A Thousand Words

Thanks, Maddog.

Random Thought Of The Day

What's the difference between reasons and excuses?

A Thousand Words

"Think we're can still win 70 games this year?"

"70? You're fuckin' with me, right?"

A Thousand Words

Somebody buy that man a beer!

Look Over Your Shoulder

"These ain't your pens, Richard! These pens belong in my house! You can't come into my kitchen, and kick my dog, and take a box full of ballpoints! Your ass must be crazy!"

Still the funiest ad campaign of all time.

Edit

In a quest for the maintenance of a minimal semblance of good taste and to preserve what thin facade of social grace and respectability that still remains, I've made the decision not to post three entries that I deemed funny but overly damn offensive. That's right -- I made the right decision in order to avoid an outside chance of hurting other people's feelings. It's not a first, but it's a rarity.

You see, the first article was a recreation of an exchange I had a couple of weeks ago with someone who mocked my italianita and subsequently got punched right in the face. The second diatribe posed the question, "What's the deal with Protestants?" The third and likely most incendiary piece centered on my contention that Puerto Ricans and homosexuals have a lot more in common than appears on the surface.

The absurd reasoning behind all three posts made me laugh out loud, which pretty much guarantees that many people would have deemed them offensive. Seeing as I receieved a warning a couple months ago from the nancies at Blogger (but originiated by an anonymous passerby) that accused some of my material of unacceptably offensive (notice they haven't taken anything down, the spineless bastards), my loyal readers must miss out on these good bits of fun for now.

Long story long, I thought blogging was the new ultimate medium for self-expression? So I have a twisted sense of humor -- so what? It's not like I loathe the things or people who are the target of my jokes; you will never hear me spout hate speech or anything approaching it. In fact, the point of all three was basically 'can't we all just get along,' which is how I sincerely feel. For that reason, I am prepared to make fun of myself in a heartbeat. As an example of the confusing modern melting pot, consider my own name: My first name comes from my Irish great-grandfater and is the only one of names that makes clear sense; my middle name sounds very Italian, comes from a French saint though I am not French, and I am indeed Italian but from the other side of the family tree; and my family name was invented because my Polish great-grandfater realized that no one in America could figure out how to spell the real name. Out of the confusion over this and other cultural factors, I view things as an American and nothing else. The point is, race and ethnicity ought to be silly factors in the world's first liberal democracy, but people still get easily irked at the slightest offense. Until we look at each other as just Americans, we won't ever really be honest, and until we are honest, we won't really be funny. It's all very confusing, so I react by giving no quarter and letting everyone have it, myself included. It's not personal; take a step back and see that things are funny. Be willing to make fun of yourself, or you'll turn into a hugely unfunny dick.

Anyway, moving on from that mini-rant, look for the aforementioned posts in the archive at some point in the future. Discretion definitely blows, but just for the time being.

Pruitt Update

I had an explosively creative week this week. On more than one occasion, so intense did my conversations with myself become that I pull off the highway and write furiously into this little book I carry around, just filling up page after page without even realizing it. Notes, partial conversations, settings, plot points, all these amazing little details just kept coming at me -- before I knew it I'd find myself with five or six typed pages worth of useable material. I felt terrific.

At this point, the story has long since moved out of my control and developed its own momentum. This morning, for example, I was staring up at the sky behind my shades, sitting on a bench under a tree next to my building, having an espresso and a smoke for breakfast, and I suddenly became fairly upset about a certain turn in the story that I hadn't foreseen. "No, no, no," I thought to myself, "Don't do it, Rich." It's a bit like watching 'Revenge of the Sith,' in so far as you don't want Anakin to become Darth Vader but you know it's inevitable. In the case of Richard Pruitt, the story isn't set in stone yet, so I might be able to find a way around what was making me so upset, but I might not be able to after all, and if I can't, well so be it. It's not my call.

