GIULIANI/CUBAN '08: It's gotten to the point where I can't help but be a Mark Cuban fan. Laugh at this if you want...but in an age devoid of Susan Sontags and H.L. Menckens and the like...Mark Cuban may be our leading public intellectual. He's certainly our leading public pragmatist.
WRECKED: Let me start with this: Everybody's fine.
Although C.J. was up most of the night having trouble breathing. Seems like a lot of his colds turn to asthma. I slept next to him and administered his inhaler as needed. I was too worried to sleep. I just passed the time by sweating and taking my pulse.
Although Mikey somehow climbed up on the bathroom counter around 6AM this morning, maneuevered across the sink, opened a child-resistant bottle of kids' cough syrup, and drank a fair amount of it. Granted, he did his share of spilling, too. "Mikey, did you drink this?" "Yeah! Mikey like!"
Poison Control said he would be fine, but he might act a little, well, drunk. I wasn't convinced he'd even managed to get much into his mouth. Now, after watching him stagger, giggle, and drool, I'm revising that opinion. "Music, daddy! Mikey dance!" The boy's gooped up on gop. I wish it were funnier, but it's hard to laugh through the guilt and worry. His doctor agreed with Poison Control: no big deal. Apparently it's fairly common.
C.J. seems much better, with a new day. He's tired, and he has no appetite. But he's relatively happy, and he's breathing almost clearly through his coughs.
Eileen, lucky dog, was in Memphis last night. She missed this. Good for her. Daddy was due.
Everyone in the house has been awake since 5AM now. What a debacle. Alas, we made it. It wasn't pretty, but we made it.
RAW: Yesterday it was a four-hour delay at O'Hare, en route to Newark. First one plane broke. Then they couldn't get gas in the second one. Finally we took off, landed, and I had only minutes to make my presentation. Unfortunately, I stood in the cold *downstairs*, while my driver was apparently waiting *upstairs*. I swore at the dispatcher. I'm not proud of it, but I didn't plan it. Sometimes profanity just comes out. We made it with minutes to spare.
I had 150 people waiting for me, and the A/V stuff was was not what it was supposed to be. They said it was X, and it turned out to be Y. Alas, it worked, more or less. I am a pro. Don't mean to brag, but: I made it work. That's my job.
Then my next driver was not where he was supposed to be. I found him, circling the block. I was frozen, but I did not swear. And redemption was just around the corner.
He was canny, and so he found a quick way around an overturned truck. I made it to the airport, running on one Powerbar over the course of a 12-hour day, only to discover: My flight was cancelled. That's alright. It was only the last flight of the day! I'd spend the night at Newark, eating pizza and trying to find new levels of discomfort.
And then: Deus ex machina! The earlier flight was still there. "Sir, run to Gate 14. Run!"
And then home, late, even though I was on the earlier flight. Go figure. One sick kid in my bed. One healthy wife downstairs with the other kid. Not sick, just lonely, the other kid.
And then today the sick one's cold turns into asthma. The wheezing and gasping. And that's just me. God I hate the anxiety I wear when my kids are sick. Like swimming in a sweatshirt and jeans. Heavy. Six breaths. Just relax.
So what? So I make it to dinnertime, albeit after 9PM. So a quick bottle of Chimay Blue, and ordered-in sushi. The FDA may not know it, but the buzz after raw fish is more exilarating than most controlled substances. It's a quick slap of alive, a salty, slimy, brilliant jolt of raw energy, minus the jitters. Feel good, says sushi. Full, and yet still agile. Fueled.
The wife?
Jumped the 8-bird to Memphis, headed to a meeting. Gone 'til tomorrow night. Twenty-four hours of away. Bet she sleeps like a champ tonight. As for the rest of us, I'm counting on two bedmates before dawn, and neither one likely to be good company. The sick one will come first, probably around 2AM, when the albuterol wears off completely. Six more breaths, buddy. You can do it. And then the lonely one will follow. "I want Momma." By morning I'll be wearing the both of 'em, half-dead from lack of sleep, all of us, but totally alive by dint of feeling needed. Connected.
And come tomorrow night I'll be sleeping somewhere outside of Pittsburgh, wishing I was here anyway. So why not be here now. Right. Here. Raw.
SO FAST INDEED: Something changed in our house this morning.
C.J., the nearly five-year-old, has been sick. Fever. Cough. Miserable.
Eileen took Mikey, the two-year-old, to a mom-'n'-tot class this morning, so I stayed home with old Sicky. Nothing like having Dad around to make a sick kid feel better. Right?
"I'm staying with you this morning," I told him, "but I have to do a work phone call at 10."
"Okay."
He didn't seem too heartbroken.
"So I'll need you to play by yourself for about a half hour."
"Fine," he said. "I'll play Wii."
Not very heartbroken at all.
After I finished the call, I took a couple of those little 8 oz. bottles of Coke down to the basement, his lair. I popped the cap on one for each of us, and we shared a father-son, glass-bottle-of-Coke moment. A good time was had by all. I mussed his hair, while he fixated on his favorite Noggin show, "Wow Wow Wubzie."
"Daddy?" he said.
"Yes, C.J."
"Go take a shower. I'm fine."
Have I already crossed the line from favored status to nuisance? My glass-bottle-of-Coke stunt has a shelf-life of five minutes? I had to laugh. And so I did.
Talk about your bittersweet moments.
WHAT HE SAID: My boy Scoop Jackson knows the Chicago Bears will win the Super Bowl, and he's got ten reasons why.
I LOVE REX, BUT FUNNY IS FUNNY: Once again THE ONION nails it. The headline is everything. (Hat tip to my bro' Eric who forwarded it to me.)
