Electronic Bikes Give Dr. Ken The Need For Speed

 

Chicago introduced "E Bikes" (Electronic Bikes) into their shared bike system. The regular shared bikes are blue, and there are black electronic ones scattered through out the city. There aren't many of them, but you can search on the app to find where one is nearby. So when I had to go get my car from the shop I found one quite a ways up the road but still on the way to the mechanic. So, I took a regular bike to the other station with the E Bike. And holy crap is it ever fast! I got the need for speed now. I have actually never driven a motorcycle, scooter, vespa or anything, but I think I love this thing. What is cool is that you actually do have to pedal it to make it go faster. But I think I'm bringing a helmet next time because I was getting a little carried away. 

Two Daddy Things and One Not Daddy Thing

1. I like that thus far Baby Noisewater is not too obsessed with the television. Something will catch his eye, he will point and get excited, and then he moves onto playing with toys or looking at books. When the local news is on it always seems to be about disasters.

Cut to a train that has gone off the rails with numerous casualties and Erik starts stomping his feet, smiling, and saying "Choo! Choo!"

Then in another neighborhood in Chicago we have a bus accident, and Erik looks my way all wide eyed with a big grin saying, "Bus!"

You can't seem to get through a local news broadcast without a fire somewhere, so Baby Noisewater points and whispers to me "hot." It's adorable how he always whispers that one with a cautionary tone. His nanny taught him that word and says it's the most important word to teach a baby.

The point is that it is, of course, tragic what is happening all over our fine city every day, but Erik has no concept of that aspect. It's not like he is hoping for these tragedies to happen, but he is certainly pumped when he sees some of his favorite stuff. All he knows is that he loves trains, buses, and to warn people about hot stuff. The young man has a way of lightening the mood anywhere he goes, and that's one thing we dig about him around here. I'm not saying he should be part of the news team on a little split screen throwing in his two cents on channel seven, but I'm not NOT saying it.

Figured I'd choose a picture with zero chance of anyone saying, "Too soon."

2. My wife pointed out that this rag I call my blog is steadily becoming a dad blog, and in a lot of ways she is right. But before I move onto something else, one more thing about a children's book I have been reading a million-gizzilion times, "Green Eggs and Ham." And incidentally, a good parenting tip is to learn to paraphrase books after a while. You can really just point out one quick thing on each page and move on if that bed time is quickly approaching or if you're just plain sick of reading the same book for the umpteenth time. After a while I'm like the magician in one of my favorite Patton Oswald bits.



I got thinking about old Sam-I-Am in "Green Eggs and Ham," and that dude really should get some sort of lifetime achievement award in the area of sales. You take a customer who absolutely hates green eggs and ham, and this persistent little fellow tries every angle under the sun to see if there is a scenario where his customer will like his product, be it in a plane, a train, in a tree, or with a goat. The goat always gets me. How is eating something I hate with a stinky-ass goat sweetening the deal? It just goes to show you that to make a tough sale you got to try every angle. That's what made him the G.O.A.T. salesman. Get it?

3. Mrs. Noisewater and I were watching "Love Actually" around Christmas time, and I thought of a terrific porno version. Are you ready for it? I mean, it's a little gross, but it's funnier than hell. I couldn't share it on social media because people are so damned easily offended these days, but I'll share it with you fine folks because you're my kind of people. "Love Anally, Starring Colin Girth."

Here's a dashing shot of Colin Firth. Wonder what his  thoughts would be on my new spin on his old film?

And I leave you with that. Two potentially boring daddy things if you're not into that and one porno thing. Can't please everyone. Have a fine day, my friends.

Beer For the Runners

First let me get this out of the way. My son was eating chili with his hands and got it all over his sweatpants. I thought Chili Sweatpants might be a good band name, or perhaps a good album title. Mrs. Noisewater thought that should go on the blog, so there it is. Chili Sweatpants on that ass.

In other news . . .

I got an email about volunteering for the Chicago Marathon, and I saw it as a sign because I always told myself I needed to do that some day. When I ran my one and only full marathon years ago I had no one supporting me. I was so thankful for all the volunteers and random people along the way cheering my name (I had my name written on my chest, which I highly recommend for this reason). I saw this email as a good opportunity to make good on my promise to give back.

After registering online the confirmation email gave me my assignment: It said I would be giving out the free beer to the runners. Oh hell yes. I was made for this job.

When I got there the row of taps on the sunny side were all taken, and very few of the early finishing runners were coming to the dark side. Zero of the wheelchair participants (who have the early start time) came our way, and the few really competitive guys, mostly Kenyans, that came through didn't want the beer anyway. Here is a rough estimate of beer consumption based on levels of performance.

2 hour finishers: 1 out of 10 drink the beer. They all look like their entire body has gone into shock, and some are close to throwing up. One guy was wretching, and while I felt odd offering a gagging person a beer, I felt it my duty to put it out there to everyone. To be honest, some of them were so out of it after what they put their bodies through that they didn't even notice there was free beer to be had. I haven't reached the level of exhaustion where I don't notice free beer, but maybe I'm just not working hard enough. Or maybe I'm just a drunk.

3 hour finishers: 3 out of 10 drink the beer. There are fewer Kenyans now, and a few more beer swillers.

4 hour finishers: 6 out of 10 drink the beer. Now we're having some fun. I basically never have to stop pouring by this time. It's a waterfall.

5 hour finishers: Somewhere between 8 and 9 out of 10 drink the beer. And every 10 minutes someone asks if it's okay to drink two. I usually would say, "No, sir. We are not allowed to do that," as I winked at him and handed him his second. Other times I would say, "Sure, to hell with it. What are they going to do, fire me? I'm a volunteer! Drink up!" Like I said, I was made for this job.

I noticed that the maintenance guys going around to check on the kegs, replace them, and pour more ice were drinking the whole time. I didn't believe in drinking on the job myself, especially during the morning. However, we reached a point where my shift was officially over and there were still runners coming through. I couldn't just pack it in and leave after all these hard-working, albeit slower, marathoners were still trickling through the finish and every bit in need of beer as their speedier cohorts. There was no way I was leaving my post. However, since my shift time was officially over and since it was beyond noon, I figured now was an excellent time to drink on the job.

