So It Has Come To This

Just so you know...

2007-07-11T23:23:00.001-05:00

...my other blog (The Bowler and Benny) is what I'm currently posting on these days. I've been writing here on So It Has Come To This for a little over a year and while I've enjoyed it, I think I'm done for the time being as I alluded to just a few inches south of here on this very page. Besides, the all-sports collaborative blog with a best friend is a much more appealing work in progress. If you've stumbled here in error, curiosity or were simply coerced by the threat of physical violence, please stick around for a little bit. I'm actually quite proud of some of the stuff on here and I'm told that the contents below has demolished the productivity of some very industrious people (at least for an hour or so). Some of the greatest hits include:

An heartfelt ode to the low times and the sometimes unexpected people who pick you up

A snippet from a short story I wrote in college about my brother, whom I admire most

Recounting one of those vacations that a couple glossy 8 x 10's could never quite capture

The honest words of a defeated yet resilient Bears fans hours after Superbowl XLI

Three of the biggest reasons why I'm a Chicago Sports fan

We all look like famous people. Sorta.

Godspeed and thanks for reading, you obviously have good taste.

-Donny boy (aka AK)

Please update your fantasy baseball magazines accordingly...

2007-06-25T18:27:00.001-05:00

The Bay Area 4

2007-06-19T07:31:00.001-05:00

Don King wrote
at 12:47am on October 30th, 2006

A year after the fact I still find this picture hilarious. I barely remember the moment just before it was snapped when I told myself to conjure up some fake soberness and look as composed as possible. Instead I look like Rodin's The Thinker had a glamour shot taken. Grant has gone completely insane with booze at this point having just spent the last three hours drunkenly wandering around the bleachers at SBC Park befriending small children and horrifying their parents. Shawn, you might say, looked like he blinked. But no, this was his expression for the majority of the night. And then Bauer comes over the top with, well, I'm not quite sure what he's doing here...

Great moment.

Kurt G. Bauer wrote
at 11:52am on November 2nd, 2006

it is understandable that you revisit this moment out of the weekend, because it is the only truly clear moment, preserved for posterity in film. we were in rare form. and, as you state, it's been just over a year since that fateful weekend when we blew into town on a stiff tailwind and tore apart the bayside confines with calculating jabs and verbal scuffles amidst the giants' apologists. after all that, what were we to do but formulate some semblance of memory from the evening.

this is the best we could do with whatever brain function remained after hours of abuse. varying poisons running through our blood stream conspired to create those drooling, nearly expressionless faces.

The Infinite Abyss: Chicago Basketball

2007-05-11T11:25:00.001-05:00

Michael Jordan was my childhood. His highlights were the salve for whatever ailments arrived in my early life. You see, before I discovered MJ, I was a painfully shy kid with a speech impediment in elementary school who was an easy target for bullies. I wore my heart on my sleeve and that sensitivity only bred more ammunition for taunts, mostly from kids in the grade above me. I was, however, always a good athlete. I played flag football, baseball and soccer with a silent fury. I derived most of my self confidence from these activities. I'll never forget hitting a game winning home run off my biggest bully, Andy Schmeising, in little league. I remember his third grade fastball being intimidating on a level that seemed ungodly at the time. He struck me out my first time up and I went back behind the dugout and shed some quiet tears. My Dad found me and told me in a stern but loving way that toughness was something earned, that crying was not a productive way to combat disappointment. He was right. I popped out my second time up, but the contact felt good in my arms and hands. Then, in the final inning with the game tied and a runner on first, I belted one of those ungodly fastballs deep into the gap in right center. I rounded the bases like my demons were chasing me. When I crossed home, my teammates hoisted and carried me off the field. Someone later told me that Andy was crying when he left the field, I never looked back though, it didn't occur to me. My Dad drove me and my buddies home and we relived the moment with big toothy grins. The following Monday, I bumped into Andy at recess and he, surrounded by his friends, asked derisively, "What did you hit, a double?"

I quietly corrected him, "No, a home wun."

They all laughed at me and my inabilities to pronounce my R's.

I shrugged my shoulders, saw the masked pain in his eyes and walked away feeling ten feet tall. It was the ultimate affirmation that sports were my salvation from a world that I sometimes felt I didn't belong.

The Jordan legend firmly took hold of my imagination during 1990 when the Pistons had our number in the playoffs. I would watch those games and have these wildly unhealthy mood swings for a boy my age, but something clicked for me on those agonizing spring afternoons - THIS was my sport. The baseball mitt and shin-guards got tossed in the garage to collect dust and I resolved myself to shoot jumpshots until dusk every afternoon. I would also follow the Bulls wherever MJ would lead us. It was official. The artistry of his game transformed me during those first championship years. Bulls games were required viewing which everyone understood as bedrock. On those special occasions when you got to witness MJ in person at the Chicago Staduim, you treated it as a sacred journey to the hoops Mecca. A gift from the basketball Gods. Deafening decibel levels were expected and always delivered. The Knicks and Pistons were LOATHED. The Cavaliers were mocked. The entire aura of "Chicago hoops culture" gave us a civic pride that could not be understood unless you were a part of it. The identity of a Chicago Bulls fan carried with it a certain swagger that caused you to bound through the turnstiles, dripping in red, hungry for basketball and fully expecting a hoarse throat by the final buzzer. People throw the phrase "Glory Days" around, but I don't. The Chicago Bulls are the reason.

Around the time Jordan left and the Bulls started losing basketball games at a harrowing clip, you could hear two *thumps* around the city scape. The first was the ground shaking from all the casual fans jumping off the Bulls bandwagon. The second was the season tickets prices falling back to earth, opening up previously untouchable seats. My Dad, the shrewd and loyal business man that he is, went in on second row season tickets during the lean years (although there is technically nothing lean about Eddy Curry). As I mentioned in a previous post, the Bulls averaged 19 wins during the six year span following MJ's departure. It wasn't the same experience, but I think my Dad and I went out of habit. We had faith that things would turn around eventually. We mused to each other that Ron Artest would be a good NBA player if he could control his emotions. We felt bad for Elton Brand's nightly 20-10 going to waste. We read the newspapers when our second overall pick ran his motorcycle into a lightpost in Lakeview, effectively ending his career after one season. We watched Jalen Rose average nineteen field goal attempts per game during an entire season (which should NEVER happen under ANY circumstance). We sat in our seats for all of this, still rowdy, still optimistic, still engaged because in a strange way, we felt in debt to this team and all the wonderful memories.

Now, here we are in 2007. A new era with new faces, but the name on the front of the jersey remains the same. I went to the game last night, the biggest Bulls game since Jordan left. Hands down. The game itself was a major let down. Great energy in the first half, complete stagnation in the second half. The third quarter was PAINFUL to watch. Skiles should have brought Nocioni or Tyrus in for P.J.or Big Ben to cause more transitional offense, opportunities for run outs and at the very least some hustle plays. He kept the old guard in, who were giving up too many open jumpers and running a stand still offense where the ball would get passed around the perimeter for the entire possession before Gordon would be forced to drive it into the teeth of a stingy Pistons zone defense as the shot clock expired. That 16 point halftime lead we built evaporated to one point by the end of the 3rd quarter, after that the officiating was terrible in the fourth (not an excuse for losing) and we couldn't hit ANY crunch time free throws (getting closer!). Are the Pistons a better team that us? Probably. Could we beat them in a 7 game series? Absolutely. Just not this one.

Ok, so here's the main reason I really walked away from this game with such a sour taste in my mouth and the impetus for this post (well, I also wanted to tell you a little about my little league homer to be strictly honest). The crowd was bordering on docile at times when the Pistons would string some hoops together. The people in our section were especially reluctant to put their hands together and holler. Now, I know, I know, you aren't likely to bump into a painted face and mustached big belly on his tenth beer in the primo seats, but this isn't just any game. You gotta show some spirit! This is a MUST WIN in the conference semis against THE PISTONS! Now, the upper deck was raucous with their chants and towel waving, but by the time the sounds trickled down to the court, the madness seemed all too distant. Perhaps my expectations were too high, but the impassioned rally cries certainly didn't seem to align with the magnitude of the event. The people sitting in front of us in the first row, IN THE FIRST FUCKING ROW, were musing outloud if they should split during halftime with the Bulls up by so much (even in jest, this is completely inappropiate on a level I can't even begin to fathom). The people behind me (who thought I was drunker than I actually was) kept making snide remarks about my constant cheering, even asking me at one point if I minded taking a seat. IT'S THE PISTONS! WE NEED TO WIN THIS GAME! TAKE MY SEAT AND THROW IT IN THE INCINERATOR FOR ALL I CARE! I HAVE NO USE FOR IT, YOU ABSOLUTE JAGOFF! Well, that's what I should have said. Anyway, you get this little picture I'm trying to paint. I was disillusioned walking out of that building, but it was probably my fault for assuming a simple playoff run could recreate that lightning in a bottle from the Jordan years. The Sport's Guy wrote last week that the quintessential basketball crowd from yesteryear is virtually extinct due to league expansion diluting talent, high priced modern arenas relegating the diehards to the nosebleeds and the overall cultural shift towards fuzzy sideshows and kiss cams. The basketball is no longer THE reason you attend a game. I didn't buy that. Well, now I'm forced to nod, swallow hard and accept that painful reality. My boy Benny put it best on IM this morning, "The lack of passion and enthusiasm that are becoming commonplace in our sports venues is a malaise that appears to be eating at Americans in general...I think America is rotting from the inside from indifference...nothing is sacred...nothing really matters."