EASY TO LOATHE HER: So now Hillary's saying it's Bush's responsibility to have the troops out of Iraq before he leaves office. I was wondering if it was going to be easy for me to resume my profound dislike for her. The answer is: It's a layup. She is the most insincere, opportunistic, full-of-shit pol since...well, since that red-nosed gladhander named Bill that I voted for twice.
Here's where I net out on Bush/Iraq: I'm not sure whether he was deceptive about his reasons for going into Iraq. At the very least he did what many leaders (and *all* politicians) do: He read the facts in the way that most served his needs. The fact remains -- fact! -- that all of the world's major democracies and their instruments of intelligence believed Iraq/Saddam had WMD. So, for me, Bush is off the hook as to the *why* part of going to war. What he's not off the hook for, in my book, is his relentlessly incompetent prosection of the war, not to mention his pigheaded personnel decisions (leaving Rumsfield in there way too long, brushing aside Powell time after time, having Mike Brown at FEMA, putting that attorney-pal chick up for the Supremes, etc.). I want Bush out as much or more than the next guy...because he's not competent. However...
...to call Iraq Bush's problem, to say he has to meet some sort of timetable to tidy things up before the next Administration...suggests the office of the presidency is not one long line of public servants, but is instead a series of isolated fiefdoms, each separate from the next. Bullshit. Hillary voted to support the war. She should continue to support it, even after it's gone to shit. (And by support it, I don't mean she should blindly cheerlead for it. I mean she should consider appropriate strategic actions, in light of reality on the ground. If, God forbid, she were ever Commander-in-Chief, she might have to make hard decisions like this, rather than simply offer monotone-monologues. Our troops are there. Our. We will support them, regardless of Administration. Those are our boys, she should say. We all have a responsibility to them, and to our country, which supersedes party. Dumbass.)
If we need to get out, our timetable for getting out should be driven by a strategy, not an election cycle. That's the right message.
Hillary's an idiot.
SALVE FOR SLEEP: C.J., our four-year-old, has the croup, we think. Scary stuff, with the seal barks and the gasping for air. I had to go get him from his bed tonight, sling him over my shoulder as he gasped and drooled and cried, fireman-carry him upstairs, and then Eileen took him and consoled him and he went back to sleep. We've been through it before. It doesn't seem serious. And so we both seem to console *ourselves* with a basic, mildly comforting thought: "He's not dying."
Funny that the thought "he's not dying" is what passes for comfort at this lifestage. In my teens and twenties, that thought -- with its evil portent -- might have kept me up all night. Now it's the salve I need for sleep.
SIMON COWELL CAN KISS MY ASS! What's most intriguing -- what's *mesmerizing* -- about early-season AMERICAN IDOL is not the nascent talent. It's not the miserably untalented. It's the aggressive delusion with which many of these non-singers confront the judges. What is it about singing and dancing that makes so many of us think we can do it...when in reality most of us flat out suck? Singing and dancing are indeed democratic activities, available to all, born more of expression than expertise. But when you expect to win a talent competition on nothing but raw desire...emphasis on raw...well, you sure do make for great TV.
BTW, my headline is in jest. I think Simon is nothing if not a mercy killer.
NOW THAT'S A PROLOGUE: As many of you know, I'm a big fan of the series mystery, stuff by guys like Connelley, Child, Burke, Hamilton, and Parker. Oh, and Crais. Robert Crais, the guy who writes the "Elvis Cole" series. One of Crais's best characters is this stone killer-guy, Cole's sidekick Joe Pike. Crais's newest, the soon-to-be-released THE WATCHMAN, makes Pike its central character, and the first pre-release excerpt is a doozy. Can't wait. Will hafta buy the ARC on eBay.
WHY TWO-YEAR-OLDS WOULD MAKE BAD SPIES: Here's what I just heard from downstairs:
(bath sounds)
C.J.: "No, Mikey!"
(crash)
C.J. (devastated): "Waaaaaaahhh!"
Eileen (rushing in): "What happened?"
C.J. (through tears): "Mikey hurt me. He threw that at my head!"
Eileen: "Mikey, did you throw that at C.J.'s head?"
Mikey (delighted): "Yeah!"
NO FAIR: I've decided that my occasional bursts of enlightenment are often misinterpreted as ambivalence and/or apathy. Where's the sin in not getting all worked up over everything, I ask you? Sometimes not caring is the right response to calamity, chaos, and (false) pressures. Sometimes "so what" is the only honest response to somebody else's imperative.
Or maybe I'm just a jerk.
SOME IMPENETRABLE RANT ABOUT MULTICULTURALISM AND MUSIC: Over the years I've been drawn to various musical movements -- the punk movement of the mid- to late-'70s, the intellectual cardigan and spectacle set of the Smiths and their ilk, and the pastiche of early rap and hip-hop as expressed by the lineage of Grandmaster Flash to NWA to De La Soul.
It meant a lot of looks for me: First it was skateboards and short hair. Then Billy Bibbitt long-hair-on-top with shaved sides. Then baggy trousers and hoodies. I did my best.
What's entertaining of late is how these moments have all come together, how a hip-hopper like Lupe Fiasco can come out with a song like "Kick, Push" (which I discovered through Camel reader Paul), how Kanye can proximately ape the nerded-out intellectualism of shoegazers like Morrisey and new wavers like Thompson Twins, how Eminem is nothing if not the son of the Sex Pistols, a bleached-out surf punk spittin' rhymes from inside an industrial wasteland and across a cultural chasm. All of a sudden LRG is making clothes that combine all three elements into a distinctive "streetstyle" look, not neutered nor crazy-quilted, but a single unified look that says creativity and rebellion and eco-organic insouciance. It's as if the "For Us By Us" of FUBU got hip and inclusive, pan-racial, pan-socioeconomic, as if the United Colors of Bennetton spontaneously generated all around us.
