March 17, 2012: Happy 80th, Pops

Since this blog sometimes transcends the bounds of unemployment and touches on all things life, I figure my toast from my dad’s 80th-birthday party on March 17 more or less fits in. Thus, I’ve decided to send it out into the blogosphere.

My toast:

My dad means different things to different people at this gathering, but since I’m the one toasting and I can only speak for myself, I’ll ruminate a bit on what he means to me.

Simply put, he has been a rock of stability in my life, a reassuring constant. And for that, I am eternally grateful, particularly because I haven’t always made it easy for him. Lord knows I haven’t.

• It’s a Saturday night in 1982, my junior year in high school. I’m on my way to the babysitting job of a girl interest, but I can’t find the blasted place. Trouble rears its head when I back our good old Plymouth Valiant into a lamppost as I’m turning around. My first instinct is to get the hell out of there, but I can’t because the Valiant is impaled on the stump of the lamppost.

Who helps me out of this pickle? My dad. He kindly buys a new lamppost for the Village of Wilmette and tidies up any lingering unpleasantness with law-enforcement officials. Soon enough, I’m back on the streets of the North Shore.

• It’s a Friday afternoon in 1983, my senior year in high school, and two friends and I are sitting in the parking lot of a local liquor store. An older guy with whom one of my friends works is inside buying us beer. (Cole: Don’t get any ideas.) Just as the older guy walks out and gives us our beer, a squad car screeches into the parking lot, its lights a-flash’. Before long, we're all in that squad car, and handcuffed.

Who helps me out of this latest bind? My dad, of course. After setting me up with his lawyer friend, my dad accompanies me to court as the legal process plays out. Yes, my dad—perhaps a bit tired and worn by this point—is there for me. However, his lawyer friend isn’t. Much to everyone’s dismay, he has forgotten about the court date. But that’s another story for another occasion, maybe my dad’s 90th-birthday celebration.

* * *

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here—it hasn’t been all flashing red lights and ill-fated court dates. In addition to protecting me from myself, my dad has served as my teacher, my mentor. More than anyone else in this world, he has showed me the way.

• It’s the mid-1970s, my preadolescence. Baseball is my life—I want to play the game 24/7. My dad on, the other hand, can take or leave America’s pastime. He didn’t really play it growing up, and now he only follows it casually.

Nevertheless, who’s out there throwing me hours of batting practice so that I can get better? You guessed it—my dad. It’s something of a sacrifice for him. I know this because I see the grimaces on his face as the pitches mount and his arm wears down. It’s also something of a sacrifice for me. I know this because, frankly, he isn’t much of a pitcher, and his many errant throws force me to duck or hit the deck. Still, these are my Field of Dreams memories, and I cherish them.

• It’s 1982, my junior year in high school, and my English class at New Trier is beginning the dreaded junior theme. This is the biggest, most daunting project of the New Trier experience, a months-long undertaking. I’m paralyzed by its enormity.

Who’s there with a pen, some paper and a helping hand? Two words: my dad. He suggests that I write my junior theme on Edgar Allan Poe, assuring me that Poe’s haunting works will capture my imagination. We sit together night after night sorting out my thoughts. Something eventually clicks inside me—my imagination is indeed captured—and I dig into my junior theme as I’ve never dug into an academic project. In the end, I blow the doors off the thing: I get the highest grade in the class and, more importantly, realize I have a degree of talent as a writer. This starts me down the path to a career in publishing. On second thought, Dad, I’m not sure whether to praise you or curse you for that one.

* * *

Yes, my dad did everything he could to provide me with a solid foundation. Unfortunately for him, the job didn’t end when I became an adult.

• It’s June 2001. Cassie and I have purchased a house, and we’re scheduled to close on it in less than 24 hours. In sifting through our paperwork, we realize that we have to bring $7,000 to the closing. We have the money, but it’s in a fund that we can’t access in less than 24 hours. The horror, the horror.

Who do we call for help out of this jam? That’s right: my dad. See, the beauty of my dad is that he’s always prepared for everything, even stuff he doesn’t know he needs to be prepared for. He lends us the $7,000, and we close on the house without any further hitches.

• It’s September 2011, and I’ve just been laid off from my job. I don’t know if any of you have ever been laid off, but it’s a dispiriting and scary experience.

Who do I call for help in this time of momentous need? Nope, it’s not my dad. For crying out loud, the man has paid his dues. He’s 80 years old, and he deserves some peace and quiet. Thanks in no small part to my dad’s guidance, I’ve grown into a relatively solid middle-aged man. I had the good sense to marry a helluva woman, and we had the good fortune to have two kids who are capable of going with the flow. My dad’s work is done—we’re handling this predicament ourselves.

Nevertheless, it’s reassuring to know that he’d have all the right answers if I ever did call upon him. That’s the way it’s always been. My dad never gave up on me, even at times when he probably should have. Instead, he simply nudged me in the right direction, sometimes with such deft subtlety that I didn’t even know I was being nudged. My dad has been my rock, my teacher and my friend. I don’t know where I’d be without him.

* * *

Thanks for everything, Dad. You’re a standup guy—I think that’s something everyone in this room will agree on.

March 5, 2012: The World Is My Oyster

As I sit hunched over my laptop at the dining room table, it occurs to me that I’ve needlessly bound myself to this setting. I could be hunched anywhere.

Consider: Cassie telecommutes for her job, which means she’s able to set up shop anywhere. I, too, work remotely doing whatever it is I do, so as Lynyrd Skynyrd once so profoundly said, I’m as free as a bird.

What’s holding us back? Hmmmm. Well, I guess the kids are to an extent. They’ve settled into an idyllic groove in our middle-America suburb where nothing ever really happens. On the other hand, maybe that’s the problem. Maybe a change of scenery would do them good—maybe it would teach them that there’s a big, interesting world out there beyond the strip malls.

I guess there’s Fluffy, too. This house is his kingdom, one he rules with an iron paw. On the other hand, his health is poor, and he doesn’t seem destined to make old bones anyway. Among his many issues, he has a chronic respiratory ailment that makes him sound like Darth Vader when he breathes. Fluffy’s days are most certainly numbered. Besides, who puts his life on hold for a cat?

The possibilities are endless:

• I imagine spending a year in Paris. I could sit in sidewalk cafés with my laptop, typing to the hustle and bustle of Parisian life.

• I imagine moving to the Pacific Northwest. I’ve always been a hippie at heart, and I’d take right to the earthy lifestyle. My laptop typing would have an easy flow.

• I imagine typing away in any number of other awesome locales: Australia, Alaska, Maine, Sante Fe, London.

The takeaway here isn’t that I’m traveling—it’s that I’m working. And that hasn’t turned out to be a fantasy. Life after Crushed Soul hasn’t gone exactly the way I would have drawn it up—instead of winding up as a 9-to-5er, I’m doing my own thing as an independent contractor—but that’s okay. The point is, I’m busy and, for the most part, productive.

And this leads to my next point: It’s becoming difficult to ruminate on the travails of unemployment when, increasingly, I don’t feel unemployed. My wife would claim that I’ve never written much about unemployment in this space anyway—that my blog has instead centered on matters concerning Fluffy and such. She has a point, but regardless, time is at a premium these days.

You’ve probably gathered as much, given that my blog has been appearing only intermittently lately. The foreseeable future will probably bring more of the same, but fear not—I have no intention of disappearing from the blogosphere. If Fluffy finally kicks the bucket, you’ll know; if I land a particularly cool gig (or lose all my current gigs), you’ll know; if I blow out my groin again, you’ll know. And maybe—just maybe—one of these posts will originate from a café in Paris.

February 10-16: Winter Camping

I’m hopelessly late in writing this blog entry, but there’s a good reason. No, I didn’t get a job. I went on an Indian Princess campout.

