This Is A True Story

At some point between re-typing old articles for the website and coming across items while cleaning up that room, I remembered the first paragraph of a commentary about health care and how I had explained it fully in a Fiction Writing class. Now that the site's done, I re-typed this as well for posterity's sake (and I'll be smart enough to save it to disk this time):

February 28, 2005

“Little White Button”
Over the course of the past week or so, I’ve been experiencing a throbbing pain at the back of my heel. Actually, that seems to be overstating it. An ache perhaps?

Here’s the thing: I’ve been through this before. A small item that feels physically afflictive at first, only to evaporate with the passing of time; toothaches, sore muscles, mysterious scratches.

This heel thing—actually, it’s more like my Achilles tendon—if I roll back and forth on the ball of my foot, I can hear it, I can feel it, stretching and retracting like a rubber band being pulled at both ends. At first, the most basic activities hurt: walking, taking the stairs, the rolling-on-the-ball thing.

And now?

I can’t stop doing it.

I suppose most normal people, upon finding that a part of their body is acting somewhat strangely, might immediately consider consulting a doctor. It’s really no different than, say, “hearing a strange sound” in your car one day on the road and fearing a visit to the mechanic.

Just as I would ignore the possibility of rushing to the shop, I’m equally as stubborn about going to the hospital.

I know a lot of people would argue against this notion, but I’m fairly certain that I’m better off continuing my belief of just how little benefit is to be found in regularly seeing a doctor—if at all.

I know, I know—

“But Derek! They go to these big, fancy schools for so many years to study so many different areas of medicinal testing and have to go through so many tests of their capabilities to meet these high standards that—”

*SIGH*

Listen.

I can remember the exact day—no, two days—well, a series of years really. It includes no less than two visits to the doctor’s office that fully support my assertion that, basically, your health is just as much of a mystery to the guy asking you to cough as it is to yourself.

***

It was the first grade. It was also my first year of school where you didn’t go home at noon. Not surprisingly, I was bored at one o’clock or so when my reading group gathered at our round table. I can’t recal what stuttering, drooling classmate of mine was stumbling their way through the Clifford book or whatever, but I do remember that moment of fascination I had.

Inside this silver coffee can that contained extra pens, pencils and erasers, right there at the very bottom of it, sat a small white button.

Where did this come from?

Did somebody lose this?

Why is it in here, of all places?

I did what, I can only assume, any child my age would have done, and began seeing just how far I could get the button into my ear.

To my surprise, it went in—in its entirety—quite easily.

To my dismay, its removal was a far more daunting task.

My teacher shot me a look of horror and tapped the open text before me with her ruler.

“Derek! Get that pencil out of your ear! Do you want to be deaf for the rest of your life?”

If it had not been her posing the question, then perhaps the answer would have been No.

I set the pencil beside the open book and began reading aloud, as instructed. Blinking back tears, I wondered if I had now transformed myself into Helen Keller.

***

“Is everything OK?”

My mother posed the question as she slid my grilled cheese before me. I remember the meal well, for I had assumed it would be my last. I would never confess this to her, nor to anybody. This was my secret shame and if this sole, stupid act of curiosity—and all the life-threatening consequences that came along with it—if that was what killed me, well, so be it.

“I said ‘Is everything OK?’”

I bit into my dinner and nodded. At least I could still hear her, right?

I didn’t say a word that night. I guess it wasn’t like me. But I was turning too many things over in my mind now. Perhaps I was on to something.

***

Like I said, I don’t believe in doctors. But seeing as this was the first grade, the regular visit was a decision I had no say in. Much like church, I was dragged against my will, regardless of what I believed.

It had been months since the little white button found its new residence in my left ear. There were no pains, no bleeding and, despite the threats of a crippling ailment from my teacher, no apparent loss of hearing.

I couldn’t tell you if there was a shot involved, or if it was just one of those stops where he bangs your kneecaps with that miniature rubber hammer. The only thing I remember was him grabbing that instrument with the light on it.

“Let’s have a look in here,” my doctor said.

With that, he inserted the cold metal object into my right ear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him peering into the little peephole of his contraption.

I became overwhelmed with panic. In mere moments he would walk around to the other side of the table, repeat the motion he had just made, and then suddenly drop dead of shock.

Just like that.

All of it, my fault.

If only I had said something.

“Looks good,” he said, setting the device back on the counter and checking boxes off the sheet on his clipboard.

For a moment, I believed that the tool he used might have been broken. Maybe the lighting was bad. Who knows? Perhaps the button was just too far in there now.

