How To Guide: “How Do You Become a Scooter Rider a Scooter in Chicago?”

Do not call this your “whip.” Ever. It is not.

In this series I’ll take a look at the “how to’s” of things you always wondered but never verbalized.

Five steps to riding a scooter in Chicago

1. Become a d-bag.

*While it may be true that not all scooter riders in Chicago are d-bags, this is the best way to ensure that you will qualify to ride a scooter here.  There are non-d-bag riders; for sure.  But they’re few and far between. *

**It should also be noted that, if you don’t know what a “d-bag” is, rest assured it’s something you don’t want to be.  But you might be, so…**

2. Buy a scooter in a “retro” color (like Seafoam Green)

*It should be noted that most riders that choose traditional colors are not d-bags*

**It should also be noted that it is not always true that most riders that choose traditional colors are not d-bags**

3. Buy an obnoxiously large helmet…much too large for your head.

*This helps with shifting weight, allowing you to go around corners on your scooter that has as much umph as a rototiller*

4. Buy a satchel

*It will carry your dignity for you.  All the scooter riders have them.*

5. Sell your scooter for cash to pay for rent because no one will hire you when you drive to the job interview on a scooter.

*Full circle*


…it should be noted that I kind of want a scooter.


My Kid Doesn’t Respect My DVD’s: Living with a One Year Old

We live with a bundle of cells that is now quite mobile.  And apparently he has an opinion about how we’ve structured our household items.escient-fireball se-d1-80-dvd-mess

He generally thinks they are organized improperly.

For instance, recently he’s taken to organizing our DVD’s.

I’ve taken to being irritated about it.

You might say everyone is in their respective camps…

What’s that?  “Who has DVD’s anymore?” you ask?

I do.  They’re going to make a come back, you know.  Like records.  And as soon as you all figure out that cable companies are actually stealing your life (and your brain), and that they’re sucking information about your habits and preferences and then selling them back to you in the form of fliers in your mail, spam in your inbox, and “ads” in your news feed, you’ll go back to DVD’s, too.

Because the only person who can tell if I’ve watched one of our DVD’s is my wife.

Usually because it’s either a) not put back in the box and still in the DVD player (we have one of those, too, although you have to blow in it to get it to run…like a Nintendo Entertainment System…but whatev, it works) or b) it’s stacked on top of another DVD in a different box that was closer in proximity to the empty case at the time it was removed from the DVD player.

But, see, that’s my organizing system.

And now we have this little bundle of cells called Finn crawling around and rearranging everything, including my DVD’s.

And it’s super frustrating for both of us.  For him it’s frustrating because they don’t open like books…so when one doesn’t open, he goes to the next one expecting a different result.  One day life will teach him a valuable lesson about repeating the same thing over and over again expecting different results (can’t remember what you call that, but there’s a word for it), but until then…

I just lost my train of thought.

Anyway, he’ll learn he shouldn’t do that one day.

It’s frustrating for me because I’m now going out of my mind cleaning up DVD cases every two damn minutes.

It’s probably why I’m always losing my train of thought these days.  I’m sleep deprived because I’m constantly cleaning up DVD’s.

It has gotten so bad that I’m not even that pissed that one DVD series is mixed into a different one (and that they’re not even remotely in the same genre).  Normally that would be irritating.  But I don’t even find that so irritating anymore.

I’m just generally pissed that they’re all over the floor.

Again. Perpetually.

Having a kid means constantly living in the movie Groundhog’s Day. I continually step on things over and over and over again.  Especially toys.

But it’s always the same toy: that damn tambourine.  And no matter how far I kick it, it somehow migrates back to right in the middle of the hallway outside of his room.

It hides in the dark, playing it’s own little version of The Most Dangerous Game.

(My toes are the prey…)

And that of course wakes him up, which means I have to go into his room and pat his diaper for ten minutes (which, ironically, makes the same noise as like when you wave a pom pom, kinda like you’re cheering him to sleep: “Yay, quiet!  Soooo quiet!”).

And then after ten minutes I sneak back out and step back on that blasted tambourine…and, well, crap.

I’m not a neat freak.  Anyone who has seen my office knows this.  But even I don’t think a valid organizational method is “all on the floor.”

And, yes, I know he’s not thinking like that.  His major mental task for the day seems to be finding new crevices to hide cheerios in (seriously, every time I lift him out of the high chair it’s like a deluge of food comes cascading onto the floor in some “miracle of abundance” demonstration).

