Friday, December 30, 2011

December 23-30, 2011: Happy New Year!

I can’t say that 2011 treated me particularly well, so what better way to flip it the bird than with a New Year’s Eve bash?
The party was actually Cassie’s idea. She conjured it a couple months ago with these words: “It will give us motivation to clean the house.”
Her logic escaped me. Consider:
1) Won’t the house be even more trashed after the party?
2) Won’t everyone be too loaded to differentiate between a dirty and clean house?
3) Our friends already know we’re slobs. Who are we fooling with this before-bash cleaning?
Of course, after nearly 20 years of marriage, you learn not to ask questions. Cassie’s idea seemed good—the party, not the cleaning—so I simply nodded my head in agreement.

December 23-27, 2011
Now it’s late December. New Year’s Eve is fast approaching, but we still have miles to travel before we get there.
Figuratively, I’m referring to the hustle and bustle of the holidays; literally, it’s the 736-mile drive to and from Cassie’s hometown of Cleveland. I’ve had a Cleveland Christmas each year of my married life, and the pattern has remained remarkably unchanged: We’re fed unfathomably large amounts of food at every turn, though never anything resembling a green vegetable. On Christmas Eve, we gather in Cassie’s parents’ living room to open presents.
Cassie’s dad has gotten himself into something of a pickle with the present-opening part. One year he bought Cassie’s mom expensive jewelry, another year he gave her a trip to a destination of her choice, and so on. Last year, however, he pulled out all the stops. We whisked Cassie’s mom off to Aunt Joyce’s under some bogus pretense, and when she returned, a Toyota Camry with a giant red bow on top was waiting for her in the garage.
So how can he possibly top the car-in-the-garage bit? He can’t. And wisely, he doesn’t even try. He takes a different route in 2011, spreading the holiday cheer around in equal measure by giving everyone an iPad (everyone being the Family Wagner, Cassie’s sister, her brother and her mom). This is Cassie’s mom’s introduction to the computer age, and she approaches it with a combination of fear and fascination. The rest of us jump right in. As I look around the living room at the whirl of iPad activity, a Christmas poem pops into my head:

’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Everyone got an iPad, including my spouse.
These iPads are spread by the chimney with care.
It’s as if St. Steve Jobs is standing right there.

Tuesday, December 27
We’re back from Cleveland, but we still have miles to travel. A messy house awaits us. The dining room table alone—Will Wagner HQ for the past few months—resembles Oscar Madison’s office. The house, however, is the least of our worries. Everyone in Cleveland was sick, and now Cassie and I are sick, too. How very fitting in what has become the Year of the Malady. (The good news is, my groin is holding up remarkably well, though my calf remains touch and go.)
There will be no cleaning this evening. Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, Cassie and I retire to bed.

Wednesday, December 28
I backburner the idea of cleaning today. Believe it or not, there’s more to my life than iPads and New Year’s Eve bashes—I actually have work to do. I soldier through editing a 3,600-word treatise on the Bomb (nothing like some light holiday fare to lift your spirits) before retreating to my bed to rest.
Cleaning just isn’t going to happen tonight either. I’m supposed to meet up with my Party Line friends, and there’s no way to gracefully bow out. (The Party Line, you might remember, is an email group composed of my cynical and perverse sportswriting cronies.) Wheezing and coughing and sniffling, I set out for the Edison Park Inn. These stooges are always good for some laughs, and for a few hours, I forget that I’m not well.

Thursday, December 29
I edit and rest, clean and rest, edit and rest, and then clean and rest. In between, an image of Cassie’s mom unexpectedly appears on our iPad. “What just happened?” she asks. “Did I just call you? Why did I call you?” Oh well. She’ll get the hang of the computer age soon enough.
My beloved basement bar.
Evening arrives, and it’s time for the most blessed of quests: I go to Binny’s Beverage Depot to stock up for our New Year’s Eve party. Pushing a cart up and down the aisles, I stop to admire the exotic bottles of liquor that are locked behind glass cases. I imagine choirs of angels singing as these bottles are cracked open.
Once home, I carefully place my provisions behind my basement bar. The bar is finally repaired following the flood that wiped it out over the summer—in fact, it has come back bigger and better than ever. I can’t wait to give it a test spin.

Friday, December 30
More editing, more cleaning. In between, Cole and I go over to my friend Bennett’s to pick up his foosball table. This turns out to be less of a fiasco than usual. Several years ago, for example, Bennett and I tried to move a 55-inch TV into his house; amid the grunting and the wobbling, we wedged it in the doorway and broke the screen.
At any rate, New Year’s Eve is almost upon us. We’re just about ready to launch 2011 into history with a big FU before chasing the glory that is sure to be 2012.


Monday, December 19, 2011

December 10-18, 2011: Happy Holidays!

Normally I’m too wrapped up in my daily life to do anything more than go through the motions during the holidays. And while some might claim I’m doing the same thing this year—especially Cassie, who, as usual, has handled most of the preparations—that’s really not the case. I’m all about the holidays in 2011. There’s nothing like a little adversity to help one strip away the bullshit and see everything for what it is.
I’m thankful for much this year—and in true holiday spirit, sentimentally so—including:

Christmas Music
Most years I cringe when Cassie breaks out her wholly uncool Christmas playlist, but not in 2011. In fact, I add to it. The emotions of the season overcome me, and I download some music by Canadian singer/songwriter Justin Hines, including “Say What You Will,” whose opening verse goes like this:

If I were to die today
My life would be more than okay
For the time I’ve spent you
Is like a dream come true

Nauseatingly schmaltzy? You bet…until you learn Hines’ backstory. His body bent up and broken by a genetic joint condition called Larsen’s syndrome, Hines has spent his life confined to a wheelchair. But he never let his disability destroy his spirit. He just kept moving forward—propelled, in part, by his passion for music—and in 2009, “Say What You Will” went to No. 1 in Canada and South Africa. In this context, not even the Grinch could hate Hines' music.

