Chicago Sports Weekend (Part Two)

I had the honor of attending the Bears/Vikings game this past Sunday with my Dad and great family friends Nick and Mary. As it turns out, watching an embattled quarterback for four quarters in the freezing cold with a division title on the line is a damn good way to spend your Sunday. So I kept a running diary (props to Bill Simmons) and I’m glad I did...



***


11:49am - We arrive 40 minutes early to Soldier Field due to eerily light traffic. So, after we find our seats, I decide to do three laps around the mezzanine level to keep my circulation going until the game starts. I’m dressed in layers upon layers, a grey hooded sweatshirt, my Salaam jersey stretched over that, a jacket and an orange wool cap. Since people can only see the #31 in front, it doubles as a Vasher jersey.

(One thing I don’t understand is wearing a dated (as well as questionable) jersey to the game. It’s one thing to display them proudly (and ironically) out at a bar, but sporting a Rick Mirer or Bryan Cox jersey at Soldier Field in full war paint on Sunday afternoon makes me scratch my head just a little)

I return to my seats with eleven minutes to spare. I’m ready for some football.

11:59am - The National Anthem ends with three fighter jets doing a flyby as the word “Brave” is sung. Then, with the roar of the jets still ringing, that “Let’s get fired up/generic rock music” bleeds in and people begin hopping up and down, an expanse of cascading warm breath puffs. This place is ready to burst.

12:01pm - Sheed Davis fumbles the opening kick return on our 31 yard line. Minnesota recovers. So much for that.

12:04pm - The Bears defense forces the Vikings into a 4th and 18 situation and out of field goal range. Let’s try this again.

12:20pm - After a promising drive stalls for the Bears, they punt the ball away. Then Brad Johnson and Rex Grossman trade interceptions. Rexy really needs to settle down. The crowd is searching for an excuse to go absolutely nuts, but knowing Grossman is strug-a-ling, they don’t quite know what to do with all this pent-up energy. Every time the Bears get the ball, it’s like 60,000 people waiting for the other shoe to drop.

12:24pm - My Dad makes his first prediction, “This looks like it’s going to be another 9-6 game. It’s So Depressing.”

The funny thing is, I was thinking the same thing. As a Bears fan, whenever things get off to a sluggish start, that’s usually how they’re going to end. That’s the result of constantly watching Good Defense and Bad Offense paired together year after year.

12:32pm - With 2:31 left in the first quarter, this whole place shakes with noise. Everyone is on their feet as the Vikings are trying to convert on a third-and-long. Right before the snap a yellow flag comes spiraling out of the sky from the sidelines as Minnesota has been charged with their second false start penalty, virtually assuring the punt. At this point, Tank Johnson is pointing at the crowd. We are pointing back to him. My Dad, Nick and I have started barking. Things are starting to pick up.

12:39pm -
PA System: There’s A Timeout
Crowd: Where?
:::pause:::
PA System: On The Field.
Crowd: Oh.

This happens seven or eight times a game and it NEVER gets old.

12:41pm - The second quarter starts with Rex launching a bomb down the right sideline that gets caught up in the swirling wind and comes up five yards short. Interception. “Grossman Sucks!” and “Bring in Griese!” begin to roll out of the stands. I’m willing to give him until halftime.

12:43pm - The PA System has just notified us the game time temperature is 20 degrees (7 degrees windchill) with 14mph winds gusting from the SW.

The crowd erupts. More barking.

12:46pm - My Dad leans over, “Hester’s returning this”.

12:47pm - Devin Hester has just electrified the crowd with an seemingly impossible dream of a return. Running 45 yards to paydirt, he sheds tackles and bounces off hits as he wills his body into the endzone like he is dragging the stone of triumph behind him. I would tell my Dad to say that before every Hester return, but I don’t want to tinker with his odd familiarity with how the comos seem to work.

12:57pm - Ulacher gets flagged for a bogus “roughing the passer” penalty which sets up a Longwell chipshot. Bears 7, Vikings 3. There’s 8:54 left in the second quarter.

Nick, concerned with the veracity of the referee’s interpretation of the rules, posits to anyone who’ll listen, “We’re playing football here, aren’t we?”. Things have become very philosophical all of a sudden.

1:13pm - An interesting sequence of events just unfolded before us. The Vikings are forced to punt from their own endzone and everything seems right with the world. However, punter Chris Kluwe glances the kick off his foot in such a manner as to influence the ball with a certain “dying quail” quality. It travels roughly 20 yards and hits a Bears blocker who is high-tailing it down the field to assist in the return. Minnesota recovers. We are then indulged to yet another three-and-out from a listless Vikings offense. On the ensuing punt, the SAME exact thing happens. Only this time, the Bears regain possession when the ball bounces harmlessly out of bounds.

“I think this might be their new offensive strategy,” says my Dad.
“I wouldn’t rule out anything at this point,” I reply.

1:26pm - Urlacher & Co. stand tough and give us the ball back with :33 second left on our 20 yard line. Rexy kneels on it. Sadly, this play is a marked improvement over most of his others this half. Meanwhile, Nick tries to get Mary’s attention to make sure she’s not frozen solid. She jostles in her seat, looks at us and says, “I’m here”. Nick looks relieved.


1:42pm - Start of the 2nd half.

1:47pm - Tommie Harris goes down. It’s his knee and it looks season ending. The crowd is standing around like a DMV waitline. It’s awkwardly quiet and people are frantically looking around, searching for answers. Nervous energy holds sway.

1:54pm - The Vikings drive down the field with an alarming degree of ease, running the ball at the gap Tommie Harris usually fills. They settle for another Longwell chipshot to make it 7-6, Bears with 10:07 left in the 3rd quarter. The Grossman critics are now adequately drunk and I’m feeling bad vibes.

Please God, no more INTs.

1:59pm - Grossman’s first pass of the 2nd half is tipped at the line of scrimmage and intercepted by some anonymous linebacker. The Boo Birds are out and they’re swooping about at this point. As the crowd charges into “Grie-se! Grie-se!” chants, Lance Briggs steps in front of a Brad Johnson telegraph for the pick, turning the anger into euphoria. This was jarring for the Boo Birds, but I have a feeling they’ll be back.

2:02pm - Minnesota is penalized for encroachment. Mary turns to me and says, “That’s one thing Rex has going for him. The hard count.”

Needless to say, I’m extremely impressed.

2:11pm - The Vikings commit their fourth false start. They look terrible.

2:15pm - WOW. Ricky Manning, Jr. jumps a Travis Taylor route, makes the pick and runs it back. Bears 14, Vikings 6.

2:18pm - Lance Briggs storms into the backfield and causes yet another ill-conceived Brad Johnson ball that was thrown RIGHT AT Urlacher. This place is temporally insane.

2:20pm - AND JUST LIKE THAT... Ced Benson takes a 4th and 1 handoff up the right sideline for a 24 yard touchdown run. Bears are now up 15 points with 3:04 left in the 3rd quarter. It’s beginning to sink in that the Bears are clinching the NFC Norris Division in front of us. Can’t wait for the inevitable “Ugly Win” Bears commentary on EPSN Primetime.

2:21pm - Brooks Bollinger is in.

2:22pm - Brooks Bollinger is on his back.

2:24pm - Brooks Bollinger is on his back again. No seriously, this is exactly how is went down.

Vikings face another 4th and 17.

2:29pm - The fourth quarter starts. My Dad and Nick have the following exchange:

Dad: “I think there’s a Bourbon and water in my future.”
Nick: “How about a Bourbon and Bourbon?”
Dad: “Sounds even better.”

2:32pm - Bears safety the Vikings. We’re exhausted from cheering.

2:40pm -
PA System: There’s A Timeout
Crowd: Where?
:::pause:::
PA System: On The Field.
Crowd: Oh.

2:50pm - The Vikings finally get in the endzone. Bollinger is running around the field pumping his fist like MJ against the Jazz in ‘97. We’re not concerned. Six minutes are all that separate us from the playoffs.

2:53pm - The Vikings just pull off a PERFECT onsides kick. The crowd implores the D to slam the door.

Nick checks Mary again. Not frozen. Whew.

3:00pm - The Vikings are strapped with a 3rd and 12 after their fifth false start of the day. Once the ball is snapped, Adewale Ogunleye simply slides past his blocker and DRILLS Bollinger. 4th and 17 is then followed by a delay of game. 4th and 22. Another Vikings Punt.

My Dad takes out his binoculars and surmises the situation: "It seems like Bollinger is out of it... stumbling around on the sideline... might have a slight concussion..."

It's generally not a good idea show up the defense by over-celebrating your garbage time touchdown. I'm just saying.

3:10pm - PA System: Rex Grossman had 34 yards passing today.

I'll just put it this way. The crowd's reaction was too priceless for words.

3:14pm - The Bears recover a Vikings fumble with 1:12 left. Game Over. Bears 23, Vikings 13. What a ride.

Chicago Sports Weekend (Part One)

This past weekend, I had the privilege of going to the Bulls-Wizards game Saturday night and the Bears-Vikings game on Sunday afternoon thanks to my Dad hooking up some tickets. Since the Bears could clinch the division and the Bulls were on a three game winning streak and opening up their 8-game home stand, I decided to take a running diary of both. I know this is Bill Simmons territory but I figured if they were fun to read, they might be fun to write.

As it turned out, I was correct.



***


7:33pm - My Dad and I get to our seats and begin to settle in, but not before swapping photos in front of the Jordan Statue outside the East gates. I think the reason this particular piece of civic art culture is so profound is because of what MJ accomplished in this city. Those memories that are firmly tucked into a daily subconscious of a time when June was the happiest month of the year. “MJ Soaring” personifies this.

I’m not sure why, but I’m very optimistic at this point.


7:40pm - They play a virtually Alan Parsons-free intro and have tweaked the Jumbotron graphics. Instead of the classic build up of “Sirius”, there is a deep baseline like beating hooves as we watch a stampede of bulls tear through the Wizards team bus parked outside the UC. I guess it’s okay, but it’s different. The crowd isn’t feeling it so much and I am reminded of how much I miss The Stadium.

7:48pm - Loul streaks down the left side of the court in transition, receives a laser of a half court pass from Kirk, shifts pass Arenas who is casually attempting to take the charge and scores. And One.

It’s becoming quite clear that Loul is making the leap from versatile small forward to legitimate potential All-Star and I couldn’t be happier. But he did attend Duke for a year. So I’m not sure what that means about me. I’m even a Duhon guy. Ditto Jay Williams. So there’s that too. It’s gotten to the point that if I had to root for J.J. Redick, I think I could.

:::shuddering at the thought:::

7:54pm - Four Gentlemen seated directly in front of us in the mold of “Da Super Fans” begin in on the refs. “I’ve had tree beersh and even I could see dat wasa foul,” in that lazy midwestern brogue. Meanwhile the others muse on the similarities between Etan Thomas and R.W. McQuarters braids.

I love this city.

7:58pm - The Total Cheer Academy just performed during the timeout. The act was comprised of roughly twenty 90-pound H.S. freshmen girls launching each other into the air to techno music, all twenty of them were wearing the same terrified “I hope I don’t crack my skull in front of 20,000 people” look. Say what you want about the United Center, they keep you entertained.


8:00pm - Note to self: Ben Gordon IS Vinnie Johnson


8:03pm - Watching Big Ben shoot free throws is like witnessing the painfully shy kid in junior high deliver a speech to the class. He’s uncomfortable, we’re uncomfortable for him, all concerned parties just want to get through it as painlessly as possible. (Big Ben misses the front end by a mile. Ugly Shot. Never even hints at flexing his knees at any point. Second shot is the same, but Wallace judges the carom correctly and gathers the ball much to the delight of the crowd. He feeds the ball inside to Loul who is promptly fouled and sent back to the line. At this point, Skiles subs out Big Ben and the crowd lights back up, almost as if saying, “We need you to know we love you and Jay Mariotti is a miserable human being who doesn’t speak for any of us.”)

8:04pm - Brendan Haywood and Michael Sweetney just checked in and are guarding each other. According to the program, that’s 533 pounds of man in the post. I’m guessing it’s closer to 600. It’s like watching the Nature Channel at this point.

8:07pm - Big Moment. Scottie Pippen just arrived at his seat right under the basket next to the Bulls bench. My Dad informs me that he sits there for all the home games and usually arrives halfway through the 2nd quarter like this. The crows is abuzz. What a Pimp.

The Superfans in front of us spot him, but more importantly, they spot his arm candy. She’s a stunning woman with amazing, ahem, eyes. She’s the perfect combination of Eva Longoria and Eva Mendes. She’s the Uber-Eva. Anyway, they yell LOUDLY “Nice Pull Pippen!” and “You Motorboat Scottie?”

Scottie glances over and chuckles reluctantly. Uber-Eva is either oblivious or silently seething. My Dad informs me that she is, in fact, his wife.

Once again, I love this city.

8:13pm - Nocioni slices through the lane for two of his game-high 15 points. Bulls up 36-26 with 8:54 left in the half. Now that I think of it, I think Noc is making the leap too.


8:19pm - Ty Thomas hits a nasty jump hook in the lane to put the Bulls up 16. This could get out of hand very quickly.

8:27pm - Haywood just annihilated Tyrus. Dunking it ALL OVER HIM and drawing the foul in the process. The crowd makes a collective gasp of disbelief. Haywood snarls and stalks back to the line while teammates surround him shouting and smacking him on the back of the head. All the Bulls are looking at the floor. Now, THAT was harrowing... Even Scottie is noticeably upset.



8:30pm - One of the Superfans (on his fifth beer by now) waits for a lull and yells at Antwan Jamison who is currently standing ten feet away waiting to inbounds the ball,

“Hey Jamison! You’re losing by 22!”

Jamison is noticeably unamused.

8:36pm - Halftime. 62-44 Bulls.

8:52pm - We’re back from halftime which consisted of three BMX riders going off ramps. Good times.

Noc gets the ball in the early going, drives to the hoop and is clobbered by Jamison who turns to the ref and makes a forlorn “Who me?” face. At this point, Dad yells so Twan can hear him, “Oh No! Not YOU Jamison! Of Course You Fouled Him! T Him Up!”. The Superfans bristle with delight and similar sentiments while our entire section begins humming with activity. Dad collects himself by (under his breath) reiterating the words “ridiculous” and “unbelievable”. Then he leans over for some confirmation:

“He went to UNC, right?”

I reply back in the affirmative and he gives me the “Damn Straight” look.

My Dad is the man.

9:01pm - Ben Gordon just took LITERALLY FIVE STEPS before finishing a fast break layup. I’m convinced traveling is off the books.

9:06pm - The Superfans (on their seventh beers by now) are confused about just exactly who is on the court right now for the Wizards:

“Hey Lang! WHO ARE YOU?”
“Is this the JV Squad?”
“Who’s got a program?”
“We need some back story here!”

To their defense, I was just as lost as they were. I mean, I follow the NBA and I was grasping for straws when my Dad asked me who was playing. In no particular order: Donell Taylor, James Lang, Andray Blatche, Antonio Daniels and Jarvis Hayes. If it’s not out of hand already, it shortly will be.

9:10pm - Tyrus Thomas is going to be an solid player in the NBA, especially if Greg Oden falls in our lap next summer (Thank you Isiah). Oden and Big Ben can play the “defensive stalwarts” role and hover around the basket establishing a presence while Ty is able to move around a little more using his incredible athleticism to make plays. I see him as a poor man’s Chris Bosh once his game is a little more polished. (Thomas finished the game with 9 points, 10 boards and a block in 27 minutes of action)

9:16pm - Bulls up 29 and just came out of a timeout pressing. I love Scott Skiles.

9:19pm - Sefolosha just faked a shot, drew two defenders and threaded the needle inside to Loul for two. It forced my Dad and I, in lieu of cheering, to turn to one other and make the same astonished look. We spent the next thirty seconds shaking our heads and saying WOW over and over again. My buddy Bauer and I coined the phrase “Thabo-lous” and I think it’s completely appropriate right there.

9:25pm - The 4th quarter begins in garbage time.

9:27pm - Roger Mason, Jr. Just checked in. Go Hoos. My Dad informs me that he’s giving up beer for the night. Both these events mean the game is ostensibly over.

9:39pm - An amazing sequence just happened. The Bulls just ran through 4 shot clocks on offense, working it down, missing the shot, getting the rebound, again and again... By the fourth time, the crowd simultaneously lept to their feet and started going nuts. Out of exhaustion the Wizards commited a lazy foul and sent Sefolosha to the line. This is fun.

9:40pm - When the Bulls score at least 100 points and win, every ticketholder in entitled to a free Big Mac. The game is in the bag, but I notice we’ve been stuck on 98 for about three minutes of game time. The crowd is restless. Sweetney then gets fouled, hits the front and... HITS THE SECOND!!! The crowd is going nuts. This has been going on since the Jordan days and never gets old (Of course, when MJ was around we had to score 120).

9:44pm - Note to Self: Ben Gordon IS Earl “The Goat” Manigault.

9:46pm - The “Kiss Cam” up on the Jumbotron just had a 75 year old man and an attractive blond 30-something go in for "the real thing”. The Superfans are loving it, “Way to outkick your coverage Old Man!”. My Dad is buckled over with laughter because he recognizes him as one of his good friend’s business associates. He tells me that this guy has never been married but always has a hot number on his arm. Him and Scottie are neck-and-neck for “Pimp of the Night” in my book.

9:51pm - Tyrus just jumped out of the gym and throws down a thunderous dunk with less than thirty seconds to play. Final Score: Bulls 112 - Wizards 94. Mahalo.











Part Two: The Bears Game is coming Wednesday.

Fantasy World

Stud.
Risk/Reward.
Five-tool player.
Handcuff pick.
Sleeper.
Bust.

If you have ever participated in fantasy sports with even a passing interest, chances are you've heard some of the above terms (perhaps even all of them). This language of the egregiously over-informed sounds, in many ways, as oddly appealing as a Fergie single. It's privately embarrassing to listen to London Bridge on your I-Pod on a crowded bus, just as it is acknowledging that you keep a fantasy mag and highlighter in your bag for the purposes of "scouting" players leading up to a draft.

