Higher Education

People usually go to college to avoid having to live in a trailer.

Declaration

Because of two separate incidents, this site is no longer a secret to anyone in my life.

First, while drunk at an Umphrey's McGee show a couple months ago, Seamus's brother made reference to a post regarding our friend Wej, much to the shock of my brother, who had previously been unaware of What I See's existence. Therefore, that cat came innocently tumbling out of the bag, in a very sorry-I-let-it-slip-that-you-have-crabs kind of way.

Second, while drinking (anyone notice a theme here?) and cruising on our boat a few weeks ago in Florida, my best friend Page's wife innocently mentioned in front of my entire family that she thinks my blog is hysterical. Therefore, the remaining cats came violently flying out of the bag, much like the lunch of an insecure teenaged girl.

As a result, please feel free to mention What I See to anyone and everyone as you see fit. Hell, you could even promote it for all I care ***as long as you do not use my last name*** in so doing.

I'll continue to maintain the use of nicknames for people in my stories, in order to protect the innocent and the not-so innocent alike. Also, this practice will continue because, after all, one of my own nicknames is Nick the Nickname Master, because I've always taken great joy in creating tags for people. Plus, I've found that the nicknames in my stories can be just as funny as the stories themselves. Whatever gets the laugh... Poo. (Did that work?)

Random Thought of the Day

I should live in California.

Not Much

Know what's been on my mind lately? Not much of anything. Some might find this distressing. For me, the quiet is more or less a welcome development.

I've been thinking about nothing as much as possible lately, because most of what I think about is, for the most part, kind of stupid. The sudden cessation of inane thoughts--or, the fodder for most What I See entries--leads me to believe that maybe I'm growing up a little bit. Either that, or I'm getting dumber by the minute, or I'm a bit depressed. Any of these three explanations is as plausible as the next, and are probably all true to some extent.

I think part of the problem is that I've been pretty boring lately. That's not to say that I haven't gone out and tried to get wild; I have. But my nights seem to follow a similar pattern: Go to a bar, drink, go to dinner, drink more, meet up with some people, drink more, go to a different bar, drink more, maybe make out with a random girl, maybe go home alone, definitely be hung over the next day. Nothing very exciting; nothing extraordinary; nothing worth writing about.

I know one thing for sure: I'm in desperate need of a muse, or of some otherwise fantastical life change that might propel me out of my writing funk. Maybe this change will come from an outside source; maybe it will come from within.

I have an interview Friday with a hedge fund, and I really hope it works out--not because I can't wait to resume my career in the world of finance, but because I'd like to do at least seven big-ticket events in the next four months: a trip to L.A. to see my family; a trip to Boston to see my littlest sister; a trip to the Mid-Atlantic to see my college buddies; a trip to Florida for Dahlgren's bachelor party; a trip to Arizona to see at least one game of the inaugural World Baseball Classic and one Cubs Spring Training Game; and to buy at least several dozen Cubs regular season tickets when they go on sale in mid-February. I'd also like money to do things like: not have the girl pay for the date; buy some new clothes, especially new pants; and get a flat-screen t.v. for my apartment. Also, as I rapidly approach my 30th year, it seems like a good time to start saving for my retirement, which I would like to happen in the next 20 or 25 years, give or take a few.

My brother often wonders aloud why I am such an ardent student of World War II, why I chose long ago to make the study of that conflict the focus of my undergraduate studies, and why I continue to read and watch as much material about it as I can--that is, when I'm not considering the mysteries of the game of baseball or 'Nova basketball. I used to go on about how WWII shaped the modern world as we know it, how it marked the fall of Europe and the rise of America as the focus of world events, and how the technological discoveries of that era marked the greatest leaps of science and innovation the world has ever known.

I've always felt that these responses were somewhat canned, more like a response to an essay question than a reflection of how I really feel. I think that the actual reason I'm infatuated with WWII is that I simply cannot comprehend what it must have been like. What was it like to see Chicago's armories full of drilling recruits, and not kids playing basketball? What was it like to walk by Navy Pier and see training planes practicing take-offs and landings, not a small amusement park capped by a giant Ferris wheel and tourists with ice cream cones? What was it like to know that your high school classmates were in faraway places like Guadalcanal and Anzio, not New York and Washington?

