Yes, I'm Still Alive (For Now)

The issue with not doing stupid things with my life and making bad decisions is that I don't feel the need to do frequent blog updates. There's just not much drama to talk about. In addition, I'm able to get the everyday mundane things out of my system by having a great girlfriend who actually listens to me. Not all of my past posts were reports on the latest crazy escapade I got tied up in. Some were just regular old gripes about the shit that all of us go through, and I am able to vent that out every other night on the phone now. In other words, there's really nothing to talk about on this post either. I just hadn't been here in almost a month, and I wanted to write something.

I did watch WrestleMania a few weeks ago at my uncle's house, and it was very interesting because the older I get, the more in-depth I get into the politics of pro wrestling and who gets pushed to the front of the line and why. So I really watched this event with an eye towards what the future is supposed to look like in wrestling and what was going to happen at WrestleMania to advance in that direction. As a result, nothing that happened surprised me very much, except maybe the older ECW guys winning their match with the "New Breed" of stars (I just knew they would bury the older guys once and for all, but then they would have to find a new direction for the New Breed during the weekly TV shows, and it's easier to keep them fighting with the old guys). There was a lot of publicity about the match in which WWE Chairman Vince McMahon put a guy against the chosen guy of mogul Donald Trump, with the losing "billionaire" getting his head shaved. I even heard some folks convinced that Trump would be the loser because McMahon had too big of an ego to let his head get shaved. Well, what kind of ego do you think Trump had? And how could anyone with half a brain think that Trump would ever get involved in this whole scenario unless he was going to come out on top? When you see a huge celebrity involved in pro wrestling who you never would think would be involved, 99% of the time that celebrity will come out looking like a Mensa member because that's how you convince them to get involved--by promising them that they will come out looking smarter and sharper than the "rasslers." Plus, as much as I hate McMahon and what he's done to wrestling, I had no doubt from the beginning that he would let his head get shaved for the good of the business and to deliver the payoff for those who specifically paid the $50 to order WrestleMania to see McMahon or Trump get their head shaved as promised. To deliver a screwjob ending where neither got shaved would have been a horrible business decision and would have alienated any number of customers, so someone was going to have to deliver that payoff, and McMahon was the logical choice. On top of everything else, he was the bad guy, and traditionally the Big Match in wrestling scripts where things will be settled Once And For All goes to the good guy.

My job continues to create new guidelines and rules daily in an attempt to royally piss me off. The latest is to make us take our morning break and lunch separately because some people were abusing the ability to combine them and taking off an hour before quitting time. Well, the nature of our job makes it very hard to get up and take a break early in the morning because most of our work comes via FedEx and DHL and UPS early in the morning, and it doesn't slow down until maybe 12:30 or 1:00P. I mean, you can leave, but that's always made the people working with you look at you askew because they are working as hard as they can to get the mail processed in a timely manner, and there you are walking away. That's what made me combine my break and lunch, because it's been implied since I've started working there that to leave before your morning assignments are done is disrespectful to your colleagues. We all get yelled at if we have accounts that sent mail to us overnight and paid extra for it and the mail doesn't get done before that account's cut-off time. In addition, it's very hard to find something to eat in a half-hour in downtown Chicago unless you like swallowing food whole without chewing. We can't even bring lunch back to our desks because some fool got jelly or some substance like jelly on a piece of mail and when the image lab tried to make copies of that mail, the image machine got gummed up. So it's beneficial to everyone if we're able to combine our breaks and lunches. I actually haven't split mine up yet, even though it's been a couple of weeks since the mandate came down. I'm waiting for someone to have a problem with what time I take my lunch so that I can ask them why it's an issue. But our area is a bit of a mess right now, because our usual team leader is on maternity leave, and often we either have a team lead for the day who isn't very experienced and doesn't have time to worry about what time people are taking lunch, or don't have a team lead at all. This is an example of why it's so funny that for the last six months, I've been a member of the Q-Board Team, a group that gathers the production and error numbers and holds a monthly meeting with the entire floor talking about those numbers and what we can do to improve. Imagine, crazy, nutjob me, a responsible member of a J.P. Morgan Chase committee. If only they read this blog...but anyhow, I've still got some wild hairs, and if something happens or is mandated that I don't agree with, I have a hard time going along with the company line. In some worlds, the word for that is "asshole." But I'm sorry, if you're going to give me an instruction that doesn't make sense to me, and you don't give a good reason, I'm going to challenge it. That's not the way to go about moving up the corporate ladder, but I have a feeling that my attitude will be very important in other areas of life, and that's worth more to me. I'm smart enough to give the impression to those that matter that I'm going along with the plan. But sometimes taking my own path is the only option, such as a couple of months ago, when I had to be the watchdog who questioned a new method introduced that was incorrect. If there aren't assholes around like me to question things, we all could be doing our jobs wrong.

My health has been a bit of a problem lately. A few weeks ago, I woke up one morning and there was a sharp pain in my right knee, right on the top of my kneecap, like someone snuck in overnight and whacked it with a steel pipe. This coincided with a bad snap of weather, complete with rain, snow, and temperatures in the 30s and 40s. It got worse and worse, almost made me miss work, then went away after maybe a week and a half. I was supposed to go bowling with my family a couple of weekends ago, but at the beginning of the week, I woke up with a sharp pain in my left knee, at the top of the kneecap, like someone snuck in overnight and whacked it with a steel pipe. "Jacob" was in town for the Geek Convention, er, I mean our annual baseball fantasy draft, so this happened after three nights of dinner with Jacob and his friend, and I wondered if I had just been a little too active and twisted something. The weather was getting worse again as well. Also, the night before, I had a 1-lb. burger at Bennigan's, so perhaps it was a gout attack in my knee joint triggered by the mountain of undercooked ground beef. In any event, despite consuming several Aleve Gelcaps in the days leading up to the bowling outing, I decided to do the smart thing and not bowl, which saddened me because I bowl so wildly and out of control that some folks were really looking forward to seeing me. I hated to disappoint those who had not seen someone lift the ball higher than their head on his backswing before. I still attended and had a great time, though. But the thing with my knees was very strange. I don't want to go to a doctor now to find out what the deal was, because the pain is gone and the doc may not have any idea either. I have it narrowed down to accidental twisting that didn't affect me until the knee stiffened up overnight; changes in the weather affecting my joints; gout attack from something I ate; or someone came in during the night and whacked me.

Of course, the whacking thing is not viable, but perhaps someone out there (besides my exes) really does want to hurt me. Last Wednesday, I got a phone call on my home phone, from a name I didn't recognize, so I let my answering machine take it. My outgoing message doesn't say my name, and the message didn't refer to me by name. The message said, verbatim: "Told you nigger. I'm a chop your head off. Punk." No one has threatened me in any way before, so I'm 99% sure it's a case of mistaken identity and this guy would like to chop some other nigger's head off. Nonetheless, I've had my head on a swivel the last week. Hopefully, it won't be on a stick soon. The sad part is, my girlfriend pointed out, some dude out there is about to get his head cut off and doesn't know it. I'm just amazed that this shithead wasn't bright enough to block his phone number from popping up on caller ID before he started calling wrong phone numbers throwing out threats. Since my loved ones received the same e-mail of this moron's name and phone number, if I come up missing, the police will know where to start immediately. And that's no one's fault but his. If you're going to be a criminal, you really should have a criminal mind.

The Threatening Beggar

The heat sometimes brings out the crazies in a big city like Chicago, and Monday was a record-high 77 degrees, a great day especially considering the record-low February we just endured. So people were walking around everywhere in light clothing feeling really good and enjoying themselves. Some of us had the misfortune of being around the unwashed, thawed-out homeless folks, however, and they can make the most beautiful day seem awful. As I left my workplace around 1:30 to go to lunch, there was an angry man with grays in his hair and beard and no shirt on holding his hand out and walking right up on people as if he was going to do bodily harm to them if they didn't give him something, money, weed, I don't know exactly what. Since I don't know what's in the head of people like that, I avoided him and started walking across the street. The guy decided to make me his new friend for the next half-block or so. "What you say to me? I'll kick your ass too!" he mumbled just low enough so that I may not have caught it. I did have my headphones on, but my radio was off, so I could hear him just fine. "What you say? Come on Biggie Smalls, I ain't scared of you!" I didn't respond to him at all, didn't even look in his direction. He did come rather close to me at one point, maybe five feet away, but I sped up my walk and ducked into a restaurant figuring he wouldn't follow me into a somewhat classy-looking public place. He didn't. I only stayed for maybe a minute, and when I left, he had completely vanished.

I really don't like the idea of having to take someone on for no reason than the guy wants some action on this particular day. If I piss someone off with my diarrhea of the mouth, that's one thing. But this fucker was just following folks around looking for a confrontation, starting arguments in his head. There's absolutely no telling if the guy is insane and is looking to start something so he has an excuse to whip out a weapon from his pants pocket. Just because he had no sleeves to hide a knife doesn't mean he didn't have a shank stuck in his waistband. Because I don't know where his mind is, if he had gotten within arm's length, I would have dropped him where he stood with one punch. I have no desire to wait until he does something to defend myself. I'm sure a lot of people would have a problem with my approach because I'd be committing an assault on someone with little or no provocation, but the way I see it, it's either him or me. I haven't been in a fight since grade school, and that's part of the reason why I would knock him out first--because I don't have any practice at defending myself in a one-on-one situation, so "sucker punch" is option #1 on my list. It may not be the politically correct course of action, but it's the one that will keep me from getting attacked by a random nutcase.

Submission

I've been running on fumes the last few weeks. Cleaning my apartment for my girlfriend's visit last weekend was a larger task than I expected, and I've felt wiped out ever since. The visit was nice, though. It may have lasted only one day, but it was a very nice day. We did nothing but sit around and watch college hoops all day, and my play aunt made lasagna for us. Holding my girlfriend's body in my bed for the first time was something that felt very natural. Every night since, I've imagined that feeling, and I'm looking forward to many, many more nights in that position, among others. Working one day of overtime a month ago has also contributed to my weariness. I almost feel like I've never recovered from that. And work itself has been nuts because absolutely no one is on the same page there. Two women who are "coaches" led groups of us associates into a conference room Saturday and had four separate meetings informing us of a new method we were to start using immediately. But when I pulled aside the general manager Monday to ask a question about this new method, she expressed surprise and claimed she didn't know anything about it. It drives me crazy that I had to be the one who asked about this because I don't get paid nearly enough to be the watchdog in the office. I can't be the only person there who gives a fuck, but it sure seems that way sometimes.