Friday, February 10

Each Indian Princess season has three tent-post events: the fall, winter and spring campouts. (I’m pretty sure I pontificated on Indian Princess in an earlier blog entry, but it’s all hazy to me now.) Though I’ve spent most of my life in Chicago, I despise the cold and, thus, try to avoid the winter campout, the highlight of which typically involves standing atop a sledding hill for several hours as a subzero wind shears the skin off my face. This time, however, I have no choice but to buck up. It’s Liv’s final year of Indian Princess, and she doesn’t want to miss out on anything, not even the prospect of frostbite.

Initially, I sensed that maybe we’d catch a break. This winter has been uncharacteristically warm—just last week, the thermometer spiked into the 50s. But our luck runs out on this gloomy Friday, as an unsettling combination of cold, wind and snow gathers. I should have known there would be no breaks to be caught.

Saturday, February 11

Despite the blustery weather, I forge bravely ahead. I have errands to run before we depart, not the least of which is a trip to the butcher. Normally I bring two pounds of marinated skirt steak to the campouts—it’s a big hit with both the dads and the daughters. The last campout, however, took place soon after I had been laid off, and since I was freaked out about the future of my family in general and money in particular, I ditched the skirt steak and instead brought Cheetos and bottled water. Well, I’m done freaking out—I’m done with putting my life on hold. In an act of utter defiance, I sidle up to the counter at the butcher shop and order two magnificent pounds of skirt steak.

My Camry filled with sleeping bags, cold-weather clothes and skirt steak, Liv and I head to the campsite, which is located in the great state of Wisconsin, somewhere past Milwaukee. As we near our destination, I traverse a harrowing series of snow-covered back roads. I see a hole-in-the-wall gas station and stop to buy a cup of coffee.

Pointing at Liv, I say to the husky cashier, “We’re on our way to a campout.”

“Sounds fun,” she says.

“There’s a lot of snow up here.”

“Yeah, we got it all last night,” the cashier says with a grizzled smile. “You two lucked out.”

Yes, we’re so very lucky. Once there, I see a smattering of dads and daughters from some of the other tribes pretending to feel lucky as they wobble around the winter wonderland on snowshoes. Most of the members of my tribe play it smarter than that: They’re hunkered down in the common area of our cabin, playing games and munching on snacks.

Of course, this being Liv’s last year of Indian Princess, she wants to experience the whole ball of wax. We put our coats, gloves and hats back on and explore the grounds, which doesn’t take long since—praise the Lord—this particular camp doesn’t have a sledding hill. We wind up at a makeshift archery range inside the lodge and fire some arrows. We play some foosball and then fire more arrows. We play some ping-pong and then fire more arrows. We play more foosball and fire more arrows. 

Liv still isn't done experiencing the whole ball of wax, so we put our coats, gloves and hats back on and explore the grounds again. Our teeth chattering, we finally go back to the cabin to await the main event: grilling. This is the highlight of every campout—it’s something our tribe has elevated to an art form. Long after the other tribes have retired for the night, we're still heaving succulent slabs of meat onto the grill.

This campout is no different—thanks to our cook, John “Captain Jack” Connolly, who endures the biting cold in the name of feeding everyone. Liv is particularly gung-ho about the grilling festivities, this being her last year of Indian Princess and all. She gobbles down generous amounts of skirt steak, venison and pork, though she draws the line at the elk. I don’t. Nor do I draw it at the mushrooms stuffed with hunks of sausage, the strip steak slathered with blue cheese, the Italian sausage, the jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese and wrapped with bacon, or the countless other delicacies.

Sunday, February 12

At about 1:30 a.m., I stagger to my bunk and bob in and out of consciousness for about five hours before one of the dads wakes everyone with a bullhorn.

