A Communique Born of Ignorance

"From: Villanova University Alumni Association
To: VU Alumni
Subject: Congratulations White Sox Fans
Date: Thu, Oct 2005 16:07:26 -0400(EDT)

Congratulations to all of our Chicago alumi, particularly those who are White Sox fans. Your curse is finally broken. Next year...the Cubs!"

Nice sentiment. Misinformed, but nice. If only they knew the half of it. Why should I be congratulated? My guys finished 2 games under .500 last year, and there's only the faintest glimmer of hope that they win 90+ games any time soon. The message should have read, "Congratulations, Sox fans! Take, Cubs fans!"

The ticker-tape parade was held today, from US Smellular through the Loop. The weather couldn't be more agreeable for October--clear, cool, not too windy. I didn't go down for it--I couldn't bring myself to do it. It would have been nice to see the trophy, but it's not my trophy. Tons of people were lined up and down LaSalle, from the Board of Trade to the River. Besides the thousands of die-hards who took a few days off to get wasted, it looked like most crowd came outside from their offices in the Loop. It was wise planning to hold it Downtown on a Friday during lunch hour. It would have been embarassing if they'd held it strictly on the South Side, or on any other afternoon besides a Friday, because easily less than half as many people would have attended.

Actually, while I was watching it, I started to feel a bit sorry for the Sox fans, because a Cubs victory would have been so much more celebratory. It's a very difficult thing to put a finger on, this rivalry. People root for the Sox, but people love the Cubs. People would have gotten over it if the Sox had blown the World Series, but emotional breakdowns would have run rampant if the Cubs had done the choking. Die-hard Cubs fans have a much more emotional attachment to the team, which is a good explanation for why a consistently bad team can fill the house. It's not that Sox fans are Johnny-Come-Latelys, but the Cubs have a completely different level of interest and committment.

For the record, the Sox once again dragged Steve What's-His-Name from Journey onto the stage for another awkward rendition of "Don't Stop Believing." I was hoping one of the newscasters would comment on the lameness of the song, but either they were caught up in the moment, or none of them have any balls.

12 Hours Gone: Time to Be Bitter

"Don't Stop Believing" is the worst victory theme imaginable, unless you really love figure skating or you're stuck in 1982. Former Journey lead singer Steve What's-His-Name suddenly shows up at the World Series, appearing to be more or less confused by his own presence. It seemed like someone kind of, sort of explained to him the purpose for his being there, but you could tell he didn't actually give a shit about the White Sox. The guy probably hadn't even intended on watching the games, but then Reinsdorf sent him a check and a jet, luring him out of the Los Angeles bar he's been living in for the last 10 years. Then, he's unexpectedly freezing his ass off in the cold rain in Chicago, and a couple days later a bunch of athletes whose names he doesn't even know are spraying champagne in his face in Texas. "Go--uh--Sox...? These guys are...uh...a bunch of guys who just told me this whole story again just a few seconds ago, but I don't really know that much about them. I'm here for the paycheck and some free beer, and hopefully I can hitch a ride to the airport or a strip club when they empty the stadium. Hey! Is that Lisa Dergan?!" Nice random celebrity fan: An unaffilliated, disinterested rock star from the early 1980s, who is vaguely famous for being in a band which voted to expel him. Let's tip our caps to the Sox marketing gurus who had the courage to push forward with this concept.

And what's the basis for the Sox's love for this song anyway? It must have come on the jukebox one night while they were blacked out at a bar, probably on a road trip in Cleveland, the world's most boring place. Or maybe it was Dye's prom song, or it was playing on the radio when Konerko lost his virginity. Better yet, maybe it's a huge inside joke that we won't hear about for thirty or forty years. Tell me you couldn't see Pierzynski and Rowand as old men, out on a fishing boat somewhere, laughing their butts off about how they duped all the stupid Sox fans into believing that the song doesn't suck. Or, maybe they convinced Iguchi that it's the biggest song in American rock history, just to fuck with the Japanese guy who can't speak English. That's the sort of chicanery you'd expect from the tough and gritty White Sox--not the background music for a yeast infection commercial.