But instead I came to the grand realization of what an illusion this whole procedure was. Over the years, I’d be seated in the same office, going through the same motions, always getting the same results.

Eventually, I just forgot about it.

***

Admittedly, there were times when I felt the button on accident, but I never gave those occasions too much thought. I had grown to assume that as I grew older it would just fall out, as easily as a leaf from a tree come autumn.

The summer that I spent at my only apartment to ever include a swimming pool brought the button back into my life—from wherever the hell it was that it had disappeared to, most likely the very back of my mind.

After grade school cam middle school, and then high school, which led to community college, followed by university and then there was dropping out (or, “taking time off,” as it was popularly referred to).

Somewhere in that time span, I lost touch with the doctor’s office.

Despite severe sunburns or the nasty gash I suffered after stepping on a sharp rock at the bottom of the pool, it was a relatively carefree summer in was otherwise a definitely carefree life.

Everything will sort itself out.

Right now? All I wanted was nothing more than days filled with swimming and sitting in the sun with my girlfriend, and hopefully finding time for sex before my roommate returned from work.

Toward the end of the summer, on a trip to help my sweetheart find an apartment at college, I began to feel a sharp, stinging pain in my ear——the left ear.

“Is everything OK?”

It felt like it’d been so long since I’d heard anybody ask that.

She asked this while I clutched the side of my skull in the passenger seat, writhing in agony. Years and years of silence, and now I’d be forced to come clean.

We gave my suffering a couple minutes. Then we gave it a couple more. When I eventually grew tired of feeling my masculinity wilt before her eyes, we found ourselves visiting a hospital.

It had been quite some time since I had last been in this setting, and I immediately feared the line of questioning I’d get when this doctor—one I’d never met before—made this discovery that had been more than a decade in the making.

This was it. By now, you’d figure I would have come up with an explanation.

It was quick, the way she came in and went straight to the instrument. The doctor was an older woman, chirpy voice and pleasant tone. She peered into the ear in question and I bit down on my lip.

“Yep,” she said, turning off the light on the device and stepping over to the sink. “Been in the pool a lot this summer?”

I didn’t quite see what this had to do with anything, but I admitted that, Yes, I had.

“That explains it.”

She went on to explain that I had contracted something called “otitis externa,” more commonly known as “swimmer’s ear.” The way this doctor painted the picture of what was occurring inside my ear canal sounded horrifying ... nauseating ... and, completely incorrect.

“You’re going to need some eardrops and cotton balls,” she explained, scratching out a prescription.

I felt cheated. This would not cure me. This didn’t solve anything. The pain, most certainly, would not subside.

On the way to the pharmacy, I finally broke down and confessed: the button, the ear, all the time that had passed.

My girlfriend shifted the car into park, placed a hand on my knee and looked me in the eyes with a bit of visible skepticism before saying anything after I finished.

“Sweetie, you have swimmer’s ear,” she said matter-of-factly. “Now lets just go inside, get you your medicine, give it a shot—and then we gotta’ hurry up ‘cause I told the landlord we’d be there by two, OK?”

Miraculously, the eardrops worked. But the doubts she expressed about the validity of my button saga, or maybe the lack of sympathy in expressing those doubts, hurt me more than the earache from earlier that afternoon.

Frustration overcame me slowly, and that’s when the attitude suddenly became more one of Fuck the doctors, I’ll perform this surgery myself.

***

It was months later—in my new residence that did not have a swimming pool—that my girlfriend returned from school for a weekend. By this time, I was toying with the button constantly. I purposely let the nail on my index finger grow to dangerous length, such that it would make it easier—and more fun—to poke at the plastic object inside my head.

After an entire weekend of “I’ve almost got it,” I imagine she could take no more. But as it turned out, my estimation of the progress made was correct.

“You are not sticking tweezers in your ear!” she shouted.

But it was too late.

She stood in the bathroom door, continuing to berate me as I felt and heard the tweezers’ tips repeatedly scrape within a hair of that firm grasp on the button I sought.

“I’m not driving you to the hospital if you end up—“

And that’s when it happened; faster than any damn visit to the doctor. After I felt a solid hold, I pulled the tweezers from my canal: a brown, waxy button in their possession. She had to cover her mouth following the initial scream, but I’m fairly confident that she had nothing to say.

I placed the button in a baggie and began showing it to everybody. I’d explain the object’s legend which, in turn, led to my long-winded theory on the falsity of modern medicine.

My listeners were skeptical at best.

“And you say it was white when you put it in there?”

