So, The White Sox Suck

But at least the beers at Comiskey are $7.75, amirite?

Sigh.

I knew this year was going to be bad.  Typically, when I head into a season, I can find something to be optimistic about.  Maybe it's a younger player from whom I want to see progress or a few old stand-bys we can all shower in adulation...but this years team?  It's Paul Konerko or bust.

For whatever reason when I did a Google image search for "Paul Konerko", the 12th picture that came up was this totally rad picture of Tadahito Iguchi.  I miss me some Tadahito Iguchi.

It would seem that I am not the only fan that has taken notice of this awful, awful White Sox team.  Last Monday, Brad and I made an intrepid trip down to the South Side to take in an Orioles vs White Sox game on half-price Monday.  The crowd was comically awful and I guessed the paid attendance to be about 16,000 and change, Brad guessed 14,000 or so and the truth turned out to be so bad, the Sox didn't even do that "Guess the Attendance" thing they do in 7th inning on the Jumbotron.  The paid attendance (again!  On Half Priced Monday!  Our lower-level tickets up the first base line were only $20!) was 13,732.

Brad and I are only two games into our 14 game package so the only thing that is going to keep me going to park at this point are the Kosher dogs (priced at--sigh--$5.25 a pop) and the smell of the grilled onions which I don't even eat.  But it's a nicer smell than Brad or me. 

To be fair, maybe I'm a tad pessimistic.  Maybe all of the Sox players who sucked last year will rebound.  Maybe the kids will take a nice step forward.  Maybe we'll go on a tear in June and Brad and I will have something to cheer about after all.

Or maybe we'll keep hitting Bret Morel--he of the .146 On Base Percentage--in the 2 hole and the Sox will have more stellar games like yesterday where we had 3 batters with 3 strike outs making Adam Dunn and his 2 whiffs seem like the super-star we're paying him to be.  Man, there's just no way this team doesn't lead the universe in strike-outs.

We will, of course, lead the league in adjusted STTTDWHLISAAPCTSL*.

Sigh. 

*Slow Turn Towards The Dugout With Head Lowered In Shame After Another Pathetic Called Third Strike Looking

Blow up the Sox

Warning:  Only readers with a passion for the White Sox or baseball in general will give a flip about this post.  

Brad and I renewed our "Ozzie Plan" today; 14 trips down to Comiskey Park for the 2012 season.  Wo-hoo!  Now, I can't imagine the Sox will continue to call the package the "Ozzie Plan" seeing how its namesake, Ozzie Guillen, has been shown the door and now manages the Miami Marlins.  What matters is that Brad and I will be able to smell the grilled hotdogs and onions 14 times in the 2012 season, while we watch an underwhelming Sox effort on days John Danks doesn't pitch.

It will be interesting, however, to see what kind of team we'll be seeing on those trips.  You see, last year, the Sox badly, badly underachieved.  The 2011 Sox had the 5th highest payroll in the major leagues and finished with the 18th "best" record...or 13th worst record if you're a glass half-empty guy.  They started out the season poorly, made a run in the middle of the season that got me believing again and then knocked the legs out from under their fan base with a 0-42 September record (citation needed).  It was a bad season highlighted by our free agent acquisition, 6'6" 285 pound Adam Dunn who was supposed to smash 50 home runs on the South Side but instead got out-homered by all 185 pounds of Opie here:

Basically, we payed Mr. Dunn $12,000,000 to secure the lowest batting average in major league history by a guy with 500 or more plate appearances (.159) while striking out 177 times...against only 66 hits.  12 million dollars! 

Now, I don't think Adam Dunn is that bad.  The dude did hit 38 home runs in 2010.  I personally feel that he started out on a terrible streak and just couldn't shake out of it.  You don't go from a 38 home run campaign to the worst batting average in major league history in just one season, even if he did switch to the tougher league.  This has to be mental, more than anything else.  Hopefully, an off season of floating in swimming pools and sleeping on top of a pile of money with many beautiful ladies will help wipe his memory of his utterly terrible year. 

But it wasn't all Adam Dunn's fault.  3 other regulars struggled to hit above the Mendoza Line, Ozzie's temper, contract situation and feud with Kenny Williams was a constant distraction, our pitching was mediocre at best and we had zero help from the minor leagues early on.

