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.

My three gourds.

One old, one mean and one scared. All the elements of dysfunctional family. Happy Halloween.

Art imitates life.

Brilliant New Yorker magazine cover.

And a couple of great houses in our neighborhood.

Lost. And found.

About eight years ago I received a Christmas gift from my buddy Neil. I immediately felt bad. As usual, Cristi and I were broke and we hadn’t gotten anyone anything and we were hoping to skate through the holiday season without any guilt. If no one bought us anything, we wouldn’t feel bad for not buying them anything. Proceeding politely, knowing our plan was wrecked, I accepted the small box and over explained the details of our financial woes, making it clear that I couldn’t reciprocate.

“Just open it, man,” he replied, “Jesus.”

It was a Leatherman Squirt multi-tool, complete with a nail file, bottle opener and Philip’s head screwdriver. And while I didn’t know it at the time, the little knife would become a permanent accessory—even though the post 9/11 world would work so hard to separate us. Every time I had a plane trip on the agenda, I’d have to make special arrangements, writing myself sticky notes two days in advance, “leave your Leatherman at home.” Metal detectors at government buildings were always an issue too. One time I had to run outside, hide the tiny knife in a planter and retrieve it later. Changing pants. Doing laundry. Holes in pockets. All these trails and tribulations and still the multi-tool and I managed to stick together.

And suddenly this past Friday, I realized I didn’t have my Leatherman multi-tool. I told myself it would turn up, but it didn’t. Yesterday, I started digging around the furniture cushions and tearing through drawers. Still no luck. Last night I went to bed feeling a little defeated as I came to terms with the fact that the multi-tool is most likely, most definitely gone. With a sigh, I put my head on the pillow.

Soon a vivid dream began to unfold…

I was inside an old house in the woods. It was sunny outside. I walked around from room to room. Everything was white, but the bathroom needed of a fresh coat of paint. I decided I’d fix it and began rooting around the small two-story house for a can of paint and brush. In a small closet under the stairs, I found what I was looking for and headed back to the bathroom where I encountered a dilemma. I had everything I needed to paint the room, but I had no way to get the lid off the paint because—true to life—I didn’t have my handy multi-tool. Then my Grandma Rehmer showed up at the door. Having passed away a few years ago, I processed the fact that seeing her was a really big deal. I gave her a hug and announced that I was going to repaint her bathroom, but I needed something to pry the lid off the can. She opened a drawer in the bathroom vanity, sifted through hair pens and this big pink brush she always used, and pulled out my missing Leatherman.

“Here, this should work,” she said as she handed it over and left the room.

I woke up before I was finished painting. So far today, my multi-tool hasn’t turned up, but I suppose that’s OK. Assuming I put it back in the drawer, next to the pink brush, in the bathroom drawer of the old white house where my Grandma lives in my dream, I know it’s in a good place.

I crap, therefore I am subject to advertising.

I understand the logic behind (he, he) bathroom advertising in public, but this coupon tactic targeting me on my very own commode is something I’ve never seen before. Smart, I suppose. Although it seems like they could’ve had a little more fun with the language—considering their captive audience.

Like a falcon in the sky.

With rain drops dripping from my glasses and legs covered in road slime, I rode my hipster bike through the streets of downtown Chicago this morning. A pleasure cruise compared to the poor folks packed tight on buses or trains, my commute is one part of the day I actually look forward to. But the winter months can be brutal and this October has been a rough introduction to a seasonal shift marked by bad weather.

So, I’m thinking this crazy family out in Colorado with the silver balloon contraption might be on to something. I’ve never been an early adopter, but using a balloon to get around sounds stellar.  Obviously, we’d have to perfect the controls a bit and crash landing is probably not the most graceful way to show up at the office, but every innovation requires a little fine-tuning.

Happy Friday, you all. I’m riding a bike home tonight, but I see a balloon in my future.

A lovely piece of artwork (used without permission) by Peter Nidzgorski.

Black and white city photos.

I found this site posted on another site. I hope you like what you see.

Where the city ends.

Tasty Joy.

Stole this from the recycling bin last night. I didn’t really know what to do with it, so I figured I’d share it with you.