i saw black folk in naperville, it happened so fast

Last weekend my wife and I were in Naperville, IL.  Better known as Shangri-La.  It’s a city that will always sit atop “best place to live” lists because, well, it’s just perfect.  Of course, I hope I never have to live there.  Not that I don’t want to live and raise a family in a wonderful place that has perfect schools and safe neighborhoods and that, I just find the perfectness of Naperville a little creepy.  Everyone’s extra rich and extra white.  Not that I don’t like rich white people.  It’s just that Naperville rich kind of makes my eye twitch.  The stereotype in my mind is that the men work while the women shop and Botox.  That may be dead wrong, but Ischt don’t think so.  I saw 2 black people this weekend and it made me think.  What on earth have all these rich honkies done with the black folk?

I mean some black people live in Naperville.  About 3.8% of the city’s population is black.  Back in the 90’s it climbed to just above 4% and people were afraid to leave their homes.  To combat this growing issue they developed a diversity panel to keep the African-American population above 3% but certainly below a panic inducing 4%.

There are a few sure ways to swoon the diversity panel and move into Naperville as an African-American.  Follow these simple steps and you’ll soon be cruising down Main Street looking for a parking spot near Williams-Sonoma.

#1 Wear a sport coat.

White people like to see African-Americans in sport coats.  It’s a sign of success and wealth.  And what rich white guy doesn’t want a black friend to show off around the country club?  “Hey did you see Steve out there playin golf with that black guy?” Play your cards right and you could be living in Naperville playing golf with Steve.

#2 Be a doctor or lawyer.

If you’re a doctor or lawyer you’ll have plenty of money to be welcomed into Napervilleian society.

#3 Never ever ever wear a bow tie.

When white people see black people in bow ties they think one thing.  Louis Farrakhan.  He represents a controversy and free thinking that isn’t readily welcomed into Naperville.  So remember the sport coat forget the bow tie.

#4 Learn why Naperville is so perfect.

Nothing pleases a Naperville resident more than discussing why Naperville is so good.  If you can follow along and engage in these conversations it will go along way.  Talk about how excited you were to see Candace Parker get into the WNBA, or how you just love strolling down the river walk in the summer.  Talk about how Hootie and the Blowfish would have been far more successful had all band members been from Naperville instead of just the drummer.

#5 Marry a well-known white person from Naperville.

Marrying a well-known, extra rich resident can easily gain you wide acceptance into Naperville society.  So don your sport coat, find a good spot at Hugo’s Frog Bar and be prepared to impress the lovely debutantes of the north.  If you’re lucky you’ll soon be welcomed into Shangri-La with open arms.

Remember it’s 2009, Barack Obama is President, things have changed.  The glass ceiling has shattered.  If you want to live in Naperville you can.  It’ll just take a little extra work if you’re not white.

saturday morning lemon cake

Javier was standing in the kitchen wearing flip-flops, boxer shorts, and an apron.  No shirt under the apron.  His head was dripping with sweat as if he’d run a marathon. (or walked across the room)  Cracked egg shells littered the counters and the floor around his feet.  He had several pots boiling and in the oven were 2 pans with yellow cake in each.  This was a typical Saturday morning in Javier’s attic apartment.

“JLB, how come you not lettin me help with the cakes” Cinnamon whined.

“I told you, this is mother Bruce Bruce’s recipe and she ain’t gonna have some woman who ain’t even a real Bruce Bruce cookin her cherished recipe.”  JLB snapped back with a short rude tone that Javier takes with everyone, even if he is sleeping with em.  (His mother’s lemon cake recipe has been a favorite of JLB’s since he was little.  When other children were playing baseball or climbing trees, little Javier would be in the kitchen with momma baking the perfect lemon cake)

This particular morning JLB knew he was doing his mother proud.  This was going to be the perfect cake.  In less than 20 minutes the lemony, sugary goodness would be ready for eating.

While he waited for the cake to bake he hopped in the shower because cooking always made him particularly sweaty.  After a quick shower he strutted through the apartment with a beach towel around his waist still wearing the same flip-flops from earlier.

