Video Killed The What Now?

It's very easy these days for me to get worked up, what with going to second interviews and getting hopes built up about jobs that never pan out. I try to take my mind off the whole thing by distracting myself with such avenues as the Internet or television programming.

The whole thing might work better if I didn't end up being pulled into, say, reading or watching the news. As someone who has opposed the war in Iraq since the phony case was being made for an invasion, the past few weeks haven't failed to make me groan repeatedly.

In case you've been trapped underneath a giant rock for the past few weeks, the Democratically-controlled Congress passed legislation setting a timetable for troop withdrawal. And, of course, Bush is going to veto it ... because that's what the people really wanted when they went to the polls in November. Retarded.

I just love how those who were so gung-ho about this failed war are always the same people who are gung-ho about every war, yet usually fail to step up and publicly serve when their time called. It's even more disgraceful this time around to watch the same pundits never retract their shameless flag-waving enthusiasm as though it's some type of practical solution to a problem that, in all sad likelihood, will probably have to be fixed by the next president we elect.

Perhaps Oprah owes us another follow-up show that brings a little more immediacy back to the table, and then maybe I'll be less pessimistic about turning on the television.

So, I try to ease my mind instead by listening to the local sports radio station. You'd think this would most certainly be a safe haven. And most days, you'd be right. I'm listening to it more often than I ever turn on the television. Neither my girlfriend nor I have cable, but I don't complain about this as much as I used to back when I was in, say, high school.

But again, for those who might've been away for a while, there's a certain event looming in sports that I'm not looking forward to. I'm dreading it, actually.

I speak, of course, about Barry Bonds surpassing Hank Aaron as the all-time home run king. The moment, when it inevitably occurs, may become the saddest thing I'll ever witness. And if you've been following the coverage of Bonds this season, there's been some really stupid and terribly misguided opinions about this thrown out there.

Back to the radio, where quite possibly my favorite segment of the week is 5:00 p.m. on Thursdays when "Who Ya Crappin'" allows fans to call in and vent about any hypocritical or untrue statement made during the week on Terry Boers and Dan Bernstein's show. Yesterday, the callers came through in flying colors.

While "Whitley from Ravenswood" called in to appropriately crap Detroit columnist Rob Parker for his ridiculous assertion that Hank Aaron has anything to be ashamed of, the real tip of the hat has to go to the e-mail from "Paulie Peanut," who dedicated his crap to "Booyah Bozo" Tim Kurkjian.

Now, Kurkjian has been an avid supporter of Bonds as well as a fairly pathetic advocate of performance-enhancing drugs. According to the e-mail Bernstein read, Kurkjian's ridiculous pattern of thought hit an astonishingly pathetic new low on Wednesday evening:

"[Kurkjian] ranted about how Major League Baseball should do anything in its power to make sure Barry Bonds breaks Aaron’s record at home, so as to avoid a deluge of jeers as he maneuvers his giant head around the bases in his historic home run trot. He explained, ‘The judgment of how Bonds achieved this feat should come later, as no
wrongdoing on his part has yet been proven.’ Furthermore, he commented that
to have the memory of the record-breaking home run tarnished by an unforgiving road crowd would be ‘a tragedy’ and ‘would hurt the game of baseball.’

“Tim, do you know what’s hurt the game of baseball? Cheating! And the insane apologists that stand by telling us what we should be ashamed of for not reveling in the artificial milestones they create.

"You are one of the most despicable cases of this, and the fact that you can defend this man—despite an overwhelming amount of statistical, and visual, and anecdotal, and journalistic evidence—is laughable. To hear you suggest that baseball should go out of its way to accommodate a man that’s helped mount a growing sense of disillusionment with the game and its players is sad.

"I hope Bonds breaks the record on the road. I hope the boos are deafening. And I hope that after Barry crosses home plate, he takes some time to reflect on how it all came to this, and whether or not it was worth it.

"In the days, months and years following the breaking of that home run record, if the players, and fans, and agents, and managers, and journalists, and broadcasters watch that tape of Bonds leaving a legacy of humility … of shame, I hope that everyone will stop and consider whether the use, and cover-up, and excuses made for performance-enhancing drugs outweigh the importance of the game itself.

"Tim Kurkjian: Who You Crappin’?”

After Dan finished reading this, Terry muttered, "That's unbelievable ... that he'd say that." Bernstein quickly responded that no, it wasn't. "They don't know what to do over there [at ESPN, a.k.a. 'The Booyah Network']."

The moment was one that reaffirmed why I really don't miss cable. Give me a couple of satisfying callers on the radio, and it'll help me from getting "too" worked up about these things. After all, it has to better than what the issues cause some other people to do.