It's a sad day in Chicago for those who woke up this morning and finally realized that Michael Jordan is not walking through those doors again. There's not enough beer on Clark Street to drown that kind of sorrow, but I’ll give it a shot...

Go Cubs.

A Blog Interrupted

2007-04-22T03:27:00.000-05:00

It's strangely wonderful how the mind works when it conjures up old memories on its own. Sometimes you hear a song and you are immediately transported back to a specific place in time while sharing a fond moment with a favorite person. You smile and with a simple closing of the eyes and a twist of the volume knob, you relive what was previously left for dead in the infinitesimal recesses of your brain. This unexpected sprouting of emotions creates a self-referential pathway, a subtle way to connect with the events that shaped you into the person you are today. Anything can flip the switch: an obscure movie that gave you nightmares, an intersection in a familiar city, an article of clothing that found its way back to you. It's quite cyclical in that respect. Everything we witness on a daily basis holds the potential to unlock forgotten memories if we allow our minds to wander far enough. Anything significant enough to be remembered, even the seemingly insignificant, will eventually be remembered if we wish them to be.

I thought about this as I watched the Bulls play the Heat yesterday in the first round of the NBA playoffs. I thought about my childhood and the intensity with which my love burned for this team. I thought about how I squeezed my Dad tight when he informed me that my grade school graduation present was going to Game One of the 1996 Finals against the Sonics with him. I thought about how my boiling contempt for Isaiah Thomas and John Starks sometimes made it difficult to breathe. I thought about watching Game Six of the 1993 Finals during a thunderstorm in rural Virginia, reception fading in and out, losing my mind as Johnny Paxson stroked the three-peat clinching shot. I thought about 72 wins and how impossible that seemed even as it was happening.

As the game went on, I thought about the last two seasons with the "Baby Bulls". Two years ago to the week is when they played the Wizards in their first playoff appearance since MJ graced the halls of the United Center. I was just arriving in San Francisco and settling in at this time and I remember the excitement I felt. I remember watching a Saturday game with Kane and Steveo (two gents I consider dearest of friends) and polishing off a case before the final buzzer. The Bulls ended up losing out, but I was just happy to be there. On the West Coast. On my own. Less than a year out of college. Life looming as this complete uncertainty over me.

A year later, when the Bulls were battling the Heat in the first round, I was preparing for a cross-country move from SF back to Chicago with my entire life meticulously stacked inside my Volvo. I also started writing this blog right around this time (I reference it in the earliest post). So, once again, a Bulls playoff run is neatly coinciding with more transition in my life. Well, it only seems appropriate that, with another Bulls playoff, comes more change...

As some of you may or may not know, I've made some big changes in my life recently. Some lifestyle decisions as well as some overall life direction choices. I just started a writing project within the past two weeks which will involve a tremendous amount of dedication. I would just say, "I'm writing a book," but that usually only earns incredulous tilts of the head and sarcastic pats on the back, so let's just call it a "year-long writing project" and leave it at that. I'm also enrolling in summer workshops to attack the entire writing process a little more wholeheartedly. I'm interested in elevating my writing from casual pastime to substantive pursuit, in whatever form that takes. Considering this new aim of mine, I've decided to put this blog on hiatus until future notice so as to dedicate the proper time needed to achieve my goals. I've really enjoyed the exercise of writing this blog as it has kept me always aware, always concerned with the world around me. I've been constantly interested in the content of my fleeting thoughts, from things that get scribbled on napkins in smokey bars to ideas that get dreamed up in the small hours of the morning. It's been a wonderful opportunity to express myself and I hope, for you, it provided some quality distraction. Thanks for looking out, I'll catch you guys on down the road...

In addition to my writing project, I also plan on submitting articles to webzines and other online literary journals as the summer goes on. I'll make sure to link to those on this blog once that happens so please check back every once in a while.

Mahalo,

Donny

Spring Training in Arizona

2007-03-20T12:49:00.000-05:00

After spending the greater part of my life celebrating a dogged love affair with the game of baseball, it goes without saying that March is easily the most joyous month on my calendar. Most people identify March with the NCAA's and I think that's completely reasonable. The annual madness that is held on the hardwood splashes out of the sports section and into the cultural consciousness, riveting the most casual of fans. Saint Paddy's Day slowly becomes a greenish blur of drunken subway rides and busted brackets. "Kiss me, I'm Irish and I just took a leak in the alley" are the wobbly sentiments of a generation just trying to keep their balance until the next game starts in a crowded bar at noon. And don't get me wrong, I love March for those moments of purest drama, of clutch performances, of dare-to-be-great scenarios playing out above. However, I believe that the underscored sentimentality of Spring Training is the true anchor for sports fans. Those who spent their formative years kneading sweaty leather gloves and spitting sunflower seeds. This month marks the rebirth of the American year; the month when the snow retreats back up mountainsides and dusty sandlots across the nation once again capture the imagination of a new crop of lifetime practitioners. Simply put, basketball is what riles us up, baseball is what calms us down...

To me, Spring Training has always been an abstract idea. When I was in grade school, I could grasp the concept of a glorified try-out. So that's what it was. The stars show up, shag some fly balls, play 18 holes of golf and get ready for the season. The young guys are bundles of nerves in pinstripes, feeling the exquisite sting of every booted groundball and backwards K. I could understand this because I too knew the how it felt during Little League "talent assessments" to be backpedaling hopelessly for flyballs while rows of Dad's with clipboards looked on. When I reached high school, my cynical Cubs side overtook things. I toted my Sports Illustrated and Tribune Sports onto the EL and spoke with my fellow comrades about false hopes and dashed opportunity. Cursing names like Mel Rojas and Rodney "Don't Call Me Randy" Myers each Spring. However, now that I'm older (and presumably wiser) I've gained the clarity that can only accompany honest perspective: Spring Training is for the fans. The ultimate priming of the pump. The unmeasurable serenity that one can only find at a ballpark after a bleak winter. The immortal Harry Carey put it best, "It's the fans that need spring training. You gotta get 'em interested. Wake 'em up and let 'em know that their season is coming, the good times are gonna roll." And I know, I know, this ground has been treaded upon before, nothing new here, but I still think it's paramount when considering what makes baseball so timeless: the fanbases, young and old, in the sun, collecting outs on a scorecard, talking that one common denominator...

***

TK, Joey, Jay, Easy, Ryan and I arrive at Scottsdale Stadium while the National Anthem is playing. The Giants are hosting the Cubs on this 90 degree day, not a cloud in the sky. As a matter of introductions - Joey and Easy are Giants guys, Ryan and Jay like the A’s and TK and I hold down the Cub fort. All are TK's high school buddies from Marin, all around 31, all good sorts. I know them mostly from BORP’s weekly wheelchair basketball scrimmages in Berekley when I used to live out in the Bay Area. Each one of these guys posses that good-natured California wit that belies a group that, once assembled, is constantly on the verge of unabashed revelment. Tough to keep up with on a night out, tougher to legitimately crack up. Okay, enough about those clowns.

We make our way to the bleachers through the mezzanine, a sea of Cubbie blue and Giant orange move by us in the opposite direction. TK and I try to hide our overwhelming excitement, but that gives way when we pass this dry erase board:
The starters are playing, Zambrano is pitching and Barry is batting in the three hole. Perma-grins all around.