Something that has been on my mind a lot is the subject of religion. My girlfriend and I discuss it sometimes because she's devout and I'm not. She tries to convey the message that it's OK, but I get the feeling that it's something she worries about. The last time we had a long talk about it, I told her that one of the reasons I'm having trouble getting closer to my God is because it takes a tremendous amount of submission for a man (or woman) to live life in a way that pleases God. Believing that those who wrong you will be punished and judged by Him instead of getting your own revenge, being grateful of your blessings instead of envious of others...it's not something I'm good at wrapping my little brain around. I've been trying, and I've made progress over the last couple of years, but I still feel a little lightheaded and weak when I think of living what I think would be a life that God would approve of. I guess that's the symptoms I should feel when I entertain the idea of submitting myself. I'm not sure how others do it. Giving tithe, attending church devoutly--I feel like my time and money and lifestyle are things I've always had total control over, and surrendering any or all of that control is scary. Then there's people like the slut in Wisconsin, who talked about church and even said she went on vacations with her parents and their church. She and many others are trying to walk some kind of line where they live like demons and then turn over their sins and ask for forgiveness with no remorse. I can't do that either. I would feel like a hypocrite, even more than the hypocrite I've been at times in my life. I don't know who I'm supposed to talk to about this either. There are so many churches and clergypersons, I couldn't possibly pick one to counsel with. I really am grateful for every day I get. But there's this nagging sensation that to submit to a fully appreciative way of living would somehow rob me of happiness or joy. And that can't be true. There has to be a way for me to live in a way that pleases God and myself, and where I'm not a lying hypocrite. I continue to work on finding that way.

A Little Progress

OK, I'm still a pig of a man when it comes to keeping up my home, but it's not quite as bad as it used to be. My girlfriend is visiting for one day and two nights this coming weekend, and I've known about it for a month, but I'm just now starting to clean up my place and attempt to make it look like a human lives here and not a feral animal. However, when I think about all the women who visited my place when I had a Lake View apartment between 2002 and 2005, I realize that I've come a long way. "Shelley" tore a hole in her jeans when she walked too close to a broken chair that had a metal piece sticking out that I had neglected to throw away even though I broke it more than a year before Shelley came. In fact, each woman who came there either noticed the chair and was careful to avoid it while cursing me out or never noticed the chair, and instead of just throwing it away, I would just cringe every time one of them walked past the chair hoping they wouldn't slice themselves open. It's funny that Shelley was the one person who damaged her clothing, because she went on to make thousands of dollars by conning me into co-signing her student loan. Guess I paid for the jeans, and then some. "Karen" visited for an hour on Christmas morning 2003 before we spent the day with my family, and she was supposed to be my future housemate and potential wife and all that jazz, yet I still had to kick old newspapers underneath the chair she sat in. And this was three days after "Sarah" spent some time with me for my birthday, so it would have been worse had she not helped me clean up a little. In fact, the first time Sarah came to see me, she spontaneously plopped on the floor and started picking up my junk mail and other garbage and filled a few garbage bags for me. That was her maternal instinct. My apartment was always a little better off after Sarah left, not to mention my cock.

So my place now isn't nearly that bad. There are no broken chairs, and if there was, I'd just take it out because I honestly don't know why I would hang on to a broken chair. There's still some old newspapers lying around because that's my weakness; I hate grabbing a paper and not reading the whole thing, so instead of throwing out the part I've read I'll hold on to all of it and vow to read it when I have time. There's some dust bunnies making families in various corners as I type this, but I'll be zapping the little buggers today and tomorrow. The mop and Pine-Sol is ready and waiting for me to attack the kitchen floor and bathroom. The house won't be spotless for my girlfriend when she arrives this weekend, but it won't skeeze her out either. And most importantly, I'm actually going to make the effort to clean the place instead of kicking some garbage around and trying to hide it, and that's a reflection on how I feel about myself. A few years ago, I felt like a dirty, lazy piece of shit, so that's how I treated my apartment and my relationships. I'm not where I want to be yet, but I'm certainly making some progress taking better care of myself and the things I care about.

The NBA's New Slogan: Ride Or Die

Just a tremendous column by AOL's Jason Whitlock today concerning the thug element in Las Vegas this past weekend at the NBA All-Star festivities. I don't have much to add myself. Vegas from what I understand is lawless anyway, especially the Strip, and tossing the hundreds of sycophants and groupies that always hover around the NBA into the mix made for what I'm sure was a truly frightening weekend. I can only imagine what that town smelled like Monday morning. I actually don't blame the stars for having thick entourages surrounding them at all times--the more bodies between them and potential bullets, the better.

It Starts

Yes folks, you know spring training has finally begun when Kerry Wood finds a way to injure himself. Again. It's a rite of spring, as consistent as a sunrise.

God, I've missed baseball.

Maturation

Today is the one-year anniversary of me being an associate at J.P. Morgan Chase. Only nine more years before they can kick me out on my ass like CBOE did. But seriously, I have been taking steps to distinguish myself at this gig, like volunteering for the quality team, which makes a presentation once a month talking about productivity numbers and error rates and what we can do to improve our performance and stop pissing off our customers. The first time I spoke at a Q-board meeting was the end of December, and although I was nervous and monotone because of my lack of public speaking skillz, I could feel a sense of newfound respect from my co-workers, like they saw me in a whole new light. And I saw myself differently as well. I only volunteered for the team because my old supervisor told me that it should push me into the highest level as far as my reviews go when combined with my nearly flawless productivity numbers. But now that I've been doing it for three months, I feel more responsible, more in-the-loop with those in charge, and more of a leader when I'm doing my job because people who have questions see me as a go-to guy after hearing me preach about asking more questions and reducing errors. Last month, that's what I spoke about, customer service and paying attention to the critical care list, which contains accounts that have complained about various mistakes we've made. My old supervisor told me about a conference call headed up by the C.E.O. of Chase, Jamie Dimon, who said that other banks can get the ear of customers on our list and tell them to take their business away from us. Those banks can say, "We won't make those mistakes," whether that's true or not. I relayed that story during my speech, and the floor went silent, so at least my co-workers were listening for a second. I was told later that some higher-ups heard the part about Jamie Dimon's remarks and said, "Yeah! That's what we need! Someone to talk about those kind of things!" So I'm starting to make some kind of impression. I've stopped coming in late, I stay until all of my work is done, and I even take out the garbage at the end of the day because my team lead is preggers. (No, I didn't do it.) Somewhere in the last calendar year, I've matured a lot. I'm not totally sure why. I think it's some combination of my personal life becoming much calmer and more peaceful, my living arrangements becoming settled, and my being scared shitless by not finding a full-time job for thirteen months. Whatever happens with this gig, I'm not going down without making as hard an effort as possible to step up in the food chain and distinguish myself. This job is something I have been able to sink my teeth into because there are a ton of standard operating procedures to follow, and being an asshole perfectionist, I get off on coming up with the right procedure when everyone else is scratching their heads. In other words, I'm starting to like it here.

Well, That Was Uglier Than A Bowling Shoe

Super Bowl XLI was not actually a bad game, just not very pretty. The Colts took what the Bears offered them, in the above pic's case Rex Grossman's ass, but most of the time it was well-timed running plays and swing passes to running backs. And when the Bears had the momentum in the 1st quarter and were about to sack Peyton Manning, he took what was offered at that point, which was a completely wide-open Reggie Wayne 52 yards away. The Bears were still within a touchdown of winning in the 4th quarter, but when your QB can't hold on to the fucking football, whether it's fumbling the snap or the patented Grossman Close-Your-Eyes-And-Throw-A-Wobbling-Duck move, it's a lost cause. So congrats to the much better team, the Colts. And as for the Bears, it seems like they have made the mistake of getting married to one of their players, which happens when an organization develops an attachment to someone and ignores all of their flaws and shortcomings. The Bears will not give up on Rex Grossman because they feel like they've stuck with him for so long that they're now obligated to hang on and give him every chance to succeed until he leaves the team on his own volition. It is clear to me and others that Grossman is too immature to be a great or even good quarterback right now. Will he ever be successful? Maybe. But there are a lot of veterans on that Bears team who won't be playing football anymore by the time Grossman figures it out, and I guarantee you, they are some angry men right now because there are veterans on other teams, and in the case of Brian Griese, maybe a vet on their own team, who would have discovered that secret of holding on to the damn ball that Peyton Manning discovered and would have given them at least a chance to win the Super Bowl. That's a chance the Bears had not received in 21 years, and it may be another 21 before they receive it again. Hopefully they won't be married to an erratic QB by then.

Super Bowl Fever

Or perhaps this is pneumonia I am feeling, since it has been 15 degrees or less every day this week. Anyway, some final thoughts the morning before Le Grande Game:

• This town has lost all reasoning when it comes to breaking down the actual game and how it's going to go. Because every single soul on ESPN and most of the "experts" in the local papers picked the Saints to beat the Bears in the NFC title game, basically everyone is overcompensating now and calling a Bears victory in a game in which they're a touchdown underdog. That's ridiculous for the entire sports community in Chicago to seriously believe that. Some people, yeah, but not virtually all. The national sports talk shows that were stationed in Miami this week, the host city of the Super Bowl, were reporting that you could hardly find anyone picking the Bears. So how do all of our guys figure that the Bears are gonna wipe the Colts out? It's like Da Superfans have all infiltrated the spirits of our normally (somewhat) civil-minded people. Honestly, it seems like every caller to the local sports talk shows were trying to look at the game rationally before their minds warped and spit out the party line. "Well, the Bears can rush the QB and have a chance that way, but Peyton Manning usually gets rid of the ball quickly, so it might be up to the offense to score a lot in order for us to have a chance...uh...but we all know what's gonna happen, Grossman will trow 5 TDs, and we're gonna pound Manning into da ground. Bears 43, Colts 6...DAAAA BEARRRSSS!" I haven't seen overcompensation like this since--nah, I won't say it. I'm trying to be nice.

