Week 3 reflections

I hate to be one of those people who says, "We should be 3-0," but, well, we should. The Bears frittered away strong chances to win the last two weeks, particularly today against Tampa, when Charles Tillman was called for a fighting penalty in overtime that kept the Bucs' drive alive.

The city is always happier when the Bears are winning, so it's disheartening when you come to the realization that our boys will probably turn in another 2007-, 2004-, 2002-type effort. Thankfully for the local sports fan, our baseball teams are both poised to continue their seasons in the playoffs.

And at least I've got my fantasy team — though it looks like they'll need more than a little help this week to eke out a win. Rats. Uh … how about the Cowboys/Packers Sunday night game? Ah yes, that should soothe the hurt of the Bears loss a bit — some pure football appreciation. I feel a little bad I missed last Monday's "King of All Fantasy Games," but we're still going cable-free, at least for the moment.

Where is this all leading? Well, me on the couch in a couple hours. Not a bad place to be. Enjoy yourselves on this, the rest of your Sunday, Woundup fans.

Time to wield the blade v2.0

We had Al, Suzi and Chris over for faux meatloaf last night. Great dinner. And naturally, after a couple brews and some wine — and three old rockers in the room — the conversation turned to metal. I put on some Motorhead, and Chris revealed that a former classmate now drums for King Diamond. A distinguished metal accomplishment.

I sometimes wonder if what Neil Meredith said — essentially, "once a metalhead, always a metalhead" — is true, in that my formative years of constant listenings to "Ride the Lightning" affected my tastes even to this day, be it for freaked-out free jazz or menacing absurdist drama.

I'd like to think it can't be summed up so easily. I've got a sensitive side, after all: I enjoy still life paintings, professional golf and the Modern Jazz Quartet. I even bought a "Best of America" record in 1999. I suppose if metal represents anger, dissatisfaction, frustration, then, yes, certainly that streak is there. But isn't it in everyone in some way? It's just some of us choose to express it by, say, listening to "Overkill" at top volume. Great record, by the way.

A snob concedes

We received the film version of "Look Back in Anger" somewhat accidentally, as I let our Netflix backlog of classics creep up into the top three, normally reserved for contemporary indie movies about disillusioned, balding literature professors and their damaged families. (I think we've seen about eight of these so far.)

Being a snide neo-absurdist, I've harbored a slight disdain for John Osborne for, you know, all the stock reasons. But watching "Look Back" last night, I was shocked out of my abstract stance by a work that strikingly concentrated on the here and now, without any artificial accentuation of hope or despair: a true piece of realism. And I was struck by the excellence of Osborne's writing. It really made me want to read the thing again.

As a snob, I used to scoff at this play for being what seemed like a long personal political rant tacked on to a stock love story. The film version gave it air, moving a lot of the action outside the flat and put some of Jimmy Porter's snarling in different locations that made it seem more varied and even stronger.

Is it better than a play where you don't know anyone's name or their names change or you never find out why they are where they are? I don't know. High marks have tended to go, at least in the last 60 years, to those writers who give less. But Osborne's naked, loquacious work struck me right in the heart last night. And that may be all that matters: what echoes the challenges, with equal sadness and joy, that we face in our lives.

Eagles/Cowboys: Genet takes the points

From today's "Sports Guy" column on ESPN Page 2. …

Bob: "Thanks, Bill. I'm here with Cris Collinsworth, Jerome Bettis, Tiki Barber, Dan Patrick, Keith Olbermann, Peter King, Olympic hero Michael Phelps and a homeless guy we just found on the street. Get ready for one of the most confusing, choppy and incoherent pregame shows in the history of television. Although there is some good news — we finally have enough people on this show for a complete softball team."

Cris: "Actually, Bob, you can have 10 guys on a softball team."

Bob: "Really? Then let's bring in our new humorist, he's going to do some predictable comedy segments for us, and more importantly, he's the man who finally realized Dick Ebersol's dream of spending $100 million on talent for a "Sunday Night Football" telecast when you include what Madden and Michaels are making … please welcome to the show our old friend Billy Crystal."

Billy: "Bob, I'm confused — is this a pregame show or a bar mitzvah?"

(Everyone laughs uproariously.)

Thank you, Bill Simmons, for writing what many of us were thinking: Why did "Sunday Night Football" add Dan Patrick to an already overstuffed pre/post cast? How much airtime can you possibly give him to be effective? This brings even more confusion to SNF, which boasts a staging as complex as Jean Genet's "The Screens." (I like to think the "players' table" of Cris Collinsworth, Tiki Barber and Jerome Bettis actually exists in Bob Costas' mind whenever they cut away to it, as it has kind of an inner sanctum feel being offset from the main stage and enclosed in walls of TVs.)

I know NBC is trying to capture some of the '90s DP/KO magic, but can you graft together a SportsCenter broadcast, a former players' analysis show and an Olympics-style anchor-at-the-desk thing (Costas) and call it a coherent pre-game? Guess we'll just have to see how these goofballs do this week.

Tudorized

Erika and I are rapidly approaching the saturation point for Henry VIII-related historical drama, having recently plowed through all available "The Tudors" DVDs as well as "The Other Boleyn Girl." I'm not saying I've grown weary of the timeless tale of Henry Tudor, Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Mary Boleyn, Thomas Boleyn, Thomas More, Thomas Cromwell and Cardinal Woolsey, but it might be time to take a break before that happens.

Some other points in British history I'd like to see recreated, for a change of pace …

• The Restoration
• The Glorious Revolution
• The reign of George I

I particularly like the last one, as the prospect of an English king who speaks only German has a high comedy factor. Get Ricky Gervais involved and you've got a hit on your hands.

But what's the storyline?

That sullen, sunken sound in Al Michaels' voice somehow makes it all worthwhile.

Are you ready for it, the football?

I need hardly remind you that the 2008 NFL season begins tonight in the new millennium fashion with a Thursday contest: Redskins/Giants. Seems like just yesterday that the last season ended, you say? Well, it was less than seven months ago that Erika and I braved a blizzard to catch the breathtaking action of Patriots/Giants at Russ and Mary's. Yea, and the beer did flow freely. (I drank Brooklyn Lager.)

Too soon? Never, says I. Football can never come back too soon. Baseball is the king of games; hockey the prince — but football is the strongman with the army on his side. And that army is 100 divisions deep with pickup truck, Coors Light and IT equipment commercials in constant rotation from tonight till the second week of 02/09.

I've scoured a number of preseason primers, including Sports Illustrated's wonderfully exhaustive preview issue. SI's Dr. Z has the Pats besting the Eagles in Superbowl XLIII. It could happen, depending on the Eagle receiver situation. Interestingly, ESPN.com's Sports Guy, Bill Simmons didn't even have his hometown (Boston) team making it back to the big game. He went with … Jacksonville over Dallas? I don't know about that one. My pick is Dallas over San Diego. Yes, passing on the Pats is in season this season, though there's certainly no reason they couldn't win it all anyway.

Ideally, I'd be enjoying tonight's action with an Old Style tallboy and the company of old pal J. Stockton, but since he's flown the coop to New York, I'll have to fly solo … and sans booze. I'm still sick. But don't worry, our doctor phoned in an airstrike (antibiotic prescription), and that should put us on the mend. Who knows, maybe I'll have that Nyquil a little early tonight, too.

1-800-DIAL-A-COAT

Geezus, it's cold in the Cracker Factory. I heard we hit the hottest mark of the year yesterday. You wouldn't know it today.

I can't tell if they're running the AC or if they turned it off and are piping in the cooler outside air, but I'd give just about anything for a coat or a jacket or a sweater right now. I just heated up my lunch, and I was warming my forearms over it. Wrong day to wear a short-sleeved button-up.

There are two chairs opposite my desk. Maybe I can skin them with a letter opener and use the rough fabric covers as a kind of pelt. Seems we're a little closer here today to nature's knife edge of survival than I thought. Might have to burn the Red Eye.

Class dismissed

I am hugely hooked on Beer School, a monthly-ish podcast you can get for free from the iTunes Store. Erika loaded a few of them on our 'pod for the long ride to and from NYC. The hosts, Motor and John, have a theme for each show and sample beer throughout each episode. Yes, they start to get a little off-topic as they drink, and it can be pretty funny. They're based in San Francisco and, from what I can gather, work in the IT business. Motor, who sometimes punctuates the dialogue with belches, seems like the kind of guy who's ripped his shirt off at an outdoor party after a few brews more than once in his life.

Some highlights include the guys drinking skunked Landshark beer ("Leftovers") and Motor guzzling that horrific Budweiser/clamato 22 oz thing — and loving it ("Weird"). But most of the time they just sample quality brews from around the world. If you love good beer or are curious about the whole craft beer movement, I encourage you to give it a listen.

Happy anniversary!

A year ago today, Suzi, Erika and I bought our house. We did the closing on S. Wacker, right across the street from the Old Cracker Factory, and then piled it home to do a power move in the evening. Erika found these great movers on Craigslist that ended being from Carpentersville, where her folks live.

I was a bit bent out of shape that day. I guess that's to be expected, but if I could do it over, I would try to enjoy it more. That could probably be said of just about everything in life — well, some events more than others. I'd like to think I enjoyed getting married or graduating from college when they were happening.

A year has passed that's seen us bring in tenants, plant a huge garden, host a good number of parties and do some emergency repairs. Largely, it's been mellow, and it's really starting to feel like home. In our second year, we'll add a new occupant and continue down the home improvement path. I plan on enjoying it all a little more.

Luck, karma, randomness?

Wouldn't you know it? I caught some of sort of flu-like bug, and I'm laid up at home. Felt worse yesterday. Hopefully, with continued hydration and rest, I can stave this off just in time to return to work on Tuesday. Dammit.

Until then, I think I'll fire up this amp Erika bought me for my birthday. Looks like a winner. I just had my guitar fixed at that place off the corner of Augusta and Western. The guy, Fred, did a nice job. Check him out if your axe needs some care.

Let's call it a week, Woundup

This Labor Day weekend looks to be a pleasant one: beautiful weather, faux salmon steaks, O'Doul's Amber and college football (sorry, Erika). I also plan on cutting up the two branches that fell from our diseased tree in the backyard during the near-tornado earlier this month. The way that thing has been shedding limbs, we should probably invest in our own chainsaw.

Before I head home early, I'm going to toss some submissions in the mail at the Ft. Dearborn Post Office. I haven't sent out anything in more than a month. Sadly, my first play seems to have died an ignoble death on the marketing battlefield — though I have a feeling it will rise again to fight sometime in the near future. I only hope the new play can go further. It seems to be making bigger strides so far.

Happy Labor Day, everybody!

Cape Cod-style, kettle-boiled, sea-salt-encrusted ...

I went downstairs to the commissary with an intense craving for potato chips. I've returned with a packet of Deep River Snacks salt & vinegars. I see here that the company is located in Connecticut. Is there something about New England — some air of authenticity — that's supposed to make us want to pay more for chips? (I paid $1.33 for these suckers.) Maybe I'm not up on my potato chip history, but I've seen other brands that play upon the New England angle.

I've always thought more of Pennsylvania as the home of strange, "authentic" chips — albeit with a mass-produced feel. These Connecticut chips are all right, though relatively mild. I bought a packet of Herr's salt & vinegars in the Poconos, and they were most intense chips I've ever eaten. I couldn't finish the bag. Kind of wish I had them now.

Goodbye, Jim Rome

We did have fun this past birthday weekend. Now August is winding to a close, and with the first chill of autumn, feelings of a different way of life return: school days, leaves to rake, new TV shows and football.

I should note that this is the two-year anniversary of the start of my time on the night shift — a chapter in Woundup history readers may have found either compelling or annoying. Regardless, when it ended, my life changed in many ways, and I was able to break free from four-plus years of feeling bad about myself on the job. If you have any inkling to retrace what happened, you can begin here (start Aug. 28, 2006, and end Jan. 5, 2007).

Birthday Bash Blammo!!!

Happy birthday, Erika! And happy birthday, me (tomorrow)! It was meant to be — our birthdays, back to back. But I am happy Old Baby will join us in a different month, for some variety.

Tonight we're hosting a dinner party. Beforehand, as a good Catholic, I will be paying my penance for horrible car passenger behavior this morning by doing hot and painful yard work. Erika was nice enough to drive me downtown, and all I could do was bitch about cars, trucks, bikers and her party-planning skills. Woundup, you're such an asshole!

What else ... Fantasy draft. I'll be pulling my best Alvy Singer and sneaking away from the Dissent/Commentary discussion tonight for a few moments.

What was that: You want a continuous "Jeeves and Wooster" tape loop on a TV in the bathroom? You got it! Now it's really a party!

Blurf

I think that subject line says it all. I haven't slept well the last couple of nights. I suppose I'm getting used to the work schedule again after being off for a week and a half. I suppose there could be some stress thrown in there, expecting the baby, etc.

Speaking of which: Erika heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time at the doctor's today. (I was stuck at work.) The doc said it sounded particularly healthy and that the baby had started to move around, which is unusual at this point. I told Erika the baby must take after her.

There's nothing I'd like more than to go to sleep right now. Or, barring that, go home after work and coast right into bed. However, I have to run to Oak Park tonight, with writing after that. Then, THEN, I can cease my tasks — I'd say I can shut down activity in about ... eight hours. I'm already looking forward to it.

Q3 is looking up

It was good to see old friends this past week; it was good to eat so much wonderful vegan food; and it was good to watch so much of ESPN First Take I think Skip Bayless' silhouette might be burned on my retinas. But it's also good to be back in the Midwest. We hit the flatlands outside of Cleveland — yes, we drove straight back in 12 hours yesterday — and something just felt right. I was thinking the other day that I've lived here nearly six years, which might be the longest of any place I've ever lived in my life. I only wish all my best friends could be here, too. There are so many people I've met in life that I would like to see on a daily basis — a side benefit of moving so much, I suppose.

I kind of viewed this East Coast trip as the crest of the wave of summer. So what's on deck for the ... uh ... roiling tidal pool of season's end? Well, we've got our birthdays coming up this weekend, some home improvement projects, time with the niece and nephew, time in the garden and in the yard, a new job for Erika, a new play to hack away at, the writing group, fantasy baseball playoffs and ... a fantasy football draft. No, that last item is not the most important to me, but I am primed for what I hope is a successful 2008 campaign — so much so that I'm going to spend the next few hours ranking NFL defenses. Sounds like a good time, right? You better believe it.

Greetings from New Jersey

Hello, Woundup fans! It's been too long. Well, I don't know if I should inundate you with a blow-by-blow update, so I'll just say we're having a very nice time in New Jersey. Erika's AP English training at picturesque Drew University is going well, and I'm enjoying all the amenities of the Morristown Hyatt. (Erika got a steal of a deal on Hotwire.)

Oh, it hasn't all been sitting around the hotel room, though I have been watching an unhealthy amount of ESPN — particularly "First Take." The real reason we came out here was to see New York again — our last visit was in 2004. So far we've had smash-up vegan brunch in Ft. Greene, bowling in Williamsburg, dim sum in Chinatown and a German beer garden in the Lower East Side. It's been great to see Tim and Ted in their natural habitat. We even got to see the Viva Radio headquarters in Park Slope. And we reconnected with Jonathan and his new lady friend. Sounds like he's loving the city.

Tonight Tim is hosting a dinner party in Sunnyside, so we'll be off in a few hours for more high times with friends. We're hoping to sneak in the beach tomorrow, but that depends on the weather. In the meantime, keep Chicago clean for us, and if you could hold onto our mail, we'd really appreciate it.

Turning a page in the blue book

Today is Erika's last day at Wells Community Academy High School. She's worked there since the fall of 2005, when she started as a student teacher. From there she became a permanent sub then a full-time English teacher for two years.

I've come to view the happenings at Wells as a significant part of our life together, from hearing Erika's first reports about the school after work on our back porch on Walton, to meeting Erika and her teacher friends for drinks, to helping her chaperone school dances. Wells caused Erika a lot of headaches and nearly ground her down at times, but she always persevered. She also made some great friends there, with whom she'll keep in close contact.

When I was on the night shift in late 2006, I walked down to Wells nearly every weekday to pick up the car for various uses before returning it by 2 p.m. to catch the bus into the Loop. I'm going to leave work today in half an hour, and when I get to the Wells parking lot, I'll be closing a chapter of sorts.

Ah, but I shouldn't be so melancholy. I have a feeling we'll be meeting Rita in that same parking lot some time in the fall after school or after a dance. With all the contemplations of endings lately, it's time to refocus on the here and now and beginnings: a new life and a new school for Erika, which sounds light years ahead of Wells.

I'm a bit more sentimental than my wife, so I'm sure she'll chuckle at my dampening eyes (though not maliciously) when I stare "one last time" at the old place. Who knows, she might join me in some tears this time — she's going to especially miss her students. But she'll always have memories of the many kids she's helped, and we'll always have the back porch at Walton, the skyline in the distance at night, Erika's cigarette smoke wafting around us, the stories of the strange school filling the air.

Confessions of a lazy man pt. 356

Over the years, I've heard different people expound on what the "real" value of college is. I once had a co-worker who believed that the ancillary responsibilities of college — signing up for courses, writing checks to the bursar, showing up for class, etc. — were more important than what actually went on in the classroom. They taught you, so he said, how to pay your bills, follow a schedule and generally keep up on the operational aspects of life — important skills, certainly. (Cue Woody Allen quote.)

In the classroom, I often lamented how the usual mixed load of 15 credit hours per semester lent a hurried feeling to learning, forcing students to juggle multiple tasks under pressure and time constraints and, alas, not allow them to truly sink into a subject and get the full experience. Just try to remember your college classes (if you went to college) and the books you had to read. I took a senior-level course on the Metaphysical Poets, and I only have (had) a cursory knowledge of them. To learn more, I would have to do it on my own. (Cue Frank Zappa quote.)

I've come to a point in my life where I either wish I had more time in the day to devote to things or I wish I could clone myself to do a more thorough job of the many tasks pulling at me. I don't know if this feeling is associated with a particular time in/part of a person's life, as if on a schedule itself, so I'll refrain from making blanket statements in that vein. But I will say this feeling markedly increased when Erika, Suzi and I bought the house.

If Erika is reading this, she's probably laughing right now, as I opted to lie on the couch and read Monday night instead of helping to install the pot and pan rack like we planned. (See, this is where the clones would come in.)

There's that old quote — forget it, I've tried searching — about people being able to only have one true "passion" in life, at least as far as occupations/hobbies go. That might mean you only have so much time and energy to go whole-hog on one task. A part of me really wants to be a compost mixing expert, or a plaster wall expert, or an insulation expert, or a gardening expert and especially a child expert, as a father. But you also need time to rest, relax, reconnoiture with loved ones and generally listen to your breathing, as the Buddhists say.

(Pause.)

Now that Erika has caught her breath from laughing, I believe I've found the answer: (Mark,) make a to-do list week-to-week and (echoes of my old co-worker) stick to it. It begs that eternal question, "Could you have been doing something more productive during that hour of Frasier last night?"

One of those expecting fatherhood books I bought said that there are second chances in fatherhood (as well as third, fourth, fifth, sixth, etc. chances). So, too, I believe are there second chances in home repair, gardening, house painting, compost mixing, tree branch sawing, basement insulating, exhaust tube caulking ... Okay, take a breath. ... I won't (and can't) be an expert at all of these things, but the fact that I'm doing them at least opens my experience up a little further and makes our house and our life together better.

That's more than I can say for 100-level statistics.

Somewhere Hegel is laughing at me

Wow. The whole U.S.-NBA-players-jumping-ship-to-Europe trend has hit a fever pitch.

On the one hand, as a Leftist, I enjoy seeing American hegemony challenged, on the other, as an NBA fan, I don't enjoy fur'ners fucking with my game, a la the NHL. I don't think LeBron playing in Greece will benefit basketball globally, as he'll only be some billionaire's hood ornament in an inferior league full of jibronis.

Yes, the Russians have a lot of oil money now, and the Euro is stronger than the dollar, so this issue may not be going away. It sounds like David Stern is not oblivious and wants to expand the league overseas in the coming years. Perhaps that would make this all more palatable — if true quality players were spread out across the globe.

But do you really want to see Carmelo Anthony playing for the Moscow NKVD All-Stars? The progress of history is a bitch — just ask the U.K. At least we never tried to poach ol' George Best.

The ACPP never sleeps

Lately, I've been doing some of my best work at Target. Another Pre-Raphaelite Erika.

Numbers Man

It's that time of year again: fantasy football season. Yes, it doesn't actually start till the real games do, but July and August are when thousands of players across the world prepare their draft lists: crunching numbers, banging heads a few times against desks (Maurice Jones-Drew or Fred Taylor?) and generally trying to predict the unpredictable.

Well, there are some things you can be sure of in fantasy football — LaDainian Tomlinson's production and the Colts offense — but most of the fun and excitement comes from making big gambles to best your buddies. When you draft that receiver who bounces back from an injury or that third-year QB who takes the next step, you smile a little more broadly and quietly call yourself a football genius for separating the wheat from the chaff.

But like life, there is a lot of luck involved in fantasy football (more so, I feel, than in other fantasy sports, such as baseball), and for every Derek Anderson or Wes Welker, whose success you presaged, there is a Peerless Price, Kyle Boller or Cedric Benson, whom you quielty dropped mid-season in disappointment.

Let that temper your hubris, fantasy player — but not too much. If we couldn't gloat, well, why would we play at all?

Green means growth

Do you like this shamrock shake layout? I felt it was time to ditch the Crainium-themed scheme I've had since 2003. Because we'll be using green in the baby's room ... Well, there you go. Additional tweaks may occur in the coming days.

Also, thanks to J.R. for linking up to us again!

Gettin' results

Erika's writing success keeps rolling! One of her poems will be published in Quarter After Eight in the spring. The journal is affiliated with Ohio University. It doesn't look like they have readable e-versions of their issues, so you'll have to take my word that it's a fantastic prose poem. It's Erika, so that goes without saying!

Watching the slopes out the window

If you like dividing the self up (a la "Herman's Head") into distinct, humorous parts, then I ask you to visualize this: My writing part has been sitting in a ski lodge, his foot in a cast, sipping brandy the past two months. Yes, it's a been a "writer's vacation" of sorts. I did squeeze out the first draft of a new play last month, but when I faced draft No. 2 -- and the assembly line system I used for the last play -- I blanched and cried "uncle." I guess I hadn't recovered fully from that grueling June to June stretch run.

I have a dream of completing one play a year from age 30 to 40. I am 31, and I have two to my credit. One extra month off, I reasoned, won't kill me. I think I was trying to do a mid-/late-period-style revision off the bat, and that was too much to ask. With the past two plays, I rewrote the whole thing for drafts 1-4ish, which lent some freshness and a more relaxed feel to the proceedings. I then buckled down for 5-10 (11). It's my goal to go a little easier on myself this time around. Maybe I can wrap the play up in 8 drafts. I think that's a good number to shoot for.

Perhaps I've said too much about my process, which is either an amateurish or gauche move. I don't really care. I just received a very nice "thanks, but no thanks" from a local theater I had some shot of getting produced by. And you know what? That's all right. I know my time will come. Frankly -- at least based on how I feel right now -- I'd rather people leave me alone so I can work, relax and spend time with Erika and the baby, who'll be joining us this winter. Rehearsals, auditions and rewrites sound like a huge hassle. For once, I'm not straining for recognition. I want to be left alone. And I might actually start to enjoy my writing more for what it is: an enriching creative pursuit. Beyond that, who cares?

Pour another cup of hot chocolate for that writing part and turn on SportsCenter. It's earned the R&R.

Role reversin'

My folks are in town right now. They've got a busier social life than we do! They were out late last night partying by a lake in Hinsdale, and they're doing a Southwest Suburbs tour today that will go well into the evening with drinks and dinner. What about me? Well, I'm looking forward to paying the bills later and reading up about our insurance coverage for baby. I'll be lounging on the recliner with my slippered feet on the ottoman, newspaper in hand, pipe in mouth, when those two whipper-snappers get home at 11. They're going to have a lot of explaining to do.

But in all honesty, I'm looking forward to spending the rest of the day with Erika, as I did on Monday -- nice bookends to the week. In that regard, this summer has been very nice. I feel the work and avocation stresses that constricted us in the spring have loosened. What we do today will be anyone's guess, but at least we'll be together.

Mr. Skin

What the heck was that? (See below.) I think I was a little fried after a long day on the road and in the suburbs. Otherwise, the weekend was pretty relaxing ... well, aside from that skin medicine that made my heart beat faster. Yeah, ol' Woundup is finally attending to a dermatological issue brought about by years of wearing tight thrift store clothing. It was just getting too unsightly (and starting to turn Mrs. Woundup off). TMI? Sure. But the oral med the doc gave me made my heart beat like I'd drunk a Red Bull, and the damn things kept me up all Sunday night. I haven't had that little sleep in years. Not fun. Well, the doc told me to forgo the pills and just stick to the topical treatments. I feel a lot better today, and I slept like a rock last night.

What's the moral of this story? Be sure you do your research on medications before you take them ... and always, always, always wash thrift store clothes before you wear 'em. And always shower after you work out. Okay, gross.

The male brain is also affected during pregnancy

Listen, folks, Woundup frequently writes about sports radio and other such lowbrow pursuits. Un-ironically. Fine. I make no apologies there. But please don't bring your weak-ass middlebrow shit in here. What is this Panic at the Disco bullshit? And what is this bullshit Christian Slater NBC show where he's talking to himself through a laptop, presumably from the future? Listen, I'm a 31-year-old man; I'm about to become a father; I sit around on Saturday nights now and watch TV and hope to not be angered by something. SNL is angering enough. Why am I even watching this? I saw this episode a month ago, and it was terrible. Panic at the Disco. I stand by my belief that Iggy's belch that opens (the song) "Raw Power" is more rock 'n roll than the entire careers of almost all other bands rolled into one. If I had my copy, I would listen to the belch from (the song) "Raw Power" over and over again for a half an hour every morning before going to work. And I would never, ever, ever go anywhere near Panic at the Disco. FUCK YOUR STRING SECTION. And please ... No more prime time TV shows with quaint, contrived, novel or gimmicky non-realistic premises. The kind of "surrealism light" that's infected TV and drama makes me want to listen to the opening belch from (the song) "Raw Power" over and over again until it all goes away. And I'm talking about the original album mix done by David Bowie. The one where he turned the James Williamson solos ALL THE WAY UP. Fuck the Iggy remix. Anyone who writes one of those shows should be forced to listen to this album every morning before they go to work until they stop being writers. 2008: ONE LESS WRITER. Good night.

Friday Fung

Yes, I'm listening to Boers & Bernstein, but I have to say that the team of Jonathan Hood, Jeff Dickerson and Carmine DeFalco has been great in filling in the afternoon drive slot on WMVP. They normally appear together a shift later on "The Show" and "Chicago's Baseball Tonight." I've always liked these guys. You've already heard my big-ups on Carmen's job as part of Chicago Bulls pre-game; JD is perhaps the best Bears reporter in broadcast media; and I'm an old J. Hood fan going back to 2003, when he did a great solo evening show on the Score. They can talk any sport knowledgeably, including college. (You might remember Hood and Steve Silverman's old Saturday college football on 'MVP a few years ago.) That's something Mac, Jurko and Harry have trouble with, particularly during Bulls season. "The Show" dudes are in the 30-35 demo -- my age bracket -- so that doesn't hurt, and they're Chicago guys who bring a little of the South Side, North Side and suburbs to the table. Sound like a ringing endorsement? So why haven't I switched back yet? Okay ... there we go.

One more sports talk point: The Score needs to bring back Joe Bartosch. Bartosch, now the producer for Bears radio broadcasts on WBBM-AM, was one of the Score's best personalities, but was taken off the Sunday night slot in 2004 during the North/Murph shift. I've been jonesing for Triple Play Trivia ever since. It was perhaps the most Internet-proof call-in sports quiz ever. Bring it back!

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Well, a preliminary test has shown that Erika is amused by "Jeeves and Wooster." We finished up the "Pearls" episode last night before bed. I enjoyed it as well, but that's only natural. I don't know if we'll watch any more together any time soon, but it's nice to know they're there. We were really getting into "The Tudors" a couple weeks ago and should have more on the way from Netflix.

We've certainly had our homebody nights, as habits of the long winter and Erika's stressful second semester (where she often had hours of work to bring home) have carried over into the warm months. Sometimes you just want to plop in front of the tube, zone out and relax. Don't worry, though, we have been more active lately, going out to dinner and such. And we're getting our bikes fixed as I write this. Should have them late today or tomorrow.

