Passing

I have a couple of interesting, longer posts stuck in the pipeline. For whatever reason, I haven't gotten around to finishing them. Also, I feel like getting out on the road a little bit this week.

Thank you, come again.

Conversation of the Weekend

P.J.: "Dude, you should totally hook up with that girl. [pause] I know what you're thinking: She's not that hot."

Me: "I mean, she's kinda hot, but...?"

P.J.: "No, no, no, I totally know what you mean. I didn't think she was hot until I saw her naked."

Me: "What?!"

P.J.: "Yeah, I went out back to throw away the garbage this afternoon, and when I came back in and passed the bathroom, I was like, 'Woah, excuse me! Let's get a towel over here!' Trust me, bro. She looks good naked."

Me: "But she kinda...I don't know...she sort of looks like me in a weird way."

P.J.: "That is weird, but check it out: Very clean. Very nice..."

Me: "You know what? Your life becomes more and more like a Saturday Night Live sketch every time I see you."

P.J." "Yeah! Ha! Awesome! Let's go do a shot."

Random Thought Of The Day

Approximately 0.1% of women have their natural hair color, and it's not like we don't notice.

Random Thought Of The Day

'Tis better to post nothing than to post something crappy.

Bank Branch Davidians

Depending on who you talk to, the federal government either is or isn't facing a fiscal crunch, and removing the gold standard either was or wasn't a good idea. Regardless, these people are taking things way too far.

Then You Suck

Would You Like Fries With That?

They never tear out of the batter's box.

They never take the extra base.

They lay down sacrifice bunts with one out.

They waste 250 at-bats on .200 hitters.

They give broken-down rejects like this guy multi-year, multi-million dollar contracts.

They'll probably consider re-signing this guy because he does a great job of making excuses for poor results.

They hire surly, chromosomally-deficient sewer-dwellers as ushers and security guards.

They market themselves to dilholes who hold up signs proclaiming, "Best B-Day Present: Cubs Tickets. Second Best B-Day Present: Cubs Win."

They stopped playing Van Halen's "Jump" at the beginning of the game, and, for the in-between-innings soundtrack, replaced Dixieland jazz and baseball-related classics like John Fogerty's "Centerfield" with modern pop shit by Maroon 5 and Soul Asylum.

In nearly every way imaginable, your local McDonald's management team has more skills than that of the Chicago National League Ball Club. I cannot wait for this season to be over.

Der Nachname

Munich. May, 1945.

Man: "We should really change our last name."

Woman: "I totally agree, Adolf."

Buckets, Cont.

See #30.

Sad.

You're One Too

During the Astros-Brewers game tonight, an errant fastball from Roy Oswalt (f him!) drilled Damian Miller squarely in the noggin. The beaning caused Miller's second concussion in the last two weeks and his third of the 2006 season. Though stunned, the girzzled veteran backstop eventually sat up, opened and closed his jaw a couple times, and said, "I'm o.k. I'm fine." The he got up and walked off the field. I'd bet anything that before he took his uniform off he was lobbying the trainers to let him to play tomorrow.

That makes me feel like such a pussy.

Quote Of The Week

Rambunctious Ron: "The recruiter from the school told me, 'There's a beautiful woman behind every tree in Wyoming.' Then I got out there and realized, 'Wait a minute! There ain't no fuckin' trees in Wyoming!'"

Babes Bucs Bakers Bynums Buckets

I hopped the El toward Wrigley a little bit later than usual because, frankly, who gives a fuck about the Cubs or the Pirates (henceforth, the P-rats)? After witnessing yesterday's sorry effort, I'm about ready to swear off the remainder of the season. No I'm not -- I'm just tired of all the losing and I have little recourse but to threaten absence.

Anyway, somewhere between Chicago and North, two fellow Cubs fans asked me to clarify which NFL teams are in which divisions. I told them I didn't know why the Cowboys are still in the East, so I used that odd factoid to deke out of the conversation as quickly as I was drawn in. Then, a really cute blonde climbed aboard at the North stop and stood next to me in front of the door. The first thing I noticed was that she was hot; the second that we were dressed eerily similarly: blue shirts, jeans, Cubs b.p. hat. She asked me in a throaty voice if I thought we'd be late, I said it really didn't matter since we looked like twins, and she laughed. Aha! Then two seats opened up at the Fullerton stop, so we sat down and continued flirting. Amazingly, she's as big of a Cubs freak as I am -- tonight was her 24th game of the year and my 32nd. Thankfully the train was delayed for a bit before Belmont, so we were able to talk longer than usual. She's Irish, from the North Side, went to Fenwick and DePaul, works at Chase, is single, and lives in Old Town. Things couldn't have gotten off to a better start.