One final question: If winners are associated with a song this crappy, is it really all that bad to be a loser?

Post-Season Ponderings - WS Game 4

The 2005 season died tonight at 11:01, on an Orlando Palmeiro dribbler, when Juan Uribe thew to Paul Konerko for the final out of the World Series. After 88 years of misery for the South Side of Chicago, Ozzie's Boys made a lot of people feel happier than they have been maybe in their entire lives. I don't happen to be one of them, but I just cracked a beer to salute their achievement anyhow.

In light of my appreciation for baseball history, I consider tonight to be quite a big deal, in spite of my Cubbie allegiences. Better than anyone else, I can appreciate what this means to Sox fans, even if they insist on acting like bellicose meatheads to me and mine. The feelings of relief and joy coursing through their veins must be beyond description--that is, if they're sober enough to sense anything at all.

It is not difficult to weigh the historical importance of this championship. They Sox were in first place from the first day of the season on, and they only lost one game in the post-season. They didn't rely on powerful superheroes; they were surgical in their approach, making the most of small breaks. This team never actually peaked, because they never got down in the first place. Though Cleveland made it interesting in September, it's clear to me now that the stutter was due more to Cleveland's great play than to a Sox break-down. They were completely dominating, from March to October.

Something is definitely happening with the baseball gods, as I mentioned in yesterday's post. I cannot see how the Cubs could pull it together this off-season to finish off the long-suffering trifecta, given the vast uncertainties swirling around the team at the end of the year. But I tell myself that that we're dealing with the baseball gods here, and they have an odd sense of humor.

Seamus called me as soon as the game ended. He was at a bar in Lincoln Park, and went outside before the last out. The game was being aired on the L platform at Armitage. He said the skies opened up when the last out was recorded, covering the North Side in sheets of rain. He was quite disturbed when describing it, but I said there was a very simple explanation. I told him that it was the baseball gods pissing on us, because the Cubs were supposed to get the curse-breaking started in 2003.

Before entering Wrigley for Game 6 of the 2003 NLCS, I bought a bootleg shirt from a guy behind the right field wall. It had the Cubs logo and a World Series logo, and I figured it was a safe buy because everyone thought the Cubs were going to the World Series. But a couple of hours later, Gonzalez kicked an easy grounder, the Bartman incident threw Prior for a loop, the Marlins unleased a torrent of hits, and the baseball gods abandonded Cubdom. I hid the shirt in my closet after that game.

Last winter, my parents visited my littlest sister in Boston, and returned with a Red Sox World Series t-shirt for me. I don't wear it all that often, because it's a deep maroon, and I prefer either grey or white shirts. I was very pleased to see them win it last year, even though that moment brought back painful memories of the previous October. It was then that I first had the feeling that something strange was happening.

Several years ago, during a Cubs-Sox series at Wrigley, I bought a grey shirt with a little Sox logo altered to say Sux and says "They Gone!--Since 1917." The back says "SOX SUCK" in huge black letters. The shirt simply isn't true any longer, and I would look like an idiot if I ever wore it again.

In light of the fact that all three shirts are faulty in their own way, I'm going to put them in a plastic bag and stuff it in the way back of my closet. I'll take them out in a few years when I tell my kids the tale of the the 2003, 2004 and 2005 World Series, centering the story on how the two Sox got the job done, but the Cubs fell short. My guys failed to begin a chapter of sports history that would have ranked among the greatest sports legends ever told. Now the Cubs have been left behind--again.

Rogers Hornsby once said, "People ask me what I do in the winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."

Let the staring begin.

Post-Season Ponderings - WS Game 3

What's with that cheese on Astacio's face? You'd think a professional athlete could afford plastic surgery, or at least secure an agreeable installment plan if money's tight. That thing is positively rank. If I were an opposing batter, I wouldn't even think about his pitches; I'd be frozen in fear after seeing that mushroom on his cheek. Obviously, the Sox didn't have that problem tonight. It must suck to be the guy who blew a World Series game. Maybe his agent can get him a two-for-one with a plastic surgeon and a shrink, because that guy is screwed on so many levels.

