Among the wealthy.

We went down to the Chicago Cultural Center yesterday for The International Vintage Poster Fair. And while most of the dealers were surprisingly friendly (I would imagine they can judge who’s there to buy and who’s there to wander around), many of the patrons were rich, sorta rude and funny to watch.

Here are a few observations I made that you might find entertaining (unless you’re rich and then you’ll be offended):

• Rich people wear a lot of scarves (men and women).
• The word “precisely” is a big hit in their vocabulary.
• Rich people make spur of the moment purchase decisions BECAUSE THEY CAN.
• Any respect for your personal space disappears when they see something they want.
• Holding the door for a handicapped woman means you’re going to hold the door for them and a couple of their rich friends as well.

Finally, my favorite:

• Rich people decide to buy certain pieces of artwork to match the color of their walls—not necessarily to match their personal taste

Cats and dogs.

Every morning Jez and I walk out the back door to find a bunch of trash blowing around the parking lot behind our luxurious Chicago home. I always smile, shake my head and think about Wall•E the movie. With deteriorating eye site and a highly developed palate for most anything on the ground, Jez will often rush after small pieces of paper, packing peanuts and the like to see if they’re edible. Today, she ambushed this stray valentine. It seemed funny to me at the time. Since she’s a dog and all.

Round trip.

I flew home a few weeks back to spend approximately 48 hours with my mom for our shared birthdays. The plan was silly, last minute and expensive but we had a great time which made it all worth it. As I reminisce, I’m struck with the irony of the parent/kid relationship and its natural evolution over the years.

When I was a teenager, I’d spend hours turning numbers on the rotary dial phone trying to make plans to get out of the house. Calling people I didn’t like just because I knew they were free to borrow their mom’s Toyota for the evening. Once I was released from the oppressive confines of my warm, spoiled, middle class upbringing, I’d try to get as far away as possible—which around my hometown was usually a lake. Lone Star. Clinton. Maybe Perry. And once I arrived at one of those lakes, I’d often encounter other groups of disgruntled teenagers all bitching about their parents.

“I can’t wait to get out of this town, man,” was a popular saying among the unhappy, Marlboro smoking adolescents.

Now, I think about all those stupid nights spent leaning up against someone’s junky car in the middle of the woods and I genuinely wish I’d spent a little more time with my folks when I had the chance. I realize skipping the “I-hate-my-parents” part of growing up probably would have lead to abnormal development, but in retrospect it all seems a little sad.

Strange urges down in the basement.

I’ve never been able to make up my mind definitively when it comes to structural preservation. Strip my carefully orchestrated opinion down to the basics and I think old stuff simply looks a whole lot better. And while it’s always made me feel sad to see old places being dismantled, buying a condo in a 98-year-old building has helped me at least sympathize with those who believe in knocking things down and starting over. Ultimately, I suppose beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And the beholder could be a whole range of different people—me, developers, grouchy architects, outspoken neighbors or modern types who like water pressure and feel a little uncomfortable when the lights flicker for no apparent reason.

All debate aside, I was wandering around the basement this morning while I waited for a load of laundry to finish drying and discovered the mother load of old doors. Seemingly insignificant to most intelligent life, I was completely beside myself. With my trusty mini multi-tool in my pocket, I removed the doorknob hardware from one of the doors. With intricate designs pressed into each piece, my excitement faded a bit when I realized the back plates, knobs and lock assembly were covered in about 14 layers of white rusty paint and not entirely functional.

I’m not sure what my next move will be. I have visions of “refurbishing” eight or nine of them, but worry the end result might not be worth the time. A lot can be done with paint remover and wire brushes, but I’m just not sure that’s a healthy way to sacrifice a weekend or two. Fair warning: make sure you’re up on your Tetanus shots before you come by the house—I suspect there will soon be a bunch of crusty old knobs hanging from the doors next time you ring the bell.

The cake.

The here and now.

Next week I’ll be 31. And the measurement of time can force a person to ask themselves a few questions. Am I a respectable adult or an overgrown idiot? Why did I learn all that math back in high school when the only equation I ever have to solve is a simple matter of bank balance minus mortgage payment? What if I’d been switched at birth and raised by a traveling circus or fundamental Christians?

Life. People have often said I act older than my age. Quite flattering when I was younger aspiring to be older, I worry now that on the verge of 31 my perceived age must be somewhere around 55. Which makes me wonder whether I should’ve enjoyed my REAL age more while I was living it.

So this is it so far. I’ve lived a few places. I’ve seen a few things. I married an amazing person and managed to adopt a really cool dog. I know how to hang a set of blinds and put up a light fixture. And even though I have more bicycles than one person should own, I guess I turned out to be a fairly well adjusted individual. Oh, and just in case you’re wondering what I’d like for my birthday, this might be a good place to start.

Pour some sugar on me.

Each morning, I ride by a trendy hotel that blasts music onto the sidewalk 24 hours a day. Usually it’s so loud the bellboys have to yell to communicate with each other. This makes me laugh.

Today, Def Leppard blared from hidden speakers. “Pour some sugahh on MEHHH,” echoed through the surrounding streets. Suddenly Wabash Avenue became Memory Lane. I thought of the first time I heard the song on ZZ99. I remembered rushing into the living room to sit in front of our RCA console TV to sing along with the music video. I could almost smell the ‘Electric Youth’ perfume that filled the gymnasium at my first 7th Grade dance.

Of all the places a song can play and all the nostalgic feelings a song can stir, I felt bad that it had come to this. Like a war hero wasting away in a crusty nursing home, Def Leppard’s hit deserves a better venue than the tacky entryway of an overpriced hotel on a cold Chicago morning.

But I must confess—I haven’t been able to get it out of my head all day. Hotel entryway music or not, ‘Pour some sugar on me’ still sorta rocks.