The Legend of Bill

a Quark

Life is about comings and goings, Samuel Beckett said. It applies to life in total as well as the many episodes over the course that we find ourselves a part of. While we are the main character in our own existence, we play supporting roles in those of others: sometimes major, like being a parent or lifetime spouse, sometimes minor, like being the guy who drops a quarter while trying to fish change out of his pocket in line at a gas station in Grand Island, Neb., and hits his head on the counter.

The temporary nature of life's shifting episodes is never more on display than in school and at work. In school I was almost always the new kid, making sudden exits and entrances from K to 12 across the Rust Belt. This experience has carried forth into my adult life, where I often feel like the new guy at work years after I've started. Of course, thanks to the attrition of the recent recession, that's literally been the case with no new hires in my wake.

But generally at the office, people are hired, let go and sometimes stay longer than you do. In a big organization it's all multiplied, and the faces often change more frequently than you can follow. You may share only one conversation with someone before he or she is gone and not even know his or her name. And when you realize the absence, you're left grasping at a ghost. ("The loud-breathing guy with the smoke-colored bifocals must've been shitcanned. I don't see him anymore. I miss that guy.")

Life Rap

I love riding the bus. And one thing I've noticed over the past decade is that, much like a house, a warm bus attracts vermin during the cold months. Rats and mice I've never seen, thankfully, but bugs ... cockroaches, ants, different kinds of flying insects. They occasionally make themselves visible, even in the dead of February.

green lacewing

I don't kill bugs. Well, I do. But I feel very guilty when it happens. I will kill mosquitoes, though sometimes I blow them off my skin. I will kill thousand-leggers — those most-unwelcome Chicago visitors — because they sting. And cockroaches. I know I'm supposed to kill them, too, but once every 10 times or so I just can't. I admire their resiliency and stay my hand. Gunnery Sgt. Hartman would say that's how I become a dead marine — to hesitate at the moment of truth. But in this case I'm only letting a cockroach crawl around my house at night and eat the eyelashes of my children. (Sorry, Erika.)

That's my platform on killing bugs. I try to stop the kids from tormenting them, though they honestly don't know what they're doing. Ella "petting" an ant is meant as an affectionate gesture. She doesn't know what death is yet. Like all parents, that is the conversation I look forward to the least. In the meantime, I just try to steer them back toward the sandbox and say that the ant needs to go home. 

Futures and Pasts

The author, 26, exactly a decade ago

As you know, I don't believe in alternate universes. But I do believe in past selves. Well … I don't believe that past versions of myself exist somewhere and are either doing the same things I once did or new things because that would be believing in alternate universes, and you won't catch me that way. Uh …

Let me back up. I believe that there exist remnants from each "era" of our lives within our psyche/spirit/soul in the present. They may represent a span of years or one year (or six months or less), but they are all part of the mix. They aren't separate psyches because that would be multiple personality disorder. These are just tendencies/quirks/beliefs/habits that were born of another time in our lives and for whatever reason have largely gone unchanged up till this present second. They may never go unchanged. I don't know.

For example: Sometimes when I lie down, I like to press my head into the nook of the couch arm and back and really just — erf — snug it in there. It's pleasurable for some reason. From what I learned in childbirth class, a baby in the normal birthing position sits upside down in the pelvis with his/her head pressed against the mother's pubis bone. Maybe this tendency of mine goes back to the womb and its warm comforts. I'd kind of like to think it does.

The Next Chapter

my writing permission slip, 2003

Tomorrow I'm going to try something I haven't done since 2002. I'm going to write a short story. I've made a fuss over the past year about my choice of medium, loudly proclaiming that I was leaving playwriting, which I've pursued for nearly a decade. I guess I'm now doing it softly, but I'm appending the announcement with this: I may return again.

After that last short story I wrote, I wrangled for a year and a half with the idea of becoming a serious playwright (i.e., doing it and not just talking about it). The work of Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett and Joe Orton had captured my 26-year-old imagination, and I took a write-by-mail course through the University of Iowa, spending months crafting a play that I ultimately never finished. Regardless, by Christmas 2003 I finally decided to go all in.

I began my new creative writing career in earnest, making an attempt to work on my laptop every evening — usually in the basement of the coach house where I was living at the time. I haven't always succeeded, and much of the first year was a battle with myself to stay in the seat, but I'm proud to say that I've never let a break go on too long, unless it was an allowable one for a finished draft (a week) or finished play (a month).

