The Day of Rest

This is the summer of NO EXCUSES. The summer of the HARD WAY. Uh, the summer of... Summer's almost over. No, it's not, but it feels like it is. A cool 72 or so in Chicago. Hello there. Yes, we are back from our break. How did it go? The summer of NO EXCUSES. NO MORE BACKPED'LING. NO MORE OFF-THE-RECORD INTERVIEWS.

No one has ever interviewed us about this site. I'd like to keep it that way. Primarily because...

_ We accept no advertising money. Thus...
_ Allowing us to comment without hinderancesthesummerofNOMOREHANDOUTS.

You heard it here, folks. NO MORE DICEY BUSINESS VENTURES. Look at my investment sheet. Look at our investment line. Read this for me. Tell me how much I've thrown away already FY2006. NO MORE SEASONAL ACCOUNTANTS. Full-time. Yes. And...

All right. We didn't go to California (NO MORE MAGAZINE SUBSCRIPTIONS)
Woundup is a coward. Even with his little pills he couldn't do it. I'm not going to dwell on this, only that this site, its creator, its staff... can only hope to be better. That's called the summer of being through with all of Our Hangups. All right.

That isn't one word, by the way.

Good to talk to Ted, Tim (by internet), my mother and youngest brother, father-in-law today. And JR, who tipped me off about William Gaddis. The summer of the big books.

"I really want to read something big this summer. No more excuses. No more fluff. This is the summer of buckling down and..."

Good. Yes. Keep working, Chicago. Keeping on work. Focusing. Keeping off the scrap heap. Keeping on your medication. Playing for keeps. I always play for keeps. This site... its longtime administration, its many and varied staff of burnout writers... all ways plays for keeps. Yes.

A Very Special Offer

Can you guess which post in the last month didn't live up to its potential. I know, but only because I spent 17 hours in the self-flagellation chamber after I posted it, so... rewrite the following post, make it better and I will reward you. Put your new version in the "comments" section below. Here it is...

..................................
"One of the host's (Blogspot's) "featured blogs" is "Sentence of the Day." Due to the slow server time, I was unable to load up "Sentence of the Day" _ leading me to wonder exactly what this WeBLoG covers.

My theory: a site for circuit court judges to post their favorite sentencings of the day.

"1500 hours of community service... mowing my front lawn! Haw!"
"20 years hard labor. He wasn't happy about that one."
"Life. No parole. Always a classic. Hey, where are we eating tonight, guys?"

Can't beat Guzman's Tacos. 2701 S. California. WE RESERVE THE RIGHT NOT TO SERVE ESCAPEES."

Fillin' Alotta Space is His Name

My Myspace ranks are swelling after I hit a vein of long-missed pals. Hey, hey, let's keep boosting those numbers.

All right... I'm lying. I did not find those long-missed pals on my own. I've hired Myspace consultants who _ they work in a little office here in Chicago _ I gave them a list of people I know. They do the rest.

All right... I'm lying. That last idea... the Myspace consultants? That was pretty good, right? A little above the usual level of writing here? Well, it was written for me by a ghostwriter. Ghost blog writers. In fact, I would say 90% of this WeBLoG is...

All right... I'm lying. That bit about the ghost blog writers... that was actually done by a random blog-generating program on a computer in Florida. There is a 4.35% chance that the machine would've written this type of post.

All right... I'm lying. There is no computer. There is no consulting service, and there's been a modest increase in my Myspace friend total. Modest.

All right... I'm lying. I'm three away from 100 friends. Yes, some of them are bands. Some are internet TV shows, but most are real people I know (have known) in my 29 years of sweet, precious life. I'm very, very excited as I approach this virtual milestone. Very, very excited.

All right... I'm lying. I'm not really excited. I've also run over the maximum character tota

Keep It

And he did... unto... did say... that he will be going. Soon. Unto... he will be goin on vacation. But to... do not unto... do not feareth. He will... he did say... he will bring... his computer... unto... do not... feareth. And he will... continue... unto... posting. From his vacation. He did say... unto... do not feareth.

(Applied Steel up 4 at 9:58 a.m. Sell at 10. Sell at 10:15. Hold at 5.5 or higher. Please call if rises above 7. MSD)

The Divided Self

*cough* *cough* now don't you listen to him. he's just angry about his... my freud book has a lot of reasons why... don't you listen to him... listen to me. i am - you see me there. at the side of the page. i'm in the pensioners' hospital. the debtors hospital. the bills can accumulate... not just... there are your utilities, and when you add medical expenses...

you listen to me. i'm very happy - we're very happy to be here. and... we have a lot of... wonderful memories. yes. i can remember them. memories. and when we walk into... certain places. it fills us. yes. with... feelings... *cough* i have to catch my...

they're going to be... the nuns... lunch should be here. you stay with me and have... i don't eat all of it. i don't need... have a little. the soup is good. a little salty at times. but generally very... and my roll. you can have that. oh, here they come. you stay here and don't listen to him... he's out late at night. drinking and cursing at parked cars. have my crackers. i'm not allowed to eat them... SISTER IS MY LUNCH... thank you.

Mr. Outlaster

Nothing like some visualization exercises followed by a pint of San Fran's finest. Hey, remember the Rainbo? I have a vague nostalgia for the place, tho I really shouldn't bother. I don't know... I enjoyed going with Erika, so I have an affinity for the remembrance of some such things past. Memories of what my wife and I used to do. So when we go back. It is... but the other people. Remember that guy that never talked to me? Oh yeah, I miss that guy. Fuck this city... there I said it. I could walk into a bar in New York and... Chicago, you are second-rate, you are... yes, we've heard this WarnedUp.

Twice. TWICE, yesterday. I got the... TWICE. The... someone-knows-my-wife-we-are-walking-together-someone-says-hi-to-Erika-and-carries-on-a-conversation-without-acknowledging-that-I-am-there. That's what I miss about Chicago 2003. I miss that. 2003. You little fairies... second rate. Give me a reason we shouldn't lobby for leaving this place. Twice. How does it feel? You know... but the sandman... he doesn't look with pity on you, baby. Warned up. Where will you be? In five years? Peddling your 21-year-old t-shirt. Behind the sunglasses. Wrinkles.

Twice.

Victory Thru Brain Chemistry

Hello to all the new readers, particularly the one in Korea. Maybe it's my old freshman year roommate. Last I heard, he was stuck at the 54th (56th, 61st?) parallel guarding sweet Seoul from the Red Menace (c).

You're all here now... "all" makes it sound bigger than it is, but there are some of you that read this, so...

I'll be (trying) to go on a (real) vacation starting Saturday with Erika. We have a California trip planned. I've never been to the Republic of California... often thinking my life would begin and end somewhere around Oak Lawn, Ill. (or the Stickley furniture factory in Syracuse)... Oak Lawn, not a bad place to kick the bucket... but, I am extremely afraid of flying, so much so that it's driven me back into the arms of an old friend... an old, little, canary colored friend I used to date back in the mid-to-late 90's. I took one last night, we'll see if it can pierce the web... that's not... pierce anxiety's armor. There.

Once we arrive... I'm looking forward to that. Yes. So... keep your fingers crossed for me. All right? Oh, I'll be here till Friday, but then... it's a big fucking Woundup break. So get over it. I'm not always going to be around, folks. Especially when that book deal kicks in. My ass will be gone before you get your hands around your first to-go coffee of the day. And I won't feel sorry. Believe it.

Now do you want the plane to crash? Ah... this is called "Reverse Spiritual Reflection" or "Diffuse Negation Swingback." The more you hate me, the safer I'll be. No... there's no such thing. Just wish me a safe trip.

You've Kommt a Long Way, Liebchen

It's a day early, but tommorow is the weekend, so... let's congratulate Woundup for four years on the job at the cracker factory. Celebration _ no, we've been "celebrating" too much around here lately. Let's keep it silent, internal... yes.

Significant Woundup stats for time covering June 10, 2002 - June 10, 2006:

_ Bathroom breaks: 3,458
_ Bags of Lays Cheddar 'n Sour Cream chips consumed: 799
_ Meandering trips around the block of 600 W. Madison: 437
_ Woundup life minutes wasted listening to flacks on phone: 860,000

Keep up the good work, Schtutze!

Complete Sentences

C'MON BLOGSPOT I AM READY

I think Blogspot is the one in the debtor's hospital with a nagging cough. Gee whiz...

One of the host's "featured blogs" is "Sentence of the Day." Due to the slow server time, I was unable to load up "Sentence of the Day" _ leading me to wonder exactly what this WeBLoG covers.

My theory: a site for circuit court judges to post their favorite sentencings of the day.

"1500 hours of community service... mowing my front lawn! Haw!"
"20 years hard labor. He wasn't happy about that one."
"Life. No parole. Always a classic. Hey, where are we eating tonight, guys?"

Can't beat Guzman's Tacos. 2701 S. California. WE RESERVE THE RIGHT NOT TO SERVE ESCAPEES.

VACATION STARTS TODAY

That's right... I'm going on vacation. Not a literal vacation. I'll still be here. Actually, we are taking a literal vacation the last two weeks of June, but this vacation, that I'm starting today, is different.

It seems everyone else is taking a vacation, too. A vacation from reality. A vacation from self-control. A vacation from decency, so I'll fit right in.

That picture (at right) is making more and more sense. I'll be convalescing, much like that fellow, in an elderly debtors hospital. At least that's what it looks like in my mind.

You can find me on our back porch, or in the backyard... or on the couch.

Recycled Yucks

Erika and I had a larf with ol' J. Stockton Saturday, trying to make our way to the "Printers Row" book fair in the South Loop. Trying. The parking _ there was no parking. Just a lot of guys in yellow reflective vests getting time-and-a-half.

