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.

Stumbling, Bumbling

Now this is more like it: a classic fuzzy Woundup post. We went to the sushi hut last night, where they whip their employees. Didn't see any whipping, but I toasted a couple of sakes to the westward development of dog salons down Division. Those dogs ate better than any of us did last night--and that includes the visiting Yamaha executives.

Add to that a couple brewtas at the ol' Darkroom and...Yes, here I am, back in the pressurized cabin. The co-pilot took the day off for the high holiday. The only substance in my body: Pepsi.

I have become an angry driver in Chicago and may have to be driven around like Keith Moon soon. I don't know how this happened to me. Erika's going to buy a straight jacket this weekend at the Hal Markofsky estate sale. It's hard to get that 1950's Bellevue quality anymore.

I Was in Line at the DMV...

I woke up after 6 a.m. and forced myself back to sleep, albeit pleasantly. I then had a dream I took Erika and Tim to visit Williamsville East High School--hated rival of my alma mater, Williamsville South. We drove down a tree-lined suburban street and pulled into East's parking lot. Then it jumped to a foyer in the school where someone was taking ID cards. I woke up shortly thereafter.

Does this mean anything? Probably not, but it's the freshest, most vivid thing in my mind this morning. I remember reading "The Adding Machine," in which William Burroughs said he got most of his story ideas from dreams. I've never tried it. I briefly kept a dream log about four years ago, and haven't thought much of it since.

June 2007 marks the five-year anniversary of my freedom from mental medication, which I had used for six years. I only mention this because mental medication all but eradicated my dream life during the time I took it. I never had very vivid dreams when I was younger, anyway, and that trend has continued as my dreams have returned. Regardless, I'm glad they're back and taking me to exciting places--like suburban Buffalo.

King Catch-up

They let us out early today due to the weather. That would've never happened at the old Cracker Factory. I hopped a cab, avoided a nasty snarl near the Ontario on-ramp and found myself at home by 2:15. I lit a cigar, poured a glass of sherry and put my feet up on the ottoman. Well, those last three were fictitious, but I felt that way inside.

It's fun to get a little snowed in. I keep reminding myself how much more intense the Upstate New York snow of my younger years was. A foot was nothing to Buffalo or Syracuse. It really takes a knockout, like the recent one near Watertown, to upset the locals.

A little wine, a little "Sanford and Son"... I hope you're in a warm place tonight, Woundup reader. Talk to you soon.

Pro Bowl

Wow, that might be the longest gap between posts in Woundup history. But don't worry. After a period of re-adjustment, Woundup is now back to begin content generation on a regular basis.

I look forward to more posts... what's that? You want a real post, not one of these "See you next time" deals? Oh...

Wow, there was a product placement for Smooking Loon wines in "A Scanner Darkly." That takes some balls. Almost as ballsy as the FTD Florist spot in "Apocalypse Now."

To Read

Erika's poem -- the one I mentioned a month or so ago -- has just been posted at Double Room. Please take a look. I'm very proud of her.

I Won't Ever Leave You

Have you missed me/us? Well, we've been kicking the boxes around the new space here for a few days. Still trying to figure things out. Hopefully it'll all turn out okay. It's nice. Lot's of good places to eat nearby. It's funny how regimented your conception of the city is until you move just a few blocks away. You feel completely disoriented. It'll change with time. Welcome to the new cracker factory.

It's nice to have my evenings back. Funny that I make it sound so inconsequential after all that strife the past four months. I can't remember how I lived before, working 9 to 5. I did it for more than four years. I imagine it'll come back to me, and I'll wonder how I ever worked the nightbeat.

No. Something tells me I won't ever forget the nightbeat.

Nothing Less Than

The Bears kick off in less than two hours. Like many of my generation, I watched Super Bowl XX and the great Bears victory. I remember McMahon getting hit on a scramble and flipping up in the air; the Fridge scoring; Sweetness looking dejected on the sidelines; and the team hoisting up Ditka. It can happen again. The Bears will win it today.

2006: The Woundup Year in Review

Looking around at all these packed boxes... I'm gonna miss this old place. We're moving the company headquarters to a new facility on Monday. There are a lot of memories floating around in here...

