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!

ANOTHER DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD: Should I be proud or ashamed of myself...that I've clearly created another Cub fan? 

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. 

UNCLE FUN: Yours truly gets a guest-shot with young Otto. The kid was thrilled, trust me.

 

THE LONELY FIRST BASEMAN: A great shot of my little #11 tending first base in his first year of real t-ball. Maybe not great in the concentration department yet, but he sure knows how to get dirty. 

 

JUST LIKE THE GRATEFUL DEAD: My two little drummer boys played a welcome concert for baby Otto last night. C.J., the older one, has some serious skills for four years old. I may have to buy him -- and me -- a real live drum set soon. 

 

'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.

June 1: Eileen's parents come to Chicago for a visit.

June 2: Eileen's mom falls and breaks her hip while walking downtown.

June 3: Eileen's mom has hip surgery at Northwestern Hospital.

June 4: Eileen's dad flies home to have a coronary catheterization. Eileen's mom stays here in the hospital.

June 7: Eileen's dad has his cororonary cath in Columbus, OH. They keep him overnight for observation. Eileen's mom moves to the rehab hospital here in Chicago.

June 8: Eileen's dad gets out of the hospital.

June 9: Eileen celebrates her 41st birthday.

June 12: My dad goes to the hospital in Detroit with chest pain and shortness of breath.

June 13: My dad undergoes a coronary cath.

June 14: My dad gets a pacemaker put in.

June 16: My dad passes a cardiac "stress test." My parents, aunt, uncle, cousins come to Chicago to attend a baby shower for my brother and his wife.

June 17: We host the baby shower at our house.

June 18: Eileen's mom is released from the hospital. Eileen accompanies her on a flight home to Columbus. Meanwhile, back in Chicgao, my mom starts running a high fever at my brother's house. It's Father's Day.

June 19: My mom goes to see a doctor, still here in Chicago. They admit her to Northwestern Hospital where she'll stay for three nights, fighting a kidney infection.

June 22: My mom is released, goes home to Michigan, still has fever.

June 24: My son C.J. begins having asthma symptoms during the night.

June 25: C.J. is admitted to Children's Hospital, where he'll spend two nights with his mother.

June 27: C.J. is released from the hospital.