The Erstwhile Chronicles

Elegance of a Eulogy

2012-04-04T14:55:00.001-07:00

It's been almost two months since I received the phone call. Much has happened. Much has changed, some for the better, a little for the worse. People's lives have been affected, for good and for bad. Whenever you must deal with the passing of one of the most important people in your life, if not the most important person, it's somewhat shocking to find that there are no blueprints. A whole host of relationships are affected by this feeling, and there's nothing to be done for any of them except to simply forge on ahead.

But weren't we doing that in the first place?

*

2000 - I had been away at my first high school band camp. Even though I was only in 8th grade, our school marching band had suffered so much disinterest under the prior band director that 8th graders were required to join with the high school students. We doubled the size of the band, no small feat when there are 60 students in marching band. It had been an experience, being away from home and getting an inside look at what marching band was like and how high school would be working. For a middle school kid such as myself who was the epitome of anti-social, introverted, and mildly frightened of the world thanks to snippets of bullying since roughly the 4th grade, it was a terrifying time. But then, every middle school kid feels roughly the same. Middle school sucks. Fact of life.

Returning home, I realized exactly how bad a week's worth of sweaty laundry could reek. I dragged my bag full of worn t-shirts upstairs, where I trusted my mother to do the wash. I knew how to do laundry, but tended to "fuck things up" in terms of stray pens, etc. Typical teenage oversights, in other words. It was safer, at that time for my mom to do the laundry. Safer being a relative term.

As I moved my suitcases into my room, my mom came in, followed by my brother. Taking me into my brother's room, she told us that she had some bad news. I recall the chipped, white paint on the closet door behind her that doesn't quite shut, the swiveling wooden latch, hand-made and loosely attached so that it doesn't actually hold the closet shut so much as prevent it from swinging all the way open. The push button light switch against a rusted metal plate. The lights were off, and a few dead flies littered the carpet, signs that vacuuming had been neglected while I was away. Facing me, her hands on my shoulder, she said the words that changed the course of the next twelve years of our lives:

"I have breast cancer."

I froze. "I'm scared, Mom." The year before, my Aunt Laura had died from breast cancer. I was still fuzzy on the details from that ordeal, more out of a middle school kid's desire not to know more. All I knew was that cancer was bad. An invasive disease that slowly crept in and destroyed your life.

My brother chimed in. "I'm scared too." He was still in elementary school at the time. Only 10 years old. He's just 22 now. Over half of his life so far, his mother would be fighting cancer, at risk, or recovering from treatments.

"I know," she replied, "But we're going to get through this."

*

I've struggled with exactly what to write, where to write it, and how to write it. Much of this is intensely personal. Much of it is so personal that it's been shoved down into some filthy black hole inside of me for years, only being released in intense bursts of foul energy that threaten to overwhelm and destroy those around me (or so I fear/have feared/still fear). Much of it is something that I have feared will come across as petulant, whiny, self-absorbed, possibly out of self-preservation, possibly as a defense mechanism against having to experience all of the pain.

After much thinking about it, I've decided that this is something that I can no longer keep bottled up inside, wishing that it would go away, pretending that it doesn't hurt to see one whom you love destroyed, slowly, by inches before your eyes over the slow progression of years.

But there is more to it than that.

*

The initial mammogram was a hard time for her, and for us. I was unaccustomed to seeing my mother without hair, a sordid reminder of her illness. I overcompensated at first after the announcement, doing everything in my power to make life easier for her. I thought that if I could do that, the cancer might go away. I miss being young. I miss my naivety.

Chemotherapy and radiation treatments all but eradicated the disease during the first go round. The first two years of high school were relatively cancer free, although she took up the offer to serve as a counselor for those who were diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. Anything she could do as a survivor, she was willing to do. She would continue this for several years after that, although she eventually settled back into her own treatments.

The first remission came when I was a junior, just gifted with the ability to drive. I already was depressed at the time, afflicted with all the angst and woes that come from high school, carrying over the traumas of middle school, and with the pain that is the daily life of a high school student. And now here we were, saddled once more with this reminder of my mother's mortality. This time around, it was even simpler than the first diagnosis, and a couple of radiation treatments later, it was gone. No chemo, no hair loss, and no massive drama. However, psychologically, the idea that a remission could happen at any time was planted in my mind.

Friendships during this time have lasted, I am glad to say. People were there for me then, as they would be there in the future, and for this, I am grateful. At the time, the remission was simple enough that the knowledge of my mother as a cancer survivor (2x now) could fade into the background, not taking a prominent role in my daily life.

I do recall one instance, however, where a band member and classmate of mine came up to ask what kind of cancer my mom had. Upon replying that she had breast cancer, she replied with a disdainful look, saying that "Oh, you can't die from breast cancer."

I said nothing to this. I remember seeing red at the time, remembering my Aunt Laura, and thinking that it must be nice to live in a bubble of ignorance, but I said nothing out of a desire to play the part of a good student and classmate. Looking back now, I have forgiven that person's misinformation regarding breast cancer. Many do survive it, and go on to lead healthy lives. Many others do not.

*

Much has been made of my mother continuing to teach throughout her disease, and I would like to take this moment once more to say that at no point during her twelve year treatment did she take any time off from school. Let me say that again: she never took a leave of absence during her disease. She would regularly receive chemo treatments in the morning, teach in the afternoon, and come home to read an entire book during the evening hours. Cancer was just another part of the schedule, another hurdle in her daily life.

I've known people who need to take time off. It's completely understandable. Cancer sucks. The treatments for it are draining, literally poisoning your body and bombarding it with toxic chemicals and radioactivity. These are things that have been known to kill more often than not. It's not a fun time, nor is it easy. Therefore, it still boggles my mind to know that she never took time off from school. Sure, she would cancel class on some days that she was too weak to get out of bed, but more often than not, she was there, good or bad days, she was there.

And I don't understand how, some times, how she was able to function.

*

I went away for college in 2005, and was moved into my dorm with my parent's help. College was a good thing for me. It really helped me grow beyond my shell, opened my eyes to new ways of thinking about the world, and really introduced me to some of my best friends in the world. I'm glad I had the experience that I did, as it opened my eyes to what I really wanted to do in the world, and how I wanted to go about it.

During my sophomore year, in the spring of 2007, I was looking into renting my first apartment with some of my best friends. We all wanted to live close together, and had settled upon a cheap section within the student ghetto of Bowling Green. (A quaint little ghetto, really, and the apartment wasn't bad by any means. But still, relatively slumly, all things considered.) We were at the rental agency, looking over the leases for our new apartments. There was still snow on the ground, just starting to melt, and the sun was out. The chairs in the rental office were exceedingly comfortable swivel chairs, I recall precisely.

Then my phone rang.

My mom's cancer had returned. This time, with a vengeance. Worse yet, it was the kind that had killed my Aunt Laura. Within a year of her diagnosis.

I remember throwing my phone across the room, my worst fears having come true. As I vented out my frustrations, my anger, my fear of the future, all three of my friends were there to comfort me right on the spot. No words needed to be said there. I then began the first of many subsequent efforts to shove it back down inside of me, laugh about it, and move onward as though nothing had happened.

It was something I became particularly good at over the years to come, in an effort to put a brave face on the world. Shoving my feelings down inside and developing a rote speech of condition became easier than actually confronting the facts within myself. I was hurting. Badly. But admitting that would be giving into the disease, I felt. I could not let it win, could not let my mother's cancer beat my family. It became our shared cross to bear, one that would weigh heavily for the next five years.

*

My relationship with my brother has had its ups and downs. Many downs over the last ten years or so, as two adolescent males growing up in close proximity will often find themselves at odds. We've both been at fault for many things, and both had some growing up to do. However, as I look back on it now, it's my belief that my mom's sickness had as much to do with the strain in our relationship as anything else.

It makes sense, to me. Neither of us were/are particularly articulate about our feelings, both taking after our father in terms of burying our feelings down within. With much anger and resentment over our mother's sickness, but no real person to take it out on, those aggressive feelings have to come out somewhere. Surely not at school, where we've been told fighting is wrong. Video games, movies, music, books, they all helped at some point. But not as much as simply taking it out on each other, both in aggressive and passive-aggressive ways.

Do I wish to have those years back? Yes and no. We both had growing and learning to do to get to where we are now, and I am shaped by my relationship with my brother as much as by anything else in my life. It should also be said that family vacations were a continued source of joy for my mother, and that simply having the family home for Christmas every year was probably her most favorite time of the year. I cannot look at Christmas time without seeing all of our holiday staples, whether it be putting up decorations, frosting a multitude of Christmas cookies, watching "A Christmas Story" all day on the 25th, trips to Grandma's, dinner at the Paragon with the family, and so on and so forth.

My brother and I will be fine.We have each other, and we know our strengths and weaknesses. I'm no longer fearing for that relationship.

*

The next years fell into a sort of routine. I would call home twice a week for updates regarding her treatment, which involved taking chemotherapy at home orally (pills) every day. When I asked her how long that would take, she said for the first time (in her patently casual way) "Oh, probably until I die." It was at that point that I realized that the end was in sight, and that there were no alternatives. My mother was going to die.

In hindsight, that was also the first time that I saw my mother's acceptance of her fate. She would continue to fight up until the end, but death was not something she was afraid of. To me, that signifies a great deal of how she lived her life: fearless, stubborn, and willful against all odds. Sure, cancer was a bitch, but there are worse things in the world.

I would call home twice a week, make regular trips back home, and do what I could from afar while continuing my studies. Through it all, she managed to make it to all but one of my plays and performances that went on during my college career. And I was involved with a LOT of plays. I directed three, acted in many more, and was heavily involved with student productions as well. She encouraged me through it all, taking in everything and giving good, solid feedback. The sort of thing any mother would do. She became close with my roommates and friends, asking about them and sending them Christmas cards and other assorted signs of greeting. Even towards the end, she continued sending one friend cards regarding her recent surgery, wishing her well.

Through good and bad, my mother supported me. Through good and bad, I did my best to support her.

*

Writing this has been weird. I find myself telling the story of her time with cancer, yet it's from my perspective entirely. I had intended this to be a eulogy of sorts, a way of honoring her and of remembering her spirit. In truth, however, I cannot really pull what that means. As I stated before, my mother fought cancer for twelve years. Given that I was 13 when I discovered this, that is almost half of my life. I can relate the last twelve years better than the first thirteen if only because I was better able to assume the rigors of life by that point than I was for the first half of my life.

Long story short, I have a hard time reflecting upon my mother without being swarmed by thoughts of her struggle. It has consumed a great portion of my life; I sought out to direct one of her favorite Shakespeare plays while in college so that she could have a chance to partake in the play; it was as much for her as it was for me, in addition to serving as a learning experience. I passionately pursued a life in the arts, working on my skills as often as I was able to. Towards the end, I was (and still am) working to further my career in Chicago, where I might find opportunities greater than those I could find in southwestern Ohio. All because I know she would have wanted me to.

But it has side effects. The mental strain put on by her sickness was challenging. My relationships suffered because of it. I became a giant ball of nerves and sensitive feelings that could go off at the touch of a button. Depression set in, so that the only reason I could get out of bed in the morning was if I had to be somewhere at a certain time. And even that was hit or miss, depending upon the event. Jobs were easy. Groceries were not. Rehearsal was easy. Homework was not.

It settled over everything like a smothering shroud of fog. While fun might be had, it was always with my mother's cancer in the back of my mind. So it goes.

*

My mother missed my graduation from college. She was too sick to make the 2.5 hour drive to the ceremony, and so she had to miss it. She had not planned on going in the first place until I personally requested her to attend, as a sort of rite of passage for me into the world. She'd been there for me over the last five years through thick and thin, and I wanted her to see me graduate as the conclusion to that chapter in my life. Her missing it was painful, and I regret not having a picture of me in my cap and gown with my mother to this day.

Immediately afterwards, I shipped off to New Jersey for my first professional internship. Going out and working in an Equity theatre environment for the first time, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Worse, I was plunged right into my assignment as assistant to the director having never worked with Equity actors before, having never really even SEEN an Equity theatre performance somehow, and moderately unprepared for what was expected of me to start.

And then I got another phone call. The cancer was back, and this time it was spreading. In spite of the chemo.

I froze. Completely. This happened right as the show was going into tech week. I remember it happened on the day one of the lead actor's took a sword blow to the mouth and was rushed off for surgery. I had to stand in for her, and fuzzily remember bits and pieces of that night. I couldn't hit my marks, couldn't see anything really, and could barely keep it together. For whatever reason, I buried it down deep again. The director had his hands full with the artistic director breathing down his neck on every move, and I didn't want to add to his worries. So I shouldered on through, afraid of creating a further disturbance.

I shouldered on through the rest of the internship, doing good work in some spots, barely getting out of bed in other spots. I did a good job in the end, I feel, but by the end, I was emotionally scared, fearing the worst. I moved home and got a job in the local Borders bookstore. When that went bankrupt, I got a job as a server. The whole time, I was saving money ostensibly for moving out to Chicago, but it felt safer being at home. Just being at home felt like it was a major psychological lift to my mother, that having her son around to share time with and enjoy life made things better in some small way, as things wound towards the inevitable conclusion.

One day, we were driving back from lunch or some other gathering that escapes me at the moment. Listening to former baseball star Bernie Williams' new jazz CD, we took in his acoustic flamenco performance of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game". As it played, she looked over at me and said that she wanted me to play the song for her at her memorial. My inner hope was that she would continue to live long enough that I could play it at my wedding, whenever that would be, as our song to dance to. Some things will never come to pass.

*

My greatest fear through the entire ordeal was that I would be away from home when the end came. To that end, I narrowed my possibilities for moving out to places where I knew that I could easily make it home on very short notice. New York felt out of the question, as did somewhere like Florida or California. I wanted to pursue my theatrical dream, but I needed to be there for my mom, who was there for me oh so many times over the years.

When the time came, I moved to Chicago. A six hour drive away, I could make time to come home. By that point, tumors had spread to her spine, causing unbearable pain that could only be solved by lying on her back on the floor. Worse, tumors were pressing against lymph nodes, causing automatic body reactions commonly seen in pneumonia patients, in which her lungs would fill with fluid that caused shortness of breath and pain. Draining the fluid from her lungs became an almost weekly occurrence, one in which I would take a book to read while she received the treatment before going about our day.

Moving to Chicago was extremely hard at first, as I still felt that I was abandoning my mother in her time of need. I told myself that this was the best choice for everyone, and that I was well within a distance where I could come home as needed.

As I moved out, her request to me was that I come home for the end, whenever that might be. Between that and my dog looking out of the window the entire time as I drove away to start my life anew, it was impressive that I made it down the hill at all. I thought long and hard about simply turning around, unpacking, and moving in, tearing up the lease, forfeiting my deposit, and damning the torpedoes all to hell. But I moved out. I reasoned that if I didn't do it at that point, I might never take the initiative again. Foresight is not one of my many blessings, and so I drove away.

I managed to come home for Christmas, with fresh news of getting a nearly full time job working in one of the biggest theatres in Chicago, a Shakespeare Theatre to boot. Christmas was had, family met and gathered, and for the most part, every thing was civil. We even took in a movie, the latest Sherlock Holmes atrocity.

That would be the last time I would ever see my mother in person.

*

I worked in Chicago, starting the fantasy novel I'd been dreaming of writing for years. My goal was to finish the first draft by the end of February, print out a copy, and have her edit it in her spare time. Not because it was her obligation, but because she could see that I was doing work on something I loved, and taking steps towards becoming successful. One of our great shared loves is of Lord of the Rings, something I hold very dear and closely to my heart. This was yet another way for me to pay back all of the love and support that she had given me over the years.

I called regularly, checking in and keeping track on everything at home. When I called on February 14th, Valentine's Day, to check in, she was in good spirits, having watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, her annual tradition. We talked about the upcoming baseball season, and about the Masters. She told me that one of my birthday presents, a mattress pad, was on its way. The other rested on top of my dresser. Even in her sickness, she never missed a birthday for me or my brother, and always had the energy to send us a gift or two, no matter where we were.

Her pain was extreme, by this point, and to combat it she had been given Vicodin. She refused to take it, on the grounds that it affected her to the point where she was too stoned on painkillers to drive to work. She would rather teach than sit at home free of pain. Again, her determination shone through, in the darkest hour. She would be starting a new chemo on the next day, one that would hopefully shrink the tumors in her spine to alleviate the pain.

*

On February 17th, I was at home by 9:00, writing the next chapter in my book. I had six to go before I finished it, and was planning to come home on the 27th for my birthday.

The phone rang at 10:38 pm. It was my brother.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I got some bad news, man."

"...go on."

"Mom died."

"...it's going to be okay."

*

There is no word to describe the cavalcade of emotions that comes crashing down in such an instance. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Surprise. Shame. Pure adrenaline fuels your actions and decisions. Tears were shed, to be sure. I remember calling my friends, desperate for proximity to someone, anyone. I called my Dad. I ran on the beach and shouted at the waves. I could not write anymore that night.

The weirdest sensation was a feeling of relief that dominated everything else. She was no longer in pain. It was over. This disease that had defined her, a person of so many wonderful qualities unlike any other I have ever met was freed from the shackles of this hideous thing that twisted and corrupted her body so terribly.

Did I feel shame at having not been there for the end? Yes and no. Yes, I would have liked more time with her. But at the same time, I feel that she did not want a long, drawn out death, one where she would no longer be able to teach, to function as a person. It came suddenly, it came quickly, and it came at home, in her bed, just two days after she taught her last class. She went out the way she would have wanted, fighting.

*

When remembering my mom, I remember her love of baseball. Her passion for her classes. Cinema. John Ford movies. Reading mysteries. Shakespeare and his plays, and movies. Watching the NCAA tournament, the Masters, Opening Day, the World Series, the Ken Burns Baseball documentary, the channel always being on ESPN no matter the time of day or year. Her taking me to see the re-release of Star Wars, pulling me from school to go see Shakespeare in Love, the Lord of the Rings movies. Her frenetic driving, her colorful use of profanity for any and every reason imaginable, her fervent love of nature, her love of cardinals, the Reds, the outdoors, time with her family. So many things defined her, things beyond cancer.

That's the way she would have wanted it.

*

At the memorial, I played guitar for her. The Quaker meeting house overflowed. So many people came. Her friends, her students, neighbors, childhood friends and classmates, my friends, hundreds of people. Sitting in the front row of the pews, I looked up to see an empty space on the bench before me, facing me. Seated around that were multitudes of my closest friends, my grandmother, my aunt. Any time I felt extremely sad during the service, I would look towards them and invariably one of them would look at me and smile.

I feel strongly, deep within my heart, that the empty space was my mother. She was there, and she made sure that there were people there for me, my brother, and my dad, smiling in assurance that we would get through the day. An informal bonfire was held that night, at which many of my friends, from high school, college, and past college gathered. It was a reminder that life has been good, and friends will always be there for you when needed.

As the days have gone by, I've wondered about my purpose and what would be the best thing for me to do. I no longer feel so tied to stay close to home. It is as though I have a chance to start anew, and to not stay fixed on one set regimen of functionality. I've thought about moving somewhere bold and new, making a fresh start. I've thought about returning home to what I know. I've taken the time off to think about my direction in life, what matters to me, and how best to honor my mother's memory.

I have finished my book. I've written stories I've always thought about writing. I'm finding my voice and rhythm as a writer, my passion as an artist. I know what I want to do, and rather than find out what I don't want to do, I want to pursue these passions. Writing is a joy to me. The arts are a joy. Nothing else makes as much sense, except for wandering the pathless woods, which remain calling me.

It's hard to write a eulogy, I find. I cannot separate myself from the last twelve years, but what I can say is that they've affected me, but are no longer a cross to bear. Rather, they are simply another chapter in my life, one which has been read and closed so as to move on to the next chapter.

We will be scattering her ashes in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, the site of one of our family vacations long past. She was still healthy then, back before cancer. The pictures show us all smiling, happy, free from any pain and suffering. Now that we are through this, it's our job to find that happiness once more.

The best thing about that is that no matter what happens, life is still good. Friends are still there, and people still care. Of all the things I've discovered in the last two months, that is the most important: life is still good.

Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook 1951 - 2012

(Postscript #1: You didn't think I'd forgotten these, did you? Well, back to some semblance of normality anyways. My associate has informed me that my previously considered line-up of blog entries has been somewhat...er, marred, by the last two months, and so I will be focusing instead on the chronicles of myself and my associate over the last few years. There is a story to be told, and we shall find it, somehow. In the meantime, stories will be written and hopefully published. I'm awaiting word on three stories as we speak, and constantly writing new ideas. I'm beginning revisions on my book, and am grateful for all of the feedback I've received. In addition, I hope to continue to pursue my theatrical dreams, however that might come. In the interim, stay posted here, faithful readers.)

(Postscript #2: It might strike no one in particular, but after I finished writing about myself and my brother, he called me to see how I was doing. Call it my mom looking out for us. That's what I'm calling it, anyways.)

X

2012-02-19T18:01:00.000-08:00

I don't feel like writing about anything this week. I'm sure you'll all understand why. (If not, let's have a heart to heart sometimes, you and I, in regards to priorities in life.) Next week might be more promising, but I make no promises.

Many thanks to all of my friends for being there and helping me through the last several days.

The below will run in Monday's edition of the Dayton Daily News and the Western Star.

"Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook was born April 25th, 1951 to Richard and Patricia Willey in Webster City, Iowa. She graduated from Centerville High School in 1969, BGSU in 1972, and earned her Masters in the Humanities from Western Kentucky University in 1974. She passed away Friday, February 17th, 2012.

She was preceded in death by her father Richard and her sister Laura. She is survived by her husband Milton, sons Travis and Zachary, mother Patricia, brother Stephen (Paula, son Christopher (Jodi), and daughter Mary Beth), aunt Priscilla Canady, uncle Jerry Willie, brother-in-law Gary Cook (Jay and sons Ernest and Seth), and best friends Susan Serr and Cathy Rausch-Lager.

She was teaching at Miami University-Middletown and Wilmington College, where her classes included Shakespeare, baseball literature, John Ford, and Greek and Gaelic mythology. Beloved by students and faculty alike, she made a courageous fight against impossible odds and was teaching after her final chemotherapy session on Wednesday. She will be missed by her family, friends, and students.

A memorial service will be held at the Quaker Meeting House in Waynesville on February 25th at 2:00 pm, with an open house following. Donations may be made in lieu of flowers to the World Wildlife Fund and the National Wildlife Federation."

The Erstwhile Mailbag: A Collection of Motley Correspondance, 12/11 - 02/12

2012-02-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

The outpouring of love from the last edition of "The Erstwhile Chronicles" was overwhelming. That being said, I have chosen to take that love and transform it into a mad outburst of gibberish that continues to constitute the bloated pages of the first draft of my as-yet-untitled fantasy novel. As of the writing of this sentence (and probably the last one of today as well, though who's really keeping score here?), I am six chapters away from finishing the aforementioned tome. Because of the nature of writing such a mammoth monstrosity of malapropisms and mischief, most meticulous mastication of my moments must be maintained as methodically as may be mentioned. (Yes, that was just for you, gentle reader.) That being said, don't expect an entry next week as I try and cram in the last chapter or three of my book in order to reach my self-appointed deadline. (There's a certain joy in realizing that you've written a full-length book by the time you turn twenty-five, which in my case will be within the next two weeks. The ultimate goal is published by the time I turn twenty-six.)

(Sidenote #1: The idea of achievement by a certain year of existence is something that fascinates me, mostly because of the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse at the tender age of 27. Nothing more to say, just that the collective accomplishments of those five alone by the time they were twenty seven constitutes 130+ years of experience within a 5 year window of achievement. Impressive.)

SO

This week, I have taken the time to go over the gargantuan pile of fan mail that has started to pile up since the inception of this blog. Carefully sorted by my associate (and provided in a rumpled burlap sack that may or may not be used to transport aging rock stars over the border to Tijuana) I have gathered here twenty or so of the dozens of decadent emails that I have received over the course of this blog. While it pains me to say this, I regret not being able to fully answer every email that I receive. There are only so many hours in the course of one day, and you're lucky enough that I trust my associate to simply take your mail and pass it along to me. You don't understand the risks involved in that, my friends.

Without further ado, here are this quarter's emails. (As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Mr. Cook,
Don't you feel that using a mailbag as an entry only three months into setting up your blog is not only a cop-out of having to write an actual blog entry for the week, but also a megalomaniacal egotistical form of acting out for extra attention? Seriously, how many emails have you actually gotten regarding your stupid blog?
Sincerely, Confused in Chicago

Well, Confused, somehow you violated the space time continuum after reading the previous paragraphs, so I can only assume you're a remnant of the hideous events of the Super Bowl Halftime show of over a week ago. With that in mind, BACK YOU DEVIL.

In all seriousness, this is just my way to get your thoughts turned around back at you in a heinously inexpensive mirror twist that violates no aspects of my weekly column being prescribed reading for some of you. You get your column, I get my words out in copy, and we're all entertained for another week. So what harm is there in using you for my own means? Hell, Gandhi did it, and I'm not even arguing for independence. I'm simply arguing for a controlled license-granting of all peccary owners in Chicago. Too much to ask?

JTC,
Why in the hell should I have to have a permit to own a peccary? And how are peccaries going to mount an invasion of the North Side? Wouldn't honey badgers be the proper way to go?
ABC, Wrigleyville

Because it's fucking unnatural to own a wild pig, especially this far north, and in an urban context.

And honey badgers? Seriously? I still don't get the point.

(My associate assures me that actual badgers are still something that should be feared more than the honey badger. In that video, you see the badger get bitten by a cobra. A real badger would never allow that to happen, given the badger race's recent development and mass production of searing laser vision that would kill anything that moves (like a cobra) within twenty-five feet, reducing it to ashes. Or so my associate assures me.)

COOOOOOOK,
When are you coming back to the Cleve? We miss you here! Who else will go to the Root Cafe and listen to poor Charlie Moppett with us?
Yours Truly,
That Fucking Unicorn Lady

TFUL,

My last expedition to Cleveland was indeed a success in that it brought about the birth of this whole enterprise. For that, I will always be indebted to the Root Cafe. (And their seed drinks, which are FANTASTIC, BTW.) However, my roaming days are strictly limited for the time being. Funds are being procured for a massive continental tour during the coming summer months, and while Cleveland may be a stop on the tour, I can make no promises at this point in time. In the meantime, my regards to Charlie Moppett, and to the Root Cafe. If you're ever in Cleveland, make sure to check it out. Best Hippie Haven in the Rust Belt!

Hey James,
Love your blog! I really enjoyed your coverage of the Madonna halftime show! Gotta love the 80's! Do you have any thoughts about the recent death of Whitney Houston?
Ever yours,
Just Wants to Dance with Somebody in Indianapolis

I sincerely doubt that you actually read my blog, given that by the time of the halftime show, I was reduced to a drooling puddle of bourbon hiding behind the Professor's couch, protected by a Boxer-Shaped Pillow. That being said, yes, one must love the 80's. If one is to survive this, the only way is through hair metal.

As for the death of Whitney, my main thought is that now she will never know.

You bastard,
Don't you think it's too soon for jokes about someone's death?
Pissed Off in Connecticut

How are you bastards getting through the Space Time Continuum?! What is this, Back to the Fucking Future? STOP IT NOW.

Dear James,
Can you please explain your reluctance to use actual names within the context of your blog? How are we supposed to truly understand these people beyond the vague caricatures represented here? Don't you think you should expand the broad stereotypes that you're using here? I mean, come on, the Ginger? Don't you think you could be a little more specific?
Sincerely,
Blondie in San Antonio

Ah, the nicknames. Well, here's the story, Blondie. Because of pending litigation, I am unauthorized by various state boards of parole from using the full identity of any of the people contained within these escapades. The dangers of using their actual names/residencies/professional titles is so potentially filled with catastrophe that sometimes it seems better to not mention anyone within here at all. Good heavens, the lord knows that my associate is a known felon and wanted in four states for abuses of the system itself. If he were to be named here, the Feds would be on him faster than Spiro Agnew in a blender.

Dear Mr. Cool,
You seem to alternate between traveling around on the Red Line and the 147 Bus. Do you have any recommendations as to which mode of transportation you prefer to utilize? Or is there really no difference in whichever way you try to get around town?
Sincerely,
Stranded in Laketown

You know, it's funny. I just made my ultimate preference choice the other day after hearing the following story. So my friend (Let us call her the Mystery Lady for now, though I guarantee that this will change) was walking along the street, minding her own business, when all of a sudden, Battle:LA starts happening right in front of her. For those who don't know, that's that one unique movie where Aliens invade the world, and decide to do so by attacking Los Angelas, the one city that everyone in America would be secretly glad if it were utterly destroyed by alien invaders. Anyways, it actually starts happening right in front of her, and somehow Kurt Russell shows up. Only its not his character from Battle: LA, which actually doesn't exist in the first place, but Kurt Russell from "Big Trouble in Little China", which is a damn fine movie. He's talking to her, telling her to run down the street because those bastards are about to blow everything to kingdom come, when Sherman's army shows up. This may sound extreme, you say. Well, you'd be way fucking right, because she's runnind down the street from Union Army Alien invasion forces when the streets below her feet start convulsing through seismic activity stirred up in combination by the alien's antigravity engines that drive their spaceships and the combined Richter effect of so many 1860's-era sideburns and mutton chops showing up in one location all at once. This activity causes the prevalent natural gas beneath the streets of L.A. to spontaneously ignite, sending fireballs throughout the city sewers. These fireballs seek the only way out, which is every manhole cover along the streets of LA, and send the covers flying sky high into the air. One of these is located right under a bus, but rather than be stalled by the bus, it flies right through it like a knife through hot Barbara Streisand. It flies through the bus, causing an even bigger explosion that somehow thwarts the alien invasion, turns back Sherman, decapitates BTILC-era Kurt Russell, and knocks the Mystery Lady flat unconscious.

Later, she was asked in the hospital if she needed anything. Given the improbable scenario that she had managed to live through, all she could stammer out was a weak and desperate cry for "life-fulfilling sex". The nurse laughed, replied "you're funny", and left. Without even trying to fulfill her patient's request.

The moral of the story is that this is why health care reform is necessary.

James,
Can you shed a little light on your associate please? He's a horribly vague character, and while he seems to be charming and resourceful enough, you don't really go into much detail. What's he like? What is his story? What could he have possibly done to warrant such non-disclosure of his actions and locations? If you could contact our hotline at our website, we'd very much appreciate the chance to discuss him further with you.
Sincerely,
Not the CIA

Dear Not the CIA,

This.

Plus this surly bastard.

This, somehow.

About five of these.

And this.

Dear Mr Cook,
When will you get around to actually writing something well thought out, of consequence, and of great importance?
Larry King, CNN

Mr. King.
I missed the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, otherwise I'd have written about that. I'm sure salukis are relevant.

Sir,
What are your predictions for Tim Tebow's upcoming NFL season? Will he or won't he be a difference maker? I find myself desperately in need of your opinion.
Yours truly,
John Elway, Denver, CO
PS. Gingers are stoopid.

Dear #7,
Personally, I don't trust Tim Tebow any farther than I can throw him. Anyone with as big of daddy issues as he has got should be dressed in a mini-skirt and twirling around the bars on Clark and Division like a madwoman. Do not, I repeat and stress DO NOT PLACE YOUR OFFENSE IN HIS HANDS. This will only end in pain, tears, and the coming apocalypse of the NFL as we know it.
PS. I concur. Gingers ARE stoopid. Especially when tall and lanky.

James Tiberias Cook
When do I get my royalty payments? I loaned you that name for purely academical reasons. You said it would be your stage name, and I assumed you would never work in this town again. What gives? Who said you could make a living off of my name? Don't you know who the hell I am? I'm JAMES TIBERIAS KIRK YOU INGRATEFUL ASSHOLE! PAY UP SUCKA!
Love and affection,
William Shatner, LA

Dear William,
Ah, Slick Willie, Big Willie Style, Bill. If you think I'm getting paid for this, you're really more out of your tiny little mind than I already gave you credit for. If that's the case, I demand my money back from you, you arrogant bastard!

Mr Cook,
Our records indicate that your last payment was declined. Because of this, a $25.00 late fee will be credited to your account. Your balance due will include the missed payment of $25.00, plus the given late fee, plus your next monthly balance. Pay up, sucka.
Sincerely,
Retail Credit Authority

(I turned to my associate, hand feeding me live paper straight from the fax machine. "You asshole! I said EMAILS! Not bills!"

He looked at me, confused. "That was an email. You signed up for paperless statements!"

"No, you cretin! NOT BILLS. I don't care if it's an email, I just don't want any bills!"

He handed me a sheet of medicine that looked like Pez. "Here, take this. I advise you to write at full tilt for the next hour. You'll be lucky if you don't end up as a raving madman by the end of this post." Without hesitation, I ingested the substance, taking another pull from the Bloody Mary sitting besides my desk. My associate turned his attentions back to monitoring the fax machine, occasionally brandishing a large hunting knife in its general vicinity to keep it honest. Cowed, the machine humbly resorted to blinking its error lights while still spewing four pages a minute.)

Mr Cook,
Your second post dealt with the lack of social communication within Starbucks. You have also commented upon the inability of streetgoers to even acknowledge the homeless people begging for money. How do you feel this reflects upon our ever decreasing social capacity as humans, given the influx of more introverted technology to the world?
Arlen in Stanford.

Dear Arlen,
Poorly.
Love, James

Dear James,
Why do you never mention the great state of Montana in all of its glory? We loved having you, and we miss you something fierce. Why don't you tell of your exploits there?
Love,
Lodge.

Dear Lodge,
I thought I left you behind for a reason. If you were not aware of what I was doing, let me be clear and frank: we abandoned your ass in Missoula for a reason. Leave us the fuck alone.
Love,
James

Dear T-Pain,
When will your new single come out?
Sincerely,
A Fan in Memphis

(I looked carefully at my associate, knifing through the fax machine.

"This gibberish is meant for someone else! Where the hell are you getting this from?" I asked.

"It just comes out," he replied. "This is an arbitrary process. I have no control over what the machine is doing. If it wanted to send you Boris Yeltsin in a bikini, all we can do is simply ask if it wants a wax job or not. There's nothing else to be done."

"Fine," I said. "Just give me another hit of whatever it is you've got there. I need more for the records."

"You sad fuck," he groaned. "If I give you anymore, you're liable to blow through the god-damn roof! Stay away from that shit, it's twice as potent as Toradol!"

"The hell with your Toradol!" I bellowed, grabbing the container from him and cramming its contents down my gullet. A telltale gurgle warned me of the displeasures to come, but it was too late. I'd already committed to the mission, and it was my obligations as a detailed blogger to see it through to the bitter end. My associate, shaking his head, tickled the fax machine with the knife, dragging out another email and impaling it onto the desk next to me.)

Dear JTC esq.
We are delighted to see that you will be attending "Aida" on March the 6th at 7:30 pm. We look forward to having you there. If you have any questions, please visit our website, or give our box office a call at 312.332.2244 ext. 5600.
Regards,
Lyric Opera of Chicago.

Ooooohhhhhhhhh, this is bad news. I will be sending my associate to this one. I have a bad feeling about this, bad vibrations all around. He'll know what to do far better than I.

Dear JTC,
What will your next blog entries detail?
A reader in Bowling Green, OH

I'm glad you asked. t this point, given the nature of the way that I operate, how I'm given a typical work schedule, and the times that make themselves available to me without being consumed by the truly weird, I am SHIFTING MY BLOG PUBLICATION DAYS TO WEDNESDAYS.

Trust me, it's a better idea to do that than ask for half-baked conceptions of nothing on days that I can't even bring my mind to half-cocked conceptions of reality.

UPCOMING ENTRIES:
1. My First Gainful Employment Post-College Career
2. Either an Oscar Recap or Something About "The Descendants"
3. A Review of the Lyric Opera's Production of "Aida" by my Associate (His auspicious debut.)
4. The Tragic End of My First Gainful Employment Post-College.

How's that?

(My associate shakes his head sadly. "You poor bastard. Wait til those damn elephants start trekking their way through the writing desk.")

Dear JTC,
What would you say is your greatest source of influence in writing this blog?
An Aspiring Blog Writer in North Carolina

Pure luck and true grit. And three hours to kill in a given day.

(At this point, the world started getting weird once more. The shapes and modes of life began to fade and swirl in a vortex of pain and obsequious dinner plates asparagus jdhfeuy9hddjhdjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj -

"Too much! Too Much!")

My apologies.

Having shattered any sense I had remaining of which was was up and down, as well as the given hour of the day, I feel that it is in my best interest, and yours good reader, to prematurely draw this post to a close. However, I'd like to thank you all for writing in, and for those of you with more questions, feel free to email me at james.t.cook07@gmail.com. Until next time, I must away. My associate beckons me, and it looks like he has Pez.

And we can't let that just go unobserved, now can we?

Everything New is Old Again: The Erstwhile Super Bowl XLVI

2012-02-06T22:02:00.000-08:00

While today's blog is described as being live, it was actually written on Sunday. Which, as I'm writing this as we speak, makes for a weird space time continuum status as to my writing capacity. It's Tuesday, but I'm writing on Sunday. (This dialogue continued with myself for about two hours on the Red Line on the way to Irving Park. I may have convinced people that I was crazy, something my plastic bag full of clothing from work might have helped to suggest. What this means is that I'm finally blending in to Chicago culture.)

Anyways, it's the Super Bowl, the biggest unofficial holiday of the year, where people who don't care about football plan for the largest party of the year while complaining about how the game is uninteresting and the commercials aren't funny, while people who do like football inevitably gather to complain about the quality and relative deserving qualities of the two teams involved (i.e. how the game is uninteresting) while ignoring the commercials in the hope of streaming live commentary about the last two minutes of game play that YOU JUST WATCHED HAPPEN. (Too much commentary about whether people should have run right through the big fat guys or left through the big fat guys.)

But I digress.

Our story begins at 4:00 pm CST, when I arrived at my designated location. The participants: The Professor, nursing a strong influx of Jim Beam the night before; the Professor's wife, who is making her first appearance in this blog. For the purpose of this blog, she will henceforth be referred to as "The Stitcher". (Cue ominous music, and/or adorable boxer puppies.)

As with many other live blogs/transcripts of what happens, I will watch the telecast, record the time, thoughts, and observations, and proceed on until the end of the game. At the end, I will draw up whatever Relevant Summary may be drawn from the proceedings, as I have transcribed them.

(Sidenote #1: My associate has scored a sideline pass to the field, and will be reporting to me live from Lucas Oil Stadium. How and where this happened is irrelevant. The important thing, and this is Important, is that it happened; things were done; and he is inside. That has happened. By the very nature of the size and magnitude of the event, and by virtue of my associate's placement and proximity to the happenings, it is impossible to maintain the low profile that all good journalists must exhibit. However, that is besides the point. What matters is that the news will be coming to us in live, unfiltered, and uncensored bursts of pure gibberish, the stuff that careers are made of and destroyed.)

So, let us begin.

5:03 - The Stitcher is asleep, clutching a dog shaped parcel. The Professor has finally put on pants. I've been here for an hour, and am wondering what all of the fuss was about.

5:04 - One of the largest counter programming events of the day is The Animal Planet's The Puppy Bowl, now in its eighth year. On any other day, this event alone would say so much about modern American culture. As it stands, however, if I wanted to watch small creatures in capes run through hoops and gates, I'd hang out with my high school friends who are starting to spawn. Nevertheless, this is the program of choice, as the Super Bowl is still 26 minutes away.

5:08 - Oh god oh god the puppies are cute. It's overwhelming. I've been reduced to a drooling pile of pus. This doesn't reflect well for watching grown 300 pound men trying to reduce each other to piles of kindling.

5:12 - SO. CUTE. SO. CUTE. SOMEONE DO SOMETHING THIS IS SO HORRIBLY CUTE AND PILES OF DOGS ROLLING OVER EACH OTHER TO VAGUE FOOTBALL COMMENTARY CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE.

(At this point, a nervous breakdown has forced my relocation to a point more easily defensible from the onslaught of the television. Strange vibrations this early on are more than my poor brain can handle.)

5:18 - Singing of the National Anthem by Kelly Clarkson. Over/under for the time length is 2:30. (Legendary for being a diva showcase, I am not sure of the record, but I'm pretty sure it's held by Whitney Huston, who is still holding out the last high note somewhere over Lake Superior back in 1991.

5:19 - Kelly Clarkson went sharp on the last high note, as judged by the Professor. The performance is ruined. (The final time did end up being less than 2 minutes, however. Maybe this bodes well for the game itself.)

(Sidenote #2: Average cost for a 30 second ad in the Super Bowl telecast on NBC: $4 million dollars. Or one tax break for Mitt Romney. Whichever you prefer.)

5:24 - A debate has sprung up over the various jiggly parts of cheerleaders and the ability of tight spandex to contain said body parts. Result: Everybody wins.

5:26 - At the moment, a stat has popped up regarding that the NFC team has won the opening coin toss for 14 consecutive Super Bowls. This has a 1 in 1,024 chance of happening. Naturally, the NFC loses the coin toss tonight. In the meantime, I've found the Professor's spare bottle of Jim Beam, and have broken into it with zeal.

5:31 - Giants take the field. Much is made of this being the exact same Super Bowl as of 4 years ago (XLII in ancient Roman numerals). Let it be said that only 20 of the 104 players from that Super Bowl are playing here tonight. Let it also be said that the animosity towards the Patriots has negated much of the emotional punch towards this Super Bowl. Revenge Bowl just doesn't have the same ring when the man who caught the most epic catch I've ever had the privilege of putting my foot through a coffee table during (David Tyree) is out of the league completely. That speaks greatly towards the short shelf-life of your average mediocre NFL player.

5:39 - First round of commercials. This is just in: Bud Light commercials haven't been funny since I was in middle school. Much like the actual beer itself hasn't been good or exciting since I was in middle school and vaguely understood what beer was.

5:40 - SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!

5:42 - This just in: Pepsi commercials fall into the same category as Bud Light.

5:43 - My associate reports that Tom Brady is bugging out on the sideline regarding the recent safety call. While he looks placid and cool on the telecast, my associate reports that the stream of profanity gushing from his mouth would, and I quote "make Hemingway blush like a school girl."

5:45 - Giants players are running through the Patriots like New England is made of butter and Puritans. My associate confirms this. On a related note, looking at the angles that players take when they reach the sidelines makes my ankles throb with pain.

5:49 - Strange happenings already. This game has the feel of two teams that are horribly surprised to find themselves in Indianapolis, as though they went to sleep at 3 am last night in Miami and woke up to cornfields and media blitzes. The play looks frightening. the execution is sloppy, and so far two huge penalties have slaughtered the Patriots, resulting in 2 points and counting for the Giants.

5:51 - Make that 9 points.

5:55 - My associate reports that Brady is clubbing baby seals to death behind the Patriots bench. No word yet on if these are California or Harbor seals. I get the feeling that Brady is not approachable on the subject just yet. I've cautioned my associate to keep his distance, and to use orca repellant in droves.

5:59 - The Super Bowl halftime, featuring Madonna. The halftime show of the Super Bowl is where careers go to die. Take Springsteen and the E Street Band. They play it, and soon after, Clarence Clemons dies.

Directly. Related. I expect this to be the last thing Madonna produces to the world. In the meantime, it is refreshing to know some things are always constant. Joe Buck is a douche, and the Patriots cannot run the ball to save their lives. (Or the baby seals behind the bench. Not that rushing the ball will save baby seals, but it is a nice thought to think about for charity.)

6:02 - End of the first quarter, the first movie preview is for "Battleship." You know, based on the game Battleship. Because this seemed like a novel idea. Aliens invading earth in giant metallic forms that destroy and shape shift. Good idear.

6:03 - My associate is once again privy to the Toradol being pumped straight into Rob Gronkowski's high ankle sprain. He's confiscated a bottle from the locker room and now reports that Brady is feeling "groovy." Gronkowski, meanwhile, keeps ranting about high level viscosity for some reason.

6:08 - The professional verdict from the Professor: "The commercials tonight are trying too hard." The opinion: "They're also not funny."

6:08:30 - My associate's verdict: "Good God, the Seals!"

6:13 - Themes of this year's commercials so far include "Beer is good" and "Dogs are cute" in a continuation of the puppy bowl theme. Movies, however, are uninspired. (Although the "John Carter of Mars" preview featured a remix of "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which is added to Arcade Fire's "My Body is a Cage" as strange backing tracks for Edgar Rice Burroughs.)

6:16 - The Patriots scored a field goal at some point in the last series. It got lost in a haze of Jim Beam and seal blood. Who knew?

6:19 - The blend of Tomatillo and Jim Beam is making for some interesting sensations in the back of my esophagus.

6:22 - Jason Pierre-Paul has just batted down his second pass in a row. A massive defensive end who some believe should have been the Defensive Player of the Year, his wingspan is roughly the size of a humpback whale, with the grip of a ravenous hyena on mescaline. Two last names were more than enough for this monster of a man.

(Sidenote #3: It was at this point that we lost The Stitcher to slumber. Football is not her forte. Sharp instruments of construction are. And the only thing we have representing that on the field is in use behind the Patriots bench to repair the broken baby seals. Her loss.)

6:24 - My associate reports that Giants tight end Travis Beckham is out with a torn ACL for the game. Also, he reports that the Giants practice squad members are engaged in a ferocious game of Mancala, and the bidding starts at $50 a stone. I'm not sure which is more valid until I hear the live report that the bidding is up to $75. Ah, football.

6:25 - It is my professional opinion that the second quarter is boring. The Professor seconds, and the dog shaped parcel has begun to move from chair to chair within the room.

6:30 - To evidence the previous claim, my current game MVP is Steve Weatherford. The Giants punter. To be fair, my associate is reporting that Steve Weatherford is actively gnawing on uncarved ashwood on the sideline in order to control his undying rage against the light/Patriots machine/starving African children. As with Brady, my associate is hesitant to approach his target. Never approach a man in full fledged beaver mode.

6:45 - Holy shit, did the last fifteen minutes just happen? Or did I just stroke off for a bit?

6:46 - Ah, yes, the Avengers preview, with our first good look at the six heroes in action happened. Other than that, I remember NONE of the commercials from the last hour and a half.

6:47 - Jason Pierre Paul was unblocked on 1st and Goal. The result - tackle for loss by a Beast of a Man. Good God someone bring that man a sandwich.

6:47:30 - I just found out that Jason Pierre Paul is younger than I am. I hate my life.

6:49 - Patriots just scored to take the lead 10-9. With :24 left in the 1st half, the prediction has sprung up for the Super Bowl Halftime show. Song guesses are "Like a Prayer", "Material Girl", "Music", and something from Madonna's new album. This is our debate here. That and taxes.

6:58 - The obligatory half time analysis is saying that the last team to score will win. In other news, the Middle East is turbulent once again. Waiting for Madonna to arrive.

6:59 - My associate is reporting from the locker room of the _______, amidst a shower of painkillers, cocaine, and assorted amphetamines. Caffeine is being injected into somebody's arms straight from an IV. It may in fact be my associate.

(At this point, the transcript loses its focus, dissolving into a series of quotes and gibberish. Collecting myself later, I examined the details, and have transcribed what I can recover. It wasn’t pretty.)

Somewhere around the 7:00 hour - Madonna is performing. I'm flashing back to the worst trip I haven't had yet. The time continuum is blown to pieces by Spartacus.

God help us all. I'm currently hiding behind a couch, shielded from the dangers of this small Roman armada.

NO! Stop him! Art Garfunkel, why are you jumping on your nuts on a tightrope? Where is Paul Simon?! He'd never let this happen!

Weird Al? What are you doing outside of the Shire?

This is some strange combination of high school pageantry and $10 million that was just lying around and had to be burned in some way by midnight, or else Brewster wouldn't receive his millions.

Cee-Lo Green has no eyes. Cee-Lo Green is the Space Emperor of Space. (Sorry Zoltan Mesko.)

CEE-LO GREEN IS THE WIZARD! RUN! MIA, YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA ALL ALONG.

Summary: Football is space. Beware the wrath of Universal Caesar.

My associate cannot be found, for the Fear has set upon him.

7:20 - The Space-Time Continuum has returned to functional parameters, and my trip is slowly dying down to a reasonable level of intrigue. Things have shifted around to fit this brave new world. Coincidentally, Clint Eastwood is now from Detroit.

7:23 - OCHOCINCO *YOWLSCREECHOFDEATH*

7:25 - Wisdom from the Professor "Do not accept drinks unbidden from the strong man, for it will end poorly." Too late for you, you poor bastard. Wait til Madonna comes back dressed like a Roman gladiator, craving human flesh.

7:28 - Speaking of craving human flesh, the Patriots just scored a remarkably easy touchdown to go up 17-9. My associate reports that Eli Manning is "putting out tentative whines as to why he doesn't have any baby seals that he can bludgeon, and why Brady has all the seals." Then he is reminded that he doesn't have anything, only the broken limbs of Michael Strahan. Defeated, he slumps back on the bench, looking over notebook pictures of Brady's seal braining art. He sighs, and my associate cannot be sure but reports a single tear running down his face.

7:31 - On a long take of Tom Brady, right before the kickoff to the Giants, he hangs his head, deep in thought, before slowly, deliberately letting a drop of spit hang all the way down to the ground before lightly severing it with his tongue. Wiping his mouth, he prepares for combat.

7:31:30 - My associate preserves the saliva for future biological studies.

7:33 - Vince Wilfork is FAT. The man is a beast, and the one giant holdover from their former defensive glory, but the man must weigh as much as a young bull elephant in heat. He breathes like a steam engine, his breath ringing clear across the nation to Utah. That man is not on steroids. That man is on tyrannosaurus tears and liquid molten sun.

7:38 - The Patriots defense smells blood. Like sharks in the water, they are circling, picking off the weak on the edges of the Giants vertical attack. Hakeem Nicks is no longer able to distinguish directions from colors, and the resulting blur has taken away the most potent weapon of their passing attack. If the Patriots score on their next drive, and I mean a touchdown, then the game is all but sealed.

7:40 - This just in: Pepsi Max commercials are not funny either.

7:47 - The Giants have (finally) sacked Tom Brady, creating a 4th and 12. The game is still alive, 17-12. Someone is bringing in a fresh crate for Brady marked as delivery from Northern Canada. A slight, pathetic whimper is heard.

7:49 - The word going around the Interwebs is that Madonna fell during her halftime performance. Yes, she did fall. From the pop charts. Like a stone.

7:55 - Tom Coughlin, Giants coach extraordinaire, is turning into Marty Schottenheimer, with the stale old brand of "run, run, pass, punt/kick". This bodes poorly for the rest of the game. 17-15.

8:02 - I've yet to see anything besides the Avengers preview that actively excites me.

8:04 - Brady is intercepted on a play that up until the conclusion is eerily similar to "the Catch" from Super Bowl 42.

(Fuck Roman numerals. There's nothing Roman about football besides the desire to maul one another like lions and tigers. Until I say otherwise, football is undeserving.)

8:08 - The game is getting tense. Like camping.

8:11 - My associate reports that sabotage is afoot. Jake Ballard has been stabbed by a Patriots defender. This shifts the balance horribly, and could mean the ultimate outcome is horribly in doubt. I have no idea as to what actually happened, because one of The Professor and The Stitcher's friends (let's call her The Boxer) decided to jump onto my lap and attempt to seduce me through her massive massive tongue. Needless to say, I resisted her charms and whiles, but not after a thorough drenching. I also have no idea as to what happened to Jake Ballard, but I'm sure that my associate would never lie to me.

8:13 - The scene behind the Patriots bench is bedlam. Brady is humping a blow-up doll like a madman, holding it by the neck with one hand while braining seal cubs with the other hand, clutching a shalalie like a mad Irish drunk out of some O'Neill play. He is uncontrollable.

8:15 - STAY IN BOUNDS YOU CRETIN!

8:23 - It is determined that The Stitcher doesn't give a shit about the Browns. Bulls and Cavs all the way. End quote.

8:25 - The Darkness jam session is at the worst, entertaining to listen to a bunch of people do what we did in bars during my freshman year of college; i.e. Screech like Robert Plant having a period.

8:27 - TONGUE IN FACE! TONGUE IN FACE!

8:27:30 - Wes Welker is a human vacuum cleaner, the football equivalent of Brooks Robinson at third base. He is the cog in the Patriots well-oiled machine that makes it run. So how in the name of gravy does Welker drop that pass? I could catch that pass. How in the hell does he miss it? Good god, good gravy, my goodness my Guinness.

8:29 - My associate is reporting that Bill Belicheck is being re-booted. The last few drives have stalled out, unfortunately so, and as a result Josh McDaniels has had to insert a new chip into the Belicheck androids skull to keep it functioning.

8:31 - The howling at the moon on this chilly Indiana night begins anew, as Eli comes on with 3:46 left and 2 points down. The broadcasters sound as though this is a pre-scripted broadcast. I'm still not fully recovered from the halftime performance. Eli, overcome from his seal depression, looks like he's preparing for a high-power merger at a corporate law firm. One senses the winds shifting.

8:34 - The Manningham catch will go down not as highly as the Tyree catch, because that was the ultimate in game saving performances. However, when receivers in the future are shown video of how to perform the sideline catch and to keep both of their feet down inbounds to preserve the catch, they will be shown Mario Manningham's sideline catch from Super Bowl XLVI, as he toed his left foot, planted his right, and maintained full possession of the ball on his descent out of bounds. Belicheck makes the call to challenge the play because he has no other options; allowing the catch to stand would cripple his team for the rest of the drive. As it is, they are now on the 50 yard line, with hope rekindled in their hearts. A cheer erupts from the stadium as the catch is confirmed through the jumbotron screen. The game continues, although the outcome seems to be written in blood. Patriot blood.

8:37 - The Giants need to milk the clock as they move into field goal range. The Pats have far too much time left to let Brady have a chance to move down the field again.

8:38 - Manningham has been targeted four times in a row, making three receptions. He is a beast, and blood rages in his head. Patriot receivers are fearful for their lives, shrinking from this possessed ex-Wolverine. He howls at the snap count for blood, and throws anything in his way to the ground, a Samson among Davids, to properly mix the metaphors and convey the emotion it is to see a football player take over a game for several drives.

8:39 - GoDaddy.co can go suck my left nut. Not the right. They're not good enough for that.

8:41 - 2nd and 3, the Giants call for East Falco. I like to call this the luck dragon play.

8:43 - All of a sudden, this game has come alive, and every missed play/made play/mistake is magnified here for the Patriots. Neither team has performed spectacularly except for a couple drives. Unfortunately for the Patriots, Eli Manning has taken over this drive, fueled by the Manningham Impossibility.

8:44 - Touchdown Giants! Belicheck has gambled to let the Giants score now, instructing the Patriots defense to part like the Red Sea on First and 10. Ahmad Bradshaw was allowed to rush for a touchdown, and because the opening for the Giants was so huge, Bradshaw was unable to stop his forward momentum before he could cross the goal line. He has literally fallen ass-backwards into the endzone in the most futile attempt to cease forward motion that has been broadcast on live television. While the Giants have a 4 point lead (2 point conversion unsuccessful), the Patriots have :57 seconds for Tom Brady to rally for a touchdown. (My associate reports that Bradshaw literally pissed himself with terror upon seeing an open endzone, the first time anyone on either sideline can report feeling such terror.")

8:45 - "The suspense is terrible! I hope it lasts." - Oscar Wilde.

8:47 - Good Jesus, Rob Gronkowski is not in the game. I will return after this drive concludes. Too tense to write.

8:53 - The final Hail Mary goes up. If Chad OchoCinco catches the fucking Hail Mary to win the Super Bowl, I will stab somebody.

8:54 - The Hail Mary falls incomplete, just beyond the reach of a diving Rob Gronkowski. The Giants are Super Bowl Champions once again, ending the SAME WAY IT ENDED FOUR YEARS AGO. Eli Manning has now warranted serious discussion for the Hall of Fame, and the missed passes across the field to the Patriots will be second guessed all year. God I am glad that I'm not a Patriots fan. To go through this agonizing heartbreak defeats anything known by a Bengals fan, where we're simply used to chronic disappointment year in, and year out.

8:56 - Hall of Fame boosts from this game for Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin. Eli has passed his brother for football success, and the alcohol flows like mad in the streets of New York.

8:58 - My associate reports from the frenetic joy of the Giants sideline that "Tom Coughlin has entered full-Beast mode, and is screaming phenomenal nonsense words from the bowels of the sideline pit. Manningham must be corralled and muzzled so as to simply receive congratulatory handshakes. Belicheck has stabbed some anonymous assistant coach before going into auto-self-destruct mode. He is being shepherded towards the locker room by an assortment of tight ends and a rapidly deflating Vince Wilfork.

Brady sits amid a pile of blood and seal skulls, clutching his shalalie in a white-knuckled grip, yet unable to come to terms with once again having come so close, yet so far from his ultimate goal. A few drops to Wes Welker and the outcome is decidedly different. The unfortunate truth is that Tom Brady has already peaked in terms of what he can accomplish, and where he can go. He has overcome being a 6th round draft pick, passed on by every team in the league multiple times. He has won three Super Bowls. He has broken records, proven his worth as a quarterback time and time again. There is no question that he is one of the all time greats. Now however, that works against him. He is the Establishment now, his underdog card revoked under threat of blood. The other team will always be the underdog. Over 70% of America was rooting for the Giants, although it might be more accurately described as against Brady. He is the Villain with the Golden Arm, and no matter his past, he will never again be the Underdog, short of a sudden and terrible decline in power.

The ultimate pain this time around is that the Patriots handed this away, almost gift wrapped. Now Brady looks forward to an off-season of misery, flanked by Giselle, the rapidly aging supermodel who no longer carries the same luster as his career winds one year closer to its ultimate end. The banshees are screaming and howling in the Indiana nights, and death reeks over the New England sideline. A great thing is passing before our eyes, and it is our responsibility to record its construct and ultimate demise. Before it even happened, the New England dynasty choked and flailed as 87 could not wrap up the small, bouncing pigskin. Night has fallen in Foxborough.

9:04 - The weirdest trophy celebration ritual is the touching of the Lombardi trophy by the entire Giants football team. While an old old man carries it forward, the players fondle, kiss, and molest the silver trophy. It offends the senses with the indignity.

9:07 - And the Super Bowl MVP is (as it should be Mario Manningham, who saved the season with his spectacular catch and performance on the last drive) Eli Manning, once again. History is repeating itself once more, and the Giants are 3-0 against the Patriots since 2008. Go figure.

9:10 - I don't know why they break down the game on the damn trophy stand. Just give them their trophies and let them shower each other in man love and champagne. Jesus, you wordy bastards. You're prolonging all of the joy sex and hate sex shared by Giants and Patriots fans! Get on with it!

(Here, the telecast has concluded, due to my sudden lack of interest in the game, and my prolonged interest in Jim Beam.)

CONCLUSION: If anyone wanted to make a notion that these games are fixed, this game makes a strong case. Either that, or the two teams are so evenly matched during the match-up that the team that scores last and that scores the best under pressure is the team that will win. Both years, that has been the Giants, and no amount of baby seals can disguise the fact that the Patriots have spent several years beating up on mediocre teams so as to create a stronger impression of themselves against the better teams.

Halftime, as far as my poor brain is concerned, is a vague collection of shadows and mystical Kabballah images. Best argument for chemical enhancement (AGAINST chemical enhancement, my associate pines from Indianapolis, AGAINST. ONE CANNOT HANDLE THE TORTURE.) ever? I think not.

Commercials are lame. But we knew this.

Therefore, I am bidding adieu for another night. The Professor and The Stitcher have retreated to slumber, and the dog shaped parcel has returned to its inanimate state of being. All is right on Irving Park, for one more year.

OK here,

JTC

(Postscript #1: My book is twelve chapters from completion. The Erstwhile Chronicles has taken a back seat, although I have churned out one chapter from that, and am putting a rough guide for the pages together. Expect more on that over time. Come March, the play's the thing.)

(Postscript #2: Tuesday morning. No word yet on my associate, or where he lies. My last contact with him was when he was in the Giants locker room, hammering down bottles of Moet and Chandon. Until I hear further, I assume he is on the beat, doing his necessary research.)

(Postscript #3: We have absolutely NO idea who won the Puppy Bowl, although The Stitcher has informed me that a record for Most Puppy Bowl Touchdowns was set tonight. The MVP was Fumble, who was a terror on offense AND defense. Rare that you see a good two-way player anymore.)

Of Once and Future Rendings and Renditions: Memo from the Writing Desk

2012-02-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

Re: To Whom It May Well Fucking Concern

Subject: THE BASTARDS SCREAM FOR QUAKER OATS

Greetings,

In the past month, I have been frequently blogging, in regards to historical events, modern day occurrences, my day to day life here in Chicago, and whatever happened to have crossed my mind at that particular moment in time and space. It's an interesting junction, my mind in time and space, and the fact that two possibilities occur simultaneously screams out for further documentation. At some point, however, the non-stop train of gibberish must run its course, and when it does, the inevitable letdown for what occurs is a stupefying low that not even the brightest of the bright uppers can remedy.

In other news, grape fruit went on sale at Dominiks.

I have also kept you abreast of my recent writing endeavors beyond this blog. This has been primarily focused for the time on my (as yet untitled) fantasy novel that has been ten years in the making, but one month in the writing. As of that one month mark, however, I am 52,000 pages in, and nearly through Part III out of five parts. (The last two are going to be two bitches in a hand basket, however, so the first draft will still come in at around 120,000 words, and be finished by the end of February.) At this point, the major kinks in the narrative are working themselves out, the characters speak for themselves, and I have the through line working. OK here.

The River of Doubt is slower going, but I never expected to start grinding that particular bastard out until March. As it stands, that one is also on track, and the roughest of rough formulas for an outline will be constructed if not tomorrow night, then at some point in the coming week. AT WHICH POINT, expect a rough draft to be under way during March (a.k.a. when I take a break from the epic fantasy novel so as to recharge my mind for the second go round.)

BUT (and this is crucial) we are not through yet.

One of the greater advantages to not having that crazy of a social life is that my downtime is phenomenal. I am free of the burdens of cable television, popular noise, and most high priced booze. The lower end stuff gets me through the late hours of working, such as tonight, where I figure to be up until 4 am writing. Without the calming influence, I fear that I would go mad. (I call it my 8 hour day, and the last time I tried one, it turned out 8,000 words. So with that in mind, it bears repeating that I enjoy having multiple projects to work on.)

With all of that said, I can also formally announce that I have begun work on a second novel, a modern day parable/auto-biographical/gonzo retelling of the last two years of every male twenty-something in America. It's the kind of project that used to be called the 'great American novel' but which was sold downriver as soon as James Patterson and Glenn Beck took over the publishing empires of the world. To my mind, no one has further destroyed or done more damage to the potential of a progressive American dream than that Aryan fascist who turns out lies faster than people can believe them. Which is saying something.

Anyways, the second book is under way. It's feasible to work on so many projects at once because A) It's largely culled from the similar writings I've been doing in this blog, so I can assemble it on the fly, B) It's so episodic in nature and the through-line is more of an inevitable descent that I can skip and jump around the narrative in the first draft just to try and shake some sense into the god damn thing. Seriously, I have copy notes up on my walls, it's that bad. C) It'll be effectively half the length of the fantasy novel, and it's much easier to write because I know the characters on such an intimate user-friendly basis. (I know my characters in the first novel, but I'm still layering them constantly. You should see my journal where I take my notes.)

SO, in the future, with this blog, you can expect what might be called a "sneak preview" of the narrative to come, as I churn out copy for this blog every Tuesday/Wednesday without fail. There will be more two or three part series coming, just solely on the basis of some of these stories are too large to tell within one 3,000 to 4,000 column style blog entry. The names will remain the same as I have changed them to suit my needs, out of a misguided attempt to shelter the innocent from further torment. The places will be adjusted to suit the needs of the story. But the message remains the same, in that the last three years have crippled any sense of optimism that our generation once possessed, and its retrieval is of the utmost importance if we are to adjust to anything beyond a feeble understanding of the Great Cosmic Shadow Dance called Life.

As for the rest of the works, they're coming. There's a long form play in the brewing regarding the Good Doctor, as I've promised for several years now. I almost understand the man enough to take him and run with it. We're close. So god damned close.

In the interim, while the inevitable is being discussed, my associate, Mr. ____________, will be handling all of my calls. I suggest electronic mailing, as we can only afford so many phone lines in a given time frame. My associate is fond of oral destruction.

OK for now,

JTC

The Erstwhile Fanatics: Fear and Loathing in Hockeytown

2012-01-25T13:16:00.000-08:00

Back in the days when I was able to healthily flaunt the newfound wealth that I had from Stafford student loans, I decided that it would be a worthwhile endeavor to reward my best friends, my boon companions, my "bros", if you will, with a special Christmas present that would not only show them my appreciation for them, but also allow us to share a new experience, bonding with one another as we'd never had before. (Note: Still not gay.) It would have to be a special event that I gifted them with, something that would blow our collective sensory perceptions straight out of the water, a time that would cause untold rapture and would go down in legend as one of the greatest trips ever told.

This is not that trip. That trip would come later, involving an orca, a waitress in South Dakota, and chapstick. But that's a story for another time.

(Sidenote #1: In recent weeks, I've noted a trend where my blog echoes my mood of the given time, and reflects a certain self-loathing that's always been rather pronounced in my writing. While this is something I fully intend to embrace, I'm also all for the exploration of my past life, recording it in a time honored tribute (i.e. blogging) to preserve these macabre trips for posterity. What this means is several posts over the next few weeks that have more of an autobiographical feel to them, and fewer diversions into topics such as sports, politics, and the homeless.

With that being said, sports.)

The actual trip was four months in the planning. When working on a trip of such magnitude with such fickle people surrounding the entire enterprise, one must carefully plan how these events go down. My associate and I spent the better part of October scouring the internet for the best possible solution as to how to spend our holiday time and money. Finally, the solution was arrived upon, and announced to the friends: we would be attending a hockey game in February as part of a Christmas present. You're welcome, earth.

The cast of characters included myself, my associate (traveling along separately with his own crew of rag-tag outcasts and vagabonds), the Ginger (whom we may recall from prior tales and studies), the Professor (whom has graciously accepted once again to appear in these chronicles as "The Professor") and the remaining member of our team, a ne'er-do-well so nefarious and twisted, so eccentric and fanatic, that no true name can do him justice. For the sake of anonymity, to protect the innocents, and out of our own perverted self-interest and hyperbole, he shall be referred to here as "The Hood."

(Sidenote #2: All of these characters will play a part in future chronicles to come. Remember them. Study them. Know their tendencies. It just may save your life some day.)

The game, as mentioned wouldn't be until February for technical reasons. That technical reason being that we would be seeing a professional hockey contest between the Detroit Red Wings and the Colorado Avalanche at Joe Louis Arena in Detroit. (Or "the Joe" if you're so inclined.) The schedule listed February 17th, so given that I bought the tickets in October for a December Christmas present, there was ample time to prepare for the event.

Or so we thought.

The ensuing trip to Detroit was harmless enough. A long stretch of corrugated freeway, rumpled and pulverized from years of long, cold, and harsh Ohio Winters (Note the Inclusion of the Oxford Comma), the road is to your car's tires what that damn helicopter was to John Landis in The Twilight Zone movie. Destroyed, just like Vic Morrow and those two Vietnamese boys. They will soon be scraps of rubber, again, much like Vic Morrow.

Braving the roads, we arrived in Detroit, that dessicated, burned out hulk of a city where it is possible to watch the American Dream sputter and gasp as it is exhumed upon an automated assembly line towards technological oblivion. For the people of Detroit, it almost goes without saying that times are tough, but that there is hope for the future. One homeless man eulogizes a deceased firefighter, who bravely rushed into a building that should have been condemned years ago to save a child. The building's burned out carcass stood for years after he perished, an ode to the city's inability to give up and die, or to allow itself to be reseeded for new growth.

But enough of that. We were here for hockey.

Pulling into the garage, it was established that The Hood was a simple boy, reared in the suburbs, far from the violent city life. Consequently, the established idea that there would be buildings larger than he had ever seen before was something that escaped him.