Very superstitious ... writing's on the wall ...

While compiling the prep schedule for the paper, I noticed that in April it would in fact be "Friday the 13th," which is special if you are an avid fan of the film series, meaningless dates, or maybe work for the Red Eye.

I walk under ladders and break mirrors for shits & giggles all the time. My girlfriend owns two black cats which cross my path quite frequently. Perhaps I should start taking these things more seriously ... perhaps.

This past Friday didn't really begin any different than most days do; the woman left for work, wished me luck on my job interview, and I walked down to 7-11 to grab a coffee and a paper. On the news (and in the Red Eye, of course) the "eerie" date was mentioned, but that was about it.

I wasn't particularly excited about the day's interview, mostly because it was scheduled for the rather odd time of 1:45 p.m. (bad sign #1) at a marketing company (bad sign #2). Should I have been hired and asked to start on Monday, I was already thinking of an excuse to honor the far more promising interview I had lined up for the more sensible time of 2 p.m. (normal sign) at a staffing firm (normal sign) that had posted a position with salary (good sign #1) and full benefits (good sign #2).

Still, I remember the clock in the corner of the midday news reading 12:07 and decided there’s no harm in giving the job—any job at this point—a shot.

In preparing for the shower, I took off my shoes and began emptying my pockets. While placing my cigarettes, cash, keys and such contents on the coffee table, the buzzer to the main entrance sounded. I peeked out the window and saw a big brown UPS truck outside. Using the speaker system for the first time, I pressed the button and said "Hello" before realizing I had to press a different button to listen.

"Package for ..." was about all I heard. My better half’s last name is Polish, so I can understand a little garbling. I pressed the third button to let the driver in and unlocked the door to go downstairs and meet him. Halfway down the stairs, however, the man was gone and the package sat underneath the mailboxes in between the first and second entrance doors. Bella, the short-haired and more curious of the two cats, was now making an attempt to explore what life was like outside the apartment. I bolted back up the stairs, stuck my foot out, and ushered her back inside, shutting the door behind me.

When I came back downstairs and opened the door to the mailbox area, I noticed that the package was not, in fact, addressed to my girlfriend. And since there were no numbers on any of the doors, I had no idea which floor or unit to leave it in front of.

Somewhat irritated by this waste of time, I went back up the stairs and turned the handle to go back in the apartment ... only to find the door wouldn't budge.

"Fuck."

I had become accustomed to using the kitchen entrance to the apartment because the front door had been increasingly irritating to open in the first place. And that was with the keys.

Now standing in the hallway with no shoes and only my car keys in my pocket, I suppose that what was once irritating became maddening. Considering that I hadn’t locked the door, I clung to the belief that maybe if I turned the handle just right I could still open it.

When that failed, I tried applying pressure with my shoulder …

Which became bumping with my shoulder …

Which then became slamming with my shoulder …

Ultimately, all efforts were unsuccessful and I took a seat on the stairs. I could hear Bella running her clawless paws against the door.

I went down the stairs and used the newly delivered cardboard box—and a fairly heavy little one at that—to keep the second door open. Leaning outside the main entrance to the building, I began to peruse the surnames of the building’s tenants. Then I pressed the buzzer. And when that failed, I pressed another. And another. And so on.

No responses in the middle of the afternoon. Imagine that.

With no answers, no cell phone, no money, no shoes, and basically no hope, I momentarily went back upstairs to sit by the door so I could at least lean my back against something. Bella began to meow.

When I heard the music for WGN’s “Daybreak” segment begin, I knew it was getting close to 1:00. Wondering how I was going to explain this when the girlfriend finally arrived in, oh, five hours or so, I went back downstairs. To my relief, a not-too-elderly woman was inserting her key in the first door.

I explained my dilemma to her while standing beside the package still holding open the second door. Still without a shower, missing shoes, and having my hair looking even worse than it does even when I’ve attempted to style it, I re-emphasized the importance of the word “landlord.”

“Oh … Robert?”

Yes, sure. If that’s his name, yes. “Can you call him?”

She explains to me that her daughter takes care of these things. She enters her apartment, waving me off and saying she’s sorry as she closes the door.

Fuck again.

I try to see if one of my car keys can jiggle the lock out of place to no success as Bella meows her concern. I can hear the crowd on Maury Povich’s show howling about something—most likely the results to a paternity test. I begin knocking on doors, ringing buzzers again. No answers all around.