It is that last point that causes me to think it's time to blow up the team.

Next year, we are slated to again have a payroll in the upper-third of the league, only it's becoming abundantly clear that we are going to lose our most consistent pitcher to free agency this off-season.  In addition, we've already been informed that our payroll is maxed-out; fans shouldn't hold their breath for any game-changing free agents.

The long-term problem?  Our minor league system is completely barren.  I'm not sure if it is Kenny Williams' lack of creativity when it comes to the draft or Jerry Reinsdorf's constant draft-time penny pinching--or both--but the Sox, for whatever reason, refuse to invest in the draft.  As such, the truly talented kids fall to teams that are willing to spend money on signing bonuses and we draft "signable" kids over and over and over and over again.

While the new collective bargaining agreement will help the Sox going forward, the immediate damage has been done.  As a result of their penny-pinching(and Kenny Williams penchant for trading minor league talent for Major League players), the Sox have been left with what Baseball America calls the 4th worst minor league system in Major League Baseball.   Keith Law, the ESPN amateur scout and catty humorist, thinks the Sox are the 3rd worst.  Ouch. 

While it is always possible that the cheaper teams can find a hidden gem here and there, most teams that are willing to spend on the draft continue to churn out major league players that are 100% homegrown.  The Boston Red Sox excel at this, god damn it.  Even with larger signing bonuses, this is the single cheapest way to get high-end talent into an organization.

The Sox are in a tough spot.  They will have a fairly high payroll next year but do not have any realistic chance to win a World Series unless we have some serious rebound seasons from our highly paid "talent".  Combine that with the likely-loss of our beloved lefty Mark Buehrle...

Don't you just want to hug him?

...and that leads me to believe we won't be hoisting the Commissioner's Trophy next October. 

So what's team to do?  I think it's time to dismantle the Sox.  Trade any guy that has value to any taker and try to restock our minor league coffers.  Kenny Williams has said that he will only take back major league ready players but he's fooling himself; once we start trading our guys, we should not stop.  He wants to trade his guys but remain competitive.  In other words, he wants to have his cake and eat it too.

My plan is different:  get rid of everyone.  Gavin Floyd, John Danks, Phil Humber, Matt Thorton, Sergio Santos, Jessie Crain, A.J. (if he'll accept a trade), Carlos Quentin, everybody.  See if you can get 30 cents on the dollar for Dunn and Alex Rios...and if we can't get rid of these guys--and let's be honest here, we probably can't--just let them play out their contracts and by the time they are done, the new acquisitions will likely be ready.  Let the kids play.  Pitch Chris Sale and Zach Stewart.  Turn Dayan Viciedo loose in right and see if he doesn't embarrass himself.  Let Tyler Flowers catch all season.

Let's see what the kids can do while we simultaneously add some talent in the minor leagues. 

Today Brad and I spent $400 on Sox tickets for the 2012 season.  I would much rather watch a team that I can see some hope in the future than a team that I want to bury as dead from the very start.

Schadenfreude

Yesterday afternoon, I called my amazing wife on my cellphone telephone and asked if I could have my best man, Brad, over to watch a plethora of baseball games on her almost-as-equally amazing HD TV.  For those not with their ear to the ground on the world of sports, there were four Major League baseball games on last night--all at the same time--that directly impacted the playoffs.  This was extra-cool because it was the last day of the regular season.  Just like my fantasy baseball season the week before, it all came down to the 162nd game.  The Boston Red Sox were tied with the Tampa Bay Rays for the American League Wild Card spot.  Tampa was hosting the Yankees and a bunch of ass-bag Boston fans had invaded Camden Yards in Baltimore.

Also, the St. Louis Cardinals and the Atlanta Braves were in an identical situation over in the National League; they were tied with each other after 161 games and playing in separate cities.  This was going to be epic.

I ordered cheap pizzas and Brad and I settled in to watch what turned out to be 5 full hours of baseball.  It was awesome.

Anyone who knows me, knows how I feel about the good people of Boston.  Wait, did I say "good"?  I meant "racist" and "arrogant" and "dickish".  I don't even care if that's not a word.  People from Boston are dicks. This clearly makes them dickish.

