Rick Kaempfer's Guest Bloggers

Guest Blogger Updates

2008-02-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

If you have stumbled onto this blog, you should know that I no longer have guest bloggers at http://rickaempfer.blogspot.com

I have, however, featured some of these guest bloggers in other ways.

My old boss John Records Landecker, for instance, has interviewed me about my book, and I've interviewed him about his radio career at my Chicago Radio Spotlight blog. I've also written about my favorite moments working on his show. Check on the links below...
Rick's favorite moments: John Landecker Notebook
Rick interviews John
John interviews Rick about $everance

WGN Radio's Leslie Keiling was also interviewed for "Chicago Radio Spotlight." Check out her interview here.

Catherine Johns submitted to a Chicago Radio Spotlight interview, as did Spike Manton, and J.R. Straus.

Guest Bloggers of the Year

2006-12-29T21:42:00.000-08:00

I had some great guest bloggers this year. Thanks to Kim Strickland (6 times), Shawn Wood (4 times), Dobie Maxwell (4 times), Dave Stern (3 times), John Landecker (twice), Dane Placko (twice), Cindy Gatziolis (twice), Spike Manton (twice), Mike Medina (twice), John Moran (twice), Catherine Johns, Bob Dearborn, Leslie Keiling, Brendan Sullivan, Roosevelt Rhodes, JR Straus, Bill Holub, Reed Pence, David Brensilver, Nancy Cross, Chris Lundberg, John Conlisk, Brent Petersen, Ed Dunkelblau, Jay Shatz, Doug James, and of course Peter Kaempfer. All of you did a great job.

My favorite one, however, has to be the one-two punch of Bridget Kaempfer & Tommy Kaempfer. I'm reposting it again this weekend, and giving them the award of guest blogger of the year. (Not that I'm biased at all...)

This (above) is what my family looked like on St. Patrick's Day 1997. Tommy (the baby) is now 11 years old.

Give Me Math Any Day
by Bridget Kaempfer

I am NOT a writer. From grade school to college, every writing project assigned to me turned me into the Queen of Procrastination. I assume most everyone is like that at some point in their lives. Probably some of you were still printing (or typing) your final paper for English five minutes before class started like I did. But I even did it in the fourth grade. There was nothing I hated more than a blank piece of notebook paper and being told to “use my imagination.”

However, I AM a reader. I read everything as a kid. My sisters and I would go to the library every Saturday and each of us would check out fourteen books (the limit on our cards), trade them back and forth, and do it all over again the following week. I don’t have time to read as much as I used to, but I still read quite a bit.

Much of what I read these days is the product of my husband’s hard work. Who would have known that he would provide an endless supply of new reading material right in my own home? That I would be asked on a regular basis to give a critique (which ultimately will be ignored) or check for grammatical errors in a new article? Or that some personal details of my life would be twisted out of proportion and posted on the web for the world to read?

Most of the time, I find it amusing. I never knew my family’s life could be so funny... it certainly doesn’t seem funny as its happening. I guess it’s a good thing that I can read about it later and laugh. And of course, I can claim that the really embarrassing stories didn’t really happen (he writes fiction for goodness sake...)

It’s also interesting to see a seemingly mundane event turned into something special with the power of words. Like many working parents, my busy schedule makes it nearly impossible to be as involved as I’d like, and sometimes I feel like I miss out. But I’m lucky. I get a running commentary of what is going on in my house at any given time. Whether it’s learning how to ride a bike for the first time, reaching a new level on a video game or a designing new train track configuration, I can count on the highlights of my family life being recorded so I can go back and see what I missed. It’s like my own personal TiVo (with the added bonus of being able to see humor in a trying situation after the fact, as opposed to living through it myself and killing somebody).

But I can’t do that. I’m not a writer.

“What do you want me to write?” I ask.
“Anything you want,” he says.
“What do you mean, anything? I can’t write – nobody wants to read anything I write.”
“Yes, they do,” he says. "It’ll be fine. Write whatever you want. Use this as a chance to vent at me.”

He may as well have said “use your imagination.”

Besides, I prefer to do my venting verbally. In person. At the top of my lungs.

So here I am, with the proverbial blank piece of paper and an assignment I don’t really want to do. Which is why I waited until the last minute to do this. And once it was done, I didn't tell him for three days so he would sweat about being able to post his blog on time.

After all, I am the Queen of Procrastination. I have to protect my reputation.

As for venting, his oldest son may have a few words to say....

Your Name Has 1,000 A’s
by Tommy Kaempfer

One of the most popular sayings in my house, specifically from me, is the phrase, “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”

This is because there are some really ridiculous things my dad can do. I’m going to give you my top five most annoying.

5. Dad does this ‘short-term memory’ thing that drives me crazy. Once he thought I was my brother, Johnny. “Well, hello, Johnny.”
“Daaaad...”
“Johnny, cut it out.”
“Daaaaaaaaad, I’m TOMMY.”
“Don’t be silly.” I ran off to Johnny to show him.
“This is Johnny.”
“You’re getting weird, Johnny. That’s Tommy.”
I don’t EVER want that to happen again.

4. Og. I just can’t take this anymore. Once I told Dad that his jokes were twice as old as him. He took that as a challenge. The very next day, he gave me a smelly joke about Calvin Coolidge. “I guess Mr. Coolidge was a pretty calm guy,” I remarked after the joke. “That’s the point of the joke,” he replied. I heard quite a few VERY weird jokes that day. I haven’t really heard much of his ‘new material’ again.

3. This thing Dad has done for the last 10 (that’s how old I am, for your information) years has annoyed me for life. He says the lyrics of songs that I think s t i n k.

2. This is pretty much the same as 3, but he SINGS the songs instead.

1. This has tortured me for a lifetime. (It also has a tie.) First of all, when I don’t want to get up in the morning, he threatens to use the “Pinching Machine” or to tickle. The Pinching Machine is his own hands, of course. The Pinching Machine always will get me out of bed (other than having the Science Fair being tomorrow.)

Second of all, which is worse than Pinching Machine, is Dad’s voices. The worst is his voice of Grover. We used to have a punishment system when he would hear me talking with Johnny at night. First warning, he would take away our teddy bears. A second time, there would be no Nintendo DS. Third, someone would go upstairs in Mom’s and his room. Fourth, (although impossible), Dad would sing all the songs on his iPod as Grover. I’ve hated the Grover (and technically, Yoda) voice since I was 4 or 5.

So now you know what makes me say “daaaaaaaaaad”. Here he comes right now. He says he ate my Nintendo for lunch. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!

Guest Blogger: J.R. Straus

2006-12-01T22:55:00.000-08:00

J.R. Straus was born in Highland Park and raised in Deerfield , which means nothing more than the fact that he was born a Cubs fan. His nerd-like infatuation with baseball cards and their statistics has helped shape him into the fantasy sports guru that he is today. J.R. currently has 2 fantasy baseball teams, 3 fantasy football teams, a football picks league, and is considering a fantasy golf squad for the upcoming season. In the “real” world, J.R. is married, and the proud father of a 2 year old girl. How he put aside all of his fantasy games to get married and procreate is still a mystery. J.R. is currently producing Mike and Mike in the Morning for ESPN 1000.

Reality vs Fantasy

By J.R. Straus

Being a fantasy sports player is all the rage these days. According to ESPN, there are approximately 15 to 20 MILLION people playing fantasy football alone. Most people will tell you that they play fantasy sports to help become familiar with teams outside their geographic area. This, of course, is a lie. People (ok, men) play fantasy sports to:

*“Prove” to each other who “knows” more about said sport.

*Get together at least once a year to hold a draft to pick players for your team, drink, and smoke cigars.

*Give you a reason/excuse to watch other games on/scream at the tv/shirk all domestic responsibility besides your favorite team.

There is a difference between being a football fan, and a fantasy football fan. It seems all very simple, if you like football, you should like fantasy football, right?

REAL SPORTS FANS

When rooting for your real team, your guys are the people who wear your logo. Period. Remember Dennis Rodman? When he was a Piston, you hated him. A few years later, when he came to the Bulls? He was one of the most popular people in town. Same (strange) guy, different jersey. A team jersey or cap is the easiest way to identify yourself as a fan of a team. You know who the guy is cheering for that is wearing the blue cap with the red C on it. (you also know this person is usually out of things to cheer about come fall.) In real sports fandom, you (usually) unite with people of common geography that cheer for one common goal – your team to emerge victorious by scoring more points than your opponent. Everyone knows the score, or at least has access to it by turning on their TV, radio, or computer. Almost everyone knows the scoring system in football. A td is 6 points, a fg is 3 points. An extra point is…. a point. A safety, or a two point conversion are 2 points. That is about is for scoring. You can even look at the scoreboard if you are confused.

FANTASY SPORTS FANS

In fantasy sports, you root for “your guys”, regardless of the team win or loss, you only win if your players compile more statistics than the team of individuals you happen to be matched up with that week. It is hard to determine people’s rooting interest at first glance- you don’t see too many people wearing a hat that says “I got Drew Brees in the 6th round” or “I have the league’s most total points this week!” shirts. There is nothing stranger than some random person standing up and cheering for an 8 yard out in a 4th quarter blowout that put his receiver over 50 yards for the day. While these don’t sound like actual reasons to cheer to you, there are people out there right now ACTUALLY EXCITED ABOUT THINGS LIKE THIS.

The score can only be obtained by a website, through which you have paid for, and created your own user name to “identify you” – you know, like BigStud69 or some crafty team name like Mike’s Marauders. You then of course need a password to said site: after all, why would you want to let anyone else see your precious numbers? Oh, and if you think that scoring is the same here as in real life, think again. A td is 6 points, unless it is over 50+ yards, then it is a point for every yard in ten yard increments. A fg is 3 unless it is from 40+ yards then it is 4. I bet you could guess that a 50+ yard field goal is 5. Oh yea, and you get a point for every ten yards your running back gets, or your wide receiver gets. Your quarterback gets a point for every 25 yards. An extra point is… a point. If your defense makes a sack – that’s a point too. So is an interception. And a forced fumble. If your player throws an interception or fumbles, he loses a point. Your defense is awarded points based on yardage and point totals for the entire game. Did I mention that every league has it’s own scoring system and it’s own rules? Have fun figuring out if you are winning or losing if you are away from your computer. Sometimes, it is not whether or not a team wins, it is HOW they win that is most important. This is a typical, watercooler conversation after a recent Sunday night football game. You may hear this going on at any office in the city on a Monday morning.

Steve: Hey, did you see the Bears win last night?

Bob: Yea, I didn’t think that they were gonna pull it out – they looked awful in the first half, but really turned it around in the 2nd half! That 108 yard return was awesome, I was on my feet cheering the whole time!

Steve: I know, that was a late night – I am glad they won though.

Now let’s look at this same conversation, but this time, let’s change it so it is between two fantasy football players.

Steve: Hey, did you win your game last night?

Bob: You watched the game, right? – Jones and Muhammed didn’t do anything in the first half, but with each of them getting a touchdown and going for over 100 yards, I thought I got the bonus points I needed to win. The problem was that the team I was playing against had the Bears defense, so I was up screaming at the TV during the 108 yard return – I wish he got knocked out at the 1. I can’t believe that I lost my game because I was playing against the stupid Bears defense. I had to stay up and watch the whole thing, and I would have won too, if they didn’t take a knee at the end – I needed Jones to get 8 more yards!

Steve: Hey, at least the Bears won though.

Bob: Yeah, whatever. I lost my game by a point. This sucks. I am never going to hear the end of this from Billy’s Boys. He already posted on the league message board.

You see, in REALITY, the Bears won this game. So, in the real world this person may be happy that the Bears won, but in their FANTASY world, they are unhappy because their friends now can taunt their superiority. Go ahead, look at your co-workers Monday morning. The ones with a little more bounce in their step probably won their matchup this weekend. Either that, or they will tell you how they need a big game out of their wide receiver tonight, at least 80 yards and a touchdown. It makes you wonder why people play fantasy sports. Let’s look at another example:

Steve: Hey, did you watch that Cubs game yesterday??

I just remembered why I love fantasy sports so much.

Guest Blogger: Dave Stern 3

2006-11-24T22:25:00.000-08:00

That's happy Dave on the right there, after the first interleague Cubs-Sox game. Guess who won?

Dave is the other half of the Half Empty column featured every Wednesday on this blog. Dave and I have known each other since college. In fact, we started writing together the day we met, and continue to do so today twenty four years later.

While we like to write humor and comedy together, Dave has always drawn the line on one subject matter: Jews. As a Jew, Dave is allowed to comment. As a German, Rick is not. Ever. Fair enough.

Today Dave gets some of his all-time favorite Jewish bits out of his system.

Jew Musings
By Dave Stern

Are we really that different from everyone else? Until a few years ago I didn’t think so. Then I had this conversation with one of my largest customers:

Cooter: Hey Dave, can you ship me a couple of skids of 19 x 25 60# C1S litho as soon as possible.

Me: Sure. I’ll ship it today and you’ll get it on the Monday after the holiday.

Cooter: Great. Have a good holiday. (Awkard pause) Ummm, do you Jews celebrate Thanksgiving?

Me: What? Of course we do! It’s a very special day for my people since we own most of the turkey farms and cranberry bogs. However, our traditional holiday meal is a little different. Instead of sweet potatoes, we eat the intestines of dogs we’ve stolen from little gentile boys and girls.

OK, the last part wasn’t true. I thought of the pithy retort after I hung up. Nevertheless, this underscores the fact that many people are clueless as to what Jews are really like. So I’m here to give a brief lesson on our Semitic ways. Think of it as a Cliff Notes to Judaism. Or better yet, Saul Notes. Here are 8 fun facts, one for each day of Chanukah.

1) There have only been 3 high school varsity letters given out to Jews. Sandy Koufax got one for baseball, Goldberg for wrestling and Mark Spitz got one for swimming. Until accounting becomes a sanctioned sport, this number will probably stay the same.

2) If you’re a terrorist, bomb Chinese restaurants on Christmas Eve or movies on Christmas. You can wipe out 89% of us in a couple of days. Second thought, spare us the movie theaters. Where are we going to show all the films we’ve produced, directed, written and starred in?

3) We consider someone White Trash if they buy retail and have never had an orthodontist.

4) If you’re a gay Jewish man make sure you bring a tribesman home. You don’t want to hear, “What’s wrong with Sheldon Rosenblatz? He’s hot.”

5) If you’re in a fantasy Jewish baseball league make sure you get the first or second pick. After Shawn Green and Brad Ausmus you’re pretty much screwed.

6) Don’t hire a Jewish mover unless you want to hear about his lumbago.

7) There has never been a Jewish host for a home improvement show.
“Hi and welcome to Moshe’s House. Today we’re going to talk about landscaping. (dials telephone) Hello, Hernandez Lawn care?

8) Many people feel that Charlton Heston portrayed the greatest theatrical Jewish character ever. This is false. When Scott Colomby (as Brian Schwartz in Porky’s) uttered: "Listen, when you're Jewish, you either learn to fight or you take a lotta shit," he made all of us shed a tear.

So that’s basically all you need to know about us. Even though we’re the chosen we’re pretty simple folk. If you haven’t met one of us, chances are you will. Feel free to use any of the above tidbits the next time we’re checking your prostate.

Oh, and for the record I did change my customer’s name so I wouldn’t embarrass him (his name is really Cletus). Plus, I don’t want to make him mad and lose his business. You know how us Jews are.

I was the best man at Dave's wedding, or as he likes to say, "You were an OK Man at best."

Dave and I hosted a radio show together at WPGU in Champaign-Urbana, and we staged a radio stunt by running for Homecoming King & Queen. This ad for our campaign appeared in the Daily Illini. (I convinced Dave he had to be queen because he had a mustache...and he bought it.) We won the most laughs...and the least votes.

Dobie Maxwell 4

2006-11-17T21:17:00.000-08:00

Dobie Maxwell is one of the most accomplished stand-up comedians working in America today. I highly recommend his stand up act. He was also one of the co-hosts of the "Morning Loop Guys" on WLUP in 2003/2004. He's previously contributed three columns exclusively for this blog. (Dobie 1 & Dobie 2 & Dobie 3)

Today he makes it four...

… And Justice For Al

By Dobie Maxwell

My grandfather’s name was Avrum but everyone called him Al. Everyone except me. I called him Gramps. I was raised by my grandparents and Gramps told me later he vowed to spend the time with me that he didn’t spend with my father. I was his second chance to be a good parent and he taught me lessons whether I wanted to learn them or not. I didn’t want to learn them at the time but now I find myself thinking back on them often. One of his big pet peeves was stupidity. It was Gramps who first told me ‘The masses are asses’.

I thought Gramps made it up but he didn’t. Alexander Hamilton said it. He’s the guy on the ten dollar bill. He also never was president. I know that because I’d watch Gramps bet people $10 they couldn’t tell him the name of the president pictured on a $10 bill. He did it only to people he thought were stupid and needed to be taught a lesson. He delighted in it whenever disaster struck someone or something he thought deserved it. I get it now.

Growing up in the ‘70s I was fascinated with Evel Knievel and his motorcycle jumping stunts. He was billed as a ‘dare-devil’ but Gramps called him a ‘dare-dummy’ and hoped he killed himself every time he would jump his motorcycle over a load of buses. I never understood how he could wish that on anyone. When I asked him why he said "Because he’s an idiot and he’s asking for it. I hope he gets it. Then he‘ll teach everyone else with a brain what NOT to do and life will be better for everyone else. He’s a human example."

Gramps equated it to telling someone not to touch the stove because it was hot and then they do it anyway. I know because it was me who did it. He laughed uproariously when I did it and said "See? I told you. What part of HOT did you not understand?" I get it now.

I couldn’t help but think of Gramps a few weeks ago when I watched on TV how the airplane of New York Yankees pitcher Corey Lidle crashed into a building in Manhattan.. There is nothing funny about a plane crash…when it happens to innocent people. When it happens to a millionaire athlete who wasn’t experienced as a pilot but put everyone else at risk just because he felt like sight seeing and thought he was bullet proof I find a deep dark part of myself becoming Gramps in the way I think and saying "See? I told you. What part of hot did you not get Corey?" He put the entire WORLD on terror alert because he had to get in a crop duster and storm troop through New York City like the Red Baron. He jeopardized everything and lost his life, his career and left a young wife and daughter. That’s not at all humorous but he was either too stupid or too cocky to realize how much he put at risk all for a plane ride. He is a human example and part of me laughed when I heard about it.

I know that’s cruel but at least I’m brave enough to admit it. We all have a humor dark side, it’s just different in all of us how black the darkness gets. How much pain is funny? If someone should trip and fall in front of us is it funny? According to Gramps only if the person is a moron, imbecile, halfwit or dolt. He thought lack of intelligence deserved a bit of punishment to serve as an example to everyone else. As I get older I’m having a harder time arguing his logic. Why should we call a NASCAR crash a ‘tragedy’? They all drive at over 200 miles an hour. On purpose. Every week. Shouldn’t we expect it to happen?

Look at the problems we have with car accidents in the real world. The speed limit on the freeways is different in different places but it’s never over 75. That’s dangerous as it is but now let’s triple that speed and put a bunch of rednecks behind the wheel on top of that and nobody expects there to be a crash? It’s a ‘tragedy’? No, it’s an ‘inevitability’.

The Crocodile Hunter was another prime example. By all accounts he was a gentle and nice man. He was a good father to his kids and a kind soul. I’m sorry when the world has to lose one of those because there are far too few of them but on the other hand here is an idiot who time after time for years would provoke dangerous animals. On television yet. What did he expect was going to happen? Mother nature must have had enough and sent the old stingray to stop the clock. How many times did he tickle the testicles of a tarantula to tempt the fates? I always saw him flicking his finger in the face of a ferret or wiggling his watch at a wildebeest and I knew it was just a matter of time until he was pet food.

I don’t have to watch the news long for a story that would have made Gramps cheer up. Just the other day I saw one about a gang banger who died trying to spray graffiti 90 feet up on a billboard. He slipped and fell to his death halfway through his defacing of public property. Would he have climbed 90 feet without a net or any safety ropes to get a job as a painter? NO. Instead he decided to make a human example of himself. I find that funny.

I don’t want to mislead you about Gramps. He had a heart and so do I. I am also not at all trying to say that I don’t do stupid things once in a while. Maybe someday I’ll be one of those masses Alexander Hamilton was talking about and I’ll make an example of myself too. If I do, you have my permission to laugh at me as well. If I’m as dumb as the people you just read about then I deserve it too. I’ll leave earth with levity and justice for Al.

MR LUCKY, DOBIE MAXWELL, ON STAGE IN SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH

Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood 4

2006-11-10T21:29:00.000-08:00

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland 6

2006-11-03T21:22:00.000-08:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue. ("Wish Club" is coming in 2007 from Three Rivers Press, a division of Crown Publishing Group.)

Kim is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. Check out some of her other great columns if you get a chance: (City Mom)

Parking

By Kim Strickland

I pull into the lot at the Midtown Tennis Club and almost swoon. Parking. Lots of it.

“Kyle, I predict you’re going to like learning tennis here.” This is, of course, unfair of me to say. You see, I already love it here—and we hadn’t even been inside. I eye the expanse of asphalt with a dreamy look in my eyes, row after beautiful row of brightly painted, yellow-gold stripes. The wide-open, empty spaces. I inhale a deep breath through my nose. Aaah.

Parking, or lack thereof, is part of life for city moms. It’s a subject I presume most suburban parents never have to consider, but it’s something I find myself considering every day, for just about every single child-based activity.

“A picnic at Sunshine Park? Sure! Sounds like fun!” Where will I park?

“A birthday party at the Goodman Theater? We’ll be there!” How will I retrieve my children without getting towed?

“A play date at 900 North Michigan? Huh? Me too? Ummm… Oh, there’s an extra space in your garage?” Whew.

Parking is the reason I wanted to buy our house. It has a driveway. After the showing my husband looked up from where we stood on the sidewalk and envisioned 110-years of Victorian charm crumbling around him. I looked down the long expanse of driveway that led to the alley and said, We have to take it!

You just want it for the driveway, he said.

And the problem there is, exactly what?

My husband takes the El to work. He doesn’t understand.

But my kids do. They even help me with the chant to the Parking Goddess.

You’ve never heard of the Parking Goddess? Sacrilege! I’ll bet you never get Hollywood parking, either. I know it sounds crazy, but prayers, chants and personal sacrifices to the Parking Goddess are all part of a city moms life. If you’ve never circled Lincoln Park thirty times while your Trotters To Go Chicken Salad warmed to salmonella temperature in the trunk and your kids started panicking as they watched the sun set on their picnic at Sunshine Park, then maybe you can’t understand.

I know I’m not alone in believing in the Parking Goddess; I’ve seen other moms in action—sure, different chants, different juju, but it’s all essentially same. We even debate the efficacy of our different rituals, but we all believe in her. Oh yes, we believe.

And you can’t forget, when you get that great space, to give thanks. The Parking Goddess is munificent, certainly—but merciless when thanks is forgotten. I had a stretch where I had to park blocks away from my destination and it lasted for several weeks, all because I forgot to give thanks for the space right outside the veterinarian’s that time I had to lug my nineteen-pound cat inside for shots. The next time the Parking Goddess finally saw fit to grant me a good space, I sacrificed a Volvo.

Every after-school activity and play date is given a lead-time based on time to destination—and time to park. The academy where the boys take Karate lessons is about a five-minute drive from where we live, but we leave 20-minutes prior.

Then there was the summer morning my son Ethan smirked when I said, “Hurry up! We’ll be late for the beach!” He figured it was just more of my dry humor. It was. I was kidding—just, sadly, not really kidding enough. You see, the parking lot at the Lake tends to fill up by 11:00 am.

And I thought my quarter hoarding days were over when we moved out of our apartment and into our first house, with a washer and dryer in the basement. Nope. Now I need quarters for the parking meters. At least in my neighborhood, a quarter buys you an hour. As you head south and east from here, that same quarter buys you less and less. A few times I’ve run out and found myself holding out two dimes and a nickel to complete strangers, Can you spare a quarter? Citiphiles get it. They reach into pockets and purses to help me out. Those of you from out of town, or who just moved in from Elmhurst, give me a wide berth—apparently having been warned about aggressive street people begging for change, even those with Prada bags.

I suppose public transportation would be the way to go, better for the environment too, but I try to imagine getting my kids to Karate on the #11 Lincoln. We’d have to leave the night before.

So instead of being environmentally conscious, I’m parking conscious instead: completely incapable of driving down any side street without thinking, “Ooh, there’s a good space.”