In truth, there are some big changes coming up for us. Most of you who read this already know, but if you don't: Erika is pregnant. We found out in early June. We couldn't be happier; it was something we were thinking about for awhile. Naturally, your narrator is a Nervous Norvous, and must work to keep his irrational anxieties in check during this experience and just enjoy it. But that's not the story by a long shot. The story is that we saw the baby's heartbeat for the first time this past Friday. What an amazing, unexpected surprise. Erika is nine weeks along, and I wasn't sure we'd be able to spot it.

So, you can look forward to more reports in the family way vein. I'll spare you the gory details, but I'm very happy to relate the many joys it will bring us in the coming months/years. It's going to be a change, but one I think will pay off in ways I can't begin to imagine. Wish us luck!

Mark has a revelation

Okay, I'm officially old. I want to buy a CD I heard on NPR.

Took a cab home through the rain after work. To my good fortune, the cabbie had 'BEZ on, and I heard the interview with the Homemade Jamz Blues Band. They're three siblings: The singer/guitarist is the oldest at 16, the bass player is 13, and their sister, the drummer, is NINE YEARS OLD. And they made their own guitars out of CAR MUFFLERS.

Sound like a gimmick? I thought so, too, till they started playing ... C'mon, folks, you know my impeccable music taste. This was like the classic Alligator catalog: Hound Dog Taylor, Son Seals. It was the real deal. I know you've heard all that Kenny Wayne Shepherd crap that makes you think the real Blues is gone. No way. Just listen to "Penny Waiting on Change." He's 16 YEARS OLD.

Dynamic duo

Okay, that was a little too good to pass up ... Since becoming part of a home-owning team, I've seen my share of house snafus: dead water heaters, broken furnaces (right before Christmas), bizarre wiring, malfunctioning lights, to name a few. The man who's always been there to help us has been John (mentioned below). And I, as man the of house, am always his assistant on his repair calls.

It's a study in contrasts, for sure. You'd be hard-pressed to invent a better team of opposites. But I like to think we have a lot in common. (We both like sitting in basements -- at least I do. I know John is just there to work.) And I don't let any window dressing get in the way. We're both human beings, and we both like to joke around.

So I'm happy to report that John is making a repair call this weekend to look at the second-floor sink. It's been too long. Granted, I probably won't do much more than hold the flashlight or, if I'm lucky, keep a pipe in place, but the experience is still enjoyable. I sit in front of a computer 40 hours a week, and when I'm writing, 7-10 more at home. It's nice to do something different.

I know I'd make John happy if I would actually complete the projects he recommends to me: insulating the basement furnace area, weather-proofing the basement door, caulking the furnace exhaust tube. I think I'm gonna try, as a half-year resolution, to make these a reality. I'm feeling the call of the house ... and I'm excited.

Green thumbin'

We now have a garden. More than a month ago, we tilled a large patch (I'd say about 15' x 15') in our backyard and surrounded it with a fence. A side note: Prior to this, my father-in-law John (I have two fathers-in-law, for you grammar detectives) told me about the drag bar on a rototiller, and what was the first thing I removed when we rented one from Home Depot? You guessed it: the drag bar. I totally forgot what he said and thought it was some kind of kickstand. Naturally, that made tilling much harder, but we still got through it. (John was amused when I told him I forgot what he said.)

After some intense weeding, the ladies planted tomatoes, beans, peppers and herbs. We also invited the tenants to plant. Things are progressing well so far; Erika spotted the first green grape tomato yesterday.

I also water our house plants and the flower baskets on the our back porch. After a long brutal winter, and considerable, unforgivable neglect, I decided to become a better parent to our plants. I even get excited when I hear about rain -- for our garden and for the flower baskets. I can almost hear them sighing when the drops fall. Okay ... maybe not really, but I like to think they're happier. And that makes me happy.

It's 80 degrees and he's wearing the jacket

Hawk without DJ? That sounds a little like ... Farmer without Rooney. But sure enough, just as future Ford Frick Hall of Famer John Rooney can be bounced by the Sox, so too can Darrin Jackson. Yes, I'm referencing a recent story in the Trib that said DJ might be replaced in the Sox TV booth by future Ford Frick Hall of Famer Steve Stone (would he be the first analyst?). Now, Steve Stone is the greatest color man of all time, but I've grown to love Hawk and DJ's easy-going, Texas League vibe that's as summertime as city sticker renewal. Sure they have their detractors, but I think they ultimately enhance the game and provide some variation from cookie-cutter broadcast teams such as (gulp) future Ford Frick Hall of Famer Joe Buck and his buddy Tim McCarver. Hawk and DJ are baseball like it used to be: played in gigantic, empty American League parks in the middle of July.

Speaking of Ed Farmer ... I was relating to Erika, while walking through the Home Depot parking lot, that Farmer might be feeling a bit blue now that his favorite uniform infringement target, C.C. Sabathia, has left the AL. Farmer is constantly irked by players and coaches who wear their uniforms, hats and sunglasses incorrectly, according to his standard, which he has never fully articulated. Sabathia, a large man, wears an extra baggy uniform with, most offensive to Farmer, his straight-brimmed Indians cap slightly askew. You can't really top that for aggravating the old-timers. So who will Farmer set his sights on next? I guess there's always Manny Ramirez.

Sanguine Swiss stopped by spasmodic Spaniard

Wow, what a match. I left the house at 10:30 a.m., went to the gym and watched there into the third set, as Nadal was taking the edge off Federer's lead and seemingly sealing his doom. I went to my Grandma's, and after bidding her goodbye at 2 p.m., I popped on WMVP and heard they were in a rain delay -- the match was still alive. Federer had fought through two tiebreakers and things were locked up at 2-2 in the fifth set. I regret missing the rest of the action; I had to get groceries. When I got home at 4, Federer was hoisting that silver plate in the dusk at center court. He was the runner-up. Nadal had finally beat his greatest rival and claimed the cup. (I wish I knew the actual names for these things. That's the men's cup and women's plate there.)

I would love to watch the whole match if someone had it TiVo'd, but it's bittersweet knowing the Fed Man lost. I'm a fan, for sure. How can you not like a guy who does ads like this?

Here's hoping for a rematch in '09, and, hey, by then I'll have a little spectator to join me on the couch.

Moment, enjoy the

It looks like Rafael Nadal might finally have ol' Roger Federer on the ropes at Wimbledon. I wish these two could spar in major finals for 10 more years, the matches are so good. They've become a real part of this decade. I remember sneaking peeks of last year's French Open showdown between them in my father-in-law's trailer (he had satellite TV) near the beach in Zion. No matter where you are, Federer vs. Nadal calls.

In other news, I'm taking my monthly trip down to Mount Greenwood, Gateway to the Southwest Suburbs. After that, I'll haul it back up to Trader Joe's on Clybourn and get the groceries. Just trying to stave off boredom, folks. Erika returns late tonight. Then ... it's back to work.

That went rather quickly -- the weekend. I guess I should stop worrying about the all stupid things that have occupied my mind lately and, yes, enjoy the here and now. After all, what else do we have? I mean besides satellite TV in a trailer near the lake.

Scenes from the bunker

The armies of noise are gathering for tonight's offensive. For some reason, last year saw a particularly loud Fourth of July in the Ukrainian Village. I anticipate something similar, if not worse, tonight in our new 'hood near Kedzie and Armitage. Ah, but it's only one evening, right? I can climb into bed at 11, turn on the fan to block out the explosions and go to sleep.

The real challenge, dear reader, is what I will make for dinner. I'm determined not to order out or drive somewhere for food. I want to make something myself from what we have here -- something that isn't a veggie burger. I'm not much of a cook, though I can at least whip up some pasta. Yes, maybe I'll do that.

The Cubs will battle their natural enemies, the Cardinals, in about half an hour, so you know where I'll be. I doubt, however, that the outcome will affect the intensity of tonight's festivities. Would you want to blow up things more or less after a key Cubs win or loss? My thinking is that if you went through the trouble to drive up to Wisconsin, buy the illegal fireworks and mow a staging area into your back lawn, you're going to blow off all the damn things no matter what.

Now where's that marinara?

Happy July 4th

Telegram for you, sir

Your intrepid narrator is now home alone for the weekend. Why am I alone, you ask? Well, Erika advised me to stay here and not accompany her to Las Vegas for a friend's wedding. She believed it would be too boring and irritating for me, and we'd be better off saving the money. Nice of her, don't you think?

Now some of you may already be taking the "under" on me starving to death by Sunday, but I assure you, I'm eating a Trader Joe's frozen pizza, freshly cooked, and enjoying a cold O'Doul's as I write this. And if I need more provisions, I have the car.

Indeed, if anything will be my foe this weekend, it will be idleness and solitude. In anticipation of that, I've created a to-do list for the next three days that mixes house chores, exercise and outside errands to keep things interesting. And when I inevitably end up on the couch, I'll have books, comics, sports radio, Netflix selections, PBS, WCIU and MeTV to keep me company. Oh, I almost forgot. Before he moved to NYC last weekend, Jonathan lent me a full complement of "Jeeves and Wooster." I've watched one now, and I'm hooked.

So don't worry about me, dear reader. If things get really desperate, I might -- hey -- call some real human beings. What a novel idea.

Tuning in

I'm toying with the idea ("toying with the idea" means someone probably won't do something, or if they do, they'll wait at least six months) of writing a personal history of my sports radio listenership here on the old WeBLoG. My Buffalo friends got me hooked on fantasy football during the '02 season, and my interest in sports radio started that winter. Since then, I've listened to thousands of minutes of it -- both games and talk shows -- on our two local stations, and I've seen all sorts of changes in programming. I've had my favorites, as well as shows that made me instantly turn the dial. Sports radio has been there to start my day and been there to put me to bed; it's been there to help calm me during tough times; and it's been there to keep me company when I'm alone.