Looks like Game 4 will be pivotal for reasons much different than I thought--the Sox are definitely going to win the World Series. Cue the cries of jubilation, and "Awesome for the city", and "Greatest thing since...", yadda yadda yadda. Maybe this is a sign that the heavens have shifted, and the baseball gods are tired of the old curses. Maybe the Cubs will win it all next year, and in doing so finally vanquish baseball's sad trifecta. Or, more likely, the Cubs will finish dead-last in 2006, because everybody knows how much the baseball gods hate the Cubs, though no one seems to be able to figure out why.

Eulogy for the Post That Never Was

You might not entirely believe what I'm about to tell you, but my Firefox browser crashed last night before I could save a really terrific entry. Laughing out loud as I re-read it, I never imagined that it would be gone in less than an instant, but so it was. This will be, therefore, a funeral post, dedicated to the fond remembrance of a quality bit of writing that never got a chance. It goes without saying that the enjoyability of What I See has been deprived by this terrible waste.

The most endearing things about it were its sublime hilarity and easy presentation. The subject matter was, of course, some bit of commentary regarding a mundane detail of everyday life, a thought that came to me as the result of several rain-abbreviated walks yesterday afternoon. It's fair to approach the idea's greatness with a suspicious eye, as I will admit that it essentially consisted of someone droning on about the weather--a potentially excruciating affair, to be sure. But you ought to know by now that I would never harangue my audience with dry, bland accounts about nature-related irritations. However, in this particular instance, something tied closely to the weather gave birth to a sudden, enlightened insight, casting a new take on the changing relationships within the series of perpetual movements that constitute modern urban life.

I was particularly proud of myself for this piece of writing, because my getting really bombed, meeting a varied assortment of characters, traveling to unknown lands, or temporarily impaling myself did not precipitate the writing of this piece. Rather, it was about how the mood of both objects and people undergo a transformation once the summer ends; how draperies of different varieties of shadow and moisture suddenly descend upon us; how light and shadows begin to play tricks on us with greater consistency; and how these things and our reactions to them effect the everyday motion of life. It was mainly a lament from my perspective, which has changed in recent years from loathing warm weather to quenching for it. It was, in part, a farewell to the summer and an introduction to the winter.

You might think to yourself, "Jeez! What a wuss! If he thinks it's cold now, what's he going to do in a month?" Pull back from this thinking, if you will, because that reaction fails to appreciate the depth of the point. I wasn't merely spewing gripes about the temperature; I still look forward to trudging through snow, or else I wouldn't be sticking around here too many weeks longer. I meant to muse upon the way the weather becomes something to interact and struggle with, about how its character undergoes an abrupt personality shift, from benign companion to adversarial contestant.

Now that the moment of its inspiration appears to have passed some time ago, I cannot seem to recreate the greatness of the post, and that is why I am holding this little funeral. In hindsight, the realization might not have been so great after all, because though I attempted just a few minutes ago to continue writing along in (what I thought was) the same vein, what resulted was simply this: a eulogy for the post that never was. There's nothing much I can do but forget about it, with the confidence that new and greater ideas lie ahead, possibly even within the hour.

Three cheers for the post that never was, and three more for the new posts that soon will be.

Post-Season Ponderings - WS Game 2

Man, did Houston ever blow this one! I continue to be confused by all of this scoring. Part of me is inclined to belive that this might, after all, be the year of the White Sox. Given that the umps seem intent on giving them at least two bad, game-breaking calls per game, one can't help but wonder if Bud has something to do with this. You would think that a ball hitting a bat makes a rather distinct sound from a ball hitting an arm, but I guess Jermaine Dye is just that muscular.

Not much more to say, except: wait 'til Game 4.

Post-Season Ponderings - WS Game 1

Woah! I never thought there'd be this much scoring--the anomoly of the series, perhaps. Note that the Sox walked 5 times, while the Astros gained free passes only through two hit-by-pitches. Admittedly, none of these runners went on to score, but that's definitely atypical. Ususally walks and hitbatsmen are going to kill you. By all accounts, it was a pretty decent game, I thought.

I stand by my prediction that Game 4 will be crucial.

