Thursday, April 13, 2017

Potato Salad

What would you do if you were at a restaurant and they served you cold french-fries? What about a baked potato that was room temperature, much less cold? Chilly mashed potatoes? Gross, right? You’d send it back. Or throw it at a wall. Or your brother.

So why does anyone in their right mind like potato salad? Talk about gross? It’s like icy clam chowder smothered in mayonnaise, without the only good part – the clams.

Potato salad looks like kindergarten puke. You remember. That one kid Billy who seemed to always throw up once a month in the hallway right outside of the classroom and it would splatter all over the place leaving potato salad shrapnel on baseboards, open space ten feet away and inevitably landing on some unlucky pink dress wearing girl’s shoes unbeknownst to her despite the lingering stench and the dried-up chunk on the left toe.

And then the janitor shows up with that huge metal bucket and mop and after cleaning up he sprinkles something that looks like cat litter all over the scene of the Plinian eruption which smells even worse than the original potato salad vomit.

That is what I think of when I see potato salad. Why would anyone put that in their mouth?

Which one is puke and which one is potato salad? Without the presentation, it would be impossible to tell!

Not quite as bad as potato salad is Brussels sprouts. Every trendy restaurant has Brussels sprouts on their menu and often are known for them to the point where all the hipsters and foodies rave about them and insist I try them. I tell them no. I don’t like Brussels sprouts. Don’t even get me started on their slippery testicle texture. I know, I know, they can be baked or shredded or manipulated in some way to make them less nutsy. So then we get to taste. The foodie hipster will rave about how yummy these Brussels sprouts are at this particular Asian Fusion Mexican Bistro Farm to Table Masterpiece of a Restaurant and that I simply must try them! I say, “No thanks. I don’t like Brussels sprouts.” They insist. So, I cave in and try some fancy Brussels sprouts that are the talk of the town.

I take a bite and make a face like a child eating liver. I force it down and chase it with whiskey and the wine of the asshole that made me try it. I look at their surprised face and raised eyebrows and say, “You know what these taste like? Brussels sprouts.”

You put lipstick on a pig and you still have a pig.

Potato salad and Brussels sprouts have other issues as well. They are both irritating to spell. Why I have to capitalize a vegetable is beyond me. Does any other produce get that kind of royalty? Let’s see, I need to pick up Red peppers, Sweet corn and Baby lettuce today. Dumb. I find it hard to believe that every restaurant in the meat packing district of New York City is getting their goddamn Brussels sprouts from Belgium. And they can’t just call them sprouts now can they? That is something entirely different; and edible!

As for potato salad, I wasn’t a fan of Dan Quale but I gave him a hall pass for making it ‘potatoe’ at the twelve-year old spelling bee. Honest mistake that isn’t limited to just dimwits. After all, there are lots of ways around this potential misspelling on menus across the globe. No chef has to label his sides actually using the word ‘potato’ by going with fries, mashers, twice-baked and what not. However, there really is no alternative to the pile of chunky bile that is potato salad. What else can you call it besides perhaps potatoe salad?

I’m way more willing to eat Brussels sprouts than I am potato salad. Little Billy’s pukey cold whitish-yellow glop of potato salad just isn’t gonna fly. Flash fry me some Brussels sprouts and shred ‘em up so all I have to deal with is that they still taste like Brussels sprouts and I’ll be fine (as long as I have a full drink at hand).

Its lunch time and for some reason I’ve lost my appetite.

Monday, January 16, 2017


As much as I love music, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t know much about Neil Young. His voice is so unique its nearly impossible to mistake him for someone else when I hear him, but I couldn’t reel off countless songs of his while in conversation. There is one for sure though and it hits home harder than ever now that its 2017.

I’ll turn fiddy later this year. As will most of my homeys. Class of ’85 from AHS/PHS is hitting the half century mark. “Old man take a look at my life. I’m a lot like you.” Yep, I’ve moved from the opening chorus of “Old man look at my life. I’m a lot like you were,” to the middle one where I’m already the old man.