"I'll tell you that the building immediately outside," began the Professor, "Could hold ten of the Administration Buildings on campus."

"Well that's just not true..." replied The Hood, which turned into open mouthed awe as the visual spectacle of the outside buildings confirmed the Professor's initial assessment. We were indeed in a new, harsh world, strange and corrupt of intentions.

Given that we had hours before the game even began, thanks to a paranoid Fear of arriving late, or worse, in city traffic, we looked about for something to do. The Professor, being a native of the world, recommended to us an establishment called the Post Bar, which was apparently a staple tradition of him and his family members. Or something like that. To me, it just appeared as another dive bar buried beneath a parking garage.

Entering, the first adult beverages of the day were consumed. A couple of Miller High Life's goes a long way towards establishing character and content within a bar; it signifies that you are a man of little taste, but a taste for the macabre. It shows that while you may be reduced to spending on cheap, mass-produced beer-flavored swill, you at least have more sense about you than to pound away at Bud Light after Bud Light. (An inevitability that hung over our crowd like the plague, given the lack of variety to your typical stadium fare.)

While at the Post Bar, we divvied up our uniforms for the day, an erstwhile (TM) set of hockey jerseys spanning various tastes and interests. The Professor wore his native Red Wings colors with pride, while the Ginger wore his hometown Avalanche with something akin to pride. The Hood wore a local hockey jersey that escapes my mind at the moment due to its obvious inequity compared with the prior two (Or it might be something his father wore, the ex-professional hockey player and bruiser of a man. Do not engage the Hood's father in a fight, for vengeance will be swift, and the payment will be your teeth. Trust me on this.) My jersey, given that I am aware that hockey is played on skates with sticks, was the tribute to an independent group called Moxy Fruvis. (Perhaps you've heard of them?) The latter jersey, a point of pride for me in the choosing, would draw some of the strangest looks from anybody in the stadium that day, and might have served as the best conversation starter in the world had we not been surrounded by a horde of angry, bloodthirsty, capricious hockey fans.

But we're getting there.

Leaving the Post Bar, we trekked into the stadium, where the first order of business was establishing our seats. It is true that when purchasing the tickets, I had looked towards the least expensive choices. It is also true that the correlation between price and distance from the arena may or may not have placed us outside of the arena itself. We'll leave that up for debate.

"At least we've got a good survey of the action," the Ginger said, peering down and trying to contain the nosebleed started by high altitude.

"That's true," I replied, also holding my nose. "We won't miss anything, except names. And who knows who these guys are anyways?"

"Well, I do," replied The Professor, "There's Lindstrom, Zetterberg, Hossa..." as he continued, we made our way back down. There was serious eating to be done.

None of this group could ever be classified as small. This is not to say that we're fat, overweight behemoths. We're simply large men, and that builds large appetites. For food, beer, etc. When I'm the smallest of the group, there's something to be said for what we need and can consume. And the ingested food of this trip would be legendary, in no small terms.

Among the first things we picked up at the concessions stand downstairs were (per person): two giant bratwursts, individual nachos, personal pizzas (with sausage and pepperoni), peanuts, and two more stadium sized beers apiece. These joined the Miller High Life's already consumed at the Post Bar in a state of gastrointestinal bliss and nourishment.

(Let it be said here that while ticket prices are already somewhat silly in nature, given their prices, the true gouging comes from stadium food. Some parks make absurd amounts of money just by feeding you. For example, a six dollar bratwurst contains a limp, boiled bratwurst wrapped in a soggy white bread bun. For the same price, one could purchase a pack of five of the same bratwurst and a cheap pack of buns. Right there, you've got five that would normally cost you $30 in the stadium. Do we see how the stadium has just made $24 off of the last two and a half customers? Now, with that being said, I am willing to embrace these prices, because like many other American sports fans, there are just essential rituals of every contest that must be
observed. To fail to do so is a lack of adherence to the hegemony of sport. And one cannot violate the hegemony. That's how the bastards get you.)

While everyone wrangled their way back to their seats, my associate pulled me aside into one of the curtained tunnels leading back into the arena. I watched my companions as they ascended the stairs, making a mental note to rejoin them.

"What have you found?" I asked, clutching my personal tray with intense anticipation.

"The whole team is running bug-shit beneath the stands," he confided, clutching what looked to be a confiscated hockey stick. "They've been doped up on some strong shit, my friend. Lindstrom is handing out packets of Torodol himself. Can't miss it."

"We knew that, man, we knew that" I replied. Anyone crazy enough to play in a professional sport such as hockey must constantly be battling the side effects. "What have you found out?"

Without speaking, he withdrew a bottle. Toradol.

(A popular choice of professional athletes, Toradol is one of the many drugs ingested by Brian Urlacher, Tony Romo, Ronde Barber, and many more to use as a painkiller. Non-addictive, and legal in the U.S., side effects may include gastrointestinal bleeding, as shown in a multitude of studies. Not shocking, when you get down to the basics.)

"Great Scott, man" I replied, grabbing the bottle. It looked to be about half full.

"I just did a hit," he replied, "And man, I'm floating on air at the moment."

"Are you?" I asked, suspicious. Pulling the stopper, I tried it myself. Goes down smooth enough, I thought. Soon enough though, a numbness followed by intense euphoria overtook me. The Fear settled in quickly enough, with the driving sensation that there were evil demons about, and that Hockey was the only solution.

"Good work," I replied. "Now get to work, there's business to be done here." With that, he crept away into the bowels of the stadium, for reasons I am not indulged in enough to comment upon here.

Returning to my friends, the game began. Here is my main problem with hockey, as with soccer, basketball, etc. There are, to be sure, highlight moments. There are, to be sure, moments of suspense, and games with great import have that hanging over them. That's why I love the NBA playoffs and Stanley Cup finals. The outcome feels more important.

For a game in February where all that matters is a theoretical dip in the standings, I am FAR less likely to give a rat's ass about watching overpaid millionaires skate back and forth for three hours. The hits are fun, goals are cool, etc. A half hour's worth of fun. However, for the remaining 2:30, I am disinterested. Granted, I can't skate, but I'm sure I could learn. How does that warrant your being paid millions?

(Yes, this carries over to baseball as well, my pride and joy.)

To be fair, the game did have many exciting moments, ending in a 6-5 shootout after overtime proved futile. The Avalanche and Red Wings played admirably, but this is not about them. This is about us.

During the first intermission, The Ginger and I coasted down towards the bathroom. Still floating on a Toradol high, we found a long line to piss into a trough, something that 95% of men would have a problem with in a general public restroom, but in a hockey arena pumped full of testosterone, no one bats an eye at this. While standing in line, some far more drunken Red Wings fans than us stumbled out of the room. One of them, a seedy looking shortie with an old tattered jersey, caught sight of the Ginger's Av's jersey, and proceeded to glare him down with intense vitriol in his eyes. After a few minutes of this, the man yelled out, "Hey, John Denver's a fag!" before fleeing with his companions back into the arena.

I sometimes feel that fanaticism is a lost art, especially when you're so used to being on top.

Returning to our seats, I caught sight of the giant octopus hanging over the stadium, and promptly retreated further into the state of the Fear. Hockey is full of its own quirky traditions, including its own peculiar sense of fashion. The octopus is a particularly Detroit ritual, dealing with a past incident where two brothers flung a live octopus onto the ice following a Red Wings win or something (I'm not sure, and didn't care to research this point, as the occasion still scars my mind). That being said, the presence of a giant, eight-legged freak floating high above the arena as a strange form of idolatry terrifies a man in the grip of a Toradol binge. Fleeing the stands temporarily, I consoled myself with more bratwurst and beer to soothe my poor mind. There should be license requirements and strict notice posted if you're going to be assaulted by a blow up cephalopod during a sporting event.

(Sidenote #3: Did you know that the world 'cephalopod' is not listed in Blogger.com's spell check? I feel this is a grave oversight, considering the nature of this post.)

The final incident of note during the game itself was that I may or may not have punched a five year old girl. I'm strongly disinclined to believe this not because I don't remember it, but that as an erstwhile (TM) hockey fanatic, I would not feel strong enough to punch said girl unless she had it coming to her, or was in truth a human sized octopus. In which case, the incident would be more widespread than just poor me, and it would not make for such a specific story. Therefore, I believe it to be false. But again, believe what you will.

Fleeing the arena following the shoot-out, we realized that the four of us were in no condition to drive. What's more, strange noises began erupting from beneath the stadium, and I became conscious that my associate was still loose. Fearing the consequences of being caught on camera with a deranged lunatic, we moved towards Detroit's Greektown, a narrow collection of businesses designed to cater towards those with money to spend. (The 1% of Detroit if you will). Along this way, we spotted a new casino, perched at the end of the street, and attached to one of the swankier hotels of the region.

A quick survey of our group revealed that we had never been to a casino. (Save the Ginger, I believe, who did his time in Vegas, doing something that has never been fully specified for these chronicles.) Moving into the lobby, we broke out our remaining cash (something to the equivalent of ten dollars and change) and moved towards our locations of interest.

Let it be said that I am a terrible gambler. I cannot play poker to save my life because I am incapable of hiding my expression at a deck of cards. In real life, I can disguise my intentions with the best of them. In the pit, where every single tic is revealing, I am doomed. Therefore, we shied away from the card tables, trying our luck with a series of automated machines.

The Hood soon spotted a "Star Wars" themed slot machine. Realizing that these things are crack for those willing to dole out money to spend, I remained leery of the strange box with a touch screen and wookies to boot. However, the Hood remained.

Where he soon turned a profit. A sizable profit that isn't fit to disclose here, but suffice to say, we were able to pay for our food later that night, and our gas too.

May the force be with us, indeed.

Freeing ourselves from the casino, it felt as though we had just embarked upon a new passage of manhood. We had attended a sporting event as adults, we had just gambled with the best of them (well, in the same room as them), and now we were once again loose in the city. And, despite our best of efforts at the stadium to stuff ourselves to the brink of oblivion, we were hungry once again.

Taking in a deep dish pizza place, we were tormented by vision on television of a giant man whose name may or may not rhyme with Crack, Yack, Gak, and Stack, dancing while wearing a horrifying white mask with a back troupe of dancers, all emblazoned with the same mask. Unfortunately, this dance by The Stack Attack had all the subtlety of an Aerosmith concert. (You know, the band that got away with rhyming the words 'Tallahassee' with 'sassafrassie'.) Consequently, giants with white masks rhythmically flailing away on giant flat screen televisions while still in the throes of the Fear sets about an intense Loathing of your surroundings, of the waiter carrying your deep dish pizza, of the gastrointestinal problems you are developing due to an abundance of beer, Toradol, and cheap stadium food packed with sodium.

But I digress.

Leaving, we made it back to the car in one piece, and tore out of Detroit as fast as my newly shredded tires would carry us. In my haze in the back, I collapsed, finally, my body in an intense state of subliminal exhaustion. As we drove back south towards the Border, stars above us, and a tranquil state of being settling over the car, it occurred to me that we had overcome all of our perils, but that even five hours in Hockeytown, with the craziest of the crazies, was not what it set out to be. Reputations are one thing to be earned, but the actuality is far more tame than the pretense. In practice, there is a fear and pacification that is set out over such an event, there are Rules that must be followed, and while they may be Broken, it is for the Fear that we adhere to these codes. There is no Breaking of them when what you are following is actually intended by the Rules themselves.

Case in point, consider the octopus.

The other thing I realized, half sleeping, was that my associate still remained in Detroit, doing god knows what.

One can only hope that the consequences would not unleash the firestorm to come. Unfortunately, we were wrong. (To be continued.....)

(Postscript #1: Work on the novel continues. At the moment, we have breached the 40,000 word mark and have concluded Part 2 of 5. The last two days have been spent taking a break from it, as I am a little worded out at the moment. As tomorrow is a laundry day, work will resume at full throttle, and on pace for a finish to the first draft within the coming Months. River of Doubt is in progress as well, and I look to begin true work with The Professor as early as next week.)

(Postscript #2: I am looking for sponsorship to attend any Republican primary rallies in the coming weeks to see how the other half lives, works, and operates. I make no efforts to hide my liberal leanings, but in the nature of the work I've been progressing on, I am curious as to how this rat-trap operation will be functioning in months to come.)

(Postscript #3: I really do enjoy hockey more than this particular article gives me credit for. However, as I've stated, I enjoy it more when the stakes are higher. That goes for all sports in general, but particularly for something like this. Not to say I don't enjoy it, but...ah, there I go, speaking in a round-about way again. (Bonus for those who guess the reference.))

Erstwhile on State and Lake; Live with the First Signs of Winter

2012-01-17T14:57:00.000-08:00

³¹ A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. ³² So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. ³³ But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. ³⁴ He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, brought him to an inn and took care of him. - Luke 10: 31-34

I enjoy keeping my window in my studio apartment open at all times, regardless of the time of year. The first is that I can hear the waves lapping against the shores of Lake Michigan. Through some miracle of miracles, my apartment is one building removed from the lake shore, and so the beach is less than two minutes walking from my front doorstep. This is fantastic because I have longed to be near a soothing sound of nature ever since I moved into the city. When you come from the country, the sudden shift in noise from bird calls and wind blowing through trees changes to garbage trucks, the wind against your building, and people yelling at each other in the street. To hear the waves, suggestive of a large body of water not 100 feet away from me, is particularly soothing to my wayward heart.

The second reason is that I grew up in a cooler house. While my ancestral home does have a furnace that runs from November until March, it only effectively heats the downstairs rooms, and even then is set low because of the skyrocketing cost of propane fuel. With this in mind, turning the furnace up is out of the question. The resulting temperature in my room that I slept in on and off for twenty four years is a cool 55 degrees. (Or possibly 35, one never can be sure. I did wake up one Christmas morning to sub-zero temperatures outside and the string of drool that trailed down my cheek frosty to the touch. One thinks that a couple of dollars would be worth not having to wonder how my nose suffered an extreme case of frostbite overnight.) Over the years, one gets used to these sorts of things, and not only learns to put up with them, but also to embrace them. Consequently, I love piling my bed high with blankets, wearing sweatshirts and warm socks around the house, and making coffee just for the sake of absorbing the wayward heat transference. Keeping the window open in my apartment allows for a more chilled environment that makes me feel infinitely more at home than the sub-tropical settings of my radiator.

Which brings me to reason #3, my radiator(s). Wonderful marvels of engineering, they somehow have the ability to change my apartment from a vintage studio in need of some sort of remodeling with a marvelous view of Lake Michigan into a balmy South Beach sauna complete with Mexican attendant, palm trees, and an odd backdrop for South Beach because it seems to be a view of Lake Michigan on the North Side. Weird.

But I digress.

Winter has arrived in Chicago, the time when all the bar rats creep back into their holes, clamoring for booze and companionship (or so I imagine anyways). The first months of winter are among my favorites of the year, mostly because it signals a time of definite change in the air. Snow is falling, the year is turning over, and a fresh start is all but demanded of the world at large. Unfortunately, someone forgot to turn on winter this year until about mid-way through January.

When I first moved out here, I was delayed in arrival until December. Hearing ominous portents of a coming snow-pocalypse of epic proportions, rivaling the events of last winter here, I dreaded the oncoming piles of snow I would have to slog through while figuring out this new land of Chicago. This was made worse when I realized that one of the two restaurant jobs I had acquired would require a thirty minute walk in both directions. These are hard times for many of us, and I spent much of the last year holding down two to three jobs just to either a) make enough money to cover my piles of student loans or b) save money to move to a new location to try and find a better job/opportunities in theatre. At the moment, I'm still holding two jobs, but my obligations have changed. I no longer have to walk one hour to and from my job through a sketchy neighborhood, nor do I have to work double shifts at restaurants over an hour apart from each other. Instead, I can essentially mold my schedule to fit my needs for the week. (Because of this, my creative output has once again begun to pour, on a much more regular basis. More on that later.)

I'm one of the fortunate ones.

I was walking around downtown the other day, heading towards my bus stop, when I passed by another one of those tourists who love to take pictures of the Chicago skyline, most frequently while standing in the middle of the sidewalk. This little Asian man, holding an expensive camera, was very focused on photographing the Macy's building/Marshall Fields on State and Randolph. So much so that he failed to notice the grizzled, elderly homeless man approaching him from the side. With little hesitation, and most bizarrely, the homeless man leaned in close to the tourist's ear and began belting "Ain't Too Proud to Beg" as loud as he could, doing his best Mick Jagger while doing so.

(Why was this bizarre? It seems like something that one might see in the subway stop at any given time of day? What made this different? Well, let me tell you: he decided to start halfway through the song. Halfway through the chorus. To try and convey how strange this is, just start singing "Ode to Joy" halfway through the song, with no rhyme or reason given to measures or musical placement. It's quite strange, and somewhat unsettling.)

While riding the bus back home, still frightened by the homeless Mick Jagger and in need of some sort of sustenance to stave off the encroaching Fear setting upon me, I was displeased to note an extended delay at the Michigan and Deleware stop. Looking towards the front of the bus, I could see the delay was another homeless lady boarding the handicapped seats. What's more, she had to wait to clear an additional seat on the bus, not for a pet or a companion, but for a single potted orchid that she set down gingerly, patting it on the leaves as she did so.

To this date, that is one of the more heart-breaking affectionate moments that I have witnessed in the city, to see that much compassion for something that would be so simple to the rest of us, yet so dear and essential to the life of another person.

The one thing that I have noticed either from traveling in the city or from just living in it is that to the majority of crowds, homeless people are regarded as a plague and a nuisance. Discarded, spat upon, believed to be diseased alcoholics out of their tiny little minds, they are kicked, bullied, and openly shunned to their faces. Sure, there are those who do what they can to help them, through the offering of cigarettes, change, or even a bus ride from time to time. I helped out a man the other day with a bus ride, after I found myself unable to provide any change. (The digital revolution would be the type of event that truly hurts the homeless, if only because nobody carries cash anymore.) Most of the time, they are simply ignored or cast out.

Society has always had its begging class, its poor and destitute. The very nature of the American Dream Machine welcomes the poor and downtrodden, (or so says a particularly emerald bust sitting on a rock in the ocean nearby a certain large city) allowing them to make their profit and fortunes in this land of opportunity. However, this is an impossibility for everyone to achieve, if only because in capitalism there are winners and losers. We are condition from childhood to believe that there is a place and task for everyone and all participants will be rewarded, but upon graduation, we enter the hyper-competitive job market, pushing and fighting for every dollar that we can get. For the weak, the poor, the diseased, there is an uphill struggle. For some, the struggle is too much. For others, circumstance and poor decisions lead to becoming the lowest of the low, the homeless.

Go and ask your local congressman the last time that they talked to a homeless person about their state. When Occupy protestors are told to go get a job, how much do they mean the young children of middle class yuppies and how much are they yelling at the people for whom welfare is the only option? How is a schizophrenic man supposed to hold down a position as even a fry cook at McDonald's?

(The apparent fear of the homeless class is widespread, and the belief among many in power is that they are undeserving of sympathy, pity, or the chance to survive. Welfare is regarded with racist beliefs that the people who use it are lazy. That's like saying that rich people exploit the tax code to pay fewer taxes. Both have cases that merit the truth of those statements, but it can hardly be said to be true of everybody. What can be noted is that oftentimes the people who want to break welfare because of they dislike providing services to people for free have their own skeletons in their closets and are hardly free of sin themselves.)

What's worse to me is that this is what I call an "accepted state of being", an unwritten social contract that we all just agree with. We all consent to ignore the homeless people sitting in the streets, because we have places to be. We don't offer change to the pro-offered cup, taught as young children not to look them in the eye because that will not draw them towards you like parasitic insects. Let them feed upon the nectar of the sympathetic.

Sure, there are plenty who help out, who volunteer at food pantries, who donate to charities, who spend time in soup kitchens serving the destitute. There are plenty of people who do drop change into the homeless person's cup. But how often do we see that?

Let's say that 1% of the people you run into on a given day are the ones who donate towards the homeless person in the street. The rest of us, let's say the 99% of us, avoid this, because we don't want to support a drug habit, because we know they'll just spend it on booze, because we're late for work, or a meeting, or a thousand other different things that cause us to keep going on with our lives, ignorant of the lesser people, because they are just that: lesser. I realize that many people don't help one person because that leads to a tidal wave of guilt because we are not able to help everybody. I think that's fair, but I also think that it is bullshit not to be able to help one person because then we'd have to help everybody. In terms of dollars, that makes sense. In terms of absolute morality, it is a sin. Morality is relative in the case of the homeless.

I say that I like having the cold in my house, which I do. I am grateful that it's a cold I can control, and not an ever present cold that comes from having to sleep under the train tracks, or aboard the El train late at night, or in any number of dirty back alleys within the city. I am grateful for where I come from. And like most of the people that I have the pleasure of knowing, (No sarcasm intended, I enjoy the people in my life, and they are all good people, I assure you), I generally take it for granted that I am not a "bum in the street." This is a lesson that we are all forced to confront often, as I did the other evening.

Taking the train home after working a double shift downtown, I was tired and exhausted. Reading my book of choice on the train, I braced myself for a long ride back to the Jarvis stop, a good 40 to 45 minute ride. Sitting in a sparsely populated train car, I kept to myself, much as the 10 or 12 other people were doing. Toward the front of the car, I heard a noise of a door being opened. Curious, I glanced over my shoulder to see what it was. Looking back, I saw that it was a thin, bearded man wearing a ragged moth-eaten sweater, obviously homeless, unshaven, and looking as skeletal as the pictures of Jewish survivors of concentration camps in the 1940's. I shifted over in my seat, trying to not draw attention to myself. Casually glancing around the car, I saw everybody on the train in front of me do the exact same thing. (I can only imagine the people behind me doing that as well. Universal reactions are contagious when part of an assumed social contract.)

The homeless man proceeded to go to each person in the car and ask by if, "by the Grace of God, you could spare a man anything? Anything at all?" I remember his exact words clearly without having to record them in my journal at the time, and I remember his ragged voice, held together with what seemed like Scotch tape and rusty nails. Proceeding down the car, he repeated his call: "By the Grace of God, could you spare a man anything?"

No one gave anything. There were a few responses of "I don't have anything," but never a "I'm so sorry" or a "Let me check," just "I don't have anything," stated with the implications of "Get the hell away from me, you beggar." I am ashamed to admit I was one of those, because I had things to do, more important things to occupy my time. Having acquired nothing, the man kept moving from person to person, never breaking from his speech, until he had reached the end of the car. Empty handed, he proceeded further on up the train and out of my sight.

When the train reached my stop, many people got up to leave the train car as well. As we got out, my immediate attention was drawn to a woman standing in the heat bunker on the train stop. Next to her was a shopping cart filled with blankets, bags, and assorted newspapers. She was so bundled in scarves and clothes that it was hard to determine there was a person under there. It was doubly hard to identify her because she was leaning over, one hand braced against the wall of the bunker for support, retching bile and greasy yellow vomit onto the station. All I could hear were dry heaves and sobs from within.

