An old buddy of mine hit the campaign trail for Joe Sestak, who is running for U.S. Senate on the Dem’s ticket in Pennsylvania.  He shot me an email telling me about his standard 40 hour work week on the stump—“Standard 40 hour work week” meaning “I’ve worked a 40 hour week and it’s Tuesday.”

So, here’s the few refrains I sent him to bolster his spirits when the open road gets long and lonely…

Riley, get your gun, get your gun, get your gun…
A poem for Riley Roberts!

As typical now as it’s been in the past,
A Democrat staffer must be be quick, must be fast.
Working long hours, long after the sun,
Because he (or she) is outspent 20 to 1.

By a devious enemy,
He who broods and hoards.
He wants more Swiss bankers,
Wants more water, more boards.

You can usually tell them by their toting of guns…
And their skin o’ so fair…
And  their Cuban cigars…
“PRE-EMBARGO!”  they’ll swear.

They’ll say “Let’s build tanks!  Let’s build bombs!  Let’s build rifles!”
All while voices for schools and health care are stifled.
They’ll promise the voters they’ll keep more of their money,
Yet they’ll spend even more—Gee, isn’t that funny?

It’s a long and hard road for Dem campaigners,                                                     Especially if running against someone named Boehner.

But fear not young Riley!

When your motor starts slowing,
And your eyelids get low,
Just think of this diddy,
And on with the show!

I should be an Obama speechwriter, right?

I’ve been doing plenty of writing lately, but not much I really want to share.  After digging through an old (and thought long lost) flash drive, I came across some old fiction I wrote way back in the day (freshman yearish).  I’ll throw one at you every now and then.  Some, I think, are pretty good. Others….well….gotta start somewhere….

How to fuck your best friend. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Like everyday of the summer before you leave for college. And then break her heart.

There are a couple of things that need to happen if you want to fuck your best friend everyday of summer break before you leave for college and then break her heart.

First, you need a best friend.

There are multiple ways to obtain a best friend, but given the extensive mitigating circumstances listed above (notably the frequency of the sex in question, as well as the necessity of ensuring a broken heart) it is of vital importance that serious emotions be invested before the initial sexual contact is made.

One way to make headway in this particular respect is to date one of your soon to be best friend’s, friends, and then when said other friend breaks up with you, your mutual friend (soon to be your new best friend) will attempt to comfort you. It is greatly preferable that your soon to be new best friend has pre-existing emotional vulnerabilities, and if so you are in good shape and should be right on pace to fuck her everyday of the summer before you leave for school and then break her heart, or at the very least squeeze a couple of hummers out of the bargain.

When she runs away to Arkansas unexpectedly, because of those pre-existing emotional problems, and the seat next to you in 11^th grade English (which is taught by a father of two who is currently serving five years at Menard Correctional Facility for having sex with a 16 year old student and whose wife is also a teacher at your school) is empty for two days, call her as frequently as you can so that even though she’s not answering her cell phone, she has a lot of messages that she can listen to later when she comes back, to show how much you care about her, which even though you may wind up fucking her every day of summer break before you go off to college and break her heart, you honestly do.

Continue to develop the relationship over time once she gets back from Arkansas (and after her first stay in the mental ward of the local hospital), to the point were you confide in her your own long running depression and personal conviction that you too don’t think that you will ever be a happy person either. Even though she may have a boyfriend at the time, the relationship will most likely be rocky and it will depress her further and make her anti-depressants less effective, which means more late night phone calls with her weeping on the other end of the line to you, which while this may cut into your sleep the night before your big physics test, will allow you invaluable opportunities to show her how much you care for her and thereby pave the way to fuck her everyday of summer break before you leave for college and then break her heart. If she tries to kill herself by running her car in the garage and she is only saved when she sends you a farewell text message (of all the ways to get a suicide note you get it in a fucking text message) and she only lives because you call the police and her on again off again boyfriend who rush in and pull her out of the car, even better; because now her boyfriend will realize that he can’t deal with how their relationship affects her depression and will more concretely finalize their separation.