But still…if we’re naming things he’s good at, in no particular order:


-staring closely at buttons and zippers

-eating and going to the bathroom

-letting us know he’s unhappy/happy/tired/hurt/excited/confused by screaming

Things he’s not good at:

-organizing DVD’s

-picking up toys

-prying off the tops of non-domestic beer bottles

-brushing his own teeth (though he does like to have it done)

I’d go through my own list of talents/growing edges, but this blog has gone on long enough.  Suffice to say, the kid sucks at organizing things.

Especially DVD’s.

And that’s disheartening because, well, they’ll be his one day and he needs to know that The Office does not belong in the West Wing rack (though I can see how he could be confused about that…offices are confusing).


Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Buttheads…

They were buttheads.auntiebuttheads_Large

Really; no two ways about it.

I was lifting, minding my own business, and they were chatting.  Just out of high school maybe?  Maybe rounding out their senior year?

Doesn’t matter.  What matters is what they talked about.  Well, actually, that didn’t matter much, either.  You’ll see why.

BH 1: (arm curls) You know, I want to go to our High School reunion to see just how far Jake didn’t go.

BH 2: (mirroring arm curls) Yeah, people change their senior year, you know.

BH 1: They do change…

BH 2: I was a late bloomer, that’s for sure.

BH 1: What are you drinking this weekend?

BH 2: Well, I had a 24 pack but I drank it all last night.

<I’m going to pause at this moment to let that last line sink in.  Because when he said that I looked over at him and snickered…and got noticed for eavesdropping.  But, really, this kid drank a 24 pack last night? Yeah right.  My thigh is bigger than his waist. Obviously the lie of someone who has NEVER drank 24 beers in a night…Ok. Back to the programming>

BH 1: Yeah. I got a six pack at home.

BH 2: What you drinking?

BH 1: Bud Lite.

BH 2: Yeah, I like that.  Or some Corona.  With lime and salt.  The good stuff.

<Again…the labeling of Corona as “the good stuff” deserves a pause>

BH 1: I like Heineken.  That stuff is strong.  Heineken, though…that’ll make you sleepy, you know?  I drink that and I’m all like “Man, I need a nap…”

<At this point I wanted to interject and tell the BH’s that actually it’s not Heineken, but rather just alcohol, and over consumption, that makes one tired.  And, really, they shouldn’t be drinking at their age anyway because, well, it didn’t appear that they were chock full in the braincell department as it was, and thinning the herd wasn’t doing them any favors.  But I just kept quiet.  Lifting quietly so as to hear the continuing idiocy.>

BH 2: Heineken is no good, man.  You gotta try Platinum.  That stuff is great.

<Oh Lord…>

BH 1: (Switching to bench press)Yeah.  Say, what’re you gonna do now, man?  I’m gonna do manual labor.

BH 2: I don’t know.  I might be a physical therapist.  Or maybe business.  You know, ’cause I’m really persuasive.

BH 1: You are, man.  You like to kiss ass.

BH 2: To get ahead you have to, man.  I’m good at it.

BH 1: Yeah, you are…

BH 2: You know?  I can bull with the best of them, too.  I can sell water to a well.  I can sell ice to an Eskimo…

<And this all is to be lauded?  At this point I resolved myself never to let Finn, at least to the best of my ability, think being shrewd is better than being noble. Seriously.  Oh, and to let him know about the dangers of underage drinking.  And that Corona is not “the good stuff.”>

BH 1: Yeah, you’re going to be a yuppie.

BH 2: You know it.  Can’t wait. (Switch bench presser and spotter)

<Actually, we should take a moment of silence in reverence for something absolutely original.  No one has ever said, “You know it. I can’t wait” in reference to their future as a yuppie.  Usually, when it dawns on you that you’re a yuppie, you start to grow a mustache and pledge allegiance to PBR as an attempt to claw your way into hipsterhoood.>

BH 2: You know what else?  I can get girls to do anything for me.  It’s like a super power or something.

<Good Lord…>

BH 1: I feel bad doing that, man.

<Ah! A bright spot>

BH 1: Unless I’m drunk.

<Ruined it>

BH 1: Then I’m all sorts of smooth talking and can do it.