Today I tell Kyle, “Hurry up, we’ll be late for the parking lot—I mean your tennis lesson.”

I want to arrive early, so I can sit there and swoon.

Guest Blogger: Scott Redman

2006-10-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

Scott Redman is a partner at Crowley, Barrett, and Karaba, Ltd., Attorneys at Law. Before embarking on his legal career, he was also the general manager of WPGU radio in 1985, my last year in Champaign-Urbana. He lives in Chicago with his wife Cindi and his daughter Lauren.

"Deal or No Deal"

By Scott Redman

As many of you may know, Deal or No Deal came to Chicago for an open casting call. I am sure that the idea of possibly winning $1 Million (or more) crossed many people's minds and then fluttered away like so many other crazy ideas.

Well, not so for my mother-in-law, Pat, who went to Navy Pier last weekend to "try out" for Deal or No Deal. My father-in-law, Earl, went along for the ride. They left their house in Rolling Meadows at about 5:30AM and when they arrived at Navy Pier, they found themselves about one zillionth in line.

After about 7 hours of inching their way to the front of the line, they both decided to try out. They had to fill out a questionnaire and then each had a very short, maybe 2 minute, interview with an assistant producer. They played up the fact that they were going to be great grandparents (that's another story) and rode touring motorcycles in a local club. That apparently piqued the interviewer's interest as it was "something different."

That was Saturday. On Sunday, Earl got a call from the production staff inviting him to a "call back" on Tuesday. Earl, who was just along for support, got through to the next round - Pat was left in the dust.

Earl was instructed to arrive at the Congress Hotel at a specified time on Tuesday evening with 4 to 6 "supporters," dressed as if they were going to be on the show. Based on availability, Earl selected his wife (Pat), Cindi (my wife, his daughter), his son Jeff, my 7 year old daughter Lauren (a big fan of the show), me and his friend Harry (a pilot for American). Pat inserted my mom, Barb, into the group as well.

When we got the hotel we were provided with a two page instruction sheet. As it turns out, not only is Earl auditioning for the show, but so are we - as his supporters (we would later find out that there have been plenty of great contestants that have not been picked for the show because their supporters were too lame). This information sheet encouraged all of us to be very enthusiastic, but not to act. It also gave us advice such as "Answer questions in complete sentences" and so on.

The fact sheet also explained that Earl would go for a one on one interview with a producer. We would then be called into the room and would play a simulated round of Deal or No Deal. We were to act as if it was the real thing and give it all we had. That was more than I bargained for as I am not good at faking excitement (certainly not as good as my wife is).

Most importantly, the fact sheet explained that if Earl was selected for the show he and his supporters would be flown in for the show. Interestingly, it is the producers that pick the supporters from those that came with him to the interview, not Earl, and there was no mention of who was paying for lodging.

So while we waited in the bullpen, the staff took a number of digital pictures of Earl holding up a sign with his name and applicant number - very similar to a mug shot. They then gathered all of us and took a group picture. As we waited in the holding area, there were many other groups waiting for their interview. It was interesting to note the stereotypical (or at least what I perceived as stereotypical game show contestants).

There was the "Howdy Pard" cowboy guy and his hootin' and hoolerin' gang. There was the large black man and his "junk in the trunk" team. The "Yo, how you doing" Italian guy (with his cool sunglasses hanging from the back of his shirt collar) and his tightly-panted female accomplice were there. And then there was the tall blonde MILF (who had previously been on Wheel of Fortune (wonder why!)) with her tall brunette sister-in-law MILF (in all fairness, my wife is a MILF too). There were a fair number of kids in tow as there seems to be a lot of kids on the show as supporters - I guess we were not the only ones to think of that angle.

After a while in the bullpen, Earl's name was called. The producers had 5 meeting rooms set up and we were assigned to room B. We had to wait in the hall while the group ahead of us finished. We could hear them yelling and screaming as if they were on the show. The pressure started to build. Then Earl was called into the room. His interview went fine- as far as we know - and now it was our turn to play the game.

In the room there was a video camera and an easel with a dry-erase board. The amounts $0.01, $10.00, $750.00, $100,000.00 and $1,000,000.00 were drawn on the board and five paper "briefcases" (numbers 1, 7, 13, 18, and 25) were sitting on the board's easer ledge. The producer acted as the show's host, introduced Earl and asked him to introduce each of us. Earl was clearly nervous as he forgot both his daughter's name and forgot to even introduce Barb. Then he was asked to pick his case and we encouraged him to pick #7 as that is Lauren's age.

Earl then picked the "Black Cat" (#13). The dollar amount was written on the back and the producer showed it to the camera first, and then to us. $1,000,000.00!. Much to my surprise I had an honest reaction. No acting. I dropped to the ground in anguish. I had already forgotten that this was not for real. Earl then picked #1 which had $0.01. We screamed and jumped up and down like idiots. High fives for everybody.

The "banker" then offered $32,000.00. Like all the fools before us on TV, we gave the contestant our opinion. No Deal!! Earl's next pick was #25 and it had something other than the $100,000.00 - I was so excited I cannot even remember what it was - just that it was not $100,000.00. The game was then over and Earl was given an opportunity to switch his case with the last remaining case. We implored him not to. He kept #7 and it is a good thing because it had the $100,000! We jumped and screamed and hugged each other. Earl's interview was over.

It was very interesting to say the least. I have always wondered what it took to get picked to be on a game show. It clearly takes an interesting story, a bunch of unbridled enthusiasm, and it probably doesn't hurt to be a MILF (or have one in your group!).

Don't bother to ask me for Earl's number because you want to borrow some of his soon to be gotten winnings. We were told that we should forget that we ever interviewed for Deal or No Deal as they may call us in 2 weeks, 2 years, or never. We were admonished to not call them. Typical Hollywood "don't call us - we'll call you."

I bet you $50 the blonde MILF gets a call next week.

Guest Blogger: Cindy Gatziolis 2

2006-10-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

Cindy has been the Director of PR/Marketing for Mayor's Office of Special Events for the past five years following nearly 21 years in radio at stations WMAQ, WLUP AM/FM, WMVP, WGN and WLS. (She's the one on the right in this picture from the Loop's 1993 Christmas party. The guy on the left is in desperate need of a haircut.)

Cindy is also a cancer survivor, and lost her sister to breast cancer a few years ago. Since this is Breast Cancer Awareness month, she wrote this as this week's guest blog.

The following posting is about women’s boobs!

By Cindy Gatziolis

Now that I have the attention of what I’m certain is a male-dominated readership, I’d love for you to stay reading, but I feel compelled to warn you that this will be neither funny nor lascivious (look it up). So if you must go, please give me your time for at least one paragraph.

Two years ago, my sister Georgianna was diagnosed with a neglected breast cancer that had metastasized to her spine. The day after hearing that piece of news, my other sister Fran and I flew to her in Connecticut and in our first meeting with her oncologist, heard the word incurable. Within a month, she died.

OK, I need you to stay with me for one more sentence. Guys (and Women) if there’s a wife, girlfriend, sister or mother in your life, if they’re in their late 30s or more, ask them if they’ve had their mammogram and keep asking them, year after year.

If you must stop reading, I get that. These are the icky parts of life. But, if you’re still with me, I would like to defend my sister (as I’m sure you’re all saying it was her fault.) She was intelligent, informed and beautiful. She certainly wasn’t naïve when it came to medical issues. Our own mother died from cancer at the age of 54. My sister Fran is a breast cancer survivor, thanks to early detection by a mammogram.

While I won’t divulge a whole family history or offer a long treatise on certain kinds of marriages, I can offer that my sister suffered from low self-esteem her whole life. At times I think I caused part of that just by being born and taking away her baby status in the family, which she held for nearly six years.

I bring up her self-esteem because I believe that is what contributed to her failure to go for an annual mammogram. I also believe that the onset of menopause, a child that was growing more self-reliant and less dependent on mom and a husband who had distanced himself (I did say this was about boobs) worked in concert to create “the perfect storm” in her emotional state. I think that’s why she failed to take care of herself.

Georgianna also felt that if anything was wrong with her health, that her husband wouldn’t rise to the occasion (again, boob) so it would be best to know nothing. What you don’t know, isn’t there.

Okay, enough of the inner workings of a very personal story.

People have said to me that she was an adult. You can’t make adults do things. If someone needs to diet or quit smoking, they must make that decision to do that on their own. Agreed.

But we all know we have the power to nag. To remind. To irritate. To eventually force an issue. Mammograms can save lives. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think if she’d been as diligent about this as I am, this cancer would have been caught early and she’d be here.

Ask your loved one. Find out if they’ve gone, when they’ve gone, why haven’t they gone.

If there is a family history, they should be discussing this with their gynecologist even earlier.

You don’t know how often I ask myself, why didn’t I make sure she was getting this done. But I also look to the man with whom she shared a home…the boob.

I had a journalism teaching fellow in college who told me that I always go for the jugular so why not do it here.

That self-reliant child, who was merely 11 when her mother died, really does need her. She feels the stress of keeping up straight A’s, while making sure her laundry is done, the tree is decorated (and taken down), and the cat gets her medicine. She prepares her own meals, writes her own notes to the teachers, books the reservations to visit us in Chicago and packs her own bag. She does so many things handled by active parents, things none of her girlfriends have to worry about.

She is lonely for her mother and at age 13, she still doesn’t know how to express that.

Be a nudge, be a pest, be involved. If you’re a woman, and you’re the age you should be getting a mammogram, get it done. They squish your boobs for all of ten seconds. I’ve felt more pain wearing bad shoes and putting on jeans after they’ve been in the dryer.

Mammogram. It’s even a fun word. It’s like you get to send a message to a woman’s boob – and what man hasn’t wanted to do that.

Guest Blogger: Mike Medina 2

2006-10-13T23:32:00.000-07:00

Mike Medina is a long time friend. We met over twenty years ago when we both worked at WPGU Radio in Champaign. We later also worked together at WLUP AM/FM. He was an integral part (some say the only funny part) of my show Ebony & Ivory. He also produced the Buzz Kilman show on that station. Mike has since gone on to study at the Second City improv school, and for the past nine years has been working as a design engineer. Mike has two kids, lives in the suburbs, hasn't had a single confirmed heart attack, and continues to dabble in his life-long passion: philosophy.

Today I asked the philosophical provacateur to write a few words about someone who would have celebrated his 66th birthday this week...John Lennon.

JOHN LENNON: Genius or Very Intelligent Man?

By Mike Medina

A lot has been written about John Lennon, none of it by me. Now I now why. When Rick asked me to write something about Lennon for his blog I was tentative, but I thought, being a lifelong Beatles/Lennon fan I’ll be able to come up with something.

* * *

Lennon was a sharp-tongued critic, a peacenik, a neglectful father, a loving father, a drunk and a househusband. But that’s not why he’s remains popular; if it were then I would be as popular as Lennon. The reason Lennon remains relevant – besides the fact that he was murdered, and was in the Beatles - is that he could write good rock songs.

When I was younger, so much younger than today, I didn’t pay much attention to the lyrics, mostly just the music. A song like “Help!” was just a catchy tune. It wasn’t something you could equate with, hypothetically of course, being depressed and moving back to your parents’ house and sleeping ‘til noon everyday. The song is a Trojan horse, sneaking in with the music and having the lyrics jump out fifteen years later.

Heard any great songs about someone’s dead-mother-that-was-never-really-their-mother-anyway lately? You can’t get much more raw and heartbreaking than “Mother” from Plastic Ono Band. “Mother don’t go, Daddy come home”, ouch! Listen to the album in its entirety and you can actually hear Lennon’s guts spilling out onto the floor.

* * *

When I worked at Starbucks I was party to a lot of idle chatter among the regulars. One interesting discussion I remember was: “Hitler: Genius or just a Very Intelligent Man”. The crux of the conversation was whether being a genocidal dictator precludes one from being a genius. I don’t think it was decided one way or the other. Let’s take this fun game and apply it to John Lennon; it’s actually a fun game to play about anyone! Remember, the only two answers are Genius or Very Intelligent Man.

Knocking up your girlfriend and getting married just as your career as an international star is starting: Very Intelligent Man. Helping record your group’s first album in one day and closing the session with “Twist and Shout”: Genius.

Becoming acid-drenched and non-functional during the mid-sixties: Very Intelligent Man. Somehow managing to write and record songs such as “Tomorrow Never Knows”, “A Day In the Life” and “I Am the Walrus”: Genius.

Recording the album “Plastic Ono Band”: Genius. Saying the Beatles were “more popular than Jesus”: Genius. Taking the time to record and assemble “Revolution 9”: Very Intelligent Man.

Going on a west coast drinking binge and substituting your estranged Asian wife with an Asian girlfriend: Very Intelligent Man Genius. Having a child, staying home to raise him, and writing the song “Beautiful Boy” which contains the heartbreaking lyric “I can hardly wait, to see you come of age”: Genius. Making a career comeback with the album “Double Fantasy” which somehow manages to make Yoko songs listenable: Genius.

Overall rating: Genius. Next time we’ll get to the bottom of the Hitler debate

Guest Blogger: Dane Placko 2

2006-10-06T22:28:00.000-07:00

“On-base percentage is great if you can score runs and
do something with that on-base percentage,” Baker
said. “On-base percentage just to clog up the bases
isn’t that great to me.”

In other words, Dusty would much rather have players swinging away for hits than risk "clogging" the bases with walks.

And they paid this genius $16 million over four years.

Which explains why patient young hitters like Murton and Theriot sat way too often while hackers like Perez and Womack and Hairston and Cedeno and Bynum and Izturis and Pagan wasted hundreds and hundreds of at bats.

Dusty didn't just tolerate hackiness. He encouraged and rewarded it.

Of course, Dusty's now gone. Unfortunately GM Jim Hendry is just as blind about OBP, so I'm not expecting any major improvement until the management blow-out is completed... probably after 2007.

Only the Cubs could screw up an already-lost season. One of the few benefits of being out of it by Mother's Day is that you can road test your young players like Murton and Theriot and Pie without the pressure of a pennant race. Dusty buried Theriot until August...never played Murton five days straight... and refused to sit Jones and Pierre for fear of offending his precious vets. I'll never understand why Hendry didn't call up Pie after he raked Triple-A pitching for the last two months of the season.

So what do the Cubs do now?

There are essentially two ways to build a championship: Spend like crazy, like the Yanks, Bosox and Mets. Or tear the team down to the studs and develop a solid nucleus of blue chip youngsters that grow into greatness, like the Twins, Tigers, Indians and next year's Marlins.

The Cub's problem is they can never commit to either philosophy. They don't want to spend with the big boys. And they're afraid the fan base won't sit still for a year or two of rebuilding.

So they usually adopt a hybrid strategy of patch and fill... hoping they'll catch a couple lucky breaks and sneak into the playoffs. The Cubs will always overpay for free agent mediocrities like Jacque Jones, but won't chase high-demand talent like Rafael Furcal.

If I'm Hendry, I take the bold step of telling Cubs fans that I respect their baseball smarts enough to trust they will support a thorough rebuilding movement, even if it means the 2007 team isn't immediately competitive. There are only four good free agents available, but one of Zito, Schmidt, Soriano and CLee aren't going to make the Cubs championship caliber. Cut the payroll to $75 million and save for a huge payroll boost in 2008.

Game plan for 2007:

--Commit to Theriot as your starting shortstop. While
he never got a chance to play short with the Cubs, he
played it well in the minor leagues. He's a perfect
leadoff man with enough patience to have a .350+ OBP
even if he doesn't hit over .275.

--Also commit to Murton in left field. After an awful
June, Murton had an OPS well over .900 after the All
Star break. He may not hit more than 25 home runs, but
he'll get on base at a .375 clip. Ideal #2 batter.

--Second baseman Marcus Giles is being made available
by the Braves. Go out and get him. Should be able to
do it for a package of young pitching, and the Cubs
have plenty of solid minor league arms.

--Let Pierre become a free agent and wave bye-bye.
He's far and away the most overrated player on this
team. It's almost impossible to get 204 hits and wind
up with an OBP of .330... but Pierre did it.

--Sign Kenny Lofton to fill CF until Pie is ready,
which should be well before the All Star break.

--Sign a free agent innings-eater to fill one spot in
the rotation-- think Westbrook or Miguel Cabrera.
Zambrano can become a free agent after 2007. Ink him
to a 5 yr/$65 million deal. High priority. Rich Hill
will be a good number two. Let Prior, Marmol, Mateo,
Marshall and Guzman fight it out in spring training
for the 4th and 5th spots. Remember... we're
developing.

--Find a right-handed platoon partner for Jones... who
simply can't hit lefthanders. Craig Wilson would be a
good start.

--Don't spend too much money on the bullpen. It's a
luxury for a team that's not expected to win. Consider
trading Howry and Eyre for a stud rightfield prospect
who could be plugged in after the All Star break. Hope
Demspster re-establishes his closer bona fides... then
trade him to a contender.

--Pay the buyout on Wood's contract and wish him luck
with another team. The Cubs need to end this saga.

--Offer a fair, but not outrageous contract to keep
Ramirez... say 4 years/$52 million. If someone offers
more, let him walk. There's a surplus of blue-chip
third base prospects sprinkled throughout the game.
And there's also the chance that ARod will be made
available by the Yanks.. for less than you'd be paying
ARam.

As for who's going to manage, it looks right now as though it's Girardi's job to lose.

He won't tolerate any of the goofiness that sidetracked this team far too often under Baker. But I'm not so sure his baseball philosophy is all that different from Dusty's.

After 98 years... why not wait a couple more and do it right?

Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood 3

2006-09-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland 5

2006-09-22T23:08:00.000-07:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue. ("Wish Club" is coming in 2007 from Three Rivers Press, a division of Crown Publishing Group.)

Kim is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. Check out some of her other great columns if you get a chance: (City Mom)

"Time Sinks"
By Kim Strickland

I was up to my elbows in thorns and roses and madder than a hornet to boot. I was stuck in a time-sink project.

The trellises holding my rosebushes had fallen down—thanks to a thunderstorm the night before. We had company coming over in three hours. Our icemaker was busted and we needed ice. And the inside of my house looked like the after-effect of George Bush’s foreign policy. The last thing I needed was a time-sink, but there I was, wrestling with a rosebush, watching precious time slip.

My friend Deb was the first person I ever heard use the term “time-sink project.” I immediately latched on to it. I don’t know if she made it up or heard it somewhere else, but it was a term that didn’t need explaining. Time-sink projects filled my days.

A broken car. Or a pipe that bursts. Perfect examples of time-sinks. By definition, the worst part about a time-sink is when you’re finished, you’re not ahead, but merely back where you started.

Time-sinks are frustrating, but it wasn’t until I became a parent that they began to enrage, rather than just frustrate me. I remember going out to the garage to change a car seat that had been peed in. I wasn’t mad at the son who’d done it—these things happen to newly potty-trained boys. (Well, okay, maybe I was a little mad.) But I was furious at the Chrysler Corporation and their stupid tether-strap latch that I couldn’t get loose. I was mad at Graco, the company that made the car seat, for making their tether strap hook so incompatible with Chrysler’s latch. I was mad that this project was taking longer than it should have—longer than I’d anticipated—and that something that should have been so simple had become so difficult and that I’d been completely stymied before I could even complete the first step: remove car seat from car.

I cried over that car seat. I sat in the back of the Jeep swearing and crying over a piece of furniture and I remember thinking, “It’s finally happened. I’ve lost the rest of my mind.”

I was at that point with my roses: distraught that the trellises refused to stay up despite my repeated efforts and that one of the main canes had splintered beyond repair. I was repeatedly getting scratched with thorns and was starting to look like I’d been in a reality-TV show catfight. A thorn had broken-off in my thumb, the sharp end embedded in it like a splinter and I couldn’t pull it out. As I swore and ranted in the backyard I wanted to blame anyone or anything else. I was acting so crazy it’s since made me wonder if it were more than a coincidence that, two days later, the for-sale sign went up in my next-door neighbor’s front yard.

My husband, on the way to the store for ice, stopped to help. His calmness, his analytic approach and his understanding at my frustration was the marital equivalent of pulling the thorn from the lion’s paw.

I wish I could be that calm in the face of a time-sink. Perhaps it's because he doesn’t have to deal with as many of them as I do. He spends his days in the business world—used to results. Or maybe he’s just used to being in a world where everything is a time sink.

Regardless, we’re all busy. We want our projects to produce results.

I suppose I could have left the rose bushes sagging, taken care of them the day after the party. But that splintered cane—it broke my heart. I took it, cut the end clean, dipped it in rooting compound and stuck it in the ground, tying the branches up along the fence. It looked beautiful that night and although I ended up cutting back most of it, the cane is still green in the ground. Perhaps it will survive. A positive time-sink result.

At the party that night, a friend said to me, “Your roses are so beautiful, I could weep.”

I smiled, said, “Thank you,” and told him sometimes, they made me weep, too.

Guest Blogger: Dobie Maxwell 3

2006-09-15T22:51:00.000-07:00

Dobie Maxwell is one of the most accomplished stand-up comedians working in America today. I highly recommend his stand up act. If you are in a town that has "The Bob & Tom Show," you've probably heard Dobie many times. He is a semi-regular guest on that show. He was also one of the co-hosts of the "Morning Loop Guys" on WLUP in 2003/2004, and did a daily feature falled the 60 Second Soapbox. He's previously contributed two more exclusively for this blog. (Dobie 1 & Dobie 2)

This time he's doing something a little different...

The Secret To Wedded Bliss
By Dobie Maxwell

Recently I was asked to stand up for a friend’s wedding. Just because I stand up to tell jokes as a comedian for a living doesn’t mean I do it any other time. I politely declined. I explained how I had a difficult time taking an entire weekend off and my friend was very understanding and I thought that would be the end of it. Wrong. His fiancé heard about it and called me up telling me how I was letting my friend down and how all the years of a friendship didn’t need to end with a slap in the face like this and blah blah blah blah blah.

After 20 minutes on the phone (during peak cell minutes by the way) of getting verbally spanked I had had enough blah blah blahing from the future Bride of Frankenstein and by the time it was over it was ME that wanted a divorce and I wasn’t even marrying her. She went on and on and I tried to be polite but eventually I brought out the heavy artillery and pushed the red button to start the launch sequence of total destruction. It wasn’t pretty.

I hit her with the three words of death about men and weddings that drive women crazy: WE DON’T CARE. There was dead silence on the other side of the phone and I pictured the tiny little mushroom cloud rising out of her earpiece. She swore at me and hung up. I felt bad that I had to drop the big one on her but I knew my friend would understand.

Ladies can’t stand to hear those three words when it comes to men and weddings but it needs to be understood. It’s not that we don’t care about YOU, it’s the wedding we can’t stand and it’s not our fault. It’s genetic. Women and weddings go together and no matter how hard we fake it as men we could not care less and are just along for the ride. Sorry.

Women and football are the same way. For us it’s life and death and you may pretend to show interest also but in reality we know you’re faking it too. You like the tight butts in a football uniform and maybe enjoy being catty about the cheerleaders but other than that it all becomes a big blur. That’s in your nature and we don’t fault you for it. Please let us be how we are naturally and not have to fake like we care about the planning of a wedding.

Think about it. You dream of your wedding day from the time you’re a little girl. You’ll spend hours and hours thinking about it and you spend thousands of dollars on your dress. A seamstress works her fingers raw making sure that dress is fitted perfectly to your form. You keep that dress forever and it’s a cherished memory. Everybody wants your picture.

Men rent a tuxedo for $39.95 that has adjustable pants with beer and gravy stains from three weddings ago and a folded up yarmulke in the coat pocket and we’re totally ok with it. Nobody really wants our picture, we just happen to be standing next to you at the time. If we had our way we’d wear sweat pants and a ‘Git ‘R Done’ t-shirt. Sorry, but it’s true.

All we really care about as men is that there is lots of cold beer at the reception and we don’t have to sit anywhere near your buck toothed Aunt Charlene who stutters. Other than that we’re fine with whatever you choose. It’s YOUR day and we love you so just make it happen. Whenever you have a question just insert the three magic words and you’ll be ok.

This will save a lot of time and energy and pave the way for a lifetime of wedded bliss. It is no coincidence that the two places bliss is mentioned most are weddings and ignorance.

Let’s practice. Band or DJ? WE DON’T CARE. Where to register? WE DON’T CARE. Beef or chicken for dinner? WE DON’T CARE. Pretty simple isn’t it? Take that as a hint for happiness, not a negative. When you learn that we don’t care about the wedding the pressure will be off and you can make it the special day you want to remember forever.

Men would be happy if the actual ceremony could be performed in a drive thru format.