It got a lot more fun at this point. One for you, one for me. I remember one guy saying, "Can I get one more beer for my wife?" I said to him, "You don't need a story, sir. I remember on Halloween asking for one more Snickers for my little brother. I didn't have a little brother. Still don't. Here's your second beer, sir. For your knees."

I was getting a bit of a buzz on and no longer had to be jealous of them getting to drink while I had to "work," but here's the thing: I had to admit that I was a little jealous of them running the race. That feeling started for me on the train ride downtown. I was thinking back to the nerves I had the morning of the race and the fantastic playlists I made to push me through.

So I decided to sign up for next year's Chicago Marathon. I think my plan will be to run it every other year with the alternating years tapping those kegs of Goose Island 312 wheat beer and handing cups of it out to the athletes with a smile on my face all day long. It will be a fine pattern for me every fall.

Baby Erik's Birth Story

I wanted to sit down and write the story about the day Mrs. Noisewater gave birth to Baby Erik because I thought it would be cool to have it all on record to look at years down the line. Two months have gone by, and I'm finally sitting down to write it. I figured out that I couldn't wait until I would have lots of time or when I'm not super tired because I NEVER have any time, and I'm ALWAYS super tired. So while he takes an hour nap right now, this is the time to write it all down. It's a long a long one so I understand if you skim through it.

Our doctor kept telling us every visit that the baby was basically ready to go because Mrs. Noisewater was dilating, and the baby's head was right there, knocking on the door. She told us just to come in on Thursday, September 8th and she could induce, even though the due date was on the 12th. We thought it would be a good idea to go out for dinner the night before the induction so that we would have a nice night out together, just the two of us, before the baby came. We had Tapas, so who knows which item it was because you sample so many with that type of cuisine, but something likely gave Mrs. Noisewater food poisoning. Bad idea eating anything risky around the time of labor. Now we know. Our appointment was around 8AM, but at 5AM Mrs. Noisewater was throwing up and had daihrrea. I called up the hospital, and they said to get her in right away so that they could get her on an IV so that she wouldn't get dehydrated. I was in a panic when I drove her into the hospital, but it was go time.

Here's my big homie at 2 months old.

It turns out all those stomach problems induced the labor on its own. Erik was due on the 11th, but he was coming out on the 8th one way or another. Things were very, very scary for quite a while because Mrs. Noisewater was still having to get up to go to the bathroom to throw up and go number two quite often, and even after multiple IV bags had pumped into her, the nurses were surprised that she wasn't more hydrated. We could see the heart rate of mommy and baby up on the screens, and both of them were too high. I was a nervous wreck watching those monitors and spoon feeding my wife ice chips. Mrs. Noiswater's body temperature and heart rate eventually came back down to normal levels, and so did baby's.

Our doctor is a really laid back cool hippy type of doctor. She makes you feel very relaxed when you're around her. I felt like I have known her all my life, and she seems like the kind of gal you just want to sit on a back porch with and drink wine all night and contemplate the universe. We had a baby birthing mix on, and when the doctor heard a Wilco song, she said, "Oh, I can't believe you have this Wilco song on here. I delivered both of Jeff Tweedy's kids." What!? How amazing is that?

This is us out for some tiny beers. We are starting to have lives again.

The doctor said, "Okay, dad. It's time for mom to start pushing. You'll be grabbing that leg and pushing her knee back towards her shoulders each time she pushes." What? I mean, I know it's not the old days where the men smoke cigars in the lobby, but I had no idea that the daddies got so hands on nowadays! Mrs. Noisewater was to push as much as she could for the duration of each contraction when the monitor said a contraction was coming (because we couldn't tell at all if she was having contractions because she an epidural. Get one of those by the way, everyone. It's the only way to have a baby). Mommy is really fit, so she was good at doing a stomach crunch/sit-up while the nurse and I pushed her legs up, and baby came out quite quick once she started pushing.

Once the head is out, the rest just slides right out because the shoulders can wiggle from side to side. I just remember seeing how long his torso was and how his legs just kept going and going as the doctor slid him out. A number of people said, "What a big boy!" He was 9 pounds and 20 and 1/2 inches long at birth. We didn't know going in if we were having a boy or a girl, and I remember looking at his beautiful little face, not even having taken a glance towards his genitals when the doctor announced, "It's a boy!" God damn. Everyone always says it's the best moment of your life, and it is. No doubt.

But then they said there was fluid in his lungs, and they had to rush him to the NICU to get that taken care of. I thought that would be a quick process, and they would bring him back. It turns out Erik stayed the night of the 8th, 9th, 10th, and 11th before finally going home the afternoon of the 12th (his actual due date). We would sleep in our room in the hospital, but every other minute we could, we were with little Erik in the NICU, holding his hand, rocking him, and feeding him. I remember the first time Mrs. Noisewater saw him with all those tubes hooked up to him, she started crying. I wanted to be strong for everyone, but when she cried I wanted to as well. Erik's breaths per minute were still a little high, so he had to get some assistance with his breathing for a while. Even when that finally came down, he still wasn't eating enough. They wanted him to reach a certain number of milliliters, and if he didn't get it all down, they shot it up his nose. This was just a sad process to see our little guy go through. It made me think of a force fed farm animal or something.

Remember how I said that his mommy saw him  in the NICU, and it made her cry? Well, when I put him in this Halloween costume and came out of the bedroom, she cried again - only from cuteness! 

We got an extra day to stay after the usual time allowed for new mothers because of Mrs. Noisewater's illness - they had to keep giving her antibiotics through an IV. Then that day ran out and they still didn't want to release Erik. So they found a little room on another wing that only had a single bed, but at least we could be in the same room with Erik and all the machines he was hooked up to. For that last night, Mrs. Noisewater stayed in the room with him in the single bed, and because there was no room for me, I drove home, slept for 4 hours, and came right back. It was unusual to have a baby of Erik's size in there because all of his neighbors in the NICU were very undersized. Any time I was getting too down about the situation, I would look around to some of the babies around him who couldn't have weighed more than 3 pounds, and their visitors could only stick their hands into the sides of the incubators when they would visit (they couldn't even hold their baby).