Inventory (Oh Yeah)

I really like all the people I work with at the new, new Cracker Factory. But when a group of human beings get together to do complex work, sometimes miscommunication can occur, as it did today with comical, thankfully harmless, results. It reminded me of my most favorite post from my old blog, which was inspired by the boys in the tech shop way back when. They were all good guys, too.

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May. 25, 2004 - 2:08 p.m.

ANOTHER lazy workday at the offices of Woundup Corp. …

Larry: Hey, Mike. It looks like we need new toner in this printer.

Mike: Oh yeah? I’ll call the techs.

How Woundup Works

Hello. I'd like to thank you for reading Woundup. First, let me disclose that "I" am not the "I" you might be thinking of. I'm actually Ethan Kraputnik, head of the seven-person content team. Long-time Woundup readers will recall that all content here is actually the creation of a group of people in a small office on W. Hubbard St. (a.k.a. "The Magnesium Mile") in downtown Chicago.

For those of you new to this blog, yes, it's true. The "I" normally narrating these posts is a fictional construct based on a Chicago man, Mark Donahue. Let me give you a little background. …

In late 2002, Donahue — creator of the Carnegie Mellon Robotics Institute-funded Picodiribibi blog — pitched the idea of a new blog following his e-dating exploits in Chicago to Internet match site MeatMarket.com. Because Donahue's romantic prospects were zero, it quickly became a guide for young straight men on what not to do when trying to meet single women.

That Day

What more can an American say about September 11, 2001?

I lived in Brooklyn at that time, and because I had a slacker record store job I didn't need to be in Manhattan by 9, like my previous office gig. I was sleeping when my roommate Casey woke up all of us at 226 Franklin to say something was happening. His mom had called from Texas after they cut in on TV.

We were in Greenpoint, so Casey, Ted, Sterling and I all headed down to the East River to see what was going on. Both of the World Trade Center buildings had smoke coming out of them. 

The WTC was, for me, the prime symbol of New York. I had been coming there for visits since 1998, and the buildings were always the first points of the city visible over the swamplands of northern New Jersey as I approached on the bus. And when I was in Manhattan, they served as a compass point if I got turned around. They were always south.

When I moved to Brooklyn, the box factory I lived in had a no-frills metal door on its long, blank side for an entrance, and whenever I stepped out to go to work in the morning, the first thing I saw across the water was the WTC. It was always there as some kind of reminder of permanence.

The Poet Laureate of Humboldt Park

In the past year I've become a big fan of Saul Bellow. I feel bad that it took me that long to read him, but as I often say about important bands I missed when I was younger: There's only so much time and money. With books it's even more of a time commitment.

I consider Bellow America's greatest post-WW2 novelist. For me, it's also a bonus that he grew up in Humboldt Park — the neighborhood where I lived when I first moved to Chicago and now very close to my current home.

If we're to believe Charlie Citrine in "Humboldt's Gift" (my favorite Bellow novel) is a stand-in for the author himself, then Bellow lived near Kedzie and Division. Erika and I often take the kids on a jog to this intersection because there's a nice playground there.

In the book, Citrine says that by the mid-70s his old house had been torn down. Today there's a very conspicuous vacant lot on Kedzie just north of Division between two brownstones.When I'm at the playground, I like to look at that lot and think it was where Bellow's childhood home stood. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't.

The park itself makes appearances from time to time in his books — often as a symbol of the rough but uncomplicated nature of youth. Over five years of living about four blocks away, we've grown to really love the park as well: as the backdrop for a run, a kids' pumpkin-picking or a late-night drive down the boulevard, the moon on the lagoon and the skyline in the distance.

Right now I'm reading "Dangling Man," Bellow's first novel. At one point the main character, Joseph, visits the old neighborhood. And there he remembers a bit of his childhood doings in the park. This is in 1943, but I was happy to read it was much the same then as it is now:

Sunday was warm, hinting at spring. We visited the Almstads. In the evening I walked in Humboldt Park, around the lagoon, across the bridge to the boathouse where we used to discuss Man and Superman and where, even earlier, with John Pearl, I pelted the lovers on the benches below the balcony with crab apples. The air had a brackish smell of wet twigs and moldering brown seed pods, but it was soft, and through it rose, with indistinct but thrilling reality, meadows and masses of trees, blue and rufous stone and reflecting puddles. After dark, as I was returning, a warm, thick rain began to fall with no more warning than a gasp. I ran.