The most important thing I learned Saturday, besides (insert Chicago second-rate city joke later), is that Stockton does the best Cheech and Chong I've ever heard, which prompted an idea in (my) head to promote him as the "One-Man 'Up In Smoke'" _ a la the one-man Star Wars, Shakespeare, etc. etc. Hearing is believing, folks.

All of these jokes happened... also, the police detail for the book fair _ a real suicide mission. Particularly 1200 S. Dearborn _ the first editions tent _ known as the "meat grinder." That is not time-and-a-half.

Fun for the WholeFamily

Whenever it seems I'm ready and rarin' to go on this thing, Blogspot becomes unbearably slow. Huh... conspir--no, let's not go that far.

I'm about to polish off a large chunk of writing, so I'm giving myself a week off starting Wednesday night. Like it when I crow about myself? That's why you come back. Even thru this long content drought, my sitecounter technology says you keep coming back. What do you want from me, anyway?

It's really... gone south since AlanBates.com, longtime provider of this site's profile picture, went off-line. The current picture is from a popular Italian film, but I don't like it.

Checking the minutes here... yes, I did watch the last two Chicago Rush arena football games. They're going to the ArenaBowl. A popular tactic of minor league teams, I've noticed, is to combine two proper nouns while keeping capitalization: IceHogs, SaberCats, ArenaBowl. That kind of disregard for proper grammar screams "Fun for the whole family!"

His Master's Voice

Friday. Friday night. This is the Friday night WeBLoG. Friday night, as in, Friday doing nothing. Doing something, but nothing of note. Doing nothing of note, and not minding.

Erika and I took a walk thru the Woundup Neighborhood yesterday evening. Western Ave. Chicago Ave. The perfect temperature. The patio. And tonight... Friday night. The windows will be open.

("A former Playboy model is in the family way..." just said on ABC 7 11 a.m. news. Joe Orton, where are you?)

Man the Bilge Pump

All right. Enough of this... I'm fine, I'm fine... let's get back on the stick and back into quality internet content. You see, it's a continuous battle within me... and outside of me... for content. Against content. For nothing. For something. Here it is.

The heat. Our apartment, as we have found out over the past few days, traps heat. It also traps cold. Lucky for us... it's easing up. We have an air conditioner that could keep a medium-sized warehouse at a cool 45 degrees. All we have to do is plug it in.

Reading any good books... just the same one. Last few weeks. Seen any good movies... "Igby Goes Down" is not a good movie. Was this the same movie as "The Squid and the Whale?" I saw both and I had a hard time... one has academics, the other has debutants. One has Jeff Daniels, the other has Bill Pullman. Both set in New York. Both with teenage, male protagonists. Uh... what else. I'd give my $9 to "Squid" and another 9 and tell them to rewrite the ending.

Is this unreadable? Uh, oh... I've comprimised... you cannot even put the suggestion--the hint--of what could be wrong... in the reader's mind. They are to assume you have full confidence in your work. Never question yourself. Now see... that was useful.

I Paid 15 Bucks for THIS?

All right... not so bad... went home... good. Gone well. Don't worry. Hungry now, but lunch is coming up soon.

Looking forward to Thomas Boswell book. Should be good. 83-87. Hopefully more Earl Weaver stories _ never fails to entertain. Kind of want to... drink beer, watch a ball game. Could happen... need to... first...

All right. Lunchtime. Paying some bills. Has to be done. Will check back.

All Done

4 p.m. ... it's 4 p.m., and for all the problems we might have with time, it moves, not concerned with anything... and all the spiritual parasites wash away _ drowned in the brackish water. I will step out of the revolving door, in an hour, and it will leave me. My book... I'll read for a few minutes. And then I'll be home. Good night.

(Tomorrow will be different. It will look the same. But it will be mostly different. That's it.)

Forever Time

NYTimes wine writer Eric Asimov is living the Woundup Lifestyle.

The Woundup That Once Was

I have become... well, I am what I once, uh... I have become the thing I... I am now the thing I once thought I would never become. Yes.

Tonight, Erika and I will go see Office at Schubas. And... yes, it's been a slow day, so... I looked at the Schubas Web site. Looked at the types of beer offered, etc.

I once... I would have a little tipple of rum, climb on Ted's undersized bike and ride down Kent to the Rock Star Bar and see four or five very good bands play. I never... researched the show. I had a flier, or I heard about it, word-of-mouth. I knew what time it started. I went. No questions. No planning. I went. I often went to shows 3-4 nights out of the week.

Now... well, I can't remember the last time I saw a band play (my ears are thanking me for it). So, it's a big occasion. I have to... look up the address online (I don't just know it). I have to think about parking (now I have a car). And... the most important... I must check the start time to see if it'll keep me up to late. I used to stay up so late...

This isn't to say I miss it. I like being a... one-concert-a-monther. Fine. I accept... uh... Grant me the... courage... Grant me the courage... to. To. Accept. Uh... Grant me the courage to accept... I've forgotten it.

Has the Proverbial Well Gone Dry?

I don't have writer's block. I might have reviser's block, but that is something entirely different. Uh... How many million bytes of info are wasted yearly in apologetic WeBLoG posts? You could power a spy satellite network on that energy.

The cracker factory has started to slow for the warm weather season. I can put my feet up on the desk and read my Naperville Sun horoscope...

VIRGO
May 16
It's a good time to draw up plans for that wraparound deck. The kids will be out of school soon and that's always a pain in the ass. Bill is re-sodding his backyard, but he's a fruitcake, so you don't have to do that just yet. Not until Mike does his, which he will, because he always copies whatever Bill does. So you have a two-week window here to work on the wraparound deck. You should drink a beer tonight, maybe around 6:30, and work on the blueprint. The Cubs are gonna be on. You should have another beer and think about what color you want. Fruitcake Bill would probably do the blond wood, so you definitely don't want that. They have a dark stain at Menard's. While you're at it, go to the garage and smoke a cigarette. Then you can look at Bill's shed with the little faggoty window. When the sun goes down you should have another beer.

From the Pages-to-Fill Department

Both Chicago papers continue to fawn over Conan O'Brien's brief visit to the nation's third city. Trib editors ordered some poor schmuck to write this front-pager _ a new dimension in dead horse whipping.

Mailing It In vol. 24

Wow. Telander has really hit the skids since WSCR canned his show last year. He appears with less-and-less frequency in the Sun-Times, and when he does it's often an abridged, unfocused mess like the one linked above. Maybe he's writing another book.

I like Telander as a person, at least from what I've gleaned from that radio show and the feeling once put into his columns. But, sadly, I think his nemesis, Jay Mariotti, is the better writer. I've never read a Telander book. Maybe he shines in the long form.

In other sports news. This is pretty funny. The Red Baron just wants to have a good time.

Stringing You Along

New developments...

_ WoundUpKomputer has the popular Power Point program. I thought it'd be funny to make a fake Power Point presentation trumpeting myself. I thought it'd be funny until WoundUpFriend Jonathan told me I could add my name to the long list of smart asses who've already done it. Jonathan moonlights as superhero, The Discourager.

_ WoundUpFone was used last night at the Subterranean as a still/video camera. Saw Diamond Nights, for whom WoundUpBuddy Tim drums, as well as Canadians, Priestess.
Had a few too many Berghoffs and am now Paying the Price(c). At least I can go home in four hours and go to bed.

Future of an Illusion: Is 1 Hour Dry Cleaning Possible?

Bit of a WeBLoG drought lately. I might start whipping the 7-person content team. Remember, uh... "The Business Secrets of Attila the Hun?" That's not exactly the name, but it's close. Very big in the 80's. Is it logical that we have progressed to "Whipping Your Employees to Success?"

You could do it like one of those self-help/advice books with the short, two-page chapters, each headed with a notable quote. For example...

"Whipping... is... God's way... of... telling you... to.... get... back... to... work." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thank you, God, also, for the ellipsis. Man's second greatest invention behind the whip.

PS -- The title of this post is the title of a lecture I'm giving at the Dry Cleaning Institute of the Midwest on June 24. Hey, let's meet up and have a beer after!

You Know Them, You Love Them

Cincinnati 1998. I think it was about this time of year...

Interior Lifestyles

All right. More content. I've been at rest too long...

The reading. I have to sift through all of my notes. It was good. Good. I enjoyed it. It was also painful. I felt hurt all through me yesterday _ the remnants of tension. But today... after some good sleep, I feel...

Now what? More shoveling. More to do. But that's why I do it, right? To do it. To do it again. And make it better.

Postive. I have a negative side with negative tendencies, but my optimism is stronger. It is not so much optimism as it doesn't seem to think. It is always working, even when I don't realize it.

I think it wants lunch.

Bullpen Blackhole

Weird. Joe Borowski just got the save for the Marlins... at Wrigley. Where have you gone, 2003?

Pluggeth Away

I have to print 500-600 pages of script between now and Tuesday night. Why? Well, I told myself I would keep it a secret, but since everyone else uses their WeBLoGs to trumpet their successes, I WILL TOO.

I have a reading of my new play tomorrow night at a local theater. I won't tell you which one it is, because the reading is closed to all but the theater's playwrights network and two guests of my choice. Yes, those spots have been filled.

No, it isn't a big deal, but at least I get to hear it outloud. Should be interesting. I will give you a report on Wednesday. Good? Good.

Busting at the Seams

I started my new class last night, and... these playwriting classes... I get so nervous and, well, WOUND-UP... by the time I get to read my piece, I'm twitching and sputtering like a French Anarchist.