"Hi, welcome to Wedding Bell. May I help you?"

"Yes, I'd like to order the lifetime matrimony combo special please."

"OK, super - would you like to add any kids with that?"

"Uh, hold on. (To wife) Honey? Did you bring the coupon? You did?"

(To clerk) "OK, yes - we'd like three kids and we've got a coupon. Two boys and a girl. And could you please supersize the boys? Thanks."

I sincerely hope all brides to be use these three magic words to insure your happiness on your big day. We love you and want you to be happy. If you want to stay happy all of your marriage here’s another hint: please don’t use the six words on us about football that send us over the edge - ‘Why did he drop the ball?’ THAT we care about.

Guest Blogger: David Brensilver

2006-09-08T21:11:00.000-07:00

DAVID A. BRENSILVER is a newspaper editor, and a fellow ENC Press author.

During this week of Steve Irwin's well-publicized death, David's novel "ExecTV", (which is available through our publisher: http://www.encpress.com/TV.html) is more timely than ever. I highly recommend it.

I asked him to please put down his smokes and write a piece for the blog. He graciously agreed...

"The view from the Coliseum"

By David A. Brensilver

We are voyeurs all, would-be emperors growing big on a diet of what is fed us. We hunt no more, for we sit in our own Coliseums, watching our own devoured figuratively by the Kings of the Television Jungle, our appetites sated only briefly, for we know there is more to consume.

This week the world mourns what we are told is a great and terrible tragedy, the death of the so-called Crocodile Hunter who was taken from us while we were not watching. Steve Irwin was not to die like this. He was to die a slow, bloody death, watching his own limbs torn off by the very reptiles he so desperately wanted us to understand.

We understood, Mr. Irwin, and you knew that. You knew that images of you holding your infant son mere feet (meters in your case) from the jaws of a large and hungry crocodile would cause frustration disguised as outrage, frustration that some real and ugly tragedy did not befall your child before our high-definition eyes, damning you for providing the spectacular but not ourselves for watching.

You could have given us what we wanted but didn’t have the balls. Had you died the way we expected you eventually would, news and entertainment, or news-as-entertainment, would have synchronized as they are supposed to.
Still, the 24-hour cable television news outlets analyzed stingray behavior for us, just as they had John Mark Karr’s handwriting and the meal he was served during his flight from Thailand.

And just as you let us down by dying an unseen and unspectacular death, Mr. Karr let us down with his innocence. He is no choir boy, to be sure. But we prayed to the Kings of the Television Jungle that it was he who killed JonBenet a decade ago, and that it would be he upon whom we would levy our vengeance.

We would have watched as he was sentenced to death and we would have cheered the jury, for they would have represented we, the people, in our upholstered Coliseums, armed with the technology to rewind and replay the verdict as many times as our high-definition eyes and sound-byte-trained ears could stand.

Your execution would have been broadcast live, for all the world to see. The fruition of what we’ve been threatening to arrive at but haven’t had the balls: a return to public executions.

Your execution would have been news and it would have been entertainment – news-as-entertainment, the apotheosis of so-called Reality TV.

And until you were put down, we would have waited. Your legal defense team would have used familiar rhetoric to stir debate about your sentence and looked good doing so in high-definition. Experts would have been paraded onto 24-hour cable television news sets to talk about your impending execution and would have thrown a bone to conspiracy theorists by suggesting you looked so much like Lee Harvey Oswald that it couldn’t be coincidence.

And in the end, we would have watched one of our own get fed to the lions, while we imbibed the sweet elixir of schadenfreude in the comfort of our hard-wired Coliseums.

In David A. Brensilver’s ExecTV (ENC Press, 2005) Reality TV is brought to its logical extreme when an unemployed documentary filmmaker arranges to have an execution broadcast live, on pay-per-view television. Find out more about David, ExecTV, and ENC Press here: www.encpress.com

Guest Blogger: Roosevelt Rhodes

2006-09-01T21:12:00.000-07:00

This week's guest blogger is Roosevelt Rhodes. He is a well known and long-time member of the Chicago media, but he chooses to write under this pseudonym. I have promised to never reveal his actual name, and no amount of begging, pleading or bribing will entice me to go back on my word. If you'd like to reach this mystery writer, he does have an e-mail address: rooseveltrhodes@hotmail.com.

Since Monday is Labor Day, Roosevelt has chosen to write about the workplace. He calls it...

"A SANDbox. Not a LITTERbox."
By Roosevelt Rhodes

I never met Bob. Yet, I think about him every day. Bob ran a filling station right where Chicago’s West Side met Cicero. He was a truck driver, turned mechanic, turned Sinclair station franchisee, husband and father.

Bob set up shop near 22nd Street. A Bohemian boulevard called Cermak where nearly 18,000 people a day took the streetcar to punch the time clock at the Western Electric’s plant on Cicero Avenue. I never met Bob and Bob never met Henry. But they would have dug each. I’ll explain later.

The Suburban Man took part in a fascinating exercise recently in this space. He played the parental soothsayer, and made some astute observations about what his kids would be when they grew up. Me, I'm not as concerned about WHAT they're going to be as WHERE they're going to be it. I’m one of those people who never wanted to just have a J-O-B. I’m obsessed with workplace karma. It could simply be that I’ve not done hard labor in 20-plus years. Spoiled, I am. I was once a janitor, and I worked at a bus garage in maintenance. The worst thing that ever happened to me on the job, was when the acid content of the engine cleaner we used ate holes in my gloves...then scorched through a couple of layers of skin until they bled. Now my only workplace hazard is bad mojo.

I love what I do. Most people aren’t that lucky. That’s why more and more I’m pissed at what I see or hear about environmnents at work. From sandbox to litter box. And NO, I don't believe people want company picnics on their one day off to make them love their gig. They want to 'play' at working hard.

During a major leadership change some years ago, a buddy told me about the day one upper manager marched through cubicle-land and got a chip on his shoulder about what people displayed on their walls, dividers and doors. Keep in mind it wasn't lewd or crude. He also griped about what people wore to the office. Mr. Tight-Cheeks never waited to see how folks dolled up when corporate people visited or on the days client presentations took place. He simply issued veiled complaints to middle managers, and secretly had cartoons, collages and other forms of 'personal inspiration' taken away. Then he slammed the door on casual Friday. This all happened unofficially, which seemed oddly wimpy. Or rather telling. I don’t believe this was about bling. It was a metaphor for autocracy.

You can't blame it all on suits. Top performers in sales or otherwise who believe their own hype also mess with the vibe. Consider an interview in 2002 with then Cubs right fielder Sammy Sosa. He was being asked about his idol, the late Roberto Clemente, which spun off into the query 'who is your living hero?' -- to which Sammy humbly replied 'me!' Then roared. The comment didn't play widely. Probably better that it didn't. Yet, somewhere during that season the shift happened in that clubhouse. Sammy went from teammate to necessary evil.

Back to Henry. He was the night janitor at a place where I worked in my early 20s. I asked him once if he liked the night shift, and he told me he didn't have a choice -- he worked another job. We used to gripe about Reaganomics and compare notes on the best ballyard catches of all-time. Our musings led me to dig into his other life. The day job. A middle school where he told me he was/is: The principal. Dude, got a twinkle then, and out of the corner of his mouth whispered "never want to forget how I got there". It was an attitude he breathed into that school. Teachers, counselors, and ladies who slung bad pizza onto cafeteria trays were busting down doors to work between those walls. He brought out a vibe that was contagious, because he never saw just his side of the ‘plant’.

Finally back to Bob. The reason I love people who make work into play. One imperfectly normal fall afternoon in 1958, Bob's oldest son was sitting in a college freshman lit class. His daughter had just slammed her books into her 8th grade locker, and his youngest boy raced across the alley headed home to a neat brick Georgian Bob had paid cash for a decade earlier. As his wife swept the front stoop and waited on that 3rd grader to jump the curb, Bob's 49-year old heart decided to call it a day. Here comes the happy ending.

The tears turned into nearly a half-century of laughter and practical jokes that baffled some bosses, and caused hundreds to fly by the seat of their pants while being productive at work. That college freshman learned something from a life that was too short. Bob's oldest spent his entire work life leading a parade of time not wasted. He didn't even notice until the day he retired eight months ago. He just thought he'd only get 18-plus-30 years or so.

Or better yet he just built a sandbox, and remembered to pack it in his lunch pail every day.

Guest Blogger: Johnny Conlisk

2006-08-25T21:10:00.000-07:00

Johnny Conlisk is as “Chicago” as they come. Both his father and grandfather were high ranking members of the Chicago Police Department. Many other family members have been Chicago Police officers as well. His father advised him not to go into “the family business” and Johnny took him at his word.

For many years, Johnny Conlisk was a character actor and model appearing in television commercials and newspaper and magazine ads.

In 2004, Johnny and his wife, Janet Treuhaft formed Johnny-Sells.com, an eBay Trading Assistant company not far from Wrigley Field. They sell Chicagoans’ no longer used valuables to buyers all over the world in exchange for a modest commission. Please click www.Johnny-Sells.com to learn how they can sell for you on eBay.

I asked him to blog about the riots between the Chicago Police and the hippies at the 1968 Democratic National Convention. He was there, and has a unique perspective...

The Whole World is Watching

By Johnny Conlisk

In August of 1968, when I was a 16 year-old kid just about to start my senior year in high school, I got to play a small part in the Democratic National Convention.

For months before the big event, city officials planned how to lay out the red carpet for the convention delegates. The first Mayor Daley formed the Chicago Host Committee. Thousands of volunteers were assigned to help the various state delegates find their way around town and stay out of trouble. You had to be connected to get one of these fun jobs and I was connected. My father was the chief of police.

Our first task was to greet delegates at O’Hare. We were issued candy striped vests and Styrofoam straw hats to identify us as Host Committee volunteers.

After that, I had hoped to be with the California or New York delegations where the action was. Instead, I was assigned to the tiny Guam delegation. They were very nice, but they weren’t movie stars or big time politicians.

We helped them find the shops on Michigan avenue and an off duty policeman would drive them out to the International Amphitheater. It was all pretty cool.

We heard about the anti-war protestors, they were on TV every night. But I guess our job was to keep the Guamanians away from all that during our 14-hour days of hosting, so it wasn’t at the top of my consciousness.

The big goal for all the kids volunteering was to get into the convention hall itself. There was little hope of that, however, because the town was full of important people who would get in before high school kids.

Then the word was passed down. Wednesday night, August 28, 1968 was my night to get into the convention hall. My friend, Bill Finucane and I went to the Amphitheater together. We were ushered into the second level gallery. We realized later that the Mayor’s people were packing the galleries. They knew there was going to be trouble that night and they wanted an audience that would be friendly to the Mayor. We listened to the speeches echo through the rafters of the craggy old hall.

Then we heard booing during the speech of Senator Abraham Ribocoff and we heard him say “Storm troopers in Blue”. Bill and I turned to each other. What was he talking about?

After that evening’s session was over, I got a ride back downtown to the Conrad Hilton. I didn’t know that a riot had taken place in front of the Hilton a couple hours earlier. I just knew that the Airport Bus that left from there made a stop near our house.

The bus left from the south side of the Hilton. When I found out I would have to wait a half hour for the next bus, I walked up to the Michigan Avenue side of the hotel. There were thousands of cops on the west side of the street and thousands of hippies on the east side of the street. In the middle were Illinois National Guard Jeeps strung with barbed wire.

The first person I recognized was Jim Rochford, Deputy Chief of Police, my father’s best friend, and the guy in charge of the thousands of cops. “Hi, Mr. Rochford!” I said cheerily to the casually dressed chief.

“What are you doing here?” He asked incredulously.

“I’m waiting for the airport bus.”

“Oh, well, stay out of trouble.”

I wandered over to the hippie’s side of the street.

As I stood on the curb on the edge of the crowd, my powder blue jacket flapped in the light breeze, revealing the candy-striped vest of the Chicago Host Committee. Suddenly, a baseball-sized rock flew just past my ear and landed on the trunk of a parked car with a loud bang.

I looked up and saw Rochford ordering two burly cops to come over and rescue me. The hippies mistook my rescuers for arresting officers. They booed loudly as I was gently dragged across the street.

“I told you to stay out of trouble!” Rochford barked as they put me in a squad car to drive me over to police headquarters, a couple blocks away.

Several hours later, the crisis eased, an officer gave me a lift home and the excitement was all over.

Sometimes you make history, sometimes history makes you and sometimes, history is just something that happens while you are waiting for a bus.

This is Johnny with Deputy Chief Rochford at a wedding in 1977.

Johnny Conlisk (2006) with his 'heart,' Janet Treuhaft

Guest Blogger: Spike Manton 2

2006-08-20T18:23:00.000-07:00

Spike Manton is a radio personality (WCKG, WLUP, ESPN), a comedian, and a playwright. He co-wrote the outstanding play "Leaving Iowa", which is now playing at the Royal George Theatre in Chicago. (www.leavingiowa.com). The play is about a family car vacation.

He recently lived the story line...

"21st Century Vacations"

By Spike Manton

I just returned from a family vacation with my wife and 2 kids. We drove to upstate New York in our minivan, a minivan that seats 7 adults, yet was barely able to fit two kids and their belongings for a long weekend. The drive was long, but painless. How could it be anything else with three car chargers, two DVD players and two gameboys? One thing was abundantly clear - their car trip was more fun than any vacation I ever had in my life.

I grew up in your standard 1960’s family unit of 4 kids, 2 pets and one station wagon the size of Rhode Island. When we went on vacation, we drove. We drove everywhere. Who didn’t back then? I maintain that from 1945 until 1980 the only thing that changed for the family vacation was the size of the paneling on the side of the station wagon. America worked 50 weeks a year and then piled into their beastmobile and drove off to see some other part of the country. Anywhere was better than that boring, humdrum monument to monotony called home. It was an annual family ritual that underwent a great change somewhere in the 80’s. I blame gameboys, cheap airfares and seatbelts as the biggest culprits.

Yes, seatbelts. Our kids will never know the insanity of hanging out the back window throwing fruit at the trucker behind you, and then climbing over three seats to ride on Dad’s lap to help him steer, all while traveling 65 mph down the highway. How can you have a real fight in the back seat if you are both strapped in place like a hostage?

Of course, technology is biggest culprit. Slug Bug, the License Plate Game, The Alphabet game, Billboard bingo were the only options in the mobile amusement park of my childhood. They were boring, brief distractions in the non-air conditioned hell we endured between rest area picnic stops. Then came the Gameboy and suddenly the back seat was silent. Dads drove for hours without hearing a peep. The only emergency to prevent was running out of AA batteries. It was the end of an era. My nephews once arrived at my home at the end of a 16 hour trip and STAYED IN THE CAR FOR 20 MINUTES BECAUSE THEY WERE FINISHING A GAME ON THEIR GAMEBOY. It was a far cry from the moments I entertained leaping from our moving car just to escape.

In the end, I am not complaining. I wouldn’t trade vacations with my Dad’s generation for anything. I like my quiet, headphone laden minivan. It makes it easier for me to hear the GPS directions while talking on my pocket PC phone with my Bluetooth headset.

Guest Blogger: John Records Landecker 2

2006-08-11T19:46:00.000-07:00

John Records Landecker is a legendary radio personality. He has been honored by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for his contributions to rock and roll radio at this many stops on the radio dial, including his most famous stint at WLS Radio in the 70s and 80s. He was also the morning man at WJMK in Chicago from 1993-2003 and had an executive producer named Rick Kaempfer. This is a picture of one of the lineups we sported during those years. From left to Right...Rick, John, Leslie Keiling, Richard Cantu, and Vince Argento.

One of the constant topics of conversation during those years was John's childhood hero. But I'll let him tell you more...

"The Lone Ranger Rides Again"
By John Records Landecker

The fine young man who runs this blog has asked me to say a few words about my affection for The Lone Ranger. Rick worked with me for 10 years and during that time I went on and on about the masked man. I subjected his children to wacky experiments that were based on them watching old episodes of the Lone Ranger tv show.

You might know that I have worked in radio since the late 1960's. I love almost everything about radio and thats one of the reasons I am so into The Lone Ranger. The entire Lone Ranger story, from a to z was born at a radio station. Silver, Tonto, The William Tell Overture, "Who was that masked man?", and "Hi-yo Silver," all came from WXYZ in Detroit Michigan.

It was 1933. America was in the midst of the depression. George W. Trendle was the owner of WXYZ and like everyone else he was in financial trouble. A radio western did not cost a lot to put on. With that as a backdrop ideas were born that are still alive today. Trendle hired a writer named Fran Striker. Others were involved, but these two were the primary players. Using inspiration from a variety of sources The Lone Ranger story began to unfold. With very little fanfare the program went on the air. What happened next was amazing.

Bags and bags of fan mail began pouring into the radio station. The show was a gigantic hit. Kids loved it. The program was picked up by WGN in Chicago and then by WOR in New York. Then it went coast to coast. If the Lone Ranger made an apearance thousands showed up. The Ranger went into the movies and television. In the late 90's The Lone Ranger was a made for TV movie. It was horrible. But think about it. It was the same story that started on radio over 60 years ago.

I have a theory about why the show became so popular. It's what I call the Seabiscuit phenomenon. If you saw the movie, you know that Seabiscuit was a small horse nobody wanted, yet he beat the odds and deafeated a champion. America was down and out. The country was the underdog. Radios had connected the nation and Seabiscuit's story became a sensation. The country could feel good about something. If this horse could beat the odds maybe there was hope.

Into this landscape came the thundering hoof beats of the great horse Silver as The Lone Ranger rides again. The ranger believed in the princples that were the foundation of The United States. He had stong morals and was on a mission to bring justice to each and every one of us. He passed on these ideals to the youth of America and they ate it up. Lets not forget that he could also ride faster and shoot straighter than any human on earth.

There is another angle to the story: the actors who played the part. On radio it was Brace Beamer, on TV it was Clayton Moore. Both of these men became the ranger on and off the screen. If a magazine wanted a picture of Beamer at home with his wife and kids, he wore the mask. When copyright problems told Moore he could no longer wear the mask, he put on sunglasses.

When I was kid my grandfather turned me on to the ranger and I have been a huge fan ever since. I believed that if a child was exsposed to The Legend of The Lone Ranger they would get hooked. This is where Rick and his kids come in. I gave Rick video tapes of the show and he watched them with his young son Johnny. It worked. That was a few years ago. When Rick called to talk I asked about the family, he told me his youngest son Sean had also seen the tapes. Did he like it? Well, a couple of days ago his mom made him a mask and he wore it all day long.........What can I say, THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN!!!!!!

Guest Blogger: Brent Petersen

2006-08-04T20:37:00.000-07:00

Brent Petersen graduated from the University of Illinois - Urbana with a degree in Business Administration. He worked in broadcasting for 15 years including several as Program Director for The Edge, The Beat and The Hawk in Providence, Rhode Island. Currently, Brent is Operations Manager for a fixed wireless Internet Service Provider. That's the former mayor of Providence in the picture with him, Buddy Cianci

Why are you a vegetarian?

By Brent Petersen

Why are you a vegetarian?

I get that question at least once a week (normally, people leave out the implied “Freak” at the end of the question). Multiply that by 52 weeks a year times 15 years times family members who ask every time they see me and the need for a snappy answer is apparent. The best one I have heard is “I am not a vegetarian because I love animals, I am vegetarian because I hate plants.” So, I have appropriated that as my standard response and it generally either disarms people and makes them laugh (good) or shuts them up (better).

The real story is a heartbreaking tale of romance and adventure set in the bustling metropolis of Peoria, Illinois. I lived in Peoria in the late 80’s. Back then Peoria was not the glamour capital it is today. In 1988, Peoria had none of the amenities it has today like a river walk, floating casino, arena football team or Hooter’s. Back then, Peoria was the butt of jokes (What do you call a garbage dump between two rivers? Peoria) and was struggling to bounce back from the Reagan recession. Peoria really wasn’t any different from hundreds of small and mid sized industrial cities in the Midwest. It just had the double curse of being reliant on agriculture (ask Willie Nelson how well farmers did in the 80’s) and manufacturing.

Peoria fun fact: Grandview Drive, which Teddy Roosevelt is said to have called the "world's most beautiful drive", runs through Peoria and Peoria Heights. Radio and TV station WMBD used first letters of each word of that phrase for their call letters.

Peoria is the world headquarters for Caterpillar. In the early 80’s massive layoffs at Cat nearly doomed the city. By the time I got there in 1988, jobs were still scarce, unemployment was still high and you could still occasionally spot the stray “Will the last person to leave Peoria please turn out the lights” bumper sticker on a late model Ford.

Peoria fun fact: both Jack Brickhouse and Dan Fogelberg were from Peoria.

Now back to our story. I rented the top floor of a farm house in Peoria. The old farmer who owned the place had a sizable plot of land where he grew soy beans (mmmmmm tofu) and corn. He also kept some cows on the property to remind him of his dad (I swear that’s what he told me). One hot, muggy summer day (are there any other kind in central Illinois) one of cows came trotting up the driveway as I was cooking up a batch of Sloppy Joes for dinner. He looks up to me with those big cow eyes. Mooooo. I look at him and then down into the pan. I look back up to him and he’s still looking at me. Sorry, buddy. I dumped the ground flesh of my new friend’s brother in the garbage.

It wasn’t easy to completely break the meat habit. In fact, it took a few years to gradually remove red meat, chicken, pork and fish from my diet. The last time I remember knowingly consuming animal flesh was shortly after moving to Rhode Island in the early 90s. It was a shellfish call a Quahog. If you don’t know what a Quahog is, you’re not from Rhode Island and you’re not missing much. Although, the shellfishermen who gather Quahogs (Quahoggers) are the source of much local amusement in Rhode Island. Think of Jeff Foxworthy with a bad Boston accent. “You might be a Quahogger if you have a Quahog rake for regular days and a Quahog rake for holidays.” Guess you would need to know what a Quahog is to get it.

Rhode Island fun fact: The world's largest bug is on the roof of New England Pest Control in Providence. It's a big blue termite, 58 feet long and 928 times actual termite size.

Anyway, in the last 15 years the way our society views vegetarians and what it is like to be a vegetarian has changed greatly. I can’t imagine what it was like in the 60’s or 70’s. The only vegetarians were hippies and the only things available to eat were granola and twigs and berries (mmmm twigs and berries). Today, there are vegetarian gourmet restaurants that will be glad to charge you the same price for a grilled portabella mushroom as you pay for a prime rib at Morton’s.

Walk down the health food aisle of any mega mart and you will be bombarded with meatless products. The names show you how witty vegetarians are: Not Dogs, Fakin Bacon and Tofurky are a few of the products whose names will have you laughing all the way to the checkout line. I don’t eat a lot of these products, but people think that I am an expert on veggie burgers and the like so they will often ask me what I think of them and if they taste like meat.

So, to answer your questions: I like most of these fake meat dishes, but they are like junk food as far as fat and nutrition. If you are expecting to lose weight and suddenly become the most desirable person on the planet, just know that Richard Gere is a vegetarian, but so is Danny DeVito.

As for the question of tasting like meat. I think so. Then again, I haven’t had a hamburger in over 15 years, so I might tell you that handful of sawdust bound together with wet newspaper tastes like sirloin. It’s kind of like asking the Pope if he’s a leg or butt man.

There’s your primer on why I’m a vegetarian. As for the next most asked question: Do you mind if I eat meat? No, go right ahead. I’m sure the hormones and feces that you get mixed with the meat will taste delightful. Dig in.

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland 4

2006-07-28T20:19:00.000-07:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue. ("Wish Club" is coming in 2007 from Three Rivers Press, a division of Crown Publishing Group.)

Kim is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. Check out some of her other great columns. I have a link on the right--listed under Links to Rick's Picks (A City Mom).

Al's
By Kim Strickland

My sons’ hair is too long and scraggly and this makes me ecstatic, because it means I get to take them to Al’s—their barber. I love Al’s. It’s quiet there.

I don’t know whether the silence is a result of my presence, or whether it’s just a man thing. I don’t care. I revel in it.

My boys, twins, were two when I brought them in for the first time and it’s as though, even at that age, they somehow psychically intuited that men don’t talk at Al’s. Silence for an entire hour. I was in heaven.

They were born with full heads of hair. And it never did fall out, as I was warned by well-meaning relatives, but it did turn red, then blond, as it grew and grew. And grew. They needed haircuts at six months. I couldn’t bring myself to do it until ten months, when it became clear there was no avoiding it. While crawling around, they’d begun to continually bonk their heads on our dining room table due to limited forward visibility.