The big moments that tend to cause massive life changes tend to be complete surprises. For example, my father endured a brutal, horrific tragedy (the details of which I would rather withhold) that played a big part in turning him into the driven, focused person I know today. By contrast, the big crisis moments of my life were mostly self-imposed, making them somehow less credible. On the other hand, it's only human nature to protect yourself from really bad things happening. No one wakes up and says, "I could really use an 'oh shit' moment just about now." Well, I'm at the point where I would welcome a crisis. I'm not saying that I'm hoping for some global conflict to break out in order to break me out of my semi-comatose current state of life, but I sure could use a major moment of less drastic consequence to propel me from my current state of nothingness. I am more than aware of the fact that what I am doing is not quite living and more akin to existing, and it long ago ceased to be fun.

So, here's to changes. I hope one comes my way very soon, because I am not nearly as boring a person as I have been in recent weeks.

Nine Squared

Political Reality

Lurking behind every story about Canadian politics is the question, "Why didn't we have the balls to break away from the Brits back in 1776?"

The Face of the Enemy a.k.a American History

What makes America great, and what makes our southern neighbors such terrible places, gets summed up by this story: The best ones leave.

Is it possible to hate Ozzie? He actually admits to having no idea what's going on--unlike Dusty, who pretends like he's about to unleash some secret plan that will catch us all by surprise. I appreciate truth in management, someone who will never bluff. I'd prefer someone who said, in all honesty, "I have no idea what's going on; I just hope no one gets hurt." Every fan can relate to that.

By the way, pardon me for harping on baseball, but it is, after all, the greatest thing ever.

It Probably Went Something Like This

D.J.: "Alex?"

A.R.: "Yes?"

D.J.: "Yo, it's Jeter."

A.R.: "Hey, what up man?"

D.J.: "Listen, what's this crap I hear about you playing for the D.R. in the World Baseball Classic?"

A.R.: "Oh, that. Well, you know, my parents are from there, and I spent some time there when I was younger..."

D.J.: "Bro, didn't you grow up in Miami?"

A.R.: "Yeah, but Piazza's playing for Italy, and Nomar's playing for Mexico, so I just thought..."

D.J.: "Woah, woah, hold it. Let's be perfectly clear about this: If you choose to play for the Dominicans, I am going to kick your ass in kangaroo court all summer long. You feel me?"

[Pause.]

A.R.: "Well, now that you mention it, I guess it is kind of a stupid idea. I'll have my agent call Buck Martinez as soon as possible."

D.J.: "Atta boy, A-Rod. Hey, let's hit up The Mansion one night before we head up to Spring Training."

A.R.: "Cool. Call me."

D.J.: "Late."

Late Christmas Present

Please let Todd Walker be the Cubs' starting second baseman...

I Agree -- Now Make 35 Starts!

"I love playing here. I have no desire to leave," Mark Prior said. "I love playing in the city of Chicago; I love this town. I don't think I could've been as fortunate as I was to fall here out of college. Not too many people get the luxury of coming to a city like Chicago. It's a great city, a great town, and I love being here."

Remember?

Remember the story I was working on, "The Red Shoe" that I mentioned a few weeks ago? Well, how long is long enough for a short story? I can't tell if it's done or not. Please, will somebody be my editor?

Twice Dead

The weirdest thing: SportsCenter made two Dead references in the last two days. Steve Levy pointed at Bill Walton last night and said, "Sage & Spirit." Tonight, Neil Everett quoted from "St. Stephen" during a basketball highlight: "One man gathers what another man spills." Reinforcing that the Dead will never die.

I'm Confused Too

Cincy quarterback and USC alum Carson Palmer looks very confused in this photo. Maybe he's trying to figure out why he wore a Syracuse sweatshirt to today's press conference. Maybe, when he was all drugged up right after his operation, someone said him, "They announced that the new mascot for USC is the Syracuses." So he's sitting there, fighting the residual haze of anesthesia, thinking, "When the hell are they gonna quit asking about my knee and get to this name change thing?"

Yo! Somebody toss my man Carson some 'Nova threads!

Random Thought of the Day

Hot girls hang out at the dog park, but the dog park reeks like poo.

Off-Season Update

Here's to the righteously deserving Bruce Sutter, the lone Hall of Fame inductee for 2006.

I remember Sutter most vividly from his days as a Cardinal, after the Cubs traded him for Leon Durham and two guys no one remembers. (I looked them up: Ken Reitz and player-to-be-named Ty Waller.) Some of my earliest baseball memories are of fear and loathing for Sutter, Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, Terry Pendleton, and the rest of the mid-'80s Cardinals. Those guys helped me to understand the meaning of the phrase "rivalry for life."