So now that things with her boyfriend, who you do really like coincidentally, are on the rocks, and you and she have quite a bit of traumatic emotion invested in one another (another stay in the mental ward may be necessary) you are almost ready to fuck her everyday of the summer before you leave for college and then break her heart. In addition to all of the prerequisites listed above, it would also be beneficial if it is prom night, you have three glasses of cheap red wine apiece, and your friend’s bathroom (which may unfortunately be the only one with a functional toilet and as a result you will be interrupted every couple of minutes by people who really want to pee) is unoccupied. And how it happens is really indescribable. You will probably kiss her and she will pause and you will immediately think that you have made a gigantic mistake and before you can pull yourself away to apologize she will grab the back of your head and give you a long, slow, churning kiss that really does express the two years of sexual tension and emotional hurricanes that lie between you two and without even giving it a second thought you will throw yourselves into the bathroom (it’s the only door in the house that locks) and pull off each other’s clothes and fuck.

And it will be the best sex you’ve ever, or she’s ever had, for that matter, and afterwards you will lie next to each other on one of the couches in the house and hold each other for a very long time. And both of you will feel happy, which doesn’t happen very often, much less at the same time. And this amazing fucking will continue all summer. Every day. At her house, at yours, in the park, in your car, in her car and so and so forth until it’s time to go to college and at that point the two of you have become experts at avoiding the subject of what happens when you leave for school every time something innocuous like class registration or shower shoes or dorm food comes up in conversation, and she stays behind to go to community college (because obviously suicide attempts and stays in the mental ward haven’t done wonders for her grades) and so you never have that particular conversation and you leave for college and she stays behind.

And after all of that happens, well, the breaking her heart bit will pretty much come naturally.

I’ve been wading through a big pile of cover letters, resumes, bus tickets, and probably too many whiskey bottles.  But, I’ve been tapping away, too.  Back soon.  Promises.

-CeeJohns

Dear Pretty Lady,

Hello.

You are pretty. But, you’ve probably been told that before.

You are probably wearing one or more of the following things: knee high boots (possibly cowboy), black and slightly torn tights, a pleated skirt rising just above the knee, a just-oh-so-revealing V-neck t-shirt, glasses, or a white men’s dress shirt and only a a white men’s dress shirt (though if we’re at that point, this letter is probably moot).

You’re likely brunette, but not exclusively. You’ve been blond before. Redheaded, too.

You could be any race, but historically you are white. There have been one or two outliers here and there. I don’t care what religion you are because whatever it is, you don’t pay it much mind.

You very well may be smoking. It’s a gross habit, yes, but it’s no grosser than eating McDonald’s and I still love McDoubles.

You may be tall, but not necessarily.

You most certainly are not wearing anything baring the words “Packers” or “Cardinals.”

You could be at a bar, or a concert, or a library, or sitting next to me on a bus, or dancing next to me (I’d like to think I’m dancing with you, but those occasions are rarer then when I just dance next to you).

You definitely have good taste in music. You can probably cook. You probably like watching the Bears and the Cubs, though if you don’t, it’s not a deal breaker.

You like it in the morning.

You read my writing and find me a dashing, fascinating character with many layers (I contain multitudes!!!!). You think of me like you think of Colin Farrell. Brash, yet vulnerable.

Good chance you like me scruffy. I usually am.

You most certainly are cooler than me. I’m funnier, though. But you’re cooler. You goad me into spending more than $15 on a shirt and you always know about the hip new thing. You picked out my glasses. You want me to leave them on.

If we are at a bar, you are drinking beer or whiskey or maybe gin. Tonic is likely involved. Vodka/cranberries or screwdrivers are fine,too. You are not drinking anything light (or Lite even) and nothing made green or pink or orange by some plastic bottle in the bar well or fucking anything like that.

You like dogs, or at least you tolerate them like you tolerate my baseball and football bro nights.

You’re fit. No fatties. I know that sounds callous and shallow but I’m not and so you’re not either. That’s just the way of the world.

Why, yes. I have considered adding a third….

