Furnished apartment in the sky.

Nice numbers.

I took this picture a few days ago at 6060 North Western Avenue in Chicago. Just a mile or so from our house. It takes me back to a world where a people called a person to come out and paint addresses on the glass above their doors—instead of going to Home Depot and buying four adhesive numbers.

I suppose when people stop specializing in things, it’s only a matter of time before everything looks cheap. Fortunately, for now, there are plenty of abandoned buildings around to admire.

Truck.

I like to ride my bike around town taking pictures of cool cars and trucks. I think a lot people who drive cars and trucks think people on bikes hate cars and trucks. Not me. Not at all. I love them. Especially old ones. The only time cars and trucks seem evil is when they’re making traffic or they’re broken down in the middle of busy streets. At least, that’s my take on things.

Birds with good taste in signs.

My morning ride took me by “Z” Frank Chevrolet. “Z” Frank isn’t t there anymore, but I’m certainly glad to see the sign still is.

This should be more fun.

I have new music, new books and new opportunities staring me in the face and following me around every corner. I love my wife, my dog and my neighborhood. I have bikes, cable TV and unlimited internet access. I have enough cash in my pocket to get drunk as hell and then buy four or five tacos to soak up the alcohol.

I’m gainfully employed. The bills are paid. The walls around me are sturdy and thick. We know good people. There’s not a thing in this world that I need. All this—and I must confess that I’m still completely bored.

Maybe this is why people jump out of airplanes. And buy motorcycles. And drink Mountain Dew. Actually, I have no idea why people drink Mountain Dew, but that’s beside the point.

Happy Friday, anyway. Hope you have a riveting weekend planned. I’ll be loading the dishwasher and contemplating whether or not it’s time to paint the dining room ceiling. Wild and crazy, for sure.

Rainy day bike love.

Diamonds of a different sort.

We were in the middle of a major tag-team cleaning project this morning, when it hit me how much work we’ve done inside this little box we call home. With a can of Pledge in my hand, I took it all in.

Each radiator has been sanded, primed and repainted. Every window has been sanded, primed and repainted. Every wall has been repaired, sanded and repainted.

And don’t forget the new light fixtures, new window treatments and new appliances.

There was also the broken faucet, the broken toilet, the broken radiators, broken windows and broken electrical outlets.

It may only be 1,200 square feet, but the last couple of years made it feel like 12,000. So many trips to the hardware store. So many evenings and weekends. So many fits of rage and cussing. I opened the closet, paying extra close attention to the mechanics of the mortise lock, as everything clicked into place. Standing there, I realized I’ve never bought Cristi a diamond—but I’ve bought her at least sixteen diamond-shaped doorknobs.

And if that’s not love, man, I don’t know what is.

Sweet dreams.

After enduring almost a week of toxic combinations of cold medicines and flu remedies, I’m feeling healthy again. Last night I even slept without a Nyquil assist. Now, looking back on my week with H1N1, I realize I’ve had some really graphic dreams.

Of course, one stands out among the many.

It was the end of the world. At least as far as I could tell. Thousands of people were making their way across an open desert. Everyone was carrying their most valued possessions.  Many strained to bear the weight flat screen TVs, while others had photo albums, jewelry boxes and small pieces of furniture.

Not far ahead of the herd was a massive cliff blocked by an endless line of ornate gold railing. As soon as anyone reached the edge, they’d take a moment with their cherished object and then pitch it over the side. No exceptions. At this point, I entered the scene. I ran through the group empty-handed. While everyone around me mourned the loss of their crap and the impending doom that awaited us, I had another mission. Apparently, the end of the world had inspired me to kiss every single woman in the crowd.  It was hilarious and wonderful. I made my way through the masses, covered in lipstick, with absolutely nothing to lose.