I cut their hair myself for a while and thought I was doing a decent job, until my babysitter asked, and I quote, “Where do they get those haircuts?”

Perhaps it was time to enlist professional help.

But they were only one and a half. Would they sit still? Would they cry? Would they bite? I chose a Supercuts because it was nearby, but mostly because no one there knew us.

I told them they needed to sit still or they might accidentally get poked with the scissors, or worse—I grew solemn, their eyes grew wide—they might end up with bad haircuts.

They sat like they’d been hypnotized while Rosa cut their hair, a process made difficult by the fact that their mother was taking flash photographs to preserve the memory. I distinctly remember Rosa blinking at me with irritation after one particularly blinding shot. Despite the adversity, everyone survived. They even got great cuts.

We continued to see Rosa for about six month and all was well, until the whole idea began to grate on my husband. (Read: No sons of mine should get their hair cut in a salon.)

“But it’s not like it’s a girlie salon,” I told him. “Men get their hair cut there too.”

He looked unconvinced.

“I’m pretty sure the woman who owns the place is really a man—what with the Adam’s apple and all.”

This did not help my case.

Which is how we came to Al’s, my husband’s barber. Al’s probably been cutting hair at his place on Grace Street longer than I’ve been alive. He’s often nodded at a man walking into his storefront shop, telling me, “I’ve been cutting his hair since he was their age,” while pointing at my boys.

The walls at Al’s are covered with wood grain paneling that’s covered with taxidermied fish, fishing trophies and other such fishing paraphernalia. There are stacks upon stacks of sporting magazines and the Trib is always on the coffee table, but I never read when I’m there; I just stare at the fishing trophies or the stuffed larged-mouth bass on the wall, a goofy expression on my face, secure in the knowledge that neither it nor my sons will burst into a rendition of “Take me to the River.”

It amazes me the lengths a mother of young children will go to in order to find some quiet time. I suffer the irritated looks of other patrons, “A woman? Here?” and the uneasy body language they exhibit as they wait their turns next to me, but they are always polite, and offer up their chairs for me when we walk in. At Al’s, chivalry may be annoyed, but it’s not dead.

When the boys and I leave, I often wonder if they burst into conversation about the game or hot babes or whatever it is men talk about when women aren’t around. I suspect the truth is, they don’t.

After our first visit, Al gave the boys lollipops, then said, as if he’d somehow psychically intuited it, “Now guys, no more going to the girlie salon. You’re men now. You come to the barber to get your haircut.”

Gladly, Al. Gladly.

Guest Blogger: Nancy Cross

2006-07-21T20:52:00.000-07:00

Nancy Hyde, 1975...only thirty years or so before she became Nancy Cross.

Nancy is now married and lives in Evanston with her husband Randall, her cat Millie, and her six-month old puppie Archie (who humped my leg the last time I saw him). After working in the advertising and media businesses for several years, she is now studying shiatsu and working on a screenplay. And oh yeah, she's also my sister-in-law.

Golf on TV? Brilliant!
By Nancy Cross

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit this, but I really love watching golf on television. I never used to; in fact I disliked the entire sport. I thought it was an elitist game that only rich, white men could afford to play. That seemed silly to me so I never gave golf a second thought…until I married my husband.

My husband, Randall, is a bit of a golf fanatic. He was a caddy when he was younger and has fond memories of playing golf with his friends growing up. He enjoys his free time by playing golf at least once a weekend if not more. He’s been known to get up at 5:00 on a Saturday morning just for a chance to hit a little, white ball. To me, this seemed highly unusual if not a bit cuckoo, but you know what they say, for better, for worse, blah, blah, blah.

Randall loves golf so much he watches it on TV. Now this seemed absolutely nuts. I was used to a guy who watched “regular sports” on TV like football or basketball, but golf? I once even had a boyfriend who loved to watch baseball on TV, which was painful enough because the game never ends, but golf seemed like a step down in the sports viewing food chain.

I remember early on in our dating relationship when it came up. Some lazy Sunday in July after eating a leisurely breakfast we were trying to figure out what to do. The heat was unbearable. It was the kind of summer day where you didn’t want to go outside for fear of melting in the blazing sun. We decided to go to his loft to watch a movie. It was an easy choice for me because my Chicago apartment didn’t have any air conditioning. When we got there though, instead of putting on a movie, he turned on golf. I dreaded the thought of going home to my horribly hot apartment so I feigned interest to stay as long as possible in his climate controlled house.

I watched a couple of holes, bored out of my skull. I knew the point was getting the ball into the hole but I never knew how much that entailed. I heard words like bogey, par and birdie. They also mentioned things like “that’s a slice to the right” or “there’s a fried egg” and “that’s on line.” After a couple more holes, I couldn’t help but start asking questions. What’s a double bogey? What does par 5 mean? What’s a wood? Randall started to patiently explain the game to me.

That day I learned all about irons and drivers and woods (oh my) but I also learned something even more valuable than all that golf speak. I learned after watching about 30 minutes of golf on TV that you can’t help but fall asleep. Golf was the perfect game to have on TV while taking a nap.

I was lulled by the announcer’s soft, soothing voice. Even when a player shot a hole in one, the announcers never shouted. They didn’t even raise their voices. They spoke in hushed tones usually reserved for the library. You could also hear birds chirping in the background and sometimes a splash of water if the player missed his shot and the ball went into drink as they say. The fans light, polite clapping would rhythmically rock me to the REM phase of sleeping. In fact, I never slept so well in my life.

Now when Randall puts on golf I never once nag him or scold him. In fact, I welcome it because I now know I have about a 5-hour window in which to nap. So I grab my pillow, and sit right down next to him. In about half an hour, I know I’ll be drifting off into Never Never Land without a care in the world.

Guest Blogger: Dobie Maxwell 2

2006-07-14T21:02:00.000-07:00

Dobie Maxwell is one of the most accomplished stand-up comedians working in America today. I highly recommend his stand up act. If you are in a town that has "The Bob & Tom Show," you've probably heard Dobie many times. He is a semi-regular guest on that show. He was also one of the co-hosts of the "Morning Loop Guys" on WLUP in 2003/2004, and did a daily feature falled the 60 Second Soapbox. I asked him to contribute one to this blog, and he graciously agreed.

Holiday OUT

By Dobie Maxwell

Brothers and sisters, misses and misters, cash tenders and card senders...today's title is Holiday OUT.

These are the dog days of the year when it comes to holidays. After the 4th of July we've got a long lifeless stretch with nothing to decorate, no cards to send and no real reasons to have a gigantic party until Halloween. This is not right and I think it's time to correct the flaw.

Oh sure, there's Labor Day but when was the last time you decorated your house or car for that? Maybe some people get together and give one last hurrah to a pair of white pants for the year or get rip roaring drunk every time Jerry Lewis goes to the tote board on the Telethon but that's really not a holiday. I have yet to see a Hallmark Labor Day card with a picture of Ziggy or Snoopy wearing a hard hat and carrying a lunch box. It's a weak sister.

Between now and Labor Day there's NOTHING. It's like driving through Texas. There might be a city or town coming up but it won't be here for a long long time. Why can't we move a holiday into August and spread things around a little? Who said we have to have any of the holidays when they are? Christmas would be a GREAT fit on August 25th. All accounts say Jesus wasn't born in December anyway so why not pull this switch now and make it fit?

Think about it, wouldn't it be fun to be a kid and have Christmas at the end of summer? I grew up in Wisconsin and there was always a foot of snow on the ground at Christmas. If I got a new bike or a baseball mitt I couldn't try it out for MONTHS. There is no reason for that kind of torture for a little kid. Let's give the kids some summer presents and let it rip. Jesus would have loved it if his birthday party had a Slip 'n Slide rather than a wool cap and scarf.

Plus, it would be great to have summer and then Christmas before going back to school. School clothes could be part of Christmas and it would be a perfect fit in that spot. I say we consult the powers that be and get it changed for next year. So what if Santa has to change into shorts and a t-shirt? Most of the fat guys at the mall who play Santa would LOVE that.

Thanksgiving would be way more special if it didn't have Christmas breathing down it's neck a month later. Many times people still have Thanksgiving turkey left over when they go out and fire up another one for Christmas. I'm sure the turkey population would be happy to survive in bigger numbers if Christmas was moved to August. Not many people would be up for making one then. We'd probably have a big old barbecue and some watermelon and the nativity scene in the front yard would have a lawn sprinkler right in the middle of it. Cool!

I guess I'm not a big traditionalist and these ideas all sound great to me. I'm in favor of having one holiday a month and that's it. To have Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's Eve all in a short span and having this time of the year when there's nothing is very unfair to me. Let's give it a try next year. Merry Christmas and pass the mosquito repellant.

Dobie teaches a stand up comedy class at Zanies. This is the book he wrote for that class.

Dobie has one CD out and is in the process of putting out another one. Check out his website: www.dobie.com

Guest Blogger: John Moran 2

2006-07-07T20:03:00.000-07:00

John Moran and his boys. That's not their house.

John Moran is a divorced father of three who lives in Arizona. Around Valentines Day I asked him to blog about what it's like to re-enter the dating world. If you'd like to read that funny previous piece, click here: John Moran on divorced dating

Today he's blogging about something entirely different...

"Why does everyone have a bigger house than mine?"

By John Moran

I recently made a trip back to my Midwest hometown to attend a funeral. I get back to my hometown at least once a year. The funeral provided an opportunity to reunite with old friends, which is great. There is, however, a downfall to these trips. They can be a self confidence killer.

You see, most of my friends live in BIG houses. I could fit my humble home into some of their garage spaces. I know that I'm not supposed to judge my life by material possessions but the BIG house factor is hard to ignore.

The following is a small list of comparable features of the BIG house versus my home:

BIG house
Guest bedroom- a full separate bedroom with a bath for guests.

My house
A pull out sofa in the living room.

BIG house
Five bathrooms. Five! These people have bladder problems.

My house
One bathroom to be shared with 3 boys, 2 of which have good aim.

BIG house
Wine Fridge that keeps wine at a constant temperature.

My house
Okay, I usually have a bottle in the fridge, just in case.

BIG house
Warming tray - I believe this is a device used to keep food warm while entertaining.

My house
Nothing like cool gooey cheese. Warmed nachos are overrated.

BIG house
Alarm System

My house
If someone wants my stuff , they can have it...except for the golf clubs, of course.

It usually takes me about a week or two to recover from these trips. I beat myself up thinking "where did I go wrong?" "Why don't I have a BIG house?" I'm sure I could keep a therapist busy with my constant second guessing/questioning of my career and life decisions.

Maybe I should have never quit working at Swensen's. I had a real knack for scooping ice cream. I was also comfortable as a bagboy (courtesy clerk) at Dominick's, although that was in the day of paper only. Plastic could have thrown me for a curve.

For now I take solace in the fact that I have three great, well-behaved, bright kids. That's really my only hope at this point. Maybe one of them will become successful...and buy ME a BIG house.

They can visit any time. It has a nice guest bedroom.

Guest Blogger: Catherine Johns

2006-07-01T08:59:00.000-07:00

Catherine Johns was a fixture in Chicago radio for decades. She was the morning news anchor on the Larry Lujack show on WLS. She was the host of her own talk show on WLS. She was also the sidekick/co-host of the John Landecker show on WJMK (where I met her). Now she's doing something completely different, and I asked her if she would mind writing about it.

She was kind enough to contribute the following...

Change Your Mind … Change Your Life

by Catherine Johns

Imagine yourself being able to make the changes you’ve always wanted to make. Take off some weight … stop smoking … free yourself from fear … improve your health. Now imagine being able to do it without a struggle!

Because all positive change begins in the mind, hypnosis is the perfect tool for lasting behavior change. Of course hypnosis has been around practically forever, but still, most people have some questions about it. Like these, for instance …

How does hypnosis work, anyway? Our minds operate on two levels. We use our conscious mind to make decisions, to analyze and act. The unconscious mind controls habits and emotions. Hypnosis helps you stop the fight between your conscious and unconscious minds so you can stay motivated and make the right choices every day.

But will hypnosis work for me? Almost everybody can be hypnotized, barring serious mental disorders. (I guess that leaves out some of my one-time radio colleagues!) So virtually anyone can experience the benefits of hypnosis. With your cooperation and commitment, you can expect excellent results with Positive Changes Hypnosis.

Is hypnosis safe? Yes, completely. In fact, hypnosis was approved by the American Medical Association back in 1958! You should know that you’re always in control during a hypnosis session and you can end it at any time. You can’t get “stuck” in a hypnotic state, and you certainly cannot be made to do something against your will. Hypnosis is a safe, relaxing, and enjoyable experience.

How will I know that I’m hypnotized? Most of us naturally move in and out of light trances all day long – daydreaming, imagining, dwelling on the past, dreaming of the future, carrying on internal dialogue and more. When it comes to hypnosis sessions, many people can’t tell the difference between the hypnotized state and a waking state. Some feel deeply relaxed, others feel heavy, and still others experience a feeling of lightness or a tingling sensation. Sometimes, people aren’t sure they were really hypnotized … until they notice the positive changes in their daily habits and behavior.

And what about Positive Changes Hypnosis Centers? Positive Changes uses powerful personal coaching and hypnosis to help clients lose weight, stop smoking, reduce stress, manage pain, enhance sports performance, eliminate unwanted habits … and much more.

Our mission is to create lasting positive change in every human life, one client at a time. And we’re doing it in a big way.

Karen Hand and I opened Positive Changes Hypnosis Center Chicago in March ’05. You remember Karen from her years at B-96 … doing the news with Eddie and JoBo, and presiding over “Private Lives” with Dr. Kelly Johnson. More recently, she and Dr. Kelly discussed those intimate details on their talk show at WCKG – when people were still listening to ‘CKG.

As for me, I was a news anchor/reporter and later a talk show host at WLS, sharing the mike with legends like Larry Lujack and Fred Winston. I wrapped up my radio career as morning show side-chick with John Landecker (and of course, with producer extraordinaire Rick Kaempfer) at WJMK. Then I went straight! I became a business communication consultant, coaching bankers, lawyers, and others, to enhance their presentations and their professional presence. Quite a switch from the world of wacky morning shows to wearing a pin-striped suit and becoming fluent in corporate-speak.

So here I am after yet another transition. And I have to tell you, looking at radio in the rearview mirror has been a Positive Change for Karen and me. It’s just thrilling to work with clients who are transforming their lives. And get this – there are no program directors here!

Owning a business can be a real challenge, of course. You know … all that stuff about where the buck stops. But we love it! And we’re blessed with an outstanding staff. They make running the center a real joy.

Looking to make a change in your life? Come in for a free evaluation – let’s talk about what you want to accomplish and how we can help you get there. Call 877-POSITIVE to reach the center closest to you. Or go to www.positivechanges.com.

Guest Blogger: Dr. Ed Dunkelblau

2006-06-23T19:58:00.000-07:00

Ed Dunkelblau, Ph.D. is a psychologist, speaker and consultant dealing with corporations, healthcare organizations and educational institutions on the topics of Humor, Health and Emotional Intelligence. Dr. Dunkelblau’s work has been has been featured in the New York Times, Chicago Tribune, USA Weekend, Readers Digest, Jet Magazine, on CNN and NPR. He can be reached via his website at www.teacheq.com or at drlaugh01@aol.com

Dr. Dunkelblau was also a regular guest on the John Landecker show, and when I contacted him to blog about his recent trip to New Orleans, he graciously submitted this.

"Humor and Tragedy in New Orleans"
By Dr. Ed Dunkelblau

Just days after Mardi Gras I was walking down a wide city street looking at the empty but mostly intact houses that lined the road between trees and piles of refuse emptied from the moldy interiors. I passed an attractive, yellow, 2 story home that was also abandoned, but looked Ok. Ok, that is, until I realized that it was sitting in the middle of the street, having been separated from its foundation 30 feet away.

The flood waters of New Orleans have done indescribable damage to the neighborhoods, economy and the people of the “let the good times roll” city.

It was in the shadow of this incredible disaster that a colleague of mine, Patty Wooten, and I were invited to speak to the people of New Orleans on the topic of Humor and Tragedy. Our task was to provide a life affirming message of hope while not dismissing the hurt, sadness and pain being felt by virtually everyone who remained after the floods. Patty and I are both Therapeutic Humorists, both clinicians and both winners of the Lifetime achievement Award given by the Association for Applied and Therapeutic Humor.

Speaking on Humor and Tragedy, though not easy, was familiar to us, having given a number of presentations shortly after the 9/11 attacks.

We were prepared for the sorrow, the horrifying stories of loss and despair experienced by the people of New Orleans but we weren’t prepared for the scope of the devastation. It went on for miles and miles. And this was 6 months after the disaster!

Together and separately we gave a total of 6 speeches to professional and general public audiences throughout the area. The responses that we received have changed our lives forever.

The people of New Orleans were ready to laugh. Patty and I spoke about how humor and laughter can be a vacation from sorrow and loss and these folks were certainly ready for a vacation. Our jokes and stories were never funnier and our message never more appreciated than by those in attendance.

We spoke about how humor provides perspective, connects people and how it can help people feel more in control. We helped them identify what they found funny and how humor can help them physically and psychologically.

We talked about Sandy Ritz’s recovery phases of humor and where they fit into the developmental coping mechanism that humor can provide
• Heroic (at the time of impact)
• Honeymoon (one week to 6 months)
Laughs at absurdity of situation
• Disillusionment (2 months to 2 years)
Aggressive humor to express anger
• Reconstruction (several years)

We talked about how humor can reflect common fears or problems.

As it was days after Mardi Gras, we found some examples of humor from the local press and included them in our presentation. A crowd favorite was a group of women dressed as if they were blind with dark glasses and white canes and wearing signs “ LEVEE INSPECTORS”

We gave the audience suggestions for bringing more humor into their lives i.e. Find a humor buddy, someone who understands your sense of humor; Seek out things that are funny, schedule humor breaks into your day, etc.

Finally, we cautioned them about the risks of humor: Avoiding racist, sexist or any other “ist” humor; know your audience, etc.

The most moving part of the presentations came at the end. We invited the audience members to share their stories of humor, survival and courage.

One that stands out was shared by a woman quoting a police report that described how some rescuers approached a house where the family had already evacuated to safety but the pet golden retriever was unfortunately left behind. Rescuers were eventually able to get back to the house where they saw the dog desperately swimming around the living room trying to keep its head above the water. The story had a happy ending and the dog was saved but the rescuers were confused about why the dog continued to swim rather than find safety on the floating sofa. The owner laughed and shared that he is a very good dog and he knows that his isn’t allowed on the furniture.

Experiencing the resilience, tenacity and kindness of the people of New Orleans changed our lives. I hope that with our message of humor, personal power and caring we were also able to positively touch theirs.

Guest Blogger: Bridget & Tommy Kaempfer

2006-06-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

This (above) is what my family looked like on St. Patrick's Day 1997. Tommy (the baby) is now 10 years old--and will be 11 in October. Since it's Father's day on Sunday and Bridget's birthday today (the young lass in that picture is turning...ahem...an undisclosed age), I asked them to provide a guest blog for this weekend. I really like their contributions, and I hope you do too.

Give Me Math Any Day
by Bridget Kaempfer

I am NOT a writer. From grade school to college, every writing project assigned to me turned me into the Queen of Procrastination. I assume most everyone is like that at some point in their lives. Probably some of you were still printing (or typing) your final paper for English five minutes before class started like I did. But I even did it in the fourth grade. There was nothing I hated more than a blank piece of notebook paper and being told to “use my imagination.”

However, I AM a reader. I read everything as a kid. My sisters and I would go to the library every Saturday and each of us would check out fourteen books (the limit on our cards), trade them back and forth, and do it all over again the following week. I don’t have time to read as much as I used to, but I still read quite a bit.

Much of what I read these days is the product of my husband’s hard work. Who would have known that he would provide an endless supply of new reading material right in my own home? That I would be asked on a regular basis to give a critique (which ultimately will be ignored) or check for grammatical errors in a new article? Or that some personal details of my life would be twisted out of proportion and posted on the web for the world to read?

Most of the time, I find it amusing. I never knew my family’s life could be so funny... it certainly doesn’t seem funny as its happening. I guess it’s a good thing that I can read about it later and laugh. And of course, I can claim that the really embarrassing stories didn’t really happen (he writes fiction for goodness sake...)

It’s also interesting to see a seemingly mundane event turned into something special with the power of words. Like many working parents, my busy schedule makes it nearly impossible to be as involved as I’d like, and sometimes I feel like I miss out. But I’m lucky. I get a running commentary of what is going on in my house at any given time. Whether it’s learning how to ride a bike for the first time, reaching a new level on a video game or a designing new train track configuration, I can count on the highlights of my family life being recorded so I can go back and see what I missed. It’s like my own personal TiVo (with the added bonus of being able to see humor in a trying situation after the fact, as opposed to living through it myself and killing somebody).

But I can’t do that. I’m not a writer.

“What do you want me to write?” I ask.
“Anything you want,” he says.
“What do you mean, anything? I can’t write – nobody wants to read anything I write.”
“Yes, they do,” he says. "It’ll be fine. Write whatever you want. Use this as a chance to vent at me.”

He may as well have said “use your imagination.”

Besides, I prefer to do my venting verbally. In person. At the top of my lungs.

So here I am, with the proverbial blank piece of paper and an assignment I don’t really want to do. Which is why I waited until the last minute to do this. And once it was done, I didn't tell him for three days so he would sweat about being able to post his blog on time.

After all, I am the Queen of Procrastination. I have to protect my reputation.

As for venting, his oldest son may have a few words to say....

Your Name Has 1,000 A’s
by Tommy Kaempfer

One of the most popular sayings in my house, specifically from me, is the phrase, “DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”

This is because there are some really ridiculous things my dad can do. I’m going to give you my top five most annoying.

5. Dad does this ‘short-term memory’ thing that drives me crazy. Once he thought I was my brother, Johnny. “Well, hello, Johnny.”
“Daaaad...”
“Johnny, cut it out.”
“Daaaaaaaaad, I’m TOMMY.”
“Don’t be silly.” I ran off to Johnny to show him.
“This is Johnny.”
“You’re getting weird, Johnny. That’s Tommy.”
I don’t EVER want that to happen again.

4. Og. I just can’t take this anymore. Once I told Dad that his jokes were twice as old as him. He took that as a challenge. The very next day, he gave me a smelly joke about Calvin Coolidge. “I guess Mr. Coolidge was a pretty calm guy,” I remarked after the joke. “That’s the point of the joke,” he replied. I heard quite a few VERY weird jokes that day. I haven’t really heard much of his ‘new material’ again.

3. This thing Dad has done for the last 10 (that’s how old I am, for your information) years has annoyed me for life. He says the lyrics of songs that I think s t i n k.

2. This is pretty much the same as 3, but he SINGS the songs instead.

1. This has tortured me for a lifetime. (It also has a tie.) First of all, when I don’t want to get up in the morning, he threatens to use the “Pinching Machine” or to tickle. The Pinching Machine is his own hands, of course. The Pinching Machine always will get me out of bed (other than having the Science Fair being tomorrow.)

Second of all, which is worse than Pinching Machine, is Dad’s voices. The worst is his voice of Grover. We used to have a punishment system when he would hear me talking with Johnny at night. First warning, he would take away our teddy bears. A second time, there would be no Nintendo DS. Third, someone would go upstairs in Mom’s and his room. Fourth, (although impossible), Dad would sing all the songs on his iPod as Grover. I’ve hated the Grover (and technically, Yoda) voice since I was 4 or 5.

So now you know what makes me say “daaaaaaaaaad”. Here he comes right now. He says he ate my Nintendo for lunch. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!

Guest Blogger: Mike Medina

2006-06-10T01:55:00.000-07:00

Mike Medina is a long time friend. We met over twenty years ago when we both worked at WPGU Radio in Champaign. We later also worked together at WLUP AM/FM. He was an integral part (some say the only funny part) of my show Ebony & Ivory. He also produced the Buzz Kilman show on that station. Mike has since gone on to study at the Second City improv school, and for the past nine years has been working as a design engineer. He turns 43 today--happy birthday. Mike has two kids, lives in the suburbs, hasn't had a single confirmed heart attack, and continues to dabble in his life-long passion: philosophy.

Today the philosophical provacateur shares his wisdom with the youngsters...

"Words of Wisdom for the Class of '06"

By Michael T. Medina

When you are driving down the highway there are many situations where letting your foot off the gas pedal works as well hitting the brakes.

The proper reply to "thank you" is "you're welcome". Not "that's OK", "don't mention it", or "no problem". If it were a problem would you have done it?