This all probably sounds a bit strange, but I'm not ashamed. In a weird way, it's become a kind of backing track to my life in Chicago. I remember that Roger Angell book in which he talked about riding in a cab one night with his wife, returning from a dinner party where he had drunk a lot of wine. He laid his head back against the seat and listened to the stream of baseball scores coming from the cabbie's radio. It's always there when you need it -- a continuous hum. That's something I find very comforting.

Paying to play

Playwrights must deal with many indignities during the submission process. I usually spare you my submission-related gripes, but today's offender is too heinous, in my opinion, to pass up. I recently found a small college playwriting contest that demands a $30 reading fee -- a new record, at least in my experience (of the more than 160 theaters and contests I submitted to in the past year).

Thirty dollars. What do you need that money for, small college? Are you going broke? Does your theater dean drive a Land Rover? (I seriously would love it if the reason were "high gas prices.") We pay for copies at Staples; we pay for report covers; we pay to send our heavy scripts cross-country by priority mail; and now you want us to pay your expensive reading fee on top of it. Hey, I have to gas up my car, too.

Playwriting is very much a "pay to play" arena when you're starting out: There are playwriting group membership dues, contest fees, copies, postage, even broadband access (for theater research and e-submission). It's an unpleasant reality no one talks about. Who knows if this kind of investment prices some writers out. (I'm fortunate to have a day job to finance my marketing campaign.) I set my contest fee limit at $20, which I still think is too high, but I'm trying to get exposure as a new playwright. I just wonder if the kind of inching-up we've seen in things such as ATM fees and gas prices will bleed over into the arts. It seems that right now businesses all over the country are trying to find out just how much people are willing to pay -- how much they can squeeze before we yelp.

And I suppose it comes down to that: How much do you want it? Someone's going to be desperate enough to shell out $30 to enter this small college contest. I know I'm not forced to pay it; I don't have to enter. But I think it's excessive, predatory and sets a poor precedent. I know theaters (and colleges) are businesses that require money to operate, but when does this kind of situation stop being an award for the arts and start becoming a revenue source that happens to have a blue ribbon attached to it?

I found it interesting last winter when the Steppenwolf's literary manager told a group of us at a seminar that most theaters don't pay much attention to contest wins listed on query letters/resumes, save for two or three very large ones. This small college contest was not among them.

January in June

The Bulls, in case you somehow didn't hear, took Memphis point guard Derrick Rose in last night's NBA draft with the first overall pick. I watched quite a bit of the NCAA tournament three months ago, including a couple of Memphis games, and I honestly can't remember anything about him. I was more focused on Michael Beasley and Stephon Curry, but I did the same thing in '07 when I focused on Greg Oden and not Kevin Durant, who's turned into a very special player, as Steve Stone likes to say. By "focus," I guess I mean "paid a little more attention to."

Having not paid attention to Rose, I feel neutral about the pick, but the analysts have gushed about this guy like he's the next Chris Paul. That could be a case of them having 24-7 TV time to fill and underwhelming available talent to analyze (think NFL Combine), or he could have real ability. I know Norm Van Lier will be happy with Rose and, by extension, Carmen DeFalco as well. Carmen sounded pretty up on him during WMVP's draft coverage last night.

Let me reiterate that I absolutely love that the Bulls are back on AM 1000, simply for the what-seems-like-hours-long pre-game show featuring Carmen and Van Lier. Last season was majorly disappointing, but somehow hearing Norm gripe for 86 games that Ben Gordon was pretending to be injured, Tyrus Thomas needed to get his head out of his ass and Thabo Sefolosha needed to stop making Swiss chocolate and man up made things at least funnier. Thabo eventually showed signs of life, but Van Lier will be ready to kiss Derrick Rose on the lips come this October, when he'll look like Tiny Archibald compared to the previous point men.

Das Glute

If you're interested in getting some new vegan-/vegetarian-friendly recipes or just curious about new brands of faux-meat on the market, stop on by the South Loop Whole Foods this Saturday at 1 p.m. to watch Erika give a cooking demonstration with Upton's Naturals seitan. Upton's gave her a load of the stuff, and she's got some fantastic ideas in store.

It keeps calling me

I'm starting to jones for a Three Oaks visit.

Last year, Erika and I took a weekend getaway to southwestern Michigan, which, as some of you may know, is a popular regional vacation spot for Chicagoans. Erika, being the queen of Internet research -- seriously, if she wanted one of those hot-shot news librarian jobs at the Trib, she could get it -- did an exhaustive search of rental properties in the area. We're not made of money, so we wanted something cheaper, and she found a wonderful little rental house in the wonderful little town of Three Oaks, just over the Indiana border and a few miles East from more expensive, tourist-trappy New Buffalo.

We first went in March, when it was chilly and raining, and again in August around our birthdays, which included a great side-trip to Kalamazoo and the Bell's Brewery. But that was 10 months ago, and the itch needs scratching.

You might look at Three Oaks and call it a tourist trap, too. I won't go that far because, despite the pricey antique, furniture and preserves stores, it has a Left-Wing, artistic undercurrent, as well as a micro-sized downtown area, that lends it definite charm. Three Oaks boasts its own community radio station, health food store, art-house cinema, used book store and newly reopened vegan-friendly restaurant. It also has two great bars -- one where the bartender cooks greasy food right there for you a few steps down from the taps.

You also can rent bikes for trips through the green farm fields surrounding the town, and you certainly can ride over to New Buffalo and go up the tourist corridor through Union Pier, Harbert and Sawyer. You'll find more antiques, another bookstore, a great corner store, a Swedish bakery and some awesome Middle Eastern food. There also are some wineries (not as fun as you'd imagine and go with white) and the beach (water is cold year-round, but still good for sunning).

I like to think Erika and I will move to this area someday. Maybe one of us will make a splash with our writing; maybe one of us will be able to work from home; or maybe, after opening our vegan restaurant in Chicago, we'll open a bed and breakfast in Three Oaks. Whatever the route, I want to make it part of our 10-year plan. See you in Three Oaks!

As I Lay, (Jermaine) Dye (is Batt)ing

If you wanted -- IF -- you could listen to tonight's Cubs/Sox game on three different radio stations -- set them up in a row and listen. I've been flipping back and forth between the Sox broadcast (Farmer and Stoney) and the ESPN Sunday Night Baseball national broadcast (two dudes whose names I forget). Yes, this is perhaps another reason why we should get cable, but I will continue to hold out until at least football season and '08-'09 NBA. Then we'll have some serious considering to do.

In the meantime, I'll lie here on the bed and do my crossword puzzle and listen. There's something to be said for the power of the image, but radio is the superior medium, in my opinion, and baseball on the radio is second to none in sports ... Well, maybe hockey on the radio. Those guys are nuts.

Time together

Today is our third wedding anniversary. Later, we're going to the Chicago Diner to celebrate. Three years. June 2005 was a different time. For example:

- Erika just finished up her junior year of college and was preparing for her first student teaching assignment.
- Mark logged year three at his dead-end news job, with no end in sight. (But he did have a 20-minute commute on one bus.)
- Erika was working as the Friday night (and Sunday morning) bartender at Tuman's.
- Mark had yet to begin work on his first full-length play.
- Erika smoked.
- Mark ate meat -- particularly the grilled ham and cheese from Big Herm's.
- Erika and Mark did not go to the gym.
- Erika and Mark had no nieces or nephews and had never attended the wedding of a friend or family member together.
- Erika and Mark lived on Noble Street in Noble Square in an apartment with avocado green walls in the living room and a space heater -- and loved it.

Here's to another three wonderful years. A lot more is definitely going to happen.

From the Sunday Nite Dead Files

Y'know, I like angry, abstract post-punk as much as the next disaffected leftist, but sometimes you have to cut it with a little ... "Grateful Dead from the Mars Hotel"? I bought this record at a moving sale in Wicker Park two years ago for a couple of bucks, and you know what ... I will always think the Dead are a terrible, terrible band, but sometimes they produce a pretty good song. "Unbroken Chain" is a pretty good song. It even has some (gulp) Ubu-esque synth dissonance.

I showed this record to my brother Matt not long after I bought it, and his brief display of Dead knowledge (he is a many-multiple bootleg owner) was so precise and frighteningly crystalline, I nearly fainted. I must demand, the next time he's here, that he flash a bit of that again. If I could goad him into a debate with someone else over which Dead album was the best -- or, even better, which Dead line-up was the best ...

You know, "Scarlet Begonias" isn't that bad either ... I think this is how it starts ... Where's that 1.6 Band record?

The Color-Coded Clown

This "submitted" list looks so nice and unsullied. I keep a record of all the theaters and contests I've submitted to, and I then color-code it as responses come in: green for acceptances, yellow for script requests and red for rejections. So far, no rejections, three requests and one acceptance (a staged reading). This is the nicest it might ever look.

That staged reading happened this past weekend, and though it went really well and led to me changing something in my play (for the better, I believe), I feel that a curtain of stress has lifted. This is the calmest Monday I've had since ... well, I can't remember. But don't get me wrong, I am extremely grateful for the opportunity I was given on such short notice, and I received very sincere encouragement from people whose opinions I greatly respect.

So ... start another play. Yes, it's time; the month is over. Erika's going to write tonight, so I will join her. I have nothing else on my docket, and I'm looking forward to it like nothing else.

Dork or no -- you decide

Yes, we went to the Cubs game yesterday. Yes, they won, and yes, we had a great time with Marie (on her birthday) and her friend John. Yes, I took four All-Star Game ballots and filled them out over the course of the game with, yes, four different rosters. Yes, I forgot to drop them in the little drop-box at Wrigley on our way to getting some Indian food afterward.

And yes, I'm mailing them to MLB today on my own dime.