I woke up and Cristi was getting ready for work. As she rushed by the bedroom door, I stopped her in the hallway, grabbed her by the shoulders and told her about my apocalyptic vision and all the making out. She just laughed. I suppose trying to find any meaning in any of it is silly. But I will say that it has inspired me to spend a little more time kissing my wife—just as soon as I have a clean bill of health.

See you on the porch.

When we were kids, my brothers and me would spend a week every summer at my Grandparents’ house in Yates Center, Kansas. My memories sound like something out of Norman Rockwell painting. We rode our bikes in the street without any fear of getting hit. We passed the days burning brush piles and trying to catch fish at Grandpa’s farm. And we spent a whole lot of time sitting on the porch.

The porch I speak of ran from one end of the house to the other. On summer mornings, my Grandma woke up long before dawn to take her place just outside the screen door behind the railing. Usually a single light was on in the kitchen, accompanied by the red glow of the button on the coffee maker. She had a big rug where slugs left slime trails behind as they made their way across the floor. There was always burnt toast made of wheat bread. No matter how many pieces I tried over the years, I never developed a taste for it. Often we’d just sit there and do nothing as the humid Kansas breeze rustled the leaves of the Hackberry trees. Even as a rotten kid, I think I understood that the precious time between 4AM and 6 was her time and any annoyance could potentially throw the whole day off.

Around 5:55 this morning, Jez and I were sitting on the steps behind our building watching squirrels ran along the chain-link fence and it occurred to me that my earliest days of being an early riser started with my Grandma. After over 30 years of springing from bed and freaking people out, I think I’ve finally found the root of my love for the peace and quiet of the sunrise over a sleeping world.

I think I’ll head to the kitchen, make another small pot of coffee, burn some bread and see if I can’t relive some memories on our little porch out back. Even though it’s impossible for Grandma to be there in person, something tells me she’ll be there in spirit.

We’re probably not as evolved as we’d like to think.

Most people are smarter than they act. At least this is one thing I tell myself everyday. Sometimes it applies to my behavior and a lot of the time it applies to others. Of course, I make this declaration as this city seems to be steadily overwhelmed by all sorts of stupid violence and crime. And while crime in Chicago is nothing new, crime around my doorstep is new to me.

All this said, Cristi and I continue to live our lives like relatively civilized adults with mortgages, responsibilities and jobs that require us both to get up between 5 and 6 AM.  Even though we don’t go out past 10 PM much anymore, we certainly don’t hesitate to roam the neighborhood freely when we feel like it. Last night was one of those rare occasions.

Pizza. Beer. Good times. Fifty dollars later, we headed home. Our route took us by the neighborhood “L” station which is generally a magnet for shady characters. There’s a lady who cries and asks for spare change. There’s an old guy who sits on the ground and rattles a cup. And sometimes there’s a handful of thuggy-looking teenagers.

Walking. Well lit. All is well. And then I notice this dumb-looking kid staring me down. My first instinct is to look away. The smart choice. But instead I felt a little fit of cave man rage rise up in my stomach. So, against my better judgment, I stared back until we were past the dude. I even had the nerve to sarcastically ask him, “How you doing?” with a grin. The kid didn’t say or do anything.

I felt vindicated. I felt good about my neighborhood. I felt proud that my dad didn’t raise a wimp. And then as quickly as it came on, my macho haze was obliterated.

“Crap, I think I left my gloves at the restaurant. Let’s go back and check,” Cristi said without any idea that I’d just had some stupid Neanderthal fight or flight moment with a fourteen-year-old standing under the tracks.

I thought of guns and knives. I thought of my short stature and scrawny limbs. I thought of how expensive it’d be to get all my teeth replaced. We passed twice, once back to the restaurant and once back toward home. I didn’t look the kid’s direction either time. We got to our door peacefully, but the whole thing stuck with me for a bit. While I’ve always thought survival of the fittest in our modern times has a whole lot more to do with brains than brawn, it might be time for some Karate lessons.

Karate chop. Happy Friday. Keep an eye out for those thuggy kids under the tracks.