Life. A 6'6" southpaw hurler.

I don't know much. But I figured out over the last few months that I do know one thing. Life's a major league pitcher.

Life has a nasty 12 to 6 curve, a crippling slider, and can even break out a paralyzing knuckler from time to time. His fastball is deceiving, and comes at a steep angle, but it's hittable if he's underestimating the man in the box. Out from the on-deck circle, I'm ready. Finally. Life's imposing to say the least. I'm digging back in, and it's my chance to take the lead in what's been a see-saw battle for years. I'm standing in the box, knees knocking, hoping and praying for a fastball right in my wheelhouse. Out of nowhere, I have a moment of calm, and somehow I know that a two-seam heater is exactly what's coming. I can feel it. First time I've felt anything like it in forever. It's like I'm in his head. I have the upper hand. I'm adjusting my stance, my grip, taking slow, steady breaths, just waiting...

TO BE CONTINUED...

Windy City Musings '08

Where to begin. Ding Dong the Hip Hop Party Clown? The Bean? Dirty Dancing? Buddy Guy? "Chuck" at PF Chang's?

Of all the craziness that was four days in Chicago over Thanksgiving, Buddy Guy's Legends blues club will be the etch-a-sketch image I'll draw for you here. Why? Because it was the most blogworthy event, that's why, boo. Though Ding Dong might get his own story later.

I'm going to do this like a movie that shows you the end first. And then I'll say: "4 days earlier" or something like that. I hate movies that do that. But I thought it would be fun. So here goes.

Picture two inebriated dudes skipping across the skating rink at Millenium Park. The security guard was particularly jovial, but I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic when he screamed "GET OFF THE ICE!" - I could only assume he was watching out for our own safety. Everybody (sober) knows that recently zambonied ice is hell to walk on. He was just making sure we didn't fall on our bums. Right?


5.5 hours earlier ---------

We were just finishing our meal at PF Chang's (which, might I say, was subpar at best), when we officially decided to make the move to a blues club. I had never been to one, and for most in our group, visits to blues clubs in the past had been lackluster. But we had our heads up. We expected greatness. So we got a cab, told him where we were heading, and I couldn't help but notice a smirk on the cabby's face. I chalked it up to him thinking "this bunch of honkies is in for quite a surprise" - ten minutes later I figured out why the smirk. It was 9pm and the particular corner he dropped us on was dead quiet. Like it was waiting for a gunshot to break the silence. We hurried in and we were 5 of the first 10 people there. But the door guy promised a big time, so we decided to feel it out. I arranged for us to sit beside the stage, within sweat-dripping distance of the band.

The first beer went down well. A Kalamazoo, which I'm told is one of the better draft beers from the region...Anyway, the first band started, the Cash Box Kings. The lead guy was on a harmonica, and he seemed a bit out of his element. He improved as the set went on, but the first couple songs were pretty rough. The guitarist, Billy Flynn, was a badass. He's playing all the guitar on the soundtrack to the upcoming Beyonce movie "Cadillac Records" - wow.

Second band. Four beers in. All Kalamazoos. Hey, I dig the stuff. Lil Ed and the Blues Imperials. Lil Ed is 5'4" and dressed all in red. Hilarious. But he's not just a cartoon character. These guys are the real deal. Two guitars, drums and a bass. Solid set. But the kicker...Buddy Guy shows up. In his Bill Cosby holiday sweater and red Doc Martens. He sang some ditty about trying to sassify a 19-year-old. Dirty. Funny. Creepy. Talent oozed from this 72-year-old dude. Amazing really.

After six beers, PJ and I mustered up the courage to go meet Mr. Guy. Here's the full exchange:
Me: Hey Buddy
Buddy: Hey guys, what's crackin?
Me: Love your place!
Buddy: Thanks guys. Thanks for coming.
Me: So you getting back up on stage tonight?
Buddy: Nah, gonna let Ed and the boys have the spotlight tonight. They deserve it.
Me: What's all this jive about the 19-year-old you're singing about? [opening can o' worms]
Buddy: Aw man, you don't even know. These young ones are impossible to handle!
Me: What do you mean?
Buddy: What do I mean? I mean, I only need one viagra with those! With any female my age, I need at least two!
[awkward silence]
Me: That right? Well...I don't need any viagra. No matter how old the girl is!
Buddy: Just wait my young brother.
Me: [changing subject] Say Buddy, what you drinking? [looking at the plastic cup filled to the brim with ice and a yellow liquid]
Buddy: This? Oh its a Heineken.
Me: But it has a ton of ice in it?
Buddy: Yep. Traveling around Europe drinking hot beer will make a man do some crazy things! So I had to put some damn ice in it. Haven't ever gone back. Beer just can't be cold enough to me.

And that was it. Easily the most famous person I've ever talked to. And here's proof. A) Buddy Guy on wiki, B)
The night ended with a cab ride to the park, where we parked 6 hours earlier. Freaking awesome Friday night in the windy city. Would highly consider doing it all over again.

