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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.