Sportz

I am not an athlete. My father, who coached football and basketball at the junior high where he taught, figured this out pretty quickly. After some frustration at my lack of skill, he wisely guided me toward academic pursuits. I never even played little league baseball.

But growing up I was like a lot of Americans in that I loved watching sports on TV. My young fanhood bloomed in 1984 when the Cubs got within a game of the World Series, and I was crazy about the ’85 Bears. Like many boys of my generation in Chicagoland, I knew all the words to the “Super Bowl Shuffle.” And then there was the first Bulls championship in ‘91, when I was a freshman in high school. I still get fired up when ESPN Classic shows the clinching game against the Lakers.

My tastes did change as I matured. And by age 16 I was completely into music culture. I lived and breathed rock 'n roll (and other musics) for a decade, swearing off the jockish entertainment of my boyhood. Big sports was just another abhorrent symptom of the square establishment. A frat house relic. I was so past it all.

Or so I thought. There were some blips on the screen over those years, mostly fed by my friends. I’ve never liked to tell anyone his or her passionate interest is wrong, so I would watch with them to be nice: the ’93 and ’94 Super Bowls when the Bills were destroyed by Dallas, Game Seven of the ’97 World Series, the Buffalo Sabres’ infamous loss in the ’99 Final, the Rams Super Bowl of ’00 and the Subway Series of that same year, just because I lived in New York at the time.

In the fall of 2001, my roommate Casey insisted we, as a group of young hipster dudes, watch football because it was what he did as a kid in Texas. We all thought it was a good idea in an ironic/post-ironic way and maybe it even stirred something in me of old, but the idea quickly died in the water. At the time I much rather preferred laying in my bed and staring at the ceiling to staring at a TV for three hours a pop. Little did I know that would soon change.

……………………………………….

As I’ve said before, I have an anxiety disorder. Over a period of six years, age 19-25, I managed it with medication. For a number of reasons I decided, on my own, to taper off and stop taking meds in the spring of 2002. At the time I was in a calm, safe environment — my parents' house — and had no problems whatsoever over the course of the subsequent summer. I had the thing beat, I thought. Piece of cake.

The "detox" was safe but also a bit boring. I read a lot of books and took many trips to the city but still found myself wanting stimulation, particularly on Sundays. As it happened, I was invited by some high school friends to join a fantasy football league — a newish concept in ‘02. Very soon I was hooked. I loved the trash talking, the stats, the winning.

By the time I left my parents’ house in early October for the city, my Chicago sports fandom had strangely, strongly returned. I watched the rest of the abysmal ’02 Bears season (the one in Champaign) in the basement common area of my new apartment. And when the horrid ’02-’03 Bulls season started up, I watched just about every game on regular TV that I could. It filled my evenings between the things young people normally do. Sometimes I looked forward to watching sports more than parties and shows, which were becoming old hat to me.

That December I experienced a relapse of my disorder. The summer had been misleading, as the last of the medication finally drained out of my system. It was one of the toughest months of my entire life, and I often felt I was facing it completely alone. I spent Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve by myself, holed up in my room.

If you have generalized anxiety, you know that there is an ever-present anxious track in your mind. And when the disorder flares up, it becomes louder and dominates a great deal of your waking thoughts. You need — crave — something to distract yourself, to interrupt the running commentary of worry and obsession. I had a job and a band at the time, but neither was consuming enough to allay the minute-to-minute battle going on inside my head. And I had just thrown away my last relationship, so that wasn’t an option either.

Feeling desperate, I began to listen to sports radio, AM 670 and AM 1000. I remember thinking how ridiculous it was that I'd started behaving like some elderly people who need a human voice around during the day to not feel alone. But that’s exactly the purpose it served for me. I felt about as strong as an 80-year-old man that December.

Hearing Jay Hood before I went to bed or Mike Murphy in the morning offered a bit of respite. I immersed myself further, reading local and national sports news online and in print at my job. It always provided a ready-made topic to discuss with the other men in the office. While anxiety so often separated me from people, sports brought me back toward some of them, even if it was just superficial. In those hard months anything helped.

……………………………………….