Random Thought of the Day

I've been using Ivory soap instead of shaving cream for the last couple weeks, and I'm pretty happy with the switch.

That's about as random as it gets.

Post-Season Ponderings - WS Prelude

On this eve of the first World Series played in my hometown since before my dad was even a teenager, this headline simply couldn't be farther from the truth for most of the people I come into contact with on a daily basis. I've said it once, and I'll say it a million times: they might as well be in Wyoming, or Cuba, or anywhere else you can think of that psychologically feels a million miles away.

Get ready for the White Trash World Series, folks. It's the pick-up trucks against the Pontiacs, so tie your kids up to the washing machine on the front porch, break out the rusty folding chair you stole from your cousin, and get a big bowl of pork rinds ready. I resent both of these teams to the core, but I have to watch because the game of baseball is so brilliant.

Because they're almost never right, especially when I'm making them, predictions are pretty stupid. But, it's the Fall Classic, so here goes anyway:

Houston in 6. Wait... Good God! Houston?! I'm so thoroughly nauseated right now. Didn't they hit like .220 as a team before the All-Star break?! Didn't Clemens go 2-4 with a 1.60-something ERA in his first 10 starts?! The Cubs were so much better than Houston over the last two years. What the fuck happened?! What's become of the promise of 2003?!

(Whew. So sorry about that. I'll be much less hysterical from here on out, I promise.)

Garcia versus Backe in Game 4 will prove to be pivotal. I think Garcia will suffer a meltdown in the fourth or fifth inning, the bullpen will come in and give up a couple of runs, possibly a cheap homer to the unfair Crawford Boxes in left field (which are barely less cheating than the Green Monster in Boston), and the Houston bullpen will shutdown the Sox's anemic offense. The Sox pitching staff won't necessarily unravel in the final two games, but it's not going to take much to win these games. This should be the lowest scoring World Series of my lifetime, if not of all time. And, for a team supposedly built on good defense, has anyone else noticed that the Sox's defense has been unmistakably shaky this entire offseason? Maybe that's just one of the things people say about teams in first place--if they're in first place, their defense must be stellar...right?

Houston definitely has a better team than last year, and they came pretty darn close to beating St. Louis in the 2004 NLCS. Swap Beltran (overrated after all!) for Tavaras (for speed) or Lamb (for power), and add a healthy Pettite--that's an upgrade in my book. Granted, the Sox starters carried the team all summer, but I saw a lot of their games (on t.v.--how else do people ever watch the Sox?), and Buehrle, Garland, Contreras, and Garcia are not going to Cooperstown any time soon. Clemens, Oswalt, and Pettite are. But, the starters won't matter all that much, at least through the first three games. The staff which allows the fewest walks will most likely win it all, and I think the Astros will take better advantage of the Sox's pitching mistakes. Also, the Sox haven't squared off against a pitching staff as good as this one, maybe all season long. Setting the monstrous homer by Pujols in Game 5 of the NLCS aside, the Houston relievers are much, much, MUCH nastier than any of the other post-season bullpens. It's not like Houston has a bunch of relievers who came out of nowhere, either. Remember, they had the courage to turn away Billy Wagner (not too smart looking back on it) and Octavio Dotel (pure genius).

Any way you cut it, this World Series will feature two teams playing good old fashioned National League-style baseball--singles; walks; sacrifices; short, compact games. Why did the Ozzie Boys kill the Junior Circuit this entire year? For the same reason the other Sox won it all last year. They both realized that OBP is inifinitely more important to scoring runs than blasting homers. This World Series will be a testament to the greatness of the small-ball concept. For the real fan, thinking man's baseball is much more exciting than watching a bunch of gorillas either strike out or launch the ball 500 feet. Give me six hits and ten strikeouts per side, and let's see who manages to tip the balance ever so slightly.