Last night turned out to be the single most exciting, enthralling and shocking night of baseball I have ever had the pleasure to witness in my life.  I needed that.  My beloved White Sox were, in a word, "shitty" this season.  If I couldn't take joy in my White Sox, I needed some MLB excitement somewhere, right?

As an added bonus, I really, really hate the Red Sox.  It is funny, however, that back in 2004 I was absolutely pulling for them against the Yankees.  Historically, the Red Sox have been like the Cubs: always the bridesmaid.  Before 2004, they hadn't won a World Series in 86 years.  Two generations of "Sawx" fans had grown up never knowing the rush of a World Series title.  At the time, the White Sox hadn't won themselves in 87 years so I could absolutely identify with these fellow Irish Cat'lics from the East coast.  When they took down the Yanks that year, I celebrated with them.  That beleaguered city deserved that title.

But then a funny thing happened: their other teams also started getting good.  Pretty boy Tom Brady and the New England Patriots already had a couple of rings on their fingers by that point but then they won it all again in 2004.  Then the Celtics won a title.  Then the Red Sox won again.  Then the Bruins won a title, if we're to count hockey as a sport. 

Suddenly, this depressed fan base started getting cocky.  Fans started invading other teams ball parks with their obnoxious accents and self-entitled attitude.  They started to expect to win and when their teams didn't, it was always because of a ref, or a bad bounce, or because of an injury.

Or this

When the Red Sox signed the best outfielder on the market this past off season, Carl Crawford, for $135 million dollars AND traded for the best first baseman on the market, Adrian Gonzalez (who subsequently signed a $148 million dollar contract himself), Sawx fans were already reserving spots on some piss-covered Boston street for the World Series Championship parade.  These entitled bastards were already talking shit...not about if they were going to win the World Series but about how many wins they would collect along the way.  It was maddening.

Fortunately, sports has a funny way of making the world a better place.  The Red Sox started the season 2-12 and ended the season with a 7-20 record in September.  Sure, in between, they were the best team in baseball but at the start of game 162, they were merely tied for the Wild Card lead. 

Last night, the Red Sox lost on a walk-off hit in Baltimore.  Four minutes later--before many of the Red Sox players even had the chance to retreat to the visitor's clubhouse in defeat--Evan Longoria of the Tampa Bay Rays hit a walk-off home run of his own to lift the Rays to victory.  The Rays were going to Texas for the playoffs.  The Red Sox?  Let's not feel too bad for them; they likely went home to groupies and millions of dollars and (I'm assuming) drug problems.  But they weren't going to the Playoffs. 

Loveable Lisa Simpson once defined the concept of "Schadenfreude" as "shameful joy". While that may not be the literal translation according to many German people with anger problems, it would certainly fit how I feel about last night's Red Sox loss.  That is to say, if I were to feel any amount of shame at all in my joy.

Seriously.  Screw those guys.  I guess a $160 million payroll just doesn't buy what it used to. 

All it really bought was karma. 

Bwaaaaaaaaahahahahaha!

Victory is Mine!

I won my fantasy baseball league!  Wait, Wait, strike that...I finally won my fantasy baseball league!

You see, for the last 6 years, I've been involved in various YahooSports.com fantasy baseball leagues.  Each year, I dominate the regular season, only to lose in the playoffs or, more often than not, the championship game.  I'm like the Buffalo Bills of Yahoo Sports.  Check it out:

2006:  John .316, 2nd Place
2007:  The Wookie Stompers, 2nd Place
2008:  Abe Vigoda's Boner, 5th Place (everyone else cheated)
2009:  Clown Baby, 2nd Place
2010:  Shark Week, 2nd Place

But finally, a team of mine broke through:

2011:  Fat Jesus, 1st Place

Woot!  Woot!

It wasn't easy though.  Turns out, my arch-enemy and best man Brad was my opponent in the finals.  A looooooooong while ago, back in March, Brad had the #1 overall pick in our fantasy draft.  Like any sane person, he drafted Albert Pujols with that #1 pick.

Seen here tattooing a ball into orbit

Not only did Brad luck into the #1 pick in our keeper league, he used it to draft the best baseball player (non-'roids division) of my generation. 

As luck would have it, Brad and I were locked in a virtual tie after a full slate of Sunday afternoon games.  There was just one game left in our fantasy baseball season--last night's Cardinals/Phillies matchup--to determine a league champion.  And, between our two teams, there was just one player active in that game:  Albert Freakin' Pujols. 