Fifty always seemed like the halfway mark but in reality, I’d be really lucky to live to 100 years old. I hit my half-life mark awhile back, I just didn’t realize it at the time. It went by like a soothing massage. I’m feeling good and loving life on the table; her hands kneading into the tough parts of my life hiding in a rude knot under my shoulder blade and she’s kicking its ass and I’m thinking about unicorns and skittles and then she says okay, time is up and I’m like, “Whaaaaaaaaaaaat? That was 90 minutes? We just started! Noooooooo. Its only been a half hour!” Where did the time go?

So yeah, I’m past the halfway point of my life. And I’m so goddamn grateful for where I am right now. My perspective and context evolves every day, however there are guideposts that smack me on the head more often than the low hanging objects that I seem to walk into every day. Three funerals in recent months. One of an old man. One of a young boy. And one of a thirty year old woman; my CMT that gave me 90 minutes of pure bliss once a month for the last few years. I used to ask her, “Where did the time go,” and now I’m sure her, the young boy and the old man could give me answers I’m not prepared to accept.

This life is a gift. And whether your fight is over Standing Rock or folding laundry on the stairs and somehow making it a battle royale like my boys did last night, there is much to cherish and everything to lose. So why not choose to be kind and appreciate the moment? I’ve made it past the halfway mark and I don’t want to feel nostalgic and reflect only when people die or something tragic happens.

I don’t want someone to criticize me for not supporting their cause or someone else to judge me for any of my many flaws (and I have a helluva lot of them) because it makes me feel bad. So I have to remind myself it is their issue they are projecting on me and that I don’t have to enable it or even react to it. I can choose where I put my energy. Its easy to forget when you are a sensitive dude that likes to please.

Why put out negative energy when you could be a young boy taking his last bike ride or an old man having his last meal with loved ones or a young woman laughing for the last time with her friend when instead you could be in the moment, appreciating all you have and wanting to share the gift of life with nothing but kindness.

With all this said, I’m guilty of being an asshole. Many times over. I’m still evolving and learning. I’m trying to be thoughtful and I’m trying to appreciate the moment. A friend asked me what my best part of the day was yesterday. I had trouble answering because I did chores all day, watched football and played a game with my kids for maybe a half hour. It was just one of those days of nothing momentous and not very family focused. Guiltily I said I guess it was the half hour I played a game with my kids. But then I corrected myself and said, “Really, I’m just grateful for this day.”

Okay, quick real-time side note while I’m literally writing this. My Spotify Best of 2016 playlist is on for the first time and Michael Franti’s “Good to be Alive Today” just came on. I kid you not. This shit is real people. There are tons of songs on this list and this song is waaaaaaaaay down the list and it comes on right now???????!!!!!!!

Here is the deal. My kids are really all that matter to me. However, they aren’t all that I care about, although they are far and away number one on that list. I care about lots. And sometimes negativity and bullshit get in the way of what I care about. I do pretty well realizing that and bouncing back. But death also gets in the way. Its hard to bounce back from that, especially if you are the one dying, right?

So I’m not going to take anything for granted. I’m turning fifty this year. So what. I’m turning a day greater tomorrow and a day even greater the next. I’m a lucky mofo. I’ve been sad for the old man, young boy and young woman. But I’ve also been happy for the love they gave and the love they received. It is all quite beautiful. Here is to the old man, the young boy and the young woman.

My mom cut this out and left it for me. I should stop making fun of that crazy wise old mama of mine. 

Here is to being nostalgic and reflective for each and every day. Here is to celebrating those days, good and bad, with the good always bouncing back. Here is to the half-century mark. And here is to you, anyone that bothers to read my nonsense and perhaps smiles because we are lucky to know each other. Here is to this moment. Here is to being a day greater today.

