Can't We All Just Get Along?

I was on the Red Line this afternoon, going to (where else?) Wrigley. Needless to say, the L was packed to a comical degree. The CTA simply refuses to run an ample number of trains during Cubs games; it gets worse every year. At this point, it definitely constitutes a fire hazard. Somebody should inform Da Mayor of this problem, but he'd probably respond that he couldn't see a way for his family or one of his South Side crony ass pals to rip off the people through providing public servies in an effective manner, so nothing would get done about the problem anyway. Welcome to the Machine.

Anyway, I boarded at Chicago and sidled up right next to the door. At Division, these two kids hopped on, and I do mean hopped. They were maybe nineteen years old and completely punked out. I saw five different face piercings, three earrings in each ear, and a neck tattoo on one of the guys. The other had a mohawk with about five spikes gelled into place, and he reeked like a fresh pile of steaming crap. Mohawk guy unfortunately was wedged right up against me.

These two geniuses were sharing iPod headphones, which struck me as an intensely gay thing to do. Apparently the tune was really terribly bad in a way that only losers like them could possibly find enjoyable, because they were jumping around like they were in some freak club, as opposed to a packed commuter train.

After spikey-hair guy slapped me in the face with one of his rancid, malodorous peaks for the fifth time, I finally pulled out his earphone and said, "Listen, Shark Boy. I don't care if your mom didn't love you enough or your dad was an abusive, drunken molester. But if that fucking hair touches me one more time, I'm going to kick your ass at least as hard as your high school football team did. Oh, and take a fucking shower. You smell worse than you look." Piercing guy's face registered a look of horror (which was an improvement), and spikey-hair guy began to mumble something. He shut up pretty quickly when he turned around and saw that I had about six inches on him. Several of my fellow (normal) riders laughed out loud. Others looked away, as though they might suddenly erupt into a Columbine-esque rampage. But they were pussy-punkers and jumped off at North, the very next stop on the line.

Why can't we all just get along? Because sometimes people insist on being motherfucking assholes.

And the Beat Goes On

I'm still sitting here cheering for the Cubs, particularly because I hope they can ruin Houston's Wild Card chances. F Houston.

Random Thought of the Day

You gotta love the people who choose not to fix their snaggly teeth, despite the fact that they've got money. Also, what's with rich people who take the time to bleach their snaggly teeth? I mean, get braces or oral surgery already.

(Courtesy of my brother.)

Your 2005-06 Stanley Cup Champions

Looks like we're going to whip some ass this year.

Long live hockey.

Driving Post

To the people who drive during rush hour: Your existence must be pretty painful; I feel for you.

I decided to leave Wisconsin at 4:30 today, because hailstorms and rain scared away most of our customers. When I finally parked my car across the street, it was 7:15. Driving during rush hour is like chewing on broken glass.

It was mostly smooth sailing until I got off the highway. The tollbooths were nightmarish. Between dufuses without an I-Pass in the I-Pass lane, dopes who didn't have any money (let alone change), and the ambling monstrosities known as semi trucks, the entire roadway was like a parking lot for at least a mile. To make matters worse, the Kennedy out near O'Hare was continuation of this ridiculous jam-up. So, I got off the highway and went backroads.

I bumped into some guy's bumper. Was there a small dent? Yeah. Is the guy likely to call me back about it? Probably not. "That's a $2 bump on a $5 car. Call my lawyer." I also thanked him for contributing to the widespread perception that old people are the cause of most fender benders, and I mentioned that I suport banning drivers over 70.

Is this sort of ageism really a bad thing? No way. When you're talking about the operation of a big machine like a car, the natural decline in one's physical abilities becomes a big concern for the safety of all other drivers. The guy I rubbed tonight just stopped on a green light for no apparent reason. Is it my problem if he had a brain fart, or was momentarily confused, or forgot he had a green light after he'd already pulled across the stop line to complete his turn? When you get to the point where you shouldn't be driving a car, you shouldn't drive a car, period. That's why we have penalties for drunk driving. The AARP can go kiss my ass.

I hate semi trucks. Does anyone else have a problem with the sooty shit that pours out of these motherfuckers every fifteen seconds? The only efficient thing about them is their aptitude at fucking up the whole system. Granted, they give a certain slice of America an option besides cooking crystal meth for a living, but that benefit is laughably residual when you consider the damage they do to the rest of us.

