the piano has been drinking

This afternoon on the 4 train I finished reading Charles Bukowski’s The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps, a collection of his later poems. It failed to impress, but only cuz I’ve read enough of his prose to know what I was in for (i.e. the same old themes, this time cut up into stanzas and disguised as poetry).

To be clear, I'm not launching a polemical assault on ol’ Buk. The man knows how to write, and he’s most always—to quote Modest Mouse—a “pretty good read.” I'm hard-pressed to name a writer more approachable on a minimal, guttoral level; Buk chronicles his own failed, depraved existence with humor and self-flagellating earnestness, a rare feat. Joes from all over encounter his poems and adopt the “if that old pervert can do it, I can do it too!” credo, and why not? Buk’s just like them! We’ve all met a prospective Bukowski or two, it's just most of ’em don’t take time away from their leering and their farts to write it all down. What’s to hate about a writer who drinks mammoth amounts of beer, lives out a paycheck-to-paycheck existence and, when he does write, mercifully refrains from Updiking you with his muscular vocabulary?

He's not out to fool anybody. You know what you’re getting into when you pick up a Bukowski. There's no aces up the sleeve.

But.

Back to the book in question. Near the end—the last forty pages or so—I tired of the poetry of Mr. Buk. I’ve always figured that If you’ve read one Buk, you’ve read them all. Booze, women, whores, horses, Los Angeles, stained sheets, Mahler, etc., etc. Repeat. I know the formula, but that didn’t stop me from breaking out the whine (no pun intended…ha!) today on the train: "C’mon, Buk, shake it up a bit!"

But then ol’ Buk came thru in the clutch! Yanked up the rug and sent me flying on my ass. He closed the collection with this poem, a dandy, in response to my gripe:

wine pulse

this is another poem about 2 a.m. and I’m still at the
machine listening to the radio and smoking a good
cigar.
hell, I don’t know, sometimes I feel just like Van Gogh or
Faulkner or,
say, Stravinsky, as I sip wine and type
and smoke and there’s no magic as gentle as this.
some critics say I write the same things over and over.
well, sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t, but when I do the
reason is that it feels so right, it’s like making love and
if you knew how good it felt you would forgive me
because we both know how fickle happiness can be.
so I play the fool and say again that
it’s 2 a.m.
and that I am
Cezanne
Chopin
Celine
Chinaski
embracing everything:
the sweet of cigar smoke
another glass of wine
the beautiful young girls
the criminals and the killers
the lonely mad
the factory workers,
this machine here,
the radio playing,
I repeat it all again
and I’ll repeat it all forever
until the magic that happens to me
happens to you.
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a life in sports, part two

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So much for chronology. I’ve forgotten a few.

2.5) Golf—the kilted feller who dreamed up this clownish pastime was a masochist of the highest order, a sick jokester. I wouldn’t wish golf on my worst enemy. Most of the golfing populace—myself included—doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing out there. Tiger Woods we ain’t. Charles Barkley we is:



I’ve never been much of a golfer. My all-time best for 9 holes stands at a laughable 46, a score Mr. Woods posted at the age of 4. That being said, I know a great deal about the game, the result of twelve years of humble service as a caddie. Allow me to relate a story, fill a little white space. Why not?

When i was 14, 15—somewhere in there—I toiled one impossibly hot summer day for a grease-haired man named Furlong. He was rich and he liked his drink and my sole duty was to maneuver his golf cart and replenish the beer when it got low. He made this very clear from the start: “Mike, I don’t want yardage or conversation, and I really don’t require any help on the greens—you’re gonna be Watcher of the Beer. Drive the cart or whatever, make sure we have ice.” Furlong gulleted inhuman amounts of Budweiser that afternoon and got hisself good and wobbly. We’re talkin’ bubbles out the mouth whenever he burped and three of everything where there once was one.

When we approached the tee box for 16, a short par-four, greasy Furlong summoned me from the cart. “Mikey,” he said, “hit a drive.” He handed me tee, club, shiny-brite Titleist. I smoked the cover off that damn ball, Bunyaned the thing into the clouds. Still unsure how it happened, really, but somehow physics and Elwood collided in impressive ways for less than one second and that ball soared straight and true, high and far, cleared an oft-unclearable bunker with yards to spare. All told, the thing probably rolled 295 or so, a robust, executive poke from a midget with a concave chest. Furlong’s bloodshot eyes nearly popped from his sockets. It was (is, probably) the greatest drive I’d ever struck, the single purest swing of my life. Furlong urged me to play out the rest of the hole, convinced I was a freakish prodigy or something.

You already know the story that follows; it’s been Charlie Brown’s since 1950. I tripped over my own ankles, missed the football entirely and posted a double-bogey six, debunking Furlong’s Mike-is-golf’s-next-white-hope theory in a damn hurry.

2.7) Roller Hockey—yup, I played this one, too. Wasn’t very good at stopping. I spent a lot of time plowing into people.

4) Running—what to say? Running was my life. Still is, in small ways. I visit letsrun.com (a community forum/news site for runners) daily, though I haven’t trained in earnest since college.

I’m sick of writing, so the entry ends here.
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a life in sports, part one

My advance apologies for the post you’re about to skim/half-read. It’s gonna be a) all about sports b) somewhat uninteresting and c) totally narcissistic.

For reasons unknown, I actually cared about last night’s Red Sox/Rays game and tuned in with vested interest, making for an atypical Saturday evening. You should probably know that I haven’t followed professional baseball in any real capacity since the strike in ’94. Perhaps I watched because two nights prior the BoSox had rallied heroically from seven runs down to force that sixth game, or perhaps it was the fact that my precious Cubbies Munsoned all over the place during their pitiable Series bid (leading me to the BoSox by reason of vicariosity?), or perhaps I still get off on the precocious joy of sport, regardless of the players involved.

Seeing as I’ve experienced a sporting rebirth of sorts—the Bears pique my attentions in small ways, as does George Will’s Bunts, his love letter to the game of baseball—it only seems appropriate to write it all down. What follows is my life in sports, told chronologically.

1) Baseball—no florid word(s) can adequately express my adoration for this game, nor the role it played in my life from the ages of 5-12. Jerry Seinfeld once monologued about how children think of nothing but candy, and how parents, friends, teachers, siblings become mere obstacles in the way of getting more candy. Well, that was my childhood, 'cept baseball superceded candy by many, many miles. Our old house in Brookfield, IL was flanked by a modest lot—we cleverly dubbed it the “side lot”—that acted as a ballpark of sorts. My neighbor and best friend, Brian Schmidt, joined me out there every day for batting practice with splintered bat and tennis ball. The goal? Hit it high and far, windows be damned. Sun, rain, wind, snow—didn’t matter. You'd find us in the side lot, decimating great patches of grass with muddied sneakers.

Then there was Little League, of course, and then a fall league, and then All-Stars (assuming I’d played well that year), and then, upon turning 13, the modern-day equivalent of a Babe Ruth League. In between games and practices, we’d spend entire days Wiffle-balling in Fontana, WI, pausing only to cool in the lake.

My folks, bless 'em, treated me to Cubs games, humoring me by being first in to Wrigley and last out so their idiot son could gape at batting practice and bumrush the players' gate after the game in search of autographs.

Somehow—it strains the brain—I collected somewhere between 300 and 400 Ryne Sandberg cards (I’ve forgotten the exact number). Every crinkled, desperate, sweating dollar that entered my palm during those formative(?) years went towards baseball cards. Worse than any junkie, I was. Up until recently, my bedroom in LaGrange Park sported full-on Cubs wallpaper, ceiling to floor, complete with full-sized posters.

But I digress.

Back to the field. I alternated between second base and the mound, even pitched a no-hitter once. The news clipping is in a scrapbook somewhere, probably sufficiently yellowed by now. My life plan was decided from a very early age: I’d get absurdly good at this game so Ryne Sandberg, upon retirement, would insist I succeed him at second base. I pitied all the other kids who didn’t know what they were gonna do with their lives.

At 13, though, we moved to a bigger ballpark and my batting average plummeted, infuriating me. Time to move on, I thought. Time to move on, I said. Enough! Just like that, it was all over.

2) Basketball—never really made any headlines playing basketball, but I certainly enjoyed playing. My first exposure to the game, if I remember correctly, came in 4th, 5th grade while on the playground at recess. I was far too small and weak to shoot correctly, so I began instituting the “shove,” an aesthetically painful two-wristed heave at the backboard. Wasn’t a very adept ball-handler, nor did I possess the height to hang out near the rim, so I chillaxed at the three-point line and waited for someone to pass it my way (they never did). While attending St. Louise de Marillac, I played on the 5th and 6th grade teams, accomplishing very little offensively (eight points scored in TOTAL) but a great deal defensively (dozens of steals). I was quick. I was fast.

Seventh grade. So many kids showed an interest that my junior high held a tryout. Very big deal. Three days and everything, even notebooks so they could write things about you. The lycra-shorted coaches, in a display of unimaginable cruelty, assigned me to the “A” squad, which is kind of like telling a kid to join in on a Miles session after three weeks of horn lessons. No question about it: I was the worst guy on the team, and by a significant margin.

Wasn’t ’til church league at St. Francis (this was in high school) that I came into my own and developed a wicked three-point shot, which became my bread ‘n’ butter. I still didn’t know how to drive the lane or handle the ball with any real proficiency, but I could shoot the lights out from the arc. During one game I had twenty-one points, all threes.

p.s. As an aside—cuz this is funny—my buddy Scott and I once played a one-on-one game to 1,000 in his driveway. Took over one full month to complete. The final score? Scott: 1,000, Mike: 996. This is where the story ends.

p.p.s. Ah, wait. Before I move on to sport #3, there’s one dig/jab I must administer, 'case he’s reading: Danny, my younger brother and a FAR superior baller, to this day cannot defeat me one-on-one. So, like, take that.

3) Swimming—Greg, a buddy, talked me into coming out for the freshman swim team at Lyons Township, a ludicrous idea. I lasted about one week. Fourth practice in, some muscled dude ‘bout twice my size, a captain or something, informed me I’d be swimming the 500 (not sure exactly how far this is, but it sounded like a damn long way) at the upcoming intersquad, so I peaced out, never to return. No Speedos for me, no siree.

Part 2 coming soon…
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ever laugh so hard that you

Dear The Onion,

Are the letters to the editor really as short as they appear in the paper, or are they edited for

Deborah Geiff, Pueblo, CO

capitalism explained

I’ve pissed away roughly one-thirtieth of my life on a paint-chipped bench, waiting. That’s a lot of time! I’m exaggerating that 1/30th statistic, of course, but not as greatly as one might suppose. From the ages of 13-15 (my early caddie years at LaGrange Country Club), sitting was the name of the game. I got very good at sitting. Very good, I say, because while sitting I learned and mastered many indispensable card games/life skills, including but not limited to:

hearts
spades
poker
how to curse

Loopers (slang for caddies) sleep less than your average truck driver. I'd rise terrifically early, rub the night from my eyes, pedal my bicycle in hellcat fashion past the manicured lawns of my Burtonian suburbia, chain ‘er up in the rear parking lot and jog through that Midwest dew over to the cold, unforgiving wood of the caddie picnic tables. After scouting a proper squat for my khakied bum, I'd cheek it on a gym towel—my makeshift cushion—with chin in palm, as if posing for a Rockwell or something. That’s just the way it was, day after week after sepia year. Very Sisyphean.

We sat for varied amounts of time, our waiting period mostly determined by caddie rank. The little craps—that was me, if we’re still groovin’ in ‘97—claimed “B” caddie status, meaning that we were the lowliest turds in the sewer. “B” caddie status carried with it lots of non-responsibility. Synonyms for “B” caddie: seat-filler, virgin, guinea pig, ashtray, (sacrificial) lamb, chum (not chum the buddy, chum the bloody shark bait). There were like a million of us, meaning that our chances of getting out on the golf course—or “on a bag,” in caddiespeak—at any given moment were 1/1,000,000. We sat there politely and longed for pubic hair, careful not to make any sudden movements that might agitate the sharp-tongued piranha (caddies with pubic hair).

Let’s ascend a rung. Assuming you’d done alright as a “B” and didn’t fuck anything up, you might attain a swell promotion of sorts (see: slap on back and firm, bone-crushing handshake) after ‘bout two years and become an "A!" An “A” caddie assumed a role not unlike that of an office manager. You now hovered somewhere in purgatory—certainly not a monarch but not really a boot-licking minion, either—cuz now there’s someone beneath you to humiliate. “A” caddies instructed the “B” caddies when and where to piss and what (the aforementioned urine, sometimes) to eat/lick off the pavement. Ever play Asshole, that one drinking game where you try to get rid of all your cards quickly as you can? “B” caddies=Assholes, “A” caddies=vice-Assholes. Perfect analogy. There were far less than a million “A” caddies, meaning that your odds of securing work on any given day catapulted from 1/1,000,000 to about 1/10, just like that! A swell promotion.

Then, should you crawl thru five hundred yards (and four years) of shit-smelling foulness I still can’t even imagine—that’s the length of five football fields!—you emerge, half-naked, gasping and free, an “Honor” caddie at long last!

Ah, the “Honor” caddies (13-yr-old me bows reverentially). These guys were gods, immortals! They rocked fully-realized facial stubble, drank heroically, chawed on chaw, spoke of women’s bodies as conquistadors speak of golds and spices and measured in at 5’8", 5’10"—Herculean, impossible heights! You’d be a damn fool to speak in their presence. They slapped us around, caned our behinds, ridiculed us until we ran home crying for our mothers. They were bad. They were fierce. There were only about a dozen of them. They carried two bags, one per shoulder, and we carried none at all.