I was originally just gonna post about how much I love that "Push, Kick" song, and now here I am off on some kind of writerly bullshit. Whatever. Thanks, Paul! Good song, even if I'm not sure what the difference is between a kick and a push when skateboarding...
RHYMES WITH PUKE: Now Duke says the unjustly accused lacrosse players -- the two that haven't graduated yet -- can come back to school. How big of Duke. I'm curious: Is it Duke's policy to suspend and essentially presume guilt in all criminal cases involving students?
Granted, Duke made a big mistake when they rejected my early decision application and waitlisted yours truly way back in 1984. But now they've *really* screwed up. What a total crock this case has been since day one.
PROMISES, PROMISES: For quite a few years now -- more than a decade, probably less than two -- I've been sharing New Year's resolutions with a college pal. It's pretty fun. We swap 'em right after the New Year, then we cajole and tease each other about it a bit during the year. Just a bit. No biggie. Just a fun little tradition. Anyway, here's what I just emailed him for this year:
Develop some form of ongoing spiritual practice; identify some form of spiritual community Work on some form of routine in my life, spiritual/exercise/family etc.; rituals and routines; I’m doing the individual things, but I want to put some ritual to it, to perhaps make it more effortless Finish novel by my birthday, 5/11 Do a better job with birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and other special things; remembering them, honoring them, getting special gifts, etc. Try to do at least one special, one-on-one thing with each of my sons each week Cut way down on french fries and pastries Get weight below 190 (currently 205) Exercise at least three times/week
So...what are your resolutions?
TRYING SOMETHING: This new Google-powered version of Blogger -- transparent to most of you, I'm sure -- lets me use labels for my posts. Could be interesting. Instead of creating 73 new blogs, I can just use different labels. For example, this post will be labeled "Housekeeping," a category wherein I can post general blather about blog administration and other shit you won't care to read. I'm also keen to start a series of posts about my workout routine, general healthiness, etc. (File also under "Stuff You Won't Read," right?) Anyway, just wanna see 'zactly how this new software implements the label. So this post is part administrivia, and part test. (In the event of a real post, you would be instructed to go straight to your basement and eat any crackers you could find in the cupboards.)
IF I WAS MAKING A MIX TAPE, VOL. 1: Here are some songs I'm into of late...
"These Days," Gregg Allman
You don't have to be a hippie or a Southern Fried Rocker to appreciate this ironic, wistful ode to getting older, slowing down, and keeping on.
"9 to 5," Lady Sovereign
Brit hip-hop chick with an attitude, sort of like if a 15-year-old Anabela Lwin found rap instead of Malcolm McLaren way back when.
"Pin Your Wings," Copeland
There's very little that passes for rich, intellectual rock these days. It's either minimalist indie-stuff, or teenie-bombast, or...I can't find it. Love Copeland, and love this song which, for me, channels the old supergroup Asia.
"That's That Shit," Snoop Dogg
Total comic-hop, hands wavin', nah-mean? I know I shouldn't like the Snizzle Dizzle, but I can't help it. Holla at a player!
"Honey & The Moon," Joseph Arthur
Hopeful heartache, beautiful tragedy, pressing on a bruise, just like I always like.
"In the Sun," Michael Stipe (feat. Chris Martin)
Here's Stipe at his finest, covering Joseph Arthur with the help of Mr. Paltrow.
THAT NAME IS CALLED RECIDIVISM: I've stumbled across RAISING ARIZONA a few times on cable of late, and I'm starting to think this may be the best movie ever made, or at least among them. It's so rich, so full of great lines and moments and performances...well, my capacity for viewing it seems bottomless. I'm half-tempted to buy a DVD player and a monitor and put 'em on a table somewhere with this movie on endless repeat-play.
SHOCKER! Lindsay Lohan may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer.
I LIKE YOU. YOU LIKE ME? I've long been a fan of George Saunders. His CIVILWARLAND IN BAD DECLINE and PASTORALIA are two of my favorite works of fiction in recent memory. In the latest NEW YORKER, Saunders writes a bracing satire of the BORAT phenomenon, essentially reminding us that cruelty, real bitter searing cruelty is at the core of the film. Still, I can't help but wonder: Did Saunders reach this realization in the middle of a gut-wrenching, tear-inducing laugh convulsion, as I did?
A lot of funny is mean. Alas, a lot of mean is not funny. Where do you weigh in on BORAT?
Update: Here's critic extraordinaire Anthony Lane on BORAT. Nize.
THE ONE CAT I DO LIKE: I was Amazon-surfing last night -- and truth be told I find riding the recommendation engine around Amazon more entertaining than most TV shows and movies -- and I discovered that our pal Cat Stevens has a new record out, albeit under his Yusuf Islam moniker. Fine. Nice. (Hear Borat say it: "Nize!")
Oh yeah: I'm at the Four Seasons in Houston. Work. Not bad after a week with the family, riding in the car and sleeping in the same bed and pretty much wearing each other.
Anyway, the new Stevens/Islam stuff sounds pretty nice, and it inspired me to go iTunes-surfing through his back-catalog. Next thing you know I'm downloading TEA FOR THE TILLERMAN and TEASER AND THE FIRECAT and almost feeling like I've discovered a great new artist, it's been so long since I've heard this stuff. "But I Might Die Tonight." "On the Road to Find Out." "Miles from Nowhere." Just great stuff.
Wonder who I should rediscover next...
WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO PLAY FOR HIM? Bob Knight has more apologists than any other major-league jerk I can think of. The question is not whether or not Knight was in the wrong when he smacked player Michael Prince in the jaw. Even Jay Bilas and Dick Vitale, while spinning as hard as they can in Knight's favor on ESPN, admit he probably shouldn't have put his hands on a player. In other words, he was wrong. The big story is whether or not Knight deserves discipline -- either from the NCAA, or from Texas Tech. My take: He deserves discipline from high school players, who should be smart enough not to go to school at Texas Tech and play for a guy who, although not criminal, is clearly a bully, an asshole, and a narcissist.
If you haven't seen the videotape of the incident, have a look. There's a key moment, and it's not what you think. It's not when Knight smacks Prince. It's not when Prince flexes his jaw, clearly feeling pain. Nope. It's when another nearby adult, likely a Texas Tech coach or trainer, sees the incident take place and clearly looks away in disgust. His look is nothing if not a "there he goes again" look. We all know who Bob Knight is by now, don't we?
BLOWIN' YOUR MIND AND YOUR BOOTY: Check out ol' Brooke Hogan (mentioned in the previous post) and her proud papa, the Hulkster. Can you freakin' imagine if this were your life? Hulk is your dad, and he's got you all tarted up as a hip-hop ho', all the while serving as your steroided-up carnival barker hype man? Lordy.
Like I said, girl's got a killer song, if you like the genre (pre-fab hip-hop). She do. And I do.
SHE'S A MAN, BABY! One of my habits as I drive around in rental cars in various cities is to find the local urban/dance station and crank it up real loud. Awwwwwww, yeah. You know how we do.
I'm not kidding.
Yesterday I heard what I thought was a great new urban/dance song, all over-the-top and dance-y and funny without meaning to be. I was totally digging it, right? So I listen closely, and I figure out it's probably called "About Us," on accounta the singer/rapper-girl says that phrase something like 73 times in the song.
Today I look the song up on iTunes, and holy shit: It's Brooke Hogan! The Hulkster's man-child daughter! Gnarly! I'm tellin' ya, the tune's actually pretty good. Granted, I can't bear to look at the girl for five seconds, but I'm way tempted to do some downloadin'.
I also grabbed me up some old Coolio and that newish Xtina Aguilera song.
FIRST-DRAFT AND ALL OVER THE BOARD: So yesterday I voted FOR our likely corrupt incumbent Dem governor, given that his opponent seemed slow-witted, equally corrupt, and just plain annoying. I voted AGAINST our incumbent Dem representative, just because of all the smug comments I've heard attributed to him, not to mention the fact that the guy keeps building bigger and bigger houses in our neighborhood as he earns his nominal salary as a public servant. (He won easily anyway.) I voted AGAINST the Dem running for Cook County Board president on little more than his father's name and corrupt legacy. (He won anyway, proving you can't beat the machine in Chicago.)
A little more about our congressman...the guy now lives in a roughly $1.5 to $2 million dollar home 'round the corner from us. His bootstrap story seems to preclude him coming from money. And yet he continues to be mentioned as owning significant real estate around our every gentrifying neighborhood, all the while complaining to a reliable fried of mine about all the "yuppies" moving in. Perhaps because he's Hispanic he thinks he's excluded from that category? Where is this guy getting all his big bucks, one wonders? He's not the only local politician who seems to have had unbelievable luck in real-estate "investments" over the years. (Not so long ago it was revealed that he was only paying a few hundred bucks a year in property taxes while the rest of us yuppies have been kicking in nearly $10K/year. Go figure.)
More randomness...
Don't really like anything I've seen of Pelosi. Talk about smug and self-important. Do like Barack Obama, thus far, so I hope his public presence continues to overwhelm hers, on the Dem side of the aisle. Not a Hastert fan either, so glad we'll see less of him.
Alright...time to for for a morning walk out here in Bellevue, WA. The sun is peaking through the fog, and there are more trees here than I've seen in ages.
MOVIE BLATHER: Just saw a really lame trailer for an upcoming movie, BLOOD DIAMOND. Dicaprio does one of the worst accents I've ever heard. Laughable. Reminds me of Steve Martin's attempt at THE PINK PANTHER.
Saw TALLADEGA NIGHTS on my flight. Unfortunately I ended up reading my magazine while glancing up every now and then, on accounta boredom. Pretty dumb, as expected. Still need to see LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE. Everybody says that's a good one. Can't remember the last time I saw a good movie.
TIME TO STOP THE G.O.P. I read that Clinton (figures) is the only (or first) Dem smart enough to make the most compelling (and true) argument available:
The Republicans can't handle a natural disaster (Katrina), a war (Iraq), or a scandal (Foley and the pages). They're the gang that can't shoot straight.
Also, for the record, to my friends on the Left: You were right, I was wrong.
I still believe in the idea that, in a post 9/11 world, there's a strong case to be made for pre-emptive military action in a place like Iraq. That's what I thought the war was all about. Turns out I was largely sold a bill of goods by a cabal of incompetents. Was I warned? Indeed I was. But...well...fool me twice, don't get fooled again. Enough's more than enough. I'm ashamed of my vote in the last presidential election. Ashamed in retrospect, of course. I meant well. Still, I'm going to have a tough time buying the same brand of government for a while.
My priorities for the next presidential election: Competent defense, a pro-science stem cell research policy, fiscal sanity, and a more comprehensive approach to health care.
My priority for tomorrow? Send a message.
WHEN LIFE GETS TOO HEAVY, WRITE LIGHT VERSE: Sitting at Starbucks, procrastinating. Supposedly "off" work today, but full up with emails and editing and logistical crap. Prolly about to get a parking ticket, too. Oh, and then there's the back rehab, then pick-up from school, then nanny issues, then broken stuff that needs to be fixed so it can break again, etcetera. Thank God I have no real problems. My invented and exaggerated ones are more than I can bear sometimes. Ugh, bear. Bears. Ugh.