Ever notice how jams and bottlenecks are always, always, ALWAYS because of a semi or--worse--a chain of multiple semis? I love it when they get side-by-side on 2-lane highways. What's going through their minds? Is one guy thinking, "Yeah, I'm beating that guy's ass by 2 miles per hour. He's my bitch." But in point of fact, Mr. Toothless Hillbilly, isn't it the whole driving public that really ends up being your bitch? Are you even aware of the other cars behind you, or are you too overly busy on your CB with the guy next to you, trying to figure out where the next oasis is so you can reminisce about growing up in the hills of West Virginia as you blow each other?

Why are we so beholden to these monsters? There's no doubt that traffic would move much more smoothly if it were not for semis trucks. I'm not saying there would never be traffic; there will always be small accidents with dim-witted elderly people, intersections timed by crack addicts, inconsiderate fucks double-parking, and assholes going 15 miles under the limit. But the pain of dealing with these machines from hell, and how they take FOREVER to accelerate and even logner to stop--there's got to be a better way to move shit around America.

That's why I propose we build a network of special roads--not particularly for use by passengers, but mostly for cargo shipments and the like. They'd be capable of hauling large amounts of goods across the many miles of our vast country. We could have a schedule of their departures and arrivals, so that companies could make schedules for smaller trucks to make local pickups and deliveries. We'll call them railways, and I'll bet they'll make life better for everybody.

Hire Me

I know a million people who would work for the Cubs, but I'm dead serious about doing it someday.

I'm a great writer, and I wouldn't even be able to list the multitude of my classes applicable to the topic. (Marketing, finance, statistics, sociology, psychology--what? Name it, you got it.) I know every last published detail there ever was about the history of the Cubs franchise, and I don't seem to know (or, for that matter, really care) nearly as much about anything else. After a game a couple months ago (a 14-0 Mucking of the Farlins), my little sister asked me over beers how many games I've been to since the start of 2003. I had to think about it for a second, but I eventually replied, "I've been 74 games [and at least 12 since then], 5 playoff games, and 4 Spring Training games over the last three years." Have you ever done anything with that much regularity (with the exception of work, sex or--if you live in the South/are my parents--religious activities)? The Cubs are what I tend to do, and I'm damn good at it.

I would do anything to work for them. I just feel that I will someday. How could contribute to the organization? I could easily write a daily column about the Cubs, especially if I could sit in an air-conditioned press box--hell, I could do that from my freakin' apartment. I could write a book about the fan experience in and about the stand, one for each summer, like of time capsule or yearbook of each summer's experience. I would make a great scout, and I bet I could be a great general manager someday. If Theo Epstein can do it, so can I. The opportunity simply hasn't presented itself yet.

My guesstimations during game situations are typically dead-on. I can usually guess not only if a guy is going to try to steal against Barrett, but which counts he's likely to run on against Maddux. I might be a good broadcaster, but I seriously don't know if people would like to hear what I have to say for three hours every day. I would be a very excellent everyman announcer, similar to what ABC thought they would get from Dennis Miller on Monday Night Football. I, however, would certainly make fewer references to Nietzsche and obscure movies from the '50's. Miller made comments like, "Listen, babe, it's like Dick Van Dyke would say to Faust, 'I don't know much about cars, but you can pass me the rhubarb pie, babe." I think Dennis Miller is one of the funniest guys alive, but you knew that sort of banter wasn't going to fly with your everyday Joe Beerman football fan. Joe wants to hear a cross between two of my idols: Ron Santo--the clueless moments and constant hilarity--and Steve Stone--technical but thruthful points about the game's subtleties. In one instant I'd be mentioning how I'd forgotten my wallet on the train, and in the next I'd be pointing out that Beckett's curveball didn't have its usual, crisp break.

The maddening thing is, I have all these vague connections to Cubs officials. For example, I'm good friends with the next-door neighbor of the guy who runs ticketing. My sisters went to school with the head honcho's kids. My buddy's uncle is a Cubs big shot on the Tribune end. The path toward getting a job with the Cubs is uncertain to me. No matter how passionate I am about it, I still can't seem to create that opening. Maybe it's just a matter of waiting for the right timing. Maybe it'll be a random bump-in at some party or something. Maybe it will never happen, and I'll just be the biggest Cub fan of all time. That would be sad, but I'd nonetheless be thrilled to be that guy.

I guess that my dream job would be to run a minor league team somewhere, in the vein of the Bill Veeck-style baseball operator. Giving publicity speeches every day, flying around the country with the guys, making deals, evaluating talent, figuring out the financing, making sure that the grass is green and cut, all the nuts and bolts of the business. Baseball is such a great thing when you get down to it. For guys like me, no winter is ever short enough.

Random Thought of the Day

Do you think famous chefs ever order Domino's? I bet they use assumed names if they do.

