Stupid Fucking Virus: Never, ever, EVER pay to have malware removed

I had planned to squeeze a different post in for the last day of July, but instead spent far too much time this weekend dealing with something called "Antivir Solution Platinum." It is yet another bogus piece of computer security software that not surprisingly ends up high on the Google search results when I typed in those first three words to the title of this post.

My friend once told me how he came to learn a lot about computers simply by fixing any problems on his own, and now that he's got a kid, he can no longer run over to my house to fix our PC after Mom or Dad (but certainly not me, of course) fuck some shit up old-school by clicking on one of the fraudulent security threats. So the past three or four times this has happened, I referred to the video in this post and followed those simple instructions. Until this weekend, the trio of spyware-killing programs did the trick. You can and should download all three—seeing as they're all free:

Just a thought (or two): On things like "just a thought (or two)," other tags

This is your song for this weekend. It might be the song for next weekend too, but we'll see. Don't think about it, just play it.

If you scroll on down past all those other wonderful sites I link to there on the right (Hello, new followers!), and the archives I only realized I can actually sift through a few months ago, you'll notice the collection of tags. Most of them are pretty self-explanatory, but two near the top need to be cleaned up.

The first is "notable links," which was probably just created by me when I first began tagging posts more than a year into BMC's life and needed something to affix to the extremely short comments with hyperlinks that made up much of this site's inaugural year and was what I thought constituted blogging. These days, they've got an entire site for that kind of thing. But since then, most everything I post has "notable links" of some sort (they're notable ... aren't they?). So either that tag dies with this post, unless I think of a better way to employ it.

The other tag that has grown to encompass just about everything in it's vagueness is the one in the title of this here post, "just a thought (or two)." Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

So that tag's going to be reviewed, possibly removed from a number of posts and from now on have its first letter capitalized and hopefully become an occasional feature here at BMC in which I can talk about a couple things on my mind in one post that are NOT me making predictions or posting reaction to those predictions. I mean, we'll have time for that too.

Oh, and whenever I do put up an edition of the new (!!!) "Just a thought," it will feature this picture of Jane Krakowski simply because I fucking love it. I love the way it looks on my Tumblr, I love the way it looks on the other Tumblrs that reblogged it, and of course I still really love that contribution of hers to Esquire. Love it, LOVE IT, LOVE IT!!!

But I will not jack off to it.

No, but I will mention "JACKING OFF" on this blog, because ... well, apparently it gets me hits. Don't take my word for it though:


Yeah, so this post's the first one that comes up on a Google Image search for that top item there. Even though I didn't explicitly use that exact phrase, I'm debating changing the subhead for BMC to that now.

Or maybe I'll just make a tag for it. Bring on the traffic.

Your Web experience can only avoid the "IRL" aspect for so long

As you might recall, I wasn't rushing to sign up for Facebook for the longest time, and then when the excuse seemed best ("USERNAME?!"), even that backfired. But that got corrected, there I was, and I guess the idea is that I'm supposed to go back and reconnect to all these people I really couldn't be any less interested in talking to. Not right now, at least. That's what I tell myself.

And while I can honestly say that Facebook has yet to inspire any sort of enthusiasm or curiosity about it for me, I can say it will honestly bug me when I do go back and see this picture. I really haven't taken it upon myself to try and accumulate as many of my friends as I could find as quickly as possible, but when all the rest of my old colleagues from The Chronicle added me shortly after I joined, I figured maybe Mr. Sulski didn't check in that often. And so, because it's Facebook, I assumed that maybe like me, Sulski just didn't bother that much with it.

It was only last week I found out that he had been fighting cancer for three years—right about how long it's been since I graduated, and hence, last saw him.

Only days after I found out via e-mail that his condition was most certainly not good, he died Thursday morning with his wake and funeral this past weekend. I immediately went through photos from an old holiday end-of-semester party with The Chronicle staff from a few years back and put up a post on my Tumblr (the site where virtually everyone I maintain contact with are people I've never even been in the same room as, but also still where I prefer to spend a majority of my online free time).

None of the "likes" that followed for that were all that unusual or unexpected, but one note on my dashboard did seem particularly noteworthy:


You know, a song I posted ... in July. Just a coincidence, of course.