Liv and I groggily pack up the Camry and head back home. But this being Liv’s last year of Indian Princess and all, she insists on stopping at the Mars Cheese Castle near the Illinois border to pick up a pound or so of string cheese. Call it breakfast.

Upon our arrival home, Cassie says, “You heard about Whitney Houston, right?”

“Heard what?”

“That she died?”

“Nope. I had no idea.”

I retreat to my bed and spend most of the rest of the day bobbing in and out of consciousness.

Monday, February 13

I’m still not quite right. I do my best to roll through my freelance work, but I’m impeded by a nasty headache.

My lunchtime workout at the Y isn’t all that great either. I feel like weights are strapped to my ankles, though really I’m being dragged down by the elk, venison, beef, pork, sausage and other odds and ends that are still lodged in my colon.

Thursday, February 16

I’m back to normal now, and I’m finally pounding out my reflections on Liv’s last year of Indian Princess. Yes, this blog entry is long overdue, but I make no apologies for that. I’m just happy to be upright.

January 29-February 5, 2012: A Field Trip

Friday, February 3

Ferris Bueller, everyone’s favorite sage/truant, said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

I heed these words, though not by design and not by taking a day off. My circumstances are somewhat different:

Following a vigorous lunchtime workout at the Y, I return to my dining room table so that I can plow through an afternoon of freelance work and nail an end-of-day deadline. I fire up my MacBook Pro laptop, click on Safari, and…nothing. My Internet is down. This is not good. What will become of the work I must plow through and the deadline I must nail?

Luckily I’m a trained journalist, and I know how to think on my feet. I remember that the Caribou Coffee in my downtown has wireless and plenty of tables. Without further ado, I pack up my “office” (my MacBook Pro, some Post-it notes, a pen and The Chicago Manual of Style), say goodbye to Fluffy and the gang, and race out the door.

To my surprise, Caribou Coffee is hopping. I plop my bag on the only free table and go to the cash register, where I place an order for a large black coffee with a delightfully perky barista. I then mutter something to her about my Internet being down at home.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she says with a reassuring smile.

After returning to my table and unpacking my office, I take a look around. A knitting club is convened at the largest table. Fueled by years of practice—and perhaps several cups of coffee, too—these women wave their knitting needles the way the heroes in an Alexandre Dumas novel wield their swords. Over in a lounge chair, a silver-haired gent—a retiree, no doubt—is engrossed in a book. The rest of the shop is occupied by mirror images of me: middle-aged men with their laptops. I wonder what dire turns of events brought them to this place and whether they’re here everyday. At any rate, they are typing on their laptops with a sense of purpose, which I find to be both heartening and motivating.

I take a few gulps of coffee and start plowing through my freelance work. My coffee cup is soon empty, and after refilling it, I take another look around. The knitters have departed, replaced by some moms and their kids. The kids are loud and obnoxious in a Chuck E. Cheese’s kind of way, and I long for the grace of the knitters. A glance at my fellow middle-aged drifters sets my mind straight. I take a few gulps of coffee and plow through more freelance work.

Before long, my coffee cup is empty. I visit the delightfully perky barista yet again and order another refill. Two college students have settled into the table next to mine. They discuss their classes with a youthful optimism that rubs off on me. I take a few gulps of coffee and plow through more freelance work.

Before long, my coffee cup is empty, which necessitates another refill. The college students have cleared out, and a robust-looking couple clad in North Face gear has claimed their space. Thanks to some eavesdropping, I learn that the North Face duo is out for a long walk and is taking a break.

I take a few gulps of coffee, plow through the remainder of my freelance work, and nail my deadline. As I leave Caribou Coffee, I have a bounce in my step—and not just because I’m jacked up on caffeine. It occurs to me that I’ve been hermetically sealed in my dining room for the past five months. All the while, life has been moving fast on the outside. Sure, this is just a coffee shop—it’s certainly not Ferris Bueller’s whirlwind trip around Chicago—but I’ve still enjoyed taking a look.

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 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 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.