As 2003 began, I met someone. My new girlfriend didn’t really know what she was getting herself into, in terms of my anxiety and my rekindled love of sports. But on both points she was extremely sympathetic. Today I still marvel that Erika stuck it out with me that first year. My anxiety would flare up and I would spend months obsessively trying to fine-tune a response. At the worst moments, I wouldn’t leave the coach house where I lived for social events or spend the night at her place for fear of losing sleep (a trigger for panic attacks).

The rest of the year was tough. But at least I had someone to help me through it. And alongside this was the ever-present chatter of sports on radio, on TV, in the paper — it never ceased, it was always there. I got hooked again on my beloved Cubs, who were making a very exciting run to the postseason. By that fall, I had another fantasy football team and would win my first baseball championship in a roto league.

Some of my fondest memories of Chicago are from that time, and sports were weirdly often (though certainly not always) a part: sitting in the basement of the coach house watching preseason games; sitting on the brown couch at the house on Washtenaw on a Sunday, as Erika and Marie made dinner and I shouted at the players on TV; sitting in their living room while the Bartman Game unfolded. There was a lot of sitting involved.  

We still did all the things young, hip people did then. And those certainly are the more memorable memories, if that makes sense. I kept my fandom mostly under wraps, it not being particularly cool, but it did slip out at times. A friend of hers once asked me if I was “one of those guys”: a dude who had headphones secretly stuck in his ears at the family get-together, who started shouting when his team scored a touchdown. By early ’04 I wasn’t too far away from that. And the scary thing was, I didn’t care.

Erika and I moved in together that spring. There was nothing left to shield her from my total fandom. At times she lamented my strange obsession but mostly in a playful way. It wasn’t a deal-killer, and she even gamely pretended to take an interest in the NBA Finals. It kind of became our thing as the years passed.

My anxiety disorder lessened a bit, too. Cohabitation was good for me. I had a true companion to talk to, do things with, plan for the future with. And when Erika was off at class or her new bartending job, I passed the time listening to, yes, sports radio. On a Friday night I would have a couple beers, catch a few hours of Me and Z, doze a little, then wake to pick her up from work at the end of the shift. I’d listen to Jim Rome on the way there.

By the time of our wedding in June 2005, I had become an old pro. I'd watch a baseball or basketball game at Tuman’s or Mac’s and could name all the players on the field or floor. I knew the latest news in each league. I knew who was in first place. I'd poured countless hours into it, and I got this back. I felt like a fan, like a man, like I was full of blood and alive, in a sedentary way. It wasn't as rewarding as, say, being a father, but it was something. For better or worse, it was my life.

……………………………………….

I don’t know what it is about sports. Only a very few can play at the pro level. The rest of us just watch and pour our animal desires to be strong and victorious into them. A function of the libido, Freud would say. That’s a big reason it’s so popular, as much as eggheads like me hate to admit it. It’s really a secular religion. In the way the masses of the Catholic Church follow a cycle and schedule, so do professional sports. From the Super Bowl to March Madness to Opening Day to new football and basketball seasons to the World Series and bowl games … we can expect the same thing every year. Like Easter, Pentecost and Christmas.

My anxiety has lessened in the time since Erika and I were married. Having a more settled home life has been huge. But I also know age, experience and therapy have greatly helped. After awhile, you realize the disorder isn’t coming up with any new material or approaches. It’s the same thing over and over, and you can better anticipate it. 

And the same can be said for sports. After my daughter, Ella, was born in 2009, I noticed that my interest began to wane. Someone new was here to occupy my time — even more so when Archer arrived the next year. I no longer had free evenings to dote on a Cubs game or an entire Sunday to watch every single NFL offering. I had to pick and choose. And after awhile I stopped searching for the next game, the next talk session on the radio. I still like the teams but have less energy to support them.

Like a lot of things that have happened to me since I moved to Chicago 10 years ago, my sports fixation was totally unpredicted. I look back on the time of my super-fandom and know it helped me survive something rough. Anxiety will always be with me, but I’m happy to say I no longer need a long, involved distraction campaign just to get up in the morning.

I would never wish my disorder on anyone else, but if I did meet someone with it who needed advice, I can only relate what worked for me. When people are suffering, they turn to any option that eases pain. As long as they’re not harming themselves or hurting other people, I can’t judge what one person uses to get through a tough stretch. They may even come to regard it fondly, looking back on it someday from a more calm and collected place. I hope everyone everywhere can get to that point. I think I might finally be there myself.

