Goodbye Robert B. Parker

This past Monday Robert B. Parker, one of the greatest American writers of crime fiction, passed away at his home. Mr. Parker was found sitting upright at his desk, working on his next novel. His wife, Joan, found him and said he appeared to be sleeping. Robert B. Parker was 77 years old.

I started reading Mr. Parker's "Spenser" novels during in my senior year of high school after I had enlisted in the U.S. Army's Delayed Entry Program, it was a time of uncertainty for me and an awful lot of change. Spenser were the one constant, and it's been that way ever since - Robert B. Parker's stories have been with me nearly non-stop over the last twenty-five years.

I read my first Spenser novel back in 1986 while working at Meijer's Thrifty Acres, a unique, Michigan-based grocery store/department store in the days before Wal-Mart ate our economy. There was a local mom-and-pop bookstore nearby (there were no Barnes and Noble or Borders back then either) where I found "The Godwulf Manuscript", Parker's seminal Spenser novel. I worked the evening shift at Meijer's and each night I'd bring along a paperback to read during my lunch break, which I'd take at a nearby Burger King; I remember getting a cheeseburger and fries combo, which I'd take to a corner booth where I'd read quietly for about forty-five minutes before I had to head back; it was one of the most strangely peaceful and independent times in my life, I think about it often.

I wrote short stories while in high school and tried in vain to get them published (they were pretty awful). Later, I wrote my own crime fiction novel while serving in the Army overseas, which remains unpublished as well. Robert B. Parker was a huge influence even then. As I endeavor to become a writer now, some twenty-five years later he still is.

Over the years I've read a tremendous number of works in the crime fiction genre by great writers including Elmore Leonard, George Pelecanos, Loren D. Estleman and the all-time master Dashiell Hammett. But I always came back to Mr. Parker and Spenser. Over the years Mr. Parker added several new, interesting characters, such as Sunny Randall, Jesse Stone and Virgil Cole - each living within Mr. Parker's spare, dialog-driven prose.

Mr. Parker's style is simple, clear and direct; he presents just enough information to explain the setting and define the characters while driving the story forward through their actions and their words. Mr. Parker's dialog is often the best part of his novels, its sharp, terse and quite often funny.

Of late, however, I found Mr. Parker's work to be a little repetitive and at least one of his recent Spenser novels was kind of hard to finish; I'm ashamed to say that I actually found it somewhat tedious. Yet just last week I discovered that another Virgil Cole western novel, "Brimstone", had been published and even despite my displeasure with Parker's last Spenser novel I found myself compelled to read it. I also discovered a new Robert B. Parker series, a "Young Spenser" novel, that I was also very excited to read. I placed an order on Amazon.com that night; the package arrived on Monday and sat on my desk for a couple days; I learned of Mr. Parker's passing a couple days afterward, so it was with a mix of joy and sadness that I opened my Amazon box and discovered some of the last works of a true American original.

I'm reading Brimstone now and I'm thrilled to say that it's an excellent return to form. It's a quick read, as are all of Parker's works, but I'm trying to take my time and enjoy the journey for as long as I can. Robert B. Parker continues to inspire my writing, I hope I'm able to live up to his legacy. You'll be missed, Mr. Parker but your work lives on.

You call this rain?

Well so much for another "significant rain event" in the Bay Area. The weekend is drawing to a close and we've had little more than a few showers to show for the first in a series of predicted "major winter storms". What exactly does it take to be a West Coast Meteorologist anyway? I imagine it goes something like this: run weather guessing software, check mountain top camera, cut-n-paste forecast from the Weather Channel, read during evening news, smoke weed, repeat. Not a bad way to earn a living.

We live in a bubble here in the San Francisco Bay Area. It's seldom too hot, never very cold and once in a great while there's some wind and a bit of rain. Yeah, there's that risk of an earthquake I keep hearing about, I'm sure it's gonna shake the state right into the ocean someday. Meanwhile, the rest of the country has been getting perpetually pummeled by a combination of sub-zero arctic blasts and snowfalls measured in feet rather than inches. And people here complain when it's cloudy a couple days in a row. Pussies.

