Presenting the 2008 Shipley-Green Pumpkin Family

Cristi told me last night that sometimes I remind her of Martha Stewart. I took it as a compliment.

Very compelling.

Bikes. Girls. Red state or blue, I see a very effective campaign here.

(Pulled from the Chicago Tribune Website. Used without permission.)

More strange clouds.

Change of scenery.

After riding the same route to work every morning for almost three and a half years, I switched things up a few weeks back. I’ll spare the details for those of you who don’t know the lay of the land, but basically I exit the bike path early and ride through a really rich neighborhood instead. The funny thing I’ve discovered is a very concentrated effort by the city to keep this rather rich little pocket of civilization immaculate. Daily garbage pickup, litter task forces and lots of power washing of public spaces—especially inside the tunnel that takes me underneath Lakeshore Drive.

That’s where my story begins. Yet another power wash day in the tunnel, I came down the hill and launched into my regular polite routine:

First, I slow way down and the guy stops spraying.
Then I say “good morning” as I go by.
Finally I say “thanks” and ride away.

Today I was halfway through my “good morning” when I hit the wet hose running from the water truck to the sprayer and completely ate it. Bike, bag with lunch, laptop and about 10 pounds of tools, DOWN. When I looked up, the City of Chicago guy was wearing a curious expression. A combination of “nice work, dumb ass” and “I’d like to kill every one of you annoying cyclists” I laughed as he stared me down.

“Your tires are flat, what’d you expect?” he said pointing to the wheels of my bike.

“No, I don’t think they’re flat, they’re just skinny.”

“Oh,” he replied, as I walked my bike by him.

“Where are your pedals,” he inquired looking at my clipless SPDs.

“I have pedals, they’re just small—I have to clip into them with my shoes,” I explained, pointing to the bottom of my foot, realizing I looked like a total fruitcake to this guy and the longer we talked the worse it was going to get.

“Oh,” he grunted and resumed spraying the tiles of the underground tunnel.

I got back on my bike a few seconds later. Riding away, I wished I could switch places with the guy for a couple of hours. He could ride around on my flat-tired, pedal-less bike and I could spend a little time helping make sure Chicago’s elite don’t risk coming face-to-face with any mold, dust or graffiti. He’d probably hate riding my bike, but I’m pretty sure I’d get some pleasure out of spraying that slippery hose.

Big sky.

Slow ride.

I took “Old Red” out on some errands today. I bought steak at the butchers and fresh flowers at the Dominick’s. I must confess, life seems a little more romantic from behind the handlebars of ‘52 Schwinn Spitfire.

Red Line blues.

Yesterday afternoon Cristi took the Red Line back to our apartment after spending the weekend in Wisconsin. Comparable to crash landing on the earth’s surface after a few days on the moon, her soul was having problems reacclimating to the abrasive environment. To intensify the shock, there was bad smell in the air. Did someone pee? Poop? Perhaps there’s a corpse somewhere, she wondered.

She held her nose and looked out the window—standard procedure for anyone who regularly uses the city’s public transportation system. Then something occurred to her. The smell was coming from her bag. The source wasn’t excrement at all. Quite the opposite. It was food. A block of stinky cheese she bought a fancy shop in Madison to be exact. She laughed at herself and the situation. Lesson learned? Hard to say, but certainly an important reminder that sometimes you’ve got to check yourself before you blame the filthy habits of others.

Peaceful critter.

The only sound in the apartment right now is Jezebelle snoring in the dark corner of the dining room. Some days it’s really hard to leave this place to go to work.

Bless the bicycle.

Another picture taken along the lake with my broken camera. Thought the “heavenly” ray of light was interesting.

Happy Friday, my friends.

Words of wisdom from Austin, Texas.

A few hours shy of the VP debate, I’m feeling a bit anxious and maybe slightly depressed. As I result, I’ve been doing exactly what you’d expect from a whiny liberal—typing away on my Mac listening to “alternative” country in my Herman Miller chair.

But rather than talking politics, a subject I’m not qualified in any way to expound upon, I’d like to direct your attention to Mike Nicolai and some inspiring lyrics I picked up on today in the song “I Forgot” on his 2003 release “Rooster Nudes.”

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“How do you do it?”

He said, “Me? I just fake it . . .”

Fake it in the break room. I fake it at happy hour.

Some kind of survival instinct way down the chain. Far away from the one to feed a child or kill, but still as vital nowadays.

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So, no matter what happens with the collapsing banks, the price of fuel, the mortgage crisis, the war, consumer confidence and all the rest of the messes that have smacked us Americans in the faces, don’t forget that you can fake it. Happiness. Joy. Faith in the American way. Just fake it and maybe everything will be OK.

Mike Nicolai’s site: http://www.mikenicolai.net/
Buy “Rooster Nudes” here: http://www.lulu.com/content/366844