The genesis of this story came from lots of places, but mostly it is an attempt to capture the struggle to break free from being a cog in a wheel you don't particularly like. Back in my management classes in grad school, every dope giving a presentation would play clips from 'Office Space,' implying that that movie was an actual representation of what life is like. I would sit there and say to myself, "That's not what it's like. This is a comedic farce! Figure it out Russian chick!" The question that reality-based art seeks to address is: What is it like? What does it feel like to be in a certain situation? How will the main character navigate a given environment? How do you control yourself in a situation that is defiantly out of your control? What would life be like if everything fell into place without your knowing it until the very end? This, though, is the biggest questions I'm hoping to address: Is there still magic in the real world?

To change the topic, but not really, a few months ago I was down in Florida with my family and a couple close friends, and I was talking to my sister's best friend (and, by extension, my surrogate little sister) about the Pruitt concept, and she said, "Why does it have to be a novel? It sounds to me like you're talking about a movie." My desire to read is insatiable, and so I hope to write a book some day to contribute something back to literature, and I think I have the talent to tell cool stories. But, realistically, the way this story is unfolding in my mind, I realize that this is really a movie -- I visualize sets and settings, and I hear a soundtrack, and I can picture the types of actors I'd like to see play different characters. I started converting passages into a rough screenplay form, and it works much better. It is also entirely possible that once I have the dialogue in place, I will go back and fill in all the sight details that distinguish books from screenplays. At any rate, my uncle is mailing me a few scripts so I can see the format and presentation of an actual script, because I've never even seen a screenplay before. This doesn't mean I won't be able to do it. Hey, maybe it will be a piece of crap. I'm not sure what other people will think of it, but I like this story and I hope you do too.

Conversation Of The Weekend

Alan, sitting down on a stool: "Man, I played like shit today."

Me: "That sucks."

Alan: "Yeah. I got a lot on my mind. My daughter is sick."

Me: "Really? What's wrong?"

Alan: "She's got a heart arrhythmia. My wife is at the hospital with her right now."

Me: "Al, let me ask you something."

Alan: "Yeah?"

Me: "If your daughter is in the hospital right now, what are you doing at the golf course?"

Al, dumbfounded: "I told my wife I was going to play, and she didn't say anything."

Me: "Maybe she didn't say anything because she's thinking, 'I'm going to divorce this guy if he leaves right now to go play golf.'"

Al: "Yeah, maybe. But she knows I need to play golf."

Need to play golf. Like it's eating or breathing. Need to play golf. Need to play golf. Ridiculous.

Bad M. Night

It pains me to say that "Lady in the Water" is one of the worst movies ever made, and it pains me even more that it was made by M. Night Shyamalan. With the exception of that piece of crap Disney movie he made with Rosie O'Donnell early in his career, Night's other movies, in my opinion, really kick ass. Usually it takes several viewings to deconstruct the various layers of meaning he weaves into the script. But after seeing "Lady," I was left thinking, "Could anyone have made this into an actual movie that worked?" And the answer I unfortunately keep coming back to is, "It was doomed from the start."

The theme of the movie was about having faith -- that tends to be the central theme of all his movies. But during "Lady," all I could keep thinking to myself was, "Faith in what? That this is a good movie? But it's not a good movie, dammit!" The cast was this odd assemblage of flat characters that are nearly impossible to connect with. The main character's backstory is given about three lines of attention, after which the story moves along without another thought. There wasn't a single moment or allusion that made me think, "That was friggin' awesome!" It was a totally flat movie, from the beginning right through to the end, utterly devoid of any deeper meaning or message. This is a fairy tale about nothing. The mystical characters neither affect any sort of change in the human characters, nor do they convey any sort of valuable moral message. At the end, the main character says, "You saved my life." Did I miss something?

Night is my favorite director of the X-generation, and all I really hope this movie doesn't sandbag his career. One bad film is unlikely to do that, but it probably means that he'll have a conisderably shorter leash than he did on his other movies. That might actually be a good thing, though, because what this movie really needed was someone to sit down and say, "Night, you should NOT make this movie. Write something else." If he had such a hankering for a fantasy movie, why didn't he accept to direct the Harry Potter series when it was offered to him? In those books and movies, J.K. Rowling created this world that was partly borrowed and partly original. In "Lady," Night just sort of throws a bunch of crap at you and expects you to believe it. The creation of myth doesn't work that way.

If you want to see a cool, underappreciated Night movie, rent the "Village." But, sad to say, don't even bother seeing "Lady."