It didn't stop there. I was up past 1 a.m. (bedtime is 11 p.m. weekdays) as ideas for my homework assignment fed steadily out of my subconscious. I ignored all the old writing stereotypes _ staying up all night to work _ and good writing advice _ write the idea down before it disappears _ and forced myself to sleep.

I predict next week's class won't produce this same effect. But it's kind of fun. It makes people think I'm slightly crazy, and there's a certain mystique to that... yes?

Getting Back into Game Shape

My statcounter numbers are bloody abysmal. Did all my readers go to some kind of convention? I'll stop here before offering names for that imagined gathering. You can fill in your own blanks: ____________________________ .

Yesterday, for those of you who know me and know my line of work, was a bad day of the first order. I came home and needed both Erika and my analyst to soothe my lacerated psyche. "Analyst" is a funnier word than "therapist," by the way, according to my copy of "The Henny Youngman Guide to Being Funny."

I drank a big bottle of monk beer. Getting drunk on Monday nights isn't the usual Woundup m.o., but the day's maelstrom warranted it, we feel... I feel. Such reverie is not without its price, however, so I sit here now, in the very same place, aching and blotchy.

One, possibly two more subjects to discuss. Details upcoming.

Buffeted by Life's Colder Winds

It's been one of those days, folks. We must have them to have the good days. And no, not everything I've written freelance has been "Pointless" and "Depressing." But, I will pass on saying what percentage has.

More disillusionment, if humorously so...

1. The cap popped off the end of my trusty, yellow highlighter and rolled deep underneath our cubicle/workstation _ becoming virtually irretrievable without significant embarrassment (that's called VISE in my line of work). I looked at my highlighter with its black-ink-stained tip. Outside the human/living-being realm of suffering, nothing makes me sadder than the slow, drying death of a capless marker. I turned my head and threw the poor old boy in the garbage. I still feel shaken.

2. And the garbage... More than a year ago I began setting aside the millions of press releases I get each day in a pile to take them the 10 feet to the "recycling bin," instead of lazily tossing them in the non-recycling receptacle next to the fax machine. Earlier today, a co-worker mentioned that she saw the janitor dump the "recycling bin" in with the regular garbage... never to be recycled.

What else can I believe in? Maybe dinner. I'm counting down the minutes.

If I Dig Deep Enough, No One Can Get Under Me

A day like today is a good day to take stock of one's self. I've been thinking about the 10 different jobs I've held since I was 17 years old, and how I would categorize them. It goes something like this...

(Job Description: Number)

Mindless, Exhausting: 3
Robotic, Humiliating: 2
Meaningless, Humiliating: 2
Tedious, Robotic: 1
Exhausting, Infuriating: 1
Tedious, Unnecessary: 1

This excludes "outside work" I've done _ mostly writing for free. I would classify that as Pointless and Depressing.

... And I Get My Picture Taken Backstage With Ian Anderson

I know what two young, New York men will be going as for Halloween this year...

I Brought My Own Tasting Glass

I received another installment in the Books to Annoy My Wife series _ this one a handbook on that popular Japanese rice wine, sake.

Installments in the BAMW series generally fall into two categories: sports and novelty alcohol drinks. My last BAMW purchase was Michael Jackson's "Beer Companion." That one turned me into the armchair brew aficionado I am today. I spent 20 minutes hemming and hawing Saturday night in front of the beer cooler at Rich's Deli. My wife, naturally, exercised patience.

After sake? A new book from Baseball Prospectus will follow soon. Hey, it keeps me sane, folks. Irritatingly sane.

Mr. Stay Inside

Chicago has become the land of summertime indie music festivals. I think we have three now, and, you guessed it... I won't be going to any of them. Nothing appeals to me less than standing outside in 93-degree Chicago heat with 10,000 fine arts undergrads. I prefer to stare contemptuously down at it all from my Woundup Tower.

An air-conditioned living room, a glass of modestly priced white wine and three hours of Cubs baseball... This is the Woundup Lifestyle.

Peter the Plugger

Do you like the new links section at right? I do. And I will add more as time goes on. Leave a comment if you wish to be linked.

Let me just say... I can't believe how many talented young writers I know here in Chicago. More than I can count. Found out last night that pal Jonathan has a paid gig blogging about dive bars for Metromix. Not to be missed.

Jag-u-war Ride

Went to a reading last night. Strange for two reasons...

1. About halfway thru, realized the playwright was a former member of the ELECTRIC EELS (!!!) _ the second guitarist, not John Morton. The play incorporated snippets of his newer, Lou Reed-like songs. He snuck part of "Accident" in there, too _ one of the greatest rock 'n roll songs of all time.

2. In addition to the readers, he had two guys helping I hadn't seen 'round the theater before. One dude read stage directions, including character stage directions _ a big no-no. It went a little like this...

Sheila: I love you, Harold. Ha ha ha ha.
Stage Direction Guy: Sheila laughs.

The other knucklehead _ a fat guy with a ponytail _ played the song snippets on a tiny boombox. During the Q-and-A following the reading, this guy tried to hijack the discussion, talking about their production and marketing plans. Hey, Jack, we're here to talk about the play, so shut the fuck up...

He reminded me... nightclub people. Nightlife people. I'll never fit in with them. I've been in many bands, and I always felt alienated by the nightclub culture: Backstage area. No access. Security guards. Small talk. Pampering. Free drinks. The fantasy world. "Let's make this happen."

He rubbed me the wrong way. Naturally, when the "Accident" snippet came on _ much louder than the other tracks _ he turned it down. You would turn down "Accident," you fat fuck.

Sculptures for Living

We met our German connection last night, and, let me just say... you don't know where I'll be coming from next _ WeBLoGGiNG from next. Cafe Balou. BLAM. Atomix. BLAM. The back porch on a day when I've never left the house. BLAMMO.

I left the cake... I left the old '98 NEC Warhorse out in the rain on Sunday. Left the old window open _ long enough for the hail storm to get in. Suprisingly, that fine S. Korean engineering lived thru it all. Next project: transfer files from the Warhorse to the new portable console.

1998. A lot of history, folks. Do you remember what you were doing in September 1998? I was living in Gainesville, Fla. Last night the Gators won the men's basketball (BKC) championship. And the circle remains unbro... strike that.

Congratulations to pals Jason and Joyelle on their new son. Congratulations to long-time Woundup Associate Aaron K. on his enrollment in film school in New Zealand. Did I miss anyone? No? All right.

Instant Heat

If you can believe it... I am filing from outside, well... there are two places I normally file from. This place, where I am right now _ this isn't one of them. But I am happy to be here.

Sundays get me down. I spend most of Sunday by myself. I make a few phone calls _ and today I was glad to talk to Tim, my folks and my grandma. But I still spend most of my time by myself. I read. And when that gets old, I listen to the radio. And when that gets old, I watch TV. And then I go back to reading. And by 6 p.m. I feel depressed. And now I feel depressed.

But I am here _ in this third location. So that's good. I didn't eat lunch, either. Have I solicted some sympathy, yet? C'mon. I'm really trying here. My agent... heh... I don't have an agent. But, well, I think I should solicit more sympathy.

Oh, rats, what a depressing post. But, it's important in that I've written somewhere outside of the regular... You see? That makes me happy. Ha. You see? Much better.

Much better.

A Hard Man to Love

I love my wife. As each day passes, I wonder more and more how I ever lived without her.

Last night, Erika indulged me after a late meal at Sultan's Market. We went to the Map Room on Armitage _ a rare beer bar. If you haven't... I'll just say. We were sitting at the bar _ a fellow came up behind me to order. He asked which beers had the highest alcoholic content _ he wanted a lot of booze. I thought of all those fraternity houses near the school library in Syracuse.

And I even thought, last night, "This young fellow is an obvious candidate for the WeBLoG." And I thought... "No. This is too obvious." But here I am writing about him anyway.

I had the fine Ayinger Doppelbock Celebrator. And then, I put my wife's patience to the test... a Schlenkerla Urbock Rauchbier _ smoked beer from Bavaria. 3/4 of the way thru I felt like I had drunk two Easter ham dinners. I couldn't finish the thing.

But she sat there, with her sensible glass of wine, and watched me struggle thru that obscure German specialty, as I stopped to catch my breath every few sips and belch up smoke.

I love you, baby.

Second Breakfast Served Promptly at 8

Finally. For the longest time I thought a European breakfast was "wine-soaked bread and sausage." I must've read that in some guidebook.

Between the seven-course, traditional Italian meal and the two-breakfast Austrian repast, what do Europeans have time for? I suppose that's the reason they get all those vacation days.

Official Endorsement II

Hey, folks. If you're looking for some entertainment on the weekend, go see the Phalanx Theater's wonderful new production at the Swim Cafe on good ol' W. Chicago Ave. Erika and I went last night and greatly enjoyed it. Young, energetic and site specific.

More of the Same

Sunday. 10:20. Sunny outside. Feel as though anything can happen today. By "anything," I don't mean "anything" _ not some life-changing thing. Just "anything" within the realm of usual possibilities. That means we'll go to the gym.

A morning like this makes me think of... the Kronstadt sailors. On a morning like this maybe one of them woke up and thought, "Feel as though anything can happen today." ...

