"I'm in the prime of my youth and I'll only be young once."

I have returned from the Right Coast and have lots of stories from the Big Apple, but first, this one:

I made a great new friend over the weekend. Our relationship is by default, since I know her parents. It's like joining a new softball team and having to be friends with everyone, except that I've made some of my best friends playing ball, so our friendship was off to a wonderful and auspicious start.

My new friend is named Sid.

Ever since I've known her momma, Roxanne, she's always been one of those super-achievers, a roommate you could bring to a party instead of a 12-pack and still be a hit with everyone. She's been a vice president on the Northwestern student board, single-handedly put together a national conference of Singaporean students studying in the US, orchestrated a Tori Amos concert and Kurt Vonnegut and Gloria Steinem speeches on campus. But she might have now outdone herself -- she's Sid's momma!

Her pops Robbie might have other plans, but when it comes to the National League Central Division, this kid is growing up to be a Cubs fan.

Cops and Robbers

Some of my happiest memories growing up are of strangers.

If I got my homework done on time, which I usually used to be able to accomplish, I'd go to the playground by our flat in Bedok Reservoir Road. It was one of those playgrounds built in a huge sand pit, and in addition to see-saws and swings, there was also a concrete structure with a chain-and-planks bridge which swayed from side to side as you ran across. There was also a pole, which burned my palms and my legs as I slid down it. Not being very fast nor dextrous, I was usually cautious when it came to performing stunts on the playground contraptions, but I still participated in pick-up games with gusto.

A favourite game was cops and robbers, or police and thieves, or tag. There was a "house," which retreating into as a thief gave you immunity from the cops (we usually picked this alcove at the bottom of the structure as it). There was also a police station where the tagged thieves were brought to, where they awaited a slap of the hand from a fellow thief to be freed. The game ended when all the thieves were caught -- that typically never happened. More normally, the game ended when Yeye strolled in and told me -- first, patiently; subsequently, scolding -- to go home for dinner. For me, anyway.

This week on May's tag, she received one of those surveys and I saw that I was tagged to keep it going. So, here it goes:

1) Are your parents married or divorced? Married.

2) Are you a vegetarian? god, no.

3) Do you believe in Heaven? Yes -- you get there after reaching nirvana.

4) Have you ever come close to dying? Yes -- I nearly drowned at Manly Beach in Sydney, Australia, when I was 18. I thought I was never going to see my family again, and prayed that they knew they were the last thoughts in my mind before I died.

5) What jewelery do you wear 24/7? I don't.

6) Favourite time of day? The morning, when the day is new and anything fantastic can happen.
7) Do you eat the stems of broccoli? Yes.

8) Do you wear makeup? Yes. Although much less frequent now that I don't have to for work.

9) Ever have plastic surgery? No.

10) Do you color your hair? Yes.

11) What do you wear to bed? Typically a T-shirt and pyjama pants (in the winter) or boxer shorts (in the summer).

12) Have you ever done anything illegal? Nothing worth recounting.

13) Can you roll your tongue? Yes.

14) Do you tweeze your eyebrows? The beauty is, mine don't need that treatment.

15) What kind of sneakers? adidas for sports, retro adidas for everyday wear.

16) Do you believe in Abortions? How does one believe in abortions? I think it's fine if it's the right decision.

17) Hair colour? Currently black, with hints of the last light brown job it got earlier this year.

18) Future child's name? I like Abra and Cal, from one of my favourite books, "East of Eden." But would it be incestuous to name a daughter and son after two lovers?

19) Do you snore? I think so, but not often and not excessively.

20) If you could go anywhere in the world where would it be? Well, obviously there are many places, but topmost on my list are Cuba, Egypt, Brasil, and Greece. For a country I've been to before, China -- lots more to explore there.

21) Do you sleep with stuffed animals? jesus, no.

22) Buy my family a worldwide holiday, pay for my brother's college education, donate to my favourite causes, invest.

23) Gold or silver? Platinum.

24) Hamburger or hot dog? Hot dog, fo shizzle.

25) If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? Oh my god, are you fucking kidding me? Steak.

26) City, beach or country? Beach.

27) What was the last thing you touched? Besides my keyboard, my Blackberry.

28) Where did you eat last? Dark chocolate M&Ms. SO GOOD. I can't wait until they make it
with peanuts.

29) When's the last time you cried? When I said goodbye to my family at Barajas Airport in Madrid.

30) Do you read blogs? Yes, selectively.

31) Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex? No, why would I?

32) Ever been involved with the police? Not unless I'm getting a ticket or getting into an accident.

33) What's your favorite shampoo conditioner and soap? I only use shampoo, and it's a green tea one by Follow Me. I love Zest for soap.

34) Do you talk in your sleep? Yes. Totally.

35) Ocean or pool? Ocean, although I have a phobia of it since the almost-drowning incident.

(Where are 36 and 37?)

38) Window seat or aisle? Window, always, if I can help it.

39) Ever met anyone famous? Brian Wilson, Drew Barrymore, Wyclef Jean, and Jeremy Piven.

40) Do you feel that you've had a truly successful life? Yes, but there's always more that can be done.

41) Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? Twirl.

42) Ricki Lake or Oprah Winfrey? I hate talk shows.

43) Basketball or Football? Baseball and tennis.

44) How long do your showers last? I can shower in five minutes, but I can take longer if I'm enjoying it.

45) Automatic or do you drive a stick? Automatic, and while I enjoy stick, it's just tiring to drive with one all the time.

46) Cake or ice cream? Ice cream. Jeez.

47) Are you self-conscious? Yes, but comfortably so.

48) Have you ever drank so much you threw up? Yes, but it's been a while, thank god.

49) Have you ever given money to a begger? Yes.

50) Have you ever been in love? Not by my definition.

51) Where do you wish you were? Playing tennis somewhere.

52) Are you wearing socks? No.

53) Have you ever ridden in an ambulance? Yes, when I fell from my bike and sliced open my knee. We wailed down Michigan Avenue.

54) Can you tango? No.

55) Last gift you received? Camper shoes that my mum got for me in Sevilla.

56) Last sport you played? Softball. We're done for the year. It sucks.

57) Things you spend a lot of money on? Travel, clothes, CDs, food, shows.

58) Where do you live? Wrigleyville, Chicago.

59) Where were you born? Singapore.

60) Last wedding attended? Sarah and Jesse's wedding in September.

(Where are 61 and 62?)

63) Most hated food(s)? Corn and strawberries.

(Where is 64?)

65) Can you sing? Only in the bathroom and the car.

66) Last person you instant messaged? Dion.

67) Last place you went on holiday? Spain -- Sevilla, Granada, and Madrid.

(Where is 68)

and finally

69) Tag 3 friends:
- Silvur
- Severs
- Andy

Jet Settin'

November 7 -- Airbourne between London and Chicago, over the Irish Sea

I often think about the Chinese and how smart their inventions are. Take, for example, dim sum. In typical Emporer Qin Shi-Wang fashion, he who megolomaniacally commanded the construction of the Great Wall, in order to have it all, the Chinese created small plates cuisine, now so fashionable in Wicker Parks, Lower East Sides and West Hollywoods all over the world. Why not make room to have it all, by having a small taste of everything? It's the same with Spanish tapas. At a small tasca on a little winding street in Madrid built into the caverns under Plaza Mayor, you could have a taste of spain over the course of una jarra de sangria, or dos, or tres. Castile, Bergovia, Andalusia, Basque country, Pyrenees, Iberia -- it's like taking revenge on past Spanish colonialism through an Inquistion of its cuisine.

I once wrote about watching cartons from all over Asia twirling around the international terminal baggage carousel at O'Hare, and a week ago marvelled at the cosmopolitan of London based on an ad-hoc surveyance of the population with British accents at Heathrow. This morning, crammed into Gate 14 of Terminal Three for my (finally) flight back to Chicago, I found myself in the company of fellow passengers on codeshare flights with Oman Airlines and Gulf Air. There were hajis, head scarves, fake designer duds, Punjabi suits, gold chains, baggy jeans, saris, skull caps.

As I made my way to the very last row of the plane (43J, my own fault for dawdling over my full English breakfast buffet -- hard to say no to second servings of sauteed mushrooms and baked beans with rasher bacon and waffles), I tried not to dread the crazy customs process when we touched down eight hours later. After all, nice people finish last, right?

The Rain in Spain

From primary school through junior college, we always loved it when it rained on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays -- days that we had softball training. It actually wasn't always the best case scenario. Instead of the fun stuff, like fielding drills and batting practice, it meant that we had to hit the weights room and indulge in cross-training exercises. As softball players, we always felt lazy compared to our basketball and track and soccer friends, since we never ran long distance for stamina nor crunched for abs. But it was also an opportunity for the truly fun stuff -- sliding practice on mud-slicked diamonds. Coach would only let us practice and perfect a slick bump slide and dramatic headfirst dives on a soggy and soft ground to lower chances for freak injuries. You could have called us the Soggybottom Girls, but our mothers, upon seeing us walk through the door with P.E. shirts turned brown from white, would have rather we got tagged out standing up every time we tried to take an extra base.

Our last three days in Spain would've been perfect for a Paul Simon-inspired slip-sliding session. It began around 4pm as soon as we stepped into the Granada train station for our ride to Madrid. We hauled our original pieces of luggage and newly-acquired boxes of Moroccan lamps and plates and a mirror into the tiny depot, and it came down like the chorus of a "My Fair Lady" ditty. And it didn't go away for the next two-and-a-half days. It subsided and Pygmalionised into various forms of rain, but it made our stay in Madrid a dank, dreary and damp one.

It worked out fine. After days of Andalusian adventure, we were quite content to wander within tourist-friendly confines, shop, eat and drink. We didn't see the Palacio Royal or Teatro Opera or the Capilla Real, but I think we were OK (after all, we already saw the world's largest cathedral in Sevilla). Knowing our next family vacation wouldn't be until next year, we were content to just enjoy each other. And drink more. We huddled under shared umbrellas and Dad put his arm around Dion and me to keep us under shelter, just like he did when we were little. We even ate a roast suckling pig on our last night.

That's what I call a Koh-liday.

Abracadabra

November 3, 2006 - Train-bound between Granada and Madrid

When I was a kid, one of my favourite books was "1,001 Arabian Nights," the compendium of tales from which "Aladdin and the Magic Lamp" and "Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves" came from. It had the picture of an olive-skinned guy on the cover, wearing a fez, moustache and balloon pants. I probably read it 1,001 times.

Of course, no one who was Spanish looked like that in Granada, probably not since the Christians invaded the city and the Spanish Inquisition burned Moors at the stake in Plaza Bib-Ramla. But the city is still magical -- I believe there is a secret under every cobblestone and a genie in every lamp. You needed that magic, particularly if you were a cab driver dashing your Peugeot through narrow, winding streets at 60 km/h on stick shift.

The Alhambra is amazing, more so than the Alcazar in Sevilla. The UNESCO World Heritage Site committee can't be wrong. Strolling through throne rooms and harems, I kept thinking about sultans, scimitars and Scheherazade. I wish they had done a better job of preserving each chamber as they looked when in their prime, just like at Versailles. The only thing that remained was a wash bowl at the entrance of every room, for the cleansing of feet in true Muslim tradition. Allah giveth, and Allah taketh.

I rubbed a few lamps in the touristy shopping district of Alcaeria, a former Moorish quarter that used to be a Muslim silk exchange. No genies appeared, though -- I think it's because they knew one of my three wishes would be for a Cubs World Series championship next year.

We'll Always Have Paris

October 30, 2006 - Train-bound between Paris and Madrid

Jessica Simpson is ubiquitous. So are Starbucks and McDonald's. And "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley. And Osama Bin Laden, if Taliban infomercials are to be believed.

Twenty-seven hours in Paris this past weekend, and even though we spent a week there two years ago, I felt like I wanted to sightsee the city all over again. I wanted to re-clamber up to the top of the Notre Dame and hang with the gargoyles. I wanted to go round and round up the hill of Montmarte. I wanted to cross all nine bridges of the Seine. I wanted to crepe my way across the Latin Quarter.

In Paris, the Eiffel Tower is everywhere. You can see it when the Metro goes above ground, winding in and out of side streets in Saint-Germain, through fruits and flowers at the marche on Rue Montereuil. Like Bogey as Marlowe in a late 1930s-model jalopy, it followed us everywhere we went. It was the backdrop to our Sunday stroll down Champs-Elysees.

I remember looking at pictures or watching TV about cities like Paris when growing up and wondering what it must be like to actually live in such a place, where you truly walk out of your Renaissance-era apartment in the morning and where you really do carry home a steaming-hot baguette fresh from the oven. It's like being in the movies.

So's living down the street from the ballpark when your team wins its first World Series in 99 years. Is it a better Hollywood ending if we made it an even 100? Let's not wait till next next year to find out, please.

Americana in Europa

October 28, 2006 - Heathrow Airport, London

"The Lake House" is likely the kind of movie that's passed down from room to room in a sorority house, or that Trixies stay home from Barleycorn on a Friday night with wine, cheese and crackers to watch. But if you disregard the superfluous appearances of Sandy and Keanu in the picture, you might realise that the true love story in it is that of you and the city of Chicago. And it's based on a true story, too -- the drear of winter (but Lake Michigan, by which the house is built, of course, still beautiful), the excitement of downtown in spring, the perfectly manicured softball diamond (it's Hollywood, right?), the rustling of fall and the L, the sunlight off the skyscrapers. Don't watch the movie, but come visit Chicago!

Recently, Bruce Springsteen packed 30,000 Spaniards into a futbol stadium in Valencia, so it wasn't too much of a surprise when I heard a Briton youth sing "Born in the USA" at the top of his voice at Heathrow, as his party hustled towards a plane en route to the States. The continent does love Bruce.

Fortunately, the continent does not love all things American, such as baseball. Therefore, I did not need to be bombarded by the news of the Cardinals winning the World Series in five -- not ESPNised, not Todayised, only invaded by voicemails and text messages. Thanks for keeping in touch.

It has not been a good last two years for Cubs fans. Well, it hasn't been for 98 years, but the heartburn does get a little unbearable when the Sox and Cards win back to back. So it's just as well that I only missed watching one game of the championship and escaped to where football rules, the same way celebrities seek refuge in tax-free Monaco.

Supernova

From Salieri in Amadeus to Hamlet in Hamlet to Charles Foster Kane in Citizen Kane, whether or not the play or picture is named for the title character, he is a tragic hero. Flawed, disillusioned and dilemmaed, his middle name is Hubris.

In his films, Clint Eastwood often explores heroism, which usually is defined via the anti-hero. He's either Mystic River's Jimmy Markham and Dave Boyle, Unforgiven's Bill Munny, or Million Dollar Baby's Frankie Dunn. He takes genres which often travels dictated paths -- the crime movie, the western, the boxing movie -- and turns them inside out. What if there's heart and love in boxing? What if a conscience exists in the Boston underworld? What if cowboys can cry? In a world where emotions run contrary of actions, a mobster unravels like Macbeth, boxing is emotionally wrenching, and you can't tell who's good and who's bad in a town called Big Whiskey.

In Flags of Our Fathers, heroism is explained in terms that are Shakespearan in statute, graceful by nature. It's not the fantastical notion that we take for granted and take advantage of -- that's the complex stuff. It's what we believe in very simple terms, that we usually don't think are good enough for the movies, because they are real -- brotherhood, kinship, friendship, humanity, compassion, truth, and loyalty. Much is said of war heroes -- asking not what the country can do for you, but what you can do for your country, purple hearts, future presidential campaigns. But ask a guy who's never said a word about World War II after raising the flag at Iwo Jima what the battle meant to him, and he says it's the day he and his unit buddies got to splash around in the Pacific during a lull. It's comradeship, and what people will do for you and for others, or just having someone you can look up to, respect, and learn about the finer things in life from.

This morning, Mofo did the marathon. It was her first, and she only ran the first race of her life this April, in the Shamrock Shuffle. Over the last six months, she ran increasingly longer distances in training, and also ran into doubts as her body complained. Last night, she thought that she didn't have a shot at completing this morning.

We were right and she was wrong. She completed the marathon this morning in under six hours, and finished strong -- the first thing she did after asking for her medal was to grab a beer. Everyone who completed the marathon, or hell, even attempted to, was the day's heroes, but there were 150,000 more who stood in the cold cheering, sharing food, keeping spirits high for mostly strangers who performed some heroics of their own, too. Having left at 9am this morning with the intention of running three miles alongside Mofo as one of her several pacers but ending up with 18, I had nothing in my stomach except for the Gatorade along the way. Along Taylor Street in Little Italy someone gave out muffins. On Halsted in University Village, someone gave me a turkey wrap. In the West Loop, someone gave me a pretzel. Earlier along Sheridan in Lakeview, residents at a nursing home stuck up signs in their windows and waved. High school pom pom teams wiggled spirit fingers. Kids wanted you to slap their hands. In Boys Town, drag queens convulsed on platforms. In Pilsen, reggaeton blasted from boomboxes. In Chinatown, lions danced. And Mofo's family hugged her and told her how proud they were of her.

I'm not sure how the ridiculous notion of continuing to run over three times the longest distance I'd ever ran in my life stuck in my head. I was curious to know how far I could go. But the fact is, between Bruce blasting on the iPod, Mofo, Rachel, Jenny B and Nicole next to me, how could I say no? It wasn't about running three-quarters of a marathon I didn't train for, physically or mentally. It was about good friends and good music both superhero-quality attributes. Mofo later said it would have been a different race without us running with her. From a marathon bandit's point of view, I can say the same thing.

Just now I told my parents about how foolish I was today. Dad said, "That is amazing and I'm so glad you did it. It's an accomplishment, why don't you try for the marathon next time?"

Coming from the guy who was the soccer star in his neighbourhood growing up and now one of the top badminton players at the club, who always let me know there was nothing more important than picking up a softball glove or a tennis racquet, the moment was another one for the trophy case.

Been There, Done That

At around 11am on October 14, 2003, I got a lead from a friend of a friend -- standing room only tickets to Game 7 that night, Cubs-Marlins, chance for a World Series ride, day after that foul ball floated over Moises Alou's stretched glove and into the front row of the 102s. $150 for a $15 ticket at face value.

We thought about it for a couple of hours. It seemed wild, crazy, illogical, unbelievable. But so was the prospect of the Cubs making it to the World Series, and maybe we frightened ourselves into saying yes to the tickets -- what if our team made it and we turned down tickets to be there in person? So we said yes, I got money from the ATM downstairs in the Illinois Centre, exchanged it for the tickets at 4pm. My boss told me to go home early, get to the game early, go Cubs.

I remember we stood near the 224s, just under the ramp, peanut shells and bits on our fleece jackets. When Kerry Wood hit that three-run homer in the bottom of the third to tie the game at 3-3, it was electric. I thought we were going to win then. But when Jeff Conine caught the final fly to end our season, the entire ballpark was silent. It was like TV on mute watching the Fish run out onto our diamond to celebrate. It took us about 45 minutes to walk to the L (I lived in Old Town then). We didn't say a word to each other.

Tonight was another Game 7 night, and even though I don't have any more personal stakes in the playoffs, I just didn't want the Cardinals to win. I got home from playing ball when it was just underway, and had the game on making dinner, eating dinner, clearing some work. Puckett came on and we cheered for the Mets together. What a classic battle. 1-1 tie through the top of the ninth, then Yadier Molina -- all of six home runs in the regular season -- hit the go-ahead two-run ding-dong. Mets come up and load the bases. Beltran up to bat, melodramatic fairy-tale situation -- rain falling, two outs, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two to tie, three to win. Strikes out on a breaking ball that nicked the K-Zone like a sinking three-pointer. I scream out loud, and the Cardinals won.

Puckett was very sad, and I told her I knew how she felt because of October 14, 2003. Even Tommy Lasorda couldn't explain this kind of emotional attachment to your baseball team. It's the kind of thing that makes a Chicago tough guy cry into his Guinness, something he only knew how to do when his Cubs were six outs from the World Series. It's the kind of thing that made me ride home alone on the L, staring into nothing, thinking about everything that could've, should've, would've.

So I went in to work on October 15, 2003, still sad, but not hungover. I'm getting up early tomorrow to go for a run, then I've got a long day of work. It's another regular old day of peace on the North Side come October.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Wall

I own close to 800 CDs, and around 600 -- or 75 percent -- of those were bought at Tower Records. They mainly came from the Tower in Pacific Plaza on Scott Road at home and from the Tower in Lincoln Park at home away from home. Sometimes they also came from Towers while on the road -- the Tower on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles, the Tower at the corner of Columbus and Bay in San Francisco, the Tower on Jeweller's Row in Chicago, the Tower in the Village in New York City.