Jim Sulski was 52. I was only able to attend the wake, but it marked the first time I'd ever been to an open casket service. It's hard to recall the many things that were going through my mind at that moment, but mostly I'm sure I just wanted to make sure I wasn't doing anything wrong. Considering how I was most of the times Sulski had seen me, I'm sure he would have been happy just to know I was sober. (Then again, when I graduated and he hugged me after coming off the stage, he told me, "I don't want to see you when you're not drunk.")

I saw a number of people at Sulski's wake that also wrote their reactions to the news, including John Kass, Richard Roeper, my other advisor at The Chronicle, and my one-time assistant for the section. I also saw the man that trained me for that same job, again realizing how long it had been since we had last spoken. I came to that realization a lot. Much like the reminder that I wasn't the only one that didn't land a job "in the field."

There were equally moving obituaries from the Tribune, the Sun-Times, the Chicago Journal and—of course—the Chronicle. There was also this guy that I don't know but he seems to be talking about the same person, and that's kind of how I was this past week: I kept looking for more stuff about Sulski, like maybe the news would change.

Now the one thing I fear is the day that the pending friend request on Facebook goes away, as I'll almost certainly be tempted to believe there's still a possibility of seeing him one more time. But even when that particular reminder disappears, Sulski's memory will live on. I hope his passing teaches me to better express how sincerely I appreciate those I still have around.

UPDATE: More Sulski tributes from James Ewert, the friend holding the sign in the legendary photo I use to promote this here blog, and a moving piece from heartofanewsie.

Look! Something genuinely useful on MySpace!

I soon discovered a frequent companion to my cigarette purchases when I tried the vitaminwater with the white cap on it. I'm not crazy about some of the flavors and I usually opted for the XXX flavor (acai, blueberry, and pomegranate) until the white-capped sync flavor (described as "berry-cherry") began showing up in the coolers at the gas stations.

Normally, there's some sort of throwaway copy on the bottles that's supposed to induce a chuckle, but one evening while sitting in a court-ordered group therapy session where one person was blathering on about whatever it was that struck them as an injustice, I actually read the thing and how the MySpace music promotion worked.

Now, I'm not exactly a serial downloader of music. And I certainly haven't spent as much on actual purchases of compact discs in recent years—at least not when compared to how I was a decade ago.

But I was almost always drinking vitaminwater—and as of late, more of this sync stuff.

So I decided that while the bottle caps just contained another alphanumeric code that I see on the bottom of every cap for every other beverage I consume and then throw away without a second thought, I actually began saving the sync caps.

Before I knew it, I had 10.

Now, while my initial hope was just to go and download many of the same songs I had at one time or another used for my profile, the site instead directs you to Amazon.com's music page. And while that initially caused a little bit of concern, it instead proved to be totally hassle-free.

Better yet, each cap earns you roughly a buck and a half in credit, while most downloads are priced at $0.99.

So before we get to how my trial run went, seeing as how I'm still drinking this stuff and still collecting caps, I'm also running low on ideas. Or maybe I'm just eager to ask for suggestions (E-MAIL: murtskered [at] gmail [dot] com). It's getting fun making new mix CDs, like I was in high school again or something.

That said, here's the initial playlist that made me giddy:


I think the track arrangement is pretty obvious; I simply went shortest to longest—and it actually worked out pretty well:

• "Blue Orchid" was actually the first song I downloaded because I for some reason still unknown to me do not own "Get Behind Me Satan." The White Stripes are a band I was slow to come around to, but I'll stand by my assertion that their more recent work is superior to the early material I wasn't as enthusiastic about—although both the video and the actual song, "Fell In Love With A Girl," were legendary, of course.
• The Strokes version of "Mercy Mercy Me" was downloaded mostly just because it's The Strokes and that's good enough for me. It's not my favorite cover song of the moment (and that would've been the first thing I downloaded had they actually had it), but overall, I think the band's version is effective.
• I haven't bought a Weezer disc since the green album, but I'm almost always a fan of their singles and "Troublemaker" is one that can rival the enthusiasm I had for "Buddy Holly."
• Keane's "Is It Any Wonder?" was one of the few songs I actually liked hearing at work. Initially, I related to the lyrics and applied them to my own failed relationship at the time, only to learn that it's actually about the Iraq War.
• The first song transition that made me smirk was the ending line from Keane asking, "Is it any wonder that I feel betrayed?" and led to the synth groan of "Shoulda Known" from Atmosphere that Robert Christgau called beatmaster Ant's "catchiest hook in years." Indeed. Another album I need to buy (just because the title alone is flat-out awesome), as evidenced by the other Atmosphere track I downloaded, "Your Glass House."
• Digitalism's "Pogo" has always been a song I've been a fan of since I first heard it on a year-end mix my friend makes every Christmas. I even made it the profile song for my website's own MySpace page and have no intention of ever changing it. Instant good mood, every time. Wolf Parade's "Shine A Light" also comes courtesy of the damaged year-end disc a friend made a few years back.
• The Chicago Blackhawks really couldn't have picked a better song to be played after every goal the team scored than "Chelsea Dagger." Jeff Cagle posted the Fratellis on his Tumblr each time the Hawks won in the playoffs and while I never once grew tired of hearing the tune, I'm hoping we can actually get it posted 16 times for next year's Stanley Cup.
• Much like that Wings cover by the Foo Fighters I linked to, I especially wanted to find Franz Ferdinand's cover of Gwen Stefani's "What You Waiting For?"—but no such luck. I did however manage to grab the band's version of Blondie's "Call Me," which definitely ain't bad.
• Death Cab For Cutie's "Soul Meets Body" mirrors the Keane tune in that I also discovered the song at work and the song leads into an Atmosphere selection—a transition also mildly amusing with the repeated "melody softly soaring through my atmosphere" leading to the band of that name.
• Another justification via title alone, this time from Hayes Carll: "She Left Me For Jesus"
• And lastly, the disc ends with T. Rex's "Jeepster," which was a tune I came across on Tumblr and just found myself playing repeatedly.
  

So obviously the first disc here was composed moslty of songs found through Tumblr, work and old mixes made by friends. The second disc took a little bit of a different twist, which I'll get to next time. And as for the third, well that, dear reader, is where you come in.

Until then, I'll just be sitting here drinking this damned pinkish-purple beverage, collecting caps and enjoying the tunes.

Oh, the Madness

Somebody asked why I didn't put my NCAA picks up here, seeing as I put up most every other prediction about, oh, everything here.

While I certainly do love the annual tournament in college basketball this time of year and try my best to catch every game of it, the rest of the season usually holds no interest for me whatsoever. Actually, most college sports in general are this way. Even most of the bowl games in football have lost their appeal to me.

Now, that's not to say I didn't make predictions for this year's tournament—you can find them here if you really want to see them, but they're clearly nothing worth noting—but even then, my predictions when it come to college athletics are influenced quite heavily by which team I'd like to see win.

So no matter what the overwhelming coverage would say or the fact a team was, say, undefeated, I still wouldn't pick a Duke or a North Carolina to ever go all the way, because I'll be hoping like hell that anybody beats them and shuts their obnoxious fans up for another year.

Anyway, so the general rule of thumb around these parts is, "Love to watch college sports, but don't really care enough before or after the game to want to write about it most of the time."

I've got other stuff that I've been putting off posting here, but I'll be putting up some time this week. I think I should have some kind of a climax to one story by then.

The "Must" List

A couple of the kids started a book club on Tumblr and I decided to participate by purchasing this month's selection. I didn't offer up any novels when suggestions were being sought, but a list suddenly hit me midway through one of the chapters.

One of my professors from college that I had a lot of respect for had e-mailed us a copy of "must-read" books at the end of the semester, a list he credited to his becoming a very respected feature writer for a reputable magazine.

It took a little bit of searching on my end (Hey, they didn't delete my old Yahoo! account!), but now I'm adding that list here as a reference either for the Tumblr club or my own personal use in the future (when that Yahoo! account is finally deleted).

Here's what he sent us a few years ago: 

After I mentioned the reading list my mentor gave me when I was a student, a couple of you expressed in seeing it. So here goes. I grant you that it is a little intimidating at first glance. But I guarantee that if you only read the "must-read" fiction and non-fiction for nonfiction writers, you will be astonished at what it will do for your career.

Jon Franklin's Reading List

While some of the books below are definitely world class literature, this is not a "great books list." That kind of a list would have to include Shakespeare, Dante, and all the rest. It would definitely not include, say, Syd Field. And Jessica Mitford, as much as I admire her, would have to step aside for Milton or Moliere. As for Franklin . . . well . . . whose reading list is this, anyway?