The Cubs probably couldn't have won the East in '84 without Durham, but how did they trade Sutter? The answer came to me quite quickly: Remember back in the '80s, how teams had their starters, then they had a bunch of guys who you weren't really sure of. Bullpens weren't outs factories like they are today; they were cauldrons of confusion. The reliever label was more or less a mark of shame. Sutter, however, never expected to throw a complete game. They didn't know what to call it then, but he was the first pure specialist.

My dad, my sister, one of my uncles (I can't remember which one), and I left The Sandberg Game right before Sutter came in. We heard Ryno's first homer in the ninth on the radio in the car, and ran to the closest t.v. we could find--my grandparents' house in Sauganash--just in time to see his second homer in the tenth. The most remarkable thing about The Sandberg Game was that Bruce Sutter never, ever blew games--especially not on two homers to the same guy. He was so good, so often that had he not made the Hall, he would have been best remembered for the worst game of his career.

If you haven't watched it yet, I highly recommend you click around MLB.com to find Sutter's post-news conference interview from yesterday afternoon. It runs about 20 minutes and is very enjoyable. Contrary to my long-engrained notion that he must be a scary guy because he was such a scary pitcher, Sutter appears to be really very mellow and funny. You can sense his joy and sense of wonder at finally being elected, which makes it really easy to accept that he is now an idol. Three cheers for Bruce Sutter.



I am confused by others' analyses of the Chicago baseball balance sheet for the 2006 season.

The Cubs added two everyday, impact leaders in Juan Pierre (annual averages of .305 batting, 2 homers, 47 RBI, 43 steals) and Jacque Jones (.279-22-79-11); signed a reliable right-left set up combo of Scott Eyre and Bob Howry (combined 2005 ERA: 2.55), and extended the contract of Ryan Dempster who completed 33 of his first-ever 35 save attempts.

The White Sox added an aging Jim Thome who had fewer at-bats and a lower average than Corey Patterson in 2005 (not to mention his nagging "back" problem, i.e., he stopped taking the juice); signed sub-par (.258-14-60-11) and position-less Rob Mackowiak who couldn't even secure a starting job with the hapless Pittsburgh Pirates; traded for the usually terrible Javier Vasquez (career sub-.500 record, 4.28 ERA, and .311 opponent batting average); and gave up a guy who epitomized White Sox baseball over the last few years, Aaron Rowand.

By my accounting, the Cubs upgraded their weak outfield and bullpen, both of which crippled them last year. Meanwhile, the Sox gathered leftovers and shed a cornerstone. Yet, the national and local media seem intent on blowing Kenny Williams for his great off-season. Am I the only one who thinks that the Cubs are going to be better than the Sox next year, and that Williams is definitely not the world's greatest g.m.?



I'll be at the 2006 Cubs Convention this Friday night and all day Saturday, a Buddy Guy show at Buddy Guy's on Friday night, and the Bears-Panthers playoff game Sunday night. Needless to say, it should be the greatest weekend of this new year. The convergence of these three events means that the bulk of my weekend will be spent south of Madison Avenue, and, although I have 24 hours until I have to head down there, I'm already beginning to feel like an abrasive South Side prick.

Needless to say, I'll be sure to write loads and loads about the events of this weekend. In a new development, I'll be posting my baseball related stories on both What I See as well as a new website for which I'll be covering the Cubs. I'll post the address when everything is up and running.

Bears 20, Panthers 13. C'mon 'Skins! Detroit Rock City, here we come!



We enjoyed an extremely rare 50-degree day today, a temperature that would be more than welcome on Opening Day, let alone mid-January. I took a ride past Wrigley this afternoon, windows all rolled down, and gawked at the bleacher renovation project. The steel beams which will overhang the sidewalks on Sheffield and Waveland are in place, and the concrete stands should be poured in the next few weeks. There's going to be a large platform above the entrance across from Murphy's, below the back of the scoreboard, which will surely be a great spot for having a 5th-inning smoke and beer and for checking out intoxicated hotties.

Many people are already moaning that the Cubs have ruined the bleachers, but this is totally absurd. Let's be honest: The bleachers sucked. They're 400 or 500 feet from 98% of the action. They were packed with groups of lame tourists who occupied two spaces per person thanks to their backpacks full of crap and unassigned seating. And, there weren't nearly enough bathrooms or vending areas to satisfy thousands of people. You can't do anything about the proximity factor, but the renovations will certainly address those last two issues. The Cubs have poured anticipated revenues on the additional 1,800-odd seats into player salaries; you cannot claim that their payroll is weak. Plus, reconfiguring the bleachers should extend the practical life of Wrigley for an additional 30 or 40 years, and how would anyone have a problem with that?