Some people feel the compulsion to visit the Hard Rock Cafe in whichever city they travel to. For me, I look up the local Tower. There really isn't a good reason for doing so -- the merchandise was mostly the same everywhere, but the local vibe in each store made you feel like you were walking into the independent store down the street. CDs stacked on the floor everywhere like someone's living room, cut-outs and other promos tacked on top of one another, staff with strong recommendations and thoughtful counsel, so much music to sample, shelves of fanzines like no other store carries. In New York City, the store is pumped up and media-ised. In L.A., it's whirring with a rock god buzz. In Chicago, it's low-key and unpretentious. So one could argue, if you only had one hour to spend in a city, head to the local Tower. Of course I'm stretching it a little here, but that's because I'm biased.

I'm biased because local record stores in Singapore tend to not stock selections that befit hours of music nerd browsing. When the Tower opened on Scott Road, it was just down the street from Raffles Girls' School (even closer after we moved from Jalan Kuala to Anderson Road), and a perfect Monday after-school activity was to have lunch at La Creperie in Far East Plaza, then go across to Pacific Plaza where I'd pick out 10 CDs I wish I could buy, but only two that my allowance would allow. After about two hours cruising the aisles, either MP or Kat would grab me and make me check out.

Those were the days when you bought CDs because people made good albums. Occasionally I'd tape a single off the radio, but mostly, I bought CDs and would be happy with the entire track list. I'm not a music industry expert, and all of my knowledge comes from someone else's surmising that I've read in Rolling Stone or Entertainment Weekly. Most record company executives say that online music purchasing and piracy is leading to the downfall of music retail. I'd like to say that if artists made good albums, like they're supposed to if they're good enough, people would be buying more than 99-cent iTunes.

But it's also because music is simply boring these days. As Joel Selvin, the San Francisco Chronicle pop music critic points out in a great article today, Tower opened in 1968 during the Summer of Love and the height of Haight-Asbury. Bands were exciting and pushing the envelope, rock & roll was saving the world -- or least the world's psyche, and nothing sounded sweeter than the needle hitting the vinyl. What do we have these days? The MTV Video Awards, American Idol, and Danity Kane. Enough to fill up an iPod, not enough to leave a mark on this generation.

I'm sad because I can pick out every CD that was a Tower purchase in my collection, and each one contributed to my obsession in some way. Like some people make a bar their bar, a barbershop their barbershop or a coffee shop their coffee shop, because they had a favourite bartender or barber or baristic, Tower was my record shop, one reason being that it was always well stocked with the Springsteen repertoire and Beach Boys two-fer reissues.

I know because I always check. I'm going to miss biking down to Clark and Belden.

Skip to My Lou

In 1985, a guy everyone called Sweetness led the Bears to a Super Bowl championship.

Today, the Cubs officially announed the hiring of a guy everyone called Sweet Lou to lead the Cubs to a World Series championship in 2007. Sort of like fantasy baseball, Jim Hendry could hire anyone he wanted to undo the sins of the past almost-century, even Coach K. He wooed Joe Girardi, flirted with Bruce Bochy and finally proposed to Lou Piniella, and only needed to be on one knee, not two. There was a pre-nup agreement though. Lou wants A-Rod, which I'm not sure we have room for in the Friendly Confines (do we provide lockers for egos, or just boomboxes?), but that's for another thought. I'm done being sentimental -- I think we got the right guy. I'd like to see Aramis Ramirez run out some grounders. I'd like to see our bullpen stop being nonchalant. I'd like to see our rookies grow up. I'd hate to see Neifi Perez win a World Series ring.

So we're making a statement, and the good thing about being owned by a media company is that even though your club won only 65 games this year by playing cringingly bad baseball, you'd still always have at least one newspaper, one TV station and one radio station covering your announcements. Usually, the news is just as cringeworthy -- trading for Jody Gerault mid-season, a fly ball bounced off Rammy's head, Kyle Farnsworth kicked a fan and broke his foot, Scott Eyre eats at McDonald's, and so on.

On a day when softball was cancelled because our field is now a catfish farm thanks to all the rain, we could start spreading the news, good news. We'll see just how good next year.

When You're Alone and Life is Making You Lonely

To complain about working for yourself -- and to most people, that's getting up at 10pm, staggering to the home office and toiling the rest of the day in pyjamas, feet in bedroom slippers propped up on a papasan, sneaking off to two-hour lunches -- is asking for cheap beer to be thrown in your face.

To be perfectly honest, working for myself means getting up at 6.30am, going for a run, showering, making breakfast, reading the paper, then toiling the rest of the day in a T-shirt and shorts, baseball and Jeopardy! on TV in the background where applicable, running an errand when necessary. So maybe throw a good beer in my face instead, something I can lap up. I still have to deal with conference calls, deadlines, phone and cell that ring when they shouldn't, excessive emails, and all the usual grimaces of cubicle culture.

And I have to face it all by myself. When I was 13 and had to choose between playing just one sport -- swimming, tennis, or softball -- I picked softball, because I wanted to play a team game. I do miss scampering to the kitchen for food leftover from meetings, running downstairs for desserts with Puckett, fun and games locked up in someone's office, and someone asking me how my weekend was on Monday, even dressing up for work. And what I miss most is my daily L commute. I miss walking down Southport to the stop, saying good morning to the station guard with the moustache, unwrapping my paper, reading it on the train, plugged in to iPod.

You can always go -- downtown. Thank god for meetings. I was downtown Thursday and Friday, and Friday was just the kind of day that makes you want to bubble wrap downtown Chicago and FedEx it to cities all over the world, with a Post-It tacked on saying, "Wish You Were Here!" Discounting the temperature, it was blue-sky sunny and picturesque -- so it was a beautiful winter's day, except it was October 13, Friday. Fair enough, trick or treat.

After my client meeting, I strode from the edge of the West Loop to River North, to Andy's farewell lunch at Puerto Vallarta. I was crossing the Wells Street bridge when I had a Chicken Little moment -- the sky was going to fall down on me. I'm thinking about bad vibrations and I look up -- why, it was only the L cranking across, and it made me smile, because through the girdles of the bridge, I could see the Merchandise Mart, where I used to nine-to-five. And I was happy I was out of there, and I could forget all my troubles, forget all my cares.

I continued on my walk, where unbeknownst to me then, a Corona and some marvellous chips and salsa were awaiting my presence. (Plus, lunch was on Ogilvy PR.) I paused the iPod to listen to the music of the traffic in the city, and wished I could linger on the sidewalk (but I was already late). All the noise and the hurry seemed to help.

Thank you, Petula Clark, for singing a fabulous song that can be paraphrased.

Family

Jeff Suppan. Eric Chavez. Derek Jeter. Rick Peterson. Roberto Hernandez. Mark Mulder. Billy Wagner. Aaron Harang. Paul Wilson. Barry Zito. Randy Wolf. Ken Griffey, Jr. Carlos Delgado. Jason Giambi.

It looks like someone's fantasy baseball team, and a pretty good-looking line-up at that. But these are just some of the professional ball players who have been teammates of Cory Lidle's in his stints with the A's, Blue Jays, Devil Rays, Reds, Phillies, and Yankees.

Baseball is a small world, and because transactions are made at such regular pace and guys have to play so much minor league ball and because baseball is a fraternity, a family, Cory Lidle's plane crash into an East Side Manhattan apartment building and death inspired sympathies and words of condolences from all of the above, and more. They have all played with or coached Lidle at some point in his career. The most poignant connection is Giambi's -- not only did he play high school ball with Lidle, they played together in Oakland (Lidle's breakout years) and briefly again, in the last two months of this season that Lidle was a Yankee. He said, "I have known Cory and his wife, Melanie, for over 18 years and watched his son grow up. We played high school ball together and have remained close throughout our careers. We were excited to be reunited in New York this year and I am just devastated to hear this news."

There's something about playing a game that involves hanging out on the bench, in the bullpen, or in the dugout with your teammates half the time. You're talking about everything, your swing, your plays, sharing tips on the pitcher, passing around gum, showing off the family, thinking where to go for steak that night. The other half of the time, you've got many moments to chat it up on the field, especially if you're an infielder. It's not a flashy sport, it's got plenty of superstitions and traditions, and it's just plain old fun. And that's why ball players become great friends, family.

Last year, Lidle was on my fantasy baseball team. I'd hoped he would regain some of that Oakland magic, but knew better to manage by instinct, so he was my fourth or fifth starter. He did OK in that spot, going 13-11 on the year with a four-and-a-half ERA. I didn't know him nor play with him, of course, but he put up good numbers for me and never caused any problems by going on the DL or getting demoted into the bullpen.

So I thank him for a good year. It's always sad when someone dies before his or her time, pro ball player or not, but when a little boy is going to grow up without a dad, your heart breaks.

The Heat Is On

October 11 on any given day -- put on a pair of long-sleeves, maybe a fleece, shorts, maybe track pants, running shoes. Probably the Oakleys. Jump on the bike, ride fast and hard, iPod plugged in -- warms you up real fast, almost like summer.

Not October 11, 2006. I had a few errands to run in the Clark/Diversey area and had to pull on a pair of jeans, and put together the winter parka. It was nine degrees Celcius, gusty, cold.

It was winter.

There were a few people in denial, such as the Trixie in a North Face fleece but shorty tighty workout shorts, and the big husky dude in T-shirt and shorts. But the fact is, shopping was miserable, I missed riding my bike, and since we don't live in Canada, why are we suffering through this weather?

It's supposed to be four degrees tomorrow with snow showers. We've played softball in such weather before, but not on October 12.

Eh?

Can I Play, Too?

Whenever I secure a media interview for a spokesperson or am reading the "At Play" section in the Chicago Tribune, or any one of my usual reading materials (Entertainment Weekly, The New Yorker, Rolling Stone, National Geographic Traveler, etc.), I tend to feel like a little kid on the other side of the playground fence, watching a game of stickball I wasn't playing. That's because I wish I was writing and getting published the way other people are.

I think Paul Sullivan, Phil Rogers, and Rick Morrissey of the Chicago Tribune's "Sports" team feel the same way. They have a headstart -- they are baseball reporters and a columnist for one of the largest metropolitan newspapers in the US. But to have to always write about someone else's baseball team in October, always listening to the sound of someone else's Thunderstick, interviewing names like Craig Monroe and Barry Zito who won't appear on a Cubs roster until they're past their peaks, has got to be sad, demoralising, and a drag. (Morrissey and Rogers have it a little better, since Rick can actually write about other Chicago teams and sports and Rogers can write about anything he wants in baseball.)

But Sully -- with his 1970s dorkmeister centre-parted floppy hair, big round glasses, and toothy smile, like the kid who was always left on the bench during P.E. (as opposed to Rogers' metrosexualised salt-and-pepper sideburns and Caesar cut and Morrissey's ex-football-hunk-aged-nicely look) -- spent most of this season writing funny headlines and noshed on team gossip. Karma is forgiving, I suppose, because he can now at least report on the Cubs' un-Dombrowski-like search for a new manager, which is intriguing and soap operatic. However, he might want to be careful that he doesn't commit the cardinal sin of journalism -- plagiarism. That's a huge risk, considering every Cubs managerial era works out the same way -- one good year, one anti-climatic September stumble year, two shithole years.

One final setback -- as Rogers and Mark Gonzales (Sox writer) are in Oakland enjoying the Californian weather and covering the American League Championship Series, Sully is probably somewhere in the catacombs under the Michigan Avenue bridge, hoping that the weather holds long enough between working on his Cheezborgers at the Billy Goat and running back upstairs into the Tribune Building.

4, 5K, 24:36, 19, 0, 4th/5th, $4.25

When I was in school, I had to take "Introduction to Statistics" as part of my journalism requirement. What this meant was that Sarah, Rosa and I took the same class in winter of 1997 at Swift Hall with Professor Ari Rosen, a 20-minute trudge through snow. This meant that Sarah and I ended up going to class just once a week -- her on Tuesdays, me on Thursdays. We then shared notes, copied homework, and both made it with a B-.

As I began my career as a flack, I realised the real reason for why unassuming journo students are made to take this horrible course. Because when all news-spinning measures fail, surveys and studies are a quick and easy way to generate some ink. If you're a respectable hack, you'd want to question methodologies and mathematical errors of margin. Hence, it's necessary to read pie charts and percentage signs; however, one might feel, as I do, that it's much more important to know how to read past P.R. hoke and discern true news value.

Yesterday was a day full of statistics that more or less matter, as summertime weather took over the city for perhaps one last hurrah (we're supposed to be swirling in snow flurries this Thursday, wallowing in four-degree weather).

I ran the Bucktown 5K with Ursula and Ursula's friend Jonathan and Andrea and Andrea's friend Nina, bumping into LP and her crew along the way. The goal was to do better than last year, which I did -- chugging in at a time of 24:36. Now, I'm not making excuses or anything, but as I approached the final stretch, "Born to Run" kicked in on my iPod, as it was supposed to. But poor iScream had a meltdown, and shut down... at "stretched your legs 'cross my engines." I spent perhaps 30 seconds fiddling to turn her back on as I tried to sprint. Not knowing how far to the finish line (I didn't bother checking out the route), I had no idea when to kick for the final stretch after she started breathing again. All I knew was that I rounded the corner at Marshfield and Wabansia and boom, it was over.

Brunch at Riverside, bike ride home, softball. We scored 19 runs in the first inning, and went through the line-up two and one-third times before we retired the side. I had an 0-fer day. Brownstone was full, we went to the Grizzly Lodge. Beer and food were a long time coming, free pitcher.

King and I then visited the Bucktown Apple Pie Contest, where we were a little too late to sample all the competing pies, so ended up with just slabs of the fourth and fifth place ones. Pretty good, but not as good as the one at the Weits Cafe on Saturday.

We then made our way to Pilsen, where I bought six plums, a large bunch of grapes and two humongous onions for $4.25 off a pick-up truck. I would have paid at least $9.00 at Trader Joe's, which means that plastic boxes for fruit and netting for onions cost about $4.75. As well as bright smiles and music culture banter with the employees. We then had dinner at Los Comales #3, a bastardised tacqueria where burritos (uh-oh, gauche) were on the menu, as were tacos, gorditas, and Bistec a la Mexicana. In a break from the ritual of habit, I did not have the Bistec, as I am liable to do if it's on a menu. We ordered a plethora of tacos -- al pastor, flank steak, tripe, liver and tongue, gordita with nopales, and grilled onions on the side. These onions looked like they came from the ground to the table, with a pitstop on the griddle -- you popped it into your mouth with each bite of taco, bulb and stem and all. There was also a huge tub of pickled cauliflower, carrots and peppers to complement the food. King bit on something, and lost sensation in some taste buds for a few minutes.

There is one missing stat that would complete this story, and I'm a bad reporter for being remiss in including it. That would be how many calories were consumed in the day, from the early morning Luna Bar to bacon and empanadas at Riverside, from the Corona, alligator and fried calamari at the Grizzly to apple pie, and the deluge of heart-clogging Mexican and the chocolate ice cream I had for dessert at home.

Not forgetting Sara's pumpkin bread.

Of Burgers and Pies

Tucked away on the lower part of a main commercial street in Lemont, Illinois, lies Nick's Tavern, serving the "Grandaddy of Burgers." None of that quarter-pounder McDonald's bullshit -- these are one-pound burgers plopped on paper plates, served with plastic forks and spoons, Vintner's chips on the side, chased with Bud or Bud Lite on the rocks, college football playing on every outdated TV in a six-table bar (it doesn't really matter that the tavern is such a tiny nook -- it's the kind of place where you want to sit at the bar counter anyway). Don't let the rocket-shaped Kelvinator fridge full of horrible Anheuser-Busch product horrify you though -- there's 312 and Leinie Red Lager on tap.

But the beer isn't quite why you come here for salvation. Here's a bar that has so much self-esteem that there are only four items on the menu -- hamburger ($6.00), cheeseburger ($6.75), Italian sausage ($6.00), Italian sausage with cheese ($6.75). You might want to get grilled onions, pepperocinis, extra cheese or hot giandinara for 25 cents each on top of "everything," but the fact is, no one needs artichoke dips or pita with hummus or chicken wings or nacho platters to get high and happy here. The dim lighting that closes an eye to all transgressions, the clutter of Bears memorabilia, the bust of JFK and Barnum & Bailey-style clown ornaments behind the bar could've been enough, too, or maybe the long table of guys who looked like professional 16" ball players downing Bud after Bud. If you wanted, you could have gone in on your own and didn't think twice about your awful Nascar garb, because the waitress knew your name, and knew exactly how you wanted your burger done without asking. And when you were done, she rang you up with the 61-year-old antique cash register that is likely still thriving because it's always full and happy. The bar also turned away George H. W. Bush when he showed up on the doorstep.

And by the way, Nick's Tavern is closed on Sunday -- football sabbath.

The Weits Cafe in Morris, Illinois, is open every day of the week, because people come in for Sunday brunch and because no day is complete without the best home-made pie in town. Right smack dab in the middle of Liberty Street, snuggled between the Sweet Tooth ice cream parlour, Apple Butter antique shop, It's Only Puppy Love pet store and others, folks come in for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, passing under the neon sign with "Good Food" in lights above its name. A bold statement, but how do you fault such braggadacio when it speaks the truth?

We slid into a booth under stark diner lighting -- highlighting every crumb on the floor -- at 5pm, and were immediately informed that there was "not much pie left." We were late, so while we were dying for some seasonal punkin pie, there was only apple, red raspberry, and Boston Creme left in the case. We went with the fruit, and when two large slabs arrived with a side of ice cream, you realise why diner plates are white -- to show off the rich, glorious colours of pie filling done right. I mean, Da Vinci didn't set the Mona Lisa against a background of tie-dyed Grateful Dead motifs, did he?

The true test of a pie's excellence is tasting it unheated, when the crust, filling and craftwork have to overcome the unappealing prospect of a cold and unwelcoming mass of baked flour and boiled fruit. As the waitress cooed at a baby and caught up with customers there for the Saturday night special (Hambuger Roast), I started at the tip of the pie where the filling was flowing out. The red raspberry was taste bud-grabbingly tart, engaging of senses. The apple was crisp yet the light gooey consistency made you feel all warm and fuzzy. Then I sampled the crust along the circumference. Flaky enough to fall apart upon oral entrance, crispy enough for satisfying masticulation. Then, a forkful of the combination of fruit filling and pie: A+.

Now, I rarely like to leave the city on a regular basis, because why would you need to when the grub is great, the beer and bars are cozy, and the culture and diversity are the reason for being? But when you find it within yourself to step outside of your comfort zone and visit the values that make this world a great place to be -- homeliness, sunset over a cornfield and damned good pie -- you can rarely go wrong on Main Street.

Boo, Boo, Boo

If it seems like a lost cause to believe in happy endings, how about believing in happy beginnings?

It started with my 30-second purchase of Ray LaMontagne tickets when they went on Ticketmaster sale at 10am, which netted us second row seats in the centre of The Vic.

Then, with King in town for an extended weekend over fall break, we decided to do what we always do when we're together -- a day trip in or outside of the city that's all about kitsch, food and photo opps. Because it's fall, we opted for a jaunt down the Illinois & Michigan Canal in the western outskirts of Chicagoland. One-pound burgers, punkin pickin', bales of hay, homemade pie, legendary ice cream, and the biggest Hindu temple in the Midwest. Along the six-hour drive, we had a bird dump toxic-blue waste on the windshield two seconds after we closed the sunroof, stumbled upon a completely Mexican neighbourhood on the outskirts of Joliet where we ate chincharron (fried pork rinds), cruised down Main Street joints where everybody knows your name, and filmed guys singing and playing the guitar on a horse cart. Can you beat that?

The New York Mets know how to beat, because they eliminated my Dodgers from playoffs contention tonight. After dropping King off at Alex's, I sped up to meet LP at The Rail where we cornered an empty table and tilted our heads upwards to watch the game on a plasma screen. (I had a Reuben sandwich.) I thought we at least had another day -- I knew it was wishful thinking, but it was Mad Dog on the mound after all. He proceeded to give up three runs on five consecutive singles in the top of the first, all with two outs. Although Jeff Kent (me to LP: "This is Jeff Kent, he's got to do something!") hit a two-run homer to tie the game in the fifth and J.D. Drew was walked in to score the go-ahead run, that was all quickly erased a couple of innings later -- how does a team out-hit their opponent and lose the game by four runs? Bad pitching, no clutch hitting. Why do I sound like a broken record? Because I'm also a Cubs fan.

The Tigers beat the Yankees to advance to the ALCS, so that made major league baseball playoffs a little more bearable. But who gives a shit about the American League anyway?

Drano, Please?

On my first day of college, and in my very first journalism class -- "History and Issues of Journalism" -- the late, great professor Dick Schwarzlose announced, "You don't need a college degree to be a good reporter."

He was right, of course, but a journalism degree from Medill is like a Louis Vuitton crocodile skin briefcase that is a corporate status symbol or stiletto Manolos that keep you above head-level in the club.

What you need to be a good writer is any combination of the following muses: drinking ability, lack of abandon, adventure, humour, cynicism, sardonism, wit, masochism, sadomasochism, sentimentality, inquisitivity, sensitivity. You need to have crossed the Australian Outback in a Jeep, eaten fried crickets at the Thai-Burmese border, bobbed on a raft on the Sea of Cortez, played baseball in the minor leagues, gotten thrown out of college, jobs and bars, lived above a brothel in Andalucia, tripped on acid in the Himalayas, or have your emotions on crutches.

Of course, I'm romanticising all of this (which is another inspiration for penmanship aspirations). The truth is, I sat down this morning to bang out three articles and I ended up with only three-quarters of one at 5.25pm, and my Northwestern degree is buried somewhere in a closet, under some dust and an old Ernie Pyle paperback that was a birthday present from Roxanne in 1999. Pyle must be disgusted.

There's a great track by The Thrills, one of my favourite bands, called "Till The Tide Creeps In" from their debut, "So Much For The City," and it goes something like this:

"My agent says writer's block
To keep publishers off my back
So who the hell are you to
Come in here and spoil my party?"

Well, that would be one of my employers, they who have deadlines, and I don't have an agent. So at some point on this Friday evening, I should stop sampling the Ashe's Monster Mash October ice cream flavour I just made for the first time, stop watching Kenny Rogers plough down the Yankees, and finish up at least this one article.

Right?

All Done

I was riding my bike past the ballpark today as the wind blustered around like the air in one of those supersonic tunnels, so hard that I rode my Specialized bicycle like a motorcross stuntman. I thought to myself, wow, what a day for baseball... the ball could fly out one inning onto Waveland, or batters could be hitting grounders against Maddux all day.

But the thought didn't last very long, because it's October 4, so that means the ballpark was empty like a sailor's rum bottle, and Maddux was at Shea Stadium watching Derek Lowe take the mound in the first game of the Los Angeles-New York National League Division Series (the Dodgers went on to lose the game for themselves 5-6, even though they out-hit the Mets 11-9).

Every year, there's a moment when you realise baseball on the North Side is over, and this was it for me. There's a sadness, albeit a different emotion from the one you feel when the Cubs kamikaze in May, because all that ivy is turning into all sorts of gorgeous colours and there's no one to see. It helps to have one other team in the playoffs, and even when that's over, there's always a team to root against (Yankees).

So baseball lives on in 2006 for one more month, like a 20-pitch at-bat that keeps fouling off. But at the end, you either get a hit (someone you can like wins the World Series) or you get out (Yankees or Cardinals win the World Series), and then it's all over until the next time.

Reuben Me the Right Way

Eating healthy is over-rated, and I'll tell you why.

Tonight before a double-header, we went to the Eleven City Diner for grub. As you may know, I dig this place. I mean, Isaac Hayes-magnitude dig dig dig.

And ever since Sarah and Jesse's rehearsal dinner at Hackney's a couple of weekends ago, where Reuben sandwiches and I reignited our love affair, there's nothing else I've wanted to eat at a bar or sandwich place.

So for dinner tonight, I got Rubin's Reuben (corned beef on dark rye, melted Swiss all over like global warming hit it, slaw, sauerkraut) and we shared a plate of fries drowning in Wisconsin cheddar (if you're putting that much cheese on fries, the fries better be snap-pop-crackle crispy, and they were). I also celebrated the fact that we had summertime weather today with a bottle of Red Stripe. Good thing we only had about 45 minutes to eat, otherwise I would have polished off all the fries.

To cut a long story short, I hit a triple and a home run.

Sometimes you wish you played a sport like gymnastics or track or something, and not have teammates who run on beer and red meat. I guess I sealed my fate at age 10, when I decided to join softball in school. C'est la vie!

Just foolin'

Next year can't come soon enough, so Swartzie openly shared her wildest fantasy:

Manager: Joe Girardi
First base coach: Mark Grace
Third base coach: Ryne Sandberg
Hitting coach: Andre Dawson
Pitching coach: Rick Sutcliffe
Bench coach: Ernie Banks
Bullpen coach: Jody Davis

Goodbye MacFail, Hello McDon'tKnow

Nobody ever said running a baseball team was easy, Moneyball or Thunderball or hardball, natch. But it helps if you've made astute player transactions and team makeovers that have turned losing teams into winning teams. Or at least respectable teams.

So Andy MacPhail, 12-year Cubs president and sometimes general manager resigned in shame yesterday. He left the same team he picked up, with just a few blips of hope that went nowhere, like steps in an M.C. Escher drawing. Filling in for the interim is John McDonough, marketing VP. Keep in mind, "interim" for the Cubs is like Dusty Baker finishing the season as manager after he and the team played themselves out of any self-esteem by the end of May.

Looking forward to increasing the sales of pink Cubs shit.

Perfect Sunday

I hate not having anything to do and when I have an entire day filled with activities, it's perfection. But then I get home and I'm flat out beat.

Today was sunshiney and warm, perfect backdrop for perfect Sunday, but I can hardly muster the energy to tap on the keys. I got up and cleaned. That's the antidote to a packed day -- coming home to a clean house.

Sara and I played tennis, and although I was leading a set, she had me beat 1-5 in the second set. But we had to call the match because we had to go to Scottie and Julia's BBQ. We did that, and played Baggo and ate brats and had a good time. Then we had to go to softball. We didn't really show up to play today, and lost to the Bandits. That's OK, we still had fun, as we always do. Then we went over to Brownstone, our sponsor bar, to watch the Bears game. Da Bears spanked the feathers of dem Hawks. Is this heaven?

Then I had to ride my bike home with plenty of 312, wings, quesadillas, chips and queso, chicken tenders and pretzels in me. Thinking about it makes me want to throw up, almost.

And on that note, beddie bye. I'm worn out.

Baggo and Baseball

Indian summers are typically defined as a period of unusual sunshine and warmth when it's really supposed to be falling leaves and crisp chills. Today, LP and I made indian summer a state of mind by manufacturing the spirit of outdoor sportsmanship on the last day of September.

We had talked about building a Baggo set for each of us this spring, and because the summer tends to run away with the best of us, it wasn't until last Thursday that we decided today would be the Big Day for backyard carpentry. We had a grand plan: print instructions from someplace on the Internet, bring it into the nearest Home Depot, lay it down on the counter and calmly ask for for all materials to be measured and cut to size. Perhaps even have them put it all together so all we needed to do was take our raw Baggo sets home and paint them (LP: Northwestern "N" and purple/white theme, me: Cubbie "C" and Cubbie blue theme). Comfortable with this schedule, we settled down to a fantastic brunch at Glenn's Diner and jabbered about how we'd be all done in good time for LP and Scottie (Lee)'s dinner reservation at Spring for 9pm and for Scottie (McAcvoy) and Julia's BBQ tomorrow.

Two hours later at the Home Depot on Lincoln and McCormick, we picked our plywood boards and 2x4s for the frame (the more expensive options -- handcrafted = premium). Everything started off well, but like a heavy bag of cornfeed falling on our heads, they told us they could only do straight cuts, so we'd have to rent a jig saw for the hole in the board. Then over in paint, they told us we had to prime our plywood, then apply at least two coats of glossy white before painting on our design. Simply put, we would've been able to complete our Baggo sets in one day -- only if our day had started at 5am.

Like a shortstop waiting to relay a perfect fire to home for the tag-out, Ira and Andrea were at home with their to-die-for array of power tools and more than happy to host our tomfoolery. Armed with cold Coronas upon our arrival, Andrea took charge without much opposition from either of us and cut beautiful holes in our boards. We then ground the edges to straighten the curve and sanded them down smooth. By this time, it was dusk, the Coronas were being drained, and it was time for LP to start getting ready for dinner.

On my way home after dropping LP off, I talked to Scottie Mac who declared that he built his set in two hours. I suppose that's how it goes for someone who pretty much built his house on his own. But he doesn't know how to make ice cream.

Speaking of building, later that evening Sara and I watched "Field of Dreams." Funny how corny baseball movies from the 1980s end up being quite tolerable and even enjoyable. Love is blind, they say. There's no crying in baseball, but there sure is some of it watching baseball movies. Just one piece of coaching advice: you always want to watch a movie like that with a good ball player. That's just how the game is played.

Good Man

Tonight, I felt a little better knowing I'll never see Bruce Springsteen on the Asbury Park boardwalk singing a seaside bar song circa 1973. But Tillie's been saved, the Stone Pony's riding high and the Empress still rules, so tonight, it was a good night to be named Lilian, Kathleen or Jiggs and we could have been Harrisburg, Lawrence or Egypt. Instead, we were at the Vic, and we saw what Bruce show must have been and felt like 33 years ago.

I wish I could take back what I always say about opening acts. Their names come and go like some Yellow Pages gone flipping crazy -- Martin Sexton, Jesse Malin, Cornershop, Grace Potter and the Nocturnals, Regina Spektor, and so on (thank god Bruce, at this point, doesn't need one). And I always get restless and want it to be all over soon, so I can watch whoever I'm there to see. I got my comeuppance tonight, because we only got 30 minutes of Josh Ritter and his band -- six songs. Come to think of it, I should have taken all this back when Ray Lamontagne opened for Guster. That was 35 minutes. I would have traded the entire 16-minute "New York New York/Wharf Rat" sequence from Ryan Adams' 2004 fall tour for five more minutes of Ritter. And thrown in the five minutes of "Worlds Apart" from the 2002/3 "The Rising" tour, too.

So this is what I love about Ritter live. Thirty minutes onstage, and perhaps 45 seconds when he didn't have a smile on his face. Gusto, charisma, and personality were all part of the performance by a guy truly in love with his band and his audience. He knew most of the teeny boppers and desperate housewives were there for schmaltzmeister Jamie Cullum, so he always earnestly thanked the house for listening after every song. And for the "Lilian, Egypt" finale, he got every non-fan to growl like a pirate and dah-dah-dah along to the chorus. Then, he sealed the deal by finding a way to work "Erie Canal... low bridge, everybody down" in an interlude. It was the second coming of Springsteen.

Because we're the kind of friends who email in Bruce lyrics (Me: I've seen better days. Caroline: You know you ought to quit this scene, too.), Caroline and I discussed Springsteen/Ritter analogies before and after the show. First of all, stating the obvious -- the tousled hair and the open-collared shirt under slim-fitting suit. Extremely Hammersmith Odeon ("Born to Run" tour, November 18, 1975).

There was Sam Kassirer, who dressed like a scene from "Dallas" pounded the keys like a Western saloon pianah player. Like Danny Federici, he also moonlit on the accordion. Dave Hingerty was a pretty mean rhythm bandit -- he'd roll a tight "Born to Run" intro. Zack Hickman has way more hair than Garry W. Tallent ever will, and a much better dress sense. OK, so Josh Ritter is NOT entirely Bruce Springsteen, Jr.

Together, they all played Josh's songs about asking girls to dances, driving girls home from dances, California, L.A. badlands, Midwestern flatlands, lovesickness, heartsickness, cowboys, driving away, Johnny Cash tributes, and the golden age of radio. Caroline felt that one line from her all-time favourite, "Kathleen" -- "But I'm here and I'm ready and I've saved you the passenger seat" -- echoed "Thunder Road"'s "From your front porch to my front seat." I surmised that "Wolves"' "At times in the frozen nights I go roaming in the bed she used to share with me" was akin to "I'm On Fire"'s "At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet..."

Not forgetting the Dick Cheney jokes. Or that goofy stage sidekick. Sometimes they wear bandana doorags, sometimes they wear white Stetsons.

If all this isn't more than happy coincidence, then get me a Prozac, stat. After the show, we skipped out on potential headlining snoozer Jamie Cullum and hung out with Josh in the lobby. We were beginning to feel like very novice fans until we realised everyone received the same hearty "How ya doin'?" and sincere kiss on the cheek, even the Trixies. He was concerned about how the band sounded, and we jabbered about Cash, "Erie Canal," him running the NYC Marathon, audiobooks about Shakespeare, and the show I missed (but Caroline didn't) last Saturday in Madison.

I guess we've seen the history of rock & roll, and his name is Josh Ritter.

Day and Night

As the countdown to winter continues to be forced down our throats like a colonoscopic time bomb, days like today -- all 21 degrees Celcius (sorry, I still can't bring myself to think in terms of Fahrenheit) of a bright, bright sunshiney day -- make all weather naysayers look like Cubs fans who have been around long enough.

It was one of those days that I'll treasure and miss as the leaves begin to pile up. Biking to the gym, double-header at night, scarfing down Subways and peanut M&Ms as Ursula clobbered two triples in two consecutive at-bats -- summer pleasures to light up the winter hearth in a few months. Truth be told, summer isn't quite as fun without good friends.

And hey hey, the Cubs clobbered the Brewers 14-6.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler

When Hurricane Katrina hit last year, when the tsunami hit the year before, when the planes hit the World Trade Center five years ago (and the list can go on), many things began to seem more inconsequential than they were.

The Hollywood Hot Dogs so far are 2-0 on the season, surprisingly because their owner and coach -- me -- knows nothing about football. I missed the draft, somehow ended up with Peyton Manning and Matt Hasselbeck, and won my first two games easily. As I watched the Bears sneak by the Vikings for their 3-0 win on Sunday, I posted some smack on my fantasy football league message board: "Watch my team go 3-0 after tonight, just like DA BEARS."

Who am I kidding, really... I don't even really like football that much. I've been watching it because it seems like a local team I can like is on to something, and Dodgers baseball isn't on TV here everyday. So I checked the Dogs' box score after yesterday, and saw that we were leading Concussed Confusion by nine points... although Confusion has two players going tonight, Devery Henderson and John Carney of the Saints.

The significance of tonight's Monday Night Football match-up isn't lost. It's the first time the New Orleans Saints are playing at home at the Superdome in over a year, and even if the devastation still called the Lower Ninth Ward home and the musicians didn't, football was back. Previously sunken in the depths of divisional hell, the Saints are 2-0 on the season and give the Crescent City some sort of hope. At least someone was winning. At least someone was getting somewhere. Moving forward on the football yardage was far better than the sinking feeling of knowing levee reconstruction was backward as ever.

So when Maria text'd me at halftime that Carney had 10 points and Henderson eight already, I thought, what the hell. It's only the Hollywood Hot Dogs. They'll survive a grilling and bad ketchup. The great people of New Orleans though, one of my favourite cities in America, should have and deserve their joie de vivre (Maria's phrase, no pillaging). So, good thing Michael Vick maybe had one too many bowls of gumbo pre-game, because tonight, the Saints go marching in.

Baseball daze

I haven't talked about the Cubs in a while, but that's because they stopped being funny about a month-and-a-half ago. I also haven't been to the ballpark in about two months, mainly because I was home for three weeks, mostly because it's much cheaper to eat a hot dog and cheese fries in the sunshine at the Weiner's Circle than the ballpark, since there's not much else to do when there.

In any case, it's funny what some sunshine can do to you, because biking home from the gym this morning, I forgot about my anger at our stupid team, I forgot my rants about how many wins being the second highest paid team in the National League can bring, and I forgot that I say, walking home from yet another lost cause, I'm never going to a game again this year. I passed by good buddies walking to the ballpark, some dressed in Cubs garb, some dressed in Sox bollocks, all geared up for a party at the crosstown sequel. And I thought to myself, this is what's great about baseball, despite the home plate brawls and stupid fans. Long-distance friendship that lasts the length of the Addison and 31st Red Line L stops.

Luckily for me, but unfortunately for us, all of my good friends are Cubs fans. So when the Pucketts and I settled into outfield box seats yesterday for what we hoped to be a series-evening game with the Brew Crew, we thought that the Cubs would be kind enough to bestow a nice anniversary gift for Ryan and Joanne. However, leaving runners in scoring position on base in the seventh, eighth and ninth innings was very inconsiderate, but at least Joanne got a good look at Todd Walker from behind from our excellent seats. Being next to the Brewers' bullpen, I kept yelling out to Danny Kolb, but he ignored me, and I wanted to tell Derrick Turnbow to cut his hair.

Chicago Cubs vs. Milwaukee Brewers, June 29, 2006. Section 38, Row 5, Seat 7. $54.00. Cubs 4 Brewers 5.

Keen

Once upon a time, three guys from a town called Battle in a province called Sussex in a country called England decided that it was OK to form a band with just two instruments, a drum kit and keyboards. They did cheat a little -- the keyboards had some synthesizers and sometimes the lead vocals guy banged at a Hammond organ -- but mostly, they truly wanted to put an end to the over-indulgences of the Richie Sambora 16-string. Because they were English, they had rosy cheeks and dressed like indie fops -- tight-fitting striped shirts, tight pants, no socks, old school Pumas.

They called their band Keane and released a pounding, extrovertish debut album called "Hope and Fears" in 2004 that produced a few hit singles and won them a Grammy. I liked it so much that even though I mostly listen to my iPod or my iTunes on shuffle, there are five Keane songs in my "Top 25 Most Played" (see previous blog). In fact, a remake of the Walker Brothers' "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine (Anymore)," released as a single for charity in between albums, is top of the list with 92 plays, but that's only because I had the song on repeat.

Last week, they released their sophomore record, called "Under the Iron Sea." I haven't had a chance to fully let it sink in yet, but if I needed any help, tonight's show at the Metro was my cheat sheet. Hanging over the balcony at stage right, I watched Tom work the mic like Rod Stewart (really) and Tim thrash the keyboards like Jerry Lee Lewis. Being English, Tom liked to do the kneeling to the crowd thing, touching fingers, hanging on to the mic stand dramatically, thanking the crowd for their "kindness" -- I mean, this is all very Brit pop. It was humble, unpretentious, they were completely a slave to the audience, and did it all with a smile in-between songs. And I loved it -- it reminded me of past Brit pop shows I'd attended; the Pet Shop Boys, UB40, the Beautiful South -- except that the energy and stage presence was amazing. When he grows up, he's going to be like Bruce Springsteen.

After the show, a girl under the marquee "AN EVENING WITH KEANE - SOLD OUT" had a very serious look on her face as a stranger asked her, "So he touched you?" "Yes, he touched my arm twice and held my hand once," she replied. The stranger said, "And he made eye contact and looked you in the eyes?" "Yes," she said. "You must be in love!" "I am, " she nodded sagely. The travelling road shows of yore may be so 1950s (unless you're an American Idol), but ah, there will always be girls in love with rock stars.

Dedicated to President Bystander

There are many important things in my life, principles that I live by -- loyalty, friendship, compassion, and integrity for everyone. There's a guy I know that feels the same way about these things, and his name is Bruce Springsteen.

It's hard to understand why you'd drive 2,000 miles in 36 hours to see him twice in two days, or spend hard-earned college money on six "Reunion" tour shows or spend hours reading critical appreciations and scouring YouTube.com. I can't explain it, because I'm not that good of a writer, but there's something about it all that rankles the soul like few things can. There's a little bottle rocket that goes off inside every time music is performed the way it was meant to be seen. When rock & roll was invented, from Jelly Roll Morton in Chicago's music halls and Ledbelly in the cotton fields to Alan Freed's late night A.M. radio and a street corner in Memphis called Sun Studios, this was how it wanted to look and sound.

And that's the true essence of rock & roll, isn't it? When you think that no one else understands, there's some guy on stage that's you projected on a big screen (much improved guitar skills over the last 30 years and mega bucks, these are just icing on the cake). It's like air guitar for the soul. I'm talking about growing up with parents who taught us that one of the most important things we could do is share, especially if it means that someone never had to go hungry, and there's Bruce calling for his audience to help the food bank of whichever city he's in every night. There's no Bono-esque attention-seeking stunts or Tom Morello-esque "Fuck Bush!" audacities. Just music doing the talking through astute song selections, and eloquence that makes you think even as you chuckle.

And in case you might think that attending a Springsteen show is like watching Charles Dickens' "Bleak House" performed as a rock opera, we have our share of frat rock fun and laughter, too. When Rosie comes out and Sherry goes home, man, you can't jump a little higher or say hey, hey, hey loud enough. And when Bruce shares a mic with Little Steven van Zant, you think about all the Bobby Jeans in your life. If I ever wanted to tell someone important how I really feel about him or her, I wouldn't send a card. I'd play "Backstreets" in my car as we go driving down Lake Shore Drive.

My professional hero Peter Fleischer told me that the highlight of his concert-going career -- the Ramones at CBGB, Bruce on the Jersey shore in the early 1970s, the New York Dolls at Roseland, etc. -- was "My City of Ruins" at Jazzfest. I haven't been to enough shows in this lifetime to have a highlight just yet, but on the Seeger Sessions tour, it was last Wednesday in Milwaukee. They're re-opening the vote to bring the death penalty back to Wisconsin and Bruce asked for everyone to think through the issue before making their decision. Then he sang "My City of Ruins."

How can a poor man stand such times and live?

Why Do They Leave?

Sorry if this sounds like a Billy Joel song, but it's 1am on a Sunday, my dad's watching English League football playoffs in the den, my mum is dozing off on the bed, and my brother is sitting on the toilet singing and playing "Let It Be" on his guitar as I brush my teeth.

I leave home tomorrow, and if there's one thing I hate about coming home, it's the 36 hours before leaving. I hardly trust myself to speak throughout this time, because my voice isn't always steady. It started with saying goodbye to my softball friends after almost an entire night of mahjong. After three hours of sleep, I went to visit both my grandfathers -- Yeye at the Leong San Temple where his spirit rests within an ancestral plaque in a serene and peaceful courtyard and Kongkong at the United Nursing Home, where he is lying on a bed by a window with a slight breeze, trying to speak and open his eyes. Then I went grocery shopping with my mum, one of those trips she makes every couple of months where she buys 10 of every cleaning implement from fabric softener to bathroom scum remover -- for the record, I think it's shopping as only a megalomanic clean freak knows how to orchestrate. Then we went over to Ah Ma's for dinner, where we ate Mum's famous gigantic fried red snapper with shallots. There was also assam fish curry, garlic prawns, braised spare ribs and a pickled vegetable stew. Then my entire extended family (well, sans Aunty Regina's family in Toronto and Kevin and Cheryl gallivanting somewhere in Cuba) ate fruitcake and kueh that Ah Niong made and watched "Singapore Idol." Just like any other day of spending time with family, except it's the day before I leave home.

Almost ten years later, it feels just like the first time.

In the Ballpark

I was done working by noon on Friday, so I thought to myself, if I could burn a scalper and pick up a ticket for cheap, I'll go hang out in the ballpark. I had to take care of a few errands before that, so by the time I bought a $22 seat for $10, it was in the middle of the 4th inning and Greg Maddux was en route to his first 5-0 start ever, albeit less assuring than in his last four starts. We won, of course, because I was wearing my lucky Cubs shirt. And then the rest of the weekend, we got shellocked by the Brew Crew in the rain.

Chicago Cubs vs. Milwaukee Brewers, April 28, 2006. Section 213, Row 10, Seat 3. $22.00. Cubs 6 Brewers 2.

Please, Sir, Can I Have Some More?

My mum is a very vivacious, gregarious and chatty person (as opposed to my dad, who is overly sociable, back-thumping warm and chatty), so there's never a quiet moment around her. Don't even think about dominating the conversation. She's queen of the court, and you her loyal subject.

But there is one way in which she expresses herself that doesn't require much jibber jabbering, and that's cooking. Just like my grandfather and my uncle Robert, my mum cooks with intuition and heart. There are no recipes. Just bottles of sauces, a wok as large as a bath tub and a kitchen constructed in our backyard so she can indulge (and so we can, too, but after she is done). Nothing that's concocted and cooked in that professional-grade kitchen is something you can find anywhere else. We usually recommend that when you come over for one of our famous garden dinner parties (we have a driveway that fits three cars length-wise, and we set up three long tables where guests tuck in mess hall-style), to please wear elastic.

The moral of the story is, the love for food runs in my family. Actually, it runs in our blood and friends have often wondered aloud, when we travel, why are half our pictures of food, whether of what we eat or displayed at markets (one of our favourite places to explore when on vacation)?

And that brings me to this thought. Thomas often says, you could eat out every night in Chicago and still never run out of places to eat. She's right, but Odysseys were meant to be fulfilled, so I've humbly always made the rounds.

I recently began to share my opinions of local eateries on local online entertainment guide Centerstage.net (www.centerstage.net). OK, I did it to try win a prize for penning the "Review of the Week," and with a spot of beginner's luck, snagged it the first time I posted something.

Here it is, my review of the new old-school deli Eleven City Diner in the South Loop, which earned me a complimentary dinner for two at French restaurant La Fette: http://www.centerstage.net/patronreviews/pr.cfm?ID=9024&which=place

And to see if two-timing is cool, I've posted a couple more:
- Fonda del Mar: http://www.centerstage.net/patronreviews/pr.cfm?ID=8867&which=place
- Dorado: http://www.centerstage.net/patronreviews/pr.cfm?ID=9285&which=place

Some people have foot fetishes, but it's quite apparent that I have a food one.

In the Ballpark

It's fun to travel, and it's just as fun to watch the Cubs play from all over the ballpark. I thought a fun exercise might be to capture watching the game from all the different vantage points I find myself in in any given season.

Here's how I watched the game the last two times I've been to the ballpark this season, sans Opening Day. It was 30 degrees and I had my hands in gloves the entire time, even when shelling and eating peanuts.

Chicago Cubs vs. Cincinnati Reds, April 13, 2006. Section 223, Row 13, Seat 110. $11.00. Cubs 3 Reds 8.

Chicago Cubs vs. Florida Marlins, April 24, 2006. Section 215, Row 7, Seat 11. $22.00. Cubs 6, Marlins 3.

Spring Cleaning

Everyone needs to get rid of their junk and a couple of years ago, the Cubs threw out Sammy Sosa and this year, at yesterday's Wrigley Field Garage Sale, they were selling heaps of old Slummin' Sammy shirts and bobble-heads, among other knick-knacks.

By the time I got there, at 1pm or so, all the good stuff -- remnants from the bleachers construction available (benches, bricks) -- was gone. In addition to the Sosa cast-offs, there were shirts commemorating the NLCS against the Marlins from 2003, shirts won by vendors in past years, flags and pennants previously flown from the top of the centrefield scoreboard and rafters and grab bags. I left with a couple of shirts ($5 each) and a stack of cards commemorating Greg Maddux's 300th victory last year (free, but enthusiastically pressed into my hands), and didn't give the grab bags a second look -- I've already had enough uncalled-for surprises this year with the team, the most recent being Derrek Lee's fractured wrist bones.

But, the best part about the garage sale wasn't the opportunity to tote home mis-matched pieces of Wrigley's past, but an open tour of the new bleachers. Not one to enjoy sitting in the bleachers since my college days, it's been a while since I took in a view of the ballpark from the northeast corner. And you know you've got a nice ballpark when it looks good even when empty, from all corners, tarp on the infield dirt, no W sign blowing.

Without a game going on, the bleachers would actually be a great place to spend a Saturday afternoon, basking or trying to get over feeling extremely bummed about D-Lee on the D-L, seeing as how we've played comparatively well without Mark Prior and Kerry Wood and with Juan Pierre, Jacque Jones and Aramis Ramirez not yet playing like they should. Yesterday's loss to the Cardinals was the first consecutive loss this season, and maybe not a true test of how the team will weather this trauma since we traditionally don't do well in St. Louis, new or old Busch Stadium.

It was fun to get under the scoreboard and check out the new nook and crannies they put in this winter. Now that I've explored the new additions inside and out, I'll have to tip my cap and say that they've certainly preserved the spirit of the ballpark's tradition well despite the smaller patch of vegetation in straightaway centrefield and the crazy batter's eye terraced walk-through. Funny, it takes a day when there's no game and no one around to remember again what a beautiful park we have.

A River Runs Through It

It seems sometimes that every city's got a river. New York's got the Hudson, Salt Lake City's got the Great Salt Lake, Singapore's got the Kallang River, L.A.'s got the late Phoenix.

Here in Chicago, we have a river that founded the city, that the French wrestled away from the Indians, that snakes its way through the northwest side of the city like a wild L line (something like a cross between the Green and the Brown). If you were smart, you'd commute downtown on a kayak to avoid the Dan Ryan, but only if you liked perspiration in the summertime and icebergs in winter.

Emerging from a brain-numbing conference call from the Harbinger office, I was biking across the Montrose Avenue bridge when I happened to glance to my left and saw what I thought to be the prettiest sight of the day. On yet another sunshiney spring day, the Chicago River was still, calm and reflective, kinda hanging out with blue skies and white clouds and quite obviously, it did not have any conference calls scheduled at all. There were houses whose backyards led out to the river, and people tied up rowboats to their little piers.

In a way, it reminded me of the backwaters of Louisiana, where my mum and I once toured the bayous in a bateau. You could hang out there for days and no one would bother you, because they wouldn't want to and couldn't anyway -- how would they find you?

"Honk!" went one car to another on that crazy Montrose street, and I continued on my way home.

No Better Place

It was a sunny Saturday, but it wasn't a warm day -- it felt warm because there was so much sunshine and everyone was happy.

The day was so nice we spent 40 minutes of boxing class outside in the parking lot. We warmed up as cars came in and out behind us, scooted away from them, and continued to shadow box as people stared. We ran rounds around the block and then sparred for an audience of impervious people coming in and out of Starbucks across the street.

Then I headed over to Cubs Care Park, the YMCA ballfields at North and Clybourn, for a little volunteering, and after that, volunteered my manual services to Christensen, who continues to work on the new apartment.

Now, there are a million ways to spend such a lovely day. I bet there were people biking, playing catch, dawdling on the lakefront, shopping, drinking outside, whatever. All good times. But painting the kitchen and swigging root beer and cream soda, Johnny Cash on the boombox and sunshine tanning my arms through the skylight, I just couldn't think of a better thing to do. I whitewashed the kitchen nook and Christensen painted the rest of the kitchen "eggshell" yellow, two people with vertigo problems at times perched at the top of ladders cutting and trimming and touching up. I managed OK, but had my confidence shaken at times by yelps from the other ladder. (There was one stray yelp of pleasure at chocolate-covered pretzels from Trader Joe's.)

Things started to go downhill a little when we went from root to regular beer, but we were done painting by then. So we started peeling off wallpaper (circa 1970s?!) that had been painted over. By this time, Pat and Ronnie were on and the Cubs were losing to the Pirates 0-2. So we called it a day and got Mexican from Los Nopales with Grzeca and the other Christensen and I polished off my entire Bistec a la Mexicana clean with four tortillas, a glass of horchata and chips and salsa.

The Johnny Cash record we were listening to was "Unchained," one of his earlier collaborations with Rick Rubin. There's a song called "Country Boy" on it, and it goes something like this:

Well, you work all day while you're waitin' to play
In the sun and the sand with a face that's tan
But at the end of the day when your work is done
You ain't got nothin' but fun

Raging Bull

It's amazing what good spirits my family is in -- maybe it is our way of dealing with what's going on, but I'm extremely proud of them. We're laughing and we're reminiscing, and maybe next Chinese New Year, we'll have plenty to remember about this time.

Today, for the first time since Sunday, Kongkong has shown some kind of response despite remaining in low consciousness and slipping in and out of a coma. My cousins Hui Yee and Hui Ling held his hand and talked to him and he gripped their hands again and again and stroked their hands with a finger. My mom said that he looks great -- if he wasn't hooked up to pumps and machines, you wouldn't think there was anything wrong with him. That is to say, Kongkong is always a wireless kinda guy.

So, who knows. Last year he turned a touch-and-go massive heart attack into a year-long return to normalcy; what will he do with a massive stroke? A comeback would be considered miraculous, but there's always room for more than one Kirk Gibson moment in every lifetime, and he has always been prone to dramatics, doing everything on a grand scale. (It took four paramedics and my dad to get him into the ambulance after Friday's collapse.)

I wish Kongkong could be bench coach for the Cubs.

Gene Pool

This is the story of my Yeye (my dad's dad) and my Kongkong (my mum's dad). Both were husky, gregarious men who ate a lot, drank a lot, smoked a lot and couldn't do it all in one place. They were gourmands -- for the best braised pig's feet, say, they might just have to take a weekend trip up to Penang, Malaysia. When my mum was pregnant with her second child, Yeye said that if it was a boy, he would host a huge banquet for anyone and everyone he knew. On the day my brother turned a month old, 200 people were invited to a 10-course Koh feast at our favourite family restaurant. When I was home for Chinese New Year, we went to brunch with Kongkong and under his direction, our table was soon filled with so much food we hardly had any room to eat. We might as well had invited 200 people to brunch, too.

Both my grandfathers are fighters, and I don't mean boxers, although if you came up against these tall, hulking men, you'd do best to run away. I know I did whenever I did something bad, which was about every hour on the hour as a little kid, but I always came back for the bear hugs. When Yeye was diagnosed with the double whammy of lung and colon cancer, the doctors said he had six months to live. He lived five years, four of which he spent traipsing the country (well, city) by bus, visiting all his favourite haunts and making sure he saw all his old friends before he was ready to take a break. Kongkong suffered a massive heart attack about a year ago in Sydney (of course he was abroad), while visiting Uncle Robert. The doctors said three months, but he bounced back quickly and in the last few months, has resumed his food travels.

On Friday, after a day of suffering through the freezing temperature and piercing northerly wind at the ballpark, after several rounds of the Goose Island Pub Pack and a large pizza and peanut M&Ms and chips and salsa and after everyone went home, my mum called and said that Kongkong had a mild stroke and was taken by ambulance to the hospital. He was paralysed on the left side and his speech slurred, but spent all day gripping with his right hand and raising his fist in a thumbs up.

This morning, my mum called again and said Kongkong had another heart attack and had to be resuscitated after his breathing stopped. Now his brain was haemorrhaging and it may not be long before he joins his buddy, my Yeye, on a whole new trip. It's not an easy time for the family, but in the spirit of Kongkong, we've got our warpaint on as well. We know that he'll be going out at the top of the game -- he only just got back from Malacca, Malaysia, last week. We know that he's lived a long life filled with adventures we'd never know of, because we were never a part of it, from his stint as a purser on an ocean liner, his travels to China as an antique dealer and gallivants all over Southeast Asia. But what we know is that we always had a part of him, whether we knew it or not. I know it from all the times he got back in town when I was a kid, and insisted my parents brought me over to visit with him no matter what time of the night it was. I know it from him getting up at 5am the day before I left for Chicago after Chinese New Year to make me his famous chilli sauce from scratch. And I know it from the long conversations we've had about my new gig and he gave me all the support I needed.

I hope that I will be able to see him once more. I was not home when my Yeye died, and I don't want to make the same mistake again.

Ballpark Banter

Sitting right in the leftfield upper decks during Friday's home opener (oh, the furies of an icy cold wind!), we were talking about the new bleachers and saw that in the rightfield corner, there's now a fence-like gate leading directly out to Sheffield that hadn't been there before. Yesterday, just before game time, I took a walk around the neighbourhood and checked out the renovated ballpark, particularly on its northeast side.

I found the mesh-wire gate we had seen, and as you'll also read from the article in the Tribune yesterday (below), you can get a pretty cool view of the game at street-level. If a ball was ever hit into the rightfield corner, you'll probably see Jacque Jones rushing towards you chasing it down, like you were wearing 3-D glasses. There were about 12 people peering in, causing no trouble at all, letting you in front of them for a better look with a happy chuckle. Here's Big Z firing away.

It's not a bad upgrade, if you had to mess around with something, but the ballpark seems like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde these days -- old school Weeghman at Clark and Addison, manufactured retro Camden Yards (sorry, Uncle Bob) on Waveland and Sheffield. And, what the hell are Bud Light Bleachers anyway?! If I had money, it would be the Bass Bleachers or the Boddington's Bleachers. View the audacity for yourself.

And finally, you'll never bite a burger better than a Bubba! Bubba Burger is the official hamburger of the Chicago Cubs. Speaking of ballpark food, I talked to a guy unloading boxes of Connie's Pizza for the concessions stands. He told me that the pizza was all cold already. Together with re-signing D-Lee in the winter, another upgrade we should have made a priority was in the pizza department.

Enjoy the season!

Hole truth: Fans like changes
By and large, fans give thumbs up to renovations at Wrigley Field opener

By David Haugh
Tribune staff reporter
Published April 8, 2006

From his view behind the "knothole" cut into the brick wall in deep, deep right field, Bruce Tranen saw the ball explode off Derrek Lee's bat.

Tranen did not need to see where the ball landed to know immediately where it was headed in the first inning of Friday's 5-1 Cubs victory over the St. Louis Cardinals in front of a crowd of 40,869.

"That's gone!" Tranen shouted to the dozen or so fans peeking into Wrigley Field from the right-field opening behind him.

For confirmation, Tranen asked a paying customer on the other side of the wall who actually could see through a fence where Lee's drive finally had fallen in the left-field bleachers.

"You can't see everything out here," said Tranen, a Wrigleyville resident. "But you can see more than I expected. This is really kind of cool."

That represented the feelings of many curious Cubs fans who either bought a pricier-than-ever ticket in the new bleachers for Opening Day or ventured over to Sheffield and Waveland Avenues to judge the $13.5 million renovation for themselves.

Cubs officials had said passersby who had not purchased tickets would not be permitted to watch the game from Sheffield. But those willing to look through green mesh and a fence enjoyed a decent vantage point.

The only action out of their view from that angle was anything hit deep to the outfield gaps.

It was the best "seat" out of the house.

"We should put up a sign that says, `Freeloaders stand here,"' one smart aleck shouted from the back of the pack.

Cubs President Andy MacPhail acknowledged the group with a wave as he passed through the new walkway behind the right-field wall inside the park. Security guards were not sure whether to stop fans who lingered at the fence and obstructed the view of those outside the park or leave them alone.

"I can't complain," Tranen said as the game continued. "I didn't buy a ticket."

The mood was less joyful beyond left field, where Wrigley Field ball hawks bemoaned their new reality. Adding six rows and moving the exterior walls 8 feet out as part of the 1,790-seat bleacher expansion meant fewer home runs flying onto Waveland.

Moe Mullins, who said he has hawked balls outside Wrigley since 1958, counted 1,000 homers flying out of the ballpark in 2005 and estimated a drop of as much as half this season.

"Now we have a new problem out here because we can't see the ball because of how far the walls come out," said Mullins, wearing his black glove before Friday's game. "Before we could pick up the ball [sooner], so hopefully there will be someone who's a spotter sitting in the bleachers.

"Entering those bleachers Friday immediately reminded fans they were walking into an updated section and a new era. The impossible-to-miss "Bud Light Bleachers" sign above a modernized entry, promoting the sponsorship that helped finance the project, made some traditionalists long for the past.

"The `Bud Light' is bigger than the word `Bleachers,' and I hate it," said Sheila Keating, a North Sider who said she has been sitting in the end seat of the 10th row in the right-field bleachers for 20 years.

Keating and her sister Sharon moved up to the new top row to give the new look a fair shot. It pained them to look down at the red rope marking off the $60 bleacher box seats in the right-field corner, many of which stayed empty.

"I don't like the [exclusivity] of the box seats and the [Batter's Eye Lounge]," Keating said. "It's nice to see a few of the same people year after year for the past 20 years, but it's not nice to see people with ties and people wanting to get on camera and people just coming here to drink beer. It has gone from the Bleacher Bums to the Bleacher Yuppies."

Most of the other gripes leveled by fans' offering their first impressions of the new bleacher area involved more constructive criticism.

Dave Carter of Bensenville appreciated how much room he had to roam in his wheelchair in the new section in center field for disabled fans but suggested chairs for people who accompany handicapped and wheelchair-bound fans.

"But it's really a nice view and a lot better than it was," Carter said.

Over in the new patio area behind the left-field bleachers, Jeff Douglas' only complaint was that the televisions added so fans buying food and drinks could watch the game still were covered in plastic. Douglas also pointed out he still had to go down one level to go to the washroom.

"The changes are good, but I'm not sure they're great," said Douglas, who brought his son and a friend to the game from Rockford.

Several fans were overheard wondering if there had been any changes at all.

"I've heard people say they think it's a little better now with the walkway, more room and you can go into main part of the ballpark now," said Don Mazza, who was starting his third year as an usher in left field. "But if you weren't out here before and just looked at the bleachers, you wouldn't be able to tell."