We settle into our "seats" on the grassy knoll in right-center. The TOP of the first inning lasts and lasts. Ten batters, six runs, a couple errors. You can't really blame Matt Morris, the ball is eating up some of his core defenders. Anyway, we already have some highlights: With two on and no outs (when things were still salvageable) a can-of-corn is lazily launched to left field. Barry settles under it, raises his glove and then... raises his elbows, covers his head and moves hesitantly to-and-fro... the ball drops a few yards behind him, another run scores. The crowd is an awkward blend of high fives and people crouched over with their head in their hands. Personally, I was excited about this play for a couple reasons. Obviously, it's funny to see an eight-figure 43-year-old losing a ball in the sun. That's intrinsically funny. But even more than that, it brings up something which I don't think gets enough attention. Bonds was an elite fielder in the 90's amassing 8 Gold Gloves while crashing into walls for third outs. He was a beast out there. Now? He can barely run, nor does he have any urge to. He's given his body's best years to this game (and most likely to synthetic substances) and there's nothing left but a record to chase. In Moneyball, the overall value of a player is determined by how many run shares that player helps produce in relation to how many runs they concede in the field. Unless the MLB institutes co-ed softball rules and lets the Giants stick a tenth player in left-center, that Chevron logo in the gap at Pac Bell park is getting peppered. Barry will break the record, but I think it will come at the price of a 70-win season. I'm worried for the sanity of my Giants friends at this point.

Ok, still in the TOP of the first inning. Zambrano comes up, two outs, two on. He takes his two big cuts, both misses. If this were four years ago, Chip Carey would pretend that Big Z is trying to corkscrew himself into the earth as Steve Stone would pretend that Chip was funny. The next pitch Zambrano unloads on an 0-2 curveball which would have landed in the centerfield basket in Wrigley. Instead, it smacks against the top of the wall and shoots away from Winn as our lumbering pitcher is rounding second base. He realizes this and kicks it into another gear, mentally preparing his "I can't believe I hit an inside-the-park homerun in Spring Training either" speech. Then, between second and third:

Never have I heard so much cheering instantly morph into gasps of horror. Every Cubs fan immediately thought, "Did our Ace just dislocate his shoulder while trying to stretch a triple into a homerun in Spring Training?". Flashbacks of Prior, Nomar and Lee going down danced in our heads. Luckly, he hopped up and sheepishly jogged into third. Jumping up and down on the base to let the crowd know he was okay. Once Soriano made the last out, I went directly to the beer stand. Just... Wow. Anyway, Big Z capped off the BOTTOM of the first inning with strike outs of Bonds and Feliz. He's in midseason form, pointing to the sky, foaming at the mouth, yelling at himself.

Since we had a six run cushion after one frame, I decided to roam around watching the game in different places. For the second inning, I stood next to a kindly old man standing by himself in full Giants regalia. We were right next to the rightfield foul pole and we talked about pitching staffs. He likes Lowry and Cain but is worried about Morris. "Gives up too many homeruns," he says. He thinks Zito will either be a resounding success or a colossal failure because of the contract. "There's no middle ground with money like that," as he pounds more water, eyes darting around the field like he a bench coach. I didn't talk much, just asked questions because I could tell he was a little put off by the first inning, but he was exceedingly warm and excited to dole out his information. I had the feeling this wasn't his first Spring Training. That's what I learned quickly in the Arizona sun, you don't understand March baseball unless you make the trip. The good vibes are almost disarming. I saw two sixty-year-old men walking by laughing at a joke, one wearing a Cardinals hat, the other a Tigers hat. Families rolling around amidst surprisingly restrained drunk Cubs fans; kids transfixed by their heroes while fathers wore broad smiles of satisfaction that the family trip wasn't to Disneyworld this year.

The generated mist started to rain down on the infield seats as the second inning concluded. I wiped the sweat from my brow and decided it's time for a stroll around the nice seats. I nod to the kindly old man and wish him luck. He tells me that my team could probably use it more (you know, in the cosmic sense). I think he's right.

The third inning starts with Zambrano doubling to left. He's the best. The requisite jokes begin from nearby fans, "Are they going to leave him in for the cycle?" and "He should be our DH for interleague games." I'm mildly amused. Only mildly.

The fourth inning starts and I have a moment of Zen. I've got my second beer and a pocketful of sunflower seeds. I've snuck into a seat on the 3rd base line and I'm taking notes while the game moves about before me. It doesn't seem like a big league baseball game psychologically at this point. There are hundreds of millions of dollars out on the field and all I can think about is the simplicity of it. The smaller, more intimate park coupled with the fact that these games don't count makes it almost seem like a neighborhood game. Men are walking around selling bottles of beer out of ice-filled buckets. Kids are gliding by on those gym shoes that have wheels on the heel. The stadium is bordered by endless earth tones, gorgeous outcroppings of desert rock. The euphoria of the game in the purest form. Damn, a couple is standing here giving me the ole stinkeye. I better move.

The fifth inning begins with the Cubs up 7-2. I decide to walk around the mezzanine to find TK and the gang. I get about halfway there and I hear over the loudspeakers, "Now batting, number 25, Barry Bonds". I scurry down an entranceway along with a handful of others. Cheers, Boos, everything inbetween. People on tippy-toes to see him swing the bat. I've got to give it to him, he still has "it". I used to think Bonds was such a polarizing figure and either you hated him or you were a Giants fan. However, whenever he's in the batters box, Barry Bonds has a galvanizing force on everyone. Watching history, greatness, whatever is still one of the most enthralling things in sports no matter what package it's in.

Jeff Samarja pitched the 5th and 6th innings giving up five baserunners but yielding no runs. I'm impressed with his fastball and quick motion towards the plate. He has a little trouble putting guys away after getting ahead of them in the count, but he's got plenty of time to work on that. Basically, he "looks" like a Major League pitcher, but then again, so did Todd Van Poppel. In all seriousness though, I hope they put him in Double-A ball and fast track him into the show. I think he has a chance of being a very capable middle reliever when all is said and done. Remember I said that. Anyways, the game ended in a Cubs 10-5 victory. I laughed, I cried (sunscreen in my eyes), I got drunk. It was better than ten Superbowl XLI's. Can't wait til next year... I mean, this year. Go Cubbies.

The Chicago River 5-0

2007-03-07T22:23:00.000-06:00

Remembering Mr. Jones

2007-03-07T12:44:00.001-06:00

Thomas Jones has gotten a bum rap during his three year stay in the city of Big Shoulders and now he's gone. For all the "good riddance" people out there, you're all idiots. You'll all feel the pinch of those words come fall. You have no idea what we just lost.

I know I'm a little biased here because of my Virginia ties, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. I remember the day in early 2004 when T.J. inked a deal with the Bears. I was excited because I thought we got a real, genuine piece of the puzzle. Jones came out of UVa a polished specimen, finishing 5th (I think) in Heisman voting and carrying the weight of gigantic expectations. He split carries in Arizona and had some gawd-awful blocking during his first three forgettable seasons. But he showed signs in Tampa Bay and I knew from watching him in college that this was the REAL Thomas Jones. Now, when we signed him after the 2003 season, we were a laughing stock. Kordell Stewart's swan song was so excruciating to watch that when an ancient Chris Chandler filled in for him it was a breath of fresh air. THAT'S how bad we were. Rex Grossman was on his first injury and our offense was the most unstable thing at Soldier Field since Bryan Cox used to stalk the sidelines, spewing sound bytes, angling for a sportstalk radio gig once his lackluster playing days were up.

So anyway, Jones came in and did exactly what was asked of him. Averaged 4.0-plus yards per carry in his first season, blocked, caught passes, kept his nose clean. He split carries with a fading Anthony Thomas but still managed to show his meddle, just missing 1,000 yards. Now, after this first year is when they released A-Train and drafted Cedric Benson. Considering the fact that Jones had more receptions than the Bears leading wideout (David Terrell, 42 rec, 699 yards, 1 TD), I thought it seemed logical to grab a bookend WR to compliment the offseason acquisition of Muhsin Mohamed. But Bears GM Jerry Angelo went ahead and nabbed Benson with the 4th overall pick. It would be one thing if T.J. was in the twilight of his effectiveness, but he was just rounding into his prime. How the fuck are you supposed to respond to that? Well, Jones responded by having two hard running seasons, eclipsing 1,200 yards for the first time in his career. All the while, his job was precariously balanced on the whim of an organization who hasn't drafted a worthwhile running back since Neal Anderson in 1986. It was a lose-lose situation from that point on. Concede carries to Benson and he does well, people will want you gone. Concede carries to Benson and he flounders, then we're spending too much on a back-up and Jones should be scaled back until Benson finds his groove. Don't believe me? Both those things happened. During Benson's first year in 2005, after the rookie holds out all of training camp and then injuries his leg, Jones picks up the slack. He runs for 1,335 yards and 9 Tds while defenses stack the box, tempting Kyle Orton to throw the ball. Fans wonder why we invested in Benson in the first place, Angelo implores us to give "the future" some time. What about our present? Well, that happened last season. Benson came on and many jumped on that bandwagon, completely forgetting the seasoned running back that moved aside to make a Super Bowl run not only feasible, but entirely possible.