BH 2: You know how many girls I have bringing me food?  Like Amy brings me food every day.  Every. Day.

BH 1: Amy?  She’s the ugly one, right?


BH 2: Naw; she’s not so bad, dawg.

<Do not say “dawg.”  You cannot say “dawg” with any sort of credibility, future-mr-yuppie.>

BH 1: Whatever man.  Alright, I’m done.  You?

BH 2: Yeah. Cool.

Butthead 1 and Butthead 2 went to parts unknown.  Probably to sweet talk some not-so-bad girl into buying them burritos.

Here’s what I learned about our friends:

They’re too young to be drinking, do not drink honorable beer, think being a “good businessman” means swindling people and kissing butt, want to see how far their classmates fall, and use women for food.

Oh, and they can each curl 30lbs and bench 120lbs.

…and the one is a “late bloomer.”

Fascinating, really.  Like watching hamsters in the wild: they’re as useless as when they’re caged.


Mamas (and Papas): Don’t let your babies grow up to be buttheads.


The Thing that Happened When I Sat Next to The Reverend Jesse Jackson in a Sauna

I’ve been meaning to post this for about a month now, but I mentioned it in a sermon recently, so I figured now would be the timealg-sauna-jpg to do so.

I need to preface this post for those not in the “know” about sauna etiquette.  And, believe it or not, it has less to do with what you wear in a sauna, and more to do with what you say in a sauna.

And here’s the rule: say nothing.

An exception can be made if you came into the sauna with a friend and you are continuing a conversation from your workout, but by and large you say NOTHING in a sauna…especially to people you don’t know.

“Why?” you might ask?

Because no one goes into a sauna thinking that they’ll have to talk to someone.  By and large they’re just trying to sweat and survive…especially if the sauna is of quality construction.  All saunas should test your ability to breathe.  If they don’t, you have a crappy sauna.

So, anyway, here I was all toweled up in the sauna, and I had arrived at the sauna with some of my fraternity brothers…as we get together every so often to drink beer and sweat.  It’s a vicious cycle that we all convince ourselves cancels the other out.

We’re good at self-deception.

Anyway, turns out the Reverend Jesse Jackson was also in the house, and while MLK day was just around the corner and I had about a million questions that I wanted to ask him about MLK, I said nothing when he opened the sauna door.

I wanted to ask him about marching, about where he would be the next day, about what it was like to work on the front lines of equal rights, about how he’s managed to keep his hair.

But I said nothing.

He sat down next me.  I said nothing.

A rather large person came in to share the space, and so everyone had to adjust on the bench, which meant that I was about a foot away from the right Reverend.

And I said nothing.

He got up and started doing push-ups in the sauna, which made me want to crack the joke that he was doing “Rainbow Push-Ups” (a joke a fraternity brother also thought of and cracked when he left) as an homage to his organization the Rainbow Push Coalition.

But I said nothing.


Because those are the rules.

And I imagine the Reverend Jesse Jackson wants a place where he’s neither a reverend nor Jesse Jackson.

We all long for those places.

So I just sat and sweated.

And even when one of my fraternity brothers, who had left to get a drink of water, came back in and said loudly, “J**** Christ it’s hot in here!” and everyone looked at the Reverend with horror on their faces, he followed the rules.

He said nothing.

Because that’s what you do.

So, what happened when I sat next to The Reverend Jesse Jackson in a sauna?

We both said nothing.

‘Cause that’s what you do.

“The Days When T-Shirts Said Something” or “When I Tried to Do a Sudoku While Jogging”

I have lots of t-shirts with phrases and sayings on them.

I have one that says, “Sermonator.”  I like that one.images

I used to have one that said “Super Student.” That one was awesome.  It made my campus pastor laugh when I went up for communion.

Sometimes the truth is really funny.

And I have one from my college days that says, “Don’t You Wish You Were Me?”  It glows in the dark.  I bought it 20lbs and 20,000 hair follicles ago, but I still wear it to work out at the gym.

It used to be funny.  Now it’s ironic.

They don’t make many of those t-shirts anymore.  Sigh…I pine for the days when a t-shirt said something about a person.

Anyway, I was wearing this last shirt to the gym tonight, and in my right hand I had yesterday’s (Wednesday’s) Redeye paper, the free paper here in Chicago with all the news that’s fit to be printed in a free paper.