“CINNAMON!  What’s the temp?”  JLB shouted

“whatchoo mean what’s the temp”?  Cinnamon still wasn’t accustomed to Javier’s inexplicable need to abbreviate.

“THE TEMP.  WHAT’S THE TEMP WOMAN?  Do I gotta wear my jams or proper pants”?  (jams are the long shorts that go down to just below the knee, Javier wears those)

“It’s cold, you gotta wear pants today.  It’s 70 down in ATL right now.  Wish we lived there, instead of this cold ass apartment in da attic of a damn church.” But as soon as Cinnamon said it she regretted it.

“Ain’t nobody keepin yo ass in Ohio.” JLB screamed  “Get on outta here if you gonna act like a fool”.

Cinnamon didn’t fight back.  It was no use.  She wanted to move to Atlanta and perhaps Javier would never feel the same way.  She went into the living room, sat on the couch and pined about how Cincinnati would never be as good as Atlanta.

After he got dressed, Javier donned reading glasses and flipped through the latest issue of Jet magazine while waiting for the cake to finish.  DING.  As soon as the oven timer went off he leapt to his feet throwing the magazine toward Cinnamon and ran to the kitchen.  After pulling the cake from the oven and drizzling the sugary goodness over each layer then combining them, the Saturday morning lemon cake was finally ready for consumption.  He didn’t even get a plate.  Just carried the entire cake pan and a fork into the living room.  He sat down in his chair and dug in.  This was going to be a great Saturday afternoon.  Season 3 of The Cosby Show on DVD and an entire lemon cake.

About half way through the cake Javier looked across the room at Cinnamon and said.  “When you done cleanin the kitchen there’s some left over turkey burgers in the fridge if you hungry.”

NWA 188

Ok, so major airlines this week are trying really hard to prove that regional pilots aren’t the only idiot pilots in the air. This story is about a Northwest flight that overflew MSP by 150 miles. Just one week after Delta 60.

Here’s what I say happened and of course, this is only a guess. Both pilots were sound asleep letting the plane fly itself (as the only flying they do is during take off and landing) and they woke up after over flying MSP. I’m guessing the FDR on this aircraft would only record the final 30 minutes of flight, in which case no one would know what was going on in the cockpit during the 78 minutes of silence because by the time they realized their mistake they had to fly more than 30 minutes to get back to MSP. Here’s how this will end. The 2 pilots will be suspended during the investigation. Maybe a few months. ALPA will get both of their jobs back, they’ll keep their seniority, and Delta will owe them back pay from months of suspension. Not that I’ve ever seen that before, it’s just a guess.

in december, there’s no sun in holland

We were at this brown cafe in Amsterdam with sand on the floors, old brown stained wallpaper, and a 13 inch tv for watching football.  The air smelled like tobacco mixed with a few hundred years of life.  People have gathered in this cafe since the 1700’s and now I was sitting and drinking in the same place that seemingly hadn’t changed much since the 1700’s.  Almost everyone there was an apparent regular.  I loved it.  There wasn’t even a bar.  Just a barkeep wearing a shirt and tie standing next to a cupboard.  Ask him for a whiskey, he’d fetch a bottle from the cupboard, pour it into your glass with 2 small ice cubes, and off you’d go.  Being in that bar with Amy may seem insignificant but was one of the warmest memories I have of that particularly cold Christmas weekend in Amsterdam.  And I can’t remember the name of the place.  I thought I should start a blog to write down these things that I will most likely forget.  Names of pubs, cigar stores, what we ate, where we stayed, and so on and forth.  Thinking about the initial reason for this blog makes me wonder why I don’t write more about traveling.  These are the only 2 pictures I have from this place.

DL60 clear to land runway 27R, or wherever

On Monday morning DL60 RIO-ATL was cleared to land on runway 27R in ATL.  Instead they landed on taxi way M.  The equipment was B767-300.  This could have been a catastrophe.  Read all about it.

Delta Flight Lands on Taxiway

Atlanta Journal-Constitution article

I wonder when the crew realized what they had done.  I also wonder if the FAA plans certificate action against the pilots.  What sort of things do you wonder after reading this?

subway eat fresh…not if you’re javier lamar

Javier and Cinnamon have been arguing for the last 20 minutes.  Passers by can hear the shouting through the tinted windows of JLB’s Lexus.