Suffice it to say that the list is presented as a compendium of books which, as a student of the nonfiction craft, you are likely to hear much about and/or find useful. Other students will talk about them, professors will refer to them and you will see dog-eared copies of some of them lying around. If you haven't read them, or most of them, your education will be more difficult and the value of your diploma less enduring.

With those words, I commend to you these books:

Must-Read Fiction for Nonfiction Writers:

• Albert Camus: The Plague or The Stranger
• James Clavell: King Rat
• Lawrence Durrell: The Alexandria Quartet
• F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby
• Joseph Heller: Catch 22
• Arthur Koestler: Darkness at Noon
• Gabriel Garcia Marquez: One Hundred Years of Solitude
• Nicholas Monsarat: The Cruel Sea
• Edwin O'Connor: The Last Hurrah
• George Orwell: 1984 and Animal Farm
• John Steinbeck: The Grapes of Wrath
• Mark Twain: Huckleberry Finn
• Robert Penn Warren: All the King's Men
• Edith Wharton: The Age of Innocence

Must-Read Literary Nonfiction:

• Madeleine Blais: The Heart is an Instrument: Portraits in Journalism
• Truman Capote: In Cold Blood
• Joan Didion: Slouching Toward Bethlehem
• Walt Harrington: At The Heart of It: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives
• Ernest Hemingway: Byline Ernest Hemingway
• Ernest Hemingway: Death in the Afternoon
• John Hersey: Hiroshima
• Jane Kramer: The Last Cowboy
• Norman Mailer: The Armies of the Night
• William Manchester: Disturber of the Peace and The Glory and the Dream
• John McPhee: Coming Into the Country
• Jessica Mitford: The American Way of Death
• Ernie Pyle: Ernie's War and Brave Men
• William Shirer: The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich
• David Simon: Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets
• Clifford Stoll: The Cuckoo's Egg
• Mark Twain: Life on the Mississippi
• Tom Wolfe: The Right Stuff

Poetry:

• Michael Norman (NYU) has his students read Walt Whitman's "Memoranda During the War," Applewood Books, about his days in the hospitals in Washington. Norman writes that "if one reads this thin, compelling volume and then reads the "Drum Taps" poems, one begins to see how the same reporting, the same images, may be used in the service of journalism and in the service of art."

On Journalism & Nonfiction:

• Joseph W. Alsop: I've Seen the Best of It
• Russell Baker: The Good Times and Growing Up
• Edwin R. Bayley: Joe McCarthy and the Press
• James L. Baughman: Henry R. Luce and the Rise of the American News Media
• David Broder: Behind the Front Page: A Candid Look at How the News is Made
• Edna Buchannan: The Corpse Had a Familiar Face
• Timothy Crouse: The Boys on the Bus
• Hedley Donovan: Right Places, Right Times: Forty Years in Journalism Not Counting My Paper Route
• David Halberstam: The Powers That Be
• Phillip Knightley: The First Casualty
• A.J. Liebling: Liebling at Home
• Robert MacNeil: Wordstruck: A Memoir
• H.L. Mencken: Newspaper Days and A Gang of Pecksniffs
• James Reston: Deadline
• Louis L. Snyder: A Treasury of Great Reporting
• A.M. Sperber: Murrow: His Life and Times
• Ronald Steel: Walter Lippman and the American Century
• Gay Talese: The Kingdom and the Power
• James Thurber: The Years with Ross
• Enoch P. Walters: American Diary: A Personal History of the Black Press
• Weaver, David H.: The American Journalist: A Portrait of U.S. Newspeople and Their Work
• Theodore H. White: In Search of History: A Personal Adventure
• Tom Wicker: On Press
• Marjorie Williams: The Girls in the Balcony: Women, Men, and The New York Times
• Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein: All the President's Men

On the Culture:

• Henry Steele Commager: The American Mind
• Alexis De Tocqueville: Democracy in America
• Eric Hoffer: The True Believer
• C. P. Snow: The Two Cultures and A Second Look

On Writing:

• Bob Baker: Newsthinking: The Secret of Great Newswriting
• Theodore Bernstein: The Careful Writer
• Shirley Biagi: Interviews That Work
• William Blundell: The Art and Craft of Feature Writing
• Wayne C. Booth: The Rhetoric of Fiction
• Jane Smiley and Kurt Brown: The True Subject: Writers on Life and Craft
• Janet Burroway: Writing Fiction
• Theodore Cheney: Writing Creative Nonfiction
• Victor Cohn: Reporting on Risk: Getting it Right in an Age of Risk
• Victor Cohn: News and Numbers
• Syd Field: The Screenwriter's Workbook and Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting
• E.M. Forster: Aspects of the Novel
• Jon Franklin: Writing for Story
• Paul Gallico: Confessions of a Storyteller
• John Gardner: The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers
• Kevin Kerrane and Ben Yagoda: The Art of Fact
• Percy Lubbock: The Craft of Fiction
• Robie Macauley and George Lanning: Technique in Fiction
• W. Somerset Maugham: The Summing Up
• Robert Meredith and John Fitzgerald: The Professional Story Writer and His Art
• Ken Metzler: Creative Interviewing
• William Safire: William Safire On Language
• William Safire: Good Advice on Writing
• William Strunk and E.B. White: The Elements of Style
• Brenda Ueland: If You Want to Write
• Tom Wolfe: The New Journalism

On Science:

• Lincoln Barnett: The Universe and Dr. Einstein
• William I.B. Beveridge: The Art of Scientific Investigation
• Nigel Calder: The Weather Machine and The Restless Earth
• Loren Eiseley: The Immense Journey
• Jon Franklin: The Molecules of the Mind
• Martin Gardner: Fads and Fallacies in the Name of Science
• Darrell Huff: How to Lie With Statistics
• Thomas S. Kuhn: The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
• Konrad Lorenz: On Aggression
• Lewis Thomas: Lives of a Cell
• James D. Watson: The Double Helix
• Edward O. Wilson: On Human Nature

'Tis the (election) season

I know what I'm going to be wearing every day in October!


While that shirt from four years ago is still a crisp white and gets its laughs, I'm due for something new.

The water is probably cold in September

It's apparently time for yet another canoe race. My uncle and I took the vessel out on the river yesterday for the traditional session of getting reacquainted with how to use an oar, which took all of about five and a half seconds.

As we were paddling upstream, I was spacing out and thinking about the race last year and just how ... how fucking long ago it seems like it was.

I was dating her a year ago?

I was supposed to request this date off work next Sunday, and I'm guessing I'll still have to work the night shift, which should just be a joy. I'm sure a morning on the river will be put me in a splendid mood for grabbing refills of chicken fingers and riblets.

24 Months Later ...

It's a very exciting day, of course, because this little blog is now officially two years old. Oh sure, when I'd started this thing, the original idea was simply to throw up random numbers and statistics in the news. I hoped to continue doing what I had been doing at the time, which was finding amusing material for a sidebar entitled "Roamin' Numerals" in the commentary section I was editing at the time.

So, this blog began with that idea and, hence, the URL you see there was also the original name.

And while I saw no reason to write about myself, that, of course, inevitably happened. And then came the equally inevitable political rants, predictions about sports & the Academy Awards and just quick links to things I wanted to share but didn't feel like e-mailing people (sometimes).

Today, "Soapbox Central" has been somewhat usurped by the blog I'm keeping over on my MySpace. But now that this little baby is two years old, I'm wondering what I'll plan on doing with it.

We'll get back to that, but when I think back to some of the highlights from the first two years of "Soapbox," these were the posts that sprang to mind and allowed me to pretend I'm posting something new:

- People still doubt the truth of the "Little White Button"

- It took 29 years, but I finally conquered my fear of roller coasters

- You better recognize the importance of choral music, bitches

- Friday the 13th proved to be rather memorable

- I can make a Greek fire me by uttering just two words

- We're going to the Super Bowl! (... and losing ...)

- Halloween is not a "holiday" I'm particularly fond of

- Memo to overly loving couples: We don't think you're cute, just pathetic

- Apparently, even cats can get constipated

- Wait a minute—a member of a boy band is gay?!

- Please don't let me take any more sales jobs

- I may have had a roommate, apparently

- Sweet Lord, don't get me started on abortion

- I finally competed in the town's annual canoe race

- If I shave my chest again, boy, she better make it worth my while

- I finally graduated college ... and then proceeded to spend an entire week celebrating it

- And, of course, where it all began ...