• As one of the local afternoon sports talk shows signed off Friday, one of the co-hosts said, "And if the Bears win, please people--riot safely." The response from the producer, who is black, was one of the funniest things I ever heard on the radio, and it will probably get him fined, if not fired. He says, "And don't destroy your own communities in celebration." The white co-hosts agree on that point. Then the producer says, "Go destroy the white folks' communities. Do something different this time." The co-hosts go virtually silent, then one of them chuckles nervously and says, "I can't believe you said that!" before they go off the air.

• I'm very excited about the quality of the game because of how the past week unfolded. There wasn't any bulletin board material, except for Bears QB Rex Grossman, he of the 20 interceptions this season, telling some members of the media that they were ignorant and didn't know what kind of offense the Bears were trying to run. What, the close-your-eyes-and-throw-the-fucking-ball-to-the-other-team offense? I didn't know teams actually called plays for that. But I was impressed by the poise and calm both teams showed, at least externally. The Bears played that "No one respects us" role even though they were favored in nearly every game this year. That's fine, and it even works sometimes. But the Colts were so relaxed, it seemed like nothing could faze them. Their QB, Peyton Manning, who in the past has always let pressure consume him and make him curl up in the fetal position, was cool, calm, humorous, breezy, and really seemed like nothing affected him. He mentioned that he hasn't felt this nervous since performing the tango on stage in high school, then mentioned that no one should try to look for the tape of that because it was "deep in the Manning vault." The next day, said tape was all over SportsCenter. I bet that tape wasn't deep in the vault at all, and I bet Manning mentioned it because he knew people would run and find that tape and give him and his teammates something else to laugh at him about besides the bulge of commercials he's filmed. And he did it because it's something to focus on besides the actual game. The Bears are going to come on the field fired up and spitting about no one giving them a chance because of their bad QB and their status as champs of a shit conference, the NFC. This would theoretically put the pressure on the Colts, since they're supposed to take this group of Bears and handle them. It would be a beautiful thing if Manning led the team on the field and all of them were doing the tango. But even if they're not, I guarantee they have all screened the tape of the tango within the last 32 hours and belly-laughed until they were nauseous, and the effect that has of bringing a team together in a way that takes their minds off the game is huge. The Colts should win, but if they don't, it won't be because they were too nervous in the big moment. All indications are that they are not feeling the pressure at all. If they lose, it will be because the Bears flat-out beat them. Either way, I'm getting a feeling that this game will be one of the best of all time. I cannot wait.

You Mean, Some People Still Value Their Parents??

Me: "I wouldn't just want you to move up here to Chicago for the closeness. I could use a roommate to split these bills with too. I'm holding out hope that I can possibly talk you into moving in with me in the future."

My 40-year-old girlfriend: "My mom would absolutely kill me!"

She is just too precious.

Nothing More To Add To This

I Might Actually Have Made A Correct Prediction

That was some ugly-ass football played at Soldier Field on Sunday, and I didn't even see it happen. I was working, and my Walkman wasn't getting good AM reception where I was stationed, so I had to listen to the first half on the FM feed--in Spanish. But even then, I could tell that the Saints-Bears NFC title game was fugly because there was a steady rhythm of crowd cheering, crowd deflating from a bad Rex Grossman throw or a run play that didn't work, followed by the polite clapping after another Robbie Gould field goal. And the Saints managed to rack up almost 400 yards of offense by the 3rd quarter but couldn't put more than 14 points on the board. That's actually hard to do. I was at home watching the Seahawks-Bears game the week before, and I spontaneously yelled out at least 5 times during that game, "This conference sucks!", because the Seahawks should have lost to the Cowboys if not for Tony Romo getting Carrie Underwood's pussy juice on his fingers and letting the ball slip through at the last second, and now they were going toe to toe with the NFC's "best," Da Bears. And I'm sure I would have yelled something about the NFC sucking another 12 times if I had to watch that game Sunday. How Rex Grossman managed to not throw the ball to the other team 8 times like he had done in half the games in the regular season is beyond me. But they did it, and now the town is in a holding pattern for the next two weeks until the big game in Miami on February 4. I already have the day off.

This is actually bringing back fun memories of the Super Bowl Shuffle Bears from 22 years ago, when I was 9 years old. It's not exactly the same because this team has so many holes, it's very hard to imagine them going all the way. I would have never picked this team to make it this far, so this isn't quite as joyous, but it's still cool to live through. Back then, in 1986, we all expected the Super Bowl to be the coronation of one of the great teams ever, yet there was still a bit of nervousness because, being Chicago, we were used to coming close and falling short--the White Sox in '83, the Cubs in '84, and the Bulls were nothing at the time. It made the win over New England so much sweeter because the Bears were holding up Chicago where the other teams had failed. I was trying to save my bag of Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies and 2-liter of Pepsi for the game itself, but they were consumed before the kickoff, if I recall correctly. I fought off the nausea from being nervous and swallowing that much sugar to cheer like crazy throughout the whole slaughter. And I still have the Super Bowl Shuffle on vinyl.

This will be a different story. The Indianapolis Colts are not those New England Patriots, who were lucky to make the Super Bowl. Peyton Manning is not Steve Grogan, nor is he Tony Eason. And most importantly, these Bears are not almost perfect killing machines like those monsters in '86. There's no Fencik in our secondary to make receivers pay for going over the middle. There's no McMahon under center to coolly perform under pressure. And there's no overmatched team on the other side of the field. The Colts, unfortunately, can play. I picked the Colts to win it all before the playoffs began, and I'm sticking to my guns. I'm calling Colts 38, Bears 13.

And I'm guaranteeing that the Bears will fuck me over and win because I'm putting money on the Colts. I'll be watching the whole way with my Soft Batch cookies and Pepsi. Go Bears!

Another Wrestler Gone In A Flash

Completely unprovoked, I watched a Bam Bam Bigelow pro wrestling match I have on tape against Taz Wednesday just because it's one of my favorite matches. I missed watching Bigelow wrestle, because he was a good 350 or 360 pounds but moved around the ring with freakish agility while still fighting a stiff style that made every move seem like it hurt like hell, which it probably did. Bigelow was found dead in his home this morning in Florida at the age of 45. The medical reports are not available yet, but it almost doesn't matter. An enormous number of pro wrestlers, by nature of their occupation, feel the need to take enough painkillers to make every horse in the Kentucky Derby drop dead. With no evidence whatsoever, I assume Bigelow was no different. It catches up to you eventually. Maybe not after a year, maybe not after a few years, but eventually your body adds up all the things wrong with it that you don't know about because pain, which warns your body that something is wrong, is not being felt due to the numbing medicine you're piling into your system. The funny thing is, if Bigelow had died ten years ago, before literally dozens of wrestlers started dying suddenly at very young ages, some folks could have looked at his size and tossed off some aside about trying to be an athlete at his weight catching up to him. Believe me, it wasn't his fucking weight that killed him. It wasn't weight that killed the 210-lb. Eddie Guerrero in his early 40s, the 235-lb. Curt Hennig in his early 40s, the 280-lb. (mostly muscle) Mike Hegstrand (Road Warrior Hawk) in his early 40s, the 230-lb. Chris Candido in his 30s...I could go on forever. But it's easy for me to rail against painkillers because I never had the balls to go for the brass ring and pursue a career as a wrestler. If I had, who knows what measures I would go through to maintain my "spot" and keep living my dream. But I have a feeling that if those in charge of wrestling would have a heart and provide health care for their employees instead of calling them "independent contractors" and turning their backs on them, better alternatives could be provided than 20 soma pills and a bottle of vodka.

Very Loose Change

As we pause and observe my fellow Capricorn homie Dr. King's birthday, here's a short little reminder that black folks are still viewed as potential marks that can be taken advantage of by some people. My purchase at the convenience store on the first floor of my work building last Friday morning came out to $1.60. After I hand him two dollars, the young clerk, who along with the two or three other older men who have worked the register in the past appears to be of Arab heritage, loudly yells out "FORTY!" as he hands me a quarter and a nickel. I actually had to take a minute to decide whether I wanted to fight over the fucking dime, long enough for him to ring up another customer. But when I finally protested, he was ready. I didn't get the words "Uh, this isn't forty" out of my mouth before he says "SORRY" and hands me the dime, never mind that I never even told him how much I was missing. Dating back to when new ownership took over the local grocery store when I was growing up, this now makes a good seven or eight times that Arab store clerks have shortchanged me. It's really funny how every time they get my change wrong, it's always an error that results in me getting less money back than I should. Some people look at a big black guy with headphones and a baseball cap and assume that he can be taken advantage of. This is one of the reasons why I have always worn that same outfit. I like when folks discover that I'm not a chump and that I have a brain of my own. Dr. King's dream was for people not to be judged by the color of their skin. I'm a natural pessimist, so I say, not in this lifetime. But I still hope that I'm proven wrong someday.

Why Is It All About The Big O?

Look, I'm not trying to deny my manhood and my nature, but my most recent trip to visit my girlfriend on New Year's ended with me begging her for a hand job and her obliging, and I've been battling the feeling ever since that I'm a pig for asking a virgin who's waiting to have sex until she's married to get me off. And it's got me wondering, why am I built that way where she and I can't have a petting and kissing session in her bed without me begging her to get me off? I feel like I should have been happy making out with my girl without having to have an orgasm. After all, she didn't ask me to get her off. She waited until after I left town. I feel like I should have had the decency to do the same.