"Name please?"

"Emeril L--I mean, uh, Steve Jones."

Congratulations Due

Nice work, Cardinals. I hate you so much.

Random Thought of the Day

Who says your wedding is the most important day of your life? How are you supposed to know if that day is really going to be much more important than all the rest to follow?

What if you find out that you have testicular cancer--wouldn't the day you go in to get your balls cut off rank a wee bit higher on the list than your wedding day?

What if you have kids? Isn't the promise of a new life more important than a socio-religious ritual?

What if the marriage fails? Wouldn't the divorce wind up being much more of a landmark event? And, what if you get re-married--is the second wedding necessarily more important than the first?

What if you get drafted, and you suddenly find yourself storming some beach in North Korea or Africa or some other shithole? Wouldn't saving your ass from flying mortars and landmines far outweigh a huge party?

What if you win the lotto?

I want to get married at some point, don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to it, in fact. But I don't want to go into it with all the pressure associated with automatically labeling it "the" most important day in my life, because I'll always consider the most important day of my life to be out there on the time horizon somewhere.

Epiphanies

I woke up this morning, and suddenly things started dawning on me.

1.) I should stop smoking so much--not necessarily because it's bad for me, mind you, but because my parents "fired" me from invent-a-job a couple weeks ago, and $3.20 per pack Wisco cigs (yeah, Indian reservations!) are a whole lot easier on the budget than $6.50 per pack Chicago cigs. Lighters are more expensive down here, too.

2.) I need to stop waking up after 10. It dawned on me that there's so much of the world to see, and how will I ever see it all. Yeah, right, my ass, like the world needs me in broad daylight more often. Really, I'd just like to read a paper again before the news of the new day has already mostly happened. This problem will no doubt ameliorate itself when I get a real job.

3.) I need to clean my apartment. My clothes are marginally organized in stacked piles all along a wall in my bedroom, but it's still a little ridiculous for a grown man to have his threads strewn all over the place. I also need to get some garbage bags and do a Goodwill drop off of t-shirts and shit that I'll never wear again.

4.) My hair has gotten too long. I look like I walked off the set of "That 70s Show" which was much more acceptable when I was 18 as opposed to 28. Far past the point of simply needing a shave, my back-of-the-neck hair has completely assimilated with the rest of my coif. The whole tangle of hair looks pretty rock star, but it's hard to take myself seriously when I wake up looking like Robert Smith of The Cure.

5.) I need a girlfriend. I'm sick of spending so much time alone, and I've put in more than enough boozin'-with-the-buddies time this summer to justify my manhood. I also would like to walk into a restaurant with a hot girl so that I can sneer at all the dorks who are out on Sausage Night. Oh yeah, and: ass.

As you might know, I am normally quite comfortable with continuing the status quo. (I'm reminded of a certain "Family Guy" episode in which Peter, who's riding a big circus elephant, exclaims, "Look, Lois: two symbols of the Republican Party: an elephant, and a big fat white guy who's resistant to change!" Well, where the fuck is my elephant? And, where's all that weight I lost last winter? Come to think of it, if you find it, give it to Lara Flynn Boyle.) Breaking with tradition, however, I decided to forgo invent-a-job and be productive for a change. So, in reverse of the order listed above, here's what I did about my morning realizations:

5.) I called Heather, a very nice girl I met while buying adspace for the golf course. She works at the Sun-Times, it seems like she knows very few people in Chicago (she was quick to point out that she'd just moved here a couple months ago), and she lives a couple blocks up the street from me. We're set to go on a date of some sort on Thursday. I've got Cards tickets for me and Seamus, but my boy hooked it up and said he'd sacrifice a scalper's fee in return for the possibility for my getting laid. After all, that's why he's my best friend. I think I might call Heather and see if she wants to hang out tomorrow as well, though I might just go to the Cubs game solo or with Seamus. We'll see what happens.

4.) I went and saw my guy at Truefitt and Hill, Ilia. He chastized me for having seen my father twice since I last visited him. (When I'm working, I go see him about every 4 weeks, because my hair is essentially uncontrollable and sprouts faster than mold on bread. My dad, by stark contrast, has a wicked case of male pattern baldness and goes about every 3 or 4 months. Combined with the balding factor, and our family's propensity for quick-growing hair, his hairstyles typically resemble a cross between a bowling ball and a fern--just part of his schtik, I guess.) I asked Ilia if he remembered the last time I'd gotten a haircut, so he had the receptionist look it up. Turns out my last appointment was way back on June 15th. I reminded Ilia that I actually cancelled the June 15th appointment. (It was a 1:20 start against the Marlins, top of the 8th inning; I was standing in the undertunnel near the 110-111 sign at Wrigley, when I realized that I wouldn't have quite enough time to make a 5 o'clock appointment, so I called and cancelled about an hour before. They lost that game, by the way.) My actual last appointment was May 21, the day my sister graduated from Loyola Law. I took so much crap about how short I had it, about how uber-guido I looked, that I just grew it out. So Ilia cut it not too short, but short enough. Now I look like an MBA seeking a position in the finance field, as opposed to the dude who runs a golf course. I'm going to miss golf course guy, but so it goes. Progress can suck, I suppose.

