January 22-28, 2012: Shop Talk

It occurs to me that I’ve devoted a lot of space on this blog lately to talk of Fluffy and cigarettes and the holidays and dirty dishes and the electric guitar and Twilight and iPads—you name it. Looking back, I’ve covered an impressive amount of ground.

But there’s an elephant in the ether, and it’s not the morbidly obese Fluffy. I’m referring to—grimace, grimace—my employment situation, which seems to be the one topic that isn’t broached on Unemployment Lines. By now, you might find this omission to be disconcerting. Maybe you think I’ve given up. Or worse, gone mad.

And while those are both plausible theories, they’re wrong. I’m not writing this entry from the loony bin—I’m at my usual spot at the end of the dining room table—and giving up is never an option. On the contrary, I’m on the rebound. At least I think I am. Maybe.

It’s merely been a matter of adjusting my definition of the word career. Some background: In the aftermath of my unceremonious exit from Crushed Soul, my spirits were understandably low. What I really wanted to do was crawl under the covers and sulk for the next 16 to 20 months, but my family needed me—you know the drill: mouths to feed, bills to pay—so I lurched forth.

The first painful steps involved reaching out to people I’d met through the course of my career who I thought could help me. Those interactions went something like this:

ME: (small talk)

PERSON I’D MET: (small talk)

ME: (heart of the matter)

PERSON I’D MET: (heart of the matter)

ME: “Well, let me know if you think of something.”

PERSON I’D MET: “I will.”

I’m no dummy. Times are tough all around, and I was pretty sure nothing would come of these conversations. Still, I had no choice but to keep lurching forth. At one point, I reached out to a former colleague whom we’ll call Andy.

ME: (small talk)

ANDY: (small talk)

ME: (heart of the matter)

ANDY: (heart of the matter)

ME: “Well, let me know if you think of something.”

ANDY: “I will.”

Now, the weird thing about this particular conversation is that Andy actually thought of something. He called me back a few days later and said, “Yeah, I have some work for you.” As fate would have it, he was part of a new venture, and he wanted me to do some writing for it.

At first, it didn’t amount to much—certainly not anything that would even begin to cover my mortgage. Slowly but surely, however, this little venture has been growing, and now I’m building and managing and editorial group for him. Though it still hasn’t taken me where I need to be financially, I’m starting to see that it has real potential. At least I think it does. Maybe.

Along the way, I’ve garnered other freelance gigs (while continuing to scour the landscape for a suitable full-time job, of course). Sometimes this piecemeal approach seems pretty tenuous; other times it feels like the safest route. I mean, when I worked at Crushed Soul, I had zero control over my destiny—it was in the hands of people I barely knew over in the corner offices. Now I’m the guy in the corner office—or at least at the corner of the dining room table—and I’m not flying blind.

So maybe this is my new career. Who knows? Either way, I’m on the rebound. At least I think I am. Maybe.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

October 14-18, 2011: Of Rocky, Muddy, Fluffy and Toothaches

Friday, October 14

I cram Fluffy into his cat carrier, a process akin to wrestling a size-40 ass into a pair of size-36 jeans. It’s a tight fit. Several minutes later, the vet does his thing: He blows anesthetic gas into the carrier so that he can take bladder X-rays of the ill-humored beast without being attacked. All this effort is for not—the X-rays reveal nothing. And for that, another $150 is added to my Fluffy tab. I briefly think about sending the Fluffster to a “farm,” but my brainstorm quickly fades. The kids would never believe he went to a farm instead of his eternal reward. For better or worse (including financial ruin), we’re stuck with him.

Meanwhile, I’m still waiting for a toothache of epic proportions to set in, signaling the need for a root canal. It’s been 24 hours, and my head hasn’t exploded. That’s good, right?

Saturday, October 15

Still waiting.

Sunday, October 16

Still waiting.

Monday, October 17

I’m strangely relaxed, so much so that I’m on the verge of getting really anxious about it. Why the sudden calm nerves? I’m not exactly sure, but I have some theories: the cleansing effects of exercising at lunchtime each day; the spiritual release of occasionally strumming the acoustic guitar that’s leaning against my dining room table; the fact that I’m still waiting.