Erik's grandma was too scared to pick him up with all the tubes hooked up, but look how thrilled she was to hold him for the first time. This is one of the best pictures I've ever taken.

I'm not a real doctor, you may know by now, but I had to play the part of Dr. Hardass to get my boy sprung from the joint. The doctors only make the rounds once a day, and I essentially had to say, "Listen, can you get the doctor over here? Because our boy's levels are all good, right? He's just not breast feeding quite enough, but we are fine supplementing with formula. If the doctor isn't going to be coming by, we'll just be unhooking him and walking out of this joint." That worked. The doctor came by to clear him, and off we went.

My heart goes out to anyone who has complications with their babies. I vowed to become a better friend to anyone who is in that situation. I'll be johnny-on-the-spot with anything I can do for those families because it really is a stressful situation where you feel totally powerless and helpless when all you want to do is protect your new little person.

The night we got home, 9/11/2016, Kyle Hendricks of the Chicago Cubs had a perfect game going until the 9th inning. I was bummed he didn't finish that one out for Erik's first night, but then the Cubs won their first world series in over 100 years a couple months later in his first year of life, so that's still pretty damn awesome.

Go Cubs Go! This was his good luck onesie.

People ask me all the time what it's like to be a father, and what I tell them now is that I've never been so tired, but I've never been so happy. And it's hard to explain, but everything I do now is for a purpose. I had all this freedom before, but all that freedom afforded me time to sit around get worried about dumb shit. Now I'm just on the go and getting things done for my beautiful wife and cute little man, and I'm good at it. I don't always feel like I'm good at much, but it turns out I'm a good dad. So far. And I enjoy it. Being a dad is way more fun than I thought it would be. I absolutely love it.

By the looks of it, Erik seems to think I'm doing an okay job. Look at us in our matching sweatshirts! Thanks for reading, friends.

Fatherhood Has Changed Chicago Man, But He Still Won't Eat Camel Meat

My wife dropped me off at work today because she needed our car to take our baby boy to a doctor visit. I packed a lunch for myself and left it in the refrigerator. Isn't that the worst? This is even more of a problem than any other day because where I work on Mondays has nothing nearby to walk to for lunch options. For those of you not from the Chicago area, the neighborhood of Devon street near Damen Avenue has a milieu of cultures ranging from Nigerian, Pakistani, Indian, and you name it. I found a middle eastern restaurant, and I must admit it didn't look very clean and didn't smell too great either. I think I may have actually given it a shot, but then I saw a sign that was happily announcing "Camel meet on Fridays!" That actually scared me off, so snuck out and walked another few blocks to a McDonald's. My stomach was upset from the synthetic food, so I may have been better off with the camel meat.

Why not on Wednesdays? Hump Day!

My tummy was in knots as I worked my way back down Devon to get back to work in time when an elderly Caucasian gentleman walking in the opposite direction stopped to talk to me. Only he didn't appear to be speaking English. I listened hard to see if maybe it was just a thick accent and actually English. I told him, "I don't know the language you're trying to speak to me in." He said some things and I think I heard "Bosnian" in there somewhere. So I said, "Yeah, I don't speak Bosnian. Sorry." Maybe I just have a Bosnian look to me? Or maybe if he sees a white guy in the area, he just assumes Bosnian? Whatever the case, it's too bad I don't speak his language because he seemed very excited about the prospect of conversing with a fellow Bosnian buddy.

So, like I mentioned in paragraph one (if you're still reading), the wife and I have a baby boy now. When Mrs. Noisewater was very, very pregnant we went to a Chicago Cubs game together. She met me after work at a nearby bar and told me that some random drunk had just stopped her on the street and said, "That's a boy!" and pointed at her belly. I think people are going with the old wive's tale that if you carry your baby all up front and not in many other places, then that means it's a boy. So, we left the bar to head into the game and another random drunk homeless man said, "You' havin' a boy!" Well, the drunk homeless prophets were right; He's a boy, and he's beautiful.

They say it's good to talk and to sing to your babies, so he already has some go-to songs that we sing to him. One is "Beautiful Boy" by John Lennon. I think that is a song I would have thought was totally corny in my pre-daddy days, but now I absolutely love it.



The other song is "He's Misstra Know It All" by Stevie Wonder, only I sing "He's Mister Cutie Man." Yes. Mister Cutie Man. You read that correctly. I am no longer the least bit cool, and I fully accept this as fact and as a way of life.



Sincerly,

Mr. Bloggie Man

So I'm married with our first baby on the way, but did you guys know that I was married once before? It's true. I was actually married for a whopping 8 months before my wife at the time decided that she should start sleeping with a Chicago Cop. At the time I was totally devastated, but now I would like to thank that man. Not only does he risk his life every day, but he got me out of a horrible marriage. She and I couldn't be more wrong for each other, so he did us both a favor. He did my wife, and he did me a favor.  It's weird because at the time I was so messed up about it that I hated all cops as a result, but now I would shake his hand and thank him from the bottom of my heart. 

But back when that whole thing was going down with the ex, I was an absolute mess. I was losing weight and couldn't sleep. One friend saw me and said I looked like death. Thanks! He was right. I almost laughed, but I couldn't. I'm a man who loves comedy, but nothing could make me laugh at the time. "Da Ali G Show" was new on HBO during that time, and he was the only guy who could get me laughing. This was a major revelation. If I could start laughing again, I could be myself again. Ali G, Bruno, and Borat became my therapists.