“I told you I’m goin home to fix a turkey burger.”  JLB won’t even consider going into Subway with her.  Even worse he just had to pay for new extensions that she promised would help her in job interviews.  Now he’s gotta pay for Subway.  No way.  Not when there’s a freezer full of turkey burgers at home.

Cinnamon promises that with her next unemployment check she’ll take JLB out for a night of roller skating and dancing.  She also promises to iron all of his shirts.  (something Javier thinks she should be doing in the first place while watching her judge shows)

A lot of convincing later JLB and Cinnamon are walking into Subway hand in hand as happy as can be expected after 30 minutes of argument.  JLB turns back to admire his shiny black Lexus.  He’s smilin on the inside.  He’s got his girl and his favorite car, all is ok.  He’s not even angry about being in a Subway. (like some fat white man who trynna eat healthy as he puts it)  Cinnamon orders a 6 inch turkey and JLB gets the foot long meatball sub.  He takes his order and asks for extra napkins. (the wait made him sweat)  As they’re leaving Cinnamon walks around the area marked “wet floor” but JLB strolls right through it with his shiny leather dress shoes. 

saturday night turkey burgers

Javier Lamar is relaxed in his recliner fishing for left over crumbs between his teeth.  He’s just eaten a turkey burger and with a full belly he can now contemplate the rest of his evening.  With each thought he lets out a long sigh and twirls a toothpick between his exceptionally large thumb and forefinger.  He could either go roller skating, which he loves to do and is the only form of excercise he gets, or he could go to the bar for appletinis and listen to yet another conversation about how Cinnamon (Javer’s live in girlfriend) wants to move back to Atlanta.  Just making this decision makes Javier sweat.  Beads of it are running down his forehead and he can’t find his handkerchief.

“CINNAMON! Why don’t you bringst big JLB a napkin so he can wipe his brow”.

JLB is short for Javier Lamar Bruce Bruce.  Don’t bother asking him where the extra B went. He’d just laugh and say “you a damn fool”.

After contemplating the decision for 30 or 40 minutes (all the while twirling his toothpick and sweating) JLB sits up in his chair ready to speak but stops for a quick dab at his forehead.  He exhails a long sigh mixed with a flemmy cough, wipes the perspiration from his forehead and barks.

“CINNAMON!  Fix JLB another turkey burger, I’ve decided to stay in. My dry crackley feets be hurtin too bad for roller skates.  And when you’re done with that turkey burger, find the coco butter for my feets.  Maybe we go out next Saturday.”

Cinnamon glares at JLB, takes a turkey burger from the freezer, throws it into the oven, and starts sifting through empty bottles of coco butter hoping to find a full one.  She knows if there’s no lotion for JLB’s feet there will be trouble.

does my drakkar make you woozy?

below is a copy of an IM conversation i had at work.  enjoy.

girl i work with: is that u?

Krs: what??

Krs: do you smell my drakkar noir?

girl i work with: sounds like a movies or something

Krs: oh no that’s brendan.

giww: ok….do you really wear cologne?

Krs: well yeah but it’s diluted. i just keep putting some water in the bottle and shaking it up. then i put it on all over. i’m a real catch at 8th grade dances.

giww: seriously…..do you?

Krs: do i water down my drakar? yeah. who could afford to keep buying that shit every week. i roll cheaply. gives me more money for milkshakes after the dances.

giww: I actually used to date a guy who used Drakkar

Krs: i like him already

giww: it was in the 90’s

giww: I boke up with him for Brad

giww: broke

Krs: yeah. it’s harder to find now. i’ve gotta be at meijer early on the first tuesday of the month so’s i can get to their drakkar shipment before anyone else.

Krs: that was a good IM conversation. i’m gonna put it on my blog.

Krs: for all the world to read.

