Beneath This Dirty Hood

The worst week ever

2010-07-28T18:08:00.000-05:00

Photo copyright: Sean Birmingham. Used with permission.

I’ve had bad weeks before. Plenty of them actually.

But I can’t remember a more bizarre one than the one Kristin and I suffered through last week. Of course, I wasn’t really the one who suffered. The ones around me fell victim to a wicked game of “So You Think This is Bad …” created by karma.

It was a week that started as a vacation and ended after two trips to emergency rooms at different hospitals and being stranded in a flood.

Kristin became the first unwitting victim in karma’s vicious game. We delayed our vacation by one day because she was just getting over being sick, her fever at one point tipping 102 degrees.

Convinced the worst was behind her, we headed off for my family reunion in Eau Claire, Wis. You ever have those moments where you just know the decision you’ve made is the wrong one yet you forge ahead anyway? Yeah, that moment for us was the morning of the 17th when we got in the car.

Over the next few days, Kristin’s body declared war. It threw laryngitis at her, a sinus infection and finally pinkeye, which had us rushing to the Mercy Hospital emergency room in Coon Rapids, Minn., at midnight on July 19.

Her diagnosis meant she couldn’t go to the Twins game the next night. We were staying with our good friends, Rick and Patty. With Kristin quarantined, it was decided Rick and I would go to the game without the wives. It started as a good night, kicking off with a pregame trip to a local bar for a bite to eat. I hear the place is especially fun on New Year's.

Rick and I used to go to Twins games together back in the day, so it was nice to get to do it again at the Twins’ new stadium. But it was a hot, miserable night. The Twins were awful, losing 4-3 to Cleveland.

Around the eighth inning, Rick got up and went to get something to drink. He didn’t come back, so I figured he’d found a more comfortable seat and was watching the game from there.

As I walked into the concourse I saw him right away – sitting in a wheelchair with several first-aid workers surrounding him. Trip No. 2 to the ER – this time to the Hennepin County Medical Center in downtown Minneapolis – ensued.

He ended up spending the rest of the week in the hospital, another unknowing victim of my bad karmic touch. I’m glad to say he’s now home and should be better now that he’s a safe distance from me again.

We returned home Friday and it was time for karma to come gunning for me directly. Kristin and I were supposed to go together to a show at Lincoln Hall in Chicago that night. But even though she was feeling much better, she figured it was best she stay home. Hallelujah – we made a good decision!

While I was inside Lincoln Hall enjoying a great show from Ha Ha Tonka and headliner Langhorne Slim, a little rain was falling outside. I left the venue at 1:30 in the morning, heading home in a downpour, completely oblivious to the misfortune awaiting me.

I soon found myself rerouted off the expressway in the near west suburbs when flooding on the road forced the police to close it. As I left the expressway I figured this was going to delay me about an hour or so – no big deal.

Two hours later having still not gotten past the Eisenhower/I-88 junction that would lead me home to Aurora, I was driving around with dozens of other people seeking an escape route from the flooding that was suddenly everywhere.

Eventually I decided I needed sleep, so I pulled into a Holiday Inn Express parking lot, pushed my seat all the way back and stole a 45-minute nap. At 6 a.m. I woke up to daylight and more rain. But at least now I could find my way out of the mess.

By the time I got home – six hours after I left Lincoln Hall – the suburb I was trapped in, Westchester, was being declared a disaster zone. I crawled into bed thankful to be home.

I was also thankful the week had ended. Given a few days to reflect, I’m still not sure what I did to piss off karma. I just hope it has moved on to some other poor sucker. Carson Daly would make a good target.

The Big Buff Blues

2010-06-24T12:03:00.000-05:00

No! It can’t be. No way did the Blackhawks just trade Big Buff.

That was my reaction to a voicemail I received Wednesday from my brother, who was more than happy to share the news that the Hawks had traded Stanley Cup hero Dustin Byfuglien, defenseman Brent Sopel, enforcer Ben Eager and a prospect to Atlanta in order to clear salary cap space.

Less than two weeks ago I was on East Wacker in downtown Chicago during the Hawks victory parade and rally. Big Buff was on the bus that ended up parking right on the other side of the street where I stood with Kristin and our friends.

There he was, bigger than life, a homemade world championship title belt draped over a shoulder, his Stanley Cup champion hat riding off-center on his head. He carried a bullhorn in one hand and a can of beer in the other.

This was Big Buff at his grandest. And now he’s a Thrasher. The difference in stature is stunning.

It took some time, but eventually at some point last night I came to accept the trade, and saw it for what it is: a good move for the Hawks. It’s a good move for the Thrashers, too, but that doesn’t really matter to me. I hope Byfuglien does well and if he doesn’t, at least there’s a chance he’ll be sent down to the AHL and I’ll get to see him play for the Chicago Wolves!

But I digress. The trade was good for the Hawks for the obvious reason of freeing up some salary-cap space. It’s also good because they got some decent draft picks in return, and two serviceable roster-ready players in Marty Reasoner and former Colorado College standout Joey Crabb.

It also brought prospect Jeremy Morin, a sniper who The Hockey News writer Ryan Kennedy said has a lethal release and could be a 50-goal scorer for Kitchener in the Ontario Hockey League next season. If he develops well, he could be a nice addition to the Hawks in years to come. But some doubt exists as to whether or not he’ll materialize into a successful pro.

Kennedy also brought up a point I’ve been thinking about a lot: what type of player are the Thrashers getting in Byfuglien? His career high in points during the regular season is 36. And while he scored 11 goals in the Hawks’ Cup run – including three game-winners in a sweep of San Jose – he only had 17 goals in the regular season.

There were long stretches of the season where Big Buff somehow seemed to vanish on the ice. He hardly ever released his booming slap shot and seemed not to care much about mucking it up in front of the net until he was facing his nemesis, Roberto Luongo.

I was hoping the playoffs were going to serve as his turning point. He’d become a legitimate Chicago hero and the thought was he appeared ready to live up to his potential.

We’ll never know that now. If he has a great season with the Thrashers, there is still no guarantee he would have done that with the Hawks. And if he resumes his old, underachieving play, that’s still no reason to believe he’d have done that in Chicago.

In any event, I’ve come to accept that Big Buff is gone. It’s the way of the world in professional sports these days.

I’m just glad I chose to buy an Esposito jersey instead of the Byfuglien one I was eyeing.

Going where my mind takes me

2010-04-25T01:38:00.001-05:00

This is what I wrote Saturday at the 750words.com website. You'll need to read my earlier post to learn more about the site. Beware, this entry got an R rating for its language and sexual content. So if you're easily offended please don't read it. Also please keep in mind this is fictional (mostly) and written in one take in less than 20 minutes.

Down in the recesses of my brain, down past the walls I set up for others to see, the parts of me I make public, there is something else living there. I feel its breath on me at night as I roam the streets looking for company. The sidewalks are usually deserted in the early morning hours. The frat boys and sorority sluts are already back home, sleeping or fucking or whatever else they do when the bars close. Chicago can be a lonely place, despite its bustling nightlife and daylight hours. I can walk along the lakewalk from Montrose Harbor all the way to the Shedd Aquarium and hardly anyone will pay any attention to me. I walk past teenage girls who look right through me. I've reached the age where I am invisible to them. If I try to talk to them, they are usually polite at first. It's when I start asking where they are headed or what they are doing in the city, that's when they start to get that look in their eyes. We have to get going, they'll say, and scurry off to get away from the guy who is creeping them out. I stand on the sidewalk and watch them disappear down Halstead. At night I walk Rush Street, unable to afford to stop in and have a drink at any of the clubs. I love to hear the jazz notes floating into the air from behind the closed doors. In front of those doors usually stands a burly meathead asking for the $20 cover charge. And I think to myself, 20 fucking dollars? Really? I went into one of them during another phase of my life. I ordered a Diet Coke because I was still on the wagon then. The drink came back in one of those tall, skinny cocktail glasses loaded with ice and a narrow black straw. A few pulls on that straw and my pop was gone. The bartender asked if I wanted another, and I said yes because in addition to the $20 cover charge, there was a two-drink minimum to sit at the bar. A short time later she slipped the tab in front of me as I watched the band crank through one of those 15-minute jazz songs that never really sounds like the same song but then they stop playing and tell you that was, "whatever, whatever" and we hope you liked it. I did like it. But I left anyway. I've never been back into one of those clubs. The clientele was rich and refined, maybe even dignified. All things I am not. I prefer finding the hole in the wall bars, places like Carol's on Clark. A guy can go in there and get five or six beers with 10 bucks and be happy. It's one of those dingy places where cigarette smoke still clings to hte walls and ceiling even though smoking hasn't been allowed in city bars for two years. I suspect Carol probably still lights up in there when business is slow. She always struck me as a I-dont-give-a-fuck gal. But you have to be careful in Chicago. Cops are always looking to bust bar owners for stupid shit like that. Those liquor licences -- especially the 4 a.m. ones -- are better than gold in Chicago. Carol's stays open until 5 a.m. on Saturdays. Well, I guess that would be Sunday. I've walked into that place many times after 2 a.m. and had trouble finding a place to sit. College-age girls don't come in there, but that's all right. The women who do don't look so bad, unless they're the ones who slather on their makeup with paintbrushes and squeeze their fat asses into way-too-small jeans. Those are the ones who sit at the bar looking bored, glancing around for some guy drunk enough to want to fuck them. Some nights that guy is me. But it never works out well. We'll go back to her place -- always her place, I never take anybody to my dingy apartment -- and maybe smoke some weed if she has any. I'll get myself a beer or a shot of whiskey and then we'll start up on the couch. My hands run all over her body and hers are on mine. We move to the bedroom, disrobing along the way. By the time we're naked and on the bed, I'm bored. My dick just lies there no matter what she does to entice it. A few minutes later I'm back outside letting the night air cool my face. I look down the street one way then the other, hoping someone -- anyone -- is out walking and wouldn't mind talking to me.

750 words a day

2010-04-25T01:16:00.001-05:00

I've been meaning to write more. I've had a bunch of ideas bouncing around in my head that would make good blog entries, but I never get around to doing it. Part of that is my freelance workload has increased, and I find that as long as I am doing some kind of writing, I don't get the urge to do another kind.

So when I hit a slow spot with the freelancing, I usually get the urge to blog. When nothing comes to mind to blog about, I try to turn to my much-neglected fiction.

But this makes everything very disorganized and isn't the best for trying to be creative. As I've been told by other writers (either in person or through books), you shouldn't wait until you feel inspired to write. You should create a habit of writing every day.

Maybe you end up writing crap that day, but that's not a big deal. For some the goal is to write three pages per day. That breaks down to roughly 750 words, which is what I learned when I discovered this website.

I signed up two days ago and pledged to write 750 words per day for the entire month of May. But I couldn't wait to May 1, so I started already. I've only created two entries, but I'm finding I really like the system.

I'm a competitive person -- no, really I am -- so 750words.com is a way for me to challenge myself. The site keeps track of how many days I've succeeded and myriad other details, including the weather that day, the words I use most often, and how long it takes to get to the 750-word threshold.

What I really like about it is the point system. The more days you write, the more points you earn. There is a scoreboard that keeps track of everyone. This is where my competitiveness comes in handy. I want to see my name included on the leaderboard some day.

My strategy for writing is just to write whatever pops into my head, which is what they recommend doing. No editing. No looking for the "right" word. Just type one word after another and see where it takes you.

I took the nonfiction road for my first entry. On Saturday morning my writing turned into a fictional story told in first person. I might share it just to give you an idea of how my mind works. Don't expect a polished product, though. As I reread my entries I cringe at the sloppy syntax and sentences that sometime pop up.

I'm a manic self-editor so it's difficult to let typos go and just keep rolling. I'm getting the hang of it, though.

Anyway, I just wanted to share the site with you. Really, this post was just a way for me to tend to my much-neglected blog. Check out my next entry if you're interested in reading my stream of consciousness ramblings. I warn you, though, don't expect Faulkner.

What I love about my job

2010-04-06T21:05:00.000-05:00

Last Tuesday I found myself wandering around McKinley Park on Chicago's South Side.

I was there looking for fishermen at the park's lagoon for this article. But I was there at 10:30 a.m., not exactly prime fishing time. So I only found one guy, and he was leaving just as I saw him. I talked with him and then waited around for another hour or so before deciding I'd be better off coming back the next day.

I drove home frustrated for having wasted the day, especially when the assignment pays a flat fee and not an hourly wage. I essentially drove there for nothing, which is a freelancer's worst scenario.

When I returned Wednesday evening I wasn't very optimistic. I walked around the lagoon again but didn't see anybody fishing. Then as I rounded the far side I spotted a few guys set up on the path ringing the lagoon. They had poles propped up on the shore, lines in the water.

I still wasn't sure if I would find anything interesting as I approached two of the men. I told them who I was and that I was writing about the recent consumption advisory telling anglers they shouldn't eat carp caught in the lagoon more than once a week. The carp population was contaminated with PCBs.

The guys pointed me to an older man sitting in a folding lawn chair next to two tackle boxes and a cooler. He wore a tan fishing vest over a T-shirt that read something to the effect of him having to choose between fishing and his wife. Lower on the shirt was a Gone Fishing sign above, "I'm sure going to miss her."

This turned out to be Lonnie Williams, a 58-year-old McKinley Park resident who claimed to have fished that lagoon for 50 years. Jackpot! I don't know if he saw my face light up or not, but I knew without having to ask another question that I'd found the guy I needed to find for the article. His two friends, who were about 15 years younger than Williams, were equally interesting.

This is how it often is for journalists. Sometimes we strike out looking for the perfect fit for an article. And sometimes we find Lonnie Williams. Nothing replicates that feeling of knowing everything is going to be all right -- I'm going to make deadline, I'm going to have an interesting character to channel the subject matter through, my time hasn't been wasted.

It also makes me feel very fortunate. If not for that assignment I never would have discovered McKinley Park or Williams or his band of urban anglers. That's the best part of the job, the discovery of something new. It might not be new to everybody, but it's new to me.

I'd be happy if I never interviewed a famous person again as long as I can continue meeting people like Lonnie Williams. Or George Hood, who I first encountered a couple years ago and interviewed again this morning.

Hood is looking to reclaim his Guinness World Record for riding a spin bike. The record stands at 192 hours, but he's shooting for 300 hours or more. Some think Hood is crazy, and I can't fault them for that. It is crazy to put your mind and body through such an ordeal to raise money for charity and to get your name in a record book.

I'm fascinated with Hood and what makes him tick. I'd like to write a book about him, and he's offered me the opportunity a few times. But as much as I'd love to do it, that would mean I'd have to drop everything else. I don't know if I'm ready to focus on only one topic and subject, no matter how fascinating it is.

There are just too many people out there with interesting stories waiting to be told.

More Backyard Tire Fire

2010-03-22T01:47:00.000-05:00

OK, OK, I know. You've had enough. But really, have you? If you haven't listened to Backyard Tire Fire's latest release, "Good to Be," then you are missing out on something special.

Anyway, I wrote a review of the Los Lobos/BTF show from Saturday night. It's posted on a message board that caters to Chicago's live music fans and is run by my friend, Dave Miller.

You can find it here, but you have to click on the "Concert Reviews" section when you get there. Please check it out, and then poke around a little bit on the site, especially if you're in Chicago. It's a great resource and I know Dave works hard on it.

In the meantime, here's another BTF video, this one featuring the opening track on the new record, the kick-ass "Roadsong #39." As the 70-something woman usher said to me after the show, "If that didn't get your blood pumping, nothing will."

It's OK, it's all right, I'm alive and it's Good To Be

2010-03-19T14:47:00.000-05:00

Photo by Brad Hodge

Life on tour can be a lonely existence. The long miles between gigs, that constant, unending road leading away from home and family. It can chew up musicians and spit them out in the shoulder already littered with the debris of failed bands.

Yet, it can also be exhilarating. For some, the road becomes home. The chance to play music for a living can outweigh the difficulties of a nomadic lifestyle.

It seems to me Ed Anderson falls into the latter description. Anderson, who turns 38 next month, is the leader of Backyard Tire Fire. His brother, Matt, who plays bass, and drummer Tim Kramp complete the trio that hails from Bloomington, Ill.

BTF is in the middle of a long tour in support of its latest record, the exceptional "Good To Be." I talked with Ed last week while he was driving between Montana gigs in Missoula and Bozeman. You can read the result of that interview here.

Our conversation drifted to his youth in the western suburbs of Chicago (he and Matt graduated from St. Charles High School). He joked that as a kid he wanted to grow up to play shortstop for the Cubs. He never really considered becoming a rock star. But as he got older music became a viable option, thanks mostly to his blue-collar work ethic.

BTF has played between 150 and 200 shows a year for the past decade.

"It's been a haul," Anderson said. "We've worked our asses off, but even if you work really, really, really hard, there always has to be a little luck involved."

Luck for the band came in the form of a show opening for Los Lobos in October 2008 (more details can be found in the article I linked earlier). Because of that the band is riding an unprecedented surge of popularity, though BTF is far from a household name at this point.

But that isn't the point. Ed, Matt and Tim are doing what they love. They are creating music that is connecting with people. They are doing that one town at a time, finally getting a boost from commercial radio stations that have begun spinning "Good To Be" in regular rotations.

No wonder Ed is able to say, "It's OK, it's all right, I'm alive and it's good to be," as he does on the title track.

"I feel fortunate to have found something that's challenging and that I love," he said. "So many people don't get that in life. They end up having to do things they don't want to do. I never wanted to be one of those people. I always wanted to be happy with what I was doing.

"I think I found what I'm supposed to be doing, you know?"

I, for one, am happy he has.

The importance of work

2010-03-15T21:48:00.000-05:00

For most of my life I fought the notion work was good for you. To me, work was a necessary evil, a way to earn some money so I could spend it.

The Puritanical belief that hard work is its own reward was lost on me. I came to think of that mantra as a way to condone the continued exploitation of the working class in our society.

That feeling embedded itself in me during my final days working for The Naperville Sun. With massive nationwide layoffs crippling the newspaper industry, those of us remaining were made to feel we were lucky to still have jobs. We shouldn't complain about the added workload or the new skills many were being asked to learn. Some places began forcing reporters to become videographers.

When I left the Sun during a round of layoffs last April, I was relieved. My job had become just that -- a job. It was so bad, I could feel my mood change every time I got into my car to go the office. Being unemployed freed my spirit.

Because of Kristin's job, I was in the fortunate position of being able to walk away without having to worry about the mortgage getting paid. We don't have any children, so that wasn't a concern. Kristin's job also takes care of our health benefits, so no worries there either.

But now I'm nearing a full year of unemployment. And I'm surprised to have discovered the importance of staying productive. It turns out work is important, and not just as a way to make sure the bills get paid. As Studs Terkel wrote in his 1972 book "Working," "Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread."

For much of the past 11 months, I've been searching for that meaning. Really, I've been searching for it even longer, probably all my life. Now I wonder if it was right in front of me the whole time.

In recent weeks I've been doing more freelancing for newspapers. I just finished three articles since Friday, including this one published in Sunday's Naperville Sun. Those came a few weeks after I wrote a story about Evan Lysacek's sports podiatrist, also for the Sun, and a feature on a local high school basketball player for the Chicago Tribune.

None of the stories can be considered award worthy, but that doesn't matter. I wasn't writing them hoping to win an award. I was writing them because I enjoy writing those kinds of articles, especially the feature on Ryan Boatright.

What I discovered is that working didn't feel like work anymore. (OK, to be honest, when it came to deadline time and I was staring at a screen with only these words written, "By Paul LaTour," it felt a little like work.)

It felt invigorating. It felt good to be busy, to have a reason to wake up in the morning other than to avoid spending the day in my pajamas.

I have a few more assignments on my docket, including another one for the Tribune. Soon I'll be brimming with work as I try to ride this rebirth of enthusiasm. I'll be covering the high school state hockey semifinals and finals next week for the Tribune. I'll be covering high school girls soccer again, this time for ChicagolandSoccer.net.

And in just over a week I begin a part-time, temporary job with the U.S. Census Bureau. My task will be doing follow-up visits to group homes, nursing homes, shelters and dorms, making sure everyone is counted. I'm excited if only because it could lead to meeting some interesting people. Of course, everything I find out is confidential, so I won't be able share the details. Then again, they could turn up in a short story or two.

This is all to say that I have found my daily meaning. It really was with me the whole time.

I'm a guest star on another blog

2010-02-24T18:45:00.000-06:00

My new friend Dan Cote started a great Facebook fan page for the Minnesota North Stars. He's also created fan pages for just about every former North Star you can imagine (Dwight Bialowas? Moose Vasko???).

As part of that he started a blog, North Star Green Preservation Society. A few weeks ago he asked me to share some of my North Stars memories, which I finally got around to today. I have tons of memories, including one I've already shared here.

So if you get a chance, please head on over to Dan's blog to check out what I had to write. And don't be shy about telling him you want to share your own stories. That's what he's looking for.

The Miracle turns 30

2010-02-21T23:31:00.000-06:00

It was a Friday evening in late February, and my dream of being a famous goalie remained alive as I skated through hockey practice on my neighborhood rink in Woodland.