If you do this, then you belong to the genus of dork known as "fantasydork" which belongs to the "sportsgeek" family. Your standard fantasydork says things like, "Pitchers and catchers is my favorite time of year" and "Is Ron Mexico still on the board?". Fantasydorks usually dwell in dark rooms, smelling of stale B.O. with scattered empty beer cans mixed in with mountains of printed-out stats. They will shuffle through those stats before they go to bed each night, commit a new trend to memory and vanish into a dreamland with little more than a notion of abstract greatness. This fantasydork spent Thanksgiving laughing with aunts, hugging grandparents, chasing nephews and eventually finding his way into the den with the father and the uncles. Football was on. Good beers were drunk. Fantasy implications were discussed. Life, as it happens, churned on.

That's how the existence of a fantasydork builds momentum, each season brings new conversations, new questions to ponder. Now, it should be known, that fantasydork's second cousins "problemgambler" and (the often self appointed) "fantasyguru" bare only casual resemblances. Problemgambler is a hopeless condition rooted in self sabotage. Covering spreads and predicting the upset are what keeps this species upright (but never for long, sadly). Fantasyguru is a rare syndrome by which the veil of fantasy has impaired the stabilizing ability to reason and rationalize. Under it's spell, the so-called fantasyguru will begin spouting non-sensical third person statements like, "Grant understands his superiority and welcomes the responsibility" or "Grant likes to take dumps bigger than your entire team’s output this week". These effects, however, can usually reversed with a healthy dose of humble pie.*

As an entrenched fantasydork, I've played just about every sport at least once:

NBA- As far as I'm concerned, this is the crown jewel of fantasy sports. Perhaps because MY WHOLE LIFE between the years of 1991 and 1998 was dedicated to hoops, however I think there's something else at work here. I love the fluid nature of the NBA, the way an extra ten minutes of playing time a night can transform the confidence and efficiency with which a player approaches the game. Let's put it this way, you're watching a seemingly meaningless game between the Jazz and Hornets last year. You notice that Deron Williams is being constantly compared with Chris Paul who is a lock for rookie of the year, even though the Jazz passed on him for Williams. You watch a hungry guy like Williams through college and into The League and he's struggling, but finishing the year strong with nothing but time in the off season to watch people love on Chris Paul while he represents USA in Japan. Flash forward to this year, Williams kicked up the conditioning, tightened up his game and is now taking over games for the 9-1 Jazz. He's averaging 10 more minutes a game, 8 more points a game and 6 more assists a game. And it unfolded very organically in front of everyone.

Now, if I wasn't a such a jackass taking the DeSagana Diop's and Channing Frye's of the world in the late rounds, I coulda had him.

MLB- This is strictly reserved for people who either A) regard baseball as their absolute forte or B) get a woody looking up OBP (On-base percentage) on baseballreference.com. As it turns out, fantasy baseball very closely mirrors being an actual baseball fan. Your team WILL slump from time to time and there is NOTHING you can do about it. Pitching can win it all for you although balance with your position players is crucial. HUGE trades happen all the time. Fantasy baseball has become, for me, an invaluable way to keep tabs on players in both leagues in what sometimes feels like a never-ending season. I like knowing what journeyman and utility players are all about. I also like mapping the course of a superstars career because you never know when the Cubs are going to offer him 136 million over 8 years. That's the thing about fantasydork's who play baseball every year - there are so many captivating plotlines, players, trends, possibilities, etc. that it can completely consume you, rendering your penis completely useless to women.

NFL- The clear favorite of America. The most inclusive statistically. The greatest potential for drama (since the games only happen two days a week). This is like the training wheels for an aspiring fantasydork because there are no categories to obsess over. Just pick players that rack up yardage and get in the endzone. I also find the universal appeal of fantasy football it's greatest strength. Have you gone out to a house party with a girlfriend that you had absolutely no interest in attending? You're not a big hit with her friends, but you love her, so you sack it up and pretend like you couldn't be happier to mingle with 50 drama majors for three hours. If you're anything like me, you bring a pack of cigarettes, smile your way to the porch where the keg resides and find another guy with the frantic "why am I here" eyes... you smoke and drink and talk football with this individual until your girlfriend tells you it's time to go. That's why fantasy football will never subside.

NHL- I'm currently in my second year of fantasy hockey and I still have no idea what is going on. I figured that since I didn't watch hockey but had some interest in it, that this would be the logical step. The problem is even with the new rule changes, I still don't watch the sport (possibly because I don't get OLN) but mostly because the Blackhawks are a joke. What I don’t fully grasp is that you GET points for penalty minutes, there is a seemingly arbitrary plus/minus stat and goalkeeping comprises 50% of your score. So if I had the foresight to draft Giguere and Brodeur in the first two rounds, I'd be doing a lot better than my current 6th place standing. Thanks Steveo, you're fucking up my entire universe.

This leads me to the league I just joined (thanks to Olivia) and the real impetus to this blog post. I think I may have found the rival to the NFL as far as universality goes. Ladies and Gentlemen, this Fantasy Celebrity League. Everyone knows about celebrities because we all live in a celebrity obsessed culture. Scoring occurs daily based on a calibrated "buzz index" and turnover is great because each season lasts just under a month. Although I’m a rookie compared with Olivia and Meg, I'm riding my first two picks Brit and K-Fed (the Larry Johnson/LaDainian Tomlinson combo platter) to the promised land. Never have I watched The Soup so closely and I'm not at all ashamed to admit this. If you have any interest, lemme know. A new season starts in December. Mahalo.





* To Grant's credit, he's having a great football season. He earned the right to talk some shit. But these days, he comes off like the spastic kid with a debilitating fear of girls who tries to hard to be liked at parties. Sometimes, you just gotta grab a beer and relax. The jackass who lets everyone know they have been on the beerpong table for two hours never get anywhere...

Writer's Block

I haven't been writing as much as I used to because I don't really have anything to say anymore and that bothers me. There was once a time when I'd be sitting in the back row of a 500 person lecture writing letters to good friends about the future, about the limitless possibilities and where they might lead us. I suppose the reason I'm so idle now in my thinking isn't the approach, but the fact that I'm freshly arrived at what I once day dreamed about... and the results are mixed.

I think the most difficult thing about life sometimes is not having remarkable things to share. By remarkable, I don't necessarily mean noteworthy or profound, but rather something consistent, something you can stake a claim to as an honest reflection of how you actually feel. For me, for these days, there tends to be an increasing emergence of subtle posturing, all the while just sitting back and letting the world trickle in at a convenient pace. For instance, I might stay in on a Saturday night, switch my phone to off and try to watch all three of my Netflix movies (usually falling asleep halfway through the last one). Or I might spend an hour walking around a secondhand store, listening to Coltrane on the headphones, wondering what kind of sandwich I'm going to make when I get home. I might even put a Rolling Rock or two in my jacket pockets, go to the park, sit under the first tree I get to and scribble curious little drawings in one of the dozen notebooks I keep amassing but never finishing. These are all nice little distractions during what, these days, amounts to an underwhelmingly normal life. I feel like I do these things because I enjoy them, but who knows, maybe I do them because I want other people to associate these things with me. With a void of substantive purpose, perhaps we spend our time subconsciously conjuring up a role we would be well suited to play to give ourselves (and others) something to talk about. Like all these little routines fuel us to tilt closer to that personal light we seek, quietly trying to tell the world just who we are and what we stand for.

Some people keep score at Cubs games to make everyone seated around them aware that they are true fans, students of the game. Others stand outside Starbucks with clipboards asking perfect strangers if they want to be part of the solution to display their honest dedication to *pick a cause*. Then there are those that are so tortured for attention and recognition that they begin a blog to write sentence fragments about how confusing twentysomething life can be (I know, I know, it's true). Perhaps these things that fill time in our lives, whether it's a side job or a co-ed sports league or a mild drug habit or a loving pet give us some momentum. They illustrate our ability to get out of bed on a rainy Monday and not curse whatever deficiency exists in our daily lives. Hell, maybe that very thing we hang our hats on is our primary deficiency and, unbeknownst to us, there is a gaggle of our good friends somewhere behind closed doors wringing their hands and wondering what's to be done about it.

I guess what my original thought on this matter was: What does the writers block mean? Does the lack of a persistent series of remarkable mini-miracles (like the recognition of watching seagulls strafing against the wind at sunset) mean anything? Am I asking too many pointless questions? Is the grass greener as far as memories go? Are we helpless to attain that exact thing we seek if we can't fully verbalize what it is? Do we pick up rocks on the side of the road only to one day trade them in for a rock collecting hobby because that's who we are, or does the twinkle of the amethyst distract us? It's all too much sometimes. I guess I should just leave it at that.

Dear Cardinals Fan

I jumped off the Clark bus at 10:45 the other night just outside Wrigley. I still had two stops to go, but I wanted soak up some memories on this night. The last night of baseball for the year...