B: Ivan, are you awake?
(long pause)
Are you awa--
I: Yes. I've been lying here for 30 minutes. I've been awake 30 minutes, and I'm listening to you... you're breathing thru your nose. Like you're sighing.
B: I'm sorry.
I: It's too late. I'm awake.
(pause)
B: I've... I was just thinking... I've eliminated--I've cut out pronouns from my inner thoughts.
I: What's that?
B: When I think of myself, I don't... I refrain from using "I"...
I: When did you start doing this?
B: Recently. It was sort of a... it was a process.
I: You don't use "I"?
B: Not when I think of myself. So it's... "Feel as though anything can happen today."
(long pause)
Iv--
I: Boris.
(pause)
B: I feel--
I: You said "I."
B: I know... I know but it was--
I: You were speaking--
B: I was speaking out loud. It wasn't internal.
I: There's a diff--
B: Yes. A big difference.
I: I didn't know that.
B: Well, there is.
(pause)
Are we going to revolt again today?
I: Yes.
(pause)
B: What are we--
I: Poor pay. Poor food. Poor health.
B: I see... and what about--
I: No.
(long pause)
B: We don't need pronouns either--
I: You can explain that one.
B: Ooo, is there a meeting?
I: It's scheduled.
B: Before we--
I: Yes.
B: Good... good.
(pause)
Because it gets tricky. But I think... if I can explain it. I think it becomes very clear.
I: I'm sure it does.
B: It does.
(pause)
I: They'll string you up.
B: I know.

I'll Pay You $75 If You Never Say the Word "Meta" Again

Yes. I bought "Game of Shadows" _ I pre-ordered it. Thanks be to... I'm going to start reading at lunch. I'd like to read it in the YMCA hot tub... but that could be a little hard to do.

Lunch. Friday. Work. Lack of work. Lack of ideas. I don't have anything for you today. No good observations. Nothing happening in my life. Nothing out of the ordinary. I'm certainly not going to tell you. What do you think this is?

The Urban Kitchen _ this WeBLoG interface has no proper M-dash. The Urban Kitchen will provide. It lies underground, like a bomb shelter. I eat there about once a week. I don't feel like describing it. This is why I won't ever cut it in the Prose Business. I'm lazy, folks. I don't care what it smells like. I don't care about the lighting. I don't care what the people are wearing. It's not that interesting. The tables are all slightly greasy _ NO. No description.

So... but what do the people say? You're gonna have to wait till after lunch for that.

Winter's Truncheon

I was feeling sick yesterday _ maybe it came thru in my _ ACTIVE VERBS. I FELT sick yesterday. For 30K, you can get this kind of training, too. Apparently Ernest Hemingway got it for free in high school and got paid to learn it at his newspaper job. Well...

Made my way past old OPRFHS yesterday, as per the WoundUP Monday evening ritual. Space ritual. Someone was playing "Master of the Universe" in the coffee shop the other night. I looked at the two staff and one manager and started playing one of my favorite games: GUESS THE HAWKWIND FAN. They're out there. I am one. Maybe it comes thru in my...

Going to a network function tonight. Not necessarily a NeTWoRKiNG function, but who knows. Who knows. Who knows. I was planning _ ACTIVE VERBS. I PLANNED to parlay _ there, you get the bonus alliteration at a cut-rate fee _ I PLANNED to parlay my flagging health into the high mass of the office world: The Sick Day. Now I'm feeling better.

Later on, I am going to stand _ I WILL STAND outside in the cold _ outside the building _ without a coat. I will make myself sick. That's something I can do for free.

Our Official Endorsement

WoundUp.com officially endorses Phil Poppinjay, Democratic candidate for 15th State Congressional District.

Many of you might not know this, but Mr. Poppinjay is the first Democratic candidate to be diagnosed with Derealization Disorder. That means that Mr. Poppinjay believes neither he, nor the people he wishes to represent, are real.

Mr. Poppinjay also does not believe the campaign office he works out of each day is real, and, as he has promised over this long campaign, he will not regard the Statehouse as real, either.

So, tomorrow, when you're in the voting booth and you look at your hand and wonder if you, in fact, are real, pull the lever _ again, it may not be real _ and vote POPPINJAY.

The Cruel Pen...

I was browsing through the Woundup Library last night _ cracking some volumes, looking for At-Home Reading. There is At-Home Reading and there is On-The-Bus-Reading, which is more serious.

I looked into Martin Heidegger's "Introduction to Metaphysics" a touched-up version of a lecture he gave in the 30's. How's that for serious reading? My mind _ my brain _ seemed to swell as I read _ I wanted to continue, but it was too late at night. Nothing that serious for that late at night, yes? Don't want to burn anything out, yes? Can't commit to that kind of serious intellectual inquiry. Just a little too... you've worked all day and now you want to relax. I went to college, but now I want to relax. I can mention the name in my WeBLoG. I can leave it out _ the book _ for people to see when they come to the house...

So I settled on a pocket-sized copy of pithy sayings about writing. You know these books. There are hundreds of them. They're supposed to make you feel better about your chosen profession. Like...

"A writer's one true friend is his welfare check."
J. Toddington Beagle

Sadly, there is no real Mr. Beagle. But let's just pretend he is... real. But you know these books, right? I have at least two, including the little one I mentioned above. Then there are the "gentle" writing books. And I've read my share of those, and there are even more of those _ maybe thousands. You know them. They have titles like "Writing for Warm Waves of Water." They're supposed to help you come to grips with the possibility of maybe thinking about becoming a writer _ just after you read this book and maybe think about signing up for a night class.

Oh, I'll pay for that one later. I'll surely pay... Karma never sleeps. And he wears a rust-colored sweater.

Glorified Lawyer Joke, Take Two

I had what I thought was a unique, innovative idea this morning: a pay, wake-up call service. Too bad I'm 5 years too late on it.

This is why I'm not in the invention business. I'm in the fabrication business, but not inventions. I could, well... I suppose someone could pay me to fabricate things.

Childhood a little too bland and conventional? Pay me, and I'll write you up a sizzling new background: drug addiction, pan-sexual escapades, page duty at the statehouse, flunked out of French art school, glue sniffing in boy scouts _ you name it...

I also do resumes, background checks, marriage licenses and Catholic conversion applications. Here's a snippet from that last one (not my copy)...

"... other religion to Catholic conversion chart. In my previous religious life I was...
_ Zoroastrian: 2.5 months (of wearing hair shirt, it may be taken off for baths)
_ Snake Handler: 3 months
_ Sylvan Denominationalist: 4.3 months
_ Sylvan (Reformed): 4.1 months
_ Sun Worshipper: 5 months
_ Bacchanalianist: 5.5 months
_ Lawyer: 12 months (may include self-flagellation) ..."

Frank J. Discussion

I did survive. I did. Then I had a three-day weekend. Saw part of "Capote" _ Erika and Matt saw the whole thing. I have a problem with movie theaters _ sometimes I get a little panicky. That's what we call a "flashpoint" in the CBT business.

That's not a real CBT term. Why am I lying to you? Maybe I want attention. It's a cry... no, that's a cliche. Let's try to eliminate cliches.

Have you ever acted before? I have. Twice. Bit parts. Once I was about 8 years old in Indiana University Northwest's children's summer theater production of "The Wiz." Bit part, like I said. The other? I played the Yellow Smoke in Xavier University's theatrical adaptation of T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." I had no lines.

Would I be an actor now, after all I've been through? I don't have the talent, but I respect those who do. It's called a "point of concession" in CBT vernacular.

That isn't a real CBT term, either.

O'Donnell Delivereth Me My Salvation

O'Donnell's best lede by far. From today's Sun-Times, p. 127., on Indiana and men's baskeball coach Mike Davis...

INDIANAPOLIS -- It was about pedigree but not race. It was about style but not class. It was about myths and folklore and white-haired ghost writhers on the sideline, as hardened as some of the anvils in the small Hoosier towns that separate the woods from the 21st century.

Survival

One of those days. Blindingly busy or excruciatingly slow. And, hey, less than five hours to go. I need to get out of here alive. The plan? Sink down low in my chair and be completely silent.

Sun-Times has MametMania. Including a map of the city showing you important MametFacts like where he once bought cigars. And of course I'm reading a Mamet book on the bus... often a bus with a big MametFest ad on the back. Who's ridiculous now?

Erika and I had a nice night at the Rainbo, sitting in the two chairs we occupied on one of our first dates nearly 3 years ago.

The Bruni Report

This is AMAZING!

Goodbye, Old Man

It's warm today _ a little too warm for my taste. Erika told me it's spring announcing itself. The temperature, apparently, will dip back down into the 40's after Monday _ a final taste of the passing cold.

I feel cheated on winter this year, but I've always felt sad when it becomes evident the grey season is done. I won't say winter is my favorite season _ who has a favorite season? That's like having a favorite child. You should love them all equally.

So Winter 05-06 is passing. Soon we'll be back to sun worshippers, picnickers, pedestrians along the lake, bike riders, paraders, dog walkers...

I hate them all.

I Gripe, Therefore I... Am

My G-Mail. My beautiful G-Mail. Ruined. And by whom? Well, CEO Tom Blister hinted at it recently. Yes. It was the New Yorker.

I am not afraid to air my complaints here. Cross me and you will feel the cold steel of my... let me back up a second...

We moved in September, 2005, and our New Yorkers weren't forwarded. Listen, I don't even read the New Yorker. It was more for Erika. Yes, she thinks I'm a big snob _ writing this isn't going to help my image in that regard.

I contacted the New Yorker customer service department, and they corrected the error. We now receive the magazine at our new address. BUT, not long after my correspondence, I began receiving spam e-mail in my G-Mail account... once a junk-free oasis amid the desert of penis enlargement and discount drug messages.

Can you believe that? The bastards. They could at least send me the William Shawn coaster set for my trouble. I have 1-6, but I'm missing no. 7: "Mr. Shawn discusses John Hersey contract at Tavern on the Green."