Friday, December 16, 2011
The Men and Women Serving Our Country
It might seem like a cliché, but let’s raise a glass to the troops. Lord knows, they deserve it. While the rest of us are at home debating whether we should max out our credit cards on Xboxes or PlayStation 3s, many of them are just trying to get by in some off-the-map hellhole.
I have a friend—we’ll call him the Colonel—who spent most of 2011 stationed in Iraq. When he was home on leave for a couple weeks over the summer, we met up for a beer. The Colonel didn’t look so good, and who could blame him? He told me about rockets flying into his camp and desert heat so intense that he could literally feel his eyeballs burning whenever he stepped outside. With the thought of having to return to Iraq bouncing around inside his head, the Colonel didn’t smile much that night.
Now, though, he’s home permanently, and when we meet up for a beer on this December evening, the Colonel is all smiles. Why wouldn’t he be? He made it back in one piece. As he and his wife are getting ready to leave at the end of the night, I give him a hug. I’m just so proud of the guy. And I’m grateful for the holiday reminder that there’s more to the word “sacrifice” than canceling HBO because you were recently been laid off from your job.

Saturday, December 17, 2011:
The Youth of America
These are troubled times, and a lot of people fear for the future of our country. Me? I’m not worried. I look around at Cole, Liv and their friends, and I see a nation that will be in capable hands. The fact is, these kids are much brighter and more accomplished than we ever were at their ages.
Take one of Cole’s classmates from grade school. We’ll call her Jane. During a local 5K race about five years ago, when Jane was all of nine, her dad tried his best to keep pace with her. Eventually, she moved so far ahead of him that he could no longer see her, and he wound up neck and neck with me. Suffice it to say, Jane crushed us by about five minutes. As her dad and I neared the finish line—sweating and panting and battling every step of the way—she was waiting there looking fresh as a daisy, like she had done nothing more strenuous that morning than brush her teeth. I vowed I’d outrun Jane the next year, but it didn’t happen. After that, I quit entering the race.
On this December evening, Jane is over at our house watching Will Ferrell movies with Cole and a bunch of his other friends. I remember Jane’s dad telling me that she had been taking guitar lessons, so when he picks her up at the end of the night, I offer to let her take my sacred Gibson SG for a test spin. I figure I’ll give her a few pointers once she’s done trying to play it.
 “It can be a tough guitar to play,” I tell her dad as we look on. “Pretty rugged.”
Moments after those words come out of my mouth, Jane whales out Metallica’s “Enter Sandman.” My SG rings as it has never rung—perhaps I should be asking her for the pointers.
I clear my throat and say as nonchalantly as possible, “That was…um…good.”
Yep, don’t count out America just yet. We still have plenty of fight left in us.

Sunday, December 18, 2011
And the Fam, of Course
Fluffy overseeing Christmas/Chanukah.
There’s nothing traditional about the Wagner Christmas. First, it doesn’t take place on Christmas. (Since we spend Christmas proper with Cassie’s family, we always carve out a day at our house beforehand with my parents and my sister.) Second, it’s not really even a celebration of Christmas. (My mom is Jewish, but Christmas was the holiday we marked growing up. Lately, however, she’s become wistful about her Jewish roots.) Our annual get-together is a Christmas/Chanukah hodgepodge—a lighted tree here, a lighted menorah there. (Strange, yes, but it works for us.)
We open presents. (Not as many this year due to economic circumstances, but the kids don’t seem to mind.) I complement the gift opening by playing “Greensleeves” on my acoustic guitar. (Everyone tries hard to ignore it.) We recite Jewish prayers before eating a feast. (My mom becomes wistful.) We all cram onto a couch in the basement and watch Love Actually. (It’s a touching movie about the many manifestations of love.)
By the end of Christmas/Chanukah 2011, I feel pretty damn lucky. I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it’s a wonderful life—sometimes it kind of sucks—but it’s a life nonetheless. I’m still here, and where there’s life, there’s hope.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