I grew up in Michigan, a state where each change of season poses a very real threat to life, limb and automobile; tornadoes, blizzards, thunderstorms, hail, ice storms and heat waves just to name a few of the more colorful events any given Michigan resident can expect to endure in any given year - and often more than once. In elementary school I endured the blizzard of 1977, where powerful winds blew ten-foot high drifts of snow, literally burying the entire state for about a week; during the my middle school years we lived through a thunderstorm of such incredible ferocity, packing hurricane-force winds, that a gaping hole was ripped in the roof of my house, so large you could drive a Buick through it; one winter in high school a late February thaw turned a snowstorm to rain, melting our frozen vista, yet was cut short by a sudden cold snap, which by morning painted half the state in a couple inches of shimmering ice.

I spent each spring and summer in Michigan marveling at huge gray, purple and black thunderclouds that seemed to hang just above the treetops, which when unleashed would spit great bolts of lighting capable of ripping trees into kindling. If you've never experienced a lightning strike I can assure you the sound is so sudden, shocking and loud that it will knock you to the ground and cause you to scream like a cheerleader at homecoming; it's terrifying and extraordinary, I miss it dearly. In the Bay Area, to my great chagrin, we're lucky to experience even a single gentle, thunderclap during an entire year, it's shocking only because it's so absurd.

So here I sit, yet again waiting for the rain to fall, knowing that when it does I'll have to open the windows, lean outside and strain to hear it patter against the sidwalk and ask, "This is it? Really?". I guess I shouldn't complain, having seen the devastation of last week's earthquake in Haiti I should be thrilled for a lackluster winter storm, it might be boring but at least I have a roof over my head and I'll be dry and warm tonight.

Douchebaggery

Every Friday evening for the last ten years my wife and I have visited our local Mexican restaurant y cantina here in Alameda; we go for the food and stay for the booze. Honestly, is there anything better than a tall, frosty Margarita after a long, stressful week of work? I think not.

Over the years we've observed an interesting cross-section of East Bay humanity, a broad variety of drunkards, liars, loudmouths and we're pretty sure a few off-duty whores. Everyone's a local, no one's a native... we're just a bunch of mutts; it's kind of a dysfunctional, extended family - hell, I've spent more time with these bartenders than I have with my own brother over the last decade.

On our modest income this is the closest we're ever going to come to owning a vacation home. So we've come to expect a certain level of etiquette and decorum when people come to visit. Lately we've borne witness to a disturbing new trend of stupid human behavior, which we've termed: "douchebaggery". First, you have to understand, this is a working class place, the bar is always jammed, the crowds are generally raucous and the lights are kept low - it's surely not a place for kids of any age. Seriously. Anyone with half a brain could see that. So why the fuck are people dragging their whiny, slobbering, bratty-assed kids into my pub? At 9 o' clock in the evening?

Last night we're camped out in the bar, hanging at one of those tiny chest-high tables that's barely capable of supporting two drinks and a bowl of tortilla chips. It's elbow-to-elbow, loud as a soccer match and I'm up one house Margarita. There's an NBA game on one TV and ESPN's Friday Night Fights on another, so yeah, shit is muy bueno. Then in walks this dude wearing a waist-length, slate gray leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses, though it's been dark for at least two hours - classic wardrobe choices of the East Bay douchebag - he's accompanied by a woman who has the shape and carriage of mature sea-lion, her extended ass swinging more front-to-back than left-to-right. As they weave through the drunken crowd I notice he's holding a baby carrier in front of him with, wait for it, an infant inside. Who in the fuck brings a baby to a bar on a Friday night? It's douchebaggery, I tell you!

When did it become acceptable to bring small children into a bar? Are people really so shallow and stupid that they...

[[[ WORK IN PROGRESS ]]]

Experience trumps talent

Watching today's NFL Wild Card games I was again reminded of my sole, fundamental belief in the human condition: talent is bullshit. Crude yet succinct, no? Early in the Green Bay vs. Arizona game the Packers young QB Aaron Rodgers threw multiple interceptions, looking every bit the second year starter. Meanwhile, the Cardinals' 38-year old, veteran QB Kurt Warner was methodically shredding the Packer's number two-rated defense. Rodgers had youth on his side and his abilities were clearly exceptional but Warner's experience ruled the day - and that counts for everything in sports - oh, and staying healthy doesn't hurt either.

Interestingly, when Rodgers was selected by Green Bay in the first round of the 2005 NFL draft he was notably intended to succeed superstar Bret Favre, who was himself was plagued by erratic play early in his career, including 6 interceptions in a Wild Card game vs. a Kurt Warner led St. Louis Rams team back in 1993. But here's a key contrast, Rodgers spent his first few years riding the pine on the sidelines waiting for Favre's retirement while Warner, who wasn't even drafted by the NFL, initially found work in the lesser Arena Football League. While Rodgers managed a clipboard during his first few seasons Warner started right away for the AFL's Iowa Barnstormers and eventually took his teams to the championship game two years in a row; this early AFL experience gave Warner an edge over higher profile NFL draft picks whose lesser experience allowed Warner to enjoy immediate success.

Experience isn't everything, however.

I contend that hard work and execution are every bit as important as experience. Talent, if there truly is such a thing, is a byproduct of years hard work and experience. I've held this belief for most of my adult life, though until recently I didn't have a scientific or informed basis to justify this philosophy, it just seemed logical to me.

"He's just so talented" is a common refrain I've heard over and over again throughout my lifetime to describe the excellence of great athletes like Michael Jordan or the effortless performances of legendary actors like Clint Eastwood - but why are they great? Is it fairy Dust? Good genes? How does Tom Brady, a sixth round draft pick, win three Super Bowls before he's thirty while Heisman winners like Eric Crouch end up as little more than trivia questions?

Crucial clues (if not outright answers) can be found in Malcolm Gladwell's excellent book "Outliers". Through a wealth of case studies Gladwell asserts that the successes of people like Bill Gates, top NHL players and Nobel Laureates are predicated upon a combination of timing (aka luck), family connections and simple hard work rather than destiny or fate. Gladwell also disproves the widely held notion that IQ and raw ability alone are deciding factors in individual success - however, if you are fortunate enough to have your IQ and raw ability recognized at an early age and you'll most likely have access to additional education and/or training, which are critical in order to get the kind of coaching necessary to develop critical skills that set you apart from others in your age or peer groups.

In my own professional life I've never been accused of having any particular talents (except by good old Mom, of course). While I haven't reached the heights of notoriety or income of pro athletes or hollywood stars I have done better than most. But why? My early years were unremarkable, I was a decent but unexceptional student in high school and I chose to bypass a traditional college education to enlist in the Army. After my discharge I stumbled around for several years, started and failed a small business then pursued several dismal jobs in retail before catching a break at the dawn of the Internet boom in the mid-1990's.

Gladwell writes that Bill Gates was the fortunate beneficiary of being born at just the right time in just the right place, which allowed him unparalleled access to mainframe computers and the opportunity to learn computer programming, which few of his peers to could hope to achieve - a huge headstart. I've always been an avid video game and PC gaming fan, it was a hobby more than a career option, initially. Like many in 1994 I got hooked on AOL and Compuserve; I saw this new technology rapidly expanding, I had access to a computer so I taught myself web development. At about the same time video gaming companies were beginning to appreciate the potential for Internet marketing and online gaming. Pursuing my interest in PC games I happened to see an opening for a web development job on a favorite game company's web site, so I took a chance and accepted a web development job at a subsidiary of Electronic Arts in Austin, Texas. It was the perfect convergence of technology, luck and ability; I would triple my salary in just the next few years - but timing and skills alone wouldn't have been enough for the success I've found over the last fifteen years since that first job opportunity in Texas.

I believe the extra, final component in my fortunate story is my strong work ethic, which I inherited from my parents. I've always been willing to be the first to arrive and the last to leave. I was just driven to work harder than everyone else. At the time I figured, I'm not as smart or connected as everybody else, but I can make up for that by working that much harder than anyone else was willing.

Also, as a kid I read a lot. A LOT. Every night in bed I'd stay up for hours reading Stephen King, Isaac Asimov and Elmore Leonard. We didn't have cable and video games were in their infancy, primitive by today's standards, so I had a lot of time on my hands. I wasn't terribly athletic either. So I read, probably a lot more than most kids my age and I also wrote short stories (badly). As a result, I had a deep vocabulary and good writing skills.

Combine a diverse employment background, a solid work ethic, my love of PC games, my newly developed Internet skills, the shift towards online gaming and an ability to speak and write effectively gave me an edge over a lot of others my own age with better educations and lesser experience.

So I may not be able to throw a 50-yard bomb or perform on Broadway but I can certainly apply some unique, hard-fought skills on the back of a diverse set of experiences that few others in my field can match. That, my friend, beats the shit out of "talent" any day of the week!

I'm Gorgin' It!

Do black people really love McDonald's? I'm sorry, Mac-Donald's. What? That's not racist. I ride BART, that's how people say it. I'm just an observer.

Watching this afternoon's NFL Wildcard Playoffs I've been inundated with a variety of ads portraying a variety of sharply-dressed, smiling black tweens, teens and twenty-somethings enjoying such dubious fare as the "Mac-Snackwrap", the rather optimistically named "Big-N-Tasty(r)" or (shudder) the "McRib" quote-unquote sandwiches. These actors certainly seem happy... almost deliriously so.

Me Gusta Mas!?!

Several of the ads also feature Hispanic and Asian actors, similarly overjoyed with their greasy "McNugget" and "Filet-O-Fish" value meals, not necessarily respectively. Has McDonald's truly found the secret sauce? Have they tapped into today's multi-cultural youth market? Are the ethnic kids of today really "lovin' it"?

I'm not convinced. In fact, I believe McDonald's secretly aspires to be the home of modern-day peasant food, cheap and plentiful in a shiny pop-culture wrapper. But if I understand my history (see Wikipedia) peasant food has a rich, if not healthy, legacy; if peasant food is McDonald's aspiration then they're missing the mark wide and low.

In medieval times the peasant-farmers harvested wheat, which was stored and served to the nobility. Instead, the poor were left with lesser rye and barley for their bread, while simple beans, nuts and cabbage provided proteins - these were combined with leeks, onions and garlic into soups. Simple. Hardy. Healthy. Plentiful? Not always - the bubonic plague devastated the size of Europe's population, but the good news is that if you survived there was plenty to eat!

Ironically, while the land owners and aristocracy gorged on breads, butter, wine and fatty red meats the working and lower classes survived hand-to-mouth but were actually eating a much healthier diet. Though life expectancy in medieval times was uniformly the low-30's the rich were probably dying from heat disease and cholesterol while the poor were dying from the squalor of their environments and the unforgiving nature of their working conditions.

So what does porridge, ale and the black death have to do with McDonald's? Peasants ate what they could cheaply produce, there often wasn't enough to go around, it was bland, but at least it was cheap and relatively good for you. By contrast, McDonald's sells a wide variety of reasonably good-tasting choices (thank you modern chemistry and good old-fashioned sugar and salt), they produce it with assembly-line efficiency and it'll kill you if you eat enough of it... but at least it's cheap!

With all due respect to capitalism I can't fault McDonald's for trying to make every dollar they can, that's the American way! Right? Then why does every McDonald's TV or radio ad make me so uneasy? The answer is walking (or shambling) through the food courts of every shopping mall in the country: great big fat people. I can't lay the entire blame for obesity squarely at McDonald's feet, but I can hate them for pushing their vision of fit, hip, happy black/hispanic/asian young people on everyone.

I defy you to visit a McDonald's in any major city and see anyone eating there even remotely similar to the folks in their ads? Instead, what I see are poor, working class mothers w/ strollers, wild children running-screaming-coughing-touching every possible exposed surface and small, isolated pockets of elderly folks drinking Styrofoam cups of McCoffee. About the only thing the McDonald's marketing folks got right are the skintones.

Where am I going with this? You could be forgiven for thinking I wrote this on the couch watching a football game. You'd be right! I guess I'm just expressing a little blog-based fury at the callousness of the McDonald's corporation. They're selling a trendy, lifestyle-based atmosphere and giving the impression their "food" is reasonably healthy. But they're really killing us, one value-menu item at a time.

The Toll of Stress

I'm tired. Not sleepy tired. Weary tired. Despite the fact that I get at least seven hours of sleep each night, conduct regular exercise and eat reasonably well. I don't smoke, I hardly ever drink and aside from a bit of chocolate or a cookie every now and again I seldom snack between meals. So I'm living right yet I have no energy and lack the barest motivation to do anything besides laying on the couch after work.

What's up with me?

I believe the root cause is stress, depression or some combination of both. But I'd wager the more likely culprit is stress - and I'm getting it in giant, heaping potions every day at work. My job is incredibly stressful, it's generally not a lot of fun and I'm spending forty-five minutes commuting each way. The project I'm on is very complex and to be honest I barely understand what's going on around me at times. Granted, I've only been working there a couple months, so it's not unreasonable to be a little off-balance... but something's not right.

Deep down I'm not sure this is the right place or role for me. But my choices are limited.

Here's the deal, I'm forty-one years old and I'm in a young man's industry. The other people in my age-range are the executives - but I'm not one of them, I don't share their interests or their sensibilities, we're baiscally from different walks of life. I'm not really making connections with the people I work with nor am I finding satisfaction in the work itself. I often feel adrift.

Basically, I'm at a crossroads. The field I'm in is the only work I know and I'm really not happy doing it, but then I'm not particularly interested in starting over again either. I suppose this is a common malaise of the middle-aged man... fuck me, did I just call myself middle-aged?

I need to find a way to shake myself out of this. I need to find something that engages, challenges and fulfills me. But right now I'm out of my mind with fatigue and overwhelmed by the compounding stress. Today I left work early to visit a martial arts school near my home, something I've wanted to do for quite a while, but I just couldn't summon the strength to get up off the couch and drive over to the studio. I wasn't like this ten or fifteen years ago.

I'm ending this post on a down note - I know, who the fuck wants to read a depressing blog entry? But I'm having one of those days. I just hope it's the post-holiday blues. I've seriously gotta snap out of this; I'm sure my wife doesn't want to deal with a downer of a husband moping around the house. Christ, this sucks.

What's it to ya?

Look, I know I'm supposed to write something new in my blog every day. I realize the only way I'll ever become a good writer is by logging time behind the keyboard. But check it, today was the first day back in the office after the Christmas and New Year's holidays; I worked three days out of the last twelve, so I'm a little out of it, feel me? I'm just not down with spending an hour or two thinking up clever shit, which at this point no one but my wife and I are actually reading anyway.

So fuck it, I'm kicking back to play some Modern Combat 2 on my Xbox and eat a greasy handful of chocolate-chip cookies left over from the weekend. What's that? Yeah, I'm sure there is something more productive I could be doing, but I'm making the call and this is it... that's just how it is. Don't judge me... and you can wipe that condescending look off your face while you're at it.

Maybe when I hang up the gamepad I'll spend a little quality time looking at porn on the Internet. Yeah, that's what I said. Porn. I like it, so what. I think we both know there are worse things I could be doing with my free time. For instance, I could be unspooling dollar bills at the local strip club or I could be driving around the neighborhood looking for a new weed hookup or I could even dealing a little Pai-Gow with the Asians down at the Oakland Card Club. Shit, I'm goddamned husband-of-the-freaking-year by comparison. Whatever.

I don't need your negativity. I'm headed for my "office" right now, which is actually a combination video game lounge and pornography theater with really sweet hardwood flooring and a cool ceiling fan. Don't worry, I'll get back to some quality writing on Tuesday... No, I'm serious. Check out my blog tomorrow, I guarantee some deep, meaningful shit is going down right here. Check it. I'm out.

Enter the Middle-Aged Guy

Everyone at one time or another imagines reliving some aspect of their youth. A very important part of my teens and twenties involved the study of the martial arts. I studied and sometimes even taught Tae Kwon Do, Karate, Aikido, Kenpo and Hapkido. Over the last decade marriage, career and variety of other interests led me down other paths. But the spirit and the memory of my martial arts experiences have stayed with me... and now I'm about to take a shot at living them again.

Tomorrow I'm going to check out a Brazilian Jujitsu school just up the road from my house. I spent a good amount of my youth sweating in a Dojo (or Dojang, depending on what style of martial art I was pursuing at the time), five sometimes six days a week and more often than not attending back-to-back classes. The big difference now is that I'm in my 40's. To be honest, I'm a bit nervous. Do I still have my legs? Can I still punch with power? How's my cardio gonna hold up against kids in their 20's?