Or maybe—just maybe—it’s this: I’ve moved from “unemployed” to a category I had never even heard of until the economy melted down a few years ago. Policy wonks call it “underemployed”—I call it progress.

Slowly but surely, my days are being filled with tasks, tasks that pay money. It isn’t nearly as much money as I was making at Crushed Soul Publishing, but any type of paycheck is better than no paycheck at all.

Better yet, I’m doing it on my own terms. I feel kind of like Rocky Balboa scaling the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in Rocky. Not the out-of-shape, beaten-down-by-life Rocky Balboa limping upward midway through the movie. No, we’re talking about the kick-ass, pageantry-filled Rocky Balboa toward the end, the chiseled fighter who sprints to the top of those suckers and then jumps around confidently, all the while looking down on the streets of a city that will soon belong to him.

I’m sprinting up the museum steps, and it’s only a matter of time before I arrive at the status of “fully employed,” working either for myself or someone else.

Of course, being a cynic at heart, I can’t shake my nagging worries. Several movies into the Rocky series, remember, our hero winds up brain-damaged and destitute.

How will the story play out for the neurotic protagonist in Unemployment Lines? Who knows? I’ll worry about the future when I get there. Right now, I’m thinking about another ass-kicker, Muddy Waters. I'm living by his gravelly delivered words in “Mannish Boy”:

Oooooooh yeah, ooooh yeah

Everythin’, everythin’, everythin’s gonna be all right

October 7-12, 2011: Hanging On for Dear Life

I’ve fallen hopelessly behind on my blog, which you might construe as a positive sign. Theoretically, it means I’ve been productive—so productive that I haven’t had time to stop and ruminate on my feelings. The reality, however, is slightly different. Consider:

October 7–9, 2011

I’m on the road, though not to a job interview. Since the kids don’t have school Monday because of Columbus Day, we’re visiting Cassie’s family in Cleveland.

We’ve made this 368-mile drive across the Indiana and Ohio turnpikes dozens of times, and I have it memorized. I know it will be snowing in La Porte, Ind., regardless of the season. I know we’ll pass the inexplicably massive RV Hall of Fame in Elkhart, Ind., and the parking lot will be empty. I know the fam will groan collectively when I threaten to stop at the Rutherford B. Hayes Presidential Center in Fremont, Ohio.

And last but certainly not least: I know that once I get within radio distance of Cleveland and spin the dial, I will soon hear a song by AC/DC or Led Zeppelin. And not on a classic rock station—John Bonham’s 134-minute drum solo in “Moby Dick” will be passed off as something hot-and-now. Therein lies the beauty of Cleveland. Except for semi-regular plant closings, nothing ever changes. Going to Cleveland is like slipping into your favorite black concert T-shirt from 1974: Yeah, it’s torn, faded and out of style, but it sure is comfortable.

Once there, we catch up with family. This is no small undertaking, literally: Cassie’s dad is one of 12 children. We’re shown wonderful Polish hospitality—i.e., loads of food—as we make the rounds. And through it all, I don’t see a single green vegetable.

Monday, October 10

We’re a person down on the ride home: Cassie flew to Florida this morning for a business conference, so it’s just me, the kids, and the open road. As Cole and Liv snooze, I think. This is a big week for me, and since today is Monday and I’m on the turnpike instead of at my dining room table, I’m already behind the eight ball.

On Tuesday, I’ll need to:

• Start fretting about my potential root canal on Thursday

• Start a couple new freelance projects. Since I want to make a good impression, I’ll have to be at the top of my game.

Tuesday, October 11

Tuesday comes, and there are issues, so many issues. With Cassie gone, I have to deal with everything myself. For example:

Our McDonald's Monopoly game pieces taking up
real estate on my trusty dining room table.

• Liv is a cantor at this morning’s school Mass, and she’ll be crushed if someone doesn’t show up and watch her. Thus, I set aside the freelance projects I’ve barely started and dash over to Liv’s school for her show-stopping performance.

• After school, I set aside my still-barely-started freelance projects and cart Liv and Cole all over town for their various activities. I don't recall ever being this busy and structured as a kid. Mostly, I hung out in my friend Bennett's third-floor bedroom and listened to Pink Floyd.