December 5-December 9, 2011: More of the Same

Monday December 5, 2011
When I started this blog, I was fully aware that I’d have to be sincere and candid for it to ring true. How was I to know, however, that my subject matter would get so weird? If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this outcome, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.
So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because the window behind me is cracked open. And exactly why is the window cracked open? To accommodate the social needs of a feral cat named Snowball.
Snowball chilling on the windowsill.
See, our cat issues go way beyond the inside of our house. As Fluffy admires himself while luxuriating on a feather blanket, and the rest of our cats do what they must to stay in his good graces, a parallel feline universe is flickering outside. At some point after I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Snowball (named such because she’s a white ball of fur) started hanging out on the windowsill outside the dining room. She drops by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.
But it doesn’t end there. God no. When I walk to the other side of the house and gaze out at the patio through a set of sliding doors in the breezeway, sometimes l see a strikingly regal cat (Magnificent Cat), a rough-and-tumble gray cat (Grey) or a tiny black cat (Blackie). They drop by to chatter at me and perhaps procure just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast.
Back at the dining room table, I’m getting colder by the minute. Cracking the window open wasn’t a big deal in September, but now that winter is upon us, it’s a frosty proposition. What better way to warm up than to go for a lunchtime run around the perimeter of the golf course? I haven’t jogged since I tore up my groin playing racquetball a few weeks ago with my friend Bennett, but the injury seems to have healed. I’m ready to let loose.
As I gallop down some side streets along the golf course and turn onto a busy stretch of road, my groin feels great. In fact, I don’t give it a second thought—especially after I feel a painful pull in my right calf that causes me to pull up lame. “I can’t believe it,” I mutter to myself. “Yet another injury.” Unshowered and unshaven, clad in a particularly tattered set of sweats and cursing under my breath, I hobble onward with all the dignity of a homeless person. I figure it’s only a matter of time before a squad car pulls up and takes me away, but I make it back to my blustery dining room table without incident.
“This is starting to get ridiculous,” I say to Cassie of my mounting injuries.
She rolls her eyes and says, “What do you expect? You’re 50.”
“Forty-seven,” I remind her.
“Same thing,” she says.
Either way, I’m not ready to concede anything to aging. I attribute the sudden and systematic breakdown of my body to a run of bad luck that started when I was laid off from Crushed Soul. It’ll pass—and I’ll be able work out as vigorously as ever.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Why wait for this storm cloud to pass? I decide to take the initiative and push the damn thing out of the way.
My lower body might be shot, but I’m good to go from the waist up, so I head to the Y to lift weights. Included in my regimen is an endorphin-releasing bench-press exercise I’ve performed for over a decade without as much as a twinge: two sets of 10 reps at 225 pounds, one set of five to seven reps at 275 pounds, one set of three to four reps at 295 pounds and one set of two to three reps at 315 pounds. As I pump through my first set at 225 pounds, I’m feeling fit and virile, until there’s a pull in my right triceps that’s identical to what I experienced in my right calf a couple days earlier.
Now my upper body is shot, too. Fifty, I hear Cassie say in my head as I go home in defeat yet again.

Thursday, December 8, 2011
Whenever Cassie reads these entries, she reminds me that this is supposed to be a career-oriented blog—hence, the title—and that it might be nice if I wrote about my work situation every once in a while. Problem is, blogging about job stuff can become tiresome, especially after three-plus months. If I had thought things through, I might have foreseen this dilemma, but I didn’t think—I just wrote—and it’s too late to turn back now.
Suffice it to say, I’m in career purgatory right now—I’m neither unemployed nor employed. I’m just trying to stay afloat doing freelance projects until (1) a suitable full-time job materializes or (2) I grow my freelance business to the point where that is my full-time job. Fortunately, I have some promising irons in the fire, though I don’t want to get into specifics for fear of jinxing them. (Being sincere and candid can only go so far.)

Friday, December 9, 2011
So here I am, shivering at my dining room table because I have the window cracked open for Snowball, who has stopped by for some conversation and perhaps just a smidgen of Meow Mix and Fancy Feast. For the sake of art, or whatever this is, I’ve written another brutally honest (and mostly embarrassing) blog entry—especially where Snowball, Magnificent Cat and the rest of the feral gang are concerned. I just hope our neighbors don’t read this one.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

November 27-December 3: The Twilight Phenomenon

Sunday, November 27, 2011
Cassie and I have left Captiva Island for the cold and gloom of Chicago, and there’s only one thing to do to lift our spirits: see the new Twilight movie, Breaking Dawn, Part I. For those who aren’t in the know, the Twilight movies are based on four bestselling books by Stephenie Meyer that focus on the goings-on of vampires, werwolves and the like in remote Forks, Wash. At the center of this saga is the forbidden romance between Edward (the vampire with a non-beating heart of gold) and Bella (the awkward human teenager who doesn’t feel as if she fits in among her own species).
The cardboard cutouts of Edward
in Cassie's basement office.
Twilight’s target audience is adolescent girls, but it turns out that a surprisingly large number of middle-aged women have also jumped on the vampire train, including my wife. She’s read all four books multiple times and has seen the movies more times than anyone cant count. Her basement office is decorated with all manner of Twilight memorabilia, highlighted by two life-sized cardboard cutouts of Edward. Like so many other teenyboppers and whacked-out moms around the world, Cassie has a massive crush on Edward. Sometimes I’m asked if it bugs me that my wife is in love with a vampire. No, I say. I’m delighted.
Why wouldn’t I be? In July 2008, Cassie’s little brother was killed in a motorcycle accident. Cassie spent the ensuing months in a fog. In fact, she became a little like a vampire herself: not dead, but not really alive either. Merely going through the day-to-day motions, she was a shadow of herself. In May 2009, Cassie and her mom took a trip to Paris for Mother’s Day. They had a blast—who wouldn’t have a blast in Gay Paree?—but Cassie still had that faraway countenance when she came home.
Enter Edward and company. One night while Cassie and her mom were in Paris, Liv wanted to watch a movie I had never heard of, something called Twilight. Though I fully expected this Twilight flick to suck, I agreed—anything to entertain the kiddies. To my surprise, I was engaged all the way through, so much so that when Cassie returned Stateside, I suggested we watch it.
The transformation was nothing short of miraculous. As the movie played on, it was as if I could see the color returning to Cassie’s face. The next day, she began reading the first book in the Twilight series, and within a week, she had finished all four installments. In between her reading, she watched the movie several more times and purchased the soundtrack, which she listened to incessantly.
Crazy? Of course—Cassie herself laughingly admits as much. The point, however, is this: I was just glad to see something—anything—capture her imagination. Ironically, it was a tale of the undead that provided a spark and helped to bring my wife back to the land of the living. Yes, Cassie was still grieving the loss of her brother, but before long, she was her old self again: feisty, energetic and ready to plow through life’s obstacles without thinking too much about them.
So when we return from Captiva and Cassie wants to cap off the vacation by screening Breaking Dawn, I happily oblige. I, too, like this Edward character. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a savior. (Incidentally, this is the second time Cassie has seen Breaking Dawn. Before we left for Captiva, she, some other whacked-out moms and Liv went to a 10-hour Twilight marathon that culminated with the premiere of Breaking Dawn at midnight.)