Fine Line

I walked up to Jerry the scorecard guy by the Harry Caray statue and said, "Hey Jer, I took that pencil last night like you said and they won, so I still haven't taken it out of my pocket yet -- hopefully it's good luck." He said, "Oh sheesh! I'm out of scorecards. Watch the stand for me, would ya? I'll be back in two seconds." He ran off into the park, leaving me with about 100 programs and media guides and a dozen boxes of pencils. I stood there for a minute and smoked a cig. He came back out and asked how the golf course was. I said good. I know he doesn't golf -- he's just a grandpa and, equally, a round-the-year souvenir stand guy. In the winter he works at different theaters around town, mostly the Goodman. I saw him outside the Palace one afternoon last March and we had a nice chat. Since keeping score is my favorite thing about going to Cubs games, Jerry might be my favorite Tribune employee, players included.

Tonight was my 22nd of 44 home games. They are 9-13 in those games, which is just marginally (about 2%) better than their actual winning percentage, which comes as no surprise given the sample size. They won last night, but I can remember few details about the other 8 wins since they all came in the first two months of the season. I saw seven straight losses over the course of June and most of July, and there's no need to describe those defeats, except maybe to say that I went as the launching point for a better (or whatever you want to call it) story. I haven't written much about baseball this summer except in a peripheral sense, because most of what I've seen out on the field has made me want to vomit. What can I add to "Walker bobbled the ball," or "Jones missed both cut-off men," or "Ramirez jogged two sure doubles into singles," or "DLee isn't turning on inside fastballs like he did last year"?

I don't know what to say about it. The Cubs are a complete mess. But, the sorry level to which they have sunken allows me to get into the games -- and into fantastic seats -- for half price or less. Consider this: My brother and I went to see "Cars" last week (the detail of the animation was spectacular) and it cost about twenty bucks each for popcorn and tickets to a ninety minute film. On the other hand, my scalper gets me into the three hour game for twenty bucks and I give another $2 to Jerry for my scorecard. Sometimes I eat at the park, but usually I don't. So, the way I look at it, going to a ballgame -- even a sure-to-be bad ballgame -- provides me with a pretty good bang for my buck.

But it's not like I go because I'm getting a deal. Rationally speaking, I ought not go. I know they suck; everybody knows they suck. I go for so many other reasons besides the potential for a win. I go, first and foremost, because they are my mess, my guys, my Cubbies, even if I'd trade half of them in a heartbeat. I go because I have to believe that at some point they will get better. I go because Cedeno, Marshall, Murton, and the other rookies might become good players in the near future. I go to watch Maddux induce 40-homer guys into comeback grounders. I go to see DLee catch every throw that comes within ten feet of him. I go to watch the opposing pitcher get antsy with Pierre taking a ten-foot lead off first. I go because of the awesome lake breeze, and for the smell of hot dogs, and to spend time outside, and to people-watch. I go because my grandpa took me when I was little and I miss him. I go to scream, "America -- Fuck Yeah!" at the end of the National Anthem. I go because the summer slips away so quickly, and because I know that very soon I'll miss the rhythms of the game terribly, as I do every winter. I go because as long as I don't have a wife or kids to spend my money, I will go to half of the Cubs' home games, just like I promised myself I would when I was a kid.

You see, sports are not always about winning; sometimes it's got more to do with a thirst for the details of the moment as much as anything else, at least that's the way it goes with me. And therein, I think, lies the fine line separating what it means to like and what it means to love.

Also, happy birthday to my little sister.

A Snapshot Of The Day-To-Day

The music alarm went off at 8:15, and I stumbled over to a window to check the sky. It's not that I can actually see the weather pattern over Wisconsin from my apartment, but at least I get a read on what's generally in store for the day. The weather is my Janus: We need the rain to maintain the lushness of the greenery, but we take in considerably less money on rainy days. Today looked mostly sunny, an estimation verified by a quick check of the radar on Weather.com, to see if there were any patterns moving in from the west that might effect the afternoon. Thankfully, after a string of fog and rain, today's outlook gave every indication of a hot and sunny day. I thought for a second what that might mean to course traffic and beer sales then I jumped back into bed. Usually I go back to sleep for a little bit, but today I read because I've really gotten into this book lately.