Responsible thing to do? Toss off some verse, of course:
MORE WATER MORE THIRSTY
So much time spent
dreaming of more
time. And for what?
To have more
time to dream
of more time?
POLICE ARREST NUDE MAN WITH CONCEALED WEAPON: I'm not one to link to and/or forward "weird news" articles very often, but this story is just too good.
MIDWESTERN MELANGE: Some recent action from the COMMENTS that you don't want to miss...
An anonymous reader writes:
How many years does it take a guy to lose loyalty to his hometown teams and jump on a Chicago bandwagon. You make it sound like you have lived in Chicago your whole life. You can take the boy out of Hamiltucky..but you can't take the Hamiltucky out of the boy.
Fri Nov 03, 12:11:59 PM CST
Dear Anonymous:
Bandwagon? Prepare to learn...
I was born in Chicago in 1966 and lived here until 1974 or so. I lived in Hamiltucky from 1974 until 1982 or thereabouts. I lived in the Detroit area from 1982 until about 1989 or so, albeit with my college years ('80 - to '84) spent near Hamiltucky. I returned to Chicago in 1989 and have lived here since. Hence:
Chicago - ~25 years
Hamiltucky - ~8 years
Detroit - ~7 years
My sports allegiances are something of a mixed bag between Chicago and Detroit:
Baseball - Cubs
Basketball - Pistons
Football - Bears
Hockey - Red Wings
These allegiances were born in the heart rather than the head and are hard to explain. They probably have more to do with my parents and friends and with the rise and fall of the various sports franchises than they do with actual time "served" in any given town.
Please be advised that I was also a rabid Big Red Machine rooter in the middle '70s and actually had the good fortune to see Game 5 of the World Series in 1975. I'm much more of a Reds fan than I am a Tigers fan, and I'm also way more of a Bengals fan than I am a Lions fan, for whatever reason. Also, I cheer for Michigan over Ohio State, since they have better uniforms, a better campus, smarter alums, and a better fight song than the Bucks...
Fri Nov 03, 12:35:13 PM CST
PAGING ART LINKLETTER: Before we had children, my wife and I had the good fortune of having two beautiful Airedale Terriers. Bruno, the elder of the two, passed away before C.J. (our oldest son) was born. And Vladi, the younger of the two, passed away shortly after Mikey (our youngest son) came on the scene. (To be honest, I'm not certain I have the timing right. But I am certain it doesn't matter to this story.)
Both our boys are well aware that they were preceded in the house by these two eighty-pound furballs, as they've seen pictures and heard stories about the two "boys" we had before them.
A few mornings ago, Eileen and C.J. set out on an early-morning grocery store run. As they pulled into a parking spot, two large Airedales bounded into the window of the car next to them, panting and smiling as only Airedales can. My wife, thrilled, said to my son, "Look, C.J., look!"
"Is that God's car?" he asked.
IT'S NOT CHEATING IF EVERYONE DOES IT? I hate open secrets like this one. (A major league bullpen coach says Kenny Rogers definitely had pine tar on his hand last night.) Makes me feel so naive.
Nonetheless a great piece of reporting my Jon Heyman. Well done!
EMBEARASSING: Have there ever been a study into how people feel when their favorite sports team is getting embarassed on national television? As my Bears are now down 17-0...as they've just coughed the ball up *again*...I literally feel ill. Sick to my stomach. Nauseous. Etcetera.
I mean, I have a headache, a tummy ache, and a soul ache. It's horrible. I wish I could turn it off.
Luckily, as a Cubs fan, I keep thinking they'll turn it around any minute.
C'mon D. Hold that line! Hold that line!
Meanwhile Kornheiser and Theismann are absolutely painful to listen to. Blah blah blah.
YOU SAY FOMENTING, I SAY FERMENTING: Somewhere below in the COMMENTS, some anonymous soul opines that this blog has been "fomenting" for a while. Fomenting?
Anyway, point taken. Message to Anonymous: So glad you care.
What's on my mind as I sit here watching my beloved Bears laying an egg on Monday Night Football? I loathe Tony Kornheiser. That's one thought. I loathe Joe Theismann. That's another thought. What's wrong with my Bears? Another. Lou Piniella? Another.
Anyway, I can't help but think the Bears are one big defensive play -- interception, fumble, safety -- away from regaining momentum and disemboweling these lowly desert birds.
To think, somebody actually missed this empty blather. Ah, well. I'll get better.
WHEN I HEAR THE MUSIC, I GOT A PLACE TO GO: Took a solo trip down to HOB last night to see one of my favorite bands, Rancid.
No ticket, and sold out to boot. Crap. Hadda shell out $45 to get in.
("Hey, who's the old guy over there leaning against the bar, nursing his Budweisers?")
Well worth it! Man, these guys have to be one of the most underrated live acts around. Every time I see 'em I have fun, but last night was special, essentially a greatest hits set that found the boys sounding great, playing with spirit, and leading a frenzied crowd in what amounted to a two-hour singalong. From the "Roots Radicals" opener through the "Ruby Soho" encore (which was preceded by a truly special acoustic version of "Fall Back Down," especially poignant on the fifth anniversary of 9/11), the crowd was on its feet and in full voice.
Tim Armstrong is still a magnetic presence onstage, and one wonders if/when we'll see him onscreen. Matt Freeman must be one of the best live bassists around -- maybe only Mike Watt can touch him, and Flea looks like a pussy next to Freeman.
A night that reminded me of how much fun live music can be. It's been a while!