The second part of the puzzle was meeting other women, and I couldn't even think about that. I was fixated on my failed marriage and my depression. I moved out of our apartment downtown and back with my parents in the suburbs. My parents are wonderful people, but I was losing my mind and had to get the hell out of there. I would work and sleep all week in the burbs and then pack up a backpack to stay back in Chicago all weekend with friends. I would try to talk to women, but I was not in a good place. They don't want to talk to the sullen brooding guy. When you get dumped and you're young and stupid, you don't think you'll ever meet anyone again. Then one night an amazingly hot Asian Indian chick struck up a conversation with me, and I got her number. I don't think anything tangible came of that, but it gave me the confidence I needed. I remember when I packed up my car with my handful of belongings to move back into the city, I thought to myself that I would meet plenty of women and would be just fine. I remember gazing at the skyline on my drive in, and it was the first time I was really optimistic. My thinking at the time was: This will be a new chapter in your life, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater. 

I went out to the burbs yesterday to visit my dad because my mom is out of town for the week, and driving back to the city on the very same highway that I did so many years ago, I saw the skyline and was reminded how I felt that day. Moments like that are why this is my favorite city in the world and why Chicago's skyline has been at the top of this blog for so long. Thanks for listening, friends. Ali G and Associates were relieved of their duties of their duties as therapists in 2005. That role has been filled by you, seven readers. Thanks for listening, and have yourself a super-duper weekend. 

I rode a Chicago bus yesterday to get up to the United Center for the Black Sabbath show last night, and somewhere around Milwaukee Avenue an older Mexican American fellow climbed aboard with his shoe shine box. He sat there rubbing his hands and wincing as if his hands were very much cold, in pain, or likely both. A woman seated next to must have noticed this as I did and offered him some gloves. You should have seen the look of surprise and appreciation on his face. It was a very tender moment of generosity to observe.

The glove giving gal was thin, looked to be in her late 40's or early 50's, was wearing a John Lennon type Army coat, had really short blond hair, and she had kind of a "butchy" demeanor, for lack of a better word. Actually, after the fact it dawned on me that she looked and acted a lot like like the actress, Jane Lynch, the boss in 40-Year-Old Virgin and the lesbian dog trainer in Best In Show.

"Hey, sport! Want some gloves?"

Shoe shining guy's English was not great, but that didn't stop glove-giver from telling him a bunch of information. After giving him the big and bulky gloves, she showed him the slimmer ones that she was wearing and said "These are for gun handling," and "These are for handling guns" - in case he didn't hear the first time. She said she was a retired cop and for some reason told a story about her and some other officers arresting a drug dealer. Apparently the dealer shot her partner and during the exchange giant bags of "china white" exploded everywhere and exposure to the drug led to her to being laid up in a hospital for 10 days, regularly hallucinating all through out her stay (which doesn't sound all bad).

(A good time. If you have a lot of free time in your immediate future)

Wow.

What started a nice moment of a woman performing an act of kindness for a random senior citizen quickly escalated into a crazy violent crime adventure story straight out of "Scarface." I did not see that coming at all, but you do have to expect the unexpected when you hop on a Chicago bus.

Be kind to others, readers. And watch out for accidental ingestian of dangerous amounts of "China white," whatever the hell that is. 

Team Strike Force and One of the Best Summers of Dr. Ken's Life

Many moons ago some friends and I played in a coed softball league and drinking team.  I'm not making a joke here; The sponsor bar actually kept track of how much all the teams drank after each game, certain types of drinks were worth different points, and the highest point getting team would win a free party for all their friends.  Hence, at the end of the season there would be a champion on the diamond and another in the bar.  This is not something that would be allowed now, and it probably wasn't allowed back then seeing as it encourages competitive binge drinking.  Team Strike Force finished near the bottom in terms of our record, but our drinking statistics were the stuff of legend.      

We weren't anything to brag about when it came to playing the actual softball games, but we did have one guy who was maybe the best player I've ever seen.  He could scoop up a ball on the run from anywhere, and throw from deep in the outfield to hit any plate he wanted right on the button.  Plus every time he stepped up to hit it was an automatic extra base hit.  Come to think of it, his girlfriend (now wife) was a really good player.  The rest of us were just biding our time to prove we were worthwhile at the bar immediately following the mere formality of the actual softball game.   

These were the two best moments on the field (because all the other memorable moments were at the bar):

1. One guy's girlfriend (also now wife) had no baseball experience whatsoever, so naturally we put her at catcher.  She was one of those people who could never get past pointing the open side of the mit straight up instead of turning the wrist inward so the open hand faces out.  You know, so you don't worry about plunking her in the face when you throw to her?  Consequently, she was very rarely able to catch much of anything, usually jumping out of the way to avoid getting hurt if you threw to her.  For this reason, the pitcher typically covered home in the event of a play at the plate. 

The RIGHT way

However, one time our stud player with the rifle arm sent one home with a runner on third and first and second base open, and our favorite female catcher was our only chance to tag the runner out.  She stepped up to the front of the plate, actually caught the ball, and jumped up and down saying "yay" as the runner trotted in behind her untagged.  There was no force at home, so she needed to apply a tag.  Nobody on our team cared because it was the funniest thing we had ever seen, and we didn't want to spoil her joyous moment of catching a softball.  Like I said, we sucked.

We would not have challenge the real Strike Force to any athletic event.  Except drinking. 

2. Then another time we were playing our arch rivals.  They had a guy on their team that was friends with a girl I dated not long before that team started.  This guy cheated on his girlfriend with a number of girls, including the one I was dating.  Not at the time I was seeing her though, but maybe.  Who knows.  She was not such a good girl for me, but at the time love was blind and I was young and stupid.  He was a butt hole on the field as well as off because he was like the coach figure, encouraging all his male players to take walks.  When you're a grown man you swing the bat.  That is what you signed up to do, right?

Also, he would yell at the girls when they screwed up.  This made us all really mad, and we found ourselves consoling his girls when they would get on the base paths and yelling at him to take it easy.  It made for a strange dynamic where the score of the game didn't matter; all that really mattered was that this a-hole drop dead.  Then there was another line drive single hit out to center field to our one good player who came up firing the ball towards home plate as Captain A-Hole ran home from third.  Boom!  The ball plunked him square in the back, and he winced in pain as he scored the run.  None of us gave a damn that he scored.  In fact, we were all cheering him getting hit with a ball.  You see, our guy is good enough to have gotten him out.  He chose to peg him in the back from fifty yards; He was that good.  It could very well have been the single most impressive athletic achievement I have ever seen and certainly the most rewarding.