Dry Crackers

No one seemed to notice that I didn't post anything for a good week, which is a pretty rare occurance. If I were one of you, I would say something like, "My, that's strange. It's the week leading up to the World Series, and Pat's not ranting like a goon." Well, know what? I have indeed been ranting like a goon; I've just decided to keep the volume set at mute. I've got three or four unpublished posts sitting in limbo, and they'll probably never get their day in the sun here on What I See. In each case, either I haven't liked any of them that much, or it takes me so long to polish them that they begin to stagnate and bore me. Bottom line: If I don't enjoy reading it, there's no way in hell any of you will. My relative quiet is due to three overriding factors:

First, I have legitimately been seeking a job over the last week, leaving me little time to talk the long walks which inspire my most amusing thoughts.

Second, as I am getting by right now with no discernible revenue source, I haven't been getting loaded too much lately. Most of my best stuff comes out when I'm completely hammered. Most of the time I stumble home and furiously type until I pass out at my desk, so that when I wake up in the morning, I surprise myself with a nice little piece about whatever happened to be lurking around in my blackout. I like to tell myself that this allows me to be somewhat objective in my readings, as I often only vaguely remember what was going through my mind when I was writing. However, my sudden plunge into sobriety over the last couple of weeks has really taken a toll on blogger abilities.

Finally, most hours spent writing this past week were dedicated to the Pratt project. I finished the intro, and it's quite good--almost right about where I want it. I keep going back and forth on whether I want it to be a play, a story, or a screenplay. My feelings as to the form vary depending on my mood. The style is less important to me at this point than the tightness of the storytelling. If the story has strong substance, the correct form will eventually present itself.

I will get a job in the next couple weeks, at which point I will resume getting drunk with regular frequency. I bet some of you are getting bored with my random thoughts of the day, or rambling on and on about baseball, but that's all the blog material I've got at the moment. I need to add some excitment to my life. The change in the weather has really thrown me into this strange, hollow mood over the last couple weeks. As a result, the previously mentioned unpublished posts are difficult to get through and not overwhelmingly enjoyable once read, like eating a sleeve of saltine crackers without anything to drink. This state of affairs is temporary, I assure you.

Random Thought of the Day

Doesn't "manslaughter" sound much worse than "murder"? It's not like you'd say to yourself, "If given the choice, I'd rather be manslaughtered than murdered." "Murder" has a nice, clean ring to it, but "manslaughter" has a much more sinister feel--"It's not that he just died; he was manslaughtered. " What's the big difference anyway? Something stupid that lawyers invented to get people off, I guess. Either way you lablel it, the victim gets the short end of the stick.

Conversation between two people looking down onto the world from the heavens:

Guy 1: "Wow! See that guy coming out of 7-Eleven? The one with the shaved head and the face tattoo? He's the one who manslaughtered me. I can't believe he got out of jail already."

Guy 2: "Manslaughter? Woah, he got off easy. The guy who murdered me went to the chair six months ago. Your guy should be really happy."

Guy 1: "Yeah, I bet he is. But, it's not like it makes much difference to me either way. Hey, do you still feel like throwing rocks down at Hitler?"

Endurance

This thing is completely unbelievable. Rumor has it that it's been falling down for centuries, yet it looks to be holding up just fine as far as I'm concerned.

Also, I'm a great big dork.

A Mind-Bogglingly Rare Occurence

A Chicago team just won their first playoff series in forever, and I'm feeling no emotion whatsoever. I really only hate the White Sox for six days every summer, during the Crosstown Classic. Otherwise, they might as well play in a different city. It's not as though I get some sick pleasure out of actively detesting them all summer. The reason the Sox draw so poorly is that most of the people who consider themselves Sox fans are by and large much less interested in what the actual team is doing, and more in being anti-Cubs fans--and as they don't show Cubs games on the Jumbotron at the Cell, well, the Sox are lucky to sell a third of the seats.

My apathy to the Sox is strictly due to the fact that they aren't on my radar, even though they play less than 5 miles from my apartment. This kind of lack of interest in the South Side ball club fosters the kind of bitter chip on their shoulder that one expects to find in an oft-ignored, less-beloved little brother. Do I add fuel to that fire? Nope. It just makes me ignore them further. This summer was slightly different because, as a die-hard fan of baseball, it was next to impossible not to follow the best team in the game. In a typical year, when the Sox are terrible, I can't recite the Sox's starting lineup.