If we get married, you want a small ceremony, outside, with a big, wet party afterwards. We pick the music and the booze and the food. I’m thinking burgers, chops, grilled fish, etc., full bar, and a lot of Al Green and James Brown and Otis and a bunch of other stuff.

You have Iced me. Just once or twice. It’s juvenile fun. And you love having a little juvenile fun. You are the mini-golf/batting cage/laser tag queen.

Big bright eyes.

Your hair can be short or long but I usually like shorter. If you can pull off the sexy bob, even better.

You don’t want a diamond engagement ring. Three month’s salary? For a ring? Fuck that! Let’s go to Europe with that money. (That’s you talking there, for the record).

You think Liars is overrated shit.

You want kids.

You defer to me on all matters concerning guacamole. You’re probably always right when we argue. Except for when it comes to guacamole. Oh, you used one of those guacamole seasoning packets? See, that’s why it tastes like shit. That’s so cute. (Cue throwing the bowl at me/guac smeared make up sex).

I don’t have a lot of money. That’s OK with you. You like pizza and beer. What you’re eating isn’t important. It’s important who you’re eating it with. (That’s you again).

Remember that time I saw that snake on the porch and I squealed like a girl? Remember how you promised you’d never tell anyone about that? You broke that promise. My male friend(s) ________ still give me shit for that. But, that’s just how you are. Not one to pass on a joke or a good story, regardless of how it will bruise my ego.

Sweet tits.

Your collection of seemingly innocuous but completely drop dead sexy sundresses is staggering in both its size and affect. Jesus Christ, woman! How am I supposed to get any work done with you prancing around in that thing!? Come over here.

You’re not perfect. But you seem that way most of the time.

Dear Pretty Lady. I am going to come over and talk to you now. Wish me luck.

Baseball is the language of love OR:  Why my nieces and nephews may very well know the Farsi word for “batting helmet.”

For the past four years, I have been part of an illicit love affair.

No, it has nothing to do with your mother, Jamie Wood.

I wouldn’t use illicit to describe that affair. Torrid, maybe. “Steamy” works as well.

This love affair has nothing to do with me, actuall

It has to do with my brother.

Two years my junior, my brother began dating a pretty young lady in high school. Let’s call her Gloria. We’ll call him Sam. (It’s an unauthorized biography. I’m keeping it PG)

My brother is smart, respectful, funny-as-hell kind of kat. He’s studying to be a doctor and doing wonderfully at it. While his chin lacks the “diamond cutter” level of chiseled that mine claims, he’s also pretty damn handsome and in excellent shape. One former lady friend of mine once called him “beefy.” I will defer to her expertise on this one.

In short, he’s quite the catch. At least that’s what mom always tells him.

He, like me, is white. He, like me, is a non-practicing Catholic. We like watching baseball and drinking beer and doing all the general bro stuff that bros (literal bros) like to do together.

Gloria, however, is not white nor a gentile. Her mother and father were born and raised in Iran and have lived in the States for decades (since before the Shah, I believe). While Gloria’s family are secular, non-practicing muslims, their Persian heritage is very important to them. All the children speak Farsi, know the history of their Persian ancestors, and visit Iran regularly. They have dual citizenship and voted (or rather, had their votes ignored) in the last Iranian election.

Just stepping into their house, you realize that while they live in and love America, a piece of this family’s heart will always belong in Iran. As well it should.

They’re not so big on baseball and brews. They’re bigger on music and art. Equally noble pursuits, I guess?

I think you see where this is going…

When Sam and Gloria started dating, Papa Gloria was none too keen on Gloria dating at all. And dating an American Devil!?!? No dice.

So they did it in secret. They hid it from my parents and from Gloria’s. They snuck in and out of houses. Snuck phone calls. Saw each other at school and made the best out of this sort of situation that two 15-year olds possibly can.

As the older brother with the driver’s license, I became chief liaison in this whole business. I dropped off down the block and “ran out for a burger” to pick up more times than I can count.

You know the Friar Laurence character from Romeo and Juliet? I feel his pain.