We lost that game and many others that season, but again, in the bar we were champions.  I will never forget the two highest point-getters were a table tapper of Saint Pauli Girl, and a bottle of Tsingtao, a horribly skunky Chinese beer that led to wicked hangovers the following Friday morning.  Win or lose, our table would be littered with table tappers and buckets upon buckets of the green Chinese death juice: Tsingtao.  Then we would all text each other the next day how General Tsingtao had beaten us down with yet another crippling hangover.  But we would do it all again the following Thursday for the good of the team because champions fight through adversity. 

I remember one bye week (a week where our team didn't play) I still went up to the bar to make sure we at least got a few points.  I brought a girl with me who wasn't a heavy drinker.  She could only muscle down one Tsingtao that I insisted she order, and I powered back the other four in the bucket.

In the final week of the season we were eliminated from any chance of winning on the field, but we were very much in the running to win at the drinking.  The only team who had a chance at catching us was the arch rival team.  To make sure we beat those jerks we set up an evite (remember those?) and got all our drinking buddies up there.  We let all our friends know that if they helped us win, they would all be invited to the free party we would earn on a Saturday night for $500 of free boozy fun!  There were five or six tables full of friends for that last night to earn points, and some of those friends were very tangential.  We were marketing wizards and very heavy drinkers. 

And we "must have" bought a hundred that night.

The culminating pivotal moment did not come on the field; It came when Captain A-Hole from the team we hated came over to our table counting up all those buckets and table tappers and he asked, "Shit, you guys aren't team Strike Force are you?"  "You're damn right we are," we all said and a loud cheer roared through out our section of the bar.  Arch rival team only had five or six people to our giant hoards of booze hounds.  It was a lock for Team Strike Force.  We won that "free" party to drink whatever we wanted through paying for tons of types of beer we didn't like every Thursday night.  If you did the math, we likely lost a lot of money, but you can't put a dollar amount on being drinking champs and having that much fun.

I can't run around the bases as fast anymore, I certainly can't drink that much on a Thursday these days, but I can always can look back on that summer as one of the best of my life.  Let's put it this way, If someone asked me right now if I would rather be the first man on Mars or be transported back to the summer of 2005 to watch that guy get pegged with a softball in the back and tip back some celebratory horribly skunky Tsingtao, I would have to give it some serious, serious thought.      

Mrs. Noisewater and I went to Costco yesterday after the gym, and all the free samples in the world couldn't stave off our hunger upon finishing shopping.  We needed to eat instantly.  I told her that the Vienna Beef hot dog factory was up the road, and I was pretty sure you could eat there.  Turns out you can, and it's pretty awesome.  It's also the cafeteria for the people who work there, so there are coffee machines and things there too.  Mrs. Noisewater had her first Chicago dog, and I had a pastrami and roast beef sandwich on an onion roll.  We split an order of tater tots with a cup of cheese sauce.  It's a bummer this place is relocating to the South Side far away from us, but I'm glad we got a chance to get in there before that happens.

Open for business. 

While we were enjoying our meal, two Black ladies came in and the one was ordering in a most unusual manner.  She would say each part of her order and end with a "por favor," pronounced like asking someone a favor.  I guess it was nice of her to try to speak a little of the staff's native language, but is it possible she has only seen the words in print and had no idea how to say it correctly?

"One Chicago dog . . . por favor."

"With no tomatoes . . . por favor."

"And sport peppers . . . por favor."

A couple of middle aged white women were in there too talking about a guy they know who has a wife who cheats on him left and right,
but he won't do the same because of his Christian beliefs.

"Go F' yourself, por favor."

Then this guy who looked just like Gene Hackman was in there lecturing the young ladies on how you can never put ketchup on a hot dog.

God, I love Chicago.

Dr. Ken, Mrs. Noisewater, and Pau: The Oneness

I have been writing on this blog for a long time now.  Around 10 years.  Who I was when I started was a suddenly single young man (but pretty much a boy) fresh off a divorce.  There are entries about my single days on here that are sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, but always me.  No matter how much I have evolved and grown up over these years, it's still me.  And the roller coaster of my career changes are almost as nutty as the dating saga.  And yes, a lot of drunken tales of lunacy.

Then one day I decided to grow up.  I decided to make Mrs. Noisewater formally Mrs. Noisewater.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket like Frodo walking through Middle Earth as we waded through the crowds in the Lincoln Park Zoo Lights.  Turns out Europeans must love lights and captive animals.  Sorry if you're European, but some of those folks can be a little pushy and shovey in a crowd.  We were both getting aggravated, and anger is not a good emotion to go on when one pops the question.

Then as we walked towards North Pond (a great little gourmet restaurant in the middle of the park), I thought somewhere en route I could do the deed.  Just as I was considering it, Mrs. pointed out that it was dark, swampy, and smelly.  She was right.  The Dagobah System* hardly has the right conditions for romance, so we forged ahead.

Anyone smell bat guano?

We were around a half hour early for our reservations, and she said we should just go in and have a bottle of wine at the bar while we wait.  I noticed that outside the restaurant there was a perfect skyline view overlooking the pond with some benches, so I said we should just sit down for a minute and enjoy the night and the view for a moment.  This is when she knew something was up because I wanted to do something like that rather than drink wine.

Essentially what I told her is that what I dig most about her is that she not only puts up with my weirdness, but she likes it.  She enjoys my company and we're both laughing all the time.  I then looked her in the eye, got one one knee, finally got that ring out of my pocket, and asked her if she was willing to spend the rest of her life with a nut like me.  She cried, said yes, and we eventually made our way inside.