Now, she didn't seem to be against the idea, I just don't think it was good judgment on my part. See, we had not been past first base before this trip. The last time I saw her in September, we kissed for the first time, and I couldn't resist tasting her neck, but that was it. And we had not discussed doing anything further this time. But because we wanted each other and missed each other badly, one thing led to another, and on the second day of my three-day visit we found ourselves topless on her couch utilizing her jar of honey. Then, an hour before she was going to take me to the airport so I could go home, she asked me to lay in her bed with her just to feel what it would be like. Eventually, we couldn't resist the urge to start dry-humping like teenagers. This got me so aroused that I asked her to touch my penis because I wanted to take the feeling of her hand home with me. Well, she rubbed it through my jogging pants, but I don't believe she ever intended to actually touch it. I was driven so crazy by her rubbing that I pulled my pants down so that she could touch it skin to skin. She didn't refuse, and not long after that, I came in her hand.

My problem is that I feel like an animal for pulling my pants down. I really don't think she expected to give me a hand job this soon in our relationship. I mean, waiting until marriage to have sex means another two or three years minimum, and I don't think she had plans to play with a man's penis before then. Like I said, she didn't disapprove, and she's been very supportive, saying that she wanted everything that happened to happen or else she would have stopped it. But I can't imagine after rubbing my penis and seeing how excited she was making me that she could have possibly turned me down once I whipped it out. I just feel that, knowing she has no sexual experience, I should have been more mature and waited until she expressed a desire to see or feel my dick. But no, my train of thought as a man was: "Ugh, I have hard-on, I gotta cum now, ugh..." I have had sex in situations where I didn't cum because I was so focused on satisfying my partner, so it's not like every time I make out with a woman, she's gotta get me off. But this one time, I feel like I was weak and didn't have any willpower. Well, at least I gained some more insight into why I have never made the first move in the past--I have always waited for the woman to take command and show me exactly what she wants in order to avoid this feeling that I'm a big fat ogre with no self-control.

I'm Picking The Colts To Win The Super Bowl Because...

...there is no New England-like defensive juggernaut to intimidate the Colts into shitting the field and playing like scared little girls. It was clear the last few years that Patriots coach Bill Belichick and his defensive schemes were in Colts QB Peyton Manning's head, as witnessed by Manning's horrific performances in playoff games against NE. But a defensive scheme is only as good as the athletes trying to execute it, and New England no longer has the horses to execute Belichick's plans. This ain't the same New England squad, not by a long shot. Baltimore seems to have rediscovered its magic on defense, but they're old, and I'm not convinced that they can shut down the Colts at this point in their careers. The Colts have rung up disappointment after disappointment in the playoffs, mostly because Manning and coach Tony Dungy are two of the legendary chokers in the game. But last year took the cake--damn near perfect regular season only to lose at home to Pittsburgh in their first playoff game. I really think they're going to come out in this year's playoffs pissed off and poised to redeem themselves. And one more point: Everybody knows that the Colts have the worst run defense, like, in history. But NFL coaches aren't bright enough to take advantage. There was a game recently where the Carolina Panthers had to start their backup QB, Chris Weinke, whose NFL record at the time was an atrocious 1-17. So since he obviously sucked, they decided to minimize his involvement in the game, and he only threw 7 passes, unheard of for a starting NFL QB. This should be the game plan for any coach facing the Colts--run, run, run, and don't even think about passing unless you feel you have no choice. But since the other QBs in the AFC are either average or above average, no other coach is going to go to such a strategy, and as a result, they will all be looking up at the scoreboard at the end of the game, wondering, "How did we lose that game??" It's finally time for Manning and the rest of the Colts to start playing football in the postseason as flawlessly as they play it in the regular season. I'm calling Colts over Cowboys in the Super Bowl.

Of course, before the season I called Panthers over Jaguars, and neither team even made the playoffs, so clearly, I'm really stupid. Keep that in mind when I feel the need to make predictions.

I'm Not A Smart Man...

I really didn't do any research when I requested an iPod for my Christmas present from my folks. I just knew that I had been downloading songs from any and all sources for years, and I wanted a place to put these songs besides my hard drive. Now, I once had about 200 songs on my hard drive thanks to Napster and Kazaa and a few other file-swapping sites, but my computer completely crashed a couple of summers ago and I had to get rid of all that. At the moment I only have eight songs in my collection from Limewire, but I thought once I plugged my iPod into my computer that I could place those songs right in there. Then, in the future, I could download a song, put it in my iPod, and delete the song so as not to wear out my computer again. iPod had a different idea. On my computer screen, the iPod front page separates my Limewire files, allows me to play them on my computer like before, but refuses to send them to my iPod because they "cannot swap unregistered files," or something like that. I assumed that the Limewire files are on my hard drive, therefore they should swap over no problem. I assumed wrong. So the only things that transferred to my iPod are a file someone sent me seven years ago that has some white guy doing an Ebonics-style commercial for Delta ("We loves us some flyin'...and it be showin' like a motherfucker!") and all of my dirty pics, which I probably will delete because I have no reason to take those out in public unless I'm looking to get arrested. Unless someone with some computer savvy informs me of another way, I may have to succumb to the iTunes store and pay 99 cents per download for my songs, whether those songs are the versions I'm looking for or not. Otherwise, my Christmas present would be expensive and totally useless, and that reminds me too much of my ex-girlfriends.

(Update at 1:24P--Eureka! I seemed to have burned all of my songs from Limewire to my iPod. Everyone at once: Awwwww, shit!!)

I Finished My Christmas Shopping

And with a whole day to spare! God, I'm such a man...

31 Years Of Learning

"I can't imagine not wanting some recognition on your birthday," said my girlfriend when I told her that no one at work knew today was my birthday and I planned to keep it that way. Yet when I attended a meeting in which a proposal to announce recent birthdays was shot down because no one knew a way to legally find out whose birthday has recently occurred, I chimed in, "Well, today's my birthday, so I guess you can start with me." Later, I told my module's team lead as well. Thus, a perfect ending to a year in which I learned that I will never stop learning, whether I'm attending school or not. Today I learned to never assume that I can reject a chance at grabbing some recognition. I believe that I tried to downplay my birthday every other year as well, and wound up telling everyone so that they would wish me well. This year I learned so much about myself, from January, finally pulling off a one-night stand without falling hopelessly in love, to February, dealing with losing my apartment and living in a basement while piecing together a good enough interview to land my current job, to delicately putting together a long-distance relationship built on common ground and respect and not lust, to patiently building a new life with a new outlook and a new apartment. And the learning can only stop if I want to close my mind and stop it, and that's not something I'm interested in. I want to take every lesson that's coming to me, whether it's painful, enlightening, or whatever.

My most recent lesson before today was very painful--don't hold on to plastic bags too long. I was caught in a long line Wednesday at Walgreens behind those proverbial little old ladies from Pasadena, and I had four plastic bags of Christmas presents in my left hand. I absentmindedly let all of those bags dangle from my left ring finger, thinking that I'm going to put everything down on the counter once I got there. But getting to the counter took forever, because the ladies took forever. I felt the blood get cut off on my finger, but I didn't put the bags down because I would have had to pick everything up off the floor once it was my turn in line, and I was anticipating my turn coming any second now. My finger went numb. I didn't really think anything of it, because I've been caught in line before with bags that cut off the circulation in my hand, and it came back once I was able to get my bags together and arrange them in a way that wouldn't hurt nearly as much. Well, it's Friday, and my finger is still numb. It's just the tip, but it's still scary. At least the nurse at my job didn't think it was a very big deal. She says that it seems to be a very bad bruise and that if the feeling isn't back by Monday, then I should find a doctor. The side of my finger underneath got the feeling back this morning, but the rest of it is still dead. So the lesson: Don't ignore a limb going numb, dumbfuck, drop the bags already!

I have gifts for my girlfriend in Memphis, but instead of paying for postage and sending them down there, I figure I might as well accompany them. So next Sunday night after work I will fly down south for not my wildest New Year's ever, but my most meaningful. I had a feeling that next year would be a big year for me even before I met my girlfriend, and I can't think of a better way to start that year than with her. She has supported me fully ever since we got together, and sometimes I still can't believe I'm with her. I can't wait.

Happy holidays to all!

Wasted Potential

I just watched Michael Vick during the Falcons-Cowboys game roll one way and try to force a bad pass to a receiver unsuccessfully, while completely missing a receiver on the other side of the field who had absolutely nobody covering him. After about six years of waiting for Vick to mature, read the field, make good decisions, and become an all-around quarterback and not just a fast runner with a strong arm, I realized tonight that this will never happen. Vick has gone through several coaching changes in all his years in Atlanta, and several philosophies as well. But truly, if he was open to learning and able to adjust, he would be decent by now at being an NFL quarterback. But he's not. What he is is one of the most talented athletes in the history of the league, by yardage the best single-season rushing QB ever, but still not a good decision-maker or accurate passer. He completed one of his passes tonight by simply launching the football in the air as far as he could and hoping that a receiver would run underneath the ball and catch it. He did that again later, and his receiver was interfered with by the defender, so they got the ball at the spot of the foul. It doesn't take a great or even good quarterback to launch the ball far and hope you get a catch or pass interference (see Rex Grossman, Bears). And that's all Vick seems capable of doing, even after all these years. Vick will never be a good NFL quarterback. I don't know what he will be doing in a few years, but it's clear that the Falcons won't be using him at QB. He may be a running back or even a wide receiver, although I don't know how good he can catch the ball, or he may be given the quarterback position by a different franchise. But his time in Atlanta behind center has had its chance, and it has failed. There is no future there. I'm very afraid at this point that Vick's full athletic potential will never be fulfilled, and that saddens me because the man is pure electric in the open field. But when any team with a decent pass rush can disrupt your passing game so consistently, it's time to look at the offense and/or the personnel running the offense, and since they've used just about every offense known to man during Vick's tenure, I believe it lies on the personnel, meaning Vick and his core of receivers. But when your quarterback can't put any touch on his throws, it doesn't matter who his receivers are. They're never going to see the ball anyway.

Family Fun For Everyone (Unless He Wears Those Assless Pants)

I'm not making this up: Someone with the National Football League saw it proper to have Prince as the halftime act at the Super Bowl in February. Here's my short list of songs I'd love to see Prince perform just to stick it to the censors who thought Janet Jackson's boob was evil and dangerous:

"Do Me Baby"
"Jack U Off"
"D.M.S.R. (Dance Music Sex Romance)"
"Temptation"
"Let's Pretend We're Married"
"Sexuality"
"Darling Nikki"
"Head"
"Private Joy"
And, because it's the Super Bowl and you have to end on an upbeat, unite-the-world note, "God"

The man's career is more than 20 albums long, so if I missed your favorite, feel free to add to the list.