There is a very good chance that I'm going to utilize MySpace for the personal shit, a new site for the commentary shit and "Soapbox" for, well, who knows.

Strap in, folks. If the next two years is half as interesting as the past two, we're in for another pretty fucking good ride.

And Now For Something Completely—Well, Mildly Different

Obviously, I've used some of my old writings from the Fiction classes at Columbia on different occasions to substitute as blog posts over here for a couple reasons.

First off, most of the stuff was items I came across and just kind of liked. Secondly, most of my blogging these days revolving around, you know, my "personal life" is done over at my MySpace, which can be found over here (if you'd like to read those, I believe you need to be added as a friend first—which isn't much of a hurdle when you consider that roughly half of my "friends" are bands, celebrities or porn stars).

Anyway, I'm (again) trying to get back into the habit of posting here once a week, so fully expect completely random journal entries which may or may not be:

- True

- About me

- Entertaining

- Relevant to anything, really

I decided last night when going through my journal while getting drunk with the ex that a lot of the stuff I had originally written when first starting this journal was not exactly sworn to secrecy.

Here's your first example:

"Journal Entry 1.3"

I spent the better part of my morning engulfed in a truly compassionate conversation with absolutely nobody. Now, I'm not crazy or on too many drugs; I simply get this way when I happen to misplace my keys.

Asking the walls questions they could not possibly answer, promising the microwave what I'll do when I find what I'm looking for, reminding the mirror that this is not a laughing matter. You'd be surprised how the question of "Who the fuck are you even talking to?" never comes up. Not even once.

Undoubtedly, if these inanimate objects could suddenly lend advice during this most recent production of "Derek's Disgruntled Theatre," the words would be less than helpful and only infuriate me further.

"Well, where's the last place you left them?" the refrigerator might ask.

"Are you sure they're not in the car?" my bed would add.

"I thought you had them a second ago," the sofa could observe.

In the reckless path of destruction left behind from my search, I'll usually make note of anywhere between seven and seven hundred different things I need to consider doing ... immediately—after I find my keys, of course.

Oddly enough, when I finally do discover that I had absentmindedly failed to check the pockets of the jeans I had been wearing the previous night, I can't think of what to do next.

Perhaps it was an hour, or maybe it was two. The entire span of time was intensely focused on one thing, yet I have effectively managed to convince myself that my life is completely out of order and the dam is going to burst very soon. Now with my keys, you'd think I'd get cracking.

I also retrieved a phone number from the same pocket I had found my keys in. She had sounded sincere when she gave it to me, so maybe this time I won't inexplicably be speaking to the sixteen-year-old kid who happened to answer the phone at the local McDonald's. "Naw, there ain't no Gina workin' here I know of."

Yeah, I didn't think there would be.

I could call her now, see if the digits, you know, "check out." Knowing my luck, she'll probably be in the middle of doing something. "Argh," she'd groan. "I'm sorry, it's just that I can't find my goddam house keys."

At that point, knowing how little I could help and how very much I could only make things worse, I'd simply say, "I guess I'll let you go."

Sometimes it's best just to figure those things out for yourself.

Oh Good! A Contest!

Once again, those fine folks at Radar Magazine have come up with another particularly interesting topic. This time around, they're running a contest for the "most unbearably awful movie idea of all time."

Now, I was particularly relieved not to find one of my query letter pitches included in the accompanying horrible pitches some insiders have already heard. But I've had plenty of bad ideas before.

I'm trying to dream up a really, really hideous concept ... but "Patch Adams" already got made into a movie. So, I'm a little stuck right now.

It looks like the boys at KSK are off to a better start than me.

Meaning Of Life

I'm turning 30 in May. I don't like to admit that, but I can't deny it either.

My short-term goal these days is simply to move out and accept some responsibility. My long-term goal, of course, is to find a job I love and work like a dog until I get diagnosed with lung cancer and die while curled up in the fetal position on some random hospital bed—where health care will be universal.

I'm planning on going to New York for my big birthday, thus allowing me to see my sister, brother-in-law and niece—and perhaps attend a game at Yankee Stadium before it's scrapped. You know, anything to stay away from the usual way of life here in the 'burbs.