I won’t get into the gory details about how their relationship came out over the years, largely because it doesn’t matter at this point. Eventually my parents found out. Then her mother. And finally, after several years of sneaking around and several years of Gloria’s “just friend Sam” coming over to study or pick her up for a movie or whatever, the two families sat down for a few meals (Persian food is the shit, by the way) and in a few weeks time, their relationship was sanctioned.

And Papa Gloria? This ogreish character who caused Gloria and Sam so much stress and heart hurt over the years? He’s actually a really nice, generous, funny guy. I had so grown to dislike this man I’d never met that I pictured him as Jabba the Hut leading Princess Leia around by a neck collar. In reality, he’s a very humble version of Ben Kingsley. He’s very welcoming and very resourceful. He built his own home. I have nothing but respect for this man.

His one condition for Gloria and Sam? Sam must learn Farsi. This man’s grandchildren WILL SPEAK FARSI. It is not open for debate.

So, Sam has started to learn Farsi using Rosetta Stone software. Which isn’t cheap and certainly isn’t easy. But, he’s doing well at it. In a few years time, he’ll speak it fluently. And, if Gloria and Sam ever do tie the knot and have pups, the kids will speak it, too. Sam is sacrificing of a lot of time and mental energy for something that really isn’t very practical (there are not a lot of companies looking to open businesses in Iran these days).

But, hey. That’s what a relationship is, isn’t it? Sacrifice and compromise for the greater happiness.

And what has Gloria learned for my brother? Baseball. She has learned the language of baseball.

As you can probably imagine, a youngest female child whose parents were raised in the Middle East never really got into our national past time.

At all.

Picture Smalls trying to explain to Benny the Jet that the ball was signed by a “Baby Ruthy…”

That just wasn’t going to fly in our family. If my nieces and nephews are going to know how to speak Farsi, they are also going to know how to turn two.

So, Gloria learned baseball. It’s not her favorite thing. Far from it. I think her greatest Cubs heartbreak to this point was when we traded Mark DeRosa and all his glorious stubble.

But, she’s learned the basics of the game. She knows where left-center field is and what an intentional walk is and (I think) that runners always go on a 3-2, two out count. She can sit down and watch with Sam and myself and not be bored to death (or at least pretend that way).

She speaks baseball about as well as my brother speaks Farsi. And they both get better everyday. And…yuk…more in love.

Gloria lives about a mile and a half from Wrigley Field and she frequently goes running past the Friendly Confines. About a year ago, we were talking and she told me, “Oh, Charlie. I went running past Wrigley the other day and guess what!?! I recognized almost all the players on the wall and on the statues. And, I even knew what positions some of them play!!!”  Bare in mind that this is the same girl who once asked me, “does a fastball go fast?”

Welcome to the family, Gloria.

How do you say “pine tar” in Farsi?

In defense of the bleachers OR:  I hear club soda is great for vomit stains.

If your baseball team hadn’t won a World Series in over one hundred years, you would drink too.

In fact, there’s a pretty direct relationship between team success and required alcohol consumption. The more you win, the less you need to consume. The winning itself is drug enough. A few beverage suggestions based on fan allegiance:

Yankee fans: O’Douls

Red Sox fans: Used to be quadruple scotch on the rocks. Now, maybe a Sam Adams with their chowda.

Cardinals: The occasional white wine spritzer.

Rockies: Couple bong rips, bro.

Dodgers: Chelada.

Mets: Several eleven dollar Bud Lights.

White Sox: Paint thinner. But, not because they need to drink the pain away. It’s just what they like.

Indians: Twelver.

Pirates: Fifth of gin washed down with a quarter-barrel keg.

Cubs: 50 CC’s grain alcohol taken intravenously every hour, on the hour.

Alcohol is an integrated part of sporting events and has been since a caveman knocked the very first mammoth skull over the left field wall of Lascaux Field. Undoubtedly there were fifty or sixty of his cavemen buddies pounding berry mead and dragging their women off for some gruuumph and schunnf, if ya know what I’m saying. 

Sports are social.  Sports are fun.  And what goes great with every social event?  Beer, whiskey, wine, wine coolers, etc.  It’s part—not all, but a part—of what makes being a sports fan fun.

Granted, there are those who claim, and some truthfully, that they could watch all 4,860 regular season games without ever tasting a solitary drop of their Old Style. They just love the game that much, man.

These people are not the sort of people you want to be friends with. They are the sorts who think they can be the GM of all 30 teams and guarantee a pennant for every single one. They are the ones who actually live in their mother’s basement. They are the ones who call into sports talk radio shows at 3 a.m. to show those gawd damn Yankees fans a facking thing uh two.

They are in every sport. Baseball. Football. Basketball. Soccer. Cricket. Rugby. Gaelic Football. Squash. Pogs.

“Wanna know how many yards Mercury Morris rushed for between the sixth and tenth games of the ‘72 season?”

No. I don’t.

Part of the appeal of sports—beyond providing entertainment and relaxation—is how they bring people together. Fathers and sons (and daughters). Wives and husbands. Dems and Repubs. Team Edward and Team Jacob.

Plenty has already been written about this and I’m not going to try to capture the nuance of how discussing Jake Peavy’s mechanics can really mean “I love you, dad.” I’m not a good enough writer to even try to put that into words.

Suffice to say, sports can bring loved ones together. And what’s better than a long chat with a loved one on a sunny summer day? A long chat with a loved one on a sunny summer day with beer, that’s what.

I’ll even go one step further. I’ll say that there is no reason to be at a ballpark and not be drinking. There, I said it.

(Notable exceptions to the above proviso: budget, children to care for, liver disease).

If you’re one those Fans; those fans who love the sport just for the sport and don’t need the sunshine or breeze or brew to enjoy it thank you very much, there’s no reason to be at a ballpark. For the “Pure Fan,” there is no better place to watch a game than on TV. You have the luxuries of high-def, Instant replay, and Internet access to look up whatever sort of obscure stat or factoid you want. (DID YOU KNOW ALFONSO SORIANO SPEAKS JAPANESE!!!?!?!)

It’s more comfortable to watch a game at home. Less time consuming. Way less expensive. And you have a team of industry insiders and ex-players to offer you analysis on the day’s events. If you’re just watching baseball (or football or hockey or whatever) for the pure love of baseball (and someone must be because they still broadcast Marlins games), there’s really no reason to ever leave your couch. You have everything you could possibly want right there.

So, why do it? Why ever go to a ballpark? Why shell out the extra bones for tickets and parking and hot dogs of questionable origin when you have a way better view in your own home?

Because, it’s fucking fun. It’s so much fucking fun.

You go to the ballpark for FUN. You go for the company of other fans and the green grass and, yes, the seven dollar beers.

If you want to study the break on Lilly’s curveball go stand in front of the 120” at your local Radio Shack.

This “party at the ballpark” mentality is actually a rather American creation. Having spent time in Ireland and in Europe, I met several people who had been to football and baseball games at places like the Meadowlands, Yankee Stadium, Madison Square Garden, The Cell, Wrigley.

The big boys. We’re not talking about Petco Park here, people.

They all said the same thing: Americans go to the ballpark to have fun. To “have a craic.” (“Have a craic” is Irish slang for get drunk and ogle the pretty girls)…

“Sure, it’s fun to go to baseball games but there’s not a lot of “real fans” there to watch the match The Way it Should be Watched.”

At Croke Park when the lads are hurling there is little talking. Eyes are always forward and always following the game. Europeans go to bars when they want to drink and socialize and casually watch the “match” and get fueled up for a “row.”

This, I do not understand. I’m all for universal health care and gay marriage and two-hour lunches, but “shushing” people at the ballpark? Downright fascist.

A lot has been written lately about the state of the bleachers at Wrigley. Recently it seems that the normal boozing and necking has gone from the reasonably tame “frat house” level to something teetering on a Roman bacchanal. Reports of fans vomiting or urinating in the stands are becoming more common. Revelers have been found having relations (fucking) in the bathrooms. Fights are slowly starting to become the norm. Some are starting to discuss imposing stricter limits on alcohol sales, stepping up underage drinking enforcement, or even, gasp, banning alcohol sales in the bleachers.