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

When you’re standing in line for fast food think about what you are going to order before you get to the front of the line. It works better for everyone that way.

Cleaning is a top to bottom process.

If you're picking your nose in your car, use an open window to dry and flick the boogers. This will keep the inside of your car cleaner. Don't worry, when you're in your car no one can see you; you're completely anonymous! Be sure to set your cell phone down first.

Spell check isn't good enough, your have to proofread, top.

As you get older your butt starts to stink more (I think it has to do with the increased hair growth). Pay special attention to hygiene "down there".

Of course it’s always in the last place you look. Would you keep looking after you found it?

There are people who are "smart enough to know they're dumb" and people who are "too dumb to know they're not smart". The former are nicer to be around, but the latter are usually the successful ones. Gilligan could fly until the Skipper told him he couldn't. Do you know which one you are? (trick question)

You cannot cook bacon on a Hibachi.

Try to use more resources preparing your recycling than are gained by recycling. For example, use several gallons of water rinsing the cans, bottles and jars before putting them into the recycling bin. Make sure it's hot water.

Pretend to want to be closer to friends and family, but make no effort to do so. Then wonder why no one calls you.

Turn down your ear buds it's destroying your hearing.

See if a cantaloupe is ripe by smelling it. It should have a sweet fragrant smell when you buy it. Same with peaches.

Any bag of chips, no matter the size, constitutes one serving.

I’m done. Tip your waiters and waitresses on the way out.

Guest Blogger: Dave Stern 2

2006-06-02T20:38:00.000-07:00

This is Dave with his three daughters. As you can see, Dave is...um...follically-challenged.

Last year he wrote the following column. After reading this, we both realized there was potential here. Six months later we had written an entire book, "The Bald Handbook".

I asked him if he would allow me to publish the original column as this week's Guest Blog, and he graciously agreed.

Bald
By Dave Stern

It was one of those “I’ll never forget where I was when I found out” events.

The year was 1989 and I was at your typical nondescript Seven Eleven. After grabbing an extra large bag of Funyons and one of those fruit hybrid drinks (I’m almost certain it was Guava/Nectarine), I deftly ambled to the counter where the clerk was cleaning the green and red sludgey ice drink machine and had his back turned. Not wanting to be rude, I waited patiently for the clerk’s attention and spent the brief moment reconsidering my drink choice mainly because I had no idea what a guava was. After deciding that the right choice had been made, I glanced toward the little closed-circuit TV behind the counter.

On the screen, I watched a man who was easily ten years older than me waiting at a similar counter. Coincidentally, he was wearing the exact same Hawaiian shirt that I was. What I couldn’t understand was why this Seven Eleven was interested in the counter of one of their other locations. Some Harvard MBA must have thought it would encourage company togetherness, I surmised. Anyway, after a few seconds I raised my hand to my mouth and did the, “hey Ramesh stop cleaning the friggin machine and ring me up” cough when I noticed that the older man on the screen did the exact same thing. How could this be? Had I stumbled into some weird convenience store parallel universe? I raised my hand, so did the old guy. I shook my head, so did the old guy. This was eerie. I mean this guy was my identical twin if not for the fact that he had the beginnings of a pretty nice bald spot.

Uh-OH.

It’s been fifteen years since I first diagnosed my problem and I have to say I thought I was doing OK. I’d gone through all the stages: Denial – That’s not me on that TV screen, Anger – Crap that’s me on that TV screen, Bargaining – Dear God, I’ll never again mix carbs and proteins in the same meal if you give me my hair back, Depression – I look like Denis Franz and finally Acceptance – Oh well, at least I don't have to buy shampoo. I had gotten to a place where I accepted my fate and actually felt good about myself.

Then it happened.

A simple little statement uttered by the lowest form of humanity, a fullhead.. An insensitive remark that cut to the core of my being and made me regress three stages. I am of course talking about the words, “Look, I’m losing my hair”. This wouldn’t have hurt if the lowlife who uttered these words was also on the combover superhighway. Nope. They came from a guy who currently has more hair than I did in the sixth grade. Either he really did believe he was losing it or he was the most heinous creature to walk the earth.

Let's assume his motives were pure. Did he think I would empathize or show him our secret handshake? Did he think I would take him to some frontal tuft fluff up clinic? Buck up pal, there’s no hand holding in this cruel world.

So here’s a little advice to those who need to pull back their hair and shine a high watt halogen bulb to see their scalp: Don’t peddle your wares to us bald guys. As the saying goes, anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Let’s just say we’re stronger than you could ever be. We don't need your help, or your comments, or your sympathy, or your breath. Unless you can feel a rain drop travel from the top of your head to your ear unimpeded, please keep your thoughts to yourself. Even then, this is one instance where misery does not love company.

Whew. OK, back to stage three bargaining.

Dear God, I’ll never again have Rick’s mail forwarded to Guam if you give me my hair back.

(click here for more bald humor... http://thebaldhandbook.blogspot.com but consider yourself warned--it's co-written by someone I consider a damn fullhead: Rick)

Have you been following the bald controversy in the Chicago Tribune? I have.
John Kass column

Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood 2

2006-05-26T21:57:00.000-07:00

Shawn Wood is a commercial litigator and partner with the national law firm Seyfarth Shaw LLP. Shawn is also a monthly columnist for Chicago Lawyer magazine and a recipient of its Annual Writing Award. Most recently, he was honored by the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin as one of its "40 under 40 Attorneys To Watch" in 2005.

Shawn contributed a piece to this blog around the time of the Academy Awards. This is his second guest blog. I asked him to write a piece about the Boston lawyers who exchanged nasty e-mails, and he was gracious enough to provide the following...

ANATOMY OF AN E-MAIL
By Shawn Wood

You probably first read the infamous “Lawyers Behaving Badly” e-mail exchange through a forwarded message. Within days, it was featured in the Boston Globe and on CNN. By the end of the month, the story exploded onto every media outlet but Cartoon Network.

And when the media’s talking heads got around to addressing lessons learned, everyone missed the point.

The e-mail exchange was between two lawyers in Boston. Criminal defense attorney Will Korman had offered a job to recent law school graduate Dianna Abdala. She respectfully declined.

Actually, she not-so-respectfully declined. To do it justice, I’ll quote George Michael (and not the one with “guilty feet that had no rhythm”), and say let’s go to the tape:

Abadala: Dear Attorney Korman: At this time [which, incidentally, was well past happy hour at 9:23 on a Friday night], I am writing to inform you that I will not be accepting your offer. After careful consideration, I have come to the conclusion that the pay you are offering would neither fulfill me nor support the lifestyle I am living in light of the work I would be doing for you. I have decided instead to work for myself, and reap 100% of the benefits that I sew. [sic.] Thank you for the interviews. [signed] Dianna L. Abdala, Esq.

So you’re thinking, all right, it’s mildly annoying. The “lifestyle” part makes her sound like Nicole Ritchie, and signing her name “Esq.” is a bit much, but what’s the big deal? Here’s the exchange the followed:

Korman: “Given that you had two interviews, were offered and accepted the job (indeed, you had a definite job start), I am surprised that you chose an e-mail and a 9:30 p.m. voicemail message to convey this information to me. It smacks of immaturity and is quite unprofessional. Indeed, I did rely upon your acceptance by ordering stationery and business cards with your name, reformatting a computer and setting up both internal and external e-mails for you here at the office. While I do not quarrel with your reasoning, I am extremely disappointed in the way this played out. I sincerely wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors. – Will Korman.”

Abadala: “A real lawyer would have put the contract in writing and not exercised any reliance until he did so. Again, thank you.”

Korman: “Thank you for the refresher course on contracts. This is not a bar exam question. You need to realize this is a very small legal community, especially for the criminal defense bar. Do you really want to start pissing off more experienced lawyers at this early stage of your career?”

Abdala: “Bla Bla Bla.”

After Abdala hit “send” with those three words, this exchange was sent and re-sent all over the globe. The phrase “to pull an Abdala,” consequently, became part of our vernacular.

By the time in reached us here in Chicago (where our “lifestyle” is always a bit behind), the e-mail chain actually shows a fascinating game of telephone. Each person who forwarded the message offers a short commentary on the exchange.

One of my favorites is a guy named David Breen, who rips on Abdala’s failure to distinguish between “reaping what you sow” and reaping what you do with a needle and thread. He also comments that Abadala clearly must not be a BU grad. (Echoes of Thurston Howell’s “Ahh. A Yale man.”)

Another recipient and sender is identified as Alison Foley. Alison says she went to school with Abadala and that the e-mails “truly convey [Abdala’s] personality.” (“I had two classes with her. In both, she would come to class late, sit in the front row eating and drinking (usually chips and a Snapple), and never took notes.”)

These real-time comments also offer an opportunity to learn new online-speak. Most folks know “LOL” means laughing out loud and “BTW” means “by the way,” but one person commenting within the Boston e-mail chain remarks: “WTF is with the Bla, Bla, Bla.”

We learn something new every day.

Once the e-mail exchange was picked up by major news outlets, many of them covered the story by explaining how it “just goes to show that you need to be more careful what you say in an e-mail because it could hurt your career.” These comments seem to miss the larger point.

The more fundamental lesson here is far more simple: DON’T ACT LIKE SUCH A JERK IN THE FIRST PLACE!

This wasn’t a situation like the f-bomb laced tirade by a Chicago real estate associate that made the rounds last year (often referred to as the “monkey scribe” voicemail), where someone blew his cool and yelled at opposing counsel. If we’ve done our jobs well, we’ve all been the recipient of harsh words at some point in our careers.

The Boston e-mail exchange was entirely different. It showed a laughably snotty young lawyer (one of the most convincing antagonists since William Zabka), who spit in the face of someone who was giving her an opportunity, and then she hocked an ever bigger loogie when he tried to explain that the legal community is a small world.

Whether this was all caught on a recorded e-mail or not, whether it was in a professional setting or with a stranger on the bus, what seems important here is to avoid ever acting like such a complete jerk toward another human being (or even toward a cat or goldfish, for that matter).

In a subsequent interview with the Boston Globe, Abdala referred to herself a “trust fund baby” who has “just been taking it easy” because “she worked hard in school.” She also claimed that she was enjoying the notoriety from the all the publicity regarding the e-mails, but also said she had filed a Complaint against Korman with the Massachusetts state disciplinary board complaining about Korman’s forwarding of her messages to third parties.

Wouldn’t you love to be the attorney with the state disciplinary board who had that Complaint land on your desk? You could offer the triumphant three-word response:

Dear Ms. Abdala: Bla, Bla, Bla

Guest Blogger: Doug James

2006-05-19T19:45:00.000-07:00

Doug James has built a successful professional career on a wide range of performing talents. From commercials to voice-overs, radio to stage, corporate acting to conventional film acting. It's likely that you've heard his voice or seen his face (He was on "Prison Break" on Fox this week). He also plays with funk and retro bands "The Llamas" and "Love House", and as you can tell by this guest blog he was gracious enough to provide me, he is very passionate about his love of his music.

Enjoy Every Sandwich

I recently watched the VH1 documentary on the last year in the life of Warren Zevon. I titled this blog after a remark the singer/songwriter made to a David Letterman quire. I've made a promise to myself to do just that. Sounds corny...so what.

Presidents day weekend my wife and I took a trip to what I now consider the live music capital of the world. Austin Texas is NOT your typical Texas town. The variety of music that's offered is larger than Nashville & Memphis combined. By my count, there are about 210 live music venues in Austin. Another great music town I've always enjoyed was New Orleans but it always struck me as a bit too seedy. By comparison Austin is classy and it cooks 24/7. We were a little disappointed in the weather, it was raining and 55 and almost everyone apologized for it.

"Hey, we're from Chicago and it was 14 degrees when we left, don't worry about it." I'm looking at property for six months out of the year and thought the area would be great for my health, I'm seeking a warmer dryer climate during the winter months. I love music and culture and I've also grown rather fond of bicycling & hiking. We're still looking for a 6 month winter haven, but the journey of seeking Utopia is becoming a most enjoyable adventure.

Austin is easy to maneuver around. The 6th Street district has no less than 50 clubs and music/head shops to either listen to an eclectic array of music or shop til you drop. There's actually a Hot Sauce Shop called Tears of Joy that sells nothing but the most outrageous selection of...you guessed it. The owner is Joy Burleson and she invites you to check out her website at www.tearsofjoysauces.com. I spent about $30 and sent my brother a bottle of hot sauce called 'Nuckin' Futs'. Haven't heard back from him yet...hmmm.

Friday night brought a couple of hard choices. I have a wide range of musical influences and there's very little I don't like. I assumed there'd be a ton of C&W and I was right, the thing about Austin is, it holds about 10 tons of live music venues. Ricky Skaggs was sold out at the One World Theatre, there was an event going on that had started on Thursday and lasting over the weekend called the Folk Alliance. It was wrapping up Monday night with Arlo Guthrie & Friends. In all over 70 folk acts from all over the country were in town performing at dozens of different venues for five days.

Understand that there is live music is all over town. The Warehouse District is where Antones is located. Double Trouble (Chris Layton & Tommy Shannon) play there every Tuesday night. By the way, their former leader Stevie Ray Vaughn has a statue on the south side of the river in what's called Auditorium shores. There is no shortage of Stevie Ray wannabe's playing at clubs around Austin.

Friday night at Antones Cyril Neville and Marcia Ball performed. Cyril has left New Orleans for good. He commented that the music scene there has actually been dwindling for quite some time. It was alive during Mardi Gras and the Jazz festival but that was about it. Here he is in Austin on a Friday night in the middle of February, playing to a packed house. A few miles south at Gruene Hall, Leon Russell is playing to another packed house. Are you getting Cyrills drift?

There are venues on the south side of the Colorado river as well in fact, we went to the Continental Inn on Saturday afternoon and caught Red Volkaert(legendary guitarist for Merle Haggard)& The High Flyers free of charge. You would expect an incredibly tight 4 pc. band consisting of bass, drums, pedal steel & Red on guitar. They didn't disappoint. His voice is awesome, a commanding bass/baritone that rings familiar (he sang George Jones better than George) and he's one of the funniest guys on the planet. He looks like a Gnome with fingers as big as spring rolls that fly up and down the frets of his fender guitar. Saturday night Big Head Todd & The Monsters were playing La Zona Rosa which is in the Market District. Asleep At The Wheel was at the Old Coupland Dancehall.

Up and down 6th Street, everything from hip hop to Pete's Piano Bar (dueling pianists that play/sing everything from show tunes to Bon Jovi), karaoke if you want it, The Dirty Dog, over to the Red River District where the infamous Stubbs is located. We saved ourselves for Sunday morning to frequent Stubbs. Their Gospel Brunch is a hoot.

Have I mentioned everywhere we went we were greeted with a big friendly welcome? It was pretty awesome, even to a jaded music lover like myself. This was a typical weekend. In March, the south by southwest festival is held throughout the area and it draws names like Bonnie Raitt, Buddy Guy, Bela Fleck & The Flecktones, Elvis Costello to Sheryl Crow. For hard rockers the Smoking Popes @ Emo's for alternative Death Cab Cutie and Franz Ferdinand will be performing at the Backyard. This list is endless.

A helpful hint, when you arrive in Austin, grab a CHRONICLE Proper Exposure. It's like the Reader in Chicago and will direct you to more than just music. Oh yeah, we visited some Art museums too, but that'll have to wait for another blog & time.

So get out and listen to some music, and enjoy that sandwich!

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland 3

2006-05-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue.

She is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. And that's why I asked her to write another guest blog for Mother's Day weekend. Check out some of her other great columns. I have a link on the right--listed under Links to Rick's Picks (A City Mom).

Mothers Day
By Kim Strickland

Mother’s day is fast approaching, that marvelous day when we pay tribute to our mothers in the time-honored tradition of giving hundreds of millions of dollars to the Hallmark Corporation. Yes, Mother’s day is tons of fun, especially for us mothers. And who doesn’t need another bottle of Jean Naté?

My personal favorite part of Mother’s Day is breakfast in bed. My husband and the boys clatter around in the kitchen, then come clamoring up the stairs shushing each other, with the dog and cats expectantly in trail. When they enter the bedroom, I pretend I didn’t hear any of the ruckus and act surprised to see the breakfast tray. The experience is made all the more heartwarming if, before delivery, they’ve managed to take the foil wrapper off my Pop-Tart.

Two hours later, when I’m down in the kitchen cleaning up that very same breakfast tray, I ponder what Mother’s Day means to me. It’s supposed to be a day where we say thanks to Mom. Give her a day of rest. A day off. But I’ve never had a Mother’s Day off. I mean, a day off for a mom? What’s that? It would mean pretending you didn’t have children.

When a person makes the commitment to motherhood, a day off, for the rest of your life, is essentially out of the question. Sure, you can leave the kids at grandma’s for the weekend, but even then, although you’re children aren’t physically present, they’re still very much in your thoughts. Have you ever tried to see how long you could go without thinking about them? Worrying if they’re okay? Happy? Crying? Being stuffed full of too many cupcakes at Grandma’s house? I know I couldn’t make it for 24 hours.

This is the bond you make with the Universe when you bring a child into this world. You’ve created a link every bit as real as an umbilical cord. But here’s the thing: It’s more of a one-way cord. The love and concern and worry pours through to your child and sure, you get some of it back—but not all of it. And that’s okay. It has to be okay. It’s really the only way for the system to work. If you’ve done your job, your children will go out into the world with confidence and they’ll flourish, achieving all the goals and dreams they can dream and maybe even, occasionally on holidays, remembering to send you a Hallmark card.

That’s the reward. Not the card, but the happiness of your children. Nobody should decide to go into motherhood as a means of accumulating a collection of unopened bottles of Jean Naté. Being a mother isn’t about having or expecting the unconditional love of your children. It’s about giving your children unconditional love—without expectations.

I don’t think anyone who decides to become a parent really comprehends what it is they’re getting themselves into. I know I didn’t. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean that it’s a life experience that can barely, and only with very great difficulty, be put into words. When people tell you the tried and true phrase, “It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but the best thing you’ll ever do,” you can hear it, but you won’t really get it, until your kids are already here.

Earlier in life, my maternal urges were thin to non-existent. I was the fun-loving, party girl. I still don’t know what the hell happened. I never had any great affinity for children, especially not other people’s children. Sure I babysat when I was younger, and I did a good job, but pretty much those little munchkins were just a means for me to put myself into a new pair of Calvin Klein jeans.

I don’t remember all the driving factors that made my husband and I decide to become parents. Everyone else is doing it—seems to come to mind. Certainly listening to new parents didn’t help the case for parenthood. I remember my husband saying things like, “It would be fun,” and “Kids add the unexpected.” Then the next thing I knew, we ended up with these kids.

The best thing that ever happened to me.

My boys have brought me joy and laughter every single day they’ve been in my life.

While these are just my humble thoughts on what it means to be a mother, I know the jury’s still out for me in terms of my performance as a mom. My kids are only nine. I still have plenty of time to completely screw them up. But I do love them more than my own life, and I have only the best of intentions with regards to their upbringing. In this, I imagine I’m not alone.

All I know is, at least for now, if you love your kids and do your job to the best of your abilities, when that breakfast tray shows up on Mother’s day morning—your little angels will have, oh so lovingly, removed the foil wrapper from your Pop-Tart.

Guest Blogger: Chris Lundberg

2006-04-28T23:19:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I got a funny joke submitted by "W" about men getting too much credit for grilling. Here was her submission...

A reminder After 6 long months of cold and winter, we are finally coming up to Summer and BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking as it's the only type of cooking a real man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved. When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of events are put into motion: Here's the routine...

(1) The woman buys the food.
(2) The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables and makes
dessert.
(3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along
with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces and takes it to the man who
is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand. Here comes the important part:
(4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.
(5) The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery.
(6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He
thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he deals with the
situation. Important again:
(7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
(8) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins,
sauces, and brings them to the table.
(9) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes. AND
MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL:
10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.
11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "her night off." And, upon
seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no pleasing some
women....

As you might imagine, this got some feedback from my male readers, including Chris Lundberg. I liked his response so much, I asked him to write an entire guest blog about it. Chris is program coordinator at the Mathematics & Science Center in Richmond, Virginia, a consortium which serves the school districts in the metropolitan Richmond area. He is a lifelong Virginia resident, and his writing includes such fun-filled areas as grant funding and mission statements, instructional materials, ghost-writing for a college president, storyboarding lessons and activities for interactive educational websites, professional journal articles, and even composing direct-mail solicitations for his alma mater, Randolph-Macon College.

Over the course of his years in education, he has been a teacher, university adjunct instructor, school administrator, program and instructional supervisor, and even a college fund-raiser. He has made numerous presentations at the local, state, and national level in the areas of science instruction, learning styles, and gifted education. His main affiliation is his wife of 20 years, the former Anne Hyde of Wheaton, Illinois. Among their references are their five children, Katie, Bridget, Nora, Sarah, and Stanley.

And yes, he does has a slightly different take on the subject of BBQ...

Where’s the Meat?
By Chris Lundberg

After enjoying the Monday Morning Joke Column (April 3) by “W” with the female’s take on barbecue cooking, I felt compelled to respond with the male point of view. What about the REST OF THE STORY of the events that occur during that time period (often lengthy) between putting the meat on the grill and taking the meat off of the grill?

Observe any normal meat-eating male, let’s say, presented with such appetizing offerings from soybean tofu to vegetarian lasagna. You can provide him a veritable smorgasbord of gourmet food, but omit the REAL main course and you will hear him exclaim, “Where’s the meat?” It is just such a person who can fully appreciate the gentle care, indeed, “hand-cultivation” involved in preparing the true perfect meal, whether it be steak, brat, chicken, or burger (or even horse).

So now that the spring season is upon us, let’s take a closer look to see that the barbecue is a complex series of activities revealing the highly advanced husbandry abilities of the suburban male. Here from the Commonwealth of Virginia, home of the barbecue and the State of hams, cotton, peanuts, bourbon, and Robert E. Lee, is a checklist for a whole host of specific BBQ behaviors; such as…

*Multitasking by engaging in witty conversation and entertaining guests while flipping and turning each individual piece of meat with equal aplomb….

*Embodying the true spirit of the BBQ by firing up the charcoal instead of a gas grill…

*The subtle art of regulating the proper cooking temperature by pouring beer onto the flames that get too high….

*More multitasking by laughing at lame jokes by guests and congenially acknowledging their political, social, and religious observations (the requisite host “head nod” of recognition vs. one of agreement – a particularly challenging task to pull off)…

*The sheer creativity of substituting gasoline for lighter fluid when in a pinch…

*Holding to the suburban man code of maintaining nonchalance while trying to ascertain if the meat is ready…

*Offering cigars to guests to enjoy and to add to the BBQ incense (indeed, a holy smoke) arising from the grill…

*The simple act itself of turning the meat (a true middle class art form)…

*Even more multitasking by holding “court” on a variety of topics ranging from the Cubs’ prospects this year to how to keep the squirrels from eating the tulip bulbs to the merits of the straight 6 vs. the V-6 cylinder engine…

*The selfless act of providing a gathering place for men at the altar of the grill of self-actualization…

*Going the extra mile and warming the buns on the outside edges of the grill…

And finally, above all, the character to resist experimenting at the grill and proudly announce, “Hey y’all… watch this….!”

Is it any wonder that it’s the MEAT that counts on any menu? And, why do you think the list of what’s on for supper is called a “MEN-u?” Meat is deep in the DNA of us hunter-gatherers and no amount of unique side-dishes nor elegantly appointed table settings can change that.

Now that you know THE REAL STORY of what goes on during the BBQ , you can easily see that this event is indeed a “night off” for the wife. In fact, it’s almost like going out to dinner. She does not have to concern herself with any comments whatsoever about the quality of her cooking. Furthermore, the amount of real time she will spend on the meal is virtually zip. It is a given that the other guests will pitch in with not only the preparation of the “other stuff” to be consumed, but also the clean-up. This leaves her the luxury to “invest” the majority of her time in leisurely, pleasant conversation with the other spouses while you do the lion’s share of work.

I rest my case. Cooking is all about the MEAT, so let’s light the fires and give our spouses a night off this weekend!

Now, what are we having for dessert?

If you ever go to Richmond for BBQ--go here: (personally recommended by Chris)

Guest Blogger: Jay Shatz

2006-04-21T20:49:00.000-07:00

Jay Shatz was born and raised in Rogers Park...which means he's a Northsider and lifelong Cubs fan. He and his partner Stan own "JayTV", a television production company which produces (he wanted me to say "executive produces") several shows for the DIY network (about 200 hours of home and garden programming a year), including "The Garden Sense." This summer they'll start shooting a new show called "Desperate Landscapes."