Workplace Terror, A Little Too Close To Home

http://nl.newsbank.com/nl-search/we/Archives?p_action=doc&p_docid=115EA686BA2EE1D8&p_docnum=2

A ho-hum typical workday Friday was interrupted with news of a shooting one block from my job. I was seated away from the 7th-floor window instead of near the window, which is where I usually sit. So when I asked a colleague about all the buzz going around the floor about something happening in the area, she simply pointed out the window at the phalanx of cops and blue lights down the street. The building has a food court on the ground floor that I visited for lunch nearly every day when I first started working with Chase until I discovered some Italian restaurants nearby. And I don't take lunch until late in the day, usually past 1P, because most of our work comes in the morning thanks to FedEx and DHL. So many co-workers and I weren't very far from being caught up in this drama, since the gunman decided to strike around 2:30P or so. On top of that, I cut through that building to get to one of the trains I have the choice of taking home when I leave at 4:30P. In fact, I took that train home Friday, gingerly stepping around police barricades and TV cameras and groups of onlookers, some of whom may have been in the building and may have witnessed the beginnings of this nightmare. The buzz in my workplace when it was time for me to leave was that "They got him," meaning that those afraid to go home thinking there might be a nut on the loose right outside our doors could breathe easier. I was wearing my headphones while I worked, so I didn't know what the hell "They got him" meant; like I said, the first I heard about the shooting was when I looked outside right before I left. I cut through the building on the way to work Saturday moring and this morning, and the usually jovial and busy food court doesn't look as inviting when it's flanked by security. It's just another sad reminder of the world we live in.

Oh, one more thing: I wonder if I'm the only person who thinks this way, but I didn't know what race the shooter or the victims were when I heard a co-worker speaking of the shooter in a sympathetic manner. The co-worker is black. She talked about how the gunman was upset about his invention being stolen by the inhabitants of the attorneys' office on the 38th floor, and that's why he busted in there with guns blazing. I was throwing out some general "Oh, he was nuts before this invention business came about" lines, but she was persistent that she felt bad for the guy because he felt he was wronged and that made him snap. Am I the only person who immediately saw a black woman feeling sorry for a guy who shot three unarmed people and thought, "Oh, the guy must have been black?" And sure enough, she eventually said that she saw his pastor on the news last night telling his story, leading me to look inside today's paper and find the shooter's picture. Am I wrong here? How could anyone show sympathy for this guy? I don't care how he felt, he walked into an office full of people who never had anything to do with his situation and opened fire. Sure, he got his target first, but he wasn't being choosy by the time he got to his third and potentially fourth victim. At that point he was just ending lives for sport. I didn't tell the co-worker this, but I don't see how the hell she could possibly have felt sorry for this guy unless she had seen him and his black pastor on TV. Whatever his plight was, whether he really was ripped off or not, the man was insane. He had a lifetime of hurt built up before he decided to go on this rampage. Trust me, I know of what I speak. I don't know his story at all, but black or white, I guarantee this shit about his invention being stolen was only his tipping point, not his sole source of rage.

Hell, We've Tried Everything Else

Just When You Think It Couldn't Get Worse...

My hot water wasn't very hot once the heating crew turned it back on last night, but it was warm enough for me to hop in the shower this morning...until they cut it off mid-lather. Turns out that they were only cutting the hot water today. Once I turned my shower dial to cold, here came the water again. So for the first time since they cut my hot water in my second apartment building in an attempt to force me to move, I took an ice shower. Woke me up, I'll say that. But my genitals are still frozen. One of the guys swore to me that everything would be fixed today, right before they started ripping down one of my walls. I'm getting out of here for the rest of the day before I hurt someone.

House Of Horrors

A couple of issues that don't seem to be big but could turn big are preventing me from fully enjoying my house. (That's not counting the issue of my girlfriend not being in the house with me. Long-distance relationships can suck sometimes.) First, a new heating system is being installed, allowing each individual apartment to have control over its own heat without affecting the rest of the house. Let's just say that the men putting this system in don't appear to be college-educated. It took five of them to bring a heavy but small green furnace shaped like a safe to the back door before they managed to completely smash the door's glass. These guys have the key to my apartment so that they can do their thing while I work. But one day last week my play aunt who lives in the building informed me that she had to pull my door closed because the men had left for the day and my back door was wide open. There's four huge holes in my newly painted walls, and it would be nice if they could plaster those over sometime soon. One of my radiators is leaking something all over my hardwood floor. I hope it's just water; there's been a noticeable gas smell ever since they fired up the heat the day before Thanksgiving, although they warned us that the odor would occur and would go away "soon." Why they're still working on shit and pounding pipes at 9 in the morning (something I wouldn't notice if I didn't have days off in the middle of the week when they work) is beyond me. If the heat's on, shouldn't their jobs be done? And the heat wasn't on when the first cold spell hit about a month ago, so not only should they be done, but they should have been done a while back. They don't put the things they move back in place in my apartment when they leave, there's still a pair of gloves in my living room that don't belong to me, and I could only laugh when I came home one day to find the overhead cord to my kitchen lights turned off but the ceiling fan cord turned on. It was 40 degrees. Today is a new kind of hell--they've had to turn the water off to the whole house while they work, and the heat is off as well, and today's high is a toasty 31. Makes me wanna rent a hotel room somewhere until this shit is over.

The second issue may turn out to be even worse. My upstairs neighbors are total strangers to me, and that's not unusual at all because I've been in the habit my whole life of coming home from school or work, locking the door, and not acknowledging the outside world until the next morning. But I don't want to know these neighbors based on what I hear from them through the walls. There's a lot of talk about kicking someone's ass or fucking someone up, and that's not just something I hear once or twice. That's a popular conversation in that household. And that's during daytime hours. What I hear at night is loud music and lots of sex, especially in the bedroom right above mine. Someone in that room loves wearing high heels, and combined with our hardwood floors, that creates a difficult sleeping situation for me. And the sex doesn't help because I don't need to be reminded that I haven't gotten any in almost a year. According to my aunt, who owns the building, the tenant is supposed to be an older woman all by herself, but she does have adult children who may or may not be employed, and that's who she thinks is also dwelling there. I don't know if the woman works at night or has no control over her kids, but this partying and sex and other loud activity doesn't typically start until after about 11P. If I'm in my living room, which is right next to the front door, I can tell that it's about to jump off because the front door starts opening and closing a lot, voices become raised like a nightclub just opened, and footsteps start running up and down the stairs. Then the music starts pumping and the bed above my bedroom starts squeaking. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the high-heeled chick in that room was pimping herself out because it really does seem like she's on an every-night schedule. And my aunt has suggested that all the foot traffic could be drug traffic, although I don't think she has any real basis for that fear. In any event, this could turn into a nasty situation because my aunt has really wanted to evict the woman for a long time since the noise and extra "tenants" were complaints before I got here. If these guys think I'm doing the complaining, since I don't know them personally, I have no idea how they will react. But I think that my living room blinds, despite the lack of sunshine in my home, will stay closed until further notice. These days, you can't be too safe.

Internet Dating Is An Even Bigger Horror Story

He's A Soup Nazi--Without The Soup

I'm sure by now everyone is aware of Michael Richards' racist diatribe at a comedy club this past weekend. Just hearing that the tall goofy guy who played Cosmo Kramer, the character on the TV show Seinfeld that relied on physical humor, decided that black people were beneath his no-talent ass was shocking enough. But to watch the episode is sickening. As my girlfriend said, this was worse than the Mel Gibson drunken spiel because at least Gibson could blame the booze. Richards has nothing to blame but his ignorant self. I really don't have much to add when raw stupidity is on display like this. I just wanted to point it out in case anyone thought we were making real progress as a race of people...uh, not so much. Some white folks, regardless of their lack of skill or taste, still think they're better than blacks for no reason than skin color. That will never change. Although I will say, watching a large number of people stand up and walk out on this shithead was by far the best part. That was an impressive display of spontaneous disgust.

I'll be at my uncle's house for the next three days, so Happy Thanksgiving to the three people who still read me. I appreciate any and all input, positive or negative.

And Speaking Of Assholes...

Talking about Mr. C in my previous post is coincidental on the day that the "highlight" film of Texas Tech basketball coach Bobby Knight punching a kid in the chin last night is making the rounds. Of course, the kid, the kid's parents, the school president, and Knight himself are all putting their hands up and backing out of the room slowly as if any criticism is unfair and harsh. I am so sick of anything Knight does being accepted as "tough love" and solid coaching the likes of which are needed more in today's society. He choked Neil Reed at Indiana. He brought out a whip and joked about blood on the tip from getting tough on his players as if he was a slaveowner on a ship. He showed used toilet paper to his team at halftime years ago and told them that they were playing like shit. He's terrorized countless front office workers with his behavior, including flinging a glass vase at a secretary, who fortunately ducked and let the glass shatter against the wall. There's the time he flung a chair across the court, the time he brushed past referee Ted Valentine on his way out of a game that Valentine ejected him from, the time he went after some kid who said "Hey, what's up Knight?", the time he spoke at an official pep rally event where he told a full arena of kids' parents that his critics can kiss his ass...and last night, and let me spell it out so it's not understated like Knight and his butt-smoochers want, HE. PUNCHED. A. KID. IN. THE. CHIN. For any Knight lovers out there, imagine you were being coached by this asswipe and he decided to try to get your attention by popping you in the chin. How quickly are you wiping the brown off your shoe because you stuck it up his behind? But some people, like Knight and Mr. C, have people defend any and all of their actions because they want to get next to the boorish loud guy in power and want to earn his respect. I just want people to realize that sturdy, valuable leadership is not the same as tunnel vision combined with zero people skills. Hey, once we do see that, perhaps we'll elect someone for president who doesn't also have his head stuck up his ass.

Ah, Old Memories

Flashback time! A couple of people from my past contacted me recently and sent me back in time--way, way back.