A typical day at LaGrange Country Club:

So now it’s 5:50, sun's still cowering away somewhere, everybody’s cold as shit (our breath is the frost) and the caddie count is as follows: “B”: 1,000,000, “A”: 18, “Honor”: 12. Our caddiemaster (funny term, to be sure, if you haven’t heard it before), a gruff ex-jock named Brian (Coach “K”) Kopecky, barrels into the shack, gruffing under his breath. He’s dragging behind him an industrial-sized garbage bin swelling with a million multi-colored golf tees, each tee sporting a different Sharpied number across the top of it, right across the fat part of the peg where you place the ball. The “B” caddies scamper over like the idiots they (I) are (were—er, are) and select from the pail, drawing one tee apiece. This is the Lottery Of Lotteries, but the Shirley Jackson kind, not the hopeful, optimistic kind. You select a tee with 31, 509, or, God help you, 112,242, forget it—you’re not getting work today. Go home! Cut your losses, pick your nose. That precious Sharpied number becomes your identification number for the next eight-odd hours, a prison badge of sorts. On any given day, 15 or 20 “B” caddies might secure a bag, meaning the other 999,985 unripened tweens pedaled their asses over there for nothing.

BUT we (I) were young and awfully stupid, cuz we’d inevitably snatch up a 41 or 284, or, Christ, a 612,349 and stick around anyway, ignoring logic, precedence, everything. We’d gamble money we didn’t have on card games we didn’t know how to play. We’d listen to tall tales of booze, coke, pregnation and incarceration, mouths agape. The “B” jocks aged ten years in a matter of weeks.

Bukowski once said something to the effect that anything you ever wanted to learn at University could be learned in one day at the horse races. I don’t have the quote in front of me, but you get the gist.

To further that sentiment, I’ll maintain with a straight face that anything you ever wanted to know about capitalism can be learned in four hours at a caddie yard. Those 12 “Honor” caddies controlled 90% of the wealth. They wooed LaGrange CC’s high-end clientele, lived lives of privilege and extravagance, slept with scores of women (or claimed to, anyway) and worked far less hours than their counterparts. No one attempted to unseat them, for fear of “dumpstering,” a very real phenomenon in the shack. Dumpstering is when you take a kid and throw him in a dumpster. The “A” caddies earned modest amounts of cash, which they folded neatly into their billfolds and later deposited into savings accounts at the local bank. “B” caddies scraped and conned and hoarded and deceived, attempting to eke out a proper living.

That’s capitalism, baby.
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the pretty lines told me to do it

Let’s discuss that damn graph CNN featured during the Palin/Biden debate.

This empty visual commanded the bottom quarter of the screen (see attached image). To the left, a nifty inform-a-box announced that the ensuing lines—which rose/fell along an axis throughout the debate—represented the opinions of “Undecided Ohio Voters.” Uh. Dare I ask: how many undecided voters? Twelve? 400,000? CNN omitted that minor detail. Silly me, I really oughta keep my mouth shut. They probably know what they’re doing.

Two bipolar lines (green for "men," yellow for "women") leapt about in fits of shocking whimsy. Swell! Let’s genderize the hell outta this thing! Thanks, CNN, for simplifying this terribly confusing debate. My frail little brain wouldn’t know what to make of all this discussion nonsense otherwise. While you’re at it, why not add a few more lines? “Black,” “white,” “bigots,” “humanitarians,” “southerners,” “northerners,” “believers,” “non-believers,” etc. Or howz about we just throw the most liberal person in America and the most conservative in a room and arm each of them with a buzzer? Fastest finger wins!

The Palin/Biden debate was not about graphs. I should have spent more time listening to the WORDS being uttered by the potential LEADERS of our floundering COUNTRY, but the pretty graph monopolized my attentions.

I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

The graph meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. That little green line—the “men”—shot up when Biden uttered something or other about issue x. Right on, "men." Now, what does this fluorescent protuberance mean? Are these 12 or 400,000 voters agreeing with him on issue x, or did Biden’s wayward commentary serve to draw them ever closer to what’s-her-face, their original leaning? The two axes were never defined. I have no idea

1) who’s manipulating the lines
2) what the lines represent

On the plus side, it took the thinking out of it for tens of thousands of toothless Americans. Shoot, Myrtle, look at that line! It spiked way the hell up there when he said that last part about the health care and whatnot! I think Biden’s on to something…

CNN, you suck.
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