Feel Good Friday

Mac, Jurko and Harry just did their live remote from a bar right around the corner from my Grandma's house. And now that I think about it, I can visualize the place: an Irish joint at the corner of Pulaski and W. 111th, just across the border in Oak Lawn. It has an outdoor courtyard.

Why do I bring this up? Well, I've got a lot of love for that area -- a lot of history in that area. And if I had had my druthers, I would've got a bit drunk down there today, too. ... Now that I think of it ... I could've pulled it off. ... Yes ... We have summer hours. I could've left at 1; caught a cab to the school. Begged Erika for the car; hopped on the Dan Ryan ... I would've been sucking down Miller Lites by 2, sitting by myself in a South Side Irish bar surrounded by fat guys.

At least I could've visited my Grandma afterward. "Grandma ... I just need to ... lie down here ... tell me ... how your ... day ... was ..."

Wake up by 9, bleary; drive through the thunderstorm and experience unpleasant deja vu.

I am McDyess, man

Two points of good news ...

1. Tim tipped me off to Effete Musings: a Detroit-New York comedy clearinghouse cartel. I had no idea! Read at once!

2. The Primitivo Zinfandel from Puglia is back at Trader Joe's for the $4 price. Did they read my earlier post? Whether or not they did, I still drank two glasses last night. I guess that means I'm feeling better.

Just a little taste and then I'll ... read ... yes ...

Started feeling better last night and feeling more so today. I regret taking Nyquil, though, right before bed, as I'm feeling a bit stoned this morning. But I had a nagging cough and no 'tussin to ease it.

Nyquil does impart a certain stillness in its aftermath, with a more peaceful, almost dreamlike flow of thought and memory. One memory that comes to mind is seeing a kid drinking a bottle of Nyquil next to his locker freshman year.

I'm at least looking forward to hitting the gym again after a week, though tonight's the night, as I detailed in an earlier post, that we call it quits with the YMCA. It makes me sad, and that's not the Nyquil talking. I will miss the view of the Metra line and those old, low-lying factories nearby. The sight of Target from the second floor of the new gym doesn't even fill up to the 10 mL line of the 30 mL cup of life's pleasant vistas.

SickBlogging 2.0

Our Memorial Day party is winding down. I forced myself to be active today: went to the South Side to visit Grandma, carried some big bags of dirt to the garden, ran around with the little kids for a bit. Now I'm feeling sweaty and a little cruddy, but I think I've gone over the hump with this cold.

But enough about that ... Lately I feel as though there are forces conspiring to make Erika and I get cable. Really those forces are called the NBA. Once the regular season ended, 85% of the playoffs went to cable. Thank you ABC for the Saturday game, but I've had to endure two straight days of hoops on the radio.

Well, it's not really that bad. You can't front on the combined basketball knowledge of Hall of Famers Hubie Brown and Dr. Jack Ramsay, who are doing radio color for the East and West finals, respectively. The more I listen, the more I want Dr. Jack to interview me every morning before I go to work.

And what about Will Perdue with the pre/post analysis? Do you remember hearing that Phil Jackson made Perdue read "On the Road" to improve his game/life? I do. That's the kind of thing Woundup is not likely to forget.

The Boers of Summer

9:15 p.m. Running a slight fever. Cold still nagging. The Cubs are on.

I was going to write a post about my guilt over them beating up on the Pirates, but then Kerry Wood blew a save, and we're now in extra innings. I still feel guilty. I know you're not supposed to, especially when your team needs all the Ws it can get to scrape together some chance of winning a grossly overdue championship. But I would feel better if that 8-1 record (as of this minute) were against the Cards or Astros. The poor Pirates need a glimmer of hope of their own, having posted a losing record since the '90s. They have such a nice new ballpark, too. Ah, look at those fans leaving. Poor, poor Pittsburgh.

(1.75 hour interval)

The Cubs have lost. I shouldn't feel so bad then, yes? I'm still sick, but I did take some Nyquil. Tomorrow is another day. ... ... I wish I wasn't sick.

The secret is out

Aha! It seems word is spreading that this WeBLoG has re-opened for business. I put out one little MySpace bulletin a couple months ago -- mostly likely swallowed up in the flood of "Lost my phone, need your number" posts.

Let me say hello to old friends returning. I don't see any work stoppages ahead for this site, so I won't let you down again. And to new readers, welcome. We offer a gold-level premium service for $29.95 per month. See link at bottom.

Suck it, D'Antoni

Dear lord. The Bulls just stole the No. 1 pick in the draft. Nobody saw that coming. Almost forgives their shite season.

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TAKE BEASLEY.

Life, she is a trade-off

Wonderful. I have the beginnings of a cold, which means I'll have to pass on tonight's scheduled workout at the new gym. The new gym ... It's like working out at the mall, or maybe more accurately, it feeds the yuppie need to feel pampered: towels, TVs on machines, personal trainers, a spa/tanning area. Not completely spartan ourselves, Erika and I heard they had a double-decker hot tub and were immediately sold.

This means we'll be breaking off our nearly three-year relationship with the YMCA. The Logan Square Y, though possessing a great deal of heart, is not the kind of exercise facility for hurried white people like ourselves. I'll miss being able to discern the rhythms of individual members' workouts -- something entirely lost in the flood of people at the new gym. I won't miss the 90-degree machine room in July. Bon soir YMCA.

Half-full/Half-empty

Bell's Brewery -- where I spent my 31st birthday and which lost its Chicago distributorship last year -- has been creeping back into the local market. Handlebar has had a number of their beers on tap in the last six months, and now Tuman's is carrying a wheat ale similar to Oberon. I had a couple there last night, and I think it's even better than the Big O, which was a popular seller. I might have to go back soon.

In other alcohol news, Trader Joe's has been out of our favorite pair of $4 Italian wines for a month now, leading me to believe that they may not return. I've never exerted enough effort to understand TJ's stocking policy, but we've seen delicious, popular items disappear for good before (their chocolate soy milk). In fact, the pure $4 bottle of wine is fast becoming extinct at TJ's. Considering the number of horrible mass-market wines going for $8 and up, I will miss these true bargains.

The (Tree) Killing Time

After tomorrow I will retire my first play from intensive submission. I might continue to send it out to niche contests, but it will essentially be off the monthly mailing rotation. It's a bit hard to believe a whole year has passed. That play netted a staged reading, finalist honors from a small contest and a number of full-script requests. It's still out there working for me, but I've done about all I can do to let the theater world know it exists. I've sent it to more than 160 theaters and contests. I suppose that sounds like I want some kind of medal. I'd at least take a discount from the USPS.

I'm now hammering out another synopsis -- an unpleasant undertaking, as some of you may know. I have high hopes for the new play, as well as the old one. But in life it seems things don't go as neatly or as in order as you'd like them to. However, I do feel one of these suckers (written or yet-to-be-written) is going to hit at some point in the near future, and I suppose that's all that matters -- at least in terms of contact with the outside world. Inside, I will continue writing, and as time goes on, I'll continue to enjoy that experience a tiny bit more than before -- and care a tiny bit less about what others think. I suppose that's the key to being a happy creative writer. It will never be total, but it can be a majority.

Combine

Goodbye to Robert Rauschenberg. One of my favorite visual artists.

Class of '94

Two months ago I met up with my old high school friend Phil. It was really great to see him and meet his family. He unearthed a comic book we did together back when we were 13 -- an unexpected and awesome surprise.

Continuing that work from way back when, Phil now writes and draws his own Web comic called "Schadenfreude." There's a link at right. The newest strip made me laugh out loud.

All Done 2.0

I finished my second play today: copy-edited, spell-checked, everything. I started it in June 2006 and took about six months off in the middle to finish up my first play.

Tonight I'm going to have a big glass of the most alcoholic beer Handlebar has on tap. I think I've earned it. Cheers.

Invisible pathways

I was just thinking about Internet use on the job. We'll not go into it in too much detail, for obvious reasons, but recently I was reminded of a co-worker at my old job, 20 years my senior, who only ever looked at two sites at work: Classmates.com and the Chicago police site that shows pics of guys busted for soliciting prostitutes. I never asked him about either, as much as I wanted to -- particularly about the latter.

There should be an award for Most Unrelated Roster of Daily Visited Web Sites. Personally, I feel off if I don't begin each work morning with mississippiriverlevels.com, todayinzoroastrianhistory.com, makeyourownvodka.net, moonlightingtrivia.com and slate.com.

Wait, scratch that last one. It should be soviethelicoptersale.com. Lately there've been some great deals.

Dreemlund

I was talking with Jonathan last night about dreams, and as I predicted, I ended up having a vivid one after earlier claiming I had no vivid dream life. But that still is almost completely true. (I think I delved into it in at least one post on Old Woundup.) I've always been more of a day-dreamer (and a layabout), and I've long figured this activity uses up fuel in some way from the Dream Gas Tank.

So, you probably want to hear about the dream. Well, I can't remember much of it now, though I know it concerned some old friends from Florida: running around at night, a dinner. I should've written it down.

But I do recall that post. Here it is. And it is your reason to start reading Old Woundup, which, though not as technically sophisticated as this current incarnation, more than makes up for any shortcomings in heart.

The Picasso of the Draft Machine

OK, I promised I wouldn't write about this, but ESPN.com's Bill Simmons officially is the best NBA writer in America (following the retirement of the Trib's Sam Smith, though really he probably already was). I love the NBA, and as I've told Erika time and again, the only reason I'd ever get cable is to watch games on TNT. That's why it kills me I can't see any playoff series till the finals. This is an awesome playoff year.