Throughout the train ride, she was sipping on a Miller Lite pounder from a brown paper bag. I warned her to watch out or at least ditch the can in the train car, because I had been busted last year doing the same thing. She said she'd be fine and we kept talking. We exited together at Addison and I waited at the top of the stairs while she threw the empty into one of the trash cans on the platform. Sure enough, just as she was about to let go of the can, three undercover cops pounced on her. Fuck! I followed them as they walked her to the other end of the platform to run a background check and ticket her, but one of the thug cops said to get the hell away and, given my recent experiences, I reluctantly obliged. However, as they walked away, I shouted out that she should come find me in the Friendly Confines Cafe, where I've been spending most of my times at games lately. She looked pretty freaked out and she never did come find me, though I have to wonder if she even ended up going to the game or if they detained her for some other reason, like a parking ticket or some other equally slight infraction. Life is not fucking fair. Fuck the police.

Bewildered at and heartbroken over the inequity of it all, I ambled over to Jerry's stand for a scorecard and thereafter entered Wrigley through the right field gate. The park was not quite half empty, but it's getting there in a hurry. They've cleared away many of the temporary concession stands and some of the permanent stands are completely locked up. It was the bottom half of the first inning when I sat down in the Cafe, and the P-rats already put up two runs in the opening frame. Crap. Here we go again.

This contest, the Cubs' 68th at home, was nominally notable for an extremely dubious reason: The Cubs went into the game leading the P-rats by just 0.5 games in the Central, meaning that last place in the entire National League was on the line. The past two years I've comforted myself with the fact that, no matter how bad things got on the North Side, the Cubs would never fall to last place behind the pathetic collection that is the P-rats. Somehow, during all the awful stretches and boneheaded mistakes that cost the Cubs dozens of games these past two years, the P-rats still managed to lose more often than we did. Yet here we were, September 5, 2006, a hair's width from dead last place in the entire National League, and facing a two run defecit before the Cubs even came up to bat for their first turn. This season has been chock full of ceaseless agony to a stupefying degree.

The game was a sloppy one for a number of reasons, not least of which is the fact that the P-rats are the worst fielding team imaginable. Thanks to injuries and senseless trades, they had three marginally talented second basemen taking turns kicking the ball around at second, third, and short. They also started the arm-less Jason Bay in left and Jeromy Burnitz in right, meaning that any ball hit to either corner could easily become a double or even a triple. Also, their hot-hitting catcher, Ronny Paulino, might have the third-worst arm and defensive skills of any catcher in the big leagues, with the exception of Mike Piazza and Michael Barrett (say a prayer for him, by the way).

They say that in baseball the toughest ninety feet to get are the last ninety feet, and Cub leadoff hitter and centerfielder, Juan Pierre, exemplifies this team's frustrations. Being a true leadoff man, he's always doing everything possible to get into scoring position. Yesterday he scored once, was stranded at third twice, and was stranded at first once. Tonight he scored once and was stranded at second twice. Over the course of the last two games, he stole four bases against one caught stealing. However, his efforts are futile if the guys in the heart of the lineup can't get him around to score. If the name of the game were to collect total bases, Dusty Baker would have won four World Series rings during his four years with the Cubs. This the essence of Dustyball: Hopefully get a guy on and have him wait at second or third for a big bat to jack a home run. And what happens when your lineup is short one or two big boppers? The 2005 and 2006 Cubs happen, that's what. It's mind boggling to think about the number of guys they've left in scoring position, and tonight continued the trend. Tonight they stranded 12 guys, eight of whom were in scoring position. If that isn't the definition of offensive futility, I don't know what is. A lot of the fault lies with lineup construction, but that's a topic I'd rather not revist at the moment.