At 9:15, the sounds of WGN blared from my secondary alarm, and from them I heard that traffic was beginning to free up. I reached over and hit snooze. Incidentally, the biggest reason for my radio alarm being tuned to WGN in the mornings is the level to which I despise the show hosts at that time -- Judy and Kathy. They're good for nothing but politcally-slanted, underinformed comments about every subject under the sun. Their call-ins likewise tend to be complete air-heads who've become soft in the brain after years of living in the suburbs and coming to believe that the suburban lifestyle is somehow remotely similar to the way the rest of the world operates. Their solution to the Middle East: Pretend like those problems don't exist and run. Their solution to education: Let's give all the teachers all the money they want. Their solution to gas prices: Everyone go out and buy a Prius. Their solution to corruption: Indict all the politicians. The foul and insipid crappiness of their material made me spring out of bed after snooze time expired, that being the only purpose of that garbage show so far as I can tell.

I plopped down and watched t.v. for a while because I'm still getting used to my new Dish Network set-up. I programmed my remote, flipped around a bit, and got bored. I took a shower, dressed, read some news on the web, and blared Panic. I've been feeling a little sluggish lately, so I decided that I was going to take a long walk before leaving for the course. I went out to my car and deposited everything I didn't need for my walk (book, wallet, house keys, phone), went to Starbucks, and wandered. It was extremely hot in the sun, but the warmth felt good and I stretched out my legs a little. I walked up the Golf Coast, turned around at the Latin School, and came back home. I'd completely sweated through my shirt, but that's a gaffe I can afford when my ultimate destination is a place where guys go to get drunk and play sports. I got into my car and drove more or less unimpeded by traffic and away from the city.

About twenty minutes from the course, I realized not only that I should have peed before I left, but also that I'd cleaned out my car out the night before, so not a single empty Gatorade or water bottle was to be had. All I could do was haul ass as best I could and grab hold of myself, and grab and haul I did. When I finally pulled up to the clubhouse, I broke into a full sprint the second the car came to a halt. One of the regulars tried to say something to me as I ran past him, but I shouted over my shoulder, "Gotta pee, Dan -- hold on!" (It's not too surprising that he acted weird toward me the rest of the day, but I had to pee so damn bad!) Juan said something too, but I cut him off with a, "Hold on!" I peed, and it was wonderful. (Quoth Eric Cartman, "You know that feeling after you take a big crap? Awesome.") I came out of the bathroom to find Juan talking to a bunch of Mexican guys. They work at a private course nearby and their boss hooks us up with deals on excess chemicals at the end of the summer, so we have a good relationship with them. I walked back out to the car and filled up my gas tank. If work didn't provide me with gas, I would go broke -- I have to fill up every two days or so. As my car was filling up, I decided that it was time to buy a case for all the loose CDs floating around in back seat, there lest my iPod runs out of batteries and it's a slow sports talk radio day. I went back and told Juan I was headed to OfficeMax.

Suburban Wisconsin looks like most other places, but the people are rarely ever good looking. I know I sound like a dick saying that, but it's rare that I'm ever blown away by a really cute girl in southeastern Wisconsin. I think this because all of the hot girls move to Chicago, Milwaukee, or Madison, leaving their hometowns with nothing but chronically chunky or otherwise physically unappealing swill. I bought more of my favorite scorekeeping pencils (the mechanical PaperMate Sharpwriter -- a highly reliable, durable writing utensil) and a CD case. I took my loot back to the course, cursing myself for forgetting batteries for my iPod speakers.

The clubhouse is what it is: A place to buy beer and golf. Nearly everyone who comes in is smoking something, be it cigar, pipe or cigarette. We have the best hot dogs in the world, or so people tell me. I am not a fan of hot dogs, but you damn well better believe I tell everyone in there that they're delicious and to get one. Some of the people like me; others do not. To some I'm the cheerful owner, a cool guy who runs a solid establishment. To others I'm the owner, the greedy authority figure who raised prices (gasp!) fifty-cents across the board before the season started and lives way, way down in the big bad city. Basically, I don't care what they think of me -- actually, it's not like I really care what anyone thinks of me anyway. It's one of my more charming and irritating personality quirks.

