1. Welcome to the 1800s: I bought a washing machine from Johnny. It is rocking my world in a way that only someone living in an apartment in the city can be rocked. I strung up some clotheslines on the back porch for obvious reasons when my neighbor, Louis, exclaimed, “What the hell are you doing, trashbag?”

“I have a washer. These are clotheslines.”

“Hoosier trashbag. Get a dryer.”

“You’re damn right. When my clothes smell like they were dried in the sunshine, it’s because they were.”

“You’re a mess.”

My sister, on the other hand, said, “You’re reducing your carbon footprint.” Yeah. I’m also doing laundry for as much money as this guy pays for waffle fries.

2. As if Helping Someone Move Isn’t Bad Enough: We parked the borrowed GMC Jimmy in the alley in a place that was a little cumbersome for cars to pass by. Luckily none came. That is until Uncle Douche rolled up in his Civic with two kids in the back. “Move your truck!”

“Give us 30 seconds so we can finish tying the mattress and we’ll be gone.” There was myself, Johnny, Seamus, and Mike, aka our camping pals.

“Move your truck NOW!” <insert kids screaming here>

“Dude, hold on. Give us a minute,” said Johnny, calmly. For those of us that know Johnny, this is the last warning.

“Just move it. Now.”

Mike, who is also a boxer (no kidding), inched towards his car. “Listen, just shut the fuck up and we can finish this much quicker and then you can head on your way.”

Johnny adds, “Or go back to Naperville (for those outside of the Chicago area, this is a suburb. Why Naperville was chosen over any of the others remains a mystery) where shit like this doesn’t happen.”

“Maybe you’re moving to Naperville.”

Laughter from us all. “Nice one, ass.”

“Just move your truck or I’m calling the cops.”

“Yeah, call the cops. Look…there’s four of us and one of you,” explained Mike with the elegance of a Jewish boxer.

“Is that a threat?”

“Oh, lord,” sighed myself.

The banter went on and on. The cops were called. The mattress was tied. Words were exchanged. “Listen, pal, if this is the worst thing that happens to you all year, you’ve had a good year,” exclaimed Johnny with arms outstretched, inviting a fight.

Eventually Seamus and I left to unload everything at the new domicile while Johnny and Mike stayed behind to wait for the cops so as to not give Uncle Douche the power to make up anything incriminating. Uncle Douche finally called off the cops and put his hand on Mike, not without a little shove. Aunt Douche came out (they lived right there) to which Johnny said, “I bet it’s embarrassing for you to be married to such an ass. You know, he put his hands on my friend Mike. I hope he doesn’t do that to you.” She didn’t respond. The fire was quelled and they returned with shaking heads.

Later, Nora, the wonderful woman that Johnny moved in with, thought it a good idea for my dog, Emma, to meet and become friends with her dog, Thisbee. I retrieved the bitch and we cautiously watched as they circled and sniffed, reminding me of sharks and a surfer, the surfer being peace and quiet. (Emma, if you recall, is a bull boxer [part boxer, part pit bull] and Thisbee is a pit bull.) They didn’t really get along, per se, but they didn’t fight. Yet. After a few beers I retired to the back porch for a smoke. The ladies stood next to each other and didn’t move. It seemed tense but after moving furniture and dealing with Uncle Douche I didn’t really heed too much concern, as I was a sleepy father.

And then everything exploded.

It took a minute for the commotion to register. “Oh my god, that’s intense! WAIT…THIS ISN’T YOU TUBE!” (note – this is the closest thing I could find to a re-enactment. No blood. This is way more precious than the actual confrontation.) I managed to rip them off of each other. Each dog had blood on them but we found no abrasions on the bitches. (I thought that the blood was mine, my hands being beaten up from the moving of furniture, but still remains a mystery.)

After the dust settled, we resumed the hanging out/unpacking portion (where the friends that helped sit around and drink beer and make fun of the movees’ belongings and the movees simply unpack and say, “Shut up.”). We ran across a few things that were either mine or I wanted to be mine:

• An unused, silver cake knife from Nora’s wedding. Unused being the keyword here.
• A VHS tape of mine that included the only copy of an edited documentary I did on Bloomington, Indiana, mostly taking place at the Vid.
• Extra rope so I could hang my clotheslines for my aforementioned washer.

Upon leaving, I looked at my treasures. Now reread the bullets. Yes…a large knife, rope, and a VHS tape. Couple that with the fact that I had a large dog and was wearing a camouflage T-shirt and what do you have? A sadistic rapist, that’s what. I’m thankful that Johnny gave me a ride home and that I didn’t have to walk with these things. (We later coined my belongings as a “rape kit.”)

3. Fucking Old People: As I was mounting the bus, an elderly woman in front of me was struggling with her cart full of trash bags filled with god knows what. I bent down to lift it up for her to which she replied, “GET YOUR GRUBBY HANDS OFF MY SHIT!” I threw up my hands and complied. She was right, I was grubby, it was shit, and I didn’t really want to help her.

4. Wonderful Music: My friend and former bandmate, Patrick, released his solo record, Beach Closed, on iTunes. Search for it and buy it. Find it and download it. Or wait for Sept. 27th, when it will be released on vinyl. Or don’t do either and be an Uncle Douche.

5. The Ever-Entertaining Homeless: Walking downtown, I peered over to a man bedding down below the Library stop on the Brown Line. His face was covered with a jacket and his hand was inside of his trousers masturbating furiously. I, obviously, took a second take and cracked up laughing. I stopped about a block away and smoked and watched passers-by go on without notice (which is probably why he feels safe doing it in the first place). An elderly tourist couple approached the corner and looked in my direction, pointing at buildings and looking at a map. The Mad Masturbator kept it up a mere two feet behind their heels. They remained for about a minute and then headed towards whatever they were pointing at, never looking behind them. This made me laugh more than I have in the last six months. Just picture it and join me.

6. The Circle of Life: The man that I knocked out in the middle of the street asked me for change last night. I replied, “Obama is officially the Democratic Candidate! There you go!” He turned his head.