First, my grade-school crush from fourth through sixth grade, a Puerto Rican I'll call "Rita," contacted me Saturday through Classmates.com. The first flashback was just seeing that I received an e-mail from Classmates.com, which made me gasp in fear of my high school girlfriend, "Giselle," trying to get back together again because Classmates.com is how we hooked up for a one-night stand almost five years ago. Then once I realized it was Rita, I remembered how crazy I was about her. She had straight hair and Bugs Bunny teeth from first through third grade, then she transformed into a curly-haired chick with straight teeth thanks to braces and, I'm guessing, a hair salon. I remembered trying every trick in the book to get next to her, from being nice and conversing with her to lifting her skirt when she wasn't looking, but she just wasn't interested. Then I remember when I got together with Giselle in high school, and since Giselle wasn't very attractive to say the least, some folks had some rude comments toward me, including Rita, who told me that I could do much better even though she totally rejected me at every turn. As my dad eloquently put it at the time: "Is she gonna suck your dick? No? Then why is she worrying about who does?" That's my dad for you.

Rita was e-mailing me because she wanted to find people who were part of our high school's theater club, The Company. The teacher who ran The Company, lovingly called Mr. C by his disciples, is retiring, and Rita is helping to organize a send-off bash. This sent me into the second flashback in as many weeks concerning Magic Johnson's announcement that he had the AIDS virus. (The first flashback was because the 15th anniversary of the announcement came last week, and ESPN was all over it.) When Magic made the announcement in 1991, it occurred late in the afternoon on a weekday, and I happened to be at practice for the play Our Town. Mr. C actually interrupted practice to tell us of the news that had just came out. This was because he was a hoops fan and wanted to share the sad news, right? No, this was because he was a racist bastard and he wanted to gloat. The motherfucker couldn't keep the smirk off his face when he told us, "Magic had to retire because he got AIDS." He was a world-class jackoff the whole four years I knew him. A second flashback about Mr. C is that in the summer of 1992, the annual Company picnic took place near his residence along the lake, an area that I knew nothing about because I was just a poor West Side kid at the time. But some friends--not Mr. C, oh no, he never mentioned anything about a picnic to me--gave me the directions to the beach and a time to arrive there. Now, I admit that the kind of kids in The Company, the snotty, Hollywood wanna-be types, weren't people I wanted to socialize with, but there were a few people there who I wanted to see. But basically, I sat there alone the majority of the day watching the water...until Mr. C ran out of buns and, instead of disturbing the fun of one of his favorites, sent me four blocks to the nearest store to get more buns. And we were all sitting around eating at the time, so it's not like he saw me by myself and decided that I could run the errand since I wasn't doing anything. He decided that I could run the errand because, well, what other purpose would a black kid among a throng of almost all white kids serve except to run errands? In other words, he didn't tell me about the Company picnic because I really wasn't supposed to be there. I'm shocked he didn't make me run to the fieldhouse bathroom and wash my dirty hands before he served me any food. Rita said that he's not as arrogant now since he got "that grapefruit-sized tumor in his head." Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Needless to say, I'm not going to anything honoring him.

One more flashback about The Company didn't involve Mr. C, but I believe the atmosphere surrounding The Company led to this incident happening, and that's Mr. C's fault because privilege and thinking you're more deserving than others are what made The Company what it was. In 1993, Giselle and I were going to have minor roles in the production of Les Miserables (as I said in My History (4th In A Series), the tryouts for Les Mis is where Giselle and I first met), but my grades prevented me from staying in the show. Giselle stayed, though, and after the last show she, like many others, took a piece of the set as a souvenir. But a crew member, a white female, threw a fit about Giselle having the nerve to do that, and called her some choice names to her face. Giselle wasn't aware of this crew member having a problem with anyone else taking a meaningless hunk of wood, just her. And they didn't know each other, so it wasn't a personal issue, but rather an issue of Giselle not being a full-time member of the clique known as The Company, and how dare she put her filthy hands on something the clique helped build. I sure hope whoever takes over The Company isn't as much of a prick as the former leader and his cult followers.

Rita also told me of finding a couple of grade-school ex-classmates through Google. One was Shane, who was the popular jock and also mixed, so he was seen as kinda exotic-looking, and that just added to his popularity. The last I heard of him, he was a very good high-school wrestler, and I assumed he went on to some kind of athletic career. Rita says that he's a state trooper in Iowa and a born-again Christian. Somehow, that didn't surprise me, not that he was religious, but he seemed to be one of those guys always trying to do the right thing no matter what. Rita also said that she discovered Ben, who was just a wild, blond-haired free spirit kind of guy. Last I heard of him, I had called him in high school because I was going through old phone numbers, and he had taken a stereotypical black-guy style of speech, like he had a crash course in Ebonics or something. Rita said that he recently died suddenly, and that apparently he has a child due to be born. How sad. I believe his family had a history of health problems, or at least his older brother, who I think had a heart condition. What a terrible thing to have happen, to drop dead at the age of 30, and he was expecting. Wow. My flashback about Ben should tell you a lot about the kind of guy he was. This was either fifth or sixth grade, and we knew something was wrong with Ben because he had been quiet all day. Turns out he was complaining of a headache, so I think a teacher may have given him an aspirin, but it didn't help. Finally, towards the end of the day, he sits out gym class because his head is killing him, and the gym teacher decides to examine his head because he's saying that it's not an internal pain but rather something in the back of his head, but he didn't remember hitting his head recently. So the gym teacher peels back that wild mess of curly blonde hair...and discovers a safety pin sticking in the back of his head. Apparently it had been there all day. Naturally, he had no idea how it got there, nor had he thought to reach back there to see why it hurt so much. Damn, I'm gonna miss that boy. He redefined unique.

Sunday, "Laurie" shocked me by calling my cell phone. (You can search "Laurie" within my blog to read all about her.) Like all of the other women I had been chasing the last few years, I assumed she lost my number once I sent her money. But she was going through old numbers at work and found mine, and I happened to be off work Sunday to watch some football, or else she would have caught my voice-mail. Where's Laurie's mind these days? Where it always is--meaningless teasing and flirting. She asked how things were with my girlfriend, and as soon as I got finished telling her that I'd like to see her more but otherwise everything was fine, her immediate next sentence was, "You should come to Detroit." Wha?? She explained that I could get the money she owes me if I came up there, but she could easily mail me that money if she ever intended to give it back, which she doesn't. She talked about the Michigan State Fair taking place next year, which is good because she's an organizer there and she was worried about losing her job if they made cutbacks or eliminations to the Fair. I said, politely but as a brushoff since I have no intention of going, that I'm sure I'd have a good time at the Fair, and she responded, "I'd make sure we have a great time." This is what fucked me up so bad with Laurie. She didn't realize last year when she spouted her useless flirtatious lines that someone like me, desperate to be loved by anyone much less a thin, attractive blonde, would be at the starting line in a three-point stance ready for her to pull my trigger. But she never did. Three different times I had my suitcase half-packed and was looking up airfares on Priceline.com waiting for her to give me the okay. Every time she either canceled or didn't contact me at all. When I hung up Sunday, the flashbacks about her didn't last long at all because my mind is in a completely different place than it was. Laurie got off on playing the game, never intending to make good on her promises. She can't play anymore with me, though. I've declared this game over a long time ago.

Content

Today while visiting my aunt's house I ran across some pictures she took when my girlfriend was in town to visit me in July. The look of contentment on my face in those pictures was surprising. I must say that I can't remember ever seeing pictures of myself where I look so relaxed or happy. I've always dreaded pics because, duh, as you've read on this blog, I have a self-esteem problem. And that lack of self-esteem and general unhappiness always came across in my pics. I always looked pained to be taking a picture, or trying to force a fake smile. There was no fake smile in these pics. I looked at ease, pleased and proud to have my arm around my woman. I even stood straight up and had good posture, which made my body look less lumpy than it usually looks on my pics. It's strange to see a picture of myself where I don't look like I want to go kill someone. Sometimes you arrive at a place in life and you don't even realize you're there. But God knows how glad I am to be here.

My Maturity Progress Report--Uh, Still A Long Way To Go

My girlfriend and I were e-mailing back and forth about our relationship and how relatively fast we are moving. This is what she wrote this morning:

"You are right about the red flag of your past relationships. Whenever I read the archives in your blog (which I did in the wee hours of this morning), it always sobers me and makes me realize that this thing could end any minute now. I would never force you to give me one good reason to stick around because I don't know if there is anything you can say to really change the way I feel sometimes. Only time will really change that. The longer that we are together and the more I get to observe you, the more confident I will become of your feelings for me. Until then, I stick around because I have made a choice to do so, a choice to trust that the way you say you feel is real. I stick around because I want to give us the best possible chance of succeeding."

She's not the only one who wonders whether I'm real. I am very very scared of the fact that I felt over-the-moon in love with the trash that I dated before. I am scared that I wouldn't know how to fall in love with a good woman because I fell in love with any women who showed me some attention. Hell, I'm scared that I could give in to some random trash who came on to me just because I'm so used to trash. I'm scared that sluts with no morals or standards are my true element and that dating a woman who waited for the right man and hasn't slept around is aiming a bit too high. Maybe all of that means that a part of me or most of me isn't ready to be in a real relationship. I honestly don't know. But a big part of why it's worked so far with me and my girlfriend is that we can discuss things like this in the open with no boundaries. I'm so far from perfect it's not even funny. But she's been accepting thus far. It would kill me to hurt her as a reward for her patience. And maybe that's the true sign that this is real--I can't stand the thought of doing something to hurt her after all the faith she's invested in me. Fuck my desires and fears, I can't hurt her. I won't hurt her. She doesn't deserve it. And honestly, I don't deserve her.