Back to the point, I hear a relentless flow of nonsensical commentary all the live long day. The course is nice; the course is crap; the beer is too warm; the beer is too cold; the hot dogs are bad because they're too big; the hot dogs are good because they're so big; the prices are too high; the prices are just right; the carts are slow; the carts are quick; the greens are soft; the greens are fast; the fairways are long; the rough is short; the first nine is the nicest; the second nine is the nicest; the third nine is the nicest. On and on and on it goes, different people constantly spouting their uninformed and flaccid opinions in my direction. I cannot tell you how many cigarettes I light up every day in order to endure the mindless crap comments of the customers, especially when it comes to shit they know we won't ever change or they don't know a damn thing about. Most of them think that I'm just some guy who works there, but when they discover that I'm actually the owner, then they really lay into me about what they think I should do with my business. Sometimes they are just trying to be helpful, but other times they are downright irritating. There is not right way to react to a negative commentary, and everyone is susceptible to breaking down at a certain point. For example, I once heard my grandpa say to a particularly obnoxious customer, "You know what? Just give me your twenty bucks and shut the fuck up!" You better believe the dumb guy did just that, because he knows that if he could find a better bargain somewhere else then he would go there, but he can't and he knows it so he comes to us. That's the contract we have with our customers, whether they realize it or not: We do the very best we can with the little we demand of you, and for that we could give a fuck about your suggestions. Call it stubborn, call it rude, call it what you will. Other courses in the area post six-figure losses; we've been profitable from the day we first opened twenty years ago. Why is this the case? What's the big secret? It's simple really: They approach their courses with the perspective of a golf fan; we view ours as a money-making enterprise. Also, no one in our family plays golf -- for our clan, golf is and always will be work.

Our Thursday leagues love to drink late into the night which suits me fine, as I am not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination. On a usual Thursday after 3 in the afternoon, we serve about 90 league guys and another 30 walk-ups, all of whom want to play fast while getting hammered. So, in addition to working the register and directing the flow of tee offs (we have a starter only for weekends), I also have to bag a ton of beers. I have the process down to a science: Beers from the cooler, bag from under the counter, three scoops from the ice machine, baggie tie from the bucket, slide the bag across the counter, grab the money, give them their change, wish them well on their round. Juan is much better at managing tee times and dictating to walk-ups which course they ought to play, so I usually handle beer responsibilities.

Today, however, Juan decided that he needed to cut one of the fairways on the middle nine. I yelled at him that he's got to get the new fairways guy up to par, that I need him in there with me because he knows the league guys better than I do, and that we don't have all fucking summer to teach this guy how to cut 3,000 yards in 10 hours. He shrugged and said, "Patricio, there's nothing I can do about it," and walked out, leaving me to mind the registers with Raoul. Raoul is a very hard-working and likeable guy, but his command of English is extremely limited. Peculiarly, Raoul is nearly as disinterested in playing golf as I am, so he is not very good at managing walk-up customers or directing the flow of traffic. He always says, "You go back nine or front nine, it don't matter," even if there are forty carts lined up at each tee box and the middle nine is completely empty. Raoul knows this so he went over over the beer register, I took over starter and cashier responsibilities, and Juan went out to finish some lazy guy's job while the guy went out golfing (I've already fired him once but Juan hired him back -- it's a long story involving family ties back in the old country which I do not understand). During the course of the afternoon, one of the walk-ups had the balls to bitch about the slowness of play even though I warned him before he went out that leagues were on all three courses. Juan came back to the clubhouse in the nick of time and straightened the guy out by sending him onto a different course, and the crisis was averted. Later, one of the regulars asked me, "You're always so serious. Why don't you ever smile?" I responded, "Are you a six-foot blonde with big boobs?" He laughed; I smiled.