3.) I did four loads of laundry this afternoon, and the cleaning ladies worked their magic. Our combined efforts uncovered about five awesome shirts I had presumed stolen. It's also nice to have clean towels again. Since I've been driving up north all the time, this was the first time I did laundry in my building in months, as my parents' cleaning lady is pretty bored these days and will chastise me in Polish for not regularly dropping off the laundry. However, on my quest to feign self-reliance, I somehow managed to slam my hand against the card-reload machine, gouging out a considerable amount of skin from the knuckle on my right index finger. It hurts like a bitch. Bill, one of my brother's best buddies from college, was in here making a serious business call. I was in the bathroom, with the door partially closed, when I applied a layer of NuSkin to the wound. I didn't know the stuff had so much alcohol in it, so I started screaming, "OH FUCK! OH MOTHERFUCKER! OH FUCK FUCK FUCKER SHIT FUCK!" When I realized Bill was on the phone, I instead started kicking the bathroom wall, which probably wasn't much of an improvement from Bill's point of view. At any rate, only I could injure myself during the laundry process. From my parents' cleaning lady's point of view, serves me right.

2.) I returned a call from a guy at a money manager, and set an interview for Thursday afternoon. They do a lot of heavy-duty quant, econ and financial analysis, and nearly everyone in the firm has an MBA, a CFA, or both--I think it'd be right up my alley. I also found out that I got a great recommendation from my former boss, which I was not particularly expecting. The bottom line is: I can't work for a big company, and I don't really want to be in front of clients until I have a deeper understanding of the markets. And, my chances of being able to grow out my hippie hair again are much, much better at a firm of 15 people than some massive outfit. Also, I'd like to be able to say, "I'm on a first-name basis with my CEO."

1.) I did nothing about the first realization of the morning. At the Cubs game tonight, we didn't even go to our seats. (They were Section 205, Row 15, way out in left field--they sucked, but I got them for free.) Instead, we opted to stand in the SRO aisle behind Section 216, so we could smoke butts throughout the game. It's also a sign of what this season has become: I'm equally concerned with the goings on of the field as with making fun of clueless tourist-types. We stood next to these German people for much of the game--I'd prefer to avoid exactly the ball-busting we delivered, because it was just too easy--the dude was wearing pink capri pants and a two-toned Taste of Chicago shirt--it was like the proverbial baby's candy. Also, we saw this old guy who had his shirt unbuttoned exposing the hairiest chest I've ever seen. Drunk before the game started, Seamus stopped the guy and said, "Dude, you gotta sign my scorecard!" The guy stopped and said, "Yeah, sure," as though such a thing happens every day. Seamus looked at the small kid with the guy and said, "Your grandpops is a rock star, kiddo!" The old guy was a good sport about it, though the kid was utterly confused at Seamus' obsession with his monkey-hairy grandpa. At any rate, I took zero steps to curb my smoking. (Four out of five isn't bad, though, don't you think?)

By the way, the Cubs beat the Reds 4-3 in 10 innings tonight, thanks largely to a 3-for-5, 2-runs-scored effort from Matt Murton who, for reasons the dopes in the Tribune Tower will never ever be able to explain, was lingering at AA West Tenn as recently as two months ago. God, what a waste of a season. All that talent, all that opportunity, and they're not even .500...I'll just stop before I get started.

So, to close, it felt good to accomplish something today. I hope I don't get too used to it, though, because being productive in the future will no doubt lead to a greater sense of responsibility, and that could lead to difficulties in material-gathering for What I See. And, as I've said before, I am highly conscious of my duty to you, the reader, to act like as big of an idiot as possible and live to tell about it.

Huh?

Phone rings--847 area code. It's my bro.

Me : "Yo."

Him: "Hey. What are you up to?"

Me: "Nothing. Driving around Wisconsin. Had to buy some sunflower seeds. What's up with you?"