I won't bore you with the details but I had a .899 to .889 lead in OPS (On base Percentage Plus Slugging Percentage) heading into that last game.  And, after Pujols destroyed the very 1st pitch he saw 15 rows deep into the left field stands, I was suddenly down .899 to .907.  My only hope for victory was for Mr. Pujols to go hitless in his last few at bats.

He did, in fact, go hitless in his next 2 appearances heading into his final at bat in the 8th inning.  Brad was up 7-6 (categories-wise) and if I could flip OPS, I would win the league.  So, 6 months after we had all gathered at various computers around the city and country, our entire fantasy baseball league literally came down to one at bat.  It was simple:  If Albert reached base via a hit, a walk, or a hit by pitch, Brad would win.  If Albert made an out, I would win.

At this point, I was a little drunk and nervous and kinda shaking...I think Krishni was a little worried about me. 

Albert Pujols came to the plate in what would likely be his last at bat of the game and took strike one, ball one, missed at a pitch and...struck out!  "YES!  Victory is mine!  Wo-hoo!  Wait, why is he still in the box?  Christ, he fouled off that last pitch!  No!  Nooooooo!"

I have never in my life been more sure that a hit was forthcoming than at that moment.  I knew--deep down in my testicles--that Pujols was not only going to get a hit, he was going to deposit another one onto the left field concourse, making the recipient of that ball amazingly happy, as I chugged vodka in soul-crushing defeat. 

Happily, that was not to be.  On the next pitch, the greatest hitter of my generation swung and missed at a sinker, low and inside.  I screamed for joy, Krishni asked "What happened?" and I gave her an awkward high-five.  We popped the $12 bottle of "champagne" that she had purchased for the occasion and we shared some bubbly as I reveled in my victory and giggled for the next 20 minutes. 

Thank god for stupid shit.  What would life be without it?

The Only 2011 Travelogue You will Require

People often ask me what it's like to work at the Rabbit.  The question most often asked is can I get the questioner free porn.  The answer is, of course, yes.  All you have to do is ask.  The second question I most often hear:  "Are there, like, naked ladies just running around your office?"  That answer is, "Not most of the time."  While there are occasionally scantily clad women in the office--for photo shoots and seasonal parties--I have to crush the fantasies of dudes everywhere when I tell them that this really is just an office.  My cube looks a whole lot like yours.  Only the top of my monitor is graced by one of my all time favorite Onion headlines:

It is my understanding that this is not allowed in many offices. 

Without further ado, welcome to my desk at work:

They say that a person's work space tells an awful lot about said person...by looking at my work area, you'd think I'm a sophomoric sports fan.  Can you even imagine?

From left to right as we travel across my desk:

Are you in one of these photos?  If so, drink!

No work space is complete without a series of photos of the ones you love.  Or the ones you love to drink with, as this case may be.  We have Mel and Panhandle up there sporting some nice bling after winning the Steppenwolf Gala King and Queen.  We have Brad and Nathan drinking beers at a brewery in stinkin' Boston.  We have Hank sporting a theoretical wooded spoon.  We have the last picture of my Godmother I own where she had any real dignity.  The 'Wolf softball team is present along with an underage drinking party on my Parent's back patio back in 1997.  Speaking of underage drinking...there is my sister Peggy contributing to the delinquency of a minor!  Thanks, Peg!   She's a doctor now!

I think it's important to have icons of your own personal heroes:

In that respect, I have a Geoffrey Rush action figure from the Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with sword, pistol and a juicy green apple.  He had a very nice hat a long time ago.  He (I) sadly lost it in the move from one office to the next. 

Speaking of figurines, I also have these happy little fellows that I purchased for $1 from a Michael's after Halloween two years ago:

I guess my shit job could be worse. 

You will also find a little shrine to Matt Groening:

Present and accounted for are all of my favorite Simpson's characters (Sadly, Milhouse had a full glass of ice water spilled on him.  Sniff, sniff) as well as the cast of Futurama.  Only the best show ever for nerds.

Below my cartoon friends, I have a list of dates that the Free Disney Meal plan is available at Walt Disney World.  Sigh.