My disinterest in the White Sox is by no means team-specific. Generally speaking, I could care less about the American League. The 16 National League teams provide me with more than enough entertainment, thank you very much. People have said to me, "Then you're not a real baseball fan, if you're only concerned with half the teams." Now, that's just nonsense. I am generally familiar with the top 2 or 3 pitchers and 5 to 7 position players on every A.L. team, but I couldn't tell you Ichiro's 2005 season hit total. On the other hand, I can discuss at length the smallest idiosyncracies about each N.L. club, and that's enough for me.

Though the experiement has occasionally proved interesting from time to time, it's come time to end midsummer Interleague play. The World Series was much more exciting, in my opinion, before 1997. Consider this: Having never laid eyes on the other, or on any of their opponents, the two most deserving teams blindly dove right into battle, representatives of themselves, their fans, and the rest of their league. It added to the impressiveness and excitement of those match-ups in a way that's lacking these days. I remember thinking back in 1989, "If they A's are playing this particular way or employing this particular tactic against the Giants, I wonder how the Cubs would have fared?" Since there was no way of ever knowing, such conjecture was not only enjoyable, but also made for great hypothetical discussions. From a selfish standpoint, a big part of the agony of the Cubs' 2003 meltdown lied in knowing that the Cubs took 2 of 3 from the Yankees--before we improved at the trade deadline. Interleague adds woulda-coulda instead of what-if--and that makes for a very different, and less enjoyable, type of debate.

Though I had a great time at both series, there was something ultimately unsatisfying about seeing the Yankees and Red Sox play at Wrigley. I always hoped to see one or both in an October series at some point in my life. The fact both teams came to town in July made it less special somehow. It was cool, but it was anti-climactic. I remember thinking, "Wow, we beat the Yankees. Who are they playing next?" It wasn't as fantastic as I dreamed it would be.

Finally, the designated hitter rule completely turns me off of the A.L. game. I'll admit that I sometimes get lost watching A.L. games. There's too much flow to the lineups. The games seem lacking to me in some subtle way I can't quite put my finger on. A.L. baseball would be much more interesting if the hitter were married to the pitcher, so that the hitter had to be switched for every pitching change. If you're not slotted cleanup hitter A or cleanup hitter B on an A.L. roster, the batboy will probably work up more of a sweat during any given game. Likewise, it seems like every A.L. pitcher gets run out there for 7 or 8 innings every outing, even if he is getting crushed. Pinch hitting and pitching changes are the only line-up tinkerings allowed after the game starts, but neither come into play in A.L. games with much frequency. If you were a platoon-type player or a decent pitcher, you'd be much better off on an N.L. team, because at least you might get a few at-bats or innings pitched per week.

So, if you ask me what I think about the Sox winning, I say, "Good for them." After all, it's tough not to love Ozzie Guillen. I hope they have a ton of fun now while it lasts, because as a Chicago team, they're destined to go back to sub-.500 misery in the very near future. And, they'll still be stuck playing boring A.L. baseball in that terrible Ball Mall next to the housing projects.

Random Thought of the Day

Hillary Duff creeps me out. She's like eating dry packets of chicken noodle soup when you're completely trashed: The greatest thing ever if, and only if, it's the only thing avaiable. She just not hot at all. Vive seins et hanches!

Direction

I've come to a striking realization over the last few months (well, really, over the whole of my lifetime, but of late for sure): I was born to be a writer. Despite my typical anti-social tendencies, I'd actually be a great guy to have at a cocktail party. I know about all sorts of stuff. Wanna hear about econ? Done. Sociology? Done. Pop culture, music, politics, travel, movies, books, food, drink, or not much of anything at all? I'm all over all of it. I've never had a problem commenting on the things I see happening around me. How hard is it to react and/or respond? I guess that poses a problem for some people, but it's never been a problem for me. I need to channel that talent into something financially rewarding.