I won't pass final judgement until the project is complete; I intend on keeping a very open mind about these new bleachers--and, for that matter, about the 2006 Cubs.

How to Handle a Mayoral Press Conference in Chicago

Thank everyone for coming.

Ask for the first question to be repeated.

Issue a blanket denial.

Ask for the follow up to be repeated.

Reiterate the denial.

Make a marginally witty quip.

Mention job creation or diversity.

Thank everyone for coming.

Leave the podium.

Average time of a press conference: No more than 5 minutes.

Anticipated time in office: Indefinite.

It's gotta be good to be Daley.

Apology

I haven't written anything good for a while. Sorry...

Reality Check

Third World.

First World.

6 to 1.

Thanks for coming.

Stating the Obvious

Know what's the best about sweatpants and sandals? Easy access when you're wasted.

Epilogue

I survived an experience on Monday night that was simply beyond the pale. I was coma-wasted within two hours of my arrival at Miami Beach but, with the help of my brother and others with me that night, I can now recall most details about the events in question. I'm not sure if I want to write about it in its entirety--certainly not right now, maybe in a day or two. We partied to a level of outrageousness beyond the events included in my "Mad Town" and "Tuesday Night's Cubs Game" posts of this past summer. Every single one of you will be offended.

Just to build a little excitement while I decide how or if I should write about Monday night, the following teaser will do for the time being.



On Tuesday afternoon, me, my brother and Mela, all immensely sleep-deprived and roaringly hungover, settled down for a relaxing lunch at Boston's in Delray Beach. Incidentally, Boston's is on Ocean Boulevard-A1A, the same street where, a handful of hours previously and 60 miles to the south, the three of us unleashed shocking furies onto the city of Miami Beach.

After settling in at our table, just a few yards from the tranquility of the beach, our friend began the conversation by remarking, "I spent four awesome days in Naples, hanging out at the beach, playing golf, going to nice restaurants, really winning points with my girlfriend. It was beyond perfect. Then I come to Miami, and you two motherfuckers showed up!"

All three of us couldn't help but crack up lauging.

Once the laughter ceased, my brother inquired, "Were we really that bad?"

"You guys were EMBARASSING!" came the reply.

More laughter. We couldn't help ourselves. Then silence. Then we looked at each other. Then we cracked up again.

I cannot think of one single single thing I did during my 15 hours in Miami that would possibly be described as acceptable behavior. We shocked everyone, including ourselves, and that's saying something, given both the company and the city at hand. In fact, we were so totally misbehaved, our friend fielded a half-hour phone call prior to our going to lunch, which involved his girlfriend literally crying over a number of issues including--but not limited to--how reprehensibly misbehaved his friends were. Let's put it this way: There is no way I can ever speak to our hosts again, let alone call them for a place to crash or hang out the next time I'm down in Miami. Thankfully, my brother came away from his experience at the St. James Hotel with a positive impression and a rate card.

I've got to say, even though I completely understand why I should feel shame, those of you who know me well will be aware of the fact that in a sick, twisted, uniquely Pat way, I am completely proud of myself for living to tell the tale of the South Beach Saurez.

It's the Chronic(what?)cles of Narnia

If you haven't seen this yet, prepare to laugh your ass off! (100% safe for work, by the way.)

561 Love

I'm taking tonight off from the booze, in a quest to have at least one full day of the vacation sober. As you might expect, southeast Florida is amazingly gorgeous, and my parents' house is ridiculously nice, so much so that I feel guilty about it. I'm a very lucky guy.

Since I've been more or less plastered since I stepped off the plane on Monday, I can't seem to remember enough details about any particular night to create a worthwhile post. There have been some pretty ridiculous moments, though. Maybe I'll post a compilation of them when I get home later in the week when I have some time to reminisce. I'd be pretty surprised, though, if anything comes roaring back to mind from the ether.

Drinking to the point of blackout, sleeping until noon, watching football, long walks along the beach, giving and taking ridiculous amounts of crap from and with my family, hanging out with close friends, eating like I'm going to the electric chair, reading a great book every couple days, making a few job-related inquiries--come to think of it, that differs not at all from my typical routine, but the scenery sure is a lot more tropical.

I keep reminding myself that this is not reality, that the dream will come to a crashing halt once I step off the plane Tuesday night, but I can't deal with that right now, not with a huge slice of key lime pie waiting for me in the kitchen. I love Florida.