On the way to work.

You dropped something.

I woke up a little after 6 this morning. I tried to get back to sleep, but my brain started ringing with weekend tasks yet undone and I knew my day was about to begin whether I liked it or not. So, much to Jez’s satisfaction, we headed out for our morning walk about two hours earlier than a standard Sunday.

While I admired the beauty of the sun coming up over Lake Michigan, Jez successfully scavenged a Bonanza buffet’s worth of food leftover from late-night drunks. I know from personal experience the walk home from the bar can be rough, but I don’t think I’ve ever lost so much grub. She found a hamburger with only one bite taken, two pieces of pizza, a handful of French fries and my favorite—one entire unscathed burrito.

I yelled, “No!” and pried her jaws open. I scolded, “Drop it!” while she stood there looking at me with determined eyes. And with every morsel of food, I wondered whether the person who left it behind ever noticed it was missing. I doubt it. I suppose in this economy I should be reassured that people can still afford to buy food for themselves—or drop it in the snow for old dogs to find.

The garbage man.

A few weeks back, illustrious lead singer of the “psychobilly” band The Cramps passed on. I considered writing about Lux Interior’s death the day I heard the news, but figured there were plenty of news sources that would do a better job of telling the story. Then I realized I had my own tale that might be worth telling…

I was 17. I had a ’68 Impala with a 327, a leather jacket and a greasy mop on my head. I’d been turned on to old country and R&B after stealing piles of 45s and 78s from my Great Uncles’ house after they passed away. Two days locked in my room with a record player and I traded the Germs, Jesus Lizard and Minor Threat for Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Fats Domino.

With my musical horizons expanding into completely uncharted territory, I started digging for new material like a mad man. Anything with an upright bass was a given. The crappier the recording the better. If there was a Sun Records logo on the package, I’d head directly to the record store cash register without batting an eye. Armed with this basic set of criteria, I discovered all sorts of bands that not only had living members, but were playing shows at the local bars in town. Big Sandy and the Fly Right Trio (before they were the Fly Right Boys), Kim Lenz and the Jaguars, Johnny Dilks, etc. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before I stumbled onto The Cramps.

Like many, it started with Bad Music for Bad People and before I could stop myself I was on a mission to pick up every album they ever made. Like a junky, I couldn’t get enough of that creepy, Crampy stuff. Soon the true declaration of my fan hood came when I sat down with a razor blade and made a template of their name out of cardboard and painted it on my leather jacket in bright orange. My love for the band was now public.

Then the opportunity of a lifetime appeared on a bunch of over-sized yellow posters stapled to telephone poles all over town. The Cramps were coming to the Bottleneck—a small live music venue in my hometown. There was just one problem: I wasn’t old enough to get in to the 18 and over show. Undeterred, I bought four tickets anyway and kept my fingers crossed for a month in preparation for the big event.

As I recall, I drove that fateful night. A carload full of kids—all racking their brains trying to come up with a story for the doorman. Everyone practiced their excuses:

“ID? Oh, I left it at the bar last week.”

“My ID?” while digging through pockets, “I must’ve left it at home.”

“ID? Dude, I’m in here all the time, don’t you recognize me?”

As I listened to everyone recite their act, my heart was pounding in my chest. I was certain no one in my car wanted to see the show as badly as I did. Hell, I don’t think anyone in town wanted to see the Cramps as badly as I did. Soon the big moment came.

“ID,” demanded the doorman.

“Um, aaaa, I left it in thaaa…CAR!” I said with my eyes half open.

“That car?” he said, pointing out the door to my big beautiful Impala sitting prominently on the street.

“Yeah,” I replied, cursing myself for my stupid excuse and the decision to take a spot directly in front of the venue.

“Nice,” he said, wrapping my wrist in an underage bracelet. I was in.

I was numb until they came on. All I remember is fighting my way to the stage. Poison Ivy and the rest of the band wore silver velour outfits and their faces were completely without expression. Lux came out and put on one of the best damn shows I’ve even seen. Like a sweaty acrobat in black leather, he crawled around the stage and slithered through the crowd, slowly shedding his clothes until there was nothing left but a leopard print g-string.

I’ll stop there. If you love the band and were ever lucky enough to see them, you know what I’m talking about. If not, then you truly missed out. Either way, you can still buy the music and take in this unidentifiable, sexually-charged, deep-fried, horrible-but-wonderful, scary-but-likable band that changed lives and influenced musicians on down the road.

Lux, although we never met, I did see you in your underpants once. Whatever you’re up to these days, I hope you’re satisfied with your accomplishments. While I doubt you’re resting and I suspect it isn’t peaceful, I hope you can always find yourself some new kind of kick—wherever the universe takes your soul. Thanks for the good times and great tunes.

Momma’s love.

A few days back, I received an official meeting notification through the corporate email system. The subject line was “Great client feedback.” I showed up on time, took a seat and waited around a conference room table for about five minutes.

Turns out the person who called the meeting couldn’t make it. Which left me sitting alone in a distant corner of the building inhabited by account people. A good thing, as it turns out. Instead of a PowerPoint presentation and a big pile of paper, I got a big hug and a piece of gum from an executive assistant who goes by the nickname “momma.”

Just between you and me, I’d take a hug and a piece of gum over a long meeting in a little conference room most any day.