Him: "Just leaving the office. I have this law school thing tonight, but I'm starting to phase out on going to every single one of these events. Murton and I were talking about it the other night, and he's taking this tack of not going to all these things, to be a little bit of the mystery guy."

Me: "That's cool. There's probably some merit to that."

Him: "Yeah, so I think this is the last Thursday night boozer I'm going to for a while. It's at Sheffield's and it's a pretty nice night, so that's cool. Listen, tomorrow I'm probably going to cruise around with mom during the day, if you have any interest, to show her the apartment and the 'hood and all that. I was thinking about maybe hitting up a movie later in the day. I haven't seen 'Wedding Crashers' or 'The Aristocrats' yet."

Me: "I've seen both, but I'm telling you, wait 'til 'Aristocrats' comes out on DVD, and watch it when you come home loaded at 4 in the morning. It's funny, but after about a half hour, it's just the same dick joke over and over a hundred times. But I bet that's hysterical when you're drunk. I'd go see 'Wedding Crashers' again with you, though. It's pretty good."

Him: "Oh, well, I didn't mean I wanted to go to the movies with you, just that I wanted to go to the movies."

Huh?

Brief & to the Point

-----Original Message-----
From: pvcnova@xxxxx.com [mailto:pvcnova@xxxxx.com]
Sent: Saturday, September 03, 2005 4:53 AM
To: Brian Dahlgren
Subject:


i made out with sheehan's new assistant.



-----Original Message-----
From: Brian Dahlgren
To: pvcnova@xxxxx.com
Sent: Tue, 6 Sep 2005 13:00:07 -0400
Subject: RE:

good job. i was always impressed with your uncanny ability to make your friends feel awkward.

Personal Statement for the Downtrodden

People think I suck. And, really, I really do. And it's not that I just thought this up. People tell me that I suck all the time. I'm just the worst, and it's not like I don't know it. I'm the ultimate taker. In fact, I suck so bad that I often physically abuse myself, which just makes me suck that much more.

It's so bad that I can't even look in a mirror, because that guy sucks that bad. Once in a while, I compile lists about how and why I suck. I'll write notes to myself regarding how I might improve the lackluster points of my personality. However, since I suck, I more often than not forget my own suggestions to myself, on account of how bad I am at performing even the rudimentary tasks involved in livng.

Like I said, I suck.

[I don't feel this way, for the record. Just an easy theme for when I'm bombed. Carry on.]

A Cry for Help

For those of you who've known me for some time, or if you've been reading along to this blog since its inception, you probably have a pretty solid understanding of the fact that I like to party and have a good time. You might have noticed that I haven't written many entries lately, or at least not many coherent posts during the entire month of August. Well, I'm pretty embarassed about this, but I don't know what to say, or how else to say it. So here goes...

My family has finally stepped in with the decision to enroll me into an Arizona rehab center. We're all getting on a plane to escort me out there tomorrow morning, and I should be there all fall. I thought I was strong enough to try heroin just once back in July, but I just couldn't handle it. I just didn't know.

I'm completely fucking with you, of course--keeping you on your toes and all that good shit. The truth is, I haven't posted much lately because I've been really lazy about writing. For example, I have a very weak excuse for having not published "One of Those Nights" or "Everybody Panic" yet. Basically, I find myself fumbling for the right words to describe the pristine enjoyability of the Deer Creek show. I've been thinking about wrapping it up with a simple, "Everything about Deer Creek was completely fantastic." While short and to the point, you guys deserve more to read on a boring Friday afternoon.

[Please note: I have published both of the above-referenced posts. Find them. They're certain to make your Friday afternoon more enjoyable.]

My actual cry for help is this: Through a web of mundane debacles, my cell phone numbers were erased, with no hope of retrieval. Murton was nice enough to have his dad ship me one of his old phones for the time being. (I'm holding out for the Razr, due at Verizon stores by early December.) I have nobody's telephone numbers, so if you want to email or call me with them, that'd be awesome. Given my propensity for calling drunk and at inappropriate hours, I will not hold it against anyone should they choose to refrain from sharing their contact info. After all, I'm pretty much an open book right here, and there's a strong chance that I'd forget what you told me in about a week anyway. (It's so easy to be cynical, but such a struggle being Pat.)

By the way, I've been operating with about five numbers for the last week, yet my level of intoxication puzzlingly failed to decrease one bit. Go figure. I promise to write more often in the next few weeks. It's not like I haven't been gathering material, it's just that I haven't felt like writing all that much.

Before I go, here's a big What I See shout out to my buddy Rico, who will be reading from Mexico City for the next several months. Secure those vital organs before you go to sleep, bro!

Off to commit more generally reprehensible acts...