Ridin' Shirtless With #88

My foray into homelessness (see below for details if you missed this month’s first post) has eclipsed the three week mark, and with no end in sight, I think it’s starting to have some profoundly adverse effects on me. At first I embraced the freedom that was unjustly denied me simply because I possessed a roof and lived with Lori. I figured my time as a carefree couch-surfer would be a nice break from the comfortable monotony of betrothed cohabitation. Indeed, in the beginning, this freedom was everything that I hoped it would be. I came and went as I pleased, drank with grad school friends and Retars, frequented after-hour 5 am bars, left the toilet seat up, and survived on a diet that consisted entirely of pork rinds, cheese curds, those KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of fried chicken, and mountain dew. However, after a few weeks of this solipsistic lifestyle, it is evident that I am starting to deteriorate mentally, physically, and spiritually.

The first sign of trouble was when I missed a 7:30 am meeting with Lori and Steve the Romanian Contractor. In my defense, we had an action packed itinerary the previous night. My softball team won its first game of the year after a rocky start to the season as I jump started our offense with a solo dinger in the 2nd (it was actually a triple with a throwing error, but our score-keeper likes to overlook such technicalities and I felt no need to quibble). Later that night, the Blackhawks won Lord Stanley’s Cup, setting off a week-long celebration that proudly exhibited all the best this city has to offer. My arch nemesis the Boston Sports Guy summed it best when he said in a recent column on ESPN.com, “By the way, I'd like to thank Chicago for single-handedly keeping the following American big-city traditions alive: smoking, drinking during the day, eating terrible food, congeniality and breasts. It's noble work you're doing, Chicago. We're all proud of you.” The series clinching game of the Cup Finals was a particularly rough night for me. At some point during the third period I thought it would be a good idea to take my shirt off so that I would be fully prepared when Patrick Kane arived in his limo with the Cup and girls in tow.

However, Kaner never showed up, and I, still with my shirt off, subsequently became the first heterosexual man in the history of the world to have a motorboat performed on him by a beautiful, blonde girl, instead of the other way around. It was at that point that I realized that it might be a good idea to switch over to the KFC sandwiches where the bun is two pieces of grilled chicken. When Kaner eventually slipped one past the goalie (nickel) to win the Cup in overtime, I didn’t know how to react, having never actually cared about a hockey game in my life. So, I decided to celebrate the same way I celebrate all of life’s big events, including weddings, baptisms, brises, elementary school graduation ceremonies, and Avon Breast Cancer Walks: I ordered car bombs. Several of them. These were what ultimately led to my truancy the next morning. When Lori did see me later that day, she was not particularly pleased as you could imagine, stating in earnestness that I looked like a “bloated corpse.”

Not wanting to go through life looking like a bloated corpse, I’ve since resolved to improve my physical health, hoping the mental and spiritual side will follow suit. It is for this reason that I have decided to go on a seven day bike tour across Iowa next month. For the past week I have been training with BBK, the most extreme, bad-ass bike krew in the city of Chicago, for this trek through America’s heartland that will cover as many as 80 miles a day. Having never been on such a journey, I’m not sure what to expect, so I’ve started eliciting advice from people. One close friend told me to bring a life-time’s supply of baby powder (If you’re not sure why this is important, then you’re evidently not familiar with what happens to a corpulent man’s thighs when walking, running, or riding a bike in the heat of July. If you’re not privy to such information, I’ll spare you the details, but rest assured it is not pleasant). With this solid piece of advice in mind, I’d like to take this opportunity to implore the rest of you to use the comments section to provide me with any other pieces of advice, information, or words of caution that you think might be of use to me as I prepare for and eventually undertake this journey.

Home is Where the Aeromattress Is

I was hoping to write this latest blog from the comfort of my new home. Instead, I’m writing this latest blog with intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be homeless. I’m currently sitting in the Maplewood Bar (JQ of the Retar Crew’s basement bar), which happens to be moonlighting as my bedroom. Many of you have probably jumped to the conclusion that Lori has already kicked me out of the house. I would probably put my money on this as well, but in actuality I’m living in a bar because the lease on our apartment has run out and the renovation project on the new house has run long. So while Lori lives in the clean and air-conditioned opulence of her childhood home, I’m trying to sleep through Jackson continuing his Dimaggio-like streak of consecutive days of drunkenness in the Maplewood (Those of you who think I have some alcoholic tendencies have never met Jackson. In the analogy mentioned above, I'm certainly a Dom to Jackon's Joe D.)

Steve, our Romanian contractor, is a great guy, but it’s tough not to get frustrated with him now that this project has run two weeks late and counting. The frustration began when he tried to impose his unique Eastern European aesthetic on our new home. We are doing extensive renovations as we try to restore the bungalow back to its original design (wood floors, original oak moulding, etc. while extracting the 70’s influences including orange, green, and white dangling beads separating the living and dining rooms ). Lori has raided the local library taking out books about traditional Chicago bungalows. So her newfound bungalow knowledge directly contradicts the Eastern-Euro post-fall of Ceausescu era sensibilities of the contractor. She wants vintage door knobs and light fixtures while he wants to install speakers in every room of the house, just like his place, "so when my wife is cleaning the house, she doesn't have to move the radio from room to room. It’s easier to get speakers for every room than it is to get radios for every room.” I couldn’t argue with that logic, but Lori shot down the idea nonetheless.

My frustration grew even stronger this morning when I was awoken to Steve fixing the bathroom of the Maplewood. Upon noticing that his incessant banging woke me up, he promptly tried to hit me up for cash. “Oh hey, Tom! Did you get a chance to go to the bank yet to pay for the moulding?” he queried as I rubbed my eyes. So just to clarify the situation, not only was his lack of progress preventing me from sleeping in my own home, but now his vehement dedication to fixing the Maplewood was also preventing me from sleeping in my makeshift bedroom.

So while I’m acclimating myself to living sans roof, I’ve tried to focus on the positives. Every time Romanian Steve barges in on my bar-bedroom, I try to remind myself of the great aspects of our future home. For example, our new neighborhood definitely features an upgrade in celebrities. Our old hood featured disgraced Celebrity Apprentice Rod Blagojevich, one half of the Retar Crew, and my personal favorite, Sandra Cisneros (for those of you saying “Who the hell is Sandra Cisneros?” right now, rest assured every 8th grade English teacher who reads this blog is wetting themselves with jealously that I get my haircut at the same place as the writer of The House on Mango Street). However, the new hood features rock-genius Jeff Tweedy of Wilco fame. This fact added to my intention to learn the upright bass this summer means I could have a whole new career arc in the new place.

The most disconcerting part of my fall on hard times is that it has coincided with an explosion in popularity of the Retar Crew. Their "We Love the Hawks" bandwagon song has taken off in this city as Hawks fever has spiraled out of control. They have been featured in the local newspaper, the mornning news, and sports talk radio. This means that there are long nights of celebration in the Maplewood while I try to sleep and/or write my final grad school papers with graduation looming just days away. Check out the Hawks dance craze that is sweeping the nation: