Better off dead.

I’ve never been a Michael Jackson fan. Ever. The man. The music. The monkeys. None of it. Sure, he’s been tremendously influential, but being a bastion of pop culture seems like something to be ashamed of as far as I’m concerned.

That said, I actually feel bad for the guy and his legacy. Like the nerdy kid who commits suicide in high school, his death has turned everyone into his biggest fan. Christ. Years of media coverage dedicated to “Wacko Jacko” the alleged child molester and suddenly he’s a legend again—now that he’s dead and he can’t threaten little boys with invitations to sleep over.

Speaking of death, my great Uncle Norman died last week. I only met the guy a couple of times, but he was one of the most charming individuals I’ve even shaken hands with. From what I’ve heard, he worked his ass off in the oil fields outside of Eureka, Kansas until he was well into his 70s. There’s a guy who deserves a tribute. Or a photo montage. Or a candlelight vigil. But the world doesn’t work that way.

Happy Friday everyone. I hope you’re proud of what you stand for—whatever that may be. To the mourning Michael Jackson fans, all I can say is that I hope you were in it for the long haul. Thick and thin, better or worse—Neverland. Good weekends all around no matter what.

Faces.

A series of severe storms hit northern Chicago last night, resulting in uprooted trees, power outages and lots of minor flooding. Apparently our basement took on some water as well. Which, along with a bad smell, left behind sediment. And while I’ve never been the type to see the Virgin Mary in my toast, I did spot what appears to be a lady’s face in a little bit of mud left behind on the laundry room floor.

Have a look and see for yourself. If you ask me, she’s pretty hot.

Flat.

It’s Bike to Work Week here in Chicago and I’ve seen some scary stuff out on the streets. Middle-aged ladies in flip flops blowing red lights. Young punks cutting between fast moving city buses and U-haul trucks on rickety fixed-gear conversions. Some hipster chick in a lime green bandana doing circles in the middle of the intersection at Belmont and Clark. But all public displays of idiocy aside, I did encounter some nice folks this morning.

Making my way to work, I was interrupted by a hissing sound coming from my back wheel. I had a flat. I pulled over to change the tube. A few seconds later a guy pulled up.

“Got everything you need?”

“Yep, thanks,” I replied with a wave.

Two more followed, offering help, parts and air. I was impressed. People willing to help a stranger on a rainy morning in the middle of the city. I’ve said it before, but maybe humanity isn’t doomed after all? Maybe?

Comfort Wipe.

I couldn’t resist. Have a sanitary weekend, everyone.

Under a cloud.

I took this picture on my way into work yesterday. I thought it was interesting the way the cloud enshrouded downtown—especially considering the state of the economy and the fact that everyone seems to be feeling a little low due to the delay of our long-awaited Chicago summer. Sometimes you feel like there’s a cloud over your head and, in this particular case, there actually was for a lot of folks.

“Ninny”

Jez and I found this guy on an old Parker Brother’s board game box stuffed away in the garbage. It was starting to rain and I couldn’t resist the urge to save him. Accordiing to the directions that came with “Smess, The Ninny’s Chess,” this charcter is the Ninny. I’m really not sure what to make of any of it, but I totally dig the artwork.

Mary’s Café.

My cousin’s getting married today. Obviously, we aren’t going to make the wedding. Living 500 miles away from the family always makes me feel a little blue. And with that, I decided to drown my troubles in biscuits and gravy. I’m no medical doctor, but eating breakfast for lunch did wonders for my condition.

Use your imagination.

I started playing air guitar when I was eight-years-old. But my interest was short-lived. Plucking imaginary strings felt weird, so I quit—and took up playing a wiffle ball bat instead.

All was well, until one day when my dad walked down the basement stairs and caught me strumming the wood-grain stamped plastic as I listened to the Outfield’s 1985 hit “Nervous Alibi.” I never played the wiffle ball bat again.

Now, I hear there’s an air guitar competition going on here in Chicago and I’m left to wonder what could’ve been. With 23 years to perfect my skills, I could’ve been on hell of an air guitar player. Maybe even a champion.

Departures and arrivals.

We left Lawrence, Kansas around 5 AM Monday morning. My parents both stood in the driveway in their pajamas waving us goodbye.

The trip was a success. We drove too fast down gravel roads. We drank beer in the middle of the afternoon over citronella candles. I rediscovered the therapeutic aspects of lawn mowing. Man, it’s been years since I cut grass.

Once I got rid of the rental car, home looked good too. With piles of luggage strewn about, we made our way across the creaky wood floor, settled on the couch and exchanged glances.

“Good trip,” I said, digging at one of the tick bites on my ankle.

“Great trip,” Cristi replied, itching a series of mosquito bites on her thigh.

People have to getaway every once in a while. If you’re lucky, you return with new memories, a handful of snapshots and maybe a bug bite or two to prove just how far you strayed from your ordinary routine.