I'll take a good-running rusty car.

I like driving old cars. Especially if they are good runners. Doesn’t bother me if the body is rusting. I can live with that. As long as the vehicle gets me to where I'm going. Round-trip Minnesota-Chicago jaunts. Did it twice this past month. In my 1997 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Thought about driving my 1991 Mercury Cougar. But the air-conditioning isn’t working. My friends tell me they wouldn’t be caught dead driving such old cars. They want to ride in glamor. And with peace of mind. Knowing that the newer cars are less likely to break down. Mechanic tells me my cars have reliable, well-maintained engines. Take either car to Chicago, or even across country, he says. Furthermore, I have undying faith in my cars. Several of 'em have exceeded 250,000 miles. If not for the rust, they might still be alive and running. Come to think of it. Maybe that’s the secret of living forever. A rust-free body and well-tuned engine. –Jim Broede

Far better than most women.

My Italian true love underestimates my talents. As a house cleaner. Really, I’m one of the best. When I want to be. She thinks I need the weekly services of a hard-driven cleaning lady. That only women know how to clean a house properly and thoroughly.  That’s bunk, of course.  When I set my mind to it, I can do almost anything. Certainly, cleaning house far better than most cleaning ladies. Thing is, my true love thinks that every book and CD in my vast collections needs to be dusted regularly. Individually. Like several times a year. My true love also would have the books neatly arranged on the shelves. Based on height of the books. The taller ones on the left. And getting smaller as we move to the right.  Which seems silly and unnecessary. Meanwhile, I admit to having a little bit of dust under the bed. Occasionally.  Even when cleaning ladies come in. So it’s their fault. Not mine.   The cleaning ladies also tend to mop the floors. I get on my hands and knees. And scrub. With a brush. Vigorously. Adroitly. One could eat off a Broede-cleaned floor. Though my true love wouldn’t do it. Anyway, I’m supposed to be taught the art/craft of housecleaning. By cleaning ladies. Thing is, I suspect I could teach them more than they could teach me. If only I put forth the effort. The same sort of gumption that I put into my daily writing and my daily physical exercise routine. The fact is, I have the talent. The only question is, do I have the time? Tell you what. I’m gonna make the time. To become one of the world’s best male house cleaners.  Far better than most women. –Jim Broede

I'd rather go to Venice.

For a moment, Chicago reminded me a little of Venice. While sitting along the Chicago River. Between the State Street and Wabash Street bridges.  Boat traffic. Full of tourists. That’s my focus. Until I glance up. At the skyscrapers. So high, it makes me dizzy. Looking up. I have no desire to take elevators or steps to the top. Where I’d find a glass platform. Allowing me to walk out. And look down. I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars. I’d rather go to Venice. Where I initially met my Italian true love.  So much more romantic than a Chicago setting. –Jim Broede

Maybe it was a compliment.

I’m sitting on a bench. In Water Tower Place. In the heart of Chicago. Watching people. Knowing full well these are mostly natives. Maybe not all born here. But they’ve become. It’s the way they dress. And relax. Casual. Informal. This isn’t Rome or London or Vienna or Venice. It’s undeniably Chicago. I tell my Italian true love, ‘Look around. And tell me, who’s the best dressed?’ Of course, it’s the two of us. We look classy. Cosmopolitan. European.  We are the visitors.  Though I was born in Chicago. But I haven’t been back in a long time. I’ve become more like an Italian. Maybe even an Italian  gentleman. Or so I tell myself. With a grin. My true love says I look like a Chicagoan. I wonder. Maybe that’s a compliment. –Jim Broede

It's all abhorrent.

It’s abhorrent that any regime uses poison gas that kills 1600 people, as alleged in Syria. Ironic, isn’t it? That certain American politicians, such as Barack Obama, take Syria to task for such a horrible ‘war crime.’ Anyway, makes one wonder about America’s use of nuclear bombs to destroy the civilian populations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Was that all right? After all, it was done for the purpose of winning a war. Maybe Syrians are trying to win a war, too. Personally, doesn’t matter whether it’s bombs or poison gas. All war. All killing. It’s all abhorrent. –Jim Broede

Charming: Chicago and my true love.

I’ve spent the week in Chicago. With my Italian true love. She likes Chicago. Maybe more than I love any big city. I prefer the countryside. And small towns. And mountain tops. Though there are nice things about Chicago. I’d rather visit. Not live there. But Chicago is a unique city.  Charming. Like my true love. It’s because of her that I was in Chicago. She makes me do things. That maybe I wouldn’t do on my own. That’s good. For her. For me. Adds balance to my life. Of course, I bring balance into her life, too. –Jim Broede

More to like than dislike.

I’m an American. Without any control over my government. It really isn’t mine. I’d like a different sort of government. But I won’t and can’t get it. Because as an individual, I am powerless. Oh, I can vote. I can shout. But that ain’t power. For power, I need money. Lots of it. So that I can buy my way into power. Really, my voice or my presence doesn’t matter. That was the case even when I served on the local school board. It was a matter of merely going through motions. Sometimes, I was on the far end of 5-1 votes. Like most Americans, I sit on the sidelines. And watch. And hope that government decisions go my way.  Occasionally, they do. But mostly they don’t. That’s all right. I’ve learned to live with the world the way it is. Even the things I don’t like. Because there’s far more to like than dislike. –Jim Broede