Make no mistake, these sorts of incidents are commonplace at any sporting event. Yes, even the screwing in the bathrooms. It’s found in Chicago and New York and Sao Paulo and Bruges and Moscow and so on and so forth. Just think soccer riots. Think alcohol is involved there?

But, it can get out of control at Wrigley. Especially if the Sox are in town. Especially in the sixth or seventh when everyone is as liquored as they are going to get. Something does need to be done.

I don’t have the magic solution. A few more security guards might do it. Stopping alcohol sales in the fifth might have some effect. And maybe cutting fans off after five beers might not be the most unreasonable proposition I’ve ever heard.

The problem isn’t that people are drinking. They’re at a ballgame. They paid up just so they could sit in the sun and drink. The problem is that the Cubs have allowed it to get to the point where a few drunken idiots pissing on each other aren’t just an unfortunate side effect of the alcohol/sports combination, but the norm. That’s the problem. When violence and the public expulsion of bodily fluids becomes old hat, that’s when it’s gone too far.

Sox fans and Cards fans love to point to this unseemly aspect of life at Wrigley as proof that Cubs fans are nothing but over-privileged, over-sexed frat boys who know nothing of the game and are just in it for the beer and babes, brah. After all, if your team hadn’t won since 1908, why would anyone go to the game!!! (Bare in mind these are the same people who root for the St. Louis Blues).

This is a preposterous notion propped up by one fan base’s crushing insecurity at being the perpetual second fiddle and another fan base’s bizarre, self-aggrandizing hubris at being the FUCKING BEST BASEBALL FANS EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD MOTHER FUCKERS!!!

Do the bleachers get too wet sometimes? Absolutely. Does it make watching the game in the bleachers less enjoyable?  Sometimes. It does. I will concede that point.

But, watching the game from the bleachers isn’t about watching the game. It’s about badgering Fonsie for a souvenir ball and heckling Matt Holliday. It’s about Chicago dogs and sunflower seeds. It’s about being outside. It’s about drinking.

It’s about the craic. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Especially if they’re from St. Louis.

Hi, all.  I’ve been writing quite a bit lately, though most of it is either too personal, too scathing, or frankly, just too plain bad for public consumption.  I’ve also been working on a series of musings on baseball related themes (because from now until the Cubs are mathematically eliminated, that is what I spend about 50% of my time thinking about) and I will be posting them here every few days for the next week or so. 

Kiss and Hug,

CJJ

***

I’ll Pro your Logue OR:  As found in the King James version of the Scorecard. 

There is one universally true and guiding principle in my life…

I am a Cubs fan. The group of millionaires (hundred thousandaires if you count the bullpen catchers) who put on the blue pinstripes and run after a white ball in between Waveland, Sheffield, Clark, and Addison are the Good Guys. They will, nay ought, win baseball games. When they lose, God frowns. When they win, He smiles. All others be damned.

This is how I have chosen to live my life; Based on this one dogmatic absolute.

I have no qualms with eating pork. I do not make pilgrimage to any holy site besides the Bleachers. I do not, under any circumstances, care about what a women wears as long as it does not bare the words “St. Louis,” “Cardinals,” or “White Sox.” Only for this single sin should covering one’s face be mandatory. And only out of shame, not modesty.

I know what Nirvana is like. I’ve had dreams about it. I have season tickets three rows behind the third base dugout at Wrigley. The sun is shining. Albert Pujols just knocked in three for the Cubs via Waveland Avenue. The Cardinals, the lowly, doormat of the NL Central Cardinals—a team that hasn’t won over 70 games in the past decade—are down by five in the top of the seventh. I am drinking Old Style. Megan Fox has just corrected an error in my scorebook. “Ludwick struck out looking,” she says.  She is right. She is always right. I erase the “K” and swing it the other direction. She kisses my neck…I’m digressing….