I'm sure that many of you are wondering, "If this guy thinks he's such a great writer, why hasn't he published anything yet?" The simple answer is: despite my usual laissez-fair approach to life, a perfectionist thrives somewhere deep down inside me, and he refuses to let go of creations before they're 100% ready to go. Life grants us the opportunity to strive to make things better until the day we stop breathing, and I've heretofore taken a similar approach to my writing. For example, I started a book during college; it's (more or less) about the wonder of youth. Though it isn't nearly finished, the few people I've shown pieces have responded very positively. Today, when I sit down and read it 10 years later, I think to myself, "Man, that's some good stuff." But I just can't sit down and finish it. Maybe I'm waiting for the perfect frame of mind that will allow me to recapture the correct tone essential to the telling of the story. I found it over and over again when I was inspired to begin writing out the story, back when I was maybe less cynical and slightly more open to the belief in wide-open possibilities, but I have yet to reclaim that place and take it for all it is worth. I will find that space at some point, but not just yet. (Incidentally, that's one of the themes of the story--waiting for the right timing.) I won't force the right time to happen--not like I could if I tried.

Getting to the point, Dahlgren came to Chitown for work tonight. I haven't gotten out to Jersey much since I moved back to Chicago a few years ago, and he's tied up with living his own life, which is completely understandable. But, the great thing about old friends: They see your strengths and your weaknesses, and they're unable to let you forget about either. I miss seeing my guys with great frequency because I miss the unique ability for self-examination presented by those interactions. I think that's why I so enjoy spending time with my family. Those closest to me know me so much better than I could ever know myself; despite my natual inclination toward isolation, I know deep down that these people hold the missing puzzle pieces to my life.

My brother, Dahlgren, Seamus, Bill, and I went to Ditka's for food and to watch the Yankees-Angels game. Needless to say, we drank a lot and it was a great time. I admit that in the past I've gone out of my way to be overly-flirty with our punky (not to mention considerably older and decidedly not hot) waitress. Tonight, however, Nellie called me out as a Ditka's regular (which I am), alluded to the fact that I stiffed her on the tip the last time I was in there (which I did), and then promptly rubbed her ass against my dangling hand. It was a big-time "woah" moment. Dahlgren had a great laugh about it.

Dahlgren and I recently discussed certain steps I might to take in order to get my life back on a successful track. I floated to him the idea that I was thinking about taking on freelance projects, so as to scrape together a living.

Brian said, "Why don't you just just write?"

"Write what?" I said.

"Write books," Dahlgren said.

"I have been all summer," I said. He looked at me with suspicion.

"I'd like to be an author as an occupation and earn enough money to pay for food and rent. But until that happens, I feel like I need to freelance for the time being. Inspiration doesn't really pay for itself."

In the end, he agreed. He's the most recent of the many people in my life who have said that I should be writing for a living, and I've always received positive feedback from him about my writing, be it this blog or any of the myriad other projects I've undertaken.

So, to prove to him and to you that I do, in fact, write with some regularity and discipline, I submit to you three synopses for the projects that have largely occupied my summer.

The first is definitely a movie. It's tentatively entitled "Scenes," and it lays out a web-like series of chance encounters that ultimately result in telling the stories of three good people trying to make their way three very different worlds. I'll withhold details of the particulars of these stories for the time being, but I will say this: the story is set entirely between the Gold Coast and the River North, because those are the neighborhoods I can recall with the greatest clarity. Another thing: you'd never see the ending coming. It's a cross between "Singles" and "Trainspotting," without the messy topics of drug addictions or twentysomething-angst-driven theatrics, neither of which I can relate in a convincing way.

The second is definitely a novel, or a novella at the very least. As yet, I have neither a title, nor the names of the main characters. I've continued on, however, because these details are easily inserted into the flow of a well-devised plot. Basically, it's the story of two people who are madly in love and live together, much to the chagrin of almost everyone around them. It's the story of why they love each other so much, and how they can find the tenacity to continue loving each other without the understanding of those around them. I know it sounds a little bit more chick-ish than you might expect, but for some reason it reads very well. I've walked by the building that I've decided will be their home every single day for the last month. One of the problems is, since that neighborhood was mostly farmland until 100 years ago, all of the addresses follow an even-odd sequence common to the metropolitan grid plan. Therefore, I am unable to assign a cutesy fictional number, such as Arthur Conan Doyle did with 221b Baker St. I fear that I will have to change either the street name, which will destroy some of the essence of the story; or use a real address, to the certain chagrin of the residents of those apartments. I informed my brother about this problem by pointing out a particular oak tree-central to the setting of the story, during our walk home from dinner this evening. He said he'd think of something, which I am sure he will. At any rate, whereas the other two projects are more artistic and creative, this one will be much more personal but very much works of the imagination. The location of their house is a necessary hang-up, because it will contribute to the story in a highly alliterative way. These people are utterly incapable of seeing the best of themselves, but together they propel one another to heights the other could never realize on their own.