The meal was awesome just like it was when we went at the same time last year (the day after Christmas - our relatively new tradition).  When we were getting ready to leave, Mrs. Noisewater pointed out that Pau Gasol (one of my favorite Chicago Bulls players) was sitting near the exit.  I decided I had to say something to him but not bother him and mess up his evening that he was having with a lady of his own.  I walked by, stopped by his table momentarily to say discreetly, "Hey Pau, keep it up.  Go Bulls.  Keep it up."  He smiled, gave me a fist pump, and I headed out of there high on life.  How could this day get any better?

Pau was surprised to see me that night.

I then surprised Mrs. Noisewater with an impromptu engagement party that I arranged with many of our good friends at a nice neighborhood bar down the street that has lots of peoples' dogs in there all the time for some reason.  We had some of our closest friends congratulating us, toasting us, and we were petting random peoples' adorable dogs.  What more can you ask for?

I know I have slowed writing production down a lot lately, but don't worry, folks.  I will NOT be that guy that finds love and then hangs up their blog.  I have seen that too many times, and I refuse to be that guy.  I want you all here with me when I move into another chapter of my life.  Thanks, everyone for being with me over the last decade.  It's been quite a ride.
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*That was my second nerdy reference.  Deal with it.  I'm a grown-ass nerd now.

Below is a video of a crack head going poo in a bucket in my backyard and trying to break into my landlord's house.

(Notice the lack of wiping? Maybe all he was going to take if he broke in was some toilet paper . . .)

Mrs. Noisewater found the video on some guy's blog (not mine).  My landlord is a part time cop and has cameras everywhere, so he posted this video up on a crime watch site.  It quickly went viral.  Suddenly the Chicago Police Department wanted to find this guy.  Turns out he lives in Elgin, Illinois, and although CPD couldn't locate him, my landlord made a few calls and he was brought in.  Turns out that because of his now famous "shitty" break in attempt video, he was identified by someone else a few blocks down who chased him out of his apartment that poopy-pants broke into weeks earlier.  Evidently this guy comes out to the city for concerts, gets horribly drunk and full of crack, and starts breaking into apartments.

You want to know what's really weird?  We had a big BBQ in the very courtyard pictured in that video.  I remember that white bucket next to me while I was manning the grill.  When I left for work this morning, I noticed the bucket was gone.  No sense in washing that one out once someone has taken a crack-dump in it, right?

Because I'm such a clever pain in the ass, I wrote a little joke in the memo section.  My landlord is a good dude, so I think he will appreciate it.  It read:

#oneguyonebucket.com

This has got to be the longest time I have gone without updating my blog, and I apologize.  Here are some updates . . .

Mrs. Noisewater and I finally moved out of our tiny apartment where our bedroom window faced the alley of decadence and a Chicago life of excess.  Just about every night we would hear a couple getting ready to get it on, some people doing cocaine, a fight breaking out, but usually just people being loud and drunk.  I really knew it was time to go when I saw the aftermath of what I could only assume was a hobo orgy.  This is an actual picture that I took:

Aren't you glad the bums are being safe?

So now I'm back in Lakeview, my favorite neighborhood where I lived for around 7 years before the party-alley-place.  But back then I had 4 roommates.  Now I just have one, and she's the best roommate ever.  Does it bother me that Mrs. Noisewater is more handy than me and is painting, hanging up shelves, and using power tools that I don't know how to operate?  A little.  But I'm in charge of . . . the record player.  And that's important stuff.

Our landlord is a Chicago cop part time, and despite the fact that he looks precisely like Vic Mackey from "The Shield," he is actually a really nice guy.  He doesn't want us grilling on the balcony because he doesn't want us burning the place down, so he lets us use the grill and smoker in the courtyard and even buys and replaces the propane tank for us.  Now that's a hell of a deal.

"Don't beat a confession out of me!  That was me playing Captain and Tennille on my record player last night.  And singing along."

Our downstairs neighbor is an elderly four and a half foot tall Japanese woman who has been living in the building for forty years, and when she moved in her rent was sixty bucks a month.  Very sweet woman, but a bit of a hoarder.  She has filled up the basement with years and years of useless crap.  She was telling me one day when I was doing laundry down there that sometimes she buys two of something because she forgets she already had one.  Probably because it was buried under other stuff.  Landlord Vic Mackey has given her until the 15th of this month to have all that stuff moved out of there.  She will often offer us something, and usually we say no.  But sometimes we will take something just to make her feel that some of those objects have a home.  I fill a thermos of hers up with Gatorade all the time and tried to tell her I was using it, but her English isn't very good.  I have been thinking about taking some things that she offers and just throwing it out for her - a few dumpsters away so that she doesn't see that I tossed it.  That way she's happy and I'm helping her clear the joint out, right?

Hope you're enjoying your summer as much as I am, readers!  

Set Your Blasters To . . . Fun!

I was in a cab on my way to meet some friends at a bar and chatting with my cab driver.  He was lamenting about there being no laser tag in Chicago.  Yes, a grown-ass man who is dying for some laser tag.  They have them in the suburbs because there are more kids out there, but I was telling him that if they had one in Chicago proper, it would need two things.

The sport of laser tag is perfectly integrated.  

1. Booze.  The thing about Chicagoans is that most any activity when coupled with alcohol suddenly becomes doable.  They have a place not far from me where you can learn how to paint, and it's always packed.  You know why?  Because you can bring your own wine, set it next to your easel, and paint happy, drunk trees.

2. It would need a fun gimmick of some kind, and I'm thinking "Star Wars."  Who wouldn't want to play Rebels against The Empire and dress as a bunch of storm troopers and Vader against Han, Luke, and Leia?  And Chewbacca!  Who among you would not put on a hairy wookie outfit, strap on a crossbow, and run around the halls of the Death Star, howling and shooting storm troopers in the face and balls?  And the bar in there could be the Mos Eisley Spaceport Bar!  A guy could drink blue stuff and cut off arms all night long in a place like that.

I swear to God, Greedo.  I will shoot you right in the green penis.