Before founding JayTV six years ago, Jay was a television news reporter for seventeen years in Peoria and Cincinnati, as well as the General Manager of WPGU radio in Champaign. I was his program director and afternoon host there. We were both young and stupid (21). This picture was taken in 1984 at a radio convention in Los Angeles that Jay somehow convinced the radio station we should attend. It's the only time I've ever been to L.A.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "What a good idea to ask a man who executive produces garden shows to guest blog on Earth Day." Yes, that's true. Unfortunately, Jay wanted to guest blog about me...which he noted none of the other guest bloggers had yet done. (P.S. Despite what he says below, I've never contracted any sort of sexually transmitted disease)

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

By Jay Shatz

Like most men in their forties, I’ve discovered time has a way of thinning your hair and your circle of friends. The trick in mid-life is to hold onto both.

In the grand scheme of things, my friendship with Rick Kaempfer has been relatively easy to sustain. We see each other once every 8 years. It’s seems like a nice pace. As college buddies the odds are against us keeping in touch. By now, one of us should have died in a tragic boating accident, or worse, voted Republican.

We met and bonded 25 years ago in the basement studios of WPGU-FM. It was a time of innocence and nicknames. Rick called me “Dr. J” and I called him “A Nasty, Angry Midget of a Nazi”. As General Manager of Rock 107, I wisely selected Rick to be my program director. That meant he got laid while I got my hands on petty cash. For much of our senior year, Rick battled Chlamydia as I paid off my student loans.

My favorite photo from those days shows both of us smiling and drunk, trolling for jobs at a media convention in Los Angeles. Rick has the sly, mischievous grin that would open doors to big radio producing gigs while I’m wearing a tight pair of black parachute pants that would eventually get me into every bar on Halstead without paying a cover.

Our paths after college veered in very different directions. Rick struggled to gain his footing , blinded perhaps by the glare off the 9 Emmys I collected in a meteoric rise as a television reporter. I rarely saw Rick, but delighted in hearing his voice on my answering machine begging for career advice or at the very least, a return phone call.

Loyal readers of this blog pretty much know how things ended up. Rick shook off the sexually transmitted diseases and settled down to a great career and even better family life.. With a wonderful wife and 3 cute kids, he’s now a poster child for fatherhood and anti-biotics.

Through it all, our friendship has stayed on schedule. We met last September for a Cubs game joined by college buddies and fellow bloggers Dane Placko and Dave Stern. At first, I was deeply touched they shared their valuable 6th row box seats at Wrigley Field. But I quickly remembered how cheap the trio is and not prone to idol acts of kindness. My guess is the Cubs offer season ticket holders a discount for bringing a minority to a game. Because I’m a Gay Jew, they hit the jackpot and I probably saved them a fortune.

Before leaving, my three old friends spoke of breaking the 8 year wait by returning to Wrigley Field this season. Rick suggested I join them for what he promises will be “Ricky Martin Bobblehead Day”. I’m not sure if that’s an invitation or insult. But trust me, I’ll be there, wearing my parachute pants and a smile.

Guest Blogger: Peter Kaempfer

2006-04-14T20:53:00.000-07:00

The Kaempfer Family (minus deceased Dad). That's Peter on the right--the baby of the family. The two women in the picture are my sister Cindy and my mother Hildegard. Peter lives in the Detroit area with his wife Julie and their two sons Andrew and Bryan (my Godson). I resisted the urge, by the way, to post an embarrassing picture of Peter. At some point, big brothers need to stop tormenting little brothers. I also resisted the urge to point out that my mom still calls him "Butzie"...oh crap. Sorry, Peter.

I asked Peter to guest blog on this traditional tax day because he is a CPA...and he doesn't know anything about taxes. But I'll let him explain further...

Just Because I'm a CPA, doesn't mean I know taxes

It usually goes something like this…

“Hi. Nice to meet you. So what do you do for a living?” Innocent enough question.

“I am an accountant.” Oops! Why did I admit it so quickly?

“Oh, you must be really busy this time of year with taxes and all.”

Rolling my eyes, “Well, actually I have been very busy at work, but I don’t have anything to do with taxes.”

Then the dance begins, trying to explain what I do in my corporate accounting job. I have had to do this countless times in the past 14 years. Don’t worry – I won’t try to explain it here. Some people get it, most people don’t, others just get bored to tears (and rightfully so.) There are some family members and really good friends of mine that still don’t understand that I have nothing to do with taxes, that I have a hard time preparing my own tax return every year (and TurboTax makes it pretty easy.) In fact, I actually end up doing some of their returns for them just so I don’t have to go through the dance.

All they know is that I am a CPA, so they assume I am a tax accountant. I guess that’s really not too bad of an assumption. Why should anyone be able to distinguish among the various specialties and disciplines in accounting unless they are an accountant? This stuff just isn’t common knowledge - it’s not like accounting gets a very glamorous portrayal in movies or on TV. Face it, unless you are a cop, lawyer, doctor, politician or bad lounge singer, chances are you won’t be seeing too many shows featuring your profession, let alone accounting.

I’m OK with that. Accounting really isn’t that fascinating. It just happens to be something that I can do fairly well and it happens to pay the bills just fine. Yes, I am an accountant; a CPA. I admit it. More accurately, though accounting is what I do for a living.

I don’t get excited about tax deductions. I never played Dungeons & Dragons. I wasn’t part of the Audio-Visual club in high school. I don’t wear glasses (all the time.) I don’t even watch Star Trek re-runs. I like to think I’m a pretty regular guy who just happens to have a dull job.

So next time you meet an accountant, don’t ask him about taxes. Try asking about his family, what he thinks of the White Sox’ chances of repeating as World Champions (had to get that in there Rick), his thoughts on who will fill the void as boss of the Soprano family until Tony recovers. You might be surprised to find he actually has a life outside of work.

On the other hand, you could end up being stuck talking to one of the accounting majority, the really geeky, boring guy that you just can’t get rid of.

Good luck out there and best of luck with your taxes.

Guest Blogger: Cindy Gatziolis

2006-04-07T20:53:00.000-07:00

Cindy has been the Director of PR/Marketing for Mayor's Office of Special Events for the past five years following nearly 21 years in radio at stations WMAQ, WLUP AM/FM, WMVP, WGN and WLS. (She's the one on the right in this picture from the Loop's 1993 Christmas party. The guy on the left is in desperate need of a haircut.) Cindy is also a die-hard White Sox fan.

Now that the baseball season has started up again, and the Sox are defending champions for the first time since 1918, I asked her to write what it was like when her dream of a White Sox World Series Championship was finally realized. This is what she sent me...

The White Sox won the World Series!
By Cindy Gatziolis

Hey did you hear, the White Sox won the World Series.

Now Cub fans, don’t get all crazy that I’m bragging. I’m still trying to believe it.

You hope your whole fandom that it will happen and each year you utter the proverbial “wait til”…well you know.

I’m often asked how I became a Sox fan, especially when people hear that I didn’t grow up on the south side (by the way Fox broadcasting—south side is two words) and neither did my parents. Dad was a westsider and mom was a way westsider as in Idaho.

I am a White Sox fan because it’s in my DNA not unlike my brown eyes. I am a White Sox fan because it is part of my heritage just like being of Greek descent.

Dad and his brothers George and Pete were White Sox fans. And those three men begat families of Sox fans. Dad even converted mom who used to be the diplomat and say she rooted for both teams. She showed her true colors in the South Side Hit Men summer of ’77 by entering or leaving a room depending on the team’s actions. Ironically, that was her last summer to follow the team.

Pete died in the summer of ’59 so he didn’t even see that World Series. Dad passed in the summer of ’94, the strike shortened season. He would have been very disappointed in baseball had he seen that happen.

Uncle George is still with us and when I spoke to him after the White Sox won the World Series, he was as happy as a kid.

My three siblings and I have many similarities but even more vast differences. Some of it in how we vote, some in how we work, and most certainly in what we all chose as professions. But our one shared emotion is a love of the White Sox.

The next generation is on board as well, my brother’s sons and my sister’s daughter. I give a lot a credit to my sister for indoctrinating her daughter who was born in Los Angeles and has spent nearly 10 years living in Connecticut, Yankee and Red Sox territory. Imagine my delight in hearing that Marinna, as an 8 year-old, set one little girlfriend straight who thought there was no such thing as White Sox…only Red Sox. East Coast bias anyone?

Last fall, the Gatziolis clan lived a dream, a dream shared by many a family. And while many have jumped on the bandwagon and seats will be harder to come by, we can take pride in that we were there long before it became fashionable.

I was on the verge of being a teenager when I spotted some cute guys in baseball uniforms such as Pitcher Bart Johnson, Second Baseman Mike Andrews and a gorgeous third baseman named Bill Melton. I can remember rushing home in September of 1971 to find out if he had the home run that would give him that year’s title. He did, and last summer, because of my line of work, I had Bill Melton in my car. I’ll never wash that seat again.

Through my nearly four decades of fandom, I never wavered. Eric Soderholm responded to my letter on biofeedback for the paper I was doing in college. Carlton Fisk became my annual early round choice in my rotisserie baseball league. Robin Ventura was the number 23 that I adored in this city.

Mom and I saw the game in which Dick Allen hit a home run to centerfield. I was able to really treat my dad to a great game when I worked at WGN Radio, which had great seats in the box next to the Daleys and two rows behind Chuck Comiskey. I think Dad was actually proud of me that day even though I’m pretty sure he couldn’t tell you what I did for a living.

In a softer gentler day, there was the time my sisters and I were headed to buy tickets and were stopped by a man asking us if we wanted his tickets. He was not a masher or a scalper, simply a businessman from Detroit (it was Tigers vs Sox) with extra tickets. Man those were great seats. It’s also the day I discovered the joy of focusing the binoculars on the Sox dugout. You could see Dick Allen smoking on the clubhouse steps.

Well, you can tell by this fan, that Sox fans are just as rabid as Cub fans. We may not be cute and cuddly. We’re not the hot babes in the bleachers that Arnie Harris always focused on. We’re just fans. We’re fans with this team because they’re part of our family. I often say, that with the exception of the living creatures in my life, and Farfo my stuffed dog who just turned 46, the White Sox are the most important thing in my life.

They connect me to my parents, my siblings and their children. And I hope that someday when I’m gone and one of those children has my seat from old Comiskey in their home, that it will be revered by their children as something special from Great Aunt Cindy and a cool connection to their favorite baseball team.

So take that Chris Berman.

Guest Blogger: Dane Placko

2006-03-25T10:56:00.000-08:00

Dane Placko is a member of the biased liberal media. As a reporter for WFLD-TV (FOX), he is a well-known face in Chicago. (For those of you who don't live in Chicago--he's the one on the right. The man on the left is an unidentified Cubs fan at Wrigley). Dane previously worked in television in Milwaukee and Iowa, and in radio in Champaign, Illinois. That's where we got to know each other.

Although he lives and breathes journalism, Dane does have another side to him. For instance, he told me the funniest joke I've ever heard (about a moose). If you ever run into him in an appropriate social setting, ask him to tell it to you (it's not appropriate for this blog). Dane is also an avid gardener, but that's not what I asked him to write about. I asked him to write about the one thing he thinks about more than anything else in the world...the Chicago Cubs. We share this Cubs-love sickness, but he is even more rabid than I am. That's why I asked him to guest blog about their chances this year, and he graciously agreed.

Cubs 2006

By Dane Placko

My wife calls them the "Baseball Dreams."

They begin like clockwork every mid-February, as
pitchers and catchers report to spring training.

As my mind is still floating in that netherworld
between sleep and wakefulness, I'll turn to my wife in
bed and say "So how is your arm feeling today?" Or
"With this team we should go all the way."

My wife considers this borderline psychosis, but I
tell her it's just another symptom of the sickness
that goes with being a die-hard Cubs fan for 35 years.

But a funny thing happened this spring. The Baseball
Dreams never materialized. Not one early morning
vision of balls screaming off bats and ivy walls
dappled with sunshine.

My subconcious is trying to tell me something.

And I think what it's telling me is that this year's
Cubs team could really really suck.

To say Cubs fans are familiar with disappointment is
like saying George Ryan knows how to stretch a
paycheck. False hope and bitter failure are part of
our DNA. If disappointment made a sound, it would be
the muffled "pop" of a crushed paper cup after another
Wrigley loss.

But even through the worst years there's always been a
glimmer of hope in March and April.

What's different this year for me is the utter
frustration with Cubs management. This is a team with
a payroll closing in on $100 million... so it's not a
question of spending money. It's the way they've spent
it that's driving me nuts.

Management still hasn't addressed the greatest flaw of
this team over the past several years; getting on
base. On-base percentage (OBP) is the single greatest
predictor of a team's ability to score runs.

Consider that last year the Cubs finished second in
the National League in home runs and slugging
percentage, tied for second in batting average.... yet
finished ninth in runs scored.

How is that possible? Simple. The Cubs were 11th in
OBP and finished dead last in walks. This was, and has
been for several years, a team that clearly doesn't
understand or value the benefits of plate discipline.

Looked at another way, the Cubs last year gave 1135 at
bats to three players (Corey Patterson, Neifi Perez
and Jose Macias) who had a grand total of 47 walks
between them. That's a collective OBP of .293. League
average OBP is about .330.

So when you wonder why Derek Lee produced a measly 107
rbi's with his monster 46 HR season... consider that
Dusty Baker batted Patterson/Perez/Macias in front of
Lee in the batting order through most of the year.

It was imperitive that the Cubs improve their team OBP
in the offseason. Yet they inexplicaby signed Neifi
Perez to a two year contract extension for 6 million
wasted dollars... then filled their rightfield hole by
blowing $16 million over three years on free agent
has-been Jacque Jones.

Ostensibly Ronny Cedeno is the shortstop of the
future. That'll last until his first slump. Dusty
loves the vets, and he especially loves Perez. Look
for Perez to get the bulk of the starts by June,

As for Jones, he's another low-OBP performer who will
get far too many at bats. Jones could be useful as the
lefty half a platoon split. But Dusty has already
indicated he plans to play Jones fulltime. That's very
bad news, because Jones simply cannot hit lefthanders.

The major upgrade is in centerfield where Juan Pierre
will replace Patterson. Another player who doesn't
walk as much as he should, Pierre's OBP is highly
dependant on his batting average. When he hits over
.300, his OBP's are better than .360. Last year he
had a miserable season, but is a good candidate for a
comeback year.

The big story in spring training is the ongoing
"competition" for second base. Todd Walker, Neifi
perez and Jerry Hairston Jr. are all in the mix for
the job.

This is incredibly stupid.

Why in the world would you make such a critical
decision based on 60 or so spring training at bats...
when each of these guys has a track record of
thousands of major league at bats? Do the Cubs expect
Perez to suddenly start hitting like Ryne Sandberg?
Todd Walker to start fielding like Bill Mazeroski?
Jerry Hairston to start playing like... anyone other
than Jerry Hairston?

What you see is what you got. Smart organizations make
decisions based on facts. The Cubs are hoping the
decision will be made FOR them.

Pitching? Well, the Cubs have plenty of it... on the
disabled list.

The first month promises to be difficult. Mark Prior
and Kerry Wood are both likely out until May at the
earliest. That means starts for Glendon Rusch and
Jerome Williams and probably rookies Rich Hill or
Angel Guzman. None of those are bad options. They're
simply not nearly as good as a healthy Wood or Prior.

I'd really like to see Guzman and Hill get a shot in
the rotation if the Cubs fall out of it by mid-season.
Both have posted spectacular minor league numbers but
both also come with question marks.

Zambrano is one of the five best starters in the
National League. With a better offense he'd win 20.
He's also been worked very hard at a young age by
Baker. No arm problems yet... but it is a concern.

Greg Maddux has been in steady decline for the past
four years. It's unlikely he'll spit in the eye of
Father Time and throw up a sub-4.00 ERA.

The bullpen could be the best the Cubs have had since
the late 1960s. General Manager Jim Hendry went out
and overpaid for middle relievers Bobby Howry and
Scott Eyre, who are both coming off spectacular
seasons. They're also on the wrong side of 30.

Keep an eye on lefty Will Ohman. He's had the best
spring of any Cubs pitcher. And also watch out for
Scott Williamson. He's a righty rehab project that
appears to be healthy and dealing bullets.

Dusty Baker? Let's save that for another column.

Final prediction: 84-78, good for third place behind
the Cardinals and Brewers.

But the wonderful thing about baseball is that you
just never know. Not one single analyst picked the
White Sox to win the World Series last year (sigh).
Anything can happen.

So allowing myself to dream again... I see the
Cardinals falling victim to injuries and age... the
Brewer's stud youngsters being a little too green...
and a healthy Prior and Wood bolstering the rotation
in May.

Really, you can win it all with good pitching, and if
(if if if if) Z, Wood and Prior are all in the
rotation, and if Maddux can hang on for one more
year.... well....

Nahhh.

Guest Blogger: Brendan Sullivan

2006-03-17T22:47:00.000-08:00

Brendan Sullivan is a Corporate Creativity Coach. He helps organizational teams and leaders to create more dynamic solutions, more productive collaboration, more effective leadership and a healthier work environment where talented people can thrive. He has a checkered past which includes acting, producing radio, selling advertising and writing stuff. And of course he has a website, http://www.creativitycoach.net.

Contemplations on Growing Up “Southside Irish”
By Brendan Sullivan

When your name is Brendan Patrick Sullivan, a certain level of Irish American wisdom and experience may be assumed. As an adult, I have been asked all sorts of things that you of other ancestry may not have: Do you support the IRA? Have you read “Angela’s Ashes”? Is the Guinness in a can as good as on tap? What are you doing for St. Patrick’s Day? Would you guest-write my blog with your thoughts on being Irish? I don’t think I look particularly Irish, I don’t have a brogue and I don’t belong to any Irish or Irish American organizations. So all I can assume is that my name conjures up these questions.

Such was not the case when I was a child. I grew up on the Southwest side of Chicago, in the 1960s. I was named after my father, and was the oldest of six children. And I never realized how “Irish” I was because everyone in our neighborhood, it seemed, was just as “Irish.” We lived down the street from the Flynns and the O’Connors and the Walshes and the McDonoughs. And everyone had about six kids. No one ever spotted me as being particularly Irish because everyone was. So no one ever said “Gosh, that’s a really Irish name.” What other kind of name was there?

And of course we all went to the Catholic school and church. Oh sure, there were a few outsiders, whom we referred to as the Publics. And we weren’t sure what the Publics did. They had little churches with various names that sounded alike. We had huge Gothic churches that were packed to the rafters every Sunday. The Publics went to a different school and didn’t wear uniforms to school. They had spring break and winter break. We had Easter break and Christmas vacation. And I never really got to know any of them that well. They were all going to roast in hell, anyway.

So my world was all Irish. And all Catholic. In fact, you didn’t live in a neighborhood, you lived in a parish (St. Cajetan, Christ the King, St. John Fisher, St. Barnabas, St. Christina, etc.) And yeah, there were a lot of pubs. I went to a Catholic all-boys high school where they would suspend you if you were caught drinking. But the school gave you a personalized porcelain beer stein when you graduated, and our senior prom favor was an etched brandy snifter. Hmmm?

There is something very insulating, and very provincial about the Southwest side. So that when I moved to the North side after college, I may as well have gone over to the Dark side. How could I? Lord knows there’s nothing north of 35th street. And I now live in a neighborhood with Applebaums and Espositos and Jacksons and Lis and Pashas and the gay couple down the street too.

But I return every year with my wife and four very Irish kids to sit with their multitudinous cousins and watch the parade, using my sister’s house two blocks off the route as our home base. And we eat corned beef sandwiches and wear green and you stand on the parade route with hundreds of thousands of others with equally Irish surnames, watching the endless stream of marching bands and firemen and policemen and veterans and clans and politicians and community groups and Knights of Columbus and there’s a feeling that you are a member of a very large green cult.

Oh, I’m still Southside Irish. I still believe that the White Sox are far superior to that team down the street. My parents and all of my brothers and sisters all live on the south side, or in the southwest suburbs. And there’s an Irish flag flying in front of our house this week. But it’s the only one on the block.

Guest Blogger: Shawn Wood

2006-03-11T00:02:00.000-08:00

Shawn Wood is a commercial litigator and partner with the national law firm Seyfarth Shaw LLP. Shawn is also a monthly columnist for Chicago Lawyer magazine and a recipient of its Annual Writing Award. Most recently, he was honored by the Chicago Daily Law Bulletin as one of its "40 under 40 Attorneys To Watch" in 2005.

He's also a very funny writer. He was kind enough to contribute the following analysis of "Lawyers in the movies" for the blog...

The Legality Awards
by Shawn Wood

Portrayals of lawyers as everyday heroes in the movies is what draws many in every generation to the legal profession.

And when it comes to seasoned, battle-tested warriors, from Gregory Peck’s champion for the unjustly accused in To Kill a Mockingbird, to Glenn Close’s determined, big-firm litigator in Jagged Edge, to Paul Newman’s boozy, solo practitioner in The Verdict, our celluloid legal heroes are often memorable, compelling, and well-drawn.

So every March, between the Oscars and March Madness, I offer my annual Fake Legal Oscars column, focusing on silver screen portrayals of what was once called The Noble Profession. So cue music and yank Joan Rivers off the red carpet. Here goes...

Best Opening Statement

No one followed the “keep it simple, stupid” rule better than Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny. Nine words on behalf of the defense: “Everything that guy just said is bullsh--. Thank you.”

Gotta love the “thank you” at the end. You never want to be impolite.

Best Judge

Most movies portray judges as scowling, one-dimensional stiffs without ever showing us the person behind the stern demeanor and black robe.

So the Fake Legal Oscar for Best Judge goes to the late Ted Knight for giving us the most unforgettable jurist who ever lit up the big screen: Judge Smails in Caddyshack ("Don't just stand there, Spaulding, get some glue!")

If there was any justice in this world, there would have been a sequel featuring Judge Smails on the bench handling his motion call ("well, counsel.... we're waiting") or mentoring young lawyers at bar functions ("the world needs ditch diggers, too").

Best Portrayal Of The Unauthorized Practice Of Law

How pessimistic has the world become when the most heroic portrayal of a member of the legal profession in recent film history was by Julia Roberts playing indomitable non-lawyer (expressly anti-lawyer) Erin Brockovich?

On a brighter note, this movie would also win in the category: “Best Supporting Undergarment In A Law-Related Film.”

Most Boring Trial

People hate watching lawyer movies with lawyers. We can’t resist pointing out any parts that are legally flawed. Like if you rent the steamy legal thriller Body Heat with a date, don't kill the mood by belaboring the film's misapplication of The Rule Against Perpetuities (unless you're dating a first-year law student, in which case, this type of banter might be a turn-on).

I think the reason movies get it wrong sometimes is not because the producers couldn't afford a legal consultant, but because "keeping it real" can end up being, well, boring. Case in point, the award here goes to The Rainmaker. Building a courtroom drama on an insurance coverage trial is like going to Taste of Chicago and stuffing yourself at the Burger King booth. It’s just a wasted opportunity.

Best Witness Examination

This one goes to Woody Allen for his inimitable examination of himself as a treason defendant in Bananas, replete with objections. ("I object your honor. This trial is a travesty. It's a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a mockery of a travesty of two mockeries of a sham. I move for a mistrial.")

Worst Theme Song

No contest. Rod Stewart’s “Love Touch” from Legal Eagles.

The inane lyrics make “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” sound like “Stairway to Heaven.”

The Honorable Dr. Gonzo
“What Were The Casting People Smoking?” Award

The nominees for most miscast actor portraying a young lawyer could be endless, from eighties brat-packer Judd Nelson in From the Hip to Risky Business call girl Rebecca De Mournay in Guilty as Sin.

The award here, though, must go to Keanu Reeves in The Devil’s Advocate.

I’ll buy that Keanu made the leap from the surfer dude he played in Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure (and about ten other movies) to action flicks like Speed and The Matrix after spending some time in the gym. But Keanu “whoa” Reeves as a killer litigator with a southern accent and national reputation for having never lost a jury trial?

What’s next, Stifler from American Pie in a remake of And Justice For All?

Best Intentionally Comedic Portrayal

Assuming Keanu’s Matlock turn wasn’t intended to be funny, the winner in this category will surely go to Phil Morris when his recurring Seinfeld character Jackie Chiles gets his own feature film. (“It’s lewd, lascivious, salacious, ... outrageous!”)