Once the leagues were off on their merry way, the afternoon pretty much ground to a halt. Raoul went out with the beer cart, and Juan disappeared again to who knows where. I read my book, poked around the web for a couple of papers about the relationship between economics and physics, scanned my email, and won a couple of races in Gran Turismo 3 on my PS2 (the Polyphony F1 cars -- bellissima!). I flipped on the television and flipped it right off again, looking over at the newly-delivered DirectTV boxes behind the counter and wishing the guy could have installed them this morning instead of tomorrow afternoon. I ate some Doritos and stared out the window. Juan came in laughing and asked me how the rush went. I told him to go screw himself. He laughed his crooked little laugh and counted out the register. His afternoon disappearing act is without a doubt marginally tied to his recent insistence on busting my balls, a campaign of attrition launched because he's pissed that I took Tuesday off (it was raining cats and dogs all day, and fuck him anyway). We loaded the beer and soda coolers, cleaned up the patio, waited for the leagues to finish up, pulled the carts in for the night, and locked up. I stopped at the Steak 'n' Shake in Gurnee at about 10, ate a burger and read in my car, listened to Jay Hood on The Score during the ride home, and arrived back at my building at about 11.

That is pretty typical of my average day, with many of the better details left out. For those you will have to wait for the full "The Day-To-Day" which continues to grow to enormous, novella-length proportions. Regardless, based just on this snapshot, I am sure that your day was nothing at all like mine, and I absolutely love that about my life.

A Thousand Words

"Hey cabrone, check it ow -- dat clow look like a dog oo sunting!"

"Man, I never see shit like dat befoe!"

Good One

In at a crisp 2.5 hours, with lots of strikeouts, and a big triple from an underrated batting champ to win -- this was the best All-Star Game in recent memory, even if the Junior Circuit won, but what else is new?

Random Thought Of The Day

Fuck Bud Selig.

Tease

Am I going to write the really cool passage I dreamed up while driving home, a prosaic slice of nothing that you would definitely enjoy? Or should I just eat chips on the couch and watch the All-Star game?

If you guessed "Write something," then you clearly haven't been paying attention.

Cubs.com Fantasy Headline

"Perez Dealt To Tribe For Jar Of Mississippi Mud"

Quote Of The Week

My brother's roomie, Murton: "Where would you go if you were present for the final vacation of the world as we know it? I would go to...let me think...I'm thinking rabbits...bunnies...eggs...Easter! That place with the stone faces on the beach! Easter Island! Yes! Easter Island! And know who I'd take with me? I'll give you a hint: She flies in when you're little and you don't even notice when she's there. The tooth fairy! I can't say I really know all that much about her or her background, but I can tell you this: The tooth fairy is the purest woman ever to walk the earth. So that's what I would do if it was the end of existence: I would just drill the tooth fairy over and over again right there on the beach in front one of those stone faces and we would watch the world collapse all around us. It would be awesome."

Global Supporter Finale

Hey, know who won the Global Supporter? We all did, because it's finally fucking over. Appropriately, it ended in a tie -- er, a gay-ass shoot-out. What a chintz-shit to win a championship. If the World Series ended on a walk-off walk in the 11th inning, it would go down as one of the worst endings in baseball history. This Global Supporter ended not because the goalie made a save, but rather because some poor guy missed an easy shot. This proves a very important point: Soccer is about not fucking up; real sports are about doing.

Speaking of which, it's time to refocus completely on baseball. Speaking of which speaking of which, the Cubs are playing better the last couple days. I'll say it agin: Baker and Speier are staying; the rest are gone.

Quote Of The Weekend

Me, to a girl I just got done making out with in a bar: "It's not that I don't like you; it's just that I'm severely wasted, and I'd totally make out with any girl in here right now, not just you."

Random Thought Of The Day

I can't take me anywhere.

Patpourri

A really cool CBC video about the 1972-73 Cubs with a focus on Ferguson Jenkins. You gotta love old baseball movies.

Did you know that in 1971 Fergie became the first Cub to win the Cy Young Award? Three other Cubs have since been named the league's best pitcher. Bruce Sutter won it in 1977 and will enter the Hall of Fame in a couple of weeks based largely on the work he did for the evil Cardinals. Rick Sutcliffe took top honors in 1984 and inexplicably does not have a job in the Cubs broadcast booth. And last but certainly not least, Greg Maddux took home the honor in 1992, was immediately thereafter not offered a new contract by an insanely idiotic Cubs front office, and returned 11 magnificient years later to play out his stellar career on teams that completely, confoundingly, comically suck big fat balls.