Yet again, no one offered any assistance, instead rushing downstairs. Again, I joined the fray, unwilling to offer my assistance in her time of need.

Reaching the bottom of the station, I overheard two guards talking about the woman on the track upstairs, debating what to do with her. Instead of offering to help, to ask if she would be alright, I pushed through the turnstile, not looking at anyone, and rushed out the door, just the same as everyone else who had just seen her was doing on that night. Racing home, I unlocked the door of my apartment, threw off my warm Kenneth Cole jacket, slipped on warm pajamas, powered up my internet-accessible laptop, and looked at my work schedule online before collapsing on my new full-sized mattress with clean sheets, feeling wretched and fighting back tears of self-loathing. It might have been my worst night in Chicago by far, because I realized exactly who I am.

I am the real 99%.

(Postscript #1: Again, a shorter entry and a deviation from the humor of the last couple. I like to shake things up from time to time, and this is an issue that's been weighing upon my mind a great deal as of late. I realize that there's only so much that any one person can do, and that yes, we cannot help every person we see. If I gave a dollar to every homeless person I passed in a given day, or everyone who needed it, I would soon be out of money myself. That being said, I find it appalling that people who have not found success/monetary gains/etc in society are shunned as almost third class citizens by everyone around them. To me, there's no justification in that. As Doctor Seuss wrote, "a person's a person, no matter how small.")

(Postscript #2: I promised that I would include writing updates from my other projects, and those are a much more optimistic topic to write about, so here goes. The fantasy novel that I've been outlining is underway! I am currently five chapters in, four complete, for a word count of over 17,000 words. For a book that's going to end up around 115,000 to 120,000 words, I feel that's a decent start. River of Doubt is also progressing, as the research and beginning of the outline has commenced. My writing partner and I are in agreement on what story we're telling, and are both greatly enthused for the project. Look for the first scenes to be written for that in March, and for the rough draft of my book to be completed around the same time.)

An Erstwhile New Year Falls: Fear and Loathing on Clark and Division

2012-01-10T15:24:00.000-08:00

It was somewhere around the Clark/Division stop on the Red Line that I first realized that the New Year was about to become a reality; that the end of this godforsaken bastard of a year was about to come to a grinding, writhing conclusion at nearly every bar and nightclub around the nation, let alone the world. The birth of the new year would be a water birth, covered in all the vices and liquors of a fouled world polluted with greed, envy, and a sense of terror at forthcoming doom.

This would be 2012, the end of the world as the Mayans predicted it. The Mayans were so certain of this inevitable apocalypse that they themselves ended it early, choosing to be invaded by conquering forces from far off nations that they couldn't even begin to conceive of and letting themselves be washed off of their corner of the map like blood in the streets, leaving only a series of conspicuously modern-looking ruins in convenient tourist trap locations throughout that region of festering boils called Latin America. Never mind that we failed to predict their own demise, we'll let those ignorant bastards have it. When the end comes, all will be made right again. Just you wait and see.

But enough of our imminent demise. First, the drinking.

It's a New Years tradition amongst my more steadfast friends from college that we gather each year in Chicago and tear up the town (as best as a couple of relatively loose-minded Midwestern college grads with liberal arts degrees are able to, which you'll see explained shortly) like it's never seen before (except for the 100,000 other Midwestern college grads with similar ideas, and in some cases, more money; again, you'll see that shortly). Currently, we are in the third year of this tradition happening successfully, although the number of participants in question varies from year to year, as well as the participants themselves. It's sort of our way of staying in touch with each other, while still enjoying our capacity to life, liberty, and the pursuit of overpriced alcohol. In terms of what we actually accomplish each year, we're actually a rather tame group, further burdened by the fact that most of us just don't do things like this anymore. Consequently, our stamina ranges so far apart from each other that our nights are marked by a complete passing out of everyone at the end of the evening.

In short, the night ahead, the first of 2012, was marked by a relatively early conclusion (for those of our age group, mind you. It would still be considered fashionably late by those of another generation, say, our parents for example).

The preceding night (the 30th, for those keeping score at home) involved an evening out at a nearby club as a sort of testing of the waters. We would be going out drinking, it was best to observe what this was all about. No sense in rushing these things off half cocked. Gathering at our friend's house (who for the purpose of anonymity of the blog shall be referred to as The Professor), there was little of what is called pre-gaming involved, for we are but poor starving artists who have little money to share. What beer there was to be had was not of the sort involved for such events. No, such pre-gaming would normally involve the "getting drunk as quick as possible in order to forget feelings and where we put our extremities in the night-time" beers, of which most of us have sworn off. (Insert ad here for Nati Light, a marvelous combination of flavor and taste, in that it has the flavor of piss water and no social taste at all. In short, perfect for frat parties.) No, pre-gaming with the young professional crowd (or yuppies as the term goes) involves the quafting of Sam Adams Seasonal Lagers, purchased in variety packs so as to add spice to our lives. Spice in bottle form.

En route to the club, hereby titled "The Holiday Club", we did pause to offer one of our strawberry cigarillos to a homeless man perched on an apartment building's front step. Surely such a gracious act would show that we are kind people, and our karma would reflect upon us for the coming days. Our benefactee did in fact enjoy the cigarillo, and offered his thanks. ("Strawberry! Shoot, I'm gettin' dinner tonight!") Satisfied with our offering, we proceeded to the club.

As clubs go, this one was distinct for lacking any distinctive characteristics at all. It looked like nearly every single dive dance hall that I've ever been into. The bars were bland and lacking in character, the pool table was isolated and surrounded by the same four guys in polo shirts I've seen in a hundred bars around the country, and the dance floor was appropriately tiny with a massive projector to show music videos that you've seen 100 times over. Even the beer special was Pabst.

In short, just perfect for our needs.

Your average Midwestern yuppie seeks comfort in their everyday life. Familiarity is a plus. This is not just true for Midwesterners in general, for for all youth of our generation. As much as those claiming to be "hipsters" seek the bold, daring, newness that many have searched for since beatniks first began churning out coffeehouse poetry in the late 40's, the en masse of our youth look for the things that we know to be safe, that we know to be fun, that won't hurt us or treat us wrong. Even when we do try new things, they need to resemble the old, or come from trusted sources. New and different frightens us on an evolutionary scale, and though we profess to love new things, we secretly yearn for "same old same old".

Why am I explaining all of this? To give the only reason for there to be so many "80's nights" at clubs around the country. How else could you otherwise explain people overzealously cheering for A-Ha?

As mentioned briefly, the drink of choice for this establishment seemed to be PBR, Pabst Blue Ribbon, the Official Beer of Punk Rock. The only distinguishing element between this and your average light beer of choice is probably calories; your typical can of PBR apparently has the calorie content of one pork chop. (With or without gravy or some other sauce is up for question, though I tend to think that if you're really trying to calculate your calorie intake of PBR in a given night, you're in the wrong part of town my friend.) In order to fully disguise myself amongst the onrush of twenty-something hipsters, for whom PBR is their nectar, their lotus leaf in a can, it took several cans on my part in order to achieve a passing toxicity so as to appropriately celebrate the second to last night of 2011. I figured that by doing so, it would be possible to mingle with the other patrons of the club, speak with them, gain their favor, etc.

Sidenote #1: It has become a realization of mine that I am fully ready to once again embark on the dating scene. Yep, no more light dating before moving to Chicago, no more awkward flirtation that never will go anywhere, all of that is finished. Time to spring myself upon the single ladies of Chicago once more, subjecting them to any and all torments that the night may disclose.

(Which, to be honest in speaking for myself, is limited. Though I might profess to be a wild and crazy guy, in reality, my associate of journalistic endeavors (who shall remain nameless for legal reasons) tends to draw attention away from anything I might actually hope to accomplish in public. Unfortunate me.)

Passing off this information to my friends, one of the goals of the night was to enable me to contact one of the girls in the club who looked as though she would be single, strike up a conversation with her, and get to the point of getting her number. The only flaw in what would seem at first to be a simple plan, tried, tested and true after decades of experiments in bars around the country, rested in the simple fact that I have no idea whatsoever what to do around the opposite sex if we are not forced into everyday encounters for at least three months. This problem became elucidated whilst on the dance floor. Struck by the sudden influence of PBR, I was given a boost of self-confidence, as well as inspiration in the form of an attractive young woman wearing what everyone else referred to as "those hipster glasses". Dancing around, I felt uplifted. Surely this was the night that I would talk with the girl, we would bond, and months of glorious dating would happen. It would be the best thing ever!

"I did it!" I exclaimed to the Professor as we danced to "Take on Me", "I figured out how to talk to girls!" Moving towards the group as my friends eyed me skeptically, I began singing along in a pseudo-falsetto, overcome by the emotions of the event. As I moved closer, I paused. Suddenly, the Fear came upon me. I realized that not only was a pseudo-falsetto rendition of "Take on Me" not the way to attract a girl to dance with you, it was in fact a social deterrent! Word would spread, and the streets of Chicago would howl with madcap laughter as every woman in the city became notified through the private grapevine that there were fools to be seen at The Holiday Club in Lakeview: come and mock them!

"I lied!" I cried in retreat, "I don't know how to talk to girls at all!" I rushed behind a nearby table as my friends, my bastions of support, howled with laughter at my sudden reversion to reality.

At least my idea was better than what my other friend (whom we shall call the Strongman for this evening) suggested, and eventually carried me out: flinging me bodily into Hipster Glasses while she was dancing on the floor.

Needless to say, this did not end well either.

Flashing forward to the next night, I was rushing to Clark/Division from my local place of employment, a semi-ritzy, semi-formal, chain restaurant that specializes in seafood, wine, and assorted other elements the upper-middle class can afford to snoot down upon when it suits them. Along the way to this club, my associate and I paused for a quick cocktail of dubious contents. I would be going to my party dry, and he would be proceeding to some of the seedier establishments in River North and needed proper preparation for what was about to go down that night. (I'm sure his account will someday grace this blog, but until then, it's best left unsaid what goes on in the back alleys of the North Side of Chicago on New Year's Eve.) A couple quick Bloody Mary's and we were away.

We had frequented the Luxbar at this time last year, when we were of a larger party, and not quite sure of what we were looking for. Fortunately for us, Luxbar specializes in not knowing exactly what type of crowd it is catering to on any given night. It can be a casual dining restaurant, it can be a swank bar, it can be a club. Unfortunately, it never seems to choose exactly what it wants to be, and the result is a muddled mess that attracts a varied crowd that would otherwise never choose to fraternize beneath the same roof on any given evening. In other words, perfect for what we were planning for the evening.

Upon my arrival, I relayed a wish of Happy New Year's to everyone before tucking into a mixture of Scotch, beers, Long Island's, and other assorted cocktails and drinks. (Note: when drinking Scotch, be aware of what you're asking for. Generic Scotch (Your Johnnie Walker's of the world) is essentially no better than your average cheap whiskey for its content, its taste, and its aroma. However, the one thing that Generic Scotch will do better than other types of whiskey is get you politely drunk with little after effects better than cheap whiskey, which can send you either into a melancholy stupor or into a raving frenzy. Depending upon your general constituency, of course.) The lamentation of the time was again that New Year's Eve is a time for couples, woe is me, blah blah blah fetch me another drink etc. Though there was a contingency among the group to try and set me up with the waitress for our table ("She's really nice! And cute!"), I passed. Anyone with the tenacity to work on New Year's Eve in a busy bar full of slobbering, drunken lunatics is a fearsome creature of their own right, and should not be trifled with lightly.

I turned my attentions to the nearby crowd. (When I say nearby, I mean literally right behind me. For a time, my strategy of the night to meet new people was to obstruct the passage around the bar with my body, force a confrontation, and then see what I could make of the resulting conversation. Short answer: nothing. Long answer: a WHOLE lot of nothing.) As the clock ticked down, I made a passing reference to my desire to obtain one of the plastic hats that your average party goer on New Year's always seems to have their hands on. They're like pigeons in that they become so abundant that you really don't think twice about them until you either A) find one hurled in your face, striking you in the eye (Happy New Year indeed.), or B) you hear an unpleasant crunch underfoot, look down, and find that you've trodden upon one, crushing it beyond any measure of recovery. Nice job, dick.

"I must obtain one of these hats", I remarked casually, to no one in particular.

"OHMIGOD, I want one too!"

I turned, this time to find a skinny, theoretically anorexic bar floozy clinging to my left arm, wearing some kind of silver dress that seemed to be made of sequins and sheer fabric, with a faint detectable odor of turpentine.

"My name's Selena," she belched into my ear. Gods, you have truly handed me the finest of the finest on thsi evening.

"Good evening. I think I know where I can get those hats at," I retorted, casually wiping away her scent which was beginning to envelop me in cocoon-like fashion. "We were here last year, and they seem to keep them down in the basement."

"Can you get one for me please? I'd really like a hat this year," she whined, as she pulled the biggest trick in the book of the dating world, allowing her eyes to balloon to the size of saucers, looking straight into the soul of the man. (This is not as difficult a trick as it sounds. Most women know that the soul of a man is a dark, dark place where the id reigns supreme. In this instance, she was not terribly far off.)

"I'll be right back," I championed, "Don't you go anywhere!"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll be right here," she promised, as she continued that damned eye trick.

Vaulting down the stairs, I heard echoes of "Get her number!" from my table of friends, who were all enjoying my lack of endeavors as the night's entertainment, along with the rest of their cocktails. Reaching the foot of the stairs found me in the middle of the general dining area, filled with elderly couples looking for some evening kicks, middle aged yuppies trying to remember the thrill of it all, and young, drunken stragglers who were searching for the nearest open available bar space, which consisted of a shifting, amoeba-like space that flowed around the bar, generally based around where waiters most needed to get to at any given point.

"Pardon me," I said, grabbing a waiter who had been making a bee line for the kitchen, "Do you know where I might find some of those plastic hats?"

"Over there in the box," he replied, looking for the easiest way to brush me aside. I have no time for this wacko, he was thinking, (clearly read on his face) there are things to do, and I just wish all of these fuckheads would find a regular bar to get in. I don't work for $4.95 an hour for this kind of bull shit.

"Which box? You see, I'm trying to get these hats for my friends - "

"HERE!" he shouted, prying himself away, running to the nearest box, and throwing five or so chintzy plastic hats at me. Before I could even collect myself to stammer out a reply, he had already ran back into the kitchen, safe from the clutches of the depraved yuppie.

Taking little offense at his apparent rudeness (something I wouldn't fully comprehend until well into the next morning), I made my way back upstairs, where surely enough, Selena was waiting for me.

"Excellent!" she cried out, seeing me with about five hats awkwardly perched on my head and a giant shit-eating grin on my face. "Thank you so much!" With that, she grabbed a hat from my head, wormed her way back into the crowd, and disappeared from my life without so much as a condolence peck on the cheek as the clock ran down to midnight.

At this point, the Loathing set it, more clearly than I have ever understood it before.

Depressed, I turned myself back to my Long Island, waiting out the inevitable midnight hour, before starting to make my way towards the exit with all of my friends. As we were heading towards the exit, however, I was once again stopped, this time by a young gentleman with a particular strong scent of alcoholic fumes emanating from his mouth.

"Dude, I will pay you for one of those hats," he moaned. Apparently, hats were hard to come by.

"Ten bucks," I shrewdly bargained.

"You serious, man?" he complained. I said nothing. There was a pause of about ten seconds.

"Fine," he conceded, chucking a ten dollar bill my way. "Happy new year."

All of a sudden, all of the mysteries of our capitalistic society that had previously dumbfounded me rang clear as a bell. It was as though a golden dollar sign had struck me on the head, blinding me with currency. By the time we had made it to the door, I had made a cool $25.00, paid my respective debts for the evening, and more than made up for whatever lost future awaited with Selena upstairs. (Who, I might add, was surrounded by at least ten different gentlemen of various repute by the time we were making our way down the stairs. Two of them had bought hats from me. Ah, vengeance.)

Sidenote #2: It becomes clear to me now that I haven't fully explained one of our new year's traditions that will come to bear heavily on the story, so allow me to explain. Each year, we gather as many free floating balloons as possible from whatever club we are in, gather them into a bundle, and hand them off to whichever bachelor among us is the closest to getting married. The fact that we've only done this one year prior to this evening does not strip it of its rights of tradition. It just places this story fairly early in what I'm sure will be a long established and well regarded rite of passage for our group. But I digress.

As we made the way out the door, large cluster of balloons in hand, (Aren't you grateful for tangents?) we noted that the streets of Clark and Division were packed with festive party-goers, most of whom had decided, like us, that the clubs they had been in were not worth their time. Consequently, they were lined up outside of about ten or so similar nighttime establishments in order to gain entry. Never mind that it was already half an hour into 2012, there was booze to be had! Such is the mindset of the barhopping young adult; no matter what the time, there is always time for another round, so go to town.

While gathering on the streets, the second part of our annual tradition began. In order to force our way past the gaggles of yuppies lining the sidewalks and, at times, obstructing passage, a cry went up from the group (ours, that is) of "He's getting married!" with all the fervor and zealotry as though the Bachelor of this moment (In this case, the Strongman.) had just proposed to his fiancee that night. With echoes of "He's getting married" shouted into the streets, we set off.

The trick of clearing your path, and to getting your way in general, be it politics or bar-hopping, is to simultaneously draw attention to yourself while maintaining a general feeling of goodwill. This is a fine line. Too much in either direction will either lead to your being assaulted by those seeking to pummel the nearest drunken buffoon, or a casual indifference that will result in the addition of half an hour to any trip you are trying to take. This includes train rides. (Don't ask, it just happens.)

This is where "He's getting married" becomes genius. People like to celebrate the newly engaged. It's a time of great festivity. When it happens on New Year's Eve, already a time of great festivity, it doubles the occasion. It's as though everyone consciously seeks to mark your friend's beginning of Life's Great Rite of Passage, the entry point into the true Young Adult Lifestyle. Consequently, by exclaiming that your friend is getting married, you have not only gotten the attention of everyone around you, but drawn them into the celebration. Everyone loves a free invite to a party, and feels the need to go along.

Because of that general mindset, we had absolutely NO TROUBLE clearing the sidewalks of Chicago. Leading The Strongman by the hand/balloon string, we nearly strolled down Clark Street, surrounded by cheers in what I'm sure is the closest thing to a ticker-tape parade that most of our group will ever experience. Hand shakes and slaps on the back abounded. Cheers went up. A joyous occasion. Accepting their goodwill, we made our way back to the subway, continuing our cheers on the El, where friends were made, and more drinks were had, before finally settling down in The Professor's Study (apartment) for the evening.

(I won't lie, I don't quite have memory of our passage home beyond getting on the train, although I've been assured by my associate that there is a story to be told. More on that later, I suppose.)

If one had to conclude anything from our exploits, it's that yuppies love a good party. They love it to fill all of their preconceived needs, to meet all expectations, and to conclude when they see it fit. Our group needed it to finish early; those out front of the clubs needed it to be prolonged well into the morning light. My associate, for all I know, is still enjoying the after parties. What can be said is that New Year's Eve in Chicago is indicative of the young middle class mindset that this is an evening where everything is planned out for you. Parties and events are preplanned, and for whatever price you need, your entertainment will be provided to you. That sense of entitlement permeates throughout our generation, echoing through time honored refrains like a call to arms. It seeps into our very souls, punctuates our day to day actions. Without it, we are nothing, and our entire generation is smashed underfoot like a cheap plastic hat. Which you just paid $5 for, even though I grabbed it for free downstairs.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Consider the Peccary: Observations from the 147 Bus Heading Towards Downtown

2012-01-03T16:04:00.000-08:00

The other day, I decided that rather than take the same old Red Line trip to my places of employment downtown, I would take the road less traveled (by me) and ride the CTA bus to work. I figured that since it costs $0.25 less than a train trip, I'd be saving money in the long run, and besides, it would be a way to see a different part of Chicago than the part that I normally see from the El.

(Which by the way consists of the backsides of some apartments, a roadway, the interior of whatever book I'm reading, and the dark, dark tunnel that is the Red Line Subway. So all in all, it's about as scenic as you'd expect public transit to be; i.e. not. On the other hand, you meet the craziest people! (Not a compliment) )

In addition, not only is the bus cheaper, it's also a quarter mile closer to my apartment, making my morning/evening commute a little shorter; it doesn't cause me to have to take a short cut behind a back alley that looks like it would be at home in "Mystic River". (You know, the one where Sean Penn would take someone to get beaten up to try and get closer to finding out who exactly killed his daughter in the park. But that's getting ahead of myself.) Given that I'm no longer hurrying along this back alley clutching my laptop back/satchel (manpurse) at odd hours of the night, I feel that my survival chances in this neck of the woods have increased at least by 50% or more. I'm not sure where the current percentage lies, but I have a certain feeling that it's much better than it was two weeks ago. (On the other hand, if I should suddenly start missing blog entries, you probably have a good lead on where to find me. I'd start behind the laundromat and work your way north towards the Jarvis stop.)

Anyways, so my bus adventures began on an afternoon where I had to be at work at one of my places of employment (The one that rhymes with Schmc'cormick's) at around 4:30 pm. Naturally, I assume that the quote on Google Maps on the amount of time it takes to get to and from work is completely 100% accurate, and will take into account any and all traffic that I'm likely to encounter. This includes the street the bus runs on for about three miles named Sheridan that seems to be filled with pigeons and traffic lights, as well as some side street downtown that seems to be named Upper Michigan. Definitely making that commute in 55 minutes, so I will in fact leave my apartment at 3:20. You know, just to be safe and get there early.

Piece of cake.

One of the added benefits in Chicago is that you can text your bus location to the 411 (which sounds like either an oddly traffic-conscious rap group or a mysterious benevolent green space alien...who is also oddly traffic-conscious) and it will tell you how long until the next bus will be arriving at your stop, with about two to four minutes of cushion so as to get your lazy ass there in time. This is unfortunate in that you do not need to be standing at the bus stop in question to be able to text that magical 411 the number of your bus stop in order to receive the fully accurate, up-to-date information. This means that I can roll out of bed, check my phone, send the auto-text concerning my nearby bus stop, see if there's a second bus in 35 minutes, and crawl back beneath the sheets to grab that extra 20 minutes of sleep that I had to trade in to rewatch the "Blitzgiving" episode of "How I Met Your Mother". Again.

Come on, Jorge Garcia making "Lost" jokes! (Not that I've ever seen "Lost", but I'm assuming the jokes are just universally funny. I also am assuming that the jokes are in regards to "Lost." If they aren't, go screw yourself.)

(Gently.)

So an average morning for me now consists of the aforementioned rolling over, although I will get up to make a pot of coffee that fits neatly into my travel mug so that I can imbibe the necessary caffeine to go about my day. Upon making coffee, I will go back to sleep for whatever time I can get. I will then awaken, bundle up, and head out to catch the bus.