I'll also be thinking about life, I assume. You know: where I'm at, where I'm going, where I've been. It's only natural.

And I can only hope I remember to click these next two very, very profound links—one from Leonard Pitts and one from Jon Carroll.

Both should be read—if not committed to memory. And the other thing that should be committed to my own memory is this: Live life now and fuck everything else.

Or something like that. Perhaps I'll be more articulate when it actually is my birthday.

No, I'm Not Joining Facebook, So Stop Fucking Asking

"You're not on Facebook yet?" one of my friends asked me (again). This was a friend with whom our MySpace correspondence has done the relationship wonders. And that probably rings true for most of my relationships I maintain via the "social networking" profile I already have.

I've got one time-suck as it is, so another one seems, well, kind of retarded.

Especially since Radar Magazine recently released their their slightly scientific list of the most overrated people, places and things. Facebook placed 28th. Radar's explanation:

"Harvard dropout Mark Zuckerberg is the new prince of Silicon Valley. Traffic disclosures from his social networking site—30 million users, tripling in popularity every year—have analysts swooning over a rumored IPO (some have valued the company at up to $10 billion). But even as the site positions itself as a one-stop portal for all your Internet needs, it's still unclear whether it will become the next Google—or the next Friendster. Facebook's banner ads have an abysmally low click-through rate, and most of the "applications" under its platform have fizzled. The few that haven't will surely wither if the company starts charging for them. We suggest Zuck unload his billion-dollar baby while he still can."

The following is their list and my votes of agreement/disagreement in parentheses:

1. Posh and Becks (very overrated)
2. Cupcakes (somewhat overrated)
3. The miracle of Botox (definitely overrated)
4. Brad Pitt (underrated, as an actor)
5. Sexual predators (overrated)
6. Oprah's heart (way overrated)
7. Sex with virgins (way, way overrated—unless you're a virgin too, in which case it's a different story)
8. Going to Mars (somewhat overrated)
9. Ballet flats (indifferent)
10. Cocaine (indifferent)
11. The Nintendo WWII, as exercise equipment (pretty overrated)
12. The cult of Stephen Colbert (not overrated)
13. Pandas (indifferent)
14. Tom Ford (overrated)
15. Keira Knightley (underrated, as an actress)
16. Steroid testing (underrated)
17. Jeans (underrated)
18. China, as economic threat (way underrated)
19. Rupert Murdoch, as arch-conservative villain (underrated)
20. America Ferrera's looks (underrated)
21. The Swiffer (indifferent)
22. Pilates (overrated)
23. Frank Gehry (indifferent)
24. Anderson Cooper (indifferent)
25. The Dalai Lama (slightly overrated)
26. Grey's Anatomy (very overrated)
27. Jake Gyllenhaal (very, very overrated)
28. Facebook (see above)
29. Soybeans (overrated)
30. Diane Sawyer (overrated)
31. Trader Joe's (underrated)
32. "Smart" superhero movies (ever-so-slightly overrated)
33. Andy Samberg (slightly overrated)
34. Genius (???)
35. J.J. Abrams (pretty overrated)
36. Vitamins (overrated)
37. Death tolls, as predicated by American media outlets (yeah, admittedly overrated)
38. Annie Leibovitz (overrated)
39. Winning an Oscar, as career boost (definitely overrated)
40. Pinkberry (sounds overrated)
41. Ryan McGinley (sounds overrated)
42. Twitter (overrated)
43. Coming out (depending who's doing it: with celebrities, it's overrated; with people not in the public eye, indifferent)
44. Cats (indifferent)

ALSO:
Blogging (indifferent)
Ronald Reagan (most overrated president of all time ... for now)
Keith Olbermann (admittedly, pretty overrated)
Young male Jewish novelists (yeah, pretty overrated)
Steve Carell (indifferent, but getting to be pretty overrated)
Pomegranate juice (indifferent)
Conan O'Brien (underrated—Leno can't leave soon enough)
Tim Gunn (overrated)
Croatia (indifferent)
Interesting facial hair (overrated)
Justin Timberlake (way overrated)
Howard Stern as First Amendment hero (somewhat overrated—tired act, but he has very good points)
Jim from The Office (getting to be pretty overrated)
Elizabeth Edwards (indifferent)
This American Life (underrated)
User-generated content (indifferent)

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.

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.