You'll have to forgive me, but this whole thing feels like Deja Vu. A year ago to the day I flew into Chicago for a relaxing homecoming (my first visit back since I moved to San Francisco), a G Love concert at the Vic, a Bears game, a Halloween party. The dear friends I have greeting me with a beer toss and hugs that felt long overdue. Everything is right in the world of Donny. Except for the very real fact that the White Sox just blazed a historic run through the playoffs for their first World Series since 1917. To be honest, I didn't really care THAT MUCH. I mean, I've got good friends, good baseball men, who are Southside supporters so I was happy for those guys. I'm conditioned to dislike everything White Sox, but before they won it all, I had no real opinion. I didn't like them. I didn't hate them. I nothing-ed them.

So I land at Midway on October 27, 2005 with my Cubs hat on and my I-Pod ready with the Chicago playlist. I jump on the "L", send text messages to the appropriate parties and let "Sweet Home, Chicago" wash over me. As we approach downtown it occurs to me... There are seven Sox hats in this traincar alone and only one Cubs hat, which is on my head. Completely understandable. They just won it all, I mean, I know what's happening all over the Southside... "Kids, you're staying at your grandparents house tonight. Honey, put a nice dress on, the Sox just swept the Astros, we're getting drive-thru and doing it twice!" That's one thing, but these people on the train who were giving me smug looks were doing so beneath brand spanking new lids. Brims still rigid, nary a speck of wear and tear. I smiled to myself, tucked this little observation into the fold in my brain labeled "amusing" and rode on. Little did I know, this was a harbinger of things to come.

Flash forward one year. I'm sitting around with the same good friends, watching the Cards in a deciding game, wondering out loud if I should go with the Chris Farley coconuts-and-hula skirt Superfan or the more traditional George Wendt Mug-and-Stache Superfan for Halloween. At this point, White Sox fans are pretty much the most miserable people in the world with only a few notable and distinguished exceptions. Sports-talk radio callers have, as a population, become 30 IQ points dimmer in the past year. What ever happened to the Five-Year Grace period? They just won the World Series, and yet, as if possessed, Sox fans froth at the mouth with venom about their players. They, overnight, have become a force on the Chicago scene and it stinks of fearweatherism. Also, I don't understand how anyone can pull for A.J. Pierzynski, I'm sorry, I just can't.

Cardinals Fan, I fear our relationship is doomed to the same fate. Whenever we play and the place is packed with both fan bases, it's always fun. I circle that series on my calendar. It's a lasting institution on the baseball landscape, this rivalry, and I've always thought that mutual ground made things right. An old lady, dripping red from head to toe, keeping score at Wrigley during her annual pilgrimage to Chicago. A father, wearing Sandberg, and a son, wearing Lee, skipping work and school to see Opening Day. The learned fanaticism and devotion creating something exquisitely engaging. That is, until you went and won it all with your worst team in years. I've managed to befriend a Cardinals fan or two in my travels and I know they're out there... But I have the feeling this is going to get ugly soon. I mean, I get "Cubs Suck". That's standard fare, hell, even though they just won, Cardinals Suck. What lies ahead though will be a gradual change from healthy smacktalk to insufferable posturing. Impromptu and impossibly lame renditions of "We are the Champions" out at bars. A further proliferation of played-out stereotypes and tired anti-Cubs websites (Seriously, didn't we grow out of those weak "you're gay" jokes in grade school? Guess not.) will become more and more in vouge. I can't even fathom how the national media will run with this either. I'm just saying there has never been a time I can remember that being a Cubs fan is such a chore because of the other man's obsession with this thing called a curse. What a shitshow.

Ok, time for Da Bears.

Chicago Sports Moments

There are rarified moments in life that seem surreal, especially as they are happening. They defy that which was previous known and expected and open up a whole new avenue of perspective. Like being knocked down by a perfect wave rolling into land, you experience it as a removed witness from your own bursting sensations. You pause, as if to acknowledge that this is an instant classic, because you feel something inside of you change. Something that will always be with you. And it's something different for everybody.

You could say a first kiss could have some of these qualities, but much of that is confused by expectancy and the inherent awkwardness of a 15 year old. Perhaps it's something closer to what some call a "religious experience" although I am largely suspect as to what exact ingredients comprise that sometimes hard-to-swallow philosophical stew. From personal experience, I've found Nature to provide some of the most fulfilling moments of personal reflection and peace. Standing on the summit of the Haleakala crater in Hawaii at 5am with my folks, ten thousand feet up there, above the clouds, watching the sunrise and the moon set simultaneously. Or canoeing away from Admiralty Island in Alaska on silver and black water in the middle of the night, the moon stunningly brilliant above.

In some ways I think we thrive on these private revelations. We construct our own meanings for them and understand them differently, but what remains is a common ground, a defining part of an elemental character. We struggle with the same need to understand, so really our ability see the other man's side amounts to seeing his or her humanity between the lines. The galvanizing impact of a series of events that leads to moments of collective clarity.

Ok, enough of that.

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 1



Chicago Bulls Player Introductions

I remember the Chicago Stadium in the early 90's. It was the loudest, wildest, most exhilarating place in the world as far as a 11 year old boy could tell you. A vastly important relic that hosted events that effected a civilization of much more than just basketball fans. It was where Michael Jordan played basketball. Period.

I recall it smelling like a gym locker room in there. It had graffiti crawling up the sides of it and everything looked dirty except the glossy golden court. The United Center is a finely maintained facility and (given the right company) a raucous good time, but it doesn’t quite measure up to The Stadium for me. They both, however, share that moment of deafening Zen. Turn up the volume and enjoy the goosebumps...

Sports Fan Moment Number 2

Hearing the Bears fight song while you shuffle
out of Soldier Field after a big win

Never fails. Walking out of there like a pack of orange and blue popsicles, all layered up, reliving big plays, laughing and prognosticating. Then you hear the horns start somewhere in the distance, a couple of old guys huddled around their van, belting it out of their trumpets like they've been doing for 30 years. Chanting crowds move past them toward Michigan Avenue, puffs of warm breath everywhere. But the drunks usually linger, singing, dancing, carrying on. The most fun you can have outside on a 5 degree afternoon in Chicago.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Make every play clear the way to victory!
Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
Put up a fight with a might so fearlessly!

We'll never forget the way you thrilled the nation,
With your T formation.

Bear Down, Chicago Bears.
And let them know why you're wearing the crown.

You're the pride and joy,
of all Illinois.

Chicago Bears, Bear Down!

Chicago Sports Fan Moment Number 3

This is Addison, Doors Open on the Left at Addison

There is nothing like rolling up to your first game of the season, shoulder to shoulder in a crowded traincar, twenty minutes before the first pitch. Nothing.

Monday Night Football

At first I was somewhat reluctant to call Monday Night Football my new safe sanctuary away from the daily strife that occurs constantly around me, hovering about, just outside my very walls (as has been so thoroughly advertised in the "Is it Monday Night Yet?" commercials, billboards, radio promos, etc.) and I wanted to enjoy this weekly participatory social encounter as just another excellent (albeit transparent) excuse to get drunk on a weekday which lands before Thursday (which consequently, I might add, has once again attained the "Thursday Night, It's The New Friday Night" drinking status. Glad to see that coming back in vouge). I mean, I watch Monday Night every week because I am a football watcher by nature, but I'm not ready to jump head-first into the MNF sideshow that always seems to be accompanied by pointless fanfare. With the one exception, of course, being the Falcons-Saints game which I watched with the rest of the U.S. as we collectively clutched our sides with honest joy when the Superdome erupted after that first blocked punt/touchdown sequence. That was universally powerful stuff. But I tuned in early for the overhead shots, for the before-and-afters, for the reminders, for the ability to believe in a brighter tomorrow and for all that other built-in stuff that the NFL played up so brilliantly. The game itself was just an excuse to have New Orleans on display which was timely, needed and appreciated. That's one thing, that affects the coping mechanisms of a nation, that's a cause. But what happens when the game itself is the selling point, the reason to care. Then is all this artificially generated hype enough to fuel the fire? Does an Average Joe care about who sings the opening number or who's in the booth when the game is a yawner?

Week 2: Jacksonville 9, Pittsburgh 0

Which set the record for times Joe Theisman reminds the audience that good defensive football combined with sloppy execution on offense is also fun to watch. Which made me slightly homicidal, but I'm over it by now. For the most part.

Week 5: Denver 13, Baltimore 3

The frozen tundra of Investco Field, bad weather conditions, two great defenses, two aging vets who throw into double coverage, needless to say, you get the picture. I listened to the second half on Westwood One because I needed a little Marv Albert in my life and it was more enjoyable than had I actually watched the game. The only reason I kept listening was because there were fantasy implications involved..