These are my beliefs. They are, by nearly every possible objective standard of measurement,  stupid. Not stupid…foolish. Not foolish…delirious. Insane. Beyond crazy.

I am OK with this. I have examined the facts and have chosen this path. My mind is made up.

I am aware it has been 102 years. I am aware that in that century+, the Cubs have made back-to-back post-seasons exactly once. I am aware that we have not won a playoff game since 1989. Some claim there was a spat of mild success in 2003, but I wouldn’t know. I have no memory of that year. Years of therapy have failed to restore that period of time to my consciousness. I think I hit my head or something…

I am aware that in my lifetime, teams from cities like Miami and Phoenix—cities that had to install tanning beds and Jager Bomb vendors to get more than just the players’ wives, kids, mistresses, and “other” kids to come to games—have won a World Series (or two). I am aware that in this time the team with the most all time championships has added four more. The team with the second most all time titles, a team from…ugh…St. Louis…has added another. I am aware the other Chicago baseball team has climbed the mountain. I am aware the Red Sox have vanquished their demons.   I am aware that a team from some place called “Tampa”, a team that plays in a building better suited for license plate stamping than professional baseball, has been dancing.

The Blackhawks are in the Stanley Cup for fuck’s sake.

I am very much aware of all of this. These are the facts. They cannot be disputed, distorted, or denied.

And yet, this is my one true belief: The Chicago Cubs are the good and righteous path. They are beset on all sides by the path of the wicked. These wicked reside in such places as New York, Boston, L.A., the South Side, and St. Louis. Especially St. Louis. These wicked have won more games, more titles, and have more Hall of Famers. They appear to be the Divine.

They are not. They are a test designed by the Baseball Gods to separate the true believers from the heretics. It is only by walking this righteous path—a path beset on all sides by pain, frustration, and anger—a path so fraught with heartbreak that it makes Romeo look like a pubescent seventh grader crying in the bathroom because Juliet doesn’t, like, “like him like him”—a path that will literally make your father cry—only by walking this path will you find true salvation.

Yes, my son, this path will be a hard one. Forty days in the desert? Pish. Forty years in the desert? Posh. Child’s play compared to the pain you will encumber.

There will be detractors. They will come from places like Milwaukee, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Houston, and the aforementioned St. Louis. Pay them no heed. Stick to your path. Relish in your literacy if nothing else.

You will find your heaven. It will happen.

The all night block party. The parade down Addison. The Commissioner’s Trophy. The tears in your dad’s eyes.

And there will be tears. Big, fat, “cry like a baby and who gives a fuck because the Cubs just won the World Series and everybody else in the building is bawling too” tears.

This my belief.

Yes, it is crazy.

Some have other beliefs. Some believe a snake told a woman to eat an apple she shouldn’t have and because she did, mankind is inherently sinful. Some believe when you die, you come back to life as an otter or horse or cow or whatever. Some even believe that “Two and a Half Men” is quality television that provides needed insight into the nature of single fatherhood.

Surely there are crazier beliefs, right?

RIGHT!?!?!

Oh, well.

Fuck it.

Someone get me an Old Style.

Megan…?

A few minutes ago, the puck dropped in Game 4 of the NHL Western Conference Finals.  If the Chicago Blackhawks can close out the San Jose Sharks to win the series, they’ll go on to the Stanly Cup Finals.

Dyn-O-mite.

I should be clear.  I am not a hockey fan.  When someone mentions Bobby Orr, I think of a quarry. 

“Dump it down?”  Must have had Indian food last night.

The third period?  Sounds like a lot of poor romantic timing.

I never had much interest in the sport.  I didn’t have a mom or dad or aunt or uncle to raise me with it.  I didn’t watch a seminal shoot out or playoff game that started some sort of pre-pubescent love affair with the game the way Michael Jordan or Walter Payton did for others.  I rarely ice skated.  I never played. 

…though I was part of a pretty damn formidable street hockey team during the summer before 7th grade (Southridge Regional Division Champs, baby!!!!)…

For the first 20 years or so of my life, hockey was (and largely still is) a curiosity to me.  I knew that people who played hockey wore skates and beat each other up.  And that the dads of hockey players also beat each other up.  Sounds like fun?