• At 8:30 p.m., it dawns on me that I never fed the kids dinner. I set aside my confounded freelance projects and trudge to McDonald’s, not so much for the food but for the Monopoly game pieces. Christ, all we need is a Boardwalk and our financial worries are over. But to our dismay, we don’t win the $1 million grand prize or anything else of note. Just two crappy orders of medium fries.

Wednesday, October 12

I finally build up a head of steam on my freelance projects and begin worrying in earnest about my potential root canal. Life is good.

By mid-afternoon, however, it all falls apart. When I pick Liv up at volleyball practice, I learn that she needs to make brownies for a school bake sale tomorrow. I don’t know anything about baking brownies, nor do I want to know anything about baking brownies. We go to Dominick’s and buy the ingredients, and then Liv gets busy baking. I eye her pensively from the fringes of the kitchen—much to my amazement, nothing blows up or even burns.

At 9 p.m., after failing to build up another ahead of steam on my freelance projects, I retrieve Cole from a school activity. We then go to the airport to pick up Cassie. When she slides into the car, I breathe a sigh of relief, but just a small one. I’m not home free yet: Tomorrow I must confront my destiny at the dentist.

October 4-6, 2011: Running to Daylight

A friend of mine helped edit Jeff Pearlman’s new biography on Walter Payton, Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton. (Incidentally, this book is a fine, evenhanded piece of reporting on a very public and very complex figure. I’ve been dumbfounded by the bitter reaction to it from the Chicago media, most of whom probably haven’t even read it in its entirety. The media’s mission never was to love Payton blindly—it was to report on him objectively. Yet they seem as crushed as many fans by the revelations in Pearlman’s book.)

Anyway, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, I can move on to my point. In the midst of an email conversation about the book, this friend sent the titles of the final six chapters to me and some of our cohorts. I winced as I perused them, and for reasons that had nothing to do with Walter Payton. If I were a cynical man, I’d say these chapter titles pretty much sum up my existence in the five weeks since I was laid off from Crushed Soul:

• “Now What?”

• “A Bottomless Void”

• “Depression”

• “Sick”

• “The End”

• “Legacy”

Good thing I’m not looking at life after Crushed Soul that way. True, I’ve penned some “Now what?” entries since starting this blog. Indeed, I’ve talked about moments of depression, bouts with the flu, and the abrupt ending to this phase of my career. And yes, I’ve expressed fears that my legacy will involve living under a bridge. But I’m no cynic. To prove it, I’ve drawn up a list of good things that have come out of the past five weeks:

• Running. Okay, running sucks, but I’ve really gotten into it lately. It’s an effective diversion when weighty matters are burdening your mind. As fatigue sets in, you stop dwelling on the minutia of your troubles and start focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other. Before you know it, your mind is cleansed.

• Gas. How much does gas cost these days? About $77 per gallon? See, I wouldn’t know because I barely ever drive now that I don’t have a commute. While the rest of you continue to guzzle precious resources, I’ve gone green.

• Daylight. I never had much—or any, actually—in my bunker at Crushed Soul. Now, though, light streams through the window next to my dining room table.

• The thrill of looking for something new. I’ve come a long way in a matter of weeks, even if it feels more like months. After starting with only a pink slip, I might be on the verge of stringing together a promising foundation of work (more on that next week). It’s pretty damn satisfying. You learn a lot about yourself when you kick adversity right in its fat ass.

• I still have my health. Everyone seems to trot this one out when the chips are down, so I figured I'd do the same. You know how it goes: My wife ran off with my best friend, but at least I still have my health or My 401k lost $23,000 last week, but at least I still have my health. But on second thought, as I look back on the flu-riddled month that was, it doesn’t apply to me.

Whatever. My health might be somewhat sketchy, but at least I haven’t disappeared into a bottomless void. Talk about bummers.

Monday, October 3, 2011: Money Is Overrated

In a way, it’s cathartic to be free from the shackles of an income. There’s a chance—slim, yes, but a chance nonetheless—that being laid off from Crushed Soul will turn out to be a good thing.