There's the broom closet where I spent many nights drinking Heineken tall-boys by myself, trying to drill a hole in the wall so I could look into the ladies' john. There's the mail room where I would sneak cigarettes after hours and make phone calls to my bookie. And there's the door to the loading dock. I wanted to bone that UPS delivery lady so bad, and that day when she said, “I've got something for you,” and bent over—I had to touch it. The lawsuit cost me my home in Vale. It was really just a crash-pad for my pothead son, Chad. He works in advertising now.

I'll miss it. I lost some money here, but I made a whole lot more. Those are the times I'll remember most: rubbing newly minted money on my face and chest; sticking it in my briefs and walking around the office... Yeah...

2006 was a good year for Woundup Corp. We really raked it in. I'm sure you want the quarter-by-quarter breakdown; the tech advancements; the numbers... Well, I'm not doing that this year. Why not? It's my fucking year in review, and I can do whatever I want. It's called respect, folks. I earned it. You haven't.

In January of 2006, I decided I would write a novel. I had never written anything before, besides these goddamn stupid year-in-reviews, and, of course, the original Woundup Corp. business plan. I hire pencil-necks to write things for me. That includes accountants, secretaries, office assistants and everybody's favorite—the 7-person Content Team... bunch of fairies. I got sick of those fruits making snide little jokes at the meetings—little literary jokes they thought I wouldn't understand. Like, “Sorry chief, we can't work on June 16. It's Bloomsday.” Very funny. I had to look that one up.

One day I got sick of it, so I brought out my old Smith Corona—Hemingway had owned it. I sat down and told those content fruits, “I am going to write a novel in one year.”

I built a multi-million dollar company with my bare hands (and my father-in-law's money); I dine regularly with presidents and CEOS; I'm involved in a paternity suit with Dutch royalty—I knew I could write a fucking novel.

Well, the first thing I had to decide was what to write about. A Tom Blister venture makes money, but I didn't want to lower myself to the level of those losers Grisham and Turow. I wanted this to be art, folks. I had some of my people look into it. Seems you get the most respect if you write a long 1,000-page-plus novel. Mix in a little personal experience, some family strife, a mysterious visitor or shadow organization, maybe someone leaves somebody a bunch of money in their will... also, a little skin. Shit, I knew could write that.

I outfitted my own little writing room at the estate; got myself a leather-bound writer's notebook; and stocked the liquor cabinet with Wild Turkey. I sat down and started, wrote a few sentences and...

A month later, well after the football playoffs were over, I looked in the writing room. A thin layer of dust covered my Smith-Corona and my writer's notebook. “Fucking bullshit,” I said. “No fucking book is gonna beat Tom Blister.” I sat down, wiped off the dust and jammed a sheet of paper into the machine. “THIS is my story...”

Three months after that, I was puttering around the estate, looking for a case of Titelist golf balls Bill Richley from CompuPlex gave me. They were sitting in my writing room. I looked at my typewriter and muttered, “Goddammit.” I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and sunk into the leather couch next to the desk. “Fuck this,” I said. The sun went down, and I sat there in the dark. I was drunk. I picked up Hemingway's fucking typewriter and threw it out the window. It crashed down on the croquet court, narrowly missing my 23-year-old Taiwanese girlfriend. She was playing a game in the buff with her tennis instructor. I passed out.

In December I was skulking in my office. The Content Team—the fairies—had got whiff of my writer's block and were making little jokes. One of them said, “Cheer up, chief. It took Joyce 17 years to write 'Finnegans Wake.'” I hated them. But luck smiled on ol' Tom Blister. I found one of those little fruits making an illegal, personal copy on a company machine. He was making a copy of a 1,000-page-plus novel. It was Ethan Kraputnik himself—the leader of the content team.

“Kraputnik,” I said. “If you don't give me that novel, I'll shitcan your ass, and I know you can't live without your iPod docking station and wine-of-the-month-club.”

The twerp was really sweating. I asked what his piece-of-shit book was about.

“I... I've been working on it for five years. It's a mixture of personal experience and family strife. A mysterious visitor shows up, someone leaves a sizeable amount in a will... and there's a three-way sex scene involving a middle-aged literature prof—“

“Sold.”

I commandeered his novel as property of the company. A few contributions to the Great Books Society and my 'script was edited in record time. Folks, you can buy my new novel, “Pounded,” Jan. 22. I'll be signing books at the Clark Street Border's in February.