 The cab driver said that was a great idea and asked if I was in marketing.  "No."  I replied.  "I'm just a drunk who knows how to have a good time."

Hockey Hair and Hockey Songs

What is it about hockey that attracts the types who still like classic rock, heavy metal, the working class, and long hair on dudes?  And I don't at all mean this in a bad way.  It's good.  Very, very good.

I went to a Chicago Blackhawks game on Friday night, and I noticed that during any break in the action the house music would kick in with songs like Bad Company's "Rock and Roll Fantasy" or Billy Squire's "Lonely Is the Night."  What other sport is still utilizing songs such as these?  I like to think I know a little bit about what is good and what isn't in music, and these songs are really stupid in a lot of ways but really enjoyable in most every important way.


(Jeez.  That is just a lousy lip-sync performance.  He doesn't even try to sell it.  Must have been on a bender the night before.)

I also noticed that women going to a hockey game aren't all dolled up like the women in the first few rows at a Lakers game.  Not at all.  Those gals come in there without makeup, wearing a baggy-ass hockey jersey (something few girl can look good in), and they are very invested in the game, not even talking to their boyfriends about anything but hockey.  I went with an old friend who I only see once a year or so, and we were getting looks for talking about things that did not concern the game at hand.

Another break in the action at a critical moment in the game, and we hear REO Speedwagon's "Riding the Storm Out."  I did a blog post a number of years ago about pedaling my bike through an epic storm on the  way home from work to the sounds of that very song.  And yes, I had it on my iPod then and still do.  Sue me.

Hockey is it's own little world.  And it's the only sport in Chicago where the team is playing worth a damn, so I'm trying to get into it a little more.  With feel good songs like these, how can I not get enthused?

And here is this song because I heard it in the bar after the game and it kicks major ass.  Have a very sham-a-lam-a-ding-dong Martin Luther King Day, everyone.

Know Your Audience

I woke up from a nap today and checked my Facebook.  I don't recommend this practice because we're not always thinking clearly in a state such as this.  The first update I saw was from a local newspaper who was outraged that a bar, one which I have been to tons of times, posted a special on their giant sign outside the bar for everyone to see: "Remember Pearl Harbor With Bombs and Kamikazes!"  Call me a dumb ass, but my gut reaction was to laugh my ass off.  Now if you haven't already deemed me an idiot, the next thing I did was respond saying that people need to lighten up.

Then I realized that I could probably lose my job or something, so I deleted it.

It's good to have sick people around to make jokes with, and that's when it's time to do stuff like that.  When you own a business, yeah, don't make a joke like that plastered on your building.  As a matter of fact, don't say anything that anyone can ever be offended by.   However, if I were drinking in that bar (again, I have a lot), and if the bartender, knowing his audience, proposed honoring the day with those shots, I would have gladly drank them and likely paid for them.  And certainly laughed.

It's just a matter of knowing your audience.

Carpool Humping Lane

Once again I long awaited for inspiration to sit down and write another post, and this time my muse was an unattractive couple having sex while driving down the Eisenhower Expressway in my home town of Chicago.

I put off posting about this so long that A) everyone has probably already seen it and made fun of it before me by now and B) Many of the videos have been deleted.  After searching for it for a few minutes with no luck, I remembered that it was an old friend of mine who first turned me onto it on Facebook and that link still worked.  Thank you, old friend, for sharing this dangerous and hilarious sex act caught on film!

Now, let's begin the commentary as only Dr. Ken can . . .

0:10 - Despite the fact that the woman in the passenger seat is sure that she's "totally got it" with the video camera on her phone, the woman driving (WD) is really doubting that she does.

0:20 - Passenger side woman (PSW) is starting to think they have filmed enough evidence of this and is fairly sure the fornicators in the car a mere 7 feet away have noticed that they are becoming unsuspecting porn stars.  "No no," says WD.  "It's called safety."  Just what does she mean by that?  "Is that his hand or his foot?"  I thought the same thing, and if he is having sex while driving with his foot, that is highly unsafe, unless he is a professional stunt driver and porn actor.  However, if she is worried about the well-being of her fellow motorists, wouldn't she just alert the authorities rather than make 7 or 8 passes to film them?  I'm starting to think WD is really getting off on the whole moving-car-sex-thing . . .

0:30 - "I want to get her bouncing again.  She's just laying on him."  Yup.  She's a perv.  I was half expecting her to yell some more directions at them and perhaps suggest some new positions.  PSW says she is looking away from them and plans to just watch her video later, but WD is quite obviously gawking at them and speeding up and slowing down to go by them so many times that eventually it looks as if the dude is waving at them while he screws.  A baller move, if you ask me.

0:50 - "Angle it down, you're getting all sky," the director tells her camera person, at which point PSW says I'm done and turns off her phone.  I would agree that she has amassed quite enough footage and has had enough bossing from her half-assed director.  WD would have filmed all day if she had the means.  I sort of think she was hoping they would crash, and she would have the world's best snuff film - she seems just that sick to me.
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Here are my thoughts on this whole thing: Sure, when this couple started humping one another in broad daylight on the highway, they opened themselves up to other people on the road watching and perhaps video taping.  However, they didn't need to be hounded like this.  Just have a laugh (maybe a quick video) and be on your way.  WD was hell bent on filming this thing from the foreplay all the way to the money shot all over the dashboard, and maybe even the clean up.

Meanwhile in the other lane, I can't at all blame the guy for having a shag while driving.  How can you pass that up?  But my man needed to do a better job at distancing himself from other cars.  I have only had a few similar experiences in my wilder days, but when I did, I like to think I could enjoy myself pretty well while keeping the other cars out of view for the most part.  Then again, I was never pursued by anyone with a tenacity quite like WD.

What do you think, Seven Readers?  Are the days of doing it anywhere with reckless abandon ruined by the modern cameras, cell phones, and youtubers everywhere nowadays?  Anyone want to share a crazy place they tried to do it and were busted?