WHEN LOVE MEANS LETTING GO: Come election time, it's quite possible I'm going to be aligned with Christopher Buckley and six other conservatives, who feel that the best thing for the future of the conservative movement is "a session in the "time-out" chair."
Of course if it ends up McCain vs. Clinton...hell, anybody vs. Clinton...all bets are off.
SHAME ON THE TIMES: A SLATE article that agrees with me -- that the Duke "rape" case has been a crock from the get-go, and that the NYT is an aider and abetter of lies -- is here.
BROTHERS: Despite Licky's drool-bead on his chin, this is a pretty cute shot. These two get a real kick out of each other, when they're not actually kicking each other. The picture tells a good story. C.J. is a big, sweet kid. Licky is a little dynamo who thinks he's the big brother. Makes for interesting days. 
'ELLO OTTO: The march of the male hormones continued in the Hess family this past weekend, as Otto Walter Hess made his happy human debut midday on Saturday.
Weighing in at a miniscule 6 lbs., 3 oz. (which happens to be exact same birth weight as your still-petite-to-this-day favorite blogger), this hirsute young "he" emerged happy, pleasantly pink, and possessed of some serious mutton chops. More than one family member suggested the lad looked like a Young Elvis, albeit with Old Elvis' energy level. Circumsions do that to you, I guess. God knows I'd take a heck of a nap after somebody snipped off a piece of my...
Nevermind.
A hearty congrats to my brother Casey and my sister-in-law Paula, the proud parents, as they enter the land of sleepless joy.
IN A WORD, PATHETIC: For reasons known to God alone, I woke up this morning with a raging headache, a sour stomach, and a sense of impending doom.
Granted, the sky was oppressive with rain, the barometer seemed to be playing jumprope in my skull, and I did drink three beers before bed, albeit after plenty of pasta, bread, salad, and cookies.
But I slept like seven hours. Straight. I ain't sick. And I've felt as good as a forty-year-old parent of two younguns under five can feel of late. Still, morning came and bitchslapped me awake like I insulted her. Why?
Who cares why. I hurt. And then the kids intervened...
Licky grabbed up C.J.'s fake vomit thingamajig and brought it over to me.
"Salchicha!" he squeaked, using the Spanish word for his favorite food, sausage. He thrust it in my face and mangled it against my mouth. "Salchicha!"
I really felt sick. Sick sick sick. "No, Licky!"
"Salchicha," he cried out, and then scrunched up the fake spew and shoved it in his mouth.
I am going to frickin' boot. Oh, God...
He continued to gnaw on the rubber upchuck as I fled to the bathroom.
I managed to compose myself, gulping deep breaths of air. Eileen rustled the miscreants into the car and they left for a grocery store or an amusement park or something. Didn't quite catch it.
Not long after they left I ran back into the bathroom. Something was coming...
"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Hooooooooaaaaaaah! Hwup! Hwup! Hoaaaaaaaah!"
I dry-heaved like ten times, but nothing came up. I sweated. I was cold. And then it was over. No boot, so time to scoot. I stood up...
...and I crumpled. Holy crap. In all the dry heaving I had thrown my back out. I balanced the top half of my body back onto the bottom half, and stepped gingerly back to the bed. My back was in full spasms.
Lord have mercy. My wife drank the same three cans of Miller Lite I did. And here I was considering some kind of Kevorkanian intervention, while she was off with the little monsters. Was it the beer? I wasn't even buzzed. Some weird viral invader?
Again, who knows.
Now I'm propped up at my Starbucks, trying to gather my brain and my digestive track and my back back into some semblance of working order.
I did skip my coffee yesterday, which I almost never do. Maybe I should get down on my knees and say sorry to the God of Starbucks. Something. Caffeine rehab?
So the morning's off to a rough start.
RIDING FREE: Last week at our park, C.J. came up to me with a strident request. "Daddy, take my training wheels off."
Okay, fine, I thought. The boy's only four years, four months old. But if he wants 'em off, well then, off they'll come. It'll be good for him to learn about falling and, even more important, about getting back up.
First try the kid zooms across the park, no prob, no wrecks. He can do it. (Granted, there was a minor crash a few days later. "Daddy, I crashed the pole and hurt my wee-wee.")
After his Wild Ride he is exultant. And he has another request:
"Daddy, now I want a trophy."
"A what?"
"A trophy, for being a big rider."
"Okey-doke."
So we went online and found a trophy shop. He picked out the one he wanted. "That big one!" And he helped me write the inscription:
"C.J. Hess Rides a Bike Without Training Wheels, August 15, 2006."
It showed up in the mail yesterday, and it hasn't been out of his hands since.
I wonder if it'll be in his dorm room or office someday.
COFFEE FLOWING UNDERGROUND: I've decided "Once In a Lifetime" is Talking Heads' best song, not that you asked.
I'm sitting in a Starbucks, about an hour before leaving for the airport with little Mikey (now 20 months and wild and senseless), and it hits me that probably the two most interesting record releases in recent memory are a product of the Starbucks/HearMusic alliance. There's an 80's-ish compilation with the Heads, New Order, Bowie, Echo, etc., and then there's also this great Marley comp. Well done. And the coffee ain't bad either.
MAYBE IT'S HIS HIS BRAIN THAT WAS LEFT BEHIND: This Tim LaHaye character, co-author of the wacky LEFT BEHIND fantasy series, is so nutty it's almost stupefying. I'm reading this article, and about every 15 seconds I'm thinking, "You've *got* to be freakin' kidding me!" Who takes this guy seriously? The answer: a whole fuckload of people do. Your neighbors. My neighbors. Our president? Dunno. I've never heard him weigh in, but it wouldn't suprise me.