What's 2007 got in store for Tom Blister? One word. Screenplay.

Busy With Other Things

CEO Tom Blister's many attempted (and failed) first drafts reminded me of my short film/short story class freshman year of college. It was a blow-off elective but sort of interesting. We had to read a short story then watch the short film adaptation and compare the two in a weekly paper. To psych myself up for the task, I would write an unrelated, fictional intro for each paper--sometimes short, sometimes a bit lengthy--then go into what I was actually supposed to be discussing. One intro involved a spoof of "The Ten Commandments," and I remember another had some people on a river raft like "Huckleberry Finn."

They call this a warm-up, and you usually cut it out at the end. But I never did and turned each paper in, warm-up included. My professor, a sour fellow who walked away from his Jesuit life for the love of a woman, never said anything. He just gave me letter grades--no comments on my off-assignment fiction. He acted like it never existed.

What did he think? Maybe he was so wracked with guilt after leaving the priesthood, all he could do was stare blankly at the film screen, slumped in his chair, and robotically mark "A-" on every paper put in front of him. I'll just have to add it to my 5 Unanswered Life Questions. I'll fill you in on the other four sometime.

Tease

Sources tell me Woundup Corp. CEO Tom Blister has locked himself in his Park Ave. hotel suite with a case of Dom Estes. One can only assume he's working on his 2006 Year in Review. Yes, this behavior is not different from a typical Blister night, but an iBook was delivered to the hotel, as well. Let's hope he figures out how to turn it on.

Free

I'm free. Four months of job searching paid off. I took a gig in a familiar line of work. I'm happy about it, but certainly have all the normal apprehensions related to leaving a job after 4.5 years for something completely new. I think I'll be okay.

This means two things. First, the end of the nightbeat in two weeks' time. Maybe you've grown to enjoy my lamentable nightbeat posts. Maybe you haven't noticed. It doesn't really matter to me, because I don't have to fucking work at night anymore. Second, Woundup Corp. will finally move from its longtime headquarters on W. Hubbard (aka "The Magnesium Mile"). Look for details soon about our new location.

And don't forget about CEO Tom Blister's 2006 Year in Review. It will show up here sometime next week.

Christmas World

New American Blind Closers

Someone stole a doorknob from our foyer door. They stole it along with two facing plates and loosened the knob on our inner door, causing it to fall off. Strange, right? The locks were untouched. Whoever it was only wanted those metal pieces. We have an on-going feud with two of our neighbors, both related, so we immediately thought of them -- though this is low/weird even by their standards. An unreliable source told our landlady that other houses on the block suffered similar thefts -- that people steal the vintage knobs to sell later. I took a quick look at the east end of the block the other day and saw only original knobs and facing plates. Who were these other victims?

I like our apartment. I don't necessarily like our block, even though a lot of young people like us live on it. The older folks -- the ones that have been there for years -- live by the annoying, meddlesome code of the classic city neighborhood: knowing other people's business, caring a little too much about the look of the block, etc. My generation has been criticized for its interest in social isolation and anonymity. Lately, I've learned to see a bit of the good in these supposedly negative states.

"Stay out of my business. I don't want to fucking talk to you." They should put it on the quarter. The new American motto!

Super Bad

As a big fan of James Brown, I'll throw in my two bits of good-will remembrance. I bought "Live at the Olympia, Paris 1971" when I was 19 and have loved his music ever since. The fact that mainstream news outlets can't really describe his work is a bit depressing. If you know, you know... and it's not about "Rocky IV" (or "Doctor Detroit"). I'm also disappointed by the lack of primo, high-period '60s footage on the big, brainless cable rotators. And what about when he went on TV to help calm rioters? James Brown is in the top-5 American musicians of all time. That's a "Top (Blank)" list I don't mind making... and Bob Dylan isn't on it.

Coming Soon

Hello, folks. Blister here. And when Blister speaks in late December that means one thing -- the WOUNDUP YEAR IN REVIEW. Can you believe it's almost 2007? Where did the last friggin' year go? They say time goes faster as you get older. I never bought it... especially all those divorce court hearings I had to sit through over the summer. It went fast because I was DRUNK. And I'm drunk right now. Those little content team fairies locked me in the storage closet. They think I'm passed out. I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU LITTLE FAIRIES! It's an office party. You're supposed to drink. How am I writing this if I'm in a closet? It's a called a Treo, folks. Christ, I have to piss...