Anyways, I'm now aboard my first trip on the 147, or the bus that runs from Howard to downtown and beyond. (I'm still not exactly sure of what lies below Roosevelt in the city. I know Hyde Park is somewhere down there, as well as the White Sox, but the rest in my mind bears a strong resemblance to those ancient maps of the world. You know, where cartographers would simply fill in the edge of the oceans with made up countries just to make their maps more impressive, and to hide the fact that in secret they had no fucking idea exactly what lay 20 miles beyond Portugal. Generally, there's a sign resembling "Here Be Dragons", and in my current state of mind, there's a sign just south of the Roosevelt stop on the Red Line that reads the exact same thing. On a separate note, yes, I am from a small town in Southern Ohio, why do you ask?) Realizing that the first reason I took this trip was to see if the sights were any different from the Red Line, I immediately begin looking around, checking out my surroundings, as well as scouting out to see anything of interest that this trip might offer me. I'm always ready to try out new grocery stores, new restaurants, and new curiosity shops of interest. (In other words, places I shop at despite not really being able to afford bread. Yes, bread. Let alone tattered first editions of the Jerle Shannara trilogy by Terry Brooks, I am more likely to buy yet another three books that I've already read to add to my literally overflowing library than I am to buy bread to make sandwiches with so that I don't starve. But let's be fair: they were a great read, and I do need to have something to do on these trips. But more on that later.)

I quickly realize that this trip is not scenic. Gary, Indiana might be more scenic. (Gawd, is that a depressing thought) You know how you always see tourists in the streets of big cities taking pictures, gawking over the sights of the city skyline as though they've been raised in an underground missile silo for most of their existence? Or how when touring a farm with a petting zoo, they will look at the pygmy goat as though it were a twelve foot Burmese Tiger with two heads and a flashing neon tail, instead of just the malnourished common farm animal (named Steve) that you actually realize it to be? And in the background, you see the locals who push anyone and everyone out of their way as though they had to reach that burning building in time to save their baby, their kittens, and grandma's will before the whole damn inferno goes up in smoke?

I'm slowly becoming a local. Seriously, people, move your ass. The sidewalk is for walking, not gawking.

Realizing that the view of Sheridan is about as scenic as a can of tuna, (fresh, not stale; even if it's stale and moldy, it's at least interesting to look at, albeit disgusting) I turn my attention back to my reading of choice for the trip. (Sidenote #1: I'm reading a collected volume of Hunter Thompson essays, so for those who remember my writing the last time I had an extended exposure to Dr. Duke, you can look forward to my writing/blogging/existence taking a turn for the surreal and cruel. As well as slightly more sidenotes. The Writing Desk Committee feels very strongly in the prolonged existence of tangents and all things irreverent to the overall purpose of the stated article and/or essay. Therefore, consider yourself fully warned. The bastards can't stop me now!)

(Sidenote #2: This blog, however, will remain a drug-free zone. Mostly because I'm too poor to buy drugs. Nor would I know how to go about getting drugs if I knew how to buy them. I imagine my side of the conversation would go something along the lines of "Gee mister! You sure look dope! Dope as in cool! By the wayside, would you happen to have a dimebag of dope that I could purchase? I mean, that is what it's called, right? A dimebag of dope, dope?" You'd probably have to look for me behind the laundromat and the money exchange store then.)

Reading while on the bus and/or train is an interesting experience. On the one hand, it's an intended distraction to pass the time while riding on public transit. Your average trip from your home to the city/your stop of choice will take around 30 to 45 minutes, with some transits extending that to an hour to an hour and a half. Considering that you'll be returning to your original point of departure at one point, that's anywhere from one to three hours spent all day doing nothing but sitting in transit to get somewhere. That extends to 15 hours a week (if you're working five days a week) or more, and upwards of 60 hours total a month. Or, you know, three days of your month spent JUST TRAVELING FROM PLACE TO PLACE. Consequently, it's better to fill it with something productive or stimulating rather than doing what your typical CTA passenger is doing. (i.e. staring forward vacantly into space, wondering why their life is flashing by so quickly, typically with a drool string from their mouth halfway down to the floor. Or, you know, that might just be my shit luck to sit next to the same guy on every fucking transit. Boy, that's depressing.) On the other hand, intentionally diving into a book or tablet on the train is also a social statement, one in which you're saying "I have my own things that I'm doing right now, and consequently, I am not open or amiable to social conversation. If you make an attempt to talk to me, thus diverting my attention from my preferred focal point of interest, you are thereby distracting me from something I would prefer to be doing. If you are distracting me from doing that said something, you are taking up my valuable time and/or bothering me. If this is the case, then your distraction had better be hella good, or I'm taking my hatchet to your shins and nailing them to my headboard at home where I keep my trophies." (Again, that might be the same guy that I always seem to end up sitting next to on the train, and wouldn't that just be my shit luck to forget a book on the train the other day. Balls.) It's a fine line between polite and skull-fuck crazy, and I like to think I walk that line every day. (Successfully.)

Given that my current book of interest is an insane rant, I'm totally OK with spending the hour long (in theory) trip immersed in Mr. Thompson's writings, especially as an enamored fan of his. What I'm not quite expecting is that this bus trip through about 500 traffic lights at a peak time of day for transit to and from work during a peak holiday season is in fact going to take longer than the previously stated 55 minutes. I realize this about 45 minutes into the trip, when we are just barely beginning to capture the skyline of Chicago. (You know, the one that is visible from two miles away on a clear day. Much like the day I chose to ride the bus, in fact.) If you're just beginning to be able to see it from your bus, and you're supposed to be at work in the heart of that skyline in about ten minutes, a sort of profound sense of panic begins to set in. It's the panic that one can only realize when you start to feel that you're going to be late for a job in the heart of one of the largest cities in America that you only just moved to three weeks ago and you're currently trapped inside of a large metal shell traveling at a luxuriously slow twenty miles an hour surrounded by fellow city transit passengers who are in no hurry whatsoever to get to their spot on the bus which is always six inches within your preferred buffer-zone of human contact and you have at that exact moment $33.56 to your name in U.S. dollars in a bank account that you're not actually able to access anyways and $7500 in debt that only grows but never shrinks and a career field that seems to be shrinking all the while as your love life spirals into a black hole of oblivion from which you can never escape because you need a haircut and...

Is that lady walking a peccary?

Sidenote #3: The peccary.

The collared peccary.

As found on Wikipedia, also called the javelina and/or skunk pig, is a medium-sized mammal of the family Tayassuidae, or New World Pigs.Peccaries are members of the artiodactyl suborder Suina (swine), as are the pig family (also swine) and possibly the hippopotamus family (secret swine?). They are found in the southwestern area of North America and throughout Central and South America. Peccaries usually measure between 90 and 130 centimetres (3.0 and 4.3 ft) in length, and a full-grown adult usually weighs between about 20 to 40 kilograms (44 to 88 lb).

In short, a pleasant enough creature. It's fond of roots, tubers, and prickly pear cacti, although they are known to eat small animals. (The stated Wikipedia article is rather vague on the meaning behind "small animals", although given their particular habitat and range, I highly doubt that they're talking about Scottish Terriers and Himalayan Long Hairs.) They're often confused with regular pigs, given their close familial history, and are known to roam in herds that range in number anywhere from 10 to 100. It comes equipped with a pair of tusks that it uses to scrounge for roots and tubers, as well as to scare away potential predators. (Much like some girls I've encountered in the local bar scene of Dayton, Ohio.)

Given the above information, as well as my own personal confirmation that peccaries do indeed live in the southwestern United States through a wildlife sighting on a family trip to Monument Valley, it seemed at first highly unlikely that a woman of any sort of upper-middle class status would choose to keep a peccary, or javalina, as a form of domesticated pet.

Yet, sure enough, as I looked out the window, I was able to confirm that, yes, this woman was walking her peccary. Through the front pet garden of one of those high rise apartment buildings that sits on the shore of Lake Michigan. The kind where you're just living there to show that you can afford to live there, as opposed to making beneficial use of the proximity to cheap, public transportation. And apparently the kind of place where the owner is more likely to own a peccary than a Portuguese Water Dog. (The Obamas must be falling out of fashion. Make way, Bo, for Bolina the Peccary, coming soon to the White House near you.) For years, I have labored under the apparent delusion that it might be illegal to own such a creature, and even more so to keep an exotic animal like that as a pet of any kind. (For evidence supporting this apparently misguided and half-assed belief, I ask that you take a good look at this recent event.) Now, with my own eyes serving as eyewitnesses, I can assure you that not only is it completely 100% abso-tively possi-lutely permissable to keep a small, wild pig on a leash, but you can also take it for a walk in your condo's flower beds. So long as you tend to its business with the appropriate doggy bag.

With that latest shock to consider as the bus meandered it's way towards an inevitable rendezvous with downtown Chicago, I found that I was no longer concerned with a world where I would end up being 20 minutes late to work (again, hampered by a sudden outpouring of holiday shoppers and tourists upon the aforementioned boulevard of commerce known as Upper Michigan on a mid-December afternoon at 4:00 pm CST). Rather, I was concerned with the implications that somewhere in mid-Lakeview, it is entirely possible that an entire generation of deranged, mid-life yuppie housewives are secretly breeding and training a legalized herd of peccaries to submit to their own martini-soaked dreams of North Side domination. Given that the peccary has been known to travel in groups ranging up to 100, that means that there could be 100 peccaries that could be used at the drop of a hat to attempt a hostile takeover of my neck of the woods. Think of it. Pigs devouring small armies of mastiffs as though they were milk bones. Prickly pear cacti around the neighborhood being torn from their sheltered greenhouses and savagely mauled by the wild, feral pigs of Boystown (actual pigs). The Red Line awash with the blood of innocents and peccaries, the Brown Line stained with the feces of 100 sows gone mad with rage and martini-lust, the Blue Line (Blue Line?) with inevitable delays, backing up traffic all the way to O'Hare...wait, that actually happens regularly, nevermind.

The one fortunate side effect of a peccary invasion of the north side is that it most likely would not affect the buses running back and forth, to and fro, across the streets of Chi-town. The dedicated service of the CTA is stout enough to ensure that your bus will always be 20 minutes late to its destination, no matter what time of day, no matter what condition of road. You will always get there. 20 minutes to half an hour after you were supposed to. But that's ok, because no pigs were harming you while in transit.

Now that I'm fully aware of that, time for a nap. My bus will be here in 25 minutes.

(Postscript #1: Consider the Peccary is my attempted tribute to David Foster Wallace, and to a lesser extent, my time spent working as a bookseller at Borders Books and Music. David Foster Wallace, commonly viewed as one of the leading writers of the 1990's and early 2000's, as well as one of the voices of Generation X, released a compilation of essays entitled "Consider the Lobster", which is a fantastic read if you have three days a month to spend riding around in tiny metal cages of transportation, or if you're just pressed for a good book. While working at Borders, we were told to constantly provide our own recommendations throughout the store for books that we enjoyed. These recommendations were to be handwritten on small cardstock inserts, upon which any use of ink would invariably smudge. Given that my own handwriting is often less than stellar in its quality, it became something of a challenge to me to write out my personal advice in as few words as possible. Thus, here are a few good books to read if you're in the mood for post-holiday reading, along with my personal reviews in four words or less.)

(Postscript #2: It's getting so that I can write an entry with no exact goal in mind and still churn out 3,000 + words in around 2.5 hours. This is a good thing, and bodes well towards my goals of getting some actual writing done sometimes in the near future. Especially as my projects move nearer and nearer to their start dates. Currently, the fantasy novel (Still untitled) is under way with several character sketches and world designs laid out. Look for the first chapter to be under way by the end of the month, with a draft complete around the end of April/middle of May. Meanwhile, I have begun research on River of Doubt, with Candace Millard's treatise on the subject arriving in my mailbox shortly. Look for an outline by the end of February.)

Have you?


Nom nom nom

Bully.

Whine, piss, moan. Yawn.

Less than Forrest Gump.

Still Not with Stupid.

Just shoot yourself now.

Closet Penn State Fan.

Season's Greetings: The Hidden Implications of Christmas

2011-12-27T17:14:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a giant potwash of traditions that has always been celebrated strongly by my family. When your mother is a Stage IV cancer patient and Christmas is her favorite holiday, you're allowed to celebrate how and when you'd like.

Consequently, the following are staples of my holiday season:

Beginning in mid-October, decorations go up. That's right, mid-October.
Christmas music begins playing...well, it never stops, so I guess it doesn't really begin either. Incidentally, hearing the same 10 Christmas songs over and over again has failed to bother me. Now I just sing along.
Regularly scheduled programming from the holidays (ie. Charlie Brown Christmas, How the Grinch Stole Christmas (THE ORIGINAL, NOT THAT JIM CARREY SCHMUCK), Rudolph, etc.) becomes non-stop from October through February.
A Christmas wreath dangles from my mother's rear view mirror. Again, non-stop, this never goes away. (And makes it easy to single out her car in parking lots)
Decorations go down around the end of February.

This means that roughly 1/3 of my year is devoted to the Christmas season, along with all of it's trappings. Well, to be more accurate, this is more dedicated to my mother, but as a result of upbringing, I'm used to being around Christmas to a point that I subconsciously go through the motions as a result of making it feel like home. (My small Christmas tree in my apartment might indeed stay up until March. Unless reclaimed by its original owners, but given that it's a small obstruction in the corner of my apartment, and is among the only decorations I have, I put my motivation at taking it down at about a 1.2. On a free day.)

To a certain point, Christmas is such a collective ensemblage of traditions that most of us blindly follow along, noticing the details only when they are absent from their usual placement. This familiarity with holiday tradition ranges from visiting your in-laws and family, having dinner on Christmas Eve, opening presents in the morning, caroling with your church, playing with wrapping paper and box forts (if you're five), spending six hours in the emergency room because you cut your thumb open MASSIVELY while opening your Jurassic Park Command Compound with a very sharp pair of scissors. (Again, if you're five. And me. Neither are exclusive from each other, BTW.) This extends to the media that we ingest repeatedly each year, program after program. Let's be fair, everyone watches at least one classic holiday Christmas special at one point during the holiday. (If you don't, you probably don't have a soul. Or, you know, follow one of the dozens of other religious traditions that don't necessarily celebrate Christmas. Although I have a deep feeling that "8 Crazy Nights" isn't mandatory Haunakah screening if you're Jewish.

Because of our familiarity with these traditions, we don't really pay attention to them as we would to normal films, TV shows, songs, etc. because there's no point to. We've all seen "It's a Wonderful Life" 15,000 times by now, and there's not really any point in examining the details. What's more important to us is that it's on TV, and that means gathering round with the family, cheering on George Bailey, and crying at the appropriate moments when the entire town of Bedford Falls bands together to save their loan officer.

(For those of you who have not seen "It's a Wonderful Life", here's an adequate summary that oughta bring you up to speed. You're welcome.)

We all understand. It's a feel good story, it's a holiday tradition, the ending is iconic, and the overall movie (which doesn't deal entirely with Christmas, just the last third) is a nostalgic tribute to small town America and the ability to overcome any problems. (The movie even sums up its message for you onscreen in Clarence the Angel's message to George in his copy of Tom Sawyer. Look it up.)

But have we noted the ethnic and racial stereotyping?

Aha, I didn't think so.

Consider the following when going back through this family staple of Christmas: (Yes, I'm keeping in mind that this was made back in 1945, before, you know, civil rights and political correctness, but bear with me while I make my point.)

1. Bedford Falls has apparently one/two black people living in the entire town. The one who we see the most is Annie, who is the maid for George's family. (Yes, that's right, the family servant. This is a family that to all expressed knowledge has little money. The family business is struggling to stay afloat. Only one of the Bailey brothers is able to afford to go to college. Any money in the town is in the hands of Mr. Potter, the bank owner. So how does this poor family afford a servant in the first place?) Throughout the entire two hour movie, she is featured in approximately two scenes. The first is serving dinner to the family, where she gets some jokes in and kids with the brothers George and Harry. The second is in the climax, where she shows up with the rest of town to give money to George to get him out of dutch. And that's it. She doesn't feature otherwise, or have anything meaningful to add to the plot.

The only other black citizen of BedfordBedford Falls in the real world) is to show the wrongness of this world. How does that sound? The only way that we know that there is something wrong with the world is because a black man is playing piano in the corner of the bar. He doesn't even have any lines and we as viewers are predisposed to hate this gentleman.

"Psst, Clarence? I think there's a Negro in the corner."
"Oh, that's alright George. He's not really there."

2. The Martini family that George helps out seems to be a giant mass of Italian kids lorded over by Mr. and Mrs. Martini, otherwise known as the two Italian stereotypes who might have lived down the street from you in the 30's. (Before people knew what "The Godfather" was.) You probably know them from any time there is an Italian character in a movie from before 1946: the obese, feisty Italian woman with a kid in each arm, and the skinny man with a large nose holding a baguette and a bottle of wine talking like Chico Marx. Every time that he is featured for anything, it is either to receive wine as a gift or to serve it at the bar or at a party. While he is credited as an established home owner who has paid off his debts to the Bailey Building and Loan, he is still talking with a fast Italian accent during the party, making a crack about storing money in his "a-sugah box-a!" that he is giving to George. Mary Bailey promptly asks him to return to his original purpose for being summoned to the party and to serve out wine to the rest of the party.

Wine, obese woman with a child, bread...they must be Italian!

I realize that these are decisive implications of early American stereotypes in film and are not surprising when a larger body of work from this time period is shown. In fact, compared with other works from the period, these are relatively harmless; Annie is clearly a respected, independent woman, and the Martini's are homeowners, successful and respected by their community. Yes, racism and ethnic stereotypes are a part of Hollywood culture. However, that was in 1945. This is 2011, and when we watch the movie, we either don't notice these instances of historical stereotyping or we gloss over them as relics from a nostalgic age. We then go right on celebrating the film's messages and cry when they sing Auld Lang Syne at the end. Again, I'm not saying that this is terrible, I just want to call attention to it.

Nor is this movie the exclusive owner of holiday political incorrectness. One of the main traditions of my family is that when we wake up on the 25th, we all come downstairs, turn the TV on to TBS, and watch their non-stop marathon of "A Christmas Story" all day long, particularly while we open presents. This is one of my favorite traditions, and a good example of a movie that never gets old. In fact, quoting along with the movie is celebrated, and one of those traditions that is carried out all year long. Let's be straight: the jokes in this movie are iconic. Anytime anyone I know is wearing anything that is both pink and garish, I call them "a Pink Nightmare." Whenever I see the word fragile. I rattle off that "it must be Italian!" And so on.

In terms of racial stereotypes, there's the famous scene at the end where they are served Chinese turkey. ( You know, "Fa ra ra ra ra") However, we all know that. It has to be explained why it's funny. People get it. Does that make it ok? No, it makes it a topic already discussed. (And thus, as far as I'm concerned, BORING.) My personal thoughts run a little deeper to some instances of 1940's culture that get a little more glossed over.

Take a look at the 0:05 second mark of this particular clip (and enjoy the rest of the moment too). The established context is that Flick has just been beated up by that notorious bully Scut Farkus, the humongous bully who torments Ralphie and Friends all throughout the movie. His teacher, Miss Shields, does something interesting here. Rather than rush over to him and offer assistance, as she did when Flick had his tongue frozen to a flag pole, she makes a distinctive glance at him and goes right back to teaching.

Given that this is a small school, she has to be aware that bullying is going on right outside of the door. However, she simply casts a blind eye to it, allowing this psychological torment to continue. Let me restate that: SHE KNOWS THAT HER STUDENTS ARE BEING BULLIED AND THAT SOMETHING IS GOING ON, BUT FAILS TO ACT ON THAT KNOWLEDGE. She doesn't contact her principal, she doesn't notify the parents, she doesn't confront Scut Farkus (in Miss Shield's defense, HE HAS YELLOW EYES.). Instead, she turns a blind eye to it.

In the 1940's, this is accepted behavior. When Penn State turns a blind eye to abuse, careers go down. (In a related subject, this shows exactly how out of touch Joe Paterno and, to a lesser extent Penn State officials, are with modern culture and the way things are done. But that's been talked to death EVERYWHERE ELSE.) But when we watch this movie, it's such a casual moment that we almost look the other way either. We know that Scut Farkus gets his comeuppance at the hands of Ralphie later in the movie. Therefore, we don't really have to notice that Miss Shields is letting her students be savagely beaten by schoolyard bullies.

(As a caveat to this, much of the movie is based around the idea of Jean Shepherd's memories of growing up in Northern Indiana. His personal editing of his memories include censoring his own swearing ("OOOHHHH FUDDDDGGGEEEEE") and eternally visualizing his kid brother as four years old (something made even more clear in the criminally underseen follow up "Ollie Hopnoodle's Haven of Bliss"). Therefore, this moment might in fact be Shepherd wishing to believe that Miss Shields was just turning a blind eye to obvious cases of bullying. In real life, there's a chance that she knew nothing. For the sake of this, however, let us assume that she is turning a blind eye to abuse, because that's what we're watching on TBS. 12 times a day.)

These moments in the movies that we regard as classics are small, and should in no way detract from their overall messages or family meanings. However, this doesn't mean that they should just be glossed over. Otherwise, we end up watching something with a blind loyalty, not exactly sure of what it is that we're looking at. Much of our traditional Christmas music follows that unfortunate decision. Let's look over some classic secular Christmas music and you'll see what I'm talking about. (I realize most carols are plainly devoted to baby Jesus, as they should be. Those have their own particular sense of timeless quality. I'm talking more about the kinds of things Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby would sing over a 1/5th of Scotch.)

Consider. When was the last time you:

went dashing through the snow in a one horse open sleigh?
put bells on a bob-tailed horse while singing a sleighing song?
roasted Chesnuts on an open fire?
sung Yuletide carols by an open fire?
built a snowman in the meadow and pretended it was a parson so you could get married?
decked the halls with actual boughs of holly?
watched chesnuts pop by the fire while at the home of a nearby farmer?
went over the river and through the woods to grandma's house? (Thanksgiving, yes, but really, when was the last time you did that?)

The list goes on and on.

Some of our best and most loved Christmas songs also come from the oddest of places. Consider "White Christmas" (the song, not the movie). Whenever we think of Christmas, we always want that our Christmases should "be white", as it is heard in this song. It's a radio staple, sung by many voices over the years. (And again, part of a great movie, but not the point here.

Now consider the composer, Irving Berlin. Mr. Berlin, one of the greatest of the Tin Pan Alley songwriters, might be writing about Christmas from a spot of childhood memory. However, given that he is actually the son of a poor Jewish family from the country of Belarus, grew up in a New York City tenemant slum, and continued to live there the rest of his life, I doubt that Mr. Berling was dreaming of any Christmas "just like the ones I used to know". (That's actually the best way that I can describe the song-writing factory that mass produced early 40's hits that was Tin Pan Alley: One of our most beloved Christmas songs was written by someone who never celebrated Christmas at all. He might have bene a fan of "8 Crazy Nights" though.)