I'll get back there someday...

Swinging over to the lower right hand corner of my desk, you will find a rather creepy selection of items:

That doll will murder you in your sleep.   It's why the Stormtrooper stoically stands ever vigilant. That, and he's sitting on top of a naked lady. 

I know what you're thinking and the answer is yes: those are, in fact, wind-up hopping lederhosen standing atop my novelty Benet Academy football.  Sharp eyed folks from Steppenwolf Theatre Company will also be able to spot one of those godawful oranges from that one Gala where we were apparently trying to blind our patrons. 

"But Mike," I hear you asking, "What about your gorgeous, super-smart and sexy wife?"  No worries!  She's here too.  With a pirate:

Arrrrrrrrr!

Bonus terrible fact:  the island where this photo was taken was the site of a horrific plane crash that changed the way pilots communicate to each other in cockpits across the world.  In a heavy fog, one pilot said "To hell with that tower!  I'm taking off!" and promptly flew into a taxing jet killing everyone aboard his plane and most folks aboard the other plane.

Whoopsie.

See!  Bonzer T's Home Skillet isn't just about moderately funny observances...it's also about history!

There are two diplomas I'm proud of earning over the course of my young life.  One is for graduating from Benet Academy, my scholastic home away from home.  The other is from the Taco Fu Master Program.  I graduated with honors:

Yeah, University of Tulsa.  You can go to hell.  

To achieve--according to my diploma--"Success in defending all that is taconess", you need to play this absurd game at the Taco Bell website wherein you must defend your plate of nachos supreme from a series of ginormous lucha libre wrestlers.  Seriously.  Try it out right now and print up your certificate so you can be as awesome as me (incidentally, when you go to the Taco Bell website now, there is a link that states "Made with Real Beef lawsuit dropped".  So we have that going for us.)

Posted all over my monitor, you will find a few Onion horoscopes that still make me laugh to this day.  Allow me to reprint them here because, come on, we all need a good laugh:

"While the directors of the Palomar Observatory admit the nebula had an unusual shape, they do not believe you caught God masturbating."

"When times are tough and the world around you seems grim, don't be afraid to turn to religion for a good, hearty laugh."

"Death by firing squad has a certain desolate nobility, but it will be ruined when the inept, drunken Australians fail to hit you above the waist with the first nine volleys."

"Your love of all living creatures will be on display this week when you open the world's first Animal Rescue Steakhouse."

And a new one that came off the calender today!

"Turns out your nightmarish descent into alcoholism and drug abuse will be a lot more fun than expected."

Finally, I wouldn't be a White Sox fan without some sort of way to taunt Cubs fans in the office:

Yeah, that's my 2005 World Series Champion Rally Sock.  Maybe if I started wearing those, Adam Dunn could get a damn hit. 

So that's that.  I realize that technically none of you asked to see what my desk looked like at work.  But that has never really stopped me before when it came to stupid shit like this.  Plus, I'm going to make an effort to blog a bit more seeing how my life has slowed down a bit after a frantic July. 

And not every post can be a winner. 

It's been a tough week.

It is never, ever a good thing when a member of your family calls you at 6:49 AM.  On a Wednesday.  At least if that call comes in at 6:49 AM on a Sunday, there is always the chance that whomever is dialing is still going strong from a tequila bender and is calling to get directions from Tijuana via burro.

No dice.  On this particular Wednesday morning, it was a call from my brother telling me that Mom was on her last legs.  A desperate phone call to Brad to borrow his car and a quick shower later, I had a bag packed and was waiting to hustle back to Lisle when I got the dreaded follow-up phone call: at 7:10 AM on Wednesday, July 20th, Sheila Jacklich passed away peacefully in her sleep with my Father by her side. 

My Father called it a "great" death.  He was terrified there would be pain, choking, knowing eye contact, horrific gasps for air...there was none of that.  Her breaths in her last few hours were labored and eventually she just stopped breathing.  Gone.  Just like that.

I arrived in Lisle about an hour after she died.  What seemed like half of the Benet faculty was in my folks living room and my Father greeted me at the door...smiling.  Oh, sure, he was sobbing as he hugged me but he was happy that she died in her sleep and so, so relieved that there was no pain to speak of.  He led me back to her room and showed me her body.  My Mother was grinning.  With her eyes open.

