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.