Fumbles Lost

I was bounced out of the fantasy football playoffs on Sunday. It hurts a little bit. I really wanted the bi-fecta of fantasy baseball and football titles in the same year. I'll just have to watch the final week's action from the couch while polishing my other trophy. In all truth, though I consider fantasy baseball the harder of the two disciplines -- and ultimate victory a testament to one's perseverance and acumen -- nothing would be more fun than to shame my high school buddies on the virtual gridiron. I've won football championships in other leagues, but never over the Buffalo boys. At least now I'm free to watch football without stress or consequences... which is kind of what I did anyway. So, I s'pose nothing's really changed. Yes.

12.18.06 Forever

I should have a better idea of what's going on with my two prospects by this time tomorrow. The ads are starting to upswing and will probably reach pre-Thanksgiving levels in two weeks. This is the worst time of year to job search, for sure. In spite of that, I feel hope. The weather is warm, in a sickly sort of way. The little lawns are damp. I've lost some weight. We're going to see my parents on Saturday, and I have two four-day weekends coming up. I'm putting the little, plastic red flag up on the curbside mailbox. I've worked enough for the day. It's the Official Woundup Paid Babysitting Service till 10:30.

Endure When You Must Inc.

The job search rollercoaster continues. I was up after the Thanksgiving holiday. Now I'm down as two possible employers have yet to contact me. One said they'd know by mid-December, the other said they were caught up in some things and are still making a decision. Both are quality gigs, I feel. I just need one to come through so I can leave this accursed night shift. I really hate it. Really, really hate it.

If you're a bit of an Internet voyeur, you might be interested in, amused by or curious about my suffering. Or maybe you aren't. We all have to suffer through things. I sometimes wish someone I know (or even a stranger) will hear my plea and rescue me. But then I think that if I was reading a similar WeBLoG post -- even one by a friend -- I would probably stand by and do nothing. I suppose it depends on the situation. Though it's depressing and disillusioning, my job situation doesn't carry the same weight as, say, the need for a new kidney. Then you would step in and help Woundup, right?

I'm not looking for your help, anyway. I'm just looking to fill some column inches. See? Even I'm detached about my own situation... and I'm the one getting fucked. Who's the real loser here? Regional cable, of course.

Beside the Electric Hearth

That's our little xmas tree with all the presents beneath it. We made an effort to shop early, and now we're more than 80% finished. I love our tree.

WeBLoRGGiNG from the Couch

I've had a very good fantasy football day today. I don't want to jinx myself, so I can only relate that I have a chance to do something very special this year... in fantasy sports terms.

That said, I've grown to really like NBC's "Football Night in America" Sunday night broadcast. No dog games is a big selling point. I enjoy the detailed highlights before kickoff, and find Costas, Collinsworth and even King less irritating as the weeks progress. It'll never supplant "Hockey Night in Canada" as a near religious sports experience, but at least it's a good game. Hear, hear.

Son of Nightbeat

We've had a wacky night at the Cracker Factory -- wacky in that good ol' fashioned way I knew back in the Picodiribibi days. Maybe it's a harbinger that my time here is about up, but I've been saying things like that since... well, at least there're some palpable possibilities for change. Two other people are leaving at the end of the month. Escapes like this have traditionally happend in threes around here. It was nice to see ol' workpal and fantasy baseball foe Craig in good spirits. He's close to nailing a new gig, too. Here's to America's bright, promising young men.

I don't know what's going to happen tonight after I get the hell out of here. There's a double bock waiting for me at home. That sounds really good. Almost as good as being home right now instead of working.

When Will It End?

I'm writing two full-length plays. One had been waiting on the hot plate for comments for the past six months and was finally brought back onto the main range, yesterday. I feel like I need to pysch myself up -- run around in the woods like Ted in "The Doors 2" -- or something. Sometimes I feel like I'm beating my head against the wall. There's always something else to do, and it never seems to end. Ultimately, I enjoy it, but facing another major revision, I feel like setting something on fire -- like an old couch -- and dancing around the flames, drinking gin from a plastic bottle. Maybe then, after I've done that, I'll be ready.