I thought it inappropriate to ask Dad if he had double checked to make sure that she was dead and just took his word for it.  He sobbed next to me and I put my arm around him.  Eventually, he left the room to give me a moment.  She was skinny.  Horribly so.  She didn't look real; like a cadaver from a medical drama.  Her arms were crossed at her waist, as if in an coffin and I took her hand.  She was already cold. 

Outside, he garden burst with color in the morning sun.

Soooooo Sleepy...

As you might imagine, I have a lot on my mind these days.  Normally, this doesn't affect my sleep patterns but last night was different.  By all means, I should have slept soundly:  I was awakened by my new upstairs neighbor vacuuming above my head at 9am on Sunday morning and Brad and I had dined at Garcia's yesterday afternoon which is a meal that would put any mere mortal to sleep.

Pictured above is a Garcia's burrito.  Only mine was smothered in melted cheese.

But I got another dose of bad news last night and it all just kept me awake.  It probably didn't help that my dinner yesterday consisted of 3 cookies and 2 glasses of vodka (a meal I like to call "The Drunken Girl Scout").  I would say I got 2 hours of sleep last night which is all well and good for a Saturday but terrible when I have to go to work on Monday and cheerily help grown men masturbate.


Because of my status as a member of the walking dead, this morning I am drinking caffene.  This is not a problem for most of the world.  Millions of Americans rely on a cup of coffee in the morning to kick-start their day.  In my case, though, while I have many vices, caffiene is not one of them.  I rarely drink the stuff and when I do, I get a little...weird. 

People don't believe this but I've never in my life done drugs.  I've never been "high" in the traditional sense.  However, if I have just the right amount of Mountain Dew, I start giggling, dancing and generally get excited about the dumbest things*.  And then I crash.  Hard.  So I have to continue adding caffeine to my body and riding a delicate wave that will keep me awake while not offending callers that desperately want to remove their pants**.


A few years back, I was on a road-trip with my buddy Brad.  When we stopped to gas up at some station in rural, rural Ohio, we found--much to my delight--that the gas station sold Jolt! cola.  I drank 2.  For the next hour or so, I sounded an awful lot like Roberto from Futurama:

I don't enjoy behaving like this.  Should I drink more of the stuff to even out my behavior?  Or is it a good thing that I don't drink caffeine too often?  Whatever.  I just look forward to getting some proper sleep tonight.  If only for Krishni's sake. 

*For instance, I was trying to think of something silly that I would get excited about and the term "Handjobs from Kittens" popped into my mind.  I laughed my ass off internally for a good 3-4 minutes. 

**Yes, I am well aware that it took me 3 tries to spell "caffeine" right.  I left that in as an example of me riding the caffeine wave and not giving a damn. 

Damn it!

Writing this blog is super fun but sometimes these pesky things called "facts" get in the way of my point.  You see, in my zeal to make fun of Cubs fans, I failed to take note of these alleged "facts".  For the record:  the last time the Cubs won the World Series was 1908.  But as my buddy Brad pointed out to me, the last time the Cubs won the pennant was in 1945, making the "Die Hard Night" age cut off a much more manageable 66+.  Part of me wants to say "Sue me", but the truth is, this kind of thing bugs me.  It's doubly frustrating because I just chided a girl from work the other day when she said the Cubs went to the World Series in the 60's.  "No, you dumb tart," I calmly explained, "the last time the Cubs went to the World Series was in 1945 which almost shouldn't count since half the good players were still in Europe and Asia when the Cubbies 'achieved' that feat".

I may be paraphrasing now.  But that was the gist. 

So, gold star to Brad.  If you're a hot chick, ask him out because he can double check facts like a mo-fo.   That's sexy, right?

M-F

As we all know, the clock is ticking here at the Rabbit; it is inevitable.  At some point--probably before the end of the fiscal year--I will be out of a job.  And as much as I've enjoyed helping thousands of grown men masturbate for the last few years, it will hurt losing this job.  Not because I truly enjoy the work.  No, it's more because I truly enjoy money.  I wish, though, that I had some more money.  We all would like to make more money at what we do but I think we also can agree that limited money is better than no money. 