I remember teaching Tae Kwon Do when I was attending college in Michigan. One of my students was 40-years old (damned if I can't remember his name, but he reminded me of Chuck Norris because he had a beard and could do the splits - something I've never really been able to do). Chuck was a really nice guy, he had power in his punches and his kicks were impressive, but I remember he wasn't "into it" in the same way that I was. Back then I was about 170 pounds and could do it all, spin kicks, flying kicks, breaking boards... Martial arts were my life between high school, through my years in the Army and for most of my twenties. For a while I actually thought I would make a living teaching Tae Kwon Do - and for a couple years that's exactly what I did. So I was always a bit shocked that Chuck wasn't as dialed into teaching, competing and essentially living the life of a martial artist as I was.

But now that I've reached the age of my former friend and student I can appreciate his attitude towards the martial arts. Back then I thought I would be defined by my fighting skills, now I'm merely interested in getting back into shape and maybe, just maybe, recapturing some of the dynamic fighting skills of my twenties. Alas, I don't think 170 pounds are in my future, however.

This school also emphasizes the "MMA" style of fighting, as might be seen in the UFC or Strikeforce on television. I competed frequently over the years, but while the fighting was often full-contact it was hardly with the ferocity and violence of modern-day MMA fighting. I sincerely want to challenge myself, physically and mentally, to see how I'll match up in this type of competitive hand-to-hand combat. When I fought as a Black Belt we wore headgear, gloves and foot guards - sometimes even a chest pad. Consequently, I can't recall ever getting hurt - but then I've always had the capacity to take a punch. In MMA you enter the ring with a cup, a mouthguard and a pair of very lightweight gloves that don't really appear to cushion the blow very much, judging by the bouts I've seen on Spike and Versus network.

So get ready MMA-world, here comes a veteran of the Japanese, Okinawan, Chinese and Korean fighting arts. I'm older, possibly wiser and in my mind still the young man who could put together string of head-high kicks and gut-busting body punches without breaking a sweat. It all starts tomorrow, ready or not!

What the hell am I doing?

Today my wife and I went to see "Up in the Air", a movie about a guy who fires people for a living yet sleepwalks through his own life without connections to family or maintaining any personal relationships. George Clooney plays the lead, Ryan, whose character arc initially celebrates the freedom and anonymity of his lifestyle then subsequently challenges its meaning and worth. Along the way a whole lot of everyday cubical drones and middle management folks at nondescript white collar tech shops get fired. It felt real, it felt grim, it makes me cringe at the prospect of getting into my car on Monday morning.

I've been working in the video games industry for the last fifteen years. When I got started, back in 1996, this was a niche, hobbyist field focused on creating engaging, singleplayer PC games like Wing Commander or Civilization. Console systems like Playstation and Xbox changed the field and today everything is focused on online multiplayer experiences led by mega-corporations such as Sony, Microsoft and Electronic Arts; it's become cold and corporate, it's a grindhouse for a whole generations of college kids. The creative end of the industry - designing and creating cool game experiences - has been eclipsed by the need to "spot a market opportunity" and "hit the quarter". Things change, I get that, but it's not what it used to be, and I'm not the ambitious kid I once was either.

Today's top games (such as "Modern Warfare" or "Assassin's Creed") are made by development teams that number 100 or 200 programmers, artists, writers, musicians and producers. Famously EA's "The Godfather" game grew to over 400 developers, many of these were contractors brought in late to ship the game on-time, while working nightmare hours - or "crunch", which is both a term and a grim reality for anyone who's experienced it firsthand.

Video games typically take 18 to 24 months to create and ship to retail (console games generally fit this model), though Facebook games by companies like Zynga or Playfish can be produced in months or even weeks - but these are much smaller in scale and often rather derivative. If you're an individual "dev" on a 100-man team your slice of the pie, that aspect of the game you have influence over, is pretty slim - and it's only getting slimmer.

I'm a Producer. My role entails coordinating all of the programming, art, sound and writing into a single, cohesive whole. In practice it's a bizarre combination of plate-spinning, cat wrangling and lion taming - pick your metaphor, there's an angle in game development where it fits. On any given day I'm managing a schedule, holding meetings and trying to keep everyone informed from moment-to-moment. Depending on the project this can be fun, intellectually challenging stuff... even exciting at times. But over the years, as the industry has become more segmented and specialized, a Producer might only be focused on voice-over dialog or motion capture - yeah, that's pretty narrow. On my current project I'm "producing" the back-end, such as Server Operations, Customer Support and Player Moderation. That's right kids, making video games is not a whole lot different than selling life insurance - but I do get to wear t-shirts and jeans instead of a suit and tie. Keeping that glass half full do take a little faith.