Dismiss the tale if you’d like. I should mention that I’ve also surgically removed an ingrown toenail and popped a dislocated shoulder back into place. Maybe I broke some bones. Maybe I didn’t. I guess I’ll never know, which is a pain. Or maybe it’s an ache. Whatever it is, it’s only temporary, and I’ll go on just fine without it.

"There Goes The Fear"

Since starting at the latest country club, I've had more time than usual to recognize how often we're cheapened by something called the "Little League World Series." In case you're not familiar with the format, basically all the teams from the U.S. dwindle down to a single winner ... and then that team plays the lone team that emerges from the bracket that includes, well, the REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD.

Now, needless to say, I always had a tendency to root against the American team—most likely because I thought the system was unfairly balanced in their favor from the start, and then also because the U.S. team was also obnoxious snobs that acted in the same manner that makes you hate pricks like Barry Bonds for admiring home runs rather than running out hits like, say, Pete Rose. Another argument, another day perhaps.

Besides, on the day of the cataclysmic final game of this Little League World Series, I found myself at Great America—the local "Six Flags" theme park in Gurnee, IL. To me, this was another ritual of summer: somebody recommends going there, I turn it down and I further deny I have a fear of fucking roller coasters.

Strangely enough, the old plans always worked out. But this summer was different.

***

I had a secret dispassion for the Little League World Series for no other reason than that it reminded me that school was about to be back in session. That was always the ultimate buzz-kill: Every Sunday right before you resumed remembering a locker combination or wondering if that girl you had a crush on would be in your dumb-ass English class, you had to watch a group of American little-leaguers play baseball and come to the realization that "summer," as we knew it, was officially over. It sucked dick, in the fattest sense.

I'm not all that amazed by the number of people who consider summer to be their favorite season; by all means, it makes perfect sense (the sun, the beach, the pool, etc.). But I love fall more than any other season (the World Series is in October ... 'nuff said), and while I appreciate how much some people value the summer, I still think the importance of events that occur during it can be either an overblown recollection of small, albeit significant memories or, they can often be a tale of heartbreak involving that one sign of hope that dissipated all too quickly.

Occasionally, you come upon the sad sap who has nothing to say about how their particular summer went and my heart really does go out to those people. Like I said, summer, whether you love it or not, is the ultimate universal season: we all remember it. We're only left to deny the memories that occurred during it ... positive or negative.

***

My favorite summer had been, for as long as I knew, were always the ones when I met a girl and proceeded to fall in love. That's not terribly unique, I know.

But there was that particular summer that was magical because I met a new girl and the relationship blossomed from the very beginning (May) to the bitter end (August) of the season. There was the "catch," of course. One August, I said good-bye at O'Hare when she left for Scotland. A few years later, the girl from a different summer boarded a plane to California and subsequently left my life forever. Needless to say, we broke up and things were never the same—except for the night when we ran into one another in STC at the bars while both being completely hammered. Feelings come out in strange ways in situations like that, I suppose.

***

In case you hadn't noticed, I spent the the past summer or two doing the same shit: being miserable about my employment situation and desperately hoping to get laid. Can you guess how that worked out?

This summer, I was in love, then got dumped; I had a "respectable" job I hated and quit, then I returned to doing what I love; in short: this summer was far from some sort of acquiescence.

That said, I hate roller coasters. I create ways to NOT go on them. But here I was on Saturday afternoon, watching the Little League World Series semi-finals at the country club and helping set up for our "Bash on the Bayou" event that evening. "What a fucking waste of money," Chef lamented as I skirted another table.

Of course, I wasn't going to be working the actual party, instead using my night off to go and get sloshed with Gonzo out in Chicago. Granted, that's not terribly unusual for when the two of us get together—regardless of the season.

Waking up the following day and going to Great America? Now that is fucking unusual.

***

My former editor-in-chief was in line with the rest of us, a few former editors from the school newspaper. He was visibly nervous about being in line for something called "Raging Bull." I would have been the same way in years past. But for a reason I still can't determine, I didn't even try to wiggle my way out of any rides on Sunday. "I'm keeping an open mind," I said when everybody began discussing what ride to get in line for first.

When we strapped in for "Raging Bull," I jested to the old E-I-C sitting in front of me, "Is that bolt supposed to be loose?" And then we were off. I used to be shitting my pants when the coasters made that slow ascension before you rapidly plunged hundreds of feet.

But on Sunday, the strangest thing happened: I loved it.