(Which actually reminds me how the phrase "fantasy implications" has now become this ominous word we men use in increasingly odd situations. For instance, two couples are out at dinner and the women begin discussing Eva Longoria and her split with Tony Parker. Then they talk about how they don't really like her Desperate Housewives character anyway and then they both decide that the whole show has been going downhill since the second season and they like Grey's Anatomy better... On the other side of the table, after hearing the Tony Parker news, the men immediately grab bread rolls and start gnawing on them pensively because they both have him in their keeper leagues. He won't be in a contract year until 2009, he's going to be chasing around NBA groupie pussy, he's going to get fat, slow down, dog it on defense, start settling for jumpers and slowly morph into Gary Payton. Those damn fantasy implications haunt us around every corner...)

Week 4: Philadelphia 31, Green Bay 9

The only reason to watch the Packers anymore is to bet the Over/Under on Brett Favre interceptions and to watch his postgame comments which usually stammer out, "Well, we're just not that good anymore, are we? We aren't there anymore and I, for one, don't know how else to say it. Not. Very. Good. It's what the facts are and those are the facts of the matter." The whole time he's wearing that affable expression, salt and pepper beard, an aww shucks! sincerity which is slowly driving cheeseheads mad... What can I say? It is to smile.





But then, MNF Week 6 happens. And everything I thought I knew or cared to know about this cultural phenomenon got turned on its head. I turned off my cell phone a half hour before kickoff because I needed complete concentration. I would be like the monks on high, attaining a level of ferocious effort, my mind balancing like a candle flame, striving towards truth and understanding. By halftime, I was two pitchers of Miller into things and elbow deep in a plate of buffalo wings. Enlightenment, indeed! To be honest though, I was worried and anxious and terrified that this 5-week Bears lovefest was over when the Cardinals trotted into the locker room up 20-0 at the half. I never wanted to turn on my phone again. I knew the Bye week was going to feel like forever with this Prime Time embarrassment hanging over us. I knew my SuperFans halloween costume replete with 19-0 shades (19 on one lens, dash, 0 on the other lens) would seem even more tragic and played out. I walked around the bar with a sullen expression during halftime.

The one moment of levity came when a drunken guy I never met before raised his hand to me, palm forward and yelled, "Vasher baby! Yeah! That’s a good one!" I tilted my head slightly in confusion and then he motioned to my jersey and the 31 that was scrolled across it. Then, understanding the situation, I turned around so he could realize that I was in fact wearing a Rashaan Salaam jersey (circa 1996). He crinkled up his nose and recoiled, lifting up his right eyebrow ever-so-slightly as he did, finally breathing out swiftly. He reacted as if I offered to smell his farts for a set fee per fart, which would be arrived at later after some lengthy haggling. And that's exactly the look I go for.

It still makes me proud to wear this thing, one of the biggest busts in Bears history which was all the more troubling because he showed so much promise with that 1,000 yard rushing rookie season. And then the fumbling began, and then the leg injury came, and then during a rehab stint he picked up a drug problem and then he faded into oblivion. The thing that kills me is that he won a Heisman Trophy and demonstrated that he was built to play on Sunday with the big boys. He had the tools to be the next Neal Anderson, but the drugs proved too tough to beat, but I'm not talking about painkillers or cocaine... No, he's a pothead. He's Ricky Williams Light. He should be in those drug awareness commericals instead of stoned teenagers in a drive-thru running over little girls on bikes. Rashaan bounced around in the NFL for a few years, tried the XFL and retired. Bottomline, I wear this jersey because I want that reaction from people. I want them to look and me and shake their heads and say, "Why?"

And I'll make a grand turn to them, look them square in the eyes, pause for effect, and say, "Why, indeed. Why...indeed."

Needless to say, we all saw what happened in the second half. How do I know that? Because it was on Monday Night Football, bitches. And that's the point of this whole thing. The games might be tough to watch or oddly marketed, but everyone watches them. It's like a cultural yardstick and I feel good that the Bears did what they did. They dispelled their mythic myth, displayed their mortality and made away into the dry Arizona heat with a comeback I'll never forget. I'm glad I understand once again. So MNF, like George Castanza, "I'M BACK BABY!"

I turned on my cellphone before I went to bed and these beauties rolled in as an eloquent timeline of the game. Enjoy...

Maloney - "The superbears going to let bearlaucher beardown so hard I'm going to have a bear-gasam"
Wags - "I love that Leinart is miked. This could make for great comedy."
Uncle Jeff - "Matt da bear killer?"
Hodnett - "M. Lienart... Golden Boy"
Kras - "WTF is going on with the bears?"
Hodnett - "Sexy Rexy"
Uncle Jeff - "Holy Shit"
Kate - "This game sucks"
TK - "What’s this ole bullshit?"
Beckwith - "I’m ready for some football. Is your team?"
Wags - "If I die tonite I will stand before my lord a humbled man."
Bauer - "Can you believe that SHIT?!?"
Mariano - "Holy Shit"
Stemmler - "Clean your drawers home boy, you shit yourself tonight"

September 14th...

Far too often I become entirely consumed with something. The substance of this consumption is of no importance, yet however it shakes out, I always become ensnared with it in some twisted self sabotage. I overdose on music, thinking happiness will come of it, however I often find myself with a notably padded playlist and bloated on secondhand lyrics. I sometimes look towards movies for escape and as much as they delight and stretch the mind, I always walk away reminded of my own smallness. Sports reverberates around the walls of my mind on a daily basis and even though I hold my love of Chicago sports teams as I would a newborn child (as alarming as that sounds on a priority basis), I always expect heartbreak as a perennial endgame.

But THESE!, you say, are the very components of life. The struggle, the human condition, My Good Sir, This Is What Sets Us Apart... the everlasting dreams of the frail body to overcome. We all move around in this world, uncertain, over reacting to the slightest bump in the night, but THESE things, they combat our fear of the eventual unreadiness. The fear that we control nothing, the momentum is not our own. So there it is, the idea that we possess some tool against that which might sink us, whether it be a script of words, a tapestry of guitar chords, or an athletic feat worthy of such unholy pageantry. That should embolden even the meekest spirit, shouldn’t it?

Sure. It does. I suppose. But sometimes it can put me off. Okay?

So, I just want to say I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last installment. I would say "I’ve been lazy", but if you know me, you’d know I’m lazy by nature. No, I’ve been actually been at odds with myself the past month. I’m working on a full plate for the first time in a while and I spend my free hours on other pursuits. But now I’m back, sitting in my room, writing and consuming, throwing words up there on the screen like it’s my savior.

Writing is like leaving your piss trail across a garage door in a dimly lit alley at midnight, your head buzzing with beer, your mind on other things. It may seem oddly beautiful or even a profound moment given the perspective, but in the end it’s just excrement that has to get done.

I saw Factotum the other day. Great book, good movie. Usually the way it goes so it shouldn’t be surprising. Thoughts arose for me as I sat there watching the opening credits and I saw the words "Adapted from the novel by Charles Bukowski". I began wondering, since I read so few books that actually become movies, I’m extraordinarily drawn to enterprises such as these. So if the chance presents itself in a social setting, I can use this phrase with complete honesty, "I thought the book was better". Like that makes me smarter, or more interesting, or oddly engaging. Weird how that is...

To me, Old Style beer tastes like it was twisted out of golden kegs by angels when the Cubs are winning. Now? Merchants are selling 6-packs of 16 ounce tall-boys for $4.19 just steps from Wrigley Field. That’s about all you need to know about us this year.

Make A Note Of It:

-Never play "Promiscuous" by Nelly Furtado and Timbaland on your I-Pod as you move your wet laundry into a nearby dryer in your community laundry room, because you’ll most likely turn around and see the hot girl from across the hall that you’ve been slowly building up the nerve to talk with standing there, smiling quietly at you after you subconsciously roboted across the room while humming suggestive lyrics. Way to go, Donny. Smooth criminal.

-If you go to a 10:25pm showing of Beerfest on a Tuesday night, don’t come sober with a date and then get mad when my intoxicated laughter spills out into the darkness.

-If you ever find yourself watching countdown of the top 20 MC’s of all time, and they have Nelly in front of Rakim, never watch that channel again. An egregious error. Pitiful.

Much Love, Let’s talk soon. Sorry I’ve been gone so long.

-Donny

Hope: A loosey Philly blunt ...the South Carolina story

I had some initial doubts about this South Carolina place, because, after all, what do I actually know about present-day affairs on a typical streetcorner in everyday Charleston? What do I know about the tenets of this little sub-culture within a culture? The spiteful venom a Gamecock supporter propels towards a Clemson Tigers follower on some frigid Saturday morning in the early days of December? Historically rich? Obviously. An overshadowed Southern brother? Probably (but hey, at least they both get the Panthers). An perfectly glorious void in my brain that deserves a peek? Absolutely.

***

Ben calls me at two-thirty in the morning and the ringer bites the air around my head. I shoot upward and outward from a dead slumber, gnashing at the cobwebs with groans and grunts.
"Dude, I'm about to ask you something..." he emotes into the receiver.
"Ugn-huh, Ben."
"...but you have to agree to say 'yes' no matter what," he belted it out with a familiar drunken playfulness, the wild buckle in his tone letting me know that things were being hatched. The process had begun. I knew to never question him at moments like these, so I obliged to his conditions,
"We're going to South Carolina in August. Staying on the water. Fuckin... fuckin living there, right man... for a week. Charter fishing and the beach, just getting out there. Mad people and... you're going... that's it.. I'll get you the details."
Nothing more was needed. We understood what just happened.
"Ok. Night bro."
"G'nite man."

