Can I help you?

A bald guy wearing a short-sleeved shirt with a tie knocked on my door tonight. He asked for a Troy Roper; he was going to serve "Troy" with court papers. I'm guessing Mr. Roper hasn't been very responsible about paying his bills. That's the second time since we've lived in our house that a private investigator has come by looking for a previous tenant. Of course, it could be worse: This guy could show up on my front porch.

Shout out

Got to give a shout out to my dad, who's joined the blog ranks. Here's his internet venture, Among the Trees. Of course, his first real post is a promise to leave his children with a lifetime of detritus to sort through after he passes on. Thanks, dad! And I didn't think I was going to get an inheritance.
He's moving back to China in a month, so I don't know if Beijing will let him keep posting. Might be too subversive...

More on corn

Since the two people who read this blog are jealous of my corn on the cob feast, lemme rub it in a little bit. It was sweet corn and it was dee-lish. Meegan's grandmother Carol had me grill it over charcoal. I've never had it that way before. Yes, yum.

Jimmy crack corn

I just shucked a dozen ears of corn so that we can have corn on the cob with dinner tonight. I sat in the sun and sweated.
And I made sure to listen to bluegrass songs on my mp3 player just to make the experience complete.

Summertime, and the livin's easy

We're visiting Meegan's grandmother in Portage, Mich. She's got a house on a lake. When I got up this morning, I rubbed my eyes, walked out the back door and hopped into an aluminum rowboat and paddled out into the lake. It was calm and placid in spots, but a cool breeze blew across the surface. I rowed out a ways and then stopped. I let the wind push the boat.

Ulp!

Just got the papers to sign for a second round of loans to finance Meegan's nursing school. Yikes. At least with the airtight security of a healthcare job, we'll be able to pay them back. However, taking the ten-thousand-dollar debt plunge is far better than scraping by on a journalist's salary forever.

See what I mean?

I told you the Fu Manchu was comin' back in a big way. Check out Paul Teutel Sr., the owner of Orange County Choppers.
Pops is one bad dude. And nobody says nuthin 'bout his full-on handlebar Fu.

On the cutting edge

Check out my sweet new look. The Fu Manchu, it's making a big comeback. I mean, first it was the trucker hats, then moppy long hair. Mark my words, this stache is next.

Welcome Elizabeth

My friend Chris had an 8-pound baby girl last weekend. Well, actually his wife Cybil did all the work. As soon as I get a picture of little Elizabeth, I will post it.
I was calling him tonight, but Meegan reminded me what it's like to have a new baby. Oh yeah, I remember. No sleep. Days and nights ruled by a screaming 8-pound tyrant who demands food, coddling and changing. Not a lot of time for anything else.
Chris' phone kept ringing and went to voicemail. The mailbox was full so I couldn't leave a message.
Guess he's kinda busy.
So instead of a phone call, here's my congratulations, Chris, Cybil and Michael. May God bless the new addition to your family.

No site is safe

Okay, the thrill of MySpace is gone. Apparently the guerrilla marketers have discovered it. So far, I've gotten more than a dozen friend requests from fake people who have great suggestions for me to get rich quick or requests that redirect me to a site that looks remarkably like MySpace and offers a great download to enhance my web portal experience. Except, it's not a real MySpace site and I'm sure the download inserts all kinds of malicious spyware on your computer.

There will come soft rains

After every four-day stretch of 95 degree heat with 95 percent humidity, there comes a violent storm. One thing I love about the Midwest is watching the thunderstorms. The air is thick and heavy and it's like breathing syrup. But just before the storm began, the temperature dropped 10 degrees and the air opened out -- it was like coming up from the bottom of a pool. Before the rain started pouring down tonight, the lightning played back and forth for 15 minutes in the clouds miles above. Immense and glorious.

You know it's hot when...

...the air conditioning is set on 72 degrees, the lights are turned off, all the shades are drawn -- and the house is still 78 degrees Fahrenheit.
Yeah, that's how hot it is in my house right now. I'm sweating in central air.

John makes music

Here's the setup: I went to high school the guy on the right. I always said he should get into radio because of his voice. Apparently, he took my advice. Check out some of the ad spots he's been doing. Here's one for a new restaurant that offers an innovative guarantee. Here's another for some sort of soothing balm. And there's plenty more where that came from.

Quarantined

Today our household was decimated by fever. Of course, only one of us had it, and that one was Nicholas. But that means everybody else is out of commission too. And with the heat advisory today, it didn't take a lot of convincing for me to stay on the couch with him ALL DAY watching Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer videos. I have to say I've got a soft spot for that cheeky little engine, but Dora kind of gets on my nerves.

But as not as hip as I think...

Yes, the Razr is cool. But I don't know how to work half the stuff on it. For instance, it has a Bluetooth earpiece. You can download all kinds of features and silly rings, but I have no idea how to do that. And the earpiece is still sitting on my dresser.

I am hip

Meegan and I got free cell phones as part of our new plan. But not just any free cell phone: the Motorola Razr. It is sweet. Now I'm going to have to give up this monotonous workaday family life, get a job in advertising, move to the city and hit the clubs every night.
All I need is a video iPod.

More fun with raw fish

After our sushi smorgasbord, Meegan took home all her leftover California rolls. Then, this afternoon while we were having snacks on the back deck, she pulled the styrofoam container out of the fridge and grabbed a roll. After her first bite, she said,
"Do you think this sushi is okay?"
Suddenly it dawned on us that sushi really is a one-time thing.
The leftover sushi -- including the portion already in Meegan's mouth -- ended up in the trash.