Light Opera Society

I really don't know what the hell I was thinking that summer ...

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Jun. 26, 2003 - 2:08 p.m.

i'm excited about this new production coming to the Chicago civic opera house...

Der Turbaldenung (the Deadbeat), Richard Wagner, 1854
July 1 -- September 1

Set in the Harz Mountains of Central Germany, Der Turbaldenung is Wagner's least-staged opera. He again looks back to Germany's pastoral mythology (a la "Tristan und Isolde") and the tale of Ulfen, younger brother of Heindrich, first king of Upper Saxony.

Ulfen, a woodsman, loses a game of droughts with a group of tree fairies, and forfeits his stewardship of the fabled Gutschtimt Forest, given to him by his brother, King Heindrich. Despondent, Ulfen, moves in with Friedhanna, the seamstress and object of Heindrich's affections.

Friedhanna permits Ulfen to sleep on her settee. The woodsman spends his days bemoaning his foolishness for losing his woods to the tree fairies ("Did Gunter not tell me that they use loaded dice?"), and revealing his half-baked schemes for quick fortune ("With Uncle Ott's inheritance, I can start my spear sharpening business."). Friedhanna takes Ulfen's complaints with good humor, but his constant presence in her home is a source of frustration for his brother the King, who attempts several unsuccessful trysts with the seamstress, replacing his throne at court with a stuffed likeness.

King Heindrich tempts Ulfen with lesser jobs at the castle ("Perhaps you'd fancy the head curtain detailer's position. I just had the last man hanged."), but his brother refuses.

Frustrated and desiring the lovely Friedhanna, the King arranges a meeting with her in the woods, but both are captured by the tree fairies. Ulfen hears the seamstress' cries and runs into the forest to rescue her. There, the fairies challenge him to another game of droughts for the lives of his friends. This time, Ulfen simply slays the fairies and frees Heindrich and Friedhanna.

In gratitude, the King offers Ulfen the Gutschtimt Forest to tend again, but Ulfen refuses, saying he will travel all the known lands, telling those he meets of his experiences ("I was once like you, a non-working schlub, but I harnessed the power of 'self-actualization' and turned my life around... and now you can, too.").

Class of '94

Last weekend we attended the wedding of two old friends. It was the most fun I've ever had at one, save my own. While a group of us waited at the bar for the ceremony to begin, I spotted a young, thin blonde woman weaving through the crowd. I paused, and it came back that we mutually knew the bride and groom. But her sudden appearance still shocked me. Like I'd seen a ghost.

We had gone to high school together in Northwest Indiana 20 years ago. For the benefit of my wife and those of you trying to read between the lines, I did not date her, have a crush on her or harbor any romantic designs at any time. I didn't go out with girls back then, being in the lowest social caste at Andrean H.S. It was a coed school, but for some reason the usual allotment of goths, metalheads, stoners and other kinds of "bad girls" weren't sent our way. Maybe the uniform scared them off. So we were out of luck: a bunch of sexually frustrated young dudes with the sparse beginnings of facial hair.

The blonde lady at the wedding was one of those brainy people lucky enough to be admitted into a high social caste without playing sports. I always wondered how you got this free pass, but deep down I knew these elect had something at the time that I didn't. They were good looking and socially confident. At 14, I was shrimpy, shy and on the verge of a major acne offensive.

I resigned myself to my place those first two years and found some really good friends along the way, starting a healing process of the scars of junior high, which was far, far worse. By the time I left The Region in the summer of 1992, I had begun to embrace music culture, which has always opened its arms to society's outcasts. The high school I'd graduate from in suburban Buffalo would be like a dream compared to what I was leaving. My life would be better in so many ways, though I didn't know it as a moving truck pulled up to our house. That would take time.

…………………………………

The wedding reception rolled on and bled over to a dive bar across Milwaukee Ave. I saw the blonde woman here and there but never talked to her. I knew she wouldn't remember me, and I didn't want to seem like a weird stalker or anything like that. After a few hours she disappeared, and the thought of that place and time eventually dissipated. I was back in the present, drinking and dancing.