We couldn't talk E-I-C into going on "American Eagle" ("It's wooden," he offered as his reasoning), which is still the single scariest fucking roller coaster I've ever been on. "I felt it leave the tracks," one fellow rider noted when we were drinking a beer afterwards. I had left my seat at one point. And you know what? I loved it.

After going on "The Demon," I was becoming more and more excited about trying out every coaster I had normally balked at in the past. We were in line for "Batman" and I was just beginning to plan out what the very next coaster was going to be after that ride when I dug into my pocket for my cell phone.

It wasn't there.

And, coincidentally, not more than a minute after that, sirens began blaring and we noticed the current riders on Batman were stuck. "At least they're not upside down," Gonzo said.

While going to the Lost & Found area to report my missing phone, we noticed that every ride in the park was not operating. It was all too coincidental, me being lost in a feeling of joy about no longer being afraid of coasters, only to realize I'd lost my phone and see everything in the park stop.

I didn't want to be the buzzkill for the day, urging my friends to go on one more coaster before we left. But people had to be up early for work on Monday, or didn't get much sleep the night before. Eventually, we all decided it was time to leave.

***

Ordinarily, a lost cell phone is the equivalent of losing your entire life. Or, at least, I put it that way. But coming back home that night, I was surprisingly unconcerned by the whole issue. Perhaps it was because I had been smart enough to write down most of the numbers of people I talk to. Maybe it's the girls I want to see can be contacted by alternative methods (thank you, MySpace), and the girls I'd been trying to avoid can now be told, "Yeah, I lost your number, see."

Or it could just be that this entire summer has been exactly like a roller coaster.

And I loved every minute of it.

UPDATE: Great America mailed the cell phone back to me yesterday. So happy ending all around.

The Free Market

I worked on the banquet side of the country club tonight, which is work they could basically dress a chimp in a bellhop suit for. It really is that brain-dead. But at least I got to taste a few hors d'oeuvres (beef tenderloin crustini ... delicious).

The event was for a local singing group—one of the best in the nation I'm told. They specialize in choral works and had there not been a girl we all classified as "really hot" seated at the table closest to the podium, I would have remained totally oblivious to what was occurring. Instead, my initial interest in this girl took on a newfound curiosity when I noticed that there was a clear tubing coming from under her dress and attached to the purse she was carrying. "Maybe it's a colostomy bag," I jested. My drooling male co-workers said the lone female working among us had determined it was likely the result of a recent surgery.

For a small gathering (we were set for 56, but probably because of the weather, the crowd was more like 40 at best), the planners really went all out. A three-piece band. A guy doing caricatures for attendees. Open bar. Complimentary CDs and flowers. The works.

Asking "really hot" girl if she cared for wine or if I could take her plate, I forgot that the point of this whole thing was to raise funds. When five members of the choral group came up to sing and the "wacky" speaker for the quintet introduced each song they sang with how "he loved Google" to assorted laughs, I wanted to jab a steak knife in each of my ears. It was that painful.

Then they introduced the "really hot" girl, who'd apparently been awarded a scholarship before being involved in a car accident and going through three subsequent surgeries. So, no, it wasn't a colostomy bag after all. But at least her speech gave me a reason to pay attention while standing there, bored off my ass with a tray in my hand. I poured myself some of the leftover wine before the group's president or whatever took the podium.

He began with a bad joke about somebody with too long of a license plate blocking the exit (everybody laughed, out of pity I assume), and then proceeded to essentially beg attendees for donations. To begin the plea, he tried to be hip by referencing the importance of choral music to future generations and how we must teach our children about it before artists like "Two-pack" (his pronunciation was really that awful), 50 Cent and Kanye West "fill their iPods.

My first thought was, "What the hell's wrong with Kanye West?" But then he jokingly asked the crowd if they were familiar with any of the "bands" he just mentioned, which of course was met with more forced laughter. Or maybe the old people actually found the shit funny, which makes me even sadder.

I was kind of hoping that as long as the man was ridiculing the obvious targets in pop culture (all black, I should note), maybe we would develop something really interesting like a war between hip-hop artists and choral musicians about who gets to, you know, "infiltrate the youth culture."



Alas, his jokes just led to a none-too-subtle reminder to fill out the forms on the table and pledge to help the singing group. And if the guests weren't ready, they were invited to take the accompanying envelope and mail money instead. He introduced a video about the group's history and returned to his seat amidst applause—or at least I assume that's what it finished like, because the guy's speech took so fucking long that I felt compelled to go outside and do something productive while waiting for this grandstanding to end: I smoked a cigarette.