DRESSED UP LIKE A MASTERPIECE: I've long been a fan of Josh Rouse. Back when I was at RollingStone.com I happened across his stellar debut, DRESSED UP LIKE NEBRASKA. Before long I had the pleasure of doing a 'phoner with him (special to Laurel: sounds dirty -- but all it means is I conducted a phone interview with him), and I found Josh to be humble, smart, and a pleasure to talk to. When he came to Chicago to play the Empty Bottle, my brother and I snatched him up after his show and took him back to my deck for a beer. He played us a few demos that would find their way onto his second album, and he proved to be as cool a guy in person as he'd been on the phone.
Anyway, he's five or six albums into his career now, and I've remained a fan throughout. But not too long ago I bought a copy of his latest, SUBTITULO, off iTunes, and the longer I've had it on heavy rotation in my headphones, the more I have to say: This is his masterwork. If you haven't checked out Josh yet, you really ought to. And if you're looking for a place to start, just about any song off SUBTITULO will do. Like heartache? Josh has you covered. Hopeful? Ditto. The guy's channeling something as real and beautiful and awful as life itself.
THANKS FOR NOTHING: What the heck is Lou Dobb's point? How hard is it to be a hand-wringer? What does he suggest we do? Here's a newsflash: The Middle East is one giant sandy Gray Area. There is no path without conflict. And blaming the U.S. or its citizens, or...whoever he's blaming...is not worth a hill of beans. Phooey on Louie.
UNCLE: I feel like I need to write this down -- either to make sense of it, or to purge it, or maybe to memorialize it so that someday we can all take a look at it and see that we lived through it.
A CROCK INDEED: I've said it from day one: I think the Duke lacrosse scandal is a pile of shit. I think the girl is lying. I think the guys were dealt a colossal injustice because of her lying. I think the university president who suspended the program should be sued. And I think it's a shame that "frat boy" is a pejorative in this day and age (granted, these guys were not in a fraternity, per se), and that being a white athlete at an elite college makes it okay for people to assume that you're a boor, a rapist, a misogynist, a racist, etc. I mean, why else did everyone rush to judgement on these guys?
If you want to be treated with respect, here's an idea: Don't hire yourself out as a stripper and an escort; don't perform "vibrator shows" for couples; don't visit off-campus houses full of drunk guys and take off all your clothes; don't get so drunk that you can't remember anything; don't adopt a stage name of "Precious." Etc.
If you're a bouncer at a bar, don't be surprised if you find yourself embroiled in fisticuffs. And if you're an exotic dancer on a college campus, don't be surprised if a lot of drunk-idiot guys behave inappropriately toward you.
I don't believe in hate crimes, and I don't believe in date rape. There is crime. There is rape. Everything else is politics. If a rape was committed at the lacrosse house -- that is, if a woman was physically forced to perform sex acts -- then I'm all for prosecuting the perpetrators. But thus far the overwhelming preponderance of evidence that has emerged pre-trial seems to suggest that this whole thing is, in the words of our esteemed Supreme Court Justice Thomas, a "modern-day lynching."
WHICHEVER WAY THE WIND POWER BLOWS: And now I read this Roger Ebert piece and I think I better see AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH. But seriously: Is global warming a great hoax, or doomsday? Are there really Republicans out there who'd rather have oil money today and let their grandchildren fry alive tomorrow? That's the part that sounds crazy to me. Are the oil companies truly made up of people for whom greed trumps all? In all my experiences dealing with soft drink marketers and pharma execs and entertainment people, I've yet to meet any of the jackals that are supposedly behind these enterprises. Actually, as I think about it, I've met many former Royal Dutch Shell guys, and they were kind, gentle, intelligent souls. Where...what...is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but? Maybe "err on the side of caution" is the best path...? Color me perplexed. Guess I'll see the movie.
WHAT PASSES FOR AN EPIPHANY IN THIS SMALL ADDLED BRAIN: Here's a link to that HAPPINESS book I mentioned in my previous post. A very simple book, but full of little prizes. One thing that leaped out at me today: The past is gone, the future is not here yet (I'm wildly paraphrasing), and you've never yet met a present you can't deal with. Fearlessness is simply accepting the present, whatever it is.
Or something like that.
Reminds me so much of when I was running long distances. I could never conceive of running a dozen miles. But as long as I just tried to run this step, then that step, the miles just came to me. Sometimes I would feel terrible at the beginning of a run, and I'd think: I'll never make it 10 more miles. But once I gave up on that idea -- 10more miles -- and just tried to run 10 more steps, ten more seconds, ten more feet, etc. -- I always seemed to escape my mental rut. To run 12 miles, you have to have some faith. To live, same thing.
A LONG TIME AGO I USED TO POST MORE THAN ONCE A QUARTER: Global warming may well be a reality -- and based on just looking at the past 30 years, it's fact -- but articles like this make me wonder if all the shrill enviro-name-calling is just more politics, more of the left trying to claim the moral high ground rather than deal with reality. That said, there are clearly knee-jerks on the right who are equally guilty of head-in-the-sand, reactionary posturing. So...
...can't a whole bunch of us agree to be in the middle, trying to figure out what to do about real stuff?
Am reading a book called HAPPINESS right now, written by a Buddhist monk who happens to be the son of a recently departed, terribly influential French philosopher (which is neither here nor there). Anyway, the author relates a tale of a man who, called to summarize the whole of human history for a busy friend (who happens to rule the kingdom), after several tries comes up with: "They suffer."
That we will continue to suffer -- that the nature of man is to persevere, and yet to disintegrate, all at once -- is, to me, beyond dispute. That we are called to find compassion, to offer compassion to blunt the force of that suffering -- is equally apparent. What shape, compassion? What form, this anti-suffering?