Krs: or at least the 7 people that read my blog.

giww: please don’t

giww: it was just for us

bikes, sweat, tears, and an old man who’s in better shape than me

Vacation in Maine week! We rented a house on Mt. Desert Island, about an hour from Bangor and near the tourist town of Bar Harbor. The landscape and weather was tailored for a relaxing do nothing vacation, which is what we did most of the week. Course my lovely wife took running clothes and shoes so she could run whilst on vacation. I took plenty of cigars and bought plenty of bourbon so I could do as little as possible on vacation. It worked out. The days were spent seeing lighthouses, beaches, wilderness, lakes and lobsters. You know, Maine.  As soon as efg would fall asleep for her afternoon nap it was a dash to the screened in gazebo for drinks and a cigar. Sometimes Amy would run during efg’s nap. She brought running shorts and shoes on vacation, remember? I brought plenty of cigars.

Bar Harbor, Maine

Months before our trip, Amy started planting the seed that she’d like to rent bikes to ride on “carriage roads” through Acadia National Park. (there are mountains in this park) I was happy to oblige a nice leisurely bike ride through a national park never hurt anyone.

I started to worry about this particular bike ride about half way through the rental process. The rental lady has a map and is giving us direction to the carriage roads and possible bike routes. (distance from store to carriage roads 2 miles) She says we’ll first need to get to Duck Brook Road, take that to Eagle Lake. (1 mile) Then loop around Eagle Lake. (5.9 miles) After that we can go take the road around Jordan Pond. (8.3 miles) I’ve stopped listening by now. Actually, she lost me when she mentioned the 2 mile ride to get to the carriage roads. My ears perked up though when she said “all in all you’re looking at about a 28 mile ride to do it all”. Could I fake a heart attack and get out of this? What if I could make the baby cry somehow? Then we would have to go back to the house to help the baby feel better. Maybe a plane will crash right in the middle of the park? Perhaps terrorists will attack downtown Bar Harbor? Something. Anything to get us right out of this bike store.

I didn’t get out of it. We attach the baby trailer to my bike and take off for Acadia National Park. Things are going good. Weather’s not too bad, it’s hilly but nothing I can’t handle. Things are great.

Hmm, this baby trailer’s getting heavy. Oh another hill. Also did I bring any water apart from what’s in efg’s sippy cup?  I did not, which was fantastic god damn planning. Surely we’ll find a drinking fountain. No. We do not find a drinking fountain and now the hills are getting worse.  I’m hot and I’m thirsty. The best thing right now is that the baby is napping. I sneak sips from her cup whenever we stop. Meanwhile my wife, who runs marathons, is trying to keep conversation going through out the ENTIRE bike ride. I’m not even talking to her. Not out of anger but I fear using energy to speak could very well kill me. My shirt is wet and I’m still thirsty. My mouth is dry and my legs are throbbing. Oh, another ginormous fucking hill. Peddling up this hill I think maybe I’m not in horrible shape. Maybe this is just a really hard bike ride. At that moment I hear. “on your left” It’s a balding man with white hair and khaki shorts who isn’t a day younger than 75 passing me on his mountain bike. I’m debating whether to throw my bike down in tantrum or to throw a rock at this old man who seemed to be whistling as he passed me. Whatever I choose there’s still no water and we’re not getting any closer to water and I’m pretty sure those are tears running down my cheeks. Now the baby’s awake and crying. Never really been so happy to hear her cry. I immediately tell Amy that we should start to head back so efg doesn’t get too cranky. We continue the trek around the lake, then head back to Duck Brook Road where all of this nonsense began.

The ride back was plagued by more hills and more crying from both me and the baby. When we get back to the main road there’s more down hill riding than uphill riding, which is nice. Amy’s still in her element and could probably ride for the rest of the day. I’m nearly dead. My mouth is dry, my shirt soaked with sweat, then dried, then wet again but god bless it we’re back in town and very close to the bike rental place. We return our bikes in just under 4 hours. I buy a bottle of grape Gatorade, some water and have a much needed sit down. After replenishing my electrolytes during my sit(nothing better than a proper sit down) I feel much better. I can now look back on the bike ride through Acadia and think of how pretty it was. It was a tough day, but I’m really glad Amy wanted to rent bikes. I’m also glad it didn’t kill me.

landing rwy 36R cvg