Third, and finally, comes a story I have been toying around with on and off for the last several months. It is a concept for a play, and I've spent so much time with it that I'm already in love with it. My friends came up with this name over the summer: "The Death of Richard Pratt." It's about the events leading up to the last moments of someone's life. It will not be dark, or sad, or even the least bit spectacular, for that matter. It is simply the story of the main character's demise, and he goes out of his way to downplay this most ultimate human happening. Rich is, in fact, perfectly amused by the fact that he's suddenly dead, finding himself free from the burdens of material life. My goal is to convince the audience of feeling bad for Rich, insofar as we will fall in love with him and feel terrible about his death for him, because he doesn't appear to be too distraught about it himself. Two players will will have to be cast as Rich: Dead Rich will serve up commentary on the events leading to Live Rich's demise. None of these events will be particularly extraordinary, mind you. The point is not ultimately about Rich or his story, but rather serves to force the audience into inventing emotions about a fictional everyman. In that way, it's a study in psychology, and I want to see if I can pull it off. Also, I think it'd be fun to let my mind wander and wonder about the concept of what happens to us when we die. For those of you who know me very well, you know that my personality is less than dark or desultory; this will actually be a story revolving around self-discovery and illumination, set against the darkest event humans would typically care to imagine. I love playing with contrasts.

So, those are my three babies at this moment. Granted, any one of them could be shelved or abandoned on a whim. But I hope that turns out not to be the case, because I think they will work if I give them the opportunity. I know that I need to take a screenwriting class, because I don't have the innate ability to polish these stories correctly. There's a screenwriter's workshop at a theater in Lincoln Park; I swear that I'll sign up for it soon.

In the meantime, as I seek out a way to polish my skills, I'm going to abandon hope of finding a career in finance (it's just not me, regardless--maybe in spite--of my schooling) and work toward stringing together an income through multiple freelancing projects. Writing is what I do best; this is the thing I do better than anyone else I know. I have a strong desire to entertain, to educate, to shed light onto the things that people normally ignore in their everyday lives. There are so many of great moments in everyday life that are dying for greater attention and, even though I hate forcing people to do much of anything, I feel need to point the spotlight onto these moments, even if it's for just a quick second.

This--what you're reading now--is what I really love to do, and so I will be the best at it. I've had people say that reading what I write is like listening to me talk, but I think I'm a much better writer than a speaker. My brother--now he's the talker, the natural performer. At this point in my life, I'd rather be Larry David circa 1995 than the fictional Jerry Seinfeld. That's the direction I'd love to pursue with my life, the primary task that I've felt a calling for since I was five years old. It's about time I get to getting it done and, if you're still reading, you'd likely agree with me.

Playoff...No Payoff

As much as I love baseball--especially October baseball--it's painful as fuck to listen to this dope do half the games. Fuck fucking Joe fucking Morgan. Look at this cheesy fuckwad:















Thanks for not bothering to clear your schedule for Ryne Sandberg's induction, you petty, jealous, overrated fucking loser. And, thanks for leading the charge to keep Ron Santo out of the Hall of Fame. You're as classy in real life as you are interesting from the announcer's booth. If I ever had the misfortune to meet you in person, I would ask, "Are you fucking the head of programming at ESPN, his son, or both?" The baseball public hates your guts, buttfucker.

Happy Feast of the Immediate Seating!!!

What'd you do for the year's best night for dining out? Here's where I went, and (surprise!) it was almost completely empty: