Friday, December 28, 2012

Thanks for Paying: An Erstwhile Guide to Graduate School Applications

The past week has been mostly offset by my recovering from surgery, specifically having my wisdom teeth removed. What I've been told is that I'm quite old to be having this surgery done, as most people have them out before they turn 20. The thing is, I remember when those people got their teeth out, and how their faces swelled up for a week's time and they were on high-grade industrial painkillers right out of a Rush Limbaugh movie, and am glad that of my four wise teeth, three chose to mostly settle into my mouth while one ornery little bugger became impacted. This is probably why my pain was much less intense than might otherwise have happened. (Don't get me wrong, my lower jaw has endured a sizeable amount of trauma to the bone, which results in a constant dull ache that throbs when I don't get hopped up on ibuprofen, in addition to the gaping wounds from where my former teeth occupied my mouth.)

Fortunately, I've not been knocked into senselessness by the drugs I'm taking to offset the pain. As a result, not only am I far more ambulatory than I had expected, my senses have not completely left my body. This means that I've been able to push forward with the process of applying to grad school. Coincidentally, I've also spent nearly $700 in the last few weeks for what may ultimately be a fruitless endeavor.

Let's start back at the beginning.

1) The Idea

It was somewhere around the month of May, while I was homeless and couch surfing as I had sublet my apartment. (Brief shout out to the Bestuls and the Beans who tolerated my presence on their futon and couch for much of this time as I worked up the funds to afford my apartment once again. Traveling out west was the experience I needed when I needed it, and I'd do it again if I could, but I'd also have sublet my apartment a little sooner than I ended up doing, if only to return to my humble abode in a more timely manner.) As one can imagine, working part time at two jobs while living in someone else's home is not an ideal situation for someone who's always held Emerson's "Self-Reliance" to their heart as a mantra of sorts. Thinking back over where I wanted to be, I remembered that my initial promise to myself was that after three years of being out of college, I would start thinking about applying for graduate school. I didn't want to jump back in as soon as I graduated; most of the programs I was interested in wanted me to work up a sizeable amount of career experience as it was. Thinking back, I looked over my accomplishments and (with some helpful advice from several mentors) realized that I've actually done quite a bit since graduating. I've performed in several professional theatre productions; I've completed an internship at one of the most prestigious Shakespeare theatres in the country; I've become the only undergraduate to have a scholarly essay (that didn't suck) published in BGSU's The Projector; I've written a complete fantasy novel (that doesn't suck); I've made friends in high places; and, as of this coming summer, I will have directed a professional performance of "As You Like It" for a company that has grown in renown and reputation in its community. (Hopefully, it won't suck.)

Realizing this, I decided that yes, looking at graduate school requirements would be worth my while.

But in which field?

2) The Research

In my undergraduate studies, I fell in love with theatre. I knew that directing was a passion of mine ever since I was young, but I didn't realize that theatre spoke to me as strongly as it did. Focusing my study, I found that I could in fact direct with some measure of success.

What I didn't realize was how much I also loved writing. I'd been writing stories ever since I was in kindergarten. In college, it had fallen by the wayside, but I still kept several ideas for short stories that I told myself I would work on from time to time. Plays were another creative outlet that let me get my kicks out, short plays that were well received by friends and colleagues who enjoyed their presence. (The success of "Hunter Thompson Strikes Again!" is possibly my favorite memory of working in the theatre; it's the only show I'd ever seen in a student setting to receive a standing ovation. Not only that, but when it was requested for an encore presentation in Toledo, it received a second standing ovation. Yeah, I'm kinda proud of that one.) Writing on a grand scale fell off my radar.

So it was something of a surprise, yet completely understandable, when I fell back into writing following the passing of my mother. During May and June, I wrote the second draft of my novel and realized that while the first draft, in essence, sucked, the new work I was doing was improving the novel ten-fold. It became completely conceivable that I could make a living as a writer. (A Hard and Arduous Way of Life, to be sure, but a Way of Life nonetheless.) Looking over my options for graduate school, I knew that I could pursue either career and be completely happy with my choice, while still maintaining the other as a second passion.

So, if you could (and would) do both of these options, why do grad school at all? you might ask. There are three answers to that question.

1) To expand on my creative process, making myself better at my chosen field than I was before so as to provide opportunities that I would not have been capable of achieving before.

2) To gain practical experience as a teacher and open my avenues for working in a collegiate setting. It's no lie that my mother had wished fervently for me to continue my studies in graduate school, and that her presence in my life as a teacher impacted me greatly. For me, one of the greatest ways in which I could honor her memory would be to use my talents as an educator while still putting out new art into the world.

3) To give myself time to focus solely on my craft. Sure, I'm getting stuff done in the real world, but there's also having a job and paying bills to manage that comes with it. The result is my efforts are somewhat minimized from what I would like to be doing at this young and tender stage of my career. Two or three years solely focused on my craft would be immeasurably beneficial to my artistic abilities.

The ultimate decision I reached was this: I would apply to both M.F.A.'s in Creative Writing and in Theatre Directing. Whichever programs accepted me, with the best funding offers, would be the direction (no pun intended) that my studies would take. Sort of leaving it to the fates after doing everything in my power to achieve something.

It was settled. I now had a goal: to get into grad school for either writing or directing. Now I needed to pick out which ones.

3) The Schools

I looked at over fifty programs for creative writing, and upwards of twenty directing MFA programs. There are all kinds of places where I could practice, and all kinds of programs which would admit me at the drop of a hat. The problem with those is that I wouldn't be learning anything new; a cursory study of the programs revealed something only slightly more intense than my undergraduate studies had been. There were also some incredibly prestigious programs, programs with world-famous alumni. Needless to say, my chances of getting into these programs rested at somewhere above or below zero, depending upon wind fluctuations.

Proximity to home was a concern and a consideration. I didn't want to go to school on the East Coast, New York seemed too terrifying, the West Coast still seems alien to me at this point in my life (coupled with the imploding California school system), and the South is even more terrifying. Except Disney World, and Disney does not offer an MFA. At the same time, I wanted to keep pushing myself beyond my comfort zone; schools that had more remote settings that appealed to my love of nature might be good for writing. Schools near Chicago, with all of the connections that might entail, would be good for directing. SO MANY CHOICES.

As of now, I've settled on the following schools for their respective programs:

Creative Writing:

University of Iowa

Iowa automatically made the cut as the best Creative Writing program in the country. With that being said, I realize that the likelihood of getting into the Writer's Workshop is...well, let's just say that they admit 25 students a year out of 1400 that apply annually. That's an admissions rate of 1.7%. Eeks.

Iowa State University

Their program is actually entitled Creative Writing and Environment. Being an eco-hippie who's always wondering about how to pay tribute to my love of nature and desire to share the joy and wonder that is living on the planet Earth, this program spoke to me right from the start. I'm not saying that it's my preferred program, because I'd be happy getting into any of these, but it's up near the top.

Ohio State University

O!H! - I!O!

University of Colorado - Boulder

Because sitting on the side of a mountain solely to write would be the best experience that I can think of.

University of Michigan

Similar to Iowa. Also, this goes against 25 years of training myself to hate That School Up North. If I get it, it would be amazing, but I'd immediately lose 10% of my Facebook friends. Maybe not that many.

University of Idaho

Not just because it's the Vandals, let me get that out there right now. This school's program is actually remarkably similar to Iowa State's environmental study program. And having visited the Palouse, I can testify that it's a perfect writing environment out there. If not isolated from anything remotely human.

Theatre Directing:

Illinois State University

I've wanted to apply to this school for years. They have a fantastic theatre program, focused on classical studies, and their program features a great deal of hands on work that greatly appeals to me. Plus they're very closely connected to Chicago and also require you to complete an internship at a qualified regional theatre. Sort of my ideal scenario for learning to direct at a graduate level.

Purdue University

Much like Illinois State, only with 100% more Boilermakers.

Southern Illinois University - Carbondale

This program came highly recommended by way of my mentors, and features more hands on work. That was essentially my biggest requirement of a directing program (besides obtaining an assistant ship), allowing me to have access to a great deal of practical experience. With guided feedback, that would allow me to advance further into my abilities as a director than simply sitting in a classroom doing scene work would ever do. Also, this would finally let me explore Southern Illinois. (Not that I'm shallow or anything.)

Ohio University

Honestly, this might not make the cut; I've heard great things about the program and about the school, and it does come highly recommended. It might just be a victim of the costs of applying. (More on that in a second.)

Just Missed the Cut:

DePaul University

The only program in Chicago I liked, but they don't offer an assistant ship. That means loans. Guh.

Bowling Green State University

For all intents and purposes, BGSU does have a great creative writing program. It offers an assistant ship, and is a familiar setting. The downside is it's a familiar setting; I have many friends there already, and have experienced most of what the town has to offer. Going back to learn to write might not be the best thing for me. Even if it would be an all new program with faculty that I've not worked with before, it would be the same setting that I'd been in for five years. Consequently, they just missed the cut.

4) The Applications

Having picked out the schools, now I set to putting together my materials. Each application required a Curriculum Vita, a glorified academic resume. Putting that together wasn't as hard as I had thought, with much welcomed assistance from my mentors from undergrad. It was putting this together that helped me further realize how much I've done over the last few years.

The bitch was writing a statement of purpose. Doing research on the subject led me to discover that there are unwritten rules to writing these things: use descriptive grammar; don't be afraid to brag about yourself, but don't embellish; avoid certain words; make it pop, yet don't make it too crazy. I spent several months agonizing over how to write a solid statement of purpose before finally committing something to paper. Even then, it had to change depending on the program I was applying to. While forcing myself into a deadline brought out some of the better results, dealing with the statement of purpose will not be something I miss about this whole process.

Letters of recommendation followed, much the same as when I applied for internships, and once again, I am indebted to anyone and everyone who wrote a letter spouting my virtues (or lack thereof).

The last piece of each application was if a creative sample was not. For creative writing, this meant manuscripts of stories and excerpts from my book (typically in the form of chapters). My short stories "The Duet" and "Wren who is Raised by Wolves" were given a quick edit and revision, and as I finished the third and a half draft of my book, several chapters were pulled out. The samples varied between 25 to 80 pages, and each gave a quality representation of my writing capability. For directing, only one school required a portfolio of work, quickly drawn together with highlights from my undergraduate coursework, my directed shows, and my internship.

No, the applications were easy. The bitch was paying for them.

5) The Fees

It's no secret that colleges and universities are increasingly run by administrative costs, much as a business would be. It's also no secret that paying for college remains an expensive endeavor. What's a complete scam is how expensive it's getting simply to apply for admission into college.

Before I did anything, I was required to take the GRE (Graduate Record Exam) for most of the colleges I applied to. Simply taking that exam cost me $175. It graciously allowed me to send my score to four colleges for free, but each additional score that I had to send out would cost an additional $25.

Here's a rundown of the costs of each application, along with if I had to pay a GRE fee or not.

Ohio State -    $40; GRE - $25
Colorado -      $50; GRE - $25
Michigan -      $65; GRE submitted early
Iowa -             $60; GRE submitted early
Iowa State -    $40; GRE submitted early
Idaho -            $60; GRE NOT REQUIRED (Woo!)
Illinois State - $40; GRE submitted early
Purdue -          $60; GRE - $25
SIUC -            $50; GRE - $25
Ohio -             $50; GRE NOT REQUIRED

If you factor in the $175 GRE fee, the $20 I paid in postage to mail out transcripts and manuscripts, and the $20 used to pay for copies and FedEx computer usage time, the grand total for just applying to grad school without knowing if I actually get in or not comes to: $830.00.

And to think, I got into this so I could ultimately make more money in my career.

Where I Stand Right Now)

As of right now, I still have to send in materials for Idaho, SIUC, and OU (though OU might fall victim to my not wanting to spend another $50 for a school I'm not that excited about in the first place) and will be waiting until late February/early March to hear if I've gotten in to any of these schools. As I've mentioned before, I don't want to go into major, soul-sucking debt for the next three years of my life, so if I do get into a school minus an assistantship, I will have to strongly consider turning down the offer. As it stands though, I feel like I've built a fairly competitive case for getting into grad school and earning the right to teach introductory courses. Only time will tell if the admissions boards will see me in the same light. In the meantime, I'm also waiting on interviews for both Illinois State and for SIUC before they make a final decision; I'm thinking of it as a job interview for a three year teaching contract. All I can do now, however, is wait.

Oddly enough, that's proving to be the hardest part of the whole process.

Monday, December 10, 2012

The Price of a Memory: Counting Crows, Emotional Recall, and How I Spent My Summer Vacation


While undergoing the process of filling out statement of purpose essays, autobiographical statements, cover letters, and other assorted requirements for graduate school applications, I find myself needing a steady diet of outlets to push my energy. Granted, while applications are not hard work, I'm discovering that after three years of waiting to hear on job applications before ultimately meeting rejection for big-kid job after job after job, I have gained something of an anxiety with a regards towards finding acceptance. This is nothing new for any twentysomething of this generation: most of us are so used to dealing with failure that success comes as something of a surprise when it finally rears its gilded head. This anxiety has led to my second-guessing nearly everything involved in my applications; whether it be the writing samples I'm providing or the aforementioned statements of my artistic purpose. It's not so much an anxiety that locks me into what I'm doing so much as a newfound way for depression to manifest itself: this school rejects a thousand applicants each year, what's the point? will they even think I'm qualified for teaching? how can I afford this shit, even if I do get in? is this how I really want to commit myself for the rest of my life? is it too late to throw it all away and just start a band?

And so I turn to these outlets to let out my creative anxieties, which are fairly neutered by this by-the-numbers process I've engaged in. The first way is by writing for the Addison Recorder, which is fun in its own way. I get to write about topical subjects I love, a couple dozen people read about it, and life is good. Other ways include working on the outline for my next book. Another way is breaking down As You Like It so that I can turn it into a show next summer.

And then there's the music.

If you know me at all, you know that I somehow missed out on the Counting Crows boat for most of my life, failing to discover them until I turned 24. But as soon as I did, through a clip of the Best Musical Performances of SNL, it was love at first sight. Listening to "Round Here" for the first time actively gave me chills. I remember sitting in my darkened living room, wondering who the hell this guy was with dreadlocks, while becoming enraptured in the vocals of the song. Here was the band I've been looking for all my life, I remember thinking. These guys get it; they know what music is, and what it means to be a band.

(Caveat: I know the gripes against C.C., and that Adam Duritz and his lyrics have a tendency to come across as whiny and self-absorbed. But let's be fair here, I needed to hear these things at that particular point in my life. Plus, they're pretty good at what they do.)

Since finding them, I've devoured their entire discography, and in the midst of being young and broke in the city, pined at being unable to afford tickets for their most recent tour. (When they come around again, make no mistake, I will be there, come hell or high water.) I've been rolling over their songs time and time again (pun intended), listening for new things on each subsequent play. It's no surprise that if I ever go to a karaoke night with friends, I'm probably singing at least one C.C. song. While this may turn out to be a phase of my life that I look back on in ten years and laugh at, I'm enjoying the hell out of it at the moment.

At the moment, I'm embroiled in the midst of their third album, This Desert Life (1999). While my favorite songs do come from their first album, the seminal August and Everything After (1993), as a complete whole, TDL is (at this exact moment in time) my favorite album as a complete entity. Sure, August is fantastic (always), Recovering the Satellites (1996) is more rocking than anything else they have, Hard Candy (2002) is technically brilliant, etc., but there's something about TDL that I just love. Its sense of completeness as a study of dreams. Its melodic composition, the band working in perfect unison. Its perfect backdrop being speeding along a desert highway at night, stars in the sky, windows down, minds drifting over the horizon.

Or something like that.

For me (as for most people I would imagine), listening to music involves emotional recall. There are some songs where I can only imagine listening to them in one singular location. Most of the music I love, however, evokes a sense of feeling, rather than a specific place. That feeling might be from a particular moment in time (listening to Third Eye Blind on the bus to middle school) or from being in a certain place (why I associate Iz with working at Borders), but it's a powerful feeling, and why I love listening to music and especially to Counting Crows. What follows is my attempt to describe what the twelve tracks on This Desert Life inspire in me. More for kicks than anything else.

(Sidenote: I think one reason I like this album the best is because of the cover art and booklet. Featuring art by Dave McKean, the album cover is adapted from his jacket for Neil Gaiman's "The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish", and each song is accompanied by McKean's trademark surrealist imagery. Favorite band, favorite author, I knew there was a reason this was my favorite album at this moment in time!)

1. "Hanginaround"

Obviously, this one makes me wish I was still in a band.  I do miss the days of hanging out backstage at The Attic. At the same time, this reminds me of Saturdays after parties in college, the days when we weren't hungover, but felt like getting Pita Pit or pizza out somewhere. Waffle House or Big Boy in the early am hours also comes to mind, the times where it felt like a party and everyone was just laughing the entire time. Nostalgia, in other words.

2. "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"



This is a Top 5 Counting Crows' song for me. It always feels for me like the start of a road trip, heading out of Ohio to visit Chicago/Cleveland/California/wherever. There's a trace of something being left behind for me, if not carrying along everything with me. Because "there's a piece of Maria in every song that I sing..."

3. "Amy Hit the Atmosphere"

This is my least favorite song on the album, but it's still good. I just don't have any particularly strong associations with it. The most I can come up with is falling asleep on one of the seats in the van that we took on a road trip to Idaho. I hadn't yet listened to this song (or album) before that trip, and didn't acquire it until afterwards, but the moment that strikes it home for me is the wistful background vocals behind the second verse. That's what the space between waking and dreaming feels like: breaking out of one song into an entirely different piece of music.

4. "Four Days"

There's a windmill farm on I-65 between mile markers 191 and 205 that I would normally drive through in the dark on my way between Chicago and Dayton. To me, that's what this song is: the phantom space between departure and destination, filled with promises on either end. "Have you seen Ohio rise?"

5. "All My Friends"




There have been many dances I've attended in my lifetime, be they proms or masques, formals or weddings. This song, while never likely to crack the rotation anywhere, is to me being surrounded by my closest friends, dancing and spinning our way into the night, everyone lost in a trance that borders on poetic. These are moments that I wish would last forever, not associated with any particular conversation, but more on a sense of closeness. It's a feeling that can only arise spontaneously, without any impetus of creation.

6. "High Life"

This is walking back home from the rec center during the months I was trying to get back into shape (and succeeded for a brief time before I caught mono and the whole thing went to pot). At the time, I was somewhat lost in my own personal wasteland, trying to figure out what the next year of my life would be like, making sense of classes and relationships, and what was important to me. It's the time where I started to really trust in just letting things happen without working towards any specific goals; not letting go and trusting to the wind, more like keeping my head above water and trusting in life to take me in a specific direction. This practice worked out at the time, and has had repeated benefits of jolting me whenever my life particularly needed a burst of new energy.

7. "Colorblind"

The mopey-R.E.M. style song to me is pulling off at the first exit in Indiana, just past the Ohio border, on I-70, finding a Speedway to fill up my tank. Drifting along Route 40 in the dark, looking at the lit-up, empty fast-food joints, I started contemplating emptiness and vacancy and its role in my life. You know, the sad-sack, depressed shit you're supposed to think about while listening to stuff like this.

8. "I Wish I Was A Girl"

Having the ability to tell someone that you're "doin' alright these days" when you're really not is something I've mastered over the years. Anytime someone asks me how things are going and I say things are good, there's a 10 to 1 shot that I'm lying to them. These last three songs are all about making a change in your life and the necessity that brings that about. Or maybe that's what I'm projecting onto these songs. (Hmm. Topical.) Either way, for me, this brings to mind deciding to take a break from life, the universe, and everything last March, finding a plane ticket for the cheap and making my way out to California. It also brings back to memory the week right before I left for Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp's 2005 International Jazz Tour, saying good-bye to high school just in time to pack up and leave for Europe. If I could go back and travel Europe, I'd go nuts. As it is, I'm not at a point in my life where I can do that; all my savings went to college and to my internship in New Jersey. That being said, one of these days, backpacking across the country is going to happen again.

9. "Speedway"

For some reason, I can never remember the title of this song, even though it's one of my favorite tracks on the album. Like before, it comes with needing to make a trip/change/difference, only it lies in stasis instead. There's a lot of nights where I've lived this song by lying awake in bed, thinking about needing to get out and make something of myself, but not quite having the drive to do it. AKA, much of summer 2011. (There's a reason that I fell head over heels in love with this band that summer, you know.)

10. "St. Robinson in his Cadillac Dream"



Completing the album's cycle of dreams and movement through inertia, this song brings to mind a very specific time and place for me. It's high school, somewhere in spring 2004, and my friend and I are walking back from lunch to class. My friend stops, whispers my name, and nods towards the front doors, beckoning the idea of cutting the last half of the school day and just getting out and driving. Me being far too responsible for my own good at the time, I shot down the idea. If I instead take her up on the idea and we bolt out the door, this song is the soundtrack to wherever we end up and to whatever adventures we end up going on. There's a small part of me that believes that if we do cut school that day, my life changes in some way that I'll never quite know about. All I can do is dream of driving away in a bright blue Cadillac through the sky.

Anyway, these are some of the things I'm thinking about rather than working on a statement of purpose concerning why I should attend the University of Michigan's creative writing program. At this time, I'm putting in August and Everything After: Live at Town Hall in an attempt to fall asleep once again. But know that I'm dreaming "of ballerinas and I don't know why, but I see Cadillac's sailing..."

Sunday, December 2, 2012

An Erstwhile Explanation: What I Did Over My Summer/Fall/Thanksgiving Vacations

So, it's been a while, hasn't it?

Originally, I started this blog as a means of keeping myself motivated, keeping myself moving forward, and keeping myself entertained back in the days when I was a new immigrant to the Windy City, young and full of ideals.

Then life took a turn, to say the least.

Part of my reluctance at updating this blog in the interim months since has been a fear of having to follow my last posting. I won't lie when I say that the response received from the eulogy I wrote for my mother was thoroughly overwhelming. Many of you reached out to me to let me know how much it affected you, and while it's a bizarre feeling to accept recognition for something entirely personal, I must thank everyone who's said anything in the months since April of 2012. It really does mean a lot, and I am eternally grateful for all of you.

Now, where were we.

In the ten months between now and then, I have finished two subsequent drafts of my novel, as well as given it a title. The Defenders of Avondale: Book One of the Atlantean Chronicles has clocked in at 142,000 + words, 475 + pages (double spaced, 12 point Times New Roman, thank you very much), and several sterling reviews from readers who may/may not be biased to accept my greatness before my ever having demonstrated it.

In all seriousness, I'm quite proud of the book (especially after the most recent edit. The world that I've been creating ever since my freshman year of high school has finally been recognized on the page, and I am continually gleeful about the new twists and turns waiting to be discovered there. So much so that I've already begun the outline for Book Two of the Atlantean Chronicles: Bryls'kin Boogaloo.

(One of these days, you'll understand why that last title is so freaking hilarious.)

The big push now is to get it published/find representation in order to get it published. I am harboring no illusions that this will be a quick process; if I find a publisher willing to give me money for my words by Christmas, I'll be happy as a clam.

That's Christmas of 2013, mind you.

Another major development is my finally directing a (semi) professional show! And it's Shakespeare, no less! Once again, the career of the struggling actor/writer/director takes a turn for the surreal, as I assume the reins of Free Shakespeare!'s summer performance of As You Like It, coming soon to a metropark in the Dayton, OH area near you!

I've worked with the company before, having played Lysander in their 2011 production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I like to think that the experience was a good one (my first ever unabashed lead/ingenue role!), and that our show was pretty good, too. This upcoming summer's production should be one of much fun, while remaining true to Shakespeare's text, as I have been taught and carefully trained over the years.

Oh, and expect street drumming and hippies.

The final major development in my career life is to seek out admission to graduate school. One of my mother's major wishes, I have reached the end of my third year out of undergraduate studies, a time when I told myself that I would see if my path had prepared me enough for continuing my education. Given the developments of the last several years, I feel that I'm at the very least ready to embrace such a choice, and am pursuing entrance to both Theatre Directing M.F.A.'s and Creative Writing M.F.A.'s.

(I really couldn't choose to prioritize one over the other, so I'm sending out my (semi-considerable) resumes to both types of programs and letting the fates (and funding) dictate where I'll be heading.)

For Creative Writing, I plan on applying (have already applied to some, in fact) to THE Ohio State University, the University of Colorado, the University of Iowa (despite my snowball's chance in hell of acceptance), Iowa State University, that School up North, possibly Purdue, and potentially Bowling Green State University. For Directing, I will be applying to Illinois State University, DePaul University, Ohio University, Purdue University, and Southern Illinois University-Carbondale. I'm not sure of acceptance to any of these places (it could be that my lack of success at finding gainful employment/internships has jaded my views of application processes), but I am committed to following whatever path it is that I'm supposed to.

I've been a firm believer for at least a decade now that everything has a tendency to work out the way that it's supposed to. Whether you want to call that faith or just dumb luck, feel free. I choose not to classify it as faith in a higher power; rather, it is faith that as long as I'm working to better myself, the right situations will present themselves, and it is up to me to embrace them to the fullness of my capacity.

Hopefully, there's cake.

For now, I leave you with the promise that I will be updating this mother-fucker on a more regular basis, and that the content will be somewhat more grounded in nature than it was in the months leading up to February 17th.

("Well, that's a bold faced lie, you fucker!" my associate yells through instant messaging. I forgot to mention him. In the months since, he has relocated to his original hometown of Livonia, MI. This does not limit the damage that he is certainly capable of. Alas, he is right; a potential for manic-tendencies will remain so long as I'm writing this thing, and you'd better believe it.)

At the same time, I will also be continually be providing content for The Addison Recorder, my own personal contribution (along with my three co-editors) to the glut of information and (partially) informed opinions on the Super Highway known as the Internet.

Until we meet again, bonne nuit, gentle readers. Bonne nuit to you all.


Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Elegance of a Eulogy


It's been almost two months since I received the phone call. Much has happened. Much has changed, some for the better, a little for the worse. People's lives have been affected, for good and for bad. Whenever you must deal with the passing of one of the most important people in your life, if not the most important person, it's somewhat shocking to find that there are no blueprints. A whole host of relationships are affected by this feeling, and there's nothing to be done for any of them except to simply forge on ahead.

But weren't we doing that in the first place?

*

2000 - I had been away at my first high school band camp. Even though I was only in 8th grade, our school marching band had suffered so much disinterest under the prior band director that 8th graders were required to join with the high school students. We doubled the size of the band, no small feat when there are 60 students in marching band. It had been an experience, being away from home and getting an inside look at what marching band was like and how high school would be working. For a middle school kid such as myself who was the epitome of anti-social, introverted, and mildly frightened of the world thanks to snippets of bullying since roughly the 4th grade, it was a terrifying time. But then, every middle school kid feels roughly the same. Middle school sucks. Fact of life.

Returning home, I realized exactly how bad a week's worth of sweaty laundry could reek. I dragged my bag full of worn t-shirts upstairs, where I trusted my mother to do the wash. I knew how to do laundry, but tended to "fuck things up" in terms of stray pens, etc. Typical teenage oversights, in other words. It was safer, at that time for my mom to do the laundry. Safer being a relative term.

As I moved my suitcases into my room, my mom came in, followed by my brother. Taking me into my brother's room, she told us that she had some bad news. I recall the chipped, white paint on the closet door behind her that doesn't quite shut, the swiveling wooden latch, hand-made and loosely attached so that it doesn't actually hold the closet shut so much as prevent it from swinging all the way open. The push button light switch against a rusted metal plate. The lights were off, and a few dead flies littered the carpet, signs that vacuuming had been neglected while I was away. Facing me, her hands on my shoulder, she said the words that changed the course of the next twelve years of our lives:

"I have breast cancer."

I froze. "I'm scared, Mom." The year before, my Aunt Laura had died from breast cancer. I was still fuzzy on the details from that ordeal, more out of a middle school kid's desire not to know more. All I knew was that cancer was bad. An invasive disease that slowly crept in and destroyed your life.

My brother chimed in. "I'm scared too." He was still in elementary school at the time. Only 10 years old. He's just 22 now. Over half of his life so far, his mother would be fighting cancer, at risk, or recovering from treatments.

"I know," she replied, "But we're going to get through this."

*

I've struggled with exactly what to write, where to write it, and how to write it. Much of this is intensely personal. Much of it is so personal that it's been shoved down into some filthy black hole inside of me for years, only being released in intense bursts of foul energy that threaten to overwhelm and destroy those around me (or so I fear/have feared/still fear). Much of it is something that I have feared will come across as petulant, whiny, self-absorbed, possibly out of self-preservation, possibly as a defense mechanism against having to experience all of the pain.

After much thinking about it, I've decided that this is something that I can no longer keep bottled up inside, wishing that it would go away, pretending that it doesn't hurt to see one whom you love destroyed, slowly, by inches before your eyes over the slow progression of years.

But there is more to it than that.

*

The initial mammogram was a hard time for her, and for us. I was unaccustomed to seeing my mother without hair, a sordid reminder of her illness. I overcompensated at first after the announcement, doing everything in my power to make life easier for her. I thought that if I could do that, the cancer might go away. I miss being young. I miss my naivety.

Chemotherapy and radiation treatments all but eradicated the disease during the first go round. The first two years of high school were relatively cancer free, although she took up the offer to serve as a counselor for those who were diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. Anything she could do as a survivor, she was willing to do. She would continue this for several years after that, although she eventually settled back into her own treatments.

The first remission came when I was a junior, just gifted with the ability to drive. I already was depressed at the time, afflicted with all the angst and woes that come from high school, carrying over the traumas of middle school, and with the pain that is the daily life of a high school student. And now here we were, saddled once more with this reminder of my mother's mortality. This time around, it was even simpler than the first diagnosis, and a couple of radiation treatments later, it was gone. No chemo, no hair loss, and no massive drama. However, psychologically, the idea that a remission could happen at any time was planted in my mind.

Friendships during this time have lasted, I am glad to say. People were there for me then, as they would be there in the future, and for this, I am grateful. At the time, the remission was simple enough that the knowledge of my mother as a cancer survivor (2x now) could fade into the background, not taking a prominent role in my daily life.

I do recall one instance, however, where a band member and classmate of mine came up to ask what kind of cancer my mom had. Upon replying that she had breast cancer, she replied with a disdainful look, saying that "Oh, you can't die from breast cancer."

I said nothing to this. I remember seeing red at the time, remembering my Aunt Laura, and thinking that it must be nice to live in a bubble of ignorance, but I said nothing out of a desire to play the part of a good student and classmate. Looking back now, I have forgiven that person's misinformation regarding breast cancer. Many do survive it, and go on to lead healthy lives. Many others do not.

*

Much has been made of my mother continuing to teach throughout her disease, and I would like to take this moment once more to say that at no point during her twelve year treatment did she take any time off from school. Let me say that again: she never took a leave of absence during her disease. She would regularly receive chemo treatments in the morning, teach in the afternoon, and come home to read an entire book during the evening hours. Cancer was just another part of the schedule, another hurdle in her daily life.

I've known people who need to take time off. It's completely understandable. Cancer sucks. The treatments for it are draining, literally poisoning your body and bombarding it with toxic chemicals and radioactivity. These are things that have been known to kill more often than not. It's not a fun time, nor is it easy. Therefore, it still boggles my mind to know that she never took time off from school. Sure, she would cancel class on some days that she was too weak to get out of bed, but more often than not, she was there, good or bad days, she was there.

And I don't understand how, some times, how she was able to function.

*

I went away for college in 2005, and was moved into my dorm with my parent's help. College was a good thing for me. It really helped me grow beyond my shell, opened my eyes to new ways of thinking about the world, and really introduced me to some of my best friends in the world. I'm glad I had the experience that I did, as it opened my eyes to what I really wanted to do in the world, and how I wanted to go about it.

During my sophomore year, in the spring of 2007, I was looking into renting my first apartment with some of my best friends. We all wanted to live close together, and had settled upon a cheap section within the student ghetto of Bowling Green. (A quaint little ghetto, really, and the apartment wasn't bad by any means. But still, relatively slumly, all things considered.) We were at the rental agency, looking over the leases for our new apartments. There was still snow on the ground, just starting to melt, and the sun was out. The chairs in the rental office were exceedingly comfortable swivel chairs, I recall precisely.

Then my phone rang.

My mom's cancer had returned. This time, with a vengeance. Worse yet, it was the kind that had killed my Aunt Laura. Within a year of her diagnosis.

I remember throwing my phone across the room, my worst fears having come true. As I vented out my frustrations, my anger, my fear of the future, all three of my friends were there to comfort me right on the spot. No words needed to be said there. I then began the first of many subsequent efforts to shove it back down inside of me, laugh about it, and move onward as though nothing had happened.

It was something I became particularly good at over the years to come, in an effort to put a brave face on the world. Shoving my feelings down inside and developing a rote speech of condition became easier than actually confronting the facts within myself. I was hurting. Badly. But admitting that would be giving into the disease, I felt. I could not let it win, could not let my mother's cancer beat my family. It became our shared cross to bear, one that would weigh heavily for the next five years.

*

My relationship with my brother has had its ups and downs. Many downs over the last ten years or so, as two adolescent males growing up in close proximity will often find themselves at odds. We've both been at fault for many things, and both had some growing up to do. However, as I look back on it now, it's my belief that my mom's sickness had as much to do with the strain in our relationship as anything else.

It makes sense, to me. Neither of us were/are particularly articulate about our feelings, both taking after our father in terms of burying our feelings down within. With much anger and resentment over our mother's sickness, but no real person to take it out on, those aggressive feelings have to come out somewhere. Surely not at school, where we've been told fighting is wrong. Video games, movies, music, books, they all helped at some point. But not as much as simply taking it out on each other, both in aggressive and passive-aggressive ways.

Do I wish to have those years back? Yes and no. We both had growing and learning to do to get to where we are now, and I am shaped by my relationship with my brother as much as by anything else in my life. It should also be said that family vacations were a continued source of joy for my mother, and that simply having the family home for Christmas every year was probably her most favorite time of the year. I cannot look at Christmas time without seeing all of our holiday staples, whether it be putting up decorations, frosting a multitude of Christmas cookies, watching "A Christmas Story" all day on the 25th, trips to Grandma's, dinner at the Paragon with the family, and so on and so forth.

My brother and I will be fine.We have each other, and we know our strengths and weaknesses. I'm no longer fearing for that relationship.

*

The next years fell into a sort of routine. I would call home twice a week for updates regarding her treatment, which involved taking chemotherapy at home orally (pills) every day. When I asked her how long that would take, she said for the first time (in her patently casual way) "Oh, probably until I die." It was at that point that I realized that the end was in sight, and that there were no alternatives. My mother was going to die.

In hindsight, that was also the first time that I saw my mother's acceptance of her fate. She would continue to fight up until the end, but death was not something she was afraid of. To me, that signifies a great deal of how she lived her life: fearless, stubborn, and willful against all odds. Sure, cancer was a bitch, but there are worse things in the world.

I would call home twice a week, make regular trips back home, and do what I could from afar while continuing my studies. Through it all, she managed to make it to all but one of my plays and performances that went on during my college career. And I was involved with a LOT of plays. I directed three, acted in many more, and was heavily involved with student productions as well. She encouraged me through it all, taking in everything and giving good, solid feedback. The sort of thing any mother would do. She became close with my roommates and friends, asking about them and sending them Christmas cards and other assorted signs of greeting. Even towards the end, she continued sending one friend cards regarding her recent surgery, wishing her well.

Through good and bad, my mother supported me. Through good and bad, I did my best to support her.

*

Writing this has been weird. I find myself telling the story of her time with cancer, yet it's from my perspective entirely. I had intended this to be a eulogy of sorts, a way of honoring her and of remembering her spirit. In truth, however, I cannot really pull what that means. As I stated before, my mother fought cancer for twelve years. Given that I was 13 when I discovered this, that is almost half of my life. I can relate the last twelve years better than the first thirteen if only because I was better able to assume the rigors of life by that point than I was for the first half of my life.

Long story short, I have a hard time reflecting upon my mother without being swarmed by thoughts of her struggle. It has consumed a great portion of my life; I sought out to direct one of her favorite Shakespeare plays while in college so that she could have a chance to partake in the play; it was as much for her as it was for me, in addition to serving as a learning experience. I passionately pursued a life in the arts, working on my skills as often as I was able to. Towards the end, I was (and still am) working to further my career in Chicago, where I might find opportunities greater than those I could find in southwestern Ohio. All because I know she would have wanted me to.

But it has side effects. The mental strain put on by her sickness was challenging. My relationships suffered because of it. I became a giant ball of nerves and sensitive feelings that could go off at the touch of a button. Depression set in, so that the only reason I could get out of bed in the morning was if I had to be somewhere at a certain time. And even that was hit or miss, depending upon the event. Jobs were easy. Groceries were not. Rehearsal was easy. Homework was not.

It settled over everything like a smothering shroud of fog. While fun might be had, it was always with my mother's cancer in the back of my mind. So it goes.

*

My mother missed my graduation from college. She was too sick to make the 2.5 hour drive to the ceremony, and so she had to miss it. She had not planned on going in the first place until I personally requested her to attend, as a sort of rite of passage for me into the world. She'd been there for me over the last five years through thick and thin, and I wanted her to see me graduate as the conclusion to that chapter in my life. Her missing it was painful, and I regret not having a picture of me in my cap and gown with my mother to this day.

Immediately afterwards, I shipped off to New Jersey for my first professional internship. Going out and working in an Equity theatre environment for the first time, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Worse, I was plunged right into my assignment as assistant to the director having never worked with Equity actors before, having never really even SEEN an Equity theatre performance somehow, and moderately unprepared for what was expected of me to start.

And then I got another phone call. The cancer was back, and this time it was spreading. In spite of the chemo.

I froze. Completely. This happened right as the show was going into tech week. I remember it happened on the day one of the lead actor's took a sword blow to the mouth and was rushed off for surgery. I had to stand in for her, and fuzzily remember bits and pieces of that night. I couldn't hit my marks, couldn't see anything really, and could barely keep it together. For whatever reason, I buried it down deep again. The director had his hands full with the artistic director breathing down his neck on every move, and I didn't want to add to his worries. So I shouldered on through, afraid of creating a further disturbance.

I shouldered on through the rest of the internship, doing good work in some spots, barely getting out of bed in other spots. I did a good job in the end, I feel, but by the end, I was emotionally scared, fearing the worst. I moved home and got a job in the local Borders bookstore. When that went bankrupt, I got a job as a server. The whole time, I was saving money ostensibly for moving out to Chicago, but it felt safer being at home. Just being at home felt like it was a major psychological lift to my mother, that having her son around to share time with and enjoy life made things better in some small way, as things wound towards the inevitable conclusion.

One day, we were driving back from lunch or some other gathering that escapes me at the moment. Listening to former baseball star Bernie Williams' new jazz CD, we took in his acoustic flamenco performance of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game". As it played, she looked over at me and said that she wanted me to play the song for her at her memorial. My inner hope was that she would continue to live long enough that I could play it at my wedding, whenever that would be, as our song to dance to. Some things will never come to pass.

*

My greatest fear through the entire ordeal was that I would be away from home when the end came. To that end, I narrowed my possibilities for moving out to places where I knew that I could easily make it home on very short notice. New York felt out of the question, as did somewhere like Florida or California. I wanted to pursue my theatrical dream, but I needed to be there for my mom, who was there for me oh so many times over the years.

When the time came, I moved to Chicago. A six hour drive away, I could make time to come home. By that point, tumors had spread to her spine, causing unbearable pain that could only be solved by lying on her back on the floor. Worse, tumors were pressing against lymph nodes, causing automatic body reactions commonly seen in pneumonia patients, in which her lungs would fill with fluid that caused shortness of breath and pain. Draining the fluid from her lungs became an almost weekly occurrence, one in which I would take a book to read while she received the treatment before going about our day.

Moving to Chicago was extremely hard at first, as I still felt that I was abandoning my mother in her time of need. I told myself that this was the best choice for everyone, and that I was well within a distance where I could come home as needed.

As I moved out, her request to me was that I come home for the end, whenever that might be. Between that and my dog looking out of the window the entire time as I drove away to start my life anew, it was impressive that I made it down the hill at all. I thought long and hard about simply turning around, unpacking, and moving in, tearing up the lease, forfeiting my deposit, and damning the torpedoes all to hell. But I moved out. I reasoned that if I didn't do it at that point, I might never take the initiative again. Foresight is not one of my many blessings, and so I drove away.

I managed to come home for Christmas, with fresh news of getting a nearly full time job working in one of the biggest theatres in Chicago, a Shakespeare Theatre to boot. Christmas was had, family met and gathered, and for the most part, every thing was civil. We even took in a movie, the latest Sherlock Holmes atrocity.

That would be the last time I would ever see my mother in person.

*

I worked in Chicago, starting the fantasy novel I'd been dreaming of writing for years. My goal was to finish the first draft by the end of February, print out a copy, and have her edit it in her spare time. Not because it was her obligation, but because she could see that I was doing work on something I loved, and taking steps towards becoming successful. One of our great shared loves is of Lord of the Rings, something I hold very dear and closely to my heart. This was yet another way for me to pay back all of the love and support that she had given me over the years.

I called regularly, checking in and keeping track on everything at home. When I called on February 14th, Valentine's Day, to check in, she was in good spirits, having watched the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, her annual tradition. We talked about the upcoming baseball season, and about the Masters. She told me that one of my birthday presents, a mattress pad, was on its way. The other rested on top of my dresser. Even in her sickness, she never missed a birthday for me or my brother, and always had the energy to send us a gift or two, no matter where we were.

Her pain was extreme, by this point, and to combat it she had been given Vicodin. She refused to take it, on the grounds that it affected her to the point where she was too stoned on painkillers to drive to work. She would rather teach than sit at home free of pain. Again, her determination shone through, in the darkest hour. She would be starting a new chemo on the next day, one that would hopefully shrink the tumors in her spine to alleviate the pain.

*

On February 17th, I was at home by 9:00, writing the next chapter in my book. I had six to go before I finished it, and was planning to come home on the 27th for my birthday.

The phone rang at 10:38 pm. It was my brother.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I got some bad news, man."

"...go on."

"Mom died."

"...it's going to be okay."

*

There is no word to describe the cavalcade of emotions that comes crashing down in such an instance. Grief. Sadness. Anger. Surprise. Shame. Pure adrenaline fuels your actions and decisions. Tears were shed, to be sure. I remember calling my friends, desperate for proximity to someone, anyone. I called my Dad. I ran on the beach and shouted at the waves. I could not write anymore that night.

The weirdest sensation was a feeling of relief that dominated everything else. She was no longer in pain. It was over. This disease that had defined her, a person of so many wonderful qualities unlike any other I have ever met was freed from the shackles of this hideous thing that twisted and corrupted her body so terribly.

Did I feel shame at having not been there for the end? Yes and no. Yes, I would have liked more time with her. But at the same time, I feel that she did not want a long, drawn out death, one where she would no longer be able to teach, to function as a person. It came suddenly, it came quickly, and it came at home, in her bed, just two days after she taught her last class. She went out the way she would have wanted, fighting.

*

When remembering my mom, I remember her love of baseball. Her passion for her classes. Cinema. John Ford movies. Reading mysteries. Shakespeare and his plays, and movies. Watching the NCAA tournament, the Masters, Opening Day, the World Series, the Ken Burns Baseball documentary, the channel always being on ESPN no matter the time of day or year. Her taking me to see the re-release of Star Wars, pulling me from school to go see Shakespeare in Love, the Lord of the Rings movies. Her frenetic driving, her colorful use of profanity for any and every reason imaginable, her fervent love of nature, her love of cardinals, the Reds, the outdoors, time with her family. So many things defined her, things beyond cancer.

That's the way she would have wanted it.

*

At the memorial, I played guitar for her. The Quaker meeting house overflowed. So many people came. Her friends, her students, neighbors, childhood friends and classmates, my friends, hundreds of people. Sitting in the front row of the pews, I looked up to see an empty space on the bench before me, facing me. Seated around that were multitudes of my closest friends, my grandmother, my aunt. Any time I felt extremely sad during the service, I would look towards them and invariably one of them would look at me and smile.

I feel strongly, deep within my heart, that the empty space was my mother. She was there, and she made sure that there were people there for me, my brother, and my dad, smiling in assurance that we would get through the day. An informal bonfire was held that night, at which many of my friends, from high school, college, and past college gathered. It was a reminder that life has been good, and friends will always be there for you when needed.

As the days have gone by, I've wondered about my purpose and what would be the best thing for me to do. I no longer feel so tied to stay close to home. It is as though I have a chance to start anew, and to not stay fixed on one set regimen of functionality. I've thought about moving somewhere bold and new, making a fresh start. I've thought about returning home to what I know. I've taken the time off to think about my direction in life, what matters to me, and how best to honor my mother's memory.

I have finished my book. I've written stories I've always thought about writing. I'm finding my voice and rhythm as a writer, my passion as an artist. I know what I want to do, and rather than find out what I don't want to do, I want to pursue these passions. Writing is a joy to me. The arts are a joy. Nothing else makes as much sense, except for wandering the pathless woods, which remain calling me.

It's hard to write a eulogy, I find. I cannot separate myself from the last twelve years, but what I can say is that they've affected me, but are no longer a cross to bear. Rather, they are simply another chapter in my life, one which has been read and closed so as to move on to the next chapter.

We will be scattering her ashes in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona, the site of one of our family vacations long past. She was still healthy then, back before cancer. The pictures show us all smiling, happy, free from any pain and suffering. Now that we are through this, it's our job to find that happiness once more.

The best thing about that is that no matter what happens, life is still good. Friends are still there, and people still care. Of all the things I've discovered in the last two months, that is the most important: life is still good.

Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook 1951 - 2012





(Postscript #1: You didn't think I'd forgotten these, did you? Well, back to some semblance of normality anyways. My associate has informed me that my previously considered line-up of blog entries has been somewhat...er, marred, by the last two months, and so I will be focusing instead on the chronicles of myself and my associate over the last few years. There is a story to be told, and we shall find it, somehow. In the meantime, stories will be written and hopefully published. I'm awaiting word on three stories as we speak, and constantly writing new ideas. I'm beginning revisions on my book, and am grateful for all of the feedback I've received. In addition, I hope to continue to pursue my theatrical dreams, however that might come. In the interim, stay posted here, faithful readers.)

(Postscript #2: It might strike no one in particular, but after I finished writing about myself and my brother, he called me to see how I was doing. Call it my mom looking out for us. That's what I'm calling it, anyways.)

Sunday, February 19, 2012

X

I don't feel like writing about anything this week. I'm sure you'll all understand why. (If not, let's have a heart to heart sometimes, you and I, in regards to priorities in life.) Next week might be more promising, but I make no promises.

Many thanks to all of my friends for being there and helping me through the last several days.

The below will run in Monday's edition of the Dayton Daily News and the Western Star.

"Elizabeth Sue Willey Cook was born April 25th, 1951 to Richard and Patricia Willey in Webster City, Iowa. She graduated from Centerville High School in 1969, BGSU in 1972, and earned her Masters in the Humanities from Western Kentucky University in 1974. She passed away Friday, February 17th, 2012.

She was preceded in death by her father Richard and her sister Laura. She is survived by her husband Milton, sons Travis and Zachary, mother Patricia, brother Stephen (Paula, son Christopher (Jodi), and daughter Mary Beth), aunt Priscilla Canady, uncle Jerry Willie, brother-in-law Gary Cook (Jay and sons Ernest and Seth), and best friends Susan Serr and Cathy Rausch-Lager.

She was teaching at Miami University-Middletown and Wilmington College, where her classes included Shakespeare, baseball literature, John Ford, and Greek and Gaelic mythology. Beloved by students and faculty alike, she made a courageous fight against impossible odds and was teaching after her final chemotherapy session on Wednesday. She will be missed by her family, friends, and students.

A memorial service will be held at the Quaker Meeting House in Waynesville on February 25th at 2:00 pm, with an open house following. Donations may be made in lieu of flowers to the World Wildlife Fund and the National Wildlife Federation."

Thursday, February 16, 2012

The Erstwhile Mailbag: A Collection of Motley Correspondance, 12/11 - 02/12

The outpouring of love from the last edition of "The Erstwhile Chronicles" was overwhelming. That being said, I have chosen to take that love and transform it into a mad outburst of gibberish that continues to constitute the bloated pages of the first draft of my as-yet-untitled fantasy novel. As of the writing of this sentence (and probably the last one of today as well, though who's really keeping score here?), I am six chapters away from finishing the aforementioned tome. Because of the nature of writing such a mammoth monstrosity of malapropisms and mischief, most meticulous mastication of my moments must be maintained as methodically as may be mentioned. (Yes, that was just for you, gentle reader.) That being said, don't expect an entry next week as I try and cram in the last chapter or three of my book in order to reach my self-appointed deadline. (There's a certain joy in realizing that you've written a full-length book by the time you turn twenty-five, which in my case will be within the next two weeks. The ultimate goal is published by the time I turn twenty-six.)

(Sidenote #1: The idea of achievement by a certain year of existence is something that fascinates me, mostly because of the deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse at the tender age of 27. Nothing more to say, just that the collective accomplishments of those five alone by the time they were twenty seven constitutes 130+ years of experience within a 5 year window of achievement. Impressive.)

SO

This week, I have taken the time to go over the gargantuan pile of fan mail that has started to pile up since the inception of this blog. Carefully sorted by my associate (and provided in a rumpled burlap sack that may or may not be used to transport aging rock stars over the border to Tijuana) I have gathered here twenty or so of the dozens of decadent emails that I have received over the course of this blog. While it pains me to say this, I regret not being able to fully answer every email that I receive. There are only so many hours in the course of one day, and you're lucky enough that I trust my associate to simply take your mail and pass it along to me. You don't understand the risks involved in that, my friends.

Without further ado, here are this quarter's emails. (As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Mr. Cook,
Don't you feel that using a mailbag as an entry only three months into setting up your blog is not only a cop-out of having to write an actual blog entry for the week, but also a megalomaniacal egotistical form of acting out for extra attention? Seriously, how many emails have you actually gotten regarding your stupid blog?
Sincerely, Confused in Chicago

Well, Confused, somehow you violated the space time continuum after reading the previous paragraphs, so I can only assume you're a remnant of the hideous events of the Super Bowl Halftime show of over a week ago. With that in mind, BACK YOU DEVIL.

In all seriousness, this is just my way to get your thoughts turned around back at you in a heinously inexpensive mirror twist that violates no aspects of my weekly column being prescribed reading for some of you. You get your column, I get my words out in copy, and we're all entertained for another week. So what harm is there in using you for my own means? Hell, Gandhi did it, and I'm not even arguing for independence. I'm simply arguing for a controlled license-granting of all peccary owners in Chicago. Too much to ask?

JTC,
Why in the hell should I have to have a permit to own a peccary? And how are peccaries going to mount an invasion of the North Side? Wouldn't honey badgers be the proper way to go?
ABC, Wrigleyville

Because it's fucking unnatural to own a wild pig, especially this far north, and in an urban context.

And honey badgers? Seriously? I still don't get the point.

(My associate assures me that actual badgers are still something that should be feared more than the honey badger. In that video, you see the badger get bitten by a cobra. A real badger would never allow that to happen, given the badger race's recent development and mass production of searing laser vision that would kill anything that moves (like a cobra) within twenty-five feet, reducing it to ashes. Or so my associate assures me.)

COOOOOOOK,
When are you coming back to the Cleve? We miss you here! Who else will go to the Root Cafe and listen to poor Charlie Moppett with us?
Yours Truly,
That Fucking Unicorn Lady

TFUL,

My last expedition to Cleveland was indeed a success in that it brought about the birth of this whole enterprise. For that, I will always be indebted to the Root Cafe. (And their seed drinks, which are FANTASTIC, BTW.) However, my roaming days are strictly limited for the time being. Funds are being procured for a massive continental tour during the coming summer months, and while Cleveland may be a stop on the tour, I can make no promises at this point in time. In the meantime, my regards to Charlie Moppett, and to the Root Cafe. If you're ever in Cleveland, make sure to check it out. Best Hippie Haven in the Rust Belt!

Hey James,
Love your blog! I really enjoyed your coverage of the Madonna halftime show! Gotta love the 80's! Do you have any thoughts about the recent death of Whitney Houston?
Ever yours,
Just Wants to Dance with Somebody in Indianapolis

I sincerely doubt that you actually read my blog, given that by the time of the halftime show, I was reduced to a drooling puddle of bourbon hiding behind the Professor's couch, protected by a Boxer-Shaped Pillow. That being said, yes, one must love the 80's. If one is to survive this, the only way is through hair metal.

As for the death of Whitney, my main thought is that now she will never know.

You bastard,
Don't you think it's too soon for jokes about someone's death?
Pissed Off in Connecticut

How are you bastards getting through the Space Time Continuum?! What is this, Back to the Fucking Future? STOP IT NOW.


Dear James,
Can you please explain your reluctance to use actual names within the context of your blog? How are we supposed to truly understand these people beyond the vague caricatures represented here? Don't you think you should expand the broad stereotypes that you're using here? I mean, come on, the Ginger? Don't you think you could be a little more specific?
Sincerely,
Blondie in San Antonio

Ah, the nicknames. Well, here's the story, Blondie. Because of pending litigation, I am unauthorized by various state boards of parole from using the full identity of any of the people contained within these escapades. The dangers of using their actual names/residencies/professional titles is so potentially filled with catastrophe that sometimes it seems better to not mention anyone within here at all. Good heavens, the lord knows that my associate is a known felon and wanted in four states for abuses of the system itself. If he were to be named here, the Feds would be on him faster than Spiro Agnew in a blender.

Dear Mr. Cool,
You seem to alternate between traveling around on the Red Line and the 147 Bus. Do you have any recommendations as to which mode of transportation you prefer to utilize? Or is there really no difference in whichever way you try to get around town?
Sincerely,
Stranded in Laketown


You know, it's funny. I just made my ultimate preference choice the other day after hearing the following story. So my friend (Let us call her the Mystery Lady for now, though I guarantee that this will change) was walking along the street, minding her own business, when all of a sudden, Battle:LA starts happening right in front of her. For those who don't know, that's that one unique movie where Aliens invade the world, and decide to do so by attacking Los Angelas, the one city that everyone in America would be secretly glad if it were utterly destroyed by alien invaders. Anyways, it actually starts happening right in front of her, and somehow Kurt Russell shows up. Only its not his character from Battle: LA, which actually doesn't exist in the first place, but Kurt Russell from "Big Trouble in Little China", which is a damn fine movie. He's talking to her, telling her to run down the street because those bastards are about to blow everything to kingdom come, when Sherman's army shows up. This may sound extreme, you say. Well, you'd be way fucking right, because she's runnind down the street from Union Army Alien invasion forces when the streets below her feet start convulsing through seismic activity stirred up in combination by the alien's antigravity engines that drive their spaceships and the combined Richter effect of so many 1860's-era sideburns and mutton chops showing up in one location all at once. This activity causes the prevalent natural gas beneath the streets of L.A. to spontaneously ignite, sending fireballs throughout the city sewers. These fireballs seek the only way out, which is every manhole cover along the streets of LA, and send the covers flying sky high into the air. One of these is located right under a bus, but rather than be stalled by the bus, it flies right through it like a knife through hot Barbara Streisand. It flies through the bus, causing an even bigger explosion that somehow thwarts the alien invasion, turns back Sherman, decapitates BTILC-era Kurt Russell, and knocks the Mystery Lady flat unconscious.

Later, she was asked in the hospital if she needed anything. Given the improbable scenario that she had managed to live through, all she could stammer out was a weak and desperate cry for "life-fulfilling sex". The nurse laughed, replied "you're funny", and left. Without even trying to fulfill her patient's request.

The moral of the story is that this is why health care reform is necessary.
 

James,
Can you shed a little light on your associate please? He's a horribly vague character, and while he seems to be charming and resourceful enough, you don't really go into much detail. What's he like? What is his story? What could he have possibly done to warrant such non-disclosure of his actions and locations? If you could contact our hotline at our website, we'd very much appreciate the chance to discuss him further with you.
Sincerely,
Not the CIA

Dear Not the CIA,

This.

Plus this surly bastard.

This, somehow.
About five of these.
And this.

Dear Mr Cook,
When will you get around to actually writing something well thought out, of consequence, and of great importance?
Larry King, CNN

Mr. King.
I missed the annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, otherwise I'd have written about that. I'm sure salukis are relevant.

 Sir,
What are your predictions for Tim Tebow's upcoming NFL season? Will he or won't he be a difference maker? I find myself desperately in need of your opinion.
Yours truly,
John Elway, Denver, CO
 PS. Gingers are stoopid.

Dear #7,
Personally, I don't trust Tim Tebow any farther than I can throw him. Anyone with as big of daddy issues as he has got should be dressed in a mini-skirt and twirling around the bars on Clark and Division like a madwoman. Do not, I repeat and stress DO NOT PLACE YOUR OFFENSE IN HIS HANDS. This will only end in pain, tears, and the coming apocalypse of the NFL as we know it.
PS. I concur. Gingers ARE stoopid. Especially when tall and lanky.

James Tiberias Cook
When do I get my royalty payments? I loaned you that name for purely academical reasons. You said it would be your stage name, and I assumed you would never work in this town again. What gives? Who said you could make a living off of my name? Don't you know who the hell I am? I'm JAMES TIBERIAS KIRK YOU INGRATEFUL ASSHOLE! PAY UP SUCKA!
Love and affection,
William Shatner, LA

Dear William,
Ah, Slick Willie, Big Willie Style, Bill. If you think I'm getting paid for this, you're really more out of your tiny little mind than I already gave you credit for. If that's the case, I demand my money back from you, you arrogant bastard!

Mr Cook,
Our records indicate that your last payment was declined. Because of this, a $25.00 late fee will be credited to your account. Your balance due will include the missed payment of $25.00, plus the given late fee, plus your next monthly balance. Pay up, sucka.
Sincerely,
Retail Credit Authority

(I turned to my associate, hand feeding me live paper straight from the fax machine. "You asshole! I said EMAILS! Not bills!"

He looked at me, confused. "That was an email. You signed up for paperless statements!"

"No, you cretin! NOT BILLS. I don't care if it's an email, I just don't want any bills!"

He handed me a sheet of medicine that looked like Pez. "Here, take this. I advise you to write at full tilt for the next hour. You'll be lucky if you don't end up as a raving madman by the end of this post." Without hesitation, I ingested the substance, taking another pull from the Bloody Mary sitting besides my desk. My associate turned his attentions back to monitoring the fax machine, occasionally brandishing a large hunting knife in its general vicinity to keep it honest. Cowed, the machine humbly resorted to blinking its error lights while still spewing four pages a minute.)

Mr Cook,
Your second post dealt with the lack of social communication within Starbucks. You have also commented upon the inability of streetgoers to even acknowledge the homeless people begging for money. How do you feel this reflects upon our ever decreasing social capacity as humans, given the influx of more introverted technology to the world?
Arlen in Stanford.

Dear Arlen,
Poorly.
Love, James

Dear James,
Why do you never mention the great state of Montana in all of its glory? We loved having you, and we miss you something fierce. Why don't you tell of your exploits there?
Love,
Lodge.

Dear Lodge,
I thought I left you behind for a reason. If you were not aware of what I was doing, let me be clear and frank: we abandoned your ass in Missoula for a reason. Leave us the fuck alone.
Love,
James

Dear T-Pain,
When will your new single come out?
Sincerely,
A Fan in Memphis

(I looked carefully at my associate, knifing through the fax machine.

"This gibberish is meant for someone else! Where the hell are you getting this from?" I asked.

"It just comes out," he replied. "This is an arbitrary process. I have no control over what the machine is doing. If it wanted to send you Boris Yeltsin in a bikini, all we can do is simply ask if it wants a wax job or not. There's nothing else to be done."

"Fine," I said. "Just give me another hit of whatever it is you've got there. I need more for the records."

"You sad fuck," he groaned. "If I give you anymore, you're liable to blow through the god-damn roof! Stay away from that shit, it's twice as potent as Toradol!"

"The hell with your Toradol!" I bellowed, grabbing the container from him and cramming its contents down my gullet. A telltale gurgle warned me of the displeasures to come, but it was too late. I'd already committed to the mission, and it was my obligations as a detailed blogger to see it through to the bitter end. My associate, shaking his head, tickled the fax machine with the knife, dragging out another email and impaling it onto the desk next to me.)

Dear JTC esq.
We are delighted to see that you will be attending "Aida" on March the 6th at 7:30 pm. We look forward to having you there. If you have any questions, please visit our website, or give our box office a call at  312.332.2244 ext. 5600.
Regards,
Lyric Opera of Chicago.

Ooooohhhhhhhhh, this is bad news. I will be sending my associate to this one. I have a bad feeling about this, bad vibrations all around. He'll know what to do far better than I.

Dear JTC,
What will your next blog entries detail?
A reader in Bowling Green, OH

I'm glad you asked. t this point, given the nature of the way that I operate, how I'm given a typical work schedule, and the times that make themselves available to me without being consumed by the truly weird, I am SHIFTING MY BLOG PUBLICATION DAYS TO WEDNESDAYS.

Trust me, it's a better idea to do that than ask for half-baked conceptions of nothing on days that I can't even bring my mind to half-cocked conceptions of reality.

UPCOMING ENTRIES:
1. My First Gainful Employment Post-College Career
2. Either an Oscar Recap or Something About "The Descendants"
3. A Review of the Lyric Opera's Production of "Aida" by my Associate (His auspicious debut.)
4. The Tragic End of My First Gainful Employment Post-College.

How's that?

(My associate shakes his head sadly. "You poor bastard. Wait til those damn elephants start trekking their way through the writing desk.")

Dear JTC,
What would you say is your greatest source of influence in writing this blog?
An Aspiring Blog Writer in North Carolina

Pure luck and true grit. And three hours to kill in a given day.

(At this point, the world started getting weird once more. The shapes and modes of life began to fade and swirl in a vortex of pain and obsequious dinner plates asparagus jdhfeuy9hddjhdjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj -

"Too much! Too Much!")

My apologies.

Having shattered any sense I had remaining of which was was up and down, as well as the given hour of the day, I feel that it is in my best interest, and yours good reader, to prematurely draw this post to a close. However, I'd like to thank you all for writing in, and for those of you with more questions, feel free to email me at james.t.cook07@gmail.com. Until next time, I must away. My associate beckons me, and it looks like he has Pez.

And we can't let that just go unobserved, now can we?

Monday, February 6, 2012

Everything New is Old Again: The Erstwhile Super Bowl XLVI

While today's blog is described as being live, it was actually written on Sunday. Which, as I'm writing this as we speak, makes for a weird space time continuum status as to my writing capacity. It's Tuesday, but I'm writing on Sunday. (This dialogue continued with myself for about two hours on the Red Line on the way to Irving Park. I may have convinced people that I was crazy, something my plastic bag full of clothing from work might have helped to suggest. What this means is that I'm finally blending in to Chicago culture.)

Anyways, it's the Super Bowl, the biggest unofficial holiday of the year, where people who don't care about football plan for the largest party of the year while complaining about how the game is uninteresting and the commercials aren't funny, while people who do like football inevitably gather to complain about the quality and relative deserving qualities of the two teams involved (i.e. how the game is uninteresting) while ignoring the commercials in the hope of streaming live commentary about the last two minutes of game play that YOU JUST WATCHED HAPPEN. (Too much commentary about whether people should have run right through the big fat guys or left through the big fat guys.)

But I digress.

Our story begins at 4:00 pm CST, when I arrived at my designated location. The participants: The Professor, nursing a strong influx of Jim Beam the night before; the Professor's wife, who is making her first appearance in this blog. For the purpose of this blog, she will henceforth be referred to as "The Stitcher". (Cue ominous music, and/or adorable boxer puppies.)

As with many other live blogs/transcripts of what happens, I will watch the telecast, record the time, thoughts, and observations, and proceed on until the end of the game. At the end, I will draw up whatever Relevant Summary may be drawn from the proceedings, as I have transcribed them.

(Sidenote #1: My associate has scored a sideline pass to the field, and will be reporting to me live from Lucas Oil Stadium. How and where this happened is irrelevant. The important thing, and this is Important, is that it happened; things were done; and he is inside. That has happened. By the very nature of the size and magnitude of the event, and by virtue of my associate's placement and proximity to the happenings, it is impossible to maintain the low profile that all good journalists must exhibit. However, that is besides the point. What matters is that the news will be coming to us in live, unfiltered, and uncensored bursts of pure gibberish, the stuff that careers are made of and destroyed.)

So, let us begin.

5:03 - The Stitcher is asleep, clutching a dog shaped parcel. The Professor has finally put on pants. I've been here for an hour, and am wondering what all of the fuss was about.

5:04 - One of the largest counter programming events of the day is The Animal Planet's The Puppy Bowl, now in its eighth year. On any other day, this event alone would say so much about modern American culture. As it stands, however, if I wanted to watch small creatures in capes run through hoops and gates, I'd hang out with my high school friends who are starting to spawn. Nevertheless, this is the program of choice, as the Super Bowl is still 26 minutes away.

5:08 - Oh god oh god the puppies are cute. It's overwhelming. I've been reduced to a drooling pile of pus. This doesn't reflect well for watching grown 300 pound men trying to reduce each other to piles of kindling.

5:12 - SO. CUTE. SO. CUTE. SOMEONE DO SOMETHING THIS IS SO HORRIBLY CUTE AND PILES OF DOGS ROLLING OVER EACH OTHER TO VAGUE FOOTBALL COMMENTARY CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE CUTE.

(At this point, a nervous breakdown has forced my relocation to a point more easily defensible from the onslaught of the television. Strange vibrations this early on are more than my poor brain can handle.)

5:18 - Singing of the National Anthem by Kelly Clarkson. Over/under for the time length is 2:30. (Legendary for being a diva showcase, I am not sure of the record, but I'm pretty sure it's held by Whitney Huston, who is still holding out the last high note somewhere over Lake Superior back in 1991.

5:19 - Kelly Clarkson went sharp on the last high note, as judged by the Professor. The performance is ruined. (The final time did end up being less than 2 minutes, however. Maybe this bodes well for the game itself.)

(Sidenote #2: Average cost for a 30 second ad in the Super Bowl telecast on NBC: $4 million dollars. Or one tax break for Mitt Romney. Whichever you prefer.)

5:24 - A debate has sprung up over the various jiggly parts of cheerleaders and the ability of tight spandex to contain said body parts. Result: Everybody wins.

5:26 - At the moment, a stat has popped up regarding that the NFC team has won the opening coin toss for 14 consecutive Super Bowls. This has a 1 in 1,024 chance of happening. Naturally, the NFC loses the coin toss tonight. In the meantime, I've found the Professor's spare bottle of Jim Beam, and have broken into it with zeal.

5:31 - Giants take the field. Much is made of this being the exact same Super Bowl as of 4 years ago (XLII in ancient Roman numerals). Let it be said that only 20 of the 104 players from that Super Bowl are playing here tonight. Let it also be said that the animosity towards the Patriots has negated much of the emotional punch towards this Super Bowl. Revenge Bowl just doesn't have the same ring when the man who caught the most epic catch I've ever had the privilege of putting my foot through a coffee table during (David Tyree) is out of the league completely. That speaks greatly towards the short shelf-life of your average mediocre NFL player.

5:39 - First round of commercials. This is just in: Bud Light commercials haven't been funny since I was in middle school. Much like the actual beer itself hasn't been good or exciting since I was in middle school and vaguely understood what beer was.

5:40 - SAFETY!!!!!!!!!!

5:42 - This just in: Pepsi commercials fall into the same category as Bud Light.

5:43 - My associate reports that Tom Brady is bugging out on the sideline regarding the recent safety call. While he looks placid and cool on the telecast, my associate reports that the stream of profanity gushing from his mouth would, and I quote "make Hemingway blush like a school girl."

5:45 - Giants players are running through the Patriots like New England is made of butter and Puritans. My associate confirms this. On a related note, looking at the angles that players take when they reach the sidelines makes my ankles throb with pain.

5:49 - Strange happenings already. This game has the feel of two teams that are horribly surprised to find themselves in Indianapolis, as though they went to sleep at 3 am last night in Miami and woke up to cornfields and media blitzes. The play looks frightening. the execution is sloppy, and so far two huge penalties have slaughtered the Patriots, resulting in 2 points and counting for the Giants.

5:51 - Make that 9 points.

5:55 - My associate reports that Brady is clubbing baby seals to death behind the Patriots bench. No word yet on if these are California or Harbor seals. I get the feeling that Brady is not approachable on the subject just yet. I've cautioned my associate to keep his distance, and to use orca repellant in droves.

5:59 - The Super Bowl halftime, featuring Madonna. The halftime show of the Super Bowl is where careers go to die. Take Springsteen and the E Street Band. They play it, and soon after, Clarence Clemons dies.

Directly. Related. I expect this to be the last thing Madonna produces to the world. In the meantime, it is refreshing to know some things are always constant. Joe Buck is a douche, and the Patriots cannot run the ball to save their lives. (Or the baby seals behind the bench. Not that rushing the ball will save baby seals, but it is a nice thought to think about for charity.)

6:02 - End of the first quarter, the first movie preview is for "Battleship." You know, based on the game Battleship. Because this seemed like a novel idea. Aliens invading earth in giant metallic forms that destroy and shape shift. Good idear.

6:03 - My associate is once again privy to the Toradol being pumped straight into Rob Gronkowski's high ankle sprain. He's confiscated a bottle from the locker room and now reports that Brady is feeling "groovy." Gronkowski, meanwhile, keeps ranting about high level viscosity for some reason.

6:08 - The professional verdict from the Professor: "The commercials tonight are trying too hard." The opinion: "They're also not funny."

6:08:30 - My associate's verdict: "Good God, the Seals!"

6:13 - Themes of this year's commercials so far include "Beer is good" and "Dogs are cute" in a continuation of the puppy bowl theme. Movies, however, are uninspired. (Although the "John Carter of Mars" preview featured a remix of "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which is added to Arcade Fire's "My Body is a Cage" as strange backing tracks for Edgar Rice Burroughs.)

6:16 - The Patriots scored a field goal at some point in the last series. It got lost in a haze of Jim Beam and seal blood. Who knew?

6:19 - The blend of Tomatillo and Jim Beam is making for some interesting sensations in the back of my esophagus.

6:22 - Jason Pierre-Paul has just batted down his second pass in a row. A massive defensive end who some believe should have been the Defensive Player of the Year, his wingspan is roughly the size of a humpback whale, with the grip of a ravenous hyena on mescaline. Two last names were more than enough for this monster of a man.

(Sidenote #3: It was at this point that we lost The Stitcher to slumber. Football is not her forte. Sharp instruments of construction are. And the only thing we have representing that on the field is in use behind the Patriots bench to repair the broken baby seals. Her loss.)

6:24 - My associate reports that Giants tight end Travis Beckham is out with a torn ACL for the game. Also, he reports that the Giants practice squad members are engaged in a ferocious game of Mancala, and the bidding starts at $50 a stone. I'm not sure which is more valid until I hear the live report that the bidding is up to $75. Ah, football.

6:25 - It is my professional opinion that the second quarter is boring. The Professor seconds, and the dog shaped parcel has begun to move from chair to chair within the room.

6:30 - To evidence the previous claim, my current game MVP is Steve Weatherford. The Giants punter. To be fair, my associate is reporting that Steve Weatherford is actively gnawing on uncarved ashwood on the sideline in order to control his undying rage against the light/Patriots machine/starving African children. As with Brady, my associate is hesitant to approach his target. Never approach a man in full fledged beaver mode.

6:45 - Holy shit, did the last fifteen minutes just happen? Or did I just stroke off for a bit?

6:46 - Ah, yes, the Avengers preview, with our first good look at the six heroes in action happened. Other than that, I remember NONE of the commercials from the last hour and a half.

6:47 - Jason Pierre Paul was unblocked on 1st and Goal. The result - tackle for loss by a Beast of a Man. Good God someone bring that man a sandwich.

6:47:30 - I just found out that Jason Pierre Paul is younger than I am. I hate my life.

6:49 - Patriots just scored to take the lead 10-9. With :24 left in the 1st half, the prediction has sprung up for the Super Bowl Halftime show. Song guesses are "Like a Prayer", "Material Girl", "Music", and something from Madonna's new album. This is our debate here. That and taxes.

6:58 - The obligatory half time analysis is saying that the last team to score will win. In other news, the Middle East is turbulent once again. Waiting for Madonna to arrive.

6:59 - My associate is reporting from the locker room of the _______, amidst a shower of painkillers, cocaine, and assorted amphetamines. Caffeine is being injected into somebody's arms straight from an IV. It may in fact be my associate.

(At this point, the transcript loses its focus, dissolving into a series of quotes and gibberish. Collecting myself later, I examined the details, and have transcribed what I can recover. It wasn’t pretty.)

Somewhere around the 7:00 hour - Madonna is performing. I'm flashing back to the worst trip I haven't had yet. The time continuum is blown to pieces by Spartacus. 

God help us all. I'm currently hiding behind a couch, shielded from the dangers of this small Roman armada. 

NO! Stop him! Art Garfunkel, why are you jumping on your nuts on a tightrope? Where is Paul Simon?! He'd never let this happen!

Weird Al? What are you doing outside of the Shire?

This is some strange combination of high school pageantry and $10 million that was just lying around and had to be burned in some way by midnight, or else Brewster wouldn't receive his millions.

Cee-Lo Green has no eyes. Cee-Lo Green is the Space Emperor of Space. (Sorry Zoltan Mesko.)

CEE-LO GREEN IS THE WIZARD! RUN! MIA, YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA ALL ALONG.


Summary: Football is space. Beware the wrath of Universal Caesar.

My associate cannot be found, for the Fear has set upon him.

7:20 - The Space-Time Continuum has returned to functional parameters, and my trip is slowly dying down to a reasonable level of intrigue. Things have shifted around to fit this brave new world. Coincidentally, Clint Eastwood is now from Detroit.

7:23 - OCHOCINCO *YOWLSCREECHOFDEATH*

7:25 - Wisdom from the Professor "Do not accept drinks unbidden from the strong man, for it will end poorly." Too late for you, you poor bastard. Wait til Madonna comes back dressed like a Roman gladiator, craving human flesh.

7:28 - Speaking of craving human flesh, the Patriots just scored a remarkably easy touchdown to go up 17-9. My associate reports that Eli Manning is "putting out tentative whines as to why he doesn't have any baby seals that he can bludgeon, and why Brady has all the seals." Then he is reminded that he doesn't have anything, only the broken limbs of Michael Strahan. Defeated, he slumps back on the bench, looking over notebook pictures of Brady's seal braining art. He sighs, and my associate cannot be sure but reports a single tear running down his face.

7:31 - On a long take of Tom Brady, right before the kickoff to the Giants, he hangs his head, deep in thought, before slowly, deliberately letting a drop of spit hang all the way down to the ground before lightly severing it with his tongue. Wiping his mouth, he prepares for combat.

7:31:30 - My associate preserves the saliva for future biological studies.

7:33 - Vince Wilfork is FAT. The man is a beast, and the one giant holdover from their former defensive glory, but the man must weigh as much as a young bull elephant in heat. He breathes like a steam engine, his breath ringing clear across the nation to Utah. That man is not on steroids. That man is on tyrannosaurus tears and liquid molten sun.

7:38 - The Patriots defense smells blood. Like sharks in the water, they are circling, picking off the weak on the edges of the Giants vertical attack. Hakeem Nicks is no longer able to distinguish directions from colors, and the resulting blur has taken away the most potent weapon of their passing attack. If the Patriots score on their next drive, and I mean a touchdown, then the game is all but sealed.

7:40 - This just in: Pepsi Max commercials are not funny either.

7:47 - The Giants have (finally) sacked Tom Brady, creating a 4th and 12. The game is still alive, 17-12. Someone is bringing in a fresh crate for Brady marked as delivery from Northern Canada. A slight, pathetic whimper is heard.

7:49 - The word going around the Interwebs is that Madonna fell during her halftime performance. Yes, she did fall. From the pop charts. Like a stone.

7:55 - Tom Coughlin, Giants coach extraordinaire, is turning into Marty Schottenheimer, with the stale old brand of "run, run, pass, punt/kick". This bodes poorly for the rest of the game. 17-15.

8:02 - I've yet to see anything besides the Avengers preview that actively excites me.

8:04 - Brady is intercepted on a play that up until the conclusion is eerily similar to "the Catch" from Super Bowl 42.

(Fuck Roman numerals. There's nothing Roman about football besides the desire to maul one another like lions and tigers. Until I say otherwise, football is undeserving.)

8:08 - The game is getting tense. Like camping.

8:11 - My associate reports that sabotage is afoot. Jake Ballard has been stabbed by a Patriots defender. This shifts the balance horribly, and could mean the ultimate outcome is horribly in doubt. I have no idea as to what actually happened, because one of The Professor and The Stitcher's friends (let's call her The Boxer) decided to jump onto my lap and attempt to seduce me through her massive massive tongue. Needless to say, I resisted her charms and whiles, but not after a thorough drenching. I also have no idea as to what happened to Jake Ballard, but I'm sure that my associate would never lie to me.

8:13 - The scene behind the Patriots bench is bedlam. Brady is humping a blow-up doll like a madman, holding it by the neck with one hand while braining seal cubs with the other hand, clutching a shalalie like a mad Irish drunk out of some O'Neill play. He is uncontrollable.

8:15 - STAY IN BOUNDS YOU CRETIN!

8:23 - It is determined that The Stitcher doesn't give a shit about the Browns. Bulls and Cavs all the way. End quote.

8:25 - The Darkness jam session is at the worst, entertaining to listen to a bunch of people do what we did in bars during my freshman year of college; i.e. Screech like Robert Plant having a period.

8:27 - TONGUE IN FACE! TONGUE IN FACE!

8:27:30 - Wes Welker is a human vacuum cleaner, the football equivalent of Brooks Robinson at third base. He is the cog in the Patriots well-oiled machine that makes it run. So how in the name of gravy does Welker drop that pass? I could catch that pass. How in the hell does he miss it? Good god, good gravy, my goodness my Guinness.

8:29 - My associate is reporting that Bill Belicheck is being re-booted. The last few drives have stalled out, unfortunately so, and as a result Josh McDaniels has had to insert a new chip into the Belicheck androids skull to keep it functioning.

8:31 - The howling at the moon on this chilly Indiana night begins anew, as Eli comes on with 3:46 left and 2 points down. The broadcasters sound as though this is a pre-scripted broadcast. I'm still not fully recovered from the halftime performance. Eli, overcome from his seal depression, looks like he's preparing for a high-power merger at a corporate law firm. One senses the winds shifting.

8:34 - The Manningham catch will go down not as highly as the Tyree catch, because that was the ultimate in game saving performances. However, when receivers in the future are shown video of how to perform the sideline catch and to keep both of their feet down inbounds to preserve the catch, they will be shown Mario Manningham's sideline catch from Super Bowl XLVI, as he toed his left foot, planted his right, and maintained full possession of the ball on his descent out of bounds. Belicheck makes the call to challenge the play because he has no other options; allowing the catch to stand would cripple his team for the rest of the drive. As it is, they are now on the 50 yard line, with hope rekindled in their hearts. A cheer erupts from the stadium as the catch is confirmed through the jumbotron screen. The game continues, although the outcome seems to be written in blood. Patriot blood.

8:37 - The Giants need to milk the clock as they move into field goal range. The Pats have far too much time left to let Brady have a chance to move down the field again.

8:38 - Manningham has been targeted four times in a row, making three receptions. He is a beast, and blood rages in his head. Patriot receivers are fearful for their lives, shrinking from this possessed ex-Wolverine. He howls at the snap count for blood, and throws anything in his way to the ground, a Samson among Davids, to properly mix the metaphors and convey the emotion it is to see a football player take over a game for several drives.

8:39 - GoDaddy.co can go suck my left nut. Not the right. They're not good enough for that.

8:41 - 2nd and 3, the Giants call for East Falco. I like to call this the luck dragon play.

8:43 - All of a sudden, this game has come alive, and every missed play/made play/mistake is magnified here for the Patriots. Neither team has performed spectacularly except for a couple drives. Unfortunately for the Patriots, Eli Manning has taken over this drive, fueled by the Manningham Impossibility.

8:44 - Touchdown Giants! Belicheck has gambled to let the Giants score now, instructing the Patriots defense to part like the Red Sea on First and 10. Ahmad Bradshaw was allowed to rush for a touchdown, and because the opening for the Giants was so huge, Bradshaw was unable to stop his forward momentum before he could cross the goal line. He has literally fallen ass-backwards into the endzone in the most futile attempt to cease forward motion that has been broadcast on live television. While the Giants have a 4 point lead (2 point conversion unsuccessful), the Patriots have :57 seconds for Tom Brady to rally for a touchdown. (My associate reports that Bradshaw literally pissed himself with terror upon seeing an open endzone, the first time anyone on either sideline can report feeling such terror.")

8:45 - "The suspense is terrible! I hope it lasts." - Oscar Wilde.

8:47 - Good Jesus, Rob Gronkowski is not in the game. I will return after this drive concludes. Too tense to write.

8:53 - The final Hail Mary goes up. If Chad OchoCinco catches the fucking Hail Mary to win the Super Bowl, I will stab somebody.

8:54 - The Hail Mary falls incomplete, just beyond the reach of a diving Rob Gronkowski. The Giants are Super Bowl Champions once again, ending the SAME WAY IT ENDED FOUR YEARS AGO. Eli Manning has now warranted serious discussion for the Hall of Fame, and the missed passes across the field to the Patriots will be second guessed all year. God I am glad that I'm not a Patriots fan. To go through this agonizing heartbreak defeats anything known by a Bengals fan, where we're simply used to chronic disappointment year in, and year out.

8:56 - Hall of Fame boosts from this game for Eli Manning and Tom Coughlin. Eli has passed his brother for football success, and the alcohol flows like mad in the streets of New York.

8:58 - My associate reports from the frenetic joy of the Giants sideline that "Tom Coughlin has entered full-Beast mode, and is screaming phenomenal nonsense words from the bowels of the sideline pit. Manningham must be corralled and muzzled so as to simply receive congratulatory handshakes. Belicheck has stabbed some anonymous assistant coach before going into auto-self-destruct mode. He is being shepherded towards the locker room by an assortment of tight ends and a rapidly deflating Vince Wilfork.

Brady sits amid a pile of blood and seal skulls, clutching his shalalie in a white-knuckled grip, yet unable to come to terms with once again having come so close, yet so far from his ultimate goal. A few drops to Wes Welker and the outcome is decidedly different. The unfortunate truth is that Tom Brady has already peaked in terms of what he can accomplish, and where he can go. He has overcome being a 6th round draft pick, passed on by every team in the league multiple times. He has won three Super Bowls. He has broken records, proven his worth as a quarterback time and time again. There is no question that he is one of the all time greats. Now however, that works against him. He is the Establishment now, his underdog card revoked under threat of blood. The other team will always be the underdog. Over 70% of America was rooting for the Giants, although it might be more accurately described as against Brady. He is the Villain with the Golden Arm, and no matter his past, he will never again be the Underdog, short of a sudden and terrible decline in power.

The ultimate pain this time around is that the Patriots handed this away, almost gift wrapped. Now Brady looks forward to an off-season of misery, flanked by Giselle, the rapidly aging supermodel who no longer carries the same luster as his career winds one year closer to its ultimate end. The banshees are screaming and howling in the Indiana nights, and death reeks over the New England sideline. A great thing is passing before our eyes, and it is our responsibility to record its construct and ultimate demise. Before it even happened, the New England dynasty choked and flailed as 87 could not wrap up the small, bouncing pigskin. Night has fallen in Foxborough.

9:04 - The weirdest trophy celebration ritual is the touching of the Lombardi trophy by the entire Giants football team. While an old old man carries it forward, the players fondle, kiss, and molest the silver trophy. It offends the senses with the indignity.

9:07 - And the Super Bowl MVP is (as it should be Mario Manningham, who saved the season with his spectacular catch and performance on the last drive) Eli Manning, once again. History is repeating itself once more, and the Giants are 3-0 against the Patriots since 2008. Go figure.

9:10 - I don't know why they break down the game on the damn trophy stand. Just give them their trophies and let them shower each other in man love and champagne. Jesus, you wordy bastards. You're prolonging all of the joy sex and hate sex shared by Giants and Patriots fans! Get on with it!

(Here, the telecast has concluded, due to my sudden lack of interest in the game, and my prolonged interest in Jim Beam.)

CONCLUSION: If anyone wanted to make a notion that these games are fixed, this game makes a strong case. Either that, or the two teams are so evenly matched during the match-up that the team that scores last and that scores the best under pressure is the team that will win. Both years, that has been the Giants, and no amount of baby seals can disguise the fact that the Patriots have spent several years beating up on mediocre teams so as to create a stronger impression of themselves against the better teams.

Halftime, as far as my poor brain is concerned, is a vague collection of shadows and mystical Kabballah images. Best argument for chemical enhancement (AGAINST chemical enhancement, my associate pines from Indianapolis, AGAINST. ONE CANNOT HANDLE THE TORTURE.) ever? I think not.

Commercials are lame. But we knew this.

Therefore, I am bidding adieu for another night. The Professor and The Stitcher have retreated to slumber, and the dog shaped parcel has returned to its inanimate state of being. All is right on Irving Park, for one more year.

OK here,

JTC

(Postscript #1: My book is twelve chapters from completion. The Erstwhile Chronicles has taken a back seat, although I have churned out one chapter from that, and am putting a rough guide for the pages together. Expect more on that over time. Come March, the play's the thing.)

(Postscript #2: Tuesday morning. No word yet on my associate, or where he lies. My last contact with him was when he was in the Giants locker room, hammering down bottles of Moet and Chandon. Until I hear further, I assume he is on the beat, doing his necessary research.)

(Postscript #3: We have absolutely NO idea who won the Puppy Bowl, although The Stitcher has informed me that a record for Most Puppy Bowl Touchdowns was set tonight. The MVP was Fumble, who was a terror on offense AND defense. Rare that you see a good two-way player anymore.)