As seen on TV.

While we acknowledge the occasion, Cristi and I have never been the kind of people to make a big scene out of silly Hallmark Holidays like Valentine’s Day. But this year the festive mood was at all time low.

Her job at the French Patisserie meant that instead of hanging out with me, she was working very long hours bringing joy to other people’s Valentine’s Days. I bought a nice bouquet of flowers and cleaned the apartment, but by the time she got home on Saturday evening all she wanted was a beer.

However, today’s early morning trip to Walgreen’s could put Valentine’s Day 2009 on the map. Although I’m a few days late, I believe I’ve  found the ultimate gift. The SNUGGIE.

While the flowers sit on the dining room table and slowly wilt, the Snuggie will never lose its power to “keep you warm and your hands free!” And if that doesn’t sound romantic AND practical, I don’t know what does.

More on the Snuggie revolution?

Chicago Tribune article

Snuggie Pub Crawl

Two Squares: A Family Story

I’ll be the first to admit that adjusting to apartment life hasn’t been easy. No space. No privacy. No place to plant a flower or smoke a slab of ribs. But after almost four years in the city, all the minor annoyances seem worth it when I think about all the good people we’ve gotten to know in our crumbling building on the corner of Granville and Wayne.

The blacksmith. The clothing designer. The stained-glass artist. The photographer. The accountant. The roadie. The student. The family with 3 kids. Yes, even in the midst of so many interesting adults, it’s the family that’s taken on heroic stature in my mind. Having grown up with a big backyard, a swing set, a sandbox, a tree house and plethora of pets, I can’t imagine what big city parents do when their kids are driving them nuts. Or what the kids do when they want to build a fort, destroy an anthill or just run free—without any fear of being reprimanded. Yet, the  family in our building always seems to find a way to keep everything balanced.

I ran into them the other day while they were out playing in the puddles left behind by eight inches of melted snow. As the kids bounced down the street from one muddy pool of water to another, I made small talk with mom. Our conversation unfolded as the kids kept their energetic pace until mom’s instinct kicked in and everything suddenly came to an abrupt halt.

“TWO SQUARES!” she yelled to the little ones half a block ahead.

“What’s that all about?” I asked.

“They can run all they want—as long as they stop 2 sidewalk squares away from every intersection.”

Standing there, it occurred to me—again—that we humans are built to adapt to our environment. Like a three-legged dog or a Tulip that grows toward to sun, we’re made to make the best of things and survive. And while I’ve heard Darwin developed most of his theories based on things he saw on the Galapagos Islands, it seems ’survival of the fittest’ can be observed on most street corners every single day.

In my head.

We all go someplace in our minds when we’re having bad days. This is where I went today.

Chicago in blue.

Please forgive me for posting such a generic city skyline image, but this was the best of a bunch of really bad pictures I took today while racing around on my bike. Add the word ‘Chicago’ to the top in a hot pink, scripty font and I could get into the tacky postcard buisness.

Stand tall, short guy.

I believe this could be a rough February folks. Unpredictable weather. Strange work conditions. Cutbacks. Downturns. Liquidation. Yet, even when hope seems to be a precious commodity, I’ve decided to do everything I can to buck up and push out a smile. I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve got to give myself something simplistic and generic to believe in. And I’ve seen the world’s goodness shine through in a hundred different ways over the last couple of days. Here are just a few examples:

• The tax return showed up in the bank the same day as the $500 vet surgery bill. Money in, money out.
• The Gourds just put out a new album called Haymaker! and it’s their finest offering since Heavy Ornamentals. Good music makes bad feelings disappear.
• On today’s morning bike commute, two people waved to me (weird, right?) despite the negative ten-degree wind chill. Like Eskimos roaming the frozen tundra, the comradery was much appreciated.
• They say it’s going to be 50 on Saturday. Maybe. And warmth can do crazy things to people—like give them the opportunity to walk around outside without 14 layers of wind-proof clothing, survivalist snow boots and silly-looking hats.
• Cristi is awesome. All of my end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it talk has been swiftly countered with smart insights, words of encouragement and incredible sweetness.
• And then there’s you. My friend, family member or completely random person who typed some obscure word into a Google search and wound up here. Your readership keeps this thing going—for better or worse.

As always, thanks for stopping by.

Sense of place.

Our sweet brown dog went in for surgery this morning around 9 AM to get a couple of fast-growing fat lumps removed. Now I’m on call—waiting for an update on how the operation went and when I can come pick her up. Sitting here, thinking about the state of the world, I’m amazed how strange the apartment feels without her. No paws clicking on the hardwood. No snoring as she sleeps sprawled out on her bed cushion. No anxious doggie dances at the back door.

After my Grandpa passed, my Grandma said she could no longer live in the house they shared. She abandoned a well-appointed bungalow with a big front porch and a corner lot for a little apartment with a couple of cheap vinyl windows and a view of the parking lot. It seemed crazy. I thought her reaction was extreme. But being here right now really puts it all into perspective. This apartment would feel like a cold, foreign place without Jez roaming the halls. At least for a while.

The vet just called. The surgery went well. Our sweet brown dog will be ready to come home in a few hours. Home where she belongs. Minus a few fat lumps, of course.