So, these past three years as the Blackhawks have slowly improved and climbed closer and closer to a title, I’ve been inundated with enthusiasm and information about a team and sport that up until very very very recently, I just didn’t care about. 

I live with six other men.  It was unavoidable.

And yet here I am, sitting and watching and cheering and jeering (HOW IS THAT NOT FUCKING HOOKING!?!?  YOU’RE KILLING ME REF!!!!) about the Blackhawks.

Fair Weather:  the condition of rooting for or taking interest in a subject when said subject is successful or en vogue.  (See also:  Bandwagonner; Johnny Come Lately; Sox fan).

I’ve always despised the fair weatherers.  When you root for such traditional sports power houses like Illini football or the Chicago Cubs, you start to see your pain as sort of a perverted badge of honor.  Unless you had that badge, you didn’t have the right to get excited about the Rose Bowl or NLDS.

I watched the Cubs when they were managed by Jim Riggleman.  What did you ever do?

But, I must say…I’m starting to see the appeal. 

It’s a different sort of experience.  Instead of agonizing over every pitch and dissecting every stat (Why isn’t Hill pinch hitting?  He’s hitting .313 against lefty Capricorns in the Western time zone in odd numbered years!), I can sit back and relax and enjoy the game.  I ask questions.  I learn about the sport and the players and the history from people who are passionate about it.

Every game is new and fun and interesting.

If the Hawks lose, I’m can forget about it immediately and enjoy the rest of my MGD.

If they win, I get to be part of the riot.

We Midwesterners are polite people.

“Yes, please.”

“No, thank you.”

“Kindly, fuck off.”

Yeah, it’s a stereotype.  But, as with all stereotypes, it bares out a lot of truth.  Like how white people love Wayne Brady.  Or how Sox fans are stupid.  And don’t even get me started on the Jews (AMIRIGHT!!!?!?!).

You tend not to notice this phenomenon until you venture outside the Flyovers.  I did this a couple months ago when I spent a week in the hotbed of post-modern secular humanism that is Manhattan.  I was literally told to “go fuck myself” twice.  One time  with a middle finger.  There were other instances.  They involved the French.  I’d rather not talk about them.

The point is we’re not stoopid, we salt of the earth folk. I know who Boutros Boutros-Ghali is.  The number one export of Lichtenstein is dental products.  A group of peacocks is called a Party!  BUCHANAN WAS OUR ONLY BACHELOR PRESIDENT!!!

We just move a little easier.  We speak a bit more politely.  We’re hospitable.  I think that’s a good word for it.  “Hospitable.”  We want you to feel warm and welcome and appreciated. 

That said…

Jimmy John’s needs to tone it down.

(door opens)

“Hi!”

“Hello!”

“What’s going on, man?”

“Welcome, bro.”

“Heya.”

“Howdy.”

“Fucking welcome to Jimmy John’s!!!”

(orders BLT)

“Thanks for coming”

“See ya!!”

“C’mon back now, ya hear!?”

“Adios, amigo.”

“Marry me.”

“Dude, come back and bang my sister!  With extra sprouts!!!”

It’s what I imagine going to an open house at a cult must be like.  Sure, everyone is friendly and welcoming.  But…everyone is too friendly.  Almost fake.  Yet, there’s something so nice about it.  Everyone wants to know about me.  I am great.  I am loved.

Then they break out the kiddie pools filled with rams’ blood and by then it’s too late.  You may as well tattoo the name of the Supreme Chancellor on your testicles and take a wife for when the Moon Ship is ready.

Or, spring for the .99 pickle.  Depending on the situation, of course.

Jimmy John’s is a central Illinois creation (Charleston, I believe) and I think it’s great they try to capture that friendly, homey sort of feel you find ‘round these parts.  But, there’s no way that all seven of you behind the counter slamming ham down my drunk throat at 2:30 a.m. are really all that happy to see me. 

Fake friendly isn’t any better than rude.  It’s just creepier.