A Canvass to Select My Canvas

I feel like I need to conduct a focus group... what do you really want from this WeBLoG? I imagine there are some people that liked the Blister stuff. I don't know. If you have an opinion, leave it in the comments. If not, well, I'll read your mind anyway.

Jim O'Donnell Lives

BEHOLD!!!

(Google does not recognize "Nudge-the-Squeak")

Twilight of the Fabricants

I was wrong. The mystery user continues to elude classification, much like members of the sea cucumber family.

Why am I writing again? Because I haven't got a bloody thing else to do, that's why. Is there a parallel universe in which thousands of people go to a big, ugly office building 5 days a week to make art? Sure, it could be crappy art _ and that is always a matter of opinion. But isn't the quality of work put forth by most office workers _ this one included _ substandard anyway?

Keep pushing. That's what they tell me. I will push... this sounds like an old fashioned Woundup post. That's a promising sign. A return to the... see, I almost wrote old guard ...

Word duplication is a concern in this business. I often do it when I reuse a word I spy in the above line in my peripheral vision, so...

"... ... ... .. ... ... ... ... ... this sounds like an old fashioned Woundup post. That's a promising sign. A return to the old guard..."

See? And the post was quoted just a few seconds later in the same post. We are living in a marvelous time, folks.

Before I Rip Someone for His Insecurities, Let Me Tell You About MY Insecurities

Do NOT go carousing with Chicago Public Schools teachers. You will pay for it. Just remember, their workday is over at 3. You can kiss your evening good... seriously, I had a great time with Erika's new/old co-workers, and I'm happy she's back with them. Also, happy 3-0 to J. Stockton.

On another note... I like to comb the STaTCouNTeR data and guess whom is whom, and I have a sneaking suspicion someone in Chicagoland is Googling himself. It's happened more than once.

I could be wrong, so I'll hold my tongue before launching into a long diatribe. Let me just say this...

I'm particularly interested in my counter's "visit length" data. We all want you to read more and read longer. I wonder what goes through the head of a visitor who reads for 0 Seconds.

O Seconds visitor: I want to make you a 1 Seconds visitor.

Token Self-Deprecation on Sale 3-$1

I love journalists. Nobody gripes quite like journalists. It used to annoy me, but now I roundly enjoy it.

If you'd like, they offer a readymade attitude when you start J school _ that of crossed arms and smacking bubblegum. You can use this for the rest of your life, and when you die you'll say, "Well, I've spent my entire life behaving this way and now I'm dead and where did it get me?" Ridicule, disbelief, cynicism, sarcasm, suspicion...

And me? There's nothing worse than the person who constantly tries separating himself from everyone else. But we all must eat lunch. And so... lunchtime.

Hold My Calls, Violet

It appears I can no longer post from home. We'll have to get tech support on this very quickly.

There was a statcounter explosion (for this site, anyway) over the weekend. I hope people weren't coming here to read more about Blister and Kraputnik. Sorry, folks, but it ain't gonna happen.

We had an all right time in Green Bay. It started out fine, but went south when I threw my 95-page (unnumbered) script against a door in my parents' house. I don't know why I show my mother my writing. It was a lapse in good sense, and she took advantage. Such is the cobra/mongoose relationship of Donahue Mater and son.

Erika and I heard Al read last night at the Skylark. It was a lot of fun. I enjoy any story from the perspective of the late Mayor Anton Cermak. Made me think that I _ maybe, maybe _ could be up on the silver stage reading someday... reading from this very WeBLoG... about my WoRKDaY. My base fee is quite reasonable: 3 Hoegardens and 1 bag of Vitners Original Louisiana BBQ Sauce chips.

Time to Go Home, WoundUp

It's been a long day at the cracker factory, largely becuz I didn't catch a good sleep last night.

I turned over the Trib sports section and thought, for a split second, that the pic of Paul Konerko and Jim Thome was the famous photo of the Saigon police chief shooting a Viet Cong in the head. If you have it, take another look.

Time to go home, WoundUp. This weekend we travel to Green Bay _ the home of my parents and youngest brother. See you soon!

Frick'n Ridiculous

The Ford Frick award winner _ the major league baseball hall of fame's honor for outstanding/important/valuable broadcaster _ was announced today: former Houston Astros broadcaster Gene Elston.

The award began in 1978 and pretty much every baseball broadcasting heavyweight is in: Scully, Brickhouse, Caray, Allen, Barber, Harwell, etc. etc.

My question is _ with a new winner picked every year _ when will we run out of "important" broadcasters to honor. It seems we have to wait a bit before any of the younger TV and radio guys can reach "legend" status. And does having a long career in baseball broadcasting necessarily mean you are "important?"

I think you know where this is leading... the shining visage of Joe Buck in the baseball hall of fame's broadcasters wing _ for having hung on for 30 years at Fox. Say it ain't so, Bud. Say it ain't so.

Our Long National Nightmare is Over

Enough. ENOUGH. ...

I'm not going to write three different characters on a near-daily basis for FREE. No way. We now return you to your regularly scheduled WoundUp.com content.

In other news... CEO Tom Blister was arrested by Italian police last night in Turin. He had ingested 50 shots of grappa and was attempting to sodomize a statue of Garibaldi. He won't be coming home for a long, long time.

Special Announcement

Hello valued Woundup.com readers...

My name is Patricia Hanratty _ you can call me Patty. I'm with Woundup Corp. Corporate Communications. I am the liaison between Woundup staff and our board of directors _ to whom CEO Tom Blister reports.

You are undoubtebly excited about the changes going on here at Woundup.com. I am, too. You've come to expect nothing less than pristine, crystalline content from our site. We will continue to provide you with more of the same.

I am please to announce that Woundup.com is sending CEO Tom Blister to Turin, Italy, to compete in the Winter Olympics. As many of you know, Mr. Blister is an amateur ski jumper. We are flying Mr. Blister out tonight, and he will begin reporting his experience over the weekend.

Woundup Corp. continues to put itself ahead of the pack: Convergence, Content, Conciseness, Clarity... Join us, won't you?

Success

It looks like I have a new sign-on, too. I suppose we could call this a... new era...

HA! I got my own sign-on. This pizza is exquisite, Kraputnik. Put that in your little pipe and smoke it. You can't have any, by the way...

KRAPUTNIK ORDER ME A PIZZA YOU FAIRY

You little fairy. I know you have to read this. This is why I fucking hired you. You little NYU fruitcake. Purple and white _ no basketball team. No decent team. Where the hell are you??? I'm fucking hungry, Kraputnik. You have the number. I don't know where the hell... where the hell do you hide... YOU have to call Kraputnik. They don't like me very much. Heh. Remember when I went over there... I broke the display case _ I put my foot through the fucking little display case... with the biscotti and all that little shit. I broke it. They remembered my voice...

I took the trouble of going through your little fucking desk. You have Advil. Do you get headaches? Am I working you too hard? I think you're fucking around on the internet Kraputnik. All of you fairies in here. I'll take you downstate and put you on a chain gang. That's work, my friend. We'll see your little NYU goldbrickin' ass on the highway duty. 110 degrees.

Christ my head hurts. Heh. I had a few last night. A few too many. Heh heh... Don't tell me you haven't been there before... where's that little fruitKRAPUTNIK ORDER ME A FUCKING PIZZA YOU LITTLE... He's left the office. Probably getting breath mints. Fruit.

Quiet Moments with Ethan

I feel I can write now with a little more confidence. Ethan Kraputnik here. I'm the editor... well, I already told you that. We're working with technical to get individual sign'on's... if, in fact, this multiple posting idea will continue. I have my... well, opinions, on that, I guess... I don't know.

You know, he didn't always come to the office. He used to come in once a year. Now he's here all the time. I think it's because his... his wife left him. A few months ago. This is... like a little game to him. It's his little toy. He already has a lot of... investments. He used to make guns for the Israeli military. Over in the Middle East in the 80's. Now he bought this site _ he thought this kind of thing would make, uh, more money.

He's in here all the time. He wants to post all the time. He wants to post and he wants me to show him around _ show him how things work. And he's harassing the female content team members.

Maybe... you're wondering what he is. What is he? Maybe you think he's a, uh, a fictional construction. This is a dangerous thing, maybe? That he is an outlet for the author to... dress up... as a chauvanistic pig _ without endorsing that kind of behavior, uh, directly? Having your cake and eating it. You get to be a, uh, macho asshole AND a sensitive, uh, liberated man.

Is that right? I don't know. I don't make the rules around here. Maybe we can sublimate him. There are other types of humor. Maybe he's going to... he's going to win. He's going to beat me, in particular. Maybe literally. He might have a heart attack. I think he still smokes... He's passed out... in the employee lounge. Sometimes he comes here at night _ he lets himself in and, uh, he drinks in the office. By himself. I don't want to be here when he... wakes up. He's going to make me order a pizza. I've got a lot of work to do here.

The Day of Debuts

Hello, everyone. My name is... my name is Ethan Kraputnik. I'm editor and head of the 7-person content team here at Woundup.com. If you're wondering why I'm speaking to you... well, Mr. Blister _ our CEO _ wants the, uh... he wants some of us on the editorial side to get out in the, uh... we have to put our faces out there, heh, this is what we call "convergence" in the world of media. So Woundup.com is now converging... I hope you enjoy it...

Well... uh, this... This is... If you could keep this between you and me... Mr. Blister left his Wendy's wrappers on my desk _ on the keyboard. I really wish he wouldn't do that... it's not consid... Maybe you work with someone like this... and this is not... uh... he put a smudge. What is this? Ketchup. He drew a pair of ketchup breasts on my girlfr... this is my girlfriend's picture. Francine. He drew breasts in ketchup... with nip...

... ... ...