Too much of a good thing

Last night we tried out a new sushi joint, Marc's Fusion Cafe, with a half dozen friends from work. It was pretty tiny, maybe half a dozen large tables and a bar. But the sushi was pretty good. Usually I just get a few pieces as an appetizer. But last night, I decided to go all out and eat a full meal: hamachi, unagi, hotate, and tai, plus a California roll platter.
Wasabi makes sushi an experience, not just a food. That's why I love it.
However, there was an unexpected realization: Perhaps a stomach full of raw fish and horseradish is not entirely desirable.

Alligators and such

Check out Dr. Jay's sweet vacation photos. No they're not pictures of Katie and him in front of the Epcot. There's alligators. And dolphins. And a bad photo but a lurid description of a buzzard's on-the-go lunch. Yum.
Yeah, Jay, it is weird that people call you doctor now. Good thing you listened to Mr. Boyer and stopped letting me drag you down in physics class.

Time to spit Wrigley out

Okay, that settles it. Wrigley Field is a dump.
I just got back from watching the Cubs play in Miller Park. I'd never been to Miller before tonight. In fact, the only places I've ever seen ballgames are Wrigley and the old Comiskey. And let me tell you, my eyes were opened to a whole nuther world of beautiful, spacious ballparks. Concession stands every 20 feet. With every variety of sausages, not just measly non-Vienna hotdogs. Plentiful restrooms; no troughs. Unobstructed views of the field, even in the upper deck. A retractable roof.
Apparently, ballparks don't have to smell like mold, sweat and urine. Or drop chunks of concrete on fans. Or take three days to exit after the 9th inning.
Yeah, that's right, Wrigley stinks. I don't care what the diehards say. It's a trash pit after 90 years of spilled beers and trampled peanut shells. Look around the at the stadiums for other NL Central teams: Minute Maid Park opened in 2002. The Reds play on a three-year-old field. The new Busch Stadium is in its inagural season. Miller opened in 2001. Even the rotten Pirates, the only team in the National League with a worse record than the Cubs, have PNC Park. It's just five years old and touted as one of the prettiest parks in major league baseball.
So why, in the name of everything that is good and true, do we have to put up with the pile of stink rubble that is Wrigley Field? We can transplant the ivy. We can keep the scoreboard. But can we get a new ballpark. Tradition-schmadition. Our only tradition is losing and I for one am willing to let that one go.
Unfortunately, Cub fans are rubes who will keep buying tickets.
Oh yeah, I forgot to point out that the Cubs were shut out tonight by a ruthless Capuano, who pitched all 9 and threw less than 100 times. A fitting finale for my last game of this pathetic season. Mother Tribune won't get another dime of my money until they put a winning team on the field. So from here on out, it's Miller Time if I want to watch the Cubs.
Did I mention it takes me less time to get to that park?

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

I saw the Cubs game with a friend who has season tickets. We went to high school together and had all the same friends, a big group of guys (and a few girls) we ran with all the time. But that was more than a decade ago. What's strange to me now is that we've grown up. I visited his condo in Wrigleyville, a nice two bedroom with a deck overlooking a shady courtyard. He bought it a few years ago. He sells computers for a living at a huge corporation downtown. He's single and goes to games and concerts a lot.
I still live in our hometown. I have a four-bedroom house and I'm married with a son. I write for a newspaper. I spend my free time watering my flowers and blogging.
This is a guy who in high school sneaked out of American government class with me one sunny afternoon just to see if we could get away with it. This is a guy who a few years later sat on my apartment's unauthorized deck (aka the roof) and grilled brats with me.
Now we're two grown men leading two different kinds of lives.
It's weird, time's effect.

Cubs win! Cubs win!

Well, I went into Sunday's game with the melancholic pessimism that is my right as a Cubs fan after Dempster's meltdown yesterday. And when I left Rockford, it was raining, so I wasn't even sure I'd get to see the game. But the cross-town matchup that followed proved well worth the trip: a 15-11 slugfest with five Cub homers, including two from the new outfielder, Angel Pagan (that's him). Oh yeah, and we beat the daylights out of the Sox. Except for their two-run first inning, we had at least a two-run advantage over them the entire day. Most of the time it was a four- or five-run lead.
But somehow, I was still worried.

Splash down

Meegan bought Nicholas an inflatable pool shaped like an alligator. He's testing it out now. He loves running around it and splashing the water with his hand, sitting on the side of it so the water pours out, turning up the spigot so the built-in sprinkler sprays higher than the garage and coming up on the deck to try and convince me to come in the water.
It's so hot, maybe I will.

The TV clip you'll never see

If a journalist goes on the television news and nobody watches him, does he make a sound?
I think not.
I went on the 6 o'clock news to talk about the week in review, but nobody seems to have seen me. So I don't even know how I did. And I'm not going to get a video clip either.
But apparently a consultant comes by every few months to critique us journalists on our TV habits by watching tape with us.
No no's: Wearing light shirts. Saying 'umm' a lot. Looking off camera to the right or left (down is fine).
And now I understand why every tv anchorman is clean shaven. When I smile with a Van Dyck, it looks like I'm baring my teeth to bite someone. And nobody wears glasses. Thanks to the beams shining from the ceiling, my eyes become blazing shafts of light.