Monday, November 28-Saturday, December 3
Our vacation quickly recedes into history. For one, the weather in Chicago is a far cry from those bright and sunny days on Captiva Island. I return to my routine of resurrecting my career, and Cassie works away amid the Twilight knickknacks in her basement office.
Come Saturday, we’re in need of some quality relaxation time together. What do we do? You guessed it: We go see Breaking Dawn again.

Monday, November 28, 2011

November 19-26, 2011: Captiva Island


November 19, 2011
Nothing breaks up a ho-hum routine quite like a vacation, even if that vacation is a routine in itself. Today I depart for Captiva Island in Florida, as I’ve done around this time almost every year since 1989.
Captiva Island is the antithesis of, say, South Beach on the other side of the state—it’s a hideaway where peace, quiet and relaxation reign. Considering our cast of characters—my parents, my brother and his family, my sister, my brood and the odd cousin or friend—that’s the perfect speed. After all, cruising the South Beach strip with my 79-year-old dad would be just plain weird.
We’ve rented houses in the same development every year—and why not? In addition to being idyllically situated on the shores of the gulf, it has tennis courts, a swimming pool, grills and proximity to the Island Store (where, remarkably, you’re not pissed off about paying five bucks for a gallon of milk) and awesome restaurants like the Mucky Duck and the Bubble Room.
We do astonishingly little on our Captiva trips. A typical day goes like this:
• Wake up
• Go to the pool to lounge
• Eat lunch
• Play tennis (a dicey proposition this year due to my gimpy groin)
• Go to the beach to play Frisbee (dicey), swim and lounge some more
• Go back to the house to assemble our provisions for cocktail hour
• Tote our cocktail-hour provisions to the beach, where we lounge while watching the sunset
• Cook dinner on one of the grills
• Eat dinner
• Lounge
• Sleep
Unlike my pale and pasty march toward oblivion up north in Chicagoland, my Captiva routine never gets old.
This year, however, I’m just not up for it. Given my state of flux, the last thing I feel I deserve right now is a vacation. Nevertheless, most of it was paid for long ago, and Cassie and the kids would be crushed if we didn’t go, so I suck it up and fly off to paradise.
It proves to be a worthwhile journey. There are lessons to be learned, even after all these years:

November 22, 2011
The Best-laid Plans…
I love the sense of fellowship at the grills. Over the years, I’ve befriended people from all corners of the United States as various meats have been sizzling in the Captiva night, most notably a highly skilled group from Missouri. These guys had mastered the black art of “low-heat cooking,” meaning they’d spend well over an hour emptying their cooler and philosophizing about the goings-on in the world while their families waited patiently back at the houses for dinner to arrive.
Tonight Cole is my wingman, and our grillmates are two amiable gents from San Antonio, Texas. The Family Wagner has gone casual with burgers and chicken breasts, which is a little embarrassing because the Texans are pulling out every conceivable stop: succulent shrimp and steaks complemented by artfully seasoned potatoes. The middle-aged one works the grill like Renoir worked a canvas, and the older one sips a drink and chats with us about this and that. When their food is ready, the middle-aged man carefully arranges it on a tray. He’s rightfully proud, as this is a gastronomical masterpiece.
“Take care,” they say before heading back to their house.
“You, too,” I respond. “Enjoy.”
Thirty or so seconds later, I hear a crash…and a groan.
“What happened?” asks Cole, too young and innocent to know tragedy when he hears it.
“He dropped their dinner, son,” I say. The pained expression on my face belies my gentle and reassuring tone.
Cole and I take a roundabout way to our house in order to avoid passing the Texans. We don’t want them to know that we know—the least we can do at a time like this is allow them to maintain what’s left of their dignity. From a distance, I see the middle-aged man on his knees, picking up sand-covered pieces of shrimp, steak and potato.
“What are they going to do?” Cole asks, aghast.
“Salvage as much as possible,” I answer. “It’s all they can do.”
Really, it’s all any of us can do when circumstances knock us to our knees.