And while seated there on an upside-down crate, I saw a cicada fluttering its wings in a puddle, struggling to escape the hole it was in. I grabbed it by its wings, lifted it out of the murky water and placed it next to the crate. It took a few moments, wings flapping off the excess liquid, but then the buzzing sound I read about so often this summer started to begin. And it was beautiful.

Like "Two-Pack," you could say.

I'll Be Back

For a while, I was becoming concerned that taking that shitty recruiting job might have jeopardized my relationship with that "foot-in-the-door" job, as I called it. The editor I reported to had been on vacation seemingly every time I tried calling him this summer, which makes sense since there's no high school sports going on when, well, there's no fucking school in session.

But as luck would have it, I actually got the guy on the phone today and he said that, indeed, my help this fall is still very much needed. "We're going to be in dire straits here," he told me, referring to a new deadline that cuts into the pattern most writers there had grown accustomed to.

Perfect.

Yes, it's still technically a sort of "freelance" gig, but at the same time, it's a gig nonetheless. And more importantly, it's more published clips. If you ask why that's important, then I'll direct you to my website as soon as it's up and running (by the end of the week, I'm hoping).

I've been forced to re-type many of my articles from community college and university because their websites totally blow. And what else blows in addition to that is my own writing; most of the time I'm cringing in front of the keyboard as I re-enter some sentences I really, REALLY wish I had taken another moment to reconsider. Or shake my fist at an editor who didn't understand the definition of the word "albeit." Or realize how often I used the term "shallow" in a film review. Ugh. This is my best work?

No. No, it's not. My best days are ahead of me. If nothing else, I see the progression I've made and the progress still to come. Color me excited to be back doing what I love.

The Exes-Files

Not too long ago, in a not-too-distant land called "MySpace," I got my little joke of a "comment" from an ex-girlfriend describing how she'd come upon some letters I'd written a long, long time ago.

Well, four years.

Anyway, she went on to ridicule me about my plan to move to California—which, at the time, admittedly, was a dream of mine ("dream" being the key word here). Then she jested that we were "fighting." I fired back, asking why this would make her mad. And of course, the answer I got was that it was all just a joke, you know. Ha ha. How I do love being reminded of my past failures.

Naturally, I had to ask how she happened upon these "letters." Part of me suspected that it was not just coincidence.

She didn't respond to that inquiry.

***

I decided to use my afternoons off to resume thoroughly cleaning the extra room in the pad I call "the basement." It's a fairly accurate description.

Usually, cleaning involved in this second room of my two-room space finds me stumbling upon ancient articles I had written when in college. And, for one reason or another, I read every word of everything printed in the publication when I should resume my cleaning.

Perhaps you remember that there had been an issue with lighting in that additional room. Add to that an occasional flooding problem in the basement, and you have stacks and stacks of old newspapers and Esquire magazines that had been shoved into a corner with hopes of somehow still being salvaged. As it turns out, beneath those were the contents of a dresser drawer that spilled onto the floor in the darkness long, long ago (the humidity in the basement is a real bitch, and the drawers don't open without, basically, assistance from something like a fucking crowbar).

That drawer's contents? Old bills. Pictures. And, well, letters.

Naturally, the full-treatment cleaning was delayed as I read over each and every one. But the feeling was odd because I didn't become sad or depressed; rather, I was quite delighted. I suppose if I had stumbled upon letters from just one girl I cared deeply for, then things would have been different. Instead, I happened to come across photos and thoughts from basically every meaningful relationship I've ever had.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette and pondered whether to keep the items. Why had I held on to them anyway? And just as I snuffed out my smoke, I realized how long it had been since I had looked at them.

It reminded me of the scene in "About Schmidt" when Jack Nicholson finds his dead wife's box of love letters from an ancient affair that she had kept stashed away in the closet. I guess I worry that should I die suddenly one day, somebody is going to have to go through my things and they'll wonder why I kept these. But now I look at them and realize that what I've written in my journal is far more personal.

And besides, there's the pornography too. Now that's what we don't want Ma & Pa finding.

***

Seeing as I work mostly nights now, the only night I really have dinner with my folks anymore is Monday—which, as it turns out, is the same day I stumbled upon the letters.

We don't do the proper sit-down-at-the-table meal anymore, as my parents have become perfectly adjusted to taking their respective seats in the recliners and eating in front of the television. Unless there's a Cubs game on or a girl with big tits on Telemundo, my father seems to (for some reason) prefer the CBS sitcom "How I Met Your Mother" (I think it's because of Alyson Hannigan, which I can respect—I suppose).