***

I ate four tacos at an O'Hare Mexican sitdown restaurant in my mind as I raced through the terminal at twelve forty-three in the afternoon. Worried. Hungry. Behind already. You see, I decided to leave at the last possible moment to ensure a meeting with late Sunday morning traffic, the head pounding from the night before and the constant shuffle through my belongings to make triple sure there were no gels or liquids of any kind on my person.

I get to the security line after a harrowing cab ride with just enough time to make it comfortably if everything goes smoothly. People are snaking back and forth, back and forth and everything is abuzz. Couples squinting feverishly at the newly laminated and posted text, trying to discern with much interest what is and isn't acceptable to bring on a plane. The din of curious, yet fearful murmurous hung above the labyrinth of people as everyone waited for their respective fates. Will we get a passing grade? Can we read things and then demonstrate that knowledge effectively, using common sense whenever applicable? And as a collective, I'd say the herd of anxious faces did a bang-up job. Really, I couldn't have been happier about our progress as a people. The only moment of concern came when the Korean family in front of me became unhinged with the prospects of missing a vital rule which prompted the father to fish for nods of approval from the security guards standing nearby... "I-Pod?" "Laptop OK?" "Daughter's french horn?" I breathe easy as I finally step through the metal detector doorway unmolested by the taunting beep, the only thing between me and a gentle gallop to the plane, now scheduled to board through gate E14 in five minutes. I make it on with the last of the stragglers. The doors close and I press my pillow against the cabin wall anxiously awaiting the release of an in-flight nap.

***

I lope out of the Charleston terminal equal parts joy, relief and anticipation. Ben has timed the drive down so as to pass through and simply pick me up with only forty-five minutes remaining until our ultimate destination. I inform him of my presence on the curb and he tells me he is in a nearby parking lot and is rolling to it as we speak. Four minutes later an unassuming enough vehicle rolls into view and glides towards me, leisurely handling the speed bumps. The clutter on the dash and in-between the passengers, along with the calm manner in which it approaches belies a certain sturdiness. My first impression was that this car had consumed many miles of highway that day and was sated, all that was left was the winding country back roads and the salty Atlantic air.

The motley crew flashed inviting gestures and talked tales about their cabin fever as I acclimated myself to their presence. Ten hours together had stirred the pot nicely. There were three girls of whose friendships were borne from varying relations - commingling, commiserating and commanding the conversation as Ben, the driver, leaned forward, adjusting his brim, content with situation he had helped create. As Colleen (left), Lisa (right) and Karen (the photographer) spoke off the cuff and from the hip, the base and snare of a Tribe Called Quest trickled out of the speakers. Things happened easily for us during that final approach to Edisto and I, for one, think everyone knew why.

***

A typical display of contempt for the camera. This mistrust is more or less a patterned practice of the male psyche which, I believe, is learned in the early stages of social development. At first glance, the goofy broad expressions, the rocking back on heels, the clutching of mitts with an uneasy glee, they all appear symptoms of an inner struggle with what the "proper" pose should be. Are there standards to be met? Should we pretend to be something we're not, for humors sake? Will this picture one day be a physical manifestation of what we will represent to some unknown room of scrap-booking women, swirling their white wines and exhibiting their own unique brands observational humor upon our defenseless renderings? You must understand, all of these thoughts are scrolling through our heads in the 3 second lead-up to the *snap* so we must find something proficient and salient to do, a self assured way to fight back any would be instigators. The people who look upon us with the luxury of hindsight.

What results is a gentle glancing-over of subtle humility, a quiet wisp of cocksureness as evidenced by the thin smiles. The perpetual stoney glower, the unmitigated bravado, the kinds of faces that if they had voice, would probably be saying, "How dare you judge us!?! Random scrap booking women!"

***

Closet lesbians on vacation, you see it more and more these days. The soft ass caress in public. The artful snapping of tops. The WNBA-like intensity of their staring contests as they eventually just lose themselves in each others gaze. It’s a beautiful thing, this newfound love spun together in a series of taboo meetings in the back of dark New York City nightclubs. Their furtive clutching and holding soon becoming a Valentine's Day trip to the Ani DiFranco show with their woman-love now blossoming for the whole world to see. This is Colleen and Karen, and this is their story. Your classic girl meets girl, girl wants girls body, girls throw down on a case of champagne and a hotel suite and charge it to the company card so their men won't find out. Eventually they become bold in their schemes and take a trip down to South Carolina for a week, frolicking in the surf, spooning in the hammock, doing what comes naturally. They know one day this charade must be exposed because the stress of covering up their feelings is ultimately effecting the relationship, not to mention their sexlife. Which, by all accounts and standards, is sizz-a-ling. Good times.

***

Dave joins the fray on Wednesday. This conversation takes place on Thursday morning. Aboard a fishing boat. Hungover.
"Say Ben, you ever seen me with my shirt off before?"
"Um. Yeah Dave, a couple of times," Ben says, uneasily turning his attention to the water.
"Good, cause I think I'm going to take my shirt off again. You know. For the girls."
"Yeah, yeah," Ben squints at the horizon, "Do what you gotta do."
Dave pauses, rests his hands on his hips and simulates deep thought. Ben remains fixed on the surrounding marshland with an awkward devotion. After a lull where they both stare off in different directions, just listening to the gentle thwacks of water upon the boats hull, Dave calmly folds over the side of the boat jettisons his breakfast into the water. Ben giggles without removing his eyes from the awaiting fish. Dave buoys up,
"So should I wait on the shirt thing? I think the girls saw that..."
"Naw baby, you’re money."
"Thing is, I think that was the last time."
"Of course it was, homey. Go ahead, let the mighty pythons breathe..."
Don rumbles down the dock with a case of beer slung over his shoulder. Ben waves him over before turning his attention back towards the unseen fish in the distance,
"We should have three caterogories today," Don said, "Most fish, biggest fish and most beers crushed."
Dave bends back down to heave some more. Don rubs his belly and cracks a beer. All the while, Ben quietly muses to himself, "We could do this. This could happen."

***

Laughton: "Attention crew. This is your cap-i-tan speaking, my name is Laughton and this is my boat. We've got some bait and some rods, an FM radio and a selection on comfy seating. First, some ground rules. The cheque you just wrote will be cashed within minutes of our arrival back to shore so I think now is a good time to let you know that the four hour block you signed up for coincides directly with high tide. So we'll be lucky to catch anything. Not my bad though. Another thing, no reeling in. This isn't so much fishing as it is waiting. Also, does anybody have a joint? Anybody? No, okay. It'd be a lot cooler if you did, but it's cool. So, lemme see here, what else. We'll flesh out the rest of the rules as we go along. If you gotta spew, port and starboard are your best bets. Alright, let's do this!"
Anonymous, from the front of the boat: "How long have you been doing this?"
Laughton: "Six years, good buddy. And my hazy recollection of college biology is what steers me in my quest for fish."
Anon: "This is so happening."
Anon #2: "Seriously. Let’s buy a charter boat this afternoon."

***

Horseshoes clang on the beach at dusk. Ben and Dave are fixed in a slugfest, tied at game point, pulling at beers and swatting at mosquitos. Lisa, Colleen and Karen are taking a stroll down the beach, laughing, taking the time that needs to be taken. I’m standing near the surf, head craned upwards toward the heavens. Pink clouds hang low above like a heart-filled gospel spiritual sprawling out of church doors, washing over all it touches. Children shriek with delight as the tide races them in. An elderly couple shuffles along, holding hands, smiling. As these things were happening, my mind begins to wander.

You see, I'm often prone to bouts of curious whimsey whenever sentimental, willing to let a eerily lit boulevard or a red wheelbarrow surrounded by white chickens ensnare my thoughts in the oddest possible ways. I've always contended that this quirk is my own private way of coping with the beauty, to dream up something fanciful when faced with such physical fascination. As if it were impossible to simply just stand there and sway with the wind. So the imagination sets in, and I began thinking about what colors Bob Ross would use to paint these particular clouds. They seem impossible. Would they look that way on the canvas? Would Ross altogether reject this commission because it would sink him? People would tune in and assume he was on drugs. No sky could ever be that majestic, they'd say. And he'd pack up all of his belongings in the back of his rusted out Civic and tool down to South Carolina, living out his days in seclusion, painting impossible skys that no one wanted.

Clang. Ben shouts. Dave hangs his head. I’m in.