Thursday, October 27, 2016

Yet Another Sappy Cubs Post to the Interwebz

Yeah, we are irritating. All of us Cubs fans crying with happiness, writing sappy sentimental blogs, posting Cubs hype online, flying the W, talking about the first time they went to Wrigley, wishing their dead father was here to enjoy this, wearing their Cubs gear 24/7. Of course there are references and sometimes discussion about the relevance and/or meaninglessness of the billygoat, Bartman, the black cat in Ron Santo’s on-deck circle, Leon Durham’s Gatorade soaked glove, lack of lights costing home field advantage against the Padres and on and on and on. And on.

 This is what happens with extreme futility. Last World Series in 1945. Last World Series Championship in 1908. Us Cub fans can’t help ourselves. If we were Sox fans, we’d get wasted with our kids and beat up old guys that coach the Royals. Ah, father-son bonding at the old ballgame. If you aren’t shot by a sniper on the way to Comiskey Park, you can pick up some crack for you and your fifteen-year-old, get some neck tattoos and beat the snot out of Tom Gamboa right there on the field. And then three years later the Sox win the World Series which hurts more than the doubleplay ball going through Alex Gonzalez’s legs after the Bartman incident. Futility.

I guess this is another sappy sentimental blog about the Cubs. Or is it about something else? Yeah, my first baseball game was at Wrigley Field with my dad. I’ve been to so many, I can’t honestly remember which was my first. I know I was in elementary school. We’d exit the Eisenhower early and park way north down Clark Street by the cemetery. An obligatory joke about people dying to park there or a dead end road would come up for sure. We’d walk by Nuts on Clark and sometimes step inside. Bubba Gump’s variety of shrimp has nothing on all the nuts in that place. See what I did there?

Usually we’d have tickets. Sometimes we didn’t and my dad would buy them on the street. The Cubs were horrible in the mid-70s and I’m sure my dad paid less than face value. We both learned a lot about the mean streets of Chicago from those experiences. At least we weren’t getting robbed on the El on the way to a Sox game. But we did get scammed once by a heartless scalper one sunny weekend. Even though the Cubs sucked, weekend games would often sell out. We found a guy that was selling a pair for face value so my dad jumped on it. Fake tickets weren’t an issue back then so we happily headed to the turnstyles.

We entered Wrigley Field under the red marquee and marveled at how the floor could already be sticky. The smell of popcorn and hotdogs filled the air. We looked at our tickets to see if we went to the left or right. Oops. My ticket was down the left field line near the foul pole. My dad’s ticket was in the same spot, along the right field line. No wonder the tickets went for face value! They weren’t together!

We made the best of it. Like most other games, we’d move around and sit in empty seats, improving our location until we were in box seats just a few rows from the field. My dad taught me how to keep score in the Cubs program. I got countless autographs on those programs. One time I met Ernie Banks in the stands and he signed the bill of my Cubs hat. We’d watch the game, my dad would teach me about baseball and tell me not to make basket catches like Jerry Morales. My whole family attended a game one time and my sister got a foul ball hit by Ivan DeJesus. A fat kid landed on her but she came up with the ball. I was jealous but also proud of her. The Cubs would usually lose but we’d go home happy anyway.

I watched countless games on WGN. First Jack Brickhouse and then Harry Caray. Hey hey, holy cow! Nothing like a drunk Harry Caray singing “Jody, Jody Davis! Catcher without a fear!” And then constantly calling Sandberg “Ryne Sanderson.” I’d also listen to games on the radio, particularly on family road trips. Man, I loved Lou Boudreau’s voice.

One of my favorite radio games was actually on the Cincinnati Reds feed. We were visiting some hillbilly relatives of my mom’s in Ohio. I was probably seven or eight years old putting this right around the time of the Big Red Machine. I can still name the Reds starting lineup. Foster, Geronimo and Griffey in the outfield. Rose, Concepcion, Morgan, Perez from third to first and Johnny Bench behind the plate. Sparky Anderson could manage that team to victory in his sleep. Anyway, back to the hillbillies. This really old guy named Jim that I think was my mom’s Great Uncle was listening to the Reds-Cubs game in the kitchen. I was bored out of my skull.  The Reds were killing the Cubs. In my memory it was by like ten runs.  Maybe it was only a handful, I don’t know. But old man Jim told me he’d give me a dollar if the Cubs came back and won. Suddenly the Cubs bats woke up. Hit after hit after hit. I won that dollar handily by the time it was over. I was happier than a kid going to DisneyLand.