Dresden Dolls are Back in Style

Which musical group can claim the "World's Most Annoying Fans?" I remember once, in 1994, a Cincinnati record store clerk call Guided By Voices' fans the most annoying. Now that that venerable Dayton act has disbanded, whose supporters have moved in to fill the void? I'm gathering, from my research on The Fall, that their fans were probably at one point the "World's Most Annoying."

Qualifications for "World's Most Annoying Fans" should include...
_ Preference for certain "eras" of the group, and should have a strong opinion as to which was the group's creative pinnacle.
_ Interest in hard-to-find releases and import records. Should own American and European releases of all major albums by the group.
_ Knowledge of group's lyrics and low threshold of self-control while inebriated for singing loudly along to live performances or spins on the jukebox.
_ Should have at least five anecdotes about the primary member of the group for quick use at shows or record stores. Anecdotes about the group's producers are a plus.
_ Secret desire to write the definitive book about the group is strongly perferred.

Snow Beat

I feel like Ted's old landlord Marty Kaufman -- I'm eating Sbarro pizza. The Cracker' Factory's replacement microwave -- the one sent to replace the broken one -- was itself broken in shipping. The Cracker Factory probably doesn't get the NFL Network, either, which will prevent me from watching the Ravens-Bengals game. Thank you, NFL Network. I only have this WeBLoG upon which to project my nervous energy and boredom... and... What's that? Yes, the search for a new Cracker Factory location has gone well, this past week. There are two strong candidates. Hopefully one of them will come through. It never moves fast enough, eh?

No snow visible, yet.

Winter Offensive v.4.5

I slipped on our front steps this morning. Our front steps are already slick with a glossy paint job. Add some invisible, frozen moisture and... yes. I'm generally a nimble fellow, and I've slipped before. When I hit the first step, I grabbed the red railing, hoping to save face. I put my foot down on the next step, which was just as bad, and knew I had no choice but to give in to falling. I suppose there's a psychotheraputic axiom in there somewhere, but it didn't help much as I tilted backward and smacked the left side of my body on the hard, wooden steps. It sounds bad, but only a small bruise on my forearm remains. Live and learn. Winter 2006.

The snow hype has Chicago bracing for the worst. It's set to begin in a few hours. At least I won't have to walk home from the Loop again. A little red wine, a little goat cheese and good ol' Jim Rome on the other end should melt away any late-night commuting accumulation.

Holiday Parentheticals

Teeth aside (though they did get a workout this past Thursday), Erika and I enjoyed our Thanksgiving. Erika worked hard to cook a spectacular feast for Marie and I, while her mom brought over a meat turkey. Highlights included broccoli faux-cheese casserole, seitan turkey and stuffing loaf, New York-style cheesecake and fine Bitburger beer in tallboy cans that I enjoyed while listening to the Broncos-Chiefs game on the radio because the freaking NFL put the freaking night game on the freaking NFL Network (We don't have cable).

What else? The leftovers were just as good. The rest of the weekend sailed along pleasantly, leaving me with a taste for my next extended break (only 26 days to go).

Smile

Hello everybody,
I hope you had a fine holiday. I can fill you in on the details of our Thanksgiving, shortly. Before that, I would like to write out here my renewed commitment -- commitment to taking better care of my teeth.

I have terrible teeth. I was making good inroads to having them better two years ago, but fell off due to (short-term) money trouble and (long-term) laziness. Now that I'm a little more mature, I want to take care of what I have (left). I'm guessing I'll need at least one tooth extraction. I don't want to have anymore pulled after that, and I want my teeth to be happier in the future. They deserve it. You read it here, folks.

Night Shift Forever

There's been a lot of hand-wringing in here about real-world problems, but I remember a time when Woundup was primarily, yes, a frivilous form of entertainment. You never knew when a bit of humorous dialogue would break out...

Phil: Did you see this? Ramirez got... $36 million...
Tom: No.
Phil: Says right here.
Tom: Huh.
(pause)
Phil: That's a lot of money.

When a bit of humorous dialogue would break out...

Phil: Did you see this? Ramirez got... $36 million...
Tom: That's a lot of money.
Phil: That's what I was going to say.
(Pause)
Phil: Huh.

Humorous dialogue would break out...