Here's a real gem from today's Simmons playoff column (huge bonus for comparing Dirk Nowitzki to Gabe Kaplan):

"To David West for his in-your-face manhandling of Dirk Nowitzki in Round 1, capped off by the same derisive cheek tap that Robert Conrad used to perfection after his concession speech to Gabe Kaplan in the first "Battle of the Network Stars." It's unclear if West was apologizing to Dirk or intimidating him, but we haven't seen a German back off like that since the German army fled from Russia in the winter of '44."

Plant life

Realm Of Dusk

Tomorrow begins Painful Writing Ordeal 2.0 ... Well, now that I think about it, I already went through PWO 2.0 last month. This will have to be PWO 2.5.

I don't like to talk about my process, but I believe this now-annual occurrence merits an exception, as it occupies a higher, more demanding rung on the Ladder Of Revision -- one that requires a bit of psyching-up for the author (but not too much, as it leads to the psych-out). When it is over, I will have a finished play in my hands -- my second. I'm hoping this won't happen any later than May 3.

I bought a bag of Jay's BBQ chips from the little store, and as I was walking back to the New Cracker Factory, I had a glimpse of sunlit W. Kinzie and N. Dearborn: the Harry Caray's sign that always reminds of me of my many trips to the Fort Dearborn Post Office. (On returning from each submission trip, I pass in front of Harry's for good luck, just as I look into the eyes of the Ludwig Mies van der Rohe bust each work morning for a little lift.) Now a new pile of yet-to-be-copied scripts awaits its mission in the near-future. Soon enough.

Shimmering, rippled

Are there paddle boats in the Humboldt Park lagoon? I want to say there are, which means there probably aren't. I want to say I've seen them before out there in the summer, which means I'm probably thinking about Central Park or the Lincoln Park Zoo.

I should go fishing after work today -- it's going to be so nice -- but I don't want to hurt any fish with a sharp hook. I guess we could walk around the lagoon and stare at it. There are benches ... That's a nice idea. Yes. This is our neighborhood now; we pay the taxes. It's time to enjoy it.

It's time to start enjoying ourselves.

Nature Without Man 2.0

Well, North Sider, are you scared of the cougar, yet? I've been going on and on to Erika about how I want to attract predators to our new big back yard. I was thinking more owls or hawks, but cougars would be fine. This has "First Chicago man mauled by cougar since 1809" written all over it, to run in the Sun-Times in two months. That first Chicago man will be me when I take out the garbage after nightfall one June evening. The animal was attracted by the scent of organ meat (really leftover vegan riblets).

For apocalypticiscts, this is a telling sign, I feel, as it heralds the vanguard of Nature's eventual reclamation of North America from man. The resurgence of the bear and the wolf in the Rocky Mountains and upper Plains States has increased food competition, driving predators such as the cougar back east. We've made efforts to boost populations of classic American animals, but we may begin to run into the problems that lead to their near-extinction in the past. It certainly could make city and suburban life more exciting (lots of eaten pets), as well as up the stakes for clods hunting deer in, say, Wisconsin (lots of eaten Packer fans).

Mr. Squeaky Shoe

For the second spring in a row, my left dress shoe has begun to squeak. I drink a lot of water at the New Cracker Factory, and our Ludwig Mies van der Rohe-designed office requires I take a nice, long German walk to the water cooler. Here the squeaky shoe comes into play, as I take at least 50-100 steps with my left foot alone on each trip. What do these people in their little pens think as I squeak by yet again? Naturally, to the offender, the offense becomes exaggerated. In reality, the squeak may be nothing more than a faint blip on the inner radar screens of the office population, already crowded with car payments, weekend shopping lists and Thai pornography.

But the squeak bothers me. (Don't I count for something?) All the home remedies I've read about have been useless. I can only guess, given its perennial reappearance, that the squeak is tied to some spring change in humidity, temperature or barometric pressure. Maybe I should throw these clunkers away and get some of those futuro-sock/shoes -- the ones Time Out Chicago readers wear: casual, yet stylish; comfortable, yet expensive. But if I did that, well, that would be a bit like giving in, wouldn't it? After railing against Neil Young and the Talking Heads (see below), could I still call myself a true naysayer? Definitely not.

So, sadly, the squeak must stay -- if I'm to keep face. Perhaps I'll grow -- a little, day by day -- to enjoy disturbing the others working in silence: the squeak of my shoe faint in the distance but growing in volume, now loud, now very loud, now fading , all to resume again in two minutes. Is there not some satisfaction to be gleaned from that on this, the first day of spring?

My code name's Happy Harry

It's Friday. It's warm out. Sunny. Though you wouldn't know it right now in the Office Canyon. I told myself I wouldn't post this, but seeing as how I'd instead have to do some real work, I've since backpedaled ...

http://www.vbs.tv/video.php?id=1271951667

Highlights include the Battle of Dunkirk and how Talking Heads and Neil Young suck. (And they do suck. I know we all mellowed out there 6-7 years ago over Young's pampered/damaged/rehabbing rocker schtick, and many of us said T.H. is just a few hairs off from ESG and therefore admissible. C'mon, people.) Also, I think IF truly freaks MES out when they start discussing astrology.

In other news: We welcome the return of the light gray suit. I'll be picking one up tomorrow. Nothing even comes close to a light gray suit.

4:10 CST

M: Hello.
T: It's me.
M: What is it?
T: I'm calling you.
M: I'm at work.
T: I'm calling you from the bar.
M: I'm at work.
T: I just wanted you to know something.
(pause)
T: I just wanted you to know--
M: I have to get back--
T: That I've been drinking since ... Checks watch. See if this was the stage -- you write for the stage.
M: I can't--
T: This was the stage, it would say ... "Checks Watch."
(pause)
M: What do you want?
T: I've been drinking since 3 o'clock.
(pause)
M: That's it?
T: No.
(pause)
T: No, because you're coming down here -- You're going to be down in here in ... Checks watch. See, I did it again ... In 1.5 hours and you're going to see all of us sitting here on our bar stools. I have a bar stool and Jim has a bar stool--
Jim: Suck my dick!
T: See Jim says to suck his dick.
M: Goodbye--
T: Wait! ... Wait a second ... I almost spilled my drink. Jesus.
M: I'm busy.
T: I'm busy, too. I'm busy drinking. You're going to come down here in 1.5 hours--
M: I'm not coming down there.
T: Yes you are--
Jim: Don't be a pussy!
T: You've heard Jim's viewpoint. All right.
M: I have to--
T: Just ... just ... When you walk in that door. The swinging saloon door ... and you see us here on our bar stools. I have a bar stool--
M: You already said this.
T: Don't think ... Don't think it all just suddenly appeared.
(pause)
M: What?
T: It means ... that while you were there. At the office. We began drinking. At 3 o'clock--
M: You already said this--
T: And ... things have settled in and, more importantly, they have taken a life of their own. Here. That is ... that we have gone about our drinking ... We have gone about existing ... without your presence.
(pause)
M: Goodbye--
T: Wait ... and you should know ... That things happen -- all over the world -- things happen. Without your knowledge. Or your intervention. And they will continue to happen. So ...
(pause)
T: When you walk through the swinging saloon doors ... stop a moment. And feel privileged ... That you've come upon an autonomous scene.
(pause)
T: With no need of your involvement. Indifferent. Vigorous. In other words ...
(long pause)
M: In other words what?
T: Life--
Jim: Get your pussy ass down here!
(M hangs up)

Returrn to me

You knew Wound up couldn't stay down. The blogging history was too rich, the franchise too storied. So what have we been up to here at the New Cracker Factory in the intervening 10 or so months? Glad you asked. WoundUp Corp. has spearheaded a number of new media initiatives for the 18-35 youth market ...

1. MP3s ... lots of MP3s.
2. Open-source app design. Yes ... Not us, but I've read about it.
3. Pill-based media. I had this idea at the bar and wrote it down on a napkin. I'm pretty sure the FDA won't allow it, but I could do an end-around through more permissive Mexican drug boards.

But really, the truth is ... We haven't been doing anything. We've been unemployed. CEO Tom Blister shut down this site after one too many fights with the content team. Unprecedented oil revenues (Woundup Corp. has a controlling interest in Plexite/DAG Petroleum of Rotterdam) allowed senior management to pause and rethink its written content-based solution.

Over the past 10 or so months, the content team slept in till 11, laid on the couch and watched "Regis," smoked marijuana, went to brunch, tried (and failed) to read Proust and fought in court over unreleased severance pay. And Monika had a baby!

And now we return. Any changes? Yes ... No. Everything will be the same. We had some of the highest ratings ever at the time COO Franzon Metternich pulled the plug on this site. And if you're wondering whether the author is diverting precious writing energies for frivolity instead of The Task at Hand, well, that will go, as it always has, largely unanswered.

The WoundUp Platform

Well, now that I got that out of my system, let me turn to politics ... We all remember the 2004 election and how many in the Left were wringing their hands, calling it "the most important election ever." If you consider the president's re-election the sole cause of all our current domestic and foreign problems, than perhaps it ranks up there on the list. But I believe the 2008 race is much, much more important, as we are now seeing a culmination of decades (even a century's) worth of bad practices come to a head. I believe this truly is the first 21st Century American election -- one in which the candidates involved no longer can ignore the challenges we must face for the next 100 years.

If I had my way, the country would have socialized medicine, drastic reductions in defense spending, jobs for all, ethical distribution of wealth, limits on advertising, pluralization of media, tolerance of dissenting viewpoints, environmental responsibility and cultivation of reusable energy, less trash, gun control, revision of jail-able offenses, legalization of drugs, investment in economically moribund urban areas and the inclusion of ghettoized minorities in the national mainstream, mixed-use urban development, mixed-income neighborhoods, more locally focused economies, more small businesses, more vacation days for workers, equal pay for women, an end to the car's dominance, better public transportation including inter-city light rail, funding for the arts with a place for them and physical education in all schools, teaching methods that do not rely heavily on form tests, free college, access to information technology for all, shuttering of overseas military bases and better treatment for the elderly.