The particular episode deals with the show's main characters, a young couple, having a problem with items they have from previous relationships. When the male reveals that certain things in his apartment, such as a lamp or a pillow on the couch were from an ex-girlfriend, his current girlfriend says she can't look at them without seeing that ex-girlfriend.

So he gets rid of all these objects. And then, of course, she reveals that the four dogs she owns were all from previous relationships. I think you can see where this is going, but hey, that's situational comedies for you these days.

I nearly choked on my pasta on the couch when the episode aired—either that, or the irony. Then I got up and went to the computer.

There was still no response on the MySpace.

Pattern Recognition

I had spent a pretty good chunk of change sending out clips and such via Priority Mail to distinctly more rural newspapers last month. When one called me in for an interview, the process was remarkably cold. The weekly's office was located in the small downtown at the end of the Metra line. The two gents I was interviewing with both appeared younger than me and after the editor shook my hand, we took our seats and they immediately picked up their clipboards and went right into the pre-typed questions.

Usually, every interviews I go on begins with the five or so minutes of bullshitting about the drive, how the day is going, what the weather's like, etc. Not these guys.

After having spent a couple months being on the other end of the interview process, I'm a little more aware of how often things get repeated (i.e. "I want a position that will allow me to grow"). That said, I thought my answers were fairly fresh.

Of course, since it seems that editors at newspapers move with the immediacy of a sloth when it comes to hiring or just returning phone calls, I also noticed that the local country club had been rather active in placing ads in the classifieds. Figuring it couldn't hurt to e-mail my resume again (I've grown used to doing it on a daily basis and never hearing anything back), I gave it a shot. A day later, I had a voice mail from the club manager. We arranged for an interview when I returned from my sister's wedding in Brroklyn.

One of my best friends got married at this country club. I was the best man. When I walked into the place for the interview, that event kept coming back to me. Then, the other clubs I've worked at started coming back too. Considering I spent far too much time growing used to the terribly unsatisfying setting of a breakfast place, the club environment seemed like an acceptable fall-back while waiting for the two editors to get their shit together.

This interview, by contrast, was almost too relaxed. I was open about having interviewed with two newspapers now, awaiting a design test at another, and only applying if those didn't pan out. It was basically my way of warning that if I got hired, I might not stick around long. The manager understood and had me starting the following week, barely skimming over any restaurant experience I had.

When I finally got one of those two editors on the phone, I was informed that a decision would be made by the beginning of the following week. They were deciding between two people. I was one of them.

The optimistic part of me saw it like my uncle had put it: "50-50 chance." The skeptical side of me figured they were likely going with the other candidate, but wanted to keep me interested in case that person found something else, turned down the offer, whatever.

Long story short: They went with the other guy.

"We've been having problems setting the design test up," the woman told me from that other opening. When she asked me for my phone number again, I figured it was time to stop holding my breath.

Going back to waiting tables isn't necessarily what I had in mind, but I won't complain right now; at least it's not as dehumanizing as referring to myself as a "waffle waiter." I forgot just how laid-back a country club is, and this one seems to be about as casual as any I've ever worked at. Members can basically get anything they want to eat and since country clubs aren't really designed to make profits, just maintain operating costs, there's no real pressure on anybody. Food gets sent back or taken off the bill? No problem. Extra dressing or extra sauce? No, you don't have to charge them for that. A little more tequila in your margarita? Sure.

I took a two-hour series of tests at a staffing agency yesterday. I thought I bombed the Excel portion, but apparently I scored above average. The Word, typing and data entry scores were pretty impressive too. Having taken these tests before for agencies in the city and then hearing nothing back, I didn't build up my hopes too high. And then, sure enough, I get a phone call on the way home. There was already a job I could be good for, the woman said. I was caught completely off-guard. I'm supposed to call her back on Monday after she talks to the company.

My only complaint about being single again is probably the same complaint I would have when I'm in a relationship: I hate introducing myself—in the sense of explaining what I'm doing, where I'm going. "Boy, I wish I knew."

Nothing is concrete and laid out neatly for you. The uncertainty is nagging. But I'm worrying less about it. The only thing that bothers me is that after finally getting a degree, it's just the having to say that I'm still waiting tables. The actual job, however, isn't all that bad. It's miles more fun than the phony headhunting gig that allowed me to dress nice and pretend I was putting the degree to good use.

The other night, I had a table of 13. When I asked the bartender if I would recognize who in the party was the member, he told me I'd recognize the daughters. This club actually has photos of their members, complete with family shots, in the guide. It's a useful tool. And sure enough, there was a husband, wife and three curvy blonde daughters pictured in the book. The one spilling out of her dress and seated across from the birthday girl suggests a round of those foo-foo shots with the whip cream for the ladies. Ah ...