Beggars Who Are Better Off Than Me

I remember a report some years ago that said a beggar in the right area on an eight-hour shift can make as good a salary as any other minimum-wage worker, if not better. It makes sense when you think about it. Add up all the loose change, throw in the key $1 or $2 tip from a very giving or very guilty rich guy or girl, and that can easily get up to $5 or $6 per hour. There was a tall black guy everyone called Slim who stalked outside CBOE for the entire ten years I worked there. He briefly sold Streetwise newspapers for a while, but mostly he's always just lurked and begged. In a hurry to, what else, get lunch, I nearly ran him over one day not long after I started there, to which he replied, "Excuse the hell out of me!" I just glared at him. Guess who's still down there, and guess who's not? So maybe begging is the way to go. After all, I'm sure Slim's received more money from Bill Brodsky and the other jackass tightwads down there than me and many others who actually worked for CBOE.

There's always interesting observations about beggars in Chicago, especially working downtown as I do. But a couple of incidents made me wonder if they're not better off than some of us believe they are.

Two weeks ago, a guy was standing at an intersection with a paper cup in his hand looking for change from people coming out of a Walgreens. Not an unusual sight, except he was rocking a leather jacket with a Kung Fu-looking insignia on the back. Even I don't own a leather jacket. It was nice too, black and blue and in better condition than you'd expect. I guarantee the retail value on that sucker when it first sold was at least $200. I'm sure it's damn near worthless now, but still, if you have to beg for change, I'd think you'd sell the leather jacket to some goodwill shop or something and find another coat. That same goodwill shop would probably give you a different coat for nothing, and selling that leather number would certainly pay for several meals.

Then, a week ago, I'm standing outside the train station and waiting for the bus to take me home, the last leg of my commute. A tall kid, no more than 17 but three inches higher than me, has to tap me on the shoulder in order to beg because I have my trusty headphones on, which have probably shielded me from an estimated 650 other chances for someone to beg me for something. He apologizes for bothering me, then asks if I can swipe my bus pass through the train turnstile so that he can get on the train. He's dressed like a typical teenager, i.e., his clothes are worth more than my wardrobe. He's also holding a canned pop. Um, maybe if you hadn't bought the pop, son, you could have afforded to go home or wherever you were trying to go. After I turn him down, I notice him wander back over to a posse of about three other young males, and I would wager my house that at least one of them had a working cell phone on them and could call someone to come pick them up. But it's easier to just beg strangers to pick up the slack for you. I'd also bet that people have been giving him things all his life because he's tall, black, and male, and he looks like a potential hoops star. I would make a joke about his Hummer being in the shop, but maybe he's not good enough to make an AAU coach or wannabe agent buy a vehicle for him. Keep working at it, kid, there's countless numbers of people willing to give you a ride anywhere you want if only you can consistently stick that turnaround jumper.

Making The World Safer, One Full House At A Time

A bill was recently passed in Congress that had something to do with potential terrorist cells passing money back and forth through international bank accounts, and a rider was attached that restricted what business offshore gambling accounts can do with American citizens. What all of that means is that when I tried to play online poker last night, I was informed that some people in a handful of states, due to legislation in said state, were being barred from playing for money now, and the rest of America should be barred in another month or so. Illinois was one of those states with ongoing legislation. Boy, am I glad I won over $300 the last time I played so that I have a sizable amount to withdraw. But this is bullshit. This Chicken Little sky-is-falling administration doesn't have a fucking shred of proof that some group in Aruba running an online poker site is funnelling cash to terrorists through poker, but they'll try to shut it down, just in case. Those who really want to play will find illegitimate sites that are much less safe, they'll win and never see their money because a lot of those underground sites are crooked, and how exactly does that help shut down terrorism? I bet I can hook up with Mark Foley and find some teenage pussy all night long online, but I can't play poker for money. This nation is so bass-ackwards sometimes that it's really pitiful.

And The Beat Goes On

My small little worries and anxieties kept drumming along the last couple of weeks while the world kept a-spinnin'. After three days in Memphis with my girlfriend that frankly couldn't have gone much better, one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind after I returned was, Wow, all this happiness and feeling good and feeling confident about myself and thanking my lucky stars that I have this woman in my life--I went through all these same feelings with "Karen" after our first few dates. This was after I felt very depressed for the three days leading up to labor Day weekend and couldn't figure out why, then I realized that I responded to Karen's personal ad on Labor Day three years ago. But all is well. I could have gone into a tailspin and started ruminating about everything that happened again, but I refused. This is what time and having a supportive person in my life has done--instead of brooding and stewing, I've developed the ability to breathe, find something to do that takes my mind off things, and if that's not enough, I can call my girlfriend because she actually likes talking on the phone with me and doesn't mind helping me through my episodes. The last episode I had was maybe a couple of months ago, when I was already having a shitty morning and I heard one of those songs that remind me of Karen, and instead of turning it off, I figured I was already in a foul mood, so why not go down the well and see how deep it measures. Still pretty fucking deep, as it turns out. But when I got home that evening, I talked things out with my girlfriend, and we had a great conversation about everything we both were feeling. She didn't just pooh-pooh me and say it will all be okay. She actually conversed with me and helped me work through things. It's really awesome how open and honest our relationship is, not just because she's not a lying whore but also because I'm not a lying whore, either. This is how I always wanted a relationship to be like. And in a way, the best part is, I can realize that it may not work out for various reasons, like the long distance between us or one of us being unhappy with the pace, but whatever the reason, it's not going to crush my soul. I'm truly giving it my best honest effort and if it doesn't work, then it wasn't meant to be. But there's no hiding anything, there's no game-playing, and I'm not going to go insane if she and I can't make it. I will snap if I find her secret website, however. :)

The three days in Memphis started six hours later than it should have because I have a very nasty procrastination habit, which is to say that I missed my fucking flight again. That same toiletry ban that I railed against in my last post got me. When I got to the area where they scan my body, I only had about 15 minutes to make my flight, but they told me that those toiletries would be allowed in my walk-on luggage if they were 3 ounces or less each, so I tried to go through because I thought everything I had was 3 ounces or less. I forgot about my big can of aerosol deodorant. So that was five minutes wasted scanning myself because I had to turn right back around and take my luggage to be checked. By the time I did that, it was 10:48A, and the flight took off at 11A. So the woman at the counter wouldn't even let me throw the toiletries away and check my bag as a walk-on because she said that due to the location of my terminal, I could never make it before they closed the doors to the plane ten minutes before take-off. The news only got worse: The next flight was for 4:55P. It really hurt me to call my girlfriend and tell her this, and it was extremely painful to hear her voice when I told her. She sounded so disappointed. But after snapping at my waitress at a restaurant because she was trying to serve me while I told my girlfriend the news, I realized that I needed to calm the fuck down and cope because I was going to be at O'Hare Airport for the next six hours and it was nobody's fault but mine. So after walking for a few minutes, I came across a bookstore, I called my girlfriend and got a recommendation for a book, and I passed the time reading a frightening memoir that made my childhood look totally normal, Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. ( I also got her an Oral Sex for Dummies book, so that she's not completely in the dark when we do it for the first time.) Before I knew it, it was time to fly, and I was hugging my girlfriend and eating at Applebee's and checking into a Drury's hotel that had a long black hair under one of its pillows and a bed so soft in the middle that I thought I was going to fall through.

My girlfriend left a couple of gifts sitting on my hotel bed for my arrival. She kept hearing me talk about how much I was looking forward to the week off so that I could just soak in a bubble bath and relax, so she bought me a bottle of bubble bath, and a box of chocolates to enjoy while I soaked. She also got me a card that said in part: "If I sounded disappointed this morning its because I savor every minute I spend with you! Here's to a hundred delicious moments." I sent her a text message when I saw the gifts and the card and told her how awesome she was. But she wasn't the only one with a surprise. I mailed her an early Sweetest Day card because I knew I wouldn't see her when Sweetest Day came around at the end of October, and it was sitting in her mailbox the day after I arrived in Memphis. Talk about timing. That same evening, we had dinner with two of her friends, so now they don't think that she made me up or something. The next day we tried to have a romantic walk along the Mississippi, where I wanted to lay my first kiss on her, but the wind was cutting us in half and making my eyes water. So that evening we had a great dinner at Texas de Brazil, which had the exact same endless-cuts-of-meat concept as Pogo de Chao here in Chicago, and after that, she decided to scratch me under the chin on my neckbeard because "I just wanted to do that," and I decided that there couldn't be a clearer signal for me to move forward than that, so we had our first kiss that night on her couch. The next day, my flight departed in the evening, so we had time to have pizza at her favorite pizza place, watch a movie, and discover more joys of kissing. We could have made out for another half-hour, as it turned out; my flight was delayed 28 minutes.

As if to give me something to laugh about for the whole trip, the morning after I arrived in Memphis, the news of Terrell Owens's "attempted suicide" was all over. All I could say was, this is so T.O. No one had been talking about him for a while, he just got dumped by his fiancee, and the trick publicist he's banging probably wasn't giving him enough attention, so he staged a scene where she got home and he had pills hanging out of his mouth. Pathetic. And all she can say in her press conference a couple of days later, after she had been the one who called the cops saying Owens was trying to commit suicide, was that he had 25 million reasons why he wouldn't kill himself, referring to his contract. Real quality ladies you're choosing there, buddy. But hey, if she wasn't a drama queen, she wouldn't be attracted to T.O. in the first place.

Like I said, the world just keeps turning...

On The Road Again...

...but certainly not ridin' dirrty like Willie Nelson. Ol' Willie had his tour bus raided by cops recently and was busted for Mary Jane and mushrooms. Must be the musician's life, or maybe at his age Willie doesn't give a shit about hiding his stash anymore. Of course, I can't blame him--I love mushrooms myself, especially portobello.

I'll be technically not on the road but in the air visiting my girlfriend in Memphis tomorrow, and I will return Friday evening. I haven't seen her since she came here in July. I'm a little beat up physcially due to illness, work, and a night of bowling this past Saturday, but I anticipate once I see her, everything will be just fine. She has a very calming effect on me, like I can stop fretting and worrying once I'm in her presence because everything's going to be alright. Those who know me know that it's foreign to me not to fret or worry, but something happens when I talk to her that tames me. When I figure out why that is, I'll let you know.

So I go to print my boarding pass, and this sentence appears below it:

"Effective immediately, the TSA has informed Northwest that travelers are not allowed to transport any liquids, gels, lotions or similar items in their carry-on luggage."