I like the Redeye…but I like it mostly for its Sudoku.

I’m not a Sudoko wiz.  In fact, I’d call my Sudoku skills as “above average,” with my number skills falling somewhere between an 8th grade mathelete and Stephen Hawkings.  But I can usually tackle the Wednesday Sudoku with little problem.  It’s a “medium” in difficulty.

And so I came up with the brilliant idea to do the Sudoku while jogging on the treadmill.  I did this for two reasons.  A) my biggest stumbling block when it comes to running/jogging is boredom.  God, it’s boring.  Ugh. Boring, boring, boring.  Runner’s high?  Nope.  Jogger’s boredom. B) Because running is boring, I need a goal to get me through.  Past goals include, “Run until Cops is over.”  Another goal, “Get through half the Scissor Sisters album, and then you can stop.”

Tonight’s goal: do the medium Sudoku from Wednesday’s Redeye.

I started up the ‘mill.  5.5. Easy, easy jog.

It wasn’t until about 30 seconds in that I figured out this was the dumbest idea ever.  First of all, it was really hard to read the blocks.  I don’t run with my glasses on (sweat streaks), and I don’t wear contacts (can’t touch my eyeballs), so I had to squint really hard to see the blocks.

Secondly, have you ever tried to write numbers in blocks while jogging?  Not easy, my friend.  Not easy.

So I lowered that level down to a “brisk walk,” where I could hold the Sudoku up to my face and work on it.

That’s when I started hearing the high-pitched squeaking noise coming from my treadmill.  I thought to myself, “Awesome.  I chose the squeaky treadmill that everyone else avoided and hates, and I’m going to annoy the hell out of all of these people…”

And then I realized that the treadmill only squeaked if you neared an edge.  And then context clues led me to conclude that the treadmill is designed to do this to tell the user, “Hey, get your eyes off of the Sudoku, you’re about to fall off!”

Apparently I was walking much slower than the speed given.

So I adjusted and started filling in the blanks, and I was doing a pretty good job (except my 7’s began looking like 4’s, causing some momentary confusion).

And then the sweat started.  It started dripping on my paper.  And the ink started to run.  And here I was, 32 minutes into my jog/brisk walk Sudoku challenge with about half the boxes filled in, and my hard work began to suffer terribly because my body started flinging juice everywhere.

So I started filling in boxes; guessing at answers.  And before I knew it, two fours appeared in the same line and, blamo, challenge met.

Subconsciously I self-sabotaged my Sudoku challenge to stop the embarrassment; I know this to be true.  Between the squeaking, squinting, odd gait, feverish sweating, and intermittent vocalizations of “Ahhh” and “No…” that just come from me when doing math problems, my true self had had enough, ramped up the sweat, and called the question.

As I was wiping down the machine, my failed Sudoku in hand, another jogger passed by, looked at my shirt, and just said, “Nope.”

It took me a minute, as he stared at my face, and then at my chest, and back at my face.  “Nope.”

He walked away.

Inside I said quietly, “Me neither, buddy, me neither.”

And then I balled up the Sudoku and tossed it to the trashcan.

And I missed.


Why I Want My Kid to Play Hockey

My son is 10 months old.Hockey-Stick-and-Puck-Photographic-Print-C11950881

We’re starting to think about his first birthday party, but not because it’s going to be a huge blow-out. Let’s be honest, any peers he has won’t even remember the thing so, why bother, right?

No. A small affair.

But there is something that we want to make memorable, not just for us, but for him: the cake.

Why? Because we’ll undoubtedly take a picture of him next to the cake and force him to look at it on every birthday for the rest of his life.  And when we show him that picture, we want him to recognize that this moment was the moment when it happened: he decided to play hockey.

Well, technically we decided for him, but whatev…

So his cake will be a Blackhawk sweater.  Chocolate body, vanilla sleeves. I can’t wait.

See, this is the thing, I’m a big fan of just three sports: hockey, football, and baseball.

But if I’m honest with myself (and I always try to be), baseball is only really fun to watch if you’re at the stadium.  A professional stadium.  Oh, sure, I’ll have the Cubs on at home when I can’t make the game.  But I’m always reading or folding laundry or making dinner or anything but actually watching much of the game.

Because baseball is often like slow death to watch.

So, baseball is out.  I don’t want to sit on metal bleachers in the blazing sun to watch a kid hit a ball off a tee and run into the outfield because he’s confused about where the bases are.