I don't know what will happen with the newspapers or the staffing gig, but for now, I can't argue that it's not bad to be paid to watch baseball games and occasionally fetch drinks for rich people. After all, there's not many places you get to go up to a group of people and ask, "So that was six blow jobs, right?"

Everybody's Doing It

I noticed how many people on MySpace are utilizing the tool on the Simpsons movie website to create an avatar. Naturally, I had to give it a try. I had e-mailed myself the two different versions of my avatar; one was the older, drunker version of me at Moe's and the other was a youthful, more angry-looking at the Kwik-E-Mart—presumably buying cigarettes.

Alas, the e-mails didn't open the pictures, so I'm stuck posting the two versions against the white backgrounds.

Now, version A ...

... and version B:


"A" is missing too much hair and "B" has far too much of it. If I could put the ballcap from "B" onto the head of "A," I think we'd have accuracy.

Please Fire This Man

The good folks over at Deadspin used to have an update I quite enjoyed, entitled "Why Your Home Town Columnist Sucks." It was reliably hilarious reading.

Now, considering I live in the Chicago area, this gives me a pretty good daily dosage of tools to choose from for a nomination. Jay Mariotti is probably the most obvious and popular choice, albeit the safest—Deadspin has already called him on instances of hypocrisy and just plain stupidity before.

Still, at least he got it right today. And there's even more aggravating reading to be found here in Illinois when, say, certified douchebag Mike Inrem or token-female-opinion Carol Slezak take their turn at the keyboard.

But today I really cast my final vote, because nobody in Chicago—and perhaps all of the nation—is as inexcusably piss-poor at column-writing than Mike Downey. Most of the time, he's trying to be funny and fails miserably at that. To make matters worse, Downey is actually most hilarious when he's trying hardest to be serious.

Well, until today of course:

"Let us this day, to be fair in the truest sense of the word, now sing the praises of Barry Lamar Bonds, a great, great, great baseball player."

You got that? Three consecutive uses of the word "great." I'm sure he was up all night wrestling with different adjectives before just opting to overuse the simplest one. Following paragraphs:

"This is a man who has walloped more home runs than any who ever hit a ball, more than Hank or Babe or Willie or Mickey or any other colossus who came along."

What a scoop. Very insightful. Thank you. Go on:

"He is also a man who put a glove on his hand and took a position on the field, unlike some we could name."

"Unlike some we could name"? I get the cheap, pathetic swipe he's taking at Hank and others, but because Downey lacks the balls to actually say whom he's referring to, it gets even worse:

"He did not become a designated hitter or demand a trade to the American League, as did other one-dimensional "players" who were too infirm or inept to do anything but hit.

"He is a man who has done much, much more than mash home runs."

And Mike's right here, of course. Barry has done "much, much" (God, I hope this guy isn't paid by the word ...) more than just "mash" dingers: He's also the primary figure in one of the darkest areas of baseball history—an era that essentially stripped the record Bonds broke last night of any meaning or significance whatsoever.

But just to entertain Mr. Downey's logic, let me recall my three biggest memories of Barry slapping that glove on:

—As a left-fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates in Game 7 of the 1992 NLCS, Bonds is unable to throw out that fleet-footed speedster, Sid Bream, as the Braves' first baseman slides safely into home and sends the Braves to the World Series. Bonds' Pirates are sent home for the third straight year.

—Up three games to two in the 2002 World Series and up 5-4 in Game 6, Garrett Anderson's blooper to left field causes Bonds to fall on his ass before he struggles to pick the ball up, allowing Chone Figgins and Anderson to take second and third with no outs when the runners would have been at first and second.

—The next batter in that game Troy Glaus, who lines a double into left field, over the flailing mitt of one Barry Lamar Bonds. The Angels go on to win the game and eventually the World Series.

Now maybe those last two examples are just me being a fond sentimentalist about the Rally Monkey. Tell me, Mike, what has Barry done beyond those homers?:

"Among other deeds, Bonds has drawn more than 2,530 walks, a preposterous sum, hundreds more than any man in history, partly because of an eagle-like batting eye, partly because he imbues pitchers with fear."

... and partly because the man wears a suit of fucking armor every time he bats while covering three-quarters of the plate. Oh, and the steroids thing. That too. Anyway, go on:

"The man has stolen more than 500 bases, most of them quite a while ago, back when he had the swiftness of his father, Bobby, and his godfather, Willie Mays. He has legged out 77 triples and nearly 600 doubles."