So as we're wrapping up our Christmas season, let's look back on our holiday season with love and affection, be thankful if we have the chance to spend it with our loved ones, appreciate what we have in this world, and remember to think about the things that come out of our mouths and out of our TV screens, rather than just turning on the old familiars. I mean, if we just did that, we'd never really appreciate the message of acceptance and joy in differences that is being told through "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer" or the idea to reject commercialism and take joy in the small moments of Christmas that is so central to "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and "How the Grinch Stole Christmas."

After all, Christmas is not the sum of all of these moments. It is neither the good, nor the bad scenes from "It's a Wonderful Life" and "A Christmas Story", or 100 year old songs that we sing without giving any thought to.

Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.

Merry Christmas everyone.

(Postscript #1: for my Jewish, atheist, agnostic, Muslim, Hindi, or secular friends, don't worry, I've thought of you too. That's why we have this. Happy holidays to you all!)

(Postscript #2: for my faithful readers, let it be known that I do appreciate you. Whoever is reading this from Russia, good on you as well! So far, I judge this blog to be a success, and have heard positive feedback from several different parties. It's also refreshing to know that if I need to, I can crank out 2,000 to 3,000 words in about one to two hours. This has also helped me to finally get a head start on some new projects, which I will be keeping everyone up on throughout. At the moment, the first is a fantasy novel that I've been meaning to get around to since I was in the eighth grade (I just found my notes and partial first draft cleaning out my room. A) Wow, I actually got 200 pages in. B) Wow, it was terrible.). The other project is a full length play based on Theodore Roosevelt's journey on the River of Doubt in Brazil, a project so pretentious I had to ask my friend Alex to partner with me in it's writing and development. Thus, I will keep progress notes in here from time to time regarding those projects, in addition to regularly scheduled blog entries every Tuesday. You're welcome, Earth.)

For the rest of us.

The Nature of Argument: Why I'm Right and You're Wrong

2011-12-20T12:34:00.000-08:00

Nothing can reduce a roomful of grown, educated adults in the midst of enlightened conversation into a bubbling, incoherent gathering of simians incapable of language than a spirited debate over the correct pronunciation of the word "Worcestershire Sauce". Everyone believes that they pronounce it in the correct way, and might ask as to the correct pronunciation, but will secretly disbelieve the other person and continue to follow their own guide for pronouncing the name of that tasty, tasty sauce.

In this case, the "orcest", "shire", and "sauce" are silent. It will boost your burgers however.

Seriously.

There are certain truths that we all believe upon which we believe that only we know the truth and the Ultimate Answer to. For some of us, this is valid. I fully expect the heart surgeon to be able to tell me that my arteries are clogged with the Ghosts of Bacon-ater's Past. I personally would not know such things because I'm not a heart surgeon. That's why I'm paying this guy to tell me that I should have gone for a light jog twice a week for the last ten years before having to pay for expensive open heart surgery. Then again, I love my Bacon-ater, and am unwilling to give that up to just anyone because only I know of it's delicious flavors and sustenance.

(Side-note - why in the world does anyone need a 1,200 calorie sandwich? Knowing what I know now about personal nutrition and physical fitness, it doesn't ultimately matter what you put into your body so long as it's in limited portions that don't overload your body all at once with the cries of 1,000 racks of bacon sizzling in the oven. Also, I know that people who exert a lot of energy in workouts (i.e. runners) need somewhere between four and six thousand calories a day just to maintain weight and energy. That being said, the Bacon-ater violates that very creed, and none of the people that I've seen clutching one in their greasy grasps are, shall we say, out for a light jog and just stopping by Wendy's on the way back. The only way they're running anywhere is if they're running a LAN party that night for Call of Duty 37: PostModern Warfare. And if you by some chance are actually a runner, and claim you need the Bacon-ater to give a sudden jolt of calories, well...I don't believe you. What are you prepping for, running to Kenya?)

If this were an actual mountain, the calories might be justified.

An example of where the "I know this better than you ever will" starts to rankle people a little comes from Tim Tebow, football star extraordinaire. (This could have been a follow-up to the article about Tim Tebow last week, but I personally feel that he has been discussed over such a broad spectrum of opinions and talk shows and columns that I feel I don't have much more to offer to the discourse. With that said, this paragraph will be my last mention of Tim Tebow, I promise. Sorry, the Ginger.) A recent episode of ESPN's "Outside the Lines" examined how many people are upset about Tebow's preaching of his Christian beliefs. Strike that, his strongly Baptist Missionary beliefs that when boiled down, assure you that you are going to Hell if you don't acknowledge Christ the Savior in your heart, mind, and soul. This is understandable. I'd get upset if I were told that I'm going to hell because I don't believe in the same version of Christ that someone else does. Especially if that someone was a man who is paid millions of dollars to execute the Triple-Option. I don't want to be optioned to hell. I want to drink my beer and eat my wings in peace while cheering the Triple-Option on to victory. But that's just my feelings on the subject. (Go Broncos?)

Religion as a topic of conversation is something that always veers dangerously close to the "I'm right and you can suck it" feeling, mostly because it is founded upon belief. If you believe that you are right about something, solely as an article of faith, it is entirely likely that you will belligerently defend yourself. It is also likely that when confronted with someone who is able to back up their belief with a series of facts (St. Augustine comes to mind here, as does a varying set of Bible verses), that your belief will shrink further and further into the corner of a room, like a caged animal cornered by big game hunters that knows that it's toast, but is still gonna disembowel the first guy with a spear to get too close before it's time to face the music. (Otherwise known as Holiday with the In-Laws) Because religion is a belief, it is also that much more personal, and consequently, someone telling you that you are wrong about it offends your very nature and persona. No one likes being wrong, especially about something that is for many of us part of how we self-identify. (Because I can't really back up my beliefs about religion, god/goddess/Jesus/flyingSpaghettiMonsters, I shy away from religious conversations with the claim of agnosticism, with the intent that "yes, you literally have no idea of what you're talking about, so you are not worthy of my time" coming across strongly. In my own personal system of belief, avoiding these conversations made for a dull freshman year, but should also extend my lifespan by five years. Ooh-rah.)

That a sense of personal identification with what we believe to be right and wrong and everyone else can (suck it) look to us for guidance is somewhat of a foundation of the Western world. That discourse on what is right and wrong have shaped the Western world is somewhat of a fact. The problem, however, is a loss of the means to discourse intelligently and not belligerently on any given subject. More and more, those who have been given power tend to shy towards the means of keeping that power, which is turning into a variation of that cornered big game animal fighting against all odds. However, the problem is debate, not that we're going to be speared by game hunters.

Take a look at any recent political debate. What should in theory give candidates an open forum to discuss plans for how they would function in office, showing off their leadership abilities, and highlighting what makes them most apt for whatever political leadership they are running for. Nowadays, it's not about highlighting plans and qualities so much as who believes in what the strongest, and who can point out the most flaws in another person. What troubles me the most in this arrangement is not that it is what it is, for the nature of running for political leadership has been to rake your opponent over the coals since the early 1800's. That's almost accepted in politics, and no one really seems eager to put a foot forward to stop it. (Case in point: any candidate that says they want to change the way business is done in Washington. The very nature of that business is to join the business. Once you're in, you're effectively compromised, but you'd rather not lose that sense of power, so you continue to function in the same way as the person you last defeated until someone else comes in wanting to change the way that YOU did business, so that they can take over and realize the same thing, etc. I'd cite this as a reason Obama continues smoking.) What bothers me is that people accept that the idea of a modern political debate is almost a farce that will be full of talking head points, but with no substance to it. Once they've accepted this, however, everyone still falls right into the same game of blindly supporting whatever candidate is favored by their own political belief system. Everyone realizes the game is silly, but we continue to play it out of a fear of the alternative to playing the game. We realize cake is bad for you, but gosh is butter cream frosting delicious!

In politik terms, this cake represents why you'll need socialized health care.

National debate, in recent years, has become even more drawn out of the disagreement over how to pronounce Worcestershire Sauce, or our obstinate refusal to let go of our own personal beliefs for so long as to compromise what we believe in. It is against our very nature to admit to ourselves that what we believe not only might not necessarily be true for ourselves, but is even less likely to be what would be best for the other person. In one example, (and I'm being very general here, so please forgive me) liberals believed in 2010 that Americans had a right to quality, affordable health care, and shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg (literally) to keep their health insurance. This might be seen as an accepted viewpoint by everyone, unless you're secretly a social Darwinist, in which case, the sick should suffer and the healthy should have a giant picnic right out of Triumph of the Will. (Oh dear) However, conservatives, while agreeing in principle to the idea that people should be able to afford to take care of themselves, don't want to have to pay for other people. This is understandable. A person who has worked hard for their money shouldn't be forced to give a great portion of it away to take care of those who haven't earned what you've earned through hard work. You know, unless you're Jesus, but even then, he's an exception. (Avoid religion, avoid religion, avoid religion....) What results is a giant deadlock, or inability for either side to compromise around what they see is right.

Extend this for two years and you can see why Washington doesn't get things done. Even worse, the development of the fringe movements of the Tea Party and the Occupy protestors have further given people cause to back up their beliefs with strict, dogmatic obsessions.

We have been taught since children to believe in things, and to stand up for what we believe in. However, that system of beliefs is starting to backfire, as people believe too strongly in the simplest things and the greatest things so fervently so as to remove any chance for mingling our system of beliefs.

This is not to say that we should compromise all the time. The opposite of belief is nihilism, and a belief in nothing ultimately provides no consequence to any action that might be taken. A belief in compromising our ideals takes away from who we are to such a point that there is no moral ground for any of us to stand on in terms of completing the things that we desire.

The only solution?

None. It's pronounced Worstersher Sauce. Jesus, get it right.

(Postscript #1: Shorter blog entry today, mostly because I wanted to try writing a theme from one idea/observation I had during the week. This turned into a little bit of something I hadn't fully expected here, and only vaguely felt preachy to write. There should be a holiday wrap-up coming up next week, but for this week, it was either write about this or write about job interviews. The opening line for this seemed sillier, so you'll just have to wait until 2012 probably for Job Interview 2011: The Year of Seven Jobs (Minus Steve).

Dr. Comeback, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Tim Tebow

2011-12-13T13:42:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER: This entry is about sports. While this might be a turn-off to some, or essential reading to others, please don't go. There's plenty to be gained from these 3,000 words or so, both in regards to sports and with a great deal to comment upon the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. (Which is still 42, but did you know that 42 is the number worn by Jackie Robinson, the man credited with breaking the color barrier in major league baseball? I mean, the suffering he went through was something terrible, it ended his career prematurely because no one is really built to deal with straight hatred and direct, unveiled racism for any lengthy period of time, and even his teammates took a good deal of time to come around to him. On the other side, he played terrifically for most of his career, the Rookie of the Year Award is named after him, and his contributions are not only to baseball, but to civil rights in America and to modern popular culture. Yeah, if Jackie Robinson is the Answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, I feel that Douglas Adams was on to something when 42 became the meaning to life. Ya know?)

With that said, let's begin.

On the most recent Any Given Sunday, where anything can happen within the great, glorious world of the National Football League (Or the No Fun League if you're a cynic), I had the pleasure of watching a line-up of football games from my laptop. Which, if you're really bored, is the internet equivalent of watching grass grow. To paint an accurate picture, let me describe how the NFL keeps updates on its games on its website. first, you have a computer representation of a football field. As the game progresses, the same counters and graphics that you see on televised games are played out above this field, but actual plays are represented by lines pointing in the direction that the play is moving. Big plays have big lines. Plays for loss have lines going in the opposite direction. Text pop ups describe what these lines mean. When a touchdown is scored, the screen freezes for about two minutes while the graphics are updated, and after that delay, the screen reads out touchdown. This is followed by about five minutes of frozen screen, broken only by the extra point being made (or missed, if you're terrible. Or Shane Graham (Bengals joke here)). Repeat until end of game.

As one might think, this sucks. I agree. It sucks. A lot. With that being said, cable is expensive. This is free. I will take this, if only because the occasional highlight footage of the big plays is uploaded rather quickly, so I can be my own personal Sportscenter Top 10 in the making. (What is Sportscenter, you might ask? It's a show based around the idea that stay-at-home dads are so emasculated that they must continually watch sports news all day long. The main drawback to this concept is that much of the news is based around the games themselves, which happen in small clusters of time, making for very interesting Monday editions of Sportscenter, and very dull Thursdays, where HGTV actually sounds more interesting. And people wonder why I don't want cable.)

To get to my point a little big quicker, on this particular Sunday, I ended up "watching" the last 20 minutes of the Broncos-Bears game played in Denver. For those of you who have been living under a rock (or in Green Bay), the current story du jour of the NFL is how Tim Tebow, that swell youngster from the University of Florida, has risen out of nowhere to lead the Broncos to a (before Sunday) 6-1 record in games that he is starting. This after the Broncos had resembled the NFL equivalent of evolutionary pond moss in terms of their excitement level, and their ability to move the ball down-field to score.

Tim Tebow - Man, Christian, Gator. Or Bronco.

Tebow is a controversial figure because he is very outspoken about his Christian beliefs, he doesn't seem to have the underlying rage/hypocrisy/selfish motivations that drive most professional athletes playing in the NFL today, and he appears to be winning football games even though (at this moment in life), he seems to have absolutely no idea of how to throw a football to an open receiver for the majority of the game. He has an unorthodox throwing motion, which translates to instead of looking like he is throwing a football in the classical sense, he rather looks like he is trying to hurl away the rabid wolverine that is gnawing on his left hand. At times, it's as though his mother hated the potted plant that he gifted her for Mother's Day, and he is trying to hurl it away in anger/sadness/a one handed attempt at setting the potted germanium long toss record. Much of this hatred comes from playing under the on-high leadership of John Elway, the Broncos president and ex-Broncos quarterback. Mr. Elway, a Hall of Famer, is not only possibly the greatest Broncos player ever, but is regularly mentioned among discussions of Top 10 quarterbacks of all time, and is a living legend in Denver. That's hard to follow up. Three consecutive quarterbacks in Denver have been destroyed because they weren't John Elway, and Messers. Griese, Plummer, and Orton all probably have emotional scars dating back to their Bronco days and their inability to overcome their lack of Elway-ness. Tebow theoretically should continue the string, especially when he seems to have the talent of a gecko.

"I'm sorry mom, next time I'll send roses."

All of this is thrown out the window in the last few minutes of the games that Tebow has played in however. In this strange "Twilight Zone" of football, Tebow has led the Broncos back from several deficits to stun teams that had previously thought they were well on their way to an easy victory. He does it by running the football. He does it by throwing. He does it by letting the Broncos #1 ranked rushing attack batter opposition defenses into smithereens, exhausting them by the last 5 minutes of the game, and thus making a comeback easier to come by. (There's multiple sources to credit for the Broncos recent success, including their head coach John Fox scripting game plans so as to better suit the abilities of Tebow, their defense tenaciously keeping their opposition from blowing the game out of the water, rookie Von Miller apparently believing EVERY quarterback in the league said something about his mother/desiring to eat the heart of every quarterback in the league, John Elway's handling of the franchise as their president, rebuilding the Broncos into a powerhouse for years to come, but really, it's more fun to talk about Tim Tebow. I mean, look at Von Miller.)

"Nobody talks like that about Mrs. Miller. NOBODY."

Anyways, this Sunday, I was enjoying my lines on my laptop telling me a little more about the Broncos-Bears game. At the same time, I was conversing with one of my friends who happens to be a rabid Broncos fan, and who has been enjoying the recent run of Broncos good fortune. I would like to typify my friend as an intelligent person, not given to overt hyperbole regarding his teams, who is not a homer (overly praising his team in the face of all logic/aka Browns fans), and who is able to appreciate when another team has won a moral victory/actual victory/hypothetical victory. As a fan, though, given the very definition of the word 'fanatic', he is often given to mood swings given the play of the team. With all of that said, when I joined him in conversation on Sunday, the Broncos were losing 10-0 with 5 minutes left to play.

It is important to note here that of the Broncos recent 6-1 record, many of their wins were come from behind affairs. (ex. Broncos wins over Miami, San Diego, New York Jets, and Minnesota) While exciting, such wins are not always common, unless you're a fan of the TV show "Friday Night Lights", or really any movie about football. (Hey, the best drama comes from last minute wins. Nobody goes to see a movie where the lovable losers are blowing out their competition 45-3 by halftime. This is why your Madden football team is boring to watch. No drama if there's no chance of losing.) Tebow and the Broncos, however, almost seem to be playing from the same script week in and week out, winning close in the last minutes of every game. Part of this is due to Tebow's aforementioned struggles, as well as the overall game plan: wear them down for 50 minutes, then go bananas on their exhausted 300 pound linemen. (That's B-A-N-A-N-A-S for those with spelling problems.) What also seems to help here is that Tebow excels in clutch situations, where every decision has to be correct and he must lead his team methodically down the field.

(Two potential conclusions to draw from that. One: Tebow is so used to winning that he knows exactly what it must require to win football games. Therefore, he's clutch. He's like Derek Jeter, one of the more clutch baseball players ever to play the game, and chronically used to winning. Also like Derek Jeter, he's good for a .300 batting average every year, although in Tebow's case, it's a .300 completion percentage. This just in: missing 7 out of 10 throws to people who are ACTIVELY TRYING TO CATCH THE FOOTBALL is worse than missing 7 out of 10 pitches made by someone who is ACTIVELY TRYING TO NOT LET YOU HIT THE SMALL BASEBALL TRAVELING AT 95 MILES PER HOUR. Two: Tebow is a giant procrastinator, who puts off showing up to football games until the last possible minute, at which point he must cram in everything that he failed to do during the rest of the football game, i.e. his job. Case in point: Tebow's stats in the first three quarters of the game: 3 of 16, 45 yards, 1 interception; 4th Quarter and Overtime: 18 of 24, 191 yards, 1 touchdown. I used to get in trouble for procrastinating. Tebow gets interviews on national TV. FML.)

Much is also made of Tebow praying for a win, or Tebowing to God, praying that a field goal will go in, or they will have the chance to win, etc. While it's not my place to suggest when appropriate times to pray are, and since most of the NFL acknowledges praying before/after games/big moments, this is fine. More attention is focused on Tebow in these moments because of his high profile as a Christian athlete, and for the nature of the Broncos current winning streak. I will say, however, in a quote from Gregg Easterbrook, that "God does not care who wins football games. If he/she/it does, then we're in a lot more trouble than we think."

Back to my friend, who I will refer to throughout here as "the Ginger." Our conversation began with him down in the dumps, certain of the Broncos inevitable defeat despite the fact that the Bears had the offensive consistency of Jell-O and Tebow, much like James Bond, performs best when under pressure at the climax of the main event. Consequently, the ensuing events of the game seemed to take him by surprise, leading to joyful cries and stressed-out moments of sheer frustration. (Ex: The Ginger - "PUNTING?!?!?!?!?!?!?!" "OK, I am full of stupid, stupid hope" "fuck" "Holy balls. Holy, holy balls" (Probably not good to call Tebow out, but ya know, you do what you gotta.) "HOLYMUTHAFUCKINBALLZ" (OK, well that's just not true.) "I don't know what's going on") As the game progressed, it seems that the Bears did just as much to give the game away as to let Tebow win, and thus, this win might speak more to the futility of the Bears than to the successes of the Broncos, but that's a story for another time. (Or Sportscenter, which last I checked STILL had Tebow as it's main feature on Tuesday.)

Ultimately, the game ended in overtime with a long Broncos field goal for the win. Tebow's record pushed to 7-1, Broncos probably making the playoffs after everybody ruling them out for the year, the Ginger happy as a clam. Let the Tebow love shine throughout. Let Two quotes specifically sum up both our conversation and the entire phenomenon of Tebow winning games as a quarterback; this, coming at the 4:45 mark before Tebow began playing competently: "Fuck being a fan, man. Why do we watch this shit?", which was answered at the end of the game with "Oh yeah, this is why I watch sports. Thank you, universe, for answering that question so quickly."

God to the Ginger: "YOU'RE WELCOME."

As Tebow coasts to yet another win, another incident in sports reminds us of the frailty of life, and reminds us of the eternal lesson that it doesn't really matter what others say about you so long as you're paid millions of dollars. (Well, in this case, that actually doesn't apply, although I'm sure millions of dollars is very nice.)

Ron Santo was a third baseman for the Cubs from 1960 to 1973, playing alongside such Hall of Fame players as Ernie Banks and Billy Williams. Retiring after 1974, his final numbers included over 300 home runs, 1100 runs scored, 1300 runs batted in, 9 All Star selections, 5 Gold Glove awards for fielding excellence, and 35 stolen bases (OK, not the greatest, but hey, he didn't just sit there on the base paths, did he? How many stolen bases does Tebow have? NONE, BECAUSE STEALING IS WRONG.) He became a beloved icon in Chicago in the years after, working as a broadcaster for the Chicago Cubs. All of this despite being diagnosed early in his career with diabetes, which in the 2000's would eventually claim both of his legs and ultimately his life. All in all, he was one of the 10 greatest 3rd basemen of all time, and was a baseball icon.

Despite all of this, he was always regarded as a "marginal candidate", and in 15 years of elections by the Baseball Writers Association of America, he was continually turned down in Hall of Fame voting.

With regards to sporting Hall of Fame's, baseball has the pickiest, the most hallowed, and the hardest to get in if you're a "marginal candidate." At least, on the writer's ballot, where you can be listed for 15 years before being removed. After that, there was a group called the Veteran's Committee that would elect older players, or players who had been passed over by the writers in initial voting. This group was reformed after voting Bill Mazeroski, on the basis of hitting one of the greatest home runs in World Series history, and for being a "snazzy snazzy gloveman". (Justifiable? Maybe. We'll get to that. This is the exposition.) Subsequent committees continued to turn down Ron Santo for the Hall of Fame, although the percentages dwindled each year. Throughout the 2000's, there would come a vote every two to three years, and continually, Santo would miss election by the slimmest of margins.

Let's break that down. Santo was eligible for election to the Hall of Fame for 30 years. During that time, he missed election EVERY SINGLE TIME. (Imagine you're a high school student applying for Harvard every year. You have a 3.8 GPA. You've done plenty of community service. Hell, you were in National Honor Society. You were 5th in your class. You'd think you'd done a good job right? Wrong. Not good enough for Hah-vahd. Now imagine applying for the next 30 years, because it's the college you've been dreaming of, and there's nothing else to do. Sure, other colleges might elect to accept you, local colleges, your home town colleges, but there's still the dream of the Crimson, joining Skull and Bones, going to Harvard. Continued rejection. Sucks, don't it?)

Ron Santo died on December 3rd, 2010.

367 days later, he was elected to the Hall of Fame, something he'd dreamed of and wanted more than most other things in life.

The question that arises to me is simple: how is a person not a Hall of Famer for 30 years, only to become one overnight?