I stopped into a convenient store in downtown Chicago yesterday to get a Gatorade and interrupted a conversation between two African American clerks, one of which was saying "There was a kid popping off rounds, and this old guy comes out of his house to tell them to stop, and he got shot.  You need to stay in your house, old man, because you don't know what these kids are going to do these days.  These kids are crazy!"

I agreed with her, as she rang up my Gatorade, and she went on to say "Come on, old man.  You gotta get it together."

"Too late." I said.  "He's dead."  They both laughed, but I didn't really mean it to be funny.  This old guy doesn't need to stop doing what he is doing; these young men need to stop shooting each other.  The murders in my city are out of control, and the fact that there are every day, casual, light-hearted conversations about killing going on all across town is a really bad sign.

Lan's Old Town

I went to Lan's Old Town for the first time on Friday night.  It is a bring your own alcohol Chinese restaurant and karaoke bar in Chicago that is famous for its' drunken owner and host, Jimmy Ma.  My good friend Choo Choo Train is a regular there, and he recommended we bring Jimmy a bottle of Jack. Jimmy was out front having a cigarette when we arrived, and he was already plastered.  He was pleased to see that we brought him a bottle, and he proceeded to crack the seal, take a swig out of it, got me in a head lock even though I have never met him, and then put his cigarette out.  With his tongue!!!

This is actually a picture of Jimmy!

 The customers all interact with one another, have a seat at each others tables to introduce themselves and share their booze with you.  There were tons of good looking girls in there that night, but it still wasn't enough for Jimmy's taste, and he kept asking us in his thick Chinese accent, "You going to bring some pussy in here, or what?"  Jimmy pretty much lives the dream and does whatever the hell he wants and people love him for it.  For example, he grabbed a beautiful blond girl who looked to be 30 years younger than him and just started making out with her, and she just thought it was hilarious.  Only Jimmy could pull off a move like that.

I know I will be back very, very soon, and I recommend you, my seven readers, give it a try too.  I do not, however, recommend putting cigarettes out on your tongue.

Friday afternoon was just about the nicest day of the year in Chicago, and I thought I would ride my bike down the lakefront to coach first base for a friend’s elementary boys softball game. The kids were all friendly and having a good time, but one thing was clear: there are a lot of city kids who don’t know the rules of baseball. As a child of suburbia, we had all the rules down pat by the end of the 2nd or 3rd grade. With these kids, it was nearly impossible to teach most of them that you can overrun first base, or run through the bag, as we used to say. They were slamming on the breaks and nearly falling down as a result. Taking a lead off was also confusing for them, and we were getting picked off of first like all day long. They would usually get back to the base on time when the pitcher threw over there, but sometimes they would start their lead off again while the first baseman still had the ball, and they would promptly get tagged out. One kid got out to a couple steps for his lead off, turned to ask me a question, and failed to see that the pitcher was throwing over there to pick him off, which he did. We were all having a laugh, but not at all at his expense, and the kid was laughing at himself too. More important than whether or not they look like the Yankees out there is that students are getting outside, they’re being exposed to a new game that they may end up enjoying, and they are part of a team.

I got talking to the other school’s coach, and he said they only have seven eighth graders in their entire school. They had to put a fifth grader in the lineup to round out the team, and he was small even for a fifth grader. I thought for sure he was a batboy until I saw him come up to the plate and beat out a pretty hard hit grounder. Most likely due to enrollment, they will be closed at the end of the year. Yes, if the numbers are way down than I’m sure in many ways it makes sense to move those kids into a neighboring school, but if it’s such a failing school in the eyes of the bureaucrats, than why is it that there was a parent spectator for just about every boy on that team, and meanwhile the school I was coaching had zero parents watching for a school over enrolled at close to fifteen hundred students? What I saw there did not appear to have the makings of a failing school; It was a loving and supportive community with terrific kids and coaches who really cared. Their coach told me that it took him four seasons to win their first game, so if that doesn’t show commitment, I don’t know what does. Hell, they beat us something like seventeen to six.

To put in all that time, energy, and hard work day after day as a member of that staff only to have it all suddenly shut down on you has got to be hard to take, especially considering that the people who make the decisions about that building don’t know the first thing about the staff, parents, or kids in it – they just know about the data. Their coach said that the school is across from Mayor Rahm Emanuel’s house. Chicago’s mayor seems big on closing down schools, but I think he should have taken in this ballgame on Friday to put a few faces to the numbers. After all, there are a lot of parents out there quite happy with their children’s public education, and they can’t all afford private schools, especially the ones Rahm’s kids attend.

I was working in a not-so-good neighborhood on the West Side of Chicago today, and one of my coworkers stepped across the street to get coffee at a greasy spoon called G & N Breakfast.  The older gentleman who said he was the owner asked her nationality, she told him Irish, and he discerned that she is probably a democrat.  Sloppily shoveling his breakfast into his mouth, he then asked if she worked at the school across the street and asked how she can stand working with all those niggers.  She said that's not a word she is okay with, to which he said it should be fine to say that because they call each other that all the time.  Of course, rather than realizing or caring that he had offended his customer, he went on spouting off anti Black statements and said the N in his business' name stood for niggers and the G for some other racial slur (Roughly 70% of his business would be African American on a day-to-day basis).  She was mad, but remaining calm, she just told him that being Greek, he is only a few shades lighter than those he hates so much.  This made him really mad, and he started spitting his hash browns all over the place while he yelling God knows what as she left.

Later I told the Mexican maintenance man (who I call Amigo and he calls me Amigo) at the work site about the exchange, and he said he has known that guy for years and he's a right prick who yells at his staff and calls them idiots all the time in front of customers.  Amigo said he told the guy he would whip his ass if he ever talked to him like that.  Apparently the owner was a Chicago cop who bought the place since 1959 after getting shot in the arm.  Doesn't sound like his world view has changed much since 1959 . . .

So, if you ever want to get in a time machine and meet a real live racist from the days of the Civil Rights movement, go visit him at G & N Breakfast on the West Side of Chicago.  If you would like to bring along some fire hoses and dogs to turn the tides on him, I certainly would not object.