Damnit, I knew I couldn't get away with that dangerous bottle of aftershave forever. This is fucking ridiculous. It's bad enough that I have to kick off my shoes so that they can inspect my Dr. Scholl's Foot And Gun Powder Bomb, but now I can't even bring along a travel-size tube of hand cream? You know, toothpaste can be classified as a gel. Can I not bring my own toothpaste now? The toothbrush itself can be used as a dangerous weapon, why not ban that as well?...Oops, guess I'd better shut my trap, lest I give them any ideas.

The really sad part is that when Osama and his homies decide to do their thing again, there's nothing we're going to be able to do about it. Giving up these and other assorted freedoms aren't doing anything but bringing us closer to the kind of regulated extremist society that the terrorists would love us to have.

The Death Of The White Sox--Up Close And Personal

My uncle got tickets to last night's Tigers-White Sox game from a co-worker, and he gave them to me and a friend of ours who also works with him and who used to be a teammate of ours in a bowling league. For those who aren't aware, the Sox led in the race for a wild card playoff spot (best record in the American League among all teams who aren't leading a division) for most of the season, but have lost that lead to the Twins. Now the Sox sit about 5 games out of the wild card spot with 12 games left in the season, so when I listen to sports talk radio on my headphones during work, it's 20 minutes of Bears love for every 3 hours of Sox hate. It made perfect sense that free tickets popped up for last night's game because the Sox were swept 3 straight games over the weekend in Oakland, then came back Monday night to get a foot put up their ass by the first-place Tigers, who were still only 6 games ahead of the Sox, so technically the Sox could beat them and still be in the race to win the whole division...but instead, they got killed. So sports talk yesterday was full of death knell sound effects and gagging sounds. Yeah, sure, NOW Sox tickets are available to whomever wants them. No one else has called me all year saying that they have tickets.

Oh, did I mention that the game-time temp yesterday was going to be about 50 degrees?

I expected a sparse, negative crowd of vitriolic, disappointed guys mixed with a few asshole Tigers fans, but I was pleasantly surprised. The fans were die-hards, very enthusiastic and supportive, 38,850 still rooting for the only major-league team in Chicago, even though most of us realistically know that it's just not our year. But my favorite player, A.J. Pierzynski, made us feel like miracles are possible for one night, hitting a grand slam in the 4th inning that proved to be the only hit the Sox needed to win behind Freddy Garcia's one-hit pitching performance. (Freddy's looked high all season long, keeping with the marijuana theme that has followed him since reports came out that he toked with regularity during this past off-season, so he's the one pitcher who can throw two straight 1-hitters. I know, bad joke.) For one more night, the Sox Pride was out and in full force, and I was glad to be proven wrong in my assumption that the wake would be last night for the upcoming funeral. They aren't quite dead yet.

All we need is Pierzynski grand slams every night for the rest of the season. That's realistic, no?

My Luck Isn't Always Bad After All

Just won a four-hour online poker tournament that cost $5 to enter and had 716 entries. That was good for $814.45. Right before I entered the tournament, I bought airline tickets to see my girlfriend in Memphis at the end of the month. I believe that trip is now paid for.

5 Years Ago Today...

It was a Tuesday, and I was working at the Chicago Board Options Exchange, and I was going through my everyday routine of arriving at about 8A, having breakfast, and hitting the trading floor at about 8:20 to get ready for the 8:30 opening bell. I went on the floor at maybe about 8:15 on this day, and I saw a couple of friends glued to one of the many little 13" TVs that were always on all around the floor. On the screen is a shot of a building that appears to be on fire. I asked what happened, and one friend said something like, "Oh, it's weird, man, some yoyo accidentally flew a plane into the side of the World Trade Center." That blew my mind. How did someone manage to fuck up that bad and fly a plane into a big-ass building like that?, we wondered. It already had taken its place in my mind as one of the three most memorable moments that I saw on TV at work, along with the Oklahoma bombings and the O.J. verdict.

Then, right as we're standing there cracking jokes, whatever channel we were watching broke in with film of another plane flying into the building right next to the first one. The announcers' voices were shaking as they emphasized that this was not live footage of the first plane being replayed, but rather tape of a second plane hitting while they were filming the damage from the first plane. Everyone's eyes on that trading floor got as big as saucers, and we were frozen watching the coverage and muttering in disbelief, "This ain't no fucking accident."

The opening bell never happened.

In fact, once word got out that New York wasn't opening the markets at all, the floor slowly emptied out as people realized that something sinister was happening. The Pentagon plane announcement came a little over an hour later, and I distinctly remember saying to the co-worker who would become my lover a few years later, "I don't believe this is happening." It really did seem like a movie script playing out, an Independence Day-like scenario. I moved from trading post to trading post talking to co-workers and colleagues, trying to make sense of everything. By 10A, the floor was nearly empty, Bush was bumping his gums on TV, and the feeling I remember the most was the frustration from 8,137 news channels not being able to give any insight at all on who may have done this or why. I had to hear a number of theories from those around me, and most were way off base, but all we could do was theorize. Finally, with the floor completely bare, the Powers That Be gave word that there would be no trading that day, which meant that we the CBOE staff could finally leave. Yes, buildings being bombed for no reason, and the floor reporters and their supervisors were staying put until the higher-ups gave us the green light to leave. Hey, we weren't traders or brokers, and if trading did occur that day, we had to be there or else lose a day's pay. Actually, a couple of reporters left before the official word because they feared their lives over losing some salary. Everyone has their priorities.

Outside, it was bedlam. Not only is CBOE across the street from the Board of Trade, which obviously felt threatened due to their importance in the nation's economy, but it's a few blocks from Sears Tower, which obviously felt threatened due to their importance as one of the nation's most popular and most visible attractions. So, basically it was every person for himself, a bright, sunny day featuring hundreds of people hailing cabs, stuffing buses, and looking at each other with a mix of fear, sadness, compassion, and cluelessness, if that's a word. A usually empty LaSalle Street bus at 10:30A was filled with folks rushing home to their loved ones, with more filling up behind and in front of us. As usual, I had my headphones on, so I didn't hear what people were talking about with each other. What I did hear was the newswoman on a pop station that I was listening to trying to find an escape break in to say that one of the towers actually collapsed, with a countless number of people still in it. My body went cold, just as it is right now remembering all this. The thought of that happening, a building that big crumbling to the ground with so many people still inside...I could not even imagine how horrific that scene was. I wanted to throw up. The newslady announced the second building falling minutes later, and the usually loud and obnoxious morning guys were completely stunned silent.

There are a million ways 9/11 affected people, from the emotions to the actions it spurred some to take (like Pat Tillman, a damn good free safety for the Arizona Cardinals who quit football in his prime to join the military and wound up killed in Afghanistan) to the impact on the way we live. Me, I was financially affected by the fact that CBOE lost money a bunch of ways--the stock market dipped after 9/11, traders left fearing their safety in a downtown building, and security guards and metal detectors and new electronic entry methods were brought in. The staff lost their twice-a-year bonuses, a hiring freeze thinned us out trying to cover more ground when reporting the traders' quotes, and eventually a new hybrid system was phased in where traders could enter their quotes from their own handheld devices, and we were phased out, although that may have happened eventually with or without 9/11. I wasn't all that much affected by the trauma of the situation because ever since my mom's death when I was 10, I've become a master of hiding my feelings and not letting things get to me (which is why "Karen's" betrayal finally made me snap, because years of shielding my heart from pain exploded right in my face). I felt for the victims, sure, but I didn't know them, so they seemed as distant as the victims of all the other worldwide terrorist attacks. There was a trading firm in the towers that had an office in Chicago, so some guys at CBOE knew some of the victims, and being even that close to it made my stomach turn. I had no desire to get any closer. Getting very far away from it all really is the lasting impression that I have, in the form of realizing that because of how we as a country do things, someday something is going to happen that makes 9/11 seem like just a beginning. So I would love to get away and move out of the U.S., but at the moment I'd have to play the lottery a lot more than I care to in order to do that.

Sometimes I'm amazed at the political football that those in charge have turned 9/11 into. It's like they don't care about the lives involved and just want to use the event to shine a light on the other party's shortcomings. As jacked up as Bush and the rest of the Republicans have been at handling it, it's not like if a Democrat were voted president that Bin Laden would immediately be found. It's pretty clear that he will be found when he wants to be found, and not a second sooner. They're all concerned with the same things--making sure that those close to them would never be a victim of something like this (or have to go fight against it), making sure Social Security funds continue to be funneled into Capitol Hill call girls' purses, and pointing fingers at the other guys and taunting them, saying it's all their fault. I'm obviously no political pundit, but I'd say one of the most glaring things coming from 9/11 is the way it showed our "leaders" for what they really are...and the people of America for what they really are. I mean, when the lasting image of Bush is him hunched over a children's book on 9/11 trying to fathom what happened like he's a 2nd-grader who was just told there is no Santa, and that's our chief executive, what the hell does it say that he got re-elected?

A Little Something For My Sensitive Peeps Out There

Very briefly: Tried to watch the movie Crash the other day for the first time since "Shelley" and I saw it last year. Couldn't get through the first thirty minutes; I noticed a tear in the corner of my eye and had to turn it off. That movie is powerful enough the first time you see it, but watching it the second time knowing all that's going to happen is downright gut-wrenching. My girlfriend still says it's not as good as the gay cowboy movie, though. I guess one day I'll have to grab my strap-on and sit down and watch the damn thing.

The Face Of The NFL--Hypocritical Pink!

I just turned to the NBC broadcast of the first game of the new NFL season, and singing the theme song and therefore becoming the first face of the season that I see is Pink. And she's singing suggestively and wearing a top that looked like it had been sitting in a closet for years, not because it looked old, but because significant pieces of cloth were completely gone. And all I could think was that a few months ago, she was all over my radio singing a song that said in part: "Maybe if I dressed like that, maybe if I talked like that...I don't wanna be a stupid girl." What does she call herself now, I wonder?

And for the record--keep in mind that I'm a horrible gambler and can't predict my own pathetic life, much less anything else--Carolina over Jacksonville in Super Bowl XLI: Battle of the Expansion Scrubs.