We hope you'll continue to read Woundup.com. You're going to hear a bit more from some of the staff here at... it will be gradual, but... uh, noticeable... and there's an empty beer... this is Fosters? He left an empty Fosters ontop of the hard drive. This is the head of the co... unbelievable. I hate Fosters.

Acute Mametitis

Tom Blister, Woundup Corp. CEO, here, folks...

Thought I'd take a minute to check in again. Forgot a few things by the ol' computer terminal here. Who's computer is this anyway? There's a picture _ some broad with glasses. HEY KRAPUTNIK. YOU WOULD GO OUT WITH A BROAD WITH GLASSES. Must be a real minx _ in the boo-dwar. Hey, who am I to judge? My last wife had a prosthetic nose. She used to take it off at night...

Okay, I found what I was lookin' for. My roach clip. You don't think I stopped getting high, do you? Once in awhile. It calms me down. Louis Armstrong used to smoke it everyday. He also made tapes of conversations he had with people in his home _ now is that a pothead or what? Sounds like Nixon.

While I'm here, I just want you to know, that as readers of this site you will not... never... be subjected to spam e-mail. I just had my own address _ my G-mail address, which had previously been untouched by those bastards... I started getting spam on it. And you wanna know who's responsible? The New Yorker. That's right: the NEWFUCKYORKER. Bunch of little fairies. I only bought that thing cuz my ex-wife wanted it. Put it on the coffee table. I read Barron's _ Forbes... Fortune. C'mon. Fuck. I sent them a, uh, customer service question, and the bastards sold my bloody address to INCREASE YOUR WANG SIZE. Listen to me, folks, if I wanted my wang to be bigger _ and I DON'T have to worry about that shit_ if I wanted it to be bigger, I WOULD BUY A BIGGER WANG. I'm loaded.

All right. That's enough. HEY KRAPUTNIK, YOU CAN HAVE YOUR COMPUTER BACK. Fucking fairy. Broad with glasses. Fuck. See you at the library, jagoff. Heh.

The Variegated Styles of the 1990's

All right Woundup fans. It's time to open the audio archives. Thanks to good friends, there are now musical records involving the author online. I played guitar in both groups.

Listen first to Zaxxon (1996-98)...

THEN

the Young Americans (1998-99).

Enjoy.

I Have Earned the Right to Be a Lazy Slob

Two hours left. Sometimes Fridays are a fight to the bloody end at the ol' cracker factory. But I feel I will prevail today using a combination of guile, misdirection and cunning w/a little elbow grease mixed in.

Erika and I have a full plate of family related events tomorrow _ the highlight is a meeting of three generations at our favorite Italian hideaway. If you're nice, I might tell you its name.

Does anyone else miss Mike "Murph" Murphy in the 6-10 slot on WSCR? Man, I could listen to Murph all night. If this was last year _ Feb. 2005 _ that would be the plan for Friday evening: a couple brews and four hours of Murph-filled, mirthful radio, falling in-and-out of sleep on the couch.

But how to fill the void now... Read a book? I think we both know the answer to that one.

DJ Deemed Unfit

Nobody gets exiled anymore, do they? It's an old practice _ I always heard about the Greeks doing it. Napoleon was exiled _ twice.

Is there an exilable offense in American law? Should there be? I think it could be a good idea.

Lately, I wouldn't mind it myself. They could exile Erika and me to some small island in the Mediterranean. We could work on an olive oil farm, weave rattan chairs and generally get away from this ugly town.

In other news, Woundup will throw its hat into the artisanal olive oil game in March. You'll never cook the same way again.

Rural America Ltd.

Aha! The ol' statcounter tells me we received our first hit from ELYRIA, OHIO. Elyria is the offical Donahue-Eckart stopping point on all East Coast roadtrips. Just outside of Cleveland, this small town features our favorite (northern) Ohio bar _ the Joyful Mug.

I believe the last commenter was from Elyria. Can you answer me this? Why do people in northern Ohio fly, display or have tatoos of the Confedrate flag _ the symbol of an organization that took the lives of many sons of Ohio? You can't get more Union than the shores of Lake Erie _ except maybe J.P. O'Connells: Cambridge's HOTTEST place for singles!

Green Bay _ Cue

Just got back from Green Bay. Revelatory notes? Well, to whet your whistle, I let my mother read the latest draft of my play. She criticized it so unabashedly that I threw the thing against the front door, scattering the many, unnumbered pages in every direction. A true story.

That's adequately shocking. Getting a little attention for myself. Before those histrionics, we had a lovely Thai meal and, prior to that, a drink a local brewpub. My brother, Terry, seems to be holding up OK without any pals and finds solace in 9/11 conspiracy theories. I honestly hadn't thought of any till we talked.

I feel like I'm throwing my family under the bus _ using some select peculiarities as grist for my merciless WeBLoG mill... for laffs. I'd rather see them everyday _ more material! Ha! Seriously... I love my family.

Erika found some DFW book on tape. DFW sounds like he has OCD. Cue. I can tell because I have it myself. Cue. It does make me feel like a big shot to talk like this. Cue. This interview is over...

LH Putgrass signing off and heading for the tub.

Enough is Enough

Well, folks... CEO Tom Blister was arrested in Turin, Italy. He had drunk a combo of 50 grappa shots and 50 espressos over a 12 hour period and was apprehended by local police early this morning while trying to fornicate with a statue of Garibaldi's horse.

In other company news, editor Ethan Kraputnik and corp comm rep Patty Hanratty were fired for their part in the Blister fiasco.

Woundup.com will now return to previously scheduled programming. Please enjoy.

Permanent Hiatus

ENOUGH! I can't take it anymore!

There's no fargging way I'm going to write three different characters on a semi-daily basis for FREE. No way. It's back to the good old Woundup, which may or may not be written by a 7-person content team.

And CEO Tom Blister? Well... he'll be back... some day. Until then, let's return to the kind of quality content you've come to expect from Woundup.com. Like how I trimmed my nosehair today. In the great genetic sweepstakes, it looks like ol' Mark got the hirsute Muhr nostrils, late of southern Germany/northern Austria.

I love living!!!

We Like to Have a Few Testers Around In Case Something Goes Wrong.

I had another wonderful revelation upon exiting my therapist's office. I'm going to donate my brain to science... after I'm dead, of course.

But, as with many things in life, the straight line from idea to realization runs through some heavy undergrowth...

(At the Mayo Clinic. A reception area. Mark is filling out a form. A doctor walks by.)

Mark: Hey there...
Doctor: Yes?
M: Can you--can you tell me a little bit about the program? The brain donation... program?
D: Are you thinking about donating your brain?
M: Yeah. I've got the paperwork here...
D: Well that's wonderful. Congratulations.
M: Will they--you guys--do tests on it.
D: Probably not.
M: No? What kind of thing--
D: They're mostly used for animal feed.
(pause)
M: Animal--
D: Yes. We sell them to a pig farm in Iowa.
(pause)
M: Huh. Do you ever... do research on them?
D: Not really. We've found just about everything we need to know about the human brain.
M: Wow.
(pause)
What about all those, uh, articles--"The future of the mind?"
D: We've generally found those encourage people to donate their brains.
M: Yeah, like it would be part of some--
D: Important study. Yes.
M: Right.
D: Which works fine for us.
(Smiles)
More feed for the pigs!
(Pause. Mark looks at the questionnaire.)
M: What do I put down under "Availability?"

A Wistful, Post-Super Bowl Post

All right. I've got to give you something better than that. I don't condone bulleted lists as legitimate WeBLoG content. I was just excited about reading Norman Chad's column.

The cold has returned to Chicago, and I am glad. That long string of 40-degree days scared me. We live in this town and endure its psychotic winter so, sometime in April, when the tree buds are budding and the state bird (the robin) is singing, we feel like we've accomplished something. Any old fool gets to feel that here in Chicago.

People are odd creatures. As a person, I feel I can speak with authority on this. Last night, as I was walking to the bar, I thought how it'd be wonderful for me if I remembered that all of us are part of the same family _ in the same boat. That despite all the slights and backbiting and resentment and secrets, all people can come together and recognize this. Some might see this as being part of "god's family." I am not a christian, but I have no problem with that description _ if the feeling is there.

As a human being I fail, but I was thinking if there was some personal (or national?) moment or day where I could pause to reflect on my behavior, that might help me and my brothers and sisters. It's one thing to say you love everyone and another matter to feel it. And the foundation of love, I believe, is an interest in the other person _ not just in the self. It's something I'll always need to remember.

The Woundup Year-in-Review _ by CEO Tom Blister

My StatTek TrakkerTek 5.0 WebCounter tells me Woundup.com received its first page view from Barrington this past Monday. You know what that means...

THE WOUNDUP 2005 YEAR-IN-REVIEW SPECIAL

Once in a great while a WeBLoG comes along that revolutionizes the way we look at--SHIT... all right... Sorry, folks. Woundup Corp. CEO Tom Blister here. I've been beating my head against the wall trying to write this goddam Year-in-Review. My 7-person content team is out with botullism. GODDAMMIT. I hearby forbid Costa Rican vacations for all employees. Christ...

I've never claimed to be a great writer. That's why I have a 7-person content team... But those little fruitcakes quit on me. I'm fucking finished with this... Here's what happend. If you don't like it, well, call customer service...

2005

Quarter 1

_ Woundup posted solid earnings following an expansion in the handheld market. The signature "electric-shock-thru-your-keyboard e-greeting" was offered to blackberry subscribers. To demonstrate this new feature, I allowed members of our 7-person content team to shock me thru my own blackberry at a press conference in Buenos Aires. That was a great idea... I crapped my pants in front of the leaders of 18 South American countries.