I probably spent that buck on baseball cards. I had a huge collection. I’d get old cards by hitting the garage sales with my parents. This was before the value of baseball cards really took off and I could have scored all kinds of valuable cards if only I wasn’t a Cubs fan. My strategy was always to buy the old Cubs cards. If I were a Yankees fan, I’d be rich! Instead, I loaded up on Ernie Banks, Billy Williams, Ron Santo and uh, well, there is a reason the Cubs have been bad for so long. Not too many players!  

After college when I lived downtown Chicago, I’d go to as many games as I could. I lived in Wrigleyville one year, but was mostly by Lincoln Park. We’d walk all the way there, bar hopping as we went, often passing right by Wrigley to have lunch at Bernies back when it was still a dive that only the locals knew about. I’ve sat all over that stadium and also across the street on the rooftops before they became big business (walked up the back stairs of one of the buildings on a whim and got in with all you can eat and drink for thirty bucks).

I have numerous Cubs hats and always have the traditional one in prime rotation, needing replacement every few years. I have a dozen Murphy’s white plastic cups in the bottom drawer of my kitchen. My kids have been drinking out of them since they were toddlers. My work mates got me a brick from Wrigley Field and an ornament made out of the seats for Christmas last year. That’s one nice thing about the park renovations! My Australian Shepard was named Wrigley. Anytime I meet a kid named Addison, I’m shocked their parents didn’t do it on purpose. If I’m wearing my Cubs hat while traveling, strangers will say, “Go Cubs.” If I see a Sox fan, we give each other shit. If I see a Cardinals fan, I ignore them because they are too nice to give shit (but I still hate the dirty birds).

I’m going to Chicago this weekend to watch games 3-5 of the World Series with my friends. Some are my homeys and some are also coming in from around the country. As of right now, I don’t have any tickets so I plan on watching with the thousands of Cubs fans that will be my best friends at the bar by the time the game is over. We will sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame together. We will laugh. And we will cry. Hopefully only tears of happiness.

Which brings this back full circle. Is this about baseball and the Cubs? Well sure. But its also about love. Between me and my father. Between me and my friends. Between a team and its city. Between strangers with a common bond. And its about hope.

So many people have laughed and mocked us Cubs fans because we are all so nervous. Our team has been heavily favored all year to win the World Series. But when you are used to saying, “Wait til next year,” in May, you are fricking nervous!

Tomorrow I will join friends and family in the revelry of rooting for our home team. We have so much hope, we are bursting. I will bring extra underwear for all the peeing in my pants with excitement. I will bring my love for my family and friends and for my Cubs.

Dare I say it? What happens if they lose? Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? It won’t happen.

Big sigh. If they lose, I’ll just count the days to April. And you know what? If they win, I’ll be counting the days to April as well. Cuz I’ll always have my Cubs. They’ve already given me a lifetime of memories. They just keep giving me more and more.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

Monkeys and Whales in Nicaragua and Burning Man

“Remember when the bus pulled over so we could pee on the back wall of the church next to the chained up monkey?”

Yes, that really happened.

“We were sitting inside the orca during the dust storm when a woman took out her violin and performed a solo for the next half hour.”

Yep, that really happened as well.

Different places a month apart in time, 3600 miles apart in distance, polar opposites in humidity (tons versus none) and yet they were the same experience. No, I have not been doing drugs. Unless you call grand adventuring a drug.