Contributing to the continuing frustrations hampering this club, the player personnel wire and subsequent WGN-broadcast spindoctoring effort by Oneri Fleita, head of the minor league system, reinforced my belief that the entire organization is utterly devoid of balls. The lineups of late make it clear that management acknowledges that the season is a lost cause. So let the kids play. Let them make mistakes. Let them learn. Let them try out for next year. Guys like Geovanny Soto, Buck Coats, and Scott Moore, who obviously have some talent but are not top-notch prospects, will finish out the year with a good number of at-bats under their belts. However, in an amazingly frustrating move, someone in the organization opted to hold off on the highly anticipated debut of phenom outfielder Felix Pie, despite the fact that he's on the 40-man roster and Jacque Jones blows in all areas of the game (except for that occasional big homer Dusty loves so much). As far as I'm concerned, the slight against Pie represents a major slap in the face to the die-hard fans who are still willing to come out to the park. The official line is that Pie still has much to learn about the game, but that's something that could be said for basically everybody in the Cubs dugout, manager and coaching staff included. The real reason they're holding him back is simple: If he came up this September, he would be eligible for free agency in 2010 instead of 2011. Once again, the Cub organization is more concerned with saving money somewhere down the line and being overly cautious when it isn't really necessary, rather than focusing on the here and now of setting into motion a sensible rebuilding process.

Returning to the field of play, Dusty further contributed to the castration of his team with another insanely peculiar subsitition at the end of the game. SS-turned-2B-turned-SS Ronny Cedeno put forth a solid effort tonight. He was 2-for-4 with a double and a run scored, made all the plays in the field he was supposed to make, and gunned down the lead runner on a nice heads-up play in the top of the ninth to prevent the winning run from reaching to third. It turns out that Ryan Dempster threw a bunch of walks and wild pitches (again), so the P-rats took the lead anyway. Regardless, Cedeno played very well.

Coming in for the save in the bottom of the ninth was right-hander Salomon Torres, best remembered for delivering the helmet-shattering beanball to Sammy Sosa in April 2004 at PNC Park that triggered the slugger's decline. Back in the present day, DLee and Jones struck out to begin the inning, then Murton and Blanco blooped a couple of singles into the short outfield. With Cedeno's spot due up next, Dusty had a pinch-hitter by the name of Freddie Bynum taking his warm up cuts. For those of you who don't know, Bynum more or less stinks. He has good speed but is a spastic at the plate and is troubled by routine plays with the glove -- he is the five years younger version of Jerry Hairston Jr. Looking back at the splits prior to tonight's game, it's tough to guess the better option versus Torres. Right-handed Cedeno was 0-for-3 lifetime against Torres, while left-handed Bynum was 0-for-2. Further, against all right-handers this season, Cedeno and Bynum's stats are more or less identical, with averages in the .265 range and on-base percentages around .300.

Now, any manager with a pair of balls and half a brain would have let Cedeno take his scheduled turn at bat. You cannot teach a player how to react to pressure; he must go out there and figure out get it done if he wants to be a baller. If the rebuilding plan includes Cedeno at either second or short next year, he needs to learn how to perform in exactly these types of situations. Instead, Dusty called for Bynum to pinch hit, thereby planting the seeds for the kid to become the next in line of players the fans despise but Dusty adores. After a halfway decent at-bat in which he fouled off a number of pitches and did a good job working the count, ultimately, as he has in 35 out of 113 previous plate appearances this season, Bynum struck out swinging, and the Cubs let another opportunity slip through their fingers. Game over. The unfathomable had become the reality.

I finished filling out all the boxes and played my customary numbers games -- figuring out in a backwards way how many double plays were turned, mathematically estimating how many runs should have been scored, and computing the starting pitchers' updated earned run averages. I circled the park once to let the lines at the El turnstiles die down, then I hopped the train home. I stopped at Tempo to pick up a bowl of split pea soup for dinner, said hey to my doorman, rode the elevator upstairs, undressed, and tried to digest the sublime ridiculousness of the night, from the star-crossed train ride right through the end of the ballgame, and all its disjointed layers of sorry, crackling melancholy.

I need a bucket -- I feel like I'm going to hurl.

Neither

Which would you rather be: The guy who got clipped in the balls by a foul ball, or the guy who got stung to death by a stingray?

Euripidean Waiting Room

Open to a black stage. A light layer of smoke swirls around on the floor. A circular bright white light slowly illuminates the center of the stage, revealing a mostly bare stage and a small gathering of people.

A man in his early 20s with light brown hair sits on a couch stage right. His arms are folded across his chest, and he wears a blue shirt, yellow tie, and khaki pants. He has a worried yet kind look on his face. He is Richard. He looks up from the floor and squints into the distance. He gets up and walks forward a few steps and begins tapping on a glass surface.

RICHARD: OK. Here goes. [taps] Hello? [taps] Hello? Is anybody there? This is strange. [pauses] I don't know what to tell you, guys. He's not around. Sucks for you.