Critics say he wasn't a team player because he sat out camp before the season claiming he wasn't happy about his contract, his role on the team. I say, damn right. We treated him (as an organization) without any loyalty or respect. We took him for granted. We made it difficult to keep him by the steps that were taken. On a related note, two time Pro-Bowler Lance Briggs said earlier this week, "The Chicago Bears team? The coaches, players, city and fans? Yeah, I could stay there forever. I love it. But the Chicago Bears organization? I don't want to be there anymore. I won't play for them and I'll do everything in my power to keep from playing there." The funny thing was, after the Superbowl, I was waiting to see what happened with these two guys because I was either going to get a Jones or Briggs jersey for next year.

Bottomline, Cedric Benson has big shoes to fill and I hope he’s up for it. This isn't open mic night at the Bryn Mawr student union, this is running back for the NFC Champion Chicago Bears. You leave your ego at the door and you tote that football with all the fury of a runaway locomotive because that's how it's been done here for decades. Defense and running the football. Running the football and defense. At this point last week, I was comfortable with that premise. Now? I'm hoping on hope. A place no fan wants to be.

We'll miss you Thomas Jones.

Go Hoos.

Bulls/Warriors Running Diary

2007-03-01T21:54:00.000-06:00

The Bulls/Warriors tickets fell through (although I did pick up some tickets for when LeBron comes in town later this month) but I decided to keep a running diary anyway. Listening to Johnny "Red" Kerr and "Stinky" Stacey King on WGN with the Warriors while drinking a six-pack is about as good as it gets for me. By the way, Stacey gets his nickname from being the ultimate warrior in garbage time for the Bulls in the early 90's. Onto the game...

7:39pm - Starting lineups for both teams are announced as the crowd settles into their seats. The Bulls are running out Gordon, Hinrich, PJ, Big Ben and Deng. Coach Skiles has been using P.J. Brown as a starter ever since Nocioni went down a few weeks ago. I love the move, keep it big, keep it physical, keep it heavy on the boards. The Warriors (ravaged by injury) are starting Harrington, Biedrins, Ellis, J Rich and Azubuike. Stinky Stace points out that Richardson is the only starter for them to have played any college ball. I'm feeling pretty good right now.

7:44pm - PJ Brown looks like the old man in a pickup game consisting of young guys. He demands the ball in the post, takes a "power" dribble into the lane, plods slowly toward the hoops, forces up an antiquated looking hook shot and calls his own foul. Meanwhile, all the young guards who want to run are looking at each other with sideways glances each time this happens as if to say, "Who the hell does this guy think he is?".

7:48pm - Ben Gordon is 3-for-4 from the field and has 7 points in the early going. He's one of the purest shooters in the game, hands down. He looks like a little Reggie Miller rolling off screens, squaring his shoulders at full speed and dropping his hand in the cookie jar (as the man says). The thing I love most about BG (besides the fact that he heats up so quickly and rarely forces up a bad shot) is his body language when he shoots. Just based on his release, you can tell with about 80% certainty whether or not the shot is going down. It's really uncanny.

Timeout with 6:49 left in the 1st quarter. Bulls 16, Warriors 6.

7:54pm - The Warriors switch to a 3-2 zone. I'm thinking the impetus of this move is their lack of size on the interior. With big bodies like Brown and Wallace moving people around, the Warriors tempt the Bulls to beat them from the perimeter while marganalizing their ability for cohesive team rebounding. What transpires is a barrage of treys (for both teams) as lazy rotation and deadeye shooting carry the rest of the quarter. I'm having one of those Sportscenter flashbacks when a team hits a record amount of three pointers in a game and the entire highlight is just a ticker of them raining bombs from downtown for 30 seconds. This is shaping up to be once of those games.

7:58pm - Tyrus Thomas just threw down an incredible dunk over J Rich off a Gordon alley-oop pass in transition. The play before Thomas came from the weakside and swatted Ellis into the stands. I think this whole Slam Dunk fiasco with Ty has helped him focus and let him just worry about what he can control which is being a high energy guy off the bench. In that respect he reminds me of Cliff Levingston (not style-wise mind you) from those early 90's Bulls because he comes off the bench going full speed and his effort is palpable almost immediately. Contagious effort is a commodity I wouldn't mind having in spades come playoff time.

8:06pm - Richardson hits a leaner from 40 feet with a hand in his face to end the quarter. His teammates seem only mildly excited. NBA players are freakishly good.

End of the 1st quarter. Bulls 31, Warriors 28.

8:12pm - The offensive rebounding by the Warriors tonight is astounding considering their personnel. Great energy. Never would have guessed they have lost their last three games and just played last night in Milwaukee.

8:14pm - Monta Ellis just launched a 21-footer from the wing that went 19 feet. Red Kerr brings up the stat that Ellis is shooting 25% from downtown this year which just further cements my claim that he's the new Tony Parker. Wonderful slasher, scorer in the lane and passer but just miserable shooting from distance. All he's got to do now is start dating an elfish-looking woman with a debatable degree of celebrity and rapping in foreign tongues and we have a copyright infringement on our hands.

Nellie immediately subs Ellis out for Sarunas Jasikevicius. I mention this because Sarunas is quickly climbing the list of "All-Time NBA Names that are Fun to Say" right there with Detlef Schrempf, Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf and Dikembe Mutombo.

Timeout with 8:42 left in the 2nd quarter. Bulls 36, Warriors 35.

8:24pm- Tyrus Thomas collects an offensive rebound in the paint and goes right back up (flat-footed) to flush it HARD over Adonal Foyle who's only true value is as a shot blocker. I mean, it was right in Foyle's mug. Somewhere Roman Adler just felt a chill go down his spine.

Timeout with 5:10 left in the 2nd quarter. Bulls 45, Warriors 44.

8:27pm - Gordon and Deng check back in. At this point I decide to myself that we should be up 10 by half. The very first time down the floor Harrington steps in a passing lane, weaves through three Bulls defenders on his one-man fastbreak and treats the crowd to a nice dunk. Coast-to-coast with all the ease of a stroll through Central Park. I've said it once, I'll say it again... What were the Pacers thinking?

8:34pm - Sefolosha hits another trey to make it eleven total points for the quarter. He's exuding confidence right now and I'm forced to call him a more athletic B.J. Armstrong right now. Great defender, fundamentally sound, plays within himself at all times. Just Thabo-lous.

Halftime. Bulls 62, Warriors 58.

8:57pm - The second half starts with a quick interview with an anonymous Bulls assistant coach. He says that the coaching staff spent halftime talking about how to attack the Warriors zone (which they presume will be used for the rest of the game). The half starts with the Bulls pushing the ball hard, catching the Warriors before they can set up. Within three minutes they have a 12 point lead and things look like they could get out of hand at any moment.

9:00pm - Tyrus SCREAMS after driving to the lane, drawing the foul but not finishing the three point play. He's got two big dunks in the early going of the second half and as a Bulls fan you absolutely have to love his newfound intensity. He hits both free throws and I ease back in my chair, comfortable for the first time tonight that the Bulls are in control.

Timeout with 7:18 left in the 3rd quarter. Bulls 78, Warriors 64.

9:09pm - The Warriors officially look tired. They are fouling the Bulls everytime down the floor and hurling up shots haphazardly without any of that offensive rebounding moxie they had to start the game. It's starting to look like Victor Khryapa and Malik Allen will be logging big minutes in the 4th quarter.

9:14pm - The Warriors finally switch back to man-to-man about a quarter too late.

Timeout with 2:28 left in the 3rd quarter. Bulls 88, Warriors 67.

9:18pm - Adrian "Old Man" Griffin is blowing by defenders, out hustling guys ten year his younger to loose balls... Golden State has officially checked out and I can't blame them. They are casually launching threes like the Dunleavy/Murphy Warriors of old. All players on both teams are now in cruise control and it shows. A prime example why basketball is the only sport where the college ranks are easily more watchable than their professional counterpart.

9:20pm - This stat flashes at the bottom of the screen: The Bulls are 21 of 24 from the line.

End of the 3rd quarter. Bulls 95, Warriors 69.

9:27pm - Just an astonishing couple of minutes of broadcasting... Red and Stacey spend three minutes discussing whether or not Michael Sweetney is out of shape. They ponder outloud if his weight is the reason that he's not getting more minutes. Um, what the hell is going on here? Is he just big boned? Is his nickname of Sweet Tits not enough proof for these guys? They use the example of Eddy Curry as an "extra-large guy" who still gets minutes because he can produce. Listen, as much as I despise Curry and his all-too-apparent lack of effort, he's a solid scorer. He's a woeful rebounder for his size, but he fills up the basket and that quality will be rewarded with playing time no matter what. Sweetney has all the carriage and desire of Curry with about as much touch as the Rock Biter from The NeverEnding Story.

9:30pm - The Bulls are out rebounding the Warriors 19-5 in the second half.

9:32pm - Sefolosha throws DOWN on the fast break. The Bulls are R-U-N-N-I-N-G right now. Tyrus and Thabo have both tied season (and therefore career) highs for points at 14 apiece. It's a good night to be a rookie in Chicago.

