bike ride. They were fully prepared to hit the road—the only thing keeping them from taking off was some kind of complicated looking basket that Dad was trying to attach to the handlebars.

Jez stopped to eat some weeds growing along the fence, as the kid started questioning his father’s ability to figure things out.

“Dad, maybe you need the manual,” the little boy said. Dad was silent.

“DAAAD, do you have a manual? You probably need the manual!” the kid repeated. Once again, no response from Dad.

“Hey DAD, you should check the manual,” the kid said one last time.

With Jez still busy stripping leaves from a twig, I looked over to see how Dad was going to respond to all this pressure from a five-year-old with the word “manual” in his vocabulary.

“PLEASE BE QUIET,” he said calmly, as he went back to tinkering with the basket.

Good for you Dad, I thought. He wasn’t mean—he was direct. The kid seemed to understand and stopped harassing him immediately.

Honestly, I don’t know how parents figure things out. I know when I try to give my own folks credit for their accomplishments they just shrug their shoulders and say they’re not sure how they figured it out either. But I don’t believe it. I think they developed special skills in the art of dealing with rotten kids. Skills worthy of awards, cash prizes and all expense paid vacations to rocky mountain getaways. Or, in my case, a welcome-to-Chicago dinner at Moody’s Pub down the street from our apartment.