OK, so Downey knows how to look up stats. Great. But hey, what about ...:

"Steroids didn't have a great deal to do with that."

Well all right! It only took seven prior paragraphs of blathering, but maybe we're getting somewhere with this ... right?:

"The man possesses a batting stroke that in sweetness is right up there with the swings of the immortals. He chokes up on a bat like a Ty Cobb or a Nellie Fox, yet somehow he connects with the brute strength of a Harmon Killebrew or a Jimmie Foxx.

"The man once hit at a .370 clip over an entire season, more than 400 at-bats worth. It is the kind of average you came to expect only from a Rod Carew or a Tony Gwynn, but when the masses speak of Barry Bonds, they seem unable to speak of anything except home runs.

"The man's numbers would be higher into the stratosphere if only more pitchers were not too chicken-hearted to pitch a hittable ball to him. Bonds has been walked intentionally more than 675 times, as proof positive as anything that the bat of this giant from San Francisco has been seen as the most lethal weapon in the game."

... or maybe we're just going to keep kissing ass to reach that word count. It gets worse:

"The man's stats expanded with the bulk of his flesh, true, yet it was not as if Bonds came into baseball with twigs for arms and Pee-wee Herman's abs. In his very first season, 1986, as a newcomer who appeared in fewer than 120 of Pittsburgh's games, he launched 16 balls out of the park."

Even NASA couldn't determine the relevance of this point. But go on:

"The man is no all-or-nothing free swinger. He does not lunge at every offering on the fringe of his ZIP code. He will not be known forever as a whiff king, or are his detractors unaware that active players such as Jim Thome, Craig Biggio, Carlos Delgado and Jim Edmonds each have struck out more times than Bonds has?

"The man has made his history while being heckled and hooted on the job. In all but one of baseball's parks, he has gone about his business while being pelted with personal abuse. Roger Maris' follicles fell out in clumps, which could explain why Bonds elects to shave his head."

I think he shaves his head just to look more like the penis he is, but hey, that's me. Anyway, go on:

"The man stands a chance to close out his career with more than 3,000 hits, provided that his general health holds up, that his status with the commissioner's office remains unchanged and that a team, whether it be the Giants or some other, is willing to invite Bonds to return to duty for one more tour."

Or provided he doesn't get indicted for perjury, but, again, hey, go on:

"The man is a 14-time All-Star, a seven-time National League MVP and an eight-time Gold Glove winner in the field. Whichever asterisks need be placed behind his numbers and name, this is a highly decorated athlete who many a time has been granted the considerable respect of both the public and his peers.

"The man is not revered or idolized but, in the spirit of honesty, he probably has been no more arrogant than Ruth and Cobb were, no more standoffish than Ted Williams and Joe DiMaggio were, no more unpopular than Aaron or Maris were to many thousands because they had dared to endanger the Babe's hallowed records."

"In the spirit of honesty"? Is this man for real?:

"When he endeavored to make Hammerin' Hank's career homer record his own, Bonds did not get to have the Mighty Casey will of the multitudes on his side.

"He did not enjoy the back-patting that Pete Rose did while in pursuit of Cobb's hit count or that Cal Ripken Jr. received while putting a permanent dent in Lou Gehrig's ironman mark."

I suppose it's probably because those last two players Downey mentioned were white—or at least a similar use of the race card has been Barry's excuse for why we didn't join in for any "back-patting" others received. Any final thoughts, Mike?:

"But when this man swung and stung one Tuesday night that cleared the center-field fence at AT & T on a fat and juicy 3-2 pitch served up to him by Mike Bacsik, he became, indisputably, the mightiest swatter of home runs of anyone who made it to America's major leagues.

"For this, while we may not rejoice on his behalf, he is deserving of at least a helping of praise, an acknowledgment that whatever else he has been or is proven to be, Barry Bonds is a unique figure of baseball, quite literally one of a kind."

Well, I'm actually going to have to agree with Mr. Downey on that final point; Bonds is "literally one of a kind"—and I hope and pray Barry's the last of his kind as well.

Better yet, I hope Downey can be the last of his ilk too. I refer to all the steroid apologists who see last night as being nothing all that detrimental to sports because they lack the spine necessary to call the man out for the fraud he is. It's a sad day for anybody who truly cares about the game of baseball, but it's just another blissfully ignorant Wednesday for morons like Mike Downey. If he's feeling lonely or misunderstood, I'm sure he can always find good company over with similar turds at ESPN. After all, even Mariotti has a job there.