Timeout with 8:55 left in the 4th quarter. Bulls 103, Warriors 71.

9:37pm - The Bulls bench has outscored the Warriors bench 53-11.

9:43pm - Duhon steps in the way of a crosscourt pass and goes in for the uncontested dunk. This sparks two minutes of gushing from Red and Stacey about how Duhon is the ultimate role player. Stacey also informs us that, "Du used to be a big time scorer in high school". Red adds, "He needed to adapt his game to be more of a utility player in college for Coach K". I'm sorry, this has gotta end. Duhon is what he is. He's a back-up NBA guard that occasionally surprises but in no way is an exceptional athlete "reeling it in" for the sake of the team. What is it about this guy that makes everyone a well wisher? It’s like hearing a flock of parents at a junior high game lauding each other's children.

Timeout with 2:57 left in the 4th quarter. Bulls 110, Warriors 81.

9:52pm - In the closing minute, the United Center starts chanting "Nocioni!" even though he's in street clothes. He flashes a big grin and gives the peace sign to the crowd. Just a nice moment and a great way to bring this puppy to a close.

Final. Bulls 113, Warriors 83.

The Quiet after the Storm: The 2006 Chicago Bears

2007-02-06T14:29:00.000-06:00

I was watching the second half of the Bulls/Jazz game last night by myself when my eye wandered to the clock on the wall. The symmetry was too obvious not to note, for it was exactly 24 hours since the Bears had lost Superbowl XLI. I sunk down in my chair to take an inventory, to surmise the pain. It seemed strange because I still felt reasonably normal (save for some minor pangs of sadness that another NFL season was over, but I get that every year) and whatever emotional letdown I originally expected wasn't yet taking hold. It was an odd sensation because here I was treating this sub zero Chicago Monday like any other, when all other indicators pointed to it being the saddest day in recent memory. Sure, I was experiencing some denial and participating in some mild aversion therapy (I holler obscenities at myself every time I instinctually turn on ESPN when channel surfing ) but I didn't expect to be able to stave off the heavy heart a diehard is supposed to carry on "the day after". My presumptions led me to believe that a loss would send shocks through the body - an unholy alliance of bitterness, rage, sorrow, hopelessness and disappointment. However, that wasn't the case...

I watched the game with some of my best friends. We had deep dish pizzas and wings. We took shots of SoCo and lime. We listened to the Power and the Glory music from NFL Films. We were bundles of nervous drunken energy by the time the game started... before Devin Hester made our initial worries fade to black. Peyton threw a pick on third and long and we're slugging beers and smacking fives. Now, we all know what happened after that, so I'm not going to get into it... rather than what happened, I was more influenced by how I watched what happened. Having everything unfold the way it did with those very special people is what I will remember the most. The familiar banter. The outright booing at lame commercials. The optimistic women in the room trying to cheer up the devastated stone-faced men after another Grossman fumble/interception. The halftime show that had nothing to do with Prince. The knowing looks at a best friend when things started to slip away, finally retiring to the back porch to grab a quick smoke once the unfortunate became the inevitable, not commiserating but simply enjoying the buzz and the company and the night.

Am I only kidding myself? Downplaying the importance to save face? Hiding behind the "good friends, good times" rap when I should be drafting an open letter and finding a length of rope? Perhaps, but I’m not entirely sure that's how I feel right now, nor do I see it playing out that way around the bend. For some perspective, I was physically ill when the Cubbies got bounced in 1989 and 2003 (not so much 1998 for some reason). I cried when the Bulls broke up after the 1998 season. I'm used to extremely visceral reactions when it comes to these matters because that's what I think I choose to feel. It seems to somehow validate how I felt about it all along. For instance, when you break up with someone very important it can be a tremendously traumatic experience. You can mope around and beat yourself up and dig into that shoebox of photos OR you can take a few days to get your act together before getting a head full of Jack Daniels and zeroing in on a rebound "encounter" that will surely find its way back to your ex. Either way, you deal with the pain in your own way. As time passes, you learn how to cope better and better once you've been through the wringer a few times. I think that's where I am right now. The way I see it, the seven-game series structure in baseball and basketball is a continual "on-edge" experience. If your team blazes a trail into the championship round, the playoffs are no longer enjoyable. It highjacks your life for weeks on end and turns you into a perpetual ball of worry, a bi-polar junkie for W's. Football is great because of its finality. One game. Sixty minutes. Heroes and goats are made in an afternoon. Then it's over. You can pick up the pieces much easier because there isn't as much to internalize...

This brings me back to the Bulls/Jazz game from last night. The CSN microphones were picking up EVERYTHING one Utah fan was saying. He was obnoxious, loud and consistently unfunny. "Hinrich! You gotta rash on your leg!" or "Deng sucks!" were heard over every lull in the action to the point where Red and Stinky Stace would sporadically acknowledge him during the broadcast. As the Jazz began to pull away in crunch time (we coulda really used Nocioni for matchup purposes down the stretch) I began to do my own fan profiling on this guy. He sounded around my age, probably Mormon (just kidding), obviously drunk (I hope for his sake) and somewhat diehard. Although the camera's never spotted him, I pictured him with a Jeff Hornacek jersey and matted hair. I'm guessing hygiene issues and verbal ticks kept him from meaningful relationships. He probably has a laundry list of phobias highlighted by, but not limited to, self-control and self-discovery. Then I started to think about what his likes and dislikes are... and things began to snap into focus. He HATES the Bulls. For me, this is just another game on a West coast roadtrip - Sonics, Trailblazers, Warriors, Jazz, etc. For this guy, it's probably much more. He certainly still remembers the sting of Jordan's Flu Game. His Airness and his Game 6 heroics. The tired pain of back-to-back basketball seasons ending on the ultimate stage to the same foe. Having two Hall of Famers submit to two better Hall of Famers. It's just the breaks sometimes. When it comes down to sports, I've had my joy and I keep it alive everytime I pop in a DVD. That's not to say I'm ever going to celebrate Peyton Manning (or Will Clark or Pudge Rodriguez for that matter), but I can take solace that the better team won. And that happens. Nothing will change.

So as long as I get to the point where I'm not choking on my own rage during a regular season Bears/Colts game in 2017, I think I will come out of this thing alright...

Bears/Seahawks Game

2007-01-17T13:36:00.001-06:00

I was planning on writing another running diary for the Bears/Seahawks game this past Sunday, however I had some reservations about the limitations of such a design. Since the structure of a running diary is fairly rigid, I find that the large strokes are sacrificed for the minutia of the game time experience. Timeouts are documented. Quirk plays are noted. The overall feel of a Soldier Field Sunday afternoon is sprawled out, minute by minute, in what usually amounts to a very idiosyncratic list of events. It seemed apparent that a game of such magnitude needed something a little more free flowing. Something that could breathe. So I decided to take some sparse notes in lieu of meticulous ones. I decided to write something that better captured just how important this game was for me as a fan. This game that, no matter what fate awaits the Bears, will be indelibly etched in my mind forever.

Nick and Mary informed my Dad that they would be out-of-town for the first playoff game and kindly offered up their tickets to us. My Dad and I were joined by my godfather Bobby Stovall and family friend John McGregor. I absolutely could not pick a better line-up to fill in for Nick and Mary on this blustering Sunday in January. Bobby (aside from being my appointed "spiritual guide" during this crazy journey called Life) is one of the most colorful personalities to ever throw back a whiskey on the rocks. He's been one of my favorite people on this Earth from a very early age. I recall his high pitched Southern twang as he would bound through the doors of my childhood home, "DON ALAN! BOY! GIT OVER HERE AND GIMME SOME SKIN!" as his deep abiding laughter unfurled before me and shot off the walls. To put things in perspective, I was four years old when the Bears played in Super Bowl XX and while I didn't understand what was going on or why we had a new big screen TV, I knew that my Dad and Bobby were immensely happy. I remember the joy this Bears team created in that living room on 20 West Burton and I remember wanting to be a part of that. Now, John McGregor was a wonderful addition to our party for decidedly different reasons. He hails from Scotland and is a business relation turned fly fishing buddy to my Dad. Throughout the years the two of them have transversed the globe stalking trout and asking each other the same rhetorical question, "Should we open another bottle?" Mr. McGregor went to school in East London which fostered his allegiance to the West Ham Hammers football club in the FA Premier League. Yet despite his worldliness and sports acumen, he has never seen an American football game. Needless to say, he picked a good one to call his first.