Phil: Did you see this? Ramirez--
Tom: Got $36 million.
Phil: I was just--
Tom: You were just going to say that.
(Pause)
Phil: H--
Tom: Huh.
(Pause)
Tom: You know, Phil, we've been working together four years now. You never once asked me how was my weekend.
(Pause)
Phil: How was--
Tom: I had to work over the weekend.
(Pause)
Phil: Well... how was it?
(Pause)
Tom: I ordered a pizza.
Phil: You... you had a pizza delivered here?
Tom: Yeah. I do it all the time.
(Pause)
Phil: Where do you--
Tom: Pete's. It's on Livernois.
Phil: Huh.
(Pause)
Phil: What did you get on it?
Tom: Cheese... just cheese...
(Pause)
Phil: Do you want to order a pizza now?
Tom: I just ate dinner.
(Pause)
Phil: Do you mind if I order a pizza?
Tom: No... if you really want to.
Phil: What do you mean?
Tom: You're gonna have a lot of leftovers. What're you gonna do with all that pizza?
Phil: I'll save it.
Tom: We don't have any... aluminum foil... nothing.
Phil: I'll wrap it in a paper towel.
Tom: The grease will leak thru it.
(Pause)
Phil: I'll order a small.
Tom: Pete's doesn't make a small. Just medium and large.
(Pause)
Phil: How many pieces in a medium.
Tom: I don't know.
(Pause)
Phil: I'm going to order one.
Tom: Go ahead.
Phil: Do you have the number?
Tom: No.
Phil: How do you order the pizzas?
Tom: Larry knows it.
Phil: Larry?
Tom: Yeah.
(Pause)
Tom: Larry's off tonight.
Phil: Jesus...
Tom: Don't get angry.
Phil: I'm not angry.
(Pause)
Phil: Y'know... y'know, Tom... all this time we worked together... you never asked me how my weekend was.
(Pause)
Phil: You never--
Tom: How was your weekend?
Phil: It was all right.
(Pause)
Phil: Do you wanna read about Ramirez?
Tom: I already looked at it.
(Pause)
Phil: $36 million...
(Pause)
Phil: I'm hungry.

He Basically Recycles Stuff He Wrote 3 Years Ago

Man, I could go for a grilled cheese and fries. Where can I find one at this hour? Eating options are very limited after 6 p.m. Jane Jacobs would probably snicker at my predicament, as I'm trapped in this single-use (soul-withering office work) district. Oh, wherefor art thou, Big Herm's?

Reversal of Man (I want my $6 back, please)

It's been a tough one in the Woundup camp today, and that feeling of desolation -- maybe it's a holiday slowdown -- continues. I was musing last week how I haven't had "one of those weeks" in a while -- you know, where everything seems to go wrong. I can't say my problems are the worst. Erika had an even tougher day, so I should really just relax.

The Cracker Factory microwave broke Friday, and I had a very naiive hope that it would either be fixed or replaced by today. Of course it wasn't, so I had a nice dinner of Chex Mix and Kozy Shack rice pudding. Well, I'll warm up this bloody TV dinner when I get home.

We're hosting Thanksgiving dinner Thursday for our families and some good friends. Now, I have two choices of how I can anticipate it: 1. With dread. 2. With less dread. Wait, that's not very positive, is it? I shouldn't worry. I shouldn't worry about anything. No. Though things seem bleak and unpeopled, hope and opportunity are but a few pretzel stix away.

Isolation Isn't Just an Island in Spain

I haven't gotten an e-mail all day from a real person. The only e-mail that's popped up in my mailbox that wasn't an ad had to be written... by me. I had to write myself as part of a group e-mail. There you go. Thursday, Nov. 16, 2006.

FANS!

The Answer

It's time for reader mail, which means Picodiribibi's romp through 2002 memories has come to a close. There were a few more posts after this on the original site, but they were record reviews and didn't pertain much to our android friend.

Yes, I have indeed lost the city council episode forever. You might remember it involved Picodiribibi and his creator pitching a production of Ionesco's "Rhinoceros" to the Orland Park City Council for the city's annual community theater show. You can probably guess their response.

I promise you, Woundup reader, that I will not let these stories die a second time. Find them by using the link at right.

Will Picodiribibi come back? I don't know... maybe.