The human mind drains away much of the bad memories of the past. It's probably a coping mechanism. The years 1987-1992 were the toughest of my life, but now I look upon them fondly. My brother Matt and I have been planning a trip back to Merrillville to visit the old places and reminisce together, and I couldn't be more excited. Last year when we passed the baseball fields outside town on the I-65 — where I used to watch Matt play little league — my heart jumped.

But how many times back then did I sit in my room and feel alienated; feel like the last man on the list; feel like I had no shot at anything: girls, popularity, whatever. As painful as those experiences were, the memory of them has since left me like so much air. Or maybe it was absorbed and turned into positive energy — something that secretly drove my activities among the subsequent groups where I was finally accepted.

All I remember now of five years in Merrillville — or, rather, remember first — are the sunsets over the woods of the Turkey Creek golf course and the 1988 World Series. Yes, that's an exaggeration. I can remember much, much more about that time. But when it's something bad, the sting is nowhere to be found. Now I just smile and say, "Hey, I survived and things got amazingly better." 

…………………………………

And that's what I said to myself when I saw that young lady at the wedding. For a split second the whole pecking order reactivated in my mind, and I remembered what it felt like to know you're not allowed to talk to someone and that they will never, ever talk to you. That made me a little mad back in high school, but happily it hasn't mattered since, well, May 1994. The day I was set free on that graduation stage in the Williamsville (N.Y.) South High School gymnasium.

I've never liked being forced to do things with a group, so that's why I didn't like high school. But nowadays I feel some weird kinship because of that arbitrary imprint, all based on my birthdate. I feel we're connected for life: my classmates and I from Andrean and South, and also from the greater collection across America. The Class of 1994. I root for us all to make good: for our school, our age slot, our generation. We have something to contribute to humankind for the rest of our lives, in our way, imprinted by the schools and culture of our youth.

Was all this really going through my head, three drinks in, upstairs at Revolution Brewing? Maybe not so extensively (or lucidly), but the feeling was there. I found myself raising a glass of rose-colored beer, for my fellow graduates, my alma mater, my classmate and her bald boyfriend. Here's to you, Men and Women of '94. May you live as long as possible and be happy. Now go out there and make us proud. Go out there and fight!

That said, they're still going to have to talk me into going to the reunion. 

Veg Pt. 2

Part two of the story of my vegetarianism is now up at Next Gen Green.

READ IT

Geburtstag

Today I am 36 years old. It's strange to write that. I remember when I turned 26. I went out to eat with my parents at Petey's II in Orland Park on LaGrange Road and had duck. For some reason I'll never forget that meal. The room was crowded and suffused with gray-white light from the overcast sky outside.

It felt so weird sitting there. By comparison, on the previous birthday, 25, I was incredibly drunk and stoned after a night at the Greenpoint Tavern. I spent an hour throwing up on the loft couch, feeling as though I might die, before passing out. Such is a young person's life. 

Earlier at lunch I tried to remember all of my birthdays back to age 18. I'm happy to say I can recall 13 with absolute certainty, with two probables and four can't-remembers. When I wrote them out, I was struck by how different they were year to year, particularly before I was married. I don't mean that in a "loose dudes" way, but just that I was in a different city each time through my early 20s.

Yes, I've had to move a lot in my life, but the biggest benefit is that I've met so many people. I'm really staggered when I look at my Facebook profile at the disparate places they come from. I can remember them all just like it was yesterday, and there are so many more I can think of whose names are foggy, or who've avoided social media, or whom I'm too embarrassed to track because they may not remember me.

I finally settled down when I moved here to Chicago. And though the general setting's been the same for a decade, I did find someone to share the yearly celebration with: my wife, Erika, a.ka. Miss August 22. I've always liked that our birthdays are back to back. And if I forget what happened one year, she can usually remember it with her powerful brain.

If you're reading this and you know me, all I can say at this point is thank you. Thank you for crossing your life with mine. I know it hasn't always ended amicably. If you think I'm an idiot, I can't blame you. I can only say I'm sorry. And if you think I don't want to talk to you anymore, that's not the case. My life is so busy now, I've never been good with the phone, and I'm also kind of lazy. I know I have to make a better effort.

The experience of living is ultimately an individual one, and I cherish my alone time maybe more than most. But it's the people you meet who make it interesting and, ultimately, meaningful — when we reach outside ourselves and connect. Thanks for being you, folks. You've made my life better for it.