As you can probably tell, the crowd was confident but not boisterous as we entered our beloved Soldier Field. We'd been burned during home playoff games before (in 2001 and of course last year) so everyone was wearing an all too familiar "If we don't acknowledge our trepidation, it won't manifest" demeanor. That's not to say that things were not eventful outside the stadium. I saw three drunks (all in separate parties) who in their excitement slipped and spilled on the ice patched sidewalks. Applause and laughter coarsed through the herd. One man, with his arms raised in the air for the customary pre-entry patdown, gave the security guard a gracious and loving waist-to-waist bear hug to convey his drunken appreciation. (By the way, I love the lip service paid by the Bears administration towards unauthorized boozing in the stands. During my patdown, the guys hit my camera, wallet AND flask before waving me through. As we walked in, my Dad and I discussed this practice and concluded they didn't want any handles of Beam coming in. That's about it.)

Now, I've been to roughly twenty Bears games in my life but never one in the playoffs. Let me tell you something, nothing compares to energy of the crowd during a NFL playoff game. NOTHING. It's like eating PB&J's at lunch everyday for your entire life, same bread, same crust cut off, same glass of milk to wash it down. That's it. Then one day, out of the blue, you are presented with a Bar Burger with all the fixings and a tall, frosty pint of Stella. You almost can't believe your sensations. You almost can't fathom that you've lived all these years before witnessing something so good, so right. As the players were being introduced I caught some major chills. Urlacher was the last introduced as we hopped up and down like children on Christmas morning. It was time.

The Bears won the coin toss and chose to receive. Rex then methodically led us down the field on a 12 play, 80 yard touchdown scoring drive that took 6:25 off the clock. It's a good mix of running plays and intermediate passes that brings even the biggest pessimists out of their seats. The biggest play (possibly of the game) was a 37 yard completion to Sheed Davis on a 3rd and 10 from midfield. I'll explain my reasoning here. Seahawks CB Jordan Babineaux made a play on the ball just as it got to Davis. The tip was corralled by Sheed before he picked up another 15 yards after the catch. Now, if this ball is intercepted by Babineaux (which replays indicate was a definite possibility) then this entire game is turned on it's head. Now, I'd like to think Grossman could recover from this proposed obstacle and I think he could given the right play calling. What REALLY worried me was the crowd. I'd like to think that Mr. and Mrs. Bears Fan would be supportive through everything this 13-3 season has afforded them, however I'm not sure that option is still on the table. After the bombardment on Rex from the Chicago media, if he shows even the slightest deficiency in the early going we're conditioned to want blood (or in the event that blood is not available, then Brian Griese). Thank God this is only a "What If".

Mr. McGregor asks me after our post touchdown flask tilt, "That was quite good then?"

I nod, "Yep. It's just that easy."

I'll classify that one as a white lie, because no one got hurt.

After dueling punts, the Seahawks take the ball and march down the field on the strength of Matt Hasselbeck's arm. On the first play of the 2nd quarter, he finds Nate Burleson over the middle for a 16 yard TD pass. Bears 7, Seahawks 7. Everyone is now settled in. At this point, the four ya-hoos sitting to our right flag down the beerman. ID's and 20's are handed to us, we are now in assembly line mode. But for some reason, these guys want to pay separately (draining this poor guy's reserve of $1 bills). They also change their mind mid-pour, "Did I say MGD? I meant 2 MGD's and 2 Miller Lites". We're trying to act like this drunken ballet of words and fermented grain doesn't effect us, but both parties in our periphery are leaning in, straining over us, confused and pissed off. And then, in an instant, it happens. On the very first play of the ensuing drive, Rex hits Berrian in stride for a 68 yard touchdown. Bears 14, Seahawks 7. All beer related problems melt away.

It stays this way until this happens on 3rd and 7 with 4:27 left in the half:

After the fumble and four Shaun Alexander runs later, the score is tied at 14 all.

(EDITORS NOTE: If this were a Tribune article, this would be where the Rex Grossman bashing would commence. I would point out his inability to protect a lead and question his manhood in new and inventive ways. Then I would throw around Cade McNown's name because I know it causes my readers to see red. Then I would take a parting shot at Bears owner Mike McCaskey for no apparent reason out of habit. Please make a note of it.)

Luckly for us, this isn't the Tribune and Rex isn't some delicate wallflower that needs coddling. He runs a nearly perfect Two Minute Drill completing passes of 21 and 18 yards en route to another Thomas Jones touchdown run. Bears 21, Seahawks 14. Halftime.

FLASHFORWARD to 10:33 left in the 4th quarter. Seahawks 24, Bears 21.

It's too early to start panicing, but it's also turned too ugly on offense to expect the Bears score many more points. The defense is waffling and everyone in the stands is pretending like they aren't INCREDIBLY uncomfortable. I look over to my Dad who is usually my ace in the hole during the more dire moments in my life (this being one of them) and all he can do is shrug his shoulders. We're uneasy, still cheering loud, but it sounds less reassuring. The kick to Hester. Looks unreturnable. He stops, almost stands straight up and then a Seattle player goes flying past him. HE'S UP THE SIDELINE. WE'VE SEEN THIS BEFORE! COULD HE AGAIN!?!?! IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE!?!?! IT IS!!!!!

I high ten Mr. McGregor before I jump over him to hug my Dad. He's got tears starting to form in his eyes from the combination of cold weather and pure joy. And while a block in the back nullified the touchdown moments later, that was one of the Top Ten happiest moments I've ever experienced. I know, I know. It sounds stupid. How could some playoff game engender strong emotions that compete with a lifetime of experience. Well, because I honestly feel like this was not a singular moment in time. Rather, this was a culmination of so many happy memories. My Dad and I loosening our ties after church in the late 80's as we walked in the door, ready for 3 hours of Bears football. Just a little kid at December games in the snow with Bobby, Uncle Nick, My Dad and Bill Davis (my late Godfather) in these very seats. Clutching hot chocolate. Singing the songs. Learning the game from these larger than life men in my life. And for that brief, blinking moment... everything snapped into focus for me.

Several minutes later, Robbie Gould ties it up with 4:28 left in the game. I love Robbie Gould. Let me count the ways.

IN A COURTROOM SETTING. THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY RISES, PACES THE LENGTH OF THE BENCH AND LOOKS TO THE SKY BEFORE CLEARING HIS THROAT TO SPEAK: Your Honor, I only have one piece of evidence I wish to present before this court today which I believe to be sufficient. The following video takes place with two minutes left in the NFC Divisional Playoff game between the Chicago Bears and the Seattle Seahawks. Please keep in mind that the score is tied 24-24 and the Seahawks have the ball at the Chicago 44 yard line. The Down is 4th. The distance is a yard...

... Now if my client, Mr. Lance Briggs is traded at the end of this season. It will make a mockery out of everything this system of justice is based on. The very foundation of logic will crumble and anarchy will ensue. If you don't match any and all offers for this Pro-Bowl outside linebacker, well, your Honor... may God have mercy on your soul.

Tank Johnson brings regulation to a close with a sack on Matt Hasslebeck. I always knew that guy was alright.

Overtime begins and Matt Hasselbeck is conspicuously absent from the coin toss. Somewhere Ben Carthew is giggling to himself. The Seahawks win the toss as we explain overtime rules to Mr. McGregor. He responds, "Well, that hardly seems fair." We all solemnly nod in agreement. However, the Bears defense (emboldened by the strong 4th quarter) stiffens and forces the punt. What is usually the faint whiff or marijuana in the air has turned into the smell of opportunity. Then Rex (just as he did to start the game) finds Sheed Davis for a 30 yard completion on 3rd and 10 from Bears territory. Two Cedric Benson runs and an incomplete pass setup a Robbie Gould 49 yard field goal. Time stands still...

We FLOAT out of Soldier Field. "BRING ON THE AINTS" chants begin. Drums line the horizon. Strangers are hugging. My arm around my Pop.

"One more game," he says with a content grin.

One more game.

New Sports Blog

2007-01-13T14:52:00.000-06:00

What's up people? I just wanted to do a quick plug for a new blog I'm doing with my buddy Ben from Uva. We lived in the same hall first year and spent the majority of that time playing Sega Genesis, making fun of Redskins fans and, uh, studying. We lived together second year, upgraded to a PS2, discovered fantasy sports and never looked back. Ben hails from Long Island but was raised a Packers, Brewers and Bucks fan through family affiliations. While I make fun of his man love for Brett Favre and he waits with bated breath for the Cubs 100 years of ineptitude party (tentatively being held at Medieval Times), we manage to pull for each other when the chips are down. We respect each other's commitment to team. He plays his Green Bay 1996 tape about as many times as I play my Bears 1985 tape. And that's how it goes.

Well, this blog were starting is just kinda exploratory and somewhat spitballed together. It's going to be 100% sports (or at least sports related) and it'll be updated more frequently than this blog. We figured it would be a good way to pass the time until we became charter fishing boat captains/mini-golf moguls. I hope you enjoy it and if you do, please pass it on.