And football?  Well, I love football. Love. It. But I don’t want him to play football.  His head isn’t even fully fused yet! And am I going to, in a few years, risk unfusing it?

No ma’am.

So, football is out.

And that leaves hockey.  And I love hockey.  I love watching hockey.  I love cheering to hockey.  I love trying to figure out exactly what “icing” means as an infraction (because, really, who the hell knows?).

I love hockey.

“But he might lose his teeth!” you say.  Listen, we can replace teeth. Perhaps it’d even be a benefit to replace some teeth at some point. Easy maintenance.

But we can’t replace his brain.  Hence why hockey is preferable to football.

Another added benefit: I’ve never played hockey.  If I’ve never played it, there’s no expectation that I’ll be any good at it.  There’s no expectation that I’ll have to show him how to play…we’ll leave that to the professionals.

I’ve played baseball and football.  I’m terrible. TERRIBLE!

I was that kid out in right right roving right field who was picking dandelions, bored out of his mind.  When we were told we couldn’t taunt the other team, I really had no other role.  I played right field for a reason.  You know how many balls came to right field in little league?

Zero. None.

Unless you got that errant roller, and then it was just a matter of running to the ball already on the ground. I had zero talent.

And football?  I played fine for a kid who wasn’t big or fast or coordinated.  Which means I stunk.  I loved playing, I just stunk. I was great on the sidelines…which made me realize I should just join the band because at least they got to do something during the game.

So I did.  I figured trading one uniform for another isn’t so hard.  Plus, band headgear was so much easier to wear…

What’s that?  Basketball?  Why isn’t basketball on the list?

To be honest, basketball doesn’t do it for me.  I played that more than any other sport and I made one basket in four years of playing.

That’s a quarter of a basket per year, if you’re keeping track. Which is about as often as I got to actually play, anyway.

The only thing I was good at in basketball was fouling.  Which is why my parents stuck me in karate class.

I was good at karate. He can do that, too, if he wants.  But karate isn’t that fun to watch.

And really, it’s all about me.

So, hockey it is.  Now lace up while your mom and I grab a seat in this temperature controlled rink.

If You Call Me “Daddy Daycare” One More Time…

Hey, you.Daycare

Yes, you.

You who insisted on calling me “daddy daycare” when I was with my son at Starbucks.  You need to cut it out.

Seriously.  This is hard enough without throwing in the term “care.” That’s a lot of pressure.

Plus, it is a terrible movie.  One of Eddie Murphy’s worst…and that’s saying a lot.

It’s not “daddy daycare”. It’s called “taking parenting seriously.”  It’s called, “quality time.”  It’s called, “Daddy has a hankering for a Starbucks coffee and he can’t responsibly leave the 9 month old alone at home, so grab your snowsuits.”

It’s called “A quick prayer was just thrown up that we survive this trip.”

But it shouldn’t be a surprise that, on my day off, I’m chilling with my boy, right?  Shouldn’t it be the norm?

And, if you spend any time watching us, you’ll notice that I’m not so much a “daycare” as I am a magician, a puppet-master, a story-teller, a banana cutter, a whiz at opening food containers one handed, and an unending encyclopedia of animal noises.

Don’t believe me?  You try reading a book on animals and turn to the giraffe.  He’s expecting a sound, you know.  The lion has a sound.  The bear has a sound (similar to the lions, interestingly enough).  The elephant has a noise.

And then you turn to the giraffe.

What the hell?  Baby book editors: make a warning label that this book has a giraffe in it so I won’t start making sounds at the beginning.  You’re killing me.

Pro-tip for dads: a zebra, giraffe, and rhino all make the same noise…because I really can’t figure out that many variations.  It sounds like a screaming goat.

“I love seeing fathers with their children in public.”

This was actually said to me today, too.  A sweet woman, I’m sure.  But what do I say to that?  “Thanks?”  Aren’t I supposed to be doing this?

Or maybe I say, “And I love strangers commenting on my life objectively.”

Or maybe I, like I did today, just rip open a bag of raisins and cram them into my mouth before he can grab any.

Choking hazard, you know…

I’m not a Daddy Daycare.  I’m a dad.  And, if you watch closely, “care” is a strong term to use.

I’m just trying to make sure my kid survives the trip to Starbucks.