A Thank You

Okay. What's up? I was thinking just today that I'm not quite sure what direction this whole exploratory journey into "having a blog" is taking. Mixing it up is always easy, because different moods create the ways of putting thoughts on the page. After all, writing too much in just one style can create a stale feeling at the drafters desk, it can silence a potential voice as equally as alter your desire altogether. This hasn't been a problem for me in personal journals because the words gets stowed away and as time goes on they become mere space fillers in my life, something I keep but rarely revisit. However, with a blog, every word is constructed with the ever mindfulness of a prying readership, an anonymous group of passer-bys and friends who want to learn something about me indirectly and will only return if what they extracted meant something to them. At least, that's the way I perceive it in my mind. So I try to write some heavy shit, and then maybe some weird shit, finally I try my hand at some funny shit. It's like this vague drunken typing session, passing the laptop around after 9 or 10 beers and a bong hit or two (only I'm the only one banging away at the keys). You're not sure what's sticking, what's making the grade. You're wondering if it's harder to write something, even informally, if you know other people will view it and stand on their heads with worry that you are turning into a raving madman. Thankfully, however, that is not the case.

And that's what I want to discuss for a moment. I want to thank you guys who have left encouraging comments as well people who have said kind words to me in person. I just wanted you to know I appreciate it and it helps. By taking the time to read any of these posts, let alone being compelled to reinforce that interest with kind words, is probably the warmest thing imaginable as far as I'm concerned. Because putting yourself out there is difficult, sometimes humbling and always worrisome. The fear of snap judgements, slighted friends and the always imminent prospects that whatever you spill onto the computer screen is veritable gibberish. An exercise in wryly sculpted garbage. A narcissistic smattering or boring words. Thanks to you (those who shall remain nameless), these are no longer concerns and I feel emboldened to continue on what has become a surprisingly therapeutic experience. As far as the direction these pages continue to take, I'm going to forge on with roughly the same approach. Swinging wildly at the night air at times, yet occasionally poignant and purposeful. Just like a Mike Tyson soundbite.

I thank you.

Take care.

The Neighborhood

The streets of the old neighborhood - where the shit went down - is my sanctuary. The trees I climbed and the fences I hopped are my salvation. The crosswalk where I first lost my trust in police, the corner where my bike finally checked up and rode straight, the house where my Godfather lived larger than life for so many years before it all caught up with him. Walking between the shadows of the alley where I first saw blood gush from an open wound, while whistling a private tune, shuffling past unmistakably pungent reminders of a youth since past. I'm most happy when these relics are in plain view and the people are out in the sun. I often travel back to my childhood on those days, when what seems to make the most sense is a good, lively stroll in the midday commotion. I amble past strangely familiar brownstones and smell potted flowers on front steps. I look up at the numbers and it reminds me of those whisper quiet nights when I tucked myself in behind dumpsters and locked cars for the chance to kick-the-can at dusk. These are the memories that tingle inside when they arise and become a welcome relief from an adulthood sometimes punctuated with forgettable ones. The street names puzzle me with an odd delight, much like a new harmonica would a young boy, the curious sounds tantalizing the ears. Dearborn, Burton, State, Schiller, Banks, Astor ring in my head as I walk on the balls of my feet, springing up and out. I see twin brothers selling lemonade and I clutch for my pockets. I offer pleasantries to a roaming assembly of elderly women who hush and make reserved eyes as we pass. I nod towards an invisible memory of my grandfather as I pass a park bench he used to sit on and watch me play during our trips to Lincoln Park. I walk for what seems like days on that pavement, hitting heights no drug could ever provide. And when I get weary, and my body begins to ache with satisfaction, I get on the Clark bus and head home. Swaying with the people, I smile. Moving up my front stairs, I sigh. Sweaty with the day, I head directly to my room, shedding clothes in a crooked path to my bed. The A/C kicks in and I wrap the sheets tight, making a human burrito in that black room and as I drift off, I feel not burdened, I feel not pained... all I feel is the gentle sleep of a child washing over me...

Because of B

Women

Alright. So it's been three weeks since I last contributed to this space and the time spent has been a slow and even roll from normalcy into the desperate oblivion that is my typical mess of a life. Upon arriving in Chicago a little over a month ago, I made it a point to create routines. Things I did everyday, or every week, to keep my schedule alive with destinations, goals and most importantly things that bring me joy. I'd drink 8 glasses of water a day to help digestion. I'd play more golf until I broke 85 every time out. I'd write everyday for myself and share some of the better things when I saw fit. I'd quit smoking and break into the highly elusive lakefront bike riding scene. And eventually, I thought, all these little things would somehow produce a producer. A man who would climb a mountain one day and paint it the next. A Renaissance Man in the Information Age. A stark contrast from the collegiate persona I created for myself with hours of EA Sports notched under the belt and pipe cleaning skills so adept you'd wonder why I'd leave it off my resume. So after a noble effort, I'm back to drinking on weekdays and sneaking onto my back porch for red-eyed midnight stargazing by myself. The laments of a lazy soul.

So anyway, that's why I haven't been writing more. But here I am now and I promise to get more out in the weeks to come. Since I've been the lyrical equivalent of a penniless MC living in his moms basement (that is to say, rather depressing) lately, I'll attempt to catch you up. I've been keeping to myself these past few weeks because it pays to keep a short leash on your emotions at times. Much more manageable. I've been walking around a lot more. I walked for 6 hours the other day with no destination. Headphones, backpack, notepad and a heaving sensation of self. I ended by eating a ham sandwich outside Wrigley Field, then I caught the EL to Witts, the one Paulie bartends at... that's another thing... writing at the bar is fun. I feel like a barfly and although I am not, the basic components of being a fake barfly are very rewarding. Free from judgement. A Chainsmoking guru. A swollen belly and a quip for the outspoken patrons. Fuck you, I'm taking all comers, drinking whiskey and writing hard-guy poetry while I'm at it. Yeah, that's it.

As far as women go, I've become increasingly more aware of my own attractions and what they mean. I remember a simple time when it was about the chase, the pursuit, the fleshy wriggle of limbs as you fell into tousled sheets during your first go-around. But now, I've learned there is more at stake, even if things on the surface things look the same. I talk with old loves over the phone who are in new, more stable relationships now. They are in New York. They are in Virginia Beach. They are happy. And I am happy too. For them. And in our monthly conversations they ask the same predicable question with equal amounts curiosity and playfulness, "So, what's her name?". I strain for a moment and reply, "Um, let's see... I THINK her name is ((fill in the blank)), but you know how that tequila scrambles your head." We laugh, we talk some more and then we hang up. The thing is, I think my major difficulty in a department I used to be so good in isn't the newfound beer gut or the questionable maturity or even the approach... it's that I've given myself too many outs. I've rationalized too many reasons why it isn't important to me. I love time with the guys. Who wants to meet her folks? Hungover Sunday obligations, fuck that. She'll just try to change me. Etc. Etc. Etc. With all these thoughts hanging down on me, I forget the great moments that lead up to that. The longing for a phone call. The tired expressions made interesting and new because she said them. The feeling you get watching her, drunk, dancing in the kitchen while you steal a moment of your own from down the hall. The whole deal elevates you and mesmerizes you and, if you get a good one, consumes you in the best imaginable way. I haven't had that feeling reciprocated since college and I think after a few years you forget that it's out there. You see, one never forget about the woman and her ticks. The decorated rooms and the soft and subtle eye contact. The finely teased hair and the sloppy outdoor kiss at 3 in the morning. Those things become almost mechanical if you let them. No, Im talking about the way you break your plans with the entire world if it means there is a chance you will bump into her. The way you overthink the wording in emails and underthink everything else. The way you keep telling yourself that something will happen even though you honestly don't have the slightest. That shit never gets old and that, my friends, is the problem at the heart of this matter I'm afraid. Hopefully I'll snap out of it and let my guard down enough to find her. Who knows, maybe I'll see her out at bars this very weekend. She'll ask what I'm doing and I'll say I'm writing and she'll say At a bar? Why? and I'll say something like I'm a goddamned Barfly, what's it to you? and then she'll ask if I have a light and I'll nod gruffly towards my pocket and she'll dive in there with her delicate fingers to fish it out, then she'll lean in and ask if I like tequila and it'll be perfect...

I gotta stop reading Bukowski.

TK's Story

To me, older brothers grant the rarest, most perfect form of love to their younger brothers. This love includes an unspoken responsibility to share their purest knowledge of life, both good and bad. I have one older brother by six years. His name is Tom and we share the same father, but not the same mother. When I was fifteen he got me into a bar. We sat in the outside patio with all his fraternity brothers. They didn't call him Tom though, they called him TK, for his initials. They called me AK. We drank whisky and howled at the moon. For the first time, I felt like a man.

Tom was strong, tall, and good looking. He had emerald green eyes and fierce curly brown hair. Whenever he talked on the phone, he held the receiver to his face with his shoulder and said things like, "No doubt" and "Later on". I had never seen him cry, not once. He put a blanket over the window in his room so he could get that extra hour or two of sleep every morning. Every fiber of my being wanted to be like him. People would always tell us how we looked so much alike. I could never hear that enough.

One time, Tom offered to take me to a party with his fraternity brothers. Upon arriving, I soaked in this whole new world. A wonderfully rebellious haze hung in the air. The laughter of youth rang loud in that crowded room and I loved every moment of it. As the night wore on, Tom passed me a joint and said as only an older brother can,

"AK, you ever smoke before?"
"Um, sure. A couple times."