I know none of the major candidates will give me all of this, or even any of it, but if there's one who can at least put our collective foot on the very first cobblestone of the road to embracing what man is truly capable of -- an end to our old violent, exclusionary and wasteful practices -- that will make me happier.

Second dark age

Yesterday my wife found out that she did not get an opportunity she had really been hoping for. It left me feeling very ineffectual and upset. I had helped her prepare her materials, so I felt we had done this as team, of sorts. I honestly don't know why Erika wasn't extended this opportunity, and I can only guess it might be over some administrative technicality. Regardless, this has greatly upended her plans for the coming year, and that makes me truly angry. No one I've ever met works harder than my wife; no one gives more while asking for nothing; and no one deserves more to have her dreams be fulfilled for the rest of her life. And if you're some crank who wants to tell me "life isn't fair," I have two answers for you:

1. No shit.
2. Fuck you.

Erika has had the dictionary definition of a hard life, and I doubt there's anything you can bring up that will top it, so save it, asshole.

Rejection is (cliche inserted), as we are both in the creative writing field. For every play produced, book published or poem printed, I wonder how many people have had their dreams spit upon. And I often wonder if the "winner" is truly worthy, and how that distorts an audience's view of that person once they somehow slip past the gatekeepers.

We can only try again next year. But what do we do in the meantime? What does everyone do in the intervening 365 days before the next round of possible disappointments begins? Enjoy the process, you might say. Well, that reminds me a lot of how the christian church made (makes) people obsess about an afterlife to forget how shackled they were (are) in this one. I don't know if I have anything else to say.

Spring offensive starts today

Selection time. I voluntarily waded into the bathtub of razor blades beginning last May, and I've since sent my play to more than 160 theaters and contests across the country. I've garnered a little response, a growing folder of rejections and finalist honors from a small competition in New England (more than what was on my "resume" before.)

Now theaters are making their season selections for 08-09. I'm new to this, so I'm getting a feel for the timing. The bigger ones -- the ones with literary interns and the ones with whom you have no shot -- seem to announce first. The bigger ones work quicker -- thanks to the literary interns. They can turn around a form rejection at breakneck speed.

I'm placing my hopes in contests, many of which are announced in April, and in the smaller theaters, who seem -- thanks to a lack of literary interns -- to work slower. But perhaps it's only a delay of eventual disappointment.

I am nearly finished with my second play (probably by the end of the month) and will ready myself for another paper offensive in May. I've actually grown to enjoy dropping off my scripts at the Fort Dearborn post office.

Some probably would advise me to take the "long view" for both plays: that lack of available slots for new work by unknown playwrights will push my eventual "break" (if it happens) toward an indeterminate date in the future. Creative writing encourages a certain monasticism and remove, allowing you to retreat into your work and shut yourself off from the "historical dimension." It's just that when you return to town with your handiwork do you wonder if anyone cares (or whether it matters) how many revisions you did or how many times you re-read the lines.

But we fight anyway. And when I look at my plays, and I am filled with pride in knowing I did them the right way, and I am still systematically rejected, well, I suppose that's the literary equivalent of dying on your feet in battle.

The call of summer

Fantasy baseball. It's an addiction. I tell myself there are worst things to get hooked on, then I realize I've signed up for two ultracompetitive leagues, one with 10x10 stats. Maybe I should go back to morphine.

All kidding aside: In the process of pulling my medulla this past weekend (writer's injury), I let Yahoo!'s auto-picker select both of my teams -- a first. And you know what? It did a pretty damn good job. Almost makes me feel like the past years of TSN guide research and elaborate pre-ranked lists were useless. ... Well, I shouldn't say that. I netted the '06 championship and won the '07 pennant, playing a competitive Fantasy Series down to the wire.

I'm a better waiver wire jockey, anyway. Hey, WoundUp reader: Here's to a knockout 2008 season and another October appearance for the Cubs. And for you fantasy players: Here's hoping Aubrey Huff, Joe Borowski or Jake Westbrook don't grace your roster. We've all been there.

Goodbye, Goodbye

The New City YMCA on Halsted will close this Sunday, June 30. My wife and I have been members for two years, and it’s with a heavy heart that we’ll leave that multicolored building behind. I was resistant when Erika first took me there back in July 2005 but, with her prodding, I quickly found regular exercise incredibly beneficial for my physical and mental health. We’re going to move on to another Y for now, but the memories we leave at New City—the ones to be buried in the rubble when the wrecking ball hits—will make any new location feel like something less than home.

Though it may seem silly that the closing of a gym could mark the end of an era in someone’s life, it is nevertheless true for me. With that in mind—and, again, with a heavy heart—I’m announcing the end of Wound Up. I feel this site (and its earlier incarnation) was, like Picodiribibi, tied to a particular part of my life, and that part passed when I left my last job.

I will continue to keep this site alive. It’s a personal journal of sorts for me, so I don’t want it to disappear. You can also use the links at right to visit the old Woundup and Picodiribibi.

Thank you for reading my blog. If I ever decide to start a new one, I’ll let you know.

All Done

I finished my play today--completely. Spell-checked, copy-edited, page-numbered ... All that stuff. I got the idea for it, in part, while we were on our honeymoon in June-July 2005. I started writing it that August.

It's all kind of a ridiculous business--like most, if not all, occupations. If I tell myself that what happens next doesn't matter, I feel better.

I started work on a second idea during a lull last year. I'm giving myself a few weeks off, then taking it up again. In some ways, I feel it's waiting for me. On my desk.

Seriously

I do need my record collection back. The lion's share of the rock section currently resides in Detroit, part of a five-year trip back from Greenpoint. Listening to 30-second snippets in the iTunes store isn't cutting it.

I honestly don't know where woundup will go from here, folks. I hope to keep it alive a little bit longer. Maybe it was inextricably tied to my last job. That's a good theory if you are given to fatalism. Maybe, like an aging ballplayer, the time for its career to end has arrived. I don't know. I hope to at least have a good reason if I hang it up -- like getting paid to write what I really want. We'll see. Till then, keep stopping by.

VoIPing It In

Gasp. For a second, I thought I had lost the complete Old Woundup archives. Diaryland looks to be taking a major crap. Hopefully they'll get it together again soon. Diaryland is kind of like the Maywood to Blogspot's River Forest. Diaryland is kind of like the Cheektowaga to Blogspot's Snyder. Diaryland is kind of like the Warren to Blogspot's Royal Oak. Diaryland is kind of like the Sauk Village to Blogspot's Homewood. Diaryland is kind of like the Yonkers to Blogspot's White Plains. And White Plains is where we get off.

The Fighting 59ers

I've divided myself. I'm back into things at 30 that I was into at 15: baseball, Groo comics, military history, "Kill 'em All," the Chicago Bulls. It's a good way to live, I feel. Why not? I spent much of the last 10 years trying to prove I was smarter and hipper than my peers. What has it gotten me? Rotten teeth and a lifetime subscription to Magnet... and I give those to my therapist.

I used the bathroom at Trader Joe's today. It's very spacious with large mirrors over the sink and on the door, and I caught myself primping: my hair, my sweater, my pants. Did it look all right? I was still in the bathroom at Luxx in 2001--a part of me was. But that's okay. I comfort myself with the belief that the various versions of ourselves, year to year, combine to make us in the present. If you were to throw a stone, supersonically, at my chest, I would break apart, fragmenting into my many previous selves: a baby, a 15 year old, a 24 year old and many others.

And, man, do they get hungry. Thankfully, dinner's almost ready.

Woundup unto infinitum

Wow... the gaps are getting bigger than... bigger than... sorry, folks. We've got the lights turned off in the house. Here by ourselves with a Jimmy Smith record. I bought this collection two years ago but previously owned a very dirty (lit'rally, not figtiv'ly) copy I bought at flea market somewhere near Dayton in the late '90s. Now it's over.

Is it time to shell out more bread for a playwriting class? I answer the call about once a year. How about stage fighting--the last bastion of D&D nerds over 30? I think someone offers that somewhere in Chicago... maybe a back alley garage. Yes, let's take off our shirts when we do this routine. It gets so hot in here. I thought you said there were five other people in this class. Yes, but they all canceled at the last minute. Take off your shirt and... come at me with your staff. Bring it down on my head like this. Very good. In a sweeping motion, really just... Yes, like that. Harder. Harder. Good. Like you want to break my skull open. Very good. Now I'm going to take off my pants. It gets so hot in here. What? No... There isn't a break. I don't have a bathroom either. You can... you can piss in the alley, but I have to come with you.

Well... you might run away.

Don't Forget Your Intermittens

"I am disgusted by the pathetic trickle of content on this site the past month."

Just another angry letter from a Woundup reader--well, really the only Woundup reader. But he lives alone, is unemployed and has a powerful modem. Mr. Calabrese, your points are well-taken, but we ask for your patience during this transition time. We recently found the 240-foot mainframe unit we paid for was partially constructed of mint-flavored toothpicks--completely useless.

Things are still in boxes. I haven't even touched my dishes, yet. And I take my clothes straight from the plastic tubs. I just have a lot going on right now, and I'm always super-tired when I get home. The weather's so bad, too. I just want to watch TV and go to sleep. The lightbulb burned out in the front entranceway. I'm afraid I'm going to get mugged, but my landlord doesn't care. I just want spring to get here so I can refocus and open the windows. I totally missed the deadline to register for classes. I don't think I was really ready... I mean, I don't know what I want to do. I shouldn't spend all that money on grad school. But maybe I should just say "fuck it" and dive in--totally buckle down and do a lot of work. I don't know. I just want to go out tonight and forget everything.