November 23, 2011
Life Goes On…
Each year, we charter a boat and spend half a day fishing—it’s one of our most sacred Captiva traditions. Captain Bob was our guide until he retired in 2008, at which time we turned to Captain Butch, a mountain of a man with a ZZ Top beard. Part fisherman, part teacher and part Captiva historian, Captain Butch is truly special. We’ve had record hauls of fish under Captain Butch’s watch (including a shark), and he’s the one who showed Liv the finer points of baiting a hook and using the reel. All the while, he has regaled us with island lore.
Captain Butch giving Liv a fishing lesson.
My parents usually arrive at Captiva a few days before everyone else, and this year they relay shocking news back to us in Chicago: Butch is dead. He was diagnosed with cancer in February and succumbed to it a few months later. Apparently, a flotilla delivered his ashes to the gulf he loved so dearly.
I break the news to Cole. After a few silent, somber and reflective moments, he looks up at me from his video game and asks, “Who’s taking us fishing this year?”
I break the news to Liv. After a few silent, somber and reflective moments, she looks up at me from her book and asks, “Who’s taking us fishing this year?”
It’s a legitimate question, I guess. Although I’m not sure I want to fish this year without Captain Butch, a tradition is a tradition, and my dad has already found a new guide. We’ll call him Captain Rod, a perfect pseudonym on a couple different levels.
We arrive at the dock a few minutes before our scheduled departure time of 8 a.m. By 8:45, I’ve learned that Captain Rod isn’t big on small talk (or any other kind of talk), and smiling isn’t his thing either. I don’t know about this new guide, I think as we motor toward the deep water. Seems like kind of a jackass. Soon, however, I see things differently. By about 9:15, after he’s anchored the boat six miles from shore, I’ve learned something else about Captain Rod: He sure as hell knows where to find the fish.
We spend a rapturous morning reeling in lunker after lunker. During a particularly animated 15-minute stretch, my dad catches groupers weighing 12, 14 and 15 pounds. Even Captain Rod smiles when the 15-pounder is brought aboard. Cassie smiles, too, which is equally amazing since she hates everything about fish. Cassie has never been on one of these excursions—in fact, she’s never fished, period—but she tagged along today, figuring she’d just read and soak up some sun. Before long, however, she has abandoned The Hunger Games for a fishing pole and is catching her own lunkers.
All told, we catch around 60 fish, 33 of which are big enough to keep. It’s easily the most bountiful excursion we’ve ever had. As Cole and I prepare our fishy feast at the grills, I raise a can of beer into the night air and take a hearty swig in honor of Captain Butch. I then raise the can again and take another hearty swig, this time in honor of our new friend, Captain Rod.


November 24-26, 2011
Listen to the Dude from the Beer Commercial and Find Your Beach
I spend the rest of the week following the soothing rhythm of the island:
• Pool lounging
• Tennis (in a stunning turn of events, not-so-dicey by the final day)
• Beach lounging
• Cocktail hour/sunset
• Grilling
• Eating/lounging
For the first time since being laid off from Crushed Soul, my mind is clear and reenergized. Just a week earlier, I felt guilty about this Captiva trip, but not anymore. I’ve seen the light: Life is tough, and everyone deserves a vacation. God willing, we’ll all be back here next year.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

November 11-16, 2011: The Dissection of a Routine

If you want a real eye opener, start a blog that chronicles your day-to-day existence. Chances are, you’ll discover that your routine is stupefying.
How’s this for mundane?

Friday, November 11
• I spend the morning at the dining room table, swilling instant coffee (since my exit from Crushed Soul, I’ve gone through a canister that makes, like, 287 cups), grinding through freelance projects and dabbling at networking.
• At lunchtime, I go to the Y and exercise with extreme caution so that I don’t inflame my gimpy groin.
• I return to my dining room table, where I swill instant coffee, grind through freelance projects and dabble at networking.
• I pick up Cole at school. On the way home, he calls my parenting into question because I won’t let him download rap songs from a suspect website.
• My friend Steve Pleli’s wife, Jane, is hosting a candle party or some such thing, and I go to their house to help Steve tend bar. This is a high point: I consume Steve’s provisions and chat with the delightful assortment of candle buyers.
• After getting home, I fall asleep while watching the world implode on CNN.

Saturday, November 12
• I spend the morning at the dining room table, swilling instant coffee, grinding through freelance projects and writing a song on my acoustic guitar that’s tentatively titled “Take Me Back.”
• At lunchtime, I go to the Y and exercise with extreme caution.
• I return to my dining room table, where I swill instant coffee, grind through freelance projects and record “Take Me Back” using my trusty TASCAM.
• As is our bimonthly tradition, Cassie and I go to a local tavern to meet up with some friends from our old neighborhood. This is another high point: We laugh all night, especially when we swap stories about the challenges of raising adolescent children.
• After getting home, I fall asleep while watching the world implode on CNN.

Sunday, November 13
• I spend the morning at the dining room table, swilling instant coffee, grinding through freelance projects and working on my novel, tentatively titled Harmony and Havoc: The Untold Journey of Pete Townshend’s Woodstock Guitar.
• Liv and I venture to the Y for an Indian Princess activity: kickboxing and yoga. This is not a high point, though only because gimpy groins and kickboxing/yoga aren’t a stellar combination.
• That night, I fall asleep while watching the world implode on CNN.

Monday, November 14
 Coffee swilling. Freelance grinding. Network dabbling.
• Cautious exercise.
• Cart kids to and fro. Parenting called into question due to restrictions I've imposed for this and for that.
• World implodes on CNN.

Tuesday, November 15
 Swilling. Grinding. Dabbling.
• We meet with Cole’s high school guidance counselor. This is a high point: She tells us Cole is terrific.
• Gimpy groin.
• Cart kids. Lousy parent.
• World implodes.

Wednesday, November 16
• Amid the swilling, grinding and dabbling, there’s some excitement: Our friend DC has a dog-walking business, and she stops by with a Husky in tow to pick something up from Cassie. Since Fluffy is a world-renowned tough guy, I figure he might want to gaze outside at this canine visitor, and I carry him to the door. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t try to burst through the storm window and go after this pantywaist Husky. Instead, he runs the other way—retreats, for crying out loud—as fast as he can. A few minutes later, his street cred is further diminished when he has an anxiety-induced asthma attack, which only a heaping plate of Fancy Feast can cure.
• My groin seems to be on the mend, and I exercise a little less cautiously at the Y. I’ll be back on the racquetball court with Bennett before I know it.
• Cart the kids. My parenting sucks.
• World implodes.

Pathetic as it may seem, that’s pretty much a week in my life circa fall 2011. But before you think, Wow, this guy’s a real tool, I dare you to chart your own routine for a typical week. You might be shocked by your findings. Whether we commute downtown or to our dining room table, whether we spend our days at an office or at home, we’re all creatures of habit.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

November 4-7, 2011: Racquetball, Anyone?

November 4-5, 2011
I feel great, fantastic, wonderful, and any other adjective that can be used to describe the splendor of the human condition. My toothache has receded into history, and my bad back has turned good again. No more tedious talk of aches and pains on this blog—no, sir. From here on, it’s all about ass-kicking.
And maybe a little racquetball.

November 6, 2011
My friend Bennett and I have been playing racquetball semi-regularly for about the past 15 years. I approach each of our matches with a combination of glee and dread—glee because racquetball is a blast, dread because the matches always seem to become harrowing tests of will. Consider: We’re both at roughly the same skill level; we’re both relatively quick and, thus, can get to most balls; and we’re both highly competitive. The result is that our points are painfully long and intense. By the end of our racquetball outings, I’m often so soaked with sweat that I can’t get my shirt off.
We’re not as spry as we used to be, but we’re actually in better shape. The passing of time has taught us that we’re not invincible, so we’ve both shed some pounds and some bad habits. We’ve also become wiser. Rather than dive for shots we have little chance of returning, we sometimes just let them go. This sort of mature restraint, we've noted, prevents us from winding up with floor burns on our faces.
Given my laundry list of infirmities the past couple months, Bennett and I haven’t been playing racquetball. But like I said, I’m better now. I’m feeling so robust, in fact, that it’s time to reignite our rivalry. I drive to Bennett’s house, say hi to his trusty dog Bruno, and roust him from his near-slumber on the couch.
“Ready?” I ask, eyeing him intensely.
“Yes,” he answers, eyeing me equally intensely, or maybe just sleepily.
First, though, Bennett must find his racket. He scours his garage—no luck. He scours his family room—no luck. He scours his bedroom—no luck. After several more minutes of scouring, he finds it in the food pantry. Of course—who wouldn’t store a racket in the food pantry?
It’s off to the Y, and I’m jacked. As we wage an epic battle in the first game, I’m in top form. I’m getting to nearly everything, and I’m confounding Bennett with craftily placed balls in the corners of the court. Even though I choke in the end—I blow an 11-6 lead and lose 15-12—I’m not mad.
“That was the best racquetball we’ve played in a long time,” I say between games. “I’ll put us up against anyone our age.”
Indeed, I’m raring to go, so much so that I jump out to a 3-0 lead in the second game. I’m moving my feet like a man half my age, I’m hitting the ball with power and precision, and I’m anticipating Bennett’s shots.
It’s glorious.
As I stretch for a backhand on yet another hard-fought point, I’m taking no prisoners. I’m the very definition of determination…right up until I feel a pop in my groin and fall to the floor in agony.
“You all right, Wags?” I hear Bennett say.
Facedown on the hardwood, I yelp, “No…my groin…fuck.”
“What happened?” he asks.
“Groin…fuck,” I respond with clenched teeth.
“You want some help getting up?” Bennett inquires.
“Fuck…groin.”
After a few minutes, the pain subsides slightly. Bennett helps me to my feet, and I say, “Let’s try to keep playing.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I was having too much fun to quit.”
Plus, I’m winning.
I stand there waiting for Bennett to serve. I can move neither left nor right, neither forward nor backward—I’m a statue.
“On second thought, maybe I’m done,” I finally concede.

November 7, 2011
I’m trying to get dressed so that I can make my morning commute to the dining room table, but this proves difficult due to my gimpy groin. Luckily, Cassie is kind enough to put my socks on for me. (My kids, ingrates that they are, refused.)
“I just had a scary premonition,” she says. “Is this what old age will be like?”
Wow, that is a scary thought. I wanted this blog entry to be about redemption and pride and ass-kicking and the like—but no. Instead, it ends with my wife putting my socks on because I can’t bend over. If real life doesn’t deliver me some better blog material in a hurry, I’m going to have to start making stuff up.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Smokin' Joe Frazier

As you probably know, Joe Frazier, the former heavyweight champ, died last night. Back in the day, in 1996 or 1997, I went out to Philadelphia to do a story on Frazier. I really liked Frazier—he was a prince of a man—so I thought I'd share the story I wrote: Still Swinging.

The famed artist Ed Paschke painted this
picture of Frazier to be used as the lead
illustration in my story. This is a copy of it,
which hangs in my basement.