So, we're walking out of the movie today, it's a Saturday and I'm already dreading Monday morning. That's not a healthy way to live, I know, I get it. The level of frustration and stress I'm dealing with is significant, I'm up to a daily headache and an eye twitch - and it's only the start of month three on this latest project. So you're reading this and thinking, quit your bellyaching, at least you've got a job, right? Fair point, I shouldn't complain. But I'm not happy. This isn't what I thought I'd be doing fifteen years ago. I sure as shit can't fathom doing this fifteen years down the road. So what the hell am I doing about it? Writing. This blog is a part of that. So the moral of this sad little blog is: change the game and figure something out and you won't be unhappy. I surely don't want to be that sad motherfucker in the movie who started crying because he's 57-years old and doesn't have anything else. I'm doing it. Writing is what I'll do. One blog post at a time. By my reckoning I've only got to write another 9,998 of these to develop mastery of this trade. Fuck it, I'll get there. I don't like to lose.

F the Buckeyes

I would like to salute the Oregon Ducks for attending the 2010 Rose Bowl, congratulations for all the hard work and earning a nomination to the classic New Year's Day football game for the first time since 1986. Unfortunately, I was hoping you'd actually be participating in today's game rather then watching slack-jawed from the sidelines while the Ohio State Buckeyes ran up and down the field at will.

When you are born in the state of Michigan, as I am, your DNA is encoded with a particularly insidious mutant trait: an overwhelming compulsion to watch collegiate and professional football. Given the extraordinary propensity for Michigan-based football teams to disappoint - if not outright suck - it's understandable that one might succumb to a dark, twisted hatred towards the football successes of pretty much everyone else - in particular, we Michigan sports mutants reserve a special corner of hell for the Ohio State Buckeyes, an irrational hatred that's passed father-to-son down through the generations; for some this anti-Buckeye-ism burns so hot and deep that many residents must physically relocate to the extreme borders of the country, such as Florida and California - but not Alaska, TV-sports coverage there is atrocious.

I maintain my sanity through optimism, unrealistic though it may be. I have but one, modest wish, which I renew each calendar year: that the Michigan Wolverines might beat the Ohio State Buckeyes like a fat kid caught with his flipper in the glaze bucket at Cinnabon. Yet for the sixth straight year I've been denied this small life's pleasure... despite all the good I do for the world, in my quiet, dignified way.

When I learned that OSU's opponent in this year's Rose Bowl were to be the exceptional Oregon Ducks, a powerhouse in the Pac-10 this season I found reason for my renewed optimism. Their presence in the 2010 Rose Bowl was intriguing, the Ducks consistently slaughtered each team on their schedule. So I allowed myself to indulge in the outrageous possibility Oregon would show up with their explosive offense, ring the school bell and call a one-team track meet. C'mon, the traditionally lethargic Buckeye offense can't possibly keep up with those crazy kids from Eugene... can they? I have to believe or I might as well start drinking at breakfast.

But as the sun disappeared behind the Pasadena hills and the Wendy's-sponsored game clock expired I watched the Buckeye players, their coaches and fans flooding onto the playing field with arms raised high, celebrating a one-sided victory... meanwhile, just beyond the camera's field of view, the Ducks collectively crumpled to the ground and rolled about in a steaming pile of their own excrement. Blow me.

Alas, the second decade of the new millennium starts with disappointment for me and everyone else back home - only a native of the great state of Michigan can truly appreciate the breadth and the depth of pain caused by a Buckeyes win in January. But that's how it is to be a Michigan sports fan, a second straight year without the Wolverines in a bowl game while the Detroit Lions go for their third win of the year... on the last day of the NFL season. And I know that Michigan State is playing Texas Tech tomorrow, but that's small consolation, I assure you - I mean, have you been to Lubbock? Beating the Red Raiders is not even in the same universe as beating the Buckeyes. Oh, I'll take the win - if there is one - but I'm probably better off starting the day with a large mug of vodka and pancakes.