Even if the present Cubbies are playing AAA-caliber ball, baseball is still the best.

Global Supporter Update

Let's be honest here: There is NOTHING exciting about the soccer penalty kick. Isn't it COMPLETELY OBVIOUS that the guy's gonna score? I will not rehash a previous point. All I'm saying is, penalty kicks make Euros and Latinos piss themselves with excitement, and I just don't fucking get why. I'll be glad once this dumb thing is over, and then immediately forget who won.

On to other bad things I wish would end, the Cubs are going to keep Dusty and fire all of the coaches except Speier -- I just get that feeling.

They Play With Balls

Big ups to the tennis gods, for pitting two of the hottest female athletes against each other this weekend. Now, if only there were such things as the super-generous TiVo gods.

A Grain Harvested In December

Remember, this was one of the guys the Three Idiots assured us would be a big help during the 2006 playoff push.

Patpourri

"It's a total disgrace /
They set the pace /
It might be a race /
The best thing I can do is run."

-- Led Zeppelin

Nothing Something Homecoming

"Oh, dude, check it out. I used most of these street names for characters in my story."

"Yeah, those are good names. Right there, boom: Ryan Delany."

"Yup, I already used both of those."

"How's that story going anyway? Have you worked on it at all lately?"

"It's overwhelming sometimes. You have to be dead on, for hours at a time, and it's tough to get the intensity flowing just like that. I need some help."

"I could help you. Let's tag-team it. I know I never asked you about your writing stuff before, but can I look?"

"For sure, that's cool."

"I mean, half the battle is just seeing the world in a certain tapestry kind of way, and you already know how to do that."

"Hell yeah, I love words. It's like picking colors for a painting: They're all right there."

"Well, you need to just focus your energies and get it done."

"I looked into this writer's commune in Lake Bluff a couple months ago, but you need like 150 pages and I'm stuck on about 70."

"That sucks."

"It's hard to find large chunks of time these days, and I don't want to do a Dan Brown mind candy pile of crap."

"Yeah, who wants that guy's legacy?"

"Not me. I mean, I'd take the money -- don't get me wrong -- but what a shit writer. Did you go to the movies at all over there?"

"We thought about going to 'Da Vinci Code' but we did something else. Where are the theaters anyway?"

"Right near St. Peter's, where you get off the bus."

"Oh. Maybe I'll go when I get back. I want to go back every five years."

"I said the same thing; I'm coming up on it next year, and it's my thirtieth. We should go. That was just an ok movie, by the way, nothing special, not much different than the book. Hey, will you come check out this improv class with me? Nobody ever wants to go. I think it'd help."

"Why not, man? I'd go with you to scope it out. Where is it?"

"Right by Wrigley, on Clark."

"I bet there's some cute wannabe actress chicas there. Do they pull people up on stage and shit?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe. Wednesday nights are the intro classes' performances. No cover, $2 domestic bottles. Let's bring those girls from last night."

"Fuck yeah, I'll do that. I'd get up there on stage in a heartbeat."

"Would you really? Just like that?"

"Are you kidding me? It's like the law, my man. You get up there with your shit as prepared as can be, and you just run with it. Lawyers are really actors in disguise."

"That's true."

"Totally true."

"Also, there's this Spike sitcom contest. It's only like 30 pages, maybe a few thousand words at the most. We could knock that shit out in an afternoon."

"That's cool."

"Really fucking cool. Let's do it."

"Oooh. Now that you mention it, know who you should call?"

"Jerry."

"Yeah, dude, call Jerry. He's always got a million projects going."

"What should I say to him? 'Hi, Jerry, it's Pat. Let's write a screenplay'?"

"I guess, or something like that. Why the hell not? He's a cool cat. Give him a ring. Mom's probably got his number somewhere."

"I already have his number. Uncle Chris told me to call him a few months ago, but I keep stalling."

"Do it up, b-snatch. You can do it. Fuck that shizzle."



Welcome home, little bro.

Conundrum

The Devil -- your sole advisor -- looks you straight in the eye and says, "Here's your best option." Do you believe him?