Which brings me to the perks of my current job.  I get some pretty amazing insurance.  Krishni is kind of blown away by that.  I get lots and lots of free porn.  Brad is excited about that little benefit.  Occasionally we have big, drunken "Cube Crawls" here at the office that feature scantily clad models running around the office doing jello shots with the pasty tech guys.  Not gonna lie: that's pretty fun. 

But since I've gotten married, there has been one major problem beyond being a technological fluffer: my schedule.  You see, when I 1st started this job, I was just coming off my "work" at Steppenwolf Theatre Company.  I worked an odd schedule there where Tuesday and Wednesday were my "weekend".  When I started here, I told them I could work weekends because that was what I was used to.  As a result, I was given a Sun-Thursday schedule.  I actually liked that a lot since Sunday, especially during football season, was a super-slow day filled with ESPN.com, South Park episodes and computer games.

Since my marriage, however, I've realized how fun it would be to have an actual weekend and be able to do stuff with my wife, friends and family on Sundays.  For the past year, I've been bugging my boss to move me to a regular Monday-Friday schedule.  You know, like a normal person.

I finally got my wish.  For the 1st time in my life, I will have a regular M-F job.  I can go out on Saturday nights again!  I can attend Mother's and Father's day!  I can watch the Bears!  Provided I still have a job in October!  Ha ha!

Seriously, this will be the 1st time I've ever worked relatively normal hours (I will be working 8am to 4pm).  The only other time I worked M-F, was when I worked at KJRH in Tulsa on the morning show.  And I had to be in the studio at 4 freakin' 30 am.  Those are not, what one would call, "normal hours". 

Color me happy.  At least until the next Jonestown blood-letting here at the Rabbit, that is.

Anyone have any job openings anywhere?  I can work weekends!

Fat

I wouldn't say I'm on a diet.  That would require effort.  No, what I'm on is sort of a gradual (ok, minimal) change in lifestyle that has happened to result in me dropping a few pounds.  My wife sneaks vegetables into my dinners, I'm eating less crap and the only thing I typically eat before dinner is a couple of bowls of cereal at work.  It has actually been quite painless.

However...

I went a bit off the rails this week.  Anyone who knows anything about me knows I dig novelty.  Pretty much whenever a fast food restaurant comes out with a new item, I really, really need to eat it.  I'm stupid like that.  As a matter of fact, I have a standing date with my friend Kalena to go and get the new Taco Bell item whenever it comes out.  We haven't yet named our awesome club but over the years we've picked up a few intrepid members:  Krishni, Mel, Brad, Marc...that's Kalena's Marc, not my buddy Marc.  Although he did join us once which resulted in a pretty wicked case of food poisoning after the XXL Double Beef Chalupa experience; but we all ate the same thing and none of us got sick.  Funny, that.  I think he just didn't want join us anymore.  I really don't blame him; the Chalupa itself was pretty gross.  I mean, look at this thing!  Gross, right?:

Where was I?  Ah, yes, fast food novelty.  Last night we all convened at the Wrigleyville Taco Bell (motto: "20% more expensive than any other Taco Bell") for the new item:  The Cheesy Double Decker Taco.

First of all, a review:  It was goooooood.  You see, what makes this different from a standard Double Decker Taco is instead of a layer of beans fusing the soft shell to the hard shell, there is now an added layer of nacho cheese oozing out the sides.  That's the only difference.  I mean, what do you want?  There's only so many ways you can combine the same 8 ingredients.  Until they introduce chorizo--Please Taco Bell!  Bring us chorizo!--we're working with a limited color pallet. 

Now onto the problem:  Sure, I could have had just one of these things.  But instead, I had two.  And a shrimp taco.  As the ad says up top, "Get twice the taco".  Does that mean I had a taco to the 5th power?  I dunno but it felt good.  For a while.

So a scant 5 days after the White Sox/Bulls bender, I had a little Taco Bell extravaganza.  Big deal, right?  Well, that would be the case if only I hadn't eaten one of these over the previous 36 hours:

Yes; for those of you concerned about my heart, that is sausage, pepperoni and bacon stuffed and baked with a shitload of cheese into the crust of this Pizza Hut monstrosity.  Let's ignore for a moment that is was pretty good.  This pizza is the definition of American excess.  This pizza is one of the main reasons folks in the Middle East hate us.  This pizza is the reason my lungs almost exploded when I had to run 2 blocks at a full sprint to catch my bus this morning. 