The sky above Duluth, Minn., was just beginning to fade into night when our assistant coach came racing out of the warming shack, yelling his head off. He ran to tell us what he had just heard, "We beat the Russians!"

That was Feb. 22, 1980, and I'm sure many people remember exactly where they were when they heard Team USA had defeated the powerful Soviet hockey machine in the Lake Placid Winter Olympics.

Some people mistakenly remember watching the game live. But it was shown on tape delay, the telecast starting about an hour after the game ended. I watched it in our family room, sitting about four inches from the screen the entire time.

I screamed when Mike Eruzione scored the eventual game-winner, and leaped from my seat as the final seconds ticked down, even though I already knew the result. I'm sure I stared in disbelief while watching the celebration because I still do it now when I see it replayed.

There are other seminal historical moments marking my lifetime. Nixon leaving the White House (home with my mom). The space shuttle Challenger disaster (in senior hall at Cathedral High School). The 9/11 attacks (in bed in Killeen, Texas).

Those were all negative events. The Miracle on Ice is different. It's one of the few positive moments that will always stick with me and so many other Americans. So on the 30-year anniversary of the greatest game in U.S. sports history, I thought I'd rehash where I was that incredible night.

As an added bonus, I'm also including a column I wrote for the Naperville Sun, which ran Feb. 22, 2005, on the 25th anniversary of the Miracle. Days earlier I had run into former Olympian Ken Morrow and was fortunate enough to get a short interview with him. I turned it into the following column.

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There can be only one Miracle

Naperville Sun, The (IL) - Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Author: Paul LaTour

His hair is thinning and more of his forehead is showing because of it. His grizzly beard -- the one Disney inexplicably sheared off -- has been traded for a more clean-shaven look.

Otherwise Ken Morrow looks about the same as he did when he played for the one hockey team no American will ever forget: the 1980 U.S. Olympic team.

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the "Miracle on Ice" when the United States upset the Soviets, 4-3, at Lake Placid, N.Y. Morrow, a defenseman, was on the ice as the clock ran out and Al Michaels uttered the unforgettable line, "Do you believe in miracles?"

Morrow was soon joined by the entire team on the ice, a swarming mass of overjoyed, exuberant players who could hardly believe what they had accomplished. Two days later, they won the gold medal with a come-from-behind win over Finland.

Most of the players will unite again today in Lake Placid for festivities honoring the 1980 U.S. Winter Olympians. Mike Eruzione, the team captain who scored the game-winning goal against the Soviets, will be there.

Morrow will be there, too. Sadly, Herb Brooks will not be.

Brooks , the U.S. coach and chief architect, was killed in a car accident Aug. 18, 2003. Brooks never saw Disney's adaptation, "Miracle," in which actor Kurt Russell gave a dead-on portrayal of him.

Although Brooks will be missing, Morrow wasn't sure his coach would have come to today's reunion anyway.

"He never really was at any of the other ones," Morrow said. "He was like that as a coach. He stayed away from the players."

Even on that glorious February night in 1980, Brooks let the players celebrate on the ice while he quietly slipped into the shadows, away from the cameras, away from the attention.

The movie, released last February, brought back a flood of attention. Morrow had nothing but praise for the film, even though some of the technical aspects were slightly askew.

One thing in particular caught Morrow's attention.

"I didn't have a beard (in the movie), that was the thing I noticed right away," Morrow said. "But with all the defining moments, they were right on the mark. They did a great job with that."

Of all the members on that team, Morrow can be considered the most fortunate in terms of hockey success. He went from a gold medal to a Stanley Cup championship with the New York Islanders in less than four months.

His championship run continued for three more years as the Islanders won four straight Cups. As rewarding as those titles must have been, beating the Russians still tops his list of accomplishments.

"It's a moment that's stood the test of time and, if anything, is gaining in stature," Morrow said. "People still want to talk about it 25 years later."

People like me, who happened to spot Morrow in the Allstate Arena press box earlier this month. Morrow, now a scout for the Islanders, was watching the Chicago Wolves play the Houston Aeros on Feb. 12.

He comes through this way quite often, actually, and not always on business. His wife's sister lives in Wheaton.

Morrow is still a recognizable figure, even without the beard. A cluster of fans stood ready to greet him between periods in the walkway behind the press box. Included in the group of autograph seekers was a man wearing a 1980 U.S. replica jersey with the No. 80 on the back.

The scene brought back memories of just how meaningful hockey once was in this country. Today, as the Olympians reunite in Lake Placid, hockey could not be on shakier ground. Talk of salary caps, lockouts and canceled seasons dominate conversations.

It is more than a little ironic, then, that a hockey game is considered by many -- myself included -- as the greatest sports moment in U.S. history.

While Morrow talked about the NHL lockout, which had not yet resulted in the cancellation of the season, he joked that if the NHL resumed play this season it would be another Miracle on Ice.

He's wrong, though. There can never be another.

Copyright, 2005, The Naperville Sun. All rights reserved.

Mr. Zero remains my favorite Blackhawk

2010-02-09T13:08:00.001-06:00

Somewhere buried in a box stacked in a downstairs closet, a cardboard tribute to my ex-idol sits untouched for years. It's a Tony Esposito hockey card, a ragged-edged memento of my youth.

I always wanted to be a goalie. But not just any goalie – I wanted to be Tony Esposito. Thanks to that card, which I got when I was around 5 or 6, I noticed he held his goalie stick in the same hand I did – the left.

That was pretty uncommon then. So uncommon the community rink I played for in the late '70s (Woodland) didn’t even have a left-handed blocker pad. So I had to use a regular hockey glove to hold my stick. The catcher glove for my right was this mangled piece of leather that could barely be opened and closed. Thankfully, I played for a great team and wasn’t called upon to make many saves. But man, would my feet get cold standing back in the crease for what seemed like hours at a time.

I watched Espo on TV and saw how he would scrape the snow from his crease and pile it up on the sides of the net, creating a nice inhibitor to the wraparound. I would do the same thing, sometimes piling it so high a puck would get lost in it on those rare times the puck came that close to my net.

I carried Espo’s hockey card around with me all the time. The bottom became pretty tattered because I used it to play marble hockey on the upstairs hallway floor of my parents’ house. All my hockey cards bear the marks of those games, but especially Espo’s, which also had a piece of Scotch tape holding it together after it got torn in half.

Esposito played for the Chicago Blackhawks, a team I came to despise as I got older. Living in northern Minnesota, we were all North Stars fans. And the Blackhawks were our No. 1 rival, at least in the late '70s and '80s.

It was a classic rivalry, highlighted by the battles between Dino Ciccarrelli and Al Secord. So hated was Secord that North Stars fans still cheered “Secord sucks” when the Hawks were in town long after he retired. I've posted YouTube videos of the bench-clearing brawls that punctuated the teams' meetings.

Tonight the Blackhawks are honoring Esposito, as they have with many of their former superstars in the past couple of seasons. I've converted to the Dark Side by cheering for the Hawks now, but I turned away when Bob Probert, Denis Savard and Steve Larmer were given their Heritage Night honors.

It's different with Esposito, even though he played on some of those teams I hated. When he was toward the tail-end of his Hall of Fame career we used to heckle him through the TV. He had a habit of going down for a puck and then just staying on the ice. We laughed and said he was too old to get back up to his feet, or that the Chicago Stadium needed to install a crane to help him.

But I always had a hard time getting into the jeering. I wanted to fit in with my older brothers and their friends, so I pretended I also hated Esposito. Yet, deep down he remained one of my all-time favorite goalies, second only to Cesare Maniago of the North Stars.

So later today I will go digging for my old Espo playing card, the one with a 35-year-old piece of Scotch tape holding it together.* I will scour the Internet looking for articles about Esposito like this one from ex-Tribune writer Bob Verdi.

And I will watch on TV as the Hawks honor the goalie I emulated above all others. Maybe I'll even pile snow on either side of my recliner, you know, just to capture the spirit of the thing.

* -- UPDATE: I found the card, and it turns out I was confused. My Ken Dryden card from the same year is the taped-up one. The Esposito one is in one piece, though the edges are pretty ragged.

Keith Brooking can suck it

2010-01-18T17:34:00.002-06:00

My basketball career wasn’t exactly loaded with highlights. I was a bench-warming guard for Cathedral who usually only played when the game was already decided. Because the Hilltoppers weren’t very good, that meant I saw a lot of action when we were losing.

That was the case when we faced Duluth East on our home court my senior year. East, a much larger school with a very good team, featured a 7-foot center who went on to play college basketball. The Greyhounds were rolling over us as usual, so of course, I was on the court in the fourth quarter.

We were trailing by at least 60 points as East inched closer and closer to the 100-point mark. They had either 98 or 99 points with just a couple minutes left to play. I had the ball at the top about 20 feet from the basket when I turned it over (big surprise).

The player who stole it quickly lofted the ball over my head. As I turned I saw for the first time that the 7-foot, college-bound star was standing at midcourt waiting for the pass. He was floating out there doing what is known as cherry picking.

He took the ball, ran down the court ahead of me and went up for a dunk. I had nearly caught up to him. I was close enough to have grabbed him as he jumped. I could have laid a shoulder into him and brought him down.

Instead, I did nothing. The kid slammed the ball home and the Greyhounds hit the century mark in points. Their bench went nuts—it was as if they had just won state.

All these years later, I still regret not taking him down. Sure it would have been a foul and I probably would have been ejected. But I would have prevented the humiliation of having my nose rubbed in it during an already embarrassing night.

All these years later, I’m still pissed East’s coach would leave his best player in the game. And that not only was he still playing, he was cherry picking. It was a blatant disregard of sportsmanship, and it showed an utter lack of class on the coach's part.

To listen to Keith Brooking, he’d have you believing that was comparable to what the Vikings did Sunday at the end of their 34-3 victory over the Cowboys. In case you somehow missed this, Brett Favre threw a touchdown pass on fourth-down late in the game and Brooking, a Cowboys linebacker, took umbrage. He charged to the Vikings’ sideline and began jawing at the players and coaches.

“I just thought what happened at the end of the game was disrespectful,” Brooking said in the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. “It was classless and all the things that are in that category. I’ll say it to the Vikings organization and whoever is over there calling plays. It wasn’t the right thing to do at that time. Period.”

Here’s the deal though, Brooking, this is professional sports. You get paid a lot of money to do your job, which is to stop the other team from scoring. You failed to do that time and again on Sunday.

It’s possible Brooking’s postgame comments included his admission that the Cowboys were badly outplayed. I don’t know. But what was published and reported made Brooking look bad … really bad. Even without the final touchdown, the game was never close. How much better would he feel if the final had been 27-3? Or 30-3 if the Vikings had kicked a field goal instead of going for it?

In pro sports, you play as hard as you can for the entire game. People pay good money to be there and they deserve an honest effort. Just because the Cowboys quit, doesn’t mean the Vikings had to, also.

That is the fundamental difference between what happened on that basketball court 24 years ago and what took place in the Metrodome on Sunday. In pro sports, there is no running up the score. That’s a term used for situations when amateurs sometimes find themselves badly overmatched through no fault of their own.

A high school coach who encourages his team to keep pouring on points against an overmatched team teaches his players it’s all right to humiliate someone with less talent. A professional coach who does that teaches his players there is no letting up, especially in the playoffs.

The stupid part of this whole thing is how short everyone’s memories are. In Week 17 of the season the Cowboys led the Eagles 24-0 with 2:26 left to play. On fourth down with the game long decided, the Cowboys opted to throw from the shotgun at the Eagles’ 35.

Of course, Tony Romo was sacked on that play, so the Cowboys didn’t have to face accusations of running up the score. Odd, I don't remember Brooking saying anything about that.

It's #&%! Norm Green's fault!

2010-01-09T18:22:00.003-06:00

I really forgot how much the North Stars and Blackhawks hated each other. The rivalry even tops anything between the Packers and Vikings, I think.

Yet tonight I'll be cheering for the Hawks as they face the Wild. Believe me, if the North Stars hadn't left Minnesota I never would have become a Hawks fans. But that's not what happened. Norm Green up and stole the team away from Minnesota, leaving me to look elsewhere for a home team.

Still, it's fun to look back on the old days and remember how much we hated the Hawks. For old times' sake, join with me once more in this memorable chant that echoed through the Met Center: Secord sucks! Secord sucks! Secord sucks!

One blog per day all month -- Mission Accomplished!

2009-12-31T23:57:00.000-06:00

I did it. At the beginning of December I promised to post something on my blog every day for the entire month. Today marks post No. 31, and although it is coming after midnight I'm still counting it. Thus I have accomplished my goal.

And now that I've done that, I doubt I'll ever try to do it again. The reasons are varied, but mostly because it became increasingly difficult for me to write anything of substance. It was fun digging through YouTube looking for videos about hockey or music or whatever.

But I didn't create anything in those posts that stretched my writing muscle. I started the blog because I want to use this space as if I am writing essays for a newspaper. I wasn't able to do that very often this month because those type of posts usually take me longer to write. Sometimes it takes three or four days for me to get all my thoughts in order enough to share them.

For whatever reason, that didn't happen this month. I spent more time looking for videos or links than I did with the actual writing. I'm glad I tried the daily blogging thing, though. It was an interesting experiment and did keep me from neglecting the blog. I was losing steam with it in October and November, but I didn't want to stop doing it.

I also decided I want to keep blogging. I may not be doing it every day anymore, that's true. But I am hoping to do it at least once a week. That way I'll keep my writing muscle a lean, mean fighting machine.

I remain amazed anybody is reading this at all, but I am thankful there are readers. It makes it much more fun knowing I'm not doing this for nothing.

Happy New Year!

At the cinema in 2009

2009-12-30T23:27:00.013-06:00

I have never been much of a movie critic. The art of good critique is beyond me, and I'm fine with that. I watch a lot of movies and I know a good one from a bad one (or maybe I don't), but I can't often describe the particular elements that led me to my decision.

I also hate being judged, which is funny because I'm constantly judging others and they never measure up (I keed, I keed). So when I tell someone I liked a movie, or didn't like a movie, it inevitably becomes a situation where I have to defend my position. And I take it personally when someone hates a movie I liked.

So naturally I decided a perfect blog post for me would be to rank the movies I saw in 2009. Makes sense, right? I'm not going to include all the movies I saw (27 -- I've watched more, but those are just ones released in 2009), but I am going to include some I wish I'd seen, and some I wish I'd never seen.

By the way, if you want to read a real movie critic, check out my friend Josh's excellent site. He knows a thing or two about actual critiques.

Enough of the buildup. Here are my lists:

My Top Five (in no particular order)

"Up in the Air" -- Maybe it's because I'm out of work, but this movie really struck a chord with me. Well-written and acted, I was pleased at how the filmmakers avoided the cliches I figured were going to be inevitable.
"Crazy Heart" -- Just saw this today, so it's probably getting on the list because it's fresh in my mind. Jeff Bridges is deserving of the Oscar buzz he's receiving for playing Bad Blake, a down-and-out country-western singer. How could I not love a movie with great acting and great music?
"Adventureland" and/or "Zombieland" -- This is clearly cheating, but I enjoyed both of these movies a whole lot and that's because of the eminently likable Jesse Eisenberg.
"Funny People" -- A lot of people hated this movie because they mistakenly thought it was going to be a comedy. While it had its funny moments, the poignant scenes between Adam Sandler and Seth Rogan are why it's on my list. When Zevon's "Keep Me in Your Heart" came on I had to choke back tears. Sandler and Rogan don't say anything for quite a while while the song plays, but their expressions say everything. I just really liked that scene and the movie, though I wish they had trimmed it down by about 30 minutes.
"Away We Go" -- I've noticed that I seem to like movies with likable male leads. This one's got Jon Krasinski in what I think is his best role. I love him as Jim on "The Office," but he's even better in this one. Maya Rudolph really surprised me, too

My Bottom Five

"Paul Blart, Mall Cop": This is one of those, "What the hell was I thinking when I actually put this into my DVD player?" Awful. Just awful. But kind of awesome in its awfulness.
"Year One" -- What a waste of talent. It had a few moments of actual comedy, but they were few and far between.
"Land of the Lost" -- Will Ferrell is quickly falling off my list of must-see actors. Although I'd wait in line outside overnight for an "Anchorman" sequel.
"The Goods" -- The only time anything resembling a laugh escaped me was during scenes with Craig Robinson. "Alligators? Who brought alligators?"
"Drag Me to Hell" -- It felt like that's exactly what happened for the 99 minutes I spent watching this garbage.

Three related to an apocalypse

"2012" -- This wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. You can't go wrong when you take every means of natural disaster ever filmed and throw them into one movie starring John Cusack, right?
"The Road" -- A faithful adaptation of a remarkable novel, it lacks Cormac McCarthy's beautiful prose. Thus the emotion is drained from the story and I felt nothing at the end. I did enjoy seeing McCarthy's postapocalyptic world brought to the screen, though.
"Watchmen" -- I read the graphic novel a few months later and realized how badly the movie missed the mark. I found this too violent, and that's saying something.

Three I should have seen

"Where the Wild Things Are" -- I already regret not seeing this in a movie theater.
"The Hurt Locker"
"A Serious Man"

Three I missed that are now waiting in my Netflix queue

"(500) Days of Summer"
"Up"
"Extract"

Bench-clearing brawl, Part 2

2009-12-29T23:00:00.002-06:00

No rivalry in any professional sport was more feisty than the Blackhawks-North Stars one in the 1980s and early '90s. The fans hated each other. The players hated each other. The coaches hated each other.

All that hatred boiled over on a night 20 years ago in the old Chicago Stadium. This came to mind after I wrote about the brawl between Canada and Russia durig the 1987 World Juniors. That one still gets my vote as the worst ever due to the circumstances.

Anybody remember this one? Man, I miss those days. I never would have considered cheering for the Hawks like I do now if the North Stars hadn't been stolen away.

What. A. Joke.

2009-12-28T23:21:00.007-06:00

Photo credit: Scott Strazzante, Chicago Tribune

Remember when I said how I was going to just enjoy the Vikings season and not worry about the inevitable letdown? Sure you do. I wrote it in a blog entry earlier this month. Right before the 10-1 Vikings turned into the 11-4 Vikings.

As it turns out, I wasn't able to enjoy anything. The collapse came faster than I imagined. In that four-game span the Vikings played themselves right out of contention for home-field advantage in the playoffs and a first-round bye.

Sure, they can still get the No. 2 seed, but now they need the Eagles to lose. Up until Adrian Peterson fumbled and Jay Cutler turned into an actual quarterback tonight, the Vikings were in control of their playoff scenario. Not so anymore.

When they trailed the Bears 23-6 in the third quarter I vowed to turn the game off and not watch the Vikings again this season. I was fed up. Then Brett Favre and the offense woke up and rallied to force overtime with an impressive fourth-quarter comeback that included two game-tying drives in the final six minutes.

But the special teams and defense again showed how they are not to be trusted. A team in serious contention for a Super Bowl does not have glaring weaknesses like the ones exposed by the Cardinals, Panthers and Bears. Oh my!

Now I don't know what to do. On one hand, not watching the season finale against the Giants will free up my Sunday. I could spend the day reading or something. On the other, I feel oddly compelled to watch the implosion, much the same way people can't resist gawking at a car crash.

Maybe I should just hope Los Angeles can lure the team away from Minnesota. That way I won't have to feel guilty when I declare allegiance to the Bears*.

* -- This statement was made in anger. I reserve the right to rescind it at a future time.

A hockey brawl like no other

2009-12-27T20:13:00.006-06:00

I'm about 22 years late on this but I really didn't know about this event until earlier today. It's a brawl between Canada and Russia during the 1987 World Junior Hockey Championships.

I've never seen anything like it, especially when you consider the setting. It was the final game of the tournament. Canada led 4-2 on its way to a possible gold medal. Future NHL stars such as Theo Fleury, Brendon Shanahan, Pierre Turgeon, Sergei Fedorov, Alexander Mogilny and Vladimir Konstantinov played in the game.

But with 13:53 remaining in the second period, the worst bench-clearing brawl I've ever seen broke out. Fleury was at the epicenter, which should come as no surprise. Turgeon and Canada's backup goalie were the only two to not join in the fight. Turgeon remained on the bench with his head down while the 20-minute melee went on. His inaction was deemed unforgiveable by some teammates.

Both teams were kicked out of the tournament, meaning Canada went home without a medal. The 2010 WJC is under way now in Canada. But I doubt anything like this will break out.

Musical interlude -- 2009 finale

2009-12-26T22:21:00.007-06:00

This has been a good year for me in terms of discovering new music, which I already wrote about this month. But one band I left off the list was Arcade Fire, mostly because the band didn't release anything new and didn't tour. I just heard them for the first time this year.

I actually had heard them a few times on the radio, but nothing ever stuck with me. That happens sometimes. You hear a band at one point in your life and don't think anything of them. Then you hear them later and they strike a chord.

So when I was at a local music store I just grabbed "Funeral" and gave it a shot. I loved it, enough so I went out and bought the second CD, "Neon Bible" within the same week. That one was released in 2007 and Arcade Fire has yet to make another.

I'm not sure if they have anything planned for 2010, but I sure hope so. Meanwhile, they did get some attention this year when one of their songs off "Funeral" was featured in the "Where the Wild Things Are" trailers.

Enjoy this video.

A final Christmas post ... for this year

2009-12-25T22:53:00.005-06:00

As Christmas slowly fades away for another year I'm left feeling a little corny. So I dug up this video to share. I was a junior in high school when this song came out, but I still have vivid memories of watching this video.

The song is far superior to this one, though USA For Africa did have a Springsteen solo and duet with Stevie Wonder. It's hard to top Bono's solo here, though. He looks so young, plus he's sporting an awesome mullet.

O Vikings Tree Redux

2009-12-24T17:56:00.003-06:00

OK, this is big-time cheating on my part. But it's Christmas Eve and I don't have anything to blog about quickly. So I'm reaching back to earlier this month when I posted the video Kristin made to go with her version of "O Christmas Tree."

If you haven't seen it yet, please check it out. If you have seen it before, I hope you don't mind taking another look. Or you could just ignore this completely. But that doesn't seem like a very Christmassy thing to do.

Merry Christmas everybody!

What does it mean to be a fan?

2009-12-23T21:40:00.002-06:00

Every Sunday morning during football season, it's the same thing. I get out of bed and go hang my Vikings flag from our front stoop. Sometimes Kristin does it, but either way, the flag is usually flying by 10 a.m.

I have a contest with my neighbor, a Lions fan who also hangs a flag on Sunday mornings. I'm always disappointed when I see that he's got his out there before I do. I'm also disappointed when I realize he's not aware of our contest.

When it gets close to game time, I make sure I'm wearing my purple Vikings thermal shirt under my white Adrian Peterson jersey. I look through my collection of six Vikings hats, but I always choose this one. I pour myself a Diet Pepsi or Diet Mountain Dew into the same Vikings mug I've had since the 1970s.

Then I head to my recliner where I take my good luck charm (a squirrel friend) and put a tiny Vikings helmet on her head. I place her on the Vikings couch/Kleenex dispenser that sits next to me. Then -- and only then -- am I ready for the game to start.

I own three Vikings jerseys. In addition to the hats, I have two Vikings T-shirts and one purple hoodie. A shelf in my TV room is loaded with Vikings memorabilia. I have a Vikings window flag for my car, which also has a Vikings license plate holder on the rear. Our downstairs bathroom has a Vikings shower curtain, and I have three Vikings light switch plates downstairs as well.

This is all to say, I love the Vikings. I consider myself a true fan. Yet, I know there are others who would say I'm not a good fan, that I should support my team no matter what it does. So when the Vikes play like crap and embarrass themselves and their fans on national television as they did Sunday night, I should just suck it up and say, "We'll get them next time."

[On a side note, true fans use "we" when referring to the teams they cheer for. I'm not on the team, so I don't say "we." "We" did not lose to the Panthers. The Vikings did.]

I suppose then I'm not a true fan. When the game is over -- win or lose -- my life goes on. I might be mad for a while, as I was this week, but a loss has no long-term effect on my life. When they win, I'm happy. Even that wears off after a while, though. I wasn't always like that, but I am now.

I don't get the types of fans who dress like the guy pictured above. I've never seen the appeal of being a face-painter, either. I can't fathom why someone would get on a message board and rip others for criticizing the team. And I can't understand how so many people could behave like this, even in Philly.

Living in Chicago, I see this discussion up close when it relates to baseball fans. White Sox fans are practical. When their team is good, like it was in 2005, they go gangbusters and support them. When the team is awful, they refuse to spend their hard-earned money on the bums.

Then there are Cubs fans, the ones who are so often romanticized beyond reality. They brag about sticking with their team through all their years of mediocrity and worse, yet during the times I've gone to Wrigley I hardly see anyone watching the game, especially in the bleachers which are really more like a singles bar. The game is just background.

I realize both of those descriptions are stereotypes, but which set of fans can be considered true fans? Can I consider myself a true fan even though I posted "Stick a fork in 'em," as my Facebook status Sunday night?

You tell me. What makes a fan a true fan?

I wanna drive the Zamboni

2009-12-22T20:11:00.026-06:00

Photo credit: Steve Stearns / Duluth News-Tribune

Longtime hockey fans from Duluth will recognize the guy on the right. They’ll probably recognize the one on the left, too, but this isn’t a post about me wanting to dress like the state bird, skate on stilts, and call myself the Maroon Loon.

No, the man I’m talking about is Walt, and I loved to watch him work. I’m not alone in that feeling, I’m sure. You see, Walt drove the Zamboni at the Duluth Arena. While many fans headed to the bathrooms and concession stands between periods of high school or UMD hockey games, I stayed glued in my seat, watching Walt guide the Zamboni through its looping patterns over the ice.

I loved how clean and wet the ice looked after the machine passed over it. I loved how he sped up along the straightaways and appeared to coast into the corners without smashing into the boards.

Years later I met Walt, who was an avid bowler at the alley where I used to work. By then it was no big deal. But had I met him as a child, it would have been akin to meeting Mark Pavelich, the former Bulldog who played for the 1980 Miracle on Ice team (if you saw “Miracle,” he was one of the Coneheads).

And so began my lifelong love affair with the Zamboni. Damned if I can tell you why it’s so fascinating, but I still stay parked in my seat between periods to watch them do their work. I pull for them to clean every inch of ice, and cringe when they’ve missed a spot and have to come back. I get mad when they dare ignore their faux pas.

It is crazy how much of my hockey enjoyment is wrapped up with the Zamboni. As a senior in high school I went to the state hockey tournament with a group of friends. It was held at the old St. Paul Civic Center, which was known for its clear boards. We had seats in the corner against the glass. Throughout the entire weekend, every time the Zamboni came by we were there greeting it and its driver, Mike. Twenty-some years later and I still remember his name was Mike.

One of my strongest memories of visiting the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, Minn., is seeing the fourth Zamboni ever built on display. I’m secretly envious of my sister-in-law, Alicia, because she is a rink manager in Pueblo, Colo., and gets to drive the Zamboni. On a visit several years ago, she wouldn’t let me drive it, but she did pull me behind it as I imagined 20,000 people at the old Met Center watching me between periods of a North Stars game.

I’ve never been fortunate enough to sit behind the wheel, to experience what the Gear Daddies meant when they sang:

Now ever since I was young it’s been my dream / That I might drive a Zamboni machine / I’d get the ice just as slick as could be / And all the kids would look up to me.

Walt knows what that’s all about. Lucky guy.

I. Am. Iron Man.

2009-12-21T22:04:00.010-06:00

At this point in my life I don't really care if people think I'm a geek. That's why I'm willing to admit how excited I am to see "Iron Man 2" when it is released May 7.

I love movies based on comic books, especially the ones featuring Marvel superheroes. I own the Spider-Man and X-Men trilogies on DVD, and have the original Iron Man on Blu-ray. I've seen the great ones, the good ones, the bad ones, and the horrific ones. I've found something to like in all of them, even something from "Fantastic Four."

Back in my youth I collected comics, mostly the Marvel ones I've already mentioned. Some of them are still with me in a box downstairs. I keep threatening to dig through them, but I never get around to it.

Anyway, I saw the IM2 clip a little while ago, so that's why I started thinking about all this. I just hope I'm not setting myself up for disappointment. Sequels usually don't top the originals. Plus, I make a habit of setting myself up for disappointment. We shall see.

A weird, scary Santa

2009-12-20T23:09:00.008-06:00

Chicago has a wealth of wonderful traditions at this time of year. We were lucky enough to participate in one of them last night. But Christmas in Chicago also means the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival, the Christkindlmarket Chicago in Daley Plaza, and of course, the window displays at the former Marshall Field store on State Street.

But there is one tradition I just don't understand: the affinity for "Hardrock, Coco and Joe," a black-and-white, stop-motion animated Christmas special that began airing in the 1950s on WGN-TV.

I saw it between movies at the Music Box Theatre last night. I had only seen it one other time, but Kristin told me local car dealerships distribute a free DVD of it each Christmas season. It lasts around three minutes, but the creepy Santa sticks with you for much longer.

Take a look for yourself below. Then ask who wouldn't be forever scarred by this version of Santa Claus and his horrific, child-eating teeth? (Check out the 50-second mark and tell me I'm wrong about those teeth.)

I don't get it. Maybe some long-time Chicagoans can help explain its appeal.

Dreaming of a White Christmas and remembering It's a Wonderful Life

2009-12-20T02:46:00.011-06:00

I hadn't even walked into the theater yet, but already the sounds of Christmas carols were greeting me in the lobby of the Music Box Theatre tonight. I was there with Kristin, and our friends Andy and Corri.

As I stepped through the doors I saw Santa Claus sitting next to an organist at the front of the packed theater. Cheerful voices rose up in singing. Winter Wonderland. Jingle Bells. Rudolph. All the easy sing-a-longs songs, yet the lyrics were still being displayed on the movie screen. People wore crazy Christmas hats and ugly, busy sweaters. Some held lighted props or shook tiny bells.

We settled into our seats and joined in, though I really just pretended to sing. Up until that moment I hadn't given much thought to it being Christmas time. Now here I was immersed in this celebration, the 26th Annual Music Box Christmas Show. It's a double-feature with "White Christmas" followed by "It's a Wonderful Life," which is my favorite Christmas movie.

I couldn't help getting a little choked up as I looked around and took in the whole scene. It was such a festive atmosphere and everybody was so happy, it made me think about how fortunate I am. Just for being there. With Kristin and with our friends.

It's something I need to remember more often.

My Year in Music -- Part II

2009-12-18T23:55:00.015-06:00

I'm back to complete the list I began two days ago. This all took way too long to put together, so I don't think I'm going to do something similar again. It's really just a way for me to talk about me anyway, and though this is a blog, I usually strive to make it about something more universal. But with this I guess you get to see the kinds of music/bands I like and a little bit about why. So with that, it's on to the top five. Thanks for reading.

5. Patterson Hood – It wasn’t a Rawk Show like his Drive-By Truckers fans are used to, but Patterson had a hell of a performance at the Metro on June 20. Playing songs from his long-awaited solo album, “Murdering Oscar and Other Love Songs,” Hood ripped through a memorable set with his Screwtopians backing band, which featured members of DBT and Centro-matic. I missed seeing DBT this year, but this show helped make up for that. It was a big year for the Truckers, who also released a live CD and a rarities collection. The band just announced it’s switching record labels and releasing a new studio album in the spring. I can’t wait for the Truckers’ return to Chicago.

4. Bruuuuuuce!!! – I’ve seen better Springsteen shows, but the May 12 performance at the United Center may be one I remember for a long time. It may be the last time I see Springsteen perform with the E Street Band. Plenty of speculation points to the “Working on a Dream” Tour being the final full-fledged tour for the man and band whose impact influenced my life more than any other artist. It’s hard to accept for me, but they’re getting old. Clarence had to sit for most of the show this night. Max Weinberg sat out almost half the show, being replaced on drums by his talented son, Jay. Patty wasn’t there. Nothing official has been announced, so I hope I’m wrong about this. I wasn’t able to see them when they returned to the UC in September, the show they played Born to Run in its entirety. I just hope I get another chance.

3. The Duke and the King – Like I said in the first half of this post, I didn’t listen to enough new music to put together a list of the year’s best albums. But I find it hard to believe I’d hear one better than The Duke and the King’s debut CD, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” Simone Felice left the Felice Brothers, the roots-rock band he started with his two younger brothers, to form this band with Robert Burke. The pairing is magic. As I did with Joe Pug, I ask that you really listen to this song – it’s achingly beautiful, as is much of what the album holds. I missed my chance to see them when they came through Chicago the first time. That won’t happen next time.

2. Jon Dee Graham – I first saw Jon Dee when Kristin and I lived in Texas. Though he doesn’t leave his home state all that often, thankfully when he does he usually comes through Chicago. We caught him a couple years ago and remembered a story he told between songs about how bad the food is when he’s out on the road, and how much he misses home-cooked meals and desserts while he’s away from Austin. When we were finally able to see him again, Kristin got in touch with him through Facebook and told him she wanted to bake him a pie. He requested a butter-chess pie, a staple of Texan desserts. So on Nov. 7 Kristin and I showed up, pie in hand, for Jon Dee’s show at FitzGerald’s in Berwyn. We met him backstage and he fawned over Kristin, amazed that one of his fans could be so thoughtful.

During the show Jon Dee shared his pie with the audience, even coming out to serve it with Kristin’s help.

He put on an amazing show that night, playing songs from his upcoming new CD. Afterward we stopped backstage to say goodbye. He gave Kristin a big hug and thanked her again. Then he hugged me and said, “You take care of this one.” I’m trying my best to do just that.

1. Slobberbone returns – I’m proof that you don’t need to be as whiskey-soaked as their music is to enjoy Slobberbone. Still, I imagine their live shows would be even more fun with a few belts of Jack. I first saw them in around 2001 at Antone’s in Austin with Kristin. We didn’t see them again until 2005 at the Abbey Pub in Chicago during their farewell tour. Four years later they got back together and played a short reunion tour that included a return to the Abbey on Aug. 13. Kristin and I were there, right up against the stage in front of guitarist Jess Barr (you can hear Kristin singing at about the 1:20 mark in the “Meltdown” video below). Four nights later I drove up to Green Bay with my friend, Andy, to see them again. Both shows were amazing. I hope I don’t have to wait another four years to see them again.

The Pillowman

2009-12-18T00:11:00.003-06:00

This is Martin McDonagh, an Irish playwright and movie director ("In Bruges"). Kristin and I just saw his play, "The Pillowman," at Redtwist Theatre in Chicago's Edgewater neighborhood.

The play is a violent drama told with dark humor and, according to Redtwist's Web site, "a vicious whirlpool of dazzling storytelling at the hysterical edge of creepy and encroaching, despair and doom."

I plan to talk about it more in a future post about storytelling, but for now I just wanted to put this up on my blog so I can go to bed. My Year in Music will be continued tomorrow.

Here's a video showing some rehearsal footage of the play.

My year in music -- Part 1

2009-12-16T22:45:00.001-06:00

I haven't seen enough live shows or heard enough CDs released in 2009 to do a "best of" year in review. But by merging them into one category, I'm able to come up with a top 10 list, My Year in Music. It took me longer than expected to compile this, so I had to split it into two posts. And now I don't have to worry about coming up with something for tomorrow's post.

10. Scotland Yard Gospel Choir – This Bloodshot Records band was poised to take off in 2009. I saw them with Kristin at the Taste of Chicago on June 27. They were playing songs from a new CD that was released in September. As they hit the road for that tour amid rising critical acclaim, their van blew a tire on an Indiana interstate. Several members were severely injured and the tour was called off. They are still rehabbing. But let's hope they hit the stage again soon. A really great band.

Scotland Yard Gospel Choir (LIVE) - "And the horse you rode in on" from Bloodshot Records on Vimeo.

9. Meat Puppets – I left Pizza Luce in downtown Duluth on July 15 at 2 a.m. (so technically it was July 16) in shock. I had just seen the Meat Puppets for the first time. They were old, they were loud, they were enthusiastic. The crowd was young, loud and even more enthusiastic. I wasn't up to joining the mosh pit up front, so I slid over to the side room and watched most of the show from behind glass. It did nothing to diminish the energy. I was completely enthralled, both from the band and the fact it was happening in my hometown. Afterward as I walked down Superior Street with my friend, Mark, he joked, "Just a typical Wednesday night in Duluth." Ummm, not from what I remembered.

8. Steve Earl’s release, “Townes” – Townes Van Zandt died New Year's Day 1997 after years of substance abuse as a virtual unknown in mainstream America. But Townes was an amazing songwriter who influenced some remarkable artists, including Earle. Earle once said, "Townes Van Zandt is the best songwriter in the whole world, and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that." To keep his mentor/friend's memory alive, Earle released a 15-track CD this summer of Townes songs. Give it a listen sometime. And please if you don't know who Townes Van Zandt is, do some research. It's worth it.

7. Gaslight Anthem – I found out about them, bought their latest CD, "The '59 Sound," and saw them live at Bottom Lounge all within a couple weeks last spring. I'm like that when I find something new I like. I obsess. And a band so clearly influenced by Springsteen is obviously going to rate pretty highly for me.

6. Discovering Joe Pug – Ranking a step higher for me was finding out about this Chicago songwriter. He, too, is burdoned with comparisons. This time it's to Bob Dylan, which is clear to see in this video. Do me a favor and really listen to the song and lyrics. I'm drawn to songwriters, and Joe Pug is one of the best out there right now.

What's the deal with this scar?

2009-12-15T22:27:00.016-06:00

For years I've had this mark on my left shoulder, the one pictured above. It looks like a crater or, as Kristin says, as if a burning spiked Froot Loop had been pressed into my flesh. Why anybody would do that, or how anybody could actually set fire to a Froot Loop are questions best left for another day.

I've had the mark for as long as I can remember. I'm sure at some point I asked my parents about it, found out what it was, and stored the knowledge somewhere in a compartment of my brain.

Eventually that compartment filled up and my brain began jettisoning old information so it could store new, more important things. Like Springsteen's birthday (Sept. 23, 1949 -- and, no, I did not have to Google it) or that Pete Rose got the first hit at the Metrodome, though it came during an exhibition game (I did double-check after I wrote it. But I was right. It happened on April 3, 1982, so you'll have to scroll down a bit in the link).

Anyway, back to this scar. Kristin has asked me about it from time to time, and I think at one point I told her it was some sort of vaccination scar. But I wasn't sure what it was for.

Tonight she asked again. And since I didn't have anything to blog about and I had my laptop with me, I did an Internet image search on vaccination scars. I came up with this, but be warned -- some of the images are rather disgusting.

I noticed one that looked similar to mine and found out the vaccination was for smallpox. Back when I was a little kid, getting the vaccine was routine. But Kristin doesn't have a similar scar because the vaccinations stopped in 1972, the year she was born. At that point the disease had been eradicated in the United States.

The mystery is solved. So not only will I always remember my scar is from a smallpox vaccination, I'll never forget the guy who had the first hit in Metrodome history -- Ted Williams. Wait, that's not right. Dammit.

The future of Sports Illustrated?

2009-12-14T22:52:00.002-06:00

I haven't had much time to read about this, but it appears Sports Illustrated is creating something similar to a Kindle for its publication. I'm not sure what to think, but I do know it looks pretty cool.

Check out the YouTube video and then let me know what you think.

Reading retention

2009-12-13T20:26:00.023-06:00

I reorganized my bookshelves last week after Kristin moved the furniture in our living room. She took all the books out to move the shelves, and when she put them back they were all out of order. Being a somewhat anal-retentive dork, this drove me nuts.

My favorite authors row was mixed up with my Irish history books, which had been separated from my Irish fiction. My Native American section was interspersed with my music biographies. Stephen King was standing next to the Best American Sports Writing collection.*

It was chaos. And I'm pretty sure Kristin did it on purpose.

But it turned out to be a good thing. Going through all my books again was a little like taking a trip to a used bookstore. There were books I haven't read yet, plus ones I had forgotten about. I looked through some of the latter kind, trying to jog my memory about their plots.

That's when it hit me -- my reading retention is abysmal. I struggle to remember specific details about many of the books I've read. Take "Miles from Nowhere" by Nami Mun. I loved the book, which has received much acclaim.

But when Kristin picked it up to read a few weeks ago, I couldn't remember anything about it, other than it was gritty and involved heavy drug use. I didn't remember anything about the narrator or what happened to her or how it ended.

Now I'm trying to figure out how that can be. I'm not an idiot (really, I'm not!), but how can my reading retention be so bad?

My theory is that I spend a lot of time paying attention to style more than plot. I'll make notes when I like a sentence or a particular turn of phrase. Maybe doing that is too distracting for my brain.

Maybe my perspective is just skewed because Kristin has a photographic memory when it comes to this kind of thing. She can't remember names of her students, but she can tell you in great detail about a scene from "Miles from Nowhere" where the narrator covers her mother with dirt while her mother was praying in the garden. I barely remembered the narrator had flashback scenes with her mother.

So what about it? Do any of you struggle like I do with retention? Do any of you have any tips to help my retention? I know there are a lot of readers out there, so please chime in.

While I wait, I'm going to bed to read the short story collection, "Bluebirds Used to Croon in the Choir" by Joe Meno. Just don't ask me to give you any details.

*-NOTE: This paragraph isn't 100 percent true. Big surprise, but I don't really remember where Kristin had reshelved everything. I just know it was a mess. The details I give are only for attempted humor and to give you an idea of how particular I am about organizing my books. But this is my blog, so if I want to interject a slight bit of fiction into it I will. :-D

In a hockey state of mind

2009-12-12T19:31:00.004-06:00

Now that there is snow on the ground and temperatures have been below freezing, I'm ready to declare hockey season is fully under way. I miss seeing games in person more often, but I still love watching games on TV.

Anyway, here's another YouTube top 10 video. It's titled "Top 10 NHL goalies most crazy/funny moments," but not all are goalie-related. I'm not sure what to make of "most crazy/funny" either. Let's just say hockey fans aren't known for their grammar skills.

He would get deliberate penalties

2009-12-11T22:48:00.004-06:00

Anyone who's seen Slap Shot knows what the title refers to here. But if you don't know, may I ask how you've lived this long without seeing the greatest sports movie ever made?

I'm thinking of Slap Shot tonight not because I watched the Blackhawks game earlier with Kristin and a friend and recited one of my favorite lines: "I'm listening to the %&#!! song!" But because I was struggling to find something to blog about tonight.

Up until about 45 minutes ago, I had forgotten I still needed to post something to keep my streak alive. I surfed Google and Yahoo! News for odd or funny items, but nothing really spoke to me.

I headed over to YouTube and watched a few lame videos. And then I saw this. I knew I had found what I was looking for. Gotta love hockey!

Musical interlude: RIP Bruce Allen

2009-12-10T22:30:00.016-06:00

I can't say guitarist Bruce Allen had a big impact on my life. I had friends who were much bigger fans of the Suburbs. I can only remember seeing the new-wave band, which hailed from Minneapolis, one time.

It was at the NorShor Theatre in downtown Duluth and it must have been in 1985 or so. The underage kids like me were sequestered in the balcony, but a couple of my friends -- the ones who introduced most of us to the Suburbs' music -- got down on the main floor. I remember spotting them near the stage and being bummed I wasn't down there with them.

I left the theater that night with a different perspective on not only the Suburbs, but live music in general. I'd only been to a handful of shows prior to that night, and those were all at the Duluth Arena. The Suburbs was my first show at a smaller venue.

I left the theater that night sweaty and hoarse -- and I barely knew any of the songs. As I've gotten older I've come to appreciate the band much more than when they were in their prime. They were an influence on the Replacements and did sign with a major label, yet the Suburbs never became more than the "go-to party band" in Minnesota during the early to mid 1980s.

The band is on my mind tonight because I found out Allen died Tuesday. He was only 54, which is far too young. I wish I had a better memory to share of Allen, who was also a noted graphic designer and created the band's logo. I'm sure my other friends have much more vivid accounts of Allen's impact.

For me, I still enjoy listening to the only Suburbs CD I own, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Suburbs Have Left the Building," a 1992 anthology. I've been watching videos of them on You Tube tonight and figured I'd share this one. Enjoy.

Haunted: A book review

2009-12-09T17:40:00.008-06:00

I already posted this on Facebook today, but figured it would work here as well. Plus, I added a little to it.

I just finished reading "Haunted" by Chuck Palahniuk and wanted to write about it while everything was still fresh. It took me several attempts before I finally got through the whole thing. That had more to do with how disturbing the material is rather than it being a bad book. I'm glad I kept with it though. I don't think I can recommend it to anybody unless you've got a really strong stomach.

The book is broken up into 23 short stories interlocked within the main story of a group of people trapped without food and electricity. It's supposed to be a "writers' retreat," which I found rather funny. I wonder if Palahuniuk is commenting on the value of retreats or if I'm reading something into it.

The first story, "Guts," nearly made me sick. Palahuniuk says in the afterword he's had 71 people faint when he's read the story in public. I'm not sure if that's true or not, but I tend to believe it. It was really hard to get through. It was after reading that part the first time I decided to put the book down for more than a year.

My biggest complaint about it, though, was that there were too many characters. Because of that, I had a hard time caring about any of them. Also, none of them had real names. Instead we have Saint Gut-Free, Reverend Godless, Director Denial and others. Palahniuk gives them all interesting back stories, but they still seemed two-dimensional as characters.

If you have a strong stomach and are not easily offended, give it a try. I'd love to compare notes with somebody on this book.

The best wife ever!

2009-12-08T21:59:00.006-06:00

I know I've said this before, but I have a pretty awesome wife. Tonight Kristin took me to dinner and then we went to a basketball game. She even knew when one of the teams was trying a half-court trap.

And that's not even the best part. Earlier today she asked if I wanted to stop at Best Buy to pick up "The Wire" complete series on DVD, which was massively reduced in price. I triple-checked with her to make sure she was serious, and then we were on our way to Best Buy.

So I'm now the proud owner of every episode of the best drama in the history of television. And I'm one damn lucky guy.

Boxing myself in

2009-12-07T20:23:00.012-06:00

I enjoy watching almost any movie or TV show that involves reporters. Sometimes I can even relate it to my own experiences as a sports writer, as was the case last night after I watched “Resurrecting the Champ.”

The movie, based on a magazine piece by J.R. Moehringer, starred Josh Hartnett and Samuel L. Jackson. Hartnett played the Moehringer character, though many liberties were taken. I imagine Moehringer wasn’t flattered by being portrayed as a journalist more interested in the story he wanted to tell rather than the truth.

The story centers on a reporter who discovers a homeless man claiming to be a former heavyweight title contender. The boxer is played by Jackson, whose performance alone is worth watching the film. Along the way, the reporter learns something isn’t right about the boxer’s claims.

In the movie, he discovers that after the story is published, and even then he debates about whether to come forward with the truth. As I watched I grew increasingly annoyed that nobody asked the reporter to verify his facts. It seemed there was no fact-checking process at all. At least one other journalist was annoyed by that, too.

The general public may perceive journalism that way, but in the vast majority of cases that’s not the reality. The old journalism adage is if your mother says she loves you, check it out. In other words, don’t take anybody’s word as sole proof of anything. Publishing a cover story without anybody double-checking the facts is preposterous.

In Moehringer’s original, he uncovered the lies during his reporting process. And he was able to incorporate them into a story that was included in the Best American Sports Writing of the Century.

The article is an important lesson for journalists about corroborating everything. Also, you should be willing to let the story take you in a different direction than you originally planned. You never know, it could end up becoming something better, such as was the case for Moehringer. Tom Junod did a similar thing with this story in Esquire, which I mentioned in an earlier post.

I just wish I had done the same thing two years ago. I was writing a freelance article about the Mooseheart football team. I was still working at the Sun, so the reporting for this story was done on my own time. I felt I needed to come up with a structure first and then plug in the details as I uncovered them. I settled on breaking it into four sections, one for each quarter of the team’s homecoming game, and within each part I focused on a different player.

I think it turned out all right. You can judge for yourself by reading it here.

But it could have been better if only I’d stepped back and listened to the nagging voice inside me. One of the players I met was Floyd Mays, a senior who wore the same jersey number his older brother had when he played for the Red Ramblers. It was also the same number worn by Floyd’s coach, Gary Urwiler, when he was a star at the school in the 1980s.

Late in the reporting process I met an old timer who often returned to Mooseheart despite living in Milwaukee. He was a former football player who had come to Mooseheart as an infant. And he had worn the same jersey number as Floyd, Floyd’s brother and Urwiler (I believe it was No. 21 or No. 22).

Right there I had a thread connecting the Mooseheart tradition through multiple generations of football players. It just wasn’t the story I had in mind. To switch that late in the process would have been too time-consuming.

So I forced it into the box I’d already created. The story I turned in was truthful. I didn’t make anything up. I double-checked details with the kids’ families and friends. No, my sin was ignoring the whispers coming from the real story.

It still pisses me off now because I know it could have been a great story. At least I was able to salvage something from it – a lesson.

Skol Vikings!

2009-12-06T16:17:00.017-06:00

I am doing my best to not get too excited about the Vikings this season. Their 10-1 start is better than I expected, and it's been fun to watch even with a certain No. 4 at quarterback (strange, but as the season has gone on he's looking more natural in the Purple).

But optimism and Vikings fans have had a rocky relationship. That's because the Vikings have a history of disappointing us. For me it started with the Vikings' fourth Super Bowl loss. Honestly, I don't remember much about Super Bowl XI, but I do know I watched the 33-14 loss to the Raiders.

That feeling of disappointment has never left me when it comes to watching Vikings games. And for good reason. No team has lost more playoff games than the Vikings. But it's not just the losses -- it's the way they've lost.

There was the Darrin Nelson Drop in the 1987 NFC Championship game. Then there was the 1994 playoff loss to the Giants in which the Vikings blew a 10-3 halftime lead while their quarterback tandem of Jim McMahon and Sean Salisbury (egad!) was knocked silly.

But that was nothing compared with the 1998 NFC Championship game, which unfairly is blamed on Gary Anderson. Sure he missed the field goal that would have given the Vikings a 10-point lead over the Falcons, all but clinching a trip to the Super Bowl. But it was the defense that let the Falcons march down the field in the closing seconds of regulation and tie the game before winning in overtime. It still hurts.

And who could forget the 2001 NFC Championship game? Apparently the Vikings did. They forgot to even show up in an embarrassing 41-0 loss to the Giants. Ugh.

So forgive me if I don't want to be too excited for this year's team. I feel like I'm just waiting for the inevitable crash. I know I'm not alone, either. I think deep down all long-time Vikings fans are holding their breath.

Yet, here I am writing this wearing a Vikings hoodie over a Vikings T-shirt. My Vikings hat sits next to me, waiting patiently to be put on my head when the game starts in two hours. When it gets closer to game time, I'll don my Adrian Peterson jersey. The Vikings flag has been flying in front of the Minnesota Embassy since 10 this morning, a good nine hours prior to kickoff.

I do this because ... well, I guess because I'm crazy. I somehow manage to hold onto some tiny bit of optimism despite all the disappointment. So screw the past! I'm going to enjoy the season and stop worrying about what might happen down the road. Skol Vikings!!!!!

(And, yes, I realize my blatant optimism has just doomed the Vikings.)

A Christmas song with a Vikings twist

2009-12-05T21:20:00.012-06:00

Kristin loves Christmas. Most years she decorates our house with not one, not two, but three Christmas trees. This year she went even further and decorated a fourth one. The new one is draped in all things Vikings, including an Adrian Peterson football ornament and Vikings candy canes.

And then she went even beyond that, creating a song to celebrate the Vikings Christmas Tree. We made the video below so we could share the Christmas/Vikings spirit with even more people. (You may have to crank up your computer speaker volume in order to hear it)

In case you missed them, here are the full lyrics to O Vikings Tree:

O Vikings Tree, O Vikings Tree!
O how we love our Vikings!

With Adrian Peterson
on the line!
And BRETT FAVRE
right behind!

CHORUS

The defense blitzes
all night long!
And Jared Allen
leads the throng!

CHORUS

They’ll score touchdowns
and field goals!
A saftey’s nice,
let’s beat those trolls!

CHORUS

We sing our song,
and watch the games.
Our Viking’s are great,
your team’s lame!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY!!!!!

Pulling the goalie and other sports-related innuendos

2009-12-04T23:11:00.013-06:00

I realize I’m not always the most mature person. I still giggle when I hear the word “poop,” so I’m aware my sense of humor needs an upgrade to even be considered juvenile. To drive that point home, here’s a knock-knock joke that still makes me laugh whenever I hear the name Emerson. Just ask Kristin.

Knock-knock.
Who’s there?
Emerson.
Emerson who?
Emerson nice tits, bitch.

I know it’s misogynistic and offensive. And juvenile. Extremely juvenile. I first heard it in high school almost 25 years ago, but even now I just chuckled when I wrote it. I’m sorry.

Nowhere is my juvenile humor more apparent than when I’m watching sports. Sexual innuendos or double entendres are everywhere. Simply turn on a game, let your mind plummet into the gutter (for some of my friends that’s not a far drop) and you will be amazed at how almost anything can sound dirty if you try. Sometimes you don’t really even have to try.

In hockey you can pull your goalie or go 5-hole. Football has tight ends and more penetration than a Jenna Jameson video (so I’ve heard … I’m not all that familiar with her work). In basketball you can take it hard to the hole. Gymnasts stick the landing, while batters try to avoid the high, hard one.

Tonight a new one came to my attention. It seems USA Curling has joined with its sponsor Kodiak to sell condoms to raise awareness of the worldwide HIV and AIDS problem. The name of their condoms? Hurry Hard.

My curling friends know this is what is often shouted while the stone slides down the ice toward the house (there I go again). The skip yells this to the sweepers to sweep the rock harder (that’s what she said). By doing this, the rock will go straighter and faster (really, this is getting ridiculous).

According to the story, a member of USA Curling joked that hurry hard would be a good name for a condom. And the project was born.

I’ve probably overlooked some other good innuendos, which I’m sure some of you will bring to my attention. It’s just as well. I need a blow after ballin’ earlier tonight anyway.

My stories make it to the big leagues

2009-12-03T23:45:00.010-06:00

OK, technically they weren't "my" stories. They were two I had assigned to me from the annual Radiological Society of North America meeting at McCormick Place this week.

One of the stories I did was about a study that found kids are still swallowing the safety tabs on pop cans. You can see that article here if you're interested (it's on the front page but it's not the main story so you might have to scroll a little bit).

As I was digging around the Interwebs tonight trying desperately to find something to blog about that didn't involve Tiger, his wife or his ... um ... 9-iron, I came across a Reuters article written about the safety tab study.

The same thing happened when I checked on another story I'd written, this one about how childhood obesity could lead to spinal disk disease. You can find that one here on page 8. The Reuters article is here.

I thought it was kind of cool and figured I'd share it. I don't get bylines for the stories I do for RSNA, but that's all right by me. The compensation more than makes up for that.

Musical interlude

2009-12-02T18:12:00.003-06:00

Is it a cop-out to already be posting something like this, just the second day into my one-entry-per-day-for-December decree? Maybe. But I had a long day and I'm tired and I want to kick back in my recliner and watch a movie or something.

I've had this song in my head all day. It's on the Drive-By Truckers latest album, but it's a cover song. Here's the original from a pretty original artist, Warren Zevon. He left us far too early.

From the ashes

2009-12-01T10:00:00.006-06:00

Much like the mythical phoenix rising from the ashes (or the X-Men character rising from the ocean), I am resurrecting my blog. I've been neglecting it for too long, mostly because I'm not sure what I want to do with it.

When I started this, my intention was to document the unemployment process as I lived it. I envisioned this being a mixture of my personal details and helpful tips or links to aid others. I did that to some degree, but never to the extent I intended. So that rules out that purpose for my blog.

Another thing I wanted to do was to explain my transition away from being a sports writer. I did a lot of that early on with this. But as I've drifted farther from my life in the newsroom, the blog drifted further from that as well.

Now I find myself trying to get my freelancing career rolling with some magazine work, but I have not written anything about how that is going or how it happens I'm being pulled back into a direction I thought I'd abandoned.

So my blog is not really about my transition anymore, either.

About the only thing I think I've accomplished with this is to give myself a forum to write. That was what I missed more than anything when I first left The Sun (yes, even more than the friendships). Yet there have been dozens of times I wanted to blog about something and never got around to doing it.

So what exactly am I trying to do here? Does it even matter? If I just ended the blog, would anybody notice? Has anybody even noticed I haven't posted anything in almost a month?

I have a lot of questions. Must be the reporter in me still fighting to get out. But with no answers forthcoming, I figure I'll work my way through this and see if I discover what it is I'm trying to accomplish here.

Kristin and our poet friends are often challenge themselves by writing one poem per day for an entire month. Kristin is doing that for December. I decided I'm going to do the same thing with this blog.

That's nothing earth shattering, I know. Many, many bloggers post things every day. It's kind of the point of blogging. But for me, I've always tried to make each post more like an essay. That's hard to do more than once or twice a week for me.

So I'll probably have a lot of filler days. Days where something on YouTube seems particularly entertaining. Or I'll stumble on an interesting article relating to writing, such as this one from Stephen King about Raymond Carver.

Whatever happens, I'm determined to stick with it for the next 30 posts (31 counting this one). I'm hoping I'll uncover just what it is I'm trying to accomplish here. Who knows, maybe I'll discover my title for this blog has been my purpose all along. Maybe I've just wanted to give everybody a glimpse Beneath This Dirty Hood.

Brett Favre: My hero? Not so fast

2009-11-02T13:41:00.000-06:00

I had a chance to be at Lambeau Field for yesterday’s Vikings-Packers game. I didn’t have tickets, but Kristin and I were going to tailgate with my brother, uncles and cousin and then watch the game at the outdoor tailgate zone in the parking lot.

We decided against making the trip, in part because I thought the atmosphere could get pretty ugly. There is a lot of emotion surrounding the Vikings-Packers rivalry—and usually a lot of beer and liquor to go along with the emotions.

With Brett Favre having jumped ship to the Vikings, we figured Lambeau would turn into a war zone. Drunk, obnoxious fans on both sides would fail to keep things in perspective. Fights would be prevalent, or so we figured. So we stayed home and watched it on TV with a friend.

My celebration was limited to some clapping and a fist pump or two, especially when Aaron Rodgers’ fourth-down pass fell incomplete with just over two minutes remaining in the Vikings’ 38-26 victory. I was happy the Vikings hung on, and that this Viking-Packer business was over for now.

Favre was impressive, tossing four touchdown passes in his first game at Lambeau in an enemy uniform. He threw no interceptions and wasn’t sacked. His passes allowed Adrian Peterson some running room that was missing when the teams played earlier this season in Minneapolis.

On Sunday, Favre walked off the Lambeau field a winner. More importantly—and definitely lost in all the Favre hype—the Vikings walked off the field as winners. They are 7-1 and in control of the NFC North. Although Troy Aikman claimed they weren’t anywhere near as good as the Saints, they are one of the best teams in the NFC.

It must be because of Brett Favre. Viking fans should rejoice in our new hero, right? Well, as Lee Corso would say, not so fast, my friend.

This Vikings fan isn’t so willing to jump on the Favre bandwagon. Not yet, anyway. Maybe it’s the 17 years of bashing him. Maybe it’s because I still hate to see him deified by the national media (when is the last time you read or heard that Favre is the NFL career leader in interceptions thrown?). Maybe it’s because I remember last year wasn’t the first season he faded at the finish line.

Whatever the reason, I’m not willing to overstate Favre’s value to the Vikings. He’s an important part, no doubt. He filled a glaring void the team needed to become Super Bowl contenders. Without him, the Vikings might be 5-3 or 4-4 right now. Too many teams would have forced the Vikings to win on the unproven arm of this guy.

But they might not be 7-1 without Percy Harvin and his electrifying kick returns, either. And they might not be 7-1 without a relentless pass rush led by Jared Allen. And they might not be 7-1 if Peterson isn’t leading the NFC in rushing touchdowns.

With Favre, the Vikings have offensive balance. That doesn’t mean they need to use the same amount of running and passing plays. It means when the running game is taken away, Favre can make defenses pay.

But that’s as far as I’m willing to go at this point. Favre still has things to prove to me and other Vikings fans.

On Saturday I was at the Fox Valley mall with Kristin. I was wearing a Vikings cap and hooded sweatshirt. We stopped into a Chicago sports apparel store where the clerks wanted to know my thoughts about Favre and whether or not I can cheer for him.

“It’s still kind of hard to,” I admitted. “I’ll have to wait to see. I’ll let you know at halftime of the Super Bowl … if the Vikings are winning.”

But maybe I’ll wait until the fourth quarter. Just to be sure.

Musical interlude

2009-10-23T20:15:00.004-05:00

It's been a while since I've posted any music. Lately I've been searching out artists I'd heard good things about, but hadn't listened to. Sites such as Amie Street Music, Free Music Archive and Pandora are great for that.

One of my favorites I ran across is Langhorne Slim, who offers a sardonic, modern take on traditional folk, country, and blues, according to his MySpace page. I'm not sure what that really means, but I like his sound and he's a gifted songwriter.

I was listening again to his self-titled CD today. I really like the track "Diamonds and Gold." It makes a good bridge from my last entry to what lies ahead. Please give it a listen and try to take the lyrics to heart. We've all got to learn to get a little happy along the way.

Life is finite

2009-10-09T13:00:00.007-05:00

Our friends’ daughter, Mary, recently turned 4 years old and is just getting the hang of counting. The other night during a church fundraiser at a local pizza place, Mary counted all the way to 39 before she couldn’t figure out what came next. Another friend helped her get to 40, and then Kristin piped in to ask what should follow.

“Forty-one?” Mary asked, hesitating.

“That’s right,” Kristin said, before adding, “That’s how old Paul is!”

Everyone at the table broke out into laughter as Mary looked up at me and blinked, clearly trying to comprehend how someone could be that old (even though her father is 46, I might add). I wondered aloud what was so funny.

I understand how 41 would seem old to a 4-year-old. It seemed old to me when I was a kid. But now I know it’s not old to be in your 40s. It’s young … and far too young to die. Sadly, I’ve been reminded of that three times this week.

The first came Monday morning when I heard the news about Tim Wheatley, the Baltimore Sun business editor who I met several years ago when he was the sports editor at the Indianapolis Sun. Wheatley was killed in a car accident as he drove his 9-year-old daughter to school. He was 47.

One night later I learned about two other premature deaths. One happened a year ago, but I just found out Tuesday about it. Kevin Kotz was a former sports writer at the Duluth News-Tribune. I used to hang out with him and several other reporters at the Pioneer Bar. That led to me getting a job as a sports clerk, which set me on the path to becoming a professional sports writer.

I’d lost touch with Kevin over the years, so I didn’t know he had died of a heart attack in his home about a year ago. He was 47.

Moments after learning that, I was jolted by more sad news. I was surfing through Facebook updates after the Twins thrilling victory over the Tigers a few hours earlier. I came across a friend’s that froze me: “Saddened by the sudden loss of a high school pal.”

She didn’t mention a name, but because we went to the same high school I knew I would know the person who died. A few minutes later I discovered it was Farrell Ball, who is pictured above.

Farrell was two years ahead of me at Cathedral, and I knew him and his older sisters pretty well back in our high school days. Cathedral was a small school so many of us had friends across grades. Some of my good friends to this day are from my older brothers’ classes.

Like so often happens, I lost touch with Farrell after high school. Then three weeks ago he sent me a Facebook friend request. We caught up a little, but mostly we lamented how the Twins were driving us nuts.

It appears Farrell died of a heart attack. He was 43. His Facebook profile has morphed into a stirring memorial.

Death always surrounds us. We just don’t always pay attention to it. We hope it stays hidden in the shadows, content to tap somebody else on the shoulder while we somehow manage to stay just out of reach.

While I knew Tim, Kevin and Farrell to varying degrees, their deaths have all had a profound effect on me. I’m honest enough to know better than to promise I will lead a better life now, one where I get into shape, watch what I eat, try to swear less while watching the Twins (which is exceedingly difficult when they lose games like they did last night).

What I will do, though, is to remember my time here is finite. I admit I’ve wasted a lot of time since I left the Sun. I haven’t accomplished nearly as much as I had hoped, both professionally and personally.

It’s a reminder we can all use. I just wish it could be delivered in a different way.

Dome voyage

2009-10-05T13:05:00.011-05:00

This will be hard to believe for anyone who knows me, but I’m not going to miss watching the Twins playing in the Metrodome. While the place holds many fond memories for me, baseball was never meant to be played under a Teflon roof.

Aesthetically, the place ranks up there with this place. The right-field Hefty bag fence. The white dome ceiling that conveniently disguises a baseball. The plastic smell that hits you when you walk in. At least it no longer has a Plexiglas fence in left field, or the green cement carpet that always reminded me of the Brady’s yard.

Yet, I still feel the Metrodome is a special place. That feeling, no doubt, stems from the two World Series titles the Twins won under the dome. Memories were flowing over the weekend as the Twins played what was expected to be their final games in the Metrodome.

I regret not having more first-hand memories of the place. I was not present for any of their seminal moments. I wasn’t there for even one playoff game, let alone a World Series game. I wasn’t there for the Puckett memorial. I wasn’t there for Sunday’s finale (which turns out not to be the finale after all).

I also wish I would have seen a game more recently than the one from the picture above. Kristin and I went to that in 2004. I’ve only been back inside the Dome once since then—a Vikings game last season.

Yet, fond memories abound for me. I’ve already shared my favorite one on the blog. There are others, though. The 1988 home opener as we celebrated again the World Series title from five months earlier. Hrbek’s retirement ceremony on Aug. 13, 1995. The summer vacation excursions I’d go on with my friends to see a Twins series.

My memories of outdoor Twins baseball are sparse. Actually, the only one I have is seeing the Twins at Metropolitan Stadium against the expansion Toronto Blue Jays. I don’t remember if it was 1977 or ’78. I went with a group from the neighborhood rec center.

Despite being barely 10, I remember paying attention enough to know it was my first time seeing Rod Carew in person. I wish I could remember how he did that day—or if the Twins even won. I do remember it being a sunny, warm day in the middle of the summer.

Those days are coming again for the Twins at Target Field, days when that sun will envelop fans like a long-lost friend. Days when that green, green surface (oh yeah, that stuff is called grass) will glisten. Days when it seems baseball was invented only for this moment.

There will be other days too. Days in April and early May where people will arrive bundled up in their winter best, hoping the teams are able to play in between the snow flakes. Some will complain. Some will wish the organization had sprung for the retractable roof, or that they had never left the Dome.

As a Twins fan, I might join in that line of thought. And I will miss the Metrodome for what it represented—the best years in franchise history.

But as a baseball fan? Well, baseball was never meant for the great indoors.

Guest blogger: Kristin says F&%#@*^ Cincy...

2009-10-01T16:50:00.012-05:00

Editor's note: My wife, Kristin, has had about enough of Cincinnati even though I don't think she's even been there, other than that time we drove through it on our way from Memphis to Cleveland. She wanted to blog about it, but the topic really isn't appropriate for her own blog. So I said, what the heck, you can have the floor here. Without further adieu, I give you a rant by my wife.

I wasn't always like this. I went through the first 22 years of my life not knowing anything about football. My dad would fall asleep to a Sunday afternoon game, and my sister and I would try to change the channel. Back before remotes, the click of the dial turning would wake up my father, who would growl at us to switch the game back on and go find something else to do. Fall Sunday afternoons sucked.

But then, I met Paul. And I liked Paul. And I realized quickly that if I wanted to spend quality time with him, I'd have to learn more about sports. I had a good grasp of baseball since I had played softball, but we met in the fall, just as football season was starting. I also found out that Paul is a great teacher. He patiently explained downs, offense and defense, how points are scored, and how penalties are assessed.

Now I know just enough to be dangerous. I'm like Paul Blart, Mall Cop. I can't keep up with the "real" experts, but I can finagle my way through a discussion on what positions the Vikings need help with, and why a touchdown didn't count since someone's foot was just outside the line.

But I often ask ridiculous questions, mostly to annoy Paul, but sometimes I just don't get things. Like why it's not OK to have a forward pass beyond the line of scrimmage? Why not just do anything you can to get the ball to the end zone? And if there's a red zone, why isn't there a green zone or a yellow zone? And why don't more teams use the flea flicker? I LOVE the flea flicker.

Anyway, a few years ago, Paul joined some of his cousins, uncles and brothers in a pool for NFL games. They pick who will win each game, and then the tiebreaker is done by guessing the combined score of the Monday night game. There's probably a clearer way to explain it, but again, I'm not a sports junkie like Paul.

Anyway, Paul didn't do well in the pool at first. He lost a lot. And he's a sports writer. He should know more about this stuff than his lay relatives, right? [Editor's note: I covered mostly high school sports. That does not qualify one as an NFL expert, despite what my relatives think.]

One weekend I got mad he was losing and said I'd help. He was pretty desperate and let me. He did better. He didn't win, but he improved. He asked me to help the next weekend, and the next. Now we do the picks together, and we have little rituals that go along with it. I don't buy the ritual thing, but I play along. Greasing the wheels, you know.

Here are some of my quirks about doing these picks. Streaks make me itchy. If a team has been on a streak, it's bound to break. We picked the Lions last week. I knew they were due. And the Colts can't win every game, and neither can the Patriots. No one can. Or they can for a long time, but not forever. And if there's a pick-em, I go for the team with the stronger mascot. A Viking is going to beat down a Patriot. An eagle is going to claw through a raven. See? We look at a lot of things, like point spreads, experts, etc., but who knows?

This brings me to Cincy. For the past few years, Cincy has been nearly impossible to pick. They are listed as favorites, have home-field advantage, and a strong winning record, so we pick them. And they lose. Or, they look terrible the week before, and the spread has them in the gutter, and they're playing away. We don't pick them. They win. Consistently, this happens. We cannot pick them.

This has lead me to start saying, "I hate the Cincy," when it comes time to do the picks. And when we watch the scores come in on Sundays, my constant refrain is, "Hate the Cincy." It's gotten to the point that I dislike anything to do with Cincinnati.

For example, we were watching a baseball game on TV this past summer. Everything the color commentator said annoyed me. He would state the obvious. "Wow, that ball went a long way." Yes, it did. Then he'd spend lots of time talking about his playing days. "When I played ball, I never would have swung at that ball." Who cares? We're watching THIS game, not you. If I wanted to watch what you would do, I'd watch ESPN Classic. As I voiced my displeasure, I asked Paul who this bozo was.

"That's Joe Morgan. He used to play for the Reds," he said, looking up from his laptop.

"Of course he did! I HATE the Cincy!" I exclaimed. Paul was laughing.

I don't care that Cincy had the first professional baseball team, or that the city was the first to license a public television station, or that three U.S. presidents resided there. It's also the home of Pete Rose, and Jerry Springer was its mayor. Those are pretty good reasons to be suspicious of the city.

And I know a tiger could eat a Viking, but only if it made it past the swords, clubs and armor. So there, Cincy. You can be damned, at least until I can make a decent pick and win some of the money back that we keep putting into senseless sports gambling.

Pardon me while I throw up

2009-09-22T20:05:00.006-05:00

I haven’t told many people – in fact I haven’t told anybody other than Kristin – but Friday is a pretty big night for me. I’ve been asked to read my story "Summer Fun" at the first Joyland Chicago reading.

This will be the first time I’ve read my work out loud in public. The thought of it makes me want to throw up. Actually, I think I just did a little bit in my mouth.

At this point my fear is winning. I’ve wavered about whether or not I will cancel or just not show up. Then my sane side (I do have one – though I usually keep it hidden) reminds me to calm down, it will be fine.

Self-confidence has never been my strength. While I’ve begrudgingly accepted I have some writing ability, I never believe I can write well enough. I’m not alone, either. I’m sure many, many writers feel the same way.

I don’t know if that comforts me or scares me even more. I do know it’s weird to hear someone like Chris Jones express a similar lack of confidence about his writing.

Jones, a writer-at-large for Esquire, can lay claim to being one of the best magazine writers going right now. His narratives are rich in detail; his style nuanced; his words perfectly chosen. I read his stories with delight, but with a sense of jealousy for knowing he’s pulled off something I can’t do.

Apparently Jones feels the same way … though I’m sure it’s not after reading one of my stories. In a recent Q&A he did for the Nieman Foundation’s Narrative Digest, Jones talks about a story by fellow Esquire writer-at-large Tom Junod.

“Mercenary” is a remarkable piece I’d encourage people to read for themselves. I’d try to summarize it, but fear I’d give away too much. It’s best to read it fresh. But for my purposes here, just know that it takes a very talented writer to pull off what Junod does. Even Jones agrees.

“I still read stuff like that all the time, where I feel totally useless as a writer, because I wouldn’t be able to write that piece,” Jones said in the Q&A.

I can’t imagine Jones feeling “totally useless as a writer.” How can that be? This guy is a two-time National Magazine Award-winning writer, most recently for this story. His work has been anthologized in not one, but three Best American collections: Magazine Writing, Sports Writing and Political Writing.

Yet, he feels there are things he can’t pull off as a writer. And I know exactly what he means.

As I’ve analyzed this – and believe me, I spend way too much time analyzing my writing – I’ve come to two conclusions. One, all writers suffer from a lack of confidence to some extent. There is always someone they wish they could write like.

The other is something that might actually be useful. Writers don’t need to be better than other writers. We only need to be as good as we can be. That takes work. It takes a desire to not be satisfied until you know you’ve done the best you can with the material. It shouldn’t matter what somebody else thinks.

It’s all subjective anyway. You might read a Jones story and think he’s overrated. You might read that Junod piece and think he’s a hack (though if you think that, I’d have to question your ability to read at all).

So I find comfort in knowing I did my best with “Summer Fun.” I like the story. I think it could use some more work, but nothing major. I know that others have liked it, too. I’m also sure not everyone likes it.

I just hope those people aren’t at the Book Cellar on Friday. I also hope I don’t throw up on the microphone.

The unemployment line

2009-09-16T16:00:00.001-05:00

Optimism is starting to return when it comes to the U.S. economy. This week’s declaration by Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke that the recession is “very likely over,” provided a much-needed lift to people’s spirits.

But Bernanke also warned this doesn’t mean the unemployment rate, which is at a 26-year high 9.7 percent, will stop rising. It could top 10 percent by the end of the year. According to the AP story, “Some economists say it will take at least four years for the jobless rate to drop down to a more normal range of 5 percent.”

This news happened to coincide with my trip to the unemployment office this week. I needed to reinstate my benefits because I went a stretch without any freelance work.

By its nature, freelancing is uncertain work. Three weeks ago I was awash in assignments, struggling to get them all done on deadline. A week later I had nothing. Last week I had only two small assignments.

So I needed to get my unemployment benefits going again. I was told it was simply a matter of calling Tele-Serve and pressing “2” instead of “1” at the beginning in order to reopen my benefits claim.

As I learned before, nothing is ever that simple when it comes to unemployment. During the call I was told I needed to contact my regional unemployment office, which I tried to do right away. But the line was busy.

It remained busy for the rest of the day. When I finally got through – at 4:45 p.m. – I got a recorded message telling me normal office hours are 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., and that I should call back then. I was confused because on my clock 4:45 comes before 5 p.m. But whatever.

So I called the next morning. Busy. Called that afternoon. Busy. Tried several times in the late afternoon/evening. Same thing. I repeated this routine the next day and the following Monday, stubbornly – and oh so foolishly – believing I could get this fixed without having to go to the office.

(A friend of mine wrote a poem about waiting in the unemployment line. He wrote it a few years ago, and Kristin showed it to me last month. You can download it here if you want to read it – it’s worth the effort.)

I did not want to be stuck in line. Yet there I was earlier this week. When I arrived the line already stretched to the door. The people ahead of me had to shift just so I could get inside.

This was my third or fourth trip to the office, but never had I needed to wait in this long of line, even though it was only about a dozen people (this is the North Aurora office, not Chicago, after all).

I eventually got to the front and signed up to talk with someone about my problem. This was 10:47 a.m. While I waited I looked around. Nearly every seat was taken. Men and women, some together, some by themselves, some with children filled the office.

We were white. We were black. We were Hispanic. We were well dressed. We were dressed down. We were together, though our circumstances were likely much different.

I looked at people’s faces, saw despair in many of them. Some carried the vacant look I saw on driver’s faces during my trip through Nebraska.

A woman quietly argued with a worker at the information desk. From her body language it was clear she was mad. The man patiently listened before answering.

“Unemployment is at a 26-year high,” he said. “There is a woman who has worked here for 32 years and she said she’s never seen it like this.”

The woman turned away, walking out of the building while still muttering.

Yet there was no yelling. No screaming at the front desk guys to answer their questions. We just sat … and waited. At 11:35 my name was called. I talked with a very helpful man who straightened out the problem in about three minutes. I was on my way back home in about an hour total.

All in all, not too bad. But about 40 minutes longer than my previous trips. In reflecting on my visit I came to this conclusion, while still understanding one anecdote doesn’t prove or disprove anything.

The recession may be ending. But I fear we’re a long way from recovering.

Musical interlude for a road trip

2009-08-29T23:10:00.004-05:00

Kristin and I are heading to Colorado in about seven hours. I should be sleeping so I'm rested for the long drive ahead.

Instead I'm staying up trying to figure out what road trip songs I want to listen to in the car. One thing I know for sure, this song by Son Volt will be on the playlist.

I'd write more but I really need to get some sleep. See you on the road.

Work, work, work

2009-08-26T22:20:00.008-05:00

I may not have much in common with Michael Corleone -- or Al Pacino for that matter -- but I certainly can relate to his most memorable line in an otherwise forgettable Godfather, Part III.

It seems I'm not completely done with being a sports writer. When I walked away from the Sun in April, I did so with the belief I was turning a page in my career. Sports writing was going to be in my past.

Then I spent some time away from it. I went to a few events—even a high school girls soccer match or two—just to remember what it was like to be a fan again. Not to cheer for a particular team. Just to be a fan of sports again.

It happens to a lot of us in this profession. We’re so immersed in sports on a daily basis we start despising the games. They become boring. Kristin still laughs when she remembers seeing me covering a minor league baseball game when we were living in Texas.

We were at the Dell Diamond, home to the Round Rock Express. She had come with me, but was sitting in the stands while I was in the press box working. At some point she looked up to see what I was doing. She hadn’t expected to see what she saw.

I was leaning my left elbow on the press table with my chin in my hand. It looked like I might have been asleep. At the time I think I told her I was deep in concentration, trying to come up with my lead. She wasn't buying it.

“You looked like a bored third grader in his desk,” she just told me when I asked if she remembered that night.

Sure, many people find baseball boring. But I was never in that camp. I love baseball. Covering it on a regular basis was a wonderful experience. I envisioned becoming a baseball writer.

This was only a year or two into my full-time sports writing career, yet there I was already bored with the games. I might not have realized it that night, but soon after I came to the conclusion I didn’t want to be a beat writer anymore. I wanted to write about sports, but not about the games.

For the most part, I was able to do that at The Sun. But there were always games needing to be covered. It eventually got to the point I’d rather be unemployed than drag my butt to another field, stadium or gym.

And for four months I didn’t cover a single game. I still haven’t. But I am writing about sports again. Thanks to my friend, Todd, who was the assistant sports editor at the Sun before moving on to bigger and better things, I got connected to the new high school sports editor at the Chicago Tribune.

I just completed my first assignment and have another one to finish this week. I’m excited to have the work and to have it appearing in the Tribune, a paper I once dreamed of working. I doubt I’ll ever be a full-time writer there, so this will have to do.

It’s actually been a very busy month for me as my freelance assignments are starting to pile up. The good thing is several of them are steady gigs. Having reliable, consistent sources of income is comforting and an important cog in the move to being a full-time freelancer.

I’ve had so much work lately that today I was able to put my unemployment on hold. I’m making too much money to claim my weekly benefits. If my earnings should dip below that benefit level again, I can reopen my claim. So I still have a safety net.

I’m a long ways from having stable income. And I’m still not making enough for retirement savings. But I’m taking positive steps toward my new career, one that doesn’t involve time cards or cubicles or commuting.

I admit I'm surprised it involves sports writing again so soon. Consider me the Michael Corleone of sports journalism. Just when I thought I was out …

Musical interlude

2009-08-13T01:04:00.004-05:00

A couple of years ago, Bloodshot Records released the kind of tribute album I had never seen before. It was not for a musician, but an author -- Larry Brown.

It just so happens Larry Brown is one of my favorite modern authors. His death in 2004 at age 53 was a shock to me, and a major blow to the literary world, particularly the American South scene cultivated by Faulkner.

Among the many gems on the tribute album is a song by Brent Best called "Robert Cole." Best, a Texas singer/songwriter, became one of my favorites when he was in Slobberbone. That band broke up, but has recently reunited and is playing tonight at the Abbey Pub.

I'll be there with Kristin, hoping they squeeze "Robert Cole" into the set. I hope you enjoy the video clip here of Best singing it at the Allgood Cafe in Dallas earlier this year. It's a long song/video, but I think it's worth it.

Oh, and do me a favor and check out Larry Brown some time. Start with his short story collection, "Facing the Music." Anyway, on with the song.

One day at a time

2009-08-11T08:30:00.000-05:00

When I first learned about Josh Hamilton falling off the wagon I cringed. When I saw the pictures posted on Deadspin of his backslide last January I felt sick to my stomach.

Hamilton, the All-Star outfielder for Texas and former No. 1 overall draft choice, nearly threw his career away in a sea of drugs and alcohol before his career had even really started. His much-publicized recovery gave him a second chance.

Then came Saturday’s news and the pictures. As this all surfaced, one thought popped into my head and wouldn’t let go: Hamilton is going to get skewered in blogs and comments all across cyberspace.

Much of the criticism Hamilton has received relates to his outspoken beliefs in Christianity. While that is an interesting topic, it's not one I want to tackle here.

But because of his beliefs, I figured many people would call him a hypocrite or say he’s just another spoiled professional athlete making excuses for his transgressions. I guessed some lower forms of life found on the Internet would say much worse.

Or they'd say just plain stupid things such as what “sjthn” wrote following a heartfelt column by Tim Cowlishaw posted on the Dallas Morning News Web site Monday night.

Cowlishaw wrote about his own battle with alcohol. After it, “sjthn” had this to say:

“I’m sorry but life is not hard to live without drinking. The only reason people drink is to escape, escape the life they have made for themselves. Addictive personality, blah blah. Grow up, life isn’t all about drinking.”

No, it’s not. It’s not about being judgmental either. At least I hope not.

The incident hits home for me, thus my reaction. The demons chasing me are certainly different than the ones hounding Josh Hamilton. But I know something about recovery.

I worry almost every day I’m going to relapse and have a drink again. Sometimes I’ll think I can have just one or two beers now and I’ll be fine. But nostalgia distorts reality.

It never was having only one or two beers. One or two always led to three or four. Three or four led to five or 12. And that led to me waking up in a spot I didn’t remember going to sleep in—even if it was my own bed.

I had my last drink Oct. 5, 1998. That night I drank four beers while at my brother’s house in the Twin Cities watching a Monday Night Football game between the Vikings and Packers. Actually I had three at the house. And then one more with our friend after I gave him a ride back to his hotel.

This was soon after I made a deal with Kristin. I was going to cut back on my drinking. I would limit myself to only three beers when I went out. I broke that deal the first chance I had, though I hadn’t intended to. It showed me I can’t trust myself when it comes to drinking.

So I was done completely. No more “deals.” I didn’t go to AA. I didn’t go to counseling. I was seeing a therapist, but it wasn’t to treat my alcoholism. My abstinence became a by-product of that therapy.

Still, almost 11 years later I wonder if I’m actually done with alcohol. I know enough about AA to know I’m not “cured,” that I will always be an alcoholic. Thankfully, I’m an alcoholic with almost 11 years of sobriety to my credit.

Josh Hamilton had to restart his sobriety streak in January. He says he's been clean since then. When the news leaked of his relapse, Hamilton didn’t hide. He held a news conference to address it. He admitted he embarrassed his wife and his children. He said the incident reinforces he can’t touch alcohol, the same lesson I learned.

So I believe him when he says that. I know there are a lot of people out there who lack empathy, who will take this opportunity to denigrate Hamilton. They will be like “sjthn.”

But I also know about addiction. I know how hard it is to overcome. And I know that when you make a mistake, when you are sincere in your response as Hamilton was, you don’t need to be judged. You just need to get back on that road to recovery.

Where one or two days can become three or four days. And three or four days can become three or four months. And those months can turn into years. And you remember that life isn’t about drinking. It’s about surviving.

Musical interlude

2009-08-09T00:10:00.002-05:00

This one goes in tandem with my earlier post today about King Stretch, the hobo I met last fall in Chicago. This weekend Stretch passed his crown to a new Hobo King during the annual Hobo Convention in Britt, Iowa.

So in honor of my friend, Stretch, I give you Woody Guthrie singing, 'Hobo's Lullaby.' I hope you enjoy.

The King and I

2009-08-08T13:00:00.011-05:00

The first time I met the King I was eating spaghetti at the Gladstone Church in Pullman. He walked in with no fanfare.

He had no entourage. No flowing robes. Instead of a crown he wore a dirty black baseball cap, his curly brown hair poking out the sides and back. Patches of gray sprouted from his beard around his cheeks. His round belly jutted forth beneath a black T-shirt.

To me, he looked just like many of the others in the dining hall attached to the church. We were there enjoying a kick-off meal to the Pullman Hobofest, an event I wrote about for the Sun-Times last September.

As the King entered the room, someone called out to notify everyone the King had arrived. People stopped eating to applaud. It was believed he would be in town for the event, but with hobos you never know for sure until they are standing in front of you. The King smiled and waved, clearly enjoying the moment.

That was Stretch, who a month earlier had been named the 2008 Hobo King at the national convention in Britt, Iowa. Today, Stretch will hand off his crown to the new king and will go back to being simply Stretch.

I wanted to be there this weekend for that event. Up until about a month ago I thought I would be. But it didn’t work out and I instead am left to write about my first experience with Stretch and his hobo brethren (and sisteren, if that was a word).

When I met Stretch he was just starting his reign as king. He was living in Cleveland, but really he lived on the rails with his dog, Burlington. He had lost his job of nine years and didn’t want to impose on his friend, who offered him a rent-free room until he could find work again.

But Stretch isn’t a freeloader. And he’s not a bum. Hobos take great pride in pointing out they are not bums. They aren’t tramps either. Hobos travel the country looking for work. Tramps travel the country searching for something else. Meanwhile, bums don’t travel or look for work.

At the time, Stretch was philosophical about being out of work.

“Maybe it was meant to be,” he told me. “Right after I got laid off, I became hobo king. I don’t have time to work now. I’ve got gatherings to go to all over the United States.”

He’s been busy, too. I’ve followed his experiences all over the country via his Facebook updates. Yes, hobos have Facebook accounts. And MySpace pages. And e-mail addresses. And cell phones. They might not always have access to the Internet, or the money to keep their phone accounts active. But they do have the technology.

The more I’ve read about hobos, the more interested I became in the lifestyle. I enjoyed the taste of it I got in Pullman. But at the end of the day, Kristin and I left the jungle and drove home to our comfortable bed in the suburbs. The hobos stayed right there and camped out.

There is something tempting in the romantic notion of hopping a freight train headed somewhere—anywhere—and disappearing. My notion includes forsaking technology. Of putting down my cell phone, of leaving my laptop behind, of forgetting the clutter of modern life.

At least for a while. For now, though, I’ll settle for living vicariously through Stretch with his Facebook updates.

See you down the road, Stretch.

Get me down from here!

2009-08-03T12:20:00.000-05:00

Several friends have commented recently about my Facebook profile picture, which I also posted here. That's me standing on The Ledge at the Skydeck of the Sears Tower a couple of weeks ago when my nieces were visiting.

The Ledge’s glass boxes extend 4.3 feet from the Skydeck on the 103rd floor, according to this. From 1,353 feet up, you can look straight down onto Wacker Drive and due west to Oregon, I believe.

I managed to inch my way onto the Ledge after several attempts and took that picture as proof. Notice how my left foot is well behind my right? That’s because the left is just barely standing on the Ledge. The only way I could get out there was to do it sideways, snap two quick pictures, and hurry back to the safety of the Skydeck’s regular floor.

Later in the day we rode the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier. While they enjoyed the vistas, I sat glued to my corner of the basket, both hands squeezing the metal railings.
That’s the picture of me I had my niece take when we were near the top. Flattering, isn’t it?

Like my aversion to bees, I also suffer from fear of heights. My rational mind knows nothing was going to happen to me standing on the Ledge. I wasn’t going to fall through and plummet to my death. And I wasn’t going to be jettisoned from the basket in the Ferris wheel, either. I know that. Really, I do.

Yet my fear prevented me from enjoying myself. Fear is like that. There are other kinds of fear at work inside me, too, ones related to my writing.

As I was going through my bookcases the other night I came across “Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking” by David Bayles and Ted Orland. I began flipping through the pages and was immediately struck by how many of the topics applied to me.

I have suffered from many of the nine doubts they mention on page 13. I’m not an artist—I’m a phony. I have nothing worth saying. I’m not sure what I’m doing. Other people are better than I am.

Now, I hesitate to call my fiction writing “art.” That sounds so pretentious. But I’m not writing for fun and I’m not expecting to make a living from it. So what else should I name it? I’ve considered calling it a stupid waste of time, but I’m trying to stay positive.

Those doubts – the fear – keep me from finishing a lot of pieces. I probably have five or six stories I’m working on right now. None of them is close to completion. It’s the same scenario each time.

I come upon an idea and, feeling inspired, begin to write until I reach a point where the flow stops. For however long that takes, I feel like I’ve stumbled upon the greatest story I have ever written. It's sort of like this guy when he turns in his essay to Miss Shields.

But when I stop writing and set it aside, that feeling fades. I return to the piece and think it is awful. And then I am hit with the fear that maybe I’m just not good enough to consider myself a fiction writer.

It’s an irrational thought similar to thinking I was going to fall out of the Ferris wheel basket or crash through the Ledge’s floor. But the fear is very real. Enough so that I can put a particular piece aside for weeks without looking at it.

On other days I let my rational mind take over. I tell myself, don't worry what others think of the story. Write it for yourself. Or I remember reading a writer should expect only one out of 10 stories to be good. You have to keep working through the other nine to find the one that matters.

In that way, I talk myself off the Ledge. The fear fades and I can write.

Musical Interlude

2009-08-01T14:22:00.010-05:00

I guess I can't keep calling these "Weekly" musical interludes when I'm not posting them once a week. Part of the reason is because July was just so hectic I never got around to doing much with my blog.

I spent a few days back in Duluth a couple weeks ago. On my first night there I went to a venue called Pizza Luce to see the Meat Puppets and Retribution Gospel Choir, a three-man band fronted by Duluthian Alan Sparhawk of Low.

While there I marveled at how much my hometown had changed since I moved 10 years ago. I don't remember there being a particularly strong live music scene outside of blues bands and the occasional bar band from Minneapolis that would make its way north. And here was the Meat Puppets cranking through a two-hour set that absolutely destroyed everything in its wake.

When we finally spilled out of Luce at 2 in the morning -- drunk, exhausted concertgoers littering the sidewalk on Superior Street as we walked past -- my friend deadpanned, "Just a typical Wednesday night in Duluth."

Maybe so. But I don't remember many Wednesday nights like that when I lived there. (That could be because Wednesdays were import nights at the Sports Garden and back then beer usually won out over music for me.)

This afternoon I was tooling around the Interwebs and came across another Duluth band, Trampled by Turtles. It's a bluegrass band with five releases to its credit since 2004, including a live EP recorded at Pizza Luce.

This song is the title track from its latest release, 2008's Duluth. I hope you enjoy!

Crisis averted

2009-07-28T22:52:00.005-05:00

For the past two months or so Kristin and I have had a running disagreement. She said she would never watch a Vikings game if Brett Favre was the quarterback. I said, as much as it sickens me, I would still pull for the Vikes.

Her reasoning was sound. How could she be expected to cheer for a quarterback we spent so long hating? He's a prima donna who keeps stealing the spotlight with his indecisiveness. And now she was expected to say, Hurray we've got Brett Favre on our team?

It's hard to argue with that line of thinking. But my position is that I love the Vikings more than I hate Favre. If he could help them win then it was a good move to sign him. Even in his "advanced" age (ahem, he's younger than me, dammit), and coming off biceps surgery, he was still probably a better option than Jackson or Rosenfels. At least that's what I was hoping if indeed he did end up wearing a purple No. 4 jersey.

Thankfully neither of us will have to put our theories into practice. Today's news that Favre would stay retired was greeted happily in our household. Kristin can join me again every Sunday to watch the games, and I didn't have to sell my soul in order for the Vikings to be a contender.

It's a win-win for us ... though it might mean we see the Vikings lose-lose more often.

The tactile nature of books

2009-07-26T21:04:00.003-05:00

Books call to me. Some mutter; others scream. Some sit on my bookshelf and mock me for not having read them yet. Others lie to me. They make promises they have no intention of keeping.

When that right one arrives, it’s an amazing feeling. It’s often as much about how a book feels in my hands as it is the story inside.

I've experienced that twice in the past month or so. I decided to write about it now because of this article in today’s Chicago Tribune. It turns out even newspapers talk to me.

The first example came when I finally succumbed to the throat-clearing I heard on my bookshelf last month. A loaned copy of “The Time-Traveler’s Wife” by Audrey Niffenegger sat there, desperately vying for my attention on a pile of unread books that have less-insistent voices.

The book is beaten up. The binding is broken and the cover bent. It is beautiful. It landed in our house when our good friend, Ruth, visited in February and left it behind for us to read. Kristin devoured it first.

When I finally picked it up it was like being reunited with an old friend. I don’t know how else to explain it – it just felt right. Once I started reading, I couldn’t put it down. The story pulled me in and wouldn’t let go. I was sad when I finished because Henry and Clare were no longer in my life; their story is over.

My other example came when I was still reading Time-Traveler's and I once again came face to face with “Demons in the Spring,” the anti-Kindle collection of short stories by Chicago writer Joe Meno. I first heard about the book while at the annual AWP writer’s conference last winter when I read an interview with Meno in a literary magazine.

I later saw Meno at a panel discussion during the Printer’s Row Book Fair (sorry Trib, I’m still not going to call it by the name you decided to change it to). While signing books afterward, Meno thanked a guy for buying Demons because it helped benefit 826 Chicago, a non-profit writing and tutoring center founded by Dave Eggers.

The next time came when Kristin and I were at Book Cellar three weeks ago, and I spotted Demons on a shelf. I picked it up for the first time and knew right away I would be taking it home. But I fought the feeling because I didn’t think we could afford a $25 book that day.

So I returned it and walked around waiting for other books to jump out. Several others tried to seduce me with their wily ways. But it was Demons I kept returning to, so I finally checked with Kristin about buying it.

For the rest of that day I had a hard time putting it down. The red canvas cover and bright white pages felt so comfortable in my hands I kept the book on my lap during our trip home.

This is what Meno was hoping for. He created a book – which also includes illustrations from a variety of artists – that can’t be duplicated in an e-book format such as Kindle. You have to hold it to fully experience it. It's what a book should be.

I’m nearly finished reading the 20 stories within, and I still find myself just holding it in my hands, rubbing the cover with my fingers. The book knows it already has my attention, so it no longer needs to call out. It sits quietly in my hands providing all the company it needs to.

But I know there is another book somewhere waiting patiently for me to walk past. And when the moment is right, the book will clear its throat or yell or politely ask me for a moment of my time.

First person: yea or nay?

2009-07-13T18:10:00.013-05:00

I first came across Wright Thompson in the 2005 edition of the Best American Sports Writing series. Thompson is a wildly talented writer, one whom I’ve admired since reading that story about Jack Trice, the first black football player at Iowa State.

Thompson, who went from the Kansas City Star to ESPN.com as a senior writer, sparked a conversation on SportsJournalists.com about his recent story on Steve McNair. He wrote it using first person, and was criticized for not writing about Steve McNair, but rather writing about Wright Thompson.

There are some journalists – probably most – who feel it is a cardinal sin to write a feature in first person. They will go so far as to say it should NEVER happen. WE are not part of the story.

Honestly, I’m torn on the subject. I once used first person in a feature. It was about skydiving with Casey Deegan, an adult with Down syndrome. I tried a narrative technique that used my experience has a first-time skydiver interspersed with sections about Casey and his extraordinary life.

To this day I’m not sure that was the right approach. Maybe the story would have been better served if I pulled myself out and instead wrote a sidebar documenting my experience. But I wanted to challenge myself and felt this would be a good time to experiment with first person.

My ego probably came out somewhere in that thought process. Who wouldn’t want to read about my first skydiving experience? I’m sure that could have clouded my reasoning to some extent.

I still don’t understand why some writers are so opposed to first person, though. I can see disagreeing with its use and never wanting to try it yourself. But many vehemently oppose it. That’s the attitude I don’t understand.

I skimmed the comments left after Thompson’s McNair story—hey, there were almost 400. Did you think I’d really read them all? Most of the “conversation” was whether or not McNair deserved to die because he committed adultery.

I had no interest in that line of “debate,” an all-too-common occurrence on the wonderful interweb tubes. Instead I was looking to see if anybody criticized Thompson for inserting himself into the story.

A couple who were critical of him, but for other reasons. I saw many more who wrote about how much the story touched them. That obviously isn’t enough evidence to make an informed decision. But it did get me thinking.

Maybe journalists are too hard on each other. Maybe readers don’t give a rip about the use of first person. Or second. Or third. Maybe they don’t even care about sentence fragments. All that matters is if the story is written well enough, if it can stir something inside the reader. And sometimes that can happen with a first-person story.

Admittedly, there is a narcissistic bent to first-person writing. I just read a blog entry that went into that. Some writers are incapable of taking themselves out of stories. Without their own experiences to include they would have nothing to write about.

If nothing else, Thompson’s story doesn’t fall into that category. Neither does my story about Casey. I did a ton of reporting and spent many hours with him and his family. I did the legwork that others will sometimes neglect and then cover up by using first person.

I’d like to hear your thoughts. I have many friends who are – or were – journalists, but I’m hoping to hear from just regular readers, too.

Is first person OK in a newspaper outside a column or the editorial page? Is first person more acceptable in magazines or on the Web? Did Wright Thompson needlessly insert himself into the McNair story? Do readers care adamantly one way or the other?

Weekly Musical Interlude

2009-07-10T22:35:00.006-05:00

Way back in the day a friend of mine from high school, Mark, introduced me to some great bands. Bands like the Suburbs, the Replacements and Gang of Four. Problem is, it took me 15 years before I actually listened.

In the early 80s -- back before I really started listening to Springsteen -- I had a pretty horrible taste in music. How bad was it, you ask? Well, I did own this album. My only saving grace is that I never bought an album from these guys.

Anyway, thanks to the wonders of Facebook, I've recently reconnected with Mark. I spent a little time with him last month when I went back to Duluth. And when I go back next week, he and I are going to see the Meat Puppets.

So while I completely missed the boat with the Replacements and others, I'm doing my best to play catch-up. Here's a video from the Meat Puppets playing "Lake of Fire," a song made more famous by Nirvana. Duluth gets mentioned in the lyrics, but good luck catching it with Curt Kirkwood singing!

Enjoy.

Bees hate me

2009-07-05T15:57:00.002-05:00

Stream of consciousness can be fun. You just start thinking about one thing and that leads to something else and that leads you to write a bizarre novel that gets you labeled a literary giant.

That won’t happen here – at least not today. But I did just spend about 20 minutes drifting from my patio to something I read last night to an incident from my youth that led to my irrational fear of bees, hornets, wasps – really, anything with a stinger that flies, floats or crawls.

The stream started when a bumblebee landed on the petunias in front of me. After a couple seconds, this dastardly minion of Satan rose up and trapped itself under our umbrella. It bounced around under there looking for a way out.

I wasn’t buying it. I knew better. It was just trying to fool me into thinking it was an idiot. Nothing to fear here, sir, I’m just a bumbling bumblebee who trapped itself in an umbrella. Go back to your computer and forget about me.

My wife also tried convincing me it was harmless. Mind you, this is the woman who once almost killed me in a rollover car accident and later tried giving me salmonella. Only that time she got the plates mixed up and ended up with her own case of food poisoning.

So I’m not sure I can trust her when she says something is harmless. She could be in cahoots with the bees. I wouldn’t be surprised.

So anyway, this bee finally figures out how to escape from under the umbrella and flies away, no doubt waiting to return once I’ve relaxed and stopped paying attention. That’s when the attack will come, I’m sure of it.

Just last night I was thinking about bees. Actually, I was reading about them in a short story by Joe Meno called “Frances the Ghost.” In one scene, Frances, a young girl, is convinced by an older friend they should go into the woods and throw rocks at a beehive.

When the bees attack, Frances can’t turn away fast enough and they descend on her. What happens next is … well, I won’t tell you what happens. Just read the story. Meno is a fantastic writer.

This is where my mind wandered back to my youth. I must have been about eight or nine. I did lots of stupid stuff in those years, so I tend to think that anything I did that was really stupid happened during that time frame.

We were at my cousin’s house for a birthday party or some other summer gathering. As boys will do, we became bored and went looking for fun. That usually translates into trouble.

Someone spotted a hornet’s nest in a tree beside the gravel road we were on. Let’s see … hornets … young boys who were bored … lots and lots of rocks. I'm sure we all see where this is headed.

I don’t remember who threw the first one, but I do remember I tossed at least one. And, like Frances, I turned to run too late. I slipped on the gravel and hit the ground. I got stung multiple times as I lay there in the road trying to cover up while my cousins ran off safely.

I am now convinced this story has been passed down to generations of bees. I am convinced anything with a stinger knows I once threw a rock at a hornet’s nest. And I am convinced they are all just waiting for their chance to get me again.

Weekly Musical Interlude

2009-07-04T11:09:00.006-05:00

When I was in high school, my best friend went to France on a school trip. Because I took Spanish, I wasn't allowed to go with him. I think we would have had a great time together, but from the stories he came back with I don't think he missed me.

The part that really made me jealous wasn't that I didn't get to see the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or Versailles. That would have been cool. No, what really made me jealous was that they managed to squeeze in a Bruce Springsteen concert while over there.

My friend did bring me back a concert T-shirt and a cool postcard replica of the ticket, which I still have in a frame with all the tickets I've kept from the Springsteen shows I've seen. Still, I missed out on seeing the Boss in Paris.

Now thanks to the interwebs and YouTube I have a glimpse of what they saw that 30 June day in 1985. You can too. Plus, with it being July 4 and all, I couldn't think of a better video to show.

Enjoy.

What do readers know?

2009-06-29T23:45:00.009-05:00

In explaining his approach to telling jokes for the Tonight Show audience, Andy Richter mentioned something that could relate to the newspaper industry.

Richter, who reunited with Conan O’Brien to replace Jay Leno, was featured in an NPR segment over the weekend that obviously had nothing to do with examining the mentality of today’s newspaper executives.

But Richter’s comment makes sense for print journalists who are constantly being told they are losing their readers. Here’s the quote:

“If you start to just aim for what the audience wants to hear, you’re already hamstrung because you don’t have any freedom,” he says. “So the only thing you can do is do something that you think is funny. And I don't mean, become a big artist, but do try to tickle your own funny bone as much as you can, and hope that you have a sense of humor people can relate to.”

Just replace “funny” with “interesting” and that sums up the approach I tried to take for stories I pursued. I figured if I found something interesting, readers would too. Maybe not all of them, but enough of them.

It’s an approach that works well for feature writers. We try to find a topic that will interest as many readers as possible. But I also know it’s impossible to write something every reader will find interesting.

A newspaper’s audience is too fragmented to appease everybody. Yet newspaper executives seem to believe it’s possible. They think they have the answers by talking to each other during endless meetings and regurgitating what the other geniuses have said.

Readers want local stories. Local, local, local.
Readers don’t have time for in-depth stories.
Readers want information they can use.
Readers want less opinion.
Readers want more opinion.
Readers want pictures of puppies.

Some say readership surveys are needed. Find out what readers want and then give them that. That’s an admirable notion – if it was possible.

But in today’s environment that could lead to a newspaper geared toward the loudmouths and online trolls who make the most noise. That leads to a continuous dumbing-down of the product, further alienating sophisticated readers. You know, the ones who are more likely to actually buy and read a newspaper.

Maybe I’m wrong about this. I freely admit the problems of the newspaper industry far exceed my ability to solve. But I know as a reader, newspapers continue to offer me less and less.

I spend fewer than 15 minutes a day reading the two newspapers that come to my door. Not because I don't have time. But because that's all the time it takes to get through. Give me something to read, dammit.

When I was back in Duluth earlier this month I thought someone had stolen the sports section from my mom’s paper. I soon discovered it was buried inside the front section. The paper I grew up reading, where I worked my first job in journalism, no longer has a separate sports section most days of the week.

Here in Chicago, the Tribune continues to shrink. This weekend they printed their final Sunday magazine, a supplement to the Sunday newspaper that was always anchored with a piece of narrative, or long-form, journalism.

Staff writer Rick Kogan – who is the epitome of what a Chicago journalist should be – wrote the article announcing the changes. His ending grabbed me.

"To wander through the McCutcheon show is to understand how much newspapers, specifically this one, which was born in 1847, have remade themselves over the years in response to events and currents and tastes. Like McCutcheon and his many contemporaries, we remain in the business of trying to provide, as the title of the exhibition states, 'Chronicles of a Changing World.'

That about says it. The world changes. So do we. And we move on."

Readers do, too. Keep giving them less and we won't have to worry about satisfying them anymore. There won't be any left.

Lost in the moments

2009-06-28T21:56:00.001-05:00

When I was a freshman in high school, my parents allowed me to go on an overnight trip to the Twin Cities with one of my brother’s friends for a Cars concert. It was the first concert I saw outside of Duluth.

I don’t remember how many shows I’d seen at that point, but I’m guessing only one. Three years earlier my aunt and one of her friends took me to see Kiss at the Duluth Arena.

We sat in those single-row seats around the bend of the arena, right up from the stage. I can still see the bright red fake blood that oozed from Gene Simmons’ trademark tongue during the show.

That was 1979 – damn, 30 years ago. The Cars concert I went to with Dean – and two girls who were juniors (that’s a story for another place, if only because the truth is far less intriguing than the air of mystery I’m leaving it at here) – was in 1982.

I’ve been hooked on live music ever since. I have no idea how many shows I’ve seen in the ensuing years. And I don’t intend to figure it out now. I’m sure it’s close to a couple hundred.

In the past eight or nine years, very few of those have been stadium concerts. The majority of the shows I see now are in clubs. There’s a connection fostered in those smaller venues between the bands and fans.

Springsteen might be able to grab hold of 25,000 people in an arena and pull them up to the stage with him. But very few other artists can. In a club, the band is right there, so close even the people in the back of the room can tell which musician needs a shave or which one stuffed a zucchini wrapped in foil into his pants.

At a show I wait for that moment when I forget where I am. That’s much harder to do now that I don’t drink anymore. But if a band is good, it can happen. The best part is when you have no idea it is coming.

Like when I went to Milwaukee to see the Drive-By Truckers in late February 2008. I had never heard of their opening act, The Felice Brothers, but I always make it a point to see the entire bill, not just the headliners. This is why.

The Felice Brothers took the stage and launched into “Run, Chicken, Run,” a raucous song that appears on their latest CD. The five of them attacked the song with such ferocity I couldn’t help but get caught up in it. Over the remainder of their set they did nothing to diminish that feeling. It was one of the few times I hoped the opening act would just keep playing.

I had another one of those moments Saturday night while watching the Waco Brothers at Taste of Chicago (that's them at the top of this post). When they ripped into “Folsom Prison Blues,” I was prepared for the excitement. The song is one of their live-show staples.

Band member Dean Schlabowske once referred to their sound as country music informed by punk rock. Their version of “Folsom Prison Blues” illustrates what he meant. They swept me up Saturday inside the wave of energy they created while pounding out the song.

By the end of it I found myself actually dancing. Well, what passes as dancing for me. My arms did leave my side – though I was careful to make sure they didn’t get too high – and my legs did move a bit. Sorry, but even when I’m lost in the moment, that’s about the most you’ll see. The rest of the action is churning on the inside.

I pursue moments like that, moments that snatch you from your life and put you down smack-dab in the middle of a song, a sound, a note. If I leave a show without at least one of those moments I’m disappointed.

But I leave knowing another one is always waiting down the road for me in some club with some band during some song.

Weekly Musical Interlude

2009-06-26T22:55:00.006-05:00

So this is the Waco Brothers. The guys are not from Waco and they are not brothers. Instead they are one of the best live club bands you'll ever see, and I'm fortunate to do that often in their adopted hometown of Chicago. We'll be seeing them again Saturday when they close out the "Bloodshot Records Day" at the Taste of Chicago in Grant Park.

I highly recommend going to see the Wacos if you get the chance. You won't be disappointed. Check out Bloodshot Records, too. It's an independent label based in Chicago focusing on "insurgent country" music, which beats the hell out of the crap passing for country music these days.

On that note, check out this video of a song that reflects my feelings toward Nashville as well. Jon Langford does a much better job expressing those than I ever could.

Please enjoy.

My so-called man-love for Joe Mauer

2009-06-25T11:50:00.012-05:00

A couple of years ago my nieces gave me a present. It was a poster of Twins catcher Joe Mauer. Somehow they’d gotten the impression I had a crush on Mauer.

They giggled hysterically when my wife, Kristin, joked I was going to hang the poster next to our bed so that every night I could give Mauer smooches before going to sleep. At least I think she was joking.

In any event, the poster is not in the bedroom. I haven’t even found a place to hang it, actually. So it remains rolled up, waiting for its chance to join the rest of my Twins memorabilia on display in our TV room and guest room/office.

Just to set the record straight, though: I do not have a crush on Joe Mauer. But even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t be alone. Sports Illustrated’s Tom Verducci penned a pretty nice love letter to Mauer in this week’s SI.

That marks the second SI cover story on Mauer. Kelli Anderson wrote a pretty fawning article of her own three years ago.

Then there was this piece I found written by Teddy Mitrosilis, a staff writer for Around the Majors. In it Mitrosilis writes:

"There’s a guy in Minnesota who is making the leap from special to legendary, and it’s time we take notice. My money says in fifteen years, we won’t be thinking of Mike Piazza as the greatest offensive catcher in baseball history."

Like these writers, I appreciate Mauer and his ability. He's simply my favorite player on my favorite team. I have no desire to smooch his poster before I go to sleep. But I do keep those two SIs on my nightstand.

Camping, networking and re-entering the work force

2009-06-15T16:38:00.013-05:00

Put me in a room full of strangers and I’ll immediately recede to the background. I’ll find a place to sit with my back to a wall so I can survey the area. I prefer to observe my surroundings while deciding whether or not it’s worth participating.

That allows me to look at the others. I can often pick up details of their personalities this way. It’s something I've always done. As a reporter it became a valuable skill. The fewer people who knew I was in a room the better.

Take last Wednesday. I attended LaidOffCamp Chicago at Loyola University’s Water Tower campus. I arrived a bit early and was told to wait in the lobby with the others until we could be brought up to the 15th floor where they had the sign-in tables and held opening and closing remarks.

So I found a chair at the far end of the lobby, sat down and began scanning the room. I discovered most of the people must have the same feelings as I do about small talk. They looked up, down, to the left, to the right. But never directly at anybody else. Heaven forbid we make eye contact and have to nod a hello or – gasp! – engage in brief conversation.

Some were smart – they pecked away on their laptops or flashed their Blackberries and iPhones in desperate attempts to seem important. The young woman in a dark skirt sitting next to me kept her nose buried in a Wally Lamb book. A man paced around, making it very clear he intended to be first on the elevator when we were given the OK to go up.

As the day went on, I became more comfortable in the settings. The camp was a series of break-out sessions designed to help with the job search. It wasn’t a job fair. Instead we heard from experts in topics like writing a resume, organizing your job search and how to succeed as a freelancer.

The biggest thing I took from the event was the advice about networking. The topic came up again and again, from session to session, from sign-in to closing remarks. Apparently it’s the key to success in the 21st century.

As you may have guessed, networking is not my strong suit. It’s hard to strike up a conversation when I’m parked against the far wall scanning the room. Which, now that I think about it, could seem a bit stalkerish to some people. At the very least it's a tad creepy.

In reflecting about the event, something dawned on me. It turns out I actually do network. I even did it at the camp, meeting several people and exchanging business cards. Well, I didn’t have any business cards to exchange, so I basically just collected cards (again, that sounds vaguely creepy).

But more than that, I’m networking all the time. I have profiles on LinkedIn and Facebook, which I’m constantly checking and updating. I have profiles on Twitter and MySpace, too, though I don’t utilize them much.

It’s not just social networking either. I have tried to keep in touch with former co-workers, especially those who have escaped the newspaper industry. You never know who can help you down the road.

Case in point, my new job. I used to work with Jennifer Golz Dooley at the Sun. She was a news reporter who left to take a position in the communications department at Good Samaritan Hospital in Downers Grove.

I stayed in touch with her through Facebook. Last month she contacted me to write a couple articles for a monthly employee newsletter produced by her department. She must have liked my work because last week she called to offer me a three-month assignment, which I accepted and began today.

It’s not full-time work and it’s temporary. But it gives me more hands-on experience outside of newspapers. I hope that continues to expand enough where I can confidently say I am self-employed.

So maybe I'm more sociable than I thought. Now if I can only stop standing against walls or sitting in corners.

Weekly Music Interlude -- Twins style

2009-06-12T10:52:00.002-05:00

It was nearly 12 years ago when Kristin and I watched the Minnesota Twins play their first series at Wrigley Field. We were on our honeymoon and as part of our trip to Chicago we took in all three games. Is it any wonder why I love that woman?

Anyway, the Twins are back in Wrigley this weekend, preparing for a sweep of the Cubs. For inspiration, I dug up an mp3 version of my favorite -- and possibly only -- Twins song.

LET'S GO TWINS!!!!

Out of shape and out of sorts

2009-06-08T22:10:00.000-05:00

This may come as a surprise to those who know me well, but I’m not in very good shape.

My trip to Duluth last week added a few pounds to my waistline, further obscuring whatever abdominal muscles I have hiding behind my belly.

Then today I nearly fell over when I climbed out of bed. I walked around the room hunched over, moving with stiff legs as if I was a distorted combination of Igor and Frankenstein’s monster. A dull pain throbbed in my right shoulder.

A mid-morning trip to the chiropractor helped matters, but I was still left with a sad realization about my participation in a church softball league each Sunday. That realization is I need to spend more time preparing to play than actually playing. I guess that’s what happens to a guy in his 40s who rarely exercises.

The same thing happens to a guy who stops writing regularly. This point – that writing is a muscle that has to be developed and maintained – was reiterated to me Saturday morning during the Printer’s Row Lit Fest (do we really need to call it a lit fest? Wasn’t Printer’s Row Book Fair a good enough name?).

For the first time, I caught some of the sessions held in conjunction with the book sale. I attended a morning talk about memoir writing that featured three gifted writers – Rick Bragg, David Carr and Neil Steinberg.

When the session ended I ran into Dan McGrath, the former sports editor at the Chicago Tribune who is now a senior writer there. I’ve gotten to know McGrath over the years at various sports writing conferences and seminars, including the annual APSE national convention.

We only talked briefly, but long enough for me to tell him I’m no longer working at the Sun. He offered encouraging words about the future of journalism, while admitting the current situation is worse than any he’s experienced in his long career.

Then he reminded me to keep writing. “It’s like a muscle,” he said. “You just have to keep exercising it.”

This was certainly not a revelation to me. I’ve heard or read similar sentiments in many places. But it was good to hear it again, especially because it made me realize I hadn’t written anything in several days, other than a quick blog entry while in Duluth.

I also realized I’d been in a funk for several days. Part of that was being tired from the drive to Duluth and back. Part of it was the gray, cold weather at the book fair (sorry, but I'm with Mr. Steinberg on this one – I’m not calling it a lit fest).

But more of it had to do with letting my writing muscle go soft. As a reporter, that was never a concern. Even if I didn’t love everything I wrote, I was still writing every day, especially in the last two months at the Sun.

So while I try to work off all the pizza I ate in Duluth, and remember to stretch before playing softball, I also must keep exercising that writing muscle. Before long maybe I’ll even be in shape.

Weekly musical interlude

2009-06-03T10:34:00.008-05:00

DULUTH, Minn. -- I've been hanging out in my hometown this week which is why I've been neglecting my blog. I'm working on something I planned to post while I'm here, but it doesn't look like I'll have it done in time. This will have to do for now.

When I lived in Duluth I never fully appreciated how good the music scene was in this state. Of course we all knew about Dylan and Prince and then Soul Asylum broke out nationally for a bit. The Jayhawks was an influential band in the early days of the alt-country movement.

But only recently have I rediscovered some of the music I overlooked in my youth. Bands like the Replacements and the Suburbs have found their way into my CD or mp3 players more and more often these days.

This week's musical interlude doesn't involve any of those bands, though. I was all set to find a clip of the Replacements, preferably "Here Comes a Regular" or "Unsatisfied," but didn't want to spend too much time digging up a good, non-cover version. The Suburbs' "I Like Cows" would have been good, too, because it provides the perfect soundtrack for the drive through Wisconsin I took to get here.

Alas, I've settled on something from The Hold Steady, a band based in Brooklyn but with roots in Minneapolis. Lead singer Craig Finn's voice is an acquired taste, so be warned. But the song -- "Constructive Summer" -- feels right for the occasion.

It should come as no surprise that I'm drawn to the lyrics as much as the music. Of particular interest to me in "Constructive" is the line, "Let this be my annual reminder that we can all be something bigger."

Enjoy. See you back in Chicago!

Burnout

2009-05-31T19:12:00.008-05:00

On an April night in 2005, I stood outside the Westin River North ballroom overlooking the Chicago River. It was a crisp night, but I was comfortable in just a sports coat with a shirt and tie.

As I smoked a cigarette – a habit I have since quit – I eyed the buildings, the bridges, the people floating by on a river tour boat. I thought to myself, “It won’t be long now. Soon Chicago will know my name.”

That sounds a little psychotic looking back now. In reality it was hopelessly naive. I was basking in the glow of having won a Lisagor Award for a series of stories I did for the Sun about pressures facing today’s high school athletes.

In my mind the Lisagor was my ticket to bigger things. Surely, the Tribune would be calling Monday morning, offering me my dream job as a sports takeout writer. I guess we all know how that worked out – for me and the person who last held that position.

But that’s not what this blog post is about. It isn’t about me bragging about the Lisagor, either (OK, maybe it is a little). It’s about that project and burnout.

I never envisioned my initial idea turning into a three-part series with sidebars each day. I didn’t envision interviewing nearly 30 people, or taking six months to complete it. I just wanted to do a story about how today’s athletes were specializing in sports much earlier than in the past, and that maybe that trend was leading to high levels of burnout.

At first I planned this to be one story. I was right. It ended up being one story – a sidebar to the third part. Everything else mushroomed from that nugget.

I was driven to complete the project by forces I don’t always understand. It’s happened with several stories since then, too. Something about a particular topic will stoke my interest enough that I don’t care how long it takes, or how much writing I have to do, I’m going to tell that story to the best of my ability.

As my time at the Sun went on, I became less and less motivated to tackle those projects. By the end, I hardly wanted to do any story that was going to take more than a couple days to complete.

It became clear I was suffering from burnout. All the signs had been there, but I didn’t recognize them despite having done research on the subject five years ago. I had no motivation despite seeing some pretty interesting topics come my way.

This really began sinking in last week. How it took this long, I still don’t know. But when I was exchanging e-mails with my former sports editor, it hit me. He was offering some stories for me to do on a freelance basis. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I just don’t want to write for a newspaper right now.

That’s not entirely true. I’m still trying to pitch ideas to the Tribune, but I’m doing that for two reasons. One, I want to be able to write on my resume that my work has appeared in the Tribune. And second, I’m not pitching sports stories.

I’m trying to broaden my portfolio of clips. Two weeks ago I did some freelance work for an employee newsletter at Good Samaritan Hospital, thanks to a woman there who used to work at the Sun. I’m hoping that blossoms into more work from her, but also from other hospitals.

It’s not the most exciting writing, but neither was a lot of what I did for the Sun. Plus, these tend to be well-paying assignments. I enjoy the challenge of writing in a different style and for a different audience.

My goal is to build more of these assignments together and eventually have enough to declare myself self-employed. Freelance writers today can’t rely on magazine and newspaper assignments for steady work. So by branching out to the health-care industry – and hopefully soon into the corporate world – I’m taking positive steps toward making a living as a writer.

At the same time, I’m recovering from my burnout. I’m sure some day I’ll want to re-enter the journalism world ready to tackle the next project. As long as the journalism world is still there, that is.

It’s all I can ask for at this point. I no longer stand overlooking the Chicago River thinking I’m going to conquer Chicago. I no longer care how many people will know my name. I simply think, “I’m going to make a living as a writer in this city.”

It’s a scaled-down version of my original dream, but it’s enough to make me happy. For now.

Weekly Musical Interlude

2009-05-28T13:01:00.004-05:00

I've lost track of how many, so I'm just going to start calling these Weekly Musical Interludes.

I'm kind of bummed because one of my favorite live bands, The Felice Brothers, is coming to Chicago tomorrow night. But Kristin and I aren't going. One of the deals with being unemployed is that we have to cut back on our live music budget.

Doing that in the summer is kind of tough because so many bands tour during those months. But this summer is going to fun anyway because of all the free live music available.

We're going to hit the Taste of Chicago twice (June 27 for Bloodshot Records Day and July 4 for Booker T & the Drive-By Truckers). Then we're hoping to get up to Green Bay in August to see Slobberbone play a reunion show at the Oneida Casino. (We already bought tickets to see Slobberbone in Chicago, so that is one of the only shows we'll be paying for in the near future.)

Anyway, you probably didn't need to know all that. Here's a video from the Felice Brothers, singing one of my favorites from them, "Frankie's Gun." Enjoy.

Reminiscing already

2009-05-26T23:38:00.000-05:00

Earlier tonight I did something I never thought I would – I paid to watch high school girls soccer. It was a sectional semifinal doubleheader featuring four of the five schools I covered over the past six seasons.

I feel a bond with the coaches and many of the players, and I want to see how the season plays out. As my time away from the Sun grows, I’m sure I will lose that connection. But for now my curiosity was enough I drove to Bolingbrook, about 30 minutes from my house.

I always enjoyed covering girls sports because female athletes tend to be more open and honest than their male counterparts when it comes to interviews. Female athletes just seem to be more real. They don’t normally try to hide behind some tough exterior. They show more of their personalities and their emotions.

One of my favorites is Rachel Bostick, a senior at Waubonsie Valley, for just that reason. [I know I’m not supposed to say I had favorites, but screw it, I don’t work for the newspaper anymore.]

I first interviewed Rachel – that's her in the photo above wearing No. 20 – when she was a freshman, just after she scored both goals in a 2-0 win over Providence Catholic. I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I do remember it was like pulling teeth to get her to answer my questions.

I looked up the story tonight just to find out if I actually quoted her in the story. Sure enough, I did.

“It doesn’t matter who scores, it just matters that we finish,” Bostick said that afternoon. “I think teams have noticed that (Kylee Rodriguez) is scoring so they are marking up on her. That made it easier for us to score.”

Not a bad start, and better than I remembered. In the ensuing years Rachel turned into a quality source, my version of a go-to player.

She also played basketball for Waubonsie, so I talked with her quite a bit since our first conversation on a soccer field in Lemont. Enough that I’ve also gotten to know her dad, Dave, who took me aside before a basketball game last winter.

He told me how much the players enjoy seeing their names in the paper, and how much the work I did meant to them. It made me feel good, even though I hate to think of my work being reduced to just getting kids’ names in the paper.

Rachel often had her name in the paper. And she usually had something unique to say for a story, especially if she was talking about one of her teammates. Rachel was perfect for features on other players. Like when I wrote about two standout Waubonsie freshmen basketball players for a playoff preview.

“I don't think they ever were freshmen,” Rachel said of Keiera Ray and Tami Morice. “They talk about being nervous before games, but it doesn’t show on the court, ever.”

I’ll probably never interview Rachel again. It’s possible I won’t interview any high school athletes again. Soon I won’t know any of the players on the teams I used to cover.

I'm sure there will be times I'll miss that. Tonight was one of those times.

Internet love

2009-05-26T22:34:00.003-05:00

I've discovered a cool thing about writing a blog -- you never know who is reading. I came home tonight to find a comment to an earlier post from Curtis. He told me that he learned about my blog from a link on the Puck Daddy blog on Yahoo! Sports.

So I checked it out and sure enough, Puck Daddy gave me a plug. Thank you, sir.

Here's what he wrote:

Paul LaTour is a newspaper writer who was laid off, and is now blogging about unemployed life. Check out his Bob Probert tale, and please do give the rest of it a read. Interesting, though depressing, stuff.

In the spirit of sharing audiences, please go check out Puck Daddy's blog. Lots of good stuff on there for us hockey fans.

Me and Rickey Henderson

2009-05-22T17:57:00.008-05:00

There was another time plexiglass provided a nice barrier (if you read my previous entry you’d know what I’m talking about here).

Near as I can figure -- thanks to help from the best baseball site ever -- it was during the Twins' magical 1991 season, a game against their archrival during this period, the Oakland A’s. At the time Rickey Henderson patrolled left field for the A’s, as he was this night in the Metrodome, which used to have this ridiculous plexiglass wall about the regular wall to cut down on the home runs.

Rickey was arrogant. Rickey was annoying. Rickey was standing right in front of me for most of the game. I decided it would be fun to annoy Rickey for a change.

So as he jogged out to his position to start an inning, I noticed there was a Rickey Henderson fan club sitting in the section to my left. Rickey looked up to them and nodded. He then looked my way. I was standing on the stairs. I motioned as if I was going to tip my cap to him. But at the last second I saluted him the Johnny Cash way.

Rickey didn’t like that. Rickey began shouting at me, grabbing at his crotch. I couldn’t hear what Rickey was saying, but it sounded like something involving my mother.

To which I replied, “My mama? My mama? No, YO mama!” I did that while also grabbing my crotch. Did I mention I had been drinking? I’m not sure why I feel that’s an important detail to add here, but there it is.

Now Rickey was mad. Rickey motioned for me to come down on the field. Rickey must be dumber than what I’ve heard if he thought I was actually going down there. I’m fine behind this plexiglass, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.

The game resumed, and I continued to ride Rickey. At one point he tried for one of his snatch grabs and botched it, allowing the Twins to score. Later he struck out swinging with runners in scoring position. When he returned to the outfield I mimed striking out. Rickey, again, didn’t like that. I wondered, why does Rickey keep looking at me if I’m pissing him off?

Somewhere in the night I had to make a pit stop at the Metrodome troughs. While standing in line, someone asked, “Are you the guy that’s got Henderson so pissed? What did you say to him?”

I told him what had happened. Soon people in the bathroom were patting me on the back and cheering. That can be uncomfortable considering the circumstances. Talk about stage fright.

Anyway, the game eventually ended. The Twins won in 12 innings. Rickey had stopped looking my way, so my fun was over, too. I didn’t have to meet Rickey on the field, or outside the stadium for further discussion.

I doubt Rickey thought too much about me or that night ever again. But I obviously have.

Me and Bob Probert

2009-05-20T16:10:00.007-05:00

As each day passes, the notion of being a working sports journalist fades. It’s not a bad thing. What I find returning is my passion for being a sports fan.

Through my whole career I’ve had it ingrained in me that I was no longer a fan. I couldn’t be and expect to do my job properly. I had no problem with that. While I still cheered for my favorite college and professional teams, I slowly found that the results of the games meant less and less to me.

This is coming from a guy who was a pretty hardcore fan of the Twins, Vikings and North Stars (never much cared for the Timberwolves). How hardcore? You tell me.

Opening round of the 1992 Stanley Cup playoffs. Game 6 of the North Stars-Red Wings series. The old Met Center in Bloomington, Minn., where the North Stars used to call home before Norm Green stole away with them to Texas.

Somehow I managed to get tickets directly behind the teams’ benches, sort of in the middle, but closer to the North Stars players. I soon noticed that if I stood up I could yell over the plexiglass. This came in handy during a scrum in front of the benches that involved Red Wings thug Bob Probert.

As the scuffle continued, I stood to voice my displeasure with Mr. Probert, who was a bit of a goon to say the least. I believe I said something to the effect that perhaps he was a piece of excrement. Or something like that. It’s really not important right now.

Anyway, with the words barely out of my mouth, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a Detroit player, water bottle in hand, pointing it at me. I ducked behind the glass just in time to avoid a spray of water.

Unfortunately, the North Stars equipment manager was directly in front of me. The water hit him full force. He was not happy. He pounded the glass and yelled at me. I sheepishly apologized, thinking the whole time security was about to haul me away.

I survived somehow. But the Stars didn’t. They lost 1-0 in overtime and then lost the series in Detroit. They played one more year in Minnesota before moving to Dallas. They are now dead to me.

This wasn’t the first time plexiglass saved me. Good lord, no. But you’ll have to wait for my next entry to find out what happened between me and Rickey Henderson.

Vacation time's over ... and then depression sets in

2009-05-16T23:38:00.007-05:00

Back when I was working – How long has it been now? A month? – I often dreamed of all the things I would do if I didn’t have to work.

All the books I’d read. All the fiction I’d write. All the walks I’d go on with Kristin. The mornings I’d spend working out. The evenings I’d spend sitting on our patio, relaxing in the cool spring air.

I’d revamp my resume. I’d get a Web site going. Heck, I’d learn to create my own Web site. I’d learn to play the guitar.

Oh, the plans I had.

As I complete my fourth week of unemployment – yes, I had to look at the calendar to make sure – my list of post-Sun accomplishments is barren. I’ve done none of the things I dreamed I’d do if only I had the time.

That realization sank in this week. Maybe it was the rainy, dreary weather. Maybe it was my ever-growing frustration with my unemployment benefits. Maybe it was listening to Steve Earle’s new album, Townes, too much.

The late Townes Van Zandt wrote some of the most darkly beautiful songs ever composed, including this one. Listening to Earle’s tribute album isn’t exactly uplifting, but I found it comforting nonetheless.

Whatever the cause, I’ve been fighting off a heavy dose of depression in recent days. I fear I’m drifting too far from a sense of purpose in my life. As bad as conditions were at the newspaper, I still had a purpose every day.

Some of those days that purpose wasn’t very stimulating – writing stories about games so parents and grandparents could fill their scrapbooks. That isn’t exactly the type of journalism they make movies about.

But those other days, the days when I found a story subject especially inspiring, those were the days that made everything seem worthwhile. I can’t explain it because I don’t know exactly why a good subject made me feel better about myself. But it did.

A few jump out. Brian Muniz, the former drug dealer forging a new life as a quad rugby player. Tom Schlegel, the Neuqua Valley assistant football coach who succumbed to non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma but not until after showing everybody that life is good no matter what. Casey Deegan, the 30-something guy with Down syndrome who took up skydiving so he could be just like his dad.

Those were among the stories that touched me. And I tried to relate them to the readers as best I could.

At some point at the Sun, writing became difficult. The very act of writing paralyzed me. I worried about whether or not I was doing a good enough job. Was this story as good as one I wrote last week, last month, last year? Was I using the right word here? I began to wonder, what kind of writer are you if you don’t want to write?

All that returned to me this week. Then as the weekend began, the cloud of self-doubt began lifting. It certainly was related to the warmer, sunny days we had Thursday and Saturday. But it was more than that.

It happens every time I sink into those pits of writer’s block – or whatever you want to call it. Eventually I do write something and I like it. Maybe it’s a sentence. Maybe it’s just a word that fits so perfectly. If I’m really lucky it’s an entire story.

It turns out this entry is what began lifting me up. It’s certainly not my best piece of writing, but it felt good. I like the way it reads. I’ve come to find this blog serves a purpose for me, even if it’s not truly My Purpose.

I still haven’t finished reading a book since I became unemployed. I haven’t written much of any fiction. The Web site is still a ways off and the guitar is gathering dust next to the TV.

But I don’t think I can say I haven’t accomplished anything anymore.

It's Boss time!!!

2009-05-12T15:23:00.001-05:00

Today has me headed off to see Bruce Springsteen at the United Center. I'll leave you with one of his classics. See you soon!

Hockey time

2009-05-11T18:40:00.002-05:00

I've been kind of busy lately, believe it or not. So I haven't had time to do a true update for a while. I'm getting ready to watch Game 6 of the Hawks-Canucks series, so I thought this would be an appropriate time to post this video. It's not the best quality, but it gets the job done.
LET'S GO HAWKS!!!

Musical Interlude, Part III

2009-05-08T17:54:00.003-05:00

It's a day early, but Saturday night deserves a little extra hype. So here's a video by Ozomatli from its appearance on Austin City Limits a couple years ago. Enjoy the video and the weekend!

It could have been worse ... much worse

2009-05-06T11:55:00.015-05:00

I consider myself pretty fortunate my layoff didn't come as a surprise. For months I prepared for the inevitable, even though I had a pretty good feeling I would survive all but the most drastic cuts (i.e. the paper folding -- hard to keep your job when there's no paper to put out).

Still, I looked everywhere for signs the end was coming. The first was the announcement the Sun would be sharing a newsroom with the Aurora Beacon-News, its sister paper in the Fox Valley Publications branch of the Sun-Times Media Group.

A FVP restructuring put members of the Beacon in every role of authority in the merged newsroom, which also included editors and designers from the Elgin Courier-News. We no longer had an advocate in upper management. The restructuring quickly hit the Sun sports department.

Within weeks of moving into our new digs, we went from a seven-person staff with a part-time clerk to a three-person staff with no part-timers. Thankfully at that point nobody lost a job. The clerk resigned, three editors were reassigned, one writer became the new sports editor and another shifted over to the Web staff.

The next scare came earlier this year when talk surfaced the Sun was to undergo a redesign similar to the one the Courier had just had. Layoffs followed the Courier's process, including cutting its sports staff to one editor and one writer.

It seemed apparent to me the same thing could happen at the Sun. We didn't cover as many high schools as the Courier, so why would we have a larger staff? In the convoluted way of thinking that infests today's newspaper industry, it actually made sense to me.

So I prepared to be "that guy," the one who would be cut. My colleague, Patrick Mooney, showed far more aptitude to the changes undergoing in the industry. I became the dinosaur, ideologically clinging to the antiquated notion quality mattered. If I was the one in charge, I would keep Patrick and lose that LaTour guy, who by the way, always seems to be arguing and fighting any proposed change.

Then came word the company declared bankruptcy -- which would have been much better if Michael Scott had been the one delivering the message -- and the plan to cut 15 percent from employment throughout the chain. Funny how this managed to be accomplished without the Beacon losing a single full-timer. But I digress.

The rest is already known. I made it clear I wouldn’t be opposed if I was included on the list of cuts. They took me up on it. And now I’m unemployed.

Which brings me to why I’m writing today. Last week the Baltimore Sun, which is owned by the Sam Zell-run Tribune Company, announced more layoffs. At least three members of the staff found out via cell phone calls while they were covering a baseball game at Camden Yards, walking distance from the Sun’s office in downtown Baltimore.

Columnist David Steele recounts his last day here. It’s worth reading, if only to discover how cold-hearted and spineless some editors are in this industry.

I say “this industry” as if I’m still a part of it. But I’m an outsider now. It’s another reason I feel fortunate.

Links added

2009-05-05T17:09:00.004-05:00

I've been a little lazy in regard to updating my blog. I've got a couple things I'm working on for posting, but nothing is ready yet.

So I added some links to the right of the page. These are many of the sites I visit on a regular basis, especially SportsJournalists.com, where I waste entirely too much time lurking. Some of the conversations are enlightening, but most are ridiculous back-and-forth flame wars. Some threads, like this one, are both.

What was cool about the thread I linked is that it was about an Esquire cover story written by Chris Jones, who used to frequent sj.com quite a bit before this particular thread went bad. That's a shame because those of us learning narrative journalism on the fly could use a resource like Jones.

Sorry there wasn't much meat to this today. But I've got to go. Time to cook dinner for Kristin and get ready to meet friends for the Blackhawks game.

Check out another blog

2009-05-02T09:36:00.007-05:00

Former Chicago Tribune sports writer Melissa Isaacson recently started her own Web site with a blog. She was among the 53 people cut from the Tribune during another round of layoffs there April 22.

Isaacson just won a Lisagor Award last week from the Chicago Headline Club for her remarkable story about losing both her parents to Alzheimer's.

After reading several of Isaacson's posts I began wondering why the heck I'm even bothering. Then I remembered something I came across the other day. I can't find the exact passage, but it had to do with writers letting go of their insecurities about their work. It can be crippling to think about the many great writers out there and realize you are not among them. No matter what you write, or how good you think you are, you always come across somebody whose work you feel is better.

But that doesn't mean you shouldn't write. Each person writes for their own reasons. Some are just better at certain aspects than others. Find your strengths and utilize them. Find your weaknesses and improve them.

So go check out Isaacson's site if you're interested.

Musical interlude, Part II

2009-04-29T18:05:00.003-05:00

As anybody that knows me can tell you, I'm sort of into the Drive-By Truckers. Yeah, that's probably an understatment.

Anyway, this is a video from a DBT show at the Metro in Chicago a few years ago. They don't usually wear as much make-up, but this was Halloween. Kristin and I were at the show, which lasted more than 3 1/2 hours. Awesome. Absolutely awesome.

So, enjoy the Rock Show!

Paul LaTour, Idiot

2009-04-28T12:08:00.006-05:00

OK, so maybe I'm not an idiot. But you be the judge.

When I started this blog I intended to be very honest in my posts, even if it was less than flattering. Which brings me to today's post, which is basically a rebuttal from yesterday's post.

The woman I spoke with today at the state employment security office told me I have to claim every dollar I make while collecting unemployment benefits. It's what at least one of my fellow unemployed sports writers told me last week. But I didn't want to believe him.

Now I'm stuck with two state employees telling me one thing (freelance money does not count against my benefits) and one saying another (every dollar must be claimed). Obviously, I'm going to be cautious about this and go with the woman's advice today.

I guess it's too much to ask that this particular issue would actually be specifically addressed in the handbook. Instead I'm left to the mercy of low-level government officials and their interpretations. Guess I'm back to the blind-leading-the-blind theory from an earlier post.

Sorry no jokes today.

Paul LaTour, Independent Contractor

2009-04-27T18:59:00.006-05:00

Something dawned on me as I went through my day trying to learn as much about unemployment benefits as I could—I have far too many unemployed friends.

I spent today trying to get to the bottom of the whole freelancing/unemployment thing I was wondering about in an earlier post. Since last week I’ve e-mailed or spoken with several friends about the subject, friends who are also laid-off sports writers. It's nice to have that kind of network, but sad to think about how many laid-off journalists I know.

I appreciated hearing their thoughts, but I figured I better give the people at employment security another shout to see what comes of it. This time instead of calling the office again, I decided to go there in person.

I feared the worst. But found it wasn’t nearly as bad as I anticipated. I was in and out in less than a half-hour. And I left with some good information—or at least information that supports my earlier conversation with a benefits person.

It seems freelancers are considered independent contractors, which is great news. I was told—for the second time—independent contractors are able to make money without it affecting their unemployment benefits.

The two keys are that I continue looking for full-time work, which I have been doing (applied for two jobs so far). The other is that if I begin making significant money as an independent contractor I should declare that as my full-time job and cancel my unemployment benefits, which has been my goal all along.

I’ve already got a handful of freelance assignments, thanks to previous standing gigs with IrishEyes magazine and RSNA News, a newsletter produced by the Radiological Society of North America.

I’ve pitched two story ideas to the Chicago Tribune. And I’ve got a solid idea I want to pitch to Chicago magazine. The more places I can publish my work, the better it is for my clip file.

So that’s where I’m focusing my attention for the time being. It means I’m now Paul LaTour, Independent Contractor.

It beats the other career move I was contemplating: Paul LaTour, Male Prostitute.

Musical interlude

2009-04-23T22:18:00.002-05:00

In honor of one of my favorite bands that I just found out today is reunited and returning for an August show in Chicago. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you ... Slobberbone!

[Note: Not my favorite song by them, but it was the best quality video I could find]

It's a gray area

2009-04-22T17:00:00.004-05:00

I'm looking for those jobbies where jobs grow. I’ve already got my job helmet strapped on and I’m ready to squeeze into the job cannon.

If none of that makes sense, go back and view the video at the top of this post. It’s a clip from “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,” the funniest—and often raunchiest—show on TV. If you don’t know about it, do yourself a favor and rent seasons 1-3 on DVD. Or stop over to the house and we can watch them together. I’ve got the time.

Anyway to update my status, I have now joined the unemployed by signing up for my benefits Monday. I was able to do it online, which was pretty nice. But as convenient as it was, I recommend not attempting it on a Monday.

I tried to register all morning and afternoon but kept getting “application error” messages and having to start over. I’m not exactly Mr. Patience anyway, so I was getting pretty frustrated. The same thing was happening to a friend of mine that day, so I know it wasn’t my computer.

But late that night I tried one more time and got through. I was able to complete it in less than the 30 minutes they estimate it will take. Yea for me! I still need to be approved and it will be a few weeks before any checks arrive. But I’m on my way.

Because my job search actually began long before I left the Sun, I’ve become pretty adept at patrolling the usual online job sites such as Indeed, craigslist and CareerBuilder. Over the past few months I’ve watched as the number of writer/editor openings have dwindled to nearly nothing.

I no longer rely on those sites, but they are still worth looking at. I sometimes look at openings I know I’m not qualified for because I can find contact information that may lead to a freelancing gig. I haven’t landed a regular one that way yet, but I’ve made some promising inroads.

Which brings me to my latest problem: Am I allowed to freelance without it interfering with my unemployment benefits? It’s a difficult question to answer. I could find nothing on the IDES site addressing the issue.

So I called the local office yesterday and talked with a woman in the benefits department. She said it’s a “gray area.” Great. It’s hard to explain, but she said I should be fine as long as I am still able to look for, or am able to, work every day I claim benefits for. Because I can still do that and find time for freelancing, I shouldn’t have any trouble.

Then she added I could probably call five different people in her office and they’d have five different interpretations for me. Again, great.

I’ll be looking into this further this week before I take on any freelancing assignments. I’m not trying to cheat on getting benefits. I just want to make sure I don’t end up owing the government down the road, even though I’ve been told I won’t.

That’s it for now. My new full-time job is now that of Job Seeker. My job helmet is on. Know of anybody hiring?

The bloodletting continues

2009-04-22T14:27:00.003-05:00

The Chicago Tribune just laid off 53 people from editorial. That may be enough for me to finally stop my subscription. It barely takes 15 minutes to get through now. Besides, I can read it all online for free. Great business plan.

From beginning to end

2009-04-20T11:00:00.017-05:00

My beginnings as a sports writer came when I was pretty young. They came as I took refuge from the turmoil in my house.

Many nights I closed myself off in my parents’ basement, hiding out with only my thoughts. I lost myself in a world of fantasy sports, long before fantasy sports became a national obsession. My fantasy sports all took place in my imagination.

I had a table-top hockey game—Phil and Tony Esposito’s Action Hockey—that used magnets to move the players around. One person used magnets from the bottom, while the other had the top so nobody’s arms got tangled. I spent hours with that game, playing by myself.

Next to it I kept a spiral notebook. Inside I tracked the “results” of my games, using the boxscore template from a copy of the Hockey News I also kept down there. I wrote brief summaries, too, but I don’t remember any of the actual entries anymore. I’m sure they had something to do with how awesome Mike Bossy and the New York Islanders were, though.

I didn’t limit my games to hockey either. I played football down there using a small Nerf basketball. Haven Moses, a wide receiver who played for Denver in the 1970s, was the star of many of those games, but I’m not sure why. I think I just loved that name. Haven Moses. Only now can I connect that he was Haven in my haven.

The sports writing thing took hold. I remember going to high school and college hockey games at the Duluth Arena when I was in grade school. Like my friends, I imagined I was on the rink, skating past the defenseman, wristing a shot past East’s goalie—who was always a sieve—and giving Cathedral the victory.

But just as often my gaze drifted from the ice to the press box jutting out across several sections. I always wondered what was happening in there. Who were those people that were allowed to sit up there? More importantly, how could I get inside?

Little did I know I would end up being one of those people sitting in that very press box. While at UMD I was the hockey writer for the campus paper. I learned the place was nothing special. Yet it was the coolest place in the world.

Since then I’ve been in press boxes from Colorado to Texas to Chicago. Old Mile High Stadium. Folsom Field in Boulder. Kyle Field at Texas A&M where the press box is on the ninth storey and sways in unison when the fans link arms to sing the Aggie War Hymn during games.

I got choked up when I sat in the one at Notre Dame Stadium, needing to quickly pull it together because – as all good sports journalists know – there is no cheering in the press box. No crying either.

But somewhere in recent years that excitement waned. It wasn’t because I was spending most of my time in high school press boxes, or because I was disappointed my career never brought me inside Wrigley Field despite working in the same market.

No, it was the realization I was spending most of my time covering games I no longer had interest in. Once that took hold, I couldn’t shake it.

At the same time, the newspaper industry was imploding. My dreams of moving to a larger paper dissolved as quickly as the jobs did. Then the layoffs started coming. The Chicago market flooded with unemployed sports writers and journalists in general.

When it became apparent more layoffs were coming in the wake of Sun-Times Media Group’s March 31 bankruptcy filing, it seemed the right time for me to call it quits, to let go of what was and to begin focusing on what will be.

About two weeks ago I made it known to upper management that I wouldn’t be upset if my name was on the list of job cuts needed at the Naperville Sun. On Friday morning I was among five reporters laid off by Fox Valley Publications, a group of STMG papers that includes the Sun and Beacon News. More followed later in the day, but I’m not sure how many.

So now I begin this week as an unemployed sports writer. For the first time in 10 years I won’t be going to work at a newspaper. I never imagined wanting to do anything else. I loved being a newspaper man.

I’m going to miss it. I’m nostalgic like that. I still miss that damn hockey game. But it’s time to move forward and see what’s in store for me next. Right now I think that means lunch.

Welcome to my blog

2009-04-19T23:52:00.001-05:00

Greetings friends. I decided to start a blog in order to document my life as I transition into a new career. I plan to update it regularly to keep everyone abreast of my progress or setbacks. I'm hoping you won't be reading about too many of those pesky setbacks.

Along the way I'll share as many details as I can about navigating through the life-changing events that were set in motion last week when I was laid off by The Naperville Sun.

So enjoy. I know I will. I'm looking forward to learning what life has in store.