It would be a fate worse than death if I was exposed for the fraud I was, so I clenched my teeth and took it from him. All eyes in the room seemed glued to me at that instant. I inhaled just like Tom had before me. I remember coughing and everyone laughed, slapped hands and went back to their conversations. Tom had a big prideful grin on his face and I felt good.


****

"Hey Al, wake up. I've got some news."

My father's voice quivered in a way it never had before.

"It looks like Tom took a bad fall last night at college. He might not walk again. Your mother and I are going to leave for the airport in ten minutes, we'll call you when we get there."

Both of us looked at each other and threw up our macho faces.

"Ok, Dad."
"Ok, Al."

A couple days later I found out that Tom got drunk and fell down the stairs of his fraternity house. He would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I remember sleeping with a picture of him under my pillow for months after the accident. I remember the white halls of the rehab clinic and how they smelled of disinfectant. I remember looking into his eyes as nurses massaged his lifeless body. I remember the way he pretended he cared about who won the Final Four as he watched it from his bed. I remembered wishing that I was in that wheelchair instead of him. I remember that he never cried. Not once.

That was ten years ago.

Today, Tom lives in San Francisco by himself working long hours at a decent job. When wheeling himself up some of the larger hills, he takes breaks to smoke a Camel Light. I went to his college and I joined his fraternity. When climbing those black, cold stairs that he fell down all that time ago I see his emerald eyes for a moment and he whispers to me,

"Do it better than me, AK"

Words from the Barstool

I lasted for about as long as can be expected. I held on for dear life when it all seemed colossally futile. I let go shortly thereafter and if I'm ever given a second chance by the ill shakes of the world, it'll probably be the same tune. For now? Well, I'm like a batter with a full count knocking pitch after pitch to the waiting hands. I feel like a dazed boxer unsteady on his pins with a standing eight count, staring down my aggressor with a confused twinge in the space behind my ears. The women pile up, the expectations grow, the meaningful words get lost in the shuffle. I'm dancing around a suspended core of virtues that I subscribed to years ago and the weaving of manageable emotions into speech becomes ever more cumbersome, more transparent. I hold a pack of playing cards to the fan, let them go and watch them scatter. Somewhere else, a candle dies of natural causes. Twenty four hours peal away from an idle day, I hold my cap across my heart and the plain fear I handle like spare change eats me up. Turn the page.

On The Road

If it seems like I've been away from these pages for a good long time, you'd be correct. You see, I've been on the road for a while now, plying my familiar course between SF and Chicago, trying to better understand this hollowed out ideal of youth. Or, relative youth, at the very least. Anyway, I fashion myself a rugged driver. A machine known for passing up rest stops and piss breaks at an alarming rate. I've been known to slap myself awake until my cheeks are a rosy hue and my eyes are nothing more than red shocks of madness. I prefer driving alone because I can achieve a calculated degree of voluntarily induced hysteria. Here is my look back:


Day One: San Rafael to Salt Lake City (728 miles)

I woke up early and played trucks with my nephew for the last time in the foreseeable future. His tiny grasp on this world probably afforded him the joy only a child can know, as for me, I was knotted up with a wistful knowing that we wouldn't be playing basketball or throwing rocks into the stream or playing "tackle the uncle" for a good long while. My sister brewed coffee. I said yes.

I set out around 10am to miss traffic. The northern California heat grew steadily until I hit the Sierras and then the gathering elevation evened it out. These early hours of the trip were somewhat heavy on my heart. I saw exits for Napa and Sonoma, both places I've spent napping alongside one of the few true loves of my life after an afternoon of wine. As I approached Reno I thought of my brother and our midnight run across the border for Hold'em and free Heinekens and deep jostling belly laughs. It felt as though I was leaving this fertile valley of California fondness and into the desolate dessert of Nevada unknown. I hit Reno around 2pm. I rubbed my dashboard and pressed on.

Nevada was a five hour winding road with no AM radio presence or apparent upside. I can see a room full of balding white policy makers years ago shouting at each other, "If we dont legalize gambling, who the hell is going to come out here?" They were right. I decide to listen to the first two hours of my On The Road audiobook. I was a little wary because it was being performed by Matt Dillon, but I must say that I was pleasantly surprised. I heard he was portraying a young Charles Bukowski in the upcoming Factotum (one of my favorite books) and after my initial skepticism, I am now firmly onboard. Anyway, I watched as the towns passed, Winnemuca, Elko, Wells as Sal Paradise decided to begin his journey from the other coast. We'd meet in Nebraska as I'd eventually find out.

Sunset across the expansive salt flats of western Utah, running on the glowing earth as the sky lit up the world ten different colors, the glistening lights of Salt Lake City dancing with possibility in the distance. That two hour stretch was a great calm after a restless first day behind the wheel. I turned on the basketball game as I hit the city limits, Stevie Nash scored ten straight points with 4 minutes left, the Mavs kept turning the ball over and gave away Game One. Comical. I can see the floppy haired Canadien getting carried off the court in my mind. Time for bed.


Day Two: Salt Lake City to Lincoln, NE (880 miles)

I slept in until 9am to miss traffic once again, but also because I was given the King-sized suite with kitchen, Jacuzzi and free cookies (they were on a tray, it was glorious) for a measly 50 dollars. This favorable outcome came about because I was directed to a non-smoking single room late the previous night, however the room wasn't made up and it smelled like it was hot-boxed by three dozen potheads feverishly smoking brick weed until they couldn't hold their heads up anymore. For having to witness this, they gave Daddy the Rainman suite. Life works sometimes.

I pop up through what's left of Utah and soon I'm running along the dusty straits of Wyoming on I-80. I pass small towns and wonder what the world must seem like to a sophomore in high school in Lyman,WY. Does he have notions of greatness? Will he ever have to understand the terrors of a New York City subway map? Will prejudices he assumes as commonplace someday be the barrier that prevents him from meeting a best friend? Now, I'm not judging or condemning a whole state because of a stereotype or a hate crime that happened in Laramie, I'm only imagining what small town rural life must amount to at times. Here's the thing, I just feel like the "heartland" of this country is so isolated and so polarized that it has no connection with the soul of this nation. For the most part, it seems like a lost connector of minds that harvest and pick and spit without instigating progressive thought or belief.

Anyway, I hit Cheyenne in the mid afternoon and post up on an Arby's for some curly fries and a Jamocha (the most underrated beverage of our generation). I'm sitting there, waiting for my order in this empty place, watching the young boys and girls cajole and mimic each other in some terrible mating ritual never conceived of before. Terrible humor, worse hair. And I can't stop watching it. It got me to thinking, what happens when it gets to Real World 47 and they have nowhere else to go but Cheyenne? Aren't cast members going to get into bar fights daily? Will there be cow tipping? How much cow tipping will there be? Will their job be to run the new Baskin Robbins in town square? Ok, I'm officially giddy.

Nebraska was a non-event. One long road that gobbled up my will to live. I finally grabbed a Motel 8 room in Lincoln around 10pm, drank a six pack of Bud and expired in a ball under the air conditioner.


Day Three: Lincoln, NE to Chicago (523 miles)

The shortest day. The day I arrive. The easiest day? Not by a longshot. As Olivia put it, you feel like that scene from Monty Python and The Holy Grail where you see the character running and running and running and then you see the wide shot of him and hes still two hundred yards away. This is how this whole day felt.

I was on the road by 7am so I could hit local traffic like an asshole. I was into Iowa by 9am. Okay, so the vistas afforded by I-80 havent been beautiful since Utah. I want to turn off and see the Field of Dreams. I want to swerve into a corn patch and kill a scarecrow. I want to get the fuck out of this place. At this point I'm on my fifth and final 2 hour section of my audiobook. Sal has been up and down, left and right. He's seen the swamps of Louisiana and the vineyards outside Bakersfield, CA. He's been through foolish Denver nights and suffered with crooked cops in the foothills of Virginia. I've been on the same goddamn road for three days and I'm starting to see cross-eyed.

I hit Des Moines and the countdown begins. I start leaving cryptic messages on peoples machines. I tell people I'm going to fly around the world in a balloon one day and drop pamphlets all over the world about something or other. I'm going to buy stock in Sexiness and then get a gym membership. It doesnt matter, I've lost it at this point. I text people "Fort Hancock, TX" when I hit Davenport because Andy Dufresne said to Red, "Thats where Im gunna cross... Right on the border..." I swipe my gas card ten times and begin bargaining with the machine before the family of four in their minivan starts to stare. I crack a big, over-wrought smile and finally get it right. I take the squeegee from the bucket and whistle the tune from Deliverance as I get the bugs off the windshield. Nothing short of a nuclear assault is going to keep me from the city. The lights. The smells. The people.

I hit Chicago city limits at 3pm on a Friday. Traffic. I doesnt matter. I play Frank as the buildings come into view. I open the windows, turn off the cold air and sweat an honest Chicago sweat. Sticky backs on seats, matted hair and a fuckin maniacal smile. I pull the car into the dock by four. I come into my parents apartment, turn on the TV, slump into my favorite red canvas chair and watch the Cubs blow a two-run lead in the ninth inning to lose to the Braves....

AHHHHHHHHHHHH.....

Sweet Home, Chicago...