Richard turns around and spreads out on the couch, relaxing.

A man in his mid 30s stands stage left. He is well-built with messy dark hair and a pale complexion, wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, all black. He faces stage right and leans his back against a street sign. He is Marcus. He flicks a cigarette into the distance and exhales hastily.

MARCUS: Sometimes I feel like he doesn't even remember we're in here.

RICHARD: Nah, I don't think it's that. It's like he's distracted by something.

A ravishing woman in her late 20s with perfectly styled dark hair, a green blouse, and black pants stands at the back of stage right. She is Gianna. She leans against a white doorframe. She taps her foot impatiently.

GIANNA: I don't want to sound like a bitch or anything, but frankly, I could care less what's going on with him. All I know is I've been standing in Carla's doorway for almost two months now, and I'm sick of staring at this fat old cow.

RICHARD: At least you know where you stand. He's had me running all over the place lately, like he's constantly changing the channel on a television. I could be anywhere at any second, just like that. Beginning, end, middle, with no warning whatsoever. I found out that I don't die six weeks ago, so now my past is completely different than what I thought it'd be. I'm tired of the change.

MARCUS: Aw, poor baby. I bet he hasn't thought of me in months. We were all good for a while right when he came up with me, but then he just dropped me out of nowhere. [pauses] Sorry if I'm getting you guys down. Usually I'm the life of the party. Lately, though, I've been so starved for attention, I just want to scream.

GIANNA: Oh, it's okay honey. You've got a lot of potential; I'm sure he'll come back to you.

A slender man in his mid 50s with sandy blonde sits at a plain white desk in a plain black chair at stage left. He wears a navy suit, pink shirt, and green and purple striped tie. He carries himself with a great deal of leadership and presence. He is Marshall. He rises from the chair and takes a couple steps toward Gianna.

MARSHALL: It's probably not my place to say anything, but for what it's worth, if it can help you out at all [pauses] the fact of the matter is, I've resumed being the mystery man of the story. He figured out my one really big speaking scene a while back and then [snaps fingers] away I went, back lurking around in the shadows of the waiting room. But that's mostly what I do in the story, so from a certain point of view, I suppose the waiting is actually fulfilling my ultimate purpose. Look at it this way: We're all doing exactly what he wants us to do for now. We should take satisfaction from that and be happy that we exist in the first place. Again, for what it's worth.

The group murmurs and nods in tepid agreement. Marshall sits back down at the desk and leans back in the chair, with his hands folded behind his head, and stares into the distace. The others likewise glance around at each other, bored. A moment passes in silence.

GIANNA: Rich, will you check again to see if he's there, please? I want to move but I feel like I'm stuck.

Richard walks forward and again knocks on the glass. He shakes his head and walks back over to the others. Marcus gives the post a shake, but it does not move. Marshall recrosses his legs and continues to sit silently. Gianna takes a pen she was holding behind her ear and fidgets with it. Another moment passes in silence.

A small pretty girl with a blonde ponytail quietly enters the circle of light stage right. She wears white pajama pants and an oversized blue hooded sweatshirt. She is Julie. Marcus pushes himself by the shoulders away from the sign and straightens up.

MARCUS: Yo! Check it out!

MARSHALL: And who might you be?

JULIE: Hi, I'm Julie. [somewhat sheepish] I'm the reason he's been ignoring you guys lately.

MARCUS: You're the reason? We've been here for over a year, and your name never came up once. God, why can't he focus on one thing at a time?

JULIE [hesitates]: Well, he came up with the idea for me a while ago, but then he forgot about me for a long, long time. He does that a lot. It's not intentional, he just needs to walk away to digest his thoughts every once in a while.

RICHARD: This guy...I love him, but he can be annoying sometimes. He's got the attention span of a fruit fly.

Julie pauses for a moment and looks at each of them individually. She grins broadly and pulls the sweatshirt more tightly around herself.

JULIE: Oh, don't worry about it. Getting blown off used to really piss me off, but I know it's not personal. That's just the way it is. Think of it this way: He has to get to know each of you to a totally completely insane degree, better than even you know yourself, and that can take a really long time. Sometimes he needs to read and listen to people before he can know what you will be like. If he rushes, you will not be who you should be, and then you'd be something else, something incomplete or unbelievable, and then he's definitely never going to let you go. Does that make sense?

The crowd issues a few murmurs of general recognition.