Friday, November 4, 2011

November 3, 2011: The Moment of Truth

I wake with a start, and my eyes snap open. The clock reads 4:11. For the next hour or so, I toss and turn and toss some more. In my mind, music from The Doors’ “The End” is playing and scenes of the jungle being blown up in Apocalypse Now are flickering.
“This is the end [Boom!], beautiful friend. This is the end [Boom! Boom! Boom!], my only friend, the end.”
Ostensibly, I’m worried about my future. I rise from my bed, go to the dining room table, and compose a letter to a headhunter, which I send into the ether at 5:57 a.m. But really, who am I fooling? Here’s the primary source of my anxiety attack: My root canal is scheduled for this morning.
Truth be told, I’m not even sure what a root canal is, though I’m positive that any medical procedure involving the word “canal” can’t be good. I take to the Party Line. (For those who don’t remember or just don’t care, the Party Line is an email group consisting of me and several of my former sportswriting colleagues.) I don’t know why I find comfort in emailing these boobs during times like this, but I do.
• 6:40 a.m.: “The bell is about to toll for Wild Bill Wagner. In less than two hours, I shall be in a dentist’s chair.”
A little later, a Party Liner responds: “Godspeed, Bilgronymous. Holy shit, this one’s touch and go.”
Indeed.
I noodle around on some freelance work, then return to the Party Line:
• 7:27 a.m.: “He’s a dentist I’ve never used, some sort of root-canal specialist. I’m sure he’s a butcher.”
• 7:29 a.m.: “I suspect this will be like the medical procedures on Civil War battlefields, where doctors gave the wounded only a belt of whiskey before cutting into them.”
The pre-procedure Party Line theatrics both amuse me and calm my nerves, as I knew they would. Speaking of nerves, the dentist tells me about the ins and outs of a root canal after I slide into his chair: Essentially, he’ll be “plumbing” (his word) inside little canals within my tooth in order to remove infected nerves. It sounds gross, which is why I didn’t want to learn the particulars in the first place.
Before the plumbing can commence, the dentist numbs my mouth with a seemingly never-ending series of shots. This is where things take a turn for the worse. Some people are terrified of flying; others are terrified of snakes. My phobia is needles, especially the massive ones used by dentists.
While waiting for the novocaine to take full effect, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. “Too much coffee,” I mutter to no one in particular as I stagger down the hallway.
I begin to feel lightheaded as I stand in the john, though I am able to punch out a couple text messages to the Party Line:
• “Gave me five shots. I honestly am about to faint. Crap.”
• “Beads of sweat on my forehead.”
A Party Line comrade responds to my SOS thusly: “Buck up, you flaming Mary.”
I make it back to the dentist’s chair, where I feel compelled to explain myself via another text message: “I have a needle phobia. My Achilles’ heel.”
To which he responds: “Just close your eyes and picture swimming nude with Erin Burnett.”
Somehow that works. The lightheadedness subsides, and I get through the 90-minute procedure with relative ease.
As I drive home, I think about my blog. Now that the big root canal is done, what’s left to write about going forward? There’s always Fluffy, I suppose, but what if nothing interesting happens in his life? I might be forced to write about—dare I even suggest it?—my job search. Nah. What fun would that be?

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

October 29-November 1, 2011: Working Hard, Hardly Working


Working from home has its challenges, sometimes more so than others. I’m in a “more so” period.

Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday is no day of rest for me, even though I could use some after attending a rollicking Halloween bash at our friends the Grays last night. I’m trying to catch up on a freelance project, and I make good progress until several of Liv’s classmates show up to finish producing a movie for school. They’re shooting their version of The Hunger Games, a book series that is apparently all the rage.
Though they rambunctiously turn the rooms surrounding my dining room table into a movie set, I soldier on valiantly. I weather the thumping and the running; I withstand the yelling and the cries of “Action!” Ultimately, however, my stabs at productivity prove to be fruitless. The girls need my computer to edit their masterpiece, so I barricade myself in my bedroom and watch The Rite, in which Anthony Hopkins plays a possessed priest. The movie is nothing special, but at least Hopkins is quietly possessed.

Monday, October 31, 2011
Today is Halloween, and I’m scared. My deadline for this freelance project is looming, but my work isn’t exactly going smoothly because of all the excitement whirling around me at the dining room table. Liv has invited a dozen or so friends over for trick-or-treating and some arrive early to have an audience with Fluffy. Since Fluffy happens to be seated next to my computer, the girls form an impromptu line there and wait excitedly to pet His Magnificence and perhaps receive a ceremonial bite on the hand. All the while, I ponder the whereabouts of the first-aid kit.
My worries are unfounded: Fluffy doesn’t hurt anyone. Liv and her friends leave to go trick-or-treating, and I race to finish my freelance project before they return.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011
A new freelance deadline looms, and a new distraction vexes me. This one dates back to a Friday night in July, when a biblical rainstorm caused my basement to flood. I should have taken it as a sign—stormy times are ahead—but I didn’t. I simply tore up the waterlogged flooring and headed back to work the following Monday.
By September, I had no job to go to on Mondays and still no flooring in my basement. Luckily, our insurance company paid for the basement damage, but since so many people were hit by the storm, the earliest our waterproofer and contractor could get here is now. Not that I’m complaining. If I’ve learned anything the past two months, it’s that fixing stuff can take time, be it a basement or a career.
Over the ear-shattering din of the power tools and hammering below, I quietly type away at the dining room table. Yes, the repairs are underway.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