Too much hand-wringing!
CENSORSHIP! Tough marketing strategy from the Dixie Chicks. "You're all a bunch of rubes! Now go buy our album." Apparently it's not working so well. Go figure.
FWAH-GRAH? NAH. I'm proud of Chicago.
CASI? NO! Sometimes I think Mike Tyson's is the most tragic story in all of sport. But John Daly gives him a run for his money.
CLIPPED: Now hockey is really dead to me.
SWEET BEARD: Check out this graphic (below) that CNN uses to front its Moussaoui trial story today. Is it just me, or it kind of silly looking? I can't stop looking at it. 
GAMEWRECKER: Bud Selig is a tone-deaf idiot. Even he can't believe the stupid shit he says.
THE LAST RITES OF THE WELFARE STATE: Is this genius or a kind of utopianism? Regardless, I love radical rethinkings like this.
FEELING VERY WRONG: I've read Eric Haney before, and I respect his career. Here he is taking apart the war, the torture, the Bush legacy. It hurts to read it.
I haven't written much about Bush and the war in a while. What's to write? I believed in the war. And I believed in the president. I read, I researched as best I could, and I voted for what appears to have been a uniquely incompetent administration. That I did so with the best of intentions leaves me with a clear conscience, but a heavy heart.
IDOL PREDICTIONS? Wow, if this site is reliable it sort of takes some of the fun out of it.
MCCAIN! So where do I send my money for the McCain in '08 fund? At this point he's my guy. Looks like I'm not alone.
GOD OF FINLAND: I'm a big Conan O'Brien fan, so I really enjoyed this story about his recent weird trip to Finland.
INVENTOR OF VERBIAGE: Me and my pal Dick were having an argument at lunch over the proper pronunciation of Cannes, as in "the Cannes Film Festival." Having been there -- hmmph -- I told him it was pronounced "can." Being kind of an intellectual snobby type, he assured me it was pronounced "con." Anyway, being the kind of nitpicker-dick that I am, always having to be in the know and whatnot, I rushed back and proved my point and e-mailed him about it. Although he was unimpressed with my victory, he was especially taken with the new expression I invented to describe what I'd done. I told him I'd done my "Goo-diligence," meaning that I'd used Google to...you get it.
And I was so proud of myself, and feeling so protective of my new term, that I rushed here to show it off to y'all.
BTW, "verbiage" has only two syllables. And you don't "pronunciate" something, you just pronounce it.
I am such a grammar prig.
THRILLWAUKEE PART THREE: And so Licky woke up at 4AM and has been up since. Unbeknownst to me, that is. I did hear him start yelling around then, but I thought he put himself back to sleep. Turns out Eileen went in there and has been rocking him for the past three hours. I awoke with a full-blown, husky-voice cold. That'll be fun for my flight tonight. Full sinuses on a little Canadair regional jet. Wah. Meanwhile C.J.'s jonesin' for an early A.M. swim. And Eileen wants a Starbucks.
THRILLWAUKEE, PART TWO: And so we rejoin the story with C.J. down for a nap, Michael down for a nap, and Eileen's Marshall's bathing suit looking to spend the weekend in Chicago in its bag...
And let me backtrack for a second to recount how we found Michael this morning. It's 6:00AM, his standard waking time, and we hear a very nonstandard croaking sound coming from his room. Nothing scary, but he sounds a little off. And well he should, since a quick inspection reveals the kid is wearing what is essentially a snot mache mask, with bloody accents all around his nostrils where he's fingernailed his discontent. Just gross. Snotbubbles rising and falling in his nostrils like a lizard's flamboyant throat thrust out in the sunlight, out and in, in and out. Yucky.
And so it's midday now, and our maniac friends and their family are arriving in Milwaukee, and I'm about to make the call that says we're OUT, we won't make it, when...
...C.J. bursts from his room and shouts, "Let's go to the hotel!" He's reborn, animated, cheeks aflush with health and anticipation. "Vamos!"
What the heck. We retrieve a clean-nosed Licky from his bed, he too wearing the glow of rediscovered health, start shoving diapers and sandals and DVDs into my couch-on-wheels, and we head-ass up to Milwaukee.
And it's been worth it. We have a giant suite with an adjoining bedroom. Licky's sprawled out in a pack-and-play next-door, and the other three of us are in here amidst left-over pizza and french fries and Kirkland Shiraz. Our friends and their frenzied progeny have just retired to their own rooms, and we're set for a 7AM rendesvous down at the water-park.
And there's a Starbucks in the lobby!
And C.J. just walked up and said, "Daddy, what planet are we on now?"
I often wonder that very thing. I'm pretty sure it's just called...
Planet Kid.
THRILLWAUKEE, PART ONE: I don't post much of late, but this seems like a good time to sling one out there into the ethers.
We had this big plan this weekend, where our maniac family and a few other maniac families were gonna head up to the Milwaukee Hilton and exploit the waterpark therein. Slides. Hot tubs. Zero-depth mayhem. Trouble was when we woke up this morning Licky was a sinus-addled mess, and C.J. was a grump. No matter. We forged ahead, even reserving a second, adjoining room so that Licky would have his own dark crib-room to mewl and puke in (reference, anyone?) as he pleased. Alas, that all changed when, near noon, C.J. clutched his tummy, screamed "Poopies are coming fast!" and stormed up the stairs to unleash rampant diahrrhea. "I want to go to bed right now," he cried, clutching his belly. "My bottom has a bug in it."
And so he literally put himself to bed, climbing in under the covers and racing off to dreamland in record time.
It seemed like all was lost then, Eileen's new Marshalls' discount suit all for naught.
Oh, shit, the pizza's here. To be continued.