_ I divorced my second wife, Lydia. Well, she divorced me, if you really want to get down to brass tacks. I was sitting in the China Room at Five Oaks Country Club in Barrington _ I maintain a residence in Barrington, by the way _ and, needless to say, she broke my jaw with a 3 Wood. Lydia, she was more than my secretary, she was my friend. If you can't understand that, well, you need to join the human race. Lucky for me the pre-nup contained a line in .0000015 size type absolving me in the instance of adultery. Cheers, Lydia, this '65 Dom Estes is for you.

Quarter 2

_ A spin-off blog failed. Tom Blister a failure? Not likely, my friend. This brilliant idea was spearheaded by former CFO Marty Brentano _ emphasis on FORMER. Wonk-Up _ a political site that pledged to get neck-deep in the Beltway dirt was staffed by a bunch of Brown rejects who couldn't find their ass from Barbara Boxer's Macy's receipts. I fired those clowns so quick, my head was spinning...

_ But then again that could've been my Vicodin addiction. Maybe you heard about it. Big story. Blister hooked on meds, doped up. Well, I beat it. I beat the little white pills that stopped the constant pounding in my head. I got that fixed, too. Turns out it was my alcoholism... But I found a shrink who said it was okay for me to keep drinking as long as I didn't kick little kids or dogs. Hey, sometimes you have to give up some things. It's called life, folks.

Quarter 3

_ Fuck. Do I have to keep writing this goddam thing? Quarter 3. What a disaster. My companies traditionally do bad in the third quarter _ kind of like the Magic Lakers. Oh man, I used to party with those guys. Magic, one time he held AC Green by the ankles off the Waldorf Astoria balcony _ this must've been '86 _ these Costa Rican hookers just showed up... and the next day he dropped 35 on the Knicks with 12 assists. Class act, Magic Johnson.

_ Business... okay... business. Lessee... Woundup did debut some client-based software in Quarter 3. Uh... I think you could only get it if you were on the West Coast. I'm not supposed to know this shit. I have people that tell me things every damn day and I don't listen. That's what separates the great ones from the also-ran's _ the ability NOT to listen.

Quarter 4

_ Well, we came roaring back to finish up FY2005. And Lydia, my ex, came roaring back when she set my H3 on fire. I just bought the goddamn thing out in Lake in the Hills. I was trying to have a nice conversation and she flipped. I had it re-detailed last week. Looks fan-fuckin-tastic. Read it and weep, baby.

_ We sold licensing rights to the Wound I. satellite _ you might remember that nice little piece of hardware. Well, now its part of President Bush's domestic spying plan. Don't worry. They can't see everything. Uh... new products... Woundup soda, Woundup clothing line with Tommy, bag line with Manhattan Portage, eyewear with Oliver Peoples, parties for the Oscars, Grammys, Superbowl.

And that's where I am right now. I'm in my little hotel room in downtown Detroit. Gametime T-minus 96 hours and I'm staring down the barrel of a '77 Rioja from the Pampas. You can catch me in this month's Wine Spectator _ yeah, they're doing a spotlight on my cellar.

All right. Enough of this bullshit. Those little content team fairies are getting double shifts till July. Well... that's it. Cheers.

Reprint

I promise the Woundup Year-in-Review will not be another "best of" series, but I found one entry from last year that tickled my humor bone so much I had to repost it. It's particularly apt given today's Sun-Times cover story...

-------------------------------------

August 8, 2005

We Couldn't Think of Anything Better
This has never happened to me. I was lying in bed for a few minutes and felt an undeniable urge to write again. If I could bottle that kind of gumption...

Something that scares me is the thought that our society may mold itself in the image of a fictional reality for lack of better ideas. I feel sorry for the writers/filmmakers who invented worlds so vivid they've come to be seen as inevitabilities. Chicago's love affair with the surveillance camera draws comparisons to "1984," and, to many of us, it seems natural things would go that way. Is that because of Orwell's book? What if he'd written about a fun-loving society of vegetarians? Well, you'd be looking hard for his book in the basement of the downtown library. We love horrifying visions of the future.

Now we have a benchmark for what could go wrong, and perhaps it's unconsciously influencing our progress. I'm a big believer _ as a lazy person _ in mankind's laziness. We gravitate toward the easier/pre-existing idea/model.

But, I'm also not a paranoid person. If you want my opinion, I don't think a "1984" scenario is possible. Can you imagine the city of Chicago running a sophisticated program of mind control?

Harold: Agnes, there's something I want to tell you. I... well...
(meanwhile, back at the Richard M. Daley Citizen Compliance Center)
Bill: Hey, where's that reproductive acts authorizing form?
Richie: I dunno, Bill. I'm on lunch right now. I can't talk.
Bill: Christ... (into a microphone. his voice comes through a print of a Rembrandt in bill and agnes' living room) Hey pal. The authorization hasn't made it to our system, yet. You're gonna hafta wait.
Harold: But I'd like to make love to my wife.
Bill: Sorry, buddy. You can try back on Monday.
Richie: (to Bill) Monday's a holiday.
Bill: I thought you were on break.
Richie: I am.
Bill: (to Harold) Monday's a holiday. Try back Tuesday.
Harold: All right... (to Agnes) Monopoly sound good?

More Nostalgia

Despite what old '81 hardcore guys would have you believe, there still exists some element of regionalism in indie rock. Having lived in Chicago four years, I can listen to a band and generally tell if they're from Chicago.

8 years later, I feel I could still pick out a Cincinnati band. I went to more shows and saw more local bands there then at any other time in my life. Cincy bands have an element to them that cuts across their chosen genres: from snot punk to country revival. It's kind of a feeling, kind of a sound. I'm not being a good writer here, but I just can't describe it. I only know it when I hear it.

You can hear it in the work of The Ed Davis Band _ Cincinnati's first punk group. Former bass player, Bob Cotter, was a boss to Ted and I in the Xavier U. AV dept. Great guy. "Fuck Each Other" is a punk classic _ Cincinnati or otherwise

A View from the Couch

Ladies and gentlemen, the highlight of my NFL season is NOT the Superbowl.

It is Dr. Z's annual report card of the TV networks' football broadcast teams. BEHOLD.

Turn It Up

JR's post today has inspired me...

The loudest show I ever saw/heard was Brainiac spring 1997 on their final tour before Tim Taylor died. They played Sudsy Malone's on Vine St. in Cincinnati, and I, as was my custom at the time, got as close to the stage as I could. I stood about 7-8 feet from Juan Monosterio's bass stack, and when he hit a note, I felt it like a punch to my chest. They had more gear onstage than I'd ever seen, and they played tape loops of crowd noise at full volume between songs. I wasn't wearing ear plugs.

Sudsy's was packed and extremely smoky. After three or four songs I started feeling woozy and pushed my way to the washing machines in back _ Sudsy's was/is half a laundromat. I caught my breath and enjoyed the rest of the show _ still plenty loud _ from there.

The two Brainiac shows I witnessed prior to this were among the best I've seen in my life. I still miss 'em.

Lexicon Deviled Eggs (as suggested by WebTech 3.0)

We, too, had a lovely time last night with the RZA, the GZA and the Ghostface Killah. Feeling a little foggy today at the ol' cracker factory... and that's good.

There've been some rumors that Woundup Corp. will be changing locations soon. These rumors are unfounded, BUT if I continue to circulate them, perhaps they'll develop into the truth. "Develop" is up there, by the way, in the pantheon of cover letter terminology.

I was lying in bed the other night, thinking how the cover letter is the single most awful thing humankind has developed _ well, just a notch below the atomic bomb and (insert gag here... This post was actually written in WeBGaG WebTech 3.0, a blog template. All posts on this site are written in this program. WebTech suggests I use "designated hitter" to offset the awfulness of the A-bomb. I think I need to upgrade.)

This is the Way, Step Inside

C'mon! Both the Tribune and Sun-Times have the same top sports headline referencing yesterday's NFL action _ "Routs to Detroit."

I've always suspected both papers employ moles _ insiders who tip the editors off about the other paper's sports headlines and front-page stories.

Would I become a mole if approached? Well, the benefits package would have to be exemplary, and I'd like a little more vacation time, too.

********************

In other news, Erika and I saw "24-Hour Party People" Saturday, several years after the fact. I was expecting a massive, irritating letdown, but NO _ I thought the film engaging and playful despite the moments of strife and tragedy. Yes, they couldn't resist an Ian Curtis seizure scene.

Coincidentally, I find Joy Divsion the perfect soundtrack for my newspaper mole lifestyle. If you can picture me sneaking into the loo with my cell phone while "Atrocity Exhibition" plays, you have yourself a better understanding of what I go thru around 4:18 p.m. each day.

"Chief... It's 'Routs to Detroit'... 'ROUTS TO DETROIT--'"
(The stall door opens)

Upcoming Event Announcement Calendar Schedule

Ted ripped me off, so now I'm ripping him off ripping me off...

STAY TUNED FOR THE WOUNDUP YEAR-IN-REVIEW. FEB. 1, 2006. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.


(please continue reading fine Woundup.com content below)

Line on Dominicans is 1-1

I love that Fidel Castro has taken a personal interest in the World Baseball Classic.

Has anything in sports _ outside of the BCS _ been more maligned than the WBC? Front office types worry the timing of the international tournament (March 3-20) will interfere with traditional spring training and, more importantly, put extra wear on arms in their rotations and bullpens. Remember the White Sox? They won with consistent, healthy pitching.