Mahalo,
AK

My Celebrity Look-Alike

2007-01-09T17:46:00.000-06:00

I love when friends in my everyday life share an unanimously stark resemblance with a universally famous person. I think we all do. For one, it's a devastatingly powerful weapon to wield when pressed to describe them to a third party. I could say, "She's a blond with blue eyes... She's got a great body.... um, She's very intelligent and always interesting," or I could say "She's a dead ringer for Jessica Simpson. Fiercely smart. Loves crossword puzzles, base jumping and skinny skiing." Which is more helpful? If I drop ole Jessica's name in front, I can more readily address her personality qualities and quirks. It's the name that helps, because now instead of thinking about what she might look like, my friend is now picturing Jessica Simpson's alterego doing all these things: Pensively tapping a blue ink pen against a twice folded New York Times in the morning, jumping off a suspension bridge at the height of the day and then flopping around in the evening mist for one last pass around Lake Wallenpaupack. See what I'm saying, the name is huge. Totally huge.

With this is mind, I find it important to make one absolute distinction. What I love even more than having a friend who looks like a celebrity, is having a friend who THINKS they look like a celebrity (and usually in a flattering way) except they don't at all. Examples I’ve heard in person have been Mariah Carey (she had the crazy part right though), Ricky Martin (he had flaming part down), Tom Cruise (he put on a jean jacket and went as him for Halloween one year, hilarity ensued) and of course Chris Farley (he actually adopted personality traits of Farley's different routines, which is either a brilliant homage to the late comedian or a wonderful way to go if you don't really know what to make of yourself during your formative years. Just assume the role of the drug abusing, painfully self-aware clown/party-animal when you go out on a Friday night with your buddies. A recipe for success any way you slice it).

I'm reminded of the scene from the movie Friday when "Janet Jackson" pulls up in front with her weave on and Chris Tucker rolls up to the car, makes an astonishing discovery, spends the next 45 seconds peaking as a comic actor and then sends "Ms. Jackson" on her way. It's that mistaken identity that throws people, the humor lies is the false perception. But here's the thing, there's really no way to tell your friend that he or she looks NOTHING LIKE the proposed star in question. The only true recourse to something like this is to immediately call other people who know your friend and inform them that the self-actualized celebrity comparisons are flying. Are you doing this to gauge reactions? To gain a third party perspective? Perhaps. But most likely you are already fully aware of the reaction. Unbridled laughter.

I also want to talk about the emergence of the "What Celebrity do I look like?"Wheel-O-Fun. It seems like these puppies are on every third Myspace page and I invariably end up looking at them going "Nope... nope... not even close... ugh-unh" inside my head. Now, I understand that the facial recognition software used here isn't from NASA and these findings are only really 60% accurate. But for me, I think we need to look a little deeper at what this seemingly trivial piece of web junk is trying to say:

"Look at my face. Do you see it? Are you sure? Have you looked hard enough? It's a good shot of me, don't you think? Do you think I look like these people? Cuz I got numbers here that support my claim! Okay, keeeeep looooking. Great! I'm fabulous. Let's do lunch.”

On a semi-related note: My ex-girlfriend used to tell me I looked like Mark Wahlberg. After informing me of this, I would often start doing the "New Kids Dance" wearing a confused brow and a well meaning smile. Then she would hit me and say no, not DONNIE Wahlberg. MARK Wahlberg. You KNOW! Marky Mark. The One with the FUNKY BUNCH. Then I'd pause and look at my abs (or where I’m told my abs are supposed to be) and then I'd look up at her and shake my head. But she persisted and made me believe she was completely sold on this fact. (Later I found out it was all just a ploy to get me to wear Calvin Klein boxer-briefs and not my usual standby of Homer Simpson boxers replete with memorable quotes. Long story.) Anyway, after enough confirmation that I looked like Mark Wahlberg, I started walking around my house with no shirt on, blue jeans sagging and a baseball hat on. I would play pool like this, I would watch Sportscenter like this, I would periodically excuse myself to use the powder room to do twenty push-ups like this. This went on in the King household for about a week when finally my Dad said to me,

"Son, what the hell are you doing? Put a damn shirt on! You're flexing at the dinner table now?"

I'll never forget that. He was right, I was posing. However, in retrospect, I think I was doing it all with a touch of irony. At least I hope so. If I wasn't, let's just chalk it up to high school and move on.

OK, so when you live in a society that values Cool like currency, I suppose it's somewhat understandable to try and link the ordinary with the fantastical. We do live in a very quotational place and time where our most viable social tool is having the information needed to be IN on the reference or joke. At the end of the day, we want to be able to walk into a room full of strangers and be able to hold their rapt attention while relating our interests and insights. By knowing what artist is playing on the stereo or by drawing the perfect comparison to a well documented story in the news, we begin to form a positive feeling about ourselves and our relevance within the surrounding world. Simply put, we want to be the guy with the finger on the pulse. Along with self-esteem maintenance, this is one of our primary motivators in almost every social exchange. So I suppose the forcing of a famous likeness with noble intentions is just a way of fitting in, of assimilating, which is completely understandable.

***

Well, after years of having "a familiar face" that hot girls "can never place in their minds" it appears that my possibility for a celebrity doppelganger may still have legs. In the past six months, three people have voluntarily informed me that I look like someone with a slight degree of celebrity. Now, the fact that these three people are completely unaware of each other and named a very esoteric person leads me to believe the comparisons are genuine and accurate. Now, I personally don't see the resemblance, but THREE PEOPLE CAN'T BE WRONG! Supposedly, I look like Jason Hervey. Don’t know him? How about Wayne Arnold? Kevin's older brother from Wonder Years?

Yeah. That's right. I guess I look like a fictional douchebag.

Good times.

Chicago Sports Weekend (Part Two)

2006-12-05T22:29:00.000-06:00

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)

2006-12-03T21:59:00.000-06:00

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

2006-11-24T16:04:00.000-06:00

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

2006-11-08T17:33:00.000-06:00

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

2006-10-29T11:03:00.000-06:00

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

2006-10-21T22:28:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-17T20:22:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-09-14T22:46:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-27T08:05:00.001-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:32:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:30:00.001-05:00

Women

2006-07-18T15:29:00.001-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-18T15:23:00.000-05:00

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...

You know what I find truly fascinating?

2006-07-18T15:22:00.000-05:00

You know what I find truly fascinating? It's the capability of our minds to let the tiniest things in which create an immeasurable difference in our lives. Let's just say it's the gloomiest week of the year and you've spent every night in, watching old Simpsons reruns, pulling on that whiskey bottle you keep in the freezer, trying anything to forget about how unfulfilled you are with your job, your body, your mental affairs. The breezy air outside no longer invigorates, but rather seems to drag on your sleeves and fill your lungs with erstwhile sighs. You handle each conversation with a delicate balance of half-hearted chuckles and pre-packaged answers, deliberately deflecting all external indications that your universe may not be as colorful as you let on. You see couples shuffling out of cafes full with tiramisu and playful banter, holding each others gaze just a little too long so you know they're in love... you walk by them, turn the music up in your headphones and think about what that used to feel like... what that warmth did to you after a long day. You drive home well past midnight and secretly hope you hit nothing but red lights. Your favorite moment everyday is the one right before you fall asleep...

Then, on some idle Thursday, you receive a call from someone who you thought forgot about you years ago. Or perhaps it's someone you've known all along. And they innocently say that they had a fantastic dream about you, or that they found an old letter you wrote them and it made all the difference. They tell you that they have a tremendous amount of longing in their life, but they are getting through it as best they know how. They ask how you have been, and you stammer, "I-I've been OK, I guess". They tell a bad joke and you laugh and you are instantly somewhere else, a high school hallway, a crowded balcony, a tucked-away park, sitting on swings, passing a joint. The memories flood into your mind and the stories come fast and easy. And as you have been a walking casualty of life's plodding pace for what seems like months, you are instantly delivered, in one unexpected moment, into the light. While nothing about this conversation is particularly profound, you're once again aware that what you are and who you touch in your life truly matters. You hang up the phone and smile a wide, toothy grin to yourself. You turn on your computer and punch out a silly blog...

Have You Ever? Of Course You Have...

2006-07-18T15:10:00.000-05:00

OK. So I've had a blog for about a week and I'm already slacking - Sounds like an enterprise I'm used to backing. Just like my bout with the dream journal (which was way too incriminating to have laying around my room). Just like the time I saw Rounders and I swore I was going to read every poker book available and morph into some Doyle Brunson-styled, whiskey drinking, calm demeanor having Texas Holdem dynamo of a card shark whose tight lips never moved unless, of course, a rube sat down at the table, at which point a delicate crease would form around my left (and only) dimple and the corner of my mouth would turn slightly upward as I'd soak in the situation, eight moves ahead of everyone. Just like the stencil business I baked up one night while I was baked, I mean, honestly, who can resist a cool stencil. And moreover, who wouldn't want to drop $3.99 on the ability to draw this No Puffin image wherever they please?

