I’m not a Satanist, but apparently my neighbors here in Omaha are. I haven’t met them yet. What do you serve a Satanist at a cookout? Brats? Something Germanic like that, I imagine.

It’s a weird city, Omaha. After living in Chicago for 22 years, I’ve come to fear ginormous pickup trucks with Punisher stickers on the back windshield. The city leadership thinks it’s 1983, which from a music perspective I wouldn’t mind. But their civic duty seems inclined to furnish surface parking more than anything else. Still, I bike like I did in Chicago, despite the hills. Omaha is hilly. I’m 48 and my life has folded back in on itself. Classic rock and my four year-old son’s Legos.

Today a man outside the post office stopped my car, lifted up his shirt to show me he wasn’t armed, and asked me if I knew a good church around here. When I told him I didn’t know of any, he told me he just got out of prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He was great, and probably wasn’t even a Satanist.