October 24-28, 2011: My Message to President Obama

Thanks to Blogger’s meticulous recordkeeping, I know Unemployment Lines has an inexplicably sizable following in Russia. I know I have a smattering of readers in Italy, France, the United Kingdom, Germany, Canada and Puerto Rico, as well as a few loyal quacks in Malaysia, China and Pakistan.
I’ve also learned that there are many Democrats in my readership, though this information came to me in a much more personal way than Blogger’s pie charts. When the Obama campaign posted on Facebook that it is looking for editors and writers, a gaggle of wonderful people forwarded me the news.
Liv taking in Obama's election-night rally.
Thus far on my blog, I’ve avoided talking about politics at all costs. It’s a divisive topic—especially these days—and I haven’t wanted to come off as a raving political lunatic. I’ve been content merely to come off as a raving lunatic in general, which is why I’ve limited my focus to matters such as my cat Fluffy, my ailments, my guitar and, of course, my lack of a job.
But after the outpouring of goodwill from my readers, it’s time to come clean: Thank you for the heads up on the job openings because, yes, I’m a staunch supporter of Barack Obama. In 2008, I even took my family to Chicago’s Grant Park for the election-night rally. Though an eight-year-old Liv was asleep on the infield dirt of a softball diamond when it was announced that Obama had been elected the 44th president, at least she’ll always be able to say she was part of history.
Things haven’t worked out as planned for either Obama or the country—he walked into an absolute shitstorm, and the absolute shitstorm remains. And for me, the irony is that I lost my job during the administration of this man I so admire.
But I still believe—I still think he’s the one who can lead us out of this mess. Plus, I need a job. (I love it when idealism and pragmatism coalesce.)
So I have a message for you, President Obama: I’m ready, willing and more than able to lend my talents to the cause. View me as the first step in your jobs-recovery plan.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

October 18-23, 2011: Aches and Pains


Tuesday, October 18
Maybe I got carried away with the Rocky stuff in my last blog entry. The fact is, I’m nicked up. I still plan to reach the top of those museum steps, but a couple people may have to carry me up there.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you may have inferred that I’m prone to psychosomatic illnesses. While I fully admit to having an active imagination—why should an achy shoulder be an achy shoulder when it could just as easily be shoulder cancer?—I swear my recent maladies are real. This transitional period in my so-called career hasn’t agreed with my body.
Just today, I wake up in the wee hours of the morning with the toothache I had so dreaded. Remember how my dentist had said I would “know” if I needed a root canal? Well, this is the big one—I “know.”
And then I don’t. As if to taunt me, the blasted thing goes away as suddenly as it came.
I forget about it and move on to bigger and better issues.

Wednesday, October 19
Right now, as you read my blog, you may be asking yourself the following question: What kind of weenie is this guy?
Let me clear up any possible misconceptions: I’m no weenie. Consider: Rain or shine, I work out five times a week, lifting weights and doing cardio. I’m strong, robust, and youthful. You would never guess by looking at me that I’m 47 years old.
Actually, today you might. As I’m running my beloved lunchtime circuit around the perimeter of the golf course, I’m tripped up by a sprinkler head that’s insidiously hidden under some leaves by the edge of the sidewalk. Before I know what’s what, I’m sprawled across the pavement. My right knee is bloodied, my right elbow is battered, and my ego is bruised. Hobbling through the remainder of my circuit, I’m hardly the picture of youthful exuberance.

Thursday, October 20
Today my back is also killing me, and I don’t know why. I do, however, have two theories:
• It’s an aftershock from my lunchtime running spill.
• It’s an aftershock from Frisbee. Cole and I spent a lot of time over the weekend playing Frisbee, and I showed the lad the meaning of the word “hustle” as I chased down some of his errant throws and made spectacular grabs. In the process, however, I twisted my body in ways a middle-aged body isn’t supposed to be twisted.
As compelling as those theories are, they miss the mark. Midway through my day of freelance work, as my back continues to tighten, I realize that the culprit is the dining room table, which has served as my home office for the past six weeks. Dining room tables are built for eating meals—they’re not ergonomically designed to be desks. Nevertheless, the inescapable truth is that I’ve suffered a typing injury. Maybe I am a weenie after all.

Friday, October 21
By evening, I just want some tranquility, but it remains elusive. I can’t find a position on my bed that doesn’t aggravate my back, and when I finally do, my battered elbow is placed awkwardly. At least my tooth doesn’t hurt.

Saturday, October 22
Before I was laid off from Crushed Soul, Cassie bought a Groupon for a one-night stay at a quaint spot in Lake Geneva, Wis., called the Geneva Inn. Today we’re using cashing it in. The getaway is perfectly timed—I imagine it will do my aching body and frayed mind some good.
It does. We go for a long, peaceful walk along the lake (which is good for my body, even if I’m shuffling along like Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame). And we drink a bunch of beer (which is good for my mind because it numbs pretty much everything). We even run into our friends the Plelis, who are up here for a work function. They’re the ones, remember, who gave me the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label (which was delightfully good for both my body and my mind). All in all, I’m feeling revitalized.

Sunday, October 23
The feeling lasts roughly six hours. I wake up in the middle of the night with a killer headache—not because of the beer I drank but because of my cursed tooth. As I toss and turn, I resolve to call the dentist and sign up for a root canal, find a place to work that won't wreak havoc on my back, and see to it that no other body parts stop working. Who knew that career reinvention is a contact sport?