Exactly, its the boldest stoke of genius yet. And yet I'm just sitting on it.

One day... One day my friends...

OK. So we've all played that lame "Never Have I Ever" drinking game where girls feign shame for their sexual experience, sordid eccentricities are revealed and the resultant giggling can be heard for miles. As an aside, I love girls who get pissed off halfway through the game and try to one up their girlfriends with nuggets like "Never Have I Ever... let three members of the baseball team as well as a visiting high school junior from Alexandria rail me at the top of the stairs at the SPE house after bars while I was simulcast live over the internet two weekends ago." Never fails. High comedy. Anyway, I'm proposing something different. In a Seinfeld inspired move, I'm laying down a couple of observations about myself in the "Have you ever" format. Feel free to post a reply to this with one of your own. They are actually kinda fun to do, in that humbling kinda way...

Have you ever sat cross-legged (or Injun-style for all you insensitive types) for a pronounced period of time, and then, for some odd reason leapt up with the intentions of making haste? However, you've unwisely disregarded the possibility that the foot you have been sitting on for the past 25 minutes may have fallen asleep. Well, it has. And you drop as quickly as you rose after what can only be described as a 5-meter dash/limp/buckle/thud. Then all the people in the hallway immediately stop, mid-sentence, and crane their heads toward your crumbled assemblage of parts on the ground (some more alert than others). You sit there, acutely aware of all the eyes, the whispers, the muffled chortles... Naturally, your first reaction is to delegate your entire focus towards the offending hoof by repeatedly punching it while you mumble obscenities in a futile effort to rouse it. Well... its happened me. Good times.

Have you ever been so overtaken with such genuine fervor that you have bellowed out an exclamation of joy (in my case, a deep, drawn-out "Yeahhhhhhhhh") and felt compelled to high-five the person sitting next to you? Well, have you ever done it in a packed movie theater? Apparently, for me, witnessing an act of demonstrative retribution at the end of a film (when Darth Maul gets cut in half... at the end of the movie Hostel...) causes me to pump my fist proudly in the air irregardless of my surroundings. I'm basically the reason people shuffle out of movie houses discussing the plot devices, the funny parts, the actors acumen and then, when there is a lull, one of them causally muses to the other, "What was up with that jackass sitting in front of us..."

OK, I'm done...

You're Up...

Gettin the Ball Rollin

2006-07-18T15:07:00.001-05:00

Not sure what I'm going to say now that I've gotten the ball rolling, or if anybody will care to read it, but I suppose thats really of no importance if I approach this thing as an ostensibly personal exercise. Blogs are, from my vantage, a semi-narcissistic pathway, a haphazardly constructed whim of strategically placed "pay-attention-to-me" concoctions. Now, this is not necessarily an indictment of this medium, however I do feel it is underutilized. I love knowing what my friends are thinking, especially the ones I pass infrequently because I'm not often to get on the horn just to chat. I like being in the loop without the legwork, the constant feeling of duty involved. Anyway, lets see how this thing sorts itself out...

I've got all the windows open and a gentle summer breeze is filtering in as I watch my Baby Bulls run out the clock in Game 3 against the Heat. Sipping some Jack and Coke, blasting the new Boss CD, watching the colors change on the horizon as the sun sets over the Pacific. Couldn't be happier to be strictly honest. For those of you who dont know, I'm moving back to Chicago in a little over a month to put the period on my one year experiment with the Bay Area. I'll get to that eventually, but what is currently on my mind is this basketball jones I've been feelin in my bones. I've always been addicted to the aesthetic of the game - filling the lanes on a break, making the extra pass, squaring your shoulders for a wide open three. Posting up with a shoulder dip fake to the right and a drop step left while you absorb the weakside help D with your upperbody and kiss it off the block with a quick wristflip/babyhook that you've practiced in your driveway thousands of times. The gymrat of my youth knows why I love this game so much, but lately it seems that this love has only grown. I think these Bulls have a lot to do with that. I mean, what a fun team to root for. Passionate, fundamental, intelligent. It's the way I've always tried to play basketball, to convey that deep affecting love for the game in every single facet, to display an ever evolving synergy with all members of your squad. By the way, its final, Bulls 109 - Heat 90 in a must win at the United Center. What an effort with your back to the wall. Heres something I wrote last year around this time about the way the basketball culture in Chicago has effected me:

The NBA playoffs set off some sort of chemical domino tumble in my head that always seem to get things going for me. I remember the early days at 20 West Burton, sitting in my favorite blue canvas chair, summer quick on my heels watching Jordan and company discover who they were against the Pistons. Losing, losing, losing and finally breaking through in 91 with that magical run. The playoffs set something off with me because there is no tomorrow in many cases and a year full of toil and strife boils down to a few moments, a good inbounds pass, a properly broken press, a conditioned soul. Watching my guys in the fray has been good for me, they are being tested as human beings, not only athletes. Deng, BG, Kirk, Nocioni, Tyson are all our age. I think that gets lost in the shuffle. They are at similar crossroads as we, albeit at vastly different addresses. I draw on their convictions and I relish in their victories much like I did as a small child and much like I will when Im old, bent over and full of laughter at where my life has taken me.

More to come...

I'm UP! I'm DOWN! I'm a Chicago Bulls Fan

2006-07-18T14:54:00.000-05:00

It's official. The Chicago Bulls, as an organization, are the NBA's answer to the DSM-IV's criteria for Bipolar Disorder. It's a frenzied flip of a car after a 6th championship run in eight years. Its a somber swill of a cocktail after Brad Miller and Elton Brand are penciled in every year for All-Star honors. Simply put, its the Chicago Bulls.

The1970's saw the Bulls rise from middling franchise to perennial contender with a dynamic team-first ethic and hard-nosed defense. Bob Love's inside scoring touch and Jerry Sloan's tenacious D anchored a potent charge that produced back-to-back Conference Finals appearances in 1975-1976. Let it be known, though, that the doldrums quickly followed. Upon the departure of Love and Sloan, the Bulls quickly regressed to doormat status, an afterthought in the bustling NBA landscape. The Bulls would only notch one winning season until 1985 when Michael Jeffery Jordan landed on the scene. Not much needs to be said here, after six championships and accolades too numerous to count, the Bulls were the newly appointed gold standard. The rabid basketball fans in Chicago were once again falling down with stories to tell their grandchildren, the memories seemingly too thick to ever subside. However, once the greatness that was Jordan decided to hang 'em up after 13 mesmerizing seasons (Washington never happened, Im convinced), he also left a cautionary warning for rising superstars contemplating a jump to the Windy City. The "Last Dance" season of 1998 was punctuated with a rift between management and players due to then GM Jerry Krause's statement, "Players don't win championships, organizations win championships." Marquee talent such as KG, Tracy McGrady and Grant Hill passed on being centerpieces in Krauses rebuilding plan and as quickly as it came for the Bulls, it went...

...in a big way.

The Bulls averaged 16.5 wins over the next four seasons.

Now, I'll be the first to give Jerry Krause credit, he could construct an NBA team with the best of them. After all, it was his acumen that drafted Horace Grant, traded for Scottie Pippen and Bill Cartwright and acquired John Paxson in free agency. However, June 27th, 2001 will forever define him and his love for the tough sell. That is the day he traded Elton Brand for the rights to Tyson Chandler (the purported next Garnett) and then promptly drafted Eddy Curry (a Shaq-like frame with a fraction of the game). Some said that he needed that length inside to enable Crawford and Rose to stretch the floor. Others said it was a ploy to get butts in the seats once again after three last place finishes. Whatever the case, that move ultimately tenured his own resignation in 2003. From "Best Ever" to worst in the league in a matter of 18 months.

However, there was a ray of hope.

Enter John Paxson, who in just three short years has given this Manic-Depressive franchise something it hasn't had, well, ever. Stability. An even keel. The tempered expectations of a team built around a solid core of unselfish role players. It remains to be seen if the dizzying highs will ever return, however it is quite certain that the terrifying lows are gone for the foreseeable future. Chicago Bulls fans have many reasons to breathe a sigh of relief: The no nonsense approach of their bulldogged coach Scott Skiles. The tremendous upside of savvy players such as Andres Nocioni, Ben Gordon, Kirk Hinrich and Luol Deng. The possibilities of a first overall pick this June (Much thanks to Isiah Thomas). So while beating the Heat and advancing to the second round this year still remains a lofty goal, perhaps now those bleary winter nights outside the United Center wont seem as cold and full of those stupefying moments of a basketball city with an ever evolving identity crisis.