I think it's best that I lay off the crap for a while.  My body deserves it.

Happy Birthday, Civil War!

Want to know how cool I am?  Last Friday night, I traveled south on the Red Line towards downtown with a dozen or so screeching 20-somethings--many of whom wearing soon-to-be-broken 4 inch heels--going not to a bar with my new friends but to a lecture.  A lecture held by "The Civil War Round Table of Chicago" called "A Georgian Looks at Sherman".  And you know what?  It was awesome.  That was the best use of a Friday night I've had in some time that didn't involve terrified turtles scampering away from a drunken mass of singles.

As you may or may not know, I consider myself quite the history buff.  My specific area of expertise is in boring my wife with details of the Civil War or, if you're a racist dick, "The War Between the States". 

Which is why I find myself oddly wishing I had a little pointy birthday hat for today's date in American history:  On this day 150 years ago, the first* shots of the Civil War were fired in Charleston Harbor during what would become known at "the Battle of Fort Sumter".

Fort Sumter was, essentially, a nothing little fort but it stood annoyingly in the way of Charleston Harbor and Europe.  And damned if those Europeans didn't need their slave-picked cotton!  The fort withstood a pretty epic 34-hour bombardment before eventually surrendering without a single loss of defender life.  However, one Confederate gunner bled to death when his cannon misfired.  USA!  USA!

Once the fort surrendered to the rebels, it proved oddly difficult to re-take.  As a matter of fact, the Union never did re-take the fort.  Only my boy William Tecumseh Sherman's march to the sea finally pushed the Confederates to abandon the fort.  Seriously, that dude was awesome.  Totally racist, but otherwise awesome. 

None of this was covered, of course, during the super-cool lecture Brad and I attended last Friday night.  Perhaps we'll get lucky and they'll talk about it at a lecture soon!  Because, as discussed, I'm the coolest 32-year old ever...that spends his Friday nights at Civil War lectures.**


*That is what your history books will tell you.  Many would argue the first real shots of the Civil war killed an abolitionist named (seriously) Reverend Lovejoy in Alton, Illinois way back in 1837.  Elijah Parrish Lovejoy was the 1st Pastor of the College Avenue Presbyterian Church in Alton and also a writer for the abolitionist paper, The Alton Observer.  One night, while he was installing a new printing press, a pro-slavery mob descended upon the warehouse in an attempt to destroy the press.  During the standoff, Reverend Lovejoy was killed by a double-barrel shotgun blast.  Arguably, he was the 1st casualty of what would later become more than 620,000 dead on both sides.  Think about that the next time you see this guy:

"We have some new pamphlets available in our church news rack including 'Bible Bafflers,' 'Satan's Boners' and 'Good Grief, More Satan's Boners'. "

**Please, please, please don't divorce me, Krishni.

Wheeeee! Opening Day!

I was going to write a hilarious moment-by-moment account of my Opening Day experience with Brad but the truth is, it would have looked something like this:

8:37 am:  Open 1st beer.  Take shower with said beer in hand.
10:01 am:  Arrive at Brad's.  Brad and I play 'Thunderstruck' by AC/DC for 90 minutes while consuming many beers.
12:15pm:  Arrive at Comiskey Park.  Consume many beers

***scene missing***

5am:  Awake in Brad's bed with no pants on.

I know that somewhere in the middle, I ate a kosher dog, tried the new 'Ball Park DiGiorno' pizza stand, left the game early since we sorely underestimated the weather and were freaking freezing by the 7th inning, went to The Rail on Damen Ave to eat and kill 2 hours (drinking) before the Bulls game, drank 17-20 beers between the two of us before, during and after the Bulls kicked the living shit out of the Celtics, smashed in some more pizza and arrived back at Brads.

For the record, that was 15 hours of drinking for the two of us.  It's been a while since I tied one on like that.  Our bartender at The Rail even bought us a totally superfluous shot of Jameson.  She really, really didn't need to do that.

Oh, and the White Sox won.  So, except for the part where I woke up on Brad's couch, went to his bathroom and instead of returning to the couch, I just crawled into his bed with him, it was a pretty good day.  He might beg to differ.