Let me be clear: I believe Ron Santo is a Hall of Famer. I believe he always has been. I don't think there's any doubting that statement. He is a Hall of Famer.

But how is it that he can only be recognized as a Hall of Famer after 31 years? What changed? What were the differences? In this particular case, the Veterans Committee was reformed to consist of players who were playing during Ron Santo's era, as well as past executives and baseball alumni who were around during what is called "The Golden Age". (Billy Williams is on the committee, by the way. It might seem that this committee was formed to actually elect Ron Santo, but I honestly believe that's not true. Even though he was the only one elected by the committee.)

The news of his acceptance to the Hall of Fame was passed along to his widow by Billy Williams. Filled with class, she expressed only happiness for her deceased husband rather than bitterness that Santo had not been elected while he was still alive, and the honor would have meant all the more to him. In the 30 years that Santo waited for election, nothing changed about his statistics or his playing record. If anything, he became even more of a fixture of Chicago Cubs baseball and Chicago culture, beloved among legions of fans. When news of his election became public, it was a big deal. However, his fans aren't stupid, and they recognize exactly how hollow an honor it is to give someone an honor that would have meant far more to them if they were alive.

This is different from other such awards, such as Heath Ledger posthumously receiving an Oscar for his performance in "The Dark Knight". While it might be viewed as a reward for his entire body of work, he passed away in the prime of his youth, having just contributed a stellar performance as an iconic character in one of the better films of the year. The award was as much for the movie as it was for his past films, and for his films never to be made. As far as we know, Heath Ledger may have wanted to win an Oscar very badly, but awards of that nature are intended to honor specific achievements, and while receiving an Oscar might justify an entire body of work, the honor is more intended to reward one particular moment of your career. (Case in point, Three 6 Mafia have an Academy Award. This award is not in recognition of their entire career. Rather, it honors a song that was indeed far better than the other drivel put up on stage that year.)

Ron Santo's honor should represent the pinnacle of his career, and while it is better late than never, I ask you what is the difference between Santo before this year and after this year. Nothing has changed in his stats. Nothing has changed in what he has contributed to the sport of baseball. The only thing that happened was that he died before he could see himself achieve what would be the highlight of his professional career.

In this regards, maybe we need Tim Tebow to vote on the Veterans Committee, if only to deliver for guys like Ron Santo in the clutch.

(POSTSCRIPT #1: I have discovered how to add images to my blog entries. Granted, this might seem like a simple achievement, but I tend to not notice those things as well as others might. Consequently, more pictures from now on. You're welcome, Earth.)

(POSTSCRIPT #2: There was initially going to be a segment here about Ryan Braun testing positive for steroids and the death of our idols. However, I got overly caught up in blogging about Tebow, which took up more room than I figured it would. In addition, I had been sitting on my thoughts about Santo for a good while, and didn't want to shortchange the guy any more than I already have. So here's Ryan Braun in 20 words or less: Steroids bad. Heroes take steroids in baseball, death sentence. Football, slap on wrist. Justice? I think not. Unfair standards. Boo.)

Blogging Live from Starbucks Cafe at Sheridan and Columbia

2011-12-06T15:21:00.000-08:00

One of the joys/destitutions of being a starving artist is that you get to pick and choose which modern conveniences/inconveniences you get to try and survive without. In some cases, these are sometimes not that hard to live without. (Why have a car when everything I need is within walking distance, there is low-cost public transportation 10 minutes from my apartment, and there are low cost, convenient bus routes that will deliver me to wherever I need to be in Ohio whenever I need it?). Others are vaguely important to have, and make their presence known as soon as you go without it for any period of time. (God DAMN, but it gets cold in here. Maybe heat should have been included with my rent. Oh wait, I don't know how to turn on this radiator from 1955. Balls)

In the case of Internet, it's a mixed bag. On the one hand, I don't feel tethered to popular sites such as Facebook as much as I once used to. On the other, I'm not able to get on Facebook. Withdrawal symptoms have already begun to set in. Quickly.

(Ah, good. No updates yet. But that means I'm becoming unpopular. Time to update my status for the fourth time today.)

(Ah, that's the stuff.)

In the case of blogging, that means that my journalistic efforts here will happen more on a weekly basis than I had originally intended them to. I do apologize, as it has been over one week since you last looked at my blog. (Cocked your head to the side and said you were angry over my clogs? Yeah, that was a forced BNL reference, I apologize. I'll try to do better next time.) While I don't want this to seem as though I'm ignoring my writing, (Quite the contrary, I'm using much of my lacking the Internet to focus on writing things like stories, plays, and poetry in my spare time. You know, the things I moved out to Chicago to pursue) I will be forced to manage these entries to about once a week. Ideally, this would be at a regularly scheduled time (Let's say, Tuesdays for example), but given that my two means of gainful employment are restaurants with irregular scheduling and whatever theatre I do end up doing will be irregularly scheduled as well, I make no promises.

Therefore, let's go ahead and shoot for Tuesdays, as a means of keeping that dull day of the week a little more exciting.

Now, where were we?

The coffee shop as the social gathering place.

Last time I wrote was from a coffee shop. This week, it's from a coffee shop. All because of the wonderful introduction of free wireless internet. (or WiFi as it's being called by young uns these days. And old ones. And in-between ones.) This contribution to the social domain is invaluable to those, such as myself, that lack the means to provide internet in their own homes. It is also valuable to those who are seeking to get work done in a location far from their own home, or for those who somehow have the ability to afford both a small laptop AND a $4.00 cup of specialty coffee, but no home.

(Ya know, stranger things have happened. Yesterday on the Red Line, an elderly gentleman sat down next to me as I read my Eric Larsen, sat still for nearly twenty minutes staring straight ahead, and proceeded to calmly ask the train if anyone had a "War ship" that he could drive. When nobody responded to him, he calmly took out a little black book, opened it, and next to the number 75, recorded what looked to be a combination of Arabic, Sanskrit, and a Richter scale recording the seismic vibrations of the train. Not that I looked over his shoulder as a means of spying on him, no. I was rather looking to see if by the #75, he would be recording "twenty-something male, 210 lbs., brown hair, method of death - bombardment by warship, loaned by red line passenger; on a Monday". One can never be too careful on board the Red Line after all.)

It used to be that when I pictured a coffee shop in my head, I imagined it being as something from the TV show "Friends", where the coffee shop served as a gathering point for the six leads of the series. While enjoying their favorite beverages, they would share whatever was going on in their lives, joke with each other, and somehow always manage to occupy the same couch in the center of the shop. Even though it was busy at all times, and they all had different jobs, schedule demands, availability, etc. In short, "Friends" is impossible, but that is besides the point. The coffee shop was the hang out place. You went there for meetings, to see friends, to go on a first date, to hear musicians play, etc. This is something that I remember from my carefree youth. (aka, the late 90’s/early 00’s, in the days when owning a laptop was something of a rarity, as they were still something of a luxury item. Case in point, my first laptop in 2004 cost something in the vicinity of $900. My, how things have changed.) The few times that I went to a coffee shop, it was always with friends, it was always busy, and people were gathered there with other friends talking and chatting the night away. This included both locally owned shops, mass coffee chains like Starbucks or Caribou, and those little coffee spots that one could find inside of a bookstore. Like Borders.

(I used to have a job at Borders. Before they went the way of the dinosaur. Was in line to be a full timer, even an assistant manager with some kind of power. Then I could have transferred to Chicago, gotten a nicer apartment, not had to worry about feeding myself hand to mouth, etc. But no, someone had to declare bankruptcy because of poor financing choices regarding United Kingdom stores, where bookshops have been operating independently since the 1800’s thank-you-very-much and mass American chains are looked down upon with English scorn and disdain, as well as a lack of e-reading devices, kind of like how Netscape Navigator got caught with its pants down once Internet Explorer was created, or how Altavista was rendered irrelevant by Google, or… (etc.etc.) Anyways, I had an ideal fantasy life centered around having a Borders job, but that went right out the window. Now I serve pie for a living. That’s right: pie.)

Anyways, the introduction of Wifi was initially offered sometime around 2005, but it came with a cost. Something around the nature of $.95 a minute or something, if I remember correctly. (Which is saying a lot) According to that fountain of knowledge Wikipedia, this became a free Wifi option in partner with AT&T in 2008 if you were a Starbucks card carrier, as a form of loyalty reward to customers who were abandoning local coffee shops right and left. At this time, those local stores began offering free Wifi to try and draw some attention away from Starbucks and to retain those customers who weren't ready to sell out (their souls) to the corporate (demon) entity that is (Cthulhu/Satan) Starbucks. Rather than get caught behind the movement, Starbucks changed their offering to entirely free Wifi to all customers in 2009, thus completing the transition of coffee-shop America to the Seattle-based corporate swill that is Starbucks.

(When asked what the greatest contributions to American society come from Seattle in the 1980's, many might say grunge music, but more will probably say Starbucks. Eddie Vedder is crying somewhere (for $50 a pop).)

Anyways, the Wifi is now free at Starbucks, and if it could be metaphorically compared to a substance, it flows like honey from the gilded mouth of that weird topless mermaid-thing on the side of the coffee cups. Which actually doesn't sound that bad until you realize that she's actually a She-Demon, she will feed on your essence for all eternity, and is a Twilight fan. (I made that last part up for effect, but the rest is true. I swear!)

But let us look at what has happened now. As I look around the Starbucks I am sitting at, which is not even a thriving metropolis street corner (Already the differences between Rogers Park and, shall we say, Wrigleyville, have made themselves apparent. I live in the equivalent of BFE to Chicago that Waynesville is to Dayton that Dayton is to Cincinnati. More or less.), there is one thing that stands out.

All but two customers in this Starbucks are sitting at a laptop. The exceptions being a little old lady reading the Tribune and some older gentleman just sitting staring into space. The only conversation is coming from the baristas, who are trying to keep the shop from feeling like such an awkward place to work by filling it with friendly banter that no one pays attention to. Not even the older gentleman staring into space.

(Note: this is not the same elderly gentleman who asked about warships on the Red Line as a means of plotting my demise, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were both members of some mutual association. You know, the "Crazy Old Warship Pilot Club with a Vendetta Against Twenty-something Young Males". Or COWPCWAVATYM as they're calling it on their business cards. Which may or may not be the backs of discarded pizza boxes.)

I don't know what this really says about our society that everyone within a coffee shop has come there solely to sit within their own isolated bubble of wireless networking. Maybe everyone here does have a thriving social life, and the coffee shop has become a place where it is preferred to come to work because it is such a relaxed quiet environment. This transition from a bustling place of noise and social interaction to a quiet den of technological solitude has been somewhat seamless, governed by the quickening pace of the evolving cultural changes, as well as what constitutes the social norm. It has also been affected by how fast technology is evolving. (There are three of these iPad contraptions being utilized as I type this, although I'm still not sure what the advantages to having a giant touch screen that offers all the things one could get on a laptop, but that might be a blog for another time.)

All I know is that within five years, the definition of what it means to go to a coffee shop has changed, without anyone saying or doing anything different. The hegemony of Starbucks has shifted so that noise is frowned upon now, rather than being embraced, and if you choose to meet friends, you are looked at as though you have decided antlers and horned helms are making a comeback in fashion and should be embraced. (That's how you identify the Vikings in crowds nowadays. You know, because Vikings have horns.) On the contrary, if you have a laptop, you are entitled to sit in your own social bubble, working on your own terms, isolated from everyone else in the shop, and anyone who interacts from you is violating your personal bubble, and thus, asking for a beatdown. That's the norm now, and one can only imagine that when "Friends" is discovered twenty years from now by our children, they will wonder why everyone in the coffee shop is talking to each other, when speech has been subconsciously banned from Starbucks so as not to distract people from their internet time, and we will wonder what all the fuss was about in the first place.

I can only hope that if I choose to talk at a coffee shop that there are no homeless gentlemen with war ships nearby, for their vengeance will undoubtedly be swift.

(Postscript #1: I realize full well that I am working on my own laptop here, in a corner, isolated from everyone else in the shop, and that I have made no effort to interact with anyone in the shop, except for briefly waiting my turn in line for the bathroom. I include myself in the adaptation of cultural means, rather than proving myself the exception, but I embrace it because of the lack of Internet options in my own apartment. I also acknowledge that I have no friends, but that's something that should just go without saying, right? Right guys?)

(Postscript #2: This originally was intended to be a study of a perceived rivalry between Ronnie Van Zant of Lynard Skynard and Neil Young, as heard within the Neil Young songs "Alabama" and "Southern Man", where Neil Young calls out Southerners for their history of racial discrimination and slavery, and Lynard Skynard's "Sweet Home Alabama", where Van Zant calls out Young for being Canadian. That blog entry took a swift hit from three subsequent points: 1), when it was discovered that Van Zant and Young were actually friendly, that they collaborated several times, and regarded each other quite professionally; 2), that since Lynard Skynard are from Jacksonville, Florida and NOT Alabama, their moral grounding is questionable at best; 3), that Neil Young's response to Lynard Skynard's lyrics seems to have been to slightly shrug, giving it a hearty "Worse has happened, eh?" before going off to groom his sideburns and enjoy a donut while watching "Hockey Night in Canada". (I may have made that last point up, but I can't find anything that seems to point to Neil Young being upset with Lynard Skynard anywhere, so we'll go with my scenario instead, eh?) As a result, examining the feud between the two sets of musicians reached a journalistic dead end, and I was forced to turn elsewhere for my inspiration. Sorry.)

Live from the Root Cafe, it's "Thirtysomething Thirstysomethings!"

2011-11-26T19:01:00.000-08:00

Whenever I'm at a local coffee shop/coffee house/industrial coffee outlet/what-have-you, I'm never quite sure if I want there to be live music or not. As a wannabe-musician of dubious talents and claims, I like supporting other people who are trying to prove that "Yes Virginia, you CAN make a living as an artist." Unfortunately, I'm always hesitant when it seems to be that the statement should really be "Yes Virginia, you CAN make a living as a pot-bellied-mullet-haired-forty-year-old-guy with little-to-no-talent/stage-presence/banter and an appearance that you either live in your mom's basement, never left Woodstock, or are in fact your dad, married to your mom, but living in the basement because mom kicked you out of her bed years ago for lacking potential and always harboring dreams of becoming the next big coffee shop sensation. And there will be pie."

(I made that last part up because it got a little too depressing rather quickly. Although the vegan scones look pretty nice.)

As I was saying, I'm not sure if I want to listen to more of what this guy is soon going to be offering. Granted, it feels a little crass to insult someone's life passion when my own pieces of musical offerings (songs) may or may not be scraped from the bottom of Elvis Costello's shoe. And as I had mentioned before, I'd greatly prefer to tell little Virginia that there is in fact hope for traveling coffee-shop folkies everywhere, and that the music they're playing adds to the atmosphere, and is worth coming out for. That there is a reason for this! That this will actually make my Saturday night better as I sit here alone looking for something/anything to do! Please Virginia, let there be hope for musicians!

I should explain.

Recently it was pointed out to me that I have too much free time. Bear with me.

It was also illustrated to me that the greatest writers/artists are people who are always driven to work with their passions. They can do nothing but respond to their bodies' crying need for artwork, and in a cruel form of self-flagellation/masturbation have no choice but to be a slave to producing pieces of aesthetic value as a means of relief. These people alternately seem to me as to be the ideal form of artistic perfection. At the same time, these people also frustrate me because there are only 24 hours in the day and I have a hard enough time getting the daily necessities of life done within this time frame and how-dare-you for doing so much more shit than me etc. (This feeling also applies to anyone more successful than me, and possibly reflects a deep-seated self-loathing within yours truly, but who's keeping track anyway?) Aforementioned people always seem to have different sets of advice to offer on how to advance one's own personage, which may or may not bring fruit to bear depending upon how you respond to various stimuli. (Example: yoga = good idea; yoga at the gym = a little more effort than I'd like to put out, but good idea; yoga in city park = well, it's not my cup of tea, but hell it works for you man; yoga in a coffee shop = dude, get your stinky feet out of my mocha, bee-otch.)

In my own regards, I was looking at the online blogging of one of my favorite modern authors, who shall remain nameless at this time although if you're reading this, you've probably read one or two (or five) books by this person. As a means for advancing your own writing, he/she/it advocates writing a little bit every couple of days in order to get your creative juices flowing. This could take the form of actual legitimate work, or could be something on the order of a personal diary or journal if that is what floats your boat. Thinking to myself "boy that sounds practical, but how do I keep a journal in this modern digital age, where the handwritten page is shunned?" It then occurred to me that the modern equivalent of the journal or diary is the blog. It's also the equivalent of that kid in 5th grade who grabbed your love notes from your desk, screamed out "Travis loves (insert your name here)!", and read out the entire contents of my latest work of poetry to the class, causing my poor artist's lovestruck soul to die a little more. In this instance however, you are the kid grabbing your own note and screaming it aloud in the cafeteria in order to draw attention to yourself, but it's an apt enough metaphor.

(I'm not kidding about that note, by the way. It probably did in fact read (insert your name here). If you knew me in 5th grade, you'd understand that these are desperate times. It's hard enough for a twenty-something with a Jew-fro to get by. Picture a 10 year old with glasses and a Jew-fro. Yeah, even I hate that kid.)

Consequently, this blog has started. Right around the time that the latest musician has started at the coffee shop. This gentleman, a man by the name of Charlie Moppett, (alright, I made the last name up, but it doesn't sound too far off) performs music somewhere along the lines of a Gordon Lightfoot/James Taylor blend, although he unfortunately sounds like Steven Lynch decided to go all serious and perform real music. Either way, it's not flattering, especially since his appearance is somewhere along the lines of Virginia's earlier nightmare scenario for musicians.

(He also just started off his set with "This is a song about coffee." I realize that I shouldn't expect glorious works of art that leave your audience in tears from how moving your lyrics are, but seriously, a song about coffee in a coffee shop is like Raffi singing at your high school graduation party.)

(I'd also like to mention that I love Raffi.)

Anyways, one of the things that struck me is that rather than handing out CD's to the crowd, he is offering "download cards" because CD's are on the way out and he doesn't want to get left behind in this aforementioned digital age.

Now, having been in a band before (twice, in fact), I have to put it out there that one of the things that gave me the greatest joy was listening to the other bands play, swapping out CD's, and then going to my car, putting in their music, and listening to it for the better part of a week before it joined the pile of CD's that I may grab at some point in the future for a road trip, but am more likely to ignore and ultimately deny that I ever owned in the first place. (This pile, should it exist, would also possibly contain any Creed/Limp Bizkit/Linkin Park/Nickelback that I might have/not owned and am wanting to pretend never crossed my dashboard in the first place. It's a fairly dusty/sizeable pile. Ooh look, a seagull!) These CD's are part of the experience of being a young, struggling musician. They are your lifeblood and your connection to a vague form of legitimacy, both in your own eyes ("Hey, look, I recorded a demo! It shows that I am serious about my career as a musician and legitimate in your eyes! I recorded it in my studio, which may or may not be my friend's living room! Awesome!") and in the eyes of your fellow musicians. ("Hey, look, you recorded a demo! It shows that you are serious about your career as a musician and are now legitimate in our eyes! You may have recorded this in a studio, which may also be your friend's living room! Awesome! But why do you smell?") Most importantly, recording a CD and giving it to someone forcibly imprinted your art upon them: they now have a tangible object in hand that proves you exist, and while you might have to force them to listen to it in the future, at the very least they cannot deny that you gave them something that they may or may not have to listen to at least once.

Now, I realize that offering a "download card" of your music is somewhat the same. They have the key to your music in hand, they can go and listen to it for hours and hours (this is what I would choose to believe), and they can that much more easily spread the joy/anguish of your music to others. (Although in Charlie Moppett's case, I might pass. He just played a song about being stuck in his apartment by an ice storm to a riff that sounds suspiciously like Kanye West's "Jesus Walks". In other news, I'm beginning to have my doubts about Charlie Moppett's chance of EVER GETTING LAID AGAIN.) The problem that I foresee is simple: there is nothing to guarantee that once said person has taken your download card home with them that they will ever follow through in the second crucial step and download your music to their Ipod.

Think about it. It's possible that you gave them your card without asking if they wanted it or not in that wonderful coffee shop tradition of panhandling. It's possible that they took your card because they were sincerely interested in your music, but once they got five feet from the coffee shop, they became more interested in finding their car than your song about ice storms. It's entirely possible that they took your card just to make you feel better about playing music for the evening but have no intentions of downloading your songs at all. Or maybe someone just took your card in an attempt to impress their date in some misguided way of saying "I support local independent artists, look how cool/wonderfully-fuckable I am!" (I just watched the last one happen to Charlie Moppett, who is forced to grin and bear it as the couple walk out the door towards their theoretical hook-up. At the very least, he's in on the joke)

What most bothers me about the download card replacing the CD is that any sense of tangible physical art has been thrown out the door. There is no more pile of CD's, no more physical proof that you ever played at the coffee house, and no more means of repelling zombies during the oncoming apocalypse. (Alright, I guess that would be vinyl to you "Shaun of the Dead" purists). Call me old-fashioned, but where is the joy that would come with sitting around for hours burning copies of your demo to pass along to people? What will happen to liner notes? How will people be able to pour over your lyrics, agonizing over their meaning? Who said that any of this was a good idea? Why, the indecency! The indignity! The -

Alright, Charlie Moppett just started a song about his cat. I shit you not, his cat. The jig is up.

Downloads are infinitely better. Once on your MP3 player, it's harder to get rid of them. Chances are, your downloads can be gotten for free. They can be shared easier. They can be streamed life, for free. People can listen to you for free, and if you're any good, they will pass you along, until eventually you play in a place large enough to GET PAID MISTA, and your legitimacy as a good artist can be founded upon a solid base of fan support.

(This also applies to one hit wonders. Granted, you'll miss the sales that would come from people buying your one CD to get to that one song that's always on the radio, but hey, at least they're listening to you. And while this might prevent people from discovering the Blind Melon's of the world (Single - No Rain, CD - Blind Melon, actually a fantastic example of psychedelic grunge), but will also single handily (pun intended) save people from the Better than Ezra's of the world. (Single - Good, CD - Deluxe, not good)

So, with the above in mind, here is my journal, bared for the world to read, free of charge, on a mass-blog site, solely for the purpose of providing an original thought from time to time while I get my laps in for my writing career. There will also be occasional bouts of maudlin enterprise from time to time (I like poetry, what up? Wait, don't go yet) but I promise that those will be brief. And in the long run, I hope to at least provide a chuckle here and there. If that should at the least occur, then maybe this whole thing won't have been so bad after all.

I wish I could say the same thing for Charlie Moppett. He just played the fiftieth version of a song about looking-at-the-stars-from-your-tailgate that I've ever heard, and it's easily a Bottom Five hit. I can actually hear the sounds of people's chances of getting lucky on their dates tonight shattering on the floor. I doubt that they'll take the download card as an excuse to support local arts in their rush to flee the door.

Poor Charlie Moppett.