JULIE: Ok, take me for example. I thought I was dead for a while, but then I realized that that wasn't it. I realized that the story was a difficult one for him to cope with because he's creating his own alter-ego opposite me, and that can be a tricky thing to do without mimicking your actual personality. And the way that his alter-ego directly effects me, it is in a sense my story but I'm actually a secondary concern for him at this point. I know there is a beginning and an end to what I'm going to be, but I don't know exactly what's going to happen along the way. That will change constantly until he decides he's done changing it. Be patient with him, that's about all I can say. [pauses] Like I said, that's just what I think.

GIANNA: Oooh, a philosopher!

MARCUS: Wow! I never looked at it that way. So in a sense we're all getting better all the time?

JULIE: I hope so, otherwise it's all this waiting for nothing.

RICHARD: Wait, so are you somebody? Like, to us, I mean?

JULIE: I'm not sure if I am somebody, but I know for certain that I won't know any of you when I become who I am.

GIANNA [cheerfully sneering]: Think there's any chance we won't have to know the Jackals?

Three men in their early 30s enter stage left. One is tall and skinny with shaggy red hair, one is an African-American with a medium build, and one is short and stocky with close-cropped black hair. They are wearing dark suits, white shirts, and colorful ties. They are Russ, Mac, and Scoot.

RUSS: The Jackals? Please, G, this place is my only refuge from those two sadists. What's shakin' guys?

Russ, Mac, and Scoot exchange greetings with the others. They introduce themselves in turn to Julie. Russ walks over to Marcus and bums a cigarette, then walks over to Marshall's desk. Scoot and Mac turn to Rich. Scoot rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands casually resting in his pockets. Mac slowly rubs his hands together in front of him and smiles broadly.

MAC: Hey Number Twenty-Two, have we got a surprise for you.

RICHARD: Oh yeah? What?

MAC: Well, actually, it's more like two surprises in one.

RICHARD: Bring it on already.

MAC: First, we're going on a roadtrip.

Richard groans.

MAC: What? We thought you'd be psyched to get out of town!

RICHARD: Sorry, I've been running around all over the place lately. Actually, I might be the only one who sort of likes it in here. I'll go, though, I love the road.

SCOOT: Well, this isn't idle fooling around, my friend. This is a meeting with our favorite director, the one, the only --

SCOOT and MAC [in unison]: Juan Guadalupe de Sanchez-San Filipo!

RICHARD: Yes! That insane genius is back in the picture?

RUSS: God, that sounds great. I haven't seen him like three years. Any chance I might come along?

SCOOT: I'm afraid he's got other ideas in store for you Russell, and from what I've heard you're not going to like them, at least not at first. So sorry, buddy. However, Rich, there is a touch of bad news --

MAC: The meeting's in Detroit --

Richard winces.

MARSHALL: Ah, the much anticipated Detroit trip.

MAC: The good news though --

SCOOT: We're staying at the Casino Windsor on the AZ dime.

Scoot glances at Marshall and quickly looks away.

RICHARD: Whatever, it'll be nice to get away from limbo for a few days, I guess. Think we'll be staying there very long?

MAC: You never can tell with this guy. It could be a few hours, it could be a couple of weeks. There's no way to be sure.

SCOOT: We'll find out soon enough. I think you should start calling me the Road Warrior. I call, I'm driving the whole way.

Gianna begins to jump up and down as though she is pouting.

GIANNA: Oh you guys, this is so fucking not fair! Will you please hurry back so he can get me out of this stupid doorway!

MAC: Sorry, honey. This week is all about the Detroit Rock City crew and, I'm guessing, a few hours for that little lady over there --

JULIE: Actually, the way we left it, he said he'd get back to me at some point. Something about finding the old story, and a long-forgotten floppy disk or CD or something. So see you when you get back.

Mac, Scoot, and Richard say goodbye and exit stage left. Marshall and Russell exchange a glance. Marshall then looks away and stares up. Russell lights a cigarette, walks over to and begins to chat quietly with Gianna who takes a drag on his cigarette. Julie turns to Marcus.

JULIE: You know, it's the strangest thing. I've spent the last few years on the sidelines, but I can't remember what I did to pass all that time.

Marcus walks over to Julie and puts his arm around her shoulder. She looks at him cautiously as he approaches but relaxes once he is close. He puts an arm around her shoulders and guides her over to the couch.

MARCUS: Don't worry about a thing, little gal, we'll figure it out. Hey, have you ever seen New York Fashion Week?

The light slowly fades out and the stage returns to black.