When I grow up.

Bob Dylan’s got a new album, swine flu is spreading and Pontiac is being phased out. Good news and bad, I just can’t imagine my pre-teen years without aspirations of one day owning a Trans Am or Fiero. Laugh all you want, but Smokey and the Bandit combined with a steady stream of television advertising made Pontiac a really cool brand in the mind of a nerdy kid in Kansas in the 80s.

Now that we’re city dwellers and I own six bicycles and zero vehicles, I suspect I’ll never get behind the wheel of a Firebird or Fiero. I suppose it’s time to learn that dreams don’t always come true.

Shopping spree.

I ducked out of the office this afternoon to run a couple of errands. First to the Jewel, where I discovered SpongeBob-shaped Cheez-Its. I realize things like this shouldn’t appeal to me, but I couldn’t resist. Then I hit a Chicago souvenir shop where I planned to spend entirely too much money on something completely pointless to send to our friends back in Kansas. My mission was quickly accomplished with an Al Capone bobble head. On my way out the door, the cashier bid me farewell.

“Thanks. Please enjoy your visit to Chicago.”

With SpongeBob Cheez-Its and an Al Capone bobble head in hand, I corrected her.

“Oh, I’m not a tourist, I LIVE here.”

We both laughed as I headed east with my loot.

Logic in the era of government bailouts.

I sat down with a mortgage banker today to discuss the possibility of refinancing. After he looked at our history and found that we’ve made every payment on time for almost two years, he scratched his chin and leaned forward—as if he was going to tell me a secret.

“Well, you’re not in trouble, so there’s not much we can do.”

Then he went on to explain that his girlfriend had fallen six months behind her payments on purpose. Apparently, once it looked like she might be a foreclosure risk, her bank offered her a brand new loan—with a fixed 4% interest rate. This reduced her monthly payment from almost 2200 a month to 1100. For those of you who aren’t good at math, THAT’S HALF.

So, now I sit here and wonder about the great economic conundrum of condo ownership in this recession. For the most part, I like my house. But to make it more affordable, I should stop paying for it? Not forever, of course. Just for a couple of months until I can squeeze a new low-interest rate loan out of the bank and live happily ever after.

Feeling friendly.

I found a five-dollar bill blowing in the morning breeze when I was out walking Jez today. As soon as it was stuffed safely in my pocket, I discovered that I was at least five times more likely to say hello to random people on the sidewalk. I can only imagine how many folks I would’ve greeted if I’d encountered a stray twenty.

Freaks and bulldozers.

I have this weekend routine where I get up really early, ride a bike around in circles and take completely random snapshots of city stuff. Each excursion usually yields a collection of about 74 bad pictures that ultimately aren’t good for anything but taking up space on my computer. But it’s cheap entertainment and it gives me something to do besides drink massive amounts of coffee and debate whether I’m qualified to attempt more plumbing and electrical work around our deteriorating condo.

We had Good Friday off. There was sunshine and a chill in the air. I bundled up and took off around 6:15. Out the world, I hung out with my buddy the blacksmith, met a really nice old couple, was harassed by a jackass in a black Mercedes and, according to plan, took a bunch of bad photos. But the best part of the whole trip came when I sat down in the sand at Foster Street beach to get a picture of a bulldozer. The camera flashed as two people came around the corner. With my helmet on and my bike propped against my leg, I heard the guy whisper to the girl as they passed by, “The hard part is staying away from all the FREAKS.”

The picture of the bulldozer was crap, but at least I got a mildly funny story out of the deal.

Sweet signals.

I saw Cadbury Eggs at the grocery store this afternoon and realized that Easter is this weekend. Surprise! So, this Sunday while everyone is admiring the tulips, going to church and wearing funny hats, I think I’ll sit at home with my wife, drink coffee and eat candy. Sounds like a holiday to me.

Words to live by.

Lock it up.

I threw my jeans over the radiator last night before I went to bed and noticed they seemed heavier than ever before. A little over five feet tall and around 120 on the bathroom scale, I was fairly certain the pants themselves weren’t to blame. So I went digging through the pockets. Chapstick. A book of matches. Snot rag. Empty wallet. Then I got to the keys—all 27 of them packed into a little metal ball. I held them up to the light. Bike locks. Padlocks. Back doors. Front doors. Long-lost doors to places I once called home.

As usual, my mind started to drift.

Doorknobs, deadbolts and mortise locks. ADT, camera monitored entryways and doormen. I considered the notion of security and the seemingly constant precautions we all take to keep people from coming in our houses and taking our stuff. And I thought of my Grandma and Grandpa. They never locked a door in Yates Center, Kansas. Front, back or otherwise. Even though they’d often say everyone in town was “on welfare or social security,” they never felt the need. The same was true with their cars. The doors were always open and the keys were almost, always in the ignition.

So hard to believe these days.

Now, I sit here with my pocket full of keys, thinking it’s about time to wrap this up. Have a good weekend folks. Make sure to lock your doors.