Let’s not get too literal. Peeing on a church wall next to a monkey isn’t at all like listening to a concerto in a whale. And before you call me a heathen, I didn’t realize it was a church until I looked in the front window of the cinder block rectangular building and saw the altar in the back. Look, to me, this earth is my church and sometimes mother nature is a man’s bathroom so I thank the lord, baby Buddha and your mother too that I got much necessary relief. On the church wall next to the chained up monkey. Ugh.

The monkey happened two weeks ago in Nicaragua. The orca happened a month and a half ago at Burning Man in the middle of a desert. Nicaragua, Nevada; not the same thing at all. Or is it?

My Burning Man campmate and bestest friend forevermore Tory has been investigating an opportunity to support a charity that builds entire communities for poor people in Nicaragua. They buy land, help them build houses and the infrastructure and clear fields for agriculture. They help set up distribution and create a better life for these people that had next to nothing. Once the community is set up and running fairly independently (7+ years), the people own their land and houses and are self-sufficient. Tory and I went to Nicaragua for a Vision Trip – an investigatory outing to learn about the charity organization, see a community that is advanced and see the community that we might support.

The charity organization is Agros. Everyone we met associated with Agros was great and it looks like something we want to support. This is a faith-based organization which is a bit out of my comfort zone when it comes to religion and its place in the communities. To each their own and I’m cool with the Nicaraguans’ faith. There were other people on this Vision Trip representing their church in the U.S. and quite often incorporated their faith into this outing which again, to each their own, but it wasn’t the angle Tory and I have for being involved with Agros and the Nicaraguans needing our support. We just want to help them live a great life and be happy regardless of their religious beliefs.

When the participants of the Vision Trip all first met up, introductions were made and everyone tried to get to know the basics about each other. Imagine twelve super religious people asking Tory and I how we know each other.

“We are travel buddies.”

“Oh, you aren’t married?”

“No, we aren’t even dating. Just friends. We both have someone at home.”

“So how did you meet?”

“At Burning Man.”


“Burning Man.”

“Is that in Arizona?”


“What is Burning Man?”

I have trouble explaining Burning Man to super liberal crazy people that have an idea what it is about. It’s really hard to explain to these people when most of them are over 65 and they just finished devotion over breakfast together.

“It’s a week-long temporary city constructed by participants in the desert. It has tons of art, creativity…”

The glassy-eyed looks came fast.

“It’s kind of like trying to explain the color green to a blind person.”

Full on look of bewilderment. So I went for the impossible explanation.

“It’s actually quite a bit like what we are doing here. Burning Man is about love and giving. Participation without judgement. Radical self-reliance and yet a community working together to take care of each other. Tribes within a tribe. Isn’t that what we are trying to do in these communities in Nicaragua?”

I think we were being full on judged and their lack of understanding combined with our lack of religion made for an interesting group. Thankfully, they were very nice to us and we all got what we wanted and needed out of the trip so it was all good.

Tory and I are getting a kick out of the fact that we are the only two people not pictured at all (other than one obligatory group photo) in the multitude of photos published in a series of blogs put out by the church group regarding the Vision Trip. Hard to believe a couple loud mouths like us apparently didn’t officially exist with the church people. Halleluiah!

Here is what I saw in Nicaragua. A whole bunch of beautiful people working their respective asses off as a community with a great appreciation for music, giving, relationships and love.

Here is what I saw at Burning Man. A whole bunch of beautiful people working their respective asses off as a community with a great appreciation for music, giving, relationships and love.

Okay, I saw some other stuff too. And the Nicaraguans are a year-round community that sustains their entire life and well-being whereas Burning Man is a week-long event (ignoring the year-long planning and other events) that isn’t all about survival (although it sure can be).

Everything is relative. Who am I to say what is a good life in Nicaragua? Who am I to say how one should spend their week at Burning Man? But I do know the Nicaraguans need and want our help. Whether its money support, a hug, building a relationship or working in the fields, I’d like to be there for them. Just like at Burning Man. Whether its support, a hug, building a relationship or working on the playa, I am there for my Burning Man family.

Now it’s time to build my Nicaraguan family.