Not all that much time has passed—but more than enough—before I go back down to the main entrance and find a younger girl inserting her key in the second door. I try not to startle her, but my desperation at this point is probably evident. I try to explain the story more calmly than I did on the first attempt. She looks down at the package and rolls her eyes. “That’s my boyfriend’s,” she says with a sigh.

Suddenly, she feels bad for me. She knows the landlord, she says. Searching for his number on her cell, she comes across it and at least makes the call I so desperately need. As it turns out, he’s on his way to Schaumburg. When she expresses her sympathy ("It's Friday the 13th, you know") and shares my cluelessness about what to do with the situation I’m in, she invites me up to her boyfriend’s place.

“Do you want a beer?” she asks.

Actually, just the bathroom would be great. And, that said, the door to the bathroom doesn’t close. So I was forced to take a much prolonged leak with the door slightly ajar. This is not the overly grateful impression I’d hoped to make.

“Don’t mind the paraphernalia,” she tells me when I get out. Sure enough, a bit of pot and a piece are on the coffee table. Still feeling overly gracious at this point, I tell her it’s cool but that I’m sure the girlfriend would prefer I “quit.”

Whatever.

“So bowl or bong?” she asks me, now having a keg-shaped Heineken can in my hand and sitting Indian-style on the opposite side of the coffee table. I shrug that I’ve got no preference and that I’m still happy I might yet find a way out of this mess. This, after all, would be an unexpected bonus.

She's well-dressed and we begin making small talk. She's just returned from an interview with the P.R. for a local sports team. If she lands the job, she tells me, she'll give me and the lady a pair of tickets to make up for this mess. This strikes me as certainly being very generous on her part, but also very unnecessary. If anything, I owe her.

She was supposed to be having coffee and discussing how the interview went with the landlord's father, whom she considers to be "like a grandpa." And that's when her phone is ringing. First, the landlord's dad expresses his concern about letting a total stranger into the place. Next, it's the actual landlord. And that's when she hands the phone to me.

"How would I know you?" he asks me.

I explain I was there on moving day about a month back. Me, her, her parents. I was that guy, I tell him. Being stoned right now isn't helping.

"The guy who didn't say anything to me?" he asks.

At the time, I didn't see why I should introduce myself to the landlord, mostly because I was busy hauling box after box up the stairs while the girls talked about interior decorating ideas. But just to prove I know the girl who lives in said apartment, I tell her where she works, what her title is, and even what extension to enter.

"He can be like that," the girl tells me. I shrug my shoulders, grateful that he's going to come back to let me in anyway. He's told the girl across from me not to let me leave, as though I'd go anywhere at this point.

When I mention that I was supposed to be going to a job interview, she asks me what I'm trying to do, which ends up invariably with ultra-vague "something involving writing." "There's plenty of jobs for writers," she tells me.

I think she's being sarcastic. And I think this because there's an awkward pause after almost everything this girl says. If I remember one thing about her appearance, it's the look she gives me during these moments where she's just finished saying something and I'm still dazed and trying to think of a response. It's "The People's Eyebrow" and looks like this:


But she says she's serious. She knows people, she tells me. She just can't think of them right now. I won't ask why, but, yes, I will take one of these business cards you have.

We're watching the Cubs game in stoned silence when there's a knock at the door. I'm hoping that my breath doesn't reek and my eyes aren't too red when she opens the door to the landlord. She directs him to her bathroom sink and he runs the faucet, turns it off, and says he'll come back because he just doesn't have time for it today. He gives her a hug and then heads out the door and I rush my farewell, my gratitude, my promise to e-mail her soon.

The landlord unlocks the door with remarkable ease and shows me the two buttons on the side of the door that control a sort of backup safety lock. I feign complete awe and appreciation. Then, trying to remind him of the innocent dilemma I got myself into, I ask what to do with packages in the future should this ever happen again.

"Just leave them there," he tells me, turning around and heading down the stairs, probably thinking to himself what a fucking idiot I am.

But he doesn't know the half of how stupid I really am.

I call the marketing company to explain my day. "So how's your Friday the 13th going?" I ask the guy who answers the phone. They'll call me back to re-schedule, I'm told. Oh, and "sorry about your day."

But upon checking my e-mail, I notice the girl I originally spoke to the previous day to set up the interview has an interesting little twist to her title after her signature. The company she works for is not the one I thought I was interviewing with—the name of the company from the Monster ad isn't even mentioned anywhere in the e-mail.

Instead, I realize that had I gone to this interview, it actually would have been at a different location for the same sales venture I got nervous about, then excited about, and then ultimately ended up quitting anyway because it sucked dick.

But don't just take my word for it.

That cruel little twist to the day made me realize one thing: You could say I was pretty fucking lucky.