I didn’t become an editor and writer for the glitz, glamour, or gobs of cash. Who would? You’re much more likely to encounter unforgiving deadlines, obnoxious bosses, long hours, and crappy workspaces. Publishing is less of a career and more of a calling.

It’s kind of like being a sports fan: You don’t choose the team that you’re going to spend a lifetime following—it chooses you. In a humane world, I would have been chosen by, say, the New York Yankees. Instead, I was chosen by the Chicago Cubs.

But you know what? Who cares if publishing is the Chicago Cubs of professions? I dig it. I still get a thrill out of the publishing process: starting with only ideas, working them through each step of creation, and winding up with a tangible product in print or on a computer monitor. My job has never felt like a job—it’s been a labor of twisted love.

Until recently, that is. The importance of a paycheck can't be denied, but I became a slave to mine. In my final year or so at Crushed Soul, I was taken away from the creative endeavors that give me such a charge, and my job had a mechanical bent. Nevertheless, since my most basic needs were being met—putting food on the table—I felt no sense of urgency to look elsewhere. I swear I could have gone on that way indefinitely. Another decade might have passed before I looked up numbly from a pile of spreadsheets and said, “Wow, that was quick. What did I do anyway?”

Now, though, my paycheck has been stripped from me. It’s scary but also sort of empowering. I can reinvent myself or, at the very least, rediscover the things I really love. What the hell? I have nothing to lose, right?

October 1, 2011-October 2, 2011

Saturday, October 1, 2011

After a restless night’s sleep, I awaken with a start. Sick or well, rain or shine, there’s no other choice: Liv and I are going camping.

One of Liv's bull's-eyes.

We scramble to get packed so that we can hit the road and seize the day. Normally, marinated skirt steak is the centerpiece of my provisions. It’s a big hit with the girls, who devour it in a matter of minutes. These are thrifty times, however, and I’m bringing juice boxes instead.

By 12:30, we’re settled in at the campsite. Liv decides she wants to go to the archery and rifle ranges, and that’s fine with me. When the staggered economy finally collapses and law and order dissolve into anarchy, marksmanship will be a useful skill. Liv proves to be a natural in archery: She scores three bull’s-eyes.

Next Liv wants to make candles, and that’s fine with me, too. When America’s creaky power grid finally goes kaput, we’ll need to tap into alternate light sources. As Liv joyfully sculpts her candle, it occurs to me that my lack of gainful employment has perhaps lent a morose quality to my thoughts.

Meanwhile, John “Captain Jack” Connolly is back at the cabin. Connolly has been entrusted with the most prestigious of all tasks—cooking for the tribe—and he’s meticulously prepping the grill. Late in the day, he serves up a few helpings of sausage as sort of a sorbet. The real grilling won’t commence until much later.

The campfire.

One of the dads dashes off to the hospital with his daughter because she needs a few stitches, but they’re back by nightfall, just in time for the campfire. As we approach the campfire site with the other tribes, the smell of accelerant hangs in the air. We all know better than to stand too close to the impressive collection of wood, which goes up like the city of Chicago in 1871 once it’s ignited.

After the campfire, we adjourn to the grill, where Connolly cooks meat after meat with both love and skill. Liv, who not so long ago aspired to be a vegetarian, stares down a hunk of wild boar without even flinching. Then, bless her little heart, she pops it into her mouth and chews it up.

In the wee hours of the night, the usual cacophony of snoring men fills the cabin. Predictably, there’s shock and outrage the next morning that people were snoring. But I say, cut the snorers some slack (and not just ’cause I’m one of them). Given all the food and drink in our stomachs, be glad for this signal that we were still breathing.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

I stagger out of the cabin at 7 a.m. and find a few of the dads gathered around the grill. They’re shaking their heads somberly. One mutters, “Such a shame. Such a shame.” Indeed. When I get up close, I see about three pounds of cooked sausage that had never been pulled off the grill.

“How’d it happen?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” answers a dad. “I guess no one was still up to eat it.”

Soon Liv and I are on our way home. I don’t feel any better than I did 24 hours earlier, but I don’t feel any worse either. I’ll take it. All things considered, I’m ahead of the game.