Until then, in a Cinderella victory over Jim Carrey in Liar, Liar and Michael Richards in Trial and Error, I’m giving Bill Murray’s criminally ignored performance in Wild Things the nod in this category.

You probably didn’t see this movie, and if you did, you might remember more about Denise Richards than Bill Murray. Either way, hats off to whoever recognized Murray’s “range” was not limited to playing ambitious assistant greenskeepers or irreverent military heroes. His performance as the neck-brace-wearing, storefront shyster in Wild Things is a welcome surprise in this otherwise uneven piece of pulp fiction.

Most Commendable Attempt To Make
A Transactional Practice Seem Film-Worthy

The drama of trial practice unavoidably makes for better theater than, say, a well-considered plan for corporate debt restructuring (although the latter often pays better).

Consequently, there’s always been a cruel irony in the fact that transactional lawyers often put together film deals, and yet Hollywood has given us precious few on-screen transactional lawyers whose practice was remotely interesting.

Sure, Robert Duvall is great as non-litigator Tom Hagen in The Godfather movies, but as we all remember, he had a special practice, he handled one client. Tom Hanks played a transactional lawyer in Philadelphia, but the movie quickly shifts to Denzel Washington's courtroom thundering against Hanks' former firm.

So the final award here, on sheer style points, goes to James Spader as Charlie Sheen's easily corruptible partner-in-crime in Wall Street. This is hardly one shining moment for the portrayal of any type of lawyer on film, but Spader's descent from jittery rookie to corner-office criminal ("what's in it for moi?") is inspired, instructive, and best of all, interesting.

And Finally, Best Portrayal Of “What It’s Really Like”

My winner here, barely edging out a stellar Paul Newman (circa. 1959) in The Young Philadelphians, is Tom Cruise in A Few Good Men.

Not convinced? Still hung up on the Nuremberg defense problem? Still focusing on the painfully trite banter between Cruise and Demi Moore during softball batting practice? All fair criticisms, but Premiere magazine lists the climactic “You Can’t Handle The Truth” examination of Jack Nicholson’s Colonel Nathan Jessep as one of the 100 best movie moments ever, and who could argue?

The Premiere article also makes the mistake of describing Cruise’s Lt. Kaffee as a “young hot shot lawyer,” and this misses the whole point.

Lt. Kaffee wasn’t a hot shot. He was young, inexperienced, and most importantly, known for not trying cases. The movie showed a young lawyer coming to grips with these realities. It showed mundane strategy sessions (“we’ll get the witness to admit it!”). It showed the challenge of controlling a hostile witness (“what do you want to talk about now, my favorite color?”). It showed the struggle between trusting one’s own instincts and the doubts brought on by inexperience. And then best of all, there was the glass of water.

As the voices inside his head are saying “abort mission,” and before he takes a chance and comes out a winner, Cruise walks over to counsel table and pours himself a glass of water. As he raises the glass to his mouth with a nervous, shaking hand, the scene manages to capture the simultaneous fears, doubts and joys of “what it’s really like” to be an assiduous new member of The Noble Profession.

And if Cruise had put down the glass, looked into the camera like Seinfeld’s Jackie Chiles, and said “delectable, delightful ...delicious,” this might have been the best movie ever made. I guess we’ll need to wait for the sequel.

That wraps up this year's awards. Now get back to work, March Madness is only weeks away.

Guest Blogger: Leslie Keiling

2006-03-03T22:25:00.000-08:00

Leslie Keiling is the traffic reporter on the Steve Cochran show and the John Williams show every weekday afternoon on WGN-Radio. Before landing at WGN, Leslie and I worked together twice; on Steve & Garry's show at WLUP AM 1000, and on The John Landecker Show on WJMK. In addition to Steve & Garry and Landecker, Leslie has worked with just about every major radio star in Chicago over the past...ahem...twenty years.

She also happens to be a very gifted (and funny) writer. She was kind enough to contribute this piece about her mother to the blog. I'm sure many of you will be able to relate...

Entertaining Helen
by Leslie Keiling

I can't believe it's been almost three years since my mom Helen moved in with my husband Tim, daughter Allyson and me. It was a long time coming--what with her vision problems, heart problems, hearing loss, hip replacement, scoliosis. Ok, you get the picture. Funny, the minute you start talking about the issues of the elderly, you can almost smell the mustiness, with just a faint touch of medicine chest and Tegrin for character. There is certainly nothing glamorous about shower chairs and pill cutters, pressure sores and ingrown hairs. Some might even find these topics a little nauseating. Go figure.

In response, Tim, Ally and I have learned not to focus too hard on the down and dirty day-to-day stuff. What happens in Grandma's bathroom, stays in Grandma's bathroom. That is, unless she decides to bring it up at dinner. To help avoid this, we've learned to steer mealtime conversations away from gateway topics like "skin," "digestion," or "legumes." You learn to adjust. You take the good with the bad, and you work around it.

However, there is one aspect of my mother's care that has affected the fabric of this family down to the finest fiber of it's being; and that's a little thing we refer to as "Grandma's Entertainment."

To call my mom's eyesight poor would be an understatement. Macular degeneration has left her with nothing more than a hint of peripheral vision, so that things like watching TV and reading books the old-fashioned way are out of the question. But necessity being the mother of invention and all, we didn't give up. And just by chance we happened upon a little miracle. While most TV is too difficult for Helen to follow--sounds and pictures swirling in a busy blur--things are somehow entirely different when we're talking about Chicago Cubs baseball.

For over 85 years, the woman has shared the dream of so many other unrequited lovers of those North Side boys of summer--a dream that still burns brightly deep within that congested little heart of hers. Based on my mom's fervent commitment and nearly crazed determination, not to mention plenty of trial and error on our part, we have found a way to keep the Cubs in her life.

The set up must be precise. Helen must be seated in a wingback chair with a small throw pillow centered on the back cushion. The chair must then be placed exactly three and a half feet from the 52-incher. As Helen is seated, a nearby radio tuner is then set to WGN. This is very important. Unfortunately, the play-by-play heard on the television is presented in an unacceptable sound range. However, the tonal blend of Pat Hughes and Ron Santo, along with the dancing shadows on a field of green, amazingly create the perfect confluence that brings the games into heavenly clarity for mom.

Did I mention that the sound has to be turned up loud? I mean really loud. Really, really loud. The kind of loud that makes the dog hide under the bed. It kind of hurts everyone's ears, but it's baseball. And it's only about 150 games per season. When you break it down, it's really not that much. There is still a lot of time in any given day, week or year when there is no baseball.

And this leads us to Helen's only other, yet much beloved, form of entertainment: Porno. Yep, porno, as in pornography. When there's no baseball, there's always porno. Oh, nothing so crass as films and photos. This is pornography wearing the disguise of contemporary literature, presented to the masses through "books on tape." God love books on tape. Mom's outlook on life did a 180 the day she realized that losing her sight didn't mean having to give up her books.

Many of the same titles she read over and over prior to her vision loss were still available to her on CD and cassette, read by fine actors and vocal artistes. The problem is that there is only one type of book--bound or recorded--that mom likes, and that is the Romance Novel. Specifically, a type of historical romance known to aficionados as "bodice rippers."

These stories, written by authors like Roberts, Lindsey and Garwood, are set in locations like the old west, English manors, and ships at sea, anywhere in time from the 1500's to the early 1900's. Yet, they all have one thing in common. Somewhere in the course of boy meeting girl, boy losing girl, and the ultimate promise of love everlasting, there are at a minimum, two or three hot, crazy, steamy explicit sexual encounters. And let me tell you, these folks don't hold back. We're talking pages of passages involving words like throbbing, taut, wet, lapping, riding, core, tumescence, and waves. Anyone care for a cigarette?

Now, we're all adults here. We've all read items of a mature nature. But generally speaking, these moments take place inside our heads. Even if your lips move when you read, subject matter like this stays inside your noggin. That is, unless you are enjoying the aforementioned passages as presented by books on tape. Imagine someone like Edward James Olmos sitting in your living room reading Penthouse Forum at the top of his lungs. Imagine Glenn Close belting out the closed captioning from any pornographic film you can think of. It's a whole lot of way-too-loud way-too-information served up by none other than my 91-year old mother.

Perhaps the oddest part of all is that Helen doesn't really seem to notice. She gets so blissfully lost in the book that it's hard for her to undertand how this might be perceived by those within earshot. Within earshot, by the way, includes anyone inside our house and anyone passing our house on a day when the windows are open.

You should have seen my neighbor's eyes bulge the day she was served up a heaping helping of bedroom gymnastics just because she chose the wrong time to head to the mailbox. Needless to say, we've spoken to Helen about the matter. I kindly explained that she might unwittingly be presenting inappropriate material to an unappreciative audience...or scarier still, an audience that enjoys it too much. I explained that broadcasting this sort of stuff can get you arrested, and that considering the volume involved, she's pretty close to achieving broadcast status. In theory she is in agreement. In everyday practice, however, she's not quite so clear. I remind her regularly, but can't bring myself to harp or browbeat.

Headphones? We've tried them, but even the lightest pair "squeeze my head like a vice," she says.

Not so long ago, my daughter brought over her boyfriend. As we spoke in the kitchen, a pair of characters in one of mom's books began an intimate interlude...a loud intimate interlude. As I dashed to the other room to intervene, Ally yelled out what has become her regular response to these occasions; "You know, I'm probably going to need therapy because of this."

Maybe. Or maybe she'll just look back and laugh.

That's Leslie in the middle of the guys from the John Landecker Morning Show. We used to recreate some of the scenes from her mother's romance novels on the air as a regular bit...until the program director told us to stop.

Leslie was there in the Dominican Republic as Bridget and I renewed our vows on our tenth anniversary in 2001. We did it live on the air. That's John Landecker on the left, and if you look closely, you can see my two oldest boys Tommy and Johnny too. They were crawling all over us during the ceremony. (Sean was born the next year.)

Guest Blogger: Bill Holub

2006-02-25T00:26:00.000-08:00

Bill Holub spent eighteen years laboring in the news department of WLUP Radio in Chicago. He wrote news for the likes of Buzz Kilman, Laura Witek, and Maggie Brock, and he hosted his own public affairs show on the station: "Chicago Street Talk." During his years at WLUP, he also introduced a young intern from his department to the producer of the Steve and Garry show. The couple was married a few years later. (Yes, I'm referring to Bridget and me, and yes that picture of Bill is from my wedding.) Bill has since left the radio business to pursue a career in computers.

Bill Holub is a huge baseball fan, and that's the reason I asked him to contribute to the blog. Every year at this time, when the pitchers and catchers started reporting to spring training, Bill would walk the hallways of WLUP saying...

THE SWEETEST WORDS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE
By Bill Holub

“Pitchers and catchers report”.

These are indeed the sweetest words in the English language. Friends have been hearing me recite this every year at this time. I once had an old poker playing friend who used to say the sweetest words have always been “I’ll play these”. This is the same friend who couldn’t win even when dealt a pat hand. That however is a story for another time and place, where an explanation of the relationship between the quantity of beer consumed, what the cards in your hand really look like and the amount of money you bet can be fully explored. It’s really something scientists should be looking at.

In the meantime, I apologize to all those who came here looking for a sentimental dialogue on romance. I’m sorry to say it but the sweetest words in the English language are not “I love you”. Now that I think of it, this may instead be a sentimental dialogue on romance and baseball.

It’s funny how the two always converge around Valentine’s Day. Spring fever is referred to as that time of year when things start to bloom as the weather changes and love is in the air. It is no coincidence that this is the same time the baseball season opens and brings hope to all of us diehard baseball romantics.

My love affair with baseball was re-ignited in 1987-88. There was only one place to catch baseball highlights from all over the major leagues back then. Once a week you could tune in to “This Week In Baseball” with good ol’ Mel Allen. During those two seasons I was hooked into witnessing two West Coast baseball Gods embodied in the forms of a young Mark Mcgwire and Jose Canseco. This is before anyone had ever heard of andro, anabolics and the other chemical cocktails that have since cast a pall over these two. Back then, I was treated week in and week out to mammoth sized home runs flying out of every ballpark in the country. The fact that these home runs were being hit by players wearing what my brother and I had always considered the coolest looking baseball uniforms in the world (the Oakland A’s green and gold) had me embracing the game I grew up on all over again.

By 1989 I was so hooked on this game I even started collecting baseball cards again, although as much as an investor as a fanboy. I also started another nasty habit that impacts my life to this day. That is when I started a fantasy baseball league with a bunch of guys at work. 1989 also happened to be a division winning season for my beloved Cubs, so I was in baseball heaven and haven’t looked back since.

THE NATIONAL PASTIME

I think we can honestly say that baseball is no longer the national pastime in this country. It has been supplanted by football. I can accept that. Although I would insist the true national pastime is gambling, which is the driving force that makes football the number one spectator sport in America. I suppose I could go off on a George Carlin type of rant here on the differences between football and baseball, but that’s not why I’m writing this piece.

I just want to point out there is one major difference between the two and that is commitment. I’m talking about the commitment between baseball fans and football fans. Football is a four month season requiring your undivided attention one day a week, or two if you’re both a college and pro fan. Baseball is a six month season requiring your undivided attention throughout with your favorite team(s) playing as many as five or more games a week.

Baseball is a commitment. I believe it carries as much of a commitment as love. They both require dedication and attention. They can both go awry despite the best laid plans. An early swan dive in the standings in May that ends a team’s season before it even had a chance can be just as painful as not having your phone calls returned after the second or third date. Meanwhile an October champagne shower celebrating a pennant or World Series championship is as sweet and memorable as a ‘yes’ to a question posed on one knee.

BASEBALL AND THE CINEMA

Once that warm baseball is back feeling starts sinking in every year, I like to get fully immersed by throwing myself into my favorite baseball movies before the games actually begin. This is my form of spring training.

You’ve got your “Bull Durham”, “Field Of Dreams”, “Major League” (only the first one, please), but there is one movie that hits me in the right spot. “City Slickers” is not a real baseball movie per se, but there’s one scene that remains among my all-time favorites. It’s where the three friends (Billy Crystal, Daniel Stern and Bruno Kirby) are on the cattle drive and passing the time by discussing their favorite baseball memories. Billy Crystal remembers the first time his father took him to Yankee Stadium as a kid and how he had never seen grass that green before. Mickey Mantle even hit a home run that day. Daniel Stern recalls how growing up he and his father never saw eye to eye, but they could always talk about baseball with each other. “We always had baseball” he says.

As for me, one of my earliest baseball memories was getting to take the day off of school with my brother because my Dad got opening day tickets to Wrigley Field. I still remember wearing our warmest winter coats and knit hats, waiting to sit down while the Andy Frain usher brushed the snow off our seats. They don’t make Aprils in Chicago like that any more.

THE SWEETEST SOUND

There is a sound that accompanies the words “pitchers and catchers report”. It is the sound of a ball popping into a mitt. The sound of a simple game of catch. It is more than the crack of a bat sound. The sound of a mitt popping brings the memories and feelings of a lifetime of baseball flooding your senses all at once. It happens every time, whether it’s major leaguers or just a game of catch with your dad or your kid. The week pitchers and catchers report there are no cracking bats, only popping mitts. The sweetest sound in the world. “Pitchers and catchers report”. The sweetest words in the English language.

Guest Blogger: Dobie Maxwell

2006-02-18T00:02:00.000-08:00

Dobie Maxwell is one of the most accomplished stand-up comedians working in America today. He'll be at Zanies in Chicago this week (Feb 21-26). I highly recommend his stand up act. I think I'm going to check it out again, if somebody wants to join me--drop me a line--we can go together. If you aren't in Chicago, keep a look out for his name. He plays in comedy clubs all over the country. (If you are in a town that has "The Bob & Tom Show," you've probably heard Dobie many times. He is a semi-regular guest on that show.)

I got to know Dobie when I was briefly consulting his radio show in Chicago. He was one of the Morning Loop Guys for a little more than a year. When the company that owned the station (WLUP) was sold, Dobie was fired along with the rest of the morning team.

Chicago Sun Times columnist Robert Feder described it this way in his Jan 14th 2005 column.

"In its farewell under Bonneville International, classic rock WLUP had its best book in more than a year. New owner Emmis Communications dumped "Loop Morning Guys" Dobie Maxwell, Max Bumgardner and Spike Manton just as they were showing solid growth."

Dobie responds: "Welcome to Showbusiness. That's just what happens sometimes. They blow out a morning show for no good reason, maybe just to give their friends a new job. That happens a lot in radio. So, Mr. Lucky gets it right up the asteroid. It was a great job, and working with Greg Solk, Max, Spike and Bruce Wolf, was working with true professionals in the biz."

Ahem, I'm sure he also meant to include my name in that quote.

One of his signature bits on that show was called the "60 Second Soapbox", a rant about the subject of the day.

I asked him to write one for President's Day, and this is what he sent me.

60 Second Soapbox: Presi-dense Day
by Dobie Maxwell

Brothers and sisters, misses and misters, flag wavers and time savers - thanks for taking time out to read my random ramblings. Before I expound any further on said topic, first let me say that I am a proud American. I love my country warts and all and I love to do American things.

I eat hot dogs, even though I know what's really in them. I vote whatever Tuesday they tell me to show up. Whenever I can I outsource jobs to countries whose names I can't even pronounce.

I wouldn't live anywhere else in the world if they paid me, except of course if I could be a judge when they pick the Swedish Bikini Team. I love the U.S. of A. and that's no B.S. All that being said, I think that President's Day in it's current form is totally useless and needs to be chopped down like George Washington's infamous cherry tree. I cannot tell a lie either, it's STUPID.

Every year I get my cheapo calendar from my insurance agent with the bad toupee and every year I flip through it to see how many Friday the 13ths there are or if there are any sexy pictures of hot babes who've been in car accidents the previous year. There never are and like a BAD neighbor, it annoys the hell out of me. I also check to see when the holidays are and inevitably there is always a Monday set aside for President's Day. I seem to remember as a kid that both Lincoln and Washington's birthday were both around the same time in February and were each a separate event but someone must have stuck a feather in them both and called it macaroni.

I always thought being President of The United States was something to shoot for, but evidently it's only something to shoot AT. Old Honest Abe took a bullet for our land and he gets his birthday clumped in with a guy with wooden teeth and some furniture and bed sheet sales. That's not a very good way to pay tribute to Mr. Stovepipe hat, even if we did put him on TWO pieces of our money. $5.01 is NOT payment enough for such a major disrespect.

George Washington got a raw deal too. Here is a guy who did it FIRST, and had to go through life with a hairdo that looks like Buckwheat walked home in a blizzard and he doesn't even get his props, even though he got two pieces of currency too. A buck and a quarter doesn't cut it.

But what about all the other esteemed leaders of our land? They don't get even one iota of love on this meaningless 'holiday'. When was the last time a Rutherford B. Hayes question was on a final exam to qualify for citizenship? Is there a Chester A. Arthur Memorial in Washington D.C.? How about ANYWHERE? Presidents are like Super Bowls, there aren't that many of them and they are supposed to be special but most of them usually fall far short of expectations.

I am usually reminded it's President's Day when I go to the bank on a random Monday and am caught off guard when the door is locked as I try to beat the rubber checks I wrote over the past weekend to the teller's window. I then curse and swear and try to calculate how much in fees it will cost me for the bounced checks, and never ONCE do I take time to honor our esteemed and long dead forefathers of freedom.

I think rather than close banks and post offices and make everyone angry and inconvenienced, I say we have a national trivia contest to learn the facts about ALL our former presidents, not just George and Abe. That way if we know about the past we can maybe do a little better when electing them in the future. We should know what Nixon's favorite wrestling hold was or if Harry Truman could do a cart wheel or if Jimmy Carter had webbed feet. There have to be all kinds of random bits of information that slipped through the historical cracks over the years. I think we as Americans have a right to know. What kind of booze did Ulysses S. Grant like the best? Did Thomas Jefferson play Yahtzee? And just how big WAS that stick Teddy Roosevelt carried?

The prizes could be a year off paying tax or free unlimited postage for a year. The government is already broke so this little perk wouldn't make it any worse. This way we'd all look FORWARD to President's Day and wouldn't be so stupid when it comes to actually knowing anything about who's in charge and ultimately makes decisions that affect all of us. I don't know about you, but this seems like a great idea to me. I'm sure it will seem even greater when I stupidly go to the bank on that Monday like I usually do, even though I wrote this article and it should serve as a warning. I may be too stupid to heed the warning but there is still hope for you. Good luck!

I'm Dobie Maxwell, proud American. And THAT is all the people need to know.

Dobie teaches a stand up comedy class at Zanies. This is the book he wrote for that class.

Dobie has one CD out and is in the process of putting out another one. Check out his website: www.dobie.com

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland 2

2006-02-12T00:02:00.000-08:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue.

She is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. And she dresses nicer. But other than that...

Education Mom
by Kim Strickland

When I go to the grocery store, I generally try to mind my own business. I try to shop in the most Zen-minded state possible, and I was doing a pretty good job of staying in my happy place at Jewel the other day, until I saw her. I could spot her from across the produce section. Not anyone I know, but I do indeed know her. In fact, I’ll bet you know her too.

Education Mom.

More cloying than Craft Mom, more insidious than Volunteer Mom, Education Mom is there wheeling her cart through the carrots and peppers, and I need peppers, so it looks like I have no choice. I’ll have to get close. Close enough to hear.
Okay. Breathe, I tell myself. Be Zen. Be positive. Hey, maybe you’ll even learn something. I look at the glazed expression plastered onto the face of the helpless two-year old restrained in Education Mom’s cart. Maybe not.

I swallow and guide my cart slowly over. I lean over the peppers. It’s her all right. All smiles. Talking and talking. And talking and talking. And talking. Using that sing-songy voice, educating the little prisoner.

“Look Emily, here’s a cucumber. Cucumbers are green. Can you say green?”

“Emily! Here’s a tomato. Tomatoes are red. Red!”

“Look Emily, here’s a psychotic-eyed blonde woman hitting mommy upside the head with a bag of carrots. Carrots are or—” Thwump.

So much for my Zen-minded shopping experience. I watch Education Mom slump to the floor.

Okay, I behaved badly, but what I want to know is, since when did absolutely everything in a child’s life have to be about education? Maybe it happened when Harvard raised its admissions standards, I don’t know, but you can count me out. I want to raise happy children. Children that can entertain themselves in, and absorb, the world around them for themselves. Children comfortable with silence. But mostly just children that will not turn sixteen and try to kill me in my sleep.

My lackadaisical attitude toward education in the grocery store might have something to do with the fact I have twins. When they were babies, I had to carry one in a backpack and the other in the shopping cart while racing through the store accumulating a weeks worth of groceries and diapers before one of them started crying or my back went out.

The terrible twos were even worse. I had to be faster. These were the years of unbidden, often embarrassing, items in the cart—I honestly don’t know, Mr. Cashier Person, how eight boxes of Preparation H got in here.

In those days, telling my boys that cucumbers are green and tomatoes are red seemed a lesson best saved for another day. I didn’t have the energy to begin grooming them for the Ivy League in utero and I didn’t have the time once they were born. By then, I was too busy celebrating each day that went by without a casualty. And it was even more cause for celebration if my children escaped unscathed as well.

I didn’t spend hours waving back and white toys back and forth at my babies, but I do have two well-adjusted boys on my hands now. They’re smart. They’re doing well in school. They play well together. And they don’t need constant entertainment from me.

God gave me twins for a reason. To save me from ever becoming Education Mom. Perhaps if I were alone in the produce section with little Emily, I might be pruning her for Harvard as well as picking the perfect bunch of arugula. And maybe that’s the basis for my irritation with Education Mom; she reminds me that no matter how much I do for my kids, there’s always someone out there who will make me feel like I should be doing more.

It doesn’t change my opinion, however, that life should mostly just be life—not a constant opportunity for learning or academic advancement. When we got our dog, I had an Education Mom lay into me, saying five-year olds aren’t responsible enough to take care of a puppy. She seemed genuinely shocked when I told her getting the dog wasn’t about teaching my children responsibility. It was about having a dog.

I think all Education Moms must mean well. After all, who doesn’t want the best for their children? For them to excel, for them to fulfill all their dreams, be all they can be. Perhaps my kids’ only way into Harvard will to buy it with their inheritance—the one they get after turning sixteen and killing me in my sleep—because, instead of being a good Education Mom, I was Lackadaisical Grocery Store Mom, and now they can’t get into the college of their choice.

Even so, I guess I can find it in my heart to tolerate Education Mom. She’s only trying to do what she thinks is best. But if you’re ever in the produce section and see a psychotic-eyed blonde woman glaring at you with a bag carrots in her hands, watch out.

Guest Blogger: John Moran

2006-02-11T00:03:00.000-08:00

John Moran is a divorced father of three who lives in Tucson, AZ and shares custody of his three boys. The coffee mug above is his actual coffee mug. He got divorced a few years ago, and the only thing he got in the divorce settlement was the mini-van. Needless to say, this purple mini-van isn't exactly a chick magnet.

I asked him to guest blog about his experiences as a divorced father re-entering the dating world, because I thought some of you would be able to relate to his experiences, and because I was confident the smarty-pants would be able to do it in a way that was entertaining to all of us. Happy Valentine's weekend!

Divorced and Dating in 2006....with 3 kids

By John Moran

I laughed when I read Rick’s latest blog; "The 70s are Back!" Looking around/distracted at church has been a habit of mine since about 8th grade. In high school I occasionally attended Mass with my friend, Bob Brady. We weren’t there for the religious uplifting. We were there to check out the crowd for high school girls.

Years have passed, yet I still find myself looking around at church. Okay--stop right there. I’m looking around for women who are noticeably without a male companion. I’m a divorced Dad of three boys so most venues are opportunities for looking around.

Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like I try to pick up women at church. I don’t follow them to the parking lot and say, "Hey, I noticed that you took the wine at Communion, would you like to meet for a glass of wine some time?" Although, now that I think about it, that’s not bad –I may use that some time.

Shortly after my divorce I figured I needed to get rid of one thing that was sure to be an obstacle in my dating. I needed to ditch the light Iris (okay, purple) minivan that I got as part of the divorce agreement. As Rick has pointed out in previous Suburban Man articles there are very few cool things about a man driving a minivan. I can’t imagine a woman being overly impressed with the light Iris minivan even if it did have eight cupholders.

Finding people to date hasn't been as big of a problem as I feared. Most of my friends are married with children, but almost every one of them has a friend that is divorced. This has been a very useful source. Actually, if you must know, divorced dating is very much like dating in high school. You make dates through your friends.

Conversations (mostly with wives of married friends) go something like this:

Lisa : "I have this friend. She’s divorced too. I can see if she is seeing anyone."

Me: "Sure, see if she’s interested."

Lisa: "I’ll call her tomorrow, then call you."

Me: "Sure."

Lisa, laughing: "She has three kids too. You’d be like the Brady Bunch."

(That was the first of many times that I would hear the Brady Bunch reference. It was funny the first time, but just plain annoying every other time after that. By the way, what ever happened to the first Mrs Brady?)

The next day Lisa called to say she felt like she was in high school, playing the go-between: Do you like him like him or just like him. The only difference was that she didn't have to pass a note in class. (Brings back memories, doesn't it?)

This time Lisa had good news. She told me that yes, her friend knows me -–because my son Jack played soccer on her son's team--and yes she'll go out with me.

Instead of being excited at first, I was concerned that I didn't remember this woman. If I didn't notice her at the soccer games, then how much did I really want to go out with her? That's when I remembered one important fact. My radar was down when Jack played soccer. I was still married then.

Bring it on.

Inevitably, I mostly end up dating women that are divorced and have children. I feel safer with a woman that can recite the next line to.. "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?"

My sons, to their credit, take my dating in stride. I try to seperate my family life from my dating life as much as I can, but there is the occasional overlap.

Last weekend, Jack, Luke and I ran into my current girlfriend, Jennifer, at the local coffee shop. The boys have had some interaction with Jennifer, who happens to have a son at the boy’s school. We sat and chatted over chocolate milk, orange juice and a baguette. As I got up to leave I leaned in and kissed Jennifer. It was a quick little peck, barely noticeable in the crowded coffee shop...except to Jack .

As soon as we got outside, Jack laid into me, "Dad, why did you kiss Jennifer?"
"That’s nasty."

John's boys, overlooking the Grand Canyon. John can’t wait for Little League baseball season to start so he can work the snack bar.

This is John hitting his 18th hole approach shot at Oakmont Country Club last year. He's playing a game called "Golf" that in his part of the country can be played in months other than June, July and August.

Guest Blogger: Bob Dearborn

2006-02-04T00:05:00.000-08:00

Bob Dearborn was one of the most popular disc jockeys in Chicago in the early to mid 70s during his stint at WCFL-AM. In his more than 40 years in radio, 16 of them have been in Chicago where he's also been heard on WIND-AM, WFYR-FM, WJJD-AM and WJMK-FM. He's been a program host (locally and nationally), writer, producer, syndicator, music director, program director, group program director, programming consultant, general manager and just about everything else in radio, including station owner. In those various roles, Bob was priveledged to interview most of the all-time rock and roll greats, including my hero John Lennon. One day, we'll pin him down to do another guest blog about some of those memories.

Bob's real claim to fame, however, was his outstanding analysis of the Don McLean megahit "American Pie." At the end of this guest blog, he has been gracious enough to give us a link to that analysis. If you've ever wondered about the meaning of that song (since McLean himself has always refused to explain it), I highly recommend you check it out.

I asked Bob to guest blog about the topic of that song. The ill-fated plane crash of Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens occured 47 years ago yesterday. The following is about what that day meant to him...

The Day the Music Died
By Bob Dearborn

Some dates – December 7, 1941; November 22, 1963; August 16, 1977; September 11, 2001 – remain as indelible in our minds as our memory of the shocking events that took place on those dates.

We have just marked the anniversary of another stunning tragedy, one not as big as those others but an important milestone for many people of my generation and, to be sure, for me personally: 47 years ago, three popular young music stars perished on what came to be called a dozen years later, “The Day The Music Died.”

In the very early hours of February 3, 1959, a small plane chartered after a concert in Clear Lake, Iowa, crashed shortly after takeoff leaving all four on board dead: the pilot, singer Ritchie Valens (‘La Bamba,’ ‘Donna’), J.P. Richardson who performed under the name, "The Big Bopper” (‘Chantilly Lace’), and Charles Hardin Holley, known by millions of his fans the world over as Buddy Holly.

I had seen death before, close up, although the earlier experience for me was more curious than catastrophic, more surreal than sad. Oh, I liked my grandparents, all right, but I was 10 and 11 years of age when they died and I hadn't developed enough yet intellectually or emotionally to really understand or feel an impact of their passing.

Of course, two years later, I was much more mature, and starting to realize all kinds of important things. What a revelation it was to discover that music could be about more than the beat, that movies and TV shows could be more than shoot ‘em ups and car chases, that the sudden loss and finality of death could be devastatingly sad.

The first time I was really moved by the passing of someone I cared about was when Buddy Holly died – somebody I “knew” only from his music, his hit records, his appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show.”

I couldn't have guessed it at the time that his music would have a great influence on future generations of musicians and songwriters, including the young, not-yet-famous Beatles and Rolling Stones. I just knew I liked it. From “Peggy Sue” and “That'll Be The Day” through everything that followed, I was first a fan of his music.

He changed the style of rock ‘n’ roll music by altering the chorus and verse pattern of contemporary song composition. He popularized the four-man group configuration. Buddy was the one who advised Elvis to get a drummer (to join Scotty and Bill in Elvis’ backup band). He was the first rock ‘n’ roll singer to use violins, a whole string section, on his records (‘It Doesn't Matter Anymore’). For a man who enjoyed fame for only the last year and a half of his young life, he made the most of it. Leaving his fingerprints all over contemporary music, his influence has been felt and his popularity has sustained for almost 50 years.

It was more than the music for me, however. In an era of pretty-boy teenage idols ruling the music charts, here was this young Texan who was kinda … geeky. He wore horn-rimmed glasses on his face and his emotions on his sleeve for all to see and hear – from the youthful pedal-to-the-metal exuberance of songs like “Rave On” and “Oh, Boy!” to the playful intimacy of a song like “Heartbeat.”

This guy was not only different and good, he was the first rock ‘n’ roll star that I could relate to, since I was a gawky, sensitive, geeky kid with black, horn-rimmed glasses, too! Buddy Holly’s acclaim and success confirmed that it was okay to be and look that way, that I was okay. He was MY hero. And his death was a crushing blow.

Ritchie, the Bopper and Buddy were the first popular music/rock ‘n’ roll heroes to die suddenly, shockingly at a young age. Theirs are the first names on a list that we review with heartache for its scope and length: Eddie, Johnny and Jesse … Patsy, Gentleman Jim … Sam, Otis and Frankie … Janis, Jim, Jimi, Ronnie and Duane … Jim, Rick, Karen, John, Harry … Marvin and Stevie Ray. Elvis. John.

Each time the bell has tolled, we've been stunned to learn of the loss of another hero, another artist who touched us with their music, a person we never met but who was so much a part of our lives that we viewed them as friends. And, too, with each passage, we've felt the loss of yet another important touchstone of our youth.

For me that all started with Buddy Holly. I was changed by his presence while he was alive, profoundly moved by his untimely death, always transformed by his music. And touched yet again by all of that in late 1971 when I first heard Don McLean’s brilliant composition, “American Pie.” Masterpiece is not a big enough word to describe that recording.

The song’s story begins with Buddy Holly’s death … as felt and told by one of his great fans, Don McLean. The clever metaphors of American Pie’s lyrics, then as now, leave many people confused, unable to understand what the song is about. Don and I are the same age, we lived through the same music era with similar reactions to all the changes that occurred, and we were, first and foremost, big Buddy Holly fans. I knew immediately what Don was saying in that song.

Where did all this lead? I invite you to click on the link below that'll take you to a Web site that Jeff Roteman created in tribute to my analysis of American Pie. I hope you enjoy “the rest of the story” at this site, that it helps you appreciate what a wonderful piece of work American Pie is, that it makes you want to know more about Buddy Holly and his music, and that you find the experience a fitting observation for the 47th anniversary of “The Day The Music Died.”

Bob's Full "American Pie" analysis can be found right here: http://bobdearbornamericanpie.cjb.net/

Guest Blogger: Kim Strickland

2006-01-28T00:39:00.000-08:00

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue.

Kim has also been a pal for more than twenty years and was kind enough to agree when I asked her to contribute a guest blog.

City Mom

by Kim Strickland

When Rick asked me to be a guest columnist on his blog, I agreed without hesitation. However, when the time came to actually start writing, I sort of freaked out. I have to write a column? Containing my opinion? About anything? What was I thinking?

I didn’t have any idea of what I would say. Then again, I am the same woman who wrote a 350-page novel. Having something to say, for me, is generally not a problem.

So, I checked out Rick’s blog for inspiration. Good stuff. My favorite bit is Suburban Man. From the safety of the 773 area code, I read about Rick’s suburban trials and tribulations with a smug, self-satisfied smile on my face.

You see, I am City Mom.

Ha ha, I laughed, as Rick lamented his minivan. Ha ha—those suburban stoplights sure are long. Ha ha, Rick got caught rocking-out to some cranked-up AC/DC. Ha-h—

Wait a minute. Could I be envious? Of the stereo in a minivan?

I think about the sound system in our Jeep and— Whoops. I admitted to the Jeep. Now I’ve done it. I’ve admitted to committing the biggest urban parent, City-Mom cop-out: buying an SUV. A minivan in denial.

But I need the Jeep, I tell myself. I need a vehicle large enough to transport the kids (I have two) and the dog (I have one) and all the giant rafts of paper products I need to buy at Costco. And have you ever tried to navigate a Chicago alley in January without four-wheel drive?

Before the kids were born, my husband suggested we get a station wagon. I pretended to be considering it, until a vision of my parents’ blue Grand Torino floated into my head, with a visible shudder. Next suggestion? Minivan, he says. (He’s always been the sensible one.)

Now the shudder transitions to full-blown seizure.

No. No minivans! I am City Mom. City Mom’s are cool. We wear low-rise bell-bottoms. We eat sushi. We don’t drive minivans!

Being cool. That’s what it all boils down to. I can give all sorts of reasons why we chose (Okay, I chose, my husband agreed) to stay in the city. And those may be fodder for another guest blog, if Rick is ever gracious enough to invite me back after all the vitriolic comments I’ll probably receive regarding my disregard, however tongue in cheek, for motherhood in the suburbs. And before any suburban moms write those vitriolic comments filled with examples of their coolness, you should know that I’m not terribly serious about any of this, but, that being said, I am fully capable of driving my Jeep out to any suburb to investigate rumors of suburban fashion sense progressing past 1995. Oh, kidding again. Some of my best friends live in the suburbs. They even wear black.

I love the city and I really, really wanted to raise my children here, but I was surprised at the opposition I faced. Friends and family demanded answers to yet another one of Kimmy’s crazy ideas: Have you thought about schools? What about gangs? How about all crime? I told them my husband and I had lived in the city for eight years and had so far resisted the urge to join a gang, and we’d never once committed a crime. (I don’t think that one incident with the parking ticket and street-cleaning truck should count.)

Perhaps more than anything else, my stubborn nature is what made me refuse to let go of the idea of living in the city with children. “Kids need the suburbs,” I was told. Yeah right. Just like I need my Jeep.

The real reason I love city living is not the restaurants and the museums or the ability to hop in a cab after too much wine at a girlfriend’s house, although I do love all of the above, the real reason is simple. I think it’s cool to live here.

So as I read about Rick, our hero, Suburban Man, perhaps the smile on my face shouldn’t have been so smug. I laughed with him in his embarrassment at being caught rocking-out to AC/DC at a stoplight, but doesn’t my Jeep have a Grateful Dead sticker on the back?

Perhaps the only difference, other than the obvious one of gender, between Suburban Man and City Mom is the area code. In terms of the quantity of Skittles squished between the cushions of the back seat of his minivan and my Jeep, in terms of petrified french fries under the floor mats, Rick and I are equal. Maybe it’s time we passed on the “baton of cool” to the next generation, to generation Z, or whatever they like to call themselves these days. I really don’t know. That’s how uncool I’ve become. But when I pass on the baton, you can rest-assured, I’ll be wearing my low-rise bell-bottoms and handing it out the window of my SUV.

Rick Responds: Kim used a word in her piece that I had to look up. "Fashion" apparently refers to something that is in style--usually clothing.

Guest Blogger: John Records Landecker

2006-01-21T16:26:00.000-08:00

John Records Landecker is one of the most recognizable names in Chicago radio history, and a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In the 1970s, he was named the best radio personality in the country by Billboard Magazine. You may remember him from his stints at WLS-AM 890, WLUP FM-97.9, WCKG FM 105.9, and WJMK FM 104.3. He also worked at classic radio stations WIBG in Philadelphia, and CFTR in Toronto, and in television as the movie critic on "Chicago Tonight" on WTTW. Records is his actual middle name--it says so on his birth certificate. It was his mother's maiden name.

I asked John to contribute to the blog today because it is Wolfman Jack's birthday. It takes a radio legend to explain another radio legend.

Happy Birthday Wolfman Jack
by John Records Landecker

Can you hear the party goin’ on in heaven? I believe The Wolfman walked up to God and said, “It’s all about your boogaloo situation, ya understand.” God said: “Have mercy.” Wolf said, “Hey, you stealin’ my material?”

I am not going to give you a history lesson on Wolfman Jack. Lets just say that from the early 1960’s until his passing, Wolfman Jack was the most unique personality in the history of rock ‘n’ roll radio. Not only legendary, but in fact the legend itself, howling into the night on the most powerful radio station on the planet. He was a mystery in the dark. It was wild. As a kid, filmmaker George Lucas tuned in from southern California. When he made the movie “American Graffiti” he cast The Wolfman as a rock ‘n’ roll DJ. The film was a huge success and Wolf was part of it. For eight years in the 1970’s he hosted one of television’s first rock shows: THE MIDNIGHT SPECIAL. This is where I come in.

Throughout the 70’s I worked as a nighttime rock jock on a big station in Chicago. I ran into the Wolfman three times. Bob Sirott, who was on the air in the afternoon, told me he saw an ad that said Wolf was making an appearance at some bar/nightclub near O’Hare airport. Bob suggested we go. The Wolfman was great. We all ended up in some hotel suite after the show with about 100 other people and had a few drinks, few laughs, and went home.

Run in number two. I was a doing radio station promotion at Great America. For some reason Wolfman was there too. We bumped in to each other but really did not have time to talk….

Saving the best for last. I don’t know how he did this but Bob Sirott got The Wolfman to fill in for him when he went on vacation. My hobby was shooting super 8 mm movies. I filmed The Wolfman from just about every possible angle. Climbing on the console, lying on the floor, you name it. I spent four hours with the Wolfman while he did a show (by the way the movie turned out great if I do say so myself). What was it like? Well The Wolfman was the first radio personality I ever saw with an entourage. I have no idea who these people were, but they were in the studio the entire time.

Wolf and I shared a common bond. As nighttime rockers we hated a lot of the lame music that AM radio played. The program director and I had many an animated discussion on this very topic. The Wolfman had been on the air less than an hour when he decided our playlist was crap. This is not what THE WOLFMAN PLAYS. After a few tunes of his own selection, Wolf was visited in the studio by the program director. At the time I was filming from the control room into the studio through a glass window. Radio people get a big kick out of this scene. EVEN THE WOLFMAN HAD TO PUT UP WITH THIS! At any rate Wolfman did the show and then for my benefit led a conga line out of the studio and into the hallway as the O’Jays sang “Love Train.”

You know how in stories like the Lone Ranger, the masked man leaves a silver bullet to remember him by? I followed Wolfman on the air that night. About an hour into my show I noticed an open pack of Kool cigarettes lying off to the side. Fantastic, I thought, Wolfman left his smokes. What a riot. I picked up the pack and looked inside. I think this is where I am going to stop.

Lets just say that after I got off the air I was totally into my boogaloo situation…HAVE MERCY!!!!!

Rick's Notes: I was John's executive producer for ten years at WJMK (1993-2003), and it was a pleasure working with him. John can still be heard on the radio in Chicago on WLS-AM 890. He lives in Indiana with his wife Laura and their beloved pooches.

This is the WJMK morning show circa 1993. Clockwise from top left: Board operator Lonnie Martin, Executive Producer Rick Kaempfer, Traffic Reporter/Co-Host Vicki Truax, Newsman Richard Cantu.

This is the WJMK morning show circa 2001. From left: Rick Kaempfer, John Landecker, Co-Host Leslie Keiling, Newscaster Richard Cantu, and technical producer Vince Argento.

Guest Blogger: Spike Manton

2006-01-21T15:57:00.000-08:00

Spike Manton is a stand up comedian, a sports radio host (formerly of "The Spike & Harry Show" on AM 1000 in Chicago), a radio sidekick/comedian (formerly with "The Steve Dahl Show" on WCKG), a radio host (formerly co-host of "The Morning Loop Guys" on WLUP), and a playwright (co-writer of the award-winning play "Leaving Iowa"). For more info about his play, check out www.leavingiowa.com

He's also a big Bears fan. But I'll let him tell you the rest of the story...

"Defending the Couchfan"

I am absolutely out of my head excited about the Bears game this weekend. My 9 year old son, Mickey, and my 7 year old daughter Samantha have been making plans all week about the game. Alright, mostly Mickey, but we’re bringing Samantha along as fast as we can. We are Bears fans in our house. At least, I thought we were.

But according to conversations I had and overheard ad nauseum this week, I am not actually a Bears fan at all because I won’t be at the game. This is a sentiment that seems to rear its misdirected head whenever the “Big Game” is upon us. It is a time when true fandom is only measured by how much you have paid for your seat, or how naked you are willing to be in 10 degree weather. Now, I’m not attacking the faithful that go to the game. Well, yes I am. But, I consider it more of a counterattack, a defensive assault on behalf of everyone rational, passionate Bears fan who might enjoy the camaraderie of his family and friends at room temperature, with $6 six packs instead of $6 beers and a padded recliner over near-concrete, frozen ass holders.

Allow me to tell you loud and clear, I will be on my couch, wearing a shirt (in spite of the balmy 70 degree temperature in my living room) watching the Bears game the only way you really can watch any football game – ON TV! I’ll be home, cultivating two future Bears’ fans, cheering, yelling and thoroughly enjoying the game in the comfort of my own home.

Now if you are simple enough to attack my preference for watching on TV, let me make some brutally obvious points that standing shirtless in 10 degree temperatures have left too many incapable of grasping. I see the game and you don’t. I can’t tell you how many times I get calls from friends on the way home from a game asking me “what happened on that play?” I tell them of course, because I was able to hear, watch and absorb every second of the action while they were trying to find a bathroom and a beverage. I would personally be too embarrassed as a “real fan” to call a lowly TV viewer for information. On the other hand, you might ask, if I actually saw more of the game, then who is the real fan?

Beyond all the logic and contradictions is the most unmistakable point. We, the TV people, have completely changed the game you are watching in your overpriced, not near a bathroom seat. We see the game so well on TV, that instant replay is now football law. After 30 years of yelling at the TV, “If I can see that, why can’t you?” the NFL caught on and made it the rule. I enjoy replay challenges more than anyone I know, because it is like a 2 minute jury verdict every time, where the official comes to midfield and says, “Again, we thank TV viewers for finally sharing with us their superior view of the game – thanks”

If you are one of the chosen who attend games, but don’t actually think you are the chosen ones, then I wish I could buy you that first overpriced beverage. But I won’t be there to do that, so I’ll make this offer. Call me after the game if you need to know what happened.

Guest Blogger: Dave Stern

2006-01-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

Dave Stern*

A few weeks ago, Dave and his wife Michelle welcomed the arrival of twin girls; Julia and Ehren. Mother and daughters are healthy. Dave, on the other hand, is asking that any attorneys out there help him draw up the divorce papers for when his wife reads this heartwarming column…

What About Us

Have you ever had a situation where you knew you were going to be misunderstood even before you uttered a single word? Even though there was no doubt in your mind that you would spend the rest of the evening, week or even your life trying to explain what you had really meant to the offended parties yet you foolishly continued? Where there was the overwhelming possibility that you would be labeled “petty” and “small” but that didn’t stop you from speaking your mind? Well there is no need for me to be put in that awkward position so if you’re a woman please stop reading and go watch Oprah or something.

Wow, even I didn’t see that one coming.

So here it goes. Let’s start by saying that the birth of my children has been the greatest experience of my life. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without the joy of fatherhood. I won’t bore you with the typical weepy Alan Alda esque stuff but you get the picture.

Yet it can be very hard and grueling. Any father knows that it can be the most tiring and exhaustive endeavor one can undertake. Walking around in a sleep-deprived haze is the M.O. of today’s father. Yet selflessly we continue on and do the best we can. The rewards almost always outweigh the pain and we carry on. And that’s just during labor.

First off, it often starts in the middle of the night. Even though most men are already pretty tired by the end of the pregnancy (since their wives have been keeping them up with their incessant restlessness for the last 4 weeks or so) it still would be nice if started at a decent hour.

Second, most hospitals have lousy (and expensive) parking. Why do all the doctors get the good spaces? Mark our words you’ll park in section ZZ, which incidentally is a cruel reminder of what you wish you were doing. The hike from the car wouldn’t be so bad if you didn’t have to bring the not yet born child’s wardrobe for the next 4 years.

Thirdly, it’s really bright in those delivery rooms. Quite frankly it made both of us nauseous. Maybe there wouldn’t be such a health care crisis if hospitals were a little more frugal when it comes to electricity. The high-pitched hum form those fluorescent lights ain’t no picnic either.

Fourthly, you are constantly tempted to turn on the delivery room television yet you know you can’t. It’s widely accepted that the onset of labor is related to the phases of the moon, but I think it’s related to really really important sporting events. In fact, one of my friends had a delivery room with TIVO. Now that’s friggin cruel.

Fifthly, especially if it’s your first, it can take an unbelievably long time. And get this - you’re standing for much of it. Thankfully you get a break every five hours so you can go to the vending machine and enjoy a couple of packs of those peanut butter crackers.

And finally, when you call your family and friends after the labor they always ask, “How’s momma and baby doing”. Would it kill them to ask how Dad is doing? Something like, “Gosh 23 hours, you must be really tired” sure would go a long way. A late arriving sports score wouldn’t be unappreciated either.

So send the emails, leave the voicemails and mail the letters. I’m ready for the criticism that will undoubtedly blitzkrieg my way. (Although remember, this is Rick’s blog, not mine). I’ll just utter those four wonderful words that absolves us poor shlubs from all wrong doing.

“I was just kidding.”

Seriously I was joking.

No really, I was just having some fun..

Umm……I’m really really sorry.

*Dave is the co-author of the upcoming book “The Bald Handbook,” and is also one of the co-owners of A.M.I.S.H Chicago Advertising www.amishchicago.com . Here is a more complete bio…scroll down the page after you hit this link. A.M.I.S.H staff bios