Oh PowerBar, why can I not eat you?

You stare at me every morning from your dark home in my second desk drawer. Longing for me to choose you over the enemy, the almighty McMuffin. You tempt me with your shiny wrapper, your incredible self-portraits and your claims of physical prowess and well-being you might bring should I choose you over the warmer, more obvious breakfast option. Alas, I find myself hopelessly unable to test the waters with you. You are just beyond my taste bud spectrum I fear. In other words, it's not you, it's me. I'm afraid you might exceed your "Best if consumed by" date - or whatever you call it - and maybe I'm secretly looking forward to that day. You're reliable because you're always an option but you're probably too good to be true. You're just a temptress. Outer shell of chocolate, inner ingredients of fake nougat, coconut and some nuts I've never seen before. [insert TWSS here]. Taste of cardboard, old sawdust and the color brown. You do have one glimmer of hope. Maybe some day when a combination of variables come together, we will meet. Your perfect storm would include me running late for work, slightly hungover, no money, and a growling appetite. Then, you might meet your fate. Until then, keep praying that you can alter your Best if date, cuz I don't see it happening anytime soon.

Shameless plug for a cool new product

I'm sure most of you are familiar with what is typically referred to as a "coozie" - it is that wonderful invention that help keep your frothy brew chilly for 5 minutes longer than it would if left unsheathed. Well I have a new product that puts a nice spin onto this modern convenience. It's called Cap-a-Cooz. Check it out: www.capacooz.com. My buddies from college dreamed it up. See, if you're a fan of drinking brews out of bottles, as I am, its always a pain in the ass to have to find a bottle opener. Some inventions have come along help with this issue, like the credit card bottle opener, the board shorts bottle opener (which doubles as a wax comb), and the seldom used but always bragged about flip flop bottle opener.

Well, my friends, here's the newest way to open your beers. And keep them cool at the same time. $5.99+tax gets you one.

That's what she said in the elevator

I swear, maybe it's because it's my go-to humor injection to unfunny conversation, but I keep finding myself in the ultimate TWSS situations. See my post about voting last week.

I'm in the elevator this morning, and a co-worker and I are discussing our divergent breakfast habits. See, I prefer McDonald's most mornings, and she was carrying a McDonald's bag, so it was a natural conversation starter. Basically, she only gets McDonald's for one of two reasons: a) she's running late or b) she's out of milk at the office. She usually eats Crispix for breakfast, but she remembered that she was out of milk, hence the visit to Mickey D's for the sausage and egg bagel. She's a funny, loud redhead, known best for her laugh and running the annual March Madness pool at the office. So, whether she meant to say this or not, and I assume not, it will go down as one of the dirtier and most uncomfortable TWSS moments in my history of using the term. But it didn't stop me. Maybe it should have.

She was giving me her reasons for not wanting to eat cereal this morning, the last of which was "It's just not as good when it's dry."

Yep, that's what she said.

Monday is only one day

Unfortunately. And I've never said that before. But today is different. I had a restful Sunday, got some decent sleep, and just have an overwhelming sense of positive energy this morning. So now the trick is to parlay this on to the rest of the week. And then further. I'm going to try something today. Since I know several things that can alter my mood (positively and negatively), I'm going to avoid those today. I will stay away from the book of faces, I'm going to stay off gchat, and I'm going to focus on getting a head start on work for the week. Music, work, a good lunch, and an evening of tv (Chuck, Heroes, then some MNF). That should ensure Monday stays cool. One [good] day at a time.

An open letter to bartenders

I have a drinking problem. Surprisingly, I don't think the problem is that I drink too much. It's the consequences of my drinking actions that have me concerned. While I enjoy the process, the results are definitely not always equally enjoyable.

Which leads me to my main point. I cannot go at this alone. I need a sponsor, an ally in this war, someone to keep me accountable. I don't see anyone more fitting for this role than you Mr./Ms. Bartender. You can be my piano man right? No pressure. All you have to do is keep me focused. I don't need medication, just your dedication. If you could, keep me from staying until you turn the lights on. Don't let me help you stack the barstools. Don't let me have a to go cup. Don't let me tell the cab driver to take me to freedom. Or to his leader. Don't let me hide in the bathroom stall, hoping you'll leave soon and I can have the rest of the keg to myself. Don't allow me to continue spending money like I have it. I'll tip you better if you help me understand why I've ordered a round of shots for 14 people I don't know. Don't laugh at my jokes. Don't light my cigarettes (I'm still quitting). Don't allow me to declare "Late Night!" at any point. Don't let me use my weapon (phone or any other) after my fourth drink. Don't let me borrow yours because that would make our arrangement slightly uncomfortable. Don't refuse to tell me the woman I'm sitting next to is a trainwreck. In other words, don't rest on your laurels. Be proactive.

You see, we need each other. So let's start acting like the pals we've always been. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. Come on buddy, follow these helpful suggestions and you and me can lick this problem once and for all.