And the public, well, the public has yawned resoundingly at the WBC. Frankly, I like the idea. It's a fantasy baseballer's dream come true. I don't know how much stress 2-plus weeks of competitive ball puts on a guy's arm _ I suppose that depends on the player. Gone are the days of Ironman Joe McGinnity, replaced by $25 million-a-year Hummels like Alex Rodriguez. To risk injury to such an expensive showpiece in an exhibition tournament would be career suicide for an MLB general manager.

Still, I'd like to see the scrappy Cuban team _ weaned on government rice, trained on stone-strewn sand lots _ whup up on the overpaid millionaires from the States. Castro would be there, too _ cigar in hand _ laughing all the way.

Enjoy When You Can. Endure When You Must. Goethe Never Had a Monday Off.

Well, first you're leaving the house with a lot of expectations, then you run into a friend at the Middle Eastern place, then you're drinking white wine at 1:30 p.m., and then you're laying on the couch listening to Doug Buffone and Gary Fencik. What happened? At least I downloaded my resume... Didn't I? Hold on. All right. There we go. It's my day off, right? Would you cut me a little slack?

Thinking about writing is NOT WRITING. It doesn't count. And drinking white wine is NOT NOT DRINKING. It's real booze. Take it from me. But a few hours with a friendly face... Sometimes you must take that where you can get it. I'm glad I did.

Day Off. Probably Won't Brush Teeth.

I'm just in the office a minute. I've got my hot tea from the corner store and am making some frozen waffles in the break room toaster. This place gets a little lonely on the weekend _ and again, it looks like someone had a party here. I'll never understand why people drink Heineken. Yuck. I just found a cribbage board coated with something sticky. I hope that's bourbon. What were they doing in here?

In the domestic realm, we're still cleaning up from Saturday's wonderful writers' group _ or rather, I am cleaning up. Erika's already done two loads of dishes. I still have to earn my keep.

To all writer pals in the area... Erika and I hold a writers' group once every 2-3 weeks early Saturday evening. It's a supportive, low-pressure environment to present things and get feedback _ and includes a vegan dinner. As it stands now, we have 1 fiction writer, 3 poets and a playwright. We accommodate any style _ fiction or non-fiction. Leave a note here if you're interested or email.

More Musical Mirth

Have you ever played the rock 'n roll switcheroo game? Just imagine an integral part of one of your favorite groups swapped with another key figure in another band. Then fantasize about how the band would sound.

For example...
Neil Peart of Rush
switches with
Roland, the Big Black drum machine

Big Black w/Neil Peart
Rush w/Roland the drum machine

Fun, eh? Try it yourself. If you get any good ones, post 'em in the comments section below.

Ulrich Breaks Peart's 18-Year Stranglehold on Rip Magazine's Best Drummer Award

Last night's writing exhibitionism (trip to Atomix) netted an interesting bit of information. Well, it's something I've known since I was 19 years old, but it's taken me 10 years to accept. The Atomix staff were pumping "Tago Mago" _ as is their custom _ and I realized that Jaki Liebezeit of Can is my favorite drummer. There you go. No more hemming and hawing over Keith Moon or John Bonham or Bill Ward. I vote Liebezeit.

As a recovering music journalist, my therapist has reminded me that it's all right to have a "bad day." A "bad day" in my case involves making arbitrary, meaningless rankings and lists. My old friend Adrian in Atlanta had his Top 10 guitar influences written on a dry erase board in his room _ an earnest, honest proclamation. But for Young Adrian it made sense _ he is a guitar player (and one of the best I've ever heard). Me, on the other hand...

My runner-up drummer would be the guy who played on Chrome's "Half Machine Lip Moves" _ which also makes him the #1 uncredited drummer in the history of recorded music. Ah, but you say there are countless uncredited drummers on old blues and world music records. Well, make the Chrome guy #1 uncredited drummer on a rock record. That's a new RIAA award, by the way

Report from the Dream State

I woke up a few minutes ago and looked at the clock radio beside the bed. The numbers moved upward quickly 7:05, :06, :07, :08, :09, :10... had time been broken? Was I still in a dream? I looked at the red digits ascending :24, :25, :26, :27 before it struck me _ Erika had spilled water on the clock when she got home from work. It was broken. I hit one of the buttons. The time reset to 12:00 and stopped moving.

Just a few moments before, I had a vivid dream about Midnight Records. I was back in New York for some reason and had agreed to work temporarily at Midnight. Robin and BJ were there, along with a guy who did my old job _ boxing up mail orders. JD had turned the store's second room into a listening area with couches _ very Williamsburg. I was excited to get my hands on a mail order package. I think even now I could wrap one in under 20 seconds. I had done so many _ the USPS priority mail package with the tape gun _ that it burned permanently into some deep part of my brain. I bet I'll be able to do 'em at age 70.

But it was only a dream. We all know Midnight (as a store) is gone. Erika said she has the ability to wake up, return to sleep and continue the same dream. I've never been able to do that _ but who knows _ if I fall asleep now, I might get to go buy JD some Perrier in the Chelsea Hotel bodega.

Lift My Spirits

TRUSCOTT: You’re fucking nicked, my old beauty. You’ve found to your cost that the standards of the British police force are as high as ever.
MCLEAVY: What am I charged with?
TRUSCOTT: That needn’t concern you for the moment. We’ll fill in the details later.
MCLEAVY: You can’t do this. I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. The police are for the protection of ordinary people.
TRUSCOTT: I don’t know where you pick up these slogans, sir. You must read them on hoardings.

O'Donnell to the Edge of Infinity

It's official. Sun Times Notre Dame writer Jim O'Donnell MUST write my obituary. The puckish wordsmith dropped another gem-encrusted treasure upon the reading public this morning _ his story on the Irish's loss to Ohio State in the Fiesta Bowl yesterday. It wouldn't be an O'Donnell piece without some color in the lead...

"TEMPE, Ariz. _
See Troy run.
See Troy pass.
See Ted catch.
See Ted score.
See Notre Dame touchdown called back.
See Ohio State happy.
See the Fighting Irish sad."

And just when you think you have O'Donnell scouted, he adds another pitch to his repertoire _ a blizzard of numerals...

"No one stepped up more than (Ted) Ginn. With his Olympic speed (10.5 for 100 meters), the diminutive triple threat ended with 167 yards from eight receptions, 73 yards in two rushing tries and 20 more from two punt returns. Hello-Columbus total: 260, including the two touchdowns."

More and more everyday, I feel O'Donnell is the only writer who could treat my life with the reverence it deserves. I'm just going to lie down on this stretcher and wait for him to start typing.

Rosenberg Eats Quiche at the Modern's Cafe, Pass It On

I got down to business last night, had a couple beers, and hit the couch afterward for some well-deserved PBS. As luck would have it, I caught most of the new American art documentary _ another rundown of 20th century icons. It was mesmerizing to see film of Duchamp and De Kooning (New York residents), along with Rauschenberg and Warhol working _ you never see footage of Warhol actually WORKING.

As an introduction, it was very compelling _ though I'm sure those involved would agree such a distillation is too simplistic. I don't mean to criticize PBS. Their documentaries can serve as tremendous jumping-off points. I was moved to discover modern theater after seeing "Changing Stages" back in 2000. What these kind of programs need are suggested reading lists. I know I could use the help in catching up on my Clement Greenberg.

Personal Touching

Oh my... I just... I don't know what to say. I've never... had someone give me something like this.

My statcounter company sent me a fruit basket _ for the holidays. I'm... I'm touched. It came with a little note:

"Happy holidays from StatTek. Hope the New Year finds you in good health and fortune. Thank you for using StatTek TrakkerTek 5.0. Look for new add-ons in 2006, including the Electric-Shock-Thru-the-Keyboard FunGram. Send your friends a special message that says, 'I care!'
P.S. There is no microscopic camera in this fruit basket."

I'm putting it right on my desk here. There. Very nice.

Is something humming?

The Terrible, Blinding Dawn

I survived. I survived Monday. I also survived Christmas, but that was enjoyable. We saw my parents, Erika's father's and mother's sides. Food, wine, laughter... I like it more every year. Her family(ies) treat me very well, in spite of my strange appearance and behavior.

I missed being with my two brothers for the holidays. I wish I could be more of a part of their lives. But somewhere, I know, they were hoisting a Molson Canadian for me.

Man, this WeBLoG is flopping around in the water looking for some direction. Looks like I'm waiting till the New Year to refocus. I hate that: People who give up on life sometime in early December and wait till the New Year for the promise of inspiration. Yes, I am one of these people _ at least on a couple fronts. It's the procrastinator's national holiday, New Year's. Or maybe it's not. Maybe this week is the procrastinator's national holiday. New Year's is the terrible, blinding dawn.

Stocking Stufferz

Here's a little holiday present for you, new reader. Please enjoy the old Woundup.com archive (look under "older"), the webdiary Parrot Talk called "... groundbreaking..."

Church of the Thom McCann Gift Certificate

I wish I had taken off more time for the holidays. Well, you'll have to accept this short message in the meantime. Happy holidays to all Woundup readers. I hope things are safe and relaxing for you. Erika and I will make the family rounds starting tonight when we take the Donahues to our favorite little Indian hideaway.

What else can I say? Be good to yourself. See you next week.

The Good Vibes Superhighway/Eastern Fronting

Well, well... thank you to Jessica for mentioning this space. I am a fan of her WeBLoG _ a look into the life and mind of Chicago's premier freelance writer. Visit now!

In other good news, the holiday shopping plan is starting to take shape. I dub it "The Winter Counteroffensive" in the spirit of my Russian ancestors. In the spirit of my German ancestors I also dub it "Fritz, Send Me a Winter Coat So I Can Fight the Communists, Bitte." How about that for internal conflict?